“He’s dead. My God—he’s—he’s dead.”
“Drop that flashlight!” Jimmie Dale’s voice rang cold, imperative. “Drop it!” And, sweeping the hangings aside, the ray of his own light suddenly full upon Birdie Lee, he leaped forward.
With a low, terrified cry, the other let the flashlight fall as though from nerveless fingers, and shrank back against the safe.
“Now put your hands above your head!” directed Jimmie Dale curtly.
The man obeyed.
Dark, frightened eyes stared out at Jimmie Dale from behind the mask that covered Birdie Lee’s face. Swiftly, deftly, Jimmie Dale felt over the other’s clothing for a weapon. There was none. Then, himself in darkness, the blinding light in Birdie Lee’s face, he pulled off the other’s mask, and with a grim, quick touch of his revolver muzzle traced out the white, pulsing, triangular scar on the man’s forehead.
“So you’re up to your old tricks again, are you, Birdie?” he inquired coldly. “Five years up the river wasn’t enough for you—eh?”
The man drew himself up suddenly, and, squaring his shoulders, made as though to speak—and then, with a swift, hopeless gesture, turned his back, and, leaning over the top of the safe, buried his head in his arms.
A strange smile touched Jimmie Dale’s lips. He stooped down, picked up the revolver from the floor, slipped it into his pocket, bent over Slimmy Jack for an instant to assure himself that the man was dead—then stepping back to the safe, he laid his hand on the ex-convict’s shoulder.
“Birdie,” he said quietly, “could you open this safe if you wanted to?”