The Second Pulp Crime

by Mack Reynolds

There was no moon. As they drew alongside the houseboat, Gil handed the man two ones and was thanked gratefully. The houseboat was huge, rising almost ten feet from the water. Gil tossed his gun case over the edge, waiting some moments after the soft thump on the deck. When nothing happened, he leaped, caught his hands, and pulled himself up and over.

  Oarlocks creaked as Charon pulled back to his interrupted slumber; two dollars richer.

  Everything was oddly quiet. Steam was rising from the black river. Manhattan was a dull glow in the skies. It was much cooler, but dank and unhealthy, somehow. Gil took off his shoes and cat-footed forward.

  He made directly across deck and down the side of the cabin to the lighted window. Bending almost double, he crouched beneath it—heard nothing. Then he raised slowly, peeking from one side. What he saw within caused his blond hair to come to attention.

  Rand and Myrna Bruce were embracing!

  The girl was clad only in step-ins…vivid blue silk ones. The sight of her generous breasts, mashed against Rand’s chest, caused Gil to grind his teeth.

  He had the gun case open and one of the forty-fives out, when the torrid tableau was torn apart. Myrna, holding her palms against Rand’s thin chest, laughed shakily.

  “When are we going to get married, Fred?” she asked.

  “Aw, baby, why bring that up now? You know we’re going to. What difference does it make when?” He tried to push her hands away, to grab her again, but she held fast.

  “I want to know—now,” she said firmly.

  Rand stepped back a pace, bringing his fists up and down across her forearms. Myrna dropped her hands and Rand stepped in, clutching her to him.

  “Forget it, baby,” he whispered raggedly. “Just love me…”

  Myrna brought up her right hand. Smack! Rand staggered away a step, the imprint of her palm against his cheek.

  “Why you…!” he began. “I wouldn’t marry you if…”

  Gil Markham throwing a leg over the sill, barked: “That’ll do, skinny. I’m running this show from now on!”

  In reflex, Myrna crossed her arms over her breasts, facing the window.

  “Gil…!” she breathed.

  Snarling after his surprise, Rand grated: “It’s the clown again. Always gumming somebody’s act!”

  An odd sort of detachment claimed Gil. He felt as if he were a fly on the wall, the only witness to the proceedings. Carefully he laid the gun case on a chair.

  “This time,” he said thinly, “I’m going to fold you up and feed you to the fish.”

  Rand backed off, suddenly white. There was no mistaking the steely intent of Gil’s words. Myrna Bruce, her eyes wide lakes of fright, finally lowered her hands and Gil almost forgot himself at the glorious sight of her unbridled, swaying breasts.

  Hastily Rand said, “If I had a gun—”

  Gil grinned coldly. “Swell,” he agreed, his hard blue eyes appraising the skinny racketeer. “We’ll make this a handicap race. I’ve got two guns here. One for each of us. We’ll all be even and see who can shoot fastest and”—he bared his teeth, strikingly white against his coppery akin—“straightest.”

  Rand picked his lip, his eyes slithering about. “Swell,” he echoed weakly.

  Gil opened the gun case and took one of the heavy weapons in each hand.

  “They’re both loaded to the hilt,” he said easily. “I’ll put one at each end of this table. We’ll square off three paces. Then—go for your gun!” He thrust a square chin forward. “And God help you if you miss!”

  Myrna, terrorized, was in a corner. Rand, shaking, nodded dumbly in agreement. Gil placed the guns on the table.

  “All right Rand! Take your place.”

  Yellow with fright, the skinny man obeyed, moving like an automaton.

  “Ready!” Gil snapped, back to the table.

  There was a wild shriek from Myrna. “Gil…look out!”

  Gil whirled. Rand had grabbed his forty-five, was bringing it up even as Gil made a dive for his own weapon. Thunder shook the room. Rand, wild in his nervousness, missed Gil by inches. Before the echoes of the shot had faded, Gil had his own gun. Rand pulled the trigger again, the whites of his eyes showing in terror. The heavy slug bit into Gil’s left shoulder, starting him on a spin.

