The Tycoon and the Tigress (A Hard Boiled Thriller)

By William R. Cox

THE TYCOON...
He was only in his early thirties but he was head of a vast business empire. He was handsome and sophisticated, and he could be very dangerous when he wanted to. He was married to a woman who was consistently unfaithful to him. Nobody knew why he stood for it, he certainly didn't have to...

...AND THE TIGRESS...
She could do things with her eyes and voice that astonished him almost as much as what she could do with her magnificent body. He hated all the things she had done before they met, and yet he knew he would never have wanted her if she had not been so well-versed in the ways of love.

Will appeal to fans of Citizen Kane or Hollywood novels.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: Oct 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005201180

William R. Cox

William Robert Cox, affectionately known as Bill, was born in Peapack, N.J. March 14 1901, worked in the family ice, coal, wood and fur businesses before becoming a freelance writer. A onetime president of the Western Writers of America, he was said to have averaged 600,000 published words a year for 14 years during the era of the pulp magazines.One of his first published novels was Make My Coffin Strong, published by Fawcett in the early 1950's. He wrote 80 novels encompassing sports, mystery and westerns. Doubleday published his biography of Luke Short in 1961.From 1951 Cox began working in TV and his first teleplay was for Fireside Theatre - an episode called Neutral Corner. It was in 1952 that he contributed his first Western screenplay called Bounty Jumpers for the series Western G-Men which had Pat Gallagher and his sidekick Stoney Crockett as Secret Service agents in the Old West, dispatched by the government to investigate crimes threatening the young nation. He went on to contribute to Jesse James' Women; Steve Donovan, Western Marshal; Broken Arrow; Wagon Train; Zane Grey Theater; Pony Express; Natchez Trace; Whispering Smith; Tales of Wells Fargo; The Virginian; Bonanza and Hec Ramsey.He wrote under at least six pseudonyms: Willard d'Arcy; Mike Frederic; John Parkhill; Joel Reeve; Roger G. Spellman and Jonas Ward (contributing to the Buchanan Western series).William R. Cox died of congestive heart failure Sunday at his home in Los Angeles in 1988. He was 87 years old. His wife, Casey, said he died at his typewriter while working on his 81st novel, Cemetery Jones and the Tombstone Wars. We are delighted to bring back his Cemetery Jones series for the first time in digital form.

Book preview

The Home of Great Crime Fiction!

The Tycoon …

He was only in his early thirties but he was head of a vast business empire. He was handsome and sophisticated, and he could be very dangerous when he wanted to be. He was married to a woman who was consistently unfaithful to him. Nobody knew why he stood for it, he certainly didn’t have to....

… and the Tigress …

She could do things with her eyes and voice that astonished him almost as much as what she could do with her magnificent body. He hated all the things she had done before they met, and yet he knew he would never have wanted her if she had not been so well versed in the ways of love.

THE TYCOON AND THE TIGRESS

By William R. Cox

First published by Fawcett Publications in 1958

Copyright © 1960, 2021 by William R. Cox

First Electronic Edition: November 2021

Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

Series Editor: Ben Bridges

Cover Design: Rich Harvey of Bold Venture Press

Text © Piccadilly Publishing

Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

Chapter One

THE PLANE LOST altitude and Robert J. Decker swallowed hard, but it always hurt his ears, deafening him. He stared at the woman with the dark glasses for the hundredth time since she had got on the plane at Chicago.

He couldn’t understand why she was alone. Behind the glasses, her face looked drawn and taut; not old nor wrinkled, as might be expected. She was at least forty, he knew. She had been his favorite movie actress ten years ago, when he was not yet twenty-one.

She wore dark, expensive clothing and a New York hat. Her ankles were exquisite. She was going back to California after a run on Broadway in a mediocre play. No one on the plane except Bob Decker seemed to recognize her.

The wings dipped, they wheeled around and came down light as a feather. Leaning, Bob peered out the window and saw Bones Lahaffy’s lean length lounging, awaiting him. He stepped into the aisle and his elbow struck the actress.

I’m so sorry ...

She turned on him, her teeth drawn back, her mouth ugly. He was startled; then she visibly pulled herself together and said, That’s all right.

