Long Live the Dead

by Hugh B. Cave

  The clerk had a good-natured boyish face and red hair. He grinned. “Never saw her before, sir.”

  “Know her name?”

  The clerk looked it up. “Señorita Carmen Molina. From Bogota.”

  Kimm made a low whistling sound. He wondered if the señorita would talk to him … if he went quietly to her room and knocked on her door and told her who he was. He lit a cigarette and thought about it, and thought probably it might be a mistake to show his cards without first sizing up the situation.

  There was nothing much he could do, he reasoned, until some of the seeds he had planted began to sprout. Still, this was no time for sleeping. He found a comfortable club chair near the stairs and sprawled into it, one eye shut, the other half open.

  Dozing, he wondered about the dead girl in Kelver City. It didn’t seem very important.

  The towhead from the plane basin walked into the hotel at eight-thirty that evening, stepped up to the desk and asked for Abel Kimm. The clerk sent him up to Kimm’s room and he knocked, got no answer, came down again. He looked around the lobby, peered into the dining-room. Finally he went back to the desk, scribbled a message. “See that Mr. Kimm gets this, will you?”

  The clerk slid the message into Kimm’s box and the towhead walked away, scowling.

  At that particular time, Kimm was busy.

  He had hung around the hotel all afternoon waiting for something to happen. Nothing had. At eight o’clock, however, Señorita Carmen Molina of Bogota, Colombia, had appeared. On the barest of hunches, Kimm had tailed her from the hotel.

  He was prowling now along a dusky street near the extreme end of town. The street lights were dim blurs in gathering darkness; old-world houses with mahogany spindles and iron lace frowned over him. A hot, humid smell of subtropic vegetation hung in the listless air.

  Just ahead, the beautiful visitor from South America strolled along with no apparent destination, and in no particular hurry.

  Kimm wished he were back in bed. But all at once he stopped short and caught a breath.

  There had been nothing human in sight a second ago—except, of course, the girl from Bogota. Now, between him and her, two crouching shapes had materialized, moving with silent, predatory swiftness toward the girl. They could have come from any of a dozen dark doorways or back yards. It didn’t matter. What did matter was that the girl had whirled, was facing them, and was screaming.

  Kimm darted forward, one hand fumbling with a harness under his left arm.

  The girl’s scream ended abruptly, smothered under a heavy paw that covered her mouth. She struggled. Kimm was mildly surprised that a creature of such delicate beauty could so suddenly be transformed into a clawing wildcat. He had an idea, as he ploughed into the mess, that he really wasn’t needed, that Carmen Molina could hold her own, if necessary, in a cage full of gorillas.

  Nevertheless, Kimm grabbed a handful of soiled shirt, yanked one of the girl’s assailants back and clubbed him Breathing hard, his nose whistling like a peanut roaster, he laid about him with the gun from his shoulder harness. He was a little man but he could be tough at times. Exceeding tough. And this was a time for it.

  The clubbed thug stumbled against a black iron fence, hung there a moment, and sagged. The other released the girl and aimed a fist at Kimm’s head. Kimm ducked.

  In the dim light a knife glittered. Kimm went under it, it swept down, slicing his outthrust arm, and he rolled under it, rose with his shoulder jammed against the man’s armpit. He thrust a foot forward for leverage, caught the man’s knife-arm and heaved. It gave him a lot of satisfaction to feel a human hulk, twice his own weight, go hurtling over his shoulder.

  The fellow landed on all fours, in a cat-crouch. He picked himself up and ran. Kimm scowled after him, retrieved his gun and the knife, and turned his attention to the girl.

  She was on the ground, straightening her skirt. She caught his proffered arm and pulled herself up, swayed a little. Kimm put an arm around her and eased her against the iron fence. With her hair mussed, a smudge across her mouth, her clothes twisted, she was even lovelier, he thought, than before. He stared rudely and said, “That was nice work.”

  She stared back at him, frowning.

  “Have you any idea,” Kimm asked, “what these thugs wanted?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well,” Kimm said, “perhaps we can find out.”

  He stepped away from her and looked down at the fallen thug. Out cold, the fellow lay on his back with one leg drawn under him, his head cocked at a queer angle. Kimm scowled and said softly, “Oh-oh. It’s you.”

