Mouthpiece

IT had been a long time since Mat Lawrence had stood upon the corner of a city street; and he found that the sound of traffic—that nerve-tearing clamor of bells, horns, motors and flat-wheeled streetcars—was a foreign and intolerable thing. For three years he had worked in a silent desert, building a mammoth power dam. The loudest noise had been a coyote’s howl at midnight and the swiftest movement that of a buzzard a mile in the air.

With his usual self-sufficiency he did not know that his dusty boots and battered Stetson made him conspicuous; he only remarked to himself that it was strange how pale the people of his former city had become—for Mat and his engineers had been turned walnut brown by the blazing desert sun.

New buildings, odd cars, new parks—he caught himself wondering if he—the son of Lawrence, the gangster—had ever belonged to this world of sound and steel. Then he caught the name of a building across the street and he reverted to his mission.

In direct contradiction to his tremendous height and bulk, he slid swiftly and easily through the ranks of speeding cars.

He arrived at the building’s entrance to soar upwards to the eleventh floor. His leather heels clanged in the marble corridor and he swung back the door marked: “C. G. Swartz, Attorney at Law.”

With his eyes fixed on a man who sat indolently at an ornate desk in the second room, he failed to notice that a protesting office boy was attempting to hold the gate. Lawrence walked on through, to come to a deliberate stop beside the desk.

Behind a scattered array of papers which lapped over the edges of an old-fashioned sand blotting box, Swartz looked up. A startled expression attempted to hide in his dark eyes; his round, hairless head gleamed as shiny as though newly polished.

“Harumph!” coughed Swartz. “I didn’t expect—”

“No!” drawled Mat. “You probably didn’t. Why in hell didn’t you wire me that Dad was dead?”

His poise regained, Swartz pulled his beefy length out of the swivel chair and offered a hand which Mat shook dubiously.

“I didn’t think it was necessary, Mr. Lawrence. And besides, telegrams cost money.”

“Sure they cost money. Why so careful about Dad’s finances all of a sudden? You didn’t use to worry about it! I remember one case where—”

“Now, now, now!” cut in Swartz. “You don’t fully understand. Didn’t you read the letter I sent you?”

“Why, I guess I did. What’s that got to do with it?”

Seated and securely entrenched behind his fancy desk, Swartz assumed a consoling air. “My boy, your father died penniless. There was neither will nor estate.”

“What?” demanded Mat. “At last report, Swartz, he had a cool million sacked away. That’s a hell of a wad to fade!”

He slapped the Stetson on the desk, where it eddied dust.

“If Dad died broke, he died broke. I’d like to know why; but what I really want to know is every detail of his dying. I don’t want news talk, I want facts. You’ve got them. You’ve always got them. Dad paid you out dough in six figures many a time, and I guess it still ought to buy the dope.”

“As for your father’s fortune,” murmured Swartz, “I only know that he invested heavily in worthless securities. He was an impulsive man, and though I often attempted to advise him, he would never listen to me.”

Mat snorted. “Probably not, and I don’t blame him. Now, I want to know what happened.”

“You can never quite tell in this game, Mr. Lawrence. You know that.”

“Come on, Swartz, quit stalling.”

Swartz made a tent out of his fat fingers and then moved them up to tug at his lower lip, his eyes warily regarding Mat. “All right, I’ll tell you. Rat-Face O’Connell was on his trail. Your father had the dyeing and cleaning protection racket of this town and Rat-Face and his boys didn’t like it. So, one night they went up to your father’s apartment, shot down the guards and took Lawrence for a ride. That’s the story.”

Mat probed into the man’s face as though searching for flaws. “Rat-Face O’Connell, eh?” He looked musingly into the palm of his hand as if it were a textbook. “Rat-Face O’Connell. All right, where does he hang around?”

“Oh no, no!” cried Swartz.

“Oh yes, yes!” disputed Mat. “Where can I find him, now—tonight?”

“But . . . but,” blubbered Swartz. “It’s . . . it’s suicide, Mr. Lawrence. I can’t let you do it.” He whipped out a polka-dot handkerchief and mopped at his brow as though the idea had turned the room into a furnace. “You’d better get out and leave this thing alone!”

“I suppose I’m a yellowbelly. Like the rest of you guys, eh?” Mat threw a twisted smile at Swartz. “Well, you’re wrong. If you think anybody can bump my dad and then get off scot-free, you’re cockeyed as hell.”

His square jaw jutted out and his eyes were the size of match heads. “I’m looking to get Mr. Rat-Face and make him talk. Talk, get me? He’ll burn for that night’s work, or by God, I’ll take him to hell with me.”

