Dead End

11 —

ADDED TO EVERYTHING else, there wasn't any hot water. I had shaved with ice water and was holding a wet paper towel to my eyes, trying to come fully awake, when somebody threw a heavy arm on my shoulder, shouted, “Bucky Penn!”

The full impact of the child's death had finally hit me, leaving me very tired and in a kind of dumb rage. I kept thinking about Wyckoff, a guy who had gone all the way—adopted a baby, gave her everything, was willing to drop a million for her, and all the time she never had a chance: She'd been murdered immediately by these cold-blooded lice. I wasn't in the mood for greetings or arms on my shoulder. I swung around, muttering, “Take your damn hands off me!” Then I pulled the paper towel from my eyes and saw Ollie's smiling brown face.

We shook hands hard and he was still a muscle man. He told me he'd come in last night, with an uptown group on fly assignment. I said, “It's been a long time. How have you been?”

“It's your world, Bucky, I'm just in it,” Ollie said. “Isn't this a rough case? We kept a hands-off policy for too long. Wyckoff was crazy to believe the kidnappers would keep their word.”

“Everybody was playing it dumb, except the snatchers. I swear if I ever get my hands on 'em there won't be any need for a trial!”

Ollie stared at me, his wide face serious. He took off his shirt, his arm tremendous. As he started washing, he asked, “Have you been on the case long?”

“Since the start, night and day.”

“No wonder you're on edge.”

“That's got nothing to do with how I feel. Hell, poppa came through, didn't he? Why did they have to kill Joanie, never give her a break? I stumble on them, they'll come in D.O.A. and that's no line!”

“Still the same old Bucky,” Ollie said, reaching for a paper towel. I handed him a couple. “Still won't wait for the red light. When are you going to learn we can't be a cop and a judge, too?”

“Why go through the motions of a trial?” I asked, buttoning my shirt. “It was all so needless, so damn... brutal. They welshed with the child's life after they shook poppa down for a good score.”

“Dying is too good for them, but our job is simply to collar them. And that's going to be far from simple. Know what puzzled me? When the father made his first pay-off run, how could the kidnappers possibly know we had pulled out but the F.B.I. was still watching?”

“Who knows? Who cares?” I slipped on my tie, my coat, felt of my pockets, pulled out my wallet and gave it a fast check. I had a couple of hundred bucks. Doc had warned me it wasn't safe leaving stuff around the dormitory. “That's all old hat. Since they seem so damn clever, they might have put a tail on the F.B.I. All I know is I'd give a week's pay to work the bastards over!”

I smacked my fist against my wallet, my insides in a knot with the hatred I felt. I'd even said “bastards” without realizing it. Ollie was staring at the thick wad of money in my wallet. I put it away, slapped him on the back. “Guess I am jumpy—lost too much sleep. I meant to phone you when I read about you making detective. Nice work, bagging three stick-up punks in the act.”

Ollie started buttoning his white shirt. He must have worn a size twenty collar. “Luck. They were so jittery they nearly passed out. Anyway, I was happy I didn't have to shoot. You like being a dick, Bucky?”

“Sure.”

Ollie turned to watch himself in the mirror as he tied his bow tie. “Sometimes I think I was better off in uniform. Your post was your own little world; you knew everybody. My wife worries more. Say, how's... Elma?”

“Elma's great.” I lowered my voice. “Don't be a sap, Ollie. When you're in plain clothes you're on your own more, work a lot of angles.”

“I've been hearing about you, Bucky. And your partner—this Doc.”

“That was a break for me, teaming up with an old hand like Doc. He's...”

A voice behind us said, “You two elephants are blocking the washbowls. How about giving me a chance to clean up?”

I turned to see this kid, this Wintino, standing there with his shirt off. I said, “Go ahead. You look like you're still wet behind the ears anyway,” and moved off to one side with Ollie. For a second I thought the runt was going to tell me off.

I told Ollie, “Doc's really wised me up. Lot of stuff they never teach in detective school, like—well, like dressing modestly when you have to testify in court. You ought to meet him. He can put you straight.”

“Straight? That's a twist.”

“What you trying to say, Ollie?” I asked, starting to boil. I'd heard these cracks about Doc before, but never from a guy I liked. “Doc has been like a father to me.”

