The Limping Goose

16

His hands bound behind his back, Sam relaxed on the sofa in the rustic lodge. Sid sat in a chair opposite, watching him for a while, then, becoming bored, got up and wandered about the room. He went into the kitchen and Sam heard a refrigerator door open and close. Then the tinkle and gurgle of a bottle of beer being poured into a glass.

Sam gritted his teeth and twisted mightily on the ropes that held his wrists tightly together. They relaxed a little, giving him some play. But it was a fairly new clothesline and very strong. The perspiration came out on Sam’s face.

Sid re-entered the room, carrying a glass of beer. “Mud in your eye, fat boy!”

Sam relaxed and made no reply. Sid chuckled wickedly. “What’s the matter, fat boy? Cat got your tongue?”

“Leonard ain’t big enough to take Johnny all by himself,” Sam said.

“Maybe somebody’ll help him.”

“Who?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“What’s the diff? I’m here, I can’t help him.”

“Fella who paid us for this job doesn’t want his name known. No matter what.”

“I could tell him one thing right now,” Sam said. “He’s gonna be awful disappointed even if he does get those coins. They ain’t worth as much as he thinks.”

“That’s his business.”

“We tried to sell them last night to a rare coin dealer. He offered us two for one.”

“Yeah, but what kind of coins?”

“Two cents apiece for the pennies, twenty cents for the dimes and fifty cents for the quarters. That’s around thirteen dollars for the lot. If he’s paying you out of the profit from that, you’re working awful cheap.”

Sid frowned. “We’ve already collected more than that. We got fifty dollars so far.”

“Apiece?”

“Two ways. We get another hundred later.”

“If your cutthroat boss makes a profit.”

“If nothing,” snarled Sid. “It’s none of your business.”

“Okay — turn me loose, then.”

Sid grunted. “Just sit still, fat boy.”

He returned to the kitchen. Sam heard the icebox door open once more. He got to his feet, went into a half crouch and drew a huge breath. Then, exerting every bit of his tremendous strength, he gave his wrists a slow, mighty twist.

The rope cut into the skin, went deep into the flesh. Pain shot through his arms to his shoulders, but Sam persisted. A half inch, an inch — and then the ropes burst!

Sam’s hands were free. But he was gasping from the exertion and pain. He scooped, snatched up the ends of the knotted rope and holding them behind his back, sat down again on the sofa.

Sid came in, carrying a fresh glass of beer. Sam was breathing heavily and Sid looked at him suspiciously.

Sam said, “I could use a glass of that beer myself. It’s hot in here.”

“It’ll be hotter later.”

“I can’t stick around much longer,” Sam said. He half rose to his feet.

“Down, fat boy!” exclaimed Sid.

“I warned you about that fat boy stuff,” said Sam.

He got to his feet and brought his hands in front of him. Sid gasped in astonishment. The glass of beer slipped through bis fingers, smashed on the hardwood floor. His right hand darted for his coat pocket.

Sam lunged forward, grabbed the hand just as it was going into the pocket. He twisted it. Sid let out a scream of anguish that could have been heard over on the Saw Mill River Parkway.

“Fat boy, huh?” grunted Sam. He brought up his right hand, clenched it, then deliberately, almost lazily, cuffed Sid on the left side of his face. The force of the short blow tore Sid from Sam’s grasp and hurtled him a half dozen feet away.

Sid lay on the floor quivering. Sam walked over to him, stooped and took the revolver from Sid’s pocket. “Johnny and me can get rich selling the guns we collected today.”

He grabbed the front of Sid’s coat, jerked him to his feet and half dragged, half propelled him to the couch. Sid’s eyes rolled wildly.

Sam slapped him gently, but his fingers left marks on Sid’s face. “Who hired you for this caper?” he asked.

Sid was conscious but seemed to have trouble speaking. His mouth opened, closed and opened again. Sam slapped him with his left hand just so Sid would not go around with his head lopsided.

“I asked you a question.”

“H-H-Harry F-F-Flanagan,” gasped Sid.

“Who’s Harry Flanagan?”

“Just a... a g-guy I know.”

Then Sam recalled having heard the name that morning. Eddie Miller had given it. He was the single who had called at the Forty-Fifth Street Hotel, the friend of Alice Cummings.

Sam put the revolver in his pocket. He looked around the room, nodded, then went to the door. He looked back at Sid.

“Good-bye, now!”

He opened the door and went out.

Outside, he started down the rutted road. The taxi that had brought him out had bounced and jolted along this road for several minutes. It had not seemed to Sam that they had traversed any great distance, but a half hour later he was still on the dirt road and beginning to limp. His shoes were tight and he was not accustomed to too much walking. Another ten minutes, however, brought him to the Parkway. Cars whizzed by in both directions. Sam got on the New York-bound side and used his thumb.

A dozen cars whipped past, another dozen and Sam became desperate. His breakfast had been skimpy that morning and it must now be lunchtime or later. His stomach growled, he became faint from hunger. And his feet ached terribly.

