Tony waited fifteen minutes, then went to work on the bar. The only tool he had was his straight razor, which against every principle of penal custody the chief had left in his possession. He ruined the razor, but the mortar holding the bar in place was so dried out and crumbly, it took him only ten minutes to gouge out enough to remove the bar.
Noiselessly setting it on the floor, he grasped the other two bars in either hand, braced his feet against the wall and literally walked up it. He squeezed between the two outer bars feet first, going through easily up to his chest, then turning sidewise to get his shoulders through.
There was no moon, and the old-fashioned shaded street lamps at each corner of the square cast a bright circle of light directly beneath themselves, but left the rest of the square in pitch darkness. The Missouri Cafe, directly across from Tony’s cell was the only business establishment still open, apparently, and the diffused light from its show window made for bare visibility on the city hall lawn.
Just as Tony rose to his feet, he made out a portly shadow at one corner of the building. The shadow moved, and a highlight glinted on metal.
“Who’s there?” Chief Murphy’s voice demanded.
Tony froze against the side of the building. For a long period neither moved, though momentarily Tony expected the chief either to speak again or walk toward him. He was puzzled rather than chagrined by the chief’s challenge, for he could not reconcile it with the fat man’s seeming suggestion to break jail. And being puzzled, Tony decided to wait to see what would happen.
What did happen outraged him. Metal again glinted in the chief’s hand, then his heavy revolver roared. Dirt rained into Tony’s face as the bullet slammed the ground almost between his feet.
For an incredulous instant Tony remained frozen, then rage at his own gullibility flowed over him as the thought flashed into his mind that Chief Murphy had deliberately talked him into breaking jail for the purpose of killing him while attempting escape.
Spinning, he headed for the opposite corner of the city hall at a dead run. Another shot crashed, the bullet almost nicking one heel, then he was around the corner and scooting diagonally across the wide lawn. Apparently the chief reached the corner of the building just as Tony reached the other side of the street, for a third bullet whanged into the curbstone and careened upward with a dull whine. Then Tony was plunging between two shops into pitch darkness.
From the roof of the city hall a siren began to scream. For two blocks Tony ran down an alley, then entered a back yard and cut back a half block by climbing fences. This brought him into the parking area behind the building housing the bingo hall and bookshop run by Harry Short.
Tony stopped between two cars parked in the lot to organize his plan of action. He was still both angry and amazed by Chief Murphy’s performance, for he believed the man had deliberately maneuvered him into position so that he could be killed safely and legally, which caused Tony to reconsider the entire situation. The most logical assumption to follow was that Chief Murphy wanted him dead because Tony was too close to the real answer to the three killings. And the most logical assumption to follow the original assumption was either that Chief Murphy was the killer, or a part of the underworld organization he claimed did not exist in St. Michael.
Glaring headlights flashed at the entrance of the alley, and Tony dropped between the two cars. A patrol car — probably the town’s sole one — went by slowly, playing a spotlight over the yards on the other side of the alley, against the rear of the fire hall on this side and into the parking lot. Momentarily it hovered on a fire-escape at the rear of the bingo building.
As soon as the squad car passed, Tony rose and moved to a car parked directly under the fire-escape. Through the rear of the frame building he could hear the drone of a bingo caller’s voice announcing numbers.
Stepping on the car’s bumper, Tony climbed to the left front fender, then to the hood and finally to the car’s turret top. From it he was able to reach the first landing of the fire-escape without pulling down the iron ladder and risking its creak. Swinging himself up, he noiselessly climbed to the second floor.
The window giving out on the fire-escape let into Harry Short’s office, and it was locked. Tony wrapped his handkerchief tightly around his fist, struck the upper pane sharply just above the catch and was rewarded by a mild crash of splintered glass. Without pausing to determine if the noise had been heard below, he reached through to release the catch, raised the lower pane and crawled through.
Quickly he drew the shade behind him, and in pitch blackness felt along the wall for the light switch. He found it near the door.
The room contained very little furniture. Centered against one wall was a scarred desk upon which sat a telephone. The only other furnishings were a filing cabinet, a safe and two straight-backed chairs.
Tony tackled the three drawers of the filing cabinet first.
The top drawer contained file folders which in turn seemed to contain general correspondence. The second held a large ledger which a cursory examination disclosed to be a record of business disbursements. Apparently the record of profits, if any, was kept in the safe.
Quickly Tony thumbed through it, noting there were four separate categories of disbursements listed, the four being given no designations other than A, B, C and D. A random check of some of the expenses listed showed under A such items as “folding chairs,” “ten-thousand markers,” “five hundred number cards” and “piano repair,” under B such things as “turf news” and “telephone service,” under C almost entirely purchases of liquors and beer and under D “three-dozen decks cards,” “five-dozen dice” and “five-hundred chips.” All four categories contained a number of disbursements to persons listed by name, most of them appearing at regular intervals for the same amount each time. These Tony guessed to be salaries.
Rapidly he glanced over the names listed, hoping to find that of Mayor Ainslie or Chief Ward Murphy, but none were names he had ever seen before. He closed the ledger and went on to the bottom drawer.
The lower drawer disclosed a half-carton of cigarettes, two bottles of Bourbon and a small wooden rack with several round slots in its which held three shot cups and three hi-ball glasses. Tony uncorked and sniffed at each bottle of whisky. Then he poured a drop from each into his palm and tasted it. He frowned, replaced both bottles, lifted out the glass rack and peered into each glass. All seemed to be clean.
Abandoning the filing cabinet, he went to work on the desk. He found what he was looking for at the rear of the second drawer he examined. The small box bore no label, but it contained five papers of crystalline powder.
Shoving the box into his pocket, Tony crossed the room and was just reaching for the light switch when the door suddenly opened.
“I thought I heard breaking glass up here,” Harry Short said in a conversational tone over the .45 automatic in his hand.
“I’ll have to learn to be more quiet,” Tony said politely.
VII
Harry Short moved into the room and circled toward the desk without allowing his gun muzzle to waver from its bead on Tony’s nose. Jack, the red-haired cashier, followed the yellow-faced man through the door.
“Have a chair,” invited Short, indicating one of the straight-backs with his gun.
Obediently the little man seated himself.
His eyes still on Tony, Short reached down with his left hand and drew all the way open the drawer in which Tony had found the box of powders. Momentarily he dropped his eyes to it, immediately raised them again and pushed the drawer shut. He smiled slightly.