Primal Spillane Page 14

  Hailing a cab, he rushed to the morgue. Fortunately, no one had claimed the clothes. He went over what was left of them, but to no avail.

  As he finished McCabe came in. “You have the same idea, eh Hal?”

  “Looks that way. It’s no use, though, Baliff hasn’t a thing on him. Did you go through the car?”

  “From top to bottom, but no dice.”

  “Maybe he dumped it beforehand,” Hal suggested.

  McCabe looked thoughtful. “I don’t think so. The safe was opened at 11:35, and Baliff cracked up at 11:50, which means that in the distance he traveled he didn’t stop any place. The whole thing is beyond me.”

  The men walked outside and parted.

  Again something was playing in Hal’s mind, and again he couldn’t put his finger on it. He was certain that Baliff had possession of the document when he crashed, but what became of it?

  Back in the office he picked up the proofs of the shots he had taken at the wreck, and shuffled through them slowly. There was the car, inside and out. Glass was shattered and strewn about the interior. Even the dashboard was ripped off. That much the police had been over, and when McCabe started searching, it was doubtful whether there would be enough of the car left for him to look over! Hal picked up the phone and found where the wreck had been junked, and turned to leave, but the city editor almost bowled him over!

  “Hal! Those pictures you took last night, that guy was one of the Burnett’s old mob! McCabe says—”

  “Nerts! I coulda’ told you that, but you were too busy!” Hal snorted disdainfully.

  “Well, follow it up, guy, we have an edition to put out.” He realized he’d been wrong.

  An edition plus a trial, Hal thought. Here it was 3 A.M. In exactly seven hours the trial would begin, and with no evidence against the killer, it would be over a half-hour later.

  The junkyard on the outskirts of town was wrapped in darkness. The faint light from the moon illuminated nothing, but instead cast an eerie glow around derelict autos. Hal was three blocks away from it when a black sedan shot by. He watched it pull up alongside the yard, when he changed his plans and stopped in a side street. So, he was not alone this night!

  The police would have come in with sirens screaming, so it wasn’t them, and no one else was interested outside of himself, except, perhaps … ?

  Hal snapped his fingers. That was it! Burnett’s mob knew the stuff had not been found and figured out the plan the way he did. It was a pack of desperate crooks in that car ahead, come to find and destroy that evidence. Well, not if he could help it!

  Hal climbed over the rotten picket fence, and all but broke his neck on an old fender. He heard the sound of whispering voices nearby. The crooks must be having trouble find the car. Hal slipped from one wreck to another, and gave a violent start when he heard someone cough only a few yards away!

  A sleazy voice came out of the night. “Let’s look over dis way.”

  They were coming toward him! Hal was startled. On sudden thought, he squeezed into the crumpled wreckage that had once been a car, and behind which he was hiding. And not too soon, for the shadowy figures of two men passed, then stopped only an arm’s length away! Hal crouched down further, and his hand touched a detached instrument board. He held it up to the faint glow of the moon through the rear window. Immediately he recognized his hiding place. He was in Bailiff’s car!

  The voices outside droned on. “We’ll never find it tonight. Let’s get the boys and go back.”

  One whistled softly, and a moment later the group assembled behind the wrecked car. If anyone happened to glance in that broken rear window, Hal was sure to be discovered, because even in the dark, his white shirt collar would be visible at such a short distance.

  Taking a desperate chance, he reached up to the small window shade and pulled it down slowly. After a moment, the voices went away, and he heard a car start.

  Hal relaxed with a sigh. He waited a brief while, then stepped out, and as he did so, a white envelope fluttered to the ground — the stolen evidence!

  That was it. He knew what bothered him when he looked over the pictures of the wreck. It had been hidden in the only place that wasn’t pulverized by the “L” pillar! Wasting no time, he dashed to his jalopy and to the office to bang out a story. The city editor, looking over his shoulder, gave a low whistle.

  “So that was where he put it! Very clever!”

  Hal finished his copy, then drove like fury to headquarters. McCabe was there, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. Hal walked in grinning, and handed him the precious document. When McCabe saw it he gave a yelp of astonishment. Reporters and police gathered around, gaping bug-eyed, the scribes scribbling on their pads.

