“BLACK MASK” SCHOOL
Both of us are admitted and dedicated aficionados (not to mention sometime writers) of the “Black Mask,” or “hardboiled,” school of suspense fiction, and so naturally we wanted to use a representative example of this type of story herein. Richard Ellington’s “Goodbye, Cora” was one of the earliest submissions we received, and after reading it we knew we had to look no further. As well as being a genuine McGuffin, it is realistic, sensitive, relentless, violent, and ultimately quite moving—all the qualities of the “hardboiled” school at its very best. Mr. Ellington is the author of five novels featuring private eye Steve Drake, all of which appeared in the late 1940s and early 1950s, and numerous radio scripts and short stories; at present he lives in the Virgin Islands, the setting of this story. - B.P.
The man was fat, over three-hundred pounds. He wore khaki trousers and a short-sleeved, open-at-the-throat shirt of the same material. The back of the shirt was soggy and dark with perspiration. He leaned forward on the bench, put his elbows on the table, and said in a worried voice, “You don’t look so good, Carter. You sick, man?” His accent was faintly West Indian.
Carter sat down slowly on a bench across the table. He was tall and lean and his shoulders were slightly stooped. His tanned face was heavily lined. He wore a flowered sports shirt, white linen slacks, and a wide-brimmed, expensive Panama hat.
He took off the Panama, put it on the bench beside him, and nodded. “I’ve been drunk for three days. This morning I got your message and decided I’d better come out of it. It’s not easy.” He drew cigarettes from the pocket of his sports shirt and lit one with trembling fingers. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He dabbed at it with a handkerchief and grinned painfully. “I’m a damned fool, Tommy. I always think it’ll help, but it never does.”
Behind them, a jukebox came to life. A native woman came out of the pavilion carrying a tray with a bottle of champagne on it. She crossed the open cement terrace and put the champagne on the table. The woman went back into the pavilion. The fat man poured champagne into one of the glasses. He picked it up, made a little gesture toward Carter, and said, “Well, first today.” He drank half a glassful and put the glass down on the table in front of him.
Carter watched him, and more sweat crept onto his forehead. He inhaled his cigarette and blew smoke upward. A light breeze trailed it off toward the water. Carter followed the smoke with his eyes and let them come to rest on the town of Charlotte Amalie across the bay. The juke box stopped moaning, and the faint tooting of automobile horns floated across the harbor. Otherwise it was quiet and still.
Tommy leaned forward again.
“What’s the matter, Carter?” he asked in a gently worried voice.
Carter kept his eyes on the town. His mouth tightened and one of his face muscles jerked. He said in a low, tight voice, “Cora’s not coming back, Tommy. She’s left me.”
Amazement came over the fat man’s face. “But Christ, man! After all these years.”
Carter nodded and said dully, “Twenty-two.”
“But I don’t understand. What happened?”
“I don’t know exactly. I’ve been noticing a change in her for the last year or so, and I had a funny feeling about things when she went up to visit her sister in the States last month. She wrote a couple of times, sort of half-interested letters. And then this one came four days ago. She just said it was all over.”
“Is there another man?”
“I don’t think so. No, I guess she just got tired of it. All this.” Carter gestured wearily toward the town. “The boat, the heat, the drinking, the people, the tropics, and me. Mostly I guess it was me. She never understood about me, and she never understood about the Islands. I don’t think she ever knew or cared how much I loved her, how much I depended on her.”
“I’m sorry, Carter.”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll get used to it in time.”
“Uh-uh.” Carter shook his head again. “You don’t understand, Tommy. If she left me after a month or even a year or two years, it wouldn’t have mattered so much. I wouldn’t have known her so well then or loved her so much. It—it’s like losing your arms or your legs or your eyes.”
Tommy said kindly, “People lose those things every day, Carter, and they go on and make the best of it.”
Carter swung his bloodshot eyes back on the fat man. “Not all of them,” he said, “not the ones like me. The others have something I don’t have. Maybe it’s character or strength or just plain guts. I don’t know. Maybe that’s why Cora left me. I wasn’t ever what she really wanted anyway. She really wanted security, a husband who had a steady job, and a home in the suburbs of some city up north. But I was picturesque when she met me. Picturesque!” He laughed a short, bitter little laugh. “You’re not picturesque when you’re no better than a beachcombing bum at forty-five.”
“You’re no beachcomber.” Carter didn’t seem to hear him.
