by Jerry eBooks
Twenty paces into the darkness. Then someone emerged from a doorway and said in a low, decisive voice, “Stick ’em up, Jack.”
But it was the muzzle of a pistol that someone else jammed into the small of his back that gave force to the command. Barrett’s hands rose.
“Now back into this doorway—Mike, frisk him, right now!”
Deft fingers went through his pockets. There was a mutter of satisfaction as Mike drew out four packets of bills. For an instant the beam of a tiny fountain pen flashlight winked at the numerals that marked the denomination. The reflected glow, however, revealed more than the direct light: Barrett noted that his captors were not masked. It seemed to make no difference to them that Barrett had in that moment’s illumination seen enough to identify them.
There was an unavoidable conclusion that Barrett had to draw—unless he could convince himself that his captors had been careless, and had not realized that Barrett would ever afterwards recognize them.
“All right, fellows,” said Barrett pleasantly. “You’ve got your money—now where’s Simpson?”
“Ain’t that a hot one, Sam?” chuckled the one who had searched Barrett.
“Simpson is in a safe place,” came the reply. “And you’re coming with us. Think we’re going to turn you loose before this money’s been checked to see nothing’s phoney?”
“Reasonable,” admitted Barrett. “I’ll sort of be taking Simpson’s place, so you can turn him loose right away.”
“Uhuh,” grunted Sam, apparently pleased by the prisoner’s ready acquiescence. But to Barrett the arrangement was confirmation of his first suspicions.
“Mike, tie this bird,” commanded Sam. “Lower your arms, you—but don’t try any funny work.”
“How is he going to climb down to the boat if his hands are tied?” wondered Mike. “And that Jacob’s ladder up the Car—”
“Shut up, you boob!” snapped Sam Carver. “Grab that cord!”
“Aw what if he does—” countered Mike, then checked himself.
But that slip sufficed to assure Barrett that he was destined to board one of the many abandoned ships, war-time built merchant marine, moored along the opposite bank of the river. The secreted penknife might enable him to cut his bonds; but a doubt had risen in Barrett’s mind: would Simpson be released, now that the ransom had been delivered, or would he be executed as part of the reprisal?
Barrett’s captors were indifferent to future identification; and that could betoken but one thing other than gross carelessness.
A desperate scheme crystallized; and in an instant Barrett made his decision.
Sam, pistol in hand, was a blur in the darkness a yard ahead. Mike was fumbling in the gloom at Barrett’s left, seeking a coil of rope. Surprise can work wonders. Barrett felt the enemy’s assurance, and hoped that they did not sense his own.
Barrett’s fingers closed on the end of the scarf about his neck and dragged it clear. They thought that he was unarmed; yet that folded square of silk was a silent, instantly fatal weapon which was invisible in the darkness.
As Mike rose and turned, Barrett moved with that catlike swiftness which had so often served him—and saved him. The silken scarf, weighted with the knife, whipped about Mike’s throat. There was no warning in its touch. It seemed to be but the trick of a gust of wind; and in the obscurity of the doorway the gesture did not register.
The weighted end passed over Mike’s shoulder as Barrett side-stepped, seized the enfolded penknife with his left hand and at the same time put all his weight behind his right, which grasped the free end of the scarf.
“Wh—”
Cut off before it was spoken; and the sharp cracking sound meant nothing to Sam Carver, least of all that Mike’s neck had been broken.
All in one flashing instant; one fluent, continuous, deadly swift gesture. Had there been a blow, a shot, an outcry, Carver would have acted at once. He sensed that something deadly and inexplicable had happened before his eyes; but he had also to reconcile his intuition with the knowledge that Barrett’s plays had always been accompanied by the flash of steel, the jetting flame of pistols, the impact of hard driving fists.
He lost an instant before he clubbed his pistol so that in accordance with orders he would not kill the fifty thousand dollar prisoner. And that instant sufficed for Mike’s body to catapult out of the darkness, drive Carver crashing back against the wall.
Then savage fingers closed about his throat as the first blow of his pistol butt struck Mike’s limp body to the ground. Carver writhed and struggled, smote blindly at the enemy within his guard. His feet were tramping on a man’s body . . .
