The Complete Crime Stories (23 page)

Maria was beside herself, and as the wail kept up, seeming to come closer all the time, it was all Diego could do to hold her. Finally, motioning the Gendarme to take charge, he walked to one side, sad down, and took off his two-toned shoes. Then, stuffing his stockings into them and laying his hat on top of them, he marched down to the surf. “What are you doing?” asked the Gendarme.

“What do you think?” said Diego.

“You're crazy.”

“If this keeps up,” Diego told him “we'll
all
be crazy and that girl will be dead. She's going after that boy, and something's got to be done. I don't know who that is, but if you'll kindly hand on to
her
, I mean to find out.”

“Suppose it's not a who?”

“All right then, it's a what.”

“You may find out more than you expect.”

“At least, we'll know.”

He faced the sea, closed his eyes in prayer, and went in. He took a comber sidewise, then straightened out and started to swim. He confessed later to a horrible fear, as it seemed to him the wail was from the other world and suggested death. He reached the spot where it seemed to come from, then was started to hear it behind him. With a sense of being cut off, he pulled his feet up, reversed direction, and started back. Then, in horror, he saw a fin and remembered the sharks. He panicked, digging for shore. Then red trucks flashed at his eyes, and Gil rose in front of him. He rose clear out of the sea, moaning as Diego insisted later, and landed plop in his arms. In utter terror by now, afraid to hold on, for fear the shark would close in, ashamed to let go, he did nothing but thresh with his feet and beat around with one free arm. But the roll of the waves was with him, and in a few moments he made it, Gill still on his shoulder. As he staggered out on the sand, Maria grabbed the boy, the soft-drink woman grabbed her, and the Gendarme grabbed Diego, thumping him on the back for his bravery, and blowing his whistle for help.

Exhausted, Diego collapsed, but revived and yelled to them all: “Work on him—give him artificial respiration! He's alive! He spoke to me! He spoke and leaped out of the sea!”

“He's dead,” said the soft-drink lady.

“He's cold, so cold,” said Maria.

“Thus the tale,” said my friend, the pilot at the Brazos Santiago station, a few miles north of Playa Washington, “as I heard it around Matamoras.”

“I admit it's spooky,” I said, “and as a feat of derring-do, quite romantic. Only trouble is, I don't believe it.”

“I do,” he said. “That's the difference.”

“Captain, you surprise me.”

“Maybe, but I think it's true.”

“Shark and all?”

“Wasn't a shark, but sharks figure in it.”

“What was it, then?”

“Porpoise.”

“And the wail, what about that?”

“That was a porpoise too.”

“Bringing the boy in to Mamma?”

“That's just about it.”

He said, looking at the thing from the point of view of the porpoises, they were probably delighted when Gil swam out where they were, as “they love to play and love little boys. That statue they put in the picture, of a boy riding a dolphin, was not far-fetched. It has happened in the aquariums, as those things aren't fish. They're animals. And when Gil began to sink, their idea was, get him up to the surface again, get him breathing. So they handled him just like one of their own pups. They began bumping him up to the surface, and when the boy on the raft said they were fighting him off, he probably was telling the truth. But of course it didn't work, and then night came on and changed the whole picture.”

“In what way, Captain?”

“The sharks.”

“Then they
do
come in at night?”

“Or, like most fish, they begin to bite at night.”

“So they're more dangerous.”

“As anyone who knows them will tell you.”

“And what then?

“The porpoises began bringing him in.”

“Bumping him with their noses?”

“Exactly that.”

“To Maria?”

“I wouldn't put it past them.”

He said the interest animals take in people is more than is commonly realized. “And in the case of porpoises,” he went on, “they talk. I've heard them many a time, standing watch on deck, as they swim along with the ship, especially at night. But I'm telling you, I don't know as we sit here if they talk to themselves, each other, or me. Maybe they're just breathing, but maybe it's something more, and they were calling Maria that night, bringing her little boy in, saving him from the sharks. They can handle a shark—they bump him too, and hard, right in the gills, and as they bump they bite, tearing his gill feathers out. But they can't handle all sharks all night. So they did what they could in their way. But she interested me more than they did.”

“Maria? In what way, Captain?”

“As the eternal
soldadera
.”

“The soldier's girl?”

“A
muchacha
who must have a hero.”

“First little Gil—?”

“And then big Diego. Kind of nice.”