“These last three days have been hell, Tommy, hell. I never left the boat and I saw her everywhere, some dresses hanging over a bunk, that old robe I know so well, some hairpins and powder in a drawer. I tell you, Tommy, I—”
“Stop it, Carter!” The fat man’s deep voice was sharp, almost angry.
Carter had half-risen from the bench with both hands flat on the table in front of him. Finally, he sank slowly down on the bench.
“Sure, Tommy. I almost forgot you sent me that message. What did you want to see me about?”
The fat man leaned toward Carter and lowered his voice. “It’s Greg. Some men are going to kill him.”
The impact of the fat man’s words stopped Carter’s train of thought completely. He stared for a second or two at his friend and then said in an incredulous voice, “Kill him?”
“Yes.”
“Why? What’s Greg done?”
“I don’t know the whole story. It happened in the States. That’s why he came back here to St. Thomas a month ago. You knew he was back?”
“No. I had no idea he was in St. Thomas.”
“I guess nobody knows it but Mom and me and—these men who are going to kill him.”
“They know he’s here on the Island?”
“Yes. When Greg got here last month I could tell right away that something was wrong. He wouldn’t go out and didn’t want to see anybody. He told Mom he was sick, but I knew better. I finally got it out of him. He didn’t tell me what he’d done, but I think he got mixed up with that crime syndicate. Maybe he double-crossed them in some way, or maybe he got paid for something he couldn’t deliver.”
“He’s out at your mother’s place?”
“Yes.” The fat man finished his champagne and refilled the glass. He stared down at the drink and said bitterly, “Greg’s a no-good louse, but you know that Mom thinks he’s Jesus’ own shadow. She worships him. It’d kill her if she found out the truth, if anything happened to him.” He sipped his champagne, and then added, “And he is my kid brother. I’ve got to save him, Carter. That’s why I sent for you. I thought maybe you could think of something, help me.”
Carter shook his head slowly. “When those boys send a killer to do a job, he usually does it.”
“Yes, I know. But there must be some way.”
“You said they knew Greg was here in St. Thomas. What makes you think so?”
“A private plane from Miami landed at the airport last night. There were two men aboard: one was the pilot; the other man didn’t look like a wealthy businessman or a tourist. They each carried one small suitcase and they registered at the Grand Hotel. The pilot gave his name as William Leary, and the other man signed in as Ancil Dolph.”
Carter shrugged his shoulders. “Why, hell, Tommy, that may not mean anything. They could be here for a dozen reasons.”
“Uh-uh.” The fat man wiped perspiration off his forehead with a handkerchief. “I’ve had a good check on the airport ever since Greg told me about his trouble. These men asked in the coffee shop where Gregory Braun could be reached. The counter-boy said he didn’t know, said he’d never heard of him. I don’t think they did any more inquiring.” Tommy glanced at his wrist watch. “They were still in their room at the Grand half an hour ago.”
Carter spoke slowly in a tired voice. “I guess the police are out.”
“I guess they are.”
“No chance of just keeping Greg hidden until these fellows give up and go away?”
“What do you think?”
Slight annoyance crept over Carter’s face. “You know I’d like to help, Tommy. You’re my best friend. You’re like a brother to me. But just what the hell can I do? What did you think I could do?”
The fat man spread his hands helplessly. “I don’t know,” he said. “I—I just thought that maybe—well, that you’d know about these things, know what to do.”
Carter lit another cigarette. “I ran rum and whisky at twenty-nine and thirty. Today I’ll run brandy if the price is right. I’ve made my share of petty payoffs, and I’ve thrown shots twice and never hit anything. Once I took a slug in the shoulder and had an all-night swim for my trouble. That was a long time ago. No, Tommy, these boys are way out of my class. I don’t see how I can help.”
Disappointment showed in the fat man’s kind eyes. ‘‘Well,” he said, “I guess that’s that. Maybe Greg can make a run for it again.’’ Carter turned and looked out across the bay. A large white yacht was unfurling her sails and moving slowly across the harbor toward the open sea. He watched it without really seeing it. “It won’t do any good,” he said. “If they want him, they’ll find him.’’
“Yeah,” Tommy said.
Carter’s eyes were on the red roofs of the town. They stayed there for ten more seconds. Then very slowly he turned and looked at Tommy. The faint trace of a smile played around his lips.
“Hell,” he said, “I wonder—”
There was a pause. The fat man frowned and asked, “You wonder what?”
“If it’s possible.” The smile spread a little.
