THE ENEMY SHOWS HIS HAND
After returning from supper, Marsh sat down to look over the evening
paper. The Merton case, which had replaced the Sheridan Road mystery
in editorial esteem, was now retired to an inner page. He read the
usual short notice that the police expected to have the guilty
parties in custody within the next twenty-four hours, accompanied by
an announcement of some of their plans so that the people sought
could have timely warning of what to expect. Then he turned to other
news of the day and the time slipped by.
About nine o'clock Marsh raised his head and listened. He had
distinctly heard two sharp reports, like pistol shots. Motors
continued to hum past on Sheridan Road, and he could detect none of
the unusual sounds which accompany a disturbance of any kind. As a
result of having hundreds of cars pass his windows daily he was used
to the crack of bursting motor tires, or the back-fire in mufflers.
Marsh's trained ear had seemed to catch something different in the
two reports, but perhaps it was only imagination. He resumed his
reading.
Three soft knocks sounded on the hall door.
It was the usual signal, and Morgan was expected. Marsh laid down
the paper, and going to the door, threw it open. Instantly a small
figure leaped into the entrance hall and stood facing him with its
back to the living room door. A big army automatic held in a long,
thin hand, covered Marsh menacingly.
"Shut the door--QUICK!" snarled the visitor.
Marsh towered above the diminutive figure, and he thought with
satisfaction that with his bare hands he could crush it like an
eggshell. But it has been said that the invention of the pistol made
all men equal. Certainly at this moment the automatic in the small
man's steady hand more than offset Marsh's physical superiority. So,
though he smiled in contempt, he also diplomatically gave the door a
sharp push and it slammed closed.
"Now, we'll go in and have a little talk," his visitor informed
Marsh, and slowly backed into the living room.
Marsh followed.
A hasty glance showed the man the location of the big davenport.
Backing to this, he sat down, looking smaller than ever, and
motioned Marsh to a chair across the room. While Marsh seated
himself the little man turned down his coat collar and pulled his
cap up from his face. Marsh immediately recognized "Baldy" Newman.
"Now," said Newman, "you and me is goin' to have an important
conference on serious matters."
Marsh did not reply. He seemed quite at his ease, and not at all
interested. Nevertheless, both his eyes and his brain were actively
taking stock of the situation; watching for some slip that might
enable him to change their relative positions. Newman was leaning
comfortably back on the davenport, his legs crossed and his feet a
long way from the floor. Marsh surmised that there would be some
delay in getting the latter into action again. The automatic,
however, was still ready. Held firmly in one hand, the weight of the
barrel was supported in the palm of the other, the back of which
rested on Newman's knee. Marsh realized that when he looked at this
gun he was staring directly into its muzzle. Obviously, this was a
time for watchful waiting only.
"We can't figure where you fit into this here game," Newman began.
"You ain't a bull; you don't work; and you don't steal."
Marsh laughed at this quaint appraisal of him.
"Well, what ARE you tryin' to pull off?" questioned Newman, his
bright, piercing eyes studying Marsh's face.
"You have me at a disadvantage," returned Marsh. "I do not know what
game you refer to in the first place. In the second, I cannot see
why the pursuit of my private business should interest you."
"Come on--come on!" remonstrated Newman. "I ain't got any time to
waste kiddin' around with you."
"Get down to the point then," advised Marsh.
"All right, I will," said Newman. "We don't mind these bulls.
They're bone-heads. I can run circles around any one of them. But
you're gettin' too damned close, and we want to know what you're
after."
"Thanks for the tip," replied Marsh. "If I were really interested in
you, the information you have just given me would be of great
value."
Newman eyed Marsh suspiciously for a moment.
"Don't worry," he said. "You're not goin' to bother us much. We've
arranged to take care of you, if you won't listen to reason. If
you're crooked, just lay off for awhile, that's all, and we'll see
you get what's right later. If you really are a bull, or are helpin'
these other bulls, then I'm warnin' you to back out gracefully
before it's too late. I came here with a flag of truce to give you a
chance, and you can save yourself a lot of trouble by bein' on the
square with me."
Bargaining with a known crook was not to Marsh's taste. If they were
in the dark as to his intentions and his status, let them remain so.
He guessed now that the gun in Newman's hands would not be used
except as a last resort to avoid personal capture. The man's idea
was to have his say, and then go as quietly as he had come, if
possible. Marsh's tense watching relaxed somewhat. There was no
immediate danger, and the future could adjust itself. He would like
to get this fellow now, but if not, then he would get him later.
"It is none of your business what work I am engaged in," said Marsh.
"Moreover, you can tell your gang for me to go straight to hell.
Now, take my advice and get out quick before you lose the
opportunity." Newman's lips parted in a vicious grin.
"You've got nerve, I'll say that for you," he commented. "But you
don't know what a hole you're in. We've got more than one string to
our bow. If you won't listen to one kind of reason, perhaps you'll
listen to another. Now, you're stuck on Jane Atwood."
Marsh sprang to his feet with an oath.
"Leave that girl out of this," he cried, "or I'll beat you to a
pulp!"
"Steady, Mister, steady!" exclaimed Newman. "You ain't bullet proof.
Handlin' a gun is part of my business, and you won't get two feet
from that chair if you make a false move. Sit down and listen to
me."
Reason quickly replaced the unthinking rage of the moment, and Marsh
sat down as the other directed. But his mind was made up to one
thing--Newman would not leave that room now except as a prisoner or
a dead man.
"That's the idea," said Newman. "You're helpless as a babe, and you
might as well acknowledge it. Now, listen to this. You're crazy
about Jane Atwood, or all signs fail. In fact, you probably hope to
marry her. She's a classy, refined girl, with a big purpose in life.
What's more, she's got peculiar notions of what's right and what's
wrong. If she knew her father was a crook, and that he died to
escape you, where do you think you'd get off? She'd never have
anything, more to do with you, that girl wouldn't. She'd devote her
life to somethin' or other to make up for her father's slip--that's
what she'd do."
Newman paused, and Marsh ground his teeth and waited.
"Now, my man," continued Newman, "another false move on your part
and the facts will be given to that girl, with absolute convincin'
proof. There'll be no way of talkin' her out of it. You'll be
through--that's all!"
While Newman talked, he had gradually leaned forward, deeply
absorbed in the driving home of this final threat. The muzzle of the
automatic had also slowly turned until a bullet would now strike
several feet to the right. Marsh had carefully watched for this
approaching opportunity and now he acted.
Like a flash, he jumped to his feet, swinging his right arm upward
and forward as if hurling something at Newman. Instinct was stronger
than training. The man's arms were quickly raised to ward off the
expected missile. Then, realizing that Marsh was upon him, he
endeavored to escape, but the powerful hands had already closed on
him. He was swung upward into the air, while bullets from the
automatic crashed into the walls, the ceiling and the floor, as he
tried to direct its fire at his opponent.
For the matter of a second, Newman was poised in midair. Then Marsh,
swept by a fierce and uncontrollable rage, dashed the helpless
bundle across the room and it struck with a smashing thud.