Road to Perdition

by Max Allan Collins

  “The chef isn’t available, sir…can I help you?”

  O’Sullivan paused just long enough to eye the key rack, where most of the keys were back on their hooks, their businessmen guests up and out of there. One hook, however—labeled 311 BRIDAL SUITE—was empty.

  “Mr. Rance, I’m writing it down,” the manager said.

  O’Sullivan paused.

  The manager was continuing: “Runny eggs, yes sir…You do not want your bacon to break off, I understand…Right away, sir.”

  The hotel was old enough not to have elevators, and O’Sullivan trotted up the central stairway to the mezzanine, where he found more stairs, which he climbed to the top floor, the third.

  At room 311, the bridal suite, O’Sullivan glanced around at the otherwise empty corridor, withdrew his .45 from his right-hand coat pocket, and knocked with his left.

  “It’s open!” an irritated voice called from within.

  Gun poised, O’Sullivan went in. The living room of the suite was expansive and expensive—chintz and crystal, overstuffed sofas and chairs, woodwork washed ivory. At a room-service table—its silver tray arrayed with a plate of a largely uneaten breakfast of boiled eggs in twin silver cups and crisscrossing crisp bacon—a man in a green silk dressing robe stood pouring himself a cup of coffee, his back to O’Sullivan.

  “Well, at least you’re prompt,” the man said, his manner fussy and patronizing. “Top marks for speed, anyway…if not for preparation of cuisine.”

  Dripping with indignation, Alexander Rance turned and held up an egg in its silver cup. “Perhaps you would like to attempt to consume this hardboiled monstrosity?”

  Rance’s eyes were on the egg in the silver cup, as he spoke, but his peripheral vision caught something that drew his attention to the man standing before him…

  …Pointing a .45 automatic at his head.

  O’Sullivan said, “Put that down.”

  Rance’s eyes showed white all around. “It’s…it’s just an egg.”

  “This isn’t. Put it down.”

  Rance did as he was told, muttering apologetically, “I’m sorry…I thought you…I was expecting…Mr., uh, O’Sullivan, isn’t it?”

  “You know it is, Mr. Rance.”

  A plush pinkish-red brocade sofa was between them. The accountant held his hands high; his eyebrows were almost as high, as he asked, “How did you find me?”

  O’Sullivan, not about to betray the manager of the Grand Prairie State Bank, said, “This is the best hotel in the area, and you’re so very particular.”

  Rance, working hard to regain his dignity, lowered his hands to waist level, saying, “What may seem ‘very particular’ to you, Mr. O’Sullivan, may simply be another man’s rather more discriminating tastes. But I will be ‘particular’ enough to ask you to do me the courtesy of lowering your weapon.”

  “Keep those hands up,” O’Sullivan said.

  Not taking his eyes off the accountant for longer than a second, he went to the door, which had the key in it; he then locked the room and went to the bedroom door, opening it, leaning in, gun ready. He quickly scanned the room—large double bed and floral brocade wallpaper; though no maid had been here yet, Rance had made his bed, at the foot of which was a large metal steamer-type trunk that was clearly not part of the bridal suite’s florid furnishings.

  O’Sullivan returned to the accountant, said, “You can put your hands down—we’re just going to talk,” and lowered the .45.

  “Thank you,” Rance said with exaggerated distress. “Now—what can I do for you, Mr. O’Sullivan?”

  “I’d like your files.”

  “My files?”

  Nodding, O’Sullivan said, “The ledgers, the record books—you had to bring them along, if you were going to close out all those accounts.”

  Rance seemed almost amused. “Suppose I did—what good would they do you?”

  “They wouldn’t do me much good. But those feds who’re readying indictments against Al Capone could really use them.”

  This notion seemed to alarm the accountant. “You wouldn’t even think of doing—”

  “Mr. Rance, I’ve obviously already thought of it. But I won’t give them to the G-men if Capone and Nitti give me Connor Looney. Like the wanted posters say—dead or alive. Either one is fine with me.”

  Rance was shaking his head. “You’re completely out of my arena, Mr. O’Sullivan—I’m strictly a man of books and numbers.”

  “Good. Because that’s what I want: the books with the numbers.”

