The E. Hoffmann Price Spice Adventure MEGAPACK ™

by Price, E. Hoffmann

  Crawford’s desperation made him snap at the chance. He had sold his own car, and the garage was empty. He did not wait to see the cream-colored Cad take its place.

  A few minutes later, Linda took the keys and said to Honest John, “You’ll be back early?”

  “Before sunrise, so I’ll be planted way ahead of time.”

  Honest John waited all the forenoon, sitting in the kitchen, listening to Linda going about her housework. He wanted to smoke a cigar, but widows rarely use them. He burned up a pack of her cigarettes.

  He wondered what Linda was thinking. Certainly not of that one evening. He wondered if it was well-controlled nerves that made her polish every bit of metal and enamel on the range, every inch of the sink, the refrigerator; or whether she was happy from thinking of the house she might save, or if she was taking farewell of a home she could not save. As the day wore on, he looked for cigarette butts to light, and he said, “Next guy says he understands women, I’ll tell the _____ he’s crazy, nobody does.”

  He jumped when the phone rang. He listened to Linda’s sweet voice. Not a fumble, not a tremor; she said, “Fourteen-fifty” as smooth as silk. And then, “If you saw one the other day for twelve-fifty, you’d better buy it.”

  More calls. They all thought $1,450 was too stiff. Which it was. Only one kind of purchaser would come to the house: the guy who intended to tap the widow on the conk and get the car free.

  That evening, things began to tick. She had barely said, “$1,450” when the speaker must have asked about seeing the bus. Linda answered, “Right away, if you wish.”

  She was not even breathless when she came to tell Honest John, “It’s a man.”

  He felt foolish about asking her if she remembered her lines; but he did. She answered, “I’ll know what to say when the time comes, I’ll think of some way of getting to his house.”

  She didn’t have any qualms about Honest John’s ideas for keeping her from being knocked off in transit.

  * * * *

  He was in the room across the hall from the living room when the bell rang. A tall, thin-faced man was at the door. He didn’t look like a cold-blooded killer; they seldom do.

  He said pleasantly, “I’m Art Garth, Mrs. Crawford,” and fumbled with a little square of newsprint he took out of his vest pocket. “It’s a ’38 Cad?”

  She went on to tell him how swell it was, how her late husband had babied it, how it never had gone over forty; and she had to have cash, five hundred down on the line. Notes for the rest, any bank would handle it, she was sure.

  Garth did not whimper. “Five hundred, Mrs. Crawford? Well.…” He smiled, turned a vest pocket inside out. “The funny thing is, I just hit a long shot at the races, but the money’s at home. I expected to give you a check. Well, we can pick it up, and anyway, I’d like to have my wife try the car.”

  “I need cash, tonight.”

  Garth glanced about. “You have your certificate of ownership?”

  She took it from her bosom, spread the yellow slip on the table. “Of course your wife should try the car, she’ll love it. And you won’t mind driving me back? I have so many things to do before I leave. Won’t you phone, so she’ll be ready when we get there? There is the phone, call while I get my coat. I’m so pressed for time.”

  Honest John heard him call the number, and penciled it on the wall. Then Linda was beside him. Squeezing his hand, she whispered, “You trace the number and get there ahead of us. Much better than trailing. I’m not afraid.”

  Garth followed her to the garage. Before the big engine was fairly rumbling, Honest John was telling the operator that it was police business, and got the address Garth had called. But when the long car backed out and made a U in the street, he clamped down on the cigar he had been saving all those hours. He ought to trail them.

  But she said no, and her way was really best. Crooks fall into habits. This was a team. Garth got the victim, his woman sold the loot. One to drive, one to sit in the back seat with the owner, get her out in the sticks, and then pour it to her. As long as Garth was alone with Linda, she was safe enough.

  So he took a short cut.

  * * * *

  The address was off Allemany Boulevard, on a side street, where only a few houses dotted the hilly lots. There weren’t any neighbors close enough to see or wonder. Just the spot, and handy to the highway leading down the lonely shore to Half Moon Bay.

