E. Hoffmann Price's War and Western Action Read online

  Contents

  COPYRIGHT INFO

  A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

  INTRODUCTION, by Shawn Garrett

  TRIANGLE WITH VARIATIONS

  NIGHT IN MANILA

  FOOL’S EPITAPH

  HASHEESH WISDOM

  HELL IN DARIEN

  UNFIT FOR COMMAND

  CAIRO TANK TROUBLE

  NAVIGATION SIMPLIFIED

  SCORCHED EARTH

  ALLAH MADE THEM AS THEY ARE

  PASSAGE TO MEKKA

  FEUD’S END

  TOO MANY CLIENTS

  SHE HERDED HIM AROUND

  DRINK OR DRAW

  SHORT-CUT TO HELL

  DESERT JUDGMENT

  A PAIR OF QUEENS

  YOU CAN’T FIGHT A WOMAN

  The MEGAPACK® Ebook Series

  COPYRIGHT INFO

  E. Hoffmann Price’s War & Western Action MEGAPACK® is copyright © 2017 by Wildside Press, LLC. All rights reserved.

  * * * *

  The MEGAPACK® ebook series name is a trademark of Wildside Press, LLC. All rights reserved.

  * * * *

  “Triangle With Variations” was originally published in Spicy Detective Stories, Aug. 1935.

  “Night In Manila” was originally published in Spicy-Adventure Stories, Oct. 1935.

  “Fool’s Epitaph” was originally appeared in Short Stories, February 10, 1947.

  “Hasheesh Wisdom” was originally appeared in Spicy Mystery Stories, September 1936.

  “Hell In Darien” was originally published in Spicy-Adventure Stories, Nov. 1937.

  “Unfit For Command” was originally published in Short Stories, September 25th 1941.

  “Cairo Tank Trouble” was originally published in Thrilling Adventures, May 1943. Copyright © 1943, renewed 1961 by Popular Library, Inc.

  “Navigation Simplified” was originally published in Short Stories, May 25th 1943.

  “Scorched Earth” was originally published in Speed Adventure Stories, July 1944.

  “Allah Made Them As They Are” was originally published in Short Stories, December 1944.

  “Passage To Mekka” was originally published in Short Stories, May 10 1945.

  “Feud’s End” was originally published in Spicy Western Stories, July 1937.

  “Too Many Clients” was originally published in Spicy Western Stories, May 1939.

  “She Herded Him Around” was originally published in Spicy Western Stories, Feb. 1941.

  “Drink Or Draw” was originally published in Speed Western Stories, Dec. 1943.

  “Short-Cut To Hell” was originally published in Six-Gun Western, April 1950.

  “Desert Judgment” was originally published in Six-Gun Western, Oct. 1950.

  “A Pair Of Queens” was originally published in Romantic Western, November 1938.

  “You Can’t Fight A Woman” was originally published in Speed Adventure Stories, Nov. 1943.

  A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

  We return to another E. Hoffmann Price MEGAPACK® (the last in the current queue)—this one a combo of western and war stories, since there weren’t enough to do properly-sized volumes of either genre. For info about the author, please skip ahead to the Introduction by editor Shawn Garrett.

  Enjoy!

  —John Betancourt

  Publisher, Wildside Press LLC

  www.wildsidepress.com

  ABOUT THE SERIES

  Over the last few years, our MEGAPACK® ebook series has grown to be our most popular endeavor. (Maybe it helps that we sometimes offer them as premiums to our mailing list!) One question we keep getting asked is, “Who’s the editor?”

  The MEGAPACK® ebook series (except where specifically credited) are a group effort. Everyone at Wildside works on them. This includes John Betancourt (me), Carla Coupe, Steve Coupe, Shawn Garrett, Helen McGee, Bonner Menking, Sam Cooper, Helen McGee and many of Wildside’s authors…who often suggest stories to include (and not just their own!)

  RECOMMEND A FAVORITE STORY?

  Do you know a great classic science fiction story, or have a favorite author whom you believe is perfect for the MEGAPACK® ebook series? We’d love your suggestions! You can post them on our message board at http://wildsidepress.forumotion.com/ (there is an area for Wildside Press comments).

