But in a moment more he reached the corner. Mother Margot had disappeared. He nodded his head. She had gone in through Wally Kerrigan's side entrance, her objective beyond question of doubt that upstairs room at the back.
Jimmie Dale moved swiftly now. At last, then, there was something afoot again. Mother Margot was the mouthpiece of the “Voice,” as she called the Phantom. For a moment he experienced a sense of chagrin that he should have lost those few minutes in Gypsy Dan's saloon, for otherwise he would have been upstairs with Bunty Myers and the rest on Mother Margot's arrival, and Smarlinghue would have been introduced to Mother Margot, and—He shook his head again. No! He had lost nothing. His intimacy had not quite reached the point where they would talk before him. They would more likely have kicked him out. It was much better as it was; better that Smarlinghue should not have been in evidence at all if the aftermath of this visit of Mother Margot meant anything that would bring him into any game that might be played to-night.
And now he smiled with grim whimsicality as his thought of shelter came back to him. Instead of the back room upstairs, if he was to have any part in the proceedings whatever, he was much more likely to be a silent and unobtrusive occupant of the fire escape outside the window, than which he could imagine no place less sheltered or more uncomfortable in New York that night!
The door of Wally Kerrigan's side entrance closed silently behind Jimmie Dale. It was utterly dark here. The clientele that favored Kerrigan with its patronage, in so far as this portion of his premises was concerned, made no demand for any such extravagance as light! A footstep sounded from above, a woman's footstep; it died away, and a door closed. Mother Margot had run true to form!
Jimmie Dale moved forward as a shadow moves, and began to mount the narrow stairway with which he was already so well acquainted. There was no sound. It was the silence learned in the days of the old Sanctuary on the creaky, rickety stairs there, where an untrained step would have sounded the alarm from top to bottom of the tenement.
He gained the landing. There were three or four rooms here, he knew, but save for a tiny thread of light that seeped out under the threshold of the rear room, which was the rendezvous of Laroque's gang, everything was in darkness. It was early yet, which might be one reason, and the stormy night another, why the other rooms were as yet evidently unoccupied.
And now he was crouching against the door itself, his ear pressed against the panel. It was a possibility, that was all—a possible alternative to the uninviting fire escape. Again he shook his head, then turned swiftly to the window almost at his elbow that gave on the rear of the little hall. He had caught the sound of movement through the panels, even the sound of voices, but the words had been hopelessly indistinguishable.
Cautiously he opened the window, slipped out on the fire escape, and, against the possibility of any of the occupants of the room stepping out into the hall to notice an opened window, he closed it again behind him. Another moment, and, flat on his face, he had crept along the iron platform until he lay beneath the window of the rear room. He would be able to hear now. He had taken no chances on that score. Open or closed, the window above him with its square of cardboard tacked over the broken pane could hardly be improved upon for his purpose. And now, keeping a little back from the wall, he raised himself up and peered in. Mother Margot was talking excitedly, gesticulating with her hands, while gathered around her at the table were Muller, Bunty Myers, and two men he had met there before, who, leaving aside a score of aliases, were known as the Kitten and Spud MacGuire.
A pretty quartette! Jimmie Dale's lips thinned, as, the sense of sight gratified, he shifted his position, placing his ear as close to the edge of the window casing as he dared without exposing himself to the risk of being seen. Yes, he could hear now, but—a dismayed frown furrowed his forehead—Mother Margot appeared already to have imparted whatever information had brought her there.
“...Youse understand, don't youse?” she was saying. “'Cause if youse have got it straight, I'm goin' to beat it outer dis, an' get home an' get dry.”
“It kinder took de wind outer us, dat's all!” Bunty Myers' voice responded in a puzzled growl. “I t'ought de whole works was blown up an' we was done!”
“I told youse once,” snapped Mother Margot. “It's de panel in de wall.”
“Sure!” said Bunty Myers. “We ain't deef, an' we got dat, all right—de middle one at de back of de room. But, den, wot's de use of waitin'?” He broke into a coarse, unpleasant laugh. “I guess old Miser Scroff ain't at home to queer anythin'!”
“De use of waitin',” returned Mother Margot tartly, “is 'cause de Chief says so, an' 'cause some of youse pulled a bum play dat he's got to make good, an' I wouldn't like to be de one dat done it 'cause de Chief is seein' red. Anyway, don't youse make no mistakes again. Youse ain't to make a move until as near ten as'll give youse time to get away wid it, but youse're to be through by den, 'cause at ten de bulls get tipped off.”
“All right,” agreed Bunty Myers. And then abruptly, as Mother Margot evidently started to leave the room: “Say, wait a minute, mother! Mabbe youse have got de answer to somethin' we'se can't figure out. Wot's de big idea behind de Chief's keepin' under cover? We ain't seen him for weeks—nothin' but telephones an' messages. Where is he?”
“Why don't youse ask him?” suggested Mother Margot acidly.
“Ask him!” echoed Bunty Myers helplessly. “How de hell can I, w'en I don't know where——”
“Dat's de answer!” Mother Margot's interruption was a cackling laugh. “Youse knows all I knows. Do youse t'ink me an' de Chief goes to a picture show every evenin', an' den spends de rest of de night together eatin' hot frankfurters an' stewed ice cream? Say, youse give me a pain! Good-night!”
The door in the hall closed.
For an instant Jimmie Dale stood motionless, then he turned, and, in lieu of an exit via the hall window, began to make his way down the fire escape. And now what? Go to Mother Margot as the Gray Seal and force a detailed explanation from her as he had the other night? He shook his head. It wasn't necessary to-night, was it? He had learned enough, hadn't he?
His mind was working swiftly, in a precise, virile way, as he descended the wet, dripping iron treads. The middle panel at the back of old Miser Scroff's room—and old Miser Scroff was not at home. That was clear enough. And there was no question but that Miser Scroff had money hidden away somewhere. It was only a wonder that it had not been taken from him before. The old man was almost senile. It was common property on the East Side that he had been caught fondling and crooning over packages of banknotes in his room on more than one occasion. For more years than any one could remember the man, already old, had just kept on growing older in a solitary life in his sordid surroundings. He was supposed to have a small income from some source, but however small it might have been it was certain he saved on it for he never spent a cent save to keep absolute famine from his door. Undoubtedly he had money. Robbery, therefore, as the motive, was equally clear. And at ten o'clock, for some reason, the police were to be notified of the crime by the actual perpetrators themselves. Ten o'clock. It could not be much after nine yet. There should be at least half an hour then before Bunty Myers need be considered as a factor. Meanwhile the Phantom was at work in an effort to rectify some misplay made by his underlings. Was it at Miser Scroff's that the Phantom in person would be employed prior to the arrival of Bunty Myers and his confederates? Was it luck like that? Luck at last! If so, then——
Jimmie Dale dropped from the bottom of the fire escape to the ground. And then, in the shelter of the lane where the fire escape had landed him, he broke instantly into a run.
“Not as Smarlinghue,” confided Jimmie Dale grimly to himself as he ran. “I can't risk Smarlinghue—it's got to be the other way in spite of a patched face.”
XI.