by Lionel White
Already he was beginning to regret having told her. It wasn't that he didn't trust Sherry—he knew she'd keep her mouth shut al right. But he didn't want her worrying about the thing. And of course, Johnny was right. No one at al should know about it except the people involved. Even that was risky enough.
He reflected that even he didn't know exactly who was in on the plot. Wel , he'd learn tonight—tonight at eight o'clock.
Careful y carrying the glasses, he started for the bedroom. He decided that he'd tel Sherry nothing more, nothing at al . He had to keep quiet, not only for his own protection, but for her protection as wel . But he felt good about one thing. Sherry knew, now, that there was a chance they'd be coming into a big piece of money. She'd be happier. A lot happier. With money he could get her back; real y back.
Before George Peatty left the house to take a subway downtown to keep his appointment, he took off his jacket and tie and went into the bathroom to wash up. While he was out of the room, Sherry crossed over to where he had careful y dropped his coat over the back of a chair. She made a quick, deft search through his pockets. She found the slip of paper on which he had scribbled the address down on East Thirty-first Street so that he would be sure not to forget it.
Quickly she memorized the few words and then put the paper back in his pocket.
She was back on the bed when he returned and she tolerated his long kiss and caress before he left.
* * *
Number 712 East Thirty-first Street was an old law tenement house which had been built shortly after the Civil War. Countless generations of refugees from the old world had been born, brought up and died in its dingy, unsanitary interior. Around 1936 the building had been official y condemned as a fire trap, although it had been unofficial y recognized as one for several decades, and ultimately evacuated. A smart real estate operator picked up the property and making use of a lot of surplus war material purchased for almost nothing, he rebuilt the place into a more or less modern apartment house. The apartments were al the same, two rooms, a bath and a kitchenette. There were four to a floor and the five floors of the building were served by an automatic, self-service elevator. The facade of the building had been refinished and it looked respectable.
Rents went up from $25 a month to $70 and the new landlord had no difficulty at al in fil ing the place, what with the critical housing shortage. In spite of his improvements, however, the building remained pretty much of a fire trap and it also remained, to al intents and purposes, a tenement house.
Marvin Unger was one of the first to move into the structure.
Getting off the train from Long Island, Unger looked up at the clock over the information booth and saw that it was shortly before six. He decided against going directly to his apartment, and went over and bought an evening paper with the final stock market quotations and race results. Folding the paper and carrying it under his arm, he left the station and walked north until he came to a cafeteria. He entered and took a tray. Minutes later he found a deserted table toward the rear. He put his food down, careful y placed his hat on the chair next to himself and opened up the newspaper. He didn't bother to look at the race reports. He turned to the market page and began to check certain stock figures as he started to have his dinner.
At a time when almost every amateur speculator was making money on a rising market, Unger had somehow managed to lose money. A frugal man who lived by himself and had no expensive habits, he had saved his money religiously over the years. He invested the slender savings in stocks, but unfortunately, he never had the courage to hang on to a stock once he had bought it. As a result he was constantly buying and sel ing and, with each flurry of the market, he changed stocks and took losses on his brokerage fees. He also had an almost uncanny ability to select the very few stocks which went down soon after he bought them. Of the several thousand dol ars he had managed to scrimp and put away from his smal salary over the years, he had almost nothing left.
He finished his dinner and went back to the counter for a cup of coffee.
A few minutes later he started to walk across town in the direction of his apartment. He passed a delicatessen on his way and stopped in. He ordered two ham and cheese sandwiches and a bottle of milk. For a moment he hesitated as he considered adding a piece of cake, but then he shook his head. What he had would be enough. There was no reason to pamper the man. God knows, this thing was costing him enough, both in time and in money, as it was.
The street door to the apartment house was unlocked, as it usual y was until ten o'clock at night. He passed the row of mailboxes without stopping at his own. He never received mail at his residence and in fact, almost no one knew where he lived. He had not bothered to change the records down at the office giving his latest address the last time he had moved. He had an almost psychological tendency toward secrecy; even in things where it was completely unimportant.
He took the self-service elevator to the fourth floor and got out. A moment later he knocked gently on his own door.
Johnny Clay had a half fil ed glass in his hand when he opened the door.
Unger entered the dingy, sparsely furnished apartment and the first thing he noticed was the partly emptied bottle of Scotch sitting on the table in the smal , square living room. He looked up at the other man sourly.
“Where'd you get the bottle?” he asked. At the same time he walked over and picked it up, reading the label.
Johnny frowned. The faint dislike he had felt for the other man from the very first was rapidly developing into a near hatred.
He resented the very fact that he was forced to stay in Unger's dismal, uncomfortable place; he hated his dependence on him. But at once he reflected that an out-and-out argument was one thing which must be avoided at al costs. He couldn't afford to fight.
“Don't worry,” he said, avoiding a direct answer, “I don't get drunk. I just got tired of sitting around with nothing to do. Why the hel don't you get a television set in this place? There isn't even a book around to read.”
Unger set the bottle back on the table.
“Was Sing Sing any pleasanter?” he asked, his voice nasty. “I asked where you got the bottle.”
