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Roy Glashan's Library
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Based on a painting by P. Stahl (ca. 1890)
Amazing Stories, November 1946 with "Side Street"
There came the blast of a shot and the coachman reeled from his seat to the ground.
Be careful when you walk down that side-street!
These unknown by-ways lead to odd places!
THE hansom cab was a product of the eighties and a night club in the Loop evidently used it for a moving advertisement. It was a dilapidated, worn affair with high wheels, enclosed cab, and springs that squeaked in protest each time the wheels turned. Drawn by a half starved mare and driven by an old man with side burns and a black whip, it roamed the streets each night with a placard tacked on each side of it.
"TRY HARRY'S BAR."
It was a clever advertising scheme, except through some strange error, Harry's address was not indicated on the placards.
Jim Brady worked for the News. Every night at exactly ten fifteen, he left the office, crossed the street to Ryson's and had coffee and doughnuts. Then, with the precision of a clock, Brady left Ryson's at ten thirty, waved at the bewhiskered gent who drove the old hansom cab, tossed a nickel to the bum outside Ryson's and ran for the elevated.
July third was very hot. Most of the Loop stores were draped with red, white and blue bunting. Flags sagged listlessly in the warm night air. The hansom cab rolled dispiritedly down State Street. The old mare that pulled it waved her tail half-heartedly to keep the flies moving.
The hansom was opposite the News building when Jim Brady, punctual to the second, came out of Ryson's and waved a friendly hand at the old driver.
Then for the first time in three years, he paused, after tossing a coin to the beggar and stood on the curb watching the slow progress of the hansom. It seemed to him that a certain mystery hung over the old man who sat high up behind the cab snapping his whip at the mare. Two lanterns slung on either side of the hansom flickered feebly.
It was as though he was seeing the aged hansom for the first time. The wheels rattled and bumped protestingly along the street. There was the bump-bump of the steel-shod wheels and the cloppity-clop of the mare's shoes as they hit the pavement.
He looked at the sign on the side of the cab.
"TRY HARRY'S BAR."
Brady ran a damp finger around under his collar. Perspiration had collected in a drop on the end of his nose.
He longed for something cool to drink. Why not? He stepped down off the curb as the hansom reached him.
"Give me a lift and I'll take up your proposition," he said. "Do I get a free ride to Harry's place?"
The old fellow clucked at his horse and the beast halted. He turned slowly and stared down at Brady with mild, washed out eyes. Then, without a word he pointed his whip at the door of the hansom and nodded.
Brady grasped the door knob and pulled it. From inside came the hot, sultry smell of aged leather. It would be uncomfortable, but now that the idea had occurred to him, he couldn't resist it. Anything to get away from the humdrum routine.
He climbed in quickly, aware of several curious onlookers who gathered at the curb. It was odd, he thought as he closed the door behind him, that with thousands of people walking the street each night, no one had ever thought of this gag before.
The cab wasn't so bad. It smelled musty from being closed, and he rolled down the window in spite of the squeaking protest of the glass.
He heard the driver snap his whip lightly over the horse's head, the wheels moaned their dissent, and then started to roll once more moving noiselessly over the smooth street.
WHERE Harry's Bar was Brady didn't know. His orderly life
carried him up and down a few well known streets. The remainder
of his time he spent reading proof at the News and writing
a novel during his evenings. After twenty minutes of bouncing
around inside the warm cab, he was beginning to wonder if his
search for the unusual hadn't brought something unwelcome upon
him.
They turned off State Street and rolled slowly down a dark factory lined alley. He leaned forward, sticking his head out of the open window.
"How far to Harry's?" he asked. The whip snapped again and the hansom gathered speed and rolled around another corner. Brady had to confess he was lost. Each street looked like the other. Each was lighted only by dim bulbs at the corners. Otherwise, dark buildings with no street numbers left him entirely in a strange world.
Fifteen minutes more and he was wiping perspiration from his forehead and growing angry at himself for doing such an idiotic thing.
He tried the door but it was stuck. Besides, it would be foolish to get out now. Evidently the old fellow was taking a short cut to the west side. If he wandered around alone in this neighborhood some bum would probably roll him and take the week's pay he had carefully hidden in an inner pocket.
Half an hour passed. Cursing himself for a fool, and swearing to go through with the thing, if for nothing more than to accustom himself to the unusual, Jim Brady was overcome by the warm night and found himself dozing.
