The limping goose

by Gruber, Frank, 1904-1969

  A dozen cars whipped past, another dozen and Sam became desperate. His breakfast had been skimpy that morning and it must now be lunchtime or later. His stomach growled, he became faint from hunger. And his feet ached terribly.

  Brakes squealed and a 1937 Chevrolet pulled up beside Sam. "I'm only goin' a little way," he said, "but if you want a lift, you're welcome."

  "Thanks, mister, you saved my life," cried Sam. He piled into the Chewy beside the driver.

  "How far's it to New York?" he asked.

  "I dunno rightly," was the reply. "I ain't been there in three-four years. But PeekskilTs just a hop and a jump from here and that's where I'm going. That all right for you?"

  "It certainly is!"

  The little car roared along, turning off the Parkway a few minutes later. It rattled along a street, paved with large cobblestones, then turned down a street lined with stores and small office and professional buildings.

  "Anywhere special you want me to drop you?" Sam's deliverer asked.

  "Some place where I can get something to eat. I'm so hungry I could eat a stuffed moose. Say—that hotel there looks pretty good." An inspiration had suddenly struck Sam. He had no money in his pocket, but he simply had to eat

  The man pulled up before the hotel. Sam got out. "Thanks a million, mister. You saved my life."

  "You're entirely welcome. Always glad to help a neighbor."

  Sam entered the lobby, a fairly large one. He brightened when he saw a dining room off it. A man came out picking his teeth with a toothpick.

  Sam found a leather chair not too far from the desk. A bellboy walked through the lobby. One came in from the front, went into the dining room. The first bellboy took up a post near the desk. Five minutes went by. Sam got a whiff ol roast beef from the dining room and practically drooled.

  Another five minutes. Then the bellboy turned from the desk. "Mr. Pinkley, calling Mr. Pinkley."

  Sam got to his feet. The bellboy walked toward the fronl to the lobby and called out Mr. Pinkley's name. He returnee to the desk, calling once more.

  No Mr. Pinkley showed up. That was enough for Sam.

  He strode into the dining room and seated himself at a table for two. A waiter came up promptly.

  "Will you have a cocktail before lunch?" he asked politely

  "Naw, don't bother. I want the biggest, thickest steak in the house. No—never mind, a steak takes too long to cook What've you got that's ready?"

  "We have prime ribs of beef, roast veal "

  "The beef," cried Sam. "A big double order and all the trimmings that don't take too much time. Potatoes, gravy, s lot of gravy, the works. And make it snappy."

  "Yes, sir," said the waiter happily. He went off. A momeni later he returned with a silver dish full of bread and rolls Sam munched until his order came. He ate every scrap of the 82

  food, mopped up the gravy, drank his third cup of coffee and leaned back, contented.

  The waiter laid the check face down before him. Sam turned it over, saw the amount, $4.35 and beamed. "Lemme have your pencil, Buddy." The waiter gave him a pencil and Sam scribbled the name, "Mr. Pinkley."

  "Your room number, sir," the waiter reminded.

  Sam wrote down Room 821, then went through the motions of searching his pocket for change. "I don't seem to have any change. I'll just add the tip to the check."

  He scribbled: "Tip, $1.00."

  He handed the check to the waiter. "How's that, pal?"

  The waiter stared at the check. "One moment, please." He headed swiftly for the door leading to the lobby. Sam, startled, got to his feet. He heard the waiter call out, "Mr. Pinkley— if you please!"

  Sam winced and decided to brazen it out.

  The waiter returned, accompanied by a heavy-set man of about forty. The heavy-set man was scowling at the check the waiter had given him and the waiter was chattering excitedly, although Sam could not hear the words.

  Sam went to meet them. "What's the matter?" he asked deliberately. "I just signed the tab for the check, that's all."

  "That is not all," said the heavy-set man firmly. "You signed the name Mr. Pinkley. I, sir, am Mr. Pinkley."

  Sam gulped. "What a coincidence, two of us by the same name staying at the same hotel."

  "I am not staying here," Mr. Pinkley snapped. "I, sir, am the manager of the hotel!"

  Sam staggered, rocked by the blow. He gulped down air, made a clawing motion with his right hand, then said weakly, "Well, whaddya know, the manager's got the same name I have. I—I just checked in a little while ago."

