Dan J. Marlowe
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It wasn’t at all like Hazel to go off without a word to Drake. But she did. He tried calling her at the motel, but they said she’d just checked out. No, no messages.
Drake figured he’d better do a little checking on his own.
Which is why he went to see Hazel’s business manager, Nate Pepperan, in Hudson. It had been Pepperman’s phone call which had taken Hazel to Hudson in the first place. Nate would surely know where she was.
But Nate wasn’t telling. How could he, with his throat slit?
Operation Whiplash—a tense, blood-pounding tale of mayhem, murder, and the Mafia with Drake, the Man with Nobody’s Face.
Incense Room, and we all sat down on the low divans circling it. Hazel and I were together on one divan, Chen Yi across from us. She crossed her arms and rested each palm flat on the opposite thigh, looking like a statue in a Chinese pagoda. “I’m afraid what I learned isn’t going to be of too much help,” she said, coming directly to the point. “What’s the trouble?” “There are two Americans being held at Cartwright Street. They are in cells three and four, they are not tourists or seamen, and
right. I’d overlooked that point.” He raised his voice. “This is far enough.” The truck stopped again, two-thirds of the way out to the end of the wharf. This time Chen Yi turned the motor off. It was so quiet I could hear wavelets lapping against the piles under the pier. “Their car is sitting back where we stopped before,” McLaren reported. “Nothing’s happening.” “They think they have us penned in,” Erikson said. “Think, hell!” I snorted. “We are penned in unless that damn fishing boat shows
front of us, obviously preparing for a run down the port side. “The machine gunner has a bad angle shooting upward.” I moved onto the port side of the wheelhouse roof. The cruiser roared toward us, seemingly twice as fast since it was going in the opposite direction. The machine gunner withheld his fire as the cruiser turned on a seeming dime near the tug’s stern and raced between tug and barge above the slackened towing hawser. I tried to line up on the machine gunner. The vibration of the
conservatively cut business suit had passed me at first glance, but I knew I couldn’t stand a close inspection. I might not look like a bank robber, but I surely resembled a man who had had a long, hard night. Just before I dropped down from the final section of fire escape into the littered alley, the sounds from the roof of the bank ceased. I knew that Karl Erikson wouldn’t be meeting me at the airstrip rendezvous the following morning. And I knew I wasn’t in much better shape myself. I had
possible moment, and I had nowhere to go. I couldn’t check into a hotel without identification, and dressed as I was, I could hardly go to the beach. The stores wouldn’t open for another three or four hours, and the gambling casino on Paradise Island didn’t open until midafternoon. I zigzagged away from the trouble spot, turning onto Victoria Avenue from Shirley Street. I passed Dowdeswell Street before reaching Bay, where I turned east. Another two blocks brought me to Rawson Square, one of the