El Diablo

by Brayton Norton

  CHAPTER XVI

  THE BAITED PAWN

  Of all the many saloons that made up Legonia's water-front the "RedPaint" was the favorite resort among the alien fishermen. The universalpopularity of the establishment was due mainly to three causes. The bossowned the place and paid off there between moons. Credit was freelygiven to all fishermen in good standing, and thirdly, Mascola's emporiumenjoyed full police protection.

  During the evening when Gregory made his first call at the Lang hill thetide of revelry at the "Red Paint" was at the flood. It was pay-day andthe boss was in high good humor. Either occurrence was always good for anumber of rounds of free drinks. But when Mascola was happy on pay-day,the liberality of the "Red Paint" was indeed prodigal.

  And Mascola was happy. Within the frosted glass enclosure that markedoff his saloon-office from the bar, the Italian sat at his desk in agenial glow of good humor. The glow was purely physical, superinduced bythe rapidly disappearing contents of the slim-nosed bottle which stoodat his elbow. The good humor was due to other causes.

  As he re-filled his glass, Mascola smiled. It hadn't been such a bad dayat that. He'd showed somebody something about albacore fishing. And he'dshow them a lot more before he got through. Things were coming his waytoo from other sources. He took out his leather wallet and ran over anumber of bills of high denomination. Then he took another drink andsmiled at the ceiling. It had been such easy money. Much easier thanfishing.

  A knock sounded at the street-door. Mascola shoved the wallet again intohis pocket and hastily removed his bottle of Amontillado.

  "Come in," he called.

  Boris entered, clumsily filling the doorway with his great bulk andbringing with him a strong odor of garlic and Jap _sake_. For a momenthe stood on the threshold, blinking stupidly. Then he pulled the doorclosed with a bang.

  Mascola's eyes grew hard as he dropped his hand into a drawer of hisdesk which stood open.

  "Stay where you are," he commanded. "What do you want?"

  "Job," muttered the Russian thickly.

  Mascola shook his head and an annoyed frown darkened his brow. "Gohome," he said. "You're drunk. You're no good. I fired you. Don't wantto talk."

  Boris made no move to comply with his order. His small eyes rovedrestlessly about the room for a moment, then came to rest on theItalian.

  "Boys making fool with me all time," he said. "Say I can no lick woman.I get damn mad. You give me job. I show you."

  Mascola shook his head. Leaning closer to the swaying figure, he said ina low voice: "Show me first."

  Boris's face became purple with rage as the import of Mascola's answerfiltered into his thick skull. He clenched his huge hands and raisedthem above his head, mumbling all the while in his own tongue. Then hisarms fell to his sides and his pig-like eyes gleamed with belatedcomprehension. Licking his dry lips, he said: "Give me drink. I show youto-night."

  The Italian slipped a hand into his pocket and tossed him a two-dollarbill. Stumbling to the door the Russian found Mascola close by his side.

  "Wait," he commanded. "Sit down. There."

  He pointed to a chair screened from the street entrance by a large steelsafe. When Boris had deposited his great bulk therein, Mascola walked tothe door and looked up and down the street. Then he returned and graspedthe Russian by the arm.

  "Go," he said. As Boris reached the door he shoved him out with thewhisper:

  "Don't forget. You've got to show me."

  Joe Blagg was among the last of Mascola's men to come for his money. Andthough he said nothing when he signed the pay-roll, Blagg nursed agrouch against his employer. Mascola had cursed him out that morningand no livin' dago could do that. He'd get square, or his name wasn'tJoe Blagg.

  The bartender shoved a black bottle toward him as he pocketed his money."Boss's treat," he announced.

  Blagg's animosity thawed sufficiently to permit him to accept theproffered drink, then flared again under the influence of the fieryliquor. He called for another and gulped it down. Then Mascola's whiskybegan to talk. He'd make the dago eat his words. That's what he'd do.Two more drinks and he decided to have it out with Mascola at once.

  "Where's boss?" he inquired thickly.

  The bartender jerked his shorn head in the direction of the frostedglass enclosure.

  Blagg drew back, his ardor somewhat chilled to find his quarry so near.Perhaps it was better to figure out just what he was going to say beforehe tackled the boss. Deciding that he could plan better in the open air,he walked unsteadily to the swinging doors and staggered across thestreet. There he leaned against the bulkhead and looked back at the RedPaint.

