The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  Possibly a newspaper man sees more singular things than most people, because he is looking for them. However, never have I seen anything more swift and shocking than the change in Madame de Lautenac. One moment proudly beautiful, the next she was shrinking in stark terror.

  Clancy offered his arm, and mechanically she accepted. The three of us went to the taxicab, and Clancy directed the driver. None of us spoke a word on the way, and when the short drive was ended, Clancy ordered the chauffeur to wait and the three of us went into the elevator and up to her floor.

  There, before her door, she paused and turned on us as though to resist or protest. She lost her nerve again, and produced a key.

  “Allow me, madame,” said Clancy, and opened the door. “Into the small salon, madame.”

  We followed her inside. She seemed dazed, hopeless, as she led us into a very beautifully fitted salon. Then, throwing aside her wrap, she faced us with returning composure and a hint of defiance.

  “What does this mean—”

  “It means we had better sit down, if madame will permit,” said Clancy. When she met his gaze, terror flickered again in her eyes. She seated herself abruptly.

  “What I would like most to know,” said Clancy reflectively, as though we were engaged in a light conversation over the coffee cups, “is the connection between Madame de Lautenac and the stamp dealer Colette. I refer, of course, to the antecedent connection.”

  “I never heard of such a man,” said the woman coldly, her self-possession returning.

  “No?” said Clancy softly. He looked at me and smiled, and spoke in English. “Did you notice that Colette’s inside coat pocket had the lining pulled out?”

  “Perhaps it had,” I said. “It had been disarranged by the surgeon, no doubt.”

  “No, not by the surgeon.” Clancy nodded and reverted to French. The woman’s eyes showed me she had understood every word perfectly. “I suppose, madame, it is useless to ask for the document you took from Colette’s pocket after you stabbed him?”

  Her pale face became yet paler, but her composure was perfect. Even her fingers, which had been nervously playing with a handkerchief in her lap, became still.

  “I know nothing of what you refer to,” she said calmly, her eyes fastened on Clancy.

  He nodded and turned to me.

  “Will you be good enough to invert the Dresden china vase at the left of the mantel?”

  I rose, went to the mantel, took the vase from it, and inverted it. Something heavy fell to the carpet, and I picked up one of those tiny miniature swords which can be found everywhere in Paris. This one was a rapier, perhaps six inches long, beautifully made and inlaid with gold. It might have served as a cabinet curio, as a hair ornament, or as anything. Halfway up the blade, toward the golden hilt, was a brownish stain.

  “Now, perhaps,” said Clancy quietly, to the woman, “you will tell me the antecedent connection between yourself and Colette?”

  “He was my husband,” she said, half whispering the words.

  There was a moment of silence—a moment can be a long time. Only the ticking of the clock on the mantel disturbed us, and I saw the woman’s eyes go to it with a sudden flash. She had remembered her appointment with Galtier—there was still hope!

  “The document,” said Clancy gravely, “is for the present immaterial. I wonder why you stopped to abstract a rare stamp from Colette’s safe, madame? There was your mistake.”

  “It is nothing to you,” she answered, calm again. A good antagonist, this woman! “I admit nothing. I know nothing.”

  “But,” said Clancy inexorably, “you expect to give that stamp to Jean Galtier in an hour or less.”

  She sagged a little, and her steady gaze flickered. Clancy saw it, and drove home at once. “Perhaps you’d better give me the stamp, instead.”

  “Very well,” she said, to my surprise.

  On the table lay a card-case. She reached out and took it, opened it, and extracted a tiny bit of paper. For a moment, it fell to me to see one of the world’s rarest stamps. Clancy held out his hand to take it.

  Instead, with a swift movement she shot it into her mouth and swallowed it.

  * * * *

  Clancy uttered an exclamation of dismay. So rapid was her action, neither of us had a chance to stop it, and Cleopatra’s vinegar destroyed no greater value than this little meal. Madame de Lautenac smiled slightly.

  “I do not know what stamp you are talking about,” she said calmly. “One cannot have committed a crime without evidence—”

  Clancy recovered, and pointed to the little rapier, which I had laid on the table.

  “The principal evidence, madame.”

  “Planted here by you, evidently during my absence.”

