Carla's Revenge

by Sydney J. Bounds

  The man in brown came up. He had a fat paunch and red face with an unpleasant expression. His eyes glinted.

  “A private snoop from the big city, huh?” he said flatly. “These New York dicks come barging in, thinking they can run everything. They make me tired!”

  Eddie was losing his temper.

  “Listen,” he growled. “I want to get after that Rolls!”

  Louis put a massive fist to his chest and pushed him. Eddie staggered back against his car, hitting his head. There was a mist before his eyes and he couldn’t see clearly.

  “Look at him, Buck,” Louis jeered. “Staggering. Drunk, so he is! Driving under the influence of alcohol.”

  Buck hauled Eddie upright and held him still.

  “Smell his breath, chief,” he invited.

  The man in brown sniffed.

  “Yeah,” he said. “He’s drunk all right. Maybe we’d better beat him up a little—can’t have dangerous driving in Phoenix Springs.”

  Buck held Eddie while Louis hit him. Eddie winced and tried to get away.

  “Ya see that?” Buck said. “Resisting arrest!”

  “You lousy coppers!” Eddie snarled. “I’ll get—”

  Louis hit him again. Eddie didn’t fall because Buck was still holding him; he swayed on his feet.

  “Ya hear that?” Buck said. “Insulting the police!”

  The man in brown stepped closer. He said:

  “Listen, Gifford, we know all about you. We’ve been expecting you, see? And we don’t like private dicks in Phoenix Springs. I’m Gringold, Chief of Police for this region, and I don’t want you around. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yeah,” Eddie snarled. “It’s clear enough. How much does Shapirro pay you?”

  Gringold smiled coldly.

  “Shapirro’s a very good friend of mine. And he doesn’t want you sticking your nose in his private business. We’re giving you a little warning, that’s all.”

  Buck twisted Eddie’s arms behind him. Louis got out a nightstick and spat on it. He raised it, ready to strike.

  Eddie kicked Buck’s shins, ducking sideways as the stick came down. It missed his skull, landed on his shoulder with stunning force. He moaned and staggered back. Louis came after him. He slammed down the nightstick again, on Eddie’s other shoulder.

  Eddie moaned a little. The pain in his shoulders prevented him raising his arms to protect himself. He had to stand there and take it.

  Gringold said: “We could book you for a night in the cells. Drunk while driving. Resisting arrest. Insulting the force. But I don’t like wasting the taxpayers’ money on a heel like you—so we’ll just give you a beating and turn you loose. But don’t let me catch you in Phoenix Springs again. Next time, you won’t get off so lightly.”

  Buck hit Eddie at the base of the spine and let him fall forward, Louis brought up his knee, ramming it hard into Eddie’s groin. Eddie fell flat on his face and lay writhing on the ground. He felt sick with pain.

  Buck and Louis started to kick him around. They wore heavy boots, studded with nails. Eddie tried to cover his face. They kicked him in the stomach. Eddie brought down his arms…a boot slammed into his mouth, Eddie spat out blood and choked on a loose tooth. They went on kicking him, brutally, viciously.

  His arms hung loosely. His legs were bruised so badly he couldn’t even crawl away. His spine throbbed; his stomach felt as if it would never hold anything again.

  He was blacking out. The mists were closing in, swamping him. He heard Gringold’s voice:

  “Keep out of Shapirro’s way, Gifford. Keep your nose clean—next time, you’ll end up on a slab in the morgue!”

  A heavy boot crashed into Eddie’s skull. He shuddered, rolled over. The pain was going away and, with it, his consciousness. The darkness came in waves, beating over him like surf on the shore. The waves piled up on him, carrying him down to the bottom of a dark sea where it was cool and quiet, and no longer did he feel the agony of his tortured body.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  If only Glenn would come.…

  Carla lay on the bed, awake again. But only half awake. The grey mist never went completely away now. The walls were a little hazy, the light in the ceiling seemed a long way off.

  She knew the drug was taking effect, beating down her resistance, reducing her to a will-less automaton. Soon, she would be helpless, a living zombie to carry out Shapirro’s orders. The metal band round her ankle was a dull ache…and it was quiet without the blonde’s incessant muttering. Carla remembered the blonde, and shuddered.

