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I realized that the similarity of Masters to Masterson had made the nickname
"Bat" a natural.
He was a big man with a long, horselike face, eyes wide apart and a
mouth that was a narrow straight line separating a lantern jaw from a wide
upper lip; on the latter there was a two-day stubble of hair that indicated
he was starting a mustache. But it would have taken plastic surgery and a
full beard to disguise that face from anyone who had recently, however
casually, studied a picture of it. Bat Masters, bank robber and killer.
I had a gun in my pocket, but I didn't remember it at the time. It's
probably just as well; if I'd remembered, I might have been frightened into
reaching for it. And that probably would not have been a healthful thing to
do. He was coming at me with his fists balled but no gun in either of them.
He didn't intend to kill me ґ although one of those fists might do it quite
easily and unintentionally. I weigh a hundred and forty wringing wet, and he
weighed almost twice that and had shoulders that bulged out his suit coat.
There wasn't even time to turn and run. His left hand came out and
caught the front of my coat and pulled me toward him, almost lifting me off
the sidewalk.
He said, "Listen, Pop, I don't want any lip. I asked you a question."
"Carmel City," I said. "Carmel City, Illinois."
The voice of the other man, still in the car, came back to us. "Hey,
Bill, don't hurt the guy. We don't want toґ" He didn't finish the sentence,
of course; to say you don't want to attract attention is the best way of
drawing it.
Masters looked past me right over my head ґ to see if anybody or
anything was coming that way and then, still keeping his grip on the front
of my coat, turned and looked the other way. He wasn't afraid of my swinging
at him enough to bother keeping his eyes on me, and I didn't blame him for
feeling that way about it.
A car was coming now, about a block away. And two men came out of the
drugstore on the opposite side of the street, only a few buildings down.
Then behind me I could hear the sound of another car turning into Oak
Street.
Masters turned back to me and let go, so we were just two men standing
there face to face if anyone noticed us. He said, "Okay, Pop. Next time
somebody asks you a question, don't be so God damn fresh."
He still glared at me as though he hadn't yet completely given up the
idea of giving me something to remember him by ґ maybe just a light
open-handed slap that wouldn't do anything worse than crack my jawbone and
drive my dentures down my throat.
I said, "Sure, sorry," and let my voice sound afraid, but tried not to
sound quite as afraid as I really was ґ because if he even remotely
suspected that I might have recognized him, I wasn't going to get out of it
at all.
He swung around and walked back to the ear, got in and drove off. I
suppose I should have got the license number, but it would have been a
stolen car anyway ґ and besides I didn't think of it. I didn't even watch
the car as it drove away; if either of them looked back I didn't want them
to think I was giving them what criminals call the big-eye. I didn't want to
give them any possible reason to change their minds about going on.
I started walking again, keeping to the middle of the sidewalk and
trying to look like a man minding his own business. Also trying to keep my
knees from shaking so hard that I couldn't walk at all. It had been a narrow
squeak all right. If the street had been completely emptyґ
I could have notified the sheriff's office about a minute quicker by
turning around and going back that way, but I didn't take a chance. If
someone was watching me out of the back window of the car, a change in
direction wouldn't be a good idea. There was a difference of only a block
anyway; I was half a block past the courthouse and a block and a half from
Smiley's and the Clarion office across the street from it. >From either one
I could phone in the big news that Bat Masters and a companion had just
driven through Carmel City heading north, probably toward Chicago. And Hank
Ganzer, in the sheriff's office, would relay the story to the state police
and there was probably better than an even chance that they'd be caught
within an hour or two.
And if they were, I might even get a slice of the reward for giving the
tip ґ but I didn't care as much about that as about the story I was going to
have. Why, it was a story, even if they weren't caught, and if they were, it
would be a really big one. And a local story ґ if the tip came from Carmel
City ґ even if they were actually caught several counties north. Maybe
there'd even be a gun battle ґ from my all too close look at Masters I had a
hunch that there would be.
Perfect timing, too, I thought. For once something was happening on a
Thursday night. For once I'd beat the Chicago papers. They'd have the story,
too, of course, and a lot of Carmel City people take Chicago dailies, but
they don't come in until the late afternoon train and the Clarion would be
out hours before that.
Yes, for once I was going to have a newspaper with news in it. Even if
Masters and his pal weren't caught, the fact that they'd passed through town
made a story. And besides that, there was the escaped maniac, and Carl
Trenholmґ
Thinking about Carl again made me walk faster. It was safe by now; I'd
gone a quarter of a block since the Buick had driven off. It wasn't anywhere
in sight and again the street was quiet; thank God it hadn't been this quiet
while Masters had been making up his mind whether or not to slug me.
I was past Deak's Music Store, dark. Past the supermarket, ditto. The
bankґ
I had passed the bank, too, when I stopped as suddenly as though I'd
run into a wall. The bank had been dark too. And it shouldn't have been;
there's a small night light that always burns over the safe. I'd passed the
bank thousands of times after dark and never before had that light been off.
For a moment the wild thought went through my head that Bat and his
companion must have just burglarized the bank ґ although robbery, not
burglary, was Masters' trade ґ and then I saw how ridiculous that thought
had been. They'd been driving toward the bank and a quarter of a block away
from it when they'd stopped to ask me what town they were in. True, they
could have burglarized the bank and then circled the block in their car, but
if they had they'd have been intent on their getaway. Criminals do pretty
silly things sometimes but not quite so silly as to stop a getaway car
within spitting distance of the scene of the crime to ask what town they're
in, and then to top it by getting out of the car to slug a random pedestrian
because they don't like his answer to their question.
No, Masters and company couldn't have robbed the bank. And they
couldn't be burglarizing it now, either. Their car had gone on past; I
hadn't watched it, but my ears had told me that it had kept on going. And
even if it hadn't, I had. My encounter with them had been only seconds ago;
there wasn't possibly time for them to have broken in there, even if they'd
stopped.
I went back a few steps and looked into the window of the bank.
At first I saw nothing except the vague silhouette of a window at the
back ґ the top half of the window, that is, which was visible above the
counter. Then the silhouette became less vague and I could see that the
window had been opened; the top bar of the lower sash showed clearly, only a
few inches from the top of the frame.
That was the means of entry all right ґ but was the burglar still in
there, or had he left, and left the window open behind him?
I strained my eyes against the blackness to the left of the window,
where the safe was. And suddenly a dim light flickered briefly, as though a
match had been struck but had gone out before the phosphorus had ignited the
wood. I could see only the brief light of it, as it was below the level of
the counter; I couldn't see whoever had lighted it.
The burglar was still there.
And suddenly I was running on tiptoe back through the areaway between
the bank and the post office.
Good God, don't ask me why. Sure, I had money in the bank, but the bank
had insurance against burglary and it wasn't any skin off my backside if the
bank was robbed. I wasn't even thinking that it would be a better story for
the Clarion if I got the burglar ґ or if he got me. I just wasn't thinking
at all. I was running back alongside the bank toward that window that he'd
left open for his getaway.
I think it must have been reaction from the cowardice I'd shown and
felt only a minute before. I must have been a bit punch drunk from
Jabberwocks and Vorpal Blades and homicidal maniacs with lycanthropy and
bank bandits and a bank burglar ґ or maybe I thought I'd suddenly been
promoted to the Roman candle department.
Maybe I was drunk, maybe I was a little mentally unbalanced ґ use any
maybe you want, but there I was running tiptoe through the areaway. Running,
that is, as far as the light from the street would let me; then I groped
along the side of the building until I came to the alley. There was dim
light there, enough for me to be able to see the window.
It was still open.
I stood there looking at it and vaguely beginning to realize how crazy
I'd been. Why hadn't I run to the sheriff's office for Hank? The burglar ґ
or, for all I knew, burglars ґ might be just starting his work on the safe
in there. He might be in a long time, long enough for Hank to get here and
collar him. If he came out now, what was I going to do about it? Shoot him?
That was ridiculous; I'd rather let him get away with robbing the bank than
do that.
And then it was too late because suddenly there was a soft shuffling
sound from the window and a hand appeared on the sill. He was coming out,
and there wasn't a chance that I could get away without his hearing me. What
would happen then, I didn't know. I would just as soon not find out.
A moment before, just as I'd reached the place beside the window where
I now stood, I'd stepped on a piece of wood, a one-by-two stick of it about
a foot long. That was a weapon I could understand. I reached down and
grabbed it and swung, just in time, as a head came through the window.
Thank God I didn't swing too hard. At the last second, even in that
faint light, I'd thoughtґ
The head and the hand weren't in the window any more and there was the
soft thud of a body falling inside. There wasn't any sound or movement for
seconds. Long seconds, and then there was the sound of my stick of wood
hitting the dirt of the alley and I knew I'd dropped it.
If it hadn't been for what I'd thought I'd seen in that last fraction
of a second before it was too late to stop the blow, I could have run now
for the sheriff's office. Butґ
Maybe here went my head, but I had to chance it. The sill of the window
wasn't much over waist high. I leaned across it and struck a match, and I'd
been right.
I climbed in the window and felt for his heart and it was beating all
right. He seemed to be breathing normally. I ran my hands very gently over
his head and then held them in the open window to look at them; there wasn't
any blood. There could be, then, nothing worse than a concussion.
