The porcelain mask A detective story
"Lead the way," ordered Sergeant Tish. "Not a word outta you either.
Get me? No tip-off goes with me; try that, and it's the station for
yours. If you think I won't, try it." Evidently Tish had not been
deceived in the slightest by her attitude of innocence. "You go on up
them stairs just like you was bringin' back his new duds. You say,
'Here's your clothes, mister.' I guess we won't use the Smith racket,
either. His name ain't Smith, and you know it ain't."
"Yes, off'cer," agreed Eighth Avenue Annie.
"Not so loud with that officer talk," warned Tish. "Ease down on the
lung power, you. Now, let's go."
He motioned to the bundle she had just brought in from Abramson's,
and she obediently picked it up, starting up the dank, musty stairs.
The detective followed, walking with surprising lightness of step for
so corpulent a man. They reached the second-floor landing and passed
around a bend in the hall to the next flight. There was no hope for Don
Haskins now.
As they reached the top, lighted murkily by the dirty skylight,
Sergeant Tish crouched low so that his head and shoulders would be
shielded by the bulking form of Eighth Avenue Annie and her packages.
The woman's shoes clattered noisily, and Haskins came to the door with
the broken, patched panel, his unshaven face peering out.
"You got the stuff, huh?" he grunted. "I'll bet it's a tin suit."
Eighth Avenue Annie made no effort to warn him; that might mean
shooting, and she wanted no shooting in her house.
"It's a good suit," she muttered in a hoarse guttural. "It cost----"
"Stick 'em up," roared Sergeant Tish, flipping out his gun, and rising
to his full height, leveling the weapon at the now wide-open door. "Get
'em up, or I'll drill you."
Don Haskins' hands went up; he would have been a fool otherwise. His
lips twisted, as they emitted a vicious snarl.
"Double crossed me," he said. "Took my good jack an' called in the
cops. Curse you, I'll----"
"Shut your mouth!" Annie whispered hoarsely, her own face livid.
Sergeant Tish grinned delightedly; he was beginning to realize that it
had been a fortunate circumstance looking so casually into the doorway
of Abramson's secondhand clothing store. He had felt all along, of
course, that the woman was lying, that she was keeping a man in hiding.
And men do not hide unless they are wanted. It might be a big haul.
He took another step forward and peered closely into the face of his
quarry.
"I can't name him offhand, but I guess the Bertillon boys'll rap to
'im fast enough." He backed Haskins into the stuffy, dirty little room
at the point of the gun and reached into the pocket of his coat for an
ever-ready pair of nippers.
"Stick out them fins," he ordered. "I'll get these darbies on you, an'
then we'll talk things over."
Knowing that the gun was beaded for his vitals, and that any fool can
shoot straight with an automatic, Don Haskins stuck out his hands; the
handcuffs snapped about his wrists.
"What's the pinch for?" he demanded with an effort at bluster. "You
ain't got nothin' on me; I ain't done nothin'."
"Well, anyhow, I guess you've done time," Sergeant Tish said shrewdly.
"What's your name down at central office?"
Don Haskins remained sullenly silent, his eyes glowing hotly, as
they stared at Eighth Avenue Annie. The hag had let the bundle from
Abramson's slide to the floor, and with both hands she pushed back the
dirty gray hair that straggled down across her soiled face.
"Want to hold out on me, eh?" grunted Sergeant Tish, with a shrug of
his flesh-padded shoulders, as he thrust the gun back into its holster.
His chubby face wore a smile, for he was well pleased with himself; a
single-handed capture is a thing that a cop delights in. And, if it
turned out to be an important arrest--well, Tish had a hunch that it
was just that, an important arrest. "Suit yourself, John Doe; you'll
get the rap fast enough when I get you downtown."
Don Haskins knew how hopeless it was now. Ten minutes ago he had been
daydreaming pleasantly of Florida, perhaps Cuba, and now--Sing Sing
via the Tombs. It all depended on whether or not "Dago Mike," his
confederate in the loft job, net profit ten dollars split three ways,
had squealed. And he was sure Dago Mike had squealed. The warehouse
watchman had been croaked, and that meant that not only the actual
slayer, but Don Haskins, as a participant in the crime, was liable to
the death sentence.
Haskins thought swiftly, desperately. The chair! The sickening vision
of it swam before his eyes and drove his brain to cunning that was
somewhat beyond his normal mental processes. He staggered back to the
unkempt cot.
"Gimme a cigarette," he muttered thickly, his nerve apparently
deserting him. "I'll talk--tell you who I am. I--I gotta have a fag
first."
Sergeant Tish had seen that kind before. "Sure," he agreed readily
enough and produced a package of his own. Don lifted his manacled arms
and took a cigarette. It trembled between his fingers, wabbled between
his twitching lips. The detective lighted a match and held the flaming
stick toward him.
Haskins inhaled deeply and seemed to grow calmer; his eyes raised,
taking his captor's measure. He noted with satisfaction that he was
almost a head taller than Tish. Even then he found the time to wonder
how he had managed to get on the force.
Tish did not rush his man. "Take your time," he encouraged. "No hurry;
spill it when you're ready."
Eighth Avenue Annie edged to the door from the hall, peering inside
with a horrible leer, as she considered that this man whom she had
befriended--for pay, of course--was going to be a yellow skunk and
"cough up." He would probably squeal on her, too; tangle her up in
his own net of trouble. That was the way with some of these rats;
they couldn't stand the gaff and wouldn't protect their friends. She
muttered something that sounded like "scum."
