The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  “Wait a minute!” exclaimed Gorman, a desperate look in his eyes. “You’ve got me wrong. I didn’t kill your pal, here, and I didn’t shoot you. I had nothing to do with it, if that’s what you think.”

  “No?” said Shutz. “Well, don’t you get jumpy about it, Gorman. The safety catch is off this pistol, you know.”

  “But you’ve no reason to turn me over to the police!” protested Gorman stubbornly. “I tell you I had nothing to do with it! That was Paxton; you can’t keep that devil from shooting anything in sight.”

  “But I can,” said Shutz amiably. “I assure you that I can. I’ve got him all nicely tied up for delivery, down below. I’ll keep him from shooting anything, you can bet on that! Paxton, if that’s his name, has fired his last bullet for awhile. By the way, you didn’t find those pearls, I suppose? No, I see you didn’t. I suppose you never thought to look in the pockets of my coat, eh? You passed up a good bet there, Gorman.”

  “But I haven’t harmed you!” cried out Gorman, his voice shrill. “I haven’t—”

  “Oh, shut up!” snapped Shutz, wearying of this scene. “You dog, you’re behind the whole thing! You had my uncle shot down, murdered, and you’re going to answer for it. Stop your whining and turn around!”

  “I won’t!” burst out Gorman with desperation. “I tell you—”

  Shutz lost his jaunty manner.

  “And let me tell you,” he said, “that I’d just as soon smash your leg with a bullet, and I’ll do it, too. So take your choice.”

  He jerked the pistol down, covered Gorman’s knee.

  “All right!” said Gorman hastily. “All right! What the hell you waiting for, you fool? Grab him!”

  Shutz started. Then he saw Gorman’s eyes driving past him. He turned, but too late. A pair of arms reached under his armpits from behind and jerked him backward. He pressed the trigger, but the bullet went wild.

  Next instant he was tumbling backward, over the rail to the sand, in the grip of Scotty, while Gorman hurled himself bodily upon the pair of them.

  * * * *

  There was a wild half-minute—thirty seconds that seemed like an age. Shutz cursed his forgetfulness of the man on the sand. Then, as he fell over, locked in the grip of Scotty, spasm after spasm of pain shot through his body. It wakened him to frantic and incredible effort. He struggled in vain. His arms were drawn tightly behind him, and now Gorman came over the rail and landed on top of them both, with crushing weight that drew a cry of fresh pain from Shutz.

  “Now, you damned rat!” yelled Gorman, as he got to one knee and drove a blow into Shutz’s face. “Now we’ll fix you for keeps.”

  Shutz felt the pistol, still in his hand, thrust against something soft. Instinctively, he pressed the trigger. With the report, a frightful yell sounded in his ear. He fired again, blindly.

  The pressure about his arms relaxed. Scotty screamed again. Shutz flung himself to one side and the pistol crashed out, almost in Gorman’s face. The latter uttered one low cry and pitched down on the sand, arms flung out.

  Shutz came to his feet, panting for breath, grunting with the pain that shot through him. The lights above illumined every detail clearly. He looked down, and saw that the wound in his side had come open—fresh blood was trickling down. The pain was sharp, severe in the extreme, but no fresh damage had been done.

  Turning, he looked down at the two men there. Scotty had ceased to move; both bullets had gone through his body. With Gorman, it was very different. That final bullet had plowed across his skull, letting out the blood and knocking him senseless, but doing him no great damage otherwise.

  Shutz thrust away his pistol and knelt painfully. With strips of his own bloody shirt he bound Gorman’s wrists and ankles, then dragged the man’s body to the rail and toppled it over to the deck of the launch. Scotty he ignored. Stumbling down to where the stiff and horrible body of Ruthven lay half propped against the rail, Shutz strained at it and lifted it, somehow got it over and aboard the launch. As he did so, the craft stirred and lifted a little as a wave broke under her stern. The tide was coming in.

  The ship’s clock was striking eight bells, midnight, when the engines roared, the clutch slipped in, and reverse speed pulled her out of the sand. Shutz sat by the after controls. He was fully dressed now, and a meal had made a new man of him. The launch got into forward speed and shot away for the clear channel, quickly running out of the fog. Shutz looked up at the stars and swung the wheel.

