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

by Unknown

  “Forsythe is a milkhead,” said the Blond Bomber. “I’m not trying to hide anything. I just don’t want him to go around making up stuff about people.”

  “What people?”

  “I mean generally. Anybody.”

  “She means nothing of the sort,” stated Forsythe Worden. “She probably doesn’t want me to tell you about Eddy Bly.”

  “Forsythe!” Juno’s voice was sharp and threatening.

  Eddy Bly joined the group. “What’s going on here?” His face was flushed and he was drunker than before.

  Juno indicated her husband and said: “He’s making nasty cracks about you and me.”

  The fighter laughed. “Well, they’re true, aren’t they?”

  He put his arms around her waist and started to kiss her. After a moment of struggle, she gave in and her arms coiled around his neck. It was a full half minute before they parted and she said: “Maybe they are true.”

  Forsythe Worden leaped to his feet, trembling. “Do you have to do it in front of everybody?”

  Eddy Bly chuckled. “Keep your pants on, half-pint.”

  With a blind, unreasoning bravery, the little man rushed at the fighter. Eddy Bly barely moved as his right shot out and connected with Worden’s jaw. Bly had not bothered to put any power behind the blow but it was enough to drop Forsythe Worden in an unconscious heap. Eddy Bly sighed. He went to the sideboard, got the pitcher of grape punch and poured it over Worden’s face. The harassed Filipino houseboy took the pitcher and refilled it. Others in the room had barely given the scene a second glance. They were used to it.

  Toby said to Cellini: “I’m tired of watching other people’s scandals, you wonderful man. Let’s make our own.”

  Cellini led her back to the first room, where Duck-Eye caressed his bottle in an easy chair. He picked up Toby and set her in Duck-Eye’s lap. She sighed contentedly, curled up and immediately went to sleep.

  Duck-Eye said: “Thanks a lot, Cellini. When should I return her?”

  “Don’t bother to. And don’t get too drunk.”

  ellini found Eddy Bly on the back veranda and said: “Did you have to beat up that little guy that way?”

  “No, I didn’t,” replied the fighter, “but I can’t be blamed if I forget myself every once in a while. I’ve just lost a sister and a friend of mine is murdered and then that little mutt that Juno married starts yapping at my heels. I tell you it’s too much, Smith.”

  “Maybe it’s too much for him, too,” said Cellini coldly. “Juno is his wife—not yours.”

  “That’s just it. I wish she was mine.”

  “Won’t he give her a divorce?”

  “I never bothered to find out because it wouldn’t make any difference. The trouble is Juno don’t want a divorce. I think she likes the idea of being married to him because that way she has more freedom. I like her but I got to admit she’s just a tramp.” He stared gloomily at nothing.

  There was a pause and after a while, Cellini said: “I’ve been trying to find out about the fix that was supposed to be arranged on your fight with Wheaton.”

  “What about it?”

  “Everything. I’d like to know just what happened.”

  “Keep this between us, Smith, but after the fight was booked, Wheaton came to me with a proposition and I agreed to throw the fight.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I got to know Wheaton better and we became friends and I found out he was a bum fighter, so I told them I wouldn’t throw the fight because I didn’t want it on my record that I was licked by third-class stuff like Wheaton. That’s about all.”

  “Did Juno Worden go around with Hank Wheaton?”

  “That’s what I heard, Smith.”

  Forsythe Worden appeared and leveled a finger at the fighter. “You’re just a bum. That’s all you are. A bum.”

  Eddy Bly said: “I think I need a drink.” He got up and left.

  Cellini asked: “How’s your jaw?”

  Forsythe Worden sank into an ottoman and began to sob. It lasted for several minutes after which he blew his nose and said: “That’s typical of me. I’m not a man. I only wear pants. That’s all. But at least I’m not a bum, am I?”

  “No,” Cellini said, “you’re not a bum. And I will tell you something else. You are a man.”

  Forsythe Worden gazed at Cellini gratefully but said: “We’re both a little drunk and you’re only trying to make me feel good.”

  “I don’t give a damn how you feel, Worden. I just think you have guts—the real kind of guts, because you haven’t got the body to back it up. The other kind, Bly’s kind, is easy.”

