Dangerous Legacy

by George Harmon Coxe

  “And thinking he’s about the greatest guy in the world,” Rankin added morosely.

  “That is why I did not go to her at once, why I wished to make sure of Sanchez first.”

  “It was a nice spot for me,” Rankin said, the memory of the dinner still fresh in his mind. “There I sit pretending you’re in the States, lying to your sister, and Sanchez giving me the fishy eye and knowing you’re right here all the time.”

  “I’m sorry, Spence. I did not know you would see Sanchez, and as I said it seemed best not to know each other for a day or so. I could not foresee these other things or know about Lynn, and there was no way to reach you. But soon we will be together,” he added with unaccustomed cheerfulness. “You will see.”

  “You saw Sanchez,” Rankin said.

  “This afternoon.”

  “Did you phone him this evening?”

  Ulio nodded. “I saw him this afternoon and told him I would phone him for his answer.”

  “What answer?”

  “I wanted to see his bill of sale for the mine. This afternoon he stalled and said he did not have it at the office. When I told him I would start action tomorrow unless he produced the paper he said he would do so tonight.” He grunted softly. “He wanted me to come to his place but I do not trust him that much. There are too many who work for him.”

  As he spoke he took out two automatic pistols and put them on the table. Then, from different pockets, he produced neat bundles of new hundred-peso notes. Slipping five of these from one pack for Rankin, he winked and said, “Don’t argue. I have forty-five thousand here. My friend said Marie was all right and so he kept everything for me.”

  Still too confused by what had happened to protest further, Rankin put the five bills away and picked up one of the guns, an American-made .32, and made sure it was loaded and cocked.

  “What makes you think this is any safer than Sanchez’s place?”

  “Because you’re here.” Ulio put the money in the table drawer, closed it. “I decided this afternoon that the meeting would be in this room. I knew Sanchez would come because he knows I can produce the original bill of sale my father had.” He picked up the second gun and opened the bedroom door. “You will wait here with the door closed but not latched and if I need you—”

  “Nothing doing,” Rankin said.

  “But—”

  “No. If I’m a bodyguard I stay here where I can do some good if I have to.”

  Ulio smiled patiently. “We agreed to meet alone, Spence. Sanchez said he would come alone, but I do not think he will, though I am sure he will come up here alone. I said I would be alone too, and I doubt if he will believe that either. I shall merely pretend to be alone so that we can have our talk, and he will do the same.”

  He shook his head. “No. I do not expect trouble tonight, but to be safe you will wait in here. If Sanchez is as smart as I think he is he will guess that someone is in here. That is why I expect no trouble with him. Listen!”

  Rankin heard it as Ulio grabbed his arm, the solid metallic sound of a car door closing. He nodded, stepped into the darkness of the bedroom and pushed the door shut, standing with his ear to the crack.

  His eyes, unadjusted yet to the blackness about him, were useless in that first minute so he waited there, listening, hearing no other sound outside. When finally the knock came at the outer door it sounded distant and unreal, surprising him until he realized the reason for it.

  This bedroom door was thick and heavy, muting the sound beyond so that when the voices began he could understand nothing that was said. Only the vague difference in pitch gave him any clue as to who was talking, but presently the pattern became clear and he felt that he would know when and if Ulio called.

  It was a comforting thought and he shifted his position slightly. He flexed his neck and shoulders to get the stiffness out, aware now that he had been keyed up without realizing it. Still alert but relaxed now, he put the gun in his pocket and kept his hand on it.

  He was never sure when the tension started again, nor did he know the reason until some seconds later. He heard no recognizable sound other than the muted mumbling from the room beyond. There was no movement, no indication that anything was wrong beyond the intuitive whispering that came from nowhere to demand recognition. One moment he was relaxed and impatient for the meeting to be over; the next his ears were straining and the premonition grew that something had changed and danger was close.

