Читать книгу Jimmie Dale And The Missing Hour - Frank Lucius Packard - Страница 5

Table of Contents

IT WAS late evening. His dinner clothes replaced by a comfortable dressing gown, Jimmie Dale sat at his flat-topped rosewood desk in his home on Riverside Drive. There were letters to write, and one, half finished, lay before him—but he was no longer writing.

He had permitted himself quite shamelessly, but not wholly without justification, to fall into a reverie. His life of the yesterdays and his life of the tomorrows had come at last now to a final parting of the ways. He nodded his head impatiently. Yes, of course, he knew quite well that he had told himself this same thing before on other occasions, only to find himself at almost the next instant pitted against the underworld again—but this time, certainly, all that was definitely at an end!

His eyes roved over the luxurious but rather curiously appointed room that he called his den, and which ran the entire depth of the house on the second floor—the matched panels; the cozy fireplace; the rich velvet rug; the easel with one of his own completed canvases upon it; that queer little curtained alcove occupied by the squat, barrel-shaped safe with its complicated mechanism of inner and outer doors, that he had designed himself in the days when he had been associated with his father’s business.

He loved the room. It was full of memories. Strange things had happened here. But, too, he had come to know that it possessed an underlying sense of loneliness—as did, indeed, everything connected with this little-less-than mansion that was his home. Even faithful old Jason, who had been butler to his, Jimmie Dale’s, father before him could not dispel that feeling. It had been lonely here since his parents had died.

But that was over now—a thing of the past. In a few more days she would be mistress here—his wife. Her identity, the identity of the Tocsin, had long since ceased to be a mystery. Marie LaSalle—Marie! But she would always be the Tocsin! The days when, following the murder of her father and her uncle at the hands of the old Crime Club, she had fought in the disguise of Silver Mag, and then as Mother Margot, for her life and fortune were gone forever; for, with the Crime Club finally destroyed, she had been able to resume her normal life—and they were to have been married then. Only the war had intervened, and they had both volunteered, agreeing to postpone their marriage until after the war. She had gone as a nurse.

Well, the war was over now—had been for more than a year. And during the last few months she had been in Paris purchasing her trousseau. His face hardened suddenly. She was even supposed to be there now; but of late, instead, she had been here in New York—as Mother Margot —coming back hurriedly and secretively because of what had become known to the public as the Blue Envelope Murder, in which Ray Thorne, who was to have been “best man” at their wedding, had been the victim.

Jimmie Dale cupped his chin in his hands for a moment. It had seemed a cruelly ironic trick of fate that it should have been Ray’s murder that had thrown them both, the Tocsin as Mother Margot, and himself both as Smarlinghue and Larry the Bat, into the fray again, when they had both been so sure that their contact with the underworld had been definitely severed for all time.

But that was the past—he lifted his head suddenly, a quiet smile on his lips—and the past belonged to the past. Whereas now, beyond any peradventure of doubt, the shadows that had kept Marie and himself for so long apart were behind them for always; for last night had seen Daddy Ratzler and his son Beaton, Ray Thorne’s murderers, trapped—and there would never be again a “call to arms” to the Gray Seal from her, inspired by the inside knowledge that had so often come into her possession while living the life of Silver Mag or Mother Margot.

With a mental jerk Jimmie Dale brought himself back to his immediate surroundings. He drew the half-written letter toward him and picked up his pen—but once more his thoughts strayed as his eyes caught again the scareheads of the paper that he had previously brushed aside and which now lay at one end of the desk. It was an evening sheet, but the scareheads, flung in massive type across the front page from one side to the other, were even more lurid than those carried by the special and late editions of the morning papers. News of this sort was not ephemeral—everything else had been “killed” to give place to it. Automatically he read the scareheads over again:

MURDERERS OF RAY THORNE ARRESTED

THE GRAY SEAL, ALIAS LARRY THE BAT, WHO WAS ACCUSED OF THE CRIME, BRINGS GUILTY MEN TO JUSTICE

And then, in smaller type:

Herman Carruthers, Managing Editor of the “Morning News-Argus,” Plays Momentous Part in Capture.

