by V. J. Banis
He waited until he was in his room before placing the call. There was a brief delay while the other switchboard rang the correct room and then a familiar voice answered.
“Dingo,” he said, amazed.
“Jackie?” It was indeed Dingo Stark’s voice on the other end of the line.
“What the hell are you doing in town?”
“I had my manager arrange it so I could see you,” Dingo explained, speaking quickly. “I’ve got quite a bit to tell you. Can you come by over here for a visit soon?”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” Jackie said. He hung up the phone and was on his way at once. Dingo had not sounded very happy over the phone and it would have to be something important that had made the singer risk coming here, to San Francisco.
Dingo greeted him at the door, his expression a mixed one of relief to see Jackie, and obvious concern,
“What’s up?” Jackie asked, coming into the hotel room.
“Several things,” Dingo said quickly. “In the first place I thought you’d want to know I found Steve. Jackie Holmes, this is Steve Simon.”
Jackie stopped as the young man rose from the chair in which he was seated and stepped forward, his hand extended. Dingo had described Steve properly as delicate and fragile. His blue-black hair, neatly combed in contrast to Dingo’s unruly tresses, framed the sort of face that had once belonged to china dolls. His flawless skin was the color of fresh milk. Large dark eyes peered out at him beneath long, lustrous lashes. His nose was a brief, curt exclamation mark over a small, pouting mouth. Slender of body, he stood no more than five six. It was little wonder, Jackie thought quickly, that Steve had aroused the protective instincts in Dingo, and that Dingo had found himself drawn more and more to the pretty, innocently helpless creature.
“The pleasure,” Jackie said aloud, “is all mine, I assure you.”
“I found him in Los Angeles,” Dingo explained. His tone seemed unusually curt, and Jackie wondered if Dingo weren’t still quite attached to the young man and perhaps a little jealous of the warm smile Steve was showering upon him now. “He’d moved back from San Francisco. I thought you’d want to meet him, so I persuaded him to come up here with me.”
“Dingo’s told me about his trouble,” Steve said in a soft, musical voice. “And we’re both grateful for all you’re doing to help him.”
Jackie thought of how grateful Dingo could be and wondered briefly if Steve would be willing to offer the same reward. With such a double incentive he could probably clean up the case in half the time.
“It looks like things are going our way,” he said aloud. “At least I’ve got a lead.”
“I hope it moves fast,” Dingo said grimly. “I’ve been contacted again.”
“About the diaries?” B.U.T.C.H. had the diaries now and they would certainly use them as an added tool to pry money out of Dingo.
Dingo nodded and handed him a brown envelope. Jackie opened it and pulled out the contents. There were only two sheets of paper and a note. The note was brief and to the point:
“Would you like to see this book circulating all over the world? If not, come up with $300,000. We’ll contact you again in five days and tell you where to leave it.”
The sheets of paper were Xeroxed copies of two pages from the diary. Jackie glanced at the first. It was a description, in Dingo’s own narrative, of a sexual incident between him and Steve. Jackie read only the first two lines and then out of courtesy returned the sheets to the envelope.
“$300,000? They raised their prices,” he commented, handing the envelope back to Dingo.
“They’ve got good reason,” Dingo reminded him. “From my standpoint these are pretty valuable papers. They’re worth a lot more than mere stories whispered about.”
“At least they’ve given us some time,” Jackie said. “We’ve go a week to beat them to the punch.”
“Will it be long enough?” Steve asked in his low voice.
“If our luck holds out, yes. I’ve already made contact and should meet some of our friends tonight.”
“Do you think you can get the diaries that soon?” Steve asked anxiously.
Jackie sensed that the affection between the two had not been only one way. Steve’s concern was obvious.
“Nothing’s really certain,” he warned them. “But I’m certainly going to try. Will you two be in town?”
“We can stay for a few days,” Dingo answered. “My agent canceled a few appointments for me. I was too upset about all this to keep my mind on business anyway.”
“Stay in this same hotel,” Jackie told them, preparing to leave. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I have anything to report.”
The image of Steve’s pretty, concerned face stayed with Jackie as he left the room and started back for his own hotel.
* * * *
A short while before he was to keep his appointment, Jackie phoned to the desk of his hotel and inquired about renting a car. He was assured that a car would be ready for him whenever he wished. Jackie asked that it brought around to the front.
Before leaving his room he unlocked his briefcase and set it atop the bed. Carefully removing the innocent papers inside, he flicked a concealed latch and the inside lining fell away to reveal a hidden compartment. Jackie removed a gun from the space, a small, stunningly-jeweled Derringer. It was not a particularly potent weapon. The gun fired only one shot, and was of such a small caliber that it was ineffective beyond a close range. It was the one he preferred to use, however, as an emergency weapon. As an agent for C.A.M.P., he had no authority to kill and the gun was solely for protection when necessary. He relied far more upon his wits and his physical abilities.
He fitted the gun neatly into a small holster under his jacket. The slight bulge it produced was scarcely noticeable. Giving the weapon a pat, Jackie let himself out of his room and started for the lobby.
