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Roy Glashan's Library
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Clues Detective Stories, December 1939, with "Hang Me Today"
Detective Story Annual, 1941, with "Hang Me Today"
"By God, I'll do anything—anything—to save my brother from the gallows! He shall not die tomorrow. I'll sacrifice the life of anyone if necessary—even my own. And if I must, I'll even sacrifice your life, Laura Payne, but I'll free my brother!" Did he make good his threat?
GILLIAN GALE arrived in Summit City on a Sunday morning, via a box-car. He bought the Sunday papers, as well as a guide map of the city, and went down to the South Side, where he took a room for fifty cents in a flea-infested flophouse.
He did not go out all day, not even to eat. He read the local papers carefully, and studied the map, noting the location of the county jail, the courthouse, the city hall, the morgue, and of the residences of all the higher officials of Summit City as disclosed by the telephone directory.
At nightfall he went out.
He made one telephone call from the pay station in the corner cigar store. A girl's voice answered.
"Miss Payne?" he asked. "Miss Laura Payne?"
"Yes." There was a note of tense expectancy in her voice.
Gillian Gale kept his lips close to the mouthpiece. "This is the party you have been expecting."
"Oh ... yes. I ... was afraid you weren't coming any more. There's so little time left. He goes ... to the gallows ... Tuesday—"
"I know all that," he said harshly, "And be careful what you say over the phone. Have you made sure about your wire—sure it isn't tapped?"
"Quite sure! I did everything you ordered in your letter. I'm at your disposal for anything you want to do, now."
"All right. What I'm going to ask you to do tonight is very dangerous. It may get you in trouble."
"I don't care. I'll do it!"
"You may be killed."
"I still don't care."
"All right. Your car is ready?"
"Yes!"
"Then drive down to the corner of South Street and First Avenue. Park on First Avenue, just around the corner from Manfredo's Bar. You know where Manfredo's Bar is?"
"Yes."
"Park your car facing west. Keep the motor running. You can get there in fifteen minutes, can't you?"
"Yes."
"Remain there for a half-hour. If nothing happens, then go home, and come again tomorrow night at the same time."
"I'll surely be there," she said. "All right then. Good-by." He hung up and went out in the street, mingling inconspicuously with the down-at-heels denizens of the South Side.
Superficially, he looked no different from the average run of the South Side bums. His clothes were old and worn, he lacked a shave, and his hair was matted. But there was a subtle something in the way he carried himself—his effortless stride and the lithe way in which he swung from the hips when turning—which might have marked him to a keen observer. Besides that there was a grimness to his eyes and a set to his lips which did not fit a South Side bum.
HE walked slowly down South Street until he came to Manfredo's Bar. He went in, and his dark, intense eyes made a quick survey of the place. They rested only an instant upon two men who sat at a table, drinking whiskey. They were neatly dressed, but they were of a type—hard-eyed, dangerous. They were talking in low tones to each other.
Gillian Gale's eyes flickered past them, and he saw that they were scrutinizing him carefully. He stepped up to the bar. Three men were standing there, drinking beer. One of them was saying in a loud voice: "Well, Roger Gale takes the long walk Tuesday. He should have known better than to buck Alonzo Firmin."
The speaker stopped abruptly as his neighbor nudged him, jerking his head in Gale's direction. He dropped his voice and finished whatever he was saying in a whisper.
The bartender came over and wiped the counter in front of Gale. "What'll it be?" he asked gruffly.
"Rye," said Gale, "with a beer chaser."
The bartender poured whiskey from a bottle labeled: "Manfredo's Private Stock."
But before pushing it over to Gale he said: "That's a quarter."
Gale fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a coin. He dropped it on the counter, and only then did the bartender give him the drink. Gale put it to his lips, tasted it. Then he said, "Hey, Mulligan!"
The bartender turned from the cash register, where he had been about to ring up the sale. He scowled. "My name ain't Mulligan. What you want?"
"Whiskey," said Gale. "I asked you for whiskey. Not for slops."
The three men at the bar stopped talking suddenly. The bartender grew red in the face.
"That's good enough for a bum like you!"
"It's not good enough," said Gale. "Try it yourself."
He lifted up the whiskey glass and sent the contents flipping into the bartender's face. The man sputtered and wiped the liquid off with the back of his sleeve.
"You lousy bum!" he snarled, reaching under the bar. His hand came out with a heavy bung-starter. "I'll show you what."
That was all he had a chance to say, because Gillian Gale had the bottle of "Manfredo's Private Stock" gripped in his hand by the neck. He reached over the counter and hit the bartender on the head with the bottle. He didn't bring it down with enough force to smash the bottle. But it was enough to knock the bartender out. The man's jaw slipped open, his eyes turned up, and he gently slid down to the floor behind the bar.
The three beer drinkers swung around toward Gale. One of them yelled, "Get this bum, guys—"
Gillian Gale smiled thinly. He swung the whiskey bottle in a backhanded blow that caught the fellow in the face, sending him back into the others.
Gale stood straight by the bar, the bottle in his left hand, grinning at them. The door at the rear came open, and the stout Manfredo, proprietor of the place, rushed into the room. His little eyes, peering from barricades of flesh, took in the situation at a glance.
"Police!" he yelped, and pulled a whistle from his pocket.
But one of the two hard-eyed men at the table said softly: "Never mind, Manfredo. We'll handle this punk for y'u!"
The man whom Gale had hit in the face was dabbing blood from his nose. "Take him, Waxey!" he growled to the man at the table. "Take the lousy bum apart!"
Waxey was smiling. "It's too bad, bum," he said to Gale. "Y'u just started somethin' in the wrong place." He gave a glance at his partner at the table. "O. K., Kip."
They both got up at the same time, moving smoothly and efficiently. Their hands slid up to their shoulders. And then they both froze in that position.
Their eyes grew wide and incredulous. Because somehow, almost magically, a gun appeared in Gillian Gale's hand. It was a heavy automatic, fiat and black. The room became so silent that the snick of the safety catch sounded loud and clear.
"This," Gillian Gale said softly, "is a holdup."
"A holdup!" Manfredo's breath came in a wheeze. The police whistle rose to his lips.
Gale's gun veered toward him. "Go on. Manfredo," he urged. "Go on and blow it."
There was a strange glitter in his eyes, and Manfredo saw it. He threw the whistle away convulsively. "No, no—"
"That's good," said Gale. His eyes swept from the three men huddled at the bar, over to Kip and Waxey at the table. Their hands seemed to be permanently frozen in position close to their neckties.
"Relax, boys." he said to them. "Or would you like to pull those gats?"
Waxey was looking at him queerly. "No, pal. This is all your show."
Slowly he let his hand drop to his side. Kip did the same.
GILLIAN GALE put one leg up on the bar, and vaulted it. For an instant, his back was to Kip and Waxey.
He landed facing them all. Nobody had moved. He stepped over the lax bartender, and punched the "No Sale" key on the cash register. The drawee snapped open. Gale reached in and took the twenties first, then the tens, then the fives and the ones. He left the change. Before putting the money in his pocket, he counted it.
"Forty-six dollars!" he said disgustedly. "You'll have to do better than this, Manfredo."
He came around the bar and up behind the fat proprietor. He pushed the muzzle of the automatic in Manfredo's spine and thrust a hand in the proprietor's right-hand trousers pocket. Only coins jingled there. He tried the left-hand pocket and found nothing but keys. All the time he kept looking at Kip and Waxey, waiting for them to make a move. But they stood very quiet. Waxey was smiling a little.
Gale reached around to Manfredo's breast pocket and found a wallet.
He flipped the wallet open and counted the money. There were a lot of hundreds, some fifties, and a thick batch of tens. The wallet bulged. It was fat, just like its owner.
"Eighteen hundred." said Gale. "That's nice!" He pocketed the wallet.
"Look, mister," said Manfredo. "Leave me the wallet. I got some private papers in there."
"I'll mail them back to you, sometime," Gale told him.
He stepped away from Manfredo and faced the others. "You guys next," he said to the three beer drinkers at the bar.
The one he had hit in the face was the first. His pockets yielded ninety dollars. The other two had fifteen and three, respectively. They were cowed, seeing that Kip and Waxey were taking it on the chin.
Gillian Gale shoved the loot in his pocket. Then he turned to Kip and Waxey.
"All right, boys. It's your turn."
Waxey's face lost its smile. "Don't be a hog, pal." he said. "Y'u got enough, there. Don't you realize when you're well off?"
Gale didn't say anything. He walked over to the table, with the gun low at his side.
"Turn around, both of you."
Waxey gave him a malignant look. "In case you're a stranger in town, you should know that I'm Waxey Klebber. This is my friend. Kip Man-son. Ever heard of us?"
Gale's face was stiff and noncommittal. "Yes," he said. "I've heard of you."
"Then y'u know we ain't the kind to take this layin' down. We got a reputation—"
"Do you turn around?" Gale asked tonelessly. "Or do I plug you?"
Waxey looked into his eyes for a second, then shrugged. Slowly he turned around.
"Come on, Kip. Let's give him his way. We'll get our lick later."
Kip threw a murderous glance at Gale and turned. Gale prodded them, and they raised their hands.
He got eight hundred dollars from Waxey, and six hundred from Kip.
While he went through their pockets he stood in such a way that he could see the other four men, as well as the front entrance. He found the guns on Kip and Waxey, both in shoulder holsters. He took them, too.
"Thanks for the contributions, boys," he said. "I'll be back sometime. And remember to serve better whiskey, Manfredo."
He backed out to the door.
Waxey and Kip followed him with deadly looks. "Better not come back for fifty years, bo," said Waxey. "What you just done ain't healthy."
Gale said nothing. He stepped out into the night and pocketed the gun. He did not run away. Instead, he stood still, in the shadows just outside the barroom. In a moment he heard the feet of the men inside, making a concerted rush for the door. The door came open. Gale took out his automatic and fired once, into the air. The rush stopped. They all tumbled back inside,
GALE turned and walked swiftly away. He rounded the corner into First Avenue and saw a small black sedan. Behind him, a police whistle was shrilling. Manfredo was doing his stuff. Somewhere, a cop's heavy feet were pounding the pavement in staccato time as he ran to investigate the revolver shot.
Gale did not hurry. He reached the sedan, and the door was opened from within.
A slim girl was at the wheel. She had short, bobbed auburn hair. Her face was pert, small-featured, vibrant with life—and fear. Her eyes were wide and round. Her hand at her breast, she stared, fascinated, at Gale's unshaven face and matted hair.
He got in beside her and shut the door. A police squad car came tearing up First Avenue, and swung into South Street on screeching tires. But Gale paid it no attention. He did not bother to look at the girl. He began to pull the loot of his holdup out of his pockets.
The girl watched him tensely. "You ... you can't be Gillian Gale!" she whispered.
He laughed. "I can, and I am." He was riffling through Manfredo's wallet, and he whistled when he pulled some folded papers out of a side pocket. One of the papers was a note for twenty thousand dollars, payable to Vincent Manfredo, on demand. It was signed: "Carter Orth."
He showed the girl the note. "Isn't Carter Orth a city commissioner?"
She nodded. "He was elected last fall. There are three commissioners. Orth has charge of the police department. John Bolton, the veteran chief of police, has very little to say since Orth was elected."
Gillian Gale nodded. "Well, this shows where part of Orth's campaign funds came from."
He folded the other papers and thrust them back in the wallet. Then he dumped all the money on the seat between them, as well as the two guns be had taken from Waxey and Kip. He put his own automatic down beside them.
"Take this stuff and hide it where you're absolutely sure it can't be found," he said. "Don't handle the guns by the butts. I want the fingerprints intact. Take the money and hire the best lawyer in the State. There's enough there to get the best. All I want is a stay of execution."
She was biting her lip as she put everything away in the dashboard compartment and locked it. "You robbed Manfredo's Bar to get this?"
"What of it?"
"They might have killed you."
Gillian Gale's dark eyes were bright and hard. Police sirens were screaming in the nearby streets, and men were shouting and running. He seemed to hear none of all this, to be bothered by it not at all—though it was all part of the search for him.
"Roger Gale is my brother," he said slowly. "Tuesday morning he goes to the gallows for murder. I have one full day and two nights in which to spring the jaws of the trap he's in." Gillian Gale's voice became deeper, and it seemed to be imbued with an undertone of savagery that frightened her. "Laura Payne, there's no risk I wouldn't take—nothing I'd hesitate to do. If necessary, I'll fake this city apart. If necessary, I'll sacrifice anyone's life—yours included!"
Laura Payne was trembling. But she met his eyes. "I'm not afraid. Gillian Gale. I ... I love Roger. You can't frighten me. If it's my life you need to save him, take it!"
There was a spark of admiration in his glance. "Roger is very lucky," he said softly. His hand went out for a moment, and almost touched hers. But he swiftly withdrew it, and the mask of hardness once more covered him.
"Roger has been convicted of murdering your own father. Edmond Payne," he said harshly. "What makes you so sure he's innocent?"
"Because," she told him, her breath coming fast, "Roger was framed. He and dad were partners—Payne & Gale Construction Co. They bid eight million dollars for the Summit River Bridge job, and they were low. They were awarded the contract. But they had been warned not to bid for it by Alonzo Firmin. Firmin is the president of the city council. He's also in the construction business, and no one has ever dared to try to outbid him on a job. Firmin owns Summit City. He owns the Summit City Sun, the only newspaper, and he owns one of the two banks. He bore down on dad and Roger when they underbid him on the bridge job, and almost ruined them financially. Then, when he saw that they wouldn't withdraw the bid, he murdered dad and framed Roger for it."
"Didn't you tell me in your letter that the bullet in your father's body came from Roger's gun?"
"Yes! But I'm sure they managed it somehow. Roger had a drink in the City Club; then he went upstairs to one of the members' lounges to meet dad. The drink must have been drugged, because the next thing he remembers, he was in jail, charged with the murder. He hadn't even been carrying his gun, but the police claimed they found it on him. And now, since Roger's been in jail, the business has gone to pot. Roger has no money left. I didn't even have enough to send your fare."
Gale glanced out of the window and saw more squad cars pulling into the street. Any minute now, they would stop to investigate this coupe.
"Are all the cops crooked in this town?" he asked her.
"Not the rank and file. They're average, honest men. But Alonzo Firmin controls the department through Commissioner Orth, and Orth has brought in pretty bad men for the key jobs. They even have a special squad of thugs who aren't even appointed police, but who have the run of the town. They're often deputized when there's something vicious to do, and then they fade away to their hideouts. This last week. Summit City has been full of them."
"All right," said Gillian Gale. "I've got the picture. All that there is to do is get Roger free."
"And," she added in a low voice, "find the man who murdered dad." Suddenly she smiled. "Roger has often talked about you. He said you were a hard man and that there was no mercy in you for anyone. He said he was the only one you cared for. He's often tried to get you to give up adventuring and fighting and come back to America."
She put a hand on his arm and looked up at him. "Somehow, I knew you'd come when you heard Roger was in trouble."
