Just a bit too fast
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Just a Bit Too Fast
By HAL MOORE
_Thought-and-a-half Morgan was exactly
that far ahead of his dull-witted police
pursuers--or so he thought._
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Argosy All-Story Weekly March 16 1929.]
When the somewhat forlorn-looking six-cylinder touring car drew up
across the street before the Peninsula Park branch bank, I didn't
give it a second thought. Neither did Halloran--and if either of
us should have noticed, he was the one. He was supposed to know
Thought-and-a-half Morgan.
No, neither of us gave it a thought; not until we noticed that the
seeming-asleep young egg at the wheel had kept his motor running. Then
we both dashed across the asphalt in a damned big hurry.
Detective Halloran had made a thousand-mile jump to spill his story to
my chief--the tip he had, that Thought-and-a-half was about to essay
in our fair village of one million souls a few of the strokes that
had brought him much notoriety throughout the nation at large--and a
considerable price on his head. Halloran's chief back home was due for
the sack if this looter of six banks in six days was not chucked in
durance vile. He had sent out his star man with some info bulldozed
from one of Morgan's minor aids.
It was supposed to be infallible stuff; the man Morgan, who had won
his moniker by being at least one think-and-a-fraction ahead of the
brainiest cop that ever lived, had moved in on us. Halloran said he
had practically the entire dope; but my chief, noting with disgust
the opportunities taken by Halloran to advertise his own astuteness,
and feeling pretty secure over the fact that a major job hadn't been
pulled in our village for months, didn't lend an overly receptive ear.
He had enough to do, speaking at Rotary and Kiwanis luncheons, and the
like; so he merely growled: "You run around with him, Jake, and if you
need help lemme know."
Those had been my orders. Dashing across toward the bank with Halloran,
I wondered if this was the time to report. Well, if it was, it was too
late now. Morgan could have taken the bank's foundations with him if
we laid back for reënforcements. But maybe this wouldn't be Morgan,
I thought, tugging at my armpit to pull my gun free in a second, if
need be. Just as Halloran and I dashed into the entryway I caught a
side glimpse of the dude behind the wheel. He was watching us, but his
talons were resting on the steering-wheel in plain sight. Which is
somewhat unusual for an outside man--if he was one.
We almost bowled over a customer or two, getting inside, but finally
landed right side up in the bank lobby. I flashed a look around, then
turned to Halloran. He had just completed a similar look-see. I hope I
didn't appear as sheepish as he did.
In brief, business was going on as usual.
"Who the hell ever said I was a cop?" grunted Halloran to me in a tone
spilling over with disgust.
"Yes, whoever said such a thing?" came a throaty voice behind my
back. I couldn't see the party, but that didn't keep gooseflesh from
prickling up on my neck. There's no mistaking the determined prod of a
gat in the small of the back, just above the kidneys. Halloran stood
as motionless as I, and out of the corner of my eye I could see about
three inches of the persuader that was making a good Indian out of him.
Our friend was evidently a two-gun man.
"Mr. Halloran and one of the local talent, I believe?" The words had a
sarcastic smirk to them. "I had an idea some one might be coming along,
so I stopped at the desk here to write out a deposit slip. Wonderful
device, that, for killing time and covering the back trail--and who'd
ever suspect a nice old woman like me?"
At the risk of having my viscera spread all over the lobby from
gunfire immediately to my rear, I took a side-wise peek at a mirror
hanging on the far wall. You could 'a' knocked me dead when I spotted
the reflection. Old lady was right--skirt, Sunday bonnet and all!
This Thought-and-a-half certainly earned his nickname. If he didn't
look like one of Punkinville's sturdy old-time housewives I'll eat my
shoes--and they're size elevens. He'd even duplicated the little hunch
in the shoulders that comes with age.
Now I knew why the outside man hadn't raised a holler. He'd evidently
worked with Thought-and-a-half before, and knew what real confidence
should be.
All this flashed through the old bean in far less time than it takes to
tell it--all this and more. For I had noted also that this bank out in
the rhubarbs of our city had, at 2.48 P.M. of a dull winter
day, mighty few customers. In fact not as many were in the corridor
as were behind the wicket windows. The boy with the guns stuck in our
manly backs had picked his moment right.
* * * * *
I wondered just when the fireworks would begin, and how. But I didn't
have to wonder long. Folks were getting kind of curious, seeing us
with hands in air. But no one cared to risk reaching for a gun, even
if there happened to be one in the place. There were but three likely
targets; two unmistakable plainclothes men in unmistakably embarrassing
positions, and a fantastic but seemingly perfectly harmless farmwife.
Acting as if he were having a hard time to keep from laughing, Morgan
began his orders.
"Tell 'em you're bulls!" snapped the voice, coldlike.
Halloran almost strangled, getting that order out, and damned if I
could blame him.
"We--uh--we're police officers," he gurgled, "and
we're--we're--uh--ordered to say that we'll--uh--protect you!"
Some heartless gink snickered.
It sounded from suspiciously near my coat tails.
"Tell 'em to be good, and for that young blond teller to collect all
the money--_all_ the money--on the counters, and bring it over here
where I can watch him every step of the way."
