Several of us regulars were sitting
around the Model Garage shop watching Gus Wilson work when State Trooper
Jerry Corcoran came in and handed him a newspaper clipping.
"News of your old friend," he grinned.
Gus read the clipping and whistled
softly.
"So they got him at last," he said.
"Who got who?" somebody wanted to know.
"The G-men got Slicker Bailey," Jerry
told him. "They've been after him for...
How long is it since your boat ride,
Gus?"
"Seven years," Gus replied. "Well, he
won't plan any more bank robberies. He made a mistake trying to shoot it
out."
"Fatal," Jerry agreed. "But he was the
smoothest caser in the business."
"What is this?" Doc Foley demanded.
"What's a 'caser'? And why is he Gus's
friend?"
"A caser," Jerry explained, "is a fellow
who works ahead of a bank-robbing mob - plans the stickups and getaways. As
for 'Slicker' being a friend - Gus won't deny he and 'Slicker' were once
very close."
"Two close for comfort," Gus grunted.
"Remember the stickup of the First
National in
Greenport
Harbor?" Jerry went on. "It was
pulled on the Wednesday of Race Week. They got 10 grand, and there was only
one clue - one of the mob appeared to have an artificial arm. By Saturday
we didn't have a thing. Then Gus stepped in."
"I was aboard," Gus protested. "Forget
it."
Of course we wouldn't forget it, and
before we went home we had the story - part from Gus but most from Jerry.
Here it is!
Before the war even as industrious a man
as Gus could take time out to relax once in a while, and he was doing just
that in the shop doorway late that not Saturday afternoon when a
Greenport
Harbor taxi drove up. The man
who got out was a sporty-looking individual in ice-cream pants and a
brass-buttoned blue coat, and the visor of his white-topped yachting cap was
pulled down over a pair of penetrating gray eyes.
"You look comfortable," he smiled.
Gus grinned back, "I was about to close."
"Know anything about marine engines?" the
visitor asked.
"Well," Gus said cautiously, "they're a
little out of my line.
Greenport
Harbor is where you find the
experts."
"I just came from there," the yachtsman
nodded. "Every mechanic in the place is up to his ears in work. And I want
to be on my way tonight. My name's
Gillingham - J.C. Gillingham, Chicago. I've got a
motor yacht over in the harbor. Been there all week watching the races.
Last night my engineer came aboard drunk, and I had to fire him. I don't
know a lot about engines, but once we get going I'll do all right. The
trouble is I can't get the engine started. Drive over with me and start the
engine, and then name your own price."
Gus hesitated, and
Gillingham laughed. "Be a good guy!" he urged and
Gus gave in.
Through the drive to
Greenport
Harbor and during a good dinner
at a roadhouse,
Gillingham talked familiarly of men Gus knew to be
prominent in the shore community.
"Most hospitable crowd. I've ever run
into," he declared. "Made me feel as much at home in their club as I do in
my own. Even old Jonas Manderville. When I dropped into see him about a
little business matter.
I figured he was just another small-town
banker, but after we'd talked for half an hour he offered me a guest card at
his golf club. Too bad his bank was robbed."
It was evident when they reached the
yacht club that
Gillingham was popular there. He replied jovially to
the hails of a dozen or more members, most of them dressed exactly as he
was, but he kept on going. "Here's my dinghy," he said when they reached
the dock.
They got into the boat,
Gillingham again the outboard motor into activity,
and they put-putted down the harbor past stock tall-masted racers and smart
power yachts that bounced vaguely in the warm, growing darkness. Finally
they came alongside a big motor cruiser that lay at the mooring busy
farthest out. When they climbed aboard, a man came along the dock toward
them.
"Fellow to fix the engine,"
Gillingham told him, and led the way into a dimly
lighted main cabin where three men were playing cards. Their faces in
shadow, they stared silently. "Fellow to fix the engine,"
Gillingham said again and Gus followed him through a
passageway, with closed stateroom doors to the bulkheads at either side, and
into the engine compartment.
Gus took off his coat and went over the
engine. It was an old one that hadn't had too good care, but there didn't
seem to be anything seriously wrong with it. After five minutes of checking
he found out why it wouldn't start the fuel-pump filter was clogged. He
cleaned it and asked
Gillingham to press the starter button. The engine
roared into life at once.
"That's fine,"
Gillingham said. "I'll fix it with one of the boys
to take you ashore . Be right back."
