Too Many Crooks

by Richard S. Prather

  I said, "One thing. You in with Norris?"

  "I ain't workin' for nobody. I told you before, I'm on a vacation. I ain't going near Norris, if that's—"

  "No, the safe's in a lawyer's office. It's hot, too, you might as well know that. If we get caught, they'll scrape us off the sidewalk in the morning. I won't give you a bum steer, Petey, but if there's no color in the can, I'll throw in a couple Cs extra. Assuming, of course, that we make it all the way."

  He thought about it. "OK. Gimme the four yards. But I don't guarantee nothing."

  I gave him the money and he said, "Where's the spot?"

  "Four, five blocks from here."

  "Meet me here in a half hour. I'll bring my own crate." He walked away.

  After half an hour Petey showed up in a new Ford. I got in and he drove to Sycamore and parked smack in front of the Braeden Building, Petey explaining that he didn't want to be carrying a ton of equipment blithely down the street. It took him fifteen seconds to open the front door, and I helped him carry some tools up four flights to Room 420, lawyer Ferris Gordon's office. Petey practically breathed the door open and we went inside. Petey was a one-man mob.

  Petey started prowling around the room while I used my own pocket flashlight briefly to look the place over. There were chairs on my left, the desk straight ahead with a swivel chair behind it. The safe was a bulky green job in the corner on my left. A few feet this side of the safe were the only windows in the office. This was an outside room and the windows overlooked a side street that ran into Main. The windows were big, but covered with venetian blinds. I walked over and looked out. A few feet on my left was the fire escape running up and down the building's side, its platform near me opposite a closed door just past the wall, at the end of the corridor outside the office here. I shut the window, made sure the blinds were closed, then stood beside Petey.

  He finished examining the safe in the light from his flash and said, "Hell, this is candy. I could chew through this thing. We'll rip it."

  "Think there might be an alarm of some kind?"

  "Yeah, a toy. I already slapped a jumper on the bug." He got busy, using a drill on the safe. It didn't make much noise and in a few minutes he said, "Gimme the can opener."

  I'd carried up the section of a heavy, curved bar, pointed at one end. I handed it to him and he said, "This'll be like opening a can of beans."

  The way he talked, I figured we'd be gone in another ten minutes, but it was over an hour before the whole job was finished. After sticking a hunk of pipe over the end of his can opener and using it to rip off the metal plating, he banged away with a hammer and chisel at the fire brick and clay inside, making what seemed to me like one hell of a lot of noise. Finally, though, he got up, wiped his forehead, and said, "There she be."

  I took over. Kneeling before the wrecked safe, I sprayed the light from my flash around inside. There were a lot of legal-size papers and documents that I pawed through without finding anything of interest to me. Then, in a metal drawer, which Petey had already opened, I found Emmett Dane's will. Or at least a will signed "Emmett Dane."

  It was four heavy, crinkly sheets of paper, with double-spaced lines of typing covering them. The last sheet was signed "Emmett Dane" and also bore the signatures of the two witnesses who had attested the will; neither of the two names was familiar to me. A paper clip held something attached to the back of the will. I slid the clip off and looked at what I held in my hand. Besides the will, there were half a dozen other legal-sized papers, apparently from Dane's effects, all bearing his signature. But there was something else: five glossy four-by-five photographs. Five photographs of Dane—and Dorothy Craig.

  Each of them had been taken with Em and Dorothy seated together, three shots of them at a table and two in a booth. In three of the shots, highballs were before them, and in two, the remains of a dinner were still in evidence. In the highball shots, Dorothy wore a low-cut black dress; the other pictures showed her in a different outfit, a print dress with a square neck. Dorothy had managed in each of the shots to adopt a pose suggestive of intimacy: leaning toward Dane and smiling into his face; a hand on his arm.

