by Robert Colby
He was suddenly a terrified little boy overwhelmed by the magnitude of what was happening to him. It was not just a crazy little game of adult cops-and-robbers in which he was always smarter and faster. They were shooting at him! Those hard cruel fingers of steel were hurtling after him to poke out his life. He was a cardboard target; his frail cringing back was the bull’s-eye!
“Mama, mama!” he cried without sound. “Jesus, Almighty God in Heaven, help me!” he prayed. “Just this once and I’ll never—oh, I’ll never—I promise, I promise, I promise!”
He ran on. A bullet stung the wall of a building, ricocheted with a frenzied whining. He ducked left, stumbled, recovered.
He heard the heavy slap of leather on pavement. But for the moment he was concealed around the corner of a white stucco house. Circling the house he crouched behind a shrub, listening. Gruff voices speculated, then hurried off on grass-muted feet, the sound diminishing.
Randy scuttled away on tiptoe, the soft sweet wind of freedom fanning his face. Gathering speed and courage, he sprinted a block between houses, veered north another block, turned east on a residential street and slowed to a brisk walk, sobbing for breath.
He came upon a pastel green apartment house of three stories and entered. He climbed to the third floor and slumped against a wall. Gasping, he removed his gloves, tucked them into a pocket and produced a key.
When he had regained his breath and ordered his clothing, he stepped across the hall to a door. For a minute he stood there, the fear-torn expression on his face undergoing a rapid change to one of casual good-cheer. Then he unlocked the door and stepped in.
“Hi, honey!” he called. “I’m a little late. So what’s burning for dinner?”
* * * *
The two uniformed cops gave up finally and returned to the black Oldsmobile. It still remained, lights burning, motor idling, door gaping. But in the interval three more police cars had arrived to illuminate the scene with an eerie red-blinking, white-fusing radiance.
“He got away!” panted one of the cops to a plain-clothes detective. “What do ya make of his heap? Find anything?”
“Yeah,” said the detective. “Take a look on the seat, but don’t touch, there may be prints.”
The uniformed cop leaned into the Olds. He spied the brief case. It lay open, yawning toward him on its side.
“What the hell,” he said. “There’s nothin’ in it but a bunch of paper!”
“Now you’re catchin’ on,” said the other. “The bastards stuffed it with wads of newspaper and took off with the loot. So what we got here is just a decoy. Pretty slick, huh?”
“I’ll be goddamned,” the patrol cop said. “They pulled a switch. But how?”
“I don’t care how,” replied the detective. “I wanna know who—and where. And that’s what we’re gonna find out, right now!”
* * * *
The real looker of a dame who engaged Henry Buckmaster’s cab at the precise moment that Harry Rosen left it was Marian Emrick.
“Loew’s Theater at One Hundred-Seventieth Street,” she said. “And please hurry, I don’t want to miss the last show.”
“Sure, sure,” Buck answered. “Some night, everyone’s in a hurry. But for you, lady, I’ll make like a jet.” His eyes flicked up to the mirror for a reaction.
But Marian’s face was averted. She looked out the window and pretended not to hear. Whenever the driver made one of his bantering, familiar remarks she simulated deep preoccupation until he subsided altogether and gave his attention to the road.
Now her hand groped along the floor, found the plastic sack and moved it silently to a position near her left toe. Then she reached inside and began to unload the stacks of currency, carefully stowing them within the giant handbag which she had bought especially for this occasion. When the bag was full she hoisted her skirt and placed the remaining bills in a deep pouch which was fastened to her right inner thigh.
With a small sigh of satisfaction she leaned back and lighted a cigarette.
At the theater (chosen because it was far enough removed from the hotel to allow her plenty of time to stow the loot) she tipped Buckmaster a dollar, bought a ticket and mounted the stairs to the balcony. She sat a seat away from the only viewer in the last row—Earl Lubeck.
His trench coat was draped across the interposing seat in such a manner that she was able to fill the secret pockets of the lining in five minutes time without once taking her eyes from the screen. The rain was a bonus but anyway the nights were excessively cool that winter and a trench coat was not unreasonable.
In another minute Lubeck reached for the trench coat, folded it neatly across his arm and rose. He left the balcony and the theater without a backward glance.
As planned, Marian did nothing so suspicious as to leave the theater soon after Lubeck. She remained for the entire show, enjoying it thoroughly while munching two candy bars which she bought at intermission.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
When Earl Lubeck entered the house on Biscayne Key, Warren and Anita Wymer observed him from the back seat of a police car. The car had been secreted in the dark driveway of a vacant cottage across the street.
“That one is Earl Lubeck,” said Anita, adjusting the field glasses. “I’m positive!”
“Whoever he is,” said the detective lieutenant, seated in front with his sergeant, “he’s not carrying anything but a trench coat. So where’s the dough? The guy in the army uniform didn’t have it either.”
