Moment of Violence

By George Harmon Coxe

A lawyer travels to Barbados to protect an old friend from a swindleDavid Payne is only twelve hours from vacation when he gets the fateful summons. Professor John Alison, David’s mentor and most prominent client, needs him to go to Barbados—and if he doesn’t tread carefully, he may not return. David is charged with checking on a beachfront property owned by the professor—which an unscrupulous rat named Mike Ludlow is trying to swindle away. The professor is too tired to fight, but his daughter has other ideas. She has snuck away to Barbados, and she’s brought the professor’s gun. David Payne’s job is to stop the bloodshed before it starts—but he might not get there in time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MysteriousPress.com Open Road
• Release date: Nov 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781453233412

George Harmon Coxe

George Harmon Coxe (1901–1984) was an early star of hard-boiled crime fiction, best known for characters he created in the seminal pulp magazine Black Mask. Born in upstate New York, he attended Purdue and Cornell Universities before moving to the West Coast to work in newspapers. In 1922 he began publishing short stories in pulp magazines across various genres, including romance and sports. He would find his greatest success, however, writing crime fiction. In 1934 Coxe, relying on his background in journalism, created his most enduring character: Jack “Flashgun” Casey, a crime photographer. First appearing in “Return Engagement,” a Black Mask short, Casey found success on every platform, including radio, television, and film. Coxe’s other well-known characters include Kent Murdock, another photographer, and Jack Fenner, a PI. Always more interested in character development than a clever plot twist, Coxe was at home in novel-writing, producing sixty-three books in his lifetime. Made a Grand Master of the Mystery Writers of America in 1964, Coxe died in 1984. 

Book preview

1

THE FIRST THING David Payne’s secretary told him when he came into the anteroom next to his office on this Wednesday morning in mid-March was that his flight reservation to Bermuda on the following Tuesday had been confirmed. The second announcement followed immediately.

Also, she said, Professor Allison just phoned. He said you were to call him the instant you came in.

He didn’t say why?

He wouldn’t tell me. She offered a small smile of apology. He sounded so upset and—well, I guess you’d say profane, I didn’t dare argue with him.

All right. See if you can get him, Louise.

Dave went into his office and slipped off his topcoat. He pushed back his hat as he sat down, worried a little now because he had known John Allison a long time and such arbitrary demands seemed somehow out of character. He was still wondering what had upset the old gentleman when the buzzer sounded and he lifted the telephone.

John? Dave Payne.

David, the familiar voice said. I’ve got to see you.

Sure. When?

Now.

You mean you want me to drive out to Fairhaven?

I don’t care how you get here so long as it’s quick.… And don’t ask me to explain over the phone because I won’t. You’re my lawyer, my executor; you have my power of attorney. I haven’t bothered you much the past couple of years and you must admit I seldom ask for favors.

I know—

Furthermore, Allison said, not to be interrupted, I wouldn’t be talking like this if I didn’t need your help. All you have to know now is that something has come up that’s urgent and vitally important. It calls for prompt action and if I wasn’t half crippled I’d handle it myself.

All right, all right, Dave said, realizing finally how worked up his friend was. Start relaxing, will you? I’m coming.

When?

I’ll be on my way in five minutes.

He hung up, let out his breath, and straightened his hat. A glance at his schedule told him there was nothing that could not be postponed. He told his secretary that he might stay to lunch with the professor but that he should be back by the middle of the afternoon.…

The city traffic was, as always, exasperating, but once clear of this he had more time to think, and presently he was on the modern highway that led to Rockport. Here his driving became automatic but even now, with his mind working, he found it difficult to understand what could have prompted the telephone summons. For Professor Allison was not a man who had many problems other than physical ones. His fife was simple and well adjusted, his wants few, his philosophy such that his adjustment to his restricted pattern of living had left no bitterness.