  Well shot. But Clancy only smiled.

  “And then, madame, have we also planted the text of the Franco-Italian treaty, which you removed from Colette’s pocket?”

  In a moment, her defiant beauty became haggard, she became an old woman. The glitter of her eyes swept into a frightful despair. Somehow, Clancy had nailed her this time.

  “How long is it since you left Colette?” demanded Clancy.

  “Six years,” she whispered. “Because—because he was a spy for Germany—in the war—”

  “And you,” said Clancy, pitiless, “take money from Moscow. Where is the difference? This treaty was signed three days ago in Paris. You were told at Cannes that Colette had it, for Germany. You were told to get it. You came and got it. Then—the stamp! Why the stamp?”

  “For—for Jean,” she whispered, her face terrible to see.

  “And he will be here for his stamp presently,” said Clancy. “Good. Then he, too, will become implicated in the murder—”

  She half came to her feet.

  “Stop, stop!” she cried out horribly. “He is innocent of it—he knows nothing of it—you must not drag him into it!” She thrust a hand into her low corsage and dragged out a paper packet, and flung it to the floor. “There is the treaty—take it, but do not bring Jean into it—spare him, spare him!”

  She sank back, put her handkerchief to her face, and huddled down in her chair.

  Clancy picked up the paper packet and broke it open. He nodded slightly, and put it in his pocket. Then he got out a cigarette and lighted it, and handed me one.

  “Well, Logan,” he said in English, “I think we’d better be getting along. We must not miss the ballet, you know. It wouldn’t do to be late.”

  “But—”

  I motioned toward the woman, who had not moved. Clancy sniffed slightly, and I started. In place of apple-blossom, a thin odor of bitter almonds was quivering on the air.

  “A prussic-acid capsule in her handkerchief,” said Clancy, with only a glance at her huddled, motionless figure. “No need to verify it. Shall we go?”

  We went. Phil Brady did not get much of a story out of it, after all.

  THE THRUST OF A FINGER

  CHAPTER 1

  Pearls!

  Shutz, balanced on the prow of the launch, flung out the order: “Slower! This is the place, all right. Somebody ahead of us. Have your gun handy.”

  A grunt of assent made answer.

  Shutz appeared to be the only person aboard the wallowing fishing launch, as she headed in by the low, sandy point. Ruthven, in the engine cockpit, did not show at all. He had to keep a sharp eye on the engines, which were shaky at best.

  Ahead loomed up the whole immense bulk of Cerros Island, twenty miles long and four thousand feet high; a mass of gigantic volcanic pinnacles jutting from the sea. Behind, the rocky bluffs and bare, yellowish hills of the Lower California coast ran back into deserts of cactus and white stone. Man, it seemed, was nonexistent here.

  On this eastern side of Cerros the water was smooth and deep. Farther to the south was a tiny settlement of abalone fishers, the only human life on the island. No one came along here, except occasional coasters cutting off distance by way of Dewey Channel, or deep-sea fisherme
n, for whom the place was a paradise.

  “Any boat laid up?” asked Ruthven’s voice presently.

  “No.” Shutz squinted at the shore in the blazing sunlight. His hair showed black against a sun-darkened skin. He was slender, vigorous of face and body, his hands and bared forearms powerful. “The wreck’s there where Ramon said, on the sand spit. Two chaps watching us, over on this side of the creek. Engines weak?”

  “All shot, blast ’em!” Ruthven’s voice was drowned out in a roar from the engines. His curses rose on the hot air. The boat crept on toward the shore, a smell of burning oil surrounding her.

  Shutz caught up the hand lines to the tiller, and the launch headed for the inner edge of the sand, just where the rocks began. A hundred feet or so farther out, drawn well up in the white sand, was the battered hull of another launch. Off to the left were rocks, the shadows of an abrupt little ravine with a stream of water trickling out. Near this stood two men, naked to the waist, their faces shielded by huge straw hats, watching the incoming craft.

  Ruthven stood up, mopped his face, sent a keen look ashore. He was an older man, heavy-muscled and unshaven. A holstered pistol showed at his hip.

  “No boat, no hut,” he observed in a low voice. “If these are the ones who got your uncle, keep an eye peeled! No rifles?”

