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

was a sudden swish through the air, as, quick without warning, Limpy Mack aimed a blow with his cane at Jimmie Dale's wrist and automatic. It missed. Again the man screamed out in fury.

      Jimmie Dale's face set.

      “Don't raise your voice again like that,” he said in flat tones. “Sit down!” His automatic swung to the level of the other's eyes.

      With a snarl, Limpy Mack subsided into the chair. He scowled at Jimmie Dale.

      “Who are you, anyway, you damned thug?” he demanded thickly.

      “I'll tell you,” said Jimmie Dale. He was smiling whimsically now—not at Limpy Mack, but at the somewhat exacting demands of the situation in which he found himself. Mother Margot must in no way appear in this; and, besides that money on the table, there was the paper that Little Sweeney had given to Limpy Mack in Mother Margot's presence—a paper, in reference to the contents of which, he, Jimmie Dale, had acquired an intense curiosity. Ostensibly, therefore, he must appear—in order that no thought of Mother Margot might by any chance enter the other's mind—to be ignorant of even the existence of the paper, and yet, at the same time, get hold of it. “I'll tell you,” said Jimmie Dale. “I was walking down a certain street to-night, and I saw you sneak out of a little confectionery store that looked as though it had all been closed up for the night, and I said to myself: 'That's funny, because Limpy Mack never plays for chicken feed.' And then I went and read the sign on the window, and I remembered that everybody said Mrs. Kinsey had a well-filled stocking hidden away somewhere. So I just took a chance, Limpy, thinking that maybe you'd found it, and I followed you. And as I said before, I seem to have played in luck.”

      “It's a lie!” growled Limpy Mack. “That ain't Mrs. Kinsey's, or anybody else's money. It's mine.”

      “I'm delighted to know it,” murmured Jimmie Dale. “But even so, I still insist that I am in luck to-night. There must be quite a few thousand here.” He began to thrust the bills into his pockets.

      Limpy Mack sat crouched down in his chair, the posture seeming to accentuate almost to deformity his stooped shoulders.

      “Damn you!” he shrieked out. He gnawed at his unkempt gray moustache, and flung another oath at Jimmie Dale.

      Jimmie Dale swept the table clean. It was obviously all that Limpy Mack had stolen from Mrs. Kinsey, for he would obviously have had it all out to count it—but there was still a certain paper in Limpy Mack's pocket.

      “I wonder—since you say it was yours—if you haven't got some more,” suggested Jimmie Dale invitingly. “I'm afraid I'll have to trouble you to turn your pockets out, Limpy. Stand up!”

      “I—I ain't got any more.” The man seemed suddenly cowed. He crouched still lower in his chair.

      “Stand up!” repeated Jimmie Dale sternly. “Now I'm quite sure you have!”

      “No!” Limpy Mack was whining now. “I—I'll tell you the truth. I got it where you said. But that's all—all of it was on the table. Say, you believe me, don't you? I'd come across if I had any more, wouldn't I? I couldn't help myself.”

      The man was blatantly stalling now. The paper was—no, it wasn't on account of the paper. Behind Limpy Mack's back something showed in the blistered mirror—the head and shoulders of Little Sweeney protruding through the rear doorway, and in Little Sweeney's hand a levelled revolver. Limpy Mack's voice had drowned out any sound made by the opening of the door, if, indeed, there had been any sound at all.

      Jimmie Dale's brain was working in lightning flashes now, but not a muscle of his face moved. His automatic dangling in his hand was useless. To swing it on the door with only a chance aim would be but the signal for Little Sweeney to fire.

      “All right, Limpy,” said Jimmie Dale, and leaned slightly toward the end of the table. “I'll take your word for it that——”

      And then Jimmie Dale was in action. With a sweep of his hand he sent the lamp crashing from the table to the floor, and ducked instantly to one side.

      There was a yell from Limpy Mack; and, in the sudden darkness as the lamp went out, from the doorway came the tongue-flame of Little Sweeney's revolver and the roar of the report. Then a rush of feet, the flash and roar of the revolver again, and the next instant Jimmie Dale was locked in a hand to hand struggle with Little Sweeney. Here and there they swayed, the breath of one, panting, hard, on the other's cheek; the table toppled to the floor, carrying the chair with it; their feet crunched on the splintered glass from the lamp and chimney—and then suddenly Jimmie Dale reeled from a terrific blow across the head.

      “I got him!” screamed Limpy Mack's voice exultantly. “I got him, Sweeney! I beaned him with the loaded handle of my cane.”

      But though dazed, lurching, scarcely able to keep his feet, Jimmie Dale was still fighting like a wildcat. Twice since Little Sweeney had grappled with him, he had managed to strike the other with the butt of his automatic. He had only one chance now—to end it quickly—he was too nearly gone himself. He wrenched himself suddenly free, and swung again with all his strength. A gurgling voice—Little Sweeney's—answered the blow:

      “Look out—Limpy—beat it—you know why—that paper—beat it—I——”

      Again and again Jimmie Dale brushed his hand across his eyes. He fought desperately to clear his brain. His head was sick and dizzy. What was that sound, that strange, queer sound? Tap, tap, tap! Little Sweeney—that black outline on the floor was Little Sweeney—Little Sweeney wouldn't trouble any one for an hour or so—but that tap, tap, tap—it sounded from the direction of the rear door. And now it was gone, and there was silence—just silence. But the silence, as nothing else had done, seemed now to penetrate Jimmie Dale's swimming head, and seemed to bring with it a sudden, swift significance.

      Fool! He stumbled madly toward the rear door. Limpy Mack was gone—gone with the tap, tap, tapping of his cane. That paper! A clue to that super-crook perhaps, that the Tocsin called the Phantom, and Mother Margot called the Voice!

      He was outside now. No, not too late! That was Limpy Mack there, wasn't it? That figure running, running! God, how his brain swam! His knees seemed weak under him, as though they were going to double up like the blades of a knife—but he was running too. His surroundings seemed mechanically, subconsciously, to be absorbed—just a back yard that ended in the black, irregular outline of the rear of what was evidently a three or four-story tenement.

      On Jimmie Dale stumbled. He could not be more than ten or fifteen yards behind that figure ahead, which, to his whirling brain, seemed to take on the aspect of some grotesque jumping-jack, bobbing up and down in the darkness, until suddenly it disappeared through the back door of the tenement.

      Jimmie Dale prodded himself into a spurt, reached the tenement door, found it open, and reeled inside. His faculties seemed miserably unreliable. Couldn't he think any more! He stood stock still, and again his hand swept fiercely across his eyes. The man couldn't have gone out of the front door, nor have gained the landing above, because he, Jimmie Dale, had been too close at the other's heels, and would have heard him, would be hearing him now. And there was not a sound—nothing but pitch, inky blackness. Therefore Limpy Mack must be somewhere here in the blackness.

      That was better! At least his brain was striving to fight its way back to normal. But his eyes ached brutally. He bit his lips to keep back a groan of pain, and leaned against the wall for support. One of them, he or Limpy Mack, must sooner or later make a move. He forced a twisted smile. If the blow from the loaded cane had not proved too much for him after all, it would not be he who made that move!

      And now, after a time, where he had heard no sound before, he became conscious of many sounds—the low indistinct sound of muffled things, the night sounds of a tenanted building filtering vaguely out from behind closed doors only to integrate themselves in a queer, throbbing way into the very silence itself. How long had he been standing here? Once he clutched frantically, but noiselessly, at the wall to keep himself erect. Perhaps it would not be Limpy Mack who moved first!