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

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СКАЧАТЬ hefty coin in the job, an’ nothin’ more’n about four years—easy years—in the pen.”

      “What’s the case?”

      “Some guy forges the name of John C. Wycoff to a check on the Wheat Ex­change National, for seven hundred and fifty-five dollars and fifty cents, about three months ago. He’s an A-1 scratch man, an’ the name looks right. He gets a gents’ furnisher named Markwood Hinman to cash it. Hinman’s found two days later, croaked, in a hall­way on Oregon Avenue. The bull’s dope it that Hinman got wise to the scratch work, an’ went to see the guy to get him to make good, or somethin’, an’ the guy bumped him off to keep him from tippin’ over the bean pot. That’s all old stuff.”

      “Yes, I remember reading something about it in the papers,” agreed Vestine. “The forger cracked Hinman’s skull with brass knuckles, didn’t he? Back of the left ear?”

      “That’s the case! Well—”

      “What then?”

      “The check’s in the bank, see? The murder jazzes the bank up, investigatin’, an’ they get wise the check’s a phony. Henry Kitching, the cashier, takes it an’ heads for the district attorney’s office to raise a roar an’ start things. He gets out of his auto on Kent Street an’ goes in through the rear alley entrance to the courthouse. He’s found slugged there, five minutes later, an’ the check’s gone. Brass knucks, again.”

      “Clever!” smiled Vestine. “I sup­pose the criminal trailed him, and gave him what I believe is called the K. O., from behind.”

      “Yes, that’s the way it looks from here. An’ that’s how the story’d be put over. But nobody was ever sloughed in for none of it.”

      “I see. You mean, then, you’re look­ing for a scapegoat in the wilderness?”

      “Huh?”

      “I mean, a fall guy.”

      “Oh, sure. Goat, yes—I get you. I see you’re wise. Well, then—”

      “And this hypothetical goat would have to stand for all the charges, so as to establish the assistant district attor­ney’s reputation for brilliancy?”

      “Yes, but the murder charge won’t stick, no more’n a red-hot flapjack to a greased griddle.”

      “How can you guarantee that?” in­sisted the Dane.

      “Cinch!” And Bogan, his eyes kin­dling with enthusiasm, pulled at his cigar. Vestine, by the way, never smoked, nor did he drink. Both things, he knew, worked on the nerves.

      “Please explain?”

      “Why, it’s this way,” Bogan ex­pounded. “We’ll fix the story right, an’ copper-rivet it, so it can’t do more’n es­tablish a strong suspicion. An’ it’s all circumstantial evidence, too. Nobody seen the guy croak Hinman or sneak up on Kitching. That’s one point. Another is, we’ll have a hand-picked jury. There’ll be at least two on that’ll stick for acquittal till New York approves of Volstead. So that’ll be a disagreement, an’ the fall guy gets away with the mur­der charge, all right. I’ve been into this thing pretty deep with Cozwith—the man I’m workin’ for, an’ he’ll go through with his end of it.”

      “Stop beating round the bush, Bo­gan, I know Cozzens about as well as you do, and I know you’re asking me, for him, to take this job, I know, too, he’ll go through, if I do take it. I’ve got enough information about him to kill him politically if he tries to renege. You can’t double cross, either, or I’d have both of you on a charge of con­spiracy to do an illegal act. There are three of us in on this. It’s a triangle, understand? All go through, or all col­lapse! I hope I make myself quite clear?”

      “Oh, I get you, all right,” answered Bogan, shifting uneasily in his chair. “We’ll play this frame-up honest. That’s the best policy, every time. All you’ll have to go up for will be forgery an’ assault.”

      “H’mmmm! That’s enough, I should say,” judged the Dane. He pensively brushed a tiny thread from his sleeve with manicured fingers. “How long a sentence—”

      “Four years is the limit. Good con­duct would cut that down a few months, too. An’ you gotta remember this, too—nix on the hard-labor stuff. You got brains, you see, an’—”

      “Thank you.”

      “An’ it’ll only be a job teachin’ arith­metic, or writin’ or French an’ them guinea languages, in the pen school. See?”

      “Nice, pleasant little program you’ve got all mapped out for me, isn’t it?” queried Vestine.

      “Sure it is! You can figure you’re workin’ on salary. So much time, so much coin. Ain’t much worse’n bein’ a college professor, at that, an’ you’ll pull down a hell of a lot more coin. We’ll have you happy, an’ Cozzens happy, an’ his daughter, an’ Brant, too—he’ll think he dug up the case, himself—an’—”

      “Regular little love feast, all round, eh?” commented the gambler. “I shall consider myself quite a philanthropist—if I take the job.”

      “Sure you’ll take it!” urged Bogan, with increasing eagerness. This man’s quick intelligence and grasp of the situa­tion far exceeded his hopes. Why, things were surely coming very much his way. “You gotta! Think o’ the good you’ll do! An’ ain’t it always the best policy to be honest an’ do good? You’ll square the bank, land a rich wife for Brant, put Cozzens where he can rip things wide open, an’—”

      “How about the man that really did the forgery, killed Hinman, and as­saulted Kitching?” put in the Dane. “I suppose he’ll be happy, too? After I’m tried and acquitted for the killing he’ll be safe. And all the time I’m behind bars—”

      “Oh, forget him! Just think what you’ll be gettin’ out of it!”

      “I am thinking of that, every minute, you can rest assured. And I may as well tell you right now, I’m a high-priced man.”

      “That’s the kind we’re after. No cheap stiff, but a ketch that’ll really burn some red fire in Brant’s front yard! Fine!”

      “You realize, of course, it’s no joke to be what they call ‘mugged,’ and fin­ger-printed, and sell four years of my life, and—”

      “’Twon’t be four. Not over—”

      “And then, after it’s all over, have to clear out—”

      “You’ve cleared out before now, Vestine, or whatever your name is,” asserted Bogan. “Don’t play none o’ that in­jured-feelings stuff on me! You got a dozen aliases, an’ you’re as much at home in China as you are on Broadway. So we’ll tie the can to all that ‘no-joke’ stuff, an’ get down to tacks. Will you take the frame?”

      “I might, if you pay me my figure.”

      “Name it!” said Bogan, hands tight­ening on knees.

      III.

      “Fifty СКАЧАТЬ