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

Though it lacked furniture, the room held sounds and actions. Snarling and swearing, their arms going like piston rods, their fists crashing brutally upon flesh, their bodies bent and tense, the two men gave and took punishment.

Pug was the taller, his arms were longer, and his fists cruelly battered his opponent’s body. Then Joe dashed into close quarters, his arms short and crushing, his squat body aflame with hate.

He was met by a man whose friendship had been violated, whose mood was a mixture of fury and rage. Pug was wiry; huge hands dangled at the ends of his nervously strong arms; he was viciously ferocious. His fingers sank deep into the short, round neck of the man who had come to rob him.

As they fought, words flowed in a horrible stream from their lips. The argot of the underworld and the frightfully meaningless phrases of their ordinary conversation shot in fierce fragments from them. A moment before, the room had been silent save for the stealthy movements of Joe; now it was filled with hot oaths, the writhing bodies of the two antagonists, and the straining hate of their struggle.

Seizing an opportunity Pug swung the smaller man against the side- of the bed, and they toppled prone. Out flashed one long arm, and Pug had the stiletto.

As the steel flashed above him, Little Joe turned, caught the descending hand and stopped its downward fall. He squirmed, terrified, for death leered from the face above him. With a superhuman effort Joe lifted the taller man with one short massive arm, and pushed him aside. And then, grasping Pug’s hand that held the knife, Joe put his utmost efforts into an effort to force it downward.

It was a question of strength, and Joe was a trifle the stronger. The tension did not last long; with a swiftly increasing speed the stiletto descended.

Pug sank back upon the bed, his eyes filled with ludicrous surprise. Wordlessly, his mouth opened, and his body twitched. The knife remained in its human sheath.

Panic seized Joe, a sudden, overwhelming fear. He tore furiously at the pillow case, grasped the thick bundle of bills, and dashed to the window. Quickly, furtively, he slipped down the fire-escape.

When he reached his room, which was directly below Pug’s, Joe had a horrified second. Instinct told him to protect himself; he must not be accused of killing Pug. He must leave his room, leave the building, do something to take suspicion away from himself.

He caught up a cap, pulled it down on his oblong head, and slipped quietly down the stairs of the cheap rooming house. He reached the sidewalk without seeing anyone. And he turned into a small cigar store instantly.

Tom, the man who ran the cigar store, was thin, with small, kindly, black eyes set in a wrinkled face. He had an eager, talkative way, and he was continually buying new things, — a pencil, or a billfold, or one of the innumerable novelties that are sold by street-corner peddlers, — and insisting that all of his customers notice and admire his new possession.

Joe slipped into the cigar store, and grunted when Tom spoke to him. At intervals a chill plucked at his scalp and made the hairs rise and waver. His breath was still accelerated from his fierce struggle with Pug, and his body tensed each time he thought of the man he had killed.

Perhaps even now Pug was still faintly breathing. The knife had sunk deep, and had not been removed. Pug had twitched; his feet had stirred upon the floor... No, he was dead now. Lying with a surprised look in his eyes. Maybe Pug had squirmed a bit, or fallen from the bed, but... He was lying quiet now. Looking surprised, but quiet. Joe felt his scalp crawl.

He had to do something; fix things so he wouldn’t be suspected. He had to do something; plan something. Make Tom think he had been here a long time. Stayed here from ten o’clock until—

“Look at this watch,” said Tom, offering a thin, octagon-shaped timepiece for Joe’s approval. “Bought it this morning. Perfect shape. Seventeen jewel. A bargain.”

Joe looked, and then his eyes blurred. The watch was a half-hour slow! A half-hour slow... Joe knew that the time was at least ten-thirty, because he had started for Pug’s room at ten-fifteen. But the watch was a half-hour slow! The hour hand had crossed the figure ten, and the minute hand was at twelve. The watch was running, its second hand was gayly marking off sixtieths of a minute, and — it was a half-hour slow! The watch said Ten o’clock.

Here, begging to be used, pleading to be accepted, was an alibi. It was almost too easy. It was being forced upon him. It was too easy. And yet—

Joe took the watch from Tom’s proud hands, and caressed it with trembling fingers. Ten o’clock. A half-hour slow. But Tom should not know that—

“Pretty good watch,” continued Tom, his manner insinuating that the timepiece was an extraordinary and extremely valuable article. “Cost me twenty-five. Worth a hundred. See this lever?” He touched a small gold slide. “That’s the chimes. Listen.”

While Joe held the watch, Tom drew out the tiny gold lever. A soft, clear bell rang ten times, slowly.

“Tells time in the dark. Pretty good watch,” said Tom, boastfully.

Joe gripped his jaws together to still the chattering of his teeth. When Tom had worked the lever of the watch, he had thought that perhaps the cigar store man wanted the return of his property. Joe would give the watch back, but he would begin his alibi first. He would make sure that Tom would be positive that he had been in the cigar store at ten o’clock. Too easy? Why, he wanted something easy like this.

Putting the watch to his ear, Joe listened to its clicks. His body prevented Tom from seeing the timepiece. So, when it crashed to the floor, the cigar store clerk was surprised. Joe had deliberately dropped it.

Now! No matter what happened, Tom would now swear that Joe had been in the cigar store at ten o’clock. There remained but one thing to be done: Joe must now arrange that he should be remembered somewhere else at ten-thirty, or later.

“I’ll pay for having the watch fixed,” said Joe, picking it up from the floor, and finding that it had stopped. “I didn’t mean to drop it.”

He took Pug’s roll of bills from his pocket, and. peeled off the top one.

Tom was distressed; new lines appeared in his wrinkled face.

“That’s the best—” he began.

“You’ve got the money to have it fixed,” Joe interrupted. He was impatient, eager to go elsewhere. “I’ve loafed around here long enough. Think I’ll travel.”

He started toward the door. He would go to the corner grocery store, and make some mention of the time there. Or to the nearest drug store. Then his alibi would be perfect, bombproof.

His feet clung to the floor, and he stretched one hand to the counter to steady himself. He felt sick, as though a solar-plexus blow had caught him unawares.

Looking in through the door of the cigar store was a detective.

Joe could tell a “dick” by one swift glance. Just as wild animals know when a man is armed and dangerous, and when he is without a weapon, so Joe could detect those who were dangerous. And the man who peered in the doorway was an officer of the law.

Cummings was a huge mountain of a man, ponderously built, blue-eyed and impassive. He saw Joe, and started to enter the store.

Fright flowed frigidly through Joe’s veins; he was caught in the grip of a paralyzing fear. Now, while his alibi was in the process of making, would he be caught and held? Would he be arrested? Now, immediately after he had seemed so safe. That alibi had been too easy.

"You live next door,” stated the detective, his enormous body filling the doorway. “Who runs that rooming house?”

“Mrs. Britt.” Joe answered weakly. “She lives two blocks away. What do you—”