by Lionel White
“How far is the place from the tavern?” Gino asked idly.
“It’s the big hardware depot. You saw it if you were looking when you drove out here. I’d say a little more than two miles the other side of town.”
“Is there a watchman?” Gino asked.
“No, nobody at all. That’s the nice part of it. This thing will start a fire that will pull every character for miles around. Nobody has to be killed, but it will do the job fine.”
Five minutes later Fats and Dent cautiously opened the front door and looked out.
Gino had his pocket watch on the table in front of him. “Twelve-twenty, at the latest,” he said. “Don’t be no later.”
Dent mumbled something and closed the door behind them. He followed Fats to the barn.
“Red sure did a job on this baby,” Fats said as the two of them climbed into the stripped-down limousine. Dent took the wheel.
They drove in to Land’s End by the road that intersected the Montauk Highway just west of the town. When they reached the crossroads, instead of turning toward the village itself they headed west for about a quarter of a mile. Just before Dent was able to make out the outlines of the sprawling warehouse that housed the hardware storage company, he cut his lights. He was careful to see that cars were coming from neither direction.
“Keep your flash ready,” he said to Fats as they pulled over to the right. Dent brought the car to a stop and then carefully turned it around. Fats pushed the flash button for a moment and swept the light in a circle around the car. Dent carefully backed under the boughs of a large maple tree several yards off the side of the road. He sat at the wheel as Morn stepped to the ground.
Morn said nothing as Dent cut the engine. In a moment his shadow was lost in the mist.
He was gone almost five minutes. Dent heard the whistle just before the fat man’s return and he at once started the engine. The car was moving slowly as his companion climbed in beside him.
Dent skipped second gear altogether and shoved it into high. He was hitting a good fifty miles an hour by the time he was a hundred yards along the highway, headed toward Land’s End.
It came just as they reached the intersecting road, leading off through the dunes to the hideaway. Dent saw the reflection of the light in the sky a split second before he heard the tremendous roar of the explosion. The car itself seemed to move sidewise with the repercussion.
Fats chuckled.
“God,” Dent said. “I didn’t know it would be like that.”
Fats laughed. “You want a distraction,” he said.
“I got it,” Dent said.
Dent kept well to his own side of the road and slowed down slightly as the twin beams of an approaching car came over a hill and rushed toward them. The sound of the siren reached him a moment later and he dimmed his own headlights as the red spotlight bore down on them, and then the car passed in a rush of wind.
“Well, he saw it, all right,” Fats said.
“The whole damn town saw it,” Dent said.
Within minutes five or six more cars had sped past from the opposite direction. And then, as they entered the main street of the village, it seemed as though every car in eastern Long Island were converging on the road they had just left.
Ed, the bartender at Land’s End Tavern, was standing in the rectangle of light in his opened front door, looking toward the western end of town, as Dent pulled up to the curb across the street. Fats got out first, carrying the suitcase that held the submachine guns. Dent followed him and they crossed the street and entered the tavern. Ed moved over to let them in.
Chapter Seventeen
The beer drinkers had folded up around ten o’clock and only a half-dozen patrons were left in the place by the time Pearl and Red arrived. They had left the other bar at ten-twenty-five and arrived at Land’s End Tavern just after eleven.
Ed looked up as they came through the swinging door, and seeing only Pearl at first, frowned. A second later, as Red followed her in, he looked relieved. He nodded a curt greeting. Red and Pearl went to the last booth along the wall. The rest of the patrons were at the bar.
Ed took his time, finishing a couple of drinks he was mixing and then methodically wiped the bar and cleaned up after himself. Almost five minutes had passed before he sidled around the end of the mahogany and came over to the booth.
‘“Evenin’, Mrs. Mason,” he said.
Pearl nodded.
“We get a couple sandwiches and some beer?” Red asked.
“Nothing much to eat,” Ed said. “We don’t serve dinner here, and anyway, it’s too late.”
