The Avenger 4 - The Devil’s Horns (7 page)

“It’s all right,” Nellie whispered back. “The less we tell, the more sure he’ll be that we have things in our past we don’t want to talk about.”

“He’s a bad man,” said Rosabel, pursing her lips.

“That’s why we’re here,” shrugged Nellie.

She put a bright, set smile on her lips, and sallied forth in the white dress. It wasn’t time for her next song, but she had an idea Sisco wouldn’t mind if she circulated among the customers a little.

And if she did that, she might learn something.

She hadn’t gotten out the dressing-room door, past the orchestra dais, when suddenly she stiffened and stood flat against the wall, listening.

She had heard the name—Martineau!

The orchestra was off the dais. There was a table next to the bass fiddle. At this, two men sat over highballs. One was so smooth-skinned and pink-cheeked that he looked almost doll-faced. The other was as fat and soft-looking as a jellyfish. But a jellyfish with hard, cold eyes.

Nellie Gray didn’t know who the soft, fat man was. But she knew the doll-faced man.

He was Buddy Wilson, public enemy, notorious killer.

“Talk’s dying down,” was the next thing Nellie heard after the mention of that name The Avenger had told them was so important. The fat man’s tone was satisfied, smug. “The bumpoff’s on page three now. Pretty soon it’ll be out completely. And that’ll be that.”

The man with the cheeks of a girl and the shallow, vicious eyes of a killer-shark, nodded.

“Hot while it lasted,” he agreed, “but it’s comin’ off all right. That’s because of the way the old guy got it. Smart! When a judge is shot in a joint like the Friday the Thirteenth Club, with a brunette sweetie like Lila Belle beside him, the dear public thinks the judge is too crooked to worry about. We framed him nice!”

“We?” said the fat man sardonically.

The public enemy’s shallow eyes tightened in a way to send shivers down your spine.

“All right,” he growled, “so I wasn’t in on it. But I helped rig it up. We all did. So I guess I can say we if I want—”

There were steps down the narrow corridor off which were the dressing rooms. Nellie instantly went on out the door, smiling brightly and impersonally, as if she had been walking all the time and had not halted at all.

The maker of the steps behind her was Sisco. He had come from one of the other dressing rooms. He emerged into the café room a little after Nellie, stared at her shapely back with a faint frown in his greenish eyes; then he went on to the nearby table where Buddy Wilson and the fat man were.

And Nellie, in a few minutes, returned to her dressing room. She plugged her tiny, short-wave radio, concealed in a make-up box, into the socket designed for a curling iron, and tried to get the Avenger in order to report.

She got no answer, so she carefully hid the little set and started back to the café room.

Sisco stared at her with that dangerous half-frown still in his eyes, as she went to the orchestra dais to sing her next number.

The drugstore was a small but immaculate place. The stock was neatly arranged and complete. More to the point, the soda fountain was swell. And the maple-nut sundaes the place put out were masterpieces.

So, at least, thought Joshua Elijah Newton. And Josh should know, he was a connoisseur of maple-nut sundaes.

Whenever the long, thin, gangling colored man had the chance, he went for maple-nut sundaes. Lots of them. Enough every day, you’d have thought, to have made him hog-fat. He sat at the soda fountain of the neat little drugstore, now, over his fourth sundae in an hour and a half or so, with the man behind the counter staring at him with bulging eyes. Such a thin body ought to bulge with that many sundaes. But Josh’s didn’t seem to.

“Gimme ’nuther,” he said, licking the spoon from the last gooey bite of the fourth sundae.

“Another?” echoed the proprietor.

“Yash, suh. They’s sho’ swell.”

Josh tackled his fifth maple-nut sundae with gusto. But as he did so he kept close watch out the window.

Looking sleepier and lazier than ever, Josh was as alert, really, as a hound dog on a chase. But when the colored man was most alert, he seemed sleepiest.

“When the tiger roars and lashes his tail,” he always said, “folks go for their guns. When he sleeps in the sun, they pay him no mind.” Josh was a bit of a philosopher in his way.

The drugstore was three blocks from Judge Broadbough’s home. It was on the street that anyone in that house would take if going to stores, transportation or any other outside interest.

In the judge’s home there was a slick-haired, light-tan houseman by the name of Rill—Tosephus Rill. According to The Avenger’s order, Josh meant to take the place very soon of said slick-haired, light-tan houseboy.

He was only waiting for him to appear down this street, as he was almost bound to do sooner or later.

Josh wasn’t quite through with his fifth sundae when Tosephus Rill appeared on the other side of the street, going toward the streetcar fine. Regretfully, Josh paid for his sundaes and left the remnant of the fifth.

He crossed the street.

“To catch flies, use neither vinegar nor honey,” was one of Josh’s axioms. “Shock ’em to death.”

He caught up with the natty Tosephus and tapped him on the shoulder. Judge Broadbough’s servant turned.

Tosephus had on a wasp-waisted blue overcoat with tones of purple. His collar was about a half inch wide, with a huge-knotted tie. His shoes were mahogany in shade, under light-gray pants legs. His hair was mirror-shiny at the sides where it showed under a snappy gray hat. From the hair came a musky odor of pomade.

He stared distastefully at Josh.

“Well?” he said, in the tone of an important man in a hurry.

“Hello, cousin,” said Josh, grinning widely.

Tosephus gaped, then scowled.

