The Golden Age of Pulp Fiction MEGAPACK ™, Vol. 1: George Allan England. George Allan England

bush, Bo­gan, I know Cozzens about as well as you do, and I know you’re asking me, for him, to take this job, I know, too, he’ll go through, if I do take it. I’ve got enough information about him to kill him politically if he tries to renege. You can’t double cross, either, or I’d have both of you on a charge of con­spiracy to do an illegal act. There are three of us in on this. It’s a triangle, understand? All go through, or all col­lapse! I hope I make myself quite clear?”

      “Oh, I get you, all right,” answered Bogan, shifting uneasily in his chair. “We’ll play this frame-up honest. That’s the best policy, every time. All you’ll have to go up for will be forgery an’ assault.”

      “H’mmmm! That’s enough, I should say,” judged the Dane. He pensively brushed a tiny thread from his sleeve with manicured fingers. “How long a sentence—”

      “Four years is the limit. Good con­duct would cut that down a few months, too. An’ you gotta remember this, too—nix on the hard-labor stuff. You got brains, you see, an’—”

      “Thank you.”

      “An’ it’ll only be a job teachin’ arith­metic, or writin’ or French an’ them guinea languages, in the pen school. See?”

      “Nice, pleasant little program you’ve got all mapped out for me, isn’t it?” queried Vestine.

      “Sure it is! You can figure you’re workin’ on salary. So much time, so much coin. Ain’t much worse’n bein’ a college professor, at that, an’ you’ll pull down a hell of a lot more coin. We’ll have you happy, an’ Cozzens happy, an’ his daughter, an’ Brant, too—he’ll think he dug up the case, himself—an’—”

      “Regular little love feast, all round, eh?” commented the gambler. “I shall consider myself quite a philanthropist—if I take the job.”

      “Sure you’ll take it!” urged Bogan, with increasing eagerness. This man’s quick intelligence and grasp of the situa­tion far exceeded his hopes. Why, things were surely coming very much his way. “You gotta! Think o’ the good you’ll do! An’ ain’t it always the best policy to be honest an’ do good? You’ll square the bank, land a rich wife for Brant, put Cozzens where he can rip things wide open, an’—”

      “How about the man that really did the forgery, killed Hinman, and as­saulted Kitching?” put in the Dane. “I suppose he’ll be happy, too? After I’m tried and acquitted for the killing he’ll be safe. And all the time I’m behind bars—”

      “Oh, forget him! Just think what you’ll be gettin’ out of it!”

      “I am thinking of that, every minute, you can rest assured. And I may as well tell you right now, I’m a high-priced man.”

      “That’s the kind we’re after. No cheap stiff, but a ketch that’ll really burn some red fire in Brant’s front yard! Fine!”

      “You realize, of course, it’s no joke to be what they call ‘mugged,’ and fin­ger-printed, and sell four years of my life, and—”

      “’Twon’t be four. Not over—”

      “And then, after it’s all over, have to clear out—”

      “You’ve cleared out before now, Vestine, or whatever your name is,” asserted Bogan. “Don’t play none o’ that in­jured-feelings stuff on me! You got a dozen aliases, an’ you’re as much at home in China as you are on Broadway. So we’ll tie the can to all that ‘no-joke’ stuff, an’ get down to tacks. Will you take the frame?”

      “I might, if you pay me my figure.”

      “Name it!” said Bogan, hands tight­ening on knees.

      III.

      “Fifty thousand dollars, spot cash.’’

      “Oh, hell, no!” Bogan vociferated. “That’s ridic’lous!”

      “All right, then. I didn’t ask for the job. You can probably go down on the Bowery and pick up a dozen men that’ll do it for a thousand. Don’t let me de­tain you.”

      “But see here, Vestine—”

      “Of course, the fact that after Coz­zens gets next to the throne he can clean up a million or two—of course that has no bearing on the case at all. Natu­rally, such being the prospect, you stick at fifty thousand. That’s quite charac­teristic of men of your stamp. Well, good evening, Mr. Bogan. Don’t slam the door as you go out.”

      “I might go twenty ‘thou,’ you bein’ such a big ketch.”

      “Rubles, you mean? Bolshevik money?”

      “Twenty thousand good hard seeds!”

      “Forty,” answered the gambler. “That’s my rock-bottom.”

      “Nothin’ doin’!” declared Bogan. “Be reasonable, can’t you? Make it twenty-five, an’ say no more?”

      “Twenty-five?” smiled Vestine. “See here, now. I know Coz­zens, all right. He’s a good sport and likes a fair gamble almost as much as I do myself. I’ve got a proposition according to his own heart.”

      “What’s that?” demanded Bogan leaning forward.

      “Doubles or quits.”

      “How d’you mean?”

      “Double that twenty-five thousand, or not a sou. Fifty thousand or noth­ing. We’ll stick the book for it.”

      “Gawd!” cried Bogan, and for a moment remained pondering. Into his thin-lidded eyes crept a gleam of craft, exceeding evil. Then he shot back the answer decisive:

      “I’ll go you!” Much agitated, he stood up.

      Calmly, as though about to pitch pen­nies, instead of gamble for infamy and nearly four years of his life, Vestine reached for a book on the table—The Arrow of Gold, for in his literary tastes the Dane was unimpeachable. He laid the book in front of Bogan and handed him a sharp steel paper cutter.

      “One stick, each,” said he. “Right-hand page, and high last number wins. After you, my clear Alphonse.”

      Bogan’s hand trembled as he made the first cut.

      “Two hundred and fifty-one,” he spat, with a curse. “I’m done!”

      “Never say die,” laughed Vestine. He took the knife and thrust it deep between the leaves.

      “Ninety-one,” he announced, without a quiver. He seemed but mildly interested. “Two ones. That’s an even break. Come again, Bogan. Here.” And he handed back the knife.

      “One forty-seven,” said Bogan, with an unsteady laugh. “That’s a seven-to-ten shot I’ve got you, or tied. Looks like you’re done!”

      “If I am, I’ll go through just the same,” answered the Dane, unmoved. “This is a trifle to some games I’ve gone against, and I’ve never welshed yet.”

      Again he knifed the book. Without the quiver of an eye he flung back the page.

      “Eighty-nine,” he approved. “That’s good. At four years and some months that makes a safe income of about twelve thousand dollars a year. A thou­sand a month for conducting some lit­tle classes in congenial studies—not too bad. And when am I to arrive in your illustrious city, for what you call the pinch?”

      Bogan’s lips were trembling so that he could hardly answer: “You stay right here, see? That’s half the game, lettin’ Brant nail you in New York. About ten days from now there’ll—”

      “And when do I get the excellent and desirable fifty thousand?”

      “Oh—let’s see—damn it all! Coz­zens will raise—”

      “That’s immaterial to me, my dear Bogan, so