The Walt Whitman MEGAPACK ™

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The Walt Whitman MEGAPACK ™ Page 30

by Millard, Joseph J.


  “Hauled in trucks, eh?”

  “In trucks,” conceded Slummer. He said dryly: “Are you working on a murder case or making a farm survey?”

  “For all I know, cantaloupes and cotton might be a murderous combination, my boy.”

  Slummer swung past the Planters Hotel, then south across the international line. They passed the customs houses, one on each side. Mexicali’s main stem was within a stone’s throw of the line, and it welcomed them with much life and some light.

  Slummer parked on the edge of the wide stretch across from the line of joints. Rake left him there, crossed and strolled along the main stem, glancing swiftly into doorways of boisterous resorts. Hop Ling’s was a block farther west. Almost all the people were in the resorts, very few on the rough sidewalk. Most of the light was inside, too, almost none outside. The alley that Rake started to cross just before reaching Hop Ling’s was the darkest spot in the stretch and Rake was halfway across it before he saw the girl.

  But he couldn’t miss her then. She moved away from the wall, into his path, as if she were faint.

  Alan Rake said: “What’s the matter, sugar?”

  “I—I feel ill,” she gasped. Even in the darkness Rake could see she was a sharp-featured beauty with very large dark eyes. “I—don’t know—what’s the matter.”

  “Want me to take you somewhere?” Rake offered politely.

  “Would you?” she said.

  Rake grinned and said: “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  She turned her head up at him quickly, as if she wasn’t sure what he meant. But Rake’s face was inscrutable. He took her arm—a very small and shapely arm which was quite bare.

  She said: “Thank you so much. This way, please.”

  They walked past Hop Ling’s and turned south. In a few moments they were in the native section, behind the buildings along the main stem. There were no street lights, no lights at all. There weren’t even any streets where she took him, just a number of low tired-looking old hovels.

  She stopped at the door of one of them. Her hand held Rake’s arm tightly. The warm air was alive with the rich perfume she carried.

  She whispered: “This is it. Won’t you come in?”

  “You know I will.”

  Inside, she struck a match. On a ledge against the side of the wall was a thick white candle, held in its own grease. The girl touched the match to it. In the wavering yellowish light her face was pale, and her eyes were very black and brilliant. Her flimsy blue dress clung to a perfect figure.

  One small table was jammed against the wall. Near the wall opposite was a chair. There was no other furniture. A closet door was open in one corner.

  Alan Rake leaned against the table. He glanced at the one window. A blind had been nailed over it. The blind looked too large for the window. The girl sat in the chair and smiled at Rake. She didn’t look faint any more, only alluring.

  She said softly: “You’re so kind. And so strong. Won’t you come here?”

  Rake’s gaze was bland. He turned toward the closet, looked inside. It was very dusty. On the floor of the closet were an old shoe, a few old sox, some unidentifiable rags and three coat hangers, two of them broken.

  He picked up the good coat hanger, draped some of the rags around the arms and put his own hat on top. He held it out then, inspecting it. He carried it at arm’s length to the middle of the room.

  “Not bad, eh?” he said.

  Quick anxiety flashed on the girl’s face. Rake was holding up the dressed coat hanger, between the candle and the window. The shadow thrown on the blind was an almost perfect reproduction of the top part of a man’s figure.

  “No,” the girl said hurriedly, “but won’t you—”

  The rifle shot cut her short. The window blind moved a little, as if urged by a breeze.

  Alan Rake moved the coat hanger down, slowly, then let it drop. The shadow on the blind looked like a man falling. Silently, Rake moved toward the door. He had an automatic in his hand.

  He said quietly to the girl: “Better keep still, sugar.” He stood against the wall, behind the door.

  The girl seemed immovable, her eyes fixed on Rake. Her fingers were gripping the chair seat at her sides.

  There was a slight rustling sound outside the door.

  The girl’s voice suddenly tore loose in a scream: “Don’t come in! He’s ready for you! He—he isn’t shot! Go away!”

