James Chase - This Way for a Shroud

Conforti had crawled into the hall by now. As he lifted his gun, Pete fired at him. Not waiting to see the result of his shot, he threw the body of the girl from him, jumped back through the open doorway, slammed the door and ran madly down a small yard, heaved himself over a wooden fence and landed, sobbing for breath, in a twisting, narrow alley.

He sprinted down the alley, hearing the sound of foot-falls behind him. He ran for some hundred yards, following the twisting alley, keeping close to the wooden fence.

Ahead of him he could see the main street with its traffic and crowds. He somehow managed to increase his speed and reached the street just as Goetz turned the last bend in the alley.

Goetz half raised his gun as he caught sight of Pete, but lowered it as Pete vanished round the corner.

Pete dashed through the crowds that thronged the street, pushing people out of his way. He had concealed his gun in his coat pocket, but people stared after him, sensing something was wrong, startled by his sweating, frightened face.

He was out in the open now. Any second a car would overtake him, and he would be cut down. He paused at the edge of the kerb, his chest heaving, while he looked to right and left. He saw a taxi, and he waved frantically. The taxi swung, to the kerb and pulled up beside him.

“The park,” Pete gasped, and wrenched open the cab door.

Hands grabbed his arms from behind and he gave a cry of terror as he looked around. Two big patrolmen had hold of him.

“Take it easy,” one of them said. “We want you, Weiner. Get his rod, Jack.”

The other cop expertly found Pete’s gun and shoved it into his hip pocket.

“We’ll take the cab,” the first cop said. “Headquarters, bud, and snap it up.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Pete caught sight of a big black car bearing down on the taxi.

“Look out!” he yelled, and wrenched himself free from the cop who was holding him. He flung himself face down on the floor of the cab as the black car swept past.

Above the noise of the traffic came the violent hammering of a machine-gun.

The cab rocked crazily under the impact of the hail of bullets. One of the cops was caught across his face by a burst from the machine-gun. His head and face

dissolved into a mess of blood and smashed bone.

The other cop threw himself down on top of Pete. The taxi driver was caught by the tail end of the burst. The shock of the bullets smashing into him lifted him out of the cab and flung him on the sidewalk.

The crowd on the street broke and ran in all directions, yelling and screaming. Several of them were caught by the burst and lay in huddled heaps on the sidewalk and the street.

The black car swept on and disappeared around the corner. The big cop covering Pete got unsteadily to his feet.

“The bastards!” he said through clenched teeth. “The goddamn bastards!”

He dragged Pete out of the cab.

“Come on, you!” he snarled, and ran Pete across the sidewalk into the sheltering porch of a store. He wedged Pete into a corner between two plateglass windows and stood in front of him, gun in hand.

“Get me inside!” Pete shouted excitedly. “You goddamn fool! Do you imagine glass’ll stop bullets?”

“Shut your trap!” the cop snarled. “There ain’t going to be no bullets.”

Even as he spoke the black car made its second run. The crowds on the street, seeing it coming, flattened on the sidewalks or dashed madly into the shops and stores for shelter.

Cars, swerving to avoid the black car that came straight down the middle of the street, mounted the kerbs. One car crashed through a plate-glass window.

“Look out!” Pete screamed, and shoving the cop with all his strength gained enough room to lie fiat.

The cop, as brave and as stupid as a charging rhino, started firing at the car as it swept past. The answering burst of fire from the concealed machine-gun was devastating. The cop seemed to fly to pieces as the whip lash of bullets tore open his chest and flung him back on to Pete.

The car braked and pulled up. Goetz and Conforti spilled out of the car, their

faces glistening with sweat, their mouths wide open with soundless yelling.

They had been told to get Pete at all costs, and they were carrying out orders.

Somewhere in the porch of the shop, under the dead cop and the heap of smashed glass, was Pete, and they knew it.

Conforti held the Thompson. Goetz had a gun in each hand.

Conforti started spraying the porch with bullets as he ran towards it.

Pete saw the line of bullets hammering into the sidewalk, spraying chips of concrete, and advancing like a carpet of death towards him.

He pulled the dead cop over him, held on to his belt, feeling the dead cop’s blood dripping on his face, and he shut his eyes.

He felt the dead body kick and jerk as bullets smashed across the dead legs. Then a new sound started his heart beating again: the sound of police sirens and the sharp crisp crack of police automatics.

Goetz, swearing, spun around as three police cars screamed down the street towards him. He raised his gun, but the first car, accelerating, hit him like an express train and flung him high into the Mr. He dropped like a half-filled sack of corn on to the sidewalk.

Conforti didn’t look back. He ran into the porch.

Pete caught a glimpse of Conforti’s legs as he bent over the dead cop. He tried to squeeze himself into the ground, clinging with all his strength to the dead cop’s belt.

Conforti spotted him and his teeth showed in a triumphant grinning snarl. He dragged the cop away with Pete still clinging to the cop’s belt.

“Get away!” Pete screamed, trying to hide himself behind the cop’s body. “Don’t do it!”

Conforti lifted the Thompson. The barrel swung up. Pete stared at the sight as it covered his face. His eyes started out of his head. He saw Conforti’s finger whiten as Conforti took in the slack on the trigger.

Then guns cracked behind Conforti.

Pete saw the sudden look of agony come over the thin ratlike face. He saw the eyes go lifeless. The Thompson jerked up as the dying hand stiffened and began firing as the dying finger automatically tightened on the trigger.

Then Conforti dropped the gun, took one step and pitched forward on his face.

A moment later Pete was surrounded by grim-faced policemen.

THE fat desk sergeant shifted his bulk on his creaking chair and nodded his bullet-shaped head.

“The Lieutenant’s questioning him now,” he said. “He’s expecting you, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he’s expecting me,” Conrad said. “What’s he doing –pushing Weiner around?”

A dreamy expression came over the sergeant’s face.

“Well, he ain’t exactly combing his hair,” he returned. “Three of our best boys got killed through him.”

Conrad swung around, crossed the charge room in three strides and went quickly along the passage, down a short flight of stone steps, then to a door at the end of another passage. He turned the handle and pushed the door open.

Pete sat in a hard, bright circle of light. The small room was full of tobacco smoke and the smell of sweat and dust. It was also full of bull-necked, red-faced detectives. Bardin was standing in front of Pete, and as Conrad entered the room, Bardin drew back his arm and hit Pete across his face with the flat of his hand. The sound of the blow was like the bursting of a paper bag, and Pete’s head jerked back and then forward.

Blood ran down to his chin from a cut lip. His dark eyes, narrowed and full of hate, looked up at Bardin without flinching.

“So you’ve never heard of Maurer,” Bardin sneered. “Don’t you read the newspapers?”