Under her glance of cold, malicious hatred Campbell turned uneasily away.
13
September 8th, 6.10 p.m.
LEFTY parked the car just outside the back entrance of the hotel. There was no one about.
Raven got out of the car. His face was very white. “Get the Thompsons out,” he snapped, looking up and down the deserted alley.
Maltz pulled up the back seat and took out three Thompsons. Raven took one and Lefty another.
Little Joe said uneasily, “Shall I stick with the heap?”
Raven shook his head. “We’ll want everyone up there,” he said grimly. “Don’t forget, boys, there’s nearly a million bucks in my safe. We split.”
“As long as there ain’t a million G−men, that’ll be fine,” Lefty said with a tight smile.
Raven walked quickly into the hotel. The porter, sitting in his little office, gave them a startled look. When he saw the Thompsons his hand went out to the telephone. Raven lifted the long muzzle of the machine−gun.
The porter gave a sickly smile and took his hand away.
Raven said to Lefty, “Fix that bird.”
Lefty took two quick steps and the butt of his gun crashed down on the porter’s head. The porter slumped down on the floor of his office.
“Fast, now,” Raven said, stepping into the elevator.
The others crowded in after him. They were all very nervous. The elevator whined up between the floors.
Raven said, as the cage slid to a standstill, “Gettin’ out’s goin’ to be a picnic. Shoot first an’ talk after.”
He stepped out of the elevator and began a stiff−legged walk down the corridor.
His suite was round the first bend.
Little Joe took off his hat and wiped his face with his sleeve. This was scaring hell out of him. He clutched his blunt−nose automatic, ready to flop at the first burst of fire.
Raven crept to the bend in the corridor. Every sound was muffled by the heavy carpet. He knew this was sheer madness, but he wasn’t going to part with all that dough without a fight. If he got his hands on it he was all right. The thought of once more being on the run, without money, frightened him far more than a hail of lead.
He looked round the bend. Two cops stood in the passage looking towards him. They saw him at the same time as he saw them. He swung up his Thompson and gave them a short burst. The sudden clatter of the gun as it spat lead crashed down the corridor. One of the cops fell forward on his face, but the other darted into Raven’s room.
Swearing softly, Raven ran forward, the others following him. The door was open, and Raven paused as he reached it. He had no intention of rushing in. Kneeling down, he swung the muzzle of the gun round the door, spraying lead.
A revolver cracked twice in reply and bullets thudded into the opposite wall. Raven glanced at the wall, saw the angle, which told him the cop was lying down, and lowered the muzzle, firing at the same time.
He heard the cop give a gasp, and he took a chance. He burst into the room, firing wildly. The cop was lying in a pool of blood, the top of his head blown off.
Maltz crowded in and, holding his gun at his hip, ran into the other rooms. There was no one else there.
Raven grinned at him as he came back. “Stand by the door,” he said, “while I get the safe open.”
He laid his gun down and ran over to the small wall safe. Feverishly he spun the little knob, muttering the combination out loud as he did so.
The others stood in the corridor, tense and expectant.
It took several minutes to open the safe. As he pulled the door open he heard the wailing of sirens in the street. He grabbed two large packets of notes that he knew he’d find there. “I’ve got ’em,” he shouted, picking up his gun. “Come on, let’s scram.”
Just as he stepped into the corridor the main elevator door opened and several cops spilled out.
Maltz fired on them, falling flat. The cops opened up with a withering fire and Raven only just darted back into the room in time. Stuffing the packets of money inside his coat, he ran into the bathroom and threw up the window. Down below he could see police−cars drawing up outside the hotel and cops crowding out. There were a lot of them. He turned back once more and ran into his bedroom, which looked out on the back alley.
He knew there was a fire−escape there.
