Deep is the Pit

by Dixon, H. Vernor

  He seemed familiar to Marty, yet when he disappeared into an elevator Marty had not managed to place him. It bothered him. He was positive that he had known the man somewhere. He walked to the desk and described him to the clerk. The clerk brought out the card on which he had signed his name: Henry N. Sinclair, Miami Beach, Florida. Marty shoved the card back to the clerk. The name meant nothing to him. Probably, he thought, Sinclair had been a guest in one of the many hotels where Marty had worked.

  But an hour later, as Marty was passing through the coffee shop, he again had that feeling of unease. He went on through the room to the kitchen doors, then turned casually about to look over the late luncheon diners. Sinclair was sitting by one of the windows. His eyes swung away as Marty looked in his direction and suddenly Marty knew him.

  Sinclair was an alias, one of many, perhaps hundreds. The name Marty knew him by, probably an alias too, was von Kuppner, one of the most feared men in the underworld. The man was dangerous, vicious, ruthless, and, worst of all, intelligent. He had an international record of arrests and charges, but had never spent time in prison. He was known as a double-crosser even in the underworld, yet he was still alive. Marty would have preferred seeing J. Edgar Hoover in the coffee shop rather than von Kuppner.

  Marty went up to his rooms, locked the door, and nervously paced the floor. He wondered if von Kuppner had recognized him, if that was why he had checked into the hotel. He had once pulled a job with the man, in Indianapolis, during a race meet. It had been shortly after Slim Page’s death and Marty had been at loose ends. As Red Martin, he had arranged a meeting with von Kuppner, who had already cased a good mark, one of the suburban banks. Von Kuppner wanted it done his way, but Marty convinced him that Red Martin’s technique was superior. Von Kuppner studied that technique very closely and was gratified with their quick and easy success. He had wanted to pull other jobs and had a number of marks in mind, but Marty had declined and gone his own way. It was the last he had seen of von Kuppner.

  But he remembered that the man had been more than casually interested in Red Martin as a person and had questioned him repeatedly while they had been together. He also remembered that von Kuppner had more than once ribbed him about the flaming redness of his hair. He doubted that the man had been fooled by the dye.

  He was the one man in the underworld who could conceivably recognize Red Martin in Marty Lee. If he did, what followed would be inevitable. He would try to bleed Marty for every dollar he was worth. Blackmail was also a field in which he was a specialist.

  Marty observed him for days, certain that von Kuppner was watching him, biding his time to make his pitch. He saw him quite often about the hotel, in the lobby, in the many night-club rooms, and regularly in the Hollywood Bar. He seemed never to leave the hotel, which convinced Marty that von Kuppner knew him and was watching him while speculating on what he was worth and what he could be taken for. He would not be in a hurry.

  Marty, however, decided to take the play out of his hands. If he allowed too much time to pass, von Kuppner would find some way of protecting himself before moving in. He would have to be done away with before that could happen. Marty decided, with considerable reluctance, to pose once again as Red Martin and blast von Kuppner out of existence.

  But before he could act, a sleepy butler awakened him at three one morning in the apartment bedroom and informed him that he was wanted urgently on the telephone. Marty slipped out of bed, threw on a robe, and took the call in the study. It was the night manager of the hotel.

  He said breathlessly, “Better get down here at once, Mr. Lee.”

  “What’s up?”

  “We’ve had a robbery. Two gunmen. They took the night’s receipts. The police are here already.”

  Marty was startled speechless for a moment, then gasped, “Be right there.”

  He dressed quickly and took a taxi through the dark and deserted streets to the hotel. The night manager beckoned to him as he entered the lobby and led the way through the Hollywood Bar into the service bar that took care of all the rooms. Waiters and bellboys were standing about and a cigarette girl, still wearing her scanty costume, was an interested spectator. A Lieutenant Riley and two other policemen were questioning the cashier, a competent, middle-aged woman flushed with excitement. Riley was a red-faced individual of huge bulk and an oddly catlike grace.

  He broke off the questioning when he saw Marty enter the room, introduced himself, and shook hands. “Hate to get you out of bed,” he said, “but we thought you should be here.”