“Bucky, we've been pals since the academy days; that's why I'm saying this. Sure, I know you have a fast temper, but that's not the same as—”

“As what?” I cut in, staring at the coat Ollie was slipping into—probably fifty bucks with two pairs of pants. My custom suit cost three times that.

Ollie whispered, “I've been wanting to talk to you, and this is as good a chance as any. Everybody knows Doc has both hands on the take. He would have been kicked off the force years ago if he didn't have an 'in' downtown. But he's nothing to me. You... I don't like hearing a friend of mine is following in his footsteps.”

“Have you become a jackleg preacher in your spare time, Ollie? Mind your own business and let me handle mine! I'm doing okay.”

“Sorry I spoke up. I thought it was my business when a buddy winds up a chiseler with a badge. There, I hate to have said—”

I stepped in and banged him on the chin. He was too big for me; I only staggered him. Ollie stopped buttoning his coat. Those great arms came around me, crushing me like big snakes. Ollie said, almost sadly, “Your hands may be dirty, but they're still fast. Now relax, Bucky. Try that again and I'll break your arms off and beat your alleged brains out with 'em!”

I started to say I was sorry when this little jerk stepped in, said, “Come on, break it up.”

Ollie said, “We're only horsing around,” and let go of me. I turned on this Wintino, asked, “What's the matter, kid, you looking for a bruise?”

“From a great big mans like you?” he asked, mocking me.

I reached out to slap his fresh face and the ceiling fell on me. I knew I was sitting on the wet floor, that this little punk—I must have had at least forty pounds on him—had flattened me! The side of my jaw felt like it was sticking a mile out. Some guys were helping me to my feet. I said, “Let me alone,” and almost toppled over.

Doc's voice said, “Easy, son.” And I got his face into focus. He was holding one arm, Ollie the other. Wintino was washing up, and most of the other men were grinning at me. I tried to lunge at the runt, and Doc said tightly, “Goddamn it, cut it out! You want to get suspended!”

I was full of anger, disgust, and suddenly so tense I thought I'd explode. I shrugged, muttered, “Let's get out of here.” As Doc and I headed for the door, Ollie said, “Sorry I... I'm sorry, Bucky.”

“It's okay, Ollie,” I told him, my jaw hurting. “Forget it. Soon as this is over, we have to get together.”

“Right.”

“Tell your wife hello for me.”

“Same for Elma.”

Doc pulled me toward the steps, and as we walked down toward the squad room I said, “That runt can sure wallop.”

“Forget any roughhouse in here. We're all on edge. Bill Smith might boot you out of his squad.”

“Good; then I'll get some sleep.”

“I thought you were all fired up about catching the killers.”

“I am. That was dizzy talk. I was never kayoed before.”

“Get a hold of yourself. Forget that little wop back there. He got you with a lucky punch.”

“Stop talking about it.” I never heard Doc say “wop” before.

We had to wait around the squad room for a few minutes. When Lieutenant Smith came in he looked worse than I felt, his face lined and ashen. He passed around a rough snap of little Joanie, her mouth open, her eyes vacant, her thin neck nearly cut in half by a cruel piece of wire. For a few seconds the squad room was heavy with silence, then the low cursing, and it sounded like at least one man was sobbing.

That picture did it for me. I forgot the hurt in my jaw, my pride, became all anger.

Bill Smith's voice cut the silence with a rasping sound. “I don't have to tell you a thing. All the stops are out. Try to bring in the scum responsible for this, alive. Try real hard. They don't deserve a quick death. They're smart. They've pulled it off and we don't have any more identification than when we started. But they're two or three; we're over ten thousand. Every precinct is combing their area, every man is working on the case, as of now. We have this town sewed up tight, meaning the rats have to be holed up someplace. You men are free to go anyplace you think might furnish a lead. Go where you want; bust down doors, even if you're only working on a hunch. Forget warrants or any...” He rubbed a long hand over his tired face, which looked more like a death mask. “You're all experienced men. I don't have to warn you not to go hog-wild. But go out there. They have to be someplace within this damn city!” He took out his pipe, started to pack it. His voice was normal as he added, “And if you come up on anything—no matter how small the lead—notify me first. That's all.”

Outside, as I started our squad car, I noticed Ollie and Wintino, along with most of the others, were on leather. I thought to myself: Ollie and all his big talk—I'm riding. Hell with that, where's the kidnappers? Where haven't we looked?

Doc said, “Come on, kid. Let's go.”

