that I've placed men in hiding at every station on the line where
there are no night operators. What about you? Started your outside line
inspection?”
“Yes,” Lanson answered. “I've had three men out with section
crews working from different points. But it's slow business making
an inspection that's careful enough to be of any use, and even then
it's a pretty tall order to call the turn on anything when there's
already so many legitimate splices and repairs on the wires.”
“Well—any results?” asked MacVightie.
Lanson shook his head.
“We found what we thought was a new splice in one place, but it turned
out to have been made by one of our own men two weeks ago, only he had
forgotten to report it.”
MacVightie's eyes narrowed.
“One of our own men—eh?” he repeated curtly. “Who was it?”
“Nothing doing there!” Lanson shook his head again, emphatically
this time. “It was Calhoun.”
“Calhoun—eh?” observed MacVightie softly.
Lanson bridled slightly.
“What's the matter with Calhoun?” he inquired testily. “Got
anything against him?”
“Never heard of him before,” said MacVightie, with a short laugh.
“But I'll take pains to make his acquaintance.”
“Then you might as well spare yourself the trouble,” advised Lanson.
“I can tell you before-hand that he carries a good record on this
division, and that he's one of the best linemen we've got.”
“I daresay,” admitted MacVightie coolly. “But amongst other things
we're looking for good linemen to-night—who forget to make reports.
You needn't get touchy, Lanson, because one of your men's names
comes up. You can make up your mind to it there's an inside end to
this, and——”
The tiny ray of the Hawk's flashlight shot suddenly upon the
notebook's open page, as the sounder broke into a sharp tattoo.
“;wtaz'—stroke at four,” he muttered, as he began to
write. “Three—one—two. They've changed the code
to-night—'qxpetlk——'”
There was a sharp exclamation from the other room.
“Listen! There he is now!” Martin cried. Chairs were pushed
back—the three men were on their feet.
“What's he sending?” questioned MacVightie instantly.
The Hawk scowled at the disturbance, as, over their voices, he
concentrated his attention upon the sounder. He wrote steadily on:
“... huwkmuh hdtlqgvh...
“Same as usual,” Martin replied. “Just a jumble of letters.”
“Well then, get ready to throw that ground, or whatever you call it,
into him!” ordered MacVightie tensely.
“I'm ready,” said Martin.
“All right then—now!”
The Hawk nodded to himself, as his pencil unflaggingly noted down letter
after letter. The sounder was very perceptibly stronger.
“West!” Martin cried out. “You noticed the difference in
strength, didn't you? He's somewhere between here and Selkirk.
That's——”
The sounder had suddenly ceased.
“But he's stopped,” said MacVightie; “and you said if he
stopped——”
“That's nothing to do with it!” Martin interposed hurriedly.
“The wire isn't grounded now.”
“He's taken to cover, I guess,” said Lanson. “I was afraid he
would scare, no matter how——” He broke off abruptly. “Wait!
What's that!”
The sounder was clicking again; but the sharp, quick tattoo was gone,
and in its place, as though indeed it drawled, the sending came in
leisurely, deliberate fashion.
The Hawk's pencil resumed its labours—and then, with a queer smile,
the Hawk scratched out what he had just written. It was no longer
code—it was in exceedingly plain English.
Martin was reading directly from the sounder:
“'Try—that—game—just—once—more—and—the—division—goes—up—
in—the—air—and—a—train—or—two—maybe—to—a—
place—that—Mister—MacVightie—will—some—day—honour—with—
his—presence. That's—quite—plain—isn't—it?
If—you—think—this—is—a—bluff—call—it.
Now—keep—off—the—wire—or—have—it—cut.
Suit—yourselves.'.rdquo;
“Well, of all the infernal nerve!” exploded MacVightie furiously.
“And the worst of it,” said Lanson shortly, “is that he's got us
where he wants us!”
Once more the sounder broke into the old quick tattoo. The Hawk was
writing steadily again. There was silence now between the three in the
office.
A minute, two, three went by—the sounder ceased—the Hawk closed his
notebook. Then in its leisurely drawl the sounder broke again; and again
Martin read aloud:
“'Pleasant—evening—isn't—it?
Ask—MacVightie—if—he—has—seen—anything—of—the—Hawk.
Good-night.'.rdquo;
But this time there was only a menacing smile on MacVightie's lips.
“He's west of here, you say?” he shot at Martin. “Yes,” said
Martin briefly.
“And that splice of Calhoun's, Lanson? Where was that?”
