THE SUPREME GETAWAY AND OTHER TALES FROM THE PULPS

by George Allan England

  “Next? Oh, after we’re over the top, I stops Liz on a good startin’ grade, jumps out, an’ finds one tire’s gettin’ ready to lay down on the job an’ die. There’s a long strip o’ rubber, loose, that’s been whackin’ against the mudguard. I yanks it off, drops it in the road an’ climbs back, smilin’, though my heart’s half-dead, ’cause that there tire’s liable to blow worse ’n a whale, any old time, an’ I got no spare.

  “‘Well, what was it?’ asks the w. d.

  “‘Oh, nothin’ — piece of a barrel-hoop,’ says I.

  “‘Puncture?’

  “‘Naw! These here tires is puncture-proof, anyhow,’ I says, an’ away we slides, again. But all the time I’m watchin’ the speedometer careful an’ anxious, ’cause if my five miles o’ gas runs out, I’m done. So, pretty soon, I rounds back towards town, again. An’ now Liz begins to skip. Three’s all she’ll hit on.

  “‘Hello,’ says the w. d. ‘What now?’

  “‘Nothin’ at all.’ I assures him, smilin’ confidential. ‘Dirty plug. That don’t signify. Ain’t been cleaned in six months. She’s some little bearcat to travel, ain’t she?’

  “The duck allows she is, an’ so there’s no more said. I’m prayin’ hard we’ll reach the cafe without no traffic hold-up. If I ever have to go inta low, I’m done. Once she’s on low, on level ground, you couldn’t get her inta high with dynamite. But Liz’s luck holds. Nothin’ jams us. An’ so, pretty soon, there we are again, back front o’ the cafe, with her nose downhill. I makes a snappy stop with the foot brake an’ crams her wheel against the curb, to hold her from runnin’ away.

  “‘Why don’t you put on your emer­gency?’ asks the duck.

  “I only scorns him.

  “‘Emergency, nothin’!’ says I. ‘No such animal, on this boat. She’s a racin’ car, stripped light. I thought you said you was hep to cars, tires to top!’

  “That settles the duck. He climbs out, puts on his hat, shoves his mitts down in his pockets, an’ looks wise.

  “‘Well, mister,’ says. I, ‘can she travel, or can’t she?’

  “‘She sure can, but —’

  “‘Is she some classy boat, or ain’t she? What?’

  “‘Classy is right,’ he answers, while Bill Hemingway, who’s been layin’ in the offin’, so to speak, lays off from layin’ in the offin’ an’ lays alongside. Bill assumes a flankin’ position, to reinforce me. ‘She’s classy, speedy an’ all that,’ the duck says, ‘but — well —’

  “‘No well to it!’ I interrupts, lookin’ at my watch as if I had a dozen dates. ‘You gotta talk turkey to me, right off the bat. I got six offers, already. There’s only one one boat like this here, in the world,’ says I, which is strictly true, ‘an’ it’s the lucky man that gets her,’ which is what I call a flight of imagination. ‘She’s liable to be gone in an hour. What’s your best offer?’

  “‘Hundred an’ fifty,’ says the w. d.

  “My mouth’s just openin’ to yell: ‘Gimme it!,’ when Bill, he horns in with: “‘Nothin’ doin’!’ His tone’s indignant. ‘I guess not! Nix on the one-fifty. Say, I wouldn’t let my own brother have it for no such slaughter price!’

  “‘What’s your lowest?’ asks the w. d., anxious.

  “I’m just goin’ to bust inta tears an’ fall on my knees, implorin’ Bill to keep out an’ not grab me from drawin’ down three times what Liz is worth even for junk, but he elbows me out. The duck squints at Liz, an’ then says, says he:

  “‘I’m not buyin’ for myself, you un­derstand, but for a friend o’ mine, name o’ Robinson. What’s your very lowest?’

  “‘Name a figure yourself,’ says Bill, cool as one o’ my frozen puddin’s. ‘You know the car. You’ve had a full demon­stration, an’ she’s all as represented. She’s just as you see her, an’ no comeback if pur­chased. Ever see a boat any classier?’

  “‘Oh, she’s good, all right.’

  “‘As an expert, now I ask you, is she the goods or ain’t she?’

  “‘She can travel, I admit. She’s cer­tainly there!’

  “‘Name a figure!’

