CHAPTER VII

THE GET-AWAY

Not for a moment did Don Haskins doubt that Helen Gilmore--legally Helen Haskins, by grace of an unsundered legal tie previously knotted--would "come through" with the thousand dollars that he had demanded as the price of his silence. She wouldn't dare refuse; bigamy is a sternly met crime in New York State.

With a thousand dollars to the good he felt that his get-away was safely assured, for a thousand dollars would enable him to put a long distance behind him. And so, sitting in the squalid, shabby little third-floor room in Eighth Avenue Annie's disreputable haven for those hunted men who can raise the price of her protection, he was laying his plans. Several points of the compass beckoned to him; California intrigued him, but he was also inclined toward Cuba, and, even at a lesser distance, Florida waved its picturesque palms beckoningly before his mental vision. He had thought, too, of South America, but was wise enough to know that this trip would have to contemplate the dangers of getting a passport. A passport is not readily secured by a man of Don Haskins' unsavory standing as a citizen; so he scratched South America off his list.

It had been Monday afternoon when Helen had called at Eighth Avenue Annie's, leaving a payment of one hundred and ninety dollars on account; it was now just gathering dark of Tuesday, and so certain was Don that the dawning of the following day would bring the remainder of the thousand that he was making his very definite plans for sliding out of town--quickly.

He had allowed his beard to grow; that would help some. Perhaps it wouldn't fool the eyes of a dick who knew him well--and many of them did--but it added materially to his chances. The cops, since he had no successful job to his credit, wouldn't expect him to be in funds. The thing to do, he reasoned, was the thing he wouldn't be expected to do; therefore with fifty of the one hundred and ninety dollars he had got from Helen--previously diminished by an even hundred that he owed his old hag protector--he had sent Annie out among the secondhand shops of Eighth Avenue to gather a wardrobe, a gentleman's wardrobe, at reasonable prices.

"Nuttin' flashy," he had warned; "respectable-lookin', but none of the race-track stuff, see."

And so Eighth Avenue Annie went forth among the clothing shops where stained, ancient garments are sponged, pressed, and advertised "Just Like New." True enough, Annie took her own reward for this service; to the suit of blue serge for which she paid twelve dollars and ninety-five cents, she affixed a price tag which read twenty-four dollars and ninety-five cents, and, as you might expect, put the difference into her own capacious and ever-hungry pocket.

There seems to be some persistent destiny that has the habit of sending policemen past a certain spot at a certain moment. It is always happening, as an almost daily glance at your morning newspaper will bear affirmative witness. As Eighth Avenue Annie was engaged in purchasing Don Haskins' get-away outfit, Detective Sergeant John Henry Tish passed the door of Abramson's dark, gloomy and somewhat odorous "Clothes Bought and Sold" establishment and chanced to glance within.

Detective Sergeant Tish was not perhaps nearly so good a detective as he thought himself to be, but he had a good record for arrests and convictions; when he made a "pinch" something usually came of it. He had been recently assigned to this district, on the fringe of the old Tenderloin, and he wasn't so well acquainted as he might have been. But he knew Eighth Avenue Annie; he had seen her in Jefferson Market Court not a great many months before, and Annie's gargoyle face, with the narrow, red eyes, her bulging, muscular shoulders, were not easily forgotten.

"Humph!" grunted Sergeant Tish. "The old hag is buyin' somebody some new rags--that is some rags that was new--one time. Looks as if there might be something in it."

So, instead of pursuing his way down Eighth Avenue, he loitered outside Mr. Abramson's cluttered establishment, to all intents and purposes interested in a suit of plaid which occupied the central space in the window. "Can't Tell it from New," read a card. "A Bargain at $22.69." Mr. Abramson, you see, was a great believer in the psychology of the odd cent.

Eighth Avenue Annie striding forth with that swaggering, Bowery walk of hers, a bundle under her arm, did not glance behind her. Had she done so, she would have seen Sergeant Tish, a short, well-fed-looking man, who didn't look much like the usual run of fly cops, lose interest in the plaid and follow her at a discreet and disarming distance.

However, when Annie turned in at her place of abode and harbored evil-doers just around the corner of the second block, Sergeant Tish quickened his pace and was directly behind her, as she stepped into the vestibule. It might have been the ringing of the automatic bell that dimmed her ears to the pad of the detective's shoes, for, as she turned, there was Tish, grinning at her wisely, his foot thrust forward to prevent the door being suddenly slammed in his face. He had no intention of finding himself on the outside looking in.

"Say!" growled Annie. "What's the game?" Sharp as were her red, narrow eyes, she failed to see the brand of headquarters in the plain-clothes man's round, fat face.

Sergeant Tish continued grinning, but it wasn't a grin to arouse any contagious mirth or even good humor.

