Evening Star Newspaper, April 10, 1932, Page 78

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10 THE SUNDAY STAR, WAS SCAR HEAD—Hawa Gust of 7 1nd Playea A Story of the Thriller Variety and [t [sOne of The Star Magazine’s First-RunTales. Another Story Will Have Its First Publication in the Magazine Next Sunday. ARON HARDWICK was known in Moreton as “the man with the hat.” He was a f more prosperous than his neighbors, but a recluse. “An odd stick,” said the town's people of him, “never goes anywhere; never takes his hat off.” During my first Summer in Moreton he seemed suspicious of me, but when I returned for a second seascn he accepted me for what I was—a Summer visitor. This suspicion aroused my interest, and when I learned that he was equally suspicicus of other strangers, I began to believe that he avoided meeting people becauce he was afraid. During the second Summer my interest impelled me to walk over to his place frequently for an after-supper pipe on his piazza. He was not a natural recluse. He listened eagerly when I talked of my own life, my home, my work, my social activities. He read much for a Moreton farmer and I noted that his books and magazines were filled with romance and adventure. We became friends. The after-supper pipe became one of the most delightful events of the day. Hardwick was likable and intelligent and conversation with him was a pleasure. We talked of many things and on subjects of general interest he was almost eloquent. Our friendship, however, lacked the element -of mutual confidence that is common to most friendships. I talked frankly about myself, but about himself, particularly about his early life, Hardwick was vague. Sometimes he was restless as conversation became personal— restless with the effort to resist the urge to talk about himself, it seemed to me. One evening, calling earhier than usual, 1 came upon him unawares as he sat on the piazza, head bare, letting the light breeze dry his sweaty forehead. In the middle of his forehead was a vivid, zigzag scar. Hardwick grabbed instinctively for his hat, which was on a chair just beyond his ready reach: and he glared at me—in terror, in hatred—and in something like relief. Obviously, here was a crisis, a crisis in our relations, a erisis for Hardwick. The scar told me why Hardwick always wore his hat; suggested dramatic reasons for Hardwick, the suspicious recluse. I am one to avoid a crisis; when one is imminent, I prefer to force it. So I said: “The blow that caused that scar must have been pretty nearly fatal.” Hardwick jammed his hat on his head. “The scar——,” he said, and repeated, “the scar.” There was hesitation in his voice and a sug- gestion of awe. We were silent for a moment; then Hardwick looked directly at me. “Sit down,” he commanded, “and I'll tell you, because I feel I can trust you. Tell you because tellng may do me good.” IS real name was Peter Skinner. A coun- try boy with a bent for mechanics, he went to the city to work in an automobile repair shop. In the cheap lodging house where he hired & room lived two young men, Ed Rogers and Tom Nelson, who made their livelihood in defiance of the law. In the outskirts of the city was a factory where, when business was good, the weekly payroll was $30,000. For a long time Rogers had been trying to devise a plan for getting away with the payroll. When he saw Peter trying out a machine from the garage, he had an inspiration. On the day selected for the robbery, Rogers joined Peter as he left the lodging house for work. “A friend has loaned me the use of his auto for a little business trip, which I must take right after noon today, but I can't drive. Could I get you to drive?” asked Rogers. Peter saw a chance to show his skill to a city chap, and in the eyes of the country youth this was no mean opportunity. “I'll be glad to,” he said. With Nelson they drove rapidly out of the city toward the factory. A short distance from the plant Rogers leaned frward: “Wait a minute in front of the shop. Don’t shut off your engine. Amnother guy will join us.” Rogers got out. In a few moments a street car came to a stop beciGe the automobile and two men alighted. One, carrying a black bag, was the cashier with the payroll. The other was his guard. Peter felt something hard against his side. He glanced down and shivered. Nelson was poking a revolver into his ribs. “Don’t move or speak,” ordered Nelson. Rogers a ked the man with the bag the way to a nearby town. While directions were being given. the street car rolled on. Rogers acied stupid and it was necessary to repeat the directicns. Soon both men were expiaining them to him. Then, suddenly, when both were pointing to indicate a particular route, Rogers felled the guard with a blackjack. The cashier leaped for the factory entrance, but Rogers tripped him, hit him sharply on the head, seized the bag, jumped into the car. “Drive on! he commanded. Peter shakirg with terror, could not find the strength to release the brake. At that mcment, from scmewhere across the street and slightly in advance of