“Where do you want to start?”

“With digestible food. The zoo cafeteria won't open for hours. Drive down to Kelly Street. There's a place there that may not have shut yet—real Turkish coffee and some—”

“Doc, forget coffee! Didn't you see that picture of the dead kid?”

Doc punched my thigh. “Yeah, I saw it. Easy, Bucky. I'd like to get the killers, too, but... You know where they are? We've been covering the same places for days now. Who knows?—the killers might like a decent cup of coffee, too.”

“I suppose one place is as good as another,” I said, cutting across town. “But if I find them I won't take it easy. The lousy punks!”

“A punk is a punk. Some kill for a dime, others for a million.”

“But why kill the child at all? They got what they wanted, down the line.”

“It follows the usual pattern. They had to kill little Joanie. A four-year-old is big enough to identify a man, or a woman.”

“Woman? No woman would kill a child.”

Doc gave me a tired grin. “You're a sentimentalist, Bucky. All toughs are. A woman can want a bundle of folding money as badly as any man.”

“Even so, a kid, practically a baby—how could her identification stand up in court?”

“Why not? Joanie would have been with somebody, say this tall man, for over three days—why wouldn't she be able to pick his picture out of the rogues' gallery? So she's a kid, can't be sure; she picks a dozen or two mug shots. We start investigating every one she picks out, and sooner or later we're going to come across something that doesn't check, then everything falls like a house of cards. Smith was right about this gang being clever—they're safe as long as we haven't any idea who they might be.”

“But to kill a child in cold blood... I couldn't do it.”

“And if the killing had been done in hot blood, say an over-hard slap to stop the kid's crying, done by a mother—is that any different, any better? Don't forget the penalty for a snatch—death. They had nothing to lose.”

“The devil with the penalty; I still couldn't do it,” I said, thinking: An adopted child, too.

We had coffee in a dump. The place Doc wanted was closed. In fact, by the middle of the afternoon I was soggy from the coffee and beers we were having on the cuff—Doc always insisted we lay off any hard stuff while we were working. The papers carried screaming headlines and the picture of the dead kid. Poppa had suffered a heart attack and was on the critical list. The whole town was raging mad. We asked and asked, looked and looked. Doc put the screws on his stoolies, but we didn't come up with a thing.

The effects of the kayo had disappeared, but I was keyed up, in a bad mood. Even Doc's chattering got on my nerves. Around noon he insisted on visiting the zoo and gave me a lecture in front of the gorilla cage. Then while we were eating he went off on what a cruel animal man is—that in many slaughterhouses hogs are hung on hooks while conscious, cut, and left to bleed slowly to death. How it would be more humane and cheaper to kill the animals with drugs or by mechanical means, since thousands of the beasts were so badly bruised they had to be thrown away and...

I finally cut him off with, “Doc, some other time. I'm too restless for the education pitch! Let's get back to work.”

“Let's. There's one guy in all this they haven't looked into—poppa.”

“You mean he strangled his own kid? That's loony talk!”

“Is it? Suppose he's in a tight financial hole—and remember when these big boys lose they drop a big chip. Let's say he needs a million to cover up. So he arranges a 'kidnapping' and —”

“And kills his own kid?”

“It would explain his not wanting the police around. As for the kid, she's adopted, and he could have been faced with doing time or...”

I got up from the table. “That's stupid talk. Don't you know folks love adopted kids better than their own flesh and blood? Let's get out of here.”

Late in the afternoon Doc said, “I'm bushed, and so are you. We'll knock off for a few hours and see Betty. Maybe she can make us a decent meal.”

“This isn't the time for goofing off.”

“Bucky, we're like a dog chasing his tail. I've seen my stoolies. They'd be glad to help, but they don't know a thing. A change of pace might help our thinking.”

“No.”

“Don't be a glory-hound, son. What more can we do? You think these slobs are going to be living it up at a bar, buying drinks on the house? I'm pooped and you're on edge; remember what happened at the station house this morning. We—”

“That runt Sunday-punched me. I didn't hit him.”

“That's what I mean. You tried to but didn't. Proves you're stale. Let me get some Canadian bacon, duck eggs, and cook a fine chow while you and Betty watch TV.” Doc let me have a corny wink.

“Stop it.”

“Bucky, I'm tired. I have to rest. My legs are killing me. Besides, we haven't seen her for days. Betty may need us.”

