Fated from birth to be rivals were steely, solid Jerry Ford and quick-thinking, romantic Bob Marlin. Both had valuable qualities to offer in the service of Uncle Sam—and only the iron discipline, the man-forging training of the F.B.I. school could make apparent which was the better man.
WHEN you looked at Jerry Ford, you thought of steady, solid things. When you looked at Robert Marlin, you thought words like romance and glory. Ford was infantry in the trenches; Marlin the wild bugle cry of charging cavalry. Two such dissimilar men might be friends, but Ford and Marlin met as rivals—in the recruiting office of the peacetime soldiery of America, the Federal Bureau of Investigation. They both wanted to be G-Men—and they knew that not one man among a hundred applicants was accepted.
Jerry Ford walked up to the girl at the reception desk and said quietly, "Jerry Ford reporting."
It was symbolic of their rivalry that Robert Marlin should be ahead of him, sitting on a corner of the girl's desk and swinging his leg. There was fire in Marlin's dark eyes, the high sweep of his brow was white and strong against his glossy black hair. Marlin shoved out his hand to Ford, gave his name.
"We're rivals, I guess," he said. "Waiting to see Inspector Donnelly?"
Ford nodded, smiling his grave smile, and he saw the girl's head lift, and her eyes met his warmly. Ford saw then how her dark blond hair was drawn across her brow and knotted low on the nape of her neck, how competent her slim hands were.
"Yes, sir, rivals!" Marlin cried softly, looking at the girl. "For the most glorious service in the world! The patriotic, selfless service of your country!"
Ford thought it was great to be able to put things in words like that. His throat tightened a little and he moved steadily to a seat to wait. Marlin went on talking to the girl, and she looked up at him and laughed with a flush of color in her clear cheeks.... Presently Marlin was called into Inspector Donnelly's office. This was a critical moment, this little "chat" with the inspector, after which many an applicant was rejected. Though even to be called in for the talk meant a lot.
Not simply that you had certain prerequisites, such as a college degree, plus legal training or accountancy; or demonstrated ability in investigative work; two years of business experience. If you met those requirements and passed the stiff, written examinations, the F.B.I. would then consent to investigate your personal history, to see if you were the stuff from which G-men were made! Your associates, your teachers, your employers would be interviewed right back almost to babyhood!
After all that, you had this little "chat" with the inspector. In an hour at most, he would take your measure as a man. And if you failed to measure up, that was the end of your hopes of becoming a G-man! Ford looked down at the squarish hands cupped over his knee caps and wondered what his personal rating in man power might be. He thought of it very earnestly throughout the eternity that Marlin was talking to the inspector.
FINALLY, Marlin came striding across the office, his head held high, a look on his face that made Ford think of a priest before the altar of his god. No doubt about his entering the G-school. Marlin stopped to smile down at the girl, crossed to put his hand heartily on Ford's shoulder.
"Don't worry at all," he said. "Inspector Donnelly is a prince!" More softly. "They just want you to talk about the 'glory of the service' and how, if you fail to become a G-man, it will wreck your life!"
Jerry Ford stood, very grave-faced. "Thank you," he said steadily. It was more than ambition with Ford, this desire to be a G-man. From the day in college when he had first read of the G-man's work, he had said to himself. "That's my job!" All through the months when he was acquiring the "legal training” and "business experience" that were necessary, he had glowed with pride over the G-men's every achievement. He had suffered when they fell before bandit guns. His job, his outfit. . . . His!
But he knew he couldn't put that into words to the inspector. A man couldn't talk about things that meant as much to you as that .... Even so at the end of their chat, Inspector Donnelly shook his hand, grey, keen eyes smiling.
"I think you're the kind of man the government wants," he said gravely.
Ford felt his heart swell. He said only, "I'll give my best, sir." He went to stop and tell the girl, just say to her, "I've passed!" But he couldn't be casual about it.... She called to him.
"I'm Anne Thompson," she was saying. "If you need any information, or if you just want to talk to somebody, I'll be glad to help you. I'm glad Inspector Donnelly passed you, but I knew he would...."
Marlin was waiting and insisted that he and Ford should take rooms together. "Two rookies, you and I! We'll find a lot to talk about. Say, that little reception clerk is some honey! I think I'll take her stepping some night soon!" Ford decided he would rather room alone.
In G-school boxing class next morning, he slipped a punch through Marlin's guard and knocked him to the floor. Afterwards, Marlin slashed Ford's face to ribbons with canny gloves. They never had a boxing match together after that. It was always a fight.... Ford and Marlin were two of a section of eight men going through the training school together, all seeking appointment as Gmen. A school that would test them as much as teach them.
