With a brutal chuckle, Connie Myers pushed Hagan back and shoved his revolver under the other's nose.
“Sure!” he admitted evenly. “And you keep quiet, or I'll finish you now—instead of letting the police do it!” He laughed out jarringly. “You're under arrest, you know, for the murder of Luther Doyle, and for robbing the poor old nut of his savings in his house here.”
Hagan wrenched himself up on his elbow.
“What—what do you mean?” he stammered.
“Oh, don't worry!” said Connie Myers maliciously. “I'M not making the arrest, I'd rather the police did that. I'm not mixing up in it, and by and by”—he lifted up the hypodermic for Hagan to see—“I'm going to shoot a little dope into you that'll keep you quiet while I get away myself.”
Hagan's face had gone a grayish white—he had caught sight of the money on the table, and his eyes kept shifting back and forth from it to Myers' face.
“Murder!” he said huskily. “There is no murder. I don't know who Doyle is. You said this house was yours—you hired me to come here. You said you were going to tear down the fireplace and build another. You said I could work evenings and earn some extra money.”
“Sure, I did!” There was a vicious leer now on Connie Myers' lips. “But you don't think I picked you out by ACCIDENT, do you? Your reputation, my bucko, was just shady enough to satisfy anybody that it wouldn't be beyond you to go the limit. Sure, you murdered Doyle! Listen to this.” He took up the letter:
“TO THE POLICE: Luther Doyle was murdered this evening in the tenement at 67 —— Street. You'll find his body in a room on the second floor. If you want to know who did it, look in Mike Hagan's room on the floor above. There's a paper stuck under the edge of Hagan's table with a piece of chewing gum, where he hid it. You'll know what it is when you go out and take a look at Doyle's house in Pelham. Yours truly, A FRIEND.”
Mike Hagan did not speak—his lips were twitching, and there was horror creeping into his eyes.