by Philip Wylie
A passing policeman noted it. "Pull yourself together, Bud," he said amiably.
Miss Maxson, meantime, had entered the office of the owner. Double-O was sitting on, not behind, his desk. His eyes were like flint.
The Tip was there, too--looking frightened. Several other men--in tuxedos---stood about uneasily.
"They were an hour early," the girl said.
"Tell us something we don't know!" Chicago grated in The Tip's voice, this time.
Double-O Sanders looked toward her--his eyes seeming to see nothing. His lips moved. "It's a cross."
She swallowed.
His head turned slowly, so that his gaze was fixed on the safe. "They'll take all of us--and the operating dough--to Headquarters. I don't know who ordered this. But I do know they wanted to find the dough right here. They'll hold it for a cut. Maybe take it all." The faintest scorn sounded in his quiet words. "Legal confiscation. "
The Tip said, "Let's split it and lam." Double-O appeared not to have heard that.
"All of us--except you, Connie." He turned toward her again. "Those cops know you?"
"I don't know any policemen." She smiled faintly. "Except one traffic cop named McGuire."
He handed the envelopes to her. "Get going."
"If they don't see me coming out of here."
He walked to the safe, after a moment. He masked it with his body and spun its dials. The door opened. "Envelopes," he said. "Plain, white. Large. Top left drawer."
The Tip hurriedly procured them. Double-O took three. Into two of them he put unopened packages of bills--into the third, a partly exhausted package. The girl saw the denominations. She grew paler.
He handed the envelopes to her. "Get going."
She took two books from a case behind his desk. She put the envelopes between the books. She wrinkled her nose at him and the door closed behind her.
The Tip said, "No kidding, Double-O! A dame. . . !"
Mr. Sanders raised his adze-blade eyes.
The Tip looked away.
There was a knock on the door opposite the one Miss Maxson had used.
"Come in, boys," Double-O called. "Not locked."
Miss Maxson approached the professor--through the crowd. Most of the tables had been pushed out of the room now. Their legmarks showed in the deep carpets.
The officer looked in. "All right! Get going! We've taken the Club personnel--so you'll have to find your own cars in the yard. I've got a couple of men out there to unscramble you--but drive easy, and you won't get scrambled!"
The girl drew him deeper into the crowd. She handed him three hefty envelopes.
"Keep these for me, will you?"
He thrust them into his jacket pockets--two on one side, one on the other. They showed. She started to protest--and changed her mind. Maybe it was better that way.
She dropped the books on the nearest chair. "Would you take me home? I have no car."
"I'd be delighted!"
It seemed very warm out of doors. The Club Egret was near the sea and the night air smelled salty. They walked around to the parking yard. Cars were starting--motors accelerated as if in anger, headlights snapping on. It was confusing. He finally found his repainted coupe. She got in. He started the motor. A slow, gear-gnashing, bumper-banging defile moved indignantly toward the street. He drove to Collins and turned south.
"I'm sorry about the raid," she said.
He looked at her buoyantly. "On my account? I wouldn't have missed it for anything! Though I regret winning. However! It was a risk I chose to take. I'm most grateful to you!"
"You don't owe me--or the Club--anything!" She said it in a peculiar tone. If he knew what was in his pockets . . . ! He would never know--she thought.
"Where do you live?"
"On Di Lido Island. That's one of the Venetian Islands. . . ."
"I know."
"The raid," she said, "was just window dressing. We ought to be open again in a day or two."
He was surprised. The car swerved a little--and he braked. He looked in his mirror to be sure he was not endangering traffic. "You mean those weren't police?"
"Oh--they were police, all right. What I mean is, we have raids early in the season and late in the season--before the big money arrives in Miami and after it goes--to satisfy the reform element." She explained the technique of the South Florida gambling raid--a gesture greatly satisfying to right-thinking citizens and of little hardship to casino operators.
Professor Burke listened while he turned right on Forty-First Street, went over the high, picturesque bridge and turned left on Pine Tree Drive.
