Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  “For crying out loud!” he shouted. “Turn us loose!”

  Faye leaped back and Sin glanced angrily at her husband. She spoke soothingly to the girl.

  “How did you return to the ranch, Faye?”

  “Taxi,” said Faye. “I was trying on my costume and I decided to go for a drive to see what an ocelot felt like.” Her face got unpleasant. “Then my car was stolen. Right off the hotel parking lot, too. I thought it might be here, so I took a taxi and it’s just where I thought it would be!” Faye’s short upper lip curled in triumph. She got up. “Where did you say those stairs went?”

  “Faye, wait! Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to find who stole my car—and then I’m going to kill him.”

  John Henry leaned an aching temple against the cement wall. Sin hunched forward and her voice was calm only by desperate effort. “That’s exactly what you should do, Faye. But I’ve got a good idea. Why don’t you untie us and then we can look for the thief who stole your car?”

  John Henry held his breath while the bright-eyed girl thought it over, afraid that a single movement on his part might turn the decision against them.

  “That’s a good idea!” Faye said after a minute of consideration. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.” She ran forward and kneeled at Sin’s side. John Henry started to breathe again, but softly.

  Sin gave a little cry and brought her arms around in front or her, free of the imprisoning ropes. Faye was unloosening the cords that bound her feet together. A few swift movements later, Sin pulled herself up. She swayed dizzily.

  “My fingers won’t feel,” she said. “Just a second and I’ll let you loose.”

  VIII

  FAYE Jordan was slinking around the pillars, a cat in every respect except that she prowled on two legs instead of four. She cocked the big ear to one side, listening.

  “I think I hear footsteps,” she hissed. “I’ll stalk them.” She glided up the concrete steps, opened the door, and was gone.

  “Hurry up, baby,” John Henry said nervously. “Barselou might come down here, if that screwball kicks up a rumpus. . . . There!”

  John Henry rubbed his wrists to restore circulation. Then he worked his feet free.

  “We’re all right now, honey! Keep your chin up.”

  He urged her toward the window in the opposite wall. The grime-encrusted panes still swung half-open where Faye Jordan had left them.

  By piling cardboard boxes against the wall, they achieved a perilous platform that threatened to collapse if they breathed wrong. John Henry scaled it first, wriggling painfully through the window, then reached a hand down to Sin and pulled her through the opening. North of the orchard, the barbed-wire fence was only about fifty yards away. Beyond that, sagebrush and scrub oak promised covering. They ran like mad for the fence

  Not far ahead of them twinkled the lights of Azure, set in an incandescent halo against early evening.

  “Whereabouts you want to go this time?” the burly driver of the speeding truck asked wearily.

  “Any place there’s a phone,” John Henry said. He wished they hadn’t flagged the same truck that had given him a lift earlier in the day.

  “Drive-in up here has one. I’m going to pull in here for some chow, anyway.”

  They bore down rapidly on a big neon sign that flashed The Tomahawk.

  The driver pulled the huge truck onto the asphalt. John Henry jumped down from the high cab and held up an assisting hand to Sin.

  “Thanks for the lift,” John Henry called up.

  “Anytime,” muttered the driver.

  “Gosh, am I glad to see people again,” Sin burbled happily. “Just plain old unarmed people!”

  The phone booth was inside. A solitary customer was reading a newspaper near the phone booth and munching absent-mindedly on a hamburger. As the Conovers came in, he gulped down the last bite, and squeezed by them.

  John Henry pulled the folding door open, and said, “I guess you just ask for the police.”

  Sin sat down at the counter, ordered two hamburgers, and scooped up the newspaper the departed customer had been reading.

  John Henry folded the door shut behind him and dropped the coin into the slot. There was a sudden banging on the glass. Sin was hammering against the pane and pointing to the newspaper.

  John Henry pushed open the door, asking irritably, “What’s wrong, Sin?”

  “You didn’t get the police, did you?” Her face was white and strained.

  “Not yet. Why?”

  “Johnny—look at that!”

  Her pointing finger trembled over the front page of the newspaper.

