It was pitch black here, but it was familiar ground to Larry the Bat in the old days, and therefore to Smarlinghue in the new. The short passageway in which he was standing terminated, he knew, in a rear entrance to the dance hall, which was always kept locked and used only by Malay John himself, and which was just at the foot of the stairs that led upward to Malay John’s combination of private den, office, and sleeping apartment; while at the side of the passage, half way along, was that other door, always guarded on the inside, that required an “open sesame” to gain admittance to the dive below.
And now he crept stealthily past this latter door, reached the staircase, and went swiftly up to the landing above. Here another door barred his way, and here again he placed his ear to the panel—but this time to listen, it seemed, interminably. Every faculty was strained and alert now. He could take no chances here, and the uproar from the dance hall below, while it had safeguarded his ascent of the stairs, was confusing now and by no means an unmixed blessing.
Still he crouched there, his ear to the panel—and then, satisfied at last, he tried the door. It was locked.
“The penalty of being early!” murmured Jimmie Dale softly to himself.
His hand reached in under his vest to one of the pockets in the leather girdle, and a tiny steel instrument was inserted in the lock. There was a curious snipping sound, the doorknob turned slowly under his hand; then cautiously, inch by inch, he pushed the door open, slipped through—and stood motionless on the other side of the threshold. Save only from the dance hall below, there was not a sound. The door closed again; again that snipping sound as it was relocked—and then the round, white ray of Jimmie Dale’s flashlight circled his surroundings.
There was a sort of barbaric splendour to the place. Malay John was something of a sybarite! It was a single room, whose floor was covered with rich Turkish rugs, whose walls were covered with Oriental hangings, and in one corner was a great, wide divan, canopied, also with Oriental hangings at head and foot, serving presumably for a bed; but, striking a somewhat incongruous note, others of the appointments were modern enough—the flat-topped desk in the centre of the room with its revolving chair, for instance, and a large, ponderous safe that stood back against the rear wall.
Jimmie Dale crossed the room for a closer inspection of the safe, and, as his flashlight played over the single dial, he shook his head whimsically. No, it would be hardly true to call that modern; it was only an ancient monstrosity, a helpless thing at the mercy of any cracksman who—
The flashlight in his hand went out. Like lightning, Jimmie Dale, his tread silent on the heavy rugs, leaped back across the room, and in an instant slipped in behind the end hangings of the divan and stood, pressed closely, against the wall.
A key turned stealthily in the lock, the door opened as stealthily—then silence—then a flashlight swept suddenly around the room—darkness again—and then a hoarse whisper:
“All clear, Birdie. Lock the door.”
The door closed. The flashlight played down the room again—and upon Jimmie Dale’s lips came a twisted smile, as, his fingers edging the hanging slightly to one side, he peered out.
The light ray moving before them, two dark forms stole across the room to the safe.
“There you are, Birdie!” said one of them. “Ain’t she a beaut! Say, a kid could open it! Didn’t I tell you I was handing you one on a gold platter!”
The light ray now flooded the front of the safe, and outlined the forms of the two men. One of them, holding the flashlight, dropped on his knees, and began to twirl the dial tentatively; the other leaned negligently against the corner of the safe.
“I ain’t so sure it’s easy, Slimmy,” replied the man on his knees, after a moment. He stopped twirling the dial, and looked up. “Mabbe it’ll take longer than we figured on. Are you sure there ain’t no chance of Malay gettin’ back? I’d rather stack up against every bull in New York than him.”
The twisted smile on Jimmie Dale’s lips still lingered. So that was Slimmy Jack there, leaning against the safe! Slimmy Jack—and Birdie Lee! His fingers drew the hangings a little further apart. The room was in complete darkness except for the circle of light around the safe, and it was as though what was being enacted before him were some strange, realistic film thrown upon a screen—just two forms in the white light, their faces masked, against the background of the safe, with its glittering nickel dial. And now Slimmy Jack, from his negligent pose, straightened sharply and leaned toward Birdie Lee.
“Say, what’s the matter with you, Birdie!” he exclaimed roughly. “You didn’t let ‘em get your nerve up the river, did you? You’ve been acting kind of queer all day. I told you before, Malay wouldn’t be back in time to monkey with us. We don’t have to stand for this—I told you that, too. You don’t think I’m a fool, do you, to steer you into a lay that’s got a come-back on myself unless the thing was planted right? Why, damn it, Malay knows I saw the coin put in there. D’ye think I’d give him a chance of suspecting me! It’s all fixed—you know that. Now, go to it—there’s a nice little piece of money in there that’ll keep us going till we pull that Chicago deal.”
“All right!” Birdie Lee answered tersely. “Keep quiet, then, and I’ll see what I can do.”
He laid his ear against the safe, listening for the tumblers’ fall, as, holding the flashlight in his left hand, its rays upon the dial, the fingers of his right began to work swiftly again with the glistening knob.
From below, the confused, dull medley of sound from the dance hall seemed only to intensify the silence in the room. Slimmy Jack stood motionless at the side of the safe, his elbow resting against the old-fashioned, protruding upper hinge. A minute, two, another, and still another dragged by. Came then a short ejaculation from Birdie Lee.
Slimmy Jack bent forward instantly.
“Got it?” he demanded eagerly.
“No—curse it!” gritted Birdie Lee. “My fingers seem to have lost their touch—I ain’t had much practice for the last five years up there in Sing Sing!”
“Well, then, ‘soup’ it!” grunted Slimmy Jack. “You could blow the roof off, and no one would be the wiser with that racket downstairs. We can’t waste all night over it.”
“What are you going to ‘soup’ it with?” Birdie Lee flung back gruffly. “We didn’t bring nothing. You said—”
“I know I did!” A sullen menace had crept suddenly into Slimmy Jack’s voice. “I said you could open an old tin can like that with your hands tied—and so you can. Try it again!”
Jimmie Dale’s fingers stole inside his shirt, and into a pocket of the leather girdle, and brought forth a black silk mask. He slipped it quickly over his face. Birdie Lee was at work once more. It was about time to play his own hand in the game. The Tocsin had made no mistake, he was sure of that now, and—
Birdie Lee spoke again.
“It’s no use, Slimmy!” he muttered. “I guess I ain’t any good any more. I can’t open the damned thing!”
“Try it again!” ordered Slimmy Jack shortly.
“But it’s no use, I tell you!” retorted Birdie Lee. “I ain’t got the feel in my fingers.”
“You—try—it—again!” There was a cold, ominous ring in Slimmy Jack’s voice.
Birdie Lee drew back a little on his knees, glancing quickly up at the other.
“What—what d’ye mean by that, Slimmy!” he exclaimed in