It was the professional Jimmie Dale now whose brain, in
spite of the throbbing, brutally aching head, was at work, keen, alert.
The chauffeur! What had happened to him? Had the man been killed in the
auto smash; or, less fortunate than himself, fallen into the hands of
those whose power he seemed both to fear and rate so highly? And that
package! Box--what was the number?--yes, 428. What did that mean? What
box? Where was it? Who was John Johansson? He hadn't heard any more than
that; the smash had come then. And lastly, he was back again to the
same question he had begun with: Where was he now himself? It looked as
though some good Samaritan had picked him up. Who was this gentleman so
quietly reading there at the desk?
Jimmie Dale opened his eyes for the third time. How still, how
absolutely silent the room was! He studied the man's back speculatively
for a moment, then his gaze travelled on past the man to the wall,
riveted there, and his fingers, without movement of his arm, pressed
against the outside of his coat pocket. He thought as much! His
automatic was gone!
Not a muscle of Jimmie Dale's face moved. His eyes shifted to a picture
on the wall. THE MAN WAS WATCHING HIM--NOT READING! Just above the level
of the desk, a small mirror held the couch in focus--but, equally,
it held the man in focus, and Jimmie Dale had seen the other's eyes,
through a black mask that covered the face to the top of the upper lip,
fixed intently upon him.
Pages:
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452