"I reported to a man called
Chester. He doped out the story I was to tell, and told me to go to the
bank and apply for the job, and that it was already fixed."
"I'd like to meet 'Chester,'" said Jimmie Dale grimly. "Where
does he live?"
"I don't know," said English Dick again. "I tell you, I don't know!
They're big--my God, they'll get me for this, if the law doesn't! I
don't know where he lives--he always came to me. The only one I know is
Reddy Mull, and--"
His voice was drowned out in a louder and more prolonged burst of
applause from the pool room, which mingled shouts, cries and the
thunderous banging of cue butts on the floor.
"A good shot!" said Jimmie Dale, with a grim smile.
"Yes," said English Dick, "a good shot"--but into his voice had crept a
new note, a note like one of malicious triumph.
Jimmie Dale's lips set suddenly hard and tight. Yes, he _heard_
now--perhaps too late--what the other _saw_. The uproar that had
drowned out all other sounds had subsided--_the door behind him had been
unlocked and was now opening slowly_.
And then Jimmie Dale, quick as thought is quick, his fingers closed on
the satchel, hurled himself around the table and to the floor.
Pages:
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339