  But Rance was still shaking his head. “I can’t give you those files. My life would be—”

  O’Sullivan raised the .45 and cocked it—the click made its small, deadly point.

  “All right! All right…They’re in the trunk in my bedroom.”

  “Get it. Bring it in.”

  Rance gestured, exasperated. “Well, I could use some help.”

  “I’ll hold the gun. You get the trunk. I’m particular about that.”

  Rance, understandably nervous with the gun pointed his way again, glanced toward a window onto the street. O’Sullivan noted this, and as Rance went into the adjacent room, leaving the door open, O’Sullivan went to that window, and closed the curtains.

  In the boarding house across the way, Maguire had already perked up, several minutes before, realizing Rance was talking to someone. Half the time the accountant would deal with room service and other hotel staff, making their lives miserable; so Maguire spying Rance through the window, speaking to someone in his suite, did less than set off an alarm bell.

  And then Mike O’Sullivan was in the window, closing the curtains—perfectly framed there, if only for a moment.

  That Ford he’d spied earlier…maroon, but the same make as the green one. Had they painted it? Had he been asleep at the wheel?

  These and other thoughts rocketed through Maguire’s mind, as he dressed quickly but with his typical methodical precision, omitting his tie. Under the bed he had stowed a canvas bag, and from this he withdrew a long-barreled pump-action rifle. Bowler atop his head, the rifle concealed under his topcoat, he flew down the stairs and strode across the street, paying little heed to the downtown traffic, which was light anyway in this hick burg.

  As he headed toward the entrance of the hotel, he didn’t even look up when a car screeched its brakes, swerving to avoid him.

  Someone else looked up, though: Michael—who had gotten bored on his watch and started reading his Tom Mix Big Little Book, missing the sight of Maguire passing right by on the driver’s side of the Ford—was startled back into vigilance now, by the squealing brakes. In the driver’s side door mirror, he could see the man in the bowler hat, jogging across the street.

  The boy hadn’t seen the gunman very well at that diner; but his father had described the man in detail and, besides, the snout of a rifle was sticking down like a skinny third leg that didn’t quite reach the ground.

  The man in the bowler was approaching the hotel now, and Michael slammed his hand into the horn—twice.

  The sounds made the man glance back, but he didn’t make eye contact with Michael; and then the man was inside the hotel.

  Heart racing, Michael hit the horn again, and again. He paused and repeated the action, and kept it up, getting scared, holding the horn down for a long time, so long that people on the street were stopping and staring.

  But where was his father? Why hadn’t the sounds sent him running out of the hotel?

  About the time Maguire was reaching under the bed for the bag with his pump-action rifle in it, O’Sullivan was in the bridal suite, keeping his .45 trained on Alexander Rance, who was huffing and puffing as he pushed the large metal trunk out of the bedroom.

  Rance glanced at the window, where O’Sullivan had shut the curtains, and complained, “I can’t see well enough—open those back up.”

  There was no overhead light, but several of the crystal lamps were on. Sunlight filtering in through the closed curtains cast
an eerie glow.

  “You can see fine,” O’Sullivan said. “Push.”

  Rance continued to push the apparently heavy trunk into the room. “What do you think you’re accomplishing by interfering with our business, Mr. O’Sullivan?”

  “This doesn’t have anything to do with business. It’s personal.”

  Breathing hard, still pushing the trunk, nearer the light of the lamps by the couch, Rance said, “It’s nothing but business—all of life is business, that’s what you fail to grasp. And in business, to get what you want, you must have something valuable to trade.”

  “Those files are a start.”

  “Not…” The accountant grunted as he pushed the trunk. “…Not for someone as valuable as Connor Looney.”

  O’Sullivan frowned. “What makes Connor Looney valuable?”

  Rance’s expression clouded, as if he’d said too much, bantering with this intruder.

  A mechanical chatter—loud as hell!—drew O’Sullivan’s attention away from Rance, who was rising from his crouch, the trunk pushed to the center of the room, now.

  “Opening bell on Wall Street,” Rance explained, nodding across the room.

