by Lionel White
Chapter Seven
The temptation was almost irresistible. Marvin Unger was not a man who was usual y bothered by temptation. Facing a problem, he invariably approached it coldly and scientifical y. On the basis of straight reasoning, he would make his decision, and once that decision had been made, he would abide by it.
Now, at ten-thirty on Saturday morning, as he paced back and forth in the smal living room of the apartment, he was suddenly undergoing a completely foreign sensation. He had already made up his mind that it would be not only unrewarding, but possibly downright foolhardy, to be at the race track that afternoon. Certainly his radio, as wel as the evening newspapers, would give him al the information he needed to satisfy his curiosity. There was every possible reason for him to stay as far from the track as he could.
And yet, at this very moment, as the sun streaked through the dirty pane of the window and fel across the floor at his feet, he had this almost irresistible desire to leave the apartment and go out to Long Island. He wanted to watch—from, of course, a safe distance. For a moment, he tried to rationalize the thing. Perhaps, it would real y be safest if he did go to the track. At least, in that case, should something go wrong, should the plan fail, he would have ample warning. Even as he thought about it, his thin mouth twisted in a bitter smile.
If the plan were to fail, al the warning in the world wouldn't do him any good. It would be just a case of hours before he would be picked up. Without money, the money which only the successful completion of the robbery would supply, he would be in no position to make a getaway in any case.
Once more he decided that being at the track was an unnecessary risk. Certainly it would be pointless. The radio would let him know what was taking place. Once more looking at the clock over the mantel, he made a quick calculation. He would have approximately six and a half hours to wait.
The Canarsie Stakes would be run around four-thirty that afternoon.
Six and a half hours! And then it would al be over. Wel , that is it would be almost al over. There would be the meeting that night, in this very apartment, of course. The meeting at which the money would be split up. After that—wel , after that, thank God, he'd be through with them. He'd never see one of them again.
The last week had brought considerable changes into Unger's plans. At first, when Sherry Peatty had been found at the door, he'd seriously regretted having gotten himself mixed up in the thing in the first place. He had started to realize al the possible things wrong with Johnny's scheme. And he had started doubting whether it would actual y be successful.
Then, later, after they had gotten together and gone over the final details, he once more became optimistic. His faith had been revived. But, simultaneous with his renewed faith in the robbery itself, he had gradual y begun to realize the fundamental weakness in the entire operation.
They'd get away with the robbery, of that he was fairly sure. Johnny had real y worked it out to perfection. Yes, that part would go through fine. But, sooner or later, the police would crack the case. Unger had been around courts and police work for enough years to realize that they would have to be caught eventual y. The very character of the men involved in the scheme made such an eventuality inevitable.
There was, first of al , Peatty. A weak character; a man ruled entirely by his frustrated relationship to his wife. And the wife herself was certainly a woman not to be trusted.
And then there was Big Mike, the bartender. A man who had never had money, who had always fought his battle on the fringes of need and poverty.
Big Mike could be counted upon to do the wrong things once he came into his share of the loot. He wouldn't stop betting the horses—the chances are he'd over bet. And he'd make a splash; buy a new house, a new car. He'd show his prosperity at once.
It would be simply a matter of time until the Pinkertons, or the insurance detectives, or even the municipal police themselves, got around to Big Mike.
Yes, those two, Mike and Peatty, were the essential weaknesses in the plan. The only difficulty, and this Unger realized ful wel , was that Mike and Peatty also were essential to the success of the robbery.
Understanding al of this, Marvin Unger had also reached another conclusion. First, the robbery would be successful. Secondly, sooner or later one of the members of the gang would be picked up and would, without doubt, crack under pressure. Third, other members of the gang would be known and arrested.
The conclusion was obvious.
Marvin Unger must col ect his share at once and disappear. After al , he would be in no worse a position than an absconding bank tel er. And certainly a good many bank tel ers had been able to successful y abscond.
To begin with, he'd have somewhere near a half a mil ion dol ars. And, barring accident, he would have a certain amount of time in which to make his getaway. It was the only safe and sane plan.
Marvin Unger had, upon reaching this decision, at once acted accordingly.
He had arranged to take a two week's vacation from his job down at the courthouse, starting on the fol owing Monday. His bags were already packed and checked in at Grand Central. His ticket to Montreal and his Pul man reservation on the midnight train were in his wal et. His plans were made, and were, he hoped, without flaw.
From Montreal, where he would take on a new identity, he would fly to the West Coast. And from there he would again enter the States, ending up in Los Angeles. A new name and a new life and plenty of money to start out fresh on. If by some miracle his name was never mentioned in connection with the robbery, wel then it would be merely a case of Marvin Unger, unimportant clerk, having disappeared during his regular summer vacation. Having neither close relatives or intimate friends, the most cursory of investigations would be made.
On the other hand, should he final y be connected with the stick-up, he would long since have passed into oblivion.
