Honest Money Read online

  “What the hell do I care how raw a deal it is, or what it looks like?” said Corning. “Let the loser squawk all she wants to. I’m going to get the publicity, ain’t I?”

  Fuller shrugged his shoulders.

  “I was just telling you, brother,” he said.

  “All right,” Corning said, “I don’t want you to tell me anything. All I want you to do is listen.”

  “Go ahead,” Fuller told him, “I’m listening.”

  We’re going to fake up a couple of targets right now,” Corning said. “Straight bulls’-eyes. Six shots and six dead centers for the target we use in the finals, and not quite so good a group in the one that represents the qualifying shoot.”

  “Listen, brother,” Fuller said, “you’ve got to fix the thing up so it doesn’t look quite so phoney; otherwise …”

  “I thought you were listening,” Corning said.

  “I am,” Fuller replied, “but you’ll be listening about this time tomorrow night.”

  Ken Corning picked up a rifle.

  “Put up a couple of targets,” he said. “I want to fix up the fakes, and put ‘em good and close. I don’t want to waste shots.”

  It was nine thirty when Mary Bagley came into the shooting gallery of Ted Fuller.

  “This the place where the contest is going on?” she asked, taking a newspaper clipping from her purse.

  Fuller nodded. “Meet Mr. Richey,” he said, “the guy who’s running the show ”

  Ken Corning stepped forward and bowed. “You wish to enter as a contestant?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Fill out this blank,” said Corning, handing her a printed blank and a pencil.

  Mary Bagley filled in her name, address, occupation, and looked at Ken Corning with cold, hard eyes.

  “Is this on the up-and-up?” she asked.

  “Sure it’s on the up-and-up,” he said.

  “And there’s a cash prize of one hundred dollars?”

  “That’s right,” Corning told her. “And a loving cup.”

  “I’m not so strong for the loving cup,” she said, “but I can use the hundred.”

  “All you’ve got to do to get it, is to win,” Corning said. “Just sign the application blank showing that you’re to be governed by the rules of the contest, as established by the manager.”

  “What are the rules?” she wanted to know.

  “Simply that you shoot a qualifying target any time between now and eleven o’clock tonight. At eleven o’clock, the two best targets are picked out, and there’s a final test in which six shots are fired by each contestant. Then the prize is awarded.”

  “Now listen,” she told him, “if I shoot in this thing, I’m likely to win, so I don’t want any misunderstandings.”

  “There won’t be,” said Corning, handing her a gun. “If you don’t make a certain score, you have to pay for your own shots. If you go above that score, I pay for the shots.”

  The girl picked up a rifle, squinted down the sights, raised and lowered the hammer in order to get the pull of the trigger.

  “Any practice shots?” she asked,

  “No practice shots,” he told her.

  “All right, put up the target.”

  Ted Fuller clipped a pasteboard target on the carrier, looked at Corning significantly, and by a swift tip of his wrist, sent the target down the long, dark tunnel, until it finally came to rest against the back-stop, with a diffused electric light showing the target in bright illumination.

  The gun snapped to the girl’s shoulder. She shot with both eyes open. The six shots came belching forth from the gun in rapid succession She laid down the gun and turned to Corning.

  “All right,” she said, “pay for the shots.”

  Fuller pulled on the carrier wire, which started the target fluttering back towards them.

  “Wait until I see the target,” Corning said.

  Fuller held up his hand, caught the target as it came along the ware, gave it a single swift glance, then turned to Corning and grinned.

  “Pay for the shots,” he said.

  Ken Corning flipped a coin on the counter.

  The girl looked at her wrist-watch.

  “The final is at eleven o’clock?” she asked.

  “That’s right,” Corning told her.

  “I’ll be back,” she said.

  A crowd of curious spectators that had formed in a semi-circle around the back of the shooting gallery opened to let the girl through as she went out.

  Ted Fuller moved over towards Ken Corning, handed him the target.

  “You’re going to have trouble,” he said, out of the side of his mouth.

