THE GET-AWAY
Not for a moment did Don Haskins doubt that Helen Gilmore--legally
Helen Haskins, by grace of an unsundered legal tie previously
knotted--would "come through" with the thousand dollars that he had
demanded as the price of his silence. She wouldn't dare refuse; bigamy
is a sternly met crime in New York State.
With a thousand dollars to the good he felt that his get-away was
safely assured, for a thousand dollars would enable him to put a long
distance behind him. And so, sitting in the squalid, shabby little
third-floor room in Eighth Avenue Annie's disreputable haven for those
hunted men who can raise the price of her protection, he was laying
his plans. Several points of the compass beckoned to him; California
intrigued him, but he was also inclined toward Cuba, and, even at a
lesser distance, Florida waved its picturesque palms beckoningly before
his mental vision. He had thought, too, of South America, but was wise
enough to know that this trip would have to contemplate the dangers of
getting a passport. A passport is not readily secured by a man of Don
Haskins' unsavory standing as a citizen; so he scratched South America
off his list.
It had been Monday afternoon when Helen had called at Eighth Avenue
Annie's, leaving a payment of one hundred and ninety dollars on
account; it was now just gathering dark of Tuesday, and so certain was
Don that the dawning of the following day would bring the remainder of
the thousand that he was making his very definite plans for sliding out
of town--quickly.
He had allowed his beard to grow; that would help some. Perhaps it
wouldn't fool the eyes of a dick who knew him well--and many of them
did--but it added materially to his chances. The cops, since he had
no successful job to his credit, wouldn't expect him to be in funds.
The thing to do, he reasoned, was the thing he wouldn't be expected
to do; therefore with fifty of the one hundred and ninety dollars he
had got from Helen--previously diminished by an even hundred that he
owed his old hag protector--he had sent Annie out among the secondhand
shops of Eighth Avenue to gather a wardrobe, a gentleman's wardrobe, at
reasonable prices.
"Nuttin' flashy," he had warned; "respectable-lookin', but none of the
race-track stuff, see."
And so Eighth Avenue Annie went forth among the clothing shops where
stained, ancient garments are sponged, pressed, and advertised "Just
Like New." True enough, Annie took her own reward for this service;
to the suit of blue serge for which she paid twelve dollars and
ninety-five cents, she affixed a price tag which read twenty-four
dollars and ninety-five cents, and, as you might expect, put the
difference into her own capacious and ever-hungry pocket.
There seems to be some persistent destiny that has the habit of
sending policemen past a certain spot at a certain moment. It is
always happening, as an almost daily glance at your morning newspaper
will bear affirmative witness. As Eighth Avenue Annie was engaged in
purchasing Don Haskins' get-away outfit, Detective Sergeant John Henry
Tish passed the door of Abramson's dark, gloomy and somewhat odorous
"Clothes Bought and Sold" establishment and chanced to glance within.
Detective Sergeant Tish was not perhaps nearly so good a detective as
he thought himself to be, but he had a good record for arrests and
convictions; when he made a "pinch" something usually came of it. He
had been recently assigned to this district, on the fringe of the old
Tenderloin, and he wasn't so well acquainted as he might have been.
But he knew Eighth Avenue Annie; he had seen her in Jefferson Market
Court not a great many months before, and Annie's gargoyle face, with
the narrow, red eyes, her bulging, muscular shoulders, were not easily
forgotten.
"Humph!" grunted Sergeant Tish. "The old hag is buyin' somebody some
new rags--that is some rags that was new--one time. Looks as if there
might be something in it."
So, instead of pursuing his way down Eighth Avenue, he loitered outside
Mr. Abramson's cluttered establishment, to all intents and purposes
interested in a suit of plaid which occupied the central space in the
window. "Can't Tell it from New," read a card. "A Bargain at $22.69."
Mr. Abramson, you see, was a great believer in the psychology of the
odd cent.