  When he realized how he felt he was instantly annoyed and refused to credit the impulse that made him want to look about. Instead he tried to reason, to tell himself that nothing was wrong except his nerves.

  It was only a second or two that he stood there arguing with himself and all the time the tension grew, tightening across his stomach and leaving emptiness behind. In spite of himself he held his breath, hearing now the pounding of his pulse. Then it came to him, this other shadow of a sound, and he knew with shocking clarity what it was—

  The sound of breathing.

  Not his own but unmistakably close. Behind him!

  Certain, now, no longer arguing with instinct but figuring the odds, he waited. For what seemed like an hour but in reality was no more than a second or two, he stood immobile, repulsing the impulse to turn. Deliberately, so there would be no sudden movement, he straightened. He got his weight balanced, knowing what he had to do.

  What it was that gave him away he did not know then or later. It may have been some unconscious movement of his head, the way he stood and held his breath; it may have been nothing that he did but simply that time had run out on him. Whatever the reason he had no chance. For in that instant that he made up his mind something hard hit him in the spine and a low, half-whispered voice said:

  “Stand still!”

  Rankin stood still, furious at his impotence, the picture and the scheme behind it discouragingly clear. Remembering what Ulio had said, he knew that Sanchez had, after all, come alone, sending his gunman here well in advance to search the place and be ready to act when the time came.

  This apparently was it. For now, the gun still in his back, an arm curled about him, clamping his neck in the creek of an elbow and pulling his head back against the man’s shoulder.

  “Easy!” the whispered voice commanded. “Over here!”

  Rankin let himself be led away to one side. The arm released him. Beyond the door the muted voices rose and fell and that made him think of Ulio and what came next.

  It was some slight slackening of pressure from the gun that tipped him off and, scarcely moving, he leaned slightly, shifting his weight. When the gun was withdrawn he was ready. The trouble was there was no time.

  He half turned, trying to duck at the same time, never able to see the man but, from the corner of his eye, the blur of movement above him as the arm swung down. He never quite made his turn. He did not see the gun at all, only the arm.

  Vaguely he heard the whispered voice again, urgency in its cadence now as though from some new exertion. “Just so you won’t bother the boss,” it said.

  Then, as he tried to throw up a protecting hand, something exploded against his skull and he felt himself start to fall as blackness vortexed about him.

  The first thing Rankin became aware of was the blinding pain in his head and the hot bright light burning his eyelids. He thought then that he was dreaming and it was such a horrible dream that he tried to move and found he could. Then he knew he was not dreaming.

  The pain in his head was real and nauseating. He was lying on something hard and when he opened his eyes he saw there was no hot bright light but only the yellow gleam of the oil lamp. Not thinking yet, he tried to sit up. When he couldn’t quite make it he rolled over. He got his knees under him, and his arms, and pushed. Somewhat to his surprise he found he could lift his head. Then, remembering where he was, he turned slowly, a strange, formless fear expanding in his chest.

  Ulio Kane lay on the floor at the foot of the table, his face and shoulders in its s
hadow. He was on his back, his ankles crossed and one arm outflung, his thin angular body pitifully still.

  “Ulio!” Rankin whispered, his heart sick. “Ulio!”

  He was on his feet then, seeing the fresh dark stain across the shirt where the coat had been opened. Numbed and incapable of thought, he stepped close and lifted the still warm wrist. At first he could not tell whether the pulse he felt was Ulio’s or his own, and tried again as the sickness welled in his throat.

  He knew finally. He saw the gun on the floor. He picked it up absently and it was Ulio’s and had not been fired. A pigskin wallet was visible beneath the coat front and he saw that it was half in and half out of the inside pocket.

  Unable then to touch it, he rose and stared sightlessly at the window, a sag in his shoulders and his rugged face slack as he asked himself what he could have done to prevent this and found no answer. Gradually the pain in his head reasserted itself and now that the first horrified impact of death had passed, with the sickness and shock still in him, he began to curse, slowly, bitterly, like a man who has had much practice and hate in his soul.

