“So, that was the game!” he cried. “You’re a slick one, Kid, but you ain’t slick enough. I been watching you all evening. You ain’t yourself, old timer. You’re getting nervous. But I don’t wonder! You grabbed the sparklers, but how you done it I don’t know. And you was going to hold ’em out, was you? Well, well—”
The “Kid’s” lips jerked up into a wolfish smile, but he forced himself to go slow. He needed to think this thing out. He knew the Wolves well enough to be sure they would hold this affair against him, and sooner or later would try to play even. No use to try to explain—they wouldn’t understand.
The Strangler was watching him through chilly eyes. Casually, the Kid’s hand stole toward his side pocket. Instantly the man standing before him acted: with a bellow of rage he jerked out his own hand, which he had been holding under his coat: swinging it up he fired, then struck at the light globe with the smoking barrel.
To the “Kid” there came the sensation of suffocation and of darkness. His own gun was out, but his enemy had disappeared—and he himself was sprawled across the bed. That instant of falling had not registered in his consciousness: he had been standing, and now he was down; that was all he knew.
And he was fighting for breath—a great weight seemed to be crushing in his chest. He raised his left hand and gropingly explored the front of his shirt: it was already saturated, and from a hole to the left of his breast bone more blood was coming in a pulsing current.
“The dirty dog!” muttered the “Kid” thickly, pulling himself erect by grasping the foot of the bed. “He’s croaked me—”
Then suddenly the “Kid’s” whirling senses cleared. Billy the Strangler had done for him; but he would send Billy on ahead, to tell St. Peter he was coming! His yellow teeth came together. He felt something welling up in his throat and spat out a mouthful of blood.
“Not—much—time—left!” he muttered.
He dropped to his knees and for a moment everything went blank. Then he mastered himself, by a superhuman effort: and began to crawl stealthily along toward the dimly-lighted panel of the door. The Strangler had run out there after firing—now, undoubtedly, he was waiting till it should be safe for him to come back for his booty!
Slowly, the dying crook dragged himself across to the door and out into the hall. The training of a lifetime stood him in good stead now: he was as soundless as a shadow. He reached the top of the stairs and paused, leaning for a moment against the banisters—everything was going black before him. Then he pulled himself together with a disregard for his own suffering that in a better cause would have been heroic.