“The damned fool thought we was just going to lock him up,” said Krone. “Didn’t he get the surprise of his life.”
Carbonelli knelt and went to work with the iron wire. He tied Bill’s wrists and ankles and then fastened them together down the back. “There’s a river over there about a hundred feet,” he said. “If we can find a log along the bank, nobody’ll be able to tell just where he was thrown in.”
“That’s smart stuff—that’s smart.” Krone eyed the road nervously. He could see the lights of the truck. “But let’s make it snappy.”
Carbonelli picked up Bill’s shoulders and dragged him down the sloping bank. The water was muttering along the banks, whipped by the rain. The stream was not large, but it was uniformly deep, deeper than a man’s head. It ran almost perpendicular to the road and south from it. A floating burden might not come to rest for some miles, possibly near an entirely different highway.
Krone found the log. It was high on the grass, its bark slimy with water. Krone threw his shoulders into it and rolled it down close to the water’s edge. With Carbonelli’s help he launched one end.
They tied Bill with his back against the log. Bill’s head lolled to one side, the blond hair streaming damply into the black water. With a grunt, Krone thrust the log out into the stream. Almost immediately, it rolled over, placing Bill’s face beneath the surface. The current caught at the wood and whirled it away beyond the range of Krone’s flashlight.
They turned and plodded up the bank toward the car. The lamp that Bill had placed at the rear made the mud glow red.
Bill Milan came alive at the first touch of the water. Instinctively, he drew in a long breath before his head rolled under. But before he could collect himself enough to hold the air in his lungs, he expelled it in a gasp of dismay. He fought to free his wrists, but the wire buried itself in his flesh.
The log rolled, allowing him to get another breath of air. His face was shoved under once more. This time he held his breath, waiting for the log to roll. After seconds, each one an hour long, the tree trunk shifted unsteadily. Bill caught his third gulp of air. But he knew that this could not last. Sooner or later the log would roll the wrong way and he would be under long enough to lose consciousness. After that—well, there wasn’t any use to worry about that.
Bill went to work on the wire. He wondered what kind it was. If it happened to be copper he stood but little chance of breaking it by bending. He made himself pull his wrists at different angles. The torture was unbearable, but he kept on. The log shifted, dragged back and forth by the stream, caught in eddies and released again. The rain ruffled the surface. The night was blacker than ink. Unseen, the bank went by slowly.
His wrists were bleeding, raw. His mind was whirling with the lack of oxygen. He gritted his teeth and tried to keep from getting panicky, working his wrists and trying to keep sane.
Abruptly his right hand came free. Immediately he stroked out and righted the tree trunk. After that he lay still, fanning the water to keep upright, thankful of the opportunity to breathe as much air as he wanted to breathe.
Bill Milan knew that he was not yet free. And besides that he had lost his only stock in trade, his wrecker. The last of the prize money he had won at Indianapolis had gone into his business and without the Fiat he was as good as ruined. But if he had figured right . . .
After a few minutes of rest, he was able to free his left hand. After that, he worked at his back until it too was unlashed. His ankles were easy. Silently, he slipped off the log and struck out for the shore he could not see.
With ground under his feet again, Bill put his hand in the water to determine the current and struck out upstream toward the stone house. The way was dark. He ran into trees, tripped through windfalls. He made as good time as possible, but even that time was slow. He had no idea how far he had gone in the river.
After a year of hours, he struck a trail and followed it. The going was better but he was continually losing the edge and finding it necessary to locate the path once more. The rain was giving way to a gray light in the east. Bill knew that it must be close to dawn. If he could make it before the sun came, he could . . .
The stone house sat in the middle of a small clearing. The first thing Bill saw was the outline of his truck. It had been clumsily hidden by chopped brush, but even in the darkness it was recognizable. The rain had almost ceased.
Bill stopped, crouching in the bushes, waiting for something to happen. And that something was not long in coming. Carbonelli came to the window and thrust his head out.
