The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard Original)

by Unknown

  Three days later finds me in Clinton, a little burg of three or four thousand and the county seat. But don’t get the idea that it was a one-horse town; even the farmers went about in flivvers and some of the people went about in real sporty cars. You’d never take it for a town that was in the grip of some half-baked organization.

  The hotel, though, was the regular thing; I guess it had stood the same way for twenty-five years; it was called the Clinton House, which don’t show much originality.

  And with all my plans for my work being secret I wasn’t there above half an hour when Earnest Thompson blows in. He was all excited; the Klan had come out in the paper that they had nothing to do with the disappearance of Willie Thompson and those who thought different had better hold their tongues. He showed me the clipping and sure enough it was a direct threat at the whole town.

  But that wasn’t why he come. Since seeing me he had received an anonymous letter hinting that his son knew something about a suspected Klan murder over at a town twenty miles away.

  “I think he did, too,” Thompson said. “I think that he kept it from me, but was going to give the information out at the trial. He didn’t tell me all he knew because he feared for my safety.” Of course that was news, but it wasn’t good policy for him to drop right in on me. Why, if the Klan had half an eye out they’d know what was in the wind, and results proved that they did.

  That very night Old Thompson was visited in his home by a number of white-robed figures and—well—we’ll put it down to the fear that something might happen to his boy—but anyway he out with the whole story of how he had hired me to come down. He may have had some excuse; his nerves may have been shot to pieces, but this same Thompson sure lacked guts.

  And the next day he lights out of town and calls me up. He tells me what happened and how he was forced to tell and then up and begs me to stay on the case. And what’s more, he promises to double the check. What do you think? I stayed on, of course. I felt like bawling him out, but I didn’t. The whole world might know why I was there and perhaps it wouldn’t do this gang no harm to learn the sort of a man they had to deal with.

  And that night the Klan honored me with a visit. Three of them there were and they must have put on their getup in the hall. Yep, all dolled up like the heavy chorus in a burlesque show they walked in on me.

  Two of them stood one on either side of the door, rubbing their knees together, acting like they was a couple of businessmen what didn’t like playing the fool. But the third lad was different—he was the real thing and no fake about him. He was big and powerful as he swung across the floor and faced me. He stood so a moment, glaring down at me through the slits in his white hood.

  I just sat there in the chair looking him over and smoking; then I grinned. I couldn’t help it. I could see the deadly threat coming.

  “You are not a member of the Klan—the Great Invisible Empire?”

  And he out with the last three words like he was announcing the batteries for the day’s game at the Polo Grounds.

  “No, I ain’t,” I tell him, pretending to wipe away a tear. “I wanted to join, but—well, you see I catch cold so easy. I got to stick to the pajamas.”

  But he never made a break, so I see I was wasting my time kidding that bird. So I made things easy for him.

  “Don’t try to figure it out,” I says. “Come spill the sad news. Surely this ain’t no pleasure call; out with the dirt!”

  I don’t know if he got it all or not, but he come out flat-footed and didn’t make no more bones about it. And I’m giving him credit for a lad that talked like he meant business.

  “You have caused the displeasure of the Klan; we want no hired gunmen in Clinton,” he said. “You have twenty-four hours to leave town—twenty-four.”

  “You couldn’t make that twenty-five,” I chirp. “You see, I want to attend your next meeting and sort of bust things up.”

  Oh, I just wanted to get him mad.

  And it worked!

  “You have heard me.” I can almost see him glare through the slits. “And be careful of that tongue of yours, for I have a gun—a gun that I draw and shoot in one second.”

  And then he finished things up with a string of oaths that, if not original, were at least well chosen.

  But he was speaking my language now—this gun business—and I just stood up and faced him.

  “Listen, Dough-head.” And I wasn’t talking for pleasure now. “So you have a gun that shoots in one second, eh? Well, let me give you some advice. If that’s the best you can do you had better keep that gun parked. I’m telling you flat that you’d be exactly one-half a second too late.”