Lanson, drumming with his fingers on the edge of the operator's table,
looked up with a frown.
“Nothing but coincidence,” he said tersely. “Yes, it was west of
here—pretty near Selkirk.” He moved toward the door. “There's
nothing more we can do here to-night. I'm going back on No. 17.
Let's get out on the platform until she shows up.”
The Hawk very carefully replaced his notebook, his flashlight and his
pencil in his pockets, and, as MacVightie and the superintendent went
out of the door, he retreated softly back to the rear window. The window
being up, he quite as noiselessly slipped out over the sill. He debated
a moment about the window, and decided that if any significance were
attached to the fact that it was found open, MacVightie, for instance,
was fully entitled to make the most of the significance! Then, the
rattle of a wagon sounding from the direction of the road, the Hawk
moved along to the end of the station, and waited.
The wagon, in the light of its own smoky oil lamps, proved to be the
town hotel bus. There were evidently other passengers for Selkirk
besides himself and the two officials, as several people alighted from
the bus. In view of this fact the Hawk calmly lighted a cigarette,
though the glow of the match exposed his face only to the blank wall of
the station, and walked around to the front platform.
He located MacVightie and Lanson; and, thereafter, at a safe distance,
did not lose sight of them. MacVightie's memory for faces would hardly
be over-rated if credited with being able to bridge a matter of some
twenty-four hours, particularly as MacVightie had evidenced unusual
interest in the occupant of the room on the first landing over a
certain ill-favoured saloon the night before! The Hawk, therefore, was
unostentatiously attentive to MacVightie's movements; so much so that,
when No. 17 pulled in and MacVightie and Lanson boarded the chair car at
the rear of the train, the Hawk, when No. 17 pulled out, quite logically
boarded the smoking car at the forward end.
The Hawk chose the most uncomfortable seat in the car—the rear
seat with stiff, upright, unyielding back, that was built against
the wash-room—and, settling himself down, produced his notebook and
pencil. The water-cooler could be quite confidentially trusted not to
peer over his shoulder!
On the second page of the notebook—the first having been devoted to
the sketch of Bald Creek Station—-the Hawk, as he had taken it from
the sounder, had written this:
“wtaz qxpetlkhu wkmuh hdtlq gvhmmpy hqltvd df rmnluvpo nfkhomovfdh
gvkerkmmawrq fljkwte dvsoedtdqqh mgfdoifk rxqkuvwruh gsruwmtdoo
ommtlqhvksol foghvklst rvrzqmqxpe mkhurqjkh hvdbfvkdzc mnvohrtpqg
hutzklwkj hkdqm mo g v pdlqlfxoq uhgpifthglxg pkhlmfj kwhttwb hv d p q
g kdrllu eomosdfnhta shqkjvlyhtg mwdlomruhgegf orwmpqk hvwtzrwk mmrxvddg
iqggrqo odusnvrx wmfkriu hkvhuymt hixqljtg wrqpxpeh houwkdmd gwsxws
vdexmuooh wtjqlqklmp”
The Hawk tore out a page from the back of the notebook, and set down the
letters of the alphabet in a column. Opposite these he painstakingly set
down another column of letters. After that the Hawk worked slowly. It
was not quite so simple as it looked—not merely the substitution of
letters in a different order of rotation. Nor, apparently, from the
Hawk's observations as he muttered to himself, were all messages to
be deciphered alike—the code appeared to possess within itself an
elasticity for variation.
“At four... key letter changed... stroke!” muttered the Hawk.
“N-u-m-b... pass three... e-r-t-h... stroke one....”
The Hawk's notebook, closed, was reposing idly on the window ledge and
the Hawk was lighting another cigarette, as the conductor came down the
aisle. The Hawk presented the return stub of a ticket to Selkirk.
The conductor punched it, and passed on—and the Hawk picked up his
notebook again.
Again he was interrupted—and again. The water-cooler, after all, was
not proving an unmixed blessing. It seemed as though every man in the
car were possessed of an inordinate thirst. They were well on toward
Selkirk when the Hawk finally completed the deciphering of the message.
It now ran:
0074
He arranged the scattered letters into words, and the words into
sentences:
“Number Three and Seven Isaac Kir-schell('.s cash box to-night as
planned. Calhoun to report all line splices his own. Number One says
Hawk slender white hands, manicured, medium height, eyes and hair black,
expensive tailored clothes. Two thousand dollars out of reserve fund to
Number that puts a bullet in him.”
The Hawk inspected his hands, and smiled whimsically. Number One was
the Butcher. He had not given the Butcher credit for being so observant!
