He never hung up his hat and coat.
Men were such creatures of habit, Muriel Harris thought. Damn men!
Hervey Melton’s heavy stride banged on her head as he ran up the stairs over the closet. Habit! He went downtown every morning, got the mail from his lock box at ten-thirty, brought it back and stormed up to his drafting room.
There he spent the rest of the day working at his profession, which was consulting engineer to a gun manufacturer. He never came out of the drafting room till four o’clock.
* * * *
Gordon Harris sat behind the wheel of his Cadillac sedan, and sweat poured down his face. It was one thing to read dry reports from private investigators; it was another to see your wife—your own wife, dressed in the clothes you had bought her, driving the car you had given her—boldly open another man’s door with a key from her bag, go to a rendezvous with him.
And in daylight. Gordon Harris, no man to scorn a cliché, called it bold daylight.
She was without shame.
But worse than she was Hervey Melton. How that big devil must be laughing, as he—Gordon Harris’s imagination was trite, but active—removed the shoes Gordon Harris had bought from Gordon Harris’s wife’s feet; slid the sheer silk stockings down, helped her with the dress—that had cost so much of Gordon Harris’s money and—Gordon Harris forced himself to stop. Maybe she kept some of her clothes on. That was supposed to be stimulating...his mind became a panorama of photographs sold under the counter, of drawings from French magazines.
Sweat drenched his clothes. Slowly he reached for the glove compartment, took out the pistol he kept there.
He crossed the street on a long diagonal. He staggered a little, in his rage. Nobody had ever taken anything of his and not paid for it! Nobody was going to start now...
* * * *
Muriel Harris heard the unlocked front door open again, heard it slam. She held her breath. The footsteps sounded like her husband’s, but she was so anxious, it was possible that she was practicing self-deception.
Then they came closer, and she was sure.
Gordon knew his way about this house, she thought. The times they’d been here for dinner had usually ended up with the two men going off to Harvey Melton’s drafting room, leaving her and Mrs. Melton to console each other in the living room.
Gordon knew this house and he knew Hervey Melton. He knew the big man slept in an alcove of the drafting room, seldom coming out of there except for his heavy meals, and that he was never disturbed by Mrs. Melton during working hours. And so Gordon would know where to look for his wife.
And now Gordon was tapping over her head, as he went upstairs. How much lighter his steps were than Hervey Melton’s!
She waited another minute and then walked quietly out of the closet and back to her car. She did not follow her usual route, but took the next block over. The people along her new line of march felt it was a much better day for having a glimpse of such a beautiful, well-dressed woman...
* * * *
“That’s all,” the police lieutenant said. “Jealousy.” He snorted. “According to that private detective—and I wouldn’t believe anything any of them said—your husband thought you were having an affair with Mr. Melton, Mrs. Harris.”
Muriel Harris shook her head. “Ridiculous. Mrs. Melton and I have been doing our marketing, our shopping together. We were in that big supermarket when it happened, I guess.”
The lieutenant said, heavily: “People ought to stay away from private detectives. They got minds like sewers...And citizens oughtn’t to have guns around. A man has a gun long enough, he’s going to shoot it at someone...It’s against regulations, but if you want to see your husband, I’d let you.”
Muriel Harris said: “That’s kind of you, lieutenant. But, no. Maybe some time. But—a man who’d think that of me.”
The lieutenant said: “Yeah, a shock for you. Want someone to drive you home?”
“I’ve got my car here. I’ll take Mrs. Melton...She won’t want to go back to that house.”
Mrs. Melton was not as tall as Muriel Harris, but she was just as slim, except for her shoulders; they indicated that she might have once won a cup as a country club tennis or golf champion. She shuddered. “If I could stay with you, Muriel. Anyhow, I’m putting that house on the market.”
The lieutenant politely got up and opened his office door; he stood in the door for a moment, taking a normal man’s delight in watching two young, nicely-shaped women walking away from him.