HE AWAKENED with a start. A light flickered in his face
sending weird shadows over the black leather seats of the hansom.
He sat up and was aware once more of the close, intolerable heat
of the night. It clung to his body bringing sweat out under his
clothing. Feeling slightly ill, he ran his finger around inside
his collar and ended by unbuttoning it. The hansom stopped. He
stared out at the lamp and his eyes widened. It was almost above
his head and the illumination was supplied by a single gas flame
that emerged from the wick of an old fashioned street lamp. Brady
looked around, amazed at the street on which they had
stopped.
The sidewalk was constructed of red cobblestones and the road was of the same material. His eyes lifted from the sidewalk and traveled upward, noting the neat white picket fences, the movie like setting of small, neatly built homes.
The door rattled and he turned to find it open, the cabby waiting on the street side of the hansom.
"Harry's Bar, sir," the old man said. "The fare will be twenty-five cents."
Automatically, Brady got out, found a quarter and paid the driver. Standing there where the entire block was under his scrutiny he found nothing familiar. It was a short block, and seemingly deserted. He glanced at his watch. Ten o'clock. On the far side of the street was a row of small shops, a tavern and a row of hitching posts. The whole thing looked like a main street—1860, as conjured up by a movie prop man. Standing there dumbly, not knowing what to do next, Brady heard the crack of the whip behind him as the hansom moved away. He looked beyond the block, or rather, tried to. Somehow his eyes couldn't penetrate the dark sky. He knew he must be a long distance from the loop or lights from the high buildings would have been visible. Yet, the night seemed clear and the sky deserted.
He couldn't see beyond this one strange little block.
It frightened him. Yet, to be frightened when nothing had happened to alarm him, was foolish. He turned toward the cab once more, only to find that it had evidently turned a corner and was out of sight. He was cut off from the last familiar thing he knew.
Brady forced back his fear and walked slowly across the street toward the saloon. Gaudy, gold-leafed letters told him that this was Harry's Bar. He heard the tinkle of a piano inside, hesitated and pushed open the swinging doors. Someone had a damned clever idea here. He faced a long, smoke filled room. To the right was a bar that disappeared into the dimness toward the rear of the establishment. Men lined the bar. The place was full of customers.
He, Brady, had been a fool. Night life wasn't one of his pastimes and now he realized just what a clever place Harry's was. Evidently an entire street had been constructed to promote local color. Even Harry's customers wore the gaudy rather laughable costumes of the last century.
Brady walked to the bar and sat down. A bartender, ruddy and heavy set, approached him. The bartender had a puzzled, almost angry look on his face. He sported a handle bar mustache.
"What'll it be, sport?" he asked. He stared at Brady with fascination.
"Make it a beer," Brady said. He tossed a quarter on the bar. The beer came sliding toward him and with it, twenty cents change.
"Hey, you made a mistake," he said, and pointed to the twenty cents. The bartender walked toward him, stared at the dimes carefully and shook his head.
"Beer's a nickel," he said. "You got the right change."
With an odd, 'This Shouldn't Happen To Me' feeling, Brady started to drink.
As he did so, he realized that his presence was creating a stir in the saloon. Girls, half a dozen of them in various stages of collapse, moved past giving him the eye. Men on either side turned to look him over. Finally the man at his right, a slim melancholy character, turned and put down his empty beer glass.
"You a stranger here?" he asked.
BRADY looked the man over carefully. He was on guard. His
better sense told him he must be careful, very careful.
"Yes," he said. "I—I didn't realize that it was to be a costume party."
The thin man's face turned very red. The bow-tie jumped up and down rapidly, assisted by a huge Adam's Apple.
"You wouldn't be trying to be funny, would you?"
Brady tried to grin. It was a complete flop.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I haven't been here before. I'm—I'm puzzled."
The thin man turned away, choosing to ignore him. Brady, feeling ill at ease, arose and wandered toward the back of the room. Eyes followed him. He could feel them, dozens of eyes, boring into the back of his neck. Suddenly even though his own suit was neat and well pressed, he felt shabby. He didn't fit into the gaudy, checkered scenery. His own mustache was small, well trimmed. It looked like a line of black soot, compared to the gaudy handle-bar upper lips around him.
His eyes stopped suddenly on the poker table.
