by Jerry eBooks
Malachi said softly: “Well, this about tears it. Poor Dave—he was afraid of it.”
“Cartright is afraid, too,” I said. “This afternoon they were both afraid when they thought Dora might reveal something about a man who was seen talking to Mulford yesterday afternoon. I could tell they were scared. And Cartright is worried about Ilene investigating his labor situation.”
Malachi said: “It adds up—almost too obviously. There’s more in it than I can be sure of, but I think we can go ahead with what we have. The shape of the wound, the opportunity for killing, and the motive. No proof, actually, yet. But how often do we get court proof of a murder? That’s for the big police departments with laboratories and sleuths galore and a little room downstairs where they can beat the tar out of people. I think we can move in.”
I said: “I want Joe Monk.”
Malachi didn’t answer that. He was striding around the corner of the hotel, and Ilene was sauntering toward us, a coat over her arm. A car started, heading away from Shoreland. Ilene said: “That’s Dora. I thought we ought to follow her.”
“I’ll lay four, two and even we can join her later without trailing her,” said Malachi. He had something wrapped in his hand. We got into his car and rode to town, taking our time.
IT WAS about ten when we got to the edge of Frog Swamp. Malachi parked the car beneath some pines and we walked the rest of the way, Ilene between us. Going against a killer and a man like Joe Monk, may be duck soup for heroes, but to us it was a desperate business. Actually, this was none of our business, except as citizens, and how many citizens deal themselves into murder mysteries? It was Malachi who did that to us.
There were no lights in front of Manuel’s juke joint, but in the rear a sickly gleam struck across the clearing to the swamp edge. We crept close and found there was a window. I took a peek, and nodded. They were all there. Malachi went to the back. Ilene remained at the window, her gun in hand. I went to the front and set up a clamor.
That was to cover Malachi. After a moment I bashed in a window, removed the glass, climbed over the sill. There was a great deal of confusion in the back room, so I knew Malachi was already in.
From outside, Ilene’s voice called, strong and clear: “Settle down. I’ve got you all covered and I’ll shoot the eyes out of the first guy who gets tough.”
Then I crashed into the back room. Malachi was standing just inside the door, his eyebrows like inverted V’s, his mouth thin and harsh. I closed the door and put my back against it.
Dora Acton was sitting on a chair, tense with fear and excitement. She didn’t look like the woman who had vented her grief over her husband’s death in loud piercing accents. She looked like one of those operatic babes who lust for revenge, or something.
Cartright was standing, crouched a little, and again I saw him as a hard, capable man. He was calm, glaring at Malachi, then at me, then at the window where Ilene held the gun on them.
Joe Monk was on a chair, huge even when sitting. His face was sneering, calculating. He let his pig eyes slide around calculatingly. Manuel stood behind him and there were a couple of others. One was Spesak, the excop, and the other was a gaunt, hard-bitten Cracker.
Malachi said: “A little meeting of the clan. More plans—for murder, perhaps?”
Cartright said: “You’d better get out, Manatee.”
“There are a couple of corpses,” Malachi explained. “And a pair of beatings, dealt out by Monk.”
“I’ve killed no one,” said Cartright. “This is private business. You’ve no right here.”
Malachi said: “No, you didn’t wield the knife. You and Frankenstein!”
Cartright said: “I’m trying to find out who stabbed Dave and straighten out this mess with the men. Dora came here on her own. There’s nothing to do with murder in this meeting.”
Malachi shifted his gaze to Monk. He said: “A simple Cracker boy who uses knockout drops . . . Who stabs upward beneath the left shoulder blade, professionally, like a big-time shiv artist. You’re no hillbilly, Monk, in spite of your drawl.”
Monk grinned. “O.K., I’ve been places. But I don’t stab people inna back, see?”
“Cartright was anxious to prove you did,” said Malachi.
Monk shrugged. The power in him was obvious to all. He was absolutely without fear, I saw.
Cartright said harshly: “I find he did not kill Mulford—or Dave. We merely wished to get together . . .”
Malachi said to Monk: “They dumped the corpse of the tennis player within fifty feet of the place you left Tack. Dave was getting onto it, feared for his own life. So he got it next.”