I lowered the window so nobody would notice that it was open and then I
felt my way carefully toward the nearest desk ґ I'd been in the bank
thousands of times; I knew its layout ґ and groped for a telephone until I
found one. The operator's voice said, "Number, please?" and I started to
give it and then remembered; she'd know where the call came from and that
the bank was closed. Naturally, she'd listen in. Maybe she'd even call the
sheriff's office to tell them someone was using the telephone in the bank.
Had I recognized her voice? I'd thought I had. I said, "Is this Milly?"
"Yes. Is this ґ Mr. Stoeger?"
"Right," I said. I was glad she'd known my voice. "Listen, Milly, I'm
calling from the bank, but it's all right. You don't need to worry about it.
And ґ do me a favor, will you? Please don't listen in."
"All right, Mr. Stoeger. Sure. What number do you want?"
I gave it; the number of Clyde Andrews, president of the bank. As I
heard the ringing of the phone at the other end, I thought how lucky it was
that I'd known Milly all her life and that we liked one another. I knew that
she'd be burning with curiosity but that she wouldn't listen in.
Clyde Andrews' voice answered. I was still careful about what I said
because I didn't know offhand whether he was on a party line.
I said, "This is Doc Stoeger, Clyde. I'm down at the bank. Get down
here right away. Hurry."
"Huh? Doc, are you drunk or something? What would you be doing at the
bank. It's closed."
I said, "Somebody was inside here. I hit him over the head with a piece
of wood when he started back out of the window, and he's unconscious but not
hurt bad. But just to be sure, pick up Doc Minton on your way here. And
hurry."
"Sure," he said. "Are you phoning the sheriff or shall I?"
"Neither of us. Don't phone anybody. Just get Minton and get here
quick."
"But ґ I don't get it. Why not phone the sheriff? Is this a gag?"
I said, "No, Clyde. Listen ґ you'll want to see the burglar first. He
isn't badly hurt, but for God's sake quit arguing and get down here with Dr.
Minton. Do you understand?"
His tone of voice was different when he said, "I'll be there. Five
minutes."
I put the receiver back on the phone and then lifted it again. The
"Number, please" was Milly's voice again and I asked her if she knew
anything about Carl Trenholm.
She didn't; she hadn't known anything had happened at all. When I told
her what little I knew she said yes, that she'd routed a call from a
farmhouse out on the pike to the sheriff's office about half an hour before,
but she'd had several other calls around the same time and hadn't listened
in on it.
I decided that I'd better wait until I was somewhere else, before I
called to report either Bat Masters' passing through or about the escaped
maniac at my own house. It wouldn't be safe to risk making the call from
here, and a few more minutes wouldn't matter a lot.
I went back, groping my way through the dark toward the dim square of
the window, and bent down again by the boy, Clyde Andrews' son. His
breathing and his heart were still okay and he moved a little and muttered
something as though he was coming out of it. I don't know anything about
concussion, but I thought that was a good sign and felt better. It would
have been terrible if I'd swung a little harder and had killed him or
injured him seriously.
I sat down on the floor so my head would be out of the line of sight if
anyone looked in the front window, as I had a few minutes before, and
waited.
So much had been happening that I felt a little numb. There was so much
to think about that I guess I didn't think about any of it. I just sat there
in the dark.
When the phone rang I jumped about two feet.
I groped to it and answered it. Milly's voice said, "Mr. Stoeger, I
thought I'd better tell you if you're still there. Somebody from the
drugstore across the street just phoned the sheriff's office and said the
night light in the bank is out, and whoever answered at the sheriff's office
ґ it sounded like one of the deputies, not Mr. Kates ґ said they'd come
right around."
I said, "Thanks, Milly. Thanks a lot."
A car was pulling up at the curb outside; I could see it through the
window. I breathed a sigh of relief when I recognized the men getting out of
it as Clyde Andrews and the doctor.
I switched on the lights inside while Clyde was unlocking the front
door. I told him quickly about the call that had been made to the sheriff's
office while I was leading them back to where Harvey Andrews was lying. We
moved him slightly to a point where neither he nor Dr. Minton, bending over
him, could be seen from the front of the bank, and we did it just in time.
Hank was rapping on the door.
I stayed out of sight, too, to avoid having to explain what I was doing
there. I heard Clyde Andrews open the door for Hank and explain that
everything was all right, that someone had phoned him, too, that the night
light was out and that he'd just got here to check up and that the bulb had
merely burned out.
When Hank left, Clyde came back, his face, a bit white. Dr. Minton
said, "He's going to be all right, Clyde. Starting to come out of it. Soon
as he can walk between us, we'll get him to the hospital for a checkup and
be sure."
I said, "Clyde, I've got to run. There's a lot popping tonight. But as
soon as you're sure the boy's all right will you let me know? I'll probably
be at the Clarion, but I might be at Smiley's ґ or if it's a long time from
now, I might be home."
"Sure, Doc." He put his hand on my shoulder. "And thanks a lot for ґ
calling me instead of the sheriff's office."
"That's all right," I told him. "And, Clyde, I didn't know who it was
before I hit. He was coming out of the back window and I thoughtґ"
Clyde said, "I looked in his room after you phoned. He'd packed. I ґ I
can't understand it, Doc. He's only fifteen. Why he'd do a thing likeґ" He
shook his head. "He's always been headstrong and he's got into little
troubles a few times, but ґ I don't understand this." He looked at me very
earnestly. "Do you?"
I thought maybe I did understand a little of it, but I was remembering
about Bat Masters and the fact that he was getting farther away every minute
and that I'd better get the state police notified pretty quickly.
So I said, "Can I talk to you about it tomorrow, Clyde? Get the boy's
side of it when he can talk ґ and just try to keep your mind open until
then. I think ґ it may not be as bad as you think right now."
I left him still looking like a man who's just taken an almost mortal
blow, and went out.
I headed down the street thinking what a damn fool I'd been to do what
I'd done. But then, where had I missed a chance to do something wrong
anywhere down the line tonight? And then, on second thought, this one thing
might not have been wrong. If I'd called Hank, the boy just might have been
shot instead of knocked out. And in any case he'd have been arrested.
That would have been bad. This way, there was a chance he could be
straightened out before it was too late. Maybe a psychiatrist could help
him. The only thing was, Clyde Andrews would have to realize that he, too,
would have to take advice from the psychiatrist. He was a good man, but a
hard father. You can't expect the things of a fifteen year-old boy that
Clyde expected of Harvey, and not have something go wrong somewhere down the
line. But burglarizing a bank, even his own father's bank ґ I couldn't make
up my mind whether that made it better or worse was certainly something I
hadn't looked for. It appalled me, a bit. Harvey's running away from home
wouldn't have surprised me at all; I don't know that I'd even have blamed
him.
A man can be too good a man and too conscientious and strict a father
for his son ever to be able to love him. If Clyde Andrews would only get
drunk ґ good and stinking drunk ґ just once in his life, he might get an
entirely different perspective on things, even if he never again took
another drink. But he'd never taken a drink yet, nor one in his whole life.
I don't think he'd ever smoked a cigarette or said a naughty word.
I liked him anyway; I'm pretty tolerant, I guess. But I'm glad I hadn't
had a father like him. In my books, the man in town who was the best father
was Carl Trenholm. Trenholm ґ and I hadn't found out yet whether he was dead
or only injured!
I was only half a block, now, from Smiley's and the Clarion. I broke
into a trot. Even at my age, it wouldn't wind me to trot that far. It had
probably been less than half an hour since I'd left home, but with the
things that had happened en route, it seemed like days. Well, anyway,
nothing could happen to me between here and Smiley's. And nothing did.
I could see through the glass that there weren't any customers at the
bar and that Smiley was alone behind it. Polishing glasses, as always; I
think he must polish the same glasses a dozen times over when there's
nothing else for him to do.
I burst in and headed for the telephone. I said, "Smiley, hell's
popping tonight. There's an escaped lunatic, and something's happened to
Carl Trenholm, and a couple of wanted bank robbers drove through here
fifteen or twenty minutes ago and I got toґ"
I was back by the telephone by the time I'd said all that and I was
reaching up for the receiver. But I never quite touched it.
A voice behind me said, "Take it easy, Buster."
"What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied.
"The further off from England the nearer is to France.
There is another shore, you know, upon the other side.
Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance."
I turned around slowly. They'd been sitting at the table around the el
of the tavern, the one table that can't be seen through the glass of the
door or the windows. They'd probably picked it for that reason. The beer
glasses in front of them were empty. But I didn't think the guns in their
hands would be.
One of the guns ґ the one in the hand of Bat Masters' companion ґ was
aimed at Smiley. And Smiley, not smiling, was keeping his hands very still,
not moving a muscle.
The gun in Masters' hand was aimed at me.
He said, "So you knew us, huh, Buster?"
There wasn't any use denying it; I'd said too much already. I said,
"You're Bat Masters." I looked at the other man, whom I hadn't seen clearly
before, when he'd been in the car. He was squat and stocky, with a bullet
head and little pig eyes. He looked like a caricature of a German army
officer. I said, "I'm sorry; I don't know your friend."
Masters laughed. He said, "See, George, I'm famous and you're not.
How'd you like that?"
George kept his eyes on Smiley. He said, "I think you better come
around this side of the bar. You just might have a gun back there and take a
notion to dive for it."
