 Part 1, Chapter 1A of The Adventures of Jimmy Dale. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. The Adventures of Jimmy Dale by Frank L. Packard. Reading by Mary Rody. Part 1, The Man in the Case. Chapter 1A, The Gray Seal. Among New York's fashionable and ultra-exclusive clubs, the St. James stood an acknowledged leader. More men perhaps cast an envious eye at its portals of modest and unassuming taste as they passed by on Fifth Avenue than they did at any other club upon the long list that the city boasts. True, there were more expensive clubs upon whose membership roles scintillated more stars of New York's social set. But the St. James was distinctive. It guaranteed a man, so to speak, that is, it guaranteed a man to be innately a gentleman. It required money, it is true, to keep up one's membership. But there were many members who were not wealthy as wealth is measured nowadays. There were many even who were pressed sometimes to meet their dues and their house accounts, but the accounts were invariably promptly paid. No man once in could ever afford or ever have the desire to resign from the St. James Club. Its membership was cosmopolitan. Men of every walk in life passed in and out of its doors. Professional men and businessmen, physicians, artists, merchants, authors, engineers, each stamped with the hallmark of the St. James, an innate gentleman. To receive a two-weeks out-of-town visitors card to the St. James was something to speak about, and men from Chicago, St. Louis, or San Francisco spoke of it with a sort of holier than thou ere to fellow members of their own exclusive clubs at home again. Is there any doubt that Jimmy Dale was a gentleman, an innate gentleman? Jimmy Dale's father had been a member of the St. James Club and one of the largest safe manufacturers of the United States, a prosperous, wealthy man, and at Jimmy Dale's birth he had proposed his son's name for membership. It took some time to get into the St. James. There was a long waiting list that neither money, influence, nor pool could alter by so much as one iota. Men proposed their son's names for membership when they were born as religiously as they entered them upon the city's birth register. At 21 Jimmy Dale was elected to membership and, incidentally, that same year graduated from Harvard. It was Mr. Dale's desire that his son should enter the business and learn it from the ground up, and Jimmy Dale, for four years thereafter, had followed his father's wishes. Then his father died. Jimmy Dale had leanings toward more artistic pursuits than business. He was credited with sketching a little, writing a little, and he was credited with having received a very snug amount from the combine to which he sold out his safe manufacturing interests. He lived a bachelor life. His mother had been dead many years. In the house that his father had left him on Riverside Drive, kept a car or two and enough servants to run his menage smoothly and serve a dinner exquisitely when he felt hospitably inclined. Could there be any doubt that Jimmy Dale was innately a gentleman? It was evening, and Jimmy Dale sat at a small table in the corner of the St. James Club dining-room opposite him sat Hermann Carruthers, a young man of his own age, about 26, a leading figure in the newspaper world, whose rise from reporter to managing editor of the Morning News Argus, within the short space of a few years, had been almost meteoric. They were at coffee and cigars, and Jimmy Dale was leaning back in his chair, his dark eyes fixed interestingly on his guest. Carruthers, intently engaged in trimming his cigar ash on the edge of the limorged china saucer of his coffee-set, looked up with an abrupt laugh. No, I wouldn't care to go on record as being an advocate of crime, he said whimsically, that would never do, but I don't mind admitting quite privately that it's been a positive regret to me that he has gone. Made too good copy to lose, I suppose, suggested Jimmy Dale quizzically, too bad, too, after working up a theatrical name like that for him, the grey seal, rather unique, who stuck that on him. You? Carruthers laughed, then grown serious, leaned toward Jimmy Dale. You don't mean to say, Jimmy, that you don't know about that, do you? He asked incredulously, why, up to a year ago the papers were full of him. I never read your beastly agony columns, said Jimmy Dale, with the cheery grin. Well, said Carruthers, you must have skipped everything but the stock reports then. Granted, said Jimmy Dale, so go on, Carruthers, and tell me about him. I daresay I may have heard of him, since you are so distressed about it, but my memory isn't good enough to contradict anything you may have to say about the esteemable gentleman, so you're safe. Carruthers reverted to the limorge saucer and the tip of his cigar. He was the most puzzling, bewildering, delightful crook in the annals of crime, said Carruthers reminiscently, after a moment's silence. Jimmy, he was the kingpin of them all. Clever isn't the word for him, or daredevil isn't either. I used to think sometimes his motive was more than half for the pure diviltry of it. To laugh at the police and pull the noses of the rest of us that were after him. I used to dream nights about those confounded gray seals of his. That's where he got his name. He left every job he ever did with a little gray paper affair, fashion, diamond shape, stuck somewhere where it would be the first thing your eyes would light upon when you reached the scene. And don't go so fast, smiled Jimmy Dale. I don't quite get the connection. What did you have to do with this gray seal, fellow? Where do you come in? I—I had a good deal to do with him, said Carruthers grimly. I was a reporter when he first broke loose, and the ambition of my life, after I began really to appreciate what he was, was to get him. And I nearly did, half a dozen times, only—only you never quite did, eh? Cut in, Jimmy Dale Slyly. How near did you get, old man? Come on now, no bluffing. Did the gray seal ever even recognize you as a factor in the hare-and-hound game? We're flicking on the raw, Jimmy, Carruthers answered, with a rye grimace. He knew me all right. Come found him. He favored me with several sarcastic notes. I'll show him to you some day, explaining how I'd fallen down, and how I could have got him if I'd done something else. Carruthers' fists came suddenly down on the table, and I would have got him, too, if he had lived. Lived? Ejaculated Jimmy Dale. He's dead, then? Yes, averted Carruthers. He's dead. Hmm! said Jimmy Dale facetiously. I hope the size of the wreath you sent was an adequate tribute of your appreciation. I never sent any wreath, returned Carruthers, for the very simple reason that I didn't know where to send it, or when he died. I said he was dead, because for over a year now he hasn't lifted a finger. Even poor evidence, even for a newspaper, commented Jimmy Dale. Why not give him credit for having, say, reformed? Carruthers shook his head. You don't get it at all, Jimmy, he said earnestly. The gray seal wasn't an ordinary cook. He was a classic. He was an artist, and the art of the thing was in his blood. A man like that could no more stop than he could stop breathing and live. He's dead. There's nothing to it but that he's dead. I'd bet a year's salary on it. Another good man gone wrong, then, said Jimmy Dale facetiously. I suppose, though, that at least you discovered the woman in the case. Carruthers looked up quickly, a little startled, then laughed shortly. What's the matter, inquired Jimmy Dale? Nothing, said Carruthers. You kind of got me for a moment, that's all. Notice the way those infernal notes from the gray seal used to end up. Find the lady, old chap, and you'll get me. He had a damned patronizing familiarity that would make you squirm. Poor old Carruthers, grinned Jimmy Dale, you did take it to heart, didn't you? I'd have sold my soul to get him, and so would you, if you had been in my boots, admitted Carruthers, fighting nervously at the end of his cigar. And been sorry for it afterward, supplied Jimmy Dale. Yes, by Dove you're right, admitted Carruthers. I suppose I should. I actually got to love the fellow. It was the game, really, that I wanted to beat. Well, and how about this woman? Keep on the straight and narrow path, old man, brought it Jimmy Dale. The woman, Carruthers smiled, nothing doing. I don't believe there was one. He wouldn't have been likely to egg the police and reporters on to finding her, if there had been, would he? It was a blind, of course. He worked alone, absolutely alone. That's the secret of his success, according to my way of thinking, there was never so much as an indication that he had had an accomplice in anything he ever did. Jimmy Dale's eyes traveled around the club's home-like, perfectly-appointed room. He nodded to a fellow member here and there, then his eyes rested musingly on his guest again. Carruthers was staring thoughtfully at his coffee-cup. He was the Prince of Crooks and the Father of Originality, announced Carruthers abruptly, following the pause that had ensued. Half the time there wasn't any more getting at the motive for the curious things he did than there was getting at the Gray Seal himself. Carruthers said Jimmy Dale, with the quick little nod of approval, you're positively interesting tonight. But so far you've been kind of scouting around the outside edges without getting into the thick of it. Let's have some of your experiences with the Gray Seal in detail. They ought to make ripping fine yarns. Not tonight, Jimmy, said Carruthers. It would take too long. He pulled out his watch mechanically as he spoke, glanced at it, and pushed back his chair. Great Scott, he explained. It's nearly half past nine. I'd no idea we had lingered so long over dinner. I'll have to hurry. We're a morning paper, you know, Jimmy. What, really? Is it as late as that? Jimmy Dale rose from his chair as Carruthers stood up. Well, if you must. I must, said Carruthers, with a laugh. The right-o slave, Jimmy Dale laughed back and slipped his hand, a trick of their old college days together, through Carruthers' arm as they left the room. He accompanied Carruthers downstairs to the door of the club, and saw his guest into a taxi. Then he returned inside, sauntered through the billiard-room, and from there into one of the card-rooms, where, pressed into a game, he played several rubbers of bridge before going home. It was, therefore, well on toward midnight when Jimmy Dale arrived at his house on Riverside Drive, and was admitted by an elderly man-servant. Hello, Jason, said Jimmy Dale pleasantly. You still up? Yes, sir, replied Jason, who had been ballet to Jimmy Dale's father before him. I was going to bed, sir, at about ten o'clock, when a messenger came with the letter, begging your pardon, sir, a young lady, and, Jason, Jimmy Dale, flung out the interruption, sudden, quick, imperative. What did she look like? Why, why, I don't exactly know, as I could describe her, sir, stammered Jason, taken aback, very ladylike, sir, in her dress and appearance, and what I would call, sir, a beautiful face. Hair and eyes? What color? Demanded Jimmy Dale crisply, nose, lips, chin, what shape? Why, sir, gasped Jason, staring at his master, I don't rightly know. I wouldn't call her fair or dark, something between. I didn't take particular notice, and it wasn't over-light outside the door. It's too bad you weren't a younger man, Jason, commented Jimmy Dale, with a curious tinge of bitterness in his voice. I'd have given a year's income for your opportunity to-night, Jason. Yes, sir," said Jason helplessly. Well, go on, frumped at Jimmy Dale. You told her I wasn't home, and she said she knew it, didn't she? And she left the letter that I was on no account to miss receiving when I got back, though there was no need of telephoning me to the club, when I returned would do, but it was imperative that I should have it then, eh? Good Lord, sir," ejaculated Jason, his jaw dropped. That's exactly what she did say. Jason, said Jimmy Dale grimly, listen to me. If ever she comes here again, invagle her in. If you can't invagle her in, use force. Capture her, pull her in, do anything. Do anything, do you hear? Only