  Gil caught himself, dug in his heels…squeezed the trigger.

  Mortal agony was in Rand’s shriek. The soft-nosed bullet, catching him high in the chest, almost lifted him from the floor. Once more Gil took fast but careful aim and fired. The second bullet, tearing into flesh and bone almost in the same spot as had the first, slammed Rand to the floor.

  He was dead before he hit…

  The silence was almost deafening. Gil pulled his eyes from the bloody figure nearly at his feet, moving to one side. Instantly he forgot he’d just killed a man. Myrna Bruce was moving toward him from her corner, her torso a white column above her silk step-in, her breasts swaying languidly with the movement of her walk.

  Her eyes sought his shoulder, widened. “Gil!” she cried softly. “You’re—hurt!”

  Pain was in Gil Markham’s shoulder for the first time. The wound itself had already clotted together, except for a thin trickle of blood which had wriggled down his arm to his hand. Absently, because the glorious nearness of the girl’s almost naked body was stirring his senses, Gil said, “It’s nothing. Nothing at all.”

  She was against him, pity in her eyes. “Oh—but it is. Let me wash it—” She started to turn away but both of Gil’s hands were on her waist.

  “It can wait,” he drawled thickly.

  She melted in his hungry clasp, kissing him with wild abandon. Pinwheels scampered dizzily through Gil’s brain as he braced himself against the searching undulations of her flaming body.

  Sudden glare erupted from the inky East River!

  It was like a knife. Gil grabbed the girl, pulling her to the floor.

  “The police!” he gritted. “Those shots must’ve raised hell. I’ve got to get away from here…quick!”

  Almost before he’d finished speaking, he had ripped off his shirt and trousers.

  Myrna was puzzled. “What of it! I saw everything. You killed”—she shuddered—“him in self-defense. I’ll testify for you.”

  Gil laid a tender palm on one of her breasts, kissing her lingeringly.

  “Thanks, honey. But I’m not worried about that. Did you ever hear Jack talk about the Texan?”

  The girl frowned for a moment. Then, slowly: “I—think so. Didn’t he kill some gangsters in New York a long time ago? But—”

  “Right!” Gil clipped. “I’m the Texan. So—I’m on my way.”

  Turning, he began crawling toward the door on the far side of the boat. The glare from the police boat was increasing. Though the sultry night air its powerful motor snarled in mounting tempo.

  At the doorway, Gil looked back to say: “So long—”

  Myrna Bruce was beside him.

  “I can swim, too,” she said. “You’re not leaving me.”

  Just for a split second did Gil hesitate. Then grabbing her wrist he said, “Let’s go, then. It may be cold in that river, but it’s hot as hell in Texas!”

  MURDER GAME, by Archie Oboler

  Originally published in Nickel Detective, August 1933.

  For a moment, after he opened his eyes, it appeared to Lee Andre that he was seated in the center of a great cylinder that whirled around about him. He tried to put his right hand to his eyes, but the arm seemed banded with iron close to his side.

  Then, abruptly, the spinning sensation ceased, and the nervous system of Lee Andre, private investigator, began to function normally again. The first discovery he made was that he was strapped tightly into a heavy, oaken chair in the center of a small room, a very remarkable room in that it was shaped like a halved apple. The place appeared to be wind
owless and door-less, illuminated dimly by light streaming down from a small, frosted-glass plate sunk high into one of the curved sides.

  For a moment Andre looked down blankly at the heavy straps that bound him, then, with a rush, memory of what had gone before came to him. He had been eating in his study, he recalled; one mouthful, then dizziness and a falling sensation. Drugged! That was it! He had been drugged!

  * * * *

  Time went by, the heavy breathing of the man bound in the chair the only sound in that little curved universe. The forehead of the thin, somber face was knotted in thought. There were a number of individuals inhabiting the earth who would enjoy his death notice, Andre knew; and yet, for the life of him, he could not recall any particular one who could possibly have done this. How had this unknown person or persons drugged his food, when he alone had cooked it? How had they removed him from the house, a house guarded night and day by two vigilant men?