  “If you ask me,” he said, and grinned up at the Pole Star, “I’ve done a pretty fair job of it, all things considered! But I know somebody who disagrees with that.”

  And he glanced with a chuckle at the bound figure of Gorman, alias Doctor John.

  THREE SMART SILKS

  John Driscoll looked up as Hopkins entered. The oil operator was frowning, intent upon a paper in his hand, and shoved it suddenly at his guest.

  “A damnable outrage!” he exclaimed. “The third threatening letter this week—and this one has a kick in it.”

  Driscoll, unhurried, reached for a cigar. He did not look at all like a Canadian, or even a barrister; much less did he look what he was—one of the best lawyers in Toronto. His pleasant, even features, with their level eyes seemed younger than their years.

  He had been here in Beverley Hills only two days, having come out from Toronto to consult with Hopkins about the latter’s eastern oil business and its Canadian branch, and was the guest of Hopkins.

  “Did you get the papers from White?” he asked casually. Hopkins nodded.

  “Yes. He’s dropping in on his way home—I was a bit upset about this letter.”

  Driscoll held up the scrawl, which was upon blank stationery:

  Pemberton Hopkins,

  Beverley Hills

  Fifty thousand in cash will save us a lot of trouble and will save you money and notoriety. Fraud charges filed tomorrow connection Oil Corpn. Unless cash deposited by eight tonight with Joe O’Meara. This is no bluff, brother.

  COME ACROSS.

  Driscoll’s brows lifted as he regarded the letter, studying it carefully. His gray eyes scintillated, became alert with energy.

  “I don’t quite understand,” he said. “The Oil Corporation?”

  Hopkins made an impatient gesture. His iron-jawed features were a little weary.

  “Yes, the combination, you know, of Coast companies—the Hopkins, Janiver and others. Three days from now we put it through; I’m to be president. Of course, if fraud charges are made, we’ll have no end of trouble. My Hopkins Oil has wells in production up the San Carlos valley, with a lease on the entire Dominguez rancho, covering twenty thousand acres.”

  Driscoll frowned. “They can hit you, some way?”

  “I don’t know; my lawyers don’t know. I’ve been pretty honest in my way, and I’ve made enemies. We know that for two weeks our stock has been heavily bought here and in ’Frisco. I whipped two big companies in a fight for that field, and they’d like to see me smashed—”

  “What’s this demand for fifty thousand cash to be given O’Meara? Blackmail?”

  “I’ve just seen the postal inspectors; we don’t know who writes the letters, and of course O’Meara would deny knowing. He’s a shyster lawyer here, a personal injury shark with a big pull politically. No use trying marked money—we’d never catch him. He doesn’t expect us to give him the money that way. This is to make us hold a conference with him and submit to robbery.”

  “It’d help you to know who wrote the letter, eh?” Driscoll picked up the paper and studied it again. As he was about to speak, Hopkins was summoned by the telephone buzzer.

  “Send him right up,” he said, and turned to Driscoll. “It’s White.”

  “What time is it?” asked Driscoll. “Rather, what time do offices close here?”

  “Four ten. Offices? Oh, about five or so.”

  Driscoll picked up a reading-glass from the table and studied the letter. He was still at it when White, chief of th
e legal firm handling Hopkins’ affairs, entered. He was a worried-looking man of forty, and shook hands nervously with Driscoll.

  “Any luck with those investigators you put on the blackmail hunt?” asked Hopkins.

  White shook his head, as he opened his briefcase.

  “I’m afraid we’ll get nowhere, Hopkins. I can’t unearth any hint as to what fraud charges they might bring, but I’ve found that O’Meara is pretty thick with a chap in the district attorney’s office—undercover man and fingerprint expert. That means we’re up against something shady. By the way, Mr. Driscoll, here are the proxies and other papers you wanted.”

  “Thanks very much,” said Driscoll, his trace of English accent rather pleasant. “Do I understand that you have engaged detectives about these anonymous letters?”

