Henry Leverage

“ The fight that followed was entirely onesided. Fay pumped lead in the general direction of the watchmen. He was answered by a salvo. Crimson cones splashed the night. Bullets whined. A shout sounded far away. Other watchmen and constables were surrounding the estate.
Old Charley O’Mara, crouching in the shelter of a hawthorn clump, coughed, rose, spun and fell face downward. A great spot of scarlet ran over the raincoat. His aged face twisted in agony. Fay knelt by his side.
“I’m croaked, pal,” said the convict. “They winged me through the lungs. Good-by, pal.” ”

“ Fay pried this open with a hatchet, removed a suit of overalls and a saw, and dropped the lid. He emerged from the woods, looking for all the world like a carpenter going to work.
To the man who had wolfed the world—to the third cracksman then living—the remainder of his get-away to Chicago was a journey wherein each detail fitted in with the others. ”

“ He leaped, drove a smashing fist between the Dropper's gorilla-like brows, stepped back, dodged a swing, then repeated the blow. He played for this mark. The fury of his assault was like an air-hammer on a rivet. It deadened the brute's brain. It made him all animal.
A bull's roar filled the room. Goaded to an open defense, the Dropper abandoned science. He tried to grasp his tormentor. His huge hands groped through the air. He stumbled and searched. He fell over a chair. He rose to his knees. Fay waited, hooked a short, elbow-jab between the eyes. He followed with his left. ”

“ Poor Charley O'Mara's daughter held in the clutches of that beast!”
“He is going to kill me some day. I saw him kill a man once. He hit him with his fist. They carried the man to the river.”
“Suppose I come here to-morrow night with a gat, stick up the joint, make the Dropper whine, like a cur. What would you do?”
“He wouldn't whine. He'd kill you—the way he killed that man who didn't pay him for a card of hop.”
Fay caught the underworld note.
“Do you smoke?” His voice was suspicious.
“No, I don't smoke opium. I watch other people do that.”
“You're too sensible. Does the Dropper smoke?” ”

“ Fay stared over the girl’s cringing shoulder. His steel-blue eyes locked with the brute’s. They burned and blazed into a sodden brain. The Dropper leered, said, “Oh, all right, cul,” and went back to the smokers around the lay-out tray.
“Quick, Emily! Make up your mind. Can I come for you to-morrow night? I owe it to your old man. We’ll go East, and this woman I know will take care of you. I hate the coppers, and I’m out to collect from the world. They sent me away to Rockglen—dead, bang wrong! They gave me life and fifteen years. ”

“ Fay worked quickly. He took the rope the old convict found, and trussed the guard, after taking off the raincoat. He made sure that the man would make no outcry. He fastened a stick in his mouth and tied it behind his head. He rose and glanced through the down-pouring rain.
“I knocked him out,” he said. “Now, Charley, put on that raincoat, take the cap and rifle and walk slowly toward the auto-truck. Get in the front. Stand up like a guard.” ”

“ He flashed a warning at the Dropper. The big man shifted his eyes uneasily, and followed Fay around the screen and into a room where two chintz-covered windows looked out into Harrison Street. There were a poker-table, a couch and many chairs in the room. The floor was covered with a cheap matting.
“Listen,” said Fay, still swinging his cane: “I came here to see Charley O'Mara's daughter. I want to see her quick! I can't stay around here. It's no place—”
“Aw, cut that kid-glove stuff. What d'ye think we are—stools?”
“I want to see Charley's daughter—Emily!” ”

“ It’s raining. The screws on the wall will think you are taking the truck out, by order of the warden. I’ll drive. An inmate always drives.”
The guard who sat huddled in the little house which loomed over the great gate at Rockglen rose, opened a small window and glanced out as he heard the motortruck mounting the grade from the prison yard. He saw what he thought was the figure of a guard standing by a convict. The convict crouched with partly hidden face over the steering-wheel.
“All right!” shouted Charley O’Mara, motioning with his rifle toward the closed gate. ”

“ Shrinkingly demure, and altogether tearful, she pressed by the Dropper and glided across the den where the poppy-smokers lay.
“Go to bed!”
Fay saw the brute’s chin move in a slow circle over his shelving shoulder. He swung back his jaw.
“You’re next,” he said. “Better beat it, bo. I’ll tame yuh like I’ve tamed her.”
“Tamed is good.” Fay picked up his hat. He hooked the cane over his left sleeve. “Rather pleasant evening, Dropper.... I see you understand women.”
“I guess I do. Yuh want to let ’em know you’re the biggest guy alive. I’m that guy. Nobody ever took a broad away from me.” ”

“ Why should I run away with you?”
“Because the Dropper is a brute. Because he will beat you—if he hasn’t already. Because the life here leads to the gutter—and mighty fast you’ll drift down to it, little Emily.”
The girl arranged a black velvet bandeau on her hair. Fay noticed that the rings on her fingers were brassy and childish. They grated on a man who had never handled any but first-water jewels. ”

“ The naivete of the question struck Fay as an indictment against society.
“Because the laws are unjust!” he declared. “They keep a man in prison after he is reformed. They don’t keep a man in a hospital after he is cured.”
“Did you escape from Rockglen?” ”

“ THE first of a remarkable series of underworld stories by the author of “Thirst” and “The Harvest of the Deep.” Few other writers have Mr. Leverage’s keen sense of drama and ability to describe swift action clearly. ”