by the one, he was trusted implicitly by the other--not understood,
perhaps, by the latter, for he had never allied himself with any of
their nefarious schemes, but trusted implicitly through long years of
personal contact. It had stood Jimmie Dale in good stead before, this
association, where, in a sort of strange, carefully guarded exchange,
the news of the underworld was common property to those without the law.
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. Especially would it be
expected to be known to Pete Lazanis, commonly called the Runt, who
was a power below the dead line and, more pertinent still, one in whose
confidence Jimmie Dale had rejoiced for years.

Jimmie Dale, as Larry the Bat--a euphonious "monaker" bestowed possibly
because this particular world knew him only by night--began a search for
the Runt. From one resort to another he hurried, talking in the accepted
style through one corner of his mouth to hard-visaged individuals behind
dirty, reeking bars that were reared on equally dirty and foul-smelling
sawdust-strewn floors; visiting dance halls, secretive back rooms, and
certain Chinese pipe joints.

But the Runt was decidedly elusive. There had been no news of him, no
one had seen him--and this after fully an hour had passed since Jimmie
Dale had left Carruthers in front of Moriarty's. The possibilities
however were still legion--numbered only by the numberless dives and
dens sheltered by that quarter of the city.

Jimmie Dale turned into Chatham Square, heading for the Pagoda Dance