His first stroke, while not severe, had forced his retirement from the University staff and he had gone to this beach bungalow in Barbados that had been left to him by his brother. Here he had begun to work on a book that he had long wanted to write, a book that had to do with his travels and his findings as an amateur archaeologist during college vacations. The second stroke, which had happened two years ago, had changed his mind about Barbados. Not knowing how much longer he had to live, he had decided to spend his remaining time in the Fairhaven cottage that had been owned by some Allison or other for the past hundred and fifty years.

He had never married and his only family was a niece, a pretty dark-haired girl of twenty-four named Joan. She had been sixteen when her father died in Venezuela and the professor had acted as her guardian, managing her small estate and giving her a home while she finished her education. Dave knew her well, though he seldom saw her; neither did Allison since she had been working in and out of New York as a feature writer for Trend. She spent part of her vacations with Allison and occasionally she would stop overnight when an assignment took her to the area. There had been times when Dave had been asked to be a guest for the same night and it had occurred to him that the professor might be hoping that something more lasting than just a casual evening would come out of these meetings.

But it hadn’t worked out that way and now, topping the last small rise of the winding macadam side road, he got a glimpse of the little harbor and the leaden sea beyond and forgot about the girl. Rockport stood beyond the next headland but here there was only a scattering of cottages, the village wharf in the middle of the cove with its weathered sheds, a half dozen lobster boats riding quietly at their moorings. Nothing moved below him and, except for an occasional pine, the trees stood naked against the bleak and clouded sky as he turned into the sloping drive that led to the gray-shingled cottage just below him.

An ancient coupe stood near the garage, and when he moved across the breezeway the back door opened and a plump, pleasant-faced woman in a house dress and figured apron smiled at him. Her name was Mrs. Wright. She was a housekeeper who came a few hours a day—John Allison would tolerate no one who slept in—and her voice sounded relieved as she greeted him.

I’m awfully glad you could come, Mr. Payne. I’ve never seen him in such a state.

David? A voice boomed from the room beyond. In here.

Dave moved through the modern kitchen into the long, low, beam-ceilinged living room where a fire burned in the outsized fireplace. Allison was already on his feet, his weight balanced by the cane in his left hand, his right outstretched.

You made good time, son.

Sure. Dave grinned at his friend and shook hands warmly. You said it was important.

It is, it is. Throw your hat and coat over there. Sit down. Pour yourself some coffee. Pour another cup for me, too.

He indicated the percolator and cups on the coffee table and eased himself down on the divan behind it, a slender, neat-looking man with thinning gray-white hair and blue eyes that were still clear and intelligent. Only the slight droop of one lid suggested his trouble, and although his left leg dragged somewhat the left arm was still useful, and there was nothing wrong with his spirit, his will, or the vigor of his voice.

Dave saw the handwritten note on the coffee table as he filled the cups. He thought the signature read Joan, but he kept his glance averted as he sipped his coffee and waited for Allison to speak. Considering the urgency of his appeal he seemed to have trouble approaching the subject, whatever it was, so Dave asked his question.

All right, John. What’s it all about? What can I do for you?

You can take a trip.

Where?

Barbados.

Barbados? Dave gave him an oblique but startled glance and saw that Allison was indeed serious. He made himself take another swallow of coffee before he said: When?

Tomorrow. I’d say today except you can’t make it now. I checked the airport. You can’t get a direct flight out of New York tomorrow but you can go down this evening, stay overnight, and get a ten o’clock flight tomorrow by way of Bermuda. Or you can get an early flight from Logan that will put you on the ten o’clock. He glanced up. Weren’t you taking a vacation next week?

Tuesday. To Bermuda for ten days.

Well, maybe you can stop there on your way back.

Without knowing the reason for the request or why it seemed so important, Dave already knew what his answer would be. Even if things at Allen, Curtis & Payne—of which he was the junior partner—had been jumping, which they weren’t, he would have to take time off, and the reasons were sound, valid, and deep seated in the past. For even as John Allison had once served his niece as guardian, adviser, and doting uncle, he had performed a somewhat similar service, though for a shorter period, for David Payne.

