"
Lannigan's head was thrust forward; his eyes, hard, were riveted on
Whitey Mack.
"My God!" he said again under his breath. Then fiercely: "He'll get his
for this!"
It was a moment before Jimmie Dale spoke; he was musingly examining the
automatic in his hand.
"I am going now, Lannigan," he observed quietly. "I require, say,
fifteen minutes in which to effect my escape. It is, of course, obvious
that an alarm raised by you might prove extremely awkward, but a piece
of canvas from that bench there, together with a bit of string, would
make a most effective gag. I prefer, however, not to submit you to that
indignity. Instead, I offer you the alternative of giving me your word
to remain quietly where you are for--fifteen minutes."
Lannigan hesitated.
Jimmie Dale smiled.
"I agree," said Lannigan shortly.
Jimmie Dale stepped back. The electric-light switch clicked. The place
was in darkness. There was a moment, two, of utter stillness; then
softly, from the front end of the shop, a whisper:
"If I were you, Lannigan, I'd take that gun from Whitey's pocket before
he comes round and beats you to it."
And the door had closed silently behind Jimmie Dale.
CHAPTER XI
THE STOOL-PIGEON
In the subway, ten minutes before, a freckled-faced messenger boy had
squeezed himself into a seat beside Jimmie Dale, yanked a dime novel
from a refractory pocket, and, blissfully lost to all the world, had
buried his head in its pages.
Pages:
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