  The total effect was that of an elderly man enjoying a few stolen moments with a young and desirable woman. Undoubtedly when Baron and Dorothy had arranged for these shots to be taken, that was the impression they'd wanted the pictures to make. I knew, of course, that these were simply photos of Emmett Dane discussing the mess here in Seacliff with "Lilith Manning." To anybody else, though, it would appear that Dane was dining and drinking with his "fiancée," Dorothy Craig, to whom he had left so much in his will.

  Slowly the realization grew in me that they must have planned this well before that night when Dorothy had splashed about in the pool for me, must have intended all along to kill Dane once the props were ready. At least, I thought, my presence here in Seacliff wasn't responsible for his death; perhaps Baron had set his plans ahead a little because of me, but they'd have killed Dane anyway. Men have planned murder for fifty bucks or less; this was for a million dollars or more.

  So far, there'd been very little light in the office, but now I had to use the flashbulbs I'd brought along. I didn't like it, but it couldn't be helped. While I shot the photos, the half-dozen other signed documents, and pages of the will, Petey worked inside the safe. I heard him grumbling, "Looks like you're gonna owe me two Cs, Shell." I kept working. In addition to the four pages of the will, there was one other typed sheet, a codicil, leaving a described area of property to Sheldon Scott. That must have been whipped up in a hurry after Baron decided definitely that I had to be killed. More of my motive.

  "Hey, I got a funny feeling," Petey said.

  I glanced up. "What's the matter?"

  He sprayed his flash briefly over the venetian blinds. "Them's closed, but there's some space at the top. That goddamn lightning you been setting off must have gone through there."

  I swore. We'd missed that in our first examination of the office. "I'm almost through."

  "Shake a leg. I don't like this."

  "You can blow. Find anything?"

  "Lousy paper. Maybe a hundred fish. I'm blowing."

  He went out the door and closed it behind him. I made my last shot, picked up the papers, and put them back in the safe. I had just gathered up the used flash bulbs and put them and the camera into the case and looped the strap around my neck when I heard noise in the hallway outside, somebody running.

  I shoved the flashlight into my pocket as the rapid footsteps came up to the door—and went by fast. I heard more feet slapping in the hallway outside, then a loud shout. Almost immediately after the shout there was the sudden, explosive bark of guns—a lot of them. There must have been a dozen rapid shots as I jumped to the window and pulled back the blinds. Then a high, agonized scream, more shots, and silence.

  Running feet slapped again outside and men shouted. I worked at the window, forced it up, and leaned through, stretching my left hand for the fire-escape rail. It was a yard past my reach and I started to sweat, hearing noise right outside the office door. I glanced down four stories to the street, only emptiness between the pavement and me, then put my right foot on the window sill and stood up on it, getting both feet solidly beneath me on the sill, my right hand still clutching the window's side, helping to balance me.

  Then I let go and thrust both hands before me as I leaped out and to my left, my eyes staring at the platform's rail as I fell toward it. Those three feet seemed a mile, and I forced my mind away from the emptiness around me, stretching my body forward and reaching with curled fingers until I felt them slap against the cold metal. I grabbed the rail and pulled myself forward, and then I was over the rail and onto the platform.

  Four stories below, a flashlight's beam played over the sidewalk, then was aimed up toward me. I could see the shapes of men on the sidewalk as the beam of light moved downward again. Behind me I heard the sound of men at the office, heard the door pushed open as I started up the fir
e escape toward the roof. One flight higher I glanced down and saw light from inside Gordon's office glowing through the venetian blinds.

  I stumbled as fast as I could up the iron steps, my heart thudding, hands starting to get moist with perspiration. It was cops for sure. Those shots had undoubtedly been from police revolvers, and that high, agonized cry had been Petey's, I knew. I knew, too, that by now he was dead. Somebody must have seen the flashing light from the bulbs I'd used and called the cops. Carver would have been especially interested in light from Gordon's office; he'd be around.

  The sixth flight, the seventh. Only a few feet more to the top. Then light sprayed up over me and I stumbled in the sudden glare after darkness. A gun cracked and the slug caromed from metal near me, sang viciously through the air. I leaped up the last steps, pulling at the railing with my hands, and reached the top as more shots roared and clanged against the fire escape. Something plucked at my coat as I rolled over the cement wall edging the roof and dropped three feet to the rooftop. Feet pounded up the iron stairs behind me.