don't let her get away from you until I've come. Jason gazed at his master as though the other had lost his reason. Use force, sir. He repeated weakly, and shook his head. You—you can't mean that, sir. Can't I, in quiet Jimmy Dale with the mirthless smile? I mean every word of it, Jason, and if I thought there was the slightest chance of her giving you the opportunity, I'd be more imperative still. As it is, where's the letter? On the table in your studio, sir," said Jason mechanically, Jimmy Dale started toward the stairs, then turned and came back to where Jason, still shaking his head heavily, had been gazing anxiously after his master. Jimmy Dale laid his hand on the old man's shoulder. Jason, he said kindly, with the swift change of mood, You've been a long time in the family, first with my father and now with me. You'd do a good deal for me, wouldn't you? I'd do anything in the world for you, Master Jim," said the old man earnestly. Well, then, remember this, said Jimmy Dale slowly, looking into the other's eyes. Remember this—keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. It's my fault. I should have warned you long ago, but I never dreamed that she would ever come here herself. There have been times when it was practically a matter of life and death to me, to know who that woman is that you saw tonight. That's all, Jason. Now go to bed. Master Jim said the old man simply, Thank you, sir. Thank you for trusting me. I've dandled you on my knee when you were a baby, Master Jim. I don't know what it's about, and it isn't for me to ask. I thought, sir, that maybe you were having a little fun with me. But I know now, and you can trust me, Master Jim, if she ever comes again. Thank you, Jason, said Jimmy Dale, his hand closing with an appreciative pressure on the other's shoulder. Good night, Jason. Upstairs on the first landing, Jimmy Dale opened a door, closed and locked it behind him, and the electric switch clicked under his fingers. A glow fell softly from a cluster of shaded ceiling lights. It was a large room, a very large room, running the entire depths of the house, and the effect of apparent disorder in the arrangement of its appointment seemed to breathe a sense of charm. There were great cozy deep leather-covered lounging chairs, a huge leather-covered down-port, and an easel or two with half-finished sketches upon them. The walls were paneled, the panels of exquisite grain and matching. In the center of the room stood a flat-topped rosewood desk. On the floor was a dark, heavy velvet rug, and perhaps most inviting of all, there was a great old-fashioned fireplace at one side of the room. For an instant Jimmy Dale remained quietly by the door, as though listening. Six feet he stood, muscular in every line of his body, like a well-trained athlete with no single ounce of superfluous fat about him. The grace and ease of power in his poise. His strong clean-shaven face, as the light fell upon it now, was serious. A mood that became him well, the firm lips closed, the dark, reliant eyes a little narrowed, a frown on the broad forehead, the square jaw clamped. Then abruptly he walked across the room to the desk, picked up an envelope that lay upon it, and turning again, dropped into the nearest lounging chair. There had been no doubt in his mind, none to dispel. It was precisely what he had expected from almost the first word Jason had spoken. It was the same handwriting, the same texture of paper, and there was the same old haunting, rare, indefinable fragrance about it. Jimmy Dale's hands turned the envelope now this way, now that, as he looked at it. Wonderful hands were Jimmy Dale's, with long, slim, tapering fingers, sensitive tips seemed now as though they were striving to decipher the message within. He laughed suddenly, a little harshly, and tore open the envelope. Five closely-written sheets fell into his hand. He read them slowly, critically, read them over again. And then, his eyes on the rug at his feet, he began to tear the paper into minute pieces between his fingers, depositing the pieces as he tore them upon the arm of his chair. The five sheets demolished, his fingers dipped into the heap of shreds on the arm of the chair, tore them until they were scarcely larger than bits of confetti, tore at them absently and mechanically, his eyes never shifting from the rug at his feet. Then with the shrug of his shoulders, as though rousing himself to present reality, a curious smile flickering on his lips, he brushed the pieces of paper into one hand, carried them to the empty fireplace, laid them down in a little pile, and set them on fire. Lighting a cigarette, he watched them burn until the last glow had gone from the last charred scrap. Then he crunched and scattered them with the brass-handled fender brush, and retracing his steps across the room, flung back a portiere from where it hung before a little alcove, and dropped on his knees in front of a round, squat, barrel-shaped safe, one of his own design and planning in the years when he had been with his father. His slim, sensitive fingers played for an instant among the knobs and dials that studded the door, guided it seemed by the sense of touch alone, and the door swung open. Within was another door, with locks and bolts as intricate and massive as the outer one. This too he opened, and then from the interior took out a short, thick, rolled-up leather bundle tied together with thongs. He rose from his knees, closed the safe, and drew the portiere across the alcove again. With the bundle under his arm he glanced sharply around the room, listened intently, then, unlocking the door that gave on the hall, he switched off the lights and went to his dressing-room that was on the same floor. Here, divesting himself quickly of his dinner-clothes, he selected a dark-tweed suit with loose-fitting, sack coat from his wardrobe, and began to put it on. Dressed all but his coat and vest, he turned to the leather bundle that he had placed on a table, untied the thongs, and carefully opened it out to its full length, and again that curious, cryptic smile tinged his lips, rolled the opposite way from that in which it had been tied up. The leather strip made a wide belt that went on somewhat after the fashion of a life-preserver, the thongs being used for shoulder straps. A belt, once on, the vest would hide completely, and fitting clothes left no tell-tale bulge in the outer garments. It was not an ordinary belt. It was full of stout sewn, upright little pockets all the way around, and in the pockets grimly lay an array of fine, blue-stealed, highly-tempered instruments, a compact, powerful burglar's kit. The slim-sensitive fingers passed with almost a caressing touch over the vicious little implements, and from one of the pockets extracted a thin, flat metal case. This Jimmy Dale opened and glanced inside. Between sheets of oil-paper lay little rows of gray, adhesive, diamond-shaped seals. Jimmy Dale snapped the case shut, returned it to its recess, and from another took out a black silk mask. He held it up to the light for examination. Pretty good shape after a year, muttered Jimmy Dale, replacing it. He put on the belt, then his vest and coat. From the drawer of his dresser he took out an automatic revolver and an electric flashlight, slipped them into his pocket, and went softly downstairs. From the hat stand he chose a black slouch hat, pulled it well over his eyes, and left the house. End of Part 1, Chapter 1A. Part 1, Chapter 1B. Of the Adventures of Jimmy Dale. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. The Adventures of Jimmy Dale by Frank L. Packard. Reading by Mary Rody. Part 1, The Man in the Case. Chapter 1B, The Gray Seal. Jimmy Dale walked down a block, then hailed a bus, and mounted to the top. It was late, and he found himself the only passenger. He inserted his dime in the conductor's little resonant belt, cash receiver, and then settled back on the uncomfortable, bumping, cushionless seat. On rattled the bus, it turned across town, passed the circle, and headed for Fifth Avenue. But Jimmy Dale, to all appearances, was quite oblivious of its movements. It was a year since she had written him. She, Jimmy Dale, did not smile. His lips were pressed hard together, not a very intimate or personal appellation that. But he knew her by no other. It was a woman, surely. The handwriting was feminine, the diction eminently so, and had she not come herself that night to Jason, he remembered the last letter, apart from the one tonight, that he had received from her. It was a year ago now, and the letter had been hardly more than a note. The police had worked themselves into a frenzy over the gray seal, the papers had grown absolutely fondling, and she had written, in her characteristic way, Things are a little too warm, aren't they, Jimmy? Let's let them cool for a year. Since then, until tonight, he had heard nothing from her. It was a strange compact that he had entered into, so strange that it could never have known, could never know a parallel. Unique, dangerous, bizarre, it was all that and more. It had begun, really, through his connection with his father's business, the business of manufacturing safes that should defy the cleverest criminals. When his brains turned into that channel had been pitted against the underworld, against the methods of a thousand different crooks from Maine to California, the report of whose every operation had reached him in the natural course of business, and every one of which he had studied in minutest detail. It had begun through that, but at the bottom of it was his own restless, adventurous spirit. He had meant to set the police by the ears, using his gray sealed device, both as an added barb, and that no innocent bystander of the underworld, innocent for once, might be involved. He had meant to laugh at them and puzzle them to the verge of madness, for in the last analysis they would find only an abortive attempt at crime, and he had succeeded, and then he had gone too far, and he had been caught by her. That string of pearls which, to study whose effect facetiously, he had so idiotically wrapped around his wrist, and which, so ironically, he had been unable to loosen in time, and had been forced to carry with him in his sudden desperate dash to escape from Marxist the Big Jewelers in Maiden Lane, whose strong room he had toyed with one night, had been the lever which, at first, she had held over him. The bus was on Fifth Avenue now, and speeding rapidly down the deserted thoroughfare, Jimmy Dale looked up at the lighted windows of the St. James Club as they went by, smiled whimsically, and shifted in his seat seeking a more comfortable position. She had caught him. How he did not know, he had never seen her, did not know who she was, though time and again he had devoted all his energies for months at a stretch to a solution of the mystery. The morning following the Maiden Lane affair, indeed before he had breakfasted, Jason had brought him the first litter from her. It had started by detailing his every move of the night before, and it had ended with an ultimatum. The cleverness, the originality of the gray seal as a crook, lacked but one thing she had naively written, and that one thing was that his crookedness required a leading string to guide it into channels that were worthy of his genius. In a word, she would plan the coups, and he would act at her dictation and execute them, or else how did twenty years in Xingxing for that little Maiden Lane affair appeal to him? He was to answer by the next morning a simple yes or no in the personal column of the Morning News Argus. A threat to a man like Jimmy Dale was like flaunting a red rag at a bull, and a rage ungovernable had surged upon him. Then cold reason had come. He was caught. There was no question about that. She had taken pains to show him that he need make no mistake there. Innocent enough in his own conscience, as far as actual theft went, for the pearls would in due course be restored in some way to the possession of their owner, he would have been unable to make even his own father, who was alive then, believe in his innocence, let alone a jury of peers. Dishonor, shame, ignominy, a long prison sentence, stared