Then he saw that it was fear. Mona Hayes was scared.

Instinctively he took her elbow as they moved toward the exit, an impersonal enough gesture, yet she looked at him in gratitude.

No brass bands, she said suddenly. Not even a goddam flack.

They ought to turn out a color guard, Miss Hayes.

She sighed. Thank God there’s one of you left. Why didn’t I let you pick me up?

The door opened and the stewardess automatically smiled at them as per Rule Number Two in the Manual, and they moved into blinding sunshine. He held the woman’s arm as they went down the steps. She looked right and left, birdlike, swiftly, then straight ahead.

Not even a husband, she murmured.

She would have disengaged herself, then, but something made Bob hang onto her elbow. A friend is meeting me. Can we—he’d be glad to drop you anywhere you like.

Bones was coming toward them. Her mouth softened, she said, Lahaffy, huh? I know Bones. He too has had it.

Bob said, He’s doing fine in television.

They’re all doing fine in TV. They can stand those close-ups, Jesus! She had relaxed, however, Bones! Fancy meeting you here!

Bones had always been thin. Now he was emaciated, cavernous eyes sunken beneath bushy brows. He said, Hiya, Mona … Bob, how the hell you keep looking so young? You got the luggage checks? Gimme.

The deep-set eyes were watchful, as Bob waited for the woman to rummage through her immense purse. There may have been a warning in them, it was hard to tell. Bob said, We’re driving Miss Hayes into town, okay?

Wouldn’t miss. Bones took the tickets and vanished.

They walked through the airport to a curb. There was a tremendous parking lot and the sky seemed full of departing and arriving aircraft. There was a haze which cushioned them from the glare. It was warm, but a breeze compensated for the, to Bob, unseasonable weather. It was May.

Inglewood, said Mona Hayes. Inglewood is not Hollywood, you know. Or do you?

I don’t know a thing. This is my first trip. He watched her as she removed the glasses. There were crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes, but the delicate line of beauty was there, the air of being a beauty rode her neckline, her poised, small head. She was auburn-haired this season.

Hollywood. That’s not Los Angeles, not Inglewood. It’s several square miles at the eastern end of the San Fernando Valley. It’s Beverly Hills and Westwood and Bel Air and Pacific Palisades and Culver City. Burbank and Gower Street and now they opened Western Avenue since TV, and Motion Picture Center on Cahuenga is a beehive. Malibu is Hollywood, but not Long Beach and only part of Santa Monica. She seemed to enjoy reeling it off. You’ll learn, if you stick around. Are you in the business?

Oh, no. I’m a fan.

She looked keenly at him. Not in the business? How lucky can you get?

I’m Bob Decker, he said lamely. I’m just an engineer.

The hell you are! How come you know a broken-down writer like Bones?

We were in Korea together. Bones was a hell of a soldier. He grinned. He had white, even teeth, dark skin and greenish eyes. He was six feet tall, and lean.

She said suddenly, I saw you some place, back East. Wait a minute—not this trip. Sometime before—before Korea?

He nodded. Tennis.

She snapped her fingers. Sure, that’s it. East Orange. I was married to Don. He was tennis crazy. You won the New Jersey Men’s.

Bones was coming, with a porter and the luggage. Oddly, Mona had only three suitcases, lightweight and compact, besides the hatbox.

Bob said, How can you remember?

She gave him a sidelong glance and years fell away from her. That’s my trouble. I remember guys like you.

She laughed lightly, but the impishness did not leave her as they walked across the street to the parking lot. Bones was laconic and Bob wondered if he disliked Mona, or if there was something else disturbing him.

They got into a sleek, long Lincoln convertible. Bones seemed to take it for granted, but it looked like a lot of automobile to Bob. Mona donned the glasses and they drove into suburban traffic rivalling that of Greater New York. Between the wind and the noise of cars, conversation languished. Bob felt the woman alongside him relax, her body soft and pliant, pressing against him. A small excitement rose at the odor of her scent in his nostrils.

