The Devil’s Horns

CHAPTER VI “Shock ’Em to Death!”

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.

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.

Josh had been in Broadbough’s house — frowningly and reluctantly taken on after the judge read the note — for less than five hours, when he had things to report to Benson.

For one thing, the judge was scared of something and couldn’t quite conceal it.

Broadbough was a venerable-looking man of sixty, with a paunch and a monkish bald spot on the top of his head. He made it a business to look venerable — the kind of man nice old ladies would ask to help them across streets.

But his eyes squinted too much and were set too close together.

In those eyes was an abiding fear, though it didn’t show in any of the man’s assured actions. Josh got a chance to listen to snatches of several phone calls, through the judge’s closed library door, and gathered that men no judge should know were telephoning bad news. Once he heard Broadbough say:

“The devil’s horns? What could that mean? And why was it so important that he traced it out while he was dying?”

Then, in a moment: “But who killed him? Haven’t you had any lead at all, Harrigo?”

Judge Broadbough’s colored maid had come down the hall, then, so Josh had to get away from the door. The maid, who looked at Josh in a way that would have made Josh’s wife, Rosabel, claw her eyes out if she could have seen, went toward the kitchen. And Josh had to go with her, laughing and talking, to avoid all look of suspicion.

It was at a little after nine that evening that the bell rang, and Josh opened the door to a man of fifty or so who looked younger and had a neat Vandyke and glittering spectacles.

“Is Judge Broadbough in?” the man asked.

“Yas, suh,” said Josh, showing the ivory of his teeth.

“Will you tell him that Norman Vautry is calling?”

Josh took up his station outside the library door. He could hear quite well.

“Norman!” said the judge, with an inquiring inflection in his voice. “Glad to see you any time, but what’s the visit for tonight?”

There was flat silence for a moment. Then Vautry’s voice:

“You asked me to come, didn’t you? Well, here I am.”

“Look here!” The judge’s tone was shaky. “I didn’t send for you.”

“My secretary said you’d phoned and left word for me to come tonight.”

“Something is wrong!” bleated the judge. You could fairly see the perspiration coming out on his forehead. “Believe me, Norman, I haven’t been in touch with your office for days! Oh, something is very wrong!”

“It begins to look like it,” said Vautry, grim-voiced.

“Groman?” said Broadbough. “Could—”

“Hadn’t you heard? Groman’s out of it — paralyzed. Had a second stroke when Hawley was killed. No, it couldn’t be Groman. But I’ve heard a whisper of somebody new in town. Somebody brought in by the old swindler. I’d better get out of here right now — and we’d both better not talk too much!”

“Yes, yes,” panted Broadbough.

“Meanwhile, if you have anything you don’t want to destroy but still are afraid to keep around the house, you might give it to me and I’ll keep it in my big safe.”

There was a pause, then the judge said:

“I have some documents, of course. You can’t deal with… er… friends like ours without precautionary measures. So I keep a few facts in case I’m found dead like Martineau. But I’ll continue to keep them, myself, Norman.”

“Of course, if you like. Meanwhile, say nothing to anyone.”

“You don’t have to tell me that!”

Steps warned Josh to get away from the door. He went to the end of the hall. The library door opened. Vautry came out hurriedly, and left the house.

He got into a cab at the curb. In the cab there was a small suitcase. A bag with a gray slipcover that had foreign labels on it. As the cab drove off, with the driver unaware of what was going on in the seat behind him, that bag, and steely-white, deft fingers, did curious things to the face with the neat Vandyke and glittering spectacles.

Norman Vautry became Richard Henry Benson.

The steely white fingers shut the bag with a brittle snap. The flaming pale eyes stared balefully from the wax-white, dead face.

The Avenger had hoped, as a short-cut, to scale valuable criminal documents from Judge Broadbough. He had failed. But minor failures do not mean general failure. The crooks and killers that ruled a city could not be reassured by this small lack of success, even had they known about it.