by Jerry eBooks
“Look, pal—I’ve got the low on you. You’ve been stooging for Hansel in a blackmail racket.”
Skeeter’s eyes widened. “I don’t know anything about it.”
Sue, Nick Burney saw from the corners of his eyes, was playing twenty-one for dollars with Tom Green. He followed Skeeter outside the Estrella Club, under the glare of the bright neons.
“Look, Skeeter,” he said, “you’re lying. I’ve got a couple of Hansel’s envelopes. They’re full of evidence against a lot of people here in town who slipped. Just to show you I know what I’m talking about, there’s Murdock, who’s been trimming Doach on their partnership; Sheriff Dahe, who’s been spending money at ten times the rate he’s made it; and young Withers, who forged the will—”
Skeeter Simms’ lips were gray under the neons.
“You’ve got me, all right,” he told Burney. “I started out as a good newspaperman, and I went sour. I don’t want to play any more—his way.”
“Whose way? Let’s get out of here so we can talk.”
The men walked into the parking lot. They were moving under the lights when it happened—one neat, quick shot from one of the parked cars. Skeeter Simms jarred back, grabbed at his stomach and then fell forward.
Burney tried to catch the jumble of frightened words on Simms’ lips as he clutched at his stomach and jack-knifed. At the same time, he flattened to the ground, drawing the thirty-eight,” The gun spat from the car again. Burney blasted all six shots from his revolver as the car’s engine roared and it darted ahead through the shadows. He couldn’t tell if he’d even hit it.
It ran into a patch of light. Burney, still prone, gasped. It was a ’47 model, and Burney recognized it as belonging to George Ashton, managing editor of the Sentinel!
He rose, dusted his clothing, looked down at the crumpled body of Skeeter Simms as patrons, gamblers, croupiers and nightlifers dashed from the doors of the club.
“What’s up?” panted Tom Green, who had left his craps table.
“Somebody in George Ashton’s car drilled Simms,” Burney snapped. “You’d better call the cops.”
Green whirled, hurried back into the club while the curious clustered around the body and asked questions of Burney. Sue pushed her way to him, her eyes wide, her face white.
“Are you all right, darling?” she asked.
“Safe and sound. But he didn’t miss me far.” He pointed to chipped stucco on the wall behind him. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Was it a man or a woman in the car?” Sue asked.
“I couldn’t tell. About all I could see was the muzzle of a rifle.”
“Hadn’t we better stick around?”
“Green’s sending for the cops. We’ll let them handle Simms. I’ve got a lot more important things to do than answer their questions.”
He headed for the pick-up, with Sue close behind. She got into the driver’s seat.
“Go to the Sentinel,” he said. “I’ve got to get hold of Ashton.”
SUE’S foot went heavy on the accelerator.
The pick-up ended in the alley behind the offices. They climbed out. Burney unlocked the door of the editorial rooms.
As they went in, they saw Ashton back of his desk, editing copy. He looked up at them, a grin on his egg-shaped face.
“I hoped I’d find you here,” Burney said. He tossed the envelope full of copy on Ashton’s desk.
“Did you get the Coral Crane yarn?”
“It’s in with the rest of the stories. I suppose Hansel showed up?”
Ashton shook his head dourly. “No. I’m worried. That story you told was incredible. But maybe he’s on a binge.”
“I tell you he’s dead.”
“Well, he’s disappeared. I called his landlady. She hasn’t seen him since night before last.”
“You’re losing a lot of your staff, George,” Burney said, his voice crisp. Ashton sensed his tension, looked up at him. “Losing my staff?”
“Skeeter Simms just got killed.”
The editor leaped to his feet, pallor sweeping his round face.
“What?”
“Shot in the stomach. In the driveway at the Estrella Club. This time I’ve got witnesses and there’s a body to back me up.”
“Good lord, Nick! Skeeter Simms—”
“I got shot at, too. Whoever did it was parked in the shadows just out of range of the neons. The odd part of it was the car, George. It belongs to you.”