Then he closed the door, but the sight stayed with him for another moment. Too bad he was married. Each of those dames stood to inherit more than he would make in a career of police salaries; the Melton gal right away, the Harris one when the court convicted Harris, as it was sure to do: the chair, life or at least twenty years.
The night had turned cool, after the lovely spring day. Muriel Harris touched the electric button, and the windows of the Cadillac slid closed, noiselessly. She drove out of the police lot, and then took one hand off the wheel to drop into Mrs. Melton’s lap.
That woman grabbed the manicured hand convulsively, pressed it against her thigh. “Drive fast, Muriel,” she said. “I’m cold.”
And Muriel Harris drove fast, towards the house that had been Gordon Harris’s, towards the double bed that had been his, too; drove fast, so that they could be warm, soon.
A GETAWAY WITH THE GOODS, by James Edward Hungerford
Originally published in All-Story Weekly, August 2, 1919.
“Slinky” Malone, safe-blower, had a fortune within his grasp. And his grasp upon it relaxed not an iota as he stepped down the gangplank of a Pacific coast steamship to a San Francisco dock.
The fortune was in a small black bag, which he carried in his right hand, and which contained ten thousand dollars’ worth of diamonds that he had “tapped” a Seattle “strong box” for several days before.
In obtaining the loot, he had ruthlessly slain a night-watchman, who had happened along inopportunely; but that was a mere detail. His conscience on that score troubled him not at all. His only regret was that he had not murdered the “harness-bull,” who had also come snooping around.
He had meant to finish the policeman, and was certain he had done so until the following morning’s papers informed him differently. The patrolman had been found unconscious in the alley back of the jewelry company’s shop, and removed to a hospital. Surgeons had stated that there was little chance of his recovery, and that it was doubtful if he would even regain consciousness.
The papers had made much of the robbery, and of the discovery of the night-watchman’s body near the pilfered safe; but Slinky had given scant notice to this, centering his attention upon the items concerning the injured policeman.
In the fight in the alley the cop had got a good look at him, and if the harness-bull should recover sufficiently to make a statement, Slinky knew that within an hour the police departments of every city on the Pacific coast, and of many inland cities as well, would have his description.
If wishing could kill a man, the policeman would have breathed his last long before Slinky reached San Francisco. He had lain awake nights, concentrating his perverted mentality upon the hope that the harness-bull would never regain consciousness.
As for the watchman: On the night of the robbery the latter had come upon Slinky unexpectedly as he was working over the safe. There had been a quick, desperate encounter in the dark, the muffled report of a pistol—and a dead watchman.
As Slinky had emerged from the jewelry store, via the rear entrance, with his satchel of loot, the policeman, suspicious of something, had entered the alley. Slinky had made short work of him, as he supposed, with a black-jack, and had then made a quick getaway without further encounters.
He had been well pleased with himself and the job before scanning the papers next morning. Two dead men, and ten thousand in sparklers—a good night’s work!
After reading the papers he knew he would never r
est easy again as long as the harness-bull breathed, and there was a chance of his recovery.
On the way down on the boat Slinky had been nervous and apprehensive. He had slept only by fits and starts, and his brief slumbers had been tortured by dreams, in which avenging bluecoats enacted the principal roles. A dozen times he had awakened in the grip of terror, his shivering body covered with sweat.
By the time the steamship docked at Frisco he was a victim of craven fear.
Pulling himself together, he descended the gangplank with assumed nonchalance. To a casual observer he would have appeared a gentleman of calm demeanor and an untroubled conscience.
In his inconspicuous blue serge suit and black slouch hat, he appeared not unlike other passengers who descended the gangplank. Nor was there anything furtive in his manner or bearing to betray him. He carried his shoulders well back and head well up, and walked with a firm tread of self-assurance.
But inwardly he was a quivering coward, with every nerve on edge, and ready to go to pieces at any moment.
