Fiction spectacular, p.9
Fiction Spectacular, page 9
The answer was always the same. Nobody had seen George Stevens. Nobody had heard of him. But they’d oblige Al Ponelli by keeping an eye open.
Ponelli’s men covered the bistros night after night, asking the same questions, getting the same answers. And as time passed, the name of George Stevens got to be as widely-known as that of Al Ponelli himself. Stevens became a personality chiefly through the mystery surrounding him. Conjecture as to his identity ran rife.
Somehow the word leaked out as to why Ponelli wanted George Stevens so badly. Stevens had threatened to put Ponelli on the spot.
“That guy Stevens must be nuts,” was the concensus of opinion among the well-informed. “Ponelli’s dynamite. Even the cops let him alone.”
People began watching Ponelli wherever he went. They were so many spectators at a duel—a strange, weird duel in which one of the contenders was only a rumor, someone unknown, unheard of, as intangible as air.
“Ponelli’s on the spot.”
“A guy named Stevens is out to get Al Ponelli.”
Matt Snyder was worried. He revealed it to Ponelli as they sat one night in the Golden Pheasant, a glittering Rush Street night club.
“Boss, it can’t go on like this much longer. This guy Stevens is making a fool out of us. People are beginning to talk.”
“Damn them all, anyway,” Ponelli muttered with the thickness of too much drinking. “What are they saying?”
Snyder shifted uncomfortably. “Don’t get sore, Boss, but everybody’s saying Stevens is too smart for you. Nobody ever tried anything like this on you before—and Stevens is getting away with it.”
“Not if I can get hold of him!” Ponelli snarled. He pounded the table in abrupt fury. “The rat! The sneaking rat! Why doesn’t he come out of his hole? Why doesn’t he show himself?”
“Boss! For Pete’s sake, take it easy,” Snyder hissed. “Everybody’s watching you.”
Ponelli calmed down, glancing about him. Yes, they were watching. All were watching him. The customers and the bartenders and the girls in the chorus. They were waiting. He could see it in their eyes. They were waiting like so many vultures.
I dug a grave for you. It’s a beautiful grave. . . .
The words pounded through Ponelli’s mind like a dirge. They chilled him to the depths of his whiskey-soaked body.
Snyder said suddenly, “Boss, maybe this is all a joke.”
Ponelli glared at him. “What are you talking about?”
“I was just thinking, Boss, that maybe somebody’s pulling a fast one,” Snyder went on. “We can’t find this George Stevens. Maybe there never was a George Stevens. Maybe the whole thing is a joke.”
Ponelli frowned in thought. “I wonder . . . You may be right, Matt It could be a joke.”
“Sure, Boss, that’s what it is. There ain’t no George Stevens. Some wise guy is just pulling a fast one. I’ll bet there ain’t even a grave like that letter said.”
Ponelli slammed a fist on the table. “That’s it! The grave. Come on, Matt, we’re going to Roselawn Cemetery.”
PONELLI guided the car along the highway at reckless speed. Beside him, Matt Snyder peered intently through the windshield.
“There it is, Boss!” Snyder announced suddenly.
Ponelli narrowed his eyes through the glare of the headlights. He gave a grim nod as he made out a long masonry wall stretching off down the road. He slowed the car, then brought it to a stop as it reached a tall steel gate. A bronze plaque fixed to the gate read: ROSE LAWN CEMETERY.
Snyder regarded the gate uneasily. Behind the gate it was very dark and very silent. It was a barrier locking in death and decay and all the crawling fears that come in the deep of night.
Ponelli pressed the car horn insistently. It wailed into the darkness like some dead thing crying to be let in.
“This place gives me the creeps,” Snyder muttered, glancing uneasily about him.
“Shut up!” Ponelli snapped. He bore down on the car horn again. “There ought to be somebody here at night.”
Snyder licked his lips. “Maybe we ought to come back tomorrow, Boss. It’ll be daylight. . . .”
Ponelli made a harsh, impatient sound deep in his throat and slammed out of the car. Snyder hesitated a moment, then followed.
