“It—it isn’t in the safe,” he said. And then, aware of his error because of the shrill breath the other drew, he added, quaveringly: “There is no—the original record is in my desk—you’ve seen it.”
“Bah!” The big shape backed away—two or three feet, whispering back at the Judge. “Open your mouth and you’re a dead man. I’ve got you covered!”
Cowering on his cot the Judge watched the big shape join the other at the safe. How long it remained there, he did not know. A step sounded in the silence that reigned outside—a third shape loomed in the doorway.
“Judge Lindman!” called a voice.
“Y-es?” quavered the Judge, aware that the big shape in the room was now close to him, menacing him.
“Your door’s open! Where’s Ed? There’s something wrong! Get up and strike a light. There’ll be hell to pay if Corrigan finds out we haven’t been watching your stuff. Damn it! A man can’t steal time for a drink without something happens. Jim and Bill and me just went across the street, leaving Ed here. They’re coming right—”
He had been entering the room while talking, fingering in his pockets for a match. His voice died in a quick gasp as Trevison struck with the butt of his pistol. The man fell, silently.
Another voice sounded outside. Trevison crouched at the doorway. A form darkened the opening. Trevison struck, missed, a streak of fire split the night—the newcomer had used his pistol. It went off again—the flame-spurt shooting ceilingward, as Levins clinched the man from the rear. A third man loomed in the doorway; a fourth appeared, behind him. Trevison swung at the head of the man nearest him, driving him back upon the man behind, who cursed, plunging into the room. The man whom Levins had seized was shouting orders to the others. But these suddenly ceased as Levins smashed him on the head with the butt of a pistol. Two others remained. They were stubborn and courageous. But it was miserable work, in the dark—blows were misdirected, friend striking friend; other blows went wild, grunts of rage and impotent curses following. But Trevison and Levins were intent on escaping—a victory would have been hollow—for the thud and jar of their boots on the bare floor had been heard; doors were slamming; from across the street came the barking of a dog; men were shouting questions at one another; from the box-car on the railroad tracks issued vociferous yells and curses. Trevison slipped out through the door, panting. His opponent had gone down, temporarily disabled from sundry vicious blows from a fist that had worked like a piston rod. A figure loomed at his side. “I got mine!” it said, triumphantly; “we’d better slope.”
“Another five minutes and I’d have cracked it,” breathed Levins as they ran. “What’s Corrigan havin’ the place watched for?”
“You’ve got me. Afraid of the Judge, maybe. The Judge hasn’t his whole soul in this deal; it looks to me as though Corrigan is forcing him. But the Judge has the original record, all right; and it’s in that safe, too! God! If they’d only given us a minute or two longer!”