Curtis Cluff - Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 31, No. 1 — January, 1948)

Kent shrugged, still grinning. “Put it down to pure personal pleasure, then. If you knew the ironic satisfaction I got out of seeing Mrs. Gotrocks or some other pillar of society come in and plank down twenty bucks for a piece of elegant filth, you wouldn’t have the heart to deny me that pleasure.”

“Your office manager is a junky, isn’t she?” I asked quietly.

Kent paled. “What was that?”

I studied his face. “You did know Miss Seccombe was a drug addict, didn’t you?”

His face hardened. “I didn’t, and I don’t believe it either.”

But he did believe it. He couldn’t have looked worse if I had kicked him in the belly. His reaction was obviously sincere. How she had managed to keep it a secret from him was something I would have to find out from her. Kent sat down. “Ford, are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He ran his hand through his hair. “I’ve known Anne Seccombe since she was knee-high to a grasshopper.”

I stared at him. “I gathered that she was a friend of yours but I thought you knew about it. I brought it up to throw your argument back in your face — about how much fun it was to stand by and watch a fellow human give in to a weakness he doesn’t know how to control. I didn’t know it would be such a blow to you.”

“You made your point.” Kent shook his head dumbly.

A knock sounded on the door.

“Come in!” Kent called.

The little clerk opened the door. “Mr. Kent, the driver is here with the books that came in on the Lurline and I don’t know where Miss Seccombe wanted them stored.” She stood in the doorway helplessly.

Kent sighed and stood up. “I’ll be right out.” The girl bowed and exited. Kent turned to me. “You want to stick around for a drink? I won’t be more than five minutes. And I need one.”

I shook my head. “I’m bushed from lack of sleep. I’m going back to the cottage and take a nap.”

Kent stared at me reflectively and shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He held the door open for me.

Back at the Hanauma, I detoured through the main office to see if there were any calls. The clerk handed me a brief telephone memorandum: “I want to see you. Important. — Maile S.” I waited until I got back to the cottage before dialing her Kahala number.

The maid who answered the phone said that Miss Sherrod was out and hadn’t left word when she would be back. I left my name and hung up. I checked the latches on the outside doors and searched the cottage from top to bottom. Nobody had planted any more heroin on me. I took a warm tub and climbed into bed, intending to sleep until supper.

I don’t know how long I slept. I was dreaming about a four-way gunfight with Norris, Kent and Vecelli when a little dark man crept up behind me and I woke up suddenly. The guns were still firing.

By the time I had recovered my wits enough to leap out of bed, all was silent again. Outside the bedroom window I saw that night had fallen. Maybe the shots had been in my imagination. Then I heard a scratching sound against the front screen. As I piled into my clothes in the dark, something metallic thudded on the floor of the lanai. I crouched low, flipped on the light in the living room and, gun in hand, threw open the front door.

Anne Seccombe lay in the pool of light, her head toward the door. She struggled to her hands and knees and stared at me with the dumb, incoherent look of approaching death. I knelt and saw the crimson splotch beginning to spread across her back. I put my arm around her for support and felt the stickiness dribble down my fingers. Apparently she had been on the point of knocking at my door when she was shot in the back. Her jaw worked with difficulty and tears formed in her eyes. She uttered the one word, “Ruiz—” and died in my arms. I lowered her gently to the lanai and looked around.

A few feet away lay a Japanese officer’s pistol. There were hundreds of such souvenir weapons in Honolulu. I rose and started toward it. There was a rustle of movement. I ducked and caught a glancing blow over the temple. I went down to my hands and knees, rolled my head groggily and tried to bring the gun up. The light went out in the living room as a heel ground my wrist into the floor, and the feeling went out of my arm. My fingers relaxed and I didn’t have the gun as I rolled to a sitting position. The sap crashed down again and I went over on my back. Instead of being unconscious, I floated in a slug-drunk realm where I could hear perfectly but couldn’t make my eyes focus and had no control over my movements. There was a shuffle of feet and I heard a Kanaka voice remonstrate: “Don’t slug him again. Waste-time trying to carry such a big fella. Make him walk.”

A strong pair of hands lifted me to my feet. My knees tried to buckle, my eyes came gradually into focus and I found myself staring up into the dark face of a grinning Kanaka. I say “up.” I’m six-one and this guy was a giant of at least six-four or five. Rat Face stood beside him, holding my .38 in one hand and a Colt Woodsman in the other. The Kanaka continued to grin. “You understand what I say?”

I nodded.

“O.K., we’re going for a little ride. You be good and nobody gets hurt. You make trouble and we make you very unhappy.” He held a big fist under my nose.

“Where are we going?”

“We go see a fella. No more talk now. You be good?”

I was in no shape to take on the big lug and I had no desire to argue with Rat Face’s guns. “Let’s go,” I said.

We walked through the shrubbery to the garages without attracting attention. Two solicitous friends helping a drunk on his way. The station wagon I had followed earlier stood waiting. The Kanaka drove and Rat Face sat beside me in the rear with the Colt in his lap. The ride was brief and didn’t take us out of Waikiki. It ended in the parking lot at the rear of the Hobron Club. Rat Face addressed the Kanaka: “I’ll do the talking to the boss, Malo. You keep your yap shut.”

Malo looked hurt. “Sure, sure, Ruiz. Don’t I always take my play from you? Do I make mistakes?”

“Just do what I tell you and shut up,” Ruiz snarled.

“Sure, leave it to Malo. We take him upstairs?”

“Come on.”

We walked across the lot and up to the rear door. Ruiz knocked and the door was opened by an aproned Filipino who recognized Ruiz and walked away paying no more attention to us. We were in the nightclub kitchen with all its attendant noises and clattering confusion. We walked through and came out in a narrow hall on the opposite side. Directly across from us were the swinging doors leading to the nightclub proper. At one end of the hall a red exit light glowed dimly. We turned in the opposite direction and mounted the stairs.

There were swinging doors on the second floor in approximately the same place as those below. We had to step back as they swung inward on us and Jocko Vecelli came through. I caught a glimpse of a wide, low ceiling room, not too fancy. A black cloth cyclorama hung in folds around the circumference of the room. It was a neat idea for killing several birds with one stone. It centered attention on the gaming tables, acted as a blackout curtain, deadened sound and probably saved Jocko a lot of money in decorations.There were about two dozen players in the room and the low hum of conversation blended with the hollow rattle of the ivory pellet whirling in the roulette wheel and the soft voice of the house man calling odds at the crap table. There were other seated games and I already knew enough about Honolulu to know that monte, fantan and the inevitable black jack would be among them.

Vecelli gestured silently toward the door in the opposite wall. Malo started to haul me forward, but I suddenly dug my heels in. As my eyes had roamed the big room I had caught a glimpse of Maile Sherrod standing at the roulette table talking animatedly to the croupier. He was smiling and shaking his head at whatever she was saying. The swinging door blotted out my view, Malo tugged again and I allowed myself to be dragged into Vecelli’s office.