“Wheeoo!” breathed Swartz, mopping ever harder. He fanned himself with the silk, leaning back in the chair. It was as though he had cooled his legal brain, for he suddenly crouched forward, confidential and wise. “How much money have you got, Mr. Lawrence?”

“Oh, I see!” snapped Mat. “I’ve got to pay for the dope.”

“No,” purred Swartz, “you haven’t. I’m going to give you the address. The dough is for a couple of your father’s gorillas to go with you. You remember them. Petey and Blake.”

Mat sought for the answer in his palm and after several moments of concentrated searching, looked up. “All right. I’ve got five hundred bucks. That will cover Petey, Blake and a car. You’re going to lend me a gat.”

“Fine.” Swartz leaned back again. “I’ll send them around at seven to your hotel. Where are you stopping?”

“Oh, I guess the Savoy is as good as any. Now,” he got up to leave, “where are my dad’s papers? I want to read them over and find out what the score was.”

Swartz gave Mat a sad stare. “The papers were all taken by O’Connell and his boys. He didn’t leave anything with me, ever.”

Mat frowned and then walked to the door, placing his huge hand on the knob. “I’ll be back and see you tomorrow, Swartz, if I live to tell the yarn.”

Sharply at seven a black sedan stood courteously at the entrance of the Savoy Hotel, two men in the front seat. Mat Lawrence loomed out of the lighted doorway, towering over the gilt-frogged doorman, and looked into the car. He saw Petey first. “Hello, Petey. Hello, Blake.”

Petey was mostly chest and his head resembled nothing so much as a shoe box sunk into his torso—green buttons for eyes and a ragged knife gash for a mouth. Blake was oily and sleek, his hair glistening more than his patent leather shoes, and his black eyes shinier than either. They gave Mat a heartless “Hello” and glanced at each other.

“Get in back, mugs,” commanded Mat. “I’m driving.”

Grudgingly, shying away from the bright lights of the entrance as though they stung, Petey and Blake squirmed out and slunk into the back seat.

Three sizes too big for the seat, Mat crumped the gears and stabbed the headlights out into the blur of traffic. “Where do we go?”

Petey leaned forward, his voice rasping like a saw in mahogany. “Head straight out this street, bo. I’ll put ya wise to the turns.” He glanced at Blake before he sat back and Blake nodded, his lips sliding into a knowing smile as though well oiled.

With a turn here and a curve there, the sedan went on through the glaring city until the house windows were more dimly lighted and the houses themselves seemed to exude darkness. Mat found it hard to distinguish streets from alleys.

“Hey, Petey,” he called over his shoulder. “Where’s the gun Swartz sent?”

Petey slid an automatic pistol across the rear seat. Mat looked at the blue glint and then shoved the weapon into his coat, to slip out the clip and find that it was fully loaded.

“Thanks, Petey.” He glanced up into the rearview mirror. “Say, what the hell are you smiling about?”

“Oh, things,” rasped Petey. “You turn down this next one.”

Suddenly uncomfortable as if he were hearing fingernails scraping over a blackboard, Mat turned the designated corner and found that he was leaving the last of the houses behind him.

He humped over the wheel, speeding up.

“Say, Petey,” he hurled over his shoulder. “Were you in at Dad’s finish?”

Leaning forward, Petey obliged. “Nope, I arrived about ten minutes afterwards. This Rat-Face O’Connell had cleared out with most of the papers and all the loose jack. I been itchin’ ta get my mitts on him ever since.”

He pointed with a dirty finger. “Ya turn down that next road there. The little one.”

“Okay.” Mat did as he was directed. “This bird sure lives a helluva ways out, doesn’t he? Listen, I’m going to drive right up in front of the house. You two birds circle around back and try to get in that way. After that we’ll see what we’ll see. Get me?”

“Sure,” said Petey.

“If I’m right, this Rat-Face is a rotten shot. And I want him alive, get that? Alive! He’s going to burn, see?”

“Sure,” said Petey.

“Say!” Mat sat up suddenly and slowed down. “This is the city dump!”

“Sure!” said Petey. “Slow down and stop.” He pressed a gat into Mat’s ear where it bored viciously. “You didn’t know it, bo, but you was takin’ yerself fer a ride!”

Mat stiffened, involuntarily reaching for the foot brake. The gun in his ear was a round, hard snarl. Then, still moving at thirty miles an hour, he stamped down on the gas. “Yeah? Well, Petey, if you blow me to hell now, you’ll go along too!”

“Slow down!” screamed Blake. “You’ll kill all of us!”

Petey drew the pistol away from Mat’s head, staring beadily at the treacherous, curving road over which they were hurtling. “Jeeze! Quit, fer God’s sakes!”