“Just a couple of sandwiches,” Pearl said.
“Well,” Ed said, “I guess I can make you up a couple of ham and cheeses.” He didn’t look as though he liked the idea.
“Fine,” Red said. “That’ll be fine. An’ can we have a couple of beers while we’re waiting?”
“I guess you can,” Ed said. He turned back to the bar.
Twice Ed stopped while making the sandwiches in order to pour drinks for the men at the bar. They still talked in low, desultory tones. Ed didn’t bother with their beers, but made up the sandwiches first. Then, when he had them both on a single paper plate, he drew two glasses of beer. He picked up the food and the glasses and walked back to the table.
“Ninety cents,” he said, putting them down.
Red looked up, his face mean and surly. He started to say something, but Pearl cut in.
“We’ll be wanting a couple of more beers when we get through,” she said.
Ed nodded and turned back to the bar.
The hands of the old-fashioned wall clock over the cash register pointed to eighteen minutes after eleven. Red waited a few minutes and then went over to the jukebox. He put in a dime. When he came back, he squeezed in next to Pearl so that both of them sat facing the door.
“Nasty character,” he said nodding toward the bar. “Thought you told me you were friendly with him.”
“Listen,” Pearl said. “Anybody in this town as much as says hello, it’s like they was meeting a long-lost brother.”
“He won’t feel so nasty in a few minutes,” Red said. “I can tell you, when it happens, he’ll be the first one I get.”
“Don’t go off half-cocked, for God’s sake,” Pearl said. “Remember, Cal and Fats will be carrying the ball. We’re only supposed to be here just in case. Don’t start anything.”
“I ain’t gonna start nothin’,” Red said. “Only I don’t see why he can’t be a little more polite. Hell, we’re customers, ain’t we?”
“He acts like that with everybody,” Pearl said.
At eleven-thirty Ed took out a dice box and shook with two of the remaining men. He won and they paid their tabs and left. Red called for two more beers. He still hadn’t touched his first glass.
Ed brought the drinks to the table and picked up Pearl’s empty.
“We close at twelve on Saturday nights,” he said.
“It’s eleven-thirty,” Red said.
Ed’s face showed no expression. He went back behind the counter.
Ten minutes later Pearl began to feel a tremendous sense of excitement. She found it impossible to keep her eyes from the clock.
“Think he’ll be here on time?” she whispered to Red.
“How the hell do I know?” Red said. “You talked to him last.”
“He’s got five minutes,” Pearl said.
Gregory Wilton entered Land’s End Tavern as the two men who had been talking with Ed finished their drinks and asked for their checks. Ed got out the dice box again.
Wilton was a tall, slender man in his mid-thirties. His face was gray with fatigue but he was immaculately dressed. He wore a pair of heavily framed tinted glasses. He pushed the door open with his shoulder. He carried a suitcase in each hand.
For a second, as he entered the room, his eyes swept the place. And then he walked all the way in and went to the booth next to that in which Red and Pearl sat.
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There was no mistaking him. Red and Pearl dropped their eyes the second he entered the room.
The two men at the bar had looked up for a second and then gone back to the dice game. Ed didn’t even look up.
It took around six minutes for them to finish the dice game. Again Ed won and the men paid up. They said good night to Ed as they left. Ed looked over at the stranger in the booth next to Pearl and Red.
“We’re closing at twelve,” he said.
Wilton looked up at him blankly for a moment.
“Scotch—Scotch and soda,” he said. “Make it a double. Dewar’s.”
“Got no Dewar’s,” Ed said.
“Anything will do.”
Red waved a finger.
“An’ a couple more beers here,” he called.
Ed didn’t bother to nod.
It was just as Ed reached for the Scotch bottle that the sound of the explosion crashed in on the room.
Pearl jumped as though she had been shot. She had been expecting it, but in the excitement of Wilton’s entrance she had forgotten. Her eyes had been following Ed.
