Contents
COPYRIGHT INFO
A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER
INTRODUCTION, by Shawn Garrett
SPIRIT MURDER
CRYSTAL CLUES
QUEEN OF HEAVEN
THE MARK OF TAI FENG
DEATH’S BACKYARD
HE PULLED A GUN
MURDER SALVAGE
THE CASE OF THE HIDDEN BRIDE
PRUNE PICKING PATRIOT
THE DRAGON’S SHADOW
SCOURGE OF THE SILVER DRAGON
TONG WAR
WHO KILLED GILBERT FOSTER?
REVOLT OF THE DAMNED
MUMMIES TO ORDER
THE BURDEN OF PROOF
DRAFT DODGER
THE LINE IS DEAD
A BURNING CLUE
The MEGAPACK® Ebook Series
COPYRIGHT INFO
E. Hoffmann Price’s Two-Fisted Detective MEGAPACK® is copyright © 2017 by Wildside Press, LLC. All rights reserved.
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The MEGAPACK® ebook series name is a trademark of Wildside Press, LLC. All rights reserved.
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“Spirit Murder” was originally published in Spicy Detective Stories, December 1935.
“Crystal Clues” was originally published in Spicy Detective Stories, Aug. 1936.
“Queen of Heaven” was originally published in Spicy Detective Stories, September 1936.
“The Mark of Tai Feng” was originally published in Spicy Detective Stories, April 1936.
“Death’s Backyard” was originally published in Private Detective Stories, February 1944.
“He Pulled a Gun” was originally published in Candid Detective, November 1938.
“Murder Salvage” was originally published in Spicy Detective, April 1941.
“The Case of the Hidden Bride” was originally published in Private Detective Stories, June 1942.
“Prune Picking Patriot” was originally published in Hollywood Detective, December 1943.
“The Dragon’s Shadow” was originally published in Clues Detective Stories, April 1935.
“Scourge of the Silver Dragon” was originally published in Gold Seal Detective, Dec. 1935.
“Tong War” was originally published in True Gang Life, May 1935.
“Who Killed Gilbert Foster?” was originally published in Five-Novels Monthly, January 1936.
“Mummies to Order” was originally published in Thrilling Mystery, January 1940. Copyright © 1939, renewed 1960 by Popular Library, Inc.
“The Burden of Proof” was originally published in Speed Detective, April 1943.
“Draft Dodger” was originally published in Speed Detective, July 1944.
“The Line Is Dead” was originally published in Smashing Detective Stories, December 1951.
“A Burning Clue” was originally published in Ten Detective Aces, May/June 1933.
A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER
E. Hoffmanm Price’s Two-Fisted Detective MEGAPACK® is another in our line assembling the collected works of E. Hoffmann Price. Please see the intro by Shawn Garrett for full information.
Enjoy!
—John Betancourt
Publisher, Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidepress.com
ABOUT THE SERIES
Over the last few years, our MEGAPACK® ebook series has grown to be our most popular endeavor. (Maybe it helps that we sometimes offer them as premiums to our mailing list!) One question we keep getting asked is, “Who’s the editor?”
The MEGAPACK® ebook series (except where specifically credited) are a group effort. Everyone at Wildside works on them. This includes John Betancourt (me), Carla Coupe, Steve Coupe, Shawn Garrett, Helen McGee, Bonner Menking, Sam Cooper, Helen McGee and many of Wildside’s authors…who often suggest stories to include (and not just their own!)
RECOMMEND A FAVORITE STORY?
Do you know a great classic science fiction story, or have a favorite author whom you believe is perfect for the MEGAPACK® ebook series? We’d love your suggestions! You can post them on our message board at http://wildsidepress.forumotion.com/ (there is an area for Wildside Press comments).
Note: we only consider stories that have already been professionally published. This is not a market for new works.
TYPOS
Unfortunately, as hard as we try, a few typos do slip through. We update our ebooks periodically, so make sure you have the current version (or download a fresh copy if it’s been sitting in your ebook reader for months.) It may have already been updated.