  “Yes, of course. Just what happened?”

  Riley shrugged and spread his hands in an open gesture. “It’s one of those things, Mr. Lee. Slick work. Simple, fast, and neatly handled. You’ve been well cased.”

  “How much?”

  “The cashier says maybe fourteen thousand.”

  “Sure, it would be. She handles the liquor receipts for all the rooms. How was it done?”

  “As I say, neat. Two characters. Rugged. After closing time and five minutes before the cashier would dump the dough in the safe. They had it timed to the second. One slips in through the barroom and the other comes in” — he jerked his thumb over his shoulder — ”through that service door over there. No fuss or feathers. Sawed-off shotguns. They line up the help, sweep the dough into sacks, rip out the buzzer system, and then they’re gone. That’s it.”

  Marty nodded. He understood well how it would have been handled. He talked to the cashier and listened to her description of the two men. He did not say it, but he knew their type — hired help. It had been an efficient job, skillful and well planned. Someone intelligent — Marty gasped and brought his thoughts to a spinning halt.

  He went about among the help to find out if anyone had seen the men leave the hotel. One of the bellboys had spotted them going out a side door. No, he had not seen them carrying any bags. He was positive about that. Marty knew exactly how the job had been done.

  Von Kuppner was the brains behind the robbery. He had cased the place well, had done all of the planning, then had hired the men to carry it out. He had probably stationed himself in an angle of the hallway just beyond the service door and had relieved the men of the money sacks on their way out. He had then undoubtedly hidden the sacks in an overcoat, or some other article that would not arouse suspicion, and had gone to his room. Von Kuppner would never take a chance on the men’s bungling the job and losing the money after they had made the haul. He would make the division later, and meanwhile he would be safe in his hotel room.

  Marty got away from the police and the reporters who arrived at dawn and dropped into a seat in the lobby where he could watch the clerk’s desk. A slim young man entered the lobby, talked with Riley for a few minutes near the magazine stand, then looked toward Marty as Riley pointed in his direction. He crossed the room to stand before Marty, smiled pleasantly, and opened his wallet before Marty’s eyes to an identification card. He was Henry Cleaver of the F.B.I. He looked like a rather successful stock and bond salesman. But he turned Marty’s spine to ice.

  He dropped to the couch at Marty’s side, offered him a cigarette, and touched a lighter to the two tips. He blew out a puff of smoke and said, ‘Ordinarily, Mr. Lee, we would not be interested in the robbery that occurred here. Out of our province, really. However, the technique that was employed does interest us very much.”

  Marty licked a tongue over his dry lips, swallowed, and asked, “How come?”

  “Have you ever heard of a bank robber and gunman known as Red Martin?”

  Marty blinked at him and nodded. “I’ve read about him, yes.”

  “Most people have. Fabulous sort of character. Almost mythical.” He looked off into space and mused, “Contrary to what most people think and what the movies lead them to believe, there has virtually never been a great criminal brain — you know, the mastermind type. Offhand, I can think of only one other, Adam Worth. He started here in America at about the turn of the century, but after that he oper
ated exclusively in England and on the European continent. Got away with millions. Of course, he died a thoroughly broken man and a dope addict, but he did get away with it for many years. He had a brain. Believe me, Mr. Lee, that is distinctly unique in the underworld. Now we have Red Martin. Not Worth’s type at all, but obviously a man with a brain and one who knows how to get things done. Yet even he has a flaw.”

  He fell silent for a moment and Marty began to breathe easier. Cleaver was not suspicious of Marty Lee. He thought he was talking simply to the hotel owner. There was nothing to worry about. But that flaw … Marty said, “This is all very interesting, but I don’t understand — ”

  Cleaver smiled at him. “Sorry I seem to be beating about the bush. I was speaking of Red Martin’s one flaw — at least, the one we know about. That is his technique. Patient planning. Careful casing of a job until he knows its every detail. Then speed in execution. Beautiful timing. We can always recognize his work. That’s why I’m here. We believe it was Red Martin who robbed you.”

