Build My Gallows High by Geoffrey Homes Page B

Woodlawn Cemetery. And me with him unless I move fast. Red told himself.
    He had a handful of dynamite to heave at Sterling. He had evidence that the gambler had evaded some three million dollars in income tax. But there was one thing he didn’t have—one thing he must have if he wanted to keep on living—the affidavit accusing him of murder and bearing Mumsie’s name tucked away in the safe in Lloyd Eels’ office.

Eleven
    Through the window Petey Berg could see the bridge spanning the river—the long cables like webs of silver in the moonlight. But he didn’t care about bridges now. All he wanted to do was to get the hell away from this place. Jesus, why hadn’t he gone home? Why had he waited around hoping to pick up a few extra bucks before midnight?
    Blood oozed across one cheek. He took out a dirty handkerchief and dabbed at it and stabbing pain cleared some of the fog from his mind.
    ‘You ready to talk?’ Lou Baylord asked. Baylord’s bruised, swollen face moved into the cab driver’s line of vision. Behind Baylord stood the two men who had walked up to the hack stand around the corner from the Gotham Hotel, climbed into the cab then shoved guns in his back and told him to take them to the Hudson River Club. One was a little Greek with thick, soft lips. The other was a string bean of a man who looked like an undertaker.
    What the hell! the cab driver told himself. Why get your brains beat out for a guy you never saw before—a guy who didn’t give a damn what happened to a hack driver named Petey Berg?
    ‘Yeah, I picked him up,’ Petey admitted.
    ‘Why didn’t you say so before?’ Baylord hit him with the back of his hand.
    ‘Don’t,’ Petey protested dully. ‘Don’t do that any more. He told me not to. He gave me a saw buck to clam up.’
    Baylord made a threatening gesture. ’No, Lou,’ the thin guy said. ’He’s just a poor dumb son of a bitch.’
    ‘I’m running this.’ Baylord turned angry eyes on the thin guy.
    ‘Wait and take it out on that red bastard,’ the thin guy advised.
    ‘I’ll talk,’ Petey said.’ Ain’t no sense in me not.’
    ‘Where’d you take him?’ Baylord asked.
    ‘Grand Central. Then I went back to the St. Regis and paid his bill and got his bag. Took it to the waiting room. I didn’t see him no more after that.’
    ‘He take a train?’
    ‘I don’t know. Ain’t no trains I know of but locals that time of night. Maybe he took a local. Maybe he got himself another hotel room. Commodore and Biltmore are handy.’
    ‘You sure used up a lot of our time,’ Baylord said.
    ‘Principles, that’s why,’ Petey answered. ‘You give me dough to clam up, I clam up.’
    The thin guy fumbled in his pocket, found a bill, tossed it in Petey s lap.’For your principles, Buster.’
    ‘No.’ Baylord reached for the bill. ‘There’s better ways.’
    ‘Use your head.’The thin guy took Baylord’s arm and led him over to a corner. Petey heard them mumbling but he couldn’t make any sense out of the mumbling. The little Greek came over, put a cigarette between his lips and lighted it.’Thanks,’Petey said. The thin guy came back, put one hand on Petey s shoulder and grinned down at him.
    ‘Mr. Baylord is all for dumping you off the bridge,’ the thin guy said. ’He’s a little out of sorts tonight.’
    ‘Shut up!’ Baylord snapped.
    ‘Like I said he is out of sorts,’ the thin guy said. ‘Your redheaded fare worked him over.’
    ‘You and your goddamned cracks.’ Baylord started for him, changed his mind and directed his anger at Petey.
    ‘Maybe tomorrow or next day the cops will pick you up. Okay. You clam up about us. Get it?’
    ‘I get it.’
    ’Just forget certain things,’ the thin guy suggested. ‘Like bringing the redhead out here. You picked him up. He had a tan brief case with him and you seen a name on the case. Lloyd Eels’ name. Go on from there. The St. Regis. Grand Central. And that’s all.’ His voice got thin and sharp.