Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

  “For a gent like Bill Gregg, that’s simple and straight from the shoulder, they ain’t nothing too good to be done for him. What I’d do for him he’d do mighty pronto for me, and what he’d do for me — well, don’t you figure that he’d do ten times as much for the girl he loves? Be honest with me,” said Ronicky Doone. “Tell me if Bill means anymore to you than any stranger?”

  “No — yes.”

  “Which means simply yes. But how much more, lady?”

  “I hardly know him. How can I say?”

  “It’s sure an easy thing to say. You’ve wrote to him. You’ve had letters from him. You’ve sent him your picture, and he’s sent you his, and you’ve seen him on the street. Lady, you sure know Bill Gregg, and what do you think of him?”

  “I think—”

  “Is he a square sort of gent?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “The kind you’d trust?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Is he the kind that would stick to the girl he loved and take care of her, through thick and thin?”

  “You mustn’t talk like this,” said Caroline Smith, but her voice trembled, and her eyes told him to go on.

  “I’m going back and tell Bill Gregg that, down in your heart, you love him just about the same as he loves you!”

  “Oh,” she asked, “would you say a thing like that? It isn’t a bit true.”

  “I’m afraid that’s the way I see it. When I tell him that, you can lay to it that old Bill will let loose all holds and start for you, and, if they’s ten brick walls and twenty gunmen in between, it won’t make no difference. He’ll find you, or die trying.”

  Before he finished she was clinging to his arm.

  “If you tell him, you’ll be doing a murder, Ronicky Doone. What he’ll face will be worse than twenty gunmen.”

  “The gent that smiles, eh?”

  “Yes, John Mark. No, no, I didn’t mean—”

  “But you did, and I knew it, too. It’s John Mark that’s between you and Bill. I seen you in the street, when you were talking to poor Bill, look back over your shoulder at that devil standing in the window of this house.”

  “Don’t call him that!”

  “D’you know of one drop of kindness in his nature, lady?”

  “Are we quite alone?”

  “Not a soul around.”

  “Then he is a devil, and, being a devil, no ordinary man has a chance against him — not a chance, Ronicky Doone. I don’t know what you did in the house, but I think you must have outfaced him in some way. Well, for that you’ll pay, be sure! And you’ll pay with your life, Ronicky. Every minute, now, you’re in danger of your life. You’ll keep on being in danger, until he feels that he has squared his account with you. Don’t you see that if I let Bill Gregg come near me—”

  “Then Bill will be in danger of this same wolf of a man, eh? And, in spite of the fact that you like Bill—”

  “Ah, yes, I do!”

  “That you love him, in fact.”

  “Why shouldn’t I tell you?” demanded the girl, breaking down suddenly. “I do love him, and I can never see him to tell him, because I dread John Mark.”

  “Rest easy,” said Ronicky, “you’ll see Bill, or else he’ll die trying to get to you.”

  “If you’re his friend—”

  “I’d rather see him dead than living the rest of his life, plumb unhappy.”

  She shook her head, arguing, and so they reached the corner of Beekman Place again and turned into it and went straight toward the house opposite that of John Mark. Still the girl argued, but it was in a whisper, as if she feared that terrible John Mark might overhear.

  * * * * *

  In the home of John Mark, that calm leader was still with Ruth Tolliver. They had gone down to the lower floor of the house, and, at his request, she sat at the piano, while Mark sat comfortably beyond the sphere of the piano light and watched her.

  “You’re thinking of something else,” he told her, “and playing abominably.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You ought to be,” he said. “It’s bad enough to play poorly for someone who doesn’t know, but it’s torture to play like that for me.”

  He spoke without violence, as always, but she knew that he was intensely angry, and that familiar chill passed through her body. It never failed to come when she felt that she had aroused his anger.

  “Why doesn’t Caroline come back?” she asked at length.

  “She’s letting him talk himself out, that’s all. Caroline’s a clever youngster. She knows how to let a man talk till his throat is dry, and then she’ll smile and tell him that it’s impossible to agree with him. Yes, there are many possibilities in Caroline.”