  Marty almost burst out laughing. He was saved from committing an action that would have seemed odd to Cleaver when he saw von Kuppner step out of an elevator, followed by a bellboy carrying his luggage. Fourteen thousand dollars was somewhere in that luggage and Marty was powerless to do anything about it. Nor did he want to. He watched von Kuppner saunter over to the magazine stand, buy a paper, and speak pleasantly to Riley and the other police standing there.

  Cleaver said, “This robbery is typical of Red Martin’s work. He wasn’t seen by anyone, but that’s not important. He was probably somewhere in the hall, where he relieved his confederates of the money, then left by another route.”

  Marty said dryly, “I think you’re right. It seemed to me, too, that there had to be a third man involved.”

  Cleaver snapped his head about to stare at him. His eyes were cold. “Why?” he asked.

  Marty realized he had blundered, but shrugged and said, “It just seemed reasonable, that’s all. Lieutenant Riley was telling me that the hotel was well cased. That would indicate some one spending some time here. But neither of the two gunmen had ever been seen by any of my staff prior to the robbery. That meant a third man to me.”

  Cleaver was again smiling. “You’re quite right. I think the same way and I think it was Red Martin. We want that man — badly. We mean to get him. Now that we know he’s back in San Francisco we can do something about it.” He fell silent again, staring into space, smiling.

  Marty looked away to watch von Kuppner stroll over to the desk, which was but a few feet away. Marty could hear the conversation.

  Von Kuppner smiled and said to the clerk, “Nice morning. No fog.”

  “I think it will be nice all day, sir.”

  “I’m sure of it. My bill, if you don’t mind. I’m checking out.”

  “Yes, sir. You enjoyed your stay?”

  “Very much so. Profitable, too. Yes, indeed.”

  He paid his bill with cash out of a thick wallet and complimented the clerk on the appointments and service of the hotel. He lit a cigarette and walked out to a taxi with all the assurance of a man at peace with himself and the world.

  Marty grinned and chuckled quietly to himself. The nervy son-of-a-bitch. Neat. Very neat. But Marty was also intensely relieved. Von Kuppner had not recognized him, after all, or he would have gone for bigger game. He had undoubtedly known that Marty was the hotel owner and so had carefully observed his every move. It was important to know the owner’s routine. Yet he had not recognized him. If von Kuppner failed, then there was no need to worry about anyone else in the underworld. That knowledge was worth far more than fourteen grand. Besides, the money was insured against theft. Marty turned back to Cleaver with a satisfied smile.

  Cleaver said, “You may be of some assistance to us, Mr. Lee, if you care to help.”

  “Naturally. Anything I can do — ”

  “Well, I’ll tell you. It’s odd that Red Martin should return to the city. The heat is still on here for a bank job he pulled some time back and his confederates on that job have been apprehended and are now here in jail. It is entirely possible that he may have some unusually compelling reason to get in touch with them. They may know a little too much about him. Or it could be anything. Anyway, the underworld operates in peculiar ways. I have no doubt that Red Martin’s presence here will now be known to every thug in town. That information will also be known immediately to a certain Mr. Tony Arturo, a Nevada gambler.”

  Marty was caught with his guard down and gasped, “Arturo!”

  Cleaver gave him a puzzled frown. “You know him?”

  “Well, I — Not exactly. I met him once, opening night of the hotel.”

  “Oh. Good. Then you know what he looks like. Red Martin once robbed Arturo’s gambling hall of a considerable sum. That was a mistake, a bad mistake. Tony has underworld connections, too, plenty of them. And he has naturally been using every connection available to track down Martin. He may succeed. I would like to be around if he should.”

  Cleaver got to his feet, so Marty stood up with him. “Where do I fit in the picture?”

  “Well, Arturo will undoubtedly show up here. I imagine he will even check into your hotel. He’ll start searching for Red Martin immediately. You can do us a big favor, Mr. Lee, by having your staff keep an eye on him. And if anyone should observe anything out of the way, let us know at once.”

  Marty’s brain was whirling with a new danger, but he nodded. “Sure. If he checks in I’ll have him watched.” He added dryly, “You can depend on that.”

