The Faster She Runs

by Robert Colby

  “My God! Why didn’t you mention this before?”

  “Because it was only on the edge of my mind. The pieces just now fell into place.”

  “What’re you going to do?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said, rising. “But I know where I’m going to start. C’mon, let’s take a little trip over to my hotel and I’ll show you the most beautiful sight in the world—money!”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Henry Buckmaster cruised along Biscayne Boulevard near 36th Street. It had begun to drizzle and that was fine with him. It should rain all the way up to his hubcaps and business would flow like water. Anyway, it was gonna be one helluva big night. Ten from Stienmetz and fifty from this Greengold joker—a sixty plus take for the tour.

  He wondered about the brief case on the floor beside him. What kind of junk did it hold? Maybe he’d take a peek later. What the hell, who would know? This one was a real weirdy and he was curious, though stranger plays and players had enlivened his job.

  He had read about the Food Thrift bombing with a shrug. As long as no one got hurt, what did he care if some hoods put the squeeze on a big chow-chain?

  In the first sketchy account of the bombing extortion there had been no mention of David Stienmetz, and Henry Buckmaster did not have the remotest idea that he was the instrument of delivery for three hundred thousand dollars cash.

  Passing 36th street, he was hailed by an elderly couple huddling under newspapers against the increasing rain. He deposited them at the Columbus Hotel and got a ten-cent tip for his trouble.

  At the hotel he plucked three paunchy conventioners from beneath the doorman’s umbrella and, after checking in with the dispatcher by radio-phone, hauled them to the Playboy Club near 79th. They were in a state of alcoholic good-will and let him keep the change from a fiver. Things were looking up.

  Leaving the club he was flagged by two men in a passing car, a small black sedan. He paused uncertainly as one of the men scrambled out and got into the cab. “Drop me at the Greyhound Bus Station,” the man said curtly.

  Buckmaster watched the black sedan swing in the other direction. Well, the guy was in a hurry or too lazy to give his friend a boost.

  After a few moments of silence the man said, “Hey, Buck—you still got that brief case?”

  Buckmaster glanced sharply over his shoulder. “Who’re you?”

  “Police,” said the man, and leaned forward to exhibit his identity card.

  “Yeah, I still got it,” answered Buckmaster nervously. “What’s up?”

  “Never mind. Let’s see it.”

  He reached for the case and handed it back. In the mirror he saw the man open it and examine the contents carefully without removing anything. He closed the case and returned it.

  “We’ve been right behind you all the time,” the man said. “And while we’re tailing you, we got a little radio check on Henry Buckmaster working for us. You know what we found?”

  “On me? What could you find?”

  “Nothing. Not one thing. You wash clean, Buck. So keep it that way. Just do as your told, okay?”

  “Sure, sure, okay. But what’s it all about?”

  “You’ll hear in time. Now this is what we want you to do. When you get that call to make the delivery, you give three little jabs to your brake light as a signal. Got it?”

  “Yeah. Three taps on the brake pedal.”

  “Fine. But let’s say that call doesn’t come, a guy just waves you down. He steps in and he says, ‘I’m Greengold, gimme the samples.’ In that case, you signal three long and one short. Follow me?”

  “Easy. Three long and one short. It’s no sweat because in this rain you go through a few puddles, you test the brakes.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “But listen, Mister. This joker is gonna gimme a fifty-clam tip. Do I get to keep it?”

  In the mirror the stern face of the cop was relieved by a wry smile. “Why not? Keep the fifty. You’re gonna earn it.”

  There was a silence. “You still wanna go to the Greyhound?”

  “That’s right,” the cop said. “I’ve got a meet there.”

  At the depot the officer paid the fare and gave him a fifty-cent tip. “Big deal,” he grinned. “It’s on the expense account. Now shove off. Oh, yeah, one thing more. Don’t tamper with that case. It might go off in your face.”

  “You mean it?”

  “Well, you never can tell. Just leave it alone.”

  “I will. You got my word on it.”

  “Get moving, then. Business as usual. But remember…”

  Buck nodded and wheeled the cab back into traffic.

