The Golden Age of Pulp Fiction MEGAPACK ™, Vol. 1: George Allan England. George Allan England

surprise. “What’s the idea?”

      “This here is just fer you, see? Not him!” The driver’s tone was below the hearing of McTaggart, on those boxes in the rear of the jolting, rattling truck. “How’d you like to clean up a nice little bundle o’ jack?”

      “Jack? What you mean, jack?”

      “A real bundle, that’s what I mean.”

      “Sure I’d like it,” Spurling asserted. “That’s what I’m here for—big wages.”

      “Ah, I don’t mean wages!” scornfully said the truckman, as they struck into a pine-arched road through forested hills. “How much they goin’ to slip you fer this here job?”

      “Well, four, five hundred bucks, maybe, dependin’ on how long it takes me to bring up the stiff. They ain’t easy to locate.”

      “Hell, that ain’t a bundle! That’s jest chicken feed. S’posin’ you seen a way to grab off ten times that—five G’s. How ’bout that?”

      “Five G’s! Holy cripes, man! What’re you talkin’ about?”

      “Pipe down!” the truckman warned. “If he gets wise,” and the truckman nodded backward, “it’s all off. This has got to be a man-to-man deal, ’tween me and you. Say, buddy, can I talk cold turkey and be sure you won’t blow it?”

      “Sure you can—though I ain’t agreein’ to nothin’ till I know what’s what.”

      “And not to blame, neither. Well, anyhow, it’s like this. If you go down and make all the motions of tryin’ to find the body, but don’t find it, don’t let it never be found at—”

      “You mean,” cut in Spurling, his heart beginning to pound, “you mean you’ll slide me five grand?”

      “Yeah. That is, not me, exactly. But somebody’ll hand it to me to hand you. It’ll be worth that, to ’em, and a good bit more. Git me?”

      “No, damn ’f I do!” the diver asserted, careful to keep Mc­Taggart from overhearing. “Why the hell would it be worth thick money to anybody to keep a kid’s carcass from bein’ brung up?”

      “Well, I ain’t exactly sayin’, buddy. But if I was to tell a fairy story, kind of, I might say as how once upon a time there was a lady, and she had a weak heart and her health was awful poorly. And she had a whale of a lot o’ coin. Well, she made a will, leavin’ a big wad to a certain relation. But then her son got drownded and she said she was goin’ to change that will and leave the money for a memorial library to re­member him by. And the fact that she couldn’t git the boy’s body was drivin’ her crazy, or mebbe killin’ her. If she got it—”

      “If she got it she’d prob’ly pull through and not die or go nuts. And she’d change the will and the relative would lose the dough?”

      “Say, you got a headpiece on you, mister, as is a headpiece!” The truckman nodded warm approval. “You don’t hafta be told to come in outta the rain. And if you make a good job of it, why, mebbe that five grand might be stretched a bit, too. Savvy? Well, what say, buddy?”

      “Hunh! Gee, I dunno!” And Spurling scratched his unshaven chin. His hand trembled slightly. In his throat, rapid pulses were beating “Five grand or even a bit more, eh?”

      “That’s right. Think it over, bo, but think fast. We’ll be to the lake now, almost right off. Well?”

      Spurling’s head swam. His senses blurred. Money! Thick money! It all jumbled up with Blanche, Arizona, Bill and a dry cough, unpaid rent, debts, misery, and despair. And then, out of it all, he heard the voice of Blanche:

      “You mean, even if you found a body, you could let on you hadn’t and get more pay?”

      “Well, why not?” echoed his own answer.

      “Wouldn’t that be cheating, or stealing, or getting money under false pretenses?”

      “Who’s to find out anythin’, underwater? And besides, the way times is— And then, too, our Bill with the T.B.”

      Suddenly he straightened up. His brain cleared. The whirling stopped.

      “Nix!” he exclaimed.

      “Nix what?” asked the driver.

      “Nix on that stunt. I couldn’t do it. Thanks, a heck of a lot, but nothin’ doin’.”

      “The hell you say! Why not?”

      “Well—” And Tim seemed studying his fingernails. “It ain’t the way us divers does business, that’s all. What we’re hired to risk our lives to do, we allus does the best we can. Ourn ain’t a gyp game, for any diver as is a diver. So thanks, mister, but forget it!”

      “Aw, hell, don’t be a simp!”

      “Never mind about that simp part of it!” And Tim’s jaw grew taut. “I said ‘No,’ didn’t I? Well, that means no! N-i-x, no! So—great weather we’re havin’, ain’t it? Reckon it’ll rain, to-morrer?”

      * * * *

      Many cars stood parked near the steamboat landing at Crystal Lake. Reporters and photographers had gathered. On the wharf a knot of curiosity-seekers thrilled with pleasurable anticipation as the truck backed up and as two husky men and a very grumpy-looking driver unloaded two huge boxes. The audience tautened, as the stage began to be set for a stirring real-life drama.

      Now, with a businesslike air, a gray and thin little wisp of a man came forward.

      “You’re Spurling, the diver, of course?”

      “Yeah, that’s me.”

      “I’m Doctor Olivier. Coroner, as well as physician to the family of the victim. Glad you’re here, Spurling. This is a terrible thing to happen.”

      “Sure, I know. I heard all about it, on the train and comin’ out from the depot. Young feller named Gordon Eccles, just ’bout sixteen years old.”

      “Yes, that’s right. He was diving from that float out there.” The doctor pointed a lean finger at a raft with a springboard, some two hundred yards from shore. “I hardly see how it could have happened. He was a first-rate swimmer. Must have had a cramp.”

      “Sure, he must.” And Spurling nodded his tousled head. “Happened yest’day p.m.?”

      “Yes, about five o’clock. He never came up, at all. And—”

      “Been any draggin’ for him?” asked Spurling, while morbid folk crowded around.

      “Dragging? Yes. Work has been carried on for hours, but no results. And the boy’s parents—especially his mother—nearly insane. Their only child. What does all their money mean to them, now?”

      “Not much, I reckon.”

      “And what,” the doctor asked, “is your charge for this kind of work?”

      “Me and my helper,” replied Spurling, his blue eyes narrowing appraisingly, “two hundred a day.”

      “Two— Well, I suppose that’s quite all right. How long is the work likely to require?”

      “That depends. What’s the depth, out there?”

      “Sixty feet or so. Maybe more.”

      “Any currents?”

      “So I understand. The lake is fed by springs. The outlet is a mile below here.” Doctor Olivier pointed. “But you can find the body, surely?”

      “With any kind o’ luck, and if I have what I need to work with.”

      “What else do you need besides what you’ve brought?” the doctor queried, while the spectators absorbed it all with keenest interest. Among them stood the truckman, his face drawn into