  “You think Ronicky Doone is a gambler?” she asked, harking back to what he had said earlier.

  “I think so,” answered John Mark, and again there was that tightening of the muscles around his mouth. “A gambler has a certain way of masking his own face and looking at yours, as if he were dragging your thoughts out through your eyes; also, he’s very cool; he belongs at a table with the cards on it and the stakes high.”

  The door opened. “Here’s young Rose. He’ll tell us the truth of the matter. Has she come back, Rose?”

  The young fellow kept far back in the shadow, and, when he spoke, his voice was uncertain, almost to the point of trembling. “No,” he managed to say, “she ain’t come back, chief.”

  Mark stared at him for a moment and then slowly opened a cigarette case and lighted a smoke. “Well,” he said, and his words were far more violent than the smooth voice, “well, idiot, what did she do?”

  “She done a fade-away, chief, in the house across the street. Went in with that other gent.”

  “He took her by force?” asked John Mark.

  “Nope. She slipped in quick enough and all by herself. He went in last.”

  “Damnation!” murmured Mark. “That’s all, Rose.”

  His follower vanished through the doorway and closed the door softly after him. John Mark stood up and paced quietly up and down the room. At length he turned abruptly on the girl. “Good night. I have business that takes me out.”

  “What is it?” she asked eagerly.

  He paused, as if in doubt as to how he should answer her, if he answered at all. “In the old days,” he said at last, “when a man caught a poacher on his grounds, do you know what he did?”

  “No.”

  “Shot him, my dear, without a thought and threw his body to the wolves!”

  “John Mark! Do you mean—”

  “Your friend Ronicky, of course.”

  “Only because Caroline was foolish are you going to—”

  “Caroline? Tut, tut! Caroline is only a small part of it. He has done more than that — far more, this poacher out of the West!”

  He turned and went swiftly through the door. The moment it was closed the girl buried her face in her hands.

  15. THE GIRL THIEF

  BEFORE THAT DEATH sentence had been passed on him Ronicky Doone stood before the door of his room, with the trembling girl beside him.

  “Wait here,” he whispered to her. “Wait here while I go in and wake him up. It’s going to be the greatest moment in his life! Poor Bill Gregg is going to turn into the richest man in New York City — all in one moment!”

  “But I don’t dare go in. It will mean—”

  “It will mean everything, but it’s too late to turn back now. Besides, in your heart of hearts, you don’t want to turn back, you know!”

  Quickly he passed into the room and hurried to the bed of Bill Gregg. Under the biting grip of Doone’s hand Bill Gregg writhed to a sitting posture, with a groan. Still he was in the throes of his dream and only half awakened.

  “I’ve lost her,” he whispered.

  “You’re wrong, idiot,” said Ronicky softly, “you’re wrong. You’ve won her. She’s at the door now, waiting to come in.”

  “Ronicky,” said Bill Gre
gg, suddenly awake, “you’ve been the finest friend a man ever had, but, if you make a joke out of her, I’ll wring your neck!”

  “Sure you would. But, before you do that, jump into your clothes and open the door.”

  Sleep was still thick enough in the brain of Bill Gregg to make him obey automatically. He stumbled into his clothes and then shambled dizzily to the door and opened it. As the light from the room struck down the hall Ronicky saw his friend stiffen to his full height and strike a hand across his face.

  “Stars and Stripes!” exclaimed Bill Gregg. “The days of the miracles ain’t over!”

  Ronicky Doone turned his back and went to the window. Across the street rose the forbidding face of the house of John Mark, and it threatened Ronicky Doone like a clenched hand, brandished against him. The shadow under the upper gable was like the shadow under a frowning brow. In that house worked the mind of John Mark. Certainly Ronicky Doone had won the first stage of the battle between them, but there was more to come — much more of that battle — and who would win in the end was an open question. He made up his mind grimly that, whatever happened, he would first ship Bill Gregg and the girl out of the city, then act as the rear guard to cover their retreat.

