Nighthawks!

John G. Brandon

Description

Crime mystery novel which takes place in London with lots of dialect and slang and characters named 'Papa', 'Chick' , 'Phones' and 'Limpy'. Drug rings, night clubs, and the FBI round it out.

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Policier
• Fiction
• Crime
• Thrillers

Informations

• Publié par: Rare Treasure Editions
• Date de parution: 06 novembre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781774643358
• Langue: English

Extrait

Nighthawks!
by John G. Brandon

First published in 1930
This edition published by Rare Treasures
Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
[e-mail]
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

Nighthawks!



by JOHN G. BRANDON

‘If we knew all,
  Then we might judge.’
PROLOGUE
TWO MEN
T HE younger of the two men sitting upon theirpallets in the end cell, Corridor D, of a NewYork prison, lifted his head with a quick startas a sudden shrill scream of agony rang through thelong steel-grated passage. It was followed by thequick thudding of blows falling, the scuffling of feet,a second shriek dying off into a ghastly, long-drawnmoan. Another heavier thud—then stillness.
From along the line of cells—cages to be exact,each confining its pair of delinquents, ‘suspects,’ or‘remands,’ as it might be—came the murmur of menat the bars of their cells; low, savage cursing at theuniformed authors of this latest outrage upon helplessness.
With the first scream, this particular young man wasupon his feet, his handsome face dyed with the crimsonflush of anger; eyes blazing, fists clenched, his greattorso heaving with the quick breathing of impotentrage.
‘Who are they doing that to?’ he demanded of hiscompanion.
The elder, who had sat, apparently, perfectlyunmoved, shrugged his thin, bent shoulders and gave aqueer, hard laugh. He was a little gray-haired manof perhaps fifty, in whose deep-set eyes, peeping throughenormous fringing eyebrows, there was not lacking acertain philosophic humour.
‘God, brother?’ he asked laconically. ‘What ’udGod have to do here? Never mind what they taughty’ in the caddychism, the on’y God there is here wearsuniform. Yeh; an’ his angels is dressed in blue, an’carries a gun in one hand an’ a night-stick in the other.They’re givin’ some poor guy the works. Some guysis sure born unlucky, and New York angels is heavy-fistedthings t’ buck up against.’
The red anger drained from the face of the manstanding rigid, leaving his fine, frank-looking face astrange grey in the waning half-light and thereflection of the dead-white distempered walls.
‘Ye—ye don’t mean that they’ve . . . finished ?’he asked in a strained, tense whisper in which thetouch of the Irish brogue was very plain.
‘He ain’t the first acciden’ that’s happened here,an’ he won’t be the las’.’
‘Who is he . . . but, of course, you’ve probablyno more idea than I have.’
‘But, of course,’ the older man mimicked softly,‘that’s just where you got it wrong. There’s not muchgoes on we old hands don’t get wise to. He’s a poorguy the plain-clothes dicks had over at the MulberryStreet pen. Third-degreed him till he put ’em inwrong by goin’ bug-house. Then they slipped himover here out of the way. The papers makes a squealnowadays if they give anybody th’ whole works.’S afternoon he broke out clean crazy, so that makeshim a ‘refractory,’ don’t it? Sure it does. Anddon’t they have to dis’pline a ‘refractory’? Youbetcha—it’s regulations. Well, he’s had his, andthat’s the end of his story.’
‘But, good God, they can’t . . .’
The white-haired man’s lips twisted amusedly.
‘I told y’ about Him jus’ now,’ he remarked. ‘ ’N’as to what they can’t do . . . forget it, brother,forget it. ’N’ I’m going to hand you out th’ real dopeon things here. I get your class; did the first secondI lamped you. You’re no nighthawk. You’re inwrong, but you’re no crook. You’re as straight as afoot-rule; any damn’ fool cu’d see that.’
‘The magistrate, judge, whatever they call him,couldn’t,’ the other reminded him wearily.
‘All those birds see is what they’re told to. It’skinda tough, an’ you’re takin’ it bad. You’ll getover it—quicker’n y’ think. I kinda took t’ youright off when I came in t’day, and I’m goin’ to puty’ wise to things. For a start, sit down. If a guardsneaked along t’ see who looked as if they’d beenlistening they might put y’ through it.’
The man standing made a gesture of recklesscontempt.
