Just a bit too fast

When the somewhat forlorn-looking six-cylinder touring car drew up across the street before the Peninsula Park branch bank, I didn't give it a second thought. Neither did Halloran—and if either of us should have noticed, he was the one. He was supposed to know Thought-and-a-half Morgan.

No, neither of us gave it a thought; not until we noticed that the seeming-asleep young egg at the wheel had kept his motor running. Then we both dashed across the asphalt in a damned big hurry.

Detective Halloran had made a thousand-mile jump to spill his story to my chief—the tip he had, that Thought-and-a-half was about to essay in our fair village of one million souls a few of the strokes that had brought him much notoriety throughout the nation at large—and a considerable price on his head. Halloran's chief back home was due for the sack if this looter of six banks in six days was not chucked in durance vile. He had sent out his star man with some info bulldozed from one of Morgan's minor aids.

It was supposed to be infallible stuff; the man Morgan, who had won his moniker by being at least one think-and-a-fraction ahead of the brainiest cop that ever lived, had moved in on us. Halloran said he had practically the entire dope; but my chief, noting with disgust the opportunities taken by Halloran to advertise his own astuteness, and feeling pretty secure over the fact that a major job hadn't been pulled in our village for months, didn't lend an overly receptive ear.

He had enough to do, speaking at Rotary and Kiwanis luncheons, and the like; so he merely growled: "You run around with him, Jake, and if you need help lemme know."

Those had been my orders. Dashing across toward the bank with Halloran, I wondered if this was the time to report. Well, if it was, it was too late now. Morgan could have taken the bank's foundations with him if we laid back for reënforcements. But maybe this wouldn't be Morgan, I thought, tugging at my armpit to pull my gun free in a second, if need be. Just as Halloran and I dashed into the entryway I caught a side glimpse of the dude behind the wheel. He was watching us, but his talons were resting on the steering-wheel in plain sight. Which is somewhat unusual for an outside man—if he was one.

We almost bowled over a customer or two, getting inside, but finally landed right side up in the bank lobby. I flashed a look around, then turned to Halloran. He had just completed a similar look-see. I hope I didn't appear as sheepish as he did.

"Who the hell ever said I was a cop?" grunted Halloran to me in a tone spilling over with disgust.

"Yes, whoever said such a thing?" came a throaty voice behind my back. I couldn't see the party, but that didn't keep gooseflesh from prickling up on my neck. There's no mistaking the determined prod of a gat in the small of the back, just above the kidneys. Halloran stood as motionless as I, and out of the corner of my eye I could see about three inches of the persuader that was making a good Indian out of him. Our friend was evidently a two-gun man.

"Mr. Halloran and one of the local talent, I believe?" The words had a sarcastic smirk to them. "I had an idea some one might be coming along, so I stopped at the desk here to write out a deposit slip. Wonderful device, that, for killing time and covering the back trail—and who'd ever suspect a nice old woman like me?"

At the risk of having my viscera spread all over the lobby from gunfire immediately to my rear, I took a side-wise peek at a mirror hanging on the far wall. You could 'a' knocked me dead when I spotted the reflection. Old lady was right—skirt, Sunday bonnet and all! This Thought-and-a-half certainly earned his nickname. If he didn't look like one of Punkinville's sturdy old-time housewives I'll eat my shoes—and they're size elevens. He'd even duplicated the little hunch in the shoulders that comes with age.

Now I knew why the outside man hadn't raised a holler. He'd evidently worked with Thought-and-a-half before, and knew what real confidence should be.

All this flashed through the old bean in far less time than it takes to tell it—all this and more. For I had noted also that this bank out in the rhubarbs of our city had, at 2.48 p.m. of a dull winter day, mighty few customers. In fact not as many were in the corridor as were behind the wicket windows. The boy with the guns stuck in our manly backs had picked his moment right.

I wondered just when the fireworks would begin, and how. But I didn't have to wonder long. Folks were getting kind of curious, seeing us with hands in air. But no one cared to risk reaching for a gun, even if there happened to be one in the place. There were but three likely targets; two unmistakable plainclothes men in unmistakably embarrassing positions, and a fantastic but seemingly perfectly harmless farmwife.

Acting as if he were having a hard time to keep from laughing, Morgan began his orders.

Halloran almost strangled, getting that order out, and damned if I could blame him.

"We—uh—we're police officers," he gurgled, "and we're—we're—uh—ordered to say that we'll—uh—protect you!"

"Tell 'em to be good, and for that young blond teller to collect all the money—all the money—on the counters, and bring it over here where I can watch him every step of the way."