Here was something he recognized. Here was a spot where he felt at home. He wandered toward the group of men who sat at the table. There were eight of them. He felt the comforting wad of bills in his pocket. Every night at the News office he managed to sit in on a poker session for an hour or two. He knew his cards pretty well.
He walked around the table trying not to disturb the players. One chair was vacant. He stopped at the empty chair and leaned on it. Then he saw that his presence hadn't gone entirely unnoticed. Directly across from him, a small clean shaven man sat with a stack of silver before him. At first Brady thought the money was in fifty cent pieces. Then he realized that they were silver dollars. There must have been five hundred of them stacked in shining piles of twenty five each. A hand reached out and touched the silver. His eyes traveled up the arm to the shoulder, and the calm, rather friendly face of the man. He must be in his early fifties. He smiled.
"Want to sit in?"
Brady did. A girl stood behind the man. She had the same small bones, the kindly gray eyes of the man she watched. She smiled at Brady and it made his whole body relax. He nodded to her and grinned. He sat down.
The men around him were quiet, absorbed in the game. The pot was played and the quiet man took it. They dealt the cards again.
Brady picked up five pasteboards, tried to hide the pleasure that three aces gave him and settled back. He used every ounce of control to keep from staring over the cards at the girl across from him.
"Can you open?"
"Huh?" He felt like a fool. "I'll—I'll pass."
He passed with three aces. There were three more men who would have a chance at it He preferred to wait. The last man opened and discarded two cards. He did likewise. The man across the table smiled. He kept his original hand.
Brady held his aces, and a king for a kicker. He filled a full house and waited. The pot built itself up slowly until it totaled fifty dollars. Brady found his stack of bills going down swiftly. He brought the remainder of them out and placed them before him. There was a certain tenseness around him. It was a feeling that he couldn't quite figure out, but it worried him. The man across the table and Brady were alone now.
Brady placed a fifty dollar bill on the table. The man across the table ignored the silver before him. He reached into his pocket and drew out a bill. He placed it on top of the pile. Outside of Brady's own money, this was the first bill that had come to light.
Brady stared at it uncertainly.
It had 1000 printed on all four corners. He gasped, unable to hide his dismay. The girls eyes were smoldering, angry. There was no expression in the other man's eyes.
"I'll cover it," Brady said. He didn't know why he said it. He couldn't cover fifty bucks more, much less a thousand.
TO HIS amazement they didn't question him. His competitor
layed down his cards slowly, two kings, three queens. Brady
sighed. He dropped his aces and kings. He reached for the pot. A
hand descended on his from the right. He turned quickly and saw
two bartenders standing behind his chair. What was wrong? The
play had been fair enough. He had won. They didn't have to see
his money. The man across from him reached slowly and withdrew
his bill. He picked up a ten dollar bill and a quarter, both from
Brady's roll. He looked at the bill and smiled. Then he passed it
to the girl. He studied the quarter.
"Lock him up, boys," he said. "The man's loco. According to the date, this money was made in 1942. The bills are too small. I never did hear of a counterfeiter who got his dates and sizes both mixed. How in hell can he expect to pass 1942 money in 1840? It'll be a long time before this stuff is good."
Brady knew he was trapped. But how, why? In some manner they had pulled a hoax on him. The hansom driver had something to do with it. The girl? He twisted around in his chair, coming to his feet with one desperate surge of strength. Something hit him a terrific blow on the head and stars flashed in his eyes. He cried out and the room whirled around him at a furious rate. He slumped on the floor.
JIM BRADY rolled over, landed with a crash on the floor and
swore. He sprang to his feet and at once his head reminded him
that it was aching. He stood up holding it with both hands.
"Where in hell...?"
The cell was small, with an iron door and a small, barred window. The rest of the room was constructed of bricks and included one small flat bunk less springs.
He was in jail. He remembered the argument at the saloon and the blow on the head.
Counterfeiter—1840?
He sat down on the bunk. His pounding head didn't deaden the horror of his memories.
It was pretty clear that something impossible had happened to him. This was a trip backwards into time, but not the romantic adventurous trip he might have found in some dime magazine. This was a case of picking the wrong horse. The horse that trotted sedately back through a hundred years and landed him on a typical side street in the middle eighties.
He swore again as he remembered the girl with the gray eyes and the man who played poker. Ironically he had protected his money carefully, only to find that its very newness had betrayed him.
