That Sam Carver was a fair approximation of Barrett as to stature and conformation had already entered the plan; but this brief note suggested an interesting amendment, despite the fact that the open implication of an undercover friendship might be misleading. Yet, from his observation of Moroni’s organization, he could at least be certain that the note was written by Norma Arradonda, and not by some obscure namesake.
Barrett’s eyes glittered with that same fierce mirth of two nights ago, at Club Martinique. Then he remembered Lee Simpson’s peril, and his mirth became exceedingly bitter. Barrett strode swiftly toward the ferry landing, a block further upstream, saw that the aged ticket taker was nodding at his post, and stepped into the telephone booth. He called Amos and gave the old negro two simple orders. This done, Barrett returned to the doorway on Munn Street and set to work exchanging clothing with the late Sam Carver.
In a few minutes the first move against the enemy was completed. With the flashlight Barrett checked his work to see that he had made no slips in the dark.
“If this don’t work…good God, but it’s got to work! It can’t flop!” he told himself as he repressed a shudder at the thought of the dead man’s apparel that now clothed him.
He heard the sound of a car pulling to the curbing. Old Amos…nevertheless Barrett advanced with drawn pistol until he was close enough to identify his servant.
“Go back home, Amos,” he directed. “Leave the Ford here.”
Barrett dashed back to the doorway of death, shouldered Sam Carver’s body, and placed it at the wheel of the sedan. Mike was then stowed in the Ford coupe which Amos still had an excellent chance of inheriting. From the coupe Barrett took a double barreled, ten gauge shotgun. He lowered the window of the sedan…
A sheet of flame, a roar, the splintering of glass—Barrett knew that his work had been good, but he did not care to verify the fact by close inspection. He disconnected a gas line, let the ground beneath the car become drenched, then struck and tossed a match. As the flames rose in a lurid column, he turned toward the Ford coupe, to drive down town.
“It’s got to work,” he reiterated as he banished, by sheer force of will, the panic that assailed him at the thought of failure.
Barrett, hard bitten, and seasoned as he was by the World War, was shaken by the gruesome work of the past few minutes—and then he remembered Lee Simpson’s severed finger, and Moroni’s characteristic duplicity as revealed by the two who did not know that a silken scarf was a deadly weapon.
“Live bait, eh?” he muttered grimly.
Barrett drew up to the curbing some ten blocks short of Canal Street. He dragged Mike from the coupe, supporting him as though he were hopelessly drunk. The vicinity, though bustling during the day with trucks approaching and leaving the establishments of the produce dealers and commission merchants, was utterly deserted at night. Nevertheless, Barrett played his part by muttering incoherently as though he were as intoxicated as his burden was supposed to be.
Barrett knew that there was a telephone pay-station in the entrance that led to the second floor of the building. He maneuvered Mike into position, supported him with his elbow, then called Norma Arradonda. Barrett made an effort to disguise his voice to resemble the husky rasp of Mike.
“Norma… This is Mike,” he began hurriedly. “You know—Sam’s buddy—”
“Yes?” came the voice of Norma, with a peculiar, rising inflection that sent chills creeping up his spine. Warning? Anxiety? Dawning suspicion? A host of fatal possibilities trooped home in an instant. Lee Simpson’s life was at stake. And then—
“Sam croaked Barrett and took the twenty grand—”
Barrett distinctly caught Norma’s gasp of amazement and consternation. But what else? Concern for Sam’s fate when Moroni learned of the trickery—perhaps.
“We’re checkin’ out. Meet us at Ponchartrain Junction! Quick! Yeah, hurry like—”
Barrett dropped the receiver, drew a pistol, and at the same time broke off his conversation to cry out in terror, “Sam—fer Chris—”
The crackle of the pistol cut short the shriek. Over the wire, the deception must have been perfect.
“That, and Mike full of lead,” was Barrett’s thought as he leaped to the coupe, “ought to convince them I’m dead and Sam’s skipped with the ransom. Now let’s see what they’ll have at Ponchartrain Junction.”
