Stranger at Stonewycke Read online

  The moment he was alone Logan looked around, rippled his shoulders once or twice to figuratively dust himself off from the disquieting encounter, then exhaled a long sigh. “Whew!” he said under his breath, as he turned and walked away. “That’s over!”

  He walked on, turning the events of the past ten minutes over in his mind. “Mister Logan!” he thought, then laughed aloud. “Why, the sucker doesn’t even know my real name!”

  He headed immediately for Billy’s, but did not reach him till after eleven, having followed the most circuitous route imaginable to shake off any potential tails.

  “It was just like you said!” he exclaimed excitedly. “I didn’t have to convince him of a thing.”

  “I tell you, Logan, if your setup’s right, he’s a believer long before you ’ave t’ spin out your song t’ ’im.”

  “It’s going to be like taking candy from a baby!”

  “Hey! Not so fast. That was the easy part,” cautioned Billy. “The real game is still t’ come. If he doesn’t buy it all the way, and makes you demonstrate the plates, we’re goners.”

  “He seemed ready enough to believe in it tonight.”

  “Threatening a kid comes easy for blow’ards like Morgan. Parting with five thousand quid in cash—that’s another matter. You just don’t get too smart for your own good. A little cocksure, but don’t get patronizing or presumptuous. A guy like ’im ’ates that! He’s got t’ think you’re a nitwit all the way—one with nimble fingers and a sharp eye, but still a nitwit. He’s got t’ think he’s taking you! That’s the only way a big score like this can work. And the second it’s over—man, you gots t’ disappear! When he finds out he’s been ’ad, ’is eyes’ll be flaming with vengeance! What comes next?”

  “He just said he’d be in touch. What should I do?”

  “Just ’ang around the neighborhood. Keep spending money.”

  “I’m almost out, Billy.”

  “Wot! Already?”

  “You said to spread the bills around.”

  “Yeah. I guess there’s no other way t’ bait the hook. ’Ere’s another fifty. But that’s got t’ last you!”

  “Fifty! Sure . . . this’ll last fine. But, Billy—where do you get all this money we’re using?”

  “Don’t ask. I got it, that’s all. It’s part of the cost. A big setup always takes plenty of cash. Now, get outta ’ere. I gotta get some sleep. I’m not as young as you. I’ll meet you at the other place tomorrow and we’ll make sure everything’s ready.”

  It was the afternoon of the third day when Logan was sent for again. The same two thugs were similarly talkative, and once more Logan found himself facing Morgan.

  “I want to see the plate,” he said without introductory pleasantries.

  “You got the five thousand?” replied Logan.

  “You’re an impertinent twit, I’ll say that much for you. Yeah, I got the five thousand! That is, if you can back up what you say.”

  “I never said anything. You gave me no choice, remember?”

  “What of it! If the plate’s the genuine article, you’ll be on easy street for a long time. Now let’s get going!”

  “We can’t go now.”

  “What do you mean, we can’t go now!”

  “My landlady’s onto me, watches me like a hawk. I think she’s put the bobbies onto me, too. The streets have been crawling with them lately.”

  “You never told me that!”

  “You never asked!” Logan knew he was pushing Morgan to his limits of patience, but he hoped, as Billy had said, that if he demonstrated just the right amount of cheek, it might save his life.

  Morgan was silent a moment, clearly in thought. “Okay, you good-for-nothing shaver, when can we go?”

  “She goes into her place for the night about eight.”

  “Then be here at seven-thirty.”

  Logan turned to leave. But just as he reached the door, he heard Morgan’s sinister voice behind him. It sounded more evil and threatening than it yet had.

  “And, Mr. Logan,” the racketeer said slowly in a menacing tone, “you better be on the level or you’re a dead man. Do you understand me? I’d like nothing better than to put a hole through you if I find out you’re playing games with me.”

  Logan turned back toward the man where he still sat behind his desk. Trying to give his voice the balance Billy had spoken of without betraying his fear, he replied: “Look, Morgan, if you want out of this deal, just say the word. I never wanted to sell in the first place. I’d be just as happy to—”

  “Get him out of here!” shouted Morgan angrily. “You just be here at seven-thirty, Logan! You understand?”