  His hand half lowered to his side.

  “If you don’t believe me try it,” I encouraged. “Your two friends there can carry you out.”

  Was I bluffing? Say, I was talking gospel and he knew it.

  Then, when he didn’t try nothing, I whipped out my gun and covered the three of them. And with that I make a grab and pull off the big lad’s hood. I just wanted to get one look at his map and one look was enough—you could a picked him in a straw hat at Coney Island. He had a chin like one of the Smith Brothers or both of them—all whiskers and all hair and eyebrows.

  “Listen, Feather-Face.” I pound his ribs gentle like with the automatic. “You ain’t dealing with no women nor a half-grown boy nor a distracted father now. You’ll give me twenty-four hours, will you? Well, I’ll give you twenty-four seconds to get out. And the next time you come around here I’ll take that night shirt off you and shove it down your throat—whiskers and all.”

  I was mad now and meant it. This white-hooded frightener of women and children couldn’t come none of that high-falutin game on me, and what’s more I didn’t like the names he had called me.

  “You’ve had one look at my gun,” I told them as they sneaked out. “The next time you have cause to see it you’ll see it smoking; now—beat it!”

  Which they done. Say, them boys had never had such a shock in their lives. I just sat down on the bed and roared.

  The next morning I find a little slip under my door; it’s from the hotel manager and it asks me to leave. So the Klan had opened up. Of course, I wasn’t ready to go and I knew that they couldn’t drive me out. You see, the town was about half and half; the authorities didn’t side with the Klan nor they didn’t come out against it; everybody was just sitting tight to see which way things was going to break. But if I was going to do a little gunning I’d need my night’s sleep and if this manager was against me it would keep me pretty well on the jump. But I just shrug my shoulders and beat it downstairs, thinking things over.

  I nod good morning to Jimmy O’Brien, the clerk. He’s a real friendly lad and his handle tells me that he ain’t no Klansman. There was no one else in the lobby, so I just wander to the doors and look out. And through them doors I catch a slant which is sure surprising even way off in that little Western town. Three men are coming down the street—single file—and there’s about twenty-five feet between; right down the center of the main street they walk. Each has a gun swinging from his shoulder, but it don’t hang over his back; it’s swinging loose and mighty handy under the armpit—just a movement and it’s ready to shoot.

  The leader is a man which I place at over sixty; he’s small but stocky—the other two must be in the thirties, big strapping giants of men.

  I half turn as a figure comes to my side; it’s Jimmy O’Brien. Of course I know that he’s heard about my visitors last night. He was in the lobby when they beat it out.

  “Who’s the three desperadoes that take the middle of the road—more of the Klan?” I ask the clerk.

  “No,” says Jimmy. “That’s Buck Jabine and his two sons. They are the only ones in town that openly defy the Klan. This Buck Jabine killed three men back in the old days—no, they ain’t a family to fool with.”

  I could see that as they tramped up the street; they look business, all three of them.

  “Yo
u see,” Jimmy explained, “Buck talked against the Klan and then he began to get threatening letters. But he didn’t leave town. He opened up with a warning that anyone found on his property after dark would be shot. This Buck shoots straight and quick—since that warning he ain’t had no trouble—only letters. But they are coming here.”

  He breaks off suddenly.

  The next minute they come in the door—one, two, three.

  The old man takes one look around and then comes straight up to me.

  “Stranger,” he says, “I take it that you’re Race Williams. Last night’s doings got about a bit—shake—my name is Buck Jabine.”

  With that he sticks out his fin and the two sons do the same, though there ain’t a yip out of them.

  “I hear you ain’t none too friendly with the boys, neither.” I try to make things pleasant.

  But he don’t smile; he just looks at me. He’s a chap what takes things seriously.

  “Well.” Buck just stroked his chin. “I just wanted to shake hands with you and tell you that I have a place out in the country—about two mile. Any time you want a place to sleep peaceful walk out—the house will be open to you day and night. I don’t take no sides, mind you. Buck Jabine is only interested in his own family—he don’t stand for no interference—but my house is open to you, wide open.”

