“What’s the matter?” Short asked. “Afraid to die? You want to play Uebermensch, don’t you? Death’s part of that game, mister. The guy you’re imitating bit down on a cyanide capsule. Valhalla’s waiting for you, Clymer.”
As Short approached, Clymer went backward two more steps. “Tell the Spik to throw his knife,” Short advised. “Or shoot. Or drop the gun and go to jail. Do something, you yellow-livered tub of lard. Christ, I hate a phony!”
Clymer licked his lips and moved them soundlessly while he stared with disbelieving eyes at Short. The gun in his hand began to sag. Short grinned and kept moving forward.
“Look out!” Susan screamed from the couch. “Behind you!”
Instantly Short threw himself sideways and dropped to the floor. Something swished past his head and, as if by magic, a short piece of steel protruded from Clymer’s bulbous throat. It was the haft of the Mexican’s knife. Clymer’s eyes bulged horribly in their pockets of fat, while two big blobs of blood gushed from his lips and spilled down his white shirt-front. He gurgled, dropped the pistol, and grasped the steel with his fat hands, trying to pull it from his windpipe. There was another great gush of blood from his mouth and he fell, his huge mass collapsing into a disorderly mound of flesh and red-stained linen. The knife remained buried in his throat.
Short wasted no time. He scooped up the gun and fired twice at the Mexican boy, both bullets ripping into his chest and slamming him back against a plaster and wood post. His eyes glazed and he slumped to the floor, sliding down along the post. Then, coming up to his feet, Short whirled round in time to see the desk-clerk bringing a twelve-gauge, double barreled shotgun up from behind the counter.
“That’s far enough,” Short said, pointing the derringer at the man’s chest. “Drop it.”
The clerk did as he was told. He shrugged and said, “I wasn’t going to use it. To hell with Clymer and his gigolo son.”
“I don’t believe you,” Short said, taking the gun, breaking it, and removing the shells, “but I’m in a generous mood.” He turned to Susan. She was standing now, and although pale of face and drawn-looking, she had herself under firm control. Short nodded. “Nice going.”
“Did you have to shoot the boy?” she asked. “He was unarmed and he killed Clymer for you.”
Taking a pair of handcuffs from his overnight bag, Short snapped them on the clerk. He said to Susan, “The kid threw that knife at me — this way he’ll never throw another.” Then to the clerk he said, “The Federal boys’ll want you for evidence — that’s what saved your life. Sing loud enough and you might get off with a couple years.”
“And John?” Susan asked.
“They’ll pick him up in Chicago when he tries to unload the car. An agent’ll probably drive back with you. And that’ll be that.” Pushing the clerk into a chair, Short went to the telephone. “I’m sorry it turned out this way, but you sure picked a wrong guy. Maybe you should’ve got your uncle’s opinion — I know it’s an old-fashioned idea, but a guy don’t make it to bank-president by accepting wooden nickels and it wouldn’t hurt to hear what he’s got to say. But anyhow, I hope you’re smart enough to get over it.”
Susan’s chin became firm. She tilted it slightly before asking, “How long did you know — before now, I mean?”
“I didn’t really know until Clymer admitted everything. But I put the pieces together almost as soon as I finished speaking to you and the clerk. You see, the whole thing was so senseless. Motiveless. All this trouble to deceive you and yet nobody seemed to want anything from you. Why had John disappeared? Well, the clerk there spoke the exact literal truth and gave the game away.”
“Me?” the clerk looked up in surprise.
“Yeah. You told me Clymer’d be satisfied if Susan McCrory would just drive back to Chicago. That’s quite a definite thing when you mull it over. He didn’t just want her to get out of town and stop bothering him; he didn’t want her to take a train; he didn’t want her in a mental institution; he wanted her to drive back to Chicago. This is a specific thing. Now why would he want this particular thing? Because something’s in the car he wants to go to Chicago — something he wouldn’t dare send in any normal way or take himself. What? On the Mexican border that’s an easy question — pornography, dope, or espionage material. Clymer’s operation was a little too big for pornography and not quite big enough for espionage, and that left dope. Heroin. Next question — who’ll take it from the car in Chicago? Who knows where it’s hidden? Who else but the missing person in the affair — John? So, when I put this all together, I proceeded to test it. I went along with the notion—” Short smiled at Susan — “that you were goofy and that John didn’t exist, and told Clymer I was driving you back to Chicago. That suited him fine. But then at the last minute I threw in the monkey-wrench, telling him we’d changed plans and were driving to Diego. And when I mentioned the Feds, he knew the jig was up and showed his hand.”
“But the cigar-box bomb?” Susan asked. “Why’d he do that?”
“A crazy piece of melodrama he couldn’t resist. Clymer was one of those two-bit Nazi-worshippers. He fancied himself as the superior, cold, cultured arch-criminal — you heard the bit about Wagner? Well, Von Keppelwise said almost the same words to me years ago in Cairo. Clymer liked to play Hermann Goering, Goebbels, Keppelwise, and the rest of those butchers. And he shared their biggest weakness — an insatiable thirst for melodrama. That’s the idea behind all the fancy cuisine, super-politeness, and ultrasophistication. No doubt Clymer read every book and magazine article ever written about Hitler’s gang and he picked up the information about the Coronas del Supremos from one. The idea of blowing you, me, and the car to hell and gone — even with the loss of his dope cargo — was too theatrical a chance for him to miss. Then, of course, there was always the possibility I’d open the thing later — much later, long after we’d delivered the stuff.”
“I don’t know much about Nazis,” Susan said, shuddering.
Short picked up the phone. “No. I guess not. You were too young.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of Clymer’s body. “They were pretty much like him at that — dream merchants. Phony supermen.”
Susan glanced at Clymer and quickly turned her head back to Short. “Why did you call his bluff — throw in the monkey-wrench, as you say, without even carrying your gun?”
Short laughed low and somewhat bitterly. “I guess I’m something of a ham myself. Maybe—”
Southern Comfort
by Shirley Dunbar
“After all, honey, what’s family for... but to help out in time of need.”
At first glance George Waton appeared to be deep asleep, but even when fully awake he had a half asleep look, with his small eyes set far back in wrinkle creased sockets and pale blonde-stubby lashes adding no color to his light blue eyes. “You really are taken with this quaint little town, aren’t you Laurie Lee?”
“Why, honey, I just think it’s so nice after all the hustle and bustle of our busy city life,” she slowly answered him in her sweet soft southern drawl. Laurie Lee never raised her voice, got excited; always calm and composed. She was brought up to be what she was... a lady.
Looking at the large expansive lawn, tall trees with leaves slowly stirring in the mild breeze, he replied, “It is peaceful sitting outside here.” The lounge groaned as he leaned back, relaxing in the lazy mild climate. Laughingly, he had an after thought, “Maybe I should have said, right peaceful as the natives do.”