  A flash of light illumined the side-walk in front of the saloon officeand Blagg saw Mascola's figure silhouetted in the open doorway. He waslooking up and down the street. As the fisherman drew back into theshadow the Italian disappeared to return a moment later shoving a burlyfigure before him.

  Blagg became even more discreet as he recognized Mascola's guest. Boriswas a bigger man by far than himself. And yet Mascola was putting himout with no trouble at all. The observation had a sobering effect uponthe fisherman. His militant air changed quickly to one of craft. He'dquit the boss and pull a lot of the boys along with him. He could hitthe dago better that way. They were all pretty sore at being bossedaround by a "furrinor" anyway. And work was plenty up around Frisco. He'dround up a bunch of the boys right away.

  With that idea in view he walked along the water-front and turned againto the row of saloons. Then he noticed that Boris was lurching alongahead of him. He saw the Russian push open the door of the "Buffalo" andheard the derisive roar from within which greeted his entrance. Scentingamusement at Boris's expense, Blagg followed. When he elbowed his waythrough the press of fishermen who thronged the "Buffalo" bar, he sawthe Russian surrounded by a jeering crowd.

  "Got a job yet, Boris?" some one called.

  "He's workin' for the Lang girl now," put in another.

  Boris snarled and, flinging his tormentors away from him, made his wayto the bar, jabbering excitedly in Russian to Pete Ankovitch.

  Blagg moved nearer.

  "What's he sayin', Pete?" he asked.

  Ankovitch laughed.

  "He say everybody go to hell," he interpreted. "He say he show Mascolahe ain't 'fraid of no woman."

  Blagg strove to focus his mind on the Russian's words. Boris was soreas a boiled oil, crazy as a coot. And he had it in for the Lang girl forcausing him to get the can. The Russian's reference to Mascola causedthe furrows in Blagg's brow to deepen. Both of them were sore at thegirl. Were they framing up? If they were he'd block the boss's game.He'd wise her. She'd always shot straight enough with him anyway, and hewas a fool to have ever quit her. If Mascola was baiting the Russian topull off some dirty work he'd----

  Blagg paused in his tentative plans for outwitting Mascola as his eyefell on Neilson. There was the man he wanted to see. Swan could swingthe Swedes into quitting the dago. All thought of Boris vanished fromBlagg's mind as he drew Neilson aside and conferred confidentially withthe big Swede in a drunken whisper. When he looked about for the Russiansome time later, Boris was gone.

  Blagg drained the contents of his last glass with a wry face, and walkedunsteadily to the door. Colliding with a man on the sidewalk, heregained his poise by leaning heavily against a sandwich sign-board.

  "Hello, Blagg. Seen any of my men inside?"

  Blagg shoved back his cap and eyed the speaker with drunken suspicion.When he recognized the cannery owner, a furtive light crept into hiseyes and he beckoned Gregory closer. Gregory noted the mysterious mienand promptly credited it to the man's state of intoxication. He was onthe point of hurrying on when Blagg's words stayed him.

  "Tell Lang girl t' look out for 'self."

  "What do you mean?"

  Gregory grasped him by the arm and whirled him about.

  "Was in s'loon," Blagg muttered, striving to focus his bleary eyes uponhis auditor. "Damn Russian there, too. Boys's kiddin' him an
' Boris tol''em he was't 'fraid no woman. Said he'd show 'em."

  "Does he live over there?" Gregory asked quickly, pointing toward theLang hill.

  Blagg shook his head and nodded in the opposite direction.

  "Down there," he corrected. "Think he----"

  But Gregory did not wait to hear what Blagg thought.

  Blagg looked after him stupidly. He had had no time to speak of hishatred or suspicion of Mascola. But he'd show the dago yet.

  A crowd of fishermen lumbered along the sidewalk toward him, talkingexcitedly. Leaning against the sign-board, Blagg was able to gather fromtheir conversation that a fight had just occurred at the Red Paint. Someone had tried to get square with the boss and Mascola had knifed him.

