PETER BECOMES A CONSPIRATOR
Peter entered and stood by the door, startled from his rhapsody by the
appearance of the intruder, who had made himself quite at home,
regardless of the fact that the final words of their last meeting had
given no promise of a friendship which would make his air of easy
familiarity acceptable to Peter, whose first impulse moved him to anger,
fortunately controlled as he quickly remembered how much hung upon the
assumption of an amicable relationship with McGuire's arch enemy. Peter
hadn't replied to Hawk's letter which had indicated that some weeks
might elapse before Black Rock received another of his visitations. The
speculations in Peter's mind as to the change in his visitor's plans and
the possible causes for them may have been marked in his face, for Hawk
grinned at him amiably and rose and offered his hand with an air of
assurance.
"Wondering why I dropped in on you so unexpected-like? Let's say that I
got tired of staring at the lonely grandeur of Pike's Peak, _mon gars_,
or that the lady who gave me the pleasure of her society skipped for
Denver with a younger man, or that the high altitude played
Billy-be-damned with my nerves, and you'll have excuse enough. But the
fact is, Pete, I _was_ a bit nervous at being so long away from the
center of financial operations, and thought I'd better come right on and
talk to you."
"I got your letter," said Peter calmly, "I hadn't answered it yet----"
"I thought it better to come for my answer."
"I've been thinking it over----"
"Good. It will be worth thinkin' over. You'll bless the day Jim Coast
ran athwart your course."
"You seem to be taking a good deal for granted."
"I do. I always do. Until the present opportunity it was about the only
thing I got a chance to take. You wouldn't of done me a good turn that
night, if you hadn't been O.K. Will you have a drink of your own? It's
good stuff--ten years in the wood, I see by the label, and I'm glad to
get it, for whisky is scarcer than hen's teeth between this and the
Rockies."
As Peter nodded he poured out the drinks and settled down in Peter's
chair with the air of one very much at home.
"Well, Pete, what's yer answer to be?" he said at last. "You weren't any
too polite when I left here. But I didn't think you'd turn me down
altogether. And you're straight. I know that. I've been countin' on your
sense of justice. How would _you_ like to be treated the way _I_ was
treated by Mike McGuire?"
"I wouldn't like it."
"You just bet you wouldn't. You wouldn't stand for it, _you_ wouldn't.
I've got justice on my side and I've got the law--if I choose to use
it--but I'd rather win this case as man to man--without its getting into
the newspapers. That wouldn't matter much to a poor man like me, but it
would make a heap of difference to a man who stands where McGuire does."
"That's true."
"Yes. And he knows it. He hasn't got a leg to stand on." Kennedy paused
and looked Peter over coolly. Peter had been studying the situation
critically, playing his game with some care, willing to placate his
visitor and yet taking pains not to be too eager to gain his
confidence. So he carefully lighted his cigarette while he debated his
course of action.
"What makes you think that I'm in a different mood now from when you
left here?"
"Haven't I told you? Because I believe that you know that right's right
and wrong's wrong."
"But I told you that I didn't want to have anything to do with the
case."
"True for you. But you will when I've finished talking to you."
"Will I?"
"You will if you're not a fool, which you ain't. I always said you had
somethin' between your ears besides ivory. You don't like to stay poor
any more than anybody else. You don't have to. A good half of McGuire's
money is mine. If it hadn't been for me helpin' to smell that copper out
he'd of been out there grub-stakin' yet an' that's a fact. But I'm not
goin' to be too hard on him. I'm no hog. I'm goin' to let him down easy.
What's a million more or less to him? It might pinch him a little here
and there sellin' out securities he had a fancy for, but in a year or so
he'd have it all back and more, the way he works. Oh, I know. I've found
out a bit since I've been away. And he'll come across all right, when he
hears what I've got to say to him."
"Why don't you go to him direct?" asked Peter.
"And have him barricadin' the house and shootin' promiscuous at me from
the windows? Not on your life. I know what I'm about. This thing has got
to be done quiet. There's no use stirring up a dirty scandal to hurt his
reputation for honest dealin' in New York. Even as it is, the story has
got around about the mystery of Black Rock. No use makin' talk. That's
why I want you. You stand ace high with the old man. He'll listen to you
and we'll work the game all right and proper."
"But suppose he won't listen to me."
"Then we'll put the screws on."
"What screws?"
Hawk Kennedy closed one eye and squinted the other at Peter quizzically.
"I'll tell you that all in good time. But first I've got to know how you
stand in the matter."
Peter judicially examined the ash of his cigarette. "He ought to do the
right thing," he said slowly.
