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

the fingers of both hands—“suppose I just put this little toy out of commission now, and—”

      With a shrill screech, Smarlinghue sprang from his chair, and clawed like a demented man at the other’s hands for possession of the hypodermic.

      Clancy surrendered the syringe with a mocking grin, and shoved

       Smarlinghue backward into his chair again.

      “Oh, yes; you’re an artist all right—a coke artist!” he remarked coolly. “But that’s what makes you solid in every den in New York, and that’s how you come in useful—to me. Well, what do you say?”

      There was a hunted look in Smarlinghue’s eyes.

      “They’d—they’d kill me,” he said huskily.

      “Sure, they would!” agreed Clancy easily. “If they found you out it would be good-night, all right—that’s what you’re getting paid for. But”—his voice hardened—“if you don’t come across, I’ll tell you what I’ll do to you. I’ll—”

      “You can’t do anything! Not a thing!” Smarlinghue cried wildly. “You haven’t anything on me at all. I’ve never done a thing, not a single—”

      “Oh, I guess there’s enough to make you sweat,” Clancy cut in brutally. “You give me the icy paw, and I’ll see that the tip leaks out from the right quarters that you are a stool pigeon. That’ll take care of your finish, too, won’t it—good and plenty!”

      Smarlinghue stared miserably. Again and again his tongue circled his lips. Twice he tried to speak—and only succeeded in mumbling inarticulately.

      Clancy got up from the table, walked around it, and, standing over the crouched figure in the chair, tapped with his finger on the hypodermic in Smarlinghue’s hands.

      “And that ain’t all,” he announced with a malicious grin. “You come in and play the game with me, or I’ll fix it so that you’ll never get another squirt of dope if you had a million bucks to buy it with—ah, I thought that would get you!”

      Smarlinghue was on his feet. The terror of the damned was in his face.

      “No! No! My God—no—not that! You—you wouldn’t do that!” He reached out his arms to the other.

      “You know—I’ve gone too far to do without it. If I didn’t have it, I—”

      “I’ve seen a few of them in that sort of jim-jams,” said Clancy malevolently. “You can’t tell me anything about it. If you appreciate it, that’s enough—it’s up to you. You heard what I said. If you’re looking for that particular kind of hell, go to it. Only don’t kid yourself. When I pass the word to put the screws on, the lid’s down for keeps. Well, what’s the answer? Coming across? Quick now! I haven’t got all night to spend here!”

      Smarlinghue’s hands were trembling violently; he sat down in his chair in a pitiful, uncertain way.

      “Yes, yes!” he whispered. “Yes! I got to do it. I’ll do it, Mr. Clancy, I’ll do it! I’ll—I’ll do anything!”

      A half leer, half scowl was on Clancy’s face, as he stood regarding the other.

      “I thought you would!” he grunted roughly. “Well then, we’ll get down to business—and to-night’s business. You know the back entrance to Malay John’s hang-out?”

      Smarlinghue’s eyes widened a little in a startled way. He nodded his head.

      “Very good,” said Clancy gruffly. “You’ll have no trouble in getting in there. And once in there you’ll have no trouble in getting up to Malay’s private den. I’ve been wised up that Malay and a few of his pals are getting ready to pull off a little game uptown. I want the dope on it—all of it. They’ve been meeting in Malay’s den for the last few nights—understand? They drift in between half past eleven and twelve—you get there a little before half past eleven. You haven’t anything to be afraid of, so don’t lose your nerve. Malay himself is away this evening and won’t be back before midnight; and the door won’t be locked, as otherwise the others couldn’t get in. Everything’s clear for you. Savvy? Once you’re in the room, there’s plenty of places to hide—and that’s all you’ve got to do, except keep your ears and eyes open. Get the lay?”

      Again Smarlinghue nodded—unhappily this time.

      “All right!” said Clancy crisply. “I’m not coming around here any more—unless I have to. It might put you in bad. You can make your reports and get your orders through Whitie Karn at his dance hall.”

      “Whitie Karn!” The exclamation seemed to come involuntarily, in a quick, frightened way from Smarlinghue. Clancy’s lips twisted in a smile.

      “Kind of a jolt—eh—Smarlinghue? You didn’t suspect he was one of us, did you?—and there’s more than Whitie Karn. Well, it will teach you to be careful. Suppose Whitie, for instance, passed the word that you were a snitch—eh? It won’t do you any harm to keep that in mind once in a while.” He moved over to the door. “Well, good-night, Smarlinghue! I guess you understand, don’t you? You ought to be a pretty valuable man, and I expect a lot from you. If I don’t get it—” He shrugged his shoulders, held Smarlinghue for an instant with half-closed, threatening eyes—and then the door closed behind him.

      Smarlinghue did not move. The steps receded from the door, and died away along the passage. A minute, two minutes went by. Suddenly Smarlinghue pushed back the wristband of his shirt, and pricked the skin with the needle of the hypodermic. The door, without a sound, swung wide open. Clancy stood in the doorway.

      “Good-night again, Smarlinghue,” he said coolly.

      The hypodermic fell clattering to the floor; Smarlinghue jumped nervously in his chair.

      Clancy laughed—significantly; and, without closing the door this time, strode away again. His steps echoed back from the passageway, the front door opened and shut, his boot heel rang on the pavement without—and all was silence.

      Smarlinghue rose from his chair, shuffled across the room, closed the door and locked it, then shuffled back again to the roller shade over the little French window, and, taking a pin from the lapel of his coat, fastened the rent together.

      A passing cloud for a moment obscured the moonrays from the top-light; the gas-jet choked with air, spluttered, burning with a tiny, blue, hissing flame; then the white path lay across the floor again, and the yellow flare of gas spurted up into its pitiful fulness—and in Smarlinghue’s stead stood another man. Gone were the stooping shoulders, gone the hollow cheeks, the thin, extended lips, the widened nostrils, as the little distorting pieces of wax were removed; and out of the metamorphosis, hard and grim, set like chiselled marble, was revealed the face of—Jimmie Dale.

      Chapter II.

       The Warning

       Table of Contents

      For a moment Jimmie Dale stood there hesitant, the long, slim, tapering fingers curled into the palms of his hands, his fists clenched tightly, a dull red suffusing his cheeks and burning through the masterly created pallor of his make-up; and then slowly as though his mind were in dismay, he walked across the room, turned off the gas, and going to the cot flung himself down upon it.

      What was he to do? What ghastly irony had prompted Clancy to sort him out for a police spy? If he refused, if he attempted to stall on Clancy, Clancy’s threat to stamp him in the eyes of the underworld as a snitch meant ruin and disaster, absolute and final, for “Smarlinghue” would then have to disappear; on the other hand, to be allied with the police increased his present risks a thousandfold—and they were already hazardous enough! It meant constant surveillance by the police that would hamper him, rob him of his freedom of movement, adding