  He poured on the power, though he knew that Garth would take his time; a ticket was the last thing that Garth wanted. Honest John, uneasy because a woman had her neck on the block, kept telling himself, “Hell, I couldn’t pinch him, I couldn’t knock it out of him, only the longest chance that anyone could prove he was in Yvonne’s house, much less knocked her off. And that wouldn’t get the dough, the dough Linda needs.”

  Lights out, he skimmed silently past the house that must be Garth’s: the only lighted one in that lonely block. He had checked numbers in his guide as he approached the district. Once past, he bumped up over a curb and parked in a vacant lot. From there he could watch.

  Soon the long cream-colored Cad loomed up. Linda stepped out, and Garth slid from the wheel. He followed her into the house. Honest John waited and chewed his cigar. He had handcuffs; nail the two, shackle them together, when they came out. Then frisk them, frisk the house, get the payoff. They’d be afraid of banks. Get them both out of the house, off guard and thinking of a nice dark spot to cool Linda.

  But minutes passed. He began to pace in the gloom. He was afraid. He wanted to give them time for chit-chat, time to dig out the five hundred cash for Linda, time to offer to drive her home, if “Mrs. Garth” liked the bus.

  Suppose they varied their routine? They might risk conking her in the house. The more he saw of the place, the more he knew that it would be easy to bring a stiff to the car. He had not figured on such a nice spot. He had half considered trailing them, crowding them into the ditch, and putting the slug on them. Nailing them on their own steps was a last minute change.

  God, how long…?

  He headed for the house. To hell with this. He couldn’t take it.

  He heard a scream, the dry, small smack of a pistol. Then no sound at all. Honest John went wild. He sprinted to the porch. He lashed out with his handcuffs, and swept the glass out of a French window, and barged into the living room, gun leveled. He shouted, “You lousy—! I’ll—”

  Then he checked himself, and stood there, gaping. There was a trim brunette in a red hat and fur coat, grabbing her shoulder. Garth, looking sick as the girl. One hand frozen in an unfinished grab for a table drawer. Linda’s face was hard as her voice, and she was saying, “Get the other five hundred or I’ll empty this gun into you. Hurry, Garth.”

  Honest John took charge. “Cut it, Linda, you fool, who’d you shoot? Garth, you and the dame poke out your hands, here, by the banister.”

  In a moment, he had them cuffed, and the connecting link passed through the balustrade. Linda lowered her peashooter, and said, “I saw the label of that coat, the coat that fool Walt bought Yvonne, he told me about that. So I knew—I couldn’t be wrong—”

  He eyed her, drew her into the hall, where the two cursing captives couldn’t shout him down. He said, “With the right dress, baby, you could beat any rap. But I went wild, now they know I’m playing your hand. Even if they are caught with Yvonne’s coat, they’ll still squawk for that dough.”

  “I don’t care, John. I’ll face it out.”

  He told her to keep her gun on the prisoners while he frisked the house. In half an hour he had found plenty. Yvonne’s rings on the dresser. Garth’s girl had to grab them, and the coat. But in the basement was the payoff: a grave. They’d changed their minds about dumping the next victim. Discovering Yvonne’s body so soon had scared them and had almost finished Linda.

&nb
sp; Honest John was no longer sweating when he went to the captives and said. “Shut up, shut up! I got your prints on the glass in Yvonne’s room. You grabbed the glass too high. Enough of her stuff is around here to sink you, and then there’s the traffic cop in South City. But I’ll give you one break, one break which maybe you can use.”

  Garth asked, “What?” The rat was scared sick, shaking.

  “Maybe you can plead the old white flame stuff when you poured it to Yvonne. You can explain the blanket, easy. But that grave in the basement, way back out of sight, where I just stumbled on it. If the cops see that, it makes the both of you premeditating murder, it nails your girlfriend and you. I’ll shut up, as long as you shut up about the dough we’re taking. The price of Yvonne’s bus.”

  “You mean—you’ll—let us go?” the girl said, choking.