Gillian Gale nodded. "Roger is older than I am by ten years. He brought me up. And I've come back to pay my debt to him. Just remember, Laura Payne, that you can't trust me. I may throw you to the wolves to save Roger."
"Understood!" She smiled. "But what now? You've just done a thing that makes you a hunted man. The police are all over the neighborhood. There's a cordon around it by this time. How will we get out of the district?"
"We're not getting out." he told her. "You are."
He opened the door, stepped out quickly, and started to walk away.
"Wait!" she called. "You ... you'll be caught if—"
Momentarily, she glimpsed his face as he turned back to her. It was grim, with a dreadful sort of bleakness.
"I aim to be caught." he told her. "Now get going!"
She started to say something further, but she stopped, almost frightened by what she saw in his eyes. She gulped.
"All right. But please—I hope you know what you're doing. If anything happened to you, there'd be nothing between Roger and the gallows."
He laughed. Then suddenly he turned on his heel and went around the corner back to Manfredo's Bar.
GALE almost bumped into a uniformed cop who was coming around the corner, fast, with Kip Manson. Kip was saying, "He went this way, Swenson—"
Kip broke off, and his eyes almost popped. Then his lips twisted into a wide, blissful smile. "And they say there ain't no Santa Claus!" He grabbed Gale by the arm. "This is him, Swenson!"
Swenson had his gun out. He looked incredulous. "Don't tell me—The guy wouldn't be such a sap as to come back."
"But I tell y'u it's him. Bring him back there. All the boys will identify him."
Swenson looked at Gale. "Come on, bo. You're under arrest."
"What for?" asked Gale.
"Quit stallin'!" Kip snarled. "I figured y'u for a wise guy. Now I see y'u're a sucker. Boy, wait'll we get workin' on y'u! This is for practice!"
He let fly with a short uppercut to Gale's chin. Gale's head moved back a fraction of an inch, and Kip's fist missed by a hair. Gale grinned and drove a hard one to Kip's stomach. The gunman doubled up in agony.
"Quit it!" growled Swenson.
Gale shrugged. "Well, should I let him smack me?"
Kip had straightened out. His face was twisted in a vicious mask. "Boy, am I gonna cut y'u to ribbons—"
"Nix!" said Swenson. "You lay off him. You can't smack him around while he's my prisoner." He pushed Kip out of the way and took Gale by the arm.
"Come on!"
There was a crowd in front of Manfredo's Bar. Two radio cars and a squad car were at the curb. A police captain was getting out of the squad car.
"I got a prisoner here, Captain Slocum," Swenson said doubtfully. "Kip Manson, here, says he's the guy that held them up. But it don't hardly seem possible."
"Nobody asked you for an opinion!" Captain Slocum barked. He swung to Kip and jerked a thumb at Gale. "This the man?"
"Yeah," said Kip. "I'm sure!"
Waxey Klebber and the fat Manfredo tame over from the doorway of the saloon.
"That's him!" yelped Manfredo. "That's the guy that got my wallet!"
Waxey Klebber's eyes were glittering. "Some guys are awful dumb!" he grinned. "First he goes an' sticks up a tough joint like Manfredo's. Then he marches right back an' asks for a pinch!"
Captain Slocum grunted. "Well, I guess that clinches it. This is the guy." He pushed Swenson out of the way, and grabbed Gale's coat in one big paw. He was a big man, with a close-shaven, steel-gray jaw and a thin line of a mouth. He held on to Gale's coat with his left hand, and bunched his right into a fist.
"So you're a stick-up artist, huh?" He swung the fist straight at Gale's face.
Gale kicked him in the shin and let the whole weight of his body sag against the grip on his coat.
Slocum grunted with the pain of the kick in the shin. His fist went harmlessly over Gale's head, and he went forward with the impetus of the blow, almost losing his balance.
Kip Manson stepped swiftly in from behind and smashed Gale behind the ear. Then he and Waxey grabbed Gale by the arms and held him while Slocum recovered his balance.
Slocum's face was red with rage. "Hold the dirty so-and-so!" he grated.
Kip and Waxey held on tight to Gale's arms. Slocum swung again. This time. Gale couldn't dodge, and the captain couldn't miss. Slocum's fist smashed into Gale's face. Gale was able to twist his head sideways just a little, so that the blow struck him on the side instead of square. A gash appeared on his right cheek, and a thin trickle of blood seeped from it.
Gale's eyes burned. "I'll remember that, Slocum."
"You'll remember a lot more before we're through with you!" Slocum growled. He motioned to two plain-clothes men at the curb. "In the car with him."
The two detectives replaced Kip and Waxey at Gale's side, and started to lead him toward the car. They were not as rough as Slocum. In fact, one of them looked almost with pity at Gale.
As they were about to step into the squad car, Manfredo said, "Hey—wait!"
He took Captain Slocum by the arm and led him aside, whispered urgently into his ear. Slocum's eyebrows went up.
He called Kip and Waxey over, and spoke to them in a low voice. Waxey answered him in a whisper, but he spoke very earnestly.
"All right," said Slocum. "We can't book him yet." He raised his voice to the two detectives. "Take the prisoner inside. I want to question him."
UNIFORMED cops were dispersing the crowd as Gale was led inside. The three beer drinkers were at the bar, and the one whom Gale had hit in the face with the bottle uttered a yell and came at him.
Slocum only laughed and watched. But the two detectives who had Gale by the arms maneuvered so that the man couldn't get at their prisoner.
"Thanks," Gale murmured.
Neither of the plain-clothes men acknowledged his expression of gratitude. They both looked guiltily over at Slocum, who frowned at them, but said nothing. They followed Manfredo into the back room. Kip and Waxey came in, too.
Slocum took his revolver out and held it with his finger around the trigger. He looked at the plain-clothes men. "Wait outside!" he ordered.
The detectives saluted and went out, closing the door after them.
Slocum nodded. "O. K. Fan him!"
He lifted up the gun and covered Gale, while Kip and Waxey went through his pockets. They searched him thoroughly, but found only nine dollars in dirty singles and forty cents in change. There was nothing else on him.
The two gunmen looked blankly at Manfredo, who began to wipe sweat from his forehead. "My wallet!" he muttered. "I got to get my wallet back!"
"An' my gun!" said Waxey. "I need that gun, bad!"
Slocum hefted his revolver. "You sure this is the guy that held you up?"
"Positive!" exploded Manfredo. "And he was only free about five minutes. He couldn't have got rid of it all."
Slocum nodded. "I get it. Leave it to me." He came up close to Gale, and lifted the gun. "Where did you ditch the stuff?" he asked.
"What stuff?" Gale countered.
Slocum brought the gun down in a swift slash. The muzzle raked Gale's cheek in a painful furrow.
"I asked you where you ditched the stuff!" Slocum repeated.
Gale stood straight, meeting Slocum's eyes. "Go to hell." he said.
"A pleasure!" said Slocum, and he struck again with the gun muzzle.
It opened a wide gash in the side of Gale's face. Blood warmed his cheek and neck. He swung with his right, but Kip and Waxey jumped him, pinning his arms.
"You're gonna talk." Slocum told him. "You're gonna talk, boy, or you'll never leave this room alive!"
Gale's dark eyes burned at him with a fearful intensity.
"Go ahead," he said in a tight voice. "I can take everything you can dish out."
"By heavens," Slocum said thoughtfully, "I believe you can. You're no bum. I bet you're big time from the big town. You're no cheap crook. I bet you're wanted some place for plenty. What's your name?"
"Gill—John Gill."
"Gill, eh? Where from—New York?"
Gillian Gale shrugged. "From here and there."
Slocum grunted. "A big timer, all right. And he has a tight mouth."
He looked keenly at Gale. "What's your game? What's the idea of coming into Summit City and holding up the toughest joint in town? How come you pick Kip and Waxey and Manfredo?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," said Gale. "Do you want me to plead guilty to robbery? You didn't even find a gun on me."
"Sure not! You had an accomplice. You met him right near here and ditched the stuff with him. He's probably out of town by this time. But you've been identified by six men. Their testimony will send you up for life. Be smart! You can get a break for yourself by turning back Manfredo's wallet and Waxey's gun. You can keep all the dough. We'll let you get out of town."
Gillian Gale raised his eyebrows. "Manfredo wants the wallet pretty bad. And Waxey wants his gun. I wonder why. Maybe Waxey killed someone with that gun and was sap enough to keep it with him. I've known killers to do that—especially in a town where they know they won't be picked up by the cops."
He felt Waxey stiffen alongside him. "Listen, cap," the dapper gunman begged of Slocum. "Go to work on this baby for real. He's a menace."
"All right." said Slocum. "We'll take him downtown, but we won't book him. When I get him alone in the fish bowl. I'll take him apart. He'll spill his guts."
Manfredo tugged doubtfully at his ear. "You sure that's the right thing to do? You can't afford to slip up. We got to get the wallet back."
"An' my gun!" Waxey snarled. "Don't forget my gun!"
"We'll get it all back!" Slocum said grimly. "He'll tell us just where to find it. We've broke tougher guys than him in the fish bowl!"
THE room was aswirl with cigarette smoke.
Gillian Gale was stripped to the waist. He was seated in a chair between the door and the window. His right wrist was manacled to the radiator, his left to the doorknob, and the distance between door and radiator was such that his arms were stretched almost taut.
There was no hot spotlight beating down on him, as one sees in the movies. There were no relays of detectives pounding questions at him. There were just Captain Slocum and Waxey and Kip. They all had their coats off, and they were sweating with the heat.
They had a fourteen-inch length of rubber hose, and they were taking turns at pounding Gale with it. They didn't touch his face. They kept pounding at the same spot under his heart, all the time. They asked no questions; they just kept hitting.
It was Waxey's turn, and Kip and Slocum were sitting and watching.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
"Damn you," said Waxey, "when are you gonna give in?"
Gillian Gale's face was white and set. Only his eyes burned.
"When"—thump—"are you gonna"—thump—"give in?"
"Damn you," said Waxey. "When"—thump—"are you gonna"—thump—"give in?"
Gillian Gale showed his teeth in a death's-head grin. There was a great red welt on his body, just under the heart. His breath was coming spasmodically.
He lifted himself off the chair by the handcuffs on his wrists and kicked feebly at Waxey's face. The kick was slow, and Waxey ducked it easily.
"Gawd!" he said. "The guy ain't human. Look—he's out on his feet, an' he's still fightin'!"
He threw the rubber hose away. "He ain't human, I tell y'u!"
Captain Slocum got up and slapped one fist into another. "I never saw anyone who could take it like that. All night—and he's still holding on!"
There was a faint trickle of dawn coming in through the crack between the shade and the wall.
Slocum came over and took a handful of Gale's matted hair in his fist, and yanked his head up. Then he slapped him hard with his free hand, three times, quick.
Gale's eyes snapped open, and he grinned.
Slocum bent down so that his eyes were on a level with Gale's. "You're gonna talk, Gill. You hear me? You're gonna talk!"
Gale forced his eyes to stay open. He looked at Slocum for a second, and then he spat straight into the police captain's face.
Slocum jumped away and wiped his face with his hand. Then he came in and smashed a right and a left to Gale's unprotected face. They were hard blows, and Gale's head snapped back under them. Then he slumped over sideways and hung by the handcuffs.
"Damn him! Damn him! Damn him!" shouted Waxey. "He's got to give up my gun!"
There was a quick rap at the door. Someone said: "Let me in, Slocum. This is Commissioner Orth."
The police captain went and unlocked the door.
Orth was a tall man, with graying hair at the temples. His eyes were tired-looking, and his clothes were a little rumpled, as if he had slept in them all night.
He glanced nervously at the slumped figure of Gillian Gale, then at Captain Slocum. "Well?" he demanded. "Did you break him down?"
"Hell, no. He's made of iron. We couldn't do a thing with him. By this time his pal could be out of the State with the guns and the wallet."
Orth bit his lip. "Perhaps we'd better try him another way. Take him out of here, book him, and put him in a cell. Get him a doctor and call me when he's conscious."
"I'm conscious now," said Gillian Gale suddenly. "You can talk to me right now, commissioner."
ORTH seemed to freeze all over at the sound of Gale's voice. Slocum became red in the face, and Waxey cursed under his breath.
"Hell!" said Kip. "The guy's a devil. He absolutely ain't human!"
Gale was sitting erect once more, with a twisted smile and a hot gleam in his eyes. "Come on, boys," he said, looking at Slocum and Waxey and Kip. "Why don't you do your stuff? Don't tell me you're worn out!"
Commissioner Orth cleared his throat. "I'm sorry about all this. Gill. It would never have happened if I had known about it." He scowled at Slocum. "Release that man at once!"
Slocum said. "All right, commissioner." with mock humility, and took keys out of his pocket. He opened the handcuff link from the radiator, then went over and took the cuff off the doorknob. For the moment. Gale was left sitting there with links dangling from both his wrists.
He came up to his feet lithely and effortlessly, just as if he had not been taking a beating all night. His left fist flicked out and caught Slocum on the side of the jaw. It was a well-aimed blow, but there wasn't much power behind it. However, it took Slocum by surprise, and he raised an arm to ward it off.
Gale's lips were set in a tight grin. He brought his right arm around in a terrific swing, but he didn't try to hit with his fist. Instead, he swept his arm past Slocum's head, and the dangling link of the handcuff swiped across the captain's nose and cut it to the bone. Before Slocum could recover. Gale brought his arm up again, in a backhanded sweep, and once more the hanging link cut into Slocum's face, slicing the left cheek open.
But that was all the spark left in Gillian Gale. He just keeled over and lay down on the floor, dead to the world.
Slocum was pawing blindly at his wounded face and broken nose, and grunting with pain, and Waxey and Kip were trying to help him.
Commissioner Orth spared not a glance for them. He stood and looked down at Gillian Gale, and his eyes flickered with admiration.
"What a man!" he murmured.
HOURS seemed to pass before Gale regained consciousness. He stirred but did not open his eyes. There was a deep, throbbing agony all through the left side of his body. And there was a dull, insistent pain under his heart.
He tried to turn over, and found his left wrist was handcuffed to something.
"Take it easy, Gill," said a voice.
He opened his eyes.
He was on a cot in a cell. His wrist was cuffed to the iron frame of the cot.
Commissioner Carter Orth was sitting on the stool alongside him.
"Take it easy. Gill." Orth repeated. "The doctor says you're all right. He says you have the constitution of an ox."
Gillian Gale veiled his eyes. "Hello, Orth." he said. He looked down at his cuffed wrist. "Why the bracelet? Are you afraid I'll walk off with the jail?"
Orth smiled uncomfortably. "They were afraid you might become violent while I was in here talking to you."
"Oh," said Gale. "So you're talking to me!"
Orth's thin face tightened. "Now don't take that tone, Gill. I'm here to help you, I'm sorry Captain Slocum gave you the works. He should have realized you weren't the kind of man to handle like that."
"O.K." said Gillian Gale. "Your apology is accepted. When do I leave this stinking joint?"
Orth shook his head. "You have nothing to gain by being tough, Gill. I'm here to make a deal with you."
"Well?"
"I want Manfredo's wallet, with all the papers intact. I want Waxey Klebber's gun."
