Alleys of Darkness, Robert E. Howard [ebook offline reader TXT] 📗

Title: Alleys of Darkness

Author: Robert E. Howard

A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook

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Language: English

Date first posted: December 2006

Date most recently updated: December 2006

 

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Alleys of Darkness

Robert E. Howard

 

WHEN THE GONG ended my fight with Kid Leary in the Sweet Dreams

Fight Club, Singapore, I was tired but contented. The first seven

rounds had been close, but the last three I’d plastered the Kid all

over the ring, though I hadn’t knocked him out like I’d did in

Shanghai some months before, when I flattened him in the twelfth

round. The scrap in Singapore was just for ten; another round and I’d

had him.

 

But anyway, I’d shaded him so thoroughly I knowed I’d justified

the experts which had made me a three to one favorite. The crowd was

applauding wildly, the referee was approaching, and I stepped forward

and held out my glove hand—when to my utter dumfoundment, he brushed

past me and lifted the glove of the groggy and bloody Kid Leary!

 

A instant’s silence reigned, shattered by a nerve-racking scream

from the ringside. The referee, Jed Whithers, released Leary, who

collapsed into the rosin, and Whithers ducked through the ropes like a

rabbit. The crowd riz bellowing, and recovering my frozen wits, I gave

vent to lurid langwidge and plunged outa the ring in pursuit of

Whithers. The fans was screaming mad, smashing benches, tearing the

ropes offa the ring and demanding the whereabouts of Whithers, so’s

they could hang him to the rafters. But he had disappeared, and the

maddened crowd raged in vain.

 

I found my way dazedly to my dressing-room, where I set down on a

table and tried to recover from the shock. Bill O’Brien and the rest

of the crew was there, frothing at the mouth, each having sunk his

entire wad on me. I considered going into Leary’s dressing-room and

beating him up again, but decided he’d had nothing to do with the

crooked decision. He was just as surprised as me when Whithers

declared him winner.

 

Whilst I was trying to pull on my clothes, hindered more’n helped

by my raging shipmates, whose langwidge was getting more appalling

every instant, a stocky bewhiskered figger come busting through the

mob, and done a fantastic dance in front of me. It was the Old Man,

with licker on his breath and tears in his eyes.

 

“I’m rooint!” he howled. “I’m a doomed man! Oh, to think as I’ve

warmed a sarpint in my boozum! Dennis Dorgan, this here’s the last

straw!”

 

“Aw, pipe down!” snarled Bill O’Brien. “It wasn’t Denny’s fault.

It was that dashety triple-blank thief of a referee—”

 

“To think of goin’ on the beach at my age!” screamed the Old Man,

wringing the salt water outa his whiskers. He fell down on a bench and

wept at the top of his voice. “A thousand bucks I lost—every cent I

could rake, scrape and borrer!” he bawled.

 

“Aw, well, you still got your ship,” somebody said impatiently.

 

“That’s just it!” the Old Man wailed. “That thousand bucks was

dough owed them old pirates, McGregor, McClune & McKile. Part of what

I owe, I mean. They agreed to accept a thousand as part payment, and

gimme more time to raise the rest. Now it’s gone, and they’ll take the

ship! They’ll take the Python! All I got in the world! Them old

sharks ain’t got no more heart than a Malay pirate. I’m rooint!”

 

The crew fell silent at that, and I said: “Why’d you bet all that

dough?”

 

“I was lickered up,” he wept. “I got no sense when I’m full. Old

Cap’n Donnelly, and McVey and them got to raggin’ me, and the first

thing I knowed, I’d bet ‘em the thousand, givin’ heavy odds. Now I’m

rooint!”

 

He throwed back his head and bellered like a walrus with the

belly-ache.

 

I just give a dismal groan and sunk my head in my hands, too

despondent to say nothing. The crew bust forth in curses against

Whithers, and sallied forth to search further for him, hauling the Old

Man along with them, still voicing his woes in a voice like a

steamboat whistle.

 

PRESENTLY I RIZ with a sigh and hauled on my duds. They was no

sound outside. Apparently I was alone in the building except for

Spike, my white bulldog. All at once I noticed him smelling of a

closed locker. He whined, scratched at it, and growled. With a sudden

suspicion I strode over and jerked open the door. Inside I seen a

huddled figger. I jerked it rudely forth and set it upright. It was

Jed Whithers. He was pale and shaking, and he had cobwebs in his hair.

He kind a cringed, evidently expecting me to bust into loud cusses.

For once I was too mad for that. I was probably as pale as he was, and

his eyes dilated like he seen murder in mine.

 

“Jed Whithers,” I said, shoving him up against the wall with one

hand whilst I knotted the other’n into a mallet, “this is one time in

my life when I’m in the mood for killin’.”

 

“For God’s sake, Dorgan,” he gurgled, “you can’t murder me!”