  The rustling outside stopped and then became a scurrying sound. There was silence again.

  Rake grinned genially. “Well, he’s gone, sugar. You scared him off.”

  Color slowly crept back into the girl’s face. She said boldly: “I guess I never did have you fooled, did I?”

  “Sugar, you should have known better. The stuff you pulled on me was all very old. Anyhow, you didn’t look the part. Your voice, sugar, was the voice of Sally the Farmer’s Daughter, but your face was the face of Jezebel, or maybe Salome—not to mention the figure.”

  The girl got up and came toward him, smiling. “I like you,” she said. “But I guess you’ve got no use for me now.”

  “Sugar,” said Rake, “I think you’re swell.”

  She came closer. “Then maybe we can be friends?”

  “At a distance,” Rake said. “In fact, at a considerable distance.” He put his hat on again. “Thanks for putting me on the spot. It taught me something.”

  “But surely you’ll stay awhile—”

  “Not tonight, sugar.”

  Alan Rake stepped out into the night and vanished into the darkness beyond.

  CHAPTER III

  DESERT HIDEOUT

  Hop Ling’s cafe didn’t look like much. It was the back end of Riley’s saloon. There was a short counter, a half-dozen tables. The women were mostly dance hall girls. The men were 21-dealers, assorted patrons, a few derelicts, two Mexican soldiers and one Mexican policeman. Two Chinese boys waited on the tables. Hop Ling himself stood at the inner corner of the counter, gazing placidly over his establishment.

  But there was that about Hop Ling that suggested that his domain was much greater than could be seen with the eye. He was short and very plump. His face was unwrinkled, bland. His eyes were merry and shrewd. His voice, as he replied to Alan Rake, was soft, and his English precise.

  “Yes, I am Ling.”

  Rake said abruptly: “Warnbecker is dead.”

  It didn’t seem to mean much to Hop Ling. He said: “The big man of business? I knew him a little. Too bad.”

  “You know Warnbecker’s man, Torlan?”

  “Yes, as I know many others.”

  “You saw Torlan this evening?”

  “Yes, he came and ate dinner. Then he went away. That is all!”

  “Did he speak with anyone here—confidentially?”

  “It may be.”

  “Who?”

  Hop Ling hesitated. “Until I know more, I may not say.”

  Rake gazed at Hop Ling speculatively. Then, with a small flourish, he took his hand out of his pocket. Crumpled in it was a square piece of black cloth. Hop Ling looked at the cloth. There was no apparent change in Hop Ling’s expression, yet even his immobility suggested that something had struck deep.

  Rake said: “You know this?”

  Hop Ling waved his hand gently. “A piece of cloth!” he said. “Why should I know it? Where you get it, Mr. Rake?”

  “Warnbecker had it.”

  Hop Ling’s plump hands, resting on the counter, were quite motionless. For a little while he was silent. Then he spoke low: “This is poor place for talk, Mr. Rake. I know better one. You go outside. Wait on next corner, west. Boy come and show you way.”

  “Okay, Ling.”

  Alan Rake walked to the corner a hundred ya
rds west. It was well away from the bright lights. Not far away was the west edge of town. Beyond, the desert lost itself in the distant hills of Baja California.

  Presently a young Chinaman, very small, emerged from the shadows and whispered: “Please, this way.”

  Rake followed him. They went south again, turned along an alley, some distance to the rear of Hop Ling’s cafe, then into a door and up narrow stairs. A door on a dark landing was opened. Rake walked into a room. There was a heavily shaded lamp on the huge carved table in the middle of the room, but no other light. The walls were in darkness. There were two chairs in the center, one on each side of the table. Rake sat on one of them.

  In the far wall a door opened and closed. Hop Ling was in the room. He advanced quietly, sat in the chair opposite Rake. Hop Ling’s eyes were still shrewd, but not merry. Beyond their blankness there seemed to be a deep seriousness.

  He said: “Mr. Rake, I am sorry to treat friend like this.”

  “The treatment is okay,” said Rake.

