* v y


r


THE SNARL OF THE BEAST





THE
SNARL OF THE BEAST
CARROLL JOHN DALY
AUTHOR OF "THE WHITE CIRCLE"

NEW YORK
EDWARD J. CLODE, Inc.


COPYRIGHT, 192 7, BY
EDWARD J. CLODE, INC.
All rights reserved
PUNTED IN THE UNITED STATES OJ AMERICA


To
My Boy
JACK DALY





CONTENTS
CHAPTER 'AGE
I. The Attack n
II. A Dead Police Officer 21
III. The Police Are Curious 31
IV. Within the Tenement Room ... 39
V. The Opening Door 48
VI. The Girl of the Night 55
VII. The Getaway Car 65
VIII. The Snarl of the Beast 75
IX. A Pretty Bit of Shooting .... 82
X. The Face by the Window .... 91
XI. A Masked Visitor 100
XII. Pounding Feet 109
XIII. Inspector Coglin—From Headquarters 119
XIV. A Hand on the Sill 130
XV. The Man in the Blackness . . . 140
XVI. By the Alley Door 149
XVII. A Rescue 159
XVIII. The Car with the Drawn Curtains . 169
XIX. The Trap *77
XX. I Decide to Face the Enemy . . . 185
vii


viii CONTENTS
CHAPTER 'ACS
XXI. Action! i94
XXII. The Shriek of a Siren 203
XXIII. In the Hands of the Law . . . . 212
XXIV. Inside the Taxi 220
XXV. A Certain Lady Again 228
XXVI. The Gun Behind the Curtain . . . 236
XXVII. Jake Minely Talks 243
XXVIII. A Bullet in the Back 252
XXIX. Police Protection 263
XXX. A Prisoner in the Shack . . . . 271
XXXI. The Yellow Streak 280
XXXII. The Scream of a Woman .... 289
XXXIII. Face to Face 297
XXXIV. A Last Stand 3°5
XXXV, Bon VoyagbI 3U


THE SNARL OF THE BEAST





The
SNARL OF THE BEAST
CHAPTER I
THE ATTACK
It's the point of view in life that counts. For an
ordinary man to get a bullet through his hat as he
walked home at night would be something to talk
about for years. Now, with me; just the price of a new
hat—nothing more. The only surprise would be for
the lad who fired the gun. He and his relatives would
come in for a slow ride, with a shovelful of dirt at the
end of it. I can take a joke, of course, but my sense
of humor isn't fully enough developed along those lines.
I have brains, I suppose. We all have. But a sharp
eye, a quick draw, and a steady trigger finger drove me
into the game. Also you might add to that an aptitude
for getting out of trouble almost as quickly as I get
into it.
Under the laws I'm labeled on the books and licensed
as a private detective. Not that I'm proud of that
license but I need it, and I've had considerable trouble
hanging onto it. My position is not exactly a healthy
one. The police don't like me. The crooks don't like
11


12 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
me. I'm just a halfway house between the law and
crime; sort of working both ends against the middle.
Right and wrong are not written on the statutes for me,
nor do I find my code of morals in the essays of long-
winded professors. My ethics are my own. I'm not
saying they're good and I'm not admitting they're bad,
and what's more I'm not interested in the opinions of
others on that subject. When the time comes for
some quick-drawing gunman to jump me over the
hurdles I'll ride to the Pearly Gates on my own ticket.
It won't be a pass written on the back of another man's
thoughts. I stand on my own legs and I'll shoot it out
with any gun in the city—any time, any place. Thirty-
fourth street and Broadway, in the five o'clock rush
hour, isn't barred either. Race Williams—Private In-
vestigator—tells the whole story. Right! Let's go.
It's dark and the street lamps on the dirty little
street of the lower East Side do- no more than throw ai
dull shadow about a small splash of light. I'm not
looking for trouble but that don't mean that I'm not
expecting it. I always am. I get as many death threats
as a movie star gets mash notes. The rats of the under-
world are my natural enemies, and there I am in the
very heart of the criminal hangout. So I play close to
the curb and throw a swagger into my walk. Outward
confidence always registers with the unsavory gentle-
men of the night.
There are few people pounding the pavements;
some loitering in ill-smelling doorways beneath the
street level. Nothing suspicious about any of them;


THE ATTACK
13
that is, a personal suspicion—yet I know that some one
is getting my smoke. Some one is playing the lamb to
my little Mary. Nothing tangible, you understand,
and no way to explain it. Just instinct warns me
that I am followed. It may be the police or a crook
with a guilty conscience, or just one of the boys who
recognizes me and stalks along in the hope of settling
a private vengeance by a bit of murder. Then another
figure, running along the sidewalk across the street,
beating his hands against the cold, is swallowed up in
the darkness.
I shrug my shoulders and plod on. I'm well known
in that section of the city; a lad won't chance a shot
unless he's so close he can't miss. And the man fol-
lowing me knows that he'll get only one shot. While
he holds his distance there is no complaint. When
he gets too close I'll have to lead him down a back
alley and kiss him goodnight. Nothing alarming. It's
an old story to me.
As I move nearer to the East River and a distant
clock drones one, the lurking shadows of human forms
disappear from the street. It's not the hour so much
as the bitter cold. Somewhere below the level of the
street the tin-pan notes of a piano drift faintly into
the night. A man curses and a window slams. Far
distant an ash can clatters on stone and the almost
human screech of a cat pierces, shrilling through the
zero night.
Then silence, but for the soft tramp of my rubber
heels and the hardly audible echo of heels behind me.


14
THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
I don't have to turn to know that my shadow has
quickened his pace and now takes two steps to my one;
fast, short strides of a heavy body that swings from
side to side. Things were getting interesting. I
slipped off my thick gloves and wound my fingers
about the heavy forty-four in my coat pocket. Then I
shot a glance back-over my shoulder and caught the
dull outline of the swinging figure who was uncon-
sciously hurrying toward a yawning grave. Big, al-
most massive hunched shoulders, brown cap, and hands
sunk in the pockets of a great coat that was wrapped
tightly about his body.
And that was all I saw of him. I turned back
sharply again, for other feet sounded upon stone steps,
then pounded over the pavement toward me. Just a
derelict of the night he appeared, shuffling toward me—
his right hand outstretched, his left hanging by his
side with the palm toward me. He carried no weapon,
there was no threat in his approach and his manner
was cringing, his body stooped, his voice with a whine
In it.
"Two bits for a flop, Mister." The voice was low
and shook slightly. He didn't like the part he was
playing. And I didn't blame him. The temptation to
lift my gun and smack him one was strong but I didn't.
It wasn't a big heart or a sensitive conscience that
made me hesitate. Just common sense and the hope
of a long life. So I resisted temptation, put business
before pleasure and saved this bird a ride in an am-
bulance.


THE ATTACK 15
I never had a doubt; wasn't fooled for a moment
by the eager hand, the whining voice and the sunken
hungry eyes. His hunger wasn't of the stomach. This
was the slouching, running figure that had passed
down the street at the last corner, and ducking across
had waited my approach in a convenient alleyway.
Well planned perhaps. It probably had worked hun-
dreds of times before. But this time they were going to
come a cropper. You couldn't pocket Race Williams
between two enemies like that; leastwise, you couldn't
and get away with it. The thing was too simple. The
panhandler was to hold my attention while my shadow
was to spring me from behind. Believe me, I threw
a monkey wrench into the works. I gave these birds
a surprise.
The shabby lad's hand was hardly out before the
man behind changed his jerky walk to a run. But if he
acted quickly, I was just a bit ahead of him. My left
hand shot out and clutched the extended arm before
me. My right pulled a rod, and before my whining
friend was sure just what had happened I was behind
him, my gun playing a tattoo up and down his spine
as he stood silently trembling between me and my rush-
ing shadow.
There was a curse as the big boy who had been
shadowing me hurled himself forward—skidded to a
stop before he crashed his friend and stood still; a
shadowy, mountainous mass in the darkness. But the
hand that he still held in the air was clearly visible—


16
THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
so was the short section of iron pipe that white, knot-
ted fist held.
"Easy does it." I tried to peer over the shabby
man's shoulder and get a look at the face beneath the
brown cap. It was an ugly, evil map—what I could see
of it. Gleaming, shining animal-like eyes; thick lips
above heavy jowls, that were lost in the collar of the
great coat which was buttoned tightly about his neck.
But his arm was the thing. He had a reach on him like
a gorilla. The lead pipe was high enough in the air,
but that arm was slightly bent. It was the other that
I noted—imagination, I thought at first. Just a trick
of the darkness, as I made out the whiteness of thick
twitching fingers reaching to the man's knees.
But it wasn't imagination; for as I watched, those
fingers closed into a fist—a fist that slowly began to
rise and stretch out beside the man whose back I
tickled with my gun. Uncanny, it was there in the
darkness. You couldn't really distinguish the arm
that led from the hand to the shoulder; that was lost
in the background of the dark coat. Just a knotted
fist seemed to be floating through the air; slowly, but
surely and steadily, toward me. The raised hand too
was sweeping down by inches.
Uncanny certainly—odd that a human being should
have such a reach. But there was nothing to fear
really. An embarrassing time perhaps, if I had to ex-
plain the shooting to the police. I've explained so
often that it's getting monotonous to me—to the law
too, for that matter. Judges were looking at me with


THE ATTACK
17
suspicion. Never anything to hang on me, you under-
stand. But one learned jurist had told me grimly that
if I made it a steady practice to appear before him to
explain any more little shootings in the night he'd
give me a stretch on the principle of the thing. That he
would was certain enough. That he could was another
matter. But besides the annoyance, there was the ex-
pense of a high class lawyer. Good mouthpieces may
be worth the money all right—and earn it too—but
they put an awful dig in the bank account just the
same. And at present my balance at the bank was
about as low as the mercury in the thermometer. But
back to that hand!
"Young man," I shoved my gun deeper into the gen-
erous back before me, "advise your friend that if he
isn't more careful of those itching fingers of his 111
lay a row of lead buttons up and down your spine.
Come—speak up!" Those hands were still doing their
stuff—one of them out by the derelict's shoulder as the
head of the awkward, waving creature shoved slightly
forward and his feet shuffled on the sidewalk.
"Lay off that stuff." The shabby man shot the
words toward his companion. Was it a command or
a request? I couldn't tell at first. The hand stopped
for a moment; hung so by the other's shoulder. Then
the fingers opened slightly and it came on again; the
huge carcass moving slightly so that it was partly
protected from me by the lad between us.
"Back, you!" The panhandler jerked out the
words. And there was no doubt of their meaning.


18
THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
Neither a request nor a command, but a plea in his
voice—and then again. "You fool—stop it—drop
those hands. Drop them—I say." And this time the
whine in his voice was real. But there was more than
just reality—fear, horror were all in his screech; his
words echoing down the street. He had lost his head
altogether. Now he appealed to me.
"Don't shoot me," he cried, his words trembling
and rattling in his throat. "I can't stop him—I can't
stop him. Look at his eyes."
And I did. They were shining like an animal's;
like a cat's—clearly the green stood out in them. For
the first time in my life I got a shudder. It was al-
most as if I could see things behind those eyes, as if I
looked down into a reeking mass of rottenness. No
way to describe it. I shuddered, yes—with revulsion,
not fear. I'm not made to fear a man. It just don't
come natural to me, I guess. But more than the eyes
I watched the hand, the heavy shoulders, the protrud-
ing head—the sudden outward thrust of a great chin.
I swung my gun up and over the shoulder of the
whines
"Listen, big boy," and there was no question nor
pleading in my voice, "if you don't control that laud-
able desire to fasten your hands on my neck and won't
listen to the kindly, fatherly advice of your dirty friend
—and don't think anything of your life—why—" and
I cut my speech, for the man was swinging slowly from
side to side—crouching slightly and getting ready to
hurl that huge body forward.


THE ATTACK
19
"One more move and I'll plug the two of you," I
said sharply—and I meant it.
"He don't understand—don't care," the other man
bellowed. "Lead won't stop him—when he's like that,
nothing can stop him. Run for it, Race Williams—
run." And this time his shout was fit to wake the
dead.
There may be men with charmed lives; men that
lead won't stop, but I have yet to meet them. The
dirty lad may have been right, but if I were a betting
man I'd lay pretty good odds that at the first bark of
my gun a useless mass of flesh would lie on the side-
walk. It was his party, not mine. As for running—
well, the bullet-proof man who can pump lead into my
dust isn't born yet.
The giant didn't stop; didn't fade back as I poked
my rod forward, and what's more he didn't care much
for his friend's life. He bent low, protecting his own
body—shot his raised hand down, grasped his friend
with it and thrust that other hand out toward my
neck. I could have given ground and avoided it but
I didn't. When I jump I jump forward, not backward.
I raised the muzzle of my gun slightly and pressed the
trigger. A bullet tore up that flapping coat sleeve.
Only a scratch it would give him, but it was the warn-
ing of certain and sudden death to follow.
His body may have been bullet-proof. I didn't
know about that. But his arm certainly wasn't, and
his brain was susceptible to pain. For the moment I
thought he wasn't a man at all. There was a grunt, an


20 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
animal-like snarl, and an ear-splitting agonized screech
of rage.
uncertain—his hands half raised in the air. The Ter-
ror was bent double, nursing his injured arm and giv-
ing queer groans and snarls. And I—I just swung my
gun from one to the other, waiting. The show was on
—would they continue with the play or ring down the
curtain? As for me—I just wanted a good look at
that evil face that was buried in great arms. Would I
get that look? I thought not. This was New York,
and gun shots were no novelty—they were expected
and— We all three came erect.
We just stood so—the three of

The dirty lad,


CHAPTER II
A DEAD POLICE OFFICER
A whistle cut the silence—a low sharp note from
far down the block. But it sounded like a great ship's
blast to the three of us. Somewhere above us a win-
dow shot up and a voice called hoarsely. There was
another and another—an answering whistle—running
feet—the pounding of clubs, and the play broke up.
I let Dirty-Boy go first. He sort of dashed out into
the middle of the street, saw a door open at the top
of a few steps before him, and came back again. He
called to his friend; cursed when the man just stood
there, his head raised as if he sniffed the air. And I
was off—down the block—close to the light near the
corner when the wagon swung around. There was no
clang of bells to warn me, no toot of a screeching siren
—just the sudden chug of a motor, the grinding of
brakes, and a cry for me to halt.
And I did. Was the game up? I had a good story to
tell. I didn't like it of course—this being dragged in
by the cops; but most of all my appointment in the
night. I couldn't keep that now, and I always make a
point of keeping my engagements.
And the game wasn't up. A door opened close be-
side me; a figure looked out—the frightened, white
21


22 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
face of a disturbed householder. They would all be
disturbed in that neighborhood, I guess. There was
hardly a house you couldn't search and grab yourself
off evidence of one kind or another. If there wasn't
something criminal involved—why, you could find a
still, or at least a few bottles of liquor.
It wasn't exactly the open door that decided me,
nor it wasn't the man who looked up that made me
hesitate. My friend of the snarl; the lad with the
supposedly bullet-proof body had run after me, willing
to finish out our little misunderstanding. Mad with
pain and rage, he came pounding over the sidewalk.
His breath hissed like escaping steam; the moan on
his lips was like the snarl of a wounded beast.
He brought up sharply too when the police ducked
around the corner, and now he skidded slightly; made
the turn; lit straight for the doorway and the figure
who stood paralyzed with fear in the dim light.
The man in the doorway recovered slightly, but too
late. The door that he frantically tried to close was
crashed in upon him. He was knocked to the floor,
and the hurtling giant tramped over his body. As for
me, I had a little more respect for the honest and cu-
rious citizen. I jumped his prostrate form. For I
too suddenly decided to seek liberty in flight. There
would be a pretty story if I were caught. I was only
doing my duty in pursuing the man who had held me
up and threatened my life.
The cops were on the job; fearless men followed us
into the narrow hall; feet beat close to mine, and mine


A DEAD POLICE OFFICER 23
beat close on the running man ahead. He knew his
way, I thought; at least, those pounding feet never
hesitated.
There was a cry from the pursuing police, a warn-
ing to halt, and a shot; then an answering one from
the man ahead as he turned and fired. Nice little place
I had picked; the spitting streaks of orange blue flame
seemed to meet right beside me. If the boys kept this
up I'd be lucky if I only stopped a bullet coming one
way. I ducked low as I ran now, hugging close to the
wall.
There was the crash of glass, the splintering of wood,
the dimness of a winter sky and the towering dirty
tops of blurred tenements—and I crashed out into the
night. Crashed, was right. The broken, twisted door
tripped me and I landed flat up against the railing of
the frail back steps that led to the stone yard below.
The railing groaned, cracked, then swayed slightly as
I clutched for support an "upright." It held as the
railing itself gave from the force of another body. The
pursuing policeman had done as I had done; dashed
blindly over the door, caught his foot and shot for-
ward.
But he was not as fortunate as I. For he pitched
headlong to the stones several feet below. I could
hear the thud of his body and hear too the dull, unmis-
takable ring as his head struck the hard stone. Feet
pounded against wood there across the court. I didn't
see the figure of the giant, but I knew that he sought
the fence behind and freedom in the block beyond.


24
THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
As for me! In a dazed way I struggled to my feet,
slightly shaken up—too much so to pursue my foe.
Yet I must—for in that lay safety. My head cleared,
the blood rushed from it back into my body, and step-
ping over the debris on the little stoop I stopped dead
and shot my hands into the air. Fool! I might have
known. More than one policeman had followed us.
A bright light struck upon my face—there was a
gruff order to throw up my hands, and behind the
flash I caught the reflection of the brass buttons of a
New York cop. Bad men to fool with—them. I didn't
need to see the gun, for I felt it digging into my chest.
My hands just shot above my head before the gruff
order to throw up my hands was given. Then his
voice—and this time I knew the man; and what was
more, he knew me.
"Race Williams." I could feel rather than see the
lips curl, and I knew too that his body stretched for-
ward and that his flash for a second lit upon the crum-
pled heap of his brother officer below.
"You'll pay for this." I knew that his lips curled.
Sergeant Rafferty was not one of my friends. But
there was real feeling and not just vengeance in his
voice as he continued. "I've always known that you
ran contrary to the law. But I never could prove it.
To-night—" The flash trembled as it swayed from me
to the man on the stones below. "You'll have trouble
explaining that, and—"
I heard the shot, perhaps even felt the purr of the
bullet but of that one can never be certain. Another


A DEAD POLICE OFFICER 25
sound too that might just as well have been imagina-
tion. I thought that I heard a laugh; a gurgling, dis-
tant sort of a laugh, that seemed to have a growl in it—
like an animal—like the snarl of a beast. Sergeant
Rafferty broke off suddenly in his speech. His lips
smacked, followed by a queer sound deep down in his
chest. The light slipped from his fingers, and striking
my foot rolled to the stoop. Then he slumped, crum-
pled up and slid slowly down upon the broken glass and
the twisted wood.
I never liked the sergeant, but he went out as a man
should. The gun was still clutched in lifeless, useless
fingers. Even in death he didn't drop that gun. Death?
Yes, he was dead all right. His head lay close to the
flash and the rays shone full upon his face. But it was
his eyes that told the story, more so than the trickle
of red from beneath the collar of his uniform. Un-
seeing, glassy orbs looked unblinkingly into the glare.
I didn't lose my head, and it wasn't the stirring of
the man on the pavement below that decided me, nor
the hoarse calling voices in the yard next door. In
the fraction of a second I weighed the possibility of
flight and the wisdom of staying to face the music.
Sergeant Rafferty was known as my enemy. Sergeant
Rafferty was dead. What would be the caliber of the
bullet found in his head? A forty-four? Maybe!
There would be but one bullet missing from my gun
and the man who carried that bullet had disappeared
into the night. Oh, I know that there are experts who
can tell from just what make and caliber of gun a


26 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
bullet has been fired. But experts are known to favor
the prosecution, and scientific statements of denial also
are known to lull jurors into deep slumber. The police
and I don't fit in together. I didn't wish a trial; a
man's freedom often hangs on his past record, and my
past was a beaut and no mistake.
Strange, you think, that I should figure all this out
in the "panic" of finding a dead police officer at my
feet. But there wasn't any panic. There never is
with me at such a time. A man needs a clear head
then. No one had seen my face—that is, no one but
the dead police officer, and no one else was likely to
if I played the game now. It was simply a question
of finding the hole in the police lines before they dis-
covered their dead brother and spread a net that even
an alley cat couldn't get through. This was a ques-
tion of minutes—perhaps seconds, if you figure closely.
People were shouting; lights were bobbing up—a
few fear-crazed foreigners ventured from their rooms.
There was enough running around to confuse any one.
It was like a meeting of the League of Nations. Ques-
tions were shouted in one tongue to be answered in
another. Half a dozen languages filled the air like
a cheap radio set. Heavy feet trod on old boards. A
deep Irish voice called a command. Another answered
with a curse as his knees crashed a bannister.
There was only one way of escape—to follow the
gigantic figure who had killed the cop. If his passage
was blocked he might clear a way for me, but it was


A DEAD POLICE OFFICER 27
hardly possible that the street behind was already cov-
ered by the police.
With me the thought is the act. Crouching low, I
ducked down those back steps and shot across the
stone yard in the rear, toward the wooden fence. A
woman screamed; a window crashed up; a voice called
—atid looking over my shoulder I saw the burly figure
of a policeman framed in a lighted window of the sec-
ond story. One hand was placed on the sill, the other
clutched an automatic. His white face stretched out
as he tried to pierce the darkness.
There was the crash of wood as another reached the
back stoop—a cry of horror that turned almost at
once to one of rage. Rafferty had been found! The
message snapped quickly from him on the porch to
him in the window. Distant voices echoed the cry
within the building.
The white hand left the sill, a dart of light flashed
through the darkness and splashed upon the wooden
fence before me. There was a thud of heavy feet and
I knew that the giant's head had just dropped from the
fence where he had crouched, watching the play—
watching me perhaps. A desperate man that. He
had waited to get me if the police failed. Even after
murdering the sergeant, he still sought my life. A paid
murderer or one who sought private vengeance? But
it didn't matter then—I had other things to think
about.
The darting flash light shot frantically about the
little court; swept over my face on to the fence—


28
THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
hesitated and came back again. I was smack in the
light.
I heard the man in the window call; saw his gun
raise too—and I fired. I didn't try to hit him. I'm
not a murderer. But my shot was close enough to
let him know that a man in a lighted window, bent
on gun play, doesn't hold an enviable position. The
glass smashed above him, fell upon his head and came
tumbling down into the court. He fired once—wildly,
I guess, for his head ducked back from the window
and I did not hear the bullet strike; simply the crack
of his gun—nothing more. Then his head disappeared
from the window and the light went out.
Five seconds—perhaps ten—before that flash would
go into play again. That would be enough, I thought
—at least, I hoped. There was the fence just before
me, dark and foreboding, with the dull outline of the
top of it stretching along the blackness like the horizon
across the distant ocean. A bad moment then. I'd
need two hands for that fence. In the time it would
take to jump, grasp the fence and swing over I would
be at the mercy of the police behind and the killer
ahead, if he waited in the rear yard of the house on
the next block. Get the idea! When I made my leap
I'd have to pocket my gun. I'm strong, husky, agile,
and all that—but I'm no circus performer and I'd
need both hands to hop that fence. Oh, I've heard of
guns being temporarily parked between the teeth and
I'm not denying that there may be men who can do it,
even outside the motion pictures. But for me—I just


A DEAD POLICE OFFICER 29
pocketed that gun, reached the fence, made the leap,
grasped the top and swung up on it.
Just the fraction of a second I hung there, but that
fraction of a second was too much. The police had
played the game well—well or cautiously, I don't know
which. At least, they didn't dash blindly into the yard
after me. They got to work with their flashes. The
one flash was back at the window now and another
shot from the rear porch where Rafferty lay dead.
Luck! Yes, they had it, for both flashes seemed to
light on me at the same time. They just made one mis-
take—overcautious that they get the right man.
People were screaming and running about now; a
shrieking woman dashed into the yard and the police
hesitated. And that was my cue.
Then they fired; three shots came almost as one—
funny how they all made up their minds together. Two
of the shots hit the fence. One seemed to nick the
top of it where I had been the split second before—
the other tore through the thick boards and pinged
against the house. But I—I was dashing across the
yard beyond; into the little alleyway toward the next
street.
There were running feet ahead of me, I thought—
heavy feet, yet feet that struck lightly on the pave-
ment. Hard to explain, that? Perhaps. But it struck
me as if the man ahead had removed his shoes, and
now the weight of his great body was softened by the
even tread of stockinged feet. He panted too, I
thought, and once I caught the hiss of his breath—a


30
THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
whining, snarling sort of hiss. Then silence, as I
passed through the alley and reached the next block.
The street was deserted. No lumbering form ran
up or down it. Not a sound on that block, but be-
hind me came the sharp blast of a whistle and the dis-
tant shrill notes of voices. I breathed easier. There
is no forest more impenetrable, no place as easy for a
man to hide in, as the teeming tenements of New
York's East Side. I was safe!


CHAPTER III
THE POLICE ARE CURIOUS
It would be too much to hope for a cruising taxi in
that neighborhood, even at that time of night. So I
only gave a glance for one. And I didn't walk easily
down the block, like an honest citizen. Not me—I
know the ropes too well; the police methods too, for
that matter. There would be a call sent in and a dozen
men on that block in another minute or two. They'd
comb that neighborhood with a fine tooth comb. About
the other lad I didn't know, but that they wouldn't
find me there was certain.
I loped easily across the street, entered the alley-
way opposite, and keeping in the shadows passed to the
back of another tenement, through the yard behind
and so on to the next block. This process I repeated
for three more blocks. Unnecessary so much caution,
you think. Perhaps. But then, I'm a cautious man.
Since I had fled the scene of Sergeant Rafferty's mur-
der I'd have a lot of explaining to do, and I much pre-
ferred that another than I explained that little bit of
killing. Gigantic figures that waylay people on the
street and kill policemen in mistake for you, are not
the sort of bed time stories that are swallowed by the
31


32
THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
police. Lord knows they're gullible enough, without
trying to feed them that sort of stuff.
Through the last alley, dodging the last ash can, I
came out upon the open street and walked leisurely
down it toward the East River. I wasn't over four
blocks from my destination—a disreputable neighbor-
hood down by the docks. The letter in my pocket was
explicit enough—there was the street and number, and
also a description of the house—though that descrip-
tion might fit half a dozen of the shabby holes along
the water front.
As I walked along I gave considerable thought to
that letter. Was it a trap? Had the attack on me
followed quickly upon the letter? Had they been lay-
ing for me on the deserted block? But hardly that.
The panhandler or the giant could not have guessed
I'd come that way, a good half dozen blocks above
my destination. No—I had been followed. The boy
that tried to shake me down for a "flop"' had crossed
the street and ducking back waited for me.
Many wanted my life but most of them have taken
it out in feeble, half-hearted attempts at ambush. This
time things were different. I shrugged my shoulders,
broke open my gun, ejected the two empty shells and
slipped in fresh bullets. I'd clean her up when I got
home. It looked like it was going to be open season
for Race Williams. All the yeggs who made threats
against my life must have passed New Year's resolu-
tions to finish the job at once.
I dismissed the idea that the letter writer had at-


THE POLICE ARE CURIOUS 33
tempted to trap me—that I was now booked to enter
a darkened hallway and be shot down. The letter
wasn't clever enough for that—and besides, there
wasn't a penny sent in it. My enemies have single-
track brains. Race Williams was hard boiled, out for
the almighty dollar—it would never enter their heads
that I'd hunt up a case in that neighborhood without
first getting the feel of a few century notes. I didn't
think I would myself, for that matter. But business
was dull. We do strange things—and there I was.
When a thing is done it's done. So I dismissed the
incident from my mind. It wasn't the first time my
life had been attempted and I'm not stupid enough to
think it will be the last. It was simply in the course
of business. I was a bit more cautious about being fol-
lowed, that was all. And I took my time too—saun-
tered along. If I should happen to be questioned I
wouldn't gasp out my answers. After a chase like that,
a breathless man would be a suspected man.
My business is like the weather. It clears up if you
wait long enough. It's surprising what a lot of trouble
there is in the world, and it's generally people with
money who have the time to find the pitfalls of life
and drop into them. It's up to me to get the rope and
haul them out. And to-night I carried a letter—a
queer, terse sort of note; but to me there was an air
of reality—sincerity—in it. I slipped the letter from
my pocket again and peered at it under the street lamp.
I knew the address all right—but a harness bull had


34 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
suddenly popped around the comer and confronted me,
less than fifty feet away.
I could have ducked him I suppose, but I'd done
enough of that for one night and Race Williams is
often asked to explain his presence in such a neighbor-
hood. The cops get used to spotting me, and now—
well, he might have recognized me even at that dis-
tance and I didn't want to be raked in later and ques-
tioned on the murder of Sergeant Rafferty. Besides,
as I looked behind me a motor-cycle cop with a boy
friend in a side car was slowly slipping up the street.
Also the boy in the side car was sporting a machine
gun. I just caught the flash of it, but I knew those
things and know that they are only trusted in the
hands of men who know how to use them. I leaned
against the pole and waited.
The motor cycle reached me first, stopped across
the street and waited, the man in the side car leaning
far out and staring at me with bull dog ferocity. He
did it good too. I leaned against the pole beneath
the light, pocketed my letter and lit a cigarette.
There's a false impression among the police that an
innocent citizen won't notice such an attitude of bellig-
erency, while a crook or a man with a guilty conscience
will quake beneath such scrutiny. Of course it works
backwards nine times out of ten. The innocent citizen
gets nervous and blows us, while the well-trained crook
expects it and is prepared for it. And that's often the
reason the innocent bystander gets hauled in so much.
In law every man is considered innocent until he is


THE POLICE ARE CURIOUS 35
proven guilty, but in fact every man is looked on as
guilty until he is proven innocent. And you take that
as gospel from one who knows. I'm not quoting from
books; I get all my knowledge from life, and when
you get a lesson out of life it sticks.
The harness bull on the sidewalk didn't quicken
his pace. I was being given time to think. Orders
must have gone out quickly to question every one even
ten blocks away—perhaps the whole lower city. I
puffed my butt and waited. It was old stuff for me.
Would this cop know me, and if he did would it hurt
or help me? If I proved a stranger to him would he
drag me in for the desk sergeant to have a look at?
The commissioner was getting mighty particular lately
with gun fights a nightly affair in. most any section of
the city, and the killing of a policeman no longer a
national event.
I was deeply interested in my cigarette when the
heavy hand fell upon my shoulder and a gruff voice
snapped in my ear.
"I'll have a look at that letter you were reading—
now!"
"Do you know any more jokes?" I shot the words
at him without looking up, but before he could figure
out an answer I swung and faced him beneath the light.
"Race Williams," he gasped. Then as the surprised
upward curve of his mouth cut quickly down to hard
straight lines, "But that'll do you no good. There's
been mur—" He cut the word short, bit his lip a sec-
ond, decided he'd better not say too much, and con-


36 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
tinued: "Shots and you go together like ham and eggs.
I think you'd better have a talk with the sergeant."
"Had a lot of talks lately." I shook his hand from
my shoulder. It was funny how he didn't ask to look
at the letter again. He knew I knew my rights. "Of
course it's up to you to do your duty. You know my
business. I'm privately working with the law at pres-
ent. You know I have good friends at headquarters.
Perhaps, after all, you might have to do the explain-
ing." I sort of nodded over at the motor cycle cops.
"Now, Delaney, I have business to-night. Young blood
—a bad woman and worse whiskey. I won't add that
he's a relative of any one in political circles; but his
father's got the money to hire me for a job like that and
his father must have good friends. Better think it
over. Haven't you heard anything lately?"
And he had. So had I, for that matter. The whis-
pered talk of the infatuation of a certain young man for
an uncertain young lady. Besides, that man's father
was rather well connected—too well connected for
Delaney's piece of mind. That I hadn't been ap-
proached in the case and wouldn't be apt to touch it
with a ten-foot pole if I had been approached didn't
matter to me—and wasn't known to Delaney.
It was just a lie of course, but it might very easily
have been the truth as far as Delaney was concerned.
All the police read my character wrong. Not one of
them would believe that I'd turn down a case there
was money in, and that I didn't make a business of
rescuing the perverted sons of wealth, whose scanda-


THE POLICE ARE CURIOUS 37
lous and sometimes criminal escapades are looked upon
as just the acts of big good natured boys having their
fling at life.
Delaney was falling—slipping anyway. I saw the
nod he gave to the motor cycle lad, who moved slowly
away. So I pushed my advantage and added a touch
of color to the story.
"It's a thing that won't stand for delay, or the
newspapers will grab it. If that's the case I'll know
where to lay the blame. Perhaps you can slip that
blame along to the desk sergeant. He'll be willing
to shoulder it, and no doubt thank you for it." I
finished sarcastically.
"You have a tongue on you." Delaney shook his
head and smiled. "I'm not one to have anything
against your methods of business, Race Williams. I
envy you your conscience at times and wish we of the
force were allowed a little more loose shooting. There'd
be more money in the pension fund then and less wid-
ows and fewer orphans." His lips were rather grim
and I knew that he was thinking of Rafferty and the
wife and children left behind. Delaney had no doubt
picked up his information over a police box.
"They can't always hang it on you," he went on,
"and they ain't never convicted you when they did
get the evidence, but I dare say you've done for many
a man who needed a killing. But—" wide blue eyes
rested on me as a pudgy finger dug into my chest, "if
you're lying to me and have had a hand in what went
on to-night we'll know where to find you. I can't keep


88
THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
an eye on you to-night, even if I was so minded, but
I'll get word of our meeting to Inspector Coglin, up-
town."
With that final shot Delaney was gone. Inspector
Coglin was down on me. Jealousy that I had so often
succeeded where he had failed, or perhaps a real hon-
est belief that I was more of a criminal than a detec-
tive—it didn't make any difference. He had sworn to
get me—was laying for my scalp. But every time he
had dragged me in for questioning I got my story over
to the newspapers, which gave me considerable free
advertising and gave Inspector Coglin a bit of the old
raspberry. He'd let me alone lately. Vented his
spleen on me by making faces and uttering threats.
But I still followed my regular routine of business.
When I wanted a man I stuck a gun in each pocket
and went after him.
4


CHAPTER IV
WITHIN THE TENEMENT ROOM
Delaney passed from view. The motor cycle cop,
with his side kick, had long since disappeared; the
street was deserted, but I backed into a near-by door-
way and waited a few minutes. My letter writer was
particular that I be not followed. He even saw his
death if his whereabouts were known. The letter I
ran over again in my mind. The wording was simple
enough.
"If you will visit me to-night—one-thirty—at (and
here was the address) you can render me a great
service, which will pay you a great price. The knowl-
edge of certain others of your visit or my whereabouts
means my death. I have heard of you. I need you.
I can't come to you. My God! Take a chance and
come. Third floor, back hall, last door—right.
"D. D."
There's the music, write your own words. The last
line told the whole story. Sincerity there? Maybe.
Perhaps just a fear—even a hopeless sort of horror.
Nearly every week some false case was offered to me.
Mostly cheap-tricks, where the enclosed check turned
out to be no good when I tried to get it certified at the
39


