the wind blows all night long

by fred flynn

illustrated by konrad kraus and danny delacroix

originally appeared in the october 1948 issue of curious thrilling tales

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

joe smith liked cafeterias. he spent most of his time in them. he especially liked automats. he liked big cafeterias and big automats, the bigger the better, because he could melt into the crowd and not be noticed. of course with more people in the big places, there were more people to possibly recognize him, but he still liked the odds. besides, there was only one person in the world - this world that he was trapped in - who might be looking for him and might recognize him. and it was a big world. filled with big cities. like this one. which one was this, anyway? new york, london, frisco, paris, hong kong, berlin, st louis, chicago…? joe couldn't remember. he looked out the big window at the night. it was cold out - he was wearing a heavy overcoat and had a scarf draped over the back of his chair. and the wind was blowing newspapers and a few snowflakes down the street. chicago. it must be chicago, he thought, the windy city… yeah, that was it. chicago. that toddling town. the town that billy sunday could not shut down. where klak-don would never find him. klak-don, the official manhunter and executioner of the sivonian empire, who had been trying to find joe for twenty years to bring him back to captivity in the imperial capital. where he would be held in a golden cage suspended high above the imperial palace, for the slaves and peasants and minions and soldiers of the empire to laugh at and throw stones at all day. because joe smith was not really joe smith, a bum down on his luck on a snowy, windswept clark street. he was really prince dar-flan, the rightful heir to the empire of sivonia in the amandean galaxy, exiled and hunted through a thousand dark universes … the old sad story, of the forces of darkness playing the old empire game… joe took a sip of his coffee. a drop of coffee fell from the bottom of his cup on to his patched corduroy pants. long ago joe had learned the trick of putting a handkerchief in his saucer, but then he figured out that this marked him as a regular in the cafeterias and automats of the planet… and might arouse of the suspicions of klak-don and other bloodhounds of the sivonian empire who might be on his trail. not that there was any real chance of them finding him. but you couldn't be too careful. he owed it to the loyal subjects of sivonia who were still waiting and hoping for his return. joe started to cough. jeez, maybe he should have hopped on that banana boat that was sailing down the river down to new orleans… he carefully put his cup back down and looked out the window. the snow was falling a little faster. a guy sitting by himself right in front of the window looked kind of familiar. it was hard to tell, he was so bundled up… it was chicago, for crissake, not the north pole… suddenly the bundled up guy looked over at joe. their eyes met. it was klak-don! somehow after all these years, he had found him. too stunned to move, joe sat rooted to his chair as klak-don picked up his coffee and a plate with a half-eaten piece of cheesecake and moved over to joe's table. and sat down just as easy as you please as if they were old pals, and not sworn enemies who had tracked and dodged each other across a hundred galaxies. "we meet at last, dar-flan." klak-don, with a brief glance out the window behind him, put his coffee and cheesecake down on joe's table. "i don't know what you're talking about, pal." "oh, please, can't we be civilized about this?" klak-don's diction indicated that he had seen a few movies with herbert marshall in his travels. "i've caught you fair and square, so why make a fuss?" "i think you got a screw loose, mac. say, that cheesecake looks pretty tasty." joe laughed. "if we are such old buddies as all that, maybe you could stand me the price of a piece for myself." klak-don sighed. "as a sort of last meal, you mean? don't worry, dar-flan, you'll be fed well enough on the trip back - the long trip back - to the empire. we wouldn't want you looking too pitiful, would we, for your trial? after all, a whole galactic cluster will be watching with bated breath." "keep spouting your cockeyed malarkey, pal, and you'll get a punch in that stuckup kisser of yours." two tables over, connie ferguson listened to this dialogue with mild amusement mingled with slight annoyance. she hoped the two clowns would