Just a bit too fast
One-and-a-half ain't near enough."
I was getting kind of sore.
"Sorta forget, don't ya, that your hands were just as high as mine?" he
jeers.
But quickly enough he comes to earth again.
"We lifted that phone number off the dopey back home," he explains.
"The boy didn't kick through with quite everything, but we found it
on a card tucked away in the sweatband of his hat. There's no Liberty
phone exchange in our burg, so we played a hunch it was here."
"Maybe your speedy friend has the low-down by now," I suggests, "and
has shifted hotels."
"A chance," he agrees, "but a slim one. Nobody knows we got the dopey,
and he can't get a whisper outside."
"Card have anything else on it?"
"Room number," Halloran grunts, "311."
I guessed that Thought-and-a-half must have things figured out in
advance, something like a circus or road-show. That is, if Halloran's
dope was straight.
If it wasn't, we had lost him anyway; and if it was, we'd be waiting
for our bird when he swung back into town. I only hoped he wouldn't be
too long about finding out that he'd ducked us.
For safety's sake, once we got down town after a speedy dash past all
kinds of traffic signals, I stopped the kid several blocks from the
dump where Morgan was supposed to bunk.
"Better play safe and call some help," I suggests, as we sidle through
the 4.30 P.M. darkness.
"Can't risk wasting a second," Halloran shoots back. "Our friends will
cut back here just as soon as they can, if they ever do come. Besides,
why have a bunch of signboards out for them to see? They can spot a
dick as far as you or I can."
Sounded reasonable to me. Besides, the chief had said responsibility
was Halloran's; I was merely reënforcements. If this bimbo was willing
to risk shooting it out in a dark room, I'm not the guy to holler
yellow.
"Know the back way in?" Halloran mutters at my elbow.
"Who in hell d'yuh think you're with?" I snarls. "I've worn a buzzer
long enough to have a little sense, feller!"
Just then we ducked into an alleged office and loft building. He knew
enough not to talk back; you can never tell what a guy at the other end
of a hallway might overhear.
Up one, two, then four flights of stairs we climbed. We climbed out on
the tar and gravel and eased our panting lungs under the canopy of
stars and coal smoke.
* * * * *
We tried to limp down those iron steps quietly, but we must have made
some noise, for a window slid open just a few feet away.
I couldn't see who it was, but neither could he, or she, see us.
Knowing the breed of cats that frequent the dump, I didn't feel rude
at all in whispering: "Hey, you--we think we've shaken the bulls; but
if they come after us, tell 'em we went _down_ the fire escape--and
they'll beat it out over the roofs."
Whoever it was in the room gave a little chuckle. No offense taken, it
seemed. They suffered no illusions as to police ideas on their veracity.
At the third floor we found a hallway window open, and in we slipped.
The room wasn't hard to find, even in the semidarkness that must have
covered a multitude of sins--some of which smelled rather vigorously.
Risking a dose of hot lead, I tried the door. It was locked. Halloran,
the self-confessed fast worker, already had a key out. The second one
worked, and I think we both got a big enough thrill when we slid into
that room behind a flash light's beam. No sooner had the door shut
behind us than Halloran grinned triumphantly.
"All we have to do is wait. There's the evidence." He pointed to a
half dozen black knitted neckties strung over the bureau mirror.
Thought-and-a-half, I deduced, favored black knits. Well, they are sort
of inconspicuous when worn one at a time.
Remembering that the chief's orders originally had been to "run around
with him," I gladly assented to the reception plan proposed by this
star sleuth we had in our midst. Hadn't he admitted himself, at least
ten or twelve times since I had drawn him for a play-mate, that he was
a fast thinker, and a good one?
And if it was to be part of the plan that I stand immediately back
of him when Thought-and-a-half opened the door, if that kingpin of
crookdom ever did open said door, why should I protest? Halloran's two
hundred pounds would stop the average bullet, and at least slow down
some of the more vigorous projectiles. Me being a man of family, I
listen readily to reason.
Halloran figured it out--and, for once, I agreed with him--that there
would be but one comparatively safe spot in all that room should a
gunman bust in across the threshold. As the door itself would bang
against the sidewall when full opened, that position was automatically
wiped off the books. No one wants to be caught behind a door if the
intruder decides first to kick it wide open, and then shower lead on
whatever keeps the porcelain knob from crashing into the plaster.
That left only two walls against which to brace your back--unless you
cared to hide under the bed. I once helped sweep up a dick who thought
he'd wait beneath an Ostermoor for a certain party; never for mine!
If you selected the wall that would be on the entrant's left, and there
happened to be a hall light aglow over his shoulder, chances were you'd
eat lead in a hurry. And Thought-and-a-half was pretty skookum with a
rod. I had already decided the left wall was not so good, when Halloran
informs me in a tense whisper of something I would have done anyway, if
left alone.