Jimmie Dale laughed softly to himself as the scene of last night in Daddy Ratzler’s secret sub-cellar visualized itself before him—Carruthers—Larry the Bat—the handcuffed Beaton! Carruthers’s rise from reporter to managing editor had been meteoric, for he was still a young man of no more than his, Jimmie Dale’s, own age; but from the beginning it had been Carruthers’s one obsession to lay the Gray Seal by the heels.

“Good old Carruthers!” chuckled Jimmie Dale. “I wonder what he’d have said, or done, last night if he’d found out that Larry the Bat was his bosom pal—Jimmie Dale! I wonder what—”

Someone was knocking on the door.

“Come in!” Jimmie Dale called.

It was old Jason, the butler.

“Begging your pardon, Master Jim, sir,” he announced, “Mr. Carruthers has called and would like to see you.”

“Speak of the devil,” grinned Jimmie Dale under his breath, “and—”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Jason interposed respectfully “but I didn’t quite catch what you said, Master Jim.”

“I said show him up by all means, Jason.”

“Yes, sir; thank you, sir,” returned the old man quietly, as he closed the door behind him.

Jimmie Dale was lounging back in his desk chair as Carruthers entered the room a minute or so later.

“Oh, hello, my hero of the hour!” Jimmie Dale exclaimed capriciously. “I see that your fellow editors are continuing to play you up most generously—very nice of them, considering that you chaps are generally always clawing at each other’s throats! And that was some scoop with that roaring special of yours this morning! It strikes me you owe the Gray Seal a deep debt of gratitude after last night. I hope that at last your attitude toward him has become one of at least decent restraint.”

Carruthers dropped into a chair and produced his cigarette case.

“What do you mean—decent restraint?” he demanded.

“Well,” prodded Jimmie Dale slyly, “in the pre-war days when he first broke into print you began by calling him the most puzzling, bewildering, delightful crook in the annals of crime, and you had the newspaper itch to get him, though you said you’d actually be sorry if you did, for you had come to love the fellow—that it was the game, really, that you wanted to beat. Then you began to revile him and became a bloodhound on the trail ready to tear him limb from limb if you ever caught up with him, and—”

“That was when he began to commit his filthy murders,” Carruthers interrupted sharply. “My attitude toward him since then has not changed.”

“And yet,” observed Jimmie Dale casually, “he vindicated himself last night. You and everyone else believed he had murdered Ray Thorne because one of his gray seals was found on Ray’s safe.”

“He undoubtedly vindicated himself in that particular instance,” Carruthers admitted bluntly; “but that does not absolve him from the murders that he has committed.”

“And yet,” persisted Jimmie Dale, “when you barged in here at dawn this morning to tell me what had happened, I think, if I am not mistaken, you said you had gratuitously stretched out your hand to clasp his red-stained palm.”

“I’d shake hands with any murderer who had done what he did last night,” Carruthers asserted gruffly.

“And, no doubt,” murmured Jimmie Dale, “would have handed him over to the police—if you could—at the same time you handed Beaton over.”

“No,” refuted Carruthers brusquely. “You know damned well that when he first telephoned me about Ray I gave him my word I’d play the game with him in return for his promise, as he expressed it, to make me ‘a present of Ray’s murderer with the goods on him.’ “

“Stout fellow!” applauded Jimmie Dale. “But I’m afraid I’m responsible for an unpardonable digression. Last night was an exception, of course; but what brings you here tonight at this hour, in spite of that fetish of yours of always seeing your paper put to bed?”

Carruthers was studying the tip of his cigarette. “The Gray Seal,” he stated tersely.

Jimmie Dale leaned nonchalantly forward over his desk.

“A bit of the backwash from last night, I suppose?” he suggested lightly.

