DETECTIVE: ANNE MARSH
THE PASSING OF ANNE MARSH
Arthur Leo Zagat
BECOMING FAMOUS as one of “the electric typewriter boys,” Arthur Leo Zagat (1896–1949) was one of the most prolific writers of the pulp era, when it was common for writers to produce hundreds of thousands of words a year in order to make a living at a penny a word. Zagat was a master at writing longer stories of twenty thousand words that magazines then featured on their covers as “feature-length novels” or “complete novels.”
After serving in World War I, he stayed in Europe to study in Paris, then returned to New York, the city of his birth, and received a law degree from Fordham University but never practiced. Having sold the first story he wrote, he immediately became a full-time writer, becoming one of the most successful authors of horror and supernatural stories that were violent and terrifying, in a genre known as “weird menace.”
Producing more than a half million words a year for twenty-five years, Zagat was one of the highest-paid writers of his time, working in various other genres as well as producing his bone-chilling weird tales, and as a regular contributor to such classic pulp magazines as The Spider, with a series about the kindly Doc Turner, who was always willing to help those in need, and Operator #5, with spy stories featuring the Red Finger.
In the mystery field, he created the much-loved Anne Corbin, née Anne Marsh, who, with her courageous husband, Peter Corbin, wages war on behalf of the oppressed against the tyranny of the criminal combine that has driven her father to suicide.
“The Passing of Anne Marsh” was originally published in the April 1937 issue of Detective Tales.
The Passing of Anne Marsh
ARTHUR LEO ZAGAT
“IT’S COMIN’ ON TO SNOW, MISS ANNE,” a thin querulous voice called. “It’s goin’ to be a white Christmas.”
Faith Parker’s work-gnarled fingers were red and ungainly against the gay-hued chintz curtain they held aside from a frost-edged window. Her eyes, peering through the glass, were tiny, birdlike in a countenance yellow and wrinkled as old parchment—sere and sharp-featured. Her flat-breasted, scrawny frame was enveloped by an immaculate white Hoover apron, and there clung to her the spicy redolence of the crisp roast meats, the savory gravies, the toothsome, mouth-melting pastries that made The Tavern on Bolton Turnpike the nightly rendezvous of Laneville’s élite.
“It had snowed already the day I came home, just a year ago. There was snow and ice all the way from the college. Lane Hill was all white and the white on the dark boughs of the pines was very beautiful.” Anne Marsh spoke as though to herself. She moved with an unconscious lovely grace between dim booths within which holly-decked tables nestled discreetly. Her garb was that of a slim, athletic boy, high-laced leather boots, whipcord breeches, plaid lumberjacket, visored wool cap, but she was utterly feminine. The thick wool of her mackinaw could not hide the tender curves of womanhood. Tight, tawny curls escaped from under the black cap to set off a wistful small face. Her lips, deeply red and velvet soft, were fashioned for caresses but incongruously were edged with pain. Her long-lashed grey eyes were destined for laughter but mirrored only a lurking, sleepless fear.
“Beautiful,” Anne’s low, throbbing voice repeated. “The icy air was like wine bubbling in my veins, and I was happy. I was coming home to Dad, Faith, to the man who had been father and mother to me as long as I could remember. For two weeks we were going to tramp together over the hills, and spend long evenings together in our workshop, happily contriving some clever, useless little gadget. I reached home, and…”
“Miss Anne! You mustn’t…!”
“And found Dad dead by his own hand; his name, for years so venerated in the city he loved, a synonym for dishonor.” The girl’s mouth twitched with a suffering one so young should not have been called on to endure. “He had stolen the charity money entrusted to him to be distributed at Christmas.”
“He did not steal it,” the older woman denied fiercely. “He did not mean…”
“No, he did not mean to take it. Relying on the promises of a half-dozen of Laneville’s leaders to replace it before it would have to be paid out, he had borrowed the Community Chest funds to save his Union Light and Power Company, to save the hundreds of small investors and the thousands of laborers who depended upon it for their living from disaster. But his false friends broke the promise they never intended to keep. The company failed, and they bought it in for a song, as they had planned. It was they who were the real thieves, but they stole within the law, safely and cleverly.”
