Somewhere beyond the mist-enshrouded marshes the whistle of a grain ship
boomed, to be answered a moment later by the metallic scream of a siren.
Vague and mysterious filaments of sound drifted in with the eddying night
wind.
“Damn such a country!” the “Kid” snarled, as he turned from the door and
tramped back into the house. “How long you going to keep us rusticating
out here, Chief? I’m fed up on nature!”
Monte Jerome scowled at his assistant.
“We’re going to stay here till we get what we came for!” he replied. “If
Martin doesn’t show up by morning, we got to decide what he’s up to!”
An uncanny silence gripped the four Wolves. Nearly twenty-four hours had
passed since Louie Martin went on duty, and nothing had been heard from
him. An uncomfortable idea was developing in the minds of the various
members of the “mob.”
Suddenly the “Kid” voiced this general suspicion. With a snarl, he
pointed accusingly at Monte.
“Fact is, Louie ain’t coming back, Chief, and you know it! He’s grabbed
something—maybe the sparklers—and he’s beat it. Don’t blame him a damn
bit, neither. We’re going to set around here with our mouths open till
the dicks get after us. But Louie ain’t coming back, and you just put
that down in your note-book!”
Monte turned toward the speaker.
“Is that your opinion, you lump-head? Well, keep it till I ask you for
it. The trouble with you is you’ve been thinking of cutting loose,
yourself. Louie will show up all right. Don’t you worry about him.”
“Hell of a lot you know about it!” mumbled the “Kid” angrily.
Monte walked slowly toward him, his eyes blazing.
“Trying to start something?” he demanded. “If you are—”
The Strangler intervened at this critical moment. He and the “Kid” had
had a disagreement earlier in the evening when the latter moved into
the room left vacant by Louie Martin’s unexplained absence. This was a
ground-floor room with an abundance of light and sun, and the “Kid,” with
a loose-lipped grin, announced that his doctor had told him he ought to
have it. The Strangler had protested; but the “Kid” had possession, and
made it plain that he meant to hang on.
Now the Strangler sided maliciously with Monte.
“You’re always belly-aching about something, Kid,” he declared. “You
better lay off and give us a rest. The Chief knows what he is doing!”
Monte paused, thankful for this opportune intervention. He had made
up his mind to square account with the “Kid” just as soon as the real
business which held them together was finished, but a show-down now would
be dangerous to the success of the larger affair.
“Let’s cut it all out, boys!” he suggested pacifically. “I’ll go on duty
up to two o’clock. Doc, you set the alarm. You’ll relieve me. I’ll try to
find out something—that Chink may have grabbed Louie. We ought to know
what has happened before we pull anything!”
He nodded to the others and left the house. The three crooks settled
down to their usual evening: the “Kid” got out a deck of cards and began
to play a one-handed game of his own devising; Billy the Strangler drew
his chair over in front of the fireplace and adjusted his feet on the
mantle—in this position he would smoke and stare into the coals till he
grew sleepy—and “Doc” took from the table an illustrated magazine and
turned to the serial he was reading. Occasionally he glanced covertly at
one of his companions: “Doc” sensed the coming battle between these two
gunmen, and had no intention of being caught within the firing lines.
The wind freshened, and they could hear it wailing around the house and
through the upper windows. The window in the “Kid’s” room rattled and
banged, and he looked abstractedly up.
“Hell of a night!” he mumbled. “Sounds like all the dead men in this neck
of the woods was hanging around outside, wheezing to be took in by the
fire! Listen to that window rattle!”
The Strangler smoked on imperturbably.
From somewhere in the house above there came a sound—low and uncertain at
first, then rising to a sort of scream. The “Kid” threw down his cards
and staggered to his feet. The Strangler hauled his long legs down from
the mantle and reached under his coat for the handle of his automatic.
“Doc” turned pale—he was too sophisticated to be superstitious, but this
unearthly cry was a fact rather than a theory.
“What the devil was that?” the “Kid” demanded hoarsely. “Say, if that was
one of them birds—”
“That must have been it!” “Doc” decided aloud. “A night heron, blown
against the chimney! What a night to be out in!”
He shivered and picked up his magazine, but the zest had gone out of his
reading. From the corners of his eyes he observed that the “Kid” was
gathering up his cards, and that Billy had not again elevated his feet to
the mantle.
“Well, I guess I’ll be going to _my_ room,” the “Kid” drawled presently,
emphasizing the possessive pronoun to tantalize the Strangler. “Kind of
feel like a little snooze would take the wrinkles out of my brains. This
place sure does give me the willies!”
He slouched into the hall communicating with the back rooms—a kitchen and
his bedroom—and they heard him shuffling through the darkness. Following
a moment of silence, his voice sounded in a steady mumble. Then it was
raised in expostulation.
“Who the hell has been fooling with my light? It won’t turn on!”
Another brief interval of silence, then a bellow of rage and fear from
the man in the back bedroom.
“Who’s there? Go way from me! Damn—”
They leaped up at the sound of the “Kid’s” stumbling gallop. He burst
into the room, and they saw that his face was the color of ashes.
“For God’s sake, who’s in that room—my room?” he cried, staring at them
through straining, glassy eyes. “Come on, you fellows! Here, I’ll take a
flashlight—the globe must be burned out!”
He snatched up an electric torch and led the way back through the hall,
the Strangler at his shoulder, “Doc” some distance behind.
“Someone let out a groan when I went inside the door,” the “Kid” was
explaining. “And then he says right in my ear, ‘This ain’t your room,
Kid!’ Listen!”
They were within five feet of the bedroom door when the “Kid” paused and
held up a trembling hand. He was directing the light of the torch upon
the doorway. And at that moment there came from it a groan, followed by a
muttered protest.
“_My room!_” a voice within the room said distinctly.
“Holy Mother!” whispered the Strangler. “That sounds like Louie! He must
be hurt!”
“How in hell would he get in there?” protested the “Kid.” “Come on—let’s
see!”
They stepped inside the room, and the ray of the flashlight began to
circle it. Suddenly the circling beam came to a stop.
“In the bed!” gasped the “Kid.” “He’s there, covered up!”
Slowly and unwillingly, an inch at a time as if drawn by some
irresistible force, the three Wolves crossed the room and approached the
bed. They could all see the huddled form lying there, covered even to
the face. There was something about it—an utter absence of motion—that
terrified them. But they could not turn back.
The “Kid” reached the bedside and for a long moment stood glaring down.
Then, with shaking fingers, he caught the edge of the bedding and threw
it back.
In the concentrated light of the lantern, there stared up at them the
livid face of Louie Martin. His glazed eyes protruded, and there was
a trickle of blood running from his nostril to the left corner of his
mouth. And in his face was an expression of frozen horror which stopped
the hearts even of the hardened crooks who looked down in momentary
paralysis.
With a scream, the “Kid” dropped the lantern and turned, treading upon
the toes of the Strangler. Another scream sounded, high and shrill—it
came from the direction of the bed.
“Why can’t you let me rest?” a quavering voice protested. “This is my
room—”
They heard no more. The three swore and sobbed as they raced for the
front room. They slammed doors behind them, and brought up, shaking as if
in ague, directly under the big, brilliantly lighted chandelier.
“Somebody bumped him off—and he came back to tell us about it!” the “Kid”
whispered.
_CHAPTER EIGHT_