The Vagrant Duke Part 56

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 gla.s.s 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--n.o.body 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 h.e.l.l, Pete--crooked as h.e.l.l. 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 gla.s.s. "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 s.h.i.+fting 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--nutsh.e.l.l."

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.