"Who'd you buy the new rags for?" he demanded. "I wanna know a thing or two about that. Get me?"

Eighth Avenue Annie got him; there was the tone of authority in the man's voice.

"What's it to you?" she demanded with pretended indignation. "Ain't a lady gotta right----"

"Cheese it!" broke in Detective Tish. "I know you, an' I gotcher number. When a bird sends you out to buy 'im clothes, he's either a cripple or a crook--an' if he was that bad a cripple I guess he wouldn't need any clothes." He chuckled in appreciation of his own wit. "So don't try no bluff with me. Take your hand off that door."

Annie had often defied the law, but her defiance was never flaunted openly. When a cop said open the door, she opened it quickly.

"I ain't done nothin' wrong," she protested with a ludicrous pretense at innocence. "There ain't nothin' wrong, is there, in doin' a favor fer a gent roomer. Is there, now? He said fer me to go out an' buy 'em----"

"Where is this guy?" broke in Sergeant Tish. "I guess I'll give him the once-over. Chances are he's some bird that's wanted, tryin' to do a swift one outta town. Yeah?"

"I dunno," muttered Annie; "I dunno nothin' about 'im. I rents 'im a room; he pays his rent. I'm a poor lady tryin' to make an honest livin', I am."

"That's a double lie," snorted Sergeant Tish. "You ain't no lady, an' you never glommed an honest jitney in your life. Lead on, you; I'm gonna give this guy the once-over an' a free ride most likely."

The woman hesitated, for she was at a ticklish disadvantage. The surprise of the detective's visit was too complete to give her any opportunity to warn Don Haskins who waited in the vile little room on the third floor for his new wardrobe.

On the stairs leading to the top story there was concealed a very cunning little device that in six years of hiding hunted men for pay had not once been detected by the police. Two of the steps, by a simple mechanical operation, could be jerked upward into an opening large enough to admit a man's body. Below this was space large enough to accommodate several persons, the steps then dropped back into place, looking thoroughly innocent. But Haskins had not been given the secret of the third-floor stairs, and now there would be no opportunity to favor him with this belated knowledge.

"I'll run right up an' tell Mr. Smith to come down," said the old hag.

"Say," sneered Sergeant Tish, "do I look that easy? On the level, do you think I'd fall for that stuff?" It angered him that she should have so little regard for his intelligence. "What floor did you say?" He unbuttoned his coat which fitted somewhat tightly across his ample stomach, giving him freer access to his police automatic strapped beneath his arm.

Eighth Avenue Annie had not lived in the underworld for nothing; she knew the ways of the cops. She knew, for example, that the first overt move she made to protect her well-paying lodger would land her in jail on a charge of aiding and abetting a criminal. She wanted to help Haskins, not from any motive of sentiment, but because she expected to garner further money from Don's "swell sister," as she supposed Helen Gilmore to be.

"I didn't say what floor, off'cer," she muttered, "but I'm sayin' now. He's on the thoid. I ain't protectin' nobody that ain't right." She tried to affect a virtuous attitude. "I dunno nothin' except he spiels it to me his moniker is--um--Smith."

"Lead the way," ordered Sergeant Tish. "Not a word outta you either. Get me? No tip-off goes with me; try that, and it's the station for yours. If you think I won't, try it." Evidently Tish had not been deceived in the slightest by her attitude of innocence. "You go on up them stairs just like you was bringin' back his new duds. You say, 'Here's your clothes, mister.' I guess we won't use the Smith racket, either. His name ain't Smith, and you know it ain't."

"Yes, off'cer," agreed Eighth Avenue Annie.

"Not so loud with that officer talk," warned Tish. "Ease down on the lung power, you. Now, let's go."

He motioned to the bundle she had just brought in from Abramson's, and she obediently picked it up, starting up the dank, musty stairs. The detective followed, walking with surprising lightness of step for so corpulent a man. They reached the second-floor landing and passed around a bend in the hall to the next flight. There was no hope for Don Haskins now.

As they reached the top, lighted murkily by the dirty skylight, Sergeant Tish crouched low so that his head and shoulders would be shielded by the bulking form of Eighth Avenue Annie and her packages. The woman's shoes clattered noisily, and Haskins came to the door with the broken, patched panel, his unshaven face peering out.

"You got the stuff, huh?" he grunted. "I'll bet it's a tin suit."

Eighth Avenue Annie made no effort to warn him; that might mean shooting, and she wanted no shooting in her house.

"It's a good suit," she muttered in a hoarse guttural. "It cost----"

"Stick 'em up," roared Sergeant Tish, flipping out his gun, and rising to his full height, leveling the weapon at the now wide-open door. "Get 'em up, or I'll drill you."

Don Haskins' hands went up; he would have been a fool otherwise. His lips twisted, as they emitted a vicious snarl.

