I
I put the pack of photographs on Creed’s desk and shook my head.
‘He’s not among that lot.’
Creed puffed at his pipe, his blunt fingers tapping on the worn surface of his desk.
‘He’s a new one on me. None of the boys know him. You think he meant business?’
‘No doubt about that. He’s junked to the eyeballs. I’m surprised he didn’t shoot us there and then.’
Peters, a tall guy with a lean, tough looking face, showed tobacco stained teeth in a hard smile. He was one of the police officers Creed had assigned to me as a bodyguard.
‘I’ll take care of him if he starts anything.’
I looked at my wristwatch. The time was ten minutes past eleven.
‘Well, keep your eyes open,’ I said. ‘He’s due to start any minute now.’
Creed said, ‘Maybe you’d better stay here until we pick him up.’
‘The quickest way to get him is for me to show myself on the street. Then your boys can take him when he starts something.’
Creed didn’t seem to think much of this idea.
‘You stick around here until it’s dark. Showing yourself in daylight will make it too easy for him. We may have picked him up by then.’
I saw the sense of that.
‘Well, okay. You wouldn’t give me a gun, would you?’
‘Sure, you can have a gun.’ Creed looked over at Peters. ‘Get him a gun and watch him. You’re responsible for him.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Peters didn’t look as if the responsibility was weighing him down. He got to his feet.
‘What do you want - a .45 or a .38?’
‘I’ll have a .45,’ I said. ‘I want something that’ll stop him dead in his tracks.’
‘Have an elephant gun,’ Peters said humorously. ‘We’ve got one in the armoury.’
‘A .45 will do.’
While he was out of the room, I told Creed about the guy in the camel hair coat.
He listened attentively, made a few notes and said he would send a man down to talk to Larson.
‘We should be able to get a line on him,’ he said. ‘The boys are after the charm bracelet and we’re getting the girl’s picture in the papers. By the way, she wasn’t one of the girls in the Paris troupe. We located the agent who got Joan Nichols and the other girls the job in Paris, and he couldn’t identify her picture.’
He looked at the pile of papers spread out on his desk.
‘I’ll have to get on with my other work, Sladen. You stick around downstairs. The boys will fix you up. Come and see me around five o’clock, and we’ll work out a campaign for tonight.’
I said I would and went downstairs where I ran into Peters coming from the armoury. He handed me a .45 and a clip of ammunition.
‘Have you handled one of these before?’
‘Sure,’ I said, ‘but give me lots of room. I haven’t done any serious shooting since I was in the army.’
‘Well, be careful,’ Peters said. ‘You better leave him to me.’
‘Only if you see him first.’
I found Bernie in a room with a high barred window, sitting at a table, scowling at his portable typewriter. Sitting by the door was Scaife, Bernie’s bodyguard; a tough looking cop with sandy hair and a thick, short nose that someone had tried to push through his face at one time.
‘How are you getting on?’ I asked Bernie.
‘How can a guy concentrate when he’s expecting to be shot at any moment?’ Bernie complained. ‘I’m not getting on.’
Scaife laughed.
‘He thinks I can’t look after him,’ he said. ‘Why, there’s nothing to it. I keep telling him he’s safe, but he won’t believe me.’
‘I’ve never trusted a cop,’ Bernie said, ‘and I never will.’ He looked suspiciously at me. ‘What’s cooking?’
‘We’re waiting until it’s dark, then we’ll go out and set a trap for this gunman.’
Bernie’s eyes popped.
‘What do you mean - a trap?’
‘Well, we’ll walk, arm-in-arm, around town, hoping he’ll spot us, and when he starts something, these two guys will fill him with lead.’
‘That’s nice. Suppose they miss him?’
I pulled out the .45 and flourished it.
‘Then I’ll take care of him. I used to be pretty good with a rod. They didn’t call me Killer Sladen for nothing.’
Scaife and Peters laughed, but Bernie recoiled.
‘Put it away. That’s how accidents happen.’ He leaned forward and shoved his fat chin at me. ‘Where do you get this “we” stuff from? You won’t catch me on the streets after dark. I’m going to stay right here until he’s caught. If you want to be a hero, go ahead and be a hero. I’m staying right here.’
