Talmage Powell

The Third Talmage Powell Crime MEGAPACK™: 25 Classic Mysteries

“Her Dagger Before Me” was originally published in Black Mask, July 1949

“The Wind Of Fear” originally published in 15 Story Detective, August 1950

“Murder Goes To The Dogs” originally published in Smashing Detective Stories, March 1952

“The Beautiful Miss Borgia” originally published in Dime Detective Magazine, August 1952

“Deadliest Enemy!” originally published in Detective Tales, October 1952

“A Beautiful Babe And Money” originally published in Manhunt, October 1957

“Next!” originally published in Manhunt, March 1957

“Midnight Blonde” originally published in Manhunt, May 1957

“Lead Cure” originally published in Manhunt, July 1957

“Return No More” originally published in Manhunt, January 1958

“The Dame Across The River” originally published in Manhunt, April 1958

“Murder Method” originally published in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, January 1961

“Somebody Cares” originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, December 1962

“A Break In The Weather” originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, August 1963

“The Favor” originally published in Manhunt, September 1957

“The Seven Year Hitch” originally published in The Man from U.N.C.L.E. Magazine, August 1966

“Last Run of the Night” originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, January 1967

“A Friendly Exorcise” originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, March 1968

“A Truly Honest Man” originally published in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, September 1972

“Parole Violation” originally published in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, May 1973

“Welcome Home, Pal” originally published in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, June 1973

“The Jury Caper” originally published in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, July 1974

“A Change Of Heart” originally published in The Executioner Mystery Magazine, August 1975

“Classified” originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, December 1977

“A Mother’s Heart” originally published in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, December 1981

A Note from the Editor

Welcome to our third collection of Talmage Powell crime tales.

Talmage Powell (1920–2000) was one of the all-time great mystery writers of the pulps (and later the digest mystery magazines). He claimed to have written more than 500 short stories (and I have no reason to doubt him — I am working on a bibliography of his work, and so far I can document 373 magazine stories... and who knows how many are out there under pseudonyms or buried in obscure magazines!) His pen names included Robert Hart Davis, Robert Henry, Milton T. Lamb, Milton T. Land, Jack McCready, Anne Talmage, and Dave Sands. Some (like Robert Hart Davis) were “house names” shared by many different authors. (Bill Pronzini also wrote as “Robert Hart Davis,” for example.) Powell’s work appeared in Dime Mystery, Black Mask, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Alfred Hitchcock’s Magazine, Manhunt, and many, many more.

He wrote his first novel, The Smasher, in 1959. He went on to pen 11 more novels under his own name, 4 as “Ellery Queen,” and 2 novelizations of the TV series Mission: Impossible. Clearly, though short stories were his first love.

Enjoy!

— John Betancourt

Publisher, Wildside Press LLC

Her Dagger Before Me

Originally published in Black Mask, July 1949.

Chapter One

Cold Meat

I had been on a divorce case, shadowing a man most of the night before; so I didn’t do anything about the screaming telephone for the first few seconds except try to swim back down in the sticky molasses of sleep and wish whoever was calling would go away.

The phone kept snarling. After a minute I was wide awake and in that state going back to sleep in the muggy, noonday Florida heat was out of the question.

I heaved myself on the edge of the bed and shouted at the phone, “All right, I’m coming!”

The apartment was sodden with heat; I’ve been in Tampa a long time but I never got used to the heat.

While I’m padding toward the phone, I might as well tell you who I am.

The name is Lloyd Carter, age forty-four. I’m beginning to add an inner tube around my middle, and I don’t like to be kidded about the way I’m starting to bald on the crown of my head. I live in a run-down apartment on the edge of Tampa’s Ybor City. The bed is lumpy, the furniture old. It’s just a place to sleep. I got in the private detective business twenty one years ago. I never intended to make it a lifetime career, but I guess now I will.

I’ve never married, which is maybe what put the pickles in my disposition. I had a girl when I was young, in New York, that I might have married, but she ran off with a punk I was trying to nail. He was cornered in Indiana by state police, made a run for it, but a fast freight got in the way of his automobile. She was in the car.

New York wasn’t the same after that, and I came south. I’ve been with Southeastern Detective Service over sixteen years...

I picked up the telephone.

“Lloyd?”

It was the old man’s voice. Henry Fayette, who ramrodded Southeastern, should have retired a long time ago. He’s seen too much of the seamy side of life streaming through his agency. It’s in his voice. But he never could retire because he’s a spender and is always scratching hard to keep the wolf at arm’s length.

“Lloyd,” his tired voice said, “I want you to come to the office right away.”

I didn’t argue. He’d known how late I’d worked last night. If he hadn’t had to call me, he wouldn’t have.

I went in the bedroom and dressed. Baggy slacks, sweaty sport shirt. And the knife under my left armpit. I’m naked without the knife. My work puts me across the tables now and then from Ybor City characters. The only weapon some of those lads understand is a knife.

I was going to have to get my laundry out today. I wrote a note for the girl, left it on the kitchen table. I opened the ice box, drank a pint of beer, and headed for the office. The heat was terrible. Already beads of sweat were like a film of hot oil all over me.

The agency’s offices are in a sagging brick building that was young when Tampa was young, on the lower end of Franklin Street. I opened the door to Henry Fayette’s office. He was behind his desk, a tall, gaunt, rawboned gray man in a gray tropical suit. He stood up. The girl sitting at the end of his desk watched me cross the office. Without looking directly at her, I sized her up.

She wasn’t exactly plain, but she wasn’t beautiful, either. She was tall and slim, with nice enough figure and face and rather drab brown hair. Just a girl who could lose herself in a crowd, with a sort of hungry look on her face that might mean she was hungry for food — or love. Her clothes, white linen frock and bag, indicated she had enough money to eat regularly.

The chief introduced us. Her name was Allen Buford.

“Lloyd,” Henry Fayette said with a small, tired gesture of his hand, “Miss Buford wants us to do something about her stepmother and a chap named Buddy Tomlinson. You might repeat the details, Miss Buford, to Lloyd as you told them to me.”

She sat on the edge of her chair, hands in her lap, and gave me the details. Her voice was calm, even, but it was belied by the cold fire deep in her eyes.

It was about the average sordid mess. This Allene Buford’s father had been a fairly wealthy man. Allene’s mother had died ten years ago, and her father had re-married six years later, all of which was normal enough. But the sordid part began when the old man died. In his will, he left provisions for Allene to have an income, not too large. The bulk of his fortune, Emagine Buford, Allene’s stepmother, was to hold until the girl was thirty — seven years from now.

“My father seemed to have some foggy idea that I wouldn’t be capable of handling almost a million dollars until I was at least thirty.”

“And what happens then?” I asked her.

“Emagine is to come into two hundred thousand. I am to have the rest of the money.” Her face tightened, and I leaned back with a sigh, knowing that now we were getting around to the sordid part.

Emagine Buford and her stepdaughter had come south for the winter, to St. Petersburg, the resort city across the bay from Tampa. She had joined the throngs, a woman who had outlived her responsibilities. Who had nothing but time, money, and restlessness on her hands. She’d met Buddy Tomlinson. From Allene’s description, he was one of those boys who had perpetual youth, a husky physique that, at forty-five, was still trim, a disarming smile, coal black hair, and one of those little-boy faces.

The fact that she was almost fifteen years Buddy’s senior hadn’t worried Emagine any. “She’s like a school girl,” Allene said, “with her first beau. She’s buying bathing suits and evening gowns and seeing Buddy Tomlinson constantly.”

“And where do I enter? What do you want me to do?” I looked at her over the flame of my lighter as I touched it to a fag.

Allene looked steadily at me. “I want you to mark up Buddy Tomlinson so he’ll never be handsome to any woman again!”

A second or two ticked away. She saw the old man about to speak. “Of course,” she said, “I know you can’t be hired to do that. But I know Buddy’s trying to marry Emagine. He has plenty of chance of success. My money is melting away fast enough in her keeping, and if Buddy marries her, there won’t be anything for me when I’m thirty!”

“Could Tomlinson and Emagine manage that?” I asked the old man.

“You know anything can be managed with enough money and the right lawyers,” he stated flatly.

“But it’s my money!” For the first time a bit of panic showed in Allene’s face. “He was my father; he made the money. Now it’s my money! You can’t let them do that to me!”

“Will you wait outside for a minute, Miss Buford?” Fayette asked.

The girl looked at him, then got up and went out of the office.

“Lloyd,” Fayette said when she had closed the door behind her, “I want you to drive over to St. Pete with her. This is a sort of personal thing with me. I’ve known Emagine Buford for a long time. She used to live in Tampa. Then she went north to work, met and married Ollie Buford. Since she’s been back in Florida I’ve visited her a time or two at her place in St. Pete. That’s why the girl came here to us, I guess. Emagine’s going through a phase in her second childhood, to my way of thinking, but I don’t want anything to happen to her. I want her to have a chance to wake up. See what kind of man Tomlinson is. See if he’ll scare. Then scare him.”

“I’m flat,” I said.

He grimaced, pulled out his wallet, hesitated, and handed me the lone twenty from the worn leather sheath. “Use my car. It’s parked in back of the building. See Buddy Tomlinson, phone me back, and take the rest of the day off.”

I said thanks. When I left his office, he was punching tiny holes in his desk blotter with the tip of his letter opener.

The girl rode with her head slightly back, catching the breeze that blew in the gray sedan. Her hair rippled. Her lips were parted a little as she looked out over the bay. “Tomlinson has a beach place,” she said. “On Coquina Key. We’ll probably find him there.”

That was about all the talking we did. But I kept looking at her. She wasn’t beautiful. Yet there was — something.

Coquina Key isn’t the real name for the island, but we’d better call it that. It’s one of that long chain of islands west of St. Petersburg, all connected by bridges and causeways, that separate Boca Ceiga bay from the Gulf of Mexico.

We drove through the snarled, slow traffic of St. Petersburg, took the Central Avenue causeway, stopping once at the toll gate and then driving on across the white, four-lane parkway that had been pumped up out of Boca Ceiga bay. Then we were on the keys.

The islands are a lot alike, long fingers of land stretching north and south for miles, but just wide enough crosswise to separate Boca Ceiga from the Gulf. Where they’re settled, the keys are built up heavily, with cabanas, frame boat houses, frame cottages, and a development here and there of bungalows. But in the unsettled stretches, the islands are desolate, white sand and shell and, closer to the boulevard, grown over with weeds, scrub pines, cabbage palms, and palmetto. Over the whole put a vast blue sky, torrid sun, surround with sparkling blue water and whispering surf on the white beaches, populate with easy living people, put a fleet of fishing boats in the inlets, with a fine cabin cruiser at a private pier on a private beach here and there — and you’ve got the picture.

Toward the lower end of Coquina Beach we turned off the boulevard on Sunshine Way. The street was wide, white concrete, curving gently toward the cluster of squat bungalows half a mile down the island. It looked like a brand new development, the white land so clean it was barren. Here and there small Australian pines and royal palms had been set out.

Buddy Tomlinson lived in the CBS — stucco over cement block — near the end of the street. The whole row of houses was painted a light pink. I opened the car door. Allene opened hers.

“Hadn’t you better wait out here?”

“No,” she said, “I’m coming in.”

I shrugged and we went up the walk together. I rang the chimes on the oak-stained door. Nothing happened. In the bungalow next door I could hear warm laughter, and in the background a radio playing softly.

I rang four times in all. Then I walked around the side of the bungalow and looked in a window. I looked away quick, closed my eyes for a second. The first thing I saw when I opened them was Allene’s profile. She was standing close to me, looking through the window, as I had done.

“He’s dead,” she said calmly.

I didn’t ask if it was Buddy Tomlinson crumpled in there in the living room. The description fitted like a glove. Allene had her wish. He’d never be beautiful to any woman again.

“Well,” Allene said, “we won’t have to worry about him any longer.” Then her eyes rolled up in her head. Her face was very white. And before I had time to think, she was keeling over.

I caught her, carried her out to the car. There was a half empty pint in the glove compartment. I figured that ought to bring her to. “You,” I told her limp, form, “are one hell of a funny sort of dame!”

I was tilting the pint bottle to Allene’s lips when a nearby male voice said, “Anything wrong?”

I looked at the bungalow that was next door to the one in which Buddy Tomlinson lay dead. I remembered the music and casual laughter I’d heard.

Now the music was silenced. A man and woman stood together just outside the screen door of the bungalow, on the small, hot flagstone terrace. I noticed the screen door behind them was one of those fancy jobs with a huge, white silhouette of a flamingo on it.

The man and woman were watching me warily, thinking, no doubt, that Allene and I were a pair of drunks out celebrating.

There was just one word for the girl standing on the terrace: sleek. She was wearing a white play suit that was startling against her dark tan. She had a sultry looking face, with wide, red lips. Her hair was midnight black, cut with bangs. She was holding her hands at her sides in a sort of theatrical way, the way models do, pointing very slightly outward.

The man beside her was tall and athletic, dressed in an expensive T-shirt that was a riot of colors, cream-colored slacks, and tan sandals. His arms and face were freckled, his hair a crinkly, close-cropped, light blonde mass on his head.

He and the girl watched as I took the bottle from Allene’s lips. Allene sat up, mumbling a groan. Her lids fluttered. “I’m all right,” she said weakly, shaking her head.

I got out of the car. The strapping, young blonde experienced a tightening in his face. To put him at ease, I said, “The lady simply fainted.”

“That’s too bad,” the girl in the white play suit said. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

“Phyllis!” the man said, obviously annoyed.

“Oh, they’re all right, Baxter!” she said crossly.

Then to me: “We saw you carrying the girl to the car. We thought you might be drunk!” She giggled and made dainty, studied gestures with her hands. They were graceful long hands. She probably realized it. She probably made use of them with every word she said.

“Do you know the man next door?” I asked.

“Buddy? Sure,” Baxter said. “But Phyllis and I haven’t seen him around since we came in from our sail, if you’re looking for him—”

“I’m not looking for him,” I cut in. “Have you got a phone?”

Baxter frowned. “Yes, here in the living room.”

“I’d like to use it.”

Baxter looked annoyed. Phyllis told me to go ahead. They followed as far as the doorway, stood there, while I phoned. Maybe Baxter was afraid I’d carry off the ivory book ends on the table near the phone.

The Gulf beaches are not incorporated in the City of St. Petersburg, which allows the beaches to sell alcoholic beverages on Sunday and a later curfew for their nightspots. So I put in a call to Sheriff Ben Aiken. What I told him jarred a few morose curses out of him, and he said he’d be right out.

When I turned from the phone, Phyllis’ hands were fluttering about her throat. Baxter’s face looked tight — and somehow mean.

“Buddy Tomlinson is dead?” Phyllis said, as if it was simply too, too horrible for her to realize.

I was in no mood for details, and simply nodded. I went back out to the car and sat down on the running board on the shady side and lighted a cigarette. “Can I have one?” Allene said. I gave it to her.

“What will they do with him, Lloyd?”

“Take him to an undertaking parlor. I think Doc Robison has got the corner on that trade for the county.”

“I wonder who killed him?”

“I wouldn’t know.” I didn’t particularly care. I sat and smoked chain fashion, and at last Ben Aiken arrived.

There were two other men with Ben, but they were just faces. He was the whole show. He was a big, fat man, with a lot of gut hanging over his belt. His pants were even baggier than mine and his shirt was pasted to his big, sloping shoulders with sweat. He had a large, florid face with a tiny button nose in the middle of it, and a sweating bald head.

I sat there in the open door of the car, watching the house. I couldn’t see much, but I could hear Ben and the other two men working inside. Shortly the county coroner drove up. He was swallowed by Buddy Tomlinson’s bungalow.

After awhile, Ben Aiken came out. He came over to the car, questioned Allene and me. I told him the short, simple story of my finding Buddy Tomlinson. To keep myself clean, I told him why Allene had hired me. She was sitting on the car seat behind me, at a higher level, of course. When I brought her stepmother’s name into it, the toe of her shoe bit in my spine.

Aiken got nothing more out of her. He questioned the couple from next door. Phyllis’ last name was Darnell. She had been married, she said, but was a divorcée. Baxter’s full name was Baxter B. Osgood. Yes, he and Phyllis both had known Tomlinson. No, they hadn’t seen him since yesterday afternoon when they’d all been drinking at the Pelican Bar and Grill, half a mile down the beach. He and Phyllis had had a morning date to go sailing. They’d sailed and swam and come back here just before Allene and I rolled up.

When he’d finished with them, Ben motioned me off to one side. “You got any ideas on this thing, Lloyd?”

“No, I’m off it. I was supposed to warn Buddy Tomlinson off Emagine Buford. Now Buddy doesn’t need it.”

“You think the gal is holding anything back?” He cut a side glance at the car where Allene was still sitting stiffly.

“If she’s holding out on you, she’s holding out on me, too.”

Ben sighed and mopped his face. “May be one of them long drawn cases. I got to trace this Buddy Tomlinson backward, find out who he was, where he’s been keeping himself, in whose company, and so on. I might find a motive somewhere along the line.

“Funny kind of kill. You didn’t get a good look in there, did you, Lloyd?”

I hadn’t. But I didn’t say anything. I just stood passive and let Ben get it off his chest. I knew that in talking it in his confidential whisper, he was setting the details in his mind.

“Nothing in the whole bungalow had been hurt — except Tomlinson. You saw the wound in his face, Lloyd. He was shot in close. The side of his right palm was mutilated. Looked like somebody was threatening him with a gun. He made a grab for it and the shooting-started.”

“What does that give you?”

“Nothing much. It must mean he was shot with a revolver. Don’t need to tell a man like you that an automatic won’t fire with pressure on the killing end of it. Ejector won’t work, gun won’t cock, gun jams up. We’re hunting the slug. From Tomlinson’s cheek looks like a thirty eight. So maybe when I find out where he’s been keeping himself, who he’s been seeing, I might find out somebody who owns a revolver like that.”

“You need me for anything else, Ben?”

“I guess not.”

“Then I’m going back to Tampa. I’ll drop the girl in St. Pete. She’ll probably want to talk with her stepmother.”

“She won’t have much privacy,” Ben grinned. “There’s a phone in Tomlinson’s bungalow and I’m gonna have city Homicide look in on Mrs. Emagine Buford.” He mopped his face some more. “Hell to work in this heat. I’ll see you around, Lloyd.”

I got in the car and drove off. The last I saw of the scene, Baxter Osgood and Phyllis Darnell were still standing on Osgood’s flagstone terrace, watching Ben Aiken waddle his way into the Tomlinson bungalow. Somehow, they looked scared.

I drove Allene to the Morro Hotel, in the northeast section of St. Pete. The drive along Tampa bay was wide, beautiful, lined with fine houses and hotels. A few boats were out sailing on the bay, the small, white triangles of their sails tilted over in the light breeze.

The Morro was built like an old Spanish castle. When I braked before it, I saw a black car at the curb. Allene saw it, caught her lip between her teeth. She turned her face to me as she got out of the car. “I’d like to see you again sometime,” she said.

I looked at her for a minute. “I’ll phone you this weekend.”

She closed the car door, went running up the wide, palm-lined walk. She was staying here at the Morro with her stepmother, but I didn’t know the phone number and I decided I didn’t like to thumb through the phone books. It was just as well. I was twenty years her senior.

I drove back to Tampa and went to the office. The old man wasn’t there and I mumbled talk with the girl behind the reception desk until he came in. He went into his private office and I told Fayette everything that had happened. His chiseled, rawboned face looked gaunt. He sank behind his desk. “What’d you find out about Tomlinson?”

“Nothing, except that now he’s just a dead pretty boy. It ain’t our case. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I caught a bus and rode up through the squalor of lower Nebraska to my apartment. I bought a twenty-five pound block of ice at the ice house on the corner, carried it up to my apartment. I put the ice in a dishpan, set the dishpan on a center table in the bedroom. I plugged in the electric fan and set it behind the pan, so that the air was blowing over the ice, over the bed.

I sat down on the edge of the bed. The air was cool and good for a second or two, until I got used to it. I reached under my left armpit and pulled out the knife. It was long, keen, and gleaming with a six and a quarter inch blade. I knew what was bothering me, now.

A living, breathing, feeling man had been killed.

I slung the knife. It flashed, struck the door jamb, stood out from the wood, quivering I flopped over on the bed and went to sleep.

It was a hell of a hot day.

Chapter Two

Knife for Hire

I didn’t sleep long. I woke with a mouthful of cotton, sweat drenching me, a heat-thickened pulse pounding in my head. I ran my tongue around my gums, realized that somebody was knocking on the door. As I went to answer, I plucked the knife from the door jamb, put it back in its sheath under my armpit. I looked at my watch. It was 4:40 in the afternoon. When I opened the door. Phyllis Darnell had her hand raised to knock again. She’d changed from the white play suit, wearing now a yellow silk dress that really set off her complexion, lazy black eyes, and midnight hair.

“Oh!” she said, as if the opening of the door had startled her. She made vague gestures in the air with her hands. If it hadn’t been for that way she had of using her hands, she’d have been a very beautiful woman.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, Mr. Carter. Are you busy?”

“It depends. I guess you want to hire a detective?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, my looks didn’t bring you here, did they?”

Ice flaked in her eyes. “No, your looks didn’t bring me here. Are you going to ask me in or not?”

“Why not?” I held the door wide. When she came in and I’d closed the door, I said, “You care for beer?”

“No.”

“Well, excuse me a moment. Make yourself at home.”

She followed me out to the kitchen. I opened the ice box, counted the bottles of beer. The girl who’d come in to clean while I’d been out had been thirsty again. I opened a bottle of beer, killed half of it, said, “I’m listening.”

“I really don’t know how to begin, Mr. Carter. I really don’t!” She wrung her hands, real fright coming to life in her eyes. “It’s very awkward.”

“I’ve heard awkward things before. Sit down. Iced tea?”

She shook her head, then nodded. “Yes, I’ll have a glass of tea.”

I put water on to boil.

“How’d you find me, Mrs. Darnell?”

“I asked that sheriff. From the way he talked to you when he arrived at Buddy Tomlinson’s bungalow, I knew you were a detective. He told me where you worked, where you lived. You weren’t in your office, neither was your boss, and the girl at the reception desk...”

“Okay, okay. I guess you wanted to talk to me about Tomlinson?”

“I, yes — no. I mean, in a way I did.” She glanced about the kitchen as if seeking a way out, a way to stall. “I see the water is simmering, Mr. Carter.”

So it was. I took the battered aluminum pot off the flame, dropped in a tea bag, chipped ice and put it in a glass, and poured the tea over it. I set out cream, sugar, and scratched in the back corner of the ice box for the lone, wilted lemon there. Slicing the lemon, I said, “Why don’t you just tell me straight off? Why beat around the bush? Buddy Tomlinson has been murdered and it’s put you on the spot somehow. You want me to remove you from said spot. All right, what is it?”

The way she whitened beneath her deep tan gave her the appearance of wearing a heavy coat of dark powder. Her hands were trembling. “I... I really don’t know what to say. I really don’t.”

I set the tea before her, sat down across the table, and finished my beer. Then I just sat there, not speaking, not moving.

When the silence began to eat away her nerves, she said shrilly, “I lied this morning! I’m married — but I’m not a divorcée. And I had every reason in the world for wanting to kill Buddy Tomlinson!”

She began to cry softly. She took out a wispy handkerchief, made dabs at her eyes.

“I really hate to say this. I really do. You see, Mr. Carter, I have a husband in Augusta, Maine. But we’re not divorced, and never intend to be. I really don’t know how I’m going to explain this to you. Oh, I’ve been a fool! I can hardly explain it to myself.

“I love my husband deeply and I am sure I mean more to him than life itself. I won’t try to excuse myself. But every year I take a vacation, to Florida, the west coast, South America, or Cuba. My poor, trusting husband! His business keeps him tied to his desk, but he insists that I might as well escape a few weeks of northern winter every year. It’s on these trips that I present myself as an unmarried woman or a divorcée. That way one interests a better class of men, than if one admitted being a married woman. Somehow that way it always seemed in my mind to cheapen my husband less.”

She was looking down at her hands, momentarily quiet in her lap, waiting for me to speak. To condemn her, maybe. I opened another cold beer and didn’t say anything.

“Drink your tea,” I said.

It wasn’t very good tea, but she drank it gratefully. I finished my beer and said, “Buddy Tomlinson was one of those men?”

She nodded mutely.

“You certainly made a mistake about classifying men in his case!”

She shuddered under the sentence as if it was a blow of my hand, but she continued to look silently down.

“How’d you meet Tomlinson?”

“Through Baxter Osgood. They seemed to be close friends. Baxter Osgood owns a small beer garden on Coquina beach. I was there one night — he introduced me to Buddy.”

“And you were promptly swept off your feet.”

“You aren’t a woman. You didn’t know Buddy Tomlinson,” she said in a stricken voice. “Now he’s dead, and the letters have disappeared.”

“You made the mistake of writing him some mush notes?”

Her face flooded red. “He was in Bradenton for a week. He begged me to write him every day. He was so sweet, so boyish.” Her voice thickened with a violent anger; her hands played on the table top. “Something I said must have caused him to suspect that I wasn’t really divorced.”

“Can you recall what you might have said?”

“I... no. One night — just before he went down to Bradenton — we drank quite a bit. I was drunk, when he took me to my hotel. I must have talked of my life in Augusta.”

“Afterwards he wanted money for the letters?”

She nodded again, swallowing in such a way her throat constricted with the action. “I gave him almost five hundred dollars — but he didn’t give me the letters back. I knew then that I was in a deadly game, that my life in Augusta depended on what I did. I hoped to wheedle the letters out of him. Now he’s dead. Can’t you see what might be the results, if those letters come to light? My husband’s life ruined, a possible murder charge against me. Mr. Carter, you must help me. I can’t afford to be drawn openly in this kind of mess.”

I opened a third beer. She was in a jam, all right. If those letters had been worth five hundred before Buddy Tomlinson’s death, now they were worth every nickel she could lay her hands on, and somebody evidently knew that. If the police had discovered the letters, they’d have taken her in for questioning by this time. I said, “Any idea who Tomlinson might have boasted to? Who might have known about those letters?”

“No — unless it’s Baxter Osgood. I don’t think he makes all his money out of that beer garden he owns. I think there was something more between him and Buddy than mere friendship.”

“Business deals?”

“Perhaps.”

“All right,” I said, “I’ll do what I can to help you. But get one thing straight. This is murder. Contrary to what the public thinks, private dicks don’t like to get mixed in murder. If we have to wade through murder the cost is high.”

“I know,” Phyllis Darnell said. “I’ll pay.”

“I’m not worrying. After all, I’ll have the letters, won’t I?”

I ushered her out, showered, and went over to Mac’s garage, where my coupe had been laid up with a ring job. Greasy, limp from the heat, Mac had just finished the job. He wiped his hands on a piece of waste and told me the old crate was ready to roll. I made arrangements to see him on the fifteenth and drove down to the office.

The old man was locking his private office, getting ready to leave for the day. I told him to unlock again, explained the case.

He unlocked the door, walked across his office saying, “A murder case? I don’t like it, Lloyd. I never liked a murder case.”

“I know.”

“The official boys have everything to work on a murder case, labs, organization, everything. A private agency small as ours ain’t equipped for it.”

“I know.”

I opened his desk drawer, took out the .38 police special that always nestled there. I pulled out a corner of my shirt-tail, tucked the gun in my waistband, and tucked the shirt back in over the gun. You’d never know it was there. A box of loads was in the corner of the drawer. I dropped a handful of them in my pocket.

