“My figure”—Jimmie Dale was clipping off his words—“is a little information. A trade, Hunchback Joe—mine for yours. I want to know where Peter Marre, alias Clarke, is?”
Hunchback Joe drew back from the table with a jerk. The whiteness in his face had changed to an unhealthy, leaden gray. He shook his head.
“I don’t know,” he said. “That’s straight—I’ve heard of Marre, of course, everybody has, he’s a lawyer; but I never heard of Clarke, and that’s—”
“A lie!” Jimmie Dale cut in, an ugly calm in his voice “You—”
But Jimmie Dale, too, was interrupted. The telephone on the table was ringing. His automatic covering Hunchback Joe, he pulled the instrument toward him, and lifted the receiver from the hook.
“Hello!” he said gruffly. “What’s wanted?”
A voice responded in feverish excitement:
“Say, dat youse, Joe? Dis is Hoppy Meggs. Say, de fly cops has got tipped off; dey’re on de way down to yer place now. Youse want to beat it on de jump!”
“Wait a minute!” said Jimmie Dale. He passed the instrument over to Hunchback Joe. “It’s for you,” he said, with a queer smile.
Hunchback Joe put the receiver to his ear—and a moment later, without a word in reply, returned it to the hook. But he had risen from his seat, and, swaying on his feet, was gripping at the table edge for support.