  It was one of Captain Joe Bayha’s men from the Milly Mae. More precisely, it was the one with whom Kimm had held a conversation on the pier.

  Kimm tugged him to his feet, propped him against the fence. The girl came closer. The thug opened his eyes and blinked into Kimm’s face.

  “What’s the big idea, buddy?” Kimm said.

  The man licked his lips and stared. Kimm cocked a fist and showed it to him. “What the big idea?”

  The fellow mumbled something in Spanish.

  “Now in English!” Kimm snapped. “We’ve met before.”

  The man said in muddy English, “We was supposed to grab the lady here and take her to Munson’s Key. That’s all I know.”

  “Whose orders?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Kimm studied the man and saw a stubborn, thin-lipped mouth, hard eyes. He saw a creased, swarthy face which, from the looks of it, had been pounded more than once by hostile fists. He didn’t think a mere barrage of words would break down the man’s defenses.

  Shrewdly he said, “Would you remember for fifty bucks?”

  The fellow smiled crookedly. “I would if I could, mister.”

  “Where’s the Milly Mae?”

  The man shrugged. “Joe Bayha took her out this morning, early. I dunno where.”

  Kimm sighed. “Who was your pal here tonight?”

  “Dutchy Schmidt. He works for Bayha. He give me ten bucks to help him with this job. It’s a cinch if I could earn fifty more from you, just for information, I’d earn it.”

  “What’s your name?” Kimm snapped.

  The fellow clamped his mouth shut and looked away.

  Kimm said wearily, “All right, all right,” and gave the man a shove that sent him sprawling. He turned then and took the girl’s arm, walked her away. She limped a little, but she had straightened her clothing, wiped her face with a postage-stamp of lace handkerchief, and looked trim again.

  Kimm walked her back to the hotel. Crossing the lobby, he was stopped by a word from the clerk, who waved an envelope at him. He took the envelope in passing and shoved it into his pocket. When they reached the girl’s room, she took out a key and opened the door.

  Kimm went in with her. She seemed surprised.

  He sat down, lit a cigarette and stared at her. He said, “Your father is a Colombian merchant, Miss Molina.”

  She widened her dark, lustrous eyes at him. “How do you know that?”

  “My name’s Kimm. Abel Kimm. I work for Julius Macomber.”

  Carmen Molina sat down. After a moment of silence, she too lit a cigarette, waving Kimm back as he politely leaned forward to hold a match for it. “Well?” she said then.

  “It’s all rather complicated,” Kimm said. “In New York, Julius Macomber is under investigation by a government committee which has accused him of selling contraband, secretly monkeying with prices, et cetera. Basis of their claim is a hatful of letters supposedly written by Macomber’s daughter, who’s done a lot of traveling in S. A.

  “Fern—that’s her name—wouldn’t come to New York when Julius sent for her. She said the whole thing was ridiculous. Julius applied pressure, threatened her. No go. She tried to bargain with him. Told him she was madly in love with one Miguel Reurto, whom you seem to know, and if he’d give his consent to the marriage, she’d show up in New York in time to deny the letters.

  “Thi
s burned the old boy up. He informed her she could be dragged back as a witness, bodily, if he pulled strings. She melted under this barrage and promised to fly her own plane home.

  “Well, she didn’t fly it. She stayed on Reurto’s island. I got here in time to prevent her elopement with Reurto on the Milly Mae, a schooner owned by Captain Bayha, but I muffed it. I got to the island and found one of Macomber’s bitterest rivals camping there. Got back to Key West and ran into another one. And now Reurto is back—if he ever went away—and you’re here, and a couple of Bayha’s thugs make a pass at you.

  “What, may I ask,” Kimm concluded, getting his breath after the harangue, “is the answer?”

  The girl said quietly, “I don’t know.”

  “But you’re here.”

  “My father and Julius Macomber are good friends. They have done business together for years.”

  Kimm said, scowling, “Reurto works for your father.”

  “He is my father’s right-hand man.”

  “You came here to see him?”

  She hesitated. Kimm wished the business at hand were less pressing. He would have enjoyed sending down for a pot of tea, moving a little closer to the girl and turning the talk into more friendly channels.

