"They will raid to-night.Look out for Kline, he is the sharpest man in the United State secret service"--the warning in her letter was running through Jimmie Dale's mind.Kline--the real Kline--was going to raid the place to-night.When? At what time? It must be nearly eleven o'clock already, and--It came sudden, quick as the crack of doom--a terrific crash against the bolted door--but the door, undoubtedly to the surprise of those without, held fast, thanks to the bolt.The four men, white-faced, seemed for an instant turned to statues.Came another crash against the door--and a sharp, imperative order to those within to open it and surrender.
"We're pinched! Beat it!" whispered Whitie Burns wildly--and dashed for the trapdoor.
Like a rat for its hole, Marty Dean followed.Malone, farther away, dropped the plate on the floor, and rushed, with Moulton beside him, after the others--but he never reached the trapdoor.
Over the crashing blows, raining now in quick succession on the door of the room, over a startled commotion as lodgers, roomers, and tenants on the floor above awoke into frightened activity with shouts and cries, came the louder crash of a pile of packing boxes hurled to the floor.And over them, vaulting those scattered in his way, Jimmie Dale sprang at Malone.The man reeled back, with a cry.Moulton dashed through the trapdoor and disappeared.The short, ugly barrel of Jimmie Dale's automatic was between Malone's eyes.
"You make a move," said Jimmie Dale, in a low sibilant way, "and I'll drop you where you stand! Put your hands behind your back--palms together!"
Malone, dazed, cowed, obeyed.A panel of the door split and rent down its length--the hinges were sagging.Jimmie Dale worked like lightning.The cord with the slip noose from his pocket went around Malone's wrists, jerked tight, and knotted; the placard, his lips grim, with no sign of humour, Jimmie Dale dangled around the man's neck.
"An introduction for you to Mr.Kline out there--that you seem so fond of!" gritted Jimmie Dale.Then, working as he talked: "I've got no time to tell you what I think of you, you pitiful hound"--he snatched up the plate from the floor and put it in his pocket--"Twenty years, I think you said, didn't you?"--his hand shot into Malone's pocket-book, and extracted the five-dollar note--" If you can open this with your toes maybe you can get a way"--he wrenched the trapdoor over and slammed it shut--"good-night, Malone"--and he leaped for the window.
The door tottered inward from the top, ripping, tearing, smashing hinges, panels, and jamb.Jimmie Dale got a blurred vision of brass buttons, blue coats, and helmets, and, in the forefront, of a stocky, gray-mustached, gray-haired man in plain clothes.
Jimmie Dale threw up the window, swung out, as with a rush the officers burst through into the room and a revolver bullet hummed viciously past his ear, and dropped to the ground--into encircling arms!
"Ah, no, you don't, my bucko!" snapped a hoarse voice in his ear.
"Keep quiet now, or I'll crack your bean--understand!"But the officer, too heavy to be muscular, was no match for Jimmie Dale, who, even as he had dropped from the sill, had caught sight of the lurking form below; and now, with a quick, sudden, lithe movement he wriggled loose, his fist from a short-arm jab smashed upon the point of the other's jaw, sending the man staggering backward--and Jimmie Dale ran.
A crowd was already collecting at the mouth of the alleyway, mostly occupants of the house itself, and into these, scattering them in all directions, eluding dexterously another officer who made a grab for him, Jimmie Dale charged at top speed, burst through, and headed down the street, running like a deer.
Yells went up, a revolver spat venomously behind him, came the shrill CHEEP-CHEEP! of the police whistle, and heavy boots pounding the pavement in pursuit.
Down the block Jimmie Dale raced.The yells augmented in his rear.
Another shot--and this time he heard the bullet buzz.And then he swerved--into the next alleyway--that flanked the Sanctuary.
He had perhaps a ten yards' lead, just a little more than the distance from the street to the side door of the Sanctuary that opened on the alleyway.And, as he ran now, his fingers tore at his clothing, loosening his tie, unbuttoning coat, vest, collar, shirt, and undershirt.He leaped at the door, swung it open, flung himself inside--and then sacrificing speed to silence, went up the stairs like a cat, cramming his mask now into his pocket.
His room was on the first landing.In an instant he had unlocked the door, entered, and locked it again behind him.From outside, an excited street urchin's voice shrilled up to him:
"He went in that door! I seen him!"
The police whistle chirped again; and then an authoritative voice: