The Getaway Read online

  He was at a row of lockers near the train gates; no more than twenty feet away from the uniformed station attendant who stood at Gate Three—their gate—consulting his watch. Smiling engagingly, he was opening the locker for a well-dressed elderly woman, placing two expensive cowhide bags inside.

  He slammed the door, tested it. He handed her a key and picked up the money satchel. Tipping his hat, he turned away. And suddenly he saw Carol.

  His expression never changed. He took a step straight toward her, smiling, apparently on the point of calling a hello. And then, with a movement that was at once abrupt and casual, he disappeared behind the lockers.

  “Doc—” Carol gestured feebly.

  But Doc had already spotted the satchel, identified the thief for what he was. He strode past her, and after a moment’s indecision, she followed him.

  By the time she had gotten behind the lockers, neither Doc nor the thief was in sight. They had disappeared as quickly and completely as though the floor had opened and swallowed them up. She turned, started to retrace her steps—and if she had, she would have seen the thief hasten through the train gate, with Doc following in brisk pursuit. Instead, however, she continued along the row of lockers, turned into the aisle formed by another row, and thence on to the end of that before coming out into the open again. By which time, of course, Doc and the thief were long since gone from view.

  She stood there in the corridor, looking this way and that, seeming to shrink, to grow smaller and smaller in its lofty vastness. She had never felt so bewildered, so lost, so alone. Doc—where had he gone? How could she find him? What would happen if she couldn’t?

  Reason told her that he must have followed the thief onto the train. But—and here reason questioned its own statement—would a smart thief choose the train as an escape route? And would Doc have followed without a word or sign to her?

  He’d have been in a hurry, of course. He would doubtless assume that she was heeling him, even as he was heeling the thief. But—suppose she was wrong. Suppose the pursuit had led back up into the station.

  She wouldn’t know that he wasn’t on the train until she had looked, and by that time…

  She shivered at the thought. Herself on the train, and Doc here—the two of them separated in a hostile and watchful world. He wouldn’t dare to make inquiries, to look for her; even to wait around the station for her return. For that matter, he could not be sure that she hadn’t taken a powder on him. After last night, that drunken hateful talk of Beynon’s…

  Maybe Doc had run out on her! Maybe he’d recovered the money and abandoned her! He was sore, she thought; more accurately, suspicious. She needed him, but he did not need her. And when Doc no longer needed a person…

  The trainman looked at her sharply. Then, with a final glance at his watch, he slipped it into his pocket and started through the gate.

  “Mister!” Carol hurried toward him. “Did a couple of men go through here just now? A rather tall older man, and a man with a…”

  “A couple of men?” The trainman was irritably amused. “Lady, there’s probably been a hundred. I can’t…”

  “But this was just in the last minute or so! The one in front would have had gray hair and a little mustache!”

  “Were they catching the train for California?”

  “I—I don’t know. I mean, I think they were but…”

  “Well, if they were, they went through here. If they weren’t, they didn’t.” He fidgeted impatiently with the gate. “What about you? You taking the train?”

  “I don’t know!” Carol almost wailed. “I mean, I’m not sure whether I should or not. Can’t you remember…”

  “No, I can’t,” he cut her off shortly. “Kind of seems like they did, but I wouldn’t say for sure.”

  “But it’s so important! If you’d just…”

  “Lady—” his voice rose. “I told you I wasn’t sure whether I saw ’em or not, and that’s all I can tell you, and if you’re taking the train you’ll have to do it right now. It’s already two minutes late pulling out.”

  “But…”

  “Make up your mind, lady. What’s it going to be?”

  Carol looked at him helplessly. “I guess,” she said. “I guess I really should—shouldn’t…”

  “Yes?” he snapped. “Well?”

  Scowling, he waited a second or two more. Then, as she remained undecided, he slammed the gate and went down the ramp.

  8

  The barn was pleasantly cool—clean and sweet-smelling with the aroma of fresh straw and new hay. In one of the rear stalls a swaybacked horse nickered contentedly. From a partitioned-off kennel, also in the rear, came the happy yappings of a litter of puppies.