  I thank him and then tell him about the manager’s little note—just in the way of light conversation, you know. I’ve made up my mind to stick at the hotel.

  “When they put me out of a bum joint like this, they’ll put me out in a cloud of smoke,” I tell Buck.

  “Humph!”

  He strokes his chin again; then turns sudden and struts straight into the manager’s office.

  I try to get sociable with the sons, but don’t make a go of it. I’m looking for dope on the Klan, but there is nothing doing. Oh, they’re friendly enough, but don’t go in for conversation. They don’t even open up with a grin when I make wise cracks about night shirts and pajamas. They just stare at me. I could see that I’d have a right down sociable time over at their place.

  “Yes” and “No” and a few “I don’t reckons” is the best I gather, though once one of them opens up enough to ask me the time. So I guess the old man does the talking for the family; all together, it looks like a closed corporation.

  And then Buck trots out of the office and the manager is right on his heels. My, but that manager is all smiles and tells me how it was all a mistake and begs me to stay on. And he means it, too, for behind that smile he looks real worried. Of course I ain’t so stupid but that I know that this Buck Jabine has something to say about it and I sort of pity the manager. He’s between Buck and the Klan and he ain’t got much choice. Still, I think he was doing the right thing. He couldn’t tell if the Klan would get him or not, but Buck—well, one look at Buck was enough; him and that family of his was all business.

  “Ain’t you worried about something happening to your house while you’re away?” I ask Buck when he’s leaving.

  He just gives me the up and down for a minute and then he draws back his upper lip; I think it was meant for a smile, but I ain’t sure. Then he chirps:

  “There ain’t no danger; Sarah’s home and the boys’ women. No, there ain’t no danger.”

  With that they all file out and tramp down the center of the street—the same single file. So I see that this is sure one nice little family.

  Now, this Klan ain’t as secret as what I had thought. After Buck leaves, Jimmy, the clerk, up and gives me quite an earful. Sometimes them birds have even paraded right down Main Street and more than once they have taken out some citizen and tarred and feathered him. Then they’ll bring the victim back and dump him out of a car right in the center of the Square by the fountain. See’n’ they’ll forget to put his clothes on again would seem like they lacked modesty.

  When there were any deaths about the State due to the Klan’s midnight playfulness, why, the Klan would come out in the paper denying it and announcing that they would expel any member who had a hand in it. Which is real generous of them, you’ll admit; open-handed and fair-minded, to be sure. And then Jimmy outs with some real news: there’s a Klan meeting that night. It’s an open secret that they’re taking in new members. So I see it ain’t a falling organization but a growing one and I’d better work fast.

  All day long that hotel is watched—there ain’t no doubt about it. Three lads in the front and one out in the back. People what drop in dodge me like they would the plague and the general feeling is that I’m a marked man. Well, they may get me; the thing’s possible; but if they do, the local undertaker is going to have more business than he’s had in years.

  Jimmy’s a good scout and when he goes off duty about noontime he sneaks up and has a chat with me. So I take him into my confidence to a certain extent, and I believe if he didn’t have a wife and kid he’d a been with me forty ways from the ace.

  But he tells me where the Klan meeting place is and how people don’t dare go near it. Then he tells me that he has a bicycle and after I bit I get his promise to hide it in a barn down the street behind the hotel; the fellow what owns the barn goes by the label of Dugan—enough said!

  I watch out pretty carefully all evening and I don’t see more than one chap watching the back of that house—so at nine o’clock I’m ready to pull off my little trick; I’m bent on joining in the festivities of the Klan.

  There’s a little partition off the back of the hotel and I get Jimmy to slip me in there unnoticed. Out in the dark of the tiny rear window I can see the solitary figure about ten yards away; it’s a lonely little alley and no one else passes by. So I spring my game. I take my pillowcase, which I’ve made to look like a Klan hood, and, slipping it over my head, I light a candle and stand there in the open window; after a bit I give the Klan Salute—then I beckon the distant figure to me.