"Double crossed me," he said. "Took my good jack an' called in the cops. Curse you, I'll----"

"Shut your mouth!" Annie whispered hoarsely, her own face livid.

Sergeant Tish grinned delightedly; he was beginning to realize that it had been a fortunate circumstance looking so casually into the doorway of Abramson's secondhand clothing store. He had felt all along, of course, that the woman was lying, that she was keeping a man in hiding. And men do not hide unless they are wanted. It might be a big haul. He took another step forward and peered closely into the face of his quarry.

"I can't name him offhand, but I guess the Bertillon boys'll rap to 'im fast enough." He backed Haskins into the stuffy, dirty little room at the point of the gun and reached into the pocket of his coat for an ever-ready pair of nippers.

"Stick out them fins," he ordered. "I'll get these darbies on you, an' then we'll talk things over."

Knowing that the gun was beaded for his vitals, and that any fool can shoot straight with an automatic, Don Haskins stuck out his hands; the handcuffs snapped about his wrists.

"What's the pinch for?" he demanded with an effort at bluster. "You ain't got nothin' on me; I ain't done nothin'."

"Well, anyhow, I guess you've done time," Sergeant Tish said shrewdly. "What's your name down at central office?"

Don Haskins remained sullenly silent, his eyes glowing hotly, as they stared at Eighth Avenue Annie. The hag had let the bundle from Abramson's slide to the floor, and with both hands she pushed back the dirty gray hair that straggled down across her soiled face.

"Want to hold out on me, eh?" grunted Sergeant Tish, with a shrug of his flesh-padded shoulders, as he thrust the gun back into its holster. His chubby face wore a smile, for he was well pleased with himself; a single-handed capture is a thing that a cop delights in. And, if it turned out to be an important arrest--well, Tish had a hunch that it was just that, an important arrest. "Suit yourself, John Doe; you'll get the rap fast enough when I get you downtown."

Don Haskins knew how hopeless it was now. Ten minutes ago he had been daydreaming pleasantly of Florida, perhaps Cuba, and now--Sing Sing via the Tombs. It all depended on whether or not "Dago Mike," his confederate in the loft job, net profit ten dollars split three ways, had squealed. And he was sure Dago Mike had squealed. The warehouse watchman had been croaked, and that meant that not only the actual slayer, but Don Haskins, as a participant in the crime, was liable to the death sentence.

Haskins thought swiftly, desperately. The chair! The sickening vision of it swam before his eyes and drove his brain to cunning that was somewhat beyond his normal mental processes. He staggered back to the unkempt cot.

"Gimme a cigarette," he muttered thickly, his nerve apparently deserting him. "I'll talk--tell you who I am. I--I gotta have a fag first."

Sergeant Tish had seen that kind before. "Sure," he agreed readily enough and produced a package of his own. Don lifted his manacled arms and took a cigarette. It trembled between his fingers, wabbled between his twitching lips. The detective lighted a match and held the flaming stick toward him.

Haskins inhaled deeply and seemed to grow calmer; his eyes raised, taking his captor's measure. He noted with satisfaction that he was almost a head taller than Tish. Even then he found the time to wonder how he had managed to get on the force.

Tish did not rush his man. "Take your time," he encouraged. "No hurry; spill it when you're ready."

Eighth Avenue Annie edged to the door from the hall, peering inside with a horrible leer, as she considered that this man whom she had befriended--for pay, of course--was going to be a yellow skunk and "cough up." He would probably squeal on her, too; tangle her up in his own net of trouble. That was the way with some of these rats; they couldn't stand the gaff and wouldn't protect their friends. She muttered something that sounded like "scum."

Little did Annie know what was going on in Don Haskins' mind. Don had never been a swift thinker, and hard drinking of bootleg whisky hadn't added to his nimbleness of wit, but his brain was traveling in high now. He knew that it wouldn't do him any good to conceal his identity; lie as he would, there would be plenty of cops down at headquarters to remember him. More than that, his picture was in the rogues' gallery, his finger prints on file. But he didn't propose to make that trip down to headquarters. Desperation made him resourceful.

"My name is Haskins," he muttered. "They used to call me Nifty Don in the old days, but you ain't got nothin' on me. On the level, you ain't got nothin' on me."

Sergeant Tish frowned for a moment and then a look of delight spread over his round, fat face. "Guess again, Haskins. There's a general order out for you. You're wanted for a croak out in the Bronx; I forget the details, but you're wanted all right. Yeah, I'll say you are."

Don groaned. He had been right in his fears; Dago Mike had squealed. The handcuffed man got to his feet; his shoulders heaved, as he inhaled deeply on the now half-consumed cigarette. He filled his lungs to every cubic inch of their capacity. He took a step toward the detective and, opening his mouth, expelled a cloud of smoke directly into Tish's face.