  In the shadow of an alcove, a ticker-tape machine stood, spewing tape, making a racket like a miniature machine gun. Under the glass jar covering the machine, a pile of yesterday’s tape was strewn.

  The machine’s chatter was loud enough to blot away the outside world—including the sound of O’Sullivan’s son, desperately honking the horn.

  Rance withdrew a big ring of keys from his dressing-gown pocket, sorting through them, muttering, “Now which one is it?”

  “Find it—now.”

  “I’m trying!…I believe this is the one…”

  The accountant knelt at the trunk, tried the key. “No…not that one…”

  “If you’re stalling, I’ll shoot the lock off. Then you.”

  “Please…I’m doing my best!…Here it is…no, I tried that one already…”

  “Mr. Rance…I may look like a patient man, but I assure you I’m not. Move it!”

  Rance threw a glare at O’Sullivan. “That tone isn’t helping! You’re making me nervous!”

  O’Sullivan went over and jammed the gun into the accountant’s left temple and asked, “Does this help?”

  “Uh…uh…”

  “One more try, and we do it my way.”

  Rance selected another key, and said, “This is it—it has to be,” inserted it into the keyhole and, with a click, unlocked the trunk. O’Sullivan took a step around, to get a look inside, as Rance opened the lid…

  …on emptiness.

  At that moment the ticker tape ran out, its chattering ceased, and the blurt of the car horn…the signal repeated over and over…finally made itself known to O’Sullivan.

  Rance took that opportunity to scramble into the bedroom, slamming the door, locking it behind him.

  And Mike O’Sullivan—with a second futile glance at the bare inside of the “heavy” trunk the accountant had struggled with so—knew he’d been set up. Rance had been the bait, and he knew he was the mouse…so where was the fucking cat?

  A gunshot trumped the car horn, punching a hole through the bridal suite door—a rifle blast at close range!—splintering the wood, the honeymoon over.

  O’Sullivan took cover behind the trunk, its metal lid up, as somebody kicked the door in with a forceful boot heel, wood crunching, metal snapping, and the man in the bowler filled the doorway and—not seeing O’Sullivan—fired off five loud sharp shots in quick succession, all around the room, including the bedroom door and wall.

  Two shots slammed into the open metal lid, which was providing a shield of sorts for O’Sullivan, who stayed down as low as possible, the body of the trunk serving better cover.

  As the man with the rifle paused to reload, stepping inside what appeared to be an empty room, O’Sullivan popped up from behind the trunk and blasted away with the .45. But he’d been shooting somewhat blindly, and the slugs thudded into the sofa near the door, as the guy with the rifle, losing his bowler, scrambled behind an end table that supported a crystal-shaded lamp, crouching there to finish reloading.

  O’Sullivan, huddled low behind the trunk, could see where the two slugs had dimpled the lid; breathing hard, he mentally counted how many rounds he had left, as time itself seemed to pause, and the room took on a ghostly silence broken only by the sound of his opponent reloading the rifle. In the wall and the door to the bedroom adjacent, where Rance had fled, daylight was slanting through bullet holes like swords in a magician’s box. Dust motes floated. Crystal lamps stood mute and the elegant surroundings seemed at odds with the conflict at hand.

  O’Sullivan didn’t see his adversary pop up from behind the end table, but the punch of the bullets from the rifle—two more rounds—pounded into the trunk, which slammed into O’Sullivan, knocking him backward and to one side, robbing him of cover. The second he realized he was exposed, O’Sullivan squeezed off three fast rounds, and one of them shattered the crystal lamp on the end table, showering his opponent with flying shards of glass, hitting him right in the face, like a dozen terrible bee stings.

  The gunmen screamed in pain and surprise, and dropped to his knees. O’Sullivan, still on his side on the floor, out in the open, kept firing with the .45, though his bullets only served to send his bleeding moaning adversary seeking refuge behind the overstuffed sofa.

  And then O’Sullivan was clicking on empty chambers, and he got a glimpse of the man with the rifle cowering behind the sofa, his bloody face in one hand, the rifle impotent—at least for the moment—in the other.

  O’Sullivan took the opportunity to get to his feet and run over to that bedroom door, and—in a panel that had bullet holes punched in it already—kicked, then kicked again, letting daylight flood in, and he reached in and around and turned the key in the lock.

