The Mystery & Suspense Novella

by Fletcher Flora

  “Not as badly as I do, perhaps,” said Burke. “I’ll be glad to pay the rent on it, and to offer you a bonus of five thousand francs.”

  She surveyed him suspiciously.

  “No! It’s for no good, I’ll be bound. An American, by your accent; well, I don’t intend to give up my comfort for American dollars.”

  “Ten thousand francs, madame.”

  Her brows lifted. “That is all. Good day to you.”

  “Twenty thousand francs, madame! I tell you it’s a matter of—”

  “And suppose I asked fifty thousand francs?” she demanded.

  “Fifty thousand? Very well. I’ll pay it—”

  “You are certainly a madman,” said the lady. “Will you kindly cease to annoy me, or must I have you put out?”

  Livid with anger, Burke bowed and withdrew in silence. In this austere, frigid woman was utter finality—an absolute refusal to listen or comprehend.

  He was appalled by what he had learned, a few hours too late. No time now to telephone for a car from Casablanca. He had no way of reaching El Hanech, who was lying out on some sun-scorched hillside. Desperate, he returned to the desk.

  “Dufresne, I must have a car by five this evening. I’ll pay twenty thousand francs if you can hire one for me.”

  Dufresne turned pale. “Twenty thousand! For that I would sell you the Fiat! But no, m’sieu. To rent a car at any price is impossible today. I have just had a telephone call from the Rabat hotel. A rich tourist there has offered any price for a car. It cannot be found. Automobiles, alas, do not grow on trees in Morocco! By tomorrow, it will be different.”

  “By tomorrow,” muttered Burke, as he left the hotel, “the man who depends upon me will be lost.”

  Behind him, as the doors closed, a trim figure crossed the lobby, spoke briefly with the manager. The latter then accompanied him to the writing room and introduced him to Madame Stillwater. At her invitation, Captain Crepin sat down and spoke fluently.

  “My dear sir,” said the lady firmly, “I have whole-hearted respect for government. I knew from the very start that this man was a scoundrel!”

  “You were right,” assented Captain Crepin, fingering the card Burke had left. “He supplies ammunition and guns to dissident chiefs. He lends help to escaping prisoners. He laughs at the government, defies the Sultan himself.”

  “And you do not punish him?” exclaimed the indignant lady.

  “First he must be caught. And this time, madame, I expect to catch him—with your help. Will you give it?”

  “I shall, most certainly!” and flinty eyes were bent upon the intelligence officer.

  Captain Crepin leaned forward and spoke rapidly.

  * * * *

  Denis Burke, meantime, was walking along the dusty road toward the French city. He needed to walk, needed to think. A car capable of taking El Hanech and his family at top speed to the frontier—well, it did not grow on Moroccan palms, as Dufresne had said. A taxicab would be useless; one might get El Hanech as far as Casablanca, but there was too much risk. The Berbers must reach the frontier before daybreak, to be safe.

  Sidi Idris? He would not help willingly. Arab and Berber regard each other with the virulent hatred of a thousand years. He would probably betray the Serpent. Burke could trust Sidi Idris with his life, but not with the life of a Berber chief.

  “El Hanech has put his life in my hand, and I can’t fail him,” thought Burke desperately. “I’ll get a car somewhere if I have to steal it—”

  Ahead of him opened out the French city, with its bustle and thronging crowd filling the Square of the 7th September. Then Burke paused. He heard his name called, and turned.

  “Sidi! Sidi Burke!” It was one of the guides from the hotel, stripped of his gay outer garments, running hard to overtake him. “A message! Ya Lalla!”

  “Eh?” exclaimed Burke. “What lady?”

  “She who is like a camel, sidi. She sent me for you, asks that you return.”

  Twenty minutes later, Burke once more bowed to Madame Stillwater.

  “Mr. Burke, if that is your name,” she said stiffly, “I have reconsidered. My first impression was that you were a very impudent young man, and I resented it. Perhaps I was wrong; not that I am often mistaken in my judgments, however. If you desire the car for three days, it is yours. I will accept no payment whatever.”

  Denis Burke could not believe his ears. With a sudden access of joy, he extended his hand to the lady, his eyes shining with delight.

