THE SUPREME GETAWAY AND OTHER TALES FROM THE PULPS

by George Allan England

  “No case?” stammered Deak.

  “Why not? Who’s goin’ t’ stop me, or him?”

  “Titus here is, I reckon!”

  “Haow? Consarn ye!”

  “Do yer duty, officer!” cried Brooks.

  “I got a warrant here fer th’ jedge’s arrest,” announced Sheriff Titus. “An’ one fer you, too, Deak Saunders.”

  “A — Why — wha-what fer?” And Deak’s jaw dropped.

  “You, malicious mischief, destruc­tion o’ property, an’ ob­structin’ the public highway. Him —”

  “Huh?”

  “Him, exceedin’ the legal speed limit of ten miles per hour in this here township. An’ —”

  Just then the assault and battery took place!

  The rest was sheer “propaganda of the deed” all over the barn floor, out into the hen-yard, and ending after some fifteen minutes in the far corner of the pigpen.

  This new case, of resisting an officer, is still in court, and has been put over till the March term. Much depends on the status of the set of harness as a dangerous weapon.

  There is also Deak’s counter-suit against Brooks for attempted may­hem. But the fact that Brooks, though he undeniably bit Deak on the right leg and essayed to chew off one thumb, did no material damage because of a total lack of teeth, has a vital bearing on the matter.

  It is a complex case.

  Judge Bartlett resolutely declines to discuss it.

  THE LONGEST SIDE

  “NOW SEE HERE, BOGAN,” said Cozzens, when his touring car had struck into the long, smooth, beach boulevard. “You’re my confiden­tial right-hand man, and I can talk plainer, perhaps, than I ever have be­fore.”

  “You can,” answered Bogan — “Best-policy” Bogan, by nickname. “Must be somethin’ mighty important, or you wouldn’t be drivin’ yourself, an’ you wouldn’t of took me out, this way.”

  “It is important,” admitted the poli­tician. “And in an important deal, there’s no place like an auto. No key­holes for people to listen at in an auto. No chance for dictaphones. Give me an auto for absolute privacy, every time.”

  “Correct. What’s on your mind?”

  “You’ve got to find me a ‘fall guy’ for that Wheat Exchange Bank forgery and the Hinman murder that grew out of it. A good, high-class fall guy. No roughnecks.”

  “What’s the idea?”

  “I might as well speak right out in meeting. I’ve got to have my daughter Nadine marry Coolidge Brant.”

  “Assistant district attorney, you mean?”

  “Yes,” assented Cozzens. “The way things are shaping now, I’ve just got to have a string on that young man. He’s directly in line for the district attorney-ship, inside of two or three years, and I want —”

  “I see,” smiled Bogan. “Honesty’s the best policy, all right. It’s a case of rip things wide open, after that, an’ get away with it clean, eh?”

  “You put it rather crudely.”

  “Facts is facts. I get you, the first time. An’ the daughter’s balkin’?”

  “I’m afraid she is, a little. She and Brant have been going round together for over a year, but he hasn’t made good. That is, not enough to suit her. She’s got ideas about efficiency, like lots of girls these days. She won’t have him till he’s shown some real pep. The press is slamming him, some. So —”

  “I’m wise. If he can land somebody right, for those stunts —”

  “What I like about you, Bogan,” said the politician, “is the way you grab an idea. Well, now, can you work the law of supply and demand for me again? You’ve done it before. Can you do it once more, and do it strong?”

  “Sure! How much is it worth to a man that’ll stand for the pinch an’ go through?”

  “That depends,” judged Cozzens, opening the throttle a notch. His big blue car hit a livelier pace down the summer-sunlit boulevard. “Naturally I’m not looking to throw money away. I want you to put this through as cheap as you can.”

  “Bargain rates won’t get a guy to stand a roar for scratch work, knockin’ a bank cashier cold, an’ bumpin’ off a business man. Them’s tall, man-size charges to go against.”

  “I know it, Bogan. But, of course, he won’t be running any real risk of anything but a few years in the pen.”

  “You mean the frame will be fixed so he’ll be acquitted on the murder charge, an’ will only do time for the forgery an’ assault?”

  “Yes, and not much time, at that. Four or five years, and then a quiet lit­tle pardon, you know. That’s at the out­side. Maybe he won’t draw more than four or five in all. Get me?”

