Collection 1999 - Beyond The Great Snow Mountains (v5.0) (17 page)

Richards was not only big, he was tough and powerful. They grappled and he rolled over and scrambled free. Both men came up at the same time. Turk started to close in, but Richards kicked him away, and when Turk struck out, he caught his arm in a flying mare. Turk relaxed and went on over in an easy roll, landing on his feet. He spun around, slipped a fast left, and smashed a big fist into Richards’s stomach. The mate backed up, his face dark with fury and pain. Turk followed, stabbing a left to the face, then crossing a jarring right to the chin. Richard’s knees wilted and he almost fell. He lunged forward, and Turk broke his nose with a driving right hook. Richards went down, hitting the deck hard.

Aaron Richards scrambled to his feet. Wheeling, he rushed for the gangway that led to the bank of the river. He bent over and plucked the large pin that allowed the gangway to swivel back and forth out of its hole. As Turk closed on him, Richards turned and swung the heavy piece of metal. It hit Turk a stunning blow on the back of his shoulder and knocked him flat on the deck, his pistol coming loose from its holster and rattling into the scuppers.

By the time Turk had picked himself up, Richards was stumbling down the ladder and out onto the muddy ground. When he saw Turk appear at the ship’s rail, he turned and, taking hold of the gangway railing, gave a mighty heave. The entire assembly, now disconnected at the top, came loose. Scraping down the side of the hull, it crashed into the gap between the ship and the riverbank. The mate took to his heels.

Diakov was returning from scouting the trees, and Richards straight-armed him like a football player. The big Russian went down, and Richards disappeared into the stand of fir along the water. Turk watched as he picked himself up, but instead of giving chase he limped toward the
Welleston
.

“There are still some left, comrade! They’ve a boat down the river!”

At that moment a heavy engine roared to life beyond the trees. Turk ran to the other rail in time to see a Japanese torpedo boat arc out into the river. She was going all out, bow high in the water and her stern sunk deep, a cloud of blue-gray exhaust trailing from her pipes. Within minutes Aaron Richards would make the inlet, and from there the open ocean.

Turk backed up, yanked off his low boots and coat and, vaulting the railing, took a running dive into the icy water. The height and the cold took his breath away, but within a dozen powerful strokes he was alongside the Grumman and scrambling onto the hull. His clasp knife made quick work of the mooring rope, and then he was pulling himself into the cockpit and firing the engines.

He flew down the river with the throttles wide open, leaving Diakov on the bank bellowing encouragement. As the plane clawed for altitude, Turk struggled out of his freezing shirt and turned up the mostly ineffective cabin heater.

As the water deepened, the patches of fog thinned, and then ahead of him he could see the torpedo boat. She was shooting across the swells like an arrow, kicking up blasts of spray and leaving a long wake. Turk put the plane into a shallow dive. Fast as the Japanese craft was, the Grumman came down on it at over a hundred fifty miles per hour. Turk triggered his forward guns, the burst cutting the water across the bow.

There were only two men visible on deck—a Japanese sailor at the helm, and Richards, who was struggling to pull the cover from the boat’s antiaircraft machine gun. Turk wheeled around and came back, angling in on the fast gray boat carefully. The man at the wheel had begun evasive maneuvers, and Turk could tell it was throwing off Richards’s aim; his gun flamed, but it was a moment before he hit the Grumman, and then the bullets found only the wing tip.

Turk held his fire as Richards swung his gun, and then he let go with a long burst just before the traitor could fire. The steel-jacketed slugs tore up the decking, forcing Richards to dive for cover, and continued ripping back and down into the engine compartment. Turk shot past, barely off the water, then pulled back on the stick, heading up toward the clouds.

Outside his left-hand window he saw his port engine stall and die. The drag pulled at the plane, and he leveled out, trying to compensate with his rudder. He turned the nose of the plane back toward land and was glancing at the motor for any signs of bullet damage or fire when the starboard engine died.

“This could be better!” he muttered to himself.

Grimly, Turk put the ship into a long glide and aimed for the calm water just inside the bar at the mouth of the river.

The amphibian set down upon the water smoothly, and when it came to a halt, Turk turned and flipped on the two-way radio switch.

“Calling Khabarovsk…calling Khabarovsk. Madden, Coast Patrol. Down at sea off Kumuhu River. Please send help. Out of petrol.”