  There were two box stalls at the front, small floored rooms open at the aisle end. Rudy Torrento was in one, propped up on a cot while the veterinarian worked over him. Opposite him, in the other, was the doctor’s wife. The doc’s name was Harold Clinton, so she, of course, was Mrs. Clinton. Fran, her husband called her, when he wasn’t addressing her sweetishly as hon or pet or lambie. But Rudy didn’t think of her by any of those handles.

  He’d seen this babe before—her many counterparts, that is. He knew her kin, distant and near. All her mamas, sisters, aunts, cousins and what have you. And he knew the name was Lowdown with a capital L. He wasn’t at all surprised to find her in a setup like this. Not after encountering her as a warden’s sister-in-law, the assistant treasurer of a country bank, and a supervisor of paroles. This babe got around. She was the original square-plug-in-a-round-hole kid. But she never changed any. She had that good old Lowdown blood in her, and the right guy could bring it out.

  Seated on a high stool with her bare, milk-white legs crossed and her chin cupped demurely in the palm of her hand, she watched moist-lipped as her husband completed his work. She wore an expensive-looking plaid skirt, somewhat in need of cleaning and pressing, and a tight white sweater of what appeared to be cashmere. Her shoes were scuffed, their spike heels slightly run over. But her corn-colored hair was impeccably coiffured, and her nails glistened with bright red polish.

  She’d do, Rudy decided; yes, sir, Miss Lowdown would do just fine. But that red polish would have to go, even if her eensie-teensie pinkies went right along with it.

  He caught her eye, and winked at her. She frowned primly, then lowered her lashes and smoothed the sweater a degree tighter. Rudy laughed out loud.

  “Feeling better, eh?” The doctor straightened, beamed down at him professionally. “That’s the glucose. Nothing like a good intravenous feeding of glucose to pull a man together fast.”

  “Ain’t it the truth?” Rudy grinned. “Bet you didn’t know that, did you, Mrs. Clinton?”

  She murmured inaudibly, then tittered that she couldn’t even spell glucose. Rudy told her that her husband was a plenty smart man. “Plenty,” he repeated. “I’ve been tinkered over by high class M.D.s that didn’t know half the medicine your old man does.”

  “Well, uh, thank you.” Clinton’s thin face flushed with pleasure. “I only wish that the people around here, uh, shared your high opinion.”

  “Yeah? You mean to say they don’t?”

  “Well…”

  “They don’t,” his wife cut in curtly. “They think he’s a dope.”

  Clinton blinked at her from behind his glasses. He was either unoffended, or resigned to such offenses: doubtless the last, Rudy decided. “Now, uh, Fran,” he said mildly, “I don’t believe I’d put it quite that way. It’s just that they’re rather set in their ways, and, uh, a young man like me—someone probably more interested in the theory of disease than actual practice—why…”

  “So the sun don’t rise and set here,” Rudy said. “If the people aren’t smart enough to appreciate you, why not go someplace where they are?”

  “Where—where they are?” The doctor hesitated. “I’m afraid I don’t know, uh, where—how…”

  Rudy let it lay for the moment. He asked how his conditio
n appeared to the doctor, and Clinton replied that it was excellent. “You have a wonderful constitution, Mr. Torrento. Might even say—ha-ha—that you had the constitution of a horse.”

  “Ha-ha,” said Fran Clinton. “That’s really good, Harold.”

  “It’s a riot,” Rudy said. “But what about the bandages, Clint—the wound? How often should I have it looked after?”

  “Well, a couple of times a day perhaps. That’s barring any unusual developments.”

  “How you mean, unusual?”

  “Well, uh, fever. Any signs of gangrene or putrefaction. But I’m sure there won’t be any. Just have it cleaned and rebandaged a couple of times a day for the next couple of days, and—and—” His voice died suddenly. He went on again, his eyes evading Rudy’s. “On second thought, it might be wiser if you didn’t have it tended at all. Might just irritate the wound, you know. Keep it from healing.”

  “It might,” Rudy nodded. “I wouldn’t know. You wouldn’t maybe be kidding me would you, Clint, old boy?”