not come to blows. not that she had any real reason to disapprove of them. after all, it was poor deluded characters like these that caused people on this earth to be skeptical of all royal claimants. and made it easier for connie herself to remain hidden in the crowd. for "connie ferguson" was really the princess eleuphinia, the only survivor of the royal family of the hidden kingdom of varna, deep beneath the surface of neptune, the other members of which - her father the emperor, her mother the empress , and her sister and two brothers - had been cruelly massacred by the communistic ant-men from uranus, leaving her, eleuphinia, the true rightful ruler not only of varna but of neptune, the outer solar system and the whole andromeda galaxy… if only she could find a way off this stinking planet with its hordes of slavish ignorant proles with their puking sympathy for the perverted ideals of communism - and the lousy lying journalists and playwrights and "folk singers" leading them by the nose to hell… of all the planets she could have escaped to, this was the worst! well! she really shouldn't let herself get worked up this way. connie dug a flattened pack of pall malls out of her purse. please, please, let there be one left in it… there was. she lit it with her next to last match - how she would have hated to ask one of the bums in this joint for a light! she blew out a long plume of smoke. just as she did, the door opened, bringing in a blast of cold air and - connie's former "pal", the lying two-faced crackbrained floozy calling herself alexandra… as in, the princess alexandra, last survivor of the romanovs. oh, yes, keep peddling those stale peanuts, sweetie, some elephant will forget to ask where you got them… connie looked away and ignored alexandra as she walked past. but out of the corner of her eye she noticed her heading for the dinner specials. she must have scored a few bucks to be eating so high off the hog. maybe it wouldn't hurt connie to be nice to the poor thing. suddenly connie heard a crash beside her. sure enough, the two bozos at the other table had started to fight. and were using language no lady, let alone the empress of neptune, should have to listen to… fortunately, pete the busboy was rushing over to restore order. they hadn't knocked the table over, only one of the chairs. it looked like they had spilled their coffees mostly on themselves, with not much getting on the floor. pete grabbed them and pulled them apart as easy as if they were two rag dolls. "what's going on here? huh?" pete stuck his face in the one of the guy who had been there first. "you don't like it in here where it's nice and warm? hey? lest you have forgotten, joe dolan owns this place. joe dolan don't run no kindergartens. joe dolan don't stand for no nonsense in any of his many establishments, from the highest to the very lowest - like this dump. understand!" pete picked the overturned chair up and shoved the first guy back into it. then he turned to the other one. "and you! you're the philosopher, right? like to sit by the window and watch the world go by? go back to your window! get back to your post, soldier, or i'll kick you out in the street and you can watch chicago get turned into a winter wonderland!" "o k, pete, o k," klak-don mumbled, "no need to get sore." pete gave him a shove and klak-don turned back to his table. "what a life," pete muttered. he noticed a couple of overflowing ashtrays on an empty table and grabbed them and headed for the door. "what a life," he repeated as the wind hit him in the face. he had just about had it with this world. "pete" was not really pete. he was from another dimension altogether. and in the other dimension he had been za-bad, a master thief who had won the heart of fantonia, the daughter of king sadim of xilon - the land of gold and rubies. and for one brief moment he had had fantonia - and the kingdom and all its riches - in the palm of his dextrous hand - only to have the three wizards of king sadim - it had taken three wizards to do the job! - three! - banish him to this dreary world of snow and ashtrays and spilled coffee. he hoped to gain enough wealth in this new world to hire a magician of his own - if he could find one - to return to xilon and his beloved fantonia. so far it had been slow going. pete tossed the ashes out into the snow and the wind blew some of them back in his face. then he slipped in something nasty and almost his balance. down the street, in the swirling snow, he heard somebody shout for a cab. ***