him in the face, and there was but one alternative, to link hands with this unseen, mysterious accomplice. Well, he could at least temporize. He could always queer game in some spacious manner, if he were pushed too far. And so, in the next Morning News Argus, Jimmy Dale had answered yes, and then had followed those years in which there had been no temporizing, in which every plan was carried out to the last detail, those years of curious, unaccountable, bewildering affairs that Carruthers had spoken of, one on top of another, that had shaken the old headquarters of Mulberry Street to its foundations, until Graciel had become a name to conjure with, and yes, it was quite true, he had entered into it all, gone the limit with an eagerness that was insatiable. The bus had reached the lower end of Fifth Avenue, passed through Washington Square, and stopped at the end of its run. Jimmy Dale clampered down from the top, through a pleasant good night to the conductor, and headed briskly down the street before him. A little later he crossed into West Broadway, and his place slowed to a leisurely stroll. Here at the upper end of the street was a conglomerate business section of rather inferior class, catering doubtless to the poor foreign element that congregated West of Broadway proper and to the south of Washington Square. The street was at first glance deserted. It was dark and dreary, with stores and lofts on either side. An elevated train roared by overhead, with a thunderous deafening clamor. Jimmy Dale, on the right-hand side of the street, glanced interestingly at the dark store windows as he went by, and then a block ahead, on the other side, his eyes rested on an approaching form. As the other reached the corner and paused, and the light from the street lamp glinted on brass buttons, Jimmy Dale's eyes narrowed a little under his slouch hat. The policeman, although nonchalantly swinging a nightstick, appeared to be watching him. Jimmy Dale went on half a block farther, stooped to the sidewalk to tie his shoe, glanced back over his shoulder. The policeman was not in sight, and slipped like a shadow into the alleyway beside which he had stopped. It was another Jimmy Dale now, the professional Jimmy Dale, quick as a cat, active, lithe. He was over a six-foot fence in the rear of a building in a flash, and crouched a black shape against the back door of an unpretentious, unkempt, dirty second-hand shop that fronted on West Broadway. The last place, certainly in all New York, that the managing editor of the News Argus, or anyone else for that matter, would have picked out as the setting for the second debut of the gray seal. From the belt around his waist, Jimmy Dale took the black silk mask and slipped it on, and from the belt, too, came a little instrument that his deft fingers manipulated in the lock. A curious snipping sound followed. Jimmy Dale put his weight gradually against the door. The door held fast. Bolt had set Jimmy Dale to himself. The sensitive fingers traveled slowly up and down the side of the door, seeming to press and feel for the position of the bolt through an inch of plank. Then from the belt came a tiny saw, thin and pointed at the end, that fitted into the little handle drawn from another receptacle in the leather girdle beneath the unbuttoned vest. Hardly a sound had made as it bit into the door. Half a minute passed, there was the faint fall of a small piece of wood. Into the aperture crept the delicate tapering fingers. Came a slight rasping of metal. Then the door swung back, the dark shadow that had been Jimmy Dale, vanished, and the door closed again. A round white beam of light glowed for an instant and disappeared. A miscellaneous lumbering collection of junk and odds and ends blocked the entry, leaving no more space than was sufficient for bare passageway. Jimmy Dale moved cautiously, and once more the flashlight in his hand showed the way for an instant. Then darkness again. The cluttered accumulation of second-hand stuff in the rear gave place to a little more orderly arrangement as he advanced toward the front of the store. Like a huge firefly, the flashlight twinkled, went out, twinkled again, and went out. He passed a sort of crude, partitioned-off apartment that did duty for the establishment's office, a sort of little boxed-in place it was, about in the middle of the floor. Jimmy Dale's light played on it for a moment, but he kept on toward the front door without any pause. Every movement was quick, sure, accurate, with not a wasted second. It had been barely a minute since he had vaulted the back fence. It was hardly a quarter of a minute more before the cumbersome lock of the front door was unfastened, and the door itself pulled imperceptibly ajar. He went swiftly back to the office now, and found it even more of a shaky, cheap affair than it had at first appeared. More like a boxed stall with windows around the top than anything else, the windows doubtless to permit the occupant to overlook the store from the vantage point of the high stool that stood before a long, battered wobbly desk. There was a door to the place, too, but the door was open and the key was in the lock. The ray of Jimmy Dale's flashlight swept once around the interior and rested on an antique, ponderous safe. Under the mask, Jimmy Dale slips parted in a smile that seemed almost apologetic as he viewed the helpless iron monstrosity that was little more than an insult to a trained cracksman. Then from the belt came the thin metal case and a pair of tweezers. He opened the case and with the tweezers lifted out one of the gray-colored diamond-shaped seals. Holding the seal with the tweezers, he moistened the gummed side with his lips, then laid it on a handkerchief, which he took from his pocket, and clapped the handkerchief against the front of the safe, sticking the seal conspicuously into place. Jimmy Dale's insignia bore no fingerprints. The microscopes and magnifying glasses at headquarters had many a time regretfully assured the police of that fact. And now his hands and fingers seemed to work like lightning. Into the soft iron bit a drill, bit in and through, bit in and through again, it was dark, pitch black, and silent. Not a sound saved the quick doll rasp of the ratchet like the distant gnawing of a mouse. Jimmy Dale worked fast, another hole went through the face of the old-fashioned safe, and then suddenly he straightened up to listen. Every faculty tense, alert and strained, his body thrown a little forward. What was that? From the alleyway leading from the street without, through which he himself had come, sounded the stealthy crunch of feet, motionless in the utter darkness Jimmy Dale listened. There was a scraping noise in the rear. Someone was climbing the fence that he had climbed. In an instant the tools in Jimmy Dale's hands disappeared into their respective pockets beneath his vest, and the sensitive fingers shot to the dial on the safe. Too bad, muttered Jimmy Dale plaintively to himself, I could have made such an artistic job of it, I swear I could have cut Carruthers' profile in the hole in less than no time. To open it like this is really taking the poor old thing at a disadvantage. He was on his knees now, one ear close to the dial, listening as the tumblers fell, while the delicate fingers spun the knob unerringly, the other ear strained toward the rear of the premises. Came a footstep, a ray of light, a stumble, nearer, the newcomer was inside the place now, and must have found out that the back door had been tampered with. Nearer came the steps, still nearer, and then the safe door swung open under Jimmy Dale's hand, and Jimmy Dale, that he might not be caught like a rat in a trap, darted from the office. But he had delayed a little too long. From around the cluttered piles of junk and miscellaneous swept the light full on Jimmy Dale. Hesitation for the smallest fraction of a second would have been fatal, but hesitation was something that in all his life Jimmy Dale had never known. Quick as a panther in its spring he leapt full at the light and the man behind it. The rough voice in surprising exclamation at the sudden discovery of the quarry died in a gasp. There was a crash as the two men met, and the other reeled back before the impact. On to him Jimmy Dale sprang, and his hands flew for the other's throat. It was an officer in uniform. Jimmy Dale had felt the brass buttons as they locked. In the darkness there was a queer smile on Jimmy Dale's tight lips. It was no doubt the officer whom he had passed on the other side of the street. The other was a smaller man than Jimmy Dale, but powerful for his build, and he fought now with all his strength. This way and that the two men reeled, staggered, swayed, panting and gasping, and then they had lurched back close to the office door. With the sudden swing every muscle brought into play for a supreme effort, Jimmy Dale hurled the other from him, sending the man sprawling back to the floor of the office, and in the winking of an eye had slammed shut the door and turned the key. There was a bull-like roar, the shrill deep, deep, deep of the patrolman's whistle, and a shattering crash as the officer flung his body against the petition. Then the bark of a revolver shot, the tinkle of baking glass as the man fired through the office window, and passed Jimmy Dale, speeding now for the front door, a bullet hummed viciously. Out on the street dashed Jimmy Dale, whipping the mask from his face and glass-like hawk around him. For all the racket the neighborhood had not yet been aroused. No one was in sight. From just overhead came the rattle of a downtown elevated train. In a hundred-yard sprint Jimmy Dale raced at a half a block to the station, tore up the steps, and a moment later dropped nonchalantly into a seat and pulled an evening newspaper from his pocket. Jimmy Dale got off at the second station down, crossed the street, mounted the steps of the elevated again, and took the next train uptown. His movements appeared to be somewhat erratic. He alighted at the station next above the one by which he had made his escape. Looking down the street it was too dark to see much of anything, but a confused noise as of a gathering crowd reached him from what was about the location of the second-hand store. He listened appreciatively for a moment. "'Isn't it a perfectly lovely night?' said Jimmy Dale amiably to himself, and to think of that cop running away with the idea that I didn't see him when he hid in a doorway after I passed the corner. Well, well, strange, isn't it? With another glance down the street, a whimsical lift of his shoulders, he headed west into the dilapidated tenement quarter that huddled for a handful of blocks nearby just south of Washington Square. It was a little after one o'clock in the morning now, and the pedestrians were casual. Jimmy Dale read the street signs on the corners as he went along, turned abruptly into an intersecting street, counted the tenements from the corner as he passed, and for the eye of anyone who might be watching opened the street door of one of them quite as though he were accustomed and had a perfect right to do so, and went inside. It was murky and dark within, hot, unhealthy with lingering smells of garlic and stale cooking. He groped for the stairs and started up. He climbed one flight, then another, and one more to the top. Here, treading softly, he made an examination of the landing with a view, evidently, to obtaining an idea of the location and the number of doors that opened off from it. His selection fell on the third door from the head of the stairs. There were four old hold, two apartments of two rooms each. He paused for an instant to adjust the black silk mask, tried the door quietly, found it unlocked, opened it with a sudden quick brisk movement, and stepping inside leaned with his back against it. Good morning, said Jimmy Dale pleasantly. It was a squalid place, a miserable hole, in which a single flickering yellow gas jet gave light. It was almost bare of furniture. There was nothing but a couple of cheap chairs, a rickety table, unpawnable. A boy, he was hardly more than that, perhaps twenty-two, from a posture in which he was huddled across the table