There came a faint creaking noise—some one was cautiously mounting the stairs. Jimmie Dale snatched his automatic from his pocket, and without a sound stole forward across the room to a position by the door. The footsteps were on the landing now. The doorknob was tried; the door began to open slowly, inch by inch, wider; a dark form slipped through into the room; the floor was closed again—and Jimmie Dale, reaching forward, clapped the muzzle of his automatic against the other’s head. But it was Larry the Bat who spoke—in a hoarse, guttural whisper.
“Youse let a peep outer youse, an’ youse goes bye-bye for keeps! See?
Put yer hands over yer head, an’ do it—quick!”
Jimmie Dale’s left hand reached out and switched on the light. It was Meighan, hands elevated, startled, angry, who stood blinking in the glare—and then a low cry came from the man.
“Larry the Bat—the Gray Seal! So it’s a plant, is it! That damned she-pal of yours handed it to me good over the ‘phone!” Meighan’s lips tightened. “And where’s Virat—did you kill him, too?”
Jimmie Dale’s hand was searching swiftly through the detective’s clothes. He transferred a revolver and a pair of handcuffs to his own pockets.
“I had ter take a chance on de light,” said Larry the Bat plaintively; “‘cause I had ter frisk youse.” He turned off the light again. “Sure, she’s a slick one!” Larry the Bat, his left hand free again, turned his flashlight upon the detective. “Youse can put yer flippers down now. Mabbe she staked youse ter de tip dat de bonds was here, eh?”
“Yes, blast you—both of you!” growled Meighan.
“Well, dey ain’t,” said Larry the Bat coolly; “but mabbe, after all, she wasn’t handin’ youse no steer.”
Meighan, savage at his own helplessness, snarled his words.
“What do you mean?” he demanded.
“Mabbe nothin’—mabbe a whole lot.” Larry the Bat dropped his voice mysteriously. “I was thinkin’ of pullin’ off a little show here, an’ youse have de luck ter get an invite, dat’s all. Mabbe I’ll hand youse somethin’ on a gold platter, an’ mabbe I’ll hand youse—this!” The automatic was shoved significantly an inch closer to Meighan’s face. “Youse know me! Youse know what’ll happen if youse play any funny tricks! No guy gets de Gray Seal alive—I guess youse are wise ter dat, ain’t youse? Now den, over youse go behind dat big chair on de other side of de table!”
Meighan, a puzzled look replacing the angry expression on his face, blinked.
“What’s the lay?” he queried.
“I’m expectin’ company,” grinned Larry the Bat. “Youse keeps yer yap closed till youse gets de cue—savvy? Dat’s all! If youse play fair, mabbe youse’ll get a look-in on de rake-off; if youse throws me down, the first shot I fires won’t miss youse. Go on now, get down behind dat chair—quick!”
Hesitantly, following the flashlight’s directing ray, covered by Jimmie Dale’s automatic, Meighan, muttering, made his way across the room, and crouched down behind the back of a large lounging chair. Jimmie Dale leaned nonchalantly against the jamb of the door, the flashlight holding a bead upon the chair.
“Youse’ll pardon me if I keeps de spot-light on youse,” drawled Larry the Bat, “Some of youse dicks ain’t trustworthy.”
“Look here!” Meighan burst out. “This is a hell of a note! What—”
“Youse shut yer face!” Jimmie Dale’s voice had grown suddenly cold and menacing—the stairs were creaking again, this time under a quick tread. “Listen! Say, youse don’t have ter wait long fer de curtain, ter go up on de act. Don’t youse make a sound!”
The doorknob turned. Jimmie Dale whipped his flashlight into his pocket—and in a flash, as a man entered, switched on the light, and slammed shut the door. A dapper individual, wearing tortoise-rimmed glasses, with black moustache and goatee, was staring into the muzzle of Jimmie Dale’s automatic.
“Hello, Frenchy!” observed Larry the Bat suavely. “Feelin’ faint?”
The man’s face had gone a chalky white. He looked wildly around him, as though seeking some avenue of escape.
“Mon Dieu!” he whispered. “Larree ze Bat! It is ze Gray Seal! It is—”
“Aw, cut out dat parlay-voo dope!” Larry the Bat broke in curtly. “Youse don’t need ter pull dat stuff wid me, Virat. Talk New York, see?”
Virat moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue.
“What do you want here?” he asked huskily.
“Oh, nothin’ much,” said Larry the Bat airily. “I thought mabbe youse might figure dere was some of dem bonds comin’ ter me.”
“Bonds! I don’t know anything about any bonds,” said Virat, in a low voice. “I don’t know what you are talking about.’
“You don’t—eh?” inquired Larry the Bat ominously. “Well den, I’ll help ter put youse wise. But mabbe I’d better get yer gun first, eh?” As he had done to Meighan, he removed a revolver from Virat’s pocket. “T’anks!” he said. He pushed Virat with his revolver muzzle toward the table, and forced the other into a chair. He sat down opposite Virat, and smiled unpleasantly. “Now den, come across! Youse croaked de Magpie ter-night!”
“You’re dippy!” sneered Virat. “I haven’t seen the Magpie in a month.”
“An’ dat’s what youse did it wid.” Larry the Bat, as though he had not heard the other’s denial, reached into his pocket, and shoved a small, murderous, bloodstained blackjack, the leather-covered piece of lead pipe that he had found beneath the washstand, suddenly across the table under Virat’s eyes.
With a sharp cry, staring, Virat shrank back.
“Sure! Now youse’re talkin’!” approved Larry the Bat complacently. “But dat ain’t all. Say, youse have got a gall! Youse thought youse’d plant me, did youse, wid dat gray seal on de Magpie’s boot!” Jimmie Dale’s voice was deadly cold again. “Well, what about dat?”
“What do you want?” mumbled Virat.
Jimmie Dale’s smile was not inviting.
“I told youse once, didn’t I? What do youse suppose I want! If I got ter fall fer it, I want some of dem bonds—dat’s what I want!”
A look of relief spread over Virat’s face.
“All right,” he said hurriedly. “I—that’s—that’s fair. I—I’ll get them for you.” He started up from his chair, his eyes travelling instinctively toward the door.
“Youse sit down!” invited Larry the Bat coldly.
“But—but you said—I—I was going to get them,” faltered Virat.
“Sure!” said Larry the Bat. “Dat’s de idea! An’, say, I’m in a hurry. Dey ain’t over dere, Frenchy—try nearer home!”
Virat’s hands trembled as he unbuttoned his vest. He reached around under the back of his vest, drew out a flat package, and laid it on the table. He began to untie the cord.
“Wait a minute!” said Larry the Bat pleasantly. “I ain’t in so much of a hurry now dat I got me lamps on ‘em! Youse can count ‘em out after—half for youse, an’ half fer me. Tell us how youse fixed de lay.”
And then, for the first time, Virat laughed, though still a little nervously.
“Yes, that’s square,” he agreed eagerly. “I—I was afraid you were going to pinch them all. I’ll tell you. It was easy. I piped the