by Jerry eBooks
There was a long silence. Lennison said in a voice without hope, “If I hadn’t have blinded him ten years ago, I could have beat this rap tonight.”
“Quite likely,” said Harford. “Hooker, take them away.”
With rough hands on his arms, Lennison moved toward the door like a dead man. Louis plodded along in the rear. His brow was screwed up with the effort of thought. Things had happened too fast for him. He didn’t get it.
He hadn’t completely figured it out on the morning that he and Lennison were hanged.
THE TOUCH OF DEATH
Norman A. Daniels
That green door was strictly one-way for the condemned . . .
THEY opened the last big iron door.
Don Corday walked slowly into the bullpen. It was a circular barred room. Off it was a corridor of cells. The condemned cells. Corday looked straight ahead. There was the green door. The men who lived their last hours in these cells went through that door once. It was strictly oneway for them. Don Corday shivered.
The guard motioned toward a bench against the bullpen bars. Corday walked over but he didn’t sit down. He heard keys grind in locks, heard the guard’s voice and then a voice Corday thought he’d hear to his grave.
“Who?” the condemned man asked. “Did you say Corday? Hey—that’s the guy who put the finger on me. Sure I’ll see him. If they march me tomorrow night, he’ll have something to remember. Yeah—something good.”
The click of heels and Don Corday turned slowly to face the door through which Peter Langan would come. He hadn’t changed much. Of course the plain white shirt and the black trousers made some difference. In court he’d been natty, wearing a checked suit and loud ties. He was the same otherwise. Maybe a trifle paler, but months in prison will do that to a man. Those months and then—the last hope gone.
Langan had cold blue eyes and a thin mouth. It was smiling now but there was no mirth in the eyes. His figure was tall, nearly six feet, but spare. He offered his hand.
Corday took it. “Hello, Langan,” he said. “I’m surprised you’d shake hands with me.”
Langan grinned. “What have I got to lose? Okay, so you testified me into this. Tomorrow night they’ll take me to the chair. That’s not your fault. You did what you honestly believed to be right. The fact that you were wrong doesn’t matter. I’m not much good anyway.”
Corday sat down. “Look here, Langan, I’ll still swear it was you who entered Old Jules’ store, robbed him and deliberately fired a bullet through his head. I was across the street, in my radio shop. Just closing up and the lights were out. Maybe if I’d been open you’d have come there to steal and kill. I had a perfect view of you. Especially when you ran out and the awning knocked your hat off. When I swore you were the murderer in court, I honestly meant it.”
Langan shrugged. “You’re not a bad kid, Corday. You’re no more than twenty-three or four. Me, I’m forty odd. Half of those years I spent in stir. I always figured I’d wind up this way some day. Though not because I was mistaken for somebody else.”
CORDAY sighed. “Langan, I never did anything I hated more in my whole life than get down from the witness stand, walk over to you and put my hand on your shoulder. I knew I was killing you when I did that.”
“You should have had a gun in your hand, Corday. It would have been better for me. But, it’s okay. My record convicted me. Everybody expected I’d come to this some day and they were not surprised. Funny thing, neither was I.”
“You haven’t shown any curiosity about why I came here,” Corday said. “It wasn’t to gloat over a man who will die tomorrow night. It’s not that. Langan—the time for lying is past. I guess I’d believe you now, no matter what you said. Did you kill Old Jules?”
Langan shook his head slowly. “Kid, don’t torture yourself like that. You identified me but you didn’t convict me. A jury did. Like you say, it makes little difference at this late date about what I tell you. However—I wasn’t lying in court. I didn’t kill Old Jules. I wasn’t even in that vicinity.”
Corday inhaled sharply. “I got in to see you by a police order, Langan. I hate to do this almost as much as I hated to identify you. Raising a man’s hopes at a time like this—”
Langan clawed at his arm. “Corday—has something happened? Tell me—what did you mean by hating to raise my hopes?”
“Take it easy,” Corday begged. “Here are the facts. Whoever shot Old Jules stole a tin box full of rather good gems. Some of them have shown up in the last two weeks.”