A new yellow Plymouth was pulling up to the front entrance as he went out the door. The driver leaned out of the window. “Mr. Garden?” he asked anxiously.
“That’s me,” Jackie said. The garage-man had a right to be worried. Giving a car with a built-in homing device and a bag full of money to the wrong person could be a big mistake.
The driver gave a quick sigh of relief and scooted out of the car, turning it over to Jackie. Out of the corner of his eye, Jackie noted the paper bag on the floor. Everything was ready for him as he had instructed. On the dash a pale green light displayed the signal from the homing device hidden in the money. He tipped the driver handsomely and drove away.
* * * *
Golden Gate Park was a vast area of neatly preserved beauty. There were acres of grounds that included duck ponds, rustic woods and even a Japanese Tea Garden, a spot Jackie had often visited in the past to enjoy the quiet loveliness. In addition, there were countless exhibit buildings, even a reptile display and a band shell for outdoor concerts.
Today, however, he was not here to enjoy San Francisco’s famed park. It was already evening, the shadows long and ominous over the ground. The crowds of people who had explored the park during the day were now on their way home or back to their hotels. Long lines waited at the bus stops and a crush of automobile traffic moved slowly down the park’s drives.
Jackie left his car as near as possible to the restrooms that had been selected for depositing the money. He took the sack with him under his arm and walked across the lawn toward the building. The wastebasket outside was already filled with the day’s debris and he wondered briefly about the possibility of some conscientious custodian emptying the containers before the money was collected. But no doubt B.U.T.C.H, always efficient, had thought of that and taken the necessary precautions.
He paused as a solitary figure came out of the restroom, giving him a questioning glance. Jackie ignored the pointed look. Another time he might have cruised a bit but on this occasion he had more important things to attend to.
He waited until the stranger, discouraged by the lack of respo
nse, had started away, his back to Jackie. There was no one else close by and Jackie dropped the paper bag containing the money into the waste can as he entered the restroom, accomplishing the trick in one quick, almost imperceptible movement.
Inside the building he attended to his bodily functions without haste, in order not to make himself look suspicious. Then, without even glancing in the direction of the waste can, he left and strolled leisurely back to his car.
It was dark by now and the park nearly empty. From time to time a solitary figure could be seen strolling about, usually watching for some other lonely figure with whom to share a few minutes. Like all big-city parks, Golden Gate Park attracted the lonely gays.
In the distance Jackie saw a pitiful looking tramp wandering slowly along, his pace labored, his shoulders stooped. He felt a pang of sympathy. There were so many unfortunates in the world. If only he could help them all. But he had chosen a cause and dedicated himself to it. His strength and his resources must be devoted solely to that one cause if he was to be effective.
As he watched, the bedraggled creature changed his course of direction and started toward the restrooms. To Jackie’s alarm he paused at the wastebasket and began to rummage through its contents. The man was certain to find the sack full of money and his plans, as well as those of B.U.T.C.H., would be thwarted. He opened the door of his car and put one foot to the ground.
No, he realized suddenly, this was not some chance mishap that Fate had thrown in their paths. The tramp appeared to be rummaging merely for something to eat but even as he pawed through the refuse he had already removed the bag containing the money and set it carefully aside. After a moment he started away, the money tucked neatly under his arm.
Jackie smiled to himself and closed his car door again. Very neat, in case anyone was watching. The man had moved off down one of the many paths that passed through the park. Mentally Jackie reviewed the layout of the park, which he had committed to memory, judging where the man’s route would take him. Then, starting up the engine of the Plymouth, he drove slowly forward, taking the vehicular route that would carry him to the same destination.
There was another car ahead of him. Jackie moved slowly behind it, keeping it within sight as he came down another drive in time to see the tramp emerge from the trees in the distance. The door of the waiting car opened, the money was handed inside and the car pulled quickly away as the tramp ambled across the road at a leisurely pace.
All very slick, Jackie thought. He drove carefully, dropping behind and out of sight. With the homing device buried in the money carefully giving him directions, it was not necessary that he keep within sight of the car he was following. Wherever they went he would follow. With luck they would lead him to their home base, the very heart of B.U.T.C.H.
That was something he had long searched for and the prospect of success at last filled him with tingling excitement. This could prove far more important than Dingo Stark’s diaries. It could mean safety for hundreds and thousands of homosexuals.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The route that they were following carried them back downtown. Jackie drove with one eye on the evening traffic and the other on the dashboard, watching the signal that was giving him directions. The brilliance of downtown San Francisco by night spread around him. Market Street was a bawdy river of sailors in tight-fitting uniforms and high-voiced, effeminate young men. Cheap arcades and magazine shops, that he knew displayed blatantly erotic pictures and books, lined the sidewalks. Theaters advertised vulgar girlie movies. It was an area that reeked of vice, sex and unconcealed desire.
They turned and left behind the tawdry atmosphere of Market Street. He realized they were heading toward Chinatown—a city within a city, another world almost. His heart beat faster as he sensed that they were near their destination.
