The Con Man

by Gerald Verner

  “Where were they staying?” asked Paul.

  “At Macks,” replied Willing. “It’s a second-rate hotel on the way to Los Angeles. We’ve just been round combing the apartment houses to see if we can find any trace of them. Where are you going? Can I give you a lift?”

  Paul told him where he was going.

  “Jump in,” said Willing. “We’re going past there. We’ll drop you.”

  He opened the door and the detective got in.

  “Do you still think Spearman’s got that film?” asked Willing as the car moved off.

  “I do,” answered Paul. “I’m sure he has.”

  “Why not give him a surprise visit, and have another look?” the other suggested, but Paul shook his head.

  “Because I don’t think it would do any good,” he replied. “Tommy Spearman’s clever, and I don’t think we should find anything. All we can do — ” He broke off and sat forward.

  A small car had just gone by, travelling at fair speed, and as the light of the police car caught the rear he saw with surprise that a figure was crouching precariously on the back. For one fleeting second he saw the rider’s face and recognised his brother.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Willing, astonished at his companion’s sudden alertness.

  “That car that’s just gone by, did you see it?” said Paul.

  Willing nodded.

  “Yes, carrying an extra passenger on the back,” he said. “The way they crowd these small cars — ”

  “That passenger was my brother,” broke in Paul. “Tell your driver to keep that car in sight.”

  “Your brother?” Willing’s jaw dropped, and without much more ado he reached forward and jerked aside the glass panel in the window that separated them from the driver’s seat. “See that car — that car that’s just gone by?” he said, and the driver nodded. “Keep it in sight — don’t get too near. Follow the tail-light.”

  “And tell him to put our headlights out,” said Paul. “There’s something in this, Willing. Bob’s after someone in that car, and we don’t want to let them know we’re following.”

  Willing nodded and gave the additional order. The headlights went out, they sped along in darkness and practically in silence. The red tail-light of the car they were trailing twinkled ahead, a small star of light in the blackness of the night. It twisted and turned down one street after another, and Captain Willing whistled.

  “Where the hell are they going?” he muttered. “We shall be out in the country in a minute.”

  “I don’t know where they’re going,” said Paul, “but wherever it is, we’re going too. Bob must be following Spearman.”

  “Well, I guess it looks as if we were in for some joy-ride,” said Willing. “That’s the last of Culver City,”

  The houses and shops and streets had frayed out into hedges and wooded hillside, but the star point of red light kept steadily on — and then came disaster, swift and sudden. The engine of the police car gave a preliminary cough, spat spasmodically twice, and then — stopped.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Willing, pushing back the panel quickly.

  “Gas,” said the driver laconically, “I guess we’ve run out.”

  Willing uttered an oath.

  “Haven’t we a spare can?” he said.

  “No, sir,” was the reply. “I didn’t know we were going so far. I relied on being able to fill her up at a filling-station.”

  “What do we do now?” asked Willing blankly.

  Paul opened the door and dropped into the roadway. The red tail-light of the car they were pursuing had vanished.

  “Go on, on foot,” he said. “Do you know this road?”

  “Yes,” said Willing.

  “Where does it lead to?”

  “Down to the coast eventually,” was the reply. “But they can’t be going there.”

  “Any houses?” asked the other, and Willing shook his head.

  “No,” he replied, and then: “Yes there is, though. One. The Haunted House.”

  “What do you mean?” said Paul sharply.

  “There’s a house, or rather the remains of one, about a mile and a half farther along,” said Willing. “It used to belong to a film director — a Russian. He shot himself, and after that nobody would take the place. It’s nearly falling to pieces.”

  “Perhaps that’s where they’re making for,” said Paul. “Anyway, we may as well follow and see if we can pick up the car. Are you coming?”

  “Sure!” said Willing.

  He spoke to the driver, and then he and Paul set off side by side. They seemed to have been walking for hours when rounding a bend they suddenly came upon the car. It was standing motionless, and without lights, drawn into the side of the road.

  “I believe you’re right, Mr Rivington,” whispered Willing excitedly. “Whoever was in the car has gone to the house I spoke of. Anyway, there’s the gate.”

