Primal Spillane Page 17

  “Bah! One scrawny cloud!” That was the only news he had, and who wants to write about a cloud anyhow? Besides, what could he write? “A pretty little cloud with eyes so blue, you sees me and I sees you. Nerts!” He sounded like a lily.

  But, if there was one cloud there must be more, and a lot of clouds meant rain — perhaps even that hurricane he was thinking of! What was the matter with that? Just because the city hasn’t had one for fifty years, it doesn’t mean they can’t have one.

  He looked at the little cloud again, scared stiff at his own thoughts. Why, that was a hurricane cloud if he ever saw one! (He never stopped to remember that he never did see one.) Bang went the keys. He typed as he never did before, banging out the story of the century!

  IF HE HURRIED he’d just have time to make the afternoon edition. Page after page went through the machine, and finally he had it done. He laid the finished copy down and looked at it. Shucks, he thought, too bad it wasn’t real. Oh well, it was fun writing it. Now for a drink of water.

  Fate is a funny duck. She sent little Archie, the copy boy, in just then and he picked up the stuff. Now, Archie had a nose for news, and when he saw the report he shot down the hall like he had termites in his trousers.

  “Stop the press!” he yelled. “Big news!”

  Luke Zincus grabbed the sheets. One hurried glance was all he needed, and it went into type.

  The news of the impending hurricane hit the town like a ton of bricks. Other papers, not to be outdone, copied the story and the worried citizens began tying down their apartment houses. Policemen cleared the streets and cars were hustled into safe spots. The place soon looked like a ghost town. The mayor stopped work on the new bridge, and airplanes dove for cornfields to get out of the storm.

  Someone wired the governor, the governor wired Washington, and Washington wired back. Hurricane? Don’t be silly. Zip! Suddenly everybody had their necks in a rope — or practically.

  Foof was going to break Zincus’ neck, but he got it from Archie. Then Foof was going to chop off Archie’s ears, but he got it from Gooey. Foof got mad. He stormed into Gooey’s office with a hunk of lumber in his hand. But poor Gooey saw him coming and ducked behind a desk. He didn’t, know what it was all about, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Gooey, you snake! Hit me in the face when my back’s turned, will ya? What d’ya mean by saying there’s gonna be a hurricane? For that I’m gonna hang your skin on the wall. Your head I’ll use for a lampshade!”

  “Now Chiefie — ”

  “Don’t ‘Chiefie’ me, you Goon, defend yourself!”

  At that time, once again Fate stepped in … with the mayor, the police chief and a few hundred wild-eyed citizens.

  “Who is responsible for this outrage?” the fat mayor bellowed. “He shall spend the rest of his natural life in the clink!”

  FOOF pointed to the cringing Gooey. “There is the varmint. I hope he gets hung!”

  The chief of police yanked out his handcuffs, and Gooey was practically a dead pigeon. The local citizenry was all for lynching him on the spot, but he was hustled off to the hoosegow without anything more than a few lumps on the noggin.

  When they threw Gooey in the cell he was nothing but a bundle of clothes, having lost about twenty pounds in the pie wagon. If he wanted to he could’ve slipped between the bars, but he knew better. At least they kept his would-be assassins out. Shucks, he thought, why was I ever born?

  Along about midnight, some faint sounds came from downstairs. For a while he just stopped his pacing to listen, but after a while he climbed up the wall like a monkey to peer out through the bars. Good night shirt! That was a mob down there, and from the looks of things, they were going to lynch him!

  Wow! What a situation! And all over a hunk of cloud. Why the dickens didn’t that fuzzy piece of sky play around on the other side of the building where be wouldn’t have seen it? What luck! — and all bad! He took another look outside. Gosh, the gang was bigger than all get-out. A bunch of them brought up a log and they began to ram it against the door.

  Crash! BANG! Blooey! They were in! The thundering herd tore up the stairs to the cell block and shook the doors of Gooey’s cell. Joe Gooey just sat back and grinned. “Tough luck, dopes! I’ll wait here if you don’t mind.”

