by Joeseph Hays
Table of Contents
The Desperate Hours
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7
The Desperate Hours
a novel by
Joseph Hayes
* * *
Random House
New York
Copyright, 1954, by Marrijane and Joseph Hayes
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in New York by Random House, Inc., and simultaneously in Toronto, Canada, by Random House of Canada, Limited.
Manufactured in the United States of America
Designed by Jerome Kuhl
* * *
For Marrijane, my wife, who helps all the way, all the time; and with a sidelong nod of thanks to Mary B. Orvis and James Oliver Brown.
1
They emerged from the woods a few minutes after dawn, a cold, moist dawn with a mist billowing up from the fields. There were three of them, their uniforms blending with the yellowing autumn green. They paused only briefly, scanning the deserted highway that lay flat across the flat Midwestern country. At a signal from one—the tall, lean, young-looking man who walked slightly ahead of the other two, with his head tilted and his shoulders lifted at a defiant and slightly triumphant angle—they proceeded swiftly, but not running, behind a screen of trees and underbrush, in a line parallel to the highway. In a very short time, and before anyone or anything else appeared on the road, they reached a farm. In the barn lot, one detached himself from the others, moving quickly, a small young man, even younger than the tall one but without the other’s jaunty manner, and began to work on the wires under the hood of the late-model gray-colored sedan parked there. The other two moved swiftly but with stealth toward the barn. Inside, they came upon a middle-aged farmer, wearing blue overalls, shifting with pail and stool from one cow to another. The shorter of the two men—who was middle-aged and slower, but powerful-looking, with the ponderous forward-leaning gait of a bear—picked up an ax handle and stepped across the straw-littered, concrete floor. Before the startled farmer could utter a cry, the tremendous arms went up once, there was an ugly sound, and the farmer sprawled. Then the heavy man lifted the handle again, but the other stopped him with a short commanding gesture similar to the one he had used on the highway. He then knelt down by the unconscious but still breathing farmer and stripped him of his overalls.
They then went out of the barn, rejoined the boy who was now seated behind the wheel of the car with the motor purring. With no eyes upon it, the sedan slipped out of the barn lot, turned south, and became lost in the thinning mist.
All this had been accomplished with a minimum of effort, no waste motion and in the most precise and machinelike manner imaginable.
Word of this incident, and all that had preceded it but nothing that followed it, reached Indianapolis, seventy-two miles to the east, less than half an hour later. Almost immediately then a telephone rang in the bedroom of a small, neat cottage in one of the newer but unpretentious subdivisions northwest of the city.
A rangy young man in green-striped flannel pajamas rolled over in bed, yawning, and then, not groping, reached across his unawakened wife and picked up the telephone. He spoke into it curtly, then listened briefly. “I’ll be down,” he said quietly. Wide awake at last, he replaced the telephone in its cradle and turned to the woman in the bed.
Her eyes were open now, and she crinkled her nose at him, stretching with an exaggerated display of well-being and satisfaction to cover up the sharp cut of apprehension that such phone calls always caused in her. She sat up, watching her husband climb into his dark suit. He was an extremely tall man, in his early thirties, with extremely thin arms and legs that in no way betrayed the wirelike twist of muscles that lay below the surface. He was talking as he dressed, and he spoke in a laconic sort of drawl, grumbling in such a way that she caught the thrust of emotion he was trying to subdue.
“Glenn Griffin, his kid brother and another con, a lifer by the name of Robish,” Jesse Webb was saying. “Not more than an hour ago. From the Federal prison in Terre Haute.” He strapped on his gun, gave the shoulder holster a quick pat, then pulled on his suit jacket, flipping it back once, with an automatic gesture so that the deputy sheriff’s badge showed once, briefly, a dull glimmer in the dimness. “I’ll catch a shave downtown, Kathie.”
“You’ll eat, too,” she reminded him, and he turned to the bed, grinning slowly, his face suddenly very young.
“I reckon I’ll eat, Kathleen Webb,” he drawled, “if you say so.”