Langan’s eyes widened. “That’s it!” he shouted. “That’s what I been praying for. If the stolen stuff is being peddled, I couldn’t have done it. I couldn’t be selling the stuff.”
“Hold on,” Corday warned. “The police say you could have hidden it and some other crook found it. Or you gave it to someone. They say the appearance of the jewels doesn’t mean a thing.”
“The cops!” Langan raised both hands high above his head in a theatrical gesture. “The cops! They been against me since I got a reform school record when I was fourteen. They dogged every step I took since then, waiting and hoping I’d come to this. They always said I’d die in the chair or they’d kill me. Corday—I’m innocent. Some of the proof is coming out now. You’ve got to get me a stay. You’ve got to!”
Corday pulled the, excited man down to the bench. “Listen, Langan, I can’t do anything. I’m just a little guy. A radio repair shop owner. I swore you killed Jules and I thought so then. I’m not so sure now.”
“Go to the Governor. He’ll listen!”
Corday shook his head. “The Governor will only listen to the D.A. and he listens only to the police. It’s your record, Langan. You tried to kill two other people. You served time for attempted murder. As you say, they expected it of you.”
Langan suddenly buried his head in his hands. “What am I going to do then? Walk through that door an innocent man? Just because nobody will listen? Just because they always expected I’d check out this way? Did you expect it? You who thought you knew me for about one second before we met again in a police precinct. Were you damning me too? Isn’t it possible that you did make a mistake?”
“Okay,” Corday said. “I am going to do something. If what I do won’t get you a stay of execution, I’ll go before the D.A. and tell him I’m not sure you’re really the man I saw. I’ll say I lied to get publicity for my radio shop. I’ll tell him anything, because I won’t sit by and let a man who might be innocent go to his death because of what I did.”
Langan looked up. “Corday, you always struck me as a square Joe. In court I almost believed you myself. But I didn’t kill that guy. I never swiped his money or his jewelry. I’ve been in here for thirteen months. I’ve said good-by to seven men who went into the room and were carried out by their ankles and wrists. Sure, I’m no good, but I’ve learned plenty here and had time to think.”
Corday offered his hand. “I’ll do what I can and work fast. I’m glad I came here to see you. Believe me, when I began hearing about this other person who hinted he killed Jules, it kept me awake nights. Lieutenant Ahern of Homicide talked to me about it. He won’t believe those rumors.”
“Ahern is an honest cop,” Langan said. “Most of ’em are, but like all the others they wrote my name in their dead file long ago. What happens to me is just a natural affair. They’re not interested. They figure I’m so rotten I might as well be dead anyway.”
“I don’t believe that,” Corday affirmed.
“Well I do. I believe I might as well be dead. That is, I believed it when I first came in here. Now I know I can make something of myself. I won’t say I’m depending on you. I won’t say a word. Not even if you don’t make it and I take that little walk tomorrow night. If I do, Corday, there’s no hard feelings. You’re a right guy.”
Corday watched as a guard led Langan to the door, signalled, and a guard on the other side unlocked the gate. They passed through but didn’t go back to the cell from which Langan ha
d been led.
Corday turned to the guard who had accompanied him.
“Why are they changing his cell?” he asked.
“Tomorrow is his last day,” the guard answered. “They’re putting him in a bigger cell and two husky guards will sit with him from now until the time they take him away. Just a precaution—so the state can’t be cheated. We call it the goldfish bowl. You leave that pass at the main gate. Just follow that corridor.”
DON CORDAY found the air fresher than he’d ever noticed it. He sat behind the wheel of the light delivery truck and breathed in and out. That prison had a peculiar smell. It took sunlight and a breeze to wash it out of his nostrils.
He returned to the city and put the truck away. He didn’t go near his radio shop but headed for the Star Bar and Grill. Nobody knew he’d been to the prison and Corday was greeted just as he’d been on any other night.
Murph, the barkeep, slid the glass of beer in front of him. Murph said, in a low voice, “That Homicide cop was lookin’ for you, Don. Anything new about that guy in the death house?”