  “Thanks. Thanks. Thanks a lot,” repeated the little man.

  Cellini said: “I also think you know the difference between right and wrong, and it makes me wonder why you ever married Juno.”

  “I suppose she’s no good,” Forsythe Worden admitted, “but a man doesn’t stop wanting a woman because of that. And I want my wife. I wanted her when I married her and I still want her.”

  “I could understand that, but why did she marry you?”

  “Because I was handy, and she was tired of the small town, and above all, I had money.”

  “Lots of it?” asked Cellini.

  “Comparatively. About twenty thousand. Today I have nothing.”

  “What happened? Did Juno spend it?”

  “Mostly. I lost the last eight thousand on Friday when I bet that Wheaton would beat Bly. Today I have nothing and Juno knows it. I’ve lost even that hold over her.”

  Cellini looked at the little man curiously. “Why did you bet dough like that? Did you think it was fixed or did you think Wheaton was better than Bly?”

  “Neither one,” Forsythe Worden replied. “I happened to be with Jeanette Bly when the accident happened.”

  “Who’s Jeanette? Bly’s sister?”

  “Yes. A very sweet girl, and no matter what I think of Bly I have to admit he was crazy about her. That’s why, after I did what I could for Jeanette, I went down and placed the bet on the fight. I figured Bly would be sure to lose, the way he cared for Jeanette, and I didn’t see any harm in making money on it.”

  “Tell me about the accident,” said Cellini.

  “There’s nothing to it. Jeanette stepped off the curb, near Desmond’s, where I took her shopping, and a car knocked her over and didn’t stop.”

  “Did you get a look at the driver?”

  “Yes. A very quick look but I think I can recognize him if I ever see him again.”

  “You’re sure you never saw him before?”

  “Very sure,” said Forsythe Worden.

  From inside the house came the voice of the Blond Bomber calling her husband. Meekly, he said, “Yes, dear,” and left.

  Cellini went back into the house but couldn’t find Prunella Wheaton. He mixed himself a triple shot of whiskey and very little soda and went out on the grounds. Prunella wasn’t visible there either and he returned to the veranda. Through the window came the sound of angry voices. Cellini walked over to look. Eddy Bly was baiting Forsythe Worden again, as he suggestively stroked the Blond Bomber’s neck and shoulders. Juno seemed to be having fun.

  The little man screamed: “Can’t you go away someplace? Why don’t you leave me alone?”

  Eddy Bly laughed loud and long. “Tell me what to do, crumb! You can’t even hold a woman!”

  Forsythe Worden jumped at the fighter. Cellini ran for the door but as he heard the sound of a fist against flesh and bone, he knew he was too late to save the little man from being knocked cold again. When he reached the room, Eddy Bly had already emptied the pitcher of grape punch over Worden’s face again.

  Bly pushed Juno away, almost as if in disgust, and mixed himself a drink. He saw Cellini and said: “I know, but I can’t help it.”

  “Try that again and Worden’s liable to kill you.”

  Forsythe Worden slowly began to stir. His hands went to his eyes and he rolled over on his stomach. He sta
rted moaning and Cellini walked over. There was a peculiar odor in the air.

  Candy Pastor said: “He’ll be right out of it, Smith.”

  As consciousness returned fully to Forsythe Worden the moans became louder and gradually turned into screams. Puzzled, Cellini knelt down to examine the little man.

  Suddenly, Cellini exclaimed: “Holy mother of hell! Someone grab his legs!”

  Candido Pastor came over quickly and did so. Cellini put his hands under the little man’s armpits and they rushed him toward a bathroom. Over his shoulder, Cellini called: “Get a doctor!”

  With little ceremony, Cellini shoved Worden into the shower stall and turned on the water full blast. Quickly, Cellini ripped away the little man’s clothes and sponged water over his face. Now he knew what had happened.

  “Get some sodium bicarbonate and make a solution,” Cellini snapped. “Maybe it will help till the doctor gets here.”