The old man was already on the phone, talking long distance.

I sat down and smoked until he finished.

He pushed back the phone, shadows over his rawboned, gaunt face.

“Ben Aiken’s glad we’re going to cooperate,” Fayette said.

“That’s good. He give you much?”

Henry Fayette nodded, his frown deep and sour. He jabbed at his desk blotter with his letter opener. “This Buddy Tomlinson was quite a guy. Convicted once in Miami on a larceny charge. Charged once with blackmail in Baltimore, Maryland, but got off for lack of evidence. Nabbed once in Brownsville, Texas for being mixed in the marihuana racket, but beat that rap too. Miami had his whole previous record.

“Tomlinson came to St. Petersburg almost a year ago in company with an unknown woman who can’t be located. There’s nothing on the St. Pete blotter against him except a charge of driving intoxicated, for which he was fined.

“He was killed between twelve midnight and one o’clock last night, which means that he lay in his bungalow during that time without being found. The murder gun has not been located, but Aiken has got him an important witness. Guy by the name of Baxter B. Osgood. He the one you met over there?”

I nodded. “Osgood owns a beer garden on the beach. He lives in the bungalow next to Tomlinson’s. An athletic, freckled, blond guy. He could be plenty mean, I guess.”

The old man traced a pattern on the desk blotter with the opener. “Osgood says he was awakened last night about twelve thirty. Says he dreamed a backfire woke him, now realizes it must have been the shot in Buddy Tomlinson’s bungalow. Osgood says his bedroom window faces the Tomlinson house, and that from that window he saw a woman leaving Tomlinson’s bungalow. There was a bright moon. You know that moon at the beach, turning night into day. Osgood recognized the woman by the red swagger coat she was wearing, and her hat. The hat had a couple of tall feathers sticking up out of it.”

Fayette flung the opener on the desk; his face was gray. “Dammit, I told you she was an old friend of mine.” Accusation flamed on the old man’s face; then he shook his head as if clearing it. “I’m upset. I can’t blame you. I got no reason to blame you, Lloyd.”

“You mean the woman Baxter Osgood recognized leaving the Tomlinson bungalow is Emagine Buford?”

Fayette nodded. In his quiet, flat voice he said, “Ben Aiken’s jailed her — charged her with first degree murder.”

I whistled softly. It didn’t help the old man’s feelings any.

It was pretty late in the day to do anything much, but Fayette insisted on driving over to St. Pete, to talk to Emagine Buford. We took my coupe. The thing I wanted out of this case was those letters of Phyllis Darnell’s. That’s what we’d get paid for. But the letters were somewhere in the pattern of Buddy Tomlinson’s death, and I knew we were going to have to sift through that pattern to find them. I didn’t like a damn thing about the case.

It’s only half an hour’s drive from Tampa to St. Pete by way of Gaudy Bridge, and it was still daylight when we got in the Sunshine City, though the sun had dropped in the Gulf, leaving behind it vast streamers of crimson and gold in the western sky.

We wasted fifteen minutes talking over the case with the St. Pete men. Then we went back to Emagine Buford’s cell.

She had been crying, and her face was swollen, but even so you could see that she had been a raving beauty in her day. As Allene had said of her stepmother, Emagine was well preserved, slim, with a small, unlined face, and hair dyed to a nice shade just darker than auburn. She didn’t look a day over a young forty.

She managed a smile when the old man entered her cell. “It’s unfortunate that you have to visit me here, Henry.”

Fayette said, “We want to help you. This is Lloyd Carter. Mrs. Buford, Lloyd.”

We each said it was a pleasure, and Emagine sank on the edge of her cot. She looked at the old man with hope and trust. They talked for two minutes. She wasn’t able to tell us a thing more than the county men had. She had been home asleep, she claimed, when Buddy Tomlinson had been murdered. She hadn’t seen him since the night before his death. She spoke of him with a mixed tenderness and hot, new-born hatred.

The old man told her that we’d do our best, and we left her.

That was that, for my money. Outside headquarters, Fayette mopped his face with a big red bandanna and said we might as well eat.

We went to eat.

It was just after 8:30 when I got back to my apartment house in Tampa. The place had no garages; so if you owned a car, you left it at the curb. I locked the coupe, and walked in the apartment house. I was halfway up the flight of stairs when the door opened in the lower hall and my landlady’s nasal drawl came to me, “Is that you, Mr. Carter?”

I bent over the stair railing, looking down the hall. She was standing in her doorway. “There’s a woman in your apartment,” she said. “Said she had to see you. I let her in to wait.”

She slammed her door.

I went on up the stairs, down the hall, and opened my apartment door. Allene Buford stood up when I entered.

She’d turned on the small lamp over near the corner, and the soft light silhouetted her. I remembered her as I’d first seen her in the old man’s office earlier in the day: not plain, but not beautiful either. Now, with the light behind her like that, a light not bright enough to glare at her or to show up the room in which she was standing, she almost made the grade. She was almost beautiful.

“Are you mad at me, Lloyd?”

“For coming here? I don’t think so.”

“I’m glad,” she said in her calm, colorless voice. She took a turn up and down the room. I closed the door and stood watching her. “I couldn’t stand it in the empty hotel room any longer,” she said. “I thought I hated her, Lloyd, but she was so pitiful when the police came and took her.”

She came over closer to me. “Emagine and I never got along, but when she was gone I sat in the room there in the Morro for awhile, remembering the fights we’d had. The things I’d said to her. I couldn’t stand the room any longer. I called one of the St. Petersburg detectives. He didn’t know you, but had a buddy who did. So I got your address and drove over.”

A moment of silence passed.

“Lloyd, will you take me some place?”

“Where would you like to go?”

“Any place there’s some music, a glass of wine, something to eat.” She caught my arm. “Lloyd, they won’t send her to the electric chair, will they?”

“I don’t know.”

“But what if she didn’t do it?”

“It looks pretty much like she did. Murder is a funny thing. Sometimes cops flounder around a lot on a murder case, because they haven’t got direction. But once they get direction, once they know what they’re looking for and who it’s to be used against, they usually dig up evidence.”

I sensed a shudder rippling over her. “Let’s go have that glass of wine.”

We went down, got in the coupe, and drove over to Club Habana, a small, quiet place with Cuban music, fair rum and fairly good food.

I sipped a beer, danced with her, watched her eat her dinner. She ate the spicy Cuban food as if she’d been too nervous and distraught to eat before. Now that she’d let down, she’d discovered she was famished. But that other hunger, that longing in her eyes — it was still there when she’d reached her coffee. It had been there always, I guessed, lonely, without an anchor.

We danced a few more times. We talked for awhile. She told me about her home town, her girlhood. “I was walled off,” she laughed, “by high walls of greenbacks.” She reached over and clutched my hand. “I feel much better now, Lloyd. I think I’d better go back to St. Pete. But tomorrow — couldn’t we do something then?”

“I dunno, I—”

“Show me Florida, Lloyd! Not the Florida the tourist sees, but the back-ways, the way the swamp people live, the farms, and villages.”

“Sometime,” I said.

She didn’t take her hand off mine. She leaned toward me, her mouth parted a little, the soft, blue light of the Cabana glinting faintly on the tips of her teeth. I could see a pulse beating in her throat and the almost invisible sheen of perspiration on her forehead. Very softly the band was playing a tender Cuban love song.

I kissed her softly on the lips. She leaned back, said quietly, “Thank you, Lloyd.” Then she gathered her handbag, stood up, and we left the place.

She said she’d take a taxi to St. Pete, and I deposited her in one, and drove on back to my apartment.

The heat was still like a blanket, even though the night was a bit older. I had a cold beer in the kitchen. Cold beer was the only thing I’d ever found to help against the heat, but even that was a losing contest. The beer didn’t keep you cool long enough.

I wondered if I’d ever get used to Tampa heat. I went in the bedroom. The ice I’d put in the pan on the center table that afternoon had long since melted, but the fan was still running, sending a stream of sluggish hot air over my face. I didn’t lay down. I simply sat on the edge of the bed, trying to get my thoughts straight. I couldn’t go to sleep; so I got up and went back down to the coupe.

I started the motor, let it idle for a minute. Then I pointed the nose toward St. Pete and Coquina Key.

It was a little after 11:00 when I rolled down the boulevard on the island. A huge moon bathed Coquina Key in silver light. White surf broke against the beach, and out in the water, moon lays lay in a great elongated splash, a pool all their own. Stars were out by the millions in a sky that was pure black velvet.

I braked in the business section of the Key. It was pretty grubby, most of the buildings of frame wooden construction, a cluster of boat houses down at the inlet, along with some bait houses. Cabanas and cottages were stacked over the area, close together. Everything there was dark, except for a bar, a chicken-in-the basket place, and Baxter Osgood’s beer garden.

Chapter Three

Kill One, Skip One

The beer garden was crowded with people in rumpled sport shirts and slacks and cool cotton dresses. It was hot, smoky, wet and rank with the odor of beer, turgidly alive with sluggish conversation and the rasping of a juke box. I bought a beer at the bar and asked if Baxter Osgood was around.

“I’m right here,” Osgood said, practically at my elbow.

I turned around to look at him. He moved up to the bar beside me, sat down on a stool.

“I saw you come in, Carter.”

“The beer isn’t cold,” I said.

“No? Why don’t you buy someplace else?”

“I couldn’t — not the product I’m in the market for.”

“No?” he said again. “What is it you’re wanting to buy?”

“Letters,” I told him.

He watched the dancing for a few seconds. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know you don’t, Mr. Osgood.”

“How much are you paying for this product?”

“Enough — but not too much.”

He yawned against the back of his hand. “I’ve got to run over to the house for a minute. Like to come along — just for the ride?”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll come along, just for the ride.”

We went outside. His car was angle parked at the curb, a blue convertible. We got in, and he drove down the boulevard, turned off on Sunshine Way, braked before his bungalow.

“Every time I look at the house next door,” he said as we got out of the car, “I think of Mr. Tomlinson.”

“Too bad about Mr. Tomlinson, but I understand they’ve got the woman who killed him.”

“I thought you might be interested in it — say in an academic way.”

“Not even in an academic way.”

“Just in letters, huh?”

“You said it.”

He keyed open the front door. The house was like an oven; he turned on lights, opened windows, threw the switch on an attic fan. Cooler night air began to rush through the place.

Osgood walked over to the knee hole desk, stuck a cigarette in his mouth, and picked up a box of matches that was on the desk. He turned halfway back toward the desk, dropped the matches on it, and opened the drawer and pulled the gun, all in one liquid motion.

He laughed faintly. The gun was leveled at my middle.

“Well,” I said, “every man is entitled to one mistake.”

“Yes — one.”

He came halfway across the room toward me. “Turn around, Carter.”

I stood still, and he jerked the gun up. His words didn’t bother me — the sudden message in his eyes did. I turned around.

He came up behind me as if to frisk me. He hit me on the crown, where I’m starting to bald. I don’t remember much after that.

I think I tried to get out of the house. Common sense tells me I tried to pull Henry Fayette’s .38 out of the waistband of my pants. Putting it together later as it must have been, I think I crawled as far as the kitchen. There I passed out for a moment, and he must have unlocked the kitchen door and dragged me outside. I tried to stir on the powdery sand of the back yard. He hit me again, on the back of the head.

The next thing I sensed was a slow melting of black nothingness into quivering curtain of heavy gray fire, if there ever was any such thing, against the walls of my eyeballs. As the black faded, feeling came in to take its place. My head was a pincushion of pain; my heart was laboring; and I was sucking in mouthfuls of cool, clean air. It was very early morning.

Ten or fifteen minutes later I sat up slowly. I was still in Baxter Osgood’s back yard. I stumbled to my feet, staggered to the kitchen door, opened it. The old man’s gun had still been in my waistband. Now it was in my hand. I intended to fix Osgood so he’d never beat another man again. In my state, I was no match for a fever-ridden midget, but that didn’t occur to me. I had a gun, I was on my feet, and Osgood deserved every damn thing I could dish out.

But he wasn’t in the house. The place was pretty well messed up, with drawers pulled out and stuff strewn over the floors. I decided he’d grabbed a few valuables and skipped. Then I looked out the window, saw his convertible still parked on the edge of the street. I tried to make sense out of it, but didn’t feel up to it.

As the anger burned out of me, I didn’t feel up to anything. I went in his kitchen, started some coffee making. I looked in his refrigerator. Two bottles of beer were in it. I drank both of them.

I followed the beer a few minutes later with two cups of scalding black coffee. I ate a piece of bread and butter, a slice of cheese, and followed that with another cup of coffee.

I went to the living room, opened the front door. My head was still aching and spinning like crazy. I wondered if I had a concussion. The sun was just over the lip of the earth in the east, rising in that burst of orange and crimson you see nowhere but in Florida.

Low in the air, over the edge of the beach, a cluster of gulls were wheeling and screaming.

I did a double take at that group of gulls, stared at them a few seconds, then went stumbling toward the strip of beach as fast as I could go.

Baxter Osgood was lying on his face, the water almost lapping the tips of his upflung hands. He’d been shot in the right temple, and near his hand lay a .38 caliber revolver.

I squatted on my heels beside Osgood’s body and tried to figure the way it had happened. He’d left me in the back yard, entered the house to get something. Somebody had arrived.

He and the somebody had walked down here, and the somebody utterly without warning had shot him, then with panic gnawing, the somebody had wiped the gun, pressed Osgood’s prints on it, and left it where it might have fallen from his hand. I was pretty sure the gun was the same that had killed Buddy Tomlinson.

It was just a hunch, but granting the hunch, and granting that Ben Aiken fell for the suicide picture, Aiken would conclude that Osgood had killed Tomlinson because one of their shady deals went sour, then in panic had killed himself.

There was one other point. The murderer evidently hadn’t known I was in the back yard. My coupe wasn’t at Osgood’s house, but up at his beer joint. There was no other evidence that I was lying in the back yard unconscious when the murderer had called on Osgood.

I turned Osgood over, remembering the way his bungalow had been searched. I patted his torso, his waist.

The moneybelt was one of those jobs that blends right in with the body lines. If you weren’t careful, you could search him and miss it. I tore his shirt open, took the belt off him.

Osgood’s belt contained five thousand dollars in money and a few sheets of paper that upon reading I knew were the letters that Phyllis Darnell had written to Buddy Tomlinson.

I went back in the house and phoned Ben Aiken.

An hour after that, a small crowd of people was gathered in a room in St. Pete’s old, sun-baked city hall.

They all looked at me when I entered. I had my head bandaged, three aspirins under my belt, pile-drivers still in my skull, and a feeling like a wad of cotton in my throat.

I looked over the silent room. Ben and a city dick were there, along with a stenographer, who was a big, brawny man. Henry Fayette was standing beside the chair that held Emagine Buford, who’d been taken from her cell. Allene Buford stood near the windows, and Phyllis Darnell stood with her back to the wall near Emagine’s chair.

I tossed Phyllis Darnell’s letters on the scarred table. Her gaze rabbited around the room, her hands fluttering to her throat. “Go ahead,” I said, “and pick them up. My boss will render you a bill later. For my money, you’re a dirty little tramp, Mrs. Darnell, but Ben has agreed to keep the letters confidential. Not because of you — because of that poor devil up in Augusta, Maine.”

“Then you know that I didn’t kill Buddy Tomlinson? You really do know!” Phyllis held her hands pressed tight against her throat.

I looked at Allene, She took a step or two toward me. That wad of cotton fluffed out in my throat. “We know who killed Tomlinson and Osgood both, don’t we, Allene?”

She stopped, then began moving again, circling around the room. “Are you joking with me, Lloyd?”

“I wish I was. I wish it more than you know, though maybe not for the reason you think. You knew Tomlinson had a good chance of getting his hands on the Buford money through Emagine, unless something was done about him. You went to his bungalow, maybe planning to kill him, maybe not. But you did kill him. Osgood saw you leaving. You were wearing Emagine’s hat and coat, and he thought it was Emagine at first. But when he heard her story, he was inclined to believe it and guessed it had been you.

“You had killed Tomlinson to hold on to your money, Osgood reasoned. If Emagine went to the chair, it would not only leave you clear, Allene, but would remove her as the last obstacle between you and the Buford fortune. It looked sweet from where Osgood sat. He dug you for five grand, but when you’d had time to think, you knew it was no good. It would never be any good as long as Osgood was alive. So you killed him too.

“When I found Osgood dead on the beach, I started trying to think of the whole thing as he would have thought. You were the only answer, Allene. You were the one who could have easily gotten Emagine’s hat and coat. You had motive. And I’m afraid they’ll pin it on you. There must be some of your fingerprints on the five grand I took off of Osgood. There’ll be so many more things when they start looking and digging, Allene.”

She looked from face to face, her hands knotted at her sides. Then she wheeled and lunged for the door. But the knife was quicker. The knife flashed in my hand, thudded in the door, close to her face. It paralyzed her. It paralyzed everyone in the room. She came to life first. She grasped the knife and pulled it from the wood. “You’d do this to me, Lloyd?”

That wad of cotton in my throat choked me.

“What else could I do?” she whispered. “I’d never had but one thing in a lousy life — that money. That damned filthy Buford money — and now I was going to get cheated out of that. I didn’t mean to kill Buddy Tomlinson. I only wanted to scare him. But he grabbed at the gun — and it went off. I thought that if I hired a detective to warn Buddy away from Emagine, Buddy’s body would be found and no one would ever think I had known he was dead. I thought that would take suspicion from me, and once Buddy’s body was found, the detective would have no more to do with the case.

“After that, it seemed easier. It was much easier to kill Osgood. Yes, killing gets easier all the time—”

She sliced the word off with the knife. A spasm crossed her face, telegraphing a wave of horror over the room. A little cough bubbled in her throat.

I had never thought she’d use the knife for that. I’d only wanted to scare her, to bring her up at the door before Ben and his men began pulling guns. I’d wanted her to stop, to think. To talk. To cop a plea. To live.

She had saved my life. It was the only possible way I could have saved hers.

But she’d used the knife on herself.

I caught her in my arms as she crumpled, laid her gently on the floor. The scene in the room was breaking apart, people moving, converging on her. Her eyes flicked open. “Why couldn’t it have been different, Lloyd? Why couldn’t you have showed me Florida — the — part — the tourist never sees?”

Tears wells in her eyes. A spasm shuddered over her.

I stood up, fighting the moisture in my eyes. Distantly, I heard Emagine Buford say, “In a way, I’m not surprised. She was always sort of—”

“Shut up!” I screamed.

Somehow I got out of the room. I walked down the corridor outside, not seeing its walls, not feeling its floor under my feet.

Only remembering. That longing that was almost pain. That terrible, pitiful hunger. Even death hadn’t erased it from her face, and I knew at last why Allene Buford had never been quite beautiful...

The Wind of Fear

Originally published in 15 Story Detective, August 1950.

The gale was turning into a full blown hurricane. Sobbing across the Florida bay like an embodiment of fury, it buffeted Dorothy Janeway’s new gray sedan. She tightened her hands on the plastic steering wheel, feeling the whole car shiver in a wailing blast of wind.

Driving alone, she was prey to a thousand fears — the lonely empty stretch of spray-swept road — the possibility of a flat tire. She realized she was a person who despised loneliness, and being on the highway late at night like this appalled her.

Except for the two frail holes her headlights bored in the black wet night, she could see nothing clearly. Dimly, she made out the shifting shadows of tall pines heaving and bending beneath the force of the storm.

Her sensuous lower lip crept between her teeth. Perhaps she should have stayed over in Bradenton with Harry and Sue. But she’d laughed at Harry’s fears. “Of course there are storm warnings. But I’ve plenty of time to get back to St. Pete.”

“No use arguing, Harry,” his wife Sue had sighed. “What Dorothy Janeway intends is always what she does — but do be careful, darling.”

There was a reason Dorothy Janeway meant to be home exactly on schedule. But she said nothing about this to Harry and Sue. The visit with them had been nice, she was anxious to be home with Robert in the storm — that was all.

Her eyes glued to the slick stretch of highway, she thought of the way Robert had looked the day she’d packed to visit in Brandenton. She had snapped her bag closed, not wanting to look at him again.

“I’m sure this is the best way, Robert,” she had said. “Lord knows I don’t owe this girl anything, least of all my generosity in allowing you to see her again. But these things are better when the break is final and complete, if there’s no room left for willy-nilly hope and indecision in her mind. You’ll have a day or so to think things over, to get in mind just what you’re going to say to her.”

She had looked at him then. A tall, lean man with a fine-boned face, gray sprinkling his temples, wearing tropical worsteds debonairly. Moody eyed, his face white about the lips. President of her family’s company, Larkin’s Citrus, he had the worldly appearance of an artist.

She had looked down at her bag. “When I get back from Brandenton perhaps we can live on the beach for a week and you can do a painting.”

The indrawn expression of his face hadn’t changed. “You’ve been darned decent about this, Dorothy.”

He’d stowed her bag in her car, and kissed her goodbye with lips cold against her cheek. She’d tried to smile. She’d been sure it would pass. He would break off permanently with the redheaded Janice Carter. There’d been difficult times before. Robert had always been moody; sometimes in the early years of their marriage, his crazy drinking bouts lasted days at a time while he railed against this house, against Larkin Citrus.

But he loved the comforts her money bought too well ever to break away. And Dorothy was pleased with the bargain of their married life: Robert cut a good figure as host and husband. Not since their honeymoon had he suggested they live on his meager income while he established himself with his painting. She’d exerted all her charms to get him to enter her father’s firm. He was successful except for a lack of firmness with the employees.

The storm outside the car was melting into one continuous roar. Dorothy Janeway breathed relievedly when she saw the street lights along Fourth Street were still burning. Soon the light power would go off, leaving the city desolately black, in hurricane-riven oblivion.

Watching skittering dead palm fronds, she wheeled into her driveway from the deserted street. Her rambling Spanish style house stood limned faintly against the black maw of sky.

Through the iron grillwork enclosing the patio, she could see a single lighted window. She clamped her hand on the horn, waited, blew the horn again in short, angry barks. Nothing happened, the rumbling wind increased.

Impatiently, she slipped into her rain hood. She blew the horn twice more in long, annoyed blasts. Then she opened the car door. The wind struck with such force she had to cling to the door handle. Rain, wind-driven, slashed her cheeks. Lowering her head, she ran to the garage doors. Counterbalanced, they swung up easily.

When she had the car safely in the garage beside Robert’s, she made her way through the house to the lighted study. The study was empty. All the rest of the house was dark.

“Robert?”

The rising thunder of the hurricane made the silence here in the house all the more hateful.

“Robert!”

Standing in the doorway, she reminded herself coldly that a single lamp turned low in a silent house was no reason to get the shakes. But Robert’s coupe was in the garage. He must be in the house.

She heard a loud metallic crash, realized it was a metal chair hurled by the wind against one of the pillars in the patio. It struck her then that Robert had done nothing to ready the house for the blow. Windows unshuttered, lawn furniture exposed in a battened-down town.

She went on standing there, staring at the light, the silent deserted study. Annoyed because she knew Robert had furloughed the servants the moment she was out of the house. Now, where was he?

She crossed to the telephone, picked up the receiver, dialed. There was nothing, no contact, just the immensity of silence.

She went stiffly through the house, turning on lights as she passed each switch. Out in the gleaming white kitchen, she found the candles she’d bought for candlelight dinners. She was glad she had plenty of them. The power would be going off soon.

The cabinet door stood open. Tensing, she thought if someone beside Robert were in the house — had heard the car horn — hidden... It’s nerves, she told, herself firmly.

With the box of candles under her arm, she started back to the living room, glancing at windows and doors as she passed, making sure they were closed and locked. Except for the things outside, she felt the house, unprepared, could weather another hurricane. She paused in the dining room, listening to the wind. It was sending tremors through the house now.

In the living room, she put the box of candles on an end table and sank in a deep club chair. There was nothing more she could do now but wait, listening to the rain against the windows. The lights flickered, dimmed, and she stiffened involuntarily. There were hours of utter darkness ahead. But she didn’t want candlelight yet. She hoped fervently the lights would not go out until Robert returned.

From her chair, she could not avoid seeing a portrait Robert had done of her, on the opposite wall. He could really paint, she admitted reluctantly, but somehow she’d never liked this particular painting.

Now she found herself staring at it. The lights dimmed again, the face in the painting seemed to come to life, the shadows about the cheekbones deepening, the eyes leaping at her, almost glowing.

She caught her breath. Rising, she moved slowly toward the painting. The hurricane pounded against the wails of the house.

Why, she’d never really seen this painting before. Those lean cheeks, the tilted, stubborn chin, the contempt in the violet eyes, the hauteur stamped in the shadowed planes of forehead, cheeks and jaw.

She thought, but I’m not like that at all. How monstrous of Robert to do such a thing.

Chilled, she sank in the club chair again, pushing herself far back in it. Remembering the painting was done just after her father died. She’d been almost prostrated by grief. Robert had stunned her after her father’s death by being almost gay. He had even suggested they sell the house.

“Of all things!” she’d said. “And, I suppose, the Firm?”

And the Firm. Go away together. All she could think was, father built a success here, and Robert mustn’t be allowed to throw it away on a whim such as painting—

She tore her gaze from the portrait, her hands splayed on the arms of the club chair. She listened to the awful whisper of the hurricane; shadows lengthened in her gaze, and nameless dark phantasms bubbled in her mind. Her father’s grave swept by the fury of the storm, the way he’d always said she was his daughter, now he in his loneliness, she in hers...

Her lips trembled. She turned her head again to stare at that horrid painting. She brought her eyes back to the study doorway. Her heart lurched. She was positive she’d left the study door standing open. Now it was closed.

She crouched in the chair, unable to move. A draft of air of course, swinging the door gently closed.

She stood up. After a moment, she went to the study door. There with hand on the knob, she listened, hearing only the throb of the storm. She flung the door open.

It was as if clammy hands laid themselves upon her, tight on her throat. A draft of air might close a door. But it couldn’t do this. She remembered distinctly she’d left the study light burning. Yet now the study was illumined only by the glow spilling wanly from the living room.

She braced herself against the doorjamb. She saw nothing in the study from the living room glow to alarm her. She would walk to the study lamp, unscrew the bulb, certain she’d find it burned out.

With an effort, she took a step. She was three steps inside the study when the whole house plunged in blackness.

She smothered the scream. She clenched her hands tight at her sides, feeling the agony of the pulse hammering at her temples.

In the smothering darkness, she made her way to the end table where she’d laid the candles. She clasped one up, reaching in her pocket for her cigarette lighter. Flame wavered on the candle wick and sent out bleak wan shadows in the living room. She sighed. It was so nice to have light again.

She hadn’t thought of holders and the end table was one of her favorites. But she began lighting candles from the first one, dropping wax to hold them upright, and lining them up on the table. She created a tiny world of light, determined she would spend the night in the club chair, the guttering candles beside her.

She huddled in the chair, feeling cold, with the darkness pressing in damply upon her. There was a lull in the wind, bringing a momentary silence that made her feel as if her brains were being sucked out through her ears. In this silence, she heard the gentle closing of a door...

Bracing her arched back in the club chair, she stared at the study doorway. It was still open. But beyond it — the closet door?

New thrusts of wind and rain enveloped the house with a crash that deafened her. The candles flickered, feeble and impotent. Her eyes caught the first movement in the study, a shifting of shadow against shadows.

She inched her way out of the chair. Realized she was silhouetted starkly against the candlelight. Trembling, she could feel beads of clamminess in her palms as she struck out in a spasm of movement of her leaden arms and pushed over the end table. The candles winked out.

