Evening Star Newspaper, April 21, 1940, Page 86

— Joe was gasping with pain. “What do you know about Eddie Meade?"' Camgrande snarled flatly THIS WEEK MAGAZINE LITTLE SHOI There are no secrets in prison. That is why Joe Bell knew he faced a decision few men would care to make by Samuel Taylor lystrated by Geoffrey Biggs A Short Story Complete in This Issue * * * T WAS the first Thursday of the month, and Joe Bell kept thinking of Lillie. Lillie always visited him on the after- noon of the first Thursday. Joe Bell made two trips in the truck before noon, taking jute bags and gray blankets down to the city freight office and bringing back supplies, and it was on the second trip that the little man with the derby hat came alongside the truck at the freight office and whispered briefly. The whispering took away Joe's appetite for the noon meal. “Straight from Camgrande, this is,” the little man with the derby had whispered. Joe Bell had a hunch what Camgrande would want. He thought of his parole, and what might hap- pen to it and to him. He was a trusty now, allowed to drive the truck, and his parole was coming up, the grapevine said. There are no secrets in prison. The grapevine knew everything. “Okay, Big Shot!” Joe Bell came to attention. In a daze he’d had his truck loaded in the delivery alley, signed out at the first gate, and the guard was waving him on, grinning, and asking: *‘What'’s the matter, Big Shot — thinking about that girl?” Joe Bell forced a smile as he drove through the gate. He noticed for the first time in months the machine gun in the guard tower. In a way, prison reminded Joe Bell of Frampton, where he’d grown up. Like all tiny farming communities, Frampton had no secrets; everybody knew everybody’s busi- ness. And here at the prison everybody called him “Big Shot,” though he’d never said a word. Everybody knew he'd con- fessed to a crime he didn’t do, and was serving five-to-ten as a chore for Camgrande; and they knew why, and so they called him “Big Shot,” though he’d never said a word. As HE came into town, Joe began breathing hard. It was against therules to stop the truck or detour on the route to the freight office. Joe Bell wanted to obey every rule now, with parole coming up. But he had the whispered order *‘straight from Camgrande”; so as he came along Fourth Street he turned left at the intersection of Channing, instead of going straight ahead. He went two blocks along Channing and turned into a junk yard. He drove along a narrow lane between piles of junk and into a corrugated iron shed. A greasy man slid the big door shut. Joe got out, his eyes not adjusted to the semi- darkness. The greasy man and the little man with the derby who had whispered, climbed onto the truck and began doing something with the load of jute bags. “Joe, my boy!"” Camgrande'’s great slouchy figure was there, and he was bigger even than Joe remembered him, a massive lumbering man who never pressed his expensive suits or sent his silk shirts to the laundry. *‘Have a cigarette, Joe,” Camgrande was saying; he put a heavy arm on Joe’s shoulders. Joe struck a match on his pants. Then he noticed the other truck in the shed, and stared until the match flame burned his fingers. Dimly came Camgrande’s chuckle. Seeing that truck, Joe knew his hunch was right. So far as he could see, the truck was exactly like the one he had driven into the shed. It was the same gray color, with the number 3 on the door of the cab and the letters “S.D.P.L” — State Department of Penal Institutions — below the number. The right fender was dented the same way, the tires were the same, and that same bar of the radiator grill was missing. Those trucks were outwardly identical. The greasy man and the little man with the derby were changing the load of jute bags from Joe’s truck to the truck that was exactly like his. “Pretty neat, eh, Joe?”’ Camgrande was saying. “All you got to do is drive this ringer truck back to the prison, and then bring it in here on your next trip to town this afternoon and pick up your own wagon. That’s all, Joe. Just a little chore, Joe. And don't worry, I won’t forget.” Joe gulped. He’d always felt he was cut out to be a big shot. He'd lett Frampton because of feeling that way. The city was the place. After the city had knocked him around awhile, he had figured that the way to be a big shot was to tie up with Camgrande. Going to prison for another man, as a chore for Camgrande, was hard, but not too hard for a big shot. It was proving he had what it took. And it was smart — he got off with five-to-ten as first offender, when the other guy would have taken life as a three-time loser. That was using his head. That was showing he was willing to put in as well as take out. And Camgrande had promised he