He jumped when the phone rang. He listened to Linda’s sweet voice. Not a fumble, not a tremor; she said, “Fourteen-fifty” as smooth as silk. And then, “If you saw one the other day for twelve-fifty, you’d better buy it.”
More calls. They all thought $1,450 was too stiff. Which it was. Only one kind of purchaser would come to the house: the guy who intended to tap the widow on the conk and get the car free.
That evening, things began to tick. She had barely said, “$1,450” when the speaker must have asked about seeing the bus. Linda answered, “Right away, if you wish.”
She was not even breathless when she came to tell Honest John, “It’s a man.”
He felt foolish about asking her if she remembered her lines; but he did. She answered, “I’ll know what to say when the time comes, I’ll think of some way of getting to his house.”
She didn’t have any qualms about Honest John’s ideas for keeping her from being knocked off in transit.
* * * *
He was in the room across the hall from the living room when the bell rang. A tall, thin-faced man was at the door. He didn’t look like a cold-blooded killer; they seldom do.
He said pleasantly, “I’m Art Garth, Mrs. Crawford,” and fumbled with a little square of newsprint he took out of his vest pocket. “It’s a ’38 Cad?”
She went on to tell him how swell it was, how her late husband had babied it, how it never had gone over forty; and she had to have cash, five hundred down on the line. Notes for the rest, any bank would handle it, she was sure.
Garth did not whimper. “Five hundred, Mrs. Crawford? Well…” He smiled, turned a vest pocket inside out. “The funny thing is, I just hit a long shot at the races, but the money’s at home. I expected to give you a check. Well, we can pick it up, and anyway, I’d like to have my wife try the car.”
“I need cash, tonight.”
Garth glanced about. “You have your certificate of ownership?”
She took it from her bosom, spread the yellow slip on the table. “Of course your wife should try the car, she’ll love it. And you won’t mind driving me back? I have so many things to do before I leave. Won’t you phone, so she’ll be ready when we get there? There is the phone, call while I get my coat. I’m so pressed for time.”
Honest John heard him call the number, and penciled it on the wall. Then Linda was beside him. Squeezing his hand, she whispered, “You trace the number and get there ahead of us. Much better than trailing. I’m not afraid.”
Garth followed her to the garage. Before the big engine was fairly rumbling, Honest John was telling the operator that it was police business, and got the address Garth had called. But when the long car backed out and made a U in the street, he clamped down on the cigar he had been saving all those hours. He ought to trail them.
But she said no, and her way was really best. Crooks fall into habits. This was a team. Garth got the victim, his woman sold the loot. One to drive, one to sit in the back seat with the owner, get her out in the sticks, and then pour it to her. As long as Garth was alone with Linda, she was safe enough.
So he took a short cut.
* * * *
The address was off Allemany Boulevard, on a side street, where only a few houses dotted the hilly lots. There weren’t any neighbors close enough to see or wonder. Just the spot, and handy to the highway leading down the lonely shore to Half Moon Bay.
He poured on the power, though he knew that Garth would take his time; a ticket was the last thing that Garth wanted. Honest John, uneasy because a woman had her neck on the block, kept telling himself, “Hell, I couldn’t pinch him, I couldn’t knock it out of him, only the longest chance that anyone could prove he was in Yvonne’s house, much less knocked her off. And that wouldn’t get the dough, the dough Linda needs.”
Lights out, he skimmed silently past the house that must be Garth’s: the only lighted one in that lonely block. He had checked numbers in his guide as he approached the district. Once past, he bumped up over a curb and parked in a vacant lot. From there he could watch.
Soon the long cream-colored Cad loomed up. Linda stepped out, and Garth slid from the wheel. He followed her into the house. Honest John waited and chewed his cigar. He had handcuffs; nail the two, shackle them together, when they came out. Then frisk them, frisk the house, get the payoff. They’d be afraid of banks. Get them both out of the house, off guard and thinking of a nice dark spot to cool Linda.