The elder Payne and Allison had been long-time friends and associates at the University, even though their interests—Payne taught English and Allison history with the accent on ancient—were divergent, and Allison had been named executor of the Payne will. The accident which made him an executor in fact happened while Dave was a freshman at college. It was during Easter vacation and Mr. and Mrs. Payne were taking a quick trip to Mexico when the bus in which they were riding went off a mountain road near Cuernavaca.

Somehow Allison had received first word of the tragedy and Dave remembered how he had been summoned from his dormitory room to find the professor waiting on a bench in the entrance hall, his lean face sober and a sadness in the blue eyes. He had said what he had to say as kindly as he could, his own grief showing through. He talked steadily, not hedging or offering platitudes, until Dave could absorb the shock and get his emotions in hand. They had walked along the river in the gathering dusk on a day that was much the same as this one and Dave, needing all the strength the older man had to offer, had always been grateful.

During the rest of his school years there had always been a room of his own for Dave in the professor’s apartment even though it was seldom used. The modest estate had been soundly invested during the three-year period when Allison had acted as executor and trustee, but, more important, he had always been there for advice and counsel whenever it was needed. More recently the situation had been reversed and it was Dave who was the guardian of the other’s legal and financial affairs, who came for an evening now and then to listen to Allison’s casual complaints about his restricted activities and his comments on the sorry state of the world and life in general. Now, as these things came back to him, he realized that Allison had said something and was waiting for a reply.

I’m sorry, John, he said. I was thinking.

That’s all right. Take your time. I know you’re a pretty busy fellow these days and if you can’t go, you can’t. But if that’s the way it is, there’s no point in telling you why because it’s a long story.

Who said I couldn’t go? Dave said.

Allison gave him a long look and the lines in his face softened. He took a small slow breath while he put his cup down, and the breath came out in a soft sigh as he leaned back against the cushions. When he was ready he tapped the note with his cane.

Joan was here last night. She left that. Read it.

Dave picked it up, saw that it had been written on a plain piece of copy paper, and read:

Dear Johnny:

By the time you get this I should be in New York and on my way to Barbados. I’ve always disliked Mike Ludlow but this is too much. I’m furious and he’s not going to get away with it. I still have your power of attorney so I can represent you Monday and I’m going to stop Mike one way or another.

Love,        

Joan

She was in Boston doing some research on a piece she’s working on, Allison said when Dave put down the note. She’d rented a car so she drove up here to have dinner with me and spend the night.

When did you find this?

When I got up to put water on for my coffee. She must have left in the middle of the night.

I still don’t know what it’s all about?

You will. Pour some more coffee and be patient. He watched Dave fill the cups and said: I guess you still consider Mike Ludlow a friend of yours.

I haven’t seen him in four or five years, Dave said. I haven’t thought about it.

Even after he ran away with your girl you never really blamed him—or her, for that matter. When he wrote you a couple of years back for a loan to start some business in Trinidad you gave it to him. Five thousand, wasn’t it?

I could spare it, Dave said defensively, yet knowing that Allison was right. He gave me a note for it.

Sure. The professor’s voice was sardonic. Well, maybe if you hop down to Barbados you can collect. He hesitated, his gaze remote, his thoughts turned inward. I never could quite understand it, he said finally, "but you had the God damnedest case of hero worship as a youngster I ever saw. He was big and good-looking and a couple of years older and you were always good for a touch or a favor. He picked you for his man Friday and you loved it.

He came from the wrong side of the tracks. He got through two years of prep school and four years of college on scholarships—plus what he could sponge—that were probably more athletic than academic.

Dave was still on the defensive. His voice said so. He was one of the finest natural athletes I ever saw. He had more guts, more charm—

True, true, Allison said, "as far as it goes. Mike had great physical courage. I’ve heard about it. Two decorations and two Purple Hearts from Korea among other things. He also had a reckless, don’t-give-a-damn attitude that fascinated you because you’re a basically conservative man and you have a proper regard for the basic values. You admired those qualities because you lacked them yourself.

