“He’s certainly good and dead!” Monte said, as he stood looking down at
the body of Louie Martin. “Whatever they did to him, it was a plenty!
But you boys must be a little bilious—you can see for yourselves that he
hasn’t been doing any talking for some time. What you heard was the wind,
blowing around the corners of the house!”
The “Kid” drew the back of his hand across his glistening forehead. He
was standing near the door.
“Don’t kid yourself, Chief!” he snarled. “We heard him talk—all of us
did! And there’s another thing: us being bilious wouldn’t account for
Louie Martin walking in on us here, and climbing into that bed!”
Monte was staring down at the dead man.
“You say you heard the windows back here rattling earlier in the
evening?” he demanded.
“Sure. Why wouldn’t they? The whole house was rattling!”
Monte nodded. He had his own ideas on this subject, but he didn’t intend
to spread them before his already demoralized followers.
“Well, the thing we’ve got to decide is what we’re going to do with him,”
he commented. “We’ve got to handle the whole business ourselves, and say
nothing. We can’t afford to have the dicks asking questions around here
just now!”
Tacitly, Monte’s three companions agreed, but there was in their pale
faces a question which none of them had the courage to voice. Monte
continued, apparently unconscious of their emotions.
“Billy,” he said, “you get the spade and dig a grave over close to the
fence. After we get him planted, we’ll move that pile of old bean poles
over the place. It’s kind of tough, but Louie is dead—and we got to look
out for ourselves!”
The Strangler went silently out into the dark. They heard him rummaging
for a spade, and presently the _clink_ of the latter implement came
industriously to them. The grave was finished by the time the first gray
light of dawn began to filter down around the cottage, and presently
the body of the dead crook, wrapped in a blanket, was lowered into it.
Then the dirt was shoveled back till the cavity would hold no more, and
the superfluous earth was scattered over the surface of the garden. The
shifting of a pile of bean poles finished the ceremony.
“I’ll trade rooms with you, Kid,” Monte said to the saturnine strong-arm
man—who for once looked rather cowed. “I never was afraid of a dead
man—just so that he was really dead. I guess you’re kind of soured on
that part of the house!”
“Soured is right,” mumbled the “Kid.” “Say, I wouldn’t sleep in there
if you was to give me all the sparklers in New York! Just let me get my
stuff out!”
As he went back toward the room from which the body had recently been
removed, the “Kid” saw the mocking glance of the Strangler fastened
upon him. Billy was enjoying his discomfiture. He went into the room
and turned on the light—the burned-out bulb had been replaced, so that
now he was able to see into all the corners. He began to gather up his
property, staring nervously about him the while.
Cautiously, he approached the closet, where he had stored his bathrobe
and an extra suit, a couple of pairs of shoes and a pearl gray hat. He
opened the door wide and stepped back. Nothing inside. Hastily he carted
the clothing out. Then he crossed over to the bureau and opened the
left-hand upper drawer, in which he had placed his jewelry—some rings and
tie pins.
The “Kid” drew the drawer fully open and stood looking down into it. Then
a startled exclamation escaped him, and he bent nearer, staring wide-eyed.
All of his possessions were there; but in addition he saw, close to the
back of the drawer, a morocco covered box of peculiar design. The “Kid”
had seen that box once before!
With trembling fingers he undid the clasp and opened the lid. He could
feel his heart pounding in the top of his head, and his throat seemed
to contract, so that he fought for breath. The Resurrection Pendant! A
single glance convinced him of that. But how had it come into this drawer?
The “Kid’s” mind deviated from the line of this natural inquiry. He could
forget that for the moment—the fact was that here it was. But there was
no reason why he should share this discovery with the other Wolves. This
supreme good fortune had come to him, not to them! He quickly shut the
lid of the case and slid the box into an inside pocket.
He removed his property to Monte’s room, hiding the jewel case under the
mattress. His blood had turned to liquid fire. He had that for which they
had all been searching—and it was his alone!...
Monte went on guard that evening, taking “Doc” with him: not that Monte
was afraid, but he realized that the battle had now entered its final
and decisive phase. And it was real war. Monte Jerome had no doubt that
Martin had, in some mysterious way, been done to death in the house of Ah
Wing.
“You boys better get to bed early,” he said. “Billy, you take the clock
and set it for half past one. You wake the Kid as soon as you get
up—we’ll stand double guard from now on!”
The “Kid” hardly heard Monte speaking. He wanted to examine the jewels
again, wanted to figure out just how he was going to make the break which
would free him from his comrades.
For a time, after the other two had departed, he sat around smoking and
cleaning out the barrel of his pistol, which the fogs of this marshy
neighborhood were corroding. He cleaned barrel and chamber and oiled the
action, then replaced the clip of cartridges and slipped the gun into a
side pocket.
“Well,” he mumbled, half aloud, “I guess I’ll be getting to bed. An’ I
hope to God there won’t be no voices around here tonight!”
The Strangler grunted, and the “Kid” slouched off up the stairs and into
the room that had been Monte’s. He closed the door carefully, crossed
over to the light, and then stood listening.
The night wind was stirring around the house, whistling and moaning down
the chimney; but the “Kid” had an antidote for fear tonight: he went
over to his bed and fumbled for the jewels. The touch of the smooth
leather-covered box started his heart to pounding.
