Nightmare Town Page 7

  “Then the telegraph company sent Nova here and I flopped for her. At first it was just that I liked her looks. We had all sorts of women here—but they were mostly all sorts—and Nova was something different. I’ve done my share of dirtiness in this world, but I’ve never been able to get rid of a certain fastidiousness in my taste for women. I—Well, the rest of them—Brackett, Ormsby, Elder, and the lot—were all for giving Nova the works. But I talked them out of it. I told them to let her alone and I’d have her on the inside in no time. I really thought I could do it. She liked me, or seemed to, but I couldn’t get any further than that. I didn’t make any headway. The others got impatient, but I kept putting them off, telling them that everything would be fine, that if necessary I’d marry her, and shut her up that way. They didn’t like it. It wasn’t easy to keep her from learning what was going on—working in the telegraph office—but we managed it somehow.

  “Next Saturday was the day we’d picked for the big fireworks. Ormsby gave me the call yesterday—told me flatly that if I didn’t sew Nova up at once they were going to pop her. They didn’t know how much she had found out, and they were taking no chances. I told him 1’d kill him if he touched her, but I knew I couldn’t talk them out of it. To-day the break came. I heard he had given the word that she was to be put out of the way to-night. I went to his office for a showdown. Brackett was there. Ormsby salved me along, denied he had given any order affecting the girl, and poured out drinks for the three of us. The drink looked wrong. I waited to see what was going to happen next. Brackett gulped his down. It was poisoned. He went outside to die, and I nailed Ormsby.

  “The game has blown up! It was too rich for us. Everybody is trying to slit everybody else’s throat. I couldn’t find Elder—but Fernie tried to pot me from a window; and he’s Elder’s right-hand man. Or he was—he’s a stiff now. I think this thing in my chest is the big one—I’m about—But you can get the girl out. You’ve got to! Elder will go through with the play—try to make the killing for himself. He’ll have the town touched off to-night. It’s now or never with him. He’ll try to—”

  A shriek cut through the darkness.

  “Steve! Steve!! Steve!!!”

  —

  STEVE WHIRLED away from the gate, leaped through flower-beds, crossed the porch in a bound, and was in the house. Behind him Larry Ormsby’s feet clattered. An empty hallway, an empty room, another. Nobody was in sight on the ground floor. Steve went up the stairs. A strip of golden light lay under a door. He went through the door, not knowing or caring whether it was locked or not. He simply hurled himself shoulder-first at it, and was in the room. Leaning back against a table in the center of the room, Dr. MacPhail was struggling with the girl. He was behind her, his arms around her, trying to hold her head still. The girl twisted and squirmed like a cat gone mad. In front of her Mrs. MacPhail poised an uplifted blackjack.

  Steve flung his stick at the woman’s white arm, flung it instinctively, without skill or aim. The heavy ebony struck arm and shoulder, and she staggered back. Dr. MacPhail, releasing the girl, dived at Steve’s legs, got them, and carried him to the floor. Steve’s fumbling fingers slid off the doctor’s bald head, could get no grip on the back of his thick neck, found an ear, and gouged into the flesh under it.

  The doctor grunted and twisted away from the digging fingers. Steve got a knee free—drove it at the doctor’s face. Mrs. MacPhail bent over his head, raising the black leather billy she still held. He dashed an arm at her ankles, missed—but the down-crashing blackjack fell obliquely on his shoulder. He twisted away, scrambled to his knees and hands—and sprawled headlong under the impact of the doctor’s weight on his back.

  He rolled over, got the doctor under him, felt his hot breath on his neck. Steve raised his head and snapped it back—hard. Raised it again, and snapped it down, hammering MacPhail’s face with the back of his skull. The doctor’s arms fell away and Steve lurched upright to find the fight over.

  Larry Ormsby stood in the doorway grinning evilly over his pistol at Mrs. MacPhail, who stood sullenly by the table. The blackjack was on the floor at Larry’s feet.

  Against the other side of the table the girl leaned weakly, one hand on her bruised throat, her eyes dazed and blank with fear. Steve went around to her.