“Khabarovsk airdrome answering Madden, Coast Patrol. Stand by.”

Another voice spoke through the radio. “Diakov calling from
S.S. Welleston
. I found the crew tied up. We’re coming to fish you out. Are you all right, comrade?”

“Okay for now. Go pick up Richards first, no immediate danger…only I wanted to be shipwrecked with a beautiful dame.”

“Well,” a cool voice said in his ear, “you’re not very complimentary!”

Turk turned and his jaw dropped. “Tony! What are
you
doing here!”

“I was in the plane, and you just jumped in and took off, so here I am!”

Turk must have left his mike switched on. “Comrade Madden…do you want to countermand that rescue order?”

Diakov waited for a reply, but there was no sound but the lapping of water against the hull. The Cossack had spent three years in the United States and had seen many movies. He sighed deeply.

THE GRAVEL PIT

M
URDER HAD BEEN no part of his plan, yet a more speculative man would have realized that a crime is like a lie, and one inevitably begets another, for the commission of a first crime is like a girl’s acceptance of a first lover—the second always comes easier.

To steal the payroll had seemed absurdly simple, and Cruzon willingly accepted the risk involved. Had he even dreamed that his crime would lead to violence, he would never have taken the first step, for he’d never struck a man in anger in his life, and only one woman.

But once he accepted the idea of murder, it was natural that he should think of the gravel pit. In no other place was a body so likely to lie undiscovered. The pit had been abandoned long ago, used as a playground by neighborhood children until the families moved from the vicinity and left it to the oil wells. Brush had now grown up around the pit, screening it, hiding it.

Now that the moment of murder approached, Cruzon waited by the window of his unlighted room, staring into the rain-wet street, his mouth dry, and a queer, formless sort of dread running through him.

He had been pleased with the detached way in which he planned the theft. The moment of greatest danger would be that instant in which he substituted the envelope he was carrying for the one containing the payroll. Once the substitution was made, the rest was simple, and the very casualness of it made the chance of detection slight. Hence, he had directed every thought to that one action. The thought that he might be seen and not exposed never occurred to him.

Yet that was exactly what had happened, and because of it, he was about to commit a murder.

Eddie Cruzon had been eating lunch at Barnaby’s for over a year. On the day he overheard the conversation, nothing was further from his thoughts than crime.

“We’ve used the method for years,” a man beside him was saying. “The payroll will be in a manila envelope on George’s desk. George will have the receipt for you to sign and the guard will be waiting.”

“What about the route?”

“Your driver knows that. He was picked out and given the route not more than ten minutes ago. All you have to do is sit in the backseat and hold the fifteen thousand dollars in your lap.”

Fifteen thousand was a lot of money. Cruzon considered the precautions, and the flaw was immediately apparent: the time when the payroll lay on George’s desk in the busy office. For Eddie knew the office, having recognized the men talking. He worked for a parcel delivery service and had frequently visited the office on business. With that amount of money, a man could do…plenty. Yet, the idea of stealing it did not come until later.

Once his decision was made, the actual crime was as simple as he’d believed it would be. He merely walked into the office carrying a duplicate envelope, and seizing a moment when George was not at his desk, he put down his envelope and picked up the other. Walking out, his heart pounding, he mingled with people at the elevator, and then, in the foyer of the building, stamped and addressed the envelope to himself and dropped it in a large mailbox near the door.

It was Saturday morning and there was no delivery until Monday, so he went back to his work, pretending to be unconcerned as always. Yet when he finished his day and was once more in his room, he could scarcely restrain his exuberance.

Fifteen thousand
, and all
his
! Standing before the mirror, he brushed his sleek blond hair and stared triumphantly at the vistas of wealth that opened before him. He would go about his work quietly for another month, and then make an excuse, and quit. After that, Rio, Havana, Buenos Aires! He was seeing himself immaculately clad on the terrace of a hotel in Rio when the phone rang.

“Cruzon?” The voice was low, unfamiliar. “That was pretty slick! Nobody saw it but me, and I’m not talking…as long as I can do business with you.”

Shock held him speechless. His lips were numb and his stomach had gone hollow. He managed the words, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who is this?”

“You’ll know soon enough. The only reason you’re not in jail is because I’ve kept my mouth shut.”

