"Say, Runt"--he jerked his head toward the street door--"wot's de fly
cops doin' out dere?"
The grin vanished from the Runt's lips. He stared for a second wildly at
Jimmie Dale, and then clutched at Jimmie Dale's arm.
"De WOT?" he said hoarsely.
"De fly cops," Jimmie Dale repeated in well-simulated surprise. "Dey was
dere when I come in--Lansing an' Milrae, an--"
The Runt shot a hurried glance at the stairway, and licked his lips as
though they had gone suddenly dry.
"My Gawd, I--" He gasped, and shrank hastily back against the wall
beside Jimmie Dale.
The door from the street had opened noiselessly, instantly. Black forms
bulked there--then a rush of feet--and at the head of half a dozen men,
the face of Inspector Clayton loomed up before Jimmie Dale. There was
a second's pause in the rush; and, in the pause, Clayton's voice, in a
vicious undertone:
"You two ginks open your traps, and I'll run you both in!"
And then the rush passed, and swept on up the stairs.
Jimmie Dale looked at the Runt. The cigarette dangled limply; the Runt's
eyes were like a hunted beast's.
"Dey got him!" he mumbled. "It's Stace--Stace Morse. He come to me after
croakin' Metzer, an' he's been hidin' up dere all afternoon."
Stace Morse--known in gangland as a man with every crime in the calendar
to his credit, and prominent because of it! Something seemed to go
suddenly queer inside of Jimmie Dale.
Pages:
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69