  He did not know how long he stood there but when at last he turned and brought the room into focus he saw the table and the partly opened drawer. Automatically he went to it and found it empty. He felt no surprise at this, nor did he seek an explanation. He looked round for a telephone before he remembered there was none; then, as his mind came back to the wallet, he thought of something else.

  The gun Ulio had given him was still in his pocket and he took it out as he went to the door. He did not look back, but went down the outside stairs, feeling his way since he could not see, and into the garage. If anything it was blacker here but he knew where the partition door was and went through it, stopping a moment in the little hall to orient himself.

  Two steps took him into the right-hand room and he dropped to one knee. Groping in the corner, not bothered by the darkness now because he was sure of himself, he found the brick Ulio had removed and took it out and slid the second brick over this space. He thrust his hand into the hole and found the metal box. When he opened it and found the envelope inside, the pressure lifted and a small sigh escaped him.

  He took his time then, making sure the papers were still inside the envelope. He put it back, replaced the box, and carefully fixed the bricks in place. Then, as he stepped from the room, he heard the sound.

  He stood still, startled, every nerve alert. He listened again, trying to identify the thing he had heard, this distant high-pitched sound, like a woman’s wail. When it was not repeated, he walked through the garage and up the stairs.

  A crack of light showed at the door’s edge. He noticed it but could not remember whether he had closed it or not, and since it was not now latched he pushed it open without a sound. Then he knew where the cry had come from.

  On her knees beside Ulio’s still figure was a slim, dark-haired girl in a blue-and-white checked dress. A red blazer lay in a heap where it had been dropped and she was rocking slowly back and forth, her face buried in her hands to mute still more her quiet sobbing.

  Rankin stopped, an unwilling witness. Shaken by the girl’s grief, he did not know what to say or do and waited, putting his gun away, until she moved. It may have been some sound he made, or the breeze along the floor, for suddenly her hands came down and she turned.

  For one brief instant she stared at him with tortured eyes, her face pale and streaked with tears, her mouth twisted. Then with startling quickness her eyes blazed and she turned on her knees, scrambling for something unseen beside her.

  Rankin moved with her, remembering the gun. He saw her snatch it up and turn back and this thing she was trying to do was stamped indelibly on her face.

  “Hey!” he said and was upon her as the gun swung up, clamping one hand over it and reaching for her with the other. Lifting her he twisted at the gun and it fell to the floor and she sobbed and struck at him so that he had to hold her close.

  Beneath the cotton dress her body was small and frail and he was too strong. She tried to kick, not talking but twisting and crying convulsively, and he put his leg between hers so she could not reach him.

  “Hey,” he said again. “Easy, baby. I didn’t shoot him. I’m Spence Rankin. I’m his friend.”

  As suddenly as it started it was over. Her body slumped against him, not because of what he had said but because there was no more strength to fight with and her grief was too great.

  “That’s better.” He drew back, still holding her arm. “Please,” he said. “I know it’s tough but you’ve got to hang on and help. You’re Marie Dizon, aren’t you?”

  She bobbed her head, not looking at him. She let him lead her to a chair and slumped there, head still down, while he picked up the gun. He kept talking, believing words a more effective sedative than silence.

  “We came in together this morning. He brought me here from San Francisco to help him. Look at me!” he ordered and watched her face lift. “You don’t think I killed him, do you?”

  She watched him, her lips parted and her dark eyes wide. “Who did?” she breathed.

  “Sanchez,” he said. “And now we’ve got to—”

  He never finished the sentence, for just then, and with no warning, someone knocked loudly at the door.

  Rankin stiffened. The girl gasped softly and her face grew tense.

  “Sit still!” he said and glanced at the gun he still held.

  Walking over to the door he turned the knob and threw it wide. Then he stared slack-jawed at Howard Austin and Lynn Kane while they stared back at him from the little landing.

