Stooping quickly, he touched the fallen man. Nichols didn’t seem to be breathing. Conar felt for a pulse. There was none. It was unbelievable. One minute there was life, and the next—How puny man was. He died so easily.
Conar arose, backed into the corridor, and closed the door. He ran down the hallway toward the stairway exit.
* * * *
The next two days were the happiest in Conar’s life. He worked hard at the job he loved; slashed ruthlessly at unnecessary expenditures. He was completely unburdened, unworried. Within him burned a fierce sense of freedom. It placed a stronger power, a stronger moral power, in his hands. He was rid of the only shadow in his life.
On the second morning, Conar waited for the letter. It didn’t arrive in the first mail, but he refused to worry. There was another delivery at ten-thirty.
At quarter to ten, Conar’s phone rang. The switch-board girl announced, in an excited voice, that two men were on their way in to see him. They just barged through, she told him. They were policemen.
Conar mumbled, “Thanks,” and hung up. Panic mounted in him. Why were they here? They couldn’t possibly have traced him.
He arose and started for the door when it opened.
Both men were hard-looking and formidable. They towered over him. They dwarfed him.
“Conar?” one asked,
He nodded dumbly.
“We’re from headquarters. Homicide. We want you to come along with us. There are some questions about the murder of Harry Nichols.”
“Harry Nichols?” Conar asked. “Harry Nichols? I don’t know a Harry Nichols.”
“Oh, come now, Mr. Conar,”—Conar felt a bewildered rage at the man’s tone,—”you knew Harry Nichols. He was blackmailing you, remember? And you killed him.”
Conar gasped, “I didn’t,” as he watched the big man take an envelope from his pocket.
“You probably would have gotten away,” the detective said, “if it wasn’t for these.”
“But I mailed them here,” Conar protested weakly. “How—?”
“And they got here, too,” the detective replied. “Yesterday they got here. But someone in this company was saving money. This morning they were back at the hotel.”
The big man held forth the envelope. Conar stared at it. His eyes grew hot, and stung, and teared.
Scrawled in pencil, he read the word, “Refused.” And stamped in red ink, the words, Postage due 3c.
MEET MY MUMMY, by Elroy Arno
Originally published in Fantastic Adventures, May 1947.
The Intellect had both his feet up on the desk top, a cigar clamped between his teeth, hands folded across his chest. He said:
“Well, don’t stand there holding the door up! The hinges are strong enough. Come in.”
The Intellect is a nice, friendly name for the boss, Larry Haynes. Haynes runs a two man agency that handles confidential investigations. I’m the number two man. He runs the agency and I run my feet into the ground, coming in sometimes with results, more often, with corns. I eased myself down on the edge of the desk doffed my hat and rubbed a wet, irritated crease around my head where the sweat band had cut in.
“I’m quitting the Vaney set-up,” I said. “Old man Vaney will have to track down his own wife. I think the woman’s on the square with him.”
The Intellect scowled.
“Forget all about Vaney,” he said. “Something new has come up.”
I suppressed a moan. That’s the way the Intellect works. We never make much money, but we have fun. We skip blithely from case to case, solving very little and eating less.
“Good,” I said and found a cigarette crumpled into the lower basement of my coat pocket. “Good, indeed. And what millionaire is going to remember us in his will for proving that his wife is giving him the runaround?”
The Intellect smiled blandly, tossed a half inch of very bad cigar into the waste basket and trimmed the end of a new one with his penknife.
“Calm yourself,” he said. “No more divorce cases, not for a while. All you got to do is find a beautiful blond. We get paid a cool ten-grand.”
I chuckled, even if my heart wasn’t in it. I’m not the light-hearted type as a rule. Corns on the feet and a pocket book without anything to pocket makes me a glum character. The smoothness of my boyish face has long since been erased by wrinkles that spring up in the damndest places.
“I bet on a horse once,” I said “He would have paid fifty to one, if he had won.”