40 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
bank, before paying a visit to some lonely country spot.
It was funny how these city killers went in for lonely
spots in the country. And always the message was to
come alone and secretly in the night. Still, most people
who have business for me do not have the kind of busi-
ness that can be shouted from the house tops. Black-
mail, a great deal of it. Follies of youth demanding
retribution in respectable and wealthy middle age. The
skeletons in the closets of "the best people" rattle loud-
est. Now, I was searching for a client in the worst and
cheapest section of the city. This smacked of one
who feared the law.
I beat my hands across my chest a few times and
started on my way. Another block up and a turn to
the left, and I spotted my building. A searching glance
up and down the street and I stepped inside, pushed
open the door, breathed in a few of the smells, then
shut out the winter night. But I didn't shut out the
chill—a damp chill that was worse than the bitterness
of the cold without.
A dull flickering gas light burned in the rear of the
dirty hallway. I leaned against a rocky bannister and
waited. Nothing special on my mind, but if the thing
was a frame-up, a lad from across the street might drop
over, plant himself in the hall and blow me out, com-
ing down. No, I didn't suspect a trap but I was pre-
pared for one just the same. It's not the expected in
life that means death, but the unexpected.
Ten minutes were enough. I pulled out my flash,
shot a splash of light down the hallway, then up the


WITHIN THE TENEMENT ROOM 43
was impressed, for his breath came in short, uneven
gasps. Twice he cleared his throat—after the last, he
spoke. There was a squeak to his voice like the boards
of the stairs.
"Mr. Williams?" There was an unmistakable ques-
tion in his voice. "I—" He started in again and
stopped. If he wanted to make the conversation short
and snappy I'd give him results.
"Yes," was all I answered.
"You have my letter—with you?" Then in a faint
whisper, "D. D."
"Certainly." And before he got out his request for
a slant at the paper I shoved it through the opening
and dropped it to the floor. That was the first time I
spotted the chain that held the door, for he pulled the
door back to the full play of the chain and the flicker-
ing gas light pierced the darkness. An old rocker, a
table that relied more upon the wall for support than it
did on its three legs, torn wall paper that had been
slapped back on the wall with a thick coating of home-
made paste flashed into view.
He'd have to stoop to grasp that letter where I had
dropped it. My flash was ready to shove on his face
when he leaned over. But he didn't bother to pick up
the letter. He let it lie there and pushed the door
closed. I heard part of what he said.
"It is you, of course. Such a man would not have
the letter taken from him." A slight bit of coughing,
more words, and the door closed. Then the chain
clanged as it was placed carefully down along the wall


44 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
and the door opened again. Very slowly it swung back.
Feet crossed the floor, the bed creaked again, and help-
ing the door along with my foot so that it snapped back
against the wall, I entered. It's a good many years
since some one behind a door crashed me.
A bare-footed figure in a heavy bathrobe was climb-
ing into bed—and the linen on the bed was clean. The
blankets old, but clean also. Even the bed itself, which
had long since lost its air of respectability, was free
from dust or dirt; the black scars on the white enamel
standing as grim reminders of hard years.
But the man with the thing. Those legs that dis-
appeared under the clothes were thin, trembling lengths
of bone. An arm that stretched out over the coverlet
and a hand that waved me in were skeletonlike; the
flesh drawn tightly, not soft and flabby. There were
marks on the arms, too—tiny punctures too numerous
to count, yet they seemed old ones. Then, as the
emaciated little body turned and the hand waved to-
ward me, I got a look at his face. White, drawn,
sunken cheeks—colorless lips—and far distant, som-
ber, searching, roving eyes.
Of course the thing wasn't new to me. There are
thousands and thousands of them right in the city.
One meets them every day—on the Bowery and along
Fifth Avenue—from an East Side dive to a West Side
apartment. I knew that I was looking at the ravages
of dope. From the manner in which the back of his
hand shot over his mouth before he spoke and the
furtive glance over my shoulder as I closed the door


WITHIN THE TENEMENT ROOM 45
behind me, I'd of spotted him without the telltale marks
upon his arm.
"I'm glad you came," he squeaked. "I must talk—
talk—now—some one must listen or I—"
"Just a minute." I raised my hand. I was in the
thing now. I'd have to listen to him—a wild, fanciful
story, no doubt. And perhaps it wouldn't do any harm.
The warmth of the room felt good, the cleanliness of it
was surprising, and the closeness of the two oil heaters
that burned in opposite corners was not so stifling as
at first. But I'm not the kind of story book detective
who sits down, lights his pipe, folds his arms, and clos-
ing his eyes gets ready to digest a chestful. I wanted
to have a slant about that room. There was ample
space under the bed for a man to hide; also there were
cheap calico curtains that hung to the left of the bed
and close to the musty window that was closed tight
and plugged up around the edges with bits of paper and
cardboard.
Haunted eyes followed me as I looked under the bed,
and guessing my purpose his other hand came out
empty and rested on the coverlet—but I kept my eye
on him too as I looked behind the curtains. Just a
glance—some clothes there and nothing more. I
spotted books too, the titles of which made me kill a
whistle of surprise. And there was no closet in the
room—not another place to hide a cat in. This lad
was there alone—unless he had some one tucked into
bed with him, which, as I have two eyes, wasn't likely.
His smile was a weird, fantastic affair as I turned


46 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
back to the bed and stood looking down at him. He
sure was a mess, and yet his face had been a good one
—a delicately formed hand twitched at the blankets.
I'd let him begin, though already I was sorry I had
come. "Got to have a million dollars by Thursday—
Wednesday I don't need it and Friday will be too
late," was already forming on those lips, I thought.
Here was a sample of the very dregs of humanity.
Still, out of the jumble I might get something that
would serve me later. He had lived with the gang;
deserted by them now, no doubt. Snowbirds have a
way of hearing things—being treated by the big guns
as so much stuffed furniture. But our snowbird was
talking; gulping it, coughing it and squeaking it out.
"I thought you'd come. That was the first part of
my trouble—to get the letter to you without any one
knowing." A longer gulp. "A friend did that for me—
a friend whom I can trust, for he'll forget so soon—
though with me, I'll never forget. It's so like a dream."
He stopped there and eyed me. What he read in my
face couldn't help him any. But I was there to listen,
not to talk. Once, by listening to the prattle of a child
of four I caught a murderer. The thin man in the bed
went on hurriedly.
"You have heard of Daniel Davidson. That is I."
And I sat the straighter. "Is I" had slipped out so
naturally, so unconsciously, it staggered me. I wasn't
expecting that sort of English, even after spotting some
of the books. But now my head half turned, and the
gilt letters of Thackeray and Dickens and even the dry


WITHIN THE TENEMENT ROOM 47
Macaulay glared dimly out at me. But the name
Daniel Davidson didn't make me lie down and roll
over. I'd never heard it before. Why he didn't pre-
tend to be John D. or the President or the Prince of
Wales I couldn't tell. In a hazy way his voice got
over to me.
"My father was D. Perry Davidson. I am his only
son. You see, in youth I lived with my mother in
London. My father married again—but in his will he
left me everything—everything. He had made that
will before my sister was born." A pause—I lowered
my eyes and looked at him. His listless gray eyes
were glaring up at me. "You don't believe me. You
don't—you couldn't—but you'll believe this when I
tell you. Look at me—and here, look at this." His
hand shot beneath the pillow—a bit of newspaper
flashed into his fingers, then was crushed in mine.
While the man breathed heavily I spread out the paper
and looked down at the picture. There was a resem-
blance between it and the man upon the bed—nothing
more. But the caption beneath it was interesting.
Thomas Henderson—escaped convict. Five feet,
four inches—dark hair, dark eyes, weight a hundred
and twenty-four pounds. Escaped prison, March 7th,
1926. $500 reward.


CHAPTER V
THE OPENING DOOR
I lifted my eyes from the paper. Everything but
the weight might fit the lad upon the bed, but then it
would fit a dozen other men. Here was the old story
of the wronged convict claiming his own.
"This you?" I asked, tapping the paper.
"Yes," he nodded. "See how I trust you—one word
and I'd go back to those walls for twenty-five years."
"And the crime?" I fingered the soiled paper.
"Murder."
"Of course you were not guilty." I thought that I
said the expected thing. This lad might be snowed up
enough to start parading the street in his night shirt,
crying for justice.
"On the contrary, I was guilty." And his voice was
very calm and very grim now. I saw his fingers close
too and the slender, sharp, polished nails bite into thick
flesh. There was a red flicker of blood on his lower
lip—then his lips parted.
"I think," he went on, "that this will be your strang-
est story—your greatest hope of reward—and the right-
ing of a great wrong. Not for me, perhaps, for my real
48


THE OPENING DOOR
4.9
identity means prison, and prison means my death. I
am not big enough to die, even for a great cause—I am
afraid of death. And yet the complexity of what I tell
you is built on its very simplicity." With that he
broke straight into the story, and I listened. Not that
I believed it. But he told it well, and beyond doubt
the man had an education.
"I was ten, my sister five, when my mother separated
from my father. I would have chosen my father, but
the choice was not mine. She took me to England with
her. It was her hold on father's money that she thought
of, for she left my sister. I recall my father's hand
upon my shoulder—the look in his eyes when I left—
the final words when he kissed me. 'Some day you will
understand and come back to me.' And I did under-
stand—but I never came back. My mother needed
me. She was a weak, thoughtless woman—God for-
give her—and the man that she left my father for was
little short of a beast. He dominated her life and mine.
She died—I would have sought my father—then came
the war—the months in the hospital from gas—and
finally the word of my father's death."
A long pause there; the flicker of blood again on the
lower lip, and again polished nails straining against
tightly drawn palms. He would just clutch frantically
at his hands, the nails tearing the skin—but no blood
came. There was not much blood, I guess. I'm not
one for sympathy, but I stretched out a hand and
tightened it on his wrist. I understand such life, and
after all this thing was real enough to him. So I let


50
THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
him ramble on; there were several hundred thousand
involved. I laughed to myself and denied it as rot.
But underneath it all was the semblance of truth. It
was a story so fantastic and strange that even a snow-
bird couldn't have created it all. And the strangeness
of it was what made it ring true. Get it as he gave it.
"My father's brother came to London for me, for I
was sole heir—and, after many years, I was to see my
sister who would be twenty-three then—that was 1925.
I never fully understood that trip. For some reason or
other it was necessary to put up at a cheap hotel along
the water front when we reached New York. I regis-
tered under another name. The name on that paper—
Frank Henderson. The explanation, I can't remember
—there was champagne, a celebration; a girl and a
fight—a gun in my hand, another gun in the hand of a
stranger—and I killed him. I think he was to kill
me."
"You imagine that. You didn't really kill him. It
was a frame-up and they got—"
"No, no—I killed him. I remember that too well.
The crime is mine. I was arrested. A lawyer was
there—they said they would arrange it all. My
father's memory, my sister's life—and I was convicted
under another name and drew thirty years in prison.
Even then I didn't suspect. Even when my life was
twice attempted within the prison wall. They were
working for me outside, I was told, and I would
be free. Money would do it. Money would fix
everything. Money — money — money. Cursed


THE OPENING DOOR
51
money!" And his head went into his hands and
his hands went down on his knees.
"At last I could stand those grim walls no longer.
I threatened to speak out—disclose who I really was—
spend my own money in obtaining the best legal talent.
They sent a little lawyer to see me who told me that a
convicted murderer's money went to the state; that if
I spoke out my sister could not inherit the money I
would leave. It was a lie, of course—but I didn't
know then. I was told that I would be free.
"They planned my escape by having me brought
from prison to testify in a case, but they planned my
death with it. A girl saved me. It's all too long to
tell. For me to tell the truth now will mean prison
again." He jerked his head suddenly erect—his eyes
flaming, his cheeks flushed, his lips pale whitish lines.
"To go to my uncle will mean my death. To lie idly
by will mean the robbing of my sister. I don't want to
die. I don't want to go back to prison. I can't. I
can't stand it." He fairly shrieked the words. "Yet—
I must face my God and my father, having protected
my sister."
"Does she know all this—and your mother—your
stepfather? What of them?"
"My mother is dead," he said again. "A broken,
sickened, maddened woman. Like Macbeth's wife, she
died. My stepfather—a drunken brute who dis-
appeared in London when the money my father gave
my mother was spent—a beast who beat me as a child
until I lay a helpless heap upon the floor. I see him


52 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
yet—his flaming eyes, great hairy hands and—" Again
the head into his hands and again his cry. "Great God
in Heaven, I am little better than the beast I feared.
My nights are torture when I think of my sister. I can
no longer hide the truth—yet—yet I fear to tell the
truth. Here—" He turned sharply in the bed, and
like a dog pawing for a hidden bone, dug into the mat-
tress. A moment of hesitation, a sudden gulp of fear—
then a hasty snatch, followed by a sigh of relief—and
he faced me again.
"I got it— I thought for a moment—but no mat-
ter—name your price—name your fee and see the
trust I put in you. Take it; keep it." He thrust a
crumpled envelope into my hand. "Use it when I'm
dead—for I have not the heart of a man now nor the
blood of a son and brother. It is the truth—my will too
—time it took—secret it was—one witness—a hopeless,
dragging, dope-crazed creature—but he could write and
he is a citizen—born here in the city, you understand."
And he began to laugh as I shoved the envelope into
my pocket. "Your word not to open it while I live.
Her address—my sister's—on the envelope. I threat-
ened them with that—first, a letter begging for help
or I would seek you—then, threatening them—or him
—my brother's father—my uncle—the lawyer—all.
And if my sister is dead, that will avail them nothing;
they can't touch my money when I'm dead." He cut
off suddenly, coming bolt upright in bed and staring
over my shoulder.
"I see him now—Raphael Dezzeia—my stepfather


THE OPENING DOOR
53
—the snarling lips—the great teeth—those hands—
those hands—see—see—Raphael—my mother's hus-
band." He clung suddenly to me like a frightened
child, but his bony fingers still pointed and his weird,
wild, searching eyes glared past me at the door.
Involuntarily I turned, and the hand that patted his
back as I might have patted a dog swung to my pocket.
For the face and eyes and great teeth and hands may
have been an illusion. I didn't see them. But cer-
tainly the knob of the door had clicked, was turning
there as I lifted my eyes from the jabbering, frightened,
broken thing that was called a man and watched the
door. Slowly—very slowly—yet very surely that door
was opening. I jerked loose now and came to my feet;
my hand clutched the gun in my pocket as I backed
behind the other side of the bed, where I could watch
that slowly opening door and also the man upon the
bed. Nothing to fear from him, you think. Maybe
not. Probably not. Almost certainly not. But I'm
not of a trustful nature. All the great actors are not
on the stage—besides, when I'm shot down I expect
the coroner to find the bullet in my chest, not in my
back.
Expectant, we both waited. He was looking for his
stepfather, and I—well, one thing was certain—if this
stepfather, this Raphael Dezzeia, did pay a visit after,
all the years he'd be less messy than usual. He wasn't
related to me, you see, and I had little to fear. If the
dear, long lost relative tried any of his beating-up tricks
on me—why, the undertaker could pour him back in


54
THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
the bottle. So we watched the door—his eyes fright-
ened, wandering, and pleading up to me. Mine, steady
and ready for anything. But I didn't intend to cow
our visitor with a look—I leave that to detectives to
frighten women and children with. My finger caressed
the cold, hair-tuned trigger of a forty-four, and I have
yet to see the man that can frown a gun down.
Whoever was at the door was an expert at soft entry.
There wasn't a sound as the door slipped open, far
enough to admit a body—then it stopped, and I
changed my position. I got the idea that some one
might be playing Little Bo Peep through the crack.
But I said nothing. It wasn't my game. Whoever
opened that door intended to come in. If some one
wanted my life or the lad's upon the bed, surely they
didn't expect to get it by giving us pneumonia with the
draft.
So we waited. No sound from without—no sound
from within but the deep breathing of the man upon
the bed. He was doing his stuff like an old lady with
the asthma—and the worn door hung half open, and
the cold wet damp and the musty smells of the hall and
the winter night combined, drifted into the heated
room.


CHAPTER VI
THE GIRL OF THE NIGHT
Generally I let the other fellow play the cards and
just follow suit myself or trump when I can. But now
I couldn't wait. I was afraid. Afraid for the lad upon
the bed. His sunken cheeks had taken on a deathlike
gray and his eyes, still blazing, had sunk far back into
his head. His chest rose and fell and his heart beat
like the town clock. He was the sort of a bird whose
heart would just give a final jump up, forget to come
down in time to catch the next beat and stop altogether.
I had been standing alongside of one dead body already
that night and I didn't want another. So I spoke out.
"You, behind the door," I snapped the word, "come
in or I'll put a —"
And I didn't get any further. A voice came from
behind that door—and believe me, it was no step-
father.
"You have company, Danny—I suspected as much
—and I know, for Old Tim told me—Old Tim talks."
And she came into the room. A slip of a thing, with a
little hat that hid most of her hair, the strings of black
just peeping out below the tips of her ears. Beautiful?
55


56 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
No. Pretty? Certainly, in a sinister sort of way. I'd
of spotted her any time. I knew the type. A girl of
the night. She shot those snappy black eyes up at me
—frankly hostile she was, and was willing for me to
know it. And when she closed the door behind her she
locked it, hurried across the room to the bed, staring
angrily at the man in it a moment, shook her hand at
him, started in to rag him for something—then broke
off with a pitiful little cry in her voice, and the next
moment had crushed that emaciated body in her arms.
She was crying too—sobs she tried to gulp down, but
they came just the same. Here was real emotion, from
one who was used to crushing the feeling of her inner
being.
"You"—she cocked her head up at me like a bull
pup—"why did you come and put him like this? Why,
he could—he could— I know you, Race Williams—
now go—go—he's mine and I'll take care of him—and
protect him too. Why don't you go?" She jumped
from the bed and stood before me, her little hands
clenched.
"Easy does it." I looked steadily down at her, and
then to the man. "Who is this girl? What is she to
you?"
The girl jumped me again, but the man reached out
a hand and gripped at her coat. His voice trembled.
"You mustn't mind, Mr. Williams. She don't under-
stand. She fears—fears for me. Look at her, poor
child. She's the girl I told you of—who helped me


THE GIRL OF THE NIGHT 57
from—from them." He half glanced up at her. "It
won't be long now." He turned to the girl. "Mr. Wil-
liams will help me—we'll go off somewhere for a long
time—then when it is forgotten and things are cleared
up—why, I'll take my own place in the world and
you'll no longer have to work so hard, but live like a
lady—a real lady. See, Mr. Williams, the haunted
look in her eyes—poor child—poor child." And his
weak, trembling arms sought to draw her down to him.
Poor haunted little child, eh? Some imagination
that. A hunted look in her eyes maybe; a shrewd, ap-
praising look, as one who is used to meet with and
tackle the abuses of life—but nothing haunted in her
eyes. A determined, hard, cold, calculating face—yet
"in it all the doubtful, frightened look of a mother
chicken who watched her young. She patted the boy
who clung to her as she steadily regarded me. Hardly
more than out of her teens in actual years, but her soul
had lived a century.
Davidson whispered to her. Motors, yachts and
great houses drifted to me occasionally as I stood look-
ing down at them. I was willing to leave. Here was
the talk of a millionaire, or the ramblings of a snow-
bird all hopped up. You could take a look at this lad
and you wouldn't need more than one guess to draw
your conclusions.
"Of course, of course." The girl finally untwisted
herself from his arms. "Mr. Williams believes and
will help you—and now he will go, for you need your
rest, Danny."


58 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
"Yes—yes." Danny stretched out a hand toward
me. "You'll remember—you won't forget—won't think
I'm a poor distracted soul who through the ravages
of the drug contracted in prison—but now forever—
See, she smiles at you—Milly likes you—that is good—
for Milly doesn't like every one—hardly any one."
And he patted her hand and held it to his lips. Did
Milly smile? Perhaps. Her lips did, at least I think
they did. Thin lips parted and showed even, white,
well kept teeth—but her eyes didn't smile. Not by a
jugful, they didn't. They watched me, hard and cold—
and bitter too, I thought. Not with fear—here was the
type who know little of fear—either physical or moral
—just an uncertain, animal doubt and watchfulness of
danger.
I took the bony hand of the man, dropped it and
stepped to the door, turned the key and opened it. The
air in the room was bad now. The oil mixed in with
the other odors; the damp smell from without struck
me full in the face. I shut the door behind me and
stepped into the darkened hall.
Light feet crossed the room within, a hand gripped
the door knob. I could feel it twist in my fingers.
Just locking the door, I thought, as I moved down the
hall. Then I stopped; the door had opened, the light
illuminated the filth of that hallway. The girl stepped
through, partly closing the door behind her. Once she
stuck her head back in, and I heard her say:
"I'll tell him it's all the truth—but never worry—
I'll have you out of this hole in a—" The door closed,


THE GIRL OF THE NIGHT
59
until just a dim thin sliver of yellow ran its length, and
a hand gripped my sleeve.
"May I speak to you a minute, Mr. Williams—it's
about him." Faintly I felt more than saw a little
white hand shoot into the air and a thumb jerk through
the sliver of light.
I nodded, then remembering the darkness, answered,
"Yes."
"Down here then." She gripped my arm, and half
dragging, half leading me, we stumbled along the dark-
ened hall to the dirty window in the rear. Through
the glass crusted with years of dust dimly came the
outline of a distant sky and the bleak worn buildings
of the block behind.
"I don't want him to hear," she explained. "What
did he tell you?"
"Not much." If she wanted to talk to me, I was
willing to listen—but if she wanted me to talk to her,
that was a different story altogether. I remembered
the hard, unfriendly eyes she had put on me. So she
started in.
"He spoke of money—his inheritance—a sister—
great wealth?"
"Considerable wealth—yes."
"You didn't believe it—believe him?"
"Isn't it true?" I evaded the question.
"What else did he tell you?"
"Not much."
"Anything?"


60 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
"About what?"
"Prison—for instance."
"Yes—prison, for instance," I repeated. "Isn't it
true?"
"Of course it isn't. How could it be? Look at him
—don't you understand? He's suffered—his mind
wanders at times—but he'll come around all right.
Forget to-night. Forget him."
"Do you think he should be sent away?" I tried that
vaguely—just the hope of seeing how she'd take it, I
guess.
"Sent away—him!" Little fingers bit into my arm.
"No—never—never—he'll be all right now."
"And you—you question me. What are you doing
here? What are you to him?"
"Why—I am his life." I jarred back as she shot
the words. There was a sincerity in them all right.
But why did she follow me into the hall? Did she
think for a moment that I believed such a wild yarn?
Was she simply a poor distracted girl? No, she wasn't
one to go into a panic—there was some truth in the
story. But if there was, why didn't she want my help?
Why wasn't she glad to get it? Did she think that I'd
betray him or—? But she was talking.
"You understand his—his condition?"
"Snowbird." I nodded.
"Yes." And her voice was so low that I hardly
caught the word.
"All hopped up to-night?" Somehow I wanted to


THE GIRL OF THE NIGHT
61
stir her up. It hurt her to hear that word. "That's
why he talks money—too bad." Then more slowly as
I heard her quick intake of breath. "Snowed upl
Bad!"
"No." It just broke from her. "Don't say that. I
can't say that—because it's not true. He has been—
but he's cured—it's that which ravages his body—
plays queer tricks on his mind. But he don't touch
the stuff—not now. He promised me—swore to me—
and he wouldn't lie—not to me. He couldn't. I'd
know—and—you don't think he touches it!" A change
there. A pleading in her voice—a desperate sort of
pleading, and the hands had slipped from my arms to
my shoulders—her face palely dim in the dismal light
from the distant sky on the blurred glass.
"I don't know. I only listened to you—you said
it." I shrugged my shoulders. I'd be glad to get away
from the whole drab business. The dregs of life are
passed lightly over in a book or in a police court, for
that matter—but here—when I faced it I didn't like
the taste of it so well. I'm hard boiled all right—
none more so, I guess, and I've seen so much that my
heart is petrified to a granitelike hardness. The weak-
ness must be in my stomach then, if you can call it a
weakness. But she was speaking again.
"You'll forget it all then—your visit here—and he
didn't give you anything, did he?"
Here was a direct attack and I didn't like that. She
suspected that envelope then—maybe wanted it back.


62 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
Of course I could have lectured her on the ethics of
my profession; gone into a long discourse on the con-
fidence between my client and myself. But I didn't.
I just lied to her. It came easier and saved time.
"He gave me nothing," I said.
"No—" There was enough of a catch in her voice
to let me more than suspect that she knew that I lied,
but she didn't seem to mind and I certainly didn't.
"I'll be going then." I lifted the little hands from
my shoulder. Maybe she worked hard, for the hands
were rough and coarse, with a smoothness at the heel
of the palm—leaving the impression that hard work
was new to her. "Of course," I added, "none of the
story is true?"
"No." Then a sudden grab at me and a voice piti-
fully low. "About the money, I mean. The prison
part—well, that's true. I've got to tell you so you'll
not—" and a flood of words, so fast it was hard to
follow them—pleadings and threats all mixed in to-
gether. "You won't betray him—what good can it do
you? Poor, mishandled, ill-treated boy! They'd take
him back—you won't—" A pause. "If you did—if
you did—I'd kill you." And she didn't hiss the words;
didn't shoot them out in uncontrolled anger or with
the threat of an hysterical woman. Very slowly she
let out the three words. Empty talk? Maybe. But I
got the idea that she meant it. Yep—I believed her.
Then she grew frightened.
"There's a price on his head—I'll pay that—all of


THE GIRL OF THE NIGHT 63
it—perhaps later in a big lump—at the worst in small
weekly amounts—say, five dollars—maybe ten. Trust
me—believe me—you'll get the money just as if you
gave him up to the police—more even, for I'll—"
"Lay off, kid." I gave her the talk she'd understand.
"If I can't help a client I don't blackmail him. That's
the difference between a Private Investigator and a
Private Detective." I stopped—a voice was calling
from within the room—plaintive, whining, cracked.
Parts of it only drifted down the hall.
"Raphael—the beast—him—hairy hands." A mo-
ment of silence while we listened. "Milly—Milly—
Milly!"
"There, you see." She spoke as if she blamed me
for it. "I'll have to go to him. Be kind and generous
and—" Then suddenly, "He didn't give you an en-
velope?" s
I didn't lie to her this time. I didn't need to. The
cracked voice within the room was calling loudly now—
a disturbed roomer cursed and pounded on the wall.
The girl left me—fled down the hall and into the room.
The light for a moment—the frightened, childlike voice
of the man and the answering, soothing notes of the
girl—darkness and the click of the key—and silence.
I stretched out a hand, found the bannister, ran my
fingers along through the dust and followed the unseen
trail to the head of the stairs. Dimly from below came
the dull flickering glare of the single gas jet. The
tenement house laws requiring a light on every other
*


64- THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
floor didn't disturb this landlord. A wealthy, drunken
man at his club, perhaps, who couldn't tell offhand the
number, or even the street the disreputable building he
owned was on. And I didn't blame him overmuch.
I'd try to forget that dump myself.


CHAPTER VII
THE GETAWAY CAR
This time I didn't bother with the flash as I went
down the stairs and I didn't bother so much with the
creaking boards either. The next time a lad sent for
me in that tenement I'd make him ship me a gas mask.
The air was good as I busted right onto the street; a
single blast and a deep swallow of it was like a course
dinner with champagne.
And what had I received for my trouble, I thought,
as I buttoned my coat tightly about me. Nothing but
bad smells and the wandering talk of a drug addict
who wanted to take his girl friend bye-bye on powerful
steam yachts made from drifting dreams. Funny—I
wasn't mad and I didn't laugh. There was something
appealing about the boy on the bed—the education in
his voice, the few books of a past that was no doubt
filled with promise—and now; dope and prison and the
dregs of life, with fruitless hopes and imaginary fears
of the future.
The girl—yes, I sized up her anxiety. She loved the
boy or thought she did, which for the time being would
amount to the same thing. Something to mother and
65


66
THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
protect—the instinct of womanhood that is found
among the rich and the poor, and even the woman of
the night. The rich take it out on a dog, the poor on
the children, and those of the underworld on some
worthless man. Worthless; I didn't know about that
—the boy appealed. If I were a philanthropist, per-
haps I'd dig down in my pocket and send him away to
a hospital which was supposed to cure the unfortunates.
Then I'd puff with pride and strut about and get my
clergyman to preach a sermon about me, and never
stop to think that the money I gave the boy was being
used to bribe the attendants to furnish him with dope.
No—there's only one cure and that's manhood; a will
power which is so seldom built into the racked brain of
the weakling who becomes a sleigh rider.
And the girl? She was simply possessed with the
fear that I'd send him back to jail. No—there was
nothing in the thing for me. I'm not a charitable in-
stitution—so I stuck my hands deep into my coat
pockets and turned down the street. What of the dead
policeman? What of my alibi if I was questioned on
that bit of shooting? I cursed the dreams of the boy
and the hard-headed suspicion of the girl that put me
in such a position. I remembered the cop who had
questioned me a half hour before. Yes—I'd have to
seek a telephone and fix that alibi. I belong to a high
class club and I have a waiter who'd swear to anything
for me. As to my chauffeur—well, before I got hjald
of him and straightened him out he'd done a term for


68 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
was thin and cheap and that the winter night bit
through.
The street was deserted; one more hasty glance up
and down and a quick jerk of her head back over her
shoulder and she was down the street toward me and
the avenue beyond. She didn't exactly run—it was
sort of a walking, jumping motion as she stuck close to
the buildings. A suspicious gait that time of night,
which of course had its disadvantage for one who did
not wish to attract attention. But it was also a hard
gait to follow; to pursue a speeding figure is easy
enough, to shadow one is not so simple—almost impos-
sible in the city streets. Was it that the girl didn't
fear the law? Was it that she thought some one might
shadow her, or was it that she was just in a hurry and
didn't bother about either one of the reasons?
Well, I'd chance it—follow her at a distance. That
bobbing head that jerked so often back over her
shoulder would spot me all right. But she couldn't
recognize me at that distance and there was the chance
I might keep far enough behind her not to be seen at
all. But what did I want with her? What was the use
of following her? She was a dead issue as far as I was
concerned, and there was my alibi and the—
My head shot back into the alley. Just in time, too—
another was taking an interest in the girl. A man who
leaned far out of a doorway down the street and on the
opposite side from the girl. I needed good eyes to see
him—just the whiteness of his face framed on the
motionless outline of two shoulders. Like a statue he


THE GETAWAY CAR
69
was, so steady, so intent upon watching the girl. Yet,
he too hesitated to follow her.
She reached the corner and disappeared, and I still
crouched in the alley. The man stepped out upon the
sidewalk; a hand dove into his pocket; a match flashed
for a moment and a white face bobbed up between
cupped hands. Then darkness again as the man saun-
tered up the street, paused opposite the tenement and
crossed the street. He stood looking up at the build-
ing and puffing on his cigarette. Twice he moved to-
ward the entrance and hesitated. Once he turned down
the street in the direction the girl had taken and again
he hesitated. Elbows akimbo, hands on hips, he waited.
There was the whir of a motor down the street. The
man before the tenement and I turned our heads to-
gether.-' We both saw the approaching car. I looked
back at the man in time to see his figure disappear into
the hallway. A couple of seconds later a touring car
with top down jerked up at the curb. There was no
grinding of brakes, no squeak of old worn mechanism.
Yet, the car was a relic. From the outside of the body
alone you'd of thrown it away ten years ago. Still, the
machinery was kept in good condition—brakes well
taken care of, even if the engine did miss a beat as it
panted by the curb.
It was the girl, of course. She hopped from the front
seat, dashed into the tenement—and I ducked from the
alley in time to hear her feet pounding on the stairs.
Now, where did I fit into the picture? Certainly there


70
THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
was the smell of sick fish in the whole business. Should
I protect the girl? Was she in danger from the man
who lurked some place in that hallway? I thought not.
He had seen her come from the house and hurry down
the street. The street was deserted as far as he was
concerned. If he burned with the laudable desire to
knock her on the head he had his chance.
I'd wait. After all he might simply be a friend of
the girl's. She feared the police would find Danny;
here was the lookout maybe. A little too well dressed?
Perhaps. But the boys on the Avenue were getting a
bit flashy to-day. One couldn't tell. Anyway, I'm no
Sir Launcelot; this game wasn't for me. I'm not out
to defeat the ends of justice—rather, the other way
about. Still, I waited and listened for the girl to cry
out, telling myself it wasn't my business, but knowing
all the time that I'd duck into the tenement, crash the
boy who was bothering her and see the kids safely
away. Away? Certainly. The car was there at two
o'clock in the morning for a single purpose. I know
life well enough to know that the battered touring
that stood so innocently against the curb was the get-
away car.
It was a cinch that the girl felt their hiding place,
or at least the boy's hiding place, had been discovered.
Was it the man who had lurked across the street she
feared—or did she fear me? And had the man across
the street seen me duck into the alley? It was very
dark there and I doubted that. Still, he may have


THE GETAWAY CAR
71
watched for me, missed me, and was waiting in the
hallway to warn the girl of my presence.
Silent? Yep, one always thinks the night so dread-
fully silent until you try and listen through it. Noises
pop up you never suspected. Somewhere far distant
an elevated train rumbled by—almost overhead it
seemed when I wanted to hear something else. A ship
tooted on the river and the chug of a smaller boat came
clearly to me through the nipping clearness of the win-
ter night. But not a sound from the stillness of that
house and I was close against the entrance now; braced
on the iron railing ready to drop into the alley or vault
the railing and dash within. I hate waiting—mainly
I'm a man of action.
Five minutes passed, I guess—maybe it was only
two minutes. I don't know—and the footsteps came—
steady, light feet; then uncertain feet—feet that stum-
bled. I didn't need three guesses to know that my first
thought was right. This was the getaway car and the
girl, Milly, was bringing Danny down those stairs. A
lesson there, though there was none to get it unless that
figure lurked behind the stairs. Here was a young
man, hardly more than a boy—and his feeble step and
his jerking body told their story. Was it just weak-
ness; the environment and association of the big gray
walls, or—?
The door of the tenement jerked open, banged back,
and I dropped to the alley, my knees bent to deaden
the fall as I snaked along to the steps and in the pro-
tection of the stones a couple of feet below the side-


72 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
walk level, watched the pair come slowly down the
steps and laboriously cross the sidewalk toward the
waiting car. "Pair" was right! The lad who had
slipped into the hallway was not with them—not a
friend then. One who watched them—or—just an-
other product of the night who lived there and who
watched for other things.
The girl dragged the man toward the car and I saw
that she wore no cloak now, but that her thin coat was
wrapped around his shoulders.
"It's so cold—so very cold." Danny mumbled the
words. "It would be better to stay here and—wait
and hope—rather than—"
"No, no," the girl cut in. "They shan't get you. I'll
have the money. Come!"
"What was that?" And though his teeth chattered,
the man got the words off loud enough. Clear too—
high pitched, with a ring of fear in them as his frail
body straightened suddenly and he stood erect there
on the sidewalk.
"Nothing—nothing." The girl dragged him forward.
But I saw her glance over her shoulder. She was not
far from the street lamp now and there was a look in
her white face that would not easily be forgotten. Her
eyes blazed and her cheeks showed chalky white as a
little hand shot to the pocket of the sweater beneath
her jacket.
"Bear up, Danny. Bear up." There was a hopeless-
ness in her voice as the man semed to slink there in her


THE GETAWAY CAR
73
arms. "They shan't get you—shan't ever get you.
Why—oh, Danny!"
And Danny was a pitiful mess; flopped like a drunk,
he had—his knees on the sidewalk. His voice quiver-
ing, he pleaded up to her.
"If I just had a bit—the tiniest bit—never again—
Milly—just this once—just this once. I've always kept
my promise—but the cold and the street and the dis-
tant sky—just the tiniest bit."
He was crouched there a miserable little heap at the
girl's feet. It was up to me to give her a lift. But I
didn't—not yet. What of the man who had gone in
at that doorway and hadn't come out? What of a
trap? What if a blazing gun poked from the dirty
doorway and Race Williams was stretched out to give
Inspector Coglin an appetite for his morning meal that
he hadn't enjoyed in years? So I waited.
The girl's head was jerking frantically up and down
the block as her left hand dove into the little bag that
hung by a strap at her wrist. There was a flash of
paper in her hand, an eager whine from the man at her
feet, and the paper was back in the bag again.
"No, no," the girl cried. "I can't! I can't! I
can't! Come! Come!" And she bent her little body,
clutched the man beneath the arms and dragged him to
his feet—to feet that wouldn't hold him.
Even I couldn't stand it any longer. I'd keep an eye
on the doorway and give the girl a hand. Not that I
liked the girl or trusted her. I remembered too well


74 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
the way those eyes rested on me. But I gave her credit
for pluck. She loved that poor ravaged, broken body—
hoped to pull him back and— My head popped sud-
denly down in the protecting shadows of the alley
again. Dim lights were speeding down the street.


