by Jerry eBooks
“Of a few extra thousand? Why should they?”
He gulped and looked at me hard. “I—I wasn’t thinking of just a few thousand. I was thinking of betting it all, the whole forty thousand. Then I could buy the kind of business I want.”
I frowned. The phone rang, and I went to answer it. Joe was always a good man on his timing. He told me who he was and didn’t say another word.
“New York?” I said. “I’ll hold the wire.” Then after a couple seconds, “Hello, hello—P.J.? I can hear you fine. Sure, everything’s under control. How’s your asthma, P.J.? Too bad. And the kids? Fine. No, no, not yet. Well, no later than noon. By the way, I’d like to take a little flyer myself on that one tomorrow. Need some traveling money, you know, and I eat pretty well.”
A pause, a long pause, and I said, “Oh, maybe an extra forty or fifty.”
Another pause, and I laughed. “No, not millions. I haven’t got your kind of money, P.J. Okay? Thanks. It’s a pleasure to work with you, P.J. Remember, it’s Denver, tomorrow night. And my regards to your wife.”
When I turned from the phone, I said, “That was New York. That was a man who really has trouble with his income tax.”
“He said it was all right?”
I nodded. “Now, not a word of this to Delsing. He could spoil the whole deal, you know.”
“Not a word,” he agreed. “I’ll stay with him. You’ll be here the rest of the night, Mr. Walters?”
I nodded. “Why?”
“I’ll want to phone you, in case Delsing gets out of hand. I wouldn’t want him to cause you any trouble with his talk.”
“Well,” I said, “I’ll be here.” I finished my drink and shook his hand. “I’ll see you in the morning, down in the grill.”
He went out.
I checked my money, stacking it to look like fifty grand. I checked the revolver I’d inherited from Lou. It was clean and loaded—with blank cartridges.
I started to get sleepy, and I couldn’t figure it. I don’t usually hit the kip before two, and it wasn’t even nine now. I was sound asleep by nine-thirty.
I was still pounding the pillow at eight, next morning, when the phone rang. It was the apple, and he was waiting in the grill.
I told him I’d be right down.
Over ten hours, and I’d slept like a baby all through it. This one was working like a dream.
When I came into the grill, the apple looked unhappy. “I don’t know where Mr. Delsing’s gone to,” he said apologetically. “You don’t think he’s out somewhere—”
“Shooting off his mouth? We can hope he isn’t. I wish I hadn’t given him that guest card to the club. You and he . . . quarreled?”
He nodded. “Nothing serious. He talks and talks and talks.”
I sat down at the table. “Well, I’m not without influence in this town. It isn’t as though we were cheating any honest citizens, you know. The authorities would like to see the Pegasus Club out of business.” Which was no lie.
After breakfast we sat in the lobby for a while, and then I went with him to the bank. He drew out the forty grand, and we returned to the hotel.
We sat there, waiting for the code telegram that was going to make us our pile. He didn’t have much to say. He’d sweated for that forty grand, and he might have been thinking of the risk, even on a sure thing.
The telegram came just before lunch, and I excused myself while I decoded it.
At lunch he said, “Well, Mr. Delsing hasn’t appeared as yet. It looks like we’ll be spared his company.”
“It looks that way.” I chewed my lip. “There’s some trouble in New York. We may have to settle for second place today. We know what horse is going to finish second, and that should give us a reasonable return, it we bet to place, but I’m still waiting for word of the winner. Of course, it will depend on the final odds. The second place horse may even pay better. We’ll see what develops.”
Mr. Apple said earnestly, “All I expect is a reasonable return, Mr. Walters. It’s very seldom a fellow gets a sure thing.”
“We’ll wait,” I said, “and see.”
We waited and waited and waited after lunch. Finally, I went to the booth and pretended to put in a call to New York. I really put in a call to Horny, at the club.
When I came back, I said, “We’ll have to settle for second. I hope it’s going to be all right with you, Mr. Apple, if we make only an ordinary profit today.”
He nodded, watching my face.