Presently he stared out of the window.
“Wonder how much of a haul I can make tonight?” he murmured.
“Regular El Dorado—having 'em work it all up and handing it to you
on a gold platter. Pretty soft! Hope they won't get discouraged and
quit picking the chestnuts out of the fire for me—while there's any
chestnuts left!”
And then the Hawk frowned suddenly. The chestnuts appeared to be only
partially picked for him to-night. What was the game—as planned?
There must have been a previous message that had got by him. His frown
deepened. There was no way of remedying that. To hope to intercept them
all was to expect too much. There was no way whereby he could spend
twenty-four hours out of twenty-four in touch with a sounder. He
shrugged his shoulders philosophically after a moment. Perhaps it was
just as well. They credited him with playing a lone hand, believing
that his and their depredations were clashing with one another simply
by virtue of the fact that their mutual pursuits were of a competitive
criminal nature, that was all. If it happened with too much regularity,
they might begin to suspect that he had the key to their cipher, and
then—the Hawk did not care to contemplate that eventuality. There
would be no more chestnuts!
The Hawk read the first part of the message over again. Who was Isaac
Kirschell? The name seemed to be familiar. The Hawk studied the toe of a
neatly-fitting and carefully polished shoe thoughtfully. When he looked
up again, he nodded. He remembered now. He had lunched the day before
in a restaurant that occupied a portion of the ground floor of an office
building, the corridor of which ran through from street to street. In
going out, he had passed along the corridor and had seen the name on the
door panels of two of the offices.
He resumed the study of his boot toe. It was not a very vital matter.
A moment spent in consulting the city directory would have supplied the
information in any case. He nodded again. MacVightie was unquestionably
right. Some one on the inside, some railroader, and probably more than
one, was in on the game with the Wire Devils—and it was perhaps as
well for this Calhoun that MacVightie, already suspicious, was not
likewise possessed of the key to the cipher! Also, Lanson had been
right. It was no easy task to locate a new splice on a wire that was
already scarred with countless repairs. Still, if Lanson's men went at
it systematically and narrowed down the radius of operations, it was
not impossible that they might stumble upon a clue—if Calhoun did not
placidly inform them that it was but another of his own making! But even
then, granted that the wire was found to have been tapped in a certain
place one night, that was no reason why it should not, as Mr. MacVightie
had already suggested, be tapped fifty miles away the next! The Hawk
grinned. Mr. Lanson and his associates, backed even by Mr. MacVightie,
were confronted with a problem of considerable difficulty!
“I wonder,” communed the Hawk with himself, “who's the spider
that spun the web; and I wonder how many little spiders he's got
running around on it?”
He perused the message once more; but this time he appeared to be
concerned mainly with the latter portion. He read it over several times:
“Two thousand dollars to the Number that puts a bullet in him.”
“Nobody seems to like me,” complained the Hawk softly.
“MacVightie. doesn't; and the Butcher's crowd seem peeved. Two
thousand dollars for my hide! I guess if I stick around here long enough
maybe it'll get exciting—for somebody!”
The Hawk tore up the message, the sheet on which he had deciphered it,
the sketch of Bald Creek station, tore all three into small fragments,
opened the window a little, and let the pieces flutter out into
the night. He closed the window, returned the notebook, innocent of
everything now but its blank pages, to his pocket—and, pulling his
slouch hat down over his eyes, appeared to doze.
V—IN WHICH A CASH BOX DISAPPEARS
TWENTY minutes later, as No. 17 pulled into Selkirk, the Hawk, his
erstwhile drowsiness little in evidence, dropped to the platform while
the train was still in motion, and before MacVightie and Lanson in
the rear car, it might be fairly assumed, had thought of leaving their
seats. The Hawk was interested in MacVightie for the balance of the
night only to the extent of keeping out of MacVightie's sight—his
attention was centered now on the office of one Isaac Kirschell, and the
possibilities that lay in the said Isaac Kirschell's cash box.
He glanced at the illuminated dial of the tower clock. It was eighteen
minutes after ten.
“That's the worst of getting the dope a long way down the line,”
he muttered, as he hurried through the station and out to the street.
“But I had to get a look at MacVightie's cards to-night.” He
struck off toward the downtown business section of the city at a brisk
pace. “It ought to be all right though tonight—more than enough time
to get in ahead of them—they're not likely to pull any break in that
locality until well after midnight. Wonder what Kirschell's got in his
cash box that's so valuable? I suppose they know, or they wouldn't
be after it! They don't hunt small game, but”—the Hawk sighed
lugubriously—“there's no chance of any such luck as last night
again. Ten thousand dollars in cash! Some haul! Yes, I guess maybe
they're peeved!”