All the time he could hear the gun−battle raging outside in the corridor. He couldn’t think of the others now. They’d have to look after themselves. As he threw up his bedroom window he heard a crash of something exploding and then faintly the smell of pear drops came to him. Tear gas! He swung out on to the fire−escape. It wouldn’t be more than minutes before they’d get after him. He raced up the iron stairs. Below him he heard a shout, and then someone started firing at him. Bullets zipped past him, unpleasantly close. As he threw himself blindly over the parapet of the roof one of the packets fell from inside his coat and landed with a little thud on the iron staircase. He knew he couldn’t get it. It would mean exposing himself to the fire below. Cursing, he took the other packet and put it inside his shirt, then he ran across the roof top, lowered himself over another parapet, took a stiff drop on to another roof, and ran on again.
Any moment he expected to hear shots behind him. Now that he was on the rim he felt once more the bitter calculating thing of destruction he was before he made money. Every instinct was razor sharp, and even as he climbed across the roofs of the buildings he was already making plans well in advance.
He must get out of town. Stations and roads would be watched. He knew he couldn’t get out of town without aid. He thought of the various people whom he had known, and bitterly he was forced to reject each one. There was no one he could turn to. Grantham, Eller, Lefty, Little Joe, Maltz and the rest of them were finished. He knew that. He was on his own now. He didn’t mind that. He’d got money. That would always be his best friend.
By now he’d reached the end of the block. Peering round a chimney−stack, he could see the police climbing on to the hotel roof some distance away. They began to move very cautiously towards him. Well, they’d take a little while to catch up at that rate.
By his feet was a trap−door. He lifted it carefully and lowered himself into an attic room, drawing the trap−door in place after him. He knew the block was by now surrounded. He took the bundle of money out of his shirt and split it into four small packets. These he distributed carefully in each pocket of his suit. It was no use carrying the Thompson any longer. He put it in the corner of the room and then opened the door and walked into a corridor.
As he walked towards the head of the stairs he loosened his automatic in its shoulder−holster. The place seemed to be a block of offices. When he reached the second landing, rows of frosted−panelled doors confirmed this. At the end of the corridor he saw a gentleman’s toilet. He hesitated a moment and then went in.
The only occupant was a window−cleaner, who was leaning out of the window. Raven eyed his uniform and realized his chance.
The window−cleaner, hearing him come in, looked over his shoulder. “Seems like there’s a lotta excitement poppin’ at the St. Louis,” he said with a grin. “The place is lousy with cops.”
Raven came to the window and looked down. A heavy cordon had been thrown round the block and the street was packed with interested sight−seers.
“What’s it all about?” he asked, stepping back.
“Search me,” the window−cleaner returned, still looking down into the street. “Some excitement.”
Raven drew his automatic and let the barrel slide into his hand, then he dealt the window−cleaner a crushing blow at the back of his head.
14
September 9th, 10.5 a.m.
JAY ELLINGER walked into the F.B.I. offices and asked for Campbell. He was shown up immediately.
Campbell got up from behind his desk and shook hands. “Sit down, Ellinger,” he said, pushing over a box of cigars. “Make yourself at home.”
Campbell smiled. “You’re free, ain’t you?” he said. “I mean, you’re lookin’ for some sort of job?”
Jay looked surprised. “Why, sure,” he said, “I guess I am.”
“Ever thought anythin’ about this racket?”
“What? A Federal Agent?”
Campbell nodded. “I’ve been on to Mr. Hoover’s chief of staff. We think you’d make a good agent, Ellinger.”
“Why, sure,” Jay said eagerly, “I’d jump at it.”
“Seeing that it was through your efforts this big Slave Ring’s been exposed, we thought it only fair to let you in at the death. What do you say?”
“It’s mighty nice of you.”
“Okay, then I’ll fix it. A Federal Agent has to sit for all sorts of examinations and has to go through all kinds of tests and training before he can join up. I’m goin’ to let you off these for the time being. You’ll work with one of my operators and you’ll just be his assistant. When we’ve cleaned all this business up you’ll be posted to one of our trainin’ centres. Right now there isn’t the time for it.”
