Mother Margot passed out through the door. Jimmie Dale, a few paces behind, removed his mask as he stepped out to the sidewalk. He crossed instantly to the other side of the road, and, keeping pace with her, followed her as she shuffled down the street.
He was smiling grimly now. The Phantom apparently was becoming cautious—in a personal sense. As Gentleman Laroque, as Isaac Shiftel, as Limpy Mack, the man had but narrowly escaped; to-night, it seemed fairly obvious, he was playing a safer game by delegating the actual work to the members of his old gang over whom he evidently still preserved his authority. Jimmie Dale's smile gave place to tight, set lips. It was a compliment in a way, and a very genuine compliment, to him, Jimmie Dale; but if there was no Phantom to-night, no chance at the man in that personal way, then, equally, there would be no Tocsin to-night either at the end of the quest!
He went on down the street, following the shawled figure of the old hag. Why dwell on that? What good would it do? What would it bring him? Some night, some time, it would be the last night and the last time, and there would be—the end. Meanwhile to-night, at least, he could check-mate the Phantom's game.
His thoughts swept back to the immediate present. Something struck him for the moment as incongruous, out of keeping, a little illogical, in view of the open brutality they had dealt out to Pedler Joe last night when they had not hesitated to break into the old man's house, that to-night the Phantom had switched his tactics to those of almost exaggerated stealth. And then he shook his head. No—it was far from illogical. He saw it now. He owed the Phantom a compliment in return. Mentally he paid it. The man had a sort of super cunning and cleverness cradled in his devil's brain! Pedler Joe knew nothing; Pedler Joe would continue to know nothing. Connie Pfeffer's lips were sealed unless to confess his own guilt. And so the disappearance of the money would remain a mystery—that was all!
The shawled figure on the opposite side shuffled on. It was not far now to Pedler Joe's. He followed her across the Bowery, down a side street again, past the Sanctuary, and around the next corner. Here he closed the gap between them, crossing to her side of the street—and as she disappeared into the blackness of a sort of arched driveway, he joined her.
He slipped the mask over his face again, and took her arm.
“Come on!” he whispered.
The driveway was a wretched, dirty place, once used no doubt for a delivery wagon when the store in front had been in its prime; now it was Pedler Joe's entrance to his domain, which, in turn, had once been an outhouse of some kind, perhaps even the stable, or wagon shed, a miserable little wooden shack, neglected now and in hopeless disrepair.
Jimmie Dale, still holding Mother Margot's arm, emerged from the driveway, crossed the small yard beyond, and halted at the door of the hovel.
It was dark here; nothing showed but the looming shadows of the surrounding buildings. Mother Margot was whimpering again:
“Pedler Joe! Pedler Joe'll see me, an' den——”
“Pedler Joe is out,” said Jimmie Dale crisply. “There's no one inside. You won't get into any trouble, Mother Margot, unless you make it yourself. I'll see to that!”
The door was locked. From the leather girdle Jimmie Dale selected a pick-lock. A moment, two, passed. The slim, sensitive fingers of Jimmie Dale, that mocked at even the intricate locks and bolts devised by modern ingenuity, were working quickly, almost contemptuously now, at Pedler Joe's cheap, flimsy fastening. The door swung open. Jimmie Dale motioned Mother Margot to enter, and, following, closed and locked the door again behind them.
For an instant he stood motionless, then his flashlight swept the interior, lancing the blackness with its round, white ray. The place was one of utter, poverty-stricken desolation. There was but a single room, with no furniture in it save an old table and chair; the floor sagged and had rotted away in places; even a window was lacking, for where one once had been, it was now, in lieu of broken panes no doubt, nailed up with boards.
And now the flashlight focussed and held on a flight of stairs obliquely across from the door and on the far side of the room. Mother Margot had called the place “the house with the broken stairs,” and it was well named! Half a dozen of the treads at least were broken away and were little more now than so many gaping holes; and for the rest, the whole staircase leaned drunkenly to one side as though scarcely able any longer to sustain its own weight, let alone the added burden of any one desirous of reaching the floor above.
“Whereabouts in the stairs is it?” Jimmie Dale demanded abruptly.
Mother Margot was crouched close against the door in a frightened attitude. She shook her head.
“I dunno,” she answered. “I wish to Gawd I did, so's we could get outer here quick. It's in one of dem holes in de stairs. Connie said he didn't remember which one 'cause he had to act on de jump. He heard de bulls comin', an' Pedler Joe was upstairs, an' he said he hadn't time to figure anythin' except to get de cash outer sight.”
“All right!” said Jimmie Dale quietly. “It doesn't much matter. We'll begin at the beginning.”
He moved across the room, and with his flashlight began his search under the broken stair treads. But it was not until the fourth attempt that his hand, in under a tread up to the elbow, encountered a sealed envelope. He drew it out quickly, and tore the end open. Yes, here it was! He took out the money and counted it rapidly—twenty five-hundred-dollar banknotes. It was all here—ten thousand dollars. He thrust the money into his pocket, and laid the empty envelope on the stair beside him.
“It's all right, Mother Margot!” he called softly. “We'll go in a minute.”
From another pocket in the leather girdle he drew out now the thin metallic case that contained its store of diamond-shaped, gray-paper seals, and with the tiny tweezers—that there might be no tell-tale finger prints—lifted out one of the seals and moistened the adhesive side with his lips. There was Pedler Joe to be considered. Pedler Joe must not be held accountable by the Phantom, any more than by the police. He picked up the empty envelope and pressed the gray seal firmly down upon it. When Bunty Myers and his fellow thugs arrived and found the money gone, Pedler Joe would naturally be the first one they would think of, and their former suspicions that the old man knew more than he pretended would be aroused again with disastrous results for Pedler Joe. But the gray seal here on the envelope would square Pedler Joe and settle all doubts on that score. The Phantom, for instance, was fully——
Mother Margot's whisper cut tensely, suddenly through the room:
“Dey're comin'! Dey're comin'! Aw, for Gawd's sake, dey're comin', an' dere ain't no way to get out!”
In an instant Jimmie Dale was across the room beside her. He caught her wrist fiercely.
“I told youse so!” She was crooning in a queer, low way. “Dey'll kill me for dis!”
“Keep quiet!” breathed Jimmie Dale.
Cool, possessed, motionless, he stood there. Mother Margot was right. He could hear the footsteps of three or four men close to the door outside. There was no way out. They were trapped, and Mother Margot——
The door rattled as it was tried. A voice in a low callous laugh reached him through the panels:
“It's a good thing youse piped old Pedler down de line, Bunty; it's saved us wastin' de night hangin' round waitin' for him to hit de hay!”
And then another voice, impatiently:
“Aw, get de door open! Wot's de use playin' wid de lock? Bust it in, an' strike a light! Youse don't have to be careful of de noise when Pedler ain't dere.”
Mother Margot! There was a chance. Just one. Not for both of them perhaps, but for Mother Margot. He owed it to her. He had brought her here—to her death—if the chance failed.
He leaned toward her, his lips close against her ear.
“Flatten