There was little now to be done. Fortunately, Johnny Clay had changed his own plans and left the apartment two days before for some secret hideaway of his own. It had given Marvin the opportunity to arrange the details of his runout in complete privacy. He had done everything himself. He was sure that there was not a single print of Clay's left in the place. Nor one personal possession which might be traced to him. He had even sold to the secondhand store around on Third Avenue everything of any possible value.
It suddenly occurred to him that among the possessions he had parted with, was the portable radio. The radio he had intended using to hear reports of the robbery.
Marvin Unger looked up at the empty spot on the shelf where the radio used to stand.
Once more he smiled, wryly. He got to his feet, reached for his light Panama hat and went to the door.
Twenty minutes later and he was crowding onto the first of the special trains leaving Penn Station for the race track.
At least he would be cagey. He would stay wel away from the clubhouse. But from where he would be, down in the stands, he would certainly be able to see and hear everything that took place.
After al , a man who had several hundred thousand dol ars or better riding had a right to witness the race.
Looking across the kitchen table at Mary, he blew across the cup of black coffee he held in one shaking hand. Big Mike spoke in a low, bitter growl.
* * *
“A tramp,” he said. “A damned little tramp! Four-thirty it was when she came in. Reeking of vomit and gin and with her dress al torn down the front.
My own daughter. I never thought I'd live to see the day...”
His wife lifted her faded blue eyes and stared at him.
“And what do you expect the child to do of a Friday night if she don't have a date?” she asked.
“A date!”
For a moment Big Mike felt like getting up and slapping her. Slapping her across the face and then going into the bedroom and pul ing Patti out and giving her the whaling that she deserved.
“Can't she have a date with decent boys? Does she have to hang around every sc
um in this neighborhood? What's the matter with the child—God knows she's been brought up proper.”
“She's been brought up in this neighborhood,” Mary said. “With the rest of the scum. What do you expect? What can you expect?”
For a minute then, Mike stared at her before he dropped his eyes.
She's right, he thought. Yes, God knows she's right. It wasn't the child's fault. Patti was a good girl. Remembering how she had come in, her discontented mouth smeared with lipstick, her clothes torn and dirty, stil sick from the swil she'd been drinking, he blamed himself. What could be expected of a child brought up in the slums, never meeting anyone but the boys from the neighborhood?
She's seventeen, he thought, and she's never real y had anything. This is al she's known.
Mike took a deep breath, sighed and drank from the cup. Wel , after today it would be different. It stil wasn't too late.
They'd move out of this stinking neighborhood; get out to Long Island and have a smal house and a yard in one of the nicer suburbs. Patti could go to a good school and she could have new clothes and money in her pocketbook. She'd be able to meet nice boys, from nice homes. It was just a case of money, and soon he'd have the money.
Of course the girl had been talking about quitting school and getting a job. But once he had the dough, he'd get her over that nonsense. Even if he had to get her a roadster and give her an al owance, he'd get her over that sort of talk.
With money, she'd meet the right boys and then she'd be a good girl and they could stop worrying about her.
It would be easier on al of them. He wouldn't have to take the long train ride twice each day; he'd even give up playing the horses. Hel , he wouldn't have to play them any more. He'd have al the money he needed.
As he stood up and reached for the jacket hanging over the back of his chair, Big Mike began to consider the stick-up almost in the light of a holy mission.
It never once occurred to him that if he hadn't played the horses he would have had enough money to have moved out into the suburbs a long time ago. It never occurred to him that this pretty little hot-eyed daughter of his would have been exactly the same, irrespective of what school she went to or what boys she dated.
His face tired and drawn from a sleepless night, he reached down and patted Mary on the arm.
“Wel , cheer up, Mother,” he said. “I can't tel you about it now, but things are going to be different. Very different—and soon.”
She looked up at him and there was that old, soft expression of abiding affection that she always had had, right from the very beginning.
“Have you got yourself a good one today, Mike?” she asked and her mouth smiled at him.
“'Tis no horse,” he said, “that's changing our luck. Just you keep your chin up and wait. There'l be a change al right.” He leaned over and brushed her cheek with his lips as he turned to leave.
“And don't wait supper,” he said. “I'l be late. Got an appointment and won't be in until sometime near midnight. Don't you wait up and don't you worry.”
He slammed the door behind himself as he left the tenement. Already he was feeling better about Patti. The girl had good and decent stuff in her, underneath it al . After al , wasn't she his own flesh and blood? She just needed a chance.
Looking up at the clock in the hardware store as he passed on his way toward the subway, he saw that it was half past ten. Wel , in another six hours the thing would take place which would give her her chance; which would solve al of his problems. He smiled quietly to himself and in spite of the sleepless night and the natural nervousness he felt as a result of this final tension, he began to feel better. The excitement was stil with him and, in fact, was beginning to grow, but he was al right now.
He knew what he had to do and he was ready to do it. He wasn't worried. Excited or not, when the time came, he'd go through with his end of it.
For the first time in as long as he could remember, he didn't stop at the newsstand on the corner and pick up a racing form.
He left the subway at Penn Station, but instead of going downstairs to the Long Island division, he went up to the main lobby. He found the bank of steel lockers exactly where Johnny had told him they would be.
