Black Jack by Max Brand (short story to read TXT) 📕

id="id01829">They circled in a broad detour and slipped onto the back porch of the blue house; the guard at the rear of the bank was whistling softly as he walked.

"Instead of watchdogs they keep doors with rusty hinges," said Denver as he turned the knob, and the door gave an inch inward. "And I dunno which is worst. But watch this, bo!"

And he began to push the door slowly inward. There was never a slackening or an increase in the speed with which his hand travelled. It took him a full five minutes to open the door a foot and a half. They slipped inside, but Denver called Terry back as the latter began to feel his way across the kitchen.

"Wait till I close this door."

"But why?" whispered Terry.

"Might make a draught—might wake up one of these birds. And there you are. That's the one rule of politeness for a burglar, Terry. Close the doors after you!"

And the door was closed with fully as much caution and slowness as had been used when it was opened. Then Denver took the lead again. He went across the kitchen as though he could see in the dark, and then among the tangle of chairs in the dining room beyond. Terry followed in his wake, taking care to step, as nearly as possible, in the same places. But for all that, Denver continually turned in an agony of anger and whispered curses at the noisy clumsiness of his companion—yet to Terry it seemed as though both of them were not making a sound.

The stairs to the second story presented a difficult climb. Denver showed him how to walk close to the wall, for there the weight of their bodies would act with less leverage on the boards and there would be far less chance of causing squeaks. Even then the ascent was not noiseless. The dry air had warped the timber sadly, and there was a continual procession of murmurs underfoot as they stole to the top of the stairs.

To Terry, his senses growing superhumanly acute as they entered more and more into the heart of their danger, it seemed that those whispers of the stairs might serve to waken a hundred men out of sound sleep; in reality they were barely audible.

In the hall a fresh danger met them. A lamp hung from the ceiling, the flame turned down for the night. And by that uneasy light Terry made out the face of Denver, white, strained, eager, and the little bright eyes forever glinting back and forth. He passed a side mirror and his own face was dimly visible. It brought him erect with a squeak of the flooring that made Denver whirl and shake his fist.

For what Terry had seen was the same expression that had been on the face of his companion—the same animal alertness, the same hungry eagerness. But the fierce gesture of Denver brought him back to the work at hand.

There were three rooms on the side of the hall nearest the bank. And every door was closed. Denver tried the nearest door first, and the opening was done with the same caution and slowness which had marked the opening of the back door of the house. He did not even put his head through the opening, but presently the door was closed and Denver returned.

"Two," he whispered.

He could only have told by hearing the sounds of two breathing; Terry wondered quietly. The man seemed possessed of abnormal senses. It was strange to see that bulky, burly, awkward body become now a sensitive organism, possessed of a dangerous grace in the darkness.

The second door was opened in the same manner. Then the third, and in the midst of the last operation a man coughed. Instinctively Terry reached for the handle of his gun, but Denver went on gradually closing the door as if nothing had happened. He came back to Terry.

"Every room got sleepers in it," he said. "And the middle room has got a man who's awake. We'll have to beat it."

"We'll stay where we are," said Terry calmly, "for thirty minutes—by guess. That'll give him time to go asleep. Then we'll go through one of those rooms and drop to the roof of the bank."

The yegg cursed softly. "Are you trying to hang me?" he gasped.

"Sit down," said Terry. "It's easier to wait that way."

And they sat cross-legged on the floor of the hall. Once the springs of a bed creaked as someone turned in it heavily. Once there was a voice—one of the sleepers must have spoken without waking. Those two noises, and no more, and yet they remained for what seemed two hours to Terry, but what he knew could not be more than twenty minutes.

"Now," he said to Denver, "we start."

"Through one of them rooms and out the windows—without waking anybody up?"

"You can do it. And I'll do it because I have to. Go on."

He heard the teeth of Denver grit, as though the yegg were being driven on into this madcap venture merely by a pride which would not allow him to show less courage—even rash courage—than his companion.

The door opened—Denver went inside and was soaked up—a shadow among shadows. Terry followed and stepped instantly into the presence of the sleeper. He could tell it plainly. There was no sound of breathing, though no doubt that was plain to the keen ear of Denver—but it was something more than sound or sight. It was like feeling a soul—that impalpable presence in the night. A ghostly and a thrilling thing to Terry Hollis.

Now, against the window on the farther side of the room, he made out the dim outline of Denver's chunky shoulders and shapeless hat. Luckily the window was open to its full height. Presently Terry stood beside Denver and they looked down. The roof of the bank was only some four feet below them, but it was also a full three feet in distance from the side of the house. Terry motioned the yegg back and began to slip through the window. It was a long and painful process, for at any moment a button might catch or his gun scrape—and the least whisper would ruin everything. At length, he hung from his arms at full length. Glancing down, he faintly saw Lewison turn at the end of his beat. Why did not the fool look up?

