Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  “No.”

  “It’s because you give a virile impression.”

  The fingers with which John Henry intended to steal the card were turning hot and cold alternately.

  Faye put her crimson lower lip out. “Oh, you didn’t want to see me at all! If you don’t build me up, I’ll go talk to that cute boy in the pool.”

  She turned her head toward the white-haired swimmer and John Henry saw his chance. He streaked his hand for the mysterious card. And she turned back. She put her face up close and whispered, “Are you a policeman? I’ll bet you think I had something to do with the murder.”

  “What murder?” He had her now. “You know what murder, Johnny. It was in the paper this morning. Do you think I did it?”

  “Well, did you?”

  Faye Jordan shook her black braids disconsolately. “I wish I had. Nobody ever thinks I’m criminal. It’s not exciting. Nothing’s exciting.”

  John Henry was baffled. The engraved card had slipped down inside her trunks. He said suddenly, “Why did you insist on changing cottages with us, Faye?”

  “Johnny,” she crooned, “Mr. Gayner insisted that I move to Cottage fifteen.” John Henry patted her shoulder paternally. “I believe you, Faye.”

  She stretched toward him as if she expected to be stroked. She whispered, “I’ll bet we’ll be as close as friends can get—darling.”

  John Henry gulped . . .

  Sin clenched her fists hard. She said to herself: “Now look here, St. Clair, you are not going to lose your temper.” Across the pool, Miss Jordan was smiling sleepily up at John Henry.

  Sin gritted her teeth. She was on fire, from the dark red page-boy down to the crimson toenails that peeked out of her suede sandals. She was wearing a filmy white blouse and full peasant skirt that made her look a saucy eighteen. Not like a cast-aside wife.

  John Henry was helping the Jordan girl to her feet. He flashed a guilty look at Sin as the brunette seized his hand gaily and started to drag him along toward the guest cottages. Sin clenched her fists.

  The reluctant Conover was pulled out of sight between screening palms. Sin marched determinedly after her husband.

  On the other side of the palm trees, she felt the grip of a cold, wet hand on her elbow. A toneless voice said: “We had better have a talk.” Towering over her was a swimmer whose hair stood up in wet silver barbs. Water still trickled down his lean hard face and over the wiry muscles of his darkly tanned body.

  “Well, I’m sorry,” Sin said. “I have to catch my husband.”

  Iron fingers tightened on her elbow. “Talk first,” the man said flatly. “One short warning before it’s too late.” The damp hand urged her onto a shady graveled way.

  “Who are you?” said Sin faintly.

  “A person who permits no interference,” was the man’s answer. They were headed for a huge brick and screen building that loomed through the tropical foliage. “Call for all the help you like,” the white-haired man intoned. “No one will notice another noise from this direction.”

  They stood before the building. Its four corner pillars were bare adobe bricks. The rest was wire mesh. Inside, bright-winged birds darted and soared in whirlwinds of color, enraged at the disturbing visitors. They screamed piercingly.

  “Pretend to watch the birds,” the fiat voice commanded.

  RICH-BLOSSOMED trees pressed in from every side. Sunlight through the leaves cast an odd pattern of black and gold over the dripping half-naked man. The din was tremendous. Sin put her hands over her ears.

  “Let me go,” she begged.

  Stronger hands pulled them away again. “Listen to me. My name is Sagmon Robottom.”

  The name didn’t mean anything to her. “Let me go,” Sin said again.

  “My business permits me no respect for feelings,” Robottom said. “I get what I seek. I’ve robbed graves and rifled tombs to do my duty—immortalize the dead. I want you to recognize how strongly I feel about this entire affair.”

  “We haven’t done anything,” Sin said, trying to make the man understand.

  “Neither you nor your husband will be hurt,” Robottom said. Then he added, “If.”

  “If what?” Sin quavered.

  “If you forget all this Jones business and go home where you belong. I’m doing you a service, Mrs. Conover. This race is for the strong. You’ll have no chance of winning. Stay out of this, Mrs. Conover. No more Joneses. No more Conovers in Azure. Can I depend upon you to take that message to your husband? Stay away from things which aren’t your business. Briefly, Mrs. Conover—stay away from her!”