  Shutz had lifted binoculars for a swift look. The two men ashore moved in among the rocks as though not interested further in the arrivals.

  “Didn’t see any,” he answered. “Damned bad luck about the engine; just when we needed it, too. What’s the trouble?”

  “Distributor or plugs,” said Ruthven. “An hour or two will see her right again.”

  Shutz laughed, and this changed his face, wiped away its intense and concentrated look. He seemed younger, more eager and reckless.

  “We burned her up getting here, that’s what,” he said. Ruthven nodded.

  The launch was all fitted out for deep-sea fishing, and had come from San Diego, as the name on her stern testified. The neatly racked lines had not been used, however, nor had the poles been unjointed. And it was odd that only two men were aboard her.

  She drew in toward the sand spit. Three miles beyond was the north end of Cerros; great jagged bluffs, with out flung rocks dotting the waters, and up above a sharp peak rising for nearly two thousand feet, its crest of cedar trees sharp-cut against the brazen sky. Shutz glanced up at the cliffs, at the naked uplands running off to the south, and his lips drew taut. His glance dropped again to the two men ashore. They must have come down from those supposedly uninhabited, rocky heights.

  Somewhere up there, gold was mined and men lived; drifters, wastrels, beach combers who could not show their faces elsewhere. Not many of them, perhaps only a few, but enough to count as a force if anything came ashore to be looted. A frightful existence, thought Shutz as he glanced at the bare rocks; cut off from the world, any men from those desert heights must be more beast than human.

  “Shut her off!” he ordered sharply, and the noise of the engine died out. The craft forged slowly ahead to the sand. Ruthven climbed out of the cockpit and stood waiting. His features looked freshly sunburned.

  “Tide’s high now,” he observed. “Think it’s safe to beach her? We’d have to stay until next flood, if we do.”

  “No. Anchor her out a ways, after we take a look around,” said Shutz. “Then you can get the engine in shape. We can beach her temporarily.”

  The prow rammed gently into the sand a few feet from shore. Shutz jumped out, taking a line with him, and made the line fast to a rock in the sand. Ruthven followed, splashing ashore more carefully. Shutz stood up and met his inquiring eyes.

  “Well? With them watching us?”

  “Might as well,” said Ruthven. “Only two there. Get it over with and make sure.”

  “No.” Shutz shook his head with abrupt decision. “It’d look as though we came just for that. Besides, one of ’em’s coming out now. I’ll meet him, size him up.”

  He turned, lit a cigarette, stepped out to meet the figure who was approaching from the rocks beyond the sand spit. To all appearance he was unarmed. Ruthven shoved back his cap and produced a pipe, filling and lighting it. Abruptly, he reached down and unbuttoned the strap of his holster, then went on smoking.

  Shutz was mildly astonished as the stranger drew closer. The latter showed an alert, powerful face, framed by neatly-trimmed brown hair; eyes clear and vigorous, a muscled torso, white silk trousers, hat of fine weave. Decidedly no drunken wastrel, more like someone down on a fishing trip.

  “Hello!” exclaimed the other cordially. “Fishing, are you? Satter’s my name; Doctor John, they usually call me, to distinguish me from my brother, Doctor George.”

  “Oh!” said Shutz, putting out his hand to meet that of Satter. “Glad to meet you. I’m Bob Shutz. Ran down from San Diego over the weekend. A doctor, eh? Not located here?”

  Satter broke into an amused laugh. “Heavens, no!” he exclaimed. “They’ve had a bit of typhus at the settlement a few miles south of here; got me down from Ensenada to take it in hand. I’ve been here for a week or more.”

  “Who’s your friend?” asked Shutz.

  Doctor John chuckled. “He’s from the settlement. A Mexican; leave him out of it. To tell the truth, we were a bit nervous. Thought you might be rum runners.”

  “Same here,” said Shutz, smiling whimsically. “There are some tough hombres in these parts. We weren’t any too sure. Come along and have a drink, will you?”

  “Surest thing you know,” said Doctor John cheerfully. “No ice, I suppose?”

  “We have,” returned Shutz. “This craft belongs to a friend of mine. She doesn’t look up to much, and in some ways she isn’t, but she has an ice plant aboard. Haven’t seen anyone else around these parts?”

