Maynard High School - Screech Owl Yearbook (Maynard, MA)

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THE SCREECH OWL 9 he had been tricked into a job driving the killer. Smokey was thinking too. Thinking of five grand in one man’s pocket. It would be simple to do away with the kid. Already night shad- ows had come down and the higher they got, the foggier it became. He’d ask Davey to stop the car for awhile, then when Davey wasn’t looking — blam! Smokey would have the five grand to himself, and no worries. When you get to the top of the mountain, stop and I’ll give ya your share,” Smokey said, with this thought in his mind. But Davey appeared too dejected to read the grim meaning behind Smokey’s little speech. It’s a good spot to ditch this hot gun,” Smo- key explained to calm the kid’s fears. The fog was so thick now that Davey’s headlights were useless. He slowed down and pulled the heavy overcoat about his neck. We must be getting near the top,” he said. It’s getting kind of cold up here, and I can hardly see the road in front of me. Gosh! What a blanket of fog we rolled into!” Smokey gripped the automatic in his pocket. A light shone in his eyes, and the scarred mouth looked ugly as he smiled. He tapped Davey ' s shoulder. Maybe we better stop, kid,” Smokey said, half wondering if Davey had guessed his in- tentions. Once we get our bearings, we can start again. Maybe we’re half off the road right now, and besides, we should be near the top.” What next. It would be best if they were out of the car so that no signs of the murder would be left. He could ask Davey to look around the rear of the car, while he took the front. He could explain that this was to see how close they were to the edge of the mountainous road. Yes, he pondered, that would send Davey to the rear, then when his back was turned — ! Smokey felt the cold steel of his revolver and grinned. It was only about three miles to the state line and Smokey wasn’t a bad driver. There was no sense in paying the kid anything. Besides, the kid might well be waiting for a chance to turn him over to the cops. Okay, kid,” he said, we’d better get out and see where we are. If the fog gets any thicker, we’re going to have to camp here till morning.” Smokey heard Davey stumble out. He couldn’t see him too well. He couldn’t see his own hand in front of his face. Careful, Smokey,” he heard the kid say. Don’t stumble over any of those rocks. One slip up here and it’s a long way down. Smokey looked toward the source of the voice. Ah! there he was! The killer could barely make out Davey’s tall figure. The soup was thick. Suppose he missed. Suppose Davey made a rush for him and re- covered the gun } He was only a kid but strong as a bull. First I’ll act like I’m looking around,” snorted the killer to himself. Can’t let him get suspicious of me. He might jump me, but he’d have to be next to me to get this gun. Well, I’ll try up here fast.” Wish I could see better!” He raised his voice then. Hey kid, how does it look. Are we near the edge. ” Since he couldn’t see Dave, he’d get him to speak and then aim at the voice. Looks as if we’re pretty close,” Dave re- plied, and his voice seemed right behind Smokey. Smokey lifted his gun, whirled around, and stepped forward thinking he had Davey trapped, but no shot sounded, only a long death wail! Smokey!” Dave yelled and raced to the front of the sedan. Smokey!” No answer. He shouted again and again. He inched his way down, stumbling once or twice. Then he got to his knees and felt his way with his hands. A shiny blue object lay before him. He touched it! It was cold and damp! He leaned against the front tire, swung his

