by Lionel White
Santino had only removed his shoes and loosened his tie when he’d turned in so it took him very little time to get ready. He waited until after he’d put on the faded jacket and pulled the cap over his eyes before he went to the closet and took out the worn cardboard suitcase.
Cribbins watched him without speaking, as he snapped open the latches on the suitcase and inspected its contents. He seemed satisfied, and reclosed the bag. He checked his watch, which he carried in his trouser pocket.
Cribbins suggested a cup of coffee, but Santino shook his head.
“I’ll get one outside,” he said. He was leaving as Mitty returned. The two nodded briefly, passing each other in the doorway.
Carefully closing and locking the door, Mitty turned to face Cribbins and shrugged his thick shoulders. “A real sour ball, that one,” he said.
Cribbins nodded. “Yeah, but he knows his job, and that’s what counts. How about the car?”
“Out front,” Mitty said. “All set.”
Cribbins got up and moved over to the dresser. He pulled open the second drawer from the top and reaching in, lifted out the uniform.
“Okay, let’s get started then.”
He tossed the clothes over to Mitty and then opened the top drawer and took out another collection of garments. “We’ll get dressed,” he said, “and then start cleaning up this place. When we leave it will be for the last time and I want to be sure there are no prints or anything—just in case.”
He had to remove the shoulder holster which held the .38 Police Special which he was never without, in order to get into the blue flannel shirt.
Santino felt like hell. He coughed, a hollow, wracking cough, as he walked down the steps from the rooming house and into the bright sunlight of the fresh morning. It was a beautiful day, already warm, and promising hot, dry heat for later in the afternoon. The charm of the early fresh morning air was, however, lost on the little man.
He never felt good in the mornings. It wasn’t until later, some time around noon after he’d had his first needle, that he really began to feel good. Feeling good, for Santino, wasn’t like feeling good for most men. With Santino it was largely negative; a sense of suspension when his mind would wander and he’d live in a sort of half-world of fantasy and dreams.
He rounded the corner and as he walked, with quick, jerky steps, he pulled a package of cigarettes from his coat pocket and tore open the top of the package. In spite of the cough he lighted one and drew deep puffs. He choked then for a moment and cleared his throat and spit.
He went directly to the small restaurant a couple of blocks away and stopped outside long enough to buy a morning tabloid. Entering, he found a stool at the counter and ordered black coffee. That waitress asked if he wanted anything else and he growled a quick “no.” He read the paper as he drank the coffee, turning at once to the back pages and checking the race track results.
When he finished with the charts, he went back and started with the front section. He read only the headlines and the captions under the pictures. His eyes lingered longest over the scattered photographs of seminude girls—chorus girls whose pictures were used largely for decorative purposes and other girls who had made the publicity grade because of lawsuits or current jams with the police. His eyes were shadowed and lecherous as he slowly absorbed the pictures; in his mind he was committing all sorts of unspeakable acts.
Twenty minutes after he’d entered the restaurant, he paid his check and left. He had to walk another several blocks before he came to the cab stand.
The driver left him in the middle of the block, several hundred yards from the place where’d he’d rented the garage. He walked the rest of the way and when he reached the garage, he took a key from his pocket and opened the heavy padlock. The pushcart was where he had left it several nights before. There was no light in the garage but he didn’t need one. His thin, nervous hands darted under the canvas tarpaulin which covered the cart and he found what he knew would be there. He grunted with satisfaction.
Five minutes later he left, pushing the cart in front of him. It was only a matter of a few blocks to the intersection. He didn’t have to check his watch; he knew that he was going to be there on time.
For the first time he smiled; he had a strange sense of exhilaration and pleasure. He was looking forward to what was going to happen, what he had to do. It was just as it always was—the kick he got out of it in advance and in contemplation. He felt like a man going to keep a date with a new and promising woman. He was hoping that everything would go smoothly, but at the same time he was secretly wishing in the back of his mind that there might be just the slightest hitch; that there might be an excuse to reach under that canvas which covered the cart.
A thin, puny, weak man, Santino had a fatal fascination for violence. Violence made a giant out of him.
3.
No one is hurt. That was the first thought which crossed her mind as she stepped to the pavement from the car. Yes, thank God, no one seemed to be hurt; both men had gotten out to inspect the damage and they seemed to be all right. She herself was shaken up and Flick, the poodle, was howling blue murder but both of them were all right. Even the cars didn’t seem too badly damaged.
Joyce Sherwood gave a pathetic little laugh as her eyes took in the uniforms of the two policemen. Just her luck—running into a couple of cops. And it was her fault, no doubt of that. Well, at least she was insured, which was a help. She moved toward the front of the car where the two men stood silently as they checked to see how bad it was.
They’ll probably give me a ticket, she thought. And the dealer will knock a few dollars off of what he was going to give me on the turn-in allowance. But it could have been a lot worse—a whole lot worse ….
Cribbins swore softly under his breath.
