by Lin Carter
“Fooey Mulligan,” said Scorchy fervently. “Wait’ll ya see her! She fills up a tight pair o’ white ducks like nothin’ you ever saw. Doesn’t look half bad in a tight pullover, either!” he added, smacking his lips.
Nick groaned and rolled his eyes. As Scorchy stalked off in pursuit of the blonde, who by now had reached the farther end of the village street, where Señor Valdez’ trading-post stood, Nick turned to Braxton T. Crawley, who had come waddling up, wheezing uncomfortably in his straining trousers.
“Never fails,” moaned Nick, shaking his head.
“Huh? Whuzzat?” grumbled the fat man.
Nick cocked a thumb at the retreating Irishman. “Pint-size, there. If there’s a cute dish in one of these capers of ours, and there usually is, ol’ Thyroid Deficiency there falls all over himself tryin’ to make out like it was high school graduation night and his regiment leaves at dawn. Gal always and invariably goes ga-ga over the chief and gives our Son o’ the Emerald Isle the cold shoulder.”
“Eh? My niece, you mean? Well, well,” chuckled Braxton T. Crawley happily. “Attracted the eye of your Irish friend, has she? Do her a world of good. Just what thet dang-fool niece of mine needs! Meet a good man, get married up, settle down, have a flock o’ kids, and git all this hare-brained rushing around the world havin’ adventures out o’ her system!”
Nick’s mouth fell open. “D’you mean you’d encourage this mésalliance?” he demanded incredulously. But Crawley had waddled off, humming the Wedding March.
When Nick Naldini joined his friends before the trading-post, he found quite a crowd gathered there.
“What’s happening?” he asked.
Ace Harrigan looked around, grinning. “Visitors from the big island,” chuckled the handsome aviator. “One of ’em’s the local cop for this part of the islands — wait’ll you meet him! ‘Chicago Louie,’ Menlo calls this one.”
The crowd parted, making way for a remarkable little man who strode up to eye Nick from toe to crown with a gleaming, knowing glint in his eye. This apparition wore plainclothes: a suit with a loud check and wide lapels, and a snap-brimmed fedora pulled down over one glittering eye. Pointy-toe shoes of alligator-hide with elevator heels adorned his small feet. He was remarkably ugly, with a swarthy complexion, greasy skin, a straggly black mustache, and a leering, snaggle-toothy grin, wherein handfuls of gold fillings flashed and twinkled. His pop-eyes looked like two boiled eggs. The general impression he gave was of a racetrack tout dressed for a weekend in Las Vegas.
Señor Valdez accompanied him, and began to introduce Nick Naldini in Spanish; but the grotesque little man in the garish tweeds cut him off imperiously.
“Hi spik the Ingleesh vairy goodly-enough, t’anks,” he snorted. “No need to habla Espagnol wiv me, Señor. An’ thees,” he said, fixing Nick with a goggling eye, “thees ees Señor Neekolouz Naldeeni, ees eet?”
“Eet ees,” said Nick. “I mean, it is!”
“Ho-ho,” the odd-looking little man chuckled for some reason, rocking back and forth teeteringly on his heels. While the elevator heels added considerably to his height, the little Spanish cop only came up to Nick’s armpits.
Suddenly leaning close, giving Nick a whiff of an overpowering cologne strong enough to drive off famished timber wolves, the little man whispered hoarsely: “Do you know Homphrey Bogart?”
“Humphrey Bogart,” murmured Nick blankly.
The little man waggled his head delightedly. “Hyess! Homphrey Bogart ees my, how you say, my hidol!” he confided with a disconcerting giggle. “H’always he ees a priwate eye —”
“A what?”
“A priwate eye, fighteeng crooks een Chicago. Hai, caramba,” sighed the comical little dwarf, “how Hi would laav to be a priwate eye! Seexteen times Hi ‘ave seen The Malteez Fawcon! Seexteen times. ‘Ave hyou seen The Malteez Fawcon?”
“Yeah,” mumbled Nick.
“Hai, caramba! He ees a shrewd one, that Sam Spade ... maybe, when Hi reetire, how you say, I go to Chicago an’ meet Homphrey Bogart an’ beecom’ a priwate eye ... another Sam Spade, how you say?”