  The rain had diminished, then stopped altogether, though the air was sullen and laden with a fine mist. Nearly an hour had passed and Buck was wheeling his cab east on Flagler, having delivered a passenger to a suburban area west of town.

  A block behind him cruised a plain gray Plymouth sedan bearing two police detectives. From time to time their radio crackled with terse commands and they responded laconically, always reporting the progress and direction of the hack containing the brief case.

  “Looks like a dead end,” said one of the officers, yawning. “We should have made contact by now.”

  “Nahh,” said the driver. “Early yet. Only twenty-five after eight. Give it time, give it time. Jesus, would I ever like to be in on the finish of this one!”

  “You know what the odds are, Mike?” said the other. “Six to one. Six cars to one, all playin’ tag. How we gonna be in on the kill?”

  “Don’t sweat,” cracked the driver. “We’ll be there. Maybe not first, but we’ll be there. There’s plenty of time because the orders are to let this Greengold take us to the hideout. He might be just a flunky. Besides, who’s gonna get the glory? Us?” He snorted. “The big brass will take all the bows, you’ll see.”

  “Well, one thing for sure,” said his companion, adjusting the dials of a small black box in his lap, “this baby don’t lie. The dough is still in the cab. And wherever it goes, the long fat arm of the law is sure to follow.” He chuckled.

  “Oh, you’re a goddamn poet, Larry, that’s what you are. What corn!”

  “Yeah,” said Larry, “and my talents are wasted on you hillbillies. Didja know I went to Harvard, class of—hey! The hack is pullin’ away! You’re losing it. C’mon, whip this buggy along or tomorrow we’ll be traffic jockeys at some grade-school crossing. Let’s go!”

  At that moment Henry Buckmaster had remembered shortly before eight he had been told by the dispatcher to pick up a fare at a Walgreen drugstore on the button of eight-thirty. The party was a Mr. Johnston and he had been most definite about the hour—exactly eight-thirty—not a minute either side.

  It was nearly that time now, the drugstore was still half a mile away and Buck would have to hop to it if he didn’t want a chewing-out instead of a tip.

  He arrived at the drugstore less than a minute late to find his passenger waiting out front, a massive newspaper bunched under his arm. Buck blew the horn and waved. The man trotted over and Buck said, “You Mr. Johnston?”

  “That’s right,” he answered and climbed in. He was a rather solid man of middle years, bald as an egg, except for a pepper-salt fringe of hair above the ears. He had a round face with fleshy cheeks and a bulbous nose. His eyes were vague behind glasses contained in a thick black frame. He wore a noisy, plaid sport jacket and yellow slacks.

  “Take me to the Biscayne Terrace,” he said, “and roll it, buddy! I pay extra for a fast trip and I’m in a hurry!”

  “Do my best,” said Buck, pouring it on. “I give a man what he wants if I can. That goes for a woman, too.” He snickered. “A gentleman wants me on tap at a certain time, I’m there on the nose if I have to burn a bearin’ doin’ it.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  Buck cocked his head and glanced in the mirror. “You get wet in the drench awhile ago, Mr. Johnston?”

  “Just a few drops on the dome,” replied Mr
. Johnston. “You got a head like mine, it rolls right off.”

  They laughed in duet. They were silent. Strangely, Mr. Johnston began to work his hands into a pair of thin white-cotton gloves.

  When they were within a few blocks of the hotel, Mr. Johnston said suddenly, “You know, I think it’s time we got to really know each other, Buckmaster. So let me introduce myself. My name is Greengold. That’s my real name, you see?”

  “Is that right?” said Buck, swallowing. “No kidding?”

  “No kidding, Speedy. So now if you’ll hand over the samples from Mr. Stienmetz, we’ll be in business, eh?”

  “Sure, sure. Okay, Mr. Greengold.” But he did nothing, except to jab his brakes lightly, repeatedly.

  “C’mon, C’mon. The samples, Speedy!”

  “You got somethin’ for me?” said Buck slyly, watching in the mirror.