He sat for a long time, trying to figure out what he would say when they came to take him from the cell. It would be hard to convince these people that his money was good. That he had been returned to them from the future. He found it hard to believe the story himself. It was too damned fantastic.
"Hello."
Brady glanced up startled. The girl with the gray eyes stood just outside the cell door.
"Hello," he said. "Say, do you suppose I can get something to eat? It's been a long time...."
He heard her laugh and a key rattled in the door. It swung open and she came in. She held a covered dish in her hands. He watched her slim, graceful figure as she crossed the room and placed the dish on his bunk.
"Something warm for you," she said. "Dad felt sorry for you. He thought I should come over and see you."
Brady managed a grin.
"I'd feel better if you had decided to come of your own accord," he admitted. "Perhaps you can tell me just what I've walked into."
The door closed and locked again. The jailer's head was visible in the window. She looked up at him quickly, then back at Brady.
"I came to bring you food," she said a little sharply. "I'm afraid that's all we can talk about."
BRADY lifted the towel from the dish. He knew that she had
looked up at the jailer for a purpose. She didn't want to talk.
His eyes lighted at the sight of the dish of fresh corn, green
beans and steak. He whistled.
"Darned if I'm not hungrier than I thought," he said.
She watched him eat and her face was flushed with pleasure.
"You came in the hansom, didn't you?" she asked in a low voice. He hardly heard her. He waited a moment, then keeping his voice low answered:
"Yes, but I don't know how or why. I fell asleep and when I awakened...."
She leaned forward and spoke sharply so that her voice carried beyond the cell.
"I can't help you," she said. "You've committed a crime and I won't listen to your threats."
She stood up eyes blazing. For an instant he was startled. Then he knew that her words were meant for the jailer. He was turning the key in the cell.
He followed her to the door. She turned suddenly and whispered.
"Wait! The hansom will come again."
Then for no reason at all, she slapped him full across the cheek. It was a light touch, almost a caress. His face turned red but not from pain. Her fingers were almost a promise.
"I won't come here again," she said as the door closed. "Jailer, get me out of this terrible place."
"Yes'um," Brady heard the man say. "Like I said, these jailbirds ain't fit..."
His voice drifted away down the corridor.
Brady sat down. She had said the hansom would come again. What had she meant? For the time being, he didn't care. The girl with the gray eyes lived in 1840 and he didn't want to leave until he knew more about her. Brady had to admit to himself that it would be very unpleasant to return to 1944 and leave the only girl he had ever fallen in love with to live out her years in another century lost completely and forever to him.
"YOU'RE going to get out all right," the jailer said. He
twisted his mustache savagely and led the way down the hall. "Mr.
Shelby is mighty powerful around here, and what he says goes.
Darned if I see, though, why he wants a no good crook like you
around."
The sunshine of the street struck Brady's eyes and he closed them quickly.
He heard the girl with the gray eyes.
"Dad wants to see you right away. He's waiting at the Monolith."
Brady opened his eyes with difficulty. It was the same street he had seen the night before. The clean, well painted little homes stretched up one side of it. Men and women wandered back and forth from the shops. The sky was bright above. He looked down toward the end of the block. His eyes refused to penetrate beyond the last house. It was as though a blank curtain had been drawn at either end of the street. There was nothing but sky and space beyond the last cobblestone. He dragged his eyes back to the girl.
"Thanks for getting me out of there," he said.
She smiled and put her arm through his. It was warm and firm.
"To the Monolith, sir," she said, "and don't spare the horses."
The Monolith was a small, three story building two doors away from Harry's Saloon. The lobby was filled with green plush chairs. The desk clerk, a pimple-faced youth, dozed behind his pine desk. They passed him, and the girl led Brady up two flights of stairs. She knocked at a door marked in black numbers—302.
"That you Anne?"
She opened the door by way of an answer and nudged Brady inside. "My father, Sam Shelby," she said.
Sam Shelby stood up. He was dressed in a neat, black suit. His tie was missing and the desk where he sat served as a bar. He picked up a bottle and poured a glass of clear whiskey.
"Your name's Brady," he said. "Have a drink Jim."
Brady had been forced to give his name at the jail.
"Thanks," he said awkwardly. "And thanks, also, for getting me out of jail."
He sat down near the desk and Anne perched beside her father, arm about his shoulder. Shelby took a long drink, put down his glass and stared at Brady.
"You're from outside."
"Outside?"
Shelby shook his head.
"From the future," he said. "You came here in the hansom."