For a moment the blond young man seemed to hesitate, and looked longingly at what must have been an alarm push-button.

"Hold 'er, son!" cried Halloran. "I know this guy. He'll sink me with a load o' lead if you don't behave!"

With the currency in a couple of canvas sacks, as our unseen "farmwife" had ordered, the blond teller started across the tiled floor toward us. He stepped along right bravely for the first few yards, but uneasy as I was, with that gat prodding me in the suspender buttons, I took courage from watching his knees wabble the last few paces. It's no fun walking up to a cocky bank artist who holds two hair-trigger cannons and knows how to use 'em.

But he finally got the money on the small table as directed. It lay right at our elbow, the table being the one selected by our temporary guardian for his time-killing writing stunt early in the game.

Everybody in the bank was giving undivided attention, when Morgan sang out on his own accord:

"Now, folks, if you don't want to mop up a lot of blood off'n this floor, you just stay mannerly until we ring down the curtain. Mr. Halloran here is going to remain deathly still while I remove one gun from his mid-section that I may divest his partner"—the same being me—"of all weapons. Mr. Halloran knows that if he moves, this amiable square-toes at his side will suddenly release all right and title to his spirit—Ah, thank you, Mr. Halloran.

"Now, folks, Mr. Halloran's partner will freeze into inactivity while Mr. Halloran's gun is likewise extracted—Ah, thank you both! As a parting word of advice, don't risk a shot while I kick both these guns under the steam radiator that I may grab today's earnings. It might be awfully tough on these perfectly nice officers."

I heard both rods clatter against the side wall, and then saw a hand flash out from behind me and grab the canvas sacks. A hurried clatter of steps, a tense "So long!" and the roar of a six-cylinder motor outside; it was over.

Without waiting to cast a look over my shoulder, I scurried for that radiator, clomped down on my knees and pawed through a two-inch layer of dust that some lazy janitor had allowed to collect there.

Halloran was abreast of me. We retrieved our guns almost at the same instant and dashed outside.

Two blocks away, and taking no notice of traffic laws or anything else, that decrepit-looking heap was cutting the air at a fast clip. It was sure a deceiving cuss when it came to performance.

We commandeered a shiny big car that was threading its way through traffic about three jumps from the curb, but there was a precious second wasted trying to get the idea through the mind of the bozo at the wheel. Once he did wake up, however, he sure did live up to the reputation of flaming youth. Not more than nineteen, perhaps, but he stomped a wicked accelerator.

"I don't know this blamed town of yours," howled Halloran in my ear. "Which way is the bimbo heading?"

"Running parallel to the city limits now," I shouted back above the roar of wind and motor, "and if he keeps on, and takes the right hand turn about a mile ahead, he'll be hitting for the great open spaces. A State highway leads dead away from there."

The kid at the wheel was doing his best to catch Thought-and-a-half's fleet little wreck, but he didn't have near as much at stake as did the parties ahead and consequently just would not take quite as many chances. Neither of us could take the wheel, for if we stopped to switch we'd be utterly out of the running.

I held my breath when a heavily laden coal truck shot out of a cross street—and heaved a sigh of relief when we squeezed by at 50-per by a hair's breadth. Talk about the perils of down-town streets; this suburban traffic is all a man wants at early dusk of a cloudy winter afternoon, especially when chain grocery store fronts and other landmarks are slipping by so fast you can't count 'em.

The sweat was streaming off my forehead, but between the drops I caught a glimpse of the jack rabbit we were chasing just as it turned to the right and out the State highway. We'd lost a lot of ground.

The boy lifts his foot off the gas, and we drop down to thirty-five miles. Halloran turns to me, speaking low so the kid won't hear him. Evidently figures there's no use taking unnecessary chances.

So I tell him: "It's one of the dumpiest rookeries in the burg. Regular hang-out. We call there whenever we have to, but we try to make 'em feel it's a safe hide-out; generally make our pinches several blocks away."

At nineteen one can get a thrill out of helping cops chase prison fodder, so the kid readily agrees to cart us down town.

"Can't waste a minute," Halloran growls at me when I protest that the taxis are still running.

"What's eatin' ya now?" I glowers. His highhanded tactics are kinda getting on my nerves. "'Fore we went out on this little jaunt you were tellin' me what a whirlwind you were back home; and yet this Morgan guy slips it over on ya like it had been rehearsed.

