“As it was, something worse happened. By mere accident, the crime of murder reduced itself to that of attempted murder, and penal servitude was no use to him. Rather sheepishly, he had to try and pass it off as a joke; all he had gained was the assurance that when he was next accused of murder, people would be apt to believe it against him. He did not attempt a second murder, which might go as wrong as the first one had gone wrong. He brought Mr. Robinson into existence, and then hurried him out of existence in the way you have all heard; he had got what he wanted.
“And then, of course, the coward came out in him again, and the close prospect of the gallows frightened him more than the remote prospect of a painful death later on. He broke down, and told me the story as I have been telling it to you. And I saved him; but for the life of me I did not know whether I was doing him a benefit in trying to save him. I simply had to proceed by rule of thumb, and behave as a good advocate should.”
“What became of him?” asked McBride.
“Fate stepped in, if you like to call it that. As he left the court, rather dazed with all he had gone through, he stumbled at the edge of the pavement in a crowded street, and a lorry was on the top of him before, I think, he knew what was happening. No, I saw it, and I am certain he didn’t throw himself off the pavement. I don’t believe he could have, either.”
“There’s just one comment your story suggests to me,” objected Penkridge, bitter to the last. “I always thought a lawyer was not allowed to repeat the story told him in confidence by his client?”
“That is why I said that the great gift in the legal profession is imaginativeness. You see, I have been making it all up as I went along.”
Getaway Money
by Thomas Walsh
Copyright, 1943, by Pro-Distributors Publishing Co., Inc.
As we sat down to prepare Thomas Walsh’s “Getaway Money” for the printer, we suddenly realized that all we know about Mr. Walsh is his work. Of the man himself we know nothing. What kind of guy is he? And then it crossed our mind that there is one man in New York who knows. We picked up the ’phone and called Joseph T. Shaw... Tom Walsh? A salt-of the-earth guy, said Captain Shaw. Yes, I’ve known Tom Walsh for twenty years — bought his first story when I was editor of “Black Mask” — saw him climb and climb until he is now a steady contributor to “Saturday Evening Post” and “Collier’s” — you know, one of Tom Walsh’s most outspoken admirers is Octavus Roy Cohen — something about his background? well, he used to be on the “Baltimore Sun” — yes, scratch a writer and you find a newspaperman — oh, he’s a big man, stands higher than six feet and weighs more than two hundred, but he’s a big man in other ways too — got the sweetest disposition of any man I ever knew, even-tempered, gentle, an understanding guy — yes, that’s it: he understands people, he knows character, and that’s the best equipment a writer can have... and how right the old maestro is: strength in characterization is the most precious literary possession a writer can have; it is the secret weapon in a writer’s arsenal; it covers a multitude of sins.
Pete Mayo smiled politely with his thin pale lips. He said: “I guess you’re topped again.” He placed his cards on the table, spread them out carefully with his fingers, and drew in the pile of chips around them. Drake saw three aces, a queen, and a five.
Young Jimmy Harris had been the only one to stay. He bent forward his strained boyish face, with the eye hollows dark drawn, the mouth desperately narrow, nodding when he saw Pete Mayo’s hand. He pushed the cards to Drake, looking dully at him. When he spoke his voice was tensed, shaky.
“I think it’s your deal,” he said.
The Limited clicked past a crossing, the metallic clatter of its wheels purring softly through the compartment with a rhythmic drowsiness. In the blue dusk outside Drake saw a small stone station blur by.
“Martinsville,” Drake said. He looked at his watch. “We’re due in at seven; twenty more minutes. The last hand for me, gentlemen.”
“Then we’ll make it big,” Joe Madigan said jovially. He had a hearty voice, small merry eyes in a plump, very pale face. While he spoke he looked around the table at the players in turn; at Drake’s lean tanned features, at Pete Mayo’s expressionless white mask, at young Harris’ twisted lipsmile. Neil Grant, next to Madigan, pushed a hand caressingly through his curly blond hair, smiled with his pretty mouth.
“But give me something good, Drake,” he said. “You’ve won altogether too much. If I win this time I’ll buy you something real nice, darling.”
The girl on the end of the seat turned sullenly from the window. She said angrily: “I’ve sat here for five hours like a fool. I hope you’ve enjoyed yourself.”
Neil Grant said: “Now, darling.”
Drake shuffled, dealt the cards. Joe Madigan on his left took his five, tapped them three times on the table top. He prayed, his eyes rolling comically: “Come up, baby.” He grinned at Drake as he said it, then spread the cards out slowly in his cupped hands, squinting at each revealed corner.
“It’s open,” he said. “Get in for the gravy, boys.”
They all stayed around to Drake. He held three fours, an ace, a ten. He took two chips from his stack and flipped them to the table center, smiling at Joe Madigan. “You wanted it big,” he said.
Neil Grant pursed his lips in a soft whistle; after a moment he threw his cards down, pushed back from the table.
Madigan’s chunky face lost geniality. He growled: “Damn if you ain’t putting the whip to me this trip. I’m staying.”
Pete Mayo spoke in a low voice, metal hard without resonance. He said: “Bigger, Joe.” His chips jiggled a little with the swinging of the car as he tossed them out.
Jimmy Harris grinned nervously. His eyes were wide, very dark in his face, as he met both raises.
“I’m kicking it,” Drake said. He put out three chips.
Madigan stayed. Pete Mayo didn’t raise again. His calm eyes were blank, remote.
Madigan drew three cards, Pete Mayo one, Jimmy Harris one. Drake picked up his hand again, considered, played one of the hunches he had been winning on all afternoon. He tossed the ten into the discard, held the ace as kicker, and drew one from the stack.
Madigan’s face was jovial again. “Cost the boys two,” he crowed. When he finished speaking the door to the corridor opened, and a very small, very lean man came in. His face was shrewd, wizened, holding beady black eyes like brightly painted dabs of china.
Drake glanced at him. “Last hand, Nicky. Be right with you.”
The dried-apple face grinned cockily. “Oke,” it answered. He came over with brisk movements and stood behind Drake’s chair.
Pete Mayo’s cold eyes were detached, blank. He took two chips from his heap and placed five more beside them. He did not say anything.
Jimmy Harris drew in his lips and licked them with his tongue tip. His face was eager, glowing. “And five again,” he said.
Drake looked at his hand. He saw the ace of hearts he had held, the three fours next, and he spread the cards a little to reveal the one on the end he had just drawn. It was the ace of diamonds. He felt Nicky’s breath slightly hotter on his neck. He said: “Once more, gentlemen.”
Joe Madigan slapped down his cards. “To hell with it,” he grumbled. “You took me for three gees. That’s enough.” He looked dark and fretful puffing at his cigar.
Pete Mayo raised again, the boy raised, Drake raised. Joe Madigan said: “Damn if it ain’t a pot,” and leaned forward, his little eyes greedy on the soaring pile of chips. Neil Grant hummed, his hands in the pockets of his tweed suit, his face handsome, sardonic.