She knew he’d been waiting for the power to fail. Involuntarily, she stepped backward. Then she was stumbling through the suffocating blackness. She knew her beloved house so well, yet for a moment she completely lost her direction.

Blindly, she located the dining room buffet. Her shaking hands sought a drawer. When the drawer was open, her fingers froze and she endured the desperate thought she was going to faint. Beneath her groping fingers, the rest of the set was there, but the long, keen carving knife was gone...

Breath sobbing out of her in soft moans, she made her way along the dinning room wall.

She saw the faint wink of light in there almost like a firefly, as the wan ray of a pencil flashlight touched here and there, seeking her. Coming closer to her. Until it touched her.

She screamed, reeling away from the wall. She clawed her way through a jungle of furniture, down a corridor of night, babbling wildly to herself.

She’d escaped the little light. She was in the kitchen. She remembered the door that opened on the side lawn.

She opened the door. The wind roared in, sending something crashing behind her, needling rain through the screen in a fine, cold spray.

Outside, the wind tore the breath from her, leaving her lungs burning. Gripping her, it hurled her bodily along the side of the house. Stumbling, she landed in a huddle in the wet grass, pushed herself to her knees. Rain streamed down her face, her hair was wet and harsh against her neck and cheeks. Sodden and numbed, she searched for the shadow of the house next door. Just a small expanse of lawn to cross. Then safety, with other people around her.

She moaned as a shadow slashed at her, missed and struck the side of the house, a wet palm frond, torn by the wind.

Reeling to her feet, huddled against the house, she shivered as the wind plastered her wet clothes tight against her.

She saw the wan pencil flashlight again. It too, moved alongside the house, nearing her, winking low to the earth.

Dorothy Janeway knew she could never reach the house next door. I’ll get back inside, she thought, lock all the doors. Lock myself in a room.

She grabbed at the slippery spider-working of thin wrought iron bars that enclosed the patio. Clutching at them, she moved forward until she reached the gate. Opening it, she stumbled into the patio. She found it calmer here, sheltered on three sides by wings of the house. She ran to the portico, rattled the doorknob of the small storage room that opened off the kitchen. It was unyielding, and she remembered: She’d checked every window and outside door when she’d first discovered she was alone. Terror had blanked her mind. Trapped her here in the cul-de-sac formed by the house...

On the wall beside her a yellow spot splashed. She twisted, and the light caught her in the eyes. There was no time to move, not even time to shrink. He dropped the light and sprang upon her, his knife glinting. Even in the raging storm she could hear his breathing. She could feel his hands, clutching at her throat.

“Robert!”

He was smashing her back. She was falling into depths as black and turbulent as the hurricane itself. She thought: There are two hurricanes. One in Nature. One in Robert.

Her head struck something hard. Lights pinwheeled behind her eyes for an instant before they vanished. Dorothy Janeway ceased to hear the hurricane...

Dorothy felt the warmth of crisp white sheets against her body, sunlight against her face, a cap swathing her head down to her ears, which must be bandages. She smelled, faintly, biting antiseptics, knew she was in a hospital.

There was a soft scuffling of feet, sound of voices. There was someone named Conlan from the police who wanted to question her. A doctor warning that he was rushing things. Then Conlan again, saying they only wanted to know if Mrs. Janeway had some idea where her husband might have gone.

And then Sue’s voice, and warmly Dorothy realized Sue had ridden up from Bradenton to be with her. “You’re sure it was — Robert?”

The man Conlan answered Sue, his voice low. As she listened, her eyes closed, the torrents of rain swept again through her mind, and the hurricane raged anew in Dorothy Janeway’s brain. Janice Carter was dead. Robert had found her body on the beach before her cottage.

The two had had a last quarrel. According to Janice Carter’s maid, the red-haired commercial artist had railed at Robert that he look at himself, soft as cheese, well trained as a lap dog, afraid to lose the soft berth that had decayed him. Robert must have awakened under the sting of her words, packed a bag, returned to her cottage, only to find her body down on the beach.

The winds howled through Dorothy’s mind now, listening to them. In his way, Robert must have loved Janice intensely, for her death sent him clear out of his mind. All his paintings were found in his house, ripped to shreds. All that saved his wife was his thought he’d killed her when he struck her head against the patio pillar. He’d left her sheltered there, the carving knife at her side.

Robert? Dorothy Janeway thought. There was a phrase she tried to remember, something about the Gods first making mad whom they would destroy.

Tears stung her lids, a faint moan escaped her lips.

“Dorothy! Darling, this is Sue. I’m taking you home with me. Everything is all right. Doctor, she’s coming out of it. Can you hear me, Dorothy? How do you feel, darling?”

Dorothy Janeway opened her eyes.

“Feel?” she whispered. “I feel like a very hollow rusty little tin god...”

“Delirious,” said Mr. Conlan with a frown. “Well, I can always come back later.”

Murder Goes to the Dogs

Originally published in Smashing Detective Stories, March 1952.

Chapter 1

The morgue-keeper was wizened and so bald his head looked like a glazed skull in the white, cold light of the morgue. He pulled the drawer out, wiped his colorless lips with the back of his hand, and said, “Well, there she is, boys. Pretty little trick in life — but she don’t look so hot now, eh?”

David Archer and I looked at the corpse. The keeper was right. She had been a pretty little trick in life — so pretty it tore your throat to look at her now. She’d been blonde with a heart-shaped face that was only beginning to harden; time must have been when, her blue eyes held trust, merriment, love of life. But the years had made her eyes hard, sardonic; now here in the morgue, her eyes held nothing. They were blue chips of cold glass staring unseeingly at the skylight overhead. Her name was Marilyn Foster; she had been killed with a crushing blow against her left temple.

Archer nodded, and the morgue-keeper shot the heavy drawer closed on its steel rollers. The keeper strolled with us toward the double, glazed-glass doors of the morgue. “That’s the way they all go,” He said with the tone of an old man who has seen too much death. “Marilyn Foster. I wonder what her pa and ma were like? She must have been a nice girl once, but she was poor, wasn’t she? Poor, and the war came along, and there was a lot of loose money — the excitement did something to a lot of girls like her. They thought they was having fun, hump! Next thing you know they’re regular little chits hustling drinks in any bar or club that’ll give ’em a percentage. Once on the go-round, they never learn to calm down.

“What’s you guys’ angle on this, eh, Archer? They got the guy that did it yet? They going to give him the old one-two into the chair? They...”

“Shut up!” David Archer said, in a tone so cold it froze the morgue-keeper in his tracks.

We left the bright, harsh gloom of the morgue, crossed the street to headquarters, and walked back to Lieutenant Tim Brogardus’ office. We could hear the babble of voices before we opened the door.

There were three men in the office. Tim Brogardus sat at his desk, a big, hound-faced man, who carried a mournful look in his eyes. According to the chief’s way of thinking, Brogardus had the voice of a lion and the brain of a gnat. But Tim’s roughshod, direct methods of police work often got results, and there was mutual respect between him and Archer: two men poles apart, each seeing in the other qualities alien to his own that he could respect.

At the end of Tim’s desk, visibly shaken, sat Buddy VanDyke, II. Slender, trim, Buddy had a childish face, black hair that came to a widow’s peak on his forehead, dark brown eyes, and a chin that was quivering. Women were crazy over him. I guess he appealed to the maternal in them with that chin; he had been crazy about Marilyn Foster.

In the leather chair against the windows sat Lon Montague. Lon had that compact build, without being beefy, that means real physical power. Under pale sandy hair that was thinning from a high forehead, he had dark, very-alive eyes that missed nothing. He also had a square, blunt chin that didn’t quiver. He owned the Starlight Club, and Marilyn Foster had been working for him at the time of her death.

Brogardus looked at the chief.

“Anything more you can add after seeing her, Archer?”

David Archer shook his head. “I’ve told you everything I know. The case is over for us; it’s your baby now, Tim. We’re strictly out of it. Old Ludwig VanDyke hired us to scare Marilyn Foster off his grandson,” the chief glanced at Buddy’s quivering chin, “or get something on her that would break up the affair. We didn’t like the case from the beginning. It was no newer, no less sordid than half a hundred others we’ve handled — the poor, dumb, but beautiful hat-check girl making a play for the weak, young rich boy, while in the background the old bear of the clan didn’t like it.”

Buddy VanDyke fastened his eyes on the chief, and came out of his chair in a slow, way that crimped silence on the room. “You keep your mouth shut about her!”

“Sit down, VanDyke,” the chief suggested.

Buddy didn’t sit down. He moved over close to Archer; he was trembling and sweat gave his face a pasty look. “You damned shamus!” he shouted. “Why couldn’t you have left her alone? She wasn’t greedy! She was good — you hear me? She was good!”

Archer looked suddenly weary. “You weak fool,” he said, spacing the words with intervals of silence between each one, “there might have been a time when she was good, years ago. But she made herself what she was; she was grasping, and life had taught her to be slick. She didn’t want anything but your money; sonny boy; if she actually loved anybody it was Lon Montague.”

Montague didn’t flicker a lash. Buddy VanDyke clenched his fists, looked from Archer to Montague, and sat down. After a moment, I realized sobs were knotting in his belly. “You’re all wrong about her! We were going to be married today. At high noon,” he whispered, “in City Hall — and then we were going away — only now she’s across the street in the morgue!” He buried his face in his hands, and the office got very uncomfortable with the sounds that wretched out of him.

We exchanged glances. Brogardus muttered, “Lay off him, Archer!”

The chief shrugged, sighed. Montague stood up. “If there’s nothing more you need me for...” he suggested quietly.

“I’ll call you,” Brogardus said.

Archer, Montague, and I went outside. The air on the sidewalk seemed clear and clean; I needed the rays of the dying, late afternoon sun to warm me.

Montague gave his hat-brim an extra tug. “Can I drop you someplace?”

“Thanks, no,” Archer said. “Jordan and I will have to tell the old bear that he needn’t worry about her any longer.”

As we turned away, Montague’s voice arrested us, “Archer!”

“Yeah?”

“While you were digging in her life, did you stumble across anything that might trip up whoever killed her?”

Archer didn’t reply.

Montague’s eyes shimmered faintly. “Okay, so anything you learned is not to be discussed in public. I was thinking...”

“Anything I learned, Montague, I have already told Brogardus — in private. Brogardus will handle Marilyn Foster’s killing in the proper, legal way.”

“Meaning if I found out who killed her I’d see he never lived to come to trial?”

“Meaning something like that — maybe,” Archer said. “Meaning I’ve never liked your strong-arm methods in the past to get what you want, Montague, and some of the people around you — they don’t inspire friendship in me, either.”

I watched Lon Montague’s jaw muscles ripple under his smooth-shaven flesh. “I’m glad to know how we stand. Only one thing more you might like to know — I think she really did love me, in her way, and I know I thought a hell of a lot of her!”

Montague turned on his heels and was gone. Archer and I got in my ramshackle sedan, and I threw the old car in gear. I was still remembering the way death had wiped the hardness from her eyes, and turned them to blue glass there in the morgue...

The VanDyke mansion was a huge pile of stone, steel, and wrought-iron over a hundred years old. You didn’t see it from the street, because it was surrounded by a high, ivy-covered, stone wall; you didn’t see it the first few moments you cruised in the driveway, because the gently-rolling grounds were grottoes of shrubs and majestic shade trees. Then you rounded a bend in the drive, and there the house was — a monstrous, solid thing of stone with tall glowering windows.

Leaving the sedan like an eyesore in the drive, Archer and I mounted the veranda steps. The chief rang the bell. I looked over the old spook-joint and thought of the housing shortage. Only old Ludwig and young Buddy survived, of all the VanDykes; they had a hell of a lot of house here to themselves. The left, or east, wing was completely closed off, hadn’t been used in years. The rest of the place had been more or less falling in ruins, until a year ago, the original VanDyke fortune having been practically exhausted. There were still signs here and there of reconstruction, done by Buddy’s first wife — a childhood sweetheart whose wealth still hadn’t been great enough to save her after an auto accident.

The tall oaken door creaked open. The servant standing there was named Josiah; he was very old, with skin like wrinkled, light-tan leather. Archer told him we wanted to see the elder Mr. VanDyke, and Josiah bade us enter. “Mr. Ludwig is in his study, sir.”

And quite a study it was. A big oval room, filled with massive furniture, French doors giving to the side lawn. Old Ludwig was standing beside his desk when Josiah announced us.

“Sit down, gentlemen, sit down,” he bellowed. He was a tall, spare figure with a mane of white hair and a narrow, hard, deeply lined face. He roared, “Confound it, Josiah, where is my medicine? What the devil’s the matter with you, man?”

“Yes, sir. Right away, Mr. Ludwig.”

Old Ludwig burped softly behind his hand, rounded the desk, seated himself. “This indigestion!” he shoved some of the medicine bottles aside on his desk, without knocking any on the floor. That’s a harder task than it sounds, because the whole top of the desk was littered with these bottles. Every time the chief and I saw him, the old man was suffering a new malady. Indigestion today; high blood pressure yesterday; a heart tremor tomorrow.

Buddy VanDyke had said privately, on one of our visits here, “Well, the strongest man must have his Achilles’ heel. With grandpa, it’s sheer hypochondria; he sterilizes his drinking glasses himself, and orders distilled water for his own drinking purposes. A fly or mosquito in his bedroom causes him to call out the exterminating company. The old boy is whit-leather tough, not a thing wrong with him — except in his mind. Time was when he could bring a board of directors to his way of thinking by sheer lung power — but mention a germ to him, and he quakes in his boots!”

“Gentlemen,” old Ludwig thundered, “I trust you have brought that little tart’s scalp to me today! Perhaps it would revive my feelings and—”

“Sorry,” Archer said, “but her scalp is in the morgue.”

“She is a no-good, shameless... What? Did you say morgue, sir?”

“I did. Marilyn Foster is dead — murdered.”

“Wh... wh... wh...” Old Ludwig stared at us a moment, gaping like a fish out of water. Then his jaw snapped closed, his eyes going calculating. “You didn’t, sir, by any chance take too literally my suggestion that you get Marilyn Foster out of my grandson’s life?”

Archer smiled bleakly. “If you’re suggesting we killed her, you’re way off base.”

“Yes, well, humph!” Ludwig fiddled with a bottle on his desk for a moment. “At least the affair is over; she’ll never be able to marry my grandson, rule him and his money utterly, now. Tell me, how and when did it happen?”

“Last night, apparently,” Archer said, “in her apartment. Person or persons unknown went there in the early hours of morning, about the time she got home from work. Person or persons evidently argued with her, picked up the poker from the fireplace set, and struck her in the left temple. Death was almost instantaneous; she was found this morning by the maid who came in to clean up.”

“And the police?”

“At the moment are questioning your grandson,” Archer said.

Old Ludwig reared up in his chair. “My grandson,” he roared. “The nerve of them! The absolute stupidity! Why, that young pup is afraid of his own shadow — much less having the nerve to kill anybody! The gall of them!” Old Ludwig sputtered to silence, grabbed for a bottle on his desk, and swallowed a pill.

“I wouldn’t worry,” Archer said placidly. “It’s just routine on the part of the police; they’ll probably get around to you and grill you about your grandson’s relations with Marilyn Foster.”

“Me, sir?” Ludwig’s voice rattled the window panes. “The unmitigated nerve of them coming here! That... that hussy has brought nothing but trouble to this family. But I shall not hesitate to give the police my opinion of her — nor of their bungling ways!”

The old boy was working himself into quite a state when the chief and I left; I personally would have hated to be the cop who questioned him. He was tough, and hard, and could be cold as a fish’s belly when he wanted to. There was rumor that a grand jury had once looked into his business practices.

Archer and I drove back downtown. We bought a paper in the foyer of our building, glanced at it on the way up to the office. Marilyn Foster’s death had a minor spot on the front page. Reporters had mentioned the scion of a very old family being questioned by police. They’d also mentioned Archer and me. Well, it was publicity.

We walked down the corridor toward the office. I gave only an idle glance at the elderly woman hovering in the corridor. But as Archer rattled the key in the door, the old lady came prancing up to us. “Are you Mr. Archer?”

“No,” I said, “he’s Archer; I’m Luke Jordan, the lower name on the door.”

The simpering little woman looked at Mr. Archer and frowned. It was a usual reaction. Upon first meeting, most folks just can’t absorb the fact that this dumpy, roly-poly little guy with the baby-blue eyes and pink cheeks carries a reputation for pulling killers out of thin air.

The chief glowered under her scrutiny. “Okay, what can we do for you?” He held the office door open for her.

As she wafted inside, the little old lady said, “You can do a great deal. I’m sure — a great deal. There are two things I want done. I want you to look into Pricilla’s disappearance — and into Marilyn Foster’s death. You see,” she added through sudden tears, “I’m Marilyn Foster’s Aunt Minna.”

Chapter 2

He had bumped into Aunt Minna’s name in our investigation of the Foster girl, but now that the aunt was here in person, I gave her a close look. I saw a small, thin body that looked just heavy enough to float away on a stronger-than-average breeze, a delicate face that was bewildered and hopelessly beaten by life. If she’d been sheltered by several million bucks, Aunt Minna would have been the type to have gentle teas, contribute to orphanages, and encourage sensitive young artists. But never having had the millions, Aunt Minna — faced by life as she’s lived — had developed into a mousy little creature flinching from the cruel world.

She was weeping delicately now, and Archer led her over to a chair. Her clean — but threadbare — old-fashioned black dress rustled as she sat down. I thought of the Foster girl in the morgue again. Marilyn Foster, tough as they come, ready to hog a rich boy’s money without batting an eye — but giving a home, and no doubt love, to this poverty-stricken little aunt.

Aunt Minna dabbed at her eyes, tried to smile. “Do forgive me for making a scene. I just returned from Philadelphia this afternoon — I’ve been there for a week, caring for my sick sister. I didn’t even know poor Marilyn was dead until I got to town. I... The police were at the apartment.”

She worried her wispy handkerchief in her fingers. “I heard one of the detectives mention that you were connected with the case, and I thought perhaps I...”

Archer cleared his throat. “Well, you see, Miss Minna, we were working on another case, for another client. Marilyn happened to... uh... enter it slightly. But our case is closed now.”

“But there’s something I want to tell you!”

“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to tell the police.”

“But the police are not the people for this! Here...” She undid the old-fashioned, crocheted bag in her lap. From it, she took a tiny snap purse. From the purse, she extracted a knotted handkerchief. And once the handkerchief was unknotted, a small wad of bills was revealed. “I know that your services on a murder case come high; but I came prepared. This money I... well, I have always wanted to be able to bury myself, pay my own funeral expenses, and I have saved the money for quite awhile Mr. Archer. But I believe that Marilyn would have done as much for me.”

She laid out the bills — six one hundred dollar bills. Probably the only thing between her and the county home. A long, still moment passed in the office. Archer touched the money with his fingertip. I looked at the hopeful agony in which she was watching, waiting for Archer’s decision. It lumped my throat.

The chief flicked with his finger. The top bill bounded over to the middle of his desk. He picked it up, folded it in a square, thrust it in his watch pocket. The other five bills, he shoved back over to Aunt Minna.

“We are retained,” he said, with that grumpy note in his voice that meant he was castigating himself for a sap. “Tell us your story.”

Aunt Minna refolded her five bills, knotted them in the handkerchief, placed the handkerchief in the snap purse, the purse in the crocheted bag, and told her story.

Late yesterday, the day of her death, Marilyn had phoned Aunt Minna in Philadelphia. She had wanted to inquire after the sick sister’s health and find out how long Aunt Minna possibly would be in the brotherly-love city. “She wanted to know when I’d be home,” Aunt Minna said, “because she said she might be married shortly, and leave the city on a honeymoon — so if I came back to find her gone from the apartment, I was not to worry.”

Aunt Minna shifted, took a breath. “I cautioned Marilyn to be careful in the apartment alone — and to eat hearty — she never ate much, the poor child! She said she’d be quite all right, that a friend was spending the night with her.”

Archer jarred to attention. “A friend? There in the apartment last night? Do you know who it was?”

“I’m coming to that. It was a girl named Rose Tiffin, who worked at the Starlight Club. I... I never like to pass judgment, Mr. Archer, but the time or two I met Rose Tiffin... well, she impressed me as not being a nice girl.”

“But there was no evidence that anybody but Marilyn, and the murderer, were in that apartment last night! Have you told the police about this?”

Aunt Minna’s hands were trembling with excitement. “No, you see, that’s what I meant about Rose Tiffin, why I came to you. I mean, no evidence. If I told the police, they’d go over there and she’d deny it. She’s just that kind, Mr. Archer! She’d say that I had misunderstood, or that she had changed her plans and hadn’t spent the night in the apartment.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Why,” Aunt Minna lifted her wide innocent eyes to Archer’s face, “it’s evident this Rose Tiffin doesn’t want anyone — most of all the police — to know she was in that apartment. If she wanted them to know, she’d have come forward, wouldn’t she? So I decided to come to you; I think you’d have a much better chance of getting something out of Rose Tiffin than the police would.”

Archer raised his brows. “Okay, you win. Lady, you ought to be in this business.”

Aunt Minna didn’t recognize the warped compliment as such. She pressed on, “And perhaps Rose can tell you what happened to Priscilla — and if you find out who got Priscilla, I’m sure you’ll have the murderer of my niece.” She started crying again, but very silently this time, just tears bubbling to the surface, bright and hot on her lids.

“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned Priscilla disappearing,” Archer said. “Did you tell the police about her?”

“Oh, yes, but they were inclined to laugh at me. They said she’d probably just wandered off. But I don’t think Priscilla would do such a thing.”

Archer and I swapped glances over the old lady’s head. “Just who is this Priscilla? What’s her last name?”

“She hasn’t one; you see, Priscilla is my Pekinese dog.”

In the moment of silence that followed Aunt Minna looked from the chief to me. Maybe she misinterpreted the look in our eyes. “I know,” she said, “how some people feel about an old lady who is perhaps overly-fond of a dog. But Priscilla was all I had; she was no trouble. And she was a very good little watchdog — you know that Pekes can be vicious when aroused. Priscilla, especially, had been very easy to get in a temper since her accident. Marilyn was walking her one day, and Priscilla darted away to chase a car. A car hit her, shaking her and mangling one foot. The veterinarian had to amputate that paw, and I think it pains Priscilla at times.

“When Marilyn phoned me yesterday, I asked about Priscilla. Marilyn said the dog had seemed to be acting queer when she got home; she told me she’d look after Priscilla, though, and if she went away, she’d leave the dog with Mrs. Grogan on the floor above us.”

“But the dog isn’t with Mrs. Grogan?”

“No. I asked her just before I left the apartment to come here.” Aunt Minna was worrying that handkerchief again. “Strangely, Priscilla has completely vanished.”

Archer got that pouter-pigeon look that meant he was burning gray matter and about to pull a revelation right out of thin air. But whatever he pulled out of the ozone, he chose not to express it aloud. He took Aunt Minna’s arm, guided her to the door, “We’ll call you as soon as anything develops.”

He crossed the office to his desk, picked up the phone, and called Shorty McGinnis. Shorty was a theatrical agent, and knew everybody; we’d done him a favor or two in the past, and now the chief said, “Shorty, I want the home address of a Rose Tiffin. That’s right, the featured singer at Lon Montague’s Starlight Club. Can you get it this late in the afternoon? All right, I’ll wait for your call.”

He replaced the phone, and I sat down to have a cigarette.

It turned out that Rose Tiffin lived at 543 Columbia Street. Darkness was mantling the earth in a heavy shroud when we finally located the place. It was in a suburban development west of town — a cluster of new houses set on lots in various stages of landscaping — and Columbia being only a couple or three blocks long, we overshot it once in the lowering darkness.

I parked the sedan at the curb, and the chief and I went up the walk. The bungalow loomed white and spectral before us, so new you could smell the paint. Archer thumbed the bell; nothing happened; I knocked on the door.

It swung open slightly with a creak of new brass hinges. We could see the dim cavern of the living room, the heavy shadows that were furniture.

Archer craned his neck inside to call Rose Tiffin’s name. But no words came out of him. Beside me, I sensed his body going rigid; I heard him sniff twice. Then he slammed the door open, and barged in the house.

It was very faint here in the living room, but as we crossed the dining room, the odor of gas began to envelop us. And by the time we reached the kitchen door, we were holding our breaths.

In that instant before Archer kicked the kitchen door open, I could hear faintly the hiss of gas jets. I knew every jet in the kitchen stove must be open, and I knew then and there what we were going to find.

We found it all right, a woman’s body on the tile of the kitchen floor, her head and shoulders in the oven of the stove, as if the stove were some horrible monster trying to swallow her...

Archer crossed the kitchen, slammed open windows. I dove for the stove, leaned across the indistinct huddled form, and began turning off the gas. We backed out of the room, propped the swinging kitchen door back with a dining room chair, and gave the breeze that came surging through the open windows a chance to clear the gas out.

Archer re-entered the kitchen, turned on a light. He set his teeth, eased the girl’s body out on the floor. We’d seen Rose Tiffin several times in our poking around the Starlight Club on the case for old Ludwig VanDyke: but we’d never seen her again. This was our last, long look at Rose, and it wasn’t a pleasant one. She was like a limp, wet rag there on the floor, her bleached hair splashed out around her face.

“We’d better call headquarters and get Brogardus,” I suggested.

Archer nodded. “At least we know now that Rose did spend the night in Marilyn Foster’s apartment. The killer didn’t know she was there, thinking Marilyn was completely alone. Maybe the argument between Marilyn and the killer woke Rose. She got up to creep out and take a look — and got an eyeful. She puts the bite on the killer, and he comes here, knocks her unconscious, and turns on the gas.

“All of which,” Archer finished grumpily, “leaves us with only one break in the case — a vanishing, three-pawed, Pekinese dog!”

Chapter 3

Slightly over an hour later, David Archer and I came out of police headquarters. Lieutenant Tim Brogardus hadn’t liked our dropping another corpse in his lap at all, but he’d told us to be on our way, with the admonition that we’d better play ball with the department without throwing any curves.

We crossed the sidewalk to the sedan, and as I pulled the car away into traffic, I thought of the official findings, thus far, in the Rose Tiffin killing.

Rose had a police record of sorts. She’d been arrested three years ago in a raid on a club where she was working, her act in the club requiring such few clothes that decency statutes were considered violated. She’d been pulled in once after that on suspicion of blackmail.

For the past eight months, she had been featured as vocalist at the Starlight Club; the police had cracked down on the club two or three times, not because of Rose, but because of the heavy gambling for high stakes that went on in the rooms back of the club. None of the raids had been really successful; the legal talent that Lon Montague would haul in was too fast and slick, and pinning a rap for gambling on some of the oldest and most powerful families in the city was a lot different from pinning it on a couple young lads caught shooting craps in a back alley. And the oldest and best family names were the only ones Montague allowed in his back rooms. It hadn’t been that way very long. A year ago, Montague and his club were obscure, but he’d begun an overnight expansion, bringing in the best bands, redecorating the joint. Rumor had it that about a year ago, Montague had got heavy sugar behind him from somewhere.

Now we were headed for the Starlight and Montague’s den. I wondered what the chief had on his mind.

The exterior of the Starlight, that face it showed to the sidewalk, was dark blue crystal. Inside, it was quiet, sedate, the band dripping sugar; the drapes heavy and dark; waiters walking on cat feet; half the tables filled and a few couples dancing. Archer and I idled over to the bar. I ordered a rye which I needed: Archer rarely drank anything stronger than milk.