“I've been phoning. Spoke to her yesterday. She's okay.”

“Have it your way. You keep looking for them under a beer glass. I'll go up and see Betty.”

Doc did look peaked and it wouldn't hurt to see Betty for a few minutes. I said okay and Doc drove downtown to a fancy delicatessen to buy the damn duck eggs. When we reached Betty's house, Doc double-parked and we went in. Ringing for the self-service elevator, I told him, “You must be bushed. You shouldn't have double-parked. No sense in explaining things to the beat bull.”

“He ought to recognize a squad car.”

“That makes it better?”

Doc sighed. “You have a point. I'll hunt a parking space.” He handed me the bag of groceries along with a mock grin. “But don't you two get comfortable up there. I can't cook out in the hallway.”

“That's the last thing on my mind.”

Opening the outside door, Doc called back, “Tell Betty to leave the food alone. Cooking isn't one of her talents.”

Betty took so long opening the door I used my key. And the second I saw her I knew something was wrong. She looked upset. As I put the bag down and took her in my arms, she jerked her head toward the closed bedroom door. I asked, “Somebody in there?”

She nodded. “A queer oscar. He's been here since last night. Not doing anything—had me sleeping on the couch. Doesn't even talk much. I'm afraid of him.”

“Why didn't you phone me?”

“Phone you where? Guess I shouldn't complain; he gave me two hundred dollars and said to leave him alone. But looks like he's moved in. He has his bags with him.”

“Bags? What does he look like?” I asked, a strong hunch making me tremble. “Tall and skinny?”

“Tall, but not too thin.”

I saw the bedroom door open a crack. I pushed Betty aside, loosened my gun in its holster as I made for the door. I kicked it open to see this tall man with a head as bald as an egg. He was dressed in a dark, conservative suit, and there was a big mole on one cheek. He was leaning against the dresser, three big suitcases beside him. He had his hands at his sides—long, thin hands that twitched a little. His face was pale and his features almost delicate, except for a nose that must have been busted long ago. But his eyes were hard and shifty. I asked, “What are you doing here, Mac?”

He gave me a sickly smile. “What a man usually does here. I... eh... hired the young lady. Who are you?” He spoke in a soft, smooth voice.

“A police officer. Open those bags! Do it slowly and keep your mitts in sight.” I was so keyed up I could hardly get the words out.

“Now see here, officer, this is all a mistake. I can explain. I'm a salesman and I usually spend the night in a...” He began crossing the room, toward me, as he talked.

He raised his hand to his bald head. It could have been an act, the act of a shiv man quick with a sleeve knife—he had the hands for it. Nothing else checked, but he had the hands!

I wanted to tell him to stand still, but the words never came out. It was almost a jittery reflex action on my part: His hand hadn't reached his ear when I yanked my gun out, fired three shots into him, all around his heart. He had stopped at the sight of the gun, but I couldn't stop my trigger finger.

His eyes blinked with horrible astonishment. His mouth opened into an ugly circle. I knew from the awkward way his legs crumpled under him as he hit the floor that he was dead. A long, thin throwing knife showed at the end of his coat sleeve.

Betty said, “Bucky!” It was a gasp, or maybe a small scream. She came to me and I shoved her away, ran over and opened one of the bags. It was full of neat bundles of money, a sea of green!

This time Betty really did scream, or maybe it was me sobbing with joy—I'd made the biggest collar in police history! Betty stood beside me, both of us staring down at the money. Then she whispered, “Oh, my God, Bucky. He... must be d-dead!”

The front door opened and I spun around to see Doc rushing in, his gun out. He said, “I thought I heard... shots.”

I was too excited to talk. I didn't have to: The dead man and the open suitcase full of money told Doc the story. All I could do was give him an idiotic smile. Doc drew in his breath, a kind of soft whistle. He slapped me on the back with his free hand, started to say something. Then his face went tight. He turned on Betty. “You dumb tramp!”

“Me? I never saw him before, honest! He came up last night, said the bartender at the Golden Elm had sent him. He paid me and I... I... knew he was a queer but... Well, what could I do? He didn't go in for rough stuff or...” She rubbed her hands together, looked away, her face suddenly flushing. Her eyes got very large as she looked down at the money, mumbled, “Oh, God! Why he... must... must... must be the...!”

