Pulp crime, p.323
Pulp Crime, page 323
He gave a stronger shove. Then something like a moan came from his lips.
“Holy hell! I’m stuck!”
His toes were barely touching the box under the skylight. His position was uncomfortable and rapidly becoming more so.
For the next few moments he struggled violently; then lay panting with exhaustion. He was still stuck.
“Need some help, William?”
The quiet voice came from behind him. Rufus craned his neck until his vertebra cracked and from the corner of his eye he could see Steeplehead sitting on the rooftop, both arms wrapped around his bony knees.
The cloud-screened moon was giving a weak, pale light and Rufus searched frantically for his gun. In his struggle he had put it on the rooftop. Now his fingers searched the tarred gravel. Steeplehead had moved swiftly. One snake-like movement and the gun glinted in his skinny fingers.
He toyed with it while Rufus watched grimly. Then Steeplehead sat down in front of him, sitting cross-legged like an Indian. He placed the gun on the roof, just beyond the reach of Rufus’ desperate fingers.
“You know, William,” Steeplehead’s voice was sorrowful, “I didn’t want to say anything. But you know, you’ve put on a good bit of weight since the last time I saw you. I don’t think it’s becoming, William.”
Rufus gritted his teeth.
“Why didn’t you get away, Steeplehead, when you had the chance?”
Steeplehead took a toothpick from his pocket and prodded at a back tooth. He threw the toothpick away and looked at Rufus.
“I still got the chance, William. I will tell you, though, I was going. And then when I saw that you were—what shall we say, William—being detained, I thought I might as well come back and finish my job.”
Rufus’ voice was edged steel. “What you hunting for down there? Is that where you cached that money from three years ago? That part we never found?”
“That’s right, William. And I better be getting it too. No telling when you’ll wiggle loose from your—shall we say—attachment.” Rufus struggled until blood pounded in his ears and his breaths were short stabs of torture.
Steeplehead watched him then slowly shook his head.
“Careful, William, you might bust something.”
Rufus gasped. “I’ll—I’ll bust that scrawny neck of yours—if I ever get hold of you.” He followed this with some choice expletives.
Steeplehead shook his head again and walked over to the next ventilator.
“Tch. Tch. William, such language.” He gave a last sorrowful look at Rufus before he disappeared into the warehouse. There was a period of silence and then Rufus heard muffled sounds from below and fragments of off-key melody. Steeplehead was singing softly. The sounds ceased and Rufus thought that the little crook was gone. Then he heard sounds close under the roof and felt the tremor of the box on which he was standing. Steeplehead’s shrouded voice came up to him.
“William, I hate to do this, but I do not like to be unmodest.” Soft snatches of muffled whistling came through the ventilator. “I must say I regret this, William, but you saw what happened to my pants.”
Rufus felt a tugging at his serge trousers. Steeplehead was taking his pants! He kicked out violently, and had the satisfaction of hearing a yelp of pain from below.
“William!” Steeplehead was stern. “If you continue this—this bucking—I shall take measures. Measures, William! I shall remove the box.”
Rufus was on tiptoe already and the box was his one hope. He submitted quietly while Steeplehead tugged. The belt presented some difficulty, but the wiry little man finally pried it loose from where it was jammed in the ventilator. Hope ran through Rufus. The fit wasn’t quite so tight now. He wiggled tentatively.
He felt a smart smack on that portion of his anatomy known as the back of his lap. Then Steeplehead was whistling again. The pants were finally removed.
“Tch, tch, William. I must say. Such embodiment.” Rufus could hear him clucking his tongue and knew that he was shaking his head. “A little big, William. In fact kind of droopy.” Rufus felt another smart slap and the gay whistling started again.
“So long, William. I’ll let the boys down at headquarters know where to find you.”
“No!” It was a shriek of agony. Rufus beat his fists on the rooftop until his palms bled. He’d have to leave town. When he was found in this position, minus pants, he wouldn’t have to leave town. He’d be laughed out of it.