If you spot a new typo, please let us know. We’ll fix it for everyone. You can email the publisher at [email protected] or use the message boards above.
INTRODUCTION, by Shawn Garrett
Welcome to E. Hoffmann Price’s Two-Fisted Detectives MEGAPACK®! Wildside Press, in association with Mr. Price’s heirs, are dedicated to making the extensive body of work of this pulpsmith extraordinaire accessible once again to the public through our line of MEGAPACK® collections.
Edgar Hoffmann Price (July 3, 1898 – June 18, 1988) was born in Fowler, California. A graduate of West Point, he served in World War (followed by military duty in Mexico and the Philippines) and was a champion fencer and boxer—fellow pulp author Jack Williamson referred to him as “a real-life soldier of fortune.” Hoffmann was also something of a polymath—a Republican and a Buddhist, he was also an amateur Orientalist, and a student of the Arabic language.
Price’s first fiction sale was in 1924 to Droll Stories magazine and over the years he befriended, corresponded with, and personally met many authors of the pulp era including Robert E. Howard, Clark Ashton Smith and H.P. Lovecraft. He wrote hundreds of stories for many pulp magazines (including Weird Tales) in varied genres like horror, detective, adventure, fantasy and science fiction. Wildside Press is proud to make his work available to readers again. Due to the inaccessibility of much of Price’s work (he kept no manuscript archive and so we must resort to those original publication copies we can track down) we have decided to package the material into themed MEGAPACK®s, highlighting specific genres he worked in. Later volumes will be released as we gather further material (any collectors interested in aiding our endeavors by supplying photocopies from their collections are urged to contact Wildside at our website: http://wildsidepress.com/).
E. Hoffmann Price’s Two-Fisted Detectives MEGAPACK® contains 19 stories of pulp crime and tough detectives, including tales featuring Price’s series characters Cliff Cragin, as well as some with the slightly more laconic series gumshoe Honest John Carmody. From there, you’ll get tough crime and mystery stories, all published within the range of 1935 to 1963.
We hope you enjoy these thrilling tales of crime and detection. Here is a list of other collections of Price’s work in the series (some already available, others out shortly):
E. Hoffmann Price’s Two-Fisted Detective MEGAPACK®
E. Hoffmann Price’s War And Western Action MEGAPACK®
E. Hoffmann Price’s Exotic Adventures MEGAPACK®
The 11th Golden Age of Weird Fiction MEGAPACK®: E. Hoffmann Price
E. Hoffmann Price’s Fables of Ismeddin MEGAPACK®
E. Hoffmann Price’s Pierre d’Artois: Occult Detective & Associates MEGAPACK®
The E. Hoffmann Price Spicy-Adventure MEGAPACK®
SPIRIT MURDER
Originally published in Spicy Detective Stories, December 1935.
Cliff Cragin was beginning
to learn that buying the Golden Gate Investigation Service was a lot easier than paying the office rent. So instead of kicking his first client out of the office, Cragin forced his craggy, sun-tanned features into an amiable smile, and agreed, “Sure. I’ll lift Loretta Sanford’s emeralds. Only, the play is just a bit thick—”
“As I was saying,” explained the unpleasantly sleek and suave Mr. Barrett, “Loretta ran into a Hindu occultist—”
“Wait a minute!” Cragin interrupted. “What the hell is the matter with her eyes?”
“I didn’t say oculist, I said occultist.” corrected Barrett. His superior smile was irritating. “A Hindu. Swami Ramakrishna.
“I got along great with Loretta until he advised her to find out if her dead husband approves of me. And he doesn’t—not by a damn sight.”
Whatever the Hindu Swami’s game was, he was right in steering Loretta Sanford clear of Forest Barrett. Cragin, equipped with features made up of unmatched spare parts, had no use for anyone as handsome and oily as Barrett.
“You grab the emeralds at the séance tonight. That will discredit the Swami considerably. Then I’ll return them to her with explanations that won’t do the Hindu any good.”
