_ CHAPTER XVIII. THE ENEMY SHOWS HIS HAND
After returning from supper, Marsh sat down to look over the evening paper. The Merton case, which had replaced the Sheridan Road mystery in editorial esteem, was now retired to an inner page. He read the usual short notice that the police expected to have the guilty parties in custody within the next twenty-four hours, accompanied by an announcement of some of their plans so that the people sought could have timely warning of what to expect. Then he turned to other news of the day and the time slipped by.
About nine o'clock Marsh raised his head and listened. He had distinctly heard two sharp reports, like pistol shots. Motors continued to hum past on Sheridan Road, and he could detect none of the unusual sounds which accompany a disturbance of any kind. As a result of having hundreds of cars pass his windows daily he was used to the crack of bursting motor tires, or the back-fire in mufflers. Marsh's trained ear had seemed to catch something different in the two reports, but perhaps it was only imagination. He resumed his reading.
Three soft knocks sounded on the hall door.
It was the usual signal, and Morgan was expected. Marsh laid down the paper, and going to the door, threw it open. Instantly a small figure leaped into the entrance hall and stood facing him with its back to the living room door. A big army automatic held in a long, thin hand, covered Marsh menacingly.
"Shut the door--QUICK!" snarled the visitor.
Marsh towered above the diminutive figure, and he thought with satisfaction that with his bare hands he could crush it like an eggshell. But it has been said that the invention of the pistol made all men equal. Certainly at this moment the automatic in the small man's steady hand more than offset Marsh's physical superiority. So, though he smiled in contempt, he also diplomatically gave the door a sharp push and it slammed closed.
"Now, we'll go in and have a little talk," his visitor informed Marsh, and slowly backed into the living room.
Marsh followed.
A hasty glance showed the man the location of the big davenport. Backing to this, he sat down, looking smaller than ever, and motioned Marsh to a chair across the room. While Marsh seated himself the little man turned down his coat collar and pulled his cap up from his face. Marsh immediately recognized "Baldy" Newman.
"Now," said Newman, "you and me is goin' to have an important conference on serious matters."
Marsh did not reply. He seemed quite at his ease, and not at all interested. Nevertheless, both his eyes and his brain were actively taking stock of the situation; watching for some slip that might enable him to change their relative positions. Newman was leaning comfortably back on the davenport, his legs crossed and his feet a long way from the floor. Marsh surmised that there would be some delay in getting the latter into action again. The automatic, however, was still ready. Held firmly in one hand, the weight of the barrel was supported in the palm of the other, the back of which rested on Newman's knee. Marsh realized that when he looked at this gun he was staring directly into its muzzle. Obviously, this was a time for watchful waiting only.
"We can't figure where you fit into this here game," Newman began. "You ain't a bull; you don't work; and you don't steal."
Marsh laughed at this quaint appraisal of him.
"Well, what ARE you tryin' to pull off?" questioned Newman, his bright, piercing eyes studying Marsh's face.
"You have me at a disadvantage," returned Marsh. "I do not know what game you refer to in the first place. In the second, I cannot see why the pursuit of my private business should interest you."
"Come on--come on!" remonstrated Newman. "I ain't got any time to waste kiddin' around with you."
"Get down to the point then," advised Marsh.
"All right, I will," said Newman. "We don't mind these bulls. They're bone-heads. I can run circles around any one of them. But you're gettin' too damned close, and we want to know what you're after."
"Thanks for the tip," replied Marsh. "If I were really interested in you, the information you have just given me would be of great value."
Newman eyed Marsh suspiciously for a moment.
"Don't worry," he said. "You're not goin' to bother us much. We've arranged to take care of you, if you won't listen to reason. If you're crooked, just lay off for awhile, that's all, and we'll see you get what's right later. If you really are a bull, or are helpin' these other bulls, then I'm warnin' you to back out gracefully before it's too late. I came here with a flag of truce to give you a chance, and you can save yourself a lot of trouble by bein' on the square with me."
Bargaining with a known crook was not to Marsh's taste. If they were in the dark as to his intentions and his status, let them remain so. He guessed now that the gun in Newman's hands would not be used except as a last resort to avoid personal capture. The man's idea was to have his say, and then go as quietly as he had come, if possible. Marsh's tense watching relaxed somewhat. There was no immediate danger, and the future could adjust itself. He would like to get this fellow now, but if not, then he would get him later.
"It is none of your business what work I am engaged in," said Marsh. "Moreover, you can tell your gang for me to go straight to hell. Now, take my advice and get out quick before you lose the opportunity." Newman's lips parted in a vicious grin.
"You've got nerve, I'll say that for you," he commented. "But you don't know what a hole you're in. We've got more than one string to our bow. If you won't listen to one kind of reason, perhaps you'll listen to another. Now, you're stuck on Jane Atwood."
Marsh sprang to his feet with an oath.
"Leave that girl out of this," he cried, "or I'll beat you to a pulp!"
"Steady, Mister, steady!" exclaimed Newman. "You ain't bullet proof. Handlin' a gun is part of my business, and you won't get two feet from that chair if you make a false move. Sit down and listen to me."
Reason quickly replaced the unthinking rage of the moment, and Marsh sat down as the other directed. But his mind was made up to one thing--Newman would not leave that room now except as a prisoner or a dead man.
"That's the idea," said Newman. "You're helpless as a babe, and you might as well acknowledge it. Now, listen to this. You're crazy about Jane Atwood, or all signs fail. In fact, you probably hope to marry her. She's a classy, refined girl, with a big purpose in life. What's more, she's got peculiar notions of what's right and what's wrong. If she knew her father was a crook, and that he died to escape you, where do you think you'd get off? She'd never have anything, more to do with you, that girl wouldn't. She'd devote her life to somethin' or other to make up for her father's slip--that's what she'd do."
Newman paused, and Marsh ground his teeth and waited.
"Now, my man," continued Newman, "another false move on your part and the facts will be given to that girl, with absolute convincin' proof. There'll be no way of talkin' her out of it. You'll be through--that's all!"
While Newman talked, he had gradually leaned forward, deeply absorbed in the driving home of this final threat. The muzzle of the automatic had also slowly turned until a bullet would now strike several feet to the right. Marsh had carefully watched for this approaching opportunity and now he acted.
Like a flash, he jumped to his feet, swinging his right arm upward and forward as if hurling something at Newman. Instinct was stronger than training. The man's arms were quickly raised to ward off the expected missile. Then, realizing that Marsh was upon him, he endeavored to escape, but the powerful hands had already closed on him. He was swung upward into the air, while bullets from the automatic crashed into the walls, the ceiling and the floor, as he tried to direct its fire at his opponent.
For the matter of a second, Newman was poised in midair. Then Marsh, swept by a fierce and uncontrollable rage, dashed the helpless bundle across the room and it struck with a smashing thud. _