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8 THE SCREECH OWL Davey took his hands from the wheel and wiped the sweat on his pants. His face was white. Davey had innocently got himself involved in this, without knowing what Smokey was up to. He knew now! And he also knew that if he started the car and fled, Smokey would probably shoot him down. Smokey had done this thing in twelve states before, and this was the thirteenth. Poor Davey was sick at heart and mostly frightened. The thirteenth, Davey suddenly thought with alarm. Wonder if that means bad luck.” The heavy bark of an automatic broke the silence. One, two, three, maybe four shots. Davey wasn’t too sure. Then running foot- steps approached the car. He glanced through the darkness to see Smokey’s fat frame waddling to him, and in his hand was a small black bag. The other hand held an automatic and that’s what made Davey slink in his seat. Smokey pushed the gun in the back of his neck and slammed the rear door. Get outa here! came his tense words. We gotta scram outa here — had to bump th at dumb flatfoot off!” Davey ' s foot grew heavy on the accelerator, and gears rattled as the big sedan raced through the night. He glanced through the rear-view mirror. Smokey was counting a heap of green bills. One thousand, two thou- sand, three, four, five thousand bucks!” ex- claimed Smokey. Some haul, eh, kid. Just play along with me and life suddenly looks green, like money! Ain’t you glad I made ya come along Smokey hesitated a moment and no answer from the front was heard. Maybe Davey was too interested in his driving, or maybe he hadn’t heard the remark. What’s the matter, kid. ’’ Smokey asked. Lost yer voice . ” Davey’s answer was slow but packed a wallop that Smokey couldn’t mis- take. Did you have to kill the policeman, Smo- key } Did you have to shoot him like you did } Maybe he’s got a wife, a kid. Cu t out that sob stuff!” broke in Smokey’s hard voice. You’d think coppers were good guys to hear you talk.” Smokey leaned closer to Davey. He stopped chewing on his cigar and slid his hand into his coat pocket. Smokey’s face was red, except for the scar across his face. That scar was white with anger. Listen to me, Davey,” he went on, and don’t get me wrong. You can make money if you string along wit’ me. And if you ever cross me, you make nothin’ but the East River — savvy He settled back, stuffed the five grand into the bag, and continued smoking the cigar. Now get driving for those mountains. We gotta reach the state line before morning. And don’t forget this gun is aimed at your lousy head.” Davey’s foot pressed harder on the gas pedal. The engine whirled like an airplane and raced up the winding road. Tires screeched shrilly as they rounded sharp banks on the mountain. Color hadn’t come back to the kid’s face. He could still hear the death chatter of Smo- key’s automatic, the running feet. He could still see a cop sprawled flat on the pavement, maybe with his chest torn open by hot lead. Davey shouted, Look, Smokey!” He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. I — ” he blundered for a second — I think they fry you in this state for murder. I didn’t know what you hired me for. I don’t like it. I’m getting out. You drive the car.” Again he glanced through the mirror. The scar on Smokey’s face stood out like a piece of iron being smelted. The cigar had fallen from Smokey’s open mouth, and his dark eyes reflected murder. Get this straight, you dumb cluck,” stam- mered Smokey. In the first place a witness saw me kill the copper, and my name’s mud if they ever catch me. And I don’t do this for fun. I’ve got five grand, see, and I’m keeping it. Except, of course, the cut you get for the chauffeur’s job!” He laughed as he sputtered the word chauffeur.” Davey said nothing. He was thinking how

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10 THE SCREECH OWL legs around, and touched empty space. Dave’s breath stopped for a second and his heart pounded. The car had stopped no more than two inches from a cliff’s edge! His eyes strained as he looked down. He could see nothing but emptiness. He guessed the cavern must be hundreds of feet below. He had killed a man, but it was his life or Smokey’s! He stumbled back in a cold sweat. He could not think of anything but a crushed body lying far below. And a little black bag that had to be returned. When he returned to the metropolis and restored it, he would explain how he had be- come entangled in the crime, how he was sus- picious of Smokey when he ordered him to stop the car, and when he had answered Smo- key he had thrown his voice as he had done so often when learning ventriloquism as a child. Maybe, he thought, the cops would give him a job on the force. Who knows Max Gruber, ’ 44 . Freedom or Death Solitary confinement in a French dungeon during the rule of King Karloff was probably the worst mental and physical torture humanly conceivable. To escape from the Tombs,” as they were ominously called, was unheard of. If a man were sent there, he was never heard from again. Nobody knew exactly what it was like, but plenty of wild guesses were made. No fear is so great as the fear of something you know nothing about. This prison was at Ville de la Morte! This was Pierre Roche’s fate. For simply not getting hysterical with joy over a speech of the king’s condemning fifty Germans to the Tombs,” he himself had been sent there im- mediately. At first he did not believe it pos- sible! With each and every step down into the Tombs the seriousness of his plight doubled and redoubled. He must have lost consciousness, for when he awoke he was lying down. His body was terribly bruised, probably from being rolled, dragged, or kicked, or perhaps thrown down- stairs. It was many hours, possibly a few days, be- fore he got his wits about him enough to arise from the cot. For many days he did nothing but brood over his misfortune. He found that his cell was about eight by six by six. At the door there was a small slit undereneath, through which food was pushed on a paper plate once a day. The food was dirty, old, and evil smell- ing; but it was nourishing, and after a few weeks his strength was restored and he began to think of escape. Constantly he had heard a sort of brushing or dragging noise like the wind in the trees or water in a stream. Perhaps there was an under- ground river. Frantically searching every inch of the cell, he found one brick loose. After hours of clawing, his hands almost unrecog- nizable as such, he tore the stone out. Looking down, he saw something gleaming white. Then he realized that someone, trying to es- cape, had dug himself into the river and couldn’t get up out of the steep hole after it had caved in. Beside the scattered bones he saw a small spade, which had probably been smuggled in at a great price by some crooked guard. But it was deep in the hole; if he went down after the spade, his would be the same fate as his predecessor. All he owned was a jackknife. His eyes fell upon the cot. The sideboard might be long enough. He ripped it off and shoved it down the hole. By hang- ing by his waist down into the hole itself, the board would just reach the handle of the shovel. He climbed out of the hole and, having pulled the board up, he started to whittle a hook into the end of it. With much difficulty he suc- ceeded in hauling the spade up. Figuring the course of the brook, he went to the other side of the dungeon where he thought that the river would not be, He loosened another rock and dug down about six feet, which took about two days. All the dirt he carried and dropped down into the small stream. Then he dug at