"I'm riding up to Bronlon's," declared Deacon, in a low voice. "Following right after the truck, with the hearse. As soon as we're away, go through and tip off Major and Ferret."
"Sure," replied Butcher. "The only thing, Deacon, is the idea of you going alone on this ride. Suppose—"
"Don't be a fool, Butcher. This trip is nothing. It has to look on the level. Wouldn't it look fine" Deacon's tone became sarcastic — "for you to be taking a ride in an undertaker's hearse?
"You know that nothing can go wrong. These men don't know what they're carrying. Those coffin lids are clamped down so tight, it will take a crowbar to open them. Don't you worry. Judge will have them within half an hour. Your job is to slide along, with the others. Be sure the door stays locked. I'm locking it now."
"O.K. I'll be seeing you soon."
"You will not. I don't know you. Stick to your teller's window, and I'll keep doing business in the funeral parlor."
With that, Deacon was gone. Butcher heard the door close behind him. Listening, the big man caught the sound of the truck driving away; then the hearse followed. Butcher started for the stairs. He paused a moment in the gloomy morgue. Butcher grinned as he stared at the depleted piles of old coffins. A clever idea, tonight's shipment. These were brainy men — Judge, Deacon, and Major. Butcher felt that he and Ferret were fortunate to be linked up with this crew. Unlike Ferret, he had never fancied acting on his own initiative. Butcher was content to follow, and do as he was told. Realizing that Major and Ferret would be waiting, Butcher hurriedly opened the panel and shoved back the sliding stone barrier behind it. His flashlight was in his hand. His revolver was in his pocket. The flashlight was needed, for the corridor was dark. But before Butcher pressed the button, he paused and sniffed in the darkness. His nostrils caught the pungent odor of powder. As he stepped forward in the gloom, Butcher's foot stumbled against a form. He quickly pressed the flashlight, and its rays shone upon a black-clad figure, sprawled upon the floor of the corridor. The discovery astonished Butcher. It was entirely unexpected, and he could make nothing of it. The thought occurred that it must be either Major or Ferret.
He bent over the prostrate form, and decided that it was a corpse. Should he go on — or should he stop here? Butcher decided that the latter course was preferable. He gripped the body and dragged it back through the panel, until he reached the floor of the morgue.
There, Butcher let his burden rest gently on the floor. He carefully rolled the body over on its back. He pulled away the slouch hat.
This was neither Major nor Ferret. Here was a stern, calm face — a face that bespoke death. Butcher turned the flashlight upon it. He noticed that the face was masklike, a disguise that might have been applied by some artificial touch. It was white and waxen.