by Jerry eBooks
“I’m looking for Monty—Wolf Montana,” she said tremulously, “Is he here!”
He held the door open. “Come in.”
Mona was conscious of his eyes sweeping over her curved figure as she entered the foyer. Why was it that men’s eyes—most men’s eyes—licked like orange tongues?
“Who wants to see Monty?” the scar-faced gorilla queried suspiciously.
Mona softened him with the promise in her violet eyes. “Just tell him Mona Drake.”
He mounted the steps leading to the second floor of the roadhouse. Mona peered into the main room. There were two or three couples seated at tables along the walls. An air of foreboding hung over the dim-lit rendezvous, indicative of furtive secrets and things beyond the pale of the law.
The go-between descended the stairway. “Monty says to come up,” he muttered.
Something in his manner of delivering the message warned Mona that all was not smooth sailing. She had concrete evidence of it the moment her back was turned. A gun barrel jammed into her spine.
“Git goin’, sister!” the thug warned.
On the upper landing he threw open a door. “Inside, an’ make it snappy!”
Mona stepped into the room. Wolf Montana, one foot up on a chair, the muzzle of a .45 resting on his knee, leered at her like a devilish gargoyle.
“Frisk her, Rabbit,” he snapped.
Rabbit’s hands raced over Mona’s figure. It was more than just a frisk. His fingers curled around her breasts and made unnecessary forays along her thighs. Finally, at a glance from Montana, he ripped her handbag away, snapped it open, and emptied the contents on the floor. There was a change purse, a crumpled handkerchief, a lipstick, a compact and two keys.
Montana jerked his thumb toward the door. “Okay, Rabbit, scram!”
With one last lingering look at the voluptuous curves he had touched, the scar-faced underling left the room. Mona took the bull by the horns the moment the door closed.
“What’s the big idea, Monty!” she questioned. “Why the frisk and why the hardware? I just came up to tell you that I’ll go through with that deal.”
Montana ran a twisted forefinger along the barrel of his gun. “Oh, is that what ya came up for? I wuz wonderin’.”
Mona drew a deep breath, arching her breasts. She slipped off her coat, giving him a view of her intoxicating svelteness beneath the silk and lamé, tight-fitting dress. Montana’s eyes danced with hot lights.
“Sure! I thought I’d pick you up at Nick’s place, but he told me you were here. Put up the rod and act sociable.”
Montana’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know nothin’, do ya? Dumb as a fox, huh?”
Mona’s face was the picture of bewilderment. “What do you mean, Monty?”
He came to his full, lumbering height, the gun swinging from his hand. “You don’t know we snatched Mallory’s sister, do ya?”
Mona gasped. That, and the sag of her jaw were marvelously realistic. “You—you snatched his sister?” Each word rode on a panting breath.
The superb bit of acting began to work. Montana slipped the gun into a shoulder holster under his jacket. He moved across the room, his eyes glued on the soft curve of Mona’s breasts. Hard fingers curled around her upper arms.
“You on the level?” he barked. “’Cause if ya ain’t—”
Wisely, Mona let her face talk for her. It was eloquent in its shocked amazement. Montana loosened his grip on her arms. She could almost see his mind working. He was thinking that it was impossible for her to know so soon that he had kidnapped Jane Mallory; that she must be on the level.
His covetous smile removed the last doubt from her mind. Mona permitted her ductile body to go limp as he drew her close to him. Head tilted back, hips weaving slowly . . . sensuously, Mona made the victory complete. Montana’s mouth swooped down and took possession of her lips, forcing them apart with almost brutal passion.
When he drew away, rigid and panting, Mona’s eyes were ablaze. “You’ve been fooling around with some other dame, Monty,” she accused. “Two-timing on me.”
There was crude ego in his low chuckle. “Why not, baby? You gave me the cold shoulder. And anyway, this Mallory dame is all there.” He tried to reach Mona’s lips again, but she broke out of his arms.
“So that’s it! You were waiting eight months for me and then you mess around with a little society twirp. I’ve got a good mind—” The jealousy gag was an inspiration. Montana swelled at the thought of a beauty like Mona Drake fighting for his undivided attention. He went soft as an overripe pear.