Monk shrugged. “I din’t even know the guys.”
Ilene suddenly screamed. The gun disappeared. Ilene was shoved violently away from the window. I was sorry it had to be that way, but I had been waiting for it, and I guess, Malachi had been waiting for it, too. Manuel produced a knife, and so did the Cracker and Spesak, the ex-cop. I dove right across the room and landed in front of Monk. He got up like a lion.
There was a single shot outdoors, and for a moment I froze, but then Uene’s voice came through. “Try it on me, will you?” Then I knew she hadn’t been overcome by the attack. Ilene was plenty tough.
Monk was trying to take me first. Malachi went past me and began doing things to people in the way the Marines had taught him. He had a pair of brass knuckles and a blackjack and he used them often and well. Men began falling like chicken heads in a kosher poultry market on a Friday afternoon.
Monk missed me eight times. I just went close and let him try. He hammered down with a rabbit punch and I slipped aside. Then I let him have the full treatment. The fingers in the eyes, the stiffened palm against his nose, the punch at the base of his ear. He gave back, trying to kick me. I grabbed his heel and lifted and he went over backwards. His head hit the baseboard and he didn’t move for a moment.
I turned around and Spesak was behind Malachi, on his knees. He had the spring-bladed fruit knife in his hand, thumb along the blade. He was trying to stab upwards. Manuel was down, the Cracker was sprawled over a chair. Cartright was dragging at a gun in his pocket which had caught in the lining.
In a corner, Dora stood watching, her eyes narrowed, a wild excitement in complete command of her. She was actually enjoying herself!
I reached out and took hold of Spesak and removed the knife from his grasp. I broke his wrist doing so. He screamed, and Malachi lashed out with the blackjack. Cartright went down on his knees and stayed there, like a stunned bull.
THERE was another shot and Ilene said triumphantly: “That got the bum!” Then she came in, swaggering a. little, the gun still smoking. “Blew a small hole in him. I’m afraid not fatally.”
Malachi was wheeling. Monk came off the floor, still brave, still swinging. Malachi slipped the knuckle off his hand, threw the blackjack to me. He let Monk get all the way up and then started. He struck out his left and threw the right in behind it. That was good punching, with Malachi’s six feet-five leveling in a perfect pivot behind the right hand. He got it on Monk’s chin. It was like felling a tree.
There was a crash and Monk hit the floor, flopped over and lay still. Ilene dramatically raised her arm and began to count: “One, two, three . . .” She could have made it a hundred.
Cartright was holding onto a chair, shaking his head.
Malachi turned, said to him: “You hired Monk to come down here and stir up trouble. You wanted turmoil so you could get rid of Dave Acton. You wanted Dave’s groves and you wanted his wife. It was an old hatred, the kind that festers. It came to a head and you planned to have Dave killed and blame it on Monk.”
Cartright didn’t speak. Malachi went on: “You hired Spesak, a cop, as the assassin. You figured that was a cunning angle. Then I had Spesak fired and you couldn’t do anything about that without tipping your hand. So you had Monk on your hands, a killer already in disgrace. Then Mulford became a problem, as your lady love fell for him. You lost your hea
d, Cartright.”
Spesak moaned. I said to him: “I’ll twist that busted wrist for you if you don’t talk.” He moaned some more, pleading dumbly with Cartright for protection.
Malachi said: “I can place you on the road where Mulford was killed, Spesak. When Monk awakens and finds out the truth, he’ll testify.”
“He killed Dave Acton, too,” said Ilene. “He must have.”
“No!” mumbled Spesak. “I didn’t. I never did.”
Cartright said: “You’re right, Manatee. I give up. Spesak killed them both. He wanted to kill you, too . . .”
Again there was silence in the room. Malachi turned and looked around at the shambles, taking his time. Dora Acton had not moved from her corner, the others lay about in broken attitudes. Monk stirred, turned over, sat up, rubbing his jaw. His eyes went to Malachi and a look of the utmost respect came into them.
Malachi said softly: “You’ll confess, Carright?”
“I’ll go in and give myself up right now,” said the square-faced man doggedly.
