Читать книгу The Suicide Squad Reports for Death - Emile C. Tepperman - Страница 3

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JOHNNY KERRIGAN was not as drunk as he looked. Russ Kimber had bought him a lot of drinks. Johnny didn't seem to notice that the bartender was filling Kimber's glass nine-tenths with water, Johnny's was nine-tenths Scotch. But what Russ Kimber didn't know was that when Johnny Kerrigan really set his mind to it, he could handle more liquor than any man living—with the possible exception of Stephen Klaw and Dan Murdoch, his two sidekicks on the F.B.I. Suicide Squad.

Russ Kimber's small, fox-like eyes bored into Kerrigan's. His shill lips there twisted into an abortive attempt at a friendly smile.

"So you're not here officially as a G-man, Johnny?"

Johnny Kerrigan blinked at him owlishly. "Jus' as a private citizen, Kimber ol' boy. My friend Frank Robbins told me you eloped with his kid daughter, Selma. Now she found out what kind of guy you are, she wants to go home, but you won't let her. So I'm here to sort of convince you."

Kimber's little eyes were sharper than ever. "Take a tip from me, Kerrigan. Forget about the whole thing. Believe me, there's too much involved for me to give Selma up."

"Sure, sure. I know," Johnny said. "You figure to get Frank Robbins knocked off, so Selma will inherit the estate. Then you'll take it from her."

The other stared.

Johnny Kerrigan shook his head ponderously. "'Tisn' right, Kimber. I'm making you a friendly prop—proposition—let Selma come home with me. And give her a divorce."

A shrewd gleam came into Russ Kimber's eyes. He moved closer along the bar, and dropped his voice. "You don't make much salary with the F.B.I., Johnny. How can you live on the salary they pay you?"

Johnny seemed to think that over for a little while. Then he nodded ponderously. "'Swhat I always ask myself, Kimber ol' boy. How can I live on my salary?"

"Would you like to make some real dough?"

"How, much real dough?"

"Say, ten grand."

Johnny grinned fatuously. "What must I do?"

"Nothing much. Just walk out of here and go home," Kimber said. "You can tell Frank Robbins that he hasn't got a leg to stand on. I didn't violate any law when I married Selma. Tell him it's okay, and you make ten grand!"

"Nix," said Johnny Kerrigan. "I came here to find Selma and take her home. Won't go without her. I'll take this joint apart to find her."

Russ Kimber scowled. "Don't be a sap, Kerrigan. She's not here. I sent her away."

"Then—" Johnny grinned with the shrewdness of the true drunk—"why you wanna pay me ten grand to go away?"

"Because we don't want trouble with you," Kimber said. "You got a reputation. The boss doesn't want to tangle with you—if possible."

"What boss?"

"My boss."

"Who's your boss?" and now Johnny's eyes narrowed.

Kimber hesitated. He looked around the room. Kimber's Bar and Grill was well-filled tonight. There were thirty or forty people at the bar and tables, mostly men. Kimber exchanged glances with several of them. These were his plug-uglies, toughs he could rely on to see to it that Johnny Kerrigan never left this place alive if he learned too much. There were only two men whom Kimber didn't know. They were sitting at a corner table, drinking beer. One was dark-haired and dark-eyed, slim and handsome. The other was smaller, wiry-looking, but hardly more than a kid—or so Kimber thought. If anything started, those two would have to be taken care of, too—so there'd be no witness to tell what had happened to the big drunken G-man.

Kimber grinned thinly, and turned back to Johnny. "You've heard of—the 'General'?"

Johnny Kerrigan whistled. "So you work for the General?"

"Yes. Now you know. The General offers you ten grand to step out of the picture right now. Lay off. Go home. It'll be healthier for you—and more profitable."

Johnny Kerrigan peered bleary-eyed at Kimber. "Ten grand is a lot of dough. That girl—Selma Robbins—must be here. Otherwise you wouldn't offer me all that dough."

"Okay," Kimber snarled. "Have it your way. Selma is here. She's upstairs, guarded by machine-guns. Neither you nor the whole F.B.I. could get to her. Now, do you take the ten grand and lay off? Or do we have to get tough with you?"

Suddenly Johnny Kerrigan started to laugh. He put out one huge paw and wrapped his fingers around Russ Kimber's neck.

"Get tough!" he said.

Kimber's face grew red as the circulation of blood was choked off by that terrible grip. He pawed at his shoulder holster and dragged out an automatic.

Johnny Kerrigan laughed again, and took his wrist in his left hand and bent it backward. Kimber's lips whitened with the new pain, and he let the automatic fall to the floor.

"Now," said Johnny, "you and I are going upstairs and find Selma Robbins!"

He pushed away from the bar, holding Kimber in the air effortlessly by the back of his neck. But he had not taken two steps, when the attack came. Half a dozen of the thugs seated at the nearest tables sprang to their feet and began to close in on him.

