“I can’t,” came from the other end. “He’s gone — half an hour ago. You’re — too late!” There was a choked terror about the way he said it that told her it was true. She let the receiver drop to the end of its cord like a shot.
His wife read her doom in her eyes. She gave a single, long-drawn scream of nameless terror that hung in the air. Then the pounding at the door told Jean why he’d come out with it like that just now, made no bones about it; they’d traced her fast, all right. They’d gotten here already — her address was on tap at the club — but just the same, he’d timed himself wrong. They weren’t in yet, there was still a door between, and a pin can fall on a cartridge much quicker than a door can swing open! She’d been half an hour too late — but he’d been half a minute too soon! They’d both lost, and the winner was the same old winner — death.
A passkey turned in the door and a voice from the other world groaned, “Jean!”
She shivered all over and turned to look, and the hallman was holding Johnny up in the doorway. He was naked under a coat, and his feet were hobbled with copper wire, but his eyes were alive and he groaned it again, “Jean!” as the man brought him into the room, leaning on him. He’d kept his word, he’d stayed alive!
She saw through the open coat what they’d done to him, and choked back a scream. “They strapped the hell out of me,” he said, and smiled a little, “but — but — I left before the finals—” And he fainted.
“Whisky!” she said. “Bandages — they’re in there! Quick!”
Yet it wasn’t as bad as it had looked. Cut-up wrists and ankles, a flaming chest and abdomen — but he’d stayed alive, he’d come back from a ride. The very same maroon death car was at the door right now! She pitched the gun into a corner. Mrs. Borden was sitting there snuffling a little, slowly calming down. She didn’t make a move to go; seemed to be lost in thought — unpleasant thought.
He opened his eyes again, gave a deep sigh, like pain was a habit by this time. She gave him the cigarette he asked for, then went ahead washing and bandaging. Tears were slowly coursing down her cheeks, tears of gratitude. “No — no cops,” she said to the hallman. “You see, it wouldn’t do us any good. We’re going to Miami. Can you make Penn Station with me, darling?”
He didn’t tell her what they had intended doing; just told her what they’d actually done. “They kept sprinkling salt, as the belt buckle opened the skin. J gave a heave, I guess, I don’t know; threw the one that was holding me down with his foot off balance, sort of forward. The buckle coming down caught him, tore his eye out. He went mad with pain, went for Beefy; picked up a sharp knife they had waiting for me. They had a terrible time with him. My arms were free, but my feet weren’t. I kept rolling over and over — just to ease the burning at first — then I rolled right onto this flat freight-elevator that had no sides, pulled the rope and went all the way down, into the basement without knowing it. The car was there they’d brought me in, and the mechanic was dozing. I cracked him with a wrench, dragged myself in, drove it onto the elevator and managed to get off with it at street level. Then I drove it all the way back here with a blanket around me, so I wouldn’t get pinched for indecent exposure. The open air sort of kept me going—”
“It’s my fault. Are you sorry,” she sobbed, “you went straight?”
“No,” he murmured. “It was worth it — even if I hadn’t come back. Just help me with a pair of socks and shoes, and I can still make the train with you—”
Mrs. Borden was saying, in a strange smoldering voice, “I never thought he’d go that far — do that to any human being. At home he wouldn’t hurt a fly—” She covered her eyes suddenly, as if to shut out the memory of Johnny’s frayed, reddened skin before the bandages hid it from sight. “He — he would’ve killed you, if you hadn’t gotten away!”
“That,” said Johnny tersely, “seems to have been the chief idea.”
“Why?” she wanted to know.
“Because I knew too much.”
She seemed to be talking to herself more than to the two of them. “Oh, I’m not a plaster saint, God knows,” she groaned. “I knew our money wasn’t straight. I’ve always known it. Too much of it too quickly. I knew he was in beer back in the Twenties, and I know that lately he’s been running clubs and sending girls on South American vaudeville tours—”
“Is that the new name for it?”
“But still and all,” she went on, “I never thought he’d try to take someone’s life. Oh, if someone doesn’t stop him, he’ll kill someone yet!”
All Johnny said was, “Yet?”
She stood up suddenly, staring at him. “Then you mean he has — already? Me and the kids, we been living on blood money! I guess I know the reason now why so many times the morning paper has whole columns torn out of it when I come to read it.” She stared at the mink coat; suddenly sloughed it off, horrified. “What’s that trying to tell me? It’s turning red, look at it, bright red!” she screamed. “I’ve been living in the same house with a killer — sleeping with a murderer! He’s gonna end up in the chair yet—”
“He’s ten years overdue,” Johnny muttered. “It’s pretty late in the day to—”
“But it’s not too late! I love him! I don’t care what he’s done! I’ll save him from that. Anything but that! I’ll put him where he’s safe! If I can’t have him, the chair won’t get him either!” She picked up Jean’s phone. “Get me the district attorney’s office,” she sobbed.
Jean was buttoning her husband’s coat. “Lean on me, darling,” she whispered. “We’ve got a date with ourselves down in Miami.”
“Mrs. Maximilian Borden,” the woman at the phone was saying as they limped out of the room arm-in-arm and quietly closed the door behind them. “You tell the attorney I want a personal interview with him — in strict confidence!”