They came to Culver City and turned right and went past a pile of concrete resembling a factory and Bones said, Metro, and Mona said, The sweat shop. Then Bones said, But they paid the dough, and Mona said, They did, they did.

Bob gathered that this was the studios of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer and craned to get a better look. It was unprepossessing.

They slid across National Boulevard and turned right onto Castle Heights Avenue. The houses were superbly kept, although not sumptuous. They passed a one-storied, spread-out grade school planted with blossoms of gaudy hue and swung around another turn onto Beverly Drive, a wide street with more expensive residences, although patently a traffic thoroughfare.

At Pico Boulevard they paused for a light. Bones gestured westward with his left hand and remarked, Twentieth, and Mona said, Going down the road with Metro. Now doing TV. Bones said again, They paid the dough, and Mona said, They did, they did. Although he could not see the lot nor the buildings, Bob guessed they meant Twentieth Century Fox, and that neither of his companions were persona grata on the premises. He could scarcely believe that Mona Hayes was through, unwanted. Older and less talented stars worked in pictures all the time. Yet it was patent that a debacle had occurred.

Bones was saying, You keep the house?

She looked startled. Certainly I kept the house. God, has it gone that far? Do they think I’m broke?

It’s a big house, said Bones, half apologizing. You’ve been away a year, Mona. What the hell?

She nodded. Sure, I know; what am I acting surprised for?

They drove straight across, past Washington, past Wilshire, into the shopping center, where they crawled while the most dreadful drivers in the world, mostly women, parked diagonally, backed up without signaling or just waited lor others to unpark, so that they could uncertainly place their cars against the curb.

Beverly Hills, said Mona. Old home town.

Every cop a college man, jibed Bones.

Every jerk with a buck, added Mona.

They passed Santa Monica and turned left on a winding avenue of great trees. Each house was now a mansion, each lawn a putting green, giant palms overhanging all. The architecture was uneven, some of it fine, some bastard, but the overall effect was like parts of Greenwich, Connecticut and Westchester County and Bob could smell the money.

Bones turned in the driveway of a Colonial white place, with trimmed hedges and an Eastern flavor. They got out the suitcases and the hat box. A colored woman with wide shoulders and a sad face embraced Mona and was introduced as Millicent, and then they went into the house.

It was cold. It was empty and unlived in and proper and the ceilings were too high. Mona Hayes looked like a lost child, and then she looked like a lost adult, which was worse. She said, Will you have a drink?

Bones would have accepted, but Bob said quickly, Look, you’re as beat from that plane trip as I am, that’s for sure. Why don’t we take a rain check?

Gratefully, she touched his arm and said, You’re a thoughtful guy, Bob Decker. Call me.

She crossed to a hall table, scribbled on a pad and handed him a slip of paper. She looked at Bones and said, Tell him it’s okay to call. And don’t run me down all the way under the ground, will you, Bones? Easy on the whip—it’s a tired horse.

Bones said impassively, You know me, Mona.

Yeah. Yeah, I know you. Like I know myself. She patted Bob’s hand and again the odd light came into her eyes. You’ll call. I know you will.

They went out and got into the car and Bones turned toward Hollywood. After a minute he said, You got yourself a swell start, there.

I like her. He was piqued at Bones’ odd attitude.

Sure, you like her. She’ll be in your pants quick enough.

That’s a hell of a thing to say. But he had felt it, and he sensed that Bones was not maliciously lying.

Yeah, it’s a rotten thing to say. Bones scowled. It’s true, but why say it? Mona’s mistake is trying to hang on. She should sell that mausoleum, invest the dough.

You mean she really is broke?

Bones considered. Well, it’s like this. You and me, we’d call ourselves rich. We never made ten thousand a week. Maybe Mona’s worth half a million. For her, it’s nothing.

Bob could see that. The tennis tours had made him well acquainted with comparative wealth. But he said, It’s not only the dough, a woman like that.

Certainly it’s not only the money. She’s getting long in the tooth. And they don’t want her any more. And she’s been through four husbands and the last one walked out on her.

Bob fell silent.

A hell of an introduction to Hollywood, he thought. Bones on the downbeat. A likeable, fading actress.

