Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  He started winding up the old alarm clock in his hand. . . .

  Half an hour later, as though it might have been clear sunlight instead of impenetrable fog, he eased the fishing boat up to the pier at Clark’s Harbor.

  Men were waiting on that pier. Fishermen with strained faces. Others were already putting out in boats. They paused at sight of Sandy Swim.

  Sandy tied up and was on the dock in an instant. He asked hurriedly: “Was there a man who swam ashore a little while ago? A short man who—”

  Someone spoke up. “Sure thing, Sandy. Good grief, we figured you were done for. The guy said you and his partner and him cracked up, and then he just managed to swim ashore. He—”

  Sandy’s eyes flashed. “Where’d he go?”

  “Headed for the ferry at Barrington Passage. Got a ride in a car. Must be almost up there by now, but the next ferry ain’t for half an hour yet.”

  Sandy swung toward one of the fishermen he knew. “Get up to the hotel,” he ordered. “Call them at Barrington and have them hold that fellow when he gets off the ferry. There’s never more than one or two passengers at any time. Also call the R.C.M.P. and tell them to have a man waiting. But I’ll be along in a moment.”

  Sandy’s man was trapped. The ferry only crossed to the mainland once each hour. It was the only means, other than a small boat, by which you could leave Cape Sable Island. And these men had said that Golden had asked for a ride to the ferry crossing.

  Briefly, Sandy explained what had happened. Among the men he knew, he saw a couple of strangers who were here on vacation. They understood something about chronometers, and they stared in wonder when Sandy Swim told how his own had been pitched overboard.

  One said: “But I don’t understand! Without it, how did you know your course? How did you get back here?”

  Sandy smiled, gave his fellow men a knowing look.

  “Mister,” he offered, “fishermen raised on Cape Sable Island can’t afford chronometers. They use alarm clocks to time themselves on their course. My chronometer was a gift, but I never used it. I’d rather have this old clock.”

  Sandy still held the clock in his hands. “Lucky thing it was stopped,” he explained. “Or Golden might have guessed that I could use it.” He indicated the half rusted hands and the broken face.

  “You see, the darn thing always jams up at two-thirty. You have to remember to reset it when you’re using it on a foggy day.”

  One of the visitors to the Island whistled. “Brother!” he exclaimed. “That’s what I call navigating.”

  An old-timer spoke up. “Friend,” he said, “I guess we can sort of smell our way home in a fog!”

  Sandy Swim smiled again. Then his face set in grim lines. He said: “I’ve got to go. There’s one fellow I know who’s going to learn clocks can do more than tell time!”

  THE END

  OBJECTIVE-MURDER!

  William R. Cox

  Going against Tom Mulford’s killer was desperate business. This was no backwoods Cracker amateur, but a smooth operator who knew how to use a knife like a big-time shiv artist, and who proved it—twice!

  ILENE CARVER and I sat on the terrace of the Shoreland Hotel and looked at the Gulf of Mexico, which was busily changing hues under the coaxing of a midwinter sun. Ilene was wearing a brief bathing outfit and drinking a Martini, very dry, with a twist of lemon. Her red hair was caught up by a scarf and her greenish eyes were worried.

  She said: “Malachi is almost never late, the rat.”

  “It’s only four,” I said. “He’s messing around with a local cop who runs a small blackmail racket . . .”

  “I know what he’s doing,” she said impatiently. “Butting into things that are none of his business. Just because he has seven or eight or twelve million dollars doesn’t mean he should try to cure the world of its ills. I’m getting sick of this, Tack Hinton. I’m getting sick of hanging around waiting for Malachi.”

  “You just said he was rarely late,” I pointed out.

  She gave me a dirty look. There is no use trying to be logical with a woman, even one as smart as Ilene. The truth was that she and Malachi led a cat-and-dog existence with very few tender passages. There was nothing to keep them from marrying except their own independent temperaments.

  Malachi’s predelection for messing around with petty crooks in politics or public service had started when we first returned from the Pacific to lick our wounds, and had served to relieve tension and banish boredom. Malachi had the money and the brains and I was his guy. He still limped a bit and my lung lesions, though healed, were not sturdy. His money eased the path and besides I loved the big mugg.