  Abruptly, in the midst of his thoughts, the faint light went out. A moment later he heard a door softly open behind him. Footsteps sounded, then a soft bandage suddenly covered his eyes. He felt the pressure of the straps about him give way. Half-supported by strong hands under his armpits, he felt himself led through corridors that twisted at so many angles that in a few moments he lost all sense of direction.

  No word came from those who led him; finally he was pushed downward and felt the hardness of a seat beneath him. Once again straps tightened themselves; a sudden stir, and off came the bandage from his eyes.

  Momentarily Andre was blinded by a brilliant glare of light that beamed down at an angle over his head and shoulders. Then he found himself staring out into the gloom of a chamber which seemed to stretch out eerily into infinity.

  He bent forward a little, straining his eyes into the darkness beyond the circle of light.

  Then, so abruptly that it startled him, came a low, monotone voice.

  “Greetings, Mr. Lee Andre.”

  The investigator nodded his head, and waited. Silence, heavy and brooding, was his only answer.

  Finally he addressed the darkness:

  “Well, what’s it all about? Your chair isn’t any too comfortable, my unseen friend.”

  “A thousand pardons. You won’t be kept sitting in it very long, so be patient,” returned the voice from the dark.

  Andre could hear a sudden stir ahead of him, as of men moving about, then the monotone came again:

  “Good! We are all here now. Mr. Andre, you just asked us to what and to whom you owe the honor of this nocturnal adventure. Before we tell you who we are and why you are here, let us point out to you, first, that the chances are, liberally, a thousand to one that you will not leave this place alive.

  “You are reputed to be a brave man, Lee Andre, a man who delights in pitting his brain against danger. Tonight you will have an opportunity to prove whether or not rumor did you justice. But first, who we are and why you are here.”

  Andre leaned forward against his bonds as if better to hear the coming words.

  “We see you are a man of great curiosity. You are more interested in the causes of this—shall we call it adventure—than you are in your personal danger. That is good. We are pleased. You will make a good Bell.”

  “Bell.” Andre wondered what that meant.

  “Now we will tell you who we are. Two years ago, five men, all wealthy beyond ordinary terms of wealth, and all having, further in common, a general boredom with life, a firm belief in the unimportance of the average man, and a keen desire for sport and adventure, decided to join fortunes, brains, and energies in a supreme effort to make life interesting again.

  “These five men, all of them, to repeat, influential and wealthy, all of them weary with the humdrum pleasure of our civilization, came to the decision that the only game left worth playing was the game against what you call ‘Society.’ Then and there was formed the organization of the ‘Crime Clique of Croesus.’

  “We went into the battle against manmade laws neither from Robin Hood viewpoints nor revolutionistic idealism. To us crime is a game, pure and simple. It is the thrill of matching our wits against mankind that interests us, not a desire for additional wealth. We know no fight, no wrong, no laws, no sentimentality. Since our brains are keener than society, we take what we want and answer to no man.

  “When this Clique was started all five of the men pledged themselves to abide by the wishes of the majority of members, and never, under penalty of death, to divulge, by word or deed, the existence of this organization.

  “The membership is still five although one of the original members is no longer with us. One night he got drunk and talked to his wife. The next day both of them, unfortunately, committed suicide.

  “We could tell you many stories of our power, of our fixity of purpose. We are the greatest crime power in the world. Until now we have been content to find our adventure in such affairs as daylight vault-robberies, or the removal of fabulously expensive jewels from the fat throats of our society friends.”

  The moment that the last sentence was uttered, the man in the chair understood his connection with this mad affair.

  As if reading what flashed in the prisoner’s mind, the voice went on:

  “By now you will begin to understand why you are here. In the single year of our operation, no man has ever suspected the existence of our organization. You are the first member of so-called ‘organized society’ to pick up our trail. As the representative of insurance companies interested in certain jewels we have taken, you have very shrewdly noted that certain guests have invariably been present whenever one of these society jewel robberies occurred. Yesterday you commissioned one of your men to get you complete lists of the names of every guest at half a dozen society events where robberies occurred. When you gave that order you became a menace to the Clique. With that order you signed your death warrant.

