E. Hoffmann Price's Two-Fisted Detectives

by E. Hoffmann Price

  “Get out,” Meraux cried. “The both of you! You, Nedra, you have not heard anything. Nor you, Cragin. Keep this shut up!”

  But it was not to be settled in the family. A large voice boomed from the door, “Stand fast, everybody. Sinclair, speak that piece again.”

  Sergeant O’Halloran, who had been in charge of the investigation that afternoon, barged into the patio. He was built like a refrigerator. He rocked on his feet, he rubbed his square chin, and flashed a hard eye from face to face.

  “So that’s it, huh?” This concentrated on Cragin. “You did have some dirt on this guy—Mason wasn’t wise-cracking when he wondered how much evidence you’d ditched. Holding out on us, huh?” He turned to Sinclair. “No, I’m not pinching you. But you’ve got a lot to explain.”

  Meraux was frantic. “Take him away! Kill him but get him out of here before I tear him to pieces, he’ll ruin her!”

  Cragin wished he were back in Africa, or with the boys in Sicily. Aside from what the police would make of the outburst, there was the business of what Captain Howes would say about the brawl, and about Cragin’s ability as a detective. “Before you blow your top, Sergeant, take a look at the bullet in the column.” He pointed. “Someone was pot-shooting me. Or Nedra. And then this yahoo barged in, hog-wild.”

  “What bullet?” O’Halloran demanded.

  “Maybe you think I don’t know how a slug sounds when it chunks home, you’d know if you’d ever been around some shooting.”

  “All right! Where is it?”

  “Get your light, get a match.”

  The sergeant did that. After a few moment’s search, they found the hole.

  Sinclair changed his tune. He began to understand the huddle he had interrupted.

  Cragin said, “You better practice keeping your shirt on.”

  And Nedra spoke her lines: “Sergeant, don’t draw too many conclusions about Mr. Cragin. He’s the only friend I have—the only one who can possibly help me.”

  “That’s right, Officer,” a cool voice cut in. “Mr. Cragin is one of us. I’m backing him on Miss Dalli’s account.”

  It was Harry Ormond, who had trailed in after the sergeant. He went on, “Nedra, I finally did get away. There was such a nasty mess.”

  “I know, Harry,” Nedra answered. “Let’s all relax. Achille, take me to our table; it’s about time, isn’t it?”

  Meraux sighed. “Relaxation. What I need. And lots of Veuve Cliquot laced with brandy. And a comfortable padded cell, with music.” He caught Nedra’s arm, and Ormond’s, and herded them toward the main room. O’Halloran was following, with Sinclair. The actor’s shoulder sagged as he trailed along, unprotesting and silent. Cragin broke in on the leading group. He said, “Nedra, I have to trot along. Sorry.”

  “Why, Cliff, running out on me? When I’m about to face the mike?”

  “I’ve got to go to bat for Sinclair. In his high-strung way, he blatted himself into a lot. Maybe I can smooth things out a bit, for him, and for myself. He beefed me, too.”

  “So you leave me to the mercy of snipers and voodoo artists?”

  She was trying to make light of it all, but it was not quite convincing. Cragin shook his head. “You’re in no danger. That slug was meant for me. Maybe, as the old saying goes, I know too much. I only wish I knew what it is that I know! But I’ll be back for your act, if they don’t jug me.”

  CHAPTER VIII

  The Hidden Man

  Sticking around during Nedra’s closing hours at Club Montalban was worse than a bombing. Cragin’s back was exposed to whatever return attempt the lurking maniac might make. Despite the gunner’s precautions, thus far, toward providing a getaway, he might at any moment go wild and without any regard for consequences or capture start shooting.

  But nothing happened. And when Nedra addressed the mike, her voice had all the sparkle and magnetism of a person who glowed in the world’s affection, and reciprocated.

  Since the cops were not thoroughly convinced that the shot into the patio had been aimed at Cragin, a police-car trailed the one which took Nedra and Cragin and Meraux to the hotel.

  “And tomorrow, the papers!” she sighed.

  Meraux was beyond any expression.

