The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard Original)

by Unknown

  “I remember you, Raaker. You were in the insurance business in Manila until a few years ago. There was about to be a prosecution, and you left the Islands.”

  The thin-faced one said with hoarseness in his voice:

  “And I have never forgotten you, Señor Gar. You tell me you have come here, not caring about your life—and that the police are outside. Well—I didn’t bring you here to get your six diamonds, Gar—Von Loffler’s diamonds. I brought you here because I hate you. I want to watch your body squirm on the floor, beside that stool.”

  Jo Gar said quietly: “That was how you knew about the Von Loffler diamonds—that Dutch Insurance Company. You stayed out of Manila, Raaker—you couldn’t risk coming back. You hired men. Some of them tricked you—and each other. The robbery was successful, but you lost slowly. All the way back from Manila, Raaker, you lost. You used men and women, and they tried to kill me—too many times. They were killed—there were many deaths. Those were diamonds of death, Raaker—and you only got four of them. The woman in black brought them to you—I think she was the only one who was faithful.”

  Raaker was breathing heavily. He made a sudden movement with his left hand, plunging it into a pocket. When it came out four stones spilled to the surface of the small table. Three of them only rolled a few inches, but one struck against a finger of the Island detective’s left hand. Raaker said fiercely:

  “I hate you, Gar. You drove me from the Islands, with your evidence. I hated Von Loffler, too. He took all his properties away from me, because he learned that I was gambling, because he was afraid of the insurance. So I learned about the stones, where they were. And I planned the robbery. I stayed here—and got reports. I tried to direct. But you were on that boat—”

  He broke off, shrugged. “You are going to die, Gar. So I can talk. The woman came to me with the diamonds. Four of them. And by the time she brought them to me here—she hated me. She had seen too much death. She’s gone away, with her child—and you’ll never find her, Gar. She killed a man on the Cheyo Maru, and that made her hate me all the more. She had to kill him, before he could talk—to you!”

  Jo Gar said steadily: “I don’t think—I want to find her, Raaker. I know now who planned the crime, who caused the deaths. And you are caught, Raaker—”

  There was the sound of brakes beyond the room, the low beat of an idling engine. Two sharp blasts from a horn came into the room. Raaker jerked his head sharply, then turned his eyes towards Jo Gar again. The Island detective made no movement. He smiled with his lips pressed together. Raaker said:

  “What’s—that?”

  His voice was hoarse. Jo Gar parted his lips. He said:

  “A signal from the police—that the house is properly covered.”

  Raaker sucked in a deep breath. “I’ll get more than one of them—as they come in!” he muttered.

  Jo Gar shook his head. “I do not think you will, Raaker. They will not come in. It is easier to wait for you—to go out.”

  Raaker smiled twistedly, but there was fear in his eyes.

  “They’ll come in, all right,” he breathed. “I’ll get you first—when they come. You won’t see them come in, Gar.”

  Jo Gar smiled. “They will not come in,” he said softly. “If I do not go out, within the next ten minutes, they will unload the sub-machine-guns and the smoke bombs. They will know I am dead—and that there is a killer in the house. The smoke bombs—and the tear gas bombs—they will come in.”

  Raaker said hoarsely. “——! How I hate you, you little half-breed—”

  He jerked the gun slightly. The Island detective looked him in the eyes, still smiling.

  “That is true,” he said. “You do hate me—and there is the blood of the Spanish and the Filipino in my veins. But I am not a criminal—a thief and a killer.”

  Raaker turned his head slightly and listened to the steady beat of the cab engine. Then his eyes came back to the small figure of Gar, went to the four glittering diamonds on the table. He said thickly:

  “With the others—over two hundred thousand dollars—I would have been fixed—”

  His voice broke. Jo Gar said quietly: “Yes, you could have had things easy, Raaker. If I had not taken the same boat that your accomplices took—if things had turned out differently in Honolulu—”

  Raaker stared at him, his little eyes growing larger. He said slowly:

  “Where are—the other six stones?”