CHAPTER VIII
THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
It was a taxi, but a long, low, powerful cream-
colored affair. It hadn't reached the curb, hadn't
stopped, before the man was out of it. A huge, power-
ful body with long arms and massive hands that swung
from side to side, reaching nearly to his knees. I didn't
see his face—it was buried deep in his coat. But as he
jumped from the closed car the slouch hat was knocked
from his head and I saw the thick mop of hair, the
high forehead and the wrinkles of coarse skin. It was
the bullet-proof boy. Green eyes gleamed like a cat's
in the darkness as he dashed toward the helpless boy
and the girl who had dragged him to his unsteady feet.
I don't know if they heard him running over the
pavement. His feet were shod with rubber this time
and there was just a soft patter, like the tread of a
heavy animal. But they heard him before he reached
them, for the youth, Danny, let out a low moaning
cry that would freeze your blood. The snarl that he
had given back there when he was after me earlier in
the evening was nothing compared to this. Like a
beast? Yes, there was no doubt of it this time. Clearly,
75


76
THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
but low and whining through the night came the snarl
of the beast.
And he was on them. Oh, the girl was quick. She
saw him first, for she was facing that way, and her
hand shot to her sweater pocket like lightning. I
didn't need to be told that the girl was going for a
gun—and where there was fear in her eyes there was
a courage too and a steady, quick determination to
match lead against those hairy hands that were stretch-
ing out for the boy.
She'd of had him, too. Bestial—madness—that
snarl? Maybe. But there was method in it just the
same. Whether the lumbering giant used it with a
purpose, I don't know. But it wasn't just melodra-
matic. If it was used to strike fear, it served its pur-
pose well. The girl was not to be cowed by mere noises
—weird, uncanny or otherwise. She had lived in the
underworld, knew death—expected it and was ready.
Her gun was in her hand and sweeping upward; a good
two seconds ahead of the hairy hand.
But the boy! When the girl let him go, he half
slipped back to the sidewalk, his head twisted around
on his shoulders, from whence the sound had come,
paralyzed with horror. But when that snarl came
again, it gave him strength—a strength built of fear,
for himself or for the girl, I don't know—but a terrible,
deadly fear just the same. He didn't see the girl's
gun—didn't see anything but those stretching hands,
those flaming eyes and twisted snarling lips. But it
was of himself he thought.


78 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
besides, I hadn't forgotten that there had been a driver
to that taxi, and also that man who might still be lurk-
ing in the dark hall of the tenement.
No—I just stretched up my hand and brought the
barrel of the gun down on that thick mop of hair.
Strong, powerful, proof against lead? Maybe. I don't
know. But there was that single crash followed by a
crack. The' giant's hands fell to his sides and he hit
the pavement like a stockyard steer. No surprise to
me, that. I expected he would. Believe me when I
tell you that wasn't any love tap.
He had the beef and strength all right. The blow
was fit to split his skull open, yet he squirmed upon the
sidewalk, wiggling and sprawling, his great hands
clutching at the empty air and his fingers grotesquely
opening and closing.
I swung quickly, my gun ready, for I had heard the
fall of feet. The lad had come from the taxicab. I
half raised my gun as I looked at his hands. They
were empty. A stupid thug, this, or a frightened one,
or just a real taxi driver after all. But I stepped for-
ward, ordered him back to his cab in no uncertain tones
and had a look in the back of the taxi. I didn't in-
tend to have any one else bobbing up on me. You
couldn't fool much with these chaps; murder was right
in their line.
The cab was empty. I turned quickly, keeping the
driver before me. The rumble of a noisy engine
reached me. There was a chug and a gasp and the roar
f.


THE SNARL OF THE BEAST 79
of a speeding motor as it ate the gas, missed once,
nearly died, then raced quickly. You've guessed it;
that girl had dragged Danny into the car, stepped on the
gas, and now as I looked, a badly and quickly shifted
gear clanked before it meshed—and the car was away.
The hulking brute still writhed upon the pavement
but his clutching hands could reach nothing because
nothing was there. The girl had even copped her gun
before she dragged the boy into the car.
Would I follow them? A quick dash and I could
easily swing on behind that old touring before it got
fairly started. But what of the lad upon the sidewalk?
Nothing to fear from him maybe. Then what of the
taxi driver? Suppose he put a bullet in my back the
moment I turned it to him. And also what of the
stranger who had gone through the tenement doorway?
That last question was answered for me. The
stranger came from the doorway; a fleeting shadow
that dashed to the middle of the street and started in
pursuit of the old touring. It was a close run, that—»
the man was quick and light upon his feet, but the old
car was gathering speed and it looked doubtful if he'd
make it. I could have stopped him, of course—a well
directed bit of lead would have done the trick. It
wasn't my conscience that stopped me from plugging
him in the leg, ducking into an alley and letting the
sprawling figure on the sidewalk explain the bit of gun
play.
There were two other reasons that I held my fire.
In the first place the man in the car wasn't a real client


80
THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
of mine. In the second place I didn't know how the
lad stood who pursued the car. He might be a friend
of the girl's who was protecting their retreat and now
joining with them in flight. Also you can add to that
the fact that he hadn't made the car yet.
With that final thought he made it. A last desperate
plunge, a frantic leap forward, his feet dragging on the
street—and I saw him clutch the spare tire on the back,
hang so a moment, then pull himself up and into the
circle of the rim. Two things flashed through my head
at once. Would I turn over the tough giant who
writhed upon the sidewalk and get a look at that face
of his for future reference, or would I let him go and
follow the girl in the car and find out just how the
man on the "spare" fitted into the party? If he wanted
to take a life as badly as the hairy handed beast had,
he could easily brace himself on the tire, shove his
shoulders over the back of the opening touring and
plug the boy beside the girl. The hallway had been
pretty dark for sure gun play.
And I decided. Things were ripe for pursuit. The
taxi driver had climbed back into his car and was
furtively watching me as he slipped the gears into first
speed, preparatory for a getaway. That was fine. I
opened the taxi door, climbed into the back, and shov-
ing my gun against the driver's spine gave my orders.
"We'll follow the car ahead," I snapped. "Keep
close to it, too."
"I ain't in this, Mister." There was a growl in his


THE SNARL OF THE BEAST 81
voice which changed to a tremor as I dug the nose of
my forty-four a little deeper into the generous flesh
of his back.
"You're in now," I told him. "If you lose ground,
you go out and I drive on. Come—snap into it I"


CHAPTER IX
A PRETTY BIT OF SHOOTING
The car sped up the street. I liked the hum of it
as it raced through second into high. Here was one
taxi tuned up to do its stuff. At the corner we turned
and shot uptown. The figure on the back of the tour-
ing was hardly discernible in the darkness; crouched
there so close into the tire it might have been an old
rug or something. Just our curb lights were lit. I
didn't want to advertise his presence to any passing
cop any more than he did.
Of course he'd guess that we followed him after a
bit; perhaps he might even recognize the car in a pass-
ing light. But he might also think that Hairy-Hands
was in it or that the driver was alone. Provided, of
course, that he was in with the enemy of the boy and
the girl. That was something to think over. I'd decide
that on his later actions. Most likely he'd climb over
the back and join them. At present he might have the
desire to join them and warn them, but lacked the
physical strength; to be sure he'd had a tough run and
would need to regain his breath. I'd await develop-
ments.
82


A PRETTY BIT OF SHOOTING 83
And the taxi started to slow down. My gun went to
work again.
"Do you want to get tossed out?" I asked.
"You wouldn't throw me out of a moving car,
Mister," the driver whined. "There's something wrong
with the motor. I noticed it earlier in the evening,
before that lad picked me up." And as my gun tight-
ened into his flesh, "You wouldn't throw a man from
his own car—I might break a leg."
"Don't worry about your leg." And the tone of my
voice brought his head the straighter and put more
speed into the car. "The fall won't hurt you. If I
drop you from this car, old boy, you'll carry a bullet
in your back before you ever touch the pavement. You
may be an innocent, law-abiding citizen but you're
mixed up with some tough babies now, and I'm not the
gentlest of the gang. Speed her up or I'll bump you
off."
Did I mean it? But what of that? There was only
one person who needed to be convinced, and he was.
Lips smacked and teeth clenched, but the car gathered
speed. We were running about thirty and holding our
own. The car ahead was playing it safe. Neither one
of us fancied being stopped by the police. I nodded my
satisfaction. I always liked to play the game outside
the law. I was probably the only one that night who
could, under ordinary circumstances, stand a police
investigation, and if the truth was told, I wasn't crazy
about any such proceeding.


84 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
The car ahead was naturally suspicious or the girl
or boy had looked over the back of the lowered top of
the open car. The speed suddenly increased, the car
turned down a side street, slipped across town, shot
into Fourth Avenue and lit straight toward the Grand
Central station at Forty-second Street.
The man with the gun talks! So my driver held his
peace and kept the nose of his car pointed a half block
behind the old touring. The picture remained the
same. I leaning over the back, covering the driver
and peering over his shoulder at the dimness of the
tail light ahead and the shadowy form crouched close
into the center of the spare tire. My driver was a good
one. It was a cinch he was used to trailing other cars;
maybe with a bunch of thugs hanging on the running
board with drawn guns; maybe again just an innocent
victim of Hairy-Hands, as he now was of me. You
can take your choice. I had my opinion, and at his
first wrong move some undertaker would come in for
an unexpected Christmas present.
No traffic cops were on duty at that hour of the
night—or rather, morning. But at Thirty-fourth
Street a blue-coated figure turned from trying a door,
and coming to the curb peered after the fleeing touring.
It was possible that he got a glimpse of the man
crouched behind. At least he was suspicious, for he
stepped quickly out and hailed us as we passed.
And that was all of that. My gun ran a tattoo up
the driver's spine and we jumped forward, tightened


86
THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
car ahead, his eyes straight before him—glued to the
road. And we took another turn, over to Fifth Avenue;
a quick slant at a light or two in the upper floors of the
Plaza Hotel, and into Central Park.
That was bad. If the lad on the spare tire was
bent on murder, here would be his opportunity.
Deadly dark in the Park; few cars there at that time
either. He could easily climb up over the back, plug
the youth, Danny, and drop from the rear of the
car and disappear in the bush and trees when the
girl slammed on the brakes. That was only a thought,
of course, but a mighty good one. If he wasn't a
friend of theirs, which seemed sure now, certainly
he didn't hop on the back of the car just to go day-
day at two-thirty in the morning.
Nothing to see now but the dull splash of a tail
light ahead, and the duller outline of the car near
an occasional lamp. Central Park really should go in
for murders. It's built for the job.
The touring didn't slacken its speed but its shadowy
form seemed to be ducking and jumping from one
side of the road to the other. Had a tire gone flat
on it and was it hard for the girl to control the
wheel? I tried to stare through the darkness. Was
it imagination, or in the dull glare of a dim lamp
post did I see that figure on the back gripping the
lowered top of the car—struggling to climb over the
back? I'd have to chance our headlights.
"Throw on the bright lights, fellow." I gave my


A PRETTY BIT OF SHOOTING 87
driver a playful dig in the back with a bit of iron.
"They don't work—bulb's dead." The words sort
of stuck in his throat, and I don't blame him. I'd
take very little of his nonsense. Did he too see the
figure climbing over the back of the car as it jumped
from the left to the right, seemingly staying on the
road with great difficulty?
My gun slipped up his back until the cold nose
picked out a warm spot on the back of his neck.
He spoke before I did. He said:
"If you don't believe me, lean over and try the
switch on the dash." And when my gun bored deeper
into the flesh, "You don't think I'd lie to you at a
time like this, Mr.—Mr.—" His voice faded out
there.
"Williams"—I helped him out. I'm always strong
for the etiquette of the occasion. "Race Williams—
and I don't care if you're telling the truth or not.
But—if you've been careless about the efficiency of
your car to-night—why, it's your hard luck. I'll
count three—and expect to see brights. If the lights
are still out, then—so are you. One—"
"Great Heavens! you wouldn't shoot a man down
in cold blood."
"If you're curious to find out, wait until Three,
Two—"
"I—" And he lost his nerve. A hand shot down-
ward and the brights snapped on. Just in time, too.
Smack on the back of the car ahead they lit—that


88 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
madly careening touring that was dashing back and
forth across the road like a helpless ship in a storm.
But I didn't notice that. It was the figure on the
back. I was right; he was climbing over the tour-
ing. At least that was his intention, for his feet were
braced on the rim of the tire—a hand gripped the
lowered top and the elbow of that hand rested on
the top. But it wasn't that which brought my gun
sharply up, directed through the smudgy glass of our
windshield full on that wobbling car and the figure
that clung to the back. It was the thing in his hand.
Dully against the white of his fingers I caught the
outline of a big black automatic. He was ready to
use it too. For the arm of the hand that held the
gun was already swinging upward, and his head, had
risen over the back.
It was our flash which made him hesitate and turn
his white face back on us. But that would be only
momentarily. A drawn, pasty, evil face glared blink-
ingly into our light. Wide, thick lips were partly bared
in surprise. We could see him plainly but he couldn't
see us. And then, when no toot came from our horn
and no shot broke the stillness of the night, he figured
we were friends and turned back again.
I fired of course—but too late. My bullet crashed
harmlessly through the top of the taxi. Nerves?
Hardly. A laugh in that thought. I haven't any.
My driver had suddenly thrown up his right hand and
knocked my gun arm into the air. And as he did, the


A PRETTY BIT OF SHOOTING
89
boy on the back of the car poked his gun over the
top. That would be the end of Danny, I thought, as
my left hand shot out and crashed against the driver's
ear. Fool! he was struggling for my gun. And now
our car was doing its stuff crazily about the road.
Our lights swung of course and were now illuminating
the dead trees and deader grass.
"Pocket that gun or I'll wreck the boat." The
taxi driver screeched the words at me as his right
hand tried to shake the rod from my grip as he held
my wrist. With his left hand he clutched at the wheel,
guiding the car back onto the road and the lights
landed full upon the touring again.
Of course I lowered my gun. I didn't want a wreck
then and what difference did it make? For as my right
hand dropped the gun into my pocket, my left hand
came quickly up with its mate. Simple, that. Simple,
the driver, and—
We saw it together, I think—just as my left hand
took the place that my right had held and the driver
gained control of his car.
The man on the back was ready—well up on the
lowered top, drawing a bead when it happened. A
hand just shot over the back; there was the flash of
nickel, a glimpse of wide black eyes and the white
face of the girl of the night—Milly. After that the
deluge, if you wish to be one of the literati. There
was the darting stab of yellow, the dull roar of a shot
above the motors, and a screech like that of a wounded


90
THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
bird. The man clinging to the top seemed to stand
upright a moment. A hand clutched at his throat and
as the car swung across the road he spun suddenly
and crashed to the ground. The girl was able to take
care of herself, you can kiss the book on that.


CHAPTER X
THE FACE BY THE WINDOW
The thing was simple enough, I suppose. The
events accounted for the swaying car. The girl had
turned the wheel over to the almost useless Danny,
climbed into the back of the car, knelt upon the rear
seat and plugged her enemy. A horrible, terrible
deed, you think. I don't know. One hates to see a
girl mess up the public highways with a bit of well
directed lead. But really I couldn't hold it against
her. It was a pretty bit of work and no mistake.
This youth, if he lived of course, would never more
believe that ancient stuff about the helplessness of
woman.
I had other things to think about. We weren't
over twenty-five or thirty feet behind the touring when
the shooting took place. It seemed certain that we'd
run over the body in the road. I braced myself for
the jar—the jar that didn't come. This driver of mine
had some sense of decency after all. He swung the
wheel hard over—missed the inert form at the side of
the road—tried to swing back again when something
happened. The steering knuckle, I guess—anyway,
91


92
THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
we shot off the road, through some heavy bush, and
taking another curve careened madly for the thick
trunk of a towering tree.
It wasn't until then that the driver reached for
the emergency brake—and too late. We shot to the
right, almost missed the tree but not quite. The
front fender was ripped from the car as if it was
cardboard, the right front wheel tried to climb the
tree, and I flung open the door and jumped for it
just before the car turned over on its side and lay
on the patch of grass beneath the winter sky.
There wasn't so much danger to it. The taxi hung
before it went over. Then laid down on its side like
a gigantic animal seeking rest, its two blazing eyes
shining across the open park and onto the stone wall
along the sidewalk. A dying grunt, a gasping throb—
and silence. Then the lights went out and I saw the
driver climbing from behind the steering wheel and
pushing his way through the broken glass.
There was the distant throb of a motor, the grating
chug of a motor cycle, and turning I ran across the
open, ducked to the left, found the bare hulk of great
trees and carefully made my way across the park. I
didn't know if the man at the wheel stayed to explain
the accident, but if that cruising motor cycle cop had
come a couple of minutes earlier he'd of gotten a real
story to plant down on the police blotter.
I chuckled a bit too as I made the distant road
and later the stone wall that runs along Central Park
and the Park itself. The girl had gotten clean away.


THE FACE BY THE WINDOW
93
A plucky, yet desperate little thing. Just the instinct
that has been handed down through the ages. She was
fighting for the life of her man and wouldn't hesitate
to shoot down another to save him. Talk about her
life and her mental condition and her environment
and loss of God's greatest gift—womanhood! But
give the Kid credit just the same. I couldn't see any
harm in the girl. The man on the back of the touring
sought the life of her man. He got what was coming
to him. If ever a lad needed one good killing, he was
the boy. I'm sorry if I appear hard boiled or cold
blooded, but I couldn't get a sympathetic kick when
that would-be murderer tumbled to the road. I must
admit that I'm strong for a little loose shooting against
loose thinkers. There may be laws of the state or
of the government that aren't so good, but the laws
of God and man can't be improved upon. Them that
live by the gun should die by the gun, is good sound
twentieth century gospel.
A few thoughts too as I slipped along the wall,
found a gate and came out of the Park like a gentle-
man who couldn't sleep and had taken a bit of a walk.
Cold? Man! Florida with all its hurricanes would
look good when you got a shot of that Arctic wind
along the broad thoroughfare known as Central Park
West. Like most of the great city, they were still
working on the street—and will be until the end of
time, I guess. That sort of solves the problem of the
unemployed in New York. The only lad out of a


94. THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
job at that time was myself. Did I have a client or
didn't I?
I tried to figure that out a bit. Some place there
was truth in Danny's story. Certainly he was a jail-
bird; the girl agreed to that and he made no attempt
to appeal to the police. What was his trouble then?
For I greatly doubted that fairy tale of the inherited
fortune—it fitted in too well with his drawn, sunken
cheeks and punctured arm. But this is the civilized
era, we must remember. Anything can happen, from
the shooting down of a policeman on a black back
stoop to the slaying of a district attorney of a big
city with a Gatling gun parked in an automobile—
or a bit of a hold-up of mail trucks in broad daylight.
That's what I go by. If I have any rule pertaining to
my profession, that rule is: anything can happen
to-day. Nothing is impossible.
Still, it might all run into a simple bit of blackmail.
This jail-bird, Danny, might have information on a
gang; something that they thought would let them
sleep easier if they gave Danny a first-class funeral.
They couldn't slip information about him to the po-
lice that would send him to jail, because if they did
he'd open up and talk. Again, who was head of the
gang? Hairy-Hands—with the snarl of the beast?
The Snarl of the Beast. Food for thought there.
Danny had hung that line on his stepfather. How
true was it? Did Danny actually believe all he told
me or was he framing up a story to get my interest
and protect him against these birds who wanted his


THE FACE BY THE WINDOW 95
life? No—one thing I was certain of. Danny may
have been lying, but unconsciously. He believed every
word he told me.
And the girl! Surely she wasn't working against his
interest by telling me he lied if he didn't. I had
thought that at first, but since she had dragged the
helpless man from the tenement, escaped in the car
and then shot down the lad clinging to the back, I
couldn't believe it. No; she'd die for her man. She
just thought I'd be sore when I found out that there
was nothing in it for me and that I'd be out to collect
the reward for his return to jail. Not flattering to
my vanity, that thought, but natural just the same.
She lived with crooks, understood their ways, and no
doubt held their beliefs.
To them I was a man who'd railroad his own brother
to jail or even shoot him down for a few dollars. And
that's what I wanted them to believe. I never had rail-
roaded a man yet. I may have been to blame for
some birds taking a long stretch, or even roasting in
the chair—but they deserved it. As far as shoot-
ing a man down—well, they could believe that because
it was true. When a man goes gunning for me he
takes his chances. I guess—
And I decided to quit guessing. I'd had a big
night—a yawn now and the realization that I was
ready to hit the hay—and there along the street was
my house, less than a half block away.
It's in the lower Eighties that I live—and I'm up
those brownstone steps, key ready to slip into the


96 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
lock—when I stop dead. Two things catch me at
once; my eyes and ears are working and both are re-
warded. Through the thick curtained glass high up
in the heavy wooden door I see the flash of a light.
Just a dull waving flicker that climbs quickly down
the wall in the hall, leaving blackness behind it. Al-
most with the flash of light a car speeds by the house,
and as I turn and look out onto the deserted street
a siren shrieks its warning to the emptiness.
Queer that. Three o'clock; a vacant thoroughfare
and a warning horn. A party of youths tooting their
defiance to prohibition? Maybe. Probably! But I
shook my head. The light inside, my sudden arrival,
and the blast of the horn. Too many coincidences. I
don't believe in coincidences; they're not conducive to
long life and liberty.
I'm not exactly a careful householder. But I had
dismissed my chauffeur, Benny, earlier in the evening
—also, I never leave lights burning. That flash in
the hall might have been the blowing of the curtains
from the library and a neglected light shining through.
Might have been—but it wasn't. It was an electric
torch held in some one's hand. It wouldn't be the
first time I had visitors in the night.
My first impulse was to silently unlock the door,
snake in, shove a gun through the curtain and sweat
some information out of my early morning visitor.
It's easy enough to make these lads talk. I have most
persuasive ways. Not pretty or heroic, but after all


THE FACE BY THE WINDOW
97
it's results that count in life. You can't make ketchup
without busting up a few tomatoes.
But I didn't obey that impulse. The shriek of the
siren in the silent, respectable street made me slip the
key into my pocket and let a gun take its place. I'm
a man of action but I can think occasionally.
My first thought was that the car had waited down
the street for me and that the driver had warned his
friend within, that I was coming home. That would
mean one of two things. The prowler in the library
would either drop from the window into the alley, or
facing the curtain put a bullet through me as I came
in the door. But the light—I stretched and looked
again. Plainly I could see it under the curtains—
not much, but a dull steady glare just the same. This
lad invited trouble—looked for it—hoped for it—and
what's more he'd get it. I turned again, and sticking
my head out the vestibule, cast a couple of searching
glances up and down the street. It was as empty
as a congressman's head.
Not a sound from within the house—not a breath
stirring in the alley. Just the clear, windless, biting
cold of a winter's night. But for the far distant, hardly
audible rumble of the elevated train, the silence of a
lonely forest lay over that section of the city. Slipping
off my shoes I laid them with my overcoat in a corner
of the vestibule; then crouching low I crept down the
worn front steps. The hard stones were like blocks of
ice and bit through my thin socks, but the fingers of
my right hand sought my jacket pocket, and warm


THE FACE BY THE WINDOW
99
sweater, to know that here was a species of the letter
writers that kept cluttering up my mail with threats.
I couldn't see his hands, so I couldn't threaten him
if he heard me. Once that head turned—once those
gimlet-like eyes that were staring steadily through the
tiny slit in the curtains before the window turned
toward me, he'd have to take his medicine. I couldn't
tell what his hands held. He knew the game he was
playing when he started out. I shrugged my shoulders
as I slipped cautiously along. The funeral was his, not
mine. Was it another of Hairy-Hands' friends?
Surely they were bent on finishing the job.


A MASKED VISITOR 101
It was up to me to slap this lad away from the window
without letting the friend within knOw that there was
a change of plans. I looked back down the alley to
the sidewalk without, the deserted street and the dull
glare of the light on the pole across the way. Then
I stepped closer to the silent shadow on the barrel,
slightly to his right. He had a lean to starboard, so
to speak. That's how he'd fall.
The light within flashed suddenly, leaving the man's
head in blackness—then it came back again. Hit his
face dully for a moment, and slipping by him shone
past me and onto the high wooden fence along the
alleyway.
I stepped suddenly back. Just involuntary, the mo-
tion was. No one could see me from the vacant house
behind, and my house jetted out slightly near the
front, hiding me from the sidewalk. There was no
sound of my feet on the cold pavement. The light
struck on me for a moment only and the man's back
was to me. But something warned him of danger.
Just instinct perhaps, or the slightest reflection of my
shadow in the glass. I'll never know which—and I
doubt if the lad on the barrel would either.
He started to turn his head, slowly, doubtfully,
fearfully, too, maybe. I have had the feeling of being
watched myself at times—nothing tangible, you un-
derstand, and no way to explain it. It simply comes
from living close to death. And that man by the
window was never nearer to death than he was at
that moment.


102 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
If he had swung with the gun I'd of plugged him
sure. But he didn't. Just his head was turning, in
slow sharp jerks, like the mechanical store-window
figures at Christmas time. Maybe he saw me—maybe
he didn't. It doesn't matter. One look I got at thick
lips, flat nose, and small, mean little eyes. Then I
jumped forward and struck—not frantically or hur-
riedly, with fear of my life if I missed. I wouldn't
miss; I knew that. It was all old stuff to me. Just
one question only. How would he fall, and could I
catch him before he and the can clattered into the
stone alley, warning the lurking figure within who was
making so free with my library?
The man on the barrel knew the danger, for the
thick lips opened to cry out; the hands that held
the gun swung quickly; dull little eyes snapped—and
that was all of that. A lurch forward, a swish of air,
and the barrel of my gun crashed home just behind
his ear. Nothing to do then but catch him as he fell.
A right obliging lad he was, too—fell pretty, clutching
tightly to his gun as his knees sagged and he toppled
into my arms.
A bit heavy at first and some steadying to keep the
barrel from going over with him. A minute later I
had him on the ground, nicely rolled against the side
of the house. No need to listen at his heart, no need
to take his pulse. When I do a job I do it well. He
would be bye-bye for some time; the little birds would
be warbling in his ears.
I frisked him of course. A gat and a rather service-


A MASKED VISITOR
103
able looking knife rewarded me. I pocketed them—
the shot gun I slipped behind the ash cans in the back
of the house. Everything was rosy, and using the
unconscious man as a step I climbed upon the bar-
rel to take a look—see in that window myself. Just
a glance—nothing more. If that lad didn't mind be-
ing a target for some one on the outside, I'm a bit
more particular.
One stretch on the up-ended ash can; a quick eye
to the slit, and I knew I had plenty of time. The flash-
light was on the floor in one corner of the room; no light
struck the window now so my position was not a bad
one. And such a room! Every book was out of its
shelf—my safe hung open, with the papers scattered
around the floor. Dimly, in one corner I spotted a pair
of heels, but the owner of those heels was too close to
the side wall by the window to be visible.
Now, what would some one look for in my house at
three o'clock in the morning? And who would have
nerve enough to take such a chance? I'm not con-
ceited, you understand, and I'm only stating plain facts
and not boasting when I say the thing was almost
suicide. Besides, there would be nothing to find.
Crooks have done it of course—gunmen have entered
and searched my house in my absence. I never keep
anything home—my safe is always open and no servants
are ever present. Once a servant I had was tortured in
an effort to get information and since then I've come
down hard on any one I found in my house. The law
was behind me there and I didn't hesitate to take- full


104 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
advantage of it. Now—I set my teeth grimly as I
climbed from the window. I'd see that this prowler
carried a message to the underworld of the city. Race
Williams isn't one to play fast and loose with.
This time I came in by the back door; a well oiled
lock made no noise as I slipped into the kitchen, and
without bothering to switch on a light passed into the
dining room which was directly behind the library. The
hour was late. I needed sleep and no cheap crook was
going to keep me up all night. I guess their plans had
been well enough laid. It's my way to bust right in on
a party. So—the lad by the window, who would shoot
me down when his friend was discovered. Now that
that little affair had blown up, I'd clear things up in jig
time.
One glance through the curtains of the dining room
was all I took. A little figure in knickers knelt close
to the window near the flash, which was jacked up on a
stack of books. And the figure bent low over other
books—opening them—shaking them and tossing them
into a corner—looking for something besides literary
knowledge between those covers all right.
The gun too; I spotted that. A foot or so away, upon
the floor—a classy, pearl-handled affair but a deadly
serviceable weapon just the same. I stretched out my
left hand and snapped on the light. A book hung in
mid-air as a checkered cap straightened and narrow
shoulders hunched suddenly. Then the right hand crept
out along the floor toward the gun—a delicate, white


A MASKED VISITOR
105
little hand that was in tune with the slender ankles, the
slim waist, and the delicate lines of the neck and
shoulders. Here was a woman—a girl, and she was
reaching for a gun. Was it my girl of the night? About
her build. But, no; the thing was impossible—almost;
impossible anyway.
"Leave it lay." My words shot out crisp and sharp.
The fingers hesitated a moment, scratched upon the
floor, then sought to move forward again. She was still
kneeling on the floor with her back toward me.
"Madam," I said, very steadily but shooting the
words fast enough to stop those itching fingers before
they closed upon the pearly white grip of the revolver,
"if you have any desire to leave my house alive, drag
your hand back to your side."
Fingers hesitated; stopped entirely and went back to
her side.
"You—you* wouldn't shoot a woman." Her voice
was very low, very steady, and without a tremor to it.
"I don't know for sure," I told her, truthfully
enough. "But you make another grab for that gun of
yours and we'll both find out. I'd look pretty running
around and letting any gun-toting moll who wanted to
make a hit with her sweetie take a shot at me. Now—
come up! To your feet! Turn around and let me get
a slant at you." It was a cinch this wasn't Milly.
The voice was different; though there was an unnatural
ring to it too.
She came slowly to her feet and I saw that she had


106 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
a good three inches on Milly. She stood so, with her
back to me a moment, then swung around. A checked
cap covered most of her forehead; the rest of her face
was hidden by a jet black mask. It didn't just cover
her eyes and nose but hung down over her chin. There
were two narrow slits for her eyes and a generous open-
ing for her mouth. I could see the redness of her lips
faintly, but the whiteness of her teeth clearly shone out.
She faced me as stiff and as straight and as steady as
a soldier on parade. Nothing of the novice in this
girl. Young, she seemed; but old at the game—like
Milly, I guess. Or was there a tenseness about her
body—a stiffness that was unnatural? One thing was
certain; she was not just a distracted woman, searching
for some letters which she might have thought I had.
And I passed my hand to my inner pocket where
Danny's letter lay.
The graceful carriage of her body, the littleness of
her hands, and the soft notes of her feminine voice
made the plain black mask a ghastly thing indeed. Oh,
I've seen lots of such girls in my day and expect to see
lots more, but I never quite get accustomed to them.
With men it's different. They shoot and you shoot—
and the undertaker gets the laugh. It's just everyday
business.
"Well—" she was the first to speak. "You've caught
me, now I suppose it's the police." And with a toss of
her head, "but I won't wait for the pinch. My visit
was a fool one. I've taken nothing. Men don't shoot
women, and I—" She half turned and edged toward


A MASKED VISITOR 107
the door. I thought that her lips curved into a smile.
"You see, I count on the weakness and chivalry of the
sex. It's rather unsportsmanlike, isn't it?" She was
almost by the library door leading to the hall. I smiled
grimly—what confidence she had. How often had she
played such a trick and gotten away with it? This time
it wasn't going to work. I just let the confidence ooze
out all over her as I stood back in the shadow behind
the lamp.
"You must play the game as you have learned it," I
told her slowly, "and so must I. I don't know about
turning you over to the police—there would be no
thanks for me there. And don't count on your friend
outside the window." And as she moved again, and
this time stood directly in the doorway, I came forward
leaning across the table, my gun slightly lowered and
laying a straight line on one of those shapely legs.
"One step more and I'll ruin a perfectly good pair of
stockings." Did I mean it? Don't make me laugh. A
fine story that dame would have to carry to the under-
world. Why, every lad who had a girl would send her
gunning for me. When the coroner picked me up later
he'd think I was doubling for a sieve.
It wasn't pleasant. I didn't like the idea but she had
too much of a start on me to make a grab for her—and
besides, the table was between us. But most of all it
was the psychological effect. If I let this girl put her
bluff over on me, the reputation for absolute ruthless-
ness that I had established along the Avenue would


CHAPTER Xn
POUNDING FEET
The girl wavered there in the doorway. My gun
was steady; so were my eyes—and there was a grim
tightening to my lips. She smiled at first as she looked
at me through the slits in her mask. I could see her
teeth flashing—then the whiteness disappeared, leaving
only a straight line of red through the black. She
bent forward, peering intently at me. I heard the quick
intake of her breath, saw the twitching of her fingers.
Twice her mouth opened, disclosing the white teeth
again before she spoke—and now her voice was lower,
and for the first time her words shook.
"You—you—" She clutched at the woodwork for
support. "You are—are Race Williams. Yes—I
know—you would shoot, of course. What are you go-
ing to do with me?" There was a hopelessness to her
voice now. The self-confidence was gone. See what a
reputation is worth!
If she were acting a part she did it well. She wanted
to leave me the impression that she hadn't known who
I was before.
"You came to my house for what purpose?" I asked
abruptly as she walked slowly back into the room.
109


POUNDING FEET
111
Her words rang true enough, but too many things had
been happening for one night.
"Take your flash, raise the window and look below,"
I ordered.
Mechanically she obeyed me. Over her shoulder I
stared down at the coarse, bloated face of the un-
conscious man. In a way it was familiar—the sensuous
mouth, the plastered nose, and the rat-like eyes. A
typical killer who for a few hundred dollars hunts down
a stranger in the night. Too bad I hadn't shoved him
over. If ever a lad needed one good killing that was
the boy.
The girl gasped, jerked back, her little head bumping
against my chest. One hand clutched at her throat, the
fingers of the other involuntarily folded about my wrist
as she half turned. She knew him, I thought, but she
was surprised too. Why? To see him stretched out
like that? I chuckled softly.
"He's dead?" she murmured, her hand running up my
arm and fastening on my shoulder.
"Stiff as a mackerel." I lied. "He can't harm you
now. Let me have the story—and then the door. I
won't lay the police on you." If she'd tell me the truth
I'd make a bet that I had a case after all—and a good
one. Why the desperate, repeated efforts to take my
life—and at once?
"But I don't know anything—why he was there."
"You know him though." I tried to peer down
through those slits—did I catch a distant sparkle of
wide, staring eyes?


