"CLOSE THE CASES"
Pony Baxter's place, located near the middle of what is commonly termed
a "business block," embraced the space once occupied by a number of
small offices, one of which he had retained as a sort of
reception-room, near the head of the stairway. That he might have a
spacious room for his business, the partitions of the former offices
had been removed, with the exception of those enclosing his office, and
a room at the extreme end of the building which opened on the hall,
near the end window, just over the fire-escape. This room was
expensively fitted up as a lavatory, with marble panels, basins, and
tiling. A uniformed negro with the inevitable whisk-broom was always
in attendance, quite as keen at "getting the dust" as was his employer.
The door to this room was fitted with a spring lock which allowed it to
be opened only from the inside, except with a pass-key.
The Spider's cab, swinging into the alley, stopped directly beneath the
lower extension of the fire-escape. "Pull over closer to the wall," he
told the driver. Then he climbed to the driver's seat and stepped onto
the iron ladder. "You can drive round to the front and wait," he told
the cabby, who lost no time in getting out of the alley. Like most
nocturnal cabmen, he was quite willing to drive anywhere; but he
sincerely preferred to do his waiting for his fare in a more open
street.
The window at the rear end of the hall was fastened. The Spider broke
the glass just below the catch with the butt of his gun. He raised the
window and slid into the hallway.
"Who dat?" came from the lavatory.
"It's me, Sam," said The Spider thickly, imitating the voice of a man
overcome by drink. "I cut my hand on the window. Want to get in--wash
up--blood--"
"I ask Misto Baxtuh, suh."
"Lemme in--quick--or you lose a five-spot. Bleeding bad--want to wash
up--"
The spring lock clicked softly. Before Sam knew what had happened, The
Spider was in the lavatory and between him and the door to the main
room. "Get going," said The Spider. The amazed negro backed away from
that eloquent menace in The Spider's right hand.
"M-m-m-misto--misto--Captain-- Ah ain't done nuffin!"
"Git!"--and The Spider indicated the rear window.
The negro backed into the hall, saw the open window, and vanished
through it without parley. He dropped from the last step of the
fire-escape and picking himself up started to run, with no definite
destination in mind save space.
As Baxter had said, things were quiet that night. The poker table had
been deserted and the players had left. A few "regulars" still hung
about the faro layout and the wheel. The hired "bouncer" had stepped
into the office to speak to Baxter. It was past twelve. There were no
strangers present save the four roughly dressed men. Baxter was just
telling the bouncer that he knew them, and that he surmised they were
after a certain party, but that that party would not be back there. As
he talked Baxter stepped to the outer door and locked it. It was too
late to expect any worth-while business.
The Spider, who was in reality looking for Baxter, whom he suspected of
trickery, opened the lavatory door far enough to see into the main
room. In a flash he had placed three of the four men who "wanted" him.
White-Eye and Longtree were standing near a player at the faro table,
evidently interested for the moment in the play. Near White-Eye, Pino
was rolling a cigarette. Beyond them, at the next table, stood a man
with a deformed shoulder--and The Spider recognized Gary of the
T-Bar-T, watching the few players at the wheel. . . . A film of cigar
smoke eddied round the lamps above the tables. Presently the players
at the faro table rose and left. The dealer put away his cases. The
lookout yawned and took off his green eye-shade. The man with the
deformed shoulder and his companion were moving toward White-Eye when
The Spider slipped through the doorway and sidled toward the middle of
the room. His hat was pushed back. He fumbled at his tie with his
right hand. "White-Eye!" he called.
The faro-dealer and the lookout jerked round--then slowly backed toward
the side of the room. The man at the wheel paused with his hand in the
air. The players, intent upon the game, glanced up curiously. Pino,
who stood near White-Eye and almost in front of him, dropped his
cigarette. The room became as still as the noon desert. Three of the
four men who bore ancient grudge against The Spider, knew that there
would be no parley--that talk would be useless. The fourth, the man
whom they had addressed as Steve, had but recently associated himself
with them, and had no quarrel with The Spider. In that tense moment,
Gary wished himself well out of it.
"Lost your nerve, Pino?" laughed The Spider, in his queer, high voice.
"You dropped your cigarette."
One of the roulette players giggled hysterically. At the sound of that
laugh, White-Eye jerked Pino in front of him. The Spider's gun
appeared as though he had caught it from the air. As it roared, Pino
staggered sideways and fell. White-Eye fired as The Spider, throwing
shot after shot, walked slowly toward him. Suddenly White-Eye coughed
and staggered against the table. With his last shot The Spider dropped
White-Eye, then jerked a second gun from his waistband. Gary, kneeling
behind the faro table, fired over its top. The Spider whirled
half-round, recovered himself, and, sidling toward the table, threw
down on the kneeling man, who sank forward coughing horribly. Within
eight feet of him The Spider's gun roared again. Gary's body jerked
stiff at the shock and then slowly collapsed. The fourth man,
Longtree, with his hands above his head, begged The Spider not to kill
his old pal! The Spider's face, horribly distorted, venomous as a
snake's, colorless and glistening with sweat, twisted queerly as he
spoke: "Kill you, you damned coyote?" And he shot Longtree down as a
man would shoot a trapped wolf.
Framed in the office doorway stood Pony Baxter, a blue automatic in his
hand. The Spider, leaning against the roulette table, laughed. "Gave
me the double-cross, eh, Pony? How do you like the layout?" He swayed
and clutched at the table. "Don't kill me, Pony!" he cried, in ghastly
mimickry of Longtree's voice. "Don't kill an old pal, Pony!" And the
sound of his voice was lost in the blunt roar of a shot that loosened
Baxter's fingers from the automatic. It clattered to the floor.
