Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

Far down the muddy road he saw the eyes of an approaching car, blinking through the rain as it snorted its way toward the farm.

I

Cyrus Steep took off his frayed alpaca coat, hung it in the steel locker, donned the shiny blue serge and threaded his way through the great marble lobby of the First National Bank. The gilt hands of the clock over the doorway pointed to four. Cyrus gave them a quizzical glance over his shoulder and his narrow, pinched face took on a look of triumph.

“No more watching the clock,” he gloated to himself. “No more slaving for half what I’m worth.” His bony hand strayed to his hip pocket and touched a package resting there. “Fifty thousand dollars. And safe — safe as a church.”

He came abreast of the railing that surrounded the heavy mahogany desk of the dignified Horace Winston, president of the institution, who was, at that moment, sitting with his long nose deep in a litter of papers.

“The old fish,” muttered Cyrus. “Ice water for blood he’s got.”

Winston looked up jerkily. His cold gray eyes affixed themselves upon the person of Cyrus Steep like twin gimlets. Then he nodded and said in a dry metallic voice:

“Good day, Mr. Steep.”

“Good day, sir,” said the teller, and passed out through the archway and into the swirl of the homeward bound thousands, the blood pounding in his wrists and temples, his mind a riot of confused thoughts.

“Why did he look at me like that?” Cyrus demanded of himself. Then, with a sudden, sputtering fear: “Suppose he knows? Maybe he is having me watched. No! He couldn’t know. It’s safe — safe as a church like I said.”

Steep drifted along with the rush of the traffic, a drab little man who looked and acted just like dozens of other beaten workers in the scurrying mob. For twenty years he had been employed at the First National, stuck in a cage like a monkey in the zoo, handling vast sums of money for a monthly pittance that provided him with a furnished room, enough to eat, and an occasional cigar.

He had seen, in his time, at least twenty younger, and, to his mind, less competent men promoted over his head, while he had languished at the same old job, doing the same old thing day in and day out.

“A dependable man,” Mr. Winston had said of him. “Honest, hard-working, and dependable. But no punch. No initiative. I’m afraid he’s as far now as he’ll ever get.”

Steep had overheard that estimate of his abilities. He laughed a dry laugh like the rustle of seared leaves as he thought of it now.

“No punch, eh?” he said grimly. “I wonder how he’ll take the knock-out?”

It was a pleasant thing to speculate upon. Cyrus grinned as his mind enacted the scene. Fifty thousand dollars gone. Cyrus Steep, the old dependable teller, missing.

Lord, Winston would throw a fit. He would tear his hair and yell for the police. He would offer a reward, and a reward would draw a flock of sleuths to the money trail.

“If he hadn’t been so tight,” quavered Cyrus, “this wouldn’t have ever happened. But no, he had to grind me down. Keep me on the job for nothing. Promote the slick-haired kids. He’s getting just what’s coming to him.”

Cyrus stopped and stared into a window filled with shoes. Indecision held him there, wavering. He could take the money back. Nobody would ever know. He would be right where he started. It wasn’t too late.

“Damned if I do,” he grated. Then he shook himself and hurried on. From the corner of his eye he saw a large, heavy man dogging his steps. The man wore square-toed shoes and a derby hat, articles which Cyrus immediately associated with detectives.

This fellow was probably Winston’s policeman, following him, ready to reach out and grasp him by the shoulder. Cyrus shivered. Visions of prisons, iron barred windows and stripes rose before his eyes.

He came to a motion picture palace where an electric sign winked a message which he did not even try to read, bought a ticket, held it in a shaking hand and fled within.

Heads bobbed, countless feet padded over the thick carpets, the orchestra blared forth under a spray of rose-colored lights — but Cyrus hardly knew what was going on.

The friendly blackness renewed his waning courage. There was no sign of the man in the square-toed shoes. Perhaps he was waiting at the door. The thought wilted the little teller again, and he shook in his seat until the man beside him turned and peered at him curiously.

At seven o’clock he left the theater and strayed into a dimly lighted street, walking fast as he pondered his next move. He realized now that he had planned the thing badly.

He had simply made up his mind to take the money. Where he was going with it, except that he had a vague idea of Canada, had not entered into his calculations. But he must decide now. Time was precious.

He thought of a farm, two hundred miles from the city, where he had once spent a brief vacation. It was a desolate spot, far from the doings of his world. He would be safe there. Later he could make his way into Canada and lose himself under another name.

“That’s best,” he told himself. “Best I can figure out now, anyway.”

He turned toward the railroad station, stopped, retraced his steps. The police would be watching the trains. He got on a street car bound for a suburban depot. It would be safer.

When he got off the car a new possibility came to him and sent a shudder down his spine. Suppose he should be held up and robbed? He looked into the faces of the frowzy bums who lined the curb. Any one of them would be capable of doing the job for much less than the fifty thousand which Cyrus was carrying.