  Note: we only consider stories that have already been professionally published. This is not a market for new works.

  TYPOS

  Unfortunately, as hard as we try, a few typos do slip through. We update our ebooks periodically, so make sure you have the current version (or download a fresh copy if it’s been sitting in your ebook reader for months.) It may have already been updated.

  If you spot a new typo, please let us know. We’ll fix it for everyone. You can email the publisher at [email protected] or use the message boards above.

  INTRODUCTION, by Shawn Garrett

  Welcome to E. Hoffmann Price’s War & Western Action MEGAPACK®! Wildside Press, in association with Mr. Price’s heirs, are dedicated to making the extensive body of work of this pulpsmith extraordinaire accessible once again to the public through their line of MEGAPACK® collections.

  Edgar Hoffmann Price (July 3, 1898 – June 18, 1988) was born in Fowler, California. A graduate of West Point, he served in World War (followed by military duty in Mexico and the Philippines) and was a champion fencer and boxer—fellow pulp author Jack Williamson referred to him as “a real-life soldier of fortune.” Hoffmann was also something of a polymath—a Republican and a Buddhist, he was also an amateur Orientalist, and a student of the Arabic language.

  Price’s first fiction sale was in 1924 to Droll Stories magazine and over the years he befriended, corresponded with, and personally met many authors of the pulp era including Robert E. Howard, Clark Ashton Smith and H.P. Lovecraft. He wrote hundreds of stories for many pulp magazines (including Weird Tales) in varied genres like horror, detective, adventure, fantasy and science fiction. Wildside Press is proud to make his work available to readers again. Due to the inaccessibility of much of Price’s work (he kept no manuscript archive and so we must resort to those original publication copies we can track down) we have decided to package the material into themed MEGAPACK®s, highlighting specific genres he worked in. Later volumes will be released as we gather further material (any collectors interested in aiding our endeavors by supplying photocopies from their collections are urged to contact Wildside at our website: http://wildsidepress.com/).

  The E. Hoffmann Price War & Western Action MEGAPACK® contains 20 stories—11 war stories and 9 tales of the old west. The war stories begin with 3 pieces featuring Price’s tough-guy series character Dan Slade, before moving on to various theaters of conflict around the globe. The western stories begin with 4 tales about series character Simon Bolivar Grimes, followed by others to round out the set. All these stories were published between 1936 to 1945.

  We hope you enjoy these thrilling tales of crime and detection. Here is a list of other collections of Price’s work in the series (some already available, others out shortly):

  E. Hoffmann Price’s Two-Fisted Detective MEGAPACK®

  E. Hoffmann Price’s War And Western Action MEGAPACK®

  E. Hoffmann Price’s Exotic Adventures MEGAPACK®

  The 11th Golden Age of Weird Fiction MEGAPACK®: E. Hoffmann Price

  E. Hoffmann Price’s Fables of Ismeddin MEGAPACK®

  E. Hoffmann Price’s Pierre d’Artois: Occult D
etective & Associates MEGAPACK®

  The E. Hoffmann Price Spicy-Adventure MEGAPACK®

  TRIANGLE WITH VARIATIONS

  Originally published in Spicy Detective Stories, Aug. 1935.

  Everything was strictly kosher until Valene invited Dan Slade to stick around for a drink, and headed for her bed­room instead of toward the refrig­erator. And then Slade took a tumble.

  While it was private stock she was breaking out, it wasn’t any­thing kept in a bottle. He didn’t actually see her slip out of the gown that for the better part of the evening had kept him wishing she had put it on backwards, but he might as well have, for while her negligee, when she reappeared in the doorway, could have covered everything a lady keeps concealed from all but two or three very dear friends, the edges of the filmy substitute for nudity weren’t on speak­ing terms…

  There’s an infallible way of los­ing one’s memory and Valene’s formula did the job in an instant. One eyeful—Slade forgot that she was Jim Tilford’s wife, and that Tilford wasn’t chained to the rou­lette wheel at Coppa’s.