“In a sense, yes,” Carruthers answered; “in a much broader sense, no. Listen, Jimmie, a rather queer thing has happened. I started out for the office this evening as usual, and at the usual time—say an hour ago. I took a taxi downtown. When I got out in front of our building the street was apparently deserted, but before I had crossed the sidewalk a man appeared from an adjacent doorway and came up to me. He had evidently checked up on me and my habits, for he called me by name and said he had been waiting to beg me to help him—that, as a matter of fact, his life was in danger. I asked him at once, of course, why, in that case, he didn’t go to the police. His answer was that he would be bumped off within the hour if he did.”

“Oh!” Jimmie Dale nodded. “Of the genus gangster, eh? Just as bad for him, I’d say, if he were found talking to a newspaper man! But how were you to save this precious life of his?”

“By putting him in touch with Larry the Bat—to wit, the Gray Seal,” Carruthers replied briefly. Jimmie Dale’s brows drew slightly together.

“Look here, Carruthers, old chap,” he complained,” you’re really most confusing, you know. I don’t get this at all.”

“I’ll try to make it clear,” Carruthers returned quietly. “He said he had read in the papers that I had been with Larry the Bat last night, hence I was the only chance he had of making contact with Larry the Bat; that Larry the Bat was his one hope—and, failing that, that he was a goner.”

Jimmie Dale’s brows drew still a little closer together.

“What is this, Carruthers?” he inquired whimsically. “A frame—up to snaffle the jolly old Gray Seal, a sort of come-into-my-parlor stunt and all that kind of thing? Frankly, I must say it wouldn’t be at all nice of you after that promise of yours, old dear.”

“It’s no frame-up so far as I am concerned,” Carruthers affirmed somewhat tartly; “nor, I am convinced, on the part of this man we are talking about, either. He was too genuinely anxious and worried to leave any doubt in my mind as to his sincerity.”

“Well?” prompted Jimmie Dale.

“Well,” conceded Carruthers, “I had been taken aback, naturally, from the start. I didn’t know what to say. Finally I told him to telephone me in the morning, and that in the meantime I’d think it over and see what I could do. He went off along the street then; and I decided that, instead of going into our building and upstairs to my office, I’d take a subway uptown to save time, and talk it over with you. So that is what I did—and here I am.

“So I perceive,” said Jimmie Dale dryly. “But, for God’s sake, my dear old chap, would you mind telling me just why I am so honored? And also what on earth you imagine I have to do with this?”

“I don’t imagine you have anything to do with it,” said Carruthers decisively; “but we have worked together before on cases where the Gray Seal was involved, and you know as much of his methods as I do. I think that this contact should be made if possible, and I want your advice as to how best to make it.”

“On the basis that, having trusted you afore-times, the Gray Seal will trust you again?”

“Yes.”

“And you? Once in your power, the temptation to let him—er—stub his toe? What about that?” Carruthers bridled.

“Damn it!” he whipped out. “What do you think I am?”

Jimmie Dale smiled disarmingly.

“Please, Carruthers,” he murmured, “please don’t ask me to indulge in personalities. We will grant at once, however, that he will be safe in your protecting arms; but, incident to such circumstances, it may not perhaps have occurred to you that you would not come far short of compounding a felony if, being in a position to do so, you did not turn him over to the authorities.”

“I’d be compounding a worse felony if I sat tight and did nothing,” Carruthers declared earnestly. “I’m sure of that. I’m sure that man told the literal truth when he said his life depended on making contact with Larry the Bat. I don’t know why. But I wouldn’t care to hear that he had been murdered, and feel that I possibly might have done something to prevent it.”

Jimmie Dale grinned pleasantly.

“Yes; quite so!” he said. “Very commendable of you, Carruthers, old chap, since you feel that way about it. But, after all, what do you know about this fellow? What did he tell you about himself? Who is he? What does he look like?”

“It was rather dark there on the sidewalk,” Carruthers explained; “and, besides, he had a slouch hat pulled pretty well down over his eyes. I am afraid the only description of him that I could give would be that he was a well-built, broad-shouldered man of about my height, a little younger than we are, I should say, and that he was quite well dressed. He didn’t tell me anything about himself except that his name was Sonny Gartz. He said that was all Larry the Bat would need to know.”

