Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

Pendergast saw Stanton’s dismay as he waited for his change. “What’s the matter, friend? Lose something?”

  “I’m afraid I—”

  “My wallet must be in my bag. In my other suit. I’ll get it. . . .”

  But the big man had grabbed his arm. “Hell, it’s on me. Forget it.”

  Stanton tried to pull free, but Pendergast held on. “Forget it, pal, forget it. You can pay me on the train if you wanna be stubborn about it.”

  His hand was still on Stanton’s arm as they stepped into the entrance, and Stanton again fought down an urge to shake him off and flee into the night. It felt like a ghost hand—the hand of Joe that had clutched this same arm earlier that night.

  The porter was waiting to see their tickets, and again Stanton hesitated with fear pounding in his head. His ticket was for New Orleans, a compartment reservation, and the big man was sure to notice.

  But the problem was solved even while he thought about it. Pendergast had dismissed the porter with a tip and instructions to put them both on the same claim check. “We’re traveling together,” he explained casually, putting the baggage check in his own pocket.

  Then he took Stanton’s arm again with a friendly gesture and led him into the terminal. He looked up at the big clock, and then at Stanton coyly. “What d’you know—we got more’n half an hour to kill yet. Time for a couple of drinks, eh?”

  “I—I’ve got an errand,” said Stanton.

  “Plenty of time, plenty of time,” boomed the big man and started off toward the barroom on the far side of the terminal. Stanton felt drawn along as if pulled by an invisible current.

  He had to get rid of this impossible stranger! Already he was five minutes past his schedule. But he couldn’t start running, with people watching. Besides that, his bag had already disappeared somewhere in the bowels of the busy terminal, and he had to have that bag.

  So, for the second time that night he found himself perched on a bar stool. Automatically he ordered whiskey, his mind going back to that other bar. . . .

  Pendergast was holding up his glass. “A short life and a merry one, I always say.”

  Stanton stiffened, gulped. The salesman looked at him curiously. “Say, pal, you look • like you needed that drink. Bottoms up, and have another.”

  Stanton raised his glass blindly. His bag. . . . No. he’d go through with his original plan, and then he wouldn’t need his bag. He’d take another train, a bus . . . go somewhere else. Anywhere to be rid of this persistent fool.

  He got up suddenly and murmured. “Be right back.”

  The fat man waved his hand. “Sure thing.”

  Stanton walked quickly down the bar and out the door on the far end. He fought to keep from running, from looking back.

  Across the floor of the terminal, out the side door on the uptown side. Once out on the street, he hurried still faster, looking neither left nor right as he plowed through the downpour to his goal.

  The Merchant’s Building was only a five-minute walk from the station. That had been another part of his schedule. He had tried it out on his lunch hour last week, and it had taken him exactly four minutes and forty-five seconds. He felt a surge of confidence again. This was more like it. This was the way he had planned. . . .

  He had been lucky about the night watchman. The old one had known him well, but he had quit last week and the new one was still timid on the job, not knowing the big shots from the unimportant tenants yet. So Stanton could bluff it out.

  He’d simply walk into the lobby as if he owned it, sign the night register with a flourish, get on the elevator. But as he pushed through the door he felt a sudden let-down again, a sense of something wrong.

  For the lobby was empty. A light shone on the night register, but the guard was not on duty behind his desk. However, the elevator was standing open, and he hurried into it. He pushed the button for the third floor, but nothing happened. He tried it again, then looked down. A small red light was glowing at the bottom of the panel, showing the car to be out of order—but to Stanton it looked as big and dangerous as the night light over a police station.

  He scurried quickly across the deserted lobby, up the staircase to the rear. His steps echoed emptily on the polished marble steps, and at the second floor he paused cautiously before going on around the landing and up the next flight.

  The corridor on the third floor was dim and deserted, too. As he went softly down it, Stanton reached in his pocket and found the key he had had made. That had been ridiculously simple, too. He had taken it one day from the desk drawer where the boss’ secretary kept it, had a duplicate made, and then returned it before Miss Billings had even got back from lunch.