“Mike,” he contrived to gasp hoarsely before his breath was utterly cut off.
Barrett’s fingers sank relentlessly home. Lee Simpson’s severed finger lent a murderous fury to Barrett’s constricting grasp. He followed Carver to the paving. The blows of the pistol butt had ceased . . . hours ago, it seemed . . . Finally he relaxed his grip, drew a deep breath, realized for the first time that glancing, misdirected blows had battered his head and shoulders. Barrett stretched out on the cold paving, dazed by his exertions and the slaying frenzy and the destructive nervous tension of his lightning assault.
In a moment, however, he recovered. He was trembling violently, seeking to reassemble the elements of the suddenly devised scheme. Then it all came back to him; but before going about what he intended to do, he paused to search the two who lay on the floor of the deep doorway recess.
Dead, not merely out.
He scrutinized the contents of their pockets, piece by piece.
“Here’s the touch!” he exclaimed as by the light of the fountain-pen flash lamp, fortunately undamaged, he read the notation on a slip of paper, in feminine script, “Norma—Main 7771—blind listed, so learn it and then destroy this.”
That Sam Carver was a fair approximation of Barrett as to stature and conformation had already entered the plan; but this brief note suggested an interesting amendment, despite the fact that the open implication of an undercover friendship might be misleading. Yet, from his observation of Moroni’s organization, he could at least be certain that the note was written by Norma Arradonda, and not by some obscure namesake.
Barrett’s eyes glittered with that same fierce mirth of two nights ago, at Club Martinique. Then he remembered Lee Simpson’s peril, and his mirth became exceedingly bitter. Barrett strode swiftly toward the ferry landing, a block further upstream, saw that the aged ticket taker was nodding at his post, and stepped into the telephone booth. He called Amos and gave the old negro two simple orders. This done, Barrett returned to the doorway on Munn Street and set to work exchanging clothing with the late Sam Carver.
In a few minutes the first move against the enemy was completed. With the flashlight Barrett checked his work to see that he had made no slips in the dark.
“If this don’t work . . . good God, but it’s got to work! It can’t flop!” he told himself as he repressed a shudder at the thought of the dead man’s apparel that now clothed him.
He heard the sound of a car pulling to the curbing. Old Amos . . . nevertheless Barrett advanced with drawn pistol until he was close enough to identify his servant.
“Go back home, Amos,” he directed. “Leave the Ford here.”
Barrett dashed back to the doorway of death, shouldered Sam Carver’s body, and placed it at the wheel of the sedan. Mike was then stowed in the Ford coupé which Amos still had an excellent chance of inheriting. From the coupé Barrett took a double barrelled, ten gauge shotgun. He lowered the window of the sedan . . .
A sheet of flame, a roar, the splintering of glass—Barrett knew that his work had been good, but he did not care to verify the fact by close inspection. He disconnected a gas line, let the ground beneath the car become drenched, then struck and tossed a match. As the flames rose in a lurid column, he turned toward the Ford coupé, to drive down town.
“It’s got to work,” he reiterated as he banish
ed, by sheer force of will, the panic that assailed him at the thought of failure.
Barrett, hard bitten, and seasoned as he was by the World War, was shaken by the gruesome work of the past few minutes—and then he remembered Lee Simpson’s severed finger, and Moroni’s characteristic duplicity as revealed by the two who did not know that a silken scarf was a deadly weapon.
“Live bait, eh?” he muttered grimly.
Barrett drew up to the curbing some ten blocks short of Canal Street. He dragged Mike from the coupé, supporting him as though he were hopelessly drunk. The vicinity, though bustling during the day with trucks approaching and leaving the establishments of the produce dealers and commission merchants, was utterly deserted at night. Nevertheless, Barrett played his part by muttering incoherently as though he were as intoxicated as his burden was supposed to be.
Barrett knew that there was a telephone pay-station in the entrance that led to the second floor of the building. He maneuvered Mike into position, supported him with his elbow, then called Norma Arradonda. Barrett made an effort to disguise his voice to resemble the husky rasp of Mike.
