by Jerry eBooks
Larry returned to the bank official’s office. He was beginning not to understand this thing. Larry’s look was enough to show the two men that the little trick of “telepathy” had come off. Sniffa, whom Larry had leashed to a heavy chair, looked decidedly uneasy.
“Try this one,” said the banker, and in Larry’s sight he scribbled something on a note of paper and folded it. Fingers touched the paper which he had not seen. His voice squeaked, “You wrote, ‘What have I written here?’ ”
Larry felt icy little prickles touch his skin. He looked at Sniffa, as if maybe the shaggy little critter could give him the answer to this uncanny puzzle. But Sniffa only stared silently back. Larry was annoyed.
To Banker Rolle, he said, “So what has this got to do with me? Why have you called me?”
“I have called you,” said Rolle, “because Fingers came to me after he heard a plot against my life—heard it right out of thin air. I wouldn’t have believed it—but he also said the threat against me was coupled with one against Warden Young of State Penitentiary! Warden Young is one of my true friends. If anything should happen to Warden Young—”
A sound like an explosion rent the air. A shower of broken glass sprayed the room. Sniffa yelped. Larry jumped as something heavy landed on the carpeted floor with a thud. Banker Rolle cursed.
Larry Quentin looked and saw that one of the large windows at the end of the room was smashed. Jagged spears of glass were all that was left in the frame. Then he saw the object on the floor.
He picked it up—the thing that had been hurled through the window, smashed it. It was a building brick wrapped up in newspaper. The paper was a five-year-old tabloid. Its front page had a picture of Banker Rolle and a jail picture of a man named McCann. The headline was:
McCANN GOES TO PEN—BANKER FREED!
Larry’s quick eyes did not have to read the story on page two. It was as familiar to him as his own name. McCann, who had been convicted of robbing the Republican Bank and Trust Company of fifty thousand dollars, claimed that Banker Rolle was the real criminal, that Rolle had double-crossed and framed him and hidden away the loot. When Rolle was exonerated, McCann still hadn’t given up. He swore never to rest until he got out of the pen and “got” Rolle.
Larry Quentin looked up, and sweat was glistening coldly on Banker Rolle’s gray face.
“Some friend of McCann’s threw that brick,” Rolle choked. “They want to get McCann out of the pen! They won’t rest until they do! Now do you see what I’m up against? Why I’m so interested in Warden Young’s safety?”
Larry thought: This Rolle is not interested in anything but his own hide. But something is happening. And I still do not understand about Fingers.
He said, “I’ll be glad to take the case. It happens that I know McCann’s record. I’ve followed his case and I am interested in it. You claim he practically stabbed you in the back after you had taken him in and given him a position of trust. I know he is a desperate menace to your life and safety.”
Larry again picked up his walking stick and Sniffa’s leash. A few more details, and he was heading with Fingers for the railroad station and River City.
State Penitentiary loomed like a medieval fortress out of the murky river fog that came closing over it with the dark. A few explanations and Larry Quentin was admitted to Warden Young’s office. Larry introduced Fingers, and conveyed his message of warning concerning the Warden’s safety.
“I think it may have something to do with a convict here named Zero McCann,” Fingers said. “I think maybe the threat comes from that direction.”
The Warden’s lips twisted grimly. He was a neat, precise man with a receding hairline and shining spectacles. Suddenly he was out of his chair. He grabbed Fingers by the throat. He apparently wasn’t convinced Fingers could pick such startling things out of the air.
He shouted to Larry. “This fraud knows damn well it comes from that direction! He knows damn well that ZERO McCann is not in his cell right now!”
Larry had to grab Sniffa before the dog, roused by the sudden action, took a sample out of the warden’s leg. “You mean McCann escaped?” Larry gasped.
The warden relaxed his hold on Fingers’ throat, shoved him aside like a useless doll. “I’m sorry I lost my temper. McCann has been missing from his cell since lockup tonight! We’re damn sure he’s not out of the grounds. He couldn’t be! He’s hid himself somewhere, hoping he wouldn’t be missed, waiting his chance.” He looked sharply at Larry. “I guess you know this is curtains for Banker Rolle if McCann ever makes it away from here. That thug McCann has sworn to make hashbrown potatoes out of him!”
