The Mystery Megapack

two full suitcases. Under his feet was a luxurious rug that made him feel as if treading on sponges. Ahead of him was a broad, polished stairway swinging upward with majestic banisters to a great hallway whence came the faint light. Just behind him was a heavy, carved table, and all about him, unseen but felt, were costly brocades, pictures, silverware, naperies, and laces. The place reeked of luxury and comfort, wondrously arranged and exquisitely novel to Petey. He lived in a back room over a garage.
    A board creaked somewhere up above. Petey felt his spine tingle. The light became brighter and swung downward, illuminating the stairway. It glinted into Petey’s eyes, then rested on the oaken wall behind him and went out. His pal, McClung, was coming down, noiselessly, but with sure tread.
    “Got the stuff?” quavered Petey.
    “Sure,” came McClung’s husky, trembling voice. “Come along!”
    With hands occupied by suitcases they slipped over rugs and hardwood to the front door. The more experienced McClung fingered the lock for a moment, then led the way to the porch, ignoring the open window by which they had gained entrance. They trod past lawn, trees, and hedges toward the road, then walked along the highway to a lane hidden by small trees, where a black automobile awaited them in the darkness. They found it largely by the sense of feel.
    Losing no time, Petey took the wheel and started the machine. That was his part of the job, by agreement. McClung did the heavy work while Petey supplied the transportation and acted as lookout and guardian of the loot. They had functioned perfectly. The robbery was so easy that Petey wondered if some trace of evidence had not been overlooked. It was too good to be true. Petey’s doubting mind started backward, searching for flaws, while he traced every move—the quiet arrival at one in the morning, the hiding of the auto, the entrance through the side window, the gathering of the harvest, and the exit. By all evidence these had been flawless.
    Only one element had been left to chance.
    Some one might have stumbled over the waiting auto and started to investigate. But that had not happened, therefore there was nothing to worry about. The younger man’s spirits began to rise, and he turned his slim, weak-chinned face toward the older man while the car gathered greater momentum.
    “Everything smooth as silk!” he remarked. “It couldn’t be better. Get all you wanted?”
    “Yeh,” grunted the older man. “Watches, bracelets, rings, coin, silver—everything. The place is cleaned!”
    Encouraged, Petey quickened speed. The only task now was to get to San Francisco, and that seemed so easy that mishaps were practically impossible. Nobody should become inquisitive about Petey and McClung. Their machine was of a fairly reputable make. Petey and McClung seemed like ordinary, well-dressed, well-spoken young men hastening to home and bed, perhaps after a late dance.
    They had no prison records. They had not acquired the thieves’ jargon or the language of the hobo. They were merely young clerks who had decided to enter on a sideline. McClung was more proficient at this business because he had been at it longer. He was rather slow-witted, perhaps, but he was careful—infinitely careful. He had planned this visit for weeks, learning of the comings and goings of those in the house until he had picked exactly the right night. Even then he would not start, unless assured of utter darkness. This had been perfect. Even the stars could not see them. The coastal fog enveloped them as in a shroud.
    “There’s probably five or six thousand in them suitcases,” announced McClung, not without triumph. “Maybe ten thousand—twenty thousand.”
    “That means at least three thousand each,” said Petey. “Mm!” He thought of certain cafes and unconsciously speeded faster toward them.
    “Hey!” rasped McClung suddenly. “Cut that out!”
    Petey turned questioningly.
    “Slow down!” snarled McClung, “Want to be pinched for speedin’ just now?”
    Petey’s nervous hand reached for the controls. “You’re right!” he grunted, pulling the car into a more sedate pace.
    “Gosh! That would be fine—not!” He found himself nervous and gulping at the thought.
    In silence they passed through Mountain View, Palo Alto, and Redwood City, while the machine purred along the great highway made smooth by the combined wealth of several rich counties. The car neared Belmont. Half