Mouthpiece (9 page)

“Why swipe one?” asked Carbonelli. “We can buy one or
take a train. The cops ain't looking for us in this state now since they got a
tip that we'd left here.”

“All right, let's go.”

Bill's heart was hammering. He had to keep these two
here somehow. Under his hand lay a rock. He picked it up and heaved it at the
window. The glass crashed out.

“What the hell?” shrieked Krone. “What was that?”

“A rock!” said Carbonelli in a high-pitched voice.
“They've got us surrounded!”

Krone evidently regained some of his nerve. “Surrounded,
my hat. They wouldn't have thrown that rock. They'd have shot you.”

Neither of the two had quite the courage to go to the
window again. Bill stood up and looked at the truck through the cold gray
light. He gritted his teeth against the pain of his leg and raced across the
clearing. He gained the cab before they heard him.

A bullet whined off a tree. The report was flat and
dead. Bill shot a hand under the panel and turned the
petcock
he had closed
earlier in the evening. Then he jammed his foot down on the starter. The Fiat's
engine roared away, plumes of blue smoke jumping from the exhaust stacks.
Another bullet smashed through the side of the door, came all the way through.

Bill turned off the switch and turned it on again. The
motor backfired. The sound was identical with that of exploding powder. He knew
that the ruse would not last long. Soon they'd get over their first scare and
they'd charge him.

Carbonelli threw open the door. His gun jumped. The
windshield went out of the cab. Flying glass gashed Bill's cheek. He scuttled
back and tried to open the other side of the cab. But a branch held it shut.
Suddenly Bill knew that he was trapped. He could not get out and he had no way
of protecting himself. They might not try to get in the doors for fear he had a
gun, but one could keep him busy from the front while the other came through
the back. He glanced out and saw the dangling chain hoist. A
slug
ripped
through a wood beam and he ducked.

Krone approached warily from the front, crouching, ready
to shoot. Carbonelli had disappeared. He would be coming around from the back.

Krone weaved from side to side. His gun flamed. His eyes
were jets of black fire. Bill heard someone scrambling up the tailgate. That
would be Carbonelli.

The idling motor sputtered and coughed. Bill stared at
the panel on the level with his face, waiting. A lever came into his line of
vision. The lever which operated the chain hoist. Before he had time fully to
think the plan out, Bill hauled back on the hand clutch.

The chain which hung over the back rattled. The winch
screamed under the onslaught of the racing motor. A bellow of rage and dismay
blasted through the dripping woods.

Carbonelli was caught. Caught like a fish on a hook. The
hoist he had used to pull himself up had suddenly gone wild in his hands. The
hook was through his coat collar. His feet danced on thin air.

Krone dodged. He started to charge and then stopped. A
slow smile came over his twisted face. He lowered the gun and watched
Carbonelli dance.

“Get me off of here!” shrieked Carbonelli. “He'll kill
me! Get me off! I'm choking to death!”

Krone smiled again. He knew now that there was no danger
from the front of the cab. He raised his gun slowly and sighted down the
barrel. His intention was obvious. He was unwilling to share the contents of
the satchel. Carbonelli was about to die.

But Krone had reckoned without the gun Carbonelli still
clutched. Carbonelli's terror departed as swiftly as it had come. He saw the
revolver coming up and he knew he was about to be killed. His own weapon jumped
into a level position. His hand convulsed.

Krone's face was blank for an instant. He took a step
forward, stumbling. Then a look of surprise swept over his features. He made
one last movement and then, with the limpness of a falling sack, struck the
ground.

Carbonelli's gun swung toward the cab. “All right, you!”
he cried. “Let me down from here or I'll blast the back of the seat.”

Bill slipped sideward and out the door. His intention
was to make the road unseen. But the game leg was wobbly after the run and the
ground was oozy with rain. He swerved out an inch too far.

Carbonelli saw him and shot him
in the same instant.

T
he sun climbed higher and higher. No clouds were up there now. Only
glazed blue sky. Bill struggled feebly from time to time, but he had just
enough energy left to keep his hand clamped on the severed shoulder artery. He
could see Carbonelli's dangling legs and he could hear Carbonelli's
vituperation.

Bill waited for the help he knew would come.

It was nine o'clock before the state and city officers
arrived. They came with sirens and whistles open wide. They swarmed down the
wood road like an avalanche. A dozen guns covered the swearing Carbonelli. A
dozen hard faces stared at the earthly remains of Krone, the coldblooded
killer.

When the police first-aid kit had been ransacked for
tourniquets and probes and
Merthiolate
, and when Bill sat propped up against a
tree, the reporters and photographers were there, bubbling with eager
questions. They fortified Bill Milan with a drink, a big drink, because they
suddenly remembered that, two years before, Bill Milan had been the hottest man
on any track in the country.

A
hard-boiled
reporter with a cigarette dangling from
his lips said, “All right. We know the police facts about the bank robbery and
all. We want your story straight through.”