  “Yes, I have two very good men—”

  “Would it be possible for you or your men, or all of you, to get into O’Meara’s private office, on some excuse or another, before it closes today?”

  “Of course,” returned White, surprised. “I could go to him in regard to this letter, which mentions him. But why?”

  “Well, please do it,” said Driscoll. “And do it now, before his office closes. You’ll find one or two penholders on his desk—not fountain pens, but old-fashioned ones. Get hold of them, by force if necessary; take one or both of your men with you, however, and slide them away without being seen, if you can. Have them marked, not on the pen holder, but on the pens themselves; they may be important evidence. Your detectives will understand.”

  White stared rather blankly at the Canadian.

  “Are you in earnest, Mr. Driscoll?”

  “If O’Meara is behind this matter,” said Driscoll, “then these letters were probably written in his private office. Certainly this letter was dictated, and he’d be the logical person.”

  The lawyer turned to Hopkins, with a bewildered air, but met with a curt nod and a gesture that sent him hastily away. Hopkins, who conducted him to the door, returned to find Driscoll again poring over the anonymous letter.

  “Look here, Driscoll,” said the oil operator brusquely, “what makes you think that letter was dictated?”

  Driscoll leaned back, lighted a fresh cigar, and gestured toward the letter.

  “It’s indicated by the uneven spacing between the words—in this case, a clear deduction. I’d say that the man who wrote it sat at O’Meara’s desk, using one of the pens there. He was a man of fifty or more, of French parentage or extraction, was formerly a telegraph operator, was well dressed, and has a police record. Perhaps these points will help to identify him.”

  Staring blankly at the speaker Hopkins uttered an oath of amazement.

  “I didn’t know you were a detective, Driscoll—or is this a joke?”

  “Not a bit of it.”

  “But how the devil can you tell all this about the writer of the letter?”

  “Simplicity itself. There are five words to a line, many of the words connected; that shows an old telegraph operator, who always wrote his words thus by force of habit for easier counting, five to a line. This fact also determines his approximate age, for nowadays machines are used in most telegraph offices.

  “His French extraction is proven by the capital ‘T’ which has the base oval on the right side instead of on the left, as we make it; the capital ‘Q’ is finished very low, and the small ‘S’ has a tip at the top, which might come from German—but the capital ‘T’ makes it definitely French. Certain of the words are not connected like the others, pointing to pauses in dictation.

  “The paper,” went on Driscoll, “is a soft, porous, cheap paper such as is used for second or carbon sheets. On the left side are two peculiar rigid indentations; my guess is that they were made by the seams of a glove. The writer kept his left hand gloved, then, while he held down the paper. Only very carefully dressed men wear gloves in California. Under the circumstances, it was odd that the writer did not remove his gloves entirely; why not? He was exercising habitual care to leave no fingerprints. Obviously he has a record somewhere.”

  Hopkins gave him a hard, amazed glance. “My lord! That’s clever.”

  “Not particularly. I’ve made a study of documents. By the way, do you know anyone who might answer such a description?”

  “Hm! The French part of it helps. Might be Jack Legrand—he was San Francisco French. He dabbles a bit in oil and is crooked as a dog’s hind leg. He was one of the men after the Dominguez tract when I beat ’em to it. Still, he’d hardly be the writer of these letters; he’s too big a man.”

  “Do you consider fifty thousand dollars a piker’s bet?” asked Driscoll dryly. “Certainly no underling would be trusted with writing these letters. Have you the other two here?”

  Hopkins nodded, and produced the letters.

  * * * *

  Driscoll was still examining them minutely when White returned, accompanied by two men—investigators from a private agency. He came to Driscoll and laid two ordinary ink-stained pen-holders before him.

  “There you are, sir—both are marked; all three of us can swear to them. They were taken from the desk while I talked to O’Meara, and he paid no attention. Hopkins,” and the lawyer faced around, “that crook is too slick for us. He laughed at mention of the letter, and said we were trying to frame him. Then he let go his broadside.

  “He’s acting for Jack Legrand and several others who have bought stock in the Oil Corporation. It seems there was a prior lease made two years previous to yours by the Dominguez heirs, to some wildcat company that failed even to sink a hole. However, the lease ran for five years, and completely invalidates yours.”

