The Last Express

by Baynard Kendrick

  Maclain walked to the waist-high brick wall surrounding the terrace, hands clasped behind him. He stood turning his head as though he might be looking out over the vast congestion stretching away below. Schnucke watched him disapprovingly, ears erect, sensitive to the danger just beyond the wall.

  Maclain was sensitive to danger, too. Spud thought him as keenly intuitive as the dog who adored him. During the years of their partnership it had ceased to be a novelty for some conscienceless member of the criminal world to try to get Duncan Maclain. Cappo Marsh had spent three weeks in a hospital and still bore the scars of two bullets poured into Maclain’s car from a sub-machine gun; Spud was still troubled in damp weather with a five-inch red streak on his right thigh, attesting to the keenness of an Italian bootlegger’s knife during Prohibition. Yet unremitting caution, coupled with the instinct Spud spoke of, had brought the blind member of the firm through unscathed.

  As Maclain stood at the wall, a remark Spud had made the day before came back to him: Run foul of Hoefle, and you’ll have half the thugs of New York trailing you and Schnucke around in a parade.

  Maclain turned it over in his mind and added to it the circumstances of Paul’s death and the murder of the girl beside him the night before. Last night he had known nothing which could make him a dangerous factor to anyone. If he had … He shivered, and Schnucke pressed closer to his leg. A shift of two feet could have placed him instead of Amy Arden, in the morgue.

  This afternoon the situation had altered. Dimly, like fog shaping on water, flashes of the truth had come to him since morning. They were misty and unformed—demonishly evanescent when he tried to fit them together—yet real they were, and the very shadow of their realness spelled danger.

  Why he overlooked it, he never knew. The striking warmth of the sun on his back lulled him. The security of the penthouse, the presence of his dogs, and the opiate of an hour’s music all tended to blunt the sharpness which had saved him many times before.

  He returned to the coolness of the office and sat down at the desk. He could see no flaw in his plan. To be doubly sure, he inserted a piece of paper in the typewriter behind him and listed the names of his morning’s visitors. To the list he added Spud and Di Angelo. He rang for Rena, handed her the list, and said, “I’m going to lie down and rest. Give Spud this list when he comes in—and call me at the same time. I’m going to explore that Atlantic Avenue Tunnel tonight. Everyone’s on here who knows that I’m interested in it.”

  Rena took it and read it through, then glanced at him with a look of singular affection which she occasionally bestowed on Duncan Maclain.

  “Everyone’s on here, Duncan, except me. That’s careless—for you—frightfully careless.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three: THE LAWYER AND THE DETECTIVE

  Spud had long since learned the futility of attempting to dissuade Duncan Maclain from his plans. Such a course had no other effect than to cause Maclain’s stubbornness to jell—a jelly which quickly hardened to the consistency of set cement. Instead, at dinner, over a dish of chicken à la marengo, he supplied Maclain with tales corralled from the garrulous Di Angelo.

  “He was in there when he was a boy,” Spud declared with a tinge of sarcasm. “That was back slightly before the California gold rush—and Brooklyn was teeming with a population of twenty thousand!”

  The dining-room door opened to admit Cappo, bearing coffee. Spud stopped until the Negro had departed. Maclain had warned him not to discuss the matter where anyone might overhear.

  Maclain knew Rena’s remark about the list was a hint that she considered the undertaking hazardous. She knew the captain as well as Spud and never wasted time with the ineffectuality of direct warnings. When Cappo had cleared away the dishes, she brought the matter up again by saying, “I recorded all the information I could get from the library this afternoon, Spud. Did you hear it?”

  “Yes. The part about the old engine and the pirates fits in nicely with the stories of Dunc’s Italian friend.”

  “Give us the rest,” said Maclain. “You make it sound interesting.”

  “The two of you sound as if I was swallowing this stuff, hook, line and sinker!”

  “You’re not nervous, are you, Spud?”

  “Not me. I just don’t like rats. The ones in the tunnel were big as bulldogs when Di Angelo started to talk, and grew steadily in size until one of them charged him with a horn on its nose.”