He told me the rest of the story, how the Gendarme, with the
cuerpo
recovered all the difficult questions settled, outdid himself to make things easy for her. He paced the way, in the patrol car, up to Matamoras, while she followed with Diego holding the little cold body to her warm one. He routed the undertaker out, made all the arrangements for the inquest next day, the services, and burial. He had everything fixed up in a few minutes, so when she walked out, the band was just ending its concert, in the Plaza de Hidalgo, for the same people as had been at the beach, now all dressed up for the evening.

As she sat on a bench with Diego, she felt his clothes, which were wet, clucking with concern. But he motioned toward the band. It was playing Estrellita, and suddenly she started to weep. “For you,” he said, taking her hand and drawing it through his arm. “The play to your Little Star.”

“Yes, my little Gil.”

“If I had only gone sooner!” Diego exclaimed.

“You did your best. You are now …”

She caught herself, then half defiantly, as he waited, went on: “… my Big Star. My brave one.”

“You want me, then?”

“Diego, I do …”

“And so,” said the pilot, “she lost someone, and gained someone. They're married now, and as I hear, quite happy. Neither of them, probably, have any idea of the true explanation of what happened, but neither of them are wrong as to the amount of bravery involved. Because, my friend, would you have answered that call, in that sea, on that night? I wouldn't, but he did.”

Dead Man

I

H
e felt the train check, knew what it meant. In a moment, from up toward the engine, came the chant of the railroad detective: “Rise and shine, boys, rise and shine.” The hoboes began dropping off. He could hear them out there in the dark, cursing as the train went by. That was what they always did on these freights: let the hoboes climb on in the yards, making no effort to dislodge them there; for that would have meant a foolish game of hide-and-seek between two or three detectives and two or three hundred hoboes, with the hoboes swarming on as fast as the detectives put them off. What they did was let the hoboes alone until the train was several miles under way; then they pulled down to a speed slow enough for men to drop off, but too fast for them to climb back on. Then the detective went down the line, brushing them off, like caterpillars from a twig. In two minutes they would all be ditched, a crowd of bitter men in a lonely spot; but they always cursed, always seemed surprised.

He crouched in the coal gondola and waited. He hadn't boarded a flat or a refrigerator with the others, back in the Los Angeles yards, tempting though this comfort was. He wasn't long on the road, and he still didn't like to mix with the other hoboes, admit he was one of them. Also, he couldn't shake off a notion that he was sharper than they were, that playing a lone hand he might think of some magnificent trick that would defeat the detective, and thus, even at this ignoble trade, give him a sense of accomplishment, of being good at it. He had slipped into the gond not in spite of its harshness, but because of it; it was black, and would give him a chance to hide, and the detective, not expecting him there, might pass him by. He was nineteen years old, and was proud of the nickname they had given him in the poolroom back home. They called him Lucky.

“Rise and shine, boys, rise and shine.”

Three dropped off the tank car ahead, and the detective climbed into the gond. The flashlight shot around, and Lucky held his breath. He had curled into one of the three chutes for unloading coal. The trick worked. These chutes were dangerous, for if you stepped into one and the bottom dropped, it would dump you under the train. The detective took no chances. He first shot the flash, then held on to the side while he climbed over the chutes. When he came to the last one, where Lucky lay, he shot the flash, but carelessly, and not squarely into the hole, so that he saw nothing. Stepping over, he went on, climbed to the boxcar behind, and resumed his chant: there were more curses, more feet sliding on ballast on the roadbed outside. Soon the train picked up speed. That meant the detective had reached the caboose, that all the hoboes were cleared.

Lucky stood up, looked around. There was nothing to see, except hot-dog stands along the highway, but it was pleasant to poke your head up, let the wind whip your hair, and reflect how you had outwitted the detective. When the click of the rails slowed and station lights showed ahead, he squatted down again, dropped his feet into the chute. As soon as lights flashed alongside, he braced against the opposite side of the chute: that was one thing he had learned, the crazy way they shot the brakes on these freights. When the train jerked to a shrieking stop, he was ready, and didn't get slammed. The bell tolled, the engine pulled away, there was an interval of silence. That meant they had cut the train, and would be picking up more cars. Soon they would be going on.

“Ah-ha! Hiding out on me, hey?”