  “Not a soul,” said the other. “Juan and I took a walk up this way today, and it’s the lonesomest place in the world.”

  They came up to Ruthven, whose astonishment was evident as he was introduced. The three chatted for a moment, and then Shutz clapped the doctor on the arm.

  “Look here, doc, will you trot aboard and wait for us?” he said. “We’ve got a slight job on hand—won’t take more than a minute or two, and then we’re free. Call up your peon to join us, if you like.”

  “He wouldn’t come,” and Doctor John laughed. “He’s shy of strangers. Let him be, and he’ll be happier. So will we. Shall I hop aboard, then?”

  “You bet. Cigars and cigarettes in the cabin. Make yourself comfortable. We’ll be along in no time.”

  With a nod and a word of thanks, Doctor John obeyed, wading out to the launch and lifting himself over the side with effortless ease. Ruthven whistled softly and turned toward the battered wreck of the other craft, striding ahead of Shutz. The latter caught up.

  “What the devil!” he said in a low voice. “Anything wrong?”

  “No,” said Ruthven, with a shrug. “Only I think he’s a damned liar.”

  “Nonsense!” and Shutz laughed. “You’re too suspicious. Well, here we are! This is uncle’s old craft, sure enough. And think what a few days have done to her, eh?”

  “And a few men,” said Ruthven grimly. “This place has got my nerves, Shutz! I have a feeling like something closing down on me, something beyond escape. You know how it comes in a nightmare, sometimes—”

  “Your liver,” said Shutz, with a shrug.

  Before them lay the wrecked launch; once a stout craft enough, but now a sad ruin. Her bows were stove in; everything movable had been washed away or stolen, even to portions of the engine.

  “Go ahead,” said Ruthven. “I’ll watch out.”

  Shutz swung himself to the sloping deck and down the companion. He looked around the cabin swiftly. Everything gone, of course, even most of the lights looted. There was the print of the Flying Cloud on the wall, glass smashed in its frame, half the picture torn away. With a smile, Shutz went to it, pressed the four corners of the frame, then sh
oved at the right edge. The picture swung on a central pivot, giving a glimpse of the opening behind. Shutz reached in, and an exclamation of satisfaction broke from him. He brought out two packets wrapped in oilskin, stuffed them into his pockets, and emerged into the sunlight again.

  “Got them,” he said as he rejoined Ruthven, and paused to light a cigarette.

  He had forgotten Doctor John temporarily. Here on these sands his uncle had died, with the two other survivors of the wreck, cut down by a blast of bullets from behind the rocks. Only Ramon had lived to crawl away, attract the attention of a passing boat next morning, and reach San Diego. All signs of that tragedy were wiped out now, in the week that had elapsed. It was nothing for publication, either. If that story had reached the newspapers, half a hundred craft would have been crowding around here, for Harvey Shutz was well-known. His business was well-known. That he had been bound home after six months of touring down the coast and buying pearls at the fisheries was well-known. Ruthven, his secretary, had kept the wreck a secret.

  And now Shutz had a fortune in his coat pockets.

  “Let’s get aboard before she’s left high and dry by the tide,” said Ruthven. “I’ll have to get to work on those engines, too. Or, wait! You go ahead. I’ll see if I can’t get some fresh plugs out of this wreck.”

  “Right,” said Shutz cheerfully.

  CHAPTER II

  AMBUSH

  Shedding his jacket down below, Shutz got some whisky and joined the doctor under the bit of sail that shadowed the afterdeck. He set down his tray and drew up a chair.

  “Pour your own dose, doc,” he said.

  Doctor John obeyed, and poured a stiff one. His alert, keen gaze turned to Shutz and then wandered repeatedly.

  “Looking up that wreck, were you?” he asked with a casual air.

  Shutz stirred the ice in his glass and nodded.

  “Belonged to my uncle Harve.”

  “Who? Not Harvey Shutz, the pearl buyer?” exclaimed the doctor with quick interest.

  “Yes. Knew him, did you?”

  “I’ve met him several times, yes. He was wrecked here?”

  “Wrecked and shot—done for,” said Shutz. “Somebody did it right here—a week ago.”