112
THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
"Yes, I know him. It's Jake Minely. He'd of killed
you too. He's dead—and that's right and good—but
death always unnerves me. Funny!" And her laugh
jumped up and down my spine. "I live so close to
death, have seen, and even— Don't—please don't."
She almost screamed the words, for my hand had
stretched suddenly out and jerked off her cap. Blonde,
bobbed hair clung close to a white forehead. My fingers
were searching for the strings that held her mask when
she cried out, tore herself from my grasp, and seeing
that I was between her and the door, backed into a cor-
ner of the room, climbing over a jumbled mass of books.
One thing was certain; this girl wasn't Milly. The
same build perhaps; the same ethics maybe; but more
class to her—more dog, if you get what I mean.
"Come, young lady." I was losing patience. "You
don't think you can enter a house, search it thoroughly,
plant a killer at the window to shoot me down, and then
play the frightened heroine because I want to look at
your face. I'm going to see who paid me this visit and
I'm going to have you tell me why. I can't handle you
as I would a man maybe, but I'll give you one minute
to open up with the whole story. If I believe it you
go free, if I don't"— I shrugged my shoulders—
"there's the police." I glanced toward an old clock
above the fireplace.
"You're a hard man, Race Williams—you're bitter
and cold and cruel. It is useless for me to talk, for
you won't believe me. Yes, I know the man below the
window—why he was there I don't know. I came for
V


POUNDING FEET
something which I understood was in this house. I
did not know it was your house." And with a sudden
toss of her blonde head, "But I'd of come anyway.
More, I can't tell you. I believe that you are being
dragged into a case where for once your ready gun and
brutal actions will not help you. If you let me go we
may meet again—when it is possible that I can help
you.
"Oh—I know your reputation. You need not
threaten. I know you never bluff. I have heard stories
about you that make me tremble even now. But I
shan't talk no matter what you do—I've told you all I
can—all I dare. I am helpless in your hands. If you
wish to see my face I know that you will see it. But if
you see my face now—a face that will do you little
good—you will make an enemy of one whom you may
need as a friend. For you are marked for death."
I don't know when I'd been so flattered. True—
yes, and that's why I was alive to-day. But down in
my heart I knew that only good had come to others
through bad of mine. Marked for death, was right.
I bowed mockingly to her.
"I have no friends and many enemies; one more will
not matter. Perhaps, as you say, I cannot make you
talk—that we shall see later. But I can and will have
a look at your face. Will you lift that mask or will I
take it off? At least I will know my enemy when I
face her again." I stepped forward; the books now
held the space between us. It was not a pleasant task
but a necessary one. Business is business. I'd be a


114 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
pretty detective if I escorted every lady who felt like
robbing my house to the door and assured her that the
window would be open again any time she wished to
return and convince herself that it held nothing of value
to her.
This time she did not draw back, nor crouch low
against the wall. She stood straight before me. Her
eyes were blue and foggy—but steady, I thought. Cer-
tainly they rested full upon mine through the thin slits.
And she folded her arms across her chest. A pretty
picture—straight as a whip. "Outraged Womanhood"
was the sub-title. It brought a smile. She didn't speak.
Then I saw her lips tremble—her head sort of droop.
She knew the game was up. I leaned forward, raised
my hands toward the mask—and she did it.
She leaped suddenly over the books and into my
arms. I had to put an arm about her to steady myself.
At first I thought it was a desperate effort to make her
escape. But it wasn't. She had lost in her attempted
appeal to the fear of making her an enemy or the hope
of making her a friend. Now she was playing the game
that woman had played for centuries. A good game
too, I guess. Most of my clients have some such stories
to tell.
Her arms just went about my neck—her head rested
on my shoulder, tightly pressed down so that the mask
Was against my chest. She didn't sob—there were no
tears on her cheeks—but she clung tightly to me. There
was a fragrance to her hair too—not just the freshness
of youth. I felt sorry for her, I suppose. I have a


POUNDING FEET
115
heart as well as the next fellow; but I have a head too.
She couldn't know the truth—couldn't guess that she
was wasting her time. My life has been a mixture be-
tween the rich and the poor, the famous and the in-
famous; a social hash, so to speak. This girl didn't
know that a Russian princess once clung to me like
that, and that a now famous actress had pleaded with
me, on her knees.
I half held the girl there. I wanted to let her do her
. stuff—there's the reading of character in that. How
bad was she? What would she do to gain her liberty or
protect her identity? But certainly she feared what I
would see. Why? Would it connect up somehow with
the past—an unfinished case, or—I smiled. For all the
impression the proximity of her lithe young body made
on me, she might as well have been a drunk hanging to
a lamp post. Hands sought my cheeks, eyes searched
mine. But if she intended to vamp me, she changed her
mind—or the smile on my lips changed it for her.
She gave me a shock. Had I figured her all wrong?
There was nothing of the woman in her actions now;
the vampire of Kipling—or the flapper of to-day.
"Mr. Williams—Race Williams." She was shaking
me by the shoulders as she talked, her words coming in
quick, spasmodic jerks. "I wasn't always bad. I have
been dragged into a terrible net. Won't you believe me
—spare me—not lift my mask? I'll never do anything
to harm you; perhaps lots to help you. You've seen
people who wanted to be good, dragged into the bad."
"But I'm not going to harm you." I felt sorry for


116 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
her and all that, but I wasn't going to let anything she
said or did interfere with my plans. The more she
wanted to keep her face hidden, the more reason I must
have for seeing it. There was something big back of it
all. I'm not just a brute. But see her face I would.
"I'm not going to broadcast your identity. You
needn't feel alarmed." I tried to reassure her, half for
the benefit of the girl, half for my own peace of mind.
It isn't pleasant to maul a woman. Women mean noth-
ing in my life. Some old mummy has said, "He travels
farthest who travels alone." That's me. Venus de
Milo or Cleopatra herself couldn't switch me from my
purpose.
"Very well." She raised her head suddenly, her chin
resting on my chest, the slits glaring up at me—the red
lips slightly parted through the black and the white
teeth gleaming bright.
"I'm a thief—a bad woman. I should be treated as
such. To-morrow you will know and watch me and
hunt me, and finally—but take it off and let me be gone.
I will learn to hate you, I suppose. I had read much
about you—thought you a hero and wondered if the
day would ever come when I might meet you—that you
might even help me; for I have lately thought of send-
ing for you. You play at life and death with only gold
between it."
I didn't answer her. There was a plea in her voice
which made me wish that I could give the girl a chance
and let her go her way with her identity a secret. But
I couldn't. Years ago maybe—now—my life might


POUNDING FEET
117
later hang in the balance. I raised my hand and
gripped the cord of the mask, behind her head. It was
tightly drawn and had no elasticity to it. I jerked once.
The girl's head jarred back slightly but she did not
speak. She kept her eyes full upon me—her chin tilted
up. Generally speaking, I don't take so much interest
in these things that come in the way of business, but
now I was slightly curious to get a look at her.
My fingers slipped down to where the cord met the
mask—one twist of it about my finger—again the jerk
of her head, and the cord snapped. The mask started
to slip. I caught the outline of the bridge of her nose
—heavy eyebrows above—and her head went down
tightly against my chest again. Damned if she wasn't
crying; sobbing softly. I don't like the baby act and
I'm not much affected by tears. But why hadn't she
pulled them before? Why when it was too late? Why
when I had only to step back and the mask would slip
to the floor? But were the sobs real? I stepped back
a pace, close to the wall—and the mask fell to the floor.
But she followed me, clinging close, her head buried
against my chest as I reached down and placed a hand
beneath her chin.
She didn't struggle. Didn't try to pull away or place
her hands over her face. She just held her head so,
making me use force—not a great deal—there wasn't
much to her. Slowly but surely I was forcing that
head up. Her forehead was in the light now—and my
hand stopped dead. There was the roar of a motor,
the grinding of brakes, the pounding of feet along the


118 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
alley. Heavy shoes were upon stone steps and a thump-
ing against the front door, followed almost at once by
the sharp ring of the bell. The girl's hand shot sud-
denly out, reached the wall, rested on the electric light
button. There was a snap and darkness—but I still
held her there.


CHAPTER XIII
INSPECTOR COGLIN—FROM HEADQUARTERS
Visitors in the night. Men who rapped and called
to each other—hoarse voices that echoed unintelligibly
along the alley and through the open window. Had I
waited too long? Was this a rescue party? Too much
noise, you say. But you can't always tell by that.
Desperate men had stalked me in the city streets that
night; more desperate than the usual run of criminals
seeking vengeance. And they were strangers to me.
Not a personal grudge! Then what? Had Danny's
business more than punctured arms behind it?
The girl struggled slightly—broke from me. And I
let her go. There wasn't anything else to do then. I
heard her feet patter in the hall—stumble once—then
run quickly up the stairs.
Was I angry at myself that I had waited so long;
that I had missed seeing her face? I wanted to look at
her all right—would too if this happened to be the
police and their visit simply a check up on my move-
ments following Delaney's story of seeing me on the
water front that night. They hadn't been dragging me
in much lately—not when they could get me to answer
119


120 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
questions right here at my own home. I always saw
that the newspapers got a hold of the story every time
I was pulled over the coals and the advertisement didn't
hurt my business any. I don't like the police—and they
don't like me. Fair's fair! It's Even Stephen there.
Still, there are some pretty shrewd men at Central Of-
fice and they know I'm not above breaking and entering
a house if there's evidence I want. Now—I shrugged
my shoulders as an electric flash sent a darting glare
through the window.
I stepped back from the circle of light, swung my gun
toward the window and jerked out my own flash light.
The flash, the calling voices and the heavy feet smacked
of a police raid and it wouldn't be good policy for me
to knock over a flat foot.
My light blazed upon a bulky figure—the brass but-
tons and the shining shield. Big blue eyes grew larger
and blinked wonderingly. A black automatic waved
slightly—then emptiness. His light went out before
mine did. The can crashed in the alley, a soft oath
faintly reached me—then a loud shout as he warned
his friends.
"They're in there yet."
That would be about all of that. Those at the door
were determined men. A few more such crashes and
the heavy wood would give, even if the huge lock held.
The police were there on business, and I've had ex-
perience in waiting to collect damages from the city for
a busted door.
Stepping close to the curtains I switched on the hall


122 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
"Well—" I finally spoke, putting on my dignity and
high hatting him just a bit. "Why am I indebted to you
for this visit—forcible entry, they call it?" Then run-
ning my hand along my chin and staring straight into
that hard cold face, "Perhaps the newspapers will be
interested." And I mentioned one paper in particular.
That stirred him up. The newspaper I named had been
riding the department generally lately—and Coglin in
particular.
"You've got me wrong, Race." He shook his head.
"I didn't intend to jump down on you to-night. I didn't
intend ever to jump down on you again. We got word
to-night that you had been given the works. We busted
in here looking for murder."
"So," was all I said when he paused. I wanted to be
sure he wasn't feeding me a line. Certainly he seemed
in a hurry to find the corpse of Race Williams. Per-
haps a natural desire, that. I hesitated a moment, then
thanked him for his interest in my—death. But he
cut in.
"It wasn't that, Race. One runs down murders in
the mechanical department routine. The man with the
motive mostly solves the problem. With you—well, I
could name a hundred without much thought who'd be
glad of the opportunity to do you in. The department
would spend years chasing down possible suspects.
You've got as many enemies as a dog has fleas. So we
rushed things."
"Why to-night—why not bust in on me every night—
make a habit of it?" I couldn't help being sarcastic.


INSPECTOR COGLIN 123
He didn't answer me but walked to the window and
looked out.
"Do you know the gent?" I heard him ask some one
in the darkness, and saw his neck bob forward when
he received the whispered answer. Then he turned to
the men in the doorway. "Outside," Coglin ordered
abruptly, and when the men had departed he produced
a cigar and shoving it into his mouth walked up and
down the room.
It was hot stuff to watch him. What a child he was I
In his own stupid way he was putting the screws on me
—giving me a chance to watch his hunched shoulders;
his hard, cold, glaring eyes as from time to time he
jerked his head toward me. An old timer was Coglin—
heavy of jowl—hard of chin. He was getting ready to
hurl a few questions at me. I threw myself in a chair
and waited. Finally he swung quickly, jerked a hand
from behind his back and shot a thick finger toward
me.
"What do you know of Jake Minely?" he snapped.
"Jake—" I looked toward the ceiling. "I heard he
had one of his little spells to-night and slipped off an
ash can. Terrible how he came down in the world. A
regular Peeping Tom now."
"What happened to him to-night—beneath your win-
dow?" Again the glare as sharp teeth bit through the
cigar and Coglin deftly caught it in his cupped right
hand before it reached the floor.
"I think he was overcome by the heat." I shook my
head. "A sad case, Coglin—hot head and cold feet." I


124 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
wasn't worried at all—bothered a bit perhaps. The
police must have had a very good reason for busting in
on me like this, and it was like Coglin to beat around
before he came out with what was on his chest.
Again his eyes lit on the gun on the floor. He raised
his head, and looking at the window moved indifferently
toward that gun. It was just impulse on my part. The
girl meant nothing to me. Yet, my business was my
own and not Coglin's. I was out of the chair and across
the few feet as Coglin bent quickly, and my foot landed
on that gun before his hand did.
"I have a license to have guns about, you know," I
said calmly as he glared up at me. "You have no right
in this house, Coglin—now, state your business and be
gone."
"You had a visitor to-night." He straightened sud-
denly. "What became of her?"
"She must have been frightened by the racket you
made." The girl's gun was in my pocket and I was
back in the chair.
"I think," the inspector said suddenly, "I think I'll
search the house." He passed quickly to the stairs, and
I followed him. His hand slipped into his coat pocket
and I thought that I caught the outline of a gun.
"You'll have to have a warrant, you know, Coglin."
"I think not." He threw back his shoulders. "You
and I, Race Williams, know each other well enough to
dispense with such formalities." His foot landed on the
first step—the other followed—hung in mid-air—then
dropped back to the landing.


INSPECTOR COGLIN 125
"Inspector Coglin," was all I said. But he knew be-
fore he turned; caught the ring in my voice and under-
stood. When his head turned I was playfully juggling
my own forty-four. I didn't threaten him; didn't point
the gun toward him. I watched him suck in the deep
breath and noticed the sudden color in his cheeks. His
eyes wandered from the window to the door. He was
thinking seriously of having a final showdown with me.
But I knew my rights and he knew that I not only
knew them but would protect them.
"Save your breath." I stayed the angry words on his
lips. "There is no reason why your uniform should
protect you or give you the right to trample on my
privileges or the sanctity of my home." And seeing
that he was planning on calling in the boys and going
through with the search, "It won't make a pretty story
in the papers if you find nothing—besides, I've got a
few friends of my own high up."
Coglin thought that one out—then he shrugged his
huge shoulders.
"Very well." He didn't try to bluff it out or threaten
to get himself a warrant. Warrants to search my house
were pretty well of a farce and rather frowned at down
at headquarters. Coglin would have to have a mighty
good reason before he'd chance flashing a warrant.
Oh, he could get one all right. But would he?
"You call yourself a detective," Coglin sneered, "but
you ain't much better than the crooks you hunt. I
know what I know, and some day I'll lay the cuffs on
you. Some day I'll send you for a long stretch. You're


126 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
making a powerful enemy when you might make a
friend." He was stealing the girl's stuff there. He
walked toward the front door, placed a hand on the
knob and hesitated—then turning, he stepped back
into the library.
"I'll lay my cards on the table," he said abruptly.
"Perhaps for once we can work together. Why do you
think I came here to-night?" And being a man who
asked and answered his own questions, "Because I had
word that you were killed—murdered in your library
here—by a woman."
"You should have sent flowers," I said—then more
seriously, "Who sent you word?" It was odd. A
woman was there—and certainly murder had been
planned—not once, but at least twice that night.
"It came from the house next door." He jerked
a thumb toward the window and the vacant house.
"The De Voe maid."
I knocked that argument on the head.
"There is no one in the house next door. The De
Voes are South for the winter, and the servants dis-
missed. If you opened your eyes instead of your
mouth you might have seen that the place is boarded
up."
"I know, I know." He nodded impatiently. "But
they are returning next week. The maid came on ahead
to open up the house. At least, that's what she"—
and seeing the smile on my face he broke off and
stepped toward the window. "Clancy," he bellowed,
at the darkness without, "ring that doorbell next door,


INSPECTOR COGLIN
127
and if you don't get an answer, bust in—have a look
around—try the window on this side for it. But I
think you'll find a frightened maid there."
He did, but I didn't. Dully from across the alley
came the distant buzz of the bell. Coglin waited by
the window, scanning the darkened window of the
house next door. I saw him look up once where the
sloping roof hung over the alley, the copper gutters
of the De Voe residence and my brownstone house
but a few feet apart.
"Not a light—not a sound—not a soul," I heard him
mutter.
"Probably some one wanted to pull off a job and
gave you the grand run-around." I tried to make him
feel better.
"I thought of that when I got the message." He
jerked his head. "And I put a double watch on all the
joints in my district." For a long time he stood there
stroking his chin, then he let the shades fall back at the
window—stood so a moment, his eyes glued down on
the floor. Popping they were—staring at something.
I followed those eyes but saw nothing. Then he
bent quickly down again between a jumble of books
and fished up a bit of black cloth. It was the girl's
mask. He held it in his hand while he looked at me.
His eyes bulged and he whistled softly. Coglin's face
shone with elation now—emotion too. He couldn't
hide his surprise and satisfaction.
"The scattered books—the man by the window—
the gun—and now the black mask. You had a visitor


INSPECTOR COGLIN 129
"Maybe you're mixed up in running him down, eh?"
Coghlin's cigar did a run across his face as his eyes
snapped shrewdly. "But you'll get no information out
of him. He won't talk, or can't, and even your methods
won't get any—" The cigar took a sudden curve up-
ward; the lighted end seemed to flick against his nose
as the ashes fell to the floor. I too raised my head as
Coglin reached for his gun and dashed by me and
toward the hall.


CHAPTER XIV
A HAND ON THE SILL
From somewhere far above us in the darkness a
chair had crashed to the floor. There was the patter
of feet, a stifled scream, the jar of a closing window
and the clatter of falling glass in the court without.
I jerked Coglin back. But it was too late to stop
him now. There was nothing of the coward in Coglin
—he feared no man; feared only censure back at head-
quarters and ridicule by the papers. Now he half
turned and shouted to the men by the front door. Fig-
ures were in the room, heavy feet beat upon the
stairs. From the alley without Clancy called shrilly,
but none of us heard what he said.
A policeman on the stairs stopped; the officer behind
him bumped against him and drew up sharply. Coglin
spun like a top, his gun in his hand, his hat tipped to
the side of his head, his cigar hanging from his lips.
We all listened, heads raised, shoulders erect, skin tin-
gling—the blood runs cold in brave men at times. None
of us could be sure. A whining queer sort of animal
sound had come through the open window—or was it
just the whistling of the wind in the winter night; just
the hum of the wind across the house tops? Yet—yet
130


A HAND ON THE SILL
131
we knew that there was no wind. Coglin quivered
like an angry dog. As for me—well, here was a good
excuse to dig a hand into my pocket, and I sure took
advantage of the opportunity. The queer, moaning
note in the night was hard to place maybe—but I
thought I knew that eerie cry, for I had heard it before.
Just a moment we stood so; then Clancy cried from
outside. Coglin spoke in a hushed whisper to the men
on the stairs and dashed toward the open window.
He reached it too—pulled up sharp, and the blue-
coated figure behind crashed into him. There was
the roar of a gun; the glass above Coglin's head was
punctured and a picture behind me smashed to the
floor. This time none of us were in doubt about the
sound. No one could mistake it for the wind—clearly
through the night came the whining, hissing growl—the
Snarl of the Beast.
"The Snarl of the Beast," I heard Coglin mutter—
then as another shot broke the silence, he called—
"Clancy, are you all right?"
"Yes, sir—I am that—it's the Beast, sir—himself—
in person—there—he's jumped to the next house."
Two shots almost at once, and Coglin throwing all
caution to the wind ran toward the window, thrust his
head and shoulders out and emptied his gun at the
house across the way, shouting as he fired.
"He was there—in the window—surround that house
—bust into it—all of you now." And he slid a leg over
the sill, and followed by the uniformed men dropped
to the alley below.


132 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
Good enough! That was his party, not mine. Some-
thing told me that the man would get away; be off
through the next yard before the officers ever got there
—and if he did get there—well, that was their funeral.
The Beast—yes, a good name for him. A man who
killed and got away. Brute strength, brute cunning, and
the desperate resolve of one who does not know or does
not understand fear.
Of course I wanted a shot at him. He was my
meat. But I'd see him again. It was a cinch that he
was here for one purpose. To get me. He had trailed
me earlier in the night, and again now; right in the
teeth of the police themselves. He must have tried
to get in my house by jumping from the house next
door. The girl had probably opened the window in
the hope of escaping, and that was the crash we heard
—when the window was hastily pulled down.
Maybe I should be out joining in the hunt. But
why? I had other things to think of and it was in the
cards that I'd meet this giant again. If we met now one
of us would die, and I had a feeling that a well directed
chunk of lead smack between those colorless eyes
would be a surprise to the big boy who hunted his prey
in the night. Then what? Then I'd be without a
client, who wanted this man dead—maybe, who'd pay
well for it—maybe, after all, did Danny know where
there was a big piece of change that would be coming
his way?
But the girl above! Was she in my house by acci-
dent? What was she searching for? A letter she
-


A HAND ON THE SILL 133
thought I had? Then she was not mixed up with
Danny, the girl of the night and the Beast, for there
was no letter that— And I stroked my chin. There
was a letter in my pocket. Yet, she could not know
of that. Even if she had been told, there was not time
—not time unless she suspected that I'd go for the
letter that night. Hadn't Danny said something about
using that letter as a threat over their heads? "Their"
—who was "their"?
And the girl was still above and the cops were raising
the very devil outside; shouting and pounding and
calling advice to each other. Why, one good man with
a steady eye and a quick finger and a handy ash can
to wait behind, would do better than the whole force,,
Just watch and wait, and shoot the Beast down when
he appeared. That would be my game—his huge form
would make a mistake impossible. Nothing heroic
about getting a man that way? Maybe not. But it's
good business—and I'm all for good business.
For a while I stood in the center of the room, listen-
ing. The cries from without were dying away. Win-
dows were flopping up and I daresay many a wire was
buzzing frantic appeals at police headquarters. But
no shout of triumph echoed through the open window;
no more pistol shots either, for that matter. The police
were hunting down their man and not having much
success at it. My ears were trained for sounds above,
now. The girl! And there was no sound upstairs.
Poor Kid; she was cowering in some closet most likely.
Poor Kid, I thought again—and wondered if the "poor


134.
THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
Kid" was sporting another gun in her hand and a bit
of murder in her heart. She was a girl you might
trust with your watch, providing of course that it was a
dollar watch.
Somewhere off in the night, police and detectives
would be getting in the way of each other—firing at
their own friends and calling warnings to the prowler
on the block. That was the law of the man hunt; fear
of mistaken identity. I like to play the game alone;
where every shadow is an enemy and each bullet I
shoot goes in the right direction and reaches the right
man.
Nothing but the cold came through the open window.
I closed it—there wasn't enough fire in the furnace to
heat the house properly, let alone trying to heat all
outdoors. The tiny hole in the upper pane I stuffed
a bit of paper into. Good clean shooting, that—just
the single little hole and a crack the length of the
glass. The bullet no doubt would be in the wall be-
hind, where the picture had stood.
So much for that. A woman was hiding some place
above. I wanted two things. One was a look at her
face; the other a bit of a sleep between heavy blankets.
And the first ran closely in line with the second. I
couldn't get that sleep until I knew where the girl was.
I didn't want to wake up suddenly in the morning and
call a doctor to go digging the bullets out of my chest.
So I stepped into the front hall and went whistling up
the stairs, for all the world like an easy and undis-
turbed householder. You didn't expect I'd park my-


A HAND ON THE SILL 135
self in the kitchen with the ice chest, shoved up against
the swinging door to the pantry. Not me—I'd of gone
to my bed if the Beast and all his friends were playing
hide-and-go-seek under it.
The girl had been on the left side of my house,
nearest to the vacant house next door; a room above
and just back of the library. Witness the closing win-
dow and the crash of glass. The natural conclusion
was that she wouldn't stay there but would skip across
to the bedroom opposite or one further toward the
back and away from the front stairs. She wouldn't
run down the back stairs. The door from the hall to
those stairs was locked. I always see to that. My
house has been entered before and I make sure that
prowlers don't run loosely around it.
You see, that's my advantage over the housebreaker.
I know the ground and he don't. I know too when he
runs up against a blind alley and is cornered.
Half way up those stairs my whistle stops. A door
has closed softly; far back near the rear, on the side
of the house, I thought she'd be. I nod my satisfaction,
and in the jet blackness trot on my way. I know
where the girl will be now and I'm determined to see
it through. She'd had the fear of the police put into
her heart. If she won't talk, I'll let her expect a march
to the police station. She could cry all over my shirt
if she wanted to; I'd be changing it in the morning
anyway.
There's a creak as I reach that closed door, grab
for the knob, spin it, and feel the well oiled catch drop


136 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
into its socket without a sound. No—she didn't lock
it. I'm the only one who locks doors in my house—
there's no keys in locks, to make it handy for crooks.
The slightest sound comes from within the room.
The girl is there all right and at the window—slowly
forcing it up. If she had worked a bit quicker she'd
have come in for some good luck she had no right to
expect. In way of escape, she couldn't have picked
a better place. A pipe ran from the window to the
back yard; a strong bit of copper pipe that would
easily support her weight. But she couldn't have
known that it would take her some time to find it. I'd
often left and reentered that way myself while servants
were below. It was great alibi stuff for me when the
police watched the house and I had a bit of business
that needed secrecy. Some day I'll go in for secret
passages and that sort of stuff, but I've never been able
to find a deaf and dumb workman who knew his busi-
ness and couldn't read and write and otherwise had
no way of communicating with people. Oh, it's been
done of course—books are full of it. But with me,
I'm playing the game of life—yep, life and death—
and there's only my gun, my fingers, and my eyes that
make the grim reaper mark time on my little trip
across the River Styx.
The door slips silently back—not a single sound—
and hangs there as a draft of cold air hits me from the
window. I can hear the girl—she's working just a bit
faster now. She's got the window up and is out it.
There in the dimness of the winter sky I get the faintest


A HAND ON THE SILL
137
outline of her shadow as she does her stuff—uncertainly
too. Was she an amateur or just nervous? That is,
a physical amateur—not a mental one. The germ of
the crook might be in her soul, but was it in her body
yet? The mind directs the evil all right but the body
can refuse to carry that evil out. Get the difference.
You often have the will and the heart for a thing but
not the stomach for it.
And she found the pipe. I could hear her foot ring
out dully against it as I crossed the room, creeping
silently toward the window. To call to her now might
make her jump for it, and the least she could expect
was a broken bone or two, or it might make her shout
—which would be worse from my point of view. The
court below slopes slightly from the street level and
she'd have a good fall at best. If it was a man, I might
jump, crash him, and pick him up later, when he was
able to talk and no doubt willing. But this was reality
and not what might have been. I hadn't fallen in love
with that bit of fluff—not me. But it takes a peculiar
mental twist to make a man crash a woman. Maybe
it's a weakness; maybe it's a strength—I don't know.
The form slipped from the window now; the tousled
head of the girl disappeared from view. Nothing left
but a white hand that still clung to the sill for support.
The fingers were trembling there; the other hand no
doubt had found the pipe and clutched it—nothing left
for the girl to do but grab the pipe with both hands
and slide down. Nothing but that—yet it took courage.
She had gone through something. The Beast with the


A HAND ON THE SILL
139
She didn't resist any more now. She was frightened.
I couldn't make out her features over well, but a white
face with tightly set lips was staring up at me. But
this time one thing was certain—I was going to have a
look at that face. Things came easier as her feet found
the ledge again and rested on it. I gave her a chance
to get her breath back—tightened my grip on her wrists
—and got ready for the final tug that would bring her
over the sill and back into the room,


CHAPTER XV
THE MAN IN THE BLACKNESS
And I didn't pull her in. Some one was in the room
behind me. Did I hear the step? I don't think so.
Did I hear the man's deep breath? Maybe. But I'm
not sure of that—not positive that I heard anything. I
don't always have to hear things to know that another
presence is close to mine. There's a tingling comes with
it. Maybe I do unconsciously hear, feel or sense that
presence—and then I was sure. A heel scraped the
door jamb—very slightly of course, but enough for me
to know. Visitors in the night don't have to write me
letters.
Would I drop the girl and let her take a chance on
the fall? That was my first thought, I'll admit. It
wouldn't kill her, and what did I owe to her? Suppose
this was Hairy-Hands—The Beast coming back again!
He'd have the nerve for it. I didn't doubt that after
his action that night; from lying flat on the sidewalk
down town, to the roof of the house next to mine, and a
swing down it to the second-story window in about one
hour or less is some traveling for a boy who's felt lead
on his arm and steel on his head, you'll admit. No—
140


THE MAN IN THE BLACKNESS 141
there wasn't anything I wouldn't put a-past that gent
who the police slated as coming from the animal
kingdom.
But another thought came with it. Hardly The Beast.
I have ears that are tuned as fine as the Navy wireless
station. He couldn't have made the house without my
hearing him—and without the police seeing him either.
But I'd have to drop the girl—then the thought—the
solution no doubt to my silent visitor in that room.
Coglin had played the game well; one of his men had
stayed behind—hidden across the hall down stairs in
the dining room. That was it. That must be it.
Leastwise I told myself that was it and gave the girl a
chance. Strange for me. Yep, there's no way to ex-
plain why I didn't let her go, and reach for a gun.
"Grab the pipe and finish the job you started," I told
her as I bent forward, putting my lips close to her ear
or where I thought her ear was. "Silently too—or the
people next door will— Come! snap into it, Kid—
here's the chance for freedom you've been sobbing
about."
I released one hand, steadied her with the other—
and reached for my gun. Was I fooling myself by
thinking it was a cop who had remained behind? And
what was the girl to me? Was I playing the idiot be-
cause of a bit of lace; the same that had knocked the
ambitions of great men on the head throughout the past
centuries. I don't know—but somehow I just couldn't
drop her. A soft, delicate, cold hand in mine! Good
to feel? Not so you could notice it! I wished with all


142 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
of what I am pleased to call my heart that the hand
was big and rough and hairy.
Certainly I could be seen there in the window as I
half turned, lowering my gun so that it and my hand
were in the jet blackness beneath the sill. It was
ridiculous for me to tell myself that I was invisible.
The morning was still dark, and all that—not much to
see—and yet I had seen the girl in that same window.
And her hand found the pipe—the other sort of
squeezed mine—her voice came up to me.
"Thank you—I'll never forget." And she started
down the pipe. I could hear her all right—and the man
in the room, could he? I ducked to one side, into the
darkness, when he spoke.
"Don't get funny, Race Williams," he snapped. "I'm
a Headquarters' man—where's the light?"
I breathed easier as I slid into the darkness. I never
did envy the life of the force. Take this poor un-
fortunate lad for instance. Here he was trailing me,
and the moment he thought that I spotted him he had
to give his presence away. Probably had orders not to
fire unless I went to shoot him. Think of that—as if
I'd write him a letter, telling him to start in searching
for his gun. No wonder so many of the cops get
knocked off. He wasn't permitted to just plug me and
explain afterwards, and he didn't know if I'd shoot or
not.
Knowing my reputation, he must have spent a bad
ten seconds or more when he saw my face framed in
the window. Had I discovered his presence, and if


THE MAN IN THE BLACKNESS 143
I had, would I shoot? Fine thoughts for a guardian of
the law. Now, as I slipped deeper into the darkness,
the grating sound on the pipe came clearly to me.
"I'm going to that window and I'm going with a
flash." The man in the dark tried to make his voice
ring with assurance and his feet heavy as he started
to walk forward.
"You'll pull no flash here and you'll stand your
ground." I shot the words out of the darkness as I
moved again to avoid the possibility of a shot striking
from where my voice came. "As soon as you show a
flash, I'll fire—that's gospel." I finished as the feet
drew up quick and clicked on the floor.
"You're defying the police—Coglin just wants an
excuse to take you in—better keep still and—remem-
ber, I speak in the name of the law."
"Do you now?" I was out to gain time. "And how
do I know that? Of course, if you're really from the
department—why—wait and I'll switch on the light.
But don't move."
"Some one went out that window." He fairly hissed
the words, yet his feet jerked back again. "I'll—if
you shoot me, Race Williams," and he played the old
stock company voice, "you'll swing for it."
"Don't be silly." I edged further around to his side.
"I don't believe you're a policeman at all. If you were,
you'd know they don't go in for hanging in New York.
Why, Man, any school child knows—"
"I know, I know—if you dare to fire, you'll get the
chair."


144 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
"Better!" I stepped a little further around him.
"But you're only guessing. I've got to be sure of you.
I'm the last man in the world to defy the law of the
state. I have great respect for its august—" I broke
off as his feet scraped. "Another move and I'll plug
you."
He stopped dead—there was a dull thud outside the
window. This cop had courage all right. He threw
all caution aside, pulled out a flash and dashed toward
the window. A brave man, that; somewhat of a foolish
one also. I don't go in for murder. Still, if I had
doubted— Well, even policemen can't run around my
house without a warrant. I felt almost sure that at the
worst I'd get a disagreement by the jury in case of a
little killing. But the girl was in the court—safe from
him at least, and my fingers already rested on the
electric light button.
As he reached the window I pressed the switch and
flooded the room with light. No need to argue with
him further. No plain-clothes man, this—but a har-
nessed bull.
"Some one dropped from that window." The officer
turned angrily toward me. "What do you know of
this?"
"I thought as much." I looked down at his gun as
I dropped my own into my pocket. "And I'd of had
him too if you hadn't come stamping into the room."
He had the grace to blush at that crack. "He was
trying to climb up from outside—a detective, I think."