Eighth Avenue Annie striding forth with that swaggering, Bowery walk of
hers, a bundle under her arm, did not glance behind her. Had she done
so, she would have seen Sergeant Tish, a short, well-fed-looking man,
who didn't look much like the usual run of fly cops, lose interest in
the plaid and follow her at a discreet and disarming distance.
However, when Annie turned in at her place of abode and harbored
evil-doers just around the corner of the second block, Sergeant Tish
quickened his pace and was directly behind her, as she stepped into
the vestibule. It might have been the ringing of the automatic bell
that dimmed her ears to the pad of the detective's shoes, for, as she
turned, there was Tish, grinning at her wisely, his foot thrust forward
to prevent the door being suddenly slammed in his face. He had no
intention of finding himself on the outside looking in.
"Say!" growled Annie. "What's the game?" Sharp as were her red,
narrow eyes, she failed to see the brand of headquarters in the
plain-clothes man's round, fat face.
Sergeant Tish continued grinning, but it wasn't a grin to arouse any
contagious mirth or even good humor.
"Who'd you buy the new rags for?" he demanded. "I wanna know a thing or
two about that. Get me?"
Eighth Avenue Annie got him; there was the tone of authority in the
man's voice.
"What's it to you?" she demanded with pretended indignation. "Ain't a
lady gotta right----"
"Cheese it!" broke in Detective Tish. "I know you, an' I gotcher
number. When a bird sends you out to buy 'im clothes, he's either
a cripple or a crook--an' if he was that bad a cripple I guess he
wouldn't need any clothes." He chuckled in appreciation of his own wit.
"So don't try no bluff with me. Take your hand off that door."
Annie had often defied the law, but her defiance was never flaunted
openly. When a cop said open the door, she opened it quickly.
"I ain't done nothin' wrong," she protested with a ludicrous pretense
at innocence. "There ain't nothin' wrong, is there, in doin' a favor
fer a gent roomer. Is there, now? He said fer me to go out an' buy
'em----"
"Where is this guy?" broke in Sergeant Tish. "I guess I'll give him the
once-over. Chances are he's some bird that's wanted, tryin' to do a
swift one outta town. Yeah?"
"I dunno," muttered Annie; "I dunno nothin' about 'im. I rents 'im
a room; he pays his rent. I'm a poor lady tryin' to make an honest
livin', I am."
"That's a double lie," snorted Sergeant Tish. "You ain't no lady, an'
you never glommed an honest jitney in your life. Lead on, you; I'm
gonna give this guy the once-over an' a free ride most likely."
The woman hesitated, for she was at a ticklish disadvantage. The
surprise of the detective's visit was too complete to give her any
opportunity to warn Don Haskins who waited in the vile little room on
the third floor for his new wardrobe.
On the stairs leading to the top story there was concealed a very
cunning little device that in six years of hiding hunted men for pay
had not once been detected by the police. Two of the steps, by a simple
mechanical operation, could be jerked upward into an opening large
enough to admit a man's body. Below this was space large enough to
accommodate several persons, the steps then dropped back into place,
looking thoroughly innocent. But Haskins had not been given the secret
of the third-floor stairs, and now there would be no opportunity to
favor him with this belated knowledge.
"I'll run right up an' tell Mr. Smith to come down," said the old hag.
"Say," sneered Sergeant Tish, "do I look that easy? On the level, do
you think I'd fall for that stuff?" It angered him that she should
have so little regard for his intelligence. "What floor did you say?"
He unbuttoned his coat which fitted somewhat tightly across his ample
stomach, giving him freer access to his police automatic strapped
beneath his arm.
Eighth Avenue Annie had not lived in the underworld for nothing; she
knew the ways of the cops. She knew, for example, that the first overt
move she made to protect her well-paying lodger would land her in jail
on a charge of aiding and abetting a criminal. She wanted to help
Haskins, not from any motive of sentiment, but because she expected to
garner further money from Don's "swell sister," as she supposed Helen
Gilmore to be.
