The other side of the street was less crowded.He crossed over, and, still with the shuffling tread that dozens around him knew as the characteristic gait of Larry the Bat, but covering the ground with amazing celerity, he hurried along.It was only at the end of the block, that cross street from the Bowery that led to the Sanctuary.How much time had he? He turned the corner into the darker cross street.Whitey Mack would have learned from Bristol Bob that Larry the Bat had just been there; that is, that Larry the Bat was not at the Sanctuary.Whitey Mack would probably be in no hurry--he and Lannigan might wait until later, until Whitey Mack should be satisfied that Larry the Bat had gone home.It was the line of least resistance; they would not attempt to scour the city for him.They might even wait in that private room at Bristol Bob's until they decided that it was time to sally out.He might perhaps still find them there when he got back; at any rate, from there he must pick up their trail again.On the other hand--all this was but supposition--they might make at once for the Sanctuary to lie in wait for him.In any case there was need, desperate need, for haste.
He glanced sharply around him; and, by the side of the tenement house now that bordered on the alleyway, with a curious, swift, gliding motion, he seemed to blend into the shadow and darkness.It was the Sanctuary, that room on the first floor of the tenement, the tenement that had three entrances, three exits--a passageway through to the saloon on the next street that abutted on the rear, the usual front door, and the side door in the alleyway.Gone was the shuffling gait.Quick, alert, he ran, crouching, bent down, along the alleyway, reached the side door, opened it stealthily, closed it behind him with equal caution, and, in the dark entry, stood motionless, listening intently.
There was no sound.He began to mount the rickety, dilapidated stairs; and, where it seemed that the lightest tread must make them creak out in blatant protest, his trained muscles, delicately compensating his body weight, carried him upward with a silence that was almost uncanny.There was need of silence, as there was need of haste.He was not so sure now of the time at his disposal--that he had even reached the Sanctuary FIRST.How long had he loitered in that half-dazed way on the Bowery? He did not know--perhaps longer than he had imagined.There was the possibility that Whitey Mack and Lannigan were already above, waiting for him; but, even if they were not already there and he got away before they came, it was imperative that no one should know that Larry the Bat had come and gone.
He reached the landing, and paused again, his right hand, with a vicious muzzle of his automatic peeping now from between his fingers, thrown a little forward.It was black, utterly black, around him.Again that stealthy, catlike tread--and his ear was at the keyhole of the Sanctuary door.A full minute, priceless though it was, passed; then, satisfied that the room was empty, he drew his head back from the keyhole, and those slim, tapering fingers, that in their tips seemed to embody all the human senses, felt over the lock.Apparently it had been undisturbed; but that was no proof that Whitey Mack had not been there after finding the metal case.
Whitey Mack was known to be clever with a lock--clever enough for that, anyhow.
He slipped in the key, turned it, and, on hinges that were always oiled, silently pushed the door open and stepped across the threshold.He closed the door until it was just ajar, that any sound might reach him from without--and, whipping off his coat, began to undress swiftly.
There was no light.He dared not use the gas; it might be seen from the alleyway.He was moving now quickly, surely, silently here and there.It was like some weird spectre figure, a little blacker than the surrounding darkness, flitting about the room.The oilcloth in the corner was turned back, the loose flooring lifted, the clothes of Jimmie Dale taken out, the rags of Larry the Bat put in.The minutes flew by.It was not the change of clothing that took long--it was the eradication of Larry the Bat's make-up from his face, throat, neck, wrists, and hands.Occasionally his head was turned in a tense, listening attitude; but always the fingers were busy, working with swift deftness.
It was done at last.Larry the Bat had vanished, and in his place stood Jimmie Dale, the young millionaire, the social lion of New York, immaculate in well-tailored tweeds.He stooped to the hole in the flooring, and, his fingers going unerringly to their hiding place, took out a black silk mask and an electric flashlight--his automatic was already in his possession.His lips parted grimly.
Who knew what part a flashlight might not play--and he would need the mask for Lannigan's benefit, even if it did not disguise him from Whitey Mack.Had he left any telltale evidence of his visit?
It was almost worth the risk of a light to make sure.He hesitated, then shook his head, and, stooping again, carefully replaced the flooring and laid the oilcloth over it--he dared not show a light at any cost.
But now even more caution than before was necessary.At times, the lodgers had naturally enough seen their fellow lodger, Larry the Bat, enter and leave the tenement--none had ever seen Jimmie Dale either leave or enter.He stole across the room to the door, halted to assure himself that the hall was empty, slipped out into the hall, and locked the door behind him.Again that trained, long-practiced, silent tread upon the stairs.It seemed as though an hour passed before he reached the bottom, and his brain was shrieking at him to hurry, hurry, HURRY! The entryway at last, the door, the alleyway, a long breath of relief--and he was on the cross street.
