by FRANCES
The door opened into an area a step down from the garden level. The girl reached this first and almost fell. He held her and she said, “Step down,” very softly, and took the step down. Down, she held his hand to guide him. She had a narrow hand, slight and alive in his own.
The door was solid. No glass panel showed them as shadows. The door was locked. He tried the knob and the moving knob made noise—noise above the soft whisper of the falling rain.
Then there was other sound.
“—down and get them,” one of the men above said. His voice was low, a kind of loud whisper. Reg thought Hunter was the man who spoke, but could not be sure.
Here at the door—the unyielding door—they were trapped. The whole place was a trap. They could hear one of the men walk across the roof above toward the ladder to their trap. Then the other man followed him.
No use beating on the door. If anybody was inside, and anybody heard them pounding on the door, there would be no time now for slow approach inside, for cautious questioning through the door, for the natural hesitancy of a man or woman mysteriously knocked up from a deserted garden.
Over the fence—over the fence and into another trap? Or—try dodging through this place, in darkness and rain, hoping to outwit, to take the adversary unawares? The adversary was the stronger, the adversary was armed. One gun, at least. One knife, at least.
He himself, setting weapons aside—but you couldn’t set weapons aside—probably a match for either. Certainly, for Hunter. But the girl—
A spunky little red kitten. No chance against mastiffs.
The fence had it. How high the fence?
He heard the feet of one of the men on the iron rungs of the ladder.
He snatched the girl up. She was light in his arms; light and alive.
No use for caution, now. Up out of the depression the door opened into; across half the paved area toward the nearest fence, closest to where it abutted on the house wall. The last step into the yielding softness of wet earth. No help, that.
He lifted the girl, first to his shoulder then, holding her above the knees, lifting, still higher. She was lighter, suddenly. She had hands on the top of the fence. He pushed and she went up.
For a moment, dimly seen through rain and mist, seeming to waver, she was on the fence. Then she swung herself around, swung slim legs up and over and began to slide down on the other side.
He could reach the top of the fence without jumping. Only about eight feet high, the fence was. Better than ten. Not too easy for a man out of training.
The first of the pursuers was on the ground, now—on the paved area of the garden. He could hear the feet of the other man; hear the feet start toward him.
Wonderful target, dangling there—hesitating there.
Reg Grant united his long body in one effort—thrust of legs, violent pulling up with arms. He went part way up the fence, scrambled at the boards with his toes.
Couldn’t—had. By God, he had! He lay for an instant across the fence—lay on a narrow, cutting ledge. Then he swung around, as the girl had swung around and dropped and, at the last instant, prayed he wouldn’t drop on the red-haired girl.
He landed in soft earth and staggered and caught himself.
The girl was a few feet away. She was standing on one foot, holding the other ankle.
“Twisted,” she said. “Be all right.” But when she put the foot down and started to walk, she stumbled and almost fell.
Not up to another one, obviously. In another trap, now, and too many more fences to climb. Any fence one too many fences.
He held her again. “I can make it,” she said. Which was spunky. Which wasn’t true. Try to drop again from the top of the next fence, with one ankle giving under her when she tried to stand on level paving—
Paved, like the other garden, the one they had fled from. Again, fringed by planting area. Everything repeated. Perhaps—
The house they were now behind had, like the one next door—the one with a common wall—a roof extending beyond the façade; a roof co-terminus with the one they had crossed, with a low brick parapet marking the separation.
So much in common. A fire ladder in common?
Reg had to step back a pace or two toward the center of the area to see the whole. A fire ladder, not more than a dozen feet away.
He picked the girl up again.
“I can—” she said, softly, but did not finish.
He carried her to the ladder and she put slim, strong hands on the highest rung he could lift her to.
“Hop,” he said. “I’ll boost, you hop.”
And, to his astonishment, she laughed—a low, soft laugh.
All right, he was funny. It was all a lark.
“Up,” he said, and pushed upward against her thighs.
She went up, pulling, jumping on the sound foot from rung to rung. He couldn’t see what was the matter with “hopping.” Have to ask her when they were out of this why—
When she was far enough up the metal ladder, he bent and got a shoulder under her. They climbed so until she said, “all right” and moved away from him. In a moment, he was beside her.
Now he could look down into the first garden. The men were vague in it, but both were in it—shadows moving, heavy footed, it seemed to him aimlessly. But then he realized that the movement was not aimless.
One of the men—in the gray wet light it was impossible to tell which, and it didn’t matter which—was carrying a table toward the board fence. The table the couple who had the ground floor and the terrace to go with it had put their drinks on on warm autumn nights.
Bright of whichever one of them it was. Hunter, probably. He seemed the brighter; in the absence of the “guvner,” the boss.
Reg put pressure on the girl’s shoulders. She caught on quickly, and dropped to the roof, rolled until she was against the parapet. He dropped beside her, partly covered her body with his own, lay near the edge so that he could watch the pursuers.
It was obviously easier when you used a table to start from. The first man went over and dropped and then stood, looking up at the fence. The other man followed him.
