“You’re under arrest, Thorne,” Bradford said. “There’s a squad car coming. They better get here soon or I’ll be tempted to beat the life out of the man who scared my fiancée the way you did.” He looked at the phone and grinned. “Seems to me you got a wrong number, Thorne.”
MYSTERY OF THE MEXICALI MURDERS, by J. Lane Linklater
Originally published in 10-Story Detective, Jan. 1941.
CHAPTER I
FIVE-GRAND FADEAWAY
The small plane from the north circled and came down. It had one passenger, an undersized, stocky man in whose volatile fleshy face was explosive energy. His perspiring cheeks glistened in the light from the airport office as he walked toward it. He carried one very battered handbag. Billions of stars glared down at him from the sky over the great Imperial Desert.
The man got in a service automobile. In a voice that rumbled harshly like a freight car he told the driver: “Take me to the Hotel Worth, my boy.”
The driver said: “Sure.”
The man lighted a cigarette. His whiskered fingers protected the flame and threw the light into his restless eyes. Alan Rake, private detective, was a long way from home. A dozen miles south was the Mexican border. Just ahead was the miniature metropolis of Imperial County, El Centro.
It was dusty and very hot. The time was exactly eight thirty-five in the evening, but the temperature was still well over a hundred. They were passing into the outskirts of El Centro, and even the houses seemed to sprawl in sultry discomfort.
Alan Rake said to the driver: “I’ve got work to do and I like to work fast. I’ll probably have to run around the country and I need someone who knows his way around. Someone who don’t scare easy.”
The driver reflected. He grinned. “Slummer Smith is your man. Slummer’s been all around. Knows everybody. He’s got a car and free-lances.”
“Okay.”
At the Hotel Worth Alan Rake got out and stood on the curb. A lot of places were open all down the street and the lights were very bright. The town was alive. Rake gave the driver a ten-dollar bill and said: “I’m going in to register. Tell your pal Slummer to get here right away.”
He went in, registered, and was taken to a room. In the room he felt in his pocket, brought out a telegram. He read it:
WANT YOU FOR CONFIDENTIAL WORK STOP NAME YOUR OWN PRICE STOP MEET ME NINE O’CLOCK TUESDAY NIGHT AT 437 BOXER PLACE EL CENTRO STOP TELL NO ONE.
BRADLEY WARNBECKER
Rake thrust the yellow paper in his pocket and went downstairs. He waited on the sidewalk. Soon a large sedan came alongside. The driver was a small man and very wiry. He might have been thirty-five, or forty-five, or fifty-five. His roundish face wore a fixed lugubrious look, and it was lined and blackened by hot desert winds.
“All right, all right,” said Rake. “We’re going to 437 Boxer Place. Know it?”
“Sure,” said Slummer Smith. “Hell of a place.”
They drove off. Rake said: “You know Bradley Warnbecker?”
“Seen him around. Everybody knows him. Hell of a guy. Lots of dough. Head of a big fruit-shipping outfit. Don’t live here except this time of the year. Rest of the time lives up north.”
Slummer stopped on a deserted road on the south edge of town. There was a group of seven shacks. None of them showed light.
“I think this layout belongs to Warnbecker,” Slummer said. “Nobody lives here now. These places was put up a long time ago to rent to Mexicans. They’re falling to pieces now.”
Rake got out of the car. The shacks were arranged in a court, three on one side, three on the other, and the seventh at the rear. The seventh was Number 437. It was very dark. Rake rapped on the sun-cracked door.
The door opened and the split widened very cautiously. A muffled voice said: “Come in, Mr. Rake.”
Rake went in. A lantern, turned low, stood on an upturned box in the corner. There was no furniture. The windows were boarded up. The man in the room was short. He had a prosperous middle. His face was surprisingly thin, giving the lie to his body bulk. The sharp eyes and the high cheekbones conspired to indicate a certain cunning, and an alert fearfulness.
Rake said: “So you’re Warnbecker! What’s up?”