“Yeah,” mumbled Nick.
Zarkon emerged from the grinning crowd.
“Nick, this is Señor Luis Gonzalez of the Luzon Islands Constabulary Force, here to assist us in our investigation of the volcano-ogre murders.”
“Yeah,” mumbled Nick. “Just what we need. A little help.”
CHAPTER 14 — The Island Hawkshaw
It would seem that Señor Luis Gonzalez, dissatisfied by the report of the original and rather cursory investigation into the murder of Tommy Kahua and Jimmie Okawa, had decided to take a personal look into the case. If possible, the grotesque little island Sherlock hoped to come up with the solution to the mystery himself.
At the very least, he could hardly do less than the Luzon police had done. His goggling eyes agleam, the little man in the loud checked suit decided to emulate his fictional hero, Raymond Chandler’s famous Sam Spade, and scout around on his own.
The first person Luis Gonzalez encountered in the village was Phoenicia Mulligan. The attractive blond girl was one of the principals in this mystery which he had yet to interrogate. She was also remarkably pretty. So Luis Gonzalez thrust himself into her path.
“‘Allo, switthot,” he growled out of the side of his mouth. It was just the sort of thing Humphrey Bogart always said to the women in his movies. It was not the fault of Luis Gonzalez that his accent was so thick that the remark came out sounding nothing at all like the deadpan voice of his favorite movie idol.
The girl looked him up and down, repressing a grin. The astounding suit, such as had not been worn by mortal man for thirty years, except in period movies, fascinated her.
“Hello, Señor Gonzalez.” She smiled, having heard all about the detective’s comical ways from Nick and Scorchy. “Hot on the trail of Sidney Greenstreet, are you? Or is it Peter Lorre?”
Luis Gonzalez grinned toothily, displaying enough gold to make the officials at Fort Knox hurriedly count their stock, just in case. The little detective did not particularly mind being kidded about his fascination for “private eye” pictures. He was good-humored about it.
“’Ave hyou evair meet Homphrey Bogart?” he inquired.
The girl laughed. “No, can’t say that I have! I did meet Lauren Bacall once, at a charity dinner, though,” she recollected.
The Hispanic Sherlock looked puzzled.
“Who?”
“Lauren Bacall. You know — Mr. Bogart’s wife.”
He glowered up at the tall blonde, a distrustful expression visible on his ugly features.
“Homphrey Bogart,” he informed her in a hurt tone of voice, “ees married to Maria Astor. Aftair she sairved time in the beeg house, that ees!”
“Okay,” said Fooey Mulligan cheerfully, willing to go along with Luis Gonzalez’ private version of events. “I stand corrected.”
“What do hyou know about thees murders?” the dwarfed detective inquired sharply, regarding the blond girl with a suspicious eye. Obviously, in his book, anyone so ill-informed on the subject of his movie hero was not to be trusted.
“Not much,” the girl cracked. “What do you know about ’em?”
The little cop winked cunningly. “Thair ees more afoot than meets the heye,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “A clevair hand ees behind thees crimes. But he ’ad bettair watch hees step, thees one. For Luis Gonzalez has hees heye on heem!”
There were too many eyes, feet, and hands in this remark for Fooey Mulligan to bother sorting them all out. And just then Nick Naldini came strolling up.
“Hot on the trail, are we, Hawkshaw?” inquired the lanky magician affably. Slightly put off at having his tête-â-tête with the good-looking blonde interrupted, the small detective shot Nick a glare.
“Who ees thees ’Awkshaw?” he hissed through a mouthful of gold fillings.
“Another private eye for your collection,” grinned Nick. “Somewhat predating
Sam Spade, though.”
“Hi am not knoweeng thees ‘Awkshaw,’ ” grumbled Luis Gonzalez coldly. “Meestair Bogart ees nevair playing heem in hees peectures.”
With a sniff, the little man ambled off, teetering on his elevator heels, leaving Nick and Fooey to their own devices.
For a little while Luis Gonzalez interrogated the villagers, but learned little that was useful to his investigations. They told him all about the fire-devil and how the mythical island hero Wakuaha had imprisoned the monster ages ago beneath the fiery mountain. None of this contributed to his concept of detective-work; and Luis Gonzalez was the proud possessor of a high school diploma, earned from a correspondence school on the mainland, and thus was too well-educated to give any credence to the local superstitions.