Doc slapped her savagely across the face, sending her reeling toward the living room. “You stupid whore, what do you think you're pulling? This is the kidnapper, a murder rap!” Doc's voice was like a whip.

“Murder?” Betty looked around wildly; then her eyes found mine. “Bucky, you mean he's... the... man?” Her voice died and she put a little hand to the flaming red streak across her pale face.

“Honey, you're in big trouble—the worst. You have to come clean with us. Fast!” I started for her, wanting to hold her in my arms, as I slipped my gun back in its holster.

Doc stopped me by snapping in a low voice, “Clean? They'll sweat and third-degree her to pieces. With him dead, they'll pin the whole kidnapping on her!”

Betty started to shake. She looked away from me, whimpered. “I don't know what... what this is all about. How could I be mixed up in... in...?”

“Take it slow, honey,” I began. “Well work out—”

“We're in a hell of a jam ourselves, Bucky,” Doc cut in.

The words hit me like a baseball bat across the head. Instead of being a hero, I'd end up a patsy. I stared at Betty, feeling terribly tired. I don't know what to do, couldn't think.

She said, “Bucky, don't look like that. I don't know a thing about... that man. And no matter what they do, I won't tell them about you—us!”

“They'll rubber-hose your skin off until...” Doc ran across the room toward her. “Damn you, Betty, tell us what your connection is with the kidnapping! We have to know where we stand!”

“Connection?” she whispered.

“Did you set us up from the go? Talk, you dumb...!”

She glanced at me. “Bucky, you know me. You must believe I couldn't have...”

Doc drew back his hand to slap her again, and Betty and I both moved. I started for Doc, not really sure what I was going to do. Betty moaned with terror, suddenly turned and ran for the front door. Doc's gun barked once—the sound short and lean and lost in the silence of the room. Betty frantically tried to reach behind her back, as if she had a bad itch there, staggered like a drunk, then crashed to the floor. It was a hammy fall. The whole thing was so unreal, like a bad dream. Except where she'd been trying to “scratch” was slowly turning into a bloody spot.

For a long second I stood there, as if my feet were nailed to the floor, too amazed to move. Yeah, at that second I was amazed rather than sorry. Somehow I couldn't believe Betty was dead, expected her to get up. I mean, a dozen things were slowly going around in my head. The short sound Doc's gun had made—such a small sound to take a life, Betty's life. No Miami palm trees to show her now, no more arguing about perfumes, where we'd open our shop. And finally, as if I was backward, my brain got the message: no more Betty.

Doc had raced across the room, felt of her wrist. Then he opened the door, looked up and down the hall, locked the door, using both its locks.

I moved toward Betty, knelt beside her, sick to my stomach and heart at the bloody cold sight that had once been warm, simple Betty. I suppose if I knew how to pray I would have said something then. Instead I stared up at Doc: I seemed to be looking into his gun. “You getting trigger-happy? Why did you shoot her?” My voice sounded like a strange growl, very hard and tight, and miles away.

“Easy, Bucky. She was trying to escape,” Doc said softly. And I was still looking smack into his gun: I could almost see the barrel grooves and markings.

“Escape? Where could she have run to?” My voice was still a long way off.

“To some other police officer, for instance,” Doc said, staring down at me. “That would have been embarrassing, to say the least.”

“Yeah.” My voice was right beside me now.

“Bucky, didn't she tell you she'd been married?”

“Sort of.”

“Could that tall, dead number in the bedroom be her husband? Perhaps they were in this together.”

I didn't answer. I touched Betty's hair. It was still soft. A pool of bright-red blood was slowly seeping out from under her body. I touched her blood with my little finger—I don't know why. It felt icy. I whispered, “Damn it, Doc, you shouldn't have shot her!”

“Look at it this way: She's better off dead. Understand?”

The back of Betty's neck was already waxen-looking. I shut my eyes. Mixed with the anger and sorrow I felt, another thought was coming through. I understood: It was a lucky thing the brass couldn't question Betty. There was the barkeep at the Golden Elm. If he'd really sent the guy, I'd have to shut the bartender's trap. Be a snap. My story would be Betty was merely a gal friend, I had no idea what she was working at. I only dropped in to use her bathroom and... Yeah, I just might come out of this with full sails yet, a hero. I plugged the kidnapper, let Doc do his own explaining about gunning Betty. It would work out. Doc and his influence. Only it was too bad Betty was dead. A sweet kid who never said no to me or...