The announcement was broadcast as per request.
For a moment the blond young man seemed to hesitate, and looked
longingly at what must have been an alarm push-button.
"Call off that fool!" rasped Thought-and-a-half.
"Hold 'er, son!" cried Halloran. "I know this guy. He'll sink me with a
load o' lead if you don't behave!"
The young man--thank the Lord--changed his mind.
With the currency in a couple of canvas sacks, as our unseen "farmwife"
had ordered, the blond teller started across the tiled floor toward us.
He stepped along right bravely for the first few yards, but uneasy as I
was, with that gat prodding me in the suspender buttons, I took courage
from watching his knees wabble the last few paces. It's no fun walking
up to a cocky bank artist who holds two hair-trigger cannons and knows
how to use 'em.
But he finally got the money on the small table as directed. It lay
right at our elbow, the table being the one selected by our temporary
guardian for his time-killing writing stunt early in the game.
Everybody in the bank was giving undivided attention, when Morgan sang
out on his own accord:
"Now, folks, if you don't want to mop up a lot of blood off'n this
floor, you just stay mannerly until we ring down the curtain. Mr.
Halloran here is going to remain deathly still while I remove one gun
from his mid-section that I may divest his partner"--the same being
me--"of all weapons. Mr. Halloran knows that if he moves, this amiable
square-toes at his side will suddenly release all right and title to
his spirit--Ah, thank you, Mr. Halloran.
"Now, folks, Mr. Halloran's partner will freeze into inactivity while
Mr. Halloran's gun is likewise extracted--Ah, thank you both! As a
parting word of advice, don't risk a shot while I kick both these guns
under the steam radiator that I may grab today's earnings. It might be
awfully tough on these perfectly nice officers."
I heard both rods clatter against the side wall, and then saw a hand
flash out from behind me and grab the canvas sacks. A hurried clatter
of steps, a tense "So long!" and the roar of a six-cylinder motor
outside; it was over.
Without waiting to cast a look over my shoulder, I scurried for that
radiator, clomped down on my knees and pawed through a two-inch layer
of dust that some lazy janitor had allowed to collect there.
Halloran was abreast of me. We retrieved our guns almost at the same
instant and dashed outside.
Two blocks away, and taking no notice of traffic laws or anything else,
that decrepit-looking heap was cutting the air at a fast clip. It was
sure a deceiving cuss when it came to performance.
We commandeered a shiny big car that was threading its way through
traffic about three jumps from the curb, but there was a precious
second wasted trying to get the idea through the mind of the bozo at
the wheel. Once he did wake up, however, he sure did live up to the
reputation of flaming youth. Not more than nineteen, perhaps, but he
stomped a wicked accelerator.
"I don't know this blamed town of yours," howled Halloran in my ear.
"Which way is the bimbo heading?"
"Running parallel to the city limits now," I shouted back above the
roar of wind and motor, "and if he keeps on, and takes the right hand
turn about a mile ahead, he'll be hitting for the great open spaces. A
State highway leads dead away from there."
The kid at the wheel was doing his best to catch Thought-and-a-half's
fleet little wreck, but he didn't have near as much at stake as did
the parties ahead and consequently just would not take quite as many
chances. Neither of us could take the wheel, for if we stopped to
switch we'd be utterly out of the running.
I held my breath when a heavily laden coal truck shot out of a cross
street--and heaved a sigh of relief when we squeezed by at 50-per by
a hair's breadth. Talk about the perils of down-town streets; this
suburban traffic is all a man wants at early dusk of a cloudy winter
afternoon, especially when chain grocery store fronts and other
landmarks are slipping by so fast you can't count 'em.
The sweat was streaming off my forehead, but between the drops I caught
a glimpse of the jack rabbit we were chasing just as it turned to the
right and out the State highway. We'd lost a lot of ground.
"You say they're headin' out of town now?" he bellowed.
"Check!"
He prodded the kid on the shoulder. "Lay off, son; we're shifting our
course."
* * * * *
The boy lifts his foot off the gas, and we drop down to thirty-five
miles. Halloran turns to me, speaking low so the kid won't hear him.
Evidently figures there's no use taking unnecessary chances.
"Where's Liberty 0310?" he asks.
"Lodge password or telephone number?" I counters.
"Don't be a fool!" he hisses.
So I tell him: "It's one of the dumpiest rookeries in the burg. Regular
hang-out. We call there whenever we have to, but we try to make 'em
feel it's a safe hide-out; generally make our pinches several blocks
away."
"That's where we go now," he barks. And he turns the kid around in the
road.
At nineteen one can get a thrill out of helping cops chase prison
fodder, so the kid readily agrees to cart us down town.
"Can't waste a minute," Halloran growls at me when I protest that the
taxis are still running.
"What's eatin' ya now?" I glowers. His highhanded tactics are kinda
getting on my nerves. "'Fore we went out on this little jaunt you were
tellin' me what a whirlwind you were back home; and yet this Morgan guy
slips it over on ya like it had been rehearsed.
"Where's all this brainwork you admitted bein' capable of?
From what I've seen to date, that guinea's name could be
Two-thousand-Thoughts-ahead Morgan, so far as you're concerned.