The Hawk, arrived at his destination, surveyed the office building from
the opposite side of the street. The restaurant on the ground floor was
dark, but a lighted window here and there on the floors above indicated
that some of the tenants were working late. It was therefore fairly safe
to presume that the entrance door, though closed, was unlocked. The Hawk
crossed the street unconcernedly, and tried the door. It opened under
his hand—' but noiselessly, and to the extent only of a bare inch,
in view of the possibility of a janitor being somewhere about. Detecting
no sound from within, however, the Hawk pushed the door a little further
open, and was confronted with a dimly lighted vestibule, and a long,
still more dimly lighted corridor beyond. There was no one in sight.
He slipped inside—and, quick and silent now in his movements, darted
across the vestibule and into the corridor.
Halfway along the corridor, he halted before a door, on whose glass
panel he could just make out the words “Isaac Kirschell,” and,
beneath the name, in smaller letters, the intimation that the entrance
was next door. The Hawk's decision was taken in the time it required
to produce from his pocket a key-ring equipped with an extensive
assortment of skeleton keys. If by any chance he should be disturbed and
had entered by the designated office door, his escape would be cut
off; if, on the other hand, he entered by this unused door, and left it
unlocked behind him, he would still be quite comfortably the master of
the situation in almost any emergency.
The door seemed to offer unusual difficulties. Even when unlocked, it
stuck. The Hawk worked at it by the sense of touch alone, his eyes busy
with sharp glances up and down the corridor. Finally, succeeding
in opening it a little way, it was only to find it blocked by some
obstruction within. He scowled. A desk, probably, close against it! The
door was certainly never used. He would have to enter by the other
one, after all, and—no! He had reached his arm inside. It was only a
coat-stand, or something of the sort He lifted it aside, stepped in, and
closed the door behind him.
The Hawk's flashlight—not the diminutive little affair that
had served him for his notebook—began to circle his surroundings
inquisitively. He was in a small, plainly furnished private office.
There was a desk, two chairs, and a filing cabinet. Also there were two
doors. The Hawk opened the one at his left, and peered out. It gave
on what was presumably the general office; and at the upper end was a
partition with the name, “Mr. Kirschell,” upon the door. He looked
at the panel of the door he had just opened. It bore no name.
“This belongs to Kirschell's secretary probably,” he decided.
“The other door from here opens, of course, into Kirschell's private
office. Wonder what Mr. Isaac Kirschell's business is?”
He closed the door leading into the outer office, and moved across
the room to the second door that already stood wide open, and almost
directly faced what he had taken for granted was the secretary's desk.
He stepped over the threshold. Mr. Kirschell's sanctum was somewhat
more elaborately furnished. Apart from a rather expensive flat-topped
desk in the centre of the room, there was a massive safe, new and of
modern design, a heavy rug upon the floor, and several very comfortable
leather-up holstered chairs. A washstand, the metal taps highly
polished, and a mahogany towel rack occupied the far corner. The Hawk
inspected the safe with the eye of a connoisseur, scowled unhappily by
way of expressing his opinion of it, and turned to the desk. He opened
a drawer, and picked up a sheet of business stationery. The letterhead
read: ISAAC KIRSCHELL LOANS, MORTGAGES & GENERAL EXCHANGE
“Ho, ho!” observed the Hawk. “Sort of a glorified pawnbroker, eh?
I——”
The sheet of paper was shot back into the drawer, the flashlight was
out—and on the instant the Hawk was back in the other office, and
crouched on the floor behind the desk. Some one had halted outside in
the corridor before the main office door, and now a key was turned in
the lock. The door was opened and closed, footsteps crossed the general
office, paused for a moment outside Mr. Kirschell's door, then the
lights in Mr. Kirschell's room went on, a man entered, tossed his hat
on a chair, and sat down at the desk. It was obviously Mr. Kirschell
himself.
Through the wide opening between the ends of the desk that sheltered
him, the Hawk, flat on the floor, took stock of the other. The man was
rather small in stature, with a thin, palish face, sharp, restless, very
small black eyes, and he was extremely well dressed—the Hawk noted the
dainty little boutonnière in the lapel of the man's coat, and smiled
queerly. From Mr. Kirschell's face he glanced at the face of Mr.
Kirschell's safe, then back at Mr. Kirschell again—and fingered his
automatic in the pocket of his coat.