But minutes passed. He began to pace in the gloom. He was afraid. He wanted to give them time for chit-chat, time to dig out the five hundred cash for Linda, time to offer to drive her home, if “Mrs. Garth” liked the bus.
Suppose they varied their routine? They might risk conking her in the house. The more he saw of the place, the more he knew that it would be easy to bring a stiff to the car. He had not figured on such a nice spot. He had half considered trailing them, crowding them into the ditch, and putting the slug on them. Nailing them on their own steps was a last minute change.
God, how long…?
He headed for the house. To hell with this. He couldn’t take it.
He heard a scream, the dry, small smack of a pistol. Then no sound at all. Honest John went wild. He sprinted to the porch. He lashed out with his handcuffs, and swept the glass out of a French window, and barged into the living room, gun leveled. He shouted, “You lousy—! I’ll—”
Then he checked himself, and stood there, gaping. There was a trim brunette in a red hat and fur coat, grabbing her shoulder. Garth, looking sick as the girl. One hand frozen in an unfinished grab for a table drawer. Linda’s face was hard as her voice, and she was saying, “Get the other five hundred or I’ll empty this gun into you. Hurry, Garth.”
Honest John took charge. “Cut it, Linda, you fool, who’d you shoot? Garth, you and the dame poke out your hands, here, by the banister.”
In a moment, he had them cuffed, and the connecting link passed through the balustrade. Linda lowered her peashooter, and said, “I saw the label of that coat, the coat that fool Walt bought Yvonne, he told me about that. So I knew—I couldn’t be wrong—”
He eyed her, drew her into the hall, where the two cursing captives couldn’t shout him down. He said, “With the right dress, baby, you could beat any rap. But I went wild, now they know I’m playing your hand. Even if they are caught with Yvonne’s coat, they’ll still squawk for that dough.”
“I don’t care, John. I’ll face it out.”
He told her to keep her gun on the prisoners while he frisked the house. In half an hour he had found plenty. Yvonne’s rings on the dresser. Garth’s girl had to grab them, and the coat. But in the basement was the payoff: a grave. They’d changed their minds about dumping the next victim. Discovering Yvonne’s body so soon had scared them and had almost finished Linda.
Honest John was no longer sweating when he went to the captives and said. “Shut up, shut up! I got your prints on the glass in Yvonne’s room. You grabbed the glass too high. Enough of her stuff is around here to sink you, and then there’s the traffic cop in South City. But I’ll give you one break, one break which maybe you can use.”
Garth asked, “What?” The rat was scared sick, shaking.
“Maybe you can plead the old white flame stuff when you poured it to Yvonne. You can explain the blanket, easy. But that grave in the basement, way back out of sight, where I just stumbled on it. If the cops see that, it makes the both of you premeditating murder, it nails your girlfriend and you. I’ll shut up, as long as you shut up about the dough we’re taking. The price of Yvonne’s bus.”
“You mean—you’ll—let us go?” the girl said, choking.
“Yes. To hell.” He grinned. “I’m out to sink Garth. He’s facing the works for Yvonne, but he has a chance for his life, pleading impulse or something, or she tried to shoot him first. You can claim he stepped out on you, and you did
n’t know the car was hot, and you’re clear, pretty much. But sister, that open grave, that’ll finish you, if I squawk.”
* * * *
So they played it that way. Crawford, the chump, squared himself, and he’s got a new job. Linda has her house, and she has clothes now. Lots of them.
Honest John? He’s got memories. Which isn’t bad for a guy that’s red-faced, kind of bald, overweight, and not too smart-looking.
THE CASE OF THE HIDDEN BRIDE
Originally published in Private Detective Stories, June 1942.
Honest John Carmody looked as if he couldn’t tell Benedictine from sheep dip when he cocked a big hoof on the brass rail of the Sequoia Club and sized up the bottles. He had a round red face that did not look any too bright, and while blue serge is somewhat slenderizing, he still seemed almost as broad as the bar was long, though he was beefy, rather than fat. He pointed a stumpy finger at a bottle labeled Imperial Amontillado, and asked the proprietor, “Listen, is that Amontadillo any good? I once read something a fellow named Poe wrote about a cask of it.”
