The Gat by Clyde B. Wilson. When you have killed a man,
it's time to go. The Gat listened, thought rapidly, and decided.
So swift and sure had been the attack. Not a cry had escaped the
victim. The Gat placed the knife where it might naturally have fallen from the
hand of a self murderer. Then he turned to open the safe, where
he had been surprised before finding what he sought. Stooped before it, he
hesitated for an instant, tempted to further search, he shook his head.
The prize was not worth the risk. Robbery exposed a suicide. Blind,
and with the biggest job of his career planned for tomorrow, he could not
afford to have the police aroused to extra watchfulness by a mysterious murder committed to
night. This must look like a suicide. He replaced the pape papers in
the safe exactly as he had found them, and closed the door. The
rattle of the combination crashed against the dead silence of the room. Somehow it
reminded him of the clang of a certain bolt to a certain cell he knew
of. He stepped back to the double doors and turned his ear to the
crack where they met in the center. His eyes fell upon the figure.
Its evening clothes exposed an expanse of white shirt front white except for a splotch
on the left side, the size of a man's two fingers. He must
hurry noiselessly. He slid the big brass door bolt into place with infinite ease.
He turned the key over in the lock below, and the bolt clicked
faintly. His strained senses again recalled the clang of a certain bolt to a
certain cell he knew of. Again, he listened for a moment, quickly
and without sound. The gat then drew two of the hinge pins from the
hinges of the right hand door. The third one stuck slightly. A few
turns back and forth with a pair of pliers, and it came out freely
from a small bottle. He deposited, with an apothecary's accuracy, a few
drops of oil into the loop of each hinge. With his pliers gripped on
the door portion of the middle hinge, he slowly and noiselessly worked the door
free. Fastened by the lock and bolt in the center, The two doors
swung as one on the left side hinges He opened them an inch and let
them sag to the floor. Then he took the pins, immersed each in
the oil bottle, and inserted them a quarter of an inch in the hinge
loops on the door, facing where they leaned enough from a perpendicular to keep
them from dropping into place until he should be ready to jar them down.
The gat was ready for his exit, He turned and surveyed the room to
see if he was leaving any clues. He suddenly was seized with an impulse
for cautionless flight. He set his teeth and muttered an oath. This wasn't
the first man he had killed, but it was the first he had knifed,
and that shirt front the stain had spread to the size of a man's
hand. Hurriedly, he went into his coat, buttoned the fur front over
his evening clothes, and sprung his opera hat into shape. The hollow snap
of it startled him. He quickly lifted the doors clear of the floor,
opened them the width of his body, and stepped into the hall. He
stood perfectly still for a second, his ears fairly sucked at the silence.
Opening a corkscrew in a combination tool knife, he quickly inserted it into the
hall side of the door to serve as a knob. With knee braced against
the facing to steady himself, he raised the doors to the proper height and
with nerve wrecking slowness, meshed the hinges without jarring the pin down. Then
pulling steadily by the corkscrew to hold the door in place, he tapped lightly
with the heel of his hand on the door in the position of the top
hinge. The pin dropped into place with a barely audible click. Once more,
he listened intently before proceeding. The middle pin jarred down with equal success.
He stooped and tapped lightly at the bottom hinge. It did not drop
in. He tapped harder, and with a noise that sounded to him like
the ring of a steel crowbar, the pin clattered to the bare floor.
The gat ground his teeth in rage at this utter waste wrought to his infinite
pains. He had left a clue to point straight away from the suicide lead.
He had planted that satanic sleuth hu Din would grab it with the eagerness
of a bloodhound. Nervously, he pulled his corkscrew from the door he had
intended to cover up the hole it made, but there was neither need nor
time for that. Now that hingepin was enough to waken the dead man,
how could the servants sleep on a faint life shifted into the hall through the
crack in the doors he had just closed. He turned toward the street door
and stiffened like an icicle as he faced a man fool. How he hated
nerves. It was only a clothed hall tree. Halfway through the outside door.
He dragged in a deep breath of cold air, then suddenly choked,
with head bent against the tumbling snow. A policeman was crossing the street directly
toward him. The gat was trained for fast thinking. Too many policemen in
New York had studied his photograph only recently. That devil detective hou Din,
who was sending all his pals to the penitentiary and the death room, had
impudently promised him to his teeth that he would surely get him shortly over on
open Broadway with nothing on him. He did not dodge them, but coming
out of a house on Fifth Avenue after midnight, where a stabbed man would
be found the next morning. Perhaps now the servants were up. Only so
long as it took these thoughts to flash film like through his brain. Did
the gat hesitate. He might have to kill another man or two, But
he stepped back inside the door. Absolute silence greeted him. It was a
white night, unfit for red deeds. On the street with people about him.
