Children of the Whirlwind
grimly. “Down here when an outfit thinks one of its members has squealed
on them, it's their duty to be always on the watch for their chance to
finish him off. I'm to be finished off--that's all.”
“Say, young fellow, the life of a straight crook doesn't seem to be
getting much simpler! Why, man, you hardly dare to stir from the house!
What are you going to do?”
“Going to go around my business, always with the pleasant anticipation
of a bullet in my back when some fellow thinks it safe for him to
shoot.”
The three of them discussed this latest development over their dinner,
which they had together up in Hunt's studio. But despite all their talk
of his danger, a very real and near danger, Larry's mind was more
upon Maggie who had thus suddenly been wrenched out of his life. He
remembered her excited, boastful talk of their first evening. Her period
of schooling was indeed now over; she was now committed to her rosily
imagined adventure, in which she saw herself as a splendid lady. And
with Barney Palmer as her guiding influence!...
Dinner had been finished and Hunt was trying to give Larry such cheer
as “Buck up, young fellow--you know the worst--there's nothing else that
can happen,” when the lie direct was given to his phrases by heavy steps
running up the stairway and the opening and closing of the door. There
stood Officer Casey, heaving for breath.
Instinctively Larry drew his pistol. “Casey! What're you here for?”
“Get rid of that gat--don't be found with a gun on,” ordered Casey. “And
beat it. You've got less than five minutes to make your get-away.”
“My get-away! What's up?”
“You haven't come across as the Chief ordered you to, and he's out to
give you just what he said he would,” Casey said rapidly, his speech
broken by panting. “There's been a stick-up, with assault that may be
changed to attempted manslaughter, and the Chief has three men who swear
you're the guilty party. It's a sure-fire case against you, Larry--and
it'll mean five to ten years if you're caught. Gavegan and I got the
order to arrest you. I've beat Gavegan to it so's to tip you off, but
he's only a few minutes behind. Hurry, Larry! Only--only--”
Casey paused, gasping for his wind.
“Only what, Casey?”
“Only alibi me, Larry, by slipping over a haymaker on me like you did on
Gavegan. So's I can say I tried to get you, but you were too quick and
knocked me cold. Quick! Only not too hard--I know how to play possum.”
Larry handed the pistol to Hunt. “Casey, you're a real scout! Thanks!”
He grasped Casey's hand, then swiftly relaxed his grip. “Ready?”
“Fire,” said Casey.
Larry held his open left hand close to Casey's jaw, and drove his right
fist into his palm with a thudding smack. Casey went sprawling to the
floor, and lay there loosely, with mouth agape, in perfect simulation of
a man who has been knocked out.
Larry turned quickly. “You two will testify that I beat Casey up and
then made my escape?”
“Sure, I'll testify to anything for the sake of a good old goat like
Casey!” cried Hunt. “But hurry, boy--beat it!”
The Duchess held out Larry's hat to him, and thrust into his coat
pocket a roll of bills which had come from her capacious skirt. “Hurry,
Larry--and be careful--for you're all I've got.”
Impulsively Larry stooped and kissed the thin, shriveled lips of his
grandmother--the first kiss he had ever given her. Then he turned and
ran down the stairway, Hunt just behind him. He turned out the light in
the back room, and called to Old Isaac to darken the pawnshop proper. He
was going forth with two forces in arms against him, the police and his
pals, and he had no desire to be a shining mark for either or both by
stepping through a lighted doorway.
“Larry, my son, you're all right!” said Hunt, gripping his hand in
the darkness. “Listen, boy: if ever you're trapped and can get to a
telephone, call Plaza nine-double-o-one and say 'Benvenuto Cellini.'”
“All right.”
“Remember, you're to say 'Benvenuto Cellini,' and the telephone is Plaza
nine-double-o-one. Luck to you!” Again they gripped hands. Then Larry
slipped through the darkened doorway into whatever might lie beyond.
CHAPTER XI
A misting rain was being swirled about by a temperish wind as Larry
came out into the little street. Down toward the river the one gaslight
glowed faintly like an expiring nebula; all the little shops were
closed; home lights gleamed behind the curtained windows which the storm
had closed; so that the street was now a little canyon of uncertain
shadows.
Larry had not needed to think to know that Gavegan would be making his
vindictive approach from the westerly regions where lay Headquarters.
So, keeping in the deeper shadows close to the building, Larry took the
eastern course of the street, remembering in a flash a skiff he had seen
tethered to a scow moored to the pier which stretched like a pointer
finger from the little Square. As yet he had no plan beyond the
necessity of the present moment, which was flight. Could he but make
that skiff unseen and cast off, he would have time, in the brief
sanctuary which the black river would afford him, to formulate the
wisest procedure his predicament permitted him.
As he came near that smothered glow-worm of a street-lamp it assumed for
him the betraying glare of a huge spot-light. But it had to be passed to
gain the skiff; and with collar turned up and hat-brim pulled down and
head hunched low, he entered the dim sphere of betrayal, walked under
its penny's-worth of flame, and glided toward the shadows beyond, his
eyes straining with the preternatural keenness of the hunted at every
stoop and doorway before him.