Ion Katras didn’t even smile at the muffed pronunciation. Certainly he did not suspect that Honest John was an investigator retained by the State Board of Equalization to check up on joints suspected of refilling bottles, selling liquor to minors, or doing business after two A.M. “That,” said Mr. Katras, without a shade of accent, “is sixty-year-old Amontillado, imported from Spain, sir.”
“I usta know a Spanish dame.” Honest John sighed reminiscently. “Gimme a shot.”
Ion Katras set out a glass a little larger than a brandy pony, and filled it with the straw colored wine. When he rang up half a dollar, Honest John squawked, “Hell, I don’t want the bottle, I only wanted a drink.”
The proprietor explained, “It cost $5.50 a fifth, before the war.”
John Carmody sniffed at the glass, tasted, then flung it down the hatch. “Good, but not much kick. Poe was nuts, I guess.”
The bottle had been refilled with three-year-old California sherry, overpriced at forty cents a quart. Only an occasional customer knew the difference, and that one could always get his money back if he howled. But this time the joke was on Mr. Katras, though he would not learn the difference between a chump and a dick until he was caught in the act of refilling the bottle; that would come later.
On his way out, Honest John saw the blonde in the booth, over in the shadowy far corner. His first impression was, “What legs! And the rest is worth taking home.” She wore python shoes, and on the table was a python bag which lay open; she was retouching her make-up, and so she did not catch his eye when he paused to look her over, his glance lingering on the shapely curves that rounded her knit dress, the fine sweep of throat and cheek, the gleaming hair that was topped by a fantastic little hat which seemed to have been made up of breast feathers of a pheasant.
He knew the girl: Annette Gaynor, the contractor’s daughter. Honest John decided not to go to her table. He went out, muttering, “What the hell’s the use, I’m tired of meeting her boyfriends.”
Annette’s old man had plenty of dough. A plug ugly with a bald spot didn’t have a Chinaman’s chance, Honest John had figured the first time he met her, and he’d played it that way. Annette was one of the two-three girls who had made him wish he were young, handsome, and not an ex-cop, so he avoided her.
The Sequoia Club was on a steep hilltop behind San Carlos, half an hour’s drive from San Francisco. Bridge playing dames met there for cocktails; later, the dancing and necking crowd came up. But at this off hour, Ion Katras tended his own bar.
Carmody’s car was the only one parked on the flat space between the club and the steep road. He did not see anything pointed about that until he reached the first turn; then he pulled up, and nosed his bus into the turn-out space.
Where was Annette’s car? How had she gotten up to the isolated club? Far below, the lights of San Carlos twinkled; commuters were bellying up to their roast beef. He wondered if Katras had brought Annette to the club. She was free, blonde, and twenty-one, and it was nobody’s business, but Honest John didn’t like it. So he began to hoof it up the graveled road for a quiet look. Maybe Annette was too trusting.
As he puffed his way up the steep grade, Honest John grumbled, “If that slick — hadn’t sold me chain-store sherry out of an Amontillado bottle, I wouldn’t snoop, but a gent that flim-flams his customers ain’t a gent.”
His hunch was better than his logic. He was not more than halfway across the vacant parking space when he heard Annette cry, “Ion, don’t be silly—keep your hands at home! I don’t care what I said last year, this is—ooooh—” Her scream told him that she was angry, not frightened. But her voice changed by the time he barged into the cocktail lounge. Katras had her in both arms. Her hat was dangling, her hair was mussed, and the front of her dress had lost several buttons.
Annette side-stepped to put a table between herself and Katras, who gasped, “Don’t carry on that way—just listen to me—you can’t dispose of me this way—not after—” He made a dive for her, and Honest John headed for him. It was a nice piece of blocking, and with it came a fist that lifted Katras off his feet. Honest John caught him with one hand, and socked him a second, which ended the show, and gave Annette a chance to hide a number of enticing spots.
Honest John took her arm. “Where’s your car keys, you’re shaking all over.”