"Come on over and sit with us," Masters said. "Both of you. Let's make
it a party, huh, George?"
George said, "Shut up," which changed my opinion of George quite a bit.
I personally wouldn't have cared to tell Bat Masters to shut up, and in that
tone of voice. True, I had been fresh with him about twenty minutes before,
but I hadn't known who he was. I hadn't even seen how big he was.
Smiley was coming around the end of the bar. I caught his eye, and gave
him what was probably a pretty sickly grin. I said, "I'm sorry, Smiley.
Looks like I put our foot in it this time."
His face was completely impassive. He said, "Not your fault, Doc."
I wasn't too sure of that myself. I was just remembering that I'd
vaguely noticed a car parked in front of Smiley's place. If my brains had
been in the proper end of my anatomy I'd have had the sense to take at least
a quick look at that car. And if I'd had that much sense, I'd have had the
further sense to go across to the Clarion office instead of barging
nitwittedly into Smiley's and into the arms of Bat Masters and George.
And if the state police had come before they'd left Smiley's, the
Clarion would have had a really good story. This way, it might be a good
story too, but who would write it?
Smiley and I were standing close together now, and Masters must have
figured that one gun was enough for both of us. He stuck his into a shoulder
holster and looked at George. "Well?" he said.
That proved again that George was the boss, or at least was on equal
status with Masters. And as I studied George's face, I could see why.
Masters was big and probably had plenty of brass and courage, but George was
the one of the two who had the more brains.
George said, "Guess we'll have to take 'em along, Bat."
I knew what that meant. I said, "Listen, there's a back room. Can't you
just tie us up? If we're found a few hours from now, what does it matter?
You'll be clear."
"And you might be found in a few minutes. And you probably noticed what
kind of a car we got, and you know which way we're heading." He shook his
head, and it was definite.
He said, "We're not sticking around, either, till somebody comes in.
Bat, go look outside."
Masters got up and started toward the front; then he hesitated and went
back of the bar instead. He took two pint bottles of whisky and put one in
either coat pocket. And he punched "No Sale" on the register and took out
the bills; he didn't bother with the change. He folded the bills and stuck
them in his trouser pocket. Then he came back around the bar and started for
the door.
Sometimes I think people are crazy. Smiley stuck out his hand. He said,
"Five bucks. Two-fifty apiece for those pints."
He could have got shot for it, then and there, but for some reason
Masters liked it. He grinned and took the wadded paper money out of his
pocket, peeled a five loose and put it in Smiley's hand.
George said, "Bat, cut the horseplay. Look outside." I noticed that he
watched very carefully and kept the gun trained smack in the middle of
Smiley's chest while Smiley stuck the five dollar bill into his pocket.
Masters opened the door and stepped outside, looked around casually and
beckoned to us. Meanwhile George had stood up and walked around behind us,
sliding his gun into a coat pocket out of sight but keeping his hand on it.
He said, "All right, boys, get going."
It was all very friendly. In a way.
We went out the door into the cool pleasant evening that wasn't going
to last much longer, the way things looked now. Yes, the Buick was parked
right in front of Smiley's. If I'd only glanced at it before I went in, the
whole mess wouldn't have happened.
The Buick was a four-door sedan. George said, "Get in back," and we got
in back. George got in front but sat sidewise, turned around facing us over
the seat.
Masters got in behind the wheel and started the engine.
He said over his shoulder, "Well, Buster, where to?"
I said, "About five miles out there are woods. If you take us back in
them and tie us up, there isn't a chance on earth we'd be found before
tomorrow."
I didn't want to die, and I didn't want Smiley to die, and that idea
was such a good one that for a moment I hoped. Then Masters said, "What town
is this, Buster?" and I knew there wasn't any chance. Just because I'd given
him a fresh answer to a fresh question half an hour ago, there wasn't any
chance.
The car pulled out from the curb and headed north.
I was scared, and sober. There didn't seem to be any reason why I had
to be both. I said, "How about a drink?"
George reached into Masters' coat pocket and handed one of the pint
bottles over the back of the seat. My hands shook a little while I got the
cellophane off with my thumbnail and unscrewed the cap. I handed it to
Smiley first and he took a short drink and passed it back. I took a long one
and it put a warm spot where a very cold one had been. I don't mean to say
it made me happy, but I felt a little better. I wondered what Smiley was
thinking about and I remembered that he had a wife and three kids and I
wished I hadn't remembered that.
I handed him back the bottle and he took another quick nip. I said,
"I'm sorry, Smiley," and he said, "That's all right, Doc." And he laughed.
"One bad thing, Doc. There'll be a swell story for your Clarion, but can
Pete write it?"
I found myself wondering that, quite seriously. Pete's one of the best
all-around printers in Illinois, but what kind of a job would he make of
things tonight and tomorrow morning? He'd get the paper out all right, but
he'd never done any news writing ґ at least as long as he'd worked for me ґ
and handling all the news he was going to have tomorrow would be plenty
tough. An escaped maniac, whatever had happened to Carl, and whatever ґ as
if I really wondered ґ was going to happen to Smiley and me. I wondered if
our bodies would be found in time to make the paper, or if it would be
merely a double disappearance. We'd both be missed fairly soon. Smiley
because his tavern was still open but no one behind the bar. I because I was
due to meet Pete at the Clarion and about an hour from now, when I hadn't
shown up yet, he'd start checking.
We were just leaving town by then, and I noticed that we'd got off the
main street which was part of the main highway. Burgoyne Street, which we
were on, was turning into a road.
Masters stopped the car as we came to a fork and turned around. "Where
do these roads go?" he asked.
"They both go to Watertown," I told him. "The one to the left goes
along the river and the other one cuts through the hills; it's shorter, but
it's trickier driving."
Apparently Masters didn't mind tricky driving. He swung right and we
started up into the hills. I wouldn't have done it myself, if I'd been
driving. The hills are pretty hilly and the road through them is narrow and
does plenty of winding, with a drop-off on one side or the other most of the
time. Not the long precipitous drop-off you find on real mountain roads, but
enough to wreck a car that goes over the edge, and enough to bother my touch
of acrophobia.
Phobias are ridiculous things, past reasoning. I felt mine coming back
the moment there was that slight drop-off at the side of the road as we
started up the first hill. Actually, I was for the moment more afraid of
that than of George's gun. Yes, phobias are funny things. Mine, fear of
heights, is one of the commonest. Carl is afraid of cats. Al Grainger is a
pyrophobiac, morbidly afraid of fire.
Smiley said, "You know. Doc?"
"What?" I asked him.
"I was thinking of Pete having to write that newspaper. Whyn't you come
back and help him. Ain't there such things as ghost writers?"
I groaned. After all these years, Smiley had picked a time like this to
come up with the only funny thing I'd ever heard him say.
We were up high now, about as high as the road went; ahead was a
hairpin turn as it started downhill again. Masters stopped the car. "Okay,
you mugs," he said. "Get out and start walking back."
Start, he'd said; he hadn't made any mention of finishing. The tail
lights of the car would give them enough illumination to shoot us down by.
And he'd probably picked this spot because it would be easy to roll our
bodies off the edge of the road, down the slope, so they wouldn't be found
right away. Both of them were already getting out of the car.
Smiley's big hand gave my arm a quick squeeze; I didn't know whether it
was a farewell gesture or a signal. He said, "Go ahead, Doc," as calmly as
though he was collecting for drinks back of his bar.
I opened the door on my side, but I was afraid to step out. Not because
I knew I was going to be shot ґ that would happen anyway, even if I didn't
get out. They'd either drag me out or else shoot me where I sat and bloody
up the back seat of their car. No, I was afraid to get out because the car
was on the outside edge of the road and the slope started only a yard from
the open door of the car. My damned acrophobia. It was dark out there and I
could see the edge of the road and no farther and I pictured a precipice
beyond. I hesitated, half in the door and half out of it.
Smiley said again, "Go ahead, Doc," and I heard him moving behind me.
Then suddenly there was a click ґ and complete and utter darkness.
Smiley had reached a long arm across the back of the seat to the dashboard
and had turned the light switch off. All the car lights went out.
There was a shove in the middle of my back that sent me out of that car
door like a cork popping out of a champagne bottle; I don't think my feet
touched that yard-wide strip of road at all. As I went over the edge into
darkness and the unknown I heard swearing and a shot behind me. I was so
scared of falling that I'd gladly have been back up on the road trying to
outrun a bullet back toward town. At least I'd have been dead before they
rolled me over the edge.
I hit and fell and rolled. It wasn't really steep, after all; it was
about a forty-five degree slope, and it was grassy. I flattened a couple of
bushes before one stopped me. I could hear Smiley coming after me, sliding,
and I scrambled on as fast as I could. All of my arms and legs seemed to be
working, so I couldn't be seriously hurt.
And I could see a little now that my eyes were getting used to the
darkness. I could see trees ahead, and I scrambled toward them down the
slope, sometimes running, sometimes sliding and sometimes simply falling,
which is the simplest if not the most comfortable way to go down a hill.
I made the trees, and heard Smiley make them, just as the lights of the
car flashed on, on the road above us. Some shots snapped our way and then I
heard George say, "Don't waste it. Let's get going," and Bat's, "You mean
we're gonnaґ"
George growled, "Hell, yes. That's woods down there. We could waste an
hour playing hide and seek. Let's get going."