“You don’t gotta worry, baby. The Mallory dame may be hot stuff but you got cards and spades over her.” He lurched forward. “Geez, when I touch you I get the willies. How about you an’ me—”
“Where is she?” Mona interrupted.
Montana’s hands jerked at the bodice of her dress. “Down the hall. To hell with her! How about you an’ her—”
Mona stiffened. “First let me tell the chippie what I think of her.”
With the promise of what was to come, Montana capitulated. Mona followed him down the hall where he unlocked the door of a room. She stepped inside in time to see a slim, auburn-haired girl jump up from a chair. She was the image of the picture Bob had shown her from a pert, tilted nose to the miniature fullness of her mature girl’s body. Small breasts pushed out the bodice of her dress, one side of which displayed a long rip.
For a moment, both women stared at each other. Montana broke the silence. “Lady here to see ya, Miss Mallory. Old friend of your brother’s.” His laugh was mocking. “Mona Drake. Ever hear of her?”
Jane Mallory’s hazel eyes flashed. Her fists clenched at her sides, the knuckles showing dead white through the skin. Mona’s mouth twisted as she went hard. She came within arm’s reach of the girl.
“Pretty wise baby, aren’t you, Miss Mallory! Only not wise enough. Your old man couldn’t see me for two cents, could he? Now it’ll cost him plenty!”
Without warning the palm of her hand flashed out and whipped across Jane Mallory’s face. The blow cracked like a rifle shot.
“You dirty little tramp!” Mona screamed, catching her taloned fingers in the neck of Jane Mallory’s frock and ripping it down the middle. Two girlish breasts bobbed into view. With the fury of a tiger, Mona raked her sharp nails over one of the alabaster cones. Her other hand tangled in Jane’s hair, forcing her back until her knees sagged and she dropped to the floor.
Mona leaped on her, ripping her chiffon dress into shreds. Stunned by the initial blow and the clawing of Mona’s nails, Jane struck out blindly to fight off Mona’s frenzied attack. But from every indication, Mona’s anger was white hot. Again and again her palm smashed into Jane’s face.
“I’ll fix you!” she shrieked. “You won’t queer my game again!”
At this point, Wolf Montana went into action. He pulled Mona off Jane Mallory’s prostrate body, restraining her wildly beating arms and forced her out of the room, following her and locking the door.
“What’s the idea?” he demanded. “I’ll kill her!” Mona cried. “I’ll—” She tried to get to the door again but Montana held her back. With difficulty, he maneuvered her into the room from which they had come. Her body shook with anger and her breasts heaved.
“You sure hate that dame’s guts,” he commented.
Mona gripped his shoulders. “How much you holdin’ her for, Monty? Make it plenty and let me write the ransom note. I just want a chance to give her stinkin’ old man plenty of a jolt.”
Montana grinned. “The note’s on its way, baby. Her brother’ll get it in the mornin’. We’re workin’ fast to keep the dicks out. We told him fifty grand an’ that’s what we’ll get.”
Mona drooped. “Then I can’t get in on it?” Montana’s arms circled her supple waist. “Sure you can, baby. We give the brother instructions to show up at a spot on the Darien Road at midnight tomorrow. How would you like to take the dough from him?”
&
nbsp; Mona’s heart caught in her throat. “Could I?” she panted. “Could I, Monty?”
His hot eyes rolled. “Sure, baby. But now, how about you an’ me—”
Her round arms twined about his neck. Breasts, hips and thighs touched him. “Okay, Monty,” she breathed.
A black touring cart low-slung and speedy, was parked off the Darien Road with its motor idling in a soft purr. The scar-faced Rabbit was at the wheel with Wolf Montana beside him and Mona in the rear seat.
“What time is it, Monty?” she whispered, her voice a nervous tremor.
“Three minutes to twelve. Feel all right?”
“S-Sure.”
“Got the gat?”
Mona’s fingers tightened about a small automatic. “Yes, I’ve got it.”