"I didn't say what floor, off'cer," she muttered, "but I'm sayin' now.
He's on the thoid. I ain't protectin' nobody that ain't right." She
tried to affect a virtuous attitude. "I dunno nothin' except he spiels
it to me his moniker is--um--Smith."
"Lead the way," ordered Sergeant Tish. "Not a word outta you either.
Get me? No tip-off goes with me; try that, and it's the station for
yours. If you think I won't, try it." Evidently Tish had not been
deceived in the slightest by her attitude of innocence. "You go on up
them stairs just like you was bringin' back his new duds. You say,
'Here's your clothes, mister.' I guess we won't use the Smith racket,
either. His name ain't Smith, and you know it ain't."
"Yes, off'cer," agreed Eighth Avenue Annie.
"Not so loud with that officer talk," warned Tish. "Ease down on the
lung power, you. Now, let's go."
He motioned to the bundle she had just brought in from Abramson's,
and she obediently picked it up, starting up the dank, musty stairs.
The detective followed, walking with surprising lightness of step for
so corpulent a man. They reached the second-floor landing and passed
around a bend in the hall to the next flight. There was no hope for Don
Haskins now.
As they reached the top, lighted murkily by the dirty skylight,
Sergeant Tish crouched low so that his head and shoulders would be
shielded by the bulking form of Eighth Avenue Annie and her packages.
The woman's shoes clattered noisily, and Haskins came to the door with
the broken, patched panel, his unshaven face peering out.
"You got the stuff, huh?" he grunted. "I'll bet it's a tin suit."
Eighth Avenue Annie made no effort to warn him; that might mean
shooting, and she wanted no shooting in her house.
"It's a good suit," she muttered in a hoarse guttural. "It cost----"
"Stick 'em up," roared Sergeant Tish, flipping out his gun, and rising
to his full height, leveling the weapon at the now wide-open door. "Get
'em up, or I'll drill you."
Don Haskins' hands went up; he would have been a fool otherwise. His
lips twisted, as they emitted a vicious snarl.
"Double crossed me," he said. "Took my good jack an' called in the
cops. Curse you, I'll----"
"Shut your mouth!" Annie whispered hoarsely, her own face livid.
Sergeant Tish grinned delightedly; he was beginning to realize that it
had been a fortunate circumstance looking so casually into the doorway
of Abramson's secondhand clothing store. He had felt all along, of
course, that the woman was lying, that she was keeping a man in hiding.
And men do not hide unless they are wanted. It might be a big haul.
He took another step forward and peered closely into the face of his
quarry.
"I can't name him offhand, but I guess the Bertillon boys'll rap to
'im fast enough." He backed Haskins into the stuffy, dirty little room
at the point of the gun and reached into the pocket of his coat for an
ever-ready pair of nippers.
"Stick out them fins," he ordered. "I'll get these darbies on you, an'
then we'll talk things over."
Knowing that the gun was beaded for his vitals, and that any fool can
shoot straight with an automatic, Don Haskins stuck out his hands; the
handcuffs snapped about his wrists.
"What's the pinch for?" he demanded with an effort at bluster. "You
ain't got nothin' on me; I ain't done nothin'."
"Well, anyhow, I guess you've done time," Sergeant Tish said shrewdly.
"What's your name down at central office?"
Don Haskins remained sullenly silent, his eyes glowing hotly, as
they stared at Eighth Avenue Annie. The hag had let the bundle from
Abramson's slide to the floor, and with both hands she pushed back the
dirty gray hair that straggled down across her soiled face.
"Want to hold out on me, eh?" grunted Sergeant Tish, with a shrug of
his flesh-padded shoulders, as he thrust the gun back into its holster.
His chubby face wore a smile, for he was well pleased with himself; a
single-handed capture is a thing that a cop delights in. And, if it
turned out to be an important arrest--well, Tish had a hunch that it
was just that, an important arrest. "Suit yourself, John Doe; you'll
get the rap fast enough when I get you downtown."
