by Lionel White
The armored car system which Rumplemyer’s used was a small local outfit and they specialized in payrolls, which never amounted to more than twenty or thirty thousand. They weren’t really equipped for big jobs, and the drivers were aware of just how vulnerable they were. After all, those half-ton trucks which they drove were called armored cars more by courtesy than anything else. They were slow, cumbersome vehicles, usually a dozen or more years old, and carried neither modern equipment nor burglarproof armor.
There was only the driver, who wore a revolver at his side, and a second man who sat back in the truck part of the vehicle. He too wore a gun and he also had a shotgun strapped to hooks next to him. A solid blow with a hammer would be sufficient to break the lock on the double back doors of the truck.
Red Kenny, who’d been driving the car which had been making the money pickups from the brewery for the last couple of years, knew that the ancient hack he drove could be outdistanced by a boy on a fast English bike. He, for one, figured Paul Rumplemyer was not only eccentric; he thought he was downright crazy. One other thing frequently bothered Red. He was a big beer drinker and particularly liked Rumplemyer’s beer. It made him furious to arrive there and hang around while the money was placed in the truck and not even be offered as much as a single cool glass of the beverage. He was thinking just that as, thirty-one minutes after nine, he turned into the Old Post Road and started to drive south along the all but deserted street.
The new Post Road was a couple of blocks to the left, paralleling the old road, and almost all of the through traffic used it. Red would have liked to use it himself, but he drove the route which the old man had prescribed years ago and which he would never allow to be changed.
Carl Slagher put his head into the small opening between the rear and the driver’s compartment and spoke in a hoarse voice, yelling to make himself heard above the clamor of the truck. “Hurry it up a little, boy,” Carl said, “and we can dump this in time to pick up a beer before getting back to the office.”
Carl liked his beer too. In fact, it was largely because of this fatal weakness that he’d been let go by the police force a few years back and had to take the job as guard on the truck. The truck company, being a small outfit and not too prosperous, was unable to be choosy about whom it hired. Honesty and a willingness to work for low pay were the only two requisites.
Red half turned to shout an answer to the other man, but as he did, he saw the pushcart standing a little away from the curb several hundred feet down the street. Quickly he turned back and swung out to give it plenty of room.
The pushcart was on the right-hand side of the street, just before an intersection. As Red pulled the truck toward the middle of the road, a big moving van swung in from the intersection at his left. It was moving fast, considering it was turning into a cross street, and it made a wide curve.
For a brief second Red almost shouted, knowing that if the driver didn’t cut his turn short, he’d be bound to crash into his own vehicle. Red was going only about twenty-five miles an hour and instinctively he jammed his feet on the brake pedal and the clutch, cutting back a little, but not too much, as he didn’t want to smash into the pushcart.
A second later he did yell, but by then it was too late. The driver of the moving van failed to straighten his lumbering machine and it smashed into the side of the armored car.
For a moment it seemed the vehicle would topple over on its side, and Red’s face paled as he tried to cling to the wheel. The armored car teetered for a moment and then straightened as the van pushed it into the curb.
The shock threw Carl Slagher to the hard iron floor in the rear of the vehicle, and he was knocked unconscious. The door opposite Red flew open. He fell across the seat and half out of the car.
Cribbins sat in the back of the sedan and stared at the crystal of his watch. He held the gun in his lap, the muzzle pointed at the girl’s head.
It had really been a beautiful plan.
The armored car would reach the intersection at nine thirty-two. And just as it approached, Luder would swing into the road with the heavy van and crash into it. In that split second, while the men in the truck were still dazed, he and Mitty would pull up in the Caddie, dressed in the fake police uniforms. They’d be there just the crucial moment, in time to drag the driver and the guard from the armored car. By the time the men came to, assuming they weren’t badly injured—and they shouldn’t be, at the speed the truck would be going—he’d have everything in hand.
Mitty would pretend to arrest Luder, while Cribbins herded the two men from the armored car into the Caddie. They’d take the three money bags along, ostensibly to go to the police station and thrash the whole thing out. There would be no reason for the guards to be suspicious. They couldn’t expect to leave the money there in the wrecked car.
And then there was Santino, just in case; Santino standing by the pushcart, with the submachine gun concealed under the canvas. They’d get him into the Caddie, too, if everything went all right, as a witness to the accident. Once in the car it would be duck soup. They’d disarm the guards and head for the country; for the back roads which he’d mapped out and for the spot where they’d leave the two men tied up and gagged.
By the time the wreckage was found, they’d be well on their way. And by the time the guards were found, they wouldn’t have to be worrying about road blocks or anything else at all. They’d be up at the other end of the county, safe in the hideout.
It was just about as foolproof as it could be: a fast car, no witnesses left around to identify them. It was perfect. Perhaps except for this damned fool girl who had smashed into the Caddie. Now they had no getaway car, or at least nothing but this pile of junk they were riding in. Now it was a question whether they’d even get there in time for the crash.
Cribbins cursed under his breath. A fat lot of good his plans were going to be now. A lot of good the police uniforms were going to be. There had been plenty of trouble getting those uniforms, too.
