Paul Cain: Seven Slayers

Stokes sat on a corner of the big library-table, his long legs dangling.

He said: “You’re airing Ben — how do we know you’ll play ball with us?” His eyes were stony.

I looked at the old man. I said: “I don’t like that fat — son of yours — and I never double-cross the best offer.”

Luke McCary was a thin little man with a pinched red face, bushy white hair. He sat in a big armchair on the other side of the table, his head and neck and wild white hair sticking up out of the folds of a heavy blue bathrobe.

He looked at me sharply. He said: “I don’t want any part of it.”

“Then I’ll have to act on the best offer.”

Stokes grinned.

The old man stood up. He said: “Why — damn you and your guts...” He opened a humidor on the table and took out a small automatic. “I can shoot the buttons off your vest, young fella... I can shoot you for a yegg right now, and no one’ll ever know the difference...”

I said: “You’ll know the difference — for not having taken advantage of talent, when you had the chance.”

He put the automatic back in the box and sat down and smiled gently at Stokes.

Stokes was looking at the floor. He said: “Five grand if you wipe out the whole outfit. Run ’em out of town, stick ’em in jail, poison ’em... Anything.”

“Wouldn’t you like a new railroad station too?”

They didn’t say anything for a minute. They looked at me.

I went on: “No sale. I’ll take care of Ben for that — but busting up the organization would mean sending for a few friends — would cost a hell of a lot more than five...”

The old man looked the least bit scared for a second-then he said: “Ben’ll do.”

“How about laying something on the line?”

Stokes said: “Don’t be silly.”

The old man cackled. “Well I never saw such guts,” he said.

I said: “All right, gentlemen. Maybe I’ll call you later.”

Stokes went downstairs with me. He smiled in a strange way. “I never knew the old man to go for anything that look’s as tricky as this. I guess it looks good because Ben thinks you’re working for him.”

I nodded. I said: “Uh huh — Ben’s a swell guy. He’ll probably blast me on sight.”

“I don’t think you’ll find him at his joint.”

I waited and Stokes leaned against the door, said: “There’s a big outfit downstate that’s been running twelve trucks a week through here from the Border. They’ve paid off for this division of the highway for years — to the old man. The last two convoys have been hi-jacked at Four-mile Creek, north of town — a couple drivers were killed...”

He paused, looked wise a minute, went on: “That was Ben. There was a convoy due through last night — they run in bunches of four, or six — it didn’t show up. It’s a cinch for tonight — and that’s where Ben’ll be.”

I said: “That’s fine. How do I get there?”

Stokes told me to follow the main highway north, and where to take the cutoff that crossed Four-mile. I thanked him and went out.

I walked down to a drugstore on the corner and called a cab. When it came, I got in and had the driver jockey around until he was parked in a spot where I could watch the front door of the McCary house.

After a while, Stokes came out and got into a roadster and snorted up past us and turned down the side street. I told the driver to follow him. I don’t think the driver knew who it was. It didn’t matter a hell of a lot anyway.

I got out and told the driver to wait and walked on down Dell Street, keeping close to the fence. It was raining pretty hard again. I passed the place where Lowry had come up to me, and I went on to the corner; and then went back the same way until I came to the narrow gate I had missed in the darkness.

It was more a door than a gate, set flush with the high fence. I finagled with the latch for a while and then pushed the gate open slowly and went into a yard. It was a big yard, full of old lumber and old box-car trucks — stuff like that. There was a long shed along one side, and a small two-story building on the far side.

I stumbled along as quietly as I could towards the building and then I went around the corner of a big pile of ties, and Stokes’ roadster was sitting there very dark and quiet in the rain. I went past it and up to the building and along the wall until I saw the lighted window.

I had to rustle around quietly and find a box and stand on it to see through the little square window. The panes were dirty; the inside looked like a time-office. Stokes and Ben McCary and another man were there. They were arguing about something. McCary was walking around waving his arms; Stokes and the other man were sitting down. I couldn’t hear a word they said. The rain was roaring on the tin-roof of the shed and all I could hear was a buzz of voices.

I didn’t stay there very long. It didn’t mean anything. I got down and put the box back and wandered around until I found McCary’s car. Anyway, I guessed it was his car. It was a big touring-car and it was parked near the gate on the opposite side of the block from Dell Street, where Stokes had come in.

I got in and sat in the back seat. The side-curtains were drawn and it was nice to get out of the rain for a while.

In about ten minutes, the light went out and I could hear voices coming towards the car. I sat down on the floor. The three of them stood outside for a minute talking about “a call from Harry” — then Stokes and the other man went off towards Stokes’ car, and McCary squeezed into the front seat and stepped on the starter.

I waited till we had burned through the gate and were halfway up the block, and then I put a gun against the back of McCary’s neck. He straightened out in the seat and eased the brake on. I told him to go on to the old man’s house.

We sat in the big room upstairs. The old man sat in the big armchair by the table, and Ben sat across from him. I was half lying down in another chair out of the circle of light and I had the gun on my lap.

The old man was fit to be tied. He was green with hate and he kept glaring at Ben out of his little red-rimmed eyes.

I said: “Well, gran’pa — if you’ll make out that check now, we’ll finish this business.” The old man swallowed.

“You can give me your twenty-five hundred in cash,” I went on to Ben. “Then I’ll put the chill on both of you — and everybody’ll be happy.”

They must have thought I meant it. Ben got rigid, and the old man cleared his throat and made a slow pass at the humidor.

I fiddled with the gun. I threw a pack of cigarettes on the table and said: “Smoke?”

The old man looked at the cigarettes and at the gun in my hand, and relaxed.

I said: “Still and all — it don’t quite square with my weakness for efficiency, yet. Maybe you boys’ll get together and make me an offer for Stokes. He’s the star — he’s been framing both of you.”

I don’t think Ben was very surprised — but the old man looked like he’d swallowed a mouse.

“He’s been in with Ben on the truck heistings,” I went on. “He’s been waiting for a good spot to dump you — working on your connections.”

The old man said: “That’s a — damned lie.”

“Suit yourself.”

I went on to Ben: “He made the five-grand offer for your hide, in Luke’s name, tonight — and he gave me the Four-mile steer...” I hesitated a moment. “Only you wouldn’t try three in the same spot, would you?”

Ben finally got his smile working. He started to say something but I interrupted him:

“Stokes told me you rubbed the two boys on the trucks, too.”

Ben’s smile went out like a light. He said: “Stokes shot both those men himself — and there wasn’t any need for it. They were lined up alongside the road...”