  Hop Ling moved a forefinger under the table. With an abrupt brilliant the walls of the room lighted. Three young Chinamen were standing motionless against the wall, each at a different spot. Hop Ling’s finger moved again.

  The wall lights went out. “They are all armed,” Ling said regretfully.

  Alan Rake leaned across the table. “I’m just interested in what you know about a piece of black cloth, Ling. That’s all.”

  “Strange,” murmured Hop Ling. “And I want to know what you know about it.”

  “I’ve told you all I know. Warnbecker had it.”

  “What did he know about it?”

  “I don’t know what he knew. Maybe not so much.”

  “Where did he get it, Mr. Rake?”

  “He said one of his men found it.”

  Hop Ling paused in silent contemplation. His gaze seemed fixed on the juncture of the wall with the ceiling. Presently he said, without looking at Rake: “Soo said he would use U. S. mail.”

  “Sounds like a Chinese jingle to me. What about Soo?”

  But Hop Ling, apparently, had said all he intended. He looked at Rake sadly. “It is too bad. Much better if you talk. You tell me so little—”

  “You’re not doing me much good, either. Sorry. I can’t wait around. I’ll be going. By the way, can you raise five grand?”

  “For good cause, yes,” said Hop Ling. He got up slowly, smiled at the darkened walls and said: “We will let Mr. Rake go.”

  Rake strode toward the door. It opened before he reached it. At the threshold he turned and grinned grimly at Hop Ling. “Thanks,” he said. “Call you later.”

  Slummer was waiting for him in the car. He was not alone. The man with him was young, big and bony. His blond hair was long and well oiled. He was well dressed.

  “This is Bill Fench,” Slummer told Rake. “Bill’s drinking some and figures I should join him.”

  Fench grinned at Rake. He said: “You, too. You’re a pal of Slummer’s. We’re all pals together. We can all go in the Owl and heave a few—”

  “Swell,” Rake said promptly.

  They got out of the car and Fench led the way to the Owl. They found room at the hundred-foot bar and ordered. Rake turned to Fench.

  “You know this country pretty good, eh?”

  “Been around here five years. I know all the—”

  “Did you know Warnbecker?”

  “Warnbecker?” Fench gulped his whisky. “Heard of him, sure. Rich monkey. Didn’t know him very good. I never mixed with the cantaloupes. Been hauling cotton, mostly. From Mexico, across the line into Calexico. What’s about Warnbecker?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Dead? Ain’t that somep’n? Have another drink.”

  Rake said: “Okay. So you haven’t been up beyond Calexico much? Not up around El Centro?”

  Fench leered. “Hell, no. Nothing up there for me. I work mostly on this side and have my fun here, too.”

  “Working now?”

  “Just got off the job a few hours ago. Was down to the ranch, ten miles out from here, for the last coupla days.”

  Rake said: “Have another, my boy.” He put money on the bar. “Got to go now. See you sometime.”

  Fench was disappointed. “Going? Hell, can’t you—”

  “Up to a place called Lebber,” said Rake.

  He nodded to Slummer and they left Fench leaning moodily against the bar. In a few moments they were headed back over the international ditch, into Calexico.

  “Lucky we ran into Fench,” Rake said.

  “Fench? He drives a truck mostly. He’s good company, but—oh, I dunno”

  “I feel the same way,” said Rake. “He’s part phony.”

  “Phony?”

  “Well, for one thing he was faking that drunk act.”

  Slummer was suddenly interested. “You mean Fench has something to do with this setup?”

  “Maybe working for Hop Ling. The Chinaman could’ve taken me right along from the cafe to that room I went to. But he handled it in a roundabout way—maybe so he could tip Fench off.”

  “So old Hop Ling is mixed up in bumping Warnbecker, huh?”

  Rake said: “I didn’t say that.”

  “I wouldn’t care if he was. Ling is a good guy. Maybe he ain’t always lawful, but he’s free with his dough when a guy needs it. When he has anyone bumped off his reasons are okay.”

  Rake peered along the northbound highway. He said; “Is it easy to get out of this valley—without being caught?”

