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Updated: May 12, 2025
It would be like a bombshell exploded in the underworld; it would arouse the police to infuriated activity; it would stir New York to its depths but, after all, it could not touch Smarlinghue.
The Wolf had double-crossed the underworld, and the underworld, if it found it out, would not easily forgive and even in a death cell, clinging to the hope of commutation of sentence, the Wolf would never run the risk of his additional guilt of the Spider's murder leaking out. The role of "Smarlinghue" in the underworld was safe. And now Jimmie Dale's lips twitched queerly.
The Tocsin had satisfied herself that he was neither at home nor at the club, and had, therefore, chosen an inconspicuous messenger to search for "Smarlinghue" through the underworld. And there would have been no risk.
If anything was wrong in Melinoff's dingy little place behind there, if anything had transpired, or was about to transpire that would ultimately, say, invite the attention of the police, it might prove extremely awkward for Smarlinghue should it be remembered that he had entered there! There was a better way a much better way, and one that was exceedingly simple.
Nor, much less, could he risk going to old Kronische as Smarlinghue. He could not trust old Kronische. How, if old Kronische chose to "talk," could Smarlinghue account for any connection with what had transpired in Forrester's room?
No one, then, had been here since last, as Smarlinghue, the seedy, drug-wrecked artist, he had left the place the day before; for, on entering, he had already satisfied himself that the French window had not been tampered with. A hard smile flickered across his lips.
If he could find Curley, or Haines, or even Patsy Marles, the clerk who worked in the liquor store which might possibly still be open for another hour or so yet it should not, after all, and without even any undue inquisitiveness on the part of Smarlinghue, prove very difficult to obtain the necessary information, for, if Curley had been in a deal involving fifteen thousand dollars, he was much more likely to be boastful than reticent about it.
No, it would not be as Smarlinghue that he would work to-night he was well enough as he was. He had not worn evening clothes since that letter came, for the nights had been spent in constant toil, and the dark suit of tweeds he wore now was not conspicuous.
"You come in and play the game with me, or I'll fix it so that you'll never get another squirt of dope if you had a million bucks to buy it with ah, I thought that would get you!" Smarlinghue was on his feet. The terror of the damned was in his face. "No! No! My God no not that! You you wouldn't do that!" He reached out his arms to the other. "You know I've gone too far to do without it.
Reaching the easel he picked up the canvas that rested upon it, stared at it for a moment and with a grunt of disdain flung it away from him to the ground. There was a crash as it struck the floor, a ripping sound as the canvas split, and with a pitiful cry Smarlinghue rushed forward and snatched it up. "It it was sold," he choked. "I I was to get the money to-morrow.
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