  “Who—”

  Feet crunched on the gravel path behind them. Sin caught a glimpse of Thelma Loomis and Mr. Trim strolling toward the giant cage.

  “That is an astonishing specimen,” said Robottom and his voice seemed better suited for a lecture. “The Indian hill macaw. His vocal prowess—”

  Sin left him, slipping between the trees. She had to find John Henry and leave this horrible place.

  It wasn’t until she reached the patio that she realized she was running as if pursued by demons . . .

  The road was bumpy even in her convertible Mercury. John Henry conned the girl’s profile against the speeding desert. Faye ruined his analysis with a boudoir smile.

  “We’re almost there now, Johnny.”

  “Where?”

  She lowered her lashes enigmatically. John Henry couldn’t get an answer for that particular question. Back at the pool, Faye had suddenly told him he would be interested in seeing a fascinating place—a secret place. Curious, he had allowed himself to be carried away from the Las Dunas, out across the rolling plains. A mile or so back, Faye had wheeled the Mercury off on a dirt road.

  The sun was midway to the meridian. Heat waves were beginning to shimmer up from the mesquite and sagebrush-matted hillocks. The road hugged the Santa Rosa foothills.

  Faye had changed her bathing suit for a play dress with a bare midriff. The exposed stomach bothered John Henry some. What bothered him more was the card. He could see the white edge protruding from her skirt pocket. But he wasn’t going to try for it again—not right away. It was all he could do to stay on his own side of the car, the gay way she took the hairpin curves.

  “There it is,” Faye announced happily and John Henry opened his eyes.

  The Mercury was rolling headlong down an incline toward a barbed-wire fence which vaulted the road in the form of a log archway. The swinging sign spelled out Bar C Ranch in twigs. Mesquite, sagebrush and greasewood had been banished. In their place spouted feathery green tamarisk trees, pink and white oleanders and palms.

  The low, rambling ranchhouse, constructed of adobe, was plastered with a beige stucco. It had been aged in spots by allowing the adobe bricks to peep through. Wooden shutters were on the windows, but behind them, John Henry could see shiny metal Venetian blinds.

  “Isn’t it darling!” Faye breathed as she forced the Mercury to a jarring stop.

  John Henry said, “Just what is this place? What’s so secret about a dude ranch?”

  FAYE crawled over his lap and slid to the ground. “It’s no dude ranch,” she said. She had the mysterious card in one hand now.

  Faye banged at the door with the heavy brass knocker.

  “Are they expecting you?” Conover asked.

  “That’s no fun.” The door swung open and a battered face peered at them.

  “Won’t you come in?”

  Faye stepped blithely forward and John Henry followed. The man who had opened the door was dressed in a black double-breasted suit with a black bow tie. There was a lot of him. A well-groomed ape.

  “Are we late?” Faye asked him.

  The man said, “Never. Your card, madame?”

  Faye flipped her fingers and he caught the card deftly. John Henry was disappointed. For the card bore no queen symbol. Whorls and lines of patterned engraving followed the edge like those on a bond or a bank note. In the center was a straight blac
k line followed by a large C.

  “Certainly,” the butler said rustily. “You will forgive these precautions, but they have been found to be necessary. My name is Sidney, madame.”

  “I’m Miss Jordan, Sidney. And this is Mr. Conover.”

  Sidney waved them into the dimness. He walked silently behind them down the long hall. It got darker and darker.

  Can you see?” Faye whispered excitedly.

  “Of course not.”

  “I can,” she boasted.

  At the end of the lengthy corridor Sidney pulled a heavy drape aside and beneath it was another of the large curved doorways. Beyond the door that Sidney was opening, a band was playing furiously, brassily.

  It was a big square room, low-ceilinged, with sporting prints on the beige stucco. The complete absence of windows made the walls seem blind and faceless. Near the door stood a bank of slot machines. Opposite them were chuck-a-luck tables. Down the center were faro and poker tables and at the far end a roulette wheel.

  “Isn’t this fun?” Faye bubbled. “Give me some money.”