Jay nodded. “That’s fine. You can rely on me to do as I’m told. I’d like to see the end of this guy Raven.”
“So you shall.” Campbell pressed a bell. “I’ll get Hogarty to come in.”
A moment later a tall, thick−set man entered. “Mornin", Chief,” he said, tipping his hat.
“Hogarty, meet Jay Ellinger. You’ve heard about him. I’m sending Ellinger along with you. He might be able to help. When all this is over he’s being sworn in.”
Hogarty shook hands with Jay. He seemed pleased to know him. “You’ve done a smart bit of work already,” he observed.
“Okay. Now what’ve you to report?” Campbell asked, signing Hogarty to another chair.
Hogarty sat down. “Well, Chief, he’s got away. I’m sorry about it, but somehow or other he slipped through the cordon.”
Campbell shrugged. “I didn’t expect it to be that easy,” he said. “He can’t leave town, can he?”
“He’ll be damn clever if he does,” Hogarty said grimly. “The place is sewed up tight enough.”
“What about the other guys?”
“Two of them are dead, and Little Joe’s ready to squawk.”
Campbell nodded. “You better see he’s put somewhere where they can’t get at him,” he said. “What about Mrs. Perminger… she all right?”
“Yeah. We’ve got her out in the country. I’ve put three operators on to her and she’s got a woman to keep her company. She’ll be right on the spot when the guy comes to trial. Jeeze! Does she hate that fella?”
Campbell’s face hardened. “She’s got a lot of reasons for hatin’ him,” he said. “It beats me how she came through at all.”
Hogarty climbed to his feet. “Women are tough,” he said. “And when a dame hates like that Mrs. P., I’d sooner be a long way away from her.”
“What are you goin’ to do now?”
“Stick around. It takes time, Chief. If he’s run to ground we’ll have to wait for him. Sooner or later he’ll make a slip an’ then we’ll get him.”
“You’re sure the town’s sewed up?”
“It’s tight. Every road’s bein’ watched. The stations are looking out for him and the airport too. No, I guess he’ll have to stay out. It’s a pity he got away with all that dough. It makes things much easier when they’re broke.”
“All right, take Ellinger along with you. Get after him, Hogarty; we want quick results.”
Hogarty jerked his head to Ellinger. “Sure,” he said, and as they went out he winked at Jay. “Maybe he does want quick results, but he ain’t goin’ to get them,” he told Jay as they walked down the passage.
“Sometimes it takes months before a guy breaks from cover. We just have to wait.”
Jay followed him out into the crowded street.
15
September 9th, 10.45 a.m.
ON THE third floor of a shabby little hotel Raven slept behind the locked door of the grimy bedroom he had rented. He slept uneasily. A gun lay beside him on the soiled sheet. He hadn’t taken off his clothes.
Newspapers covered the floor so that anyone approaching his bed would, by the rustle of the papers, wake him.
He wore a smart black suit that the hotel owner had obtained for him. The hotel owner was a guy called Goshawk. Raven had paid him well and he hadn’t asked questions. Already he knew who Raven was.
Everywhere pictures of Raven proclaimed him as a wanted man. As long as he continued to pay Goshawk he knew he was safe, but he knew that if he was to make his get−away and have enough to start some other racket he couldn’t stay long. Goshawk knew how to charge.
Raven stirred uneasily and then sat up quickly. His hand closed round the gun as he listened. He heard nothing, and relaxed.
The four grimy walls of the room oppressed him. He wanted to get up and go out, but he knew he daren’t do that. Even from his bedroom window he could see a poster on a hoarding carrying his photograph. The F.B.I. weren’t taking any chances with him.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and got up. He glanced at the clock. It didn’t matter to him what time it was, he’d got no place to go.
Moving across to the wash−basin, he bathed his face and decided to shave. While taking his collar and tie off he happened to look across the road at an opposite house. He stood still staring.