  Maclain’s eyebrows wriggled in delight. “Maybe we’d better get a hunting license and take a repeating rifle with us. I’d hate to have Schnucke eaten alive. What about the pirates?”

  “They hid loot in there,” Spud assured him warmly, “and bodies!—they’re laid along the old railroad track like ties. The place is full of bodies—stiff and cold—with knives in them!”

  “Don’t get whimsical,” said Rena. “Tell us what the man said.”

  “I’m trying to,” said Spud. “There’s an old locomotive in there—and the ghost of a dead engineer. He drives it up and down the tracks on Whitsuntide Eve, and it belches smoke out on the taxicabs—and a ghost on a skeleton horse rides ahead of him waving a red flag!”

  “Communistic,” said Maclain. “Now that you have described the delights of this utopia, how do we get in it?”

  “Ah,” said Spud, gurgling merrily, “through the secret entrances!”

  “Did you find out where they were ?”

  “Certainly. There’s one in every house along both sides of Atlantic Avenue—according to Di Angelo.”

  “Do you think he knows what he’s talking about ?”

  “Sure he does. I asked him if he knew how to find any of the secret entrances, and he wanted to know how an entrance could be secret if anybody could find it.”

  “It looks like a washout.” Maclain’s face showed such disappointment that Spud felt contrite.

  “I did get one bite before I left, Dunc. Di Angelo claims absolutely that there’s an entrance to the tunnel in an old yellow frame house near Hicks Street. I took a look at it. It’s a two-story frame, and half of the bottom part looks as if it used to be a store or a fish market.”

  “Deserted ?” The single word was eager.

  “I don’t think anybody’s been in it in fifty years. The downstairs windows are boarded up, and most of the panes are broken out of the second floor.”

  The captain sipped his coffee and drummed his fingers on the damask cloth. “Ask Cappo to bring some brandy, Rena.”

  She gave the order. When the big goblets were set in place and the brandy poured, she warmed hers, cupped in her slender hands, swished it around to get the fumes, and drank it silently. White-faced, she sipped at her coffee but said nothing. She wished the two men would not go, but knew nothing could stop them.

  They were in the office listening to the radio’s clipped resume of the two murders when the phone rang. Rena answered and, with a hand over the mouthpiece, said, “Max Gold—representing Mr. Hartshorn.”

  Maclain’s lips puckered with a mixture of surprise and pleasure. “Evelyn said she was going to retain an attorney for Chick—I didn’t know she’d pick the best in the country. Have him come up.” He turned to Spud. “See that the automatic elevator is on this floor, Spud, and run down and describe him from the twenty-fourth. I’ll wait on the private phone.”

  Spud disappeared, and Maclain took his place back of the desk, holding the interapartment phone to his ear. Rena went to the reception hall to greet the visitor. By the time Max Gold stepped from the automatic elevator which served the penthouse, the captain had his description well in mind: 45, five feet two. Light-blue suit with pin stripes. Combination gray shirt, tie and handkerchief. Beautiful teeth, pleasant face. Polished, and hard as nails.

  Max Gold’s greeting was cordial to an extreme, without an attempt to conceal open admiration.

  Underneath it, Maclain felt the iron of wariness, the refusal to trust without proof, which had made the diminutive criminal lawyer a giant in the courts. The capt
ain knew he had a black mark to obliterate before Gold would accept a word of advice or show a crevice in his natural guardedness.

  Max Gold knew of Maclain’s friendship for Chick; he knew equally well Maclain was retained by Dearborn. Max Gold knew of Evelyn’s visit on behalf of her brother. Equally well he was aware of Maclain’s close relationship with Inspector Davis and Sergeant Archer.

  The captain’s sole advantage was the reputation Max Gold had of knowing everything before he made a move.

  The attorney took a chair and filled the office with the aroma of the finest cigar it had ever been Maclain’s pleasure to smell. He tendered one to Maclain, but the captain refused. He liked cigars, but smoking them distracted him. He preferred the shortness of a cigarette, which freed his fingers for other things, for his training of his fingers never relaxed, even during conversation.