  Ken Corning said nothing, but slipped the target into the pile of targets.

  The crowd grew in size.

  Two uniformed policemen appeared to hold them in line. Fuller did a rushing business in between times, the gallery echoing to the sound of shots. Toward eleven o’clock another policeman appeared. The three officers kept the crowd back.

  At ten fifty-five, Mary Bagley returned to the gallery.

  “Who shoots off the finals?” she asked.

  “We don’t know yet,” Corning told her. “It isn’t eleven. Somebody may show up in the next five minutes.”

  Mary Bagley shrugged her shoulders.

  “I don’t know who I’m going to shoot against,” she said, “but I’m going to be in at the finals.”

  Corning stood with his watch in his hand. At precisely eleven o’clock he slipped it back into his pocket.

  “All right,” he said, “pick out the two best targets, Fuller.”

  Ted Fuller’s thin, restless hands pawed through the pile of targets. In the background, five or six young women with blonde hair, and of various ages and sizes, surveyed each other with silent hostility. Back of them surged the crowd of spectators.

  “These two,” said Fuller, pointing to Mary Bagley and to Marian Sharpe.

  “All right,” said Corning, “let’s shoot off the finals.”

  Fuller clipped a target on the carrier.

  “You shoot first,” Corning said to Mary Bagley.

  She looked at Marian Sharpe with keen appraisal, then turned and picked up the gun.

  “All right,” she said.

  Once more she shot with both eyes open. The spectators surged forward, against the line which had been extended by the police. The unsuccessful contestants stared with a disdainful scrutiny.

  Mary Bagley shot more slowly this time, but her shots were spaced evenly and regularly. As she snapped back the pump mechanism of the rifle she did it with a forceful regularity which punctuated the interval between shots. They were as evenly spaced as if timed.

  As she fired her sixth shot, she set down the gun on the counter, turned to Corning.

  “This other jane uses the same gun and the same sights,” she said. “Understand?”

  Corning nodded affably.

  “Certainly,” he said.

  Ted Fuller flipped his hand and brought back the target. As he handed it to Corning and Mary Bagley, and as they leaned forward to study it, Ted Fuller put the new target on the carrying mechanism. He stood so that his body shielded the target from the gaze of the spectators, then he sent it scurrying and fluttering along the long, dark tunnel, until it came into position at the back of the tunnel, against the back-stop, full in the field of light.

  By the time Mary Bagley looked up from a contemplation of her target, Marian Sharpe was shooting.

  Mary Bagley watched with wary eyes; saw the manner in which the girl slid back the repeating mechanism; saw the almost imperceptible wince as the gun was fired. Her eyes became scornful and her lip curled.

  The girl fired the sixth shot, set down the gun, and looked at Ken Corning. There was something pleading in her eyes.

  Ted Fuller stepped back and gave the wire a quick, sharp pull. The wire rolled over the pulleys, and the target came fluttering back. Ken Corning was careful to wait until it had reached
a point almost directly in front of Mary Bagley, before he brought it to a stop. He stood in full view of the spectators, unclipped the target, then whistled. He pushed it towards Mary Bagley.

  “Look at that!” he said.

  Mary Bagley looked at it with eyes that slowly widened.

  Ken Corning raised his voice.

  “Miss Marian Sharpe,” he said, “wins the prize of one hundred dollars and the loving cup.”

  “I,” said Mary Bagley, slowly and distinctly, “will be a dirty name!”

  Corning passed over the ten ten-dollar bills to Marian Sharpe, and glanced significantly at the crowd, then started to applaud. The crowd caught the hint and broke into a spattering chorus of applause. Before it had finished, Mary Bagley was standing in front of Ken Corning, her eyes blazing.

  Her first words were snapped out before the applause had finished, and the crowd, sensing the purport of her remarks, became instantly curiously silent.

  “What kind of a skin-game is this?” she demanded. “That target’s a fake and you know it! There isn’t a shot in the world that could shoot that kind of group at that distance, and hold the gun the way that broad held it. She damn near closed her eyes every time she fired. That target was a frame-up!”

