“Hell of a night!” he mumbled. “Sounds like all the dead men in this neck of the woods was hanging around outside, wheezing to be took in by the fire! Listen to that window rattle!”
The Strangler smoked on imperturbably.
From somewhere in the house above there came a sound—low and uncertain at first, then rising to a sort of scream. The “Kid” threw down his cards and staggered to his feet. The Strangler hauled his long legs down from the mantle and reached under his coat for the handle of his automatic. “Doc” turned pale—he was too sophisticated to be superstitious, but this unearthly cry was a fact rather than a theory.
“What the devil was that?” the “Kid” demanded hoarsely. “Say, if that was one of them birds—”
“That must have been it!” “Doc” decided aloud. “A night heron, blown against the chimney! What a night to be out in!”
He shivered and picked up his magazine, but the zest had gone out of his reading. From the corners of his eyes he observed that the “Kid” was gathering up his cards, and that Billy had not again elevated his feet to the mantle.
“Well, I guess I’ll be going to my room,” the “Kid” drawled presently, emphasizing the possessive pronoun to tantalize the Strangler. “Kind of feel like a little snooze would take the wrinkles out of my brains. This place sure does give me the willies!”
He slouched into the hall communicating with the back rooms—a kitchen and his bedroom—and they heard him shuffling through the darkness. Following a moment of silence, his voice sounded in a steady mumble. Then it was raised in expostulation.
“Who the hell has been fooling with my light? It won’t turn on!”
Another brief interval of silence, then a bellow of rage and fear from the man in the back bedroom.