The next moment twin headlights came around a curve in the road about half a mile up. They moved forward slowly, coming to a halt a hundred yards in back of the touring car. They blinked three times, then went out.
“That’s him!” Montana hissed, resting the sawed-off barrel of a shotgun on the car door. “Go get it, baby, an’ if there’s any trouble we’ll open up.”
Mona, chilled to the bone, stepped out to the road. She walked quickly along the soft shoulder, recognizing the curved chromium bumper of Bob’s roadster the moment she reached it. Gasping for air, she came around to the driver’s seat. She could see Bob’s frightened face dimly.
“Bob!” she panted. “This is Mona—Mona Drake! Don’t talk; just listen! Jane is being held at Tonelli’s Tavern on the Post Road above Larchmont! Get the police and raid the place! I’ll try and hold these fellows until—”
His hand reached out to touch her. “Mona!”
She glanced down the road. “Hurry! There’s no time to lose! Turn around and drive like hell!” Her voice broke as she stepped away. “Bob!” she whispered. “I—I love you!”
Halfway back to the touring car she heard Bob’s roadster make the turn in the road and roar into the night. She broke into a run. Rabbit had the car moving the moment she stumbled into the back.
“Okay?” Montana blurted. “Okay!” she echoed. “Step on it!”
The car leaped forward. Mona slipped her forefinger around the curved trigger of the automatic Wolf had given her. She counted ten, gripped the blanket bar with her left hand, leaned over and jammed the barrel between Montana’s shoulder blades.
“Don’t move, Monty!” she barked. “And you keep your eyes on the road and your foot on the gas, Rabbit! When you hit the Post Road turn left instead of right! One crack out of either of you and you get all the lead this rod’s got!”
Montana’s head jerked. For a split second Mona took her eyes off the gangster behind the wheel. That split second was enough. The car jerked from one side of the road to the other, screaming on two tires.
As though she were a straw in the wind, Mona was hurled off balance, piling up on the floor of the car. Montana stood half-erect, whirled, and jammed the sawed-off shotgun against her breast. A muscular reflex brought her right arm up. The automatic went off, sending fire and lead into Montana’s face. His body arched, stiffened, hung for an instant and then dropped over the door to the road.
The car careened wildly as Rabbit fought to bring it back under control. But the sudden twist was too much. It shot to the soft shoulder, the right front wheel sagged, and the big body turned over and over as it rolled down into the woods.
Mona’s head cracked against a door handle. The weight of the heavens seemed to crush down on her. Everything went black.
Chloroform was the first thing Mona smelled when consciousness returned, and Bob Mallory’s worried face was the first thing she saw.
Words leaped to her lips—words that concerned Jane and Wolf Montana—but Bob placed a finger over her mouth.
“Now it’s your turn to listen, darling,” he whispered. “Montana confessed everything before he died. The other fellow was killed when the car turned over. Jane is all right except for a swollen cheek and some scratches that she’s mighty glad she has.” He leaned over the bed and breathed into her ear. “And dad is waiting outside to come in and tell you he’d be honored to have you as a daughter-in-law.”
Mona smiled wanly. She closed her eyes, but her lips felt the divinely sweet pressure of Bob’s mouth and that was all that mattered.
BOOMERANG BLADE
Norman A. Daniels
Jason McGee was a fighting Irishman. He fought his way to the bantam crown, fought his way to a first grade detective’s post—and fought his way out of it. He socked a lieutenant on the nose. But now he faced a double-barreled frame that called for more than fists.
Jason McGee swore softly under his breath as he looked at the rear left tire of his taxi.
“A flat,” he muttered, “and way out here in the sticks with my spare flat, too. What a sap I am.”
He turned slowly, looking for an all-night lunch cart or any place where he might find a telephone. He was far uptown and only one beckoning light met his eye. It came from the second floor of a two-story wooden building. Jason McGee knew this section. Six months of pounding a beat along its quiet streets gave him an excellent familiarity with the locality. That was four years ago, before he became a first grade detective only to be later dropped from the force.
