by Unknown
“Oh, I’m afraid—afraid.” The words were so low Tex had to stoop to catch them.
The girl clasped her hands tightly in her lap and swayed back and forth.
“Afraid of what—of—who?” prompted Tex. Lord, if the girl would only hurry! A cold feeling of playing for time shivered through her. She hugged her bag more closely under her left arm, the fingers of her right hand curling about the broken clasp. Seconds seemed to leap at her—crowding—crowding—
Presently the girl spoke, her words low, halting—as if being dragged through unwilling lips. “Oh, if you could take—Arthur away—away—where it’s safe—safe.” She stared up at Tex, repeating the last word in a sort of frenzied appeal.
Tex suddenly put out her hand and grasped the girl’s left wrist. The bracelets slid away from her fingers, slipping along the girl’s arm as if they were something animate—alive.
For an instant the very intensity of her gaze held the girl irresolute, tractable, willing. “Ah’ll take Arthur where it’s safe—but—first—you must tell me about—these.” She gave the girl’s arm a little shake before letting go and the bracelets rattled together.
“I—can’t. I’m—afraid—” Her voice trailed off into a sobbing whisper.
“For Arthur!” There was a breathless urgency to Tex’s guarded tones as her eyes glanced from the doors to the girl and back again.
“For Arthur!” echoed the girl, a curious little trill creeping into her voice. Her teeth bit into her lower lip and her long, thin fingers twined about the bracelets. She looked down at her restless hands while her words jerked out, automatically, as if some irresistible force were driving her. “I came from a little country town—two years ago. I couldn’t get work—and—Jefe found me—starving. He planted me in—Melville Hewett’s home—as a maid. Then Mr. Hewett made me his ward. I guess he felt sorry for me—and—he was so good to me—I—I—didn’t want to go on—but I was afraid—of—Jefe—”
“Go on with what?” interrupted Tex, every faculty strained for the slightest sound of movement from the stillness of the desert. The shadowy room, like herself, seemed to be holding its breath—waiting—waiting—
The girl sent her a lightning glance of doubt, then went on, a new note calming her voice. A note of fatality—resignation. “Go on with the plans to rob Mr. Hewett—then—I—met—Arthur—” She turned her attention to the man on the cot, seeming to forget everything else. “They have kept him under morphine—to try to make him sign—”
“Sign what?” Tex shifted her position a little, her eyes on the doors.
“The paper—that Jefe had drawn up in his own name—”
“Then Arthur inherited his father’s fortune?” Tex asked the question out of the side of her mouth. Her vigilance was directed toward an almost inaudible sound just beyond the doors.
“Yes.”
“And after he signs they intend to—”
“Yes—yes. Oh, God!” The girl’s voice rose to a high key of hysteria.
“Sh—” Tex wheeled on her suddenly, a cautioning finger to her lips. “Quick! Tell me what you’re hiding!” she whispered, her fingers pressing into the girl’s arm.
For one pulsating instant the girl hesitated, her eyes as she gazed up at Tex veiled, defiant; then her shadowy lids drooped over them and she slid her bracelets up and down with agitated fingers. “It’s—it’s—a paper Mr. Hewett made Jefe give him—”
“Where’s this paper now?”
“Arthur gave it to me—to hide—”
“Where did you hide it?”
The girl stretched her hands toward Tex in a gesture of desperate entreaty. “Oh, you will take Arthur where he’ll get well—and be—safe?”
Tex lapsed back into her soft drawl, successfully cloaking her impatience. “Sure, honey, Ah promised, but you didn’t tell me where you hid the paper.”
“I hid it in—” The girl’s eyes widened in terror as they shot past Tex to the doors.
Tex followed her gaze to the door nearest her. Slowly—quietly it was being pushed inward. Tex stiffened imperceptibly, her bead bag gripped tightly in both hands. Her mouth suddenly went dry and an icy finger seemed to trail along her spine.
Into the dim circle of light slid The Eel, his hands in his pockets, his crafty features set in an oily, unreadable mask.
Pancho followed him, an ugly grin pulling at his thick lips. A sharp-edged stiletto in his hand. “Better keel ’er now, eh, Jefe?” he flung at The Eel in a sort of gloating snarl.
“Naw, not that way, yuh’d get caught bang ter rights an’ take a fall to the big house.” The Eel stared at Tex, his deep, expressionless eyes glittering in the half-light like a snake’s.
