Part 6 (1/2)
”But why?” Steve demanded. ”Why should they want to kill you?”
Roy caught hold of his coat.
”Bernie and I pulled a big bank robbery. I skipped with the dough. Bernie had been cheating me, and I wanted to get even. Twenty thousand dollars, and I've salted it away, but Bernie went to the Sullivans. He knew they'd fix me, and they will!”
”They won't find you here,” Steve repeated.
”They'll find me,” Roy groaned. ”Keep the gun handy. Shoot at sight . . . they're like two black crows . . . that's what they look like . . . two black crows . . . .”
”Lie down. I'm going to bathe this blood away,” Steve said, forced his brother back on the pillow. ”Lie still.”
Roy screamed when the wet cotton-wool touched his eyes.
Two black crows.
The description fitted the Sullivans. They were a sinister-looking couple in their black, tight-fitting overcoats, black slouch hats, black concertina-shaped trousers and black-pointed shoes. Knotted round each short thick throat was a black silk scarf.
A few years ago they had been the star act of a small travelling circus, and they had been billed as the famous Sullivan brothers. But they were not brothers: their real names were Max Geza and Frank Kurt. By profession they were knife-throwers and trick marksmen. The finale of their act was to throw phosphorus-painted knives at a girl who stood against a black velvet-covered board. The stage was in darkness and the audience could see only the flying knives, which gradually outlined the figure of the girl as the knives slammed into the board an inch from her s.h.i.+vering skin. It was a sensational act and might have gone on for years, only the Sullivans got bored with the circus and with the girl.
It was the girl really that made them want to break up the act. She was a nice little thing and willing enough, but she just didn't understand the Sullivans' technique after business hours; besides, she fell in love with a clown, and that added to her difficulties, too.
The Sullivans tried to get another girl, but for the money they paid they couldn't find a girl willing to risk the flying knives and also be accommodating after business hours. So they got fed up with the circus and told the manager they wanted to quit, but the manager refused to release them from their contract. Their act, he reckoned, kept the show together-and it did.
So one night Max solved all their problems by throwing a knife with deliberate aim and it pinned the girl through her throat to the board, and that finished the act, got rid of the girl and broke the contract. Max couldn't understand why he hadn't thought of the solution, which was simple enough, before.
It was Max's idea for them to become professional killers. Death interested him. Taking human life seemed to him to be G.o.d-like, and he liked to regard himself as a man set above and apart from other men. Besides, he wanted big money; he was tired of the peanut stuff they were making in the circus.
There were hundreds of men and women wis.h.i.+ng to get rid of someone, he reasoned. A professional killer would be a benefit to Society. Since no motive could be proved, the killer had an excellent chance of avoiding detection, and if the killing was carefully planned and executed there was no reason why they should ever be caught. Frank welcomed the idea. Frank was never strong on ideas himself, but he was a natural enthusiast. Max knew he couldn't wish for a better partner. So these two pa.s.sed the word round that they would undertake any killing for the fee of three thousand dollars and a hundred dollars a week expenses. Even the Sullivans were surprised how quickly the idea caught on in certain circles, and how many commissions came their way.
They travelled all over the country in a big black Packard Clipper: two black crows who brought death silently and secretly and were never detected. The police didn't know about them, for their victims feared the police and couldn't go to them for protection. There were times when word would reach the intended victim that the Sullivans were after him and he'd go into hiding. It was a matter of complete indifference to the Sullivans whether they had to hunt out their victim or whether they had merely to drive up to his house and shoot him as he opened the door. All they required was a photograph of the victim, his name and last address: finding him was part of their service. They were men of few needs. The hundred dollars they charged for their weekly expenses amply sufficed. The three-thousand-dollar fee was never touched, but salted away against the time when they should retire. Both Max and Frank were pa.s.sionately fond of birds, and they planned to buy themselves a bird business when they had saved sufficient capital to set up in a big way.
Little Bernie got in touch with them a day after Roy had gypped him out of the proceeds of the bank robbery. The Sullivans undertook to murder Roy for five thousand dollars. They felt that as Little Bernie was a big shot and had plenty of hired help to do his own killing he wouldn't come to them unless he antic.i.p.ated the job would be long and difficult. To be on the safe side they jacked up the fee.