  “Madame, you are an angel!” he exclaimed warmly. “Upon my word, an angel! I thank you with all my heart.”

  “Never mind all that, if you please. The car is at your service now. I have spoken to the manager. Good day to you.” Burke withdrew, and scarce knew what was going on around him until he deposited the Fiat before the door of his own pension. Then he dared believe that it was true.

  “The rest is simple,” he reflected happily. “Gas and oil. Provisions and water. I’ll have them packed in boxes for the sake of neatness and to save room. This car can go like the devil, and El Hanech can drive like another devil. Good! Tomorrow night he’ll have the car back here. Couldn’t be better!”

  Burke had entirely forgotten that, on the previous day, he had refused to earn thirty thousand francs by delivering four small boxes to the bandit, El Mekhnezi.

  CHAPTER III

  At seven-thirty that evening, Denis Burke was switching on the lights of the Fiat, when a voice came to him in the darkness.

  “Sidi! I am from Si ‘Dris.”

  He was aware of a dark figure beside the car. A messenger, then.

  “Yes?” he said. “What does Sidi Idris want?”

  “A warning, sidi,” came the response. “You have been followed, watched. Even now two misbegotten Arabs of the intelligence service are standing at the corner.”

  “Let them stand!” and Burke laughed a little.

  “More, sidi. Captain Crepin has given orders, assembling his men at seven-thirty.”

  Burke started. “Where? Quickly, in the name of Allah!”

  “At the camp, sidi—”

  Like a flash, Burke started the car, threw in the gears, and went roaring away without lights. A faint yell drifted after him from the corner. He was around another corner on two wheels, shifted into second, switched on his lights, and swung into the Avenue du Gueliz with the speed of a madman.

  This wide boulevard went straight past the railroad station to the great camp. But Burke was not headed for the camp.

  Crepin gathering his men at seven-thirty—it was seven-thirty now! Then it was a matter of minutes, as Burke realized instantly. Ahead of him was a triangle. At the railroad tracks, the Casablanca highway turned sharply right. Straight ahead was the camp under the Gueliz forts. To block the highway, Crepin must come from the camp; while Burke had only to swing into it here ahead—

  He sent the Fiat roaring along the street. Those watchers must telephone to Crepin, who would then make a dash to cut off evasion at the railroad bridge, just this side the rendezvous. It was a gamble, a good gamble!

  “Faith, I can make it—I must make it!” thought Burke, leaning over the wheel. There was the railroad ahead. His horn blared at a party of soldiers; they scattered with wild curses. The car swung, the brakes ground, the tires screamed. The Casablanca highway!

  Crepin knew everything, then. The warning had been honest. Somewhere, somewhere, there had been a leak. No matter! Burke opened the throttle wide.

  Up there at the fork of the roads was the hillman who trusted him, who depended absolutely upon him, with terrible simplicity. To El Hanech, this car meant life; safety for himself and his family. Without it, he was doomed.

  And Crepin knew everything! The words rang in Burke’s brain like a knell. Here was a rendezvous he must not fail!

  What it mean
t to him, he knew well enough. He had intended to turn over the car and walk back to town; a few miles meant nothing. Now there would be no escape, no evasion. El Hanech would get away in the Fiat. Denis Burke must remain afoot, delay the pursuers, hold them ignorant of which road El Hanech had taken, there at the fork.

  There was no way out, no choice.

  Burke crouched over the wheel as the car roared madly on, and cursed under his breath. He had given his word, and this was something Denis Burke had never broken. Prison—deportation—no matter! Another man had trusted him, and must not trust in vain.

  The buildings, the outspread palm groves, were behind him now. An open stretch ahead, then the hills, the railroad bridge, the road-fork. The mileage needle quivered and mounted, but Burke never looked at it. Somewhere ahead, the road from the camp came into the highway. Crepin was beaten! Not a car in sight!

  Burke felt the heart upleap in him, felt the wild surge of exultation that comes from victory. A laugh on his lips, he drove at the curving road ahead, found the low hills closing in. His insane speed slackened. No car could take these curves at such wild pace—A sudden fierce oath burst from him. Around a curve now; and dead ahead showed two cars, their headlights trained on the road, figures of men strung out. The two were placed with converging headlights—barely space for a car to pass between them. A soldier stood there, waving a flag, halting him.