"Oh," Brady said and took a gulp of whiskey. It went down like seething, white hot fire.
"Yes," he admitted. "The hansom has been a great curiosity to me for some time. For some darn fool reason, I climbed into it. Perhaps you can tell me just what happened."
Shelby grinned.
"Sorry," he said. "I can only tell you that old Reeby who drives the hansom got the idea himself. It's sort of a practical joke he plays on people. It isn't very funny to anyone but him. You're here now so we can talk business."
Brady scowled. "Business?"
Shelby tossed off the remainder of his whiskey and started to pour another glass.
"Well," he said, "I had you released from jail because I'm the only one who got any of your bad money and I refused to press charges against you. As long as you're under my wing, so to speak, I thought you might like a job. I've got one for you."
THINGS were happening fast. However, while Brady was close to
Anne, he didn't worry much. He couldn't leave here unless he had
to. The thought of working for her father appealed to him.
"What's the job?" he asked.
Shelby's grin vanished. He leaned forward and his voice dropped.
"I want you to kill Reeby," he said.
Brady's empty glass almost fell from his fingers. He stood up slowly.
"I'd rather go back to jail," he said.
Shelby sprang to his feet. Anne's face turned very white and her fists clenched.
"Wait," she cried.
"Yes," Shelby said. "For God's sake don't fly into a fit until you hear what I have to say. You're from the future. You can get away with it. I have to stay here and if anything happened between Reeby and me, I'd face the music."
"And just how would I escape the death penalty?" Brady asked grimly. "In the event that I had any reason to kill the old man?"
Shelby sank back into his chair. Anne moved quietly to Brady's side and put her hand on his arm.
"Daddy isn't bad," she said. "You see, Reeby is playing a grim practical joke. Almost every week he brings someone out of the future and throws him into the society of Side Street. Sometimes they go crazy and try to fight their way out. Then they are jailed—or—or killed. Reeby has thrown everything into an uproar. The past and the future cannot live side by side. Each time, it ends in violence."
"Reeby is the old man who drives the hansom?"
"Yes," she said. "Don't you understand...?"
"I'd still be a murderer," Brady drew away from her gently.
"But you wouldn't," she said. "Reeby lives in 1840. Somehow he practices black magic. It is he who is a murderer. He brings people here and sooner or later they are faced with tragedy. He has ruined the lives of some and sent others to their graves."
A strange suspicion flooded Brady's mind.
"If this is all such a mystery," he said, "how do you two know all about it?"
The room was silent. Father and daughter exchanged glances. Finally Shelby spoke.
"That's our business," he said. "I'm not getting myself into trouble because of Anne. She'd suffer also. Otherwise, I'd have murdered Reeby a long time ago.
"Dad," Anne said sharply.
The older man didn't smile. His lips were pressed into a straight hard line.
"I would like to," he said, "but I can't, not while you're here to suffer with me."
Brady didn't know what to think—to say.
"You'd be killing a man who lives in 1840," Shelby said. "You live in 1944 and when you get back to your own time, they can't bother you about a murder that happened years before you were born."
Brady tried to think clearly. Anne wanted him to do it. He knew that. He had already decided that he loved Anne. Now he wasn't so sure—of anything.
"I'll think about it," he said miserably. "I need sleep and time to think it over."
Shelby stood up again.
"I took a room down the hall for you," he said. "Come along."
Anne stood at the door as they went out. There were tears in her eyes.
JIM BRADY awakened. He felt fine except for the dull pounding
in his chest. He rolled over in bed trying to adjust himself to
the strange room. Now he remembered. Room at the strange little
hotel. Shelby had told him to rest and Brady, exhausted from the
hours spent in the cell, had slept for a long time. Now his body
was wet with perspiration. The heat rolled in through the open
window and seemed to lay over him like a heavy blanket. He sat
up.
Was there something he was supposed to do?
Then his face turned an angry red. Shelby wanted him to kill the old hansom driver, Reeby. Brady climbed out of bed and found a large wash basin and pitcher of water on the old fashioned dresser. He poured some water, doused his face in it and smoothed out his hair as best he could.
Shelby puzzled him. Shelby looked like a man of about thirty five. Still Anne must be close to twenty-five if he was any judge. Father and daughter? Perhaps not.
Brady fumbled with his shoe laces and tried to think clearly. Shelby had one purpose in freeing him from jail. Shelby wanted Reeby out of the way. Shelby wasn't a coward. Why didn't he do the job himself?