  "Did you?" Mr. Pinkley asked icily. "Into Room eight twenty-one?"

  "Yeah, Room eight twenty-one—that's right."

  "And Room eight twenty-one is on the eighth floor?"

  "It always is."

  "Precisely. Now, there is only one thing wrong with that— there is no eighth floor in this hotel. It has only four stories."

  "Oh, no!" cried Sam, in mortal anguish.

  Mr. Pinkley raised his hand, began snapping his fingers. Two waiters came forward, a third and then a bellboy. "The police," Mr. Pinkley called. "Call the police."

  "Not the cops, mister," begged Sam. "I—I can't go to jail. I was so hungry I couldn't help myself. I—I'll wash dishes, anything."

  "You forged my signature," said Mr. Pinkley coldly. "No one can forge my signature. Positively no one."

  The waiters were surrounding poor Sam. Urged on by Johnny Fletcher or led by him, Sam would have scattered the waiters—and the manager—like tenpins and made his escape. Leaderless he was an ox to the slaughter. It was only seconds before policemen, two of them, entered the dining room and Sam found himself, with handcuffs on his wrists, led to a police car.

  17

  The desk sergeant poised his pen over the police blotter. "Name?"

  "Sam Cragg."

  "K-r-a-g?"

  "C-r-a-g-g, anybody knows that. But look, captain, this is all a mistake."

  "It sure is. Previous convictions?"

  "Whaddya mean, previous convictions?" asked Sam indignantly. "Do I look like a crook?"

  "Yes. Now, you might as well tell the truth, because we'll only check your fingerprints and it'll be so much the worse for you if you lie. How many previous convictions?"

  "None! I ain't even been in the clink before—well, hardly ever—and it wasn't for anything serious. Just "

  "Just what?"

  "Little things, that's all. Mistakes, that's all. Like now, this is a big mistake. I can explain."

  The desk sergeant looked at the two arresting officers. "What's the charge?"

  "Larceny. Forgery," said one of the policemen.

  "Oh, sure, just little things," said the desk sergeant sarcastically.

  "Can you put down just plain dumbness, Sarge?" grinned one of the policemen.

  "Who's dumb?" challenged Sam.

  "You are, stupid," retorted the policeman. "Otherwise you wouldn't go into a hotel dining room and sign the manager's name to the check and then, to make it worse, put down Room eight hundred and something when the hotel's only got four floors."

  Sam winced. "Anybody can make a mistake. Johnny pulled the same stunt and it worked. There wasn't nothing . . ." Sam stopped, realizing that he was talking too much. He said des-84

  perately, "Ain't it true that a prisoner's allowed to make a phone call?"

  "A jailhouse lawyer," said the desk sergeant. He shrugged. "Yes, you're allowed one phone call. Go ahead, here's a telephone."

  Sam grabbed the phone, took off the receiver. "Give me New York . .."

  The desk sergeant snatched the phone from his hand.

  "That's long distance. You're not getting any free long distance calls on this phone."

  "But I don't know anybody in this burg. The only person I know, I mean the only real friend I got in the whole world is in New York. He'll come running out to square this beef."

  "He's a county supervisor, maybe?" asked the desk sergeant sarcastically. "He can square this�
��this beef?"

  "Maybe he's a Congressman," suggested one of the policemen. "Why don't you write him a letter? Everybody writes to his Congressman."

  "Look, captain," Sam said to the desk sergeant, "be a sport. Okay, it's a long distance call. I ain't got a red cent in my pocket, but Johnny'll pay you. He's got five hundred fish in his pocket. He'll come buzzing round out here and pay you. He—he might even slip you a couple of bucks. All of you."

  "Bribery!" exclaimed the desk sergeant. He picked up his pen again. "Attempting to bribe an officer ..."

  "No!" howled Sam. "I wasn't. Don't put that down. It's bad enough. I just meant Johnny'll pay up everything. Everything I owe. The dinner—the lunch at the hotel, the phone bill."

  The desk sergeant could not quite conceal a grin. "All right, son, I'll trust you for that phone call. Go ahead and make it. But mind you, New York City, not Los Angeles or Seattle."

  Sam caught up the phone once more. Hurriedly he put through his call, then waited. The hotel operator rang Room 821 and rang and rang. Finally, she said, "I'm sorry, there's no answer."