  “I can’t answer that,” she said. “I’m sorry, too, after what you’ve done for me.”

  Kimm fumbled for another cigarette and pulled out of his pocket the envelope handed him by the clerk. He scowled at it, excused himself and opened it. He inhaled slowly and stood up.

  “I hope,” he said, “we’ll meet again.”

  Carmen Molina said nothing.

  Kimm opened the door, turned. “Joe Bayha’s thugs may try it again,” he warned her. “I’d be careful.”

  Kimm closed the door and went out.

  It was a dark night. A stiff breeze off the Gulf brought sea-smells and gull cries; you could peer into the dark, and see dim pin-points of light on ships riding at anchor. Or, with Abel Kimm’s vivid imagination, you could see the predatory ghosts of ancient pirate craft, smugglers; you could hear in the gull cries the screams of seamen on old-time traders snared by the treacherous Florida reef.

  Kimm prowled along the waterfront to the shack of Glee-son, the Great Unwashed, and thumped on the door. There was no answer. He pushed the door open, struck a match and found Gleeson asleep on the bed, cocooned in a nest of blankets that reeked of fish. He shook him awake.

  “You told me,” Kimm said, “you were a pilot in the war. That a fact?” “I told you I could play an accordian, too,” Gleeson said, grinning. “You want to hear me?”

  “I want you to fly me to the Dry Tortugas.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Now,” Kimm said.

  Gleeson swung himself off the bed and, as usual, reached for his boots. Tugging them on, he said, “You got a plane?” “I can get one.” “I wouldn’t do this for everyone,” Gleeson grinned. “But

  you’re all right, Kimm. I’m getting to like you.” They went out together, and, on the way to the plane basin, Kimm did some explaining.

  “The Milly Mae,” he said, “is at anchor off the Tortugas. Young fellow named Hale located her for me with his plane, and left a note for me at the hotel. There’s a girl on the Milly Mae, Gleeson—held aboard against her will, perhaps—and my job is to get her off. I’ll need help because Joe Bayha knows me.”

  Gleeson merely grunted.

  It took Kimm some time to locate the tow-head. He had grown tired of waiting, had drifted off to a barroom for a few drinks. He and Kimm talked; money changed hands. Kimm hurried back to the pier, where Gleeson was looking over the plane.

  “She’s a beauty,” Gleeson said. “All set?”

  “All set.”

  It was the second time in his life Kimm had been in the air. He didn’t say so. He took his place, hung on, and closed his eyes as the ship raced over the water.All the wind in the world, it seemed, tugged at Kimm’s shuddering frame in an effort to pluck him loose. He opened his eyes and looked down.

  The lights of Key West traced a delicate pattern far down in darkness. The plane roared west.

  Sixty-five miles later Kimm peered down at the velvet waters of a lagoon surrounded by a ring of small islands.

  There was a moon for a moment, slipping between clouds. It showed him the shadowed hulk of old Fort Jefferson, complete with courtyard and moat. It limned native homes under palm trees, whitened the rigging of a score or more ships of the kingfish fleet. He spotted the Milly Mae.

  Gleeson set the plane down lightly. He turned. “Now what?” he said, grinning.

  “Does Joe Bayha know you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Tell him,” Kimm said grimly, “Miguel Reurto sent you to fly Miss Fern Macomber back to Key West.”

  “You think he’ll believe me? That guy would suspect his own mother.”

  Kimm was thoughtful for a moment, then produced from his pocket a small gold cigarette lighter. It was not an ordinary lighter, and it had not cost an ordinary amount of money. Engraved upon it, neatly, was the legend: “To Miguel, with love, from Fern.”

  Kimm had palmed it from a table in the living-room of the island home of Miguel Reurto, in the belief that it might somehow come in handy. He thought probably it would come in mighty handy right now.

  “Show Bayha this.” He passed it over. “Reurto gave it to you for identification.”

  “What about you?” Gleeson scowled.

  Kimm hunched himself into as small a space as possible and made himself invisible except from a line of vision directly above the cockpit. “I’m not here.”

  The Great Unwashed gave him an approving grin, gunned the motor and sent the plane forward. He guided the ship neatly to the frowning stern of the Milly Mae, waved a flashlight and sent up a shout. He got an answer. A searchlight on the schooner’s deck swept the plane.