He struggled. His whole body was wet with sweat. There was a tearing sound. Something gave way. For a few seconds Rufus didn’t know whether it was his coat or his ribs. But he was loose. Almost loose. He eased downward. He was free. Bruised and shaking he stood on top of the stack of boxes and breathed deeply. He started down. Steeplehead was only a few moments ahead of him.
He stopped abruptly. His gun was still on the rooftop. Still as far away as the stars. Rufus grunted.
“I’ll kill him with my hands! My bare hands!”
He pounded down the rickety stairs. The old watchman was sitting in his cubby-hole blinking at the open door. His mouth flew open as Rufus burst into the office.
“Which way did he go? Quick!”
His eyes on Rufus’ naked muscular legs, the man jerked a thumb toward the north; toward the old church.
Rufus wasted no time on explanations. He thudded out of the door and swerved into the darkness. He panted forward doggedly. The old churchyard. Steeplehead would be taking a shortcut through the old cemetery.
At the fence, Rufus stopped short, looked upward. He stood there swaying back, and forth, his eyes glued in fascination on a blob of darkness high on the fence. The small flashlight was uninjured and it sprang to life in his hands.
The circle of light speared the small figure on the fence. Steeplehead had been on his way over the fence, but the loose rear of Rufus’ trousers had caught on one of the iron spikes.
Steeplehead was hanging helpless, like a side of scrawny beef in a butcher shop.
“Well, Steeplehead,” Rufus drew a deep breath. “Waiting for me?”
Steeplehead sighed. “Yes, William. You might say I’m still—eh—hanging around.”
The next afternoon, Rufus was deeply engrossed in a book when his office door burst open. Stringer bounced into the room.
“Say, Bill—I don’t know what all this is about you and Steeplehead—I’ve heard rumors—”
Rufus slammed to his feet. “Has that little shrimp been talking?”
Stringer shook his head. “Not to me. But if there’s anything you want kept quiet, you better get that Haskell babe away from him. I heard them laughing to beat hell. Brown popped in and they both clammed up. That red-headed babe of yours told Brown she was getting a feature story.”
Rufus thudded one fist on the desk. “The little rat. I told him if he let out one peep I’d broadcast the story about how I got him. Yeah, and where he was, too.”
Stringer looked at him thoughtfully. “Some day, Bill, let’s get drunk. I’d like to hear that story, too.”
Rufus ignored him. He pounded the desk.
“That snub-nosed red-head! That little brat!” He turned suddenly. “You help me out of this and I’ll tell you the whole story. But God help you if you spill it!”
Stringer nodded eagerly.
Rufus rushed on. “Does Judith—I mean Miss Haskell—does she know you?” Stringer shook his head. “I’ve seen her around, but I don’t think she’s even looked at me.”
Rufus scratched the side of his jaw. “Well, listen, you get one of the boys to send her up here. After she comes in, you keep an ear against the corridor door.” He went on with further instructions. Stringer grinned and nodded his head.
“Right.”
A few moments later Judith Haskell entered the office. Rufus rose stiffly and greeted her with polite formality.
Her brown eyes crinkled a question. “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes.” Rufus was ambling back and forth rolling a pencil between his palms. He seemed embarrassed. “It’s about that—that diet stuff you were talking about yesterday.”
Judith laughed. “Mr. Brown must have told you.”
“Told me?” Rufus’ eyebrows shot up. “Told me—what?”
“That I’ve been talking to Steeplehead.” Judith lounged back in her chair. “I came over for a feature story and they let me talk to Steeplehead. A very interesting character—Steeplehead.”
Perspiration was ringing Rufus’ lips, but he was calm.
“Yes, he is.” He agreed.
“And he’s apparently quite fond of you—in a detached way.”
Rufus waited.
“You see, Steeplehead and I have agreed about one thing.”
“Yes?”
“He seems very concerned about your health.”
“Indeed?”
“And we both think it would be wonderful if you would go on a diet and lose about twenty pounds. And then I would do a column on you and it would do no end of good. I mean a lot of people would be inspired and—”
“No!” Rufus thumped the desk. “A diet; yes. But the story—no!”
