The Wire Devils. Frank L. Packard

here?”

      “‘Bout a week”—the Hawk was growing ungracious.

      “Boarding here?”

      “Yes.”

      “Where’d you come from?” MacVightie was clipping off his words. “What do you do for a living?”

      “Say,” said the Hawk politely, “you go to hell!”

      MacVightie stepped forward toward the Hawk, with an ominous scowl; and, throwing back the lapel of his coat, tapped grimly with his forefinger on a shield that decorated his vest.

      The Hawk whistled low.

      “O-ho!” said the Hawk, with sudden cordiality. “Well, why didn’t you say so before?”

      “I’m saying it now!” snarled MacVightie. “Well, where do you come from?”

      “Chicago,” said the Hawk.

      “What’s your business?”—MacVightie’s eyes were roving sharply again around the room.

      “Barkeep—when I can get a job,” answered the Hawk; and then, insinuatingly: “And, say, I’m looking for one now, and if you can put me on to anything I’d——”

      “I guess you’ve got to show me!” growled Mac-Vightie, uncompromisingly.

      “Look here,” ventured the Hawk, “what’s up?”

      “I’m waiting!” prompted MacVightie significantly.

      “Oh, all right!” The Hawk flared up a little. “If you love your grouch, keep on hugging it tight!” He jerked his hand toward the coat that was lying on the bed. “I must have lost the letter the pastor of my church gave me, but there’s a couple there from the guys back in Chicago that I worked for, and there’s my union card with them. Help yourself!”

      MacVightie picked up the coat brusquely, shoved his hand into the inside pocket, brought out several letters, and began to read them.

      The Hawk shuffled the half deck of cards in his hand monotonously.

      There was a puzzled frown on MacVightie’s face, as he finally tossed the letters down on the bed.

      “Satisfied?” inquired the Hawk pleasantly.

      MacVightie’s frown deepened.

      “Yes, as far as that goes,” he said tersely; and then, evenly, his eyes boring into the Hawk: “About five minutes ago a man ran into this house from the street. What’s become of him?”

      The Hawk started in amazement—and slowly shook his head.

      “I guess you’ve got the wrong dope, ain’t you?” he suggested earnestly.

      “Don’t try that game!” cautioned MacVightie grimly. “And don’t lie! He had to come up these stairs, your door was partly open, and he couldn’t have passed without you knowing it.”

      “That’s what I’m saying,” agreed the Hawk, even more earnestly. “That’s why I’m saying you must have got the wrong dope. Of course, he couldn’t have got by without me hearing him! That’s a cinch! And, I’m telling you straight, he didn’t.”

      “Didn’t he?” MacVightie’s smile was thin. “Then he came in here—into this room.”

      “In here?” echoed the Hawk weakly. His gaze wandered helplessly around the room. “Well, all you’ve got to do is look.”

      “I’m going to!” announced MacVightie curtly—and with a sudden jerk he yanked the single bed out from the wall. He peered behind and beneath it; then, stepping over to a cretonne curtain in the corner that served as wardrobe, he pulled it roughly aside.

      There were no other places of possible concealment. MacVightie chewed at his under lip, and eyed the Hawk speculatively.

      The Hawk’s eyes were still travelling bewilderedly about the room, as though he still expected to find something.

      “Are you dead sure he came into this house,” he inquired heavily, as though the problem were entirely beyond him.

      MacVightie hesitated.

      “Well—no,” he acknowledged, after a moment. “I guess you’re straight all right, and I’ll admit I didn’t see him come in; but I’d have pretty near taken an oath on it.”

      “Then I guess he must have ducked somewhere else,” submitted the Hawk sapiently. “There wasn’t no one went by that door—I’m giving it to you on the level.”

      MacVightie’s reluctant smile was a wry grimace.

      “Yes, I reckon it’s my mistake.” His voice lost its snarl, and his fingers groped down into his vest pocket. “Here, have a cigar,” he invited placatingly.

      “Why, say—thanks”—the Hawk beamed radiantly. “Say, I——”

      “All right, young fellow”—with a wave of his hand, MacVightie moved to the door. “All right, young fellow. No harm done, eh? Good-night!”

      The door closed. The footsteps without grew fainter, and died away.

      The Hawk, staring at the door, apostrophised the doorknob.

      “Well, say, what do you know about that!” he said numbly. “I wonder what’s up?”

      He rose from his chair after a moment as though moved by a sort of subconscious impulse, mechanically pushed his bed back against the wall, and returned to his chair.

      He dug out his pipe abstractedly, filled it, and lighted it. He gathered up the cards, shuffled them, and began to lay them out again on the table—and paused, and drummed with his fingers on the table top.

      “They’re after some guy that’s ducked his nut somewhere around here,” he decided aloud. “I wonder what’s up?”

      The Hawk spread out his remaining cards—and swept them away from him into an indiscriminate heap.

      “Aw, to blazes with cards!” he ejaculated impatiently.

      He put his feet up on the table, and sucked steadily at his pipe.

      “It’s a cinch he never went by that door,” the Hawk assured the toe of his boot. “I guess he handed that ‘bull’ one, all right, all right.”

      The minutes passed. The Hawk, engrossed, continued to suck on his pipe. Then from far down the stairs there came a faint creak, and an instant later the outer door closed softly.

      The Hawk’s feet came down from the table, and the Hawk smiled—grimly.

      “Tut, tut!” chided the Hawk. “That treadmill diminuendo on the top step and the keyhole stunt is pretty raw, Mr. MacVightie—pretty raw! You forgot the front door, Mr. MacVightie—I don’t seem to remember having heard it open or close until just now!”

      The back of the Hawk’s chair, as he pushed it well away from the table and stood up, curiously enough now intercepted itself between the keyhole and the interior of the room. He stepped to the door, and slipped the bolt quietly into place; then, going to the window, he reached out, and, from where it hung upon a nail driven into the sill, picked up the pay bag.

      “That’s a pretty old gag, too,” observed the Hawk almost apologetically. “I was lucky to get by with it.”

      The Hawk’s attention was now directed to his trunk, that was between the table and the foot of the bed. He lifted the lid back against the wall, and removed an ingeniously fashioned false top, in the shape of a tray, that fitted innocently into the curvature of the lid. The Hawk stared at a magnificent diamond necklace that glittered and gleamed on the bottom of the tray, as its thousand facets caught the light—and grinned.

      “If you’d only known, eh—Mr. MacVightie!” he murmured.

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