Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  “Can’t you give Dade a private line?” I asked. “Short on wire, or what?”

  “I intend to, son,” he said expansively. “We didn’t know about the mayor’s moon business when we hooked up the bridge. I’ll give you a private line as soon as I can pull some linemen off last night’s windstorm damage to my Oakville wiring. Just a couple of days.”

  “Swell!” I exploded angrily. “Lights for river catfish! In two days maybe there won’t be any bridge.” I wheeled on the mayor. “You and Stroud are very chummy, eh? Damn funny you’re anxious to cut his power profits by this moon scheme!”

  MAYOR GORSE drew up. Anger shook him like a seething, pent-up volcano.

  “Personal friendship,” he said in a harsh voice, “has no bearing on my public duty. I don’t like your tone!”

  “Listen, glamor boy,” I snapped. “Maybe you haven’t heard the gossip—about your mill getting free gas.”

  “Blodgett!” Gorse shouted, his face working spasmodically with hate. “He’s lied about me for years. Where’s his proof? I’ve never received free gas. I simply oppose municipal ownership because it wouldn’t pay here. Damn Blodgett!”

  Stroud clamped a ham hand on Gorse’s arm. He’d actually struggled to his feet. He shoved Gorse into a chair, whispered sibilantly in his ear. Then he patted my shoulder jarringly.

  “Sure, you’ve got to investigate rumors, son,” he said purringly. “But weigh everything you hear. Remember, the mayor’s beaten Blodgett for office three times. So the fellow’s mighty bitter.”

  “As for lying little Parelli—” Gorse sputtered, then stopped with a yell of pain. Stroud’s gigantic foot had quietly mashed Gorse’s small one to shut off his words.

  “What about Parelli, the Oakville banker?” I snapped.

  “Blodgett’s a lying miser!”’ Gorse yelled. His wild, bloodshot eyes avoided me. He limped to the door, threw it open. “Go see him personally. Then you’ll realize why I can’t give such a man any advantage! Now get out!”

  It was my intention to locate Blodgett anyhow. That afternoon I walked a hundred yards below the bridge to his ferry. Moored in its slip, it listed badly. It needed new red paint. Blodgett squatted on its rickety apron, waiting for a fare.

  Nearing fifty, he was burly, red-faced. He wore patched overalls. For twenty years this boat had been a gold mine, but old Blodgett was still too stingy to install a motor. He propelled it along a cable by means of a grip-bar. That long exercise had given him bull shoulders.

  I wanted to interview him, I said, because maybe he had heard something on the murder night. His house was nearby. Besides, perhaps he had an inside tip on my case.

  “Nope,” he said, spitting downstream toward a dam. “I mind my own business and favor others doing likewise.” His eyes suddenly flecked with hatred. “They’re robbing me, that’s what they’re doing! . . . Still, I wouldn’t want anyone killed.”

  His sudden outburst startled me. “Robbing you? Who?” I asked quickly.

  He sprang up suddenly, stuck his maniacal face into mine. His bulging eyes were seared with passion.

  “I had the exclusive franchise to operate this ferry,” he yelled. “Got it fair and legal. I’ve worked hard, lugging people across this river. Then this gang started talking this bridge! They had the state’s control over my franchise transferred to the city, provided they’d build a city bridge. Then they revoked my franchise. I can’t operate .after that bridge opens! Is that justice?”

  “But you got damages, didn’t you?” I asked.

  “Five thousand dollars!” he said, snarling. “You call that compensation after a man’s put twenty years in a business? His best years, his life’s blood?”

  “Why don’t you appeal the condemnation award then?”

  HIS jaw bunched. Something popped inside.

  “I did. But they wouldn’t change it. That same gang of politicians fixed my appeal, too. Mayor Gorse and his hellish crew!”

  “I don’t quite get your point of view,” I told the raging ferryman. “You’re supposed to champion a city-owned power plant, basing your mayor race on that platform. Then why can’t the city also own the transportation facilities across the river? Does a bridge happen to hit your pocketbook?”

  His big fist knotted. I half ducked, expecting a blow. But the fist shook at the bridge, where workmen climbed preparatory to joining the two reaching arms on the morrow.