Jimmie Dale leaned comfortably back in his chair. His eyes held placidly, unemotionally on Carruthers’s face; but his mind was far away: Back to the days before the war; back to the days of the old Sanctuary and Larry the Bat; back to the days when the Tocsin was still a mystery to him; back to a certain night when Lan Chi’s dive had been a hell of fire and smoke and torment. Sonny Gartz! Sonny Gartz had saved Larry the Bat’s life that night, made light of his own heroism, and, embarrassed by his, Jimmie Dale’s gratitude, had said he would take a “rain check” on Larry the Bat’s offer to do something for him in return, if the need ever came. Here was the rain check. There was no question but that it would be honored. Far better than Carruthers now he knew that Sonny Gartz was in desperate need. His mind veered from the old days to the present. Only a little while ago he had assured himself that the Gray Seal had been swallowed up in the pot forever; but, after all, anything he might now be able to do for Sonny Gartz did not at all necessarily mean anything but a momentary return, if even that, to the old life. There was a hiatus of a few days anyway ahead of him. Marie, though actually now in New York, was not supposed to return from Europe for, say, still another week. And, owing to Ray’s murder, the stage was set—the new Sanctuary at his disposal, and the roles of either Larry the Bat or Smarlinghue, if need be, could be instantly and readily assumed. Sonny Gartz! His mind was back again to that night in Lan Chi’s dive. Sonny Gartz had risked his life to save Larry the Bat. It was Larry the Bat’s turn now—not a return to be made grudgingly, but one to be given gladly no matter what the cost, and—

“Well,” Carruthers jerked out impatiently, “what’s all the deep thought about?”

“I was thinking,” lied Jimmie Dale smoothly, “that your pernicious habit of everlastingly gum-shoeing after the Gray Seal may very possibly land you in a heap of trouble yourself one of these days. As a matter of fact, I have a ghastly suspicion that is what’s at the back of your mind in the present instance, rather than an overwhelming sense of anxiety anent the welfare of one Sonny Gartz.”

Carruthers scowled.

“Oh, shut up, Jimmie!” he growled. “This isn’t getting me anywhere. You can label my motive any way you like, but I’m going through with this if I can. I am frankly at a loss as to how to get in touch with the Gray Seal, or Larry the Bat, whichever you want to call him, and I came here on the chance of getting a helpful suggestion from you. If you haven’t got one to offer, I might as well chase along and see what I can do on my own.”

“Oh, well,” sighed Jimmie Dale resignedly, “if you feel that way, I’ll take a shot at it. Wait a jiffy till I get the old intellect at work.” He stared thoughtfully at Carruthers for a full minute—his furrowed brow hiding a mental chuckle. And then his face cleared, and he leaned across the desk toward Carruthers. “I’ve got it!” he announced impressively. “Simplest thing in the world!”

“I’m listening,” invited Carruthers.

“He’s telephoned you several times of his own accord during his scandalous and bloodthirsty career, hasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Then there’s no reason why he should hesitate to do so again?”

“No.”

“Exactly! That’s the point!” expounded Jimmie Dale with mounting enthusiasm. “So you stick an item in the personal column of the News-Argus, asking him to telephone you. Say that his confidence and all that sort of thing will be strictly observed—or use any other old motto you like. And sign your name.”

“H’m!” Carruthers pulled at his lower lip. “And suppose he never reads the News-Argus—suppose he never sees it?”

“Then we’ll have to do something else.”

“What?”

“I haven’t the faintest!” acknowledged Jimmie Dale brightly. “I’ll admit my idea doesn’t scintillate with genius, but it’s the best I can do for you. After all, having chummed up with him last night, your rag is the one he’s bound to read to see what you’ve got to say about it all.”

Carruthers got up from his chair.

“Well, I’ll try it, of course,” he said, “along with anything else I can think up; but it looks to me like a dashed long shot, and I haven’t got much faith in it—besides, there’s the time element involved. It might be a lot too late even if he did see it.”