But even as he spoke, the smile flickered, failed, and he bent quickly, kissed her, and turned.
Her voice caught him. “Is Glenn Griffin the one you—” She broke off when he paused in the bedroom doorway.
“He’s the one,” he said. “He had twelve years to go. I hope he heads straight for his old home town.” He was rubbing the back of his narrow, lean, efficient hand, in that way he had, and Kathleen rose from the bed.
She walked with him to the front door. “But isn’t this the last place he would come?” she asked reasonably, trying not to betray the slow knife-turn inside.
Jesse Webb, of the Marion County Sheriff’s office, himself in charge this entire week because his superior, Sheriff Masters, had gone to South Carolina on a combined extradition case and hunting trip, turned to his wife in the doorway and explained why he thought, or hoped, that Glenn Griffin would come to Indianapolis. In the first place, he said, you had to bank on the homing-pigeon instinct in the criminal mind: a familiar town, even if their faces are known in it, gives them the illusion of security. They always think they know where to hide, although today all such rat holes would be turned inside out by nightfall. Then, too, there was the woman, name of Helen Lamar; she was thirty-five at least, ten years older than Glenn Griffin himself, but important to him. And Jesse had a hunch she had the money.
“There’s always a woman,” Kathleen said, reluctant to release the slender arm with the taut muscles rippling in it.
“Not always, but if there is, it helps. If she’s still in Indianapolis, I’ll lay two to one she’s the beacon will lead us straight to those three-” He clamped down on his tongue because Kathleen despised what she called “courthouse language.” He stopped and caught her chin in his hand and again he kissed her lips, still warm with sleep, then strode toward the car parked in the driveway, his mind almost consciously waiting for the inevitable words from the door.
They came, floating in the chill, sharp air: “Good luck, darling.”
He waved with one hand, unsmiling, and backed the Sheriff’s car into the street, guiding with his other hand.
At that moment the gray sedan was cruising along in farm country that had begun to have a slight lift and roll to it. Glenn Griffin, wearing the faded blue overalls, was at the wheel. The middle-aged man sat beside him, his enormous hulk of head sunk between two permanently upthrust shoulders so that it seemed almost a part of his thick, heavy body. The boy, Glenn’s younger brother, lay stretched out on the back seat, his head well down, his eyes closed.
But Hank Griffin was not sleeping. He was remembering the slow flat crawl in darkness over the hundred yards of bare ground with the walls and gun towers behind them; he was remembering the headlong, reckless crash of the three bodies through the comparative safety of the dark woods. His chest was lashed and scratched and his shirt front torn and slightly crusted with blood. There was a gash across his forehead and it had begun to throb. But worst of all, he was shuddering. Now that they were beyond earshot of any shrieking sirens, insistent, shrill and blood-curdling on the high walls, he could imagine the sound as if he had actually
heard it. His rather short, tight-knit and very youthful body had begun to shake with crawling vibrations in every bone and muscle, and there was nothing he could do to stop it except grit his teeth together and lie there listening to Glenn and Robish in the front seat.
“You’re going south,” Robish was complaining in a heavy but querulous voice. “Indianapolis is northeast.”
“I’m going southeast now,” Glenn Griffin said easily, and the words leaped and flickered in that laughter that now colored every word he spoke and filled the car with an exultancy that moved like warmth over Hank in the back seat.
“Didn’t you say Lamar was in Indianapolis? With the dough.”
“She moved away last week. To Pittsburgh. If they can’t locate her in Indianapolis, it’ll take the heat off. They won’t locate her.”
“Where the hell we heading then?”
“Indianapolis,” Glenn said quietly, mocking the man beside him, with the laughter still in his tone. “I got some business there, remember? But we’re not walking into a roadblock from the west, pal. We’ll circle all the way around and come in from the northeast some time this afternoon.”
“Then what?”
“Then we’ll find us a cozy spot. And I’ll contact Helen.”
“A cozy spot—like where?”