When the sleek-mustached bartender set my drink in front of me, the chief said, “Will you tell Mr. Montague, that Archer and Jordan are out front and would like to see him?”

I’d barely had time to scorch my tonsils with the drink when the bartender came back. He made a subtle sign to a waiter, who drifted over. “Pierre,” the bartender said, “will you show these gentlemen to Mr. Montague’s office?”

The waiter bowed, and we fell in behind him.

Lon Montague was standing behind his desk in his plush office waiting for us. The soft lighting of the room glinted on his high forehead, his thinning, sandy hair, his dark, alive eyes. “Sit down, gentlemen. A drink?”

We took the deep, light tan leather chairs Montague motioned at with his extended palm. Archer said we would forego the drinks.

Montague sat down behind his desk, his chin blunt and hard. “I just had a call from Lieutenant Brogardus. Another killing. The headquarters boys warned me to stick around the office; they’d be over later.”

“Quite a coincidence,” the chief said, “two girls working in the same club getting killed on two consecutive nights.”

Montague’s eyes shimmered. “I wouldn’t know about that.”

“You wouldn’t know whom Rose Tiffin tried to blackmail, either, I suppose?”

“No; was she blackmailing somebody?”

“The person who killed Marilyn Foster,” the chief said. “The whole thing fits like a glove. The Foster killing was slick; the Tiffin job was pretty smooth, too. I jumped to the first conclusion that he’d knocked Rose unconscious and gassed her, but it was better than that. The boys at headquarters couldn’t find a bruise on her that would indicate a blow hard enough to knock her unconscious. Now the boys are figuring that the killer must have given her some money, lulled her into the belief that he was going to pay off without too much trouble. The killer and Rose must have had a drink on it, with him managing to slip knockout drops in her slug. She keels over, and he sticks her head in the gas stove oven.”

Montague wiped his face with his handkerchief. “I’m glad to know the way it happened.”

“You wouldn’t suggest suicide?”

For a moment Archer’s eyes and Montague’s locked. Then Montague said quietly, “No, I know of no reason why Rose Tiffin would have gassed herself.”

Archer went off on a new tack. I wondered what in blazes he was eventually driving at. He said. “Luke and I had a visitor. A very nice little old lady. Marilyn Foster’s Aunt Minna.”

Montague didn’t speak for a few moments. A far-away look grew in his eyes, as if he were thinking of the past and the memories it held. “The way Marilyn always took care of the old dame,” he said, “made me think a lot of her. Brittle and tough as she was, Marilyn had her qualities.”

“You thought so much of her, you hated to see her intent on marrying Buddy VanDyke? You tried to talk her out of it?”

Montague’s eyes came back to the present with a cold, jarred look in them. “What,” he said softly, “if I did try to talk her out of it?”

The feeling in the room began to bring me toward the edge of my chair, made me conscious of the weight of the gun in my shoulder rig.

Archer splayed his palms on Montague’s desk, as if he would crawl over the desk right down Lon’s throat. The chief said, “You maybe thought so much of Marilyn Foster you’d have killed her to keep another man — Buddy VanDyke — from having her?”

Montague’s face went livid. His eyes blazed; he pounced to his feet, ripping out an oath. “I wouldn’t have touched a hair on her head!” he shouted. “Listen, you two-bit private dick, if you think I’m going to stand here in my own office and let you talk to me...”

“Sit down, Montague,” Archer said placidly. “It’s either me or the police. It’d be a lot better to have me on your team — even at two-bits. Which is practically all I’m getting out of this case.”

Montague opened his mouth to curse some more, but the chief waggled a finger and said, “Your team, remember? You’re going to tell me what I want to know, or I’ll have Brogardus breathing so hard down your neck it’ll scorch your shoulder blades!”

Montague got that glittering look in his eyes again. He sensed this was a moment for caution. “If you told Tim Brogardus a pack of lies about me, Archer,” he warned, “dark alleys might get mighty unsafe for you.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Archer conceded, “but I’m a truthful man. And the fact remains that about a year ago you blossomed into the big time with this club. It takes backing — capital — to do that; you didn’t have it on your own.”

“Meaning?”

“Let’s dig up a little past history,” the chief suggested mildly. “Buddy VanDyke, for example. Marilyn Foster was not to have been Buddy’s first venture into marriage, as I remember. Over a year ago, Buddy married Sue-Carol Loefler, the heiress to the Loefler Distilleries fortune. At that time Buddy was practically flat, the old, respected VanDyke fortune having gone the way of so many old, respected fortunes. Buddy was living mostly on his name, good looks, and credit. Then he marries Sue-Carol — and just a short time after their marriage, she leaves here one night after an argument with Buddy. He was drunk, stayed here at the club, refusing to go with her. A few hours later, Sue-Carol was found in the wreckage of her car in a ravine on Highway Sixty Six.

“It was raining that night, and cold, with a film of ice on the roads. The police marked off Sue-Carol Loefler VanDyke’s death as an accident. Angered and hurt because of her argument with Buddy, she’d been driving too fast. She’d been unable to make the curve — possibly hadn’t seen it in the darkness and rain until too late — and had plunged to her death in the ravine.

“But the fact remains that Buddy inherited her millions; that Buddy was here at the club, and you alibied him; and that a short time after that you began expanding.”

“Meaning?” Montague said again, the word like the crackle of ice in the room.

“Meaning that there is the remote chance that Sue-Carol’s death could have been murder.”

“That’s a lie! You’d never get to first base trying to stump up a thing as insane as that!”

“But what if it isn’t a lie?” Archer persisted. “If Sue-Carol were murdered, you’d have been in a prime position to make Buddy VanDyke pay off, up to his eyeteeth!”

That controlled glitter in Montague’s eyes shattered. He mouthed a curse this time, threw a looping punch at the chief. Archer sidestepped. I moved in on Montague, and he jabbed at me. I jabbed back, and Montague staggered into the desk. He damned my ancestors, and before I could get close enough to stop him, yanked a desk drawer open. I knew he was going for a gun.

I plunged into him, trying to pin him over the desk. He writhed out of my grip, and we tripped and fell with a jar that shook the floor. Sometime in his long, spotty past, Montague had learned a lot about dirty fighting. He gave me a knee in the groin, went for my eyes with his thumbs and the soft pressure point behind my ears, where the jaw hinges, with his index fingers. He’d called it. If that was the way he wanted to play, it was all right with me. I worked on his kidneys with my elbows, thrashing to get out from under him. I rolled on top, butted him in the chin. That stunned him, and I grabbed a handful of hair and slammed his head against the floor. The carpet was thick, but not that thick. Montague relaxed, groaning.

“I guess,” Archer remarked, as we went out the door, “that we insulted Lon! Let’s go someplace and get a bite of dinner.”

We did, and with the grub under our belts, Archer decided we’d drive out to the VanDyke house.

The huge old pile of stone and steel that was the VanDyke mansion looked grim and forbidding in the darkness. Lights were on here and there in the place, making the windows like eyes watching us as we rolled up the long, curving driveway.

I planted the sedan at just about the same spot I had when we’d been here earlier today. We’d just got out of the car and started up the veranda steps when headlights splashed in the driveway behind us. We turned, saw a car coming up the drive. It was moving fast for that narrow, twisting drive; it almost lost a bumper against a tree, and I stood frozen, thinking my old sedan was finally going to-be reduced to complete junk.

But the driver of the other car, a convertible with the top down, saw the sedan, slapped on the brakes. The convertible stopped with a little side skid in the drive, nudged against the sedan’s bumper.

The convertible’s horn let out a long, protracted blast. A male voice shouted thickly, “Wha’sh idea leaving that heap parked like that?”

“Sounds like Buddy VanDyke,” the chief said.

“Like Buddy VanDyke with a few too many under his belt,” I added, as we bolted down the veranda steps.

Buddy was lolling over the convertible steering wheel. He still had his palm on the horn, and it was setting up such a racket I couldn’t hear myself think. “Sho,” he mouthed looking at us, his face flushed in the light of the dash lamp, “it’sh the great detectiffs! Going to find out who killed little Marilyn, Mishter Archer?”

“Move the car, Luke,” the chief told me softly. “I’ll see if I can do anything with this guy besides pouring him back in the bottle.”

I moved up the drive, got in the sedan, started it, and pulled it over to the extreme edge of the driveway. While I was occupied with that, the big, oaken front door of the VanDyke house had opened and old Ludwig and the leathery servant, Josiah, had come out, attracted by the convertible’s horn.

“What’s the meaning of this?” old Ludwig roared.

“Don’t shout, grandpa,” Buddy held his finger up to his lips. “Lishen, she might be out there in the night shomeplace. Poor Marilyn. Dead in the night shomeplace.”

“You’re drunk!” old Ludwig thundered. “Well, Josiah, don’t stand there gawking! Get him up to his room!”

Josiah said a hurried “Yes, sir,” and bumbled around the car. He got the door open on Buddy’s side.

“Joshiah, you’re a good egg,” Buddy patted the servant’s shoulder, “but I can make it up under my own power, shee? Poor Marilyn. Dead in the night shomeplace!” He staggered across the veranda, into the house.

“That young pup should be thrashed within an inch of his life,” Ludwig decided glaring toward the house.

“I’m sorry he’s in that state, myself,” Archer agreed. “There was a question or two I wanted to ask him. About his investment in Lon Montague’s Starlight Club.”

“Eh? Oh, I can tell you anything you want to know about that, Mr. Archer.”

The chief looked a little stunned, his face drawn in the light spilling over the drive from the house. He’d expected, I guess, secret blanks in Buddy’s past, and for the first time in his career, I saw complete puzzlement rising in David Archer’s eyes.

Chapter 4

The chief drew old Ludwig out with questions, and from the way the grandfather spoke of Buddy’s relations with Lon Montague you had the feeling that it was truth.

Yes, Buddy’s first wife, Sue-Carol, had been killed in the auto accident. The police had looked into all that. And yes, Buddy came into quite a spot of cash. He’d always been an idle young man, but with Sue-Carol gone, he’d wanted something to put his mind and time to. Buddy had known Montague for several years; he’d hung around nightclubs such as Lon’s until he knew every habitué. Furthermore, night-life had always fascinated Buddy, and he had believed that the sort of club Lon Montague now ran could do well by itself. So Buddy had gone to Montague — and not Montague to Buddy — and suggested buying in a more or less silent partnership. Montague had agreed.

“I tried to talk him out of it, sir,” Ludwig assured us, “the idea of a VanDyke running a nightclub! But Mr. Montague came to me one day privately. He showed me facts and figures, how the club could show a handsome profit; he pointed out that Buddy might be better off, and far more content, if he got in business — even the nightclub business. He spoke with sense, as a good business man, this Montague.”

“And it was strictly business from beginning to end?”

“What do you mean by that, sir? Of course it was business. The finest firm of lawyers in this city drew up the papers. And now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go up and throw that young pup under a cold shower and give him a good tongue-lashing!”

Archer turned toward the sedan. “Okay, Luke, let’s go back to the office. It looks,” he grouched, “as if we’re going to have to find that Pekinese, Priscilla, and see if Priscilla can’t give us a line on this case!”

I could tell by his tone that he wasn’t ribbing. I could feel the frantic sense in him of time slipping away. Two girls had died. Once started, there’s no telling where a chain of death would stop, or who would be next. But how he planned to break that chain with a Pekinese dog was completely beyond me!

Our office was cold with the chill of night, the huge building about us so silent it felt haunted. Big buildings are made for people, for the rushing hum of busy days. There’s nothing more stifling to a sense of well-being than a deserted, dark, office building. Or maybe it was the thing in the chief’s eyes that made me feel that way. He tossed his hat on the desk, said, “The lad we’re up against this time, Luke, is plenty smooth. The closer we get to him, the more dangerous he gets. I would not like to get myself shot up for a hundred dollar fee — even if the old lady was sweet and made a sucker out of me.”

I didn’t hanker on getting shot either, and I knew what he meant. “So what do we do now?”

“Get on the phone,” he said. “Call the dog-pound first — and heaven help us if they’ve got a three-pawed Pekinese there.”

As usual, he was thinking way ahead of me. I was in a fog, and I knew he wouldn’t enlighten me until he felt like it. I called the dog-pound, got a voice finally. The voice said it would look for a long time; then the voice was back on the phone. I hung up.

I shook my head at Archer. “No Peke like that at the pound.”

“Good!” his eyes brightened faintly. “Take the red book and get the name of every veterinary and animal hospital out of it; phone them all. When you don’t get an answer, look up the animal doc’s name and home address in the alphabetical book and phone him at home. If any are not home, find out where they can be reached and phone there, even if you have to drag one or two of them from a nightclub table. Ask them if the dog has been brought to them. Being veterinarians, any of them would have noticed and remembered a Pekinese with an amputated paw.”

Archer hated tasks as routine and monotonous as this, but I think he would have been just as comfortable doing the phoning himself as he was watching me, practically ready to gnaw his knuckles.

I started down the line. The first two animal docs didn’t have the dog. The third I couldn’t locate anywhere. The fourth, his wife informed me, was very ill and had closed his pet shop. The fifth and sixth were blanks.

I was chain-smoking, and the office was getting heavy. Number seven was a Doctor E. R. Thoms, with an animal hospital and boarding kennel on Dixton Street. He was pay dirt.

I slammed down the phone. “He’s got the dog. This Doc E. R. Thoms!”

“But you didn’t find out who left it there!” Archer snarled. “Get him back on the phone, get...”

“He hung up on me, quick-like. Chief, I think we better get out there!”

The layout of Doctor Thoms was big, and nice. A long, white building faced the sidewalk, a sign over its door announcing, Small Animal Hospital. The kennels were ranged in back of the building, dimly seen; a dog in one of them began whimpering. Off to the left rear of the animal hospital was a wide lawn, at the base of which we could make out the outlines of a two-story frame house, Doctor Thoms’ home.

Everything was dark, silent, except for the whimpering dog. Archer and I entered the edge of the yard, keeping to the shadows of shade trees. The chill of night bit into us, turning the perspiration that had broke out on my forehead to a cold sheen, like ice. My stomach was throbbing with the quiet, with the waiting for something to happen, with the memory of the way Thoms had hung up on me...

We drew nearer to the dark, silent house. In the kennels behind us, a dog suddenly raised his muzzle and howled, like an animal dying, or sensing death. Gooseflesh rippled down my spine.

We hung back a moment, there under the shadows of the tree nearest the house. Nothing happened. Archer touched my arm; we broke and started for the house. We didn’t expect it to happen right here in the open; we expected it when we stepped inside. And that’s what the lads laying for us figured we’d expect — so they banked on surprise. We were within ten feet of the house, on open lawn when they opened up on us — a gun flaming from each corner of the house.

We’d have been cold meat if we’d lost our heads, paused, or tried to beat a retreat. But the chief and I had been in spots before; we knew that to turn and make for the shade trees would only waste time, cause us to be motionless for a split instant there in the open lawn. We dropped low, put on steam, and plowed straight ahead for the porch, and kept plowing, shoulder to shoulder, when we hit the front door. The average door was never built to take a shock like that. The latch burst with a twang of metal and tearing of wood; the door slammed open; the glass upper half of the door shattered. We were inside the house.

I was gulping for breath. Only a second had passed, but I’d lived a couple lifetimes and died a couple deaths. The burst of gunfire had aroused the kennel dogs, and the night was a savage, primitive night with their howling.

“Keep them shooting, Luke,” Archer said in my ear. Then he faded in the darkness of the house.

I eased my head out, threw a shot at either corner of the house. The boys out there answered back, and splinters jumped out of the door jamb in my face.

I fired again from a different level, crouching. Nervous shots answered me. They’d break for it any minute now. They’d know that somebody would hear the fireworks and call the cops.

Then I heard a crackle of gunfire on the left side of the house. Somebody screamed out there. That cut it for the lad on the right corner of the house. I saw his shadow head for the shade trees. I threw two quick shots at him; then he was gone. There were plenty of alleys he could cut through and lose himself in — but I wasn’t running out over that lawn to chase him, until I was sure who was alive on the left side of the house.

“Chief?” I said.

“Okay, Luke. At least we got one of them.”

When I vaulted the rail of the porch, I saw him. He was on the ground with a smear of blood on his chest, revealed by the pencil flash in Archer’s hand. But he was still breathing.

“Recognize him, Luke?”

“It’s Little Ikey Saran. That must mean the one that got away is Pete Harrison; they always ran as a pair and hired their guns out that way to anybody who had the price.”

“They won’t be hiring them out for a long time now, I think,” the chief said. “The killer knew we were on the Marilyn Foster and Rose Tiffin murders; he figured there was a chance we’d work our way to the dog. So he hires and plants Saran and Harrison to keep an eye on Doc Thoms’ place. The hoods were probably taking their orders too literally — but they might have got us if we hadn’t made the house and I hadn’t found that side door to sneak out of and come up behind Saran.”

“Saran looks like he’ll keep; let’s find Thoms.”

We went in the house, turned the lights on. Thoms turned out to be a short, beefy man, effectively sapped and stretched out on his kitchen floor. The chief kneeled over him. “He needs a doctor right away.”

Cops and an ambulance we needed. I heard sirens wailing in the distance. At least cops were on their way, and I found the phone in Thoms’ living room and got an ambulance started.

I went back to the kitchen, where Archer was laying a cold, wet cloth over the sap wound on Thoms’ head. From the look in the chief’s eyes, I had a hunch this was the payoff...

An hour later a tense group of people were gathered in Tim Brogardus’ office at headquarters. Tim was behind his desk, muttering about the chief dragging him out at a time of night when he should be home. Two uniformed cops occupied strategic spots against the wall. Aunt Minna was there, on the edge of her chair, worrying her wispy handkerchief in her fingers. Buddy VanDyke sat on the edge of Brogardus’ desk, considerably sobered. His grandfather paced back and forth across the room. Lon Montague sat stiffly in his chair, looking balefully at the chief.

And David Archer occupied the middle of the room, rubbing his palms together. He was just enough ham to feel his glory at times like these.

“First,” he said, “I’ll give credit where it’s due. Aunt Minna broke this case.”

“She...” Brogardus stared.

“When she put me on the trail of the dog,” Archer said. “The little Peke that was a very good watchdog, and that was acting queer when Marilyn phoned Aunt Minna in Philly. But before progressing, let’s clear up a few financial details. Lon, you say you thought a great deal of Marilyn Foster — would it be worth a grand to you for me to hand her killer to the cops?”

A stir of uneasiness swept the room. “Is that why Brogardus called us all down here?” Montague said lazily. “To pin a killer in the chair?”

“You’re not afraid, are you, Lon?”

“Me?” Montague laughed. “I tell you what I’ll do. I’m a gambler, essentially. I don’t like you, but I’m willing to leave my feelings out of it; you sew Marilyn’s killer up, I’ll give you a grand.”

Archer nodded, turned to Buddy VanDyke. “And you also loved Marilyn; you’d be willing to do something for the one person she had on earth, wouldn’t you?”

Buddy looked at Aunt Minna.

“That’s right,” the chief said. “With the friends and connections you have it would be duck-soup for you to find a job for a gracious little lady.”

“Of course, I’d do it!” Buddy said shortly.

“This is blackmail,” Brogardus muttered. “Let’s get on with this thing.”

Archer ignored the lieutenant, and turned to Ludwig VanDyke. “Just one question. Several years ago, before you retired from business, weren’t you before a grand jury because of some of your business practices?”

“Why, I...” old Ludwig sputtered. “What’s that got to do with this?”

“I knew you were cold enough, cruel enough; I just wanted to make sure you were crook enough to commit murder!”

“Sir!”

“Don’t give me that oratorical tone,” Archer said coldly. “I’m accusing you of killing Marilyn Foster and Rose Tiffin, and of hiring a pair of thugs to do whatever dirty work came up — which almost led to some more killing!

“I kept trying to figure Montague and Buddy’s first wife’s death in the motive — while all the time the motive was right under my nose; it was so damn simple I couldn’t see it. Buddy’s money. You are an old man; you’d been rich for a greater part of your life. You’d come on hard times once and they’d given you an almost pathological fear of poverty — it’s never easy for the rich to become poor!

“At any cost, you had to keep Marilyn Foster from marrying Buddy, from taking him and his money out of your control. You hired a detective agency to try to get something on her. She countered by taking Buddy into a quick marriage — marriage today at noon. You went to her apartment last night, knowing that if she lived, this weakling Buddy would slip from your grasp. You argued with her, perhaps even tried to buy her off, but she laughed at you. You had done everything you could to keep her away from those millions, and now she had the upper hand. So you seized that poker and killed; you killed again when you realized that you’d never be safe as long as Rose Tiffin was alive.

Buddy stared at the old man, shrinking away. Ludwig looked about the room, knotting his fists, licking his lips, he sputtered, “I’ll have you know, sir...!”

“Save it for the jury,” Archer suggested. “Save it to tell the executioner how a little dog tripped you up. A dog that had temper, a dog that was acting queer — that was sick — that came tearing in, nipping at you when it saw you — a stranger — striking down a person it loved.

“It must have struck terror in you — a hypochondriac — that a normal person could never understand, when you felt the fangs of that dog breaking the flesh of your ankles. That alone would have been enough; but when you noticed the dog was sick, you reached a point of complete horror, desperation. Once I had dug my way through to a motive and began to wonder about you, Ludwig, as a potential killer, I could visualize your reaction to the dog’s attack. I knew that if you were the killer, you’d have grabbed the dog in an agony of neurotic fear and put it somewhere for observation. You’d also have started anti-rabies shots, immediately. I haven’t gone far enough yet to check with the doctors in town, to see which of them you contacted for the shots. Tim will do that, and clear up any other details; that’s his job. But I knew when I located that dog at Doctor Thoms that you were our man.”

Ludwig wiped his hand across his face. “You’ll never prove any of this!”

“Don’t depend on it! You’ve turned out to be just another amateur at the murder game. We’ve got little Ikey Saran. We’ll pick up Harrison, his sidekick; they’ll talk. Doctor Thoms is still alive, to tell us who brought the dog to him. And that’ll only be the beginning.”

Old Ludwig looked desperately about the room. Then he slowly crumpled in a chair. “I want a lawyer,” he croaked; “and call Josiah and tell him to bring my heart medicine.”

He was still sitting there, worrying about his heart, when the chief and I left. As we neared the bottom of the stone steps that led down to the dark, deserted sidewalk, we heard someone coming behind us. We paused, looked back. It was Aunt Minna.

“I wanted to thank you, Mr. Archer.”

“All in a day’s work. I guess you’ll find Priscilla somewhere around Doctor Thoms’ place. Incidentally, I’ll remind Buddy about that promise of a position for you — in a few days. He’s got a shock to get over...”

“Yes, I understand,” Aunt Minna said softly, “for so have I. Why must there be killing in the world? One killing affects so many people...”

Her words were still ringing in my mind when David Archer and I drove off in the deep, silent night.

The Beautiful Miss Borgia

Originally published in Dime Detective Magazine, August 1952.

At just after ten that night, Bob Myrick entered the apartment house where his sister Pam lived. As apartment houses go, it wasn’t too fine a place. A thirty-five dollar a month walk-up, with worn carpets, the odor of everybody’s cooking in the downstairs hall, and the sounds of everybody’s living all through the building. On the second floor, Bob knocked on Pam’s door. Light, eager wings beat their way up in his chest, brought a smile to his face. It had been three years — but tonight he was a free man.

He heard the crisp sounds of Pam’s footsteps. She opened the door. She drew in a breath, said, “Bob! Bob you’re home!”

“Hi, sis.” He took her chin in his hand and kissed her on the cheek. A lump came to his throat. She was small and neatly built, and the light behind her made burnished copper of her hair. But there were tired lines about her eyes, almost hidden, almost unnoticeable.

As far back as Bob could remember, Pam had meant home to him. Since their folks had died, he and Pam had been alone. Pictures of her flashed through his mind. Pam bundling him in a sweater and sending him off to school, when she was still as young as a lot of high school seniors herself. Pam standing on her feet behind a bargain basement counter to earn money for their food and clothes, to pay their rent.

And later, Pam trying to keep him out of trouble, telling the police that he was only a wild kid, getting him another chance.

Until that last time. Not another chance then. He’d drawn three years. And at that he’d been lucky. Burglary was a serious charge.

Pam closed the living room door, touched his pale, gaunt face as if assuring herself he was really there. “It’s so good to see you, Bob. But I didn’t expect...”

“Time off for good behavior. I didn’t write. I wanted to make it a surprise.”

He was aware of a sound behind him, turned. In the doorway across the room stood Steve Ivey.

For a moment there was silence. The room chilled as Bob stood and looked at Steve and Steve looked at him. Bob shifted his gaze to Pam, saw the sudden strain in her face.

“Bob,” she said, her voice sounding quick, brittle in the silent room. “Steve and I — we were just throwing a snack together in the kitchen. Come on out and join us.”

He saw that her face was white. She was pleading with her eyes. Steve Ivey dropping by. It must be a pretty regular thing, Bob thought, if it had reached the stage of whipping up snacks together in her kitchen.

Bob could see Pam’s thoughts mirrored in her eyes: Please. Bob. Steve’s a regular guy. He hated to do what he did to you. But he was a cop. He had to.

Steve advanced across the room. “Glad to see you, Bob.”

Bob turned. Steve was holding out his hand. Touching his lips with his tongue. Bob took the proffered hand, shook it. Behind him, he sensed Pam’s faint gasp of relief.

Okay, Bob thought, if this was the way it had to be. He remembered the day Pam had met Steve Ivey. She’d come to headquarters to tell them again that Bob was a good kid, only wild. Steve had been in charge of the case, and had listened to her. But the sister plea hadn’t done any good that time. Steve had Peewee Darran’s statement; Peewee had ratted to save his own rotten skin. And Steve was a cop...

A crazy start for love’s beginnings, Bob thought bleakly.

They went out to the six-by-eight kitchen. The awkward moment endured, lengthened. Bob had the feeling that he’d like to shove the walls back, that the tiny kitchen was too small to hold the three of them.

He ate scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee that Steve prepared. Bob thought: I’ve always wanted this for Pam — a good guy to love her, care for her. But Steve Ivey? He watched Steve and wondered...

The same rawhide tallness, the same rugged, almost handsome face. That was Steve. But there it was — in his gray eyes. The coldness, the implacable light of the hunter. No human feeling; a hunk of stone where his heart should be. Human beings were mere pawns on his chessboard.

A guy like that for Pam?

They talked in spurts. Steve said he’d been promoted. He was on Homicide now, and had to catch his graveyard trick at midnight tonight.

Then at last Bob was rising, saying he had to run along. Pam followed him to the living room. He spoke softly, “You’re pretty sweet on that guy back in the kitchen, sis?”

She looked at him; he watched her swallow, saw her nod.

“Sure,” he said, managing a smile. “Luck, sis, and all the happiness.”

“But, Bob, you’re staying here! I thought...”

“No, sis. Got to look for a job. A guy or two I want to see.”

“Not Peewee Darran, Bob!”

The thought of the way Darran had sold him up the river knotted Bob’s stomach muscles, but he shook his head.

“And, Bob—” Her voice caught. “Not the Gilded Lily? You’re not going back there, to her? Please, Bob, stay away from the Gilded Lily.”

“Sure, sis.” He told her good night, gave her arm a gentle squeeze, and went out.

Down on the street, Bob stood with his back against the wall of the building. Night had dissipated little of the heat of the day. Traffic crawled; a few people sat like shadows here and there on front steps. Young couples passed, arm in arm. It was life and people and free air. But Bob’s senses failed to soak it up; the droplets of sweat on his forehead were not entirely from the heat.