‘I know,’ the little man smiled. ‘You’d be gamefor a dozen of ’em in a fair scrap. And you’re builtfor th’ job too. An’ for all your good looks, you gota fightin’ face. But they’d fix you, brother; getthat straight. You’re a grand lookin’ fella now, butwhen they’d done with the rubber hose, and th’ night-sticks,and the boots, your face wud make folksshiver t’ look at. Y’see this?’ He held up his rightleg and rubbed it gently, ‘Third degree. A youngp’lice-lieutenant done that; done it with his ownhands when I wouldn’t sign up a nice c’nfess they’dgot all wrote out for me. Yeh; while others held medown on a table. A li’l’ guy like me. Don’t it beathell? Twisted it right out till somethin’ cracked.And they couldn’t get a cheep out o’ me. But theyframed me for seven years up the river, jes’ the same.No good squealin’—not unless you got some one behindya with a pull. That’s how I’m fixed now. I gottashyster attorney who tells ’em where they step off.He could send one-half ’em up for life, and more’none to the chair if he squeaked. He’s the biggestcrook of the lot, and they’d turn the guns on to himif it wasn’t for papers he’s got hid away—in case an’acciden’ like that took place. It’s on’y that he’s outatown that my bail-bond’s late coming through. I’ll beout before y’ can say knife. What they got you in on?’
‘The worst crime in America that I can see,’ cameslowly from the big man’s lips. ‘Poverty.’
The little man cocked an acute eye upon him andnodded sympathetically.
‘Sleepin’ in Central Park, mebbe? Sure. Vag. . . ninety days. I know,’ said he. ‘Well, there’sworse can happen you. Did they have you atMulberry Street? In what they call “The Barrel”?’
‘If you mean a place where we were herded forinspection by masked men—yes.’
‘That’s not so good. Now every plain-clothes dickin this burg has got your face tabbed. Take y’r dabs?’
‘Dabs?’
‘Finger prints.’
‘Yes; they didn’t spare me that indignity,’ was thebitter answer.
The little lame man shook his head.
‘There cert’nly is no shortage of indigniteries overat Mulberry Street,’ he said. ‘What do they call you?’
The other looked at him directly.
‘Over there I refused to give any name,’ he saidthrough shut teeth. ‘They threatened and I toldthem they could go to hell.’ He uttered a grim laugh.‘But you’re a friendly soul, the first I’ve met in many aday, and if it gives you any pleasure ye can call me. . . “Larry”.’
‘Larry’ll do grand,’ the little man said amiably.An’ I’m “Limpy” Joe Swiggers. Maybe you’veheard o’ that name—read it in the papers maybe. Theyoften have give me a write-up.’ A certain naïve pridecame into his voice. ‘The Ace of Combinations’, somebright newspaper boy called me. For combinationsafes, of course. That’s me, Larry; “Limpy” JoeSwiggers!’
The other stared at him in unbounded amazement.
‘You,’ he uttered at a complete loss. ‘And I’dhave staked my life you were just such another down-and-outunfortunate as myself.’
Quietly, very quietly the answer came back at him.
‘I was that way once, Larry. Just the same asyou—straight as a foot-rule, like I said before. Thatwas before they framed a crime on me I knew nothingabout. After that, I thought if I was going to bebooked as an “habitual,” I’d better get busy and dosomething towards deservin’ it. It so happened thatI was a locksmith by trade—served twelve years withone of the biggest safe constructors in the world—soI became a safe destructor , as you might say.’ Hechuckled. ‘Brother, what I’ve done to some steelboxes in this little old town is a crime. It’s a strangething,’ he went on, musingly reminiscent, ‘in all I’vedone, I never took a turn on the one I was first sentup for breaking. I’ve never so much as seen it yet,an’ I done seven years for it. Funny that—in a way.But one day I’ll look it over—sure enough. I’m savin’that—along with another job I’ve waited a long timeto square up. It’ll keep a while.’ Abruptly he changedthe subject. ‘So they gave y’ the full ninety, didthey?’
The Irishman’s voice dropped to a tense whisper.
‘If they keep me caged here for ninety days andnights, I’ll either be a raving madman—or God knowswhat!’
The deep-set eyes of the little cracksman fixed uponhim, alight with compassion.
‘I know, Larry,’ he said. ‘I’ve been through itbefore y’. It’s just hell raw. But it’ll wear off. Iknow what it is. Don’t forget it, I know .’ He madean effort, clumsy but kindly, to again turn the subject.
‘What in the name of Mike brought y’ t’ this side,Larry?’ he inquired. ‘One thing I’ll tell y’ fr’nothin’: y’ never come by way of the steerage an’Ellis Island. An’ it wasn’t like a good many—a jumpahead of the cops. I’d bet my lid on that.’
‘Ye’d win. My breed have always been a daredevillot, but not in that way. Nothing to do afterthe war—and nothing in England to even try at.Still less in Ireland; and I thought that somewherein this great country there’d be something for an out-of-worksoldier of fortune hard-bitten by the bug ofrestlessness, who’d face the divil himself in a cleancause, with or without pay, if there was just breadand butter in it. But it doesn’t seem that there is.’A whimsical sigh was forced from his lips. ‘And here’sme bould adventurer; here’s what’s come of the lunaticdreams of . . .’—he pulled himself up with a jerk—‘HereI am anyhow and . . . Ah, don’t let’s talk ofit.’
There was a curiously reflective look in the half-shuteyes of his listener; an appraising look that searcheddown deep and through the man speaking so simplyand sincerely. The little safe-breaker knew hisfellows—knew a quitter or a double-crosser when hesaw one, anyway. There was nothing of either aboutthis big fellow with the handsome face and the weary,anxious eyes. Yeh; he was clean right through andall over. And game —the