Eddie Cruzon had stared past the curtain at the drizzle of falling rain, his mind blank, his whole consciousness clambering at the walls of fear. “No reason why we should have trouble,” the voice continued. “In ten minutes, I’ll be sitting in the back booth of the coffee shop on your corner. All I want is my cut.”

Cruzon’s lips fumbled for words.

Into the silence the voice said, “They will pay five hundred for information. Think that over.”

The man hung up suddenly, and Cruzon stared at the phone as if hypnotized. Then, slowly, he replaced the handset on its cradle.

For a long time he remained perfectly still, his mind a blank. One fact stood isolated in his mind. He must share the fifteen thousand dollars.

Yet almost at once his mind refused that solution. He had planned it, he had taken the risk, he would share it with no one.

The answer to that was stark and clear. The unknown, whoever he was, would inform on him if he didn’t pay up.

He could share his loot, go to prison, or…

That was when he first thought of murder.

What right had the stranger to force his way into the affair? Theft was a rough game. If anything happened to him, it was just his bad luck.

Then he thought of the gravel pit. Only a few weeks ago he had visited the place, driving out the old road, now badly washed out and obviously unused. Curiosity impelled him to stop his car and walk up the grass-grown path along the fence.

The pit lay in the rough triangle formed by a wide field of pumping wells, the unused road, and the fence surrounding a golf course, but far from any of the fairways. It was screened by low trees and a tangle of thick brush. There was no evidence that anyone had been near it in a long time.

His car could be pulled into the brush, and it should take him no more than ten minutes to walk up to the pit and come back alone. There was small chance of being seen. It might be months before the body was found.

Even when the plan was detailed in his mind, something within him refused to accept it. He, Eddie Cruzon, was going to kill a man!

Later, looking across at the wide face of the man in the restaurant, he pretended to accept his entry into the affair with ease. “Why not?” he said. “I don’t mind a split.” He leaned over the table, anxious to convince the man of his sincerity. “Maybe we can work out something else. This job was a cinch.”

“It was slick, all right!” The little man with the round face was frankly admiring. “Slick as anything I ever saw! It took me a minute or two to realize what had happened, and I saw it!”

Eddie had leaned forward. “The money’s cached. We’ll have to hire a car.…” He had decided not to use his own.

“I’ve got a car. Want to go now?” The little man was eager, his eyes bright and avid.

“Not now. I’ve got a date, and this girl might start asking questions. Neither of us should do anything out of the normal. We just act like we always have.”

“That’s right. I can see that,” the fellow agreed, blinking. He was stupid, Cruzon thought, absolutely stupid! “When do we go after it?”

“Tomorrow night. You drive by and pick me up. We’ll go out where I hid the money, split it two ways, have a good dinner to celebrate, and go our ways. Meanwhile, you be thinking. You’re in a position to know about payrolls and can tip me to something else, later. With this parcel service job, I can go anywhere and never be noticed.”

Nothing but talk, of course. Cruzon hated the milky blue eyes and the pasty face. He wanted only to be rid of him.

When he saw the car roll up before his apartment house, he felt in his waistband for the short iron bar he had picked off a junk pile. Then, pulling his hat brim lower, he walked out the door.

Weber opened the door for him, and Cruzon got in, striving for a nonchalance he did not feel. He gave directions and then sank back in the seat. His mouth was dry and he kept touching his lips with his tongue.

Out of the corners of his eyes, he studied the man beside him. Weber was shorter than he, and stocky. Once at the pit, he must kill and kill quickly, for the man would be suspicious.

They had seen no other car for miles when he motioned Weber to pull off the road. Weber stared about suspiciously, uneasily. It was dark here, and gloomy, a place of slanting rain, wet pavement, and dripping brush. “You hid it clear out here? What for?”

“You think I want it on me? What if they came to search my place? And where could I hide it where I’d not be seen?” He opened the door and got out into the rain. “Right up this path,” he invited, “it isn’t far.”

Weber was out of the car, but he looked up the path and shook his head. “Not me. I’ll stay with the car.”

Cruzon hesitated. He had not considered this, being sure the man would want to be with him. Weber stared at him, then up the path. Cruzon could almost see suspicion forming in the man’s mind.

“Will you wait, then?” he asked irritably. “I don’t want to be left out here.”

“Don’t worry!” Weber’s voice was grim. “And don’t try any tricks. I’ve got a gun.”

