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The Gat by Clyde B. Wilson. When you have killed a man,

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it's time to go. The Gat
listened, thought rapidly, and decided.

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So swift and sure had been the
attack. Not a cry had escaped the

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victim. The Gat placed the knife
where it might naturally have fallen from the

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hand of a self murderer. Then
he turned to open the safe, where

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he had been surprised before finding what
he sought. Stooped before it, he

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hesitated for an instant, tempted to
further search, he shook his head.

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The prize was not worth the risk. Robbery exposed a suicide. Blind,

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and with the biggest job of his
career planned for tomorrow, he could not

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afford to have the police aroused to
extra watchfulness by a mysterious murder committed to

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night. This must look like a
suicide. He replaced the pape papers in

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the safe exactly as he had found
them, and closed the door. The

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rattle of the combination crashed against the
dead silence of the room. Somehow it

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reminded him of the clang of a
certain bolt to a certain cell he knew

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of. He stepped back to the
double doors and turned his ear to the

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crack where they met in the center. His eyes fell upon the figure.

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Its evening clothes exposed an expanse of
white shirt front white except for a splotch

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on the left side, the size
of a man's two fingers. He must

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hurry noiselessly. He slid the big
brass door bolt into place with infinite ease.

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He turned the key over in the
lock below, and the bolt clicked

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faintly. His strained senses again recalled
the clang of a certain bolt to a

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certain cell he knew of. Again, he listened for a moment, quickly

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and without sound. The gat then
drew two of the hinge pins from the

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hinges of the right hand door.
The third one stuck slightly. A few

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turns back and forth with a pair
of pliers, and it came out freely

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from a small bottle. He deposited, with an apothecary's accuracy, a few

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drops of oil into the loop of
each hinge. With his pliers gripped on

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the door portion of the middle hinge, he slowly and noiselessly worked the door

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free. Fastened by the lock and
bolt in the center, The two doors

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swung as one on the left side
hinges He opened them an inch and let

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them sag to the floor. Then
he took the pins, immersed each in

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the oil bottle, and inserted them
a quarter of an inch in the hinge

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loops on the door, facing where
they leaned enough from a perpendicular to keep

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them from dropping into place until he
should be ready to jar them down.

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The gat was ready for his exit, He turned and surveyed the room to

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see if he was leaving any clues. He suddenly was seized with an impulse

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for cautionless flight. He set his
teeth and muttered an oath. This wasn't

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the first man he had killed,
but it was the first he had knifed,

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and that shirt front the stain had
spread to the size of a man's

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hand. Hurriedly, he went into
his coat, buttoned the fur front over

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his evening clothes, and sprung his
opera hat into shape. The hollow snap

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of it startled him. He quickly
lifted the doors clear of the floor,

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opened them the width of his body, and stepped into the hall. He

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stood perfectly still for a second,
his ears fairly sucked at the silence.

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Opening a corkscrew in a combination tool
knife, he quickly inserted it into the

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hall side of the door to serve
as a knob. With knee braced against

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the facing to steady himself, he
raised the doors to the proper height and

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with nerve wrecking slowness, meshed the
hinges without jarring the pin down. Then

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pulling steadily by the corkscrew to hold
the door in place, he tapped lightly

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with the heel of his hand on
the door in the position of the top

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hinge. The pin dropped into place
with a barely audible click. Once more,

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he listened intently before proceeding. The
middle pin jarred down with equal success.

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He stooped and tapped lightly at the
bottom hinge. It did not drop

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in. He tapped harder, and
with a noise that sounded to him like

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the ring of a steel crowbar,
the pin clattered to the bare floor.

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The gat ground his teeth in rage
at this utter waste wrought to his infinite

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pains. He had left a clue
to point straight away from the suicide lead.

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He had planted that satanic sleuth hu
Din would grab it with the eagerness

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of a bloodhound. Nervously, he
pulled his corkscrew from the door he had

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intended to cover up the hole it
made, but there was neither need nor

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time for that. Now that hingepin
was enough to waken the dead man,

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how could the servants sleep on a
faint life shifted into the hall through the

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crack in the doors he had just
closed. He turned toward the street door

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and stiffened like an icicle as he
faced a man fool. How he hated

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nerves. It was only a clothed
hall tree. Halfway through the outside door.