  Jo Gar smiled. “In the vaults of the customs office,” he replied. “You did not think I would bring them here?”

  Raaker’s body swayed a little. The wind made noise in the trees beyond the house, and he stiffened. Jo Gar said in a voice that was hardly more than a whisper:

  “If you had had even the courage of a certain type of criminal—and had gone to the Islands yourself, you might have had the diamonds now. If you had not used others—”

  Raaker said fiercely: “Damn the diamonds—I’ve got you! They brought you here—”

  Jo Gar half closed his almond-shaped eyes. “And they’ve brought the San Francisco police here,” he said steadily. “They’ve brought tear gas and sub-machine-guns—and they’re bringing death here, Raaker.”

  Raaker’s eyes held rage again. He was losing control of himself. He made a swift motion with his left hand, shaking fingers pointing towards the four stones on the table.

  “Look at them—damn you!” he gritted. “Look at the four you couldn’t—reach! Look at them—”

  Jo Gar looked into the eyes of Raaker. He shook his head.

  “I’ve seen the others,” he stated quietly. “I’ve seen many diamonds, Raaker.”

  Raaker laughed wildly. He backed towards a wall of the room.

  “You’ll never see diamonds again,” he said in a fierce tone. “Never, Gar!”

  He raised his gun arm slowly. From the cab outside there came the sharp sound of a horn, silence—and then another blast.

  Jo Gar never took his eyes from the eyes of Raaker. He was smiling grimly.

  He said very slowly: “Machine-gun bullets, Raaker. And choking, blinding gas. They’ll be waiting for you—after you get through squeezing that trigger.”

  Raaker cried out in a shrill tone: “Damn you—Gar—that won’t help you any—”

  There was a sudden engine hum as the cab driver accelerated the motor. Yellow light flashed beyond the house, along the road. O’Halohan was going for the police, starting his cab. For a second Raaker twisted his head towards the sound and the light. He was thinking of machine-guns—and tear gas—

  Jo Gar was on his feet in a flash. The table went forward, over. The Island detective leaped to the right as Raaker cried out hoarsely, and the first bullet from his gun crashed into the table wood.

  The second bullet from the gun ripped the cloth of Gar’s coat, and his right hand was coming up, with the Colt in it, when the cloth ripped. He squeezed the trigger sharply but steadily. There was the third gun crash and Raaker screamed, took a step forward. His gun hand dropped; he went to his knees, stared at Gar for a second, swaying—then fell heavily to the floor.

  Jo Gar went slowly to his side. He was dead—the bullet had caught him just above the heart. One diamond lay very close to his curved fingers; it was as though he were grasping for it, in death.

  The other three Jo found after a five-minute search. Then he went from the room into the hall, and out of the house. The cab was out of sight; in the distance there was still colored light in the sky. The shooting gallery noise came at intervals. Jo Gar found a package in his pocket, lighted one of his brown-paper cigarettes.

  He said very softly, to himself: “I have all—of the diamonds. Now I can go home, after the police come. I hope my friend Juan Arragon—knows.”

  He stood very motionless on the top step that led to the small porch, and waited for the police to come. And he thought, as he waited, of the Philippines—of Manila—and of his tiny office off the Escolta. It was good to forget other things, and to thi
nk of his returning.

  The Ring on the Hand of Death

  William Rollins Jr.

  WILLIAM ROLLINS JR. (1897–1950) was born in Boston, Massachusetts, and served with the French Army during World War I (other references state that his experience was with the American Ambulance Service), after which he joined other expatriates in Paris, then settled in New York City to become a full-time freelance writer, mainly for magazines, both pulp and slick. His homosexuality was openly discussed by his friends, and Rollins wrote about the subject with sensitivity, though he never acknowledged his sexual orientation. A devoted Marxist, he believed communism was the only hope for democracy in America, though he never joined the party. He was a frequent contributor to New Masses, the Communist-supported journal, and his work, notably the proletarian novel The Shadow Before (1934), was much admired in left-wing circles, being praised by Lillian Hellman (“the finest and most stimulating book of this generation”) and John Dos Passos, among others.