“You name it, Robish. Only no hangouts, see. They’ll be watching all of them. No hotels, either. Pick a nice quiet house on a nice quiet street on the edge of town, say, with no other houses close by. Make it a big place, though, with soft furniture. Comfortable, scared people—a sucker who goes to work every day, maybe a kid in the family. Some place to take the stir-taste out of our mouths.”
“Then what?”
“We wait.”
“How long?”
“Till Helen gets there from Pittsburgh, P.A. Now shut up, Robish, let a guy enjoy his freedom.”
In the back seat Hank heard Robish swear under his breath. Hank had to hand it to Glenn: he could certainly handle Robish. First, Robish had growled that they had to ditch the prison clothes; Glenn wouldn’t listen. He’d get him clothes when he needed them—good clothes. Meanwhile, stay down. And then Robish had complained about not carrying a gun: it made him feel helpless. What if they ran into a roadblock? They wouldn’t, Glenn had said, because nobody ever heard of these roads. As for the gun, they couldn’t afford to pull a job and tip off their whereabouts; besides, Glenn had one, didn’t he? A .38 revolver, taken from the guard who was now in the prison infirmary with a bump on his head, if nothing worse. Relax, Robish, and enjoy yourself.
But Hank was not relaxed. He was looking ahead. And he was picturing a house such as Glenn had described. After the clank of lock, the smooth mechanical sound of cell doors closing, the hard stiffness of concrete floors and metal bunks, he was imagining sinking down again into a deep soft chair, his feet planted on deep-tufted carpet, the warm and intimate reality of ordinary walls with framed pictures on them. As yet even the crisp, cold air that penetrated the closed windows of the sedan had not reached the valleys of memory where the harsh iron-tasting odor of the last two years still lingered like stench from a swamp. But in a house like that, he said to himself …
The Hilliards had bought their house on Kessler Boulevard because it was quite large compared to the new homes selling for slightly less money in the subdivisions. It had been worth the difference in price because, while fairly convenient to shopping centers and bus lines, it was remote enough from other homes to give the family a sense of privacy. Also, it was outside the city limits by only ten blocks, and the taxes were lower. In the eight years that they had occupied the house, they had come, without any of them ever being quite aware of it, to love every corner, stairstep and shingle. It would require another paint job in the spring, true, and the furniture, purchased new when Dan was released from the Navy after the war, showed some, but not much, evidence of wear and tear by two growing youngsters. Cindy, who was now nineteen, thought they should replace the living-room suite as soon as possible, but her mother, Eleanor, wasn’t just sure. Even though they received a 20 per cent discount on furniture purchases because Dan was now personnel manager of the largest department store in town, they were living, Eleanor argued, in inflationary times and the furniture was comfortable. Besides, as she pointed out to Dan less than a week ago, Cindy might be getting married soon. Dan had said nothing—which was his way.
As Dan came down the stairs at 7:40 on this particular Wednesday morning, he was trying to look ahead to the complicated problems of the day at the office rather than give in to the nagging uncertainty, almost anxiety, he had begun to feel about his daughter, Cindy. Not that he had anything personal or in particular against Charles Wright. Perhaps, he chided himself, only a banked-down sort of envy. Dan had had to work for everything he had ever made, every cent. This house itself was evidence of how long and how hard. Without an education past the second year in high school, he had come to this. And he was proud—a hard pride that was compounded of a personal sense of accomplishment and of gratitude. Charles Wright, on the other hand, was not the sort of young man with whom Dan could ever feel comfortable. Chuck—as Cindy had come to call him after going to work as secretary in the law office where young Wright was already a junior partner—had had it all handed to him, everything easy. Fine. He was lucky. But he was also, Dan knew from hearsay and from certain knowledge, an irresponsible young man, more interested in fast sports cars, beautiful girls, and long, wine-drenched parties than in finding a solid place for himself in the life of the community. Very well, then, Dan was acting like a typical father, or as Cindy had chided, “a conservative old fogy’.”