Johnny Kerrigan didn't even look at them. He just kept moving toward the rear.

One of the thugs reached over to the bar and picked up a half-full whiskey bottle. He raised it by the neck, started to bring it down in a smashing blow to Johnny's face. Johnny Kerrigan didn't try to duck the blow. He just kept going.

Somewhere in the room an automatic barked once. The thug remained standing with his hand in the air. The whiskey bottle slid from his grip. An expression of intense surprise was stamped on his face. Then blood spurted from a small hole in the center of his forehead, and he toppled right at Johnny Kerrigan's feet.

The other gunman turned around, startled.

The two men who had been sitting in the corner had kicked back their chairs and jumped on top of the table. It was the smaller of the two who had fired the single shot. He had two automatics, one in each hand. He was grinning wickedly, and there was a hard gleam in his slate-gray eyes.

"Everybody please stand still!" he said.

Johnny Kerrigan laughed his deep, booming laugh. "Not bad, Steve. I couldn't have shot straighter myself!"

He stepped over the dead thug, still carrying Kimber by the scruff of the neck. He straight—armed one of the astounded gunmen in his path, and made for the rear.

The bartender came up from behind the bar with a wide-mouthed .45, which he pointed at Johnny.

Steve Klaw, still grinning, fired once more. The bartender went crashing backward against his bottles, with a slug in his chest.

That seemed to be the signal for the paralyzed gunmen to swing into action. Guns flashed, feet slithered along the floor, as they spread out to take these imprudent intruders.

And for the first time the tall, dark-haired man beside Steve Klaw spoke..."Shoot me first, you lugs!" he drawled.

They stopped, struck dumb with the terror at sight of the thing he was holding up in the air.

It was a small hand grenade.

He had already drawn the pin. The only thing that kept the detonator from striking was his finger on the safety lever on the side of the grenade.

Dan Murdoch smiled very engagingly at the pallid crowd of thugs, and flipped the pin out among them.

"Observe," he said in his soft-spoken manner, "that if I should be shot, I would naturally drop the grenade. When I drop it, the lever is released. When the lever is released, the grenade goes—plop. And so does everybody in this room. Also, if you try to shoot either Steve Klaw or Johnny Kerrigan, I will certainly throw this little toy out among you. We'll all go to hell together!"

There was grim silence in the room for a second. Then a voice said sneeringly, "He'll never do it—"

Another voice, inspired by awe, broke in.

"He will! He will! That's Murdoch. And the little one is Killer Klaw. My Gawd, the whole damned Suicide Squad is here!"

"That's right," said Stephen Klaw. "The Suicide Squad. We're getting the Robbins girl. Who wants to stop us?"

At least a dozen of the gunmen had their weapons out. But nobody raised a gun. The reputation of the F.B.I. Suicide Squad was too terrible to be trifled with by these gutter-snipes.

Everybody in the underworld had heard of them—Kerrigan and Murdoch and Klaw. The three Black Sheep of the F.B.I.—three men who were never sent on a regular routine assignment, but who always rated the calls where death was almost a certainty. Not so long ago there had been five of them. Now there were only three. Tomorrow there might be only two—or one—or none. But one thing was sure—those three devils wouldn't die easy. They weren't easy to kill. They'd take plenty of men to Hell with them when they died. And the gangsters in Kimber's Bar & Grill right now, didn't want to die.

So they stood still and tense while big Johnny Kerrigan moved his way across the room, and kicked open the door at the rear. He shook Russ Kimber like a rat, and set him on his feet.

"You first, pal!" He turned and waved to Murdoch and Klaw. "Keep the rats interested, boys. I'm going up." He gave Kimber a shove, sent him stumbling into the hallway. Then he snaked out his gun, followed him.

Almost at once, a door opened at the far end of the hall, and a man was framed there, with a sub-machine gun at his shoulder.

Kimber uttered a frightened squawk, and dropped to the floor Johnny Kerrigan fired five times fast at the machine-gunner. But the typewriter was already stuttering. It sent a hail of lead pouring into the hall. The slugs swept a little high, and by the time the gunner got his sights adjusted, blood was pouring from his body where Johnny's shots had hit him.

He stumbled forward, and a last burst escaped from the machine-gun. One shot nicked Johnny Kerrigan along the ribs, another caught him in the thigh. Then the rest of the hail swept down lower and riddled Russ Kimber, where he cowered on the floor.

Johnny Kerrigan was sent staggering sideways against the wall. He steadied his revolver against his elbow, and emptied it into the doorway, where a second man had appeared. This one dropped, and a third stepped into his place, also with a machine-gun. He raised it.

Johnny Kerrigan's gun was empty. He could not retreat, because of his injured leg. He could not charge, either. He shrugged.

"Okay, mug," he said. "I can take it!"

"Here it is, sucker!" said the machine-gunner, and reached for the trip...