  He pointed to a dilapidated gate hanging from one hinge and standing half open.

  “I — ” began Paul Rivington and stopped.

  From beyond the gate, muffled but distinct in the stillness of the night, came the sound of two shots!

  Chapter 20

  MR SPEARMAN JUSTIFIES HIS EXISTENCE

  Mr Spearman lying bound and helpless in the dark, with the struggle going on around him, wondered who was winning. He was soon to know, for as suddenly as the fight had started it ended, and Lefty’s voice, hoarse and breathless, called out in the blackness:

  “Spike! Spike, darn you! Find a candle, can’t you?”

  A grunt answered him.

  “There ain’t no more,” said the plaintive voice of Spike Munro. “Those two were the last.”

  Guinan uttered an oath.

  “You fool!” he snarled. “Why didn’t you get more?”

  “Sure, I thought there’d be enough,” protested Spike.

  “Well, find a light of some sort,” snapped Guinan, “and be quick. One of that swab’s bullets got me in the arm and it’s hurting like blazes.”

  “I ain’t got no matches,” said Spike. “Where’s your lighter?”

  “I left it in the car,” said Guinan. “Go down and get it. There’s a cupboard on the dashboard.”

  Spike Munro grumbled something in reply and Mr Spearman heard him stumble across the room and then go out. There was a pause, and then Lefty uttered an exclamation and came over to where Spearman was lying.

  “Say, have you got any matches?” he muttered, feeling about in the darkness until his hands touched the bound man.

  “There’s a lighter in my pocket,” said Spearman.

  “Why the hell didn’t you say so before and save Spike going all the way down to the car?” growled Guinan.

  He felt about, found the pocket, and extracted the lighter. There was a click and a feeble blue-white flame broke the intense blackness. Shielding the light with one hand, Lefty searched about on the floor for the candle that Spike had knocked off the mantelpiece. He found it, and, lighting it, stuck it back again.

  “That’s better,” he grunted, and looked quickly about him.

  Bob was lying motionless near the door, and Guinan went over and peered into his upturned face.

  “You won’t worry anybody for a bit,” he said callously.

  He picked up the automatic that had fallen from Bob’s grasp in the struggle. He was looking anxiously at a deep furrow scrawled across the back of his left hand, which was bleeding profusely, when there was a hurried footstep and Spike came in, his face full of fear.

  “Lefty,” he said excitedly, “there’s two guys comin’ up to the house!”

  “What?” Under the stain of his disguise Lefty Guinan’s face went white.

  “I just caught sight of ’em as I was goin’ down to the car,” went on Mr Munro. “They’re cops, I think.”

  “Can you see them from the balcony?” rapped Guinan, and Spike nodded.

  “Wait here,” said the other quickly, and hurried out. />
  They heard his footsteps thudding along the passage and then die away. Mr Spearman smiled. This was a night of excitement with a vengeance! When Bob had arrived he had guessed that he must have been following him. These others were in all probability Rivington and the police. Well, it looked as if Lefty and Spike were in for a rough time, and serve them right. Quickly he set to work again on the cords at his wrist. Ever since Spike had finished tying him up he had surreptitiously been trying to loosen his bonds, and he had practically succeeded. Spike was in an agony of apprehension, biting his nails and staring at the door. Suddenly he stiffened as there came a fusillade of shots from outside. They were answered by a volley of curses, Mary screamed, and Spike swung round on her.

  “Shut up, you!” he cried. “Shut up. Do you hear?”

  His voice was cracked and menacing, and the girl choked back the screams that filled her throat. Three more shots, closer at hand, and then the sound of running feet on bare boards, and Lefty burst into the room.

  “Quick, Spike!” he panted, “shut the door and bolt it!”

  He flung aside his smoking gun.

  “Give me that gat you took from Spearman.”

  Spike dragged the weapon from his pocket, and thrust it into the other’s outstretched hand.

  “Now the door!” snapped Guinan, and Munro leapt forward.

  But he was too late, even as the heavy door swung a foot was thrust forward between the jamb and the edge.

