Black Mask (Vol. 22, No. 2 — Mary 1939)

He was almost inside when a voice from one of the inner rooms bellow: “Whoozat, Mamie? If it’s the girl, bring her in quick.”

Mrs. Groh threw a troubled glance at Paul Tyler, and replied to the bellowing voice. “It ain’t the girl, Mike. It’s a canvasser. He’s selling vacuum cleaners. I thought maybe as long as we’re goin’ to have some money—”

“T’hell wit’ him. T’row him out!”

Heavy footsteps sounded, and a huge man appeared in the long hall which led down into the kitchen at the rear of the apartment. This man was in his undershirt. His face was ruddy, and his fists were knotted. He glared at Paul.

Paul Tyler knew that if he didn’t make a sale, he wouldn’t eat. He had put down his last ten dollars as a deposit for the Easy-Way Cleaner, and he had no more money. If he could sign these people up, the crew manager would let him draw two or three dollars advance commission. And the Sales Manual said that a belligerent prospect was the easiest one to sell once you overcame his resistance.

So Paul persevered.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Groh. I was trying to help your wife. I’m sure you want to make things as easy as possible for her.”

Mr. Groh rumbled deep in his throat, and he suddenly reached out a heavy hand. He gripped the handle of the vacuum cleaner, and snatched it up.

Paul said, “Here!”

“I’ll show you!” the big man roared.

He stepped back, raised the cleaner in the air, and brought it down in a smashing blow, swinging it with both hands. The heavy mechanism of the cleaner crashed sickeningly into the floor. There was a crunching, grinding sound, and the nice shiny streamlined 1939 Easy-Way Vacuum Cleaner lay there — dented, smashed and twisted.

Paul Tyler stood stock-still, gazing down at the wreck of the machine for which he had deposited his last ten dollars.

Mrs. Groh gasped, and her chins shook. “You shouldn’t ought to’ve done that, Mike.”

But Mr. Groh wasn’t through. “Now git!” he ordered. He stepped over the shattered cleaner, and launched a huge fist at Paul’s face.

Paul Tyler had spent four years at college, during which period he had not learned how to make a living. But he had learned how to dribble a basketball, how to sprint and high-jump, and how to box. At this point in his career he found a use for the education he had acquired in the halls of higher learning. He moved his head an inch to the right, and the ham-like fist of Mr. Groh merely grazed his cheek. At the same time Paul Tyler brought up his own fist to meet the onrushing jaw of Mr. Groh.

There was a very sharp crack, and simultaneously with it there was also another and louder sound, like the report of a gun or backfire from an automobile. Mr. Michael Groh’s head snapped back with Paul’s blow. A deep grunt escaped from somewhere within him, and then blood flecked his lips. His jaw popped over at a crooked angle, and he fell forward, crumpling on the floor.

Paul had put into that blow all of the sudden bitter anger welling up within him at sight of the ruined cleaner. Now he bent and picked it up, examining it ruefully.

But he had only a moment for this examination. A set of vicious, clawing fingernails flailed at him, and only his instinctive leap backward saved his cheek from being raked.

It was Mrs. Groh. She had sprung silently, but now she shrieked, “You’ve killed him! You’ve killed Mike! You—”

Paul waited for no more. He eluded her next attempt to rake his face, and backed precipitately into the outer hall, lugging the ruined vacuum cleaner. He snatched at the doorknob, pulling the door shut in Mrs. Groh’s face.

He was on the ground floor of the apartment house, for it was prescribed in the Easy-Way Sales Manual that canvassers should start at the top of a house and work down. So he didn’t have far to go to reach the street. He stumbled out into the open air, and realized that his hat was still in the Groh apartment.

At the same instant Mrs. Groh appeared at the street door.

“Stop!” she screamed. “You murderer!”

The house was in the middle of the block, between Eighth and Ninth Avenues. There were quite a few people on both sides of the street, and they turned to stare at the screaming fat woman. Then their stares switched to Paul Tyler.

Paul suddenly felt lost in a hostile world. He was almost certain that his blow had not been sufficient to kill the porcine Mr. Groh. Yet he seemed to sense the accusation all about him now.

Mrs. Groh was coming at him with blazing eyes, and he was seized by panic. She changed her refrain from, “Stop, murderer!” to “Grab him, grab him!”

But Paul was already running, with the ruined cleaner slung across his shoulder. People stepped out of his way. Mrs. Groh waddled after him.

Paul sprinted blindly toward the corner of Ninth Avenue. A man lunged at him, but Paul straight-armed the man, and kept going.

A police whistle was shrilling loudly somewhere. Behind him, down near the Groh house, a revolver roared, and some one yelled, “Stop — in the name of the law!”