  He saw Greengold fumble in his wallet and then the fifty, crisp and new, was offered to him by a gloved hand. He tucked it in his pocket, reached for the case and passed it back. Then, to make sure, he repeated the stop-light signal for the cops he knew were just behind, though he had been unable to spot them in the traffic.

  Still observing in the mirror, he saw that Greengold was very busy, his head ducked over the case, now invisible on the floor. He heard the whisper of paper and wondered if the case held a pile of documents—or plans! Yeah, maybe plans for some kind of secret invention!

  In any case, Greengold seemed quite satisfied. For now, as they approached the Biscayne Terrace, he had a smug little smile on his face.

  The smile faded rapidly. Greengold sat on the edge of the seat, peering at the hotel intently. Then, while the cab was still rolling to the curb, he opened the door and scrambled out with the fat brief case.

  “Hey!” cried Buck. “How about the fare?”

  “Charge it!” Greengold snapped, moving away, his eyes searching up the boulevard. Then a real looker of a dame climbed in the cab and demanded all of Henry Buckmaster’s attention.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The bald man called Greengold had hardly reached the walk in front of the hotel when a black Olds 88 sedan, sparkling new, came rocketing down the boulevard. It braked harshly, burning rubber, slowing as Greengold hurled the brief case through the open window onto the front seat. Then the car, driven by a man whose features were indistinguishable in the pale light, rammed ahead and was a block away in a matter of seconds.

  Greengold wheeled about and ran for the lobby of the hotel as the gray Plymouth leaped after the Olds. In a moment there was the low wail, then the rising cry of a siren. But Greengold was too busy to speculate upon the outcome of the chase. For out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of two men tumbling from another car, a black Ford. These men were racing at him with drawn guns and only the milling of people before the hotel entrance prevented them from shooting him down.

  Greengold gained the lobby and pounded across it toward the elevator, shoving a woman aside, knocking a man to the floor. The elevator door was already closing and he shouted. But it was too late.

  He changed direction without loss of stride and made for the stairway. Over his shoulder he spied the two plain-clothes policemen as they entered the lobby and took after him while, as if caught in a dream tableau of suspended animation, hotel patrons froze in a variety of startled attitudes and postures, gaping at the spectacle.

  In a gasping, heaving effort to increase his lead, Greengold mounted the stairs three at a time. Just below there were shouts, the shuffle-scrape-thump of feet ascending widlly.

  At the third landing he yanked the exit door and lunged into the corridor. He ploughed ahead and around a bend to room 317, the sound of pursuit now swelling behind him. Quietly he slipped inside the room and quietly closed the door, locking it with a cautious turning of the bolt to mute the action.

  He listened. Hard, breathy voices argued his disappearance. One man thought he had gone to the floor above, the other decided he must have ducked into a closet or a room. They went scampering away.

  Greengold gave the room light and hastened to a mirror. For a moment he stared at his reflection. Then he reached up and, grasping the edges of the flesh-colored, hair-fringed headpiece, he swiftly peeled it off. With a gloved hand he fluffed his rich crop of reddish-brown hair, then got a comb from his pocket and ordered it carefully.

  Now he pulled wads of cotton from his mouth and his cheeks collapsed. He removed the glasses and the fake bulb of nose. He studied himself. Greengold had vanished and Harry Rosen grinned back at him. From a pocket he produced a small, trim mustache of a color resembling his hair. He fixed it in place with meticulous care.

  He glanced at his watch, estimating that less than a minute had passed since he entered the room. Now from a closet he removed the slightly over-sized uniform of an army captain, complete with insignia and bars. He laid this on the bed and changed rapidly to the appropriate shirt and tie. The army shirt was also a bit large so that it could be worn to conceal the civilian attire beneath.

  In another minute he had neatly pinned back the sport coat sleeves and trouser cuffs and had donned the uniform over his clothes. The shoes were okay; they had been picked for the job. The gimmicks of disguise were in the coat pocket of the gaudy sport jacket.