Gale bared his teeth in a death's-head grin. "What'll you pay?"
"Turn them over to me. Gill, and I'll arrange for you to get out of this with a whole skin."
"To hell with you!" said Gale.
"You don't understand." Orth told him. "You'll hang if you don't play ball with me."
"Hang?" Gale raised his eyebrows. "Since when do they hang you for robbery in this State?"
"It's not robbery, Gil!" Commissioner Orth said slowly. "It's murder!"
Gale stiffened. "You're crazy!"
"Not crazy. Gil. The bartender that you conked is dead. And your prints are on the bottle."
"Nuts!" said Gale. "I hit him easy."
Orth smiled. "That's what you say." He held out a copy of the Summit City Sun, "Take a look."
The headline stared Gale in the face:
BARTENDER KILLED IN ROBBERY!
He read quickly down the column, and his lips tightened. "So somebody hit that bartender, again, and killed him. You made sure you'd have a good murder charge to hold me on. Who killed him—Slocum or Waxey—or you?"
"For all practical purposes." Orth said softly, "you killed him."
"All right," Gillian Gale rapped. "So you have me framed. You can hang me. But I have Manfredo's wallet, with papers which incriminate you and maybe plenty of others. Also, I have Waxey's gun, which may send him to the gallows. So it's stalemate."
"You still refuse to do business with me?"
"I'll do business—but not with you. Get the boss of this town. I'll talk to him."
"I'm the boss. Gill."
"You lie!"
Orth became red in the face and got up from the stool. "Damn you, you're in no position to talk to me like that. We can railroad you through the courts and have you hung in twenty-four hours."
Gale swung his feet over the side of the cot. "Get out," he said.
Gale swung his feet over the side of the cot and faced Orth. "Get out," he said.
"You mean that. Gill? Do you realize you're digging your own grave?"
"Get out!"
Orth looked puzzled and angry. He put out a band to rattle the bars to call the jailer. Suddenly he turned around. He weakened.
"Listen, Gill. If I get you an interview with the big boss, will you talk nice to him?"
Gillian Gale grinned. "I'll talk as nice to him as he talks to me."
"Well," Orth said doubtfully, "I'll see what I can do."
He shook the bars, and the jailer came and let him out. A guard came and stood with a hand on his revolver while the jailer took off the handcuff from Gale's wrist. Then they closed the door and left him.
BARELY a half-hour elapsed before he heard footsteps once more along the cell tier. He got to his feet and stood waiting.
This time it was Captain Slocum who accompanied the jailer and the guard.
Gale's eyes glinted when he saw Slocum's face. The police captain's nose was bandaged across the bridge, and there was a long strip of court plaster diagonally across his left cheek from cheekbone to jawbone. He stood looking in at Gale in murderous silence while the cell door was opened.
"Come on, you!" he said. "There's a visitor to see you."
Gale came out of the cell, and the jailer slipped a pair of handcuffs on him. Slocum got on his right side, the guard on his left. The jailer led the way down the cell tier.
Gillian Gale saw that this tier consisted only of nine cells. There was a heavy steel door at the far end and a smaller one opposite. He raised his eyebrows.
"Pretty exclusive place you've got here," he said to Slocum. "I thought your jail was bigger."
"It's bigger, all right," Slocum said, fingering the bandage on his nose. "This tier is just for high-class guys like you. This is Murderer's Row. That little door at the other end is the one you go through on the way to the gallows. And believe me, guy, I'll be there watching when you drop through the trapdoor!"
"I see," said Gale. He glanced quickly at Slocum. "Was it you that conked the bartender the second time?"
Slocum only grunted. "The night before you hang," he whispered, "I'm coming in your cell for a couple of hours—and I'll bring Fanny along. Did you ever meet Fanny? Take a look at her." He brought his left hand partly out of his pocket, exposing part of a blackjack. "You won't feel very good when you walk up on the platform the next morning—after Fanny and I get through with you."
Gale said nothing. They were almost at the end of the tier, passing the last cell in the row.
Suddenly, Gillian Gale stopped short. His eyes, dark and burning, were fixed on the prisoner in that last cell.
The prisoner was a tall man, almost as tall as Gale. He was standing at the barred door, watching them pass. And a quick flicker of recognition stirred in his eyes. Then he swiftly veiled them.
Gillian Gale nodded almost imperceptibly and kept on walking. The two prisoners did not exchange a word. But Captain Slocum laughed loudly.
"That's Roger Gale," he told Gill. "Another guy that's slated to swing. Maybe we can hustle your case through, so you can hang with him tomorrow."
Gillian Gale raised his voice so that what he said carried back to his brother in the condemned cell. "A lot of things are going to happen between today and tomorrow, Slocum. Maybe neither of us will swing!"
They passed through the big door and out of Murderer's Row. Now they were in the prison proper. The jailer clanged the door shut after them and remained behind. Slocum and the guard pushed Gale along. This was the main floor of the prison. Above them there was a balcony running completely around the inside of the building, with cell tiers on all four sides.
They passed a door marked "Visitor's Room." But Slocum kept going.
"I thought you said I had a visitor," Gale said.
"This is a special visitor," Slocum snapped queerly.
"Firmin?" asked Gale.
Slocum scowled.
They turned out of the bleak main hall into a corridor and stopped before another door labeled "Office of the Warden."
Down at the end of the hall there was a guard with an automatic rifle, stationed near a side exit. Slocum pushed open the door of the warden's office and barked: "In there!"
He gave Gale a shove, sent him into the room and slammed the door shut without going in.
GALE recovered his balance and stood straight, looking unwinkingly at the huge, powerfully built man standing in front of the desk. This man was almost two inches taller than Gillian Gale, and his shoulders were wider. His jaw was hard and unyielding, and his eyes were cold, calculating, merciless. Every line of his face and figure bespoke the ruthlessness of one who has used power without restraint.
Gale met the man's appraising gaze. "You." he said, "are not the warden."
The other did not reply at once. He was studying Gillian Gale, evaluating him. He eyed Gale's unshaven face and matted hair, his rumpled and torn clothes. At last he said: "No! I'm not the warden. The warden was kind enough to lend me his office for our talk."
Gale nodded. "You're the boss of Summit City—Alonzo Firmin."
"That's right. And you are no cheap holdup artist. You look like a bum, but you aren't. You had a reason for sticking up Manfredo's place. It wasn't just to get money. Better give me the inside dope—and don't try to pull the wool over my eyes. I'm not Slocum, and I'm not Orth."
"All right," Gale said quietly. "I'll give you the low-down. I came here to take this town apart."
"Why?"
"Because it's a good town to take over. You've been running it high, wide, and handsome, Firmin. You take a cut from all the gambling layouts, and from all the rackets. You grab all the fat contracts. Well, it got too hot for me in my own town; so I figured I'd come here and take over."
"You're crazy." Firmin said coldly. "Trying to muscle in here is like standing on a load of TNT and dropping lighted matches. You're licked already. We have you cold for murder."
Gale smiled tightly. "So why come and talk to me?" He came a step closer to Firmin. "Shall I tell you why? Because I have as much on you as you have on me. I've got Manfredo's wallet and Waxey's gun. Waxey killed someone with that gat. If I turn it up, Waxey goes to the gallows. And the contents of Manfredo's wallet will probably send Commissioner Orth to jail."
Alonzo Firmin smiled. "You may be right about that, Gale." He stopped and coolly lit a cigarette, then sent a perfect smoke ring up toward the ceiling. "But Waxey Klebber and Commissioner Orth are small fry. I can spare them. If your accomplice makes that stuff public, I'll throw Waxey and Orth to the wolves. You'll hang, and I'll still be running the town!"
Gale studied him a minute. "I still ask—so why come and talk to me?"
"I'll tell you why," Firmin went on, puffing thoughtfully at his cigarette and studying Gale through the smoke. "From what Orth and Slocum have told me about you. I decided I could use you. I need a man like you. Waxey and Kip and those others are smalltime gunmen. Dangerous with a rod, yes; but they have no guts and no imagination. They crack too easy. Now you, on the other hand—if I made it worth your while—would be someone I could depend on."
Gale's impassive face showed nothing. He kept his voice cold and hard. "How do you know you could depend on me?"
"Because, my dear fellow, there's a murder rap hanging over your head."
"You want me to give up Waxey's gun and Manfredo's wallet?"
"Yes!"
"And take a chance on your keeping your word?"
"Yes!"
Gale shook his head slowly. "No!"
Firmin's face darkened. "You're digging your own grave, Gill."
"That's what Orth told me. I hold a good hand, Firmin. And I'm playing it out my own way. Tomorrow, the party who has the wallet and the gun goes to Capital City and turns the stuff over to the opposition newspaper. They'll make plenty splash, and the governor will be forced to appoint a special prosecutor. That'll take it out of your local district attorney's hands. And it'll crack Summit City wide open."
"You're wrong. Gill. It won't crack anything. If that stuff is made public, Orth and Waxey will commit suicide. There won't be any investigation."
"I see," said Gale. "They'll commit suicide-just like that bartender."
Firmin shrugged. "In this town, my orders go—even when I say suicide. And you. Gill, won't live to see any of it. You'll go on trial today if necessary, and you'll hang tomorrow."
"To hell with you!" said Gale.
Firmin ground out his cigarette viciously in the ash-tray on the desk. "You're a fool, Gill."
"Thanks for the compliment."
For a long minute the two men stood facing each other with locked gaze. Then Firmin pressed a button on the desk. Almost at once, the door opened, and Slocum entered.
"Take him away," Firmin said coldly, with an air like some all-powerful emperor of ancient Rome condemning a slave. "Arraign him at once. Tell District Attorney Welsh I want him tried for murder today. As soon as the State's case is in. Judge Brownlee is to adjourn court. During recess, the prisoner will try to escape. Unfortunately, he will be shot to death while making the attempt. Do I make myself clear, captain?"
"It will be a pleasure, Mr. Firmin!" said Captain Slocum.
THE courtroom was strangely empty.
In the ordinary course of events, the arraignment of a felon and murderer, who had staged such a spectacular robbery as that at Manfredo's Bar, would have attracted hundreds of morbidly curious citizens of Summit City—especially when the victims were such notorious characters as Kip Man-son, Waxey Klebber and Vincent Manfredo.
But this morning there were no spectators in
Part 1 of the Summit County Criminal Court when Gillian Gale was brought in through the subway corridor connecting the county jail with the courthouse.
This was quickly explained when the judge, an ascetic-looking man with thin lips and a sharp nose, said, speaking to the stenographer: "For the benefit of the record, note that due to the dangerous character of this defendant, the presiding judge has deemed it wise to clear the court."
The judge nodded to the clerk who arose and intoned: "John Gill, you are charged with murder in the first degree, to wit: that you did feloniously strike upon the head and kill one Gustave Ash, a bartender. How do you plead—guilty or not guilty?"
Gale looked past the clerk, and his eyes locked with those of the judge. "Don't I get a lawyer?" he asked. "According to the Constitution, a man has a right to demand a lawyer."
The judge's narrow face did not show any emotion. He nodded. "You are entitled to the services of an attorney." He smiled crookedly. "I shall appoint a counselor—"
Just then the double doors at the rear were opened, and a little rat of a man was pushed into the room by one of the court attendants standing outside. The attendant whispered to Captain Slocum, who had gone to the door. Slocum glared at the little man, then said gruffly: "Naw! Get out!"
He took the little fellow by the arm and tried to push him back into the corridor. But the newcomer was not so easily handled. He had a brief case under his arm and his hat in his other hand; so he couldn't offer physical resistance to the huge Captain Slocum. But he had a good pair of lungs. His voice rose in a loud and imperative whine.
"I demand justice!" he screeched. "I am Eustace Kimber. I am an attorney admitted to practice in this State, and I know my rights. I represent John Gill, and I demand the right to appear at his arraignment and protect his interests!"
Gillian Gale had turned to watch the proceedings. His eyes narrowed and he studied Eustace Kimber. The man was a shyster if there ever was one.
Kimber's voice rose louder and louder, and the people in the corridor outside could hear it plainly. Slocum tried to shut him up, but couldn't.
At last Judge Brownlee called out: "All right, captain. Let the counselor come in. I want to ask him some questions."
Slocum took the diminutive Eustace Kimber by the arm and fairly dragged him down the aisle to the rail.
Kimber straightened his tie, and put the brief case down on the counsel table. He threw a triumphant look at Gillian Gale. "Don't worry, Mr. Gill. Your interests will be well taken care of. I know the law!"
Judge Brownlee frowned down at the little lawyer. "I don't seem to know you, Mr. Kimber. Have you been practicing long in this city?"
"No, your honor. I come from Capital City. I was hired to come here and represent this defendant."
"Who hired you?" the judge demanded—almost too eagerly.
Eustace Kimber smirked. "That, your honor, is a professional secret. As you know, legal ethics forbid me to reveal that information."
Judge Brownlee hesitated. He glanced questioningly over to the assistant district attorney, who shrugged.
Kimber saw the shrug and winked broadly at Gale. Then the lawyer turned swiftly to the bench. "If your honor will permit, before entering a plea, I should like a few minutes with my client"—he raised a hand hastily as the judge started to refuse—"not in private. I'll talk to him right here. You may all watch."
Brownlee assented reluctantly. Kimber swiftly opened the brief case and motioned to Gillian Gale to step closer.
Gale's handcuffs had been removed, but he had a stalwart deputy sheriff on either side of him, and Slocum was immediately behind. The deputy on his right moved back from the table just a little, so that Gale could come alongside the little lawyer.
KIMBER took out several papers, glanced at them and frowned. "No, this isn't it. Wait—" He opened the mouth of the brief case wider and held it in such a way that Gale could look into it.
Gale stiffened. He could not be mistaken. There was a burnished gun-metal automatic in that brief case!
Eustace Kimber let the flap of the brief case drop closed, and gave the whole thing a slight push toward Gale. He held up one of the papers. For a moment he turned so that he was looking full into Gale's eyes. There was a quick urgency in his glance, and his lips moved swiftly.
"It's your only chance!" he whispered. And then he had turned and was talking to the judge. So quickly had Kimber done it, that Gale wasn't sure whether he had whispered at all. But that 'un was in the brief-case all right.
There were two possibilities. Either Kimber had been sent here by Laura Payne to help him escape, or it was the payoff on the part of Alonzo Firmin to induce him to try to escape—and give Slocum justification for shooting him down. If Kimber was sent by Laura Payne, that gun would be fully loaded; if by Firmin, it would be empty, or loaded with blanks. Gale could only find out by trying.
Kimber was talking rapidly, and waving the paper at the judge. His voice was high-pitched and irritating, and he was managing to attract the attention of Slocum and the deputies as well as the judge to himself.
Gillian Gale said, "Excuse me, counselor."
He pushed the little lawyer out of the way, and thrust his hand into the brief case. His fingers found the reassuring coldness of the automatic's butt. He brought it out, and jumped backward. He swung a backhanded blow with the muzzle of the weapon, and it connected with the jaw of Detective Captain Slocum, who was just behind him.
Slocum dropped as metal thudded against his chin.