His first act upon stepping ashore was to purchase a Seattle paper. This he thrust hastily into his pocket, although he was wildly, frantically eager to scan it at once, in the hope of learning whether his victim had succumbed, was still unconscious, or had recovered sufficiently to betray him.
He could hardly wait to enter the old seagoing hack which he chose to carry him to his destination uptown. Once inside, he snatched the paper from his pocket and jerked it open with trembling hands. His eyes darted swiftly from column to column and from page to page, but there was nothing—not one word concerning the victim of his murderous brutality.
Twice his eyes eagerly scanned the obituary column in search of the name he longed to see there; but it was not in evidence.
With an oath he crushed the paper in his hand and, flinging it out the cab window, sank back into the seat, wiping the sweat from his face.
Beside him on the cushions rested the black bag containing the diamonds. Reaching out he clutched it with trembling fingers and glanced about him apprehensively. Then an avaricious gleam crept into his bloodshot eyes and he chuckled.
Fifteen minutes later the hack drew to a pause before a second-rate lodging-house, near the Barbary Coast. Slinky emerged from the vehicle, casting uneasy glances about him, and hastily settled with the driver. Then, with a few parting words of low-voiced instruction to the latter, he disappeared into the lodgings.
Half-way down the block a taxi halted at the curb, and a stockily built, keen-eyed man alighted.
“If I’m not back in ten minutes,” he instructed the chauffeur, “don’t wait.”
“Very well,” answered the other as a bill was pressed in his hand. “Ten minutes, sir.”
As his passenger passed down the street, pausing before the lodging-house entrance, the taxicab driver looked after him in a puzzled manner.
“Wonder what’s up?” he muttered. “Fly-Cop Harrigan on the trail of the foxy-looking gink with the little black keister!”
Pausing in the lodging-house entrance, Harrigan glanced at the folded newspaper which he held in his right hand. It was slightly crumpled, and there were mud-stains upon it.
Smiling grimly, he thrust the paper into his pocket and plucked thoughtfully at his shoe-brush mustache—a habit he had when puzzling over something.
Twenty minutes before he had seen Slinky Malone arrive on the steamship, and had instantly recognized him. Once he had arrested the crook for robbery, and the latter had been sentenced to Folsom penitentiary.
Harrigan had seen the crook eagerly purchase a paper the moment he had stepped ashore, and had observed him greedily scanning it in the hack, as the vehicle moved off.
His suspicion had been aroused, and he had decided to keep an eye on Slinky Malone, and discover, if possible, what had brought him to Frisco.
Also he had wondered what the black bag might contain that had caused the owner to grasp the handle of it until his knuckles stood out livid. Evidently the bag held something of value, else why should it have been carried that way?
Harrigan had stepped into a taxi, instructing the chauffeur to follow the other vehicle, which was making its way lumberingly up Market Street.
Half a dozen blocks farther on he had seen the newspaper flung from the hack window, and, coming abreast of the sheet, he had jumped from the taxi, rescued the paper from a puddle, and a moment later was back in the car, scanning it.
“Seattle!” he muttered. “So that’s where he came from, here, eh? Now, what do you suppose he’s been up to in Seattle?”
Harrigan had quickly ran over in his mind the important safe-robberies that had been recently reported from the northern city. Recalling several, he had begun to put two and two together.
Slinky Malone was a notorious safe-blower and a skilled professional in his line. He had just arrived from Seattle on the Governor, the steamship having sailed from that port forty-eight hours before. The crook had carried a bag, the contents of which appeared to be valuable, as he had clung to it tenaciously.
His first act upon stepping ashore had been to purchase a Seattle paper.
Entering a hack, he had snatched the paper from his pocket and begun eagerly scanning it, even before the vehicle had got under way. A few blocks farther on he had thrown the newssheet out the hack window. Obviously, it had not contained what he had expected to find in it. Had the paper contained news of importance to the crook, Harrigan reasoned, he would have carried it to his destination.