“Only what you know already,” Corday replied wearily. “Some of Old Jules’ jewelry showed up in a hock shop last week. That’s all I can tell you.”
Murph nodded. “They ought to burn that guy Langan on general principles. I wouldn’t do any worrying about him.”
No, Corday thought. Why should you worry? You didn’t put a hand on his shoulder and kill him. Yours wasn’t the touch of death.
Murph excused himself, walked from behind the bar and stepped up to a wall telephone. He left the receiver dangling and called Corday in a loud voice. Corday went over.
A woman’s voice said, “Are you the Donald Corday who was a witness in the case of Peter Langan?”
Corday had a premonition of what was coming. “Yes,” he said. “Why?”
“I’m Langan’s sister. I saw him this afternoon, very late. You’d already been there. I’ve got to see you, Mr. Corday. It means Peter’s life or—his death.”
Corday didn’t hesitate. He made a date to meet her at a fashionable restaurant uptown. She’d be wearing a green suit, hat, purse and gloves. Corday blew a dollar and a half on a taxi to get there.
She seemed to know him at once and he could no more have missed her than he could a St. Patrick’s day parade. She wasn’t bad looking. There might have been a trace of hardness around her mouth and eyes but that could be expected. She was about thirty, slender and auburn-haired.
“I saw you in court,” she told Corday. “I’ve reserved a table in a quiet corner. I’m so grateful you could come.”
“Don’t be,” Corday grunted. “If you can show me your brother is innocent, I’ll reverse my testimony and get him a stay. But I’ve got to be convinced.”
A waiter led them to a dark corner, brought drinks and bowed himself out of the scene. An orchestra was playing in some other room. Here its music was muted and caressing. In the soft lights, this girl looked absolutely beautiful.
“My name is Glenda,” she said. “I’ve never married. I guess keeping track of Peter soured me on men. But you’re not interested in me. Peter is innocent. He—nor I—do not doubt but that you told what you firmly believed was the truth. You’re that kind of a man, Don Corday.”
“Thank you,” he said. “But get on with it. Time never goes by faster than when a man’s life is at stake.”
“You are the key witness,” Glenda said.
“You must be convinced you were wrong. Peter didn’t steal the jewelry nor murder that poor old man. Someone else did—someone who looks remarkably like Peter.”
“Do you know where this man can be found?” Corday asked tensely.
“Yes,” she answered. “I’ve been working on him for days. Ever since some of that stolen jewelry appeared. His name is Farlan. Frank Farlan. He lives in a rooming house west of Columbus Circle. He’s the same build as Peter. From a front view you might never associate him with my brother, but from a profile—they are identical.”
“It was a profile of Peter that I saw,” Corday admitted. “Go on, Miss Langan.”
“My brother has underworld friends. Through them I learned of this Frank Farlan who made drunken boasts that Peter would die for a crime he committed. I looked Farlan up. We are friendly and he does not know who I really am.”
“I want to see him,” Corday said flatly. “That is why I asked you to come here. Perhaps, if I bring him to the very scene of the crime, under almost identical conditions, you will be able to tell.”
“What if I insist he can’t be the man?” Corday asked.
She looked down at the table. “Mr. Corday, I have faith in my brother. I’d be a poor sister if I didn’t, but—Peter has been bad all his life. Twice he tried to kill people. Perhaps he is lying. I do not believe it but perhaps—”
“Let’s get on with it,” Corday said. “We can’t waste a minute.”
“I’ll have him at that same store, across the street from your radio shop,” she said. “Can you be there in an hour?”
“Yes. The time will be approximately the same. So will other conditions because it’s just about one year since the murder. Suppose this slips up? Where can I reach you?”
“The Hotel Splendide, Suite 1109. It can’t fail, Mr. Corday. My brother’s life depends upon it—and us.”
LEAVING her there, Corday went to his radio shop and locked himself in. He turned out the lights, sat near the window and puffed on a cigarette while he waited. The jewelry store had changed hands but nothing else had been changed. He had an excellent view of it.
