Then, since he wasn’t in condition to help himself, I slipped the gun from his pocket, quickly broke it open, tossed it on the floor and put the cartridges in my pocket. Not that I thought he would be likely to use it again, but I carry two rods that I know — and I don’t want to be cluttered up with any extra hardware; and being of a nervous type I don’t like loaded revolvers hanging around — if they belong to others, I mean.
The driver was still raising hell with that engine, though not so bad. I eased the would-be kidnaper on to the floor, got a foot on his neck so I’d be tipped off if he wanted to get frisky again, and tossing the bottle of chloroform that was wrapped up in a heavy bit of cloth out of the window I gave my attention to the girl. The car had dropped into high now and had a gentle purr. I liked that. It showed the confidence the driver had in the lad in the back.
The girl was not “out” — far from it. I had to pull her back on the seat as she grabbed frantically at the handle of the door, as if to jump out.
“Easy does it, lady,” I told her. “I don’t know how much of the fracas you saw, but I’m—”
“I know... I know,” she said, falling back in the seat. “But I did not know, till you spoke, if it were you or the other man. You are my friend?” And there was a puzzled sort of question in her voice.
“If not exactly a friend, not an enemy.” I tried the jocular. “Anyway, a rescuer.”
“But, the chauffeur?”
“We can turn him over to the first cop we see, and—”
“No... no.” She clutched at my arm. “I don’t want to do that. Must I? You’re not an officer?”
She was trying to get a slant at me, but I pushed back in the darkness. Oh... I would have pushed forward and handed her a business card if things had been different. But, now, I was employed for the time being. I was supposed to be back in that hotel, posing as another man. This was simply an amateur job.
“No.” I eased her mind. I don’t like the cops mixed in with my affairs, either. “I was just passing and saw the play. I don’t know where this fellow is taking us, but it certainly is not to the railroad station.”
“You’re very—”
And my hand went over her mouth. I knew then that I should have stuck a gun in that driver’s back right after I laid out his pal. But I had expected the car to hit for the country. I didn’t expect things to happen so quickly.
It was the sudden appearance of another car alongside of ours and the squeak of brakes — the jerk forward in the seat as we came to a stop. The other car, heavily curtained, had stopped just a bit ahead of us and across the street. Only its curb lights were burning.
I half leaned forward to jerk up the curtain on the window behind the driver, and didn’t. A single man had climbed from that other car. He looked up and down the street, jerked something black and snub-nosed into his right hand, and walked slowly and with great assurance towards us.
He nodded once to the driver, and I think the driver said “Okey.” Then he reached the car, stood so a moment, as though he would peer over the window, thought better of it — and twisting the handle jerked the door open. And I saw his face.
Boy! All he needed to be the old-time villain that forecloses the mortgages was a mustache to twirl with his fingers. In every other way he was cast for heavy melodrama. But he was one of those boys who have a weakness. His was to talk before he looked, and his voice was deep and sinister.
“Come on out, girlie. You are going to keep your date. You know who you got a date with?” And with the heavy dirt that might have done justice to a great tragedian, he threw the big line of his act. “You have a date — a date, perhaps, with death. Or worse — a date with — Bronson.”
This lad had an expressive face. Things registered on it even in the dim light. He wasn’t sure, of course, just what had happened, but he suddenly knew something had gone wrong. At heart he was a timid soul. And sometimes timid souls are more dangerous than stout-hearted ones. To this extent anyway. They get panicky quickly. He was close to that stage now. But his shaking hand that suddenly raised the gun was dangerous, in spite of the tremor in his voice.
“Joe... Joe — it’s all right? She—”
“Oh... yeah?” was all I said as I tapped him. Maybe I should have gone in for light banter. I’m not bad at it. Something told me it wasn’t the time for it. The man under my foot had started to twist.
So we’ll let it go that I tapped him. Rather viciously, perhaps, as I chewed over the name Bronson, and thought of the dead man in the warehouse, with his head blown in. But I just brought the nose of my gun down across his forehead.
His eyes rolled up, his lips sort of dropped, and after resting his chin on the edge of the open tonneau door he flopped back into the street.
It was as I leaned forward to close that door that the shots came. Two quick ones, from across the street. Close to the parked car, but the blaze of the gun was not within my range of vision.
I acted quickly after that, put a couple of .44’s into the parked car for general effect, then leaned downward, dragged that twisting, stuttering, dazed form at my feet more erect and hurled it into the street.
There were two more shots, as with a final lurch he joined his friend on the pavement. Then the shots stopped. I thought I heard a little curse of satisfaction, as if the boy with the gun thought he had dumped me over. I jerked up the curtain, pulled down the front window and stuck my rod in the driver’s back as he was rising to climb from behind that wheel.
“On your way, Bozo — and make it snappy,” I told him.
He knew the feel of a gun all right, and knew the purpose of it — and was up on his underworld etiquette — that the man with the gun talks and the one without listens.
He was the well-trained chauffeur, too, and knew the impression to make on his new boss. He did sort of start with a jerk that nearly tore the open door from the car, but it swung back, and it was easy to grab the handle and slam it shut.
No more shots. Nothing but the roar of our engine, which performed better now — and I gave my instructions to the driver.
“Hit the main street — and hit it quick. And don’t run down any policemen.” And in way of encouragement: “If you’re a good boy you’ll get home for breakfast. If not,” another jab of the gun, “you may get home for it but you won’t eat it.”
I shoved my coat collar up a bit now — jerked my hat down, too. The name Bronson had, in the words of the literati, interested me.
5
I took a squint at the girl. She was tightened up in the corner, trying to hold in her sobs. It’s the way of women, I guess. I stretched out a hand and patted her arm there in the blackness.
“That’s all right, kid. It’s over now, and the time to bawl is over, too. You were a regular guy when a regular guy was needed.” No bull or flattery about that either. It was the truth. She might have raised particular hell and gone into hysterics at an important moment and so put a bullet into one of us.
“Come... come!” I squeezed her arm slightly as the car turned into the main thoroughfare. “It’s time we were leaving our agreeable chauffeur. The cry’s over — take a laugh.”
She suddenly grabbed at my hand and clutched it tightly, placing it against her cheek. Her face was soft and wet. It was funny, too. I’ve met all kinds of women — good, bad — real good and damn’ bad, and thoroughbreds, too. But I couldn’t remember that little trick. I liked it and didn’t like it. It’s hard to explain. One thing was certain. She didn’t belong in this sort of thing. She was young; she was class; she was— But— Hell! she was talking.