The Last Express

by Baynard Kendrick

  “One thing sure,” said Spud, “Paul Zarinka was never in here.”

  “I know that.” The captain was confident. “There hasn’t been a breath of fresh air in this place in a decade. What’s around us?”

  Spud placed a hand on Maclain’s shoulder and turned him so he was facing toward Atlantic Avenue. “The tunnel’s directly ahead, but God knows how much wall there is between us and it. There are three piles of empty beer cases in the corner to your front and left. They’re piled four deep, but there’re no bottles in them. Back of you, along the wall to the left, is an old-fashioned bookcase. It sags slightly forward, and looks as if it might turn over. There’s a pie plate on the bottom shelf with some springs in it—and something which looks as if it might have been oil. There’s a door in the wall in the center, at your back. It leads to another room—which I can give you in a minute. To the left of the door, and at your left, at your back, are a hundred or more wine bottles, covered with dust and empty. The stairs going up to the next floor are directly at your left. That’s all.”

  “I’ve got it,” said Maclain. “Now, the other room.” He turned about face, ordered Schnucke forward, and walked assuredly to the door, halting Schnucke just before he entered the other room. Spud preceded him with the flash.

  “Nothing in there.”

  Maclain stepped through the door and said in a whisper, testing for size, “Hello.” Then louder: “Hello! Sounds as if it’s about thirty feet square. It must extend out under the back of the house, judging from the size of the rooms upstairs. Do you see a cellar door?”

  Spud walked to the rear of the basement and looked up. “None,” he said. “Maybe you’ve miscalculated.”

  Maclain went to the back of the basement and made an about turn, standing with his back to the wall; then he paced straight through both rooms to the wall at the front. “I miscalculated in the wrong direction,” he told Spud. “The basement extends six feet out under the street. Put your pick together for me and go on upstairs. I’m going to try and find if there ever was an opening from here to that tunnel.”

  “You’re crazy as hell!” Spud exclaimed indignantly. “Do you think I’m going to leave you down here?”

  “Don’t be silly, Spud.” Maclain’s voice was patient. “Put me upstairs and I’m useless. Anybody can creep in and knock me over the head or shoot me through the back from a window. It may take three hours work here before I’m satisfied. If there’s an opening here, or if there ever was one, I can find it—and you can’t. I’m going over each of these walls with that pick. I can detect instantly if they’ve ever been opened and resealed, or if there’s a hollow behind them.”

  “I’ll go,” said Spud, “but there’re times, Dunc, when you drive me nuts!”

  The captain waited until Spud’s retreating footsteps were silent overhead. Then he took off his coat and shirt, folded them and laid them on the fourth step from the bottom. He had worn the oldest clothes he had and was heedless of dirt. Before starting to work he made a tour of the room, locating the objects Spud had mentioned.

  He started with the front wall, striking it with light staccato blows of the pick. He worked swiftly and with a precision which in 30 minutes had left a geometrical pattern of dots over half the dirty wall.

  From the front center he walked to the other side, carefully removed the piled-up beer crates, and started from the corner out. In 30 minutes more he abandoned the front wall. It was solid and had never been disturbed. He sat down on one of the beer crates and thought it out. Secret passages. He’d forgotten what Di Angelo said. A man building a secret passage from his basement to the abandoned tunnel would never put it in the most obvious place. I’m getting a bit thick, Maclain told himself. He took hold of Schnucke, who had stood close beside him as he worked, and walked to the rear of the basement, then knelt down and felt the floor. It was muddy and damp. He took the pick and, using the handle carefully, began to checkerboard the wet dirt beneath his feet, making squares about a yard in diameter.

  Near the center of the room, on the left-hand side facing front, the pick handle struck what he was seeking—part of an old wooden base, rotten and decayed. Maclain walked to the wall and began prodding overhead with the pick. One of his strokes met no resistance. He reached up and shoved his hand in a round hole about a foot in diameter. He was right! The furnace had stood at one time in the rear of the basement. Where would a man be most likely to locate an entrance to a secret tunnel? In back of a furnace in the room away from the street. How would he run it in a corner house? Decidedly not under the house next door.

