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

casing as he dared without exposing himself to the risk of being seen. Yes, he could hear now, but—a dismayed frown furrowed his forehead—Mother Margot appeared already to have imparted whatever information had brought her there.

      “...Youse understand, don't youse?” she was saying. “'Cause if youse have got it straight, I'm goin' to beat it outer dis, an' get home an' get dry.”

      “It kinder took de wind outer us, dat's all!” Bunty Myers' voice responded in a puzzled growl. “I t'ought de whole works was blown up an' we was done!”

      “I told youse once,” snapped Mother Margot. “It's de panel in de wall.”

      “Sure!” said Bunty Myers. “We ain't deef, an' we got dat, all right—de middle one at de back of de room. But, den, wot's de use of waitin'?” He broke into a coarse, unpleasant laugh. “I guess old Miser Scroff ain't at home to queer anythin'!”

      “De use of waitin',” returned Mother Margot tartly, “is 'cause de Chief says so, an' 'cause some of youse pulled a bum play dat he's got to make good, an' I wouldn't like to be de one dat done it 'cause de Chief is seein' red. Anyway, don't youse make no mistakes again. Youse ain't to make a move until as near ten as'll give youse time to get away wid it, but youse're to be through by den, 'cause at ten de bulls get tipped off.”

      “All right,” agreed Bunty Myers. And then abruptly, as Mother Margot evidently started to leave the room: “Say, wait a minute, mother! Mabbe youse have got de answer to somethin' we'se can't figure out. Wot's de big idea behind de Chief's keepin' under cover? We ain't seen him for weeks—nothin' but telephones an' messages. Where is he?”

      “Why don't youse ask him?” suggested Mother Margot acidly.

      “Ask him!” echoed Bunty Myers helplessly. “How de hell can I, w'en I don't know where——”

      “Dat's de answer!” Mother Margot's interruption was a cackling laugh. “Youse knows all I knows. Do youse t'ink me an' de Chief goes to a picture show every evenin', an' den spends de rest of de night together eatin' hot frankfurters an' stewed ice cream? Say, youse give me a pain! Good-night!”

      The door in the hall closed.

      For an instant Jimmie Dale stood motionless, then he turned, and, in lieu of an exit via the hall window, began to make his way down the fire escape. And now what? Go to Mother Margot as the Gray Seal and force a detailed explanation from her as he had the other night? He shook his head. It wasn't necessary to-night, was it? He had learned enough, hadn't he?

      His mind was working swiftly, in a precise, virile way, as he descended the wet, dripping iron treads. The middle panel at the back of old Miser Scroff's room—and old Miser Scroff was not at home. That was clear enough. And there was no question but that Miser Scroff had money hidden away somewhere. It was only a wonder that it had not been taken from him before. The old man was almost senile. It was common property on the East Side that he had been caught fondling and crooning over packages of banknotes in his room on more than one occasion. For more years than any one could remember the man, already old, had just kept on growing older in a solitary life in his sordid surroundings. He was supposed to have a small income from some source, but however small it might have been it was certain he saved on it for he never spent a cent save to keep absolute famine from his door. Undoubtedly he had money. Robbery, therefore, as the motive, was equally clear. And at ten o'clock, for some reason, the police were to be notified of the crime by the actual perpetrators themselves. Ten o'clock. It could not be much after nine yet. There should be at least half an hour then before Bunty Myers need be considered as a factor. Meanwhile the Phantom was at work in an effort to rectify some misplay made by his underlings. Was it at Miser Scroff's that the Phantom in person would be employed prior to the arrival of Bunty Myers and his confederates? Was it luck like that? Luck at last! If so, then——

      Jimmie Dale dropped from the bottom of the fire escape to the ground. And then, in the shelter of the lane where the fire escape had landed him, he broke instantly into a run.

      “Not as Smarlinghue,” confided Jimmie Dale grimly to himself as he ran. “I can't risk Smarlinghue—it's got to be the other way in spite of a patched face.”

      XI.

       The Panelled Wall

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      Jimmie Dale, a long coat, sodden with rain, covering his evening clothes, crept up the narrow tenement stairs, crept along a bare and dirty hallway, and halted before a closed door. Softly, cautiously, he tried the door. It was locked. His fingers reached in under his outer garments, and then shot swiftly to the door again. There was a moment of utter silence, then a faint snip, and the door began to open guardedly, the fraction of an inch at a time. Another instant and Jimmie Dale stood inside the room.

      The door closed behind him. A minute he listened, then the round, white ray from his flashlight lanced through the blackness, swept its surroundings in a swift, comprehensive circle—and a low, startled exclamation, involuntary, before it could be checked, came from Jimmie Dale's lips. This was old Miser Scroff's squalid, hovel-like abode, niggardly alike in its furnishings and its cleanliness, since even cleanliness cost money—but—but—it was strange! He did not understand! He had not been very long on his trip to the Sanctuary and back. It had not taken him long. Certainly it could not even yet be half-past nine. And yet it seemed as though, in spite of that, he was already too late.

      The flashlight circled again, but more slowly this time, as though puzzled and nonplussed itself. The small room was in dire confusion. The bedding from the cheap cot was flung here and there on the floor; the drawers of an old desk had been pulled out and their contents strewn about, and the desk itself had been hacked to pieces as though on the chance that it might have possessed a hidden receptacle; while even the ragged strip of oilcloth, that was the sole floor covering, had been ripped up and flung into a corner. Where a hiding place might have existed before, there existed now nothing but a pitiful state of wreckage!

      Jimmie Dale's mind seemed to echo the confusion. It did not seem possible that Bunty Myers and his companions could already have been here. And besides—the flashlight's ray shot suddenly to the rear of the room—what had all this to do with the panelled wall?

      An ironic smile tinged his lips now. Yes, it might by a stretch of imagination be called panelled, but it was simply an extra height of boarding that ran up to meet the plaster all around the room some three or four feet from the flooring. He stepped quickly across the room, and knelt, as nearly as he could judge his position by the flashlight, in front of the middle boards. He nodded grimly. These were at least intact if nothing else in the room was! From a pocket in the leather girdle around his waist he drew out now a small, but incredibly strong and powerful “jimmy.” It would have been a useless waste of time to seek for any secret spring that, while it probably existed, was also certainly well and cleverly hidden.

      He was working rapidly now, the point of the “jimmy” prying tentatively into, and up and down, the joints of the boards. A low-breathed exclamation of satisfaction came almost instantly from his lips. The “jimmy” had slipped through one of the cracks into an open space behind. It was here, then, the hiding place of old Miser Scroff's hoard that Bunty Myers——

      Jimmie Dale stood suddenly erect, tense, every muscle rigid, listening. A footstep, low and stealthy though it was, had caught his ear from the hall outside. It was not another lodger, it was too cautious for that, too guarded; and for the same reason it could not be Miser Scroff. It was not Bunty Myers and his confederates, because there was only one footstep. The Phantom, then! The Phantom had required time for something somewhere. And he, Jimmie Dale, had dared to hope that it might be here. Luck! If he was in luck at last, he would play it to the full. He was crossing the room swiftly, without a sound. There would be a settlement this time from which there would be no escape! It was almost at the door now, that footstep; but he, too, was at the door—on the inside, crouched against the wall.

      A grim smile twisted his lips as he stood