Red half rose to his feet. Wilton merely looked startled, his eyes going to the bartender.
Ed’s hand froze on the Scotch bottle. For a full half minute there wasn’t a sound or a movement in the room. Ed was the first to come to.
“Good Lord,” he said. “Now, what could that have been?”
Carefully he replaced the bottle. He untied his apron, as though unconscious of what he was doing. A tall thin wine bottle had crashed to the floor without breaking, and Ed carefully picked it up and replaced it on the shelf. And then he walked to the door, opened it, and peered out.
Dent and Fats passed him as they entered the place.
Normally, two different parties entering with suitcases some fifteen minutes before closing time would have had Ed wondering. But that explosion had thrown everything else out of his mind. He stood in the doorway, looking at the flaming sky to the west of town.
Neither Fats nor Cal Dent paid the slightest attention to Red and Pearl. They passed Ed quickly and walked the length of the room. A moment later they entered the men’s room. It took less than a half minute to take the pair of submachine guns from the suitcase.
Wilton looked paler than ever and there was a nervous tick at the corner of his mouth. He still sat quietly; the suitcases were between his feet.
A man passed on the street and those inside the bar heard him call out.
“Explosion out at the hardware company,” he said. Better get out, Ed. Fire truck’s already on its way.”
Ed turned back to the bar.
“Gotta close up,” he said. “Fire out at the other end of town.”
“How about the drinks first?” Red said.
“No time,” Ed said. “I’m a fireman in this here town and I gotta get out. Closing up now.”
Wilton started to get to his feet.
“I want my drinks and a check first,” Red said, also standing up.
Ed looked at him coldly for a second then a peculiar expression crossed his face.
“Say,” he said, “what happened to those two fellas that came in here? I sure as the Lord saw two fellas—”
Wilton reached down and gripped the pair of suitcases firmly by the handles. He started toward the door.
Fats was first out of the men’s room, but it was Dent’s voice they all heard.
“All right,” Dent yelled, “don’t move. Don’t anybody make a move. This is a stickup!”
Wilton swung around enough to face the two men standing side by side, each with a submachine gun under his arm. The broker’s face went completely chalky and his bags dropped to the floor.
Ed’s mouth fell open and he leaned heavily against the bar. He slowly raised his hands. Red stood beside the table and Pearl sat still as death.
“No one is going to get hurt,” Dent said, “if you just take it easy.” He circled slowly to the front as he talked, and Fats stayed where he was.
Red moved forward and started to say something, and Fats moved in quickly and caught him across the side of the face with the barrel of the Tommy gun. The front sight tore through the skin and left a nasty cut. Fats winked as he did it.
The damn fool, Red thought, he doesn’t have to make it that good.
“You,” Dent pointed with his gun at Wilton, “you’re coming with us. Pick up those bags.”
Pearl stood up and started to say something, but Fats moved quickly toward her and she sat down again. Red had his hand at the side of his face, wiping off the blood.
“O.K.,” Dent said. “Let’s start walking.”
Wilton had picked up the bags and was following Dent slowly as he backed to the door. Fats was moving across the room.
It was just as Dent started to turn to reach for the door that it happened.
Jack Fanwell had his police .38 in his hand as he entered the place. The first person he saw was Cal Dent. It is doubtful if he saw Fats at all.
In spite of his police training, Fanwell made his big mistake then. Instead of shooting, he reversed the gun in his hand to bring the barrel down on Dent’s head.
Fats’ finger pressed the trigger, but he purposely raised his gun so as not to get Dent. The first quick series of bullets crashed across the ceiling, taking out the lights. Even as Red pulled his shoulder gun, he caught sight of the revolver in Ed’s hand. He shot at Ed in the dark.
And then all hell burst loose.
The clock was striking midnight as a stream of lead tore into its face and silenced it forever.
