THE SUPREME GETAWAY AND OTHER TALES FROM THE PULPS

by George Allan England

  The library seemed, somehow, to have grown into Peter’s heart. That heart wasn’t sentimental. Never had been. And yet —

  “Well,” said Peter, and turned off the Wellsbach.

  In the hallway, his wife already had her fur coat on, her rubbers, her doeskin gloves. A well-dressed woman. Always had been sty­lish even in the old days. The house listened to the wind and rain. It seemed so empty! Even the fact that Linda, the maid, had been sent away for a two days’ visit in Weavertown, somehow made it feel deserted. And in a few minutes it really would be deserted. Peter didn’t like the thought.

  He fished his rubbers from the base of the hat-rack and drew them on. Rubbers would be necessary, tonight, for more than keeping his feet dry. The banker looked a little curiously at his own face, in the hat-rack mirror. One might have thought he expected the single gaslight in the hall to show him some change in that face. But the light was dim, and revealed nothing. An in­consequential thought crossed the banker’s mind:

  “Next month I was going to have the new electric light system extended up here to North Rockville, and have lights in the house. But now it won’t be necessary.” That would save money, of course; and yet Brodbine felt sorry he hadn’t had it done.

  By the single gaslight, Brodbine could see Lillian, vaguely. The woman was stouter, better-looking, smoother than she had been all those long years ago, when she had been his “moll” in Kansas City. But she still remained essentially the same woman. Determined. Oh, very.

  A woman would have to be determined, to live as she had lived for the last eleven years, and never blow the game. To work into and mingle with Rockville. You know — Ladies’ Aid, Rebeccas, and all that. Lillian had done it. The stakes had been high enough to make it worthwhile. More than high enough. Nevertheless, Rockville had galled her. One can’t eternally smoke cig­arettes in the attic and blow the smoke up a stovepipe hole. One can’t eternally put away the lure of the bright places. The old life stretches out such long, insistent ten­tacles.

  “God, Tony!” she laughed, and her eyes danced. “I’m glad our time’s up. If anybody ever did an eleven-year bit, we’ve done it. Well, it’s our turnout, now. Nine hundred thousand isn’t such a much, for what we’ve plugged through. It’s only a little more than eighty-one thousand a year. And Lord! what a time we’ve had!”

  “Let’s go,” said Peter Brodbine, putting on his hat and coat.

  He glanced about the hallway, as if men­tally writing down for the last time all the pleasant, familiar things, from newel post to umbrella stand. His lips looked a little hard. But then, they always looked hard. They had looked hard when he had pulled that final pennyweight stunt in Albany and had vanished from all the world that had known him — vanished, for eleven years.

  Brodbine had gray eyes, cold but business­like; he had a voice that penetrated, that awakened confidence. His handshake made men like him. In the old days, his greatest assets in shoving his “scratch-work” had been just those qualities. They had boosted him, as well, since he had been on the level. His personality and his absolute, unswerving honesty for eleven years, had made his word his bond. Luck had favored him, too. Nobody had ever risen up in his path, from the other days. So he had gone ahead, following the chosen game of honesty as a means to an end. Honesty had been hard. Life habits cannot be easily changed. But his wife and he had made up their minds to it as the quickest way, in the end, to a big smash. When one plays for stakes that mean a set-up for life, only one policy is permissible. The copy-books all tell you what that policy is.

  “Well” said Brodbine, as he turned off the gas in the hall, “you see I had it doped right. Those other times when I could have connected would have dragged down a good bundle, but they’d have crabbed the big wallop.” As the old life drew near again, the old speech once more enfolded him like a familiar cloak. “You were trying to wolf it too quick, Lil. We couldn’t have afforded to unhook anything till it was ripe. Only a mutt will grab off a hot cent on the avenue, when there’s a cold dollar waiting in the alley.”

  “You can’t pull that stuff on me!” the woman retorted. “It was half my frame. I know as well as you do that if you play it square, long enough, you’ll sometime get to bat.”

  “Well, we won’t chew on that pill, now. The game’s a winner, anyhow. And honesty don’t drag too hard, either, after a while,” he added. He could see his wife, now, only as a kind of vague shadow at the front door. “It’s not too bad, after you get your second wind. It gets to be kind of a habit, after a while.”