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He dragged in a deep breath of
cold air, then suddenly choked,

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with head bent against the tumbling snow. A policeman was crossing the street directly

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toward him. The gat was trained
for fast thinking. Too many policemen in

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New York had studied his photograph only
recently. That devil detective hou Din,

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who was sending all his pals to
the penitentiary and the death room, had

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impudently promised him to his teeth that
he would surely get him shortly over on

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open Broadway with nothing on him.
He did not dodge them, but coming

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out of a house on Fifth Avenue
after midnight, where a stabbed man would

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be found the next morning. Perhaps
now the servants were up. Only so

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long as it took these thoughts to
flash film like through his brain. Did

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the gat hesitate. He might have
to kill another man or two, But

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he stepped back inside the door.
Absolute silence greeted him. It was a

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white night, unfit for red deeds. On the street with people about him.

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He should have felt easy, but
he was shaken. Things were not

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working out in the first place.
He had not come to New York to

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pull this job, but a bigger
one. He was a fool to have

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been tempted by it, but it
had looked so easy, no killing,

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and see how it had turned out. He had dressed at his hotel in

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evening clothes and gone to Paolo's fashionable
gambling rooms for no other purpose than to

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see if Henson was there. He
was, and had seemed drunk enough to

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be good for the night. But
that's just the trouble. No dope is

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dependable When you have to figure booze
in one of the elements, Hanson had

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taken a notion to go home.
Worse of all, he hadn't gotten the

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money, and because like a bush
burglar, he had left his gun in

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his overcoat clear across the room,
he had to use his knife instead and

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smear things all up. Well,
if the murder outed, the knife would

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be his alibi. His jealously guarded
reputation as an exclusively gun user would save

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him from suspicion. The Gat straightened
himself savagely. He used to have nerve,

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but no wonder he was cracking for
one thing. There was Betty,

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good old Betty, once so game, now afraid to read a murder story

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in a magazine, scared spineless of
the thing, that shapeless phantom, something

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which she believed in religiously and claimed
eventually gets all criminals writing him everywhere he

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went, employing him to cut the
thing and make a home in some green,

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quiet no place and settle down with
her. Then there was Cat Star,

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the fastest thinker and fastest gunner in
the gallery, caught only last week

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with his automatic still smoking. And
the papers today were full of Bruce's little

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nap in the hot chair. The
snow lit, cold and wet on the

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Gat's face, and he shuddered.
He needed a drink, but not in

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this neighborhood. He take a stiff
one at the hotel. He found himself

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on Broadway. Lights showed red through
the screen of snow, great splotches against

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the white background, He noticed an
unwonted number of policemen in sight. They

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seemed mostly in pairs that usually meant
something for reasons in accord with well laid

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plans he had avoided tonight the haunts
of his accomplices in the big Coup of

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tomorrow. He hailed a taxi and
mentioned a hotel miles south of them.

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As they turned east into the shadowy
street far down on the lonesome end of

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Broadway, two policemen suddenly appeared directly
in their path. As they came to

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a stop, one of the officers
stepped to the side of the taxi.

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His front was covered with a blanket
of damp snow. A red side light

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on the taxi reflected on his star, a red splotch on the white background

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over the left breast. Let's see
you're fare, he demanded. What's the

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joke, asked the driver. Murder, said the policeman, peering through the

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water streak cab window. The gat
with his hand to his nose, ducked

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his head slightly with a loud sneeze, while the point of something in his

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right coat pocket came to a line
with the officer's head, where questioned the

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driver Kylie's Place, fourteenth Street,
Coke Asaka out gunned to detective, But

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he got through us. We'll get
him before morning, the net spread.

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Not Houdin, I guess, persisted
the driver, not scarcely laughed the officer.

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They don't outgun Houdin. All right, go ahead. The GAT breathed

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again, but wished the idiotic driver
had not mentioned Hoodin. Rotten queer.