They strode up to the gates. Peering through the bars, they saw a light appear in a small cottage to the left. There was the sound of a closing door. Then a man approached, wraith-like in the light of a bobbing lantern.
“You the caretaker?” Ponelli asked.
The man revealed in the light of the lantern was elderly and stooped. Gray hair fell lankly over his thin, lined face. “Yes, I’m the caretaker. What do you want?”
“Just a little information, Pop,” Ponelli answered. “There’s something I want to find out. Look—is there a grave here with a headstone marked Al Ponelli?”
The caretaker nodded slowly. “Why, yes. Funny thing, too. The man who bought it insisted on digging it himself.”
A hard lump formed in Ponelli’s stomach. He felt suddenly cold.
Snyder sucked in his breath softly. “Geez, Boss, it’s true!”
Ponelli husked, “I’d like to see that grave, Pop. Just for one minute.”
“That’s against the rules,” the caretaker said. “The cemetery is closed at night.”
Ponelli pulled out his wallet and proferred a ten-dollar bill through the bars. “Just a look, Pop.”
The caretaker hesitated, eyes fixed hungrily upon the bill. Ponelli reached into the wallet again, added a second ten-dollar bill to the first. After a moment, the caretaker nodded.
“Well, I guess a short look will be all right. But I can’t let the two of you in.”
“That’s all right,” Snyder said quickly. “I’ll wait here, Boss.”
Ponelli shrugged. “Come on, Pop, let’s go.”
KEYS jangled. There was a click, and the gate creaked open. Ponelli entered the cemetery and followed the plodding form of the caretaker down a gravel driveway. Gravestones loomed on either side like ghostly sentinels in the darkness. The only sound was the scrape of their footsteps on gravel.
After a moment, the caretaker turned to the right. Ponelli felt grass beneath his feet. There was hardly any sound now. The lantern made weird shadows dance among the tombstones.
Then the caretaker stopped, extending his lantern over an empty grave. The light fell upon a large mound of earth—and upon a granite headstone.
Ponelli swallowed. It was suddenly hard to breathe. He stared at the name carved upon the headstone, AL PONELLI.
“The rat!” Ponelli whispered in sudden rage. “The sneaking rat! I’ll find him if it’s the last thing I do!”
“What did you say?” The caretaker peered at Ponelli uncertainly.
“Nothing,” Ponelli grunted. A thought struck him. “Look, Pop, did the guy who bought this grave leave an address?”
The caretaker nodded slowly. “Yes. He left a card. I think I’ve got it with me.” He searched the pockets of his frayed coat, produced a small white oblong.
Ponelli took the card, looked at it. A hoarse gasp left his lips. His face jerked into a mask of utter terror. . . .
Overhead, a dull roll of thunder announced the coming of a storm. Back at the gate, Matt Snyder glanced anxiously skyward. Then he heard another sound. It wasn’t thunder this time. It was the sharp bark of a gun.
Snyder released a curse. Tugging at the gun in his shoulder holster, he slipped through the gate, ran down the driveway, eyes darting urgently. “Boss!” he called. “Boss, where are you?”
There was no answer. Then Snyder saw a light shining off among the gravestones. He pounded toward it, gripping hard at the gun in his hand.
The light came from the lantern which the caretaker had carried. The lantern rested on a mound of earth beside an open grave. The caretaker himself was not in sight. But Snyder had no interest in anything but the grave. It was no longer empty. Al Ponelli lay at the bottom of it, his shirt front crimson with blood. From Ponelli’s staring eyes and lolling mouth, it was clear to see that he was dead.
Gazing fearfully about him, Snyder’s eyes fell upon a small white card lying near the edge of the grave. He picked it up. His eyes widened with shock. Then he dropped it and ran, his breath sobbing in his throat.
The light from the lantern illuminated the words on the card plainly. They read:
ROSELAWN CEMETERY
George Stevens, Caretaker.
A car motor roared into life, faded with distance, died. It was silent for a while. Then, from somewhere in the depths of the cemetery, came a regular, rhythmic sound. It was the sound of a grave being filled.
Peril from the Outlands
There was no time for any counter measures—Felix had to turn the valve that would poison a whole city!