  Cragin got busy pondering about the unknown fiancé whose presence in New Orleans Nedra had admitted. The man might have been among the favored guests. This hideout business worried Cragin. There was something off color about it. Something must be wrong with the man. And if there were, how could she carry on? The news would certainly leak out, sooner or later, and probably sooner; secret marriages simply won’t stay secret.

  This, however, was no time to bring up a matter which she had admitted only under emotional pressure; and certainly not in Meraux’s presence.

  Back at the Iberville he left Nedra at the corridor. “Don’t sit up waiting for the papers,” he said. “Leave that to me.”

  When he stepped into his room he was wondering about the workout the cops were giving Dayles Sinclair; he was also wondering how badly he himself would be entangled by the kick-back, for Sinclair would certainly not hesitate to speak of the deal to hold out about the meeting with Diggs, the porter.

  And thus, Cragin had shucked his coat and kicked off his shoes before he saw the decorations on the dresser. There was a little waxen image. It was skewered by a needle. While the caricature was not a bad job, neither was it by any means lifelike as the ouangas representing Nedra, and the late Frosty Burnett.

  The effigy weighted a sheet of paper from a dime store pad; ruled paper such as school kids use. The message was penciled in Roman capitals:

  MR. CRAGIN LAY OFF. I DON’T AIM TO KILL NO MORE WHITE FOLKS AN I HAS TO KEEP YOUR NOSE CLEAN. I AIN’T HURTING MISS DALLY. JUST THEM THAT IS FIXING TO MONKEY WITH PIRUT TREASURE WHICH IS MY PROPURTY. YOURS RESPECTFULLY. MONTGOMERY DIGGS.

  There was something odd about the illiteracy of the note. It didn’t ring true. Cragin had handled “poison pen” and ransom cases in times past; in most instances, the writer had feigned illiteracy, and had in creating his phony composition made some slip which betrayed the fake. Yet, as far as Cragin was concerned, one first sensed, intuitively, simply that the writing did not ring true, and only somewhat later did one finally catch on to the faulty detail, or the quirk which exposed the writer’s identity.

  One thing was certain: the man meant business, and considering the distance from the patio wall to the pergola, he was not at all bad with a small caliber pistol whose short barrel made long shots extremely difficult.

  Cragin picked up his coat, eyed the hole made by the .25 caliber slug which Sergeant O’Halloran had recovered from the pillar. “You son of a bitch,” he said aloud, “I’d like to swap lead with you some time and see how you like it.”

  His own gun was a .45 S. & W. Once the cosmoline was wiped off and out, there’d be some fun.

  Funny, too, that Diggs, who certainly knew his way about the hotel, had not lurked here in the room to stage an ambush which would have stood a much better chance of success than any potshot stuff by the tricky light of the Montalban patio. That he had barged blindly into a room which contained only a ouanga, but which could have concealed a lurker gave Cragin a thoroughly unpleasant moment; he felt foolish about making a belated search, but he felt better when he found that he and his little image were the only occupants.

  After snapping off the lights, he sliced up a sheet and constructed booby traps to give an alarm just in case a prowler tried to enter by fire escape or through the door. And then, accustomed to sleeping under fire, Cragin slept.

  The early morning sounds of Royal Street awakened him: the clatter of street cars, the composite voice of passengers waiting at the curbings, the rumble of trucks—all caged, and flung upward by the narrowness.

  The morning paper featured the murder of Forsythe Burnett, and played up the trunk angl
e—corpses in trunks was too much of the American scene to be soft-pedaled. However, Nedra was not conspicuously tied into the story. This, Cragin was certain, was the long arm of Hollywood; but unless the cops got very quick action, they’d have to save face by demanding that “sensational revelations” be copiously plastered all over page one, on the theory that a spectacular case is harder to solve than a colorless mystery.

  Cragin had breakfast with Nedra, in her suite. “Not a word about the sniper last night,” he told her, “no voodoo angles, and nothing about Sinclair being walked out for further questioning. Any Globe-Colossal brass hats arrive?”

  She shook her head. “Even they have to wait for priorities! I’ll bet that slays them!”

  There was service for four. When Meraux came in, looking as though he had spent a night with the Inquisition, Cragin asked, “Who’s the missing guest?”