Doc said, “Snap out of it, son. We've work to do.”

I nodded. He poked my shoulder with his gun. “Bucky, get off the dime. Don't you realize what this collar means? We're the tops, the... Get up!”

I got to my feet, shook myself. “I'll phone the squad room.”

“In a minute. Watch the door. Anybody knocks, open the door on the chain, flash your potsy. Tell 'em to take a walk, that everything is under control. That goes for the beat cop, too. Since we're making the collar, I want time to get all the strings tied up here. Understand, Bucky boy?”

I nodded as Doc walked into the bedroom. I understood perfectly. From the look on Doc's sharp face, he was set to operate. I leaned against the door, still in a daze. I knew what Doc was doing: searching for anything that might connect us with Betty. I looked up at the ceiling, didn't want to see her body. I had a vague idea of covering her with a rug, but I didn't want to touch anything. The truth is, I didn't know what to do. So I stared at the ceiling like that for a second, or maybe it was a brace of minutes. Suddenly Doc stuck his lean face out of the bedroom door, asked, “Anybody at the door?”

I shook myself. “No.”

“Come here.”

He had the three suitcases open on the bed. For a moment I didn't see the stacks of green bills—only the bed, Betty's bed. Then the sight of all that salting money hit me. It was one fascinating sight.

Doc asked gently, “Do you know what a million dollars can do, son?”

“A lot,” I said, sounding like a moron.

“Do you realize that not more than one out of a hundred thousand people even see this much money in their lifetime?”

“Yeah?” The fog left my noggin. I kept wondering what Doc had in mind.

“Feast your eyes on it, Bucky. Let your eyes caress every stack of big money. They're all good bills, no bait money, nothing that can be traced,” Doc said, walking around the bed, stepping on the dead man's outstretched hand, the lean fingers. (Did he play the piano?) “I heard that was one of the conditions set by this louse.” Doc pointed a shined shoe at the dead clown's head. “Look at the money, hard, kid.”

“I see it. Want me to take a picture and hang it on my wall, Doc?”

“The Chinese say a picture is worth a thousand words, but nobody ever said a picture was worth one million dollars,” Doc said slowly, his eyes watching me. I knew him well enough to know this was a sales pitch of some kind. “Bucky, you're staring at what can be our gravy train for the rest of our lives!”

My belly turned into a cold knot of fear. “How could we get away with any of this?”

There was a faint, hard smile on Doc's tight lips. But he didn't say a word.

I swallowed twice, managed to ask, “You're thinking of... of... us holding out part of this? We'd never get away with it.”

“We certainly wouldn't.”

Doc gave me his superior smile again. The silence got on my nerves. I said, “Let me out of the isolation booth; what's on your mind, Doc?”

“As you said, we'd never get away with keeping some of this bundle, but we might make it if we take it all! Not one person in fifty million ever gets a chance at a million bucks. Here we have it smack in our laps, cold turkey. Kid, this is our big chance!”

“Some chance. Stop joking, Doc, and let's get on with...”

Doc pointed at the bed full of money with his gun as he said softly, “Bucky, I was never more serious in my life.”

And I realized he was! I said, “Doc, talk sense. Why... we couldn't possibly get away with it. They'd be on us like rust on iron.”

Doc shook his head slowly. “Listen to me carefully, son. It will probably take a day or more before anybody finds the bodies. We could use those few days trying to skip the country with the money. Maybe we'd make it. But that's the obvious move. And if the bodies should be discovered in the next few hours, we'd be trapped on the run. Also, soon after we fail to report back to the squad room, Bill Smith will certainly get interested—he has a suspicious mind—and start an investigation, and sooner or later put a nation-wide alarm out for us on the wires. I think—”

I cut in with, “That's what I'm trying to tell you, this money is red hot and we're—”

“Shut up and listen, Bucky. Taking off would be, as I said, the obvious thing, and very risky. I have a better idea, something that will throw them completely off our tracks. Now, for sure, we have at least a few hours of safe time. Over on the Northside there's an ancient rum-runner and gangster hide-out, a real old-fashioned affair with false walls. It hasn't been used for years and years. Everybody has forgotten about it—except me. The house is run by a hag who will do anything for a quick buck. We merely—”

“Jeez, Doc, we can't steal a million!”

