by Jerry eBooks
He was a big, well set-up lad of about thirty summers There was something vaguely familiar about his tan, weather-beaten face, the squareshouldered carriage of his. I looked at him inquiringly.
He smiled nicely, said, “Are you Mr. Benson?”
I smiled nicely, said, “Yes—”
He put out his hand, frankly. I took it He said “I am Diana’s fiancé, George Blake. She has told me about this afternoon. The publicity would have been harmful to her and I wish to thank you for your quick action. She might even have been hit by stray lead.”
When I stepped back into the room, he came in at motion, closed the door at his back. He took off his hat, ran blunt fingers through a mop of blonde hair.
I knew him then. George Blake, explorer-writer-lecturer. I had seen his picture in the tabs a number of times—had read as article or two by him Rumor had him as a chap born rich, but a chap who wasn’t content with just dough. He had selected the field of exploration—had crawled to the top of it.
I said easily, “I didn’t think she recognized me.” He thumbed a match for a cigarette he had extracted from a case. He said, “She didn’t, at first. But later, she remembered.”
He got the smoke to going, put his hat back on his head He smiled. “I have an appointment—just took a minute to run in And say, Diana asked me to pick up her purse for her.”
I let a little whistle come from my lips. I said, “Why, I was just going out for it.” My eyes met his level, suddenly frowning once as I lied easily to him “After the shooting I came here in a taxi. I was careless . . . left the bag on the taxi seat The driver remembered me and he just called, said that he would leave it at the Yellow Taxi Company’s office.”
His lips pursed thinly. He said, “You lie well, Benson But you should have pushed it deeper into your pocket.” There was no warmth in his face now.
A HAND came out of his overcoat. The gun in the hand was pointed at about my third vest button. I took a backward step, got my hand down over the purse.
I said, “What the hell is this about?”
He said, “There is quite a bit of money in the bag, Benson No doubt you would like to keep it Toss it here.”
I didn’t like the set expression to his jaw—didn’t like the manner with which he handled the gun. I wondered if he would shoot—decided that if he did I wouldn’t do any more wondering ever. A guy don’t do much wondering with a slug through his chest, if you understand.
I sighed—pulled the purse out of my pocket and tossed it across to him. He caught it deftly with his left hand.
He said, “That’s being smart, Benson.”
I watched him, tensed for a leap, if he should open the bag But he didn’t—just crammed it into a pocket, got the door open at his back, stepped out into the hall and closed the door. Next came the thud of footsteps—the slam of a car door; the diminishing roar of a motor.
I grinned and relaxed. A chap by the name of Blake was in for a surprise when he opened the purse. You see, before tossing it to him, I had opened it in my pocket, dumped the contents and after fastening the clasp again. I’d tossed him the thing empty.
Curiously, I placed the articles on a table Lipstick; a handkerchief and some small change. A heavy metal compact with powder in it; a roll of bills that added up to about a hundred dollars. That was all.
Frowning some, I put the articles away in an inner pocket. The dough was the only thing of value, but the sum of it didn’t seem great enough for a guy like Blake to go pulling a rod over. Furthermore tins Grace Farrar who wasn’t Grace Farrar put an angle to the thing that had me dizzy.
Mulling questions around in my head, I went out, locking the door from the corridor side. It had ceased raining now, and the street had a glistening, polished look—a clean, washed smell to it.
IT WAS in her apartment—Grace Farrar, as she had termed herself. Across the room from me, she got a cigarette to going, talked through the smoke of it.
She said casually, “Diana had to leave But she was so grateful . . .”
I grinned at her. She wasn’t so young—wasn’t so old But the allure of a wealth of night-black hair, the ripe fullness of proud mounds of flesh, the promise of fire within languid, half-lidded eyes, all went to make her a right interesting person.
I met her eyes, said easily, “You’ve got a racket, baby. What is it?”
She jarred, drew erect in the divan chair Her eyes were no longer languid and she asked sharply, “What do you mean?”