  “Dayles.” Then, “Pilar, do see if you can get a rise out of him.”

  When the maid returned from the phone, she said, “Is very sick, will you excuse?”

  Nedra sighed. “Sulking. Or shamefaced, about last night.”

  Meraux said, “Or afraid to be near you, after last night.”

  “Huh! I’d say the guy’s lucky to be alive,” Cragin contributed, and went on to tell about his personal ouanga. He continued, “Get it, you’re just being indirectly attacked, honey. Proving up, all right. Just like I said, you’re in no danger at all. Now, how about that USO appearance?”

  “Don’t mention appearances to me! Please, Cliff!”

  His mouthful of melon turned to cotton. “Look here, you can’t let me—uh, let the army down, you went to Montalban and a couple cocktail parties, and to dinner—”

  “That was before the sniping began.”

  “But the letter I got said I’d get hurt, you wouldn’t.”

  “Cliff, do let me eat! While I have an appetite. After all, do you suppose I want you to be a clay pigeon? Look what almost happened to you last night!”

  Meraux grimaced and thrust aside his chicken livers a la paysanne. “Here it goes again! Me, I am all for the coffee shop, a glass of milk, and a graham cracker!”

  He stamped out. He slammed the door.

  Cragin led off, “Who’s the hidden boyfriend? Damn it, I got a right to know. And why’s he hidden? Is he a Nazi or something?”

  He glanced about the room, scowled at the various framed and autographed photos: without even reading the signatures, he knew them for Hollywood. “Idiot!” Nedra said, “do you think he’d be in that line-up?”

  “Come clean! I’m going to nail Montgomery Diggs, whoever he is, I got the inside track on him. And he seems to have the inside, in a way of speaking, on a lot of us. Tell me about the boyfriend so I won’t be bumping around in the dark. You sure it’s not Harry! Come clean with me, don’t try to protect him against voodoo!”

  “Lord, no!” She smiled fondly, as if to cancel the emphasis implications of her emphasis. “It came near being, and he did get emotional, but it’s over and can’t, couldn’t start again.”

  “Way back in your floor show days, wasn’t it?”

  She nodded. “He inherited dough, and I stuck to the show. Well, he’s a grand person, and I often wonder why I didn’t take him up, when he broke the news.”

  “Took him a while to get over it.”

  “I thought you didn’t know him more than to speak to?”

  Cragin shrugged. “Running an agency here for five years you sort of dip an earful here and there. But if you say you’re not interested in ever moving into that big house of his on Rosa Court, I guess that is that. But who is the guy?”

  “You’re wearing me down.” She glanced about, instinctively, and lowered her voice, though Pilar was not in the room. “All right, promise me you’ll keep it to yourself.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  “Davis Thorne. From Chicago.”

  “Oh, my God! The Davis Thorne!”

  She nodded.

  Cragin repeated, “Oh, my God.” Resignedly, wearily.

  “Matter, Cliff?” She laid a hand on his arm. “You look as though you knew him and were sorry you did.”

  “Board of Trade. Yachts. Polo. Millionaire sportsman—hell, the coast to coast prize. And good looking like none of these movie dummies. Well, it was nice seeing you, Nedra, and I am just a plain fool; that schoolmate stuff never did go, and I always knew it didn’t, but last night sort of knocked me dizzy, if you get what I mean.”

  He thrust his chair back. “Well, I am getting myself the menacing Mr. Diggs—how about it, I get his hide, and you come out of hiding, and make the General happy and all the troops too.”

  “Cliff, it’s not what I want or don’t want, it’s—don’t you understand, I’m under orders, a piece of contract bound property, mustn’t be marred or scratched or get my smile twisted—” This last was said in bitter whimsy. “The mere fact that Sinclair hasn’t made the headlines, that the bullet meant for one of us just wasn’t mentioned, doesn’t all that show you that my ‘owners’ are getting alarmed? It was fine for me to carry on after what my trunk spilled at my feet—but stray bullets—no matter who they’re meant for—”

  She caught his lapels, and looked him full in the eye: “Do you think I couldn’t or wouldn’t carry on, if I had the full say?”