  She remembered Shapirro and the room with the black-and-white motif. Jordan. Dr. Arnaud. She hated them; it surged through her like power through a dynamo. It was the only thing that kept her brain active—all there was left to combat the insidious drug that sucked her vitality, draining her sanity.

  If only Glenn would come.… She knew she couldn’t hang on much longer. A few more shots with the hypodermic and she would lose even her hatred. Then it would be too late. She’d become a plaything of the old man with white hair and pink eyes.

  The click of the lock turning roused her. She struggled up through the grey mist, sat up in bed. The steel door opened and Glenn Waldemar came into the cell. Carla’s heart thumped wildly—this was her chance.

  Glenn closed the door behind him and dropped the key in his pocket. His oddly coloured eyes looked at Carla and he licked his lips.

  His debonair manner left him; he was just an animal, wanting her. His voice was husky.

  “You knew I’d be back, beautiful…and I am!”

  Carla watched him stand his swordstick in the corner.

  “Dr. Arnaud? Jordan?” she said. “You’re alone?”

  Glenn Waldemar chuckled.

  “The doctor is away, visiting our mutual friend Sylvester Shapirro. I gave Jordan a sleeping pill—he won’t bother us!”

  He pulled back the bedclothes and looked down at her. Glenn grabbed bold of her, his mouth was hot and passionate on hers, demanding kisses.

  Carla pushed him off. She had to keep her head, stick to the plan she’d made. She said:

  “Get this thing off my ankle—I can’t make love while I’m chained.”

  Glenn hesitated. He shrugged—she couldn’t get away. He took another key from his pocket and unlocked the ankle band.

  Carla tried not to show her exultation. He mustn’t suspect what she had in mind. She held out her arms and said, softly:

  “Glenn, I’m so lonely…and I love you, Glenn!”

  Carla pulled him to her and kissed him. She let him get obsessed with her, waited till the last moment—till she had him under control. He was so taken by her beauty—be could think of nothing else.

  Carla braced herself. She got her hands under his chest—and heaved. Glenn wasn’t expecting anything like that. He rolled off the bed and crashed to the floor. He lay there, the breath knocked out of him.

  Carla sprang off the bed and grabbed Glenn’s swordstick. She twisted the handle till the six-inch steel blade shot out. She turned on Glenn Waldemar with a savage snarl.

  “Scream,” she said. “I want to hear you scream—go on! Dr. Arnaud is away. You drugged Jordan. We’re alone—just you and me! And now I’m going to pay you out for everything you’ve done to me.…”

  He backed away, scared. He saw the hatred blaze up inside her—knew she intended to kill him.

  “Carla,” he sobbed, “don’t! I’ll set you free—we’ll go away together. We’ll—”

  She had him in a corner. He pressed back against the wall, trying to wriggle away. Carla brought the point of the steel level with his stomach. She leaned on it a little, drawing blood.

  Glenn moaned: “Don’t! Carla—for God’s sake.…”

  She leaned more heavily on the swordstick. The blade sank into his stomach, scraping his backbone. Tears rolled down Glenn’s handsome face. Carla dug the blade in as far as it would go. She gripped the hilt tighter—twisted it cruelly.

  Glenn shr
ieked. His hands went down to the stick and he tried to pull it out. He was losing strength fast. He slumped forward, unable to fall, pinned to the wall by the steel. Carla jerked the sword free. Glenn fell to the ground, moaning piteously, trying to stop the blood that pumped out of him, flooding the stone floor. Carla turned him over with her foot so that he lay on his back, staring up at her, shuddering.

  His eyes were frightened. One frightened brown eye—one frightened blue eye. Carla selected the brown one. She placed the bloody tip of the steel blade to the pupil and thrust it home. Glenn screamed once—and stopped. The steel went into his brain and killed him instantly. Carla pulled the blade free and glared down at the corpse. She began to mutter to herself.

  “Shapirro, you swine—your turn’s coming.…”

  She went through Glenn Waldemar’s pockets for keys. Unlocking the cell door, she went down the passage, the sword dripping blood in her hand. She unlocked the door at the end of the passage and went in search of Jordan.