  “The hell you say!” Hopkins flushed angrily. “Is it genuine?”

  “Apparently. It goes to the District Attorney in the morning, with a demand for an investigation and with fraud charges.”

  Hopkins was aghast. “But I tell you, it can’t be genuine!” he exclaimed. “There were three Dominguez heirs; none of them mentioned it to me! They swore they’d given no other lease!”

  “Where are they now!”

  Hopkins shrugged. “Spain, I think; one was in New York at last accounts. It can’t be possible—eh? What is it, Driscoll?”

  The Canadian had risen, and was holding out one of the pens to the lawyer.

  “Here you are, Mr. White—your evidence. Defective pen; one of the nibs has been damaged, probably by a fall from the desk. Nearly every downstroke in that letter is imperfect, except where the pen was fresh dipped. With a little careful measurement of enlarged photos, we can absolutely prove that this pen wrote this letter. No two pen-points, even of the same identical make and model, are exactly alike, you know. Better put your investigators to work on this, and check up on the other two letters and the other pen.”

  Hopkins, waiting at the telephone, turned to Driscoll.

  “Are you sure you want to handle this?”

  “I’m sure of nothing, my dear chap,” said Driscoll calmly. “I’d like to handle it, if you’ll give me free rein. I think I can put it across for you, but I guarantee nothing.”

  “You’re all right,” said Hopkins. It was nearly six o’clock, and he had just located Joseph O’Meara at the latter’s home. “Sure you want no one else present?”

  “No; why try to scare him! Meet him anywhere—”

  Hopkins leaned forward.

  “Hello, O’Meara. This is Pemberton Hopkins. My attorney tells me there’s some question about a prior lease to that Dominguez tract; correct? Well, if your clients would consider anything in the nature of a compromise—or in other words, if they’d sell me that prior lease—you imagine they might, eh? Very well. Have to discuss the matter tonight? Can’t be done; I’m tied up in a business deal. I could have a friend of mine, here from the east, meet you—he’d want to look over your document anyway, and he could bring a blank check. Suit you?”

  Hopkins turned to his guest, with an eloquent wink. The fish was hooked.

 
“Oh, anywhere you say—sure, I can trust Driscoll to the limit, and he can make the bargain if your document is genuine. Right. Cigar stand of the Ambassador Hotel, at seven sharp. Driscoll? Oh, young chap, English accent. Right.”

  Scarcely had Hopkins hung up the receiver, when one of White’s two investigators arrived, with a report on Jack Legrand.

  “It sure checks up with what you said about the letter writer, Mr. Driscoll,” said the operative admiringly. “Legrand went to France with relatives, as a boy, spent some years in England, and returned here as a young man. He was a telegraph operator upstate for years, at Ukiah and points north. His age is a trifle over fifty, so far as we can find.”

  “Hm!” said Driscoll. “He came here from England about 1905? It was just before then that King standardized the fingerprint identification system in England. Did you get anything on this Legrand?”

  “Not a thing. He made money just after the war, probably in some racket, in San Francisco. For six or seven years he’s been in straight business, dabbling in oil around down here. He wears gloves, like you said.”

  “Better get your blank check ready, Hopkins,” said Driscoll. “What does O’Meara look like?”

  “Medium height,” said Hopkins. “Wears a choker collar and puff tie, rather old-fashioned; ruddy face, pleasant smile, just a suspicion of Irish brogue.”

  “Right. Then I’ll be off. You’d better wait here, in case I want to telephone you, Hopkins. Then we’ll meet at eight, say, for dinner!”

  “If you can get back here, yes—or I’ll come downtown and meet you. Say, at the Ambassador.”

  “Until later, then.”

  * * * *

  Five minutes later he was heading down Wilshire Boulevard in Hopkins’ car.

  Driscoll walked into the hotel at six fifty-five. Selecting a cigar at the counter, he saw his man just beyond—genial, slightly pompous, with a keen Irish eye.

  “Mr. O’Meara, I believe? Driscoll is my name.”

  O’Meara smiled, shook hands. “Let’s go to the writing room upstairs—it should be empty now.”