He laid the box on the bed and opened it. The light was reflected into
his eyes from a thousand sharp facets, crimson and blue and white—but
perhaps the charm was wearing off: the stones did not look as wonderful
to him tonight as they had in that momentary view he had caught during
the afternoon.
“And that’s the bunch of sparklers men go dippy about!” the “Kid”
mumbled. “Hell, I wouldn’t give two bits for the whole bunch, if I
couldn’t sell ’em! There’s too many of ’em, and they don’t shine so
terrible much! I saw a big buck nigger on State Street once with a
solitaire on that would have made them look phoney—and it was glass! Oh,
well, I should worry. I ain’t going to wear ’em—I’m going to _sell_ ’em!
I’ll have to play safe—”
At the ghost of a sound from behind, the “Kid” whirled. He had left the
door closed, but now it was open—and the Strangler stood inside the room,
grinning.
“So, that was the game!” he cried. “You’re a slick one, Kid, but you
ain’t slick enough. I been watching you all evening. You ain’t yourself,
old timer. You’re getting nervous. But I don’t wonder! You grabbed the
sparklers, but how you done it I don’t know. And you was going to hold
’em out, was you? Well, well—”
The “Kid’s” lips jerked up into a wolfish smile, but he forced himself
to go slow. He needed to think this thing out. He knew the Wolves well
enough to be sure they would hold this affair against him, and sooner
or later would try to play even. No use to try to explain—they wouldn’t
understand.
The Strangler was watching him through chilly eyes. Casually, the Kid’s
hand stole toward his side pocket. Instantly the man standing before him
acted: with a bellow of rage he jerked out his own hand, which he had
been holding under his coat: swinging it up he fired, then struck at the
light globe with the smoking barrel.
To the “Kid” there came the sensation of suffocation and of darkness.
His own gun was out, but his enemy had disappeared—and he himself was
sprawled across the bed. That instant of falling had not registered in
his consciousness: he had been standing, and now he was down; that was
all he knew.
And he was fighting for breath—a great weight seemed to be crushing in
his chest. He raised his left hand and gropingly explored the front of
his shirt: it was already saturated, and from a hole to the left of his
breast bone more blood was coming in a pulsing current.
“The dirty dog!” muttered the “Kid” thickly, pulling himself erect by
grasping the foot of the bed. “He’s croaked me—”
Then suddenly the “Kid’s” whirling senses cleared. Billy the Strangler
had done for him; but he would send Billy on ahead, to tell St. Peter he
was coming! His yellow teeth came together. He felt something welling up
in his throat and spat out a mouthful of blood.
“Not—much—time—left!” he muttered.
He dropped to his knees and for a moment everything went blank. Then he
mastered himself, by a superhuman effort: and began to crawl stealthily
along toward the dimly-lighted panel of the door. The Strangler had run
out there after firing—now, undoubtedly, he was waiting till it should
be safe for him to come back for his booty!
Slowly, the dying crook dragged himself across to the door and out into
the hall. The training of a lifetime stood him in good stead now: he was
as soundless as a shadow. He reached the top of the stairs and paused,
leaning for a moment against the banisters—everything was going black
before him. Then he pulled himself together with a disregard for his own
suffering that in a better cause would have been heroic.
Inch by inch, he drew himself forward till he was sitting on the top step
of the stair. He peered down into the lighted rooms below. Ah! There he
was! The Strangler stood beyond the big chandelier in the front room, the
“Kid” could see him plainly through an open door. His face was smiling,
the crooked smile of a shark.
Resting his automatic across his bent knees, the “Kid” took steady aim at
the man who had done for him.
“A little higher than the pockets!” he told himself, repeating the old
gunman’s formula for a killing shot.
Next moment the pistol roared; and the man standing down there in the
light jerked up his hands and staggered backward. Greedily, the “Kid’s”
fast glazing eyes drank in every detail of the Strangler’s agony. He knew
what that look meant—
Billy the Strangler began to pivot on his heels, staring with blind eyes
into space.
“Where is he?” he cried. “Damn your soul and body—you—”
He pitched forward to his face. And the “Kid,” leaning peacefully back,
felt himself snatched up into a great red cloud that has descended out of
the roof upon him.
* * * * *
In an upper room in the house of Ah Wing, the Chinaman sat at an
instrument that resembled a telephone switchboard. There were on its
surface eight little globes, each with a plug socket beneath.
Ah Wing had an operator’s head-piece in position, and he seemed to be
listening attentively to something that came to him over the wires.
There had been voices, loud and angry. He heard the Strangler denouncing
the “Kid.” Then came the shot—and silence.
Ah Wing waited an appreciable time, then shifted the plug from socket
to socket. Not a sound from any of the rooms in the distant cottage. He
returned the plug to its central position and waited.
Presently another shot sounded, and a scream. He heard the Strangler
curse his enemy.
Without a word, Ah Wing removed the head-piece and glanced up at a chart
fastened to the wall before him. It contained the names of five men,
against one of which a black cross had been inscribed.
Now he picked up a pencil and filled in two additional crosses.
There were but two of the Wolves left!
_This Fascinating Story Has An Amazing Climax. It Will Be Concluded in
the Next Issue of WEIRD TALES. Tell Your Newsdealer To Reserve Your
Copy._