6
Michael Townsend walked up to the throng around the small safe. He looked at it curiously, then he looked at Emmett O’Kane.
“You must be Emmett O’Kane.”
“What makes you say so?”
“You fit the description Ross gave me,”
“Are you Michael Townsend?”
“Yes.”
The phone rang. Townsend and O’Kane looked at it. It rang again. O’Kane sighed and picked it up. “Yes?”
“OK, O’Kane. Keep the conversation to a minimum.”
“All right. It’s your move, Ross. What do you want to do next?”
“I want to get that damned pamphlet in your dumb-assed little safe. Tell Townsend to stop lallygagging around and give it to you.”
“Mr. Townsend,” said O’Kane, “may I see the merchandise?”
Townsend nodded. He unbuttoned his topcoat, unbuttoned his suit jacket, unbuttoned several buttons of his shirt. He reached in and slipped the envelope free. He held it out to O’Kane.
O’Kane kept his eyes fixed on Townsend’s. “Is this the real McCoy?”
Townsend frowned at him, then took the envelope back. He opened the flap and slipped out the pamphlet. He examined it with practiced familiarity. Then he handed it to O’Kane. “There’s no doubt about it. That’s the pamphlet you want.”
“It’s not a ringer or a copy.”
“There are no ringers or copies.”
“All right, all right,” called Ross. “Cut the talk. I don’t want any more conversation between you two. Just look it over and put it in the safe.”
O’Kane took the pamphlet and studied it. He looked searchingly into Townsend’s eyes. “You’re sure?”
Townsend smiled at him. “It’s the real thing.”
O’Kane smiled back. “OK.” He turned his head to the phone. “OK, Ross. I’m buying the farm. If this turns out to be a fake, there’s no place on earth that can hide you.”
“Come on, come on, O’Kane,” said Ross. “Give him the case.”
Emmett O’Kane handed the pamphlet to the armored-truck driver and watched him place it in the empty safe. The driver shut the door, turned the lever, and spun the combination dial. He nodded up at O’Kane.
O’Kane next took up the attaché case. “Hold your wrist out,” he said to Townsend. The whole party watched as O’Kane snapped the handcuff around Townsend’s wrist.
“OK,” said Ross. “Tell him to walk back here with the money. And when he gets here, Service can leave. Got me?”
O’Kane looked thoughtfully at the telephone in his hand, then at Townsend. “Townsend, you know how much is in that bag?”
“Enough of that, O’Kane, tell him to walk back here. You hear me? O’Kane, you hear me?”
Through the glasses, Ross could see Townsend say something. Then he heard O’Kane say, “Multiply by three.”
Ross slammed the phone down and stood there, writhing with anger. He watched now without the glasses.
“Something wrong, Ross?” asked Service.
“Goddamn it!” shouted Ross. He punched the glass of the phone stall.
7
The safe began to move.
The trundle wheels squealed as the driver towed it by the steel tow rod. The uniformed guards surrounded it, with drawn guns aimed at the ceiling. All walked with deliberate haste toward the exit.
O’Kane hesitated. Townsend wasn’t moving. “Go, Townsend, go. Time is pressing. Go. Now.”
Townsend nodded silently and turned. He walked back toward Ross with the attaché case locked to his wrist. Fifty times three was one hundred fifty. Half of one fifty is not twenty-five thousand but seventy-five thousand. And twenty-five from seventy-five is fifty thousand. Ross was going to bilk him of fifty thousand dollars. He saw Ross waving urgently at him. He felt his anger rising, and with it, his walking speed increased. As he approached, he saw five men with Ross. His steps slowed. He halted, scowling at them. Who the hell were they?
“Come on. Come on,” called Ross, waving his arm. He stepped around the phone stalls and took several steps toward Townsend. “Hurry up, Mickey!”
Mickey be damned. Townsend stood stock still. Ross strode furiously toward him now, his binoculars swaying widely.
“Jumping Jesus H. Christ! Townsend, move your ass!”
“Who are those guys?”
Ross had Townsend’s wrist. “They’re O’Kane’s men. Let’s get the hell out of here.” Before Townsend realized that Ross had a key, the lock was open. Townsend’s wrist was free. But he held the handle tightly. “Wait. Wait. Wait.”
Ross gripped him by the lapels. “Listen, Townsend. Listen. Don’t ask any questions. Just follow me back to the motel and in twenty minutes, you’ll have seventy-five thousand dollars in your pocket and an airline ticket to London. I can explain everything.”
“Do it.”
“Later! We’re like two clay pigeons here!”
“Explain it to me. Now.”
“Look. Townsend. Let’s have our fight in private. At the motel. Let’s get out of here. Now.” While he was talking, Ross was fumbling at the attaché case. With an abrupt quick motion, he locked the handcuff around his wrist, and with a violent wrench, he had the bag out of Townsend’s hands. “Now, smarten up, goddamn it. Follow me and have that gun handy.”
Service and the four detectives stood watching in a semicircle.
The first shot sounded like a cannon in the confined spaces. “All right. Hold it right there,” shouted a voice.
A group of men with pistols had come down the steps of the observation terrace and were running through the turnstiles. Several of the detectives drew their pistols and commenced shooting.
