Too Many Crooks

by Richard S. Prather

  "You'd think the sand was uranium. Unless, of course, you're nuts."

  Dane fished a red pencil from his pocket and drew a line around another rectangle on the map. "Most of the spots sold so far were empty lots, but this one is a house and lot worth about eighty thousand dollars. Seaco's been after it, but the owner wouldn't sell. That was Ed Whist's place, Shell. His widow owns it now. Or did until a few hours ago. This guy who talked to me about selling saw Mary Whist this morning, bought the place for fifty thousand."

  "This morning? I thought Whist just died."

  "True. Couple days ago. That should give you an idea of the type of men we're up against. I talked to Mary Whist on the phone just half an hour before I called you." He was quiet for a moment, then he said, "Shell, they tell me Ed drowned surf-fishing down at Gray's Rocks. They say a wave must have swept him off the rocks and pulled him under because of his clothes and boots. Only Ed and I fished there a lot, and we always cast from the sand. He'd never have gone out on those rocks for a million dollars. He said a man could drown."

  "Aren't you jumping to a conclusion, Em? I can't see anybody killing a man simply to get a chunk of beach with a house on it."

  "Sometimes the only way you reach a conclusion is to jump at it." He shrugged. "Maybe Ed was too good a friend of mine for me to think clearly about it. You look into it, anyway, Shell. And check this Seaco bunch."

  "OK. Who's in the thing? And who's the boss?"

  "Nobody seems to know for sure. They've formed a corporation, and the law requires only that three of the directors be named. I never heard of the first two, but the third one is Jim Norris. I think he's your boss. Besides being one of the Seaco organizers, he's manager and part owner of the Beachcomber's Lodge. You know the place?"

  "Uh-huh." The Beachcomber's Cocktail Lounge was my favorite drinking spot in town, but I'd never met Norris. I'd heard the name, though; he was supposed to be a pretty big man in this neck of the woods.

  Dane said, "Somebody buying a lot of property, that all by itself isn't so funny, but I think I know what's behind the whole operation. And it's big—millions-of-dollars big." He pointed to the map. "Almost all the property I've marked is on the coast. Some of it's downtown in Seacliff, but most of it is right outside the business district. Of the beachfront property, one strip is a public beach, property of the city of Seacliff. All the rest is privately owned, and as of today Seaco already holds about half of it, while Baron, Miss Manning, and I own most of the other half. Miss Manning owns the most, then me, and the rest is held by Baron, mostly in his Baronial Estates. We're what you'd call the big owners—and if somebody is bound and determined to get all that beachfront property, we're naturally the biggest and most important targets." He paused. "Lilith was back east when this started. After this tough bruiser talked to me, I got in touch with Baron, told him what I thought was happening. Later he phoned Lilith and she flew in from New York and we all got together, talked it over. Just in time, too, because right after that they tell me Zimmerman saw her, and turned on his charm. But we'd wised her up and she wouldn't sell. So the tough one called on both Baron and Miss Manning. They said he acted just as nasty with them as with me. Incidentally, I phoned Baron after I called you and arranged for us all to meet at Miss Manning's home later today. We'll go out there after we see this tough guy." He glanced at his watch. "Few minutes now."

  I checked the time. Two-twenty-seven.

  Dane said, "He came to see me a second time two days ago. Said he'd give me till today at two-thirty, and I'd better be ready to close the deal. They wouldn't wait any longer." He broke off, looking past the side of the house. "Might be the guy's car now."

  I walked to the edge of the porch and glanced out toward the street. A big black Packard was pulling into the curb. Two or three men were inside it. I went back to Dane. "Stopping here."

  A car door slammed out front, footsteps came along the walk.

  Dane was frowning. He jerked a thumb toward the door and said, "OK, Shell. You wait in the house. Stand behind the bedroom window there and you can see out, but he won't be able to see you through the curtains. I'll talk to him as long as I can. You give a listen and let me know what you think."

