The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  “Except the totals! They’re staggering!” Carter gasped.

  “And of course matters like that could never be kept a secret. It was wise of your father to hustle John How off to America. The game of grab was too hot over here, and the way the anarchists were going he’d never have lived the year out. But we’re digressing. On with your story, O’Connor.”

  Carter told of his brief and rather disconcerting conference with Yolanda Lavelle, who might have among her possessions whatever official documents or other information that John How chose to leave to the world.

  “A strange confidante for the long line of the Chiam’s scientific secrets,” Seemo commented.

  “Wait till you see Yolanda,” said Carter.

  Finally he described in detail his early morning glimpse of Slack Clampitt and the swift-action trap that Clampitt’s protectors set off, complete with a fake policeman and a well-planned hit-and-run act.

  The Siamese trouble shooter took it all in to the last detail.

  “The wonder is,” he said, “that we haven’t had more outbreaks of violence. There’s a seething mess of trouble that we can’t break into. It keeps at work under a surface of innocence. This Temple Hotel, for example. The purchase was on the up-and-up. Everything has the appearance of being legal.”

  Seemo took time out to make a telephone inquiry. He returned to his conversation with Carter shaking his head bitterly.

  “There you have it. The Temple Hotel has complained that there was some mysterious disturbance of the peace early this morning, and the management would like us to provide plenty of police protection until the scare is over.”

  “That’s brass!” Carter muttered. “What will you do?”

  “If we can spare any extra protection,” said Seemo decisively, “we’ll send it to the train stations and airports to protect your friend Wilmington. If he carries a treasure map, he’s a marked man.”

  The officer executed his decision at once, phoning the necessary orders to the squad cars’ headquarters.

  “I leave it to you, O’Connor, to see that the man comes into our hands as soon as Wilmington arrives. You do trust him?”

  “He knows enough to take my advice,” said Carter. “You’ll also help us locate Yolanda Lavelle?”

  The officer gave his reassurance.

  Yolanda’s testimony would be needed on the murder case. And above all, any Chiam secrets she might bear must be saved. That, again, would call for Carter’s cooperation, since she was more likely to share confidence with him than anyone.

  “Finally,” Seemo said, “I advise you have your dancer friend change to another hotel before she involves you in further troubles.”

  “She’s already moved.” Carter explained that a phone message had come for him at the camp late that morning. “She sent me word that there had been a mysterious outburst of trouble at the Temple. So she picked up her things and left.”

  Ten minutes after Carter O’Connor concluded his interview and went on his way, more tragic news was brought into the offices of the Bangkok city police.

  A murder had been committed in a taxi at the chief airport.

  The taxi driver had been knocked out cold.

  The murder victim, seated in the rear, had been identified as one George Wilmington, just arrived on a big air liner. He had been shot squarely through the heart, and robbed.

  The job had been swift and daring, and the bold murderer had made a clean getaway.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Where’s the Map?

  Late that night inside one of the lower level rooms of the Temple Hotel a single Japanese lantern burned.

  It was a dingy red and blue paper lantern, salvaged from some long forgotten festival. It hung over an orange light bulb on a drop cord that trailed across the cobwebby ceiling.

  Tolozell slowly paced the dusty stone floor like a lazy but sure-footed tiger. His hulking muscular body never betrayed the quick agitation of his mind; he was the well-poised showman even when summoning his energies for a high-pressure drive.

  The other man in the room was Jeff Cotton. He stood with one foot on the edge of an empty wooden crate; his left wrist rested on one of the pyramids of empty boxes piled in that corner of the room. There one of the brighter shafts from the dim light fell upon his wristwatch. He watched the hands move toward two, and his fingers tapped nervously.

  “He ought to be here,” said Jefferson Cotton.

  “He must have got on Wilmington’s trail, or he would be here,” Tolozell said. “Everything’s clear for him to come in.”