Brakes squealed and a 1937 Chevrolet pulled up beside Sam. “I’m only goin’ a little way,” he said, “but if you want a lift, you’re welcome.”

“Thanks, mister, you saved my life,” cried Sam. He piled into the Chewy beside the driver.

“How far’s it to New York?” he asked.

“I dunno rightly,” was the reply. “I ain’t been there in three-four years. But Peekskill’s just a hop and a jump from here and that’s where I’m going. That all right for you?”

“It certainly is!”

The little car roared along, turning off the Parkway a few minutes later. It rattled along a street, paved with large cobblestones, then turned down a street lined with stores and small office and professional buildings.

“Anywhere special you want me to drop you?” Sam’s deliverer asked.

“Some place where I can get something to eat. I’m so hungry I could eat a stuffed moose. Say — that hotel there looks pretty good.” An inspiration had suddenly struck Sam. He had no money in his pocket, but he simply had to eat

The man pulled up before the hotel. Sam got out. “Thanks a million, mister. You saved my life.”

“You’re entirely welcome. Always glad to help a neighbor.”

Sam entered the lobby, a fairly large one. He brightened when he saw a dining room off it. A man came out picking his teeth with a toothpick.

Sam found a leather chair not too far from the desk. A bellboy walked through the lobby. One came in from the front, went into the dining room. The first bellboy took up a post near the desk. Five minutes went by. Sam got a whiff of roast beef from the dining room and practically drooled.

Another five minutes. Then the bellboy turned from the desk. “Mr. Pinkley, calling Mr. Pinkley.”

Sam got to his feet. The bellboy walked toward the front to the lobby and called out Mr. Pinkley’s name. He returned to the desk, calling once more.

No Mr. Pinkley showed up. That was enough for Sam.

He strode into the dining room and seated himself at a table for two. A waiter came up promptly.

“Will you have a cocktail before lunch?” he asked politely.

“Naw, don’t bother. I want the biggest, thickest steak in the house. No — never mind, a steak takes too long to cook. What’ve you got that’s ready?”

“We have prime ribs of beef, roast veal—”

“The beef,” cried Sam. “A big double order and all the trimmings that don’t take too much time. Potatoes, gravy, a lot of gravy, the works. And make it snappy.”

“Yes, sir,” said the waiter happily. He went off. A moment later he returned with a silver dish full of bread and rolls. Sam munched until his order came. He ate every scrap of the food, mopped up the gravy, drank his third cup of coffee and leaned back, contented.

The waiter laid the check face down before him. Sam turned it over, saw the amount, $4.35 and beamed. “Lemme have your pencil, Buddy.” The waiter gave him a pencil and Sam scribbled the name, “Mr. Pinkley.”

“Your room number, sir,” the waiter reminded.

Sam wrote down Room 821, then went through the motions of searching his pocket for change. “I don’t seem to have any change. I’ll just add the tip to the check.”

He scribbled: “Tip, $1.00.”

He handed the check to the waiter. “How’s that, pal?”

The waiter stared at the check. “One moment, please.” He headed swiftly for the door leading to the lobby. Sam, startled, got to his feet. He heard the waiter call out, “Mr. Pinkley — if you please!”

Sam winced and decided to brazen it out.

The waiter returned, accompanied by a heavy-set man of about forty. The heavy-set man was scowling at the check the waiter had given him and the waiter was chattering excitedly, although Sam could not hear the words.

Sam went to meet them. “What’s the matter?” he asked deliberately. “I just signed the tab for the check, that’s all.”

“That is not all,” said the heavy-set man firmly. “You signed the name Mr. Pinkley. I, sir, am Mr. Pinkley.”

Sam gulped. “What a coincidence, two of us by the same name staying at the same hotel.”

“I am not staying here,” Mr. Pinkley snapped. “I, sir, am the manager of the hotel!”

Sam staggered, rocked by the blow. He gulped down air, made a clawing motion with his right hand, then said weakly, “Well, whaddya know, the manager’s got the same name I have. I... I just checked in a little while ago.”

“Did you?” Mr. Pinkley asked icily. “Into Room eight twenty-one?”

“Yeah, Room eight twenty-one — that’s right.”

“And Room eight twenty-one is on the eighth floor?”

“It always is.”

“Precisely. Now, there is only one thing wrong with that — there is no eighth floor in this hotel. It has only four stories.”

“Oh, no!” cried Sam, in mortal anguish.

Mr. Pinkley raised his hand, began snapping his fingers. Two waiters came forward, a third and then a bellboy. “The police,” Mr. Pinkley called. “Call the police.”

“Not the cops, mister,” begged Sam. “I... I can’t go to jail. I was so hungry I couldn’t help myself. I... I’ll wash dishes, anything.”

“You forged my signature,” said Mr. Pinkley coldly. “No one can forge my signature. Positively no one.”

The waiters were surrounding poor Sam. Urged on by Johnny Fletcher or led by him, Sam would have scattered the waiters — and the manager — like tenpins and made his escape. Leaderless he was an ox to the slaughter. It was only seconds before policemen, two of them, entered the dining room and Sam found himself, with handcuffs on his wrists, led to a police car.