  “Oh,” Austin said, surprise coloring his voice. “Hello. I didn’t know—I mean, he told me to be here at ten with Lynn.” He saw the gun then and stopped. He blinked twice while Lynn frowned uncertainly. “What’s that for?” he said.

  Rankin stepped back and they came in. He put the gun away, not looking at them now, waiting for what was to come. He heard Austin’s, “Good God!” and moved closer to Lynn.

  He felt her stop and stiffen beside him, one hand flying to her breast. He reached out to steady her.

  “Ulio! Oh, no!” she said, her face white with shock. “No!” she said again and started toward him.

  Rankin took her arm and stopped her. In spite of the horrible emptiness inside him he kept his voice even and commanding. “You’d better not,” he said. “It’ll only make it worse.”

  Then Austin had his cue and slipped an arm about her waist. “All right, dear,” he said, trying to guide her to a chair. “Please,” he said when she tried to pull away.

  “I’m all right now,” she said woodenly. “I know he’s dead.”

  Rankin waited until Austin got her settled. “There isn’t any phone,” he said. “Somebody’s got to get the police and it better be you, Austin. You’ve got a car and you know where to go. You’d better talk to headquarters while you’re about it because we’re going to need a good man.”

  Austin straightened. He looked at Marie and Rankin and down at Lynn. Finally he nodded and went out without a word.

  7

  LYNN KANE WATCHED THE DOOR CLOSE and her eyes, blinking now to keep the tears from spilling over, remained there as though purposely to avoid Spence Rankin and the lifeless figure on the floor. Her mouth, still pale, showed plainly her suffering but she neither moved nor made a sound, and Rankin, wanting desperately to comfort her, sensed some alien quality in her mood that told him any words of his would only make things worse.

  He swallowed hard and turned away, conscious now of the slow uneven sobbing that broke the quiet of the room. Marie Dizon sat with her head back against the top of the chair, her hands twisted tightly in her lap. Her eyes were closed and from beneath the dark lashes the tears oozed slowly, a drop at a time.

  Unable to stand her labored breathing or be a witness to her grief, Rankin went miserably into the bedroom. With the help of a match he found a lamp and got it going. He shoved the mosquito nets back fro
m the two iron beds.

  “Would you like to sit in there?” he said to Lynn when he came back.

  She looked at him then, deliberately, her eyes narrowed and no longer wet. Her mouth tightened and her voice was strangely bitter.

  “You knew Ulio was here.”

  “Yes,” Rankin said quietly. “I came in with him this morning. He asked me to—”

  “All the time you were at the house you knew.”

  “So did Sanchez. That talk about sending a cable was nothing but a gag.”

  She sat up. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Sanchez saw Ulio this afternoon. He came here tonight.”

  She caught her breath. Her eyes widened for a moment; then the fire came back in them.

  “That’s a lie!”

  “Is it?” Rankin felt his mouth stiffen and suddenly, unable longer to hold back all the things he felt, he wanted to lash out at her, to jar some sense into her. “Well, he was here. He had a thug planted in that room and when I went in so I could keep an eye on Ulio the guy slugged me.”

  “No,” she said.

  “Between the two of them they murdered him!”

  “Oh—” The word was an oath and she jumped up, her fists clenched. Her mouth opened and then, as though her very fury had choked back the words, she closed it tight and stamped into the bedroom.

  Rankin watched the door slam and all the old weariness came back. He blew his breath out. He glanced at Marie and though she watched him now her eyes were still wet. He asked her if she wanted to go in and lie down.

  She shook her head mutely and he moved up to her and gave her the handkerchief from his breast pocket. When she took it he gave her shoulder a squeeze and continued to the window. He was still standing there twenty minutes later when he saw the lights and heard the cars in the driveway.

  Howard Austin came in first, a little out of breath and looking very big beside the four Filipinos who marched in behind him. Two of these carried bulky cases. One, the best dressed of all, carried a physician’s bag, and the fourth, taller than the others, was bareheaded and carried nothing.