by Jerry eBooks
The next question was, how had I gotten out? There was no light. I had no sense of direction. I took a step and floundered. I clutched a mangrove root and stood ankle deep in the ooze trying to get myself together. A light appeared as though by magic and a calm voice called to me: “Tack? Can you come over here?”
I said: “Malachi! Where the hell are we?”
He said in the same flat voice: “Follow my flash.”
I stumbled, making progress as my blood began to stir. My chest hurt and of course my face was a wreck, but my limbs seemed all right. I went past a thick vine and saw Malachi plainly in the reflection of his flashlight. He was standing straight and tall, staring downward.
I followed the ghostly glow of the torch. Someone was lying on his face, arms outstretched. He wore a light sports shirt. The back of it was slit and the edges of the tear were black with dark stain.
Malachi said: “Fifty yards. A quarter-mile player.”
It was Tom Mulford, stabbed in the back, beneath the left shoulderblade, neatly and surely murdered.
“How far off the road are we?” I asked. “And how far from the juke joint?”
Malachi said: “Fifty yards. A quarter-mile from Manuel’s.”
“What time is it?”
“Eight o’clock. Manuel’s was closed when I arrived. It was a job finding you. I went to town first. Cartright told me you were here.”
I said: “Where was Acton?”
“With Cartright. They drove in on business, before dinner. Mulford was with Dora Acton at the hotel.”
“How did he get here, then?” I asked. “That’s what we’ve got to find out,” said Malachi. He turned the flash on me and grinned a little. “I see you met Monk.”
“And I’ll see that meatball again,” I said. “Alone.”
“Do you think the two of us could handle him?” Malachi asked seriously.
“Alone,” I repeated. “When I’m not sore.” Malachi shook his head. “Maybe. But he’s awful tough. Let’s go back, Tack. Chief Owen will have to pick up this poor kid. Let’s go to town and see if we can find Monk.” We trudged out of the swamp. We got into the car, which Malachi had picked up at the juke—we had separate keys—and drove toward Shoreland.
Manuel’s was boarded up, deserted. I thought about the Crackers and their knives and the dead boy in the swamp. But it would not be as simple as that. There was that look Cartright had thrown at Mulford when Dora and he were swimming together in the Gulf. There were Acton’s premonitions of disaster and violence. There was the labor situation and the forces of the rich pitted against Monk and his nferry men.
I said: “Malachi, what about the Crackers? Are they underpaid by Cartright and Acton?” Malachi said: “I don’t know.”
I said: “Spesak was a shakedown artist. Is Monk running a racket among the working people?”
“I don’t know—yet,” said Malachi.
“Chief Owen will never catch a murderer who has sense enough to take the weapon away and lose it in the swamp and leave his victim where he might not be found for weeks,” I said.
“The buzzards would have found him,” Malachi said. “You don’t know Florida buzzards.”
“I met a big one,” I said.
WE DROVE into town. Chief Owen was a mild, innocent man who belonged to Acton and Cartright. He was completely upset by our report of the killing. He immediately called the sheriff of Shoreland County, another nonentity who happened to be in Tallahassee at a sheriffs’ convention. Then he sent some hastily sworn-in officers out after Tom Mulford.
We went back to the hotel. Malachi thought I needed a doctor, but I was sure my ribs were O.K. We went up to the suite and Ilene opened the door, took one look at me, then gulped the remainder of a large Scotch and soda. Finally she said: “I’ll take this Monk myself. Where’s my gun?”
“He’d eat your pop-pistol,” I told her. “Save him for us when we get him alone.” Malachi said: “And try to remember anything you can about what Dora Acton, her husband and Cartright did this evening.”
“On account of someone killed the tennis player,” I added.
Ilene poured three big ones. We drank and she screwed up her lovely face and tried to remember. She said slowly: “Funny, I was sort of watching them. Dora was pitching woo at Mulford . . . How was he killed?”
We told her and she went on: “Mulford wasn’t taking it too well. It seemed to me he was scared. As if he had been playing a game and suddenly it became serious, you know?” Malachi said: “Then what?”