"Mrs. Big"

by Horace P. Sternwall

Originally published in “Chilling Crime Tales”, December, 1950; republished for the first time in book form in “Mr. and Mrs. Big”: The “Gwendolyn and Auntie Margaret” Stories of Horace P. Sternwall, Vol. 8, the Olney Community College Press; edited by Dan Leo, LL.D., Associate Professor of Hardboiled Literature, Olney Community College.

illustrated by roy dismas and eddie el greco

for previous Gwendolyn story, click here

to begin the Gwendolyn stories, click here

“Baccini speaking.” “Would this be Mr. Bartolomeo ‘Big Bart’ Baccini speaking?” “Yeah. Who wants to know?” “You don’t know me, Mr. Baccini, but I have a proposition for you which may be to our mutual benefit.” “Who the hell is this?” “As I say, I am no one you know.” “You got a name?” “A name. I am afraid I would prefer not to give you my name, Mr. Baccini.” “You got a proposition for me but you don’t want to give me your name.” “That is correct, Mr. Baccini.” “Then what I’m supposed to call you, sister?” “Call me – Mrs. Big.” “Mrs. Big.” “You wanted a name, I gave you one.” “All right, ‘Mrs. Big’, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t hang up on you right now, on account of I am a very busy man.” “You should not hang up on me because it was my gang who rubbed out Jimmy Mazzaro and his four top boys.” There was a silence on the other end of the line, and Gwendolyn used this pause to take a sip of her hot cocoa and gaze through the glass door of the phone booth out at the crowded vaulted expanse of Grand Central Station. Then Baccini’s voice came through the line again. “Nobody ‘rubbed out’ Jimmy and his boys. It was a gas explosion from a faulty stove.” “So the official report said,” said Gwendolyn in her husky “grown-up” voice, modeled after that of her Auntie Margaret, and speaking through the lace handkerchief Auntie Margaret had got her just this past Christmas, with her initial “G” in red and gold embroidery. “I wonder how much it cost you, Mr. Baccini, to have Jimmy’s death and that of his four goons declared an ‘accident’?” Another pause, and Gwendolyn took another sip of her hot cocoa from its paper cup. it was nice cocoa, but not as nice as Schrafft’s cocoa. Then Baccini’s voice spoke again. “Okay, sister, who you working for?” “Who am I working for? What makes you think I am working for anyone?” “Because you’re a dame, and you sound like a young dame. Come on, ‘Mrs. Big’, who is your Mr. Big?” “Do you really think I’m going to tell you my real name? Or the name of my ‘Mr. Big’, even if there were a Mr. Big? After I just told you it was my gang that turned Jimmy Mazzaro and his boys into so many human Roman candles?” “Are you with Maxie Goldenberg’s crew?” “Wouldn’t you like to know?” “You’re with the West Side Boys then, right? Jackie O’Hara’s mob?” “Do I sound Irish?” “Wait – is this the Five Points Gang?” “You can keep naming colorful names all night, and my answer will be the same, Mr. Baccini. As far as you’re concerned I am Mrs. Big.” Again a pause.  Gwendolyn heard Baccini say something to someone on the other end. Was he arranging to have the call traced, through his contacts on the police force or at the telephone company? Go ahead, Mr. Baccini, because how many dozens of phone booths were being used this very moment in this enormous station, and who would ever suspect the twelve-year-old blonde girl, probably calling home to her mother saying she had just missed her train after her ballet class but would surely catch the next one? And then Baccini’s voice came through the receiver again. “Was this because of that Tommy Sullivan business? Was it? Because I had nothing to do with that. I told Jimmy to lay off Tommy. In no uncertain terms I told him he was to lay off Tommy on account of we had had a long-standing arrangement with that Irish son of a bitch, you should pardon my French, but it’s the truth. So if that’s why you took Jimmy out, that was between him and you. Far as I am concerned the matter is settled with Jimmy’s, uh, accidental death.” “I am glad you feel that way, Mr. Baccini.” “Good, so goodbye, Mrs. Big, and good luck in all your future endeavours.” “But you haven’t heard my proposition,” said Gwendolyn. “Your proposition,” said Baccini. “Yes,” said Gwendolyn. “May I continue?” There was another pause, and then Baccini spoke: “Go ahead, Mrs. Big. I am listening.” **** Gwendolyn came out of the phone booth. The gang were all there: Elizabeth and Ruth, Sluggo and the Monkey. “Twig anything funny while I was on the phone?” Gwendolyn asked. “No suspicious characters? No cops? “Nah, we kept a good eye out,” said the Monkey. “Nuttin’.” “Good,” said Gwendolyn. “And now – how do milkshakes and cakes at Schrafft’s sound? On me.” “Sounds great!” said Sluggo. “But, Gwendolyn dear,” said Elizabeth. “You must tell us. How did it go with this Baccini fellow?” “He turned out to be fairly reasonable, for an Italian,” said Gwendolyn. “The upshot is the tea trade in the Village and the Bowery is ours. His crew will take over Jimmy Mazzaro’s territory in Little Italy and points south.” “Do you trust him?” said Ruth. Gwendolyn drank the last bit of her cocoa, crumpled up the cup, and tossed it into a waste basket. “A better question, Ruth, might be: can Big Bart Baccini trust us?” The gang laughed as one at Gwendolyn’s bon mot.  Then they headed off to Schrafft’s for delicious milkshakes and cakes.  **** "The New Mob"