Presently the news seeped, as perhaps it had been intended to, that one of their number would be appointed to active service at the end of the training period—if any of them made the grade. Ford sized up every man in the section and made up his mind calmly that if he worked very hard, he would be able to top them all— all except Marlin.
Marlin seemed to be naturally endowed with everything a G-man could need. His was no legal or accounting background. He had been a newspaper man and had come to the G-school after a brilliant piece of detective work in which he had snatched an innocent man from the death house.
Boxing seemed second nature to Marlin. He had a vicious force in jiu-jitsu and wrestling that gave him quick victories. Guns were toys in his hands. Rifles, shotguns, machine guns, pistols, all the implements of the G-trade—he was their master a half hour after the instructor had explained the weapon. In Marlin, Jerry Ford saw the death of all his hopes. That sort of competition always made Ford work harder, but he came close to hating Marlin. These days there was a new grimness about the set of his jaw, an added forward thrust to his stubborn shoulders. He spent his off-hours going over the lesson of the day. He shadow-boxed all over his room. He spent hours practicing with a gun. He bored on the technical stuff a G-Man had to know.
EVEN on the one night each week that he allowed himself for recreation, the only night when he gravely asked Anne Thompson to allow him to call—and there were not many nights when Marlin did not "take her stepping"—Ford could not leave off studying. He would try to analyze himself and his failings with Anne's help.
"I'll never be the boxer Marlin is," he'd tell Ann. "He has a natural grasp of all that stuff— guns.... Way I figure is, when you go up against a man like Marlin, you've got to force the other fellow to fight your own way." He would smile very gravely. "The instructor almost always matches us against each other. I hope that means that, next to Marlin, I'm the best man!"
Anne would smile with her brown eyes, and sometimes her firm fingers would touch his. "It will break your heart if you don't get that active appointment, won't it, Jerry?"
"Pretty near, Anne," Ford admitted, his jaw hardening. "I'm going to get it, Marlin or no Marlin!"
But inwardly, he wasn't so sure. And the next morning, the instructor in personal defense told the section it was time for tests. He smiled quizzically at Marlin and Ford.
"I'll match you two first," he said. "Marlin, you've been good from the first. Ford, you've worked hard and come ahead amazingly." He paused, weighing the two men, almost as if he knew the rivalry, the nascent hatred, that lay between them— Marlin with that dark proud head of his, his muscles ripping smooth in his naked torso; Jerry Ford shorter, thicker, with stubbornness upon him. The instructor's voice grew crisp. "Marlin, for the purposes of this test, you are unarmed, bare-fisted. You are to take Ford prisoner. You are entitled to use any of the methods we have taught you. Ford, for the purposes of this bout, you not only must not be taken prisoner, but you must disable Marlin and make him a prisoner. There will be only the rest periods that you allow each other. All ready, gentlemen, from the gong!" He looked at the two, grinned curiously. "You are, of course, to stop short of crippling or killing each other!"
THE clash of the gong was the loudest sound Ford had ever heard. He pulled his stubborn chin down against his chest and dived headlong for Marlin's legs! Marlin danced away, slugged him behind the ear, jumped for his back with knees bent to take Ford in the short ribs and drive the wind from him. Ford rolled, lashed out with both feet, missed—and they were both up, Marlin with his mocking smile; Ford with his lips hard against his teeth. Their chests were lifting a little more quickly; on even terms again. Looking into Marlin's eyes, Ford knew all at once that Marlin hated him.
Curious, that now Ford should recall his own words to Anne. "You've got to make the other fellow fight your own way!" Well, he know his way. At wrestling, or jiu jitsu, Marlin would beat him. At boxing, Marlin would beat him. But Ford had a deep confidence that Marlin could not take punishment. Once let Ford get inside that guard and swing his solid fists.... Deliberately, Ford carried the fight to Marlin. His chin he protected against his chest, his wind with his forearms. Aside from that....
Marlin jabbed him in the face and Ford took it until he saw his chance to cross his right over that straightened left. He did that twice and Marlin grew wary. He snatched for a wrist lock on Ford's right arm, did a spectacular spin to twist it. Ford pulled him close and slugged with his left, felt his fist gouge into relaxed stomach muscles, and the grip on his wrist relaxed. He waded in, taking everything Marlin could throw at him, so that his fists could reach Marlin's body. He heard a curious, harsh laughter, and realized that it came from his own lips, from deep down in his chest.