  In front of the mirror he inspected himself rigidly. He pulled back his shoulders and straightened his tie. Satisfied that he was now marvelously transformed, he plucked an officer’s cap from a drawer and tucked it under his arm. His eyes roved the room to make certain he had not left the smallest clue. Registering under a phony name, he had paid in advance, telling the clerk that his suitcase had been mislaid at the railroad station and he was attempting to trace it.

  Rosen went to the door, stepped out and locked it behind him. He removed the gloves and folded them into his pocket. With the officer’s cap still tucked under his arm, he moved briskly around the corridor toward the elevator.

  He spotted the two cops immediately. They were standing to one side of the elevator bank, conferring. They looked up sharply at his approach but gave him only the barest kind of appraisal before their eyes dismissed him and they walked purposefully in the direction from which he had come.

  The car arrived and he stepped aboard, turning in time to observe the cops knocking on the first of the many doors ranging the floor. Then they were shut from view and the car descended.

  Activity in the lobby seemed normal enough, people going about their business without any sign of alarm. But there were too many pairs of men scattered about the room trying to appear casual. Rosen knew instinctively that they were not casual at all.

  He moved easily to the exit. There, four pairs of eyes examined him from various angles. He allowed himself to be taken apart thoroughly from head to toe before he placed the cap jauntily on his head and walked out into the night.

  * * * *

  Randy Wymer, who was the driver of the black Olds madly escaping with the brief case, flew south on Biscayne Boulevard for three blocks, then careened left in a U-turn and went catapulting north.

  The gray Plymouth, siren renting the night with a mournful howling, negotiated the turn and scurried after him. Another unmarked police car in full siren trailed the Plymouth. Still a third, a cruiser bearing uniformed cops, completed the chain, though other cars were converging from different directions.

  Randy was enjoying himself immensely. He was a cabby before his father-in-law made him a dispatcher, and driving anything on wheels with speed and skill had been his pleasure since his first drag race at sixteen.

  Now he pushed the gas pedal to the floor boards, maneuvering dangerously around those few vehicles which had not yet pulled to the curb at the sound of the onrushing sirens. Soon, as the warning established itself, the boulevard was clear for blocks ahead and it was possible for Randy to run stop lights in safety.

  It had all gone smoothly enough. Before he went off duty at eight o’clock, Randy had remained at the dispatcher’s microphone,
setting up the delivery as per Tony’s instructions. Randy had himself chosen Buckmaster because he considered Buck to be a plodding, reliable type without the imagination to figure the game or the guts to question orders departing from routine. And the fifty-buck tip would have roped in wiser men.

  Randy kept Buck on an invisible chain, not letting his fares take him so far out of range that he could not be called back into the plan according to schedule. Minutes before he turned his job over to the relief man, Randy had alerted Buck for the eighty-thirty pickup of Harry Rosen as Greengold. Then Randy had walked to a spot a block away where he had parked the stolen Olds, driving it to his waiting position near the Biscayne Terrace in plenty of time.

  Tony had told Randy only a part of the plan. There were many secrets withheld. But Randy’s faith in Tony was unshakable. Furthermore, Tony had explained why Randy’s risk was small. Even if caught he would be made to appear comparatively innocent, a mere cog ignorantly performing an assigned task. And finally, Randy was to receive five thousand for the job, more cash than he could earn in a year, after taxes. The temptation was too great.

  Randy had been warned there might be a chase. He was prepared for it. But he knew it could not be a long one because every minute that passed would bring more cops to the scene, and sooner or later he would be boxed. So, as prearranged, he raced to a street not much more than a half mile from the hotel starting point. Here, with what sounded like half the police force behind him, he took a hard right and zoomed down the side street for a block and a half, then braked skiddingly to the curb.

  Now he was supposed to leave the Olds and fly up an alley on foot. He had a substantial lead and it should have been no problem to escape undetected. But just as he was launching himself to the street, a nearby patrol car, which had been alerted by radio, rocked crazily around a corner and fastened him with its spotlight.

  Randy paused, made the decision and pistoned frantically down the alley. Shouts followed him, then bullets started catching up with him, winging past his head, whip-snapping around him. Randy zigzagged onward, the fear of death clutching his heart, numbing his brain with shock waves of panic.