Ashton lifted a trembling hand to his jaw, rubbed it.
“Holy mud!” he exclaimed. “My car was stolen from in front of my house at about seven o’clock tonight. I notified the cops, and—”
Burney glanced at the wall clock as Ashton reached for his telephone.
It was two-ten. The editor dialed. “Headquarters?” he asked. “This is Ashton, at the Sentinel. Got anything on Skeeter Simms being rubbed out?” He listened for a moment, then said, “Good. I’ll come right down after it.”
He cradled the instrument, grabbed his hat, jammed it on his head.
“You’re not kidding this time, Nick. Skeeter’s dead and my car’s at city hall with two bullets in the side. They found it parked near the high school. I’m going after it.”
“I’ll drive you,” offered Sue.
“I’ll go along,” Burney said.
“I can handle this,” Ashton replied. “Just have Sue drive me to city hall. You stay here and slug out an eyewitness’ story to go along with the main yarn.”
“Okay.”
He watched Sue and Ashton go out the door, heard Sue’s “I’ll be right back, darling,” and slipped into Ashton’s chair, swung it around, and started batting out the tale of the shooting on the battered typewriter. He cursed its sluggish action, looked at the faulty print it made. His mill over in Rock City was a lot better, and he wished he had it.
His wife came back just as he put an “x” at the bottom of the fourth take of copy.
“How about a little sleep?” she asked.
“Ashton has the situation well in hand, as they say.”
“Could use,” he replied, yawning. “Home?”
“I don’t mean maybe.”
They went outside, piled into the truck, with Sue driving. The ancient hack rattled down the highway. They reached Rock City in half an hour, went to the little three-room duplex. As they started to undress, Sue asked, “Don’t you think, Nick, we ought to put all that stuff in the envelopes in a safe place?”
Nick Burney pulled a bottle of beer from the ice box and uncapped it.
“Darned right!” he exclaimed. He looked into the refrigerator. He gazed longingly at a package containing four lamb chops which they had bought three days ago and hadn’t had time to eat. He took out the bundle, laid the chops on a plate. Then he got the envelopes and wrapped them in the butcher paper. He put the new bundle directly under the freezing unit.
“Let anybody who wants it try and find it,” he said.
“Nice going,” Sue agreed.
They finished undressing and went to bed.
CHAPTER IV
Visitors
NICK BURNEY woke up first. He lay rigid in his bed, thinking that the click of the back door had awakened him. He set his bare feet on the floor, and stood up.
He moved from the bedroom into the combination living room, dining room and kitchenette. For the first time he realized that one of the famed Rock City winds had started blowing at a fifty-mile-an-hour clip. The wind, whipping under the eaves of the little duplex, rattling windows and sending fine-blown sand into the place, covered his almost soundless advance.
He heard a noise in the corner of the room, saw the vague reflection of a figure against a window that gave out to a dawning sky, and lunged. His hands groped, closed over a small wrist. At the same time he smelled the heady, telltale perfume. He got hold of a hand. In it was a heavy metallic thing which he had no trouble recognizing, by touch, as being an automatic pistol.
He pulled the weapon
free. A light switch clicked above the sounds made by the rushing wind, and the lights went on. Burney saw that he was clinging desperately to the wrists of Coral Crane, who was struggling violently for her freedom. At the same time he looked beyond her jittering form and saw Sue, clad in pyjamas, at the light switch, holding the .38.
Coral Crane looked at the gun and suddenly stopped struggling. Then she looked at Burney. As his glance met hers he thought that, probably for the first time in her life, she wasn’t acting.
“You wanted the envelope.” He made a statement rather than asked a question.
“That’s right. I came for it.”
“What makes you think we’ve got it?”
“My husband described the person who stole it—your wife. I want it—and you’re going to give it to me.”
“Not until you answer a lot of questions.”
“I’m answering none.”
“Don’t be a fool, Miss Crane!” Sue snapped.
Burney went to the telephone. He told Sue as he reached the desk, “Keep her covered.”