I let him simmer for a few seconds, and said, “Honey Boy to place, and it’s in the bag.”
Outside, I gave the cabbie a twenty and said, “Don’t spare the horsepower.”
He didn’t. We got to the Pegasus Club in five minutes and hurried up to the second floor.
The place was as busy as ever. They were calling off the entries for the Allenton, and the line was forming. At the board the results of races all over the country were being chalked up.
The line was starting to stretch out, and Horny was there, getting it orderly. He smiled at me and said, “Some of you aren’t going to make it for the Allenton, I’m afraid, Mr. Walters.”
I could see the impatience in the mark’s eyes. I could see him remembering yesterday and how he’d been robbed of an easy grand.
His eyes moved along the line, measuring it, and then he said quickly, “There’s Delsing, right up near the front. Do you think? I mean—”
“Let him place it?” I asked. “Is that what you mean?”
Joe saw us and waved. I waved back and looked at the punk. “I guess we’ll have to. I’ll make it clear to him that he’s not to increase his own bet too much. That wouldn’t sit well with New York.”
Apple said, “He hasn’t got the money to hurt us. We’ll just have to take the chance, Mr. Walters. Of course, it’s really your decision.”
I stepped out of the line. I had the apple’s forty grand and my phony fifty. I handed it to Joe and said clearly, “Here’s ninety thousand dollars. On Honey Boy, to place. Have you got that straight?”
“I certainly have,” he said. “Only I’m going to add my hundred dollars to it now.”
The apple and I went over to sit down. He had the shakes, and his face was like snow. He said, “It’s only justice that he helps us out now, after what happened yesterday.”
Joe just made it. The PA started to bawl right after he left the window, bringing the tickets with him. He’d bought two, one for him and one for us.
He showed us his first. “I still haven’t got the faith I should have, Mr. Walters. I bet him to place, for myself.”
“For yourself?” I said. “How did you bet him for us? I said to place.”
Joe looked stubborn. “You said straight, Mr. Walters.”
I held my breath until my face was good and red. “I asked if you had it straight. But I distinctly told you to bet Honey Boy to place. You damned fool, you—”
My voice was loud, and Horny came over. “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he said quietly.
“Mr. Nelson,” I said in a lower voice, “a mistake has been made and I’m sure it’s not too late to correct it. I asked this young man to purchase a place ticket on Honey Boy, in the Allenton, for me. He misunderstood and purchased one to win. I’d like to exchange it.”
Horny frowned and said, “There really isn’t much time. However, for you, Mr. Walters—”
And then the call came over the system, and he smiled and said, “I’m afraid your request came just a few seconds too late, Mr. Walters. Well, perhaps Honey Boy will win.”
He walked away and I looked at Joe, and he backed away a step, looking belligerent.
“Ninety thousand dollars,” I said. “Young man, that horse had better—”
Apple was white and talking to himself, and I thought he was going to hang one on Joe. Then the account of the running came, and we stood up. In the excitement I saw Joe slip the cackle bladder into his mouth.
It’s a rubber dingus, you know, like a syringe, fil
led with blood, usually chicken blood, and it’s the big part of the act.
Honey Boy was leading at the five-furlong post, and he was going away, and the apple almost looked human for a change. I started to talk to myself, and then the challenge came.
Into the last turn it was still Honey Boy, but Velveteen was coming up now on the outside, making the big bid, and Velveteen was the odds-on favorite in this one.
Velveteen was moving, moving up, moving past, going away in first place as she hit the wire. It was Honey Boy second, paying a bundle to place.
I saw Apple look at Joe and start to get up, but I was there in front of him, and I had Joe by the neck, shaking him, and his face started to get blue.
The shills were hollering and Horny was making his way through the crowd, and Apple was trying to get in with a slug or two of his own.
I slammed Joe’s jaw, and he went to his knees. I stepped back, pulled the gun from my pocket, and now the apple looked scared.
I fired three times, at point-blank range, and it made one hell of a racket in the noisy room. The chicken blood just squirted from Joe’s mouth, and he crashed forward on his face.