Doc laughed quietly in my face. “Why not? Probably turn out to be simpler than swiping a dime off a newsstand. Bucky, try to get the full picture of the opportunity in our hands. The important fact is that we have the million. All we have to do is hole up for a few weeks and then think of a way of getting the money, and ourselves, out of town. But time is on our side, and so is luck.”

“But Doc, this is the... the... ransom money!”

“So what? It's as green as any other bucks to me. Poppa is rich; he can afford it. And whether we take the money or not won't bring his Joanie back to life. Look at it this way: This is our reward; we bagged the kidnappers, killed them both, so—”

“I still don't believe Betty was in on it.”

“This punk certainly was!” Doc said, kicking the dead man's leg. “Kid, remember you risked your life. Suppose he had knifed you, then what? When the headlines had finished heaping praises on your grave, Elma would be working like those other widows we saw, cleaning and sweeping, because your little pension wouldn't be sufficient to support her. No, this is our reward, this is ours!”

“I don't know,” I mumbled. “Stealing a million...” It seemed too big to even think about.

“Bucky, cut the jerk talk. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and every second counts, so stop making with the cheap, inane platitudes about honesty! Get the picture, kid: I'm not claiming it's going to be a pushover, but we have a chance. A jackpot chance on a life of ease—say, down in Brazil, where they don't have any extradition treaty with the States. Or would you rather hand over the money, be a big tin hero for a headline—if they don't tie us in with Betty? You'll struggle along on a lousy salary for the rest of your life, worrying when you'll be caught palming a buck from the cracker barrel and kicked off the force. And should they learn, somehow, about our relationship with Betty, we can easily end up doing time ourselves. Think, son, but fast!”

I licked my lips nervously, a half a dozen different thoughts pounding through my head at the same time:

— Doc still had his gun out. What would I do if he tried to take the bundle alone?

— What would Doc do? He had the draw on me.

— Could they tie us up with Betty? The building janitor must have seen me come in many, many times.

— There were also dim pictures racing through my noggin of me in a villa overlooking some palm-studded seashore, or at the helm of a yacht.

— And there was the too-clear picture of Betty, just before Doc shot her, calling out, “Bucky, you know me...” And I did know her!

— There was also a foggy thought about the corpse at my feet. What a fat coincidence that the most wanted man in the nation should pick my gal to shack up with!

I nodded at the stiff, asked, “Doc, how come he landed here, of all places?”

“Bucky, this isn't the time for theoretical arguments! We have to act—”

“We'll act two seconds later. Isn't it odd he came here?'

“Look, don't try to explain the ways of luck. Who knows why he came here? There's a hundred possible reasons: The rat was cornered; maybe he had to move from where he was. He could have had a run-in with his partners; crossed them. I'm sure there's one or more dead people around town this moment. All we know is the rat was on the move, had to escape the dragnet. I suppose he figured a whore's apartment would be a safe hide-out. If he's a stranger in town, where else could he go?”

“But the last time I saw Betty, she had phoned the bartenders she was closing shop for—”

“That was three or four days ago.”

“But the kidnapper has been super-clever, up to now. Why should he pick this place? The traffic is a little heavy sometimes.”

“Not when Betty has been bought for the day, refuses to open the door, says she's busy. This would be an ideal hide-out, for a day or so. Then he would have killed her—if she wasn't part of the deal from the start.”

“No! She acted too... upset... when I came in to have been in on the snatch.”

“Bucky, use your head! If she was in on the crime, how else would Betty act but 'upset' upon seeing you?”

“But knowing I drop in every few days, why would she—?”

“Damn you, Bucky, I'm in no mood for academic arguments about dead people. I don't know why the man came here, or what Betty was figuring on. And I couldn't care less! All I'm interested in is this million dollars growing cold while we gas!” Doc pointed at the bed with his gun.

I followed the path of the gun, my eyes lingering on it for a split second, then traveling down to the suitcases of money making the bed sag. The dough gave me a terrific charge.

I never kid myself: I was all for taking the money, and Doc's gun had little to do with my decision. I mean, his gun wasn't the deciding thing. He was good but when it came to rough stuff I was better. I could have taken him —I think.

I rubbed some spit off my lips, asked, “But Doc, you really think we can get away with it?”

“It won't be a snap, but we can do it.”

“No wild chances—we can really make it?”

“Kid, you ever know me to take a wild chance?”

