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Updated: June 2, 2025
It was Stace Morse who had murdered Metzer, the Runt had said. In Jimmie Dale's brain the words began to reiterate themselves in a singsong fashion: "It was Stace Morse. It was Stace Morse." Then his lips drew tight together. WAS it Stace Morse? He would have given a good deal for a chance to talk to the man even for a minute. But there was no possibility of that now.
"Harry Martin, Will Metzer, Captain Swearengen, of Short Creek, and others too numerous to count. Look at Lew Wetzel and Billy Bennet." "Lew cares for nothing except hunting Indians and Billy's only a boy," said Betty. "Well, have it your own way," said Lydia. "Only this, I know Billy adores you, for he told me so, and a better lad never lived."
A month had gone by and he had not heard a word from HER. The break on West Broadway, the murder of Metzer in Moriarty's gambling hell, the theft of Markel's diamond necklace had followed each other in quick succession and then this month of utter silence, with no sign of her, as though indeed she had never existed. But it was not this temporary silence on her part that troubled Jimmie Dale now.
To New York in its millions, the murder of Metzer, the stool pigeon, would be unknown until the city rose in the morning to read the sensational details over the breakfast table; here, it would already be the topic of whispered conversations, here it had probably been known long before the police had discovered the crime.
James Club Jimmie Dale, and Carruthers of the MORNING NEWS-ARGUS. From Clayton and a discussion of the Metzer murder, the conversation had turned, not illogically, upon the physiognomy of criminals in general.
He hesitated then sullenly retraced his steps; hesitated again as he reached the chair, and finally sat down. "What what d'ye mean by this?" he stammered, trying to bluster. "Just this," said Jimmie Dale. "That I accuse you of the murder of Jake Metzer IT WAS YOU WHO MURDERED METZER." "Good God!" burst suddenly from Carruthers. "You lie!" yelled Clayton and again he surged up from his chair.
Jimmie Dale edged away, and, eyes lowered, fumbled nervously with the leaves of his notebook. Clayton grunted, glared at Jimmie Dale for an instant viciously and resumed his story. "I was saying," he said, "that Metzer was to come to headquarters at eight o'clock this evening. Well, he didn't show up. That looked queer. It was mighty important business.
"Just a minute," he said softly. "You remember, don't you, that in the presence of Carruthers here, of myself, and of half a dozen reporters, you stated that you had been alone with Metzer in his room at three o'clock yesterday, and that it was you alone who found the body later on at nine o'clock? Yes?
I left Moriarty downstairs and came up here, and found just what you see Metzer laying on the bed there, and the gray seal stuck on his forehead and" he ended abruptly "I'll have the Gray Seal himself behind the bars by morning." A chorus of ejaculations rose from the reporters, while their pencils worked furiously. Then Jimmie Dale appeared to have an inspiration.
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