  "Gimme the bell captain—Eddie Miller!" Sam cried desperately. "This is important."

  "One moment, please."

  After a long wait, Eddie Miller's voice said cautiously, "Bell captain."

  "Eddie! This is Sam Cragg. Look, I haven't got time. I'm in a jam. Have you seen Johnny Fletcher since this morning?"

  "Not since about ten o'clock. He came in then and—say, aren't you kidnaped?"

  "No-no. I mean, I was, but I got away. I'm okay. Except— I'm in the clink!"

  "You're in jail?" Where ...?"

  "I dunno. Wait..."

  Sam turned to the desk sergeant. "What town is this?"

  "Peekskill."

  "Peekskill," Sam said into the phone. "I'm in the Peekskill hoosegow. Johnny's got to get me out. Tell him I need him — right away."

  "I'll tell him as soon as I see him," Eddie said.

  "He knows that I don't like jails," Sam went on. 'Tell him to make it snappy."

  "Sure thing."

  Sam hung up, sighing in relief. "In a couple of hours Johnny'll be down here and everything'll be okay."

  "Maybe so," said the desk sergeant cynically, "although I personally think you need a lawyer more than a friend. All right, boys, take off the cuffs and put him in a cell."

  "Can't I just wait out here?" Sam asked.

  "What do you think this is, a hotel lobby? Uh-uh, we got a nice room in back. It's got a bed in it. Of course there's no mattress on it, but if you're really tired you won't mind that."

  One of the policemen removed the handcuffs from Sam's wrists. The other held out his hand. "Your necktie and belt."

  "I need my belt," Sam said. "I'll lose my pants."

  "Prisoners can't have neckties or belts," the policeman said firmly. "It's against the rules. They might hang themselves."

  "I ain't going to hang myself."

  "Your belt!"

  Sam groaned. He removed his belt and discovered that his trousers were not too loose around the waist. An occasional hitch would keep them up. He surrendered the belt and his necktie. Then one of the policemen began feeling his pockets.

  He exclaimed in chagrin. "What's this?"

  He brought out the revolver that Sam had taken from Sid. "Holy smoke, we didn't search him when we made the arrest."

  The second policeman winced. "I didn't think he'd be carrying a gun and pulling a cheap job like that." He handed the weapon to the desk sergeant.

  "You boys are slipping," the sergeant said. He picked up his pen. "Carrying a concealed weapon—to wit, a revolver. Brother, that's a violation of the Sullivan Act."

  "I took it away from the guy who kidnaped me," said Sam.

  "Kidnaped!" The sergeant snorted. "You're getting fanciei all the time. Mmm, forgery, larceny, attempting to bribe an officer and the Sullivan Act. Yes, sir, you haven't got a thing 86

  to worry about. Not for the next fifteen or twenty years. The State'll take care of you."

  "Twenty years!" howled Sam. "You're kidding. Please, Captain, don't make jokes like that."

  One of the policemen took his arm. "Come on, mister."

  Sam jerked his arm free of the policeman's grip. He appealed to the desk sergeant. "Don't put me in a cell. Lemme wait here. Johnny Fletcher can explain the whole thing."

  "Come on," said the policeman firmly. He gripped Sam's elbow hard, but Sam again jerked his arm away and went so far as to slap down the policeman's hand.

  The policeman cried out, "Resisting arrest, assaulting an officer."

  The desk sergeant began to write. "Resisting arrest, assaulting "

  "No-no, don't add any more," cried Sam. "I'll go quietly. Come on, boys."

  He started eagerly for the door leading to the jail proper. The policemen followed him.

  There were three private cells in the rear, but each was occupied so Sam was led into the bullpen, a larger room equipped merely with two steel cots. Two prisoners were already in the bullpen. One of the policemen unlocked the door.

  "In you go."

  Sam entered. The policeman locked the door and both went to the front of the station house.

  Sam regarded his fellow prisoners glumly. One was a youth of nineteen or twenty, the other a grizzled old-timer.

  "What're you in for, buddy?" the old-timer asked cheerfully.

  Sam shook his head. "It's all a big mistake. I hadn't ought to be here at all.

  "A mistake, eh? The cops're always making mistakes. What do you think they're charging me with?"

  "I dunno."