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Some of these New York automatic artists
couldn't outgun him. The trouble was they

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didn't have bones anywhere but in their
heads. As he alighted from the taxi

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and paid the driver, a policeman
parted from another on the corner close by

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and strolled by, scrutinizing him closely. The GAT turned down his collar and

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entered the hotel. As he approached
the desk, the house officer walked directly

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toward him. Again, the point
of something in his right coat pocket lifted

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slightly. The officer passed on by
him. For God's sake, wasn't there

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any one astir in New York tonight? But bulls? The clerk handed him

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a letter and a telegram. The
letter was from Betty, and he thrust

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it into his pocket. He knew
what was in it, one long pathetic

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plea to quit it before they got
him, and a lot of superstitious talk

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about the thing. He tore open
the telegram. He knew by heart the

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three or four code words incorporated.
As he read the letters, staggered and

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ran into unintelligible streak. They writed
himself, and he read it again.

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Dan taken in Toledo more Hoo Deane's
work Ho Dean in New York. The

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gat felt warm. He took off
his coat and threw it over his arm.

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In doing so, he slid something
from it into his trouser pocket.

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He turned to the clerk, cleared
his throat, and made a second attempt

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to speak. Bar open clothes at
won, maybe you can get in.

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The bar was deserted save for one
somewhat crumpled customer in evening coat and hat,

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leaning heavily against the rail at the
far end. The gat scarcely noticed

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him. Most of the lights were
out, for which he was glad.

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Perhaps the bartender wouldn't notice how hard
it was for him to hold a glass

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of three stars steady. He raised
it toward his lips. A glass crashed

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at the end of the bar.
A bartender swore at his clumsy customer.

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Part of the gat's liquor splashed on
the bar. There was scarcely enough left

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to moisten his throat. As he
started into the elevator, he heard heard

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a rubber soled step behind him,
and simultaneously felt a touch on his arm.

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His hand shot to his right trouser
pocket. As he whirled, A

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bellboy handed him his key. He
left it at the desk, the boy

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explained at the second floor. He
left the elevator and plunged down the hall.

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The dim green globe barely lighted the
hall with its ghostly hue. His

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room was just around the corner in
the next hall. With head down,

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he swept around and smashed into something. His hat fell to the floor.

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He swore viciously as he kicked shut
the linen closet door, which had been

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left carelessly open. The GAT laughed
nervously as he picked up his hat and

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strode on to his own room.
The key rattled in the lock as he

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inserted it. He stepped aside and
pulled the door shut quickly behind him,

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as if pursued. He was in
total darkness. He recalled turning out the

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lights that evening when he left the
room and knew the position of the buttons.

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With his hat in his right hand, he extended his left before him

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along the wall. His tremulous fingers
found the top button. He pressed it

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for an interminable second. He stood
rigid with a hellish terror. He felt

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his flesh creep, his scalp itch
and shift, and his eyes burst.

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Merciful instinct guided his fingers to the
other button. He plunged the room in

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darkness, but the positive after image
of something, something with a hand pointed

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straight at him with a wide expanse
of white shirt front smeared on one side

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with a vivid stain the size of
a man's three fingers remained for a second.

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Instinct training and a melting spine contributed
to the gat's quick squat. Hunched

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low across the floor, he waited
for the flash of a gun to give

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him a mark for his own.
He did not come. Not a sound

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came. Hideous seconds passed while tardy
reason tried to reach his panicked wits.

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He knew he was mortally afraid,
but he was sober he had taken but

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one drink and spilled most of that. This he had just seen was miles

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from here dead. He had stabbed
it to death. That shirt front was

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the bloodiest thing he had ever seen. Bah, it was time to quit

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the murdering business. When a little
blood could so stir up the imagination.

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Imagination, No, By he knew
when he saw a thing. Once before

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in his life, he had thought
he imagined seeing something, But a man

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had fallen when he shot. Should
he shoot? Now? What at?

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Dead men don't travel miles across city
blocks? Dead men's ghosts may. Betty

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believed in ghosts. She had told
him that he would someday, that the

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thing would get him. Betty must
be right. For when you have killed

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a man and his ghost beats you
to your room, but you see ghosts

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in the dark, not in lighted
rooms. He could see it now.

