The Wire Devils. Frank L. Packard
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 seemed to be fascinated by the pay bag—they were on it again. He choked a little, swallowing hard; and, attempting a change of front, forced a smile.
“Well, don’t get sore!” he said, in a 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