The flashlight shot down from the boxcar. Lucky jumped, seized the side of the gond, scrambled up, vaulted. When he hit the roadbed, his ankles stung from the impact, and he staggered for footing. The detective was on him, grappling. He broke away, ran down the track, past the caboose, into the dark. The detective followed, but he was a big man and began to lose ground. Lucky was clear, when all of a sudden his foot drove against a switch bar and he went flat on his face, panting from the hysteria of shock.

The detective didn't grapple this time. He let go with a barrage of kicks.

“Hide out on me, will you? Treat you right, give you a break, and you hide out on me. I'll learn you to hide out on me.”

Lucky tried to get up, couldn't. He was jerked to his feet, rushed up the track on the run. He pulled back, but couldn't get set. He sat down, dug in with his sliding heels. The detective kicked and jerked, in fury. Lucky clawed for something to hold on to, his hand caught the rail. The detective stamped on it. He pulled it back in pain, clawed again. This time his fingers closed on a spike, sticking an inch or two out of the tie. The detective jerked, the spike pulled out of the hole, and Lucky resumed his unwilling run.

“Lemme go! Why don't you lemme go?”

“Come on! Hide out on me, will you? I'll learn you to hide out on Larry Nott!”

“Lemme go! Lemme—”

Lucky pulled back, braced with his heels, got himself stopped. Then his whole body coiled like a spring and let go in one convulsive, passionate lunge. The spike, still in his hand, came down on the detective's head, and he felt it crush. He stood there, looking down at something dark and formless, lying across the rails.

II

Hurrying down the track, he became aware of the spike, gave it a toss, heard it splash in the ditch. Soon he realized that his steps on the ties were being telegraphed by the listening rail, and he plunged across the ditch to the highway. There he resumed his rapid walk, trying not to run. But every time a car overtook him his heels lifted queerly, and his breath first stopped, then came in gasps as he listened for the car to stop. He came to a crossroads, turned quickly to his right. He let himself run here, for the road wasn't lighted as the main highway was, and there weren't many cars. The running tired him, but it eased the sick feeling in his stomach. He came to a sign that told him Los Angeles was seventeen miles, and to his left. He turned, walked, ran, stooped down sometimes, panting, to rest. After a while it came to him why he had to get to Los Angeles, and so soon. The soup kitchen opened at seven o'clock. He had to be there, in that same soup kitchen where he had had supper, so it would look as though he had never been away.

When the lights went off, and it came broad daylight with the suddenness of Southern California, he was in the city, and a clock told him it was ten minutes after five. He thought he had time. He pressed on, exhausted, but never relaxing his rapid, half-shuffling walk.

It was ten minutes to seven when he got to the soup kitchen, and he quickly walked past it. He wanted to be clear at the end of the line, so he could have a word with Shorty, the man who dished out the soup, without impatient shoves from behind, and growls to keep moving.

Shorty remembered him. “Still here, hey?”

“Still here.”

“Three in a row for you. Holy smoke, they ought to be collecting for you by the month.”

“Thought you'd be off.”

“Who, me?”

“Sunday, ain't it?”

“Sunday? Wake up. This is Saturday.”

“Saturday? You're kidding.”

“Kidding my eye, this is Saturday, and a big day in this town, too.”

“One day looks like another to me.”

“Not this one. Parade.”

“Yeah?”

“Shriners. You get that free.”

“Well, that's my name, Lucky.”

“My name's Shorty, but I'm over six feet.”

“Nothing like that with me. I really got luck.”

“You sure?”

“Like, for instance, getting a hunk of meat.”

“I didn't give you no meat.”

“Ain't you going to?”

“Shove your plate over quick. Don't let nobody see you.”

“Thanks.”

“Okay, Lucky. Don't miss the parade.”

“I won't.”

He sat at the rough table with the others, dipped his bread in the soup, tried to eat, but his throat kept contracting from excitement and he made slow work of it. He had what he wanted from Shorty. He had fixed the day, and not only the day but the date, for it would be the same date as the big Shriners' parade. He had fixed his name, with a little gag. Shorty wouldn't forget him. His throat relaxed, and he wolfed the piece of meat.

Near the soup kitchen he saw signs:
LINCOLN PARK PHARMACY, LINCOLN PARK CAFETERIA
.

“Which way is the park, buddy?” If it was a big park, he might find a thicket where he could lie down, rest his aching legs.

“Straight down, you'll see it.”