He got his left through again, thudded his right to the short ribs and Marlin was dancing away, stabbing desperately with his long left. There were red welts on Marlin's smooth body; there was blood on Ford's face and the taste of blood in his mouth. It made Ford a little mad. He laughed again and dived half across the mat. He caught Marlin across the thighs and they went out under the ropes on the wooden floor. Blinding pain stabbed through his throat, forked up through his right temple, through his mastoid. A jiu jitsu punch that might well mean death if properly struck. Then they were on their feet, facing each other, fighting for breath. The hatred in Marlin's eyes was murderous. And there was another something there that startled Ford.... But Marlin couldn't be afraid!
Marlin's left struck at his throat again, and Ford slapped a wrist lock on it, tried for a flying mare. Marlin gasped with pain, did a head spin that broke the hold and was suddenly all over him; hitting cruelly with blows that the prize ring bars, but which were fair here.
Ford's muscles contracted in spasms of agony. He went to his knees, set his fingers in Marlin's thigh and tried to tear it apart, probing for the nerve center.... Then, somehow, they were back in the ring facing each other and Ford knew that the instructor and the rest of the section were crowding the ropes, shouting crazily; that Inspector Donnelly was watching quietly from a corner. And Ford remembered with a feeling of shock that he was battling here for his active future, for the only thing that made life worth while. If he didn't win....
That last swift exchange had hurt Ford, badly he knew now. But Marlin's left leg dragged when he moved and there was less assurance in his attack. Ford pulled his head down, felt his lips cold against his teeth. His arms bent, forearms guarding his belly, he walked after Marlin. Jabs peppered his face, thudded against his chest and arms. Ford knew he was taking everything Marlin could give. And that it wasn't enough to stop him. Nothing could stop him, ever again. He was going to win. He knew a fierce joy that transcended the pain of his body. Marlin couldn't keep away from him forever. Ford's wide shoulders bowed a little with the tensing of his muscles, his weight shifted forward and his fists lashed out. The left found that tortured stomach of Marlin's; his right thudded under the heart. Agony squirmed across Marlin's face. He fell into Ford's arms, clinching while he gasped for breath.
"You win, Ford," he whispered. "You win! I'll take . . . the dive. Don't . . . finish me. Got a date . . . with Anne tonight...."
Ford thrust Marlin furiously away. There was frantic appeal in Marlin's eyes now. His knees were bent, ready to take the dive. Ford hesitated. The man was plainly beaten.... While his blow wavered, Marlin flashed through. His right exploded against Ford's chin. Ford's head snapped back and there were more fists hammering his face. Anger surged through him. He was on his knees, head hanging. Tricked! Tricked with words.... Ford cursed. His head came up, he got a foot on the floor....
Marlin was laughing. "We were supposed to stop short of murder, Ford!" he was saying jauntily. "How about it, Instructor?"
Jerry Ford was on his feet again, lips grinning back from his teeth, lunging forward.... He checked, waiting for the instructor's order.
"All right, Marlin," the instructor said dryly. He said nothing more, but turned to Inspector Donnelly. Marlin threw an arm about Ford's shoulders.
"You had me going in there, old man," he said heartily. "What a wallop you pack! And can you take it!”
Ford's resentment died. It was fair enough. After all, he had been victimized by an old trick. He said, "Thanks, Marlin." But he was tortured by doubts. He hadn't been beaten. In another few minutes he would have taken Marlin. But did Inspector Donnelly know that? Did he think that Ford had quit? What would this do to his record?
FORD worried over it that night when he went home, sore and aching from Marlin's blows. But he went doggedly over every phase of that fight....
There was nothing in Inspector Donnelly's manner after that to show what he thought of the fight. Four men of the section of eight had been dropped, and Marlin and Ford were both still in the running. They were being made into crack shots, deadly gunmen. They learned to shoot from every conceivable position, running, standing, lying down, while falling, while clinging to the running board of a car speeding over rough ground. They were taught to throw themselves safely from the car, take cover and shoot almost in the same moment—and yet score a reasonable percentage of hits. It was at stuff like that in which Marlin excelled. On the target range, Ford had a little the edge. He could take the deadly Colt "Monitor," the most efficiently murderous automatic arm ever devised, built to penetrate armor, and, at ranges up to one thousand yards, clip the bull's eye nine times out of ten. He was an expert with revolver or automatic also. Practice gave him that. At drawing, at the spectacular stuff, he was slower. And Ford once more felt himself trailing Marlin. Stuff that seemed spectacular now was the very work which would make a man good against criminals. Marlin might not shoot quite so accurately, but he shot straight enough.