  “Get going, Steve! There’s no time for playing. You got a car?” Larry Ormsby’s voice was rasping.

  “No,” Steve said.

  Larry cursed bitterly—an explosion of foul blasphemies. Then:

  “We’ll go in mine—it can outrun anything in the state. But you can’t wait here for me to get it. Take Nova over to blind Rymer’s shack. I’ll pick you up there. He’s the only one in town you can trust. Go ahead, damn you!” he yelled.

  Steve glanced at the sullen MacPhail woman, and at her husband, now getting up slowly from the floor, his face blood-smeared and battered.

  “How about them?”

  “Don’t worry about them,” Larry said. “Take the girl and make Rymer’s place. I’ll take care of this pair and be over there with the car in fifteen minutes. Get going!”

  Steve’s eyes narrowed and he studied the man in the doorway. He didn’t trust him, but since all Izzard seemed equally dangerous, one place would be as safe as another—and Larry Ormsby might be honest this time.

  “All right,” he said, and turned to the girl. “Get a heavy coat.”

  Five minutes later they were hurrying through the same dark streets they had gone through on the previous night. Less than a block from the house, a muffled shot came to their ears, and then another. The girl glanced quickly at Steve but did not speak. He hoped she had not understood what the two shots meant.

  They met nobody. Rymer had heard and recognized the girl’s footsteps on the sidewalk, and he opened the door before they could knock.

  “Come in, Nova,” he welcomed her heartily, and then fumbled for Steve’s hand. “This is Mr. Threefall, isn’t it?”

  He led them into the dark cabin, and then lighted the oil lamp on the table. Steve launched at once into a hurried summarizing of what Larry Ormsby had told him. The girl listened with wide eyes and wan face; the blind man’s face lost its serenity, and he seemed to grow older and tired as he listened.

  “Ormsby said he would come after us with his car,” Steve wound up. “If he does, you will go with us, of course, Mr. Rymer. If you’ll tell us what you want to take with you we’ll get it ready; so that there will be no delay when he comes—if he comes.” He turned to the girl. “What do you think, Nova? Will he come? And can we trust him if he does?”

  “I—I hope so—he’s not all bad, I think.”

  The blind man went to a wardrobe in the room’s other end.

  “I’ve got nothing to take,” he said, “but I’ll get into warmer clothes.”

  He pulled the wardrobe door open, so that it screened a corner of the room for him to change in. Steve went to a window, and stood there looking between blind and frame, into the dark street where nothing moved. The girl stood close to him, between his arm and side, her fingers twined in his sleeve.

  “Will we—? Will we—?”

  He drew her closer and answered the whispered question she could not finish.

  “We’ll make it,” he said, “if Larry plays square, or if he doesn’t. We’ll make it.”

  A rifle cracked somewhere in the direction of Main Street. A volley of pistol shots. The cream-colored Vauxhall came out of nowhere to settle on the sidewalk, two steps from the door. Larry Ormsby, hatless and with his shirt torn loose to expose a hole under one of his collar-bones, tumbled out of the car and through the door that Steve threw open for him.

  Larry kicked the door shut behind him, and laughed.

  “Izzard’s frying nicely!” he cried, and clapped his hands together. “Come, come! The desert awaits!”

  Steve turned to call the blind man. Rymer stepped out from behind his screening door. In each of Rymer’s hands was a heavy revolver. The film was gone from Rymer’
s eyes.

  His eyes, cool and sharp now, held the two men and the girl.

  “Put your hands up, all of you,” he ordered curtly.

  Larry Ormsby laughed insanely.

  “Did you ever see a damned fool do his stuff, Rymer?” he asked.

  “Put your hands up!”

  “Rymer,” Larry said, “I’m dying now. To hell with you!”

  And without haste he took a black automatic pistol from an inside coat pocket.

  The guns in Rymer’s hands rocked the cabin with explosion after explosion.

  Knocked into a sitting position on the floor by the heavy bullets that literally tore him apart, Larry steadied his back against the wall, and the crisp, sharp reports of his lighter weapon began to punctuate the roars of the erstwhile blind man’s guns.

