Fiction spectacular, p.8
Fiction Spectacular, page 8
He seated himself at the desk after awhile and lit a cigarette. A knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” he called out.
The door opened and a short stocky man with a sheaf of papers in his hand stood in the opening.
“C.P.O. Higgins, sir. Ensign Dobel said you wanted a list of the crew.”
Roger Marsh eyed the crew chief and nodded.
“Have you kept a close check on the men tonight?” he asked.
The C.P.O. frown. “I’m not sure I know just what you mean, Commander,” he replied.
“I mean do you know if the men have been at their stations—and not wandering about the ship—especially around the radio room?”
Higgins shook his head. “As far as I know, sir, nobody left his post, but I’ll make a check on it. Is there anything wrong?”
Marsh waved his hand. “Nothing special, but check on it. That’s all.”
Higgins saluted and left.
Some time later Marsh sat back in his chair and wearily glanced at his watch. It was 0430 and he had drawn a blank. There wasn’t a thing in the records to even hint at a possible agent. He sighed heavily and looked across at his bunk. It was time he got some rest. There would be plenty to do before the day was over. The convoy would be organizing for the long perilous trek through sub infested waters.
He made sure his cabin was locked before he turned in.
IT was noon when Commander Marsh joined Captain Marlowe on the bridge. The captain stood with his binoculars raised gazing out to sea. Marsh shaded his eyes and glanced over the water. His heart leaped. Barely visible to the naked eye were a series of small dots against the horizon. Faint wisps of smoke from countless funnels smudged the skyline. It was a glorious sight, this forming of the convoy. It never failed to thrill Marsh every time he witnessed it.
They seemed to come out of nowhere, these ships, all meeting at a predetermined spot in a mighty vastness of water. A half mile astern a sleek destroyer plowed through the rolling swells, black smoke belching from its funnel. Helio signals flickered across the water. Captain Marlowe turned.
“Oh, it’s you, Marsh. We’re getting ready to form a rendezvous. It’s a great relief to me. As far as I’m concerned these first hours at sea are always the hardest. You never know what is coming when you’re alone. Now the Navy can take over.”
Marsh smiled. “That’s our job, sir. I’ve got my share of it right here.” Captain Marlowe looked closely at him. “Still thinking about that taxi affair?”
“It’s more than that, I’m afraid.” Marsh replied. He recounted the events of the night in a few sentences. Marlowe swore in astonishment.
“You mean there’s someone aboard my ship—an enemy agent?”
Marsh nodded grimly. “There is. And I’ve checked over the crew myself without finding anything. Our man is devilishly smart.”
Captain Marlowe stroked his chin worriedly.
“I’ll have Dobel post a guard at every companionway for the rest of the trip!” he said.
Commander Marsh shook his head as he gazed out to sea.
“I don’t think that’s the answer, Captain. He might be one of the guards you posted—and even if he wasn’t, it would make him wary. No, I want to catch him, not scare him.”
The captain snorted. “I’m damned if I can see any other way. As long as he concentrates on you what chance will you have? If it was someone else . . .”
Marsh turned his gaze from the sea.
“Someone else?” he said half to himself. He faced the captain for a moment and then came to a decision.
“I prefer to handle this in my own way, Captain. I think there’s a chance to get him before the convoy gets fully under way.”
He left the captain standing staring after him. Marsh’s eyes were grim as he sought his quarters. Once there he deliberately stripped off his clothes and removed a sheaf of papers that were taped to his body.
THE long rolling swells of the Atlantic became flecked with countless ships as the rendezvous continued. It was like the forming of a gigantic puzzle, with each piece a ship, fitting into place with the precision and ease of a carefully planned move. Liberty ships took their place among capital ships of the fleet. Sleek, swift destroyers plowed through the swells, darting in and out like sheep dogs protecting their flock. Helio signals flashed across the water between ships.