“I guess it’s stopped raining,” said the thug in a disgruntled voice.
“Sure,” Krone’s voice snapped from inside. “You said that an hour ago.”
“Well, I can’t help it, can I? We’ll have to get that truck fixed as soon as it’s dry enough to work on. Damn this rain! It must have shorted all the wires.”
“That was a bright stunt of yours.” Krone’s voice growled nastily. “Some guy’ll find that dumb driver and they’ll trace back up this stream and nail us. I’m for clearing out of here on foot and trying to swipe a car in the next town.”
“Why swipe one?” asked Carbonelli. “We can buy one or take a train. The cops ain’t looking for us in this state now since they got a tip that we’d left here.”
“All right, let’s go.”
Bill’s heart was hammering. He had to keep these two here somehow. Under his hand lay a rock. He picked it up and heaved it at the window. The glass crashed out.
“What the hell?” shrieked Krone. “What was that?”
“A rock!” said Carbonelli in a high-pitched voice. “They’ve got us surrounded!”
Krone evidently regained some of his nerve. “Surrounded, my hat. They wouldn’t have thrown that rock. They’d have shot you.”
Neither of the two had quite the courage to go to the window again. Bill stood up and looked at the truck through the cold gray light. He gritted his teeth against the pain of his leg and raced across the clearing. He gained the cab before they heard him.
A bullet whined off a tree. The report was flat and dead. Bill shot a hand under the panel and turned the petcock he had closed earlier in the evening. Then he jammed his foot down on the starter. The Fiat’s engine roared away, plumes of blue smoke jumping from the exhaust stacks. Another bullet smashed through the side of the door, came all the way through.
Bill turned off the switch and turned it on again. The motor backfired. The sound was identical with that of exploding powder. He knew that the ruse would not last long. Soon they’d get over their first scare and they’d charge him.
Carbonelli threw open the door. His gun jumped. The windshield went out of the cab. Flying glass gashed Bill’s cheek. He scuttled back and tried to open the other side of the cab. But a branch held it shut. Suddenly Bill knew that he was trapped. He could not get out and he had no way of protecting himself. They might not try to get in the doors for fear he had a gun, but one could keep him busy from the front while the other came through the back. He glanced out and saw the dangling chain hoist. A slug ripped through a wood beam and he ducked.
Krone approached warily from the front, crouching, ready to shoot. Carbonelli had disappeared. He would be coming around from the back.
Krone weaved from side to side. His gun flamed. His eyes were jets of black fire. Bill heard someone scrambling up the tailgate. That would be Carbonelli.
The idling motor sputtered and coughed. Bill stared at the panel on the level with his face, waiting. A lever came into his line of vision. The lever which operated the chain hoist. Before he had time fully to think the plan out, Bill hauled back on the hand clutch.
The chain which hung over the back rattled. The winch screamed under the onslaught of the racing motor. A bellow of rage and dismay blasted through the dripping woods.
Carbonelli was caught. Caught like a fish on a hook. The hoist he had used to pull himself up had suddenly gone wild in his hands. The hook was through his
coat collar. His feet danced on thin air.
Krone dodged. He started to charge and then stopped. A slow smile came over his twisted face. He lowered the gun and watched Carbonelli dance.
“Get me off of here!” shrieked Carbonelli. “He’ll kill me! Get me off! I’m choking to death!”
Krone smiled again. He knew now that there was no danger from the front of the cab. He raised his gun slowly and sighted down the barrel. His intention was obvious. He was unwilling to share the contents of the satchel. Carbonelli was about to die.
But Krone had reckoned without the gun Carbonelli still clutched. Carbonelli’s terror departed as swiftly as it had come. He saw the revolver coming up and he knew he was about to be killed. His own weapon jumped into a level position. His hand convulsed.
Krone’s face was blank for an instant. He took a step forward, stumbling. Then a look of surprise swept over his features. He made one last movement and then, with the limpness of a falling sack, struck the ground.
