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

Jocko had apparently had too much experience with short-memoried politicians and crooked vice squad cops to splurge on an expensive layout. The office walls were stained plywood paneling, the floor was covered with maroon carpeting and the desk was a good efficient metal one without adornment. The only wall decoration hung behind the desk — and proved that Vecelli had a sense of humor of sorts. It was a large framed, signed photograph of Honolulu’s Chief of Police, an estimable gentleman who undoubtedly would have blown his top had he known where it was hanging.

Vecelli crossed the office ahead of us and opened a door in the side wall. “Take him in here.”

It was a small storeroom with a single unshaded light bulb hanging down from the ceiling. Broken chairs were piled in one corner, a battered crap table with one leg missing leaned against the wall and old menus, poker chips and odds and ends of junk were scattered on the floor. The room was on the corner directly over the kitchen. The windows on both sides had been painted black.

Vecelli closed the door and turned to me. “I warned you to stay out of my affairs, Ford.”

I grinned. “You also said you could take care of your affairs personally.” Ruiz pulled my gun out of his pocket. Vecelli spoke to him without taking his eyes off me. “Put the rod away. I don’t want any shooting here.”

Ruiz continued to hold the gun on me. “I’m not gonna plug him — yet.” He turned to Malo. “Tie him up.”

Malo went over to the corner, picked up a dirty length of clothesline and proceeded to tie my wrists behind me. Ruiz stepped to one side and inspected the knots. He nodded in satisfaction and moved around to face me. Suddenly he reached up and slammed the barrel of the automatic against my jaw. I staggered back and fell against the wall. Ruiz shifted the gun to his other hand and drove his fist into my stomach. I jack-knifed and went down to my knees. Ruiz leaned forward. “The boss don’t like wisecracks, shamus. Be respectful.”

Vecelli pulled him aside. “Get up,” he ordered.

I got slowly to my feet, resigned to the fact that I was going to get a good going over. Vecelli grasped my shirt front. “Tough guy!” He spat full in my face. “Here’s a guy thinks he can bump off one of Vecelli’s boys and come around to brag about it. ’At’s the trouble with you Coast punks. You get one block off the Strip and you think you’re pushing around a bunch of hayseeds.”

I said: “What did you have to kill Anne Seccombe for?”

Vecelli turned slowly on Ruiz. “What’s he talking about?”

Ruiz looked sullen. “We’re in kind of a jam, boss.”

“What kind of a jam are we in?” Vecelli asked ominously.

“I had to plug the Seccombe dame. She was going into Ford’s place when she spotted us.”

“You gun-crazy fool!” Vecelli exploded. “Who gave you any orders to kill a dame?”

“She spotted us, boss,” Ruiz whined. “Besides,” he added reproachfully, “Ford ain’t a tourist. He don’t have no social callers.”

Vecelli considered this and nodded slowly.

“The way I figured it,” said Ruiz, gaining courage, “if a local girl disappears, people ask questions. But if she gets plugged at Ford’s cottage and Ford disappears, everything still gets taken care of.”

Vecelli was still sore but his mind began to examine the idea. “You kill her with your own rod?”

Ruiz grinned. “I used a souvenir Jap pistol I carry for emergencies.”

“Where is it?”

“Beside her body. No fingerprints.” He grinned wolfishly. “If the punk disappears off Makapuu Point tonight, he’ll be halfway to California tomorrow.”

Vecelli came to a decision. “It was a dumb play but it can’t be helped. Leave him in here and we’ll take him for a ride after we close.”

Ruiz moved in on me again. “I’ll fix him so he won’t make any noise.” He drew back his gun hand.

Malo grabbed Ruiz’s arm. “One minute. ’Scuse me, boss,” he said apologetically to Vecelli. “More-better not to mark him up so much. Might be, we change our minds again.” He grinned wickedly. “All we want is make him sleep till time to go, huh?”

Vecelli nodded.

“O.K.” Malo pushed Ruiz aside, rolled his shoulders once and with a look of childish glee, smashed his big fist into the point of my jaw. Stars did pin-wheels under my skull and then a red wave was succeeded by a black wave and I was falling through space.

I had no idea of time. When I came to, the room was dark and the pain in my jaw swept over me in sickening waves. I struggled to a sitting position, started to topple, threw out an arm and caught myself. My hands were no longer tied! I fumbled around in the darkness, found the rope, felt the ends. They had been cut through sharply. This was no time to go around looking for somebody to thank. I tiptoed across the room and raised the rear window. It gave onto a sloping roof over the kitchen door.

I lowered myself from the window and let go. My feet went out from under me, I clawed frantically at the edge of the roof, missed, and tumbled unceremoniously to the ground.

I got up and dusted myself off as a sedan eased into the parking lot. I backed into the shadows and watched two laughing couples get out of the car and head toward the front entrance of the club. They paid no attention when I moved in behind them. They turned in at the entrance, stopped and chatted with the doorman. I hurried on. I hailed a cab on Kalakaua and directed the Filipino driver to the tan tile and brick edifice that housed Honolulu Police Headquarters.

Lieutenant Walter Chun was a slender broad-shouldered Chinese in the middle thirties. He was wearing civvies, had shining black patent leather hair and hard intelligent eyes that gleamed like black enamel. He appeared to be satisfied with my credentials and showed neither surprise, suspicion nor any other emotion at my story. But when I had finished, his lips were thin.

“You should have come to us in the first place.”

I shrugged. “I told you why I didn’t. I was just going through the motions to prove to my client that it wouldn’t work. I couldn’t know I was going to get the breaks beforehand.”

“You knew last night.”

“O.K., maybe I played it wrong according to you. But I’m bringing you a lot of information tonight. Are you willing to go along with my plan?”

Chun eyed me expressionlessly. “You know if your scheme doesn’t work, that won’t be the end of it. You won’t see California again for a long, long time.”

I didn’t want to think about that. I brushed it aside. “If it does work?”

Chun smiled slightly. “Then I think the haul will be big enough for us to overlook your somewhat unorthodox behavior.”

“What are we waiting for?”

Chun rose to his feet and indicated the desk phone. “You can use that phone. I’ll get a car and a driver.” He moved swiftly and silently out of the office.

I reached for the telephone book and located Allan Norris’ Makiki Heights number. Norris himself answered the phone.

“Ford speaking. Do you want to clean up that business tonight?”

There was a pause. Finally Norris said: “Do you mean you’ve really found something important?”

“More than that. I think I can wrap the whole thing up.”

“Well—” Norris hesitated. “Do it then. That’s what you were hired to do, isn’t it?”

“I think you ought to be in at the kill.”

“Is that really necessary?”

“I think so.”

“Very well, what do you want me to do?”

I looked at the map of Honolulu under the glass top of the desk. “Be on the corner of Nuuanu and Iolani in fifteen minutes. I’ll pick you up there.”