“AW, come on, Maribelle, just one more drink, huh?”
Felix Murphy gazed through slightly blood-shot eyes at the trim-aproned girl behind the bar. She stood with her hands on her hips, a pout puckering her red lips, and her blond hair swept back by a small blue ribbon. She shook her head.
“No Felix, aren’t you ever going to make something of yourself? What kind of a man are you anyway? When you were back on Earth you always said nobody would give you a chance—now that you’re on Mars with a good job at the Polar Water Works all you want to do is come here and get drunk!”
Felix lowered his eyes guiltily. She was mad again. He sighed. “Nobody gives a damn about me,” he muttered. And he proceeded to feel very sorry for himself.
“I’ve been here on Mars over a year now,” Felix complained, “and so far it’s been the same old story—yon show promise but there just isn’t anything open right now! I’m getting disgusted!” He thrust his jaw out stubbornly and looked across the bar at Maribelle. He had come to Mars because it was the new frontier, the golden goose of the future. Get rich quick.
He scowled wearily. If it hadn’t been for Maribelle he would be just another spacebum stranded on Tellus City. She had watched him drink his meager resources up in the past months, and somehow she couldn’t stand by and watch him go down. Too many had done that before, and besides, she liked Felix. There was something about him—helpless like a little kitten. Maybe it was the mother instinct in her. Maybe it was because he really was a good Sanitary Engineer. Maybe all he really needed was a chance. Anyway she got it for him.
“I had my uncle put you on at the Polar Water Works because I thought you really wanted to get ahead!” she blazed at him angrily. “With trouble brewing between Tellus City and the Outlanders you could never want a better opportunity, but all you want to do is feel sorry for yourself!”
Felix looked hungrily at his empty glass and sighed. The Outlanders. What the hell did he care about them. They were on the other side of Mars, far from Tellus City. And besides, it was all rumor about trouble brewing. Tellus City was strong, the ruling force of Mars. What was Outland Port? Just a derelict city of outcasts and rebellious Martians—a pitiful handful of renegades. What kind of an uprising could they make! Opportunity hell.
“I may as well get going,” Felix said sulkily. He tossed a coin on the bar and strode away from Maribelle. She looked after him wistfully, sadly shaking her head.
FELIX paused outside, his eyes straining against the dark Martian night. “Another damn blackout,” he muttered. Around him a cold brisk wind was blowing. It whistled eerily in the darkness and he felt a shiver run up and down his spine. The sooner he got to the Water Works the sooner he could settle down in a nice quiet office. Maybe even find a bottle laying around.
He trudged his way along through the darkness. Around him loomed the gaunt skeletons of countless warehouses, stocked with metal bearing ores awaiting shipment to Earth. Ahead, on the edge of Tellus City, would be the sprawling buildings of the Polar Water Syndicate, the throbbing hub of the Martian water supply. It piped the water from the polar cap to Tellus City and Outland Port. The only water on Mars. And the only place Felix had been able to get a job.
“Hell of a job, I’ve got!” he muttered into the wind. “Me, a graduate engineer, a damned flunky Night Supervisor!” Felix clunked his feet heavily along the street. What the hell chance did he have to show the Syndicate that he was worth anything? They had given him a good talk about the responsibility he held, keeping watch at night so nothing went wrong with the atomic water pumps. Oh sure, it was responsibility all right. About as much responsibility as a caretaker in a cemetery. And with as many people around to keep him company. He plodded on in the darkness.
It was then that he saw the light.
It streamed out from a half curtained window in one of the silent warehouses. And Felix frowned. This was strange, a light in a blackout. What the hell was wrong with those people? Didn’t they know the Council had ordered a blackout? Felix came abreast of the building and paused, looking at a shadowed doorway.
He didn’t see the man standing in it.
But the man apparently saw Felix. He stepped out into the darkened street and Felix was suddenly aware that something was being shoved into the small of his back.
“What the hell—” he blurted out.
“Keep quiet!” a voice rasped over the shriek of the wind. “Get inside—hurry!”
Felix was nonplussed. This was something new. Something strange. Something entirely uncalled for. Why would anyone want to shove a gun in his back? Felix didn’t know. But he did know that there was no arguing with this man, He hastened to comply.