Reg and the girl moved as the second man dropped. He didn’t need to tell her anything. She was on her feet and had started before he could reach her, but the ankle gave and he caught her, and lifted her over the parapet—stepped over it with her.
No use trying, now, to keep out of sight. No use trying, now, to move in silence.
One of the men on the ground below said, “Hey!” No use looking back—looking to see how a gun pointed.
He pushed her through the open window, went through after her. Back in the room they had fled from; come full circle.
But—the men were behind them, now. Up the ladder by now, coming across—Get moving!
He got moving, half carrying the girl. As they went, awkwardly, not nearly fast enough, out of the bedroom into the hall he could hear the men on the roof outside. When they were through, he slammed the bedroom door to behind them. The action was instinctive, with no plan behind it. They could shoot through a door as well as not.
They were abreast of the wall box which held the downstairs buzzer when, with what seemed incredible loudness, the buzzer sounded. More of them or—
The police. The police had come back. Let the police—
He pressed the release button. Sometimes you had to keep a finger on it for some seconds; sometimes the people who wanted in were slow on the uptake. Sometimes they failed to hear the responding click in the electrically freed lock.
Men moving across the floor of the bedroom. No time to keep pressing the button. Just time, with luck, to get out.
The door to the outer hall was sometimes tricky, sometimes stuck. Not this time—give us a break this time!
The door opened. They got through it. Reg pulled it to behind them.
He heard the heavy downstairs door close. The police had made it. He was conscious of a deep-drawn breath of relief as they turned to the
right, toward the place where the rail curved down at the head of the stairs.
The girl lost balance again and made a low sound of pain. More than a twist, whatever she said. Spunky little—He picked her up in his arms. He started down the stairs.
Light dim in this stair hall. Mustn’t trip himself and fall with—
He stopped, and for an instant swayed, seemed to lean forward against nothing and had no hand free for the rail. He arched back, made muscles pull him back.
Two men were coming up the stairs. Standing above them he could see the face of neither.
The man in front moved heavily, was a stocky man. He seemed to plod up the stairs.
The man behind him was tall and dark; his dark raincoat was unbuttoned. He climbed the stairs very close behind the stocky man.
Not the police. Reinforcements for the other side. The stocky man—he didn’t know the stocky man. The man behind—the man who had come up these same stairs hours before. Come up behind Hunter, with the lie ready. Bennie Wells the tall man was. Bennie the cockney. Bennie the—
Between two forces, now. No place to hide, now. Have to have a try at it, all the same. If only the lithe girl he carried could run. If only—
He went back up the few curving steps he had gone down. He started to run, stair rail on one side, wall on the other, toward the foot of the stairway to the floor above. What good that would do—
“Hold it!” one of the climbing men said, sharply, voice raised. “Hold it, Grant.”
In the same second, the door from his apartment to the stair hall began to open. Space between vise jaws narrow now. No real space, now.
He put the girl down and she held to the rail and her head went up. She faced toward the opening door. Spunky little—
The stocky man reached the head of the stairway, and came around the curve in the stairs, and now his hat didn’t cover his face.
He knew the stocky man. It wasn’t possible, but he knew the stocky man.
He opened his mouth to name the stocky man, and the man in the raincoat came around the curve of the staircase.
Not Bennie. Not at all like Bennie. For an instant, Reg scrambled through his reeling mind. He knew—
“Police,” the man in the raincoat said and then, abruptly, “Get down, Grant!”
There wasn’t time to get down before the narrow stair hall seemed to shake with the sound of a shot. The shot came from the door.
Hunter stood in the door, a revolver in his hand.
Reg, going down now, pulling the girl down with him, thought he could see, even in the dim light, the tightening of the hand as it pressed, again, on the trigger.
The hallway shook again.
The revolver seemed to leap from Hunter’s hand. It was almost ludicrous to see it jump out of the hand. The hand dropped and at the same moment Hunter started, slowly, to spin around.
Reg had turned to face Hunter, was crouched, now, again shielding the girl. He heard a sound behind him and half turned and saw the stocky man clutching the rail. In the same instant, the man in the dark raincoat ran past Reg, Hunter spun slowly, like a top run down, and was sitting on the floor. He held his right hand in his left, and shook both hands together.
The door had started to close again. The man in the raincoat ran against it and it opened. There was the sound of men—two men—running inside, and then another shot.
But there was another sound and Reg, turning again, coming up to full height again, saw that it was made by the stocky man. The stocky man, with nobody barring his way now, was making for the stairs.
It took Reg two long strides to overtake him, to grab him by the shoulders. The stocky man didn’t make any special resistance—not even when Reg turned him around so that they faced each other.
“I,” Reg said, “will be damned. When did you take to wearing eyeglasses? And why aren’t you—”
He heard sound at the door again, and turned. The man in the raincoat came out, stopped for a moment and looked down at Hunter and said, “’Lo, Hunter,” and stepped over him.
“You both all right?” Detective (1st Grade) Nathan Shapiro asked, politely. Reg Grant said they’d both do.
“Recognize him, don’t you?” Shapiro said, and it seemed to Reg that there was, just possibly, anxiety in Shapiro’s voice.
