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

but was almost certain to do so. Under his breath Jimmie Dale cursed the gangster’s bungling methods—and not for their crudity alone. His first impulse had been to surprise the two, hold them up at the revolver point, but the result of such an act would have been abortive, for the disfigured safe would stand a mute, incontrovertible witness to the fact that an attempt to force it had been made—and, whether it was actual robbery or attempted robbery that was proved against the son, it in no way deflected the blow aimed at David Archman. And, besides, there was the letter! If he, Jimmie Dale, had been in time even to have prevented Gentleman Laroque from sinking a bit into the safe, the letter would have counted not at all—but now it counted to the extent that it literally meant life and death. Who had it? Not Clarie Archman—that was certain. And the Tocsin had not said—obviously because she, too, had been in the dark in that respect. Therefore he could only wait, watch and follow every move of the game throughout the rest of the night, if necessary! It was the only course open to him; the letter, not the robbery, was paramount now.

      A curious, muffled, metallic thump, mingled with a quick, low-breathed, triumphant oath, came suddenly from the inner room—and then Laroque’s voice, eager, the words clipped off as though in feverish elation:

      “There she is! One nice little job—eh? Well, come on—shoot your light into her, and let’s take a look at the Christmas tree!”

      The flashlight’s ray flooded the interior of the open safe. Laroque, on his knees, laughed suddenly, and thrust his hand inside.

      “What did I tell you, eh?” he chuckled. “I got the straight tip, eh? Four thousand, if there’s a cent!”

      Laroque began to remove what were evidently packages of banknotes from the safe—but Jimmie Dale was no longer watching the scene. He had edged suddenly back into the doorway of the hall, and was listening now intently. A footstep—he could have sworn he had caught the sound of a footstep—seemed to have come from just outside the front window. But all was still again. Perhaps he had been mistaken. No! Slight as was the sound, he heard, unmistakably now, a key grate in the lock—and then, stealthily, the front door began to open.

      A bewildered look came into Jimmie Dale’s face, as he retreated further back into the hallway itself now. It was probably Sonnino; but why did Sonnino come stealing into his own house like—well, like any one of the three predatory guests already there before him? And then Jimmie Dale’s face cleared. Of course! From the window the glow of the flashlight in the inner room could be seen. Sonnino was forewarned, and undoubtedly—forearmed!

      The front door closed softly, so softly that had Jimmie Dale, supersensitive as his hearing was, not been intent upon it, it would have escaped him. The glow from the inner room, faint as it was, threw into shadowy relief a man’s form tiptoeing forward—and then a board creaked.

      “What’s that!” came in a wild whisper from Clarie Archman.

      “Got ‘em again!” Laroque snapped back. “You make me tired!”

      “Let’s get out of here! Let’s get out of here—quick!” Clarie Archman’s voice, not so low now, held a tone of frantic appeal.

      “Nix!” said Laroque, in a vicious sneer. “Not till the job’s done! D’ye think I’m going to spend half an hour cracking a safe and take a chance of missing any bets? We’ve got the coin all right, but there ought to be one or two of Sonnino’s sparklers lying around in some of these drawers, and—”

      There was a click of an electric-light switch, a cry from Clarie Archman, the inner room was ablaze with light, and—Jimmie Dale had edged forward again out of the hallway—Sonnino, revolver in hand, was standing just over the threshold facing Gentleman Laroque and the assistant district attorney’s son.

      Then silence—a silence of seconds that were as minutes. And then Gentleman Laroque laughed gratingly.

      “Hello, Sonnino!” he said coolly. “A little late, aren’t you? You’ve kept me stalling for the last five minutes. Know my friend—Mr. Martin Moore, alias Mr. Clarie Archman? Clarie, this is Signor Niccolo Sonnino, the proprietor of this joint.”

      And then to Jimmie Dale, where before his mind had groped in darkness to reconcile apparently incongruous details, in a flash there came the light. The “plant” was a little more intricate, a little more cunning, a little more hellish—that was all!

      The boy, white to the lips, was swaying on his feet, grasping at the table in the centre of the room. He looked from one to the other, a miserable, dawning understanding in his eyes.

      “You—you know my name?” His voice was scarcely audible.

      “Sure!” said Laroque—and yawned insolently.

      “So!” purred Sonnino, in excellent English. “Is it so! A thief! The son of the so-honest Mister Attorney—a thief!”

      “It’s a lie!” The boy’s hands, clenched, were raised above his head, and then shaken almost maniacally in Gentleman Laroque’s face. “It’s a lie! I—I don’t understand, but—but you two, you devils, are together in this!”

      “Sure!” retorted Laroque, as insolently as before—and flung the other’s hands away. “Sure, we are!”

      “It’s a lie!” said the boy again. “I was in a hole. I needed money. You told me you knew a man who would lend it to me. That’s why I came here with you, and then—and then you held me here with your revolver, and began to open that safe.”

      “Sure!” returned Laroque, for the third time. “Sure—that’s right! Well, what’s the answer?”

      “This!” cried the boy wildly. “I don’t know what your game is, but this is my answer! Do you think I would have touched that money, or have let you—once I got out of here where I could have got help! I’m not a thief—whatever else I may be. That’s my answer!”

      Niccolo Sonnino’s smile was oily.

      “It is a little late, is it not?” he leered. “Listen, my little young friend; I will tell you a story. You work for a bank, eh? The bank does not like its young men to speculate—yes? But why should you not speculate a little, a very little, if you like—if you get the very private and good tips, eh? It is not wrong—no, certainly, it is not wrong. But at the same time the bank must not know. Very well! They shall not know—no one shall know. You are not the young Mr. Archman any more, you are—what is the name?—Martin Moore. But Martin Moore must have an address, eh? Very well! On Sixth Avenue there is a little store where one rents boxes for private mail, and where questions are never asked—is it not so, my very dear young friend?”

      The boy was staring in a demented way into Sonnino’s face, but he did not speak.

      “Aw, hand it to him straight!” Gentleman Laroque broke in roughly. “I don’t want to hang around here all night. Here, Archman, you listen to me! We piped you off on that lay about two weeks ago—and it looked good to us, and we played it for a winner, see? You got introduced to me, and found me a pretty good sort, and we got thick together—you know all about that. Also, you get introduced to some new brokers, who said they’d take good care of your margins—maybe they only ran a bucket-shop, but you didn’t know it! All right! You got snarled up good and plenty. Yesterday you were wiped out, and three thousand dollars to the bad besides, and they were yelling for their money and threatening to expose you. They gave you until to-morrow morning to make good. You told me about it. I told you this morning I thought I knew a man who would lend you the coin, and”—he laughed mockingly, and jerked his hand toward the safe—“well, I led you to it, didn’t I?”

      “I—I don’t understand,” the boy mumbled helplessly.

      “Don’t you!” jeered Laroque. “Well, it looks big enough for a blind man to see! We’ve got this robbery wished on you to a fare-thee-well! A young man who speculates, who uses an assumed name, and runs a private letter box on Sixth Avenue, and has forty-eight hours in which to square up his debts or face exposure, has a hell of a chance with a jury—not!”