  “Where in tarnation did you find it, Hal?” McCabe said breathlessly.

  “In the one place you overlooked.” He laughed. “It was rolled up inside the rear window shade!”

  ***

  The Woim Toins

  L ittle Willy Wickerschnikle scooped up a desk full of letters and marched into the boss’ office. “Here’s the day’s doit, Boss!”

  Slowly the bushy-browed Simon Legree spun around in is swivel chair and gave Willy a devastating once-over.

  “Young man,” he bellowed through his whiskers. “How often have I told you to correct your English … and quit calling me boss!”

  Willy shook under the onslaught, nodded his head like it was on a rubber band and waited for orders. Christopher Fitzgerald Wampus, alias “the Boss,” ripped the ends out of his mail and scanned the contents. Bang, bang, bang, went his fist on the desk.

  “Bills, bills, and more bills,” he yelled. “Is this place a credit house or a stock brokerage agency! Look what I get sent … ” The boss held aloft a fistful of gold edged securities.

  “What are dey, boss?”

  “Something a young ninny as bad as you picked up in the market. Gold mine bonds, that’s what … for the Gleeful Gopher Mine. Of all the jughead saps he takes the cake … next to you. Why, that mine stopped operating ten years ago and now he buys shares in it!”

  “Gosh, boss,” piped up Will. “Wish I had those.”

  A sly gleam crept into Wampus’ eyes, and he smiled like a wolf about to take a bite out of a lamb.

  “Young man, I believe that it is about time that you learn the value of money. You live alone, I take it?”

  “Yeah, I yamma orfink.”

  “Hmmmmmm! Then, since you are a member of the organization in fairly good standing, I will make you a bargain. I will let you have these securities for the normal sum of one week’s salary! … Yes?”

  “YIPPEEEE! I yam now a Wall Street man!” Willy whipped out a stub of a pencil and signed the salary release and statement of ownership that the boss shoved at him. The boss grinned widely. He loved to sell something to a sucker. No mater that the stocks were worthless. Willy thought that anything printed on bond paper in green ink with a fancy border had to be worth something, and for only one week’s salary, ten bucks!

  That night everybody in the neighborhood had seen and inspected Willy’s stocks. His credit at the local beanery shot up so that he could order turkey sandwiches without getting the glower from the Greek proprietor. People looked at him now and were glad to say, “Hello.” Thusly Willy Wickerschnikle became a “big shot.”

  Now, it was but a few days later when Oswald Perkins appeared in Fitzgerald Wampus’ office. The boss took one look at him and almost blew his top. “You! What do you mean walking here like the cat that ate the canary after buying these phony shares in a defunct mine!”

  Perkins’ face dropped. “What do you mean, phony shares? Those things were worth their weight in gold. That mine ran out of gold, but someone discovered that there were more tin deposits there! Why, those shares give you the controlling interest in the place. You have forty-seven percent in the safe from the time you were stuck with them, and the ones I mailed you bring the total up to fifty one. You’re a rich man!”

  “WHA
T! What’s this? Tin?” The boss’ eyes rolled in their sockets. He suddenly became a very sick man.

  Perkins ran to his side.

  “Boss, what’s the matter? Speak to me!”

  Wampus looked up groggily.

  “I sold ’em.”

  Then Perkins almost passed out.

  “I sold them to that nitwit office boy of ours … for ten dollars! Ohoooo! …. Well, don’t stand there … do something!”

  Perkins picked himself up mentally and dashed out. He nearly knocked poor Willy over as he made tracks out of the office.

  “Why, Willy my boy. Here, let me help you with those packages!” Perkins took the load from Willy and staggered down the aisle. Immediately out ran Wampus.

  “Ah, there you are, William. I have been looking for you. Why don’t you take the day off and go to the ball game? Here is a ticket … the best seat in the stadium!”

  Willy scratched his head, wondering what in blue blazes was going on. First Perkins, then this. However, he was not one to think about such things. Let fortune favor him as it may. He snatched his cap from the hook and pranced out the door. Perkins and the boss went into a conference behind closed doors.