Mat’s square face was savage. He jerked the car around the twisting turns as though he could have picked it out of the road by the steering wheel and whirled it around his head. The headlights clashed on cans and broken glass, throwing themselves over the edge of a twenty-foot drop to the right of the car.

Petey was frozen with terror as he watched that bank full of darkness. He knew that if he shot Mat then and there, he could never snatch the wheel in time to save the car and his own hide.

Watching the cans and glass ahead of them, Mat’s eyes were the shade, temperature and density of ice. His left hand sneaked away from the wheel and his fingers closed over the door catch. Holding his breath he saw a left turn dart around ahead. With a lunge he twisted the car wheel to the right and sprang out and away, to light doubled up and rolling on the sharp, scorching earth.

The sedan careened, flopped over to the right. Its headlights whacked up and then gracefully swept down into emptiness. A brittle crunch was followed by splintering glass and a scream.

Mat had stopped rolling. Before the crash had ceased to echo, he was on his feet, lunging toward the embankment after the car, his automatic almost engulfed in his huge hand. Cans crunched under his boots and cinders scattered away when he came to a halt above the sedan.

One headlight, still burning, pointed up at him, though the car was on its tattered back, its engine coughing gradually into silence. Mat’s jaw was thrust out and a smile pulled up one corner of his mouth. Unthinkingly, he stood directly in the beam from the headlight.

Flame spurted from one side of the car and lead whispered past Mat’s hand. A second flash came from the right; but the target had dived down and now lay at full length on the piles of ashes.

Coolly, Mat brought up the pistol and sighted on a saffron ribbon below. He squeezed the trigger with marksmanlike perfection, but the hammer clicked emptily.

“What the hell?” bellowed Mat, pulling back the slide for a second try. The same result snicked in his ears. He started to throw the gun to one side and then changed his mind, placing it carefully in his torn pocket.

Inching along the dark rim, he crawled out of range of the lights and then slipped over the embankment to slide silently down to the car’s level. Now, in back of it, he could see a silhouette in the headlight’s glare and recognized Petey, tensed on one elbow, his gun trained on the bank above.

Patiently, as though he had nothing if not time, Mat crawled quietly along until he could almost touch the shattered back of the inverted sedan. The smell of leaking gas was in his dilated nostrils and Petey’s silhouette, even down to the poised gun, fully occupied his calm eyes. For a full minute Mat lay still, looking at Petey, debating whether or not to use his gun butt for a sap. But the thought was somehow jangling.

Creeping forward he came up beside Petey, almost level with his shoulder.

Petey heard the rustling sound of cloth against cinders and whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “Did we hit him, Blake?”

“No,” whispered Mat. He grabbed Petey by the scruff of the neck and jerked him upright, bringing a sledgehammer fist viciously into the shoe-box face. “No,” repeated Mat, dropping the limp figure, “you didn’t.”

“What’s that?” called Blake from the other side of the car. “What’d you say?”

Mat fumbled around until he found Petey’s automatic. He grasped it tightly before standing up. “You,” he bellowed, “had better toss away that toy you’re holding and holler uncle!”

Lead smashed through the car from the other side, whining away across the city dump. And lead went back through, three times, to stop abruptly, eliciting a shrill scream.

Mat carefully snapped on the pistol’s safety catch and then walked over to the embankment. By the car’s light, he found a piece of rusty iron wire looped out of the ashes. He pulled it to him amid a clatter and crunch of rusty tin cans and then strode back to the car.

Petey received the first treatment, and soon he was wired tightly, propped against the front bumper of the sedan, his head wearily dropped on his chest.

As Blake was secured he moaned aloud.

“Shut up,” ordered Mat. “You aren’t hurt. Those two punctures won’t do any more than let some of the grease out of you.” He gave the wire a final twist and then stood back to appreciate his handiwork.

Petey came to with a yell and a squirm which subsided instantly as he saw the bulk of Mat squatting on his heels before them.

“Now that the congregation is assembled, boys,” purred Mat, “we might as well hold a confession. They tell me it’s good for the soul, though that probably lets you two out. I want the lowdown on the higher-ups.”

Green eyes and black eyes stubbornly glared at him. Two sets of twitching lips tried to be firm and unrelenting.

“So,” remarked Mat, “you won’t talk. Well, there’s plenty of time.” He took the automatic which Petey had given him earlier in the evening and extracted a cartridge from it.

Listening intently, he shook the shell close to his ear and then grunted. With a penknife and a hard cinder he carefully extracted the steel-jacketed lead and poured the contents of the shell into his hand.