"neighbors" - conclusion

by fred flynn

illustrated by konrad kraus and eddie el greco

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

part two of two

click here for part one

nora laughed nervously. "you mean you are a martian?" "not exactly." nora realized that she didn't have as much of a sense of humor as a lot of people, but being a naturally polite person, she usually tried to smile or laugh when someone said something that was supposed to be funny. but although she was pretty mild-mannered, she could get really mad if she thought anybody was trying to make fun of her! but this man with the greenish face, who seemed so nice - whose niceness almost seemed to envelop her like a cloud and soothe her weary soul - surely he was not making fun of her by saying - sort of - that he was a martian? no, it was just a little joke, meant to put her at her ease. because he was so nice. and she was at her ease - very much so. suddenly nora realized she was staring at the man! "i'll get you that coke," she mumbled, and turned to go into the kitchenette. the man smiled at her, apparently quite at ease in the uncomfortable chair beside the radio. there was a half empty bottle of coca-cola in the refrigerator. it was probably flat. nora decided to pour it for herself, and open a new bottle for the - nice man. she caught herself thinking of him as "the martian". ha ha! she wondered if he was using mind control on her. but that was just silly. she came out of the kitchenette - glancing at the door to the children's room to make sure it was closed tight - and smiled at the man and handed him his glass of coke. gosh, it wasn't even cold! and she didn't have a nice table for him to put the glass on. he had to hold it on his knee. how she wished she could afford nice things! "you wish you could afford nice things, don't you, nora?" the man asked. nora almost spilled her own glass of coke in her lap. had she told him her name? "no, nora," the man smiled. "you didn't tell me your name." nora just stared at him. "but i haven't told you my name," the man said. "you can read my mind," nora interrupted him. which was sort of rude, but her head was spinning. "not exactly." "just like you are not exactly a martian." "exactly. or not exactly. ha ha! " the man smiled again with his perfect teeth. "it all amounts to the same thing." he took a sip of his glass of coca-cola. and smiled again, at least pretending to enjoy it. "do you know everything about me?" nora asked. "not - ha ha! i know the most important thing about you, nora." "and what's that?" "that you are a dreamer." nora blushed slightly. "how do you know that?' "that's an easy one. you are a human, and all humans are dreamers." "oh. so i guess i am just like everybody else." "oh no, nora, you are special. that is why i came here to see you. you, and not any of the people next door." "um - i don't really know the people next door." "oh, you know them better than you think. but i still haven't introduced myself. my name, for your purposes - " for my purposes, nora wondered, what does that mean? but she didn't say anything. " - my name is walter." "hello, walter." "you were probably expecting something like mar-del-kor-thalm, that you couldn't remember." "walter is easy to remember. i had a cousin named walter. " "there you go. and i represent an organization that for your purposes we will call the interdimensional federation - i f for short. i f - that's easy to remember, isn't it?" "i guess so." "tell me, nora, how would you like to make twenty dollars a month?" twenty dollars a month! now walter had nora's attention. all this stuff about reading her mind and being a martian and the interdimensional whatever was one thing, but twenty dollars a month! "i could use twenty dollars a month," nora heard herself say. i could use five dollars a month, she thought, but did not say it out loud. "i thought so." walter reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small rectangular object. looking at it across the room nora thought it looked like the kind of small box that would hold wooden matches. "can you keep a secret, nora?" "keep a secret? i don't have much time to myself. i - i have four children. and a husband who - who - uh - " "yes?" "always wants to know what