Cribbins leaned forward. “When we get there,” he said, “pull around the corner. Out of sight of the truck. You stay in the car with the girl and keep her quiet. Stay until we get back to you.”
Mitty nodded. He wondered what was in the other man’s mind. He was beginning to wish that Cribbins would tell him to just keep right on going. Not stop at all. He couldn’t see how it could be worked now.
He slowed down and started to swing the car into the Old Post Road, a block from where Luder was to crash the truck into the armored car. As he did the sudden sharp staccato of a submachine gun reached his ears.
Cribbins quickly leaned over his shoulder. “Right to it,” he said in a tight, hard voice. “Drive right to it.” He lifted the gun from his lap. He jabbed a lean finger into Joyce Sherwood’s back. “If you want to stay alive,” he said, “you sit tight. Hang onto that mutt and sit tight. Mitty, you stay with the car. Have your gun ready.”
A moment later the old sedan screeched to a halt at the blocked intersection where the truck and the armored car were piled up.
4.
Even if Red Kenny had lived it is doubtful if he would ever have been able to explain why he acted exactly as he did. A psychologist would probably say that he had been conditioned by his job to be suspicious and on the alert and this may have been true. On the other hand, at the time of the crash, when he realized an accident was unavoidable, Red was thinking of nothing except a glass of cold beer.
The fact that it took place exactly where it did very likely had something to do with it. The armored car, after leaving the brewery, took a prescribed route on its way south to the city. The brewery itself lay at the northernmost fringe of Brookside. Between this section and the main part of the town lay a large residential area of middleclass homes which were growing old and dilapidated.
When the new throughway was put in a couple of years back, block after block of these homes were condemned and gradually builders came in and bought up the land to build modern garden
apartments. The Old Post Road ran through this section and for a number of blocks along its length the land was torn up and awaiting improvement.
The spot where the accident took place was in a particularly deserted stretch and there were no houses or buildings within several square blocks. The land had been partially cleared, but new construction hadn’t as yet started. The old road itself was a sorry mess and virtually all traffic avoided it; Red himself would have preferred to.
The moment Red saw the pushcart at the side of the deserted road, something told his subconscious that it didn’t belong there. There was no reason for its being there. But before he had a chance to think of this, the moving van swung into the street and crashed into him and the next thing he knew was when he found himself on the floor half in and half out of the door.
Raising his head, he looked out and he saw the pushcart standing there a few yards away. There was a man at the side of the cart and he had his back to Red. He was reaching under a canvas which covered the broken-down old cart. Red reached for his own gun. It was pure instinct.
At the moment the two vehicles crashed, Santino thought the moving van Luder was driving was going to push the armored car right into him. He leaped aside and rounded the pushcart to get out of the way. Santino was on edge. Even as he moved, he was cursing under his breath. He’d been watching the armored car approach and he had also been looking past it up the road.
Cribbins and Mitty should have been in sight, but they weren’t. It never occurred to Santino that anything could have happened to them; he merely assumed that they were careless and were going to be a few seconds late. But a few seconds could make a lot of difference.
It was because he was looking for the Caddie that he had almost missed seeing the accident and had to jump. He didn’t want to be pinned in the wreckage. It looked for a moment as though the van was going to topple the other car, but at last the two vehicles came to a stop and the truck was still upright. Only the driver wasn’t behind the wheel. That’s when Santino started to reach for the submachine gun. He still had his hands under the canvas when he swung back once more to the wreckage.
The door of the armored car had sprung open and a man was half lying on the floor. There was a gun in the man’s hand and he was so close that Santino could see the color of his eyes. They were blue-green, and they looked almost sightless. There was a nasty bruise on the man’s forehead and it was bleeding badly.
As Santino watched, frozen for a moment, the man shifted his position and lifted the hand which held the gun to wipe the blood from his forehead. In that second Santino jerked the submachine gun from the pushcart.
Red Kenny was still wiping away the blood, not even seeing Santino at all, when the half-dozen slugs tore open the flesh from his right shoulder to his waist, stitching neat little holes in front and leaving great gaping wounds where they made their exit.
Luder was half out of the truck as Santino loosed the burst of fire and for a moment he stopped, one foot on the pavement and the other still on the running board. He was looking for the Caddie and just realizing it wasn’t there where it should be. He stood, half dazed, trying to adjust himself, and then he heard Santino’s voice yelling at him.
“There’s a car coming! Get the bomb!”
Luder didn’t quite understand what was happening but he didn’t take time to figure. He followed orders. As he reached the pavement, his hand found the small gas bomb which he carried in the side pocket of his leather jacket. He tossed it through the grille in the back door of the armored car, then turned to see Santino standing next to him with the machine gun raised in his hands.
Cribbins had the back door of the sedan open as Santino raised the gun. He knew at once what was about to happen. Santino was expecting a two-toned Cadillac. Instead he was watching a small black sedan careening to a stop a few yards away.
Cribbins leaped to the street before Mitty had a chance to brake the car. He yelled as his feet hit the pavement. The yell wasn’t quite in time to arrest Santino’s finger on the trigger of the gun, but it did serve to spoil his aim. The muzzle swerved as he fired and the burst went into the pavement in front of the sedan.