  Burke did not halt. He knew instantly that somehow he had been outguessed. Crepin might have sent that messenger, in fact; the whole thing was a trap. A trap! The blood thrummed at his temples. The soldier was waving frantically now. There was Crepin, in the full headlight glare, waving a pistol. Other men with rifles.

  “To hell with you!” roared Burke, and opened the throttle wide again.

  Wild, shrill yells from either hand. The man with the flag leaped frantically for safety as the Fiat thundered at him. Burke crouched low, saw one of the two cars shoved forward. The fools! Trying to wreck him! A red spat of rifles.

  Then a crash, a shuddering shock. The Fiat seemed to stagger, and next instant was roaring on again full speed. A bullet came through the rear window, smashed the windshield before Burke’s eyes. He was through them, through! Ahead, his lights picked up the railroad bridge. Through them!

  Then the Fiat plunged wildly.

  Burke wrenched at the wheel with savage strength. Another plunge. A horrible lurch sideways, as the brakes screamed. Halfway down the descent, the Fiat swung across the road and came to a stop, with a the shot out.

  And ahead, not half a mile distant, El Hanech waited.

  A great sob broke from Denis Burke—half oath, half groan. Suddenly weak, he lowered his head on his hands, as they clutched the wheel. They were coming behind him, one car loaded down with men. No escape now, no evasion. He was taken. He had failed.

  “Good evening, M. Burke,” said Captain Crepin stiffly. “Will you descend, if you please?”

  Burke obeyed.

  “Devil and all!” exclaimed Burke, with the shadow of his old gay smile. “I gave you a run for it, anyhow!”

  Crepin, standing beside him, shrugged lightly.

  “You will have a long repose,” he made dry response. “Out with those boxes, men! Smash into them.”

  “Why waste time?” said Burke. “You have me, you know.”

  Crepin smiled thinly beneath his clipped mustache.

  “I have you, yes. But, my friend, I must have the evidence also.”

  For one wild instant, Burke stared. Had Crepin stooped so low? Was there some planted evidence in his car? Impossible! There was a crash of wood, another. Then startled faces were turned to the two who stood there, and sudden silence fell. A sergeant, prying into one of the smashed boxes, straightened up and saluted.

  “My captain! There is some mistake.” Crepin craned forward, and Burke caught a suppressed oath from him. What the devil did it mean? Suddenly the intelligence officer turned on him fiercely.

  “Eh? You, M. Burke—this is incredible! Here. Come with me.”

  Burke obeyed. Crepin halted him at the roadside, spoke in a low voice.

  “Come! You have just one chance. Tell me where they are hidden, or I’ll tear the cursed automobile apart!”

  “What the devil are you talking about?” demanded Burke.

  “The arms and ammunition for El Mekhnezi. I know all about it. Quickly!”

  Burke knew that a laugh would ruin him—and suppressed it.

  “Crepin—give me your word! Is that why you were after me?”

  “You know it damned well,” snapped the other. Burke fumbled in his pocket, produced cigarettes, struck a match.

  “I was offered thirty thousand francs to run that stuff to El Mekhnezi,” he said coolly. “That blackguard is a criminal, a murderer, and I’d be the same if I put arms in his hands. I refused.”

  Crepin started, stood looking hard at him.

  “M. Burke,” he said in a low voice, “there are some things it is hard to credit.”

  “I’ve never broken my word,” said Burke gravely. “And I gave my word to El Hanech that tonight I’d bring him a car, with provisions. He wants to get out of the country, over the frontier.”

  “El Hanech!” exclaimed Crepin sharply. “El Hanech! That poor devil!”

  “Exactly. I supposed you wanted to shoot him down—”

  “Damnation take you!” cried Crepin angrily. “Am I an assassin of hunted men?”

  “You’re not far from it. Am I scoundrel enough to give El Mekhnezi guns?”

  “Well, you’re the next thing to it,” snapped Crepin.

  Burke broke into a laugh. He could afford it, now.