“Sand!” Mat jiggled his hand, looking at the white particles. “Now, I wonder what bright boy thought that up.”

He found Blake’s pistol by the car and with this in his right hand and Petey’s in his left, he backed away in the headlight’s glare, hefting the two weapons suggestively. “You’re sure you don’t want to talk?”

Silence came from the bumper in spite of uneasy squirming.

“Well, I haven’t had any target practice for some time.” Mat backed away until he was well up on the embankment.

Carefully sighting on the first number of the license plate between the two gunmen, Mat squeezed the trigger, expertly puncturing the numeral.

“Now,” he purred, “we’ll skip a number, and then another, and then the next one catches Petey between the eyes. That leaves Blake to talk. If he doesn’t want to, I go back the way I came and take off each of Blake’s ears.” He raised his left hand and ventilated the designated numeral.

Just as he was bringing down his right gun, Petey wailed, “I’ll talk! I’ll squeal! Honest-to-God, I’ll talk! Don’t shoot!”

Carefully sighting on the first number of the license plate between the two gunmen, Mat squeezed the trigger, expertly puncturing the numeral.

Mat sat down in front of him, bending an attentive ear to Petey’s babble.

“Rat-Face found out about it!” Petey moaned. “He’s got plenty on me and he said if I didn’t, he’d squawk to the bulls. I didn’t wanna drill ya! Honest, I didn’t! But he made me. He told me to give you that phony gun in case you got suspicious.” Petey rambled on with details.

Mat got to his feet and bound up the two bullet holes in Blake’s arm and side. He fixed the wire so that it held the two gunmen together and left long, trailing ends. Taking the two wires in his left hand, and a gun in his right, Mat said, “Giddap!”

Although it was a long walk back to the edge of town, Mat’s stride was as strong as ever when the first lamppost was reached.

But Petey and Blake dragged woeful heels, as though every step was the last.

A taxi came to their rescue and whirred through town toward a residential section. Stately lawns sloped primly back toward overbearing mansions, and huge cars were parked at the curb. When their taxi braked before an especially imposing home, Mat herded his two wards to the sidewalk where they drooped, paid the driver and marched down a perfectly landscaped expanse, coming to a halt before the castle-like door.

Listening to the sound of an orchestra inside, Mat read “C. G. Swartz” on the doorplate and then rang the bell.

The butler who answered was politely amazed at the spectacle on the veranda. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but Mr. Swartz is giving a party and no visitors are to be admitted.” He bowed slightly from the hips.

“Tough,” remarked Mat, and the butler found himself sprawled on the floor, the lights spinning above him.

Swartz’s party was the height of elegance. Men who were unmistakably judges and politicians, and women who were undoubtedly snobbish, swirled about to the tune of a twelve-piece orchestra. Mat lifted one eyebrow at the colorful sight and then looked about him.

A secure coat-hook caught and held his attention. He twisted his two wires together in a loop, to hoist his prisoners off the floor and leave them obscenely dangling in midair.

Nonchalantly oblivious of his laced boots and generally secondhand condition, Mat stepped into the ballroom. Grimly he looked about, attempting to single out Swartz.

A sudden motion caught Mat’s attention and he saw Swartz, tipping forward as though he was about to fall.

The hairless head was quivering with surprise, and the black eyes were two beads of terror.

Mat looked across the room at Swartz, his square face sliding into a cold smile. “Good evening, Mr. Swartz,” he called.

And with long, effortless strides, his leather heels crashing through the stillness of the room, not minding the unanimity of eyes which were disdainfully upon him, Mat came close to Swartz. His eyes bored into the spherical blob of surprised flesh.

“Sorry to trouble you, Swartz,” said Mat, “but I thought you’d like to know that Petey squealed.” His tone was impersonal, his eyes watchful.

The shiny face turned yellow, then dead white, and Swartz tottered back. His hand darted to his hip, and terror shone in his eyes—animal terror which gave no thought to anything but the impulse to kill.

Mat’s hand shot out and caught the wrist, doubling the arm back with a savage jerk. Mat’s voice crashed through the room like a cannon shot.

“You’re clever, Mouthpiece. But not clever enough! When you shot Dad, you thought I’d clear out, didn’t you? You didn’t count on my coming back, did you?” He wrenched the arm again and beads of sweat darted out against the lawyer’s gray forehead.

Men in evening clothes were pulling at Mat’s arms, trying to pry him away from Swartz. Voices were blended in an excited, hysterical roar.

Mat whipped about, still holding to Swartz, brushing away the men as though they were made of paper.

“Get back! This is my party!” The sheer strength of his voice seemed physical and the crowd swept away, staring, once more silent.

