Pulp Fiction, 1920 · page 92 of 160
Argosy, Vol. 120, No. 1 — page 92: what you’re looking at
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82 He had talked constantly, but he had talked only of his germ theory of crime. Subcon- sciously he had guarded his tongue in his delirium. The neighbor came and sat with him till the doctor returned. By way of keeping up conversation he chatted about the news of the city. ‘‘Gang’s been playing poker and selling whisky down at the bend. Regular organ- ized crime, like you read of in novels. Had three whisky barrels buried, and pumped it up like water out of a well. But they won’t any more—not till the leaders get out of the chain-gang. “ And,” he went on, “ they’ve had news from Carlstach—more news than they know what to do with. He’s been caught in Cleveland, Memphis, Pittsburgh and Mex- ico, and seen in twenty other cities. Du- gan thinks— But doc told me not to talk too much.” “Go on,” said Carlstach. “Dugan thinks that maybe he was drowned—or maybe it was all a blind. But they’ve found an overturmmed boat and his hat and the shirt box that held the money. It may be a blind, as Dugan says, but _ they’re going to dredge the river for him to-morrow.” “It’s a blind—a _ crook’s trick,’ ” Carlstach disgustedly. said The next morning he dragged himself to the door. A mile distant, where the river turned to make its famous “‘bend,” he could distinguish men and boats engaged in a peculiar and hopeless quest. They were fishing for his body. He recovered slowly and his throat con- tinued to give him pain. Occasionally the fishermen and lumberjacks along the river dropped in to see him. He was not pleased with much company, but he could not re- fuse them admittance. Besides, they brought newspapers and told the latest theories about the absconding teller. From habit and precaution he continued to ‘“‘ make up ” for the character of Sibert, but his sickness had rendered that precau- tion no longer necessary. His face was drawn and sallow; his eyes were sunken and feverish; his shoulders sagging and stooped. Looking into the cracked mirror - THE ~ARGOSY. on the worm-eaten dresser, he could almost believe that he really was John Sibert. By all the rules of specific gravity, his body, if it lay in the river, should have long ago risen to the surface. Dugan had always pooh-poohed at the tell-tale flotsam, and the papers joined him in the theory that it was all a blind. And then late one afternoon the unexpected happened. In excavating and blasting out a foundation for the Wal- nut Street bridge, the corpse of a maz was propelled to the surface. A passing lumber jack brought the news to Carlstach. Of course the thing was a coincidence, but to Carlstach, what a coincidence! Un- identified men will sometimes drown or get slugged and thrown in the river, and there the matter usually ends. But—while the coincidence was not so improbable—for the river to offer up a cadaver now could only be construed asa gift from the gods. With Carlstach dead and recogriized, the pursuit would end. “Did they recognize him?” asked Carl- stach. “Sure. He was in bad shape, but the bank people recognized him from his blue- serge clothes. They’d already found his card case and bill book, you know. But—” “Go on—go on!” Carlstach said - irritably. “But he didn’t drown.” “ Didn’t drown—how? ” “He was killed before he struck the water. His face and head was all beat in, which made it so hard to recognize him, and he was weighted down. The dynamite jarred him loose from his weights. Doc Seaver said he was dead before he ever struck the water.” “He didn’t drown? ” gasped Carlstach. He turned and went back into the house- boat with a foreboding of evil. He hadn’t thought of that contingency. The detec- tives would hardly think that a man making a successful getaway with more than @ hundred thousand dollars would get in the way of a pile driver, weight himself down, and leap into the river. The police would begin an investigation, and no good ever comes of investigations—not to the enemies of justice. EO 1NOO (-) S CO@