“Acton and Cartright went off before dinner. Dora chased Mulford down on the beach, but came back alone and furious.” She considered. “That was about seven-thirty. They had eaten together.”
“Did she stay in sight?”
“No. She took her coupe and drove off. I don’t know why I noticed. She gets my goat.” Ilene said eagerly: “She could have followed Mulford and killed him!”
“And carried him into a swamp?” Malachi shook his head. “I want to know how Mulford got out of here without a car.”
“Walked. He was a great walker,” said Ilene. “Tell me everything now, will you?”
I told about the fight. Malachi told about stumbling over the body while looking for me. He deduced that Monk had beaten me up and had searched the swamp for an hour before finding Mulford.
I said: “Say! How could I have been out that long from a slight beating?”
“Have you noticed your shirt?” Malachi said. “Whiskey stains on it. They poured something into you. A Michael Finn, no doubt, to keep you quiet until they could fold the joint.”
I touched the stains with my fingers. My mouth felt funny and I remembered the trouble I had getting up when I had come to in the swamp. Things began to get screwy in my mind. Manuel’s joint equipped with kayo drops and a brute like Monk, with brains enough to decamp when things were hot, leaving me to live or die by snakebite made a strange picture of a back country Cracker set-up to my mind.
There was a knock at the door and I opened it. Dave Acton and Cartright came in. Cartright said harshly: “What’s this about Mulford? My God, this is awful!”
Acton mumbled unhappily: “Owen’s goin’ in circles . . . Don’t make sense . . . Who could’ve killed him? . . . Dora’s having hysterics . . .”
“How did he get mixed up with that gang at Manuel’s?” Cartright asked. “Owen will never find a killer among that crowd. He’s afraid of Joe Monk.” He stared at me, said: “I see Monk got you, too. Can’t anyone stop that man?”
“He’s a brute,” said Acton with owl-like solemnity. “A depraved brute. He killed Mulford.”
Malachi finished his drink and poured more, limping about the room. When everyone’s hand was filled, he said: “Monk had no motive to kill Mulford.”
“Born killer,” said Acton, his fat cheeks quivering. “Tom went down there after you and Hinton fought them. They figured he was in with you and attacked him.”
Cartright said viciously: “If you could pin it on him, Malachi, you’d be doing a great public service. Monk has got to go!” His angular face was granite hard, his slanted, elliptical eyes shone with fury and hatred.
“Try it,” Acton begged. “Get him. Do anything for you, Malachi. Can’t pay you in money—you got enough. Do anything you say, though.”
They stared at him, waiting, two frightened rich men.
Ilene drawled: “Would you arbitrate your labor disputes? If Malachi finds the killer, will you let us act as a board—Tack, Malachi and me?”
They scowled at her. Cartright said: “We want Monk out of the way. I know he must have killed Tom—or had him killed.”
Ilene said: “Malachi doesn’t frame people.”
They swallowed that, then got up, put their glasses down half full.
Acton said: “Think it over, Malachi. Do anything for you. Not what Miss Carver asks. Silly. But anything else.” He went out and Cartright followed.
Before the door closed a wail came from down the h
all and a soothing nurse’s voice cut into it, but the petulant weeping went on and on. That would be Dora Acton and I pitied her husband.
There was nothing to do but go to bed and lick our wounds.
WE WERE up early, for a change. My face was worse than Malachi’s, Ilene said, as we ate breakfast together. “It certainly is a change to have you beaten up instead of the other fellow,” she added.
I said: “The question is, who murdered that simple, unfortunate kid? And how did they get him into the swamp? If it was Monk, he wouldn’t have left the body near the spot where they dumped me.”
“Not knowing you were merely drugged,” agreed Malachi.
Ilene said: “I vote for Dora. Those curved jobs will do anything when spumed.”
Malachi said: “What made you put in that crack last night about arbitrating the labor trouble here, Ilene? Since when are you a bleeding heart for the underprivileged?”