  Maclain took up his pick, probing again—working down from the flue. Three feet down, and about four feet from the floor, the resonance sharpened. He stopped and straightened up.

  “Spud,” he called. His own voice answered, coming back from the front room mixed with a new noise following in its train. Faint as the rustle of a mouse in a basket of crumpled cellophane, the noise seeped down from the floor above, ugly and impersonal.

  Rigid, he stood, hardly daring to read its portent. Schnucke moved uneasily beside him and whined.

  Then louder, and with panic creeping through: “Spud!”

  Mockingly, his own voice answered again. And then, for the first time, he heard the rattling of cellophane increased to a miniature devil’s tattoo—a million infinitesimal detonations—peanut brittle breaking in a paper sack.

  Schnucke was close against his leg now, twisting uneasily, but making no move to go without his orders. He fought back the stark dread which entered his heart and, with quick emotion, knelt down beside her, placed an arm around her neck, and pressed his face close against the warmth of her shaggy coat.

  “If you can take it, old girl, I guess I can, too,” Maclain said reassuringly. “That’s fire!”

  Chapter Twenty-Five: THE FIREBUG

  Madonna was a youth as impersonal as the death which he dealt out with such aplomb. Dragged up through the oven of Hell’s Kitchen in an era when law violation was heroic and violators were heroes, he set himself a mark at the precocious age of eight. He was more animal than human, imbued with an edged cunning eugenically instilled in him by a mother of the streets and her protector. His cunning was in no wise impaired by the blunting edge of intelligence, for he lacked intelligence entirely. The lack made him a far-greater menace, for intelligence makes humans think, and thinking sometimes stays the hand.

  The gangs which swarmed and fought over traffic-infested streets, vacant lots and railroad yards, never took him in. Consequently, he lost even the slightly softening influence of gang spirit in the boys’ clubs. Miraculously, he had escaped the police. He was 17 when Repeal threw him out of his nearest approach to honest work—armed guard for a beer truck. At 20, through a process of deserting sinking gangsters like the proverbial rat, and leaving two of them dead in the process of desertion, he still managed to have money, a car, and the fine raiment which his heart so craved.

  His assigned job of trailing a blind man was one filled with zest and much to his liking. The fact that excitement was somewhat dulled by the man’s blindness was compensated by the man’s reputation as a private op. Excitement was a necessity to Madonna, but private ops, along with the police, were plagues.

  Madonna’s coupé was parked two blocks away when Maclain’s sedan, with Cappo at the wheel, left the apartment house. Madonna gave it a good start, struck a match to light a cigarette, and, with the match lighted, showed his perfect teeth and looked at them in the rear-view mirror.

  If any useful quality whatever existed in Madonna, it was his ability as a trailer. He had routed nocturnal beer trucks through every main and isolated byway of New York, Brooklyn and immediate vicinity. As an unobtrusive guard his job had been to cling relentlessly to their winking taillights without his coupé becoming apparent to potential hijackers or the police.

  His technique was flawless as he stuck to the sedan carrying Spud and Maclain. Right-turning ahead of them when they stopped for red light
s, he would circle a block and pick them up again as they came along, checking and guessing their course with experienced second sight, always taking advantage of the sheltering cars which intervened. He had an additional advantage of believing they were headed for Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn, although their exact destination was vague.

  At Borough Hall he watched them alight in front of Joe’s. Some of his jaunty pleasure at his own accomplishment disappeared. By the time he drove the coupé into Remsen Street and parked in front of the darkened brownstone bulk of the T. G. and T., he was seething with what he considered righteous anger.

  About the dirtiest trick he had ever had played on him was still fresh in his mind. It was against all codes to turn loose a dog on a defenseless man. What chance had a fellow to get away from a brute that sailed over fences like a man-eating tiger, hurled himself at your legs, and stood over you with foam-dripping jaws after you were down? He patted the holster under his arm before he left the car to take up the trail, but he was not reassured. A dog had no sense. You could blast at one of them eight times, and it just made them madder. He had plenty of faith in his own shooting, but he was no big-game hunter, and a charging dog was hard to hit.