Brady broke a shoe-lace, swore softly and tied it together. Was Anne Shelby's daughter, or his wife? Brady couldn't be sure. One thing he was positive of. Anne wasn't happy and Anne approved of the plan to get rid of Reeby.
Brady stood up. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the thoughts that swept through his tortured mind.
A high quavering voice drifted up through the open window from the street. He went to the window and stared at the baked, dry pavement.
It was Reeby with his dilapidated hansom cab. Beside Reeby, was the drunkest man Brady had even seen.
The drunk had evidently just clambered out. The drunk had one hand on Reeby's shoulder and Reeby looked even worse in the daylight. His face was thin and ugly. His mouth was open wide in a grin and the grin showed a line of broken yellowed teeth.
"Nice of you ol' man;" the drunk was crying. "Darn nice of you. Shay, where's another bar, huh? Where's another bar? I'm getting thirsty."
Reeby turned the drunk in the direction of Harry's Saloon and gave him a quick push. The drunk staggered three steps and fell flat in the street. Reeby climbed casually back atop the hansom, made a clucking sound in his throat and the hansom moved away.
Brady knew where the drunk had come from. He watched as the man stood up staggered toward the sidewalk, nodded his head in a pleased manner and disappeared behind the swinging doors of Harry's Saloon. A tight ball of anger welled into Brady's throat.
Reeby kept a steady line of traffic moving into 1840. What happened when people of the two ages met? According to his own experience, the results weren't pleasant.
BRADY made a decision. He moved into the hall silently and
past Shelby's door with as little noise as possible. In the lobby
he nodded at the clerk and walked across the street toward
Harry's. As he entered the saloon, he noticed a group of men
arguing loudly at the far end of the bar. He moved toward them
slowly. Then he heard the drunk.
"What the hell kind of plashe is thish? I want a drink. My credit's good any plashe in town."
"Not here it aint," a low voice answered. "Now get the hell out of here and into some civilized clothing. You're the tenth guy who's tried to get smart around here. The rest of them are lying quiet now out in the graveyard."
Brady moved toward the group. Graveyard. It wasn't hard to understand. Two ages clashing in dress, thought and emotions. Almost like two races of people, misunderstanding each other. A street of the past, not understanding men of the future. His jaws tightened. He pushed a man aside gently and tried to work his way into the group.
"Hey there," the man he pushed, shouted. "Look, here's the one they threw in jail last night."
Angry faces turned toward him. His fists were clenched. He kept pushing his way forward.
"Coupla nuts," someone said. "Throw them both out. Better yet, string 'em up and get rid of 'em for good."
He heard men muttering angrily around him. Big brawny men, drunk and angry. It was a dangerous combination.
He had reached the drunk now. The man was evidently from a good family. Brady turned to the bartender. The fellow was big, plenty big. He wasn't in a mood for any more funny business.
"I'll take care of this man," Brady said evenly. "He's drunk. He didn't mean to get tough. He can't hold his liquor."
The bartender grinned. It wasn't a pleasant expression.
"You keep out of this," he said.
Brady felt an unsteady hand on his shoulder.
"Yea," it was the drunk. "You keep out of thish. That bastard...."
The room was suddenly very still. Brady stood there, wondering what to do next. The bartender's face leered at him. Brady felt himself being pushed aside as though he were a child. They were too many for him. The bartender cleared the bar with one leap. He landed on his feet like a cat. Before Brady could fight his way to the drunk's side, the bartender's fist lashed out savagely and caught the drunk in the face. The drunk's head snapped around and something in his neck gave way. A loud "pop" came from inside his throat and he sank to the floor, crying and gurgling a protest. He lay very still.
Slowly the circle of men grew wide around him. The bartender stood above the inert figure. His arms hung at his sides. His eyes were wide and frightened.
The drunk didn't move. His body flopped like a discarded scarecrow, neck twisted into a queer unnatural position.
The bartender looked up slowly and around at the frightened faces of the men near him.
"He," he stammered, his face suddenly very pale. "He called—me—a...."
Someone put a hand on his shoulder.
"No one blames you, Nick," his friend said. "We all heard what he said. I guess he deserved it."
The bartender stood there realizing gradually what he had done.
"He—called—me...." He paused, scowling. "I ain't taking that from no one."