The Intellect came out of his chair slowly, and unfolded his six feet of handsome frame. He passed an envelope to me. He stood back, chewed on the new cigar and regarded me with the look of a parent who knows what is good for his son.
“Okay,” he said. “Now laugh.”
“I don’t believe in fairy tales. I opened the envelope and a five by five photograph fell out. I looked over the girl printed on the glossy side.
“Nice,” I said, and shook the envelope. “I don’t see any hundred bills inhere.”
He groaned.
“Take, my word for it,” he begged. “You find that girl, and we get ten thousand—cash.”
I kept on staring into his honest gray eyes. I wondered how often they were really honest.
“We get ten thousand,” I said. “Even split. I get something in advance.”
The Intellect and I trusted each other like brothers—and no more.
His face, turned red faster than a changing traffic light.
“There will be expenses, of course,” he said.
I nodded. “About a hundred bucks worth, to begin with.”
“But I only got one-fifty this morning!”
“You’re a liar,” I said, “but I’ll still take a hundred. Do I work today or go home and soak my feet?”
He brought out folding money and slipped me two fifties off the top. I thanked him for it and put in into my vest pocket. No use fighting with the Intellect. He pays you what you bleed him for, and as far as cash is concerned, he’s anemic.
I looked down at the picture of the girl and kept on looking for some time. She looked right at home in a bathing suit, although there wasn’t much room in it. Her picture was taken on a beach somewhere, with a lot of sand and water tossed in for local color. She was spread out in the sun, and what that babe didn’t inventory wasn’t worth putting on the books.
She had legs, a torso, all the proper curves and some that weren’t quite proper. There was a lot of honey colored hair that flowed down her shoulders and acted as a back-drop for a very nice face and two wide, innocent looking eyes. I’d have bet a lead slug that those eyes were blue, though the picture didn’t say so. Yes, she was all there, with some interest added to the principal.
After a while, the Intellect took the picture gently but firmly but of my hand.
“You’re stout and not as young as you used to be,” he said firmly. “Remember that blood pressure. This kind of a dish is too rich for you.”
I ignored his insults.
“Half of ten thousand bucks is mine for finding that?”
He nodded, but it hurt to make the split even. His face took on that “we got business to discuss” expression.
“Her name is Miss Lion,” he said. “Miss Neva Lion.”
“Queen of the jungle? L-i-o-n, like in lion?”
“Right. It seems that she’s got a father who…”
“That’s funny,” I said.
“You aren’t,” he went on. “Shut up and listen. Frank Lion, her father, makes a living digging up mummies.”
“His own, or other men’s?”
“Mummies from Egypt,” he snapped. “Mummies for museums. Get some sense and stop being so damned clever.”
“Okay,” I said. “Mummies—like
in Egypt.”
He glared at me and went on talking. “Lion and his daughter left California a year ago. They came here and bought a ritzy joint out in West Hills.” West Hills is the high income spot of the city. Those subdivided heavens out there even cost money to look at. Nice, though, if you got lettuce.
“Right after they moved here, our client, Mrs. Ruth Ford, stopped getting letters from Neva, Frank’s daughter.”
“She’s got nothing on me,” I said. “I never have gotten a letter from the babe. Something will have to be done. On top of that, who the hell is Ruth Ford? Where does she come in?”
The Intellect placed his cigar gently on the ash tray, leaned back in his chair and stared at me somberly.
“But go on,” I suggested. “I love to see a cart drawn before the horse. Don’t tell me anything in an intelligent manner. I couldn’t understand you if you talked sanely.”
“I’m trying,” he croaked in despair. “Try harder.”
“Okay. From the beginning. Ruth Ford is bout forty. She arrived in town today, from California. She’s Neva Lion’s married sister.”
“You’re in focus now,” I said. “Keep shooting.”