“It was that lawyer who told them how to do it Miss Anne. Fulton Zander. He’s shrewd….”
“Shrewd and cunning as Satan. He and his clients are called honest men by the same law that says Webster Marsh was a thief. The same law that says I am a thief— It’s right, Faith. I am a thief, an outlaw. A pariah….”
She checked. Clear and distinct, a cheer came in through the Tavern’s walls, the shrill, piping outcry of many merry children.
“Listen,” Faith Parker exclaimed. “Listen to them orphans. Would they be cheerin’ like that if you hadn’t got that home for them by blackmail, or would they be shiverin’ in Slum Hollow, blue with cold and hunger?” She turned back to the window. “Look at them, Miss Anne. Come here and look at them.”
* * *
—
The girl came alongside of her. Outside, to the left, the wooded height of Lane Hill loomed against the sky’s leaden vault; but to the right, across the concrete bridge over Waley’s Creek, the highway dipped and she could see over the tall hedge that bordered the road.
Far back from the highway a gabled dwelling of time-darkened ivy-clad brick was stately and dignified as when anciently Joshua Marsh had built it to house his progeny of whom she was the last. Over the pillared portico a newly painted sign said, LANEVILLE CHILDRENS’ HOME. On the velvet lawn sloping to the pike, winter had killed the plants and shrubbery, but it was a live and vibrant garden of human flowers. A throng of warmly clad, ruddy-cheeked youngsters darted about, screaming gleefully as the dancing first snowflakes eluded their chubby little hands.
“Oh they are happy, Faith.” A smile tugged at the corners of Anne’s mouth and a little of the bitterness faded from her winsome face. “It was worth the price to give them that.”
She grew sober again, remembering the night of dire peril out of which she had wrenched that home for the homeless. She had felt death’s hot breath on her neck, that dreadful midnight, and almost the teeth of the law’s bulldog had sunk into her soft flesh. If it had not been for Peter…
Her glance came away from the gay scene and strained through the sudden thick veil of white crystals that with silent swiftness already obscured the mountain from which Bolton Turnpike curved.
He was somewhere up there, she thought, the youth who so many times had appeared out of his mysterious abode to save her from disaster and so many times had vanished again into that mystery, carrying her heart with him. Peter! She knew of him only that no matter what the odds against him his dark head was jauntily cocked and his blue eyes dauntless, that there was a heart-shaped little scar at the corner of his mouth….
And that his kisses had burned like white flame on her lips.
Her hands tightened, abruptly, on the sill. “Faith,” she gasped. “Faith. There’s someone…” Then she had whirled to the Tavern door, was out in the blinding swirl, was running up the road.
There it was, the form she had glimpsed through a momentary gap in the seething downfall. She had seen the man stagger, fall. Now he was crawling, like some dark beast, on hands and one knee in the highway. Crawling slowly, painfully, while behind him a scarlet stain trailed for a moment, melting the snowy film, and was almost instantly blotted out by a new coating of white.
“Peter,” Anne whispered through frozen lips. “Peter. What’s the matter? What…”
&nbs
p; He kept crawling; as if he did not hear her; hitched himself along, slowly, painfully. The leg from which dribbled that gory thread dragged a lifeless, useless thing, behind him.
“Peter.” The girl bent to him, got shaking hands on his shoulders. “It’s I. It’s Anne. Don’t you understand, it’s Anne Marsh.”
He stopped then, twisted his hanging head to look up at her. His lips were whiter than the flakes that settled on them and melted in the feathery vapor of his breath; his cheeks were sunken, quivering; his eyes were dark pits of agony.
“Anne,” he groaned. “Get away from me. Go away. They mustn’t find you—with me.”
“You’re hurt, Peter. Your leg’s broken.”