“The one in the uniform had me fooled,” said Anita. “Without these glasses I’d never have known it was Harry Rosen.”
“Let’s move in and take ’em,” said the sergeant. “They’re all there but the woman and we got a pretty good idea where she is.”
“I’ll bet Viani stayed home because he wasn’t feeling too well,” said Warren wryly. “When I spied him through the window it seemed to me he had a little head cold.”
The lieutenant turned, said over his shoulder, “You sure that back door is unlocked? We can walk right in?”
“No problem,” Warren answered. “They didn’t have time to get that broken glass replaced, so I stuck a hand in and got the lock turned off for you. It’s all set. Okay if I come along, lieutenant? I’d like to see this pinch.”
“Sorry, Mr. Emrick. There might be shooting and I can’t afford to have any private citizen hurt. You had your day, now you stay out of it, please.”
He said to the sergeant, “All right, give the signal for the others to close in.”
When the two officers sneaked inside the house by way of the unlocked Florida Room door, they found Tony Viani, Lubeck and Rosen gathered around the kitchen table, their backs turned. Rosen still wore the uniform, though he had removed the jacket, Lubeck was pulling wads of currency from some two dozen pockets in the lining of his trench coat. Viani was counting the money as fast as it was heaped before him on the table.
“Hands up and freeze where you are!” barked the lieutenant. “Police officers. Don’t try anything cute, the house is surrounded!”
After a startled moment in which their backs became rigid with alarm, Rosen and Lubeck slowly began to raise their hands.
But Tony Viani whirled and fired through the pocket of his sport jacket.
The lieutenant had seen this coming and had already taken aim. Calmly he squeezed the trigger and brought Viani down with a single shot.
As other police filled the room, shoving Rosen and Lubeck against the wall, searching them, cuffing their hands behind them, the lieutenant bent over Viani.
“It’s just a shoulder wound,” he said. “Better call an ambulance, though. I want this punk in good shape when they send him up to Raiford for a nice twenty year vacation.”
“Yeah,” said the sergeant, “he’ll need a vacation. It looks like someone worked him over with a bowling pin.”
The lieutenant moved to the kitchen table and began to inspect the money, fingering it lovingly.
“Speaking of vaca
tions,” he grinned, “what time does the next plane leave for Rio?”
It was eleven-twenty. The last show was getting ready to fold at the Loew’s Theater. Outside, the two detectives slouched on the front seat of the waiting police car. Anita and Warren sat in the back seat. The cabby, Henry Buckmaster, was with them.
“Any minute now,” said the lieutenant. “I checked with the box office. Sure you’ll recognize this cookie, Buckmaster? Oops, sorry, Mr. Emrick. I realize it might be your wife.”
“No need to be sorry, lieutenant. You should hear some of the things I’ve called her! And it’s got to be my—that woman! She wasn’t there at the house when you nabbed the others, so who else could it be?”
“Oh, that was a sweet catch,” said the sergeant. “There they were, all nice and cozy around the table counting the loot.”
“Some haul!” the lieutenant said. “With the cash you turned in, Mr. Emrick, it’s better than half a million.”
“Don’t forget my forty-seven thousand,” Warren answered. “I didn’t come down here just to bounce Viani around, though I admit it was marvelous fun.”
The lieutenant swiveled his head. “Well, since we found most of that forty-seven grand tucked away in your wife’s vanity case, it’s got to be considered separate. You’ll get it back, I’ll see to that. Hell, you took us right to their cave and we owe you that much.” He puffed his cigarette thoughtfully. “You have no idea who the fourth man could be—the one who suckered us with that decoy routine in the Olds?”
Warren had already made an educated guess. It had to be Randy Wymer. With his cab company connection he was a natural. Anita was wise also, the quick jab of her elbow told him so.
He said, “Sorry lieutenant. That one is a mystery.”
“Not for long,” the lieutenant growled. “We’ll catch him, or the others will finger him.”
“I hope so,” Warren lied.
“They’re beginning to come out,” Buck said, leaning forward and peering at the people drifting from the lobby. “When I spot this babe I’ll give you the word. I’d know ’er anywhere. Man, she’s a real…” He trailed off and Warren had to chuckle.
“Well, at least we can be pretty sure what she did with the dough,” said the sergeant. “She must have passed it to Lubeck in the theater after Rosen left it in Buck’s cab. But so far none of those hoods will confess a damn thing. They got the money-making book and they never heard of Marian Emrick. Some joke!”
“I don’t see ’er yet,” said Buck nervously. “Listen, she might get lost in that crowd.”
“Lieutenant,” said Warren, “do me a favor, will you? If it’s Marian, let me grab her for you.”
The lieutenant grinned over his shoulder. “Think you can handle it alone?”