  “Like coke,” she laughed, “or the needle. Only the pipe-dreams, this way, are the real bundle.”

  “Yes,” said he. “It’s a kind of a habit.”

  “And they get to calling you ‘Honest Pete.’ After they start that ‘Honest Pete’ stuff, it’s all over but the fade.”

  Peter Brodbine, banker — alias Tony the Scratcher — nodded, and opened the front door. The November rain gusted raw against his face. It was pitch-black, out­side; an ugly night, just the kind they needed. Not a soul would be out, in this straggling suburb. Probably even down­town, they would meet nobody. Brodbine had never done any bank-work, in the old days; but he had dropped phony paper for a good many “box-men,” and he knew their technique. Because of such knowledge he had chosen this night of all nights — a rainy, stormy, Saturday night.

  “It looks pretty good to me!” judged Lillian, who once on a time had been Delia the Dip. She too came out. The banker shivered, and buttoned up his ulster under his chin.

  “It gets to be kind of a habit — like dope,” he repeated.

  He closed the front door. The slight, hollow sound of that closing reverberated in the man’s heart. It seemed like the shutting-up of life. Eleven years in a little town like Rockville, where you know everybody, is a long time.

  “Come on!” bade Peter, and led the way toward the garage.

  They slid back the door, and got into the machine. Their suitcases already lay in the limousine body. These cases held all they meant to salvage from home. Passengers from a sinking ship take only their best valuables, if anything at all. The Brodbines were taking only theirs — a little clothing, a few toilet-articles, a trinket or two. On a trek like this, planned to carry them half round the world without a stop and to end there in complete disappearance, impedimenta are unwelcome.

  Brodbine switched on the lights, stepped on the self-starter and let in the clutch. The car cradled out of the garage and down the graveled way to the street. For a second, the lights touched the rear of the big, com­fortable old house, illuminating the summer-kitchen. Above it, the woman caught a glimpse of her bedroom windows — the room now abandoned for unknown adventurings. Brodbine saw, too, and frowned a little, but the woman laughed.

  “So long, shack!” she gibed. Brodbine realized her callousness, and shivered. He swung the car south, toward town, toward the bank he was president of. Save for the stab of the headlights, night had everything its own way. The blue light the streetlamps were making against rain and wind seemed only to intensify the blackness. No­body was stirring. This community was still so old-fashioned that people slept there, o’ nights. Oh, yes, the town had a couple of constables, beside Gilkey, the fat Chief of Police who occupied quarters in the base­ment under the Post Office, where the lock­up was. But the Brodbines, who in their day had outplayed some of the keenest “dicks” in the country, didn’t give the local Law much heed.

  “Looks like a cinch, all right,” smiled Lillian. “It’s like taking candy from a kid.”

  “Candy is right,” assented the banker. “From — a kid.”

  They exchanged nothing more, as the car took them into town. There was really nothing much to say. Everything had been planned, rehearsed, lived over, for weeks. And the whole thing was so childishly easy! Certainly Rockville was not to be feared. Rockville was not expecting or dreading any coup. One doesn’t suspect one’s watchdog of intending to steal the leg of mutton from the icebox.

&n
bsp; A watchdog. The watchdog of Rock­ville. That, in a word, was what “Honest Pete” had become. Eleven years of hard, impeccable work had landed him securely in the watchdog role. Nothing could have been worked up with greater skill, or could promise to be more advantageous.

  In the beginning, after the successful get­away from that Albany job, Brodbine had faded out of his old name and haunts; and had emerged, another man, in this remote place. He had found a little employment as telegraph-operator at the depot. After that, he had become stationmaster. Any port in a storm, you know; and beside, he still had a few thousand salted. This work had served only as a convenient blind.