“ ’Lo,” ventured Tex, her heart pounding against her side.
Pancho grunted, examining his knife.
The Eel glided toward Tex, a sinister smile stretching his narrow, fish-like mouth. “I got a more artistic way ter bump off them that gets in my way.”
Tex’s hand slid cautiously into her bag. She could shoot her way out if it was necessary but that would mean defeat. She wanted an explanation of the mystery; a confession if possible. And she felt that The Eel’s tremendous ego would be his downfall. He was so cocksure of himself. So confident that he could always squirm from under any police trap set to ensnare him.
Tex forced a laugh through stiff lips. “Say, fellah, who you goin’ to bump off—an’ if so—why—an’—how?”
The Eel stopped a few feet from her and regarded her with a sly smirk. “Thought yuh’d like a bracelet.” He brought his hand out of his pocket, gingerly holding a jade circlet toward her.
A little gasp came from the girl but the two men were too engrossed in watching Tex to heed it.
The Eel came closer, almost touching her arm with the green bangle. She made no move to take it, although an involuntary shudder ran through her body.
“For God’s sake, Jefe, don’t—don’t!” The girl’s voice shivered upward into a thin shriek.
He wheeled toward her, a grin that was baleful in its significance twitching his lips. “Aw, don’t worry none, sister. I got one fer yuh, too.”
The girl shrank further into the shadows, her slim fingers clutching at each other in a frenzy of fear.
Then Tex spoke softly, in a sort of deadly calm, her Texan drawl more noticeable than ever, her greenish gold eyes flashing in the wavering half-light as she held The Eel with her steady stare. “Ah—don’t—want—your bracelet. Ah—never—did—like ’em. But—Ah’m kinda curious—What’s in ’em?” This last was a random shot but it had the desired effect. She heard the girl’s sharp intake of breath; noted the slight movement of startled surprise from Pancho. Her eyes, however, never left The Eel.
No change of expression came over his evil mask of a face. Only a trifle more expansion of his narrow chest. “I don’t mind tellin’ yuh because yuh ain’t goin’ ter live long enough ter spill it, see?” He paused dramatically to let this sink in.
Tex merely nodded and presently The Eel went on, wallowing in his own conceit. Tex smiled inwardly.
“I invented it, see? The hollow bracelets. First fer smugglin’ in dope, then out of my own head popped another idea. Poison, from my friend the rattler. A Chink learned me how ter take it out of the snake.” He stopped talking and grinned maliciously, fingering the jade bracelet.
Tex guessed that the “Chink” was himself. She stared at the bracelet, then at him, simulating awe, horror, admiration. “Lordy,” she whispered, “It sure takes a heap of brains to figure that out!”
He seemed to expand more than ever.
Tex waited, her hand grasping the pistol inside her bag.
The Eel was so absorbed in his own achievement that he didn’t notice, and Pancho’s mind was diverted, watching The Eel in fascinated horror, his stiletto in his belt.
There was no movement from the girl and Tex wondered what she was doing. She didn’t dare look, take her vigilant attention from Jefe. The green b
angle made her feel creepy, as if a snake were actually crawling over her body. She moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue and forced herself a step nearer The Eel.
Instantly Pancho lunged toward her, his hand flashing to his dagger.
“Aw, lay off, will yuh,” Jefe snapped irritably. “Put up yuh jack-knife.” He again addressed himself to Tex. “Now I’ll show yuh how I put Hewett an’ yuh little dick friend out of the way.” He turned the bracelet around carefully and pointed to two sharpened gold points on the inside. “Them,” he explained, “represents the fangs, an’ when pushed onter the arm it releases this little spring, stabbin’ the flesh at the same time and the poison pours inter the holes, see?” A maniacal laugh fell from his twisting lips.
Tex shivered.
“An’ yuh don’t like bracelets?” He turned to the girl with a sinister grin. “But Mame here does. Don’t yuh, Mame?”
The girl gave a cry of terror.
Pancho laughed and at a signal from The Eel sprang in front of Tex, grasping the girl around the waist, pinioning her wildly fighting arms to her sides and propelling her toward the advancing Jefe.
