The Further Adventures of Jimmie Dale | Page 3

that's
shy of you. You got a 'stand-in' everywhere." He held up the ten-dollar
bill. "There's more of these--plenty of 'em."
Smarlinghue pushed back his chair now in a frightened sort of way.
"You--you mean you want me for--for a stool pigeon?" he faltered.
"You got it!" said Clancy bluntly.
Smarlinghue's eyes roved about the room in a furtive, terror-stricken
glance, his hand passed aimlessly over his eyes, and he crouched low
down in his chair.
"No, no!" he whispered. "No, no--for God's sake, Mr. Clancy, don't ask
me to do that! I can't--I can't! I--I wouldn't be any good, I--I can't! I--I
won't!"
Clancy thrust head and shoulders aggressively across the table.
"You will--if you know what's good for you!" he said evenly. "And,
what's more, there's a little job you're going to break your hand in on
to-night."
"No! No, no! I can't! I can't!" Smarlinghue flung out his arms
imploringly.
Clancy lowered his voice.
"Cut that out!" he snapped viciously. "What's the matter with you!
You'll be well paid for it--and have police protection. You ought to

know what that'll mean to you--eh? You live like a gutter-snipe
here--half starved most of the time, for all you can get out of those
ungodly daubs!"
A curious dignity came to Smarlinghue. He sat upright.
"It is my art," he said. "I have starved for it many years. Some day I
will get recognition. Some day I--"
"Art--hell!" sneered Clancy; and then he laughed coarsely, as, his
fingers prodding under the miscellany of articles on the table, he
suddenly held up a hypodermic syringe. "This is your art, my bucko!
Why, you poor boob, don't you think I know you! Cocaine's the one
thing on earth you live for. You're stewed to the eyes with it now. Here,
just watch me! Suppose"--he caught the syringe in a quick grip between
the fingers of both hands--"suppose I just put this little toy out of
commission now, and--"
With a shrill screech, Smarlinghue sprang from his chair, and clawed
like a demented man at the other's hands for possession of the
hypodermic.
Clancy surrendered the syringe with a mocking grin, and shoved
Smarlinghue backward into his chair again.
"Oh, yes; you're an artist all right--a coke artist!" he remarked coolly.
"But that's what makes you solid in every den in New York, and that's
how you come in useful--to me. Well, what do you say?"
There was a hunted look in Smarlinghue's eyes.
"They'd--they'd kill me," he said huskily.
"Sure, they would!" agreed Clancy easily. "If they found you out it
would be good-night, all right--that's what you're getting paid for.
But"--his voice hardened--"if you don't come across, I'll tell you what
I'll do to you. I'll--"

"You can't do anything! Not a thing!" Smarlinghue cried wildly. "You
haven't anything on me at all. I've never done a thing, not a single--"
"Oh, I guess there's enough to make you sweat," Clancy cut in brutally.
"You give me the icy paw, and I'll see that the tip leaks out from the
right quarters that you are a stool pigeon. That'll take care of your
finish, too, won't it--good and plenty!"
Smarlinghue stared miserably. Again and again his tongue circled his
lips. Twice he tried to speak--and only succeeded in mumbling
inarticulately.
Clancy got up from the table, walked around it, and, standing over the
crouched figure in the chair, tapped with his finger on the hypodermic
in Smarlinghue's hands.
"And that ain't all," he announced with a malicious grin. "You come in
and play the game with me, or I'll fix it so that you'll never get another
squirt of dope if you had a million bucks to buy it with--ah, I thought
that would get you!"
Smarlinghue was on his feet. The terror of the damned was in his face.
"No! No! My God--no--not that! You--you wouldn't do that!" He
reached out his arms to the other.
"You know--I've gone too far to do without it. If I didn't have it, I--"
"I've seen a few of them in that sort of jim-jams," said Clancy
malevolently. "You can't tell me anything about it. If you appreciate it,
that's enough--it's up to you. You heard what I said. If you're looking
for that particular kind of hell, go to it. Only don't kid yourself. When I
pass the word to put the screws on, the lid's down for keeps. Well,
what's the answer? Coming across? Quick now! I haven't got all night
to spend here!"
Smarlinghue's hands were trembling violently; he sat down in his chair
in a pitiful, uncertain way.

"Yes, yes!" he whispered. "Yes! I got to do it. I'll do it, Mr. Clancy, I'll
do it! I'll--I'll do anything!"
A half leer, half scowl was on Clancy's face, as he stood