Sure he had courage. But inside—I mean moral courage—there was nothing. The charm was for those who could help him. Mike took what he could get—you had him around the apartment enough; I ought to know—and when he finished he’d look around for someone else who could help him. Did he ever pay back any of those five and ten dollar loans he got from you in college? Did he, to your own knowledge, ever pay anyone back anything?

He grunted softly and lifted one hand to forestall further argument.

But never mind that. I’m digressing a bit. I’m blowing off steam because I know Mike for what he is and was and I still let him trick me.… You know about that option I gave him two years ago when he rented my bungalow in Barbados?

I read it once.

And you know the place. You spent a few days there with me when you got out of law school. My brother bought it many years ago when he was knocking around on those engineering jobs in that part of the world. It was a good place to rest up when he wanted to. He got it cheap because it’s not much of a house and land was reasonable then. Well, when I had the second stroke and decided I’d rather die here than there I leased the place for two years with a non-transferable option to buy—

For fifty thousand West Indian dollars, wasn’t it?

Right. There’d been talk of making Barbados the capital of the West Indies Federation, but that went to Trinidad so the speculation quieted down and it seemed like a fair price. But—he sat up straighter—a banker friend of mine told me I should protect myself against any big rise in values. He suggested a letter of agreement that said if Ludlow sold within two years of the option date, the profit, if any, was to be split with me.

He put both hands on the cane and stared into the fire, his jaw tightening.

Ludlow argued but in the end he agreed. A letter was drawn up. We met in an attorney’s office to sign. We did sign. I watched Ludlow fold the letters and put them into envelopes. Somehow he managed to knock some papers off the desk—it seemed like an accident at the time—and when the lawyer and I bent over to pick them up— He broke off and angry noises sounded in his throat.

He switched envelopes?

He was sealing my envelope when I straightened up. He wrote my name across the flap and gave it to me along with that charming smile of his. I took it like the stupid, bumbling, trusting college professor that I am. Even mistrusting Mike as I always have, and knowing his tricky ways, I took it.

Allison was silent then. His stare was fixed but his lips were working and he made a small exasperated sound with the tip of his cane. Dave understood the situation; he could even visualize the mechanics of the switch.

When did you find out? he asked finally.

"About a year ago. I got this letter from my banker friend telling me his original advice had been sound. You see, land values did rise and my particular piece more than some. There’s two hundred feet of fine beach—no coral or sea eggs—and four hundred feet to the highway. On one side there’s a big house with gardens owned by some rich Britisher named Dunning; a couple of hundred yards up the other side is the Carib Club. Lovely main buildings with lounges and bar, a patio for dancing. Cottages behind it. Too swish for me but fine for those who like it. So mine is the only beach acreage available."

For what?

A syndicate was formed a year or so ago—mostly English but with some Bajan money. They bought two hundred acres across the highway from me that was part of an old sugar plantation. They’re putting in an eighteen-hole golf course and plan to sell lots around the perimeter. They need my property for a hotel and to give the other landowners beach rights. When I got the word I decided to open the envelope Ludlow had signed. What I found was a blank piece of paper and once I got over my first shock I was still too angry, frustrated, and ashamed to tell anybody about what an idiot I’d been.

So what happened?

What do you mean, what happened?

You must have told Joan or—

Oh, that. Allison sighed again and his body relaxed. Well, yesterday I got a cable from my friend. A syndicate is buying my place from Ludlow on Monday for two hundred thousand.

What kind of dollars?

West Indian.

So if Mike can raise the fifty thousand to take up the option he can clear a hundred and fifty thousand for himself.

I’m afraid so. And I was still so furious with myself and my trusting ways that I blurted out the whole story to Joan last night. He tipped one hand. You know how she is. I’m not surprised that she reacted as she did. She’s got a lot of spunk. She’s independent, forthright, and impatient. She’s also generous and considerate but she’s not always reasonable, especially when her dander is up. She’s got this power of attorney. Not like yours—I gave it to her so she could get into my safe deposit box for things I didn’t want to bother you with—but I guess it’s good enough.

Dave thought it over. He was disturbed by what he had heard and he resented Mike