A couple of the shills started hollering, “Police!” and Horny had me by the arm.
“My God, Mr. Walters, you’ve killed him! Here, follow me!” He turned to Apple. “You too, sir. This will ruin us.”
Now he had us both by the arm and was pushing through the room toward his office.
He closed the door behind him there and took us to another door, leading out the back way. “I wouldn’t do this for anyone in the world, but you, Mr. Walters. Go—hurry.”
The apple and I clattered down the steps and through the short alley to the street. There was a cab waiting, one of our shills.
I put the apple in and handed him a couple hundred dollars. I said, “The Rockland Hotel, in Denver. Don’t even go back to the hotel. I’ll meet you there.”
“But you—” he said, scared.
“I’ve got to see our local attorney,” I said. “Remember, if I’m not there tomorrow, don’t wire. I’ll get in touch with you. Take a plane. Goodbye.”
In Monte’s, the rain was still hitting the front windows, and Paris finished his fourth glass of the fortified.
“Smooth as silk,” I said. “You’ve got the touch, and you’ve got him cooled out and blown off. In Denver he gets a wire to go to Frisco, because the law is hot and he’s an accessory. In Frisco he gets a wire telling him you’re leaving for Europe to avoid the chair, because Mr. Carlton Delsing, alias Joe, is dead.”
Paris was staring past me at nothing, the same thing he’d been staring at when he came in.
“Joe was dead,” he said, without looking at me. “He lived for two hours, and I didn’t go up for murder, though I got quite a jolt. But he had three slugs in him—three slugs I put there.” Now he looked at me. “My boy, you understand. I made him. I killed him.”
Monte was listening to it all. He came over and filled Paris’s glass. “On the house,” Monte said.
“The mark,” Paris went on. “That night in my room, while I was pretending to talk to New York, he drugged my drink. While I slept, he changed the bullets from blanks to real slugs. He knew enough about the big con to guess we’d use the cackle bladder. And Joe was the boy he wanted dead.”
“But why?” I asked. “Forty grand he drops, and gets involved in a murder. Why?”
Paris reached a dirty hand into a pocket and pulled out a torn, much-folded piece of paper that had once been a letter. I read: Dear Grifter: You’ll want to know why, and maybe you won’t remember back those years to Des Moines—and Judith. But I’ll remember her. That wasn’t Florida money I flashed, that was Iowa money, from selling my farm. I knew Judith since she was twelve, and we were engaged before your buddy came along. She sent me a picture of him when he gave her that phony ring, and I studied it a long time until I knew it. I learned the big con from Mike Joaquin, and I rode the trains for a long time waiting for the guy in the picture to pick me up. I figured you’d use the cackle bladder, and I was glad he was the outside man. Because you made him, grifter, and you should destroy him.
“A nut,” I said. “Forty grand, but because he was sold on the dame. Of all the lop-eared—”
But Paris wasn’t listening. Paris’s head was on the table; the fifth glass of fortified was empty near his dirty, outstretched hand.
The rain was letting up a little, and I went back to the Form, trying to find a mudder.
MANUSCRIPT OF MURDER
Peter Warren
Literary agent Carter learns that truth is stranger than fiction!
WILLARD Carter put down the phone and ran his fingers through his thick dark hair in a gesture of annoyance. There was a frown on his strong face as he glared at the baldheaded man who sat opposite Carter’s desk.
“Authors—they’re driving me mad!” Carter said. “Why I ever became a literary agent when I might have picked some nice quiet job like being shot out of a cannon, is beyond me. That was Gay Gilweather I was talking to over the phone. She was on the best seller lists last spring. Her next book is due at the publisher tomorrow, and she tells me it is only half finished and she is going to Miami for a rest.”
“The bombastic type,” Russell Holmes said, gazing sadly at Carter. “I was afraid of that. Exactly the sort of individual that I abhor.”
It suddenly dawned on Willard Carter that this was the first time in his life he had ever seen the tall, bald-headed man who sat across from him. Russell Holmes had arrived at the literary agency just a few minutes ago. He had found Carter there alone and announced he was a writer seeking an agent.