  “Yes. To hell.” He grinned. “I’m out to sink Garth. He’s facing the works for Yvonne, but he has a chance for his life, pleading impulse or something, or she tried to shoot him first. You can claim he stepped out on you, and you didn’t know the car was hot, and you’re clear, pretty much. But sister, that open grave, that’ll finish you, if I squawk.”

  * * * *

  So they played it that way. Crawford, the chump, squared himself, and he’s got a new job. Linda has her house, and she has clothes now. Lots of them.

  Honest John? He’s got memories. Which isn’t bad for a guy that’s red-faced, kind of bald, overweight, and not too smart-looking.

  TRIANGLE WITH VARIATIONS

  Everything was strictly kosher until Valene invited Dan Slade to stick around for a drink, and headed for her bedroom instead of toward the refrigerator. And then Slade took a tumble.

  While it was private stock she was breaking out, it wasn’t anything kept in a bottle. He didn’t actually see her slip out of the gown that for the better part of the evening had kept him wishing she had put it on backwards, but he might as well have, for while her negligee, when she reappeared in the doorway, could have covered everything a lady keeps concealed from all but two or three very dear friends, the edges of the filmy substitute for nudity weren’t on speaking terms.…

  There’s an infallible way of losing one’s memory and Valene’s formula did the job in an instant. One eyeful—Slade forgot that she was Jim Tilford’s wife, and that Tilford wasn’t chained to the roulette wheel at Coppa’s.

  That eyeful was something like eating nine hundred dollars worth of pep tablets and then getting kicked into the Sultan’s harem. Valene’s silken legs were perfect from her dainty ankles to the guard stripe on her hosiery, and from there on the view became really good.

  The white roundness of her thighs found refuge in a froth of lace just in time to give Slade a chance to observe that Valene’s sighing inhalation threw her breasts in dazzling relief against the chiffon that caressed them like a lover’s hand; and her scarlet smile was as inviting as her warm curves.

  Then she remembered that the negligee had revealed everything but her wisdom teeth, but before she could do anything about it, Slade had an armful of Valene and a carload of plans for the evening.

  “Oh…Dan! You’re hurting me!” she protested, trying to withdraw from his embrace. Slade’s crushing kiss cut her short, but her retreat was highly successful: it brought them a pace closer to a divan that was an acre of invitation—though it might have been the courthouse steps for all Slade now cared.

  Her struggles suddenly relaxed. A shudder rippled down her body and her breath came in quick, short gasps. Valene’s protests were becoming inarticulate murmurings, but she was doing her best to say no—in sign language, since his fierce kisses again stifled her objections.

  Then the edge of the lounge made her knees buckle; and treachery from the rear was too much, with persistence from the front. A flurry of silken legs and chiffon—and then her arms closed about him to make the best of it.…

  Bit by bit, Dan Slade’s failing memory responded to treatment. He began to recollect that she was Jim Tilford’s wife. Valene laughed softly at his tardy penitence. With feminine wisdom, she had repented in advance. And it was his fault anyway, and if she’d screamed, it’d have caused an awful scandal.

  “Don’t be stupid, Dan,” she murmured. “Jim and I have all been all washed up for ages.”

  Which was true, and earlier that very evening, the Jim Valene armistice had flared into open warfare at Coppa’s place. Tilford, sourly drunk, and as usual, bucking the roulette wheel. Valene, sweetly reminding him that he had lost a play after ignoring her winning suggestion.

  That was always good for a fight, and it ended in an appeal to Caesar:

  “Dan, for God’s sake take her home! She’s a hoodoo!”

  And here they were: Slade and Valene.

  “He’s wild about Nancy Forrest,” she added. “And he wasn’t as drunk as he pretended. That quarrel was just a stall so he could ask you to bring me home so he could hang up with Nancy tonight—weekends aren’t enough for them any more.”

  That was more than half probable; but Slade and Tilford were passably good friends and it was a rotten situation, All the more so, since an hour or so with Valene was enough to make it a habit with anyone—anyone but Tilford, and he’d in some way gotten out of the habit, as Slade had just deduced from one thing and another.

