by Jerry eBooks
Graumann’s mouth twitched oddly, and Barry started, remembering how the mouth of the white-haired man in Grand Central had twitched in exactly the same way.
“You were one of them!” he accused. “You wore a wig and mustache and tinted glasses. I know because—”
“Hold on,” interrupted Cassidy. “Before you get any more brainstorms, we’ll have a look at the girl. Who do you say she is, doc?”
“A patient. She comes each week for treatment, and ‘tis important that she rest afterward. Please be careful not to wake her when you go in.”
They entered the room on tiptoe, Cassidy following Graumann, Barry next, and the patrolman bringing up the rear.
Barry looked at the figure, his eyes widening incredulously. This was no girl of twenty, but a woman twice that old, with graying hair and a lined face. She was asleep, her breast rising and falling rhythmically beneath the sheet.
“Satisfied?” Graumann asked. “I’m satisfied,” the sergeant growled. “Come along, Napoleon. They’ll take care of you where we’re going.”
The desperation of a trapped animal filled Barry. If they took him to the Psychiatric Hospital, the admitting doctors would make notes of his story and probably hold him for observation. In time they would decide a mistake had been made, no doubt, and release him—but hours would have passed and Graumann and his followers would be out of the law’s reach.
He took a deep breath—and a well-remembered fragrance entered his nostrils. He knew he could not be mistaken.
“She’s the one!” he exclaimed. “They’ve powdered her hair and made up her face and doped her, but she’s Mathilda Jones. I know her by her perfume!”
Cassidy grabbed his arm. “It’s perfume now, eh? Come on, before Halloran and I go nutty, too!”
Barry made one more plea, not to Cassidy, but to the sleeping girl.
“Mathilda!” he shouted. “Mathilda Jones!”
“Now you’ve done it,” growled the sergeant. “Now you’ve woke her up. She’s moving and groaning.”
The patient was turning her head from side to side. Her pale lips moved, and all of them heard the slurred words.
“Must be—careful . . . Father murdered. Put formula—in bracelet . . .”
Cassidy’s jaw dropped. He looked at the patrolman. “Did you hear that, Halloran? Murdered, she says. Formula—”
Graumann’s voice rapped out sharply behind them. “Put up your hands!” He called, “Gregor! Sam! Hermie!”
Barry saw the sergeant’s hand move an inch toward the bulge of a gun beneath his tunic, then stop. His face went gray, looking at Graumann’s revolver. Both he and Halloran raised their arms.
Men came into the room—the slant-browed chauffeur, the two tall ones. All of them had pistols.
Sam looked hard at Barry. “Quite a run of luck you’ve had, chum—but this is the end of it.”
Weak with pain and dazed by repeated shocks of misfortune, Barry sagged against the shelves of drugs and medicines. He was ready to admit, to himself and whoever might be concerned, that he had bungled everything from the start.
Graumann bent over the girl, who slept quietly again. He pulled down the sheet, slipped a silver bracelet from her wrist and twisted it in his hands. It came apart. In the hollow center was a thin roll of onionskin paper.
“The formula!” Graumann read with shining eyes what was written on the paper. “The scopolamine made her tell us in spite of herself.”
Cassidy was trembling with rage. “You can’t get away with this. Drop your guns and consider yourselves under arrest.”
The doctor laughed. “You’ll never make another arrest, sergeant. A drop of prussic acid injected intravenously—”
The doorbell pealed again. Hermie left the room at Graumann’s signal, to return a moment later shepherding Judy Grant ahead of him.
“Another of them,” Hermie said. “Not bad, either.”
Judy’s eyes glistened with indignation. There were spots of bright pink in her checks.
“Barry,” she said, “what are these heels up to?”
He would have died willingly to save her from this death trap. It was his own fault, he told himself, for sending her that message.
He said dully, “They kidnaped the girl I was to meet. They’re going to kill us.”
“They are, are they?” She whirled on Sam, who stood nearest. “You’d better think again, you—you moron! You can’t ever get away with it. You haven’t got the sense of a two-year-old, but only a warped brain that is rotting and—”
Sam hit her. He hit her in the face with the flat of his automatic, so that she lurched across the room and fell against Graumann’s knees.
That was how Sam signed his own death warrant.