I looked helplessly at Peters and Scaife.
‘See what I have to put up with? The guy’s got no enterprise.’
‘What are you worrying about, kid?’ Scaife asked Bernie. ‘I’ll take care of you.’
‘I’m staying right here,’ Bernie said firmly.
I sat down.
‘Relax,’ I said. ‘Let’s do some work.’
‘I don’t mind working, that’s what I get paid for, but I’m not going to be used as bait for a trap,’ Bernie said. ‘I want that understood.’
‘Okay, okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll do it on my own.’ I lit a cigarette. ‘Now come on, let’s get this story on the mat.’
II
Around five o’clock I went up to Creed’s office with Peters tagging along behind.
‘Any ideas?’ Creed asked, shoving aside a file he was working on and waving me to a chair.
‘I’m doing this solo,’ I said. ‘Low doesn’t like the idea, and I can’t say I blame him. Anyway, it’ll make it easier for your men to cover one of us instead of two. As soon as it’s dark, I’ll leave here in a taxi and go to the hotel. I want to get out of this light suit and put on something that won’t show up in the dark. Then I’ll walk from the hotel to the restaurant on the corner. I’ll have dinner there. You can have a couple of men posted in the bar. The restaurant is through the bar at the back. I’ll sit with my back to the wall. If he starts anything in there, we’ll have him. If he doesn’t, I’ll walk from the restaurant to the Gaumont cinema. If still nothing happens, I’ll walk on to Mike’s bar at the back of the Florian. From there I’ll walk back to the hotel.’
Creed was making notes as I talked.
‘It’d be better if you walked from here to the hotel,’ he said. ‘Taxis can get lost in the traffic. We don’t want to lose sight of you, but at the same time, we don’t want this guy to know we’re following you. It’s got to be a trap, Sladen, if it is going to work at all. You’ll be on your own. Peters is a dead shot, but he’ll have to keep out of sight. This could be tricky; you might get hurt.’
I suddenly realized I was sticking my neck out recklessly, and perhaps Bernie wasn’t such a dope as I thought he was. But it was too late now to pull back.
‘Just so long as Peters wings him before he starts anything, I’m not grumbling,’ I said.
‘Peters won’t be the only one,’ Creed said grimly. ‘I’ve got forty men on the job. They’ll be covering every twenty yards of the route. You won’t know them. Some of them will be in cars; some got up as loafers, some will be hidden. If this punk starts something, he’ll wonder what’s hit him.’
‘Fine,’ I said, immensely relieved. ‘In about a couple of hours, it should be dark enough.’
‘I’ll go and fix the details. You take it easy,’ Creed said.
I spent the next two hours playing gin rummy with Bernie.
Bernie said it was customary to play cards with a condemned man, and although cards bored him, he felt it his duty to try to take my mind off the immediate future. He wasn’t much of a card player, and I pretty soon won three dollars off him.
‘This dough might not be of any use to you, Chet,’ he said when I asked him to pay up. �
�I’ll give you an I.O.U. if you like.’
‘I’ll take cash,’ I said, holding out my hand. ‘My estate might not be able to collect from you, Bernie.’
He handed over the money.
‘Talking about your estate, Chet,’ he said, ‘have you made a will?’
Peters came in.
‘You all set?’ he asked. ‘We’re ready when you are.’
I got to my feet.
‘So long, Bernie,’ I said. ‘I’ve left everything to you if I don’t come back.’
‘Honest?’ Bernie asked, his face brightening. ‘Your television set too?’
‘Yes, even my television set, you vulture!’
‘Let’s go,’ Peters said, grinning.
We went down the corridor to where Creed was waiting.
‘I’ve got it all fixed,’ he said. ‘You won’t be out of sight of my men for the whole walk. Keep in the middle of the sidewalk and keep to your schedule, then you should be all right.’
‘I hope so,’ I said, looking beyond him through the open door into the street. ‘Well, so long.’