His lips were flat, compressed. He kept thinking, She’s still there, at the Gilded Lily. Marcillene...

He spun on his heel so fast he almost bumped in an old lady. She said, “Mercy!” righted her hat and stared after the retreating back of the hurrying, pale young man.

Bob was opening and closing his hands. He’d had three years in which to think, and a man can do a lot of thinking in three years. He knew which road he wanted to take now. But he was going back to the Gilded Lily. Tonight. Something strong was driving him. He had to go back. He had to make sure he was cured.

The Gilded Lily was composed of equal parts of smoke, lights, darkness, shadowy people, the tinkle of glasses, and the low undulating buzz and hum of conversation. Bob’s eyes swept over it all; the long, crowded bar, glasses stacked before the back-bar mirror, chrome-framed tables and chairs, leather-upholstered booths. He lifted his gaze further, to the piano dais in back. But she wasn’t there. The bench was empty, the grand piano waiting in almost total darkness for her, waiting for the touch of Marcillene’s nimble fingers.

He moved on into the bar, feeling a little limp. For three years he’d been steeling himself against her. Telling himself she was no good, reminding himself that she hadn’t been to see him once. She was Harry Heintz’ girl. But his heart still beat thick and fast, filling his chest, whenever he thought of her.

He told himself that he’d built her up in his mind, made her a dream-like image of perfection. People are like that. Anything they can’t reach out and touch always seems different. More enticing. But he was out now, a free man. He could see her as she really was, tickling a piano keyboard, singing her sultry little songs in a second-rate bar. One look, he told himself, and he’d never again doubt that he was cured...

Bob crowded his way up to the bar and ordered a whiskey and water. He had the drink halfway to his lips when a voice behind him said, “As I live and gasp for air! Are these old eyes deceiving me, or is it really Bobby Myrick?”

Bob looked in the back-bar mirror, and in the mirror his gaze met two pale gray eyes set in a fat, blubbery face under a bald brow. In the dim lighting the face was innocent, and Bob searched a moment for a name. Then it came to him. “Banklin.”

“Right, lad.” Banklin punched him on the shoulder with a fat pink hand as Bob set down his drink and turned. “Glad to see you, Bobby. I saw you when you walked in, but it took a moment for it to sink in that I was really looking at Bob Myrick.” Banklin’s hand was on his arm. “Come on over to my booth and have a drink.”

“I got a drink.”

Banklin chuckled. “Sure. Bring it on over to my booth. I’ll stand you another.”

He was through with people like Banklin, Bob thought. It had cost Pam a lot of suffering and him three years behind bars, to make him see a few things sensibly. He was cured.

But he’d never be in the Gilded Lily again. Banklin was waiting. There was no real sense in insulting Banklin. “Okay,” Bob said. “One drink.”

He followed Banklin’s waddling hulk over to a booth. The big fat man had aged. It was Banklin’s boast that he’d been the finest con man in the country in his day. He’d posed as everything from a Western cattle baron to a stock broker. But his day was past, judging from present appearances. His suit was worn, needed cleaning. The back of his shirt collar, visible to Bob over his coat, was soiled and limp. They all fall on hard times sooner or later, Bob thought grimly.

With a wheezing sigh, Banklin worked his way in the booth. Bob sat down.

“Well, Bobby, how goes it? Any plans for the future?”

“A few.”

Banklin toyed with an empty glass. Without moving his head up, he cut his gaze up to Bob’s face. His voice came, fat and soft, “Plans for Peewee Darran, Bob?”

Cold washed down Bob’s spine. His face felt stiff. Slowly he made himself relax. “I’d like to wring Darran’s scrawny neck,” he admitted, “but the answer is no. I got no plans for Darran.”

Banklin chuckled. “Sure, I know. A lot of them feel like that when they first get out of stir. They’re going to be lone wolfs, plenty tough, cutting nobody in on their plans.”

“I told you the answer is no.” Bob’s voice sounded harsh and loud in his ears. “Darran and I broke in the pawnshop that night. I wanted to — buy nice things for a dame. Darran squealed when we got caught. He drew a suspended sentence, while I went up. But I’m not dirtying my hands with Darran. He’ll get his one of these days without me.”

Banklin’s fat shoulders shook again in that knowing chuckle. “Anyway, you’d have to find him, Bobby.” He jerked his gaze up, as if trying to catch whatever might be in Bob’s eyes. “You wouldn’t have heard, but about three weeks ago an old playboy geezer named Thad Berrywinkle got killed. This Berrywinkle had dough. He liked to get around, to see every kind of joint. As near as the cops can figure, somebody got some plenty hot blackmail stuff on Berrywinkle — the old geezer was married. Berrywinkle wouldn’t pay. He was about to turn in the blackmailer, and the blackmailer killed him.”

Bob started to speak, but Banklin stopped him with a gesture of his hand. “That’s where Pee wee Darran comes in. Rumor has it that Peewee knows the identity of Berrywinkle’s murderer. Darran has dropped out of sight, and if you wanted to do anything about Peewee, Bob, you’d have to find him first. It wouldn’t be easy. Peewee is well holed up.” He drummed on the table. His voice lowered. “It might be that I could give you an address, Bobby...”

“I’m not interested.”

“Hell,” Banklin chuckled. “I know that.” Then he pulled an old envelope from his pocket, tore off a piece of it, fished for a pencil. He wrote an address, stuffed the paper in Bob’s breast pocket. “Think it over, Bobby. I’m just trying to do you a favor.”

Bob passed his hand through his hair. “Are you going to order that drink, Banklin?” He was trembling a little.

Bob sensed a movement at his elbow. He looked up. Banklin, in the act of rising, retained his half-risen position. Harry Heintz was standing beside the booth. “Hello, Bob. Come back to steal my girl?”

Heintz dropped a glance at Banklin. “Sit down. I’ll buy.” He caught a waiter’s eye, told him to set up three over here.

Then he turned back to Bob. Heintz looked the same as ever. The same pinched shoulders, blown up by the well-tailored blue suit. The same pinched face, with the eyes close together over the nose. Crinkly blond hair. The same always-present imitation gardenia in the left lapel. He said, “Be around long, Bob?”

“I hadn’t given it much thought.” He used to fawn over this punk, Bob remembered. He used to think Heintz was hot stuff because he owned the Gilded Lily and wore expensive cloths and a gardenia in his buttonhole. And Bob was just a cheap sap to him. Send the young punk out on a job, let him risk his neck. It must have afforded Heintz many a laugh. And her — Marcillene — had she laughed with him when the young punk had gone?

The drinks came. Heintz fingered his. He looked at Bob, his eyes hard. Banklin shifted uneasily.

“Just one thing, Bob,” Heintz said. “I want you to get this straight, if you’re thinking of staying around town long. Keep away from Marcillene. I didn’t like the play you made for her before you went up the river, not a damned bit, Bob. The more I thought of it, the less I liked it.”

As if the mention of Marcillene’s name had brought her back, a rippled arpeggio came from the piano. The sounds were caressing, soft, but they crashed in Bob’s cars. His throat went tight. He gripped the edge of the table.

Over the top of the booth he could see her, sitting at the piano. A golden flash of loveliness. A flowing body beneath a clinging gown, a soft face touched by soft light, a blonde vision of hair with a feathery sort of white flower in it. She was looking out at the faces turned toward her, smiling. White teeth, blood-red lips. Blood-red nails rippling over the piano keyboard. Marcillene...

“See what I mean, Bob?” Heintz’ sardonic voice reached out to him. “My girl, Bob. Everything understood?”

“An angel,” Banklin sighed. “A golden angel!”

Bob barely heard their words. He was limp inside. He felt sweat crawling down the back of his neck. He knew what had driven his steps here. It wasn’t the desire to have a last look so he could forget her forever.

He tossed off his drink.

The liquor burned going down, but not enough to suit him. Three years of hating her because he’d once worshipped her. Hating her because she was identified in his mind with Heintz, the Gilded Lily, and its kind. With Peewee and Banklin, who’d once been Peewee’s closet friend but who now was willing to sic a revenge-hungry ex-con on him. Bob had wanted to break from it all, but now he could only watch the dim blue lights of the place blur in his vision, until only her face was clear before him.

She seemed to be fading. It scared him. He felt Banklin’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him. “Bobby...”

“I feel a little sick. A breath of air... back in a moment.”

He made it to his feet, stumbled his way out of the bar. A strange cold feeling of suspension filled his mind. He wanted to heave; and lurched toward the alley beside the Gilded Lily. He wobbled down the dark tunnel of the alley, a numb terror growing in him. He knew that one or two drinks shouldn’t have made him feel like this.

He pitched forward on his face in the middle of the alley. No sound left his lips...

The dampness on his face brought Bob back to life, but it was a slow process. Strands of gray swirled in the dense blackness; then lights sparked against his clamped eyelids. He uttered a short, soft groan, stirred. He lifted one hand to brush away the moisture. He opened his eyes. Pale light was like steel wool against his eyeballs. He was conscious, but shadows still filled his brain. He sat up; the movement caused his stomach to roll and churn. He gasped, swallowing back the sickness.

Exterior objects began to come in focus. Pain crashed through his head. He was on the hard, bare floor of a room. His eyes picked out cheap, junky furnishings, dirty walls, a wan light bulb glowing in a cheap lamp on a rickety table. A movement beside him caught his eye. He jerked his gaze around. It was a dingy curtain, billowing out from the open window. He heard the faint patter of rain outside. The heat of the night had brought a shower. Droplets of moisture blowing through the open window had awakened him.

He remembered passing out in the alley. Now he was waking in a strange room. It didn’t make sense.

Drawing breath hard, he stumbled to his feet. His toe met an object, sent it clattering. Bob looked down. It took a moment for the fact to sink in that he’d kicked a knife. A long, keen and very bloody knife...

His throat constricted. He picked the knife up, dropped it as he saw his hand. His fingers were encrusted with splotches of dried blood.

His breathing shattered against the dirty walls of the room. He stood without moving an instant, afraid to turn toward the bed, his flesh prickling with horror as he guessed what he would see lying there.

His guess wasn’t wrong. In death, Peewee Darran looked smaller than ever. His thin, stooped body was in a twisted, queer huddle. The grimy sheets were mussed on the swaybacked bed, as if Peewee had struggled. His mouth was open, as if he’d tried to cry out, only to have the sound stopped by the knife that had razored its way across his plucked-chicken neck.

Bob clutched the footboard of the bed and stared at Peewee Darran. He’d hated Darran. Once he’d wanted to kill him. He’d got over that. Three years to think, to come to his senses. But...

Could he have regained partial consciousness there in the alley? Could the kill urge have come upon him, in his befuddled state, and crazed him momentarily? The address that Banklin had given him — had it led him to Darran... a knife... a struggle?

“Hell, no!” Bob choked. “I’m not going to think that. I wouldn’t have done it. I couldn’t have!”

His gaze had come to rest on Darran’s left hand without, at first, noticing anything unusual. Then he realized that Darran’s hand was clenched, pulled up in an awkward position. He moved around the bed, took the chilling hand, pried the fingers open.

At first he thought the hand was empty. Then, almost invisible against the dead flesh, he saw the minute white piece of lint. Part of a feather? It had stuck to Darran’s sweaty flesh, but it could have easily been a piece of down that had worked its way partially from the lumpy pillow. In a last death spasm, Peewee must have clutched at the neatest thing, his pillow — jerking his hand away, still clenched, as death swooped over him.

Bob shook his head. He tried to think. His mind was muddled, the thoughts coming through like car lights stabbing heavy fog.

He looked toward the window. There might be a fire escape, a way that he could get out of here without being seen.

He was halfway to the window when the door behind him slammed open. It brought Bob around in a half crouch. Steve Ivey was standing in the doorway.

A dim light in the deserted hallway silhouetted him. Like a jungle cat, ready to pounce upon its prey, Steve moved forward. The light glinted dully on the gun in his hand.

“I’d stand still if I were you, Bob.” Steve heeled the door closed.

Bob’s mouth set in bitter lines. He looked from Steve to Darran’s body, back to Steve. “I guess you love this, don’t you?”

Steve ignored the question. “Why’d you do it, Bob? Damn you, don’t you know what this will do to her — to Pam? You think it’s worth all that just to get your revenge on Darran?”

“Talk on, copper. You’ll never believe I didn’t do it.”

He watched Steve’s face, the motions of his body. Neat tailored suit; neat, almost handsome face. Neat, inhuman efficiency.

A dumb punk found with a corpse. Caught red-handed. Another conviction for the fair-haired smart boy, the homicide cop. Steve might experience a momentary pang that it was his girl’s brother, but he’d flick it aside. Duty, he’d say. And at headquarters they’d pat him on the back, offer their sympathy, make a legend of him, and Steve would go on until maybe one day he’d become the commissioner.

Bob stood with a great empty space inside of him. He forced calmness into his voice. “How’d you get here, Ivey?”

“A phone call. Another tenant here in the house.”

Bob took a step toward him. “And where’s the tenant? It doesn’t strike you as funny, that kind of call, with the tenant not sticking around to see the excitement when you got here?”

“You’ll have to do better than that, Bob,” Steve said coldly. “Nobody likes to get drawn in murder, even as a material witness. A guy living in a neighborhood like this one wouldn’t stick around after reporting a murder.”

Bob took another step. His brow was hot and damp. A one-time loser already, with plenty of motive. Why look further? Why be silly and complicate a perfectly obvious killing?

He shivered a little, his mouth opening and closing. Steve laughed, smug and sure. “Give me your hands, Bob.”

Bob set his teeth against the cocksureness of the laugh, held out his left hand. Steve Ivey reached toward his back pocket for handcuffs.

Bob moved then, going in fast. His left hand grabbed the gun, swung it up. His right fist smashed Steve in the face. Steve cursed, held to the gun, brought his other hand up in a short, hard jab.

Bob took the blow on his mouth, tasting blood, seeing the swift flash of fire across his brain. He hit Steve again, and again.

He saw Steve’s head snap back, his eyes roll up in his head. Steve began to buckle at the knees, and Bob stepped back. He watched Steve crumple to the floor.

Breathing hard, Bob scooped up Steve’s gun, crossed the room, cracked the door. The hallway was still deserted. With a sob of relief Bob closed the door on Steve’s prone form and Darran’s corpse. He moved quickly toward the stairway that would lead him down to the black, rainy night outside.

The rain had slackened, but the street ahead of the cruising taxicab was still slick with moisture. The neighborhood was one of cheap shops, of old brick buildings with black, vacant-looking windows. Here and there one of the old buildings had been converted into an apartment building.

Before one of these, Bob’s cab pulled to a stop. He paid the driver, tipped sparingly. The driver muttered, pulled the hack away.

Bob stood on the sidewalk a moment. Banklin wasn’t living well, judging from the looks of his apartment. It had taken Bob an hour and a visit to two of Banklin’s old haunts to get this address.

He mounted the steps, entered the building. The vestibule was dimly lighted, thick with old mustiness. Stairs creaked here and there under his feet as he climbed to the second floor.

With the passing of the light shower, the heat had returned to the night. Sweat beaded on Bob’s forehead. Somewhere down the hall a man was snoring loudly.

Bob stopped before the doorway of Banklin’s room. A thread of light showed under the door. He put his ear against the panel, heard nothing at first. Then he heard Banklin’s heavy sigh and the clink of a glass against the neck of a bottle. Bob waited, but there was only that one clink, indicating that Banklin was probably alone.

Bob gripped the doorknob in his sweaty hand, turned it. He jammed the door wide, stepped into the room.

He got a flashing impression of a worn rug, a lumpy couch, a cheap radio almost buried in a mound of racing forms on a table. On the walls were photographs of prizefighters, ball players, night club entertainers: mocking, dusty reminders of Banklin’s better days.

Banklin was in a threadbare easy chair, his shirt open at the throat, a glass in his hand, a bottle beside the chair on the floor. He heaved himself up at the sight of Bob, his eyes bulging. Breath rushed out of him as he stared at the gun Bob had taken from Steve Ivey. He slipped back in his chair.

“Well...” Banklin wheezed, trying to gain a little composure. “I see you’re up late tonight, Bob. Have a drink?” He eyed the gun.

Bob advanced in the room. Banklin sat poised, his hands trembling faintly. He tossed off his drink, eased his bulk up out of his chair.

“Bobby pal, why the gun?”

“To make sure a little talk we’re going to have goes perfectly straight. I’ve got no time to beat around the bush. I saw Darran. He’s dead.”

Banklin’s face went slack; his jowls quivered. “Dead? Hell, Bobby, I never dreamed... I just thought you’d rough him up... Bobby, you’d better scram out of town fast!”

“Why?” Bob said harshly. “I didn’t kill him. I think you did, Banklin!”

Stark surprise whitened Banklin’s face. “What gave you that kind of idea, Bobby?”

“I think you were in that blackmail mess. Old Thad Berrywinkle, remember? You were shaking Berrywinkle down. He kicked. You’re the one who killed him. But Darran knew. You located him, but were trying to figure a way to kill him with safety. Then I walked into the picture. The perfect fall guy. The perfect way to kill Darran and never have the police even suspect you, because they’d already have a sucker to burn!”

Banklin’s mouth worked. “No, Bobby. You got it wrong. It wasn’t me behind the Berrywinkle killing. You know me better than that! I wouldn’t touch that kind of stuff. Not murder!”

Banklin backed up until he was against the wall. He could retreat no further. He was staring straight in Bob’s eyes. What he read there made him shudder. He sobbed out words:

“Bob, no — not the gun! You got to listen to me!”

“I will. For about ten seconds.”

Banklin was all blubber, slumped against the wall, his face oily-slick with sweat.

“Bob, here it is straight — you got to believe me! Darran had a little money stashed away, see? But he couldn’t get to it. He knew that the Berrywinkle killer was after him. He was afraid the killer might know about his nest egg, be watching it. So Peewee made a contact — with me. He told me where the dough was so I could get it to him. He had to have it. It was his only way of getting away, out of the killer’s reach.”

Hard lines grew in Bob’s face as he looked at Banklin. “I get it,” he said flatly. “You’re a big mass of slime, Banklin. Somebody ought to step on you and turn their heel hard. You were Darran’s closest friend. You got his dough. But you didn’t deliver it. You pulled about the lousiest double cross I’ve ever heard of. Then I walked into the picture and you sent me to Darran’s, hoping I’d either kill him or scare him so bad he’d he willing to swim the river to get out of town!”

Banklin stared at the floor, his face working. “I had to do it, Bob. You don’t know how rotten my luck has been. When I got my hands on that money, I couldn’t just hand it to Peewee.”

“Okay,” Bob said. “Maybe you’re telling the truth. It’s just the kind of lousy trick you’d pull. But that still leaves the fact that somebody carried me to Darran’s and left me there with his corpse. If you know anything else, talk, fat man, and talk fast.”

“Sure, Bobby! Look, I’m your pal. Soon’s you staggered out of the Gilded Lily, Harry Heintz left the booth. I sat there wondering what I could do for you, Bobby. I swear it! Then the girl, Marcillene, came up to the booth — asked if that hadn’t been you.”

“Marcillene?” Bob whispered.

“Sure, Bobby. She went back to the piano. But she only played one more tune. When I got up to leave, I noticed the piano bench was empty.”

“And Harry Heintz?”

“He was already gone, Bobby. I don’t know where the two of them went. It’s the truth, so help me!”

Bob said slowly, “You’re going to get a chance to prove it. Come on.”

“Sure, Bobby, sure. Where we going?”

“To see Harry Heintz. Is he still living at the same place?”

Banklin nodded jerkily. “In the Ardmore. The same swell apartment. I...” He hesitated. “One more drink. Bob? Time for that?”

“Sure, take your drink. You’re going to need it. I’m going to have the gun in my pocket, my fingers on the trigger. One phony move, Banklin, and you’ll do your drinking in hell. I already got one corpse around my neck. A big, fat, pink one extra wouldn’t matter a damn.”

“No,” Banklin squeezed out a laugh. “It wouldn’t, would it? But no phony moves, Bob, I swear it!”

Bob tossed the bottle to the thoroughly cowed man, waited for Banklin to pour his drink.

The Ardmore Apartments comprised the upper five stories of a six-story arcade building. The arcade on street level and mezzanine was given over to a drug store, cafeteria, hobby shop, a few suites of offices, and small, expensive dress shops.

The building was quiet, filled with the hush of darkness before the dawn as Bob and Banklin walked down the fourth floor corridor. Bob punched the fat man with the gun. “You know what to do, Banklin.” Banklin mopped his face and nodded. The terror of the gun so close to him was greater than the terror of leading Bob to Heintz’ apartment. Banklin pressed the buzzer beside Harry Heintz’ door. Seconds walked away on fast, pricking feet. Banklin buzzed again, and there were muffled footsteps in the apartment.

“Heintz?” Banklin said against the closed door. “Let me in. It’s Banklin. I got something you’ll want to know.”

Bob was over to one side, with Banklin’s bulk covering him. The knob clicked. The door opened a crack. Bob couldn’t see Harry Heintz’ face, but it was Harry’s voice. “This is a hell of time to be calling,” Heintz said to Banklin.

“I know, but this couldn’t keep. Let me in, Harry. It’s about Peewee Darran!”

A night chain rattled. The door swung back. Bob gave Banklin a heave that slammed him into Heintz and sent the two of them staggering. Bob stepped into the apartment quickly, closed the door. He leaned back against it, watching Harry’s face whiten when he saw the gun in Bob’s hand.

The living room was long and spacious, with wide windows at the far end. The carpet was pale tan and deep. Massive couches and chairs gave the plate a feeling of indolent comfort.

Heintz got a grip on himself. He straightened his coat, touched the knot of his tie, brushed his hand back over his blond hair. He looked from the gun in Bob’s hand to Banklin, eyes glittering.

“He made me do it!” Banklin said, almost in a sob. He sank in a chair, buried his shaking face in his palms.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Heintz turned his back on the gun, walked across the room, picked up a whiskey decanter from a scroll-legged table. “You got the gun, Bob. I hope you got some idea of what you’re doing.”

Before Bob could speak, a door opened across the room. Marcillene saw him, then the gun, and stood like a frozen bird.

He looked at her. She was wearing the same gown she’d worn earlier at the Gilded Lily. It hadn’t been long since the Gilded Lily had closed for the night, since she’d got off work. And there in her hair, the same feathery flower she’d worn at the piano. Bob’s mind received the crashing picture of a dead man’s hand. Pewee Darran clutching a tiny white piece of down, a feather that had stuck to his hand when he died...

Angel-face, Bob thought. Through long years of separate, suffering days and nights she hadn’t come once to see him. She’d never been Bob Myrick’s girl; she wouldn’t belong to a sucker.

She was moving toward him, trying to smile over her awareness of the gun.

“Stop, Marcillene!” he said harshly. “I mean it.”

“But, Bob...”

“I said, stand back! I just realized something, Marcillene. There has to be a woman in this. A woman, first, to get the goods to blackmail the old geezer, Berrywinkle. But why not a woman all the way? A woman to kill him, to track down Darran, and kill Darran too to silence him? It would be easy for her, with a hired hood, maybe, to lug the unconscious patsy to Darran’s so the killing wouldn’t come home to roost.”

“Darran,” she breathed. “Darran dead? I didn’t know!”

“Let’s can the act. In Darran’s hand was a tiny white feather. Did he snatch at the feathery flower in your hair? Did you take the flower from his dying hand, fluff it out, put it back in your hair?”

His voice snapped off. Heintz had moved over to the writing desk. His hand was near the desk drawer. “Hold it, Harry!” Bob said.

They stood that way during a frozen moment. Then Bob said:

“Your lapel, Harry. No imitation gardenia in your buttonhole right now. I’ve never seen you without it before. It’s always been as much a part of you as a toupee is to some men. So the bit of down in Darran’s palm didn’t come from the flower in a girl’s hair — but from the imitation gardenia you were wearing when you killed him! Darran snatched the flower, struggling with you, but you got the flower back. But not all of it, Harry. You left just enough.”

He jerked the gun up, but Heintz was moving fast, reading Bob’s face. Bob fired, missed. Heintz threw himself down and sideways with blinding speed. He scooped the gun from the desk drawer. He squeezed the trigger.

Banklin flung himself on the floor, rolling for the shelter of a chair. Marcillene screamed, dropped beside Banklin.

Bob fired again. Sweat was needling down into his eyes. He heard the crash of Heintz’s gun, felt the bite of the bullet in his shoulder. The impact knocked a cough from Bob. He was spun back, and the gun he’d taken from Steve Ivey slipped from his fingers.

In a haze, he saw Heintz’s gloating face. Heintz was bringing his gun up, taking his time... it was all so obvious now. Heintz behind the Berrywinkle mess, having to kill; Heintz, with his connections, inevitably locating Darran; Heintz finding a prime fall guy when Bob walked into the Gilded Lily, and making Bob drink a drugged drink and sleep for awhile with Darran’s corpse. And now Heintz was ready to kill again.

But there’d had to be a woman from the beginning. Marcillene. She’d got the blackmail goods on old Berrywinkle. She’d played her string with Heintz right on through the murder.

For a moment, the thought of her, the memory of her lips, drove unbearable pain through Bob. Then the pain began to die; for the gun before him was very real and she was pulling herself from the carpet, crawling toward Heintz.

The gun crashed. But the sound came from behind Bob, not from Heintz’ gun. Heintz jerked up on his toes, blood splashing down the side of his neck. His gun slipped from his grip, and he began a crazy, twisting fall to the carpet.

Bob turned. Steve Ivey was standing in the doorway, a gun in his hand. Big, competent, a hunter of men.

He pushed in the room. “You okay, Bob?”

“I’m all right,” Bob said. “He barked my shoulder just enough to knock the gun out of my hand. But how did you—?”

“I figured you’d come here,” Steve said, leaning over Heintz to watch him draw ragged breaths. “I was working on the Berrywinkle killing. Everything I’d dug up so far pointed to Heintz — old Berrywinkle’s keeping company with Marcillene before his death, Berrywinkle’s movements the day of his death... and of course Darran. We had a good idea that Darran was holing up because he’d been on the scene of the killing and knew who did it. So tonight, when I discovered Darran’s murder and let you get away, I’d already mentally tagged Heintz for it.”

“You let me get away?”

“I had the gun,” Steve said simply. “I could have blown your brain out.”

“But why? Why let me get away?”

“I knew you hadn’t killed Darran, Bob. No killer is going to hang around a murder long enough for the blood to dry on his hands. But if I’d hauled you in, I’d never have been able to tell that to the Inspector or the D. A. with the kind of case they’d have had against you. If I’d pulled you in, you’d have been their man. Another assignment for me, and I... Oh, hell, Bob, I know you think I’m nothing more than a guy out hunting with a gun and a badge. Maybe I am — but I always like to hunt the right man.”

Bob swallowed. Coldness in Steve’s eyes? Sure, for the guys who deserve it. But that didn’t mean it was part of the man. Pam had been right about Steve all the time...

A hand touched him. Bob turned. Marcillene was standing close beside him, looking up into his face, smiling.

“Bob,” she said. “There’s so much I’ve got to explain...”

It was there. A golden image of beauty. His for the taking. Heintz was down and he was top dog now. But Bob thought: I was right in the middle of it when Berrywinkle’s killer was brought down. I’ll be a stellar witness at the trial. Maybe she’s thinking that I can lie enough to save her lovely neck.