Warnbecker’s chuckle was like a nervous maiden’s giggle. “Good Lord, but I’m glad you’re here!”
“What’s got you scared?” Rake said.
“A man named Curver is at the bottom of it, I think. He’s pretty sore at me. I think he’s up to something.” Warnbecker thrust a plump hand into his pocket. He said: “Last night my shipping shed checker, a chap named Steve Ongar, found this on Curver’s place. It belonged to a Chinaman—”
The flash was brief but bright. The report was sharp but very loud. The flash and the report came from a crevice in the boards of the window behind Warnbecker. Rake stepped aside quickly. Warnbecker fell on his face, as if he had been pushed.
Beyond the report, there was no noise. Rake stood still for a little while, then swiftly strode across the room. It was easy to see where the shot had come from. He returned to Warnbecker. The man of money was quite still. His back was a mess.
Rake muttered, “Rifle shot,” and went out. Slummer Smith was just coming in. He looked no happier than usual.
“Better get the coppers, boy,” Rake said.
“They’re tough babies, them coppers,” Slummer said sadly. “Good coppers, but tough. They won’t like you. Was it Warnbecker?”
“Yes. Someone got him. Did you see anyone?”
“Nobody out front.”
Rake said: “Of course not. They came around back. Left the same way. No chance to catch ‘em. Get the coppers.”
Slummer wagged his head and drove away. Rake went back into 437. He ran through the dead man’s clothes, especially the coat pocket, the one in which Warnbecker had thrust his hand. There was nothing in the pocket except a piece of cloth, square, about twenty inches each way. It was black silk.
Rake shoved the black silk cloth into his own pocket.
He was standing at the door when the police came. There were two of them, large muscular men in tan shirts, with conspicuous revolvers. Rake told them who he was. He even showed them his papers. And he learned who they were. One of them was only six feet tall and his name was Lagos. The other, named Cline, was taller.
Lagos and Cline took a look at the dead man. And they listened to Rake, rather too silently. Rake said: “Not much I can tell you boys. I came here to meet Warnbecker by appointment. As soon as I came in, someone shot him through that hole in the boards and beat it. Then I sent for you. That’s all.”
Lagos said: “Old Warnbecker getting bumped in a place like this! Say, this is big stuff!”
“You got no idea who done it or why?” Cline asked Rake.
“No more than you have, my boy.”
“You say Warnbecker was hiring you?” Rake showed him Warnbecker’s telegram. “But you don’t know why?”
Rake said: “No more than you do, my boy.”
“Well, you see how it is,” Cline said. “You can go back to the hotel, if you want to. But you better not fool around with this thing. You might get in somebody’s way.”
Alan Rake grinned. There was a sharp gleam in his eye. He said: “I can see how it is.”
“No leaving town now.”
“I can see how it is,” Rake repeated. “I come down here to work for a rich client, expecting a fat fee. Maybe five grand. And now, no client. And no fee. Besides, maybe I did it.”
“Well, you can see—”
“Sure. I might be working for some other lug. And maybe that wire is a fake. Maybe Warnbecker didn’t send it at all. You can’t tell about private dicks. A bad lot. Well, boys, I’ll be around.”
They watched Alan Rake as he went out, told Slu
mmer to drive away. Slummer said gloomily: “It’s a hell of a mess, all right.”
Rake said: “Sure, I’m out a rich client and a fat fee. But it’ll give me a chance to have a good time. Now, there’s Mexicali. Heard it’s a pretty hot place. I’ve always wanted to go there.”
“Mexicali ain’t what she used to be,” Slummer said.
Rake said: “Where did Warnbecker hang out when he wasn’t at the hotel in town here?”
“Office and shipping shed down at Lebber. Six miles south of here, toward Mexico.”
Alan Rake grinned cheerfully. “So we’ll stop there,” he said, on the way to Mexicali. “Maybe I’ll dig five grand out of this yet.” They were headed south on the highway. Rake said: “So tell me about Warnbecker’s business.”