Gale took a quick step to one side and brought himself around so that he faced the two deputy sheriffs as well as the judge, the stenographer and the clerk.
The two deputy sheriffs were caught flat-footed. They gaped at him, with their hands nowhere near their holstered guns. The judge leaned forward tensely, his ascetic face twisted into a grimace of dazed incomprehension. The clerk and the stenographer just sat still, as if the whole thing didn't concern them.
"All right," said Gillian Gale. "I'm going out. Whoever wants to stop me—or to yell for help—is welcome to try!"
Eustace Kimber started to wring his hands. He put on a good act.
"Oh. mercy me!" he wailed. "I never thought of the gun! I always carry it for protection, and now this desperado has it. Why did I ever accept his case!"
Gale backed toward the door at the rear of the courtroom, which connected with the subway corridor to the jail. Captain Slocum was lying with his head against the railing. He groaned and started to stumble to his feet, but he was groggy and didn't face in the right direction.
One of the two deputy sheriffs exclaimed: "We can't let this guy walk outta here. We'll be canned. One shot and they'll all come in from the hall—"
"Sure!" Gillian Gale said softly. "Just one shot. But someone dies with it. Who wants to die?"
Nobody in the room moved.
Judge Brownlee said slowly: "Gill, you can't get away with that. The chase will be on the minute you pass through that door. You'll be caught. The mob outside will lynch you."
"I'll worry about that, judge," Gale said. He reached behind him and opened the door. The deputy sheriffs were standing with their hands half lifted, leaning a little forward like two hounds straining at the leash.
"Don't come after me, you two," Gale warned them. "You're just nice boys trying to make an honest living. I'd hate to kill you."
Then he stepped quickly through, and pulled the door shut after him. He stepped to one side, and he was just in time because lead came crashing through the panel to the accompaniment of thunderous reverberations of gunfire from the courtroom.
Men's voices were raised in wild shouts, and pulsed nearer.
Gillian Gale did not run yet. Instead, he reached over and pushed the door open again.
The two deputy sheriffs were so close that they almost ran into him through the suddenly opened door. They recoiled as if at the sight of a boa constrictor; and Gale fired once into the floor at their feet.
They leaped away from the door, leaving Gale a view of the courtroom, with Judge Brownlee scrambling off the bench, and Eustace Kimber watching everything with detached interest.
Gale got only that one fleeting glimpse; then he turned and ran. A shot zinged past his shoulders, and he thrust his hand behind him and fired without looking back. He reached the door at the far end, and it opened just before he put his hand on the knob. A startled prison guard faced him, with a sawed-off shotgun under his arm. The man had been coming to investigate the shooting and he recoiled before the sudden apparition of Gale's bearded and unkempt appearance—and before the menacing hole of the black gun in his hand.
Gale straight-armed the guard out of his way and leaped through the doorway. He was in the anteroom of the prison. There were two doors: one facing him, one at his right. The one facing him was the door he had come through this morning. The door on the right led out into the alley behind the jail. It was barred from the inside. Behind him, the deputy sheriffs were coming down the corridor, with a mob streaming after them, and all shouting at the top of their lungs. They hadn't fired any more after that first fusillade for fear of hitting the prison guard.
GALE slammed the corridor door in their faces and barred it. Then he threw the bar off the street door, opened it, and stepped out into the alley.
It was a wet, dank, drizzly day, and the rain was coming down steadily. He ran, crouching low, toward the street. Someone fired at him from a window in the courthouse, and the shot ricocheted off the concrete almost at his feet. Then he was out of the alley and in the street.
Courthouse Square was pretty well filled. Pedestrians were hurrying about their business in the rain, and traffic along the side streets was moving fast. A cop in a raincoat was running from the traffic intersection over toward the jail, tugging at his revolver, and hundreds of faces were visible at the windows of the buildings lining the square. They had all been attracted by the shooting. The siren on the roof of the prison began to scream in a long, seemingly unending wail. Gale wondered if it would ever stop before he was recaptured.
And now the traffic cop was ten feet away from him. He had his gun all the way out and was bringing it up.
Gale could see his face, round and well fed, with a bulbous nose and widely distended eyes. The man was in his middle forties—no doubt a veteran of the Summit City force, on maximum pay. Perhaps he had grandchildren. Certainly he had a wife, a grown son or daughter. And Gale would have to shoot him, or be shot.
Gillian Gale did not raise his own gun. Instead, he went into a low, long dive that carried his shoulder smack up against the cop's shins.
The cop went over backward, his gun exploding into the air, and then it was flying from his hand as he clawed unsuccessfully for balance.
Feet were pounding in the alley now, and another throng was rushing out of the front entrance of the jail. They were all converging toward Gillian Gale.
With lithe agility he was on his feet again. He'd have to run, and be the target for a hundred hungry weapons. It was a desperate chance he had taken, and this was the end of it. This was a poor way to finish it all—lying riddled in the street, for Slocum and Firmin to laugh at. He'd never know, now, whether Eustace Kimber had come from Laura Payne or from Alonzo Firmin.
SUDDENLY that question was answered for him.
Above the shouts of the bloodthirsty mob and the shriek of the prison siren, he had not been able to hear the voice. But as he pivoted around to run, he saw a taxicab at the curb—and the wild, excited face of the cab driver, motioning to him frantically to get in. Even as he leaped to the running board, he had a vague idea that the face should be familiar, that he had seen it somewhere before. But he had no more time for that. He had no time to get inside. He clung to the running board, and even as he jumped, the cab got in motion. Gears clashed and the cab literally shot forward. Gale hung on hard, hearing in his ears the terrible, foiled yelling of the cheated mob. They had been after a man's blood, and he was being snatched from under their fangs.
Shots thundered in horrid rivalry to the screaming prison siren. Lead spattered and clanged against the side and back of the cab. But the driver was handling the wheel like one possessed. At the corner he slued the wheel around so violently that Gale was almost thrown off, but the cab kept right side up as it careened out of the square into East Main Street.
Gale didn't know just where the cab driver fitted into the set-up, but he was willing to accept whatever help the gods offered. He held on with one hand as they raced down East Main Street, and he watched behind. A police car came around the corner after them, and Gale snapped two shots at its tires. There was a loud bang, almost drowned by the continuous wail of the prison siren, and the right front tire of the police car went flat. The driver fought the wheel hard and succeeded in bringing the coupe to a stop before it mounted the curb. A cop came charging out of it and raised his gun. But he didn't shoot. It was no use. The cab was already making a left turn at the next corner, into Center Street.
Gale clung to the speeding cab expecting the mad ride to end in disaster any second. It was impossible that they should traverse the heart of the city without coming to grief. Every traffic cop and every police radio car would be watching for them. Every avenue of escape would be blocked off. Yet, this thing seemed to have been well planned. There must be some sense to it.
He hung on, watching the street ahead for cops. Pedestrians scurried to the sidewalks as they skidded past at sixty miles an hour, and other cars pulled over to one side, for Gale's cabby was leaning on the horn, and its raucous blasts, punctuating the steady wail of the prison siren, cleared the way for them.
But before they had made a half dozen blocks along Center Street, their trail was picked up again. Another police car was after them, with uniformed men on the running boards, armed with rifles. The police car gained slowly, and the cops were only waiting for a clear chance to open up.
Gale's cabby seemed to sense the new pursuit, for he turned off at the next corner without warning. They tore the fender off a truck parked around the corner. Gale narrowly escaped being ripped off the running board, but he held on grimly. His eyes glinted with admiration for the driver. The fellow knew his business and was willing to take chances.
Before the pursuing police car rounded into the street after them, the driver turned left again at the next corner, then left once more. They were now heading back toward Center Street, and they could hear the siren of the pursuing police car diminishing in volume in the distance. The police had missed that last turn, and they were momentarily clear of pursuit.
Even at that. Gale couldn't understand how they'd managed to make good their escape.
Twice more they turned, then headed straight west for almost half a mile. Then, with an abrupt squealing of brakes, the cab dragged to a halt in front of an apartment house in a tenement block. People stared at the bearded and unkempt hobo who leaped off the running board, and at the slim, almost boyish cab driver who slipped out from behind the wheel and urgently motioned to the bum to follow into the basement entrance of the apartment house.
Just as the two of them disappeared down the short flight of stone steps marked "Janitor's Entrance," a police car skidded into the block. They had been directed here by willing pedestrians along the route, and now a dozen fingers were pointing toward the cab and the spot where the two had gone.
The cops jumped from the squad car with riot guns ready, and swarmed down the basement stairs, only to find the door into the cellar locked against them.
They began to pound and hammer at it.
In the meantime, Gillian Gale was following his cab-driver guide along a narrow concrete corridor toward the rear of the house. He asked no questions. The fellow seemed to know just what he was doing. He seemed to be acting in accordance with a prearranged plan. And if he was willing to take the chance of being caught in the act of aiding and abetting a fugitive from justice, Gillian Gale certainly had no complaint to make.
They came out into the back yard of the tenement house. There was a row of these back yards here, and the driver hugged the building line with Gale behind him, slipping along the wall until they came to the rear entrance of the next house. They went into this, and the driver silently led the way up a flight of stairs.
Outside, they could hear the shouts of the police, and the wail of the prison siren, dominating everything. More squad cars were coming into the street. In a matter of minutes the whole block would be surrounded, and all escape would be cut off. Then it would merely be a matter of scouring the buildings in the row to find the fugitive.
But the driver did not seem to be alarmed. He stopped before a door in the front of the first floor and inserted a key. He turned it, pushed the door open and stepped in. Gale followed. The driver swiftly closed and locked the door, then turned to face Gillian Gale.
Gale's eyes narrowed as he looked into the driver's face. "I know you now!" he said He reached out and took off the uniform cap, and a pile of auburn hair tumbled down.
Laura Payne faced him, breathing fast. Her small breasts were heaving, and her eyes were glowing with excitement and triumph. "How did I do, Gillian Gale?" she asked huskily.
"Not bad," he said. "The more I see of you, the more I realize how lucky Roger is. Did you hire that shyster to bring me the gun?"
"Yes! I paid him the three thousand dollars you gave me. It was worth it. When I read in the paper that you were being held for murder, I decided I'd have to get you out, or you and Roger would both hang."
"All right so far. But what about the cops? They'll be searching these flats pretty soon."
"I'll show you what about that," she told him.
She led him down the hall into a living room. "This is a three-room flat. It's completely furnished. I rented it this morning, and furnished it on the installment plan. You know—ten dollars down. There's the bathroom. Go in there and change. You'll find shaving material and a whole outfit of clothes."
Gale chuckled.
He went into the bathroom and stripped. He shaved first, and then got under a hot shower. The welt on his stomach where Slocum had beat him throbbed under the water, but he felt strength pouring into his veins.
He would have liked to stay in the shower for an hour, but he kept it down to five minutes. He dried himself swiftly and put on the clothes which he found in a neat pile on the hamper. Laura had provided everything, including a belt and a pair of garters. The socks were a little tight, and the shoes squeezed a bit, but on the whole she had guessed his size pretty accurately. The blue serge suit fitted nice and snug around his broad shoulders. The necktie was the only thing he didn't like. It had bright red-and-orange diagonal stripes.
When he was all dressed he took a look at himself in the shaving mirror, and was startled at his transformation from a seedy bum. He put the automatic in the inside breast pocket of the jacket and went out of the bathroom.
Laura Payne was already waiting for him. She no longer wore the cab driver's rig. Her hair was combed, and she had on a green print dress that accentuated her slimness and beauty.
For a second she stared at him and her eyes widened. "Oh, I almost didn't know you!"
She came up close to him and stared up into his face. "You're changed, Gillian Gale," she said. "No one would ever recognize you now. They'll never connect you with the seedy bum who's wanted for murder!"
His lips tightened. He went to the window and pulled aside the shade and looked down into the street. There were several squad cars down there, and the street was full of bluecoats. Policemen were going into every house along the block.
"They'll be here any minute," he said over his shoulder.
"And we'll be ready for them," she told him. She hurried into the bathroom and gathered up the old clothes he had discarded and took them into the next room. In a moment she was back.
"We're Mr. and Mrs. Smith," she explained hurriedly. "We've come here from Chicago, because you're looking for a job—"
She was interrupted by a heavy, authoritative knock at the door.
Her hand flew to her breast. "Here they are!" she whispered. Suddenly she was trembling. "Oh, Gillian, what if they should recognize you?"
"Open the door!" he told her harshly. "If they recognize me, it'll be too bad for someone!"
He dropped into an armchair, while Laura Payne straightened her shoulders and went into the foyer. He heard her say. "Yes, what is it?" in a frigid, tautly controlled voice. And then he heard a man say: "Sorry, miss, but we have to go through your flat. Police! We're looking for the escaped murderer—"
At the sound of that man's voice, Gillian Gale came out of the easy-chair in one swift motion. He took the automatic out of the breast pocket and put it in his side pocket. He stood stiffly watching the living-room doorway, with his hand on the gun.
He couldn't be mistaken. The man who was coming in behind Laura Payne was Captain Slocum.
There were two men with the police captain, but he called back to them: "Take the other flats, Rafferty and Colvin. Rafferty, you take all the B flats up to the top floor. Colvin, take the C flats. I'll take the A's."
The two detectives went out, closing the hall door after them, and Slocum came into the living room after Laura Payne.
In addition to the bandage across the bridge of his nose and the court plaster on his cheek, Slocum now had a great red welt on his forehead where Gale had struck him with the gun.
He had his gun in his hand, and as he came into the room he blinked his eyes against the light, for it had been dark in the windowless foyer. He did not glance at Laura, but his eyes focused on Gale. There was no recognition in them.
"You live here?" he barked.
Gale nodded, without speaking.
"I got to search this apartment. I have no search warrant, but we're asking everyone in these flats to co-operate with the police and waive their rights. If you refuse to let me search, I'll station a man outside your door till we get a judge to sign a warrant."
"Go ahead," said Gill. "Search all you want."
He watched Slocum like a hawk as he spoke. He saw the police captain stiffen at the sound of his voice and look at him queerly.
"Haven't I seen you some place before?"
Gale shrugged. "I've only been in this town a short while."
"How long?"
"A couple of days."
"When did you move in here?"
"Yesterday."
Slocum drew a deep breath. "That's funny. Because the man we're looking for has only been in town a couple of days."
He was holding the gun at his hip, and he half turned to Laura. "Are you two married—"
Slocum stopped speaking with a sudden, terrible abruptness. It had been dark in the foyer, and he hadn't gotten a good look at her.
"By heavens," he said softly, "I know you. You're Laura Payne. I begin to see—"
"That's right, Slocum!"
Gillian Gale spanned the distance between himself and Slocum in a single leap, and pressed his bulging pocket against the captain's side. "You're beginning to see a lot. For instance, if you let out a single yap, it'll be drowned out by the blast of my gun in your ribs!"
"Ah, so!" said Slocum. "So you're Gill. Shaved and dressed up. I'd never have known you if it wasn't for the girl. And you're tied up with her. That means you're tied up with Roger Gale. You came here to get him out of his jam!"