  “Get back both of you!” cried the voice of Paul Rivington. “I’ll shoot the first one that moves an eyelid!”

  He gave the door a shove with his shoulder and sent it crashing back against the wall. He stepped across the threshold, followed by Captain Willing.

  “Put up your hands!” he ordered sternly, and Spike’s arms rose above his head.

  “Now you,” went on the detective, turning to Lefty Guinan, but Guinan met his gaze with an evil grin.

  Crouched back against the wall in the corner he covered the helpless form of Mary Henley with the automatic Spike had taken from Mr Spearman.

  “You daren’t shoot!” he jeered, his lips curled back until they showed his gums. “I guess if you do I’ll fire at the girl. You may hit me, but she’ll get hers first.”

  Paul bit his lip. Lefty Guinan was speaking the truth. He could see it in the man’s eyes, and by the set of his face.

  “What good do you think that’s going to do you?” he asked. “You can’t get away.”

  “Can’t I?” snarled the gangster. “We’ll see about that. If you get me I go to the chair, and I might as well die by a bullet as that. Put your guns down on that box over there, or, by heck, I’ll pull the trigger and send the girl to hell.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” began Captain Willing. “You daren’t do it — ”

  Guinan laughed — a mirthless, raucous laugh.

  “Daren’t I?” he cried. “Put those guns down or I guess you’ll see.”

  Rivington frowned. What could they do? Unless they did as Guinan wanted, the girl would die. There was no question about that. Guinan was cornered, and he was taking the one chance that presented itself. A chance that would either lead to safety or death.

  “Quick!” snapped Lefty in a voice that was harsh and cracked with the strain he was undergoing. “Put down those gats, or — ”

  “We can’t do it,” said Captain Willing. “Stop bluffing, and give in. We can’t bargain with you.”

  “I’m doing the bargaining” retorted Guinan. “And I’m not bluffin’! You’ll see that unless you do as I say!”

  “I’m afraid we shall have to give in,” muttered Paul. “It will mean the girl’s life if we don’t.”

  “We must risk that,” answered Willing grimly. “That man’s a murderer and a dangerous crook. I guess we can’t allow him to get away.”

  The perspiration was pouring down his forehead, and Paul knew that he was speaking in accordance with his duty. It was his duty to take Guinan at whatever sacrifice.

  “I’m goin’ to count three,” said Guinan, “and if those rods are not on the box by the time I’ve finished, it’s goodbye to the girl.” He began to count slowly: “One — ” Paul took a step forward.

  “Guinan, you’ll do no good — ”

  “Two!” And then from behind them a lean slim figure leaped forward and flung itself between the levelled pistol and the helpless form of Mary Henley.

  Lefty’s finger tightened on the trigger and the ugly muzzle of the weapon belched flame and lead. Thomas Spearman took three of the bullets in his chest before he succeeded in wrenching the pistol from Guinan’s hand. They tore through clothing and flesh and muscle — three separate agonies of red-hot, searing pain, but there was a smile on his lips as he went down. Guinan turned with the snarl of a trapped animal, but Paul had already sprung forward and gripped him by the collar and wrist, and twisting his arm up behind his back, rendered him helpless in a ju-jitsu lock. A second later he was powerless to do further harm, with steel handcuffs locking his wrists behind his back. Rivington stooped down over the crumpled figure of Tommy Spearman.

  “Glad you’ve — got — him, Rivington,” said Spearman faintly. “I managed to — get free — while you were — all busy…”

  His breath was coming with difficulty, and his face was twisted in pain.

  “It was the — only thing — to do, wasn’t it?”

  “It was one of the bravest things I’ve ever seen,” said the detective sincerely.

  Mr Spearman smiled.

  “Had — to — do it,” he muttered. “I couldn’t let — the girl…”

  He broke into a fit of coughing, and with his handkerchief Paul wiped away the blood from his lips.

  “Thanks,” said Spearman. “You’ll find — that film — at Los Angeles Post Office — John Clayton...”

  A spasm of pain racked him, but he contrived to smile.