Carbonelli’s gun swung toward the cab. “All right, you!” he cried. “Let me down from here or I’ll blast the back of the seat.”
Bill slipped sideward and out the door. His intention was to make the road unseen. But the game leg was wobbly after the run and the ground was oozy with rain. He swerved out an inch too far.
Carbonelli saw him and shot him in the same instant.
The sun climbed higher and higher. No clouds were up there now. Only glazed blue sky. Bill struggled feebly from time to time, but he had just enough energy left to keep his hand clamped on the severed shoulder artery. He could see Carbonelli’s dangling legs and he could hear Carbonelli’s vituperation.
Bill waited for the help he knew would come.
It was nine o’clock before the state and city officers arrived. They came with sirens and whistles open wide. They swarmed down the wood road like an avalanche. A dozen guns covered the swearing Carbonelli. A dozen hard faces stared at the earthly remains of Krone, the coldblooded killer.
When the police first-aid kit had been ransacked for tourniquets and probes and Merthiolate, and when Bill sat propped up against a tree, the reporters and photographers were there, bubbling with eager questions. They fortified Bill Milan with a drink, a big drink, because they suddenly remembered that, two years before, Bill Milan had been the hottest man on any track in the country.
A hard-boiled reporter with a cigarette dangling from his lips said, “All right. We know the police facts about the bank robbery and all. We want your story straight through.”
Bill smiled, took another drink and complied. “It was pretty simple. I knew they would try to get rid of me sooner or later and I had to use my head. So when we started out I said we had a flat and went around back and disconnected the rear light. I also turned out a headlight. I knew that their absence would pick up a cop because they’ve been pretty strict about it lately.
“Then, when the policeman turned up, I had to let him know I was in trouble. He was smart. He ought to get a promotion out of it. I wiped off my hand and reached down to the bottom of the gearshift. By rubbing my palm there, I made a perfect black circle. I said I was on the—and then didn’t finish it with words. I waved my hand and he caught on. That circle made a white spot on my hand. He got it. I was on—the spot, see? I knew then that the police would start to look for my truck.
“When they made me stop up there on the highway, I slued my wheels so they’d leave a big track, very noticeable in the mud. Then I turned off the gasoline so they could just start the truck and that was all. I knew then that they’d have to stay here. They didn’t like the rain and I was pretty sure they wouldn’t walk in it. Then I had to fix up the rear light according to their orders. So I took the heavy-duty lantern which had three bulbs—red, white and blue—and turned on the red bulb. I set the lantern on the ground, but they thought it was attached to the car. Then I wrote that message in the mud in front of the lantern for you fellows to find. You found it and that’s all there is to it.”
“Not all,” said a captain of the city police, smiling. “We’ve reconsidered your feat of beating squad cars to the scene. If you want, you can do it anytime. And with the reward money the bank’s offering, you will have enough to buy a fleet of cars. We’ll give you exclusive rights to that. A sort of franchise.”
“Thanks,” said Bill through colorless lips. “That’s mighty swell of you, Captain, but I want another favor.”
“Sure, what?”
“Fix up those squad cars, will you, so they’ll go faster? And have the police broadcast announce it when the squad car is almost on the scene. I tell you, Captain, I’m through with beating your boys to it. I’m in the wrecking business all right, but I’m damned if that means that I’m out to wreck myself!”
Story Preview
NOW that you’ve just ventured through some of the captivating tales in the Stories from the Golden Age collection by L. Ron Hubbard, turn the page and enjoy a preview of Killer’s Law. Join Sheriff Kyle of Deadeye, Nevada, a straight shooter who finds treachery in the heart of Washington, DC when a senator is killed and he’s accused of the murder.
KILLER'S LAW
WHEN Kyle stepped off the Capitol Limited and into the confused fury of Washington, a headline caught his glance:
SENATOR MORRAN BEGINS
COPPER QUIZ
A few hours from now, his own name would be blazing there, black as the ink in which it would be printed. Kyle knew nothing of prophecy; his interest was in getting through this stampede of people and completing his mission. Already he was creating a mild sensation. Palo Alto hat, silver thong, scarlet kerchief, high-heeled boots and his six feet three of gawky, bony height commanded attention.