They were the sweetest words I'd heard in a long time.
I heard car doors slam, and the car started.
Smiley's voice, about two yards to my left, said, "Doc? You okay?"
"I think so," I said. "Smart work, Smiley. Thanks."
He came around a tree toward me and I could see him now. He said, "Save
it, Doc. Come on, quick. We got a chance ґ a little chance, anyway ґ of
stopping them."
"Stopping them?" I said. My voice went shrill and sounded strange to
me. I wondered if Smiley had gone crazy. I couldn't think of anything in the
whole wide world that I wanted to do less than stop Bat Masters and George.
But he had hold of my arm and was starting down-hill, through the dimly
seen trees and away from the road, taking me with him.
He said, "Listen, Doc, I know this country like the palm of my foot.
I've hunted here, often."
"For bank robbers?" I asked him.
"Listen, that road makes a hairpin and goes by right below us, not
forty yards from here. If we can get just above the road before they get
there and if I can find a big boulder to roll down as the car goes byґ"
I wasn't crazy about it, but he was pulling me along and we were
through the trees already. My eyes were used to the darkness by now and I
could see the road dimly, a dozen yards ahead and a dozen yards below. In
the distance, around a curve, I could hear the sound of the car; I couldn't
see it yet. It was a long way off, but coming fast.
Smiley said, "Look for a boulder, Doc. If you can't find one big enough
to roll, then something we can throw. If we can hit their windshield or
somethingґ"
He was bending over, groping around. I did the same; but the bank was
smooth and grassy. If there were stones, I couldn't find any.
Apparently Smiley wasn't having any luck either. He swore. He said, "If
I only had a gunґ"
I remembered something. "I've got one," I said.
He straightened up and looked at me ґ and I'm glad it was dark enough
that he couldn't see my face and that I couldn't see his.
I handed him the gun. The headlights of the car were coming in sight
now around the curve. Smiley pushed me back into the trees and stood behind
one himself, leaning out to expose only his head and his gun hand.
The car came like a bat out of hell, but Smiley took aim calmly. He
fired his first shot when the car was about forty yards away, the second
when it was only twenty. The first shot went into the radiator ґ I don't
mean we could tell that then, but that's where it was found afterwards. The
second went through the windshield, almost dead center but, of course, at an
angle. It plowed a furrow along the side of Masters' neck. The car careened
and then went off the road on the downhill side, away from us. It turned
over once, end for end, the headlight beams stabbing the night with drunken
arcs, and then it banged into a tree with a noise like the end of the world
and stopped.
For just a second after all that noise there was a silence that was
almost deafening. And then the gas tank exploded.
The car caught fire and there was plenty of light. We saw, as we ran
toward it, that one of the men had been thrown clear; when we got close
enough we could see that it was Masters. George was still in the car, but we
couldn't do a thing for him. And in that roaring inferno there wasn't a
chance on earth that he could have lived even the minute it took us to get
to the scene of the wreck.
We dragged Masters farther away from the fire before we checked to see
whether or not he was alive. Amazingly, he was. His face looked as though
he'd held it in a meat grinder and both of his arms were broken. Whether
there was anything wrong with him beyond that we couldn't tell, but he was
still breathing and his heart was still beating.
Smiley was staring at the flaming wreck. He said, "A perfectly good
Buick shot to hell. A fifty model at that." He shook his head sadly and then
jumped back, as I did, when there was another explosion in the car; it must
have been the cartridges in George's pistol going off all at once.
I told Smiley, "One of us will have to walk back. One had better stay
here, on account of Masters' still being alive."
"I guess so," he said. "Don't know what either of us can do for him,
but we can't both just walk off and leave him. Say, look, that's a car
coming."
I looked where he was pointing, toward the upper stretch of road where
we'd got out of the car before it made the hairpin turn, and there were the
headlights of a coming car all right.
We got out on the road ready to hail it, but it would have stopped
anyway. It was a state police car with two coppers in it. Luckily, I knew
one of them ґ Willie Peeble ґ and Smiley knew the other one, so they took
our word for what had happened. Especially as Peeble knew about Masters and
was able to identify him in spite of the way his face was cut up.
Masters was still alive and his heartbeat and breathing were as good as
they'd been when we'd got to him. Peeble decided he'd better not try to move
him. He went back to the police car and used the two-way radio to get an
ambulance started our way and to report in to headquarters what had
happened.
Peeble came back and said, "We'll give you and your friend a lift into
town as soon as the ambulance gets here. You'll have to make and sign
statements and stuff, but the chief says you can do that tomorrow; he knows
both of you and says it's all right that way."
"That's swell," I said. "I've got to get back to the office as soon as
I can. And as for Smiley here, his place is open and nobody there." I had a
sudden thought and said, "Say, Smiley, you don't by any chance still have
that pint we had a nip out of in the car, do you?"
He shook his head. "What with turning off the lights and pushing you
out and getting out myselfґ"
I sighed at the waste of good liquor. The other pint bottle, the one
that had been in Bat Masters' left coat pocket, hadn't survived the crash.
Still, Smiley had saved our lives, so I had to forgive him for abandoning
the bottle he'd been holding.
The fire was dying down now, and I was getting a little sick at the
barbecue odor and wished the ambulance would come so we could get away from
there.
I suddenly remembered Carl and asked Peeble if there'd been any report
on the police radio about a Carl Trenholm. He shook his head. He said,
"There was a looney loose, though. Escaped from the county asylum. Must've
been caught, though; we had a cancellation on it later."
That was good news, in a way. It meant that Yehudi hadn't waited at my
place after all. And somehow I'd hated the thought of having to sick the
guards on him while he was there. Insane or not, it didn't seem like real
hospitality to a guest.
And the fact that nothing had been on the police radio about Carl at
least wasn't discouraging.
A car came along from the opposite direction and stopped when its
driver saw the smoldering wreckage and the state police car. It turned out
to be a break for Smiley and me. The driver was a Watertown man whom Willie
Peeble knew and who was on his way to Carmel City. When Peeble introduced us
and vouched for us, he said he'd be glad to take Smiley and me into Carmel
City with him.
I didn't believe it at first when I saw by the clock dial on the
instrument panel of the car that it was only a few minutes after ten o'clock
as we entered Carmel City; it seemed incredible that so much had happened in
the few hours ґ less than four ґ since I'd left the Clarion. But we passed a
lighted clock in a store window and I saw that the clock in the car was
right after all, within a few minutes, anyway. It was only a quarter after
ten.
We were let off in front of Smiley's. Across the street I could see
lights were on at the Clarion, so Pete would be there. I thought I'd take a
quick drink with Smiley, though, before I went to the office, so I went in
with him.
The place was as we'd left it. If any customer had come in, he'd got
tired of waiting and bad left.
Smiley went around back of the bar and poured us drinks while I went to
the phone. I was going to call the hospital to find out about Carl Trenholm;
then I decided to call Pete instead. He'd surely have called the hospital
already. So I gave the Clarion number.
When Pete recognized my voice, he said, "Doc, where the hell have you
been?"
"Tell you in a minute, Pete. First, have you got anything about Carl?"
"He's all right. I don't know yet what happened, but he's okay. I
called the hospital and they said he'd been treated and released. I tried to
find out what the injuries had been and how they'd happened, but they said
they couldn't give out that information. I tried his home, but I guess he
hadn't got there yet; nobody answered."
"Thanks, Pete," I said. "That's swell. Listen, there's going to be
plenty to write up. Carl's accident, when we get in touch with him, and the
escape and capture of the lunatic, and ґ something even bigger than either
of those. So I guess we might as well do it tonight, if that's okay by you."
"Sure, Doc. I'd rather get it over with tonight. Where are you?"
"Over at Smiley's. Come on over for a quick one ґ to celebrate Carl's
being okay. He can't even be badly hurt if they released him that quickly."
"Okay, Doc, I'll have one. But where were you? And Smiley, too, for
that matter? I looked in there on my way to the office ґ saw the lights
weren't on here, so I knew you weren't here yet ґ and you and Smiley were
both gone. I waited five or ten minutes and then I decided I'd better come
across here in case of any phone calls and to start melting metal in the
Linotype."
I said, "Smiley and I had a little ride. I'll tell you about it."
"Okay, Doc. See you in a couple of minutes."
I went back to the bar and when I reached for the shot Smiley had
poured for me, my hand was shaking.
Smiley grinned and said, "Me too, Doc." He held out his hand and I saw
it wasn't much steadier than mine.
"Well," he said, "you got your story, Doc. What you were squawking
about. Say, here's your gun back." He took out the short-barreled
thirty-eight and put it on the bar. "Good as new, except two bullets gone
out of it. How'd you happen to have it with you, Doc?"
For some reason I didn't want to tell him, or anyone, that the escaped
lunatic had made such a sap out of me and had been a guest at my house. So
I, said, "I had to walk down here, and Pete had just phoned me there was a
lunatic loose, so I stuck that in my pocket. Jittery, I guess."
He looked at me and shook his head slowly. I know he was thinking about
my having had that gun in my pocket all along, during what we thought was
our last ride, and never having even tried to use it. I'd been so scared
that I'd completely forgotten about it until Smiley had said he wished he
had a gun.
I grinned and said, "Smiley, you're right in what you're thinking. I've
got no more business with a gun than a snake has with roller skates. Keep
"Bat" a natural.