  Instinctively jumping aside, pulling the girl with him, at the first shot, Steve now hurled himself upon Rymer’s flank. But just as he reached him the shooting stopped. Rymer swayed, the very revolvers in his hands seemed to go limp. He slid out of Steve’s clutching hands—his neck scraping one hand with the brittle dryness of paper—and became a lifeless pile on the floor.

  Steve kicked the dead man’s guns across the floor a way, and then went over to where the girl knelt beside Larry Ormsby. Larry smiled up at Steve with a flash of white teeth.

  “I’m gone, Steve,” he said. “That Rymer—fooled us all—phony films on eyes—painted on—spy for rum syndicate.”

  He writhed, and his smile grew stiff and strained.

  “Mind shaking hands, Steve?” he asked a moment later.

  “You’re a good guy, Larry,” was the only thing he could think to say.

  The dying man seemed to like that. His smile became real again.

  “Luck to you—you can get a hundred and ten out of the Vauxhall,” he managed to say.

  And then, apparently having forgotten the girl for whom he had given up his life, he flashed another smile at Steve and died.

  The front door slammed open—two heads looked in. The heads’ owners came in.

  Steve bounded upright, swung his stick. A bone cracked like a whip, a man reeled back holding a hand to his temple.

  “Behind me—close!” Steve cried to the girl, and felt her hands on his back.

  Men filled the doorway. An invisible gun roared and a piece of the ceiling flaked down. Steve spun his stick and charged the door. The light from the lamp behind him glittered and glowed on the whirling wood. The stick whipped backward and forward, from left to right, from right to left. It writhed like a live thing—seemed to fold upon its grasped middle as if spring-hinged with steel. Flashing half-circles merged into a sphere of deadliness. The rhythm of incessant thudding against flesh and clicking on bone became a tune that sang through the grunts of fighting men, the groans and oaths of stricken men. Steve and the girl went through the door.

  Between moving arms and legs and bodies the cream of the Vauxhall showed. Men stood upon the automobile, using its height for vantage in the fight. Steve threw himself forward, swinging his stick against shin and thigh, toppling men from the machine. With his left hand he swept the girl around to his side. His body shook and rocked under the weight of blows from men who were packed too closely for any effectiveness except the smothering power of sheer weight.

  His stick was suddenly gone from him. One instant he held and spun it; the next, he was holding up a clenched fist that was empty—the ebony had vanished as if in a puff of smoke. He swung the girl up over the car door, hammered her down into the car—jammed her down upon the legs of a man who stood there—heard a bone break, and saw the man go down. Hands gripped him everywhere; hands pounded him. He cried aloud with joy when he saw the girl, huddled on the floor of the car, working with ridiculously small hands at the car’s mechanism.

  The machine began to move. Holding with his hands, he lashed both feet out behind. Got them back on the step. Struck over the girl’s head with a hand that had neither thought nor time to make a fist—struck stiff-fingered into a broad red face.

  The car moved. One of the girl’s hands came up to grasp the wheel, holding the car straight along a street she could not see. A man fell on her. Steve pulled him off—tore pieces from him—tore hair and flesh. The car swerved, scraped a building; scraped one side clear of men. The hands that held Steve fell away from him, taking most of his clothing with them. He picked a man off the back of the seat, and pushed him down into the street that was flowing past them. Then he fell into the car beside the girl.

  Pistols exploded behind them. From a house a little ahead a bitter-voiced rifle emptied itself at them, sieving a mudguard. Then the desert—white and smooth as a gigantic hospital bed—was around them. Whatever pursuit there had been was left far behind.

  Presently the girl slowed down, stopped.

  “Are you all right?” Steve asked.

  “Yes; but you’re—”

  “All in one piece,” he assured her. “Let me take the wheel.”

  “No! No!” she protested. “You’re bleeding. You’re—”

  “No! No!” he mocked her. “We’d better keep going until we hit something. We’re not far enough from Izzard yet to call ourselves safe.”

  He was afraid that if she tried to patch him up he would fall apart in her hands. He felt like that.

  She started the car, and they went on. A great sleepiness came to him. What a fight! What a fight!

