The Adventures of Jimmie Dale HTML version
II.10. Silver Mag
There was silence between them. Minute after minute passed. Neither spoke.
Jimmie Dale dropped back into his chair again, and stared abstractedly before
him. "We do not hold many trumps, Jimmie--we do not hold many trumps"--her
words were repeating themselves over and over in his mind. They seemed to
challenge him mockingly to deny what was so obviously a fact, and because he
could not deny it to taunt and jeer at him--to jeer at him, when all that was held at
stake hung literally upon his next move!
He looked up mechanically as the Tocsin walked to a broken mirror at the rear of
the miserable room; nodded mechanically in approval as she began deftly to
retouch the make-up on her face where the tears had left their traces--and
resumed his abstracted gaze before him.
Box number four-two-eight--John Johansson--the Crime Club--the identity of the
man who was posing as Henry LaSalle! If only he could hit upon a clew to the
solution of a single one of those things, or a single phase of one of them--if only
he could glimpse a ray of light that would at least prompt action, when every
moment of inaction was multiplying the odds against them!
There were the men who were watching his house at that moment on Riverside
Drive--he, as Larry the Bat, might in turn keep watch on them. He had though of
that. In time, perhaps, he might, by so doing, discover the whereabouts of the
Crime Club. In time! It was just that--he had no time! Forty-eight hours, the
Tocsin insisted, was all the time that he could count upon before they would
become suspicious of Jimmie Dale's "illness," before they would discover that
they were watching an empty house!
He might--though this was even more hazardous--make an attempt to trace the
wires that tapped those of his telephone through the basement window that gave
on the garage driveway. And what then? True, they could not lead very far away;