  “‘One sixty-five, an’ that’s the last cent I’ll go!’

  “‘Mister, you’ve bought a car!’ says Bill, holdin’ out his hand. ‘Congratula­tions!’

  “Somethin’ kind of seems to rise up an’ cloud my sight, like I was faintin’. When I comes to, gets my eyes open again an’ catches my breath — when I comes up for air, you might say — the duck is diggin’ up eight new twenties an’ all. I’m still gaspin’, like, but Bill shoves me into the camou­flage, or the background, or somethin’, while the duck climbs inta Liz.

  “‘Good luck,’ says Bill, wavin’ his hand, as Liz slides away down hill. ‘Here’s hopin’ Robinson will find her sound an’ kind, an’ be as glad to get her as we’re glad to do him a favor an’ let him have her. I congratulate you on havin’ bought the only car in the world like her — the only original Liz. Good luck an’ goodby!’

  “Away the duck goes, down the hill an’ round the corner, with Liz still hittin’ on three an’ the slow leak bringin’ one front tire nearly flat, an’ now an’ then back-firin’ like a Krupp. An’ that’s the last I ever see or either the Duck or Liz. I never sees Robinson, nor hear of him, neither. He’s a game sport an’ a good loser, I’ll say that for him. Ain’t he? What?”

  The young man in the striped suit nodded, grinning. The man with the horn-glasses looked very thoughtful, very grave. A little silence fell in the smoking-compartment, while from the engine sounded a long whistle, announcing an approaching stop.

  “Great stuff!” suddenly exclaimed the young man, with enthusiasm, as he slapped his knee. “That’s the best put-over I ever heard, in the boat line!” He turned to the man in the horn glasses. “Well, what d’you think of it? You don’t seem to fall for it very strong, do you?”

  “No, I don’t,” answered the man in the horn spectacles. “As a matter of fact, I’m Robinson!”

  III.

  THE MAN with the pompadour stared vacantly. His jaw dropped.

  “Good night!” he cried. “You?”

  “I have that honor, sir.”

  “Go on! You ain’t the guy that the wise duck bought Liz for?”

  The gentleman with the horn glasses drew out his card-case, looked it through, chose a card and presented it.

  “At your service,” he answered.

  He of the pompadour read:

  *

  WILLIAM F. ROBINSON

  Attorney-at-Law

  27 Pearl St., Boston

  *

  For a moment, the blankest silence fell that had ever permeated that smoking-compartment. Then Pompadour gulped, wiping his brow with a tremulous hand:

  “Good night! I — I sure spilled the beans that time!”

  “The beans, sir, are certainly spilled,” answered Horn Glasses. “The entire pot-full. And that is not all. Now that I know the complete inside story of the infamous fraud perpetrated on me, the same consti­tuting a clear case of obtaining money un­der false pretenses, I call on you to make complete restitution, or suffer the conse­quences!” His eyes were severe, through the big glasses. Impressively he tapped the leather-covered arm of the divan. “The car is worthless, absolutely and entirely worthless. Junk, indeed, and nothing else. I was obliged to sell her for such. I re­ceived but forty-five dollars for her. Your story, sir, has been heard by witness. Do you wish to settle with me privately, or would you rather have me take the matter into court?”

  “I — I guess I’d rather settle, but —”

  “Very well, sir. The sum of one hundred and twenty dollars will liquidate your indebtedness.”

  “But I — I ain’t got that much on me!”

  “How much have you, sir?”

  “Ninety-two, sixty!”

  “Very well. I will be reasonable. I will accept ninety dollars in complete set­tlement of all claims. Otherwise — well, matters must take their course.”<
br />
  Jimmy Dill passed a hand up over his pompadour, then, re­signing himself to the inevitable, pulled out his billfold and paid up. Horn Spectacles very gravely pocket­ed the money. Then, as the brakes began to grit,; he reached for his suitcase; stood up; and putting on his hat, left the car.

  Dill, in a collapse against the cushions, feebly shook his head.

  “Can you beat it?” he whispered husk­ily. “Goodnight! Can — you — beat — it?”

  IV.

  AS THE TRAIN pulled out of the little way station, Horn Spectacles stood gazing after it, with a smile.

  “Not too bad, for a casual bit of busi­ness,” said he contemplatively. “Ninety beans don’t grow on every bush, but a lit­tle ‘bush’ seems to have produced ninety. Some cinch, eh?