“What’s this yo’re pullin’ on me boy? Ah ain’t got no cousins. Leastwise not in Ashton City.”

“Ef’n yo’ is Tosephus Rill, yas, yo’ has,” said Josh, beaming more widely.

“If yo’ think yo’ can put the bee on me fo’ cash money—”

“It’s de othah way ’round, Cousin Tosephus,” said Josh. “My, Ah’s had a time findin’ yo’. Yo’ got money comin’ to you.”

“Huh?” exclaimed Judge Broadbough’s servant.

“Yash, suh! On account it’s a leg’cy lef’ by mah Uncle Remus, in Cario, Illinois. Yo’ mammy’s brothah. He lef home when he was twelve years old. Run away. Ah expect yo’ nevah even heah tell of him.”

“No,” said Tosephus Rill. “I nevah did.”

But his tone was thoughtful, noncommittal. And he stared at Josh out of hard, speculative eyes. He wiggled his fingers in mustard-yellow gloves.

“How much would this leg’cy be?” he inquired.

“Two hunde’d and eighty-three dollahs,” said Josh, in a tone of reverence.

Tosephus stood a long time, staring at Josh’s bland and innocent-looking face.

“Ah suppose Ah has got to write in—” he began.

“No, suh, cousin. Ah’s got de money with me. Ah hands it ovah when yo’-all proves yo’ is Tosephus Rill. Ah’s satisfied, but de law wants to see papuhs and things.”

“Ah got a drivuh’s license on a car Ah had last yeah,” said Rill, staring into Josh’s sleepy-looking eyes, “An’ maybe some othah things.”

“That ought to do it,” said Josh. “Ah’s got de money in mah room, two blocks f’um heah. You come with me and show me the papuhs, an’ Ah digs de money outta mah trunk.”

Tosephus Rill went with Josh. He had nothing to lose, he figured. He hadn’t but a few dollars with him if this were a holdup. And if it were a queer mistake that would net him two hundred and eighty-three dollars, so much to the good.

But he knew there was no legacy involved the moment Josh shut the door of his room on the two of them. The room, rented three hours, ago in a quiet, shabby boarding-house, was bare of all personal possessions. Josh had wanted it only for these few minutes.

“Say!” Tosephus Rill exclaimed, looking in vain for a trunk or anything else in which money might be contained.

He didn’t say anything more, for suddenly death was at his throat.

Josh Newton, colored philosopher and educated gentleman, was an expert marksman and a fine boxer. But when he was in character, he used the weapon best suited to his role.

He held the menacing edge of a razor to Tosephus Rill’s throat, now, with his left arm around the light-tan boy’s body from behind.

“Jus’ stay still and easy,” Josh advised, with sudden iron in his amiable voice.

“If it’s money yo’re after,” Tosephus gasped.

“It ain’t money,” said Josh.

“Then what—”

Sweat was popping out on Rill’s pomaded head. It made the scent stronger.

Josh had his line all picked for him. He’d known what to do the moment he set eyes on Tosephus. The natty, sartorial elegance, the scented hair, the smirk on the light-tan face, had told him. This was a lady’s man.

“I got yo’ here to kill yo’,” Josh said ferociously.

“Lissen heah, boy! I ain’t done nothin’ to yo’.”

“Yo’ has to mah wife,” said Josh, pressing a little with the razor. “Yo’ been runnin’ around with her.”

“I swear to goo’ness—”

“Yo’ deny it?”

There had been girls in Rill’s various past. That was apparent in his appalled eyes. No telling which one had set this grim black figure of vengeance on his trail. He stabbed blindly.

“She didn’ say she was married.”

“Makes no diff’runce,” said Josh, pressing tighter with the razor.

Tosephus could see his head coming clear off his shoulders.

“I’ll give you money!” he whined. “I’ll do anything yo’ say!” He groveled. “I’se sorry—”

“Bein’ sorry’s too late now.”

“Please! Don’t!”

“Say yo’ prayers!”

“I’ll nevah see her no more. I’ll git out of town! I’ll— Lift that razuh, boy!”

Josh seemed to consider.

“I s’pose it’s dangerous killin’ even yo’,” he said thoughtfully. “But yo’ ain’t goin’ to git off scot-free.”

“Whatevah yo’ say—” panted Tosephus, face the color of dirty chalk.

“So yo’ gits out of town. So yo’ han’s yo’ job ovah to me,” said Josh venomously. “Ah ain’t got wuhk at the moment. I’ll take yo’s. Unless—” The razor lightly nicked skin.

“Wait! Wait! Gimme papuh and pencil.”

The terrified Tosephus wrote a note.

This interduces my cousin from Cairo, Illinois. I got to go home fast on account my mother is sick. My cousin, Jim Rill, is a good houseman. He can take care things till I get back.

Tosephus Rill.

He handed the note to Josh with a shaking hand.

“Give this to Judge Broadbough, jus’ down the street. Tha’s where Ah work.”

“All right,” nodded Josh, still looking murderously at Rill’s throat. “So yo’ forgits to come back an’ I keeps de job f’um now on. See?”

“Y-yes, suh,” said Tosephus. “I see.”

He legged out of the room, and down the street. Josh stared after him, looking sleepy and amiable.

“To catch flies, use neither vinegar nor honey. Shock ’em to death!”

Tosephus Rill was the kind of person who noticed only himself. Wrapped in self-admiration, he had worked for Judge Broadbough for over a year and had noticed nothing particularly wrong.