  “You’re a friend of Charles Hartshorn?” Gold began.

  “Yes.”

  “How long?”

  “Since he was a boy. I knew his father—before the war.”

  “Thank you,” said Gold. “I understood that from Miss Zarinka.”

  Additional smoke reached Maclain’s nostrils.

  “Years of practice have taught me it requires uncommon dexterity to serve two masters. Accuse me of obtuseness if you will—the paradoxical phases of any case perplex me. I’m a man who detests perplexity.”

  “I dislike perplexity, too,” said Maclain. “Will it be dissipated if I tell you I represent Dearborn politically and Hartshorn because he’s my friend ? When politics interfere with my friendship, I quit politics. The same attitude applies to my business—I place friendship first. It’s cost me money in the past.”

  Gold was amused and showed none of it. “It will cost you money in the future, Captain Maclain. Along with perplexity, I dislike similes. I’ll make one. Both of us deal with honest men and crooks. We are successful so long as we can separate one from the other. I presume the parallel continues when I say neither of us believes Hartshorn guilty?”

  “You’re correct there.”

  “Good!” Gold sighed and flicked an ash from his cigar. “Interest is greater than fees. What a challenge it is to a man of intelligence—to prove two hundred people wrong and himself right! To prove that any mob is wrong! I’ve decided to join forces with you, Captain Maclain. Shall we pool our interests—and, if so, where do we start?”

  Maclain decided without cavil. Added to Max Gold’s reputation was a driving force which flowed from the attorney on the most casual contact.

  Besides, Maclain had nothing to lose. Together, they might break an air-tight case. Singly, either of them might fail.

  “I’ll be glad to join you, Mr. Gold. There’s one stipulation. We work together. I’ll place all available information I have at your disposal. I expect you to do the same. It will be your job to take the facts I give you and mold them into a legal defense. That’s uphill all the way! I have a surer method—but it may be even harder to accomplish. Dearborn has retained me for that purpose—to find the man who is guilty!”

  “Sometime,” said Max Gold, “when you begin to get discouraged, you should enter my profession—and try to find a client who isn’t!”

  Chapter Twenty-Four: WITH PICKAX IN THE DARK

  Daylight lingered tenaciously. Maclain chafed, waiting for darkness to descend. Max Gold had left before nine with an appointment for the following day, when he would arrange an interview for them both with Chick at the Tombs. The captain had no intention of starting a probe of the abandoned Atlantic Avenue Tunnel in the daylight. Neither did he want to make it so late as to attract undue attention to himself and Schnucke. He felt, rightly, they would make an unusual appearance in the neighborhood of Atlantic Avenue and Hicks Street should they arrive there too late and find the neighborhood more or less deserted.

  Maclain spent another half hour familiarizing himself with a portion of his slotted map of Brooklyn which he denominated “E 5.” It took in the section from Borough Hall to the river, and included the place he planned to visit.

  When he finally instructed Cappo, some of his latent caution, lost in the afternoon, returned. He chose a most indirect route to their destination, going downtown to Delancey Street, across the Williamsburg Bridge, and along Kent Avenue to Myrtle, where they turned right and proceeded to Borough Hall. Spud and Maclain alighted in front of Joe’s Restaurant, but instructed Cappo, who was inured to Maclain’s maneuvers, to park on Montague Street and await their return.

  From Joe’s they proceeded on foot, following a rather intricate route which adhered to Maclain’s invisible pattern. It took them by way of Remsen Street, fairly deserted, and across Joralemon, down Hicks, so that with Atlantic Avenue ahead, they approached the dilapidated yellow house from the rear.

  With the exception of a few Brooklynites, stewing on their own doorsteps, the streets were deserted. The preceding two days of rain had left the city steaming. Lighted open windows showed hapless residents, unable to get away, were finding it less hot inside than out.

  Spud was carrying a three-foot-long, paper-wrapped parcel under his arm. Maclain’s fast pace, broken with hesitancy only at crossings, had Spud dripping before three blocks lay behind them. Spud was the warier of the two. The heat depressed him—engendered in him a queer sensation of playing a game. He could not relegate their quest to its proper niche as a part of their business. It was too fantastic to be adjustable. Old wives’ tales had no place in the serried streets of New York and Brooklyn. A tunnel, authenticated by press and city engineers, sealed up and abandoned for 77 years, blended fact and fancy too closely for him to comprehend it.

