The Adventures of Jimmie Dale [145]
in the car with which to cover the rags of Larry the Bat, and without which he would have been obliged to leave the car somewhere on the outskirts of the city, and to trust, like Mike Hagan, to other and slower means of transportation. Blocks away from Hagan's tenement, he ran the car into a lane, slipped off the motor coat, and from his pocket whipped out the little metal insignia case--and in another moment a diamond-shaped gray seal was neatly affixed to the black ebony rim of the steering wheel. He smiled ironically. It was necessary, quite necessary that the police should have no doubt as to who had been in Doyle's house with Connie Myers that night, or to whom they had so considerately loaned their automobile! He was running now--through lanes, dodging down side streets, taking every short cut he knew. Had he beaten the police to Mike Hagan's room? It would be easy then. If they were ahead of him, then, by some means or other, he must still get that paper first. He was at the tenement now--shuffling leisurely up the steps. The front door was open. He entered, and went up the first flight of stairs, then along the hall, and up the next flight. He had half expected the place to be bustling with excitement over the crime; but the police evidently had kept the affair quiet, for he had seen no one since he had entered. But now, as he began to mount the third flight, he went more slowly--some one was ahead of him. It was very dark--he could not see. The steps above died away. He reached the landing, started along for Hagan's room--and a light blazed suddenly in his face, and a hard, quick grip on his shoulder forced him back against the wall. Then the flashlight wavered, glistened on brass buttons went out, and a voice laughed roughly: "It's only Larry the Bat!" "Larry the Bat, eh?" It was another voice, harsh and curt. "What are you doing here?" He was not first, after all! The telephone message from Pelham--it was almost certainly that--had beaten him! They were ahead of him, just ahead of him, they had only been a few steps ahead of him going up the stairs, just a second ahead of him on their way to Hagan's room! Jimmie Dale was thinking fast now. He must go, too--to Hagan's room with them--somehow--there was no other way--there was Hagan's life at stake. "Aw, I ain't done nothin'!" he whined. "I was just goin' ter borrow the price of a feed from Mike Hagan--lemme go!" "Hagan, eh!" snapped the questioner. "Are you a friend of his?" "Sure, I am!" The officers whispered for a moment together. "We'll try it," decided the one who appeared to be in command. "We're in the dark, anyhow, and the thing may be only a steer. Mabbe it'll work--anyway, it won't do any harm." His hand fell heavily on Jimmie Dale's shoulder. "Mrs. Hagan know you?" brusquely. "Sure she does!" sniffled Larry the Bat. "Good!" rasped the officer. "Well, we'll make the visit with you. And you do what you're told, or we'll put the screws on you--see? We're after something here, and you've blown the whole game--savvy? You've spilled the gravy--understand?" In the darkness, Jimmie Dale smiled grimly. It was far more than he had dared to hope for--they were playing into his hands! "But I don't know 'bout any game," grovelled Larry the Bat piteously. "Who in hell said you did!" growled the officer. "You're supposed to have snitched the lay to us, that's all--and mind you play your part! Come on!" It was two doors down the hall to Mike Hagan's room, and there one of the officers, putting his shoulder to the door, burst it open and sprang in. The other shoved Jimmie Dale forward. It was quickly done. The three were in the room. The door was closed again. Came a cry of terror out of the darkness, a movement as of some one rising up hurriedly in bed; and then Mrs. Hagan's voice: "What is it! Who is it! Mike!" The table--it was against the right-hand wall, Jimmie Date remembered. He sidled quickly toward it. "Strike a light!" ordered the officer in charge. Jimmie Dale's fingers were feeling under the edge of the table--a quick sweep