“Norma . . . This is Mike,” he began hurriedly. “You know—Sam’s buddy—”
“Yes?” came the voice of Norma, with a peculiar, rising inflection that sent chills creeping up his spine. Warning? Anxiety? Dawning suspicion? A host of fatal possibilities trooped home in an instant. Lee Simpson’s life was at stake. And then—
“Sam croaked Barrett and took the twenty grand—”
Barrett distinctly caught Norma’s gasp of amazement and consternation. But what else? Concern for Sam’s fate when Moroni learned of the trickery—perhaps.
“We’re checkin’ out. Meet us at Ponchartrain Junction! Quick! Yeah, hurry like—”
Barrett dropped the receiver, drew a pistol, and at the same time broke off his conversation to cry out in terror, “Sam—fer Chris—”
The crackle of the pistol cut short the shriek. Over the wire, the deception must have been perfect.
“That, and Mike full of lead,” was Barrett’s thought as he leaped to the coupé, “ought to convince them I’m dead and Sam’s skipped with the ransom. Now let’s see what they’ll have at Ponchartrain Junction.”
Barrett headed for the first city station beyond the main L & N depot.
Simpson, in view of Barrett’s supposed death, would have no further vengeance-appeal for Moroni. But if Moroni suspected that it was not Barrett who was at the wheel of the flame warped sedan—!
Barrett was grateful that he knew of several readily accessible public phones which were inconspicuous. There was one on Decatur Street, across from the French Market coffee stall. Made to order! He called John Healy at his residence.
“I’ve been bumped off. You’ll find my body at Munn and Tchoupitoulas Streets,” he informed the Chief of Detectives. “Land on Moroni and his boys for killing me. Right now, and for God’s sake, shake it up! Stick to that story. It’s foolproof. And it’s Simpson’s head if it flops.”
Barrett smacked the receiver into place and drove on.
“That’ll keep ’em off of Lee, wherever he is.”
Barrett, whose successful campaigning had in the past been largely dependent on the proper interpretation of underworld whispers, had heard of Sam Carver’s interest in Norma. Garrulity is the most fatal affliction of the racketeer. Thus, though Barrett inferred that Carver’s interest had blossomed beyond mildness, he was not certain enough to predict her attitude toward Carver’s supposed proposition. She might be loyal to Moroni—in which case there would be a reception committee awaiting Carver as represented by Davis P. Barrett; but that was a chance that could not be avoided.
Barrett parked in a side street, and taking full advantage of the darkness along the L & N tracks, made a careful reconnaissance. His wearing Carver’s gray suit made him a good target; and Barrett was still uncertain as to what and who would meet him.
He saw a cab pull up across the tracks, heard the door slam, and watched its tail light disappear.
The passenger was a woman, and she was approaching the deserted station. The waiting room was in darkness save for a single feeble globe. By its dim glow he recognized the shapely figure, exotic coiffure, and graceful, confident gait of Norma Arradonda as she crossed the threshold.
Bait . . . live bait . . . who else might be there . . .
“Live bait it is,” he told himself as he advanced. “But which of us?”
The girl, who had been watching his approach, emerged to meet him. She barely suppressed a cry of alarm as she realized that Sam Carver’s gray suit did not contain Sam Carver. But Barrett’s smile reassured her to a degree, so that she was perplexed rather than alarmed, Barrett, whatever he was, was not a woman killer.
“Sam didn’t kill me,” he explained. “That was just a handy stall. We made a bargain. Moroni thinks I’m dead. You know where Simpson is. Here’s the twenty grand I’m giving you, from Sam, if you’ll tell me where my buddy is held a prisoner.”
It caught Norma off guard, but she quickly assimilated it.
“This money,” she said, “is your security against Sam, and Simpson’s our—”
“Right,” said Barrett. “Now you get on that phone and get things going. The minute I know that Simpson is in the clear, you get the money. And don’t worry about Sam—Moroni can’t touch him.”
“Dirty trick,” was Barrett’s thought as he caught a significant light in Norma’s eyes. “She likes Carver . . . plenty.”