Then he said, "I don't know whether it means anything or not, but there is a large sedan following us. It's been behind us ever since we started down Collins." He looked away, then, from the tunnel his headlights made between the Australian pines. She had not replied.
Miss Maxson appeared to be sick. She glanced back. She drew a couple of shaky breaths. She tried to light a cigarette--and used three matches. And at last she said, very earnestly, "Gee, Professor, I'm sorry I got you in this one! Those are--hijackers."
Chapter V
Most men who found themselves in Professor Burke's situation would have been alarmed. Miami Beach, through the center of which he was driving, advertises to the world its attractions and its distractions. It is more quiet about its civic detractions. Not the least of these is the boldness and the frequency of its robberies. Holdups of bejeweled, home-bound revelers, burglaries, and daylight stick-ups of cash-carrying citizens are almost a part of the local climate.
It was of this that Professor Burke somewhat anxiously thought. "Don't be so perturbed," he said. "At the end of this street is a fire station. Suppose I simply turn in there?"
"That would be the last thing to do! Although--"
"I suppose," he mused, glancing at his mirror, "they saw me make that big haul-and followed us . . ."
She said something. He murmured, "I beg your pardon?"
"I just swore, that was all. Don't you realize why we're being followed? The envelopes--the ones I gave you!"
He touched a pocket. "Those letters?"
"Letters! Ye gods, Professor! Letters! The police staged the raid an hour early.
Surprised us. They were after the operating capital of the Club Egret. . . ."
The car lurched a little. "You mean to say--in those envelopes--?"
"--are two unopened packets of thousands, and one partly gone. Something like two hundred and sixty or seventy thousand dollars. Look out! You'll ram a tree!"
His voice squeaked. "You mean to say I've got a quarter of a million dollars right here in my pockets?"
"I mean you have."
"Then who. . . ?" he glanced at the mirror again--and now he was afraid.
Chillingly afraid.
The girl said, "If you turn in, the firemen will call the cops--and they'll get it, after all."
"Corrupt police," he murmured bitterly.
"Corrupt police, nothing! They were just carrying out orders. It's somebody bigger than cops, who would get that money--or a piece of it."
For a moment, he merely drove. He had started at a careful thirty. He had notched it up to thirty-five, from nervousness. He dropped back, as self-discipline.
"The car behind us," she went on, after a pause, "could be a lot of people. But it is most likely somebody who knew the police were going to spring their raid early in order to snatch Double-O's money. And that, most likely, would mean the Maroon Gang. Have you ever heard of them?"
"Yes, I have," he said jerkily. "There's an excellent monograph by Longreve and Bilchard on the Maroon Gang. Organized in the prohibition era by a man named--"
"Never mind the lecture! If that's who it is--and if they think we have the money--
which they must--we'll be lucky if we're alive tomorrow morning."
He turned into Dade Boulevard--the tranquil canal on one side, the empty, night-hung golf course on the other. He cast a reluctant glance at t
he fire station.
Thought, he kept assuring himself, was imperative. The men, in the following car were--by his own definition--virtually incapable of thought. He found, however, that thinking was difficult, under these circumstances.
For one thing, he could not drive up to the nearest police station, like any ordinary citizen in distress. That would mean some sort of infamous "confiscation" of the funds now in their care. Illegal funds, to be sure, but Professor Burke disliked to surrender a quarter of a million dollars either to hostile gangsters or corrupt politicians.
He drove out onto the first of the many bridges which connect the Venetian Islands with Miami and Miami Beach.
"What are you going to do?" she asked.
"Think," he said. "It's too late! My house isn't far ahead. If we go there, they'll get us there. If we go on, they'll stop us--probably in the dark stretch where the street divides."
Up ahead, at the side of the road, a red eye gleamed. A siren growled.
Instinctively, he slowed. There were signals to show that one of the two drawbridges on the causeway was about to be raised. With the tail of his eye, he caught sight of a moonlight excursion boat moving toward the span.
