The Wire Devils. Frank L. Packard

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СКАЧАТЬ whining tone. “Mabbe I was only trying to chuck a bluff, and got called. But, say, how’d you like to break in here to-night like I did, and find another fellow’d got all the swag? Say, it’s damned rough, ain’t it? Say, it’s fierce! And, look here, I’m in on it now, anyhow. I know who took it. I’m going to keep my mouth shut, ain’t I? You ain’t going to leave me out in the cold, are you? All I ask is a split.”

      “It’s not much!” said the Hawk, in a velvet voice. “It hardly seems enough. You’re too modest, Butcher. Why don’t you ask for the whole of it? You might as well—you’d stand just as much chance of getting it!”

      The smile faded from the Butcher’s lips, and his face became contorted with rage again. He raised his fist and shook it at the Hawk. He cursed in abandon, his lips livid, beside himself with passion.

      “You’ll get yours for this!” He choked, in his fury, over his words. “You think you’re slick! I’ll show you what you’re up against inside of twenty-four hours! You’ll crawl for this, d’ye hear, blast you—you’ll crawl!—you’ll——”

      The Hawk’s automatic, dangling nonchalantly in his hand, swung suddenly upward to a level with the other’s eyes.

      “That’s enough, you cheap skate!”—there was a cold, menacing ring in the Hawk’s voice now. “I’ve heard enough from you. You and your hot-air crowd of moth-eaten lags! If you, or any of you, run foul of me again, you won’t get off so easy! Tell ‘em that! Tell ‘em the Hawk said so! And you beat it! And beat it—now!” He caught up the pay bag, and advanced a step.

      The Butcher retreated sullenly.

      “Get out of that window!” ordered the Hawk evenly. “And take a last tip from me. If you try to plant me, if you let a peep out of you while I’m making my own getaway, I’ll get you for it, Butcher, if it’s the last thing I ever do. Go on, now! Step quicker!”

      Still sullenly, mumbling, his mouth working, the Butcher retreated backward toward the window. The Hawk, his lips like a thin straight line just showing under the mask, followed grimly, step by step. And then, suddenly, both men halted, and their eyes met and held each other’s in a long tense gaze.

      From outside in the corridor came the sound of voices and footsteps. The footsteps drew nearer; the voices grew louder. The Hawk shot a glance toward the door. He drew in his breath sharply. No, there was no fanlight, the light would not show in the hall. That was the superintendent’s voice. That letter Lanson was going to send down on No. 8! The other, probably, was MacVightie. Yes; it was MacVightie—he caught the detective’s gruff tones now. The door on the opposite side of the corridor from the paymaster’s room opened.

      The Butcher licked his lips.

      “Me for the window, and for it quick!” he muttered under his breath.

      He turned, and, his back to the Hawk now, tiptoed to the window, turned again sideways, as though to throw one leg over the sill—and his right hand, hidden, suddenly lifted the side of his coat.

      It came quick, quick as the winking of an eye. Racketing through room and building, like the detonation of a cannon in the silence, came the roar of a revolver shot, as the Butcher fired through his coat pocket. Mechanically, the Hawk staggered backward; and then, the quick, keen brain working like lightning, he reeled, dropped the pay bag, and clutched wildly at his side. He was not hit. The Butcher had missed. So that was the man’s game! Clever enough! They’d break in here at the sound of the shot, and find him dead or wounded on the floor!

      The Butcher, a devil’s triumph in his face now, came leaping back from the window, and, stooping, snatched at the pay bag.

      “I’d put another in you to make sure,” whispered the Butcher fiercely; “only they’ll get you anyway, you——”

      The Hawk straightened, his arm streaked outward from his side, his pistol butt crashed on the Butcher’s skull, and he was upon the other like a flash, his free hand at the Butcher’s throat.

      From the room opposite came startled cries; across the corridor came the rush of feet—then the doorhandle was tried, the door shaken violently.

      The Butcher was struggling but feebly, making only a pitiful effort to loosen the Hawk’s clutch upon his throat, hanging almost limply in the Hawk’s arms, half dazed by the blow upon his head. White to the lips with passion, the Hawk whipped his hand into the other’s pocket, whipped out the other’s revolver, and flung the man away from him. And then, as the Butcher reeled and lurched backward to the window, and, clawing frantically at the sill, attempted to work his way out, the Hawk ran silently back, picked up the pay bag, and, jumping to the window again, caught the Butcher roughly by the collar of the coat.

      The Butcher, white, haggard-faced with fear, moaned.

      “For God’s sake!” he pleaded piteously. “Let me go! Let me go! For God’s sake, let me go—they’ll get me!”

      There was a terrific crash upon the door, as of some heavy body hurled against it. The Hawk laughed mirthlessly.

      “If I let you go, you’d break your neck!”—the Hawk’s words were coming through clenched teeth. “Don’t worry, Butcher! They’ll not get you. I don’t want them to get you. I want to get you myself for this. Some day, Butcher, some day I’ll do the getting!” He pushed the Butcher’s feet over the sill. “Feel with your toes for the window casing beneath! Quick!” He leaned out, gripping at the Butcher’s collar, lowering the man—his lips were close against the Butcher’s ear. “Some day—for this—you yellow cur—you and me, Butcher—remember—some day!”

      A crash again upon the door! The Butcher’s feet were on the lower sill; but here the man lost his hold, and toppled to the ground. The Hawk glanced backward into the room. The door was yielding now. He looked out of the window again. The Butcher had regained his feet, and was swaying against the wall, holding to it, making his way slowly, weakly toward the corner.

      The Hawk threw one leg over the sill. With a rip and tear, the door smashed inward, sagging from its lower hinge. Came a hoarse yell. MacVightie was plunging through the doorway.

      Instantly the Hawk, hugging the pay bag, drew back his leg, and dove into the clerk’s room through the door which he had left ajar. There would have been no use in letting the Butcher go at all if he led the chase through the window—the man was barely crawling away. Across the room, light enough now from the open doorway behind him to point the way, raced the Hawk. He reached the corridor door, as MacVightie lunged through the connecting door in pursuit.

      MacVightie’s voice rose in a bellow of warning:

      “Look out there, Lanson! The next door—quick!”

      But the Hawk was the quicker. He tore the door open, and dashed through, just eluding the superintendent and another man—the dispatcher probably, attracted by the row—as they sprang forward from the paymaster’s door.

      Running like a deer, the Hawk made for the stairway. It was lighter now in the hall. The dispatcher’s door along at the farther end was open. At the head of the stairs, a call boy, wide-eyed, gaped, openmouthed. The Hawk brushed the boy aside incontinently, and, taking the stairs three and four at a time, leaped downward, MacVightie’s bull-like roar echoing behind him, the top stairs creaking under the detective’s rush.

      The street door opened outward, and as the Hawk reached it, and, wrenching СКАЧАТЬ