On the floor, presumably to lessen the chance of any light rays stealing through the tightly drawn window shades, burned a small oil lamp.The place was in utter confusion.The right-hand side of a large fireplace, made of rough, untrimmed stone and cement, and which occupied almost the entire end of the room, was already practically demolished, and the wreckage was littered everywhere;part of the furniture was piled unceremoniously into one corner out of the way; and at the fireplace itself, working with sledge and bar, were two men.One was Connie Myers.An ironical glint crept into Jimmie Dale's eyes.The false beard and mustache the man wore would deceive no one who knew Connie Myers! And that he should be wearing them now, as he knelt holding the bar while the other struck at it, seemed both uncalled for and absurd.The other man, heavily built, roughly dressed, had his back turned, and Jimmie Dale could not see his face.
The puzzled frown on Jimmie Dale's forehead deepened.Somewhere in the masonry of the fireplace, of course, was where old Luther Doyle had hidden his money.That was quite plain enough; and that Connie Myers, in some way or other, had made sure of that fact was equally obvious.But how did old Luther Doyle get his money IN there from time to time, as he received the interest and dividends whose accumulation, according to the Tocsin, comprised his hoard! And how did he get it OUT again?
"All right, that'll do!" grunted Connie Myers suddenly."We can pry this one out now.Lend a hand on the bar!"The other dropped his sledge, turned sideways as he stooped to help Connie Myers, his face came into view--and, with an involuntary start, Jimmie Dale crouched farther back against the wall, as he stared at the other.It was Hagan! Mrs.Hagan's husband! Mike Hagan!""My God!" whispered Jimmie Dale, under his breath.
So that was it! That the murder had been committed in the tenement was not so strange now! A surge of anger swept Jimmie Dale--and was engulfed in a wave of pity.Somehow, the thin, tired face of Mrs.
Hagan had risen before him, and she seemed to be pleading with him to go away, to leave the house, to forget that he had ever been there, to forget what he had seen, what he was seeing now.His hands clenched fiercely.How realistically, how importunately, how pitifully she took form before him! She was on her knees, clasping his knees, imploring him, terrified,From Jimmie Dale's pocket came the black silk mask.Slowly, almost hesitantly, he fitted it over his face--Mike Hagan knew Larry the Bat.Why should he have pity for Mike Hagan? Had he any for Connie Myers? What right had he to let pity sway him! The man had gone the limit; he was Connie Myers' accomplice--a murderer! But the man was not a hardened, confirmed criminal like Connie Myers.Mike Hagan--a murderer! It would have been unbelievable but for the evidence before his own eyes now.The man had faults, brawled enough, and drank enough to have brought him several times to the notice of the police--but this!
Jimmie Dale's eyes had never left the scene before him.Both men were throwing their weight upon the bar, and the stone that they were trying to dislodge--they were into the heart of the masonry now--seemed to move a little.Connie Myers stood up, and, leaning forward, examined the stone critically at top and bottom, prodding it with the bar.He turned from his examination abruptly, and thrust the bar into Hagan's hands.
"Hold it!" he said tersely."I'll strike for a turn."Crouched, on his hands and knees, Hagan inserted the point of the bar into the crevice.Connie Myers picked up the sledge.
"Lower! Bend lower!" he snapped--and swung the sledge.
It seemed to go black for a moment before Jimmie Dale's eyes, seemed to paralyse all action of mind and body.There was a low cry that was more a moan, the clang of the iron bar clattering on the floor, and Mike Hagan had pitched forward on his face, an inert and huddled heap.A half laugh, half snarl purled from Connie Myers' lips, as he snatched a stout piece of cord from his pocket and swiftly knotted the unconscious man's wrists together.Another instant, and, picking up the bar, prying with it again, the loosened stone toppled with a crash into the grate.
It had come sudden as the crack of doom, that blow--too quick, too unexpected for Jimmie Dale to have lifted a finger to prevent it.
And now that the first numbed shock of mingled horror and amazement was past, he fought back the quick, fierce impulse to spring out on Connie Myers.Whether the man was killed or only stunned, he could do no good to Mike Hagan now, and there was Connie Myers--he was staring in a fascinated way at Connie Myers.Behind the stone that the other had just dislodged was a large hollow space that had been left in the masonry, and from this now Connie Myers was eagerly collecting handfuls of banknotes that were rolled up into the shape of little cylinders, each one grotesquely tied with a string.The man was feverishly excited, muttering to himself, running from the fireplace to where the table had been pushed aside with the rest of the furniture, dropping the curious little rolls of money on the table, and running back for more.And then, having apparently emptied the receptacle, he wriggled his body over the dismantled fireplace, stuck his head into the opening, and peered upward.
"Kinks in his nut, kinks in his nut!" Connie Myers was muttering.
"I'll drop the bar through from the top, mabbe there's some got stuck in the pipe."He regained his feet, picked up the bar, and ran with it into what was evidently the front hall--then his steps sounded running upstairs.
Like a flash, Jimmie Dale was across the room and at the fireplace.