THE MAN IN THE BLACKNESS 145
"You'll pay for this," he said; opened his mouth
for a flow of words—closed it again—tried once more
and repeated with a gulp, "You'll pay for this." Cer-
tainly he wasn't any orator.
What kind of a discussion we'd have gotten into I
don't know. But our little party was broken up by the
ringing of the door bell and the pounding on the front
door below. The harnessed bull hesitated, his gun
half raised toward me. It was in his mind to stick it
in my back and shove me ahead of him down those
stairs. Not a pretty picture, that, so I saved him the
trouble.
"I'll lead the way down," I said. "This will be
Inspector Coglin, returning—and no doubt he carries a
bit of paper with him; they call it a search warrant."
I threw the final words back over my shoulder as I
started toward the stairs.
"He told you that?" The cop behind gasped and I
had found out what I wanted. If anything suspicious
turned up at my house Coglin was ready to grab him-
self off a warrant. Now, who was the judge who had
so little respect for his own slumber that he would stay
awake waiting to sign such a warrant?
I shrugged my shoulders as I preceded my friend
down the stairs. I gave Coglin full credit for finding
at least one high official who looked with an unfriendly
eye on my activities. Still, the thing had a few ad-
vantages. My house wasn't such a small affair. I'd
had at least one visitor; I couldn't go to bed without


146
THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
searching it for others. Inspector Coglin and his
friends would save me that trouble. Yep, I've got to
admit that even with me there are times when the police
serve their purpose. That he wouldn't take me to the
jug was fairly certain.
Of course it was Coglin at the door. And his smile
of pride and derision as he presented his warrant was
wiped clean off his map like you'd pulled a mop across
it when I killed his enthusiasm.
"Yes, yes, dear man," I yawned. "I know about it.
This good soul here told me all about it." I glanced
at the officer behind me, who was yelling his head off
about hearing some one drop into the alley.
"I did not—I never did." And the harnessed bull
burst into an explanation that sounded pretty lame
under the hard eyes of the inspector. I tried to caution
them about having a row in my house—even advising
an investigation about it, and then dropped the matter
entirely. But Coglin had lost his enthusiasm to search
the house. If I hadn't of seen that paper I don't doubt
for a minute that he'd of buried it deep beneath his coat.
"Just one favor, Inspector," I said as the boys
started in to do their duty. "Take my bedroom, up-
stairs, first. I'm tired and I want sleep—the front
door will lock itself when you go out, and I won't need
to be disturbed."
He was about to refuse, then changed his mind with
a scowl. It was a cinch what was passing through his
head. He never did anything I asked him to, therefore
.


THE MAN IN THE BLACKNESS 147
I was trying to get him to search my room last. Why?
Of course he couldn't figure that out—but he decided
there was some reason for the request. Anyhow he
searched my room first—made no objections while I
slipped into my pyjamas, saw him out, locked my steel
lined bedroom door, pushed over the great steel shutters
with the narrow slits for air, and climbed into bed.
Some one stood outside the door, I think, but I
can't be sure. But an easy conscience is a great thing
—my room was safe. A man must be sure when he
seeks his rest. Five minutes at the most and I was
sleeping like a child. But I always sleep tight—come
fully awake in a second too. So it was I heard Coglin
at the door shortly after dawn.
"We're leaving," he growled, and nothing more.
And nothing more was needed. I turned once in the
bed, called a cheery "Good night" and asked him to
shut the door quietly when he went out. Did he go
then? I don't know—before he could have reached
the front door I was fast asleep again. No—poor old
Coglin didn't have the guts to drag me in—not him.
He feared neither man nor devil, did Coglin, but like
the elephant who fears the mouse, so Inspector Coglin
went in terror of the newspaper reporters. After all,
jobs down at Headquarters—even the jobs of inspec-
tors—were none too secure. Crime ran unchecked
through the city streets and the police traveled in fear
of their jobs as well as their lives. To give them credit,
I guess the thought of the job came first. A New York


148 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
City policeman hasn't much time to think about his
life to-day. No, sir. I'm not down on the police as
an individual—not me. It's the system. But no
thoughts ran through my head then—I did nothing
else but sleep—and I did it well.
i


CHAPTER XVI
BY THE ALLEY DOOR
Benny, my chauffeur, was on the job at twelve next
day and he's an all-around man; good at the car, good
at bacon and eggs and coffee, and can handle a gun
when the occasion warrants it. He didn't bother me
until I had finished a couple of eggs and was on my
second cup of coffee—then he laid down the mail, the
morning paper and chirped:
"Two men watch the house—dicks, both of them."
"Central Office men?"
"Yeh—they make no bones about it."
"And the paper this morning, Benny?"
"A harness bull croaked—sergeant; a murder in
Harlem and a girl in Brooklyn cut with a knife. Your
name don't appear."
"Anything else—automobile accidents? Central
Park?"
"Inside page—twelve."
I waved Benny away, took the paper and turned to
the item. There wasn't much to it. The police were
laying low or my taxi driver had put over a bedtime
story on that innocent motor cycle cop. Yet it was a
149


150 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
plausible story at that. I read it over again. The sub-
stance of it was that there had been a slight accident
when the steering knuckle of a taxicab snapped in
Central Park. The "fare," seeing the danger of striking
a tree, had thrown open the door of the cab and at-
tempted to jump—but unfortunately just as the car
swerved from the road, he was thrown violently to
the roadway. The story went on.
"He was not unconscious however, and the taxi
driver, having driven for him many times before, knew
his address and the man was taken to his home in an-
other cab, called by the officer."
Not bad—not half bad even. He'd have his own
doctor who'd pull out the bullet, and the police record
would carry a fractured leg or a broken collar bone.
Well—it didn't make much difference to me. These
were pawns in the game—the game of Hairy-Hands.
A big game too, for even a pawn was bent on murder.
But was Hairy-Hands the leader? I doubted that.
Brains, not hands, were searching for my death. Why?
What of my client? In broad daylight, over a second
cup of coffee, his story didn't seem so impossible after
all. If it wasn't for the tiny punctures on his arm and
the girl's denial, I'd be tempted to believe it. Hairy-
Hands, The Beast, had never taken an interest in me
before. Was it just coincidence that he should be after
me and the boy at the same time? No—I don't go in
for coincidences. But the girl—
I stopped and laughed. If it were true, what good
would it do me at that moment? I didn't know where


152 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
ahead of the district attorney for the past ten years
and was likely to hold his distance too. He knew the
difference between right and wrong and knew just how
far he could travel on the wrong road without tripping
over the top step of a jail entrance. Barton Briskey
was the mouthpiece of more high-class crooks than any
ten other lawyers in New York City. And he wasn't
any shyster either. I daresay there weren't any law-
yers in the great city that had anything on him for
knowledge of criminal law and the best method of beat-
ing a case. Twice he had been up for disbarment, yet
each time the great legal minds found the evidence
insufficient. Not that he wasn't guilty. They all felt
he was—but "insufficient evidence" landed him back
practicing again. An uptown office and a downtown
office—and believe me, few people knew where that
down town office was—when too many found it out,
he moved.
Yes, sir—I can't say that I'd fully trust him—but
I had to admire him. He could have been head counsel
for the biggest corporations in the east and done credit
to it too—but he wasn't. He liked to play the game he
knew so well—some day he'd get knocked off—that was
certain. But we had one thing in common. So far
the police couldn't get anything on either of us.
I read his letter over again. I liked the way it ran.
No mention of that check for one grand. That was his
way of doing business. And the time? Clients who
have something to hide, like the hour of midnight—


154 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
help through Barton Briskey—in a way, then, I'd know
about what to charge and how big the thing was.
I made it easy for the dicks who followed me that
day. I just didn't notice them, went home at dinner-
time, took a nap, read my paper, and at ten-thirty did
my stuff. It was time to shake the shadows. It's not
a matter of being clever or slippery. It's a matter of
timing things just right. The city sleuths would have
a car down the street all right. They had, for Benny
spotted it. I worked it like this:
I waited in my vestibule for Benny to come with the
car; and I spotted his lights as he turned the corner
down the street. Not my own car of course—that
would be known and followed even before I got in it—
this is a hired one. And it never slowed down as it
approached my house at exactly twenty-three miles an
hour. That's my margin of absolute safety.
Practice told me exactly at what moment to dash
from my doorway; just as the nose of the car passed
the second street light down the block. Then I made
my run for it—out onto the street, a quick spurt and
I grabbed the door, swung up on the running board,
and Benny stepped on the gas. It was almost a straight
run to the Park from there and Benny hit the entrance
at nearly fifty miles an hour. What's a ticket or two?
But the chances were he wouldn't get that.
It was the jump I made as Benny slowed down as
he turned north in the Park that carried danger. I had
to skip across the grass and drop behind the wall be-


BY THE ALLEY DOOR 155
fore the high-powered police car gave chase. But
practice makes perfect—I made that wall as the police
auto flashed through the Park entrance. The police
were sure on the job and they'd overhaul Benny before
he got a hundred yards. As for me—I skipped along
in the shadow of the wall, waited until I spotted a taxi,
slipped back into Central Park West, climbed aboard
and shot over to Broadway and so up town. At the
Ninety-sixth Street subway station I left the taxi and
entering the underground—roared my way to the lower
city.
I doubt that the police were overanxious to follow
me; more likely they wanted to watch for any visitor
I had—preferably Hairy-Hands. That was nice—it
isn't often that Race Williams sleeps under a police
guard. Really, I'd have to write the commissioner a
letter of thanks for it.
It wasn't so cold but there was a rawness in the air
and the feel of snow. This time I played the lower
West Side, not far from Wall Street. Few tenements
there; mostly worn old structures that housed through
the centuries the great lawyers and brokers of former
days. And even yet prominent and famous names stood
out on the windows of buildings whose only claim to
distinction was the glories of the past. Pitifully
shabby, these three-story structures looked—sunk into
the midst of New York's great skyscrapers. Yet,
there was a staid respectability about them that was
not to be denied.


156 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
An occasional light peeped down through the musty
window of some young American who was destined to
make his name in the Street as he worked in a cheerless,
cold office. Dim lights too in the back of shops; musty
old holes where bespectacled and long-haired book
worms spent their days with their noses bent into an-
cient books that had little to recommend them beside
the date they went to print.
The building that housed Barton Briskey's office
stood on a corner. A saloon had once graced the en-
trance and it still did business under the title of
oyster bar. But not at night—no shadowy forms
drifted in and out of that dreary doorway. The main
office entrance was on a fairly wide street; the side
entrance, which I guess was Briskey's way in and out,
was on an alley so narrow that if two cars wanted to
pass, one would have to climb up a pole and wait until
the other went by. But I'd come in by the front en-
trance when the clock struck the hour. I wasn't sup-
posed to know much about that back entrance—and I
didn't. But I thought it more than likely that that
little door in the alley led directly to the rooms of
Barton Briskey. At all events I'd watch and see if he
came in that way—that is, if he wasn't already in.
Not any special reason in my mind. I'm just a careful
man, that's all.
Across from that little door was a busted wooden
gate and the back of a covered truck in the driveway.
That was inviting. I slid around that truck and lis-


BY THE ALLEY DOOR 157
tened. No movement from within, so I climbed aboard
—noted the stacks of tightly bound volumes that were
catalogues or magazines, and I saw too the heavy mat-
ting that was tossed into the back and partly flung
over the books. It wasn't so clean but it was warm.
Besides, from there I could watch that little door with-
out being seen myself. The radium dial on my watch
told me that it was just five minutes after eleven. There
was some time to Wait yet before I put in an appearance
at the lawyer's office.
There was time to think too. The check had been a
generous one. Flopped in sudden after my talk with
the youth and the attempt on my life by Hairy-Hands.
I wondered if the youth, Danny, had sought out Bar-
ton Briskey and if Briskey was financing the deal. If
he was there was real truth in the matter. Of course
my visit there might not have anything at all to do with
last night's experiences, but—
My thoughts quit and I eased forward on my
stomach, peering out and trying to look down the little
alley. Footsteps were creaking along—not pounding
on the pavement as a man who walks about his business
—but a gent whose attempt to slip noiselessly along
was somewhat killed by the musical shoes he sported.
A sheik whose vanity was betraying him to my straining
ears.
He was a long lanky bird and I had a hunch that I
had seen him before; last night—the dirty pan-
handler who had tried to get me in conversation while
.


CHAPTER XVII
A RESCUE
Just a coincidence that he was there? Not a chance.
In some way Barton Briskey was connected with
Danny Davidson. On which side was the question?
It was possible that the panhandler had gotten wind
of my coming—that some one had even trailed me.
Not that I believed that, but as I said—anything
is possible to-day. Of course there was the
idea of a trap. Barton Briskey wouldn't be above such
a thing for his own benefit. But it wouldn't be for his
own benefit. I don't suppose there is any one who
knows me better than Barton Briskey, and he knew
that if he trapped me and I lived, I'd come back for
him. He knew also that when I go for a man I get that
man.
Then what? But I'd wait and see; perhaps this lad
was there for an entirely different purpose. He was a ,
leaf from the old days—a costume player—for to-night
he was dressed in the livery of a chauffeur. Maybe
to-morrow he'd play the role of a baby in a perambula-
tor. He might just as well try that. His stooping
shoulders and slouching gait couldn't be disguised and
159


160 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
I doubt if the crack in his voice could, when he got ex-
cited. No—if any lad wanted a try at my life there
could be no one I'd prefer to this duck. He didn't
have the stomach of a louse. The gang should use him
to frighten women and children—and very young and
nervous children at that.
He took up his stand by the little door across the
street; close to it too, so that he could not be seen from
either end of the alley; yet, he could stretch out his
head and look up and down it. The place was as
silent as a morgue. Strange too—a few more hours
and it would be alive with push carts, hustling men and
lagging boys. I daresay in the daytime you could buy
anything in that alley from a ham sandwich to an
automobile, to say nothing of a handful of oil stocks
that were guaranteed to rob widows and orphans of
their last nickel. No—all the crooks didn't hang out
in this neighborhood in the night—the boys that worked
there in the daytime had them skinned a mile.
This fellow didn't have long to wait. Things were
about to happen. I crept to the front of the truck as
he crouched back against the wall—and the little door
opened. A figure framed there a moment; a figure that
looked up and down the street, then closing the door
behind, it stepped toward the single step which led to
the sidewalk. It was a girl—of course I couldn't be
sure, but if I were a betting man I'd lay pretty good
odds that it was my girl of the night—Milly of the
smiling eyes and hard mouth.
As the door closed, the man came into view again—


A RESCUE
161
an arm shot out and wound quickly about the girl's
neck; and I was close enough to hear the voice that
hissed in her ear, though I couldn't get the words. But
he sure was an obliging cuss, for he half carried and
half shoved the girl across the alley and straight
through the gateway, and right smack up against the
truck where I lay. I could have laughed but I didn't.
The girl fought a little—after her first involuntary
gasp she didn't cry out, though she could have. The
man's arm was about her neck but the hand had missed
her mouth. He released his grasp when they reached
the protecting sides of the gate and were hidden from
view in the alley.
"Not a peep, lady." And I could see the gun shove
into her side; not a gentle shove either. It hurt, for
though no protest came from the girl, her lips clicked
with a snap.
"We ain't a-goin' to hurt ya, lady," the man whined
on. "It ain't a kidnaping nor yet an elopement. Just
want to borrow a bit of change—let me see what you
have in that bag there." He snatched the bag from
her, tore it open—dropped it with a curse and ordered
the girl to throw up her hands.
"You got more than that, ya little rat. Come—give
it up—quick—do ya want me to smack you one?"
He snatched her hat suddenly from her head. I drew
in a deep breath—if he had of been a vaudeville
magician he couldn't have pulled a better act. It rained
money there on the walk—yellow boys too—right out
of the hat.


162 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
"Ah!" His gun lowered for a moment as he
snatched at the bills. Then he thought of the girl.
Just in time too, for her right hand had dropped and
was creeping toward her pocket.
"Ya would, would ya?" He jumped up, with his
arm raised and his fist closed. "Your sweetheart'll
wait a bit for ya to-night. I didn't intend to crash ya,
but now I—"
"Won't." It was I who finished the sentence for
him as I jumped out of the truck, grabbed his hand and
twisted it behind his back. I was slightly ashamed of
the girl too. One quick look she took at me, then
dropping to her knees gathered up the money. Money!
The god of her kind. It came before her life even, I
guess. She was still on her knees when I knocked the
gun from the dirty lad's hand, spun him around and
stared into his face. He knew me too, for his face
turned white.
"Race Williams!" he gulped.
"You're going over," I told him as I shoved the gun
against his chest. "You tried for my life last night—
you know my law—if you've got a prayer say it be-
fore I pull the trigger."
What a rat he was! He didn't stop to think that I
couldn't just kill him there in front of the girl. He
didn't know that it wouldn't be good policy for me to
startle the neighborhood with a pistol shot; that my
business there was far more important than knocking
off a cheap gun. But nothing like that went through


A RESCUE
163
his head. He just saw death—sure and sudden, and he
slunk to his knees and began to beg for his life.
And the girl! She fell for my talk. She was on her
feet now, clutching at my arm.
"Don't kill him—please. After all, it's me that he
harmed—not you."
But I shook my head.
"He tried for my life and he's got to take his medi-
cine." I couldn't very well just let him go, and I
couldn't very well knock him on the head either. I'd
of liked to have questioned him but that wasn't prac-
tical there. Not with the girl about and—if I let him
go he'd think it was a weakness on my part. It wasn't
my way to let up on an enemy. He'd know that—the
word would get around and—
I jarred up straight. You could have knocked me
down with a rotten tomato. The girl had shoved a gun
into my back—hard too.
"Let him go," she said. "And you"—she turned
to the man who was staggering to his feet—"keep your
face shut on to-night."
"Also"—I added, for my gun was still trained on
him—"if you're in the city to-morrow I'll find you.
Your life isn't worth mine—make tracks—and remem-
ber, I'll be looking for you if it—"
And that was all of that. The man was out in the
alley dashing wildly down it. Before I could finish
my sentence he'd of been in Harlem. The girl had
given me an excuse for letting the bird go. He didn't
know that. She didn't know that. So it was good.


164 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
But the girl! Just think of it—I'd saved her money;
perhaps even her life—and now— She laughed there
beside me; and I turned sharply as the gun bounced
into her pocket.
"You wouldn't have killed him—besides, I couldn't
let you go that far for me. I'm not worth it." She
stared down at my feet. A slight bit of wind swept
around the open gate and a crumpled bit of paper hung
about my ankle. I got to it ahead of the girl. It was
a century note. I whistled softly as I held the bill
toward her. This girl had come down the little stairs
that must have led to Barton Briskey's office, and she
had come down dough heavy. There's food for thought
for a thinking man. I never jump at conclusions—
not me. But I wouldn't need a brick wall to fall on my
head to let me know that Danny Davidson, the girl
called Milly, and Barton Briskey were all mixed up
in the same business. Also, that where Barton Briskey
was—there was money.
"Keep the hundred." The girl looked up at me;
steady eyes that shone through the darkness. "If you
want more, name your price—you helped me, I sup-
pose."
"You suppose!" I gasped as I shoved the century
note into her hand. "At least you have to admit that
I saved you the money."
"More, my life, I guess." And there was an earnest-
ness to her voice. "That money was for Danny—
Danny's life maybe. It wouldn't have been taken with-


A RESCUE
165
out blood on it." And then very slowly, "Yes, blood
on it."
Danny, the girl—and now Briskey. Had she sold
out to Briskey? What she sold out I didn't know—
but had she sold out? Blood on the money—her blood,
or Danny's blood?
"Are you sure," I stared straight down at her, "that
there isn't blood on the money now—that it isn't just
blood money?"
The corners of her lips slipped into a queer sort of
smile.
"You won't take money from me—perhaps because
you think it's blood money. After all though, I might
have died—and then Danny—" she spread her hands
far apart. "Here's the advice I can give you. Make
what you can out of Barton Briskey—I did. Danny
is entitled to nothing—there is no money coming to him
—nothing in the future but the prison gates or what I
can bring him. There—my hand and my word on
that."
And despite the cold of the winter night it was a
warm little hand that slapped itself into mine. So
different from the cold fingers of the girl hanging from
the window the night before. And her voice, too—
nothing of the cultured training there perhaps, yet a
musical ring that was sweet and natural—as if for
the first time Milly's real self was speaking and not
the hard, cynical girl of the night, who was ever on
the watch for danger.


166 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
"Where is Danny?" I asked. "Surely you'll let me
see him. Where is he?"
"I could lie to you of course." Her head cocked
up. "And I would, too—should have now maybe—for
you might follow me. Yet, I won't lie to you to-night."
"If some one hasn't anything to fear from Danny—
then why the attempt upon his life?" There was a
stickler for her and I wished for a light to watch her
face—nothing but whiteness—shining eyes and glisten-
ing teeth, and the faintest semblance of red lips.
"Because on his life hangs the life of another.
There—I've said too much now. To-night I fought
tooth and nail for this money." She still squeezed
some of it in her hand. "Forget me—forget Danny—
at the first opportunity we will leave the country.
Take what you can get. You can't fight alone against
such odds—think of one man, determined to kill you
if he must sacrifice his own life for it—then think of a
city of men—for, Race Williams, there will be such a
price on your head that even the most chicken-hearted
sneak thief will forget your reputation,, his own fear
of death, and shoot you in the back any hour of the
day or night. Such orders will go out. I know it."
"Will go out!"
"Will go out to-night—after your visit with Barton
Briskey—unless you are reasonable—and sensible."
"Then there was some truth in Danny's story of
half a million; there is real money involved."
"Real money—yes—more than that—twice that—
and perhaps double again that sum. But none of it is


168 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
and stepping toward me took me by the hand. Did
her eyes just glisten with the brightness of youth or
the thrill of battle? Perhaps—but I thought not. 16
was hard to believe that that hard little face would
give way to emotion. Yet, when she spoke I knew
that there was at least moisture on her cheeks—two
drops that came from shining eyes. Tears? Yep. It
sort of gave me a jar inside—and her voice shook
when she spoke—and her face seemed to grow softer;
but perhaps it was the dull light of the subway entrance.
"Thanks." She gulped the words. "I shouldn't
say what I'm going to say. It'll fetch a laugh, coming
from me to you; or perhaps it will just sound like—
blasphemy. But I got'a get it out or it'll tear the very
insides from me. I don't believe bad of you—nothing
but good; and, blasphemy or not— God bless you,
Race Williams." Fingers tightened for a moment in
mine, the erect little head lost its cockey tilt and
dropped to her chest. And she was gone—turning
suddenly; dabbing at her eyes and running down the
steps.
Theatrical? Maybe. Playing for the gallery, like
the woman of the stage? Perhaps. But I didn't be-
lieve it. My own stomach gave a bit of a jump as I
turned and plodded back down the street. Then with
a shrug of my shoulders I dismissed the girl from my
mind. Big things were in the air. Instinct had kept
me interested. Now—we'd hear what Barton Briskey
had to say.


THE CAR WITH THE DRAWN CURTAINS 171
a mighty careful man. Had some one let him know
that I was on the stairs—could he have seen me from
the window above? But no light had come from that
window. Shades, or shutters, or what have you, were
carefully drawn, shutting out any light. I surely had
given that window a good look-see from the street
below.
"Ah, Race—my boy." A bony hand shot out and
gripped mine. It was a damp, cold hand—something
like you'd picked up a handful of already shelled
clams. "This is good—very good—one is glad to see
friends. Do you know, I hesitated to send for you.
You're such a vicious sort of a devil, and I was afraid
you might misunderstand." Barton Briskey stood
aside to let me enter, carefully shot the bolt to behind
me, and rubbing his bloodless hands together stepped
over toward the open fire. Little he was; bent, too—
the long-tailed, black coat wrinkling up on his back
as he jerked up and down before the fire.
He didn't seem to watch me; just stared straight
into the fire, his neck going in and out of his collar
like that of a curious old tortoise. Yet he wasn't old—
less than fifty, I guess. It was the yellowness of his
corrugated skin and the deepness of his eyes, and the
straggling ends of gray hair that just crawled down
through the wrinkles in his forehead. He didn't speak
for a minute, and I understood. He was giving me a
chance to look the room over. He knew my ways.
Of course it wouldn't offend him if I searched the
place; and I wouldn't care if it did. I trusted Barton


172 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
Briskey as much as I did any man—which was very
little. But it was unnecessary to search that room;
a quick hurried glance was sufficient. He had set the
stage to make me welcome. "Make him feel at home"
sort of business.
The two closets in the room had their doors thrown
wide open. The one was shallow, with books upon the
shelves—mostly old copies—heavy stuff, too, which
added an air of reality and respectability to James
Smith, I suppose. The other closet was a deep affair,
and inspection had been made easier for me. The
door was thrown open and knickknacks of one kind
and another were piled upon the floor. I did take st
walk to it and shoot my flashlight within. Nothing
there of course.
The shelves along the wall which sported curtains
had those same curtains thrown far back. It was as
if a magician assured me that he had nothing up his
sleeve; and, as usual, with that assurance comes the
suspicion that trickery is planned—else, why the
preparation to show me how secure I was? One cur-
tain, however, remained drawn. I suppose I should
have been too much of a gentleman to disturb that,
after the generous display of all other possible hiding-
places. But I wasn't. I jerked that curtain back and
disclosed a door. A bolt was drawn tightly across it—
I pulled on the knob. The bolt was real and not a
dummy. Satisfied, I turned to the man by the fire.
"It's cold out." Barton Briskey swung and faced
me. "Not so cold as yesterday but mighty raw. That


THE CAR WITH THE DRAWN CURTAINS 173
door now," he jerked a thumb toward the still waving
curtain, "we will talk of that later. It leads to an
alley without—privacy for me, you see—few know
of it."
I just looked at him. Few, maybe—but at least
three, of which I was one. He went on:
"Sit there by the fire so you can see both doors. I
know your peculiarities and your objections to having
your back to a door. I hate drafts, too." And his
laugh cackled like the logs on the fire. "I wish to save
time. I don't want you sitting nervously about. Thus
my preparation. You and I are alone, Race." He
turned to his desk drawer, jerked it open as I took the
offered seat by the fire.
One hand in that drawer, he watched me before he
spoke again.
"The weather is cold and you do not look your best.
A trip south now might do you good. Have you got
the time for such a trip—with adequate pay? In
other words, Race—can you go south"—he snapped
his shrewd little sunken eyes at an old clock upon the
mantel—"this morning?"
"I might—but I think not."
"You have a case then—another case?"
"Maybe—but I am here to hear your business, not
discuss mine."
"Quite correct." Colorless lips snapped; the hand
shot out of the drawer and a tightly bound stack of
bills flopped upon the desk.


174 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
"Suppose I sent you away on a case, and later you
discovered that there was no case—what then?"
I smiled easily.
"Probably I wouldn't go—but you wouldn't fool me
more than once. You know that, Barton Briskey."
Was there a warning in my voice? I don't know. I
didn't mean to put one there, but he jerked his head
out toward me, fastened those gimlet-like, steel-
colored eyes on me. He was trying to read what I
was thinking. He may have been good at it. I don't
know. But I wasn't thinking anything just then. It
was up to him to make a break.
"Suppose—" he said very slowly. "Suppose I should
trap you here—put you in danger of your life—and
that life was saved; what then?" And though he
smiled there was an earnestness in his voice which I
didn't like.
I answered smile with smile—but my smile was a
grim one.
"Then I'd come back and stick a bullet straight
between your eyes." Did I mean it? Don't make me
laugh. Barton Briskey was known to tote a gun, and
was known to be mighty quick with that same gun.
I'd give him a chance to try out his hand against
mine.
"Good—very good!" He broke the band on the
bills and ran his fingers over them—century notes they
were—bright yellow boys, with a freshness that told
they were not long from the bank. Little yellow
brothers to the roll Milly had carried. Certainly


THE CAR WITH THE DRAWN CURTAINS 175
Barton Briskey, whose god was money, was in a
generous mood that night.
"You simply think of yourself, Race—not selfish
exactly; I don't mean that. But you must at times
think of the other man. Of course I am a firm believer
in law and order. That the pen is mightier than the
sword, was written for me. But"—the eyes again
were fastened on me—"I do not also believe that the
pen is mightier than the gun. You have heard of
course that I can reach, draw and shoot in just one
second. Now—what do you say to that?" He
chuckled as if he joked, but I knew that he studied
me keenly, and that there was something behind all
this chatter. But he had asked a fair question and
I gave him a fair answer.
"What do I say to that?" My hands never moved
from the sides of the chair. "I say that you'd be
exactly one-half a second too late."
The wrinkles in his forehead curled up to one big
single ridge, and his eyebrows raised with them—but
his eyes peculiarly remained the same small shrewd
little points of steel.
"Yes—perhaps I would." It was as if he thought
aloud. "So then, if I ever trap you it must be certain—
sure. But the talk is stupid and ridiculous. Our
paths have only crossed in friendship—mutual under-
standing and mutual profits. Forget my whims—it is
my insatiable appetite for psychology—the study of—
But no matter—back to the subject of your health."
"My health is good."


176 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
"You think so—but no. If the trip sooth does not
appeal to you, there is Alaska—deep snows, pure
health-giving air and the big game hunts upon the
stretches of mountain ice. Expensive, you think? But
no—you have been most fortunate. A fairy godmother
has waved her wand, and all things are possible. Two
thousand—three, perhaps—come, 111 not be stingy.
I'll make it four. You should travel like the gentleman
you are."


CHAPTER XIX
THE TRAP
I hesitated a moment before I spoke. The game
was deep. Barton Briskey was offering me money to
leave the city—drop an investigation—a client that I
had. He couldn't know that I didn't have any client—
but there could be only one case that he meant. Danny
of the weak brain and the punctured arm. I'd make
him place his cards on the table.
"Briskey—" I stroked my chin, "circumstances are
such that I can not leave the city at this time."
"For how much will you go?" He waved a finger I
reprovingly at me. "You're keen, Race—bright; you
think you smell money and this talk with me convinces
you that there is money just around the corner from
your reach. Just let me assure you that the case you
have—the wanderings you listened to, are nothing short
of a disordered mind. I give you my word that you can
make nothing—on the other side."
"Then why do you fear the other side—fear me—my
investigation?"
"I, my dear boy," and he pulled the indignant, "have
no interest in this. Money has been put in my hands.
177


178 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
To put it brutally, it is to buy you off. The man you
have seen—the man who claims to be the rightful i
possessor of great wealth, is the rattling skeleton in a
family closet. Look, you—and I tell you only what I
am told—though most of it I have investigated for your
benefit. Police headquarters will convince you that the
man is a wanted criminal."
"Is the man's right name—his real name—Daniel
Davidson?"
Barton Briskey weighed that question in his mind as
well as in the upturned palm which he held before him,
moving it slowly up and down. Then he spoke.
"I believe that that is the man's right name," he said
very slowly.
"And he had a father called D. Perry Davidson?"
"I believe that he did."
"And that father left considerable money—half a
million, say."
"I am not sure of the sum—but my investigation
disclosed that the amount was a substantial one."
"And now you offer me money so that I shall prevent
justice being done and allow this poor boy to die of
want—deprived of his rightful inheritance. Without
going into the case thoroughly, Mr. Barton Briskey,
don't you believe that if I get him his money—
straighten out his trouble—he'll pay me more than ever
you could afford to?"
"Not me—not me." His hand fell upon the desk as
his brow scowled. "I am paid to offer you this money
—that is all. It might as well be by me as another.


THE TRAP
179
But you are wrong. D. Perry Davidson left nothing
to this son—not one penny."
I straightened suddenly—then smiled.
"You don't expect me to believe that yam—after
that." I pointed to the bills.
"You work with the fingers and with the eye."
Briskey smirked over at me. "But there are times
when the brain serves a purpose. I expect you to be-
lieve nothing. If you had visited the Surrogate's office
you would learn that no money was left this son.
Common sense would tell you that. He went away with
his mother—never came back to his father. When
D. Perry Davidson died he left every penny to his
daughter. This Daniel Davidson came from England
to start trouble. He was a thief and a dope fiend, I am
told—and then came a gun fight—over a girl. A
lawyer, wishing to keep the Davidson name clean, got
him to plead guilty under another name. He went to
prison, and—"
"And they helped him to escape—I know the story,"
I cut in.
"A girl helped him to escape." Briskey corrected
me. "Now, you see my point—or my client's point.
Daniel Davidson has disgraced the family. That he is
alive has been kept from his sister—until recently. He
wrote to her, I believe. Her uncle has been paying out
money to keep the scandal a secret. He is willing to
pay more, but others have learned—and there is black-
mail. Now you are in it. If you go on with your in-


THE TRAP
181
at the sight of blood—would seek your death. Do I
make myself clear?" There was a new note in his
voice. And his eyes bored into me as if—well, as if he
suspected my knowing some secret of his. Certainly
he would take a life if in taking that life he protected
or profited himself. As for his stomach—fields would
have to run red with blood before you could sicken him.
That was my belief anyway.
"Well," he said after a bit, "what do you say?"
"Why—I say nothing—except that it will be impos-
sible for me to leave the city at this time."
"Aren't my answers to your questions satisfactory?
Now be reasonable, Race. I am not paid to answer
your questions—simply to offer you the money. But
you have done work for me and I like you; want to
see you make some money. Also—I am paid accord-
ing to my success—come, I won't hold out on you."
The hand went into the drawer again. "Here's the rest
of it," more bills upon the desk, "ten thousand—just
my ten percent. Don't be a fool—play the game. Ten
grand for not working—think of it—ten thousand dol-
lars to stay idle and leave the city for the winter."
"For the winter." I thought aloud. "Then—Danny
Davidson will be dead, I suppose."
"It is not for us to speculate upon the workings of
divine providence—or the other kind." He rubbed his
hands together. "Suppose nothing—except the
money."
"And what proof must you have of my integrity?"
"Nothing—nothing more than the envelope with the


182 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
enclosure, that if I know anything about you is still
in your pocket."
"You know a lot," I told him. "Perhaps you know
what that envelope I am supposed to carry contains."
"I know what I am told." His voice rasped a little.
"It contains a will."
"And what good is a will if the maker of it has noth-
ing to will?"
"It would make a dirty scandal—make the life of a
young girl miserable—ruin her health worse than it is
now. If I can't appeal to your head, let me try for your
heart—or are both hard and—"
"I'll think the thing over," I told him as I stood up
and half turned toward the door.
Barton Briskey came from behind the desk and
clutched me by the sleeve.
"You must decide now."
"Must!" I turned suddenly on him. There was a
threat in his voice—my hand crept close to my coat
pocket.
"Exactly." He bit his lip. "I said'must.'"
"Must—or lose the opportunity, eh?"
"Must—or—or lose your life." He leaned forward
and there was no levity in his voice, nor in his eyes. He
was in deadly earnest—his face white—not a plain,
ordinary white but the whiteness of milk—a thin,
watery sort of milk.
"You threaten me?" I watched his hands as I
tapped my pocket. Then I shook his grip from my
sleeve, stepped to the door and shot a hand upon the


THE TRAP
183
bolt. "Remember that half second, Barton Briskey."
I smiled with my lips but my eyes were steady and
hard. "Indeed your love for money must be great
when you threaten me. You have neither the strength
nor the courage to attack me—and you know it."
"It's not me, Race," he whispered. "God knows I
wouldn't threaten you—but don't go out that door until
I have talked a little more. I shouldn't talk—I may
pay well for it. But Hell itself lurks in the city for
you to-night—lurks beyond that door."
"So—" I swung so suddenly on him that he backed
up against the desk—and some of the money fell to the
floor. "You mean—mean that you have trapped me
here. Why, Man"—and there was no mirth in my
laugh—"I have a good mind to—and by God I will."
Feet had run from the door—feet that made no effort
to hide their pounding upon the steps. This little runt
—this Barton Briskey, who knew me so well—had
trapped me there. Sure—I was to get the money and
be murdered for it afterward. No wonder the offer to
go bye-bye was so generous!
My gun was out, pounding against his chest. He was
leaning against the desk—his breath coming in quick
uneven gasps.
"Don't shoot—don't, Race. I didn't know—didn't
suspect. Didn't, until it was too late. I saved your
life—it's the truth—listen to what I have to say."
"Well—speak up—if those without, want a dead
body to satisfy them I'll feed them one. So that's what
the car meant below!" I stretched out a hand, gripped


184. THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
Briskey by the neck and drew him to me. He didn't
resist—just wilted up like a rag as I frisked him;
pulled a long-barreled, foreign make of gat from the
tail pocket of that frock coat and chucked it far back
in the closet.
He squealed on.
"They came to my place to-night—one man—a
desperate, wanted criminal with a price on his head.
'Race Williams is coming here,' he told me. 'Keep your
face shut—he's learning too much—to-night he goes
out.'
"I tried to protect you, Race—argued with the man
and found it was the Danny Davidson affair—that
Danny held a secret which, if it came into your posses-
sion, would send three men to the chair. One, the worst
the city knows—not a man at all, sometimes I think."
And he shivered slightly.


i86
THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
"They believed me—but were doubtful of you being
bought off. That little light there—" He pointed to a
queer looking red lantern on a shelf. "If you agreed to
my price—agreed to drop the thing—then I was to put
the light in the window. Agree, Race. It's the easiest
money you ever earned. Give me that will and go your
way in peace—I'll put the light in the window and
they'll fade away. Hesitate, and your chance of life
is slim indeed. Every criminal hand in the city will be
stretched out for you—there is a big price upon your
head. If you did escape to-night it would do you no
good. Death is sure; not as if one or two men hunted
you down—but some one all powerful has called for
your death—unless—" He looked up at me eagerly.
"Will I light the lamp—now?" A boney, trembling
hand felt out for the little lantern—a fragile bit of glass
that looked as if it'd bust in your hand as soon as you
touched it.
"Sure—" I said. "Light the red lantern and flag the
train."
"And you'll take the money?" He crossed to the
fireplace.
"No—I won't take the money," I told him.
"But you'll go—drop the case?" He looked sud-
denly up at me from the fire.
"No—I won't."
"But the light—I can't light it if—"
"That's your party." I nodded grimly. "You may
explain afterwards that I changed my mind or you were
a bit muddled—anything at all."