The door slammed shut behind him and he was in complete darkness again. The gun shoved into his back.
“All right, walk straight ahead,” the voice hissed in Felix’s ear. Felix was too nervous to object. He walked. Somewhere ahead a door opened and light streamed out. Felix walked toward the light. He walked into it. It was an office, a large dirty office, papers littered the floor and the top of a battered desk. A man was sitting behind the desk. A strange man. He was smiling up at Felix.
“Please sit down, Mr. Murphy,” he said.
Felix moved mechanically to a chair. He stared at the man behind the desk. Was it a trick of the light—his face was green, and he didn’t have any eyelids. It dawned on Felix.
“You’re a Martian!” he blurted out. “Exactly. It that so surprising?” the man asked caustically.
IT WAS to Felix. There were no Martians in Tellus City. There were no Martians anywhere except at Outland Port. They were kept there under close surveillance by the Council so they couldn’t try to start an uprising. The Martians had resented Earthmen invading their planet. They had tried to fight, many times, but they were too few in numbers to succeed. The Earth Government had finally exiled them all to Outland Port and put a restriction on the City. No ship was allowed to land there or take off without permission of the Council at Tellus City. How had this Martian got here? What was he doing? And most of all Felix wondered how he knew his name. He inquired as much.
“I don’t understand,” he said haltingly. “How did you know my name—and what do you want?”
The green-faced man stared coldly at Felix. “I know many things, Mr. Murphy. I know for instance that you were just now on your way to the Polar Water Works. You are the Night Supervisor there. I have been watching you for some time.”
Felix frowned. “Watching me? Who the hell are you!”
Fish-like eyes glared coldly at Felix. They seemed to look straight through him. Slowly the green face twisted into the semblance of a smile.
“I am called Taro Vargh. I represent the Martian government in Outland Port. I am here on business.” Felix stared puzzledly at the Martian. His glance strayed over to the door where the other Martian stood, a wicked looking gun leveled straight at Felix.
“What the devil is this all about?”
Felix demanded. “If you represent the Outland government what are you doing here?”
Vargh continued to smile. But as he smiled his hand pulled open a desk drawer. He pulled out a bottle and a glass from the desk. Felix watched as he poured an amber liquid.
“I can explain exactly what I mean after we have a little drink. You’ll join me?”
Felix, for one of the few times in his life was not all sure that he wanted a drink. He didn’t trust this Martian. He didn’t trust any Martian for that matter. And there was something especially ominous about the way Taro Vargh was smiling. Felix felt a tremor of fear course through him as Vargh shoved the glass across the desk.
“Drink it,” he said.
Felix didn’t like the way he said it. It was more like an executioner giving a condemned man an order to drink a draught of poison. Poison. Felix stared at the glass and shuddered.
“I—I’m not thirsty,” he stammered.
Vargh’s eyes grew hard. “You’ll drink this, Murphy. Now.”
FELIX wanted to jump and run. The trouble was there was no place to jump to. Much less run. The other Martian stood in the doorway and his finger was tightened meaningly around the trigger of the gun he held. Felix gulped.
He picked up the glass. He stared into it. There seemed to be a sizzling in the liquid, as if it were strangely alive. Felix wondered fearfully if he would still be alive after he drank it.
Across from him Taro Vargh raised the bottle to his lips and took a long gulp. He lowered the bottle to the table and wiped his mouth appreciatively. Felix stifled his qualms and followed suit.
His head nearly hit the ceiling.
The glass clattered from Felix Murphy’s hand and shattered on the floor. But Felix wasn’t aware of it. He was burning up. Or so it seemed. He coughed. His face turned red. He choked. His face turned blue. There was an inferno raging in his throat. It felt as if somebody had stuck a blowtorch into his mouth and was trying to cauterize his stomach. Tears rolled in twin streams down Felix’s face.
Then the agony passed. Through blurred eyes Felix saw the grinning face of Taro Vargh. Felix gasped hoarsely. “What the hell was that stuff!” There was a roaring buzz in Felix’s ears but he heard the Martian reply.