“And with murder thrown in,” he said to himself. “What I need is a gun.”

The worn gilt sign of a pawnshop caught his eye and he went in. He had no knowledge of firearms, but he inspected several weapons critically, bickered with the bearded proprietor over the price, and finally emerged with a revolver in his hip pocket. It had a comforting feel.

Cyrus bought his ticket quietly, passed through the gates, and hurried to the train.

As he started to climb aboard he was roughly shouldered aside by a man who growled:

“Where yuh think you’re going?”

Cyrus swallowed his Adam’s apple. His tongue was as dry as a stick. He could not speak.

“I got here first,” the man went on, “and I’m gonna get on first.” He disappeared into the coach.

Cyrus smiled. Let the poor fellow rave. He probably worked for his money. Cyrus touched his hip pocket. No more work for him. He had fifty thousand dollars.

II

Who-ee-ee!

The wind came out of the north, whooping and howling as it bore down on the sleeping town of Hayden. It rattled shutters, growled in dark doorways, and thrashed through the trees that lined the deserted street. With it came the rain.

Who-ee-ee!

The wind caught Cyrus Steep from behind, flipped his coat tails like a bad boy, and sent him on his way, a shuffling ghost, his chin deep in his collar, his soggy hat pulled low over his eyes. A fearful ghost was Cyrus, casting timid glances at the apprehensive shadows that flickered to the fancy of the gale.

Who-ee-ee!

A tree limb, shaped like a strangling hand, reached out for him. Cyrus dodged, his teeth clacking from fright, regained his balance and fled. Immobile maples made him quake and curse. Stirring bushes brought the cold sweat to his forehead.

A stray dog, rooting in a hedge, caused him to break into a run as though he were pursued by the devil himself.

Cyrus had arrived in Hayden long after dark. The tiny waiting room at the railroad tracks had been deserted. There was no human being within sight or call, so there was nothing to do but to walk the four miles to old man Shevlin’s lonely farmhouse.

Who-ee-ee!

“God!” said Steep low in his throat. “I didn’t know it would be like this.”

His voice sounded small and far away to his own ears.

He was in the open now, on the boggy country road, and his shoes made sucking noises in the mud. The trees had thinned out, but the wind made mournful, sighing noises in a field of waving grain.

On a far ridge the lights of a train twinkled for an instant and were lost in the shadows. Cyrus wished that he was safely abed in some dark sleeping car, speeding away to the ends of the earth. What fool notion had ever brought him to this Godforsaken place?

A flash of lightning between the oily black clouds revealed the Shevlin homestead. Cyrus stumbled to the front porch and beat upon the door with his fists. After a minute’s deadly silence an angry voice boomed:

“Who is it pounding upon doors at this hour of the night?”

“Me,” retorted Cyrus weakly. “Cyrus Steep.”

The door was flung open. Old man Shevlin himself stood there, holding a smoking lamp, his long white nightgown flapping about his bony ankles.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“Don’t you know me? I’m Cyrus Steep, the man who was here for his vacation last year. Remember?”

Shevlin’s fierce eyes smoldered with suspicion.

“What are you doing here now?”

Cyrus had regained some of his confidence. He straightened himself with an effort, pulled at his dripping clothes and replied:

“I decided at the last minute to take my vacation early this year. I didn’t have time to let you know. I just hopped on the train and came on out. Thought, of course, that I could get a horse and buggy at the station, but I couldn’t. So I walked. I was determined to get here to-night.”

“Hump,” said Old Man Shevlin. “Well, come in. We ain’t fixed for boarders yet, but I guess ma can take care of you all right.” He stared at Steep keenly. “A good hot cup of coffee wouldn’t hurt you right now. You look like you’re all tuckered out.”

“I am,” said Cyrus wearily.

Later he sat in the kitchen and dried his clothes and drank the fresh, strong coffee made by Ma Shevlin. It renovated his nerves, gave him new confidence in himself. He patted the fifty thousand with an air of assurance. He had negotiated the first hurdle. The rest would be easy.

“Curious time to go vacationing,” said Shevlin, sitting with his slippered feet on the oven door. “What is there to do at this time of the year?”

“I needed a change,” smiled Cyrus. “I was getting stale on the job. It makes little difference to me what I do. Just want to be away from everything. By the way, do you get the city papers in Hayden?”

“Nope. Folks out here aren’t much on reading. A feller came through here and tried to sell ’em the papers, but he couldn’t make a go of it”

Cyrus sighed with relief. He confidently expected his picture to appear upon the front pages of the metropolitan papers on the morrow.

“Oh, well,” he said, “I guess I’ll be better off cut off from things entirely.”

“Probably,” agreed Old Man Shevlin.