I DECIDE TO FACE THE ENEMY 187
"They'll probably kill me," he gasped.
"Probably." I yawned. "But you won't be buried,
forgotten. I'll send flowers."
"You joke."
"Don't put the light in the window then, and you'll
see how much I joke. I'll save those birds the trouble
of knocking you off. It's your own fault, Briskey—
now do your stuff."
He went to the front window, threw it open, and
smacked back the shutters. Then he returned to the
fireplace and picked up the lamp.
"You do it." He extended it to me with trembling
hands.
"I don't know the trick." I shook my head. "May-
be you have to wave it—maybe you have to put it in a
certain position—maybe the boys in the closed car
might even take a shot at it—or me. No—you're the
boy that knows the trick: Go to it." My finger closed
slightly upon the trigger and the hammer rose and fell
with a dull click. A pretty trick, that!
He hesitated a moment—then struck a match on the
stones above the fire. I watched him; watched the
match too as it hovered near the wick, the flame waver-
ing from the draft of the open window. But the match
didn't go out—for Briskey suddenly cupped it in his
hand and described a half circle with it. To save the
flame—or a signal? For he was directly in a line with
the window. Not that they could see him from the car
in the street; he was too far back in the room for that
—but—there was a house across the way; a house with


188 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
windows. As for me—I stayed to one side of our open
window. If any bullets came through it I'd let Barton
Briskey do the ducking.
I suppose you call it conceit—I like to call it pride.
But I had put fear into Barton Briskey. Or had I?
I watched him carefully, to make sure he wasn't acting.
I didn't know, never even thought that he'd go to
pieces like that. That cold, bloodless, heartless little
lawyer. Back of all the threats and gun play there
must have been money—big money.
He was having difficulty in finding the wick—his
fingers and hands shook like the old time bar-flies used
to. Once he looked over at me, for he heard the click
of steel upon steel as the hammer of my rod slipped up
and down. He couldn't be sure that I wouldn't plug
him. He'd of plugged me in the same situation. So
the match darted forward, touched the wick, and a tiny
flame sprung up. As that little flame licked at the
wick, caught and grew steady—from the street below
came a cry. The cry I heard the night before, and
would remember for a good many nights to come.
A whining sound at first, which broke gradually as it
reached a high note and finished with a snarl. Low
this time—but clear enough. It was the snarl of The
Beast. I half turned toward the window. They
couldn't intimidate me with any stage tricks, nor with
the bestial cries of a half mad brute that roamed the
streets; real or stage properties made no difference to
me—beast or man.


I DECIDE TO FACE THE ENEMY 189
And I swung back to Barton Briskey. The cry had
hardly died away in the night when his head came
erect.
"Not that—not that I" I heard him mutter—but it
was the slight ring of glass on stone that made me turn
—made me swear softly too. The little red lamp had
slipped from his fingers before those snarling notes had
died away. Had it busted? Man! you couldn't have
found the pieces with a microscope. The glass had
just evaporated—mixed with the red of the stones be-
fore the open fire.
I shouldn't have hesitated maybe. Put it down as a
weakness that I didn't shoot the little crook and be
done with it. But I didn't—I just stood there juggling
the gun and watching the terror-stricken form by the
fire. Before I could make up my mind what to do with
him and decide if he was faking the trembling or not, he
came erect—jumped to the window and slammed it
down.
"I did my best," he cried, turning to me. "Take the
money, Race. I'll call out to them—anything—let the
leader come up—I can't let you go out there. The
Beast—you heard him—he'll tear you limb from limb—
I can see it—see it all." He fairly shrieked the words
as he tore at the few streaks of hair that hung over his
forehead. It was heavy stuff for Barton Briskey, and
although he did it well somehow it lacked reality.
Maybe you could see me torn limb from limb, but I
couldn't. I wouldn't let him lean out that window.


190 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
Not that I feared for his life. I could watch them plug
him without getting a kick to it. But he might signal
them in some way. So I waved him back from the
window.
"Don't think I'd double cross you." His voice was
stronger now, his carriage more erect, his face still
white, but the hand that sought my arm steadier. Was
he after all playing a part? Had he actually planned to
trap me there—or was he trying to affect my nerves so
that I'd take the money and make a deal with him?
"Will you—will you take the money?"
"You can't buy me," I told him. "And I don't—"
"I have it," he cut in. "The little door there—none
know of it; at least, very few. They will never suspect
—go—you must."
"I have a final word for you." I planted myself
firmly before the curtain. "I'm going to try to be-
lieve some of what you told me." I laid my hand on
the bolt of the little door. "But if you've lied to me—
trapped me here; and I'll learn the truth—then I'm
coming back."
"Yes—go—for that Beast and the wolves of the
underworld are on the stairs—there in front. They
are ready for you—waiting for you. See, I saved you.
What will happen to me I don't know—but I sent for
you, and I will sacrifice myself rather than you."
Maybe it was true. Maybe it wasn't. Hand on the
bolt, I hesitated. I was smiling in derision at his
terror but the smile was going now. My lips were
tightening—my eyes narrowing. That others knew of


I DECIDE TO FACE THE ENEMY 191
that little back entrance I didn't care. I didn't think
of that—didn't think of anything. Anger was swelling
up inside of me—something that seldom comes to me.
Something that I nearly always control—and fear too.
When I spoke it was as if the voice came from another
—I did not think out the words or frame the sentence.
It just came, that was all.
"You say they're on the front stairs, Briskey? How
many of them?"
"Five—maybe more—and perhaps The Beast him-
self—certainly he will be there. A man whom lead—"
Good! My left hand left the bolt of the little door,
slowly sought my pocket and snapped out with another
gun. If Barton Briskey had trapped me there to-night,
he'd get an eyeful now that he wouldn't forget in a
hurry. Guns are my business—action my meat. The
Beast was wanted—the price on his head was large. He
and his gang had taken pot shots at me as often as they
liked. He had tried to kill me and also the youth that I
was pleased to look on as my client since talking with
the lawyer. Well—the police wanted to drag me in,
did they? I'd give them something to work on. The
dregs of the underworld were after my hide, were they?
Now—I'd give them a chance to get that hide, and may
the devil take the carcasses that were left upon those
stairs. So I stepped across the room and clutched an-
other bolt. The one of the main door—the door which
led to the stairs and the waiting gunmen.
"What—what are you going to do?" Briskey's upper


I DECIDE TO FACE THE ENEMY 193
like that and I'll start in with you—for one more or
less won't matter to-night. Better get going at that
back door." With that I snapped the bolt of the office
door and pressed the electric light button, pitching the
room into blackness.


CHAPTER XXI
action!
There was a thrill to it as I jerked open the door and
stepped to one side. The game wasn't a half bad one at
that. The boys that crouched out in that hallway were
probably all killers—every one with a long police
record. Others wouldn't dare lay for me. You wouldn't
be able to get a jury to convict me even if the grand
jury did indict, for lawlessness ran riot in the city.
Maybe I'd come in for a vote of thanks. About getting
killed myself—that was possible of course. Better die
now than forty years from now, with pains in the
stomach. Besides—I'd be shooting from darkness into
light. The boys would have to shoot blindly, while I
could account for a man with each shot. I don't go in
to miss, you know.
Silence out there beneath the light; silence on the
stairs too, and as I shot my head around the door no
lurking figure greeted me. Had they lost their nerve?
It would be like them of course. I didn't think they'd
have the stuff to meet me face to face. I know those
rats too well.
Perhaps they lurked on the dark stairs. Not so good
194


ACTION!
195
that. I'd counted on copping off at least one as soon as
I threw open the door. A dead body tumbling down the
stairs among the others would have a good mental ef-
fect. Psychology and corpses go well together. And
not a sound!
I stepped into the hall—well away from the stairs,
reached the bannister and looked over. Dimly the light
from above shone down to the landing below, and dully
I made out the emptiness of the little hallway that led
to the entrance. Funny that—had the boys quit alto-
gether? Was Briskey after all just a plain bluff? Did
he expect to get away with that stuff on me? Did he
take me for a child? But the cry in the night—the
snarl of The Beast. That was real enough.
A bolt jarred—not below, but in the room behind.
The room I had just left. And I knew the truth—not
just a guess. I knew as well as if I'd heard Barton
Briskey arrange the whole thing. And I knew too that
the thing was big—very big—to make Barton Briskey
take the chance he did. But the main part was that I
understood why he had wished to send me down the
little back stairs to the alley. The gunmen weren't in
the front at all. They were waiting there on the little
alley stairs. No doubt the door leading to Briskey's
room was lined on the outside with a thin shell of
steel. The boys would just shoot up those narrow
stairs as soon as the door closed behind me—or per-
haps there were even hidden side passages where they
could do their shooting in absolute safety. Heavy
padded walls probably, that would keep the crack of


196 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
the bullets from being heard in the alley without. Nice
game that. Nice little playmates Barton Briskey had.
How did I know all this? Well—some of it was just
guess work; some of it putting two and eight together;
some of it plain intuition—but most of it a certainty
from the sound of that bolt in Briskey's room, and the
whispered voices of men and the patter of many feet.
When I left the room, Briskey shot that bolt and let
the boys in. Now he was explaining the situation to
them. Some would be following me to the stairs—
others would be ducking around the front way, from
the alley. I could make the street before them, I guess
—dash out, seek a convenient doorway and hold my
own until dawn or the coming of the cops. But I did
neither of these things. They would be expecting ac-
tion—and I wondered if other men lurked in that cur-
tained car, waiting to open up with guns when I made
my appearance. Barton Briskey was most sure of his
ground before he chanced making me his enemy. I set
my lips tightly. If it came to a fight to the death I'd
see if I couldn't save one bullet for Barton Briskey.
Surely he was entitled to it. And I'd bet a pretty piece
of change that he'd have a dozen or more reputable
citizens who'd swear he wasn't within five miles of
Wall Street that night. Such is an alibi—when you
hold secrets of those who perjure themselves to hang
onto what they call "respectability."
So I decided to stick around; decided just as the
sneaking feet reached the door of Barton Briskey's
office and paused there. Who would be the first man


ACTION!
197
to step into the light? That was my question. And
their question also. Feet scraped by the door—came
to a stop as other feet stopped behind them, and a
voice whispered.
"Better wait till he reaches the bottom—Ed Jackson
will get him and beat it—besides," and so low that I
wasn't sure of the words, "The Beast is there too."
That's what it sounded like—at least there was awe in
the speaker's voice and a real hushed murmur of others.
Then those behind began to push, I guess. Such is
the start of a gun fight. The lad in front is shoved
forward, protecting the brave fellows behind. Like a
subway rush or a riot—the fellow behind, who feels
safe, pushes his friends into action. That was my cue,
and I took it as a figure appeared in the doorway. I
just slipped back in the hall, found the stairs that led
to the floor above and went slowly up them—sort of
sideways, watching for an attack from above as well as
from below. But it was dark there and I could not be
seen.
It took them time to reach the head of the stairs and
look down them. I could lean over the bannister and
see them—a hard looking lot they were. Each one
toted a gun in his paw—five, I saw—huddled there by
the head of the stairs, beneath the light—looking into
the hall below. Then an intake of breath, and the
leader spoke.
"There by the door—ain't that Ed—or—give him a
call; did he let the dirty skunk, Race Williams, slip?"


198
THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
And in a hoarse voice, "Hey, Ed—did he—did the meat
come that way?"
There was an answer from below that I didn't get.
What sort of birds were these fellows? Did they think
they could stand there and plan my death? But at that
moment they could, without interference from me, for
I had climbed to the top of the flight of stairs and could
no longer see the little huddled mass below. Of course
I couldn't be sure how the thing would come out—with
death certainly. But I'd give a good account of myself,
and planted there at the top of those stairs the chances
were not unfavorable. It's too bad some enterprising
promoter didn't get an option on the show and post
bulletins outside the building, with the list of dead and
wounded, and the shooting averages.
Just one thing bothered me. In this fight Barton
Briskey would probably win out. That is, in tying my
hands for the next few weeks. Danny Davidson's case
needed immediate attention. At the best I'd wind up
in a police station. Lead wouldn't fly long before the
police would be on the job. The dead line too—that
imaginary line drawn across the lower city, that the
police had so many years ago laid out. It was for the
protection of the lower city with its great diamond bro-
kers—but really the thing was instituted for Maiden
Lane.
This time the cops would surround the building. I
half envied the crook and the murderer, who can shoot
down a police officer and run for it. But I couldn't do
that. That the end justifies the means was made for


ACTION!
199
me all right—but no end would justify the taking of an
innocent life. Now—to crash one on the head is a dif-
ferent matter. Sounds brutal and all that, I know; but
I'm not above it just the same. We can't be too par-
ticular and—
They were coming. It took them long enough at that
to figure the thing out, and I'll bet that Barton Briskey
did it for them, and then beat it. I could hear the boys
moving toward the stairs which led to the third floor,
and to me. Then the lights went out. Briskey knew
that I was onto him now. It would be a fight to the
death. I nodded and shrugged my shoulders—then ly-
ing full length upon the floor and burying my cheek
close to the worn old carpet, I extended my arms full
length to the edge of the first step. It was a good posi-
tion. I could fire without being hit. If a light went up
below I had only to raise my head for one quick shot—
but mostly I'd just shoot down the stairs—blindly of
course—but the stairs were narrow and the chances of
a hit were better than those of a miss.
Of course I'd fire low and close to the steps—the
boys would be snaking up; sticking close to the floor—
crawling on their stomachs. It was possible that one
might make the grade without getting plugged, so I
prepared for that even—slipped out my flash and laid
it ready, the button beneath my chin. There might
come a time when I wanted to take in the situation. So
I waited.
Nothing new in the whole business? No, perhaps
not—but I can't honestly say I was bored or that the


200 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
thing was drab and uninteresting. My blood runs
warmer at such times; a pleasant thrill tingles through,
my body. A hard, cold business? Maybe. But
there's a kick goes with it. The animals in the jungle
must get it at times, when the hunters are on the trail—
that's why they so often jump out and make an attack
themselves.
The stairs creaked—no other sound. They knew
where I was now, and they weren't going to talk about
it. Doors were opening below too. I wondered if that
was to deaden the feet upon the stairs or just to make
sure I wasn't hiding some place on the second floor.
Came a pretty loud creak of the boards as the approach-
ing gunman slid nearer to an early grave. That dis-
turbed the others, and a voice came out of the darkness;
trying to kid me into believing that they thought I had
escaped.
"No use, boys—he's skipped from the roof upstairs
to the next one. We'll have to look around the block
and then give the thing up for to-night. Come on!"
The speaker had hardly finished when the stairs
creaked again—much nearer this time. And then
stamping feet in the hall below—as if a lad was doing
the Charleston. After that, feet again on the stairs of
the first flight—and a mumbled voice of one who de-
scended to the ground floor. One—yes. But one who
tried to give the impression that a dozen or more were
leaving the building. What children they were after
all! What right had they to play at the game of life
and death? Shooting defenseless men in the back was


ACTION!
201
their favorite pastime; not trying to corner a man who
knew his business. But that crawling body was com-
ing on.
There was no way to avoid the thing, I guess. I'd
have to open up. And then I decided to give them a
chance—at least this one lad on the stairs—that is, if
there was only one.
"You on the stairs," I called. "Stand up, drop your
gun, turn your back and walk down."
As if I were the captain giving the order to fire,
things started—half a dozen guns rang out at once, al-
most before I had finished speaking. Pounding lead
whizzed into the wall behind me; dull splashes of
orange blue flame darted up for a full two seconds.
That was the plan of battle. The one—or those on the
stairs were to dash forward under the protecting shots
of the men behind. They wanted to finish things up
quickly and make a get-away before the police came.
But the lad on the stairs didn't do his stuff on time.
The roar of the bullets had passed away and I heard
his feet as he ran for it—not back down the stairs, but
up them toward me—showering lead before him as he
came.
And the fight was on. If they were going to rush
the stairs like that I'd need a light. I didn't think
they'd take such a chance; but they were all coming—
shouting now too—firing wildly. There was nothing to
fear from the shots behind the leader. That was like
the old time holdup men of the Western Plains, who
fired into the air as they rode around the outside of the


CHAPTER XXII
THE SHRIEK OF A SIREN
There were curses and cries of pain and threats of
skinning me alive—and a final burst of flying lead.
But I just lay there and waited. Like the handful of
Americans at the top of Bunker Hill, I was sitting nice
and pretty. These boys only knew the one game—to
shoot and run. As they had planned things it was sure
death for me. When things went differently they
couldn't figure out a new plan. If they had taken their
time; just watched those stairs, while they sent a couple
of guns to come down on me by way of the roof—why,
they could have had me between two fires. But, no—
they were playing the game as they saw it. Ten to
one looked like a sure thing. Now—they were not so
certain.
I grew impassioned as I waited there. I was pretty
easy on them, I thought. Here they were chattering
below, trying to find out who was hurt and if any were
dead, and in the meantime I waited; waited their pleas-
ure. And that's the reason that these boys shoot many
in the underworld—especially the police. The poor cop
knows where they are half the time; walks right up to
203


204 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
them on the street, to make a pinch—and gets shot for
his pains. Then what? The commissioner and two or
three big officials duck into high hats and help carry
the casket. Great stuff that?
No, I can't see it. I'm all for justice and fair play.
I'm not out for vengeance. There wasn't a rat in that
crowd who wouldn't be the better off for a permanent
home in the ground. I'd been enough of a hero for one
night. Besides—there were the police. I didn't want
to be dragged in and held, even long enough for Danny
Davidson to get the works. And why hadn't some one
heard those shots already and notified the police? A
deserted, empty building—certainly. The gang had
seen to that all right—but in some of those little shops
along the street a store keeper must have slept. They
weren't all brokers with fancy apartments in the upper
city.
Of course I'd know as soon as the police were com-
ing. The boys had a lookout ready. If I didn't hear
the clang of the wagon or the shrill blast of the whistle
there'd be a shriek of a siren from the car in the street.
But back to my first thoughts. I'd played the ten,
twenty and thirty hero long enough; had let them fire
first and obeyed all the proper requirements except for
the bullet in the shoulder, which generally comes before
the hero does his stuff. But this was life—and there
they were planning below to take my life.
Truth is truth. Call it murder if you like—a disre-
gard for human life. I don't care. I'll run my business
—you run yours. I snaked along that narrow hall,


206 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
"A truce, Race Williams," the fellow who had done
the talking in the beginning called up to me—and he
flattered me by not sticking his head around the stairs.
I could tell from the distant sound of his voice. "The
money is still yours—if—if you concede to the original
plan that was suggested to you." And he didn't go
into detail. A hint there. The rest of the boys weren't
in on the whole show—it wasn't necessary to tell them
the facts to get them to hunt down Race Williams.
They all hated me—all feared me too. My standing
wouldn't be hurt any in the underworld, for these little
things get around.
I dropped back in the hall a bit before I answered
them. I hadn't heard any noise but I couldn't be sure
that one of them hadn't made the stairs and wanted to
find where my voice came from.
"You give me terms!" I laughed. "Really, it's too
kind of you—and if I don't agree, what then?"
"Then," he said very slowly, and in a deep voice
which was meant to be blood curdling, "you die!" He
got my laugh, and realizing that his logic was pretty
weak, enlarged upon it. "We will get you to-night, if
we all die for it."
"That suits me," I told him. And when he didn't
answer right away I tried to egg him on. "If you don't
get busy pretty soon, I'll come down after you. How
are the rest of the boys?"
And that last crack started the cursing all over again.
Each one took a turn at it. Like children they were—
and I sat on the floor and waited. The cursing died


THE SHRIEK OF A SIREN
207
away—a gasp came—a little ripple of surprise—fol-
lowed by footsteps, queer kind of footsteps, that scraped
on the stairs of the first flight. A sort of a smothered
squeal of triumph came up from the gunmen—which
was answered by a whining note that was followed by a
low snarl. Here was The Beast in person. They re-
spected, feared, and stood in awe of him.
Well, I'd show him a little respect myself. So I
slipped back to the head of the stairs—got the flash
ready—spread myself at full length again—saw that my
chin rested close to the button of the flash, and waited.
They treated this lad like the conquering hero on a col-
lege football team. I'll admit I got a bit of a thrill out
of his coming myself. Not that I feared him, and not
that I simply wanted vengeance—but there was a price
on his head—dead or alive. Inspector Coglin had told
me that. Now—when the police came I'd have a good
story. The Beast was wanted. I'd be sitting on his
chest, ready to claim the reward—and what's more I'd
tell the papers that Coglin put the idea into my head.
After all, I'd get paid a bit for this night's work.
And The Beast came. That steady, shuffling, foot-
gliding noise reached the landing below—slipped along
it and without a word to the men at the bottom of the
second flight, turned onto the stairs.
Superstition runs high in the underworld. These
lads probably half believed that The Beast couldn't be
killed with lead. Perhaps they'd missed him often
enough. And it was no doubt that superstition that
saved his life. Fear, when they fired—fear of that be-


208 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
r
lief that they couldn't hurt him. Fear of his face and
swinging arms and snarling lips too. But I shrugged
my shoulders and waited. His mouth didn't bother me.
I didn't expect him to bite me. As for those long arms
with the hairy hands—they'd never reach me. Another
few seconds now and I'd flash the light and put a
bit of lead between those colorless eyes. Only one thing
bothered me. I'd have to follow that shot up with a
dash down those stairs. I couldn't afford to have the
boys cart that body away. Gruesome to think of that
at such a time? Maybe. But shooting is my business.
It was bad enough to hunt The Beast alive, but if I
had to run around the city trying to get the remains—
why—
And he was half way up the stairs. No snarl now—
a low whining note, as if he sniffed at the air. And his
feet beat faster—like four feet instead of two; he must
have had his huge hairy hands on the stairs also.
Good! His time had come. I leaned forward, ready
to set my chin on the button when it happened. From
the street below came the shrill blast of a siren—three
times it cut through the night. I couldn't hear the steps
of the man on the stairs then—the warning blast of that
siren was followed by confusion below. A gasp—a
shout—many shouts—running feet—cursing men—and
the thud of a heavy body as a couple of them dropped a
wounded companion in their flight.
My chin missed the light and I fired—blindly—
wildly. For a moment I had visions of those hairy
hands upon my throat. But there was no danger. The


THE SHRIEK OF A SIREN 209
warning notes of the automobile horn had reached The
Beast upon the stairs as well as the others, for I heard
his feet again—heavy they were as he pounded down
the stairs. I had missed him, I guess—and for a
moment I thought of that superstition. But I hadn't
seen him, and in the darkness I couldn't tell which side
of the stairs he was on or if he stood erect or crouched
on all fours.
The police that these rats defied brought terror with
their coming now—some of the gunmen dashed to the
lower stairs, to run madly back again and seek Barton
Briskey's room—that would be their escape of course.
Did the police watch that little alley door? And my
escape—well, I'd try the roof. So I too hurried for
freedom toward the stairs behind me, and dashed up
them.
I used my flash generously now as I neared the trap
door which led to the roof. One foot on the ladder, and
I paused, to drop quickly back on the landing again.
Men were on the roof—men who tore at the trap and
beat upon it with heavy clubs—night sticks, I guess.
The police had worked it well—that is, if they
guarded that little alley door. As for me—I was in for
it. No use to try and fight my way through. I'd tell a
story of how I was trapped there by a fake letter—and
then the gun play. They'd never convict me. So I
sought the hall—found a door and spun the knob. It
was locked. I hurled my weight against it. It gave
slightly, and at the second attempt busted open—and I
pitched into an empty office or studio of some kind.


210 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
Closing the door I searched the room with my light
then I spotted the generous window and looked out. A
fine sight in the street below for an honest citizen. It
looked like a police parade. The emergency squad?
Maybe. Yet it seemed quite a crowd to be handy at
the first alarm. I could see the truck in the gateway of
the little alley entrance, and there were half a dozen
blue coated figures there. Hard to explain that. It
almost looked as if this raid was planned in advance.
Feet were pounding in the halls now—running up
and down the stairs. The room contained two or three
chairs and an old table. I pulled a chair up to the
table, put out my flash, pocketed my guns, and sat
down—my elbows on the table, my hands against my
face. At the first flash of a glim, the cops could see that
both my hands were empty and that I was not looking
for trouble. I frowned slightly too. I'd have to hunt
myself up a new mouthpiece now. Something told me
that Barton Briskey would not help my case any.
My thoughts suddenly went flat—the door burst open
—a figure was framed there a moment and a flash shone
full upon my face. I blinked into the light, smiling
grimly. Here was the pinch. I didn't know who the
officer was. I couldn't see him but I heard his little
gasp. Surprise? Maybe. But I thought it was more
of satisfaction. He didn't speak and I didn't speak.
Then he backed from the room, closing the door behind
him. What do you make of that!
There were whispered words in the hall and the thud
of heavy shoulders against the door. That was more


THE SHRIEK OF A SIREN 211
like it. Some one had been put on guard. Why? And
my heart jumped a bit. I had a few good friends on
the force. Had one of them seen me, taken in the
situation, and was ready to protect me? But that would
be almost too much to expect of any man. Yet—it was
the only thing possible. Still, there was a guard at the
door.


CHAPTER XXIII
IN THE HANDS OF THE LAW
The tramping in the hall went on—hoarse shouts that
turned into whispers before they penetrated to the little
room, came from the alley below. But there was no
roar of guns—nothing to denote that there was a cap-
ture. Yet—many cops stood guard by the little alley
door.
Five—ten minutes passed. Things quieted down in
the house—then feet along the hall without—a muffled
voice said something to the guard on the door and the
knob rattled. Again I had a visitor—but this time he
did not show a flash. Simply pulled the door closed
behind him; then snapped a switch, and the room was
lighted from a swinging electric globe that hung from
the ceiling above my head. I blinked up at the green
shade that threw the light down on me—then saw the
man who pulled forward a chair and sat opposite me.
It was Inspector Coglin.
"Here we are again, Race—my boy." And there
was a beam to his eye and a light, airy, fluttering move-
ment of the cigar as it traveled back and forth across
his face. He was pleased with himself.
212


IN THE HANDS OF THE LAW 213
"Made a haul?" I asked. "Got—The Beast?"
"No—" he frowned. "Got away. Barton Briskey
has put it over on the force again. That little alley en-
trance was a blind—there's a door on those back stairs
—half way down them—and that door conceals a
passage to the house across the alley." He jerked his
head toward the window. "No"—his eyes narrowed
now and stared unblinkingly at me—"we didn't get The
Beast, but we got—you—Mr. Race Williams—this
time."
"Me! For what?" I elevated my eyebrows. "I
came here in answer to a letter."
"Sure—" he nodded, with a smile; "and so did I,
Barton Briskey's letter."
"He wrote you?" I didn't try to hide the surprise in
my voice.
"Not exactly—not exactly. I couldn't say that and
tell the whole truth. No—the letter wasn't addressed to
me. To you—he wrote you two letters. I read the one
at your office. An expert opened and resealed it for
me."
"So—" I let it go at that. Inspector Coglin was
improving. "But what have you got on me?"
"Murder—double murder."
"Some one dead?" I questioned.
"Exactly—two of the nicest stiffs you ever set your
eyes on. One behind the ear; the other—not so good.
I know both of them well. You've saved the state a
big electric bill."
"One must protect one's life." I shrugged my shoul-


IN THE HANDS OF THE LAW 215
around—a stool pigeon brought it to me. You're play-
ing the game against all the forces for evil—playing it
alone. How would you like to play it differently for
once—play it with the whole force of the law behind
you—with me behind you?"
"What's the price?" I asked.
"Simply that you work for me."
"Join the force?" I smiled.
"Hardly." He smiled back. "But we'll join forces
for this one instance—then—enemies again if you will
—for your ways and my ways would never fit together.
I'm too old fashioned, I guess—but this once. I want
the credit for the capture of The Beast—I don't care if
he's dead. Here's your chance to go gunning legal-
like."
"You get the credit and I get the lead, eh?"
"Maybe." And his face grew stern and grim—a
hard, determined, honest face he had at that—stub-
born too. "No, Race—I don't fear his lead nor his
hands nor his bullet-proof body. But his path and
mine don't cross. I'll face him any time I can—I just
want your help. Where you are, he'll be. It's the
common gossip of the underworld. If you don't—"
"If I don't—what?"
"I'll put the screws on you—good." His fingers
clenched, the nails biting into rough hands. "I believe
you're in a case now that means something to you. I
believe too that this man they call The Beast is closely
involved in it. I'm willing to help you—if you're will-
ing to help me. If not"—again the clenched fist—"I'll


216
THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
tie your activities up for a time at least—hang this kill-
ing to-night on you—and make you explain before the
grand jury what you were doing in the neighborhood of
Sergeant Rafferty's killing last night. You may have
fooled Delaney but you can't fool me. Take your
choice. Come—all I want is the credit—and—"
"And the money too." I grinned.
"No—" he shook his head. "You can keep all of
that. You'll get credit for his capture or death if you
make it. Three policemen have fallen prey to this
creature—you haven't got the conscience nor the orders
they have. It's the end of this murderer that I want.
But you'll be working for me—all the money is yours."
"H-m-m." I thought that one over. "And about my
other business—do you want to know about that—have
some one with me wherever I go?"
"No—you're a free agent. We won't follow you—
ever. But we'll be ready if you call for us—if you find
this Beast. And I'll face him with you. The thing's
too big for you alone, Race—or maybe it isn't—in a
great many ways you're a remarkable man." And that
was some compliment when coming from Inspector Cog-
lin. "Come—will you go in with me; work with me
when possible until we get this man?" He snapped out
his watch. "It's late—what do you say?"
There was Danny's envelope still in my pocket.
What a stir-up the opening of that might create! Of
course I'd be searched at Headquarters. I could draw
a gun on Inspector Coglin and make a bid for freedom.
But what good would that do? I'd be a wanted man.


IN THE HANDS OF THE LAW 217
No—the thing sounded good. There'd be lead and
blood and death before this game was over. It wouldn't
be so bad to have the law to fall back on. Coglin no
doubt had been given the special handling of the cap-
ture of The Beast; maybe they were ragging him at
headquarters. It wasn't a half bad deal. To shoot and
feel certain that later twelve men wouldn't be listening
to a police version of how it happened. Just one thing I
resented—and I let him have my objection.
"I'm not a murderer." I laid a finger out toward
his chest. "I shoot to protect my life or the life of
another. But I don't go out to kill. Am I to under-
stand that you're giving me my freedom now to kill
this—this Beast?"
"Hardly." He shook his head. "But I think you
will—and I think too that he may kill you first—that's
why I offer you my help—not to protect your life but
to be sure of his—or his capture."
"And you'll take the blame for any shooting that
comes in the way of my duty—duty to the force, eh?"
I couldn't help but smile. The thing seemed good—
just my fear of being in with the police; my distrust of
them and their distrust of me—and my years of running
alone.
"I'll shoulder all the blame and protect you to the
extent of my position. Also I'll stand side by side with
you whenever you call for me. Just a ring of the phone,
and the greatest police force in the world is behind you."
His voice rang with pride.
There was a long period of silence. I liked to run


IN THE HANDS OF THE LAW 219
quit if I don't grab him." He turned toward the door.
"Shall I bring the girl in?"
"Yes—" I said. "Fetch her in—and leave us."
"Right." He grinned broadly. "You'll be able to
walk out, a free man, when you wish. You're working
for me now—give me a ring in the morning. Night!"
The cigar jumped up against his nose; he jerked his
collar tighter and turned toward the door. I still sat
there as he passed out. The door closed behind him—
remained so a moment as two pair of feet tramped along
the hall and started down the stairs. Then the door
opened again. Milly, the girl of the night, stood in the
doorway.
"What have you done for me, Race Williams—what
have you done?" She ran toward me—stretched out
her little hands over the table and clasped mine. "Cog-
lin told me that—that my freedom depended upon you.
Oh—it's too much to ask."


CHAPTER XXIV
INSIDE THE TAXI
For the first time the girl faltered; she half leaned
against the table and her face was white. What dark
eyes she had too—with the sparkle of life still there—
and that was all that was left of her youth. Not that
there were lines in her face—no—she had a finely
chiseled face, now that I got a good look at it under
the light. For the first time too I saw that haunted
look that Danny had spoken about. It was there—and
I had laughed at that idea before. Perhaps things had
changed, that was all. She trusted me now—but did I
trust her?
I came to my feet and stepped around the table to
steady her a bit—she was wobbling there like a drunken
sailor—and then she did it. Flung herself forward, her
little black head just reaching to my chin as she clung
to me—shaking like a leaf and sobbing like a child.
A hard, calculating woman, I thought. And now she
had blown up. Certainly this wasn't acting. And cer-
tainly again it was hard to believe that this was the
same girl who had leaned from the back of that swaying
car and shot a man into the roadway. Hard to under-
220


INSIDE THE TAXI
221
stand women—I gave it up years ago. I just take them
as they come—watch them and—
But there I stood, one arm about that slender body,
the other hand patting her back—and trying to comfort
her with silly talk.
"Brace up, Kid." I finally took her by the shoulders
and held her off at arm's length. Her face was red;
tears still rolled down her cheeks; and it was somber,
painful, black eyes that looked into mine.
"What of Danny?" I asked her. "He'll be needing
you." And with a sudden thought, "The money—the
cops didn't frisk you for it?"
"No—I've got it—it'll go to Danny. And you—
you—" she reeled forward again but my hands stretched
out and held her off.
"Please—" two little hands sought the lapels of my
coat. "Just let me lean there again—a minute only—I
shan't hurt you. I'm bad, I know—but it's not like a
disease—don't just despise me. For a moment I felt
safe, and forgot." With a quick, convulsive shudder
she ducked under my arms, flung her hands up about
my neck, and clung to me—her head buried in my coat.
What sort of game was this? I can't say that I got a
kick out of the little velvet hat that brushed my cheek.
I put a hand down and felt her forehead. It was burn-
ing hot. I jerked off her hat—hair brushed my chin and
she clung the tighter, boring her face hard against my
chest. But she never spoke and she never looked up at
me, and somehow I got to brushing her black, bobbed
hair back and sort of holding her.