There was a fence around it, but he found a gate, opened it, slipped in. Ahead of him was a thicket, but the ground was wet from a stream that ran through it. He crossed a small bridge, followed a path. He came to a stable, peeped in. It was empty, but the floor was thickly covered with new hay. He went in, made for a dark corner, burrowed under the hay, closed his eyes. For a few moments everything slipped away, except warmth, relaxation, ease. But then something began to drill into the back of his mind: Where did he spend last night? Where would he tell them he spent last night? He tried to think, but nothing would come to him. He would have said that he spent it where he spent the night before, but he hadn't spent it in Los Angeles. He had spent it in Santa Barbara, and come down in the morning on a truck. He had never spent a night in Los Angeles. He didn't know the places. He had no answers to the questions that were now pounding at him like sledge hammers:

“What's that? Where you say you was?”

“In a flophouse.”

“Which flophouse?”

“I didn't pay no attention which flophouse. It was just a flophouse.”

“Where was this flophouse at?”

“I don't know where it was at. I never been to Los Angeles before. I don't know the names of no streets.”

“What this flophouse look like?”

“Looked like a flophouse.”

“Come on, don't give us no gags. What this flophouse look like? Ain't you got eyes, can't you say what this here place looked like? What's the matter, can't you talk?”

Something gripped his arm, and he felt himself being lifted. Something of terrible strength had hold of him, and he was going straight up in the air. He squirmed to get loose, then was plopped on his feet and released. He turned, terrified.

An elephant was standing there, exploring his clothes with its trunk. He knew then that he had been asleep. But when he backed away, he bumped into another elephant. He slipped between the two elephants, slithered past a third to the door, which was open about a foot. Out in the sunlight, he made his way back across the little bridge, saw what he hadn't noticed before: pens with deer in them, and ostriches, and mountain sheep, that told him he had stumbled into a zoo. It was after four o'clock, so he must have slept a long time in the hay. Back on the street, he felt a sobbing laugh rise in his throat.
That
was where he had spent the night. “In the elephant house at Lincoln Park.”

“What?”

“That's right. In the elephant house.”

“What you giving us? A stall?”

“It ain't no stall. I was in the elephant house.”

“With them elephants?”

“That's right.”

“How you get in there?”

“Just went in. The door was open.”

“Just went in there, seen the elephants, and bedded down with them?”

“I thought they was horses.”

“You thought them elephants was horses?”

“It was dark. I dug in under the hay. I never knowed they was elephants till morning.”

“How come you went in this place?”

“I left the soup kitchen, and in a couple of minutes I came to the park. I went in there, looking for some grass to lie down on. Then I come to this here place, looked to me like a stable. I peeped in, seen the hay, and hit it.”

“And you wasn't scared of them elephants?”

“It was dark, I tell you, and I could hear them eating the hay, but I thought they was horses. I was tired, and I wanted someplace to sleep.”

“Then what?”

“Then when it got light, and I seen they was elephants, I run out of there, and beat it.”

“Couldn't you tell them elephants by the smell?”

“I never noticed no smell.”

“How many elephants was there?”

“Three.”

III

He brushed wisps of hay off his denims. They had been fairly new, but now they were black with the grime of the coal gond. Suddenly his heart stopped, a suffocating feeling swept over him. The questions started again, hammered at him, beat into his brain.

“Where that coal dust come from?”

“I don't know. The freights, I guess.”

“Don't you know it ain't no coal ever shipped into this part of the state? Don't you know that here all they burn is gas? Don't you know it ain't only been but one coal car shipped in here in six months, and that come in by a misread train order? Don't you know that car was part of that train this here detective was riding­ that got killed?
Don't you know that?
Come on, out with it. where that coal dust come from?”

Getting rid of the denims instantly became an obsession. He felt that people were looking at him on the street, spying the coal dust, waiting till he got by, then running into drugstores to phone the police that he had just passed by. It was like those dreams he sometimes had, where he was walking through crowds naked, except that this was no dream, and he wasn't naked, he was wearing these denims, these telltale denims with coal dust all over them. He clenched his hands, had a moment of terrible concentration, headed into a filling station.

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

“What's the chances on a job?”

“No chances.”

“Why not?”

“Don't need anybody.”

“That's not the only reason.”

“There's about forty-two other reasons, one of them is I can't even make a living myself, but it's all the reason that concerns you. Here's a dime, kid. Better luck somewhere else.”