These days, Ford came to the training school with only six hours sleep. That was because he worked so late and hard. Accuracy of fire he had, and slowly he was acquiring another accomplishment, a fast draw. Most of the men carried their guns in clip holsters. Ford tried and discarded that after two weeks of night work. He took the gun he had purchased and filed off the sight, filed the hammer flange smooth and tucked the gun into the waistband of his trousers. He stood at home before his mirror and practiced the new draw until his arm ached, until his thumb was blistered and there was no more feeling in his wrist. He would rest a while and practice some more. And gradually, he refined his draw.
THE night before the gunnery tests, Ford sat stolidly, almost silently beside Anne. He was harder, leaner, and there was a quiet assurance in his manner that he was scarcely conscious he had acquired. He looked down at his hands cupped on his knees, at the callused thumb, and there came back to him that morning he had sat in Donnelly's anteroom and wondered about his man power. He smiled.
"We're almost through the training school, Anne,” he said quietly. "Those of us who are good enough will go on three months' probation. At the end of that time, one of us may be made a G-man." He turned and looked into her brown eyes, saw the waiting smile there. Jerry Ford's smile took on a hint of grimness. "When I know, Anne," he said, "and if the answer is right, there's a thing I want to say to you."
Anne sat very still. Her smile did not falter, nor the steady regard of her eyes. When he left, they clasped hands. It was formal with them, but Ann varied it a little this night.
Instead of "good-bye," she said "Good luck, Jerry. The best of all good luck."
Jerry Ford went away with a lighter heart than he had had in many a day. But he knew it would take more than luck to get the "right" answer. And next morning he faced Marlin's mocking grin at the target range.
"I've dated our little sweetheart tonight, Ford, old man," he cried. "If today's shoot turns out the way I think it will, I'm going to ask her a certain question."
Ford stood looking into Marlin's dark eyes and knew Marlin was attempting to unnerve him for the tests. "She deserves the best, Marlin," he said flatly. "If you get the appointment—"
"You'll wish me luck?" Marlin's grin remained on his lips, goading him.
Ford shook his head slowly, "I've always fought for what I wanted, Marlin," he said quietly. "I always will. I'm going to beat you today. I'm going to get that appointment!"
Marlin laughed and Ford watched him swagger away, Marlin who performed so easily what he must labor to accomplish, And Ford knew his own words were just whistling in the dark. If he topped Marlin today, it would be little short of a miracle. And Marlin had already beaten him in so many things.
THE instructor announced the match. Out-ofdoor work first; demonstrations of the spectacular stuff at which Marlin excelled. He flung himself furiously from the running board of a racing sedan, somersaulted to a halt and fired; flung headlong to the ground and continued to fire. He scored five hits out of a possible six. Only one bull's-eye, but beautiful shooting. Marlin ran with a submachine gun speaking from his arms, and the bullets cut the target to bits. From the front mudguard of a car on which he lay, he put Monitor bullets through a target which represented a racing gangster car. Ford flung himself furiously into the competition, but he was outclassed from the start. He did competent work, but it lacked the brilliancy of performance, the flashing perfection, of Marlin.
On the target range, Ford took the lead by a narrow margin—and Marlin did a special stunt of jumping from a low roof, firing in midair. He assumed a right arm injury, and finished the chamber of his automatic with his left hand—and scored high. They went back to the basement target range at the school for the final competition with Marlin well out in front. Ford's jaw ached with clenching, but the tension did not enter his gun hand as it bad with some others. He had schooled it too long for that.
The instructor announced the final competition, and to Ford it seemed more a demonstration of Marlin's ability than a match. Ford was to have a sub-machine gun, Marlin a pistol. It would be a simulation of actual gun-fire under night conditions, with the only light dim overhead to imitate moonlight. Two targets shaped like running men would be flashed at irregular intervals, exposed for two-fifths of a second. Whichever man scored first in a vital spot—marked by the pealing of an electric contact bell—would be assumed to win the gun battle.
"Do you mind, Mr. Instructor," Ford said quietly, "if we reverse the weapons? Let me use my revolver, give Marlin the machine gun?"
The instructor stared at him, frowning. "The machine gun has a definite advantage," he said, hesitating.
"I know," said Ford. His voice was almost steady. If he failed in this test after suggesting it....
"Do you mind, Mr. Marlin?" the instructor asked.
Marlin laughed, though there was a questioning lift to his brows. "Not at all, sir."
"Very well, Mr. Ford, you may stand with your revolver at your side, un-cocked. Mr. Marlin, the machine gun at the hip, please. Ready?"