“Cantaloupes in this section, mostly. We ship thousands of cars of cantaloupes from these parts in a few weeks. They’re much earlier here than anywhere else in the country. If you sit down to a cantaloupe in New York on the first of June, you know it came all the way from down here in the lower corner of California.”
“I don’t sit down to cantaloupes, not any place,” said Rake. “What did Warnbecker do about cantaloupes—grow ‘em?”
“More of a shipper than grower. He worked it like this. He’d got maybe twenty fellers around here with ranches for growing cants. Warnbecker would help finance growing the crop and then handle its shipping and selling. For that he would get a share of the ranch profits, if any, and a percentage on what the stuff sold for. He was pretty foxy, and he kept the books, so the ranch owners would usually get the short end. Nobody liked him.”
“Then maybe one of these ranch owners could’ve got sore. Ever hear of a guy named Curver?”
“Sure. One of Warnbecker’s contract ranchers.”
“Well, Warnbecker mentioned Curver. Also a checker named Steve Ongar. And a Chinaman.”
“Didn’t know Warnbecker had anything to do with Chinamen.” Slummer sluiced the sweat from his brow. “What I can’t figure is why they didn’t plug you, too!”
“The guy didn’t have a chance—and he had to get away. But that isn’t what interests me.”
“So what interests you?”
Rake said: “Why did the guy wait until I got there before plugging Warnbecker? That, my boy, is important.”
Slummer swung off the highway into a road running east, kept on it until he crossed the railroad tracks. He followed the road paralleling the tracks a little while. Lights loomed ahead.
“That’s the Warnbecker headquarters,” said Slummer.
“Stop this side of it,” Rake ordered.
Slummer took the car off the road and stopped. He said: “To the right is the shipping shed, with the railroad slip by it. You can see the freight cars. The building to the east is the office. Beyond that is the cook shed and bunkhouse”
“They’re still busy at the shipping shed,” Rake said.
“Sure. The guys out in the fields start picking ripe cants in the morning. They keep on picking as long as there are ripe ones to pick, way into the night. At the peak of the season, like it is now, it keeps the boys busy until two or three o’clock in the morning. But what the hell has that got to do with who bumped Warnbecker?”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Rake, “yet. Has Warnbecker got a family?”
“Wife and kids up north. Only relative I know of down here is his cousin, Pete Torlan.”
“Does Torlan come down here for the shipping season?”
“Torlan lives here. Warnbecker had Torlan in his company. Torlan’s job is running things for him here in Imperial Valley. Warnbecker himself has other business up north and he only stays here a couple of months, during the busy season.”
“Torlan a nice guy?”
“Nobody could work close to Warnbecker and be a nice guy.”
“Drive closer to the shed, my boy.”
CHAPTER II
SATAN’S DOORSTEP
Slummer took the car up to the space between the shed and the office. Rake got out and leaped onto the platform. A huge truck was standing against the shed. Crates of cantaloupes were being unloaded from it and trucked across the shed, into the railroad refrigerator cars.
The men doing the trucking were stripped to the waist. So was the young man with the manifold sheet who was doing the checking. The men were all too busy to more than glance at Alan Rake. Presently the truck was unloaded and labored away. The men sat on boxes, waiting for the next load.
Rake crossed to the young checker. He said: “I’m a stranger. Just nosing around. What’s your name, my boy?”
The checker was red-headed and fair-skinned. He had a straightforward face, but his blue eyes looked strained—something more than the strain of ordinary fatigue.
“Me? I’m Steve Ongar”
“Well, Steve, you keep pretty busy around here, eh?”
“You bet we do. This time of night it begins to let up a little, though,” said Ongar.
“Any new men on the job here?” Rake wanted to know.
“Not for a week.” Steve Ongar fiddled with his pencil. He added good-naturedly: “You must be checking up on something.”
Rake said: “Maybe.” With a quick movement he took out of his pocket the square of black silk cloth he had taken from Warnbecker. He held it where no one but Steve Ongar could see it. “You recognize this?”