  That eyeful was something like eating nine hundred dollars worth of pep tablets and then getting kicked into the Sultan’s harem. Valene’s silken legs were perfect from her dainty ankles to the guard stripe on her hosiery, and from there on the view became really good.

  The white roundness of her thighs found refuge in a froth of lace just in time to give Slade a chance to observe that Valene’s sighing inhalation threw her breasts in dazzling relief against the chiffon that caressed them like a lover’s hand; and her scarlet smile was as inviting as her warm curves.

  Then she remembered that the negligee had revealed everything but her wisdom teeth, but before she could do anything about it, Slade had an armful of Valene and a carload of plans for the evening.

  “Oh… Dan! You’re hurting me!” she protested, trying to with­draw from his embrace. Slade’s crushing kiss cut her short, but her retreat was highly successful: it brought them a pace closer to a divan that was an acre of invitation—though it might have been the courthouse steps for all Slade now cared.

  Her struggles suddenly relaxed. A shudder rippled down her body and her breath came in quick, short gasps. Valene’s protests were be­coming inarticulate murmurings, but she was doing her best to say no—in sign language, since his fierce kisses again stifled her ob­jections.

  Then the edge of the lounge made her knees buckle; and treach­ery from the rear was too much, with persistence from the front. A flurry of silken legs and chiffon—and then her arms closed about him to make the best of it…

  Bit by bit, Dan Slade’s failing memory responded to treat­ment. He began to recollect that she was Jim Tilford’s wife. Valene laughed softly at his tardy peni­tence. With feminine wisdom, she had repented in advance. And it was his fault anyway, and if she’d screamed, it’d have caused an aw­ful scandal.

  “Don’t be stupid, Dan,” she murmured. “Jim and I have all been all washed up for ages.”

  Which was true, and earlier that very evening, the Jim Valene arm­istice had flared into open warfare at Coppa’s place. Tilford, sourly drunk, and as usual, bucking the roulette wheel. Valene, sweetly re­minding him that he had lost a play after ignoring her winning sugges­tion.

  That was always good for a fight, and it ended in an appeal to Caesar:

  “Dan, for God’s sake take her home! She’s a hoodoo!”

  And here they were: Slade and Valene.

  “He’s wild about Nancy For­rest,” she added. “And he wasn’t as drunk as he pretended. That quarrel was just a stall so he could ask you to bring me home so he could hang up with Nancy tonight—weekends aren’t enough for them any more.”

  That was more than half prob­able; but Slade and Tilford were passably good friends and it was a rotten situation, All the more so, since an hour or so with Valene was enough to make it a habit with any­one—anyone but Tilford, and he’d in some way gotten out of the habit, as Slade had just deduced from one thing and another.

  “Jim’s drunker’n hell, and what’s more,” he countered, jerk­ing away from her embrace, “he began winning as soon as you stepped to the check room for your coat. I’m going back to pilot him home. Been too damn’ many hold­ups of gambling house customers lately, and—”

  “Dan, don’t be silly!” Valene was on her feet at a bound, but Slade, resolutely ignoring the ankle-to-collar-bone view, stalked to the door.

  He stepped on the starter and tramped on the gas, driving wrathfully and recklessly, sending the coupé screaming to the outer fringe of the city and then hurling it out the highway.

  It was going to be hell from now on, keeping away from Valene; and facing Tilford would be worse.

  And then, three miles from Coppa’s, Slade jammed his brakes to a screaming, smoking halt as he rounded the sharp curve. In the moonlight he saw a car that had smashed headlong into an oak that would telescope a battleship: Jim Tilford’s canary yellow Packard. On the far side of the wreck Tilford lay sprawled on the ground. You could see with half an eye that he was dead.

  Slade stepped to the running board of the sunburn special, and noted that Tilford, though drunk, had snapped the switch as he left the road.

  And then, glancing back toward town, Slade saw the cause of the crackup; the self-luminous marker that indicated a sharp turn in the highway had been moved from the left to the right of the road. It would fool a sober driver.

  “Accident, hell! It’s murder.”