  I nodded and went inside. The bed was on my right against wide windows. Movement on my left as I entered startled me until I noticed it was the reflection of my own image in the mirror over a dresser against the wall. I walked toward it and stopped in front of the window before which Dane and I had been seated. I was just in time to see a big guy walk around front and up onto the porch. He said pleasantly, "Afternoon, Mr. Dane. Say, that looks good. You got an extra beer there?"

  The man's voice was pleasant, but he didn't look pleasant at all. He was about five-ten and looked as broad as that Packard out front. His face was a side of beef with eyes and teeth in it, red and rare from the sun. If somebody were using muscle to convince owners they should sell their property, they'd chosen the right kind of representative. This guy was all muscle.

  Dane was saying, "Got half a dozen cans there," but he didn't make a move toward the beer or opener.

  The guy hesitated for a moment, then stooped and picked up a can. I thought for a minute he was going to poke his thumb through the top, but he opened it normally, had a swallow, and said, "Well, Mr. Dane! Offer's still good. Hasn't gone down a penny. You give it some thought, like I told you?"

  "I've thought about it. Can't remember your name, now."

  "Smith. Ben Smith."

  "Sure. Don't know how I forgot. Well, Mr. Smith, I don't know. But I don't think I'll sell. My property's worth a lot more than a quarter million."

  "You don't get it." Smith pulled a chair over and sat down in front of Dane. "We've looked all the property over, and it's worth a quarter million to us. Don't make no difference what it's worth to you. Man's health can't be figured in dollars. You'd rather have your health than your money, wouldn't you, Dane?"

  "I wouldn't sell to you bastards for ten million."

  Dane had already reached the end of his rope. Muscles bunched at the side of Smith's jaw and the corners of his mouth pulled down. He said, "Listen, Pop. Don't leak at the mouth no more. And you'll sell. All your friends are selling, ain't they?" He grinned then. "Shouldn't talk to me like this, Pop. We're neighbors. Bought a spot this morning just a couple hundred feet away." He jerked his thumb.

  It was Ed Whist's home he was talking about, and that was all Dane could take. He yelled something and started out of his chair, swinging a balled fist at Smith's chin. Smith didn't even get to his feet, just swung his beefy hand and slapped Dane hard across the cheek with the back of it. It turned Dane around and he fell, but he fell roaring and started up again as soon as he hit the porch floor.

  The big guy got to his feet. His hand flashed under his coat and came out filled with a gun that he raised over his head, ready to smash it down on Dane's skull. The whole thing had taken only a couple of seconds out there, and I couldn't have got to the porch in time if I'd jumped through the window. I snapped my .38 out of its holster, aimed for a fraction of a second, and shot the big ape in his right shoulder.

  He was standing with his back to the porch railing, and though there's not a great deal of impact from a .38 slug, there was enough. It threw him off balance and his legs hit the rail behind as he staggered, then he went over backward and down four feet and his head made a disgusting sound on the cement walk.

  Chapter Three

  I jumped to the door and got out onto the porch barely in time to keep Dane from leaping over the railing on top of the unconscious man down there. I grabbed him. "Hey, wait a minute, Em. He's out of commission for a while."

  "That sonofabitch," Dane said. He repeated it about eight times, as if no other words had yet been invented.

  Feet slapped on the walk as somebody ran toward us from the front of the house. "Here come his pals," I said. "Cool off, Em."

  I leaned back against the side of the house, the gun pointed at the spot where th
e man or men would appear. A man came rushing around the side of the house and skidded to a stop as he spotted Smith's unconscious form. He was a tall skinny guy with a bald spot in the middle of his head and a gun in the middle of his right hand. Another guy, shorter, came running up right behind him, also lugging a gun. They both must have heard the report of my .38 and maybe figured the war was on. Well, it was.

  I pointed the Colt at the tall guy and said, "Hey!"

  He spun around with his right hand coming up, and then he saw the gun in my fist aimed at his nose, and he stared at the gun as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. I didn't have to say anything else. His fingers opened, and a big .45 automatic clanked on the walk. The other guy was standing with his left side toward me, his head twisted around. He looked at my gun and blinked, still gripping his own automatic solidly, as if he were debating his next move.