  Cold sweat broke out on Joe Blagg's forehead. To his whirling brain cameother instances he had heard of how Mascola always got square with thosewho opposed him. Blagg's whiskyfied courage began to ooze. Perhaps hehad gone too far. Suppose Neilson, with a desire to get in strong withthe boss, should tell Mascola that he, Joe Blagg, was trying to start astrike among the alien fishermen? And a Swede liked to talk too. Why notget out of town for a while till the thing blew over? He wasn't afraidof the dago and his whole crowd. But what was the use of starting a row?Besides he was ready to move anyway. He reflected suddenly that themidnight train for Frisco stopped at Legonia on signal. That would givehim time to throw his stuff together. He had already drawn his money.Why not hit the grit?

  * * * * *

  As Jack McCoy took his way down the hillside he was acutely conscious ofthe fact that the evening had been a distinct disappointment. Why wasGregory there anyway? That talk about his forgetting his papers soundedmighty thin. How many times had the boss been there before? What was thematter with Dick to-night? She acted kind of funny, didn't seem to carewhether he stayed any longer or not.

  McCoy stopped by the roadside as he caught sight of a man runninghastily along one of the streets leading from the town. Whoever thefellow was he was sure in a hurry the way he was cutting 'cross lots. Asthe runner came under the rays of the corner arc-light, McCoy startedand peered intently after the departing figure.

  It sure looked like Gregory. And he was angling in the direction of theLang hill. The idea clung tenaciously. When he reached his rooming-houseit became an obsession. He decided to find out if the runner could havebeen his employer. Calling up the cannery it was some time before asleepy voice answered his summons.

  "Boss ain't here. Went out at eight and ain't been back since. Want toleave message?"

  McCoy snapped up the receiver and walked slowly into his room. So it wasGregory. Where had he been going at this time of night? And on the run,too. The forgetting of the paper was only a frame-up. Dick had actedfunny. Now he knew it was because she wanted to get rid of him.

  He sat on the bed, making no effort to remove his clothes. You're a poorfish, something whispered. Why don't you go and find out if they'redouble-crossing you? McCoy tried not to listen. For a long time hestared moodily at the floor. Then he rose and threw off his coat.Hastily replaced it and hurried to the door. He was ashamed of hissuspicions. But he simply had to find out.

  * * * * *

  There was a light still burning in the Lang cottage when Gregory turnedinto the walk. Perhaps he was foolish to have returned. Still it woulddo no harm to warn the girl.

  As he went up the steps he saw Miss Lang walking up and down the littlehall. Tapping loudly, he summoned her to the door.

  "Could I speak to Miss Dickie a moment?" he shouted. "It is somethingimportant."

  Aunt Mary came out on the porch.

  "If you wait a moment," she said, "my niece will be back. She left sometime ago to take some medicine over to one of our neighbor's sickbabies."

  Gregory's fears multiplied.

  "Where did she go?"

  "To the Swanson place just over the hill. It's the first place you'llcome to before you reach the Russian Valley."

  "I'll go meet her."

  He turned quickly and hurried down the path.

  Reaching the brow of the hill, he saw the lights of the Swanson cottageand slowed down to a walk. His fears for the girl's safety wereapparently groundless. The valley lay before him, steeped in moonlight.No sound disturbed the stillness save the far-off cry of the screaminggulls and the monotonous murmur of the distant sea. Walking slowly downthe road, grown high on both sides with sage and cactus, he caught aglimpse of a bulky figure in the path ahead.

  Looking again to the cottage only a few hundred yards down the road,Gregory saw the light flash out from an open door. For a moment it shonebrightly, then disappeared.

  As the man in the roadway heard the sound of footsteps behind him, hestepped quickly to the brush and faced about. Keeping well in the centerof the path, Gregory went steadily on with his eyes fixed upon the clumpof sage which sheltered the disappearing figure. It was Boris, without adoubt. No other man about Legonia possessed the giant proportions ofthe big Russian.

  Boris glared sullenly from the brush as he saw the advancing figurehesitate and turn toward him. Then he recognized the young canneryowner. What chance would he have to show Mascola now? The intruderthreatened the defeat of his cherished plans. The girl he sought wascoming up the hill. A few minutes more and----

  "What do you want, Boris?"

  The Russian's answer to Gregory's question came in a guttural snarl ashe staggered from the sage and flung himself upon the speaker.