Chapter Eighteen
The lull lasted for a full minute. The air in the room was acrid with the smell of spent gunpowder, and each person froze where he stood, in an attempt to orient himself.
Pearl’s scream suddenly shattered the stillness. Shrill, her voice pitched high in hysteria, she cried out three times in rapid succession and then there was the soapy sound of a fist against raw flesh.
Dent began to edge toward the center of the room, where he had last seen Wilton and the two suitcases. Even as he moved he became aware of the roar of a speeding car and the sudden scream of hot rubber as the driver slammed on his brakes.
The reflection of twin headlights cut through the glass of the double doors and momentarily lighted the interior of the tavern. Fanwell, in a kneeling position, was raising his gun as Red’s automatic spoke. Fanwell’s gun dropped and his cry was a half-choked sob as he fell forward on his face.
The headlights no longer were aimed directly at the door, but cut across it obliquely. The driver had rammed his front wheels against the curb. The room was now bathed in a dim light and Dent saw the outlines of the two suitcases standing alone and unguarded in the center of the floor One had tipped over on its side.
“Cover me,” he yelled at Fats, at the same time going forward and taking a bag in each hand. He had to drop his machine gun.
As he turned and started for the door, Fats reached his side. Dent was vaguely conscious of Red behind him, half carrying Pearl.
The moment the headlights from the car had struck the room, Ed had ducked behind the bar. He came up a second later, just as Dent reached the bags. The gun in his hand spoke and Dent felt a cold breath of air whistle past his ear.
Fats was firing the submachine gun as he swung around. One slug creased Ed’s forehead and the shock of it hurled him backward. The next half-dozen bullets plowed into the jukebox.
There was a quick flash of colored lights as the machine shorted somewhere in its inner mechanism. A moment later there was a whirring sound and then a contralto began to sing in a husky, heartbreaking voice.
Pearl struggled in Red’s arms and quickly pulled free. She was half laughing and half crying as she reached the door, directly behind Fats and Dent.
Fanwell had fallen almost across the threshold and Dent put one bag down as he dragged the policeman away from the door. He heard Fats release a burst from his gun as he straightened up. The two
men in state troopers’ uniforms who had been about to enter the tavern stumbled and fell.
Dent yelled at the others to hurry as he crashed through the door.
“The Packard,” he cried to Fats as he started across the street. Fats had darted toward the Lincoln.
Dent heard the crash of shots once more as he reached the car. They came from the inside of the tavern.
He threw the two suitcases in the back and then climbed behind the steering wheel. He had his foot on the starter as Fats jerked open the door opposite him and swung inside.
“Where’s Red? Red and Pearl?” Dent yelled as he began to pull away from the curb to make a U turn in the center of the street. He had to back once to avoid the state troopers’ car, which had pulled up at an angle in front of the place.
“The hell with them,” Fats screamed into his ear. “They must have been hit. Let’s go.”
Completing his turn, Dent pulled the switch for his headlights and the front of Land’s End Tavern was suddenly bright in the twin beams. He saw the form of a man lying a few feet from the door.
“The bartender had a gun,” Fats said. “He might have got Red.”
Dent jerked the car to a halt parallel to the curb in front of the place. He had taken the gun from his shoulder holster.
“Cover me,” he yelled. “I’m going back in for them.”
As he spoke, Pearl staggered through the door. Blinded by the headlights of the police car, she hesitated for a brief moment. Dent grabbed her by the arm and rushed her into the back of the Packard.
And then Red backed out of the place. The trigger of his gun clicked as the firing pin fell on a spent shell. Red threw the gun with all his strength through the door and at the back of the bar. A moment later he reached the car and jerked open the door. He started to climb into the back. Dent was once more behind the wheel.
There was the quick flash of gunfire from a dark alley beside the tavern and Dent felt the bullet thud against the side of the machine. And then a shotgun shattered the night from a second-story window across the street.
Dent could still hear the contralto breaking her heart in the jukebox as the heavy car screamed into gear.