“I’m not,” she said calmly. “I just knew it would annoy those two characters. I’m not fond of Acton or Cartright. I’m not enamored of Shoreland. I don’t even care who killed the tennis player. I would merely like for you two to get hunk with Joe Monk. That’s our slogan, Get Hunk With Monk. To hell with all else!”
Malachi said: “It’s a nice little set-up. Assault, murder. I’ll look around. You hire a car and examine the labor situation since you’re so interested, darling. Tack will stick with the threesome you abhor.”
“I’m not crazy about them, either,” I said. “And suppose you meet Monk in your travels today?”
Malachi stood up, all six feet-five of him. He said: “You think you can take him, everything even. What makes you think I can’t do the same?”
I had nothing to say to that. Malachi had a bad gam, but we didn’t talk about it and, anyway, he had more endurance than was left in me. So we watched him go, with that limp which gave him the common touch, a dash of humility in what would otherwise have been perfection.
Ilene said: “The fool. We could gang up on Monk and continue our vacation. But he has to mess into things. Cartright and Acton are exploiting the Crackers.”
I said: “Check all the way through. But take your gun.”
“If Monk tackles me,” she promised, “it’ll be the last assault he ever makes.” She thought a moment, then asked brightly: “Is he good looking?”
“Like Gargantua.”
“Oh,” she said. “Well, maybe I’ll go to work on him, at that.”
“That I’d like to see,” I told her. She went off, her hips on oiled bearings, having the same effect on every male who saw her.
I put some salve on my face and went down to let the sun heal my scars. There was a commotion a few yards away on the sand and I heard the voice of Dora Acton. It had not altered one bit. She was giving orders.
“Dave, you’ve simply got to see Malachi . . . Rem, those trunks are unbecoming . . . Now be careful with the drinks . . . The sand will blow on us if you don’t change that umbrella . . . Where is that red-headed vixen? . . . I don’t trust that woman . . . Oh, is that Hinton? Well, what are you waiting for? . . . Get him . . . I want him.”
It was Acton who came over. He said apologetically: “Wife’s upset. Wants to talk. Thought a lot of Mulford, y’ know? C’mon over. Have a drink.”
I went over. Dora looked at me boldly, her black sloe eyes going up and down appraisingly. She said in a come-hither voice: “Sit down, darling. By me.”
I sat down, said: “I’m sorry about your friend. When did you see him last, Mrs. Acton?”
It was a stunt the way she shut out Cartright and Acton. She spoke to me and suddenly we were all alone on a sandy island. It was sex at its peak. “Call me Dora . . . You’re very strong. How did that awful man beat you?”
“With his fists,” I assured her. “Did you drive Mulford into town yesterday afternoon?
“Why, no,” she said. “He walked in. He loved walking. I went to the beauty parlor. Do you like my hair?”
She had it rolled up, some new way, I suppose. I said: “It’s very nice . . . Then you didn’t see Mulford in town?”
For a moment the curtain rolled back and I could see Acton and Cartright. There is a stunt—split vision, they call it—which is highly developed in football players. Without looking, you can take in what is going on in an area ten feet either side of you. By shifting on the sand, I could see Acton staring at his wife, his thick lips parted, while Cartright glared straight at me. They were frightened. I had known that last night and now I saw they had not recovered.
The woman said: “I saw him . . . at a distance . . . talking to a man.”
I said: “You don’t know the man?”
“No,” she said slowly. “I don’t know the man.”
The silence was thicker than the Shoreland Hotel fish chowder. A lie had been spoken. The two men relaxed, and I knew Mulford had been speaking with one or both of them, and that they both were afraid to have it known.
I let the rest of the afternoon slip by. We drank quite a lot of Acton’s cocktails from the thermos and had sandwiches sent down. It was late when Malachi drove in. Ilene followed him a few moments later and Dora stiffened and lost interest in me, or anything else, watching Ilene swing into the hotel. I didn’t blame her. Ilene was like a race horse, Dora like a milch cow.
I unfolded myself and said: “One more dip. The water’s pretty cold, but it’s good for my bruises.”
Cartright said: “I’ll go with you.”