All afternoon Captain Marlowe stuck to his bridge, receiving messages and answering. Off and on he wondered what Commander Marsh was doing. He hadn’t appeared since noon. And the dread grew in Marlowe’s soul as he viewed the might of the convoy, thinking that there was a man who could put that vital supply line in peril.
Toward dusk the Tampa’s position was firmly plotted, and Captain Marlowe began thinking of supper. He turned from the rail to find Commander Marsh approaching. There was a tired look on his lean features.
“Everything going according to schedule, sir?” he asked.
Captain Marlowe nodded, handed Marsh his glasses. He noticed that the commander held a packet in one hand.
“Yes, not a hitch in the plan. The convoy is well on its way now. And it’s a load off my mind. What happened to you this afternoon?”
A wan smile crossed Marsh’s face. “I’ve been busy, sir,” he glanced around the bridge. Ensign Dobel was busy with dividers and scales on the wall charts. C.P.O. Higgins was coming up from the port companionway. Marsh motioned to him. Higgins approached and saluted.
“Did you want me, sir?”
Marsh nodded. “Go below and bring radio operator Cowell up here.”
Ensign Dobel looked up from his charts and stared at Marsh. Captain Marlowe frowned. Higgins saluted and left.
“What do you want with her?” the captain queried.
Marsh pocketed the packet and adjusted the binoculars to his eyes.
“It was just something I thought of, sir,” he replied. He studied the convoy in the fading light for a few minutes. Then steps approached behind him. He turned. Higgins had brought Betty Cowell to the bridge. There was puzzlement on her face. She carried a brown handbag under her arm. Marsh took her aside. He spoke lowly.
“Betty, there’s something I want you to do for me.”
The frown of puzzlement increased on her face.
“What is it, Roger?” she asked.
He took the packet from his pocket. “I want you to hold something for me for a few days.”
She looked at the packet. “Not a present for me, is it?”
He laughed. “It might be, in a roundabout way. Just take care of it, I’ll explain later.”
She took the packet and put it in her handbag. Then she gazed up at him.
“I won’t even pretend to understand,” she said. “Is that all?”
He nodded. “I’ll drop in on you a little later tonight. “You’re going on duty right away, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I’ll be on until 0600. Don’t forget now.”
He smiled briefly as she saluted him and left the bridge. Higgins followed the girl.
“What was that all about?” Captain Marlowe walked up to Marsh. The Commander moved alongside him staring out to sea.
“Just a hunch, Captain,” he replied.
Marlowe snorted. “Have it your own way, but it better be good. I’m going below to eat. Care to join me?”
Marsh nodded. “I’ll be along right away. I want to get at the helio first though. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”
Captain Marlowe shrugged and turned away. Commander Marsh dismissed the seaman at the signal station.
NIGHT was a black blanket cloaked over the Atlantic. Clouds from the north had rolled onward obscuring the face of the moon. But the convoy steamed ahead unmindful of the darkness.
Betty Cowell sat before the glowing radio set of the Tampa, humming softly to herself. She glanced at her watch. It was 2330 and Roger hadn’t showed up yet. He had been acting queer. Could it be he resented the fact that she was now in a uniform? Or was it something bothering him that he wouldn’t admit? And why had he given her that packet? She glanced at the chair beside the door where her handbag lay.
She almost jumped when a knock came from the door. A smile spread over her face. That would be Roger.
“Coming,” she called out.
She left the radio set and walked over to the metal door. She switched out the overhead light before opening it. Blackout regulations were strict on the high seas.
The door opened and the cool Atlantic breeze fanned her face.
“Roger?” she called softly.
No one answered. She stepped through the opening.
A hand reached out in the darkness and closed over her throat. Another hand grabbed her arms and pinioned them behind her. A wave of fear coursed through her body and she struggled, trying to scream. But it was as if a vise had been clamped around her neck. Blood pounded in her head. She kicked out futilely. The hand tightened on her throat and her senses reeled away.
Someone breathed hard in the darkness as expert hands trussed and gagged the girl. Then she lay prone in the companionway.