  Murder—and robbery. He had beaten Joe Coppa’s wheel, but Death’s roulette stopped at double zero.

  Slade, as he reached for Tilford’s wallet to verify his conclu­sion, saw a scrap of paper, hastily crumpled and half thrust into a vest pocket. He withdrew it. It was a penciled note, in crudely printed letters:

  Tilford:

  Better go home early tonight. You might see something worth looking at.

  A friend.

  “Good God…” muttered Slade. Robbery was bad enough; but this was fairly putrid! No wonder Til­ford had left Coppa’s, driving like the hammers of hell. But who had given him that damning note, that tip-off which but for Slade’s be­lated qualms of conscience would have brought Tilford to his house before Valene could remember that the refrigerator was in the kitchen and not the bedroom!

  “But maybe it’s just a gag—it’ll work with any married man.” Slade assured himself. Still, it didn’t quite stick, and he was hop­ing that robbery was the motive. Somehow, that would make him feel a bit better about it; better than thinking that somebody really had been wise and had in good faith sent Tilford to check up on his wife.

  He reached for Tilford’s wallet and the long, legal size envelope that peeped from the inside coat pocket; but his fingers did not quite make it. Something crackled be­hind him.

  He started, heard a tense, short gasp, and from the corner of his eye saw a dark form lunging to­ward him. And as he whirled, he was knocked headlong across Tilford’s body.

  Something hard and swiftly mov­ing crashed against his head and shoulder. His brain roared into a burst of flame, and then blackness blotted out all sensation…

  When Slade’s consciousness finally returned, he struggled dizzily to his knees, rubbed the egg-sized lump on the side of his head, and resumed his search of Tilford’s pockets. The envelope and wallet were now gone.

  But in a side pocket of Tilford’s coat, Slade found three small blocks of wood wrapped in paper. Odd baggage to carry to a gambling re­sort. They must mean something—but what? He took them, then picked up the penciled note which lay in the grass, near the head-bolt wrench which had felled him.

  The ache of his shoulder told him why his skull had not been crushed as Tilford’s had been. He had started just in time to rob the blow of a portion of its force.

  As nearly as he could estimate from a glance at his watch, Slade had been out fo
r about half an hour. He looked back toward town and saw that during that time the self-luminous highway marker had been moved back to the proper side of the road.

  “Anyway, it was robbery—that note was just a stall,” he concluded. “I happened along before they could roll Jim. And got cold-cocked.”

  But the fact remained that Tilford had headed home on a hot tip. And as Slade drove to Coppa’s to phone the police, his thoughts were none too pleasant.

  “That note may be evidence, but I’m keeping it under cover. Even if it’s a fake, it’d sound like hell…or was Valene in back of this job…”

  Self-made widows aren’t un­heard of; and that spat at Coppa’s began to seem tailor-made. Slade and Tilford had snapped at the bait. And for the last mile he sud­denly hated Valene and himself.

  * * * *

  Slade found Joe Coppa circulating among his patrons, his sharp black eyes missing nothing as his gold and ivory smile salved the losers and greeted the newly arriving optimists.

  “Joe, how much did Tilford win?” he demanded.

  Coppa shrugged and guessed it might be four-five grand; which was a trifle at his place.

  “Any strangers? Any tough mugs hanging around?” snapped Slade.

  Coppa’s beady eyes contracted as he saw the sallowness of Slade’s grim face.

  “’Smatter, Dan? What the hell—maybe some of the crowd ain’t social register, but I don’t allow no rough stuff—”

  “Jim Tilford’s been run into the ditch and robbed. He was pie-eyed, and I came back to get him.”

  Slade touched only the high spots, and said nothing about hav­ing had his own brains well shaken up. Neither did he mention the three wooden blocks.

  “Come to think of it,” said Cop­pa, “there was a coupla hard-look­ing mugs eyein’ Jim while he was taking us down the road, and then they parked themselves along the sidelines and begun reading a paper. I sort of think they did leave right after he did.”

  He indicated a now vacant row of chairs not far from the wheel Tilford had been bucking. A Chi­cago Tribune lay on the floor.