The bulb of inspiration illumined suddenly in Larry’s brain. “Fingers!” he said.
“Huh-h-h?” said the warden. “Fingers,” repeated Larry. “Maybe he can do it! Personally, I’m doubtful, but maybe he can tell you where McCann is. He gets things out of thin air.”
“Yeah,” said Fingers, suddenly coming to life. “I can do it. I can do it with the tips of my fingers!”
Warden Young looked at the two of them as if they both were about to sprout wings and fly away.
“I told you,” urged Larry. “That’s how he knew to warn you about danger to your life. He apparently has some kind of sixth sense or something. Maybe it’s his bridgework that acts like a radio detector. Anyway, he seems to tell things. Can you demonstrate, Fingers?”
Warden Young grabbed Fingers by his scrawny arm. His eyes looked such dagger points, it seemed a miracle to Larry they didn’t break his glasses. “To hell with demonstrations! If you can just tell me where that sneaking rat has made his nest I’ll—”
A sudden, hollow groan rattled in Fingers’ throat. His face beamed with a neon look. “The power house,” he said. “That’s it—the power house. McCann is in the power house!”
Warden Young’s lower jaw dropped. He stared at Fingers. Then, suddenly, he galvanized into action. “You may be a damn liar, but—I been thinking all along he was there, myself!” He threw a toggleswitch on an intercommunicator on his desk. “Call the guards!” he bellowed. “Surround the power house. McCann is hiding in the power house—just like I been telling you!”
Fingers said, “It’s something about a pipe. A water pipe. Does that make sense? Does—”
A half dozen guards armed with rifles and sub-machine guns burst into the room.
“The power house, boys!” the Warden bellowed. “McCann is trying to make it out through the old water-system pipes. We’ll drown him like the rat he is!”
The power house was a huge, square brick building with four towering chimneys. It was in the extreme corner of the prison grounds, just inside the wall. Inside of five minutes, Warden Young had almost every guard at his disposal ringing it. Every searchlight he had available was trained on it, illuminating it bright as Christmas.
There were several deep, abandoned cistern pits, covered by iron grills, inside the power house. It was an hour’s work to open them all. The last pit was just being opened when a cry jolted razor-edge nerves. Into the power house rushed a guard, bearing a dripping-wet object in his hands.
“McCann—he’s escaped! A barge tender seen him swim ashore on the other side of the river!” He held up the crudely made outfit that obviously had been put together from scraps collected in the prison tailor shop. It was an all black, hooded garment, splashed with splashes of gray paint. On a foggy night, black as this one, it would make its wearer invisible! “He was using this camouflage suit.”
The warden groaned. “While we’re busy on this end—he goes out the opposite end!”
He whirled in sudden fury on Fingers. “You were a decoy!” he swore. “A damn decoy! You know you never heard anything about him escaping down here.”
Larry was sure of the same thing himself, but Fingers whined, blubbered. “I swear I heard. But I guess I took it wrong! The voice I heard out of the air was saying, “I’ll give ’em the ol’ powerhouse play. Over the water. It’ll be a pipe!” Finger
s’ blubbering grew thicker. “How’d I know he meant it would be a pipe to swim the river? I thought he was talking about a water pipe.”
Larry said, “Where’s a telephone? I got to call Banker Rolle, see what he says.”
Over the phone, Rolle sobbed, “This is my funeral. Look, I want to be buried back home in West Virginia next to my kinfolks. Quentin, will you see to it that—”
Larry said, “Sit tight and do like I say and maybe you won’t have to worry. Maybe they’ll catch Zero first. I’ll be with you as fast as the N.Y. Central will rattle.”
It was nearly midnight when Larry Quentin, Sniffa at heel, entered the Republican Bank and Trust Company building. He’d parted company with Fingers immediately after the debacle in River City. Larry found no elevator running.
Larry was puffing from the climb when he rapped on the ground-glass door of the banker’s office. Banker Rolle was in a blacked-out office on the bank building’s fourteenth floor. There was no answer from inside. But Larry heard footsteps, stealthily moving! On guard, he stepped quickly to the wall alongside the door, jerking his eleven-clip automatic from the holster under his right armpit. With a low growl, Sniffa haunched back for any eventuality.