When the coffee pot was emptied, Cyrus was shown to his room and began to peel off his mud-stained, wrinkled clothing. Old Shevlin hesitated in the doorway.

“Didn’t bring no luggage?”

“No,” retorted Steep, exasperated by the man’s persistence. “As I explained, I made up my mind in a hurry and had to catch the train. I didn’t have time to go to my rooms for my things. I’ll make out all right.”

The farmer wagged his shaggy head, turned away and closed the door.

Steep sat down on the bed, sick at heart. He had bungled the job. He had made a simple affair into a complicated matter that had attracted attention. Sooner or later he would be found out. Sooner or later they would catch him, unless he changed his tactics.

What an awful fool he had been. This was the last place in the world for a fugitive, this lonely farmhouse, with its suspicious, prying people.

Downstairs a telephone bell jangled nervously. Cyrus felt the loose flesh on his backbone creep. What could this be? He was at the door listening intently.

Old Man Shevlin, muttering curses, was padding over the lower floor in his bare feet.

“Hello,” he boomed. “Yes. That so?” His voice fell from an angry bellow to a tone of friendly conversation. “Sure. Come on up. I’ll help you do the job. What’s that? Sure, I’ve got a shotgun.”

He hung up and moved away into the back part of the house, and Cyrus heard him fumbling in a drawer.

The little teller sat, shivering and shaking, on the bed. He was lost. Shevlin was probably sitting outside the door at this very minute with a weapon in his hand, waiting to take the life of the man who dared to steal fifty thousand dollars from the great First National Bank. And when the deed was done the farmer would get a reward for making an end of such a desperate criminal.

“Blood money,” said Cyrus. “They’d do it for the blood money.”

Who-ee-ee!

The wind struck a loose end of the metal guttering and it vibrated like a harsh harp. Downstairs Cyrus heard sounds of pattering feet, hoarse whispers, the rattling of chains. A half an hour passed. The teller staggered to his feet and looked out the window.

Far down the muddy road he saw the twin eyes of an approaching automobile, blinking through the rain as the machine ground and snorted its way toward the farm.

A posse. Cyrus shivered like a man with the ague. He might be lynched, hanged to one of those dark naked trees in the yard.

The machine stopped in front of the house and several men got out, blobs in the gloom. Cyrus noted, with a catch in his breath, that they all carried rifles. The front door banged open.

“Hello, sheriff,” said Shevlin. “Well, come on, let’s go get our man.”

Sheriff! Our man! The words burned themselves into Steep’s muddled brain. In a frenzy of fright he tore the window open and leaped out on the roof. For a moment he stood there staring down into the blackness, then he jumped. He landed with a breath-taking jar, scrambled to his feet and stood poised for flight.

The door opened again. A swath of yellow light cut the darkness of the yard. The sheriff and his men, followed by Shevlin, who carried a shotgun, came out.

With a high-pitched shriek of terror, Cyrus Steep sped into the woods.

Dank leaves bogged beneath his feet. Twigs snapped, bushes crashed and stones rattled. Gasping and tripping as he plunged onward, Cyrus heard the noises of the pursuit behind. He saw winking lights, caught fragments of rough talk and many threats. He came to a thickly wooded hill and climbed higher and higher.

Rapidly he felt the strength leaving his legs. He was gasping like a fish on the bank. He could not go much farther. He turned, a weazened little animal at bay, and waited.

From below he heard the snort of an automobile. He peered steadily through the wet leaves and saw men thrusting their long rifles into the bushes.

“I’m a goner,” he muttered in a husky voice. “They’ll get me now, sure.”

He drew the revolver from his hip pocket, fingered it nervously, raised it and lowered it again. From the black void beneath came a bellowing voice.

“Spread out, boys!” it said. “We ought to be close to him by now!”

Men were crashing through the bushes close at hand.

Writhing in his agony, Cyrus Steep lifted the weapon, stabbed its cold muzzle into his sweating forehead and pulled the trigger.

Two days later Sheriff Tebbetts sat in Old Man Shevlin’s kitchen, scraping the mud from his boots.

“Just saw a detective from the city,” he said presently. “Told me all about that Steep feller. Funny thing about him. Nobody at his bank knew he was gone, and they didn’t have any idea that he had taken any money. Never suspected it until we found him up there on the hill dead.”

Old Man Shevlin grunted, then said:

“And if you hadn’t happened to come up here looking for a second-rate chicken thief, he’d a stuck it out, I guess.”

“Yep. That was funny, too. When that bird got out of the jug down there in town I thought of you right away. I says to myself: ‘He’ll head for Shevlin’s, because he used to work there.’ So I rounded up a couple of the boys and we hustled right out. And we scared this banker so bad he run off up into the woods and shot himself.”

“And you never did get the durn chicken thief,” said Shevlin.

“No,” growled the sheriff. “That feller didn’t have no conscience.”