  “Think we got him?” Perkins asked.

  “Don’t know. Tomorrow we go to work on him. He’ll turn them over for a profit … not too large, of course. I’ll buy them back for fifteen dollars.”

  SO Willy had his work done for him and sat in at a good ball game. He went home feeling like a million bucks. But no sooner did he get in the house then the landlady tiptoed out.

  “Man to see you, Willy. He’s sitting in the parlor.”

  “What is this?” Willy muttered as he opened the door. A very large, dignified gentleman sat there, and when he saw Willy he smiled benevolently.

  “Ah, Mr. Wickerschnikle, I believe?” Willy said “yes.” The big man went on. “I am Mr. Styles of the Acme Brokerage. I understand that you own four percent of the shares in the Gleeful Gopher Mine. To get to the point, I am prepared to offer you one hundred dollars for them. What do you say?”

  Willy tried desperately to say something, but his mouth just hung down on his chest. Finally he let out a “HUH?” and clammed up again.

  Mr. Styles smiled even more. “I see you are a smart businessman, sir. I will raise the price to five hundred dollars. Think it over. At this time tomorrow I will be back and we will make a deal, yes?”

  Not knowing whether he was coming or going, Willy nodded his head. Mr. Styles bid him goodnight and went out.

  What dreams Willy had that night. He rode in a flashy car … ate caviar on Melba toast, and dressed like a king. Five hundred bucks … WOW! The alarm clock woke him up with a bang. He shook his head thinking what a wonderful dream it was … then realized that it was all true and bounced out of bed and into his clothes. He didn’t know if he should quit work or not. Dear Mr. Wampus … out of the goodness of his heart he had sold him a fortune in stocks! What a beautiful day! Whoopeee!

  Fitzgerald Wampus and Perkins were the first ones at work that morning. The boss had bags under his eyes big enough to carry a truck. Poor Perkins looked like he had slept in his clothes. When Willy came in they exchanged glances and went out to meet him.

  “Good morning, Willy, glad to see you in so bright and early. Step into the office a minute.”

  Now whenever anyone was asked into the office, it meant he was about to get a raise or get fired, and Willy knew that he wasn’t due for a raise … or so he thought. Shaking like an ant with the heebie jeebies, he stepped in.

  “Willy,” the boss began, “you remember those stocks I sold you? Well, by now I suppose you found out that they were worthless, so I’m going to buy them back … and at a profit for you! I will give you fifteen dollars for them!”

  BUT Willy was no dope. Right away he knew that something was up. “Nix, boss, I can sell them for five hundred smackers. Styles of Acme wants ’em.”

  “What! Perkins, does this mean …”

  “I’m afraid so. Acme must have checked the ownership. They have forty-nine percent over there, and that will give them controlling interest.”

  The boss was really shaking now. In fact he was sweating green.

  “Now look, Willy. We’ve always been friends, haven’t we? I’ll not dicker. I will give you six hundred dollars.”

  “Nope. Acme will give me more.”

  The ante went up. So did Wampus’ blood pressure. He offered one thousand, then two, then three. Suddenly the phone rang.

  “It’s for you, William,” the boss said. Willy answered it.

  “Yeah? What d’ya want?”

  Wampus and Perkins heard a raspy voice come out of the earphone, but all they got were the words “double” and “money” … Perkins looked at Wampus and said, “Gad, that must be Acme … sounds like they will double our offer to get those shares!”

  “Five?” Willy said incredulously into the phone … “TEN? Golly!”

  Wampus started to sweat. “Now they’re offering him the mint! What will I do?”

  PERKINS shook his head. “Better go the limit!” Wampus nodded in assent. Willy hung up the phone. Wampus started to speak immediately.

  “I suppose that was Acme, William.”

  Willie started to say something, but Wampus stopped him.

  “Don’t say a word.” The boss and Perkins went into a huddle. For many minutes they buzzed and buzzed, then the boss took a deep breath, grunted a few times like a cow, and laid a heavy hand on Willy’s shoulder.