“Oh, I begin to get it,” beamed Cragin, “you’re going to marry the girl.”
“Who the hell wouldn’t?” wondered Barrett reaching for his eighteen dollar Leghorn.
* * * *
Swami Ramakrishna’s temple, just off Fortola Boulevard, was set back in an acre of lawn and landscaped terraces. The cars parked at the curb belonged to people who thought eight cylinders were vulgar.
White-robed Hindus with turbans as big as washtubs were posed about the place like statues. Old women of both sexes were murmuring in awed whispers. Barrett was seated in the last row of chairs ranged in a crescent before a curtained dais. Cragin looked for Mrs. Loretta Sanford. Barrett’s description and a photograph made it easy to find her.
Loretta’s gorgeous legs were in unfair competition with her magnificent eyes. Cragin regretted he was not an office boy—a guy who starts at the bottom and works his way up. It would take an exploring party the rest of the summer to get as far as her shapely throat.
Her lips and eyes were made to smile, but neither were working at it. Recognizing Forest Barrett, she deliberately turned her back and planted herself in the second row of seats. Loretta did not approve of her admirer having followed her to the séance.
Cragin noted the loving care she lavished on a gold mesh bag nestled in the crook of her arm. That’s where she kept those three emeralds as big as Malaga grapes, ready to hand over to the Swami. Cragin seated himself just behind her, in the last row.
The lights dimmed. Clouds of sweet, pungent fumes surged from censers as two turbaned Hindus fed them with incense. Soft, heart-wrenching music in a ghostly minor wailed and piped, from somewhere beyond the silver embroidered black curtains that masked the walls. Then a solemn peal of bronze, and a tall, black-bearded, handsome Hindu in a jeweled turban and long brocaded robe materialized in the shifting twilight. Stage setting—trick mirrors—but impressive.
As his clients relaxed and breathed again, the Swami’s right hand rose and he intoned, “Om mani padme hong!”
“Nuts!” growled Cragin under his breath, wrathful that the mummery should be so impressive. But it made his task easier in that congress of saps.
Loretta Sanford was abstractedly fingering the clasp of her bag. Cragin liked his task less and less. Then he saw an out: grab the jewel case and return it direct to Loretta.
“When I get through telling her how I saved the heirlooms, if I don’t find out what color step-ins she wears, I’m no investigator at all.”
It would be fun trying. And to hell with Forest Barrett.
“Tonight,” the Swami impressively intoned, “we have with us Nilofal, a medium from Kashmiri. She speaks face to face with the dead. Death is but an illusion. See and hear one who has crossed the black shadowed border.”
Again the brazen gong shook the room.
“Om mani padme hong!”
The dais drapes parted. The Swami knew his stuff when it came to picking mediums.
“If that jane spends her time talking to the dead, I’m all for suicide,” Cragin decided as he eyed the girl from Kashmiri.
Nilofal wore a wide jeweled girdle from which trailed something that looked like a discouraged puff of smoke. What her silver brassieres didn’t quite hide were just too good to be true. Cragin had read of breasts like that, but until that moment had charged it to gross exaggeration. No wonder the Swami had such a following of masculine clients.
Unless the lights were deceptive, Nilofal had forgotten to wear anything beneath that handful of gossamer that caressed her hips.
Then came the time worn business of tying the medium to a chair. And as the Swami solemnly repeated the one about death being an illusion, Nilofal’s shapely limbs and body slowly became phosphorescent, and she began murmuring in some outlandish language. The Indian music diminished to a sighing whisper; then, as the girl made odd, throaty sounds as though some spirit were caressing her, the phosphorescence faded. Her voice changed uncannily.
A man was speaking from Nilofal’s lips!
“I’m looking for Loretta.”
“John!” Recognition was in Loretta’s gasp.
“Hell,” muttered Cragin, who had been distracted from the emeralds, “I could have taken her garters and girdle, and she’d never have missed them.”