“What? Something about Cora?”
“No. Cora’s finished, but Greg may not be.”
“I don’t understand.”
Carter stood up. The smile had gone from his face but there was still a hint of excitement in his eyes. “I just had an idea. If it’s any good, maybe we can save Greg after all.”
“How? What are you going to do?”
“First, I’ve got to find out if it’ll work. You’ll hear from me if it does. Just keep Greg out of the way and don’t tell him anything about any of this.”
“All right. But don’t you need help?”
“No.’’ Carter picked up his Panama and put it on. He held out his hand. “Sit tight until you hear from me.” The fat man nodded uneasily, and they shook hands.
Carter crossed the terrace, went through the pavilion and out to the road leading to the airport. An empty cab was just passing. He flagged it down, got in, and told the driver to take him to the Grand Hotel.
The road led around the bay and into Cha Cha Town, the old French quarter of Charlotte Amalie. The cab swung around a corner and the Normandie Bar came into view. Carter looked at the Normandie, shrugged wearily, and said, ‘‘The hell with it.’’
The driver slowed the car and half-turned in his seat. “What?” he asked. Carter told him to stop and wait for him. He got out of the cab, entered the Normandie Bar, and ordered a double shot of rum. The bartender said, “Hello, Carter,” but Carter didn’t hear him. He was thinking of other times in the Normandie Bar, other times when she had been with him. There was that night during the war when the big Marine had made the pass at her. He looked down at his knuckles. The scars were still there. Later that night, she’d laid her head on his shoulder and cried and told him how much she loved him.
Carter lifted his glass, closed his eyes, drank the double shot of rum in one gulp. Then he paid for the drink and returned to the waiting cab. They passed the ancient walled cemetery, circled the market, and finally reached the square at the end of Charlotte Amalie’s main street. It was a “boat day” and one of the bigger cruise ships was in port. Crowds of eager-eyed, pale tourists filled the sidewalks, gawking, taking pictures, and shopping.
When Carter’s cab reached the Post Office, he told the driver to circle the square and stop near the steps of the Grand Hotel. The driver was lucky enough to find a parking place. Carter got out, paid his fare, and then asked the driver if he wanted to earn ten dollars. The driver’s eyes said he did. Carter told him to wait.
The Grand Hotel is one of the oldest in the West Indies, a large rambling building that covers half a block. Various shops and offices line the ground floor, and the lobby is up one flight of worn steps. Carter went up the stairs and entered the big shadowy room.
The rum had sent a pleasant warm glow through him and now, as the ten-degree cooler temperature of the lobby hit him, the drink began to take effect. Coming on an empty stomach, it gave him a feeling of remote numbness. His nerves suddenly seemed to relax, and he noticed that he’d stopped perspiring.
He stopped at the desk and coughed. The dozing clerk opened his eyes, yawned, and stood up. Carter asked him if Mr. Dolph and Mr. Leary were still in their room. The clerk looked at the row of mailboxes, nodded, and gave Carter the number of the room.
Carter thanked him and asked if he sold stamps. The clerk yawned and nodded again. Carter bought two stamps, an airmail and a first-class.
There were two writing desks in the lobby. Carter crossed over to one of them, sat down, and hurriedly wrote two notes. He put them in envelopes, sealed them, and put the air mail stamp on one and the first-class stamp on the other. Then he went down the steps to the street. The taxi was still waiting for him. He took ten dollars from his pocket and handed it to the driver. Then he gave him the two letters he’d written. “Now listen carefully,” he said. The driver put on a frown of concentration. Carter spoke very slowly.
The driver repeated the instructions. It satisfied Carter. He went up the steps to the lobby of the hotel, walked the length of it, and entered a dim, musty corridor. Rooms opened off each side of it, and all the doors were closed.
At the end of the long hallway Carter turned to the right, climbed a flight of stairs, and found the number he was looking for. He stopped in front of the door, listened a second, and knocked.
There was a pause, and then from inside the room a hoarse voice with a Brooklyn accent said, “Yeah? Who is it?”
Carter said very distinctly, “It’s Gregory Braun.”
Nothing happened for nearly five seconds, and then the door swung open. A heavy set, stocky man with thick, black hair and a swarthy face stood framed in the doorway. His eyes were hard and expressionless. He wore only his underwear and he held a towel in his hand. There was a trace of shaving soap under his left ear.