"He will--never you fear. But can I count on _you_, Pete?"
"What do you want me to do?" asked Peter after a moment.
"Oh, now we're talkin'. But wait a minute. We won't go so fast. Are you
with me sure enough--hope I may die--cross my heart?"
"If you'll make it worth my while," said Peter cautiously.
"A hundred thousand. How's that?"
"It sounds all right. But I can't see what I can do that you couldn't do
yourself."
"Don't you? Well, you don't know all this story. There's some of it you
haven't heard. Maybe it's that will convince you you're makin' no
mistake----"
"Well--I'm listening."
A shrewd look came into Kennedy's face--a narrowing of the eyelids, a
drawing of the muscles at the mouth, as he searched Peter's face with a
sharp glance.
"If you play me false, Pete, I'll have your heart's blood," he said.
Peter only laughed at him.
"I'm not easily scared. Save the melodrama for McGuire. If you can do
without me--go ahead. Play your hand alone. Don't tell me anything. I
don't want to know."
The bluff worked, for Kennedy relaxed at once.
"Oh, you're a cool hand. I reckon you think I need you or I wouldn't be
here. Well, that's so. I do need you. And I'm goin' to tell you the
truth--even if it gives away my hand."
"Suit yourself," said Peter, indifferently.
He watched his old "bunkie" pour out another drink of the whisky, and a
definite plan of action took shape in his mind. If he could only get
Kennedy drunk enough.... The whisky bottle was almost empty--so Peter
got up, went to his cupboard and brought forth another one.
"Good old Pete!" said Hawk. "Seems like July the first didn't make much
difference to you."
"A present from Mr. McGuire," Peter explained.
"Well, here's to his fat bank account. May it soon be ours." And he
drank copiously. Peter filled his own glass but when the opportunity
offered poured most of it into the slop-bowl just behind him.
"I'm goin' to tell you, Pete, about me and McGuire--about how we got
that mine. It ain't a pretty story. I told you some of it but not the
real part--nobody but Mike McGuire and I know that--and he wouldn't tell
if it was the last thing he said on earth."
"Oh," said Peter, "something crooked, eh?"
Kennedy laid his bony fingers along Peter's arm while his voice sank to
an impressive whisper.
"Crooked as Hell, Pete--crooked as Hell. You wouldn't think Mike McGuire
was a murderer--would you?"
"A murderer----!"
Kennedy nodded. "We took that mine--stole it from the poor guy who had
staked out his claim. Mike killed him----"
"You don't mean----?"
"Yes, sir. Killed him--stuck him in the ribs with a knife when he
wasn't lookin'. What do you think of that?"
"McGuire--a murderer----!"
"Sure. Nice sort of a boss you've got! And he could swing for it if I
didn't hold my tongue."
"This is serious----"
"You bet it is--if he don't come across. Now I guess you know why he was
so cut up when I showed up around here. I've got it on him all right."
"Can you prove it?"
Kennedy rubbed his chin for a moment.
"I could but I don't want to. You see--Pete----" He paused again and
blinked pensively at his glass. "Well, you see--in a manner of
speakin'--he's got it on me too."
And Peter listened while his villainous companion related the well known
tale of the terrible compact between the two men in which both of them
had agreed in writing to share the guilt of the crime, carefully
omitting to state the compulsion as used upon McGuire. Hawk Kennedy
lied. If Peter had ever needed any further proof of the honesty of his
employer he read it in the shifting eye and uncertain verbiage of his
guest, whose tongue now wagged loosely while he talked of the two
papers, one of which was in McGuire's possession, the other in his own.
Hawk was no pleasant companion for an evening's entertainment. From the
interesting adventurer of the _Bermudian_, Jim Coast had been slowly
changing under Peter's eyes into a personality more formidable and
sinister. And the drink seemed to be bringing into importance
potentialities for evil at which Peter had only guessed. That he meant
to fight to the last ditch for the money was clear, and if the worst
came would even confess, dragging McGuire down among the ruins of both
their lives. In his drunken condition it would have been ridiculously
easy for Peter to have overpowered him, but he was not sure to what end
that would lead.
"You say there were two papers," said Peter. "Where are they?"
"McGuire's got his--here at Black Rock," muttered Hawk.
"How do you know that?" asked Peter with interest.
"Where would he keep it?" sneered Hawk. "In his business papers for
'zecutors to look over?"
"And where's yours?" asked Peter.
He hoped for some motion of Kennedy's fingers to betray its whereabouts,
but the man only poured out another drink and leered at Peter
unpleasantly.