  As I say, the whole Klan is a child’s game, and that duck comes to me on the run; he most likely thinks that things are arranged for tarring and feathering me. As for me, well—I just club my gun and bat him over the head and he falls pretty—right in a nice dark spot.

  Five minutes I wait and then, when there’s nothing doing I step out the window and beat it down the alley. A few minutes later I’m on the bike, speeding out toward the open country and in the direction which Jimmy give me where lays what is known as the Klavern or meeting place.

  All I need now is the regulation night shirt and I’ve laid plans to get that. Jimmy has seen the gang going to the meetings and knows the place that they stop their cars and put on the regalia. And what’s more, he’s told me about a lad whose business kept him late in town. It was this cluck that traveled alone in a Ford that I was looking for.

  I guess I got to that spot a bit ahead of time. It was just around a bend in the road and very lonely. There was a nice place well back in the bushes where I parked my bike and waited. The night was dark, but I could see fairly well and in the course of twenty minutes about three cars pulled up and the occupants got all rigged out in their ghostly costumes. They’d just slip on the white robe and then crown themselves with the hood. If one party was decorating themselves there the next party would stop farther down the road.

  After that I waited near an hour and then my man comes; all alone in a Ford he is and in some hurry. He don’t even get out of the flivver, but tries to do the lightning change right in the car.

  Say! I caught him with one arm in and one arm out of the shirt. Surprised! Why, he opened and closed his mouth just like a fish and a pretty far gone fish, too.

  “None of your lip,” I tell him when he started to spout about the terrible things that would happen to me. “You know me, kid.”

  I tickled his chin with my gat.

  “I handled three of your breed last night. Come! Jump out of that night shirt or they’ll bury you in it.”

  No laughter in my voice then—when I’m gunning I’m a bad man—none worse!

  Enough! He
showed good sense and handed over the whole outfit. It didn’t take me more than a couple of minutes to bind him with the rope I had brought; then I tied him to a tree out of view of the road and, jumping into his car, I drove away.

  A few hundred yards or more down the road I see the turn I’m looking for and a short drive down a rough lane and things are starting. A white-robed figure holds up his hand and stops me; of course in my robe he takes me for one of the clucks. I spot this lad for the Klexter, the outer guard.

  “White and Supremacy,” I say like a regular.

  After that it’s gravy; I go through my stuff which I got from Dumb Rogers. After a Salute he passes me and I turn into a field where there is near fifty cars parked.

  Here I have to go through the speeches again with the Klarogo, the inner guard. But everything is rosy and pretty soon I pass down a narrow glade and into the Klavern itself. It was a fairly large open space surrounded by the thick woods—a good place to scatter if the cops come, I guess. There were near a hundred gathered about and when I slip in the show is already on.

  “Imperial One, the men who seek admission to our legions stand prepared,” a voice suddenly booms out, and with that all the robed figures gather about in a circle.

  Then a lad with a cross all lit up breezes in and behind him march about eight lads—the candidates—looking for their ten dollars’ worth. And they got it; in wind at least. I never heard so much talking in my life.

  The Head Goblin, a bird fixed up in white and scarlet, lets off steam about sending everybody to hell while the Klan took care of law and order. It was bum stuff, most of it, and if I’d a been one of the candidates I’d a hollered for my money back.

  The members is not called brothers or anything like that; they are called citizens and the initiation is called being naturalized, and they take an oath which would knock you cock-eyed for length, bad English and rotten principles. And then the new citizens swear never to tell anything nor give any evidence against a Klansman unless he’s committed rape, willful murder or treason. Hot dog! Burglars, counterfeiters, and check-raisers welcome—also arson might be appreciated—I don’t know. But I sure do see why Dumb Rogers was sore and why all the crooks are joining.