  “Because this damn bridge won’t help the city!” he yelled savagely. “When Clay Hill gets cheap utility rates, that’ll help every resident, won’t it? But who will this bridge help? A few merchants, yes. The banker, oh, yes! But what about laborers, railroad men, me? Nobody’ll travel that side road across the river but Bottoms farmers. Yet we’ve all got to pay for the bridge. It ain’t fair!”

  “But Mayor Gorse doesn’t agree with you, eh?” I said.

  He peered at his shack with smoldering, suspicious eyes. Then he looked up the road into town, back at me. He licked thick lips.

  “Listen,” he said. “I was keeping this secret till my campaign got hot. Mayor Gorse favors a bridge—but not this one! Oh, no! If those Bottoms farmers come here toll-free, how will the trading switch affect Oakville? It’ll wreck it! Well, Stroud owns the power plant there, too. Maybe his power business here would improve some, not much. But his Oakville plant—blooey! Altogether, Stroud’d get burnt plenty. So he’s against a bridge.”

  “And Gorse? What did you start to say about him?”

  Blodgett tugged on my lapel, pointed a blunt finger downstream.

  “See the gap in the hill where that power dam reaches back?” he said in a low voice. “Gorse wanted the bridge there. Stroud, too, if one had to come. Figured maybe he could recoup his Oakville plant loss that way.”

  “But how?” I asked.

  “Stroud would have gotten plenty for a right-of-way across his plant grounds by the dam. But Gorse, he’d really have feathered his nest with options!”

  “Options?” I echoed.

  “Gorse dabbles in real estate,” Blodgett said. “If the bridge had been built down there, its road couldn’t have entered town on Cedar Street, like it does now. The hill’s in the way! Its traffic would have emptied into Locust Street—there’s no other way. That’s how the options come in.”

  “You mean—?”

  His beefy head nodded vigorously.

  “Gorse bought options all along Locust, a quiet back street. They gave him the right, when the traffic increased property values there, to buy cheap. And sell sky-high!”

  I nodded. Something icy was forming along my spine.

  “And if this present bridge was wrecked? Maybe after the next election Gorse could get the bridge site changed?”

  Blodgett bent, plucked up some dirty twine, pocketed it frugally. His eyes returned to me with baleful, crafty malevolence.

  “What do you think? The options are still good. They’re on record at the courthouse.”

  Another guy was bothering me. Maybe testy Blodgett could help me on him, too. I took a wild stab.

  “Didn’t I hear Gorse and Parelli were partners or something?”

  “Been hearing about Parelli, have you?” he said. “Well, Parelli can’t afford a bridge at any point. He practically owns Oakville. Then the way this crooked ring will handle tolls, Bottoms farmers can’t use the bridge free unless they make their spring crop loans with Canby, the Clay Hill banker who is in cahoots with the ring. But Bottoms crop loans are what made that vulture Parelli. Losing that business along with real estate depreciation, will break him.”

  “Parelli in Oakville now?” I asked.

  “I dunno. Maybe he’s still in Clay Hill. I ferried him across the day before yesterday. Nervous as a cat! He can’t swim a lick and nearly drowned last summer. He kept hollering at me not to sink the boat, and kept looking at his watch.”

  “Watch, huh?” I took out a watch, showed him the letter on the back.

  “Ever see this before?”

&nb
sp; Blodgett’s bushy eyebrows meshed.

  “Why, it’s his! I noticed it particular yesterday . . .”

  Around four that afternoon I located Parelli in his Clay Hill hotel room.

  “But why do you want to see me?” he asked suspiciously when I told him my business. Short, hatchet-faced, he had bristly graying hair, a complexion brown and pitted like a Graham cracker.

  “A man’s dead,” I said quietly. “Somebody’s trying to wreck a bridge. I want the culprit. And, frankly, you’re a suspect.”

  Panic whirled in sharp, slate-colored eyes. He rubbed his palms on his tailored coat, regained some control.

  “I’ve opposed the bridge. Naturally you’d wonder about me.” He swallowed jerkily. “Unfortunately I haven’t an alibi—is that the word? This morning early I drove to the country. Alone.”

  “Why are you in Clay Hill today?” I asked. “And yesterday?”

  He spread thin, shaking hands.

  “I came in the day before yesterday to confer with Canby of the Farmers Bank. Hoped to make a deal with him to divide all future crop loans we both should make. Bottoms farmers arrange their loans in February. I’m afraid they’ll all see Canby now instead of me.”