"That'sh _my_ business," he said with a sneer.
"Oh. Is it? I thought I was to have a hand in this."
Kennedy grinned.
"Y'are. Your job is t' get other paper from McGuire's safe. And then
we'll have fortune in--hic--nutshell."
The man wasn't as drunk as he seemed. Peter shrugged.
"I see. I've got to turn burglar to join your little criminal society.
Suppose I refuse?"
"Y' won't. Why, Pete, it ought to be easiest job in world. A few dropsh
in glass when you're talkin' business and he'd never know it happened.
Then we 'beat it,' y'understand, 'n' write lettersh--nice lettersh. One
of 'em to that swell daughter of his. That would do the business,
_pronto_."
"Yes, it might," admitted Peter ruminatively.
"Sure it will--but we'll give him chance. Are y' on?" he asked.
Peter was silent for a moment. And then,
"I don't see why you want that paper of McGuire's," he said. "They're
exactly alike, you say--both incriminating. And if you've got your paper
handy----"
Peter paused but Kennedy was in the act of swallowing another glass of
whisky and he didn't stop to answer the half-formulated query. He gave a
gasp of satisfaction and then shrugged.
"No use, Pete," he said huskily. "I said I had paper and I _have_ paper
handy, but I've got to have McGuire's paper too. I ain't got money and
spotless rep'tation like Mike McGuire but I don't want paper like that
floatin' roun' universh with _my_ name signed to it."
"I don't blame you," said Peter dryly.
Hawk Kennedy was talking thickly now and spilled the whisky in trying to
pour out a new glassful.
"Goo' whisky this--goo' ole whisky, Pete. Goo' ole Peter. Say, you'll
get pater, Peep--I mean Peter pape--Oh H---- Paper. _You_ know."
"I'll have to think about it, Jim."
"Can't think when yer drunk, Pete," he muttered with an expiring grin.
"To-morr'. 'Nother drink an' then we'll go sleep. Don't mind my sleepin'
here, Pete. Nice plache shleep. Goo' old shleep...."
Peter paused in the act of pouring out another drink for him and then at
a sound from Kennedy set the bottle down again. The man suddenly
sprawled sideways in the chair, his head back, snoring heavily. Peter
watched him for a moment, sure that he couldn't be shamming and then
looked around the disordered room. Hawk's overcoat and hat lay on the
bed. On tiptoe Peter got up and examined them carefully, watching the
man in the chair intently the while. Hawk stirred but did not awaken.
Peter searched the overcoat inch by inch. There was nothing in the
pockets, but a tin of tobacco and a Philadelphia newspaper. So Peter
restored the articles and then hung the hat and coat on the nails behind
the door. Hawk Kennedy did not move. He was dead drunk.
The repulsive task of searching the recumbent figure now lay before him.
But the game had been worth the candle. If the fateful confession was
anywhere in Hawk's clothing Peter meant to find it and yet even now he
hesitated. He put the whisky bottle away, cleared up the mess and then
bodily picked his visitor up and carried him to the bed. Hawk muttered
something in his sleep but fell prone and immediately was snoring
stertorously. Then Peter went through his pockets methodically, removing
an automatic pistol from his trousers, and examining all his papers
carefully by the light of the lamp-a hotel bill receipted, some letters
in a woman's hand, a few newspaper clippings bearing on the copper
market, a pocketbook containing bills of large denomination, some soiled
business cards of representatives of commercial houses, a notebook
containing addresses and small accounts, a pass book of a Philadelphia
bank, the address of which Peter noted. And that was all. Exhausting
every resource Peter went over the lining of his coat and vest, inch by
inch, even examined his underwear and his shoes and stockings. From the
skin out, Hawk Kennedy had now no secrets from Peter. The incriminating
confession was not on Hawk Kennedy's clothing.
At last Peter gave up the search and went out into the air, and lighted
his corncob pipe, puzzled at his failure. And yet, was it a failure
after all? Hawk had eluded every attempt to discuss his copy of the
confession. He had it "handy," he had said. A safe deposit box at the
Philadelphia bank of which Peter had made record would be handy, but
somehow Peter thought the chances were much against Kennedy's having put
it there. Men of his type usually carry everything they possess about
their persons. Peter remembered the ragged wallet of the _Bermudian_.
What if after all these years of hardship the paper had been worn so
that it was entirely illegible, or indeed that in Kennedy's many
wanderings it had been lost? Either of these theories was plausible, but
none provoked a decision. So after awhile Peter went indoors and opening
all the windows and doors to cleanse the air, sat in the big chair and
bundling himself in a blanket fell asleep.