[Just discovering this LoCO feature?
Find the beginning by clicking here.] 

CLEAN BREAK

by

Lionel White

CHAPTER ELEVEN

1

The wail of the siren reached Johnny Clay’s ears at exactly the moment he caught sight of the flashing red light in the rear vision mirror over the windshield.

It took iron nerves, but he carefully slowed down and pulled over to the right curb of Third Avenue. He sat there then, hardly daring to breathe, as the speeding police car came up to him and a second later passed in a wailing scream of sound.

The car swung to the left a block beyond and turned into East Thirty-first Street.

Johnny knew.

He knew just as well as he knew he was driving that blue sedan on Saturday evening in the last week of July.

He didn’t hesitate, but followed the car around the corner.

The police had stopped in front of the apartment house.

Johnny didn’t hesitate, nor did he speed up. He drove past the parked car and kept on going. Halfway down the block he passed the dimly silhouetted figure of a man staggering in the shadows of a tall building. He glanced at him only casually.

Ten minutes later he found the secondhand store on the Bowery. He pulled up at the curb and went in. When he came out he was carrying two light weight suitcases.

It took time, but he finally found the dark deserted street out near Flushing. It was difficult in the dark, but still it didn’t take more than ten minutes to transfer the money from the duffle bag to the two suitcases. When he was finished, he tossed the bag into a clump of bushes and put the suitcases on the floor at his feet. He backed away and headed back toward the Parkway.

He tried the radio but was unable to get a news program. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was just eleven o’clock.

A mile from the airport, he again turned off the boulevard. He found an all night restaurant not far away. He knew that he would have to kill another twenty minutes. He pulled up in front of the place, shut off the ignition and went in and ordered a cup of coffee.

Leaving the restaurant ten minutes later, he saw a newsstand across the street. He went over and bought an early edition of the next morning’s tabloid newspaper. He didn’t bother to look at it, but folded it once and put it into his side coat pocket. And then he started for the airport.

# # #

2

The driver had looked worried when he had climbed into the back of the cab.

“You sure you’re all right, Buddy?” he asked.

“Yeah—all right,” George Peatty mumbled. “Just a nose bleed. Bad nose bleed,” he said. He sounded drunk. 

“Where, to then, Mister?”

It was then that the thought hit him. He knew that he was badly hurt, he knew that he wasn’t quite clear in his head. But also, at that exact moment he remembered. He remembered the airline brochure which had fallen out of Johnny Clay’s pocket three nights before, the last time they had all met at Marvin Unger’s. He remembered now. It had been bothering him all along, and now he remembered.

“La Guardia,” he said in a barely audible voice, “La Guardia Field.”

He reached into his trouser pocket and took out several bills which he had neatly folded twice. Carefully, moving almost like a man in a slow motion picture, he peeled off the top bill and handed it through the window to the driver. It was a ten spot.

“Stop somewhere and get me a box of kleenex,” he said.

Somewhere near the tunnel he must have lost consciousness because he couldn’t remember getting over to the Island. By the time the lights of the field were visible, he knew that he couldn’t last much longer. He was having a hard time seeing and it took all of his will power to focus his eyes, even for a minute.

But he had to get away.

He couldn’t go home. They’d be looking for him at home.

# # #

3

Fay Christie looked at the clock over the information booth and then checked it with her watch. Her watch was right. It was just ten minutes before midnight.

God, she didn’t think it would be like this.

Why didn’t he come? Where was he? What could have happened?

And then, again, she struggled to control herself. The plane left at half past twelve. He’d said midnight. He’d said that without fail he’d be there at midnight exactly.

Nervously she stood up and started toward the restaurant. But then, once more, she hesitated. She doubted if it would be physically possible for her to swallow another cup of coffee.

Five minutes later she again got up. Slowly she started walking toward the doors leading out to the taxi platform. She had to move aside as the man staggered through the doors and past her. He looked drunk and he was holding a handful of kleenex to his face. His clothes were badly stained and it looked as though his face had been bleeding.

The man almost staggered into her as she moved out of his way. His eyes were wide open and they had an odd, blind look about them.

And then she saw Johnny.

A small, half sob escaped from her throat and she ran toward him.

He dropped the suitcases and he was holding his arms out to her.

“Johnny—oh, Johnny!”

She was half crying.

She buried her face in the collar of his coat.

Johnny’s hand reached up and he caressed her head. He started to say something to her, looking down at her as she began to lift her face.

Neither of them saw George Peatty. Neither of them saw the gun in his hand.

George’s voice sounded as though he were drunk as he mumbled the words. The blood was pouring from his mouth as he spoke and it was almost impossible to understand him.

“God damn you, Sherry,” he said. “So you’re running away with him, are you.”

He pushed Fay away from Johnny as he spoke. 

“You can’t,” he said. “You can’t.”

And then the revolver began to leap in his hand.

The bullets made a peculiar dull, plopping sound as they followed one after the other into Johnny Clay’s stomach.

# # #

4

The matron held the smelling salts under her nose and turned her own head away. She looked up at the airline hostess who was hovering over the two of them.

“Poor darling,” she said. “I guess the sight of blood was too much for her. It’s certainly taking her some time to snap out of it.”

The airline hostess nodded.

“You don’t suppose she could have known him, do you?” she asked.

Fay Christie opened her eyes and looked around her blankly for a second. And then, without having made a sound, the tears began to well up and roll down her cheeks.

Out in the lobby the uniformed policeman leaned over and pulled the blood soaked newspaper from under Johnny Clay’s elbow.

“Keep those god damned people back,” he said.

His eyes fell on the headline and unconsciously it registered on his brain.

RACE TRACK BANDIT

MAKES CLEAN BREAK

WITH TWO MILLION.

# # #

Stark House Sunday Serial was brought to you by the Lost Coast Outpost and Stark House Press.

Based in Eureka, California since 1999, Stark House Press brings you reprints of some of the best in fantasy, supernatural fiction, mystery and suspense in attractive trade paperback editions. Most have new introductions, complete bibliographies and two or more books in one volume! 

More info at StarkHousePress.com.