The Early Ayn Rand (8 page)

I had known Mickey back in my Chicago days and we had always been rivals in business. That sap had the nerve to think he was as good as me, and just as much of a master-crook! Every success of mine always made him green with jealousy and every one of his didn’t make me pink, either.

Mickey was a big, husky fellow, with fists like water-melons, hair like a floor-mop, lips like beef-steaks, eyes like a fish and an atrocious odor of tobacco that he was always chewing, slowly and senselessly, like a cow. I had no respect whatever for that big brute’s mentality, of which he had a nickel’s worth. But I had to admit he was strong, and that’s what I needed now—strength.

I had hesitated before choosing him for my accomplice, but his hairy fists looked so promising and besides, I thought our old misunderstandings were forgotten. I was mistaken.

“It’s all right, Steve,” he said in his slow, dragging voice, “it’s fine—except one thing, which’s this: I’m gonna get half of it, see? Fifty-fifty.”

“What? You don’t mean that . . . !”

“Yeh, I do. I wasn’t never Steve Hawkins’ under-dog yet and I don’t crave to start now, neither. I’m just as good as you, and I’ll get just as much, so I will.”

“Well, for pity sakes, Mickey! Isn’t it my job? Didn’t I prepare it? Didn’t I spend two years on it?”

“That,” said Mickey, “don’t make no difference to me.”

I argued for some time, for a long time. But what was the use? Mickey had always been as stubborn as a bull-dog.

“Shut up,” he said finally, “you’re wastin’ yer breath and my time, and one o’them is valuable. It’s either I gets half of it or I don’t and if I don’t you don’t see none of Mickey Finnegan with your gang, either.”

“Mickey,” I said solemnly, “you’re a skunk.”

“Am I?” roared Mickey, and then followed something which is hard to describe, and which was stopped only by the other boys stepping between Mickey and me and tearing us apart. And the result of it was that I had to spit from my mouth two teeth knocked out by Mickey’s fist.

My two friends assured me that we could manage the job between the three of us and didn’t need Mickey at all. So I told him just what I thought of him and went home.

But when I got there and glanced into a mirror, I was terrified to see what my face looked like. My jaw was swollen and as I open my mouth very wide when I talk, the empty black hole on the side was very much in evidence.

What would Winton Stokes think when he saw his model valet with a mug like that? He might change his mind about taking me along. And he might even suspect something. My brilliant plan might be ruined because of Mickey. I shuddered.

“What happened to your face?” asked Winton Stokes calmly, when he saw me on the next morning.

“I—I had a fall. . . .” I stammered, rather uncertainly. “I fell on the basement steps in the dark, last night.”

He looked at me fixedly for some moments, as though thinking it over. “He suspects!” I trembled. But he said, rather indifferently:

“Well, see to it that you have a more decent appearance by the day of our departure, and have some false teeth put in—it doesn’t look proper.”

He sent me to a dentist, and forgot about this episode, and I felt an immense relief. But I made up my mind that someday I’d make Mickey Finnegan pay dearly for it.

In the days that preceded our departure I watched Winton Stokes like a police-dog that trails a crook. I watched his every movement. There wasn’t a place where I didn’t manage to follow him, and watch. I didn’t sleep nights. I hoped to see him take the Night King out of its mysterious hiding-place and see where he was going to put it for the trip. I didn’t see a thing. I didn’t get the slightest clue. I didn’t see him make one move that could be connected with the diamond, or that even looked suspicious.

And so, the day of our departure came and we started on our trip, just Winton Stokes, me, and a little suitcase of his. He didn’t take any other baggage.

Now, I knew that he had the Night King with him somewhere. He would never disappoint a lady and he would take the stone to her in spite of all danger. Besides, it was just the kind of thing he would enjoy doing.

But what got me mad was his utter, perfect calm. He was just as serene as a summer morning; not the slightest shade of worry or preoccupation. And just as we were leaving the house, I remarked that he had left behind the automatic he always carried.

“I won’t need it,” he said, “not on this trip.”

Not on this trip!