them, appeared Patrolman Ben Pine. He saw Recgers, with the bdag in his hand, standing up in the car. He saw the unconscious men on the sidewalk. He tugged at his revolver and ran, shouting, toward the automobile. The sight of the policeman gave Peter strength. He released the brake, gave the engne gas, the car started. The policeman jumped on the running board and flourished his revolver. A gust of wind blew Peler's hat to the sireet and Pine grinned “Huh, Scar Head,” he said, “nobody would forget you in a hurry with a bean like that. Now just drive where I tell you——" His directions were never given. Rogers regained his feet, swung his blackjack and the policeman fell back- ward to the pavement. For an hour Peter drove more rapidly than he had ever driven before, following sharp instructions from Rogers. At last they arrived in a sparsely settled district and in the middle of a wooded section, in response to an order from Rogers, Peter stopped the car. Rogers and Nelson zot out. “You're a mnice driver,” grinned Rogers. “Here’'s where Tom and I move on to parts unknown. You can have the car and go where you like. And here are a hundred dollars for your work this afternoon.” During the hour's drive Peter had not spoken. The panic which had possessed him during the hold-up had passed with the first few minutes of swift flight. There- after, the adventure had been surprisingly pleasurable. His thoughts, too, had been clear and active. This was the first ex- citing event of Peter’s life and he reacted to it in the traditional way of youth. Flight, speed, danger—they quickened his blood, gave him a sort of deliricus delight, stimulated his mind to develop in rapid sequence a succession of vivid pictures of his plight and its possi- bilities that were sometimes contradictory but never lacking in zest. Peter knew what he should do; he should get to the police as soon as possible, tell them the truth about his part in the robbery and do all he could to bring about the capture of the real criminals. This, he recognized, was not an easy duty. In the city and probably in all towns nearby he would be a hunted man before he could hope to find a policeman. The scar—it marked him; perhaps it revealed him, but Peter was not analytical and didn't at the time earnestly consider this poscibility. He rubbed it gently, vaguely sensing, however, about this mark of a childhocod accident some- thing significant and sinister. Then he longed for a hat with which to conceal it. But the police had his hat. Of course, if in some spectacular manner he could deliver the criminals and the stolen pay- roll to the police, he would be a hero, he would have a degree of fame, he might get a reward for his feat-——more money than he had ever had, perhaps more than he could ever hope to get. But this, he knew, was foolish specula- tion. The armed and determined robbers could overpower him before he could carry out any such wild scheme. It might help, however, to learn more of their plans; where they were going, what they were going to do with the money. The money —if, in some way, he could get hold of the money. . . . " Now, as he fingered the five $20 bills Rogers had given him, the purpose to get hold of the money strengthened within him. He would get the money and return it. He was not conscious of any temptation to get the money and keep it. His face must have revealed a new purpose, because Rogers suddenly eyed him sharply. “No smart stuff!” he snapped. “Your job is done. Now get out of here. By the time you get back to the city, if you aren’t picked up befere, we don’t care what you say or do. But if you follow us, your life won't be worth a plugged nickel.” Peter said nothing, stuffed the bills in his pocket, drove away through the woods. Rogers was an impressive person and his words and manner weakened Peter's purpose materially. As Peter rounded a curve in the road he looked back. Rogers and Nelson were standing at the edge of the woods, watching him out of sight. And out of sight, perhaps a quarter of a mile from the spot at which Peter had left the robbers, something happened. The motor gasped and died, the gasoline tank was empty. Peter pushed the car to the side of the road and then studied the sun in an effort to get his bearings. He entered the woods to the south, toward the city. Somewhere in this region he might “Scar Head!” cried the po- liceman. “Nobody would forget you in a hurry with a bean like that” Then he fell back- ward to the pavement as the man in the back seat swung his black- jack. find an isolated house with a telephone by which he could communicate with the police and tell his story before he could be arrested as a robber. Somewhere in this region he might find trace of the robbers. FTER a quarter of an hour, he came to the edge of a clearing. Instinct told him to pause. In the middle of the clearing stood a delapidated house, the last unit of a 3et of farm buildings that had been abandoned long ago. Peter, uncertain whether to cross or to skirt the clearing, drew back into the woods and as he did so