222 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
But her hair wasn't intoxicating to me. It tickled
my chin a bit and the fragrance of it was honest and
hadn't come from the five and ten cent store. It was a
funny situation—there we stood—she, hanging to me
without a word, for the sobs had stopped now—and
outside the police protected us, and off somewheres in
the cheerless city was Danny.
"There's Danny," I told her. "I'd better see you
home." And when she did not move I shook her up a
bit. "There's Danny—the man you love. You owe
something to him."
"Love!" She jerked suddenly erect. "What right
have I to think of love? Owe something to him! Yes
—my life, I suppose. I owe all of that to him. For
the wreck that you saw the other night is of my making
—God will punish me for that, I suppose." She
laughed sort of hoarsely. "If God can—but the fires
of a dead man's hell can't be any worse than the fires
that torture a living soul. Come!"
So we turned toward the door. I could think that
one out. The hall was quiet. At the bottom of the
first flight we met a policeman. He looked suspiciously
at us but did not move. At the front door another—a
vaguely familiar face turned away as we passed. What
a change just a few hours make—or a few minutes for
that matter. Inspector Coglin's influence was already
being felt.
No one bothered us. A dozen or more policemen
were guarding the block—and Inspector Coglin, from
across the street where the car that had contained The


224. THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
up at the Surrogate's. But why had the girl told me
there was no money for Danny—and what did she
mean that she owed everything to Danny and that her
soul burned, and that sort of chatter?
I jerked erect in the car. Barton Briskey had said
that Danny's gun fight was over a girl. Was this the
girl? I turned suddenly to her as we pulled into the
station.
"Are you the girl—that Danny had the fight—the
shooting over, when he went to prison?"
I could see her white face jerk up in the darkness as
the driver leaned back and opened the door. But she
didn't answer. She climbed from the cab; then leaned
back in again and beckoned me toward her. I bent
down, sliding along the seat, until her face was very
close to mine. I could even feel the warmth of her
breath on my cheek.
"I am the girl—the girl that drove him to prison-—
and to murder. God forgive me—and you forgive me
to, Race Williams." Her face snapped up; I caught the
flash of great black eyes, then two red lips—lips that I
saw for a moment and then felt. Yep, get a laugh out
of it if you can. I couldn't. The girl had leaned for-
ward and kissed me suddenly full upon the lips. Was
it the warm kiss of a woman who loves, or the cold kiss
of a woman who plays? Neither—more like the soft
lips of a young child—memory must serve me there—
for such a feeling knocks off the years and brings a
picture of dirty, unkempt children—a hard, cruel face


INSIDE THE TAXI
225
—and the bleak walls of the orphanage where I learned
to coldly calculate the frailties of man.
That's that. And quite enough for one night, you'll
admit. Did I suddenly discover that I was in love—
madly and blindly in love with the most beautiful
woman in the world? No—not me. And I didn't laugh
either. Somehow the Kid got that kiss over the way she
meant it. Or—and I turned sharply to the driver and
gave him a look that wiped the silly smirk off his face.
The girl was gone—it wasn't the first woman who'd
kissed me and I daresay it wouldn't be the last. I may
be no winner of a beauty contest, but my face wouldn't
turn your stomach either.
The girl disappeared in the station and we drove on.
This time when I reached my home, Benny was wait-
ing for me. There was no news. The police had
stopped his car, looked in and gone on. Benny wanted
to enlarge on the story but I cut him short. As Samuel
Peppys would chirp—"So, to bed!"
Before I was up in the morning Inspector Coglin
called me on the phone. I was awake in an instant and
my mind was clear; I have learned to snap into things
quickly.
"I thought I'd let you know that the gang got away
last night. Had any threatening messages—or—oh,
anything?" he asked, and there was an anxiety in his
voice.
"Not a thing," I told him. "But here's a hunch for
you. What did you do with the bird you got under my
window the night before last?"


226 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
"You mean Jake Minely?" he said—and then, "I'm
still holding him."
"Will he talk?"
"No—we tried to sweat him—Barton Briskey
showed up as his lawyer and he shut up tighter than a
drum."
"Briskey, eh?" I gulped. "Did you lock him up?"
"No—better wait. I got a hunch that Barton
Briskey not only protects criminals with his legal
knowledge, but profits from their crimes."
"You've had that hunch for years." There didn't
seem much to that, but he was wise not to drag the
lawyer in yet. And then I got a sudden thought.
"Look up Jake Minely's record; I think he's an old
offender—if he's got three convictions against him,
threaten him with the Baumes law and the life sentence.
If he won't talk to you, see if he'll talk to me—give him
his freedom if he will."
"I'll do that," Coglin snapped, and I could picture
the cigar racing by the telephone mouthpiece.
Not so bad, this working for Coglin. I might get
some needed information—but first off I'd make a trip
down town and have a slant at D. Perry Davidson's
will.
And I did—just that little thing. I won't say I
walked out of the building reeling like Charlie Chaplin
in the days of the custard pie comedies. Not a physical
reel anyway—but I sure had a mental one. D. Perry
Davidson had left everything to his daughter, Muriel P.
Davidson. And what's more he particularly mentioned


CHAPTER XXV
A CERTAIN LADY AGAIN
Could Barton Briskey's story after all be true? That
this sister, Muriel, simply wished to protect her brother
and the name of Davidson. And did Davidson hold
some information that made the underworld thirst for
his blood? Was a will after all contained in the letter
that I still carried, and now placed in my safe deposit
box, or was it information that I might have if he died?
I had taken it in trust for Danny. He believed me.
Foolish that I didn't open it? But I have my own code
of ethics. Danny's envelope, whether it contained a
will or anything else, was safe.
Now—what? Now you have a case, now you haven't.
I didn't know where I stood. By ignoring Briskey's
offer, had I slipped up on a real piece of change? But I
shrugged my shoulders. I'd have to await develop-
ments. A pretty mess it would be if I'd just walked in
on a nest of crooks and would spend the rest of my life
killing off the gang, without getting a nickel for it. But
thinking wouldn't do me any good. I set my lips
grimly. I had a little business to attend to with Barton
Briskey. I'd told him I'd come for him, and now I'd
keep my word.
228


230 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
out on the street." She didn't dodge my questions so
I tried another.
"You—you wish to consult me on business?"
"Well—" she sort of gasped, "I did think the busi-
ness was yours—but I have heard from some one who
refers me to you—some one who—who claims to be a
relative—and I am in great doubt. Can you come to
see me?"
"Yes," I said, "I can—where?"
"Why, at my home here—my uncle's home—Oscar
Merrill Davidson."
"To-night—late?" I sort of wondered if this was to
be a back door affair, while the household slept.
"Late? No!" There was a surprised note in her
voice. "When you can—this afternoon—I'm always
home—and I'll be waiting—but the sooner the better.
If—if—"
"Yes—" I encouraged when she did not continue.
"I see little of the world, Mr. Williams." She tried
again. "If I must pay you for this visit—so, advise me
and I'll be glad to—"
"That is hardly necessary," I cut in. "I'll see you
then, this afternoon."
"Yes," she said. "And thank you—ever so much."
With that she hung up the receiver. At first I put the
call down as a fake, but then this girl seemed so piti-
fully befuddled and rattled—that was natural under the
circumstances. She had given me no address either.
Honesty of purpose that—I had simply to look up the
Davidson home in the telephone directory. And it was


A CERTAIN LADY AGAIN 231
there all right—right on Riverside Drive. Had this
girl tried, through Barton Briskey, to buy me off and
failed—now would she make the attempt in person?
After all was it true that Danny had gotten in touch
with her?
At all events it seemed I was going to learn some-
thing, and about time too. I'd of liked to have gotten
in touch with Milly—heard a word from Danny, but
that seemed impossible now. Strange thoughts were
pounding through my head. Could the will of D. Perry
Davidson have been forged, and now the determina-
tion of Danny to have his own stirred up a panic in the
camp of the enemy? Again if there was nothing com-
ing to Danny, why fear him? And why had Danny
been told once that the Davidson fortune was his—or
had he been told it? I shrugged my shoulders. I'd
listen to what this sister had to say and keep my face
closed.
Thoughts of another trap came to me, certainly.
Anything was possible—the game was big. I thought of
Inspector Coglin and looked toward the telephone. The
Davidson house was on Riverside Drive. It might be
nice to have a detail of police waiting outside. Yet,
I'm used to working alone and taking care of myself.
Besides, this was not in line with "my" policy duty.
This was private business, and the police had no part in
it. Danny and the police wouldn't fit. But I sat down
and wrote a little note before I returned home.
"Benny," I said when I was back home, "we're going
visiting this afternoon. You will wait outside in the


232 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
car for me. I won't be in the house over an hour. If
I don't show up in two hours, take this letter straight
to Inspector Coglin." And I slipped the envelope into
his hand.
Did a feeling of security and an easy indifference
to danger come with this new found police protection?
I should have felt easier, but I didn't. Suppose some-
thing turned up and this girl wished me to go with her
to meet her brother! Maybe she had heard from him;
maybe the house would be watched and she'd want me
to slip off somewhere with her. What of my note then?
What of Benny sitting out there in the car? What if
Inspector Coglin burst in, looking for me, and the whole
mess became public? No—these people wanted se-
crecy. Yet—what a great protection the police would
be! At least, I tried to tell myself that as Benny and
I rode uptown.
I tried to think of other things as we swung onto
Riverside Drive and along the Hudson. The news-
paper account of the gun fight last night. Just a
description of a feud between two rival gangs, it read
to the busy man who glanced over the headlines and
remarked to his wife about the epidemic of crime in the
city. He'd smack his lips with satisfaction when he
read of the death of two of them. Barton Briskey's
name and my name were missing from the account.
Inspector Coglin came in for the credit of busting up
the party. There was the usual announcement that the
police had a good description of the men and that they
would all be apprehended within the next twenty-four


A CERTAIN LADY AGAIN 233
hours. Of course that would be the last the "busy man"
would hear of the affair. But he wouldn't mind. A
jeweler killed or a bank messenger shot down on the
public street would drive that "gang feud" into ob-
livion.
The Davidson house was only distinguished from the
line of others by the number on it. The regular solid
stone front, the curve to the steps and the stone ban-
nister and the double doors. I drove half a block by it
and had Benny pull up just around the corner. No use
to make my entrance too conspicuous. If the enemy
followed me there, good enough; they might think that
things were coming to a head and act accordingly.
"Accordingly," meant to me another crack at my life.
Fine stuff that—Coglin could explain the dead for me
afterwards.
Before I stepped from the car, I said to Benny:
"Give me that envelope." And his eyebrows shot
up as he extended it to me, but he didn't speak. He
watched me with interest and a sort of approval as I
tore the note into tiny bits, and lighting a match burnt
the message to Inspector Coglin to a fine white ashes in
the little receiver beneath the window of the car.
Benny sighed with relief, I thought. So did I. I
wanted my mind free to act as I have always acted.
I couldn't get used to the police being behind me—the
further behind the better, I guess. It didn't seem right
and natural. There's no other way to explain it. Oh,
I'd work in with Inspector Coglin as I had promised—
let him horn in when The Beast and I had it out. But


234 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
this was private business, and Coglin didn't belong—not
yet anyway.
Did eyes watch me from the heavily curtained win-
dows as I mounted the front steps and stabbed the
door bell? I don't know. I saw nothing suspicious.
How could people like this be mixed up with the scum
of the underworld, Barton Briskey, the wreck Danny,
and—The Beast? And who was The Beast—just a
killer who worked for others in the night, or was he in
reality the fears of Danny's youth—the man who had
married his mother?
I'd know when I spotted the girl how deep she was
into the thing. You can't trust any one these days.
The "best people" have been known to rob their own
mothers and the "socially elect" are not above going in
for a bit of murder at times.
The butler opened the door for me and my sus-
picions should have been lulled to slumber. He was
dressed in black trousers and white coat, and bent and
bowed and scraped as I stepped into the hall. He was
done up like a Belasco stage setting, and the map on
him was old and lined and as beaming as the setting
sun. But if you get too close to the sun it'll burn you,
you know. One of his hands clutched at my hat—the
other started to drag my coat off my back.
I swung and faced him. In a situation like this I
wouldn't turn my back to the angel Gabriel.
"Ill keep my things," I said as I jerked back into
my coat. "I won't be long. Miss Davidson is expect-
ing me. I am Mr. Williams."


A CERTAIN LADY AGAIN 235
"To be sure—to be sure." His hands rubbed to-
gether, his shoulders bent a bit more, and he turned
and led me back through the large hall and to a door
at the right.
His tap was low and methodical, and if he got the
word to open the door it came too low for me. But
he swung open the door, motioned me to step within
—and chirped:
"Mr. Williams is here, Miss Muriel."
That was that. My left hand sunk into my pocket.
My right held my hat as I slipped sideways through
that door. But there was no need to watch the butler.
The door closed behind me and footsteps beat along
the hall without. The room was fairly bright and I
held my back to the door as I took in the situation.
"Mr. Williams." A voice came out of the corner,
and again I got a start. There was something familiar
about that voice. I knew before I stepped forward and
faced the speaker that it was my blonde visitor of two
nights before. Her voice was lower and meant to be
disguised. Still, I knew her—and she knew that I
knew her, for she tore the shawl away from her head
and I spotted the blonde mop of hair. She sat erect
on a couch and extended her hand toward me.


CHAPTER XXVI
THE GUN BEHIND THE CURTAIN
I stepped across the room and took the outstretched
hand. Nothing could happen to me there with Benny
outside in the car. At least, I told myself that—as my
left hand wound itself a bit tighter about the grip of
my forty-four. I'd rather count on the cold surface
of a rod than the propriety of a young lady inviting a
gentleman to her house to have the roof of his head
blown off. Remember, anything is possible to-day.
She was talking, telling me to sit down beside her—
and I was shooting my eyes about that room. Just one
thing disturbed me. The curtains behind her. Oh,
they seemed to be drawn across a window. The tempta-
tion to walk directly up to them and jerk them back
was strong. But I didn't. Somehow I wanted to
leave the impression with the girl that I trusted her—
which I certainly did anything else but, once I spotted
that yellow roof of hers.
I ignored her invitation to sit beside her, and pulling
up a chair placed it before her, so that her head and
shoulders were between the curtain and me.
"You know me of course," she said, and her lips
236


THE GUN BEHIND THE CURTAIN 239
and then came out with what seemed honest enough, if
not reassuring.
"You'll have to believe what I tell you, I suppose."
And then after a moment's pause, "but I've done every-
thing so far to keep the scandal from the public. I
even went to your house—to—to—yes, to steal a paper
which I thought contained—oh, I don't know what."
"How did you know I had such a paper?"
"From my uncle," she answered, quickly enough.
"He received letters from Danny—threats—claims that
my uncle was withholding money from him. He also
wrote that he was giving into your trust, at the first
opportunity, his will and a denouncement of my uncle.
It was all like the wanderings of a disordered mind.
Come!" she came to her feet—and I to mine, getting
right in front of her. "Come!" she snapped it out
again, "haven't I done enough to hide the thing—
haven't I spent thousands in buying off enemies who
threaten to expose him and the Davidson name? He
must leave the country—I shall pay him anything
within reason—but I must have proof that he is my
brother."
Fair enough, I thought. She didn't fit in with my
idea of a young society girl, for she got out her words
in a hard, determined sort of way. Just one more ques-
tion, I thought. How did she account for her associates
—how about Jake Minely beneath that window?
"That night at my house? The man beneath the
window—who—" I started and stopped. She burst
right in upon me.


THE GUN BEHIND THE CURTAIN 241
jar of the door. Maybe—I didn't look out. I pulled
the windows tight, snapped over the brass bolt and
dropped back the curtains as footsteps came upon the
stairs.
It was possible that the windows had blown open—
but the slamming of the door had nothing to do with the
round pointed object which was now missing from the
dainty folds of the curtain. I turned as the girl entered
the room again.
"I didn't bring the letters." She looked up at me.
"I can't—I don't dare trust any one." She walked
straight over to the curtains and swung them back, let-
ting in the light. "What do you say? Will you bring
this—this man here?"
"I'll think it over," I told her. I didn't want to tip
her the word that I didn't know where Danny was.
"I must know—now—to-night."
"Very well—" I stalled for time. "I'll call you to-
night."
"No—" she shook her head. "I'll call you—at your
house—seven o'clock."
"Good!" I nodded. That would be better—I could
stall her off by not being home. She hadn't told me
why Jake Minely was beneath that window—and I
didn't ask her again. Perhaps Jake Minely himself
would open up and talk loose.
The butler appeared suddenly and the interview was
over. I sidled toward the door and out onto the side-
walk. Was the girl lying about the letters, or was it
true that she didn't trust them in my hands? I couldn't


242 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
blame her for that. If they were of a threatening na-
ture and Danny proved hard to handle, they were
weapons in her hand. And had Danny really written
them? But he might have. He told me that he had
threatened his uncle with the "truth."
I hadn't learned a whole lot. There was a feeling
that I should have taken Barton Briskey's money and
gone off for a good time. The will read that Danny was
to get nothing. Briskey said he was to get nothing.
Milly, the girl of the night, said he was to get
nothing. His sister, Muriel Davidson, said he was to
get nothing—and—and Danny himself was the only
one who insisted he was due for money. What did he
want the money for? For his sister, who already had
it? That was the yarn he gave me. For a moment I
paused there upon the sidewalk. Had this youth after
all made monkeys out of me? If they hadn't tried to
kill me—if they hadn't tried to kill me, maybe I'd drop
the thing. But the earnestness of the desire to take my
life was not simply a thirst for vengeance by the rats
of the underworld, or the fear of the information
Danny might carry—and now I might carry.
Bigger things were in the wind. Brains were behind
it all. Money was behind it all. And some one who
knew that once Race Williams puts his teeth into a
thing, those same teeth stay there until he chews off
his share.


CHAPTER XXVII
JAKE MINELY TALKS
I went straight home and waited for a call from
Milly—but none came. Then I tried to get Inspector
Coglin on the phone—but made no go of it. It was
after dark when he finally called me.
"I've let Jake go," he said. "He'll talk to you."
"He will if I can find him," I snapped.
"You'll find him—in his room on Sixth Avenue."
And he gave me the address. "Get to see him right
away—for I've got a dozen or more plainclothes men
guarding the block that should be back on regular duty.
He can't get away—he's scared too and won't try. At
first he hollered that it was sure death for him to open
up—but we've got three convictions against him al-
ready, and there he was with a gun under your window.
Thanks for the tip on the Baumes law; life imprison*
ment don't look so well to Jake."
"Did he tell you anything?"
"Not a word. He said he'd talk to you if I let him
go. He went straight to the tenement he lives in and
hasn't come out since. He's waiting there for you.
If he talks interesting, he's to skip—if he don't, we'll
243


244- THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
drag him back in again. I'll meet you at Twenty-
eighth Street and Sixth Avenue—make it snappy."
And I did. Jake would be the kind that would talk.
Twenty minutes later I met Coglin.
"I had to let him out," Coglin said hurriedly. "He
was blown hot and cold and Barton Briskey wanted
to see him again. He needed the air—if he's in the
same frame of mind he was, he'll open up to you."
"Briskey hasn't gone in to see him—or any one?"
"Not Briskey or any one we know of. Of course
we didn't put a man on his door—that would wise up
the gang and they'd beat it—but no one knows he's
there and we've watched the dump pretty closely.
Only those who belong have gone in and out. We've
kept the closest watch we could without tipping off our
hand."
We reached the tenement, and Coglin in his plain
brown overcoat was not conspicuous as he turned in
the doorway. On the third floor, by the front door,
we paused. This was Jake Minely's hangout.
"You stay back there," I told Coglin, and kicking
on the door I waited. Coglin walked slowly back into
the darkness.
No sound from within the room. I tried the knob—
turned it—and the door opened. Just blackness—I
pulled my flash—backed up with a gasp—and Coglin
was by my side.
"What's wrong?" he said in a hushed voice as he
crowded into the room behind me. For answer I let
my flash play upon the silent figure stretched there


246 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
drink of water; it ran all over his face and nearly
choked him. But I was afraid to lift him. And—he
was going to talk. I bent low.
"Barton Briskey did for me," he said.
"How, Jake?—he couldn't get in here."
"But one he sent did. You get Briskey and— It
was my pal—my roommate, Ed Jackson—the one who
held your attention the night The Beast followed you."
And I knew that he meant the panhandler who had
played the chauffeur and attacked Milly last night.
Also Ed Jackson was the name given the dear boy who
was supposed to be waiting for me when I left Briskey's
office.
Jake's words were getting weaker and weaker. I'd
never learn anything that way—only that Ed Jackson
had more guts than I'd given him credit for—or per-
haps it would be like him to shoot out of the darkness,
as well as stab a pal.
"We'll get Briskey for you," I told him. "What's
the game, Jake—what were you doing under my win-
dow—why kill me—and what of the girl there?"
"Hell—I was to get you and the girl. I—" he
coughed—gurgled once—and then, "the girl—she knew
too much—had to be kicked over—see Oliver Cronin;
he's the old family lawyer."
"And you were to kill Muriel Davidson—why?"
"Not her." He raised a hand and clutched at his
throat—then he began to laugh. "Kill Muriel David-
son? She's dying too damn fast now—that's the
trouble—too damn fast. I—"


JAKE MINELY TALKS 249
She was an old timer at the game. Were Jake Minely's
words after all the ramblings of a dying man?
A drug store, a blue sign of the telephone booth—
and I stepped in. A hurriedly closed door, a nickel
in the slot, and I had my number. The Davidson home
on Riverside Drive. If this blonde was masquerading
as Muriel Davidson—maybe just to me—Oscar Merrill
Davidson must know about it. Now—
And it was the blonde's voice that came to me over
the wire.
"I've learned a lot." I snapped into the subject.
"And you've learned too much—far too much."
"Who—who is this?" She gasped, and the gasp was
real.
"You can have three guesses. Now, Miss David-
son," and I put a world of sarcasm into the name, "can
any one hear what I say to you—will I speak out now or
let you call me back? This is Race Williams."
A moment's hesitation—and then:
"Speak out—now!" She echoed my words.
"Good!" I gave her the whole show. "You wouldn't
tell me why Jake Minely was under my window the
other night because you didn't know why he was there.
But I know—too much knowledge is a bad thing for a
young girl—he was there to put a bullet in your head,
and hang the killing of me on a dead woman."
"No—no." The words were very low, with a hissing
sound to them, like frying eggs—but somehow I felt
that she meant "yes."
"You were there—" I hurried on. How easy I


250
THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
seemed to explain the thing to her when a minute be-
fore I couldn't even explain it to myself. "You heard
the auto horn that warned Minely of my coming—you
knew that some one telephoned the police. It was a
double crossing game all around—I'd be dead—you'd
be dead—Minely would be caught by the police. Just
why he had to be sacrificed too, I don't know; but—"
There was another period of silence—then a voice
that broke with passion.
"Who told you this?"
"Jake Minely," I answered. "He died to-night—
watch your step. If you want to come clean—why, I'll
help you—that is, if you'll help me. Where is Muriel
Davidson?"
Like Coglin, perhaps I had over-played my hand.
In answer to my question there came a curse—a spon-
taneous flood of words that would put to shame a
woman of the streets. But the tirade wasn't directed
at me—peculiarly enough, the name of Oscar Davidson,
Danny's uncle, came in for her little pleasantries. There
was a jar and a crash—and silence. But certainly I
couldn't kick. I had had five cents' worth of conversa-
tion and no mistake.
There was a feeling of satisfaction as I left the booth.
Jake Minely's message hadn't meant a whole lot to me,
but it certainly had registered with the blonde dame.
I've played the game a great many years, and dissen-
sion in the enemy's camp is one of the greatest assets
in my profession. I had started the fireworks if
Minely's story was true; and even if it wasn't true


JAKE MINELY TALKS
251
some one would have a good deal of explaining to do.
And I thought that one would be Oscar Merrill David-
son. Here was an unknown quantity—a villain in the
piece—an important actor perhaps. Yet, the show
was well along and he hadn't made his appearance on
the stage as yet.


CHAPTER XXVIII
A BULLET IN THE BACK
Jake Minely hadn't done so bad for a starter.
Now, what else was on his mind? Oliver Cronin, the
family lawyer. I turned back from the drug store door,
picked up the telephone book and let my finger drift
down through the "Cs." Cronin stood out like a sore
thumb—there it was: Cronin, Cronin & Cronin—At-
torneys at Law. It looked like the business was going
to stay in the family. I found Oliver Cronin, noted
the address and decided to pay him a visit.
I changed my mind before I was fairly out on the
sidewalk. I guess I'd hurry home. The blonde would
have time to think things over—maybe she'd give me
a ring and spill the works. So I jumped a taxi and
drove home. An angry woman is a good thing for the
other fellow.
And I had a visitor. A red light burned up in my
attic window; Benny was home—and that light meant
a visitor; a warning of one who'd stand watching. At
least, Benny was doubtful of his character. I dismissed
the cab, climbed up the steps and rang the bell. That
would be better than using my key, for Benny could
wise me up as to the caller. And he did.
252


A BULLET IN THE BACK 253
"He's inside—in the library," Benny whispered in
the vestibule. "Queer little runt—wouldn't give bis
name—said if I didn't let him in, it would be worth my
job—that you were anxious to see him."
"Gunman, Benny?" I questioned.
"Hardly—not a regular anyway—felt like frisking
him, then thought he might be a real client. Acts
peculiar—opened a window in the corner of the library
and sits near it. All wrapped up like a mummy, he is
and—"
I stepped by Benny, parted the library curtains—
and pulled up sharp. There, sitting on the window
ledge, was Barton Briskey. He smiled on the window
over at me—both his slender, white hands folded across
his knees.
"Dismiss your man and let me talk." Shrewd little
eyes shot over my shoulder as Briskey got his words
out, and one foot swung slightly over the sill as he saw
my hand shoot to my pocket—but he never moved his
hands—just kept them on his knees. He looked like
a mummy all right. A dark scarf was wrapped around
his head and under his chin, hiding most of his face—
on his head was a tightly drawn cap.
I never took my eyes off him as I waved Benny aside
—had him shut the large folding doors and stay in the
hall. Then I walked toward Barton Briskey.
"Hold your distance," he snapped. "I don't expect
you'd kill a man in your own house—but I don't trust
you. You wanted to see me to-day—here I am—let me
talk." And then as I came nearer to him, my eyes


254 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
trying to read what was behind that queer expressionless
little face, "111 drop from the window—don't be a. fool
—let me get my say out. I have a gun—if you want
it." His hand started toward his pocket when I spoke.
"Keep it, Barton." I moved to one side of that win-
dow, and sitting upon an arm of a chair crossed my
legs, folded my hands and watched him. "If you want
to draw that gun—you're welcome to it. You had
your nerve, coming here—and you're taking a big
chance."
"I know it." He nodded. "And I'm willing to take
it. I've come to blow the game. I didn't know it was
so deep—I won't stand for murder, not me. Now—
if I put you in the way of clearing up this Davidson
affair will you give me free passage—set me right with
the police—and if there's a million in it, see that I'm
fixed?"
"What have I got to do with the police?" I lifted
my shoulders.
He smiled knowingly.
"Lots, lately. Will you straighten me out with
Coglin—at least, will you lay off'a me, tell Danny
Davidson the part I play to-night—and let me horn in
on the purse?"
"You don't want much," I sneered. "What's the
game? Why are you here?"
"I like to be on the winning side." He shrugged his
shoulders. But his easy air of indifference was feigned.
He was a mighty scared man—the slender fingers biting


256 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
only vengeance—and the vengeance in man is stronger
than the love of gold."
"I'll not stand in the way of your collecting, if you're
worth anything. But I know much already and—"
"If you don't know more to-night—the boy dies—
and the girl with him—and perhaps you too."
"Let's have the story."
"And you agree?"
"As much as I already have."
"So—" a hand stroked his chin, "I've got to take a
chance." It was as if he thought aloud—then he
turned those steely eyes on me. "I didn't know it was
murder when I was dragged in. I had heard of The
Beast—seen him once—and done business with him in
Chicago, after he came over from England. A shrewd
enough man—a killer by instinct and a craver for
blood. And mark you this—don't belittle the under-
world's belief that a bullet can't kill him. I stood
beside him in a joint in Chicago when a drunken fool
put a bullet in his chest. It took four men to pull The
Beast off him, and if that bullet hurt him any— But
that's not the point—I'll tell you about him later. It's
the Davidsons that interest you.
"You've seen the father's will by now, and wonder
why Danny must die that another may profit. It's
because Danny's sister, Muriel, has never made a will.
If she dies, Danny gets the money—but if there was
no Danny, or if Danny was dead—Oscar Merrill Da-
vidson, the uncle, takes the pot."
I don't know if he read anything in my face. He


258
THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
or understand that there would be a gun fight that
night. But, on the level, the boy isn't much good. We
kept him quiet by letting him believe that his father
left everything to him. They came to me after the
killing and I arranged a second degree murder charge,
and had Danny sent up under another name. So far,
you see I was straight in the game."
Now, here was a story that rang true enough. Just
one catch in the whole business. Why had Barton
Briskey come to me? Why couldn't he stick it out with
the crowd—certainly no one could suspect the extent
of the plot to get the Davidson money. With Danny
in jail, it was thought that his sister would make a will
leaving all to her uncle—but she didn't; so the escape
and the plans for his death.
"Why have you come to me?" I asked again.
"I never go as far as murder. I thought last night
that I could buy you off—and then I had a real fear—
Oscar Davidson had kept his name clear of these gun-
men; not one of them understands the interest he has
in the death of Danny—in fact, he is in Washington
on business, and will have an alibi. But who's to
handle The Beast when things are over?"
"And The Beast—who is he?" But I thought that I
knew.
"He is one who hates the name of Davidson. He
• married the divorced mother of Danny. Not for love,
but in the hope of bleeding the Davidson fortune. And
instead, D. Perry Davidson spent a part of his great
fortune hounding the man who took his wife; searching


260 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
methodical man and did nothing to tempt my fire. He
inserted two fingers into his pocket and produced a
folded paper and pushed it over to me.
It was tough reading the tiny print and keeping an
eye on Briskey at the same time—but I did. There
wasn't much to it; nothing to excite suspicion.
"If D.D. will telephone 8874 he will receive
word from his sister.
M.P.D."
"Here's another thought for you." Briskey bent
forward so that his head was beneath the closed top
of the window. "Danny made a will—and I have found
the lawyer who drew it up—it was properly executed
and witnessed. If Danny should die—you might in-
herit a great fortune."
"I—? But he couldn't leave the money to me."
"Not you. What was that?" Briskey straightened
suddenly in the window. "It's my nerves, I guess."
He laughed hoarsely. "Stick to me, Race—let us
travel to big money with the law behind us. If Danny
disappears—if that ad. fetched him—I'll tell you where
to find him—but perhaps it would be best to wait. For
they intend to kill him to-night—The Beast is to get
him."
Now, what was he driving at? What did he mean
that I'd come in for a pretty fortune if Danny died?
Why, he had nothing to will until his sister had passed
on and—


CHAPTER XXIX
POLICE PROTECTION
And that was that. Benny was crying frantically
from the window. I dropped from the bench and
slipped up to him.
"Was that a shot? I seen him like this," Benny
nodded down at the floor beneath the window, "and
you gone—Gawd!" But when he saw I wasn't dead,
his whole body quivered—like a pleased dog. You
couldn't beat Benny for real friendship.
"Drop out the window, Benny," I said, and as he
joined me in the alley, "Barton Briskey's double-, triple-
crossing days are over." But I felt that Barton had
told me the truth, and The Beast had heard some of
it. He had come there for me—or had followed Bris-
key—but it didn't matter now. His carcass was over
in the yard next door. A pleasant sight for Inspector
Coglin, that. I wished I had plugged him in the
front of the body. But we can't always have every-
thing we wish for. One thing was certain. I'd had
a split second to aim before I fired. That bullet
would be buried smack in his spine. Yep, day or
night—I can mostly tell you where the bullet will be
found. I'm a good shot if nothing else.
263


264
THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
"Barton Briskey doesn't look so pleasant, eh,
Benny?" I tried to cheer him up. "But I've a prettier
sight for you. A lad who has really tried for my
life and made no bones about it. Come—we'll hop the
fence and have a look. Keep close to the house—he
might have friends. Benny, The Beast is dead."
So we jumped from the fence and, keeping in the
shadow of the house, slid around the rear. I stepped
past that back porch, looked down—and jarred erect.
The body of the dead Beast was not there. It was
gone. Gone—and there had not been time to cart
the body away. I—I had missed then—missed a back
of that size in less than ten yards. I—who can clip
the spots out of a playing card at one hundred feet.
Why—the thing was impossible. And this time I
swallowed just a bit when I thought of my motto:
anything is possible to-day. A bullet proof body?
No—that is a superstition of the ignorant. My years
at the game, my knowledge of man, and lead too for
that matter, denied such a preposterous idea. Yet,
I'd rather believe it possible—a thousand times rather
believe it than believe that I had missed—missed
that broad back at that distance. But I wasn't blind.
Didn't I see him plunge to the ground before the echo
of my shot had died away?
I looked into the yard behind, even on the street
beyond, and once again hurried about the yard. The
Beast was not there. The doors of that vacant house
were locked, the windows closed tight, the one The
Beast had used the other night for his escape boarded


POLICE PROTECTION 265
up. Why look more—there was no place for him to
go unless he jumped that rear fence and walked to the
next street—yes, walked on his own legs.
A bell—distantly it came through the open window
of my library. The phone? Would that be the
blonde—Milly maybe—or Inspector Coglin? I
jumped the fence, made my way along the alley,
avoiding the window with the gruesome thing beneath
it, and entering through the front door went straight
to the downstairs telephone in the rear room. And
the voice that came to me over the wire was neither
the voice of the blonde, nor Milly, nor even Inspector
Coglin. It was the wracked, whining voice of Danny.
Unmistakable, those plaintive, cracked notes reached
me.
"Mr. Williams—Race Williams—can you come to
me—here in Spuyten Duyvil? I've found my sister—
she's very sick—but she knows me—and I never in-
herited my father's money—she has it—which is good
and just and I'll be glad to— Bring my will—it will
prove to her that I—"
"Easy does it." He was traveling a bit fast for me.
That I didn't have the will with me and couldn't get it
that time of night wasn't necessary to tell him. But
he hadn't said where he was in Spuyten Duyvil, and
his words were getting loose back in his throat. He
sure was excited.
"Just where are you?" I asked.
"Spuyten Duyvil," he answered hurriedly. "Doctor
Newcombe DeLancy's Sanitarium. Ask the policeman


266
THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
at the police booth there on Riverdale Avenue, after
you turn off Broadway at Kingsbridge and reach the
top of the hill. It's—"
"I know the police booth," I told him. "I'll be
with you right away. You're sure that this is your
sister and— Is she a blonde—well built?"
"No—dark and thin, and dying. There can't be a
doubt—my father's lawyer, Oliver Cronin, is here—
he looked me up and—"
"All right, Danny—I'll be right along up. Keep
your face closed to outsiders—including Cronin, until
you see me."
"And the will—you'll bring that?"
"I'm on my way—we'll talk then." I hung up the
receiver and turned to Benny. "Get the car," I told
him. "I'm going out—now. I'll get in touch with
Coglin and leave you here—I'll explain when I get
back." And as Benny disappeared I went to the
phone. Coglin was on the job.
"No questions now, Inspector," I told him. "Get
over to my house. I've got a surprise package for
you. Bring the coroner along—it's The Beast's job."
And I gave him a few particulars, without mentioning
the story that Barton Briskey had told me. "If I'm
not here, stick around for a message—I'll give you a
ring. You'll find Benny waiting—and Briskey's a
mess." With that I jammed on the receiver and,
slipping into my hat and coat, turned back to the
library. I'd have to frisk Barton Briskey before the
police came. Not a pleasant job—but a necessary one


268 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
side. So he faced death to come and see me—not only
faced it but got it. None knew better than did Bar-
ton Briskey the chances he took—and yet he took
them. Why? If I knew that, I felt that I'd be a
pretty well informed young man.
Now, what of Danny? Had they trapped him as
Barton Briskey said? Hardly that. I had only asked
him one question or so—and it was a cinch the blonde
was not playing little sister to him. Besides, this
gang couldn't run up a sanitarium over night. My
directions of how to get there knocked all ideas of a
trap on the head. I could ask the cop about it—find
out how long that sanitarium had been in existence—
and if Doctor DeLancy was an old hand at the busi-
ness and when he started in to work at Spuyten Duy-
vil. Briskey had warned me of an attempt to trap
Danny—well, we'd make sure they didn't trap me.
And the girl Milly—was she with him—why didn't
she talk? But I shrugged my shoulders as I twisted
my head back down Broadway.
Spuyten Duyvil is in the city of New York all
right—but you wouldn't know it except from the post
office address. You might as well be up in the Adi-
rondacks. It was a sweet place for a bit of murder,
but it also was a first rate place for a sanitarium too.
I made good time the couple of miles from Broadway
and up the steep hill at Riverdale Avenue, which led
to the police booth at the top and the road that gave
off Riverdale Avenue to Spuyten Duyvil.
I pulled up in the shadows across from the police


POLICE PROTECTION 269
booth and hopped out. A blue coated figure, button-
ing his coat about his neck and swinging his club in
his hand, stepped from the little wooden structure as
I approached it. It sure was a lonely spot.
"Know where Doctor DeLancy's Sanitarium is,
brother?" I asked the officer.
"Surest thing." He smiled. "A lonely, dismal
place—good for the sick and bad for the well." He
shivered slightly. "Down the road there—about half
a mile, and"—peering over my shoulder and spotting
the lights of my car, "I'll ride down with you, Buddy."
He half turned toward the doorway of the booth.
"Hey, George—here's a lift—half way to the station.
George goes off duty," he explained. "Takes the
train down—I've got to make the rounds."
Now, I hadn't figured on taking the cops day-day—
but there couldn't be much danger in it. DeLancy's
joint seemed to be O.K. with the police—but I'd put
a few more questions to them on the way down.
Sociable boys they were—one climbed into the rear
of the car; the other squatted beside me in the front.
"Got a friend sick?" the new arrival in the back
questioned after his friend had explained the lift.
"Yep." I nodded. "Don't know much about this
place though—this Dr. DeLancy, is he any good?"
"Don't know." The first cop shook his head.
"Been in business here—well—seven years or more
anyway—I used to be on duty there before. As to
his being good—well, I ain't got much use for doctors
—my wife, now—" And he was off on a long abuse


270 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
of the medical fraternity in general and a certain
specialist in particular. There I was with the two
cops—both big men; the one in the rear given to
weight and fidgety in the car as he kept changing
his position.
"There's the dump." The cop in the rear poked
his night stick out at a dark roadway. "You can't
see the house but it's in there—we should have let
you take us all the way down—it's a bit of a walk
yet." He sort of growled as I pulled up the car by
a little side road.
The fat lad behind came to his feet, half swung
around, unbalanced slightly, swung back his club—
and too late I knew—knew just the fraction of a sec-
ond before the heavy night stick pounded down upon
my head. I ducked slightly—saved myself a frac-
ture of the skull, I guess. But that was the best I
can say for myself. Things went reeling—the stars
began to climb over one another and the barren trees
to shoot up through the heavens to meet them—
jumbling them up more than ever.