"Where's all this brainwork you admitted bein' capable of? From what I've seen to date, that guinea's name could be Two-thousand-Thoughts-ahead Morgan, so far as you're concerned. One-and-a-half ain't near enough."

"We lifted that phone number off the dopey back home," he explains. "The boy didn't kick through with quite everything, but we found it on a card tucked away in the sweatband of his hat. There's no Liberty phone exchange in our burg, so we played a hunch it was here."

"Maybe your speedy friend has the low-down by now," I suggests, "and has shifted hotels."

"A chance," he agrees, "but a slim one. Nobody knows we got the dopey, and he can't get a whisper outside."

I guessed that Thought-and-a-half must have things figured out in advance, something like a circus or road-show. That is, if Halloran's dope was straight.

If it wasn't, we had lost him anyway; and if it was, we'd be waiting for our bird when he swung back into town. I only hoped he wouldn't be too long about finding out that he'd ducked us.

For safety's sake, once we got down town after a speedy dash past all kinds of traffic signals, I stopped the kid several blocks from the dump where Morgan was supposed to bunk.

"Better play safe and call some help," I suggests, as we sidle through the 4.30 p.m. darkness.

"Can't risk wasting a second," Halloran shoots back. "Our friends will cut back here just as soon as they can, if they ever do come. Besides, why have a bunch of signboards out for them to see? They can spot a dick as far as you or I can."

Sounded reasonable to me. Besides, the chief had said responsibility was Halloran's; I was merely reënforcements. If this bimbo was willing to risk shooting it out in a dark room, I'm not the guy to holler yellow.

"Who in hell d'yuh think you're with?" I snarls. "I've worn a buzzer long enough to have a little sense, feller!"

Just then we ducked into an alleged office and loft building. He knew enough not to talk back; you can never tell what a guy at the other end of a hallway might overhear.

Up one, two, then four flights of stairs we climbed. We climbed out on the tar and gravel and eased our panting lungs under the canopy of stars and coal smoke.

We tried to limp down those iron steps quietly, but we must have made some noise, for a window slid open just a few feet away.

I couldn't see who it was, but neither could he, or she, see us. Knowing the breed of cats that frequent the dump, I didn't feel rude at all in whispering: "Hey, you—we think we've shaken the bulls; but if they come after us, tell 'em we went down the fire escape—and they'll beat it out over the roofs."

Whoever it was in the room gave a little chuckle. No offense taken, it seemed. They suffered no illusions as to police ideas on their veracity.

At the third floor we found a hallway window open, and in we slipped. The room wasn't hard to find, even in the semidarkness that must have covered a multitude of sins—some of which smelled rather vigorously.

Risking a dose of hot lead, I tried the door. It was locked. Halloran, the self-confessed fast worker, already had a key out. The second one worked, and I think we both got a big enough thrill when we slid into that room behind a flash light's beam. No sooner had the door shut behind us than Halloran grinned triumphantly.

"All we have to do is wait. There's the evidence." He pointed to a half dozen black knitted neckties strung over the bureau mirror. Thought-and-a-half, I deduced, favored black knits. Well, they are sort of inconspicuous when worn one at a time.

Remembering that the chief's orders originally had been to "run around with him," I gladly assented to the reception plan proposed by this star sleuth we had in our midst. Hadn't he admitted himself, at least ten or twelve times since I had drawn him for a play-mate, that he was a fast thinker, and a good one?

And if it was to be part of the plan that I stand immediately back of him when Thought-and-a-half opened the door, if that kingpin of crookdom ever did open said door, why should I protest? Halloran's two hundred pounds would stop the average bullet, and at least slow down some of the more vigorous projectiles. Me being a man of family, I listen readily to reason.

Halloran figured it out—and, for once, I agreed with him—that there would be but one comparatively safe spot in all that room should a gunman bust in across the threshold. As the door itself would bang against the sidewall when full opened, that position was automatically wiped off the books. No one wants to be caught behind a door if the intruder decides first to kick it wide open, and then shower lead on whatever keeps the porcelain knob from crashing into the plaster.

That left only two walls against which to brace your back—unless you cared to hide under the bed. I once helped sweep up a dick who thought he'd wait beneath an Ostermoor for a certain party; never for mine!

If you selected the wall that would be on the entrant's left, and there happened to be a hall light aglow over his shoulder, chances were you'd eat lead in a hurry. And Thought-and-a-half was pretty skookum with a rod. I had already decided the left wall was not so good, when Halloran informs me in a tense whisper of something I would have done anyway, if left alone.