  I yanked the small flashlight from my pocket, snapped it on, and pointed it ahead of me as I ran across the roof in the direction of the alley at the building's rear. There had to be a fire escape in back, there had to be. I reached the edge. This side of the building was bare.

  Across the narrow alley was another building a few feet lower than this one, the metal webbing of a fire escape forming a pattern along its side. The topmost platform was ten feet below me, and too far across the width of the alley for me to jump and reach it.

  The footsteps behind me, at the other side of the roof, clanged on the steps. I jerked out my .38, turned, and fired once at the cement wall. The slug crashed into the wall and the footsteps stopped. For a moment, there was complete silence after the blast of my gun.

  I stood motionless. Then, with my throat dry and my pulse drumming in my temples, I placed my still burning flashlight on the wall directly opposite the enclosed fire escape platform across the alley, the flashlight's beam pointing away from it, back toward the spot where the police would appear. Then I ran across the roof toward the policeman who was, I knew, just below the level of the roof there. As I ran I fired at the wall again, to keep the man from raising his head, fired the last shot in my gun as I stopped and turned. Then I ran back toward the glow of my light atop the wall, ran as fast as I could, not thinking, straining my muscles and with my eyes staring at the spot of light.

  I had to jump. That way there was at least a chance; here there was none. I ran straight at the light, leaped upward to the top of the cement wall as I reached it, my right foot slamming against it six inches from the flash, and then I shoved with my foot against the wall as my body hurtled past it, shoved with every atom of strength in my body to force myself forward and up, up away from that thick blackness beneath me, and the hard alley surface seven stories below.

  I saw the mass of the building looming before me and, as I dropped, it seemed to slide upward and nearer in a blur of eerie and frightening motion, as if the building and not I were moving, as if it were rushing toward me and rising above me. My arms were thrust before me, blocking much of my vision, but I saw the crazy whirl of movement almost upon me. And then I hit the building's wall.

  I hit with a shuddering, bone-cracking jar that forced my arms back against me, drove the breath from my body, and sent blackness flickering inside my brain. But I could still feel, feel the pain leap through my flesh, feel the scrape of rough brick against me, then another jarring impact. My head cracked against something solid and then there was no sensation at all.

  My unconsciousness must have lasted no more than a few seconds, and when I became aware of pain again, I realized I lay on my side, the hard metal ribs of the platform beneath me. My face burned and I could feel the warm blood upon it where the skin had been scraped. The muscles in my left shoulder felt torn, and there was pain in my chest, fire around my ribs, but at least there was pain and the knowledge of it.

  I got my feet beneath me on the platform, and took one step toward the door ahead of me at the edge of the fire escape. The door was locked, but a frosted-glass window filled its upper half. I removed my jacket, wrapped it around my fist, and drove it through the window. Then, resting my weight on the jacket, I pulled my body through. For a second I sprawled on the floor inside; then I got up and ran.

  I ran in a daze, unthinking, and it seemed that I ran through miles of corridors and down endless stairs. I ran through semidarkness, my hands empty, and after what seemed hours, I realized I had lost my gun and that my coat was not on my back or in my hands. The camera in its case still flapped against my side. I could feel blood seeping from the torn skin of my forehead and into my eye. I brushed at it as I ran. Far away, I could hear sirens.

  I stopped on what I thought must be the ground floor, gulping mouthfuls of air into my lungs, heart racing wildly and dizziness clouding my brain. I walked quietly along a hallway and reached a door beyond which I could see the glow of light from the street. The door stood wide open and I stopped a few feet from it, wondering why it wasn't closed and locked. Somewhere behind me in the building, I could hear movement, soft voices.

  I went to the door and pressed my body flat against its side as I looked out onto the street. Some cars were parked at the curb, but I saw no figures in or near them. There was nothing in sight that looked like a police car. I stepped onto the sidewalk, turned right, and walked ahead.

