Jimmie Dale pushed open the door that gave on the lane. Behind him,
Bristol Bob closed the door of the private room and retreated back along
the passage. Jimmie Dale stepped out into the lane--and instinctively
his eyes sought the window of the private room. The shade was drawn,
only a yellow murk filtered out into the black, unlighted lane, but
suddenly he started noiselessly toward it. The window was open a bare
inch or so at the bottom!
The sill was just shoulder high, and, placing his ear to the opening,
he flattened himself against the wall. He could not see inside, for the
shade was drawn well to the bottom; but he could hear as distinctly as
though he were at the table beside the two men--and at the first words,
the loose, disjointed frame of Larry the Bat seemed to tauten curiously
and strain forward lithe and tense.
"This Gray Seal dope listens good, Whitey; but, coming from you, I'm
leery. You've got to show me."
"Don't you want him?" There was a nasty laugh from Whitey Mack.
"You BET I want him!" returned the headquarters man with a suppressed
savagery that left no doubt as to his earnestness. "I want him fast
enough, but--"
"Then, blast him, so do I!" Whitey Mack rapped out with a vicious snarl.
"So does every guy in the fleet down here. We got it in for him. You
get that, don't you? He's got Stangeist and his gang steered for the
electric chair now; he put a crimp in the Weasel the other night--get
that? He's like a blasted wizard with what he knows.
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