He wandered back to the trading-post, where Señor Valdez was overseeing the repairs to his fire-blackened building. The gentlemanly old hidalgo could give the dwarfish detective little more information than he already possessed, although he patiently answered each question to the best of his ability.
Luis Gonzalez knew all about the store-owner. He had looked him up in the police files before leaving Mantilla. The law enforcement officials there maintained rather complete dossiers on the more important citizens of the Luzon Union, and Felipe Mendoza Valdez was an important citizen by their standards. His family had made its home in these islands from the time of the first Spanish explorers. And he was, by all accounts, a highly respectable and law-abiding citizen.
The only one of the recent visitors to the island whom he had not yet found an opportunity to interrogate was the young Yankee geologist, John James Jones, whom he understood to be very ill. The young man was currently convalescing in one of the huts of the village, being tended by Señor Valdez’ housekeeper. Every time Luis Gonzalez had poked his head in, the emaciated young American had been asleep under sedation applied by Prince Zarkon.
Thinking of Zarkon, the island Hawkshaw decided to look him up and see what the Man of Mysteries was doing. Luis Gonzalez had a healthy respect for the famous adventurer. He had looked him up in the police records before leaving Mantilla, too, and the dossier on the former Prince of Novenia was thick with information. Zarkon came with the highest of personal recommendations from the foremost law enforcement agencies in the world, including the FBI in Washington, the metropolitan police in London, Scotland Yard, the French Surete, Interpol itself, and such private crime-fighting bureaus as Doctor Palfrey’s Z5 organization, which was affiliated with the United Nations. The credentials of Zarkon were most impressive indeed.
The Hispanic detective decided to check into what Zarkon was doing. It was not at all impossible that the Ultimate Man had some clues into the mysteries of the island which he had not as yet shared with Luis Gonzalez.
The little detective spotted Zarkon just as the man in gun-metal gray was leaving the village.
Something about the elusive, unobtrusive manner in which the Lord of the Unknown glided into the jungle caught the wary and alert eye of the small man.
It was obvious that Zarkon was trying to elude notice. His actions were not exactly furtive, but something about his manner roused the suspicions of Luis Gonzalez. There was no questioning the fact that Zarkon did not wish to be seen. Whatever the nature of the mission on which the Man from Tomorrow was bound, it was, to one degree or another, clandestine.
So the dwarfish detective decided to follow the Omega Man and find out where he was going, and why. Quite obviously, if Zarkon was on the track of the murderer, it was to the intense personal interest of Señor Luis Gonzalez to know about it. And besides, there was another reason for his curiosity: it would be interesting, from a professional viewpoint, to see how the famous adventurer went about one of his own celebrated investigations.
So, moving with exaggerated caution, slipping from house to house, scuttling on teetering heels across the plowed fields, and then creeping from bush to bush along the outskirts of the jungle, the Luzon detective set about following Zarkon.
His attempts at self-concealment were ludicrous and clumsy, but as Zarkon did not once look behind him as he entered the jungles and vanished from view, presumably the detective’s attempts were successful.
Except from the rear.
For Scorchy Muldoon, bored by watching the islanders working on the repairs to the burnt-out trading-post, began restlessly looking around for something to do. His sharp eyes noticed Zarkon as the golden man in gunmetal gray slipped unobtrusively into the jungle, which swallowed him up. Always ready for action. Scorchy was about to follow his chief, hoping to join up with him in the jungle, when he saw the comical little Luzonian cop dogging Zarkon’s heels.
Scorchy frowned, considering. The ridiculous little detective was obviously trying to follow Zarkon without himself being caught at it. Scorchy had no way of guessing his motives, but, after all, it did look suspicious. What did they really know about Señor Gonzalez, anyway? He had come to the island that morning in a motor-launch from Mantilla, and his police credentials seemed authentic enough, but there might be more to the clownish little detective than met the eye. And credentials can be borrowed, stolen, or faked.
Scorchy plunged into the jungle, following the scuttling little figure of the detective. Even in the thick brush and heavy gloom of the interior it was not hard to keep Señor Gonzalez in sight. His loud checked suit, flamboyant purple shirt, and silk tie of shrieking orange made him stand out even in the jungle.