“Who wants to try anything?” Cruzon demanded impatiently. Actually, he was in a panic. What could he do now?

Weber himself made it easy. “Go ahead,” he said shortly, “and hurry. I’ll wait in the car.” He turned to get back into car, and Cruzon hit him.

He struck hard with his fist, staggering Weber. The stocky man was fumbling for the gun with one hand when Cruzon jerked out the iron bar. He struck viciously. Once…twice…a third time.

And then there was only the softly falling rain, the dark body at his feet, and the night.

He was panting hoarsely. He must work fast now…fast. Careful to avoid any blood, he lifted the man in a fireman’s carry and started up the path.

Once, when almost halfway, he slipped on the wet grass and grabbed wildly at a bush, hanging on grimly until he got his feet under him. When at last he reached the brink of the pit, he heaved Weber’s body over and stood there, gasping for breath, listening to the slide of gravel.

Done!

It was all his now! Rain glistened on the stones, and the pit gaped beneath him, wide and dark. He turned from it, almost running. Luckily, there was nobody in sight. He climbed in and released the brake, starting the car by coasting. An hour later he deserted the car on a dark and lonely street, then straightened his clothes and hurried to the corner.

Walking four fast blocks, he boarded a bus and sank into a seat near the rear door. When he’d gone a dozen blocks, he got off and walked another block before catching a cab.

He was getting into the cab when the driver noticed his hand. “What’s the matter? Cut yourself?”

In a panic, he looked down and saw that his hand was bloody. Weber’s blood? It couldn’t be. He’d worn gloves. He must have scratched his hand afterward, on the bushes.

“It’s nothing,” he said carelessly, “just a scratch.”

The driver looked at him oddly. “Where to, mister?”

“Down Wilshire, then left.”

Cruzon got out his handkerchief and wiped his hand. His trousers were wet and he felt dirty. It was a while before he got home. He stripped off his clothes and almost fell into bed.

Cruzon awakened with a start. It was broad daylight and time to dress for work. His mind was startlingly clear, yet he was appalled at what he’d done. He had mur—He flinched at the word. He had killed a man.

He must be careful now. Any move might betray him. Reviewing his actions of the previous night, he tried to think of where he might have erred.

He had thrown the iron bar away. He had worn gloves in the car, and it had been left on a street in a bad neighborhood. He had taken precautions returning home. Above all, nobody knew he was acquainted with Weber.

There was nothing to worry about. He wanted to drive by the pit and see if any marks had been left, but knew it might be fatal. He must never go near the place again.

There was nothing to connect him with the payroll. When Weber turned up missing, there was a chance they would believe he had made the switch himself, then skipped out.

After dressing for work, he took time to carefully brush the suit he’d worn the previous night. He hurried out, drove to work, stopping only once, to buy a paper. There was nothing about the missing payroll. That puzzled and worried him, until he remembered it was Monday. That must have been in the Sunday paper, which he’d missed.

At his usual hour, he dropped around to Barnaby’s. He took three papers with him, but waited until he had his coffee before opening them. A careful search netted him exactly nothing. There was no comment on the payroll robbery. Then, the two men whom he’d overheard came in and sat down near him. Another man came in a moment later, and Cruzon gasped audibly, turning cold and stiff.

The newcomer was short, stocky, and had a pale face. Cruzon almost gasped with relief when he saw the man was all of ten years older than Weber. The man carried a newspaper, and sat down one stool away from him.

Cruzon took off his uniform and cap and smoothed his blond hair with a shaky hand. No use getting jumpy whenever he saw a man even built like Weber; there were lots of them.

He had finished his lunch and was on his second cup of coffee, and trying so hard to hear what his neighbors were saying that he’d been prodded twice on the arm before he realized the stocky man on his other side was speaking to him. “How about the sugar?” he asked. Then the fellow grinned knowingly. “You must have had a bad night. I had to speak three times before you heard me.”

Impatiently, Cruzon grabbed the sugar and shoved it at the man. The fellow took it, his eyes questioning and curious.

Cruzon got his attention back to the other men just in time to hear one say, “…good joke, I’d say. I wonder who got it?”

“Could have been anybody. You’ve got to hand it to the boss. He’s smart. He puts so many twists in that payroll delivery, nobody could ever figure it out! I’ll bet he lays awake nights working out angles!”