Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

“Damned if I do,” he grated. Then he shook himself and hurried on. From the corner of his eye he saw a large, heavy man dogging his steps. The man wore square-toed shoes and a derby hat, articles which Cyrus immediately associated with detectives.

This fellow was probably Winston’s policeman, following him, ready to reach out and grasp him by the shoulder. Cyrus shivered. Visions of prisons, iron barred windows and stripes rose before his eyes.

He came to a motion picture palace where an electric sign winked a message which he did not even try to read, bought a ticket, held it in a shaking hand and fled within.

Heads bobbed, countless feet padded over the thick carpets, the orchestra blared forth under a spray of rose-colored lights — but Cyrus hardly knew what was going on.

The friendly blackness renewed his waning courage. There was no sign of the man in the square-toed shoes. Perhaps he was waiting at the door. The thought wilted the little teller again, and he shook in his seat until the man beside him turned and peered at him curiously.

At seven o’clock he left the theater and strayed into a dimly lighted street, walking fast as he pondered his next move. He realized now that he had planned the thing badly.

He had simply made up his mind to take the money. Where he was going with it, except that he had a vague idea of Canada, had not entered into his calculations. But he must decide now. Time was precious.

He thought of a farm, two hundred miles from the city, where he had once spent a brief vacation. It was a desolate spot, far from the doings of his world. He would be safe there. Later he could make his way into Canada and lose himself under another name.

“That’s best,” he told himself. “Best I can figure out now, anyway.”

He turned toward the railroad station, stopped, retraced his steps. The police would be watching the trains. He got on a street car bound for a suburban depot. It would be safer.

When he got off the car a new possibility came to him and sent a shudder down his spine. Suppose he should be held up and robbed? He looked into the faces of the frowzy bums who lined the curb. Any one of them would be capable of doing the job for much less than the fifty thousand which Cyrus was carrying.

“And with murder thrown in,” he said to himself. “What I need is a gun.”

The worn gilt sign of a pawnshop caught his eye and he went in. He had no knowledge of firearms, but he inspected several weapons critically, bickered with the bearded proprietor over the price, and finally emerged with a revolver in his hip pocket. It had a comforting feel.

Cyrus bought his ticket quietly, passed through the gates, and hurried to the train.

As he started to climb aboard he was roughly shouldered aside by a man who growled:

“Where yuh think you’re going?”

Cyrus swallowed his Adam’s apple. His tongue was as dry as a stick. He could not speak.

“I got here first,” the man went on, “and I’m gonna get on first.” He disappeared into the coach.

Cyrus smiled. Let the poor fellow rave. He probably worked for his money. Cyrus touched his hip pocket. No more work for him. He had fifty thousand dollars.

II

Who-ee-ee!

The wind came out of the north, whooping and howling as it bore down on the sleeping town of Hayden. It rattled shutters, growled in dark doorways, and thrashed through the trees that lined the deserted street. With it came the rain.

Who-ee-ee!

The wind caught Cyrus Steep from behind, flipped his coat tails like a bad boy, and sent him on his way, a shuffling ghost, his chin deep in his collar, his soggy hat pulled low over his eyes. A fearful ghost was Cyrus, casting timid glances at the apprehensive shadows that flickered to the fancy of the gale.

Who-ee-ee!

A tree limb, shaped like a strangling hand, reached out for him. Cyrus dodged, his teeth clacking from fright, regained his balance and fled. Immobile maples made him quake and curse. Stirring bushes brought the cold sweat to his forehead.

A stray dog, rooting in a hedge, caused him to break into a run as though he were pursued by the devil himself.

Cyrus had arrived in Hayden long after dark. The tiny waiting room at the railroad tracks had been deserted. There was no human being within sight or call, so there was nothing to do but to walk the four miles to old man Shevlin’s lonely farmhouse.

Who-ee-ee!

“God!” said Steep low in his throat. “I didn’t know it would be like this.”

His voice sounded small and far away to his own ears.

He was in the open now, on the boggy country road, and his shoes made sucking noises in the mud. The trees had thinned out, but the wind made mournful, sighing noises in a field of waving grain.

On a far ridge the lights of a train twinkled for an instant and were lost in the shadows. Cyrus wished that he was safely abed in some dark sleeping car, speeding away to the ends of the earth. What fool notion had ever brought him to this Godforsaken place?