  But the mob was determined. Two guys got on each bar and gave a lusty “Heave Ho,” and down they came!

  Poor Gooey. They took him by the seat of hit pants and bounced him down the steps. Then they bounced him up again. When they got done, they rolled him down the street like a wagon wheel. Then someone had a bright idea, and the bunch lined up in a double row with belts in their hands. Gooey had to run down that line. WHAM! Slap! Owwch!

  The leader held up his hand. “Okay, you guys, enough of that. Let’s get the rope. We’ll show this dimwit he can’t make monkeys outa us!”

  Everybody let out a whoop and a holler and they trotted off. A few policemen tried to reclaim the prisoner, but nobody paid any attention to them. The mob hopped into cars and drove to the city park, where stood a tree just made for lynching.

  Out they spilled, dragging Gooey with them. In no time at all a rope was around his neck. Gooey thought that if they didn’t hang him soon he’d die of fright. The way his knees were banging, he sounded like a set of trap drums.

  NOW, along about this time a curious wind sprung up. Nobody noticed it, being too excited over the hanging. It whipped through the trees, blowing branches every which way. Unmentionables that were hanging on clothes lines sailed through the air. One of the men looked up in time to see a roof just miss their heads. His eyes popped!

  “Hey!” he yelled. “It – it — it’s a hurricane!”

  Gooey looked around. “So it is! So it is!”

  Forgotten was the lynching party; in fact, Gooey was the only one left standing under the tree. The rest had dashed madly back to hold down their houses. Everywhere cars lay on their sides, blown over by the wind. Rain started to come down frogs and fishes!

  So, being a man of the moment, Joe Gooey removed his rope necktie and started down the street. Fortunately, he reached the office building without being crowned by a garage roof, and he went upstairs for a decent night’s sleep. The only one that saw him was Zincus, who was working late, and he thought he was a ghost, having already set the type about the lynching.

  Here’s where Fate came back for a third crack. The goofy citizens had forgotten to take down their hurricane protection when they went to hang Joe Gooey, and nothing much happened to their shacks. The full force of the hurricane spent itself on the boarded up windows and pegged down garages.

  THE next day, the mayor, the police chief, and several hundred citizens called on the person of Joe Gooey and woke him up from a sound sleep. He was presented with the keys to the city and hailed as a hero. The governor wired congratulations. Mr. Foof pounced in with a big smile and shook hands with Gooey. “I knew you had it in you, Joe ole pal!”

  “Phooey on you!” said Gooey.

  “How did you know about the hurricane, Gooey?”

  “I did what you told me. I stuck my head out the window and found out! Phooey!”

  ***

  Fighting Mad

  “ROLL OUT, you buzzards, there’s a scramble at 15,000!” The Yankee pilot who yelled the order ducked back under a barrage of shoes. He stuck his head in the door once more. “Shake it up. We have five minutes to get up in!” The boys hopped into their flying togs in two minutes flat and dashed out of the door. Japs had been coming over Australia quite frequently the last week, and every one of the boys was anxious to bag one of the Nipponese.

  Shorty Peters put his foot in the slot of his fighter and barked out some final instructions over the roar of the motors. “Bombers are coming over. Get the altitude on them, peel off and pick your crate. Get the bombers first, then go for the pursuit planes. Now hop to it!”

  The men ran to their P-40’s and climbed aboard. They fed the throttles and the propellers raced.
A quick pivot, and the flight tore down the runway and zipped into the air, reaching for altitude.

  THEY were a gay bunch, fighting to keep the war away from the States. With every Jap they downed it meant less chance of bombs reaching America. They fought with a vengeance, a ripping, slashing pack of hungry sky wolves, eager to send leaden death into every Rising Sun plane.

  Fifteen minutes from their base, Shorty saw the specks of the approaching Zero fighters escorting a flight of heavy bombers. He flipped the switch on the inter-com phones and whispered. The throat sonovox attachment threw his voice to the other planes. “All right, fellows, they’re straight ahead. Get another thousand feet of sky under you and peel off!”