The girl said, "Step on it!"
He did so--as he saw what she meant.
The bridge siren growled loudly. He perceived that they would get under the first gate. He heard a bellow from the bridge tender. Their wheels hummed on the steel lattice of the lift-spans. The far gate ticked the top of the car. The headlights of the pursuing sedan wobbled as brakes stopped it. The bridge tender blew a whistle. But they were going fast. Across Rivo Alto Island--across more bridges--and onto Di Lido. The car behind them was held up.
He stopped--under a street light.
The girl moaned. "Keep going! We might duck them in Miami ! We've got a couple of minutes, anyhow!"
The professor spoke tersely. "In the glove compartment! Postage stamps! When I put them in my pockets, they stick together in this steamy climate. When I put them in the compartment, I forget them." He had taken out his fountain pen. He also took out his wallet. He transferred its contents into the least bulky envelope. "This Mr. Double-O
Sanders' address?"
She had opened the compartment. "He lives at the Bombay Royale Hotel on Collins Avenue." At their side, she saw the green, metal mailbox. It was for this--not light--that he had stopped. He was already scribbling.
He handed one to her and she licked it. She pressed firmly, with a shaky hand.
"It's pretty heavy . . ."
"Stick a lot of stamps on it! You'll find fifty threes, there."
She tore, and stuck on, a lot. The next was ready. Then the third. She ran with them to the box and hurried back to the car. He let in the clutch.
"Turn right at the next corner. What an idea!"
He drove two blocks. They could hear the siren purr as the bridge opened. She pointed out a large house, looming whitely among still larger trees. A wall surrounded it--
a white wall with an iron gate.
He swung the car around and parked on the grass, under the thick limbs of a sea grape. He left his lights on, purposely. "Do they know you live here?"
"If it's anybody from the Maroon Gang, probably."
"Then, listen," he said. "They don't know me. We've driven very slowly--and rather erratically--all the way. If they know you live at this address, they will probably drive by here. We will have had very little time to dispose of a large sum of money. For all they can be sure of, we may never have had the money. Our drive together may have had a--romantic--rather than a commercial--reason. If we were now to give that possibility some verisimilitude. . . ."
In the dashboard light, her handsome eyes flickered a little. Her hands went to her hair and did something. It tumbled around her shoulders like suddenly sickled wheat. She wiped her lips on a small handkerchief and dropped it. "Might as well look as if we'd prepared for it," she said.
Then she kissed him.
It was necessary to get the right amount of lipstick--not too much, but enough--in the right places, she thought.
Cars began moving on the Venetian Way, two blocks below. One slowed, and turned. It was the large, dark sedan. It picked up speed--evidently as their lights were observed.
"You better have your arms around me," she said.
"Do you always--kiss people that way?"
The sedan crossed to the wrong side of the road, and stopped, bumper touching bumper. Five men got out, fast. They had handkerchiefs tied under their eyes. All of them held guns. One--the fattest-said, "Out, Miss Maxson, please. Out, whoever you are, if you please. Be quick!"
The professor spoke indignantly. "Really, I haven't a dime. Well--a dime, perhaps.
Some change. My bills--frittered away at the club. The young lady--"
"Out!" said the fat man.
Professor Burke got out. He was swiftly searched.
"You will stand between our car and the wall. If a car comes on this street, kneel.
If you yell--zut!"
The accent was French. But what kind of French? Belgian? The Professor waited for more words, as he and the girl moved between the wall and the big, black car.
"Now, Miss Maxson. Where is the money?"
"What money?"
The fat man with the accent slapped her face.
Professor Burke had never before seen such a thing. He walked up to the Frenchman. "See here, my good man. More brutality of that sort and I shall either compel you to shoot me or make mincemeat of you. Violence is intolerable. Violence to a: lady is beyond countenancing."
There was a long silence. Finally the, fat leader said, "Just who are you?"
"Professor Burke, the socio-psychologist."