Baxter braced himself against the door-frame and, turning, staggered to
the desk 'phone.
The Spider nodded to the faro-dealer. "Close your cases," he said, and
he hiccoughed and spat viciously. "Get me downstairs--I'm done."
The dealer, who possessed plenty of nerve himself, was dumb with wonder
that this man, who had deliberately walked into a fight against three
fast guns, was still on his feet. Yet he realized that The Spider had
made his last fight. He was hard hit. "God, what a mess!" said the
dealer as he took The Spider's arm and steadied him to the office.
"You better lay down," he suggested.
"Got a cab downstairs. General Hospital."
The driver, who had been taking a nap inside the cab, heard the sound
of shooting, started up, threw back the lap-robe, and stepped to the
sidewalk. He listened, trying to count the shots. Then came silence.
Then another shot. He was aware that his best policy was to leave that
neighborhood quickly. Yet curiosity held him, and finally drew him
toward the dimly lighted stairway. He wondered what had happened.
"Cab?" somebody called from above. The cabby answered.
"Give us a hand here," cried a voice from the top of the stairs. "A
man's been shot--bad."
The cabby clumped up and helped get The Spider to the street.
"Where'll I take him?" he stammered nervously, as he recognized the
shrunken figure.
"He said something about the General Hospital. He's going--fast."
"He used to call there, regular," asserted the cabby. "Anybody else
git hurt?"
"Christ, yes! It's a slaughter-pen up there. Beat it, or he'll cash
in before you can get him to the hospital."
The cabby pulled up at the General Hospital, leapt down, and hastened
round to the garage. He wakened the night ambulance-driver, stayed
until the driver and an interne had carried The Spider into the
hospital, and then drove away before he could be questioned.
The house-doctor saw at once that The Spider could not live,
administered a stimulant, and telephoned to the police station, later
asking the ambulance-driver for the cabman's number, which the other
had failed to notice in the excitement. As he hung up the receiver a
nurse told him that the patient was conscious and wanted to speak to
Dr. Andover. The house-doctor asked The Spider if he wished to make a
statement.
The Spider moved his head in the negative. "I'm done," he whispered,
"but I'd like to see Pete a minute."
"Pete?"
"Room 218," said the nurse.
"Oh, you mean young Annersley. Well, I don't know."
"He's my boy," said The Spider, using the last desperate argument--an
appeal difficult to ignore.
"Take him to 218," said the doctor, gesturing toward the stretcher.
The nurse, who went with them, roused Pete out of a quiet sleep and
told him that they were bringing some one to see him. "Your father,"
she said, "who has been seriously injured. He asked to see you."
Pete could not at first understand what she meant. "All right," he
said, turning his head and gazing toward the doorway. The nurse
stepped into the hall and nodded to the attendants and the doctor.
They were about to move forward when The Spider gestured feebly to the
doctor. "Get me to my feet." "I won't bother you much after that."
And The Spider, who felt that his strength was going fast, tried to
raise himself on the stretcher. This effort brought the internes to
his side. They lifted him to his feet and shuffled awkwardly through
the doorway.
Swaying between the internes, his shriveled body held upright by a
desperate effort of will, he fought for breath.
Pete raised on his elbow, his dark eyes wide. "Spider!" he exclaimed.
The internes felt The Spider's slackened muscles grow tense as he
endeavored to get closer to the cot. They helped him a step forward.
He pulled his arm free and thrust out his hand. Pete's hand closed on
those limp, clammy fingers.
"I come ahead of time, pardner. Come to see how--you was--gettin'
along." The Spider's arm dropped to his side.
"Take him to the other bed there," said the doctor.
The Spider shook his head. "Just a minute." He nodded toward Pete.
"I want you to do something for me. Go see that party--in letter--fix
you up--he's played square with me--same as you done."
"But who was it--" began Pete.
"Old bunch. Trailed me--too close. Got 'em--every dam' one. A más
ver. Tengo que marcharme, compadre." And then, "Close the cases,"
said The Spider.
The internes helped him to the cot on which Doris had rested as she
watched Pete through those dark hours, refusing to leave him till she
knew the great danger had passed.
Pete lay back staring at the ceiling. He was, stunned by this sudden
calamity. And all at once he realized that it must have been The
Spider who had called to see him several times. Doris had hinted to
Pete that some friend asked after him daily. So The Spider had come to
El Paso to find out if the money had been delivered--risking his life
for the sake of a few thousand dollars! Pete turned and glanced at the
other cot. The doctor was bending over The Spider, who mumbled
incoherently. Presently brisk footsteps sounded in the hallway, and
two men entered the room and stepped to where The Spider lay. They
spoke in low tones to the doctor, who moved back. One of the men--a
heavy-shouldered, red-faced man, whom Pete recognized--asked The Spider
who had shot him, and if he had been in Pony Baxter's place that night.
The Spider's lips moved. The other leaned closer. Dimly The Spider
realized that this was the Law that questioned him. Even at the last
moment his old enemy had come to hunt him out. The Spider's beady
black eyes suddenly brightened. With a last vicious effort he raised
his head and spat in the officer's face.
The doctor stepped quickly forward. The Spider lay staring at the
ceiling, his sightless eyes dulled by the black shadow of eternal night.