Steve Ongar suddenly froze. He blurted: “No.”
Rake chuckled and put the cloth in his pocket. “Okay, boy. Old Warnbecker told me.”
A big touring car swirled swiftly up the road, stopped against the shed. The man who got out was burly. He promptly got on the platform, near Rake. He had a thick solid neck, force in his massive jaw, craftiness in his bright eyes. He looked at Rake warily, but smiled.
“I’m Pete Torlan,” he said.
Rake grinned. “I’m Alan Rake.”
There was a slight momentary change in Torlan’s expression, as if someone had pinged him from behind with a pebble. But he recovered. “I’ve heard of you. You get in the papers, don’t you? Down this way on business, Mr. Rake?”
Rake said: “Maybe. Is Warnbecker around?”
“Doesn’t seem to be. Probably at the hotel in El Centro.”
“You haven’t seen him?”
Torlan shook his head. “Not since he left here early this evening. I went down to Mexicali. I can get the kind of a dinner I like there. It’s only seven miles from here, you know.”
“I want to go there sometime,” Rake said. “Guess you don’t get away from Imperial Valley much, do you?”
“Haven’t been out of the valley for several months. I don’t mind it. You get used to—”
“Mr. Torlan!” Someone was calling across the space from the office. “You’re wanted on the phone! It’s the police department in El Centro, sir!”
Torlan glanced sharply at Rake. “I’ll be back soon,” he said. “Make yourself at home.”
Alan Rake watched Torlan hurry into the office. Near the end of the platform was a big water barrel. A tin mug hung on the spigot. Rake drew a mug of water. He made a face as he drank and said to the checker: “What’s in this stuff?”
Steve Ongar grinned. “Oatmeal.”
“Oatmeal?”
“Yes, sir. We all drink lots of ice water on account of the heat. But this ice water, when you drink it every few minutes, is tough on the belly. So we throw oatmeal in the water. Makes it easier to digest or something.”
“Where’d you get the ice, my boy?”
“We just rob the refrigerator cars. We take the ice out of the compartment at the end there.”
Rake abruptly strolled away. He spent about five minutes walking about the shipping shed, glancing into refrigerator cars and peering into corners.
When he returned, he said: “What’s the pile of papers for, son?”
Steve Ongar looked puzzled. “What papers?” he said.
“There’s a stack of old newspapers down on the ground by the end of the shed, near the tracks. Nothing queer about a bunch of old papers—if there’s any reason for their being there.”
“Don’t know anything about it. Probably don’t mean a thing.”
“Maybe not.” Glancing across at the office, Rake could see Torlan hanging up the receiver. He handed Steve Ongar a ten-dollar bill. “Have a few on me next time you hit Mexicali. Without oatmeal. When Torlan comes back out tell him Mr. Alan Rake had to get the hell away from here.”
Back in the car, Rake told Slummer: “We better be leaving. Make it fast. Mexicali.” Slummer swerved that car around and in a few minutes they were back on the southbound highway, headed for Mexico.
Rake said suddenly: “Any Chinamen around here?”
“A few in El Centro and Calexico. Lots more across the line in Mexicali.”
“Who’s their top man?”
“You might call Hop Ling that,” Slummer said. “Ling’s been around a long time. Right over in Mexicali for maybe thirty years. He knows all the Chinks—and ‘most everybody else. Runs a cafe.”
“So I want to see Hop Ling.”
Slummer said curiously: “You got a line?”
“Not much,” said Rake. “A little something, maybe. Looks like a crazy setup. Keep your fingers close to your gun from now on.” Rake peered out of the car as Slummer drove into a town. “This is Calexico, eh?”
Slummer said: “Sure. Calexico is on this side of the line, Mexicali on the other. Just the old ditch between ‘em.”
“I’ve heard about it. What’s those cockeyed-looking buildings over there?”
“Cotton gins: They raise quite a bit of cotton, the other side of the line as well as this. It’s hauled over here—”
The Walt Whitman MEGAPACK ™ Page 29