  Once again the sticks went back and the flight climbed The Zeros were coming up fast now. With the sun at their backs, the Americans peeled off into a dizzying dive … heading straight for the Japs. Fingers touched trigger buttons, and a leaden stream of death blasted into the Jap ships. Flames shot from the leading plane, its motor screamed in protest, and it went into a spin. Three others followed it down, dead men at the controls!

  “Every man for himself!” Shorty yelled. “Grab one and hang on!”

  The surprise attack was over … the sky blazed with tracer bullets as the Japanese recovered to take advantage of their superior forces. The odds were two to one! Peters let the Zero in front of him have a burst in the tail section, and when he saw it go out of control, zoomed up under the belly of a bomber. Shells screamed down from the lower blisters, but clever stick handling took Shorty out of the way. The P-40 had its nose pointing straight up. and just before the ship stalled, he tripped the trigger.

  The blinding flash of the explosion that followed almost got him. The P-40 shot sidewise across the sky. He had hit the bomb load! Desperately he grabbed the controls and tried to get his plane back on its course, but the explosion must have destroyed his airfoils—the ship wouldn’t respond! He took one look above him, saw that the bombers had turned tail for home, leaving the Zeros to fight it out, forced open the greenhouse, and jumped.

  Shorty knew that he dare not open the chute too soon, for a helpless man dangling from shroud lines was an ideal target to these birds. Slowly he counted off the seconds, mentally computing his speed of fall. This had to be good—or he was a goner!

  When his count told him that he was a few hundred feet from the ground below, he yanked the rip cord. Silk spilled out of the pack, and he was jerked violently in mid-air. From side to side he swung, like a great pendulum, and socked into a tree a moment later.

  Dazed, he opened his eyes and felt for broken bones, then breathed a great sigh of relief when he found that he had none. Peters unsnapped his chute and crawled out. About him was dense foliage, with huge trees bursting through it. Millions of strange bugs chirped madly, their noises rising like the morning fog that was lifting from the earth.

  Where was he?

  Knowing that a dogfight could throw you miles off course, Peters took careful note of his surroundings. Above him, the other planes had drifted out of sight, his men probably giving him up for lost when they saw him dropping to earth. By his last calculations, he had been midway in the Arafura Sea, between Australia and New Guinea. This must be one of the hundreds of islands that lay in the area!

  Climbing one of the trees, he located the water, and the sun gave him his direction. Fortunately, he was facing south, the direction of his home base … now what? He could sit down to wait for a passing ship, but how would he reach it? All these places were under Japanese control, and if he was found, it would mean death! He lay on the soil, his eyes closed, and he dropped off to sleep.

  THE SHARP butt edge of a rifle aroused him with a start. A hissing voice spoke softly. “So, we have a visssitor! … Get up, Yankee Pig, our commander will want to question you!”

  Shorty was so startled that he could do nothing but obey. With the rifle menacing him, he was marched around the tip of the island, through a fringe of the forest … and in the cove provided by horn-shaped segments of land was the Jap base! And in the water were a half- dozen submarines!

  So this was where the subs that were sinking the convoy ships operated from. The rifle prodded him into the operations office, where a fat officer sat behind a desk. The two conversed swiftly in Nipponese, then the officer addressed him. “You are a spy, yesss? And you know what happens to spies, no?”

  “Spy, my eye!” Peters shot back. “I’m a prisoner of war, that’s what, and I expect to be treated as such!”

  The Jap laughed. “Take him away. In the morning we will shoot him. Right now we must prepare the submarines.”

  Peters turned red with anger. This was an outrage! But once again the gun ground into his spine and he was led outside. The Jap summoned two others, and he was thrown, roughly, into a wooden shack and the door bolted. He knew one of the Jappies would remain outside to make sure he stayed put.

  What a mess!