  “Well, you know everything, or nearly everything! But you’ll not find out from me where El Hanech is hiding, so save your breath.”

  Crepin turned to him with a savage oath.

  “You’ve refused to obey orders to halt,” he said. “You’ve damaged government property—you wrecked my car back there! You’ll have all sorts of charges against you. Do you realize it?”

  “Perfectly. Make the most of it.”

  “I intend to do so. The court will fine you at least five hundred francs,” said Crepin. “Will you give me your word to appear in court tomorrow and answer the charges I shall lay against you?”

  “Eh?” said Burke. “Why, of course! But—”

  “As soon as my men have replaced that tire of yours, go on with your car,” said Crepin harshly. “And tell El Hanech I hope to thunder he gets away safe. Good night.”

  DEATH BY TELEPHONE, by James W. Marvin

  Originally published in Spicy Detective Stories, Sept. 1934.

  CHAPTER I

  Red headlights bored macabre holes through the rain-drenched night as the official coupe of District Attorney Halloran roared forward. In the twin crimson glares the slanting raindrops seemed like sinister globules of blood. The car’s siren shrieked its tortured wail above the storm. District Attorney Halloran crouched over the wheel, his lean face a tense mask.

  By his side sat Detective Sergeant Ben Wade, grim-lipped and taut. The detective spoke a question over the roar of the motor. “When did Judge Jeffries get this threatening phone call?”

  District Attorney Halloran answered in clipped sentences. “Fifteen minutes ago. He notified me at once. Judge Jeffries is the one who sentenced Joe Durkin to hang. Yesterday Durkin escaped from the train that was taking him to Folsom’s condemned row—got away clean. And now Durkin has phoned Judge Jeffries to tell him that he intends to kill him at ten o’clock tonight. And it’s past nine now!”

  Halloran stepped down savagely on the gas.

  Wade said, “What’s been done?”

  “I’ve had the Jeffries home surrounded by plainclothes men,” the district attorney answered. “You’re to be on the inside. You’ll stick with the judge every mi
nute. Don’t let him get out of your sight!”

  Wade nodded. His heavy jaw moved forward pugnaciously.

  Abruptly Halloran said, “Here we are!” and slewed the heavy coupe into the driveway of an old-fashioned two-story residence. The car’s weighted rear end cracked down against the springs as the back wheels took the bump. The machine came to a skidding stop on the wet gravel in front of the garage behind the house.

  Halloran and Wade leaped out. At the front door of Judge Jeffries’ home, the district attorney punched the bell. A woman, white-faced and fearful, admitted them. Halloran said, “Mrs. Jeffries, this is Detective Sergeant Wade. He’ll be your husband’s bodyguard tonight.”

  Wade studied the woman. She was not over thirty. Her hair was the color of dull gold, and her red mouth was warm and potentially passionate. Her tight-fitting dress revealed the swelling curves of her svelte hips and full erect breasts. She moved with an easy, lithe grace, like a tamed tigress.

  She favored the detective with a slow, searching smile. “You look capable and—and dependable, sergeant.” Her voice was a rich, husky contralto. She gave the detective her slim hand.

  To Ben Wade there was something electrifying in the touch of her cool fingers in his broad palm. Wade suddenly understood why Judge Jeffries, sixty and a widower, had come to marry this voluptuous creature less than a year before. She aroused primitive desires in a man!

  They followed her inside the house into a small study lined with bookshelves. Judge Jeffries, an elderly man with leonine white hair, rose from an easy chair. He smiled at the district attorney. “You didn’t waste much time getting here, Hal,” he said quizzically.

  Halloran grunted. “This is Sergeant Wade, Judge. He’s to stay with you until we think all danger is over. The house is surrounded by detectives. Did you dismiss the servants as I suggested?”

  Jeffries nodded his white head.

  The district attorney turned to Ben Wade. “Sergeant, you’d better make a search of the house. Be sure nobody’s hiding anywhere.”

  Wade nodded and left. Ten minutes later he returned. “No sign of anyone,” he reported succinctly. Then he smiled and added, “I’m afraid I messed up that little patch of new cement in one corner of the cellar. I stepped into it before I realized it was still soft.”