John Baer - The Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 5, No. 5 — August 1922)

“Don’t, don’t!” moaned the Judge as he hid his face in his hands.

“Go on, suffer! Go on!” chuckled Dodd. “I’m eatin’ it up.”

The Judge suddenly sat up and extended his arms sidewise.

“Shoot me, Dodd!” he begged. “Put an end to it! Dodd, for God’s sake—”

“Shoot you!” laughed Dodd. “I guess not! I got half a mind to stick here and make you face the music. I’d go back and do my bit with a smile on my mug if I could see you dragged in the slime.”

The Judge’s manner suddenly changed. He flashed a dark look at Dodd.

“You’re afraid to shoot,” he said in sullen anger. “You haven’t got the nerve, you yellow pup!”

The prison pallor of Dodd’s face went whiter still. He pressed his lips together, but said nothing.

“You low-livered, degenerate skunk!” the Judge flung at him. “I wish I had given you twenty years.”

Dodd’s hand tightened on the automatic. His mouth began to twitch.

“Look out, you—” He ripped out a stinging oath.

“That’s it, Dodd!” cried the Judge. “Shoot! Shoot!”

“So that’s it,” snarled Dodd. “Tryin’ to egg me on to shoot, eh? It won’t work, mister. I wouldn’t shoot you now if you called me a dude!”

“Is that final, Dodd? You won’t do as I ask?”

“Surest thing you know. You’re going to live and get your dose o’ misery.”

“Then I’ll do it myself!”

The Judge turned to the table at his elbow and pulled open the drawer. There in the front of the drawer lay a blued-steel revolver. Dodd, who was watching him narrowly, sprang forward with a cry as he caught sight of it. Before Judge Lathrop could get his hand on the gun in the drawer, Dodd had clapped his own hand, that held the automatic, over it.

“I tell you you got to live!” he cried, frowning down at the Judge.

The Judge returned this gaze, and for a second they measured each other with their eyes. Then, with his eyes still fastened on Dodd, the Judge suddenly gave a mighty push and jammed the table drawer shut. There was a howl of pain from Dodd, and the drawer was deep enough so one could hear the automatic fall on the wood bottom. The Judge eased the drawer a trifle, at the same time shoving at Dodd with his foot. Dodd staggered across the room, where he stood wringing his hands in an agony of pain. The Judge quickly opened the drawer, picked up the automatic and covered Dodd with it.

“Jack Dodd,” said the Judge, “the crime for which I sentenced you is one of the filthiest, vilest deeds on the criminal calendar. It will give me great pleasure to return you to your keepers.”

“You — you—” Dodd sputtered. “A trick, a damnable trick!”

“Yes, a trick, Dodd. There are other weapons beside firearms.”

Dodd’s lips curled back from his teeth with venom.

“I hope that son of yours ends in the electric chair!” And then followed a string of vile oaths.

“My dear Dodd,” said the Judge as he took up the receiver to telephone the police, “I have no son.”

It was almost eleven o’clock on a Tuesday night, and the stately room clerk of the Monolith Hotel stood yawning behind the desk. The lobby was practically deserted, for the majority of the guests had either retired or were still at the various theatres and restaurants.

“Excuse me, but I want to pay my bill, and I’m rather in a hurry,” were the words that brought Pennington Wilson out of his day dreams — or, rather, his night musings. Facing him, and tightly clasping a large handbag, was a little old man, a worried expression on his face. The clerk recognized him, smiled and bowed.

“Certainly, Mr. Henderson, certainly,” he replied, in cordial tones, “The cashier will fix things up for you in a jiffy.”

He crossed to the adjoining compartment, and gave the necessary orders.

“We are always Johnny-on-the-spot when it comes to taking in money, Mr. Henderson,” he continued with his ready laugh, as he returned, “but I didn’t know you were leaving us tonight. Thought your liner sailed at noon tomorrow.”

“Of course, of course,” was the nervous reply, “but, you see, some friends of mine, in — in — Brooklyn, phoned me, and naturally, of course I had to—”

The cashier came forward with the bill at this moment. Wilson glanced at the total, and then passed it over.

“Because you arc checking out so late, we had to charge for the night,” he explained. “Sorry, but that’s the usual custom.”

“Perfectly satisfactory,” retorted Henderson.

He reached into his pocket and extracted a roll of bills, riffled them over, and extracted several, which he shoved across the desk. “Here you are. Don’t bother about the change. Give it to the bellboys,” and, with a nod he hurried out. Wilson looked after him perplexedly, then showed relief as a husky, middle-aged man entered from the street. The clerk beckoned to him, and he approached the desk.

“Spencer, there’s something queer about that chap who just went out,” he whispered. “Name’s Henderson; Daniel Henderson, of Minneapolis. First visit here. Booked to sail for Europe on the Cardalia tomorrow. Heavy baggage has all gone to the dock. Just now he ran down, checked out in a tearing hurry, with some silly story about having to go to Brooklyn. Nobody in Brooklyn is awake at this hour of the night. What do you think about it?”

“How much does he owe?” demanded the house detective alertly. “Perhaps I can head him off.” He took a step toward the door, but Wilson detained him.

“He paid in full — and in cash,” which caused Spencer to snort with disgust and retort, “In that case, why should we worry? What does it matter to us where he has gone, or why, so long as he is straight on the books?”

“Guess I’m more nervous than usual tonight,” said the clerk apologetically. “Just the same, I didn’t like the way he acted. Seemed as if he was trying to hide something. You can understand how a man in my position gets hunches at times, but can’t explain them.”

“Sure thing,” yawned the house detective, whose interest in the matter had now entirely subsided. “Guess I’ll turn in. Had a hard day, and bed sounds good to me. Nighty-night,” and he went toward the elevator, and from it directly to his room. But Spencer soon found that he was out of luck. Sleep was something he was not going to get. For before he had even removed his shoes the telephone rang, and an agitated voice directed him to report at room 817 as speedily as possible. He complied, and in the doorway of the designated number found Wilson awaiting him. The clerk beckoned, ushered him into the room, followed, closed the door and stood against it, gasping.

“My hunch was right!” he hysterically cried. “I know now why Henderson acted so queerly. But I never suspected! It is horrible — horrible!”

He half collapsed, and seemed on the verge of fainting. Spencer jumped to his side, put an arm about him, and led the clerk, now babbling incoherently, to a settee, where he made him as comfortable as possible.

“Pull yourself together, man,” commanded the detective. “Take it easy, but tell me what’s going on.”

He patted his frightened companion on the shoulder. Under his ministrations the clerk regained his self-control, sat up and essayed a feeble smile.

“I’m all right now,” he said. “The shock of the thing was what got me. You see, as soon as Henderson checked out, the night maid was ordered to put the room in shape. She went to the bathroom and on the floor she found — but you’ll have to look for yourself. I–I — can’t go on,” he concluded, as he sank back again.