Carter had taken Holmes into his private office, but before he could do any more than learn the man’s name, the phone call from Gay Gilweather had interrupted them.
Now Carter felt strangely uneasy, there was something about Holmes’ eyes that reminded the literary agent of those of a dead fish.
“Judging from what you just said, Mr. Holmes,” Carter remarked dryly. “This doesn’t seem like the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
“Night and day for the past three months I have dreamed of this moment,” Holmes said in a strange voice, completely ignoring what Carter had just said. “The moment when I would find you alone.” He suddenly drew a small revolver from his pocket and covered Carter with the gun. “When I would have a chance to kill you, Willard Carter!”
“Very dramatic,” Carter said, staring at the gun and not caring for the looks of it in the least. It was much too realistic. “I suppose this is the opening of the first chapter of your detective novel and you are acting it out to impress me.”
“I’m disappointed,” Holmes snapped icily. “I thought you were a better judge of character than that, Mr. Carter. Surely you don’t actually believe that Russell Holmes would stoop to such childish actions. This is real. I came here to kill you, and I am determined to do it!”
“I suppose you will permit me a few hundred last words to learn just why you are so anxious to make me into a corpse,” Carter remarked. “You know—the murderer gloats over his intended victim.”
CARTER was gradually growing more and more convinced that the baldheaded man was some sort of a nut, and the best thing to do was humor him, particularly while Holmes had that gun in his hand. In Carter’s estimation, Holmes talked more like a ham actor in an old-fashioned melodrama than a real killer.
“All right,” Holmes said. “Perhaps it is only fair that I let you know that I am cognizant of the dastardly deed you have perpetrated.”
“Soft lights and slow music, Professor,” Carter murmured, and then as he saw Holmes glaring at him, “Beg pardon, what did I do?”
“Perhaps if I mention the name of Howard Allen you will understand,” Holmes said.
“Howard Allen is a new writer on my list,” said Carter. “But his first novel, ‘Tomorrow’s Sorrows’ really is something. The first publisher I submitted it to grabbed it up at once. They
are sure it is going to be a best seller, and one of the book clubs selections. I got Allen a two thousand dollar advance on the book, and he is going to make plenty of money out of it. Strange sort of a bird—lives in a little town out West and refuses to come to New York. All my contacts with him have been by long distance phone, and through letters and wires. What about him?”
“There is no such person as Howard Allen,” Holmes said. “1 wrote ‘Tomorrow’s Sorrows.’ I sent it to you to market for me under my name. Two months ago I read in a Texas paper about you having placed ‘Tomorrow’s Sorrows’ by Howard Allen. At first I thought you had decided to bring the book out with Howard Allen as the author, for some reason and that you would doubtlessly explain the reason to me. There has been no explanation. No royalty advance check has come from you.”
“But that’s impossible,” Carter said. “You couldn’t have written that book. I’ve talked to Allen over the long distance phone as I told you, and he assured me that he had received the check for the advance.”
“Very clever, Mr. Carter,” Holmes said coldly. “You received and sold my book under the name of Howard Allen. You pocketed the two thousand dollar advance and plan to keep on taking the money. In time it will probably amount to thousands if the book is a best seller and some motion picture company becomes interested.”
“Have you a carbon copy of the manuscript?” Carter asked. “If you have, we can compare it with the original at the publishers. If they are the same, I’ll believe that you did write ‘Tomorrow’s Sorrows.”
“I neglected to make a carbon copy,” Holmes said. “I have nothing to prove I wrote the book save my own word. I realize that I can’t hope to collect any of the money from you. I never will be able to do so—but at least I will have the satisfaction of knowing that you are dead. That you can’t steal any other writer’s work as you have stolen this one of mine!”
Holmes rose to his feet so swiftly that Carter leaped up in alarm. As he did so, the literary agent knocked over the chair in which he had been sitting. The two men circled around the desk, so that Holmes was now behind it.