with head buried in outflung arms, spraying with the startled cry to his feet. Good morning, said Jimmy Dale again. Your name's Hagan, Bert Hagan, isn't it? And you work for Isaac Bralsky and the second-hand shop over at West Broadway, don't you? The boy slips quivered, and the gaunt hollow, half-starved face, white, ashen white now, was pitiful. I guess you got me, he faltered. I suppose you're a plainclothes man, though I never knew dicks wore masks. They don't, generally, said Jimmy Dale Cooley. It's a fad of mine, Bert Hagan. The lad, hanging to the table, turned his head away for a moment, and there was silence. Presently Hagan spoke again. I'll go, he said numbly. I won't make any trouble. Would you mind not speaking loud? I wouldn't like her to know. Her, said Jimmy Dale softly. The boy tiptoed across the room, opened a connecting door a little, peered inside, opened in a little wider, and looked over his shoulder at Jimmy Dale. Jimmy Dale crossed to the boy, looked inside the other room, and his lips twitched cruelly as the side sent a quick, hurt throb through his heart. A young woman, younger than the boy, lay on a tumble-down bed, a rag of clothing over her, her face with the death-like pallor upon it, as she lay in what appeared to be a stupor. She was ill, critically ill. It needed no trained eye to discern a fact all too apparent to the most casual observer. The squalor, the glaring poverty here, was even more pettifully in evidence than in the other room. Only here, upon a chair beside the bed, was a cluster of medicine bottles and a little heap of fruit. Jimmy Dale drew back silently as the boy closed the door. Hagen walked to the table and picked up his hat. I'm ready, he said, brokenly. Let's go. Just a minute, said Jimmy Dale. Tell us about it. It won't take long, said Hagen, trying to smile. She's my wife. The sickness took all we had. I kind of got behind in the rent and things. They were going to fire us out of here, tomorrow, and there wasn't any money for the medicine and the things she had to have. Maybe you wouldn't have done it, but I did. I couldn't see her dying there for the want of something a little money had by, and I couldn't. He caught his voice in a little sob. I couldn't see her thrown out on the street like that. And so, said Jimmy Dale, instead of putting all Isaac's cash in the safe this evening when you locked up, you put it in your pocket instead, eh? Didn't you know you'd get caught? What did it matter, said the boy? He was twirling his misshapen hat between his fingers. I knew they'd know it was me in the morning when old Isaac found it gone, because there wasn't anybody else to do it. But I paid the rent for four months ahead tonight, and I fixed it so she'd have medicine and things to eat. I was going to beat it before daylight myself. He brushed his hand hurriedly across his cheek. I didn't want to go to leave her till I had to. Well, say, there was wonderment in Jimmy Dale's tones, and his English lapsed into ungrammatical, reassuring vernacular. Ain't that queer? Say, I'm no detective. Gee, kid, did you think I was? Say, listen to this. I cracked old Isaac's safe half an hour ago, and I guess there won't be any idea going around that you got the money, and I pulled a lemon. Say, I ain't superstitious, but it looks like luck meant you to have another chance, don't it? The hat dropped from Hagan's hands to the floor, and he swayed a little. You ain't a dick, he stammered. Then how'd you know about me and my name when you found the safe empty? Who told you? The rye grimace spread suddenly over Jimmy Dale's face beneath the mask, and he swallowed hard. Jimmy Dale would have given a good deal to have been able to answer that question himself. Oh, that, said Jimmy Dale, that's easy. I knew you worked there. Say, it's the limit, ain't it? Talk about your luck being in. Why, all you've got to do is to sit tight and keep your mouth shut, and you're safe as a church. Only say, what are you going to do about the money? Now you've got a four-month start, and are kind of landed on your feet. Do sit, the boy. I'll pay it back, little by little. I meant to. I ain't no stop to abruptly. Cook, supplied Jimmy Dale pleasantly. Spit it right out, kid. You won't hurt my feelings, none. Well, I'll tell you. You're talking the way I'd like to hear you. You pay that back. Slide it in without his knowing it, a bit at a time, whenever you can, and you'll never hear a yip out of me. But if you don't, why, it kind of looks as though I have a right to come down your street and get my share, or know the reason why, eh? Then you never get any shares, said Hagen, with a catch in his voice. I pay it back as fast as I can. Sure, said Jimmy Dale. That's right. That's what I said. Well, so long, Hagen. And Jimmy Dale had opened the door and slipped outside. An hour later, in his dressing room in his house on Riverside Drive, Jimmy Dale was removing his coat as the telephone, a hand instrument, on the table rang. Jimmy Dale glassed at it, and leisurely proceeded to remove his vest. Again, the telephone rang. Jimmy Dale took off his curious, pocketed leather belt as the telephone repeated its summons. He picked out the little drill he had used a short while before, and inspected it critically, feeling its point with his thumb as one might feel a razor blade. Again, the telephone rang insistently. He reached languidly for the receiver, took it off its hook, and held it to his ear. Hello, said Jimmy Dale, with a sleepy yawn. Hello, hello. Why, the doos don't you yank a man out of bed at two o'clock in the morning, and have done with it? A. Oh, that you, Caruthers? Yes, came Caruthers' voice excitedly. Jimmy, listen, listen. The gray seals come to life. He's just pulled a break on West Broadway. Good Lord, gasped Jimmy Dale, you don't say. End of Part One, Chapter One, B. Part One, Chapter Two, A, of the Adventures of Jimmy Dale. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. The Adventures of Jimmy Dale, by Frank L. Packard. Reading by Mary Rody. Part One, The Man in the Case, Chapter Two, A, by Proxy. The most puzzling, bewildering, delightful crook in the annals of crime, Herman Caruthers, the editor of the Morning News Argus, had called the gray seal. And Jimmy Dale smiled a little grimly now, as he recalled the occasion of a week ago at the St. James Club over there after dinner-coffee. That was before his second debut, with Isaac Bralski's poverty-stricken premises over on West Broadway as a setting for the break. She had written, things are a little too warm, aren't they, Jimmy? Didn't cool for a year. Well, they had cooled for a year, and Caruthers, as a result, had been complacently satisfied in his own mind that the gray seal was dead, until the break at Isaac Bralski's over on West Broadway. Jimmy Dale's smile was tinged with whimsicality now. The only effect of the years in action had been to usher in his renewed activity with a furor compared to which all that had gone before was insignificant. Where the newspapers had been maudlin, they now raved, raved in editorials and raved in headlines. It was an impossible, untenable, unbelievable condition of affairs that this gray seal, for all his incomparable cleverness, should flaunt his crimes in the faces of the citizens of New York. One could actually see the editors writhing in their swivel chairs, as their fiery denunciations dripped from their pens. What was the matter with the police? Were the police children, or were still imbeciles? Or still, worse again, was there someone higher up who was profiting by this rogue's work? New York would not stand for it. New York would most decidedly not, and the sooner the police realized that fact, the better. If the police were helpless, or tools, the citizens of New York were not, and it was time the citizens were thoroughly aroused. There was a way to, to arouse the citizens, that was both good business from the newspaper standpoint, and efficacious as a method. Carruthers of the Morning News Argus had initiated it. The Morning News Argus offered twenty-five thousand dollars reward for the capture of the gray seal. Other papers immediately followed suit in varying amounts. The authorities, state and municipal, goaded to desperation, did likewise, and the five million men, women, and children of New York were automatically metamorphosed into embryonic sleuths. New York was aroused. Jimmy Dale, alias the gray seal, member of the ultra-exclusive St. James Club, the latter fact sufficient in itself to guarantee his social standing, graduate of Harvard, inheritor of his deceased father's immense wealth, amassed in the manufacture of burglar-proof safes. Some of the most ingenious patents on which were due to Jimmy Dale himself, figured with a pencil on the margin of the newspaper he had been reading, using the arm of the big, luxurious, leather-upholstered lounging chair as a support for the paper. The result of his calculations was eighty-five thousand dollars. He brushed the paper onto the Turkish rug, dove into the pocket of his dinner-jacket for his cigarettes, and began to smoke, as his eyes strayed around the room, his own particular den in his fashionable Riverside Drive residence. Eighty-five thousand dollars reward. Jimmy Dale blew meditative rings of cigarette smoke at the fireplace. What would she say to that? Would she decide it was too hot again and call it off? It added quite a little hazard to the game, quite a little, if he only knew who she was. It was a strange partnership, the strangest partnership that had ever existed between two human beings. He turned a little in his chair as a step-sounded in the hallway without, that is, Jimmy Dale caught the sound, muffled though it was, by the heavy carpet. Came then a knock upon the door. Come in, invited Jimmy Dale. It was old Jason, the butler. The old man was visibly excited, as he extended a silver tray on which lay a letter. Jimmy Dale's hand reached quickly out, the long, slim, tapering fingers closed upon the envelope, but his eyes were on Jason significantly, questioningly. Yes, Master Jim, said the old man, I recognized it on the insensor, after which you said, sir, last week, honoring me, I might say, to a certain extent with your confidence, though I'm sure I don't know what it all means. Who brought it this time, Jason, and quiet Jimmy Dale, quietly? Not the young person begging your pardon, not the young lady, sir, a shuffler in a big automobile. Your master at once, he says, and shoves the letter into my hand, and was off. Very good, Jason, said Jimmy Dale. You may go. The door closed. Yes, it was from her. It was the same texture of paper, though it was the same rare, haunting fragrance clinging to it. He tore the envelope open, and extracted a folded sheet of paper. What was it this time? To call the partnership off again, until the present furor should have subsided once more, or the skillfully sketched outline of a new adventure, which he glanced at the few lines written on the sheet, and lunged forward from his chair to his feet. It was neither one nor the other. It was Jimmy Dale's face was set, and an angry red surge swept his cheeks, his lips moved, muttering audibly fragments of the letter as he stared at it. Incredible that you, a heinous thing, act instantly. This is ruin. For an instant, a rare occurrence in Jimmy Dale's life, he stood like a man stricken, still staring at the sheet in his hand. Then mechanically his fingers tore the paper into little pieces, and the little pieces into tiny shreds. Anger fled, and a sickening sense of impotent dismay took its place. The red left his cheeks, and in its stead a grayness came. Act instantly. The words seemed to leap at him, drum at his ears with constant repetition. Act instantly. But how, how, then his brain, that keen, clear master brain, sprang from stunned inaction into virility again. Of course, Carruthers, it was in Carruthers's line. He stepped to the desk, and paused with his hand extended to pick up the telephone. How explained to Carruthers that he, Jimmy Dale, already knew what Carruthers might not yet have heard of, even though Carruthers would naturally be among the first to be in touch with such affairs. No, that would never do. Better