"We'll back against the wall just opposite the door," he squeaks, "and dodge most of the light that may flood in when he enters. I'll work the flash light. You stand right behind me, and between the two of us we ought to get that guy."

"Hell, no," he confesses, and tip-toes across the floor to rectify the error. Wouldn't the coroner have had a fine mess on his hands if our friend Thought-and-a-half found he wouldn't need his key!

That was the longest half hour I ever spent. It got sort of tiresome, standing there in one position. And we had to stay quiet or else the party might leave a sour taste in our mouths.

But listening for noises put the old ear right in tune. I was hearing everything that happened, and some things that weren't. Occasionally a pair of feet would catfoot warily through the building somewhere. I was listening to such a pair on the floor above when suddenly it seemed the hum of street traffic increased. The street door had opened; two persons were coming up the stairs.

I nudged Halloran, and we wiped the sweat off our palms so there'd be no chance of a gun butt slipping at a critical moment. I sensed that this particular pair of moving feet meant action for us.

The slop, slop, slop of leather soles on well-worn carpeting kept coming our way, up two flights of stairs and then down the hall toward the room in which we were. Halloran's big bulk was quivering. Give him credit for having courage; it wasn't fear, but the suspense and excitement of it all that jelly-fished his bulky muscles. The man's nerves were right on edge. He was shaking as bad as—as bad as—aw, hell, you've been nervous yourself; you know how I felt, right about that time!

Of a sudden there came, through the thin door, a grunted, "Lay off that match. What if there was somebody in the room?"

To which a more suppliant voice made answer: "Not a chance. We ditched 'em proper, and they can't know about this dump!"

But Number One, and I knew it was Thought-and-a-half the way Halloran fidgeted when he heard the voice, naturally ruled the roost. There was no sound of striking matches.

Instead, a soft hand touched the doorknob, which rattled faintly. After that test, a key rasped in the lock.

Then slowly, so slowly that it seemed ages, the door swung inward in the near-total darkness.

I felt Halloran's back muscles contract as he swung his left arm upward—his left hand held the flash light.

Immediately the doorway was flooded in a circle of light that revealed a nervously alert figure with a wicked-looking automatic clutched in one tense hand—a hand never known to miss.

I almost groaned aloud. Halloran, the poor fat-head, instead of holding the light at arm's length to the left, where it would decoy possible return fire, had it clutched tightly to his belly.

Thought-and-a-half didn't wait an instant. A purple-orange jet of fire almost a mile long and bright as Halley's comet streaked from his gun muzzle, and my ears rang with a report that, echoed in the small room, sounded like a complete explosion of the DuPont powder works.

Almost simultaneously a gun roared under my nose, and I knew that Halloran had returned the fire. I was about to pull the trigger of my own weapon when I saw the bandit chief's pistol fly from his hand, and he stood for a photographic moment as if paralyzed.

With a roar I charged across the room, pushing Halloran's two hundred pounds ahead of me. But he had caught the same thing I had seen: Morgan's gun arm was numb from the shock of having his gat knocked from his hand by Halloran's bullet. Unable to fire at us without hitting his buddy, Thought-and-a-half's confederate turned to flee as he saw us hurtle across the small space. But he didn't quite clear the scene of action.

Three bodies—Halloran's and mine, pushing Thought-and-a-half ahead of us—crashed through the doorway and into him. The bellow that startled from his throat died a borning as he banged against the opposite wall in the hallway.

Two or three swings with our clubbed guns, and we had a pretty tame pair of birds on our hands.

"Well, that's that," he snarled, "but how in hell I missed potting you when you flashed that light is beyond me! I savvy this copper trick of holding the flash light out to the left, and I always plug for an arm's length to the opposite side and know I'll hit the body. But to-night I didn't connect." He almost moaned the last sentence.

Halloran threw out his chest. He basked in the glow of an implied compliment. But he couldn't help rubbing it in.

"You were up against a boy just a little speedier in the brain pan, Thought-and-a-half! I figured you'd shoot that way, and I held it up against my body to throw you off. Just goes to show there's almost some one who can think a little faster!"

I almost believed him. Then, suddenly, I caught sight of something interesting. "Fast thinking, hell!" I cried out. "I'd say it was no thinking at all!"

There, suspended by a tiny gleaming rope, hung Halloran's flash light. The darned thing had caught in his ornate watch chain, and he couldn't have moved it if he'd tried!

But that was the only thing I said. Let the lying old blowhard take all the credit for something he never meant to do. If it hadn't been for his thick skull, and that watch chain, I'd have been dead as slavery.

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