  I said pleasantly, "I think I'll shoot you," and he stopped debating. His gun joined Skinny's.

  "Hey," Skinny said. "He's kilt Renner."

  "I don't think so," I said. "Haven't killed any of you, yet. Now, you two boys pick him up and all of you come up here in the corner of the porch, nice and quiet."

  They grabbed Smith, or Renner, and grunted as they carried him up. Dane went around gathering guns, then came back and said, "I'm going to phone Betty. She'll want to know about this."

  "Call the cops while you're at it."

  He went inside. Looking at Skinny, I said, "You be spokesman, since Renner isn't talking. Who are you guys working for, and what the hell's your angle?"

  Skinny shook his head. "We just drove Renner out here. I don't know what he wanted. You shot him."

  "Uh-huh. I asked him a question and he went dumb on me." I pointed the .38 at his nose again, and it still fascinated him, but he didn't say any more. Neither did the smaller guy, and all my other questions got blank stares. Dane came back onto the porch just as Renner moaned and stirred slightly. In another few minutes, I heard tires screech out front, and farther away the sound of a siren. A brown Ford coupé pulled up behind my Cad and somebody got out. High heels clicked rapidly on the walk and a girl came trotting around the corner and up onto the porch.

  Now, some gals can trot up four steps onto a porch and vibrate nowhere; this gal was not one of those. She was about five-three or -four and dressed in a gray suit so severely cut that it made any accurate appraisal of her figure impossible but even so, it was apparent that she vibrated in the proper wave length. And no matter what was under the suit, the face was definitely worth looking at. It was an odd face, arresting, darkly tanned and smooth, softly framed by dark hair with a healthy sheen and highlights burned into it by the sun. Behind black-rimmed glasses, slightly harlequin, her eyes were an extremely light brown, almost beige. High cheekbones, one eyebrow arched higher than the other, and slightly protruding lips gave her features a piquant, kind of roguish appearance.

  She said, "What's going on?"

  Dane said, "That big son— fellow knocked me down and Shell plugged him neater than a whistle. You should have seen him, Betty. Knocked the guy right over the rail there."

  Betty glanced at me, lips pressed together. She didn't say anything, but she wasn't smiling. Somehow I'd expected her to give me a wide grin. I was grinning at her widely enough.

  Dane briefed her on what had happened and she made rapid notes on a small pad. The siren drew closer, then stopped moaning in front of the house. In a moment, two police officers joined the party. Both were uniformed, one a heavy sergeant in his early or middle thirties, the other a slim, lean-faced patrolman about twenty-five.

  They both came up onto the porch and the sergeant said, "What the hell's going on? Dane, you phone in?"

  He was a large-framed man, but it looked like mostly fat instead of muscle on his body. His face was flabby and there were dark circles under his eyes. He sounded as if he were used to asking questions from behind a bright light. The other officer, though younger and slimmer, looked as if he'd spent a bad night too. He leaned indolently against the porch railing, staring blankly, his police revolver held loosely in his hand. If I could have chosen any two cops, I'd have chosen two others.

  Dane nodded, and I told the sergeant what had happened. They introduced themselves as Detective Sergeant Carver and Patrolman Blake. The younger guy, Blake, put handcuffs on the two uninjured men while Carver examined Renner's shoulder. I finished telling Sergeant Carver the whole story, including what seemed to be behind the deal, and he stood up.

  "You say this guy was about to slug Dane?"

  "That's right. All I know about it is what I told you. Can't be much doubt that it was the start of a little muscle, though, to make Dane buckle under on the sale."

  He shrugged. "Just tell me what happened, will you, chum? I'll figure it out." Then he leaned over Renner, who was sitting up now with his left hand pressed to his right shoulder, blood staining his fingers. "All right," Carver said. "What was the idea, chum?"

  Renner glared into the cop's face, then at me, looking as if he were going to spit, but he said nothing. Carver repeated his question, and when he got no answer, he slapped Renner hard across the face, back and forth. He did it suddenly, brutally, casually. He said, "I asked you a question, chum."

