J. Fletcher - The Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 5, No. 1 — April 1922)

“Well — I never sneeze at money. And I still owe you for—”

“Bradshaw keeps his account books and that tell-tale letter in his safe. That’s where you might—”

“What’s the model?”

“Illington.”

“Illington! Keeps his papers in an old ash can like the Illington? There ain’t a respectable crook in the business couldn’t open that safe in twenty minutes.”

“Soup?”

“Not for the Illington. I’ll solve the combination...”

Five nights later, they made the attempt. Bradshaw had inaugurated a follow-up campaign and worked after hours with Rita, dictating letters to prospects in the sucker class. Rita supped from six to seven; then Bradshaw went out for an hour, so that Rita was alone in the office from seven to eight. And before eight, persons could still enter the Trinidad Building without registering in the hall-book.

Rita waited till Bradshaw had been gone for about ten minutes. Then she raised and lowered the shade of a front window; that was Rudie’s signal.

There were no lights in any other office on the fourth floor. While Rudie was busy manipulating the tumblers to Bradshaw’s safe, Rita kept a look-out in the hall. She stood at a point some fifty feet from her office, where the north and the west corridors crossed. The elevators were on the west corridor; in the event of Bradshaw’s unexpected return, she expected to have plenty of time to run along the north corridor and shoo Rudie away.

She had kept her vigil some ten minutes, when, on turning casually she saw Bradshaw standing before the open door to his office! He must have walked quietly up the stairway in the rear of the north corridor!

Bradshaw hesitated only a moment; then he rushed into the room. There came at once a scuffling sound and the thud-thud of blows.

Frightened, but eager to continue actively in this dangerous and unlawful adventure, Rita ran along the corridor and watched the struggle from the doorway.

The powerful Bradshaw was having the best of it. The runt Breen was quicker and more skilled with his fists, but the room was too small to permit of scientific boxing.

Bradshaw drove a straight right to Rudie’s face; the force of the blow hurled Rudie across the room and against the wall. With a snarl of triumph, Bradshaw seized a chair, raised it above his head, and rushed at his adversary.

Rita choked a cry.

Breen stood humped against the wall as though too exhausted to raise a hand to ward off the blow which must surely crush his skull. Then, in the wink of an eye, and just as Bradshaw began the downward swing of the chair, Breen shook off his coma, drew a stiletto from his coat pocket — and struck!

The chair clattered to the floor and Bradshaw tottered. But Breen had not yet finished with him. With his left arm he hugged Bradshaw close; with his right hand, he kept twisting the handle of the stiletto. Bradshaw kept emitting low guttural moans.

Then finally, Breen drew out the blade and pushed Bradshaw away. In falling, Bradshaw, half turned. Rita saw that his white silk shirt was stained a deep red over the heart; from this stain, thin red lines trickled... dripped...

At this point she became somewhat dizzy.

Rudie Breen pulled her into the room, locked the door, led her to a chair and fetched her a cup of ice-water.

“Take it easy, sis. Nothin’ more serious than murder. Happens occasionally in the very best circles. That’s it. Feel better?”

“What — will we—?”

“There are at least a dozen things we could do. This is nothing to worry about at all. You leave it t’me.”

He picked up the telephone and when he had made his connection, he said: “Harry? Rudie speaking. I’m in a little mess in the Trinidad Building. Listen. How soon can you make Thirty-ninth Street and Seventh Avenue? Good. Now get this: southeast corner, red and white, Daly, good evening, cane. Right?” He hung up.

Thereupon he scribbled a note, and handed it to Rita.

“When you’ve delivered this, you’re through with this job,” he told her. “I’m handling the rest. Here’s your end of it: You take a red and white taxi to Thirty-ninth Street and Seventh Avenue. On the southeast corner a man will be waiting for you. Tall, slim, black moustache. He’ll be holding his cane up against his shoulder. He will address you, ‘Miss Daly, good evening.’ You give him this note. That’s all. And tell the chauffeur to drive like hell.”

The girl stumbled out of the office. She went through her performance mechanically, almost as one in a trance. And after she had delivered the note, she went home — to her own home, the home she had not seen in over a month. But even in her stupor she did not fail to take a circuitous path, lest she be tracked.

Alone in her own room she threw herself face down on her bed and wept. But out of no pity for Bradshaw. She knew him to have been thoroughly corrupt and remorseless. On his part, he too would have killed and shown no regret.

Her feeling was one of pity and sympathy for herself. She manipulated that strange psychological absurdity whereby a person can be thoroughly emotional and subjective and yet consider self in an objective way.

In her memory flashed the image of a slight, wistful, lovely girl taking a terrible oath of vengeance.

“May the soul and flesh of me writhe in agony” — such was her vow — “till my mission be done!”

Well... the tentacles of the monster Evil had gripped her. There could be no quitting now. When planning the theft with the rat Breen, she had made him promise to come unarmed. He had not kept that promise. She was now chained to him and his kind by the crime in which she had participated.

A sardonic Fate seemed intent on forcing upon her an exquisite torture and wringing from her the ultimate in sacrifice, before granting the sweet satisfaction she knew must be hers...

Judging by every standard and precept by which she had hitherto lived, it was clearly Rita’s duty to submit to arrest. But emotionally such an act was utterly inconceivable. The fierce hatred and cruelty that had been generated by the killing of her brother Jimmy quite precluded the cessation, at the present time, of her campaign for vengeance.

And as the night wore on and her confusion and torment subsided, it became apparent to her that to surrender now was an unsound step from a logical point of view. The greater guilt was Rudie Breen’s; he had broken his word to her, he had come armed, and he had killed.

Why should she suffer alone? She could not be sure that the police would catch him, and even if they did — suppose Rudie denied complicity and with the help of his crowd proved an alibi? It would be her word against his. No, clearly the thing to do was to put off action until she had Breen in a position where he, too, could be punished.

Before dawn, Rita left her home and went back to her room on Fourth Street. She fell quickly into a dreamless sleep from which she did not waken till eight o’clock. On raising her shade she saw what she expected: Rudie Breen was waiting on her corner.

She went down at once. He did not look in the least like a man who had committed a murder on the previous evening. His manner betrayed no excitement or anxiety. The inevitable cigarette hung carelessly from his lips.

And now, for the first time, Rita became curious about Rudie’s actions after she had left the office. This, strangely, had up to this given her no concern; she had been too worried about the enormity of the crime to wonder about the steps Rudie had taken to protect himself. But now she was all eagerness to ask questions.

“What’d you do, Rudie? How’d you—?”

“We’ll have breakfast together,” he broke in. “The Chink will fix us up something.”