"Right!" said Gale. Very gently and very carefully he took the gun out of Slocum's hand.
Laura Payne was staring at the two of them in frigid fascination.
Gale said softly, "Now raise your hands in the air, captain."
"You realize," Slocum said, "that I only have to raise my voice to bring the whole police department in here?"
"You're welcome to try, Slocum." Gale pocketed the captain's revolver and took his own out.
Slocum's eyes were fixed upon Gale in black and wordless hatred. But he didn't raise his voice.
Gale smiled tightly. "Up!"
Slowly, the police captain raised his hands.
Gale motioned with the gun. "Frisk him, Laura."
Laura Payne approached him gingerly. She went through his pockets, gaining confidence as she saw that he did not attempt resistance against the threatening muzzle of Gale's gun against his ribs.
She put the contents of his pockets on the table. They consisted of a police identification card-case with a gold badge pinned into it, almost two hundred dollars in cash, a pair of regulation handcuffs, a blackjack, a key ring with eight keys on it, and a small black leather notebook full of names and telephone numbers.
Just as she got the last of these objects on the table, there was a quick rap at the outer door.
All three of them stiffened.
The voice of Detective Rafferty called out: "Captain Slocum! You still in there?"
Slocum's eyes glinted triumphantly. He opened his mouth to yell, and at the same time he twisted away from the gun in Gillian Gale's hand.
But Gale had read his intention. He was in motion at the same time as Slocum. His left fist, bunched into a hard sledge of bone and muscle, came around in a pile-driving blow that landed just behind the police captain's ear.
Slocum dropped like a poled ox.
Gale bent swiftly and caught him as he fell, so as to avoid the thump of his body against the floor. He eased the unconscious man down, just as Rafferty, out in the hall, banged against the door with his fist.
"Hey, you, in there! Why don't you answer?" Gillian Gale got to his feet and looked at Laura Payne. "Can you handle them?" She nodded. "I think so."
Gale rolled the unconscious Slocum out of line with the front door, and Laura hurried out to the foyer.
"Coming," she called.
WHILE she opened the door. Gale hurriedly dragged Slocum into the bedroom. He heard Laura talking to Rafferty.
"Why." she said, "that detective has gone. One of the men outside told him he was wanted at headquarters, and he left."
Gale took out his automatic and stood in the bedroom doorway. If Rafferty didn't believe her—
But she must have sounded convincing. Because Rafferty said in a loud and disgusted voice to his companion: "That's a hell of a note, Colvin. We'll have to finish up the house by ourselves. Thanks, miss. Sorry to have bothered you."
"Not at all," Laura answered.
Gillian Gale breathed a little sigh. His lips twitched in a faint smile as she came back from the door.
"Now we're going to get out of here," he told her.
He turned and looked down at the unconscious Slocum, with hard, smoldering eyes. He hefted the automatic.
"Get me a heavy towel from the bathroom," he ordered harshly.
"A ... a towel? What for?"
He did not take his eyes from Slocum. "To wrap around my gun."
Laura Payne gasped. "You're ... going to kill him?"
He nodded bleakly.
"No, no!" she exclaimed. "You can't. It would be murder!"
Gale laughed. It was an unpleasant laugh, deep and bitter.
"Murder? Yes, of course. They're going to murder my brother. Legally. But it'll be murder just the same. And if we leave Slocum alive, we're through. He's seen me now, shaven and cleaned up. He'll know me next time. And he knows what I'm here for."
Slowly he turned and looked at her. "Slocum has to die. This is war! It's Slocum or Roger. You were ready to give up your own life. Why do you get squeamish about his?"
Laura shuddered. Her eyes were fixed in horrid fascination upon him.
"You're a hard man, Gillian Gale," she breathed.
He moved impatiently toward the door. "If you won't get me a towel, I'll have to get it myself—"
"No!"
The single word exploded out of her. She blocked the way, her head up and her eyes flashing. "I won't let you do it. Gillian Gale. I won't let you murder a man in cold blood!" Suddenly she wilted, and stretched out an appealing hand. "Don't you see? Two wrongs don't make a right. You can't fight murder with murder. It's different to shoot a man who's fighting you. But when he's helpless—"
"Helpless?" he repeated harshly. "When Slocum comes to, he'll be savage and merciless. He'll be after me day and night—"
"Are you afraid?" she asked.
He looked down at the gun in his hand. "Afraid? Perhaps. Perhaps I'm afraid that he'll stop me from doing what I have to do. It'll be hard enough as it is, without having Slocum on my trail."
She shook her head. "You'll have to do it that way, Gillian Gale—or not at all. If you try to kill Slocum now, I'll scream. I'll attract the police. I'll end it for you right here."
His lips twisted scornfully. "What about all that high-sounding talk you made yesterday—that you were ready to give up your life—"
"My own life—yes!" she broke in quickly. "I'm still ready for that. But not for ... murder,"
Gale sighed. "All right. You win. But Heaven help you if Slocum gums up the works later!"
He went to the bed and yanked off the sheet, then tore it into strips. He used the strips to tie Slocum's hands behind his back and to gag him thoroughly. He tied his feet, and made a running line from ankles to wrists, with a slipknot that would tighten if he tried to struggle. Then he dragged the detective captain into the closet and covered him with his own and Laura's discarded clothes.
"Let's hope they don't find him for a while."
"And now?" she asked.
"Now," he told her, "we're going out of this building. Keep your chin up. They should let us pass; unless someone else recognizes us."
He went into the living room and swept up ail the objects which she had taken from Slocum, and pocketed them.
"Come on," he said. "Here goes nothing!"
DOWNSTAIRS, the street looked like the scene of a Fourth-of-July police parade. Uniformed men and plain-clothes detectives swarmed about. Radio cars, squad cars and riot cars were scattered from corner to corner. The special service squad was coming up with tear-gas bombs and submachine guns.
As Gale led Laura Payne down the steps of the stoop he saw a maroon sedan with the gold-shield insignia of the police commissioner, parked a few feet away. Orth was sitting in that car. His driver was not there, probably having gone to join the search.
A uniformed lieutenant in charge of the special service squad came up alongside Orth's car and saluted. Gale heard what he said.
"We're all set, commissioner. As soon as they locate the place where he's holed up, we'll clear the building and go in with the tear gas."
Gale pressed Laura's arm, and they went steadily down the steps. They heard Orth's rasping voice: "It'll be best to club him into submission. Lieutenant Preston. If you capture him alive, I want him brought directly to my office. Give him no chance to talk to anyone. Understand?"
Lieutenant Preston saluted. "Don't worry, sir. I've given orders. That guy won't be in any shape to squawk after we handle him for a couple of minutes!"
Orth nodded and waved the officer away. "If you see Captain Slocum," he called after the lieutenant, "send him to me at once."
Laura Payne threw a quick, frightened glance up at Gale. "Orth knows me." she whispered. "If he sees me it'll be all over. He's no fool—"
"Come on!" Gale growled, and hurried her to the sidewalk. A patrolman was scowling and watching them come down. He put out a big paw to bar their path.
"Everybody who leaves these buildings has got to identify themselves," he growled.
"Certainly," said Gale. "I see my friend. Commissioner Orth. over there. He'll identify us."
Gale kept his grip on Laura's arm and brushed past the cop with an air of authority.
There was a puzzled frown on the cop's face, and he kept his hand on his holstered gun as he watched Gale and Laura go up to Orth's car. Orth turned, and saw them. "Miss Payne!" he said.
The cop heard that and turned back to his duties, satisfied that Gale had told the truth about knowing Carter Orth. If he had seen what happened immediately after, he would not have been as satisfied.
Gale pushed Laura ahead until they were both up close to the window of the car.
Orth said. "Miss Payne! What are you doing here? And who is this man?"
He raised his eyes to scan Gillian Gale, but did not recognize him. A look of suspicion entered his eyes. "By Jove, I bet you two had a hand in Gill's escape—"
His mouth remained open, and he did not finish what he had begun to say, for Gale lifted up the black felt hat which he had been carrying in his band. He lifted the hat just high enough so that it cleared the window, and so that Orth could see what was underneath.
"Yes, commissioner," Gale said softly, without any effort to disguise his voice. "She helped me to escape."
Orth gasped. "You ... you're Gill!"
"Quite so, commissioner. And this little object which you see under my hat is an automatic pistol. If you have any doubt about my willingness to shoot you in the mouth, just raise your voice."
"You ... you wouldn't dare!" Orth blurted.
"Why not? I'm wanted for murder anyway. If they get me they'll hang me. It will be a pleasure to send you on ahead."
ORTH looked into the cold hard eyes of Gillian Gale, and believed him. "What ... what do you want? You can never get away. There are too many police—"
"I'll worry about that. Just move over and take the wheel. Laura, you climb in back. I'll sit right next to the commissioner."
As if he were in a daze, Orth obeyed. Laura got in the rear seat, and sat tense and tight. Gale opened the door and slid in easily. He kept the hat in his lap, with the gun under it.
"Now, commissioner, just drive away from here. If any of these policemen stop you for orders, say that you are in a hurry and that they are to remain right here until they receive other instructions. If you say one word beyond that. I'll shoot you on the spot."
Orth's face was greasy with sweat as he stepped on the starter and let in the clutch. The big maroon car began to roll slowly, then gathered speed as it moved down the block. Uniformed policemen cleared the way for them, and saluted as the car passed. At the corner, Gale said pleasantly, "Turn left, commissioner. You're doing fine so far."
Orth obeyed. "You can't escape from Summit City," he said. "Every road is blocked. They're stopping and searching every car that leaves. Someone will recognize Miss Payne. Or they'll see that gun under your hat—"
"We're not leaving Summit City," Gale told him grimly.
"Then ... then where—"
"To police headquarters!" said Gale.
"Police headquarters!" Orth was so startled that he almost lost control of the wheel. "You're mad—"
"Perhaps. But what I have to do has to be done fast. Keep going!"
It took them less than ten minutes to reach headquarters. At Gale's direction, Orth swung the car into the alley between the headquarters building and city hall, where there was a head-on parking space. Orth tooled the car into one of the empty spots and shut off the motor.
"Where is Chief of Police Bolton's office?" Gale asked.
"On the ground floor—in the east wing."
"Thanks," said Gale. "Now get in the back." Orth hesitated. "Look here, Gill. I tried to do business with you once before. Maybe—"
"Sure!" said Gale. "You sent Firmin to see me. And Firmin ordered me hung."
"You don't understand," Orth hurried on desperately. "Firmin doesn't give a damn for me. He's going to let me drown. He doesn't care if that wallet of Manfredo's is turned up or not. As soon as I get in a jam, I'm no longer useful to him. He'll have me knocked off and fix it so it'll look as if I committed suicide."
"I know all that," Gale said calmly.
"Then ... then you won't give me a break?"
"A break?" Gillian Gale's voice was harsh. "What kind of break did you give me? I heard you order that lieutenant to pound me into unconsciousness when I was caught—so I wouldn't be able to talk."
"I had to do that. It was self-preservation. Give me a break now, and I'll help you—"
"No! Get in the back."
"What ... what are you going to do to me?"
"I'm going to break you, Orth. I'm going to break every rat in this damned town. I ask for no quarter, and I give none. Now, do you get in the rear, or do I shoot you in the guts right away?"
"Wait!" said a firm, small voice in the rear.
Gale stiffened. He looked up in the rear vision mirror and saw that Laura Payne had taken out the revolver which she had gotten from Slocum, and which she had put in her handbag. She was pointing it at Gale's back.
Gale turned around and saw the resolution in her eyes. He smiled crookedly. "Double-crossing me, Laura?"
"N-no! Not double-crossing you, Gillian Gale. Just keeping you human. I never knew what they meant when they spoke of hard men. You're a hard man, Gillian Gale. Too hard! There's no mercy in your soul for anyone. Why can't you give Commissioner Orth a chance?"
"Because—as I told you once before—this is war. This man can't be trusted. He'll knife us in the back the first chance he gets."
ORTH'S eyes had grown wide with terror when Laura Payne addressed Gillian Gale by name. He shrank away from the gun in Gale's hand.
"You ... you're Roger Gale's brother. The adventurer. The one who fought in Spain and in China!"
"Right!" Gale told him.
"You're here to save your brother!"
"Right again. I'm here to save him—if I have to exterminate every rat in Summit City to do it. Now you know too much. I'm sorry, Laura."
Deliberately disregarding her gun, he clubbed his own automatic and brought it down against the side of Orth's head, in a motion so swift that she could not even have attempted to stop it.
The commissioner slumped forward against the wheel.
"Oh, you brute!" Laura Payne exclaimed.
Gale grinned thinly. He glanced around to make sure that they were not observed. Then he got his knees on the seat, and hauled Orth's body over the top, into the rear. He pushed him over until he fell in a heap on the floor at Laura's feet.
"I ought to shoot you now," said Laura Payne. "I ought to shoot you because you are a savage, merciless animal, without a single instinct for good. I ought to shoot you because Roger is a good man and an honest one, and he wouldn't want to gain his freedom by such means as you use."
"Better shoot me now, then," said Gillian Gale. "Because you're going to see much worse before I'm through with Summit City."
He opened the door of the car and got out, then he opened the rear door. He bent in, not even looking at Laura's gun, and worked around till he got Orth's belt off the man. He used the belt to strap his wrists together behind his back. Then he found a handkerchief in the commissioner's pocket, and removed the shoe laces from his shoes. With the laces and the handkerchief he made a very effective gag.
When he was all through he examined the spot where he had struck Orth. There was an abrasion of the skin and a rapidly swelling lump.
Gale grunted. "You have nothing to kick about. I didn't kill him. He'll be all right in a few hours—and just as dangerous."
He suddenly looked up and met Laura Payne's eyes. "If you don't want to go on with this," he said, "now is the time to quit."
She sat on the edge of the seat, with her feet just barely touching the twisted body of Carter Orth. Under the thin silk dress, her breasts were rising and falling swiftly as she breathed in short gasps. She held the gun with the muzzle pointing upward, not at Gale.
"I want to go through with it. Gillian Gale. But I don't want to do it by cold-blooded murder or with useless cruelty. Promise that you'll try to use a bit of decency."
He stopped her with a harsh, bitter laugh. "I'll promise nothing—except to have Roger out of the shadow of the gallows before tomorrow morning. Take it or leave it!"
He jerked away impatiently.
"Wait!" she called out as he started to turn away. He stopped, and she faltered: "I'll stick. But I warn you—I won't have you killing men without mercy. I ... I'll stop you somehow. Even if I have to kill you."
"Fair enough then. Here's what I want you to do. Leave Orth in here. He'll be safe for a while. Take a cab to your apartment. Pack a small bag, and take Manfredo's wallet and Waxey Klebber's gun. Go to the Summit City Hotel and register under the name of Laura Drake. Wait there for a call from me. Don't open the door for anyone but me."
"And you?" she asked. "What are you going to see Bolton for? Are you going to kill him, too?"
"No! You told me he was one of the few honest officials in the town. I'm going to make a deal with him."
