Muscle Man

Chapter Three Flirting With Death

Paul Pry, safely ensconced in his secret hideout, tapped rhythmically upon a Hopi ceremonial drum. It was made of deerskin rawhide fastened over the hollowed trunk of a cottonwood, the trunk burnt out until it had just the proper thickness, just the proper resonance.

The weird booming at regular intervals mingled with the blood, pulsed in the ears as a steady throbbing that stirred half forgotten memories.

Mugs Magoo, moodily drinking whiskey, stared at Paul Pry.

“Gosh, I wish you’d quit that damned drumming.”

Paul Pry smiled, musingly.

“I’m stirring primitive cells in my brain, Mugs, awakening old racial memories. Think of it, Mugs! Up to a thousand or so years ago, our ancestors prepared for battle with the drum, killed and were killed to the twang of a bowstring! Is it any wonder the throb of a drum makes us want to revert to savagery? I feel capable of knocking a woman over the head, dragging her off by her hair, putting a tomahawk through the skull of an enemy and scalping him.”

Mugs Magoo shook his head.

“Maybe it does that to you. It just churns my insides up. What are you gettin’ ready to do now?”

But Paul Pry, putting down his drum, answered the question by asking another.

“Mugs, what’s the muscle game?”

Mugs Magoo refilled the whiskey glass.

“It’s quite a racket. It means lots of things, like musclin’ in on another man’s territory. Mostly, though, it means taking a prominent gangster and holding him where he can’t communicate with his gang until he kicks through.

“Those babies have time that’s worth lots to ’em. And they’re sitting on the rim of a volcano all the time. They don’t dare to get out of touch with things.”

Paul Pry nodded.

“I take it that it’s a dangerous game?”

“Dangerous! I’ll say. A man only does that when he’s flirting with the undertaker. They last about once. There ain’t any case of a man who’s done a successful muscle act twice.”

Paul Pry nodded, thoughtfully.

“Why?” asked Mugs Magoo.

Paul Pry looked at his watch.

“Because in precisely forty-five minutes I am going to muscle Tommy Drake, the big shot of the Big Front Gilvray gang, and—”

He broke off as the whiskey glass slipped from Mugs Magoo’s nerveless fingers and crashed to the floor.

“You’re what!!”

“Just what I said, Mugs.”

Mugs Magoo sighed.

“Well, I’ve given you up for lost so long now that when I actually file past the coffin for a last glance at what the machine-gun bullets have left of your face, I’ll feel like it’s a habit, but that’s the first time you’ve ever done anything so damned hare-brained as to make me spill good drinkin’ whiskey.”

Paul Pry adjusted his tie, reached for his overcoat.

“You shaved?” asked Mugs Magoo, ruefully inspecting the pool of whiskey on the carpet.

“Yes, why?”

“Oh, nothin’, but undertakers Have a hell of a time shavin’ ’em after they get cold. It’s always considerate to give ’em a break.”

Paul Pry smiled.

“Good night, Mugs.”

The reply was unmistakable.

“Good-by! I’m goin’ to miss you.”

And Paul Pry, with that farewell knelling in his ears, closed the door, adjusted his hat, and went to keep his appointment.

Things clicked as by clockwork. The big limousine drew up to the appointed comer within twenty seconds of the time which had been agreed upon. The door opened. Tommy Drake, well-clothed, fleshy, important, ferreted the shadows with restless eyes. His well-manicured hand was concealed under his coat.

Finney, the chauffeur, kept his right hand thrust into the side pocket of an overcoat as he locked the car with a key held in his left hand.

They went into a certain speakeasy. It was within forty feet of where they had parked the car. They went in the businesslike manner of those who are about to make a collection or know why.

Paul Pry glided from the shadows. His duplicate key shot back the lock of the car door. He entered, slipped under the robe which was on the floor in the rear of the machine.

One minute and forty seconds later, Finney scraped the key against the lock of the car door and pretended to unlock it. He flung back the door.

“Sittin’ up front, Tommy?”

“Sure.”

The car lurched as the bodies swung up from the running board. Then a door slammed, and the motor purred into rhythmic power. A gear meshed smoothly, and the car glided out into traffic.

“Business pickin’ up any?” asked Finney.

“So, so,” said Tommy. “These big places are under regular contract. They take so much whether business is good or bad. It sometimes leaves ’em with a little carry-over stock, but they’ve got a soft graft, at that.”

“Uh-huh,” said Finney.

The car continued to purr smoothly and uneventfully through traffic.

Finney’s voice sounded, nervous, dry. “Well, we’re within two blocks of your house, Tommy.”

“Uh-huh,” said Tommy Drake.

Paul Pry slipped back the heavy robe. Such noise as he made was covered by the sound of the whining tires as they snarled at high speed along the pavement.

He slipped a gun in either hand. Promptly at the same moment, he pressed the cold muzzles of those guns against the necks of the men in front of him.

“Don’t look around, don’t make any squawk,” he said. “You, driver, take the first turn to the left and step on it. Remember one thing, I’m desperate. If you so much as make a move, or if you try to signal, I’ll blow your spines out through your neckties.”