“Damn—damn it to hell,” he said. “It couldn’t be worse. That fool woman … “
Mitty looked down at the puddle of water forming under the crumpled grillework of the almost new, two-toned Caddie. “Got the radiator, all right,” he said.
Cribbins’s eye went at once to his watch and his mind went simultaneously to a certain spot several miles away where he knew a pushcart would be sitting against a curb and where a broken-down old moving van would be waiting around the corner, waiting to pull across the road at exactly nine thirty-two. Went to the spot where the armored car would be passing in another twelve minutes and thirty seconds.
It would take a lot more than twelve minutes and thirty seconds before the Caddie moved again, at least under its own power.
Joyce stood next to Cribbins and looked at the damage and slowly shook her head. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “It was all my fault. I just didn’t quite see you in time and my mind was on … “
Both men turned and stared at her.
For a moment she hesitated. There was something very strange about the way they were looking at her and instinctively her hand tightened its grip on the bag she held. This would spoil everything. Her mind went at once to the surprise which she had planned for Bart’s birthday.
The way the two of them were looking at her, she began to suspect that it wasn’t just going to be a simple matter of an apology and maybe a ticket. Why, they might even arrest her and take her to jail. She could imagine Bart coming home from the office in time to bail her out! It would make a swell birthday present. Just great. Instead of the brand-new convertible sitting in the driveway to greet him, there would be a message to come down to the jailhouse and get his wife. She felt like crying.
“I’m—I’m afraid a piece of my bumper seems to have punctured your radiator,” Joyce said hesitantly.
The two men continued to stare at her. For a moment she wondered why they didn’t say anything—why they didn’t ask for her license. It was the first thing that policeman always did—ask to see your license.
She began to fumble with her leather bag and then again she suddenly remembered the cashier’s check for twenty-six hundred dollars, neatly folde
d up in the celluloid case which held her driving license. She remembered what the teller had said to her as he handed her the check.
“Made out like that, to cash, it’s just like money. So be careful of it,” he’d warned her. Joyce had never carried more than a hundred dollars in cash at one time with her in her whole life.
Her eyes went again to the wreckage of the two cars and for the first time it occurred to her that the Caddie was not an official police car. It must belong to one of the officers. No wonder the man seemed shocked.
“I am insured,” Joyce said in a weak voice.
Cribbins turned abruptly to Mitty. “Get in and see if you can back it off,” he ordered.
As Mitty climbed into the driver’s seat, he looked at Joyce.
“Start your motor, lady,” he said. “See if your heap is okay.”
The moment the two cars separated he saw what had happened. It was one of those freak things that wouldn’t take place one time in a hundred. The bracket holding the license plate on the old sedan had twisted at the moment of impact and had pierced through the grillwork of the other car and slashed into the radiator. With the exception of this, neither automobile was more than scratched.
Joyce still sat behind the wheel of her car as Mitty stepped to the street again and the two men spoke together for a moment. They turned and started toward her.
Flick barked and Joyce quickly shushed him. It was then she noticed for the first time that both men were wearing gloves. Gloves, in June! She noticed it because she was watching Cribbins and as he approached, he lifted his left hand and pushed back his blue serge sleeve to once more look at his watch.
At this particular point a lesser man than Cribbins would undoubtedly have given up and called the whole thing off. This completely pointless and unexpected accident was the one possible event which he had been unable to foresee and unable to prepare for. It threw his entire timetable out of kilter; caught him at a point where it was impossible to postpone or revise his master plan and at the same time created a situation making it difficult if not totally impossible to proceed. Not only had the accident ruined his means of getting away once the job was accomplished; it was now unlikely they would arrive at the scene of the impending drama in time to participate.
And there was no way of letting Santino and Luder know. They would be there, ready to go into action the moment the armored car arrived on the scene. And where would he and Mitty be? They’d be several miles away discussing a petty traffic accident with a girl and her dog.
That one look at his watch told Cribbins everything. There was no time now to find another car; no time to do anything but head directly to the spot where he had his rendezvous. The only car available was this other one; the car belonging to the girl who had run into them. They could take the car all right, although it wasn’t much of a car at best, but what about the girl? Certainly they couldn’t leave her to spread the alarm. There was only one thing to do—take her with them and hope for the best. He would have to play it by ear from here on in.
Cribbins spoke to Mitty, who quickly went back to the Caddie. He himself moved to the side of the old sedan. Without a word he opened the back door and climbed in. He took the revolver from its holster as Joyce craned her neck to turn and look at him with wide, alarmed eyes.
“Move over in the seat,” he said. “And keep your mouth shut. Do just as I tell you and maybe you won’t get hurt. And shut that damned dog up:”
For a moment then she was too startled to do anything but sit and stare at him. She was too startled to be frightened.
“I said move over!”
Joyce slowly closed her mouth and then, without consciously thinking about it, slid from under the wheel. Mitty had returned from the Caddie and he tossed a leather bag into the back of the car. He opened the door on the driver’s side.