He should have felt easy, but he was shaken. Things were not
working out in the first place. He had not come to New York to
pull this job, but a bigger one. He was a fool to have
been tempted by it, but it had looked so easy, no killing,
and see how it had turned out. He had dressed at his hotel in
evening clothes and gone to Paolo's fashionable gambling rooms for no other purpose than to
see if Henson was there. He was, and had seemed drunk enough to
be good for the night. But that's just the trouble. No dope is
dependable When you have to figure booze in one of the elements, Hanson had
taken a notion to go home. Worse of all, he hadn't gotten the
money, and because like a bush burglar, he had left his gun in
his overcoat clear across the room, he had to use his knife instead and
smear things all up. Well, if the murder outed, the knife would
be his alibi. His jealously guarded reputation as an exclusively gun user would save
him from suspicion. The Gat straightened himself savagely. He used to have nerve,
but no wonder he was cracking for one thing. There was Betty,
good old Betty, once so game, now afraid to read a murder story
in a magazine, scared spineless of the thing, that shapeless phantom, something
which she believed in religiously and claimed eventually gets all criminals writing him everywhere he
went, employing him to cut the thing and make a home in some green,
quiet no place and settle down with her. Then there was Cat Star,
the fastest thinker and fastest gunner in the gallery, caught only last week
with his automatic still smoking. And the papers today were full of Bruce's little
nap in the hot chair. The snow lit, cold and wet on the
Gat's face, and he shuddered. He needed a drink, but not in
this neighborhood. He take a stiff one at the hotel. He found himself
on Broadway. Lights showed red through the screen of snow, great splotches against
the white background, He noticed an unwonted number of policemen in sight. They
seemed mostly in pairs that usually meant something for reasons in accord with well laid
plans he had avoided tonight the haunts of his accomplices in the big Coup of
tomorrow. He hailed a taxi and mentioned a hotel miles south of them.
As they turned east into the shadowy street far down on the lonesome end of
Broadway, two policemen suddenly appeared directly in their path. As they came to
a stop, one of the officers stepped to the side of the taxi.
His front was covered with a blanket of damp snow. A red side light
on the taxi reflected on his star, a red splotch on the white background
over the left breast. Let's see you're fare, he demanded. What's the
joke, asked the driver. Murder, said the policeman, peering through the
water streak cab window. The gat with his hand to his nose, ducked
his head slightly with a loud sneeze, while the point of something in his
right coat pocket came to a line with the officer's head, where questioned the
driver Kylie's Place, fourteenth Street, Coke Asaka out gunned to detective, But
he got through us. We'll get him before morning, the net spread.
Not Houdin, I guess, persisted the driver, not scarcely laughed the officer.
They don't outgun Houdin. All right, go ahead. The GAT breathed
again, but wished the idiotic driver had not mentioned Hoodin. Rotten queer.
Some of these New York automatic artists couldn't outgun him. The trouble was they
didn't have bones anywhere but in their heads. As he alighted from the taxi
and paid the driver, a policeman parted from another on the corner close by
and strolled by, scrutinizing him closely. The GAT turned down his collar and
entered the hotel. As he approached the desk, the house officer walked directly
toward him. Again, the point of something in his right coat pocket lifted
slightly. The officer passed on by him. For God's sake, wasn't there
any one astir in New York tonight? But bulls? The clerk handed him
a letter and a telegram. The letter was from Betty, and he thrust
it into his pocket. He knew what was in it, one long pathetic
plea to quit it before they got him, and a lot of superstitious talk
about the thing. He tore open the telegram. He knew by heart the
three or four code words incorporated. As he read the letters, staggered and
ran into unintelligible streak. They writed himself, and he read it again.
Dan taken in Toledo more Hoo Deane's work Ho Dean in New York. The
gat felt warm. He took off his coat and threw it over his arm.
In doing so, he slid something from it into his trouser pocket.
He turned to the clerk, cleared his throat, and made a second attempt
to speak. Bar open clothes at won, maybe you can get in.
The bar was deserted save for one somewhat crumpled customer in evening coat and hat,
leaning heavily against the rail at the far end. The gat scarcely noticed
him. Most of the lights were out, for which he was glad.
Perhaps the bartender wouldn't notice how hard it was for him to hold a glass
of three stars steady. He raised it toward his lips. A glass crashed
at the end of the bar. A bartender swore at his clumsy customer.
Part of the gat's liquor splashed on the bar. There was scarcely enough left
to moisten his throat. As he started into the elevator, he heard heard
a rubber soled step behind him, and simultaneously felt a touch on his arm.
