by Jerry eBooks
There is a bus at the dock which is labeled “Sea Breeze Inn” and that’s my meat. I climb in with about five others and we are off. Up one shady street and down another; up a bit of a hill and a short straightaway and we are at the hotel. It’s a peach, too, with a view of the ocean that would knock your eye out.
The manager spots me at once and says that he’d know me among a thousand as a Combs. Which was real sweet of him seeing that he was expecting me, and the others in the bus were an old man, three old women and a young girl about nineteen. But it wasn’t my part to enlighten him and tell him that I was on to his flattery. Besides he was an old bird and probably believed what he said.
He was right glad to see me and tried to look like he meant it and wondered why I hadn’t come up there again in all these years but guessed it was because it was kind of slow with my father having a hotel at Atlantic City and at Ostend. And he wanted to know if I was going to study the business. Said my father wrote him that he would like to see me interested in the hotel line.
I didn’t say much. There wasn’t no need. Mr. Rowlands, the manager, was one of those fussy old parties and he talked all the way up in the elevator and right into the room.
There were about fifty people there all told on the first of July but they kept coming in all the time and after I was there about two weeks the place was fairly well crowded. But I didn’t make any effort to learn the business, thinking it might hurt young Combs who didn’t strike me as a chap who would like any kind of work.
There was one young girl there—the one that came up in the bus with me—Marion St. James, and we had quite sometimes together. She was young and full of life and wanted to be up and doing all the time and we did a great deal of golf together.
Then there was another who took an interest in me. She was a widow and a fine looker and it was her first season there. I thought that she was more used to playing Atlantic City for she didn’t look like the usual run of staunch New England dames. Sort of out of place and she looked to me to trot her around.
But I didn’t have the time; there was Marion to be taken about. She was what you’d call a flapper and talked of the moonlight and such rot but she was real and had a big heart and after all a sensible little head on her shoulders. And she couldn’t see the widow a mile and looked upon me as her own special property and blew the widow up every chance she got.
But the widow, I guess, was bent on making a match, and she was finding the Island pretty dead though the son of John B. Combs, the hotel magnate, looked like a big catch. So you see my time was fairly well taken up and I grabbed many a good laugh. I never took women seriously. My game and women don’t go well together.
Yet that widow was persistent and curious and wanted to know every place Marion and me went and used to keep asking me where we drove to nights. For the kid and me did a pile of motoring. Yes, I had a car. A nice little touring car came with the Burton Combs moniker.
Marion was different. She was just a slip of a kid stuck up in a place like that and it was up to me to show her a good time. I kind of felt sorry for her and then she was pretty and a fellow felt proud to be seen with her.
All the time I kept an eye peeled for the bad men. I wondered if they’d come at all and if they did I thought that they would come in the busy season when they wouldn’t be noticed much. But that they’d come at all I very much doubted.
And then they came—the three of them. I knew them the very second they entered the door. They were dolled right up to the height of fashion—just what the others were wearing. But I knew them. They just didn’t belong. Maybe the others didn’t spot them as outsiders but I did.
They were no bluff, either. I have met all kinds of men in my day; bad and worse and these three were the real thing. It came to me that if these gents were bent on murder I had better be up and doing.
And that Island boasted that it had never had a real murder. Yes, it sure did look like all records were going to be broken.
One of them was a tall skinny fellow and he looked more like a real summer visitor than the others. But his mouth gave him away. When he thought he was alone with the others he’d talk through the side of it, a trick which is only found in the underworld or on the track.
One of the others was fat and looked like an ex-bartender and the third I should say was just a common jailbird that could cut a man’s throat with a smile.
The tall skinny one was the leader and he was booked as Mr. James Farrow. He made friends with me right off the bat. Didn’t overdo it, you know; just gave me the usual amount of attention that most of the guests showed toward the owner’s son. He must-a read a book about the Island for he tried to tell me things about the different points of interest like he’d been there before. But he had a bad memory like on dates and things. Marion gave me the dope on that. She knew that Island like a book.
I didn’t have much doubt as to who they were but I checked them up, liking to make sure. I didn’t know just what their game was and I didn’t see the big idea of wanting to bump me off. If they wanted money I could catch their point but they seemed well supplied with the ready. Yes, sir, I looked this Farrow over and he’s a tough bird and no mistake. But then I’ve seen them just as tough before and pulled through it. Besides, I hold a few tricks myself. They don’t know I’m on and they don’t know that I’m mighty quick with the artillery myself.
And that gun is always with me. It ain’t like I only carry it when I think there’s trouble coming. I always have it. You see, a chap in my line of work makes a lot of bad friends and he can’t tell when one of them is going to bob up and demand an explanation. But they all find out that I ain’t a bird to fool with and am just as likely to start the fireworks as they are.
Nearly every night after dinner I’d take the car and Marion and me would go for a little spin about the Island. I don’t know when I ever enjoyed anything so much and sometimes I’d forget the game I was playing and think that things were different. I’ve met a pile of women in my time but none like Marion nor near like her. Not since the days when I went to school—and that’s a memory only.