He stood for a moment in the crowded, clanging dusk, looking toward the lighted dome of the Capitol, trying without much success to savor the scene and feel patriotic. A redcap, eyeing his huge bag now that Kyle had dragged it all the way through the station from the train, swooped down with confidence born of the stranger’s obvious confusion. The action met abruptly explosive resistance.
Kyle said, “Hands off.”
The redcap retained his hold as a legal right to a tip. Kyle gave the handle a twist which sent him reeling. A few people paused to watch.
A cop said, “What’s the matter here? Keep moving, you.”
Kyle said testily, “Move along, hell. I’m Sheriff Kyle of Deadeye, Nevada, and I got an appointment to meet Senator Morran—”
“Yeah?” the cop said.
“Could I be of assistance?” said a smooth-faced gentleman. “Your name, I think, is Kyle. Senator Morran sent me down to meet you.” He laughed good-naturedly and nodded to the cop. “That’s all right, Officer.”
The cop was satisfied. The redcap departed without tip.
“My name is Johnson, Sheriff,” the smooth-faced man said. “John Johnson. Just call me Johnny.” He laughed. “And now we’ll see about getting you to the senator.”
“Hold it,” Kyle said. “How do I know who you are?” He had to bend over to look at Johnson. He did so and said, “Why don’t you just run along and tell the senator I’ll be with him soon. I’m taking a cab.”
“Well—” Johnson turned toward a waiting limousine and Kyle’s glance collided with the chauffeur’s. He moved away while Johnson still hesitated, and hailed a cab.
“Soreham Hotel,” he told the driver.
The Soreham Hotel was lighted in every window, its walks aglitter with dinner gowns, its lobby thick with political cigar smoke and the aura of martinis. Kyle asked the desk clerk for the senator’s room number and a house phone.
The phone didn’t answer. He went up.
Senator Morran’s room was 310. Its door, open to darkness, surprised Kyle. The faint hall light reached poorly into the room, but showed a dark, irregular streak, running jaggedly along the floor.
Kyle was in the act of stepping backward when the room exploded into Roman candle brilliance. The pain came fractionally
later, just as the lights careened out again. His last conscious impression was of himself, trying to push the floor away with his hands.
To find out more about Killer’s Law and how you can obtain your copy, go to www.goldenagestories.com.
Glossary
STORIES FROM THE GOLDEN AGE reflect the words and expressions used in the 1930s and 1940s, adding unique flavor and authenticity to the tales. While a character’s speech may often reflect regional origins, it also can convey attitudes common in the day. So that readers can better grasp such cultural and historical terms, uncommon words or expressions of the era, the following glossary has been provided.
apache: a gangster or thug. The term was first used in 1902 by a French journalist to describe a member of a gang of criminals in Paris noted for their crimes of violence. Their savagery was compared with the reputation the Europeans attributed to the Native American tribes of Apache Indians.→ to text
banshee:(Irish legend) a female spirit whose wailing warns of a death in a house.→ to text
be hanged: used to express exasperation or disgust.→ to text
blackjack: a short, leather-covered club, consisting of a heavy head on a flexible handle, used as a weapon.→ to text
bluecoats: policemen.→ to text
bo: pal; buster; fellow.→ to text
bullpen: a holding cell where prisoners are confined together temporarily; in the 1800s, jails and holding cells were nicknamed bullpens, in respect of many police officers’ bullish features—strength and short temper.→ to text
bulls: cops; police officers.→ to text
bump: to kill.→ to text
calaboose: a jail.→ to text
cowl: the top portion of the front part of an automobile body, supporting the windshield and dashboard.→ to text
cretonne: a heavy cotton material in colorfully printed designs, used especially for drapery or slipcovers.→ to text