“See here,” Joyce suddenly said, her voice inordinately high. “See here! You don’t need to point that gun at me. I’m not a criminal, you know.”
She fought to avoid the hysteria she felt coming over her.
“You’re not,” Cribbins said. “But I am. So shut up and do just what I tell you to do.” His eyes went to Mitty. “Get started,” he ordered. “We can make it if you hurry. But be careful—we don’t want to be stopped. Not now.”
Mitty rammed the car into gear and Flick began barking wildly.
For a second Mitty hesitated and then he spoke over his shoulder. “Shouldn’t we at least get rid of the mutt?” he asked.
Cribbins shook his head. “No,” he said. “The dog is likely to come in handy. Very handy.”
Wordlessly, Mitty swung the car around and headed for the Post Road. After a moment or two, he slowly shook his head and muttered under his breath.
“My Gawd,” he said. “I never thought I’d start out on a caper with a girl and a French poodle!”
Old Paul Rumplemyer had a reputation for being a character. Among the many people who knew him, some said that he was a typically smart Dutchman, others called him an eccentric, and a few considered him nothing more or less than a throwback to a dying age. Almost no one disliked him and a great many, especially tavern keepers whom he had helped through the lean years, considered him a philanthropist.
Paul’s father, Otto Rumplemyer, had immigrated to America from Bavaria around the turn of the century and within a year or two of arriving had started Rumplemyer’s Brewery. He wasn’t an overambitious man and had been satisfied to run a small, tightly knit operation, being content to brew the very best beer he knew how to brew and confine his business to a select number of German and Irish saloons.
Paul grew up in the business and along about the time the old man was ready to retire and go back to Germany, shortly before World War I, Paul took over.
He was in his twenties at the time, but knew all he needed to know to run the business successfully. Being of German descent, he found the war a little difficult, but he managed to keep the business going. When prohibition came along, he continued to do business, as usual. He changed to near-beer, of course, but he found means of supplying his buyers with the necessary ingredients to spike his product, and thus continued to prosper.
His was one of the few firms which did continue to brew beer and at the same time avoid being taken over by the new crop of gangsters who had been sired by the dry vote.
Prohibition ended and another war came and went, but Paul Rumplemyer went on much as usual. The city had grown vastly and Rumplemyer’s Brewery grew right along with it. But it remained essentially a local operation. The only change Paul made was to move the plant into Westchester, north of the city, where land and taxes were cheaper.
Times and methods changed with the years, but neither Paul Rumplemyer nor his brewery changed with them.
He continued to brew the same high-quality product in the same way his father had brewed it before him. He continued to handle his employees in the same paternalistic fashion and conduct his business along the lines which had been satisfactory for more than half a century.
Rumplemyer’s drivers, even in the old days when deliveries were made in great beer wagons drawn by four-in-hand teams of lumbering Percherons, had always made their own sales and deliveries and collections. They’d leave each morning loaded down with kegs, and when they’d return in the evening their first stop was in the main office where they’d turn over the day’s receipts to the cashier. More often than not, Paul himself would be standing by to check the figures. At night the money was locked up in an ancient safe. With the passing of years and the advent of fast, efficient trucks, the uneconomical and impractical wagons were discarded and a fleet of motor vans took their place. But the ancient practices continued.
On the first Monday of each month an armored car would arrive at the gates of the brewery and be admitted. The money would then be transferred to the local branch of a Manhattan bank. Bank officials, friends and even his insurance company had often discussed this situation with Paul Rumplemyer and had warned the
old man that keeping so large an amount of money in the old office safe was dangerous business. They said it was an open invitation to anyone who wanted to stick up the place.
But the old man would merely laugh and shrug his shoulders. Hell, he had a night watchman, didn’t he? A man who never left the office which held the safe and stayed there with a double-barreled, shotgun across his lap. Another thing, there never had been any trouble, never any attempt made to break in to the place. The system had always worked satisfactorily and he wasn’t going to change. Somehow or other he liked the idea of that money piling up there, day after day, for a whole month. When he did make a deposit, it was a respectable one.
Old Paul wasn’t going to change his habits for anyone. He’d gone through prohibition, when the toughest in mobsters of all time had been around, trying to move in on him. They hadn’t, though, and he certainly wasn’t going to start worrying about stickups this late in the game. As a matter of fact, he was partly right. The Rumplemyer Brewery would have been a very tough nut for anyone to crack. That safe was a lot stouter than it looked. It would take dynamite to blast it and the way the plant was located, right in the heart of the industrial section, no one would ever have a chance to blow it up and still find time to make a getaway before the cops were on them.
There was only one trouble with the old man’s system. It gave ulcers to the driver of the armored car who had to make the monthly pickups. Not only did he have to start work an hour earlier than usual in order to be at the brewery in time to get loaded and away by nine o’clock—which Rumplemyer insisted upon—but he knew that he was carrying somewhere around a quarter of a million dollars and this upset him.