“Mr. Rufus.” Judith rose and sauntered over to him. “Either I do a column or another one. A feature story about what really happened last night.” She thrust her impudent little face up towards him and smiled insultingly. “Take your choice.”
“You brat!” Rufus pounded the desk. “You beautiful, red-headed, devilish little brat!” Rufus kept on thumping the desk and on the third thump there was a knock on the office door.
“Come in!” Rufus roared.
The door burst open and Stringer came in the office.
“Where’s that health-column dame? They told me at her office that she was over here!”
Judith swirled, her chin lifting.
“I’m Miss Haskell. What can I do for you?”
Stringer advanced threateningly. “Do? Lady, you done enough!”
Judith backed away from him. “What do you mean?”
Stringer was enjoying himself enormously. He scowled fiercely.
“Remember what you wrote a couple of weeks ago about taking care of the hair and preventing baldness. Well—look at this!” He snatched off his hat and thrust his denuded head in her face. He stabbed at his head with a forefinger.
“See it? Well, that’s what happened when I followed your instructions. And used your shampoo. And your massage. See? He went towards her. “I’m going to sue the paper! I’m going to get damages! I’m—”
“Bill!” It was a wail of anguish.
Rufus advanced, clapped a hand on Stringer’s shoulder.
“That’s enough of that kind of talk!” He pulled him toward the door. “Come along.” He thrust him outside, leaned back and spoke reassuringly. “I’ll take care of him.”
Five minutes later he was back in the office. He closed the door softly and dusted his hands.
Judith was sitting in his chair, her hands cupped around her cheeks. She looked up and her eyes were bright with tears.
“Oh, Bill—what will I do? If this gets out—why nobody will—oh, it will ruin the column.” She shook her head. “I don’t understand it. I can’t understand it.” Her eyes pleaded with him. “Do you think he will sue? I’ll—I’ll lose my job.”
Rufus went around the desk and took her hands in his.
“Don’t worry about it, Ju—Judith. I took care of him. He won’t bother you any more.”
Her eyes were grateful.
“That’s wonderful. Thank you—thank you, Bill.” She withdrew her hands. “I—I’d better be going now.”
Rufus smiled. “How about my instructions?”
Her eyes questioned him.
“My instructions—you know—the diet.”
Her eyes grew bright. Crinkled again. “You mean, you’ll let me do the column anyway?”
Rufus shook his head. “No column. I’ll diet, yes. But it’ll be a private diet. Just between me and my stomach.”
Judith’s face fell. And then she became enthused again. She searched the desk for pencil and paper, started jotting down notes.
“Now, let’s see—exercise, of course. How about a three mile walk tomorrow?”
Rufus smiled. “If you go with me.”
“And lunch, lean meat and lots of salad.”
Rufus smiled again. “If you’ll eat it with me.”
“And supper—”
Rufus took the pencil and paper away from her. “It’s no use writing all that stuff down. I’ll never be able to remember it. I’m going to need a lot of supervision. Personal supervision. How about starting with a walk now?”
Judith smiled and then nodded.
Rufus got his hat. “But before we go, I’ve got to see Steeplehead.”
Judith clutched his arm. “You won’t—hurt him—I mean because he told me, will you? I really dragged it out of him.”
Rufus laughed. “I ought to cram his teeth down his throat but I’ll probably kiss him instead. And anyhow I think Steeplehead should be the first to know that I’m on a diet.”
IT’S TIME TO GO HOME
William G. Bogart
A broken clock couldn’t tell Sandy Swim the time. But he wasn’t interested in the clock’s hands; its eyes were what he needed
SANDY SWIM, at the moment, did not resemble an officer of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Clad in windbreaker and blue denim pants, he appeared more like one of the lobster fishermen out of Cape Sable Island.
Sandy stuck his leathery face above the cuddy of the broad-beamed fishing boat, breathed deep of the crisp salt air whipping past the home-made windshield of the small cabin. His eyes dropped to the small compass located just above the wheel which he held.