  "Burglary, that's what."

  The youth made a wet raucous sound with his mouth. "Vagrancy, that's what you're in for. You're nothin' but an old bum."

  "I resent that, bub," retorted the oldster. "I been in more jails than you'll ever see from the outside. I served time in Joliet, Sing Sing and Alcatraz. I got a record. And whaddya you got to brag about? Pinchin' pennies off a newsstand."

  "Oh, yeah? Well, it just happens that I'm in for grand lar-

  ceny, heisting a Caddy limousine, breaking and entering and resisting an officer. How do you like that, old man?"

  "Yah!" The old tramp indicated the youth with his thumb. 'They talk big, these young punks, don't they? Tell him, paL tell 'im what you're in for."

  "Forgery. Grand larceny. The Sullivan Act, attempting to bribe an officer, assaulting an officer and resisting arrest."

  The youth sat up straight. "All that? You kiddin'?"

  "I wish I wasn't. The captain says I'll be in jail for fifteen-twenty years. I'll never make it. I can't stand bein' locked up."

  "Nothing much holdin' you here," said the old tramp. "If I had an old saw or even a little crowbar I'd be out of here in no time. Lookit them old iron bars. Half rusted away, set in plaster or somethin' instead of concrete."

  He pointed to the barred window at the rear of the cell. Sam stepped up to it and looked through at an alley. He examined the bars. Age had crumbled the concrete foundation, age and the elements had weathered the iron bars. Sam gripped two of the bars, tested them. They wobbled in their concrete sockets.

  He turned away from the window, his eyes narrowing. 'Tf I had a lever or something, I could tear them bars loose."

  "You and who else?" jeered the youth. "A horse couldn't tear out those bars."

  "I'm almost as strong as a horse," said Sam modestly.

  The boy wrinkled his nose in disgust. "That's the one thing I can't stand in these crummy jails. The bull the other prisoners throw. Always bragging how good they are at something. How many cops did it take to pinch you?"

  "Two. But I couldda handled them easy if I'd wanted." Sam's eyes fell to the cot on which the youth was sitting. It was made of heavy tubular steel and contained a rusted spring. He dropped to his knees, tried one of the legs.

  "Get up!" he ordered.

  "I don't feel like it," snarled the youngster.

  Sam reached out, pushed the
boy gently. He turned a complete somersault and came up on the far side of the cot. On his hands and knees he stared at Sam, goggle-eyed.

  The little bolts that held the leg of the cot to the frame were badly rusted. Sam gripped the tubular leg, gave it a sudden wrench and it came away from the frame. "Holy smoke!" gasped the old tramp.

  Grimly, Sam strode to the window. He put the tubular lef of the cot between two bars and put his strength to pushing the inner end.

  Iron ground in the concrete. Sam reversed his push, saw bits of concrete spew out of the loosened socket of one of the bars, then reversed himself again. He took a deep breath and put some real effort into it this time.

  The iron bar tore loose from its lower mooring, leaving a wide opening. Wide enough for a man to get through.

  Sam turned and looked at his cellmates who were staring at him in awe.

  "You boys want out?"

  The old-timer backed away. "Not me. I got two-three days more to go, then I'm out. By the front door."

  "I'll go with you," said the boy. He shot a look of contempt at the old tramp. "The old coot's better off in jail."

  "I'll boost you," Sam volunteered to the boy. He locked his hands together and held them as a stirrup. The boy stepped on Sam's hands and was raised to the window. He clambered through.

  "Give me a hand," Sam said. He held up his hand, but no hand from outside touched his. The boy was out and wasted no time making himself scarce.

  Swearing under his breath, Sam reached up, gripped two bars still remaining and swung himself up. The aperture was a tight fit, but, by holding his breath and squirming, Sam made it

  On his feet, he ran quickly down the alley to a side street.

  18

  Johnny Fletcher came out of the Harover Club and a taxi pulled up at the curb. "Taxi, mister?" asked Leonard, the cabby.

  "Yes." Johnny pulled open the door, had one foot in the taxi when he saw the man inside. "Oh-oh!"

  "I want a word with you, Fletcher," the man in the cab said.

  Johnny backed swiftly out of the cab. "Not with me chum!"

  "Get in," snarled Harry Flanagan. "This is money in your pocket."