by Lionel White
Back in the kitchen, Luder lighted another of an endless chain of cigarettes and looking over at Paula, he half shook his head. “I don’t like it,” he said.
Paula didn’t answer him.
Upstairs in the small square bedroom Joyce lay tense and still on the bed and stared at the ceiling. They were getting ready to make their getaway. She knew that the time had finally arrived. They were going to play it safe; there were going to be no loose ends. For the first time since that fatal morning, sheer horror came over her.
When Mitty left the hotel on West Forty-Seventh Street, he knew he was being followed. He’d been followed every hour of every day since he had returned to New York, and it was beginning to get on his nerves.
Mitty wanted to get up to Cameron Corners. That’s where the money was and that’s where the others were. Cameron Corners represented safety. He knew that sooner or later he’d be picked up again. That business of getting out on bail had been too easy. The cops weren’t that stupid, not even small-town cops like those guys up in Brookside. He knew why they’d made it easy for him; they figured he’d lead them to the others. And if, after a certain length of time, he failed to do so, why they’d just pick him up again and throw him in the can.
Another thing bothered him. How long would they wait for him up there in the hideout? Just suppose things got a little hot and they had to blow the hideout and find a new place—what then?
It wasn’t that he didn’t trust them—that is, it wasn’t that he didn’t trust Cribbins. Cribbins wouldn’t let him down. But suppose Cribbins had to take it on the lam? The thing to do was to get up there and do it as soon as possible.
He could understand why the lawyer had warned him. The man who had come up from Goldman’s office had made himself very clear.
“You’re not to try and duck out and make your meet until the boss lets you know,” he’d said. “You’ll have to hang around for a few days until the heat cools off. The chances are ten to one they’ll put a tail on you. So don’t try to get in touch with us; don’t try to get in touch with anybody. We’ll keep in touch with you.”
That had been several days ago, and still nothing had happened. No one had gotten in touch with him. No one had come near him except the two teams of cops who took turns tailing him.
It was Monday evening, a week from the day they’d pulled the Rumplemyer job, and Mitty was getting worried. He knew that if the police decided to pick him up again for questioning, it might be a lot more difficult to get him out. The cops were always able to hold a man if they really wanted to; they had a million ways of doing it. This was especially true of a man like himself, a man with a record and without important connections.
Walking down Broadway, Mitty took the opportunity at a cross light to turn and look behind him. There were two of them now, the tall, thin one with the blue suit, and the heavy, middle-aged one who always carried a rolled-up newspaper. They were about a block behind him. He could tell; they might as well have been wearing uniforms.
The light changed and Mitty crossed the street and walking another half a block, turned and entered a cafeteria. He’d been coming here every evening for his dinner; it was the place the lawyer had told him to go for his meals.
Mitty went to the counter and found a tray and silverware. He ordered a fish plate and picked up bread and butter and a glass of milk and then took the tray to the front of the cafeteria where he found a table facing the window. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that the tall cop had followed him into the place and had picked up a sandwich and a cup of coffee. He was seated several tables away. Mitty looked out through the window and wasn’t surprised to see the other cop seated in a black sedan at the curb in front of the cafeteria.
He was turning back to his food when the man in the open sports shirt walked past the table, hesitated a moment looking around the crowded restaurant, and then turned back and pulled up a chair.
He didn’t look at Mitty as he took the food off of his tray and put it down. When the tray was empty, he leaned over to place it on one of the unused seats. Then he spoke. His lips barely moved and his voice didn’t carry more than a few inches, but Mitty heard him.
“Tomorrow morning,” he said. “The seven-fifteen to Poughkeepsie. You’ll be met.”
Mitty coughed, covering his mouth. He didn’t look at the other man.
Sitting down, his companion reached for the sugar and again his words reached Mitty. This time Mitty was looking directly at him, but he saw no movement of his lips at all.
“There are two of them on you,” he said. “One outside in a car, one a few tables away. Have you made them? Don’t speak, just take out a cigarette if you have.”
Mitty reached for a cigarette.
“Dump them tonight. Hit an all-night movie and get that train in the morning. But be absolutely sure you’ve gotten rid of them. Don’t take any chances.”
Ten minutes later Mitty got up and left the cafeteria. He walked to the corner of Forty-Third Street and found a cab at the stand. He climbed into the back and closed the door.
“South on Seventh Avenue,” he told the driver. “I’ll tell you when to stop.”
As the cab pulled away from the curb, he turned and looked behind. The sedan was following. There were two men in the front seat.
Mitty had to laugh. Two cops. Well, it made it a little more complicated, but still they’d be a cinch. The first thing to do was to cut it down so the odds would be a little more even.
Mitty leaned forward on the seat and held two single dollar bills in his hand.
“When you get to Fourteenth Street,” he said, “cross if you have the lights and then slow down on the other side. Just enough so I can jump out quick.”
The driver looked at him in the rear-vision mirror curiously, then reached a hand back for the money. “Okay,” he said. “It’s your neck, bud.”