Bottles from the shelves behind Barry seemed to leap into his hands of their own accord. He was not conscious of moving, of swinging both arms without regard for his broken shoulder. He was conscious only of a red haze in front of his eyes, through which the writhing shapes of men and the pale flashes of guns were no more real than a dream.
He saw a heavy bottle smash against Sam’s head, dropping him to his knees. Another streaked into the face of the slant-browed chauffeur, altering the apelike features. Then Barry stood before Sam, hammering him insanely with lefts and rights.
Half a dozen guns were packing the room with ear-stunning thunder. Cassidy was down, wounded, but still shooting. Halloran triggered a bullet at Graumann and the doctor clapped his hands to his belly and sat on the floor.
Judy screamed, “Look out, Barry!” so shrilly that he caught the words above the pandemonium. He blinked and saw Sam aiming a pistol. He leaped, but the pistol roared before he could reach it.
The slug knocked Barry backward. He did not feel the impact of his fall . . .
He did not feel anything till cool fingers stroked his forehead and he opened his eyes in bed and saw Judy.
Memory flooded back, “That skunk hit you,” he said.
“Darling,” she told him, “that skunk is dead. Cassidy shot him just as he shot you in the shoulder you had already broken. Graumann and his chauffeur are dead, Hermie and the scar-faced man are held for murder, and Mathilda Jones and the formula are safe.”
“What about me?”
She skipped the question in her haste. “Graumann dabbled in chemistry as well as doctoring crooks and furnishing them with dope and poisons and explosives. Torro was an ex-convict from New York who got a job as a handyman for Jones, learned about the motor fuel, and decided to let Graumann exploit it and split the profits.”
“Judy, wait a second.” Torro killed Jones, but couldn’t find the formula. Before he died, Jones told Mathilda to take it to Hollingsby. Torro knew about that and flew here to put the finger on Mathilda.
“Graumann bribed Calvert, Hollingsby’s butler. Calvert gave Hollingsby something to make him sick, so he couldn’t meet the train, and called the crooks to tell them when the girl would arrive. But Gaston overheard the call and got suspicious, and traced the phone number to the house in Eighty-third Street, and—”
“I know the rest.” Barry shuddered. “I misjudged the poor devil. But Judy—is this a nuthouse I’m in?”
“Don’t be silly! You’re in the swellest hospital in town with a corps of nurses. You’re also on the front page of every newspaper in town, which won’t hurt business a bit. And Hollingsby has presented you with a thousand-dollar check, and—”
“Never mind,” Barry sighed contentedly. “Knowing you’re safe and I’m not in the booby hatch is enough good news for one time. Imagine those cops going to send me to the laughing academy. Why, the doctors might have decided I was really off the beam!”
Her spun-copper curls brushed his face. “But in a nice way,” she said.
HOW MANY CARDS FOR THE CORPSE?
Joe Kent
Just a friendly little small-stakes game—with eight aces to the deck, the safety-catch off, and Jake all set to make the biggest killing of his life!
/> Jake Mitchell didn’t go to Manny’s much anymore. It was one of the things he’d promised Jean when they’d gotten married. Still, just once in a while, like today . . . when he was on the West Side anyway and it was two hours before he had to be home for dinner.
Manny’s hadn’t changed much; it would never change, he realized, as he climbed the dirty narrow stairs that led upwards over the Green Grill Bar. The odor of stale smoke and spilled beer was there to stay. He could hear the solid clinking of the pool-balls from the back room. He pushed open the door at the head of the stairs and blinked into the everpresent smoke-haze.
“Hell, I thought the door was locked,” a dry voice said. From a round wooden table a fat bright-eyed man surveyed Jake impassively.
“Hello, Manny,” Jake greeted. There was neither like nor dislike in Jake’s voice. Jake despised the fat, shrewd little gambler and he half-guessed what Manny thought of him. He wondered why he ever came this way. Perhaps, Jake told himself, it was to see the place from which he had come. For he’d been born two doors down the street. He swiped fruit from the corner-stand. He’d sold papers along this way. He’d half-starved here. But he’d gotten away, he reminded himself.
“Want to take a hand?” Manny inquired mechanically. “We’re breaking up in twenty minutes.”
