“I'm waiting till the old bird's tucked away in bed,” Limpy Mack's voice answered out of the darkness. “I'm waiting till there isn't any chance of her moseying out for anything just as we're tapping the crib. I haven't noticed that there was anything the matter with her eyes; and she's not so dumb but that she might start something in the neighbourhood. I don't play the fool when I can play safe.”
“Safe!” echoed Mother Margot sarcastically. “Wot's safer dan dis de way it is now? I wanter get home. Youse ought to go down to an antique dump an' buy yerself a suit of armour, an' walk around in dat. Youse'd look fine—an' youse'd always be safe. De pip, dat's wot I'm contractin' from youse!”
There was no answer.
Mother Margot grunted contemptuously, and relapsed into silence.
The minutes passed. There was utter silence now in the house, save for an occasional uneasy movement of one or other of the two watchers in the hall above Jimmie Dale's head.
Jimmie Dale stood in grim patience, close against the wall, still on the stairs, an integral part of the shadows around him. The time dragged interminably, the minutes seeming to expand into endless hours. And then suddenly Limpy Mack's voice broke the silence in a tense undertone:
“All right! Her light's out. Come on!”
There came then the sound of footsteps receding from the hall; and Jimmie Dale in an instant silently gained the head of the stairs, and lay there crouched, half on the landing and half on the topmost treads. From his position, slightly diagonal though it was from where he had placed the door, he had calculated he would be able to see clearly enough into the room that Mother Margot and her companion had obviously just entered. He nodded now in quick self-corroboration. Out of the darkness of the room, lancing it in a little white shaft of light, there came the ray of an electric torch, and two figures were outlined as they bent over a piece of furniture that stood against the far wall, and that looked like an old chest of drawers. But there was no squeak of casters now. Jimmie Dale smiled uninvitingly. They were becoming unduly cautious! The piece of furniture was being lifted, not rolled, until it stood out from the wall, the back of it exposed.
For a moment the two figures leaned over it, the flashlight playing on the back of the dresser; and then from its extreme edge, what looked like a very narrow drawer, its depth almost half of the dresser itself, was pulled out.
“S'help me!” Mother Margot's voice quivered in curious, sibilant excitement. “Say, de old skirt's rich!”
“Was,” corrected Limpy Mack's voice curtly. “Keep your paws off! We'll make the split to-morrow. In the meantime I'll take care of it. See? Hold the flashlight.”
“Sure!” sniffed Mother Margot. “Youse're de only honest one in de bunch. I know 'cause Little Sweeney told me!”
A man's hand dipped into the projecting drawer, disappeared nearly up to the elbow, and came out again with a fistful of banknotes which he stuffed into his pocket. Again the man plunged in his hand. Jimmie Dale rose to his feet, took a step forward—and halted abruptly, as Mother Margot's voice suddenly shrilled out tensely through the silence:
“My Gawd! Listen! Wot's dat? Over by de door!”
Jimmie Dale's jaws clamped together, as his automatic swung up into line. Strange! He could have sworn he had not made the slightest sound. He saw Limpy Mack step forward a pace and stand facing the doorway, listening intently. And then Jimmie Dale's face relaxed. Behind Limpy Mack's back Mother Margot's hand shot stealthily into the drawer, and a wad of bills disappeared stealthily inside her blouse. Once more she helped herself.
With a queer, grim droop to the corners of his mouth, Jimmie Dale retreated suddenly back along the hall, and a little beyond the head of the stairs. Mother Margot! The gods were good! There would be more in the night after all than the mere salvaging of old Mrs. Kinsey's savings. He had no intention now of interrupting the two at their work! Mother Margot had wrought a very drastic change in his plans!
“I don't hear anything!” Limpy Mack's voice growled after a moment. “What's the matter with you?”
“I guess I'm gettin' de creeps,” Mother Margot's voice replied. “I t'ought I heard somethin' creak, but I guess it was de wind. Hurry up, Limpy! I wanter get out of dis. I'm gettin' de creeps, dat's wot's de matter wid me.”
Perhaps another two minutes passed, and then Jimmie Dale, far back along the hall now, heard the footsteps of the two coming from the room. At the head of the stairs they paused, and Limpy Mack spoke gruffly:
“We don't want to take the chance of being seen leaving here together. You're safe enough, because if any one saw you, they'd think you were just a friend of the old dame. You wait here, give me five minutes, then beat it yourself. And you go straight home! You'll get what's coming to you to-morrow after the Chief's made the split. We don't meet again to-night unless something breaks, and in that case you know where to find me. Understand?”
Jimmie Dale smiled quietly in the darkness. He owed Limpy Mack thanks for that, at least—it would save him from following Mother Margot.
“Sure!” mocked Mother Margot. “Cookin' a pill in yer dump under Sen Yat's! Why don't youse come across wid de price of a bunk, an' give de Chink a chance once in a while?”
Limpy Mack, without answer, descended the stairs. From the lower hall, faintly, there came the soft tap-tap of his rubber-tipped cane. Presently the shop door opened and closed gently.
Jimmie Dale moved silently forward. He could just distinguish Mother Margot's figure as a dark blur at the head of the stairs. She, too, now began to descend.
And then Jimmie Dale spoke.
“I'll keep you company downstairs, Mother Margot,” he said softly—and the flashlight in his hand, stabbing suddenly through the darkness, played its ray upon her.
She whirled with a low, terrified cry, and put her hands before her blinking eyes as though to ward off a blow.
“Who's dat? Who're youse?” she cried out.
“Go on, Mother Margot—downstairs,” Jimmie Dale prompted more brusquely.
She obeyed in a stumbling, uncertain way.
“My Gawd! My Gawd!” she mumbled wildly. “Who're youse? A dick? I ain't done nothin'! I swear to Gawd, I ain't! I swear——”
“Quite so!” interrupted Jimmie Dale coolly, as they reached the lower hall. “But perhaps you will come across just the same.”
She stared at the hand which he had extended significantly in the flashlight's glow, and from under a bedraggled hat whose brim flapped over her straggling gray hair and fell into her eyes, she blinked again; she drew the old threadbare black shawl she wore closer around her shoulders, and clutched at it where it met at her neck.
“I dunno wot youse mean,” she croaked hoarsely. “Come across wid wot?”
“With what Limpy Mack didn't get.” Jimmie Dale was biting off his words now. “There was somebody at the door, even if you didn't hear him. I can use that money myself that you put inside your blouse. And I'm waiting—also I'm in a hurry!”
“Youse ain't a dick, den!” She seemed relieved in the sense that rage and fury now supplanted fear. She snarled at him. “Why didn't youse touch Limpy? I only got a dollar or two.”
“I haven't forgotten Limpy,” Jimmie Dale answered evenly. His hand was still extended. “Quick!” he snapped suddenly.
For an instant she hesitated, then snarling again, she felt inside her blouse and brought out a few crumpled banknotes.
Jimmie Dale thrust the money into his pocket—and extended his hand again.
“Dat's all!” she announced tartly. “Wot d'youse expect? I didn't have no chance!”
Jimmie Dale smiled thinly.