In the kitchen the day’s routine had begun almost an hour before. Ralphie, who dawdled over breakfast as though it were some sort of punishment for past crimes, was glaring at a half-full glass of milk. He looked up when Dan doubled up a huge freckled fist and placed the knuckles lightly against the soft ten-year-old cheek. Eleanor, whose face was rounded like her son’s and who had passed along to him also her light-colored hair, smiled and placed Dan’s steaming ham and eggs before him, then sat down across from him, at the kitchen table. Without make-up, she looked like a child herself, small and still slender.
“Lucille is sick,” she announced, explaining the absence of the maid who usually came on Wednesday and Saturdays.
“Again?” Dan said. “Any gin missing?”
Eleanor frowned and shook her head in swift wifely warning, nodding to Ralphie, who lifted his eyes from the milk and grinned knowingly. “She’s probably blotto,” he said sagely.
“Where does he learn his language?” Dan inquired.
“Comic books,” Eleanor said, buttering toast. “Television. Do you know what blotto means, Ralphie?”
“My name,” Ralphie announced, punctuating each word with a click of his glass on the table, “is Ralph. R-a-l-p-h. There’s no y on the end of it.”
“Sorry, old fellow,” Dan said.
“And blotto means tight. Tight means drunk. Have I drunk enough milk?”
Eleanor was laughing, behind her napkin, and nodding. Ralphie was up, jarring the table, kissing his mother’s hair swiftly; then he turned grave eyes on Dan and gave him a swift salute, half defiance and half apology, and turned on his heel.
“I’ll ride my bike. I’ve got a whole half-hour, almost.” He disappeared onto the rear porch, clumped down the three steps and was gone. Dan heard the garage door sliding up and was reminded again that he had to oil the runner mechanism soon.
Eleanor said, “Our son Ralph, spelled R-a-l-p-h, is too old to kiss a man—that’s you—good-bye or good night.”
“Well,” Dan said wryly, but feeling a pinch somewhere inside, “that seems to be that.”
“A milepost,” Eleanor said, her eyes on him steadily now, studying him.
“We seem to be flying past mileposts darned fast, old girl,” he said.
What Eleanor saw was a man of average height with heavy shoulders, the bulk of
his body fitting finely under the double-breasted suit; she looked into the familiar deep blue eyes and was conscious of the mahogany-red hair above and the freckles climbing over and across the rather broad nose and the deep fine lines that added, she thought, so much character to an otherwise very ordinary but very appealing face.
Reading his mind, she said, “Cindy’d like to ask him for Thanksgiving dinner, Dan.”
Dan downed the last swallow of coffee, stood up, yanked at his suit coat like a boy dressed for a party and determined to impress.
“Should she?” Eleanor asked.
Dan shrugged, but not successfully. “Ellie, I don’t want to jump in and start opposing this thing and get Cindy’s back up. But—well, Thanksgiving’s a sort of family day.”
Eleanor lifted her face for his kiss, then walked to the kitchen window while Dan went out the rear door, his topcoat thrown over his arm instead of over his shoulders.
When she opened the window, the gusty warning of winter swept through the kitchen. She watched from an angle as Dan backed the blue car out of the garage, maneuvering it around Cindy’s black coupe in the driveway. Then, for absolutely no reason at all except that it was a ritual between them, meaning at the same time more and less than the word itself, she called, “Careful. And I mean it.”
His hat pulled at its usual not quite proper angle, Dan shouted back, “Close the window,” and swept out of her line of vision.
Eleanor complied, as she did every morning, five days a week. She never caught colds, and Dan knew this, just as she knew that there was no particular reason for him to be careful. Careful of what?
As she set a fresh place for Cindy, Eleanor decided against mentioning Chuck Wright this morning, especially in view of Dan’s unspoken rejection of the Thanksgiving-dinner idea. All the words that occurred to her seemed stereotyped and flat, anyway—that Chuck Wright had a reputation for being wild, that he was the type that would never settle down. Cindy would only reply again, from the summit of nineteen years, that you could blame the war for that, hinting at some great tragedy and dramatic feat that, if known, would explain Charles Wright completely and utterly and make him totally acceptable in every far corner of the land.