Malachi said: “You’re all right, in your own way, I guess . . . Mrs. Acton, would you let him admit to the crimes?”
She said, a bit hoarsely: “He—he—says he had them killed.”
“But he didn’t,” said.Malachi gently. “He wanted to. He would have, if we weren’t here, probably. He was a bit insane. Mulford was the worst. He was used to Dave, but Mulford was new, and young. He didn’t realize that Mulford had spurned you and had walked to town prepared to take the bus and leave the whole deal. Dave knew it, because Dave was the man who talked to Mulford in town and gave him the money to go away.”
She said: “You’re crazy—Rem admits he did it.”
“Because Rem Cartright knows you stabbed Mulford and hired Spesak to dump him in the swamp. Spesak wasn’t present when Tack was left there, and took the easiest road in. You killed Mulford because he had refused to play with you and had run away.” Malachi’s voice was like thunder. “You stabbed him with a stiletto which is entirely different from the fruit knife weapons of this country, a weapon I saw in your room tonight, after your husband was killed. The police here may be rural, but they have that much sense. Chief Owen has that stiletto right now, testing it for bloodstains in Tampa. Maybe he won’t find Mulford’s blood on it, but poor Dave’s gore will be fresh enough to trace!”
Dora Acton opened her mouth, but no scream came forth. She sat there, panting, her eyes wild.
Cartright tried to go to her, but Malachi shoved him aside. He said: “Owen is on his way out here now. You can buy a police department for petty, local stuff, but didn’t you know you couldn’t get away with murder? When Dave accused you of stabbing Mulford, why did you also kill him? Cartright would have done that for you, sooner or later, and maybe without leaving any evidence.”
She leaped at him, clawing. “You lousy son! You couldn’t know these things . . .”
Chief Owen came in then, with three cops, and took her. Cartright stood, white and stony-faced, while they added him as a material witness. The Chief said heavily: “I listened. You got a case, Mr. Manatee, if Spesak and Monk will talk.”
Monk was on his feet. One hand went to his jaw. He said thickly: “Any guy that can kayo me with one punch . . . I couldn’t handle that trick stuff Hinton gave me, but I never thought a punk could nail me with a reg’lar wallop . . . I’ll talk, Manatee. I didn’t contrack for no murders. Cartright wanted to upset Acton’s apple cart. That’s all I knew. I ain’t no killer.”
“Of course, you’re not,” Ilene said briskly. “Take them away, Chief. And watch out, I think the fat babe is about to pass out on you!”
They took them away. We relaxed a bit and I found a bottle of pretty good whiskey behind Manuel’s bar. We had a drink. Ilene said: “I was right all the time. The bosomy job did it.”
“Uh-huh,” said Malachi. “Both times in a passion. She was so scared wheij she killed her husband that she ran to Cartright. He made her wait a while, then drove out so that people would think it was an outside job. He thought he had her for himself, then, with Mulford and Dave both dead. He really loves her.”
“He was willing to take the rap for her,” I said nodding.
Ilene poured another drink, said: “I’d like to see either of you in a spot like that. I’ve got a big steel engraving of you taking my crimes on your shoulders! Huh! Those plump babes heave around and roll their eyes and men fall like ten-pins for them. It makes me sick!”
“You don’t do so bad yourself,” said Malachi maliciously. “You sure had Monk going for a while.”
“The meatball,” I said.
“Meatball, is he?” she cried. “It took the two of you, one after the other, to knock him out. He could lick either one of you in a fair fight.”
Malachi said: “What is a fair fight? Who makes the rules? Let’s argue.”
We did. Manuel’s was open very late that night. We drank up a lot of whiskey and settled nothing. But it relieved our nerves, and we had a lot of fun.
And Monk wasn’t a meatball, I privately conceded. He was a very tough racketeer, but he was no meatball.
BLACK OF THE MOON
Merle Constiner
In this town you had to go to jail before the right people figured you were worthy of their confidence.
The backwoods bus pulled away from the watering trough in the village square and Crockett picked up the suitcase. He crossed the street and entered the cafe.