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It was no ghost. Then it
was something else, unutterable, unthinkable,

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closing in on him. Perhaps with
this terrorizing impression, the gat's last nerve

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cell exploded, and every fiber of
his being impelled him to flight. He

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grasped and turned the knob behind him
as he rose, sprang backward into the

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hall and jerked the door closed.
He turned, and again the breath caught

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in his throat, and he stiffened
and swayed. Not three feet from him,

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in the green ghost light from the
globe above, stood a grinning apparition,

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something in evening clothes with a wide
expanse of white shirt fronts smeared with

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a dark splotch. That was all
the GAT saw through his blinding fright.

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He did not recognize the intemperate patron
of the bar room of a few minutes

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before. He did not notice that
the damp ashes from a slobber soaked cigar

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dangling from the maudlin mouth had blackened
the inebriate's shirt front. Neither did he

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see the sudden, sobered look of
appeal, nor hear the pitiful cry from

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as crazed with a fear that knew
no reason, he fired full into the

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breast of the helpless creature before him, as though the report of the gun

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had an awakening effect upon his paralyzed
senses. The GAT came back to the

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actual with a horror upon him.
He whirled and ran in the opposite direction,

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no other intersecting halls appearing. He
was brought up at a closed window,

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forcing this up. He peered into
the semi darkness, only to discern

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a sheer wall below and one opposite, neither of which offered any means of

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escape. He heard the rattle of
the elevator ascending and calculated his half minute

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of time. Desperately, he tried
door after door to find them all fast.

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As the elevator stopped, heads began
to appear through the doors down the

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hall. The GAT recognized the house
detective as the latter stepped around the corner

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with gun projected. Both weapons exploded, and the detective swung half around.

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In the instant that the GAT withheld
a second shot to note the effect of

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his first, he was lost.
A door swung open just behind him.

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Before he could turn, a heavy
form was hurled against him, and a

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pair of hard arms encircled him.
Chewing curses. He fought insanely with a

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man in pajamas, but taken behind. His arms were locked. As he

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tried to bring his automatic into line
with the detective, who had started forward

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again, it was knocked from his
hand by another ally in pajamas. The

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hull was full of people. He
was tripped to the floor, and the

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detective with a pale face and limp
arm was standing over him. Still sticky

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with one crime, the GAT was
caught with the damning evidence of another thick

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about him. Other officers arrived and
he was taken down to the hotel office.

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A sergeant recognized him. I think
who Dean would like to know about

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this, the sergeant said, and
went into a telephone booth. He came

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out shortly and addressed another officer.
I thought, so, who Dean wants

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to see him here? He was
just called on another case, but will

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be down on the wagon from headquarters. The GAT huddled in a big chair,

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wrists locked, and an officer beside
him, heard but evidence no interest.

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He was dazed and nauseated, like
a patient from an operating room,

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with anesthetics still clouding his mind.
His terrible fear, the more tormenting because

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he could not induce or define it
had gone, but had left him weak

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and beaten. His one vivid impression
of all that had transpired was a spectral

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something in his room, which had
driven from him his last reserve of reason

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and brought this ruin upon him.
The coroner had arrived and was attending to

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the removal of the body. When
Houdine appeared, the detective came straight to

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the Gat and surveyed him deliberately.
At sight of him, something in the

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old Gat's antagonism awakened, and with
it just a flash of his old courage.

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He faced the detective squarely for a
minute. At last was Houdin's curt

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and only comment. He turned to
the house detective, who was having a

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slight wound on his arm dressed.
What happened, he asked. The officer

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reported it briefly. The Gat had
come in the hotel, gone to the

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bar, then upstairs. In a
few minutes, Whitney, a notorious but

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harmless character and a permanent guest at
the hotel, had gone up a little

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more illuminated than usual. A shot
had followed almost immediately. The battle in

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the hall was described. Whitney was
unarmed, hadn't an enemy in the world

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to anyone's knowledge, and no reason
could be ascribed for the shooting. Houdin

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turned to the Gat fiercely. Why'd
you shoot Whitney? He snapped, I

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didn't muttered the gap, his tone
and manner rendering the wretched denial, convincing

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only as to its untruth. All
right, replied Houdin. Then he continued

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less severely. This isn't like you
Gat to be caught so far away from

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an alibi. There's something behind it. What's the matter with you? Lost

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your mind or your nerve or both. There was nothing left for the Gat

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to build courage on despair, disco
just self pity welled up and mixed in

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his mind and impelled him to impetuous
speech. That's it, Houdin, My

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nerves busted. I'm a yellow spined
coward. I was scared, afraid.