  Corning shrugged his shoulders and turned away.

  “You signed the application blank,” he said, over his shoulder, “and said that you agreed to abide by the rules of the contest and the selection of the winner. Miss Sharpe has been selected as the winner.”

  “Baloney!” blazed the girl. “You can’t pull a stunt like that. I’ll have you arrested!”

  Corning kept his back to her, but took the arm of Marian Sharpe, and piloted her through the crowd.

  On his way to the rooming-house on Maple Avenue Ken Corning stopped to telephone the police.

  “Listen,” he said, “I don’t want my name used in this and I don’t want anybody to know who I am. I’m just giving you a tip. You can take it or leave it, but I’ve got a room in a rooming-house at 329 Maple Avenue. There’s a couple of guys in a room on the same floor who have made a dicker with a fellow to give them some counterfeit money and a bunch of dope. I heard them make the deal. They’re going to make a delivery some time within the next hour. The room is number 49, and there’s a closet in that room. The guys are out now, but if you can get a couple of men to hide in the closet, you can catch them right when they make the delivery. But don’t ever let on that you had a tip, or they’ll know who gave it to you.”

  He slammed up the telephone, took a taxicab to his rooming-house, but did not enter at once; instead, he went across the street and stood lounging in a shaded doorway, watching.

  Within a matter of ten minutes, a light coupé slowed down and pulled in to the curb. Two tall, square-shouldered men pushed their way purposefully from the coupé, and entered the rooming-house. The coupé moved away.

  Corning waited another five minutes, then went up the stairs of the rooming-house, unlocked the door of his room, went in, sat down, turned on the light, and started to read a newspaper.

  Fifteen minutes passed, while Corning smoked and read. Then there were steps in the corridor, and peremptory knocks on the door.

  “Come in,” said Corning.

  The door pushed back. A squat, heavy-set man with black mustaches stood glaring at him. Behind him, and slightly to one side, was Mary Bagley.

  “This the guy?” asked the man.

  “That’s him,” said Mary Bagley.

  The heavy-set man pushed his way into the room, waited a moment until Mary Bagley came in, then kicked the door shut.

  “You’re the guy that put on the shooting contest,” said the heavy-set man.

  “Who are you?” asked Corning. “And what business is it of yours?”

  “Never mind,” said the man. “I came here to see that this jane gets a square deal. That thing was the crudest kind of fake, and you know it. You can’t pull anything like that and get away with it. I’ve been in the shooting gallery business myself, and I know just how it was done. This winner was picked in advance. She didn’t even shoot at the target, but shot at the back-stop. The target was a frame-up all the way through. The whole thing was put on ice… .”

  “You,” said Ken Corning, speaking in a cool, calm voice, “seem to know a hell of a lot about it. If you know so much about how that was done, maybe you can tell me what these are.”

  He reached his hand in his pocket, took out a wallet. From the wallet he took two pieces of tom paper.

  “Know what these are?” he asked.

  The man stared with black, glittering, hostile eyes.

  “What the hell do I care what they are?” he asked.

  “They’re bits of red tissue paper that are stained with blood,” Ken Corning explained.

  The black eyes lifted from a contemplation of the torn fragments of paper, to stare glittering menace at Ken Corning.

  “They are,” went on Corning, “bits of paper from the torpedo which was exploded to make it seem that the shot which killed Frank Glover was fired from the group of men who were near Glover at the time he fell.

  “The real shot was fired from a .22 automatic in Mary Bagley’s apartment. You fired the shot, and then slipped out and placed the gun back of the signboard. Mary Bagley posed as a witness.”

  The glittering black eyes became ominous, with a slight reddish-brown tint suffusing the pupils.

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” said Pete, the Polack.