Well, we’d just drive about and talk and she’d ask me about the different places I had been to. And I could hold my own there, for I’ve been all over the world.
Then one night—about ten days after the troop arrived—I get a real scare. We’ve been over ‘Sconset way and are driving home along about nine-thirty when—zip—there’s a whiz in the air and a hole in the windshield. Then there’s another zip and I see Marion jump.
It’s nothing new to me. I knew that sound right away. It’s a noiseless gun and someone has taken a couple of plugs at us from the distance. Well, it ain’t my cue to stop, so I speed up and it’s pretty near town before I slow down beneath a lamp and turn to Marion.
There is a little trickle of blood running down her cheek and she’s pretty white. But she ain’t hurt any. It’s just a scratch and I stop in the drug store and get some stuff and bathe it off.
She is a mighty game little kid and don’t shake a bit and act nervous. But I’m unsteady for the first time in my life and my hand shook. I wouldn’t of been much good on a quick draw then. But later I would, for I was mad—bad mad—if you know what that is. I see that all the danger ain’t mine. Not that I think they meant to get Marion. But I had brought that kid into something, and all because she kind of liked me a bit and I took her around.
On the way back to the hotel I buck up and tell her that it must have been some of the natives hunting the hares and not to say anything about it but that I would speak to the authorities in the morning.
She just looked at me funny and I knew that she did not believe me but she let it go at that.
“If that’s all you want to tell me, Burt—why—all right—I shan’t say a word to anyone. You can trust me.”
That was all. Neither of us spoke again until we reached the hotel and I had parked the car under the shed at the side and we were standing at the bottom of the step
s by the little side entrance. Then she turned and put her two tiny hands up on my shoulders and the paleness had gone from her face but just across her cheek where the bullet had passed was the smallest streak of vivid red.
“You can trust me, Burt,” she said again and there seemed to be a question in her voice.
“Of course I trust you, Marion,” I answered and my voice was husky and seemed to come from a distance.
It all happened very suddenly after that. Her head was very close. I know, for her soft hair brushed my cheek. I think that she leaned forward but I know that she looked up into my eyes and that the next moment I had leaned down and kissed and held her so a moment. So we stood and she did not draw away and I made no movement to release her. We were alone there, very much alone.
Then there was the sudden chug of a motor, a second’s flash of light and I had opened my arms and Marion was gone and I stood alone in the blackness.
So the spell of Marion’s prescence was broken and I stood silently in the shadow as Farrow and his two companions passed and entered the hotel lobby.
Had they seen us? Yes—I knew that they had. For they smiled as they passed. Smiled and never knew that they had passed close to death. For at that moment it was only the press of a trigger that lay between them and eternity.
The curtain had been rung up on the first act and the show was on. Before, I could sleep easy at night for the danger was mine and I had thought little of it. But now I felt that it was another’s—and—well I resolved to bring things to a head that night.
Ten minutes later I went to my room but not to bed. I put my light out and sat in the room until about twelve o’clock. At that time the hotel was as quiet as death.
Then I stepped out of my window and climbed down the fire escape which led to the little terrace which overlooked the ocean. I knew just where Farrow’s room was and I walked along the terrace until I was under it and then swung myself up the fire escape and climbed to the third story. His window was open and thirty seconds later I had dropped into the room and was seated on the end of Farrow’s bed.
Then I switched on the light and waited till he woke up. Guess he didn’t have much fear of me for he slept right on for another five minutes and then he kind of turned over and blinked and—opened his eyes. He was awake fast enough then for he was looking in the mean end of my automatic.
He was quick-witted, too, for he rubbed his eyes with one hand while he let the other slip under his pillow. Then I laughed and he drew it out empty and sat bolt upright in bed and faced the gun.
“Farrow,” I says. “You were mighty near to going out tonight. And if I hadn’t already lifted that gun of yours I’d a popped you then.”
And I half wished that I had let his gun stay there for then there would have been an excuse to let him have it. A poor excuse but still an excuse. It’s hard to shoot a man when he ain’t armed and prepared but it’s another thing to shoot when he’s reaching for a gun and it’s your life or his. Then you can let him have it with your mind easy.
He was a game bird, was Farrow, for he must have had plenty to think about at that moment. You see he couldn’t tell just what was coming to him and from his point of view it must have looked mighty bad but he started right in to talk. Told me the chances I was taking and that I couldn’t possibly get away with it. He didn’t waste any time in bluffing and pretending surprise at seeing me sitting there with the gun. I give him credit—now—for understanding the situation.
But I stopped his wind.
“Shut up,” I says.
And he caught the anger in my eyes and in my voice and he shut—which was good for him, for a chap can’t tell for sure what he’s going to do when he’s seeing red and has the drop on a lad that he figures needs killing.
Then I did a bit of talking. I told him what had taken place that night and I knew it was his doing. And he nodded and never tried to deny it.