Barrett headed for the first city station beyond the main L & N depot.
Simpson, in view of Barrett’s supposed death, would have no further vengeance-appeal for Moroni. But if Moroni suspected that it was not Barrett who was at the wheel of the flame warped sedan—!
* * * *
Barrett was grateful that he knew of several readily accessible public phones which were inconspicuous. There was one on Decatur Street, across from the French Market coffee stall. Made to order! He called John Healy at his residence.
“I’ve been bumped off. You’ll find my body at Munn and Tchoupitoulas Streets,” he informed the Chief of Detectives. “Land on Moroni and his boys for killing me. Right now, and for God’s sake, shake it up! Stick to that story. It’s foolproof. And it’s Simpson’s head if it flops.”
Barrett smacked the receiver into place and drove on.
“That’ll keep ’em off of Lee, wherever he is.”
Barrett, whose successful campaigning had in the past been largely dependent on the proper interpretation of underworld whispers, had heard of Sam Carver’s interest in Norma. Garrulity is the most fatal affliction of the racketeer. Thus, though Barrett inferred that Carver’s interest had blossomed beyond mildness, he was not certain enough to predict her attitude toward Carver’s supposed proposition. She might be loyal to Moroni—in which case there would be a reception committee awaiting Carver as represented by Davis P. Barrett; but that was a chance that could not be avoided.
Barrett parked in a side street, and taking full advantage of the darkness along the L & N tracks, made a careful reconnaissance. His wearing Carver’s gray suit made him a good target; and Barrett was still uncertain as to what and who would meet him.
He saw a cab pull up across the tracks, heard the door slam, and watched its tail light disappear.
The passenger was a woman, and she was approaching the deserted station. The waiting room was in darkness save for a single feeble globe. By its dim glow he recognized the shapely figure, exotic coiffure, and graceful, confident gait of Norma Arradonda as she crossed the threshold.
Bait…live bait…who else might be there…
“Live bait it is,” he told himself as he advanced. “But which of us?”
The girl, who had been watching his approach, emerged to meet him. She barely suppressed a cry of alarm as she realized that Sam Carver’s gray suit did not contain Sam Carver. But Barrett’s smile reassured her to a degree, so that she was perplexed rather than alarmed, Barrett, whatever he was, was not a woman killer.
“Sam didn’t kill me,” he explained. “That was just a handy stall. We made a bargain. Moroni thinks I’m dead. You know where Simpson is. Here’s the twenty grand I’m giving you, from Sam, if you’ll tell me where my buddy is held a prisoner.”
It caught Norma off guard, but she quickly assimilated it.
“This money,” she said, “is your security against Sam, and Simpson’s our—”
“Right,” said Barrett. “Now you get on that phone and get things going. The minute I know that Simpson is in the clear, you get the money. And don’t worry about Sam—Moroni can’t touch him.”
“Dirty trick,” was Barrett’s thought as he caught a significant light in Norma’s eyes. “She likes Carver…plenty.”
But the memory of Simpson’s severed finger stilled his qualms, and steeled him to carry on with his playing on the girl’s obvious affection for Carver.
“But he’ll know you’re not dead,” she objected.
He made a gesture of finality. Norma understood. Despite her connection with the racket, she was for a moment taken aback by the grimness of Sam Carver’s subterfuge.
As she paused for words, Barrett suddenly realized that he had been off guard for a moment, that his keen attention had relaxed. He glanced over his shoulder, caught a metallic glint. And before Norma could utter the words that were on her lips, Barrett’s hand shot forward—not to his holster, but to the girl, striking her to the floor as Barrett himself plunged forward.
He made it with a split second to spare: a drumming fusillade rattled through the silence, and sent the panes beyond them splintering and tinkling to the floor.
“Wiggle clear!” hissed Barrett as he whipped his prone body to cover and flashed his pistol into line. The gunner was momentarily off guard, and certain that his volley had dropped Barrett and Norma. But the smack of Barrett’s pistol sent him pitching backward. Another, coming from cover, returned Barrett’s fire, spattering him with wood splinters, but doing no damage.