With that thought he drew up his feet, secured a firm purchase against the side of the house, raised himself by the ledge, and then flung himself out into the air with the united effort of arms and legs.

He let himself go loose and relaxed in the air, shot down, and felt the roof take his weight lightly, landing on his toes. He had not only made the leap, but he had landed a full foot and a half in from the edge of the roof.

Compared with the darkness of the interior of the house, everything on the outside was remarkably light now. He could see Denver at the window shaking his head. Then the professional slipped over the sill with practiced ease, dangled at arm's length, and flung himself out with a quick thrust of his feet against the wall.

The result was that while his feet were flung away far enough and to spare, the body of Denver inclined forward. He seemed bound to strike the roof with his feet and then drop head first into the alley below. Terry set his teeth with a groan, but as he did so, Denver whirled in the air like a cat. His body straightened, his feet barely secured a toehold on the edge of the roof. The strong arm of Terry jerked him in to safety.

For a moment they stood close together, Denver panting.

He was saying over and over again: "Never again. I ain't any acrobat,
Black Jack!"

That name came easily on his lips now.

Once on the roof it was simple enough to find what they wanted. There was a broad skylight of dark green glass propped up a foot or more above the level of the rest of the flat roof. Beside it Terry dropped upon his knees and pushed his head under the glass. All below was pitchy-black, but he distinctly caught the odor of Durham tobacco smoke.

CHAPTER 35

That scent of smoke was a clear proof that there was an open way through the loft to the room of the bank below them. But would the opening be large enough to admit the body of a man? Only exploring could show that. He sat back on the roof and put on the mask with which the all-thoughtful Denver had provided him. A door banged somewhere far down the street, loudly. Someone might be making a hurried and disgusted exit from Pedro's. He looked quietly around him. After his immersion in the thick darkness of the house, the outer night seemed clear and the stars burned low through the thin mountain air. Denver's face was black under the shadow of his hat.

"How are you, kid—shaky?" he whispered.

Shaky? It surprised Terry to feel that he had forgotten about fear. He had been wrapped in a happiness keener than anything he had known before. Yet the scheme was far from accomplished. The real danger was barely beginning. Listening keenly, he could hear the sand crunch underfoot of the watcher who paced in front of the building; one of the cardplayers laughed from the room below—a faint, distant sound.

"Don't worry about me," he told Denver, and, securing a strong fingerhold on the edge of the ledge, he dropped his full length into the darkness under the skylight.

His tiptoes grazed the floor beneath, and letting his fingers slide off their purchase, he lowered himself with painful care so that his heels might not jar on the flooring. Then he held his breath—but there was no creaking of the loft floor.

That made the adventure more possible. An ill-laid floor would have set up a ruinous screeching as he moved, however carefully, across it. Now he whispered up to Denver. The latter instantly slid down and Terry caught the solid bulk of the man under the armpits and lowered him carefully.

"A rotten rathole," snarled Denver to his companion in that inimitable, guarded whisper. "How we ever coming back this way—in a hurry?"

It thrilled Terry to hear that appeal—an indirect surrendering of the leadership to him. Again he led the way, stealing toward a ghost of light that issued upward from the center of the floor. Presently he could look down through it.

It was an ample square, a full three feet across. Below, and a little more than a pace to the side, was the table of the cardplayers. As nearly as he could measure, through the misleading wisps and drifts of cigarette smoke, the distance to the floor was not more than ten feet—an easy drop for a man hanging by his fingers.

Denver came to his side, silent as a snake.

"Listen," whispered Terry, cupping a hand around his lips and leaning close to the ear of Denver so that the least thread of sound would be sufficient. "I'm going to cover those two from this place. When I have them covered, you slip through the opening and drop to the floor. Don't stand still, but softfoot it over to the wall. Then cover them with your gun while I come down. The idea is this. Outside that window there's a second guard walking up and down. He can look through and see the table where they're playing, but he can't see the safe against the wall. As long as he sees those two sitting there playing their cards, he'll be sure that everything is all right. Well, Denver, he's going to keep on seeing them sitting at their game—but in the meantime you're going to make your preparations for blowing the safe. Can you do it? Is your nerve up to it?"

Even the indomitable Denver paused before answering. The chances of success in this novel game were about one in ten. Only shame to be outbraved by his younger companion and pupil made him nod and mutter his assent.

That mutter, strangely, was loud enough to reach to the room below. Terry saw one of the men look up sharply, and at the same moment he pulled his gun and shoved it far enough through the gap for the light to catch on its barrel.

"Sit tight!" he ordered them in a cutting whisper. "Not a