Bill smiled, took another drink and complied. “It was
pretty simple. I knew they would try to get rid of me sooner or later and I had
to use my head. So when we started out I said we had a flat and went around
back and disconnected the rear light. I also turned out a headlight. I knew
that their absence would pick up a cop because they've been pretty strict about
it lately.

“Then, when the policeman turned up, I had to let him
know I was in trouble. He was smart. He ought to get a promotion out of it. I
wiped off my hand and reached down to the bottom of the gearshift. By rubbing
my palm there, I made a perfect black circle. I said I was on the—and then
didn't finish it with words. I waved my hand and he caught on. That circle made
a white spot on my hand. He got it. I was on—the spot, see? I knew then that
the police would start to look for my truck.

“When they made me stop up there on the highway, I slued
my wheels so they'd leave a big track, very noticeable in the mud. Then I
turned off the gasoline so they could just start the truck and that was all. I
knew then that they'd have to stay here. They didn't like the rain and I was
pretty sure they wouldn't walk in it. Then I had to fix up the rear light
according to their orders. So I took the heavy-duty lantern which had three
bulbs—red, white and blue—and turned on the red bulb. I set the lantern on the
ground, but they thought it was attached to the car. Then I wrote that message
in the mud in front of the lantern for you fellows to find. You found it and
that's all there is to it.”

“Not all,” said a captain of the city police, smiling.
“We've reconsidered your feat of beating squad cars to the scene. If you want,
you can do it anytime. And with the reward money the bank's offering, you will
have enough to buy a fleet of cars. We'll give you exclusive rights to that. A
sort of franchise.”

“Thanks,” said Bill through colorless lips. “That's
mighty swell of you, Captain, but I want another favor.”

“Sure, what?”

“Fix up those squad cars, will you, so they'll go
faster? And have the police broadcast announce it when the squad car is almost
on the scene. I tell you, Captain, I'm through with beating your boys to it.
I'm in the wrecking business all right, but I'm damned if that means that I'm
out to wreck myself!”

Story Preview

N
OW
that you've just ventured through some of
the captivating tales in the Stories from the Golden Age collection by L. Ron
Hubbard, turn the page and enjoy a preview of
Killer's Law
. Join Sheriff
Kyle of Deadeye, Nevada, a straight shooter who finds treachery in the heart of
Washington, DC when a senator is killed and he's accused of the murder.

KILLER'S LAW

W
HEN
Kyle stepped off the Capitol
Limited and into the confused fury of Washington, a headline caught his glance:

SENATOR MORRAN BEGINS
COPPER QUIZ

A few hours from now,
his own name would be blazing there, black as the ink in which it would be
printed. Kyle knew nothing of prophecy; his interest was in getting through
this stampede of people and completing his mission. Already he was creating a
mild sensation.
Palo Alto hat
, silver thong, scarlet
kerchief
, high-heeled
boots and his six feet three of gawky, bony height commanded attention.

He stood for a moment
in the crowded, clanging dusk, looking toward the lighted dome of the Capitol,
trying without much success to savor the scene and feel patriotic. A redcap,
eyeing his huge bag now that Kyle had dragged it all the way through the
station from the train, swooped down with confidence born of the stranger's
obvious confusion. The action met abruptly explosive resistance.

Kyle said, “Hands
off.”

The redcap retained
his hold as a legal right to a tip. Kyle gave the handle a twist which sent him
reeling. A few people paused to watch.

A cop said, “What's
the matter here? Keep moving, you.”

Kyle said testily,
“Move along, hell. I'm Sheriff Kyle of Deadeye, Nevada, and I got an
appointment to meet Senator Morran—”

“Yeah?” the cop said.

“Could I be of
assistance?” said a smooth-faced gentleman. “Your name, I think, is Kyle.
Senator Morran sent me down to meet you.” He laughed good-naturedly and nodded
to the cop. “That's all right, Officer.”

The cop was satisfied.
The redcap departed without tip.

“My name is Johnson,
Sheriff,” the smooth-faced man said. “John Johnson. Just call me Johnny.” He
laughed. “And now we'll see about getting you to the senator.”

“Hold it,” Kyle said.
“How do I know who you are?” He had to bend over to look at Johnson. He did so
and said, “Why don't you just run along and tell the senator I'll be with him
soon. I'm taking a cab.”

“Well—” Johnson turned
toward a waiting limousine and Kyle's glance collided with the chauffeur's. He
moved away while Johnson still hesitated, and hailed a cab.

“Soreham Hotel,” he
told the driver.

The Soreham Hotel was
lighted in every window, its walks aglitter with dinner gowns, its lobby thick
with political cigar smoke and the aura of martinis. Kyle asked the desk clerk
for the senator's room number and a house phone.

The phone didn't
answer. He went up.

Senator Morran's room
was 310. Its door, open to darkness, surprised Kyle. The faint hall light
reached poorly into the room, but showed a dark, irregular streak, running
jaggedly along the floor.