get there himself at once, and trust to the telephone rang. Jimmy Dale waited until it rang again, then lifted the receiver from the hook. Hello, he said. Hello, hello, Jimmy? came a voice. This is Carruthers. That you, Jimmy? Yes, said Jimmy Dale, and sat down simply in the desk chair. It's the gray seal again. I promised you I'd let you in on the ground floor next time anything happened, so come on down here quick if you want to see some of his work at first hand. Jimmy Dale flirted a beat of sweat from his forehead. Carruthers, said Jimmy languidly, you newspaper chaps make me tired with your gray seal. I'm just going to bed. I'm going to bed. Nothing, spluttered Carruthers, from the other end of the wire. Come down, I tell you, it's worth your while. Half the population of New York would give the toes off their feet for the chance. Come down, you blast idiot. The gray seal has gone the limit this time. It's murder. Jimmy Dale's face was haggard. Oh, he said peevishly, sounds interesting. Where are you? I guess maybe I'll jog along. I should think you would, snapped Carruthers. You know the palace on the Bowery? Yes, well, meet me on the corner there as soon as you can. Hustle. Good. Oh, say, Carruthers! Interposed Jimmy Dale. Yes, demanded Carruthers. Thanks awfully for letting me know, old man. Don't mention it, returned Carruthers sarcastically. You always were a grateful beast, Jimmy. Hurry up! Jimmy Dale hung up the receiver on the city-phone, and took down the receiver of another, a private house installation, and rang twice for the garage. The light-car at once, Benson, he ordered curtly, at once. Jimmy Dale worked quickly then. In his dressing-room, he changed from dinner-clothes to tweeds, spent a second or so over the contents of a locked drawer in the dresser, from which he selected a very small but serviceable automatic, and a very small but highly powerful magnifying-glass, whose combination of little round lenses worked on a pivot, and closed over one another were about the compass of a quarter of a dollar. In three minutes he was outside the house and stepping into the car, just as it drew up at the curb. Benson, he said tersely to his chauffeur, dropped me one block this side of the palace on the bowery, and forget there was ever a speed-law enacted. Understand? Very good, sir, said Benson, touching his cap. I'll do my best, sir. Jimmy Dale and the tonneau stretched out his legs under the front seat, and dug his hands into his pockets. And inside the pockets his hands were clenched and knotted fists. Murder! At times it had occurred to him that there was a possibility that some crook of the underworld would attempt to cover his tracks and take refuge from pursuit by foisting himself on the authorities as the gray seal. That was a possibility, a risk always to be run. But that murder should be laid to the gray seal's door. Here merciless and unrestrained surged over Jimmy Dale. There was peril here, live and imminent. Suppose that some day he should be caught in some little affair recognized and identified as the gray seal. There would be the charge of murder hanging over him and the electric chair to face. But the peril was not the only thing, even worse to Jimmy Dale's artistic and sensitive temperament, was the vilification, the holding up to loathing, contumely and abhorrence of the name, the stainless name of the gray seal. It was stainless. He had guarded it jealously as a man guards the woman's name he loves. Affairs that had mystified and driven the police distracted with impotence there had been, many of them, and on the face of them, crimes, but no act ever committed had been in reality a crime, none without the highest of motives, the writing of some outrageous wrong, the protection of some poor stumbling fellow-human. That had been his partnership with her. How? By what amazing means? By what power that smacked almost of the miraculous? She came in touch with all these things and supplied him with the data on which to work he did not know. Only that, thanks to her, there were happier hearts and happier homes since the gray seal had begun to work. Dear philanthropic crook, she often called him in her letters, and now it was murder. Take her others, for instance. For years, as a reporter, before he had risen to the editorial desk, he had been one of the keenest on the scent of the gray seal, but always for the sake of the game, always filled with admiration, as he said himself, for the daring, the originality of the most puzzling, bewildering, delightful crook in the annals of crime. Carruthers was but an example. Carruthers now would hunt the gray seal like a mad dog. The gray seal to Carruthers and everyone else would be the vilest name in the land, a synonym for murder. When the car flew and upon Jimmie Dale's face, as though chiseled in marble, was a look that was not good to see, and a mirthless smile set frozen on his lips, I'll get the man that did this, gritted Jimmie Dale between his teeth, I'll get him, and when I get him, I'll wring a confession from him if I have to swing for it. The car swept from Broadway into Astor Place, on down the Bowery, and presently stopped. Jimmie Dale stepped out. I shall not want you any more, Benson, he said. You may return home. Jimmie Dale started down the block. A nonchalant Jimmie Dale now, if anything, bored a little. Near the corner, a figure, back turned, was lounging at the edge of the sidewalk. Jimmie Dale touched the man on the arm. Hello, Carruthers, he drolled. Ah, Jimmie, Carruthers turned with an excited smile. That's the boy, you've made mighty quick time. Well, you told me to hurry, grumbled Jimmie Dale. I'm doing my best to please you tonight. Came down in my car, and got summoned for three fines to-morrow. Carruthers laughed. Come on, he said, and linking his arm and Jimmie Dale's, turned the corner, and headed west along the cross street. This is going to make a noise, he continued, a grim note creeping into his voice. The biggest noise the city has ever heard. I take back all I said about the gray seal. I'd always pictured his cleverness as being inseparable with at least a decent sort of man, even if he was a rogue and a criminal. But I'm through with that. He's a robber and a hound of the rankest sort. I didn't think there was anything more vulgar or brutal than murder, but he's shown me that there is. A gutter snipes got more decency. To murder a man, and then boastfully label the corpse, is, say, Carruthers, said Jimmie Dale, plaintively, suddenly hanging back. I say, you know, it's all right for you to mess up in this sort of thing. It's your beastly business, but I'm awfully damn thankful to you for giving me a look in. But isn't it rather infradig for me? A bit morbid, you know, and all that sort of thing? I'd never hear the end of it at the club. You know what the St. James is. Couldn't I be Meredith Stanley Estreather, or something like that, one of your new reporters, or something like that, you know? Carruthers chuckled. Sure, Jimmie, he said. You're the latest addition to the staff of the news-argus. Don't worry, the incomparable Jimmie Dale won't figure publicly in this. It's awfully good of you, said Jimmie, gratefully. I have to have a notebook or something, don't I? Carruthers from his pocket handed him one. Thanks, said Jimmie Dale. A little way ahead, a crowd had collected on the sidewalk before a doorway, and Carruthers pointed with a jerk of his hand. It's in Moriarty's place, a gambling hill, he explained. I haven't got the story myself yet, though I've been inside and had a look around. Inspector Clayton discovered the crime and reported it at headquarters. I was at my desk in the office when the news came, and as you know the interest I've taken in the gray seal, I decided to cover it myself. When I got here, Clayton hadn't returned from headquarters, so, as you seemed so keenly interested last week, I telephoned you. If Clayton's back now, we'll get the details. Clayton's a good fellow with the press, and he won't hold anything out on us. Now here we are. Keep close to me, and I'll pass you in. They shouldered through the crowd and up to an officer at the door. The officer nodded, stepped aside, and Carruthers, with Jimmy Dale following, entered the house. End of Part 1, Chapter 2A. Part 1, Chapter 2B of the Adventures of Jimmy Dale. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. The Adventures of Jimmy Dale by Frank L. Packard, reading by Mary Rody. Part 1, The Man in the Case. Chapter 2B, By Proxy, continued. They climbed one flight, and then another. The card-rooms, the pharaoh, stud, and roulette layouts, were deserted, save for policemen here and there on guard. Carruthers led the way to a room at the back of the hall, whose door was open, and from which issued a hubbub of voices. One voice rose above the others. Heavy and gratingly complacent. Clayton's back, observed Carruthers. They stepped over the threshold, and the heavy boys greeted them. Ah, here's Carruthers now. How are you, Carruthers? They told me you'd been here, and we're coming back, so I've been keeping the boys waiting before handing out the dope. You've had a look at that, eh? He flung out a fat hand toward the bed. The voices rose again, all directed at Carruthers now. Bubbles burst, eh, Carruthers? What about the Prince of Cooks? Artistry and crime, wasn't it, you said? They were quoting from his editorials of Bygone Days, a half-dozen reporters of rival papers, grinning and joshing him good-naturedly, seemingly quite unaffected by what lay within arm's reach of them upon the bed. Carruthers smiled a little wryly, shrugged his shoulders, and presented Jimmy Dale to Inspector Clayton. Mr. Matheson, a new man of ours, Inspector. Glad to know you, Mr. Matheson, said the Inspector. Jimmy Dale found his hand grasped by another that was flabby and unpleasantly moist, and found himself looking into a face that was red, with heavy rolls of unhealthy fat terminating in a double chin, and a thick apoplectic neck, a huge round face, with rats' eyes. Clayton dropped Jimmy Dale's hand, and waved his own in the air. Jimmy Dale remained modestly on the outside of the circle, as the reporters gathered around the police inspector. "'Now, then,' said Clayton coarsely, "'The guy that's croaked there is Metser, Jake Metser, get that?' Jimmy Dale, scribbling hurriedly in his notebook like all the rest, turned a little toward the bed, and his lower jaw crept out the fraction of an inch. Both gas jets in the room were turned on full, giving ample light. A man fully dressed, a man of perhaps forty, lay upon his back on the bed, one arm outflung across the bedspread, the other dangling, with fingers just touching the floor, the head at an angle, and off the pillow. It was as though he had been carried to the bed, and flung upon it after the deed had been committed. Jimmy Dale's eyes shifted and swept the room. Yes, everything was in disorder, as though there had been a struggle, a chair upturned, a table canted against the wall, broken pieces of crockery from the washstand on the carpet, and— Metser was a stool-pagency, went on Clayton, and he lived here. He wasn't on to him. Metser stood in thick with the wider circle of crooks than any other snitch in New York. Jimmy Dale, still scribbling, as Clayton talked, stepped to the bed, and leaned over the murdered man. The murder had been done with a blackjack, evidently, a couple of blows. The left side of the temple was crushed in. Right in the middle of the forehead, pasted there, a gray-colored, diamond-shaped paper seal flaunted itself. The device of the gray seal. In Jimmy Dale's hand, hidden as he turned his back, the tiny combination of powerful lenses was focused on the seal. Clayton gaffawed. That's right, he called out. Take a good look. That's a bright young man you've got, Carothers. Jimmy Dale looked up a little sheepishly, and got a grin from the assembled reporters, and a scowl from Carothers. Now then, continued Clayton, here's the facts, as much of them as I can let you boys print at present. You know I'm stretching a point to let you in here. Don't forget that when you come to write up the case. Honor where honors do, you know. Well, me and Metz are there, was