“You killed my brother,” he says, “For he died in trying to break jail a few months ago—the jail where you sent him.”
“So—I killed your brother, eh? Well every man is entitled to his own opinion. Now, I don’t know about the killing of your brother but I’ll tell you this, my friend, I come mighty near to killing you and I don’t miss either and I don’t crack windshields and I don’t go for to hit innocent parties.”
I could see that he was kind of surprised at the way I talked for I wasn’t specially careful about my language like I had been about the hotel and like what he would expect from the real Burton Combs. But I could see that he kind of smacked his lips at the mention of the girl and he knew that he had a hold on me there. But I didn’t care what was on his chest. I knew that the morning would see the end of the thing one way or the other.
“I am going to give you until the six-thirty boat tomorrow morning to leave the Island,” I told him.
And I was not bluffing, either. After a man has had his warning it’s good ethics to shoot him down—at least I see it that way. That is, if he needs it bad and you happen to have my code of morals. Also if you want to live to a ripe old age.
“What then?” he sort of sneers.
Seeing as how he wasn’t going over the hurdles right away he thinks I’m a bit soft. In the same position his own doubt about shooting me would be the chances of a getaway. And the chances were not good on that Island unless you had made plans in advance. Perhaps he had—I didn’t know then for I hadn’t seen any boat hanging about the harbor.
“What then?” he sneers again.
“Then—” I says very slowly and thinking of Marion. “Then I’ll cop you off at breakfast tomorrow morning. Yes—as soon as that boat leaves the dock I’ll be gunning for you, Mr. James Farrow. And as sure as you’re not a better shot than you were tonight out on the moors you’ll go join your brother.”
With that I turned from the bed and, unlocking his door, walked out of his room. The temptation to shoot was too great.
But I didn’t go to bed that night. I just put out my light and sat smoking in my room—smoking and thinking. So I spent the second night that summer awake. I knew that the three would meet and talk it over and no doubt—get. But I just sat there; half facing the door and half facing the window with my gun on my knees waiting.
How nice it would be if they would only come by the window? It would be sweet then—and what a lot of credit I’d get as Burton Combs protecting his father’s property. They meant real business all right for I see now that there was sentiment behind the whole thing—sentiment and honor. That peculiar honor of the underworld which goes and gets a squealer. Combs had evidently squealed and Farrow’s brother had paid the price. And Combs went free. Position and evidence and politics had done the trick, I guess.
I heard the clock strike two and then two-thirty and then there was a footstep in the hall and I turned and faced the door and then there come a light tap on the door. This sure was a surprise.
I didn’t turn on the electric light but just went to the door and swung it open suddenly and stepped back. But no one came in.
Then I heard a kind of a gasp—a woman’s voice. The first thing I thought of was Marion and then I see the widow in the dim hall light. Her hair was all down and she had thrown a light robe about her and she was excited and her eyes were wide open and she looked frightened.
“It’s Marion—little Miss St. James,” she sobbed, “and she’s in my room now—and it was terrible and I think—I think she fainted.”
Then she stopped and kind of choked a bit.
Right away it came to me that this gang had done something to her and I wished that I had settled the whole thing earlier in the evening when I had the chance but—
“Come,” I said to the widow and took her by the arm and led her down the hall to her room. The door was open and gun in hand I rushed into the room ahead of her.
“There on the bed,” she gasped behind me.
I turned to the bed—and it was empty and then I knew. But it was too late, for I was
trapped. There was a muzzle of a gun shoved into the middle of my back and a hard laugh. Then Farrow spoke.
“Throw that gun on the bed and throw it quick.”
And—and I threw it and threw it quick. I was done. I should have suspected the widow from the first day I laid eyes on her, for she didn’t belong. Yes, she was this gang’s come on. And me, who had never fallen for women, was now caught by women. A good one and a bad one. One whom I wanted to protect and one who knew it. Now you see how the game is played. Neither a good nor a bad woman can help you in my sort of life. And yet I would take any chance for that little Marion who used to stand out on the moor at the—but Farrow was talking.
“And now, Mr. Combs, we meet again—and you’re the one to do the listening. We are going to take you for a little motor ride—that is you are going out with me to meet my friends. We don’t intend to kill you. That is if you have proved yourself a man and come along quietly. There is some information I want from you. And thanks for the return of my gun,” he finished as he picked the gun off the bed.
Yes, it was his gun and mine was still in my pocket and I’d a shot him then only I saw that the widow was covering me.
“Come.”
Farrow turned and, poking the gun close to my ribs, he induced me to leave the room with him.
“If you make a noise you go,” he told me as we walked down the long narrow hall to the servants’ stairs. But I didn’t intend to cry out. If he would just move that gun of his the least little bit I could draw and shoot. I almost laughed, the thing was so easy.
“The Elsie is lying right off the point,” he went on, as we approached the little shed where my car was kept. “You remember the Elsie—it used to be your boat. The government remembers it, too. But they don’t know it now nor would you. But enough of that. Climb into your car—we’ll use that for our little jaunt.”