  Bogan remained silent, his thin jaws firmly set. He looked out over the bench, the surf, the careless holiday crowd, past which the car was flicking with a burrrrr of knobby tires.

  “Well?” demanded the politician, “Can you fix it right?”

  “Sure. If you’ll guarantee the acquit­tal.”

  “Oh, that’ll be O. K.”

  “Yes, but they never stick a guy with a small charge when there’s a big one on him. F’rinstance, if a man’s robbin’ a hen house, an’ croaks a farmer while he’s doin’ it, you never hear nothin’ o’ the petty larceny.”

  “I can fix that, all right. Got to, to square the bank. They’re sorer than boiled pups, and ready to knife Brant. I’ll have him docket it as two separate cases. After the fall guy’s cleared of the murder charge, he’ll be rearrested on the others and put through.”

  “I don’t see what good that’ll do,” ob­jected Bogan. “That wouldn’t be such a devil of a big feather in Brant’s Pan­ama.”

  “It’ll be enough. I’ll see that the papers play it up right. Nadine will fall for it strong. She likes Brant, all O.K. It’s only that he hasn’t done any­thing much yet. You get the fall guy, Bogan, and I’ll attend to my end of it. Well, what say?”

  “When do you want him?”

  “Right now. And when it comes to cash —”

  “I’m on!” smiled Bogan. “I know just the fella.”

  “Where is he? In town, here?”

  “No. New York. An’ he’s some smooth worker, too, I tell you. Show him the coin, an’ he’ll go the limit.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” said Cozzens decisively. “Now well get back to the office and fix you up with expense money to take the night boat down.” And Cozzens stepped on the accelerator. “Let’s get to it.”

  “Right!” agreed Bogan. “We’ll do this honest an’ square. That’s always the best policy. Let’s go!”

  II.

  ALBERT VESTINE, Scandinavian by birth, and by profession racetrack fol­lower, gambler, and man of various ac­tivities — all of them dubious — was wary as a partridge when Bogan called upon him by appointment. Vestine had trav­eled in too many cities, States, and lands, spoke too many languages, was too clever with his pen and brain, to mis­take the type that Bogan represented. Besides, he knew the man personally, which made him all the more cautious.

  He received Bogan in his little apart­ment on Lyon Avenue, the Bronx, and after a few commonplaces such as old-time acquaintances might exchange, asked him his business.

  Bogan looked him over before reply­ing. In his own way, Bogan was just as keen as this cosmopolitan with the high-domed forehead, the tendency to­ward baldness, the thin cheeks of un­natural pallor. As Bogan appraised him, from gray and conscienceless eyes to slim, dexterous fingers, he realized this was, indeed, the kind of man Cozzens needed.

  The price Bogan knew would be high. Vestine was no “greasy-coat stiff,” to be bought for a song. On the contrary, as Bogan observed his correct linen and cravat, his fine blue suit with the almost invisible vertical stripe, his custom-made shoes, he understood that here was just what the politician had meant when he had demanded: “A good, high-class fall guy. No roughnecks.”

  He thought, furthermore:

  “If I can work this right, there’s pro­motion in it for me, and maybe a little rake-off on the side. I’ll play
it for a wad o’ good, honest graft. Honesty’s the best policy, all right.”

  “Well, Mr. Bogan,” inquired Vestine, “what can I do for you?”

  “You know me, Al,” Bogan replied. “When I say I got a good thing, I got one.”

  “Yes?”

  “An’ now, I got a bundle o’ kale for you.”

  “That sounds interesting,” smiled the Dane. “Sit down, and tell me all about it.” He gestured toward a chair. “How much, why, when, where, and what?”

  Bogan sat down, lighted a cigar to give himself countenance — which is one of the principal uses of cigars in this world — and opened up:

  “You know the burg I hail from, don’t you?”

  “Somewhat. I’ve done a little busi­ness there, off and on.”

  “Well, supposin’ some big guy there had to marry his daughter to an as­sistant district attorney, an’ she wouldn’t fall for him till he’d pulled some stunt to give him a rep, what would you ad­vise?”

  “I’d advise having the stunt pulled, by all means,” answered Vestine, likewise sitting down. His eyes were watchful, in his pale, intellectual face.