  AZURE HOTEL MAN BRUTALLY SLAIN

  SECOND WEEK-END TRAGEDY HERE

  The tall black type blurred. John Henry began to read. His lips moved and now and then a phase escaped. “Stabbed to death . . . James V. Gayner . . . in one of the guest cottages . . . Statewide alarm . . . Arrest of Mr. and Mrs. John Henry Conover, occupants of guest cottage . . . Automatic pencil, believed to be property of Conovers, found by body. . . .”

  “They think we did it!” John Henry gasped in amazement. “Can you imagine that?”

  “But what are we going to do?”

  This was a tight spot. They were present at, perhaps implicated in the first murder. Their alibi for the second murder was Barselou. And Barselou was certainly no friend of the Conovers.

  HUNGER, weariness and confusion had brought Sin close to tears. John Henry took her chin gently between thumb and forefinger.

  “Calm down, baby. We’re still going to shake loose from this.”

  “How? Johnny, they think we murdered those two men.”

  “But we know we didn’t. Don’t attract attention.” John Henry noted nervously that the truck driver had joined them in the glass room.

  Sin raised her head. “But we’re all by ourselves, Johnny!”

  John Henry slapped the counter. “We’re not either all alone, not by a darn sight! The quiz contest. Your fairy godfather. He’s supposed to take care of us.”

  “Oh, but what can Mr. Trim do?”

  “I don’t know, baby. That’s his department.” John Henry banged the booth door to and began to call feverishly for the operator. . . .

  “This is about the right spot,” John Henry said. The Tomahawk neon sign flashed in back of them up the highway, “I said about a hundred yards past the drive-in.”

  “Why couldn’t we’ve waited for Mr. Trim back there?” Sin complained through the last mouthful of her hamburger. Eating while keeping up with the fast pace her husband set had used up most of her breath.

  “That driver was pretty suspicious,” said John Henry. “The minute he read that story he’d have hollered for the cops.”

  “Are you sure it’s safe here?” Sin asked anxiously.

  John Henry thumbed toward a cluster of sagebrush. “Sure. We can hide back there till Trim gets here. I hope he has some ideas. He sounded pretty excited.”

  “What was he so excited about? He doesn’t have a close personal interest in us.”

  “Sin,” said John Henry after a pause,

  “We’re pretty sure this Jones person killed Anglin last night, aren’t we?”

  “Yes,” Sin faltered.

  “And it must have been Jones who killed Gayner.”

  “I suppose. Gayner would have no way of knowing we’d give the combination to Barselou. So I guess he went on looking for it. And found it, too, since the Eversharp was by his body. And Jones surprised him and stabbed him and got it instead.”

  “Well, why not?” demanded John Henry.

  “But not Mr. Trim. He’s such a nice fellow. And just this morning he saved me from those two—”

  “By gosh, it could all be part of an act.” John Henry’s voice took on excitement. “Sin, who was it popped up right after Anglin stumbled into our cottage?”

  “Well, he did know pretty much what went on with Barselou.”

  “And he was
the one who said it was all right to move our clothes.”

  “And, Johnny, if Mr. Trim thought we had the combination, of course he’d want to rescue me from Vernon and Gayner!”

  “Honey,” cried John Henry, “I think we’re on the right track.”

  “Johnny he’s coming out here now. He’s got the combination and he’s coming to kill us!”

  “Good grief! I never thought of that.” John Henry squatted behind the mesquite and beat one fist on his knee. “Sin. Look. You wait at the edge of the road for Trim to drive up. As soon as he’s out of the car, I’ll jump him.”

  “But what if we’re wrong about him?”

  “Then we apologize.” John Henry stood up and stretched. “Baby, that’s a chance we have to take. It’s obvious Jones got the combination. And if Trim is Jones, he’s not letting that slip of paper get out of his hands. He’ll have it on him. So we’ll search him.”

  A sedan was coming slowly down the road from the direction of the Tomahawk.

  “Now don’t be scared, Sin. Just do what I say and we’ll be okay.”

  John Henry shoved her hastily through the mesquite toward the road. The automobile was slowing down.