Jake did not answer at once. He looked at the other three men about the table. One was Red Shelly, a thin wiry book-maker from Broadway. Another was Charlie Broski, Manny’s brother; dark faced, he always had money, but you never knew how. The third man was a little, lean-faced, bald-headed man that Jake had never seen before.
Jake shifted his eyes to their money. It was small-stakes. No one had more than a hundred dollars in front of him.
I haven’t looked at a card in a year, Jake was telling himself. And I’ve got two hours until dinner.
“I’ll take a hand,” he decided. He sat down and emptied seventy dollars from his bill-fold onto the table. He lit a cigarette and loosened his collar.
“Stud,” Manny said flatly. He dealt. Jake waited until the third card, then dropped. He got himself a drink from the stand while the hand was finished.
“What’re you doing now?” Charlie asked. His voice had the rumble of a husky drum. He was smoking a curved-stem pipe.
“I’m still at the Star—doing feature stuff for the Sunday supplement,” Jake said.
“You got married, huh?” Red Shelly said softly as he dealt.
“I got married,” Jake agreed. Shelly was another one that Jake could take or leave.
“It’ll take jacks to open,” Red said. Jake picked up his cards and spread them slowly, one corner at a time. He saw one ace; he saw a second. He saw a jack, a ten; and then he saw the third ace. He looked at his money, then loosened a five.
“I’ll open,” he said quietly. “Five dollars.”
“Drop,” said the lean-faced little stranger.
Manny tapped his fingers against the table. “Call . . . and raise. Fifteen dollars,” he said very slowly, very deliberately.
“You can take my ante,” Charlie said.
“I drop,” Red said.
Manny looked at Jake. Jake studied Manny’s round heavy-lined cheeks, his bright small eyes. At last he sifted out fifteen dollars. “I’ll call you, Manny,” he decided. “Two cards,” he said to Red.
“I’ll take two,” Manny said.
Jake breathed a soft sigh. So Manny had three-of-a-kind, too! But Jake’s were aces. He sweated his cards for half a minute, then looked. He saw his three aces. He saw a four. And then he saw the fourth ace.
He felt his fingers tremble slightly. He looked at his money, then at Manny. “I . . . I’ll check to you,” he said at last.
“Twenty dollars,” Manny said very quietly.
Jake drew on his cigarette. He looked at the cards again. He counted his money. He had the twenty; and he had thirty dollars more. He smiled at Manny. “I’ll call, and kick what I’ve got. Thirty dollars.” He pushed it into the pot.
“You raise . . .” Manny murmured. Nothing in his expression changed. His left hand went into his coat-pocket and came out with a limp, fat bill-fold. He took out thirty dollars. And then he took out two hundred dollars. “I’ll kick you that much, Jake.”
There was a moment of silence. Jake swallowed. “I don’t have it, Manny. I’m all in.”
“You like your hand, don’t you?” Manny asked gently. “And you can write a check, can’t you? And you wouldn’t give me a bad check, would you?” The tone was mincing, measured, yet steely.
“You know damn well my check would be good!” Jake snapped. He stared at his cards; there were still the four aces. He thought again; Manny drew two . . . he must have had three-of-a-kind . . . I can beat any four-of-a-kind he’s got . . . he wouldn’t have kicked if he’d been drawing two cards to a straight-flush . . .
“Or maybe you don’t like your cards?” Manny murmured softly.
“I like ’em fine,” Jake said flatly. “I’ll call that two hundred. And I’ll raise three hundred. I owe five hundred in the pot.”
The brittle silence grew. No one moved; nothing moved but the smoke from Jake’s cigarette. And then Manny lifted his bill-fold. “I’ll try you, Jake. There’s your three hundred. And here’s just a little more. Eight hundred dollars more.”
“Hell, Manny, I can’t afford—” Jake stopped. He was staring at the round face; a bead of perspiration flecked Manny’s lip. His eyes had narrowed into tiny marbles.
He’s bluffing, Jake’s mind raced. He couldn’t have me beat . . . I know . . . He looked at the money. It was like a touch of raw hot wine in his veins. And it was his! His!
“I’ll call, Manny,” he said. His voice was thick. “I owe one thousand, three hundred dollars. What’ve you got?”