Peters said, ‘I’ll give you sixty seconds, then I’ll come after you.’
I nodded and walked through the entrance, down the steps on to the dark, lonely street. I put my hand on the gun butt in my pocket and felt a little more courageous.
‘Don’t shoot me in the excitement,’ I said as Peters came to the door.
He laughed.
‘You worry too much. I’ll take care of you.’
He sounded a trifle too confident. I wished now I had thought up a safer idea to catch this gunman.
‘Watch it,’ I said and, feeling naked and pretty scared, I started to walk along the badly lit street, keeping a tight grip on the gun butt.
About thirty yards down the street I saw a big guy, leaning against the wall, smoking. He gave me a casual glance and as I passed him, he murmured, ‘I bet your knees are knocking.’
I didn’t look at him, but kept on.
The walk to the hotel seemed endless. Every time a car passed me, my hair stood up on ends. Whenever a man appeared, my heart skipped a beat. Even a black cat running across the road made me jump. When I crossed the road and climbed the steps to the hotel lobby, I was sweating: I paused for a moment to wipe my face, then walked in.
Larson was thumbing through his magazine. He glanced up and nodded. A thickset man sat in one of the basket chairs, reading a newspaper. As I passed him, he said, ‘Scaife’s in your
room. Don’t shoot him as you go in.’
I nodded, climbed into the ancient elevator and was dragged up to the first floor. Before getting out, I peered cautiously up and down the passage. I couldn’t see anyone lurking there, so I crossed the passage, rapped on my door, pushed it open and stepped cautiously to one side.
‘This is Sladen coming in,’ I said into the darkness.
The light snapped on.
‘Come on in,’ Scaife said. He was sitting in my armchair. I saw he had found my bottle of Scotch. Half of it had gone down his throat from the look of the bottle.
I entered and shut the door.
‘Quiet as the grave,’ he said. ‘Maybe the guy was bluffing.’
‘If you had seen him you wouldn’t be drinking my whisky so nonchalantly. He wasn’t bluffing.’
Scaife grinned.
‘A two cent gunman doesn’t scare me off whisky.’
I went over and poured myself a large drink.
‘You’ll have a pretty good story to write, won’t you?’ Scaife went on. ‘What are you going to call it - my death grapple with a hophead?’ And he laughed.
I drank half the whisky at a swallow and felt a little better.
‘You guys can afford to laugh: you’re not out on a limb,’ I said as I began to strip off my suit.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Scaife returned. ‘It’s all in a day’s work. I hope we get this punk.’
‘So do I,’ I said, putting on a dark suit. ‘That’s better. I don’t show up so well now.’ I finished my drink. ‘Well, I guess I’d better buy myself a dinner. Can’t say I’m hungry.’
‘We’ve got two of our boys in the bar and one’s stuffing his guts in the restaurant,’ Scaife said. ‘You buy yourself a good blow out. Nothing will happen to you there.’
‘I’m not there yet,’ I said, making for the door. ‘Well, so long.’
‘I’ll be right behind you with Peters. Don’t walk too fast.’
‘I won’t.’
I went down the stairs, nodded to Larson and walked to the hotel door. I looked into the street. There was a car parked opposite. I could see two men sitting in it.
‘Those two are okay,’ said the man who was sitting in the basket chair. ‘They’re our boys.’
I nodded, walked down the steps and moved off towards the Bell Tavern that was on the corner, some hundred yards from the hotel.
I had to force one leg in front of the other as I walked down the deserted, dark street. My eyes were everywhere. A car swung into the street and I nearly dropped in my tracks, but as it pulled up outside a tobacconist store and the driver got out, I kept on with an effort. I had my gun half out of my pocket as I passed the car, and I was ready to duck, but nothing happened. Breathing heavily, I pushed open the restaurant door and stepped into the brightly lit bar.
There were some twenty people drinking and talking in there, none of them even looked my way. I shed my coat, transferring my gun to my jacket pocket, then I went over to the bar and ordered myself a double Scotch. While I was waiting, I glanced around. Two beefy men with glasses of beer in front of them sat by the restaurant door. They looked at me and one of them winked. My eyelid felt stiff as I returned his wink.