  “Is that you, Mrs. Conover?” Trim’s high-pitched voice called.

  “I guess so,” Sin quavered.

  Trim turned out the car lights and shut off the engine. John Henry could hear a car door open and close, then footsteps.

  “Where’s Mr. Conover?” Trim asked. “He’s—he’ll be back in a minute,” Sin stammered. “Let’s get off the road. Behind these bushes—over here.”

  John Henry braced himself for the spring. Through the leaves, he could see their heads. Trim seemed to be wearing a three-cornered hat.

  They were two yards away now. One yard.

  John Henry leaped like a tiger for Mr. Trim’s throat.

  THE SMALL man let out a yelp of terror and jumped backward. John Henry’s hands missed the scrawny throat and fastened on a wide leather belt. The two men crashed heavily.

  Sin was shouting:

  “He’s got a gun, Johnny! He’s got a gun!”

  Trim wriggled away and got up. John Henry suddenly realized the significance of the cocked hat. Mr. Trim was all ready to go to the costume ball. He was dressed like a pirate, complete with skull and crossbones cockade on his hat. The long pistol was wood.

  Trim brought the wooden gun up as if to use it as a club. John Henry’s hand hit his arm. The pistol sailed to clank on the running board of the car.

  John Henry launched his stocky body into a flying tackle. The two men collapsed and slid along, face down in the sandy earth.

  Sin ran up. “Johnny, Johnny!” she was sobbing.

  John Henry got up, panting. Trim still lay crumpled on the ground.

  “Is he—” Sin whispered.

  “Nope. Just knocked out.” John Henry scooped up the limp figure in the pirate’s costume. “Come on.”

  He strode back to the shelter of the mesquite. Sin tagged along.

  “I’ll pass out his things, Sin. You go through them and look for the combination. Feel the linings especially.” He began to go through the little man’s costume. He passed out the cocked hat for Sin’s examination. Then, over the bushes, he tossed the long dark-blue coat and the bright-red knee-breeches.

  On his side of the leafy barrier, John Henry searched the white ruffled shirt, the boots, shorts and undershirt.

  The combination was not there.

  “Find anything?” he called to Sin.

  “Not a thing,” she said.

  “Maybe he wasn’t hiding it. Try his wallet.”

  “What wallet?”

  “In his pants.”

  “There wasn’t any.”

  “Maybe it fell out when I tossed them over.”

  Sin poked around in the underbrush. “I found it.”

  “Good,” muttered John Henry.

  Sin let out a horrified cry. John Henry burst through the bushes. Sin was standing by the car. She had turned on the parking lights. In her hands she held a black-leather wallet and she stared at it with stunned eyes.

  “What is it, Sin?”

  “Johnny, look at this!”

  Sin handed him the wallet. He held it up to the light. Something gleamed, something small and golden. It was a badge, and the lettering on it said “federal bureau of investigation.

  “Golmighty,” said Mr. Trim.

  Sin kept stroking his bald head. His inert form had been clumsily redressed except for pirate hat and coat, and she was holding the bruised head in her lap.

  John Henry sat morosely on the running board of the gray sedan. A vision occupied his mind, a vision of John Henry Conover gripping the bars of a cell. He had assaulted and battered a guardian of the law and the law provided for actions like his.

  The pseudo-tooth-paste representative moaned again, stirred. John Henry leaned forward. Trim’s brown eyes opened and cleared.

  “It’s all right, Mr. Trim,” Sin comforted him.

  “Let me up, dammit!” he croaked and spat out a mouthful of sand.

  “Look,” said John Henry, “I’ll come along quietly.”

  This was not the greeting Trim had expected. He got to his feet, and said, “Huh?” warily.

  “Of course, it’s out of the question to apologize. But I’m sorry. Things just got moving too fast for us.”

  Mr. Trim wiped fine white dust from his face and considered them through narrowed eyes.

  He said, unsmiling, “Well, you stumbled into everything else. Just who the devil did you think I was?”

  Sin spoke up. “We thought you were this Jones that Barselou—”

  “Start from the beginning,” Trim said wearily and sat down on the running board.