We went down to the water. As we swam through the gentle rollers Cartright edged over, threshing a bit, for he was not an expert swimmer, and floated on his back. He said: “Hinton, take a tip from me. Don’t mix into our business here. I mean the factory.”
“Who, me?” I laughed. “Forget it.”
He said: “Miss Carver was doing it today.” I wondered how he knew, but I didn’t dare ask. He had been at the hotel all day, and if he got a phone call, I hadn’t known it. I said: “Miss Carver is a free agent. You might speak to her.”
“I’d rather you did,” he said drily. “Miss Carver is—sudden.”
We parted and I swam in. His voice had been different, harder, more decisive than I had ever heard it before. He gave the impression of strength withheld, and I realized I had been viewing him as the hanger-on of the Actons, particularly Dora, instead of the tycoon of Shoreland. He was a determined man—and he could be a killer.
I DRESSED and went up to the suite. Ilene and Malachi were drinking Martinis which Ilene had made—four parts gin to one vermouth. I stuck to bourbon and listened to their talk. Malachi had traced the movements of Acton and Cartright in town and discovered that they’d been together all afternoon and evening. If they had seen Mulford he had not been able to obtain a witness to the meeting. Dora, he ascertained, had visited the beauty parlor—but briefly. There was much time, around dusk, unaccounted for, and no one had seen any of the trio eating dinner.
“So any of them could have killed Mulford,” mused Ilene. “I learned he went to Manuel’s. Walked there from town, they said.”
“Who said?” Malachi asked.
“Joe Monk,” said Ilene, grinning at us. “I tackled him in a tavern on the edge of town. He thought I was a reporter from a Yankee paper. He gave me the hoopla on Cartright and Acton, how they owned this county and ran it like Hitlers. No liberty for nobody, he said in his elegant manner.”
Malachi said: “Did he make a pass at you, darling?” His voice was light, but there were undertones of danger which Ilene recognized but did not choose to fear.
She said: “What do you think? He’s a man, isn’t he? A good enough man to take you and Tack on the same day.”
“Sure he’s a man,” I said. “A hell of a tough meatball. And he also had the opportunity to kill Mulford.”
“But no motive,” said Malachi. He scowled, wrinkling his brow.
“Unless—but that’s fantastic . . .”
For once Ilene didn’t interrupt or ask any questions. Ma
lachi was limping up and down the room. We drank and they finished another pitcher of those dynamic Martinis. Suppertime came, and Malachi ordered it sent up. Ilene played the radio. I sat, deep in thought.
It was nine o’clock and the radio was giving out with music from Oklahoma. From down the hall, at the far end, came a sudden, piercing scream.
Malachi was nearest the door and got into the hall first, but I passed him on the carpet. I hit the door of the rooms occupied by the Actons and it flew open. Dora Acton was standing in the exact center of the large, high-ceilinged room and emitting horribles noises at the top of her voice.
Dave Acton lay on the rug. He was deflated, like a balloon which has been ruptured. Someone had stabbed Dave Acton in his fleshy back. There was the same slit in his shirt, the same stains as those which had been on the shirt of Tom Mulford. Acton’s mouth was open, his eyes staring pathetically at nothing. He had been dead more than a few moments because the blood was already drying.
Ilene swung in close behind Malachi, took a look, turned to the livid, hysterical Dora. She said, “This will hurt you more than it does me,” and swung with her left. Her hand slapped hard against Dora’s cheek, her right hand followed the left.
Dora stopped making noises and gasped, the color returning to the slapped parts. Outside, the manager was rushing up. Malachi bent close, his nose almost touching the wound in Acton’s back. He murmured: “A quick, expert thrust, no slashing. Just like Mulford. The same spot, the same stroke. An expert operator, this character.”
The manager came in and began moaning hysterically. Malachi went to the window, which was open, and looked out. Then he beckoned and I left the room with him and went out and around to the spot where the murderer had obviously jumped. It was a fairish drop and the imprints were deep, but they were also marred by hasty scratching. Malachi had brought a flashlight. The tracks led to the shell driveway.
A frightened Negro boy said a small car had left a half hour before, but he had not seen the occupant. Neither had anyone else.