He was a big man with a long, horselike face, eyes wide apart and a
mouth that was a narrow straight line separating a lantern jaw from a wide
upper lip; on the latter there was a two-day stubble of hair that indicated
he was starting a mustache. But it would have taken plastic surgery and a
full beard to disguise that face from anyone who had recently, however
casually, studied a picture of it. Bat Masters, bank robber and killer.
I had a gun in my pocket, but I didn't remember it at the time. It's
probably just as well; if I'd remembered, I might have been frightened into
reaching for it. And that probably would not have been a healthful thing to
do. He was coming at me with his fists balled but no gun in either of them.
He didn't intend to kill me ґ although one of those fists might do it quite
easily and unintentionally. I weigh a hundred and forty wringing wet, and he
weighed almost twice that and had shoulders that bulged out his suit coat.
There wasn't even time to turn and run. His left hand came out and
caught the front of my coat and pulled me toward him, almost lifting me off
the sidewalk.
He said, "Listen, Pop, I don't want any lip. I asked you a question."
"Carmel City," I said. "Carmel City, Illinois."
The voice of the other man, still in the car, came back to us. "Hey,
Bill, don't hurt the guy. We don't want toґ" He didn't finish the sentence,
of course; to say you don't want to attract attention is the best way of
drawing it.
Masters looked past me right over my head ґ to see if anybody or
anything was coming that way and then, still keeping his grip on the front
of my coat, turned and looked the other way. He wasn't afraid of my swinging
at him enough to bother keeping his eyes on me, and I didn't blame him for
feeling that way about it.
A car was coming now, about a block away. And two men came out of the
drugstore on the opposite side of the street, only a few buildings down.
Then behind me I could hear the sound of another car turning into Oak
Street.
Masters turned back to me and let go, so we were just two men standing
there face to face if anyone noticed us. He said, "Okay, Pop. Next time
somebody asks you a question, don't be so God damn fresh."
He still glared at me as though he hadn't yet completely given up the
idea of giving me something to remember him by ґ maybe just a light
open-handed slap that wouldn't do anything worse than crack my jawbone and
drive my dentures down my throat.
I said, "Sure, sorry," and let my voice sound afraid, but tried not to
sound quite as afraid as I really was ґ because if he even remotely
suspected that I might have recognized him, I wasn't going to get out of it
at all.
He swung around and walked back to the ear, got in and drove off. I
suppose I should have got the license number, but it would have been a
stolen car anyway ґ and besides I didn't think of it. I didn't even watch
the car as it drove away; if either of them looked back I didn't want them
to think I was giving them what criminals call the big-eye. I didn't want to
give them any possible reason to change their minds about going on.
I started walking again, keeping to the middle of the sidewalk and
trying to look like a man minding his own business. Also trying to keep my
knees from shaking so hard that I couldn't walk at all. It had been a narrow
squeak all right. If the street had been completely emptyґ
I could have notified the sheriff's office about a minute quicker by
turning around and going back that way, but I didn't take a chance. If
someone was watching me out of the back window of the car, a change in
direction wouldn't be a good idea. There was a difference of only a block
anyway; I was half a block past the courthouse and a block and a half from
Smiley's and the Clarion office across the street from it. >From either one
I could phone in the big news that Bat Masters and a companion had just
driven through Carmel City heading north, probably toward Chicago. And Hank
Ganzer, in the sheriff's office, would relay the story to the state police
and there was probably better than an even chance that they'd be caught
within an hour or two.
And if they were, I might even get a slice of the reward for giving the
tip ґ but I didn't care as much about that as about the story I was going to
have. Why, it was a story, even if they weren't caught, and if they were, it
would be a really big one. And a local story ґ if the tip came from Carmel
City ґ even if they were actually caught several counties north. Maybe
there'd even be a gun battle ґ from my all too close look at Masters I had a
hunch that there would be.
Perfect timing, too, I thought. For once something was happening on a
Thursday night. For once I'd beat the Chicago papers. They'd have the story,
too, of course, and a lot of Carmel City people take Chicago dailies, but
they don't come in until the late afternoon train and the Clarion would be
out hours before that.
Yes, for once I was going to have a newspaper with news in it. Even if
Masters and his pal weren't caught, the fact that they'd passed through town
made a story. And besides that, there was the escaped maniac, and Carl
Trenholmґ
Thinking about Carl again made me walk faster. It was safe by now; I'd
gone a quarter of a block since the Buick had driven off. It wasn't anywhere
in sight and again the street was quiet; thank God it hadn't been this quiet
while Masters had been making up his mind whether or not to slug me.
I was past Deak's Music Store, dark. Past the supermarket, ditto. The
bankґ
I had passed the bank, too, when I stopped as suddenly as though I'd
run into a wall. The bank had been dark too. And it shouldn't have been;
there's a small night light that always burns over the safe. I'd passed the
bank thousands of times after dark and never before had that light been off.
For a moment the wild thought went through my head that Bat and his
companion must have just burglarized the bank ґ although robbery, not
burglary, was Masters' trade ґ and then I saw how ridiculous that thought
had been. They'd been driving toward the bank and a quarter of a block away
from it when they'd stopped to ask me what town they were in. True, they
could have burglarized the bank and then circled the block in their car, but
if they had they'd have been intent on their getaway. Criminals do pretty
silly things sometimes but not quite so silly as to stop a getaway car
within spitting distance of the scene of the crime to ask what town they're
in, and then to top it by getting out of the car to slug a random pedestrian
because they don't like his answer to their question.
No, Masters and company couldn't have robbed the bank. And they
couldn't be burglarizing it now, either. Their car had gone on past; I
hadn't watched it, but my ears had told me that it had kept on going. And
even if it hadn't, I had. My encounter with them had been only seconds ago;
there wasn't possibly time for them to have broken in there, even if they'd
stopped.
I went back a few steps and looked into the window of the bank.
At first I saw nothing except the vague silhouette of a window at the
back ґ the top half of the window, that is, which was visible above the
counter. Then the silhouette became less vague and I could see that the
window had been opened; the top bar of the lower sash showed clearly, only a
few inches from the top of the frame.
That was the means of entry all right ґ but was the burglar still in
there, or had he left, and left the window open behind him?
I strained my eyes against the blackness to the left of the window,
where the safe was. And suddenly a dim light flickered briefly, as though a
match had been struck but had gone out before the phosphorus had ignited the
wood. I could see only the brief light of it, as it was below the level of
the counter; I couldn't see whoever had lighted it.
The burglar was still there.
And suddenly I was running on tiptoe back through the areaway between
the bank and the post office.
Good God, don't ask me why. Sure, I had money in the bank, but the bank
had insurance against burglary and it wasn't any skin off my backside if the
bank was robbed. I wasn't even thinking that it would be a better story for
the Clarion if I got the burglar ґ or if he got me. I just wasn't thinking
at all. I was running back alongside the bank toward that window that he'd
left open for his getaway.
I think it must have been reaction from the cowardice I'd shown and
felt only a minute before. I must have been a bit punch drunk from
Jabberwocks and Vorpal Blades and homicidal maniacs with lycanthropy and
bank bandits and a bank burglar ґ or maybe I thought I'd suddenly been
promoted to the Roman candle department.
Maybe I was drunk, maybe I was a little mentally unbalanced ґ use any
maybe you want, but there I was running tiptoe through the areaway. Running,
that is, as far as the light from the street would let me; then I groped
along the side of the building until I came to the alley. There was dim
light there, enough for me to be able to see the window.
It was still open.
I stood there looking at it and vaguely beginning to realize how crazy
I'd been. Why hadn't I run to the sheriff's office for Hank? The burglar ґ
or, for all I knew, burglars ґ might be just starting his work on the safe
in there. He might be in a long time, long enough for Hank to get here and
collar him. If he came out now, what was I going to do about it? Shoot him?
That was ridiculous; I'd rather let him get away with robbing the bank than
do that.
And then it was too late because suddenly there was a soft shuffling
sound from the window and a hand appeared on the sill. He was coming out,
and there wasn't a chance that I could get away without his hearing me. What
would happen then, I didn't know. I would just as soon not find out.
A moment before, just as I'd reached the place beside the window where
I now stood, I'd stepped on a piece of wood, a one-by-two stick of it about
a foot long. That was a weapon I could understand. I reached down and
grabbed it and swung, just in time, as a head came through the window.
Thank God I didn't swing too hard. At the last second, even in that
faint light, I'd thoughtґ
The head and the hand weren't in the window any more and there was the
soft thud of a body falling inside. There wasn't any sound or movement for
seconds. Long seconds, and then there was the sound of my stick of wood
hitting the dirt of the alley and I knew I'd dropped it.
If it hadn't been for what I'd thought I'd seen in that last fraction
of a second before it was too late to stop the blow, I could have run now
for the sheriff's office. Butґ
Maybe here went my head, but I had to chance it. The sill of the window
wasn't much over waist high. I leaned across it and struck a match, and I'd
been right.
I climbed in the window and felt for his heart and it was beating all
right. He seemed to be breathing normally. I ran my hands very gently over
his head and then held them in the open window to look at them; there wasn't
any blood. There could be, then, nothing worse than a concussion.