  “Rivington — ” Paul had to bend closer to catch the words at all, they were so faint “ — you might tell — Mary — ”

  What he wanted to tell Mary, Paul never knew, for in that second of time the soul that was Thomas Spearman went back whence it had come, and the body that had been Thomas Spearman lay very still.

  Chapter 21

  THE ULTIMATUM

  Mr Elmer Myers woke early with a vague feeling of depression, and it was not until he was fully awake that he succeeded in tracing this indefinite sensation to its tangible cause. For the few hours that he had been asleep the matter of the film had been forgotten, and now as his senses came back to normal the worry of the past week swept over him like a flood. He rose feeling unrefreshed and tired, and a bath and a shave did little to counteract this weariness. His normal breakfast hour was seven-thirty. He was an energetic man, and believed in early rising. It was one of his maxims that a man could get through more work in the morning than at any other time of the day. The brain was at its brightest and freshest, and the body revitalised by sleep. This morning, however, Mr Myers felt neither bright nor fresh as he came downstairs to his dining room.

  Breakfast, as usual, was laid on the balcony, and crossing the big room, Elmer Myers took his place at a small table which stood in the shade of a flowering creeper. His newspapers were laid beside his plate, but the morning mail had not yet arrived. The film magnate was in no mood for news, and pushed them rather irritably aside as his butler approached with coffee.

  “Good morning, sir,” said the man, as he put the tray down and began to pour out the coffee.

  “Good morning,” grunted Mr Myers. “I guess I’ll just have some grapefruit and fish this morning.”

  “Nothing else, sir?” asked the butler.

  Elmer Myers shook his head.

  “No, thank you, nothing else,” he replied.

  The butler disappeared into the house, and gulping down half a cup of coffee, Mr Myers stared out over the green of the lawn. The morning was beautiful. The sun cast long golden yellow rays across the ground. There was a chorus
of birds in the trees, behind which the leaves rustled softly, forming a running accompaniment to their trebles. But Mr Myers neither saw nor heard anything of this.

  His mind was completely occupied with the urgent necessity of doing something. The whole future of Mammoth Pictures, which incidentally included the future of Mr Myers himself, hung in the balance. And the balance was slowly descending against him. If Paul Rivington succeeded in finding the film, then everything would be all right, but if he didn’t, nothing could prevent a crash, and a pretty serious crash at that.

  The whole business of Mammoth Pictures, which Mr Myers with so much thought and care had laboriously built up, would fall in ruins about his ears, and he, himself, would be buried under the debris. Once this happened, it would be the finish. He would never be able to extricate himself from the resultant financial catastrophe.

  He ate the grapefruit that was brought him slowly and deliberately, but the fish which followed he scarcely touched. After picking at it for a moment or two he pushed the plate aside, poured himself out another cup of coffee, and lit a cigar. He had barely savoured the first preliminary puff when the butler brought his letters.

  There was quite a pile of them, and ripping them open, Myers carried out his usual procedure of skimming them through and putting the more important ones aside for future attention. This morning, although there were so many, there were few of any importance. Only three were spread out on the right-hand side of his plate, and then he opened the last letter.

  At the sight of the envelope his frown had deepened, and as he read the contents it grew deeper still. The letter was from the bank which had found the greater part of the money for the film, and it was disconcerting. My Myers read it twice, and the lines about his mouth became accentuated.

  American Consolidated

  Bank Inc.

  August 10th.

  Mr Elmer Myers

  The Ronda,

  Beverley Hills.

  Dear Sir.

  My attention has been called to the fact that several rumours are going about regarding the film entitled The Man-God, which your corporation has recently completed and which was partly financed by us. The rumours are to the effect that the negative of this film is no longer in your possession, and that in reality it was stolen on the night that your film editor and cutter, Mr Perry Lament, was murdered. Whether these rumours are correct or not I cannot, of course, pass an opinion, but they are very disquieting and disconcerting, and my firm is not unnaturally both worried and anxious. They have instructed me to make an inquiry into the matter, and so I shall take the pleasure of calling on you at your offices at eleven o’clock on Wednesday morning, the 11th inst. I shall be very glad if you will make it convenient to see me then.