  We were at Shoreland because this cop, Andy Spesak, had given us a ticket on the highway when we were celebrating the return of gasoline, and then had offered to tear it up for twenty bucks. Malachi had preferred to accept the invitation to the court and pay his fine, then had blasted the cop. Spesak was a surly, black-thatched individual who deserved dismissal, but Malachi had run into a local situation and some former pals in the upper strata of Florida finance, and a storm was gathering. Ilene recognized the signs and was taut.

  She said: “There come the weird foursome—Malachi’s pals!”

  “Not pals. Just acquaintances,” I said.

  THE woman came first, wrapped in a gaudy Filipino sarong. She was shaped like a bureau with the upper drawer open—a waist you could span with your hands, and legs which made Grable worshipers gape and stare. She had flamboyant blond hair, dyed. She was about thirty and as ripe as a black olive. Her name was Dora Acton.

  Her husband ambled behind, following the pot which was his tummy. He was bald, except for a fuzz over each ear, and pink all over—his face, his smooth, hairless body, his eyes. He was all curves, a round ball of a man, no taller than his wife.

  Dave Acton had never done a lick of work in his life, owned almost as many shekels as Malachi, had been 4F in the war—and no wonder, the liquor he drank. Not that the booze showed any effects on him. He was a two-fisted guzzler, but liquor only made him more amiable and friendly. He never said a cross word, nor did a mean thought ever seem to cross his mind. He wasn’t pretty, but he was kindly and people liked him.

  Rem Cartright was a step closer to Dora Acton, which was symbolical. Cartright was Acton’s age, but taller, slimmer, square-jawed and wide-shouldered, with much wavy hair on his rectangular head. The contrast between the two men was fantastic, and when you believed the gossip, that Cartright had always been in love with Dora Acton, had lost her to Acton’s millions when he was a struggling young grove owner but had never given up, you had a queer combination indeed. The three were always together and Dora treated both men with amazing impartiality—at least in public.

  The fourth member of the group was young. He was tall and reedy, with a powerful, overdeveloped right arm. He wore only brief trunks and his bronzed body had the trim litheness of the trained athlete. I always stared at him, envying him, remembering my palmy days when I’d been in shape to go against the Bears or the Redskins at the Polo Grounds. This kid was Tom Mulford, a ranking tennis amateur. Acton, oddly enough, played a damned good game of doubles and Mulford was taking a free ride between seasons, serving as Acton’s partner on the courts. They had creamed Malachi and me a couple of times with great ease, and it had rankled Malachi, who can’t stand to lose at anything.

  Ilene said: “If I have to listen to that woman martialing her lovers once more I’ll bust her on the nose as sure as you’re a big-eyed dope, Tack Hinton.”

  They came down to the beach where a Negro had unfolded umbrellas of brilliant hue and the woman gave orders in dulcet accents, but with decision. “Put the cocktails there . . . The blankets are wrinkled . . . Straighten them . . . Adjust that umbrella . . . All right, now, sit down . . . You pour, Tom, you don’t spill so much . . . I’m dying for a drink . . .”

  Somehow or other Dave Acton disengaged himself from the minor melee of settling down on the hot sand. He came
waddling up to us, looking disturbed. He said: “Hiya, folks? I’m worried about Malachi. He got that policeman discharged . . . Political pressure was put on me . . . Spesak is tough. He swore to get Malachi in court . . . Where is Malachi?” Acton talked in bunches, like bananas.

  Ilene said: “He’s probably blasting the cop.”

  Acton said: “There’s funny business . . . Got a hunch. Danger of some kind. Man named Joe Monk, cousin of Spesak, a giant . . . Got the Crackers goin’ . . . Talks like Huey Long . . . Ignorant, but virile. Get’s ’em stirred up.”

  Ilene said: “You better hire guards for that feudal estate of yours. I hear you indulge in a bit of peonage yourself. With the colored folks, I mean.” Ilene has little or no tact.

  Acton batted his eyes. “Got to keep help . . . Dora gets very unhappy if they quit . . . They owe me for stuff . . . The sheriff is cooperative.”

  “Dave!” came a cool voice from under the umbrellas. “Bring Ilene and Tack down for a drink.”