Deliberately, Ford thrust his revolver into his belt, stood with hands hanging at his side. He felt the instructor suspected him of showing off, but he could not help that. Unless, he could prove now what his practice had accomplished....
"You wish to draw and fire, is that it, Mr. Ford?" the instructor asked slowly. "You are putting yourself at a terrific handicap against a machine gun; and your draw has not been your strong point."
Ford said, "Yes, sir."
The instructor shrugged. "Ready, gentlemen?"
Ford nodded. His neck felt stiff. Marlin laughed, "Ready, sir!"
FORD'S right elbow was bent, his hand almost limp against his coat. It seemed to him that electric impulses throbbed over his whole right side, as if sparks leapt from his hand to that waiting familiar butt of walnut at his belt. His target flashed and his hand sprang to his belt. Marlin's sub-machine gun stammered twice before Ford's gun was out. It had fired four times when Ford released the smooth-filed hammer. The bell that marked a vital hit pealed as the targets flashed from sight. Ford woodenly thrust the empty cartridge from the chamber of his revolver, pushed a fresh one borne, belted his weapon. His fingers seemed steady, there was a slight frown between his eyes. Marlin was incredibly fast with that submachine gun. Ford had gambled precious time on getting his shot off accurately. His heart's beat was loud in his throat. His mouth was dry.
The instructor put down the telephone which connected with the target pits.
"Extraordinary shooting, gentlemen!" the instructor cried "Really extraordinary! Mr. Marlin, you hit the target twice, the second a bull's eye. Mr. Ford, your single shot, which was fired exactly in concert with Mr. Marlin's last, was a perfect bull's eye through the head, a dead beat! But that draw! Would you mind demonstrating that draw again...."
"Shall I fire, sir?" Ford asked quietly.
The instructor nodded and once more the target flashed. Ford thumbed off the first shot, fanned a second with a lightning movement of the thumb while his finger held the trigger back to the guard. Before each shot, there was a moment's pause while his muzzle centered; yet both shots were fired before the target, exposed only two-fifths of a second, flashed from sight. And when the instructor checked, there were two bull's eyes recorded!
Marlin strode to Ford. "That was splendid, Ford!" he cried, offering his hand. "Splendid'"
Ford gripped his hand, but lee read Marlin's eyes and knew his own matched them. It would have pleased Marlin to use Ford as a target . . . maybe Ford had evened things up a little. Maybe they would let him go on probation now, as well as Marlin. Once on probation, if hard work could accomplish anything.... But Marlin had been far ahead in field work, and he had equaled Ford on the test whose condition he himself had outlined. Maybe.... Maybe Marlin would go on alone!
When Inspector Donnelly sent for him the next day, Jerry Ford felt his heart leap violently, and then seem to stop. This must be the end!
FORD'S jaw set stubbornly. On most other work of the school, he had split pretty evenly with Marlin. If that fist fight between himself and Marlin was to count against him, he would demand another chance.... But he knew in advance such an appeal was doomed. The F.B.I. never kicked a man out until they had given him every chance they intended to allow. The F. B. I. choose men for the good of the service, not for the good of the man.
Nevertheless, Ford went to Donnelly's office with that fighting set to his law— and there was Marlin sitting on a corner of Anne's desk, ahead of him as always. Marlin jumped up and waved a hand airily.
"Congratulate me, Ford!" he cried. "I go north on a case tonight!"
Ford tried to smile. "That's fine, Marlin," he said. "Anne...."
Anne's cheeks were flushed. Were was a brightness in her brown eyes. Marlin's laughter.... Did it mean that he was beaten again; that with Anne, too, Marlin was ahead? . . . Anne's voice was very kind, "Inspector Donnelly is waiting for you, Jerry."
Ford nodded. He couldn't speak right then. He went past Anne's desk to Inspector Donnelly's office, smiling a little, head up. That was what G-man training did for a fellow. You might be licked, but no one would know it to look at you. Donnelly stood up to shake hands.
"You've made a fine record in the school, Ford," he said. "Marlin is a little better."
Ford kept his sterile. "Marlin is a good man, sir." He heard his own voice and was proud. His voice was steady and clear. "I think that with a little more time...."
“Exactly," said Donnelly. "You have shown an enormous capacity for application, Ford. That's why you're being sworn in as a probationary G-man. Keep up the good work, and . . ." Donnelly stopped then, laughed. "Why, what's the matter, Ford?" After a bit, Ford laughed, too.
