The Jugger by Richard Stark Page A

pronunciation?'
     
    The old man looked startled for just a second, but then he recovered and nodded briefly and said, 'You've got it right.'
     
    'Well.' Younger squinted up at the afternoon sun, glanced at his wristwatch, looked around again at the garden, and said, 'Well, you want to get back to what you were doing. I won't keep you any longer.'
     
    The old man frowned. 'You're going?'
     
    'No need to show me through the house, I can go around the side here. Nice to have met you, Mr. Shardin.' He started away, around the side of the house.
     
    The old man took a few steps after him, saying, 'What did you want? What did you come here for?'
     
    'Just routine,' Younger called, and waved, and walked on out to the sidewalk.
     
     
THREE
     
    As the train was pulling away from the station, Younger slid into the empty seat beside the old man. 'Well, well! Fancy meeting you here? Going down into the city?'
     
    The old man had been looking out of the window at the station, sunk in his own thoughts. He turned, startled, and for a few seconds didn't say anything. When at last he did speak, all he said was, 'Oh. It's you.'
     
    'I certainly did enjoy our little chat the other day,' Younger told him. 'I want to get to know all the folks that moved into town while I was away. I was in the Army, you know.'
     
    Younger's silence forced the old man to say something; he chose, 'I didn't know that.'
     
    'Thirty years,' Younger told him, and nodded emphatically. 'Retired a master sergeant. Just a few months ago, just retired, came back to the old home town, took over the police force, whipping it into shape. You've been in town just about five years, haven't you?'
     
    'Yes.'
     
    'A fine town. You get down into the city often?'
     
    'Sometimes.'
     
    Younger already knew about that. He'd followed the old man on his last trip in, before starting this campaign. He knew now about the old man's apartment in town. Sheer had stayed there two days that last time, and the second day he'd had visitors, three stocky men about Younger's age. They'd driven up in a Plymouth with New York State plates, stayed the afternoon and evening, left about eleven-thirty at night. Younger had copied the licence number down, but hadn't done anything about it. Time enough if it was necessary.
     
    What he figured, he figured those three men were bank robbers, too. Maybe Joe Sheer was retired, and then again maybe he wasn't. Maybe these days he just drew up the plans for the robberies, let the younger men actually go in and do the jobs. Younger would find out, in time. He'd know everything there was to know, in time.
     
    They rode in silence a while now, until Younger took out a cigar and began to unwrap it. A sign at the front end of the car said no smoking was allowed here, but Younger went on unwrapping the cigar, tossed the paper on the floor, stuck the cigar in his mouth, and reached for a match. Just before lighting it, he turned to the old man, saying, 'That's the advantage of being a policeman.' He grinned and winked.
     
    The old man looked at him with distaste. 'What is?'
     
    Younger gestured at the no-smoking sign. 'You can bend the law a little,' he said. He lit the cigar, puffed a halo of smoke, and tossed the match on the floor. 'Now, you,' he said, 'if you were to bend the law, we'd get you. Sooner or later we'd get you, even if it took twenty years.'
     
    The old man said nothing at that, and they rode in silence again until Younger said, 'Were you ever in the Army?'
     
    'No.' The old man seemed about to stop there, but then he apparently had to justify himself. He added, 'I failed the physical in the First War.'
     
    'That's too bad. The Army's a great life, great life.'
     
    'Maybe so.'
     
    Younger started telling war stories then. He told the old man story after story about his Army days, some of them true, some borrowed, some embroidered, some completely false. The old man listened stolidly, never speaking, sometimes looking out the