  “That’s the devil of it,” said Cotton impatiently. “We’ve gone to no end of trouble to protect him. He’ll end up by doing more harm than good. I thought we were gonna keep this job clean.”

  “He’ll be here,” said Tolozell confidently.

  But Jeff Cotton was gathering up for an explosion. He always blew off to relieve himself of the jitters; but that malady had steadily grown on him since his career with Tolozell began.

  “You told me when I lined up with you that we’d sweep in this swag without cutting any throats, damn it.”

  “Shut up!”

  “And look how many years we’ve been at it, hot-footing it all over America—”

  Tolozell snapped his fingers, and his front man broke off talking.

  “Stop your drooling.” Tolozell’s voice was a low, threatening growl. “We’re almost over the hump. Everything’s lined up, and I don’t need to remind you the stakes are dozens of years of a man’s life—your life, anyway. In a few minutes the map will be in our hands.”

  “Will it?” Cotton muttered weakly.

  “I know you don’t trust this man Slack. I don’t either. But I’m banking on his ignorance. He doesn’t know what time of day it is most of the time. He’s a good sneak man. He’s had his first taste of murder, and he knows it’s in his blood. He’s not backing up, he’s plunging.”

  “If the police nab him, what’ll he say?”

  “Nothing. I’ve taken care of that,” said Tolozell confidently. “I gave him the stoutest post-hypnotic suggestion I ever gave any man. If he finds George Wilmington, he’ll lift every possession the man has and bring it straight to us. He won’t even examine the stuff.”

  “I hope.”

  “Why should he, as long as he knows nothing? I hired the man because we needed a desperado; and your talents unfortunately are limited to running hotels and circulating handbills. Now let’s have less of the squawk out of you, and a little more—Say, what about the police reports? Do you still have someone picking them up for us?”

  “Reporting every thirty minutes. There hasn’t been a thing all day.”

  “What about that Lavelle girl? Have they located her yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, at least we’ve paved the way on that deal,” said Tolozell. “We’ve put ourselves across with her dancer friend.”

  “The dancer’s friend’s not one-hundred percent friend.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s been talking to her friends, this Knight gal—and she spilled a mess of lowdown on Yolanda Lavelle.”

  “Give,” said Tolozell.

  Jefferson Cotton related what he had heard of Yolanda’s peculiarities: her implicit belief in her own paper dolls; her strange notion that she could swerve the fortunes of the people those dolls represented.

  Tolozell began to smile.

  “I knew my hunch was right,” he said, “when I got her to come over from America.”

  Cotton looked at him questioningly. “I can’t remember that you did so well with her the one time you meant to hypnotize her. At that time you figured you’d plant trouble between her and John How, so he couldn’t pass on his secrets.”

  “Right. Luckily, things took a different turn. Now we know that if anyone in the world has his secrets, she’s it. With Slack to recover the map and her to give us How’s own interpretation—Jeff?”

  “Huh?”


  “Let’s see the sole of your shoe.”

  “Why?”

  “Did you make those dust tracks along that wall? . . . Huh? . . . Who comes to this inner room besides us?” Both men stared at the heap of boxes, trying to determine whether any of them had been recently moved, or whether any of them might be occupied.

  “Now who’s getting the jitters,” Jeff Cotton jibed. “Listen!”

  A low whistle from an adjoining room shifted their attention.

  “That’s Slack. Let’s move to the next room—yeah, and lock this door, just to be on the safe side.”

  Jeff reached up into the Japanese lantern and snapped the light. He followed Tolozell into the adjoining room, and neither of them could know that Carter O’Connor’s eyes followed them.

  The heavy wooden door squeaked as Jeff drew it closed behind him. He locked it securely and hurried to rejoin Tolozell.

  “Right here will do, Slack,” said Tolozell, motioning the tall spare man to a seat by the wall. “Leave the light off, Jeff. There’s enough from the hall yonder. But keep out of the gleam. These basement windows have been boarded up about as solid as a sieve.”

