“You boys are slipping,” the sergeant said. He picked up his pen. “Carrying a concealed weapon — to wit, a revolver. Brother, that’s a violation of the Sullivan Act.”
“I took it away from the guy who kidnaped me,” said Sam.
“Kidnaped!” The sergeant snorted. “You’re getting fancier all the time. Mmm, forgery, larceny, attempting to bribe an officer and the Sullivan Act. Yes, sir, you haven’t got a thing to worry about. Not for the next fifteen or twenty years. The State’ll take care of you.”
“Twenty years!” howled Sam. “You’re kidding. Please, Captain, don’t make jokes like that.”
One of the policemen took his arm. “Come on, mister.”
Sam jerked his arm free of the policeman’s grip. He appealed to the desk sergeant. “Don’t put me in a cell. Lemme wait here. Johnny Fletcher can explain the whole thing.”
“Come on,” said the policeman firmly. He gripped Sam’s elbow hard, but Sam again jerked his arm away and went so far as to slap down the policeman’s hand.
The policeman cried out, “Resisting arrest, assaulting an officer.”
The desk sergeant began to write. “Resisting arrest, assaulting—”
“No-no, don’t add any more,” cried Sam. “I’ll go quietly. Come on, boys.”
He started eagerly for the door leading to the jail proper. The policemen followed him.
There were three private cells in the rear, but each was occupied so Sam was led into the bullpen, a larger room equipped merely with two steel cots. Two prisoners were already in the bullpen. One of the policemen unlocked the door.
“In you go.”
Sam entered. The policeman locked the door and both went to the front of the station house.
Sam regarded his fellow prisoners glumly. One was a youth of nineteen or twenty, the other a grizzled old-timer.
“What’re you in for, buddy?” the old-timer asked cheerfully.
Sam shook his head. “It’s all a big mistake. I hadn’t ought to be here at all.”
“A mistake, eh? The cops’re always making mistakes. What do you think they’re charging me with?”
“I dunno.”
“Burglary, that’s what.”
The youth made a wet raucous sound with his mouth. “Vagrancy, that’s what you’re in for. You’re nothin’ but an old bum.”
“I resent that, bub,” retorted the oldster. “I been in more jails than you’ll ever see from the outside. I served time in Joliet, Sing Sing and Alcatraz. I got a record. And whaddya you got to brag about? Pinchin’ pennies off a newsstand.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, it just happens that I’m in for grand larceny, heisting a Caddy limousine, breaking and entering and resisting an officer. How do you like that, old man?”
“Yah!” The old tramp indicated the youth with his thumb. “They talk big, these young punks, don’t they? Tell him, pal, tell ’im what you’re in for.”
“Forgery. Grand larceny. The Sullivan Act, attempting to bribe an officer, assaulting an officer and resisting arrest.”
The youth sat up straight. “All that? You kiddin’?”
“I wish I wasn’t. The captain says I’ll be in jail for fifteen-twenty years. I’ll never make it. I can’t stand bein’ locked up.”
“Nothing much holdin’ you here,” said the old tramp. “If I had an old saw or even a little crowbar I’d be out of here in no time. Lookit them old iron bars. Half rusted away, set in plaster or somethin’ instead of concrete.”
He pointed to the barred window at the rear of the cell. Sam stepped up to it and looked through at an alley. He examined the bars. Age had crumbled the concrete foundation, age and the elements had weathered the iron bars. Sam gripped two of the bars, tested them. They wobbled in their concrete sockets.
He turned away from the window, his eyes narrowing. “If I had a lever or something, I could tear them bars loose.”
“You and who else?” jeered the youth. “A horse couldn’t tear out those bars.”
“I’m almost as strong as a horse,” said Sam modestly.
The boy wrinkled his nose in disgust. “That’s the one thing I can’t stand in these crummy jails. The bull the other prisoners throw. Always bragging how good they are at something. How many cops did it take to pinch you?”
“Two. But I couldda handled them easy if I’d wanted.” Sam’s eyes fell to the cot on which the youth was sitting. It was made of heavy tubular steel and contained a rusted spring. He dropped to his knees, tried one of the legs.
“Get up!” he ordered.
“I don’t feel like it,” snarled the youngster.
Sam reached out, pushed the boy gently. He turned a complete somersault and came up on the far side of the cot. On his hands and knees he stared at Sam, goggle-eyed.
The little bolts that held the leg of the cot to the frame were badly rusted. Sam gripped the tubular leg, gave it a sudden wrench and it came away from the frame.
“Holy smoke!” gasped the old tramp.
Grimly, Sam strode to the window. He put the tubular leg of the cot between two bars and put his strength to pushing the inner end.
Iron ground in the concrete. Sam reversed his push, saw bits of concrete spew out of the loosened socket of one of the bars, then reversed himself again. He took a deep breath and put some real effort into it this time.
The iron bar tore loose from its lower mooring, leaving a wide opening. Wide enough for a man to get through.
Sam turned and looked at his cellmates who were staring at him in awe.
“You boys want out?”
The old-timer backed away. “Not me. I got two-three days more to go, then I’m out. By the front door.”
“I’ll go with you,” said the boy. He shot a look of contempt at the old tramp. “The old coot’s better off in jail.”
“I’ll boost you,” Sam volunteered to the boy. He locked his hands together and held them as a stirrup. The boy stepped on Sam’s hands and was raised to the window. He clambered through.
“Give me a hand,” Sam said. He held up his hand, but no hand from outside touched his. The boy was out and wasted no time making himself scarce.
Swearing under his breath, Sam reached up, gripped two bars still remaining and swung himself up. The aperture was a tight fit, but, by holding his breath and squirming, Sam made it.
On his feet, he ran quickly down the alley to a side street.
18
Johnny Fletcher came out of the Harover Club and a taxi pulled up at the curb. “Taxi, mister?” asked Leonard, the cabby.
“Yes.” Johnny pulled open the door, had one foot in the taxi when he saw the man inside. “Oh-oh!”
“I want a word with you, Fletcher,” the man in the cab said.
Johnny backed swiftly out of the cab. “Not with me chum!”
“Get in,” snarled Harry Flanagan. “This is money in your pocket.”
“I’ve got enough money,” said Johnny.
“Then how about this?”
Flanagan’s hand went under the left lapel of his coat Johnny took two big backward steps.
Flanagan whipped out his gun, a.32 automatic, and lunged toward the open door. “Come here, or I’ll let you have it.”
Johnny continued to skip backward, almost colliding with the doorman of the Harover Club.
“You haven’t got the nerve!” he yelled at Flanagan.
And Flanagan didn’t have it. He saw the doorman, two or three men coming out of the club, some pedestrians. Too many witnesses. Besides which the taxicab driver, Leonard, wanted no part of a shooting on Forty-sixth Street. He was already meshing gears, stamping on the gas pedal. The cab roared away, heading for Madison Avenue.