The lights were right and the cab driver crossed Fourteenth. Just past the intersection, he braked and pulled toward the sidewalk. Mitty had the door open and was out of the cab before the car came to a stop. He ducked into the subway kiosk and ran down the steps. Putting a token into the turnstile, he walked out onto the platform. In the distance he heard the rumble of an approaching train.
Risking a look, he saw that the taller of the two detectives had just entered the station. The man pressed through the turnstile and stood on the platform several yards away. Mitty knew that his partner would stay with the car until he heard from the other man.
When the train came in, Mitty climbed aboard. The doors closed and the train started south. Mitty knew that the thin man was at the other end of the car.
They both got off at Houston Street station. Mitty walked over to a coin machine and inserted a nickel, fumbling with the machine and shaking it. He was killing time until the two or three persons on the platform left. A minute or so later he strolled down the platform and entered the men’s room. It took him only a second or two to reach into his pocket and take out the handful of quarters which he twisted up in the handkerchief. Then he went back to the platform.
The tall, thin detective was waiting a few feet from the entrance. Instead of avoiding him and going toward the exit, Mitty suddenly swung around and walked directly toward him. The man was watching him curiously as he approached. Mitty had a cigarette in his mouth.
“Say, mister,” Mitty said, “you got a match?”
The detective stared at him coldly and half turned away. “No smoking in the subway,” he said.
“No?” Mitty said. He reached up to take the cigarette from his mouth with the hand which concealed the tightly rolled up quarters. “That’s a shame,” he said, and as he spoke his hand suddenly lashed out.
Mitty could hear the click of the coins as the blow struck the side of the detective’s head. The handkerchief split open and the quarters fell to the cement floor. The thin man also fell and Mitty caught him with an uppercut as he was halfway down.
He turned and walked casually t
o the exit. Passing the change taker’s booth, he looked into the startled eyes of the clerk on duty.
“The son of a bitch made an indecent proposal to me,” he said.
Twenty minutes later and he’d found an all-night theater.
12.
The sensible thing would have been to wait. The man was bound to return sooner or later. But Bart Sherwood found it impossible to just sit there and do nothing. He had read the note on the door, checked his watch.
Harding apparently lived alone, as there was no sign of anyone about the place. The dog, however, should be around. It wouldn’t be likely the man would take him to town with him.
It went against his grain to do it, but Bart stepped off the porch and rounded the corner of the house. He looked in through an unshaded window. There was nothing and so he walked back and looked into the kitchen through a second window. Then he whistled and called Flick’s name. If Flick had barked in answer he would have waited. But there was no sign of the animal and so he climbed into the car. Twenty minutes later he was back in Cameron Corners.
A quick drive down the main street convinced him the logical place for Harding to sell his eggs would be the supermarket. He parked the car and entered. Corwell Harding was leaving the manager’s office, pocketing his wallet, as Sherwood stopped at the cashier’s cage and put his question. The cashier pointed the man out and Bart quickly crossed the almost empty store.
“Mr. Harding?”
Harding looked up, opened his mouth to answer and then stammered, suddenly at a loss for words. He knew at once that this must be the man whom he’d telephoned about the dog.
It took a little time for Bart to explain why he had been delayed and then more time for Harding to tell him about the dog. He was embarrassed about it. And this man, Sherwood, couldn’t quite seem to get it through his head that the dog had once more escaped. He seemed utterly baffled, totally crestfallen by the news.
They walked to the front of the store as Bart continued to question him.
“He just wandered in,” Harding said. “Like I told you, last Wednesday it was. No, I’d never seen the dog before. Have no idea where he could have come from. He looked all right, not hurt or anything. Except he was pretty near famished.”
“And now he’s gone again,” Bart said, his voice helpless and tired. “Gone.”
Harding nodded. “I’m sorry,” he began, “but … “
“Maybe someone around has seen him. I can advertise … “
Harding shook his head. “No paper here,” he said. “But he certainly couldn’t have gone far, not in just these last few hours. Now, if you were to just sort of drive around and ask.” He hesitated, looking past Bart’s shoulder. Suddenly he touched the edge of his hat and bowed.
“Morning, Miss Abernathy.”
He half turned and Bart turned with him.
Bertha Abernathy stopped and dropped her shopping bag to the floor. “How are you, Corwell,” she said.
Harding said he was fine. “Say, Miss Abernathy,” he said, looking up sharply. “You haven’t by any chance seen a dog running around loose? A black French poodle. This here gentleman … “
Miss Abernathy looked up at the ceiling and thought for a moment. She turned to Bart when she spoke.
“The fact is, I did, only a short time ago,” she said. “It was right after I left the house. The reason I noticed him, he was wearing a collar and there was a short leash attached to it. Only I don’t think it could be this man’s dog.”
“No?”
“No. I think it belonged to those folks who rented the old Bleeks house, across the street from me. Brown’s their name. They’re new. Anyway, last Monday Mrs. Brown’s father came to visit her—with his own nurse, if you please—and the nurse had a black French poodle. I think that was the dog I saw this morning. It looked like the same dog that showed up at the Bleeks place on Monday.”
Bart Sherwood looked at her sharply. “You say the dog first showed up here on Monday.”
“That’s right, young man. On Monday.”