  After that it was remarkably simple.

  A boat was lowered, and Gleeson went aboard. He was gone about ten minutes, during which time Kimm kept under cover. When he returned, he politely handed Miss Fern Macomber into the rear cockpit, while the boat stood by.

  The girl lost her balance, stepped on Kimm and screamed. Kimm grabbed her. He sat her down abruptly, scrambled over her and barked an order at the pilot. A yell went up from the schooner’s boat, and the searchlight caught Kimm full in the face.

  The plane leaped under Kimm and dumped him. He caught himself. A gun spat at him from the schooner’s deck and the booming, cannon-like voice of big Joe Bayha hurled curses.

  Kimm slipped his own gun from its harness and threw a shot at the searchlight. The fact that he hit it—from a moving plane—forever after amazed him. The light went out. The plane soared into darkness. Miss Fern Macomber came out of her trance, flung herself at Kimm and began clawing him.

  He sat on her. A little out of patience by this time, he said gruffly, “Lady, you be good! Or else!”

  She wasn’t good; Kimm clipped her.

  Fern Macomber shrilled, “I’m warning you for the last time, you’ll spend the rest of your life in prison for this!” She had a terrible voice. It rose in a high shriek above the drone of the plane’s motor and raised hell with Kimm’s eardrums.

  She was a little thing, but she had a temper. What a temper! It went, Kimm supposed, with her pert, pug-nosed face, her reddish hair. Her eyes shed sparks at him. She was the only daughter of Julius Macomber and as such, had too much money. She was a spoiled brat but, in a way, Kimm liked her.

  He said quietly, “Now, now, honey, you’ll thank me later.”

  “I won’t thank you later! And I don’t believe Miguel is in Key West! He’s sick on board the Milly Mae, and you know it.” If glares could kill, hers would have left only a dark red smear where Kimm was sitting. “Now you listen to me!” she screamed. “Miguel was taken ill just before we left Key West. Mr. Bayha called a doctor, and the doctor said he had to have absolute quiet. The doctor said no-one could see him, not even me. And now you�
�you have the nerve to tell me …” She whipped her hands up to claw Kimm’s face again. Kimm grabbed them.

  “So that’s it,” Kimm said. “I wondered about that, honey. Smart, this Miguel of yours.”

  “You—!”

  “Shut up,” Kimm growled, “and listen. If Reurto played sick, it was a fake, the idea being to get you out of Key West without arousing your suspicions. There was nothing sick about Miguel Reurto when I saw him in Key West a few hours ago. You’ll find out. If you think he sailed with you aboard the Milly Mae, locked up in his cabin with a doctor, you’re plumb crazy.” He looked down at the approaching lights of Key West and was glad the journey was about over. It had been a turbulent one. “If he’d really been on board, why’d Bayha let you leave?”

  The girl was silent, biting her lip. When she spoke again, her voice dripped acid. “What are you planning to do with

  me?”

  “Daddy wants you,” Kimm said.

  “I won’t go to New York!”

  “Your father,” Kimm said firmly, “is in a jam. You’re his only out.”

  “It’s ridiculous! Miguel says—”

  “Miguel,” Kimm said, “is anxious to keep you out of New York. You can discount what he says. You’re going to New York—with Abel Kimm.” A thought suddenly occurred to Kimm and he gazed soberly into the girl’s face. Her lips curled. “By the way,” he said, “you might straighten me out about that plane of yours. The one that crashed. Or don’t you know it crashed?”

  The lights of Key West were closer.The girl’s face was suddenly stiff, her mouth quivering. “C—crashed?” she gasped.

  “In Kelver City, on the edge of the ’Glades.”

  It hurt. He could see it hurt, because the hate went out of her eyes and she clenched her hands, hard. She said uncertainly, “Was—was Carmen hurt?”

  “Carmen?”

  “Carmen Molina. She came up from Bogota with me and stayed a few days at Miguel’s place. I—I lent her the plane to fly to New York.”

  Kimm’s face did not betray him. It could be a poker face when the need arose and he sensed an ice-cold necessity, now, for concealing his emotions. Carmen Molina! Then the South American beauty at the hotel … the one he had saved from Bayha’s thugs …