  “If you figure on making it outa here to some other part of the country,” Slummer warned, “it’s no cinch. It never is in desert country is like this. You’d have to take the highway, train or plane, and all of ‘em are easy for the law to watch.”

  “So I thought.” Rake grinned. “And so I won’t try. Warnbecker said something about a guy named Curver. You said Curver was one of Warnbecker’s ranchers. Where’s his place?”

  “Not far. It’s the ranch nearest the shipping shed.”

  “We’ll go there first. What kind of a guy is Curver?”

  “Swell if you treat him right. Tough if you do him dirt.”

  “And Curver thought Warnbecker did him dirt, eh?”

  “That’s the talk, anyway.” Slummer swung the car into a dirt road. In a minute he stopped. A hundred yards beyond, a large shed and a couple of smaller ones were ablaze with light, the ends of the sheds wide open. Bare-bodied men were still busy, crate-making, sorting, packing. Slummer said: “Curver’s the guy in the shirt.”

  Rake walked rapidly toward the big shed. The man in the shirt saw him. He was a slender sinewy man whose movements were nervous. He had gleaming gray eyes in a lean face, eyes that were alert and suspicious, yet direct and unafraid.

  Rake said abruptly: “Mr. Curver, I suppose you know what happened to Warnbecker?”

  “Someone phoned out awhile ago,” Curver growled.

  “Too bad, eh?” Rake prompted.

  “It’s great,” snapped Curver.

  “Okay, if you feel that way. You go into El Centro often?”

  “Several times a day.”

  “Even in the busy season?”

  Curver seemed exasperated. “In any old season. My wife is ill in El Centro. She’s ill—bedridden. I go in to see her several times a day, business or no business, Warnbecker or no Warnbecker.”

  Rake’s eyes gleamed. He said, not unkindly: “Friend, I’ll bet your alibi is wearing awful short pants.”

  “What the devil do I care about an alibi?”

  “Just a guess.” Rake suddenly whipped out the square of black silk cloth. “Remember this?”

  Curver stared at the cloth. He peered at Rake again. He
said: “You look smart enough, but your line of talk is nuts.”

  “Good.” Rake thrust the cloth back in his pocket. “If I were you, I’d start building an alibi—”

  A car roared in from the road and came to a dusty stop a few yards away from them. Its headlights flooded them with light. Rake recognized the two men who got out; the two officers from El Centro, Cline and Lagos.

  Rake said to Curver: “I didn’t want to see ‘em, either.”

  The officers scrutinized Rake as intently as they did Curver. And Cline said: “Thought you were going to stay out of this, Mr. Rake?”

  “Just looking into farming prospects,” Rake said. “Cotton and cantaloupes.” Rake grinned. “You figure now that maybe I’ve been working with Curver all the time, eh?”

  Cline didn’t seem to like that. He turned quickly to Curver. “Well, I guess everybody knows you’ve been sore enough to kill Warnbecker.”

  “I certainly have,” exploded Curver. “He robbed me on last year’s crop, and I couldn’t get away from him this year because he had my place tied on contract. He practically made a pauper out of me—and made it impossible for me to give Jean—my wife, the—” Curver seemed suddenly to break down.

  Cline said: “Sure. But murder is murder. You got an alibi?”

  “Probably not,” Curver said bitterly.

  Lagos put in: “Another thing, Curver. Looks like the killing was done with a rifle. Not many rifles around here—almost all small arms. You got a rifle, ain’t you?”

  “I have.”

  “Let’s see it.”

  “This way,” Curver said.

  He first went over to a shed and got a box, then led them to a small house. It was over a hundred yards from the nearest shed. It had three rooms, but not a stick of furniture in them. Curver took them into one of the rooms, stood on his box, reached up to a high shelf. He brought his hand down empty, a look of amazement on his face.

  Alan Rake said: “It’s gone, eh?”

  Curver was speechless. And Cline said: “Sure it’s gone. Curver couldn’t bring it back here after shooting Warnbecker. He’s ditched it somewhere.”

 

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