Careful y he looked around after locating number 809. He saw no one he knew.
Mike took the key and inserted it and turned. He pul ed the door open.
It was a florist's box, about three feet long, twelve inches wide and eight inches deep. It was beautiful y wrapped and tied with a large red ribbon.
There was only one thing wrong with it. It weighed about twenty-five pounds.
Walking to the train, Mike saw a number of men whom he knew. Some were fel ow employees at the track; others steady customers. He nodded; said hel o a couple of times. He tried not to look self-conscious.
On the train, going out to Long Island, he sat on a seat toward the end of the second car, next to the window, and he stared through it without seeing a thing. He had made the trip a thousand times, several thousand times in fact, and he'd always hated it. But today it didn't bother him at al . Somehow or other, anxious as he was to get to the track and to get the thing over with, he found himself enjoying and relishing each moment of contemplation.
Shortly before twelve o'clock, along with several hundred other track and concession employees as wel as a handful of diehards who always arrived long before the first race was scheduled to start, he left the train and started for the gates.
The employees' dressing room was on the west, or street side, of the second floor of the clubhouse. It was sandwiched in between the main business office, which occupied the corner position, and the long narrow room which held the smal cubbyholes of the endless cashier's cages. The entrance to the locker room faced the lobby and consisted of a blank door without an outside knob.
The door was always opened from within by an employee who had entered the adjacent office with a key and had passed from that office into the locker room and released the spring lock. A third door led from the locker room to the long aisle behind the cashiers' cages. It was for this reason that the entrance door was blank—a safety measure to prohibit any one from coming in by way of the main lobby without first passing through the main business office, once the races started.
There were a dozen men already in the room when Mike entered. He went at once to his locker, one of those nearest the washstands. He opened the door and put the flower box in, standing it on end. It barely fitted. He took his hat off, unconsciously dusting the brim. Then he removed his suit coat and snapped a pair of sleeve bands on his arms. He took out a fresh white bar jacket.
No one had commented on the flower box.
“It's a beautiful day, Michael,” Wil y Harrigan, a stick man at the bar in the grandstands, said, looking over at him. “Should be a big crowd!”
Big Mike nodded.
“Who do you like, boy?” he asked. It was his inevitable opening gambit and he spoke the words without thinking and also without remembering that for the first time in years, he had arrived at the track without having made a bet.
“I like the favorite in the big race,” Wil y told him. “But I don't like the price. No, the price wil go al to pieces before the race. Nobody can beat that horse. Nobody.”
Big Mike nodded.
“You're right, lad,” he said. “They can't beat Black Lightning!”
“But the price,” Wil y said. “I can't afford the odds. So I'm betting on Bright Sun.”
Big Mike nodded sagaciously.
“A smart bet, Wil y,” he said. “Don't think he can possibly beat Black Lightning, but what the hel . No point in going down on a horse that'l pay a lot less than even money.”
“That's the way I see it,” Wil y said.
Frank Raymond, cashier at Big Mike's bar, laughed as he struggled with his bow tie.
“You guys kil me,” he said. “You figure one horse is going to win, so you go right ahead and bet another horse. What the hel 's the difference w
hat price a nag pays, just so he wins?”
“But less than even money,” Mike objected.
“I'd rather get two fifty back for two dol ars, than lose the two,” Frank said.
“You ain't ever going to get rich that way.”
“You ain't ever going to get rich any way you play 'em,” Frank said.
“Right you are, Mister,” Mike said.
He smiled secretly to himself as he left the dressing room. No, none of them would get rich; none of them except himself, Big Mike. And before this day was over, he'd have it made. There was no doubt in Mike's mind about the success of the stick-up. No doubt about their getting away with it.
Behind the bar, beginning to arrange the bottles and get the glassware out, he felt fresh as a daisy, in spite of his lack of sleep. He'd completely lost his nervousness. He was ready and waiting. Completely calm and under control.
It was a peculiar thing, but for the first time in al the years he had been tending bar at the track, he failed to experience that odd sense of excitement which had never failed to affect him before the races started. It was going to be the biggest day in his life, and for the first time, the strange, subtle undercurrent of tension and expectancy which the track and its crowds always gave him, was missing.
Today Mike knew that he had the winner.
He hadn't told her. In spite of everything she had done, every trick and every subtle maneuver, George stil hadn't told her. Everything else, yes. Who was in on the deal, how it was going to be pul ed.
* * *
But not when. Not the day.
Hours before dawn broke across the eastern sky and the sun slanted through the bedroom window to wake her up, Sherry Peatty knew. Knew it was going to be this day. Finding the gun, probably more than anything else, was the tip off.
George had gone out on Friday night and told her not to wait up; that he'd be late. But she'd stil been up when he came in just before twelve o'clock.
At once she'd noticed his peculiarly furtive attitude. He asked her to mix a drink, which in itself was unusual. She hadn't questioned him, but had gone at once into the kitchen. He had moved off to the bedroom. Instead of starting to mix the drink, she'd given him only a minute or two, and then fol owed him.