  He had reached the broad doorway that said “Latham Jewelry—Wholesale”. The “wholesale” part was a snare; and however much he hated Latham he had to admit the man was smart. For the customers flocked up here, lured by a carefully advertised reputation that at Latham’s “you can get it wholesale.”

  And Leo Latham had made a fortune, while his clerks worked for a pittance. The man fitting the key in the door now was thinking about the last time he had applied for a raise, pushed into it by the nagging of his wife.

  Latham had been pleasant and smooth about it, but John Quigley had walked out with only an empty promise to “think it over.” That had been nearly two months ago; and today—only today—had Latham called him back into his office to sneer at him from behind the big desk as he told him no. A hard man was Latham, hard and smooth as glass, and proud of his ability to handle men. Only this time, Stanton told himself, silently pushing the door open, this time the laugh was on Latham.

  He eased the door shut behind him and started past the showcases. Only a little light from the dimly lit hallway reached through the glass panels, but Stanton knew every inch of the way.

  Then, at the inner doorway, he stopped dead, his heart in his throat. There was a light glowing through the frosted partition of Latham’s inner office, and behind it the figure of a man was bent over the desk. Stanton recognized the massive outline of that hated head: The boss was working late tonight!

  QUIGLEY’S fear changed to the blind V rage of frustration. He’d be damned if he’d let Latham scare him out this time! He’d carry it out right under Latham’s nose. He had counted on the weekend to give him two days before it was discovered, but what difference could all that possibly make now?

  The police would still be baffled. Sure, John Quigley had known the safe combination. But John Quigley was a trusted employee, a mouse who wouldn’t steal a dollar . . . and John Quigley was dead.

  Stanton moved stealthily toward the big vault door in the wall. There was over twelve thousand dollars in there; the big gross of the pre-holiday season. He had counted on that, and it was all his for the twist of a dial. Money, power, the means of living as he had always dreamed. Maybe it would only be for« few months, as the doctor had said, but it would be worth it. . . .

  The man in the grey homburg and the expensive topcoat reached for the dial with his gloved hand. Latham’s presence was even helping him, for the light from his office was sufficient to see the dial. He turned it once, started back . . .

  A sudden clamor from the outer room straightened him up. Somebody was pounding impatiently on the hallway door, pounding and shouting!

  Stanton ducked behind his own desk as Leo Latham burst out the door of his private office and hurried on through to investigate the disturbance.

  Hugging the shadow of the desk, cramped and shaken, Stanton recognized the accent of the night watchman, and the answering rumble of Latham’s deep voice. He couldn’t make out the words, but it was obvious something was going on. There was a note of excitement, of urgency . . . and he was trapped here.

  Even while he hesitated, he heard Latham’s footsteps returning. He cringed as they approached closer and closer, and then Latham went on by, almost brushing him with his leg. He was working the dial of the safe, turning it quickly, excitedly.

  To Stan
ton it meant one thing. They had trailed him here; they had learned somehow of his plans. The watchman had seen him enter after all . . . someone had seen him at the bridge . . . the alarm was already out for John Quigley. . . . His hand slipped in his pocket, and as he rose the gun was ready.

  Leo Latham whirled in shocked alarm. He half raised his hands, glancing uncertainly at the vault door as his attacker gestured with the gun.

  “The money,” said Stanton in a voice he tried to make gruff. “I want that money.”

  Amazement dawned in the jeweler’s stocky face, and he dropped his arms with an incredulous laugh. “Quigley . . . John Quigley!”

  His amusement grew as he studied the man standing before him. with a gun that had fallen helplessly to his side.

  “John Quigley!” he Treated to himself. “Old Faithful. I didn’t recognize you in that get-up.”

  Stanton found his voice, raised his gun again. “I’m serious, Latham. You’ve stalled me off for the last time, so make up your mind what it’ll be.”