Don Haskins knew how hopeless it was now. Ten minutes ago he had been
daydreaming pleasantly of Florida, perhaps Cuba, and now--Sing Sing
via the Tombs. It all depended on whether or not "Dago Mike," his
confederate in the loft job, net profit ten dollars split three ways,
had squealed. And he was sure Dago Mike had squealed. The warehouse
watchman had been croaked, and that meant that not only the actual
slayer, but Don Haskins, as a participant in the crime, was liable to
the death sentence.
Haskins thought swiftly, desperately. The chair! The sickening vision
of it swam before his eyes and drove his brain to cunning that was
somewhat beyond his normal mental processes. He staggered back to the
unkempt cot.
"Gimme a cigarette," he muttered thickly, his nerve apparently
deserting him. "I'll talk--tell you who I am. I--I gotta have a fag
first."
Sergeant Tish had seen that kind before. "Sure," he agreed readily
enough and produced a package of his own. Don lifted his manacled arms
and took a cigarette. It trembled between his fingers, wabbled between
his twitching lips. The detective lighted a match and held the flaming
stick toward him.
Haskins inhaled deeply and seemed to grow calmer; his eyes raised,
taking his captor's measure. He noted with satisfaction that he was
almost a head taller than Tish. Even then he found the time to wonder
how he had managed to get on the force.
Tish did not rush his man. "Take your time," he encouraged. "No hurry;
spill it when you're ready."
Eighth Avenue Annie edged to the door from the hall, peering inside
with a horrible leer, as she considered that this man whom she had
befriended--for pay, of course--was going to be a yellow skunk and
"cough up." He would probably squeal on her, too; tangle her up in
his own net of trouble. That was the way with some of these rats;
they couldn't stand the gaff and wouldn't protect their friends. She
muttered something that sounded like "scum."
Little did Annie know what was going on in Don Haskins' mind. Don had
never been a swift thinker, and hard drinking of bootleg whisky hadn't
added to his nimbleness of wit, but his brain was traveling in high
now. He knew that it wouldn't do him any good to conceal his identity;
lie as he would, there would be plenty of cops down at headquarters to
remember him. More than that, his picture was in the rogues' gallery,
his finger prints on file. But he didn't propose to make that trip down
to headquarters. Desperation made him resourceful.
"My name is Haskins," he muttered. "They used to call me Nifty Don in
the old days, but you ain't got nothin' on me. On the level, you ain't
got nothin' on me."
Sergeant Tish frowned for a moment and then a look of delight spread
over his round, fat face. "Guess again, Haskins. There's a general
order out for you. You're wanted for a croak out in the Bronx; I forget
the details, but you're wanted all right. Yeah, I'll say you are."
Don groaned. He had been right in his fears; Dago Mike had squealed.
The handcuffed man got to his feet; his shoulders heaved, as he inhaled
deeply on the now half-consumed cigarette. He filled his lungs to every
cubic inch of their capacity. He took a step toward the detective and,
opening his mouth, expelled a cloud of smoke directly into Tish's face.
Sergeant Tish, half blinded, was taken totally by surprise; he
staggered back and made a motion toward his gun, but he was not quick
enough. The prisoner's manacled arms flashed upward and downward, the
metal wristlets catching the detective a stunning blow on the side of
the head. The latter's knees sagged, but he continued to fumble for his
gun, when Haskins struck again, and this time the plain-clothes man
crumpled up on the floor, blood gushing from the edge of his scalp.
"My Gawd!" whispered Eighth Avenue Annie.
For the moment Haskins ignored her, as he knelt beside the form of his
captor and took the police regulation automatic; then he began frisking
the man for the handcuff keys.
"Here," he said harshly to the old hag, "get these cursed things off of
me. Hurry!"
"You'se ain't croaked 'im?" gulped Annie, her eyes bulging.
"Naw," grunted Don. "Use that key, or I'll give you a dose of the same.