Behind him Carter saw a slim, blond young man sitting on the edge of the bed. He was fully dressed except for one shoe. He held the shoe in his hand and stared at Carter. His silky hair was thinning at the front, and he wore glasses.
The dark haired, stocky man squinted, looked up at Carter, and said, “What did you say your name was?”
“Gregory Braun.”
“So?”
“I heard you were asking where to find me, out at the airport last night. I wondered why.”
A sneer spread over the swarthy face and the stocky man’s head tilted several degrees to one side. His voice had velvet wrapped around it. “Don’t you know?”
Carter’s lean body seemed to sag a little. He nodded, and said in a tired voice, “Yeah, I guess I do.”
The dark man stepped aside and motioned Carter into the room with his head. Carter moved through the doorway, toward the only chair in the room. When he was still four feet from it, the man behind him said, “Far enough! Freeze it right there.” Carter stopped and stared at the wall in front of him.
The thin blond put his shoe on and got up off the bed. He went over to Carter and quickly searched him. “He’s clean,” he said. He had a friendly voice with no particular accent. He went back and sat down on the edge of the bed again.
“Okay,” the stocky man said, “you can relax, Braun.” Carter turned around. The stocky man had a forty-five automatic in his hand. He let it hang loosely at his side.
The blond man laughed and shook his head. “You’re sure making it easy, Buster.”
Carter looked bleakly at him. “I got tired of running.” He shifted his eyes to the other man. “Can I square it?”
“Not with us. We’ve already been paid to do a job.”
The blond man said almost absently, “I fly planes, Ancil. Remember?”
“I don’t mean you guys,” Carter said. “I mean the boys up north. Can I square it with them?”
Ancil shrugged. “It musta been a big chunk, very big.”
“It was,” Carter said, “and I’ve still got it.”
Ancil’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Not on you.”
“Hell, no.”
“But you can lay hands on it?”
“Yes. I’ll give it back to them if they’ll forget it.”
Ancil looked at the blond. “What do you think, Bill?”
“We might give it a whirl. Everybody likes to get their money back.”
“Right.” Ancil turned his eyes on Carter again. “Okay, Braun, where is it?”
“Hidden on a boat I’ve been living on.”
“Where’s the boat?”
“It’s anchored out at Nazareth Bay at the other end of the Island.”
“You got a car?”
“No, we’ll have to rent one or hire a cab.”
Ancil turned to the blond. “Go hire a car, Bill.”
Bill got up, crossed to the door and went out. Ancil started putting on his clothes, and Carter sat down on the only chair in the room.
It wasn’t really such a long ride, but it seemed to Carter as if it would last forever. Bill did the driving and Carter sat beside him on the front seat. Ancil sat in the rear. He’d removed his coat, opened his vest, and rolled up his sleeves. The coat lay loosely across his knees and Carter knew the forty-five was under it. There was little conversation, but once when a speeding taxi narrowly missed them, Bill grunted angrily, “God damn this driving on the left.”
Ancil said, “Yeah.” Otherwise they rode in silence.
Carter sat stiffly and watched the town drop away beneath them as they circled upward on the Red Hook road. He let his eyes run lingeringly over the familiar scenes below. The boats in the harbor looked like toys, and the still, blue water resembled glass. People on the streets were moving specks, and cars were no bigger than crawling ants.
The car reached the summit of the mountain and dropped off sharply in the direction of St. John. The low, deep moan of an incoming freighter sounded faintly above the motor of the car as the town disappeared from sight.
Occasionally the car passed dilapidated shacks with their strangely contrasting profusion of tropical plants and flowers. There was no traffic; and except for wandering goats and cows, they had the winding road to themselves. Five more minutes passed and the entrance to a dirt road came into view ahead of them. Carter indicated it with his head.
Bill slowed, swung the car into the deep ruts, and they crawled and bounced upward through deep jungle-like growth. The road levelled off when they reached the top of the hill and far below a wide panorama of islands stretched out before them. Three miles away, directly in front of them, the bright, green mountains of St. John rose majestically toward the sky. White beaches lined the water’s edge and sparkled brightly in the hot morning sun.
Ancil said, “How much further is it?”
“Another mile or so,” Carter told him. “The bay is just beyond the end of the road.”
He was thinking about the beaches of St. John. His eyes were closed, and he was remembering moonlight nights, the feel of hot sand against his back, the gentle roll of a boat riding at anchor, and, most of all, Cora.