  Before he had a chance to say anything further, he was shoved out of the office and the door shut behind him.

  At a quarter to eight that same evening, Logan was shoved into the backseat of Morgan’s shiny new 1932 Rolls Royce between Morgan and one of his henchmen. The driver was the same man who had driven the limousine twice before. The other thug in the front seat Logan had not seen before. The sinister bulge in the coat pocket next to him hardly escaped Logan’s attention. He knew there would be no room for mistakes tonight. The dress rehearsals were over. Billy would even now be out of the room, having perfectly set up the last details for authenticity, right down to wet ink and a couple of drying notes.

  The flat was located near the shipyards, and a drifting fog was swirling about the place. It was eight thirty-five when they arrived, and most of the side streets were reasonably quiet, all the dockside action taking place in the row of pubs along the Thames. As Logan fiddled with the lock on the door, he found himself worrying again about the unthinkable consequences should Morgan insist on an actual demonstration. Despite the fact that the plates were Billy’s best, the notes themselves could not compare with the authentic workmanship of the real thing—a fact for which Billy had been compelled to spend some time in one of London’s grimy prisons. But if a demonstration was required, it might still work. It would just depend on how closely Morgan felt like scrutinizing the end result.

  They went inside and Logan switched on the light, his signal to Billy waiting in the alley below to make his call to the police.

  “There she is,” said Logan, proudly indicating the press.

  Everything was perfect, looking as genuine as the detailed preparations of an experienced artist like Billy could make it. Beside the press were several crisp, new notes, mixed in with a few smudged ones, and a couple of fakes on which the ink was still wet. Under the table a box contained crumpled paper, trash, many attempted notes, some crooked, some with smeared ink, even a couple of genuine notes on which smears had been added for effect. Billy had considered the tiniest detail.

  Morgan immediately approached the table and reached for one of the notes.

  “Careful,” Logan warned. “The ink on those top ones is still wet.”

  “Why didn’t you warn me!” said Morgan, pulling back his hand, two of his fingertips smudged.

  “I did warn you,” replied Logan testily, keeping up the bravado. “Try one of these,” he said, reaching toward one of the legitimate bills. “These are from yesterday. They should be dry.” Of course the ink was as dry as on any of the notes issued by the Bank of England.

  Gingerly, Morgan took the note and held it up by a corner to the bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

  “Nice,” he muttered. “Yes . . . very nice.” He turned and again approached the table, sifting through the contents on its top with a prudent finger. “Not so good here,” he said, looking at one of the fakes on which Billy had intentionally double-stamped the image.

  “I’m still getting the hang of the mechanics of the press,” said Logan. “Kind of a temperamental old thing.”

  “What about this one?” asked Morgan, pointing to a genuine note on which Billy had judiciously added two or three splotches of ink. “Looks like it should have been a good one.”

  I botched it taking it out of the press,” said
Logan.

  “Well, that’ll be a problem we won’t have,” replied Morgan. “My men have considerably more experience at this kind of thing than you do.”

  A satirical response jumped to Logan’s lips, but he thought better of it and held his silence.

  Morgan gave the press a thorough going-over, peering in to see the plate where it sat in position. “There’s ink all over the thing!” he said. “Don’t you know a clean plate’s the secret to a good run?”

  “I was working on it today,” said Logan. “Didn’t see any reason to clean up. I try to run a few notes every day, so I can keep ahead.”

  “Idiot!” said Morgan under his breath. He was hardly aware of Logan by this time. He had swallowed the bait now, without knowing it, and was slowly being reeled in.

  Next he stooped down to examine the throw-aways, fishing through the paper and trash, looking now and then at one of the rejects. As Billy hoped he would, a genuine note with some added streaks of ink caught his attention. He held it up to the light, mumbled some inaudible words to himself, then crinkled it back into a ball and threw it on the floor.