When we found ourselves in the luxurious express flying westward, Winton Stokes sat by a window, calm and indifferent, his head thrown back and his eyes half closed. And I, Steve Hawkins, fidgeted nervously in my corner, biting my dry lips and looking anxiously around.

My big moment was approaching. Two years of my life! I thought of the financial loss I had suffered by being out of business for such a long time. The Night King would make up for it all. I had a customer all ready and it takes my breath away when I think of the sum he had offered me for it.

I looked over the car and watched the passengers. I was afraid there might be some detective around, hired by Stokes for protection. But there didn’t seem to be any. My heart was beating fast and I was as nervous as an author on his play’s first night. Winton Stokes was immobile, like an inscrutable Oriental idol.

All of a sudden I jumped in my seat and stuck both my gloves into my mouth to stifle a cry. In a far corner I noticed a gentleman who seemed to be slumbering in his seat, his head hanging down on his breast and a fly walking across his red, moist forehead. That gentleman had a dirty shirt-collar, a brand new suit that didn’t fit, fat legs squeezing out of patent-leather shoes, and all the appearance of one who isn’t used to decent clothes. His mouth was chewing slowly and heavily. It was Mickey Finnegan.

What was he doing here? What was he going to do? Would he betray me, or try to pull the job for himself? For the first time it occurred to me he knew the secret of the Night King’s trip and might wish to try his own luck at it.

I felt cold in my spine. But there was nothing I could do, except watch Mickey carefully and hope that he wouldn’t have time to act before I did. After a while I was a little reassured: I decided that a master-mind like me didn’t have to fear the rivalry of that brainless boob. Besides, Mickey didn’t seem to have any accomplices around and he looked dead tired and sleepy.

I could hardly wait for night to come. The hours just dragged forever. The speeding strokes of car-wheels on the rails sounded like a slow funeral march to me. But everything comes to him who waits.

It was near midnight. Winton Stokes was still sitting in the day coach. He always went to sleep very late and I had counted on it. The night was black as ink. The train stopped at a miserable little station that had only one dim, dirty light and two sleepy, dirty employees on its deserted platform.

I asked Stokes for permission to go out and buy some cigarettes. I went and, having made sure that everything was as I had prepared, returned into the car.

“I thought you might like to know, sir,” I said, “that Mr. Harvey Clayton is traveling with this train, too, in the next car.”

Harvey Clayton was a good friend of his and was, probably, by this time, sleeping peacefully in his New York apartment.

“Harvey Clayton? On this train?” asked Winton Stokes, surprised.

“Yes, sir. I just saw him in the next car, as I was going out.”

Winton Stokes got up and walked towards the next car. I cast a quick glance at Mickey Finnegan in his corner. I drew a breath of relief. That fat fool was sound asleep.

Unseen behind the door, I watched what happened then on the car’s little platform. As Winton Stokes stepped out he found himself between Pete Crump and “Snout” Timkins and felt two guns pressed against his ribs.

“Now you follow and not a squeal outta you, or we’ll pump you full o’holes like a lace curtain!” whispered Pete Crump.

There was no one around to witness the little scene. Pete and “Snout” put their arms under Stokes’, one on each side, and stepped down from the train. Stokes followed calmly. They walked away across the dark station platform. They looked like three good friends. No one could notice the two guns that were pressed against Stokes’ body, under his arms. The sleepy station employees couldn’t see anything suspicious.

I rushed back to the place where Winton Stokes had been sitting and took his coat, hat and suitcase. Then I followed my boys.

They had taken Stokes to a car parked on a dark street-corner, behind the station. Before joining them I tied a handkerchief around my face and put on a big, long coat they had prepared for me, so that Stokes wouldn’t recognize me by my clothes.

I jumped into the car and we drove away into the darkness.

The whole little town had about two streets, one grocery store and a dozen houses. In a moment we were out in the country, flying along a deserted, muddy road. We saw in the distance the train going away to San Francisco, without its most valuable passenger this time. The long line of lighted car windows rolled faster and faster under a rain of red sparks from the puffing engine. It whistled away into the night and disappeared with a moaning of trembling rails. We were alone in the dark country, going at full speed, with all lights turned off. Nothing but desolated plains, lonely bushes and an immense black sky around us.