  It didn’t sound convincing, even to his own ears. And Latham’s reaction, a scornful laugh, flicked his pride like a whiplash, exposing his cowardice. Hysterically he hurled himself forward.

  The jeweler fell back before the unexpected onslaught, stumbled over a chair, and Stanton was on him before he could regain his balance. The gun rose and smashed down, again and again, until the frantic rage was gone, leaving him weak and shaking, his heart pumping.

  Latham was a silent hulk on the floor, and Stanton was going down . . . down . . . down into the fate that was relentless and smothering, like the river. Then the thought of the schedule he had planned came like a straw of hope. He could still get the money from the safe . . . and then he would be free.

  Automatically he put the gun back in his pocket, reached for the dial again. The wail of a siren in the distance reached his ears. He looked around wildly, his only thought now to flee. . . . Already another siren was picking up the shriek of the first, drawing steadily closer like the pursuing hand of destiny.

  He stumbled into the corridor, seeking an exit. The steps he had come up yawned invitingly, but instinct told him that in that direction lay danger. The watchman would be waiting for him there . . . and the police would be coming in the front door any minute now.

  At the far end of the hall, a red bulb glowed dimly. The fire escape . . . those back stairs that led out into the rear alley! It was pitch-dark in the stairway, filled with shadows and terror. His heels echoed as he ran down them pell-mell. Then a door loomed up ahead, and he was out in the damp cool air again.

  But there were still the shadows and the unrelenting sound of sirens in the night Mark Stanton ran on down the alley to the next block, forced himself to a walk as a pedestrian looked at him curiously.

  He hurried on blindly. It seemed to him he had been walking for hours, but still the shriek of those sirens sounded in his ears. Finally the painful throbbing of his heart forced him to pause and take thought while he regained his breath.

  A figure drifted out from the shadows of a dark store entrance, approached him, touched his arm.

  Stanton whirled. The stranger drew back in alarm, mumbled something, but Stanton was already running away from him. At the next corner he halted again. He realized now that it had been only a panhandler asking for a dime. He would have to get hold of his nerves . . . think. . . .

  CHAPTER THREE

  End of the Road

  HE KNEW now he had failed. He hadn’t got the money from the safe. The money that was going to make a new man of him, the twelve thousand dollars that would make his life worth living for the few months he had left. . . .

  And now life seemed suddenly most important to Stanton: just the bare fact of life. He could still escape. His train ticket was in his pocket. . . .

  He looked at his watch. Much as he dreaded it, a taxi was the only way he could make it now. Luck was with him for once. He found one sitting at the next corner, the driver asleep. He rapped on the window, climbed in back.

  “The station, in a hurry,” he said. “I’ve got thirteen minutes to catch a train.”

  The driver looked at his watch and shrugged. “The Special, eh? Hell, we got lots of time.”

  The car started out, and Stanton sat back, far back in the seat away from the lights that flashed by. Then he stiffened. The driver had turned down Grand. This way would take him back just as he had come . . . past the Grand Street side of the Merchant’s Building!

  He held his voice level. “Say, driver, isn’t it quicker to take the boulevard all the way out to Carson?”

  The cabby wrestled his wheel to get out of the wet car tracks, then snapped over his shoulder: “You wanna make the Special, don’t you? Relax, mister, I’ll get you there.”

  Stanton said apologetically, “It’s worth five dollars to me to catch that train.”

  The cabby grunted and pushed his throttle another five dollars’ worth.

  But another thought had come to torment his passenger. He didn’t have a cent. He had dismissed his missing wallet when he set out for the money in the safe, but all he owned was still in his bag, and the bag was undoubtedly on the train by now. Frantically, he cast about for some solution, and thought of his watch. He’d shove it in the driver’s hand when he got out. It was a Latham watch, it could be traced by the number to John Quigley . . . but he’d have to risk that.