Gale watched her get out and start toward the street. Then he took the keys out of the ignition, and locked all the doors of the police sedan, leaving one window open an inch or so, so that Orth wouldn't smother. That done, he put the automatic in the side pocket of his coat and headed into the east entrance of police headquarters.
THE ground floor of police headquarters was more or less quiet this afternoon. The call for reserves had taken all available men out on the chase for the escaped murderer.
Gale passed two or three police clerks, who did not spare him a second glance. There was a desk sergeant seated behind the desk near the entrance, and Gale went past him, making for a door at the rear marked:
CHIEF OF POLICE
PRIVATE
But the desk sergeant called out: "Hey! Where do you think you're going?"
Gillian Gale stopped short. He turned and came up to the desk and leaned over it.
"Talk up!" barked the sergeant. "What do you want?"
Gale's face was expressionless, but his eyes were hard as they met the other's.
"In the future, sergeant." he said harshly, "when you address me, say 'sir'!"
The desk sergeant's eyes popped with surprise. He started to get up.
"Sit down!" Gale barked.
So explosive was the force of his command, that the man literally was forced back into his chair by it.
Gale took out Slocum's card-case, and flipped it open, showing the gold badge.
"I," he said, "am the new captain of detectives."
"B-but I never saw you before—sir," stammered the sergeant.
"You'll see more of me," Gale told him firmly, He flipped the card-case closed, and left the sergeant gaping after him as he made for the office of the chief of police.
His footsteps sounded hollow on the stone floor. With each step he expected the sergeant to call out, to stop him again. But the man was impressed—impressed both by the gold badge and by the look he had seen in Gillian Gale's eyes.
Gale reached the door without hindrance. He rapped once, lightly, and without waiting for an invitation to enter, he opened the door and stepped inside. Then he pushed the door shut behind him and stood with his back to it, facing the gray-haired man at the desk opposite.
Chief of Police John Bolton was almost fifty. He was square-jawed, frosty-eyed, with a squat and sturdy body, and big, powerful hands. He was the typical plodding police officer who has worked himself up from the ranks by stern doggedness and untiring honesty.
He frowned, looking at Gale, and said: "Well? Who are you?"
Gale did not answer at once. He was busy sizing up his man. At last, after a full thirty seconds, he made his decision. He came forward to the desk. He stood erectly, facing Bolton.
"I," he said, "am your new captain of detectives."
Bolton frowned. "What's this—a joke?"
"No joke. There's my badge."
Gale flipped the identification card-case down on the glass top of the desk, open, with the shield showing. In the center of the shield was a large embossed figure, 1.
Bolton did not at once look down at the case. He kept his eyes on Gale. His hands were resting loosely on the desk top. Then he lowered his glance to the card-case. He stiffened.
"Why," he explained. "That's shield number 1—Captain Slocum's shield!"
"Right," said Gale. "I took it away from him. Slocum is in temporary retirement. I'm going to lake his place. You're going to appoint me captain of detectives."
"I'll be damned!" Bolton exploded. His right hand slid down to the open desk drawer where a service .38 was lying in plain view.
"Hold it!" said Gillian Gale. He brought the automatic out of his pocket, and pointed it at Bolton.
"Hold it!" said Gillian Gale. He brought the
automatic out of his pocket, and pointed it at Bolton.
"To hell with you!" said Bolton and kept going for the service revolver.
Gale's eyes flickered with admiration. But he kept his face impassive. He snicked off the safety catch of the automatic.
"I don't want to shoot you, Bolton. Don't make me do it."
The police chief stopped with his hand in mid-air. He sat like a graven image, looking at Gale.
"What do you want?" he asked harshly.
"To talk. Close the drawer!"
Bolton's shoulders rose in a slight shrug. Slowly his hand came down, but it did not go into the drawer. Instead, he slid the drawer shut.
"Well?" he asked.
"All right," said Gale.
He pushed the safety catch up again. Then he laid the automatic down on the desk alongside cf the identification card-case, where it was within easy reach of Bolton.
"Leave it there," he said. "I'm gambling on you, Bolton—gambling on your being an honest man. If I'm wrong"—he shrugged—"I lose out all around."
Chief Bolton's forehead creased in a puzzled frown. "I don't understand you. Why did you come in here like that? How did you get Slocum's shield? Who are you?"
"I," said Gale, "am the man the hue-and-cry is out for. I'm the man your whole police force is searching for right at this minute."
Bolton grew taut in his chair. "Gill!" His glance dropped involuntarily to the automatic, but he did not reach for it. "You're GUI, the murderer. The man who held up Manfredo's, and killed the bartender!"
Gale shook his head, smiling thinly. "Not a murderer, Mr. Bolton. I didn't kill the bartender. I conked him, and somebody else finished the job; so they'd have a good solid charge to hold me on—something to bargain with. I've got a wallet and a gun they want back very badly."
"I see!" Chief Bolton whispered. "I begin to see a lot. That's why they didn't arraign you in night court last night!"
Gale nodded. "They worked on me all night. I didn't trade."
Bolton had forgotten all about the automatic by this time. There was a sudden eager glint in his eyes. "But I still don't understand. You're a criminal. You committed a robbery. Why do you think I will help you. Gill?"
"The name." Gale said slowly, "is Gillian Gale!"
Chief Bolton's hands contracted spasmodically on the desk top. "Gale! You're Roger Gale's brother. You're the brother he's often mentioned—the one who, when last heard of, was commanding a squadron in the Chinese Air Force!"
"The same," said Gale. "And I've come to Summit City to smash the jaws of the trap my brother's in—even if I have to pull the whole damned city down to do it!"
Chief Bolton pushed his chair back. Slowly, he got to his feet. He stretched out his hand and picked up the automatic pistol. Gale not making a single motion to stop him. Then. Bolton reversed the pistol and silently handed it across.
Gale suddenly smiled. He took the gun and slipped it into his pocket.
Bolton extended his hand across the desk, and Gale took it. Their eyes met.
"Do you know what I'm thinking. Gillian Gale?" said John Bolton. "I'm thinking that I'm sorry for Summit City!"
THEY were interrupted by the sharp ring of the telephone.
Bolton picked up the instrument, and Gale could hear the voice of the police headquarters switchboard operator: "Chief Bolton, it's Captain Slocum on the wire. He's trying to locate Commissioner Orth, but he can't find him; so he wishes to speak to you."
"Put him on," said Bolton. He glanced up at Gale, whose lips were thin and tight.
"Damn that girl!" said Gillian Gale.
In a moment, Captain Slocum came on the wire. Bolton held the receiver a little away from his ear, so that Gale could hear, too.
"Bolton!" Captain Slocum'a voice came barking out of the phone. "Gill knocked me out and escaped. He was aided and abetted by that Payne girl. Put out an alarm for her. I'm going over to her apartment with a squad of men. When Commissioner Orth gets in, tell him I'll be back shortly!"
Slocum didn't wait for an acknowledgment, but hung up at once.
Gillian Gale said, "How does a police captain dare to talk to his chief like that?"
Bolton spread his hands helplessly. "I'm only a figurehead here. I've served as chief of police under five administrations—and under five different commissioners. But Alonzo Firmin runs the city to suit himself. He had Orth elected commissioner, and Orth has appointed all the key men under me. I can't even make an appointment of my own. The inspectors and captains are all Orth's men. I want to help you, Gale, but there's little that I can do."
"You can appoint me captain of detectives. Just till morning. Leave the rest to me."
"I can't even do that. Gale. Under a recent ruling of Orth's, no appointment may be made by me to a rank higher than first-grade patrolman, unless countersigned by the commissioner."
Gale leaned over the desk. "Suppose," he asked, "that Commissioner Orth were temporarily out of the picture? Suppose that he were disabled or out of town. Who would be in charge of the police department?"
Bolton's eyes narrowed. "I would. I could run the department to suit myself, until Alonzo Firmin appointed another commissioner."
Gale gave him a wide grin. "Consider yourself in charge, then. Orth is out of the picture."
Bolton's eyes snapped with eagerness. "You're sure?"
"Dead sure! Don't ask me why or how. Take my word for it."
Chief Bolton smiled. "Looks bad for Summit City." he said. He pressed a buzzer on his desk, and a secretary came in.
"Make out an official appointment order," he directed the secretary, "appointing Gillian Gale captain of detectives, to take effect as of noon today!"
WHILE they waited for the typed document. Gale picked up the phone and called the Summit City Hotel.
"Has a Miss Laura Drake registered there?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," the clerk told him. "She's right here at the desk, checking in now."
"Put her on."
In a moment he was talking to Laura Payne. "Your friend, whose life you saved," he told her bitterly, "is out and on the warpath. He's at your apartment now. I hope you covered your trail thoroughly."
"I did." she said. "I'm sure I did."
"What room have you got?"
"Room 1116."
"All right. Go upstairs, and double-lock the door. Open for no one!"
"Will you come soon?"
"Not for a while. I have work to do. Sit tight." He hung up, just as the secretary returned with the typed order, in quadruplicate.
"Here you are," Bolton said, signing one of the copies after the secretary had left. "Now you're a captain of detectives—but Heaven knows for how long. As soon as Firmin hears of this, he'll break me and have your appointment rescinded. Whatever it is you want to do you'll have to do it fast. And you better not lose out. If you lose, you die. Firmin will have no mercy—for you or for me."
Gale folded the appointment and put it in his pocket.
"Now," he said, "there's something else. My brother, Roger, was convicted of the murder of Edmond Payne. The bullet found in Payne's body checked with Roger's gun. Have you got that bullet?"
Bolton nodded. He went to the huge safe in the side wall of the room, and came back with an envelope. It was marked:
People vs. Gale—Exhibit A.
Underneath the caption was a signed statement which Gale read swiftly:
I, Conrad Marchesson, M. D., coroner of Summit County, do hereby certify that this envelope contains the bullet extracted by me from the body of Edmond Payne, deceased this 25th day of May.
Signed, Conrad Marchesson.
"Who is this Marchesson?" Gale asked.
Bolton made a wry face. "Firmin got him elected county coroner. He's always been Firmin's man."
The new detective chief nodded.
"I see," said Gale. "And it's this slug which convicted my brother?"
"More than anything else. Ballistics found it was fired from your brother's gun. There's no doubt of that. I smelled a rat somewhere, when the case broke, and I stood by while the slug was being tested, from the minute Marchesson handed it over to us."
"Yet you don't believe Roger killed Edmond Payne?"
"Roger Gale never killed him," Bolton said vigorously. "He and Payne were too close. And if Laura Payne believes your brother innocent, then I certainly do. Roger was framed, all right."
Gale shot his next question:
"What about Waxey Klebber? Could he have done it?"
"Very likely!"
"All right," said Gillian Gale. "I'll be looking him up. In the meantime, I'll depend on you to cover me. See how long you can keep my appointment valid."
"Firmin will be burning up the wire in a few minutes," Bolton said. "But I'll do my best."
"Good enough!" Gale said grimly.
Bolton walked to the door with him. "Good luck, Gillian Gale!" he whispered.
OUT on the main floor, a number of plain-clothes detectives, and several uniformed sergeants were clustered around the bulletin board, reading the newly posted order. They were whispering excitedly among themselves.
When Gale came out, a hush fell over them. They looked at him as if he were some strange specimen imported for the zoo.
A skinny little fellow, with sandy hair and a pug nose detached himself from the group and moved over to intercept Gale. He was carrying one of the new compact flashlight cameras with the flash bulb built into the box.
"Excuse me, Mr. Gale," he said. "I'm Freddie Mercer, police reporter on the Summit City Sun. I see you've just been appointed captain of detectives. How about an interview?"
"Sure!" said Gale. "What do you want to know?"
Freddie Mercer had a pad and pencil out and was scribbling, with the camera hanging by a strap over his shoulder. Everybody on the floor was silent as a tomb, listening with straining ears for every word they could catch.
"Your name is Gillian Gale," the sandy-haired reporter said. "Are you any relation of Roger Gale, who is now in the county prison awaiting execution?"
"His brother."
The escaping breath from a dozen throats was clearly audible. Only the sandy-haired Freddie Mercer seemed unperturbed. "Do you expect to remain permanently on the Summit City police force?"
"No!"
"Then you have a specific job to do?"
"Yes!"
"May I tell the readers of the Sun the nature of that job?"
"Sure! You may tell them"—Gale spoke deliberately in a loud and clear voice which reached to everyone on the floor—"you may tell them that I'm going to take their fair city and turn it inside out and shake it until one murderer falls out—the murderer who killed Edmond Payne. I'm going to put the finger on that murderer in order to clear my brother. And I'm going to do it if I have to exterminate every rat in this city."
"Oh, boy!" Freddie Mercer exclaimed ecstatically. "Will this wow them, or won't it?"
He tore a page from the pad and stuffed it in his pocket, then started scribbling on the next.
"One more question, Mr. Gale. Where are you going to start on this campaign of extermination?"
"Watch my smoke," said Gale, "and you'll find out!"
He started to push past the reporter, but Freddie Mercer got hold of his sleeve. "How about letting me tag along, Mr. Gale? How about giving me a scoop—"
"Who owns the Summit City Sun?" Gale asked.
There was a funny glint in Freddie Mercer's blue eyes. "Alonzo Firmin owns it."
Gale laughed harshly. "There's your answer. Do you think I want you on my tail—reporting every move I make to your boss?"
Gale started walking swiftly toward the exit, not even glancing at the men who watched him. But Freddie Mercer clung to his sleeve.
"I promise to keep everything confidential till you give the word, captain. I promise on my honor."
Gale laughed. "You don't look like a crook yourself. But you work for a crook."
"You can trust me, captain," Freddie Mercer gasped, almost running to keep up with Gale. "Look at this. It'll prove you can trust me!"
Gale glanced down at the slip of paper which Mercer tore from the pad and thrust at him. He read the single line scribbled on it, and stopped short. On the sheet Mercer had written:
Commissioner Orth must be awful cramped, down in that sedan!
Gale slowly crushed the paper in his hand. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw the dozen or so policemen and detectives watching him like hawks. He looked down at the impudently grinning Freddie Mercer.
"So you found Orth in the car! I suppose you phoned it in to your paper?"
"Nix!" grinned Mercer. "I left him just where he was, and I came right in here. I smelled hot stuff. Listen, Captain Gale—I've been waiting for a long time for something tike this to break. I'd almost given up hope of ever busting up Firmin's combination in this town. I'm a reporter at heart, and I've got a yen to turn in some red-hot news. The Sun won't print it. But I can get a job on any other paper in the State if I have the inside track with you. I'll play ball—all the way!"
GALE studied him speculatively. "This is a dangerous game. Freddie. I stand every chance of losing. If we lose. Firmin will have your life."
"I'll take the chance!" Freddie Mercer said.
"O. K.. then. Come along!"
He hurried out, with Mercer at his heels.
In the alley, he unlocked the car and motioned Mercer in. He threw a single hasty glance at Orth. and found that the commissioner was conscious again, but helpless with his wrists bound and his mouth gagged.
Freddie Mercer giggled ecstatically, and turned his camera down on the commissioner. He snapped the lever, and the flash bulb exploded, giving him a perfect picture.