  Irritably rankling, and with caution doubly renewed, he resumed his duties two blocks in back of the trio. Choosing his doorways with inconspicuous nonchalance, he knew he had not been seen when Spud and Maclain entered the alley back of the yellow house. From the safe shadow of a fence across the alleyway, he watched them disappear inside. He remained motionless where he was for ten minutes or more before walking around the house to look the place over.

  He had completed his duties for the evening safely and with an economy of effort, but Madonna was never satisfied.

  Those who knew him never trusted him entirely. Madonna’s wiliness extended just far enough to make him aware of it. In return, his treacherous, bungling efforts to protect his own ends brought many carefully concocted schemes to premature denouement. Really big money was in sight—a sum too large to fit comfortably in Madonna’s kernel of a mind. Unintentionally he had followed fortune to its storehouse and stood at the entrance to a Midas’s cave. Blocking his way were two men and a dog. With them gone, the Sesame would belong to Madonna, and to him alone.

  He whistled tunelessly through his teeth, hatching great thoughts, until the scheme waxed colossal. With a single brilliant riposte, he could not only vanquish the guardians, but destroy all visible evidence of the entrance. It was the most delectable idea of his entire career, and it promised, in addition to wealth, fierce and fuming excitement.

  Round surprised eyes checked the street and found the moment safe. He sauntered around to the alleyway, hands in pockets—and there became, if possible, less human than before.

  He inserted his slender form through the small space between the boards and the sill of the window with extreme caution. His progress was that of a shedding constrictor, for, through the door connecting the back room with the front, he could see a cigarette’s tip draw fiery lines as it moved from hand to mouth, puffed red, and was lowered again.

  Madonna followed the wall, nursing a blackjack in his hand. As Spud took a last puff and started for the hall to inquire about Maclain’s progress, Madonna’s light, crepe-soled shoes made four quick strides. The blackjack swung in an arc. Madonna caught Spud as he fell, lowered him noiselessly to the floor, then searched his motionless form with light pickpocket fingers.

  Madonna was trained in many nefarious ways; part of his equipment, which he carried with him, was surgical tape. Its uses were legion. They ranged from holding a cut-out pane of glass to rendering a victim impotently helpless.

  With fluttering fingers deft as a surgeon’s, he taped Spud’s wrists and ankles and gagged him securely. The sound of Maclain’s testing pickax was audible from below. The flashlight in Spud’s pocket tempted Madonna greatly, but he considered it incriminating and left it. He was certain Maclain had found an entrance to the tunnel and was digging his way through. Compared to Spud Savage, conquest of the blind man would be easy—and above all things, Madonna wanted to know the location of that entrance. He walked to the door leading to the cellar and stopped. Wrathfully he bit at his thin lips—not only was he afraid to overpower Maclain, but he was afraid to risk a descent to the basement where without Maclain’s knowledge he might flash the light which would tell him the truth. More than that, he grew panicky at the thought of even opening the door. The blind man was no deterrent, but the tearing, slashing fangs of a dog who attacked without warning were not to be faced. He must stick to his original plan. Later, he could return and explore for the entrance unmolested. Much later, he thought grinning mirthlessly, when things have cooled off.

  With no more noise than flickering lights on a wall, he made two trips through the rooms and in and out the window. The alley was cluttered, the rear of the house next door piled high. The pile yielded newspapers and, best of all, excelsior. He started to haul Spud into the hall but was afraid of making a noise. Instead, he piled his train of fuel around the inert form.

  His work was hampered only by his constant listening for the sound of Maclain and the dog. He remedied that by finding a board and wedging it tight between the wall of the hall and the cellar door.