Brady moved backward until he reached the door. He couldn't blame these people. He couldn't blame the man who had killed with one blow of a sledge-hammer fist. These men of 1840 didn't understand. Brady understood. He understood that senile, scheming old Reeby had played another of his little practical jokes. Reeby wouldn't play any more. Brady's sense of humor ran in another direction. Unlike Reeby, he could not see anything funny in death.
BRADY found a note on his bed.
Daddy tried to find you when you were out. Will you come to his room at once. It is very important.
Love,
Anne.
"Love?" Brady repeated the word over and over. It made him hot and cold at the same time. Love? There was something odd about the whole Shelby set up. More and more, he felt that Shelby couldn't be over thirty. That made Anne as a daughter, impossible. Anne as a wife sounded genuine. But Brady loved Anne. He had recognized that fact long ago and ceased to fight it.
He couldn't have Anne. To begin with, he wouldn't run away with another man's wife. That wasn't in Brady's code. What if Shelby was her father? What would happen if he, Brady, tried to take Anne ahead in time. A woman of twenty-six, living in 1840, would be.... Brady shuddered. Anne, living in 1944—one hundred and four years old.
He sat on the edge of the bed and read the note again. "Love—Anne." It stuck in his mind, giving him the desperate, terrible feeling that he faced a problem that couldn't be solved.
For a long time he waited. No one came to the door. He wasn't hungry, though it had been morning that he last ate. If grew dark outside. Still Brady sat on the bed, his head on his hands, wondering.
He sprang to his feet suddenly. The clop-clop-clop of hoof beats sounded on the pavement. He had to go now. Had to leave the one thing he had ever cherished. Had to murder, to save, God alone knew how many others like himself from walking into the same trap he had walked into.
For sixty long seconds he stood before Shelby's door fighting off the temptation to go in. To take Anne in his arms and, come what might, fight for her against Shelby, against the whole cockeyed world.
Then he plunged blindly down the stairs and into the street. He crossed the street and entered Harry's. A small crowd had already started to drift in for the evening. Oddly, they seemed to pay little attention to his presence. Death this afternoon kept them from gathering in groups, from talking. A silence hung over the saloon. Brady knew what he was looking for. He found a stool at the bar opposite the cash register. A heavy, menacing looking revolver lay on the polished mirror beside the cash box. He had seen it there that afternoon.
Brady ordered a drink and the bartender brought it quietly. He looked long and hard at Brady. Then, about to speak, he changed his mind and moved away. Brady waited, trying desperately to plan a way to get that gun. It was a good six feet over the bar and to the glass on which the weapon lay.
He drank quickly, then toying with the empty glass, stood up suddenly. His feet were on the rail. This brought him well above the bar. Without a word he aimed the glass and threw it with all his strength at the mirror behind the bar. He aimed it to hit a good ten feet away, near where the bartender was standing. The room was dim, and his movement went unnoticed by most.
The glass hit and shattered. The mirror broke in a dozen places and the bartender was showered with big pieces of flying glass. He threw up his hands and cursed loudly.
Every eye in the room went to the mirror and the swearing bartender. Brady leaned far over, hooked one finger around the grip of the revolver and pulled.
"There's the guy who did it," someone said.
The place was suddenly a madhouse.
Brady sprang toward the door, the revolver gripped firmly in his right hand. He turned and emptied one chamber into the other mirror. The sullen roar of the gun drowned all other sounds for an instant. Men who had started to run, halted, frightened and uncertain.
BRADY reached the street. He thought he saw a flash of a white
dress near the door of the Metropol Hotel. He moved fast, not
giving it a second thought. Reeby and his dilapidated coach stood
fifteen feet from the entrance of the saloon. Between him and the
hansom was Sam Shelby. Shelby was grinning.
As Brady passed him, Shelby shouted:
"Go to it, Son, and don't fail me."
Brady didn't have time to pause. He hit the cab with both feet, firing as he opened the door. The bullet crashed into the pavement under the horses hooves. Reeby, seated, half asleep atop the cab, was jerked back and almost fell off as the frightened beast plunged down the street.
Brady looked back. A crowd had gathered outside Harry's. Shelby stood on the sidewalk, a pistol in his left hand. He was looking at the crowd, but his free arm waved at Brady. Brady grinned. Nothing outside of a blank wall would stop Reeby's cab now. The horse was galloping swiftly toward the end of the street.