  NIGHT closed in fast. For a while Shorty rested, until the noisy activity outside awakened him completely. He took careful note of his prison. Obviously, it was just a shack. Going to the rear, Peters fingered some warped boards and gave one a yank. It came loose in his hands! Well … this was really insulting! Who did they think he was … one of their own kind! … Sticking him in a place like this believing that he couldn’t get out!

  Whatever the confusion was outside, it covered the noise he made nicely. In two minutes he had the boards off and slipped out. Slowly, he crept around to the front. There the sentry was looking longingly at a small celebration going on at the waterfront. Peters pulled back his fist, his other hand flipped off the sentry’s helmet, and he smacked him with all his weight in the back of the neck! The guy went down … out cold!

  Peter’s hands worked swiftly. He stripped the guy and donned his uniform. A moment later he was gliding through the darkness to the water’s edge. There, rolling slowly were a group of Jap torpedo boats — designs copied from the American original. But there was one thing they’d never copy … the fighting spirit that drove those “skeeters!” One man stood there unaware of the figure behind him. Again that fist flashed, and the Jap went down in a crumpled heap!

  Leaping to the deck of a “skeeter,” Shorty Peters ducked into the engine room. He pushed the starting button, threw the boat into reverse, leaped out and untied it, then grabbed the controls again. Immediately the beach was the scene of wild disorder. Shots rang out … lights caught the boat in their glare … but they were too late … Peters gave her the gun and headed toward the open sea.

  One of the lights caught a sub floating idly in the speeding craft’s path, and Shorty got an idea. He set the controls on the automatic pilot and climbed outside to the torpedo tubes. They were already loaded for action. He swung the forward tube out, then shoved the firing lever. With a hiss and a splash the steel fish popped out and raced for the sub!

  CRASH! The submarine went up in a welter of foam and debris. Steel plates rained down into the water. Peters dodged the remnants of the sub and went for the next. The foolish Japs kept the lights on and they lit up the place perfectly. The skeeter was an impossible target to hit, speeding as it was. Within the next five minutes Tom got two more torpedoes off — and two more subs went to the bottom, a hopeless mass of junk!

  But he had to get out of here — at any time the Japs might bring some machine guns or heavy artillery into play … they might even summon their aircraft! Shorty gave the boat full gun and sped out to sea. The instruments were all in the weird language of Japan, but a compass was a compass in any man’s language. He set his course and followed it all through the night.

  Dawn was just breaking, when through the haze, he spotted the outlines of the Australian mainland … and a flight of American planes … his planes … the men of his own outfit! Then … they spotted him, and roared down. Guns rattled, and spray was kicked onto the deck. They thought he was a lone Jap suicide raider!

  In a second, Peters had his undershirt off. He
rushed forward and pinned it to the flagstaff. The planes got the idea and followed him. As far as they were concerned, the Jap could surrender if he liked!

  Shorty landed at the dock under cover of a mess of guns, held by Aussies and Americans. He stepped up … and were they disappointed when they saw that he wasn’t a Jap! Quickly, he retold the story and was driven to his field. There he assembled the men who were beside themselves with the joy of having him back.

  “LISTEN, men,” he said, “I know where those Japs who have been waylaying our ships are hiding out. I want a group of volunteers to raid their base. They’ll probably be expecting us, and it’ll be a mean fight. Who wants to go?”

  Every single man of them took a step forward, and in booming voices shouted, “I DO!”

  ***

  No Prisoners

  SIRENS blasted a path down the avenue for the squad cars to worm their way through. They came from all directions, converging in a roped-off area, and drew up to an armored car that lay on its side like a huge beetle. The back was blown completely off, while the hood pointed upward like the toe of an old boot. Smoke was still oozing lazily from the gaping hole in the motor.

  Johnny Blaine stepped out of the police car and took in the scene with a single glance. He was new on the Detective Squad and the case excited him. A few patrolmen stood about and he walked over to them.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Someone managed to get a bomb under the hood and another inside the back door.” The cop nodded towards the wreck. “They were timed to go off together and did. Pretty neat job. eh? They grabbed about a hundred thousand, besides killing the three guards in the car, and no one saw them!”