“Carruthers,” remonstrated Jimmie Dale, “you are flicking on the raw. Most ungenerous of you! I have already admitted that the old bean has not been brilliant, but it’s done its best. I haven’t another earthly idea to suggest.”

“Oh, good Lord,” protested Carruthers, “I’m not blaming you! I don’t know of anything else to do myself.” He moved toward the door. “Don’t come down. Jason will see that I don’t pinch your best hat; and he needn’t call a taxi, because I’m going back the way I came—by subway.”

Jimmie Dale stood up.

“Right!” he said. “And of course you’ll keep me posted on anything that breaks loose.”

“Naturally!” Carruthers’s hand was on the door knob.

“But, please,” pleaded Jimmie Dale facetiously, “at a reasonable hour. You know, you’ve got a beastly habit of yanking a chap out of a sound sleep at three or four o’clock in the morning with the dulcet tinkling of the telephone bell. Postpone anything of that sort hereafter, will you, like a good fellow, until the first matutinal cigarette?”

“Oh, go to the devil!” retorted Carruthers politely, as he grimaced himself out of the room.

Jimmie Dale slumped down in his chair. Bodily inactive, his mind was instantly virile and at work. A time limit! That had been in his thoughts from the first. If Sonny Gartz was in the kind of jam that had caused him to make a last, desperate, back-to-the-wall appeal for help through Carruthers, with the chances apparently a thousand to one against him of any contact with Larry the Bat ever being established in that way, it became a question, not of days, but far more likely of hours, or even minutes, in which any help that reached him would be of any avail.

But where and how could he reach Sonny Gartz? He had not heard of Sonny Gartz since before the war, and even at that time Sonny Gartz had not been allied with any particular gang. And since that time the old type of gang leader had given place to the boiled-shirt Park Avenue big shot, the bootlegger, and the new phase of racketeer from whose “squeeze” nothing was immune. The Bowery had disappeared; its glamour and color replaced by drab shock joints and flop houses. True, some of the old undercover dives and dens remained—and always would, of course —but the picture on the whole was entirely changed.

How reach Sonny Gartz? Where?

At any price and at any hazard that rain check would be honored if it were humanly possible for him to honor it.

But how?

For half an hour, three quarters of an hour, Jimmie Dale sat there motionless; then he got up from his chair, crossed the room, opened the door, crossed the hall, entered his bedroom, and passed on into the adjoining dressing room. It was a slim chance—but there seemed to be no other way, no other choice. It was not yet midnight. The new Sanctuary—the clothes and make-up for the role of Smarlinghue hidden there behind the baseboard—a round of the still existent dens and dives —Smarlinghue had the entree everywhere—perhaps he might strike the trail of Sonny Gartz. It would be luck, of course—but there was no other way, no other move that he could see to make against that time limit.

He threw off his dressing gown—and, in the act of reaching for a suit of clothes in his wardrobe, paused. The telephone on the stand beside his bed was ringing. He went back into the bedroom and picked up the receiver.

Carruthers’s voice reached him:

“That you, Jimmie?”

“Oh, hello, Carruthers,” drawled Jimmie Dale. “Thanks for your consideration, old top. I hadn’t quite turned in.”

“Well, you can”—there was a rasp in Carruthers’s voice—“so far as Sonny Gartz is concerned. There won’t be any ‘personal’ in the paper. He’s dead.”

Jimmie Dale stiffened.

“Dead?” he repeated bleakly.

“Yes,” said Carruthers. “Over on a slab in the morgue. Identified by the police. Riddled by a submachine gun. Must have been shot down within a couple of blocks after he left me—almost immediately after I started for your place—the fellows in the office heard the shots.”

Jimmie Dale made no answer.

“Thought I’d let you know,” said Carruthers. “Rotten business! Good-night!”

“Good-night,” said Jimmie Dale mechanically —but Jimmie Dale’s face was lined and sober as he replaced the receiver on the hook.

He had owed his life to Sonny Gartz.