“Shot,” he whispered. “I was almost—free. But a lucky bullet—” He coughed, the spasm seeming to rack every fibre of his lithe, slender body. “They know I came this way. You—leave me. They…” He pitched forward, fell inert, a still mound in the snow.
A sudden frigid gust flailed icy particles against Anne’s cheek, but it was not the savage onslaught that lined her face with drab despair. Long ago she had surmised Peter to be one of the bandits who skulked in the No Man’s Land of Lane Hill and descended from it in swift forays. The police had made many raids into that mountain fastness and had returned empty-handed, but they had routed Peter from his hiding place at last. They must be close on his trail. In minutes, in seconds, perhaps, they would overtake him.
If they found her with him—that’s what he had been trying to say—she would be gathered into the net of the law. “Bulldog” Ryan, the plodding, indomitable detective who alone had suspected her own outlawry, would seize the chance to arrest her. Armed with a search warrant he would at least be enabled to probe The Tavern thoroughly, and he would find indubitable proof of her guilt.
“Peter,” Anne groaned, going to her knees beside him. “Peter. Wake up. You’ve got to wake up!”
She shook him with frantic hands. Muted and incoherent through distance a shout reached her from far up the mountain. Another answered. It was nearer. The police! They were still far away, but they were coming fast.
“Peter!” Her palm spatted against his cheek, stingingly. “Wake up.”
“Ugh,” he grunted. “What?”
“Try and get up, Peter. Try hard.” She had an arm under him, was trying to lift him. “If you can hop on your good leg I’ll be a crutch for the other. Get up, Peter. Please get up.”
* * *
—
He was struggling. He was breathing hard, and his eyes were closed, but he was moving, trying to get his uninjured leg under him, thrusting at ground with his cold-blued hands. Anne threw all her small strength into the effort to aid him. She managed to slide her shoulder under his arm pit, to get his arm over her back. She heaved upward, pain tearing at her chest, tearing at her back, his weight like lead holding her down.
The rising wind howled eerily in the tree-tops she could no longer see. It wasn’t the wind. It was the siren of a police car, wailing down the white slope. They dared not go too fast in this white sightlessness but they were coming surely, inexorably.
“That’s it, Peter darling.” Anne’s voice was low, encouraging and very steady. “That’s fine.” She had one arm around his waist, her other hand clutched the wrist of his arm that was around her neck, and they were erect on their knees. “One more try and we’ll make it. When I count three. Do you understand?”
The siren yowled.
The motion of his head was somehow grotesque, as though it were the head of a marionette manipulated by someone unskilled. But it was a nod.
“One…” The siren howl was nearer. “Two…” The hunters were coming faster than she had thought possible “Three!”
Peter’s attempt to rise was pathetic in its feebleness, but he did make it. Anne found some unguessed-at reserve of strength in her aching thighs and with that slight aid they miraculously surged to their feet.
It was too late! They were only fifty feet from the tavern’s door, but the juggernaut must overtake them before they could possibly reach it!
CHAPTER II
Trapped
“Run, Anne!” Peter muttered, thick-tongued. “You…can escape.” He had regained a modicum of consciousness, but he was a lax, almost lifeless burden, leaning heavily upon her.
“No!” the girl sobbed. Like a grotesque, three-legged monster in the bleached darkness of the blizzard, the two lurched into the roadside bushes.
Snow-laden withes slapped at them, parted to let them through. Snow poured down, stifling the threshing of the brush, stifling Peter’s moan of anguish. Anne, abruptly rigid, put her lips to his ear.
“Quiet, my dear,” she whispered. “Be very quiet.”
Through the white, almost solid pall the siren’s scream was a long, menacing howl borne on the breast of deafening engine thunder that battered against the screening bushes—and roared away.
“They’ve gone past, Peter,” Anne dared a murmur of throbbing triumph. “The snow covered the marks where you fell, as soon as we got off the road, and they didn’t see it—”
Voices reached the trembling girl, deep-throated, rumbling. And then another made intelligible words, carrying more clearly through the snow-filled air because it was high-pitched and thin and querulous.