“God damn it, I went down to the corner and bought it,” Johnny said. “Why—do you object?”
“It isn't a case of objecting,” Unger said. “It's just that it was a risky thing to do. The reason we decided you'd stay here is because it's safe. But it's only safe if you stay inside. Don't forget—you're on parole, and right now you're disobeying the terms of the parole. The minute you moved and quit that job, you left yourself wide open to being picked up.”
Johnny started to answer him, to cal him on it, but then, a moment later, thought better of it.
“Look, Unger,” he said, “let's you and me not get into any hassle. We got too much at stake. You're right, I shouldn't show myself. On the other hand, a guy can go nuts just hanging around. Anyway, I'm hungry and there's nothing around the place. You bring me anything?”
Unger handed him the bottle of milk and the sandwiches.
“Care for a drink?” Johnny asked.
Unger shook his head.
“Going to wash up,” he said. He started for the bathroom.
Johnny took the brown paper bag containing the food into the kitchen. His eyes quickly went around to make sure that he had left no signs of Fay's having been in the place. He didn't want to have to explain Fay to anyone.
In fairness he had to admit that Unger was right. If the man believed that he had been out of the place, he had a right to squawk. But at the same time, he resented the other man and his attitude. Christ, if Unger wasn't so damned tight, he'd make it a little more attractive for Johnny to stay put.
Marvin Unger rol ed up his sleeves and turned on the cold water faucet in the washbasin. He started to lean down to wash his face and abruptly stopped halfway. The bobby pin was lying next to the cake of soap where he couldn't possibly have missed it. His face was red with anger as he pick
ed it up and looked at it for a long moment.
“The fool,” he said. “The stupid fool.”
He put the bobby pin in his pocket and decided to say nothing about it. He, as wel as Johnny, realized that they could not afford to have an open rupture.
For the first time he began to regret that he'd gotten mixed up in the thing in the first place. If anything went wrong, he said to himself bitterly, it would only serve him right. Serve him right for getting mixed up with an ex-convict and his crazy plans.
Thinking of those plans, he began to visualize his share of the profits if the deal turned out successful. It would be a fabulous sum. A sum he would never be able to make working as a court stenographer.
He shrugged his shoulders then, almost philosophical y. If he was going to make crooked money the least he could expect was to be mixed up with crooks. Anyway, it would be over and done with soon. Once he had his cut, he'd make a clean break. The hel with the rest of them; he didn't care what happened to them.
Where he'd be none of them would ever reach him. And it wouldn't matter too much if the cops got onto them and they were picked up and talked. By that time Marvin Unger would have found a safe haven and a new identity. By that time he would be set for the rest of his life.
He turned back to the living room, determined to make the best of things until it was over and done with.
Johnny was munching the last of a sandwich as Unger went over to the hard leather couch and sat down.
“Everything went al right,” he said. “Got the message to both of them.”
Johnny nodded.
“Good.”
“To tel you the truth,” Unger said, “I wasn't much impressed with the bartender. He looked soft. The other one, the cashier, didn't seem quite the type either.”
“I didn't pick them because they're tough,” Johnny said. “I picked them because they hold strategic jobs. This kind of a deal, you don't need strong arm mugs. You need brains.”
“If they have brains what are they doing...”
“They're doing the same thing you are,” Johnny said, foreseeing the question. “Earning peanuts.”
Unger blushed.
“Wel , I hope you're sure of them,” he said.
“Look,” Johnny said, “I know 'em both—wel . Mike—that's the bartender, is completely reliable. He's been around for a long time. No record and a good reputation. But he wants money and he wants it bad. He's like you and me—he no longer cares where it comes from, just so he gets it. He can be counted on.
“The other one, Peatty, is a different proposition. Frankly, I wouldn't have picked him for this deal except for one thing. He happens to be a cashier at the track and he knows the routine. He knows how the dough is picked up after each race, where it is taken and what's done with it. We had to have a guy on the inside. George has no criminal record either—or he wouldn't be working at the track. He used to be pretty wild when he was a kid, but he never got into any serious trouble. He may be a little weak, but hel , that doesn't matter. After al , we already agreed on one thing. The big trick is to actual y get away with the money. Once we're clear, once we have the dough, then it's every man for himself.”
Unger nodded.
“Yes,” he said, “every man for himself. How about the other one—the cop?”
“Randy Kennan? Randy's one guy we don't have to worry about at al . He's not too smart, but you can count on him. He's a horse player and a skirt chaser, he puts away plenty of liquor, but he's no lush. His record in the department is al right. But he needs money to keep up his vices. I've known Randy for a long time. We were brought up together. In spite of the rap I took, we're stil friends. No, Randy's O.K. You won't have to give him a second thought.”
Unger looked thoughtful.
“But a cop,” he said. “Jesus Christ. You're sure there's no chance he's just playing along with some idea of turning rat and getting himself a nice promotion?”