  When he returned they had closed the door and were standing back from one another, with such shining eyes that the heart of Ronicky Doone leaped. If, for a moment, doubt of his work came to him, it was banished, as they glanced toward him.

  “I dunno how he did it,” Bill Gregg was stammering, “but here it is — done! Bless you, Ronicky.”

  “A minute ago,” said Ronicky, “it looked to me like the lady didn’t know her own mind, but that seems to be over.”

  “I found my own mind the moment I saw him,” said the girl.

  Ronicky studied her in wonder. There was no embarrassment, no shame to have confessed herself. She had the clear brow of a child. Suddenly, it seemed to Ronicky that he had become an old man, and these were two children under his protection. He struck into the heart of the problem at once.

  “The main point,” he said, “is to get you two out of town, as quick as we can. Out West in Bill’s country he can take care of you, but back here this John Mark is a devil and has the strength to stop us. How quick can you go, Caroline?”

  “I can never go,” she said, “as long as John Mark is alive.”

  “Then he’s as good as dead,” said Bill Gregg. “We both got guns, and, no matter how husky John Mark may be, we’ll get at him!”

  The girl shook her head. All the joy had gone out of her face and left her wistful and misty eyed. “You don’t understand, and I can’t tell you. You can never harm John Mark.”

  “Why not?” asked Bill Gregg. “Has he got a thousand men around him all the time? Even if he has they’s ways of getting at him.”

  “Not a thousand men,” said the girl, “but, you see, he doesn’t need help. He’s never failed. That’s what they say of him: ‘John Mark, the man who has never lost!’”

  “Listen to me,” said Ronicky angrily. “Seems to me that everybody stands around and gapes at this gent with the sneer a terrible lot, without a pile of good reasons behind ’em. Never failed? Why, lady, here’s one night when he’s failed and failed bad. He’s lost you!”

  “No,” said Caroline.

  “Not lost you?” asked Bill Gregg. “Say, you ain’t figuring on going back to him?”

  “I have to go back.”

  “Why?” demanded Gregg.

  “It’s because of you,” interpreted Ronicky Doone. “She knows that, if she leaves you, Mark will start on your trail. Mark is the name of the gent with the sneer, Bill.”

  “He’s got to die, then, Ronicky.”

  “I been figuring on the same thing for a long time, but he’ll die hard, Bill.”

  “Don’t you see?” asked the girl. “Both of you are strong men and brave, but against John Mark I know that you’re helpless. It isn’t the first time people have hated him. Hated? Who does anything but hate him? But that doesn’t make any difference. He wins, he always wins, and that’s why I’ve come to you.”

  She turned to Bill Gregg, but such a sad resignation held her eyes that Ronicky Doone bowed his head.

  “I’ve come to tell you that I love you, that I have always loved you, since I first began writing to you. All of yourself showed through your letters, plain and strong and simple and true. I’ve come tonight to tell you that I love you, but that we can never marry. Not that I fear him for myself, but for you.”

  “Listen here,” said Bill Gregg, “ain’t there police in this town?”

  “What could they do? In all of the things which he has done no one has been able to accuse him of a single illegal act — at least no one has ever been able to prove a thing. And yet he lives by crime. Does that give you an idea of the sort of man he is?”

  “A low hound,” said Bill Gregg bitterly, “that’s what he shows to be.”

  “Tell me straight,” said Ronicky, “what sort of a hold has he got over you? Can you tell us?”

  “I have to tell you,” said the girl gravely, “if you insist, but won’t you take my word for it and ask no more?”

  “We have a right to know,” said Ronicky. “Bill has a right, and, me being Bill’s friend, I have a right, too.”

  She nodded.

  “First off, what’s the way John Mark uses you?”

  She clenched her hands. “If I tell you that, you will both despise me.”

  “Try us,” said Ronicky. “And you can lay to this, lady, that, when a gent out of the West says ‘partner’ to a girl or a man, he means it. What you do may be bad; what you are is all right. We both know it. The inside of you is right, lady, no matter what John Mark makes you do. But tell us straight, what is it?”