  Renner only glared some more, and Carver said, "We'll find out at headquarters," then jerked him around, twisted his arms behind him, and put handcuffs on his wrists. Blood seeped from the shoulder wound.

  I opened my mouth to say something, but Betty spoke from beside me. "Want this in my story, Carver? Sergeant Carver, in a typical display—"

  He stood up and faced her. "Just what the hell are you doing here, anyway?" He looked at Dane. "You call her before you called us?"

  "I called her right afterward," Dane said. "Any law against it?"

  Carver shrugged. He and the other officer gathered up all the loose guns and herded the three men out to the police car, then Carver came back and walked up to me. He flipped open a small black notebook and poised a stubby pencil over it. "You're a detective, huh?"

  "That's right." I showed him my credentials.

  He said, "What you doing here?"

  I frowned. "What's that got to do with this?"

  He grinned slightly. "I wouldn't know till I asked, would I? Don't get hard with me, chum."

  Dane said, "I asked him down, Carver, as my guest. He was here when those guys showed up. Good thing he was."

  Carver said to me, "OK, so the guy was about to club Dane. You had to shoot him? No other way you could stop him?"

  This character was beginning to get under my skin. I matched his unpleasant tone. "No other way. There wasn't time."

  "Let's see your gun."

  I'd stuck the .38 back in its holster, but I took it out and handed it to him. He broke it open, looked at it, then gave it back to me. "You want to be careful with that, chum. Don't get too handy with it. Here in Seacliff we don't like people going around shooting people."

  "That so? I could have let the ape bust Dane's skull open, instead."

  "You know what I mean, chum."

  "I'm not sure I do. And the name's Scott."

  He grinned, then looked at Dane. "You gonna sign a complaint?"

  "I will," I said. "Incidentally, it wouldn't surprise me if at least one of those guys has done heavy time. Maybe all of them are ex-cons. And they were all carrying guns, so—"

  "So that's a felony. You wouldn't be telling me my job, would you?"

  "Oh, for God's sake, Sergeant!" I stopped. A few more minutes of this and I'd be ready to belt him, cop or no cop. I said, "You want that complaint signed now?"

  "Any time. Any time today. Just be sure one of you comes down."

  He seemed to have all the information he wanted, and he walked off the porch and around the corner, saying over his shoulder. "Take it easy with that Special. Like I said, we don't like tough men in Seacliff."

  I turned and blinked at Dane and the girl, who was leaning against the
door now. "What's eating him?"

  Dane said, "He's like that all the time. You know, the world's against him. Other one, too, except he's quieter. Around here they're called the Brothers. Not related, though, just together all the time."

  Betty said, "Mr. Scott, now that the police are gone, tell me. Was it absolutely necessary that you shoot that man?" She stared at me from behind the harlequin glasses, a kind of congealed expression on her otherwise lovely face.

  I said, "Well, for— How many times do I have to—"

  Dane interrupted. "Relax, both of you. If Shell hadn't moved fast, Betty, I might have got my head busted open."

  She smiled at him, and she was really very attractive when her face lost some of its efficient, lady-executive look. She said to me, "I'm sorry, Mr. Scott. It's just that I see nothing admirable in gunplay."

  "A misnomer, honey. We weren't playing. But neither do I see anything admirable in it." I grinned at her. "So let's be friends, huh?"

  The smile faded slowly, but she kept looking at me. "Yes, of course. I . . ." she stopped.

  There was a kind of strained aura about her, as if she were nervous or embarrassed. But then, I thought it isn't every day a young gal sees guys bleeding on porches and guns cluttering up the view.

  She said, "I'd better get back to the office." She darted a quick look at Dane, then walked rapidly down the steps and out of sight. I heard the car drive away.

  "I meant to tell you more about Betty, Shell." Dane was frowning. "Didn't have time. She was engaged to a soldier who was killed in Korea. That was a year and a half ago, but she took it hard. Hasn't had much, if anything, to do with men since then. And she's got what amounts to a phobia against guns, any kind of violence. Not healthy, but you can't talk her out of it. Not with words, anyway. She'll just have to get over it herself. Hell of a note, though."