I lowered the window so nobody would notice that it was open and then I
felt my way carefully toward the nearest desk ґ I'd been in the bank
thousands of times; I knew its layout ґ and groped for a telephone until I
found one. The operator's voice said, "Number, please?" and I started to
give it and then remembered; she'd know where the call came from and that
the bank was closed. Naturally, she'd listen in. Maybe she'd even call the
sheriff's office to tell them someone was using the telephone in the bank.
Had I recognized her voice? I'd thought I had. I said, "Is this Milly?"
"Yes. Is this ґ Mr. Stoeger?"
"Right," I said. I was glad she'd known my voice. "Listen, Milly, I'm
calling from the bank, but it's all right. You don't need to worry about it.
And ґ do me a favor, will you? Please don't listen in."
"All right, Mr. Stoeger. Sure. What number do you want?"
I gave it; the number of Clyde Andrews, president of the bank. As I
heard the ringing of the phone at the other end, I thought how lucky it was
that I'd known Milly all her life and that we liked one another. I knew that
she'd be burning with curiosity but that she wouldn't listen in.
Clyde Andrews' voice answered. I was still careful about what I said
because I didn't know offhand whether he was on a party line.
I said, "This is Doc Stoeger, Clyde. I'm down at the bank. Get down
here right away. Hurry."
"Huh? Doc, are you drunk or something? What would you be doing at the
bank. It's closed."
I said, "Somebody was inside here. I hit him over the head with a piece
of wood when he started back out of the window, and he's unconscious but not
hurt bad. But just to be sure, pick up Doc Minton on your way here. And
hurry."
"Sure," he said. "Are you phoning the sheriff or shall I?"
"Neither of us. Don't phone anybody. Just get Minton and get here
quick."
"But ґ I don't get it. Why not phone the sheriff? Is this a gag?"
I said, "No, Clyde. Listen ґ you'll want to see the burglar first. He
isn't badly hurt, but for God's sake quit arguing and get down here with Dr.
Minton. Do you understand?"
His tone of voice was different when he said, "I'll be there. Five
minutes."
I put the receiver back on the phone and then lifted it again. The
"Number, please" was Milly's voice again and I asked her if she knew
anything about Carl Trenholm.
She didn't; she hadn't known anything had happened at all. When I told
her what little I knew she said yes, that she'd routed a call from a
farmhouse out on the pike to the sheriff's office about half an hour before,
but she'd had several other calls around the same time and hadn't listened
in on it.
I decided that I'd better wait until I was somewhere else, before I
called to report either Bat Masters' passing through or about the escaped
maniac at my own house. It wouldn't be safe to risk making the call from
here, and a few more minutes wouldn't matter a lot.
I went back, groping my way through the dark toward the dim square of
the window, and bent down again by the boy, Clyde Andrews' son. His
breathing and his heart were still okay and he moved a little and muttered
something as though he was coming out of it. I don't know anything about
concussion, but I thought that was a good sign and felt better. It would
have been terrible if I'd swung a little harder and had killed him or
injured him seriously.
I sat down on the floor so my head would be out of the line of sight if
anyone looked in the front window, as I had a few minutes before, and
waited.
So much had been happening that I felt a little numb. There was so much
to think about that I guess I didn't think about any of it. I just sat there
in the dark.
When the phone rang I jumped about two feet.
I groped to it and answered it. Milly's voice said, "Mr. Stoeger, I
thought I'd better tell you if you're still there. Somebody from the
drugstore across the street just phoned the sheriff's office and said the
night light in the bank is out, and whoever answered at the sheriff's office
ґ it sounded like one of the deputies, not Mr. Kates ґ said they'd come
right around."
I said, "Thanks, Milly. Thanks a lot."
A car was pulling up at the curb outside; I could see it through the
window. I breathed a sigh of relief when I recognized the men getting out of
it as Clyde Andrews and the doctor.
I switched on the lights inside while Clyde was unlocking the front
door. I told him quickly about the call that had been made to the sheriff's
office while I was leading them back to where Harvey Andrews was lying. We
moved him slightly to a point where neither he nor Dr. Minton, bending over
him, could be seen from the front of the bank, and we did it just in time.
Hank was rapping on the door.
I stayed out of sight, too, to avoid having to explain what I was doing
there. I heard Clyde Andrews open the door for Hank and explain that
everything was all right, that someone had phoned him, too, that the night
light was out and that he'd just got here to check up and that the bulb had
merely burned out.
When Hank left, Clyde came back, his face, a bit white. Dr. Minton
said, "He's going to be all right, Clyde. Starting to come out of it. Soon
as he can walk between us, we'll get him to the hospital for a checkup and
be sure."
I said, "Clyde, I've got to run. There's a lot popping tonight. But as
soon as you're sure the boy's all right will you let me know? I'll probably
be at the Clarion, but I might be at Smiley's ґ or if it's a long time from
now, I might be home."
"Sure, Doc." He put his hand on my shoulder. "And thanks a lot for ґ
calling me instead of the sheriff's office."
"That's all right," I told him. "And, Clyde, I didn't know who it was
before I hit. He was coming out of the back window and I thoughtґ"
Clyde said, "I looked in his room after you phoned. He'd packed. I ґ I
can't understand it, Doc. He's only fifteen. Why he'd do a thing likeґ" He
shook his head. "He's always been headstrong and he's got into little
troubles a few times, but ґ I don't understand this." He looked at me very
earnestly. "Do you?"
I thought maybe I did understand a little of it, but I was remembering
about Bat Masters and the fact that he was getting farther away every minute
and that I'd better get the state police notified pretty quickly.
So I said, "Can I talk to you about it tomorrow, Clyde? Get the boy's
side of it when he can talk ґ and just try to keep your mind open until
then. I think ґ it may not be as bad as you think right now."
I left him still looking like a man who's just taken an almost mortal
blow, and went out.
I headed down the street thinking what a damn fool I'd been to do what
I'd done. But then, where had I missed a chance to do something wrong
anywhere down the line tonight? And then, on second thought, this one thing
might not have been wrong. If I'd called Hank, the boy just might have been
shot instead of knocked out. And in any case he'd have been arrested.
That would have been bad. This way, there was a chance he could be
straightened out before it was too late. Maybe a psychiatrist could help
him. The only thing was, Clyde Andrews would have to realize that he, too,
would have to take advice from the psychiatrist. He was a good man, but a
hard father. You can't expect the things of a fifteen year-old boy that
Clyde expected of Harvey, and not have something go wrong somewhere down the
line. But burglarizing a bank, even his own father's bank ґ I couldn't make
up my mind whether that made it better or worse was certainly something I
hadn't looked for. It appalled me, a bit. Harvey's running away from home
wouldn't have surprised me at all; I don't know that I'd even have blamed
him.
A man can be too good a man and too conscientious and strict a father
for his son ever to be able to love him. If Clyde Andrews would only get
drunk ґ good and stinking drunk ґ just once in his life, he might get an
entirely different perspective on things, even if he never again took
another drink. But he'd never taken a drink yet, nor one in his whole life.
I don't think he'd ever smoked a cigarette or said a naughty word.
I liked him anyway; I'm pretty tolerant, I guess. But I'm glad I hadn't
had a father like him. In my books, the man in town who was the best father
was Carl Trenholm. Trenholm ґ and I hadn't found out yet whether he was dead
or only injured!
I was only half a block, now, from Smiley's and the Clarion. I broke
into a trot. Even at my age, it wouldn't wind me to trot that far. It had
probably been less than half an hour since I'd left home, but with the
things that had happened en route, it seemed like days. Well, anyway,
nothing could happen to me between here and Smiley's. And nothing did.
I could see through the glass that there weren't any customers at the
bar and that Smiley was alone behind it. Polishing glasses, as always; I
think he must polish the same glasses a dozen times over when there's
nothing else for him to do.
I burst in and headed for the telephone. I said, "Smiley, hell's
popping tonight. There's an escaped lunatic, and something's happened to
Carl Trenholm, and a couple of wanted bank robbers drove through here
fifteen or twenty minutes ago and I got toґ"
I was back by the telephone by the time I'd said all that and I was
reaching up for the receiver. But I never quite touched it.
A voice behind me said, "Take it easy, Buster."
"What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied.
"The further off from England the nearer is to France.
There is another shore, you know, upon the other side.
Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance."
I turned around slowly. They'd been sitting at the table around the el
of the tavern, the one table that can't be seen through the glass of the
door or the windows. They'd probably picked it for that reason. The beer
glasses in front of them were empty. But I didn't think the guns in their
hands would be.
One of the guns ґ the one in the hand of Bat Masters' companion ґ was
aimed at Smiley. And Smiley, not smiling, was keeping his hands very still,
not moving a muscle.
The gun in Masters' hand was aimed at me.
He said, "So you knew us, huh, Buster?"
There wasn't any use denying it; I'd said too much already. I said,
"You're Bat Masters." I looked at the other man, whom I hadn't seen clearly
before, when he'd been in the car. He was squat and stocky, with a bullet
head and little pig eyes. He looked like a caricature of a German army
officer. I said, "I'm sorry; I don't know your friend."
Masters laughed. He said, "See, George, I'm famous and you're not.
How'd you like that?"
George kept his eyes on Smiley. He said, "I think you better come
around this side of the bar. You just might have a gun back there and take a
notion to dive for it."
