The Golden Age of Pulp Fiction MEGAPACK ™, Vol. 1: George Allan England. George Allan England

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      “Assistant district attorney, you mean?”

      “Yes,” assented Cozzens. “The way things are shaping now, I’ve just got to have a string on that young man. He’s directly in line for the district attorney-ship, inside of two or three years, and I want—”

      “I see,” smiled Bogan. “Honesty’s the best policy, all right. It’s a case of rip things wide open, after that, an’ get away with it clean, eh?”

      “You put it rather crudely.”

      “Facts is facts. I get you, the first time. An’ the daughter’s balkin’?”

      “I’m afraid she is, a little. She and Brant have been going round together for over a year, but he hasn’t made good. That is, not enough to suit her. She’s got ideas about efficiency, like lots of girls these days. She won’t have him till he’s shown some real pep. The press is slamming him, some. So—”

      “I’m wise. If he can land somebody right, for those stunts—”

      “What I like about you, Bogan,” said the politician, “is the way you grab an idea. Well, now, can you work the law of supply and demand for me again? You’ve done it before. Can you do it once more, and do it strong?”

      “Sure! How much is it worth to a man that’ll stand for the pinch an’ go through?”

      “That depends,” judged Cozzens, opening the throttle a notch. His big blue car hit a livelier pace down the summer-sunlit boulevard. “Naturally I’m not looking to throw money away. I want you to put this through as cheap as you can.”

      “Bargain rates won’t get a guy to stand a roar for scratch work, knockin’ a bank cashier cold, an’ bumpin’ off a business man. Them’s tall, man-size charges to go against.”

      “I know it, Bogan. But, of course, he won’t be running any real risk of anything but a few years in the pen.”

      “You mean the frame will be fixed so he’ll be acquitted on the murder charge, an’ will only do time for the forgery an’ assault?”

      “Yes, and not much time, at that. Four or five years, and then a quiet lit­tle pardon, you know. That’s at the out­side. Maybe he won’t draw more than four or five in all. Get me?”

      Bogan remained silent, his thin jaws firmly set. He looked out over the bench, the surf, the careless holiday crowd, past which the car was flicking with a burrrrr of knobby tires.

      “Well?” demanded the politician, “Can you fix it right?”

      “Sure. If you’ll guarantee the acquit­tal.”

      “Oh, that’ll be O. K.”

      “Yes, but they never stick a guy with a small charge when there’s a big one on him. F’rinstance, if a man’s robbin’ a hen house, an’ croaks a farmer while he’s doin’ it, you never hear nothin’ o’ the petty larceny.”

      “I can fix that, all right. Got to, to square the bank. They’re sorer than boiled pups, and ready to knife Brant. I’ll have him docket it as two separate cases. After the fall guy’s cleared of the murder charge, he’ll be rearrested on the others and put through.”

      “I don’t see what good that’ll do,” ob­jected Bogan. “That wouldn’t be such a devil of a big feather in Brant’s Pan­ama.”

      “It’ll be enough. I’ll see that the papers play it up right. Nadine will fall for it strong. She likes Brant, all O.K. It’s only that he hasn’t done any­thing much yet. You get the fall guy, Bogan, and I’ll attend to my end of it. Well, what say?”

      “When do you want him?”

      “Right now. And when it comes to cash—”

      “I’m on!” smiled Bogan. “I know just the fella.”

      “Where is he? In town, here?”

      “No. New York. An’ he’s some smooth worker, too, I tell you. Show him the coin, an’ he’ll go the limit.”

      “That’s good enough for me,” said Cozzens decisively. “Now well get back to the office and fix you up with expense money to take the night boat down.” And Cozzens stepped on the accelerator. “Let’s get to it.”

      “Right!” agreed Bogan. “We’ll do this honest an’ square. That’s always the best policy. Let’s go!”

      II.

      Albert Vestine, Scandinavian by birth, and by profession racetrack fol­lower, gambler, and man of various ac­tivities—all of them dubious—was wary as a partridge when Bogan called upon him by appointment. Vestine had trav­eled in too many cities, States, and lands, spoke too many languages, was too clever with his pen and brain, to mis­take the type that Bogan represented. Besides, he knew the man personally, which made him all the more cautious.

      He received Bogan in his little apart­ment on Lyon Avenue, the Bronx, and after a few commonplaces such as old-time acquaintances might exchange, asked him his business.

      Bogan looked him over before reply­ing. In his own way, Bogan was just as keen as this cosmopolitan with the high-domed forehead, the tendency to­ward baldness, the thin cheeks of un­natural pallor. As Bogan appraised him, from gray and conscienceless eyes to slim, dexterous fingers, he realized this was, indeed, the kind of man Cozzens needed.

      The price Bogan knew would be high. Vestine was no “greasy-coat stiff,” to be bought for a song. On the contrary, as Bogan observed his correct linen and cravat, his fine blue suit with the almost invisible vertical stripe, his custom-made shoes, he understood that here was just what the politician had meant when he had demanded: “A good, high-class fall guy. No roughnecks.”

      He thought, furthermore:

      “If I can work this right, there’s pro­motion in it for me, and maybe a little rake-off on the side. I’ll play it for a wad o’ good, honest graft. Honesty’s the best policy, all right.”

      “Well, Mr. Bogan,” inquired Vestine, “what can I do for you?”

      “You know me, Al,” Bogan replied. “When I say I got a good thing, I got one.”

      “Yes?”

      “An’ now, I got a bundle o’ kale for you.”

      “That sounds interesting,” smiled the Dane. “Sit down, and tell me all about it.” He gestured toward a chair. “How much, why, when, where, and what?”

      Bogan sat down, lighted a cigar to give himself countenance—which is one of the principal uses of cigars in this world—and opened up:

      “You know the burg I hail from, don’t you?”

      “Somewhat. I’ve done a little busi­ness there, off and on.”

      “Well, supposin’ some big guy there had to marry his daughter to an as­sistant district attorney, an’ she wouldn’t fall for him till he’d pulled some stunt to give him a СКАЧАТЬ