His hand shot to his right trouser pocket. As he whirled, A
bellboy handed him his key. He left it at the desk, the boy
explained at the second floor. He left the elevator and plunged down the hall.
The dim green globe barely lighted the hall with its ghostly hue. His
room was just around the corner in the next hall. With head down,
he swept around and smashed into something. His hat fell to the floor.
He swore viciously as he kicked shut the linen closet door, which had been
left carelessly open. The GAT laughed nervously as he picked up his hat and
strode on to his own room. The key rattled in the lock as he
inserted it. He stepped aside and pulled the door shut quickly behind him,
as if pursued. He was in total darkness. He recalled turning out the
lights that evening when he left the room and knew the position of the buttons.
With his hat in his right hand, he extended his left before him
along the wall. His tremulous fingers found the top button. He pressed it
for an interminable second. He stood rigid with a hellish terror. He felt
his flesh creep, his scalp itch and shift, and his eyes burst.
Merciful instinct guided his fingers to the other button. He plunged the room in
darkness, but the positive after image of something, something with a hand pointed
straight at him with a wide expanse of white shirt front smeared on one side
with a vivid stain the size of a man's three fingers remained for a second.
Instinct training and a melting spine contributed to the gat's quick squat. Hunched
low across the floor, he waited for the flash of a gun to give
him a mark for his own. He did not come. Not a sound
came. Hideous seconds passed while tardy reason tried to reach his panicked wits.
He knew he was mortally afraid, but he was sober he had taken but
one drink and spilled most of that. This he had just seen was miles
from here dead. He had stabbed it to death. That shirt front was
the bloodiest thing he had ever seen. Bah, it was time to quit
the murdering business. When a little blood could so stir up the imagination.
Imagination, No, By he knew when he saw a thing. Once before
in his life, he had thought he imagined seeing something, But a man
had fallen when he shot. Should he shoot? Now? What at?
Dead men don't travel miles across city blocks? Dead men's ghosts may. Betty
believed in ghosts. She had told him that he would someday, that the
thing would get him. Betty must be right. For when you have killed
a man and his ghost beats you to your room, but you see ghosts
in the dark, not in lighted rooms. He could see it now.
It was no ghost. Then it was something else, unutterable, unthinkable,
closing in on him. Perhaps with this terrorizing impression, the gat's last nerve
cell exploded, and every fiber of his being impelled him to flight. He
grasped and turned the knob behind him as he rose, sprang backward into the
hall and jerked the door closed. He turned, and again the breath caught
in his throat, and he stiffened and swayed. Not three feet from him,
in the green ghost light from the globe above, stood a grinning apparition,
something in evening clothes with a wide expanse of white shirt fronts smeared with
a dark splotch. That was all the GAT saw through his blinding fright.
He did not recognize the intemperate patron of the bar room of a few minutes
before. He did not notice that the damp ashes from a slobber soaked cigar
dangling from the maudlin mouth had blackened the inebriate's shirt front. Neither did he
see the sudden, sobered look of appeal, nor hear the pitiful cry from
as crazed with a fear that knew no reason, he fired full into the
breast of the helpless creature before him, as though the report of the gun
had an awakening effect upon his paralyzed senses. The GAT came back to the
actual with a horror upon him. He whirled and ran in the opposite direction,
no other intersecting halls appearing. He was brought up at a closed window,
forcing this up. He peered into the semi darkness, only to discern
a sheer wall below and one opposite, neither of which offered any means of
escape. He heard the rattle of the elevator ascending and calculated his half minute
of time. Desperately, he tried door after door to find them all fast.
As the elevator stopped, heads began to appear through the doors down the
hall. The GAT recognized the house detective as the latter stepped around the corner
with gun projected. Both weapons exploded, and the detective swung half around.
In the instant that the GAT withheld a second shot to note the effect of
his first, he was lost. A door swung open just behind him.
Before he could turn, a heavy form was hurled against him, and a
pair of hard arms encircled him. Chewing curses. He fought insanely with a
man in pajamas, but taken behind. His arms were locked. As he
tried to bring his automatic into line with the detective, who had started forward
again, it was knocked from his hand by another ally in pajamas. The
hull was full of people. He was tripped to the floor, and the
detective with a pale face and limp arm was standing over him. Still sticky
with one crime, the GAT was caught with the damning evidence of another thick
about him. Other officers arrived and he was taken down to the hotel office.
A sergeant recognized him. I think who Dean would like to know about
this, the sergeant said, and went into a telephone booth. He came
out shortly and addressed another officer. I thought, so, who Dean wants
to see him here? He was just called on another case, but will
be down on the wagon from headquarters. The GAT huddled in a big chair,
wrists locked, and an officer beside him, heard but evidence no interest.