  “K-kidding you? Why would I…”

  “Because you want to get rid of me pronto, and you figure that if I need any taking care of, you’ll be elected to do it.”

  Rudy pulled the heavy .38 from his belt, twirled it by the trigger guard and let the butt smack into his palm. Grinning savagely, he took aim at the doctor’s stomach.

  “Now, maybe you’d better have a good third thought,” he said. “Just think real careful and give me the truth. Will I need more lookin’ after, or won’t I?”

  “Y-you’ll—y-y-y—” It was as far as the doctor could get.

  “I’ll need it, huh?” Rudy flipped the gun again and shoved it back into his belt. “Well, that’s all I wanted to know. Just shoot square with me, and you got no more trouble than a flea in a dog pound. Now,” he added casually, “I guess you want me to clear out of here.”

  Clinton nodded, weakly apologetic, as he sagged down onto a canvas camp stool. “Oh well, you did promise, Mr. Torrento. You said that…”

  “And I’ll keep my promise,” Rudy lied, “if that’s the way you want it. I’ll leave, and you’ll call the cops, and…”

  “N-no! No, we won’t, Mr. Torrento! I…”

  “…and then maybe tonight, maybe five years from now, you’d have a visitor. It’d probably be me, because I got quite a rep for breaking out of tight spots. But if I didn’t make it, some pal of mine would. Anyway, you’d have a visitor—like the guy that fingered Willie Sutton had one—and you know what he’d do to you, Clint, to you and the little lady here, before he did you a big favor and killed you?”

  He told them, threatened them with what would happen; lips wolfishly drawn back from his teeth; eyes holding them with an unwinking reptilian gaze. He finished the discourse, and the sudden silence was like a scream.

  A drop of sweat rolled shinily down the veterinarian’s nose. His wife gulped and clapped a hand to her mouth, spoke through the lattice of her fingers.

  “We—he won’t call any cops,” she said whitely. “He even looks like he’s going to, and I’ll murder him myself!”

  “Well, now, maybe he’d feel that he had to,” Rudy said. “I’m hot as a three-dollar pistol. I need medical attention. Say I’ve got a three to one chance of getting away, and you’re giving me the best of it. Wouldn’t you figure it that way, Clint?”

  Clinton cleared his throat. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Rudy beamed at him falsely.

  “Kind of one of those hell-if-you-do-or-don’t propositions, ain’t it, Clint? You holler copper and you and Frannie get your clocks fixed. You don’t do it, and you’re still in the soup. They got enough on me to fry me six times. That’d bring you and Fran in on accessory raps for forty or fifty years.”

  “A-accessories?” the doctor stammered. “But how would they know that…”

  “I’d tell them,” Rudy said cheerfully. “I’d name you as accessories.”

  “B-but—but, why? After we’d helped…”

  “Because I’d figure you were boobs,” Rudy said, “and boobs I got a very low boiling point for.”

  Clinton shook his head in bewilderment. Helplessly, hopefully, he looked at his wife. There was some indefinable change in her expression, something that carried a chill shock and yet seemed entirely natural to her. He had a feeling that he had never seen her before; that she was at once a stranger to him and an old friend of Torrento’s.

  “What,” she said, “is the proposition—Rudy?”

  “What do you think? That you and Clinty boy go along with me.”

  “And?”

  “I fork up for a new car. I pay all expenses, and me, I wouldn’t kick on a little expense like a mink jacket. You get anything you want, as soon as we’re where we’re safe to buy it. You cross the country first-class, and when we hit California there’ll be a ten-grand bonus.”

  Her eyes gleamed softly. “That sounds good,” she murmured. “That sounds real good, Rudy.”

  “Good, hell,” Rudy said. “It’s perfect. Big dough for you, a new car, and a swell trip. And not a chance in the world of getting caught. Clint bandages me up so that no one can see what I look like—I been in a bad accident, see? Then…”

  “I won’t do it,” Clinton had found his voice at last. “We are not going with you, Mr. Torrento.”

  “You shut up!” His wife glared at him fiercely. “I guess I’ve got something to say about what we’re going to do!”

  “Now, take it easy,” Rudy said. “What’s wrong with the deal, Clint? I thought it added up good for you, but maybe I could sweeten it a little.”