And what was it that he had sought in the paper? Something, evidently, judging by his actions, that had kept him in suspense since his departure from Seattle. And why should he be in suspense?
Suddenly Harrigan had recalled a report that had been received by headquarters a few days previous, relative to a big jewel job that had been pulled off in the northern city.
And that very morning word had been received announcing the death of the policeman, who had been found unconscious near the scene of the crime—a victim of the robber.
The Seattle authorities had been unable to furnish much in the way of a clue to the murderer’s identity, as the policeman, to whom they had looked for information, had regained consciousness only long enough to give a rather hazy description of his assailant.
But the little that had been obtained was sufficient to convince Harrigan that Slinky Malone was the wanted man—that, and the crook’s actions since his arrival in San Francisco.
Although Harrigan had little to work on, he decided to take a chance, and trust to luck for the outcome.
Ascending the lodging-house stairs, he stepped into the small, uninviting lobby on the second floor.
The place was empty, and a glance at the register informed him that Slinky Malone had been assigned to a room under the name of James L. Mullins, Tacoma. Harrigan was certain that it was he who had registered under that name, as the ink was still damp on the page, and it was the last entry. No one else, save Harrigan, had entered the place.
James L. Mullins, of Tacoma!
This in itself was evidence. If Slinky Malone was guiltless of wrongdoing, why should he conceal his identity under an alias?
As Harrigan turned from the register, an unprepossessing looking individual with shifty, black eyes, emerged from a room down the hall and shuffled toward him. Evidently he was the clerk or manager of the place.
“Lookin’ fer somebody?” he questioned sullenly.
“Yes; a friend of mine,” replied Harrigan. “Mr. James L. Mullins, of Tacoma.”
“Just got here,” mumbled the other. “In Room 213. You kin step back if you want to, or I’ll tell ’im yer here—what say?”
“I’ll step back to the room,” answered Harrigan, “and—surprise him. He’s an old acquaintance, and I might even take a notion to play a joke on him. So if you hear any racket—”
“I getcha!” grinned the other. “Old pals, eh?”
Harrigan smiled inwardly and nodded.
The other l
owered his voice to a confidential tone, speaking out of one corner of his surly, thin-lipped mouth.
“If yer wantin’ any drinks, push the button. It ain’t exactly accordin’ to Hoyle—er the bulls—but—”
He finished the sentence with a sly wink.
“I get you,” responded Harrigan, making a mental note of the “tip.” “When we want you, we’ll ring.”
The other nodded and shuffled into a room back of the desk. Harrigan passed on down the hall, approaching the door of Room 213 noiselessly.
Reaching it, one hand closed over the knob and the other sought the revolver in his coat pocket.
Glancing swiftly up and down the hall, Harrigan drew forth the weapon, and, flinging the door open, stepped into the room.
“Stick ’em up!” he demanded tersely.
Malone, who was seated, leaped to his feet with a gasp of amazement.
For a moment he stood as if paralyzed, Staring, then his hands went slowly above his head.
“What d’you mean, bustin’ in here like that?” he blurted. “What d’you want?”
Harrigan’s eyes narrowed. “First, the sparklers,” he demanded coldly. “Where are they?”
“What—sparklers?” jerked the other. “What ’re you talkin’ about?”
“You know what sparklers,” answered Harrigan meaningly. “No use stallin’, Malone; the game is up!”
The crook was striving frantically to appear nonchalant.
“What’cha givin’ me?” was his sneering reply. “What game?”
Harrigan jerked the newspaper from his pocket, and waved it before the other’s eyes.
“Ever seen this paper before?” he demanded.
“What about it?” blurted the crook. “What’s that got to do with me?”
“Don’t know, eh?” shot out Harrigan. “Haven’t read it, I suppose?”
The other shook his head sullenly. “Never saw it before.”
“You lie!” shouted Harrigan. “You bought it at the dock when you stepped off the boat, and threw it out the hack window. I was following you in a taxi!”
The Cutthroats and Criminals Megapack Page 11