There was no time to explain; no time for anything but action.
“The crowbar,” Cribbins yelled and when Luder just stood there staring at him, he struck the other man a sharp blow on the side of his face and pushed him toward the truck. Luder stumbled and then snapped out of it. Cribbins spoke quickly to Santino as Luder pried open the back door. “Get the money bags into the sedan,” he said. “It’s our only transportation—no time now to explain. Be careful when you go in the back there. Keep your face covered with a handkerchief.”
As Luder and Santino carried the canvas bags out of the truck, Cribbins hurried back to the sedan. He spoke to Mitty, but his eyes were on Joyce Sherwood.
“Get in the back, Mitty,” he said. “And get out of that uniform. We’ve got just about two or three minutes. When Santino and Luder come, explain it to ‘em. I’m going to drive and I’ll go west as far as the underpass under the parkway, if we don’t run into anyone. I want you to get rid of your guns. Put them in the trunk with the money. Have the boys put the money into the trunk.”
He hesitated for a moment as he had to raise his arms to jerk the blue uniform shirt over his own head. Under it he wore a white shirt. “Hand me the coat from that suitcase,” he ordered.
“We haven’t a chance,” Mitty said. “They’ll git us at the first roadblock.”
“Shut up and do as I say,” Cribbins snapped. “They won’t get you, at least. I’m dumping you and the others at the underpass. You’ll just have to try to keep from being picked up. Separate and you’ll have a chance. In any case, you’ll be clean if they do pick you up. Try and get to the hideout as soon as you can, but come separately and be damned sure no one tails you.”
“How about you? What are you going … “
“This little lady is going to drive me up,” Cribbins said. “It’s our only chance—the only way we can get clear with the money.”
“But … “
“No buts,” Cribbins snapped. “It’s the only way. There’s just a chance no one will stop a girl and her dog out for a ride in the country with her sick father.” He turned then and stared coldly into Joyce’s frightened eyes.
A moment later, as Santino and Luder crawled into the back of the sedan, they heard the low wail of a siren off to the south. A block up the street a man was running toward them, waving his arms.
“Stay down in the back,” Cribbins said. He released the clutch and as the car moved forward, he spoke to Joyce out of the side of his mouth.
“Get yourself set, sister,” he said. “In about ten minutes you’re going to take over the wheel. And if you want to stay alive, you’ll do exactly what I tell you to do. Just pray that we don’t get stopped. You’ll be the first one to be shot if we do. And keep the dog on your lap, where it can be seen if we pass anyone. They won’t be looking for a dog in a getaway car.”
She and Bart had driven over the road a hundred times. Back when they had first started going together—it seemed a century ago but actually she had known Bart for only a year before they were married—they had taken this road to go north for those marvelous ski trips. And then, in the spring, they would come this way on weekends for picnics in the country.
They weren’t really picnics, of course, but they would drive until they were some forty or fifty miles north of the city and then turn off the highway and find one of those little towns with an old-fashioned inn and there would be a cocktail or perhaps two cocktails and a long, leisurely lunch and the talk and the plans and everything they were finding together.
Bart had preferred the road to the parkway.
“Sure,” he would say, “I know we can make better time on the parkway and I know Twenty-two is always crowded, but the scenery is nice and anyway we aren’t in any hurry.”
It was absolutely essential that she keep her mind on Bart
. The initial shock had worn off; she was past hysteria now, past the point where she might faint, or go into a state of shock. Now it was pure and unadulterated fright.
She must keep her mind busy, think of something, think of anything but that blood-soaked, bullet-ridden armored car driver lying back there beside his truck on the cement pavement. Must think of anything but the lean, hard man who sat tense and waiting at her side.
God, to think that this was she, Joyce Sherwood, celebrating her first wedding anniversary.
She lifted her eyes from the road ahead for a moment and looked at the dogwood trees lining the side of the highway. They had been in bloom on that day of her life when she and Bart had made the one most important drive of all along this road. It was a day which she often remembered and now once more she forced her mind to dwell on it ….
They had been going together for quite a while and they’d found a lot to like in each other, but there had been nothing serious. Joyce had been orphaned at an early age and had spent most of her childhood in a convent. Her guardian was a distant relative who lived abroad and had little interest in the child who had been left in his care. He’d shifted his responsibilities to a trust company which in turn had seen to it that Joyce was raised in the convent until she was in her teens. She’d gone to a good finishing school and later had been entered in a New England college.
It was during her sophomore year that the guardian died and shortly after she received the news, the trust company had gotten in touch with her. It seemed that the money for her education had long ago run out and that the distant relative had been paying her expenses out of his own pocket. The first thing his heirs did was to cut off her allowance.
Joyce had to leave the college and take a job. The job was with the Markson Advertising Agency, and it was there that she’d met Bart. Until the time of her first date with him—he took her to dinner after work and then to a movie at one of the midtown art theaters—she’d had almost no contact at all with men. There’d been a couple of dates while she was still in college, but her years in the convent had made her afraid of men and she was extremely shy. Once or twice a boy had tried to kiss her and make love to her but she was embarrassed and frightened and they’d soon given up.