  Rollins had begun his career as a mystery writer, frequently selling stories to Black Mask and other pulp magazines, as well as producing such novels as Midnight Treasure (1929), The Wall of Men (1938), and, after World War II, The Ring and the Lamp (1947); he wrote a single mystery, Murder at Cypress Hall (1933), under the pseudonym O’Connor Stacy.

  “The Ring on the Hand of Death,” one of twenty-one stories that Rollins wrote for Black Mask, was published in the April 1924 issue.

  The Ring on the Hand of Death

  William Rollins Jr.

  A murder mystery which gathers speed as it goes along; with occasional scenes in Mr. Rollins’ creepiest style.

  I’M NOT MUCH. HORACE SPARTON always said so, and he ought to know; he was one of the two richest men in town. Old Man Carr was the other one. He used to say I would come to a no-good end, and he ought to know; he had a no-good beginning. But everybody forgot that, when he started raking in the iron-men. And then Old Wallace the Walrus says I’m the worst kid she ever had in high school, but that she couldn’t expect much more, considering where I came from. But I’ve been making my own living somehow or other, ever since Mother died two years ago. And I’ve been able to work in enough time to go to school, too. So I should worry!

  Of course, I did worry whenever I met Irene Burnet. She didn’t want to be seen with a bum like me.… Although she always said, “Hello, Jack,” and smiled. And once when I was holding up a telegraph pole just as she was passing by, and I was staring at her without noticing I was doing it (she’s that kind, awfully easy to look at), she dropped her eyes and started blushing. And then she smiled, just as if she didn’t mind it at all!

  And then one time, after I had finished fixing up Old Man Carr’s front lawn to make it ready for the spring, and then wandered down the street and pulled myself up on the fence next to Burnet’s place (it’s a comfortable seat; that’s why I like it so much), I heard some people coming up the side street. And I heard her voice.

  “He’s a nice boy!” I heard her say, as if somebody else had just said he wasn’t. “He’s not only good-looking—I don’t care so much about that—but he’s honest and he works hard, and some day he’s going to make a big man of himself!”

  I was trying to think how I could get away before they saw me and wondering who this great person was that she was talking about, when they came around the corner—Irene and two other girls and three fellows. When she saw me, Irene suddenly stopped talking and blushed all over, and the girls started giggling, and the fellows burst out laughing, as if they’d all suddenly thought of a big joke, all at once. For a minute I couldn’t help thinking— But I’m not going to tell you; you’ll think I’m conceited.

  And besides, that isn’t why I started telling this incident. I just can’t help thinking about myself, particularly if I’m thinking about Irene. That last sentence sounds funny, but I can’t make it any clearer without getting all mixed up.

  Well, just then Mr. Sparton (Horace Sparton, the district attorney) came walking down the path from the Burnets’ little house. When he saw Irene and the others, he stopped short. Then he took off his hat.

  “Good evening, Miss Burnet,” he said. “I just called around to see your brother.”

  “But—why, I thought you knew he went up to Denver for a few days!”

  “I did. But I hoped he would be back today. However, I’ll call again in a day or two.”

  And he took off his hat again with a smile and walked on.

  And then you ought to have seen that smile disappear when he saw me! He came up and stood right in front of me, his big jaw sticking out.

  “Get down off of that fence!” he said.

  Well, I got down, taking my time about it.

  “Now! If I ever catch you spoiling the scenery of our beautiful town again, lazing around like that, you’ll get no more work around my house! Do you understand?”

  I thought a moment, and then said I did.

  “The only reason I have you is to keep you out of the poorhouse,” he muttered.

  I knew better. I knew the only reason he had me was because I charged ten cents less than a full-grown man; but I wasn’t going to lower myself arguing with him; and I let him go on, and then climbed back on the fence again. I had something I wanted to wonder about, and I can’t think and walk at the same time; I always land up against a lamppost, or in front of a swearing autoist, and forget what I was wondering about.