  By the time he had got pretty well liked by the business men of the town, for his efficiency re freight-shipments and the handling of express, he had conceived the idea of “going straight” for some years and then of gutting the place. All this time he had kept in touch, by letter, with his “moll.” She had approved the plan. He had, at her advice, made a play for a petty job in the Rockville National Bank, and had got it. Then he had realized he needed her as a partner; though he had ceased to love her, he had gone to the woman, and had married her. A wife is a prime requisite in working a small town. He had brought Delia the Dip back with him, as Lillian Brodbine. And she had proved a helpmeet, indeed. A smooth woman. Very. She had been enthusiastic about church activities, and all that. Before long, no Ladies’ Aid fair, no lawn-supper, had been successful without Mrs. Brodbine. The Brodbines had entertained a little, too, and gradu­ally had become popular.

  Brodbine’s efficiency, silence, sobriety, and honesty had got him a dead man’s shoes, and he had become teller at the bank. In less than two years more he was looking through the cashier’s window. The bank had prof­ited. Brodbine had introduced up-to-date methods and machinery; new systems, all kinds of improvements. Bank and town had prospered alike. Then had come that forgery, presented by a Cleveland traveling-man. It had got by all the others at the bank. Even old Dowling, president, had been gulled. Brodbine’s professional skill had spotted the fine scratch-work and had saved the institution ninety thousand. That had been a tremendous feather for Brodbine. Dowling had been quietly “let out”; and bank and town alike had rejoiced to make new rosewood furniture for the newly-finished office of President Honest Pete.

  “There’s McElroy’s!” Lil nudged her husband, as the car loped past a wide lawn fenced with ornamental wire. A streetlight vaguely outlined a cast-iron stag. Rock­ville still clung to wire fences, iron animals and fountains with iron children holding umbrellas. “The Macs’ll sit up and take notice, after this smash, eh? Mrs. Mac won’t hand out any more of her D. A. R. wallops to the little stranger in our midst — not very quick again, will she?”

  “Mac’s a good fellow, though,” said the banker.

  The woman laughed, evilly, in the gloom.

  “They won’t be living in that big house, much longer,” she opined. “There’s lots of others that’ll take a tumble, too!”

  Brodbine only grunted.

  “The poor fish!” gibed Lillian. “The mutts!”

  Her husband did not answer.

  II.

  IT WAS EASY ENOUGH for Brodbine to enter the bank. From his car, which he left in the safe seclusion of an alley off Congress Street, he and Lillian had only to walk one square, turn into Hanover Place, and thus come to the side door of the bank building. Here, under the doorway of the Commercial Insurance Company, he left the woman. There was nobody at all on the dark, rain-swept streets; but still his old-time caution dictated his posting her as a sentinel.

  His bunch of keys held everything requisite for him to reach the bank vault and the safe. Of late there had been some talk about putting a time-lock on the vault. Brodbine had apparently fallen in with this plan, but had managed to postpone it. That, of course, would have ruined everything. Now, his keys and the combination made matters simple indeed. He had the combination as firmly in his mind as his own name — or names.

  “Cinch is no word for it,” thought the bank-president. “Anybody could open this ‘gopher’ with a jackknife, if it came to that.” He unlocked the side door, and entered the building, snapping back the catch but closing the door behind him.

  As he reached the interior, he paused, listened keenly. His caution, his flair for any possible danger — an instinct dormant for years — had returned, as a tame wolf’s hunting-instinct surges back, when the beast is set free in the wilderness. Brodbine waited a moment, peering, hearkening.

  Till now, he felt, all had been safe. No­body, so far as he knew, had seen him stop his car in that alley where he had left it with extinguished lights and softly-singing engine. Nobody had seen him enter the bank. Of that he was positive.

  And now? Yes, everything still seemed quite safe. Old Joe Spracklin, the night watchman — what danger lay in him? And there was nothing else to fear. Spracklin, the banker knew, had literary habits; he did a lot of reading in the little upstairs room where he spent most of his time. Only yesterday, Brodbine had given him a set of ten volumes of “The World’s Masterpieces of Crime.” That would keep Spracklin busy, all right. True, the old man had to come downstairs once an hour, to punch the watchman’s register. But fully forty min­utes remained, before he was due to come again. And fifteen minutes would more than suffice for the job Brodbine had in hand.

  Still, Brodbine — alias Tony the Scratcher — was taking no chances. His return to the underworld life spread his nostrils to the scent of danger. He had not intended to bear firearms, to run any risks of killing, on this job. But now he discovered that he felt empty, lonesome, without a “canister.”