  Ilene kicked me under the table with her wooden sabots and I said, wincing: “Got to meet Malachi. See you later.”

  We got up and went to our cabanas. Ilene said: “That damned woman. She makes me sick. Let’s hurry and find Malachi.”

  I said: “Sure. You dress and get out the car.” I went into the cabana and discovered I hadn’t put my wallet in my pants, so I hurried upstairs in the hotel to get it.

  The Shoreland is one of those sprawling, stuccoed, two-storied affairs for the idle rich. I opened the door to the suite I shared with Malachi and stood there, gaping.

  Malachi was sprawled in a chair, his long legs thrust out before him. His blond head was back and his face was reddened and bruised. He held a towel against one eye and ice water ran down his arm. His hound’s-tooth sports jacket was slung over a chair, soiled with swamp muck. His hair was tousled and he was quietly furious with rage.

  I said: “Somebody finally chose you and won, huh?”

  “Do I look like a winner?” he said. His voice was steady but I know him well enough to detect the underlying tenseness.

  I said: “A guy named Joe?”

  “So the word is already around?”

  “No. But it couldn’t be Spesak because you’d be ready for that palooka,” I said. “This Joe Monk must have got you from behind, while you were looking at Spesak.”

  “Down at the edge of Frog Swamp,” Malachi said, nodding. “I went down with Spesak, just we two. Monk must have followed.”

  “Blackjack?” I asked, peering at the bruises.

  “Just his fists,” said Malachi grimly. “He’s rough. Mouthed a lot at me about the common man and my money getting Spesak fired. They have an organization. Agin everything—except themselves.”

  “You’re going to have a mouse on that eye,” I said from rich experience. I picked up the phone, called the desk and had a boy sent out to page Ilene. Malachi groaned.

  I said: “She’s got to see you sooner or later.”

  “I don’t mind anyone else,” he said. “But what she’ll say can cause nothing but trouble—for both of us.”

  I picked up my coat and slid into it. I found the keys to Malachi’s car and my wallet and pocketed them. I said: “Well, it’ll be better if she doesn’t have an audience . . .”

  The door banged open and Ilene came in. She stopped, staring at Malachi. I tried to close my ears against the triumphant invective which I knew was coming.

  Then I saw that Ilene was paler than I had ever expected to see her. She took one step forward and her voice was deep in her throat. She said: “Tack, go get the guy who did this. Get him and kill him, whoever he is.”

  I started for the door. Malachi just looked at Ilene with his one good eye, not moving. I know he was as startled and touched as I was. I went into the hall and closed the door very quietly.

  I HURRIED because I was anxious to get away before Malachi could stop me. I am unable to see anyone hurt him without doing something about it, but I knew he would want to even up this score himself. As I headed for the car a thought struck me and I detoured to the beach.

  Under the gay umbrella, Rem Cartright sat alone. The others disported themselves in the Gulf. The square-faced man looked thoughtfully at me and said: “Where is Malachi, Hinton?”

  “In his room,” I said. “Do you know a man named Monk?”

  “The agitator? I know him only too well. Provoked a strike in the box factory,” said Cartright. He had a heavy, precise voice. I’m strictly Bronx myself and I knew he chose his words carefully through lack of formal education. “He’s a dangerous thug.”

  “Where could I most likely find him?” Cartright said: “What could you possibly want with him?” Then his face hardened and I could see his mind leap. He said: “Ah! The Spesak case, eh? I warned Malachi. You’d better watch out. Monk always has a dozen tough Crackers at his beck and call.”

  “He sounds like a meatball,” I said. “I love meatballs—without bread.”

  “You’re tough, all right,” Cartright said. “Dora keeps telling us you’re a hard one. But Monk is something to worry about. He’s like a gorilla. He’s been attacked by many people—but never hurt.”

  “Where does he hang out?” I demanded. “There’s a joint called Manuel’s Place,” said Cartright reluctantly. “It has a back room. The Monk crowd meets there. You’d better take help, Hinton. How bad is Malachi hurt?”

  “I didn’t say he was hurt,” I said. “See you later.”