  The three men seated themselves on the inverted urns and flower-pots, and Tolozell placed another urn, solid end up, for a table within their circle.

  They were situated well out of reach of the slice of light that knifed in from the basement hallway, and Tolozell was content that this was as private as the center of the earth. He motioned to the makeshift table.

  “Give.”

  Slack hadn’t uttered a word up to this time; he was breathing hard and there was ominous grimness in his gaunt features.

  “Here’s what remains,” he said, “of George Wilmington.”

  He poured out the contents of a cloth money bag. A coin purse, a bill-fold, and some miscellaneous papers spilled forth.

  “There he is.”

  “What do you mean?” Jeff Cotton snapped. “Good God, you didn’t kill him?”

  “I had my orders,” said Slack Clampitt coldly.

  Jeff fairly leaped. “Whose orders? I thought—”

  “Sit down!” Tolozell barked. “What do you think I hired this man for? To give tea parties to your hotel guests? Where’d it happen, Slack?”

  “In a taxi pulling away from the airport. Hell, the radios shoulda had it hours ago. Funny you hadn’t heard about it.”

  “They’ll pour in on us,” Jeff wailed. “Let’s get out.”

  It was several moments before Jeff Cotton could be quieted. He insisted that there was no sense in drawing fire from the authorities.

  “Shut up,” Tolozell warned. “I told you we were going to put this job over, no matter what it cost.”

  “But, hell, this business of jerkin’ a murderer in on the deal at the last minute—”

  Jeff Cotton didn’t finish. The long arm of Slack Clampitt knifed out like a jumping shadow, and Cotton took it on the jaw. He fell backward amid a heap of broken flower pots. He lay rubbing his face, brushing his ruffled blond hair out of his eyes.

  Meanwhile Tolozell worked through the papers on the make-shift table. When he finished he glared up at the lean-faced hireling.

  “Where is it?”

  “Where’s what?” Slack Clampitt retorted.

  “You know what.”

  “It’s all right there,” said Slack, still breathing tensely.

  “Come on, don’t give us that. We didn’t send you out to get a man for his measly travellers’ checks. You know what was back of my orders. George Wilmington probably knew it by heart, that’s why we couldn’t let him live. But I know him to well to believe he’d destroy it. Fork over that map.”

  “I think you’re crazy,” said Slack Clampitt coldly. “You hired me to do a job. I did it, just like you said. Now you’re tryin’ to back out of payin’ me. I don’t like dealin’ with your kind. Give me my money and I’ll go.”

  By that time Jeff Cotton was on his feet. His fists were tight, his eyes full of rage.

  “Sit down, Jeff,” said Tolozell. “This man’s right. He’s carried out his end. We’ve got no complaint.”

  “I’ll take my money and go,” Slack Clampitt repeated.

  Tolozell didn’t cavil, but promptly counted out a quantity of paper certificates.

  “You’ll get away safely, I hope,” Tolozell concluded. “Remember, if you need any protection, we’re well fixed here.”

  “I found that out last night,” Slack said sarcastically. “Nobody hangin’ around your doors but harmless guys like Carter O’Connor.”

  “What’s he to you?” Jeff spoke up abruptly.

  Slack shrugged and made no answer. Tolozell pressed him with a penetrating glare, but only for a moment.

  The Siamese hypnotist turned to Jeff, and one of his sullen drooping eyes narrowed.

  “Are we lined up for that next job, Jeff? Maybe we could assign it to this man, too.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t want it,” said Jeff, not too sure what the next move would be.

  Slack Clampitt was on the alert. “I’ll take your risks for you. What’s next?”

  “There’s a girl to be taken out of circulation. Show girl named Katherine Knight. Ever hear of her?”

  “Yes,” said Slack Clampitt.