I said, “Let’s do away with the stalling Hell, you’re not Grace Farrar. I know Diana and she hasn’t a sister.”
For an instant I thought she was going to jump me in sheer anger. But she settled back, lovely face running the gauntlet of emotions. She bit at a full underlip, finally said, “You’re mistaken. Come . . . I’ll show you.” With the words she got to her feet. I rose and followed her lithe form across the room, on into another room. She crossed to a chest of drawers, opened one.
She said, “I’ll show you . . .”
And hell, while I was standing there eyeing the sweep of her legs and soft swell of her hips as she bent over, she whipped around, a tiny gun clenched in her hand.
She said, “Now—”
I said, “Hey . . . that thing might go off.”
Her voice was low, slightly sardonic. “It might at that. Sit down on the sofa behind you.”
I backed up until my knees hit the sofa, sank down on it. A table was near the sofa—a package of cigarettes on it. I picked up the cigarettes, glued my eyes to her determined face as she got nearer to me I extracted a cigarette, stuck it in my mouth.
She said, “Now, wisenheimer—”
But I interrupted her. “Have a cigarette?” And with the words, I tossed the pack across to her through the air. It was an old gag, but one that had worked for me before. And it worked tins time. Her left hand shot out for the flying package—her eyes dropped to it.
I LUNGED up off the sofa and snapped the gun out of her hand. In stepping back, I hit the sofa, stumbled down upon it. A breathless gasp escaped cense lips—she threw herself on the sofa for a try at wrestling the gun from me. I made it a no-go by shoving it away beneath a cushion. Her sinuous body threshed wildly as she struck out with both hands I got one hand beneath her legs, felt warm flesh as I tilted her suddenly over on her back.
Full, proud breasts flattened out against my chest as I got a knee between her legs, pressed my weight to her fiercely undulating body. Looking down into her angry, flushed face, I bent quickly and kissed her parted lips.
I said, “Now . . . be nice.”
A bar pin at the V of her dress had become unloosened in the struggle, permitting a view of a perfectly molded bosom that rose and fell beneath the strain of emotion.
But now, the frown of anger and bafflement had threshed across her face; a little smile was parting her lips.
She said, “You win—”
Our position; the nearness of her delectable body and the very woman perfume of her, all went to make my voice unsteady.
I said, “Then tell papa what the hell this is all about.”
An arch smile came into her eyes when she saw my gaze lift from tapenng legs to the slightly rounded surface that was her stomach. Her dress had become twisted about her waist—black step-ins encircled seductive, milky flesh. She made no attempt to lower her dress.
She said softly, “And losing to you . . . is nice.” Somehow, my hand found the V of her neck I met with no resistance as my fingers touched a mound of firm warm flesh She was trembling—seemed about to cry out in sheer ecstasy.
I started to whisper something. It seemed as though a huge blanket of blackness dropped down upon me from the ceiling A single burning flash of pain damn near tore my head open.
I went out.
HOW LONG I was unconscious I had no way of knowing. But when I did come out of it, my head felt the size of two and was throbbing as though someone was driving a spike into it with heavy, regular blows I was too
weak to do more than roll my eyes. I saw the feet then.
A voice said, “Snapping out of it, huh?”
My gaze went upward, following the legs that went with the feet, came to a body, then a face. George Blake. He was near the sofa, a look to his face that wasn’t pleasant. In his hand, a gun dangled carelessly, held by a finger through the trigger guard.
I said, “You smack hard, mister.”
He laughed—not a nice sound. “Hell, I didn’t hit you. She did—” He tilted his head a bit.
She was lying on the floor, one leg drawn up as though in agony. An agony that had preceded death In the exact center of a flattened breast the shaft of an oddly scrolled instrument protruded Her clothes were scattered about the room. Her flesh had the glow of warmth—seemed to be vibrant with the pulse of life. But she was dead. Blood had made an irregular livulet across her stomach, staining the white of her skin.
