The Further Adventures of Jimmie Dale | Page 4

regarding the
other.
"I thought you would!" he grunted roughly. "Well then, we'll get down
to business--and to-night's business. You know the back entrance to
Malay John's hang-out?"
Smarlinghue's eyes widened a little in a startled way. He nodded his
head.
"Very good," said Clancy gruffly. "You'll have no trouble in getting in
there. And once in there you'll have no trouble in getting up to Malay's
private den. I've been wised up that Malay and a few of his pals are
getting ready to pull off a little game uptown. I want the dope on it--all
of it. They've been meeting in Malay's den for the last few
nights--understand? They drift in between half past eleven and
twelve--you get there a little before halfpast eleven. You haven't
anything to be afraid of, so don't lose your nerve. Malay himself is
away this evening and won't be back before midnight; and the door
won't be locked, as otherwise the others couldn't get in. Everything's
clear for you. Savvy? Once you're in the room, there's plenty of places
to hide--and that's all you've got to do, except keep your ears and eyes
open. Get the lay?"
Again Smarlinghue nodded--unhappily this time.
"All right!" said Clancy crisply. "I'm not coming around here any
more--unless I have to. It might put you in bad. You can make your
reports and get your orders through Whitie Karn at his dance hall."
"Whitie Karn!" The exclamation seemed to come involuntarily, in a
quick, frightened way from Smarlinghue.
Clancy's lips twisted in a smile.

"Kind of a jolt--eh--Smarlinghue? You didn't suspect he was one of us,
did you?--and there's more than Whitie Karn. Well, it will teach you to
be careful. Suppose Whitie, for instance, passed the word that you were
a snitch--eh? It won't do you any harm to keep that in mind once in a
while." He moved over to the door. "Well, good-night, Smarlinghue! I
guess you understand, don't you? You ought to be a pretty valuable
man, and I expect a lot from you. If I don't get it--" He shrugged his
shoulders, held Smarlinghue for an instant with half-closed, threatening
eyes--and then the door closed behind him.
Smarlinghue did not move. The steps receded from the door, and died
away along the passage. A minute, two minutes went by. Suddenly
Smarlinghue pushed back the wristband of his shirt, and pricked the
skin with the needle of the hypodermic. The door, without a sound,
swung wide open. Clancy stood in the doorway.
"Good-night again, Smarlinghue," he said coolly.
The hypodermic fell clattering to the floor; Smarlinghue jumped
nervously in his chair.
Clancy laughed--significantly; and, without closing the door this time,
strode away again. His steps echoed back from the passageway, the
front door opened and shut, his boot heel rang on the pavement
without--and all was silence.
Smarlinghue rose from his chair, shuffled across the room, closed the
door and locked it, then shuffled back again to the roller shade over the
little French window, and, taking a pin from the lapel of his coat,
fastened the rent together.
A passing cloud for a moment obscured the moonrays from the
top-light; the gas-jet choked with air, spluttered, burning with a tiny,
blue, hissing flame; then the white path lay across the floor again, and
the yellow flare of gas spurted up into its pitiful fulness--and in
Smarlinghue's stead stood another man. Gone were the stooping
shoulders, gone the hollow cheeks, the thin, extended lips, the widened
nostrils, as the little distorting pieces of wax were removed; and out of

the metamorphosis, hard and grim, set like chiselled marble, was
revealed the face of--Jimmie Dale.
CHAPTER II
THE WARNING
For a moment Jimmie Dale stood there hesitant, the long, slim, tapering
fingers curled into the palms of his hands, his fists clenched tightly, a
dull red suffusing his cheeks and burning through the masterly created
pallor of his make-up; and then slowly as though his mind were in
dismay, he walked across the room, turned off the gas, and going to the
cot flung himself down upon it.
What was he to do? What ghastly irony had prompted Clancy to sort
him out for a police spy? If he refused, if he attempted to stall on
Clancy, Clancy's threat to stamp him in the eyes of the underworld as a
snitch meant ruin and disaster, absolute and final, for "Smarlinghue"
would then have to disappear; on the other hand, to be allied with the
police increased his present risks a thousandfold--and they were already
hazardous enough! It meant constant surveillance by the police that
would hamper him, rob him of his freedom of movement, adding
difficulties and perils innumerable to the enacting of this new dual
personality of his.
Jimmie Dale's hands clenched more fiercely.