He dialed the hotel. “I’d like to talk to Greg Gallery,” he said.
“We have no such person registered.”
Burney looked at Coral Crane. “What’s the name he’s using?”
“Saylor.”
“Mr. Saylor, then,” Nick said into the instrument.
A moment later a sleepy masculine voice answered.
“Gallery?”
“Right.”
“You’d better get on down here.” Burney gave his name and address. “Your wife’s here. I’m going to turn her in for breaking and entering.”
There was an incredulous pause, then: “Hold it. I’ll be there.”
Burney heard a click on the wire, hung up. He turned to Coral Crane. “He’s coming right along. Want to talk now?”
“No.”
“You don’t even need to tell us why you killed Homer Hansel now. All you have to do is confess. He was blackmailing you, threatening to ruin your career, and you drilled him. Then your husband, Gallery, got rid of the body—”
“I think you’re crazy, Burney. There’s no police report on either Hansel’s death or disappearance. The newspaper doesn’t know anything about it. I called, and—”
Burney looked at her, backed against the wall.
“Why,” he asked, “did you drill Skeeter Simms?”
“I don’t know Skeeter Simms. I don’t know he’s dead. Is this another Burney dream-up?”
Her green eyes were defiant and her lips stayed taut. There was a knock on the door. Burney got his thirty-eight and opened it. Greg Gallery stood there.
“Come in,” snapped Burney. Gallery entered.
“What’s this all about?” he demanded.
“We were asking your wife why she killed Homer Hansel, and were about to ask her what you and she did with the body,” Sue told him.
“That’s nonsense. There’s nothing to prove he’s dead. You can put away the guns,” Gallery said, wearily. “I’m not heeled.”
“You were when you shot at Sue,” Burney said, heat in his voice. He ran his hand over Gallery’s clothing; and then lowered his weapon.
“This woman,” said Coral Crane to her husband, “is the one who broke into my suite.”
“So I see,” replied Gallery.
“Your wife is stubborn,” Burney said. “We thought maybe you could get her to loosen up.”
Gallery looked at his wife. Then he looked at Burney.
“I’m sick and tired of all this,” he said. “Look; here’s the story. Farmer Jones never gave Coral a divorce and—”
“We know that,” said Burney. “Get on with it.”
“Coral has had this threat of exposure hanging over her ever since we were married. Her career would not only be ruined but she’d go to prison as a bigamist if we didn’t payoff—and it’s kept us broke.
“We decided to brazen out a divorce to square things off once and for all. Not long ago I came up here and got Jones to agree that as soon as Coral got a divorce from me in this state he would go to Mexico and divorce her. She was married to him under her real name, not her stage name, so nobody’d get wise. The price was ten grand.
“Jones is a rat, but he’ll keep his word. He always has. He’s a gambler, and they pride themselves on their honor.
“That’ll make Coral a free woman—take the bigamy heat off her. Coral and I’ll be married again on account of Bobby and because we love each other.”
He shot a tender glance at Coral, who walked away from the wall and sat on the divan. He joined her.
“Gallery, how come you’re up here? Wouldn’t you have been smarter to stay home?”
THE producer-director shot a questioning glance at his wife. She nodded. “Yes. That was the plan. Coral came up alone, stayed quietly in Rock City, hoping nobody’d pay any attention to her. Hansel got wise she was here, called her long distance and told her to come into the office. She refused. The next day she got a telephone call telling her that Bobby would be kidnapped if she didn’t come in for the payoff.”
As Gallery paused, Burney looked at Coral. She was crying softly, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Was this, too, an act, he wondered? Coral exclaimed, “I was scared to death. I called my husband, told him the whole thing was off and I was coming home. If anything happened to Bobby—”
“I told her to stay, and that I’d come up,” Gallery cut in. “I did. It was then that Coral got a third call. Whoever it was said that he was a friend and that Coral ought to protect herself. He said a pawn ticket would be sent her in the mail and she could go to a shop in Las Verdes and redeem a thirty-eight automatic. The pawn ticket came.”