wouldn’t forget. But two vears in prison are a lot of days — and nights. “Gee, Mr. Camgrande, 1 — wish I wasn’t in this,”” Joe Bell gulped. His throat was dry. “I — ain’t losing my nerve — but they'll rip the state wide open when Eddie Meade busts out of prison — ”’ Then he was cringing, in terrible pain, as Cam- grande’s great hands clutched his shoulders, bit into his flesh and bent the bones. Camgrande spoke in a flat soft way, his face inches from Joe Bell’s: “What do you know about Eddie Meade?" Joe was gasping with pain. He was conscious that the greasy man and the man with the derby were watching from the truck body. Joe spoke as rapidly as possible. “] — everybody knows Eddie Meade is going to make a bust. Eddie’s in for life — third stretch and no chance for parole. And that last job of his — that diamond job — he cached the stuff and it’s worth a half million. And he was your man. You'll help spring him because you’ll want a cut of those diamonds, and Eddie won't tell where they are till he’s out. Everybody knows — The man with the derby laughed abruptly. “Grapevine, Boss,” he said with relief. “I know how it is. I been in stir myself. Grapevine knows everything.” Camgrande’s great hands relaxed; he expelled a slow breath, then forced his great face to smile. “Sorry, Joe, my boy — thought there musta been some definite leak — You know what to do. Bring this ringer back here after your next trip to the prison, and get your own truck. That’s all.” “I — yes,” Joe admitted. *‘But — you see I've been in two years, and my parole’s coming up — "’ “Joe, you know I wouldn’t ask you if there was any chance of a slip.” The big man gave a confidential pressure on Joe’s arm. “I like you, boy, and I like the way you can do what you're told today for what you're going to be getting tomor- row. Look, Joe.” Camgrande lifted the alligator hood of the truck that looked exactly like the prison truck. The low-set engine was not visible, nor the wiring; they were concealed by a piece of sheet metal fitted inside the hood and spot welded to the sides. “The top of the hood bulges up,” Camgrande said, smiling. “Plenty of room for a guy to curl up in. I'm showing you this on account if there’s any slip and you'd have to let Eddie out. He can open it from the outside, hop in and pull it shut over him, and it locks shut, but he has to be let out. But there won't be any slip, Joe. This job has been cased. You'll drive the truck into the delivery alley, and then Eddie will —" “There’s a guard in that alley,” Joe said. “Sure, Joe — but for a thousand bucks a second, a guard could look the other way for ten seconds. Good wages, Joe.” “Five hundred down,” put in the man with the derby. The load had been switched to the ringer truck. ‘‘Imagine that dumb guard trying to collect the rest of it afterwards!"” The little man began to laugh, but stopped at Camgrande’s glance. “You got it, Joe?”’ Joe tried twice to speak. Finally he just nodded. “Good boy, Joe. Think of it, Joe — springing Eddie Meade! — say, that’s big stuff, Joe. But you're a boy who can handle big stuff, Joe. And don’t worry, I'm not forgetting — Hop in, Joe. You got the stuff, Joe. Hop in — p When Joe had driven the truck out, the man with the derby said to Camgrande: “‘Boss, you ought to of been a politician. You_sure can talk!” “I don't talk too much,” Camgrande said shortly. THE clutch was a bit stiffer on the ringer truck; otherwise Joe couldn’t have told the difference himself. The seat cushion was worn the same way. There were even scsatches on the steering column where he lighted matches for cigarettes. He drove to the freight office with his load, and picked up some crated goods for the return trip; then he drove out through the hills to the prison. There was the feeling as if a band were constricting his chest. But he was all right. He was all right. He wasn’t jumpy. The guards at the two gates were just the same. They didn’t seem grim and suspicious. It wasn’t funny that they didn’t have anything to say as they chetked the truck in. Everything was okay. This was a job for a big shot, and he was equal to the job. It was just that stiff clutch that made the truck buck as he cut around into the delivery alley and stopped at the ioading platform. “Visitor,” a guard was saying. With a start Joe remembered it was Thursday afternoon, and Lillie would be calling. “What’s the matter? Don’t you want to see your girl, Big Shot?” the guard was asking, and Joe was conscious of gawping blankly at the fellow. “S.sure.” He was all right. The guard wasn’t suspicious. The way he narrowed his eyes didn’t mean anything. “I'll get another man to take the truck this last load,” the guard was saying. “‘You'll want to gab with your sweetie.” (Continved on page 17) 4-21-40