“I’ll show yuh how it works,” bragged The Eel, looking at Tex over his shoulder. “Then yuh’ll know in advance just how yuh’ll act, see?” He gripped the girl’s wrist.
She wriggled and jerked in a panic of fear. “Don’t! Don’t!” She turned tragic, horror-stricken eyes to Tex. “For God’s sake, stop him!”
Tex stood motionless, her heart thumping against her chest, her eyes riveted on the green bracelet.
The Eel paused and thrust his evil face close to the girl’s. “Hand over that paper an’ I’ll let yuh off.”
“What paper?” the girl parried faintly.
“Yuh know what paper! The one Hewett took off of me.”
The girl hesitated, her apprehensive eyes darting about the room. When at last she spoke it seemed to Tex that the words were meant for her. “The—the—one where you admitted killing Hewett’s partner—and threatened to kill Hewett—in the same way—if he refused to give you one hundred thousand dollars? Well—I—I—destroyed it.”
“Yuh lyin’! Come clean or—” The Eel held the bracelet close to her face.
A little moan trembled from her lips and she tried to pull away; then suddenly she lifted her head and looked at The Eel squarely with a pathetic show of bravado. “Yes—I have—the—paper—but—I won’t give it to you!—I promised—Arthur.” The last word was a faint whisper, almost a prayer, and the thought flashed through Tex’s seething mind that this girl, weak, misguided, had somehow gained a noble strength through her love for Arthur Hewett.
With his thin lips stretched over his teeth in a half snarl, The Eel sprang at the girl, grasping her wrist while Pancho laughed and held her waist with his great hairy hands.
“Yuh last chance, yuh fool,” hissed Jefe. “Hand over that paper!”
The girl seemed to wilt, her head drooping forward as if too heavy to hold erect, although her words rang out clearly in the silently waiting room. “No! You—murderer!”
“Hold her arm out, Pancho,” ordered Jefe, and the green bangle touched her slender clenched hand.
“Oh, God! Oh, God!” she murmured hopelessly, despairingly.
Tex eased a little to one side so that Pancho’s broad back was between her and the girl.
“She’s too good ter live,” continued The Eel, and laughed. A sound that reminded Tex of a hyena she had once heard in the zoo—mirthless, blood-chilling.
Then with his laugh another sound mingled—slyly apologetic. A sort of muffled plop.
An expression of wonder spread over Pancho’s crafty features as he loosened his hold on Mame and slumped grotesquely to the brick floor.
“What the hell?” muttered The Eel, staring at the inert body of Pancho; then he raised his eyes to a thin stream of smoke that was drifting from the mouth of a small pistol encased in Tex’s steady fingers. His gaze traveled on upward until it encountered the unflinching gold-green eyes of Tex.
“Ah’d—rather take you—alive,” she murmured with a faint smile.
For a moment he stared at her, expressionless, immovable; then without the slightest warning he sprang straight at her, knocking the pistol to the floor, curling his fingers about her wrist. Holding the jade bracelet lightly, gingerly, between the thumb and fingers of his right hand.
A little quiver of panic shivered through Tex, then her cold, sane reasoning came to her rescue. She held The Eel’s eyes with her own while she eased her left hand toward the green menace and with a swift movement of her strong fingers snatched the bracelet from him. He lunged for it. She met the darting hand with a movement as swift as his own. His slender fingers entered the circlet; the needle-like prongs cut and tore. He gave a cry of rage and terror, clawing frantically at the poisonous manacle, but the more he pulled at it the deeper sank the sharp gold points into his punctured flesh.
His writhing agony was horrible to see. It made Tex a little sick. She stooped to recover her pistol and regarded the girl who sagged against the cot and stared at her with a dazed look in her shadowy eyes.
“In which bracelet did you hide the paper?” asked Tex unexpectedly.
The girl fingered the bangles with fluttering fingers. “This one,” she answered automatically, caressing a beautifully carved circlet of mellowed ivory. “It’s—Arthur’s favorite.”
Tex caught the girl by her shoulders and gently shook her. “Gather yourself,” she admonished, not unkindly, “and go quickly to Tia Juana. Phone to my chief, J. C. Gilbert. Here’s his number. Tell him Tex has sent for him. To come to Pancho’s at once—and to bring a doctor.” She gave the girl a little push toward the door. “Hurry!”