  Candy Pastor hurried away. Others, hearing Worden’s groans, crowded into the bathroom. Cellini said: “Someone hold his hands down so I can get at him.”

  The bicarbonate solution arrived and Cellini said to Pastor: “Wash his face with it and wherever the stuff got to him. I have to go down.”

  Cellini had stood under the shower while working over Worden and was completely and thoroughly drenched. He peeled off his coat, shirt and shoes and spread them on the floor. Then he returned to the room where the trouble had started. Turner, looking angry and baffled, was there talking with Eddy Bly.

  “What the hell has happened?” demanded the gambler. “What’s going on, Smith?”

  “Nothing very pleasant,” said Cellini. “Eddy Bly just poured a little grape juice and a pitcherful of what I think is sulphuric acid over Forsythe Worden’s face.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  SWANSONG

  he boxer strode the room with a pardine lope, drawing deeply and nervously on a cigarette. For the fourth time, he said: “I can’t understand it. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “It makes plenty of sense,” said Cellini Smith.

  “That’s right,” Dan Turner agreed. “You had a nice little habit of socking Worden and pouring my punch over him to revive him and everyone knew you had that habit. So someone simply emptied a bottle of sulphuric acid into the pitcher of punch and waited for you to get around to having your fun with Worden.”

  “But why? Why?”

  The gambler shrugged. “I paid five hundred dollars to Smith to find out why Wheaton was killed, why a letter was written to me in Smith’s name. There are plenty of whys.”

  “I think we can get around to answering some of them,” Cellini said, “but first, what do you know about this?” He held up a bottle. “I found this behind that potted plant there where some grape juice was emptied from the pitcher and replaced with acid from this bottle.”

  “That’s my bottle,” said Dan Turner.

  “Really? And how come you have a bottle of sulphuric acid in your house?”

  “I don’t care for your tone of voice, Smith. Change it before I pitch you out of this house.”

  “Remind me to worry about all that later, Turner. At the moment, my main interest is to find out about the acid bath that was given Forsythe Worden—and I’m staying till I find out. If you have any plans about throwing me out, include Duck-Eye over there.”

  Duck-Eye Ryan stirred in a corner of the room to indicate his presence. Cellini poured himself another drink. His fingers shook, not from any nervousness but from a cold anger that knotted his insides.

  “And Duck-Eye’s heeled,” Cellini continued. “With Murph’s gun. By the way, what happened to Jerry Lake? He was supposed to come.”

  Turner shrugged. “I’m phoning for the cops.”

  “I’ve already done that,” said Cellini. “Let’s hear about that bottle.”

  “I do amateur photography as a hobby,” the gambler replied. “I have a laboratory downstairs in the basement and I use the acid to tone the film.”

  “Who knows you have a lab?”

  “Pretty near everybody, I guess.”

  A door opened and the doctor who had come to tend Worden stepped in. The men waited for him to speak.

  “He’ll be all right now,” said the doctor. “Placing him under the shower, as you did, helped a lot. Of course, he’ll be blind and scarred the rest of his life, but he’ll live.”

  Turner said: “Thank you. Do you mind staying with him?”

  “Not at all, though I’ve already given him a hypo to let him sleep for a while.” The doctor left.

  Dan Turner said: “I understand how you feel, Smith. I’d like to know myself who rigged up that punch with acid.”

  Before Cellini could reply, the door was thrown open and Murph stood on the threshold. It was a Murph with a taped face, puffed, slitted eyes, and swollen, partly open lips.

  “Where’s Lake?” he demanded. Then he saw Cellini and his hand made for a pocket.

  “I wouldn’t,” snapped Cellini. “Duck-Eye has the drop.”

  “I sure have,” Duck-Eye Ryan agreed amiably from the corner.

  “That’s O.K. Some other time.” Murph spoke with difficulty and his broken teeth caused him to lisp.

  Cellini walked over and removed a gun from Murph’s pocket.

  “Do what you want, Smith. I have plenty of time to take care of you.” He turned to the others. “Where’s Lake?”

  Bly shrugged and Turner asked: “Where is he supposed to be?”

  “He said he was coming right in.” Murph’s voice held a touch of hysteria. “I took the car around to park it and when I come back he wasn’t there.”