“What shop?”
“Gibson’s.”
“And you fell for that?”
“You have the gun now. We were terrified. Bobby had to be protected. I had no weapon.”
“That’s why you took a shot at me?” Sue asked.
“You walked into a trap. Bobby was sleeping in my room,” Gallery said. “I was watching Coral’s suite.”
“Had you paid Hansel any money by this time?”
“Hansel wanted ten grand for not breaking the bigamy story. Coral went down to see him while I stayed with Bobby. She talked him into accepting eight thousand and giving her the evidence. She paid it to him in one hundred dollar bills. He gave the envelope.”
“Bobby could furnish you with an alibi, Gallery?”
The producer-director shook his head. “Bobby was asleep. At three years, he wouldn’t be a reliable witness, anyway—”
“Your story’s going to be hard to check. After Coral had got the evidence, why did you still lay a trap for kidnappers?”
“We weren’t taking any chances. Hansel’s tricky. He might have duplicates of the stuff made—photostats—and try again.”
“And now you muscle in,” Coral said, in a tired voice. “How much do you want for the evidence, Burney?”
The reporter shook his head.
“Not a dime,” he said. “I just want to clean up a couple of murders.”
“It’s a good thing you don’t want money,” Gallery said. “We’ve been bled white.”
Carol’s voice was pleading, and her voice was shaking as she asked, “Can’t we please have all that stuff? We want to live a normal life again. That’s all we ask.”
Burney saw the glance which went between man and wife.
“If you’ll give us the evidence,” Gallery said, “we’ll be square with the world. We’ll be divorced. Jones’ divorce will go through, and then we’ll be sailing easy—if Hansel plays square.”
Burney looked at his wife.
Sue said, “I know how they feel. It’s pretty tough on them.”
Burney went to the ice box, opened it, removed the meat wrapper.
“You’d never have found it,” he told Coral Crane.
He fished it out. “We know what the score is,” he said. “Holding this won’t do us a bi
t of good right now.”
He looked at the affidavit of Farmer Jones, started, folded it up and put it back in the envelope.
He walked to Gallery. “Take it,” he said. “I think maybe you ought to burn it.”
“You’ve got something there,” Gallery said. “Get rid of it. Of course, Hansel may try something yet—”
He glanced at Burney, who was still holding the automatic. “We’ll take that, too,” he announced.
“I think not,” Burney told him. “We’ll keep it. We ought to have your wife picked up for breaking and entering.”
“I remember somebody else who did just about the same thing at the hotel,” Gallery said, eyeing Sue. “Maybe we’d better call it even.”
“That’s all right with me,” Sue agreed.
“Now, if you’ll leave,” Burney said, “maybe Sue and I’ll be able to get some sleep.”
Gallery turned toward the door.
“Come on, Coral,” he told her.
Sue said, “Don’t think for a moment you’re not a couple of first class suspects in the Hansel murder.”
“Find out he’s dead before you bring murder charges,” Gallery said. “I still think you’re nuts.”
“I hope he is dead!” Coral Crane exclaimed. “Then we can live in peace.”
SUE and Burney watched them go. The wind was still blowing hard and a dusty blast whirled into the apartment as they left. It was fully light outside now. “Another day,” said Sue, bitterly. “And now we can go to sleep for a few hours, with nothing bothering us but a couple of murders. It’ll be a nice interlude.”
Both got into bed. Sue mumbled, “If I ever get rid of this newspaper job, I’m a going to sleep for a week.”
She had hardly got the words out of her mouth before her eyes closed and she began to breathe deeply. Burney lay beside her, still wide awake, running back and forth over the entire sequence of events since he had found Hansel’s body. He was beginning to doze, still seeking a vagrant clue, when the telephone bell sounded off.
He dragged himself out of bed and lifted the instrument. “This is Franklin, down at the ranger station,” he heard when he had answered. “You’d better hop down to the boat landing. They’ve just found Hansel’s body. Near the private docks, not far from Verdes wash.”
