Just a bit too fast

Thought-and-a-half Morgan was exactly that far ahead of his dull-witted police pursuers--or so he thought.

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Argosy All-Story Weekly March 16 1929.]

When the somewhat forlorn-looking six-cylinder touring car drew up across the street before the Peninsula Park branch bank, I didn't give it a second thought. Neither did Halloran--and if either of us should have noticed, he was the one. He was supposed to know Thought-and-a-half Morgan.

No, neither of us gave it a thought; not until we noticed that the seeming-asleep young egg at the wheel had kept his motor running. Then we both dashed across the asphalt in a damned big hurry.

Detective Halloran had made a thousand-mile jump to spill his story to my chief--the tip he had, that Thought-and-a-half was about to essay in our fair village of one million souls a few of the strokes that had brought him much notoriety throughout the nation at large--and a considerable price on his head. Halloran's chief back home was due for the sack if this looter of six banks in six days was not chucked in durance vile. He had sent out his star man with some info bulldozed from one of Morgan's minor aids.

It was supposed to be infallible stuff; the man Morgan, who had won his moniker by being at least one think-and-a-fraction ahead of the brainiest cop that ever lived, had moved in on us. Halloran said he had practically the entire dope; but my chief, noting with disgust the opportunities taken by Halloran to advertise his own astuteness, and feeling pretty secure over the fact that a major job hadn't been pulled in our village for months, didn't lend an overly receptive ear.

He had enough to do, speaking at Rotary and Kiwanis luncheons, and the like; so he merely growled: "You run around with him, Jake, and if you need help lemme know."

Those had been my orders. Dashing across toward the bank with Halloran, I wondered if this was the time to report. Well, if it was, it was too late now. Morgan could have taken the bank's foundations with him if we laid back for reënforcements. But maybe this wouldn't be Morgan, I thought, tugging at my armpit to pull my gun free in a second, if need be. Just as Halloran and I dashed into the entryway I caught a side glimpse of the dude behind the wheel. He was watching us, but his talons were resting on the steering-wheel in plain sight. Which is somewhat unusual for an outside man--if he was one.

We almost bowled over a customer or two, getting inside, but finally landed right side up in the bank lobby. I flashed a look around, then turned to Halloran. He had just completed a similar look-see. I hope I didn't appear as sheepish as he did.

In brief, business was going on as usual.

"Who the hell ever said I was a cop?" grunted Halloran to me in a tone spilling over with disgust.

"Yes, whoever said such a thing?" came a throaty voice behind my back. I couldn't see the party, but that didn't keep gooseflesh from prickling up on my neck. There's no mistaking the determined prod of a gat in the small of the back, just above the kidneys. Halloran stood as motionless as I, and out of the corner of my eye I could see about three inches of the persuader that was making a good Indian out of him. Our friend was evidently a two-gun man.

"Mr. Halloran and one of the local talent, I believe?" The words had a sarcastic smirk to them. "I had an idea some one might be coming along, so I stopped at the desk here to write out a deposit slip. Wonderful device, that, for killing time and covering the back trail--and who'd ever suspect a nice old woman like me?"

At the risk of having my viscera spread all over the lobby from gunfire immediately to my rear, I took a side-wise peek at a mirror hanging on the far wall. You could 'a' knocked me dead when I spotted the reflection. Old lady was right--skirt, Sunday bonnet and all! This Thought-and-a-half certainly earned his nickname. If he didn't look like one of Punkinville's sturdy old-time housewives I'll eat my shoes--and they're size elevens. He'd even duplicated the little hunch in the shoulders that comes with age.

Now I knew why the outside man hadn't raised a holler. He'd evidently worked with Thought-and-a-half before, and knew what real confidence should be.

All this flashed through the old bean in far less time than it takes to tell it--all this and more. For I had noted also that this bank out in the rhubarbs of our city had, at 2.48 P.M. of a dull winter day, mighty few customers. In fact not as many were in the corridor as were behind the wicket windows. The boy with the guns stuck in our manly backs had picked his moment right.