Apart from these two, the rest of the drinkers looked harmless enough. I finished my whisky and went into the restaurant. I got a table with my back to the wall facing the entrance, and sat down. I spotted the third cop at a table across the room. He was munching contentedly and he gave me a cheerful grin. He seemed to be appreciating his assignment. I hoped he had his gun handy. I ordered a steak and trimmings. As I waited for it, I wondered if I were going to get it down. I felt damp behind the ears, and my stomach was fluttering like a flag in a breeze. But when the steak arrived it was so tender and good, I worked through it without trouble and felt a lot better for it. All the time I ate I kept looking at the restaurant entrance, half-expecting to see the gunman appear, and knowing I was alarming myself for nothing. He wouldn’t get past the two guys out in the bar, I told myself, and wished I believed it.
I paid my bill and sat staring at the tablecloth for a few minutes. I had to keep to my schedule, but it was nice and comfortable and safe in this restaurant, and I wasn’t looking forward to another walk in the dark.
The detective across the way was staring at me and, as I met his eyes, he glanced at his watch and then at the door. It was a gentle hint for me to get moving. I reluctantly shoved back my chair and walked to the bar entrance.
‘Here I go,’ I said to one of the beefy men sitting by the door.
‘About time,’ he growled. ‘I want to get home sometime tonight.’
I thought it was pretty heartless of him, but could see his point of view. I went over and collected my hat and coat and went out on to the street.
I had taken seven steps towards the Florian club when it happened.
III
A big, black car without lights shot out of a dark turning. As soon as I saw it had no lights, I knew it was coming for me. I had no chance to duck back into the restaurant; it was coming too fast for that. There was no sheltering doorway at hand. I was right out in the open and I felt as naked as a fly on a wall.
I got the gun out and started running towards the car with the crazy idea of running past it before it could get at me. I caught a glimpse of the driver: a little man with his hat pulled down low over his face, crouching down behind the wheel. There was another man in the back of the car with what looked like a riot gun in his h
ands. The barrel was resting on the top of the open window.
I lifted the .45 and pulled the trigger. The gun went off with a crash that deafened me and its kick back nearly had the gun out of my hand. It was a lucky shot. The slug smashed the windshield of the car which swerved crazily as the riot gun opened up with a deafening clatter.
If the car hadn’t swerved, I should have been cut down by the stream of slugs that smashed into the sidewalk about a yard ahead of me.
I threw myself face down in the gutter. The car lurched across the road, the on-side wheels missing me by about three feet. It crashed into a lamp standard.
I rolled over. The dark night lit up with the revolver flashes as my bodyguards came into action. Slugs hummed through the air, more glass in the car smashed. I hugged the road, feeling sweat on my face, scared silly. I listened to the thud of running footfalls. Lying still, my gun hand thrust forward, I looked over at the car.
The offside door hung open. I caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure, crouching behind the car, then the riot gun opened up again and a stream of slugs passed just above me. I took a snapshot at the crouching figure. My bullet must have winged him for he dropped the gun and flopped on the sidewalk. His sharp yelp of pain made sweet music in my ears.
Peters and Scaife came running up.
‘He’s behind the car - watch out!’ I gasped.
Peters darted across the road while Scaife, taking no chances, sprinted up the road, crossed to the other side so he could get a safe, long shot at the gunman.
I saw the gunman snatch up the riot gun and I yelled a warning to Peters, who swerved. The gun chattered and Peters went down, his gun falling from his hands.
Scaife fired three times.
The gunman dropped the riot gun, tried to straighten, then dropped limply.
‘I got him!’ Scaife called.
Stiffly I got to my feet. My legs felt wobbly. The three detectives from the restaurant who had been crouching in the doorway, came over. The four of us joined Scaife on the far side of the car.
I looked at the dead man as he lay, still clutching on to the riot gun, on his back on the sidewalk. It was my hophead all right. His white face was a snarling mask of death.
1954 - Safer Dead Page 5