Her beauty shook him. He couldn’t deny that. But time would lessen the pain until it became only a vague memory. Time can change a man. Three years behind walls had shown him that, Bob thought.

Bob turned away from her and bent over Heintz. Heintz was groaning. The wound in the fleshy side of his neck was not too serious.

“Heintz,” Bob said, “can you hear me? She was your girl. You said it, remember? She’s been with you all the way, an accessory before and after the fact. But maybe, just maybe, you can tell it to them so she’ll get off a little lighter than you. You’d hate to sit in the hot seat and know that all this beauty is going to be the next customer, wouldn’t you, Heintz?”

Bob turned then and walked from the apartment. Steve didn’t try to stop him. As he pushed through the aroused, excited crowd outside the apartment, toward the clean outside air of the early morning, Bob knew that Steve understood.

It had been a tough road. But Bob had reached its ending. He was home at last.

Deadliest Enemy!

Originally published in Detective Tales, October 1952.

I closed the car door behind me and bored my way across the village street through the lashing snow, moving toward the lighted warmth of Len Abbott’s general store. It was a bitterly cold day, an angry north wind hurling the snow down through the mountain passes. Though it was only four-thirty in the afternoon, the village lay cloaked in a thick, gray near-darkness.

I stomped my feet and shook my coat when I was inside the store. Len was dozing behind the counter. Three mountain men were grouped on nail kegs around the potbelly stove in the center of the store. Len said, “Howdy, doc.”

“Any mail for me?”

Len handed over a couple of envelopes and a small, brown package, mail from relatives and sample drugs from a pharmaceutical house. I stuffed the mail in my pockets, and bellied up to the stove, feeling its warmth on the full, red flesh of my cold face.

Though a mountain doctor has little time for such things, I always enjoyed a stop-off in Len’s. Like the mountains, the store hadn’t changed in its reflection of a way of life. The store meant grub when crops went bad or a man’s livestock sickened. It was a meeting place where Saturday poke buyers swapped news of Dogwood Mountain for news of Jackson’s Cove. Girls in their teens flirted behind their mamas’ backs and in summer young bucks pitched horseshoes or staged weight lifting contests with sacks of grain in the store yard. The main thing I liked about the store was its smell. It smelled just as it had when I was a boy coming to town with pa in the buggy when Len’s pa ran the store, fifty years ago. Time had blended the odors of new harness, salt meat, chewing tobacco, fresh denim, fertilizer, snuff, candy, crackers, until there wasn’t another smell quite like it on earth.

The trio about the stove continued their various occupations: one dozing, one chewing homemade twist, one just as studiously whittling thin shavings into the shallow sandbox in which the stove was set.

The tobacco chewer fried spittle against the cherry-red side of the stove and said, “Doc, I hear Edie Clane has had her baby.”

A silence took possession of the store. The whittler paused; the tobacco chewer stilled his lank, lean, stubbled jaw; the dozing man cracked his eyelids.

“Where did you get that?” I asked.

“Rufe — the sheriff — told me. Said he was up there at the Clane place this morning, figuring the weather must have drove Jack in out of the hills. Said Edie is poorly from having the child with only a midwife.”

I felt the muscles on the back of my neck tighten. They were looking at me, waiting for me to affirm the report. But I didn’t affirm or deny. I said, “Edie can take whatever comes her way.” Then I turned up my coat collar against the wind and left the store.

Rufe was getting ready to leave his office when I got there, a swirl of snow entering with me. He grinned at me and finished stuffing the ends of his muffler under his leather jacket. He was a tall, handsome young man. There was rawboned, sinewy strength in the sweep of his shoulders and quick intelligence in his brown eyes. Rufe was born an inch above the average cut of man. He was hard-working, honest, a leader among his people. There was only this one bad flaw in him, this blind, unreasonable hatred he bore for Jack Clane. I, and all those close to him, knew that it was like a festering sore, eating away at the good fibers that made him a man.

“Doc,” he said, “this weather has brought the blood ready to bust out of your cheeks.”

“Not only the weather,” I retorted.

He raised his brows and went about pulling his hat down snug on his head.

“You know what I’m talking about!” I said. “It’s a low-handed trick you’re trying, putting out that rumor that Edie is sick from having her baby all alone. You know that word will get to Jack when he stops at some cabin for food or passes a hunter in the hills. You figure a new born babe and an ailing wife is bait strong enough to get Jack in the trap you’ll be ready to spring on him.”

“I’m the law,” Rufe said, “and he’s a would-be murderer on the run. If I can’t find him by going out in the hills, I’ll make him come to me. Doc, whose side are you on anyway?”

We stood a moment eye to eye, glaring. Then I sighed. “You young fool, whose side have I always been on? This poison you’re nursing inside yourself is about as safe as sleeping with a rattlesnake. In your heart you know that Jack Clane is no would-be murderer. And a trick like this — it’s beneath you. It’s not like you.”

He had pulled on his gloves. He was ready to leave. He locked the office when we were outside. I watched him walk to the mud-caked car with the sheriff’s emblem on the door. He walked straight, not bending against the fury of the storm, his booted feet hitting the frozen earth solidly, a gun hanging at his side, a star pinned on his chest. I shook my head and moved off toward my own car.

Jack Clane’s place was halfway up the reaches of Huckleberry Mountain. It consisted of a few acres of meadow land and rocky hillside farming patches. The barn and corn crib sat off beyond the house, which was a low structure of hand-hewn logs the color of brown earth, set tight and snug against the breast of the earth itself. This was the kind of place that required the hard fertilizer of a full measure of a man’s sweat, a place that yielded only when forced to by determined, work-calloused hands, if the human beings on the place were to survive.

By the time I stopped my car in the narrow, rutted dirt road below Jack’s house, the snow was abating, but the wind was higher. Whole stretches of barren, frozen mountainside were completely naked of snow. The wind had whipped it away to pile it in powder fine drifts in the low places as the snow had fallen.

I stumbled and slipped a time or two as I went up the path toward the small yellow spots of light that marked the windows of the Clane house. Puffing, my nose feeling like an ice box ready to start dripping, I knocked on the cabin door. It was opened by Belle Felder, the fat, sleepy-looking fourteen year-old daughter of a family across the ridge.

I moved inside quickly and Belle closed the door. Edie was sitting in a rocking chair near the yawning stone fireplace where an oak fire crackled. My knock had brought her to the edge of her chair, and she didn’t relax even after she saw who it was.

I put my bag on the center table, peeled off my gloves, and stretched my hands out to the fire. I smiled at her.

“You’ve got some word of Jack,” she said.

“Nonsense. I simply thought to stop by and check on my prettiest patient before turning in for the night. How do you feel, Edie?”

She ignored the question. She was a small woman of delicate bones. Her face was thin, made alive by a dream-like kind of sensitive beauty. As sometimes happens with slender women, she was great with child, massive with child. It seemed as if this offering to her race stirring within her would never stop growing.

I had worried about her more than I cared to admit. The delivery would take place right here in the cabin. That was tradition, convention; that was where all hill babies were born. But a factor far stronger than convention bound her to the cabin — her dread, surpassing even her terror of first-birth, that Jack would risk himself to return to her side and find her gone when her time came.

She looked into the fire; then turned her head to me and her large, dark eyes seemed to have gathered to themselves some of the heat of the flames. “I know what Rufe is trying to do. The Felders heard as early as this morning. That’s why they sent Belle over.”

“Are you sure Rufe started the rumor?”

“Who else would? Rufe couldn’t catch Jack; so he’s using this way.”

“There isn’t much I can say on Rufe’s behalf, is there? Would you believe me?”

“No, it wouldn’t be like you to defend him for a hateful thing,” she said. “Once I thought I loved Rufe. Now I can’t help pitying him. He’s living with his own private devil.”

After I examined her, I gave her a light sedative. She’d be hysterical before long if she continued to think back over this day, the arrival of Belle, big-eyed to see the baby, her questioning of Belle until she understood the tale that had been started.

When I went out in the night again, I paused below the cabin. My gaze moved over the windswept reaches of the wild mountains. I didn’t know exactly what I expected to see, perhaps Rufe’s shadow in the pale, cold moonlight that had come with clearing skies.

Alone in my house that night, I lay in my feather ticking and tried to sleep. The rushing wind, moaning in the eaves, annoyed me. Slumber danced away from me in the flames in the fireplace. My mind was on edge, remembering.

It was written in bone, muscles, blood, and brain that Jack and Rufe be either friends the powers of darkness couldn’t sever or the bitterest enemies. There was no middle ground, no meeting place for those two. The presence of one was a challenge to the other.

It had begun years ago, when both attended the one-room country schoolhouse below Walnut Gap. Jack’s ma had died and his pa had sent him from north Georgia, one segment of a broken family, to live with an aunt and her husband.

Rufe waited for Jack by the schoolhouse pump that first day. Rufe spat on his knuckles and said, “You have to fight me if you go to this school.” Rufe’s words carried no bravado. He wasn’t a bully, simply a young, primitive king already sensing a challenge to his domain. The boys fought that day, as if they were men, toe to toe, silently. Neither quit; both stopped fighting from exhaustion that left them on the earth sucking for air. But Rufe knew in his heart that the other boy had the edge on him.

They fought eleven times during that school term. Beatings by their elders failed to stop them, and the beatings they gave each other settled nothing.

Rufe went away to school, and Jack went to work on his aunt’s rocky, hillside farm. Rufe had advantages that Jack could never have, security, the prestige of a family that had long supplied the hill people with leadership. Yet Rufe would have gladly surrendered all these things if he could have, one single time, met Jack Clane on exactly equal terms and thoroughly and decisively whipped him.

When war came, both men quietly enlisted. Rufe became a lieutenant, Jack a sergeant. Rufe caught a piece of shrapnel on his first beachhead in Italy. Jack’s fighting carried him all the way from Normandy to the Rhine.

After they came home, sobered by war, they fought less often; only when they met at a schoolhouse dance or shucking bee.

The real trouble began when Edie Simmons came to the village to take the telephone operator’s job. With her delicate beauty she was like a gust of springtime. Rufe began seeing her constantly. He grew quieter in bearing. His eyes shone when he spoke her name. His hand trembled when he touched her.

Edie met Jack some time later when she went to a quilting party at his aunt’s house. He drove her home that night, and from that moment, she was a changed woman.

Six months later she married Jack. Men sat in church during the ceremony, blood pulsing thick and cold in their veins, and wondered if there was going to be a shooting in the church yard when the service was over.

But nothing so direct would now have appeased Rufe’s anger. Several months later he suffered the final outrage. He heard that Edie was going to have a child. Up to this point he might have felt that somehow he would gain her in the end. Now he knew that she was lost to him forever. He took the news with a pale face, and lips that tightened until his flashing white teeth were laid bare.

He took to stopping by the Clane place when he was in the neighborhood to pass the time of day, he said. It was a suffering man’s excuse to torture himself with the sight of her blooming toward the birth of another man’s child. Here for Rufe’s eyes was the evidence of love, the token of the manner in which her spirit was welded to the spirit of the hated enemy.

Jack was quiet on these occasions, as he was when he and Rufe met in town. Jack recognized the deadliness in the man before him. The same sidewalk wasn’t big enough to hold the pair of them, and it was Jack who slipped to one side, but with a calm grace that bespoke no cowardice, only common judgment, and made him the silent, un-aggressive victor.

Rufe was sheriff now, a young man of power in the community. What thoughts passed through his head none can say, but his cold attitude, the glitter in his eyes when Jack Clane’s name was mentioned indicated that Rufe had but one hope for his future, the utter annihilation of his enemy.

It so happened that a hound dog put Jack at Rufe’s mercy. A big, red-spotted creature, the hound belonged to a sullen farmer named Clem Coggins. The dog ran beneath the wheels of Jack’s truck as he was homeward bound in the dusk.

He delivered the dog’s crushed body to the Coggins place. Coggins came out of the house, saw the dog, and knocked Jack down. Jack struck back. Coggins tumbled from the blow and struck his head against the corner of the cement cap on his well.

Coggins was groggily getting to his feet when his wife and three children came out of the house. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Coggins,” Jack said. “I didn’t mean to kill the dog, or hurt your husband either. Better get him inside and dress that head wound. It’s bleeding some. And try to calm him down and tell him I’ll pay whatever the dog is worth.”

That was Jack’s story, as related by Edie.

I was called to the Coggins place late that night. Clem was in a near-coma when I arrived. He was suffering a fractured skull.

Jack vanished into the hills, a fugitive from a warrant charging him with attempted murder. Perhaps he hoped that Clem would relent as his condition improved. Or perhaps he hoped not at all, struggling only because that dogged courage would not allow him to do otherwise, knowing that surrender would place him in the hands of Rufe. Six days now he had endured the pinching hunger, the bone-rotting cold. In his mind must have been the intention to endure indefinitely, until Edie had her baby, until he could steal the two of them away to leave the hills and Rufe’s hatred forever.

It was a hatred poisoning my own flesh and blood; Rufe was my only son...

Lack of sleep caused aches to filter in my joints the next day. The snow still lay in the hollows and the earth crunched beneath a footfall. The sky was a cold, metallic blue. It turned into a leaden sheet as the day progressed and finally was tinged with purple when I went home.

The woman from the tenant family on my place, who has swept the house and done the cooking since my wife died, had put my supper in the range warmer. I felt too tired to eat, but ate anyway. I’d made the Clane place my last stop before heading for supper, and my mind was filled with thoughts of Edie. She was waiting for something horrible to happen, and I wasn’t surprised that her endurance was being beaten down to the vanishing point. Later tonight I intended to make another call at the Clane place.

Meanwhile there was a fire spreading its warmth through the parlor. The high-backed leather chair had molded to my body through years of use. My head nodded forward. I slept.

A shaft of brittle cold moonlight was reaching through the window when I awoke. The fire had died away to a few embers in the fireplace. My body shook against the cold that had seeped into the house. I started to get out of the chair, and a hand, lean, sinewy, strong, clamped over my mouth.

“Don’t holler, Doc,” Jack said quietly.

I relaxed and he took his hand away. I turned to look at him. He was a thin shadow beside my chair. Moonlight touched his face, making shadows of his eyes.

“I heard the tale, Doc. I came to see. She hasn’t had her baby, but she’s having it now. Worry and nervous strain are hurrying things up.”

“I’ll get my bag.”

“And an overcoat, Doc.”

“You’re cold?”

“No, but I’m hurt a little, and I don’t want her to see the blood. I’ve been shot. And your boy is right behind me, Doc.”

I brought him the overcoat, and he put it on. He was on his feet, still able to move. Edie, I decided, needed my attention first.

Jack and I walked halfway across the front yard before the headlights swooped over the hill above the house and bore down on us. Jack made a movement. I caught his arm. His face in that moment reflected the pain and naked hatred of years. But the moment passed, and a new expression took possession of his gaunt features. He was austere, beyond the reach of wounds most mortals feel. He stood straight, unbent, unyielding as the sheriff’s car swung to a stop.

“He saw you. You’d never get away.” I said. “But I promise you, Jack, that you’ll be there when your baby is born.”

Rufe got out of the car, his gun already drawn; He walked toward us, tall in the moonlight. The two men faced each other across this moment that was the apex of all the years they had lived. There was little for them to say. Rufe had run his man to earth; Rufe stood with all the power either of the two could summon in his own hands. Yet Rufe had not won. Rufe was not the victor, because Jack refused to be the vanquished.

“You don’t need the gun, Rufe,” I said. “He’s already carrying one of your bullets.”

“He was carrying a rifle,” Rufe said, “and refused to stop.” He motioned with his gun. “We’ll go back to the village in my car, Clane.”

“We’ll all three go to the Clane place in mine,” I amended. “His being there might make the difference between life and death for Edie. You can have your prisoner when I’m finished with my patients.”

Still he held the gun. My thumb pressed the latch on my bag. It flipped open. My other hand reached and withdrew the pistol I always carry in the bag.

“I’m sorry, Rufe. I made a promise to Jack. If it’ll make you feel any better, let’s just say that I bagged your man first.”

His hat brim shaded his face in the moonlight, but I saw his mouth move, forming words that made no sound; then slowly, he bolstered his gun.

Once or twice during the drive to Jack’s place, I wondered if I had a dying man on my hands. He swayed and gasped in the seat beside me. Every mountain doctor has experienced times when he needed four hands, two brains; a dozen hands, half a dozen brains — for that matter. As long as Jack remained conscious, I had to close my mind to everything but Edie.

Her moans smote us as we walked in the cabin. Belle Felder was hunched in the corner of the room, staring at Edie, biting her fist, and sobbing. I sent her into the other room.

As the wave of pain subsided, Edie eased her teeth from her lip. She held out her hand to Jack. He took it, kneeling by her bed. In the light of the fire and the yellow, flickering lamp, fine drops of agony sweat shone on her forehead and cheeks. She looked at Rufe and said to Jack, “He brought you back to be with me?”

“Yes,” Jack said quietly, “Rufe brought me.”

“Then everything will be all right,” she said in a limp voice.

Another pain took possession of her. The battle began in earnest then; and in five minutes I knew we had a real fight on our hands.

Her agony was long. It took the three of us to deliver the man-child, Rufe holding her against the bed after she went half mad with pain, Jack helping as much as he was able.

Then it was over, and she sank in slumber. I wrapped the baby and tucked him in the basket she had prepared for him days ago. Rufe watched me. When I finished tucking the baby in, he had turned his gaze to her sleeping face. Then he brought his glance to Jack and said, “Are you ready?”

“He needs some patch work,” I said.

Rufe cut me short with a gesture of his hand. He and Jack looked at each other, and I suddenly felt as if they had slammed a door in my face.

“I’m ready,” Jack said.

“Then stay that way. I’ll be back to get you when Doc has dug the bullet out of your ribs. I’ve beaten you all the way through. Did you know that, Jack Clane? I whipped you as a kid just as often as I took a whipping, but I had the notion in my head that you had the edge on me. I took some bullets in Italy. You never did. I whipped you wrestling, pitching horseshoes, lifting grain in Len Abbott’s store yard. If Edie had held the feeling for me every man wants in a woman, I believe I’d have whipped you there, too. I always beat you, but I never could seem to win. Tonight I found out why.

“You refuse to take the beating. You had me fooled all these years into thinking I was the one who was getting the licking. Now that I know the real score, I don’t feel the need to try beating you any more. I don’t need Clem’s lying testimony, and I don’t need Edie’s grief.” He turned and walked from the cabin.

Jack said, “He’s a scrapper, that one.”

I walked to the cabin door. Rufe was moving down the hill before me. The air was so cold it brought mist to my eyes.

In the brittle moonlight, my boy’s shadow lay straight, tall, and clean-cut against the hillside.

A Beautiful Babe and Money

Originally published in Manhunt, October 1957.

I was bone-tired when I locked the last gas pump, turned off the lights and closed the garage door. It had been a long day. One of an endless number of days.

I crossed the concrete apron, got in my jalopy and started the motor. I gave the filling station a last look. It was tired and grubby in the early night. I’d really tried to make a go of it here, but one man can only do so much.

All I wanted was to get a hot bath, food, and some sleep. I lived half a mile down the road from the station. The cottage, nestled among some pines, had looked good, like the station, when I’d first brought Helen here. Now, as the headlights swept over it the cottage looked like the station. A pitiful lot of nothing for a man to break his back over.

I parked the crate beside the cottage. When I entered the small, dark house, I got the living hell knocked out of me.

I didn’t know the blow was coming. No warning. No reason for it. It glanced off the side of my head and knocked me sprawling on the floor.

I was numb at first. I had sense enough to roll away from the direction the blow had come. Then the dime store lamp on the wicker table flicked on. A really beautiful blonde babe had turned the switch. She was tall, sheathed in a black dress that nudged the imagination to exercise. She was looking toward me. Her features combined to give her face a lazy, dreamy look. There was a kind of vacuum in her blue eyes. But if she was short on brains, it didn’t matter. She had so much of everything else, she wasn’t supposed to have brains.

I came out of my stupor enough to move my head. A man was standing over me. He was husky, but trimmed lean, like an athlete. He wore a good looking suit of some soft blue material, white shirt, silk tie. His face was square-cut, hard. A thin smile was on his lips as he looked at me.

“Hello, Joe,” he said quietly.

I watched him drop his gun in the side pocket of his suit. I hadn’t seen Greene in quite awhile. We’d been neighbors in the same slum area, gone to the same school, dated in the same crowd.

A lot alike, Greene and me. And a lot different. Both of us had hated the place where we grew up. Greene was for slugging his way out. I’d always thought different. While he cheated in school, I struggled to make decent grades. When he was out stealing hubcaps, I was shagging groceries for old man Spivak’s market.

By the time we were grown, Greene was in the habit of calling me Joe The Sucker. I was sort of glad when he drifted away from town to avoid trouble with the local law.

Now he was back; here in my house. And real trouble was not far behind him this time. I’d heard the newscasts. He had killed a big-time bookie in the state capital. The bookie had been holding his collections. Nearly two hundred thousand dollars.

So here was Greene with a beautiful babe and all that money.

I got slowly to my feet.

“Sorry, Joe The Sucker,” he grinned. “I hope I didn’t hit you too hard. But I had to impress on you that I mean business. You were always such a timid, honest little snot.”

That wasn’t exactly accurate. I’d never been timid, little, or snotty. I was as big as Greene and just as tough. But he had the gun.

The beautiful babe drifted over to his side. He slipped his arm around her and gave her a brief squeeze. She accepted the attention without batting her big, beautiful, dumb blue eyes. She was certainly a knockout for looks.

“Princess meet Joe The Sucker, the honest punk I was telling you about.”

“Hi,” Princess said. “We hate awfully much to inconvenience you.” She pronounced the words like maybe she studied a dictionary real hard.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Ain’t you interested in why we’re here?” Greene said.

“I can imagine,” I said.

“Real smart,” Greene laughed. “What do you imagine?”

“You’ve had to abandon your car someplace. You’ve needed a hole to hide in. The bookie’s boys as well as the cops would like to see the color of your blood. The usual hiding places would never do. The bookie’s boys would know about the ones the cops don’t. So you thought of Joe. The sucker from a long time back. The isolated cottage where he lives alone.”

“Yeah,” Greene said. “You got it about right. He always did have brains, honey,” he added to Princess, “though he never had the knack for using them.” He brought his eyes back to me. “We don’t want to be a lot of bother, Joe. I really mean that. We’ll have dinner with you, stay the night, and borrow your car tomorrow morning. Nobody’d ever think of looking for us in that heap. We’ll leave you tied up and somebody will find you.”

If I didn’t starve first. I had no friends out here. No regular customers much at the station. The station was so run-down it would look deserted. If I didn’t show up, folks might think I’d finally thrown in the sponge.

“Let’s eat,” Green said, giving me a shove toward the kitchen.

As I passed the wicker table, I noticed the briefcase on the floor beside it. Greene saw my glance. He laughed, like rubbing salt in a cut. “It’s full of money, Joe The Sucker. Something you never had.”

“It’s such terribly, awfully beautiful money,” Princess chimed.

“Yeah, and as long as I got it, I got you, eh, baby?” Greene said.

“That’s right. I do love the beautiful stuff,” she assured him.

“Too bad you ain’t got dough,” Greene said to me. “You could have a babe. Even the Princess, if it wasn’t for me. Cripes, you can’t really blame Helen for getting bored stiff out here and running off with the first guy who offered her some excitement.”

“I’d rather not talk about it,” I said. But Greene followed me into the kitchen, chuckling. He was really enjoying this. For some reason or other, he’d always hated me. I’d always got under his skin. I guess it was because I’d tried to live by a code he could never measure up to.

“Still the same Joe,” he said, standing behind me as I got some canned goods out of the overhead cabinet. “Hiding his head in the sand. Not talking about what has really happened. Pretending that things are always going to be better. A genuine, twenty-four carat sucker, if I ever saw one. Why don’t you get wise and see yourself for what you really are? A poor sap stuck on the edge of nowhere, working his guts out for a lot of nothing.”

“And I guess you got so much more, Greene?”

“I got the money, the clothes, the babe.”

“How about if you get caught?”

“I’ll take my chances. They’re good. Once out of the state. I’ll have my choice of directions. The hunt will die down. Already there are people in the capital putting the hush on. Big people who don’t want that dead bookie’s connections coming to light. Which is what might happen if I’m caught and a thorough investigation gets under way.”

He chuckled again. “Me and the Princess. On the beach at Miami. Taking a plush trip to South America. Driving the best car, eating the finest food, drinking the tastiest imported stuff, wearing clothes you couldn’t afford in a month of Tuesdays, Joe The Sucker. Stack that up against what you’ve got. Which of us is the smart guy? Take my advice and get wise to yourself.”

He was in high good humor. But that wasn’t what put the shakes in my hands. The pictures he had painted. That’s what caused something to snap tight inside of me.

I happened to glance at Princess. She gave me a lazy smile.

Princess would go with the money.

And the money was just in the next room.

I opened the drawer to get out a can opener. Instead of the can opener, my hand closed over the handle of the heavy butcher knife. My body hid the knife from Greene. He was close behind me.

He’d never have a chance, fast and physically conditioned from hard work as I was.

For a second something tried to tell me that Greene was really wrong. Life didn’t work his way indefinitely. There had to be a settlement sometime with life.

But that was all in the future.

Right now there was Princess and all that money.

I gripped the knife hard.

And I decided at last to take Greene’s advice...

Next!

Originally published in Manhunt, March 1957.

I had the shakes before the day had started. Joyce came into the bedroom with that vim and briskness that’s especially detestable when you’ve got the shakes.

She opened the blind and sunlight scalded my eyes.

“Well, it was quite a night, wasn’t it, Marty?” she said.

I lay still, wishing she would go away, wishing that dawn hadn’t come.

“Getting to be quite a habit, isn’t it, Marty?” She was there and she wasn’t going away until I got up. “What is it you’re running away from, Marty? What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” I growled.

“Oh, yes, there is,” she said. “You’ve become moody, developed quirks — and your drinking is getting out of hand. I think you ought to see a psychiatrist.”

I sat up at that. I had a good laugh; then sat shaking my head.

“It’s only because I love you, Marty,” she said, coolly.

I guess she did, in her way. I looked up at her. At forty-two she was still attractive. Figure and face that knocked ten years off her age. We’d been married twenty-five years. I was still on the same job, same grind, same routine. It suited Joyce fine. She liked things well ordered, without emotion. I didn’t know what I liked. I’d never really had the chance to find out. I’d accepted the routine and anytime the inner steam had come bubbling up I’d managed to clamp the valves tight enough.

There’d been Robby of course. Thinking about him, I still wanted to cry. Joyce hadn’t cried, even at his funeral, three years ago after the accident at Wright Field. A fine lad, Robby. He’d always wanted to be a jet pilot.

Joyce’s self containment at the funeral had made me feel like a weak-minded small boy.

“We must accept life, each day, for what it is, what it offers,” she had said. “Can I bring Robby back by brooding?”

She was right, I guessed. She was always right.

“Marty!” her voice snapped me out of my reverie. “Will you get dressed! You have to go to—”

“Don’t say it,” I said.

“What? Say what? You see how strange you’re acting?”

I opened my mouth. But I didn’t speak. You live with a woman for a quarter of a century, you know what they’re going to say before they say it. And I knew her well enough to know I’d never make her understand that a person could be afraid to go into a barber shop, so scared their insides knotted at the very idea.

I don’t know when the thought first came to me. Perhaps one day during a shave.

Maybe you’ve never had such a thought. Maybe you have. You’re stretched out there in the chair, comfortable, relaxed, a hot towel over your face. Everything is fine. You listen to the barber whet the razor... snick... snap... snick...