  “My lad, I have come to the conclusion that you are too smart to try to outwit. Acme is a hole in the wall that will probably not pay you for months. So, if you sell to me, you will receive cash immediately. I now offer you the sum of twenty-five G’s, eh? …”

  Willy hesitated for a moment. “Hmmmmm. Well, ummm … Okay, I’ll take it!”

  Papers were rushed out. Wampus almost ripped the door off the safe opening it, a pen was shoved into Willy’s hand … and the deal was made. When it was all over the boss gritted his teeth. “Willy, you’ll be a success, some day!”

  Willie tried hard to keep from grinning, but it didn’t work. As he went out he broke into a horse laugh.

  “IF they only knew,” he said to the empty desks. “If they only knew that the phone call was from my landlady upping my room rent on account of I’m a success, they would’ve shot me! Haw! Haw!”

  ***

  Woodman’s Test

  WITH EXHAUSTS spitting blue flame and oily smoke, the Curtiss P-40 and the Messerschmidt 110 ripped through the blue sky over the Pacific. They circled warily, each waiting for the moment when the other should make a fatal mistake. Both were peppered with bullet holes. Shreds of fabric trailed in the slipstream, testifying to the marksmanship of the other.

  In the P40, Nick Bonner glued his eye to the cross-hairs of the sights, caught the “schmitt” as it blasted across in front of him, and touched the trigger button. A hissing hail of lead ripped into the tail section of the German ship. For a moment it skidded wildly, sliding sideways across the sky. Nick looped in under it, pulled back on the stick until the P40 pointed at the belly of the Nazi plane.

  But he never got the chance to blast. His last burst had thrown the “schmitt” completely out control, and in a devilish sideslip, it turned on one wing and drifted once more directly in front of the Curtiss. Nick wrenched hard on the stick … kicked the rudder pedal for all he was worth, but the black-crossed plane tore into his wing with a rending crash!

  Both pilots threw back the plexi-glass cowls and squirmed out of their seats. The ships, now tightly enmeshed, spun dizzily, dropping in a free fall. Nick saw the German leap from the wreckage, and glanced down to see where he was. Spinning like a large pinwheel, Nick made out a small island not far off. He drew in his breath, pushed himself clear of the planes and dove into space.

  THE chute jerked him upright as it boomed open. Swiftly, he hauled on the shroud lines, and no sooner had he slipped to one si
de, than the screaming remains of the fighting ships shot by, to crash in the ocean moments later! Nick picked out the island and worked his lines so as to drift toward it. It was then that he saw the white mushroom of the German’s parachute outlined against the trees! The fight wasn’t over! He patted the solid bulk of the .45 under his flying suit and grimaced. Two of them, deadly enemies … on an island a mile all around, a thousand miles from civilization! One of them would never leave it!

  Slipping out of his chute harness, the German had hit the water fifty yards from the beach. At once he struggled out of his flying suit and swam shoreward, his Luger automatic clenched in his teeth. He, too, foresaw what was about to come, and was prepared. The bullets in the gun were well greased to prevent any trace of water spoiling their effectiveness. His feet touched bottom, and he waded onto the sandy strip of beach, where he fell exhausted.

  This much Nick saw. He yanked his own lines even further to hit the center of the island. There was a chance that the Nazi might try to pot him as he floated down, but he was moving too fast to make a good target. The trees came up, and before he could blink, he was in them. Quickly, Nick slipped out of his harness to a branch, then dropped to the ground. Bushes and small trees shielded him well, but he pulled out his gun and held it ready. There was no telling when the other man might creep up on him.

  OTTO GRESS shivered slightly. Without his heavy suit, and wet as he was, the breeze was chilling. Craftily, he watched the American drift earthward, and took careful note where he landed. This would be easy. He, Otto, was skilled in the art of woodcraft.

  NIGHT CAME swiftly, blowing its cold breath through the trees. Nick knew that to light a fire would be dangerous for him, yet something must be done. The worst thing would be to rate his enemy a fool, so he gave him credit for having the brains of any beast of the woods. First, Nick found a stream of clear water, drank his fill, then dragged some rocks to the edge. He arranged them carefully, piled some twigs in it neatly, then laid some heavier tree branches over it. He lit a match, and in a moment had a small, cheerful fire going.