He leaned forward, his hand just clearing Loretta’s waist…
In the gloom above the medium’s head a blot of phosphorescence was expanding, and assuming a human shape whose lower extremities trailed into blackness. A man’s face materialized. A spectral arm was slowly extended. Cragin started, then realized that the apparition was pointing at Loretta, not at him. She recognized the speaker: her departed husband.
And it was not until Cragin had thrust Loretta’s jewel case into his side pocket that he realized that sweat was cropping out on his forehead.
“I am well and happy, Loretta,” the materialization declared. “Across the border there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage. So go on with your plans. You will be happy. God bless you…”
Somebody had pulled the wrong wire. Instead of crabbing Barrett’s game, the spirits gave him a first class boost. Loretta was heading for the dais; but the apparition was slowly fading. Then a word of farewell…
But the next sound was all too real: a groan, a dull, sodden thud. A ghastly gurgling and coughing. Someone was fighting for life and was losing.
The lights flickered on. Swami Ramakrishna was on the dais beside the still unconscious Kashmiri medium. Forest Barrett, gray-faced, blood drooling from his sagging lips, was huddled in his chair in the last row. A dagger had been driven into his back. The silver wire that bound the haft, and the uncut stones that studded it were too irregular to catch fingerprints. The weapon was of oriental workmanship, similar to the gleaming yatagans and tulwars that clustered the wall.
The Swami kept his poise. Whatever was going on behind his inscrutable, brazen mask and cryptic eyes was beyond Cragin’s analysis.
Loretta Sanford’s emeralds were burning a hole in Cragin’s pocket; and the police investigation was an ordeal. But the sergeant who arrived with the homicide squad was too suspicious of Hindu occultists to have any time for the Swami’s dupes.
“None of these boobs here could of done it,” he told his assistant. “But every one of them will swear that that damn Turk never left the platform.” Then, eyeing the dagger haft, he said to the fingerprint man, “Not a chance, Harvey.”
“Somebody,” grumbled the other dick, “did a good job in nailing Barrett. Wonder what kind of a gyp game he was up to this time?”
“Ask that black-haired dame over there,” countered the sergeant. “She’s weeping her head
off because she lost her chance to ante out good dough for some bum oil stock.”
And when finally the Swami’s patrons were permitted to leave, Cragin led the rush. Luck again: the Swami’s suckers were too well connected to be put over the hurdles. Cragin, heading toward his apartment near the Marina, resolved to console Loretta as soon as she became coherent.
* * * *
The tinkling of the doorbell interrupted Cragin’s anticipations. He buried the forty thousand dollars’ worth of emeralds in a humidor of pipe mixture, and answered the summons. The girl at the threshold must have been the one Mohammet had in mind when he drew up the blueprints for a Moslem paradise. After an instant of goggle-eyed admiration, Cragin saw that she resembled Loretta Sanford, except that she was younger, and slightly more streamlined.
“I called at your office,” she began, “and you weren’t in. I want to see you about my sister. I’m Irene Fenwick.”
“I haven’t got your sister,” apologized Cragin as he admitted her. “But I’d go barefooted through hell to persuade her to hang around the house.”
Something more than her sister was worrying Irene. Her poise had reached the cracking point. There was a telltale glitter in her dark eyes. He wondered how much she knew. But two things were certain: Irene’s legs were symphonies in silk as she planted herself in a low chair and crossed them. Cragin recognized the climax of a well-decorated evening.
Legs, according to the dictionary, are something to stand on, and everything female except a mermaid has them, but before Irene got her skirt readjusted, Cragin decided that the entrancing flare of ivory losing itself in a tantalizing tangle of lace put Irene a length ahead of the field.
“You were saying something about your sister,” Cragin reminded her.
“She was goofy about a rat by the name of Barrett. And I used to be.”
“I’d like to do something about that,” admitted Cragin. After what he had seen, something had to be done!
“Maybe you could.” Her smile was ambiguous. “But it’s that damned Hindu, Ramakrishna, that I’m after. I’m certain he killed Barrett to get a crack at my sister. She’s got plenty of the stuff it takes, which is why Barrett was giving her a play. See how it fits together?”
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