“Please get me out of here before he comes to!” She went with him to the door, clinging to his arm, and he could feel the tremor of her body. “I’m waiting for someone, and I won’t wait here.”
“And you can’t be sitting out in the chaparral—” He gestured toward the scrubby growth that matted the hillsides. “I’m parked down that way.”
Before they reached his sedan, he learned that Annette had not noticed him come in, that she had not heard him order wine. When she saw his curious look, she explained, “I was thinking…about things.”
Without any conscious design, he opened the rear door of the car, and as he followed her in, he said, “If he’s making a pest of himself, I can cure him.”
He meant that as an under-cover investigator, he could nail Katras for pawing a customer. Annette twisted about, and clung to him for a moment, and said, “Please don’t, I do appreciate your intentions, but just let it pass, don’t say anything.”
She draped herself over him, he knew, only because she was frightened and worried, and because he was an overgrown ox with an honest mug that made people trust him; but that knowledge did not keep his blood pressure down, not with the pressure Annette unintentionally applied with her shapely curves. He stroked her sleek hair and said, “Don’t worry, honey, I got ways of settling him without embarrassing you a bit.”
“You’ve been awfully nice to me.” Then she looked up, and impulsively kissed him. Though it was trademarked “Gratitude,” Honest John decided to ignore the difference. His arms tightened about her, and he kissed her, whole heartedly, full on the mouth; he blurted out, “Maybe I’m a sap, but this is something I’ve been thinking about ever since I met you, two-three years ago.”
When she finally did protest, faintly, he let her go and said, “Oh, hell! This hasn’t helped a bit.” He struck light to a cigar, and slid well away. “Me, ex-cop.”
“I hope that’s not why you’ve avoided me. It’s—well, I’m engaged to Cyril Bardwell—that’s what I was explaining to Ion Katras.”
“You used to like Katras?”
“But not anymore.” A car was whining up the steep grade. Annette made for the door. “That’s Cyril now, coming to pick me up. He had some business in Hidden Valley, about a subdivision he and dad are building up. I’ll go back, I didn’t want him to know—”
“Huh! He’ll see your dress—”
“He won’t. I left my coat at the club. I’ll get it, you needn’t go with me, Ion has cooled down, he’s just impu
lsive.”
“Can’t wear your coat all evening.”
“I’ll be going home to change, then we’re going to dad’s place in Carmel—” She paused at the running board. “Why don’t you drive out and join us?”
“Uh…”
“Oh, you’ve thought I was snooty, I’m not. I’d love to have you.”
Before he could say more than “Okay,” she was hurrying up the grade.
In a moment, he recognized Cyril Bardwell’s long, cream-colored convertible as it swept around the curve. Against his better judgment, Honest John decided that he’d go to Carmel, to old man Gaynor’s lodge. It was nice just looking at Annette, and her father was a swell fellow.
* * * *
Two hours later, Honest John was thinking of all this as he booted his bus down the Monterey Highway. He was a chump for going; Annette was just trying to be nice. And then he found something else to think about.
A car was helling down the pike, and weaving all over the road. Honest John swung to the shoulder, which luckily was wide and firm. A cream colored convertible howled past, barely avoiding a sideswipe. Honest John choked and stopped cursing when he caught that one glimpse of the open car.
A girl was standing up, struggling with a man who tried to hold her with one arm while he drove with the other. No wonder he was weaving all over the road! Honest John slumped back against the cushions, and broke out in a sweat. “Jeez, I would have to think it was Annette, in Bardwell’s Packard!”
The tail-lights were blotted by the curve.
Then he heard the crash, and groaned, “Whoever it is, they’re cold meat.”
He tooled his bus around the turn. Ahead was a straight-away, the approach to a bridge that crossed a deep arroyo, dry at this season. The angle of the headlights that reached up from the gloom told him that the convertible had landed in a heap. The engine was silent. He slid to a stop, and scrabbled down the grade, loose rocks bouncing ahead of him.
E. Hoffmann Price's Two-Fisted Detectives Page 19