  “Correct,” approved Bogan. “We’ve got to get a fall guy.”

  “I see. Well?”

  “There’s hefty coin in the job, an’ nothin’ more’n about four years — easy years — in the pen.”

  “What’s the case?”

  “Some guy forges the name of John C. Wycoff to a check on the Wheat Ex­change National, for seven hundred and fifty-five dollars and fifty cents, about three months ago. He’s an A-1 scratch man, an’ the name looks right. He gets a gents’ furnisher named Markwood Hinman to cash it. Hinman’s found two days later, croaked, in a hall­way on Oregon Avenue. The bull’s dope it that Hinman got wise to the scratch work, an’ went to see the guy to get him to make good, or somethin’, an’ the guy bumped him off to keep him from tippin’ over the bean pot. That’s all old stuff.”

  “Yes, I remember reading something about it in the papers,” agreed Vestine. “The forger cracked Hinman’s skull with brass knuckles, didn’t he? Back of the left ear?”

  “That’s the case! Well —”

  “What then?”

  “The check’s in the bank, see? The murder jazzes the bank up, investigatin’, an’ they get wise the check’s a phony. Henry Kitching, the cashier, takes it an’ heads for the district attorney’s office to raise a roar an’ start things. He gets out of his auto on Kent Street an’ goes in through the rear alley entrance to the courthouse. He’s found slugged there, five minutes later, an’ the check’s gone. Brass knucks, again.”

  “Clever!” smiled Vestine. “I sup­pose the criminal trailed him, and gave him what I believe is called the K. O., from behind.”

  “Yes, that’s the way it looks from here. An’ that’s how the story’d be put over. But nobody was ever sloughed in for none of it.”

  “I see. You mean, then, you’re look­ing for a scapegoat in the wilderness?”

  “Huh?”

  “I mean, a fall guy.”

  “Oh, sure. Goat, yes — I get you. I see you’re wise. Well, then —”

  “And this hypothetical goat would have to stand for all the charges, so as to establish the assistant district attor­ney’s reputation for brilliancy?”

  “Yes, but the murder charge won’t stick, no more’n a red-hot flapjack to a greased griddle.”

  “How can you guarantee that?” in­sisted the Dane.

  “Cinch!” And Bogan, his eyes kin­dling with enthusiasm, pulled at his cigar. Vestine, by the way, never smoked, nor did he drink. Both things, he knew, worked on the nerves.

  “Please explain?”

  “Why, it’s this way,” Bogan ex­pounded. “We’ll fix the story right, an’ copper-rivet it, so it can’t do more’n es­tablish a strong suspicion. An’ it’s all circumstantial evidence, too. Nobody seen the guy croak Hinman or sneak up on Kitching. That’s one point. Another is, we’ll have a hand-picked jury. There’ll be at least two on that’ll stick for acquittal till New York approves of Volstead. So that’ll be a disagreement, an’ the fall guy gets away with the mur­der charge, all right. I’ve been into this thing pretty deep with Cozwith — the man I’m workin’ for, an’ he’ll go through with his end of it.”

  “Stop beating round the bush, Bo­gan, I know Cozzens about as well as you do, and I know you’re asking me, for him, to take this job, I know, too, he’ll go through, if I do take it. I’ve got enough information about him to kill him politically if he tries to renege. You can’t double cross, either, or I’d have both of you on a charge of con­spiracy to do an illegal act. There are three of us in on this. It’s a triangle, understand? All go through, or all col­lapse! I hope I make myself quite clear?”

  “Oh, I get you, all right,” answered Bogan, shifting uneasily in his chair. “We’ll play this frame-up honest. That’s the best policy, every time. All you’ll have to go up for will be forgery an’ assault.”

  “H’mmmm! That’s enough, I should say,” judged the Dane. He pensively brushed a tiny thread from his sleeve with manicured fingers. “How long a sentence —”

  “Four years is the limit. Good con­duct would cut that down a few months, too. An’ you gotta remember this, too — nix on the hard-labor stuff. You got brains, you see, an’ —”

  “Thank you.”

  “An’ it’ll only be a job teachin’ arith­metic, or writin’ or French an’ them guinea languages, in the pen school. See?”