“I never saw you taking a million before.”

“I'll level with you. The odds are against us making it, but it's not a long shot. Maybe it's two to one against us carrying it off. That's not bad odds for a million. Look at it this way, Bucky boy: If we had started out to grab a million, had the plans and getaway all set, the hardest part would be actually getting our hands on the money. That's our big advantage—we've stumbled on the boodle! And we have a place to cool off while the hunt dies down. That's as far as I go. I don't know the rest of the answers; we'll figure them out as we go along. The main thing is to decide if we do it. There's a Chinese proverb about the longest journey starts with a single step. Are you—”

“You sneak in some chop suey, Doc? You're full of Chinese sayings.”

“Cut the dumb cracks. Bucky, are you in?”

I nodded. I had a hunch Doc could pull it off. In his own way he was a cautious character, certainly not a rash punk. “We split fifty-fifty. What's next?”

“We have still another advantage: no need to worry about leaving clues, or covering up. In time they'll have to know it's us. The only—”

“Why do we have to be in the open? Suppose we hid the dough, then went about our regular jobs?”

“Without the ransom, what reason did we have for suspecting and gunning this guy and Betty? And once the ransom can't be found, we'll be under the hammer; we'll never be able to spend it. Less risk this way, kid. The only chance we take is in getting the money to the hideaway. And we may as well face up to that at once. We've wasted too much time already. I'll go around and get the car, park it near the delivery entrance. You pack the money and I'll come up and help you with the bags. A million dollars is heavy and—”

“Then how did he carry all the suitcases up here?” I cut in.

“You back to being a quiz kid again? How the devil do I know how he did it? Perhaps he made two trips. Ask him! Damn, why do you keep harping on how he got here?”

“Because he might have somebody else in this, and that somebody might show up. Although Betty didn't mention anybody else having been here.” It hurt to even say her name.

Doc stared at me. “Suppose somebody does show? You worried?”

“No.” I didn't need a blueprint.

“We have to work fast. We'll be out of here within five minutes. Lock the door when I leave, keep your gun out while you're packing. If you get company, shoot first. Don't take even the slightest chance. Way I see it, we'll drive to the hide-out and you let me out a block or so from the house, keep driving around. I'll make a deal with Molly.”

“Who's she?”

“Witch who lives in the house. You keep circling the block, slowly, until you see me give the nod; then we hustle the bags inside. You'll drive the squad car to the other side of town, park it someplace. Pick a busy street; it will take them longer to find it. You return to the house by several cabs. You know how to work it so no one cabbie will be able to remember where you went. How does that add up to you, Bucky?”

One of the things I liked about Doc was that even though he was an old hand at police work, he would ask my opinion about things, sometimes. “I have a couple of ideas. Lets both of us get the bags ready before you go down to get the car. Longer a car is parked in the delivery entrance, more suspicious somebody might get. I mean, like a truck needing the space to deliver furniture, or something. Driver might ask around.”

“That's good. What else?”

“Now, suppose after I ditch the car I take a cab to the railway station, 'accidentally' flash my badge as I'm paying the hackie? Do the same thing as I buy a ticket for New Orleans, or some far-off place? That would throw the cops off.” And how funny I sounded, saying “cops” like any other crummy punk! Still, when you squeeze it out, the main difference between a cop and a crook is who is chasing whom. And for a million bucks I didn't mind being chased.

“That's okay,” Doc said. “Only be careful at the station. The place will be lousy with our men.”

I laughed. “Our men? Sure, I'll be careful. Another thing: Before I return to the hide-out, suppose I phone the squad room, slip them a fast story about we're on something hot and may not call in for another three or four hours. That would give us more time.”

Doc scratched his face with his gun barrel, then holstered the rod. “Let's pack while we talk. I'm not so sure about the phone angle. Smith is a shrewdie. First off, if you should be spotted by another dick, play it cool; they can't possibly know anything yet. Just wave and walk away, or ride away, if you're still in the car. Be especially careful at the railway station, and absolutely certain no cop sees you headed for the hide-out. Now, if you phone Smith from the station, that would fit in—in case he can ever trace the call. Make the call abrupt, as if you're in a big rush. A few fast words and hang up before Bill has a chance to talk to you. If you're in doubt, skip the telephone bit. Now let's pack.”

It was some experience—the first time I packed a million bucks.