At eight-forty, almost to the minute of the time Corday had seen the murder, a cab pulled up and Glenda Langan got out. Corday held his breath. A man got out next and paid off the cab driver. The shadows were too intense for Corday to have a good look at her companion.
They went into the store, the man giving furtive looks up and down the street before he walked in. Corday sat spellbound. Now he had a good view of the man. In profile he did look like Peter Langan. Not a positive twin but the outline of the face had the same high forehead, prominent nose and sloping chin.
Corday left the radio shop and crossed the street. He ducked beneath the awning over the jewelry store door, pushed open the door and at that moment the man gave him a startled look, let out a yelp and went past Corday so fast there was no chance to stop him. Corday yelled at him. Glenda Langan seized his arm. She said, “You did recognize him. He is the man.”
“I’ll find out,” Corday grunted and darted out of the store. The man he was after had reached the next corner and took it very fast. Corday was running full speed too. He rounded the same corner in time to see Farlan streak into an alley. Corday kept following him, lost the man in the darkness of the alley and reached a six foot high fence. The man must have scaled it.
Corday backed up, gave a running jump and hauled himself up and over the fence too. He was in some sort of a garden courtyard behind apartment houses on the other street.
A DOG barked sharply. The animal snarled and barked again. Then it yelped and a stone rattled on pavement. Corday knew where his man was then and streaked in that direction. He avoided any encounter with the dog, came to the street and spotted his man running up the steps of a brown-stone.
Corday saw something else too. That brownstone was in the process of being torn down along with several others in the row. Maybe this Frank Farlan knew that too, but hoped he’d outstripped his pursuer and this abandoned house would be a good place to hide.
Corday let him enter. It was better to allow the man to trap himself. After a moment or two Corday sprinted across the street, climbed the steps and found the door unlocked. He opened it slowly, fearing the aged hinges would scream a warning. They were as silent as if recently oiled. He closed the door behind him and suddenly realized he was a fool.
The man he was after might have been a murderer. A killer who knew that Corday could put him in the electric chair. Such a man would be desperate enough to kill.
In fact he had to kill now. Corday didn’t even possess a weapon, but he’d gone this far and there was no backing out.
VERY cautiously, Corday tiptoed across a hallway, the floor creaking under his weight. He came to the foot of a staircase which was faintly illuminated from a street light shining through the dirty window of the front door.
Corday took one step closer and the man hiding in the darkness above, opened fire. The first bullet whizzed past Corday’s ear and stopped him in his tracks. He’d never been shot at before, and the experience was horrifying enough to induce a mild paralysis.
The second bullet was wilder but that one served to bring Corday out of his trance. With a yelp he dived aside and got out of that illuminated spot. He waited half a minute, knew if he left to go for help his man might escape and knew it was suicide to attack him so long as he had a gun.
Someone was coming up the outside stairs. The door opened and he saw Glenda Langan step in. Corday didn’t stop to think now. He dashed toward her, got an arm around her and lifted the girl off her feet. He scampered out of range, put Glenda down and wiped sweat off his face.
“How did you find us?” he gasped. “That guy has a gun. He’s been shooting at me.”
“I saw you go in, Corday. Then I heard the shots. I—was afraid of this. Was he the man? Could you have been mistaken about Peter?”
“It’s possible,” Corday acknowledged, “but I want to nail this crazy fool with the gun!”
“I can do that,” Glenda said. “He—he’s fallen for me pretty badly. He thought you were a cop—or so he said. That’s why he ran. Corday, his running indicates his guilt. Let me bring him down here. Why should you risk being killed?”
“Why should you?” Corday countered. “The guy is nuts. He’ll shoot at anything.”
Glenda turned and ran to the foot of the stairs. “Frank,” she called. “Frank! It’s me—Glenda. Everything is all right. Frank—don’t shoot. I’m coming up.”
She took a couple of steps very slowly while Corday worried ten years off his life. Nothing happened and she began running up the stairs. Corday moved about softly, trying to find some sort of a weapon.