  “Oh, yes you do,” said Ken Corning slowly. “That’s the reason that all of the tenants in the corner apartments were moved out. You didn’t want anyone to hear the sound of the shot. I figured you were back of it because it took an expert shot to fire a single shot from the window of that apartment, and be certain Glover was killed. The other men were your accomplices. They baited George Pyle into losing his temper, then were careful to hold him in such a position that he was out of the line of fire, but so that you could shoot to one side of him, and make it appear that the bullet had come from his general direction.

  “You thought there was a chance you might be looked for, because it was your gun. Pyle had left his fingerprints on it when he took it away from you and you had carefully preserved those fingerprints. But I figured Mary Bagley for your friend, and knew that if she had been your friend, she’d have hung around your shooting gallery and learned how to shoot pretty well. I also figured that if she got a raw deal she’d be pretty likely to hunt you up to champion her cause, so you’ve walked into my little trap.”

  “You can’t prove a damned thing!” said Pete.

  Corning shrugged his shoulders.

  “I can raise a reasonable doubt in front of a jury,” he said, “so that they won’t convict Pyle, and I rather think they’ll convict you.”

  Pete’s right hand suddenly flicked to his shoulder. There was a glitter of motion, and Ken Corning found himself staring into the black muzzle of an automatic.

  “Well,” said Pete, “I’m not so sure that you’re going to keep in good health, myself. You look unhealthy to me.”

  Corning stole a glance back to the closet door.

  Nothing happened.

  Little glittering lights played across the dark surface of the eyes which bored into his.

  “Don’t, Pete!” said the girl in a hissing voice. “You can’t get away with it.”

  “The hell I can’t!” said Pete.

  “Not here! Not here. Take him for a ride.”

  The lights continued to play about the eyes, but a look of cunning came over the face.

  “That,” said Pete the Polack, “isn’t a bad idea. Get your hat, guy, and start walking out. Walk easy and natural.”

  Ken Corning got his hat, started for the door. Pete the Polack moved up close to him. Corning reached for the knob of the door.

  “Never mind,” said Pete. “The broad will open the door. Go ahead, Mary.”

  The girl pulled the door open
. Pete moved close to Ken Corning, Ken Corning started through the door, scooped out his right arm, caught the girl about the waist, and flung her back against the man with the gun.

  Pete cursed, jumped to one side. Corning side-stepped before Pete had the gun free. He fired. The bullet ripped a hole in the side of Corning’s coat as it went past. The girl screamed, dropped to the floor.

  Corning lashed out his right fist. The girl cursed, rolled over, grabbed Corning’s left leg and sunk her teeth into the calf.

  Pete the Polack reeled backward under the impetus of the blow, but flung up the gun again. Corning tried to kick his foot loose from the grip which held it. The girl clung to him tightly, her arms locked around Corning’s leg.

  There were swift steps in the corridor behind Corning. A voice shouted: “Stick ’em up!”

  Corning ducked. Pete fired. The girl’s grip weakened. A gun behind Corning roared booming reverberations. Pete flung his weapon slightly to one side, fired again. Corning was conscious of someone behind him stumbling, lurching against the plastered wall, then slowly slumping downward with fingers scraping along the plaster.

  Corning leaped over the girl’s kicking legs, faced Pete the Polack. He saw the gun coming up, lashed out with both hands, trying to catch the hand which held the gun. Pete jumped back, and Corning flung himself forward in a tackle. He heard the roar of two shots fired in rapid succession, felt the jar of lead thudding into the huge torso, heard Pete groan, felt him sway, then heard a peculiar sputtering noise as blood bubbles came to the lips of the man and broke. The form went limp in his arms.

  Ken Corning turned and straightened. One of the plain-clothesmen stood in the room, his face twisted with hatred, an automatic in his hand.

  “The dirty—— killed the squarest dick that ever walked in shoe leather!” he said.

  Mary Bagley sat up and screamed. The plainclothesman grabbed her wrist, dragged her across the floor. Pete the Polack made gurgling noises and tried to talk.

  “I think,” said Corning, “he wants to make a confession. You’d better listen.”