You wonder how many thousands, even millions, of times he’s pulled that razor across the leather strap. Doesn’t he ever get tired of it, the same grind, the same routine?

Then the whisper of the gleaming razor over the leather begins to take on a sinister sound. Maybe he is tired of it. Maybe he’s got a shrew of a wife and more debts than he can ever pay. Maybe all sorts of things are all bottled up inside of him.

The towel is lifted. The lather goes on. He is breathing rather heavily. He’s tired, that man, deep down tired. Who knows what’s bubbling around in his mind at this moment.

The razor touches the skin. It slips easily down the side of the face, lifting just before it reaches that soft flesh under the jawbone.

He wipes lather from the razor. His nostrils flare with each indrawn breath. He’s not talkative, this barber. There is a brightness, a sort of heat, deep in his eyes. All the cares and worries of the world are back of those eyes, the frustrations, the memories of missed opportunities, the regrets. The whole weight of the past.

Now he’s looking down. He’s seeing that pulse, steady and strong beating beside the Adam’s apple under his hand. He’s standing there holding the razor. It’s made of the finest steel, sharper than the sharpest knife. Is there a thread of racial memory deep within him of tribal raids, of the high elation of seeing an enemy fall, bleeding, on the edge of a sharp sword? How soft the flesh, how sharp the weapon.

He stands over the supine creature in the tilted-back chair. The razor comes toward the flesh. The pulse beats, throb, throb, throb...

The razor touches the flesh. This barber is master at that moment of life and death. The supine man is helpless. A twist of the wrist... a sudden pressure... death is only a fraction of an inch away.

Has he ever considered his power, this barber? Does the soft flesh and the helplessness of the supine man and the sharp glitter of the razor hold any kind of fascination for him?

He is tired. He has been on his feet all day. He has trimmed heads of every size and shape, massaged diseased scalps and healthy ones. He is tired of the whole mess. Yet at this moment, he is master of life and death and it gives him a lift.

What if he should choose this moment to snap?

Then he is finished. The chair tilts upright...

“Marty, your breakfast is going to be absolutely cold!”

“Yes, dear.”

I knotted my tie, slipped into my coat. I really had the shakes. I needed a drink, a bracer, but there was none in the house.

I overcame the urge to run from the nauseatingly healthful and beautiful breakfast of ham and eggs. I gagged a little food down.

“Really, Joyce,” I said, holding the edge of the table. “I don’t feel so good today. I think I ought to go back to bed.”

She pierced me with her eyes. “Marty,” she said quietly, “there’s not a thing wrong with you. You just keep trying to run from life itself, is all.”

I couldn’t explain. She’d never understand.

I dragged myself out of the house, got in the car. I had to sit there a minute. I was gasping; there was a pain in my head. My mouth was terribly dry. I needed a drink bad.

Backing out of the driveway, driving down the street, I tried to think of the business of the day ahead. But I didn’t want to think about it. I knew what it would be — the repetition of a million other days. All I could think about were the dreams and ambitions and plans I’d had a long time ago. It seemed that a different man had dreamed them, not Marty starting the day with a trip to a damn barber shop.

The parking lot was just ahead. My foot was shaking when I applied the brakes and drove into the lot.

I remembered to give the attendant a calm, pleasant good morning. Really, I wanted to tell him to go to the devil, because the lot was across the street from the barber shop.

Traffic was heavy, and I had to control a sudden urge to dash through it to reach the shop.

I got across the street all right, but just outside the shop. I found that my feet wouldn’t move.

This was ridiculous.

I needed a drink, all right.

I was suddenly dizzy and leaned against the building a moment for the dizziness to pass.

Then something snapped inside of me. It was like a little explosion at the base of my skull.

I could make it now. I straightened, walked inside the shop.

As I passed the long wall mirror I glimpsed my face. It didn’t look so tired right now. There was a small, secretive smile on my lips.

I said good morning and took off my coat. Then I donned my white coat and took my place beside the chair, the same spot where I’d stood for twenty endless years. Well, almost the same spot. In twenty years I’d advanced from sixth chair to second. Old man Routher was still ahead of me, at chair number one.

I was as much a fixture as the shoe shine stand in the rear of the shop. Nobody paid any attention to me. Nobody asked why I started working right away on my razor.

The answer was perfectly clear — to me. I wanted the razor very, very sharp for my first customer this morning...

Midnight Blonde

Originally published in Manhunt, May 1957.

The girl sat alone in the curved leather booth of the bar. A half consumed glass of sherry was on the table before her. She made no move to touch it. She sat with her hands in her lap. She had sat this way, absolutely motionless, for the past ten minutes.

A man entered the bar. His brief first glance at the girl became a lingering one as he slowly passed her booth. In looking at her with appreciation, he joined the company of every man in the place. There was little talk. And not a moment passed that at least one man wasn’t glancing toward the girl who sat there, unmoving and alone.

She seemed unaware of the indefinable something she had brought into the bar. It wasn’t her beauty alone that attracted attention. She was small, but very shapely. Dressed in black. She wore her glossy blonde hair cut short, with a hint of curl at the ends, and casual bangs that accentuated the dreamy quality of her large dark eyes. Her smooth tanned complexion heightened further the hint of ageless mystery in her eyes.

Yet for all the enticement and sophistication of the girl there was a quality of terrible innocence about her. This quality reached out and made men at the bar feel more masculine than they had in a long time. It reached out and touched them, and some of them would therefore remember her before they went to sleep that night, or while answering absent-mindedly the question of a wife.

Her eyes stayed on the clock behind the bar. It was a pretentious clock, ringed with orange neon, its face illuminated by a pale orange glow. The hands indicated that the time was exactly nineteen minutes before twelve. The clock was ten minutes fast, an aid in getting the last, lingering customers out of the bar by legal closing time.

Twenty-nine minutes before midnight.

The girl’s lips parted; she had small, gleaming, even teeth. The pink tip of her tongue touched her lips briefly. She sipped the sherry at last.

Twenty-eight minutes.

The man who had just entered the bar continued to look at her over his shoulder while he walked to the bar and ordered a highball.

The bartender put the drink before him. The man raised his brows in a question, making it clear by a jerk of his head in the girl’s direction that he was asking about her. The bartender glanced toward the girl and shrugged.

The man tasted his drink, turned slowly, and stared boldly at the girl.

She was still watching the clock.

Twenty-seven minutes.

Holding his drink, the man moved across the short intervening distance until he was standing beside the booth. He was a tall, rangy man of about thirty, dark in coloring, nice looking without being handsome. He stood without speaking for a moment; then he said, “Hello.”

The girl looked at him. He took a quick breath as those luminous eyes of hers met his.

“What did you say?”

He smiled. “I said hello.”

“Oh — hello.”

“May I buy you a drink?”

“I have one,” she said quietly. It was neither a rebuff nor an invitation. She continued looking at him, studying him. He took a quick pull at his drink as if he were losing his poise.

“Are you waiting for someone?” he asked.

He was the center of attention now. Not open attention. Guarded glances. Nobody was drinking right now. The bartender was busy with his bar cloth, but the movement was strictly mechanical.

The man’s face reddened a little, as the girl took a long time in answering.

“Yes,” she said finally, “I am waiting for someone, I suppose.”

The invitation was there now, in her low voice, her eyes, but the man hesitated — as if there were something he failed to understand. For an instant, as he turned his back to the bar, he appeared sorry he had started the whole business.

He glanced over his shoulder again at her, however, caught the eyes that quickly cut away. His smile returned as he took his poise back in hand.

“We could say you were waiting for me,” he said with an attempt at lightness.

“Yes, we could.”

“Then may I sit down?”

“By all means. And come to think of it, I’ll have another sherry.”

The man sat down. Like an almost audible rustle, attention was turned from him. Men were drinking again, discussing baseball, business, women in low tones. The man had carried the ball into the end zone. He had done what every man in the place would have liked to do. He had picked up the girl, made the conquest.

Yet he was not completely at ease.

The girl was still looking at the clock.

Twenty-two minutes.

Her gaze didn’t waver even when the bartender brought her sherry. Her profile was delicate and lovely; but a large part of her wasn’t there, staring like that at the clock.

The man coughed politely.

She turned to look at him. “Oh, I am sorry,” she said. “Thank you for the sherry.”

“You live around here?” he asked. “I haven’t seen you before.”

“I just came to town.”

“I hope you’ll like it here. It’s a nice little burg, though it gets pretty cold in winter.”

“I think I’ll like it very much,” she said, “for as long as I’m here.” She smiled at the man. Up close, her teeth had a faintly pointed look.

The man cleared his throat. “By the way, my name’s Larry.”

“Mine’s Jeannine.”

“It rather fits you,” he said.

“Does it?”

“I mean, innocent and yet kind of — unknowable.”

Little sparks went off deep in her eyes. “I think I like that.”

She looked again at the clock.

Nineteen minutes.

Her cheeks became pink; in her eyes the sparks became a flare of excitement.

“Do you work here in town?” Larry asked. “Transferred here maybe?”

“What?”

“I asked if you worked here.”

“Oh, no, I’m visiting a friend. A girl who was my roommate in college. I haven’t seen her since she was married. I’ve been in Florida.”

“Nice down there.”

“It depends on what happens to you.”

His brows raised. “Only something nice could happen to someone like you.”

“Is that the beginning of a line?”

“No. I mean it. Really. Anybody who’d even think anything bad about you should be treated like a mad dog. They’d be out of their minds.”

Her face pinked with pleasure. She sipped her sherry and looked at him over the rim of her glass. He tossed off his second drink and ordered a third.

Her eyes were on the clock again.

Sixteen minutes.

He tossed off his drink straight. He was beginning to feel them. He signaled for another before she had touched her fresh sherry.

“Listen,” he said. “I think that clock’s got you hypnotized.”

“Is my looking at it that noticeable?”

“I guess it is,” he said. “I just noticed, didn’t I?”

She smiled; there was a trace of invitation in it now. “Why don’t you have another drink?”

He hesitated, as if there were something he didn’t understand. Something strange. Something that only a deep seated instinct reached out and touched. Then he gave a what-the-devil shrug and ordered another drink.

“If you’re planning to find work here,” he said, “maybe I could help you. I run a fairly good real estate business. Belong to some clubs. Know quite a few people.”

“Are you married?”

“No.”

She smiled. “You hesitated. You are married.”

“Well, I don’t see much of her.”

“Misunderstood husband?”

“No, I just don’t like her. But there are two kids and...” His voice trailed off.

“It makes no difference,” she said. “But aren’t you gambling a lot?”

“You mean, just sitting here, talking to you?”

“Well, you’re a respectable businessman, you say. A family man. Scandal would hurt you very much.”

“My wife knows how I feel about her.”

“Oh, well, that does make things simpler for you, doesn’t it.”

“I suppose you could say that.”

“Simpler for us,” she said softly.

In the dim light of the bar, she was a gifted artist’s most beautiful creation. Almost too lovely to be real.

His breath quickened. “I think we’re going to understand each other.”

“You’ll never understand me,” she said.

“I’ll try.”

“You shouldn’t try too hard. I warn you.”

“Instead of a warning, I’ll have a drink,” he said.

“You’re old enough to know what you want to do,” she said. “But I’m glad I warned you.”

He smiled expansively. “I know how to take care of myself.”

“I knew you’d say that.”

“How did you know?”

“I know you quite well.”

“How could you?” he laughed. “I only met you minutes ago.”

“No, I met you a long time ago. In many different places. There are a lot of men like you in the world, Larry. Wife, couple of kids, a business — all pretty light stuff when they’re weighed against a thrill.”

“Hey, you need a drink.”

“All right.”

“None of that lecture stuff. How do you like that — we meet the way we did, and you start a lecture.”

“I just want to make sure I really know you.”

“You know enough. I’m a nice guy. I go for you in a big way. That’s all you need to know.”

“Okay,” she said. “We’ll never mention it again.”

“That’s fine,” he said. He paused. One of his words had been thick. He laughed. “Another drink, I need. And you’re beautiful.”

“Am I?”

“Positively.”

“More beautiful than your wife?”

“Make her look like a frump,” he said.

“Beautiful enough to die for?”

“Say now...”

She became cool, remote.

“Look,” he said. “You throw a question like that at me...”

“Yes, Larry?”

“Well, in a manner of speaking, I guess a guy could say you’re that beautiful.”

She leaned back in the booth, began laughing softly.

His eyes sobered. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Cut that out,” he said.

“Why?”

“It gives me the willies. It’s — you’re like two people, Jeannine. One of them little and delicate and innocent. The other...”

“Yes, Larry? Tell me.”

“I dunno. Mysterious, kind of. Puts ice in my blood.”

“So you’re afraid?”

“I’m not afraid of anything! Why should I be afraid of you?”

“Yes, why should you be?”

She turned her attention once more to the clock behind the bar.

Seven minutes.

A faint shudder, like a caress of strange pleasure, passed over her.

“Listen,” he said. “I got to know about that clock.”

“It’s only a clock,” she said.

“Not to you. It ain’t to you.”

“I’m waiting, Larry.”

“Yeah, until when?”

“Midnight.”

“What happens then? The coach turn into a pumpkin?”

Her dreamy eyes searched his face. “You’re beginning to get drunk, Larry.”

“So what?”

“Sure you don’t want to go home?”

“Nope. I’m sticking with you. Meantime, I want to know what’s with that clock.”

“It’s telling me something, Larry. Every tick is a whisper. Like soft, dragging footsteps, taking a last walk.”

He was silent a moment. He blinked at her. His eyes cleared somewhat, came into focus.

“Last walk? Let’s not talk morbid, doll.”

“You asked me.”

“Yeah, but this last walk business. Why should the clock remind you of that?”

“It paints a scene for me, Larry. I can see every detail. Wouldn’t it be funny if the clock stopped at midnight?”

“That clock won’t stop, not unless the electricity goes off.”

“I know — it will keep going. On and on. One midnight is just like another to the clock.”

“That’s right — and what’s so different about this one?”

She didn’t answer him. Her eyes were on the clock.

Four minutes.

A pulse was beating in the hollow of her throat. She glanced at him. “Meet me down on the corner, will you?”

“Now why should I—”

“I don’t want to be seen leaving with you. Leave, Larry. Now!”

“Well, okay,” he said rather stiffly.

“I won’t be long,” she said. “You’ll be there?”

His face lost its sudden touch of ill humor. “Sure, but don’t keep me waiting.”

Larry slid out of the booth, paid the tab, and left.

The girl watched the clock.

One minute.

Light came and went in her eyes. Her teeth gleamed.

Midnight.

She slumped back in the booth, as if exhausted.

In a far off state penitentiary a man had been seated. A switch had been thrown. Impulses, like unleashed demons, had crashed through wires, relays. The man had died, for the capital crime of rape.

Larry was standing impatiently on the corner. He came forward to meet her. She stopped, waiting. At her left was the mouth of an alley.

Larry reached out to take her arm. But as he looked in her eyes, he became frozen, hand outstretched.

“Beast,” she said. “You beast.”

Her hand went up and tore the shoulder of her dress. Then she began screaming.

Larry grabbed her, tried to shut her up by shaking her. They were like that when the shout of the cop came toward them.

Larry stood in confusion a moment. Then he broke and ran. He heard the shouted command to stop, two sharp cracks of a gun... pain, a falling into a deep black pit of pain...

Jeannine was crying when the cop reached her. “That man... he... I was going home... I...”

The cop loomed big and stalwart over her innocence and delicacy. He looked at her misty eyes and his jaw muscles knotted.

“There, there, little lady. He’ll never hurt nobody no more. Now, try not to think about it...”

Lead Cure

Originally published in Manhunt, July 1957.

It was Joe Edgerly’s wedding night. He sat on the side of the bed in the expensive motel room and held his head in his hands.

Lean, slim, muscular in his new pajamas, he stared at the floor and wondered if any of the other guests in the motel had heard his wife scream the moment he had touched her.

Wedding night.

But we’re not husband and wife yet.

I wonder if we ever will be.

She was quiet now, lying very still on the bed behind him.

“I’m sorry, Joe,” she said in a faraway voice.

He turned his head slowly to look at her. His eyes ached.

Her body molded the bed linens beautifully. Her face, for all its waxen cast, was the loveliest thing he had ever seen. Her blonde hair spilled and sparkled across the pillow like gold.

She was looking away from him. At the window. At the night. Or at something far beyond the window or night.

“It’s all right,” he said. It wasn’t all right, but he didn’t see how he could say anything else.

She wasn’t crying now. She didn’t seem to feel anything. “You shouldn’t have let me cry out like that, Joe. You should have made me stop.”

He turned toward her, almost reached out to touch the white marble of her shoulder. He let his hand drop.

“We’ll forget this happened,” he said. “You’re not the first bride to get panic-stricken, Dusty.”

“I should never have let you talk me into running away and getting married,” Dusty said. “I’ll only hurt you. I’m not right for you. I’m — not pure, Joe.” The final words seeped out of her, almost inaudible.

He felt the muscles contort in his face, changing its dimensions and planes.

“Who hurt you, Dusty?”

“Joe...” she pleaded.

“Who?” he demanded.

“A man named Radford.”

“Did you — did you love this Radford?”

“I never saw him before that day, Joe.” Her voice pulled as tight as it could go, broke, and words tumbled out. “It happened three years ago, when I was living in Colterville. There was a swamp... out on the edge of town. My mother used to nag me to stay away from the place. But I liked the swamp, the old trees, the water... There was a shack in the swamp. I was tired. I went in. The place didn’t look lived in, just an old daybed and rickety table for furnishings. Radford — he came in while I was there.”

“An old bum,” Joe said.

“Not old. Young. Dressed up, he would have been handsome. But he was dirty. Living there like an animal. I told him I had wandered into the shack by mistake.”

She had to pause to get saliva into her mouth. Joe sat unmoving, only hurting. Each word like a bullet, he thought.

“He said,” Dusty whispered, “that he lived in the shack during the spring every year, on his way north from bumming around Florida.

“I wasn’t afraid at first. He didn’t talk like a tramp. I even began to wonder what made him tick, how a man who could talk well could be a vagabond, a homeless wanderer.”

“So you talked to him for some time?”

“Yes. And then as I was leaving, he looked at me with a twisted smile on his face and said it was too early to leave.

“I was afraid then. He came up to me and took hold of my arms. I screamed. He laughed. There was nobody to hear me scream...”

There was a singing in Joe’s head. It rose to such a pitch that he felt as if he were losing his balance and would fall off the edge of the bed.

He got up and lighted a cigarette and walked back and forth across the room.

She lay with her arm over her eyes, “You made me tell you, Joe.”

“It was best.”

“Now you’re upset.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You can’t deny it, Joe. It’s been a mistake. You should walk out the door and not come back.”

Joe lay down on the bed and continued smoking. He reached up and turned off the bed lamp. Dusty lay still and tense beside him. After a long time, he realized they were both pretending to be asleep.

The quiet shell he wore in the office brought some ribbing from men who worked with him.

“...Married life getting you down, Joe?”

“...Look at the guy — married a week now and all he can do is go around thinking of his wife. It’s almost five, Joe. Almost quitting time. You’ll be home to her in less than an hour.”

“...When do we meet the bride, Joe? Geez, I got to meet the gal who’s terrific enough to addle Joe Edgerly’s brains.”

By the end of the week, Joe admitted to himself that he had changed inside. The thing had grown in him like a ravening monster. He could think of nothing but Radford.

He went in old man Simpkins’ office and reminded Simpkins that he had several days of sick leave coming.

“I’d like a few days off,” Joe said.

Simpkins, a withered man with a dry sense of humor, leaned back behind his desk. “I guess it can be arranged, Joe. Can’t say that I blame you. I’d hate to come right back to work myself after a short weekend honeymoon. By the way, when am I going to meet the missus?”

“Very soon,” Joe said, “Thanks for the time off, Mr. Simpkins.”

Simpkins waved him out of the office.

Nevertheless, as if a part of him had been iced over, Joe left the office and drove across town.

He chose a cheap pawnshop. Dirty windows. Shelves and showcases piled full of broken dreams and moments of fear. A wizened old man, like a packrat, coming out into the light.

“I want to buy a gun,” Joe said.

“Do you have a permit?”

“No.”

“I can’t sell a gun without a permit.”

Joe put a hundred dollar bill on the showcase.

A claw with five talons and broken nails covered the bill. The money disappeared.

“I have a 38 revolver that’s in good working order,” the old man said.

“That will do.”

When he reached the cottage he had rented for Dusty, she was in the kitchenette fixing dinner.

She came to the living room while he was getting some papers out of the kneehole desk and stuffing them in his briefcase.

“Dinner’s almost ready, Joe.”

“I won’t be able to eat. Simpkins gave me a sudden business assignment. I have to drive up to Atlanta.”

“That’s too bad.”

He didn’t look at her. “I’ll be gone several days. Maybe even a week. Do you have enough money to take care of yourself?”

“Yes, Joe.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I get through this job.” He snapped his briefcase closed. “You sure you’ll be okay?”

“Sure, Joe. I might visit my mother.”

“That’s a good idea,” he said.

When he left the central Georgia town where he lived and worked, he didn’t drive north. He drove south by east, toward Colterville and the big swamp that sprawled just north of the Florida state line.

The night was balmy, the moon full. He drove with the windows of the car open.

The most beautiful season of the year. The season of promise and new life.

Spring.

He didn’t find the shack in the swamp right away. He searched for three days before he found the path that led to it.

He walked along the path as the sun was sinking. Blood-red sun, falling into the western edges of the swamp. The heat over the swamp sang with insect life. Cypress reared from the black water on knobby knees and wept Spanish moss over him.

Then as he rounded a bend in the path, the shack stood before him.

He stopped short, his breath catching. He felt the weight of the gun pressing his stomach hard behind the waistband of his pants.

He took the handkerchief from the breast pocket of his sweaty, tropical weight suit and wiped his face. Slowly. Almost carefully.

Then he walked forward again.

The door of the shack was standing open. Joe saw a man inside, hunkered over a rusty two-burner oil stove that was set atop an orange crate.

Joe stepped inside the shack, and the man whirled around. She had described Radford well, Joe thought. Young, handsome, if he had been dressed differently and that light of cruelty extinguished in his lean, angular face.

“Hello,” Joe said. The voice didn’t sound like his. It was quiet, with a faint ring of sadness in it.

“What you want?”

“Your name Radford?”

“So what if it is. You a cop or something?”

“No.”

“What you doing out here?”

“Looking for you, Radford.”

“Yeah?”

“You come here every year, I understand.”

“So what? The shack don’t belong to nobody.”

“That’s right.”

Radford stood with eyes narrowed, but confusion showing in his face. “You ain’t a hunter or fisherman that’s lost his way. You ain’t dressed for the part.”

“No, I haven’t been fishing or hunting — except for this shack.”

“What’s the shack to you?”

“I hoped you’d be here.”

“Me? Why me? I don’t know you.”

“No, you don’t. But I’m glad you’ve stuck to your habits and stopped off here for a few weeks on your way north.”

Radford scrutinized Joe from head to foot. “You seem to know a lot about me.”

“Enough. More than enough.”

Radford took a forward step. “I don’t like people messing in my business. I don’t like people, period. Least of all guys who come walking in looking at me like I was something to be mashed under their toe. Who are you anyway?”

“The name wouldn’t mean anything to you.”

“Yeah? Well, what brings you here?”

“You knew my wife,” Joe said.

There was a quick flare of caution in Radford’s eyes. “That don’t seem likely. I don’t move in your circles, bud. You’re sure you feel all right?”

“I feel fine. You knew her before we were married. Her name is Dusty.”

He watched Radford’s face.

“I don’t know any woman by that name,” Radford said.

“Your face says different. Your face says you’re lying.”

“I think you’d better get out of here,” Radford said.

Joe opened his coat and pulled the gun from his waistband.

“I’m going to kill you, Radford, for what you did to her.”

Sweat broke out on Radford’s face. He began walking back from the gun, moving on his toes. The back of his legs struck the edge of the daybed. His legs broke, dropping him to a sitting position. His face was gray beneath its beard stubble. He looked as if he were going to be sick.

Then as he stared at the gun, something deep buried in Radford began crawling to the surface. In a moment he was sitting almost straight.

“Do me any good to beg?”

“No,” Joe said.

“Then the hell with you. Only she ain’t worth it.”

“Shut up,” Joe said.

“You shut me up, son. You’re buggy with the idea of getting back at me, and I guess that’s an inescapable fact of life. She’ll be disappointed when she comes here this spring.”

“This spring?”

“Every spring, since the first one. Like she’s reenacting the first one. I always have to slap her mouth shut.”

Joe’s flesh felt as if it were freezing and burning at the same time. “You’re a liar, Radford.”

“Okay, so I’m a liar. I don’t have to work to convince you. What difference would it make?” Radford sat quietly on the edge of the daybed. Joe held the gun pointed at him. He looked down at his own hand and saw the gun begin to waver and lower, almost of its own accord. The gun pointed down at the floor, and Radford remained, sitting upright, not moving at all.

Maybe he’s telling the truth, Joe thought. Maybe that’s just what happens, every year, every Spring. Dusty comes to this shack, and Radford is here waiting for her...

That’s impossible, he told himself. He thought of Dusty, knowing she would never come to this shack, knowing that what Radford had said was impossible. He lifted the gun again, and it was pointing at the quiet man when he heard the voice.

“Radford...”

There was no fear in Dusty’s voice. Feeling nothing at all, Joe went to the door of the shack and looked out, down the path. Her figure was outlined, clear and sharp, in the light. She saw the shadow of him, not clearly.

She stopped and called: “Radford?”

The minute I was supposed to be out of town, Joe thought, she came running here...

He lifted the gun. He squeezed the trigger and saw the bullet hit her.

She had time only for a very soft, muffled scream as she crumpled and died.

The swamp knew one moment of absolute silence after the crash of gunfire.

Return No More

Originally published in Manhunt, January 1958.

Connors watched the cheap electric clock on the mantel. It was almost nine o’clock in the morning. He lighted a cigarette. His hands were shaking badly. She would leave at nine o’clock. And he would be alone in the apartment. He hadn’t been alone in over twenty years. He hadn’t been out of her presence since she’d met him at the prison gates yesterday.

She’d kept up a running chatter all the way on the drive into the city. Telling him about the apartment. Her job.

She’d been crying a little. Twenty years is a long time to wait.

They’d had dinner here in the apartment. They’d gone to bed early and he’d clung to her long after she was asleep.

He awoke at six this morning, the habit of twenty years. Early dawn had etched shadows against the window. He’d lain with his heart hammering, because the window was wrong. The window was huge, empty, opening into the vastness of sky and earth and buildings and people. There were no bars over the window.

Shivers had crossed his thin, wiry body as he’d lain for an hour and a half waiting for her to wake. At the first peal of the alarm, he’d grabbed the clock and said, “Myrtle! Myrtle, time to get up.”

She’d turned sleepily, smiled at him, and put her arms around his thin, corded neck. He’d been revolted by her touch, because it was transitory. She couldn’t stay here. By nine o’clock she would be out, gone to her job at the cafe.

Breakfast had nauseated him, but he’d forced himself to eat. She’d wanted him to eat so badly. Her eyes, large and brown, heavy and dewy like the rest of her, had been filled with concern for him.

“You just take it easy today, honey,” she’d said, laying her work-roughed, meaty hand on his. “It’s all over now. Twenty years of waiting. You are home.”

“Yeah,” he’d said. “Home... Myrt, it was good of you to wait. Not many women would have.”