“Lieutenant, if I could handle her the way I’d like to, she’d look like she was in the same accident that caught up with Tony Viani.”
“Oh, brother, you sure disconnected his wires! Okay, why not? Hop over there now and see if you can surprise hell out of her. We’ll backstop. There are men at the fire exits—no one will get by them and she’ll have to show in front. Go ahead.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Warren climbed out and moved away to stand in the shadows just right of the marquee. People filed past, scattering in every direction, the crowd thinning to a dubious trickle.
Warren thought of Dillinger and the moll in red who betrayed him, grimly amused at the switch. Perversely he wondered if he should have worn a red tie.
Then he saw her.
She was one of the last to leave the theater. Boldly she lingered to study the posters boasting attractions to follow. She was wearing a familiar wool-knit suit, the turquoise outfit which he had bought her. It clung to her slender-waisted, jut-breasted figure.
Grudgingly, he had to admit that she was still a lot of woman. Yet the sight of her in the clothes his money had put on her back, the memory of her treachery, sickened him. Anger came in a flood to threaten his control.
Stealthily, he crept up behind her. Seeing the known contour of her head, the long concave taper of the back which so often had molded itself to the shape of his sleeping body, his fingers clenched into fists.
“Hello, Marian,” he said softly.
She turned with a start, gaping in shock. “Warren!” She backed away, terror etched on her face.
His hand snaked out and shackled her wrist, twisting it.
“Warren, please! You’re hurting me!”
“Call Tony,” he sneered. “Call Tony-boy to protect you.” He moved off, yanking her behind him.
“Warren,” she sobbed, “it was all a mistake, a terrible mistake! Tony is a filthy beast and I hate him. He forced me to take the money. Listen, Warren, listen to me, darling! I would have come home but I was afraid of Tony. He kept me a prisoner. Darling, will you forgive me and take me back? I have the money. I have all of it—and more, too! I’ll give you everything, every cent!”
He paused at the edge of the parking lot. He raised his arm and aimed a hungry fist at the fragile oval of her face.
“Don’t, Warren!” she whimpered. “Oh, don’t hit me, please don’t—I’ll do anything, anything!”
“You slut!” he snarled. “You slimy, whoring maggot. How I wish you were a man! How I wish they’d set aside the rules for just one lovely minute while I clobbered you ugly, while I gave you a new look, you sneaky bitch!”
He dropped his arm and stood trembling, spent. Suddenly the anger had drained out of him, leaving him empty, weary of the whole dreadful business. A wave of sadness overcame him.
“You’re really pitiful, Marian,” he sighed. “But there’s nothing I can do now to save you, it’s much too late.”
He took her arm and walked her slowly to the police car. “These men are detectives from the Miami police department,” he said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go along with them, Marian.”
The back door was opened by the lieutenant and Warren saw that Anita had fled. Buckmaster remained. “That’s her!” he whined. “She’s the one took over after the bald geezer got out. She’s the one all right. I’d know ’er anywhere!”
“Get right in, Miss,” said the lieutenant. He climbed in after her and slammed the door. Marian was sobbing softly.
The lieutenant leaned out the window. “Come down in the morning, Mr. Emrick,” he suggested. “Then we’ll straighten everything out and make a full report.”
“I’ll be there,” Warren replied. “And Lieutenant, go easy on her, will you?”
“Sure,” he answered. “I’ll do the best I can.” Then he motioned to the sergeant and the car departed. His shoulders sagging, Warren watched it till it was out of sight. He turned to see Anita approaching.
She said, “I couldn’t face her. I waited in your car.”
He nodded and they began to cross the lot to the Chevy.
“What will you do now?” she asked. “I suppose you’ll fly back home.”
“Home? Where’s home? No, I’ll have a few details to clean up with the police. Then I think I’ll stick around for about three months.”
“Oh? Why three months?”
“It takes three months to get a divorce in this state. I imagine I’ll have pretty good grounds, don’t you?”
“Oh, the best, the very best.”
They reached the car.
“There are two times I like to celebrate,” Warren said. “When I’m sad and when I’m glad. I’m some of both tonight. So would you care to get slightly stoned with me?”
“Black Russians?”
“I’m a little tired of the Russians. I prefer the straight-thinking, square-shooting purity of the American martini.”
She laughed. Then they got in the car. Warren wound the motor.
“Warren,” she said, “about Randy…thanks.”
“For nothing. He’s not home free yet. If Viani or his rats don’t squeal, the cops’ll be hunting him.”
He backed, drove to the street exit and brak
ed for traffic.
“Warren, are you bitter? Very, very bitter?”
“Yes. I’m very goddamn bitter.” He turned to look carefully into her eyes. He smiled. “But don’t worry, I’ll get over it.”
He saw an opening and gunned into the swirl of traffic.
Contents
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
Landmarks
Cover
