Evening Star Newspaper, March 3, 1935, Page 74

He Spun the Coin and Caught It. His Hand Trembled as He Looked at It THIS WEEK cA Mar's Storj/ 8, COREY FORD Who has written many good stories but never a better one than this E PAID the native taxi-driver, and stood weighing the change for a mo- ment in his hand. He flipped a coin in the air, caught it in his hand with a little clink against the other coinsin his hand, looked at it. Heads. He nodded to himself, smiled, and tumed and walked briskly through the door into the waiting-room of the pier. He waved a steward aside and carried his own bag across the waiting-room. He stood beside the bag. He was taking no chances, this late in the game. The ticket agent leaned across the counter: *‘ Mr. Weston?" lle?l) “If you'll just fill thisout ... " His hand trembled a little as he filled out the routine form, and he scowled at his signature. He had practiced that signature for three months, to be ready for this moment; and now, when he needed it to be good, it wobbled like a schoolboy's. He glanced swiftly at the ticket agent. The agent had not noticed. He moved away from the counter and lit a cigarette. The match in his fingers jiggled. He stared at the jiggling match, and then dropped it suddenly with a startled oath as it burned his fingers. Nerves, that was all. He was always lucky. Nothing could go wrong now. No one at the bank would even suspect; he'd fixed that. In the three months that he had been here in Havana, he had won his way completely into old Mendoza's confidence, he knew. And the kid, Mendoza's son, he trusted him like a brother. Between the two of them, they'd never dream of looking into his desk. They'd get the note that he was sick, and they wouldn't expect him tomorrow at the bank, that was all. They'd never suspect a thing before Friday or Saturday, at the earliest. That would give him three days. The ship would get him in New York Saturday noon, anci1 he'd be on his way to Europe by Saturday night. He smiled at the calendar. September fifth. New York the eighth, and Paris the thir- teenth. Thirteen was always lucky for him. Sure, he couldn’t miss. He thought of the police combing Havana for him, searching for him that week-end while he was safe on his way to Europe, and he laughed aloud so suddenly that he started, and glanced quickly around him. Sure he was lucky. He was always lucky. Everything was O.K. Heads said it was O.K. He flipped the coin, caught it, stared, and then smiled in relief as he slipped it back in his pocket. He could always tell by aflip of the coin. The coin never failed him. Sure it was O.K. This thing couldn’t miss. He'd covered his tracks. He'd even registered at a Havana hotel under a false name, two § FiE COIN HEADS weeks ago. He'd had the steamship people bring his ticket to him yes- terday at the hotel, and he'd signed it there and paid them in cash. The police could never trace him. No one in Havana knew he was leaving. Nothing to worry about. He was a damned fool to worry. He flipped the coin, and looked at it. Heads again. He scowled. What was the matter with him? Couldn’t he even trust the ol’ coin? A group of round-trip tourists, homeward bound for New York after two days in Havana, hurried across the waiting-room toward the gang-plank. Aboard the ship he heard a warning gong, and the voice of a steward: ‘All ashore that's going ... " He should be getting aboard. He lit another cigarette nervously, took two drags, and threw it away. He was a damned fool to let his nerves get him. There was nothing wrong. The coin said heads He'd better get aboard. The whistle gave a warning blast. He fingered the coin in his pocket, took it out and weighed it tentatively. He was being a damned fool, not to trust the coin. All right, the last try, just to be sure it was O.K. He knew it was O.K. Heads. Heads. He flipped it again. Heads again. He turned the coin over in his fingers and Our (over Artist The appealing, story-telling picture on the cover of this magazine was done for “This Week” by Diana Thorne, one of the world’s best portrayers of dogs. Her portraits and sketches of animals have made her famous on two continents. Her pictures hang on the walls of many art collectors. You will want to save this one. Diana Thorne has had a thrilling life. She was a student in Germany when the World War began. She was suspected of being a spy, and arrested. When she was released, she went to England, where she continued to paint. But it was her rare gift for expressing that elusive quality which warms the hearts of all dog lovers that gained Diana Thorne her great success. March 3, 1935 N 4 SAID studied it suspiciously. * What's the idea?’ he muttered slowly to the coin. ‘‘Ain't tryin to pull a fast one on me, are you?" He flipped again, said ‘‘Heads'’ aloud, anc caught it. He hesitated, and then peerec inside the cup of his hand. Heads. ““What the hell,” he said in a low voice. His face was white. ‘‘ It shouldn't always come out heads. What the hell . . . " The whistle sounded again. His knees felt weak, and he stood holding the coin, the bag resting at his feet. If it had only been wrong, even once, then O.K. But always right. That was foo right. There was something funny somewheres, being lucky every time. That was (oo lucky. Nobody is always lucky. The agent shouted to him: “ They're taking up the gang-plank!" Try it again. Heads I go. Tails I stay. He spun the coin and caught it. His hand trembled as he opened his palm and peered at the coin. “Yeah?"" He swore at the coin, flung it viciously across the waiting-room. * What are you trying to pull on me, huh?" He grabbed his bag and started for the door. “I ain't going,' he shouted to the agent above the steady blast of the boat whistle. “You heard me? I ain't going! " He glanced back for a moment as they raised the gang-plank. He turned and walked through the door, carrying the bag. He still had time to get the stuff back to the bank. Nobody would have noticed. He could destroy the note he had left for Mendoza. Behind him he heard the throb of engines, whistles, the muffled sound of an orchestra as the ship moved out to sea. He got into a taxi and leaned back in it unhappily. “I'm a damned fool,” he said to himself slowly. And he'd worked three months in Havana for this. He'd had it right in the bag. And nothing had gone wrong; he'd just lacked the nerve, that was all. He hadn't trusted the coin. The driver of the taxi gazed at him curi- ously: “Change your mind, mister?"’ He nodded absently: ‘‘ Yeah", and stared through the window of the taxi at the lights of the Morro Castle, edging outward into the harbor. He was a fool, he told himself bit- terly. He didn't know when he was lucky. T