getting ready to close down on a big piece of game, and I was over here in this room talking to him about it early this afternoon. We had it framed to get our man to-night, see. I left Metz, or say, about three o'clock, and he was to show up over at headquarters with another little bit of evidence we wanted at eight o'clock tonight. Jimmy Dale was listening to every word, but he stooped now again over the murdered man's head deliberately, though he felt the inspector's rat's eyes upon him. Stooped, and with his fingernail, lifted back the right hand point of the diamond-shaped seal, where it bordered a faint thread of blood on the man's forehead. There was a bull-like roar from the inspector, and he pursed through the ring of reporters and grabbed Jimmy Dale by the shoulder. Here, you! What in hell are you doing? He spluttered angrily. Embarrassed and confused, Jimmy Dale drew back, glanced around, and smiled again a little sheepishly as his eyes rested on the red-flushed jowl of the inspector. I wanted to see how it was stuck on, he explained inainly. Stuck on, bellowed Clayton! I'll show you how it's stuck on, if you monkey around here. Don't you know any better than that? Where were you drugged up, anyway? The coroner hasn't been here yet. You're a hot cub of a reporter, you are. He turned to Carruthers. Not to get out printed instructions for him before you turn him loose, he snapped. Carruthers' face was red with mortification. There was a grin expanded on the faces of the others. Stand away from that bed, roared Clayton at Jimmy Dale, and if you go near it again, I'll throw you out of here bodily. Jimmy Dale edged away, and eyes lowered, fumbled nervously with the leaves of his notebook. Clayton grunted, glared at Jimmy Dale for an instant viciously, and resumed his story. I was saying, he said, that Metzer was to come to headquarters at eight o'clock this evening. Well, he didn't show up. That looked queer. It was mighty important business. We was after one of the biggest halls we'd ever pulled off. I waited till nine o'clock. An hour ago. And I was getting nervous. Then I started over here to find out what was the matter. When I got here, I asked Moriarty if he'd seen Metzer. Moriarty said he hadn't since I was here before. He was a little suspicious that I had something on Metzer, see. Well, by pumping Moriarty, he admitted that Metzer had had a visitor about an hour after I left. Who was it? Know what his name is, Inspector? Asked one of the reporters quickly. Inspector Clayton winked heavily. Don't be greedy, boys, he grinned. You mean you've got him? Burst out another one of the men excitedly. Sure, sure I've got him. Inspector Clayton waved his fat hand early. Or I will have, before morning. But I ain't saying anything more till it's over. He smiled significantly. Well, that's about all. You've got the details right around you. I left Moriarty downstairs and came up here and found just what you see. Metzer lay in on the bed there, and the gray seal stuck on his forehead, and he ended abruptly. I'll have the gray seal himself behind the bars by morning. A chorus of ejaculations rose from the reporters, while their pencils worked furiously. Then Jimmy Dale appeared to have an inspiration. Jimmy Dale turned a leaf in his notebook, and began to sketch rapidly, cocking his head now on one side, now on the other. With a few deft strokes he had outlined the figure of Inspector Clayton. The reporter beside Jimmy Dale leaned over to inspect the work, and another did likewise. Jimmy Dale drew in Clayton's face most excellently, if somewhat flatteringly. And then, with a little flourish of pride, wrote under the drawing, the man who captured the gray seal. That's a cracking good sketch, pronounced the reporter at his side. Let the inspector see it. What is it? demanded Clayton, scowling. Jimmy Dale handed him the notebook modestly. Inspector Clayton took it, looked at it, looked at Jimmy Dale. Then his scowl relaxed into a self-sufficient and pleased smile, and he grunted approvingly. That's the stuff to put over, he said. Maybe you're not much of a reporter, but you can draw. You're all right, sport, you're all right. Forget what I said to you a while ago. Jimmy Dale smiled, too, deprecatingly, and put the notebook in his pocket. An officer entered the room hurriedly, and drawing Clayton aside, spoke in an undertone. A triumphant and malicious grin settled on Clayton's features, and he started with a rush for the door. Come around to headquarters in two hours, boys, he called as he went out, and I'll have something more for you. The room cleared, the reporters tumbling downstairs, to make for the nearest telephones to get their copy into their respective offices. On the street, a few doors up from the house where they were free from the crowd, Carruthers halted Jimmy Dale. Jimmy, he said reproachfully, you certainly made a mark of us both. There wasn't any need to play the cub so egregiously. However, I'll forgive you for the sake of the sketch. Hand it over, Jimmy. I'm going to reproduce it in the first edition. It wasn't drawn for reproduction, Carruthers. At least not yet, said Jimmy Dale quietly. Carruthers stared at him. Eh? He asked blankly. I've taken a dislike to Clayton, said Jimmy Dale whimsically. He's too patently after free advertising, and I'm not going to help along his boost. You can't have it, old man, so let's think about something else. What'll they do with that bit of paper that's on the poor devil's forehead up there, for instance? Say, said Carruthers, does it strike you that you're acting queer? You haven't been drinking, have you, Jimmy? What'll they do with it, persisted Jimmy Dale? Well, said Carruthers, smiling a little tolerantly, they'll photograph it and enlarge the photograph and label it Exhibit A or Exhibit B or something like that, and file it away in the archives with the fifty or more just like it that are already in their collection. That's what I thought, observed Jimmy Dale. He took Carruthers by the lapel of the coat. I'd like a photograph of that. I'd like it so much that I've got to have it. Know the chap that does that work for the police? Yes, admitted Carruthers. Very good, said Jimmy Dale crisply. Get an extra print of the enlargement from him then. For consideration, whatever he asks, I'll pay for it. But what for, demanded Carruthers, I don't understand. Because, said Jimmy Dale, very seriously, put it down to imagination or whatever you like, I think I smell something fishy here. You, what, exclaimed Carruthers in amazement. You're not joking, are you, Jimmy? Jimmy Dale laughed shortly. It's so far from a joke, he said, in a low tone, that I want your word, you'll get that photograph into my hands by tomorrow afternoon, no matter what transpires in the meantime. And look here, Carruthers, don't think I'm playing the silly thick head and trying to mystify you. I'm no detective or anything like that. I've just got an idea that apparently hasn't occurred to anyone else. And of course I may be all wrong. If I am, I'm not going to say a word even to you, because it wouldn't be playing fair with someone else. If I'm right, the Morning News Argus gets the biggest scoop of the century. Will you go in on that basis? Carruthers put out his hand impulsively. If you're an earnest, Jimmy, you bet. Good! returned Jimmy Dale, the photograph by tomorrow afternoon, then, and now—and now, said Carruthers, I've got to hurry over to the office, and get a write-up man at work. Will you come along, or meet me at headquarters later? Clayton said, in two hours he'd—neither, said Jimmy Dale. I'm not interested in headquarters. I'm going home. Well, all right, then, Carruthers returned. You can bank on me for tomorrow. Good night, Jimmy. Good night, old man, said Jimmy Dale, and, turning, walked briskly toward the Bowery. But Jimmy Dale did not go home. He walked down the Bowery for three blocks, crossed to the east side, and turned down across street. Two blocks more he walked in this direction, and halfway down the next. Here he paused an instant. The street was dimly lighted, almost dark, deserted. Jimmy Dale edged close to the houses until his shadow blended with the shadows of the walls, and slipped suddenly into a pitch-black area-way. He opened a door, stepped into an unlighted hallway, where the air was closed and evil-smelling, mounted a stairway, and halted before another door on the first landing. There was the low clicking of a lock, three times repeated, and he entered a room, closing and fastening the door behind him. Jimmy Dale called it his sanctuary. In one of the worst neighborhoods of New York, where no questions were asked as long as the rent was paid, it had the further advantage of three separate exits, one by the area-way where he had entered, one from the street itself, and another through a backyard with an entry into a saloon that fronted on the next street. It was not often that Jimmy Dale used his sanctuary, but there had been times when it was no more nor less than exactly what he called it, a sanctuary. He stepped to the window, assured himself that the shade was down, and lighted the gas, blinking a little as the yellow flame illuminated the room. It was a rough place, dirty, uninviting, a bedroom furnished in the most scanty fashion. There apparently was there anything suspicious about it to reward one curious enough to break in during the owner's absence. Some rather disreputable clothes hanging on the wall, and flung untidily across the bed. That was all. Alone now Jimmy Dale's face was strained and anxious, and occasionally, as he undressed himself, his hands clenched until his knuckles grew white. The gray seal on the murdered man's forehead was a genuine gray seal, one of Jimmy Dale's own. There was no doubt of that. He had satisfied himself on that point. Where had it come from? How had it been obtained? Jimmy Dale carefully placed the clothes he had taken off under the mattress, pulled a disreputable collarless flannel shirt over his head, and pulled on a disreputable pair of boots. There were only two sources of supply, his own, and the collection that the police had made which Carothers had referred to. Jimmy Dale lifted a corner of the oil cloth in a corner of the room, lifted a piece of the flooring, lifted out a little box which he placed upon the rickety table, and sat down before a cracked mirror. Who was it that would have access to the gray seals in the possession of the police? Since obviously it was one of those that was on the dead man's forehead. The answer came quick enough, came with the sudden outthrust of Jimmy Dale's lower jaw, one of the police themselves, no one else. Clayton's heavy, cunning face, Clayton's shifty eyes, Clayton's sudden rush when he had touched the dead man's forehead, pictured themselves in a red flash of fury before Jimmy Dale. There was no mask now, no facetiousness, no acted part, only a merciless rage, and the muscles of Jimmy Dale's face quivered and twitched. Murder, foisted, shifted upon another, upon the gray seal, making of that name a calumny, ruining for ever the work that she and he might do. And then Jimmy Dale smiled, mirthlessly, with thinning lips. The box before him was open. His fingers worked quickly, a little wax behind the ears, in the nostrils, under the upper lip. Deftly placed hands, wrists, neck, throat, and face received their quota of stain, applied with an artist's touch. And then the spruce, muscular Jimmy Dale, transformed into a slouching, vicious-featured denizen of the underworld, replaced the box under the flooring, pulled a slouch hat over his eyes, extinguished a gas, and went out. End of Part 1, Chapter 2, B. Part 1, Chapter 2, C. of the Adventures of Jimmy Dale. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. The Adventures of Jimmy Dale, by Frank L. Packard. Reading by Mary Rody. Part 1, The Man in the Case. Chapter 2, C. by Proxy concluded. Jimmy Dale's range of acquaintanceship was wide, from the upper strata of the St. James Club to the elite of New York's gangland, and adored by the one he was trusted implicitly by the other, not understood perhaps by the latter, for he had never allied himself with any of their nefarious schemes, but trusted implicitly through long years of personal contact. It had stood Jimmy Dale in good stead before this association, where, in a sort of strange, carefully guarded exchange, the news of the underworld was common property to those without the law. To New York in its millions, the murder of Metzer the Stilpigeon would be unknown until the city rose in the morning to read the sensational details over the breakfast table. Here it would already be the topic of whispered conversations. Here it had probably been known long before the police had discovered the crime. Especially would it be expected to be known to Pete Lasanis, commonly called the Runt, who was a power below the deadline and more pertinent still, one in whose confidence Jimmy Dale had rejoiced for years. Jimmy Dale, as Larry the Bat, a euphonious moniker bestowed possibly because this particular world knew him only by night, began a search for the Runt. From one resort to another he hurried, talking in the accepted style through one corner of his mouth to hard-visaged individuals, behind dirty, reeking bars that were reared on equally dirty and foul-smelling, sawdust-strewn floors, visiting dance halls, secretive back rooms, and certain Chinese pipe joints. But the Runt was decidedly elusive. There had been no news of him, no one had seen him, and this, after fully an hour, had passed since Jimmy Dale had left Carothers in front of Moriarties. The possibilities, however, were still legion, numbered only by the numberless dives and then sheltered by that quarter of the city. Jimmy Dale turned into Chatham Square, heading for the Pagoda Dance Hall. A man loitering at the curb shot a swift searching glass at him as he slouched by. Jimmy Dale paused in the doorway of the Pagoda and looked up and down the street. The man he had passed had drawn a little closer. Another man, in an apparently aimless fashion, lounged a few yards away. Some things up, muttered Jimmy Dale to himself. Lansing of headquarters, and the other looks like Millray. Dale pushed in through the door of the Pagoda. A bedlam of noise surged out at him. A tin-pan piano and a mandolin were going furiously from a little-raised platform at the rear. In the center of the room a dozen couples were in the throes of the tango and the bunny-hug. Around the sides, at little tables, men and women laughed and applauded and thumped time on the tabletops with their beer-mugs, while waiters with beer-stained aprons and unshaven faces juggled marvelous handfuls of glasses and mugs from the bar beside the platform to the patrons at the tables. Jimmy Dale's eyes swept the room in a swift, comprehensive glance, fixed on a little fellow loudly dressed, who shared a table halfway down the room with a woman in a picture-hat, and a smile of relief touched his lips, the runt at last. He walked down the room, caught the runt's eyes significantly as he passed the table, kept on to a door between the platform and the bar, opened it, and went out into a lighted hallway at one end of which a door opened on to the street, and at the other a stairway led above. The runt joined him. "'What's derau, Larry?' inquired the runt. "'Nothin much,' said Jimmy Dale. "'Only I thought I'd let you know. "'I was passin' Moriarty's and got a tip. "'Say, some guys' croaked Jake Metzer there. "'Aw, forget it. "'Observe the runt early. "'Dutch Dale was wise to doubt ours ago.' Jimmy Dale's face fell. "'But I just came from there,' he insisted, and to harness bulls only just found it out. "'Maybe,' grunted the runt. "'But Metzer got his early into afternoon, see.' Jimmy Dale looked quickly around him, and then leaned toward the runt. "'What's delay, runt?' he whispered. The runt pulled down one eyelid, and with his knowing grin, a cigarette clinging to his upper lip, sagged down in the opposite corner of his mouth. Jimmy Dale grinned, too. In a flash inspiration had come to Jimmy Dale. "'Say, runt,' he jerked his head toward the street door. "'What's the fly-cops doin' out there?' The grin vanished from the runt's lips. He stared for a second wildly at Jimmy Dale, and then clutched a Jimmy Dale's arm. "'To what?' he said hoarsely. "'To fly-cops,' Jimmy Dale repeated, in well-simulated surprise. "'Dale was dare when I come in. Glancing a mill-ray, and the runt shot a hurried glass at the stairway, and licked his lips as though they had gone suddenly dry. "'My God!' I,' he gasped, and shrank hastily back against the wall beside Jimmy Dale. The door from the street had opened noiselessly, instantly. Black forms balked there, then a rush of feet, and at the head of half a dozen men the face of Inspector Clayton loomed up before Jimmy Dale. There was a second's pause in the rush, and in the pause Clayton's voice, in a vicious undertone. "'You two ging's open your traps, and I'll run you both in!' And then the rush passed, and swept on up the stairs. Jimmy Dale looked at the runt. The cigarette dangled limply. The runt's eyes were like a hunted beast's. "'Dade got him,' he mumbled. "'It's Stace, Stace Morse. He come to me after Croke and Metzer, and he's been hiding up-deer all afternoon.' "'Stace Morse,' known in gangland, as a man with every crime in the calendar to his credit, and prominent because of it. Something seemed to go suddenly queer inside of Jimmy Dale. "'Stace Morse,' was he wrong after all?' Jimmy Dale drew closer to the runt. "'You're given me a steer, ain't you?' He spoke again from the corner of his mouth, almost inaudibly. "'Are you sure it was Stace, Croke, Metzer?' "'What for? How'd you know?' The runt was listening. His eyes strained toward the stairs. The hall to the street was closed, but both were quite well aware that there was an officer on guard outside. "'He told me,' whispered the runt. Metzer was fixing their snitch on him the night. "'They've got the goods on Stace, too. He made a bum job of it. Why didn't he get out of the country then when he had a chance? Instead of hanging around here all afternoon?' Demanded Jimmy Dale. "'He was broke,' the runt answered. "'We was getting to coin-firm to fade away with her tonight.' A revolver shot from above cut short his words. Came then the sound of a struggle, oats, the shuffling tread of feet, but in the dance-hall the piano still rattled on, the mandolin twang'd, voices sang and applauded, and beer-mugs thumped time. They were on the stairs now, the officers half-carrying, half-dragging someone between them, and the man they dragged cursed them with utter abandon. As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Jimmy Dale caught sight of the prisoner's face, not a pre-possessing one, villainous, low-browed, contorted, with a mixture of fear and rage. "'It's a lie, a lie, a lie,' the man shrieked. "'I never seen him in my life. Blast you! Curse you! Do you hear?' Inspector Clayton caught Jimmy Dale and the runt by the collars. "'There's nothing to interest you around here,' he snapped maliciously. "'Go on, now. Beat it!' And he pushed them toward the door. They had hurt the disturbance in the dance-hall now, and the occupants were swarming to the sidewalk. A patrol wagon came around the corner. In the crowd Jimmy Dale slipped away from the runt. Was he wrong, after all? A fierce passion seized him. It was Stace Morse who had murdered Metzer, the runt had said. In Jimmy Dale's brain the words began to reiterate themselves in a singsong fashion. It was Stace Morse, it was Stace Morse. Then his lips drew tight together. Was it Stace Morse? He would have given a good deal for a chance to talk to the man, even for a minute. But there was no possibility of that now—later, tomorrow, perhaps, if he was wrong, after all. Jimmy Dale returned to the sanctuary, removed from his person all evidences of Larry the Bat, and from the sanctuary went home to Riverside Drive. Then his den there in the morning after breakfast. Jason the butler brought him the papers. Three-inch headlines in red ink screamed, exalted, and shrieked out the news that the gray seal in the person of Stace Morse, Fence, Yagman, and Murderer, had been captured. The public, if it had held any private admiration for the one-time mysterious crook, could now once and for ever disillusion itself. The gray seal was Stace Morse, and Stace Morse was one of the dregs of the city's scum, a pariah, an outcast, with no single redeeming trait to lift him from the wreck of mire and slime that had strewn his life from infancy. The face of Inspector Clayton, blandly self-complacent, leaped out from the paper to meet Jimmy Dale's eyes, and with it a column and a half of perforate eulogy. Something at first like dismay, the dismay of impotency filled Jimmy Dale, and then cold, leaving him unnaturally calm, the old merciless rage took its place. There was nothing to do now but wait. Wait until Carruthers should send that photograph. Then if, after all, he were wrong, then he must find some other way. But was he wrong? The notebook that Carruthers had given him, open at the sketch he had made of Clayton, lay upon the desk. Jimmy Dale picked it up. He had already spent quite a little time over it before breakfast, and examined it again, minutely, even resorting to his magnifying glass. He put it down as a knock sounded at the door, and Jason entered with the silver-card tray. From Carruthers already, Jimmy Dale stepped quickly forward, and then Jimmy Dale met the old man's eyes. It wasn't from Carruthers, it was from her. The same shuffer brought it, Master Jim, said Jason. Jimmy Dale snatched the envelope from the tray, and waved the other from the room. As the door closed, he tore open the letter. There was just a single line. Jimmy, Jimmy, you haven't failed, have you? Jimmy Dale stared at it. Failed. Failed her? The haggard look was in his face again. It was the bond between them that was at stake, the gray seal, the bond that had come he knew for all time in that instant, to mean his life. God knows he muttered hoarsely, and flung himself into a lounging-chair, still staring at the note. The hours dragged by, lunch and time arrived, and passed, and then by special messenger the little package from Carruthers came. Jimmy Dale started to undo the string, then laid the package down, and held out his hands before him for inspection. They were trembling visibly. It was a strange condition for Jimmy Dale, either to witness or experience, unlike him, foreign to him. This won't do, Jimmy, he said grimly, shaking his head. He picked up the package again, opened it, and from between two pieces of cardboard took out a large photographic print. A moment, too, Jimmy Dale examined it, used the magnifying glass again, and then a strange gleam came into the dark eyes and his lips moved. I've won, said Jimmy Dale, with ominous softness. I've won. He was standing beside the rosewood desk, and he reached for the phone. Carruthers would be at home now. He called Carruthers there. After a moment or two he got the connection. This is Jimmy, Carruthers, he said. Yes, I got it. Thanks. Yes. Listen, I want you to get Inspector Clayton and bring him up here at once. What? No. No, no. How? Why, tell him you're going to run a full page of him in the Sunday edition, and you want him to sit for a skitch. He'd go anywhere for that. Yes. Half an hour. Yes. Goodbye. Jimmy Dale hung up the receiver, and hastily now began to write upon a pad that lay before him on the desk. The minutes passed. As he wrote he scored out words and lines here and there, substituting others. At the end he had covered three large pages with, to anyone but himself, an indecipherable scrawl. These he shoved aside now, and very carefully, very legibly, made a copy on fresh sheets. As he finished he heard a car drop in front of the house. Jimmy Dale folded the copied sheets neatly, tucked them in his pocket, lighted a cigarette, and was lolling lazily in his chair. As Jason announced, Mr. Carruthers, sir, and another gentleman to see you, show them up, Jason, instructed Jimmy Dale. Jimmy Dale rose from his chair as they came in. Jason, well-trained servant, closed the door behind them. Hello, Carruthers. Hello, Inspector," said Jimmy Dale, pleasantly, and waved them through seats. Take this chair, Carruthers. He motioned to one at his elbow. Glad to see you, Inspector. Try