Sergeant Tish, half blinded, was taken totally by surprise; he staggered back and made a motion toward his gun, but he was not quick enough. The prisoner's manacled arms flashed upward and downward, the metal wristlets catching the detective a stunning blow on the side of the head. The latter's knees sagged, but he continued to fumble for his gun, when Haskins struck again, and this time the plain-clothes man crumpled up on the floor, blood gushing from the edge of his scalp.

"My Gawd!" whispered Eighth Avenue Annie.

For the moment Haskins ignored her, as he knelt beside the form of his captor and took the police regulation automatic; then he began frisking the man for the handcuff keys.

"Here," he said harshly to the old hag, "get these cursed things off of me. Hurry!"

"You'se ain't croaked 'im?" gulped Annie, her eyes bulging.

"Naw," grunted Don. "Use that key, or I'll give you a dose of the same. I ought to, anyhow, you dirty double crosser. Tipped the cops off, didn'tcha?"

"He seen me buyin' the clothes; he follered me. See? I didn't have no chance to give you warnin'. Nice fix you got me into, brainin' a dick in my place. They'll send me away for this." She worked the key in the lock, and the handcuffs came free.

"I hope you get ten years," Haskins said viciously. "Gimme them clothes." A moment later he was changing in trembling haste, shedding the disreputable suit for the more respectable garments that Annie had purchased at Abramson's. His fingers were shaking, and he steadied his nerves with a drink from the bottle which rested beside the bed.

Eighth Avenue Annie was twisting her grimy old hands in an anguish of terror. She knew the aftermath of this, and the revenge of the outwitted detective was not a pleasant thing to consider. Had she dared she would have tried to square herself by preventing Haskins' escape, by sending out an alarm, but Haskins was armed and at her first move would perhaps kill her. She flattened against the wall, sobbing hoarsely in self-pity, cursing the man who had sent Haskins to her for protection.

In his haste Haskins forgot something very important; he forgot that beneath the dirty mattress was the forty dollars that remained of the one hundred and ninety dollars Helen Gilmore had given him the previous afternoon. He didn't think of it until he had dashed down the two flights of stairs and had reached the street. As he realized this amazing oversight and turned back, he saw Annie sneaking out of the vestibule, running. He knew. She was calling the cops, trying to square herself. He didn't dare go back for the money. He wheeled in the opposite direction, walking swiftly.

Flight without a dollar in pocket is a problem, but desperation has cut many a Gordian knot. Eighth Avenue is not a well-lighted street, and darkness had settled down over the city. A taxi nosed through the gloom, and after but a moment of hesitation Haskins hailed it; the question of fare did not bother him--not with that automatic in his pocket. The taxi drew up alongside the curb; it was a nice new taxi, with a shining, spotless coat of blue paint.

"I wanna get to Yonkers in a hurry," said Don briskly. "Gotta important date out there. How quick can y'make it?" Yonkers was the river-bordered town which joined the New York city limits on the north.

"Hour and a quarter," answered the driver, giving Haskins a sizing-up look.

"O. K.," grunted Haskins. "Let's travel; go down Riverside Drive all the way." He climbed inside, and they were off.

Don had a particular reason for choosing the Riverside Drive route. Past One Hundred and Eightieth Street the Drive winds between the river and high-towering bluffs, with no houses on either side. He desired a quiet place for settling the matter of the fare. They had reached the spot which is called Inspiration Point, when the fleeing passenger rapped on the glass which separated him from the chauffeur's seat.

"Stop 'er!" he shouted.

The car ground to a halt, and Haskins leaped out, cursing volubly.

"Lost ring--diamond ring--slipped right off my finger. That rock cost me eight hundred bucks," was the excuse he gave.

The driver stared suspiciously, for his fare did not look like a man who would own an eight-hundred-dollar diamond ring.

"Aw, watcha handin' me?" he growled skeptically.

Haskins looked up and down the Drive. The nearest car was some distance away. His hand slipped to his pocket for the automatic he had taken from Sergeant Tish. At the same instant he sprang forward. He did not shoot, but brought the butt of the weapon down in a vicious swing on the fellow's head. With a grunting, choking groan the latter collapsed into black unconsciousness, still sitting at the wheel.

The approaching car swept past; another followed; and neither paused their swift progress. There was no reason why they should have noticed anything. Don Haskins lifted out the limp form and carried it well back to the side of the road, where he quickly rifled the senseless man's pockets, taking nineteen dollars and thirty-five cents in cash, a good watch, and the driving license. Then he donned the chauffeur's cap and climbed into the taxi; an instant later he was speeding on northward--alone. He was headed for the one place where he was sure that he would find money and protection--Greenacres.