"Boy, oh boy! What a story this will make—with pix!"
"If you live to write it!" Gale told him grimly.
While Freddie busied himself with screwing in a new flash bulb. Gale tooled the car out of the parking space and headed east, across town. He had the map of Summit City clearly in his head, and he knew just where he wanted to go.
On the way across, he turned on the short-wave radio and caught the calls from headquarters. They both listened, and Freddie Mercer grinned as he heard the police announcer's rather bewildered voice:
"General order to all precincts: In the absence of Commissioner Orth. Chief Bolton has taken temporary charge of all police administrative duties. All officers arc ordered to co-operate fully with Gillian Gale, newly appointed captain of detectives—"
Freddie Mercer turned around and looked over the seat, into the rear compartment, where Orth lay. "Hear that, commish? You got a new captain of detectives—like it or not!"
Orth didn't answer, because he couldn't.
Gale kept on driving steadily, till they reached the river.
At the edge of town, on the Summit River, he pulled up a block away from the low, bleak county morgue building, and parked.
"Do I go in with you?" Mercer asked.
"No! You stay right here. See if you can find a robe or blanket to cover Orth with. If anybody comes nosing around, drive away, and meet me in an hour at the Summit City Hotel. Keep the motor running. I may come out in a hurry."
"How long will you be in there?"
"What I have to do shouldn't take more than ten minutes. If I'm not out in that time, go away. Scram! Get out of town. It'll mean I've flopped."
He gave. Mercer no further explanation, but left him in the car and walked swiftly to the morgue building. The morgue itself was downstairs in the vaulted basement, but Gale did not go there. Instead he consulted the directory and found that the county coroner's office was in Room 2.
A gray-haired attendant asked him whom he wanted to see.
"Is Coroner Marchesson in?"
"Yes! But you'll have to be announced—"
"It's all right." said Gale. "Official business." He flashed his badge and brushed past the attendant. Room 2 was on the left. He pushed the door open without knocking and went in.
Doctor Conrad Marchesson was talking on the telephone. He was a short, plump man of forty, with soft white hands. His forehead was high and round, and his hair was thin, barely covering a shining dome.
He looked up from the phone and frowned at Gale; then he said into the phone: "Hold on just a minute, Mr. Firmin—"
He covered the mouthpiece with a pudgy hand and rasped at Gale: "Don't you believe in knocking? What do you want?"
Gale had stiffened at the sound of Firmin's name. He bared his teeth, and took a quick step over to the desk. The automatic came out of his pocket and poked into Marchesson's chest.
"Yee-ee!" yelled the coroner and went over backward, dragging phone and all with him. He toppled over with his chair, and the phone flew from his hand.
Gale calmly went around the desk and picked up the instrument. He put the receiver to his ear and heard Alonzo Firmin's voice: "Marchesson! What's happened? Mar—"
Gale replaced the receiver on the hook and put the phone down. He turned around just in time to see Dr. Marchesson scrambling to his feet and clawing a revolver out of his back pocket.
Gale took the doctor's wrist in his hand, yanked it out with the gun and twisted. Marchesson yelled, again, and dropped the revolver.
"That's better," said Gale.
The coroner was gasping for breath and holding on to his sprained wrist.
"W-what's the meaning of this?"
Gale flashed his shield. "I'm arresting you, Dr. Conrad Marchesson, for perjury in connection with the trial of Roger Gale."
"Y-you're crazy. I've never seen you before. You're not a police officer!"
Gale took his official appointment out of his pocket and held it for the other to read.
Dr. Marchesson's plumpish face became even whiter than before.
"Roger Gale's brother! This is mad. Bolton had no right to appoint you—"
"There it is," said Gale. "Right or not right. And I'm arresting you."
Marchesson recovered a little of his poise. He shrugged, grinning nastily.
"All right. I don't know what's behind it all. But you won't get very far. Mr. Firmin heard something happening here. He'll send police. There'll probably be a radio car at the door as we go out."
"You don't understand, Marchesson," Gale told him softly, hefting the automatic. "We're not going out."
"Not going out? Then you—you're nor arresting me?"
"Yes, I'm arresting you. But unfortunately, you are going to attempt to resist arrest." He nodded toward the gun on the floor. "It will be very unfortunate. I shall have to shoot you for resisting arrest. You will be dead."
Marchesson shrank back from the cold, merciless gleam in Gillian Gale's eyes.
"You're mad! You—It would be murder!"
"Call it anything you like, Marchesson. They're going to murder my brother tomorrow. They found a way to do it legally. I've found a way to murder legally, too. I'm an officer of the law. You see, Marchesson, everything will be quite in order."
"B-but why should you want to kill me? Why—"
"You know damned well why, doctor."
He reached out and grabbed a handful of the coroner's coat in his left hand, then he thrust the automatic against his chest. "And now you are going to resist arrest. Here goes—"
"Wait! Wait!" the fat man screamed. He began to blubber. "D-don't kill me. I'll do anything—anything!"
Gale's eyes flickered. "All right. Tell me about the bullet."
"What bullet?"
Gale sighed. "You were just wasting my time. You only gave yourself a minute more of life." He pressed the muzzle harder against the man's chest.
"Yes, yes!" Marchesson screamed again. "I know! I'll talk! The bullet ... I switched bullets." The words tumbled out on top of one another in his frantic eagerness to prevent Gale from pulling the trigger of the automatic. "I substituted a bullet from your brother's gun for the one I took from Payne's body?"
"Who really killed him?"
"I don't know. As God is my witness, I don't know. They never told me."
"Where's the bullet you took out of Payne?"
"I gave it to Firmin."
Gale's eyes were hard and bright. He removed the automatic from Marchesson's chest. He picked up the chair and righted it in front of the desk, then he thrust the coroner down into it and pointed to the pen.
"Write it out—fast!" he ordered.
Marchesson was shaking so that the lines he wrote were wavy and uncertain. But he wrote quickly.
When he was finished, he dropped the pen as if he had palsy and looked up at Gale with quivering lips.
"There, you devil. You have what you want. Now let me go."
Gale picked up the document. He read through it swiftly and nodded. He slipped it into his pocket.
Marchesson pushed up to his feet. "Now, you've got what you want. Go away!"
Gale grinned. "So you can recant it the first chance you get? Claim I forced you to sign it under threat of death? You know damned well that I couldn't use this in a court of law."
"Then why did you make me write it?"
"You'll find out, doctor—soon enough. Come along!"
He got a grip on Marchesson's coat collar and shoved him ahead of him, out of the room. In the corridor, the aged attendant stared at them with mouth agape, but he did not offer to interfere.
Dr. Marchesson regained a little of his courage, and shouted to the attendant: "Call Alonzo Firmin. Tell him Roger Gale's brother—a police captain—"
That was all he got a chance to say, because Gale shook him like a rat, so that the breath was pounded out of him. Gale literally dragged him out into the street, and several passing pedestrians stopped to watch.
Marchesson raised his voice and yelled: "Help! Murder!"
The passers-by might have interfered, but just then Freddie Mercer, who had seen Gale come out, tooled the police sedan up to the door, and the onlookers saw the police shield on the radiator.
"Aw," said someone in the crowd. "It's just a guy getting arrested!"
Gale pushed Marchesson in the back seat, over the wriggling figure of Commissioner Orth, and got in with him. "Get going!" he ordered.
Freddie Mercer giggled, and sent the car forward. It was getting dark, and he had to put on the headlights.
"Where to, captain?" he asked over his shoulder.
"BACK to police headquarters," Gale told him. "I want to leave these two babies with Chief Bolton—"
He was interrupted by the sudden code buzz of the short-wave radio. In a second, the police announcer's voice followed:
"Attention Car 14: Go to city morgue. Coroner Marchesson in trouble. Look out for Gillian Gale. He is dangerous, and armed. When last seen was wearing blue serge suit with red-and-orange striped tie. Shoot to kill! I will repeat—"
While the announcer was repeating the message, Freddie Mercer kept driving mechanically and cursing under his breath.
"Something must have gone wrong," he said over his shoulder to Gale. "If Chief Bolton is working with you, why would he be putting you on the spot?"
Gillian Gale frowned.
Almost at once, the police announcer began another message:
"Attention, all precincts and cars: Official orders. Council President Alonzo Firmin has removed Chief John Bolton from office on a charge of malfeasance; namely, of aiding and abetting a fugitive from justice. Gillian Gale, who has been identified as the hold-up man and killer now being hunted. Council President Alonzo Firmin has named Captain Ernest Slocum acting chief of police. All previous orders of former Chief Bolton are to be disregarded. All cars are instructed to be on the lookout for Gillian Gale—"
"OH, Lord!" gasped Freddie Mercer. "That's just like Firmin. He's got a chain-lightning mind—and he moves just as fast. What now, Mr. Gale?"
"Pull up to the curb!" Gale ordered harshly.
Freddie obeyed and brought the car to a stop under the lee of a darkened warehouse.
Marchesson said venomously: "Well, Mr. Gale, what are you going to do about that? Am I still under arrest? Where's your authority now?"
"Here's my authority!" said Gale, bringing his bunched fist up in a short but terrific jab to the point of Marchesson's jaw.
The coroner's head snapped back with the blow, and his teeth clicked together with a sound like the clack of castanets. Marchesson stiffened up for a second, and then doubled over in the seat, toppling sideways against Gale.
Gale lowered him to the floor and bent over him, working swiftly. As in the case of Orth. he removed the coroner's belt and shoelaces, with which he tied and gagged him. Then he went over Orth's bonds, once more, to make sure they were intact.
Freddie Mercer had turned around, and was watching him intently.
"I take it from what you're doing, Mr. Gale, that you don't concede that you're licked yet?"
"No!" Gale told him grimly. "But from here on the going will be very tough. You can clear out of this now if you want."
"Not a chance," said Freddie. "I wouldn't miss this for a case of Scotch. And besides, my goose is cooked, anyway. I can't back out. Orth and Marchesson know I've been working with you. Which makes my finish if you don't win out."
"I'll fix that for you." Gale said. "Drive back to the river. We'll send the car over the edge of the embankment, with Orth and Marchesson in it. Dead, they can't tell Firmin what you've been doing."
Freddie Mercer became a little pale. He gulped. "You ... you mean to kill them in cold blood?"
"Why not? They'd cut your throat if you put a knife in their hands."
Orth was squirming around desperately, underneath the dead weight of Marchesson's unconscious body. His eyes were no longer venomous. They were frightened and pleading.
"Wait a minute," Gale said to Freddie. "I think Orth wants to say something."
He bent over and took the gag out of the commissioner's mouth.
"Good heavens!" Orth gasped as soon as he could get his mouth working. "You can't murder us like that, Gale. Haven't you got a spark of mercy in your heart?"
"Sure! The same kind of mercy you're handing my brother. If he hangs tomorrow, at least I'll have the satisfaction of knowing that you're at the bottom of the river."
"Just give me a chance. I'll help. I'll do anything I can to help your brother. I've got nothing to gain from Firmin any more. He's through with me. He'll sacrifice me, anyway, to whitewash his administration. I might as well throw in with you. Just give me a chance—"
"What kind of chance do you want? How can you help? Do you know who killed Payne?"
"Waxey Klebber did it. He was a fool and kept his gun. That's why he's so anxious to get it back."
"You're lying. That gun couldn't convict Waxey of the murder of Payne. Marchesson switched bullets."
He looked up and saw that Freddie Mercer was taking everything down in shorthand.
Suddenly his eyes switched from Freddie, to a police radio car which came cruising down the street from the opposite direction. It had just turned the far corner, and was coming toward them. He saw it slow up as its headlights flashed their sedan, illuminating the police shield on the radiator.
Freddie Mercer turned and saw it at the same time. "Nuts!" he said. "I guess this is the end—"
"No it isn't!" Gillian Gale barked. "Get going!"
Freddie shrugged. "Might as well be cooked for hash as for spinach!"
He threw the gear shift into first and sent the car lurching forward.
The police coupe was almost abreast of them, and the policeman next to the driver was opening his door to come out and investigate. The man was not prepared for the sudden forward lurch of the sedan. They sped past like a rocket, and gears clashed and grated as Freddie shifted from first to second, then to high. They were at the corner before the police coupe got itself turned around, and Freddie kept going like a bat out of hell, turning corner after corner on two wheels, until they had lost the radio car completely.
At last he slowed up and took a deep breath. They were in a dark and scrubby part of the city, near the gas works.
"What are we gonna do now?" Freddie demanded. "We can't keep dodging cops all night."
"Pull into the gas-company parking space over there," Gale directed.
Freddie did so. He switched off the ignition and turned off the lights. There were only four or five cars in the parking space, belonging to the night crew of the gas company.
Gale put the gag back on Orth, then motioned Freddie out of the car. He threw a robe over Orth and Marchesson, turned up the windows most of the way and locked the doors.
"We'll leave them here. There's little chance of their being found before morning."
"It's seven o'clock," Freddie said. "Your brother hangs at dawn. You have less than twelve hours to go—"
"Twelve hours is too much now," Gale told him. "Inside of an hour, we'll be sitting on top of this town—or six feet under it!"
At the next corner, they caught a trolley car, and rode it south to Center Street. Then they got off and walked two blocks to the Summit City Hotel, mingling with the home-going crowds.
Freddie Mercer was watching, lynx-eyed, and he spotted a heavy-faced, husky man standing at the corner.
"That's one of Slocum's special service men!" he said. "Slocum has a couple dozen of them. They're all mugs with criminal records, who get protection here in town. In return, they do Fir-min's dirty work."
Gale's eyes narrowed. "If he's waiting here, it may mean they've traced Laura Payne to this hotel. Come on! Snap it up!"
They crossed the street to avoid the watching thug and entered the hotel through the side entrance.
They stopped for a moment while Freddie Mercer gave the lobby the once-over to make sure there were no more watchers in sight. Then they hurried across and entered the elevator.
They got off at the eleventh floor, and Gale rapped sharply at the door of Room 1116.
There was no answer. Freddie Mercer shifted nervously. "Do you think they could have got to her already?"
Gale rapped again. He put his mouth close to the door and called, "Open up. Laura. This is Gale."
ALMOST at once the door came open. Gale started to come in, with the diminutive Freddie Mercer close behind him.
And then Gillian Gale stopped short.
It was not Laura Payne in the doorway. It was Alonzo Firmin!
Firmin had a revolver in his hand, and it was pointing straight at Gale's stomach. His lips were twisted into a dangerous smile.
"How do you do, Mr. Gillian Gale," he said. "I knew you'd come here sooner or later! Won't you step in?"
Firmin hadn't seen Freddie Mercer, because Gale's bulk blocked off the little newspaperman. But Gale could see past Firmin, who stepped a little to one side so Gale could come in.
A little muscle in the side of Gale's cheek twitched at what he saw inside the room. Waxey Klebber was there, alongside the bed. Laura Payne was spread-eagled on the bed, and most of the clothes had been ripped off her. Waxey was doing something to one of her legs, with a pocket knife.
Firmin saw the look in Gale's eyes, and his voice hardened. His finger tightened just the least bit on the trigger of his revolver.