“That’s the Four Leaf Clover Club,” Jason muttered. “I wonder who’s running that dump now. There used to be a phone there. I’ll take a chance.”
He headed toward the place swinging along with the strides of an athlete and the graceful rhythm of a body trained in the prize ring. He turned into the doorway and mounted narrow, dark stairs. The Four Leaf Clover was no suave night spot. It was, rather a hangout for organized crime masquerading under the guise of an athletic club. Anything could happen here and Jason knew it, but Jason McGee did not seem to know the meaning of fear.
He tapped briskly on the panels. Muffled voices within were suddenly stilled. Someone moved toward the door. It opened in a flash and Jason had a glimpse of a man muffled in the high collar of a heavy coat. A dark hat was pulled far down over his eyes. There was no penetrating his identity.
“Can I use the phone?” Jason asked. “My—”
“No. Beat it,” came the prompt reply.
Jason continued smoothly. “My cab has a flat and I haven’t got a spare. I want to call the office and have them send up a tire.”
The man was all attention. “You got a cab, huh? Okay. Fix that tire yourself. You guys carry road repair kits. I got a fare for you.”
“Sure,” Jason agreed. “Just let me use the phone—”
“I said fix that tire yourself,” the man put in angrily. “Go on—get started. I’ll give you fifteen minutes.”
Jason sighed and turned wearily away. He was in no mood to repair that tire for the sake of a two-bit tip. Suddenly a hand grabbed him by the collar and whirled him around. His eyes narrowed and instinctively Jason’s fists came up. Years in the ring made him do that, but he had no time to get in a blow. The man in the doorway slashed down a punch that raked Jason’s forehead, cracked against his nose, bounced off and rapped him hard on the chin. It was a savage, little used blow, but this man seemed to know how to administer it.
Jason pulled himself free. He lashed out, but he was standing a step lower than his opponent and was at a decided disadvantage. His blow landed on a well-padded chest.
“Hey—wait!” the man warned. One hand was deep in his overcoat pocket and Jason was positive a gun rested there. “Listen, I didn’t mean to smack you, buddy, but I need a cab badly. Fix that tire, get ready for a trip to Greenwich Village and I’ll slip you a sawbuck besides the fare. Is that okay?”
Jason dropped his hands and grinned. For ten dollars he’d fix a dozen tires.
“Okay, mister,” he agreed. “Give me fifteen minutes. And listen—don’t be so damned quick with your dukes. I almost flattened your mug.”
“A shrimp like you?” The stranger laughed, but not for an instant did he show
his face. He surveyed Jason’s five feet six inches of slender, wiry grace. There was nothing about Jason McGee to indicate that he had been a bantamweight champion until he had outgrown the class. No cauliflower ears or battered nasal bones remained as scars. Jason McGee had always been too fast for a telling blow to land.
“Go on. Get your hack ready before I change my mind.”
Jason saluted briskly, hurried back down to his cab and went to work. In thirteen minutes he had a patch on the tire, had pumped it up fairly well and was rolling to the curb in front of the Club entrance.
Three men came out. One was the belligerent stranger, another Jason recognized instantly for Joe Franconi, burly overlord of the underworld. Jason pulled his chauffeur’s cap far down over his eyes. He didn’t want Franconi to recognize him.
Between them the two men half carried, half dragged another man who was muttering drunkenly to himself as he lurched along. They put him in the cab. The muffled stranger climbed in after him, shoved him into a corner and propped him against the cushions. Franconi grabbed Jason by the lapels of his coat.
“Take good care of that guy,” he warned.
The stranger got out, slammed the door and turned to Jason with a ten and a five dollar bill in his hand.
“Take him to eleven sixty-four Whately Avenue,” he ordered. “And remember, I got the number of your hack. If you roll him, Franconi here will rip you apart.”
“Yeah,” Franconi said heavily, moving away from Jason. He seemed unduly nervous. “Yeah. He’s a friend o’ mine. See?”
Jason snorted, got behind the wheel and pulled away. In the mirror he could see both men heading back for the club. Glancing around, Jason saw his lone passenger slumped in the seat, lurching heavily with each twist of the car.