Lucky Stiff by Craig Rice (ebook pdf reader for pc TXT) 📖

murder rap on you.”

Bill McKeown laughed harshly and didn’t say a word.

Malone said wearily, “Unfortunately, I made the mistake of letting him know I had other evidence. Not only enough to hang a murder rap on him, but a few other things. Including extortion by intimidation, perjury, first degree arson, and illegal transportation of a dead body. I’m sorry I didn’t keep my big mouth shut until I had a couple of cops along.”

“You can’t get away,” von Flanagan said to McKeown. “I’ve got this place surrounded. You’ll be stopped before you get ten feet from the door.”

“Not with this beautiful babe along, I won’t be,” Bill McKeown said. He grinned evilly at Helene. “I bet you’re a good driver. Wanna take me for a little spin?”

“Why you—” Jake began, starting forward.

Al Harmon grabbed him by the arm. Jake wheeled and swung on Harmon, who staggered back against the wall.

“While you boys scrap it out,” McKeown said, “the babe and me are leaving. Don’t worry, she’s not going to get hurt. Not if she’s a good girl.”

He opened the door. Jake made another frantic move and again Al Harmon grabbed him, this time by both arms.

“Thanks, Al,” McKeown said. “Let’s get going, babe.” He stepped out sideways, keeping Helene in front of him. “Don’t try to come after us if you don’t want the babe to get shot.”

The door swung shut.

The alley was dark and deserted. Helene looked around. Not a soul in sight. The gun nudged her in the ribs.

“Where’s your car?” McKeown demanded.

“In the garage. We came in a taxi.”

“C’mon. I said, where’s your car?” The gun nudged her harder.

“Right down here. On Ontario Street.”

“Head for it. And no tricks, now.”

Helene walked down the alley, crossed the sidewalk, unlocked the door of the car, got in and slid under the wheel. McKeown followed her and slammed the door.

“Where to?” Helene said, starting the motor.

“Straight ahead across Clark Street and keep going west. South on Wells Street, west on Washington Street, and then head right along unless I tell you different.”

The big car shot forward, dodged Clark Street traffic and swung into the comparative quiet of West Ontario Street.

“You’re a pretty cool character,” McKeown said, glancing at her.

“Maybe it’s because I’m not scared, Helene said, slowing for an intersection.

It was almost true. She had been nearly paralyzed with terror in the moment when she stepped into the alley. But the fear was practically gone now, and in its place was growing a serene confidence that she’d think of some way out of this jam.

She stole a glance at her passenger. She’d always thought the big, perfectly dressed man was handsome. She didn’t think so now. There wasn’t the slightest doubt in her mind that he would shoot, if he had to.

They’d reached Washington Street before McKeown said, “They’re probably following us. It’s up to you to lose them, if you want to get home safe.”

“You’ve got a lot of confidence in my driving ability,” Helene said, “but I’ll do my best.”

“I liked the way you dodged that truck,” Bill McKeown said.

Conversation lagged.

A few minutes later Helene said, “Would you light a cigarette for me, please?”

“Sure,” McKeown said. “Anything to oblige a beautiful babe.”

She waited until it was between her fingers before she said, “It’s none of my business, but frankly I think you’re making a big mistake. Von Flanagan hasn’t enough on you to bring you to trial.”

“How about Malone?”

“Hire him for a lawyer. He wouldn’t use his own evidence against his own client.”

“I don’t trust lawyers.”

“I shouldn’t think you would, after Jesse Conway.”

“Jesse was O.K., only he was beginning to crack up. I don’t know why Malone started messing around in this in the first place, but he was getting to Jesse.”

“How do you know?”

“I was tipped off.”

“Why did you kill poor Mr. Garrity?”

McKeown said, “Look, you just tend to your driving.”

They had reached Oak Park when Helene said, “How far west do you want to go, California?”

“I’ll tell you where to go,” McKeown said.

Conversation lagged again.

They passed through a succession of west-side suburbs. Suddenly Bill McKeown said, “Turn right when you get to the highway.”

“Thank goodness,” Helene said as she made the turn. “I was beginning to think we’d wind up in Iowa, and then Malone would add a Mann Act rap to the collection he’s hung on you.”

“You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you,” Bill McKeown said.

“Um-h’m. And my friends think I’m cute, too. Why did you tell Milly Dale not to sing that ‘Girl-With-The-Gun’ song?”

“None of your damn business.”

“You should have been a music critic,” Helene said. She was silent for a few miles. “Tell me, why did you murder Milly Dale?”

“Shut up.”

“Was it because— ” She broke off suddenly. “Never mind. I’ll ask Malone, after you’re safely in Australia or somewhere.”

