Jimmie Dale blinked again, rubbed his eyes, and stared at her.
“Oh, hello!” he said, a little ungraciously. “It's Mother Margot, eh?”
She nodded without speaking.
“Well?” It was Smarlinghue who spoke. “What's the idea? I ain't standing any free rides to dreamland—the price has gone up.”
Mother Margot shook her head.
“Nobody's askin' youse to,” she replied a little tartly. “I ain't never been on dat kind of stuff, t'ank Gawd! I'm lookin' for some one, dat's wot I'm here for.”
Jimmie Dale permitted a slightly malicious grin to flicker across his lips.
“You didn't seem to fall in love with me the night I got shown out at Wally's,” he observed, “so I guess it ain't me. Try next door!”
She came a little closer, and lowered her voice.
“No, it ain't for youse,” she said; “but mabbe youse'll do, if youse ain't too stewed on coke.”
Jimmie Dale did not answer for a moment. Was the entrée into the Phantom's circle here at last, an entrée in the sense that, if only in a minor way, he was to be offered the opportunity of participating in the activities of Gentleman Laroque's, alias the Phantom's, gang? She was looking for some one. Who? She was, he knew, the one through whom the Phantom, always invisible himself, issued all his orders. Who, then, would she be searching for to-night save the very men that he himself would willingly pay any price to find—Bunty Myers for one, the Kitten for another!
“I ain't been here long enough, without being butted in on, to get stewed,” said Jimmie Dale caustically.
She came still closer, peering at him through her spectacles, drawing her shawl with quick nervous little clutches tighter around her shoulders and throat. And then suddenly her whole manner changed; she seemed frightened, almost in despair.
“Yes, youse're all right, I can see dat now,” she burst out in a hoarse, shaken whisper. “Dat was de only thing I was scared of w'en I sees youse in here—dat youse'd be stewed. Listen, Smarly, I got to get some help. An' I want youse to help me. Dere ain't no one on de whole East Side could do it de way youse could, if youse only will.”
Jimmie Dale lounged back on the bunk. Mother Margot would at least not find him eager.
“Thanks for the bouquet!” he grinned. “The last time all you handed me was a frozen mitt.”
“Aw, forget it!” she whispered passionately. “For Gawd's sake forget dat, Smarly. I ain't handin' youse no jolly. Everybody knows Smarlinghue; an' everybody knows dere ain't a dump in de Bad Lands dat he ain't wise to, an' where he don't get de glad hand. An'—an' everybody knows dey can trust Smarlinghue. I'm trustin' youse now. Say, give me yer word youse'll keep yer trap closed about me whether youse sits in de game or not, an' I'll come across.”
“Sure!” said Jimmie Dale. “That don't cost nothing. I've never seen you to-night, if that suits you. Go ahead! Spill it!”
Mother Margot glanced furtively around her. She listened for a moment to the voices, grown thicker now and almostinaudible, coming through the partition, then she leaned close to Jimmie Dale. Her lips scarcely moved.
“I'll get mine if I'm heard, or youse snitches on me,” she breathed in a frightened, jerky way. “But I got to do it. I got to do it. I've been lookin' for hours, ever since early in de afternoon, an' it ain't no good. I've looked everywhere, an' I can't find him, an'—an' I didn't darst get too nosey wid questions. Youse understand, Smarly? It's English Steve. I got to get a message to English Steve, an' if I don't he goes out. My Gawd, Smarly, youse gets dat, don't youse? He goes out.”
Jimmie Dale stared at her. He experienced a sudden loss of the elation, the uplift, that he had known but a moment before in such full measure. English Steve! All the underworld knew about English Steve! It was no secret. Even those two hop-fighters in the next room, who ranked little higher than stalls and steerers in the citizenry of the Bad Lands, knew all about English Steve and his gang troubles. He, Jimmie Dale, knew all about it. As Larry the Bat he had even been personally acquainted with English Steve in the olden days. Therefore he also knew—which was the one thing that concerned him now—that English Steve had nothing to do with Bunty Myers. And it was of Bunty Myers, as the first step toward picking up again the Phantom's trail, that he had expected Mother Margot to unburden herself.
His eyes shifted to the ragged sleeve of his coat, to the dirty, frayed, protruding wristband of his shirt. He had hoped for too much evidently. Perhaps he should have known better, but that did not lessen the disappointment. True, he had called this woman from her pushcart on Thompson Street only that morning, and had talked to her as the Gray Seal over the telephone, and he had been thoroughly satisfied then that she was as ignorant as he was of either Bunty Myers' or the Phantom's movements; but until a moment ago, in view of her appearance here, he had thought that in the meantime the Phantom had communicated with her. Well, he had been wrong, it seemed, and to-night was to be only another night of hollow results added to the nights that had gone before. He had lost track of how many! It didn't matter. He had hoped for too much, that was all.
She clutched at his sleeve frantically, in pitiful pleading.
“Youse ain't afraid, are youse, Smarly?” she quavered. “Youse don't have to get in between. All I'm askin' youse is to help me find him, an' if youse finds him first to slip him a message. Youse don't have to do nothin' else.”
“What's the message?” inquired Jimmie Dale, a little gruffly.
“Just tell him to duck his nut out of New York to-night, dat's all. Just tell him dat.”
Jimmie Dale as Smarlinghue shook his head critically.
“He ain't that kind,” he said. “I suppose you're talking about him and his gang, but everybody that ain't deaf knows he swore he'd get every last one of the outfit he used to work with before they got him, if they tried any funny business. What's the use of handing him any steer like that?”
“Never youse mind about dat,” said Mother Margot quickly. “He'll go if youse tells him it was me sent de word. He ain't for runnin' into a trap, is he? Nobody but a fool 'ud do dat.”
Jimmie Dale appeared to ponder the matter.
“What's the trap?” he demanded after a moment.
“I don't know,” she answered miserably.
“Well then,” prodded Jimmie Dale, “if you don't know that, how do you know it's to-night they're laying for him, and where do you come in? He ain't a long lost son you've discovered, is he?”
She wrung her hands suddenly.
“Oh, my Gawd, Smarly,” she whispered wildly, “we're losin' time, an'—an' I'm afraid. Mabbe it's too late even now. Dere ain't no use askin' me questions dat I can't answer. I don't know how, an' I don't know where, but I knows English Steve gets his to-night if he ain't tipped off in time. For Gawd's sake don't ask me nothin' more. I owe it to English Steve to wise him up. I got to do it if I can, an' I'm askin' youse to help me. Youse will, won't youse, Smarly? Aw, for Gawd's sake, say youse will! Youse won't be sorry. I—I'll make it up to youse. Mother Margot don't never forget.”
Jimmie Dale swung his leg slowly over the edge of the bunk. Well, why not? Mother Margot's advent had brought him anything but what he had hoped for, but he was certainly no worse off than he had been before her arrival. English Steve and his gang affairs were too well known, too public, to warrant any suspicion that there was any ulterior object in Mother Margot's actions. He had not the slightest doubt but that the gang had laid their plans for the removal of English Steve to-night.