"We'll back against the wall just opposite the door," he squeaks, "and
dodge most of the light that may flood in when he enters. I'll work the
flash light. You stand right behind me, and between the two of us we
ought to get that guy."
Heroic stuff, thinks I; and snaps out: "Did you lock that door after
you?"
"Hell, no," he confesses, and tip-toes across the floor to rectify the
error. Wouldn't the coroner have had a fine mess on his hands if our
friend Thought-and-a-half found he wouldn't need his key!
That was the longest half hour I ever spent. It got sort of tiresome,
standing there in one position. And we had to stay quiet or else the
party might leave a sour taste in our mouths.
But listening for noises put the old ear right in tune. I was hearing
everything that happened, and some things that weren't. Occasionally
a pair of feet would catfoot warily through the building somewhere. I
was listening to such a pair on the floor above when suddenly it seemed
the hum of street traffic increased. The street door had opened; two
persons were coming up the stairs.
I nudged Halloran, and we wiped the sweat off our palms so there'd be
no chance of a gun butt slipping at a critical moment. I sensed that
this particular pair of moving feet meant action for us.
And I was right.
The _slop, slop, slop_ of leather soles on well-worn carpeting kept
coming our way, up two flights of stairs and then down the hall toward
the room in which we were. Halloran's big bulk was quivering. Give
him credit for having courage; it wasn't fear, but the suspense and
excitement of it all that jelly-fished his bulky muscles. The man's
nerves were right on edge. He was shaking as bad as--as bad as--aw,
hell, you've been nervous yourself; you know how I felt, right about
that time!
* * * * *
Of a sudden there came, through the thin door, a grunted, "Lay off that
match. What if there was somebody in the room?"
To which a more suppliant voice made answer: "Not a chance. We ditched
'em proper, and they can't know about this dump!"
But Number One, and I knew it was Thought-and-a-half the way Halloran
fidgeted when he heard the voice, naturally ruled the roost. There was
no sound of striking matches.
Instead, a soft hand touched the doorknob, which rattled faintly. After
that test, a key rasped in the lock.
Then slowly, so slowly that it seemed ages, the door swung inward in
the near-total darkness.
I felt Halloran's back muscles contract as he swung his left arm
upward--his left hand held the flash light.
Then his growling command:
"Stick 'em up there, Morgan!"
Immediately the doorway was flooded in a circle of light that revealed
a nervously alert figure with a wicked-looking automatic clutched in
one tense hand--a hand never known to miss.
I almost groaned aloud. Halloran, the poor fat-head, instead of holding
the light at arm's length to the left, where it would decoy possible
return fire, had it clutched tightly to his belly.
Thought-and-a-half didn't wait an instant. A purple-orange jet of fire
almost a mile long and bright as Halley's comet streaked from his gun
muzzle, and my ears rang with a report that, echoed in the small room,
sounded like a complete explosion of the DuPont powder works.
Almost simultaneously a gun roared under my nose, and I knew that
Halloran had returned the fire. I was about to pull the trigger of my
own weapon when I saw the bandit chief's pistol fly from his hand, and
he stood for a photographic moment as if paralyzed.
With a roar I charged across the room, pushing Halloran's two hundred
pounds ahead of me. But he had caught the same thing I had seen:
Morgan's gun arm was numb from the shock of having his gat knocked from
his hand by Halloran's bullet. Unable to fire at us without hitting his
buddy, Thought-and-a-half's confederate turned to flee as he saw us
hurtle across the small space. But he didn't quite clear the scene of
action.
Three bodies--Halloran's and mine, pushing Thought-and-a-half ahead of
us--crashed through the doorway and into him. The bellow that startled
from his throat died a borning as he banged against the opposite wall
in the hallway.
Two or three swings with our clubbed guns, and we had a pretty tame
pair of birds on our hands.
Morgan, the leader, was first to recover.
"Well, that's that," he snarled, "but how in hell I missed potting you
when you flashed that light is beyond me! I savvy this copper trick of
holding the flash light out to the left, and I always plug for an arm's
length to the opposite side and know I'll hit the body. But to-night I
didn't connect." He almost moaned the last sentence.
Halloran threw out his chest. He basked in the glow of an implied
compliment. But he couldn't help rubbing it in.
"You were up against a boy just a little speedier in the brain pan,
Thought-and-a-half! I figured you'd shoot that way, and I held it up
against my body to throw you off. Just goes to show there's almost some
one who can think a little faster!"
I almost believed him. Then, suddenly, I caught sight of something
interesting. "Fast thinking, hell!" I cried out. "I'd say it was no
thinking at all!"
And I pointed to the front of his vest.
There, suspended by a tiny gleaming rope, hung Halloran's flash light.
The darned thing had caught in his ornate watch chain, and he couldn't
have moved it if he'd tried!
But that was the only thing I said. Let the lying old blowhard take all
the credit for something he never meant to do. If it hadn't been for
his thick skull, and that watch chain, I'd have been dead as slavery.
I should complain!
THE END