"Come on over and sit with us," Masters said. "Both of you. Let's make
it a party, huh, George?"
George said, "Shut up," which changed my opinion of George quite a bit.
I personally wouldn't have cared to tell Bat Masters to shut up, and in that
tone of voice. True, I had been fresh with him about twenty minutes before,
but I hadn't known who he was. I hadn't even seen how big he was.
Smiley was coming around the end of the bar. I caught his eye, and gave
him what was probably a pretty sickly grin. I said, "I'm sorry, Smiley.
Looks like I put our foot in it this time."
His face was completely impassive. He said, "Not your fault, Doc."
I wasn't too sure of that myself. I was just remembering that I'd
vaguely noticed a car parked in front of Smiley's place. If my brains had
been in the proper end of my anatomy I'd have had the sense to take at least
a quick look at that car. And if I'd had that much sense, I'd have had the
further sense to go across to the Clarion office instead of barging
nitwittedly into Smiley's and into the arms of Bat Masters and George.
And if the state police had come before they'd left Smiley's, the
Clarion would have had a really good story. This way, it might be a good
story too, but who would write it?
Smiley and I were standing close together now, and Masters must have
figured that one gun was enough for both of us. He stuck his into a shoulder
holster and looked at George. "Well?" he said.
That proved again that George was the boss, or at least was on equal
status with Masters. And as I studied George's face, I could see why.
Masters was big and probably had plenty of brass and courage, but George was
the one of the two who had the more brains.
George said, "Guess we'll have to take 'em along, Bat."
I knew what that meant. I said, "Listen, there's a back room. Can't you
just tie us up? If we're found a few hours from now, what does it matter?
You'll be clear."
"And you might be found in a few minutes. And you probably noticed what
kind of a car we got, and you know which way we're heading." He shook his
head, and it was definite.
He said, "We're not sticking around, either, till somebody comes in.
Bat, go look outside."
Masters got up and started toward the front; then he hesitated and went
back of the bar instead. He took two pint bottles of whisky and put one in
either coat pocket. And he punched "No Sale" on the register and took out
the bills; he didn't bother with the change. He folded the bills and stuck
them in his trouser pocket. Then he came back around the bar and started for
the door.
Sometimes I think people are crazy. Smiley stuck out his hand. He said,
"Five bucks. Two-fifty apiece for those pints."
He could have got shot for it, then and there, but for some reason
Masters liked it. He grinned and took the wadded paper money out of his
pocket, peeled a five loose and put it in Smiley's hand.
George said, "Bat, cut the horseplay. Look outside." I noticed that he
watched very carefully and kept the gun trained smack in the middle of
Smiley's chest while Smiley stuck the five dollar bill into his pocket.
Masters opened the door and stepped outside, looked around casually and
beckoned to us. Meanwhile George had stood up and walked around behind us,
sliding his gun into a coat pocket out of sight but keeping his hand on it.
He said, "All right, boys, get going."
It was all very friendly. In a way.
We went out the door into the cool pleasant evening that wasn't going
to last much longer, the way things looked now. Yes, the Buick was parked
right in front of Smiley's. If I'd only glanced at it before I went in, the
whole mess wouldn't have happened.
The Buick was a four-door sedan. George said, "Get in back," and we got
in back. George got in front but sat sidewise, turned around facing us over
the seat.
Masters got in behind the wheel and started the engine.
He said over his shoulder, "Well, Buster, where to?"
I said, "About five miles out there are woods. If you take us back in
them and tie us up, there isn't a chance on earth we'd be found before
tomorrow."
I didn't want to die, and I didn't want Smiley to die, and that idea
was such a good one that for a moment I hoped. Then Masters said, "What town
is this, Buster?" and I knew there wasn't any chance. Just because I'd given
him a fresh answer to a fresh question half an hour ago, there wasn't any
chance.
The car pulled out from the curb and headed north.
I was scared, and sober. There didn't seem to be any reason why I had
to be both. I said, "How about a drink?"
George reached into Masters' coat pocket and handed one of the pint
bottles over the back of the seat. My hands shook a little while I got the
cellophane off with my thumbnail and unscrewed the cap. I handed it to
Smiley first and he took a short drink and passed it back. I took a long one
and it put a warm spot where a very cold one had been. I don't mean to say
it made me happy, but I felt a little better. I wondered what Smiley was
thinking about and I remembered that he had a wife and three kids and I
wished I hadn't remembered that.
I handed him back the bottle and he took another quick nip. I said,
"I'm sorry, Smiley," and he said, "That's all right, Doc." And he laughed.
"One bad thing, Doc. There'll be a swell story for your Clarion, but can
Pete write it?"
I found myself wondering that, quite seriously. Pete's one of the best
all-around printers in Illinois, but what kind of a job would he make of
things tonight and tomorrow morning? He'd get the paper out all right, but
he'd never done any news writing ґ at least as long as he'd worked for me ґ
and handling all the news he was going to have tomorrow would be plenty
tough. An escaped maniac, whatever had happened to Carl, and whatever ґ as
if I really wondered ґ was going to happen to Smiley and me. I wondered if
our bodies would be found in time to make the paper, or if it would be
merely a double disappearance. We'd both be missed fairly soon. Smiley
because his tavern was still open but no one behind the bar. I because I was
due to meet Pete at the Clarion and about an hour from now, when I hadn't
shown up yet, he'd start checking.
We were just leaving town by then, and I noticed that we'd got off the
main street which was part of the main highway. Burgoyne Street, which we
were on, was turning into a road.
Masters stopped the car as we came to a fork and turned around. "Where
do these roads go?" he asked.
"They both go to Watertown," I told him. "The one to the left goes
along the river and the other one cuts through the hills; it's shorter, but
it's trickier driving."
Apparently Masters didn't mind tricky driving. He swung right and we
started up into the hills. I wouldn't have done it myself, if I'd been
driving. The hills are pretty hilly and the road through them is narrow and
does plenty of winding, with a drop-off on one side or the other most of the
time. Not the long precipitous drop-off you find on real mountain roads, but
enough to wreck a car that goes over the edge, and enough to bother my touch
of acrophobia.
Phobias are ridiculous things, past reasoning. I felt mine coming back
the moment there was that slight drop-off at the side of the road as we
started up the first hill. Actually, I was for the moment more afraid of
that than of George's gun. Yes, phobias are funny things. Mine, fear of
heights, is one of the commonest. Carl is afraid of cats. Al Grainger is a
pyrophobiac, morbidly afraid of fire.
Smiley said, "You know. Doc?"
"What?" I asked him.
"I was thinking of Pete having to write that newspaper. Whyn't you come
back and help him. Ain't there such things as ghost writers?"
I groaned. After all these years, Smiley had picked a time like this to
come up with the only funny thing I'd ever heard him say.
We were up high now, about as high as the road went; ahead was a
hairpin turn as it started downhill again. Masters stopped the car. "Okay,
you mugs," he said. "Get out and start walking back."
Start, he'd said; he hadn't made any mention of finishing. The tail
lights of the car would give them enough illumination to shoot us down by.
And he'd probably picked this spot because it would be easy to roll our
bodies off the edge of the road, down the slope, so they wouldn't be found
right away. Both of them were already getting out of the car.
Smiley's big hand gave my arm a quick squeeze; I didn't know whether it
was a farewell gesture or a signal. He said, "Go ahead, Doc," as calmly as
though he was collecting for drinks back of his bar.
I opened the door on my side, but I was afraid to step out. Not because
I knew I was going to be shot ґ that would happen anyway, even if I didn't
get out. They'd either drag me out or else shoot me where I sat and bloody
up the back seat of their car. No, I was afraid to get out because the car
was on the outside edge of the road and the slope started only a yard from
the open door of the car. My damned acrophobia. It was dark out there and I
could see the edge of the road and no farther and I pictured a precipice
beyond. I hesitated, half in the door and half out of it.
Smiley said again, "Go ahead, Doc," and I heard him moving behind me.
Then suddenly there was a click ґ and complete and utter darkness.
Smiley had reached a long arm across the back of the seat to the dashboard
and had turned the light switch off. All the car lights went out.
There was a shove in the middle of my back that sent me out of that car
door like a cork popping out of a champagne bottle; I don't think my feet
touched that yard-wide strip of road at all. As I went over the edge into
darkness and the unknown I heard swearing and a shot behind me. I was so
scared of falling that I'd gladly have been back up on the road trying to
outrun a bullet back toward town. At least I'd have been dead before they
rolled me over the edge.
I hit and fell and rolled. It wasn't really steep, after all; it was
about a forty-five degree slope, and it was grassy. I flattened a couple of
bushes before one stopped me. I could hear Smiley coming after me, sliding,
and I scrambled on as fast as I could. All of my arms and legs seemed to be
working, so I couldn't be seriously hurt.
And I could see a little now that my eyes were getting used to the
darkness. I could see trees ahead, and I scrambled toward them down the
slope, sometimes running, sometimes sliding and sometimes simply falling,
which is the simplest if not the most comfortable way to go down a hill.
I made the trees, and heard Smiley make them, just as the lights of the
car flashed on, on the road above us. Some shots snapped our way and then I
heard George say, "Don't waste it. Let's get going," and Bat's, "You mean
we're gonnaґ"
George growled, "Hell, yes. That's woods down there. We could waste an
hour playing hide and seek. Let's get going."