"Jim...."
Startled, Brady twisted about in his seat. In the far corner partly visible in the darkness was Anne Shelby.
"You...?"
She looked at him, her eyes wide with fright and hope.
"I had to come," she said. "I—I love you, Jim."
He didn't try to move closer to her.
"I'm going to kill Reeby," he said.
"It isn't pleasant to be hunted down with a killer."
She leaned forward suddenly.
"Good Lord, Jim."
He waited. The hansom was bouncing and swaying from side to side. Reeby's frightened voice came down to them from the roof of the hansom.
"You've got to kill Reeby before we reach the end of the street. Kill him in 1840." Anne said.
"I'm a fool," Brady thought. "A damned fool. If I kill him after we leave 1840, I'll be wanted in Chicago. If I kill him now....?"
As though she read his thoughts, Anne went on excitedly.
"If you kill him now, he'll be dead for over a hundred years. There will be nothing left...."
It was dangerous but he had to. Had to do it in those few remaining seconds. He pushed the door open and climbed out on the narrow running board of the hansom. Reeby tipped and swayed above him. Jim Brady clung grimly to the side of the hansom. He drew the gun from his pocket and aimed it at Reeby's head.
The hansom moved swiftly toward the mist at the end of the street. Then, suddenly, the horse disappeared from sight. With a prayer, Brady pulled the trigger. The charge almost threw him from the side of the hansom. Reeby screamed and turned half around. His ugly yellow face was visible to Brady. Then, like a cardboard cut-out, Reeby fell side wise and toppled over, into the mist.
Brady could see nothing. The whiteness around him was like a blank sheet of paper. He struggled back into the cab.
The cab slowed down, then stopped. Brady was panting.
"Did you...?" It was Anne, her face close to his, pleading for him to say the right thing. He nodded, unable to speak.
HE STARED out of the window of the ancient hansom. The world
was quiet, very quiet. His eyes widened and a slow smile twisted
his lips. He knew where he was now. He recognized the row of
darkened factory buildings. He heard the sound of traffic in a
distance and saw the glow of the Loop lights in the sky. He
turned to Anne.
"We're safe," he said, "in Chicago."
She nodded.
"I know," she said simply, "It's good to be home."
Home? The smile vanished and a frown took its place. Anne had not changed. Anne was the same; young, lovely and smiling at him. More bewitching than ever.
"Home?"
He repeated the word aloud and she nodded.
"Jim, I have to tell you. Shelby wasn't my father. Don't you see? My father and mother are dead. They died several years ago, here in Chicago. This is my home as well as yours."
He was completely baffled.
"I don't understand."
She moved closer to him.
"Jim—Reeby took me into the past, just as he did you. Only I was fortunate. I met someone who protected me and tried to get me back here where I belong."
"Shelby?"
She nodded.
"Shelby's my great Grandfather. He found clothing for me and pretended that I was his daughter, who had been away for many years. They didn't question me."
"And that's why Shelby asked me to kill Reeby? He wanted to send you back here with me."
She opened her purse and took out several silver dollars.
"Here is proof," she said, and put them into his hand. "You'll find they were minted in 1942. Aunt Gloria sent them to me from Nevada."
He swept her into his arms, forgetting the hansom and Reeby, forgetting the past. He tasted her lips as he had wanted so badly to do from the first. When he released her, he said:
"I don't want any proof. I've got what I want most."
She wasn't satisfied yet.
"Don't you see," she said softly. "That Great Grandfather Shelby would have killed Reeby himself, but he would have been punished for the murder. He couldn't take that chance even to save me."
Brady wasn't thinking very clearly at that moment. She was still too close, too warm against him.
"I—don't—see...."
She kissed him gently on the chin.
"Because, you dummy, if Great Grandfather Shelby was hanged for murdering Reeby, you couldn't have saved me. He didn't really have a daughter or even a wife, when you and I were with him. He didn't meet Great Grandmother until 1842."
She hesitated, leaning on his shoulder.
"If he had gone to the gallows he could never have married. There wouldn't be an Anne Shelby to send back to Chicago. I would never have existed."
A great wave of understanding swept over Jim Brady.
"We're going to take care of that once and for all," he said solemnly. "From tonight on, your name will be changed to Brady. Mrs. Jim Brady."
The old horse stood patiently hitched to the dilapidated hansom cab. He swished his tail from side to side, occasionally, and waited.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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