The Greatest Crime Novels of Frank L. Packard (14 Titles in One Edition). Frank L. Packard

if we lift de cash? An’ if he ain’t goin’ to lose nothin’, wot’s he goin’ to care! Ferget it! Wot’s de matter wid youse!”

      There was a moment’s apparent hesitancy; then, hoarsely:

      “Youse are sure, eh, dat nobody saw youse dere?”

      “Say, youse have got de chilly feet fer fair ter-night, ain’t youse! Well, can it! No, dey didn’t pipe me, youse can bet yer life on dat. I was goin’ inter de office w’en I hears some spielin’ goin’ on inside, an’ I opens de door a crack, an’ I keeps it open like dat—savvy? An’ w’en de old guy shoots de ready inter de box, an’ I makes me fade-away, I didn’t shut de door hard enough ter bust de glass panels, neither—see? Dat’s de story, an’ it’s on de level. I beats it den, an’ I been huntin’ fer youse ever since. Now, wot d’youse say—are youse on?”

      “Sure!” The second speaker’s voice had lost its hesitancy now; it was gruff, assured, even eager. “Sure! I guess youse have pulled a winner, all right! Wot’s de lay? Have youse doped it out?”

      “Ask me!” responded the other, with a complacent chuckle. “Youse look after de old guy, dat’s all youse have ter do. Hook up wid him, an’ keep him busy at his house. Get me? De old nut has a crazy notion of goin’ down ter de office in de middle of de night sometimes, an’ dere’s no use takin’ any chances. Youse can put up some hard luck story on him, throw in a weep, an’ youse got his goat fer as long as youse can talk. Leave de rest ter me. Only, say, youse keep away from me fer de rest of de night—get me? Dey might smell a plant after youse bein’ wid him. Youse go somewhere to an all-night joint so’s youse have an alibi all de way through, an’—”

      The voice ceased abruptly. In a flash the left sleeve of Jimmie Dale’s ragged, threadbare coat was pushed up, leaving the forearm exposed. The hypodermic needle pricked the flesh. There was no sound of any step; but the cretonne hanging wavered almost imperceptibly, as though some one, or perhaps but a current of air from the passage without, had swayed it slightly. Jimmie Dale was mumbling incoherently to himself now; his lips, like his fingers, working in nervous twitches. A few seconds passed—a half minute. Still mumbling, Jimmie Dale, with a caress like that of a miser for his gold, was fondling the shining little instrument in his hand—and then the hanging was suddenly thrust aside.

      Jimmie Dale neither looked up, nor appeared to be conscious of any one’s presence—but he had already recognised the voices of the two men from the adjoining compartment, who, he was quite well aware, were staring in at him now. The smaller, with sharp, cunning, beady, black eyes, the prime mover in the scheme that had just been outlined, was a clever and dangerous “box-worker,”, known as the Rat; the other, a heavy, vicious-faced man, with eyes quite as beady and unpleasant as those of his companion, was Muggy Ladd, who made his living as a “stagehand” for those, such as the Rat, who were more gifted than himself.

      “Satisfied?” inquired the Rat “He’s full up to de eyes wid it now. Foo said he’d been hittin’ it up hard fer de last hour.” The Rat addressed Jimmie Dale. “Hello, Smarly!” he called out.

      Jimmie Dale lifted his head, and blinked at the cretonne hanging.

      “Lemme alone!” he complained thickly. “Go ‘way, an’ lemme alone!

      “Sure!” said the Rat genially. “Sure, we will! Sweet dreams, Smarly!”