But the memory of Simpson’s severed finger stilled his qualms, and steeled him to carry on with his playing on the girl’s obvious affection for Carver.
“But he’ll know you’re not dead,” she objected.
“No. Mike’s doubling for me—Sam didn’t trust him, so—”
He made a gesture of finality. Norma understood. Despite her connection with the racket, she was for a moment taken aback by the grimness of Sam Carver’s subterfuge.
As she paused for words, Barrett suddenly realized that he had been off guard for a moment, that his keen attention had relaxed. He glanced over his shoulder, caught a metallic glint. And before Norma could utter the words that were on her lips, Barrett’s hand shot forward—not to his holster, but to the girl, striking her to the floor as Barrett himself plunged forward.
He made it with a split second to spare: a drumming fusillade rattled through the silence, and sent the panes beyond them splintering and tinkling to the floor.
“Wiggle clear!” hissed Barrett as he whipped his prone body to cover and flashed his pistol into line. The gunner was momentarily off guard, and certain that his volley had dropped Barrett and Norma. But the smack of Barrett’s pistol sent him pitching backward. Another, coming from cover, returned Barrett’s fire, spattering him with wood splinters, but doing no damage.
“Come out and take it, Carver,” said a voice. “Or we’ll chop the dump down and the Jane’ll get it too.”
“Smack!”
And a grunt of pain. “Spill it!” urged Barrett in a low voice. “Don’t be fussy about ratting! Can’t you see somebody tapped your line, and Moroni’s out for you and Sam?”
A siren screamed in the distance.
Barrett’s pistol fire, now more accurate, halted the charge before it got a fair start.
“Here’s the note you gave Sam. That proves I’m on the level.”
He emptied his pistol, and drew the other salvaged weapon. Help was close; but the enemy could stick to the last second and still make a getaway. Some of them were slipping around to attack from the rear.
“Come across!” he barked above the deadly chatter of the automatic and the splintering of glass and wood. “You can’t get away with this. You’ve got to leave town. And twenty grand—crack-crack—‘s a good stake.”
“The Carlotta. Opposite Jackson ferry,” she replied.
“Phone the police!” commanded Barrett as he jammed home a fresh clip, wondering as he did so whether he could hold
the rush.
But the arrival of the police patrol spared Barrett the test. As the melee subsided, John Healy entered the station, alone.
“You jackass!” he demanded, “why didn’t you tell me you were throwing a party here?”
“Cops hanging around would’ve crabbed the works. Send some men to the Carlotta. Get Simpson. And tell your outfit Sam Carver is here, dead. Don’t let anyone get wise!”
Healy was perplexed, but he asked no questions.
“Duval! MacCarthy!” he bellowed. “Get this, and hop to it!”
He repeated Barrett’s instructions, then added, “Don’t lose a second—I’ll hold this down—to hell with what’s in here, hurry, damn it!”
As the patrol car took off with a roar and a clash of gears, Healy turned to Barrett. “Lord, Dave,” he said, seeing Barrett’s drawn, white features—white as his tropic tan allowed. “Did they get—”
“No. Didn’t plug me, much—but if anything’s slipped—Lee Simpson—”
Healy’s eyes opened wide as Farrell explained a few things.
“But I don’t quite understand,” he protested. “You’re dumb!” snapped Barrett, giving him a hard glance. And then, “Norma, you don’t have to wait here until Lee’s in the clear—here’s the dough. We’ll drive to the airport and get you out of town right now!”
“But we found Mike Tomaso’s body in a phone booth,” Healy persisted, ignoring Barrett’s murderous glance. “Not in your burned up car. Who—”
Norma’s slender form jerked as from an electric shock. Her features twitched from the horror of sudden understanding. Then her hand flashed forward. Four packets of bills caught Barrett full in the face.
“You dirty————!” she said with a deliberation that made the words even deadlier than their coming from a woman’s lips.
Barrett nodded. Healy seized her wrists. “I feel like one, Norma,” he said solemnly. “But Lee Simpson was my friend. Had to do it. Now you get out of town, and take this dough—call it insurance money—anything you please.”
“You big sap, are you giving her that jack?” demanded Healy.