Desmond Cory [Cory - Johnny Goes West

A BLOATED CORPSE WITH NO FACE AT ALL

...recognized only by his cheap white suit, chalked up as suicide. In that steaming, sweltering Venezuelan jungle village, no one mourned the sudden death of Robert West.

Not his wife, a pitiful shell consumed by alcohol and drugs... not his mistress , still bearing the scars of his hideous beatings and insatiable lust... not his partner , a smiling sadist with no feelings in his scrawny body.

Only the British Government felt the loss. For Robert West had held the key to the deadliest weapon man had ever devised.

Thats where Johnny Fedora came in Fedora, the spy with the killer instinct. A tough man in the dirty, dangerous business of espionage.

Now British Intelligence ordered Johnny into the treacherous Venezuelan jungle. To get information from a man too dead to talk, and help from a woman too dangerous to be left alive...

Muscular style, explosive action, authentic toughness... a true thriller.

Buffalo Evening News

MEET THE MOST SAVAGELY EXCITING SECRET AGENT SINCE NICK CARTER AND JAMES BOND!

Johnny Fedora is cool and ruthlessly efficient!

Personal Book Guide

Johnny Fedora , assassin, brings a steely touch to cloak-and-daggering!

Buffalo Evening News

Lots of violence and sex... good action, fast reading.

Springfield Daily

JOHNNY FEDORA! NERVELESS, AMORAL, BLASTING INTO ACTION IN A NEW BRITISH ESPIONAGE SERIES!

Copyright MCMLVIII by Desmond Cory.

All rights reserved.

All the characters and events portrayed in this

story are fictitious.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 67-13223

First published in the United States of America

in 1967 by Walker and Company, a division of

Publications Development Corporation.

First Award printing 1968

AWARD BOOKS are published by

Universal Publishing and Distributing Corporation

235 East Forty-fifth Street, New York, N.Y. 10017

TANDEM BOOKS are published by

Universal-Tandem Publishing Company Ltd.

33 Beauchamp Place, London SW3, England

Manufactured in the United States of America

W HAT this place needs, said Fedora, ducking.

The bullet passed some six feet over his head and whacked into the wall behind him, showering his hair with greenish-yellow plaster.... Is a little law and order. He peered cautiously around the corner of the up-ended table. An absolute disgrace, I call it.

The big fat man in the floppy sombrero raised his heavy revolver and fired again, this time through the window; the bullet would most certainly have smashed the glass to smithereens had there been any glass there for it to break. As it was, it made a most satisfying racket ricochetting off a corrugated-iron roof; and the big man uttered a cry of hoarse delight, not unlike the mating-call of a spoonbill. Then someone who had been creeping up behind him brought a chair forcibly down on top of the sombrero, and the big man sank down to the floor; quite contentedly, as though this were a development he had been anticipating with some degree of pleasure. People began to rise from the unseemly postures into which they had thrown themselves: the owner of the bar emerged from beneath the counter, his hair dripping with the beer that the big man had seen fit to hurl into his face, like Anadomyene rising from the foam with a fresh line in South American vituperations; and Fedora pushed himself upright with a thrust of his springy leg muscles, righting the table as he did so. Well done, that man, he said.

In the corner, a confused tangle of arms and legs and popping eyes began to de-bundle itself in a haphazard sort of way and to resolve itself into its component elements, viz. Sebastian Trout, as virile and sun-tanned as ever, and a middle-aged mining engineer whose name was Hendricks. Since this latter half of the tableau vivant had been nearly winded by the violent impact of Trouts fourteen-odd stone on his midriff, it was left to Trout himself to make the appropriate commentary on the situation; and this he was not slow to do. He expressed himself with an admirable pungency and terseness, developing his theme to fresh heights when he observed, for the first time, exactly what he had just been compelled to sit in. Fedora blushed prettily.

What bad luck, he said. Just when we were getting used to the way you smelt before.

Trout flipped up a chair in one enormous mitt and seated himself rumbustiously upon it, glowering furiously the while at the author of his woes; who still lay on the floor, sleeping peacefully in the shade of his badly-dented hat. Damned if its decent, he said. Im damned if it is.

The bar was now resonant with singsong Venezuelan voices, excitedly discussing the curious occurence; the consensus of opinion seemed to be substantially on Trouts side, but nobody seemed to be especially surprised or, with the possible exception of the owner of the bar, annoyed. There was a general movement towards the counter to replenish upset glasses, and this before long had an alleviating effect on the owners spirits; he acknowledged Trouts wave of the hand with a beaming smile, and sent the ill-kempt urchin at his sidewho served him as general waiter and glass-washer but mainly (as was evident) in the Former capacityacross to their table with a loaded bottle. Ques lo que pasa? asked Trout, watching warily as the urchin replaced the metal mugs on the table and refilled them: the urchin shrugged himself from the waist-line up, grinned, shook his head. Does this sort of thing go on all the time here?

No, no, seor. This is a quiet village, this is. From time to time one drinks a little too muchyou know how it is.

Not enough of this blasted stuff is a little too much, said Trout, who was still feeling ruffled. He picked up his mug and squinted at it vindictively. The owner of the bar, having coped with the brief surge in his business, ducked out from under the counter and scurried across to their table, dismissing the ill-kempt urchin with a gentle swipe behind the ear.

We regret the incident, expertise . We regret the incident. We only hope the caballeros were not unduly alarmed.

Look at my trousers, said Trout, rising to display to the fullest advantage his imposing rear elevation. Its not respectablethats what it isnt.

The owner clicked his tongue, raised his eyebrows, and turned his hands palm upwards, by these means contriving not to laugh. These people here are pigs, seor. It has to be said. They are pigs. They have no idea of how to comport themselves. Fortunately, these incidents are rare. Bojollo is a quiet village. He raised one hand as though to dust Trouts jacket, then changed his mind. Of course, it is most regrettable. Most regrettable.

Why dont you throw that guy out? said Hendricks, who had now recovered sufficiently to make his first contribution to the conversation. And take away that gun of his? Hes no more fit to own a gun than a baby is.

Of course. At once. We shall throw him out at once, if the expertise wish it. The owner looked slightly unhappy, though, at this suggestion; his formidable moustaches took on a downwards droop. But we cannot take away his gun. That would be a serious offence.

What dyou mean, said Trout, an offence?

Whybecause that is the local Chief of Police.

I see, said Trout. Yes, that makes things difficult.

An excellent fellow, in spite of all, who knows when he has done wrong. Thats not to say that tomorrow I should care to be in the shoes of the fellow who hit him on the head. However, said the owner, dry-washing his hands with notable expertise , the expertise should not go away with a bad impression of our little pueblo. Bojollo is a quiet village. The people here are very good fellows, though perhapsas you rightly point outuncultivated. But that is only to be expected. Here there are none of the amenities of a large town, such as London or NYorrrrk or Los Cielos.