 

“Can you think of any reason why I shouldn’t put you in a wheel-chair for the rest of your life?” I demanded. “You’ve rooint my

friends and all the fans which bet on me, lost my skipper his ship—”

 

“Don’t hit me, Dorgan!” he begged, grabbing my wrist with shaking

fingers. “I had to do it; honest to God, Sailor, I had to do it! I

know you won—won by a mile. But it was the only thing I could do!”

 

“What you mean?” I demanded suspiciously.

 

“Lemme sit down!” he gasped.

 

I reluctantly let go of him, and he slumped down onto a near-by

bench. He sat there and shook, and mopped the sweat offa his face. He

was trembling all over.

 

“Are the customers all gone?” he asked.

 

“Ain’t nobody here but me and my man-eatin’ bulldog,” I answered

grimly, standing over him. “Go on—spill what you got to say before I

start varnishin’ the floor with you.”

 

“I was forced to it, Sailor,” he said. “There’s a man who has a

hold on me.”

 

“What you mean, a hold?” I asked suspiciously.

 

“I mean, he’s got me in a spot,” he said. “I have to do like he

says. It ain’t myself I have to think of—Dorgan, I’m goin’ to trust

you. You got the name of bein’ a square shooter. I’m goin’ to tell you

the whole thing.

 

“Sailor, I got a sister named Constance, a beautiful girl,

innocent as a newborn lamb. She trusted a man, Sailor, a dirty, slimy

snake in human form. He tricked her into signin’ a document—Dorgan,

that paper was a confession of a crime he’d committed himself!”

 

Whithers here broke down and sobbed with his face in his hands. I

shuffled my feet uncertainly, beginning to realize they was always

more’n one side to any question.

 

He raised up suddenly and said: “Since then, that man’s been

holdin’ that faked confession over me and her like a club. He’s forced

me to do his filthy biddin’ time and again. I’m a honest man by

nature, Sailor, but to protect my little sister”—he kinda choked for

a instant—“I’ve stooped to low deeds. Like this tonight. This man was

bettin’ heavy on Leary, gettin’ big odds—”

 

“Somebody sure was,” I muttered. “Lots of Leary money in sight.”

 

“Sure!” exclaimed Whithers eagerly. “That was it; he made me throw

the fight to Leary, the dirty rat, to protect his bets.”

 

I begun to feel new wrath rise in my gigantic breast.

 

“You mean this low-down polecat has been blackmailin’ you on

account of the hold he’s got over your sister?” I demanded.

 

“Exactly,” he said, dropping his face in his hands. “With that

paper he can send Constance to prison, if he takes the notion.”

 

“I never heered of such infermy,” I growled. “Whyn’t you bust him

on the jaw and take that confession away from him?”

 

“I ain’t no fightin’ man,” said Whithers. “He’s too big for me. I

wouldn’t have a chance.”

 

“Well, I would,” I said. “Listen, Whithers, buck up and quit

cryin’. I’m goin’ to help you.”

 

His head jerked up and he stared at me kinda wild-eyed.

 

“You mean you’ll help me get that paper?”

 

“You bet!” I retorted. “I ain’t the man to stand by and let no

innercent girl be persecuted. Besides, this mess tonight is his

fault.”

 

Whithers just set there for a second, and I thought I seen a slow

smile start to spread over his lips, but I mighta been mistook,

because he wasn’t grinning when he held out his hand and said

tremulously: “Dorgan, you’re all they say you are!”

 

A remark like that ain’t necessarily a compliment; some of the

things said about me ain’t flattering; but I took it in the spirit in

which it seemed to be give, and I said: “Now tell me, who is this

rat?”

 

He glanced nervously around, then whispered: “Ace Bissett!”

 

I grunted in surprize. “The devil you say! I’d never of thought

it.”

 

“He’s a fiend in human form,” said Whithers bitterly. “What’s your

plan?”

 

“Why,” I said, “I’ll go to his Diamond Palace and demand the

confession. If he don’t give it to me, I’ll maul him and take it away

from him.”

 

“You’ll get shot up,” said Whithers. “Bissett is a bad man to fool

with. Listen, I got a plan. If we can get him to a certain house I

know about, we can search him for the paper. He carries it around with

him, though I don’t know just where. Here’s my plan—”

 

I listened attentively, and as a result, perhaps a hour later I

was heading through the narrer streets with Spike, driving a closed

car which Whithers had produced kinda mysteriously. Whithers wasn’t

with me; he was gone to prepare the place where I was to bring Bissett

to.

 

I driv up the alley behind Ace’s big new saloon and gambling-hall,

the Diamond Palace, and stopped the car near a back door. It was a

very high-class joint. Bissett was friends with wealthy sportsmen,

officials, and other swells. He was what they call a soldier of

fortune, and he’d been everything, everywhere—aviator, explorer, big

game hunter, officer in