A peculiar stinging sensation struck his nasal passages. His eyes burned. They were coming into Hollywood, and the smog was reaching them.

Chapter Two

THREE DAYS LATER he got up early, hating himself for the night before, and staggered into the bathroom of the hillside apartment above the Freeway where Bones dwelt for the nonce. He didn’t look so bad, at that, because he always cheated on the drinks when the going got rough. It was the company, not the booze, he thought.

Bones and that girl of his were not so bad, but the rest of the people in the various haunts to which he had been dragged were dreadful. Worse than Martha’s friends in New Jersey.

In his mirror the black look was plain. He had to fight it down. He had no desire to be a hater; he had never before come close to hating anyone, much less his wife.

Ex-wife, he amended, taking the top from the toothpaste. He scrubbed hard, as if that would take the memory out of him. Ex-wife and good luck to her and who made her. A bitch dishonest about her bitchery, denying it to the end.

And her father, an ignorant moneybags puffed with equal parts wind, and her sister and her brother-in-law who slept with her ... He yanked himself up short.

He had a way of getting out of it. He remembered how she had shifted the blame on him, because he was away a good deal, trying to make a belated start in the oil business, trying to overcome the gaps caused by tennis and the Korea bit. He could grin, remembering her protestations, her assumed innocence, her outrage when he slapped her pretty, silly face. It was a rueful grin, but it permitted him to get on with a shower-bath and a shave, with Stopette and Old Spice, with everything to prepare him for the coming interview.

He was choosing among his summer-weight clothes, trying to find a shirt which would not wilt in the treacherous middle of a May day, when Bones appeared, suffering, the circles, under his eyes threatening the elliptical lines etched too deeply in his wide mouth. Bones sat down and stared out the window at the near-green of the hill foliage and groaned.

Serves you right, said Bob without sympathy.

Look, I’m sorry, mumbled Bones. I must have been stinking to pick up with that crowd.

I’ve met pansies before. But those kids are dreadful.

Well, I knew Pete at Metro and he’s all right. I mean, he sticks to his own kind.

He’s as queer as a seven dollar bill and you couldn’t have missed him giving me a hard time, said Bob bluntly.

He did? Bones shook his head. You can’t trust anybody these days. Pete, huh? Made a pass at you?

And the dykes, Bob said relentlessly. You got me mixed up with the toughest Les in town and you didn’t tip me off. What the hell is it with you, Bones?

Through a campaign which had sent its share of men back for a Section Eight, Bones had never showed a sullen moment. Now he said shortly, Not a damn thing is with me.

In three days you’ve shown me more crummy creeps than I’ve known in a career which included some beauts. You can’t seem to stay away from low joints, you drink yourself blind. I haven’t heard a word about your work. There’s got to be something.

The hell with it.

Yet you make a face like you smell something if I suggest calling Mona Hayes. Bob pulled on a Dacron-mixture pair of navy blue trousers and found his black shoes.

After a moment, Bones said in his normal voice, I got fired from my last two jobs. My girl is taking peeks at a producer. Neither of these matters is really important. They just seem disastrous because I’m in the business.

Well?

"Well, that’s it. I’m getting it out of my system, I think. But about Mona—that’s different. She’s marked lousy by big people."

Bob found a maroon tie and knotted it loosely in place. I see. That makes a difference.

She walked a contract to do that play, thinking she’d get so fat they couldn’t fight her. The play flopped.

So she lost. Now they kick her around.

Bob, don’t jump at things you can’t understand. Mona asked for it. She cost the studio thousands. She’s been throwing her weight around for too many years. Hell, she’s past forty.

Just forty. I checked, said Bob.

Oh, well. Bones limped toward the kitchen. If you went that far ... After all, you’re not in the business.

Bob hung the blue coat on the back of a chair. It had been pressed since his arrival. His trunk would arrive any time, now. Half of his wardrobe, which was considerable, should be all right for California. He followed Bones and accepted icy tomato juice.

I have to buy a car, he said. One of those friends of yours in the Valley suggested a place. You know anything about cars?

Bones said, "You’re sure that everything is all right with Foster Kane? Hadn’t you better see