  “Well, there’s one handy,” he realized. “I’ll cop it, just in case!”

  He walked noiselessly into his own private office. His rubber soles made no sound. He slid open his desk drawer and took out the revolver he always kept there. It was just the same kind of gun that certain other bank-employees had, among them Spracklin, Thirty-two caliber guns, of considerable penetrative power.

  The “gat” in Brodbine’s pocket gave him more assurance. He looked toward the vault, ready for business.

  “Damn that light!” he growled.

  The single incandescent hanging before the vault constituted, in effect, his chief danger. He had long foreseen this danger, but had never thought out any way to dispense with that light. From the street, a barred window gave full view of the vault door. Any passerby might look in. Still, the chances were against anybody being abroad, such a night. If Brod­bine had had to think of only outsiders, he would have extinguished the light and chanced anybody’s noticing it was out and kicking up trouble. But he knew the light shone dimly into the corridor, against the wall. Old Spracklin, from his room, could see that vague reflection. In case the watchman should notice it no longer shining, he would come downstairs at once, to investigate.

  The incandescent would have to be left burning. Other dangers, however, were few. The two constables were probably safe at home, and Gilkey was doubtless sleeping. Also, Lillian was serving as “lighthouse” outside. One whistle from her, and Brodbine would vanish into his dark office till the danger should be past.

  “Cinch!” he mentally echoed Lillian’s comment. Already a metamorphosis was upon him, like a chemical reaction, an experiment in transmutation of soul-stuff. His mentality seemed slipping back into the sly darkness of the old days. His instincts were retrograding. Honest Pete Brodbine was fading out, growing unreal; and Tony the Scratcher was once more taking shape. Yes, the test tube was boiling nicely now.

  “Cinch!” chuckled the man who was now something of both these men, yet who was fully neither one.

  Though it was time to be at work, he felt no haste. He desired to stretch himself in this new warmth of lawlessness. To think it all over; to exult. The kill was certain. He wanted to toy with it, a few minutes.

  The whole “plant,” from the beginning, had been easy enough for a man with brains and energy. Brodbine had possessed both. He had given them
freely to make the Rockville National the sturdiest bank in the county. His bank had become Rockville’s leading institution, just as he himself had grown to be its foremost citizen. His going, annexing close to a million would mean the total derailing of a lot of people.

  Brodbine knew this. Somehow, he wasn’t quite enjoying it, now, as he had expected to when he had savored the exploit on the tongue of anticipation. He was thinking about his wife. About how little — outside of this scheme — they really had in common. About how malicious she had become toward Rockville respectability. Men who rob banks should work hard and fast; but Brodbine still kept thinking. He felt so very much at home, in the bank. It all seemed his, in a way.

  Wasn’t it his? When he had entered its employ, its capitalization had been only $50,000 and its surplus $65,000. Now it held something like $1,125,000 of Rockville’s and of the county’s money, private and public. Under his administration it had moved from a wooden building on Porter Street, a rented building, to its own three-story brick block, facing Constitution Square. This was the only three-story building in town, and everybody was proud of it and of Brodbine.

  He was proud of it, himself. Proud of the way he had boomed the bank. He had absorbed nearly all the town trade, already, and what he didn’t have, was coming. Farmers and traders drove in, these days, from even the far ends of the county, to park their flivvers in Constitution Square, or else to hitch their horses at the iron railings in front of the bank and to do business there. Brodbine had fitted up a room for out-of-towners, where they could trade and gossip. That had brought business to his net. He had got acquainted with everybody. His system had been to know everybody. No funeral or wedding had for a long time been really complete, without Brodbine. Lots of young married couples owed their start in life to him, looked upon him as a kind of godfather. Ever since he had been bank-president, he had always sent a dollar to every newborn child in the county, to start an account with. That scheme had pulled like a porous-plaster. Though not much of a churchgoer — for he knew piety might be dangerous — he had always been “there” when any of the three churches had needed a new organ, repairs to the steeple, or a boost for the Southeast Mozambique Improve­ment Fund.