"I said to come in. Gale. Or I'll shoot you now! You're a fugitive from justice, you know."
From behind Gale there was a sudden blinding flash.
Freddie Mercer had side-stepped out from behind Gale and had snapped a picture of Alonzo Firmin with the gun in his hand—and of that portion of the room behind, which was visible past him.
Freddie Mercer hugged the camera and started to run with it.
"You dirty rat!" Firmin yelled.
He stepped back and swung his gun after Mercer. And Gillian Gale, with a set smile on his face, smashed the edge of his hand down upon Firmin's wrist.
He came into the room with a rush, gripping Firmin by the throat.
Waxey Klebber was swinging around, having exchanged his knife for a gun, but Gale gave him no chance to shoot. He sent Firmin hurtling into Klebber, and the two of them catapulted against the bedstead, struggling to hold their balance.
Gale brought the automatic out of his pocket, and covered them.
"Drop the gun, Waxey," he said softly.
Waxey was a little behind Firmin. He had his gun halfway up, and he might have tried to shoot it out with Gale. But he saw the dark intensity of Gale's eyes, and slowly opened his fingers, letting the gun fall to the floor.
Almost at once, another flash bulb exploded in the doorway.
"Wow!" said Freddie Mercer. "This is gonna turn the city upside down. Mr. Firmin, I hereby resign from the Summit City Sun. With these pix and this story, I can get a job anywhere in the State!"
"Close the door," Gale said, matter-of-factly.
He kept Waxey and Firmin covered and looked over to the bed, where Laura Payne lay, spread-eagled, with her wrists and ankles tied to the four posts of the bed.
"What have they been doing to you. Laura?" he asked.
There were long, painful-looking gashes down the length of her left leg. He looked up from those gashes to Waxey Klebber, and Waxey started to back away from him.
Laura Payne smiled weakly. "They've been trying to make me tell where Waxey's gun is. They guessed that you gave it to me. I ... I didn't tell."
Gale heard Freddie Mercer utter an exclamation behind him, and he turned. Freddie slammed the door shut quickly.
"Wow!" he exclaimed. "Here comes Slocum! With a mob. They're not regular cops. It's those gorillas of his!"
"Not bad." Gale said, looking at Firmin. "You had this figured out nicely. We were supposed to walk right into this trap, and then Slocum was supposed to come up after us and bottle us up. Only it didn't work out just that way!"
Firmin smiled deprecatingly. "I should have shot you in the doorway. That was my mistake. Now I'll make a deal with you. You and Mercer and Laura Payne can go out of here free. In return I get Waxey's gun."
"Why do you want Waxey's gun so badly?"
Firmin shrugged. "What's the difference? Is it a deal?"
"What about my brother?"
"I can't do anything about him. He's been convicted."
Freddie Mercer had been busy untying Laura Payne. She wound a bed sheet about herself, to cover her torn dress; then she came and stood beside Gale.
"Where did you hide that gun. Laura?" he asked her.
"You'd never guess!" she said. She went to the window and started to pull in the aerial cord, which ran from the radio on the night table. She pulled in about two feet of it, and there, tied to the end of it, was her handbag.
Firmin said. "Well, I'll be damned!"
Laura Payne opened the bag and took out Manfredo's wallet and the two guns which Gale had taken from Waxey and Kip.
"This one is Waxey's," she said, handing him one with a rose-colored stock.
Gale kept Waxey and Firmin covered with the automatic, while he examined the revolver, holding it in his other hand. He spun the cylinder, and frowned. "It's fully loaded. Ready to use." He looked up, studying Klebber. "You wouldn't be such a fool. Waxey, as to carry around a gun with which you had killed someone, would you?"
Firmin looked tense at the question, and Waxey dropped his eyes. "Figure it out for yourself!" he snarled.
"No," said Gale. "You're going to tell me."
He handed his automatic to Freddie Mercer. "Keep Firmin covered," he ordered. He took a step forward and came up close to Waxey, holding the revolver less than ten inches from Waxey's face.
"A little of your own medicine, my friend. The same medicine you were dishing out to Laura Payne. Think you can take it as well as give it?"
Waxey was a little frightened. But he kept up his bravado. "I ain't talkin'!"
He tried to duck the swiping blow with the gun barrel, but Gale hit too swiftly. The muzzle raked his cheek open in a long gash. He yelled and jumped backward.
Gale came after him, raising the gun for another blow.
And just then he was interrupted by a terrific pounding at the door.
"Open up in there!" Captain Slocum bellowed from outside. "Open up, or we'll come in shooting!"
To the accompaniment of his bellowed order, Slocum and his men kept pounding at the door with their gun butts. Everybody in the room turned to face the door. And at the same instant, the side door from Room 1118 was thrust violently open. Two thugs raced in, guns blasting. The sole purpose of Slocum's shouts had been to divert attention from that side door.
The first shots of the two thugs were wild, because it took them a second to focus on their target and to make sure they wouldn't hit Alonzo Firmin. And that second was all that Gillian Gale needed. He leaped forward and straight-armed Laura Payne out of the line of fire, onto the bed.
Even as he did so, he had Waxey's gun out in front of him, belching lead. He kept squeezing the trigger again and again, until the gun was empty. Subconsciously, as he fired, he counted the shots. There were five of them, and then the hammer clicked on a defective cartridge.
But he needed no more shots. The two gunmen were flat on the floor, with slugs in their heads.
Gale jumped over their bodies and slammed the connecting door shut. The room was thick with the stench of cordite and with the reverberating echoes of the thunder of the guns.
Gale swung away from the door just as Waxey Klebber came charging across the room at him with a long knife poised low for an upward slash. Klebber's eyes were fanatical with rage and hate. He was crouching low, and rushing forward. The knife was already coming up for the slash when Freddie Mercer fired from where he stood near the corridor door, covering Firmin. The shot missed and plowed into the wall.
Gale saw the knife blade coming up at his stomach and he side-stepped with a beautiful twisting motion that carried him just past the blade. The knife licked up, missing him by a fraction of an inch. Gale took another step backward and brought his right foot up. The point of his shoe smashed against Waxey's chin, and there was the terrible sound of cracking bone.
Waxey's eyes glazed, and he fell forward on his face.
Gale yanked the bed over in front of the connecting door as a barricade and turned to see Firmin and Freddie Mercer struggling for the gun in Freddie's hand. Firmin must have jumped him when he fired at Waxey. Laura Payne was standing tensely over them with a clubbed gun in her hand, which she had picked up from one of the fallen thugs, and waiting for a chance to strike.
Gale crossed the room grimly and got hold of Firmin by the collar, then seized his right wrist and twisted it behind him. He pulled up hard on the wrist, and Firmin gasped and stopped fighting. Gale hauled him to his feet.
Freddie Mercer wiped sweat from his face with the back of his hand.
Then he said, "Wow!" and yanked his camera up and snapped a picture of the whole room.
FROM outside came the voice of Captain Slocum once more.
"Mr. Firmin! You still alive?"
"Yes!" Firmin shouted. "They've got me. Use tear gas!"
"You others in there!" Slocum bellowed from the hall. "I'll give you two minutes to come out with your hands in the air, and Mr. Firmin unharmed, or we'll give you a dose of tear gas!"
But Gale wasn't listening. He was inspecting Waxey's empty gun, with a puzzled frown.
"There were six cartridges in here," he said. "But only five fired. I wonder—"
He broke the gun and held the trigger back while he turned the cylinder up to the chamber containing the defective cartridge. It was jammed, and he used Waxey's knife to pry it out.
Firmin, watching, suddenly said desperately, "Look here, Gale, don't bother with that. The two minutes are almost up. I'll promise to free your brother, too—somehow—"
He stopped talking, and let his voice die down to nothing. His eyes were fixed in fascination upon the thing that Gillian Gale was taking out of the cartridge. There was no powder in it. It was merely an empty shell. And inside the shell was a bit of tolled paper.
Gale unrolled the paper and held it low, so that Laura could also read what was written on it:
If this is ever found, it'll mean that I'm dead or that Firmin has crossed me. This is a confession. I'm the guy that shot Edmond Payne, Firmin told me to do it. He got a cartridge from Roger Gale's gun, and made Marchesson switch them. I'm writing this confession because I figure Firmin may try to wipe me out sometime. I told Firmin about this confession, but I didn't tell him where it is; so he'll be interested in keeping me alive. Alonzo Firmin is as guilty as I am.
Joseph Waxey Klebber.
Gale's eyes were glittering as he raised his glance to Firmin's.
"So that's why Waxey was so anxious to get the gun back! And when he couldn't make me fork it up, he went to you and told all, so you'd help him recover it!"
Alonzo Firmin licked his lips. "We can still do business, Gale. I'll turn Waxey Klebber in as the murderer of Payne, and your brother will go free. And I'll pay you plenty of money. I could raise a million if I had to—"
Once more they heard Slocum. He was just the other side of the door.
"All right, Gale. The two minutes are up. It's your last chance—"
"Ah!" said Gillian Gale.
He snatched the automatic from Freddie Mercer and sent Alonzo Firmin staggering backward with a shove of his chest. Then he slipped open the catch which locked the door and put his hand on the knob.
"All right," Slocum was saying, still close to the door. "Here comes the tear gas—"
Gillian Gale yanked hard on the door and pulled it open.
Captain Slocum jumped erect on the other side. He had a tear-gas gun in one hand and a revolver in the other. Almost a dozen thugs were in the ball, some at the stairs, others at the elevators, to keep people off the floor.
Slocum was taken aback by the sudden opening of the door. He brought the revolver up, his finger tightening on the trigger.
And Gillian Gale, with his mouth set hard and straight, shot him between the eyes.
The gunmen in the corridor were stunned by the suddenness with which the thing had happened. For the moment they were left without a leader. There was no one to give them an order.
Gillian Gale offered them no chance to organize. He sprang back into the room, and almost before Slocum's body had hit the floor, he had Alonzo Firmin firmly grasped by the arm, with his automatic pressed against the political boss' ribs.
"Follow me out!" he said to Freddie Mercer and Laura Payne.
He pushed Firmin along out into the hall.
The thugs were crowding toward the doorway, with guns in their fists. But when they saw Gale appear once more, with Firmin in his grip, they slowed up. But they did not give ground.
"All right, you rats," Gale told them. "The show is over. Firmin is under arrest for murder. Summit City is going to be cleaned out. I advise you to be out of town before midnight."
"Don't listen to him!" Firmin shouted. He tried to squirm out of Gale's grip. He was desperate now seeing his whole empire of graft and power crumbling before his eyes—and himself facing prosecution for murder.
"Get him—"
Gillian Gale slid the automatic along Firmin's side, so that the barrel was against his ribs, and fired once.
The bullet burned Firmin's side, and the jar of the exploding gun against his ribs shook the breath out of him. The slug spanged into the metal elevator shaft and ricocheted down the hall. Firmin was not wounded, but the words were jarred out of him and his voice broke.
One of the thugs said, "Hell, let's take this guy—" Gale shot the man in the leg, and the fellow yelped and crumpled to the floor. At the same instant, Freddie Mercer touched off another of his flashlight bulbs, and took a picture of everybody in the corridor.
"I got all you mugs in the picture!" he shouted, above the echo of the gunshot. Then he pulled Laura Payne with him and ducked back into the room, shutting the door.
THE thugs glanced at each other. They were disheartened and frightened. One of their number was wounded already. Gale would certainly get more of them if they tried to stop him. And besides, their pictures were in that camera. Even if they downed Gale, there might be the law to face. Slowly they began to fade away toward the stairs.
Firmin had regained his breath. "You fools!" he shouted. "Come back and fight. I'll make everything all right. I'll pay—"
Gale pressed the muzzle of the automatic against the side of his neck. "One more word does it for you now, Firmin!"
Firmin became silent.
And the next moment the hall was empty of gunmen. They were like the rats Gale had called them. The ship was sinking, and they were on their way.
Gale grunted. He led Firmin back to Room 1116. "Open up, Freddie," he called. Mercer pulled the door open, and Gale pushed Firmin in.
Laura Payne was waiting just inside the door, with anxious eyes, one hand at her throat.
"That was wonderful," she said. "I mean—how you faced those thugs!"
Gale waved her to the phone. "Get Chief Bolton on the wire. He's probably at home."
In a minute he had Bolton on the phone. "You can come out of retirement," he said. "The police department is yours. Better get up here quick—with as many honest men as you can muster. And send a couple of boys over to the gas-company parking lot. Take Orth and Marchesson into custody. With their testimony to tie up with what I've got here, it's in the bag. Firmin swings for murder instead of Roger!"
Alonzo Firmin was straightening his coat and tie once more.
"Well, Gale," he said, "you win. You've battered your way through. I never thought it could be done." He got up from his chair and moved to the window.
"Sit down!" Gale growled.
Firmin smiled. "I don't like hanging, Gale. Surely you won't deny me one last favor."
He took a quick step and threw one leg over the window sill.
Gale made no move to stop him.
Laura Payne gasped, "He's going to jump!"
Gale still made no move to interfere.
"Thank you," said Firmin. "You've licked me. But I'm not the kind to quit without striking back. I'm going! But it's going to cost you everything you've fought for today."
"What do you mean?" asked Gale.
Firmin put the other leg over the sill. "I mean just this. If I stay here and wait to be arrested. Waxey's confession will surely hang me and exonerate your brother. But if I can give the impression that you killed me so that I wouldn't be able to defend myself, then Waxey's confession will be regarded with doubt. They'll think you framed it to free your brother, and then got me out of the way so as to make it easier."
"I see." said Gale. He didn't move. His face was set and hard.
Laura Payne stammered: "What does he mean. Gill? I don't understand."
"You'll understand in a moment my dear young lady," Firmin said with a smile. "Gale knows what I intend to do. And he can't stop me. I hear people coming now."
There was the sound of the elevator door opening and closing, and of excited voices in the corridor. People were coming up. Probably police, probably the hotel management. The voices drew nearer.
Alonzo Firmin drew in a deep breath. Then he raised his voice in a loud, strident scream that carried into the corridor. "Help! Help! They're throwing me out the window. They framed me—"
Then he leaned far out and jumped.
At that very instant, there was another blinding flash from Freddie Mercer's camera. Freddie lowered the camera from his eye. His face was flushed and strained.
"I got it!" he gasped. "I got the picture of him jumping. It'll prove he wasn't thrown out!"
"Well," said Gale, "Firmin was a fighter, anyway. At least he'll never know his last try was a fumble!"
He went across to the bed where Laura Payne lay. She had fainted as Firmin jumped.
People were pounding at the door again, but Gale didn't open it.
"Let them pound." he told Freddie, "till Bolton gets here."
He got a towel, wet it, and applied it to Laura's forehead. She opened her eyes.
"It's all right, Laura," he said. "Firmin's trick didn't work. Your father's murderer has paid up. The other one"—he jerked his head at Waxey Klebber, who was still unconscious—"will hang. Roger goes free. You get your man. And Freddie gets his story."
"Wow!" said Freddie Mercer. "What a story—with pix!"
Roy Glashan's Library
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