  He shifted the package under his arm as Maclain stopped for a crossing. The captain touched it and asked, “What have you?”

  “I brought a pickax,” Spud told him. “We can put it together if we need it.”

  “There’s something we didn’t bring,” said Maclain as Schnucke started across the street. “Mice.”

  Spud stopped on the opposite sidewalk and mopped his brow. “If this is the right place, we’ll need them, won’t we? Zarinka had them.”

  “If it’s the right place, Spud, we won’t need them—the mice Zarinka had were alive. The risk we run is that this is the wrong place.” He started on.

  “You going to take it?”

  “I’m going to rely on Gilbert Fox’s statement that the air in the tunnel was pure.”

  “That was twenty years ago,” Spud reminded him.

  “With my own nose along, and Schnucke’s, I’ll chance it. The most likely gases are illuminating gas or sewer gas. I can spot either of them long before they reach the danger point.”

  Spud sniffed. “I can smell them now, but I’ll go along. What’s your plan?”

  “Wait’ll we get inside the house, and I’ll tell you. Did you bring a flashlight ?”

  “Certainly,” Spud told him. “I can’t see in the dark like you can.”

  A noisome alleyway, cluttered with debris, brought them to the rear of the yellow building. It was weath-erbeaten and paint blistered on the outside, a relic of days when farmers, their Percherons hitched to a rail in front, bartered and traded, or drank a glass of ale, on their way to the ferry which would carry them to the New York markets. Atlantic Avenue was the pride of Brooklyn in those days, and as late as 1856 a horseman actually did ride on the street above the tunnel, preceding the puffing train below. His duties were to warn the farmers of the approaching subterranean monster whose belching smoke from the tunnel vents scared their horses into fits. The horseman’s task of keeping ahead of the train was not so difficult, since the scheduled run of 10 miles from Brooklyn to Jamaica was two hours and 45 minutes.

  Spud was caught in a swirl of Di Angelo’s reminiscences as he tried the back door of the ancient house. Maclain, close behind him, listened intently. “It’s nailed up with boards across on the inside, Spud. I can tell by the sound of it.”

  “You win,” said Spud. “It is. There�
��s a window to the left. I’ll try it. If I can’t do anything else, I’ll pry off the boards with the pick. I’ll bet a policeman hasn’t looked at the back of this place since Father Knickerbocker was a boy.”

  The boards proved tractable enough to be pulled out. Spud pulled them out by hand, disclosing a paneless sash raised to the top. His flashlight showed that the window opened on a dirty rear room, utterly denuded of furniture.

  Schnucke was too hampered by her harness to jump through. Spud lifted her in, and she stood with her gray nose protruding over the edge of the sill, waiting to see if her master would follow. Spud gave Maclain a hand and climbed in himself.

  He had not entirely removed the outside boards which closed the window and was able to pull them back partially into place. With the downstairs windows boarded up, he was certain he ran no risk in showing a light.

  Schnucke stood indecisively by the captain, waiting for orders, then led Maclain after Spud through another room, dirtier than the first, and into a hall. Maclain was silent, counting his steps and turns, until Spud stopped. “What’s here?” he asked.

  “Staircase going upstairs.”

  “Is there a door underneath it ?”

  “Yes—at the back.”

  “If there’s a basement,” Maclain declared, “that’ll lead to it.”

  Spud’s light disclosed narrow, rickety stairs leading down behind the door. Guiding himself with the flash, he led the way. Schnucke paused disapprovingly, but at Maclain’s command of “Forward” she followed Spud, daintily testing the descent.

  Fetid, accumulated air of half a century met them in the basement. Again Spud had an emotion absent since childhood—that he was about to pass into another world, like Alice in the book. He put it down with a laugh but wondered if Maclain’s inability to see the dishevelment of the cellar kept the captain so calm.