I said, “And, you did that—”
It wasn’t a question—it was a statement It had to be him. And hell, he admitted it Even was casual about it.
He said, “Of course But the information isn’t going to do you any good.”
I said, “Why not?”
I knew the answer to the question, but I was stalling for time. Time to think and to gain strength.
The nausea in the pit of my stomach was leaving now—the pounding in my head subsided gradually.
Lips curling back from large even teeth, he said, “Because in a moment I am going to pull that letter knife from her and give it a new sheath in your throat.”
Nice lad . . . not! I stared up at him. “I believe you’re nuts.”
There was cold humor in his eyes. “Maybe I am but what difference does it make? You tricked me in your apartment and it’s going to be an expensive trick for you.”
I was flat on my back on the sofa—an awkward position, to say the least. Plan after plan entered my head only to be discarded. I said, “Well a guy has to die sometime, but I’d sure in hell like to know what I’m dying for—”
He said, “It’s simple You know too much.”
I raised up on an elbow, said, “Hell, I don’t know anything.” He started to laugh, but he changed the sound into a gasping sound. For I had raised my foot in a quick kick that sent the gun spinning across the room.
HE STEPPED back, but he wasn’t fast enough I came up from the sofa, drove him over the rug under a rain of blows.
He tried closing with me, but I kept him off with stiff lefts. He was big enough and strong enough, but he was awkward and easy to hit. Blood coursed down his face and he wiped at it with the back of his hand I got set for a button shot . . . slipped to one knee. He got in close, smacked me in the mouth with a butting head. I felt my lips split . . . but I had pivoted, was away from him.
He went down to the floor, lunged upward again. He had torn the letter knife from the girl’s body—was gripping it in a red hand. I had spotted the gun now, and left my feet in a dive that took me to one side. Hitting the floor, I slid forward a bit, snapped up the gun.
He leaped for me . . . but hell, I just shot him twice in the guts.
He jack-knifed forward . . . dropped the steel and wrapped both arms about his stomach Color went from his face as he dropped easily to the floor He closed his eyes as though tired, a muscle in one cheek twitching oddly. There was silence for a second, then the radio cops broke in And right on their heels was Inspector Halley of the homicide squad I handed the gun to Halley, got down on a knee.
I said, “Blake . . .” When he opened his eyes, I continued. “You’re dying, man. How about clearing things up a bit!”
He said weakly, “I’d tell you to go to hell if it wasn’t for Diana.”
I said, “Diana Farrar?”
He nodded, pain coming into his face. He said, “She’s my sister . . . I changed my name to Blake years ago when I was disowned by my father.” When he halted, I got my fingers on his wrist, felt a weakening pulse I said to the inspector, “He’ll have to talk fast.”
Halley nodded, said, “Spill it, Blake.”
EYES glazed with pain opened again, fixed on my face. He said, “It was a will . . . my father’s. Diana was to receive everything at the age of twenty-five. Providing she wasn’t married at her twenty-first birthday But she was married . . . had been so for two years. Married to Hal Robson while they were on location abroad. It has been kept a secret.
“Six months ago when I returned from South America, I learned of the marriage and I was furious. Diana didn’t need the money from the estate, but I knew that if she received it, she would back another expedition I asked Robson to divorce her, then remarry after her twenty-first birthday Otherwise the estate would go to various chanties. He laughed at me. So I killed him!”
Inspector Halley grunted in surprise He said, “What? Why, hell, a dozen people saw Chris Barton murder your Robson in the Belmont Hotel. We’ve got Barton down at headquarters now.”
I said, “Go ahead, Blake.”
His voice was weaker now. “I killed Robson! I planned his death carefully He was ideally suited for the scheme. Learning that Diana was going to meet Robson in the Belmont cocktail room, I got Barton into my apartment with a fake message, then I drugged him.