"Hell, Ford, did you think you were being let out?" Donnelly said, finally. "Guess I did make it sound that way. Sorry. You've still got a chance at that active appointment. It's between you and Marlin. The other men . . . didn't make the grade. You and I and Marlin, a couple of other men, go north tonight on an assignment....”
THAT night on the train, Donnelly gave them the dossiers of the criminals they were seeking, three men who had held up a bank which was a federal depository. They were believed to be hiding near New London. Ford was due to take a rattletrap car and comb the tourist camps and similar places to the west of the city. Marlin was to take a newspaper job and try to pick up a lead in the underworld.
"I'm placing big trust in both of you, turning you loose on your own this way," Donnelly said. "Remember, you are not to act on your own initiative against the criminals, regardless of what happens. Go about your work quietly. Whether we fail or succeed, keep your mouths shut. Grandstanding is not only undesirable, it is absolutely forbidden. Remember, the F.B.I. is above all a co-operative service. Do nothing without communicating with me."
Ford wondered briefly why there was a high flush in Marlin's cheeks, and decided it was excitement. He himself felt only a quiet elation, a sense of fulfillment. His jaw set with determination to do the job apportioned to him, and do it thoroughly. He still had a chance at that appointment, Donnelly had said ....
For three weeks, Ford haunted the tourist camps without success. Afraid of becoming conspicuous, he suggested that he get a job in a garage and filling station on one of the northward roads.
"The bandits are sure to have a powerful car," he phoned Donnelly. They'll have to keep it in perfect condition. Garage men know about cars like that if they're in the neighborhood at all."
Donnelly approved. Marlin, he told Ford, was making some excellent underworld contacts. Already he had confirmed reports that the hunted bandits, Machine-Gun Brian, and his two accomplices, Harker and Donovan, were hiding somewhere around New London....
It was as if Donnelly had hinted to Ford that he better try harder, accomplish more. Ford threw himself into the search with renewed energy—and found nothing. In the spare time on the garage job, he did some paper work. He analyzed bank statements from old newspapers, and figured the expected cash on hand in the city's various banks, figured what time of month each bank carried the most. He finished work he had begun during the three weeks he had cruised the district. He had prepared get-away charts which would approximate those that would be used by escaping gangsters to point the fastest way over the roads that led from the city. He made those on every road leading out of the city, except those that had drawbridges. No bandit would use a road that might be blocked by the accident of an open bridge.
INSPECTOR DONNELLY complimented him on the thoroughness of those jobs. And two months were gone, two months in which Marlin had made the only accomplishments. He read in the newspapers that the G-heat had been loosed on Machine-Gun Brian in the city and wished he could share in that world. Marlin was in the thick of it, probably.... Two weeks of the third month had slid past when Donnelly phoned again.
"Marlin got a tip a bank would be robbed today," he said, "and we're pretty sure it's Brian. Which bank, according to your analyses, would they hit?"
Ford's eyes tightened, but it was with pain. Another success for Marlin. And Donnelly was throwing Ford a sop in asking about the bank. He swallowed his stopped breath and consulted his notebook.
"Carson National would be my guess, sir," he said stolidly.
“If they hit the Carson, what get-away route would they be likely to use?"
Ford frowned the thought of Marlin from his mind, and the map he had studied so thoroughly presented itself. "Norwich road," he said positively. "If you'll look at the get-away chart I did on that road, sir, you'll find an excellent place for a barricade just outside city limits. A reverse curve on a steep up-grade."
And Inspector Donnelly's voice rang warmly over the wire. "I was going to ask about that. It's my choice, too."
Following Donnelly’s orders, Ford got excused for the day from his job—he might have to return and resume waiting—and in work clothes met a state road truck. The men were state police except for the officer in charge, F.B.I. agent Hal Clark He shook hands pleasantly with Ford, introduced the state officers. On the steep grade Ford had picked, they parked the truck, set out "MEN WORKING" signs and set to work scything grass. They worked efficiently and Ford thought with pride that this set-up would fool anybody— but the truck carried an arsenal.
It was an hour past noon when this trooper plunged through the underbrush to the truck.
"They took the Carson National!" he cried hoarsely. "Killed a guard. Headed this way!"
G-man Hal Clark took efficient charge. The truck was slammed across the road to block it, impassable between a steep bank on one side and a steeper ravine on the other. Ford and a state trooper were ordered inside the truck's steel body. Clark would fight from the cabin. The second state trooper must remain in reserve at the wheel of the pursuit car.
"Looks like you had things figured right in those charts of yours, Ford," Clark told him with a smile. Ford wondered that he could be so calm with those man-killing bandits racing toward them. Then Ford saw that his own hand was quite steady as he took the sub-machine gun that was handed him, his voice cool as he said, "I'm glad, sir."