  “He’s probably out on the grounds some place,” said Turner.

  “I tell you he ain’t. I looked.”

  “Perhaps he came into the house,” Cellini suggested.

  “I was here all the time,” Bly said. “I would have seen him.”

  “Maybe he didn’t get this far,” said Cellini. “Let’s look in the front rooms. Lake’s whereabouts interest me, too.”

  They left and circled the front rooms and the main hallway. Their search ended in the telephone closet that was located underneath the stairway.

  Crumpled underneath the telephone stand was Jerry Lake’s corpse, his head an almost unrecognizable mass of splintered bone. The weapon, a heavy andiron, lay on the floor beside the body.

  Detective-Sergeant Ira Haenigson said: “Now we may be able to get someplace.” He had thrown open the doors separating the library and living room and had crowded everyone—servants and guests—inside.

  Impressively, Haenigson announced: “There’s a murderer among you. I’ve spent an hour listening to your stories and nothing connects. We may stay here all night but I’m going to find out exactly what happened this afternoon. I want to know where each one of you was when Jerry Lake was murdered and what each one of you was doing while sulphuric acid was being added to a pitcher of punch.”

  “What good will that do?” asked Cellini. “Everybody has been drinking all afternoon and most of them haven’t the vaguest idea of what they did—let alone at exactly what time they did it.”

  “Maybe you know of a better way to get information than by asking questions, Smith.”

  “I don’t need any more information. It’s obvious that someone poured acid into that punch in an effort to blind Worden. Forsythe Worden told me that he was present when Bly’s sister was run over and that he’d be able to identify the driver if he ever saw him again. So obviously, the idea was to fix it so that he’d never be able to identify anything again.”

  “Go on,” said Haenigson.

  “It all began when Jerry Lake bought the contract of a Seattle fighter with a good record, and booked him to fight here against Bly. When Wheaton came down, Lake found out that he wasn’t much good, so he tried to fix the fight with Bly. Lake was trying somehow to save his investment in Wheaton. Bly agreed to take a dive, but when he found out how bad Wheaton really was, he backed out.”
r />   “So that’s where the sister comes in,” murmured Haenigson.

  “That’s right. You caught it. Lake and Wheaton tried to put pressure on Bly to stick to his agreement and take the dive by threatening to hurt the sister. Bly wouldn’t play ball and finally, the day before the fight, they went out to get Jeanette Bly.”

  “Who are they?” asked Haenigson.

  “We can find out very simply. We’ll bring down Worden and let him identify the person who drove that hit-and-run car. Fortunately his eyes weren’t affected by the acid.”

  “I thought—” Haenigson began.

  “That will be the fairest way to do it,” interrupted Cellini quickly, “because the person who did that job will probably hang for it.” Cellini called upstairs: “You can bring Worden down now.”

  Cellini turned back and waited as the seconds ticked off. In a little while everyone would realize it was a bluff, that Forsythe Worden would not be coming down, that he would never identify anybody.

  Ten seconds of utter stillness had elapsed when suddenly Murph leaped to his feet and cried: “I didn’t want to kill her! I swear I didn’t! I just wanted to clip her lightly with the fender! Just to warn Bly! I swear that was all I wanted to do.”

  A stream of oaths came from Eddy Bly and he leaped at Murph. Bly’s two hands closed around Murph’s neck and slowly forced him to the floor. Murph’s arms dropped and his face began to whiten. Boggs and Haenigson bore down on Bly but could not tear his hands away from the throat. Boggs produced a blackjack and brought it down sharply on the back of Bly’s head. The fighter sagged to the ground. His hands, however, still clung to Murph’s throat and could be pried off only finger by finger.

  he Blond Bomber bent over Eddy Bly’s unconscious form. “You didn’t have to hit him so hard,” she snapped.

  “I’m sorry, madam,” replied Haenigson, “but we have courts to try people and we don’t like to have them choked first.”

  Most of the guests had already left and Turner said to Cellini: “That was good work.”

  “Yes,” agreed Haenigson. “It was a neat way to get the killer to reveal himself.”