Jimmie Dale's fingers were industriously rolling a cigarette, as, under the brim of his slouch hat, his eyes were noting every detail around him.A yard in against the wall of Spider Jack's, the wall cutting off the rays of the street lamp at a sharp angle, it was shadowy and black--and beyond that, farther in, the alleyway was like a pit.It would take less, far less, than the fraction of a second to gain that yard, but some one was approaching behind him, and a little group of people loitered, with annoying persistency, directly across the way on the other side of the street.Jimmie Dale stuck the cigarette between his lips, fumbled in his pockets, and finally produced a box of matches.The group opposite was moving on now; the footsteps he had heard behind him, those of a man, drew nearer, the man passed by--and the box of matches in Jimmie Dale's hand dropped to the ground.He reached to pick them up, and in his stooping posture, without seeming to turn his head, flung a quick glance behind him up the street.No one, for that fraction of a second that he needed, was near enough to see--and in that fraction of a second Jimmie Dale disappeared.
A dozen yards down the lane, he sprang for the top of the high fence, gripped it, and, lithe and active as a cat, swung himself up and over, and dropped noiselessly to the ground on the other side.
Here he stood motionless for a moment, close against the fence, to get his bearings.The rear of Spider Jack's building loomed up before him--the back windows as unlighted as those in front.Luck so far, at least, was with him! He turned and looked about him, and, his eyes growing accustomed to the darkness, he could just make out Makoff's place, bordering the end of the yard--nor, from this new vantage point, could he discover, any more than before, a single sign of life about the pawnbroker's establishment.
Jimmie Dale stole forward across the yard, mounted the three steps of the low stoop at Spider Jack's back door, and tried the door cautiously.It was locked.From his pocket came the small steel instrument that had stood Larry the Bat in good stead a hundred times before in similar circumstances.He inserted it in the keyhole, worked deftly with it for an instant--and tried the door again.It was still locked.And then Jimmie Dale smiled almost apologetically.Spider Jack did not use ordinary locks on his back door!
The discountenanced instrument went back into his pocket, and now Jimmie Dale's hand slipped inside his shirt, and from one of the little, upright pockets of the leather belt, and from still another, and from after that a third, came the vicious little blued-steel tools.The sensitive fingers travelled slowly up and down the side of the door--and then he was at work in earnest.A minute passed--another--there was a dull, low, grating sound, a snick as of metal yielding suddenly--and Jimmie Dale was coolly stowing away his tools again inside his shirt.
He pushed the door open an inch, listened, then swung it wide, stepped inside, and closed it behind him.A round, white beam of light flashed in a quick circle--and went out.It was a sort of storeroom, innocent enough and orderly enough in appearance, bare-floored, with boxes and packing cases piled neatly against the walls.In one corner a staircase led to the story above--and from above, quite audibly now, he caught the sound of snoring.Spider Jack was in bed, then!
Directly facing him was the open door of another room, and Jimmie Dale, moving softly forward, entered it.He had never been in Spider Jack's before, and his first concern was to form an intimate acquaintanceship with his surroundings.Again the flashlight circled, and again went out.
"No windows!" muttered Jimmie Dale under his breath."Nothing very fancy about the architecture! Three rooms in a row! Store in front of this room through that door of course.Wonder if the door's locked, though it's a foregone conclusion the package wouldn't be in there."Not a sound, his tread silent, he crossed to the closed door that he had noticed.It was unlocked, and he opened it tentatively a little way.A faint glow of light diffused itself through the opening.
Jimmie Dale nodded his head and closed the door again.The street lamp, shining through the shop windows, accounted for the light.
And now the flashlight played with steady inquisitiveness about him.
The room in which he stood seemed to combine a sort of office, with a lounging room, in which Spider Jack, no doubt, entertained his particular cronies.There was table in the centre, cards still upon it, chairs about it.Against the wall farthest away from the shop stood a huge, old-fashioned cabinet; and a little farther along, anglewise, partitioning off the corner, as it were, hung, for some purpose or other, a cretonne curtain.Also, against the wall next to the lane, bringing a commiserating smile to Jimmie Dale's lips as his eyes fell upon it, was a clumsy, lumbering, antique safe.
Jimmie Dale's eyes returned to the curtain.What was it doing there? What was it for? Instinctively he stepped over to examine it.A single glance, however, as he lifted it aside, sufficed.It was nothing but a make-shift clothes closet.He turned from it, switched off the flashlight, and stood staring meditatively into the darkness.In a strange house, with the knowledge to begin with that what he sought was carefully hidden, it was no sinecure to find that package.He had never for a moment imagined that it would be.But of one thing, however, there was no uncertainty in his mind--he would get the package!--by search if possible, by other means if search failed.It was now close to one o'clock.If by two o'clock his efforts had been fruitless, Spider Jack would hand over the package--at the revolver point! It was quite ******! Meanwhile--Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders, and, going over to the safe, knelt down in front of it--meanwhile, as well begin here as anywhere else.
