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

Three faint taps, coming with another flash of light, brought him to his feet. The flash-light was turned off now, and he could see only a shadow.

“Baxter?” came a faint whisper.

“Yes. You, McCall?”

“Yup. Anything turn up?”

“Not yet.”

“All right. See you this time tomorrow.”

Next morning No. 7233 managed to stay close to Baxter, who again felt the scrutiny of those wild eyes. Just before noon he began talking:

“What’s your name?”

“Hank Sholes.”

“Jolt?”

“Twenty years.”

“For what?”

“Safe blowing and assault, if it’s anything to you.”

“It is — plenty. And don’t use that attitude with me.”

Baxter snorted. “All right, wise guy. What’s your name and what are you doing time for?”

No. 7233’s eyes rolled loosely, but he didn’t move his head. “I’m Al Steward, a lifer. I shot my wife because she stood in my way.” His forearm muscles twitched. “She wouldn’t give me a divorce.”

Baxter remembered Al Steward, who, because of his seven-figure wealth, had made national news during his entire trial. A high-priced battery of lawyers had tried to have him committed to an asylum, but the State’s alienists had convinced the jury of his sanity. So the lawyers had concentrated on saving him from the chair.

Baxter knew, too, from remarks made by his brother, that Steward was suspected of buying privileges by giving some guard coded orders for cash, payable by the attorney in charge of the Steward estate. His prison record was studded with offenses — fighting, insubordination, conspiracy. But he hadn’t spent much time in the hole, had never involved his “connection,” if there was one.

“Sholes,” Stewart said, “you want to know why you’re here?”

“Sure, you sap. For blowing a safe. I told you that before.”

Steward turned, quick rage running across his face. Baxter was beginning to understand some of the impulses that had turned this man, educated and probably well bred, into a killer.

Steward was fingering a hammer. “I’m warning you, Sholes, for the last time. You know damn well I mean this shop, not the stir.”

Baxter’s face hardened and he stepped up to Steward. A guard yelled, “Hey, you two! Break it up!”

Baxter moved back with apparent reluctance, and Steward mumbled:

“Damn screw! Anyway, Sholes, you’re here because I want you here. You may think you were transferred because you bopped a screw in the shoe factory, but that isn’t it. Or maybe it is. If you hadn’t slugged him, I wouldn’t have heard about you.”

“You’re talking in circles, Steward,” snapped Baxter. But there was one thing that made Steward’s story ring true, the prison rule that trouble-makers should never be put together. “Don’t play me for a fool. You’re only another con.”

Steward shrugged slightly. Watching the guards, he muttered: “I know how to use my money, and I’ve got plenty.”

“All right,” said Baxter wearily. “You had me transferred. Why?”

“I need guys like you, tough guys with guts and muscles.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to crush out, and so are you.”

“Yeah? You probably want a fall guy.”

This time, instead of getting angry, Steward showed a warped grin. “You’re so suspicious you wouldn’t trust anybody. And that suits me fine.” He fell into deep silence, apparently concentrating on a mortise, then added: “Think it over, Sholes.”

Baxter grunted. Steward, who mixed good English with prison jargon and whose dangerous hair-trigger temper could be controlled, must have some power, or the prison would have robbed him of all delusions years ago.

Later in the day Baxter handed Steward a chair spindle. “Think we ought to send this back to the turners?” Then he whispered: “I’m in on that job with you, pal.”

“Good!” said Steward.

“Hey!” yelled a guard. “Come over here, you two.”

Baxter and Steward laid down their tools and went to the entrance, where a floor guard stood with Deputy Warden Gardner, whose watery eyes were laughing. Baxter, grim-faced, came to attention.

“No. 7233,” said Gardner to Steward, “you’re a pretty good man with tools. You and No. 7544 will go to the warden’s home with an escort and repair a few doors that stick. Fall in!”

They fell in between a couple of armed guards, with Gardner carrying a small tool kit in the rear. As they crossed the bleak prison yard, Steward muttered, “Keep your eyes open, Sholes.”

There was a spattering sound, followed by a quick groan from Steward. And then Steward was on the ground, his right hand clapped to a bloody spot behind his ear. Gardner stood above him with a police positive, gloating.

“For Gawd’s sake!” screamed Steward. “What have I done?”

“Plenty!” snapped Gardner. “You said something to No. 7544. Talking isn’t allowed, except at prescribed times.”

The five men passed through a little door in the wall to get into Warden Dodge’s back yard. The house, simple and attractive, stood on prison property, but outside the walls. There were rolling lawns, broken only by walks and driveway strips from the garage to the street.