Kyle was
in the act of stepping backward when the room exploded into
Roman candle
brilliance. The pain came fractionally later, just as the lights careened out
again. His last conscious impression was of himself, trying to push the floor
away with his hands.

To find out more about
Killer's Law
and
how you can obtain your copy, go to
www.goldenagestories.com
.

Glossary

S
TORIES FROM THE
G
OLDEN
A
GE
reflect the words and expressions used in the 1930s and 1940s, adding unique flavor and authenticity to the tales. While a character's speech may often reflect regional origins, it also can convey attitudes common in the day. So that readers can better grasp such cultural and historical terms, uncommon words or expressions of the era, the following glossary has been provided.

apache:
a gangster or
thug. The term was first used in 1902 by a French journalist to describe a
member of a gang of criminals in Paris noted for their crimes of violence.
Their savagery was compared with the reputation the Europeans attributed to the
Native American tribes of Apache Indians.
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banshee:
(Irish legend) a female spirit whose wailing warns of a death in a
house.
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be hanged:
used to express exasperation or disgust.
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blackjack:
a short, leather-covered club, consisting of a heavy head on a
flexible handle, used as a weapon.
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bluecoats:
policemen.
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bo:
pal; buster; fellow.
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bullpen:
a holding cell where prisoners are confined together temporarily;
in the 1800s, jails and holding cells were nicknamed
bullpens,
in
respect of many police officers' bullish features—strength and short temper.
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bulls:
cops; police officers.
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bump:
to kill.
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calaboose:
a jail.
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cowl:
the top portion of the front part of an automobile body, supporting
the windshield and dashboard.
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cretonne:
a heavy cotton material in colorfully printed designs, used
especially for drapery or slipcovers.
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degree rooms:
third-degree rooms; interrogation rooms; rooms of mental or
physical torture used to obtain information or a confession from a prisoner.
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dope:
information, data or news.
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drill:
shoot.
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excelsior:
packing material made from wood shavings.
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fire-eaters:
firemen; firefighters.
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flatfoot:
a police officer; cop.
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gat:
a gun.
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giddap:
get up or go ahead.
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gilt-frogged:
garment with gold-colored ornamental fasteners consisting of a loop
of braid and button or knot that fits into the loop.
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G-men:
government men; agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
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gone:
provided (bail) for an arrested
person. 
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hard-boiled:
tough; unsentimental.
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haymaker:
a powerful blow with the fist.
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jack:
money.
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jig's up, the:
it's all over; usually referring to a scam, trick or plot that has
been found out and foiled before it could come to fruition.
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kerchief:
handkerchief.
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Merthiolate:
a trademark name for thimerosal, a cream-colored crystalline powder
used as a local antiseptic for abrasions and minor cuts.
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mitts:
hands.
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mouthpiece:
a lawyer, especially a criminal lawyer.
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mugs:
hoodlums; thugs; criminals.
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nickel barrel:
siren, from the outside cylindrical part or casing of a siren that
is nickel plated or colored.
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Palo Alto hat:
a wide-brimmed slouch hat with a chinstrap most commonly worn as
part of a military uniform, resembling the original Stetson that was called
“Boss of the Plains.”
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petcock:
a small valve used to control the flow of gas.
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pile out:
to move out.
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pipe:
cinch; someone or something that is easy and presents no problems.
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pipe the dick:
to look at, notice the detective.
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powder, take a:
to make a speedy departure; run away.
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put ya wise:
tell you; give you the information.
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queered:
spoiled; ruined; put wrong.
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ride, take for a:
to take out in a car intending to murder.
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right guy:
good guy.
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roadster:
another name for a police car.
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Roman candle:
a type of fireworks giving off flaming colored balls and sparks.
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rubber hose:
a piece of hose made of rubber, used to beat people as a form of
torture or in order to obtain a full or partial confession and to elicit
information. A rubber hose was used because its blows, while painful, leave
only slight marks on the body of the person beaten.
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sand blotting
box:
a box with a perforated top containing fine
sand for sprinkling on wet ink. After absorbing and drying the ink, the sand
was poured back into the blotting box to be used again.
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sap:
blackjack; a short, leather-covered club, consisting of a heavy
head on a flexible handle, used as a weapon.
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sapped:
knocked out with a blackjack.
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Scheherazade:
the female narrator of
The Arabian Nights,
who during one
thousand and one adventurous nights saved her life by entertaining her husband,
the king, with stories.
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slug:
a bullet.
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smoke-eaters:
firemen.
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speakeasy:
a bar for the illegal sale and consumption of alcoholic drinks.
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spokes:
the rods that join the edge of the steering wheel to its center.
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Stetson:
as the most popular broad-brimmed hat in the West, it became the
generic name for
hat.
John B. Stetson was a master hat maker and founder
of the company that has been making Stetsons since 1865.
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Thompson
submachine gun:
a type of machine gun that fires
short pistol rounds; named after its creator, John Taliaferro Thompson, who
produced the first model in 1919.
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uncle:
surrender; indicate a willingness to give up a fight.
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