He brought the thirty-five-foot craft back on her so’east course, then stared ahead into the brilliant glare coming off the choppy water. Sandy Swim figured that he should pick up the hazy, vague outline of lower Pubnico—where, it was said, they caught the biggest tuna in Nova Scotia—at any moment now.
For the first time in a year, Sandy Swim forgot that he was an officer in Canada’s finest. Again he was a fisherman out of Clark’s Harbor; again he was just a guy who loved the sea and who thrilled to the roll and pitch of the gas-engined powered boat. He braced his feet, took the roll of the boat with bended knees, and wished that this vacation of his could last another month.
That is, he wished it until he finally came upon the tide “rip,” where everyday they pulled in giant tuna running up to nine hundred pounds.
Five fishing boats were out in the rip this morning. Waves—choppy sea that tossed the boat up and down like a matchbox—sent salty spray flying over the little forward cabin. The salt stuck in Sandy Swim’s bleached pale hair, and made little beads on his eyelashes. He grinned as he cut down on the gas throttle and kept the boat headed into the rip. It was going to be fun watching someone get a strike.
Sandy lay off, parallel with the line of tuna boats. The powerful engine in the covered pit almost at his feet kept turning over easily, just enough to hold the boat headed into the running tide. In the next boat nearest him, helpers in the stern were “chumming” out herring in an attempt to lure a tuna.
You could tell the regular fishermen, who operated the boats, from the men who came down here for the sea’s greatest sport. The fishermen themselves wore old jumpers, or perhaps a frayed sweater open at the neck. The breeze was strong, and quite cold. But they did not seem to mind.
But the anglers were dressed in oilskins, or perhaps expensive duds put out by New York’s highest priced equipment stores. Sandy squinted his blue eyes and watched.
APPARENTLY there were three men, outside the helpers, in the party. One was sprawled out in a chair in the middle of the heaving boat. Another staggered to the rail, leaned over a moment, then swayed back and sank to the floor just behind the chair. Sandy grinned. Evidently this second one was already seasick.
The third man was in the chair itself. Sandy Swim well knew the setup. This “chair” was a clumsy-looking wooden affair located toward the stern. It was set in the center of a frame structure that looked not unlike a miniature motordrome. The idea was to brace your feet on this thing when you got a strike. The chair itself swiveled around to give you a chance to play the tuna.
And to the angler himself was attached the gear which held the heavy tuna rod. There was a reel at least a half foot in diameter. Straps went from pole and reel to a harness around the angler’s chest and shoulders. Another harness securely tied the man to the chair.
The helpers in the very stern of the boat kept feeding out the large herring. Another fisherman was forward at the wheel, uninterested in the proceedings going on behind him. It was his job to merely keep the pitching boat headed into the heavy rip tide.
Again the one who was seasick staggered over to the rail. A moment later he returned to his position in the very bottom of the boat, gripping the foot rest of the man in the chair as he swayed past.
Suddenly there was a yell from one of the boats beyond the one which Sandy watched. The R.C.M.P. man quickly saw the reason for the shout.
A giant tuna had cut the water close to the boat. Water swirled and a fin flashed. A fish that moved with the blurred speed of an express train had passed between the first two boats in the line. Excitement followed.
Men in the boat nearest Sandy were suddenly throwing more herring overboard. The man in the chair sat up alertly, working his pole up and down.
And then it came. The strike!
There was the whine of the reel as the monster tuna took the bait. It was a thing, Sandy Swim knew, that could happen so quickly that several hundred feet of line would go out before you hardly realized it.
But apparently the angler in the boat knew his business. For Sandy Swim saw the man’s left arm move to the brake on the big reel. He was ready to throw it on, as soon as the streaking fish slowed its first run.
Sandy’s sharp eyes told him other things. The man strapped in the chair weighed all of two hundred. He had powerful shoulders. He should be able to land this one in less than an hour. He should be—
Sandy Swim gasped, and stared for an instant in frozen awe. For the man in the chair had slapped on the brake which held the powerful tuna from running out.
