The man laughed, and his laugh was metallic, harsh.
“Shows how little you know about gang stuff. If I went to the bulls and told them the story they’d throw me in. They want to turn up some one for the cashier’s murder, and they’d rather it’d be me than anyone else because I’d be easy. A real gangster would have a slush fund and a mouthpiece, and they’d have a hell of a time pinning it on him.
“No, there’s no way out through the police. They’d either fry me, or else they’d believe my story, take me before the grand jury, and then the gangs would put me on the spot.”
“How do you mean, ‘on the spot’?” asked Paul Pry.
“Stick me in the path of a machine gun!” snapped the man.
“I see,” said Paul.
The girl was sobbing quietly.
“Isn’t there any way out, Finney?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, shortly, curtly, and stopped.
She put her hands on his shoulders, pushed herself back at arm’s length until she could gaze into his eyes.
“Well,” she said, “what is it?”
“It’s almost as bad as the other,” he said.
“Well, anyhow, you can tell us.”
He took a deep breath.
“We could muscle Tommy Drake and make Big Front kick through with the confession.”
She frowned, puzzled.
“Talk English, Finney.”
He explained it to her patiently: “You see, sweet, these big gangsters have to be on the job every minute of the day. If they was to get laid up for any length of time the whole pack of cards would come tumbling down. Their time is worth untold money to them, every day.
“There’s rivalry in the gang stuff, and if a man was to lose touch with his trade it’d mean that some rival would come in and scoop the business.
“Every once in a while some fast worker will muscle one of the big gangsters. That is, he’ll strong-arm him and put him some place where he can’t get out. Then the man has to kick through with whatever the captors want in order to get out. And if he’s part of an organization, he has to be on the job for the organization. So the organization kicks through.
“Now, of course Tommy Drake, would deny it if it was put up to him, but he told me in confidence that he’s going to do some heavy collecting for Big Front on Friday night. He’s going to take in certified checks, payable to Tommy Drake. It’s for some big booze shipments, and the gangs won’t take anything except certified checks or money. Money ain’t so hot right now with some of the gangs hijacking each other, so Tommy Drake does his stuff with certified checks.
“Now if I was to muscle Tommy out for a while, and make him give me those certified checks, endorsed to bearer, and then tell Gilvray I was going to cash those checks and beat it unless he kicked through with the confession and gave me a clean bill of health, he’d do it.
“Tommy, himself, was the one that suggested it. He thinks I got a raw deal from Big Front. But, of course, Tommy has got to protect himself in the thing, and I’d have to put it on in style. That’d be to protect Tommy afterward.”
Kinney stopped, looked steadily at his sister.
She returned the glance, steadily, as though it were a signal, or an attempt to exchange thought without the use of words.
“But why can’t you do it, Finney?”
“I need a muscle man.”
“Why?”
“It’d have to be someone that would make the thing look O. K. Otherwise it’d just get Tommy put on the spot, as well as me. But if someone that nobody knew was to do the muscle stunt then we’d all be in the clear.”
The girl’s voice was rapid.
“But wouldn’t it be dangerous?”
“Naw. Where’d there be any danger? Tommy’d be willing, and so would I. A man would just have to go through the motions. Then Tommy would surrender the checks, and that’d be all there was to it.”
“Would Gilvray come through?”
“Would he! Listen, sis, there’ll be at least two checks. One of ’em will be drawn on the Farmers & Merchants National for twenty thousand dollars, signed by Arthur Manser, and certified. The other will be for ten grand, on the Seaboard Union National, signed by Carl Chadwick, certified. Both of ’em payable to Tommy Drake! Use your noodle, kid, and see what that’d mean! Why Gilvray would come through so quick there’d be nothing to it!”
“But,” protested the girl, after a moment of silence, “wouldn’t it be a crime?”
“Of course not. We’d give up the checks. All we want is to kill some false confessions. We’d really be on the side of the law, doing it a favor.”
There was a long silence. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the eyes of the man and the woman turned to Paul Pry.
That individual gulped twice.
“I’m a stranger in the city. Nobody knows me. If I could help—”
Finney shot from his chair, hand outstretched.
“Put her there!” he said. “A regular guy!”
The girl flung her arms around his neck, kissed him, at first impersonally, then, with a startled gasp, more affectionately. She clung to him, hot breath coming through parted lips, eyes starry.
“My hero!” she said.
Finney didn’t give the situation an opportunity to develop any further.
“You and this friend of ours would have to get a bungalow out on the outskirts and pretend you were newly wedded and had just moved in. That’d take care of the neighbors. Then, on Friday, when Tommy gets done with his collecting, I’d leave the car at a certain place while Tommy and me went in for a drink. The car’d be locked, but Sid Fowler here would have a duplicate key.
“There’d be a robe in back. He’d get in and crawl under the robe. Then Tommy would get in front with me. All Sid here would have to do would be to stand up and stick a gun in our necks, and tell us to drive where he said and look pleasant about it. It’d be that simple!”
The girl rubbed her cheek against Paul Pry’s.
“How delightfully simple!” she said.
And there was a subtle double meaning which was meant for the ears of the man who posed as her brother.
Chapter Three
Flirting With Death
Paul Pry, safely ensconced in his secret hideout, tapped rhythmically upon a Hopi ceremonial drum. It was made of deerskin rawhide fastened over the hollowed trunk of a cottonwood, the trunk burnt out until it had just the proper thickness, just the proper resonance.
The weird booming at regular intervals mingled with the blood, pulsed in the ears as a steady throbbing that stirred half forgotten memories.
Mugs Magoo, moodily drinking whiskey, stared at Paul Pry.
“Gosh, I wish you’d quit that damned drumming.”
Paul Pry smiled, musingly.
“I’m stirring primitive cells in my brain, Mugs, awakening old racial memories. Think of it, Mugs! Up to a thousand or so years ago, our ancestors prepared for battle with the drum, killed and were killed to the twang of a bowstring! Is it any wonder the throb of a drum makes us want to revert to savagery? I feel capable of knocking a woman over the head, dragging her off by her hair, putting a tomahawk through the skull of an enemy and scalping him.”
Mugs Magoo shook his head.
“Maybe it does that to you. It just churns my insides up. What are you gettin’ ready to do now?”
But Paul Pry, putting down his drum, answered the question by asking another.
“Mugs, what’s the muscle game?”
Mugs Magoo refilled the whiskey glass.
“It’s quite a racket. It means lots of things, like musclin’ in on another man’s territory. Mostly, though, it means taking a prominent gangster and holding him where he can’t communicate with his gang until he kicks through.