  “He has made me,” said the girl, her head falling, “a thief!”

  Ronicky saw Bill Gregg wince, as if someone had struck him in the face. And he himself waited, curious to see what the big fellow would do. He had not long to wait. Gregg went straight to the girl and took her hands.

  “D’you think that makes any difference?” he asked. “Not to me, and not to my friend Ronicky. There’s something behind it. Tell us that!”

  “There is something behind it,” said the girl, “and I can’t say how grateful I am to you both for still trusting me. I have a brother. He came to New York to work, found it was easy to spend money — and spent it. Finally he began sending home for money. We are not rich, but we gave him what we could. It went on like that for some time. Then, one day, a stranger called at our house, and it was John Mark. He wanted to see me, and, when we talked together, he told me that my brother had done a terrible thing — what it was I can’t tell even you.

  “I wouldn’t believe at first, though he showed me what looked like proofs. At last I believed enough to agree to go to New York and see for myself. I came here, and saw my brother and made him confess. What it was I can’t tell you. I can only say that his life is in the hand of John Mark. John Mark has only to say ten words, and my brother is dead. He told me that. He showed me the hold that Mark had over him, and begged me to do what I could for him. I didn’t see how I could be of use to him, but John Mark showed me. He taught me to steal, and I have stolen. He taught me to lie, and I have lied. And he has me still in the hollow of his hand, do you see? And that’s why I say that it’s hopeless. Even if you could fight against John Mark, which no one can, you couldn’t help me. The moment you strike him he strikes my brother.”

  “Curse him!” exclaimed Ronicky. “Curse the hound!” Then he added: “They’s just one thing to do, first of all. You got to go back to John Mark. Tell him that you came over here. Tell him that you seen Bill Gregg, but you only came to say good-by to him, and to ask him to leave town and go West. Then, tomorrow, we’ll move out, and he may think that we’ve gone. Meantime the thing you do is to give me the name of your brother and tell me where I can find him. I’ll hunt him up. Maybe something can be done for him. I dunn
o, but that’s where we’ve got to try.”

  “But—” she began.

  “Do what he says,” whispered Bill Gregg. “I’ve doubted Ronicky before, but look at all that he’s done? Do what he says, Caroline.”

  “It means putting him in your power,” she said at last, “just as he was put in the power of John Mark, but I trust you. Give me a slip of paper, and I’ll write on it what you want.”

  16. DISARMING SUSPICION

  FROM THE HOUSE across the street Caroline Smith slipped out upon the pavement and glanced warily about her. The street was empty, quieter and more villagelike than ever, yet she knew perfectly well that John Mark had not allowed her to be gone so long without keeping watch over her. Somewhere from the blank faces of those houses across the street his spies kept guard over her movements. Here she glanced sharply over her shoulder, and it seemed to her that a shadow flitted into the door of a basement, farther up the street.

  At that she fled and did not stop running until she was at the door of the house of Mark. Since all was quiet, up and down the street, she paused again, her hand upon the knob. To enter meant to step back into the life which she hated. There had been a time when she had almost loved the life to which John Mark introduced her; there had been a time when she had rejoiced in the nimbleness of her fingers which had enabled her to become an adept as a thief. And, by so doing, she had kept the life of her brother from danger, she verily believed. She was still saving him, and, so long as she worked for John Mark, she knew that her brother was safe, yet she hesitated long at the door.

  It would be only the work of a moment to flee back to the man she loved, tell him that she could not and dared not stay longer with the master criminal, and beg him to take her West to a clean life. Her hand fell from the knob, but she raised it again immediately.

  It would not do to flee, so long as John Mark had power of life or death over her brother. If Ronicky Doone, as he promised, was able to inspire her brother with the courage to flee from New York, give up his sporting life and seek refuge in some far-off place, then, indeed, she would go with Bill Gregg to the ends of the earth and mock the cunning fiend who had controlled her life so long.