“Cousin Ben?” Reg said. “Recognize him anywhere. But I thought he was—”
“Oh,” Shapiro said, and Reg thought there was something like relief in his voice, “supposed to have gone east. I realize that. Supposed to be dead, too. You do recognize him, then?”
There was formality in the question, now. Reginald Grant added formality to his own voice.
“Detective Shapiro,” he said, “this is my cousin, Dr. Benjamin Cutler.”
To this, somewhat unexpectedly, Shapiro said, “Yep. False teeth and all.”
XVI
It was not the day for the cleaning woman, who came twice a week. In any case, Reg felt that removal of this particular debris would be somewhat over and above the call of a cleaning woman’s duty. So he found dustpan and brushed into it considerable fallen plaster from his bedroom floor. Peggy might want to put her coat in the bedroom, or go through it to the bathroom.
There was a good deal of plaster and, even after he had done what he could, a bit of plaster dust. A .38-calibre slug, fired into a ceiling, knocks things about a bit. Lucky, for the people living above (but they had been out to dinner and wouldn’t have been damaged in any case) that the ceiling was a thick one.
Gilky, ordered to stop, had not stopped, trusting to the forbearance of the New York City police. Shapiro had therefore fired into the air, which meant into the ceiling, and, when Gilky continued to keep going, had abandoned him for more important matters. This had not, in the end, done Gilky any special good. He had doggedly climbed three fences and been noticeably put out when, dropping from the last, he had come down practically into the arms of a policeman and, which was an added touch, one who knew him and had said, pleasantly, “Well, if it isn’t old Gilky.”
That had occurred while Reginald Grant and—after an ambulance surgeon had bandaged her right ankle and told her to put as little weight on it as she could manage and get it x-rayed as soon as possible—Peggy Larkin were still sitting in an anteroom (actually, a detention room) of the Thirteenth Precinct station house in East Twenty-second Street. Donald Hunter, former private detective, under charges of assault with a deadly weapon and resisting arrest, was then in the prison ward at Bellevue.
Gilky and—after Gilky had obligingly told them where he could be found—Benjamin Wells had, it appeared, been talking their heads off. That was, at any rate, Reg’s assumption as, at a little before five o’clock on the next afternoon, he disposed of plaster dust and wondered whether either of his two guests would really prefer tea.
Somebody had talked, certainly, and had been convincing, but had taken time about it. It had been after midnight when a uniformed policeman, with bars on his shoulders, came into the anteroom, looked slightly surprised to find them both still there, and told them they could go when they liked.
There had to be more to it than that, Reg thought, looking up at the police officer and then, slowly, getting to his feet. It couldn’t end this—flatly. Kept waiting for hours for the curtain to rise on the last act. To be told, without emphasis, even without interest, that the last act had been dispensed with, and that they could go, and with no offer that money would be refunded.
“Now, see here—” Reg had begun and had stopped only because he was conscious of resentment in his own voice. After all, although this officer had had nothing immediately to do with the matter, he spoke for an organization which, come down to it, had saved Reg’s life. His life and the girl’s life.
The uniformed man waited politely for Reg to continue.
“Nothing,” Reg said. “Only—rather up in the air, isn’t it?”
“Well,” the uniformed man said, “I wouldn’t say that exactly, Mr. Grant.” He sm
iled. “See your point, of course,” he said. “We’ll be in touch with you.”
“Detective Shapiro?”
Shapiro was busy just now. No doubt Shapiro would be the one to get in touch. One of the ones to get in touch. “There’ll be the D.A.’s office, too,” the uniformed man said.
Peggy Larkin started to get up, cautiously, not very successfully. Reg put an arm around her and helped. It had been one thing to hold her while they fled, to carry her, feel her body against his only as that of a companion in flight. It was different, now. The curves of her body were—well, it was different, now. And he felt, or thought he felt, that now her body withdrew—no, not really that. Reserved itself from his touch. Quite understandable. Part, however, of a general let-down.
The girl was, evidently, very tired. When they had first been told where to sit, and told to wait, she had leaned back against the wall—a bench was what they had to sit on—and closed her eyes. After a time she opened them and blinked slightly. Then she said, “Phew!” as, he thought, a sound of exhaustion. Then, more or less to herself, she added, “What a night!” and closed her eyes again. After a time she opened blue eyes once more and looked at Reg and, this time, smiled. She said, “Thank you, Mr. Grant.”
“Oh,” Reg Grant said, “not at all, Miss Larkin.”
And she laughed again, sleepily, but with undoubted amusement. I must be a very funny person, Reg thought. After that, she had really gone to sleep, at first unsupported and nodding, and then with her head on Reg’s shoulder, his arm steadying her. It was then that he began to notice how different having her against him was, now that nobody was planning, in some detail, their joint murder. He had time, now, to notice that she was, in addition to other things, a pleasantly fragrant girl.
He had taken her home in a cab the police called for them. (They didn’t rate a police car any longer, apparently. Not that important, any more.) He had helped her up the stairs to her apartment and had, seeing her limp in—almost hop in—wondered whether there wasn’t something more he ought to do. Like, perhaps, helping her to bed.