Clark nodded. "Under no conditions expose yourself more than strictly necessary," he finished his instructions crisply. "Don't fire until I do."
Ford's blood was racing for all his surface coolness. He wished he could play a bigger role in the projected battle than the ambuscade behind the truck's steel side. So much depended on it. So much . . . And Marlin had accomplished a great deal. The three months of probation were almost finished. Ford knew he had done some good routine work, but Marlin had discovered the bandits' plans! Ford methodically checked over the Thompson gun after he climbed inside the truck. His thoughts flew to Anne . . . He hadn't of course been permitted to communicate with her or anyone else. Nothing that might betray his personal identity could be allowed. And he could still remember the flush in her cheeks, the eager brightness of her eyes there when Marlin had proclaimed his success. Ford's lips grew thin from pressure....
The squeal of dry-skidding tires pulled him tensely against the steel side of the truck He got the butt of the machine gun against his shoulder. The state trooper beside him said, "Here they come!"
A HEAVY green sedan careened around the curve a moment later. The brakes shrieked and the machine wrenched to a vicious stop. Instantly, guns began to speak. Through the hell of noise, Clark's voice cut incisively.
"It's the G-men, Brian! Surrender!"
A yell, a fresh flurry of shots answered him. The bandit car was moving again, backing in the narrow road to turn about. Clark's gun began to speak and Ford said quietly to the policeman beside him. "All right, let them have it!" He nestled the machine gun stock against his shoulder .... And then he was lying on the bottom of the truck. A sledge hammer had numbed his entire left side, his head was spinning dizzily and somewhere near guns were going crazy.
Why, good God, he had been shot! Failure. That was the one thought in Ford's brain in that instant. Failure. He had, contrary to orders, exposed himself needlessly. Ford began to maneuver with his one good arm, pushing himself to his feet. He realized that he was not alone on the bottom of the truck. The policeman lay there, too. He had been shot through the head. Clark! Good God, Clark was fighting it out single-handed with that carload of killers. There were more than Brian's two accomplices in that car with him. Five men at least.....
Ford got hold of the side of the truck and pulled himself up. He couldn't use the machine gun single-handed, but . . . The bandit car had made half of its right-about turn. One more backward swing, then a spurt forward and they would be racing away down the hill. At the bottom, they could take a cross-road that would shoot them out in the clear. Clark. .
God, Clark's gun was silent! It was up to him alone, and he had failed in the beginning. It was his fault that Clark's gun was silent. He laid his revolver's barrel dead on the target of the bandit driver's head and thumbed the hammer.
The bandit car leaped like a frightened horse. It wrenched backward across the roadway, took the embankment with shrieking tires, slammed back down into a tree. Of the five men inside of the sedan, only two spilled out. One was crouched over a machine gun. The other carried two automatics, one in each hand.
Ford shouted, "Brian and Harker!"
THE two men ran toward the truck, their guns hammering. The lead beat against the steel of the truck and it didn't mean anything at all to Ford. It didn't mean death. It was just a noise. He laid his revolver on Machine-Gun Brian, his thumb gripping the hammer—and a roadster came skittering around the curve in the road. There was only one man in it. Brakes shrieked and the one man leaped over the side of the car to the ground, somersaulted to his feet and came up shooting. He stood there and kept on shooting.
Admiration stopped the breath in Ford's throat. That was more like it. That was the way battles should be fought—as Marlin was fighting this one. For it was Marlin. Even if Ford had not recognized his face in the strong sunlight, he would have known that faultless technique. Brian pivoted, dropping to a knee, and Ford's shot went over his head. He heard the machine-gun hammer, and Marlin was no longer on his feet shooting. He was lying on the ground, writhing, with blood on his clothing. Lead hammered again against the truck. Ford let his head slump down out of sight. It was still up to him, up to him alone. Marlin had made his gallant play—and failed. And there was his car waiting for Brian and Harker to make their get-away.
"Up to me," Ford muttered. "Up to me." His head felt light, inflated. That hammer of lead against the side of the truck. He must wait until it stopped before he made his final play. His strength was going out of him. He could hear the swift patter of blood on the steel bottom, now that the bullets had stopped....
The bullets had stopped! Ford forced his head up above the steel, hooked his right arm pit over the truck's edge. He had to do that to hold himself up. There was the roadster facing back down the hill. There was Harker behind the wheel, Machine-Gun Brian beside him on his knees in the front seat, looking back over the snout of the machine gun he knew so well how to use. And abruptly, the pain was gone from Ford, and the worry. Here was a clear choice. He could shoot Brian and save his own life. Harker would escape. He would shoot Harker and hope that the swerve of the car would give him a chance to shoot Brian.