"I'll have to wash up first."
"Yes, of course,"
Gillingham said over his shoulder. "First door on
your - "
The cabin door slammed, and Gus didn't
hear the rest. He picked up his coat, went into the passageway, and
waited. After a minute he got impatient and tried the knob of a door. It
turned, and he pushed the door open. A light was on, and he stepped into a
small stateroom. He looked around for a wash basin - and his jaw dropped.
On top of the built-in chest of drawers
lay a human arm, its hand in a black glove!
Gus's heart skipped a couple of beats.
Then he grinned. It was an artificial arm, of course. Then his heart
skipped again as he remembered something Jerry had told him - that one of
thugs who stuck up the
Greenport
Harbor bank had an artificial
arm!
A rasping voice made him start. "What
are you doing in here?" A sallow, hard-faced man was getting out of a bunk
in which he had been lying fully dressed. He had only one arm - and in his
lone hand he had a wicked-looking automatic.
There were quick footsteps in the
passageway, and Gus turned to see
Gillingham, his face still smiling but his gray eyes
hard.
"I'm sorry," Gus said. "I was looking -
"
"You're going to be sorrier!" the
one-armed man grated. He too, looked at
Gillingham. "No use trying to bull him, Slicker,"
He's wise - I seen it in his eyes. Get outta the way while I plug him."
"We're still in the harbor, you bophead,"
Gillingham snapped. "When we get outside we'll drop
him overboard - with something heavy tied to his feet."
The one-armed man grunted grudging
assent, and he and
Gillingham went out, locking the door behind them.
Gus had good reason to be scared - and he
was. He sat on the bunk and tried to figure a way out. Then he heard the
engine start, and in a short while the motion of the boat told him they had
reached open water. There were cigarettes and a lighter on the bunk. He
lit one and looked around. His eye caught a small-diameter copper pipe
running along the bulkhead. He examined it closely, and hope flared.
"Looks like the fuel line," he muttered. "If it is. - " He snapped the
lighter and held its flame against the pipe.
For what seemed like a minute nothing
happened. Then the engine stopped. Gus grinned. "Thought so-vapor lock,"
he whispered. He kept the flame against the pipe until he heard footsteps,
and then he sat quickly on the bunk. The door opened, and
Gillingham and the one-armed man comin' in.
"Something's wrong again,"
Gillingham told Gus. "We'll make a deal. You get
the engine running, and keep it running, and we'll put you ashore safe and
sound."
"All right," Gus said, "I'll do it."
With the one-armed thug at his heels, he
followed
Gillingham to press the starter button. He did, but
nothing happened.
"Wait a minute," Gus said - and he
noticed that
Gillingham left the ignition on. He disconnected the
fuel line, primed the carburetor with enough gas t run the engine for 10 or
15 seconds, and set the throttle wide open. Now he was sure that enough
time had passed for the vapor look to have cleared away. He pointed the
disconnected end of the fuel line at a spark plug and said: "Try again."
Gillingham pressed the starter button. Gus spurted
on the spark at the plug and instantly there was a flash of blinding flame.
Gus jumped backward and crashed into the bulkhead. Fresh gas, pumped
through the disconnected fuel line by the racing engine, burned viciously.
Gus picked himself up to grope his way to the deck. Someone yelled, and an
automatic cracked. Gus leaped across the deck, wrenched free a life ring
lashed to the rail, threw it far, and dived.
He stayed under water as long as he
could. When he came up the cruiser was blazing from stem to stern. He saw
the life ring a dozen yards away, swam to it, and worked his way out of the
glare of the burning boat. Half an hour later he was picked up by one of
the motorboats attracted by the fire.
Doc whistled. "What's the end?"
"This is the end," Jerry said, holding up
the news clipping. "What was left of the one-armed thug and one of his pals
was found on the boat. Two others got away in the dinghy, but we were
waiting for them when they landed. Both had big rolls, and they squeaked on
"Slicker" Bailey.
"Gus's story was kept out of the papers
so "Slicker" - if he was alive - wouldn't find out he'd been squealed on.
He was alive all right - he could swim like a fish. And pretty soon some
more bank jobs turned up that he might as well have signed his name to. But
he was slick, and it took the G-men seven years to catch up with him."
"Yes," Gus said, "they always get their
man, though. But since you fellows took to making a club out of this shop,
I never get a decent dinner - I always get down to the Park House after the
meat's gone. Scram!"
END