Zarkon circled the base of the mountain, keeping deep within the depths of the jungle, and Señor Gonzalez clung to his trail, with Scorchy following him.
No one else saw them leave the village area.
CHAPTER 15 — Zarkon Vanishes!
This was the second time in as many days that Scorchy Muldoon had gone clomping through the jungle, and he liked it even less the second time than he had the first.
Leaf-muck squelched juicily underfoot. Mud bespattered his shoes, socks, and trouser-legs. Vines kept making grabs at his neck like so many strangling nooses aimed at him by invisible Dacoits. Thorny, saw-edged leaves and bushes scratched his hands and plucked and tore at his jacket.
The little Irishman, whose temper was hair-trigger sensitive even at the best of times, cursed under his breath. The air was hot and muggy and thick with the stench of rotting leaves. It was hot and soon got hotter, until Scorchy began to sweat. This drew flies: and the flies of Rangatoa were nothing like their stateside cousins.
Back home, the buzzing mites were merely bothersome. Here in the Pacific, it seemed, they grew as big as hornets, bit like scorpions, and had a nasty habit of flying directly into your eyes.
No, it would not be an exaggeration to say that Scorchy was unfond of jungles. In fact, it would be the understatement of the year.
But the pugnacious little prizefighter clung doggedly to the trail of Luis Gonzalez. The pop-eyed island Sherlock in the racetrack tout’s zoot-suit was blundering and sloshing along, hitting as many mud-puddles as was Scorchy, if not a few more. And, erelong, there floated back to where Scorchy followed in the rear a sizzling stream of sotto-voce cussing, regrettably, in Spanish.
This was music to the ears of the feisty little Irishman. The wise men of yore never hit the nail on the head more accurately than when they voiced that age-old morsel of wisdom, that misery loves company.
If Scorchy had to crawl through the fly-buzzing jungle muck, sweating like a pig and mud-bespattered to the hips, it helped a little to know that the goggle-eyed Hispanic Hawkshaw was enjoying the experience no more than he was.
Where the jungle dwindled out and the swamps began, Scorchy paused, and ducked behind a conveniently-located tree, around which he peered irritatedly.
He did this because the man he was following had likewise halted in his progress, and was now squatting behind a bush, on his hunkers, pop-eyes squinting through the leaves at something interesting up ahead.
From where he was hiding, Scorchy could not see Zarkon’s whereabout
s. But, since it was Zarkon whom Señor Luis Gonzalez had been shadowing all this time, it was an easy deduction to make that it was the Prince the detective was observing from his place of concealment.
Scorchy crept on tiptoes to a better vantage-point behind a stand of rattling bamboo. From here he could survey the scene much better without himself being visible.
Señor Gonzalez was crouching painfully about a dozen yards away; the little man seemed to be squeezing himself into the smallest possible area, probably because the bush behind which he had chosen to hide was really too small for this purpose.
Scorchy grinned wickedly. It did his heart good to observe the sorry conditions of Señor Gonzalez’ raiment, considering the dilapidated appearance of his own clothes. The dwarfed detective’s racetrack finery had suffered more than a little from his trip through the damp, muddy undergrowth. And, for that matter, his snap-brimmed fedora would never be the same again, not after having been dislodged from atop his head by a low-hanging vine which had precipitated the item of headwear into the gooey depths of a large puddle. But, undeterred, the Hispanic Hawkshaw had tracked his quarry to its goal.
Zarkon himself was behaving in a rather curious manner, Scorchy noticed.
Approaching the hut in which John James Jones had been living until his ordeal in the swamp had necessitated his hospitalization, the Ultimate Man paid no attention to the building itself, but examined the lobster-pots.
Several of these wire traps, designed to catch unwary crustaceans of an edible variety, were suspended by cords from the pilings upon which Johnny Jones’s hut was built out over the deep waters of the swamp. It was hardly likely that the young geologist had actually caught lobsters in these contrivances, since the creatures thrive only in saltwater and would tend to avoid the stagnant waters of the swamp, but obviously some comparable varieties of the genus Crustacea inhabited the boggy depths, whereby the Yank had varied his diet from time to time.