With his new-gained coolness, Ford's gun swiveled and he released the hammer. His target was Harker's head and shoulders, and he saw Harker slammed forward over the wheel by the punch of his lead. The roadster rocketed down the road toward the curve. Machine-Gun Brian dropped his gun and grabbed for the wheel, and he was too late. Ford heard him scream as the roadster took off over the embankment and dived toward the ravine's bottom fifty feet below.
Now Ford had to make sure Brian was dead, Brian whom his bungling had almost permitted to escape....
When the rest of the pursuit came up they had to argue with Ford to keep him from going down to the blazing wreck of the roadster. They finally had to give him morphine....
WHEN Ford could realize surroundings again, he was in the hospital, and a nurse, at his demand, brought him a newspaper. His shoulder was paining like almighty hell, but he had to know... Marlin's name was in headlines. His picture in a hospital bed was all over the front page. Marlin, said the newspaper, had discovered the bandit plot and notified the G-men, of which he was secretly one. He had been assigned to help guard the bank. When the bandits had smashed through the guard, he had seized a car and pursued alone, had dared to face single-handed with only a revolver the fire of a sub-machine gun and had held Brian and Harker at bay until they were mowed down by Marlin's associates. Marlin had been shot through the leg. Two of his associates, whose names were kept secret by the government, had been slightly wounded. Brian, his two notorious companions, and two local crooks had been rounded up. Brian and two others were dead....
Ford read the story and lay staring at the white wall before him. He was glad Hal Clark had been only wounded. The newspaper report was garbled, of course, but there was enough of it right for him to know that Marlin had cinched that appointment. That was the stuff that G-men were made of, fearlessly charging into a machine gun with only a revolver in your hand, leaping from racing cars, showing initiative . . .
Anne Thompson flew up from Washington and she sat for two hours beside Ford, talking quietly with him, but Ford knew she had been to see Marlin first. Inspector Donnelly came and told Ford again how good his reports had been, and how Clark had complimented him for obeying orders and for shooting the two drivers. But to Ford, it was all plainly consolation. Marlin was the man who had the glory, whom Anne had gone to see first....
Marlin left the hospital first, and it was two weeks later that Ford, his arm in a sling, took a plane for Washington. He was anxious to get there now, anxious to get it over with... When he entered the outer office of Inspector Donnelly's quarters, Anne Thompson came to meet him.
"How are you, Jerry," she cried. "Oh I'm so glad to see you again!"
The door of Inspector Donnelly's office opened, and Marlin came swaggering out, head high and the same old dark fire in his eyes, every inch a G-man. He gripped Ford's hand and drew Anne aside, as Inspector Donnelly came to greet Ford.
"Your three months of probation are over, Ford," he said crisply.
Ford got his chin up. "Yes, sir." Take it like a man.
Donnelly smiled and it was a smile that lighted the depths of his eyes. "Tomorrow at noon, Ford," he said, "you'll be sworn in as a full-fledged G-man!"
Ford said thickly, "A Gman . . . But, Marlin, sir...."
Donnelly said shortly, almost angrily, "He's going west to take a movie contract. That's where he belongs. The damned fool gave away the show at the bank and got a guard killed, then he goes dashing off alone, against all orders! That stuff he gave the papers afterward.... That was the weakness we were afraid of in him all the time, that tendency to show off." Donnelly's hand gripped Ford's good shoulder. "I'm not going to tell you, Ford, how much credit for Brian's destruction goes to you. But Anne keeps the records. Maybe, if you ask her...."
Jerry Ford turned, his brain still whirling, toward Anne. Marlin was gone, Anne was sitting at her desk as she had been that first day when he had entered. She lifted her brown eyes to his, and the color came slowly to her cheeks as he had seen it do when she was laughing. Why, why . . . Jerry Ford leaned across her desk.
"But you went to see Marlin first!"
Anne laughed up at him, and he thought that her eyes held a new glory. "Yes. I wanted to tell him that a half-promise I had made him was off, and . . ." she stammered. "Honest, Jerry, I've always been a little afraid of you! You G-men are so grim!"
Ford went around the desk. "While you're still afraid," he whispered, "and while I've still got the courage . . . Anne. Anne, dear, will you...."
Anne sighed against his chest. "You Gmen always get your woman, too, don't you, Jerry?" she said.