I ought to, anyhow, you dirty double crosser. Tipped the cops off,
didn'tcha?"
"He seen me buyin' the clothes; he follered me. See? I didn't have no
chance to give you warnin'. Nice fix you got me into, brainin' a dick
in my place. They'll send me away for this." She worked the key in the
lock, and the handcuffs came free.
"I hope you get ten years," Haskins said viciously. "Gimme them
clothes." A moment later he was changing in trembling haste, shedding
the disreputable suit for the more respectable garments that Annie had
purchased at Abramson's. His fingers were shaking, and he steadied his
nerves with a drink from the bottle which rested beside the bed.
Eighth Avenue Annie was twisting her grimy old hands in an anguish
of terror. She knew the aftermath of this, and the revenge of the
outwitted detective was not a pleasant thing to consider. Had she
dared she would have tried to square herself by preventing Haskins'
escape, by sending out an alarm, but Haskins was armed and at her first
move would perhaps kill her. She flattened against the wall, sobbing
hoarsely in self-pity, cursing the man who had sent Haskins to her for
protection.
In his haste Haskins forgot something very important; he forgot that
beneath the dirty mattress was the forty dollars that remained of
the one hundred and ninety dollars Helen Gilmore had given him the
previous afternoon. He didn't think of it until he had dashed down
the two flights of stairs and had reached the street. As he realized
this amazing oversight and turned back, he saw Annie sneaking out of
the vestibule, running. He knew. She was calling the cops, trying to
square herself. He didn't dare go back for the money. He wheeled in the
opposite direction, walking swiftly.
Flight without a dollar in pocket is a problem, but desperation has
cut many a Gordian knot. Eighth Avenue is not a well-lighted street,
and darkness had settled down over the city. A taxi nosed through the
gloom, and after but a moment of hesitation Haskins hailed it; the
question of fare did not bother him--not with that automatic in his
pocket. The taxi drew up alongside the curb; it was a nice new taxi,
with a shining, spotless coat of blue paint.
"I wanna get to Yonkers in a hurry," said Don briskly. "Gotta
important date out there. How quick can y'make it?" Yonkers was the
river-bordered town which joined the New York city limits on the north.
"Hour and a quarter," answered the driver, giving Haskins a sizing-up
look.
"O. K.," grunted Haskins. "Let's travel; go down Riverside Drive all
the way." He climbed inside, and they were off.
Don had a particular reason for choosing the Riverside Drive route.
Past One Hundred and Eightieth Street the Drive winds between the river
and high-towering bluffs, with no houses on either side. He desired a
quiet place for settling the matter of the fare. They had reached the
spot which is called Inspiration Point, when the fleeing passenger
rapped on the glass which separated him from the chauffeur's seat.
"Stop 'er!" he shouted.
The car ground to a halt, and Haskins leaped out, cursing volubly.
"Lost ring--diamond ring--slipped right off my finger. That rock cost
me eight hundred bucks," was the excuse he gave.
The driver stared suspiciously, for his fare did not look like a man
who would own an eight-hundred-dollar diamond ring.
"Aw, watcha handin' me?" he growled skeptically.
Haskins looked up and down the Drive. The nearest car was some distance
away. His hand slipped to his pocket for the automatic he had taken
from Sergeant Tish. At the same instant he sprang forward. He did not
shoot, but brought the butt of the weapon down in a vicious swing on
the fellow's head. With a grunting, choking groan the latter collapsed
into black unconsciousness, still sitting at the wheel.
The approaching car swept past; another followed; and neither paused
their swift progress. There was no reason why they should have noticed
anything. Don Haskins lifted out the limp form and carried it well
back to the side of the road, where he quickly rifled the senseless
man's pockets, taking nineteen dollars and thirty-five cents in cash,
a good watch, and the driving license. Then he donned the chauffeur's
cap and climbed into the taxi; an instant later he was speeding on
northward--alone. He was headed for the one place where he was sure
that he would find money and protection--Greenacres.