Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 118, No. 6, April 16, 1938
- Автор: Трит Лоуренс, Вулрич Корнелл
- Год: 1938
- Язык: английский
- Год: The Red Star News Company
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 118, No. 6, April 16, 1938». Краткое содержание книги:
“Give that to the man at the pawn-shop,” Grant said, “and he’ll give you something. It may be a bundle or a box or a suitcase. I don’t know. But whatever it is bring it back here right away. And don’t try anything funny. If you do we’ll find you,” his voice went lower, “and when we do, by Heaven, you’ll be sorry.”
I smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll do what I’m told. But how do I know I’ll get that hundred?”
He stuck out his lower lip, then pulled it in. He took out his billfold, extracted a bill and tore it in half. He handed me one of the pieces.
“Here’s half of the hundred,” he said. “When you deliver the goods you get the other half. Okay?”
I took it. “Okay.” I got to my feel.
“There’s a car out in front,” Grant went on, “just ahead of the one you came here in. The key is in it. You can drive that one.”
II
The bus was an old one and had seen its best days years ago. But it was kind of fun driving a car again. I took my time and it must have been at least forty minutes before I parked in front of the pawnshop.
As it turned out, it wasn’t really much of a job. I went into the store and handed the envelope to the man behind the counter. He was a little bald-headed fellow with glasses. He looked at it and then looked at me a long time like he was trying to get a picture of me in his head. He went into a room in the rear and came back in a minute or two with a small black satchel. I took it and walked out of the place without saying a word.
Nothing happened. Nobody tried to stop me and if anybody was following I didn’t notice. After I’d driven a little over a mile, my curiousity got the better of me. I came to a stop and opened the satchel. It was crammed full of packets of greenbacks tied together at the middle with brown paper. There were fives and tens and twenties and there may have been other denominations but I didn’t look any further.
When I came to the house I noticed that the black sedan Mercer had brought me out in wasn’t there. I left the key in the car and started up the walk. When I was near the steps something hit the cement in front of me. There was a half moon shining and I could see that it was a wad of paper. I stooped over and smoothed it out. Then I struck a match.
On the paper, in a big scrawl made with pencil, were the words: “Be careful. Don’t come upstairs.” I put it in my pocket, went up the steps and knocked at the door. Grant opened it and reached for the satchel.
“Wait a minute,” I said, shoving him away. “Give me the other half of that century note first.”
He glared at me, then tried to smile. “Come upstairs,” he said. “I have to see whether what you’ve brought back is all right. If it is, I’ll pay you off.”
I didn’t move. “No thanks,” I said. “There’s a lot more than a hundred bucks in this satchel. But I don’t want any of it. All I want is the other half of that bill. But I want it right here and now.”
“You’ll do what I tell you,” he growled. He started toward me. His right hand moved quickly and when I saw it again it held an automatic pistol. A lot of things happened then, so quickly it was hard to tell what came first.
I saw the girl run into the room at the same moment I swung at Grant. It was a crazy thing to do — take a punch at a man with a gun — but it worked because he wasn’t looking for it. My fist caught his chin and he staggered back across the room. I opened the satchel, had one of the packets stuck in my pocket by the time Grant pulled himself together. He started toward me with the gun up. I threw the satchel at him. Just then the door opened and a shrill voice said: “What is this?”
I whirled and ran my stomach into Mercer’s gun. Without thinking I grabbed his wrist and swung him around in front of me so Grant couldn’t shoot for fear of hitting his friend. The girl ran across the room and got beside me.
“Go on out,” I said. When I heard her crossing the porch, I gave Mercer a shove, ducked through the doorway and jumped for the car. She was already in it when I got there. I scrambled over her knees and kicked the starter. There weren’t any shots as we went away from there. We took a corner on two wheels, another on one, and then really got going. There wasn’t any signs of pursuit.
Finally we were out in the country. All this time we hadn’t said a word. I pulled up at the side of the road and turned to the girl.
“Let’s find out what we‘re doing,” I said. “Who are you?”
“Millie,” she said. “Millie Hayes.”
Her voice was kind of low and husky. Now that I had a chance to look at her in the light from the dashboard, I saw that she wasn’t exactly a strain on the eyes. Her face was thin, but a little steady eating would probably fix that up. Her eyes, in the dim light, looked as blue as any I’d ever seen. And her hair was the color of corn silk.
“Well, Millie,” I went on, “what were you doing with those two rats?”
She stared at me and hesitated. “They hired me,” she said at last. “I was down at the free employment bureau when a call came in. Somebody wanted a girl with nursing experience to look after a little boy whose mother had been called away. So I went. But when I saw them I wanted to leave. Only... only I needed the money. Maybe you know what I mean.”
I had to laugh. “Maybe I do. When was that? This morning?”
“Yes.”
“Was it you who tossed that paper wad at me tonight?”
She nodded. “After you left I came part way down the stairs and listened. I heard the little one, the one with the high voice, say that you would be — would be something else to get rid of. The other one, the big man, said not to worry. They’d done enough to burn for anyway, he said, a little killing wouldn’t make any difference. He said he’d get you upstairs and — and put you away. I guess he meant he was going to kill you.”
“You guessed right,” I said.
“Then the little one went away. I don’t know where.”
“I can guess. He was trailing me. They weren’t taking any chances of me getting away with all that dough.”
“What do you mean?”
“That satchel I threw at Grant wasn’t full of violets. Did they pay you?”
“No.”
I took the packet of bills out of my pocket. They were fives.
“Just my luck,” I said. “There were twenties in that satchel. Oh well, we can eat anyway. You hungry?”
“I am,” she said, “awfully.”
“So am I. I’ve been on a diet.” I turned on the motor and stepped on the gas.
It was maybe half an hour later when we came to a little place that had a big sign saying “EAT.” I parked in front of it and we went in.
We took the first table we came to. It was right in front of a radio that was blatting out dance music. A little man with a big, greasy-looking apron came up to us. It turned out they had chili and sandwiches, pie and coffee. We ordered some of each.
While we were waiting, the music stopped suddenly and a man’s voice, smooth and deep and a little bit sickening like some radio announcers’ voices are, started to spout.
“We have just received information, ladies and gentlemen, that clarifies the news flash we announced some time ago. For the benefit of those who have just tuned in, we will make a complete report.” He paused and then the honeyed tones continued:
“The father of four-year-old Kenneth Randall has paid the $25,ransom demanded for his release. The payment was made at a pawnshop on Fourth Avenue. The kidnaper, or his accomplice, turned over an envelope containing part of a one dollar bill that matched a part left in the boy’s sandbox when he was kidnaped. The pawnbroker, acting on instructions from John M. Randall, the boy’s father, then gave the kidnaper or his agent a satchel containing $25,000. The envelope also contained an address, ostensibly that of the place where the kidnaped boy would be found. The police immediately rushed to that place and found — nothing.”