The Wire Devils. Frank L. Packard

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ was on his cheek.

      Cries sounded now from the railroad yard; but the street in front of him, deserted, was still undisturbed. He was across it in a twinkling, and, passing the saloon that was now closed, darted into the lane.

      He flung a glance over his shoulder—and his lips set hard. MacVightie, big man though he was, was no mean antagonist in a race. The detective, quicker in initiative, quicker on his feet, had outdistanced both Lanson and the dispatcher, and was already halfway across the street.

      Again MacVightie fired.

      On the Hawk ran. If he could reach the next corner—providing there was no one about the street—there was a way, a risky way, but still a way, his best chance of escape. The cheap combination lodging house and saloon, that was just around the corner, was where he had a room. Yes, it was his one chance! He must get to cover somewhere without an instant’s delay. With MacVightie firing now, emptying his revolver up the lane, with the yells and shouts growing constantly in volume from farther back toward the station, it was only a question of minutes before the whole neighbourhood would be aroused.

      Again he glanced behind him. It was very dark in the lane. He was grimly conscious that it was the blackness, and not MacVightie’s poor marksmanship, that had saved him so far. That flash of the other’s revolver was perhaps fifty yards away. He had gained a little, then! If there was any one around the corner, the plan of reaching his room would not serve him, and he would still have to run for it. Well, he would see in an instant—it was only two yards more—a yard—now!

      Without slackening his pace, at top speed he swung from the lane—and, with a gasp of relief at sight of an empty street, slipped into a doorway just beyond the now dark entrance to a saloon that occupied most of the ground floor of a dirty and squalid three-story building.

      The door gave on a narrow flight of stairs, and up these the Hawk sprang swiftly and with scarcely a sound. And now, as he ran, he pulled his mask from his face and thrust it into the pay bag; a pocket-book from his inside coat pocket followed the mask, and, with the pocketbook, the flashlight, and the two pistols, his own and the Butcher’s. He opened a door at the head of the landing, and stepped into a room, leaving the door partly open.

      He was not safe yet—far from it! He did not under-estimate MacVightie. It would be obvious to MacVightie that he was not far enough ahead to have disappeared in any but one way—into some building within a very few yards of the lane! And the presumption, at least, would be that this was the one.

      The Hawk worked now with almost incredible speed. He switched on the light, ran to the window that opened on the rear of the building, felt with one hand along the sill outside, lifted the pay bag out of the window, let go of it, and turned instantly back into the room. He hung up his hat on a wall peg, and tearing off his jacket, flung it haphazardly upon the bed. There was a small table against the wall near the foot of the bed. The Hawk opened a drawer, snatched up a pack of cards, and sat down at the table.

      The street door opened and closed. A quick, heavy tread sounded on the stairs.

      In his shirt sleeves, his back to the door, the Hawk was coolly playing solitaire.

      “I guess I’d better be smoking,” murmured the Hawk. “Maybe I’m breathing a little hard.”

      He picked up a pipe from the table, lighted a match—and, half the deck of cards in one hand, the lighted match in the other, swung around in his chair with a startled jerk.

      The door slammed back against the wall. MacVightie had unceremoniously kicked it wide open. MacVightie was standing on the threshold.

      The Hawk, in a sort of surprised gasp, sucked the flame of the match down into the bowl of his pipe, and stared at MacVightie through a curtain of tobacco smoke. The detective’s eyes travelled sharply from the Hawk around the room, came back to the Hawk, narrowed, and, stepping into the room, he shut the door with equal lack of ceremony behind him.

      “Say, you got a gall!” ejaculated the Hawk.

      “You bet your life I have!” flung out MacVightie. “Now then, my bucko, what are you doing, here?”

      “Say,” said the Hawk, as though obsessed with but a single idea, “say, you got a gall! You got a gall, busting into a fellow’s room and asking him what he’s doing there! Say, maybe you might answer the same question yourself—eh? What are you doing here?”

      “Your room, is it?” snapped MacVightie.

      “Sure it’s my room!” replied the Hawk, a little tartly.

      “How long you been here?”

      “‘Bout a week”—the Hawk was growing ungracious.

      “Boarding here?”

      “Yes.”

      “Where’d you come from?” MacVightie was clipping off his words. “What do you do for a living?”

      “Say,” said the Hawk politely, “you go to hell!”

      MacVightie stepped forward toward the Hawk, with an ominous scowl; and, throwing back the lapel of his coat, tapped grimly with his forefinger on a shield that decorated his vest.

      The Hawk whistled low.

      “O-ho!” said the Hawk, with sudden cordiality. “Well, why didn’t you say so before?”

      “I’m saying it now!” snarled MacVightie. “Well, where do you come from?”

      “Chicago,” said the Hawk.

      “What’s your business?”—MacVightie’s eyes were roving sharply again around the room.

      “Barkeep—when I can get a job,” answered the Hawk; and then, insinuatingly: “And, say, I’m looking for one now, and if you can put me on to anything I’d——”

      “I guess you’ve got to show me!” growled Mac-Vightie, uncompromisingly.

      “Look here,” ventured the Hawk, “what’s up?”

      “I’m waiting!” prompted MacVightie significantly.

      “Oh, all right!” The Hawk flared up a little. “If you love your grouch, keep on hugging it tight!” He jerked his hand toward the coat that was lying on the bed. “I must have lost the letter the pastor of my church gave me, but there’s a couple there from the guys back in Chicago that I worked for, and there’s my union card with them. Help yourself!”

      MacVightie picked up the coat brusquely, shoved his hand into the inside pocket, brought out several letters, and began to read them.

      The Hawk shuffled the half deck of cards in his hand monotonously.

      There was a puzzled frown on MacVightie’s face, as he finally tossed the letters down on the bed.

      “Satisfied?” inquired the Hawk pleasantly.

      MacVightie’s frown deepened.

      “Yes, as far as that goes,” he said tersely; and then, evenly, his eyes boring into the Hawk: “About five minutes ago a man ran into this house from the street. What’s become of him?”

СКАЧАТЬ