The bumpy, dirt road ended on a bluff a couple of hundred feet above the water. The three men left the car and walked down a path until they came out on the beach. There was very little breeze, and it was hot. All three were sweating profusely.
The bay was ringed with palms and sea-grapes, and the white beach lay like a ribbon in front of them. The beach was empty except for a dinghy drawn up on the sand. About three hundred feet out in the bay a two-masted sixty-foot motor sailor rode at anchor. Otherwise there was no sign of human habitation. The only sound was the occasional cry of a sea gull and the gentle slap of water on the beach.
Ancil pointed to the boat. “Is that it?”
“Yes.” Carter indicated the dinghy. “We’ll have to row out.”
Bill and Carter dragged the dinghy down to the water and the three men got in. Bill sat in the bow. Carter did the rowing, and Ancil sat in the stern facing Carter. He took his heavy automatic out of his pocket and held it on his knees.
When they reached the boat, Bill got out first and climbed aboard. Ancil handed him the automatic and went up the ladder. Once on deck he took the pistol again and covered Carter as he climbed aboard and made the dinghy fast.
Carter led the way through a companionway, and they entered a large, roomy cabin. It was musty and dimly lit. Dirty dishes filled the small sink in the galley and there were three or four empty whisky bottles scattered around. A woman’s dress hung on a hanger just inside the companionway leading forward. The door to the head was open, and it swung lazily back and forth with the even roll of the boat. An open letter and envelope lay on the deck near a small secured table with drawers in it.
Ancil motioned vaguely with his automatic. “Okay, Braun, where’s the dough?”
Carter’s bloodshot eyes seemed to stare through Ancil. He seemed to be looking at something a long way off. “It’s there in the drawer,” he said. He turned and took two steps toward the table with the drawers in it.
Ancil lifted his automatic and squeezed the trigger. The pistol roared and jumped in his hand.
The bullet hit Carter just left of center in the middle of his back. The impact knocked him forward against the bulkhead. He hit it hard, face-on, with both arms outstretched. His knees buckled, and he slid down into a kneeling position. It was as if he were praying to the bulkhead.
He made no sound and stayed in the bent-over kneeling position for five or six seconds. A dark stain of blood was spreading over the back of the flowered sports shirt. It spread incredibly fast. A little gurgling noise came from his mouth, and he toppled sideways onto the deck. He didn’t move again.
The thin blond man’s face had turned the color of cigar ash. He stared at the man on the floor and said, “Christ, Ancil!”
Nothing had happened to Ancil’s face. He jerked his head toward the small table. “See if there’s any dough in there.”
Bill nodded and walked stiff-legged to the table with his eyes still fixed on Carter’s body. There were three drawers. He opened all of them and looked inside. He shook his head. “Nothing in here.”
He looked bewildered and a little sick.
“I don’t get it. What was he trying to pull? That talk about the money and—”
“Hell,” Ancil said, “he was just stalling, that’s all.”
“You mean you knew it and let him bring us all the way out here?”
“Can you think of a better place?” Ancil ran his eyes around the cabin in a business-like manner. “Can you run this tub?”
Bill said, as if he were thinking of something else, “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Good. Let’s haul the anchor and get sloggin’.”
“Why? Where to?”
Ancil pointed a stubby finger at the dead man on the deck. “Straight out to sea for a couple of miles, and back here again. The sharks oughta go for all that blood.”
“Oh,” Bill said.
The next morning Tommy Braun received a letter. It read as follows:
Dear Tommy
Everything worked out okay. Greg is squared and the lead throwers are leaving the Island. Just make sure Greg sticks around and behaves himself. As for me, I’m leaving the islands. I guess you know why. I don’t yet know where I’m going but I have a hunch I’ll be okay. Don’t worry about the boat. She was mortgaged to the hilt so I’m just leaving it for Kempers to take over.
Take care of yourself.
Carter.”
Two days later, a woman in Reading, Pennsylvania, also received a letter. She was sitting on the front porch of her sister’s home when the mailman brought it. Her sister was sitting in a swing beside her. The woman tore the letter open and read it. When she finished, she smiled and shook her head. Her sister said, “From Carter?”
“Yes,” the woman said. “He hasn’t changed any.”
“What did he say?”
“Not much. He’ll miss me, but he’ll get along all right. He’s going to try his luck somewhere in South America.”
“Didn’t he say anything else?”
The woman looked down at the open letter again. Then she started absently tearing it into small pieces. “Yes,” she replied. “He said, ‘Goodbye, Cora.’”