i'm doing." walter nodded. "but i think you can keep a secret, nora. do you know why?" "why?" "because you're a human. and do you what humans are, besides dreamers?" "what?" nice as he was, walter was sort of like jack, nora thought - thinking he was going to continually amaze you with his brilliant thoughts. "humans are adaptable. so even though it might seem unusual for you to be working for the federation and you could not imagine such a thing just an hour ago you are a human and you will adapt." "you think so?" yes, for twenty dollars a month, nora thought. "take yourself. look how you have already adapted in your life. you were just an innocent girl in school hanging out at the malt shoppe, and then you went to war." "i didn't exactly go to war. i worked in a factory that made canteens for the soldiers." "yes, but these dogfaces never could have slogged their way through hell without the nice canteens you made for them. and then, even in the factory you were still a girl and then you woke up one day and you were married and had four children. what is working for the interdimensional federation compared to that?" " not much, i guess." "you can do it, nora." walter put his glass of coke on top of the radio and stood up, with the little rectangular object in his hand. "now here is what i want you to do…" and that is how nora came to sell out the human race and become an agent of the interdimensional federation. how many other noras are there out there, behind closed doors, behind high walls, on lonely highways and deserted landscapes, selling out the human race - and maybe more than just the human race - to what unnamable and unimaginable forces? you see, now, what can happen when you don't know who your neighbors are? reader, do you judge nora? would you do the same, for twenty dollars a month? maybe you belong to a better class of people and would only do it for a few hundred a month, or a few thousand? or maybe you are sincerely horrified by these revelations. if you are, all i can say is - be on your guard! keep an eye on your neighbors, such as they are, and on the people you pass on the streets, or in the aisles of the new supermarkets that are springing up all over the country and replacing the old general stores and grocery stores where everybody knew everybody else, and be alert! i wish i could be more helpful and tell you where to report your findings, but if you go to the police or the f b i, how do you know they are not also in league with the unnamable forces themselves? how do you know? and - watch the skies! *** james, the day desk clerk, watched fred flynn come out of the elevator and cross the lobby of the hotel st crispian. "good morning, james." "um - good afternoon, mister flynn." "yes, it is afternoon, isn't it? so the mail must have come." "indeed it has." james turned and retrieved a letter and a large manila envelope and handed them to fred. "here you go." "thank you." fred looked at the letter - from his brother on rikers island. no rush to read that. the manila envelope was the one he had used to send a couple of stories to al johnson at smashing wonder tales. he balanced it in his hand - maybe al had not sent both stories back? fred took a seat in the nearest chair in the lobby and opened the envelope. it contained one of the stories he had sent - "neighbors" and a note from al johnson. dear fred, thanks for the space dog simms story. i will use it for the cover story in march-april. as for this thing - what have i been trying to tell you? what is this supposed to be? olaf stapledon? or something a twelve year old kid would write? like a lot of what you have been sending, it's not smart enough and it's not dumb enough. i am your pal, if i knew anybody else who might take it i'd let you know, but i don't. more space dog simms stories, please! we both have to eat. and drink. drop by sometime, and i will buy you one. sincerely, your best friend in the world, al johnson "bad news, flynn?" fred looked up. "farmer" brown was standing there, in his usual pose with his thumbs in his lapels. "you look like your dog died, ha ha," the farmer guffawed. "no, it's nothing." fred rubbed his eyes. "i was just going to get a cup of coffee." "how about a little hair of the dog?" "sure, why not?" ***