It was a typical hill town restaurant, dingy, bare. The proprietor, a fat man with reddish fuzz on his forearms, was lounging on a wire-legged chair beneath an old calendar depicting a girl in an airbrushed bathing suit watching a flock of wild geese. Crockett laid the suitcase self-consciously on the table, said, “What will you give me for it? I don’t want to pawn it, I want to sell it.”
The fat man mounted good-naturedly to his feet. “You jest git off the Knoxville bus?”
“Yes.”
“Broke, eh?”
“No.”
The hillman looked long and hard at his visitor. The young man was modestly but not shabbily dressed; he was blond and thin, with lean cheeks and tired expressionless eyes. The suitcase, a tiny thing in striped canvas, was about eighteen inches in length. The fat man cleared his throat, “Looks like a woman’s satchel.”
Crockett hesitated. “It’s too small for me. I never should have bought it.”
The fat man walked back to the kitchen. When he returned he was carrying a long barreled pistol; he said, “Holden’s a town of law and order.” He reached down, snapped the lock, opened the bag. It was full of feminine garments, a pair of hose, a pink slip, a brassiere. He said placidly, “Set down. I done sent fer the marshal. He’s on his way.”
Marshal Pickering was a wiry, hunched little man with rosy cups on his cheeks; his manner was entirely impersonal. As Crockett accompanied him down Main Street, he judged the town to have a population of maybe seven hundred. The business section, a block and a half long, was of old brick and in the soft spring twilight the warped pavement was a dappled pattern of purple shadow and mellow shop glow. There was the sour smell of budding trees and the pleasant spicy fragrance of wood burning ranges.
The jail was a small cement building behind the town hall. Pickering opened the door. “Step in.”
The walls were whitewashed, there were a tier of iron bunks and a grilled door. The marshal declared coldly, “That hain’t no way to make no living. Stealing luggage from buses! I’ll take you up before the Squire tomorrer.”
Crockett said cautiously, “I didn’t steal anything from anybody. I want a lawyer.”
“I’ll tell Mart Chaffin. This hain’t no county seat, he’s the oney lawyer we got.” He closed the door; Crockett heard the bolt click.
. . . Mr. Chaffin appeared twenty minutes later. He came alone and Crockett recognized him instantly as an old-time small town attorney. He had a stolid, thoughtful face with a bony, boxlike forehead. There were cunning wrinkles a
t the corners of his eyes; his hair, old style, was combed back over his temples. He sat down on a shuck-bottomed chair, easily, as though the jail were his own personal property. “What’s your name, sir?”
“Lew Crockett.”
“Frankly, Mr. Crockett, petty thievery is not in my line. Seeing, however, that you are a stranded wayfarer—”
The blond young man grinned slowly. He took out a pigskin wallet, extracted five small squares of yellow paper and a twenty dollar bill, handed the sheaf to Mr. Chaffin.
With great dignity, the lawyer stuffed the banknote in his watch pocket, examined the yellow papers. “Why these are sales slips! They prove you purchased the suitcase and its contents in Knoxville. What’s the meaning of this?”
“I want to talk to you. And I don’t want any spotlight turned on us. In a small town there are two persons that know what makes the wheels turn. The preacher and the lawyer. The preacher, of course, is out. That twenty dollars is just a retainer.”
“What do you want to know?” Mr. Chaffin was wary.
“I want the lowdown on the Hazelton robbery.”
“Why that happened twenty years ago!” The lawyer smiled mirthlessly. “You’ve chosen a pretty hard nut to crack. I’ve a fairly good brain myself and for two decades it’s had me thinking in circles. I was present when it happened. There was some sort of flimflam involved but I can’t quite put my finger on it.” He paused. “May I tell it in my own way?”
“Please do.”
“Twenty years ago the big establishment in this end of the county was Holden’s general store run by Tom Hazelton. Hazelton’s since retired, he’s about eighty. He settles estates now, has a houseful of antiques he picks up from bereaved heirs at a song. In those days he was sort of a rural czar. You could buy a saddle at his store, or stick candy, or have your grandpappy embalmed. He was an independent cotton buyer, too; outside buyers couldn’t pick up enough good staple hereabouts to wad a shotgun.”