  Dave Acton was coming out of the water, his trunks sagging below his tummy, a sorry sight. The brown-skinned tennis player and Dora were still in the water. I noted the look Cartright cast Gulfward, shivered and went my way. I got the long convertible out of the yard, found the road leading past the swamp where I remembered seeing a juke joint. Shoreland Beach was man-made, and a miasmal swamp lined the shell road to the east from town to the bridge which led to the key. The town of Shoreland was garishly new, built around the Acton estate and groves, and the Cartright box factory. These two also owned all the real estate—and the town, I reflected. Spesak had been an employee of the two men who had pioneered in this isolated section of West Coast Florida, yet they had seemed sympathetic to Malachi and his crusade, against Spesak and the whole city administration.

  The winter twilight fell swiftly. I parked before a pine board shack of some proportions and went under the glaring neon sign to the door. The swamp was all around, but Manuel had hacked out a clearing a hundred yards square from the surrounding tangle of lush foliage.

  I went in and stood at the rough, unpolished bar. The jukebox blared a hillbilly tune. There were a dozen men about—Cracker types, lantern-jawed, seamy-faced, slant-eyed, canny. Manuel was a Latin from Tampa, burly, scarfaced, swarthy.

  I had a drink of bad bourbon and said: “Where’s Monk?”

  Manuel batted his eyes. “I dunno. He ain’t here.”

  I had another drink. The Crackers regarded me slantwise. I said: “I got a message for him.”

  The back room was cut off by a partition. The door opened and Spesak came swaggering into the bar. There was instant silence. Even the jukebox ceased its clamor.

  Spesak stared at me through red-rimmed eyes, a gangling, spindly man, six feet tall, with large knobby hands and evidence of ringworm. He said hoarsely: “That there is Manatee’s muscle. Y’all look out, now.”

  I said: “I want Monk. You’re just a crumb. I want the meatball.”

  A Cracker growled: “He called Joe a meat-ball!”

  “I’ll make him a meatball, for spaghetti and sauce,” I promised.

  Someone moved behind me. It hadn’t been smart of me to come here, but somehow, remembering Malachi’s eye, I didn’t feel like being smart. It was action I craved. I ducked and spun and a coke bottle sailed over my head. Someone yelled, “Git him!” and the riot was on.

  I grabbed Spesak and used him as a shield against the bottles. But the Crackers had fruit knives, with long blades and springs in the handle. I threw
Spesak at them but he crawled out of it, ran for the door and out into the gathering night.

  I began using my hands, and the Crackers kept falling down. Finally they closed in on me and only by gouging and rabbit-punching could I get to the wall. Manuel had a blackjack and I was trying to get it away from him.

  A big man came in with Spesak following him. I only got a glimpse of him, but he had shoulders wider than mine and was almost as tall as Malachi. He was bad. I could see it in his eyes and the scarred map of his face. He plunged through the futile mob and was at me.

  I ducked and came up, knowing this was my meatball. I hit him four times in the face. He bled, but he hammered as though he loved it. My neck was paralyzed by a near-hit. He came in, trying to get close, using his fists like mauls, ignorant and glorying in it, just swinging and taking it. He was all man and a yard wide.

  I took it. I got to his gut, and it was like iron. I slugged him in the groin and I swear he never felt it. I lifted one to his jaw and he went backward.

  Instead of boxing him, I followed close, trying to kayo him. I got one to his jaw, but he gathered me in with his left hand and just held me. Then he slugged me on the jaw with his right.

  I can take it on the potato. I tincanned, rubber-legged, but not out. I thought I still had a chance. I moved out of range, trying to box a little, now. Then someone shoved a leg between mine from behind and shoved me forward.

  He was smart. He played my middle. Since that Jap bullet did things to my lung, I’m not so hot down there. A long fight is not for me and I know it. He got me and my blood turned to water. He shifted to the chin and not even Joe Louis could have taken three of those. I went out like a light. I heard them all yelling, sounding savagely happy, and then I was out.

  IT WAS very dark. I turned over and shoved at the ground and it was oozy and wet. I slipped and my face went into the mud. I cursed as best I could through a swollen jaw. It was a nightmarish thing, but nothing seemed broken except maybe a couple of ribs. I rolled over and sat up. There was no moon and the swamp was all around me. I thought of rattlers and coral snakes, got hold of a vine and somehow pulled myself erect.