Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 31, No. 1 — January, 1948)
- Автор: Cluff Curtis, Constiner Merle
- Год: 1948
- Язык: английский
- Год: Fictioneers / Popular Publications
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 31, No. 1 — January, 1948)». Краткое содержание книги:
Directly across from me I saw a familiar face. It was my landlady — technically anyway, since she owned the Hanauma. She was the best-looking landlady I had ever had. Maile Sherrod was about thirty and had thick wavy brown hair down to her shoulders. According to Allan Norris, her father had been Scotch-Irish and her mother Hawaiian. The combination had worked out well. There was a warmth and richness in her coloring and the slightest tilt to the outer corners of her long-lashed brown eyes. She was wearing a flowing white evening dress with a lot of material in it below the waist. Above the waist, she could catch cold if the temperature dropped to seventy-five. According to Norris, she had a shrewd business head and was making money hand over fist at the Hanauma.
Her escort was a big fellow in a midnight blue dinner jacket and a red carnation. He was more than somewhat oiled. His head rolled on its axis as he leaned across the table to ask a question. Maile shook her head. He repeated the question and covered one of her hands with his. She withdrew her hand, laughing, and shook her head more positively. She looked slightly buzzed herself but I supposed she could take care of herself. I turned back to the Filipino bartender.
“Who runs this joint?”
“Sar?”
“Who owns the Hobron Club?”
“Meestar Jocko Vecelli.”
“He around?”
The Filipino motioned with his head. “In the rear booth, sar.”
I picked up my drink, slid off the bar stool and ambled through the crowd. Jocko Vecelli was seated in the rear booth, playing with a wine glass. He was a lean pocket-size Italian in the late forties, with sad liquid eyes.
I said: “Hello, Jocko.”
He favored me with a slashing, mine-host smile but his voice was toneless. “Take a load off your feet, copper.”
I slid into the booth and neither of us said anything. I finished my drink and Jocko beckoned a waiter. “Bring Mr. Ford another of whatever it is he’s drinking.”
I said: “Scotch and water.”
Jocko studied his long tapering fingers. “I been hearing about you. What’s the matter with California? Too small for you?”
“The Coast is all right. I’m taking a little vacation.”
“For a tourist, you been asking a lot of irrelevant questions. Why don’t you stick to the scenery?”
“I get bored.”
“You’ll get bored in the hospital. Besides, they’re all overcrowded.”
“You trying to scare away trade?”
“A little friendly advice.”
The waiter returned with my drink. I started to pay for it and Jocko waved him away. I sipped it in silence. Finally, I said: “Who’s Kahalawai?”
Jocko looked casually around the club, “I got a bouncer named William Kahalawai.” His eyes didn’t show much interest. “This is his night off.”
“Big fellow, about six-three, weight around two-fifty?”
“Sounds like him. A bad man to cross. If you tried it, you made a serious mistake.”
I shrugged and took another sample of my drink.
“You been—” Jocko changed the phrasing. “Has he been giving you any trouble?”
I grinned. “Not much.”
Jocko dismissed the subject. “I’ll ask him about it tomorrow.”
“I heard,” I said slowly, “that he won’t be in tomorrow. I heard he fell down and hurt himself.”
The Italian’s thumb and forefinger tightened on the wine glass. “I got no sense of humor, Ford. I don’t like to kid around.”
“What’s the idea of sending that big hippo after me?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The hell you don’t.”
“I want you to get a few things straight.” Jocko dropped each word out separately and deliberately. “Giacomo Vecelli keeps his nose clean. He likes everybody else to do the same thing. He doesn’t like to see a Coast shamus coming out here and raising a stink. Go back to California.”
“You haven’t answered my questions,” I said.
“Listen, shamus,” Jocko’s voice grated, “when I want something done bad enough, I don’t have to send anybody. I take care of it myself.”
“It’s your move then.”
Jocko’s eyes grew heavy-lidded.
“Hello.” Maile Sherrod smiled brightly down at us.
Vecelli made it out of the booth first because he was smaller. “Will you have a seat, Miss Sherrod?”
Miss Sherrod teetered uncertainly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”
“Not at all,” Vecelli said. “Did you want to see Mr. Ford or me, or were you just visiting?”
“As a matter of fact, I wanted to see Mr. Ford, if you’re sure I’m not interrupting.”
Vecelli bowed. “I was about to return to my office. More tax forms.” He shrugged helplessly and bowed again, “I’ll see you later, Mr. Ford.”
I grinned at the implied threat and slid into the booth opposite Maile. She took a compact from her bag and stared at her reflection.
“Very informal of me, isn’t it?”
“I like it that way. Can I get you a drink?”
She nodded.
I signalled the waiter, ordered drinks and looked around the club. Maile put away the compact and lit a cigarette. “What’s the matter?”
“I was wondering about your boy friend.”
“Would you be afraid of him, Mr. Ford?”
“I wouldn’t be afraid and I wouldn’t not be afraid. I don’t look for trouble, Miss Sherrod.”
Her eyes had a bit of difficulty in focusing. “Why don’t you look for trouble?”
“I don’t have to. It always seems to know where to find me.”
She made a face. “I hope that remark isn’t personal.” She blew smoke at the ceiling. “You don’t have to worry. I am a deserted woman.”
“Is your friend crazy or something?” I inquired gallantly.
The waiter brought our drinks. Maile took a long pull from hers and put the glass down.
“He has a place on the windward side of the island and he insisted this was a nice night for a drive.”
“Well, isn’t it?”
Her lip twisted slightly. “Fundamentally, all men are alike, aren’t they?”
I shook my head sadly. “So young and yet so cynical.”
“Well, aren’t they?” she demanded.
“I wouldn’t say that about all the girls.”
“The hell you wouldn’t.” She grinned happily.
“Well,” I amended, “it’s the superficial differences that interest me.”
“Weasel,” she said. “What were your plans for the rest of the evening?”
“This is so sudden, Miss Sherrod.”
“Don’t overestimate yourself. I want a ride home. You can have a drink if you take me home.”
“Let’s go.” I threw a bill on the table and we worked our way through the mob. I bought Maile’s jacket back from the check-room attendant and we went out to my car. I turned on the dashboard radio and Maile leaned her head back on the seat, apparently prepared to enjoy the music in silence. I tried to decide whether I was just lucky or this was part of somebody’s plan.
Chapter Three
Descent to Murder
Maile’s house turned out to be in Kahala. I navigated the winding driveway and parked outside a three-car garage. We mounted a low stone terrace and entered a large living room through sliding glass doors. The room was apple green, the woodwork a darker hue of the same color. There were several good water colors on the walls, and over the broad stone fireplace was a large oil painting of a Hawaiian fisherman with a throw-net over his shoulder and fishing goggles raised above his eyebrows. It was good. The subject was a powerfully built man resting easily against an out-cropping of coral, his eyes scanning the water for signs of movement beneath the surface. The play of sunlight over his graceful flowing muscles was like early Greek sculpture.