“This Ford dame saw our ad in the Times. She came here to talk. It seems that she’s tried to get into her father’s house to see her sister. They won’t let her past the gate. She tried half a dozen times, but there is a tough guy standing guard over the gate of Frank Lion’s estate, and he isn’t letting his guard down. Ruth Ford got sore and came to us.”
“I am puzzled,” I admitted. “There are cops in this town, or there were when I broke the speed laws last. Why didn’t she go to them?”
He hunched his shoulders.
“I don’t know, and for ten grand, we’ll do anything she wants us to. What’s the sense of telling her there are cops. Maybe she don’t know.”
“It’s crazy,” I said. “It smells to high Heaven and none of it makes sense. I guess maybe ten grand is pretty heavy lettuce.”
He sneered at me.
“This Ford woman is worth a million. Nice clothes—nice build.”
“To hell with her build,” I said, “She’s probably as crooked as a Scotchman’s cane. I’ll take a chance. How does she want me to work?”
The Intellect leaned on his elbows and issued the day’s bulletin.
“Go out there and find Neva Lion. I don’t care how you find her. Just don’t try to make love to her or get yourself killed. I hate to waste that hundred bucks you’re carrying on you. When you prove to me and this Ruth Ford that Neva Lion is alive, safe and in good health, we collect,”
“Funny about this Ford chicken,” I said. “She bothers me a lot. Just because her sister doesn’t write letters, she comes all the way from the coast to see if she’s okay. The more I worry it around in my mind, the more muddy the water gets.”
The Intellect nodded.
“I didn’t think about it when she was here,” he admitted. “You may be right, though. Look out for dark alleys until we get this thing figured out.”
“Sometimes,” I said, “your intellect amazes me.”
I tossed my cigarette stub on the carpet, made a mental note to sponge another one as soon as I could, and put my hat on. It was still sweaty and uncomfortable.
“The address is 124 Foothill Boulevard,” The Intellect said helpfully. “It hadn’t ought to be much of a trick to get in.”
I smiled at him pleasantly.
“Go back to sleep,” I told him, “Rest while you can. Someday I may walk in front of a slug and you’ll have to go to work.”
I left him resting comfortably, thank you.
* * * *
One-Twenty-Four Foothill Boulevard was a high wall, made of rock, and stretching endlessly along the left hand side of the street. There was an iron gate with sharp spikes along the top of it. Beyond the gate, I saw a drive winding out of sight up a hill covered with evergreens. The spikes on the gate looks as though they’d tear the devil out of my pants. I thought it over for a while, and decided upon the director friendly approach.
I wandered across the street and pressed the bell button on the gate, there was a little rock house behind the wall. A guy came out of it and walked toward me.
I had fifteen feet and a few seconds to look him over, He was about six-foot-three, his face had been run through a meat grinder, and his fists looked like small smoked hams. He didn’t come close to the gate. His voice, I’m sure he didn’t have any choice in picking it out, sounded like a foghorn that was doing its worst.
“What you want?”
I didn’t want anything—from him. I figured I’d try being a good pal.
“I have to see Miss Neva Lion,” I told him. “Her sister asked me to deliver a message to her.”
It was the truth, and so help me, I tell the truth until it hurts. When it hurts, I stop telling it.
“She ain’t here,” he said.
“Then I’d like to talk to Mr. Lion,” I tried.
He stopped grinning. Anyhow, he wiped off the Frankenstein smile. He acted like he had just tasted blood.
“There ain’t anyone coming in,” he said, “Start burning shoe leather, Shorty,”
There’s a name I can’t stand. Maybe because it hits so close to the truth. You can call me Shorty if you keep smiling. He wasn’t smiling.
“Listen, you ugly imitation of a sewer cover,” I said “When you talk to a gentleman, act like you know it.”
I thought he was coming right through the gate without opening it. About that time, someone screamed bloody murder somewhere up the drive. His face went white and he forgot I was there. He turned and started to run, I heard a man’s voice shout.