  “Look at the sky!” she exclaimed.

  He opened his heavy eyes. Ahead of them, above them, the sky was lightening—from blue-black to violet, to mauve, to rose. He turned his head and looked back. Where they had left Izzard, a monstrous bonfire was burning, painting the sky with jeweled radiance.

  “Goodbye, Izzard,” he said drowsily, and settled himself more comfortably in the seat.

  He looked again at the glowing pink in the sky ahead.

  “My mother has primroses in her garden in Delaware that look like that sometimes,” he said dreamily. “You’ll like ’em.”

  His head slid over against her shoulder, and he went to sleep.

  HOUSE DICK

  The Montgomery Hotel’s regular detective had taken his last week’s rake-off from the hotel bootlegger in merchandise instead of cash, had drunk it down, had fallen asleep in the lobby, and had been fired. I happened to be the only idle operative in the Continental Detective Agency’s San Francisco branch at the time, and thus it came about that I had three days of hotel-coppering while a man was being found to take the job permanently.

  The Montgomery is a quiet hotel of the better sort, and so I had a very restful time of it—until the third and last day. Then things changed.

  I came down into the lobby that afternoon to find Stacey, the assistant manager, hunting for me.

  “One of the maids just phoned that there’s something wrong up in 906,” he said.

  We went up to that room together. The door was open. In the center of the floor stood a maid, staring goggle-eyed at the closed door of the clothespress. From under it, extending perhaps a foot across the floor toward us, was a snake-shaped ribbon of blood.

  I stepped past the maid and tried the door. It was unlocked. I opened it. Slowly, rigidly, a man pitched out into my arms—pitched out backward—and there was a six-inch slit down the back of his coat, and the coat was wet and sticky.

  That wasn’t altogether a surprise: the blood on the floor had prepared me for something of the sort. But when another followed him—facing me, this one, with a dark, distorted face—I dropped the one I had caught and jumped back.

  And as I jumped a third man came tumbling out after the others.

  From behind me came a scream and a thud as the maid fainted. I wasn’t feeling any too steady myself. I’m no sensitive plant, and I’ve looked at a lot of unlovely sights in my time, but for weeks afterward I could see those three dead men coming out of that clothespress to pile up at my feet: coming out slowly—almost deliberately—in a ghastly game of “follow your lea
der.”

  Seeing them, you couldn’t doubt that they were really dead. Every detail of their falling, every detail of the heap in which they now lay, had a horrible certainty of lifelessness in it.

  I turned to Stacey, who, deathly white himself, was keeping on his feet only by clinging to the foot of the brass bed.

  “Get the woman out! Get doctors—police!”

  I pulled the three dead bodies apart, laying them out in a grim row, faces up. Then I made a hasty examination of the room.

  A soft hat, which fitted one of the dead men, lay in the center of the unruffled bed. The room key was in the door, on the inside. There was no blood in the room except what had leaked out of the clothespress, and the room showed no signs of having been the scene of a struggle.

  The door to the bathroom was open. In the bottom of the bathtub was a shattered gin bottle, which, from the strength of the odor and the dampness of the tub, had been nearly full when broken. In one corner of the bathroom I found a small whisky glass, and another under the tub. Both were dry, clean, and odorless.

  The inside of the clothespress door was stained with blood from the height of my shoulder to the floor, and two hats lay in the puddle of blood on the closet floor. Each of the hats fitted one of the dead men.

  That was all. Three dead men, a broken gin bottle, blood.

  Stacey returned presently with a doctor, and while the doctor was examining the dead men, the police detectives arrived.

  The doctor’s work was soon done.

  “This man,” he said, pointing to one of them, “was struck on the back of the head with a small blunt instrument, and then strangled. This one”—pointing to another—“was simply strangled. And the third was stabbed in the back with a blade perhaps five inches long. They have been dead for about two hours—since noon or a little after.”

  The assistant manager identified two of the bodies. The man who had been stabbed—the first to fall out of the clothespress—had arrived at the hotel three days before, registering as Tudor Ingraham of Washington, D.C., and had occupied room 915, three doors away.