  “I’d like to see the press in action,” stated Morgan.

  “Sure,” said Logan without flinching. “But the press makes an awful racket. That’s why I located here by the shipyards. You can hardly notice it in the daytime with the noises outside. More’n likely my landlady’s in bed by now anyway. I doubt she’ll cause us any trouble.” As he spoke, Logan proceeded to make some adjustments to the press, smeared some new ink on the rubber roller and rolled out the excess on a sheet of blank paper. Then as he reached for the crank handle, he turned to one of Morgan’s men who was standing by the window, and said, “Hey, mate, look down there and see if that bobby’s still standing down at the corner. He’s been a mite troublesome lately . . . I think the old lady put him onto me.”

  The man peered out into the darkness, then turned back to his boss rather than Logan, “Can’t see nothin’, Mr. Morgan. It’s too foggy.”

  “Never mind,” said Logan. “Just one of you keep an ear to the door. If you hear him coming up the stairs, we’ll shut it down and stuff everything in the closet.” With the words Logan put his hand to the crank and gave it a swift turn. An immediate grating screech filled the room, but before Logan had the chance to give the handle another full revolution, Morgan’s sharp voice stopped him.

  “Shut it down!” he yelled.

  Logan obeyed, feigning a look of puzzlement.

  “Just take out the blasted plate so I can look at it!” demanded the hoodlum. Logan did so, not once betraying his relief. Disengaging it from the press, with ink all over his hands, Logan handed the bogus plate to Morgan, who, with a look of disgust at its messy condition, took it and examined it intently. Good thing, thought Logan, that the ink obscures any defects he might be able to spot. I wonder how long it will take for the police to show up. He hoped too that they would take Billy’s advice and wait for their quarry outside the building. It would never do for them to raid the room and pinch him along with Morgan.

  Morgan’s raspy voice broke into his thoughts. “I believe our deal was for five thousand,” he said, handing the plate back to Logan.

  “Deal? As I recall, you left me little choice. I would still—”

  “Don’t get smart with me, kid!” snapped Morgan. “I offered you five thousand. I could take that plate for nothing if I wanted. But I expect you to come up with a plate for a ten-pound note real soon.”

  “If you’re good for your word and it’s worth my while, I might be willing to deal with you again.”

  “You’re pretty sure of yourself for a baby-faced punk!”

  “I’m sure of my merchandise, Mr. Morgan,” Logan replied evenly.

  Morgan eyed Logan steadfastly, squinting slightly as his eyes seemed to probe Logan’s face one last time to find any involuntary twitch that would reveal the chink in his armor. Logan returned his gaze with determination, fully aware that the next words he heard could very well be, “Kill him!”

  After what seemed like an interminable period, Morgan slowly reached into his coat pocket, took out an envelope, but instead of giving it directly to Logan, he handed it to one of his men. “Give it to him, Lombardo,” he said—either because he felt he was too good to make the exchange himself or from long years of keeping his own hands off the actual dirty work.

  Lombardo represented the stereotype of the underworld thug. He was well over six feet tall, muscular, with a deep scar over his right eye. Morgan could not have chosen a more picturesque companion had he fabricated him according to preset specifications. He handed Logan the envelope with a scowl that seemed intended to say, “Just you wait till I get my hands on you, you little creep!” With one final gesture of cocky impudence that nettled Morgan to the very edge of his endurance with this young upstart, Logan opened the envelope and counted the notes inside. Then, as an added insult, he removed one, held it up to the light, and examined it closely.

  “Can’t be too careful in this business,” he said.

  Lombardo took a menacing step forward, but Morgan restrained him.

  “Well, I guess you’re as good as your word,” said Logan at length, reaching into a nearby drawer as he spoke, and taking out an envelope in which he had earlier secreted several counterfeit notes. “I’ll put it in here so the ink won’t smear all over,” he said, dropping the plate into the envelope, licking the flap and sealing it shut.

  “And the other plate,” said Morgan. “You weren’t going to send me out ready to do only half the job, were you now, Mr. Logan?”