  “Jim’s drunker’n hell, and what’s more,” he countered, jerking away from her embrace, “he began winning as soon as you stepped to the check room for your coat. I’m going back to pilot him home. Been too damn’ many holdups of gambling house customers lately, and—”

  “Dan, don’t be silly!” Valene was on her feet at a bound, but Slade, resolutely ignoring the ankle-to-collar-bone view, stalked to the door.

  He stepped on the starter and tramped on the gas, driving wrathfully and recklessly, sending the coupé screaming to the outer fringe of the city and then hurling it out the highway.

  It was going to be hell from now on, keeping away from Valene; and facing Tilford would be worse.

  And then, three miles from Coppa’s, Slade jammed his brakes to a screaming, smoking halt as he rounded the sharp curve. In the moonlight he saw a car that had smashed headlong into an oak that would telescope a battleship: Jim Tilford’s canary yellow Packard. On the far side of the wreck Tilford lay sprawled on the ground. You could see with half an eye that he was dead.

  Slade stepped to the running board of the sunburn special, and noted that Tilford, though drunk, had snapped the switch as he left the road.

  And then, glancing back toward town, Slade saw the cause of the crackup; the self-luminous marker that indicated a sharp turn in the highway had been moved from the left to the right of the road. It would fool a sober driver.

  “Accident, hell! It’s murder.”

  Murder—and robbery. He had beaten Joe Coppa’s wheel, but Death’s roulette stopped at double zero.

  Slade, as he reached for Tilford’s wallet to verify his conclusion, saw a scrap of paper, hastily crumpled and half thrust into a vest pocket. He withdrew it. It was a penciled note, in crudely printed letters:

  Tilford:

  Better go home early tonight. You might see something worth looking at.

  A friend.

  “Good God…” muttered Slade. Robbery was bad enough; but this was fairly putrid! No wonder Tilford had left Coppa’s, driving like the hammers of hell. But who had given him that damning note, that tip-off which but for Slade’s belated qualms of conscience would have brought Tilford to his house before Valene could remember that the refrigerator was in the kitchen and not the bedroom!

  “But maybe it’s just a gag—it’ll work with any married man.” Slade assured himself. Still, it didn’t quite stick, and he was hoping that robbery was the motive. Somehow, that would make him feel a bit better about it; better than thinking that somebody r
eally had been wise and had in good faith sent Tilford to check up on his wife.

  He reached for Tilford’s wallet and the long, legal size envelope that peeped from the inside coat pocket; but his fingers did not quite make it. Something crackled behind him.

  He started, heard a tense, short gasp, and from the corner of his eye saw a dark form lunging toward him. And as he whirled, he was knocked headlong across Tilford’s body.

  Something hard and swiftly moving crashed against his head and shoulder. His brain roared into a burst of flame, and then blackness blotted out all sensation.…

  When Slade’s consciousness finally returned, he struggled dizzily to his knees, rubbed the egg-sized lump on the side of his head, and resumed his search of Tilford’s pockets. The envelope and wallet were now gone.

  But in a side pocket of Tilford’s coat, Slade found three small blocks of wood wrapped in paper. Odd baggage to carry to a gambling resort. They must mean something—but what? He took them, then picked up the penciled note which lay in the grass, near the head-bolt wrench which had felled him.

  The ache of his shoulder told him why his skull had not been crushed as Tilford’s had been. He had started just in time to rob the blow of a portion of its force.

  As nearly as he could estimate from a glance at his watch, Slade had been out for about half an hour. He looked back toward town and saw that during that time the self-luminous highway marker had been moved back to the proper side of the road.

  “Anyway, it was robbery—that note was just a stall,” he concluded. “I happened along before they could roll Jim. And got cold-cocked.”

  But the fact remained that Tilford had headed home on a hot tip. And as Slade drove to Coppa’s to phone the police, his thoughts were none too pleasant.