He was dazed and nauseated, like a patient from an operating room,
with anesthetics still clouding his mind. His terrible fear, the more tormenting because
he could not induce or define it had gone, but had left him weak
and beaten. His one vivid impression of all that had transpired was a spectral
something in his room, which had driven from him his last reserve of reason
and brought this ruin upon him. The coroner had arrived and was attending to
the removal of the body. When Houdine appeared, the detective came straight to
the Gat and surveyed him deliberately. At sight of him, something in the
old Gat's antagonism awakened, and with it just a flash of his old courage.
He faced the detective squarely for a minute. At last was Houdin's curt
and only comment. He turned to the house detective, who was having a
slight wound on his arm dressed. What happened, he asked. The officer
reported it briefly. The Gat had come in the hotel, gone to the
bar, then upstairs. In a few minutes, Whitney, a notorious but
harmless character and a permanent guest at the hotel, had gone up a little
more illuminated than usual. A shot had followed almost immediately. The battle in
the hall was described. Whitney was unarmed, hadn't an enemy in the world
to anyone's knowledge, and no reason could be ascribed for the shooting. Houdin
turned to the Gat fiercely. Why'd you shoot Whitney? He snapped, I
didn't muttered the gap, his tone and manner rendering the wretched denial, convincing
only as to its untruth. All right, replied Houdin. Then he continued
less severely. This isn't like you Gat to be caught so far away from
an alibi. There's something behind it. What's the matter with you? Lost
your mind or your nerve or both. There was nothing left for the Gat
to build courage on despair, disco just self pity welled up and mixed in
his mind and impelled him to impetuous speech. That's it, Houdin, My
nerves busted. I'm a yellow spined coward. I was scared, afraid.
I afraid of what, cut in Houdin eagerly. That's it. What I
don't know? You lie? You do know? Hoo Dean was driving him.
The Gat shook his head distressedly. You'd been at something else, That's
why you were afraid, hoo Din was conferring the third. Now he was
bent over the Gat, watching his every expression and reading behind his eyes.
Tell what you know about the killing on fifty first and fifth Avenue tonight,
Henchin tell it. I say the Gat, a professional gunman, and even
in his fallen estate, still proud of his specialty, spoke too eagerly.
Ever, hear of me using a knife, Hoodin smiled, and straightened up.
Who told you a knife was used? He shot at him. The
papers the police countered the gap desperately. You sure fell out of bed that
time, Gat, replied Houdin. The papers haven't got it yet. These
officers don't know it. A servant found Hitchins less than thirty minutes ago.
They had just phoned me about it. When I heard you were caught somehow,
I thought, so, that's why I came up here first. The
gap relaxed and sank further into his seat. Utter hopelessness dulled his eyes.
You can't put me in the chair, but once, he faltered, offering
at the same time his only rebuttal and consolation. That's right, Gat,
Too bad, replied Houdin, a little pity replacing his elation and at having
so successfully maneuvered a confession. Who Din turned to an officer. We'll go
up and take a look at his room. Bring him along on the elevator.
Hoodin, looking at the prisoner's shirt front, said Ben drinking, Haven't
you looks like you spilled some booze on your shirt? Here? The Gat
looked down a large stain the size of a man's three fingers soiled the left
side of his shirt. He raised his manacled hands to the spot, then
placed his fingers to his nostrils brandy, he said, had one drink and
spilled it. Two officers, the hotel clerk and hou Din, took the
Gat to his room. The clerk unlocked the door, stepped into the room
and snapped on the light. He stood to one side and let the others
pass. The Gat coming next, said, stopped, go on, ordered
the policeman. Wait a minute, replied the Gat, staring straight ahead of
him. The others hesitated, unlock my hands for a minute, the Gat
requested of the officer, no tricks. The policeman looked at Houdin. The
detective nodded his head, interested in the proceeding. The officer unlocked the cuffs.
The Gat freed his left hand, stepped back a pace, and extended
his left arm along the wall to the position of the light buttons. Across
the room. Directly opposite the door was a tall, closed cabinet. The
door of it was a full length mirror. Into this. The Gat was
staring. He saw reflected a man in evening dress, his arms pointing straight
out in the direction of the door where they stood. A wide expanse of
white shirt front was reflect on the right side of which was a dark stain
the size of a man's three fingers. For a second the Gat stood thus,
then, with a thin laugh, turned and extended both hands to be
cuffed again, remarking, that's the first time a drink applied externally ever made
me see things. What's the big idea, asked Houdin. I know now
what I have been afraid of all evening, replied the Gat wearily, What
queried Houdin myself? And again the Gat laughed thinly. The End of the
Gat by Clyde B. Wilson