  “Would I do a thing like that?” laughed Logan, removing the reverse plate and depositing it into a second envelope. “Here you are—two plates as agreed.”

  He held out the two envelopes to Morgan. Lombardo stepped forward to take them, but Logan drew in his hand, looking directly at Morgan. Morgan scowled, swore under his breath, grabbed the two plates, jammed them into his coat, and made for the door without another word. Logan exhaled an almost audible sigh of relief. It would never have done for the police to nab Morgan, with the plates and counterfeit notes in Lombardo’s possession. For no doubt the hoodlum would swear complete ignorance, even backed up by his pigmy-brained flunky, who would then be trotted off to jail in his stead.

  The moment the roughnecks had exited and their footsteps had died away on the steps, Logan rushed forward, caught up a screwdriver, and began to disassemble the press with all the haste he could muster. Billy had been over this phase of the operation with him many times. Time would be of the essence here. If the police were already waiting outside, he would have but a matter of minutes—probably five at most—to rid the place of every shred of evidence by the time Morgan, claiming to have been duped by a London mobster, led the constables back up the stairs to his flat.

  Logan hurriedly filled the three burlap sacks he had stashed in the closet with the pieces of the press, all the notes, ink, trash, and other bits of paper. He walked to the back window and gingerly opened it. He had planned to let down the bags to the ground with a rope he had already tied outside the window. But there was already a constable positioned at the end of the alley. He should have known they would surround the building! Why didn’t Billy think of this? he muttered, tiptoeing back from the window to take quick stock of the situation. He was trapped. But he couldn’t panic. There was always a way out, if not by fast talking, then by wit or sheer daring. But there was always a way!

  He could already hear the thudding of heavily booted feet on the stairs below. Morgan had wasted no time telling his story of being taken. He had probably claimed he didn’t even know what was inside the envelopes. No matter what became of Morgan now. He had to get out of there!

  He’d have to leave the sacks. There was no way he could be connected to anything. And who could tell, maybe they’d incriminate Morgan all the more. It was just a shame Billy would have to lose all that hard work.

  He set down the bags, ducked out the w
indow onto the fire escape, and pulled the window shut behind him. Keeping one eye on the constable below, whose back was to him, and keeping his ear atuned to the approaching police inside, he ascended the steep metal steps. Glad it was only a four-story building, he swung onto the roof just as a uniformed bobby raised the window he had just left and peered out. All his attention, however, was focused downward. Seeing nothing, and not thinking to look above him, he whistled to his companion guarding the entrance to the alley below.

  But Logan could not rest yet.

  With great caution he crept across the rooftop, hoping all the while that the police didn’t decide to press their search. If they did, he’d have to make a run for it across the rooftops of London, and that would mean several jumps he’d rather not have to negotiate.

  He sat down in the darkest corner he could find atop the building, his jump to the adjoining building well settled in his mind should it be necessary; and there he waited. Occasionally a shout broke the silence, some muffled sounds came from inside the building, and about ten minutes later he heard loud and angry protests from what he was sure was Lombardo’s voice coming from the street below.

  Then a police wagon roared off, followed by two automobiles, sirens piercing the night air as if to announce to all the world their capture of Al Capone’s dangerous associate who had thought to find easy pickings in London.

  Then all was quiet.

  Still Logan sat. For two hours more he waited.

  But this was indeed his lucky night. For if the police even believed Morgan’s story of some phantom swindler pulling a masterful con on him, they didn’t seem inclined to press it. They appeared well satisfied just to have their hands securely on Chase Morgan, with ironclad evidence to back up their arrest.

  10

  Flight

  Logan lay stretched out on the bed in his own flat. Once more he began to count out Chase Morgan’s money.

  The temporary ecstasy of the feel of the notes in his fingers and the smell of more money than he had ever had in his hands at one time took his mind off the stark and dingy walls surrounding him, although it was only occasionally that he wondered what it would be like to have a real home like Skittles. But he never allowed such thoughts to progress seriously in his mind. His was not the kind of life where a man could really consider having a home or a family.