The Further Adventures of Jimmie Dale | Page 7

plausibly his intimacy with the dens and lairs
of Crimeland, the one thing that would, if nothing more, assure an
unsuspicious, tolerant acceptance of his presence there, was that, like
Larry the Bat, he would assume the rôle of a confirmed dope fiend; but
as there were many dope fiends, thousands of them in the Bad Lands,
that point of similarity, even if Larry the Bat were not believed to be
dead, held little, if any, risk. For the rest, it was easy enough; and so
there had come into being these wretched quarters here, the New
Sanctuary--and Smarlinghue.
But the mere assumption of a new rôle was not all--it was not there that
the difficulty lay; it was in gaining for Smarlinghue the confidence of
the underworld that Larry the Bat had once held. And that had taken
time--was not even yet an accomplished fact. The intimate, personal
acquaintance of Larry the Bat with every crook and dive in Gangland
had aided him, as Smarlinghue, to gain an initial foothold, but his

complete establishment there had necessarily had to be of
Smarlinghue's own making. And it had taken time. Six months had
gone now, six months that, as far as the Tocsin was concerned, had
been barren of results mainly, he encouraged himself to believe,
because his efforts had been always limited and held in check; six
months of anxious, careful building, and now, just as he was regaining
the old-time confidence that Larry the Bat had enjoyed, just as he was
reaching that point where the whispered secrets of the underworld once
more reached his ears and there was a promise of success if, indeed, she
were still alive, had come this thing to-night that spelt ruin to his hopes
and ultimate disaster to himself.
If she were still alive! The thought came flashing back; and with a low,
involuntary moan, mingling anguish of mind with a bitter, merciless
fury, he turned restlessly upon the cot. If she were still alive! No sign,
no word had come from her; he had found no clue, no trace of her as
yet through the channels of the underworld; his surveillance of the
Magpie, whose friendship he had begun to cultivate, had, so far, proved
fruitless.
It came upon him now again, the fear, the dread, which he had known
so often in the past few months, that seemed to try to undermine his
resolution to go forward, that whispered speciously that it was
useless--that she was dead. And misery came. And he lay there staring
unseeingly into the moonrays as they streamed in through the top-light.
Time passed. Then a smile played over Jimmie Dale's lips, half grim,
half wistful; and the strong, square jaw was suddenly out-flung. If she
was alive, he would find her; if she was dead--his clenched hand lifted
above his head as though to register a vow--the man or men, her
murderer or murderers, whether to-morrow or in the years to come,
would know a day of reckoning when they should pay the debt!
But that was for the future. To-night there was this vital, imminent
danger that he had to face, this decision to make whose pros and cons
seemed each to hold an equal measure of dismay. What was he to do?
He laughed shortly, ironically after a moment. It was as though some

malignant ingenuity had conspired to trap him. He was caught either
way. What was he to do? The question kept pounding at his brain,
growing more sinister with each repetition. What was he to do? Defy
the police--and be branded as a stool-pigeon, a snitch, an informer in
every nook and cranny of the underworld! He could not do that.
Everything, all that meant anything in life to him now would be swept
from his reach at even the first breath of suspicion. Nor was it an idle
threat that his unwelcome visitor had made. He was not fool enough to
blind himself on that score--it could be only too easily accomplished.
And on the other hand--but what was the use of torturing his brain with
a never-ending rehearsal of details? Was there a middle course? That
was his only chance. Was there a way to safeguard Smarlinghue and,
yes, this miserable hovel of a place, priceless now as his new
Sanctuary.
He followed the moonpath's slant with his eyes to where it touched the
floor and disclosed the greasy, threadbare, pitiful carpet. A grim
whimsicality fell upon him. It would be too bad to lose it! It was luxury
to what Larry the Bat had known! There had not even been a carpet in
the old Sanctuary, and--he sat suddenly bolt upright on the cot, his eyes,
that had mechanically travelled on along the moonpath, strained now
upon where the