A tiny bead of light flickered from a small blackout flash. It fell on the girl’s handbag inside the door. An eager hand reached out for it. The light disappeared. There was a rummaging in the darkness and the sound of a quickened breath. Then the handbag dropped to the floor of the companionway.
The door of the radio room closed almost silently. Minutes ticked by slowly. Betty Cowell regained her senses and struggled feebly in the darkness. There was terror in her heart as she lay there helpless. A dim understanding was beginning to grow in her mind.
Suddenly she stopped her struggles. Footsteps sounded on the deck. Someone moved beside her. She couldn’t see in the blackness, but there was someone. A foot touched her. Then a hand rested against her cheek. She tried to cry out but only mute sounds issued from the gag. Then the hand was gone. A voice whispered.
“Quiet!”
She stilled. The footsteps moved away from her. That voice—
The door to the radio room opened suddenly before her. She caught her breath. A dim glow from the set issued from the room. Then a shadow hurtled past the door.
There was a loud exclamation. A scuffle. The blast of two shots filled the night. Then there was a groan and quiet.
A few moments later someone came out of the radio room, gun in hand. He stooped beside the girl and loosened her bonds.
“It’s all over now, honey,” the voice whispered in her ear.
CAPTAIN MARLOWE paced the length of his cabin. He faced Commander Marsh and Betty Cowell.
“I can’t believe it!” he muttered. “Higgins was a trusted man—Chief Petty Officer!”
Marsh nodded grimly. “They usually are trusted men. Men that we’d never suspect. But I knew it had to be someone on the inside. An ordinary seaman wouldn’t wander about a ship at sea unchallenged.”
Betty Cowell interrupted. “But why did you give me that packet, Roger?”
Marsh lit a cigarette. “I used you more or less as bait, honey. I knew I’d never get him unless I could put him on someone else’s track. I laid a trap for him. This afternoon I drew up a set of false plans, not complete of course, and put them in that packet. I gave them to you on the bridge, so that anyone interested in what I was doing would see it. Then I hid in the companionway tonight and waited.
“Higgins took the bait. He couldn’t afford to lose such an opportunity. He thought you had the plans and did just what I’d been hoping. I had to kill him when he pulled a gun on me. But that saves us a courtmartial!”
“But he was at the radio sending out information!” Captain Marlowe stormed.
Marsh nodded. “That’s right. I wanted him to do that. You remember before I came down to supper I said I wanted to use the helio? I signaled a destroyer and instructed them to cover the short wave bands tonight. By now they’ve got the position of the sub pack Higgins was contacting. I wanted him to use that radio. Our destroyers will have a surprise package all their own for Heinie. But I’m afraid he won’t appreciate it.!”
A broad grin crossed Captain Marlowe’s face.
“That was good thinking on your part, Commander. I’ll see that you get credit for it too.”
Roger Marsh took the girl’s arm. “Forget it, sir. All in a day’s work.” He looked at Betty Cowell. “You’re supposed to be on duty, aren’t you?”
She nodded rubbing her throat apprehensively.
“Don’t worry, no one else will grab you tonight—that is, not an enemy agent, anyway,” he said, pulling her to the door. “We’ll sit out the rest of your watch together.”
1945
I’ll Dig Your Grave
“I’ve dug a grave for you.” That’s what the letter said, so Al Ponelli went to the cemetery to see
THE letter came by special delivery. Matt Snyder brought it into the penthouse living room, where Al Ponelli sat behind a massive walnut desk.
“A letter, Boss,” Matt Snyder announced unnecessarily. “Just came.”
Al Ponelli raised shaggy eyebrows from the paring job he was doing on his nails. “Who’s it from?”
Snyder shrugged lumpy, thick shoulders. “There’s no name on the envelope, Boss.”
“Well, don’t stand there looking at it!” Ponelli snapped. “Open it up.” He returned his attention to his nails. The letter opener he was using made small scraping sounds.
Snyder’s scarred forehead wrinkled in a frown as he glanced over the letter. His eyes widened. “Boss—what the hell! It’s from a guy named George Stevens, and . . . and——”
Ponelli’s shaggy brows rose again. “I don’t know any George Stevens,” he grunted. “What does he want?”
