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

took out his black silk mask and slipped it over his face. His lips tightened a little, as his right hand closed over the automatic in the side pocket of his dinner jacket. Who knew! There was a light in there, it was true; but he was not necessarily sure that it was Mother Margot—or that Mother Margot was alone.

      He knocked upon the door. There was no answer. He knocked again. This time there came the sound of a shuffling footstep crossing the floor within, and then the door was cautiously opened, and Mother Margot, holding a candle above her head, peered out into the hallway.

      “My Gawd—youse!” she whispered hoarsely. “Wot're youse doin' here?”

      Jimmie Dale smiled beneath his mask.

      “Have you forgotten, Mother Margot?” he said softly. “I promised you a visit, you know.”

      He stepped forward, but she blocked his way at the threshold.

      “Go away! Go away from here!” she breathed wildly.

      “I don't see why I should—just yet,” said Jimmie Dale quietly. “And wouldn't it be better if we had our interview insideinstead of out here? It wouldn't be quite so public.”

      “No!” she said frantically. She kept glancing behind her, over her shoulder in a terrified way. “Aw, go away! For the love of Gawd, go away before we'se gets caught!”

      “Who's in there, then?” demanded Jimmie Dale sharply.

      “No one!” she answered. “Dere ain't no one dere—at least I don't know whether dere is or not.”

      Jimmie Dale stared at the old hag for a moment speculatively.

      “You don't know!” He injected a caustic note into his voice. “What do you mean by that?”

      “Didn't I tell youse de other night!” She was still whispering hoarsely. “Didn't I tell youse wot dey said—dat dey was figurin' on youse comin' here sometime. Dat's wot I means. I ain't never seen no one in here but me, but sometimes I'm scared. Sometimes I'm sure some one is watchin' me—an'—an' I can't see no one. Don't youse see I'm playin' straight wid youse. If I wasn't, I'd let youse in, an'—aw, my Gawd, get away from here! If I'm caught tippin' youse off dey'd put a knife into me, dat's wot dey'd do!”

      “We'll be less likely to be seen or caught without that light, then,” said Jimmie Dale coolly. He leaned forward suddenly, caught her arm, and blew the candle out. “Now, don't move!” He was past her in an instant, and with quick, silent tread, his step as noiseless as though he possessed the padded paws of a cat, he made the circuit of the two rooms. And then he was back again beside her at the threshold. The rooms, so far as any outward and visible evidence of human presence was concerned, were empty. Nevertheless, he drew Mother Margot out into the dark hallway now, and closed the door silently behind them.

      “Wot is it?” she faltered. “Wot is it youse wants?”

      “A little information—perhaps a little more than information,” said Jimmie Dale evenly. “You said something a minute ago about playing straight with me. I'm not so sure about you, Mother Margot. That's why I'm here. I telephoned you this morning, and you swore you had not heard from the Voice since that night at Mrs. Kinsey's.”

      “It was de truth,” she said quickly.

      “I'm so glad you always tell the truth,” he said tersely, “because then, of course, you'll tell me now all about Hip Foo's to-night.”

      She drew in her breath sharply.

      “My Gawd!” she stammered. “Youse—youse knows about dat?”

      “Go on, Mother Margot!” Jimmie Dale prompted curtly.

      “Dere—dere ain't nothin' to tell.” She was obviously groping for inspiration. “De bulls raided de place almost as soon as I got dere, an' I beat it on de jump for home.”

      “Don't lie!” snapped Jimmie Dale sternly. “There is a good deal to tell! Shall I help your memory?” He was quite sure of his ground. Pedler Joe's story made the Phantom's and Bunty Myers' connection with the night's work a practical certainty. “Don't you think Bunty Myers, and Connie Pfeffer's ten thousand is worth telling about—Mother Margot?”

      The shot went home. The old hag shrank back against the wall. He heard her mumbling incoherently.

      “I'm waiting!” said Jimmie Dale coldly.

      “I—I can't!” she burst out. “I—I daresn't!”

      “I think you can,” Jimmie Dale answered sharply. “And I am sure that it will be much the safer thing for you to do. As a last resort, for instance, if you forced my hand, the police might be very much interested to learn that Mother Margot knew something about the Levenson Bank robbery, and——”

      “I—I'll tell youse!” she broke in. “My Gawd, wot can I do? Wot else can I do? I—I'll come across. Wen youse telephoned me to-day I hadn't heard nothin'. It was only about six o'clock dat de Voice told me to take de message over to Hip Foo's, an' be dere by half past eight. See? Dere wasn't no way I could tell youse, was dere? I ain't de only one dat don't know where de Gray Seal lives, am I?”

      “No,” said Jimmie Dale evenly; “and we'll dispense with any discussion as to what you would have done if you had known. Go on!”

      “It was to meet Bunty Myers an' another of Gentleman Laroque's gang named Muller.” Mother Margot's whisper was scarcely audible. “An'—an' it was about Connie Pfeffer, all right. I was to tell 'em dat Connie had seen de error of his ways an' opened up, an' dat de coin was in de house wid de broken stairs, an' shoved in under one of dem.”

      She paused, and in the semi-darkness Jimmie Dale could see her jerking her head in a queer birdlike way furtively about her.

      “What's its other name?” demanded Jimmie Dale shortly.

      She looked at him puzzled.

      “De other name of wot?”

      “The house with the broken stairs.” Jimmie Dale's tones were uncompromising.

      “Why, it's Pedler Joe's, of course!” she answered. “Youse knows where dat is. Everybody does.”

      Pedler Joe! For a moment Jimmie Dale stared at her. Was Pedler Joe, too, playing a game? The figure of the old man, full of misery from what seemed genuine distress and fear, rose before him. But against this was Pedler Joe's record. Was this the way he had brought up his young protégé—to play in with him hand and glove? And yet those bruises on the man's neck and throat—they were genuine enough.

      Again Jimmie Dale lunged in the dark, and won.

      “Pedler Joe had nothing to do with it!” he snapped. “Don't try any holding out on me, Mother Margot!”

      “I ain't holdin' out nothin' on youse,” she protested. “I didn't say Pedler Joe was in it. Connie beat it for Joe's after pullin' de robbery at de bank dat day, so's to work up an alibi—see? But de bulls pinched him quicker'n he figured. He hears dem comin' while he's dere—see?—an' w'en Pedler Joe ain't lookin' he shoves de envelope wid de cash in under one of de broken stairs, an' w'en de bulls bust in dey don't find nothin', an' dey ain't got nothin' on Connie, an' after puttin' him through for a few hours down at headquarters dey has to let him go.”

      Jimmie Dale nodded.

      “Exactly!” he said tersely. “And the reason he didn't go back for the money was because he never got a chance. Your gang got him, and started in to apply less humane but evidently more effective measures to make him talk than the police did.”

      Mother Margot drew in her breath.

      “I guess youse knows de whole lay. My Gawd, youse ain't human, are youse?”

      “There's Hip Foo's,” suggested Jimmie Dale grimly.

      “Yes,” she mumbled. “But dere ain't nothin' much to dat: now youse knows de rest. I had