Blonde Bait for the Murder Master

Seconds later she slid in beside me and the door chunked shut, not too loudly. Her warm arms circled my neck and her hair, the color of honey in the sun, and as fragrant, tickled my cheek while she said my name over and over.

“How long can you be out?” I asked.

“Maybe a half hour. Let’s stay right here instead of driving around, Brian.”

“What about the neighbors?”

“I’m getting sick of worrying about the neighbors; I’m getting sick of this whole thing.”

“They making it rough on you, darling?”

“Every chance they get they slip in some sly remark about you, Brian.”

“You know the answer to that one.”

She sighed. “I know your answer. It isn’t that simple. Come marry me, he says; leap right into the wild blue yonder, he says. What kind of a life would it be, Brian? Wondering from one minute to the next how long it will be before we get a call from the police.”

I flushed with annoyance. It was the same old song. “Maybe you’d like it trying to scrimp along on what I would be making as a cop. Look at Quinn.”

“Molly is a happy woman, Brian. She works hard; there aren’t many luxuries, but she’s happy and secure.”

I knew well the stubborn honesty of her, and I knew exactly what I was going to do. I had planned it enough times. What if I was lying to her? As soon as the doublecross had been accomplished, I would be making enough money to buy that respectability she prized so highly.

I made my voice stern and said, “Kit, we can’t go on this way. We’ve got to come to a decision, and soon. Will you marry me?”

“If you get an honest job, yes,” she said with a chill in her voice.

Maybe I hammed up the heavy sigh of resignation. “You win, Kit,” I said.

Her face was a pale oval, her breath warm on my lips, “You mean...”

I pulled the slip of paper out of my pocket. “Here. Take this. It’s a list of addresses showing where a raid can knock off the stitching machines, the printer, the books, the supply of tickets, twenty of the route men and a long batch of over-the-counter outlets. As long as I have to get out of the business, I might as well do a clean job of it.”

That wasn’t too much of a lie. I wouldn’t have the same job in the new setup; I’d have a better job. No hired boy stuff. One of the managers, with a salary to match. Nothing less than five times what I was making. Then I’d make them see my point. Hell, I’d even buy the house next door, set up an amplifier and drum it into them until they cried quits. And Kit would want that big house on the hill.

“Darling!” she breathed, and her lips were fresh and warm. Totally unlike the lips of Anna Garron, totally unlike anything else in the world.

Then she backed away. “But won’t they... get you? Hurt you?”

“The list you got is typed on a machine they can’t trace. Unless you tell, nobody will know. The D.A. won’t make you give away your source. I’ll even let them drag me in and I’ll post my own bail and pay my fine when the case comes up. They’ll never know.”

“And then after it blows over, darling, I’ll marry you right away. I can keep working and that’ll give you a chance to find a really good job.”

“Sure, sure,” I said, and kissed her.

The plan was in motion, and Anna and I were being carried along on it. From then on, the plan was boss. No backing down. “Look, Kit. The right time for the raid is on Thursday at noon. Today is Friday. Tell them to hold off until then, or they won’t get much. Okay?”

A few minutes later she slipped out of the car and I heard her footsteps going back toward the house. They seemed freer, happier footsteps than had been before. For a minute or two, I almost wished that what I had told her had been the truth. Then I remembered Brock stuffing those wads of currency down into the sack. No, my way was the right way; she’d see it, sooner or later.

I clicked the lights on, held my watch down so that the dash lights touched it. Twenty after nine. Plenty of time to line up Gulbie Sherman out by the tracks. I knew Gulbie since before college. He was ideal for our purposes. There was no danger of his getting wise and holding out on us, and there was no danger of his talking.

There are mammoth freight yards at Murrisberg. The yards themselves are enclosed by hurricane fence, and are floodlighted at night. But out on the edge of town, heading east, the number of track decreases. That end of town is pretty grim. The city dumps smoke endlessly, and the narrow asphalt roads are pitted with deep potholes. One road runs on a sort of ledge about ten feet higher than the tracks. From the road you can barely see the edge of the roof of Gulbie’s shack. He built it of stuff he rescued from the city dump. It nestles down under the ledge and his door is about fifteen feet from the nearest tracks. Right across the way is a semaphore.

As I pulled off onto the shoulder, a light rain started, dotting my grey gabardine suit. I cursed, turned the lights and motor off, slipped and slid down the steep narrow path. There was a flickering light in Gulbie’s window I hammered on his door, and pushed it open.