Turning to Swartz, his eyes deadly, Mat snapped, “Talk, Mouthpiece. Go on and talk. You got plenty to tell and no doubt your friends will want to hear about it.” With a slow smile he reached into his pocket and brought forth a folded sheaf of papers which he crackled in front of Swartz.

“See these? Well, they’re signed confessions by your little pals Petey and Blake. They squealed, see? Turned state’s evidence. I got it here in black-and-white that it was your bullet which knocked off my dad!”

“It’s a lie!” screamed Swartz, pitiful in his terror. “It’s a lie. They did it for me! They did it and I can prove it! I had a party that night and anybody’ll tell you I didn’t do it! I didn’t, hear me? I didn’t.”

The silence of the room deepened. Swartz stared wildly about, suddenly realizing what he had done. His knees crumpled under him and his head rolled forward, shining in the colored lights. But Mat grabbed the front of his coat and held him up, shaking him.

Mat’s words whipped and lashed about Swartz. “You had me taken for a ride tonight. Gave me a dud gun and planted your gorillas on me. Sent me after a right guy! Now, what have you got to say?”

He shook the lawyer savagely, holding the dangling feet clear off the floor. “Where’s the cash you stole off my dad?”

Swartz gurgled and looked up, beaten, whipped. “All right, Lawrence. All right.” His voice was dead and his eyes were glued to the papers Mat still held before him. “I’ll talk!”

He wailed suddenly. “I’ll talk! But don’t shake me! Set me down!”

“Talk!” snapped Mat.

“The key’s in my pocket!” cried Swartz. “The key to the safe-deposit box at the First National! It’s all there! Every penny of it’s there!”

“You’re witnesses,” Mat said to the crowd, dropping Swartz to the yellow hardwood floor. He ransacked the pockets of the lawyer’s dress suit and brought to light a ring of keys. “Which one?”

“That one,” moaned Swartz, pointing.

As Mat extracted the designated key from the ring, a tall, dignified gentleman with white hair tapped him on the shoulder.

“I’m Judge Halloway,” said the man. “I can act in an official capacity. You have reference to the Lawrence murder, is that right?”

“Yes,” affirmed Mat, getting to his feet. “I got the goods on Swartz and those two lads outside. They tried to bump me tonight.”

With a glance at the heap of broadcloth and palsied flesh which was Swartz, Halloway drew Mat to one side. “You’d better give me those confessions.”

“What confessions?” Mat was puzzled for an instant and then grinned, looking down at the sheaf in his hand. “Oh! These aren’t anything. They’re just some estimates for mules to haul dirt, out at the power project.”

“But,” faltered Halloway, “how did you know that Swartz was guilty?”

Mat grinned and pulled out the automatic which Petey had given him. “Swartz gave me this through a gangster named Petey. He thought I’d try to pull some rough stuff and use it; and as long as I’d asked for it, he gave it to me.”

He slipped a cartridge out of the clip and quickly bit the lead out of the brass shell with his teeth, to pour white sand in his palm. “He had to give me dud cartridges and he was afraid I’d investigate too soon.

“You see this white sand in my palm? Well, Petey claimed that another mobster bribed him to plant this gun on me and take me for a ride. But this white sand says differently. Have you ever noticed that old sand blotting box on Swartz’s desk?”

“Yes,” admitted Halloway.

“Well, this is the same kind of sand.” Mat bounced it in his hand. “If my mineralogy doesn’t tell me wrong, it’s identical—and there’s very little in this part of the world. Then, too, see that black grain there? That’s ink.”

“Then,” concluded Halloway, “he replaced the powder in the cartridges with the sand from the box on his desk. Well, well, and well. But that evidence isn’t necessary. I’ve enough on him to bring him to trial. I’d better take him into custody now. Drop around to the station tomorrow and we’ll get everything straight.”

Mat juggled the mound of sand in his palm and carefully pocketed the faked bullets for future evidence. He gave the room a brief sweep with smiling eyes and then slowly made his way out into the hall where Petey and Blake still dangled from the coat hooks. They hung there like abandoned marionettes from some wild apache puppet show, their faces set in an emotionless, fatalistic stare.

Grinning now, in appreciation of the joke, Mat stopped before them. He presented the little white mound in his palm, beside which he had placed the key to the safe-deposit box which held a fortune.

“You know,” remarked Mat Lawrence, “it takes sand to get along in this world. But,” he made the mound jump again, “your boss in there has just a little too much.”

And Petey and Blake, with their hard, emotionless eyes, watched him saunter out through the ornate doorway—back to a world where buzzards flew and coyotes howled and wheels were waiting to be turned in the construction of a mammoth power dam.