“Hurry, Lester. She’s hiding in the woods.”
So the battered guy who watched the gate was named Lester. I knew that, and I knew someone was chasing a female through the woods. That sure was an exciting and exclusive patch of evergreens. How I’d have liked to get over the wall. For a while I thought about calling the cops. Then I remembered the noise they made, coming with their sirens and their big mouths wide open. I decided I didn’t want them around, not right away. This was a one-man high wall job. I sauntered along the walk and found a spot where the shrubbery was grown up thick between the outside of the wall and the sidewalk. I slipped into the shrubbery. I heard the high-pitched scream again, on the far side of the wall. I figured as long as a woman can keep on screaming, she’s alive and probably in pretty good condition. It’s when they’re quiet that I get worried.
I tried to scale that wall, fell twice, and the third time, managed to hook my fingers over the top. My full weight hung on those fingers and something was sure trying to make mincemeat of my hands. I let go, held down the urge to yelp like a wounded pup, and sat on the grass—hard.
Through blurred eyes, I examined two hands that looked like something the butcher throws out the back door. Some bright guy had planted a lot of broken glass along the top of the wall. Deep, bloody gashes were all over my fingers. A couple of them looked like they’d be dropping off before I could tie them together.
I had to get hold of a Doc and some bandages. Maybe I needed a splint. I wasn’t sure, I went away from there. To hell with the screaming woman. I’d save her after I saved myself.
I was in a very ugly mood. If I had had a baseball bat, I’d have waited for Lester and played a little nine hit game with him. I didn’t. I went looking for a doctor who had a pretty nurse.
* * * *
When the moon shines over West Hills, it isn’t just an ordinary shine. It sort of glows and shimmers. That’s what so much exclusive real estate does to a poor guy’s mind. I never saw such a pretty place.
If I hadn’t been carrying two handfuls of tape and gauze, I would have appreciated the scenery more. I stood
in the shadows opposite the gate and wondered what had happened to the woman who screamed. I wondered if she was still able to scream now. I had done a lot of figuring before I went back to 124 Foothill Boulevard that night. I guessed that the scream probably belonged to Neva Lion, and that, maybe she wasn’t so happy after all. Anyhow, Neva Lion or not, I had a score to settle with Lester. He made me very angry. He was probably the playboy who stuck all that broken glass into cement on top of the wall.
I didn’t ring for Lester this time. I went back to the spot where I had tried to climb the wall that afternoon. I took off my top-coat, which I had worn to hide the junk I was carrying with me. That coat was a sort of wardrobe trunk and packing case for a length of rope, heavy gloves, a small flashlight, short length of lead pipe and some brass knuckles. Brother, I thought as I removed these loveable objects from the coat, this is war.
I hid the coat under the bushes and tried a toss over the wall. Twice the loop in the end of the rope missed and fell back in my face. The third time it caught. I tested it and it seemed strong enough to hold.
I looked up and .down the street and it was deserted. I went over the top carefully, and the gloves protected my hands from the glass that had been cemented along the top of the wall. I was puffing by the time I got up there and pulled the rope behind me. The waistline is beginning to sag just a little and can’t take much of that stuff.
I hoped there wasn’t a tiger trap on the other side, figured there wasn’t and jumped. My knees came up under my chin and I damned near knocked myself out.
I was sitting in the middle of a pine thicket, and I couldn’t see three feet in any direction. After a while I got my breath back, used it sparingly and started out to explore the place. I went uphill and came out on the drive. I felt as though I might need an Indian guide to help me find the house. Lester could wait until I came back. I was saving the best part of everything for Lester.
The road was a winding affair that took in a lot of scenery. I suppose it was nice if you went for that kind of stuff. I didn’t. I was worried about my neck. The house was easy enough to find when I came out into the open. There was about ten acres of lawn so smooth you could play billiards on it.
The Walt Whitman MEGAPACK ™ Page 17