A girl, dressed in a white flimsy step−in, was wandering backwards and forwards in front of the window.
She seemed to be doing a dance routine. By listening carefully he could hear the faint strains of a gramophone.
Keeping carefully out of sight, he stood watching her. His first reaction was that she’d be a good type for one of his houses, then his second reaction was a sudden forgotten lust that made him want her as he had never wanted a woman before.
She was medium height, with a mass of corn−coloured curls. Even from where he was standing he could see she had an exceptionally good figure. She drifted round the room smoothly, and then, as the record came to an end, she disappeared from view.
Thoughtfully Raven picked up his shaving−brush and began to lather his face. He kept his eyes fixed on the window. It was only when he’d finished shaving that she reappeared. This time she was dressed in a red−and−white−spotted dress, and she came out on the little iron balcony and looked down into the street.
Raven could see a lot more of her. Again he felt a pang go through him. A tap at the door startled him and he growled, “Who is it?” laying his hand on the gun.
“Goshawk.”
He crossed the room and unlocked the door.
Goshawk came in with a tray. He was a little scraggy man with hard gimlet eyes and a heavily dyed moustache. He set the tray down on the bed.
Raven took him by his arm and pulled him to the window. “Who’s that dame?” he asked.
Goshawk stared and shook his head. “Search me,” he said indifferently. “Why?”
“Never mind why,” Raven snarled. “Find out at once. Send someone over to that house and find out who she is. I don’t care how you do it, and don’t make anyone suspicious, but find out.” He gave him a twenty−dollar bill. “Ten more if you get what I want.”
Goshawk shook his head. “Make it another twenty,” he said.
Raven, his face going white with fury, seized him by his scraggy neck. “You down−at−heel louse,” he said furiously; “you try an’ twist me an’ see what comes to you.”
Goshawk backed away hurriedly. He felt his throat tenderly with his grimy hand. “All right, Mr. Raven,”
he said, touching his forehead with a long bony finger.
Raven said through his teeth, “Don’t call me that!”
Goshawk backed away and went out of the room. Raven locked the door af
ter him and then went to the window. The girl had gone.
He turned back to his breakfast. A newspaper lay on the top of the tray, folded in such a way that his photo stared up at him. He picked up the paper savagely and tossed it across the room.
He had no appetite for his breakfast, and after a few mouthfuls he pushed the tray away and lit a cigarette.
How was he to get out of this place? Everywhere his picture reminded the crowded streets to look for him. He went over to the mirror and stared at himself. If he grew a moustache and dyed his hair he might get some place. He could wear tinted glasses too. Yes, that was it. He found himself quivering with excitement.
Goshawk would have to help him, but then Goshawk would know of his disguise. A cruel smile came to the thin lips. Maybe Goshawk would have a little accident.
16
September 9th, 11.45 a.m.
GOSHAWK said, “I found out about the dame over the way. Her name’s Marie Leroy. She’s flat broke an’
wants to go to Hollywood. Thinks she’s a dancer. She’s an orphan, and can’t get a job. At the end of the week she’ll be told to dust.”
Raven lit a cigarette. His fireplace was littered with stubs. “What’s she goin’ to do?”
Goshawk shrugged. “I’ll tell you what she won’t do,” he said with a sly smile. “She won’t decorate no guy’s bed. That kind of a dame is a so−far−and−no−mother dame.”
Raven sneered. “That’s what you think,” he said. “Given the opportunity, the time, and if you kid ’em enough, it’s a cinch with any dame.”
“Yeah?” Goshawk shook his head. “You ain’t thinkin’ of havin’ a try, are you? I shouldn’t have thought your mind was on dames. You’ve got your hands full, ain’t you?”
Raven ignored him. He got up from the rickety armchair. “I want you to get me a pair of tinted eye−glasses,” he said, “an’ some bleachin’ stuff for my hair.”
Miss Callaghan Comes to Grief Page 17