“Come out and take it, Carver,” said a voice. “Or we’ll chop the dump down and the Jane’ll get it too.”
“Smack!”
And a grunt of pain.
“Spill it!” urged Barrett in a low voice. “Don’t be fussy about ratting! Can’t you see somebody tapped your line, and Moroni’s out for you and Sam?”
A siren screamed in the distance.
Barrett’s pistol fire, now more accurate, halted the charge before it got a fair start.
“Here’s the note you gave Sam. That proves I’m on the level.”
He emptied his pistol, and drew the other salvaged weapon. Help was close; but the enemy could stick to the last second and still make a getaway. Some of them were slipping around to attack from the rear.
“Come across!” he barked above the deadly chatter of the automatic and the splintering of glass and wood. “You can’t get away with this. You’ve got to leave town. And twenty grand—crack-crack—is a good stake.”
“The Carlotta. Opposite Jackson ferry,” she replied.
“Phone the police!” commanded Barrett as he jammed home a fresh clip, wondering as he did so whether he could hold the rush.
But the arrival of the police patrol spared Barrett the test. As the melee subsided, John Healy entered the station, alone.
“You jackass!” he demanded, “why didn’t you tell me you were throwing a party here?”
“Cops hanging around would’ve crabbed the works. Send some men to the Carlotta. Get Simpson. And tell your outfit Sam Carver is here, dead. Don’t let anyone get wise!”
Healy was perplexed, but he asked no questions.
“Duval! MacCarthy!” he bellowed. “Get this, and hop to it!”
He repeated Barrett’s instructions, then added, “Don’t lose a second—I’ll hold this down—to hell with what’s in here, hurry, damn it!”
* * * *
As the patrol car took off with a roar and a clash of gears, Healy turned to Barrett.
“Lord, Dave,” he said, seeing Barrett’s drawn, white features—white as his tropic tan allowed. “Did they get—”
“No. Didn’t plug me, much—but if anything’s slipped—Lee Simpson—”
Healy’s eyes opened wide as Farrell explained a few things.
“But I don’t quite understand,” he protested.
“You’re dumb!” snapped Barrett, giving him a hard glance. And then, “Norma, you don’t have to wait here until Lee’s in the clear—here’s the dough. We’ll drive to the airport and get you out of town right now!”
“But we found Mike Tomaso’s body in a phone booth,” Healy persisted, ignoring Barrett’s murderous glance. “Not in your burned up car. Who—”
Norma’s slender form jerked as from an electric shock. Her features twitched from the horror of sudden understanding. Then her hand flashed forward. Four packets of bills caught Barrett full in the face.
“You dirty —— ——!” she said with a deliberation that made the words even deadlier than their coming from a woman’s lips.
Barrett nodded. Healy seized her wrists.
“I feel like one, Norma,” he said solemnly. “But Lee Simpson was my friend. Had to do it. Now you get out of town, and take this dough—call it insurance money—anything you please.”
“You big sap, are you giving her that jack?” demanded Healy.
His voice boomed above Norma’s low, terribly calm reiterations of hatred, and contempt, and grief, grotesquely mingled.
Barrett started to answer, then changed his mind. He hardly expected the detective to understand his feelings regarding the evening’s strategy.
“I hope they’ve killed him!” shrieked Norma, her calmness breaking.
The telephone in the closest booth rang. Healy, who had given his men the number, snatched the receiver. He listened for a moment; and during that moment Barrett felt strangely empty, and futile. He poised himself on the balls of both feet…his fists were clenching painfully tight…he forced himself not to think of anything…
“All clear, Dave!” roared Healy’s voice after several age-long seconds. “Simpson’s okay!”
Barrett slowly exhaled the breath he had been holding. He listened again to Norma’s invective, once more low-voiced. Then he smiled, shook his head.
“John, drive her out to the airport and see she gets out of town—charter a plane if necessary, but get her out, or her life’s not worth a dime.”