he saw the rickety door of the house open and Rogers and Nelson step forth into the sunlight. They stood for a moment on the rotting porch, then started across the clearing—toward him. Flight, at the risk of revealing noise seemed unwise and Peter looked about for sheiter. Close by grew a large barberry bush that years ago probably had been a cherished shrub of lawn or garden. Untrimmed for years, its parabolic branches arched from a thick cluster nearly to the ground, forming a tenti-like growth. Beneath this Peter crawled. There he waited motionless and almost breathless, as the swish of approaching foot- steps through the grass became louder. Then when the men were almost above him, the footsteps stopped. “Well,” he heard Rogers say, “that's done. Now for the railroad.” “Yes,” replied Nelson, “that's done, and a clean job but for one thing. We should have planted Skinner with the cash.” “Perhaps,” agreed Rogers, “but it's foolish to kill if you can help it.” Peter could see the robbers’ feet so near he could have touched them. Discovery now meant death. He was afraid. But he did not regret having found the men. The money was “planted”; that must mean they had buried it probably in the cellar of the house. The money was where he could get it! For a minute that to Peter seemed endless the robbers siood silently above him, resting perhaps from their work and in preparation for an arducus fi'ght. Then he heard Rogers say: “Too late ncw to fuss about Skinner. Let's get going.” They moved on, through the woods. The tramp of their feet in the dead leaves and the rustle of the bishes they parted before them in their progress—until there was silence. They had gone. But Pcter did not move for a long time. Then a la‘t glance at the silent forest, he ran across the clearing to the house. The footsteps of R g-r< and Nelson were clearly defined on the dusty floor and he followed them toward the cellar door. Halfway across the kitchen, however, he saw something that gave him the strcngest feeling of security he had had since Rogers had felled the cashier. On a nail was hanging a cap; faded, dusty, perhaps considered of so little worth that the last inhabitant of the house haa not bothered to take it away, perhaps discarded there by a hunter or a tramp who chanced to seek shelter in the house; but to Peter, a vital necessity. He took it down, shcok the dust from it put it on. It fitted, covered the scar; he felt safe— and bold. And in the cellar, buried, as he had expected, he found the money. He dug it up, felt it, counted it—$30,600! More money than he had ever seen before. More money than he could ever hope to possess by honest, industrious work from now until age slowed his pulses and made a necessity of ever elusive security. Security! No more drudgery. No more un- certainty about the future. Peter distributed the money in his pockets and in his shirt, tighiening his belt to keep it from dropping cut. As he placed it about his person, he felt strength and boldness that multiplied a thousand-fold the sense of security and confidence the finding of the cap had inspired in him. Three days later a young man with a livid, zigzag scar on his forehead arrived in the town of Moretecn. He said his name was Aaron Hardkwick and that he wanted to buy a farm. Peter’s choice of Moreton as a place of refuge was not the result of a carefully-laid plan; Moreton happened to be in his line of flight and near the border. Peter had an idea that it might be well for him to be able to slip over into Canada on short notice. Within a month after his arrival in Moreton, Aaron Hardwick bought a large farm, with an excellent reputation for productivity and a good set of farm buildings. It was located off the main road, which was in accord with his desire of seclusion. The dread of long years in prison was ever with him and every detail of his life was planned to prevent realization of the horror that haunted him. He was naturally reticent and it was not difficult for him to be sparing with informaticn about himself. He soon saw, however, that to be utterly without a past which one could discuss would breee suspicion. He builded himself a background. He became an orphan who had lived his boyhood in the city and who hated it. An uncle had left him money enough to buy a farm. He had no close friends, no intimates. For housekeepers, he selected the homeliest woman he could find, women so ugly of form and feature that they could not attract him even in most desperate moods of longing for com- panionship. He feared the intimacy of women and the confidence it breeds. Gatherings of men at lodges and clubs or about a pitcher of cider in a neighbor’s kitchen never numbered him among them. N!VER. for long were his thoughts free of Rogers and Nelson. They were the particular objects of his fear; Rogers and Nelson could compel him to give up all his wealth, could make him pay tribute .to them as long as he could keep body and Soul together. He hated these men with a hatred born of fear.

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