Fifteen minutes later Bart Sherwood drew up in front of the old Bleeks, house and parked the car. For a moment he just sat there and stared at the house.
It was probably completely ridiculous. He wondered just what he would say, what he could say. There probably wasn’t even the remotest connection between the dog who belonged to the woman who’d been renting this house and his own dog. On the other hand, Flick had definitely been in Cameron Corners. Flick had disappeared the very day this other poodle had arrived in the town. It could mean nothing, or it could mean …
He was still thinking about it, wondering just what to do, when his eye caught the movement at the window.
It was a small thing, the mere quick dropping of a curtain as someone stepped away from the window inside of the room. But there was something oddly secretive about it. Someone had been watching him, someone who didn’t want to be seen.
Quickly he got out of the car. That strange, surreptitious movement had been enough to decide him.
He had to wait several minutes before his knock was answered.
“I’ve got this fellow Sherwood on the outside wire,” the desk sergeant said over the intercom. “He wants Sims and Sims isn’t in so I thought I’d see if you wanted to talk to him. He seems a little excited, Lieutenant.”
Detective Lieutenant Parks jerked erect in his chair.
“You’re damned right I want to speak to him,” he said. “We’ve been trying to reach him for hours. Put him on.” He grabbed for the outside phone and waiting only to be sure that the connection was made, spoke quickly, before Sherwood had a chance to say anything.
“Where the hell have you been?” he yelled. “We’ve been trying to get hold of you. Something has … “
Bart quickly cut in.
“I’m up in a place called Cameron Corners,” he said. “Got here early this morning. Someone reported finding Flick—that’s the poodle who was with Mrs. Sherwood when … “
“You found the dog?” The lieutenant’s voice was excited.
“No—no, that is to say he was found and then he got lost again before I got here. But I ran into something else. Something that seems a little queer. It probably doesn’t mean anything, but I think I should tell you about it.”
For the next several minutes he talked to the lieutenant, explaining about Harding’s call. He told about his trouble in getting to Cameron Corners and his delay. Then he told the officer about meeting Miss Abernathy and going out to the Bleeks house to see the Browns.
“But when a girl answered the door, she denied that they owned a poodle, or a dog of any kind. She seemed odd, almost frightened. That’s when the man came to the door.”
“What man?”
“I guess it must have been her father,” Sherwood said. “This Miss Abernathy said her father was visiting her. Anyway, he was a one-armed man and he … “
“A one-armed man?” The lieutenant almost yelled the words. “You say a one-armed man?”
“That’s right. A middle-aged man with one arm, and he ordered her … “
Once more the lieutenant cut in. He made an effort to control his voice, to be very sure that Sherwood understood him.
“Quick, where are you now?”
“Why at the drugstore in town … “
“Stay right there. Don’t go anywhere, don’t say anything to anyone. Stay there. We’ll be up in less than an hour. Just don’t move.”
He was half out of his chair while the receiver was still crackling as Bart yelled into the mouthpiece some forty or fifty miles away….
The lieutenant knew something. There was no doubt about it. He had some piece of vital information. He hadn’t told Bart; had cut the connection while he was trying to question him. But he’d been excited and he’d been very definite about Bart’s staying there and waiting for him.
It had to be something to do with that house. Something to do with the sulky, uncommunicative girl who had answered
the door and denied knowing anything about a French poodle. Something to do with that ill-tempered man with one arm who had ordered her away from the door and then crossed the room to slam it in his face.
Those two knew something. The French poodle had been Flick. And Flick had been in that old colonial mansion.
Joyce had been in that house. Suddenly he knew it. Knew that she had been there and that perhaps she was still there.
He paled as he turned and left the drugstore. If Joyce was there, she would be in terrible danger, because right now they would be growing suspicious.
Lieutenant Parks could not possibly arrive before another hour, not even with the help of sirens and a motorcycle escort. Bart Sherwood ran for the car he’d left sitting in front of the drugstore.
He didn’t make the turn which would have put him on the street which passed the house. Instead he went an extra block and then circled, so that he came upon the place from the rear.
This block was lined on both sides by woods, and the woods separated the street from the rear of the old white house. He pulled the car into the curb and parked. As he stepped to the ground he noticed the rag lying in the gutter. He only saw it for a fraction of a second out of the corner of his eye, but that fraction was enough. At once he recognized the tiny square of yellow and blue silk. Reaching down, he picked up the torn scarf.
There was no question about it, no question at all. It was Joyce’s scarf, the scarf he had given her. His face blanched and for a moment he just stood there, torn by conflicting emotions.
Joyce had been here. There was no doubt of it. He could almost feel the closeness of her. But then, as his fingers caressed the torn and ragged piece of silk, he felt a cold chill come over him. He had to get into that house, at once.
It wasn’t difficult to find cover as he crept toward the place. He was crouching, not thirty feet from the back door, when the car turned into the drive and stopped at the side of the house under the carriage porch. Two men, a thin, bitter-mouthed little man in a sharkskin suit, and a bulky, wide-shouldered man with the broken face of a prizefighter, got out of the car and entered by the side door.