“Not much, Jakie . . . just these,” Manny murmured. He laid them down. One ace . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . four aces . . .
“I . . . but you can’t . . . I . . . what the hell is—”
“What have you got, Jakie?” Manny whispered.
Jake’s cards slid to the table from his “ fingers. He saw his own four aces. He saw Manny’s face: it turned from olive to dull red. The tiny eyes seemed to explode with tiny lights. Someone at the table gasped softly. A foot scraped. The silence was like an electric shock for an endless moment.
“Where did you get ’em, Jake?” Manny asked very, very softly.
“Get them? I . . . damn it, Red dealt them to me! Where do you think I got them?” he demanded furiously.
“That’s what I’m wondering,” Manny murmured. “Take a look at the backs . . . they’re the same pattern of the old deck . . . but the borders are clean, see . . . fresh cards, Jake.”
“I . . .” Jake looked. His aces were new. Not like the other cards of the deck. He stared at Manny, then glared at Red. “Where did you get those damned things! You dealt them to—”
“I wouldn’t start too fast, guy,” Red whispered. And his hand went slipping beneath the table. His face froze. Jake did not move.
A sudden wave of hard nausea grated in his stomach. He wanted to close his eyes . . . to open them . . . to see that it was a dream . . .
“Maybe we better stand up, Jake,” Manny said. His tone was flat and bleak now.
“What do you mean? What—” Then Jake knew what he meant. A wave of fury boiled into his throat. “Sure—sure!” he exploded. “I’ll stand up! I’ll empty my pockets! You can see that I—”
His words vanished. His fingers halted—too late. Already he had the contents of his coat pocket half-out . . . and there . . . there upon the table fell the deck of cards. A new deck, identical in pattern to the deck on the table!
“And the little aces? . . .” Manny whispered. His pudgy fingers pushed the deck apart. All the cards were there—all but the aces . . .
“That wasn’t smart,” Manny murmured.
Jake swallowed violently twice. “I . . . but I didn’t! Those . . . they . . . I didn’t have
’em! Somebody slipped them in my . . .” He choked again. He stared from face to face. Red was like an image of stone, his hand waiting. The little stranger was grey-faced and frozen, yet a deep, hot light of anger was blazing in his eyes. Jake knew he was dangerous. And Charlie Broski simply watched him—watched him with a flat and contemptuous stare.
Manny left one hand near his pocket. He leaned across the table until his breath was warm in Jake’s face. “I said . . . it wasn’t smart, Jake,” he echoed mechanically.
“But . . . but, damn you, I swear . . . swear I never—”
“You owe me thirteen hundred dollars, Jake. I want it. I want it in three hours. And after I get it, I don’t want to see your dirty little face around here again. And you’re getting a break when I don’t kill you!”
“You can’t talk to—” Jake didn’t finish. Even in his blind anger, he knew he was walking very close to death. He swallowed and felt a wet cold sweat pour from him. “But . . . I . . . thirteen hundred dollars . . . three hours . . . I—” he stammered.
“Yeah. It’s five to five. You be in this room at eight tonight, Jake. You’ll have it with you, or . . .” One more brittle moment of silence passed. “Now, get out and get the money!”
Jake tried to protest, but no word crossed his dry lips. He trembled, then twisted, stumbled toward the door, jerked it open, and plunged down the stairs—down and out into the clean free air of fading day. He was almost running . . .
The shadows were lengthening from the buildings. A faintly purple haze was replacing the sunlight. The walks were crowded with people—people going home—laughing, eager people.
On a corner, blocks from Manny’s, Jake stopped, panting. He moved his hand across his eyes and stared dazedly about him.
“God, it . . . it didn’t happen . . . it wasn’t thirty minutes ago that I . . . I was just walking . . . not thinking . . . caring . . . just wasting a couple of hours . . . and now . . . I . . . got to have a drink,” he gasped. He pushed into a dim-lit little bar and ordered a whiskey. He lit a cigarette. His fingers trembled violently. He drank swiftly.
He closed his eyes, trying to seek escape in blindness. Yet the torturing scene was burning in his mind: His cards . . . and Manny’s cards . . . their faces—Charlie’s . . . Red Shelly’s . . . and the lean-faced little stranger . . . Manny . . .
