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

Steward, still holding his head, staggered into the house. Baxter, prodded forward by a guard, saw a gleaming kitchen. He was wondering why convicts should be allowed in the warden’s house, even to make repairs. If Steward had arranged this trip, he must have strong influence.

Gardner set down the tool kit and gestured toward a door, and Steward pulled it open.

Baxter, looking through a dining-room, saw a girl with a warm tan skin and mellow eyes. Her legs, crossed, showed a pleasing expanse of silk that ended in high-heeled pumps. Her black dress had sheen enough to match her hair, appealingly piled on her head. She looked up, startled, and moved out of Baxter’s sight. But her fleeting smile stayed in his memory.

A moment later she came through the dining-room, and Baxter had an uneasy feeling that she was going to parade her social position. But she smiled at him and spoke in a soothing voice:

“Will you be finished soon?”

Gardner glared as if he resented her friendly attitude.

“Yes, Miss Dodge,” said Baxter quickly. “You’re the warden’s daughter, aren’t you?”

“Silence!” commanded Gardner.

“Yes, I am,” said the girl, still smiling. “My friends know me as Joan Dodge... Mr. Gardner, I’m a human being. I can’t be rule-conscious and hard — like you.”

Happiness surged through Baxter, and he noticed that even Steward was smiling a little. That girl was worth plenty — to humanity, to her father, to the man who would become her husband...

An hour later, back in the furniture shop, Steward cursed profanely and gave Gardner a few gutter names.

“He’s a heel,” Baxter agreed. “A guy I’ll take apart first chance I get.”

Steward stopped cursing and glared. “You only think so, Sholes. He’s plenty tough and bad medicine.”

Baxter shrugged.

“You notice the arrangement of the house and the garage?” Steward asked nervously.

Baxter nodded.

“Swell! When we get out of the little wall door, which Dodge always uses, we’ll snatch the girl and run across to the garage for the car.”

“You want a hostage, huh?”

“That’s right. But we’ve got to take the chance she’ll be there when we crush out. Without her we’ll have more trouble.”

“And we’ll time our break so we catch Dodge just when he’s ready to go home, huh?”

“Say,” said Steward admiringly, “you catch on quick. Here’s the rest of the plan: There’s a ventilating shaft in the wall near your cell. It’s got a grilled plate in front, but there aren’t any screws holding it. The screw heads at the corners are just screw heads — nothing more.”

“Well, I’ll be damned! How’d you manage that?”

Anger flared in Steward’s eyes again. “How I get things done in this stir is my business. Anyway, the shaft goes in two feet and then angles toward the tier above. The angle isn’t very sharp, and it’ll hold a package.” He shook his head. “The screws — they’re watching!”

A little later he began talking again. “The package I was telling you about has six one-grand revolvers in it, all loaded.”

“You mean,” said Baxter incredulously, “they cost you a thousand bucks apiece?”

“Right. And I’m letting you in for what you’ve got guts enough to do. When you see a con on your tier stumble and fall down, you’ll know I’m ready. Then you’ll pull out the plate, start shooting and wait for me.”

For hours that evening, Baxter lay tossing, thoughts surging fitfully through his head. Six loaded revolvers in the wrong hands meant endless suffering — and death. And Joan Dodge, if she became a hostage, would never really smile again, alive or dead. For Steward and the rest, woman-hungry for years, would turn into slobbering beasts. Something more poignant than pain filled his throat and caused an involuntary groan.

Protection for the living was more important, suddenly, than getting his brother’s killer. But it was likely that by exposing the leaders of this uprising he would find the one whose gun smuggling had resulted in Jack’s death.

What the hell could he do? Certainly he’d have to prevent either the break or its success. But if the break didn’t occur now, why couldn’t the crooked prison official — whoever he was — plan something else? He’d sold out a couple of times, and he’d do it again. And if he had another chance, Baxter might not be here to stop him. No, the break would have to come — even at great cost to the innocent.

Baxter heard the tramp of a night guard making the first inspection round and saw a spot of light on one cell wall. When the spot shifted toward him, he closed his eyes.

After that, cold sweat came to his forehead. He knew what he was going to do, but if things went wrong he’d be plagued the rest of his life — if he had one to live.

The night guard came back, and Baxter trembled involuntarily. He kept trembling until it was time for Round 3, McCall’s. Light flashed then, and Baxter rolled out of his bunk, half crazy with fear and uncertainty. He couldn’t let Guard Captain McCall know that; he must be casual, competent.