  “Very good. Glad you’re so co-operative. Anything we can do in return, let me know.”

  He shook hands and sauntered off through the lobby.

  Marty dropped back to the couch, shaking his head. Of all the dumb breaks! Why the hell couldn’t von Kuppner have used some other technique? Now the F.B.I. would be hanging around. And Tony — Marty nodded his head. Yes, that had been a mistake.

  Cleaver was correct in his assumptions regarding Tony Arturo. The gambler checked into the hotel the following day and talked with everyone on the staff who had witnessed the robbery, tipping generously. In spite of the danger, Marty was sardonically amused by the fact that Tony also thought the technique employed was Red Martin’s. That damned von Kuppner had performed a little too well.

  But Tony was also coincidentally responsible for a rupture between Marty and Karen. Without informing Marty of her plans, she had gone to the jail to see Hank and Joe. The Stannards, after all, were stockholders in the bank they had robbed and Karen could not overcome her curiosity toward them. She ran into Tony Arturo at the jail. He recognized her, introduced himself, and appointed himself guide. He returned with her to the hotel, so she invited him to Marty’s room for cocktails. Marty came in as she was mixing Martinis for Tony and herself. She was breathless about her experience with Hank and Joe.

  “I simply had to see for myself what bank robbers looked like,” she explained to Marty. “And I wasn’t disappointed. Joe, the young one, the one who was the driver, looked scared, but defiant. He was almost a movie type, rather good-looking in a weak sort of way. The other one, Hank, was the odd one. He seemed very much at ease, not worried, not even very much interested. He looked almost kind of fatherly. But he had the eyes of a killer.” Her shoulders quivered delicately. “When he looked at me he gave me the wim-wams. Anyway,” she smiled, “I enjoyed it. And it was wonderful running into Mr. Arturo. He told me all about how they operate.”

  Tony ran sensitive fingers over glossy black hair, smiled at Karen, and winked at Marty. “I oughta know how they operate. The guy who held up the bank with them, this Red Martin they’re lookin’ for, is the same character who held up my club at Tahoe.”

  Marty was having difficulty controlling his anger with Karen, but he managed to look politely surprised. “These same three men knocked you over?”

  “No, no. Just the redhead. The one they haven’t caught. Red Martin. I thought maybe
these two might have been in on that job, too. They weren’t, though. It was two others with Red Martin. He came in right at closing time with a couple gunmen who really had itchy trigger fingers. There was a fourth man outside in a car. But I’ll never forget that redhead.”

  Marty went to the cabinet bar to pour a Coke, but decided he needed a highball. As he was mixing it he asked Tony over his shoulder, “Did they shoot up the place?”

  Tony ran a tongue around inside his lips. His eyes narrowed as he thought again of the way it had happened. He shook his head. “It wasn’t necessary. In my business, Mr. Lee, you get to know something about people. You know when you’re lookin’ at sudden death. That’s what I was seein’ in this redhead’s eyes. Quick death and no malarkey about it.”

  “Then it’s odd he didn’t start anything.”

  “Not that kind. He was there for one thing — the dough. Eighty-five thousand bucks’ worth, and not insured. That’s all he wanted. Strictly business. He cared about nothin’ else. But if anyone’d made a wrong move that redhead would’ve blown ‘em wide open and never give it a second thought. So no one made that wrong move.”

  Karen lowered a glass from her lips to say, “I always had the idea that a gambling place would be unusually difficult to rob, even more so than a bank.”

  Tony nodded, but his eyes were on Marty as he dropped to the couch at Karen’s side. “You’re right, Mrs. Lee. Most men who work in gambling joints are pretty rugged characters themselves and can usually take care of any emergency. So the wise boys stay away. Not this redhead, though. He had the place cased right down to the last inch. Every move him and his men made had been rehearsed dozens of times. You could tell. None of my men had a chance to do a thing. It would’ve been suicide. When we checked it all over later we figured they hadn’t been in the place more’n sixty or seventy seconds. It was that smooth.” He smiled broadly at Marty. “Y’ know, Mr. Lee, I think that redhead was an organizing genius.”