  “So!” I snapped. “Canby turned your proposal down! So you tried to wreck the bridge then and the watchman got in your way. Or did you hire somebody to kill Wicker?”

  “No!” the banker shrieked. “I didn’t! No!”

  “Then why did you stay over after Canby refused to split? To slug me last night?” I jumped, grabbed his frail shoulders as he reached for an open suitcase. He’d managed to snap it shut. I yanked at the bag. It was locked. “Trying to gun me, huh?” I snarled.

  He threw a hand over his eyes.

  “I don’t own a gun! There’s private papers in there. Nothing to do with your case.” He wrung his hands despairingly.

  “Why’d you remain in Clay Hill?” I demanded.

  HE sank limp in a chair. “I’d hoped to see Canby again,” he said. “Besides, I’d lost a luck piece here. I’ve owned it ever since I became successful.”

  I held out the gold watch. He snatched at it feverishly. His mouth worked crazily when I pocketed it again.

  “Luck piece, is it?” I snapped. “We’ll see.”

  A little later I drove to the bridge. It was a cold, cloudy night. Tomorrow the crew would join the arch. Unless—

  Yes, the wrecker would strike tonight, if ever. How? Where? Parelli, Gorse, Blodgett—all three hated this bridge! Who would it be?

  I insisted that Dade go to his hotel. He looked dog-tired, and I had two good watchmen without him. Besides, Dade’s job was building this bridge. Protecting it was mine!

  At nine P.M. I left Hull, slid down the graveled abutment to Petty’s place for coffee. She’d just come from the trailer, she said. Her mother, abed with a splitting headache, had imagined the trailer wheels weren’t level. Betty had moved it a bit to humor her.

  Betty’s jet-black hair was brushed in that up-do. Long-lashed blue eyes twinkled in a beautiful, oval face. In her perky blue restaurant uniform she was a picture to take your breath away.

  “Someday,” I said, “I’ll catch you on one of these construction jobs and marry you.”

  “I’m still waiting!” she said, and swingily carried some cups into the kitchen.

  There was a light tap at the front window. I looked around. A staring face bleared against it, wearing a handkerchief mask! Then it disappeared. I lunged to the door, stared outside. Nobody was there. I thought I heard gravel sliding. Betty ran out. She knew from my face something was wrong.

  “Keep your gun in hand!” I whispered what I’d seen. “I don’t know why he rapped. Maybe he wanted only to see him while you were in the kitchen. I’m heading after him.”

  “I’ll go too!”

  “No. Stay with your mother!”

  I raced to the abutment and called Hull as I scuttled upward through loose gravel. No answer came. The moon peeped fitfully through scudding clouds. The bridge lights were off again.

  In front of the construction office I stumbled over something soft. It was Hull. He was alive, with a big knot on his head behind. He’d live. I wondered if he’d been left there for me to find. Then I heard another tapping.

  Metal carries sound. This was like a tapping carried by a railroad rail. I slipped across the roadway, set my ear against the arch frame that rose from there.

  Click-click-click.

  I loosed the gun under my arm. Somebody waited on that curving arm. For me! And I accepted the invitation.

  I began the crawling climb. The steel girders were icy. At each upright I crouched, hooked a leg around while I rubbed my numbing hands and peered upward. The tapper was making a mistake.

  With the garish moon sailing out from behind a cloud, he’d be easier to spot up there than I would.

  THEN I saw him silhouetted, at the very end of the arm thirty yards away. I was certain because he’d moved. Then he was gone.

  He quit tapping a moment. Then began hammering! Loudly!

  Clang-clang-clang!

  “Mr. Farrell!” somebody yelled from across the river. “What’s that noise over there?” It was Charley, the other watchman.

  I crawled faster. Up here the arch was leveling out. I looked down, shuddered. High places always did get my goat. I was over the river now.

  “Hull!” yelled Charley. “Answer me!” The bent loomed just ahead of me.

  Dade’s crew had left the sliding platform which holds the erecting derrick. It stood directly above the supporting bent, to lighten the load on the projecting arm.

  I clutched the platform with dead fingers. Pulled myself shakily onto it. Three names swam through my giddy head. Blodgett, Gorse, Parelli. I stared far down at the river. Something clicked in my seething brain. The bridge lights flashed on.