Little did Annie know what was going on in Don Haskins' mind. Don had
never been a swift thinker, and hard drinking of bootleg whisky hadn't
added to his nimbleness of wit, but his brain was traveling in high
now. He knew that it wouldn't do him any good to conceal his identity;
lie as he would, there would be plenty of cops down at headquarters to
remember him. More than that, his picture was in the rogues' gallery,
his finger prints on file. But he didn't propose to make that trip down
to headquarters. Desperation made him resourceful.
"My name is Haskins," he muttered. "They used to call me Nifty Don in
the old days, but you ain't got nothin' on me. On the level, you ain't
got nothin' on me."
Sergeant Tish frowned for a moment and then a look of delight spread
over his round, fat face. "Guess again, Haskins. There's a general
order out for you. You're wanted for a croak out in the Bronx; I forget
the details, but you're wanted all right. Yeah, I'll say you are."
Don groaned. He had been right in his fears; Dago Mike had squealed.
The handcuffed man got to his feet; his shoulders heaved, as he inhaled
deeply on the now half-consumed cigarette. He filled his lungs to every
cubic inch of their capacity. He took a step toward the detective and,
opening his mouth, expelled a cloud of smoke directly into Tish's face.
Sergeant Tish, half blinded, was taken totally by surprise; he
staggered back and made a motion toward his gun, but he was not quick
enough. The prisoner's manacled arms flashed upward and downward, the
metal wristlets catching the detective a stunning blow on the side of
the head. The latter's knees sagged, but he continued to fumble for his
gun, when Haskins struck again, and this time the plain-clothes man
crumpled up on the floor, blood gushing from the edge of his scalp.
"My Gawd!" whispered Eighth Avenue Annie.
For the moment Haskins ignored her, as he knelt beside the form of his
captor and took the police regulation automatic; then he began frisking
the man for the handcuff keys.
"Here," he said harshly to the old hag, "get these cursed things off of
me. Hurry!"
"You'se ain't croaked 'im?" gulped Annie, her eyes bulging.
"Naw," grunted Don. "Use that key, or I'll give you a dose of the same.
I ought to, anyhow, you dirty double crosser. Tipped the cops off,
didn'tcha?"
"He seen me buyin' the clothes; he follered me. See? I didn't have no
chance to give you warnin'. Nice fix you got me into, brainin' a dick
in my place. They'll send me away for this." She worked the key in the
lock, and the handcuffs came free.
"I hope you get ten years," Haskins said viciously. "Gimme them
clothes." A moment later he was changing in trembling haste, shedding
the disreputable suit for the more respectable garments that Annie had
purchased at Abramson's. His fingers were shaking, and he steadied his
nerves with a drink from the bottle which rested beside the bed.
Eighth Avenue Annie was twisting her grimy old hands in an anguish
of terror. She knew the aftermath of this, and the revenge of the
outwitted detective was not a pleasant thing to consider. Had she
dared she would have tried to square herself by preventing Haskins'
escape, by sending out an alarm, but Haskins was armed and at her first
move would perhaps kill her. She flattened against the wall, sobbing
hoarsely in self-pity, cursing the man who had sent Haskins to her for
protection.
In his haste Haskins forgot something very important; he forgot that
beneath the dirty mattress was the forty dollars that remained of
the one hundred and ninety dollars Helen Gilmore had given him the
previous afternoon. He didn't think of it until he had dashed down
the two flights of stairs and had reached the street. As he realized
this amazing oversight and turned back, he saw Annie sneaking out of
the vestibule, running. He knew. She was calling the cops, trying to
square herself. He didn't dare go back for the money. He wheeled in the
opposite direction, walking swiftly.
Flight without a dollar in pocket is a problem, but desperation has
cut many a Gordian knot. Eighth Avenue is not a well-lighted street,
and darkness had settled down over the city. A taxi nosed through the
gloom, and after but a moment of hesitation Haskins hailed it; the
question of fare did not bother him--not with that automatic in his
pocket. The taxi drew up alongside the curb; it was a nice new taxi,
with a shining, spotless coat of blue paint.
"I wanna get to Yonkers in a hurry," said Don briskly. "Gotta
important date out there. How quick can y'make it?" Yonkers was the
river-bordered town which joined the New York city limits on the north.
"Hour and a quarter," answered the driver, giving Haskins a sizing-up
look.
"O. K.," grunted Haskins. "Let's travel; go down Riverside Drive all
the way." He climbed inside, and they were off.
Don had a particular reason for choosing the Riverside Drive route.
Past One Hundred and Eightieth Street the Drive winds between the river
and high-towering bluffs, with no houses on either side. He desired a
quiet place for settling the matter of the fare. They had reached the
spot which is called Inspiration Point, when the fleeing passenger
rapped on the glass which separated him from the chauffeur's seat.
"Stop 'er!" he shouted.
The car ground to a halt, and Haskins leaped out, cursing volubly.
"Lost ring--diamond ring--slipped right off my finger. That rock cost
me eight hundred bucks," was the excuse he gave.
The driver stared suspiciously, for his fare did not look like a man
who would own an eight-hundred-dollar diamond ring.
"Aw, watcha handin' me?" he growled skeptically.
Haskins looked up and down the Drive. The nearest car was some distance
away. His hand slipped to his pocket for the automatic he had taken
from Sergeant Tish. At the same instant he sprang forward. He did not