Part 56 (1/2)
Hawk Kennedy closed one eye and squinted the other at Peter quizzically.
”I'll tell you that all in good time. But first I've got to know how you stand in the matter.”
Peter judicially examined the ash of his cigarette. ”He ought to do the right thing,” he said slowly.
”He will--never you fear. But can I count on _you_, Pete?”
”What do you want me to do?” asked Peter after a moment.
”Oh, now we're talkin'. But wait a minute. We won't go so fast. Are you with me sure enough--hope I may die--cross my heart?”
”If you'll make it worth my while,” said Peter cautiously.
”A hundred thousand. How's that?”
”It sounds all right. But I can't see what I can do that you couldn't do yourself.”
”Don't you? Well, you don't know all this story. There's some of it you haven't heard. Maybe it's that will convince you you're makin' no mistake----”
”Well--I'm listening.”
A shrewd look came into Kennedy's face--a narrowing of the eyelids, a drawing of the muscles at the mouth, as he searched Peter's face with a sharp glance.
”If you play me false, Pete, I'll have your heart's blood,” he said.
Peter only laughed at him.
”I'm not easily scared. Save the melodrama for McGuire. If you can do without me--go ahead. Play your hand alone. Don't tell me anything. I don't want to know.”
The bluff worked, for Kennedy relaxed at once.
”Oh, you're a cool hand. I reckon you think I need you or I wouldn't be here. Well, that's so. I do need you. And I'm goin' to tell you the truth--even if it gives away my hand.”
”Suit yourself,” said Peter, indifferently.
He watched his old ”bunkie” pour out another drink of the whisky, and a definite plan of action took shape in his mind. If he could only get Kennedy drunk enough.... The whisky bottle was almost empty--so Peter got up, went to his cupboard and brought forth another one.
”Good old Pete!” said Hawk. ”Seems like July the first didn't make much difference to you.”
”A present from Mr. McGuire,” Peter explained.
”Well, here's to his fat bank account. May it soon be ours.” And he drank copiously. Peter filled his own gla.s.s but when the opportunity offered poured most of it into the slop-bowl just behind him.
”I'm goin' to tell you, Pete, about me and McGuire--about how we got that mine. It ain't a pretty story. I told you some of it but not the real part--n.o.body but Mike McGuire and I know that--and he wouldn't tell if it was the last thing he said on earth.”
”Oh,” said Peter, ”something crooked, eh?”
Kennedy laid his bony fingers along Peter's arm while his voice sank to an impressive whisper.
”Crooked as h.e.l.l, Pete--crooked as h.e.l.l. You wouldn't think Mike McGuire was a murderer--would you?”