  The taxi slowed with a sudden skid. Up ahead, through the streaked windshield, was the Merchant’s Building, and there seemed to be a traffic jam at the corner. A policeman in a white rain outfit was holding back the line of cars; another one was walking back toward them!

  Stanton didn’t hesitate this time. He opened the door on the outside lane, ducked across the street before the driver knew he was gone. There was an outraged yell behind him, but he kept his feet moving.

  He could still make it. He had to make it. Five minutes it was from the office to the station. He ran down an alley, cut across Grand, down another block, through an alley. Faster and faster he ran, oblivious to the people who stared at him.

  A Red Cap looked up in surprise as he reached the entrance, but he kept going. Inside the station he was safe. People only smiled sympathetically as they saw a well-dressed gentleman running desperately for his train.

  A sign over a gate showed him the proper track, but the guard was already closing it. He stopped when he saw Stanton, but held out his hand to halt him. Stanton pushed him aside and went on through.

  The train was just beginning to move. Up ahead the conductor was swinging aboard; on the last car nearest him a porter was just closing the platform over the steps. Stanton yelled and the man raised it again, giving him a hand as he jumped aboard.

  For a minute he was too breathless to move. His overtaxed heart was pounding pain through his chest. But he had made it, he had made it!

  The porter was shaking his head. “Mistuh, you sho’ made it by the skin of yo’ teeth!”

  Still gasping for wind, Stanton managed to smile, and showed the man his ticket. The next step was to get in his compartment, lock the door Then he would be safe.

  The porter showed gold teeth and pointed ahead. “Yes suh. two cars for’ard!”

  Stanton moved down the aisle, feeling the train gather speed under his feet. He was glad he didn’t have to meet the eyes of the passengers in the seats; he kept his eyes straight forward.

  But at the rear entrance to the next car, he stopped suddenly. From the other end of the coach, a stout man was coming down the aisle, struggling along with two suitcases, and scanning the face of each passenger as he passed. It was his friend from the taxi cab—the salesman, Pendergast. Stanton had forgotten all about him. An unreasoning compulsion to hide possessed him.

  He wheeled and went back onto the platform. But there was no retreat here. In desperation he moved back into the last car . . . and the porter who had helped him aboard was blocking that aisle. A door with the sign “Men” was at his side, and he
ducked into it.

  FOR SECONDS he held his breath, mentally counting each step as the stout man worked his way flown the aisle, across the platform between the two cars, into this one. He opened the door a crack. Pendergast was halfway down the car, his back to him, talking to the porter.

  Stanton slipped out, sick anticipation gnawing in his stomach. But they didn’t see him, and he hurried through the next two cars. At the other end was Compartment C; and as he locked the door behind him he felt he had used up his last ounce of strength.

  He slumped down, dosed his eyes—and then realized what a fool he had been. The man had only wanted to return his suitcase. And he needed that suitcase, because it contained every cent he had now.

  He would have to get up, find the salesman, explain that a last-minute long distance call had made him nearly miss the train. And thank him . . . yes, he’d thank him politely for looking after his suitcase, and bid him good-night, and that would be the last of that.

  But still he hesitated, dreading to open the door and face the world again. . . .

  A sudden knock on the door sat him bolt upright. Another knock, and then the doorknob turned as the man outside tried it. “Hello . . . hello in there!”

  Stanton recognized that booming voice and knew the decision had been made for him. He rose to his feet, opened the door.

  It was his fat friend, all right. Still beaming but a bit redder of face. He pushed in past Quigley, set the two bags on the floor, and straightened up with a grunt of relief.

  “Bro-ther! Am I glad to see you. What happened?”

  “I—I was making a phone call. A long distance phone call. Very important . . . last minute.”

  “I’ll say you nearly missed it! That colored boy back there’s still shaking his head. He told me where you were.”

  “I—I was going to look you up,” said Stanton uneasily. “Just catching my breath first. Thanks for taking care of my bag for me.”

  He was still standing by the open door, hopefully, but the big man plumped himself down on the seat as if he intended to stay there.