“We were about of the same build and our features were somewhat alike I used make-up to further that similarity, donned his clothes and took his car The rest was easy. I simply followed Robson into the cocktail room and killed him in front of a number of people. I wanted to be seen—wanted to be mistaken for Barton I was even Robson thought I was Barton.”
Halley rocked on his heels, a thin whistle coming from between Ins teeth He said, “My God . . . we’d have burned Barton.”
The dying voice was so weak now that it was almost a whisper “Diana thought that there was trouble between Robson and Barton. She never suspected me. After the murder, I got Barton in to his car, drove him a few blocks, then left him, knowing the police would pick him up. I called Diana . . . she was almost in hysteria She told me about the purse, Benson. Told me that you had it. I went to see you, posing as Diana’s fiancé. But you tricked me and I waited outside your apartment . . . followed you here . . .”
His voice dwindled away and it was becoming difficult for him to breathe. I got my lips near his ear and asked, “Tins dead girl here, who is she?”
A froth of blood appeared at his mouth, he tried to raise up. He gasped thickly, “Diana . . . secretary.”
And he died—
I GOT to my feet slowly, dusted off my clothes Halley said, “What’s this bag stuff; Benson?”
I explained it to him, finished with, “I’ll be damned if I can figure what was so valuable about the purse.”
Bending again, I went through Blake’s pockets, came out with the roll of bills and the compact I said, “Tins is what was in it.”
Starting to hand them to the inspector, I let the compact slide from my fingers. It hit the floor, powder rising in a small cloud. But the back of the thing had sprung open—a carefully folded paper came out.
I picked it up, unfolded it I whistled—handed it to the inspector I said, “That’s what made it valuable It’s a map of a certain section of South American jungle Crudely drawn, but plain enough I remember now reading an article by Blake in a magazine about Ins last expedition. A native uprising forced him out of the jungles. But the article didn’t state what the uprising was all about. That map does.
“Blake evidently copped a bunch of diamonds from natives. Maybe they were idol diamonds. See that split tree to the left of a big rock, and the words ‘diamond cache’ by the tree. He had to run for it, leaving the stones. That’s why he was so anxious to make a second expedition.”
Halley’s lips pursed. He said, “And he’d evidently given the map to Diana for safekeeping. She concealed it in a trick compact. But this girl here—”
I said, “Diana might have told her of the map—told her that I had the bag So she rushes over here to her own apartment, pose
s as Diana’s sister in order to get the map. She probably figured she could sell it to someone for heavy dough. After she crowns me with that candlestick there on the table, why, in walks Blake. Blake got rough with her, then killed her to shut her lips about the existence of the map.”
Inspector Halley nodded slowly, “That’s probably about what happened And he bumped off Robson, knowing that, as a widow and not a married woman, Ins sister could take the inheritance and would back him in his return for the diamonds.”
Looking down at Blake’s stiffening figure, his short, bristling blonde hair, something came to me. The something that had been kicking around in the back of my head ever since I saw him pound out of the Belmont and crash into a girl in his path His hat had been jarred to the back of his head, exposing his hair. And hell, I knew Chris Barton—knew that his hair was long and black. Blake had worn Barton’s clothes, made himself into Barton, but he had forgotten his hair. And I saw that difference in the color of their hair, yet, I’d been too dumb to realize what I was seeing.
Did I tell Inspector Halley? Nope—even a dumb detective doesn’t like to be called one.
BODY RANSOM
Arthur Wallace
Once she’d been a crook’s sweetheart, and now he wouldn’t let her love another man . . . Should she call in the police or play a lone hand?
Mona Drake swept the audience at the Casa Grande with an appreciative smile as she acknowledged its applause. The slim, supple maturity of her figure glittered like a giant diamond under a pure white spot. Beneath a jeweled bandeau, her firm breasts rose and fell rhythmically. She brushed back a stray lock of platinum hair and skipped off the floor.
The patter of applause followed her to the door of her dressing room. She opened it and stepped inside. Her face went blank and something snapped like a violin string inside her heart.