“It’s me, Mr. Rolle. Quentin,” Larry said, not knowing if it was the banker moving inside the room.
The door opened, and Banker Rolle stood there. Rolle put away the gun he held, immediately. Larry followed suit, crowded inside the office in the shadow of the banker’s great bulk, closed the door on Sniffa’s heels. He rested his walking stick against a chair.
Rolle’s jowled face looked haggard, worn. Ledgers and large-size file cards were scattered over a desk. Rolle nodded toward them. “I’m going over the accounts, the books—getting them into shape in case—in case I won’t be around.” His voice broke, steadied. “Will you guard me, Quentin? I—I guess I’ll be safe enough if you’ll stand watch outside that door until I get this important work done. The door is the only access to this office.” He mentioned behind him. “It’s a fourteen-story drop, straight down, from either of my windows . . .”
Larry was worried by that last. He wondered if in a pinch Rolle might not take a dry dive, under stress of mental torture. He prayed not.
Larry’s roving eyes took in the setup. “You get your work done, Mr. Rolle. I’ll stand watch outside the door, like you say. C’mon, Sniffa.”
Larry dragged a chair out with him in the hall. Something told him he’d rather be in the room where he could see things, but he knew, too, that guard duty was always done best outside the room you were protecting.
After the first half hour, Sniffa was restless. He wanted to be walked. Larry had rushed down so fast from River City, he hadn’t had a chance to walk Sniffa that evening. It was plain he couldn’t walk the grizzled old warrior now.
He took him to the stairs. “Fourteen floors down, Sniffa, and fourteen back up. If you want to take it.”
Sniffa took it. Larry could hear the Scotty’s toenails clattering down the hard stairs. Larry went back to his post. He doubted if Sniffa would go all the way down. If he did, he’d probably not be able to get out into the street. Unless he found a night man to push open the hard-swinging brass door for him. Maybe Sniffa would just find an inconspicuous corner . . .
Larry waited, but Sniffa didn’t come back. And things were singularly quiet inside the office now. Before, he’d heard the occasional noises of the banker’s movements as he worked on his books.
Larry knocked on the door. He rapped again, even harder. The hall echoed the thuds.
Mr. Rolle . . . Rolle—”
Larry jerked and shoved the doorknob loud enough for a dead man to hear “Mr. Rolle—” The door was snap-locked. Larry called one last time. Then he stepped back from the door.
He considered using his automatic. Then his quickly roving eye caught the fire-extinguisher on the wall. Seconds later, heave went the fire-extinguisher, and cra-ashhh went a ten-buck pane of glass. Larry stepped through the shattered door.
“Mr. Rolle—”
He clipped off at sight of the open window, its drapes wafted by the night wind. He lurched to it. Rolle hadn’t been accurate. He wasn’t accurate about a lot of things. The other of the two windows in the room gave way to a sheer drop. But a six-inch ledge lined the outside of this window, bounded by a wrought-iron railing. It didn’t permit anyone to use the ledge as a terrace; the ledge wasn’t wide enough for that. But it did permit access to the window from the window of the adjoining office. The rail protected the connecting ledge between the two windows.
Larry went out on the ledge, on through a second window into the next office. Then he froze with the sudden realization: Anyone escaping off the floor would still have to use the hall and the stairs! They couldn’t have escaped while he was still in the hall!
Cr-a-a-sh!
The numbing impact of a gun striking out of the dark at his skull, spun Larry half around. He grabbed for his assailant. He smashed a fist at an unseen face. Then light bulbs exploded in Larry’s brain box.
Aeons later, Larry came to. He staggered up from the floor, feeling the matted, wet tangle of his hair, and a rising bump on his head big enough to hang a hat on. Then he remembered the immediate past, and he lurched toward the hall.
In front of the bank building, the street was clear. There was no sign of Banker Rolle. There was no sign of Zero McCann. There wasn’t even a sign of Sniffa.