He was just passing out of the sphere of mist-light--the lamp being now
at his back helped him--when he saw three vague figures lurking half a
dozen paces ahead of him. His brain registered these vague figures with
the instantaneity of a snapshot camera at full noon. They were mere
shadows; but the farther of the three seemed to be Barney Palmer--he
was not sure; but of the identity of the other two there was no doubt:
“Little Mick” and “Lefty Ed,” both members high in the councils of
the Ginger Bucks, and either of whose services as a killer could be
purchased for a hundred dollars or a paper of cocaine, depending upon
which at the moment there was felt the greater need.
In the very instant that he saw, Larry doubled about and ran at full
speed back up the street. Two shots rang out; Larry could not
tell whether they were fired by Little Mick or Lefty Ed or Barney
Palmer--that is, if the third man really were Barney. Again two shots
were fired, then came the sound of pursuing feet. Luckily not one of the
bullets had touched Larry; for the New York professional gunman is
the premier bad shot of all the world, and cannot count upon his
marksmanship, unless he can get his weapon solidly anchored against his
man, or can sneak around to the rear and pot his unsuspecting victim in
the back.
As Larry neared the pawnshop with the intention of making his escape
through the western stretch of the street, he saw that Old Isaac has
switched on the lights; and he also saw Officer Gavegan bearing down in
his direction. They sighted each other in the same instant, and Gavegan
let out a roar and started for him.
Caught between two opposing forces, Larry again had no time to plan.
Rather, there was nothing he could plan, for only one way was open
to him. He dashed into the pawnshop and into the back room. At the
Duchess's desk Hunt was scribbling at furious speed.
“I'm caught, Hunt--Gavegan's coming,” he gasped, and ran up the stairs,
Hunt following and stuffing his scribblings into a pocket. As Larry
passed the open studio door he saw Casey sitting up. “Down on the floor
with you, Casey! Hunt, work over him to bring him to--and stall Gavegan
for a while if you can.”
With that Larry sprang to a ladder at the end of the little hall, ran
up it, unhooked and pushed up the trap, scrambled through upon the roof,
and pushed the trap back into place.
Fortune, or rather the well-wishing wits of friends below, gave Larry a
few precious moments more than he had counted on. He was barely out
on the rain-greased tin roof, with the trap down, when Gavegan came
thumping up the stairs and into the studio. At sight of the recumbent
Casey, head limply on Hunt's knees, and his loose face being laved by a
wet towel in Hunt's hands, Gavegan let out another roar:
“Hell's bells! What the hell's this mean?”
“I tried to nab Brainard,” Casey mumbled feebly, “and he knocked me out
cold--the same as he did you, Gavegan.”
“Hell!” snorted Gavegan, his wrath increased by this reference. “You
there”--to Hunt and the Duchess--“where'd Brainard go? He's in this
house some place!”
“I don't know,” said Hunt.
“Yes, you do! Leave that boob side-kick of mine sleep it off, and help
me find Brainard or you'll feel my boot!”
The big painter stood up facing the big detective and his left hand
gripped the latter's wrist and his right closed upon the detective's
throat just as it had closed upon the lean throat of Old Jimmie on the
day of Larry's return--only now there was nothing playful in the noose
of that big hand. He shook Gavegan as he might have shaken a pillow,
with a thumb thrusting painfully in beneath Gavegan's ear.
“I've done nothing, and that bully stuff doesn't go with me!” he
fairly spat into Gavegan's face. “You talk to me like a gentleman and
apologize, or I'll throw you out of the window and let your head bounce
off one of its brother cobblestones below!”
Gavegan choked out an apology, whereat Hunt flung him from him. The
detective, glowering at the other, pulled aside curtains, peered into
corners; then made furious and fruitless search of the rooms below,
bringing up at last at Maggie's door, which the Duchess had slipped
ahead of him and locked. When he demanded the key, the Duchess told him
of Maggie's departure and her carrying the key with her. It was a
solid door, with strong lock and hinges; and two minutes of Gavegan's
battering shoulders were required to make it yield entrance. Not till he
found the room empty did Gavegan think of the trap and the roof.
Larry made good use of these few extra minutes granted him. Whatever
he was to do he realized he must do it quickly. Not for long would the
forces arrayed against him be small in number; Gavegan, though beaten at
the outset, would send out an alarm that would arouse the police of the
city--and in their own degree the gangsters would do the same. During
his weeks of freedom Larry had unconsciously studied the layout of the
neighborhood, his old instincts at work. The subconscious knowledge thus
gained was of instant value. He hurried along the slippery roofs, taking
care not to trip over the dividing walls, and came to the rear edge of
a roof where he had marked a fire-escape with an unusually broad upper
landing. He could discern the faint outlines of this; and hanging to the
gutter he dropped to the fire-escape, and a moment later he was down
in the back yard; and yet two moments later he was over two fences and
going through a rabbit's burrow of a passageway that went beneath a
house into the street behind his own.
He did not pause to reconnoiter. Time was of the essence of his safety,
risks had to be taken. He plunged out of his hole--around the first
corner--around the next--and thus wove in and out, working westward,
till at last, on turning a corner into a lighted street, he saw possible
relief in two stray taxicabs before a little East Side restaurant, one
of which was just leaving.
“Taxi!” he called breathlessly.
The chauffeur of the moving car swung back beside the curb and opened
the door. But even as he started to enter he saw Little Mick and Lefty