There was more thought. "Who is La Cavour, then?"
The "ou" sound was Germanic. Alsatian, the Professor suddenly felt sure.
"Phillippe La Cavour is a second-rate French criminal psychologist, born in Lyon, and guilty of some atrociously superficial hypothesizing--"
"What, precisely, are you doing here?"
"Isn't it rather painfully obvious?"
The fat man turned. "Miss Maxson, you were the only one in Double-O's club not on the list to be taken to Headquarters. I assumed you would have the club's valuables."
"You assumed a lot."
The masked face turned farther. "The car--boys! Upholstery and all. A couple of you make sure they didn't toss it over the wall."
Time passed.
Professor Burke tried to back up far enough to see the license number. A wobble of the gun and a soft, "Ah, no!" stopped him. He looked the car over, trying to fix the details in his mind. He was not very good at the years of cars. The wheels showed traces of a white mark which makes sticky ruts on certain minor roads in South Florida. Some vegetation was caught in one of the door hinges. By leaning against the car and clinging to that hinge, he was able to remove a sample of the vegetation. Hedge or driveway shrubbery, he thought. He shifted his position and put it in his pocket.
The sound of upholstery being rent by a knife came from the coupe. Rustlings were heard as two of the men inspected the ground under the shrubbery behind the wall.
A car approached. They knelt. The men ripping up the coupe put out their flashlights and sat down. The car swept on.
Eventually, the fat man sighed. "I could, of course, have made an incorrect guess."
"Several," the professor said emphatically.
The Frenchman ignored that. "Naturally, I regret the damage to your car. You seem, however, to be a man fond of unusual risk." He looked thoughtfully at the girl. "So you will not mind this comparatively trifling misfortune. Good night, Professor."
"Bon soir," the professor said. "Mauvais rêves."
The four men had given up. Their leader beckoned with his gun. They climbed into the sedan. Their car could be heard on the now-silent causeway as it gathered speed.
"Come in," the girl said, after they stopped listening. "I'll make
you some coffee."
"Thanks, but I think not. Bedelia will be worried."
"Bedelia? The little woman?"
"My landlady," he said in an injured tone.
She kissed him suddenly. ''Thanks. See you." The gate hanged behind her.
It was uncomfortable, driving on the hacked upholstery, with bare springs protruding here and there.
Chapter VI
Men who receive their early, ethical training from a woman and who, as a result, respond automatically to feminine suggestion, are inclined to resent the fact and to feel dominated. Professor Burke could not repress a sensation of almost childish glee as he drove up to Bedelia's home.
The night was still, the stars were wan but numerous, and the air was sweet with the various flowers that had accumulated around Bedelia's house from years of trading among garden club members. A light glowed in her living room-like the light that burns in windows for sailors. When his wheels touched the drive, a light came on in the car porte. Bedelia appeared, enormous, anxious, and swathed in decorous kimono.
"Good heavens, Martin, it's nearly two o'clock!"
He stepped out of the car. She saw the lipstick and followed it here and there on his composed features. Then she saw the ripped upholstery.
"Mercy!" she gasped. "What was she--a tigress?"
Over a pot of coffee, he told her the story. He omitted, however, his first reactions to Miss Maxson and his later sensations when she had kissed him. These were, beyond doubt, the most important elements.
"So--as you can see--" he summed up, "the whole fantastic affair demonstrated that mere intelligence is sufficient to deal even with criminals of the stature of that fat Alsatian."
"Plus a lucky break in the matter of a drawbridge. . . ."
"I include that. The causeway drawbridges are constantly being raised for passing boats. Quite frequently, even at night. But here--also--it was a matter of intelligence.
Miss Maxson's. She simply capitalized on an opportunity."
"And if the bridge hadn't gone up?"
"We would doubtless have contrived other measures."
She poured more coffee and stared at him. "Martin, do you realize that you carried your life in your hands? For such a sum--for a fraction of it--a gang like that would have murdered you both without a scruple!"