  Pushing into the room, O’Sullivan quickly turned, staying in a crouch, in case the man with the rifle advanced on him; he slammed a fresh clip in his .45 and, as he backed in, he finally saw Rance—flung on the bed, on his back, his eyes and mouth open, and a blossom of red on the green silk robe, a spray of scarlet on the headboard and wall. One of the rifle slugs had caught the accountant, and taught Rance a final lesson about the business of crime.

  O’Sullivan almost stumbled over something, and he looked down and saw a small black strongbox, amid a scattering of file folders and accordion envelopes next to the bed; too much stuff to grab up and carry…but the strongbox had a tiny label that said something big: CHIEF ACCOUNTS.

  With his left hand, O’Sullivan grabbed the strongbox by its little handle, his right hand still ready to send death flying at that bleeding bastard in the next room.

  The bedroom had a separate exit, and O’Sullivan took it, running down the corridor. On the second floor he found a window out onto a fire escape that brought him to the alley; and within seconds he was sprinting across the main street, toward where Michael was parked.

  He didn’t realize that Harlen Maguire had managed to stagger to the window and draw back the curtains and, pulling a revolver from his topcoat pocket, blinking away blood—no shards in his eyes, one small miracle—took aim.

  Michael had spotted Papa, exiting that alley, and threw the Ford into reverse, backing the car toward his advancing father, neither of them wasting any time. But two gunshots discouraged them—holes punched in the roof of the car, sunlight streaming in!—and the boy heard his father yell, “Go! Get out of reverse, damnit—go!”

  And Michael knew not to disobey his father. He changed gears, as professional as any outlaw wheelman, and began to pull away, his father running alongside the car. The boy’s reach wasn’t long enough to open the door for his father, but Papa managed to get the door open himself and was almost inside when another gunshot rang out, and Papa’s shoulder flinched, even as he winced from the impact and pain.

  Still, Papa somehow flung himself in the car, and shut the door
, saying, “Go! Go!”

  Frightened as he was, knowing his father had been shot, Michael did his job, hitting the accelerator, speeding and winding and weaving in and around and through the morning traffic, as sirens wailed behind him.

  On the outskirts of town, he allowed himself to look at his father, who was holding onto his left shoulder with fingers that had blood seeping through them, making red trails down his hand.

  O’Sullivan could see the panic on his boy’s face, and he snapped, “I’m okay! Eyes on the road! I’m okay…”

  The boy drove.

  And in the bridal suite, Harlen Maguire dropped to his knees, as if about to pray, only he didn’t clasp his hands: he held them before him, palms up. In the other room, through the open door, the corpse of Alexander Rance beckoned.

  But Maguire didn’t have his camera. And he was busy looking at his hands, anyway, the hands that had been holding his poor glass-ravaged face…

  …hands covered in blood, dripping with red, and he was startled. It was as if all the blood he had on his hands was finally showing.

  FIFTEEN

  As the great film director John Ford put it, “When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.” Depictions of my father and myself paint us as well-known figures in the outlaw Midwest of the 1930s, placing us side by side with the likes of the Dillinger gang, the Barker boys, and Bonnie and Clyde. In truth, latter-day stories of my renown as the Angel of Death’s “boy getaway man” are gross exaggerations.

  The only time we made the papers was the shooting at the Grand Hotel in Stillwater, when witnesses indeed saw me fleeing the scene at the wheel of the Ford, my father slumped on the rider’s side. Those contemporary newspaper accounts, however, were even more inaccurate than subsequent speculation about us at the hands of Hollywood and the more sensationalistic true-crime writers.

  In recent years, the truth has been sorted out, somewhat, as Alexander Rance’s role as a Capone organization financial wizard has come to light; and research into photographer/reporter/assassin Harlen Maguire’s bizarre life has helped clear our record.

  At the time, “the Bridal Suite Bandit” was painted as a homicidal thief who murdered a respectable accountant—one Alexander Rance—robbing him of hundreds of thousands of dollars from his rooms at Stillwater’s Grand Hotel. Of course, my father took no money at all, merely records—ledger books and files.