The signal from the dashboard told him that the car ahead had stopped. Jackie drove slowly, dodging the streams of cars and pedestrians. Here the tourists were out in full force, for Chinatown was a sight to be seen by night as well as by day. Strange, exotic buildings were silhouetted against the San Francisco sky. Quaint shops offered works of art and tourist junk together and dimly lighted side streets and alleys hinted at adventure and danger.
He saw the car he had been following parked at the curb ahead of him. He drove by it, seeking a parking place of his own and found it on the next block. He parked and walked back, blending in with the crowds of tourist, moving inconspicuously.
The car was still where he had seen it. Jackie paused as he approached, glancing about. Just past the spot a narrow alleyway led from the busy street. Jackie glanced at it as though he were merely a curious visitor and then stepped into it, starting down its dim path.
It was a singular experience, as though a curtain had been closed upon the activity and rush of the city. Here, with only a few steps, he had left behind the tourist attractions and the gaudy displays. All was quiet. The signs displayed no English and the unfamiliar Chinese symbols on a few of the doors made them appear all the more mysterious and ominous.
There was no way of knowing into which door his adversaries had disappeared. Nothing stirred except a big, indolent cat that glowered at him for a minute before disappearing into a shadow.
Still another passageway opened off this one, a few feet of narrow tunnel that dropped down a short, steep flight of steps to a basement type building. The shades had been drawn over the door and window but beyond that a dim light could be seen. As he listened he heard the muffled sound of voices that seemed to be arguing.
He hesitated for a moment and then started down. It could be something perfectly innocent, unrelated to his search—perhaps a family discussion or an argument over prices. The risk would have to be taken, however. He was convinced his quarry was somewhere in this alley, behind one of the closed doors. If necessary he would find some way to search the entire area, until he had caught the rats in their nest.
His foot struck a stone on one of the steps and sent it clattering down before him. Ahead, the voices beyond the door grew silent. Jackie froze where he was. His presence had been clumsily announced. Would he find himself facing some irate resident? Or something more dangerous?
The silence continued. As he stood motionless, Jackie hit upon a scheme that might save him some embarrassment. He would ask directions to some special shop that had been recommended to him. That would give him the opportunity to see who was inside and also explain his presence if this were not the right door.
He started down again and reached the door. Without pause he knocked loudly. A minute later the door opened on a wizened, yellow-faced figure who would have looked more appropriate clad in the traditional garments of his past than in the typically Western suit he was wearing.
“I’m trying to find the shop of Lin Chan,” Jackie answered the unspoken question in the man’s eyes. “I seem to be having some trouble locating it.”
The man screwed up his face. “I do not know that shop,” he said in a cracked voice. “But come in, please. I will ask my daughter if she can direct you.”
Jackie felt a warning tickle at his scalp but there was no logical way to retreat now. Tense beneath the deceptively innocent air he feigned, he followed the old man inside.
He had no sooner stepped over the threshold than the door was closed swiftly behind him. Jackie whirled about to find himself facing the same threesome he had met before, the ones who had attacked Dingo Stark. Bruno Scotto’s evil face leered at him malevolently.
“I’m afraid, Mr. Garden,” the Oriental man was saying, “that you’ve been impetuous.”
Jackie had no time to answer. He reached instinctively for the gun under his jacket but the three thugs were faster. Scotto was upon him in a rush, his massive fist connecting with Jackie’s jaw before Jackie had time to dodge the blow. Someone grabbed him from behind. Jackie grabbed and twisted, lifting the man up and using his hip as a lever to fling his assailant into the air and against Bruno Scotto.
There was no time, however, to protect himself from the gun barrel that crashed against the back of his head. He pitched silently forward, unconscious.
* * * *
Jackie awoke in darkness, the floor damp and cold beneath him. He stirred, half surprised to find himself alive and functioning. Finally, expecting another blow at any minute, he lifted his head and looked around.
He was in the same place, he decided as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. And he was alone. The door had been left open, evidence of the fact that his assailants had made a hasty departure.
He rose, rubbing his head gently. This was getting to be a habit and a dangerous one. Apparently Bruno and the others hadn’t recognized him except as Jackie Garden, and for that reason hadn’t considered him important enough or dangerous enough to kill. But they had made their escape.
He flicked on the light and looked around the single room. It had been stripped, leaving nothing behind in the way of clues. Only the paper bag that had once contained the money was lying crumpled on the floor. Jackie stooped and picked it up. Hidden in one of the seams at the bottom of the bag was the homing device that had allowed him to follow them before. Obviously they had transferred the money to some other container and cheated him of a trail to follow.
He had lost his prey and a sizable bundle of cash as well. Things weren’t going so nicely after all. With a grimace, he left the room and retraced his steps back to the street. He had only been unconscious a short time and Chinatown was still active. Discouraged, Jackie found his car and drove back to his hotel.
There was a message at the desk that Steve Simon had called. Jackie crumpled up the paper as he made his way to the elevator. He hadn’t the heart to call and tell Dingo and Steve how badly things had gone this evening. In the morning would be soon enough.
The elevator operator, a rather homely young man whom Jackie suspected of knowing the score, gave him a conspiratorial wink as they rode up. “I let your brother into your room,” he said in a low voice.