  I knew the killer now!

  Crouching in the derrick’s shadow, I looked along the arm. The bulbs spotted along it didn’t give too much light. I’d wait. Before long his head would stick from that framework. Then I’d—

  “Drop your gun!” a voice snapped behind me.

  My fingers spread. I heard my gun splash sixty feet below.

  “You’ve got me, Blodgett,” I said turning slowly. “What next, Blodgett?”

  I called his name pretty loud, hoping Charley could hear.

  In the semi-darkness I made out Blodgett’s leering face, bull shoulders. He wore no coat, just flapping overalls and—no shoes. A handkerchief dangled under his chin. A gun glinted in his fist.

  “Mr. Farrell!” the watchman shouted. “I’m phoning the cops!”

  Odd that Blodgett didn’t warn me against answering.

  “I don’t care how loud you talk,” he chuckled softly, reading my thoughts. “So long as my voice isn’t overheard.”

  “You—?”

  “Catching on? Folks’ll say you climbed here to dynamite the bridge yourself. Know what else they’ll say? They’ll say, ‘Farrell was bought! He staged things to look like he’d chased somebody up that arch. He tapped on that girl’s window, told her a lie about a face he saw. He knocked Hull down from behind. Even talked to himself on the arch so the other watchman would think there were two men aloft.

  “ ‘Then he lit the dynamite fuse, tried to escape by jumping in the river. But his foot tangled in a rope. When the divers went down to the sunk span, he was snagged there. His pockets were stuffed with articles he meant to leave behind, to throw blame on Parelli and Blodgett! Folks, it looks like Gorse engineered it.’ That’s what they’ll say!”

  My forehead poured sweat. Stark horror welled inside me.

  “So your blast is ready to light, Blodgett?” I said. “You’ll escape by swimming.” I summoned a crazy bravado. “I won’t let you tie me to the arch. You’ll have to slug me first. That’ll leave a giveaway wound.”

  “Leave the details to me,” he said, jeeringly. Then, “Damn that moon!”

  THE moon played t
ag with clouds again, flitting shadows across the tiny platform. A light shone from the townside bank. The trailer’s doorway! Betty stood framed in its yellow rectangle.

  My breath whistled in. She’d moved the trailer directly under the arch! When this giant arm collapsed, it couldn’t miss the trailer. Betty and her mother—thousands of tons of crushing steel!

  I tried to turn. A gun-snout jabbed my back, a viselike elbow clamped my head and something damp slapped over mouth and nose. A sickening vapor seared into my lungs. Ether! My legs, arms tingled. Reeling, I scratched futilely at the rag. Strength oozed from me. The moon, dancing through the sky, careened wildly. The moon, the mayor’s moon. My last chance—

  “The Gorse in the moon!” I yelled wildly. “Look out! He’s flying through the air at us!”

  It was just goofy enough.

  “What?” Blodgett’s grip relaxed. He glanced backward. And I kicked that gat from his fist.

  The kick nearly yanked me off the platform. I teetered precariously on the edge, flung myself on all fours. Blodgett stomped me with a heel. Then his fists flailed my face. Each time he struck, I shook my head, came higher on my knees. He took one last kick. And when I tottered to my feet, he was gone.

  Hearing a splash, I looked overside, saw his head bob in the golden, far-off water. My stomach writhed. A thousand devils of giddiness made my head whirl. The killer was swimming away! Charley couldn’t stop him. Nobody could but me. No time to climb down and get a boat. Only one chance, to jump and—

  I stepped off into space. My eyelids ballooned like parachutes. Water hotfooted me, blistered my face. Icy water closed overhead. Somehow I floundered to the surface. Then I saw Blodgett ahead. He swam with long, silent strokes.

  My clothes dragged like window-weights. I went under, got one shoe off, then the other and the heavy coat. I struck out after him.

  He’d been swimming for his ferry. Now he veered midstream, heading straight for the power dam. Maybe he’d shot it before, knew a getaway trick. My arms churned faster.

  I caught him at the dam and clutched his shirt. Together we catapulted over, all arms and legs. We rose in bubbling water. He kicked my face. I cocked my fist, smashed him on the temple. He sobbed, strangled. I grabbed him just in time to keep Old Man River from beating the hot squat to him . . .