that one in front of the desk. You'll find it comfortable. Carruthers, trying to catch Jimmy Dale's eye for some sort of a cue, and failing, sat down. Inspector Clayton stared at Jimmy Dale. Oh, it's you, eh? His eyes roved around the room, fastened for an instant on some of Jimmy Dale's work on an easel, came back finally to Jimmy Dale, and he plumped himself down in the chair, indicated. Thought you was more than a cub reporter, he remarked with a grin. You were too slick with your pencil. Pretty fine studio you got here. Carruthers says you're going to draw me. Jimmy Dale smiled, not pleasantly, and leaned suddenly over the desk. Yes, he said slowly, a grim intonation in his voice. Going to draw you, true to life. With an exclamation Clayton slewed around in his chair, half rose, and his shifty eyes, small and cunning, bored into Jimmy Dale's face. What do you mean by that, he snapped out? Just exactly what I say, replied Jimmy Dale curtly. No more, no less. But first, not to be too abrupt, I want to join with the newspapers in congratulating you on the remarkable, shall I call it, celebrity or acumen, with which you solved the mystery of Metzor's death and placed the murderer behind the bars. It is really remarkable, Inspector, so remarkable, in fact, that it's almost suspicious. Don't you think so? No? Well, that's what Mr. Carruthers was good enough to bring you up here to talk over, in an intimate and confidential way, you know? Inspector Clayton surged up from his chair to his feet. His fists clenched, the red sweeping over his face, and then he shook one fist at Carruthers. So that's your game, is it, he stormed, trying to crawl out of that twenty-five thousand reward, eh? And as for you, he turned on Jimmy Dale, you've rigged up a nice little plant between you, eh? Well it won't work, and I'll make you squirm for this, both of you damn you before I am through. He glared from one to the other for a moment, then swung on his heel. Good afternoon, gentlemen, he sneered as he started for the door. He was halfway across the room before Jimmy Dale spoke. Clayton? Clayton turned. Jimmy Dale was still leaning over the desk, but now one elbow was propped upon it, and in the most casual way a revolver covered Inspector Clayton. If you attempt to leave this room, said Jimmy Dale, without raising his voice, I assure you that I shall fire with this little compunction, as though I were aiming at a mad dog, and I apologize to all mad dogs for coupling your name with them. His voice rang suddenly cold. Come back here, and sit down in that chair. The color ebbed slowly from Clayton's face. He hesitated, then solidly retraced his steps, hesitated again as he reached the chair, and finally sat down. But what do you mean by this, he stammered, trying to bluster? Just this, said Jimmy Dale, that I accuse you of the murder of Jake Metzer. It was you who murdered Metzer. Good God burst suddenly from Carothers! You lie! yelled Clayton, and again he surged up from his chair. That is what Stace Moore said, said Jimmy Dale coolly. Sit down. Then Clayton tried to laugh. You're having a joke, ain't you? It was Stace. I can prove it. Come down to headquarters, and I can prove it. I got the goods on him all the way. I tell you, his voice rose shrilly. It was Stace Morse. You are a despicable hound, said Jimmy Dale, through set lips. Here he handed the revolver over to Carothers. Keep him covered, Carothers. You're going to the chair for this, Clayton, he said, in a fierce monotone. The chair! You can't send another there in your place this time. Shall I draw you now, true to life? You've been grafting for years on every disreputable den in your district. Metzer was going to show you up, and so Metzer being in the road you removed him, and you seized on the fact of Stace Morse having paid a visit to him this afternoon to fix the crime on Stace Morse. Proofs? Oh, yes, I know you've manufactured proofs enough to convict him, if there weren't stronger proofs to convict you. Convict me? Clayton's lower jaw hung loosely, but still he made an effort to bluster. You haven't a thing on me, not a thing, not a thing! Jimmy Dale smiled again, unpleasantly. You are quite wrong, Clayton! See here! He took a sheet of paper from the drawer of his desk. Clayton reached for it quickly. What is it? he demanded. Jimmy Dale drew it back out of reach. Just a minute, he said softly. You remember, don't you, that in the presence of Carruthers here, of myself and of a half a dozen reporters, you stated that you had been alone with Metzger in his room at three o'clock yesterday, and that it was you alone who found the body later on at nine o'clock. Yes? I mentioned this simply to show that from your own lips the evidence is complete that you had an opportunity to commit the crime. Now you may look at this, Clayton. He handed over the sheet of paper. Clayton took it, stared at it, turning it over from first one side to the other. Then a sort of relief seemed to come to him, and he gulped. Nothing but a damned piece of blank paper! Jimmy Dale reached over and took back the sheet. You're wrong again, Clayton, he said calmly. It was quite blank before I handed it to you, but not now. I noticed yesterday that your hands were generally moist. I am sure they are more so now. Excitement, you know. Carruthers see that he doesn't interrupt. From a drawer Jimmy Dale took out a little black bottle, the notebook he had used the day before, and the photograph Carruthers had sent him. On the sheet of paper Clayton had just handled. Jimmy Dale sprinkled a little powder from the bottle. Lamp black, explained Jimmy Dale. He shook the paper carefully, allowing the loose powder to fall on the disc blotter, and held out the sheet toward Clayton. Rather neat, isn't it? A very good impression, too. Your thumbprint, Clayton. Now don't move. You may look, not touch. He laid the paper down on the disc in front of Clayton. Beside it he placed the notebook, opened at the sketch, a black thumbprint now upon it. You recall handling this yesterday, I'm sure, Clayton. I tried the same experiment with the lamp black on it this morning. You see, and this, beside the notebook he placed the police photograph, that, too, in its enlargement, showed sharply defined a thumbprint on a diamond-shaped background. You will no doubt recognize it as an official photograph enlarged, taken of the gray seal on Metzer's forehead, and the thumbprint of Metzer's murderer. You have only to glance at the little scar at the edge of the center loop to satisfy yourself that the three are identical. Of course, there are a dozen other points of similarity equally indisputable, but Jimmy Dale stopped. Clayton was on his feet, rocking on his feet. His face was deathlike in its pallor. Moisture was oozing from his forehead. I didn't do it. I didn't do it, he cried out wildly. My God, I tell you, I didn't do it. And that would send me to the chair. Yes, said Jimmy Dale coldly. And that's precisely where you're going, to the chair. The man was beside himself now, wracked to the soul by a paroxysm of fear. I'm innocent, innocent, he screamed out. Oh, for God's sake, don't send an innocent man to his death. It was Des Moores. Listen, listen, I'll tell you the truth. He was clawing with his hands piteously over the desk at Jimmy Dale. When the big rewards came out last week, I stole one of the gray seals from the bunch at headquarters to use it the first time any crime was committed when I was sure I could lay my hands on the man who did it. Don't you see? Of course he'd deny he was the gray seal, just as he'd deny that he was guilty. But I'd have the proof both ways, and I'd collect the rewards, and the man collapsed into the chair. Carruthers was up from his seat, his hands gripping tight on the edge of the desk as he leaned over it. Jimmy, Jimmy, what does this mean, he gasped out. Jimmy Dale smiled, pleasantly now, that he has told the truth, said Jimmy Dale quietly. It is quite true that Stace Moores committed the murder, shows up the value of circumstantial evidence, though doesn't it? This would certainly have got him off, and convicted Clayton here before any jury in the land. But the point is, Carruthers, that Stace Moores isn't the gray seal, and the gray seal is not a murderer. Clayton looked up. You—you believe me? He stammered eagerly. Jimmy Dale whirled on him in a sudden sweep of passion. No, you curr! He flashed. It's not you, I believe. I simply wanted your confession before witnesses. He whipped the three written sheets from his pocket. Here substantially is that confession written out. He passed it to Carruthers. Read it to him, Carruthers. Carruthers read it aloud. Now, said Jimmy Dale grimly, this spells ruin for you, Clayton. You don't deserve a chance to escape prison bars, but I'm going to give you one, for you're going to get it pretty stiff anyhow. If you refuse to sign this, I'll hand you over to the district attorney in half an hour, and Carruthers and I will swear to your confession. On the other hand, if you sign it, Carruthers will not be able to print it until tomorrow morning, and that gives you something like fourteen hours to put distance between yourself and New York. Here is a pen. If you are quick enough to take us by surprise once you have signed, you might succeed in making a dash for that door and defecting your escape without forcing us to compound a felony, understand? Clayton's hand trembled violently as he seized the pen. He squalled his name, looked from one to the other, wet his lips, and then, taking Jimmy Dale at his word, rushed for the door, and the door slammed behind him. Carruthers' face was hard. What did you let him go for, Jimmy? He said uncompromisingly. Selfishness, pure selfishness, said Jimmy Dale softly. They'd guy me unmercifully if they ever heard of it at the St. James Club. The honor is all yours, Carruthers. I don't appear on the stage. That's understood. Yes? Well, then. He handed over the signed confession. Is the scoop big enough? Carruthers fingered the sheets, but his eyes, in a bewildered way, urged Jimmy Dale's face. Big enough! He echoed as though invoking the universe. It's the biggest thing the newspaper game has ever known. But how did you come to do it? What started you? Where did you get your lead? Why, from you, I guess, Carruthers, Jimmy Dale answered thoughtfully, with artfully puckered brow, I remembered that you had said last week that the gray seal never left finger marks on his work. And I saw one on the seal on Metzer's forehead. Then, you know, I lifted one corner where the seal overlapped a thread of blood, and underneath the thread of blood wasn't in the slightest disturbed. So of course I knew the seal had been put on quite a long time after the man was dead, not until the blood had dried thoroughly to a crust, you know, so that even the damp surface of the sticky side of the seal hadn't affected it. And then I took a dislike to Clayton somehow, and put two and two together, and took a flyer in getting him to handle the notebook. I guess that's all. No other reason on earth. Jolly lucky, don't you think? Carruthers didn't say anything for a moment. When he spoke, it was irrelevant. You saved me twenty-five thousand dollars on that reward, Jimmy. That's the only thing I regret, said Jimmy Dale brightly. It wasn't nice of you, Carruthers, to turn on the grey seal that way, and it strikes me you owe the chap, whoever he is, a pretty emphatic exoneration after what you said in this morning's edition. Jimmy, said Carruthers earnestly, you know what I thought of him before. It's like a new lease of life to get back one's faith in him. You leave it to me. I'll put the grey seal on a pedestal tomorrow that will be worthy of the immortals. You leave it to me. And Carruthers kept his word. Also before the paper had been an hour off the press, Carruthers received a letter. It thanked Carruthers quite genuinely, even if couched in somewhat facetious terms, for his sweeping vindication, tweeted him gently for his backsliding, begged to remain his gratefully, and in lieu of signature, there was a grey-colored piece of paper shaped like this, a diamond shape, only there were no fingerprints on it. End of Part 1, Chapter 2