"This is police headquarters speaking," said Jimmie Dale coolly. "What's
the condition of that tenement case with the broken head?"
"Hold the wire a minute," came the answer; and then, presently: "Not
serious; but still unconscious."
"Thank you," said Jimmie Dale.
He hung up the receiver, and made his way out to the street. The coast
was clear then, as far as Thorold was concerned. Jimmie Dale walked on
halfway up the block, and turned into the lighted hallway of a small
building whose second floor, above a millinery establishment, was rented
out for offices. It was here that Thorold maintained what he called his
"office." Mounting the stairs and emerging upon a narrow corridor, that
was lighted at one end by a single incandescent, Jimmie Dale halted
before a door that bore the legend: HENRY THOROLD--AGENT. Jimmie Dale's
lips twisted into grim lines. Agent--of what? He glanced quickly up and
down the corridor, slipped his little steel instrument into the lock,
and opened the door.
He stepped inside, closing the door without re-locking it; and, using
his flashlight now, moved forward, and entered a sort of inner office
that was partitioned off from the rest of the room.
Pages:
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98