We all were tense and silent. But Winton Stokes was perfectly calm and seemed to be curious about it all.

We came to a stop before a shabby little hot-dog stand on the road, a couple of miles from the town. I can’t imagine what kind of a business it was doing in that God-forsaken spot, but it fitted our purpose perfectly. It was locked for the night. We forced the lock easily and took our prisoner in.

The old shack was full of dirty pans, onion-peels, bread crumbs, rusty cans and an odor of cheap grease. We lighted a kerosene lamp and awakened a cloud of flies and night-bugs that came buzzing around and beating against the dusty, smoked lamp-chimney.

“Mr. Stokes,” I said gracefully, “you are a sensible man and so are we. You realize that you are entirely in our power, and you can save yourself a lot of trouble by giving to us peacefully and of a free will the Night King, which is as good as ours already.”

“It never pays,” answered Winton Stokes, “to jump to conclusions.”

“Yeh?” I said, less gracefully. “If you don’t obey, that stone’ll be in my hand here within the next ten minutes!”

“That,” answered Winton Stokes, “remains to be seen.”

“All right!” I sneered. “Look!”

At a sign from me, the boys seized him and started the search, while I busted his suitcase open and looked it over myself. Winton Stokes seemed amused and he had the nasty light smile that I hated playing on his lips.

We searched carefully and thoroughly. During the first five minutes of it I was casting mocking glances at Winton Stokes and whistling a musical comedy tune. At the end of ten minutes I stopped the whistling. At the end of half an hour I began to think that my blood was getting unusually cold.

We looked over every inch of his clothes; we tore off the lining of his coat; we examined every grain of dust in his suitcase—to no avail.

“Hang it!” burst out Pete. “The stone ain’t big, but it couldn’t have gone into thin air, could it?”

“We’ll find it, if we have to spend all night here!” I said.

“Take your time, boys, I’m not in a hurry,” remarked Winton Stokes.

“Listen,” I groaned to him in a hoarse whisper. “Get this into your head: I’ll have that stone!”

“Well, what’s stopping you?” he inquired.

At the end of three hours we sat down on the floor and looked helplessly at each other: we didn’t know what more we could search. We had torn every seam in his clothes; we had broken his suitcase to pieces; we had busted the heels of his shoes; squeezed his hat into a pan-cake; crushed flat all his cigarettes; chopped to pieces his soap and towel; ragged his underwear into a mass of fringe; smashed every object he had in his suitcase. We had a pile of wreckage before us and no sign of anything like a diamond.

Pete was perspiring. “Snout” was shaking. I was breathing heavily. Winton Stokes looked indifferent and slightly bored. Believe it or not, he even yawned once.

“Damn you!” I roared, at last. “You’ll tell me where it is or we’ll make you tell, if we have to tear your whole damn body to bits, too!”

“I’ll tell you.”

“Yeah?!”

“I’ll tell you that you’re a fool: nothing on earth can tear a sound from me when I want to be silent—and you know it!”

I answered by a series of expressions that I can’t write down.

“I have been thinking,” he said suddenly, “that I know your voice.”

And before I had time to jump back, he seized the handkerchief covering my face and pulled it off.

All his self-control was not enough to stop a gasp. He stepped back and looked at my face.

“Surprised, eh?” I sneered. He didn’t answer.

“Listen, you,” I yelled. “I’d give my life, hear me?—my life to get that stone! And I wouldn’t mind taking yours, if it would help me to find it!”

At that—he laughed uproariously, a long, loud, insolent laugh . . .

When morning came and a cold grey light crawled into the shack through the dusty window, we were still there, hopeless, broken, beaten. We didn’t even talk any more. There was nothing to be done. We couldn’t stay here much longer: the owner would come soon to open his stand. And besides, what should we stay for?

Silently, without looking at each other, we went to our car and rode away. Of course, we didn’t take Winton Stokes with us. I remember I turned around and saw him standing at the door of the shack, following us with his eyes, his beautiful brown body trembling slightly in the morning cold under the torn rags of his clothes . . .