Richard Deming - Gallows in My Garden

Arnold Tate’s room, a student clerk at the desk informed me, was 210. I made my way up the stairs, knocked on the door, and a voice called, “Spit on the floor and slide under.”

Opening the door, I found a young man of about twenty lying on one of the beds in his undershirt. He jumped to his feet embarrassedly when he saw me.

“Gee, I thought you were one of the guys, or I wouldn’t have hollered that.”

I grinned at him. “This Tate’s room?” I asked.

“Yes, sir, but he’s not in. I’m his roommate.”

“Manville Moon,” I said, holding out my hand.

He shook it solemnly and informed me he was Willie Gillis and a junior.

“Arnold usually gets back about eight,” he said. “He always spends the week-end in town, you know.”

“I was afraid of that,” I said ruefully. “I missed him last Sunday, too, and I can’t wait for two more hours.”

“Last Sunday?” he said, surprised. “I was here all evening.”

“I just phoned from the depot and the clerk said he was still in town. About nine o’clock, I think it was.”

“That was a late night for Arnold,” Willie said. “He just barely caught the last bus, the one at two a.m., and got in about a quarter of three. Hardly could make classes the next day.” Suddenly he laughed. “Unless you know Arnold pretty well, you don’t know how funny that is. Old Early-to-bed-and-early-to-rise, I call him. He says sleep is just as important as study, and won’t stay up beyond eleven even during exam week. But take your coat off and sit down, Mr. Moon. Why you wearing a coat around in this weather?”

The real reason, of course, was that a suit coat when the temperature was near one hundred was less conspicuous than a shoulder holster hanging out where everyone could see it.

“My business requires it,” I told him truthfully. “Thanks for the invitation, but I can’t stay. Give Arnold my regards, will you?”

“Glad to,” he said agreeably.

As I reached the stairs, a bell suddenly set up an infernal clangor. Instantly the halls filled with students, who moved quickly, but without running, down the stairs. My initial thought was that it was a fire alarm, and I began to move more quickly myself. Then from the unexcited babble of conversation around me, I realized it had only been the dinner signal, and I suddenly became hungry.

Next to the bus depot was a hamburger stand. As my bus was not due to leave for twenty minutes, I employed the time in getting rid of my hunger.

As I stepped outside again, the first thing I saw was a car at the curb which had not been there when I entered the hamburger stand. It was a black sedan with a squat, white-suited man in the driver’s seat. The rear door hung open, and in the back sat an English lord, a wide, horsy grin on his face and his hammerless revolver in his hand.

Normally I stay at least half awake when not in bed, and the only way I can explain being taken so easily, particularly when I knew the pair was on my trail, is that I must have been semidazed from the heat. Of course the two gunmen were suffering the same heat, and seemed none the less alert for it, but I have no other alibi.

“Get in,” invited the man in the back seat in such a polite tone I could hardly refuse.

I glanced quickly both ways along the street, hoping the yellow convertible was still in the parade, but as usual Greene was missing at the only time he was needed. Not only that, but no other living soul was on the street at the moment.

I climbed into the car, leaving the door open.

“Pull it closed,” said the tall man. I pulled it closed.

“Put your hands on the back of the front seat.”

I put my hands on the back of the front seat.

The sedan pulled away smoothly and proceeded down the street at a sedate twenty miles an hour. With his revolver muzzle gently pressed between my second and third ribs, the tall man reached under my arm and removed the P-38 there. It occurred to me I might as well have saved myself the discomfort of carrying a heavy gun around in this heat, since I never seemed to get much use out of it when it was needed.

“You can sit back now,” said his lordship.

He moved to the far corner, keeping his gun muzzle steadily pointed toward me, but no longer touching my side.

“Just as a matter of curiosity,” I said, “how did you find me after I left your bowlegged friend at the railroad station?”

His bowlegged friend emitted a low growl, but the tall man’s grin remained friendly. “Easy, chum. Or rather, Mr. Moon, if chum is too familiar for your taste. Had a spotter on. your flat.” His grin crooked slightly, and his eyes flicked at the back of his companion’s head. “You made Harry look kind of like a monkey at the railroad station, but that train stops at the west end station before leaving town, so he didn’t have to ride very far. Harry can act real quick, once he catches on.”

Without turning, Harry growled, “I suppose you wouldn’t have gotten on the train at all, master mind.”

I asked, “How’d you pick me up on the way to the station?”

“We got a system, chum. Mr. Moon, that is.”

“Sure,” I said. “You got a phone call from the Lawson house as soon as your employer found out we were leaving.”

“You’re a bright boy, Mr. Chum. See why we have to be careful about you?”

He grinned at me as though I were a favorite nephew, but the tone of his voice made the short hair back of my neck stand out straight. I was afraid I knew what he meant by being careful.

With a casualness I was far from feeling, I asked, “This is a kiss-off trip, is it?”

“Why, chum,” said the tall man mockingly. “How you carry on. Harry and I wouldn’t harm a hair of your pretty little head.” He paused, then added almost as an afterthought, “Unless you didn’t feel like telling us where you took the kid.”

“Grace Lawson?”

A metallic glitter for an instant showed behind the mockery in his eyes. “You been hiding any other kids recently?” he asked softly.

“I haven’t been hiding anyone at all,” I told him. “We got arrested for jumping off the wrong side of a train, and Grace kicked a cop in the shin. Grace is still in the clink, so if you’ll just call for her at police headquarters and post a hundred-dollar bond—”

The English lord transferred his pistol to his left hand and let me have the back of his right across the mouth. I sat back and stopped talking in favor of licking the blood from my lips.

We reached the edge of town, and our chauffeur opened up to fifty. When no one had said anything for two miles, I tried my luck again.

“Long as I won’t be able to repeat it to anyone after this trip,” I said, “who’s paying you for this?”

All mockery had disappeared from the tall man’s eyes, to be replaced by a hard metallic glitter. “Life’s too uncertain, chum. We could get in a wreck with a cop car, or blow a tire and turn over and me and Harry get knocked out while you stay awake.”

“Oh, sure. Or maybe my fairy godmother will turn you into a pumpkin.”

Harry said, “There’s the road ahead, but there’s a car behind us.”

I started to turn my head, but the gun suddenly jabbed my ribs. “Eyes front, buster.” To Harry he said, “Turn anyway. If he’s following, he’ll turn, too.”

Dropping his speed, Harry signaled for a left turn, braked nearly to a halt and swung into a narrow dirt road. I caught a glimpse of a sign reading, Long Pine Lumber Mill, then dust rose about the car in a cloud as Harry jammed the brakes to the floor. Behind us I heard a car swish past down the highway.

Only my window and Harry’s were open, but dust billowed through them to settle on our clothes and cling to our perspiring faces. When Harry wound his window shut, I followed suit, which made the car an oven.