Finney gave an audible gasp, a synthetic start, for the purpose of impressing Tommy Drake.

Tommy Drake froze into rigid immobility. After a second or two, he spoke, calmly, without turning his head.

“What is it, a shakedown or a croaking?”

“Just a shakedown,” reassured Paul Pry. “You won’t have any trouble if you act reasonable.”

Tommy Drake sighed.

“O. K. I thought maybe I was goin’ for a ride. If I had been, I’d as soon have taken it here as later.”

Paul Pry chuckled.

“Just be reasonable, and you’ll be on your way by ten o’clock tomorrow morning — sure.”

Tommy Drake grunted.

“After the banks open, eh?”

“After the banks open,” agreed Paul Pry. “Driver, you keep both hands on the wheel and your eyes straight ahead. Tommy, you stick your hands up. I’m going to put a little bandage over your eyes.”

The gangster elevated his hands.

“No funny stuff,” warned Paul Pry.

The gangster said nothing.

Paul Pry whipped a handkerchief about Tommy Drake’s eyes, then dove swiftly for the shoulder holsters and took away twin automatics.

“Now, driver, I’m doing the same by you as far as frisking is concerned. Keep your hands on the wheel.”

“O. K. by me,” said Finney. “I ain’t got a date with a tailor for a wooden nightie. It’s under the left armpit. Be careful, because the safety’s off.”

Paul Pry deftly extracted the gun.

“Keep moving,” he said. “Ready to turn to the right at the next street, and drive carefully, I’m nervous.”

And the cold steel rings again pressed into the necks of the men in front.

Guiding them to the turns, making a sufficient number of side excursions to be certain no one was following them Paul Pry directed the automobile to the bungalow where the girl with the starry eyes had established herself as a bride of a few days.

Finney swung the car to a stop in the driveway.

“Out and in,” said Paul Pry. “Driver, you can pilot Tommy Drake. Keep his blindfold on.”

They clumped up the three steps to the wooden floor of the porch. Slick Sarah flung the door open. Her eyes gleamed with delight.

“My hero!” she said, and flung herself with a little glad cry of abandon into the arms of the muscle man.

They piloted Tommy Drake to a bedchamber, handcuffed his wrists and ankles to the side rungs at the head and foot of the bed, left him like a sprawled calf ready for branding.

Then they held a celebration.

During that celebration much giggle water was consumed. Finney and the girl lavished praise upon Paul Pry. Finney showed his gratitude by frequent back slappings and handshakings. The girl accomplished the same result in a more feminine manner.

Some time after midnight it was suggested that Paul Pry had better make certain that Tommy would come to terms.

Pry nodded, arose to unsteady feet and vanished into the bedroom. Finney remained behind, since he insisted upon making it appear that the abduction was on the up and up and that Tommy should be told that the chauffeur was also held a prisoner in another room.

Paul Pry unlocked the handcuffs.

“Keep on the blindfold,” he said.

Tommy Drake sat up on the bed, his arms stiff and numb.

“Listen, guy, I’m going to be reasonable. There’s no use of you and me misunderstanding each other. You’ve got me where you want me, now. Personally, I don’t think you can get away with it, but that’s something that’s between you and Big Front Gilvray.

“In the meantime, there’s no use rubbing it in. I know when I’m licked, and I’m getting damned tired of these handcuffs.”

Paul Pry remained obdurate.

“You’re all right, Tommy, only you’re too slick. I’ve got to keep you where you won’t be able to out-slick me. Where are the checks?”

“In the wallet. You’ll find it in my inside coat pocket.”

Paul Pry took out the wallet.

Tommy Drake made a swift motion with his thumb, lifting the bandage slightly from his eyes.

Paul Pry snapped home a left hook to the jaw, not a hard hook, but a jarring blow that was a promise of what might follow.

“Naughty, naughty! Mamma spank!” he said.

Tommy Drake’s head snapped back. His right hand abruptly dropped.

“My mistake, guy,” he said.

Paul Pry fished out the checks.

There were some small ones, but there were two large ones, one for twenty thousand, one for ten thousand, made out just as Finney had said they would be, bearing the stamp of certification.

Paul Pry took out his fountain pen, arranged a board, put the board on the lap of Tommy Drake, then stepped behind him.

“All right, Tommy. Listen to this and get it straight. I’m taking off the blindfold long enough for you to sign your name four times. Write on the back of each check, ‘Pay to the order of bearer,’ and then sign your name. The bank will know your signature all right, but I’ll have to keep you here until the checks are cashed, to make certain that there isn’t any hitch.

“But don’t try to turn your head and look around when I take off the blindfold. Because, if you do, there’s going to be a slung-shot tap your bean, and when you wake up you’ll have a hell of a headache.”

Tommy Drake sighed.

“Geez, buddy, let’s get it over with. But you’d better have an airplane all ready for a getaway, because Big Front will remember this.”

“Yeah, I know,” drawled Paul Pry, casually.

He put the tinted oblongs of paper on the board, stepped back of the captive, and slipped up the blindfold.