He hitched his belt, redistributed the weight of the emptied pistols, and shrugged as he heard the grief stricken girl’s final appraisal of him.
“C’est la guerre!—or something like that. They oughtn’t have used live bait…”
THE CROOKED SQUARE
Originally published in Strange Detective Stories, February 1934.
Davis P. Barrett thrust back his chair and regarded his fellow directors of the First Trust Bank. They were assembled about a long, teak-wood table in the study of Barrett’s town house, wondering who would be the next victim of the Square, that sinister criminal who had within the week reduced their number from nine to seven.
“Mr. Chairman,” said Barrett, “the police are looking for the Square among professional criminals. But they will not find him.”
Barrett’s glance flashed from face to face.
“Because the Square is at this table. One of us is an assassin!”
Barrett’s words rattled like an air hammer. The ensuing silence became oppressive. Then came a confused stirring, and false starts at speech.
“Why…er, Barrett, that’s absurd!” exclaimed Simmons, the chairman of the board. His voice, when he found it, was outraged and incredulous. “Do you mean that one of us killed Dobson and Cartier, and sent Benton an extortion note demanding one hundred thousand dollars?”
Simmons rapped for order, and glared at Barrett, the recently appointed director.
“I mean just that, Mr. Chairman! Only, extortion is not the true motive. That was camouflage.
“The stock that Dobson and Cartier held in this bank, and in several other locally owned corporations—Crescent Chemical, for instance, and Gulf States Indemnity—will be scattered into small parcels when their estates are settled.
“The seven of us practically control those companies. Now, when this plot is completed by a few more deaths, one of the survivors will have absolute control without having purchased a single additional share.”
They caught the point. While fifty-one percent of stock must in theory be held to secure absolute control, a much smaller percentage will suffice if the balance be scattered among small holders, hard to organize.
Barrett’s eyes were hard as sword points. The directors stirred uneasily before the searching glance of that
ex-hunter of men, beasts, and adventure. His hand slipped to his vest pocket. He produced a cardboard pill box which he set near the center of the table.
“This box contains a gelatin capsule of deadly, vegetable poison. When I switch out the lights we will pass in single file around the table. The Square—one of us—will take that capsule. On his way home, he will die, apparently of heart failure. A skilled toxicologist could scarcely detect the traces of poison unless he were forewarned of its presence.
“In this way the Square can escape the hangman. Otherwise, I’ll continue my investigation and expose him. One more move, and he’s through.”
Barrett’s gesture was eloquent, and inexorable. Those whose eyes followed its cutting finality noted the antique Oriental carpets and tapestries, and clusters of weapons from far off lands. The carpets came from Persian palaces; the weapons, from the hands of those who had made the error of hunting Barrett.
“Why…that’s ghastly. Barrett, are you insane?… Whoever heard of such a thing!” they clamored, all finding their voices at once.
Barrett imperturbably regarded them, eye to eye, one by one. He gestured toward the cardboard pill-box and shrugged.
“One of us knows I’m not insane,” he said evenly. “I offer that man a decent way out. If he declines, I will exact the uttermost vengeance. He will hang, despite his position.”
The directors regarded each other in incredulous dismay. Their faces, some ruddy, some bronzed, some pasty, had all reached an equality in pallor. There was something sinister and chilling in Barrett’s emphasis on the word hang. Taylor Hartley, shaken from his habitual self possession, glanced about.
“Mr. Chairman,” he said, “even if one of us were guilty, this proposal carried into effect would make us all accessories to a private, extra-legal execution. Murder, no less.”
“Right, Hartley,” agreed Barrett grimly. “Or else one of us goes to the gallows, and the First Trust is sunk. Despite our precautions against the facts leaking out, there were dangerously heavy withdrawals today.” Barrett paused, then added, “The cover of this pillbox is marked with luminous paint. Whoever wants it can easily find it in the dark.”
E. Hoffmann Price's Pierre d'Artois: Occult Detective & Associates Page 59