“Sniffa! Here, Sniffa—” Larry began weakly. Then he had a dizzy spell, and he was aware that he was dropping to a sitting position on the curb.
Next morning, Larry Quentin woke up in St. Vincent’s Hospital with six things called sutures in his scalp. He promptly took his leave. The life of an innocent man—his friend—was in dire peril, he knew. It might already be too late! He had to get to Banker Rolle before it was . . .
But where was Rolle. And where was Zero McCann?
Larry ran down a dozen false clues, and his knees were beginning to buckle from nervous strain. A dozen times he had called back at the building where he lived to find out if there was any report on Sniffa, for he had an idea Sniffa would lead him to Rolle. There was an identification tag on the grizzled old Scotty’s collar that might help out.
Larry saw blond Janet Joyce, and he ducked into a phone booth to avoid her. He couldn’t talk to her now with so much else on his mind.
Then, at the morgue, Larry found and identified the body of the man known as Fingers. Struck by a hit-run driver was the report.
Larry left the morgue, called his landlady again. This time she told him a call had come from a man up near Croton. Sniffa had been found up there.
Larry added it up. The only way Sniffa could have gotten out of the bank building was if someone opened the door. And the only way Sniffa could have gotten thirty miles from New York in so short a time was by hitching a ride. Now, with whom would Sniffa probably have hitched a ride except with—whoever went out the bank building when Sniffa did.
Larry had a little job to do with the loads in his gun. Then he went up to Croton via N. Y. Central to get Sniffa. The man who had him said, “He come on my porch couple hours ago, commenced barkin’ like he was crazy.”
First thing, Sniffa jumped in Larry’s arms and began licking his face. Then he jumped down and began barking, his nose close to the ground, and sniffing in great snorts. His coat was burr-tangled.
Two minutes later, Larry was hoofing it behind Sniffa, and Sniffa was sniffing ahead. The little legs on the grizzled old Scotty were pumping away. Larry watched him sharply, understandingly.
They went out of the village and across a low-lying field and then over a hill. Dark was coming down fast. Suddenly, Sniffa slowed his pace, looked at a solitary house off in the gloom ahead, then looked back at Larry. No light showed from the house. “That the house, Sniffa?”
Larry felt for the reassuring hardness of the Colt at his armpit. “Stay here, Sniffa!”
Larry started to move off toward th
e house alone, but Sniffa would not remain behind. He started to come too. Larry had to repeat his warning before the dog would remain behind.
Larry glanced into a car parked just off the shoulder of the deserted road in front of the house.
He spent another glance on the car’s front bumper. Then Larry did not waste time with the formality of knocking at the door. He put his shoulder against it, and there was one door that needed a new lock.
Inside, he stopped short, bracing himself against the momentum of his lunge. A man lay bound and gagged on the floor. The familiar bulk of Banker Rolle was crouched over that figure. Rolle straightened. His eyes widened in startled surprise at seeing Larry.
It took seconds before the banker’s lips could form words. He indicated the body on the floor. “I—I got him,” he whispered huskily. “I got him before he could get me!”
It was Zero McCann—the escaped con. Larry knew the young face as well as his own. It was bloodless and pale. He caught the rise and fall of McCann’s chest. He was still alive.
Larry’s face cracked into a slow, appreciative smile. “Good!” he said. “You gonna carry him out to the car? I’ll help you.”
He moved toward the body. He crouched over, apparently studying how he was going to pick it up. But every muscle in his body was spring-tense, Abruptly, he whirled, grabbing the banker’s gun-laden fist that was smashing down at his skull from behind.
Rolle cursed, tried to knee Larry as Larry smashed out at his jowled face. Rolle’s gun went flying, Larry jerked out his own Colt, covered the burly banker.
“Cat-gut on the body, huh?” Larry panted. “You’d weight him down with concrete blocks. I saw them ready out in the car. When the gut rotted, he’d float back up to the surface and nobody would ever be the wiser that he’d been tied up when he was thrown in. They’d think maybe he committed suicide, or fell in by accident!”
Banker Rolle’s face went paler. Then: “What you stickin’ your nose in this for?” he ripped. “I can make it worth your while—”