Tommy Drake sighed, took the fountain pen, and started to write. Midway, he paused, puzzled.

“There are four checks here. But only two of the checks in the wallet had any size to ’em. You aren’t so damned picay-unish you’re going to monkey with the small stuff are you?”

Paul Pry tapped lightly upon the top of the captive’s head.

“Naughty, naughty, mamma Have to spank again!”

“Oh, all right,” said Tommy, and went ahead with the business of signing.

Paul Pry slipped the bandage down over his eyes.

“I’ll give you a break some day if you’ll leave off those damned handcuffs,” said Tommy Drake, “and I’ll promise I won’t try to make a getaway.”

Paul Pry snickered.

“Don’t be silly, Tommy. Stick your wrists out. But I have got a nice dose of sleepy-by medicine that’ll take effect pretty soon. When it does, I’ll come in and take off the handcuffs. You’ll sleep until tomorrow afternoon, but your friends will come for you before then.

“Nighty-by. Here, take this.”

Tommy Drake swallowed obediently.

“That,” he proclaimed, “marks you for a gentleman, even if you are a damned hijacker.”

Paul Pry took the endorsed checks, thrust them into his pocket, turned the light low.

“I’ll take off the handcuffs,” he promised, and went into the outer room.

The seductive hands of the girl pawed at him. The eager eyes of Finney looked unasked questions.

Paul Pry took a wallet from his inside pocket. He took out some bills, a neat assortment of them.

“Seems to me we should have getaway money, just in case anything should happen,” he said.

“Nothin’ ain’t goin’ to happen,” Finney grunted. “But we’ll split it three ways, anyhow. How about the checks?”

Paul Pry pulled out twin oblongs of tinted paper, one on a pink paper, one on a light green. Both were deckled against forgeries by alteration. One was a check on the Farmers & Merchants National Bank, payable to the order of Thomas Drake, signed by Arthur Manser, bearing a rubber stamp of certification, and duly endorsed on the back, “Pay to the order of bearer, Thomas Drake.”

The other was similar, except that it was signed by Carl Chadwick, was drawn on the Seaboard Union National and was for ten thousand dollars.

Finney clamped an eager hand upon the papers.

“Slick! Thirty thousand smacks. Guess that didn’t come easy!”

It was the girl who nudged his ribs.

“But you’re not going to cash them, Finney, dear. You’re just going to use them as a lever to make Gilvray give you the confessions.”

“Of course, of course, of course!” said Finney, speaking rapidly. “When I said it had come easy, I meant that it was a cinch to get the confessions, thanks to the work of your splendid friend here.”

“How can I ever thank him!” said the girl, and her eyes gleamed with an affection which was far too ardent to be real.

Paul Pry thrust out his chest.

“Glad to be of service,” he said. “You can go right out with those checks. You won’t need to wait until the bank opens. Then, when you get the confessions, you can turn Tommy loose.”

Finney exchanged swift glances with Slick Sarah.

“No-o-o-o-o, that wouldn’t hardly do. Gilvray might make a squawk. I’d better let him know I can cash the checks at once if he should refuse. I’d better wait until after the bank opens.”

Paul Pry nodded vacantly.

“Just as you say,” he said. “Funny thing, Tommy never even mentioned he knew this was a frame-up. He acted just like it wasn’t.”

“Good old Tommy,” said Finney. “He’s playing the game all right. He wanted me to promise I wouldn’t even tell you it was a plant. He’s so afraid the gang might think he was in on it.”

Paul Pry nodded.

“There’s one thing I’m wondering about—” he began, and the girl swayed to his arms.

“Forget the details, dear. You’ve done your share. Let Finney worry about them.”

“But—” began Paul Pry.

She drew his head down to hers, smothered the words. When she released him, Paul Pry was grinning sheepishly, and the red stain of lipstick was smeared over his lips.

Thereafter they drank giggle water until the dawn.

At eight-thirty Paul Pry got restless.

“Gee, I sort of hate to be sticking around here!”

Finney shrugged.

“Go get some sleep if you want.”

“I’ve done everything I can?”

“Sure, sure.”

“You can telephone Gilvray and tell him where to come for Tommy when you’ve got the confessions?”

“Sure, we don’t need you at all. Sis can go with you, as far as that’s concerned.”

Slick Sarah’s eyes ceased to be starry. They settled upon Finney with a hard gleam.

“No, Finney dear, I’ll stay with you. Sid is pretty well tired out. He should go and get sleep, and we haven’t the right to ask him to go into any further danger on our account. But my place is with you. And I’m going to stay with you!”

Finney nodded sullenly.

“O. K. by me,” he said.

Paul Pry tiptoed to the door of the bedroom.

“I’ll look in on Tommy and make certain he’s sleeping,” he said.

He opened the door, slipped into the room.

He was gone for several seconds. Then he returned, grinning vacuously.

“Just like a child,” he said.

They patted him on the back.

“Sid, you’re a wonder.”

“Where’ll I see you again?” he asked of the girl.

“At my apartment tonight, dear. Until then—”

And Paul Pry got another application of lipstick. This time he noticed that the flavor of raspberry was very, very strong.