Slowly Mame pulled the heavy door toward her, paused and looked back at Tex with a slight pleading gesture of her slim white hands. “You’ll take care of—Arthur?”
Tex nodded, still the girl lingered.
“When he wakes—you’ll tell him—that—my—my—love for him—was greater—than—than—my—fear?”
A lump rose in Tex’s throat and she had to swallow it before answering. “Ah’ll—tell him,” she said softly.
Mame left reluctantly, slipping quietly out into the darkness, closing Tex in the shrouded room.
The candles burned low, dripping over the edges of their rusty iron holders.
Tex allowed her eyes to wander around the dimly flickering room, to slide quickly over the lifeless body of Pancho, on to the twisted form of The Eel, that even in death seemed to coil, like a snake. She turned with a lightening spirit to Arthur Hewett. He was breathing evenly, calmly.
She dropped wearily into the chair near the cot and slipped her pistol back into the frayed depths of her bead bag. Her fingers touched the cool hardness of a pair of handcuffs. “Bracelets,” she murmured, and a little exultant cry trickled from her throat.
Diamonds Mean Death
Thomas Walsh
THOMAS (FRANCIS MORGAN) WALSH (1908–1984) was born in New York City and received his BA from Columbia University in 1933, the same year in which he sold his first short story, “Double Check,” to Black Mask. He sold several additional stories to Black Mask, one of which was honored by Joseph T. Shaw when he selected “Best Man” (October 1934) for his groundbreaking anthology The Hard-Boiled Omnibus (1946), which he regarded as the best work produced during his tenure as editor of Black Mask. Walsh went on to sell numerous stories to Collier’s, The Saturday Evening Post, and Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, one of which, “Chance after Chance,” won the Edgar Allan Poe Award in 1978. The first of his eleven New York police novels, Nightmare in Manhattan (1950), had previously won the Edgar for Best First Novel. It was filmed in the same year by Paramount as Union Station, starring William Holden, Nancy Olson, and Barry Fitzgerald. The exciting screenplay, for which Sydney Boehm was nominated for an Edgar, remained extremely faithful to the novel, although the locale was changed from New York’s Grand Central
Station to Chicago’s titular crossroads, and the kidnapping victim was a blind teenage girl instead of a young boy. Walsh’s The Night Watch (1952) also served as the partial basis, with Bill S. Ballinger’s Rafferty, for the Columbia film noir Pushover (1954), which starred Fred MacMurray as a good cop gone bad, and Kim Novak in her first major role.
“Diamonds Mean Death,” Walsh’s last Black Mask story, was published in March 1936.
Diamonds Mean Death
Thomas Walsh
There is a trick even to the trade of murder.
N THE YELLOW CONE of light thrown down by the lamp behind her, the girl’s dark face looked lovely and eager, a pale, glowing cameo sharp cut against the shadows at her back.
The two men seated across the table watched her with varying emotions—Major Geoffrey Russell with very clear, slightly amused blue eyes, a smile faint on his lips, a cigarette graceful in his long fingers. Joe Keenan was not smiling; he sat at the end of the table, sharp face watchful, gray eyes shining coldly, with small glints of color, as if the diamonds heaped carelessly on the cloth before the girl were reflected there in pinpoints of ice.
None of the three spoke. There was a slight clicking sound as the girl’s fingers flashed through the stones, selecting one, holding it to the light for an instant, then passing on to the next.
In the corners of the room shadows held steady, cut in sharp patterns by the yellow glow of the lamp. Thick drapes concealed the windows at the far side, and occasionally Joe Keenan’s restless gaze flicked to them. Heavily lifeless, they hung there without motion, and through them only a few night sounds, mournful with distance, pierced in from the woods outside.
Joe Keenan’s eyes had kept steadily attentive on those drapes for the past twenty minutes, even when he had apparently been looking elsewhere. But there had been no movement from them, and no sound, and gradually his right hand had relaxed on his thigh, six inches from the automatic in his topcoat pocket.
Bending forward into the light as he lit another cigarette, Major Russell smiled at him, offered him his case. He was a bulky, muscular man of forty, rather tall, with skin tanned to a deep leathery tinge, and a short, square-cut beard of flaming auburn, through which his teeth showed very white when he smiled. Keenan took a cork-tipped cigarette from the extended case and nodded thanks; he was lighting it when a sharp breath of admiration from the girl drew his eyes.