“Not a chance in the world,” Johnny said. “I know him too wel ...” He thought for a moment, then added, “It's possible, of course, the same as it's possible you could do the same thing. But it doesn't make sense. You wouldn't throw over a few hundred grand to get a four hundred dol ar a year raise, would you?”
Unger didn't say anything.
“One thing,” Johnny said, “I learned in prison is this. There isn't a professional criminal who isn't a rat. They al are. They'd turn in their best friend for a pack of butts—if they needed a cigarette. Get mixed up with real criminals and you're bound to mess up a deal. That's the main reason I think this caper has a good chance of working. Everybody involved, with the exception of myself, is a working stiff without a record and a fairly good rep. On this kind of a heist, the first thing the cops are going to look for is a gang of professionals. The only one with a record is myself. And I'm in it because it was my idea.”
He looked over at the other man, his eyes cynical. “There is another thing, too,” he added, “that I'l say about myself. I never hung out with crooks; I never got mixed up with them. I've never been tied in with a job anything like this one. I'd be the last guy on the books the law would think of after this thing is pul ed.”
“I hope so,” Unger said. “I certainly hope so.”
“You want to remember also,” Johnny said. “Anyone of us crosses us up, he's in just as deep as the rest of us. It won't be a case of the testimony of a bunch of criminals which wil involve him; it'l be the testimony of honest working stiffs. You can rest easy about the boys—the only chances we take in the whole thing is the actual execution of the job itself.”
Marvin Unger nodded, his eyes thoughtful. He took a cigar out of his breast pocket and neatly clipped off the end and put it between his thin lips. He was striking the match when the knock came on the door.
Instinctively both men looked over at the alarm clock. The hands pointed to eight exactly.
Chapter Three
For a ful five minutes after she heard the outside door close, Sherry Peatty sat motionless on the bed. There was a thoughtful, speculative expression in her usual y very pretty, but listless eyes. The index finger of her right hand played with the tip of her smal right ear. At last she made up her mind. She was out of bed then, with a quick soundless movement, and she thrust her smal feet into a pair of high heeled slippers and pul ed a silk robe over her shoulders. She crossed the room and went down the hal way to the living room. She didn't have to look up the telephone number in the book.
The man who answered the phone said that Val wasn't in and asked who was cal ing. She told him her first name but it didn't seem to mean anything to him. He hadn't seen Val and he wasn't expecting him. Also he didn't know where he might be. Sherry used the telephone book then and tried a couple of bars and a cocktail lounge. Exasperated, she went back to the original number. She was about to dial it, when her own telephone rang suddenly from the box next to the table and she jumped, startled.
It was Val.
“You alone?”
She said at once that she was.
He told her he had just got the message that she had cal ed. He wanted to know where George was.
“He's gone out,” she said. “I've got to see you at once. Right away, Val.”
“Something wrong?” the voice asked, lazy, almost disinterested.
“Listen,” she said, “right away. Nothing wrong—just that I got to see you.”
The man's voice was smooth, but stil only half curious.
“I told you, honey,” he said, “that until you're ready to leave that husband of yours, I don't want any part of anything. I don't want to get...”
“Listen,” Sherry said, urgency making her speak swiftly. “You'l be interested. You'l be plenty interested. Where can I meet you, Val? How soon?”
There was a long silence and then he spoke.
“Make it in front of the Plaza, say at a quarter to eight. I'l drive by.”
She said that she'd be there.
Back in her bedroo
m and sitting before the dressing table, she thought, God damn him, if it wasn't for George, he'd never dare treat me this way.
Oddly enough, however, she didn't blame Val—she blamed it al on George.
The thing which had first intrigued her about Val Cannon had been his colossal indifference. A woman who had never had the slightest difficulty in attracting men, she had at once been intrigued by the tal , dark, rather ugly man. She'd met him through the Malcolms; had run into him a half dozen times at their apartment during the afternoons. He and Bil Malcolm had some sort of connection and the two of them frequently hung around during the day time and played the horses over the phone, getting the results on the radio.
The man's overwhelming casualness had first piqued her and then acted almost as a chal enge.
It had final y happened one time when he had been alone in the Malcolms' place and she had knocked at the door. They'd had a drink or two and one thing had led to another. They'd ended up in bed together and she had been pleased to note that the careless attitude of studied indifference had rapidly changed. But it had only changed for that one afternoon.
Later, they'd met outside several times.
Val drove a Cadil ac convertible; he dressed expensively and he was a fast man with a dol ar. He never talked about himself, never told her what he did or how he made his living. She soon took it for granted that he was mixed up in some sort of racket or other.
They hung around cocktail lounges, occasional y went out to the track together—staying wel away from George's window, of course. Once he had taken her to a bar up on Ninth Avenue, a dimly lighted, tough looking place. He'd told her that he owned a piece of it. From the looks of the men hanging around the booths and silently staring at her, she'd had the impression it was a sort of gang hangout. Val had given her the telephone number of the place and told her if she ever wanted to get in contact with him, to cal him there and leave a message. Today had been the first time she'd cal ed.
It would be the first time she'd seen him now in several weeks. In fact, since the night they'd spent together at the hotel. Val, that night, had made himself clear.