“He . . . he says he’s got your grave dug—that’s what he says!” Snyder stammered. “Boss—this guy’s dug a grave for you!”
Ponelli dropped the letter opener to the desk top. He reached out a dark, well-kept hand and snarled, “Give me that letter!”
Snyder seemed glad to be rid of the letter. He stood rubbing his bristling jaw as Ponelli scanned the sheet. Ponelli’s lips moved over the words.
Dear Al:
I dug a grave for you. It’s a beautiful grave. I’m sure you’re going to like it. I dug it all by myself—very carefully and very deeply.
I even bought you a headstone, with your name carved in big letters across the top. Nothing expensive or elaborate, but after you’re dead you won’t mind. I haven’t had the date put on it yet—but there’s no hurry about that. I’ve waited twenty years, and I guess a few more days won’t matter much.
Twenty years is a long time—especially when you spend all of it in prison. You’ve never been in prison have you, Al? No, there’s always been a fall-guy to take the rap for you. Like me. But I’m not complaining. It will be evened up when you’re finally rotting in the ground.
Well, so long for now, Al. Maybe you’d like to take a look at your grave. It’s at Roselawn Cemetery—all bought and paid for. Don’t try to get a refund on it. You’ll be using it soon.
I’ll be killing you,
George Stevens.
PONELLI looked up from the letter. His swarthy features were several shades lighter than they had been before. He rose from the desk and began to pace the floor.
“George Stevens,” he muttered. “Now where could——” Ponelli snapped his fingers. “Now I remember!”
“Yeah, Boss?” Snyder prompted eagerly.
Ponelli whirled in sudden fury. “You go to hell!” he roared. Ponelli returned to his desk and sat down. There were things he didn’t tell anyone—not even Matt Snyder—and this George Stevens matter was one of them.
Ponelli remembered George Stevens. His mind went back to the days of Prohibition and Big Bill Meyers and himself, an ambitious young mobster trying to muscle his way in. Big Bill was boss of the South Side in those days, and he, Ponelli, his bodyguard.
It had been one of those things—opportunity combined with pure luck. He’d had a greedy eye on Big Bill’s numerous and lucrative rackets, and often thought of a double-cross which would remove Big Bill and give him the chance to take over. Ponelli’s opportunity came late one morning in a West Side speakeasy, where George Stevens was bartender. They were alone, and Big Bill was drunk and in a quarrelsome mood. He and Ponelli had words. The words led to a fight in which whiskey bottles served as blackjacks and brass knuckles. Big Bill had been killed by a blow over the head, and in a stroke of genius, Ponelli planted George Steven’s fingerprints on the glass fragments, after having carefully removed his own. George Stevens had not protested, having been knocked unconscious in an attempt to separate Ponelli and Big Bill.
Ponelli got several friends to support him with an alibi for his whereabouts on the morning of Big Bill’s death—and George Stevens had taken the rap. But Stevens had a little luck of his own, and got off with manslaughter—and twenty years. Now he was out of jail.
Snyder’s voice broke into Ponelli’s brooding. “Boss, tell me where to find this guy, Stevens. I’ll take a couple of the boys and rub him out.”
“I don’t know where to find him any more than you do!” Ponelli retorted irritably. His face creased grimly. “But we’re going to find him. I’m not taking any chances. Spread the word, Matt. I want a guy by the name of George Stevens—and I want him, bad.” Snyder nodded quickly and left. Ponelli looked again at the letter.
I dug a grave for you. It’s a beautiful grave. . . .
Ponelli got up and went to a liquor cabinet in one corner of the living room. He poured himself a stiff drink. He spilled some of it as he poured.
THE word spread. From the South Side, down Madison Street, to the bistros in the Loop and along Rush.
“Al Ponelli’s looking for a guy by the name of George Stevens. W ants him bad. Seen this guy, Stevens? Heard anything about him?”