  SIN explained the tenuous reasoning that had led them to believe that Trim was the mysterious Jones who was leagued against Barselou in the race for the galleon. It all sounded pretty thin now.

  “We thought we’d be smart and capture you first,” Sin concluded.

  Trim showed no surprise at the mention of the Queen or anything else. He just sat there, his brown eyes as hard as marbles.

  “We’re awfully sorry,” Sin added weakly. “Does your head hurt much?”

  “Never mind that,” he said curtly. “I’ve had worse days. Whoever killed Gayner made off with the route to the galleon.”

  “And that means two people know how to get there now.” John Henry elaborated eagerly, telling Trim how they had bargained with Barselou, lost, and escaped from the cellar with Faye Jordan’s help. “Gayner’s murderer is headed for the Reina right now, the same as Barselou.”

  Trim stood up. He donned the pirate hat at a rakish angle and jammed the wooden pistol back into his belt. Then he faced the Conovers.

  “We’ll call it quits,” he said. “You probably thought you were doing the best thing. Besides, as the Bry-Ter Tooth-paste man, I haven’t been any great help to your vacation.”

  Sin asked, “There’s really supposed to be a tooth-paste man here?”

  Trim grimaced. “Yes. I’m taking his place for a while, so I’d have a reason for wandering around town.”

  “You’re after Barselou?” John Henry burst out.

  Trim stared down at him.

  “I’ll tell you what I can, but you two have to be frank with me. In answer to your question: only incidentally. There’s some tie-up there with Sagmon Robottom and—”

  “What’s he done?” cried Sin.

  “Nothing yet—that we can prove. He just keeps popping up in key positions. A professional organization one place—a crackpot discussion group somewhere else. The L.A. office thinks there’s something off-key about him. Subversive. Undercover.”

  “Gosh,” said Sin. “If I’d known that, I’d have really been scared this morning.

  Trim pursed his lips. “Nothing had come of my work when I ran across this lost treasure business. Okay—that’s not my jurisdiction. The two murders aren’t my jurisdiction, ei
ther. If Barselou finds the Queen, the money’s his. But the government is interested if he’s going to back Robottom in some subversive activity with that money.”

  John Henry began to pace back and forth. “Then Robottom could be Jones?”

  “Oh, he could be,” admitted Trim. “But the two dead bodies belong to Lieutenant Lay—not me. I’m here to cinch a subversion case. All I know about your Jones or Joneses is that a Barselou employee—Anglin—sent a wire to them yesterday morning. I was too late to find out who picked it up at the San Diego end.”

  “But how about us?” Sin wanted to know.

  “Oh, San Diego cleared you this morning.”

  “I know we’re not spies, too!” cried John Henry. “Just being murderers has got us worried!”

  “Yes, Lieutenant Lay may be a little hard to deal with, being up the tree he is. However, once the killer is found, you should have no further trouble.”

  “That may take months,” John Henry hurled a stone viciously across the highway.

  “I’ll do what I can with Lay tomorrow morning. I’m sorry I won’t be able to run you back to the hotel, but I better get a move on.” Trim started to slide under the steering wheel.

  Sin looked at the agent quizzically. “What are you going to do now, Mr. Trim? Or is it a secret?”

  “Well—” Trim squinted at the moon-painted mesquite. “I’m going to wait for Barselou at his ranch. I might as well warn him about registry and tax and some other details. Then it’ll be his move if he wants to play with Robottom.”

  “Couldn’t we come with you?”

  John Henry looked up sharply. What did you say, Sin?”

  TRIM frowned at the girl. “Hardly.

  You’d just be in the way, Mrs. Conover.”

  Sin grabbed the little man’s hands. “But, Mr. Trim, wouldn’t you like to follow Barselou and Jones and Robottom or whoever it is to the Queen?”

  “What are you talking about, Sin?” John Henry interrupted.

  Trim mused, “I might find out pretty definitely about the subversion angle.” He laughed harshly. “But, unfortunately, Mrs. Conover—I don’t know the way. All I can do is wait at the ranch for one or both of them to come back.”