CHAPTER XXX
rA PRISONER IN THE SHACK
I never fully lost consciousness. At least I don't
think I did. I knew that my guns were taken from
me, and I knew too that they were looking for some-
thing else—for they were even ripping at the lining
of my coat. The answer to that search was simple.
Here were the pals of The Beast—the workers for
Oscar Merrill Davidson, the villain of the piece, who
had never appeared upon the stage. Would I see
him now—now that it would do no good? Then I
was lifted clear of the front seat and chucked upon
the rear one.
They cursed considerable when their search for
Danny's envelope proved useless. I half opened my
eyes and tried to look ahead. Most of all I was angry
—mad clean through. I had been taken in like a
child. The simplicity of the thing! I'd given my
confidence into the hands of the police, like any fool
citizen. I didn't for a minute believe that these men
were actually guardians of the law that had been
bought over. I may knock the boys on the force—
fight against them at times. But you can't buy them
271


272 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
like this. No, all these boys had to connect them with
New York's Finest was the blue uniform and the
brass buttons—and perhaps the weighted night stick
that had crashed on my head.
The tallest one was talking—half to me—half to
his fat friend. Certainly they were enjoying the
party.
"If they'd let us handle it before, there wouldn't be
all this fuss about the terrible, daring Race Williams."
"No," the other sneered, "he's a weak sister after
all. Just likes to cuddle himself in with the cops and
keep warm and safe. Give him an inspector of police
and a half dozen flatties to lead the way, and he might
even hunt for The Beast. Real brave he is—with
them two toy cannons that he's willing to shoot down
stairs with. A fine bird he is."
And I received a kick some place around the legs—
since I was on the seat he couldn't kick my face.
There was little pain with that kick—my feelings were
somewhat numbed already. Dumb? Yes, I was all
of that. And the boys went on talking as they saw
my eyes open, and one of them climbed into the front
seat and pulled the car into gear.
"It was very simple, Mr. Williams." The fat lad
in the rear with me went on talking, mimicking a grown
person speaking to a child. "We just had some one
call the policeman out of the booth to look at a dead
man down the road. And he wasn't disappointed
either. He wouldn't report it as a fake message, for
we had a drunk for him—a real first class drunk,


A PRISONER IN THE SHACK 273
that was imported from Forty-second Street. It
wasn't hard to pick up a good one; give him a few
more doses of poison liquor and drop him by the
roadside." There was a ring of pride in his voice
as he got it off, and altogether it wasn't half bad. If
the policeman suspected the idea was to drag him off
duty, those suspicions would be lulled by the identity
of the drunk—an honest-to-goodness citizen who
found prohibition slightly boring. How clever the plan
was didn't interest me then—it had all been clever
enough to take me in—and that was enough.
Fake policemen—the sanitarium—the police booth
—and the rest of it never could have been executed by
a stranger though, or any one I could possibly be the
least leary of. Danny had trapped me—he and he
alone was responsible for my position. If I couldn't
trust my own client, when I was working in his interest
—then who could I trust—not many, I guess. And
even Danny; I might have doubted him without the
police booth and the story of how Doctor DeLancy
had had his sanitarium in Spuyten Duyvil for years.
Yes, Danny was responsible for the whole show.
Why? Had they caught him? Put the fear of
The Beast in him? Promised him his life if he de-
livered me into their hands? Or was it Milly—did
they have her too? Was Danny promised her free-
dom to get me? That was perhaps it—the girl's life
depended on my capture. Danny had fallen for that
"personal"; rung up the number and walked into the
hands of the enemy. By now was he alive or dead?


274 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
Alive maybe—until they were sure they had me. He
was the meat with which they'd bait the trap to get
me. If it didn't work the first time, then—but it did
work, and there I was.
Damn the luck! And it wasn't that I trusted
Danny—it was just the natural way things should go.
The police—the police booth—a confidence in that.
Yet, I should have taken it as a warning too—Danny
would have little use for the police. Still, in that situa-
tion—where it would be hard to describe an exact
place in that God-forsaken bit of old New York—it
seemed natural enough. At least, at the time it did.
And—
I tried to sit a little straighter. No use to think
of the past now. It was the present—and most of all
the future that concerned me. Would they just kill
me or—? And I let it go at that. What a nice way
to die I I'll never kick about dying, but I'd always
expected that when the police picked up my body
they'd hire a van to cart away the rest of the corpses
—and here I was. As I sat the straighter I realized
for the first time that my hands were bound behind
me; that'll show you how far gone I was—and just
how loud the little dickie birds were singing in my
ears. I sort of felt for the ropes. And they weren't
ropes—hard, cold, steel handcuffs were about my
wrists.
The car bumped and jumped over a rough road;
took another turn and bounced enough now to break
the springs. We must have been traveling over a cow


276 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
Milly and tried to steal her money; and also the man
known as Ed Jackson, who was to shoot me down as
I left Barton Briskey's office—the one who had waited
at the foot of the stairs. Now he played another part
—dressed up this time. A dark blue suit, blue tie
with white dots and a diamond stickpin in the center
of it. Yes, this was the costume player. Quite the
gentleman now, if it wasn't for his face, and the nose
that had been generously mussed about it.
"Beat it!" Ed Jackson spoke to the long cop—and
to the other he said, "You stay here—not that I need
you, but it's Raphael Dezzeia's orders." That was the
first time I heard the name of Danny's stepfather
spoken since the time Danny himself mentioned it at
our first meeting. Did it thrill me—in a way, yes.
It meant but one thing. I was not booked to leave
that place alive.
I struggled to my feet and braced my back against
the wall. I could expect no mercy now, nor would
I ask for any. But they wanted something from me,
else why bring me there—why let me live at all? Or
was this Ed Jackson of the weaker type, one who
gloried in the dramatic and whose weak little soul
was satisfied with vengeance? I thought so. I had
picked him as the weak link in the chain long ago.
But now—he was bigger than I thought, with this
gang. At least, he was boss there to-night.
"So, Race Williams." Jackson strutted up and down
the room like a game cock; his eyes ever on me—a
black gun dangling from his hand and an evil, gloat-


CHAPTER XXXI
THE YELLOW STREAK
Voices were buzzing; my head was throbbing, and
dancing dots twisted before me though my eyes were
closed.
"You hit him too hard, you fool." Ed Jackson
was speaking, and I opened my eyes to hear him add,
to another figure, "There was no need to send you
over here. I'll get the paper if I have to cut his eyes
out."
The room seemed to be miles and miles long. There
at the end of the table which stretched off into the
distance like a parade ground, was Ed Jackson—misty
and small, with his head seemingly floating in the air;
and far behind him in the corner my fat friend, wob-
bling and uncertain—with a long-barreled rifle in his
hands. I blinked and tried to shake my head. Another
figure was there. Twice I closed and opened my eyes
before I was sure. But it was the blonde, all right—
her misty blue eyes more hazy than ever. She was
coming toward me—getting bigger and bigger—the
blonde mop looking like a huge sponge from the Mu-
seum of Natural History.
280


THE YELLOW STREAK 281
"You might have caved him in." The blonde was
talking as she crossed to me. "The dirty rat." And
the words hissed through her teeth as she reached
me, saw that my eyes were open—and pushing her
hand under my chin, knocked it up with force enough
to make me nearly bite my tongue off. But it served
another purpose; sent the blood suddenly pounding up
into my head. A dizzy feeling, a wobbling effect and
a slowly clearing of my brain—a warmness to hands
that had been as cold as an open grave.
"The Beast telephoned he's on the way. Been
ducking around the city," I heard her mutter. "This
bozo tried to croak him—with lead too." And she
laughed. "The cheap dick." And this time she leaned
forward and struck me with her open palm—leaned
close and spat straight into my face. I half raised
my hand—but she knocked it down again—stumbled
toward me. Her hands shot out to keep herself from
falling; she muttered something about my feet—cursed
loudly, and I felt her hand strike against my side.
Did she speak to me—whisper something in my ear
as her hair brushed my cheek and the smell of per-
fume nearly put me under again? And if she had
whispered something, what was it? A threat! A
curse! Or—"pocket"—that was it. But I didn't
get it—just saw the fat lad rush forward and the
woman come to her feet—swing on me again—step
back and laugh.
"Wanted to kiss me good-by." She laughed shrilly
—harshly too, like there were two notes to it—a high


282 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
one and a low one. Then she turned to the little side
door.
"I'll leave him to you—The Beast will take care of
the two up at the house. Don't be chicken hearted,
Ed." And this in a rather loud voice as she looked
over at me, "The girl Milly fell for the trap to save
this Race Williams. Now—will he do anything for
her—even if he has the chance?" I jerked up slightly.
Was she sending a message to me?
Ed sneered over an answer to her and she crossed
the room, flung open the little door in the rear and
passed out. There was a blast of cool air that felt
mighty good, the swish of a woman's skirt, and the
slamming of the little wooden door. The blonde was
gone—and Ed was speaking.
"A little hazy yet, eh?" He laughed. "Well, I
would have it so. But clear enough to think—to see.
Let me first call your attention to Brick, in the corner."
He jerked his head back at the fat lad. "That thing
in his hands is a rifle—and Brick got a medal for
marksmanship. Besides, you will notice that my head
is not between you and him—nor are there any cur-
tains before him, like there were blocking my vision
the other afternoon on Riverside Drive."
That was news, but what good would it do me now?
I was lucky then, when I kept my hand on my gun
and the blonde's head between those curtains and me.
But Ed Jackson was still talking.
"The next thing I wish to call your attention to,"
and Jackson certainly liked to talk—be dramatic,


THE YELLOW STREAK 283
"is my right elbow, that rests upon this table—too far
away for you to jump forward and grab it. If you
will run your eyes up that elbow to the hand you will
see a Colt automatic—caliber forty-five. In the table
drawer are your guns but I won't want them—won't
need them."
And I saw the gun all right; the hand that held it
and the elbow that rested upon the table. Jackson
kept the gun trained on me—steady enough, and his
eye ran along the barrel.
"After seeing all this, look upon the table before
you," he went on. "There is pen and ink and a sheet
of paper. You will take that pen and write an order
on your bank—to deliver into the hands of"—he hesi-
tated a moment, then wet his lips, "Oscar Merrill
Davidson the envelope in your safe deposit box—the
envelope that bears the name of Muriel P. Davidson.
Simple!" His lips slipped back. "Who will have
more right to that envelope than the uncle of the girl
—shall we say the dead girl—for she will be dead
when he receives it."
"How do you know? What makes you think that
I have that envelope in a safe deposit box? And what
bank? How do you know I didn't turn it over to
some one who will produce it the moment anything
happens to me?" My talk was loose—disjointed.
"Because you are a lone worker." He laughed.
"And because you were followed to your bank and seen
to go down stairs to the vaults—and because the en-
velope is not on your person. If you cannot remem-


THE YELLOW STREAK 287
voice those thoughts—even took a step forward as he
opened his mouth.
So—my plans would have to change. The lad with
the rifle would have to get his first, which would give
Ed a chance to shoot me. Still—I'd die fighting. There
was but one chance—but one hope. I must count on—
gamble my life on the yellow streak in Ed Jackson.
That he could give death but couldn't face it.
One step the man with the rifle took; one word he
uttered and Ed half turned his head at the warning
note in that single word. Oh, the fat lad meant to say
more—but he didn't. He didn't fire either—he didn't
have the chance. He twisted his gun upward—was
caught with his foot half raised for another step when
I swung up my right hand and fired. I didn't have to
aim. I'd attended to all that before I ever felt the
fingers of my right hand upon the butt of the gun. I
aim with my eye, not my hands—nor the sight on the
rod.
And as I fired I lurched forward on the table—
shrieking straight into Ed Jackson's face.
"Death!" I hollered. Dramatic? Maybe—but it
was to serve its purpose. It was to bring out the yellow
streak in Ed. As for the fat lad—he took my first
shot, smack below his heart. The rifle crashed to the
floor; he spun like a top, threw up his hands like a
moving picture actor going out, and spread his length
upon the floor.
Ed gurgled in his throat before he fired. He was
scared and his hand shook, and he fired where my face


288 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
had been before I ducked forward upon the table. He
didn't miss altogether. He couldn't very well, but he
did little damage—just combed my hair as my finger
closed again. Ed got only one shot. There isn't the
man living who gets more when I'm clutching a gun.
Seven feet was all that separated us when I pressed
the trigger. Ed's mouth was open—his eyes were star-
ing at me—wide, frightened, glaring things. He knew
before he died, I guess. If it had of been my own
forty-four, Ed would have turned a back somersault—
as it was I couldn't complain. His right hand slowly
dropped to the table, still clutching the gun in lifeless
fingers. There was a tiny black hole in his forehead,
that was quickly turning to a vivid blue sort of red.
The glare just snapped out of his eyes as the life
went. If ever a soul went crashing the gates of hell,
that was the soul of Ed Jackson. Just a snap, like
you'd turned off the electric light. His lips dropped,
the pasty yellow of fear left his face—a stony white
face, from which glassy eyes looked vacantly at me.
A second or two he sat so. It's peculiar how death
acts—then he pitched forward on the table—dead!
I guess they don't come much deader than Ed. No
moving picture business for him; and no message to the
boys in jail.


THE SCREAM OF A WOMAN 291
I raised my right hand to my forehead—no blood
this time. That was a good sign. Or was it? Had the
cold of the winter night stilled the flow? But no matter.
It wouldn't trickle into my eyes when the time came to
meet The Beast and place a bullet in him. A bullet?
I thought that out as I plodded along. I had placed
a bullet in him before, and what good did it do me?
None at all, from the later events. How about this
time? After my escape from almost certain death, was
I now going to a surer end? Maybe—but I was going
just the same. I clutched my gun in my right hand and
stumbled forward.
If there were guards watching that house they had
better shoot first and holler "who goes there?" after-
ward. I had asked no quarter this night—and from
now on I'd give none. In quick action lay the life of
a girl—a girl with a hard little face—that had softened
—that had buried itself upon my shoulder, with lips
that had— But enough; she had been trapped for me.
I owed something to her—and it wouldn't be said that
Race Williams didn't pay his debt. I clenched my
fingers about that gun. Milly would be the living proof
of that—Ed Jackson was already the dead proof of it.
Things sort of cleared up as I went along—the lights
got less and less, until finally just the single light in
the second-story window shone out. Nothing needed
now but to get rid of that feeling that I was tramping
lightly from cloud to cloud. Pretty rough clouds too.
Twice I pitched to my knees, and it was the last time
up that the old brain cleared; and with the clearing of


THE SCREAM OF A WOMAN 295
without a light—nothing but its black hulk that finally
was lost in the night.
For a minute or more The Beast stood in the door-
way. I could hear him sucking in the cool night air, and
I thought" that I caught a low scraping noise as he
rubbed his great hairy hands together. After all, he
wasn't some abnormal monster who had to be guarded.
Just a killer—whose brutal strength and wicked snarl
made him a leader of the human wolves that prey on
society.
"You stay at the door," he cautioned Billings again.
"Remember always that the reward will be big—and
remember too that the retribution will be just as big.
You and each of the others are just as guilty of murder
to-night as if you pulled the trigger of the gun—or
twisted the knife which soon will be buried to the hilt
in the whelp of a Davidson." The snarl in the final
word "Davidson" was real—and I knew too that
Danny was still alive. But what of the girl—Milly?
Were there others in that house? I thought not.
Should I jump forward and fire? But no—that
wouldn't work out. I couldn't see either of the men
from where I lay, and The Beast had already passed
within. It would be foolhardy to hunt him in the dark-
ness of the house. Yet, if he got above—and murder
took place while I waited— And I decided to move
as heavy feet echoed on carpetless stairs.
I crawled to the rear corner of the porch. There was
a curve between the front door and where I climbed
over the railing. The cold boards bit through my socks,


296 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
for I slipped off my shoes. I didn't wait now—I didn't
dare. And once I passed around that curve on the
porch I was within the vision of Billings if he were
looking out of that doorway. That he was still there
I knew, for I could hear his feet scrape nervously.
It was necessary to stand erect as I shoved my body
along close to the house, then by a window—and so,
nearer that front door. Billings might have looked
from that doorway and not seen me if I had snaked
toward him on my stomach—but the danger was too
great. If he saw me, then I'd have to shoot from an
awkward position—and besides, I'd have to climb to
my feet and dash in the doorway and up those stairs.
I didn't need to be told that the first shot would mean
the death of Danny and the girl. Nothing short of
this Beast's death would save the boy and the girl from
him now. I licked dry lips and slid along.
I reached the doorway—just to the side of it—with-
out the head of Billings once coming into view. I held
my gun forward, and waited. The seconds went like
hours—but no head appeared; just the unsteady shuf-
fling of feet. And I waited—waited without knowing
what took place on the floor above.
Somewhere far off in the darkness of that dismal
house there came a scream—the scream of a woman.
Milly! Was it the shriek of fear or pain—and I felt
that it was pain—physical pain too.


298 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
"That's fine, Billings," I whispered close to his
ear. "And don't talk any more. Your word is your
bond with me—just kneel so, at my feet—while I
bind your hands. There—" He knelt without a mur-
mur—just sunk to his knees on the worn old mat be-
fore the door as I whispered on. "It will never be
said that I didn't trust to the word of an honorable
gentleman like you—so—" Maybe the rest of it isn't
pretty to write. More of the brute to it and less of
the man, you think. I wasn't thinking of my own
life when I struck Billings—I was thinking of the girl
upstairs—and the cry I had just heard. But I won't
apologize. I laid Billings out with a crack behind the
ear, with the barrel of my forty-four. Just one blow,
and without even a groan he spread himself out upon
the mate. If he bothered any one again that night
I'd be very much surprised. When I club a man I
can tell you within an hour wheji he's going to sit up
and ask who else was on the wrecked train. "Billings
would be a peaceful citizen for a good five hours.
I was in the house now; no light to guide me—
nothing but a mumbled, jumbled sound that might have
come from above, and might have come from my own
throbbing head. However, I found the stairs and
made my way up them toward that jumble. I should
have gathered up my flash when I left the shack—
but I didn't and that was all of that. I wasn't exactly
in a position to have a messenger go back for it.
The girl screamed again. I half stumbled and re-
gained my balance as Danny began to beg for his


FACE TO FACE
shrieked suddenly. "Not that again—kill me if you
must, but not that—that knife."
The Beast laughed before he spoke.
"A bit louder, my Pretty—Danny does not hear so
well. Come! once more. She died hard, did Danny's
mother—and not a cent from his father to even bury
her. There—I'll drag the knife—so."
And Danny's shriek of horror drowned out the roar
of my gun.
But The Beast knew. The hand that held the knife
dropped to his side and the knife itself rang upon the
floor. He didn't turn at once, but swung slowly—a be-
wildered, surprised look in those colorless eyes—but
eyes that glared from beneath shaggy brows just the
same—eyes that glared with animal like ferocity.
"'Race Williams' is right." I smiled over at him as I
stepped into the room. "Don't act as though you didn't
expect me. You see, I'm bullet proof too. Here—hold
your ground," I shouted, for he had suddenly bent for-
ward, and clutching up that knife hurled himself toward
me—the knife raised in his left hand, his blood stained
right held before his face. And I fired again—the bul-
let must have torn a hole somewhere just above the
third button of his vest.
I didn't think about his being bullet proof then and
neither did he, I guess. He went down like a thousand
of brick—dropping in his tracks and crashing against
the wall. I shrugged my shoulders slightly as I looked
at his huge crumpled carcass. But as he fell I thought
I heard the click of a key—or the rattle of a chain. I


302 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
stood silently listening, half turned to the door—but
the great house gave up nothing but a deadly silence,
the jumping breath of Danny, and the quick gasping
sob of Milly, as black eyes spoke what trembling lips
couldn't utter.
With just a glance at that silent form on the floor, I
crossed to the girl—noted that she was bound with rope,
not chains—and turning quickly, knelt at The Beast's
side and jerked the knife from his fingers. My head
began to feel hot as I hacked at the rope that held
Milly's throat erect. A mist obscured my vision—a
mist that was real and soft and warm. I raised my hand
to my head; it was wet—and I knew. The heat of the
room had started the blood again. I brushed it from
my eyes, freed the girl's hands, and bent toward her
feet when she spoke.
"Race—and I thought you were dead. Now—*
The knife fell from my grasp and I staggered to my
feet, clutching at my gun—for the girl had cried out a
warning.
And I saw him before he fired. The Beast was on his
feet, his back braced against the wall—a gun in his left
hand, and that gun was trained on me.
We fired together. He missed and I hit. But he
didn't go down this time—he sort of jarred himself
up against the wall and clutched at his side, where the
bullet had struck.
I got in three quick shots to his next one. The blood
got in my eyes; things were foggy and blurred—but I
hit him all right—and what's more important, he hit


306 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
twisted and protected his face—yet, I'd lay a nice bet
that a couple of my bullets had left dents in him big
enough to stick your hand in. It was the simplicity of
the thing that helped him put it over.
I didn't look down long—the effect was bad; like
looking from a great height. How Milly got to me I'm
not sure. I guess she untied her own feet. Anyway
there she was—dabbing at my forehead. She was a
remarkable little woman—another would be fainting
now. And that thought was hardly out when Milly
started to do her stuff—sort of crumple up against me.
"Lay off, Kid," I muttered. And then as a queer sort
of groan came from Danny, "there's Danny—he needs
you."
It braced her. She did a straight up, turned and
went to the boy. I saw her bending over him—not
much nerve, had Danny; he was grunting like a stuffed
Pig-
Bang! Maybe it was the wind, but certainly a door
downstairs had slammed. Footsteps too—no mistake
about that—many of them; on the porch—in the hall
below—on the stairs. Were the gang in the car coming
back? That must be it. They'd find Billings, and
guess at the rest. I thought I saw it all. They had
stopped at the shack—seen the dead Ed Jackson and
hurried back.
"Come here, Kid," I called hoarsely across to the
girl. For the life of me I was afraid to move; but I
could see fairly well and my brain was not so bad.
"Quick!" I told the girl when she reached my side.


A LAST STAND
307
"Much depends on you now—maybe, Danny's life.
Lead me to that table—there. Not so fast." Damn my
knees; was I going to cave in now? But she got me to
the flat table that faced the curtains of the room beyond,
and I flopped into the chair, took a quick breath and
coughed out my orders.
"My other gun—left coat pocket—that's it." She
tugged it out and slipped it into my right hand. Six
shots now. I propped my elbow on the table, half
leaned back in the high stiff chair, and watched those
curtains that led to the anteroom. "Now—that hand-
kerchief—around my head, so—mustn't have the blood
in my eyes. The boys are coming back."
"Beat it, Kid," I told her, when she had bound up
my head. "It looks like curtains—I'll stick it out.
But one more shot—"
"You think it's death?" She was crying now—
snuffling like.
"Beat it—" I waved my hand; then decided I
wouldn't try that little experiment again—it sent my
head rocking like a boat. "Steady, boy—" I told my-
self. After all, it was going to be one glorious end—five
of them—six shots; if they didn't knock me over first!
But perhaps I could make it a round half dozen of us.
It was hard though, holding the gun steady like that. I
began to wish they'd come—I couldn't keep my arm up
much longer. Would they crowd in the door or come
one at a time?
There was a weight on my shoulders; something
pressing me down. I tried to shake it off but it wasn't


308 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
mental this time—the thing was physical and real. It
was the girl. She hadn't gone yet—and the feet were
on the stairs; cautious, creeping feet—but I heard
them.
Arms went around my neck—a wet cheek brushed
mine.
"I love you, Race," Milly was saying. "Very, very
much. I want you to know—to take it—away with
you—in the thing beyond—we may have trouble finding
—I—finding you—and—"
"You'll find me all right—I'll be sitting with the old
boy himself." And some one laughed—shrilly—a
hoarse, weird laugh like—like—" and I jerked up my
slumping body. That laugh was mine—and Milly
loved me—she was telling me so.
"There's the boy, Danny." I thought aloud. The
Kid had a duty, you know.
"Danny—" a bit of sob, and then, "he's dead—just—
just his heart, I guess."
I nodded at that—I remembered that heart. It had
skipped over a beat at last, and missed on the pick up.
And Milly loved me. When I spoke again my voice
seemed to come out of my chest.
"The dead so soon grow cold." Funny that I got
that off. It was years since I had read Oscar Wilde or
any of his wise cracks. But it fitted in at last—I hadn't
seen much sense to it then. Now—
"You must understand." She was talking fast. "It
was pity for him—remorse for the deed I had unknow-
ingly done—and if he'd lived I'd of married him if he


A LAST STAND
309
wanted me and gone through with it—but it's you I
love. There's no way to explain—I wouldn't ever tell
you if—but I even threatened Briskey with the police
to get that thousand to help Danny. I—"
And the feet were in the hall—many feet—louder—
by the door— I heard them plainly.
"Beat it, Kid," I said again. "By the window—
I'm—"
"I'm going to stick," I heard her mutter as the feet
crossed the room.
Somehow I pushed her off. I couldn't sit like that.
Not me—not Race Williams. I'd go out on my feet.
It took all I had to come erect but I did it, and was
standing there when the curtains parted.
"Come in, boys." I just bellowed out the words.
"It's Race Williams—hell ain't filled up yet—not yet—
not yet." And I couldn't make the gun work—and I
couldn't lift my hands and I— But I saw them—
many of them—the blue of the uniform—the slouch hat
and the racing cigar of Inspector Coglin. And I
laughed. Somehow I couldn't help it. He looked
funny—wild eyed—surprised; and the cigar got stuck
and wouldn't travel any further. And—the floor did
its stuff at last; just came up and slapped me in the
face. Rough that? No, I can't say that it was. It felt
kind of good—and restful.
The cops made a lot of fuss—tramped around above
and below and raised particular. Coglin talked; and
I—a question kept buzzing in my head. "Why had
Barton Briskey come to me?" It just obscured every-


310 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
thing else and wouldn't let me think clearly. If I knew
that I could have died in peace.
From a long way off the voice of Inspector Coglin
buzzed.
"The Beast is dead—and the boy too—I wonder
when the boy died—that's important—he's warm
and—" He turned to me. "This thing they called
The Beast was a notorious English criminal. He was
this boy's stepfather—Raphael Dezzeia."
"Why bother?" I laid back against the pillows that
had somehow slipped into the chair. "He's dead and
that's the ticket; you can straighten that out with the
authorities—and another lad or two. But— Who put
you wise to this joint?"
"A lady—a very temperamental and abusive lady,
who telephoned me at your house. She gave us a tip
that picked up a pretty bunch of five men, who were
speeding back to the city. She told me something else
too."
"What else? Did she tell you why Barton Briskey
visited me?" You see, the thing was still there.
"No—but she told me everything else. About the
plot of Oscar Merrill Davidson—the vengeance of
Raphael Dezzeia—referred me to this gentleman here
whom we brought along. Mr. Oliver Cronin."
And a little old man stepped into the room.
"A most distressing affair." He addressed me, Cog-
lin, and the slumped figure of Danny in the chair.
"Very sad, Mr. Williams. But I think that the dead
boy here is entitled to the money. I have had charge


312 THE SNARL OF THE BEAST
"Did her uncle know?" I asked.
"No." Cronin shook his head. "He called up from
Washington less than an hour before she died. They
reported her condition the same as usual. After that
came the sudden turn."
But I didn't listen to any more. I had the answer
to my question. I knew why Barton Briskey had come
to me. With the death of the girl the money had gone
into Danny's hands. Briskey at once jumped with the
money; came to me and tried to make the best deal that
he could. But Danny wasn't dead then—and Briskey
didn't know that Danny had told me he was leaving the
money to his sister. So—why it would come back to
Oscar Merrill Davidson again. But I didn't bother to
think any more.
I heard Coglin telling me that he had telephoned the
police at Washington to arrest Oscar Merrill Davidson
on the strength of the blonde's story—for it was she
who had called him on the phone.
"You won't arrest—Milly?" I put the question to
Coglin as they carried me from the house and into the
waiting car. "She came here to help me." And when
he didn't answer at once, "Come clean, Coglin—what
do you intend to do with her?"
"Technically, you're both under observation." Cog-
lin had the cigar working again now. "But things will
break all right. A good night's work—I'll stick to you,
Race."
"And the Kid?" Words were beginning to stick in
my throat and Inspector Coglin began to float around


A LAST STAND
313
a bit—an airy-fairy sort of drifting movement that
wasn't in tune with the dominant chin, the hard eyes,
and the thick black cigar. I was slipping and I felt
pretty cheap not to be able to stick it out now.
"And the Kid?" I tried again—and although I
shouted the words only a whisper came back to me.
"She's a good Kid."
But he heard me all right, for he answered,
"And the Kid, Race."
I smiled and nodded—felt the little hand that crept
into mine—wondered that Coglin's mit could be so
soft and tiny—and—some one pulled down the curtain,
shutting off the light.


CHAPTER XXXV
BON VOYAGE!
There was a ride—a woman or a girl crying—a man
talking—and something biting at my arm, tearing at
my head and chewing at my side. Somehow I was in a
thick forest and The Beast was there. I fired wildly
and he fell, and I laughed and up he jumped—then an-
other and another, until I was shooting in a circle; but
they were on me—a dozen or a hundred snarling ani-
mals. Down I went in the struggling mass—clutched
at a hairy arm, felt teeth sink into my hip and—I
opened my eyes.
A white coat—a white sheet—a white clad woman—
white walls—and the black head of a girl who leaned
against a door and a big man who held her. Then a
face and a cigar—and I knew. I was in a hospital.
"He'll do nicely now." A face jumped out of the
white coat, spun around—and the white coat drifted
across the room, pinched at the cheeks of the girl in
the doorway, and laughed softly before it spoke.
"Bless your heart, there's nothing to cry about. An-
other week or ten days and we'll need to tie him in bed.
Go talk to him if you wish—his head'U swim, but—."
And I heard no more.
314


BON VOYAGE!
317
haps I do—perhaps there are many others who have
sunk as low as I have and—"
"Not risen so high." I shut her up. After all, it's
bad to talk for an audience.
Milly, rich, was another thing. Yet, I couldn't get
away from her. They kept me in that hospital, and she
was there—always there. I pretended even to myself
I didn't want her—but I did.
"You told me you cared," she kept saying over and
over. "That first night here, before the will—now—111
give up the money before I'll give you up; unless of
course you don't—don't care." And she had a way of
getting that off that made my blood run hot and fast.
It was a lot of money—still, each conversation ended
with the slip of a girl's head down on my chest. What
a woman I had thought her—and what a child she really
was! Given half the chance—but why keep writing
this? It was real and wonderful and hardly believable
to me—but mush to the outsider. It all depends upon
whose chest the head is on, I guess.
Is there more to tell? I don't know. I got Milly
shipped off to Europe; she must get away from old as-
sociates for a time. Somehow her wealth leaked out,
and scum of the underworld suddenly remembered their
undying devotion to her, to say nothing of blackmail.
When I got on my feet I'd put a stop to that—even
now, when Coglin came in and the nurses were out I got
to cleaning my guns.
* * * * *