  The air was cool and, after a few steps, my brain had cleared enough so that I knew where I was. This was Chestnut Street; I was walking toward Main. I started to turn, looking back over my shoulder, and saw a car come around the corner almost a block away. I kept going ahead, quickening my step. The car's lights brushed over me as I reached the corner, turned right. Half a block ahead on Main, jutting into the street, was the Red Cross stand, rising six feet above the sidewalk's level. Beneath it, I knew, hidden by the covering cloth, were crisscrossed boards—and emptiness. If I could reach it, crawl under the cloth that bordered its base. I might get a breathing spell, at least. I ran toward it, the camera banging against my side, then slipped the camera case from around my neck and held it in my hand as I sprinted toward the platform.

  Glancing back over my shoulder, I saw the car's headlights swinging right into the street I was on. I forced myself to walk, looking straight ahead. It didn't have to be a prowl car; it might be just a guy driving home. I heard sirens, near me but not from that car behind. Maybe I'd make it, maybe. And then a spotlight fell full upon me.

  I ran. I knew what would happen if I were caught, and even though I knew I couldn't get away now, I ran. The platform was ten yards ahead and I sprinted toward it, started to race past it as tires squealed behind me and the car's siren started to growl. For a brief moment, I was out of the spotlight, and just before it hit me again, I thrust my arm forward and threw the camera and case at the cloth-covered side of the platform. The cloth tore, and the camera rolled out of sight beyond it as I heard the car motor almost upon me. Tires skidded as the car slid to a stop, the spotlight blinded me with its brilliance, and a shot rang out.

  Another shot followed rapidly after the first and I heard the slug bury itself in the platform's wooden front. The next bullet, or the one after it, wouldn't miss me, not if I kept running—but stopping would mean almost the same thing. There wasn't any choice now, though.

  I stopped and turned, thrusting my hands over my head, staring blindly into the glaring light spilling over me. I held my breath, wondering when the next shot would come.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I stepped backward involuntarily until my shoulders hit the platform behind me, squinting my eyes against the brilliance of the police spotlight. I saw a man move in the headlight's glow, a gun in his hand raising toward me. I couldn't recognize his face, but the bulky, broad outline seemed familiar.

  Then I noticed for the first time another car almost upon us. It had come from the opposite direction on Main, a
nd now was stopping on this side of the street, not more than two yards from the first prowl car. The cop with a gun in his hand was centered in the headlights from both cars now and I dimly saw movement as he lowered his gun, then turned toward the second car.

  Three men walked toward me, and in the lead was Sergeant Carver. The three cops walked up to me and a car door slammed; a fourth man approached us. All three officers before me held guns in their hands.

  Carver stopped in front of me, the other two standing slightly behind him. I expected him to swear at me, foul-mouthed and angry, but he didn't. He said softly, "Hello, chum." There was a tight grin on his face and the hand that held his gun was tight around the grip, his finger pressing against the trigger. The barrel was aimed at my middle and automatically I sucked in my stomach muscles.

  Carver said to the others, but looking straight at me, "Let me handle this one. I'll take him in."

  I looked at the other two cops. Their faces were cold, fixed in expressions of distaste and anger. Looking at them, I said as steadily as I could, "He won't take me in. He'll shoot me in the back. He and Blake tried to kill me, murder me, because I knew they were on the take, in with Clyde Baron and—"

  Carver said, "The lying killer," and I tried to duck as he swung his right arm in a swift arc. I rolled as his gun barrel caught me on the cheek and ear, but the blow knocked me down. I was still on my hands and knees when Carver's big foot slammed against my shoulder and kicked me against the boards behind me.

  The two other cops looked down at me as I raised my head. Even filled as I was with hate for Carver, I couldn't blame them much. To them I was a murderer, a copkiller. Or it might be worse than that. They might be of the same stripe as Carver. If they were, I was finished already; if they weren't, I might reach the jail alive.

  One of the men spoke. "Come on, Carver. Let's take him in. This is Main Street, so knock it off."