  Satisfied at last, he slipped through the window and stood against the house, looking around. A hot, late wind had sprung up, stirring odors in the alley. He stood up on a small box, leaned over the window sill into the room, and took a package of paper matches from his pocket, bending the pasteboard cover far back so that the matches stood out straight. He held them at arm’s length, struck one, and touched it to the others. They flared up in a flash and a soft rustle. He tossed them into a small pile of excelsior in the corner, slid out from under the boards, and quickly shoved the window cover close in, hoping the nails would hold.

  He took enough time to remove the small box from underneath the window, then cautiously left the alleyway.

  Chapter Twenty-Six: THE CELLAR

  Where frenzy began with most people, lucidity began with Duncan Maclain. Danger inspired him with an abnormal clarity of thought, slicing away unessentials at a stroke, clean and sterile as the cut of a scalpel.

  Let him become confused, let his judgment of distance and his memorized count of steps become turbid with fear, and he was lost. He knew that he and Spud had blundered—underrated cunning adversaries—foolishly walked into needless danger. Like an army at war, relaxed vigilance and stupidity had one price—life. Relentlessly he put aside the thought that Spud must have paid. It was deadening to his faculties when he had double need of them all.

  Fumes from above had already reached him thinly, shouting the grave necessity for speed. Back to the wall under the flue, he faced the center of the room, ordered Schnucke forward, and counted nine paces. A left turn and 27 paces more brought him to the basement wall at the front of the house. He followed it around the right angle to the foot of the rickety stairs. When Schnucke stopped at the bottom he located the first step with the handle of the pickax and ordered her on.

  The door at the top was closed. He paused before it, making lightning judgment of the effect of the updraft when it was opened. Instantly he realized it was a chance he must take and pushed it, only to find it firmly wedged. Hampered by the narrow stairwell, it took two quarter-arc swings of the pick to demolish the panel. He drew back from the heat which belched into his face. For an instant he relinquished the pick. The balance of the ancient panel yielded to the rending strength of his muscular hands and arms. He reached through, searched the door for the impeding object with fingers agile as a spider’s legs.

  Surging with a murderous, lustful rage, he tore loose the wedged board and dropped it to the floor. Two steps ahead was the hall wall, hot to his fingers. He shifted his touch to the wall under the stairs which led to the second floor, turned toward the front of the house and ordered Schnucke forward. She refused to move. Firmly he repeated the command, but Schnucke’s eyes and nose
warned her of the peril Maclain could not see. Flames were licking across the end of the hall, traveling rapidly from treads to risers on the dry, worn stairs leading to the second floor.

  “I’m sorry, old girl,” he said shortly, “I guess I’ll have to go alone.”

  He released his hold on her harness, propped the shattered cellar door open with the pick, and started along the hall. Schnucke barked sharply—something she seldom did. It was nine strides from the cellar door to the foot of the burning stairs. At the fifth stride Maclain took, his fingers, following the wall, touched the base of the banisters shoulder high on the fifth step up. He drew away sharply, scorched with melted varnish.

  Without touch to guide him, he searchingly moved both extended hands in a circle in front of him, took four more strides and turned to the left. Every one of his acute senses shrieked a warning. Seized with a paroxysm of coughing, scarcely able to breathe, he dropped to his hands and knees, heedfully testing the floor about him with soft light pats. He found fire to his right. Unmindful of his burned palm, he bore to the left and crawled on. The floor was blistering on hands and knees, but there was no safety anywhere for Duncan Maclain without Spud.

  Fearful that he had lost the door to the room in bearing to the left, he rose halfway to his knees and groped ahead. Hot shaggy fur pressed against him, shoving him insistently to the right. He stifled his coughing and mopped streaming tears with a shielding handkerchief.

  “Your trainer said you’d go through hell for a man, Schnucke,” Maclain gasped, “but I never thought I’d have to ask you to do it. Where’s Spud, Schnucke? We’ve got to find him!”

  Slowly she moved ahead, shifting him cautiously to the right and then to the left. His eyebrows and hair were singed when she stopped five feet ahead, but his hand touched cloth.