  I wanted to wonder why Horace Sparton had next to the prettiest and sweetest girl in town for a daughter. And then I wondered whether Miriam (that’s she—or her) was going to marry Irene’s older brother, Alfred. I would be tickled stiff if she did, for Al was about the nicest chap I knew, and that’s what most of the girls around thought, too. But I knew Sparton was dead set against it, although he didn’t say much; and the particular thing I wanted to wonder about was why he had been so sweet to Irene, when usually he wouldn’t speak to her if he met her on the street.

  You see, Al and Irene lived alone, and they were as poor as Croesus (or was it Diogenes? I get them twisted. One was an awful liar, I know). When Al came back from the war, he got admitted to the bar and has been waiting for trade ever since. That’s what he was in Denver for: to get a job as a lawyer, or a judge, or something like that.

  You see (that’s the second time I’ve used that phrase. Wouldn’t the Walrus be sore! But editors don’t know so much as school teachers; if they did they’d get that job, you bet! Nothing to do but ask kids a lot of questions when they’ve got the book right before them! So that’s all right). You see, Old Man Carr was Al’s and Irene’s father, but he was only their stepfather, which isn’t so much.

  Old Man Carr had a Past. (That’s what everybody always says in New Paris when they’re telling visitors about our prominent citizens and showing them the Opera and Slaughter and Court Houses and the cemetery and where the Soldiers’ Monument is going to be.) He was put in jail for swindling, and his wife died for shame while he was there. They said she had a kid just before she died, but nobody knew what had happened to it. Then Carr went away, and when he came back next year, he had a new wife and two kids (the kids weren’t his, of course. They were hers—Alfred and Irene Burnet). Then, just after Al came home from the war, his mother died and Old Man Carr kicked the kids out of the house; not because he was sore at them, but just because he wanted to save money. (He’d made a lot during the war.) Everybody said he’d leave them all his money when he died, but meanwhile it was pretty rough sledding; they hardly knew where their next meal was coming from. It came only when Al got some odd work to do, writing funny law things for dry papers.

  Well, it was getting pretty dark, so I stopped wondering and got off the fence and went home. I live in a little shack at the edge of the town and do my own cooking, which is usually potatoes and eggs that aren’t Strictly (excepting sometimes on dark nights), and things like that.

  In the summer, I usually go to the woods, and sometimes at the end of the week in the winter and s
pring I go to a little cabin that—but you’ll find out later. I can’t stand big cities and New Paris is big and growing faster every day. She grew from 2,800 to 2,900 between 1910 and 1920, and when the local census was taken in 1922, she had jumped to over 8,000, and I can’t stand that. If I get to wondering too hard on the main street it usually ends in a fight.

  Well, I went home and rolled up my sleeves and put on my apron and set my potatoes on to boil, and that was the last I thought about the Burnets—I mean Alfred—for over a week.

  The next time I saw him was late one night—or early in the morning, I don’t know which. It was a warm night in early spring, and I had taken my potatoes up to the woods and boiled them there for a change. The sky was clear and starlit, and I was walking down the avenue, where all the big bugs live.

  I was passing Old Man Carr’s place, when I saw somebody stealing around the house. When he got to the path he started running.

  I was near the bushes and I stood still. He came on, turning to look over his shoulder. Just as he got to the sidewalk, he turned suddenly to the right and bumped into me. I couldn’t help squeaking; for it was Alfred!

  You could have knocked me over with a steam-roller!

  “Hey, Al!” I said. “What’s the rush all about?”

  He stood staring at me a minute. Something was wrong with his face. I think it was pale, but of course you can’t tell when it’s dark, even with stars. Finally he smiled, a little, quivering smile.

  “Hello, Jackie boy!”

  He always called me that. When I was a little kid he used to give me marbles and say:

  “Here, Jackie boy! If you swallow them, I’ll give you some more!”

  But now he looked away and when he spoke he almost stuttered.

  “You—you scared me!” he said with a little laugh. “What are you hiding in the bushes for?”