  She was thinking of how the male nurse had twisted her arms and hit her about the face while Dr. Arnaud shoved the needle in her arm. She was going to do something about Jordan.

  He was slumped over a table, head down, sleeping. The glass of whisky Glenn had drugged lay shattered on the floor. Carla went in to him…when she came out there was fresh blood on the sword and Jordan wasn’t going to wake up—ever.

  Carla felt dizzy. She knew the dope was working on her. She had to get to Shapirro before she went under. She found some clothes and dressed hurriedly, stepping into a skirt, pulling a sweater over her head. She didn’t bother with anything else. There was a redhead in another cell, drugged. Carla left her.

  She went outside, gulping down clean fresh air. There was a car waiting, a black Rolls. Glenn’s car, for which she had the keys. Carla got behind the wheel and drove off. She stopped at the first crossroads to study the signboard. It told her she was in Phoenix Springs. Clara headed for New York. Her lips set in a grim line.

  Sylvester Shapirro was going to get his…but first, she wanted to see her father again. She drove furiously, heading for Mount Vernon and the home of Matthew Bowman.

  * * * * * * *

  He was cold. His bones seemed stiff, awkward to move. He did move, eventually—and moaned as the pain came back. So he lay still, thinking it out, trying to remember what had happened.

  It came back slowly. His name was Eddie Gifford, and he was a private detective operating in New York City. So what was he doing lying in the road in the early morning?

  Then it flooded back. The Waldemar twins. The killing at the Paradise Club. The chase to Phoenix Springs. Gringold and the patrolmen who beat him up. He began to wonder where the Rolls had gone, what had happened to the redhead. He felt sorry for her.

  Again he tried to move. He straightened his legs, flexed his arms. Pain racked, him, and he lay still again. After a time, he began to feel his bones, gently. Nothing seemed broken. He forced himself to ignore the pain as he crouched, climbed upright. He lurched across to his car, fumbled for the whisky flask he kept in the dashboard locker.

  He unscrewed the cap, and poured the raw liquid down his throat. His strength began to flow back. He emptied the flask and got behind the wheel. Fortunately the car had not been put out of commission. He started the engine and drove slowly along the road. He was in bad shape, in no condition for driving.

  Eddie stuck at it, gritting his teeth. He had to get to a doctor—he knew that. He drove for seven miles before he saw a brass plate outside a bungalow. The plate said:

  M. R. Brown, M.D.

  Eddie stopped his car and got out. It was an effort to walk. He staggered drunkenly up the path and leaned on the door. His thumb found a bell push and he pushed it.

  He kept his thumb on the button till he heard footsteps from inside.

  An irate voice said: “All right, all right—I’m coming!”

  Then the door opened and Eddie fell forward into the doctor’s arms. He passed out again.

  When he came to, there was a strong smell of antiseptic in the air. He was lying in bed, covered in bandages. He could move, be discovered, without such intense pain now. Though he still felt weak. He remembered things more easily now.

  It hit him suddenly. He had to do something in a hurry.

  He started to get out of bed, shouted:

  “Doc—you there?”

  Dr. Brown came in. He frowned as he saw Eddie trying to walk.

  “Get back to bed—you’re not a fit man. You want to undo all my work?”

  Eddie grinned weakly.

  “Thanks for patching me up, doc. But there’s a call I must make—right now. You got a phone?”

  Dr. Brown made him sit on the bed while he brought the extension phone. Eddie got the operator and asked for the downtown Manhattan police precinct. He waited for the call to go through.

  “Have I been out long, doc?” he asked.

  “Nearly twelve hours. Is it that important?”

  Eddie groaned, and jiggled the phone impatiently.

  “I may be in time to stop a murder,” he said. “And I may not!”

  He was remembering that Gringold had been waiting for him. That meant Shapirro knew who he was and why he was investigating—and Martha Franks lived alone in one room. He hoped he’d be in time.

  A voice answered from Manhattan. Eddie said:

  “Get down to Beckman Street in a hurry. There’s an old lady, lives alone in 37a Gowan Mansions. There may be an attempt on her life.”