  “Damn fools might know an army post is the safest place on earth!”

  So he went out to find Diggs. If he found Diggs it’d be a cinch ducking rehabilitation. But what he really wanted to find was Davis Thorne.

  Not that he’d do anything with Thorne when he saw him. He merely wished to get a face to face look at the mug who clogged up the roto sections from coast to coast; see and hear what the guy had. Give Diggs, on a silver platter, to Nedra as a bribe or a wedding present, or something, and then hang out the Crescent shingle again, and be a dick again, and to hell with schoolboy mooning around and memories!

  CHAPTER IX

  In the Ashes

  Moses Wilson, still at the emergency hospital, had not yet recovered consciousness; but when it came to getting information on Montgomery Diggs, Cragin had an edge on the police, since just before the accident, the old man had dropped a hint. Tracing Wilson’s sister was the next move.

  It was easy enough getting Wilson’s address. Cragin readily found the little shack on South Rampart Street. A bulky black woman was at the door before he had a fair chance to knock. There was no bell.

  “Morning, suh.”

  “You Chlorinda Wilson?”

  “Yas, suh. Y’all got word of my man, sur? I’m sure worried.”

  Foxy; sounding him out; trying to decide whether he was “de law,” or merely a new collector, or landlord’s representative.

  Cragin’s hope was that in the army he had shed some of the dick’s way of standing and talking and carrying himself. “That’s right. I’m here to collect information.” Without giving her time to ask what for, he handed her a five spot and went on, “This is your down payment until Moses’ boss can get the compensation working.”

  She hadn’t signed anything, and five bucks was five bucks. Chlorinda began to see things in a different light when Cragin continued, “Now give me a list of his relatives. Some of them get down payments.”

  Cragin nearly wore out a pencil. When the list was done, he asked, “Which one is his sister?”

  “Mis’ Amanda Reeves, she done married Eleazar Reeves, down on Bourbon Street, right near Gov’nor Nichols Street—”

  Finding Amanda Reeves took only a matter of minutes. She was angular, and purple-black. A scarlet chignon accented her color. And her eyes were as sharp as her face. Cragin, going into his dance, dished out the donation supposedly ordered by Harry Ormond. She was inclined to wonder, but not to question, for cash always made sense. He finally cut into her thanks by saying, “Oh, before I forget.
Where’s Moses’ friend, Montgomery Diggs, live?” He thumbed some more bills. “He quit and he’s got some back pay coming.”

  “Right down yonder in de nex’ block, suh.”

  “What number?”

  But Amanda’s face had changed. “Well, suh, I can’t jest exactly say, he don’t mix wif us folks, he live by hissef.”

  She was dummying up. She didn’t know of anyone who knew Diggs, “’Ceptin’ my brother. Naw-suh, I ain’t real sure he live in de nex’ block. He jest keep by his-self. Naw-suh, don’t you worry, he coming back if’n y’all owe him money.”

  Anything resembling further interest in a subject which shouldn’t more than very casually concern Cragin would have built up her suspicions; so he avoided the “next block” on Governor Nichols Street, and headed back up Bourbon. He had a hunch that Amanda Reeves, caught off guard, had given him a straight though vague lead, and had then checked herself.

  He got his gun out of storage, and cleaned it. The feel of its walnut grip was good. While the service automatic had its points, he felt more at home with a well-balanced revolver. Once he had his armpit holster adjusted, he spent some time getting used to a civilian coat. The army had left deeper marks than he had realized.

  Nedra, he learned on completing his preparations, was busy with company executives. The district attorney was in on the huddle; all in all, a no-admittance formation.

  His next urge was to see Dayles Sinclair, and find out how the actor had fared in his interview with the cops, but Sinclair was out, destination unknown. So, and with nothing to do until he could return that night to prowl Governor Nichols Street, Cragin surrendered to impatience and curiosity. He set out to locate Davis Thorne, for whom the much-misused term “Millionaire Sportsman” had undoubtedly been invented.

  Cragin, making the rounds of airports and railway stations, learned that Davis Thorne and a colored servant had arrived several days previous, by plane from Chicago, but there was no record of his New Orleans destination.