They were the sweetest words I'd heard in a long time.
I heard car doors slam, and the car started.
Smiley's voice, about two yards to my left, said, "Doc? You okay?"
"I think so," I said. "Smart work, Smiley. Thanks."
He came around a tree toward me and I could see him now. He said, "Save
it, Doc. Come on, quick. We got a chance ґ a little chance, anyway ґ of
stopping them."
"Stopping them?" I said. My voice went shrill and sounded strange to
me. I wondered if Smiley had gone crazy. I couldn't think of anything in the
whole wide world that I wanted to do less than stop Bat Masters and George.
But he had hold of my arm and was starting down-hill, through the dimly
seen trees and away from the road, taking me with him.
He said, "Listen, Doc, I know this country like the palm of my foot.
I've hunted here, often."
"For bank robbers?" I asked him.
"Listen, that road makes a hairpin and goes by right below us, not
forty yards from here. If we can get just above the road before they get
there and if I can find a big boulder to roll down as the car goes byґ"
I wasn't crazy about it, but he was pulling me along and we were
through the trees already. My eyes were used to the darkness by now and I
could see the road dimly, a dozen yards ahead and a dozen yards below. In
the distance, around a curve, I could hear the sound of the car; I couldn't
see it yet. It was a long way off, but coming fast.
Smiley said, "Look for a boulder, Doc. If you can't find one big enough
to roll, then something we can throw. If we can hit their windshield or
somethingґ"
He was bending over, groping around. I did the same; but the bank was
smooth and grassy. If there were stones, I couldn't find any.
Apparently Smiley wasn't having any luck either. He swore. He said, "If
I only had a gunґ"
I remembered something. "I've got one," I said.
He straightened up and looked at me ґ and I'm glad it was dark enough
that he couldn't see my face and that I couldn't see his.
I handed him the gun. The headlights of the car were coming in sight
now around the curve. Smiley pushed me back into the trees and stood behind
one himself, leaning out to expose only his head and his gun hand.
The car came like a bat out of hell, but Smiley took aim calmly. He
fired his first shot when the car was about forty yards away, the second
when it was only twenty. The first shot went into the radiator ґ I don't
mean we could tell that then, but that's where it was found afterwards. The
second went through the windshield, almost dead center but, of course, at an
angle. It plowed a furrow along the side of Masters' neck. The car careened
and then went off the road on the downhill side, away from us. It turned
over once, end for end, the headlight beams stabbing the night with drunken
arcs, and then it banged into a tree with a noise like the end of the world
and stopped.
For just a second after all that noise there was a silence that was
almost deafening. And then the gas tank exploded.
The car caught fire and there was plenty of light. We saw, as we ran
toward it, that one of the men had been thrown clear; when we got close
enough we could see that it was Masters. George was still in the car, but we
couldn't do a thing for him. And in that roaring inferno there wasn't a
chance on earth that he could have lived even the minute it took us to get
to the scene of the wreck.
We dragged Masters farther away from the fire before we checked to see
whether or not he was alive. Amazingly, he was. His face looked as though
he'd held it in a meat grinder and both of his arms were broken. Whether
there was anything wrong with him beyond that we couldn't tell, but he was
still breathing and his heart was still beating.
Smiley was staring at the flaming wreck. He said, "A perfectly good
Buick shot to hell. A fifty model at that." He shook his head sadly and then
jumped back, as I did, when there was another explosion in the car; it must
have been the cartridges in George's pistol going off all at once.
I told Smiley, "One of us will have to walk back. One had better stay
here, on account of Masters' still being alive."
"I guess so," he said. "Don't know what either of us can do for him,
but we can't both just walk off and leave him. Say, look, that's a car
coming."
I looked where he was pointing, toward the upper stretch of road where
we'd got out of the car before it made the hairpin turn, and there were the
headlights of a coming car all right.
We got out on the road ready to hail it, but it would have stopped
anyway. It was a state police car with two coppers in it. Luckily, I knew
one of them ґ Willie Peeble ґ and Smiley knew the other one, so they took
our word for what had happened. Especially as Peeble knew about Masters and
was able to identify him in spite of the way his face was cut up.
Masters was still alive and his heartbeat and breathing were as good as
they'd been when we'd got to him. Peeble decided he'd better not try to move
him. He went back to the police car and used the two-way radio to get an
ambulance started our way and to report in to headquarters what had
happened.
Peeble came back and said, "We'll give you and your friend a lift into
town as soon as the ambulance gets here. You'll have to make and sign
statements and stuff, but the chief says you can do that tomorrow; he knows
both of you and says it's all right that way."
"That's swell," I said. "I've got to get back to the office as soon as
I can. And as for Smiley here, his place is open and nobody there." I had a
sudden thought and said, "Say, Smiley, you don't by any chance still have
that pint we had a nip out of in the car, do you?"
He shook his head. "What with turning off the lights and pushing you
out and getting out myselfґ"
I sighed at the waste of good liquor. The other pint bottle, the one
that had been in Bat Masters' left coat pocket, hadn't survived the crash.
Still, Smiley had saved our lives, so I had to forgive him for abandoning
the bottle he'd been holding.
The fire was dying down now, and I was getting a little sick at the
barbecue odor and wished the ambulance would come so we could get away from
there.
I suddenly remembered Carl and asked Peeble if there'd been any report
on the police radio about a Carl Trenholm. He shook his head. He said,
"There was a looney loose, though. Escaped from the county asylum. Must've
been caught, though; we had a cancellation on it later."
That was good news, in a way. It meant that Yehudi hadn't waited at my
place after all. And somehow I'd hated the thought of having to sick the
guards on him while he was there. Insane or not, it didn't seem like real
hospitality to a guest.
And the fact that nothing had been on the police radio about Carl at
least wasn't discouraging.
A car came along from the opposite direction and stopped when its
driver saw the smoldering wreckage and the state police car. It turned out
to be a break for Smiley and me. The driver was a Watertown man whom Willie
Peeble knew and who was on his way to Carmel City. When Peeble introduced us
and vouched for us, he said he'd be glad to take Smiley and me into Carmel
City with him.
I didn't believe it at first when I saw by the clock dial on the
instrument panel of the car that it was only a few minutes after ten o'clock
as we entered Carmel City; it seemed incredible that so much had happened in
the few hours ґ less than four ґ since I'd left the Clarion. But we passed a
lighted clock in a store window and I saw that the clock in the car was
right after all, within a few minutes, anyway. It was only a quarter after
ten.
We were let off in front of Smiley's. Across the street I could see
lights were on at the Clarion, so Pete would be there. I thought I'd take a
quick drink with Smiley, though, before I went to the office, so I went in
with him.
The place was as we'd left it. If any customer had come in, he'd got
tired of waiting and bad left.
Smiley went around back of the bar and poured us drinks while I went to
the phone. I was going to call the hospital to find out about Carl Trenholm;
then I decided to call Pete instead. He'd surely have called the hospital
already. So I gave the Clarion number.
When Pete recognized my voice, he said, "Doc, where the hell have you
been?"
"Tell you in a minute, Pete. First, have you got anything about Carl?"
"He's all right. I don't know yet what happened, but he's okay. I
called the hospital and they said he'd been treated and released. I tried to
find out what the injuries had been and how they'd happened, but they said
they couldn't give out that information. I tried his home, but I guess he
hadn't got there yet; nobody answered."
"Thanks, Pete," I said. "That's swell. Listen, there's going to be
plenty to write up. Carl's accident, when we get in touch with him, and the
escape and capture of the lunatic, and ґ something even bigger than either
of those. So I guess we might as well do it tonight, if that's okay by you."
"Sure, Doc. I'd rather get it over with tonight. Where are you?"
"Over at Smiley's. Come on over for a quick one ґ to celebrate Carl's
being okay. He can't even be badly hurt if they released him that quickly."
"Okay, Doc, I'll have one. But where were you? And Smiley, too, for
that matter? I looked in there on my way to the office ґ saw the lights
weren't on here, so I knew you weren't here yet ґ and you and Smiley were
both gone. I waited five or ten minutes and then I decided I'd better come
across here in case of any phone calls and to start melting metal in the
Linotype."
I said, "Smiley and I had a little ride. I'll tell you about it."
"Okay, Doc. See you in a couple of minutes."
I went back to the bar and when I reached for the shot Smiley had
poured for me, my hand was shaking.
Smiley grinned and said, "Me too, Doc." He held out his hand and I saw
it wasn't much steadier than mine.
"Well," he said, "you got your story, Doc. What you were squawking
about. Say, here's your gun back." He took out the short-barreled
thirty-eight and put it on the bar. "Good as new, except two bullets gone
out of it. How'd you happen to have it with you, Doc?"
For some reason I didn't want to tell him, or anyone, that the escaped
lunatic had made such a sap out of me and had been a guest at my house. So
I, said, "I had to walk down here, and Pete had just phoned me there was a
lunatic loose, so I stuck that in my pocket. Jittery, I guess."
He looked at me and shook his head slowly. I know he was thinking about
my having had that gun in my pocket all along, during what we thought was
our last ride, and never having even tried to use it. I'd been so scared
that I'd completely forgotten about it until Smiley had said he wished he
had a gun.
I grinned and said, "Smiley, you're right in what you're thinking. I've
got no more business with a gun than a snake has with roller skates. Keep