      The hanging fell back into place. Jimmie Dale continued to blink at it, and mumble to himself. The Rat’s pleasant little plan of robbing somebody’s safe of fifteen thousand dollars had nothing to do with her—but it involved a moral obligation on his part that he had neither the right nor the intention to ignore. And the fulfilment, or the attempt at fulfilment, of that obligation had suddenly assumed unexpected difficulties. Even while he had listened, and before the Rat was halfway through his story, he, Jimmie Dale, was conscious that he had made up his mind the Rat would rob no safe of fifteen thousand dollars that night if he could prevent it, and he had intended following the Rat from Foo Sen’s. He dared not do that now. Muggy Ladd’s cautiousness, that had evidently induced the Rat to inspect his, Jimmie Dale’s, compartment, had made that impossible. The Rat had seen him there; and, forced to the deception in order to avert any suspicion that he had overheard the others’ conversation, the Rat had seen him in the condition of one who was apparently already far gone under the influence of drug. To risk the attempt to follow the Rat now, to risk discovery by the Rat, was to risk, not only the admission that he had been playing a part, but to risk what he had fought for and staked his life for months now to establish—the role, the character of “Smarlinghue” in the underworld. Nor, for the same reason, would he dare move from the place for some little time—there was Foo Sen and the attendants.

      Jimmie Dale dropped his head down on the bunk, turned heavily over, facing the partition, and flung his arm across his face. His lips had ceased their nervous working; they were drawn together, thin and hard now. It was bad enough to be forced to remain temporarily inactive, though that in itself was not so serious, for it was still early, not much more than nine o’clock, and it was only fair to presume that the Rat would make no move for some hours to come; but what was much more serious was the fact that, unable to follow the Rat, he would be obliged to solve for himself the problem of whose was the safe, and whose the fifteen thousand dollars that was the Rat’s objective. The Rat had referred to “the old guy”—that meant nothing. “Curley,” however, was a little better—Curley, who had paid over the money to the “old guy.”

      Jimmie Dale’s forehead, hidden by his arm, furrowed deeply. From Muggy Ladd’s initial objection to touching anything that concerned Curley, it could mean only one Curley. He, Jimmie Dale, knew this Curley by sight, and, slightly, by reputation. Curley and his partner, Haines, kept a small wholesale liquor store in one of the most populous, where all were populous, quarters of the East Side; also Curley had a pull as a ward politician, which might very readily account for Muggy Ladd’s diffidence; and Curley was credited with doing a thriving business—both ways—as ward heeler and liquor purveyor. Certainly, at least, he was known always to have money; and had even been known at times to lend it freely to those in want—for a consideration. Yes, it was undoubtedly and unquestionably Curley, of Haines & Curley, familiarly known on the East Side as Reddy Curley from his flaming red hair—but to whom had Curley paid over the sum of fifteen thousand dollars?

      For a moment the frown on Jimmie Dale’s forehead deepened, then he nodded his head quickly. If he could find Curley, or Haines, or even Patsy Marles, the clerk who worked in the liquor store—which might possibly still be open for another hour or so yet—it should not, after all, and without even any undue inquisitiveness on the part of Smarlinghue, prove very difficult to obtain the necessary information, for, if Curley had been in a deal involving fifteen thousand dollars, he was much more likely to be boastful than reticent about it. It resolved itself then after all, into simply a matter of time.

      Whisperings, a raucous laugh, a curse, the clink of coin, the rattle of dice, the scuffle of slippered feet, the low swish of the loose-garbed Chinese attendants went on interminably. Jimmie Dale began to toss uneasily from side to side of his bunk, and began to mumble audibly again. Perhaps half an hour passed, during which, from time to time, the curtain of the compartment was drawn quietly aside and the impassive face of one or other of the Chinese attendants was thrust through the opening—and then suddenly Jimmie Dale raised himself up on his elbow, and pointed a shaking finger at one of these apparitions.

      “Foo Sen”—he licked his lips as he spoke—“you tell Foo Sen come here!”

      The face disappeared, and a moment later another—the wizened, yellow face of a little old Chinaman—took its place.

      “You wantee me, Smarly’oo?” inquired the proprietor suavely.

      “Tell ‘em to help me out of this.” Jimmie Dale essayed vainly to rise, and fell back on the bunk. “D’ye hear, Foo Sen—tell’em! Goin’ home!”

      “Alee same bletter stay sleep him off,” advised Foo Sen.

      Jimmie Dale succeeded in sitting upright on the edge