  Automatically, John Henry dug a quarter out of his pocket.

  Though it was barely eleven o’clock, the wheel was in full spin. Men and women of all ages bordered the board. Counterpointing the rhythm of the incandescent red juke box, an interminable hum of comment filled the room, punctuated by the monotonous drone of the croupiers, the laughs of the excitement hunters, the wealthy visitors to Azure.

  John Henry caught up with Faye. She was angrily shaking a slot machine. As he looked around apprehensively there sounded a violent click. Silver jangled.

  “I won, Johnny!” Faye scooped a double handful of coins from the machine. “Here’s your quarter back.”

  “Thanks,” said John Henry wryly. “Now what’s the big idea dragging me out here?”

  “Aren’t you having fun? What you need is a drink.”

  Faye grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the bar.

  “It’s too early,” John Henry protested.

  “Better early than never.”

  John Henry began rehearsing an explanation for Sin.

  V

  SEPARATED from the gambling room by an archway, the bar was lighted only by the pink neon facings on the big mirror. A solitary man hunched on one of the leather-topped bar stools. The mess-jacketed bartender was polishing glasses.

  Faye banged a fist on the bar.

  “What’ll you have, pardner?”

  “You order,” said John Henry.

  “Two rye—straight,” said Faye.

  Conover looked at the gamblers in the main room. “What gets me,” he mused, “is how they do all this. I’m surprised the police haven’t cracked down.” He grunted exasperatedly. “Just what I thought last night—crooked cops.”

  He looked in the bar mirror at the eyes of Lieutenant Lay.

  “Morning, Mr. Conover,” said the lanky police officer sardonically. He sat close enough, Conover realized sickeningly, to have heard every syllable.

  Faye was regarding Lay with interest.

  She asked, “What’s your racket, stranger?”

  “This is Lieutenant Lay of the Azure Police, Faye,” said John Henry.

  “I like policemen,” Faye whispered confidentially and loudly to Conover, “He’s cute.”

  “Well,” said John Henry nervously, “good to have seen you again, Lieutenant. Now, if you’ll excuse us—”

  “Don’t run off,” said Lay evenly. “I haven’t seen you playing, Mr. Conover. What could you be doing here? Here, of all places.”

  “Tell him,” Faye urged.

  “It’s very simple,” he said. “I don’t know.”

  “See!” Triumphantly, she downed her rye and drank Conover’s.

  “You wouldn’t be figuring on following up Anglin’s killing, would you?” asked Lay. “I’m surprised to see you without your wife.”

  “Oh, she’s back at the hotel.”

  “Convenient,” said Lay and speculatively eyed Faye Jordan. “Most wives aren’t that understanding.”

  The policeman interpreted Conover’s quick frown of worry and chuckled. The bartender refilled the two glasses. But when John Henry reached for his it was already empty.

  John Henry sighed at the prospect of a drunken female on his hands in addition to everything else. Lay lifted his beer glass and said, “You better have one of these, Conover. They don’t disappear so fast.”

  Faye lost her balance. Her piercing shriek brought heads around in the gambling hall as she toppled to the floor. Her pocketful of quarters jangled like another jackpot as they spewed across the room. The crowd went back to their games.

  “Did you hurt yourself, Faye?” John Henry asked, helping her to her feet.

  She was cooing happily. “Play time,” she gurgled. “Push me again, Johnny.”

  “I didn’t push you—”

  “Johnny! Where’s my money?” Both Faye’s hands scrambled in her dress pocket. “You stole it! I want a policeman!”

  “Shut up!” said John Henry. “Your money’s on the floor.”

  He began scooping it up. When he rose, red-faced, Faye was touching up her lipstick. Lay’s horsy grin was amused and mocking. He gazed through the archway at the turbulence in the other room.

  “Yeah,” he said, as if continuing a conversation, “it’s illegal, Conover, but in a hopped-up town like this there’s some things a cop has to keep his eyes closed about. If I got as rough as I’d like to around this burg, I’d be looking for a new badge.”

  John Henry remembered Faye. The black-haired girl was at the roulette table arguing with the polite croupier.

