Black Jack by Max Brand (interesting novels to read TXT) 📖

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.