  “What’s wrong with it?” The doctor waved his hands wildly. “Why—why, everything’s wrong! I’m a respected citizen, a professional man. I can’t just throw everything I am overboard, and go gallivanting across the country with a—uh—I couldn’t do it for any amount of money!”

  “Why couldn’t you?” Rudy asked interestedly.

  “Well—uh—because! I just got through telling you!”

  “The respected citizen gimmick? But you ain’t going to be one, remember? You won’t be very long, anyway, unless you figure on being a dead one with a hide full of broken bones and a pound of raw hamburger for a face.”

  “He’s already dead,” his wife snapped contemptuously. Then, her manner changing, she slid off the stool, crossed the aisle and knelt at Clinton’s side. “Now, Harold, hon,” she coaxed, “why do you want to act like this? Don’t you love me any more? Don’t you want me to be happy? We could have such a wonderful life together, hon. Not having to worry and fret about money all the time, and people respecting and looking up to you, instead of laughing and joking like…”

  “But, Fran!” The doctor squirmed. “I—you know I love you and want you to be happy, but…”

  “That’s been your whole trouble, hon. Money. You just didn’t have the money to get started off right. Oh, I know how smart and wonderful my lambie is, even if I haven’t acted like it, and I could just absolutely cry sometimes when I think how different it could be for him. Just think of it, lambie! Starting out in a new place, with everything we need to make a good impression. Good clothes, and a swell car and a decent place to live. And a real office for you, hon. A nice big office, and a fine big laboratory where you could carry on your experiments…”

  She held him close, and over his shoulder she winked at Rudy. Clinton twitched and sputtered, simultaneously attempting—it seemed—to return her embrace and disengage himself from it. His protests grew weaker and fewer. Finally, as a last resort, he professed a willingness to take on the enterprise, he wanted to do it. But the potential danger made it unthinkable.

  “We might have an accident, and they’d find out who Mr. Torrento was. Or the police might just stop us on suspicion—you know, one of those routine investigations. A lot of criminals get caught that way and…”

  “A lot of people get nibbled to death by wild ducks,” Rudy yawned. “But I’ll tell you what I’ll do,
Clint. We get a bad break like you mention, and you and Fran can be hostages. I’ll back you up on it. You’re helping me because I’d’ve killed you if you hadn’t.”

  Clinton sighed, and gave up. All his life he had given up. He didn’t know why it was like that; why a man who wanted nothing but to live honestly and industriously and usefully—who, briefly, asked only the privileges of giving and helping—had had to compromise and surrender at every turn. But that was the way it had been, and that apparently was the way it was to be.

  “I suppose it doesn’t seem to you that I’m giving up much, Mr. Torrento,” he said dully. “But to me—” he paused, his eyes straying to the swaybacked mare, and his voice gathered new strength. “They’re awfully smart, Mr. Torrento. You wouldn’t believe how smart and, uh, nice they can be. Why, you take something like a pig or even a garter snake, and pet it and feed it and fix up whatever’s wrong with it—just treat it like you’d want to be treated if you were what it is…”

  “Oh, put it in a book.” His wife jumped to her feet. “We’ve got things to do.”

  Rudy’s car was driven into a weed-choked and rocky pasture, buried beneath a stack of moldering hay. (It is still there if anyone cares to look.) The doctor’s business and professional affairs were wound up by two brief telephone calls, ending his lease and turning over his practice to another veterinarian. Neither the landlord nor the other vet was surprised by this action, or its nominal abruptness. Clinton had been barely eking out an existence. The rundown acres and tumbledown house, rented furnished, had discouraged far more resourceful and tenacious tenants than he.

  After taking Rudy’s temperature again and urging him to rest, Clinton drove away in his ancient jalopy. He had more than three thousand dollars of Rudy’s money in his wallet. His destination was a nearby city, where the cash purchase of a car would arouse no suspicion.

  Fran Clinton waved him a loving good-bye from the doorway of the barn, then sauntered back, hips swinging, and resumed her stool opposite Rudy. “Well,” she smirked, “how’d you like the way I handled stupid?”