A voice bawled, “All ash-oah that’s go’n ash-oah...”
The ship’s whistle throbbed. People started to wave handkerchiefs, hats. The ship’s band tootled, “Auld Lang Syne.”
Linton thrust forth his hand. “Well, it’s good-by again, Parson.”
The Parson, wrapped in thought, took it, shook it briefly. “Good-by, Linny. If you should happen to pass by the old Five Corners where we played as kids, just give it a look-over for me.”
“Wouldn’t you like to go back? Aren’t you tired,” Linton waved a hand toward Cariba’s lights, “of all this?”
The Parson shrugged. “One place or another, they’re all the same after a while. And I’m beginning to like it here, to be truthful.”
He was on his way to the gang plank when Linton ran over and caught his arm. “One more thing, old kid. If I remember correctly there was a suitcase mixed up in the case somewhere. Somehow when we got around to it, it had disappeared and I didn’t want to make a fuss in front of those stiff British colonial police.”
“Suitcase?” asked the Parson innocently. “What suitcase?”
“A suitcase full of money which Tex Kent had brought with him from New York.”
“Oh, that. A trifle, you know.”
“Seriously, Parson, how much was in it?”
The Parson faced him. “A hundred and twenty grand.”
“Wha-at! What did you do with it?”
“Well, I kept twenty. I thought I had at least that much coming to me.”
“And the rest?”
“Went with the Dutchess. Only she doesn’t know it. Maybe she does by now. I helped her pack her bags.”
Linton squeezed his arm affectionately, grinned. “You’re the berries, kid. No fooling! And you’re a white man, too!”
“What’s up? What went wrong?”
Linton exploded into rich laughter. “Nothing’s wrong. But the Dutchess — now don’t break down, boy — the Dutchess returned that money to me just before her plane took off. She didn’t want any part of it. You see, it was blood money to her. She wants to start clean. I’ve got it now in the ship’s safe. A cool, clear hundred grand.”
The Parson’s eyes snapped. “And I was sucker enough to hand out good dough to a dame only to have her turn around and hand it right back! That’s gratitude!”
He looked at Linton for a half a second. Linton was grinning broadly, and presently the Parson, too, was grinning.
“Anyway,” he said, “I got my twenty grand. That’s no gag. And you’re not getting any part of it back.”
All-American Menace
by H. H. Stinson
O’Hara tackles some killers and makes a football out of their racket.
Even the padded leather doors of the washroom couldn’t keep out the sound of splintering furniture. O’Hara said, “My cockeyed aunt,” under his breath, threw a wadded paper towel at the waste box and batted the swinging doors out of his way.
Barging up the steps that led to the main floor of the Club Bolero, his brown, angular face wore a look, half of apprehension and half of exasperation. He was resplendent in a dinner jacket, a half acre of white shirt front, all of which didn’t go with the shagginess of his hair and the breadth and careless swing of his shoulders.
He hit the top step, shoved past velvet hangings and came into the lounge of the Bolero. At the far end of the bar a flying wedge of waiters was engulfing a large young man with blond hair and the light of battle in blue eyes. The flying wedge went up and over the blond young man and the young man rose through it, shedding waiters right and left.
He ducked, reversed his field and slung a punch enthusiastically at a tall, black-haired man with a smooth old-young face who was sidling down the bar. The punch took the black-haired man on the ear but he shook it off, didn’t go down. The waiters pounced on the blond young man again.
A redheaded girl stood on the bar, powdering her nose and looking things over with interest.
O’Hara dove into the melee and came out the other side, shoving the blond young man who took a wild punch at him. O’Hara said, “Dead ball, Eddie.”
You could have taken an alcohol rub in Eddie’s breath. He squinted at O’Hara, said, “Hi, Ken.”
A waiter threw a punch at O’Hara and missed and Eddie said, “Hey, is that guy trying to pick a fight?”
O’Hara pushed him at a door beyond the end of the bar, fended off more waiters with his back and said, “Beat it, nitwit. Wait for me on the corner.”
“If you need any help, jus’ yell,” said Eddie and went out through the door.
The waiters surged past O’Hara after Eddie and O’Hara tripped the first one and the others piled up over the man. O’Hara, his shirt front bulging and his collar flaring around his ears, walked away from the pile-up toward the front of the bar and a man with roached gray hair and quizzical eyes above heavy pouches said, “Hello, Ken.”
“Hello, Mat,” said O’Hara. “How much will the damage be?”
Mat Wyman surveyed two broken tables, a scattering of broken chairs, broken glass, two waiters who had coats ripped up the back and another whose underwear showed where his dickey had been torn off. The redheaded girl was climbing down from the bar, assisted by the man with the young-old face, and Mat looked her legs over.
“A hundred bucks ought to cover it,” said Mat. “You better fix your collar, Ken.”
O’Hara peeled two fifties off a respectable roll and gave them to Mat. Mat tucked them into a pocket of his vest and said, “Thanks, kid. Your collar’s kind of haywire.”
“Sorry about the uproar,” said O’Hara.
“That’s all right. Only don’t bring your pal back here, kid. Fun’s fun but there’s such a thing as too much trouble.”
“Trouble?” O’Hara said. “My friend, you don’t know what trouble is. You had him for fifteen minutes and me, I’ve been with him for twelve hours.”
“What is he — something special?”
“He’s a nephew of Old Man Randall, publisher of the Tribune. The Old Man’s in the East and this kid arrived today with a letter of introduction with him, saying the kid figures he’ll be a newspaperman when he finishes college and to show him the works in operation while the kid’s out here on his midwinter vacation. So my city editor hands me a lot of expense dough and the job of nursemaiding the kid and keeping him out from under everybody’s feet.”
“From what I’ve seen, I don’t envy you the job.”
“Ah,” said O’Hara, “he’s a nice kid. Just a little too enthusiastic. What started it this time?”
“He was making a play for the redheaded gal and the black-haired guy didn’t like it.”
O’Hara said, “Ouch, that guy!”
Mat looked curious. “Anything unusual about that guy?”
“It depends on what you call unusual. He happens to be a very, very tough egg from New York.”
“Is that so?” said Wyman. “I’ll have to keep an eye on him.” O’Hara started to move away and Wyman clapped him on the shoulder, said, “Drop around again, Ken — alone.”
O’Hara went out through the lounge toward the foyer, past a dozen couples who were eating and drinking. Most of them were drunk and seemed to have thought the fight was part of the floor show, only better. O’Hara slapped a hat check and a quarter in front of the dark girl at the check room and the dark girl gave him his hat.
She said, “Thanks. And, mister, your collar is undid.”
O’Hara went out, trying to fix his collar. The buttonholes were torn and he couldn’t fix it so he let it go and forgot about it.