The Wire Devils. Frank L. Packard

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      Then the man’s flashlight gleamed again, lighting up the top of the desk. There was a sharp, ripping sound, as of the tearing of wood under pressure, and the upper drawer, forced open by a steel jimmy, was pulled out.

      “Birds of a feather!” said the Hawk grimly to himself. “Number One, of the Wire Devils! I didn’t beat him to it by as much margin as I thought I would!”

      The Hawk shifted his automatic to the hand that was clutching the pay bag, and, with the other hand, began to feel in wide sweeps over the wall above his head. The electric-light switch, he had noticed in that first quick glance when he had entered the room, a glance that had seemed to notice nothing, and yet in which nothing had escaped the sharp, trained eyes, was somewhere about here.

      “Dangerous—for both of us—if it’s seen outside,” communed the Hawk with himself again. “But when he finds the safe unlocked, and the goods gone, there’ll be trouble. If he gets a flashlight on me, he’s got me where he wants me. Ah—here it is!” The Hawk’s fingers touched the switch. He lowered the pay bag cautiously to the floor between his feet, his automatic free in his hand again.

      There was a rustling of papers in the drawer; then the man’s hand, holding a card, was outlined as though thrown upon a screen, as, with his other hand, he focused his flashlight upon it. Then the flashlight swung an arc over the opposite wall, and pointed a pathway to the safe, as the man turned abruptly and stepped back across the room.

      The Hawk, one hand raised to the switch on the wall, his automatic outflung a little in the other, tense, like an animal in leash, watched the other’s movements.

      The dark-outlined form was in shadowy relief against the light, that played now upon the glistening knob and dial of the safe. The man gave a preliminary, tentative twist at the handle. Came a quick, dismayed, hissing sound, like the sharp intake of ‘breath. The safe door was wrenched open with a jerk. There was a low, angry cry now. The man sprang back, and as though involuntarily, in a sort of uncertain, panic-struck search, his flashlight shot along the wall—and fell full upon the Hawk.

      The Hawk’s finger pressed the switch. The room was ablaze with light. With a startled, furious oath, the man’s hand was sweeping significantly toward his pocket.

      “No, you don’t!” snarled the Hawk, covering the other. “No, you don’t! Cut that out!” His eyes, behind the mask, narrowed suddenly. “Hello!” he sneered. “It’s ‘Butcher’ Rose—I might have known from the way you opened that drawer!”

      It was a moment before the man answered.

      “Blast you!” he whispered finally. “You gave me a bit of a start, you did! I thought at first you were a ‘bull’.” His eyes fastened on the pay bag at the Hawk’s feet. The top gaped open, disclosing the banknotes inside. The man raised his eyes to the Hawk’s, and a cunning look came over his thin, hatchet-like face. “Caught with the goods this time, eh?” he jerked out.

      The Hawk smiled unpleasantly.

      “Yes,” he said. “The nest’s empty. What is it they used to tell us in the nursery?—it’s the early bird that grabs the worm. How long you been out in these parts, Butcher?”

      “Look here,” said the Butcher ingratiatingly, ignoring the question, “I guess it’s a case of split—eh?”

      “You’ve got a nerve!” ejaculated the Hawk coolly.

      “Well, put that light out, then, and we’ll talk it over,” suggested the Butcher. “If it’s seen from outside, we’ll both get caught.”

      “I’d rather take a chance on that, than a chance on you,” replied the Hawk curtly. “There’s nothing to talk over. I’ve got the coin, and you’ve got a frost—all you’ve got to do now is beat it.”

      Sharp, little, black, ferret eyes the Butcher had, and they roamed around the room now in an apparently aimless fashion—only to come back and fix hungrily on the bag of banknotes again. A sullen look came into his face, and the jaw muscles twitched ominously.

      “So you’re the Hawk they’re talking about, eh?” he said, trying to speak smoothly. “Well, there’s no use of us quarrelling. If you know me, we must be old pals. Take off that mask, and let’s have a look at you. There ain’t any reason why we can’t be pals again.”

      “Nix!” said the Hawk softly. “Nothing doing, Butcher! It suits me pretty well the way it is. I’ve made it a rule all my life to play a lone hand, and the more I see of the raw work that guys like you try to get away with, the more I pat myself on the back. Savvy? Why, say, even a drag-worker on Canal Street wouldn’t show his face to a self-respecting crook for a month, he’d be so ashamed, if he took a crowbar to a desk drawer the way you did, you poor boob!”

      The Butcher’s face flushed, and he scowled.

      “You’re looking for trouble, ain’t you!” he said hoarsely. “Well, mabbe you’ll get it—and mabbe you’ll get more than you’re looking for. How’d you get wise to this game to-night?”

      “It’s the way I make my living—getting wise. How’d you suppose?” queried the Hawk insolently.

      The Butcher was chewing at his lips angrily; his eyes, closed to slits, searched the Hawk’s masked face.

      “This is the second time!” he said, between his teeth. “You pinched that necklace, and——”

      “O-ho!” exclaimed the Hawk, with a grin. “So you were after that, too, were you?”

      The Butcher’s flush deepened.

      “That’s none of your damned business!” he gritted. “And if I thought——” He bit his lips quickly.

      “Go on!” invited the Hawk sweetly. “Don’t mind me. If you thought—what?”

      “You’ve had the luck with you,” mumbled the Butcher, half to himself. “It can’t be anything else, there’s no chance of a leak. But I’m going to tell you something—your luck’s going to get a hole kicked in it. I’ll tell you something more. There’s a few of us that have picked out this little stamping ground for ourselves, and we ain’t fond of trespassers. Get that? It ain’t going to be healthy for you to linger around here over more than one train!”

      “Are the rest of ‘em all like you?” inquired the Hawk maliciously.

      “You’ll find out quicker than you’ll want to, perhaps!” the Butcher retorted furiously.

      “All right!” said the Hawk. “And now I’ll tell you a little something. I don’t know who are in this gang of yours, but you might take them a little message from me. If they’re finding it crowded out here, they’d better move on to somewhere where competition isn’t so likely to put them out of business through lack of brains, because I’m kind of figuring on hanging around until it gets time to open my château down at Palm Beach and stick my feet up on the sofa for a well-earned rest. Do you stumble to that? And”—the Hawk was drawling now—“I might say, Butcher, that I don’t like you. My fingers are crossed on that trespassing gag. It don’t go! I don’t scare for any half-baked outfit of near-crooks! I stick here as long as there’s anything worth sticking for.”

      The Butcher’s eyes СКАЧАТЬ