Monte went on guard that evening, taking “Doc” with him: not that Monte was afraid, but he realized that the battle had now entered its final and decisive phase. And it was real war. Monte Jerome had no doubt that Martin had, in some mysterious way, been done to death in the house of Ah Wing.
“You boys better get to bed early,” he said. “Billy, you take the clock and set it for half past one. You wake the Kid as soon as you get up—we’ll stand double guard from now on!”
The “Kid” hardly heard Monte speaking. He wanted to examine the jewels again, wanted to figure out just how he was going to make the break which would free him from his comrades.
For a time, after the other two had departed, he sat around smoking and cleaning out the barrel of his pistol, which the fogs of this marshy neighborhood were corroding. He cleaned barrel and chamber and oiled the action, then replaced the clip of cartridges and slipped the gun into a side pocket.
“Well,” he mumbled, half aloud, “I guess I’ll be getting to bed. An’ I hope to God there won’t be no voices around here tonight!”
The Strangler grunted, and the “Kid” slouched off up the stairs and into the room that had been Monte’s. He closed the door carefully, crossed over to the light, and then stood listening.
The night wind was stirring around the house, whistling and moaning down the chimney; but the “Kid” had an antidote for fear tonight: he went over to his bed and fumbled for the jewels. The touch of the smooth leather-covered box started his heart to pounding.
He laid the box on the bed and opened it. The light was reflected into his eyes from a thousand sharp facets, crimson and blue and white—but perhaps the charm was wearing off: the stones did not look as wonderful to him tonight as they had in that momentary view he had caught during the afternoon.
“And that’s the bunch of sparklers men go dippy about!” the “Kid” mumbled. “Hell, I wouldn’t give two bits for the whole bunch, if I couldn’t sell ’em! There’s too many of ’em, and they don’t shine so terrible much! I saw a big buck nigger on State Street once with a solitaire on that would have made them look phoney—and it was glass! Oh, well, I should worry. I ain’t going to wear ’em—I’m going to sell ’em! I’ll have to play safe—”
At the ghost of a sound from behind, the “Kid” whirled. He had left the door closed, but now it was open—and the Strangler stood inside the room, grinning.