The highway had entered the Forest Preserve. For a few miles it would be a gently curving drive through the woodland, then it would emerge as a streamlined highway again. The Preserve, so beautiful in spring and summer, was a desolate, dreary, and almost frightening place at this season of the year, and this hour of the night. The trees were dark, gaunt skeletons; the ground below was covered with mud, water, and heaps of wet, rotting leaves.

It had been a long time since they had passed a car on the highway. Helene had had a number of ideas and dismissed all of them as impractical. Such as telling McKeown the door on his side wasn’t shut tight, and, as he released the handle to slam it shut, swerving the car and dumping him on the pavement. Or, stopping the car suddenly, so that his head would bang against the dashboard.

She’d also considered scaring her passenger into a faint by a series of rapid skids. That had worked once before when there had been an unwelcome gangster in her car. But Bill McKeown didn’t look like the type that would scare easily.

It was just as she entered the Forest Preserve that she looked in her rearview mirror and suspected that a car was following, its lights turned off. For a moment she wasn’t sure. There was just a shadow not far behind.

Suddenly she stepped on the brake, then released it. The moment of glare from the tail-light reflected on the headlights of the car behind her. Three headlights. Then it was a police car.

“What’d you do that for?’ McKeown demanded.

“Sorry,” Helene said. “I thought I saw a cat in the road.”

He muttered something about women drivers, then glanced over his shoulder.

“No more games,” he said. “I saw it, too. Step on it.”

The big car shot ahead, swerving crazily on the wet pavement.

“They don’t dare shoot,” McKeown said, “because if they did, they might hit you.”

“And you don’t dare shoot,” Helene said serenely, skidding around a curve, “because if I relaxed my hold on the wheel, for two seconds, at this speed, the car would go climb a tree. It’s a tie.” She swerved the car again, viciously.

“Stop that,” McKeown said.

She glanced anxiously in the rearview mirror. She seemed to have lost the car behind.

“I can’t help it,” she said, going into another side-to-side skid. “I’m not a very good driver, and I’m scared.”

Bill McKeown swore, looked over his shoulder, and said, “Slow down and jump out. I’ll take over the car.”

Helene gave the gearshift a quick shove. The car stopped, instead of slowing down, with a sudden, bucking motion. She opened the door, jumped, and ran blindly toward the security of the trees. Behind her she could hear McKeown’s vain attempts to start the car. A dripping branch slapped her across the face, a vine tripped her and sent her sprawling into a puddle of mud.

She heard the other car come roaring close and stop. She heard voices. Jake!

Somehow she got to her feet, stumbled back in the direction of the road. Bill McKeown had given up trying to start the car, had leaped out and was running up the highway. Five men piled out of the other car. Jake, Malone, von Flanagan, the plainclothes man, and the man in the tan raincoat. Von Flanagan yelled to McKeown to stop.

McKeown turned just long enough to fire one shot. Jake stopped dead in his tracks and grabbed at his ear. Helene screamed. McKeown fired again. She heard the bullet zip past, close to her. There was a third shot, and the man in the tan raincoat staggered and fell forward. McKeown kept on running.

The plainclothes man drew his gun, stood still, held his elbow close to his side, steadied his gun hand in the palm of his other hand, took aim, and fired. McKeown stumbled. The plainclothes man fired again. McKeown fell.

Helene ran out into the road and gasped, “Jake! You’re hurt!”

Jake felt of his ear. “Just a scratch. Darling—”

She leaned her head against him, he put an arm around her. It felt very firm and very comforting.

The plainclothes man came back from examining McKeown. “He’s dead,” he reported.

Von Flanagan rose from examining Al Harmon. “And he isn’t. Radio for an ambulance.”

Malone said, “Well, there you have it, all tied up in one neat little package. Head of the protection racket. Murderer of Jesse Conway, Garrity, and Milly Dale. To say nothing,” he added, “of Big Joe Childers.”

“Wait a minute,” von Flanagan said. “Even if the guy’s dead, we need evidence to close the case.”

“As far as the protection racket is concerned,” Malone said, “you’ll probably find plenty of evidence when you fine-tooth-comb that private office at The Happy Days. Al Harmon may be able to give you some additional evidence when he comes to.” He added, “I hope he isn’t hurt bad.”

“Bullet grazed his scalp,” Mike, the plainclothes man said. “Not much harm done.”

Malone nodded. His knees were beginning to behave a little strangely. He braced himself with one hand against the fender of Helene’s car and fumbled in his vest pocket with the other hand. “Has anybody here got a cigar?”

Mike beamed, produced a cigar, and said, “My niece got married yesterday. These are good cigars. Three for a dime.”

“Thanks,” Malone said, leaning against the car. “Now, all I need is a drink. Let’s all go back to The Happy Days.”

“I’d like to know one thing first,” Jake said. “Helene, how did you fix the car so McKeown couldn’t use it?”

“Easy,” Helene said. “I threw it into reverse going at a high speed, and stripped the gears.”

“Women drivers!” von Flanagan said.