  The voice that came back froze Eddie’s blood.

  “Too late, fellar…Mrs. Franks was battered to death last night!”

  Eddie replaced the receiver. He looked at Dr. Brown and said:

  “Too late!”

  Eddie sat silent for a few minutes. He was thinking of Martha Franks and her husband. She’d told him to get Shapirro—well, he would. He stood up, trying out his legs and arms.

  “If you think you’re going any place,” Dr. Brown said, “forget it. You’ll fall flat on your face!”

  Eddie shook his head.

  “Sorry to walk out on you, doc. I know you’re right, but I’ve a job to do. Thanks for everything.”

  He dressed, paid the doctor, and promised he’d report to a hospital, then went out to his car. Dr. Brown watched him, sadly shaking his head. Eddie fumbled in the dashboard locker, bringing out a Luger and a package of shells.…

  He filled the magazine and slipped the gun in his pocket.

  If anyone tried to stop him now, they were going to get hurt.

  Eddie drove towards New York. He wasn’t going fast, because he couldn’t keep his foot hard on the accelerator.

  And his arms were tired, pulling on the wheel. But he was moving towards the showdown. Shapirro wasn’t going to get away with any more murders…he’d see to that. Personally.

  He was keeping well into the right-hand curb and taking it steady. He didn’t want any accidents just now. Suddenly, a car flashed by, heading the same way, towards the big city.

  Eddie shot up, cursing. It was a black Rolls! The glimpse he’d had of the driver revealed a girl with dark hair. Carla! Eddie decided it would be a good idea to call in at Mount Vernon and have a talk with her. Or her father. He tried to get a little more speed out of his car as he lost sight of the Rolls.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It didn’t take Carla long to reach Mount Vernon. She swung into the drive leading up to her father’s house, parked the Rolls and hurried up the steps to the door. She let herself in.

  It was very quiet. Carla frowned; the butler should have been on duty, and he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he was with her father. She caught her breath—perhaps…no, he must be all right! She hurried up the stairs to her father’s room and went in.

  “Dad!” Carla gasped, ran across to the bed. She knew, even before she touched his cold, wrinkled skin, that he was dead. Tears came to her eyes; her breathing was heavy, choked. She buried her head in the sheets, knee
ling by the bed, crying.

  A harsh voice said: “I thought you’d come back, Carla.”

  She looked up at the tall figure of King Logan. His face was unshaven, his clothes dirty. He looked tired, hunted—and his eyes were cold and cruel as they bored into her.

  “You!” she said. “You killed him!”

  King laughed.

  “It was your fancy man, Shapirro—he told your father about you. I guess the old man just couldn’t take it when he learnt what sort of a daughter he had!”

  Carla blazed up.

  “Shapirro! That swine—I’ll—”

  King struck her across the face, knocked her flat on the floor. He kicked her.

  “Yeah, Carla,” he said, leering at her. “I knew you’d come back if I waited. And now I’m going to finish you!”

  Carla’s mouth was dry. She was frightened.

  “King—what is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Jerry was right,” King Logan spat. “You are a double-crossing bitch! You sold out to Shapirro—ditched me for that skunk!”

  “It isn’t true,” Carla stormed. “He kidnapped me. I’ve been beaten up, doped.… I want to get Shapirro. We’ll go after him together, King. You an’ me, like old times.”

  “I’m gonna shoot yuh where it hurts most,” he snarled. “The soft lead will spread out inside yuh. You’ll die slowly, painfully—the way double-crossers should die. And I’ll sit here and watch, enjoying it, laughing.…”

  “No, King—no!”

  Carla was sobbing, half with fright, half with rage. He couldn’t kill her—not before she’d got Shapirro. But she knew he was going to.

  She saw him point the gun at her stomach, leer at her.

  “Now!” he said.

  A shot thundered in the room. A stab of crimson flame—a puff of black smoke. A reek of cordite.…

  King Logan never pulled the trigger. He spun round as a lead slug crashed through his chest into his heart. Coughing blood He collapsed on the floor at her feet. The automatic dropped from his nerveless hand. He took about five seconds to die.