The difficulty, of course, was to find Roy. He had been warned that the Sullivans were after him and had immediately vanished from his usual haunts. Enquiries showed that he had left New York and had covered his tracks so well that his trail ended at the Pennsylvania station: the task of picking up the trail again appeared to be a hopeless one.
But not to the Sullivans. They were expert man-hunters. To find your victim quickly, they reasoned, you must know his habits, where his relations are, whether he has a girlfriend, and if so, where she is. Once you have that data all you have to do is to exercise a little patience: sooner or later you'll find your man.
It was an easy matter for them to discover that Roy had a brother, who, a year ago, was an insurance salesman in Kansas City. They wasted time going to Kansas City, for there they learned that Steve Larson had quit the insurance business and was believed to be fox-farming somewhere, but where no one seemed to know.
A week pa.s.sed while the Sullivans sat in their hotel bedroom and took it in turns to call every fox farm equipment store in the district and beyond, asking for the address of Steve Larson. They gave the name of a reputable firm of solicitors when making their call and stated that as Larson had come into a large sum of money they were anxious to get in touch with him. After making many calls their patience was finally rewarded. A firm in Bonner Springs had supplied Steve Larson with equipment and was delighted to give his address.
Three days later a big black Packard Clipper slid into Point Breese, a little valley town twenty miles or so from Blue Mountain Summit.
The Sullivans parked outside a saloon, left the Packard and entered the deserted bar. They had become so accustomed to their routine entrance into the circus ring that they unconsciously walked as one man, each taking the same short quick step, each swinging his arms the same length; one looking like the other's shadow. In their black clothes, moving as they did, they immediately attracted attention, and people stared after them, conscious of a feeling of uneasiness, of being spooked, as if they had seen an apparition.
Because in their circus days they had been supposed to be brothers, they had endeavoured to look alike, and the habit stuck. They both wore pencilled-line black moustaches and their hair cut very close. But here the similarity ended. Max was a couple of inches shorter than Frank. His face was small and white and he had tight lips. Frank was fat and soft. His nose was hooked, his mouth was loose, and he had a habit of moistening his tips with his tongue before he said anything. His eyes were as animated as gla.s.s marbles.
The Sullivans pulled up two high stools close to the bar and sat down, resting their gloved hands on the counter.
The barman eyed them over, thought they looked a dangerous, ugly pair, but he smiled because he was anxious to have no trouble.
”Yes, gentlemen?” he said, wiped the counter before them.
”Two lemonades,” Max said. His voice was high-pitched, soft.
The barman served them, his face expressionless; then as he moved away Max crooked a finger at him.
”What goes on in this town?” he asked, sipped his lemonade, stared at the barman with dead eyes. ”Tell us the news. We're strangers here.”
”Right now there's plenty of excitement in town,” the barman said, quite eager to talk about the topic of the hour. ”We'll be on the front page of every newspaper in the country tomorrow. I've just heard it from a newspaper reporter.”
”How come?” Max asked, raising his eyebrows.
”A mental patient escaped from Glenview Sanatorium,” the barman explained. ”It's only just leaked out she's the heiress to six million bucks.”
”And where's Glenview Sanatorium?” Max asked.
”Up the hill; five miles from here on the Oakville road,” the barman told him. ”This dame got a ride in a truck as far as here. They found the wrecked truck a mile or so up the road. They reckon she killed the driver.”
”But did they find her?” Frank asked, sipped his lemonade, then blotted his lips with the back of his glove.
”I guess not. They're still looking for her. We had the cops in here this morning. I've never seen so many cops.”
Max's eyes flickered.
”How come a nut has all that dough?”
”She got it from John Blandish, the meat king. Maybe you remember the Blandish kidnapping? She's his grand-daughter.”
”I remember,” Frank said. ”Must be twenty years ago.”
”That's right,” the barman said. ”The kidnapper was the father. He was crazy in the head-so's the daughter. If they don't find her in fourteen days they won't be able to take her back. That's the law of the State. Then she'll come into the dough and no one can control it. That's why there's all this uproar.”
The Sullivans finished their lemonade.
”She's a real nut-dangerous?” Max asked.
The barman nodded his head vigorously.
”You bet . . . a killer.”
”Just in case we run into her, how does she look?”
”They say she's a redhead and a peach to look at. She's got a scar on her left wrist.”
”We'll know her,” Frank said. He put down a dollar bill on the counter. ”Would there be a fox farm around here some place?” he went on casually.
The barman gave him change.