  “Good idea to carry a full assortment of cards, comprising all the more common names. A man in my line of high-grade confidence specialties never knows when one or the other will come in handy. Now, for instance, if I hadn’t just happened to have a card with the name ‘Robinson’ on it, this flier in junk couldn’t have been pulled across, and I’d have been out ninety.

  “I wonder who Robinson really was, though, and what happened to Liz?

  “I wonder!”

  THE SILO

  THE ROARING of the eight horse-power gasoline-engine and of the voracious ensilage-cutter, out there in the yard, blending with the windy chatter of the cut corn as it skittered up the pipe and whirled down into the dark silo, masked the coming of Lucky Ruggles. Pownall swung up from broadcasting a shovelful of ensilage that he had dug out of the swiftly growing mound under the pipe, to find himself confronted by the man he feared and hated more than any in this world.

  Ruggles grinned, and spat tobacco. An absurd figure to be afraid of — a slouching hobo, with an old cloth cap on, a long black coat possibly stolen from some scarecrow, and torn trousers tucked into a pair of worn out high boots that a farmer’s wife had given him. A weak figure, unshaven and watery-eyed; but packed with potential dynamite for Pownall, none the less.

  “Hello, there, Powdy!” the hobo greeted the proprietor of the farm. He swaggered a little, with dirty hands deep in trouser pockets, and scuffed his boot-toes into the soft ensilage. “Glad t’ see me, ain’t you? An’ I’m sure glad t’ see you! This is my lucky mornin’. They’re all lucky mornin’s to Lucky Ruggles. That’s me!”

  Pownall could only stare, with fallen jaw. The in-whirling fodder, shot down from the curved pipe high aloft, flicked him with bits of corn-leaf and stalk. At his side, now that he had stopped shoveling, swift­ly rose the pile of chopped corn. Only unceasing toil with the shovel and with trampling feet could keep it level in the silo.

  “Well, ain’t you glad to see an ole friend like me?” demanded Ruggles, squint­ing with that evil, watery eye. This eye gladdened at sight of his victim’s fear. Not even the vague light from the hole in the roof, where the pipe came through, could mask the lines and hues of terror on Pownall’s bearded face.

  “How — how the devil did you git here?” stammered Pownall. He raised the shovel as if to strike.

  “Lay off on that rough stuff!” command­ed Ruggles, his stubbly jaw stiffening. “You ain’t never gonna hit me, see?”

  “Git outa here!”

  “When I’m damn good an’ ready! I didn’t come here to —”

  “You got no right on this here farm. Git!”

  Ruggles only laughed.

  “You got the nerve, I must say!” he gibed. “After what I’m wise to about you! Now, looka here, mister. I’m gonna have a little privut talk with you, see? We got a few minutes all to our lonesomes. This here’s a swell place fer a privut talk, ain’t it?” He glanced appraisingly about the silo. “Nobody seen me come. Nobody knows I’m here. So it’s all hunky-dory. Some luck, hey?”

  “Cut that out!” retorted Pownall. “I got nothin’ to say to you!”

  The men’s voices were hardly audible over the droning roar of the machinery, the whirring of the corn. This racket had kept Pownall from hearing Ruggles as the hobo had climbed the ladder into the silo.

  Unseen by the workers in the yard, Rug­gles had crept up through the meadow, skirted the stone wall and gained the south side of the barn. Here a door had admitted him. The rest had been easy. Now, with that grin of conscious and cruel power, he confronted the gray-faced victim of his blackmail.

  “What d’you want o’ me?” Pownall de­manded.

  “Oh, you don’t know! Oh, no! My letter — you got it, all right.”

  “T’hell with your letter, an’ you, too!”

  “You ain’t gonna come across with that thousand?”

  “Git out o’ here!”

  “All right,” grinned the tramp with yel­lowed snags of teeth. “Suits me! But I’m goin’ right from here to them insurance people. An’ they’ll slip me a few, fer wisin’ ’em up. I’m playin’ in luck, either way. Lucky Ruggles, that’s me!”

  “They won’t believe no bum like you!”

  “We’ll see about that, mister. An’ when you’re doin’ a five-year bit you’ll reckon a thousand bucks is pretty small money to be holdin’ out on me. A man what’ll stay in the big house ruther’n cough up at the rate o’ two hundred bucks a year, ain’t much!”