  “Since we are all sportsmen, we give, to those whom we consider our peers, a fighting chance to live. Three men have been given this chance. All three of them failed. You, Lee Andre, come to us with a reputation for bravery and keenness of mind. You, too, can fight for your life. You, too, can play our Game of the Bell. Listen closely, for there is not much time.”

  Softer the monotone became, and more sibilant, until it was almost like the hiss of some malignant creature.

  “This is our Game of the Bell: The man condemned is let loose into a darkened room. One of us, drawn by lot, waits there armed with a revolver containing only three bullets. The condemned man carries only a bell. The game is for the man with the bell to make his opponent discharge those three bullets at him within one hour’s time. Even if he is only wounded, when the hour is up the condemned one dies. The only way for him to win is for those three bullets to be shot off within those sixty minutes and miss, miss completely.”

  For the first time Andre spoke. “That’s not a square game. What’s to prevent you from holding your shots for the hour?”

  “That is up to the condemned,” was the answer. “We want action. It is up to the hunted to pursue a policy of aggression. He must make the hunter shoot. Incidentally, for every missed shot, the hunter must pay the remaining members of the Clique the sum of $50,000. For every bullet remaining in his gun when the hour is over, if the condemned still lives, the hunter pays the rest of us an even $100,000. So you see it pays the hunter to shoot straight and often. You will now be taken to the room of the hunt. Thirty seconds from the time the bandage is taken off your eyes, the hour of the game has begun. We of the Clique have already drawn for the honor of shooting you. That is all.”

  With those last three words the strong light above him went out, Andre felt a bandage covering his eyes. His straps were loosened and again he was half-carried along. When next he stood alone, with the bandage removed, he was once more in darkness. He was unbound, and in his left hand he felt a small metal object. The bell
. He grasped the little clapper with his fingers and moved quickly to one side away from the spot where he had been released.

  Standing here alone in the darkness, unarmed except for the bell in his hand, somewhere in the blackness ahead a man with a loaded revolver waiting for him to betray his position so that he might shoot him down, Andre made a sardonic grimace at himself. This, too, was worthy of the melodramatic ingenuity of a blood-and-thunder playwright. Yet it was real, all too real. The bell in his hand, and the tense stillness of the darkness about him told him that.

  A short while before, with the merciless glare of the light above him, when the sentence of death had been passed on him, Lee Andre had been as calmly cool as if he were listening to a lecture on the merits of capital punishment.

  But now, here alone in the blackness, with death lurking, he felt his face suddenly grow clammy, and his knees swayed beneath him. With an effort he steadied himself; his only hope, he realized, lay in keeping his head. He had but one hour to make the gunman hidden in the darkness fire three times and miss. The voice had said that three before him had played this game. All three had lost. The lean face of the detective tightened. Well, he, Lee Andre, would win!

  He set the bell down on the floor and moved away from it. He would have no use for it. Slowly, carefully, fearful lest the rustle of cloth be heard by the man with the gun, he moved his hand to his hip. As he had expected, his automatic was gone.

  That left one more possession in which he was vitally interested. Andre’s long fingers crept to his watch pocket. As his fingers felt the thick bulk of the timepiece, his fingernails rasped across the cloth. A sharp click came from out of the dark, a shaft of flame suddenly lit the room, and past his face Andre felt the rush of a bullet that smashed into a wall behind him.

  Even as he darted swiftly to one side, Andre marveled at the accuracy of the shot. Half an inch more and it would have been curtains; these men of the Clique obviously had practiced blind shooting at sounds.

  He stood very still and looked in the direction where the stab of light had come from the gun, a gun that now held two bullets instead of three. Not the faintest sound came to him; the only tremor in his ears was the steady beat of his heart.