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

An hour later, Nevins escorted Rita through his backyard into the kitchen of the house next door. The neighbor allowed Rita to walk out her front door. “Good night,” called Nevins, “and remember your lesson.”

After her feeling of exhilaration because of her first signal triumph over The Mogul, Rita suffered a fit of depression and nausea. After all, one’s natural impulses cannot be inhibited indefinitely. The whole business was repulsive to her.

She began brooding over the Bradshaw affair; she could not drive the tragedy from her memory. Although not directly responsible for this part of the regrettable affair, she felt that most of the blame was hers.

And strangely enough, of all her associates, Rudie Breen, who had crossed her, was the only one she could not bring herself to dislike. She could not explain this. It may have been something about his eyes; generally they were bleary, but they were always calm, never shifty. Sometimes she caught in them an expression of utter resignation. He was a criminal, to be sure, but at times there was that about him which seemed to indicate that he was a child of Fate and aware of the tragedy of his life, but powerless — or perhaps too tired — to struggle against it.

But all this did not cancel the fact of Bradshaw’s death.

In a moment of abject despair, Rita wrote a complete history of the sorry affair and mailed it in a sealed envelope to Nevins, suggesting that he hold it unopened six months and then turn it over to the district attorney.

Rita, morbid with dread, self-reproach and anxiety, determined to play the game desperately and swiftly. She decided that a furious offensive on her part might force The Mogul to strike back at her. She had a feeling that when he did strike, it would be directly and not through a medium. She would meet him face to face — what happened then, lay in the hands of the gods — and Rita was not afraid.

Accordingly, when Creighton informed her that on the following Saturday night a batch of new money was to be turned out at Wortz’s, Rita at once wrote to Nevins, saying that nine o’clock would be a good time for a raid.

Then, late Saturday afternoon, Creighton sprang a surprise. Rita had never been at Wortz’s. Now Creighton coolly informed her that The Mogul had decided that she was to be used as a shover for awhile. “The money we’re turning out would get by the U. S. Secretary of the Treasury himself. An attractive, prosperous-looking girl like you should have no trouble changing twenty-dollar bills.”

Then he added, “You’re to go with me tonight and get an inside line on how the stuff is made, what it looks like, how it differs from real money and so on. We want you to know your business thoroughly.”

Rita’s first impulse was to try to have the raid called off. But after thinking it over, she decided that she must let matters run their course. If Creighton did not take her to Wortz’s till after nine, the raid would precede them, in which case they would be in no danger. If they went before nine, she would probably be caught... Well, the federal authorities would probably handle the raid, but Nevins would be sure to be in it. And Nevins, dear old “stranger,” would have the intelligence to permit her to stage an escape.

They made the trip in Creighton’s car and reached Wortz’s place a bit after eight o’clock. They passed through the print shop, up a narrow flight of stairs and into one of the rooms on the second floor. Two tables were in the room — one in a corner, one in the centre. At the centre table, three men were playing pinochle: at the corner table, four men were playing a game of their own concoction with two sets of dominoes. One man was still fussing around downstairs in the shop.

Creighton and Wortz, with Rita between them, sat down on a couch; the initiation of Rita into the gentle art of counterfeiting began. Wortz spoke of presses, plates, dies, inks, stamps, the fibre in paper; he explained how forged signatures were worked into the process.

At eight-thirty, the pinochle game broke up. One of the three players went with Wortz to the door, another drew Creighton aside and engaged him in a conversation. Rita strolled over to the table at which the four men were playing dominoes, and watched the game. When the three card players had gone, she rejoined Wortz and Creighton on the couch.

She fumbled for her handkerchief in her sleeve; then she remembered she had put it into her mesh bag. She had left the bag on the couch.

Now it was gone!

Rita sighed resignedly; she had had experiences of this kind before. Mingled with The Mogul’s crowd, were a certain number of “gents” who attended to minor details — dirty work — and who were inherently incapable of being honest with anyone. The bag was of no great value, so Rita said nothing about the matter.

Wortz continued his explanation of the mysteries of his art. Then, at eight-forty, the man downstairs in the print shop, called up from the hall, “Telephone call for Mr. Creighton.”

When Creighton came back from the print shop, his face had turned a grayish white. “Raid!” he cried.

Instantly the four men playing dominoes, jumped to their feet.

“No need getting excited,” cried Creighton. “They’re due here the minute of nine. We’re absolutely safe till that time. James at headquarters sent the tip to the High Chief who just had me on the phone. Nevins is in on this thing — damn him! Now shake a leg — get your plates and paraphernalia and money into suit-cases and beat it. Don’t all go in the same car — go in two or three cars. Eighty-six Bay Road — four rings. Jenkins stays here and is printing handbills when the cops arrive. Hurry!”

The four thugs and Wortz ran downstairs. From the hallway upstairs, Creighton kept shouting orders to them.

While the preparations for the escape were being made, Rita tried frantically to think of some way to leave a message for Nevins, which would betray the address to which the counterfeit money was being taken. Eighty-six Bay Road. She was sure Creighton would force her to leave before the detectives came — how could she tell them where to go?

To write it would have been simplest, but her pencil and notebook were in the mesh bag which had been stolen from her. She searched the room — not a thing to write with or on.

Still, there must be some way — Nevins had recommended the Morse Code — but how was that possible?.. She ran about the room in a kind of frenzy — Morse Code — eighty-six Bay Road. Nevins would search this room — she could not fail him — she must think—

Then her eyes rested on the table on which lay dominoes, some of them turned face up. There were dots on the dominoes! This fact struck her with trip-hammer force. And the blanks could indicate dashes!

Nevins, who had spoken of the Morse Code for one whole hour the last time she saw him, could not possibly miss...

She ran to the table. Thank heaven, there were two sets of dominoes. She could use letters in duplicate. Eighty-six Bay Road. Swiftly her fingers brushed aside such pieces as were useless. The others she lay, face up, in a certain order. When Creighton came into the room again, she had finished.

“You little rat!” he leered. “We’re going to eighty-six Bay Road. Suppose you see if you can tell Sergeant Nevins that! ”

“What are you talking about?” demanded Rita calmly. (She was standing with her back to the table.)

He took her mesh bag out of his pocket and dangled it before her. “Your pencil and notebook are in here and I gave orders to Wortz that there was to be no writing material in this room. The Chief trusted you — but I didn’t.”