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 brife 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
AH WING LISTENS IN
"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!"