In a moment, hundreds of people had stampeded, running in every direction. Others stood frozen, watching. Farther away, others were rising from their seats, asking each other what had happened.
Shots were echoing and reechoing inside the terminal with a stunning noise. Two of O’Kane’s detectives fell. The two others and Service were overrun by the charging band of armed men. Michael Townsend was struck on the neck by a gun barrel, and went spinning across the marble floor.
The gang swept past and down the corridor. Townsend saw them around Ross, hurrying him and the bag out of the swinging doors.
Townsend stood up and nearly fell down. Ross’s canvas bag was at his feet. He picked it up and ran.
As he hurried through the swinging doors, he saw four men tumble Ross into a car. Instantly, the car sped away, followed by another. He ran across to his car and jumped in. He watched the two cars drive through a red light and out onto the highway. They sped toward the entrance to the turnpike.
Townsend started his car and drove in a weaving, dodging pattern, around cars and people, to the traffic light, running through as it turned red again.
His temper was wildly out of control, and he reached into his jacket and pulled out the gun that Ross had given him. He wanted to kill someone. Ross or those others.
After all the work he’d done, these others, like a pack of jackals, swept in and took the money. O’Kane got the pamphlet at a bargain, they got the money, and he got a punch in the face for his labor.
Townsend pounded a fist on the steering wheel as it sped toward the turnpike entrance. He was going to catch that car and kill everyone in it. Kill anything that moved. Including Ross.
He skidded to a stop behind a car at the toll-card booth. Stop and Get Ticket. He pounded the steering wheel again. He was fourth in line and the other lines were no better. The two cars he was chasing had already rolled through the gate. In the next lane, smugly, safely aloof, the armored truck rolled through and picked up speed.
As Townsend watched, the two cars drove through the booth, then drove over to the side. A man jumped out of the front car and ran back to the other that was right behind it. An old Cadillac.
He had the attaché case in his hands. The swinging handcuff glinted in the headlights. The man pitched the c
ase through the back window of the rear car and ran back to the front car. A moment later, a body tumbled out on the highway, and the two cars shot up the ramp toward Bayonne and the Holland Tunnel.
8
In the back seat of the rear car, Arthur Tank used a screwdriver to pry open the lock on Ross’s chain. Then he pried at the hinge lock. The hinge lock shattered and scattered bits of metal across Tank’s lap. He looked at the money for a long moment, then looked with his deadpan at Tatzie, next to him.
“Tatzie, you get Junior to get that wiretap off O’Kane’s switchboard. Tonight. Without fail. You hear me?”
Tatzie nodded.
Tank frowned and leaned forward, reaching under his buttocks. He gripped something and yanked it free.
Slowly, methodically, Tank rolled down the window and chucked the bundle of looseleaf pages into the night. They sailed all over the New Jersey Turnpike.
The title page bore the legend Lesson Seven. Planning A Police Stake Out.
9
It seemed, sitting there, like forever.
Townsend watched the cars ahead of him. The ticket man was giving directions. Endlessly.
Townsend watched the figure that had tumbled out of the car. It was a man in a topcoat, and he was moving. Slowly, he rolled over and tried to get up on his knees. It was Ross. He withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and began dabbing blood from his forehead. Several cars stopped, and people ran up to him. They helped him to his feet. He was dazed, and stood with his head down, dabbing his temple.
The ticket man, oblivious to what was going on behind him, continued his instructions.
And the two cars with the money were long gone, racing toward the Holland Tunnel.
Townsend looked at the canvas case on the seat next to him. He barely remembered carrying it. He wiped a hand across his forehead. Cold air was drying the sweat on his face.
He unzipped the bag. His hand, groping, pulled out a pistol. He barely glanced at it. It was a chrome-plated, western-style six-shooter with a simulated bone handle. On one cheek of the handle, the plastic bone was broken and a long thin chip was missing.
Townsend dropped it on the seat and groped his hand in through the zipper opening. He reached around what felt like a metal pot and at the bottom felt some papers. He withdrew them. In the light, he saw he was holding several small pamphlets. He glanced at the title: “A Lodging for the Night. By Robert Louis Stevenson.”
Townsend’s mouth fell open. He snapped on the overhead light and examined them. Three dead ringers! Same paper from the Dodgson pamphlets. They were certifiably authentic!
Townsend looked out at Ross, who was shaking his head at a questioner. He was beginning to recover.
Townsend reached into the bag again. A heavy metal object. Round. And a small envelope. He pulled out the envelope. An airline ticket. To Dallas, Texas. Dallas?
Townsend pulled the bag over now and peeled it open with both hands. He found a large aluminum pot. Inside was a large fresh ham.
About the Author
William H. Hallahan (1925–2018) was an American novelist of popular literature. He worked as a journalist before embarking on writing in 1970, covering a variety of popular genres: detective fiction, fantasy, thrillers, and spy novels. His 1977 spy novel, Catch Me: Kill Me, won the Edgar Award. Hallahan also published essays on the US military and history.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1973 by the Estate of William H. Hallahan
Cover design by Ian Koviak
ISBN: 978-1-5040-5899-5
This edition published in 2019 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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WILLIAM H. HALLAHAN
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