  “I’ll say you set the fire! I’ll —”

  “Ta-ta, mister!”

  Lucky Ruggles turned to go. Then Pownall struck.

  II.

  A SHOVEL BLADE may be a murderous weapon in strong hands of hate and terror.

  The hobo crumpled forward. He fell, facedown, in the soft ensilage. Immediate­ly a storm of tiny fragments of corn sprayed itself over his motionless body.

  Pownall recoiled against the sweeping curve of the silo wall, his eyes white-rimmed with horror. He dropped the shovel. Flat against the wall his calloused fingers extended widely. His back pressed that wall, as if he were trying to push fur­ther away from the silent figure.

  “Ruggles!” he cried.

  No answer. Then Pownall laughed ex­plosively.

  It came as a relief after all. Now that the thing, often dreamed, was really done, the farmer felt a vast lightening of his soul’s burden. It wasn’t hard, was it, to kill a man? Why, an ox required twice as hard a blow! And a man — but was this black­mailing snake a man?

  “Damn you!” mouthed Pownall, and stumbled toward the body.

  Already it was half hidden by the tor­nado of ensilage. Pownall understood where his own safety lay, and laughed again. No one had seen the tramp. No one knew. And here, actively at hand, was burial.

  He dragged the body, still face-down­ward, more into the direct line of discharge of the pipe. He stood up and watched the swift drive of the cut fodder over it. Then an idea whipped him to the quick. What if somebody had happened to see, to know? That might be possible. Somebody might have been in the barn. Might be there, even now.

  Pownall’s heart thrashed, sickeningly. An obsession clutched him that somebody really was in the barn. Quivering, he recoiled. He must know!

  He stumbled to the tall row of openings that, one above the other, extended up one side of the great cylindrical pit. Through one of these openings — later to be closed by doors, as the silo should fill — he swung himself to the ladder. His legs shook so that he could hardly clamber down. His hands felt putty-like and lax. He dragged himself out to the barn floor. Horribly afraid, he peered up and down.

  His terror had him as a dog has a rat, shaking him. But in spite of everything he felt the surge of an immeasurable glad­ness. Ruggles was dead! Dead, and well punished for all his threats of blackmail, ruin, imprisonment.

  “He was a skunk, anyhow,” thought the farmer. “I kill skunks on sight. Damned, egg-suckin’ skunks! He’s only gittin’ what was comin’ to him!”

  Pownall was sick and weak. His mouth felt baked. He swallowed hard. What he wanted was a drink. Water! He walked unsteadily to the faucet that supplied the horse trough near the big barn door. He drew a dipper of water
, and gulped it. The water slopped down his neck and chest, wet­ting his beard, his shirt. That felt good! He smeared his mouth with his hairy hand, and grew calmer.

  “It was comin’ to him all right,” he re­peated, and blinked at the October sun­shine, golden through the crimsoned maples by the roadside. “Comin’ to him!”

  What made Pownall’s head feel so queer? He wondered dully. For a few minutes he stood there at the door, breathing hard. No one passed along the lonely road. He could hear the engine and the cutter still at work back of the barn; the shouts of a teamster, bringing up still another load of corn from the field. He grinned, crookedly. He couldn’t think very straight, but still he realized that he was safe and that Rug­gles had only got what was coming to him.

  “Lucky Ruggles!” he gulped. “He played it once too often. Out o’ luck fer once. Huh!”

  It struck him as something of a joke after all. A grim jest. He was laughing a little as he turned back into the barn.

  Was there anybody on the barn? Of course not! What an idea, eh? This was a relief. The empty stalls and stanchions peered at him vacantly. The haymows lis­tened. But no human face was visible. In the silo the corn was still rattling down the pipe, whickering on to the pile.

  “Only a tramp,” thought Pownall. “Got no home, no folks. I’m a damn fool to worry!”

  He breathed deep, and returned to the silo. He felt so glad! Glad it was all over and done with. Glad he was free at last.

  “An’ it was comin’ to him all right!”

  He approached the ladder, up along the staring row of openings into the silo. The four lowest openings were closed by doors, each two feet high. That meant eight feet of corn already lay in the silo. He squinted up the ladder, past the haymow, to the roof, where the pipe came through.

  “That’s great stuff, that corn,” he real­ized. “It’ll bury him in no time. Gosh, but this is lucky fer me!”