The Hawk, however, made no further movement—Mr. Kirschell's actions
suggested that it would be unwise. The man, though apparently occupied
with some mail which he had taken from his pocket, kept glancing
impatiently at his watch. It was quite evident that he was expecting
some one every moment. The Hawk frowned perplexedly. The message that
night, even when deciphered, left much, too much, to the imagination! It
was quite possible that Mr. Kirschell was to be relieved of his cash box
with more address and finesse than by the bald expedient of ruining Mr.
Kirschell's safe! This appointment, for instance, might—and then the
Hawk smiled queerly again.
The corridor door had opened and closed for the second time. A heavy
step traversed the outer office, and a man, hat in hand, in cheap store
clothes, stood before Mr. Krischell's desk.
“Mentioned in dispatches!” said the Hawk very softly to himself.
“I guess that's Calhoun. So that's the game—eh?”
“You're late, Mr. Calhoun!” Kirschell greeted the other sharply.
“Five minutes late! I have put myself to considerable inconvenience to
give you this appointment.”
Calhoun's hair was tossed, there was a smudge across his cheek, and
his hands were grimy, as though he had just come from work. He was a big
man, powerfully shouldered. His grey eyes were not friendly as they met
Kirschell's.
“I couldn't help it,” he said shortly. “I've been up the line
all day. I told you I couldn't get here until about this time.”
“Well, all right, all right!” said Kirschell impatiently. “But,
now that you are here, are you prepared to settle?”
“I can give you a small payment on account, that's the best I can
do,” Calhoun answered.
Kirschell tilted back in his swivel chair, and frowned as he tapped the
edge of his desk with a paper cutter.
“How much?” he demanded coldly.
“Forty dollars”—Calhoun's hand went tentatively toward his
pocket.
“Forty dollars!” There was derision in Kirschell's voice, an
uninviting smile on Kirschell's lips. “That's hardly more than the
interest!”
“Yes,” said Calhoun, snarling suddenly, “at the thieving rates
you, and the bloodsuckers like you, charge.”
Kirschell's uninviting smile deepened.
“Considering the security, the rate is very moderate,” he said
evenly. “Now, see here, Calhoun, I told you plainly enough this
thing had to be settled to-day. You don't want to run away with the
impression that I'm a second Marakof, to be staved off all the time.
I bought your note from the pawnbroker's estate because the executors
didn't like the look of it, and weren't any too sure they could
collect it. Well, I can! I'm new out here, but I'm not new at my
business. Excuses with me don't take the place of cash. I hold your
note for five hundred dollars, which is past due, to say nothing of six
months' interest besides—and you come here to-night and offer me
forty dollars!”
“I would have paid Marakof,” said Calhoun, in a low voice; “and
I'll pay you as fast as I can. You know what I'm up against—I
told you when you first got after me, as soon as you got that note. My
brother got into trouble back East. What would you have done? That
five hundred kept him out of the 'pen.' He's only a kid. Damn it,
don't play the shark! Marakof renewed the note—why can't you?”
“Because I don't do business that way,” said Kir-schell curtly.
Calhoun's voice grew hard.
“How much did you pay for that note, anyway?”
Kirschell shrugged his shoulders.
“I didn't say I wasn't taking any risk with you,” he replied
tersely. “That's the profit on my risk. And as far as you are
concerned—it's none of your business!”
Calhoun shrugged his shoulders in turn, and, taking a small roll of
bills from his pocket, smoothed them out between his fingers.
“I got a wife, and I got kids,” said Calhoun slowly. “And I'm
doing the best I can. Do you want this forty, or not?”
“It depends,” said Kirschell, tapping again with his paper cutter.
“How about the rest?”
“I'll pay you what I can every month,” Calhoun answered.
“How much?”—bluntly.
“What I can!” returned Calhoun defiantly.
The two men eyed each other for a moment—and then Kirschell tossed the
paper cutter down on the desk.
“Well, all right!” he decided ungraciously. “I'll take a chance
for a month—and see how you live up to it. Hand it over, and I'll
give you a receipt.”
Calhoun shook his head.
“I don't trust the man who don't trust me,” he said gruffly.
“I don't want that kind of a receipt. You'll indorse the payment
on the back of the note, Mr. Kirschell, if you want this forty.”
“What?” inquired Kirschell, staring.
“You heard what I said,” said Calhoun coolly. “I'm in the hands
of a shark, and I know it. That's plain talk, isn't it?”
“But,” Kirschell flared up angrily, “I——”