  “I better go see what’s happened to the problem child,” Conover said.

  “What’s the trouble now, Faye?” he asked, elbowing up behind her.

  “Johnny!” she squealed, gesticulating at the croupier. “He won’t let me play!”

  The croupier, a small, dark man put up slim, deprecating hands.

  “I have explained,” he said plaintively, “but madame will not listen. A house rule—she must use chips. Not quarter dollars.”

  “Exactly,” crowed Faye. “Sock him in the nose, Johnny.”

  JOHN Henry fastened determined fingers on Faye’s soft shoulder.

  “Come on!” he gritted and propelled her toward the door.

  Faye was giggling happily. “He’s so strong,” she said to the people they passed. “You have no idea!”

  “Now snap out of it, Faye,” John Henry grated. He shook her gently. “I want a straight answer.”

  Faye tried to salute but John Henry kept his grip on her arms.

  “You had a reason for bringing me out here. What was it?”

  “Wanted company,” she crooned. “There’s more than that.”

  Her sleek braided head nodded slowly. “Got something I wanna tell you,” she whispered.

  “Okay. We’ll go back to the car.” He pushed her into the entrance hall.

  John Henry put the concealing drape back in place. Faye had prowled away down the long corridor, opening doors and peering inside curiously. He caught up with her and said loudly:

  “Now what—”

  She put a forefinger across her lips, opened the door to what appeared to be a combination library and den. It was devoid of life.

  “In here,” she whispered.

  The room was stuffy. John Henry went across to the window that broke the wall of books. No air at all seemed to enter the library.

  Faye had closed the door and was peeking through the keyhole.

  “What are you looking for?” he asked.

  The carpet tilted a little. He reached for the desk to steady himself and it moved away. Faye got up and walked up hill and she got farther away. Then there were two of her, a dozen, a whole roomful.

  He couldn’t count Faye Jordan any more because all of her were performing a weird dance that glided faster and faster. The last thing he heard was the chorus of Faye, giggling.

&nb
sp; * * * * *

  Sin flung herself across the bed, still panting with fright. Where was John Henry? Why did he insist on getting mixed up in things that were none of his business?

  She caught herself watching the redwood desk that held the Eversharp and the cipher. There was always the police. Sin turned her back defiantly on the telephone. If she started the police looking for John Henry and he was all right, he’d he angry.

  Sin heard a door close softly in the next cottage, Miss Jordan’s cottage. If she had come back then John Henry . . . Eagerly, she peeked through the slats of the window blind.

  It was not John Henry who had pulled the blue door to gently behind him. It was Gayner. He stepped off the porch and started walking quickly back to the hotel.

  Sin stepped outside. Gayner had already vanished. Without reason, Sin began to run, anxious not to lose sight of him. Gayner was a tangible link between her and the tangled web that might have enmeshed her husband again. Something furtive in Gayner’s manner warned her that this had been no official visit.

  Gayner was just going into the Las Dunas lobby when Sin reached the patio. Somebody called her name. It was Sagmon Robottom, his bronze face stern, sauntering toward her from the pool. Sin whirled and fled. She rushed into the lobby. Gayner was going down the front steps, his walk brisk and purposeful.

  “You look like you’re in a hurry,” Thelma Loomis said, as the two women dodged around each other at the front entrance.

  Sin kept going.

  Mr. Trim was just getting out of the elevator. She gave him a tight smile and didn’t slacken pace.

  Gayner was still in sight through the driveway border of palms and tamarisks. Sin loitered behind a palm while Gayner looked up and down the street. Then he went hurriedly down the hill toward the center of town.

  A block away from the Las Dunas, Gayner suddenly disappeared from sight. However, he was apparently oblivious of his tracker. Sin found he’d merely angled sharply into a narrow alley leading to the back door of one of the buildings.

  The place looked familiar and it came to Sin why it should. Homer Anglin had died there. Gayner was letting himself quietly into the Ship of the Desert . . .

  Gayner knocked on the door to Barselou’s office. There was no reply, and the beat of his knuckles echoed emptily throughout the big deserted restaurant.