  “Okay, that’s your next assignment,” said Tolozell. “She checked out of here today. It’s up to you to find out where she went and handle the job so we can hang it on a jealous girl friend. How soon can you manage?”

  “As soon as you give me all the dope,” said Slack.

  CHAPTER XIX

  Missing: Carter and Katherine

  When the Bangkok officers found Yolanda straggling along the highway carrying the dusty blue leather suitcase they scored the first victory for the Chiams that had occurred in many a year. A victory of hope. For by this time the information dropped by Carter O’Connor had spread like fire.

  Yolanda couldn’t understand why she should be accorded such exaggerated courtesies. She felt sure that she looked like a forsaken tramp by now, it had been so long since she’d done anything but hike along the highway searching for the little stone lantern tower where she’d left this precious suitcase.

  “You are beautiful American girl who knew John How,” one of the officers kept saying.

  His comical repetition of the word beautiful was interesting. She hadn’t had much chance to think of matters of beauty.

  In fact, she had wandered an extra four or five miles out into the wilderness of low jungle, the day previous, in search of water for drinking and washing. An old stone and iron water tower at the edge of the farmlands had attracted her.

  The Chiam Dolls had led her on.

  But upon reaching the little community of peasants’ homes she found herself unable to converse with anyone except by means of gestures. And when she kept pointing to the stately water tower, the quaint, friendly people at last caught on, shook their heads sadly, and directed her to the river still farther on.

  Only there, amid a sprawling city of flatboats, had she been able, after a fashion, to refresh herself.

  Then she had been persuaded, by the funny gestures of these friendly, simple toilers, that it was too much for her to walk back to Bangkok that evening. A family had taken her in, fed her, and given her the best bed in the house; and this morning had sent her on her way refreshed.

  From that adventure she had gained a new appreciation of old John How’s faith in these natives.

  The two policemen now accompanying her were earnest in their compliments, and they kept smiling at her admiringly.

  “Maybe you bring people message of John How on Chiam Day?”

  This plan, suggested by the police escort, was formally presented when she was conducted into the office of Mr. Seemo.

  “Since I talked with Mr. O’Connor,” Seemo said, smiling pleasantly, “I have had magnificent ideas. Each year with the approach of Chiam Day our loyal ones, whose forefathers taught them that Chiam was the most wonderful s
ociety in the world, linger about the market places and public squares with sadness in their eyes. They are still waiting, hoping, that the common bonds which once held them together are not all gone. Would you give them something this year?”

  “But what have I to give?” Yolanda asked. “I am a stranger, a foreigner—”

  “If you would only talk to them—tell them a few things you remember of John How—”

  Yolanda trembled. “No, I could not. Even if I could bear to speak of him without choking from tears, I wouldn’t dare. That is—he told me too much—and there are enemies.”

  Seemo accepted her refusal tentatively. But he was disappointed.

  “You will be grieved when you see the streets fill with the peasants from the country far and wide. There will be people from the rivers who live in houseboats. They will feel great sadness because the homes and farms which the Chiam treasury might have brought them some day are now empty dreams.

  “And the peasant farmers who carry water from the rivers; they too will be heavy in spirit. There was a time when they were near to receiving running water in their homes. A few of the towers were built, and a few of the homes were already supplied. But the treasury of the Chiams had to be hidden and the blessings which their gold had earned were flown.

  “Again, there are countless ones who await the highways; and some, the fortunate few, are realizing their dreams because such benefactors as our friend Mr. O’Connor have gone ahead upon their own generosity. But even these must soon cease their work until money comes.”

  “Can’t there be taxes?” Yolanda asked innocently.

  “Every day there are underground whispers that taxes should never be paid, because the native societies are powerless to build. There are underground whispers that only the Japanese Imperialists will be able to give the people the benefits they need. And so the confusion paralyzed the rightful economic managers, and only fear and doubt remain.

  “And so, Miss Lavelle, if you think these people deserve a tiny reminder of the glories that were almost theirs—”