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I afraid of what, cut in
Houdin eagerly. That's it. What I

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don't know? You lie? You
do know? Hoo Dean was driving him.

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The Gat shook his head distressedly.
You'd been at something else, That's

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why you were afraid, hoo Din
was conferring the third. Now he was

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bent over the Gat, watching his
every expression and reading behind his eyes.

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Tell what you know about the killing
on fifty first and fifth Avenue tonight,

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Henchin tell it. I say the
Gat, a professional gunman, and even

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in his fallen estate, still proud
of his specialty, spoke too eagerly.

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Ever, hear of me using a
knife, Hoodin smiled, and straightened up.

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Who told you a knife was used? He shot at him. The

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papers the police countered the gap desperately. You sure fell out of bed that

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time, Gat, replied Houdin.
The papers haven't got it yet. These

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officers don't know it. A servant
found Hitchins less than thirty minutes ago.

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They had just phoned me about it. When I heard you were caught somehow,

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I thought, so, that's why
I came up here first. The

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gap relaxed and sank further into his
seat. Utter hopelessness dulled his eyes.

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You can't put me in the chair, but once, he faltered, offering

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at the same time his only rebuttal
and consolation. That's right, Gat,

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Too bad, replied Houdin, a
little pity replacing his elation and at having

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so successfully maneuvered a confession. Who
Din turned to an officer. We'll go

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up and take a look at his
room. Bring him along on the elevator.

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Hoodin, looking at the prisoner's shirt
front, said Ben drinking, Haven't

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you looks like you spilled some booze
on your shirt? Here? The Gat

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looked down a large stain the size
of a man's three fingers soiled the left

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side of his shirt. He raised
his manacled hands to the spot, then

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placed his fingers to his nostrils brandy, he said, had one drink and

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spilled it. Two officers, the
hotel clerk and hou Din, took the

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Gat to his room. The clerk
unlocked the door, stepped into the room

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and snapped on the light. He
stood to one side and let the others

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pass. The Gat coming next,
said, stopped, go on, ordered

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00:27:03,160 --> 00:27:07,680
the policeman. Wait a minute,
replied the Gat, staring straight ahead of

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him. The others hesitated, unlock
my hands for a minute, the Gat

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00:27:12,119 --> 00:27:18,119
requested of the officer, no tricks. The policeman looked at Houdin. The

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00:27:18,160 --> 00:27:25,200
detective nodded his head, interested in
the proceeding. The officer unlocked the cuffs.

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The Gat freed his left hand,
stepped back a pace, and extended

294
00:27:30,400 --> 00:27:36,839
his left arm along the wall to
the position of the light buttons. Across

295
00:27:36,880 --> 00:27:41,799
the room. Directly opposite the door
was a tall, closed cabinet. The

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door of it was a full length
mirror. Into this. The Gat was

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staring. He saw reflected a man
in evening dress, his arms pointing straight

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out in the direction of the door
where they stood. A wide expanse of

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00:27:57,400 --> 00:28:03,480
white shirt front was reflect on the
right side of which was a dark stain

300
00:28:03,079 --> 00:28:10,240
the size of a man's three fingers. For a second the Gat stood thus,

301
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then, with a thin laugh,
turned and extended both hands to be

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cuffed again, remarking, that's the
first time a drink applied externally ever made

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me see things. What's the big
idea, asked Houdin. I know now

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00:28:30,599 --> 00:28:34,480
what I have been afraid of all
evening, replied the Gat wearily, What

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00:28:34,960 --> 00:28:44,519
queried Houdin myself? And again the
Gat laughed thinly. The End of the

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Gat by Clyde B. Wilson