“No, I ain’t seen nobody come out of the woods.” Faith Parker said. “I been standin’ right here too, the past half-hour.”
Once more the hoarse rumble. Once more Faith’s reply. Was she talking so loudly on purpose, hoping to be overheard?
“You better come inside if you’re bound on waiting here. There’s a fire an’ I can heat up some coffee, an’ you can watch the road from here while you’re warming up.”
The police were at the tavern, then, watching the road, waiting for their prey. They knew that although they had somehow passed him, he must come out of the woods on the highway. The steep ravine through which Waley’s Creek ran, on whose lip the restaurant’s kitchen door opened, would cut off his escape to the east. West of the road was a treacherous bog, not yet frozen sufficiently to be anything but a death trap for anyone who attempted it in this blinding storm. Death just as sure would overtake the wounded man in the arctic cold of the mountain.
Yes, they could afford to wait there in warmth and comfort while their quarry chose between death or capture.
Anne Marsh’s lids were slitted against the driving, icy blasts. She hugged Peter closer to her.
“Try to walk,” she said. “Please try to walk.”
Perhaps he heard her. Perhaps the movement of his flaccid frame was sheer automatism. At any rate there was some response in him as Anne started off, some little aid to her own painful progress. Otherwise the task she set herself would have been a sheer impossibility.
As it was, every nerve, every cell of her slim young body quivered with exhaustion before she managed to gain the bottom of the creek’s ravine and struggle along the narrow shelf of ground that was all that stretched between the ice-scummed water and the side of the gully through which it ran. They were twenty feet away from the tavern.
* * *
—
Anne stumbled to her knees, let her burden slide flaccidly to the ground. For a long minute she remained like that, pulling deep breaths into her lungs.
After awhile she heaved erect again. And then she did a very queer thing. Facing the earthy wall, she tugged at an ice-encrusted root tendril, reached sidewise and pulled at another.
A section of the bank moved out toward her, as if it were a door on hinges. It was a door, the earth a mere covering for the boards revealed on its inner side.
With a last fierce effort Anne dragged Peter’s motionless form into that space, and the door thudded shut.
Soft footsteps whispered in the dark. A switch clicked. A small windowless room sprang into
existence in the yellow light of a single, unshaded bulb, a room that was earth-floored but walled and ceiled by rough, splintered boards. In the center was a time-darkened work bench which had belonged to Webster Marsh.
Every gouge in that old wood was poignant with memory for Anne Marsh, every stain on it spoke of a comradeship few fathers and daughters are ever privileged to know….
But Anne had no time for reminiscence now. Certain strange garments hung from a row of hooks screwed into one wall; disguises that had masked her in her raids on the despoilers of Laneville’s poor. She took an armful, bent and deposited them on the floor and heaved the unconscious man onto the rough pallet.
His countenance was no longer blunt-jawed and competent. It was color-drained, and the laxness of fatigue and suffering made it the poignantly pathetic face of a sick boy. His lips moved.
“Anne,” they muttered. “I love—” and twisted abruptly, writhing with a pain not physical. “No!” he moaned. “She’s his daughter. She’s a Marsh. You must hate her. Hate…”
“Hush, dear.” The girl’s cold hand rested on the sweat dewed brow. “Sleep.”
He sighed, shrugged more closely into the pile on which he lay, was silent. There were tears in Anne’s eyes as she threw off her soaked cap and jacket. What was it that lay between them? The first time she had seen him, up on the hillside where he had rescued her from a kidnap gang he had said something like that when he had discovered who she was.
“If I had known,” he had said. “I wouldn’t have…” But after that he had kissed her, had stopped to kiss her though the police were closing in on him.
Her deft hands unbuckled and tugged off the fur-lined galosh that was wet with something more viscid than thawing ice. Reddened, they rolled up the drenched trouser leg.
Anne shuddered at the scarlet mess the act revealed, but she got to her feet, darted across the room to the closet that contained first aid supplies.
The Big Book of Female Detectives Page 56