  “Nice, pleasant little program you’ve got all mapped out for me, isn’t it?” queried Vestine.

  “Sure it is! You can figure you’re workin’ on salary. So much time, so much coin. Ain’t much worse’n bein’ a college professor, at that, an’ you’ll pull down a hell of a lot more coin. We’ll have you happy, an’ Cozzens happy, an’ his daughter, an’ Brant, too — he’ll think he dug up the case, himself — an’ —”

  “Regular little love feast, all round, eh?” commented the gambler. “I shall consider myself quite a philanthropist — if I take the job.”

  “Sure you’ll take it!” urged Bogan, with increasing eagerness. This man’s quick intelligence and grasp of the situa­tion far exceeded his hopes. Why, things were surely coming very much his way. “You gotta! Think o’ the good you’ll do! An’ ain’t it always the best policy to be honest an’ do good? You’ll square the bank, land a rich wife for Brant, put Cozzens where he can rip things wide open, an’ —”

  “How about the man that really did the forgery, killed Hinman, and as­saulted Kitching?” put in the Dane. “I suppose he’ll be happy, too? After I’m tried and acquitted for the killing he’ll be safe. And all the time I’m behind bars —”

  “Oh, forget him! Just think what you’ll be gettin’ out of it!”

  “I am thinking of that, every minute, you can rest assured. And I may as well tell you right now, I’m a high-priced man.”

  “That’s the kind we’re after. No cheap stiff, but a ketch that’ll really burn some red fire in Brant’s front yard! Fine!”

  “You realize, of course, it’s no joke to be what they call ‘mugged,’ and fin­ger-printed, and sell four years of my life, and —”

  “’Twon’t be four. Not over —”

  “And then, after it’s all over, have to clear out —”

  “You’ve cleared out before now, Vestine, or whatever your name is,” asserted Bogan. “Don’t play none o’ that in­jured-feelings stuff on me! You got a dozen aliases, an’ you’re as much at home in China as you are on Broadway. So we’ll tie the can to all that ‘no-joke’ stuff, an’ get down to tacks. Will you take the frame?”

  “I might, if you pay me my figure.”

  “Name it!” said Bogan, hands tight­ening on knees.

  III.

  “FIFTY THOUSAND dollars, spot cash.’’

  “Oh, hell, no!” Bogan vociferated. “That’s ridic’lous!”

  “All right, then. I didn’t ask for th
e job. You can probably go down on the Bowery and pick up a dozen men that’ll do it for a thousand. Don’t let me de­tain you.”

  “But see here, Vestine —”

  “Of course, the fact that after Coz­zens gets next to the throne he can clean up a million or two — of course that has no bearing on the case at all. Natu­rally, such being the prospect, you stick at fifty thousand. That’s quite charac­teristic of men of your stamp. Well, good evening, Mr. Bogan. Don’t slam the door as you go out.”

  “I might go twenty ‘thou,’ you bein’ such a big ketch.”

  “Rubles, you mean? Bolshevik money?”

  “Twenty thousand good hard seeds!”

  “Forty,” answered the gambler. “That’s my rock-bottom.”

  “Nothin’ doin’!” declared Bogan. “Be reasonable, can’t you? Make it twenty-five, an’ say no more?”

  “Twenty-five?” smiled Vestine. “See here, now. I know Coz­zens, all right. He’s a good sport and likes a fair gamble almost as much as I do myself. I’ve got a proposition according to his own heart.”

  “What’s that?” demanded Bogan leaning forward.

  “Doubles or quits.”

  “How d’you mean?”

  “Double that twenty-five thousand, or not a sou. Fifty thousand or noth­ing. We’ll stick the book for it.”

  “Gawd!” cried Bogan, and for a moment remained pondering. Into his thin-lidded eyes crept a gleam of craft, exceeding evil. Then he shot back the answer decisive:

  “I’ll go you!” Much agitated, he stood up.

  Calmly, as though about to pitch pen­nies, instead of gamble for infamy and nearly four years of his life, Vestine reached for a book on the table — The Arrow of Gold, for in his literary tastes the Dane was unimpeachable. He laid the book in front of Bogan and handed him a sharp steel paper cutter.

  “One stick, each,” said he. “Right-hand page, and high last number wins. After you, my clear Alphonse.”