“Well,” she laughed, “maybe nobody else would have me, big and blowsy like I am, with bunions that hurt and all.”

“You’re good, Myrt,” he’d said, a sadness unaccountably welling up in him. “You’re real good.”

“Ah, now, you say that to all the women, I bet.”

“In twenty years you forget what women is like,” he’d said. “You find they’re a kind of habit. Like fags or whiskey. You get so the habit is just a dim memory that don’t mean much.”

“You can learn the habit all over again, honey,” she’d said. “But with me. Exclusive, like they say. Just me.”

She’d pushed him aside when he’d wanted to do the breakfast dishes. “You just loll in the parlor. I’ll have these done in a jiffy.”

Now she was finished. The rattle of dishes in the tiny kitchenette had ceased to sound in the cheap apartment.

He stood puffing on his cigarette, fine beads of sweat breaking on his forehead. His face, like his body, was thin and narrow. Eyes in deep sockets. Eyes that seemed to have once looked into a great nothingness. A sharp nose and thin, twitching lips. Skin as pale as bleached white paper. Nerves very close to the surface all over the thin body and intense sweating face.

She came into the cramped living room, the comfortable, generous size of her making the room seem even smaller and meaner.

She was putting on her coat. He watched her do that, while the nervous tic got worse at the corner of his mouth.

Next her hat. She tucked a wisp of iron gray under the edge of the hat.

“I’m off, honey,” she said, turning to him. “Now you have a good day.”

She kissed him on the lips. Her mouth was heavy, damp, kind, and gentle.

He let her pull from his outstretched arms. When she was at the door, he said, “Myrt...”

“Yeah, honey?”

His mouth was parched. He licked his lips. After a moment, he said, “You have a good day yourself.”

“I’ll do that,” she smiled. “Just knowing that the twenty years is dead and gone will make me have a good day.”

She was opening the door. He didn’t want to see her leave. He turned toward the window.

He heard the door close. The sound of it was a soft blow, shaking him. He remained at the window, looking at the street below. He was seeing nothing out there.

Twenty years.

Dead and gone.

Everything changed.

The silence of the apartment began to squeeze off his breathing. It felt as if a weight were bearing down hard on his chest.

“My God,” he said softly. “My God.”

He grabbed his hat and ran from the empty apartment.

In the hallway, he stopped. He could breathe easier now.

Don’t be so damn silly, Connors. Don’t panic. Control yourself.

He held to the stair rail as he started to walk, down the flight to street level.

In the lower hall a door opened. He jumped, spun about. A young brunette woman was getting milk where it had been left beside her apartment door.

She wore a faded housecoat and her hair was done up in aluminum curlers.

“Hello,” she said.

“H... Hello,” Connors said.

“You’re the Mr. Connors from upstairs, ain’t you?”

“Y-Yes. That’s right.”

“Mrs. Connors is awful glad to have you back. All she could talk about... say, you feel all right, Mr. Connors?”

“Could I... have a glass of water?”

“Why, sure. Come on in.” She turned, raised her voice. “Harry, Mr. Connors from upstairs wants a drink of water.”

A heavy male voice inside the apartment said, “Well, let the damned con get it in his own place.”

The young woman turned, her face red, her eyes not meeting Connors’. “I’m sorry,” she said. “My husband — he’s a kind of grouch early in the morning.

“It’s all right,” Connors said, fumbling, his hat in his hand. He turned and darted from the building. He wasn’t running, but he gave the impression that he was.

On the sidewalk, he stopped short. The sun was bright, hurting his eyes. Traffic, snarled and brawling, was a din in his ears.

Good grief, where had all the cars come from? Look at the size and shape of them. They glittered and gleamed with a ferocity that caused him to stand a moment in horror.

He licked his lips and looked up and down the street. Children were playing; people were going in and out of stores; a big, dark woman was arguing in a screeching voice with a pushcart produce peddler.

Connors felt dwarfed by it all. The street reaching endlessly in either direction gave him the sensation that he was being stretched and pulled by the immensity of open space.

So much space.

The size of it built a hard knot in his throat. No order to this space. No gray walls to cut it off at its proper ending point.

He felt a strong urge to move, to flee the feeling that so much space imparted to him.

He dashed into the street.

Brakes squealed.

Horns honked.

A truck came tearing at him like a mountain on the move. The driver leaned out the window. “Ya damn fool, whyn’t ya watch where you’re going!”

Connors gulped and ran.

He reached the farther curb. He sat down and made an effort to get his breathing under control.

A pair of teenage boys, swaggering against the front of a building, watched Connors. They were a blond boy and a dark one. They looked at each other and grinned. The blond boy flipped his cigarette away.

Connors struggled to his feet. He moved toward the center of the sidewalk. A heavy man in work clothes bumped him, gave him a glare. Connors reeled to one side and collided with a slim, young, dark woman who carried a baby in her arms.

“S-Sorry,” he said. He stood in the middle of the sidewalk, people swirling about him. No plan, no pattern to their movements. No order.

His head was spinning.

He was carried forward relentlessly in the tide of humanity. He wanted to claw his way clear, but he was at the corner now; the light was changing and the tide carried him on.

He jostled his way to the safety of a building front. Two young men stepped to either side of him. A blond boy, a dark one. The blond boy was lighting a fresh cigarette.

“Hi, pop,” the dark boy said. He had a lean hard face; there was an animal look in his eyes. The early sun glistened on his duck-tailed hair.

Connors shrank away from them. There was something menacing in their eyes. Something cruel and hard and new that had come into the world since he’d seen it last.

“You the old con from across the street?” the blond boy asked.

Not so old, Connors tried to say. Forty-six. But his hair was gray and thin, his face pale, lined, twitching. Maybe he did look old to them.

“A real honest-to-john con,” the blond boy said. “Real tough.”

“He don’t look so tough to me, Jerry,” the dark boy said.

“How tough are you, pop?”

“I... I’m not so tough.”

“Hear that, Jerry? He ain’t so tough. What’d they can you for, pop? Taking candy from a baby?”

“No,” Connors said.

“Well, what? Come on, give with the details. We’re your pals, see? We wanna hear all about it.”

“Armed robbery,” Connors said in a whisper.

“Yeah? Filling station? Old lady in a grocery store maybe?”

“Armored truck,” Connors said.

“Hear that, Jerry? A real tough armored truck cracker.”

“What do you want with me?” Connors said.

“We just wanna see how tough you are, pop.”

“I told you. I’m not tough. Please let me go.”

“We ain’t stopping you, pop.”

Connors tried to move to one side. He bumped the blond boy.

“Don’t shove me, pop,” the boy said in a low tone. “Don’t shove me. I don’t like it, see? I guess I’m about as tough as any con.”

Connors’ throat worked as he looked at the young, hard animal eagerness of their faces. People eddied all about him, but he felt isolated, alone.

He fought the feeling of weakness in his knees. His eyes scurried in their sockets.

Then he broke and ran.

They followed him for a few steps.

“Let him go, Jerry. I guess we showed ’im. Tougher than any con.”

“Yeah, let’s see what’s doing down the block.”

Connors moved blindly through the immensity of space. He felt helpless against the disordered maelstrom about him. Like a man who has wandered naked from his house.

He reached the entrance of a restaurant. It was the place where Myrt worked.

He looked inside for some sign of her. Finally he saw her clearing a table. He stood with his face pressed against the broad front window, watching her until she went into the kitchen.

He turned away and began slow, unreal movements down the sidewalk.

He felt exhausted when he regained the apartment. He stumbled into the bedroom and fell across the bed. The strong feeling that something was wrong rose in him until it was overpowering.

He jerked around and sat up.

The door was open.

He sprang from the bed and slammed the door. Then he returned to the bed and lay down and pulled the covers over himself.

Myrt came in at two o’clock. She worked a split shift and had each afternoon off from two until five.

He heard her in the small living room. He rose slowly. The bed was wet with the imprint of his sweating body. He stood crouched near the bed, listening to her humming.

The bedroom door opened.

She stopped short, then smiled. “Hello, honey. Taking a nap?”

“I don’t want to talk,” Connors said.

He walked into the kitchenette. Why had she come? The bedroom had been almost dark and silent. Now, as he stood in the kitchenette, the roar of wild disordered sound from outside came crashing over him. His heart began to pound and his teeth chattered.

Myrt had followed him. She stood in the doorway. “You catching cold, honey?”

“Leave me alone,” he said.

“But, baby doll...”

“Leave me alone,” he said in a louder voice.

“Now, honey,” she said. She was coming toward him. Her great, heavy arms reached around him. He felt as if he were suffocating.

He shoved her with all his strength. He saw her twist and fall backward. The back of her head struck the edge of the sink. With her weight, the blow was hard and cruel. She fell down limp and Connors stood over her.

“Myrt?” he said.

There was gray matter and blood spilling out the back of her head.

She was dead.

He was sorry — for a moment.

Then he realized that they’d give him life for this. They’d take him back. Maybe he wouldn’t get the same cell that had protected him for twenty years. But a new one would do.

He went into the living room; he looked out the window. He had to look. At the teeming, seething jungle outside.

He looked.

And looking at it, his relief was so great that tears came to his eyes.

The Dame Across the River

Originally published in Manhunt, April 1958.

There was a house across the river. It meant nothing at first. Too many other things were real, thirty one-thousand dollar bills in each of the money belts Trantham and I wore day and night — and Ingram.

The money, and Ingram, and the river. Those were the real things when we first crossed the river. We had lost Ingram somewhere back yonder, we thought, in the endless days and miles of running. We couldn’t be sure. Ingram was a hard man, and a tenacious cop. Pathological in his tenaciousness. Nothing mattered to Ingram except winning.

Now the river was our shield and shelter. Even Ingram’s authority meant nothing here, unless he went through channels. And local and state governmental bodies in Mexico moved slowly. There were too many men in such bodies who carried a resentment of the large, powerful nation on their north border. It meant something to them to have the big northern neighbor asking for something. It gave them a chance to be important.

Trantham despised the hole we had run to. It was a sprawling adobe house on the edge of a village. Comfortable enough, and there was Zangara to cook and keep the place clean. But of an evening, the faint and only breeze of the day would carry the smells of the village to us. Sweat and sour cooking and refuse both human and animal.

Trantham would sit in the patio and curse. He made a serious occupation of it, cursing the heat and mosquitoes, and mesquite, and the resaca land itself. He hated it all. He was tired, bitter, and lonely.

I was sick of the place myself, and just as filled up with Trantham and his cursing. We were here because he’d left a set of fingerprints when we’d stole the money. He’d been fingerprinted before, Ingram had almost got us at the very start.

Now that we were here, I thought we should make the best of it. What else could be done? In a few days we’d know for certain whether or not we’d shaken Ingram. If he’d lost us, we could reenter somewhere in the Big Bend country. From there, I hoped Trantham would go to Vegas and spend his money. He talked enough of the lights and activity and of touching a woman again. With only stolid Indian faces in the village, Trantham tortured himself with the thought of a clean face and smooth slender figure.

For myself, I liked the idea of Oregon and the purchase of a business. I had made mine. I wore it next to the skin in the heavy belt. I was finished with that sort of thing — if Ingram had lost us and if we survived the heat and filth and screaming boredom on this side of the river.

Nobody in the village spoke much English. A few words. Even their Spanish was a bastard language of old Castilian and Indian words and corrupted American words that had lost their meaning and pronunciation in crossing the dividing line between the two countries.

Had there been a fluent linguist in the village it would have done us no good. They were friendly at first. But that didn’t last long. Trantham’s contempt for them took care of that. He despised them all, even more than he despised their land. And they sensed it. I could feel their sensing of it. I saw it in their eyes and silence, and their hatred reached out to us like a dark and tangible thing. A lurking, old hatred. It was spawned in the days of the Spanish conquistadors — and Trantham had fanned it and revitalized it with his curses and kicks and raw unconcealed contempt.

Soon, except for Zangara, we were quite alone, as isolated as we might have been on an island in the middle of the sea. The village was there, and we were here, and they had marked us taboo.

They stood and watched silently as we came into the village to buy food. They sold us rotten eggs and meat crawling with maggots. Or they told us by gestures that they had no meat, and we lived on grubby vegetables for two or three days at a time, until we sent Zangara into the village with enough money to bribe away a scrawny chicken or cut of mutton.

Zangara took our money and never returned change, though I suspected he was buying in the village at current prices. He was a tall, thin man of indeterminate age. His skin was like dark brown leather stretched over his bones. He had a great hawk-beak nose and pointed chin and crags of bone over his glistening black eyes. His coarse black hair grew low on his round, sloping forehead.

“Mucho dinero, señor,” he would say when I tried to find out how much an item had cost. Much money. All the money he had carried into the village.

Trantham would curse him until the curses ended in a choked gasp. And Zangara would look at him with his face a blank, brown skull. Trantham would wheel and stalk off, aching to break Zangara’s chicken-thin neck in his two heavy hands. But he never laid a finger on Zangara. We needed the man. Without him, we might buy nothing from the village. He was our final contact with the world. With something beyond this sun-baked adobe house and a pair of money belts holding thirty thousand dollars apiece.

As if our isolation were not bad enough, Trantham and I began to keep separated from each other. I was ready to gag on his raving. The mere sound of his voice became even more hateful than the endless heat and humidity. And my efforts to accept things calmly infuriated him.

We never permitted the tension to reach the breaking point. Each realized how dependent he was on the other. Each heard in the silence of the nights the throb, throb of hatred from the village and the rustling shadow of Ingram across the river.

By unspoken agreement Trantham and I avoided each other. If he were in the patio, I remained on the front porch reading or playing solitaire — and I even invented two new solitaire games of my own — or looking through the rusty screening at the river or mesquite.

And all the while this house stood across the river.

It was set apart from the small town over there as our house was set apart. It was frame, and looked very small from this distance. Brown, as if it needed paint and repairs. A house that had stood empty for some time, sleeping in the shadow of the cottonwood tree growing at the corner of the yard.

Then one day Trantham was very quiet. He was on the front porch and I was inside, reading. The very lack of activity on his part finally penetrated my consciousness. He never sat still or was silent for very long. Yet it seemed now a long time since I had heard any sign of him.

I threw aside the six-months-old, dog-eared magazine and walked to the front door.

The heat was a crawling, sticky thing, clouding the mind and souring the body. Yet Trantham was standing in the full glare of the sun, in the front yard.

He was looking at the house across the river.

There was movement at the house, the remote figure of a girl going inside. She was back out in a few seconds, lifting something to her eyes. A brief flash of light caught on the binoculars. She had them trained on Trantham.

I looked at him. His shirt was black with sweat, his hair around his balding crown stuck to his skull with more sweat. He was a big, tall bruiser with powerful rounded shoulders, a heavy chest and corded neck.

He stood unmindful of the sun that he had been cursing this morning. He waved.

I looked across the river.

The girl waved back.

Now it was Trantham who moved. He brushed past me like a bull elephant, giving no indication he knew I was there.

I heard him rummaging violently in his room. Then he came out carrying a pair of binoculars.

I watched him as he raised the glasses and looked at the girl. I saw him suck in his breath, and I saw a tremor cross his shoulders.

I looked toward the girl myself. But without glasses she was too distant from me for her beauty to do to me what it had done to Trantham.

I watched them a few moments longer as they waved and gestured toward each other; and then I went in my room and slammed the door.

Trantham was in much better spirits at supper. Several times he chuckled to himself as we munched on frijoles and tortillas.

For him, the boredom had been shattered today.

They played the game three days. Lurking in the house, the heat crawling through all my cells and veins, I hated Trantham for the first time. I’d never liked him, but this was something different.

I wondered how I could get the binoculars from him. I knew he wouldn’t give them up, and if I challenged him for them there’d be only one result. We were that much on edge.

At lunch the fourth day, Zangara had disappeared. I stood in the kitchen and shouted his name three or four times.

From the doorway, Trantham said quietly, “He’s gone over the river.”

I spun around. “What for?”

Trantham grinned. His face was big and heavy and oily. “He went across the river with a few bucks. That town over there is more Mex than American. He can find out.”

“You damned fool!”

His grin turned to a chuckle. “She’s a real looker, a real doll. Lonely and bored over there, I’m betting.”

“With Ingram in the house maybe.”

“Maybe. I’ll know tonight. Zangara will find out for sure. Those Mex boogers over there will know everything. They’ll talk to Zangara. He’ll get it all.”

I kicked the door closed behind him when he left the room.

I woke from a fitful sleep that night to hear voices. Trantham’s and Zangara’s.

“Good,” Trantham said.

“Lone woman,” Zangara said. “She work. Drugstore. In the town. No strange white man come to town.”

“Fine,” Trantham said.

I swung my feet off my lumpy rope and frame bed and stood up in the darkness. My body was slimy with sweat. The nights never brought much relief from the heat, only the heavy muck smell of the resaca land.

I heard Trantham leave the next room. I started after him.

He was already at the far side of the front yard when I reached the door. I stood with the pulse in my solar plexus beating hard against the heat and watched his heavy shadow blend into the mesquite.

I turned. Zangara’s black bead eyes jumped at me in the yellow lamplight. I cursed him for the first time. “Get the hell out of here!”

“Si, señor,” he said, bowing his way out backward.

I went in my bedroom and sat on the rough-hewn plank that framed the bed. I lighted a cigarette, a dry, hot, strong Mexican cigarette, and tried to get my mind off of it.

The rotten luck, having it happen to Trantham.

A lonely girl. A flirtation across the river. Soon now he would be hearing a woman’s voice, low and laughing.

I was out early the next morning with the binoculars in my hand. The girl was outside, walking across the yard. I got my first close up of her. A very beautiful Mexican girl. Black, waving hair, black, flashing eyes, full red lips. Full rich figure. Hips swinging as she walked up on the porch of the house across the river.

She reached out a hand. A man stepped from the house and took it.

The man was not Trantham, and my flesh was icy under its outer heat and sweat.

The man was Zangara.

The girl laid her head on his shoulder, looked up into his skull face and smiled. And they walked into the house together.

This morning I found Trantham.

He had washed up on the river bank. His throat had been cut. His money belt was gone.

I buried him under some rocks. Then I came back to the house.

Like Trantham, I am carrying thirty thousand dollars.

Zangara and the river are before me.

The village is behind me. I can feel the hatred and silence of it.

Trantham... the stupid, utter fool.

Murder Method

Originally appeared in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, January 1961.

We killed her, Ralph Corson and I, as surely as if we had used a knife or a gun, and it is the manner of the killing that haunts and torments me.

I met Peri in Miami. She was the wife of as good a friend as I ever had.

It was right after I lost my shirt in an orange deal. I’d bought a bunch of futures in oranges, and a freeze had killed the crop. I was sitting in a small waterfront tavern, making wet rings on the bar with a beer glass and wondering what to do next, when a man walked up behind me and laid his hand on my shoulder.

“Tom Danton,” he said in a quiet voice. “It’s good to see you after such a long time.”

I turned on the bar stool and felt better right away. Marty Janus had always affected me that way, even in our college days.

A subtle change came over any room Marty entered. He was a dark, good-looking, slender, energetic man, but it wasn’t his looks that did it. It was the Marty Janus dwelling deep in the flesh and bones, the Marty who believed in the beauties and joys of life, the worth of life, the worth, decency, and integrity of his fellow man.

But by no stretch of the imagination was Marty a dreamy starry-eyed fool. He was smart, tough, courageous. The occasional individual who tried to take advantage of him because of his outlook, social position, and wealth failed to sour Marty. He accepted them as part of the world and time into which he had been born and felt sorry for them.

In short, Marty was a rare man. I suspect that if and when Marty’s kind become the majority, most of the world’s ills will vanish along with fear and hatred.

“Sit down,” I said. “I’m buying.”

“Thanks. You re looking fit, Tom.” A smile crinkled the deeply tanned flesh at the corners of his eyes. “Fifteen years out of college, and I’ll bet you could still do a broken field run that would make the other team dizzy.”

“If I had Marty Janus with me as a blocking back,” I said.

“Hell,” he laughed, “you’re just saying it because it’s true. I heard you were in Miami, Tom. Wanted very much to see you. What you been doing for yourself?”

“I dropped my roll on some oranges.”

“That’s too bad. Married yet?”

“Nope.”

“Business deal lined up?”

“Not so far.”

“No strings on you — O.K., so we’ll go fishing. We’ll get the kinks out of our systems, the cobwebs out of the old brains, and figure out an assault on the future.”

“Thanks, Marty, but I...”

“I’m planning a trip. A real jaunt. You enjoy fishing?”

Tropical water, a brilliant sun, the roll of a boat, the big ones hitting... “Are you kidding, Marty?”

“Then it’s settled.”

“No,” I said. “I meant it when I said I dropped my roll. I couldn’t make a down payment on the bait.”

“The heat’s got him,” Marty said to no one, “so how can I consider it an insult?” He turned and looked at me. “All right, you’re broke. Think of the advantage in that. You can face the future, enter the next round of the scrap with everything to gain, not a thing to lose. Check?”

“I suppose. He wasn’t simply a wealthy man talking from a lofty position of security. Marty would never have to worry about money; but he’d made it honestly, because he’d been smart enough to know the time and place for his subdivisions and because people couldn’t be in the state a week without knowing you’d get your money’s worth if you bought a home in a Janus development.

As a kid he’d lived on a Florida farm with sneakers as his Sunday shoes. He’d waited on tables, studied like a Socrates, and played football to get himself through college. He’d worked on construction jobs in South American jungles and mountains and lived on beans for two years to get his first tiny capital together.

“‘I suppose,’” he echoed, “Tomas, muchacho, that proves it. You need open sky and fresh air to put some vigor in your outlook. I got a boat docked no more than a couple of blocks from here. I was on my way to the marine supply house when I glanced in here, did a double-take, and realized it was really you. The gear can wait. I want you to see the new boat, the Peri. It’s named after my wife.”

If you knew Marty really well, you could catch the faint inflection when he said “my wife.” He said it with a vast and deep contentment, as if life, after this, could only be perfect, never topping itself.

Water sparkled in the slips and lapped gently against the pilings. The masts of the yachts made a forest of clean, slender spears against the deep blue of the sky. Marty and I paused at a slip. He looked at me with a grin.

The Peri crouched at her moorings. She gleamed, mahogany and brass, all forty feet of her. She was sloop rigged, her cabins low, her bridge straining toward the open sea, her engine housings built for diesel auxiliaries.

I shared Marty’s grin. “She makes you feel like a Viking.”

“That she does,” Marty said.

We went down the short gangway onto the deck. A girl came from aft, out of the cabin. Marty went forward to meet her, taking her hand in his.

A magazine illustrator couldn’t have done the portrait better. She was lithe and graceful in white shorts and halter, carrying the vigorous animalism of her sex appeal quite unconsciously.

She was gold, while Marty was dark-tanned leather. His coloring made her hair seem more golden, her eyes bluer, and her hair and eves possibly made her lips seem redder than they really were. The top of her head came just above Marty’s shoulder, and she leaned against him slightly in an automatic little gesture of affection.

“Peri,” Marty said, “this is Tom Dan ton. Tom, my wife.”

She offered her hand. Her fingers were slim, cool, strong.

“I’m very pleased to know you, Tom. Marty has told me a great deal about you.”

I said something or other and let go of her hand.

Marty told her I was joining the trip, and she remarked that it was nice.

“Bring your stuff on board this afternoon, Tom,” Marty said. “Well get underway with the tide tomorrow morning.”

The rubber soles of white canvas shoes squeaked softly behind me on the hot planking of the deck.

I looked over my shoulder. A man had come aboard. Wearing a T-shirt, ducks, and an old yachting cap, he was long, heavy, big-chested in the body and short in the legs. His face was square, his features blunt. His eyes were black and small, or perhaps they only looked that way because of his black, jutting, heavy brows.

He stood spread-legged, as if the deck of a boat were home to him. He took off the cap, with the inverted V crimped in the cracked bill, and wiped the sweatband. “You get to the marine supplier, Mr. Janus?”

“Not yet, Ralph. We’ll go over there now,” Marty said. “T ran into a friend. He’s going with us. Tom Danton, Ralph Corson.”

The stocky man looked me up and down, offered his hard, callused hand for a brief shake. “Glad to have you, Mr. Danton.” There was neither welcome nor disrespect in his tone. “You know anything about sailing?”

“A little.”

“He’ll pull his share,” Marty said.

“Then we won’t need another hired hand?”

“I think not, Ralph.”

The stocky man shrugged and went aft.

“He’s not the friendliest man alive,” Marty said, so that Ralph Corson wouldn’t hear, “but he’s a competent seaman.”

I soon found out that Marty had told the truth about Corson. We fished our way down the Keys. Corson knew his business, and I didn’t mind taking his orders and instructions. But in less than a week, I’d begun to hate the man.

I couldn’t single out a reason for this feeling. It wasn’t in anything he actually said or did. His orders were peremptory, even to Marty. That was all right, as it should be. Out here, Corson was captain of the boat.

Nor was the reason particularly in Corson’s attitude toward me. He treated me as something of a cluck, a habit of sea-wise men toward the landlubber. To him, I was no more than a shadow aboard. Still, this was not enough to arouse the feeling I felt for him.

Then late one afternoon, I knew suddenly why I felt as I did. The Atlantic was as smooth as a tub of oil. Sea and sky were hushed, and I had the feeling that we were in a vacuum. We were making for port in Key West under the power of the auxiliaries because of the expected light blow. Corson was on the bridge, at the helm.

Everything aboard the Peri was secured. Marty’s wife had made sandwiches for dinner, and there was nothing to be done, aside from Corson’s task. Peri and Marty were forward, sitting very close together in deck chairs. They were talking to each other, but their tones were low and intimate and could not be heard above the steady whisper of the diesels.

They made a fine picture, sea and sky for a backdrop, she like an enticing golden thing that had come out of the sea and Marty like the hero from some book who’d captured her mind, body, and soul. Marty said something to her, and they looked at each other. And Corson stood looking at their profiles, and a bestial thing came to his face.

He didn’t know I was watching. I’d been at the stern. He hadn’t heard me come forward. I’d been on the point of speaking to him when that change had come to his face. His eyes glittered, his lips pulled back tight to show his teeth. Dark blood suffused the heavy planes of his cheeks and jaws.

His lips twisted as he spoke noiseless words to himself. I could guess that it was a speech of raw animal desire and hatred. Lust for the woman and hatred, arising from envy, of the man who could own her, and this boat, and the services of other people.

I turned and went quietly sternward. I went in the galley and mixed a drink for something to do. There was a suffocating feeling in my chest and a band of steel tightening about my temples.

I shook with my hatred for Corson.

Because I wanted the woman as badly as he did.

The revelation was not sudden, though it seemed so at the moment. It filled me with a quick and deep shame.

Marty was my friend — and she was a part of Marty. Not for a moment was there any doubt of that. She didn’t worship or idolize him. She simply-belonged to him, completely, without reservation. She wanted nothing more. She would never ask nor seek for anything more. She had found the ultimate purpose of womanhood, a personality into which her own being could fuse until the two became a single entity.

Her life had a single mainstream and anything else — Corson and I, for example — were just objects on the distant shores of that stream.

So she was blameless. And yet she was wholly to blame, for in her, Marty had found the thing that every man seeks, the realization of the idealistic wish every man has felt to some degree when he was very young.

Corson and I had discovered there really was a woman like this in the world. It stirred the senses and fanned a fire, because there was the emptiness of the sea and sky, the smallness of the boat, the endless languorous days and nights — and the sight of her continually dangled before Corson and me.

I wanted to leave them in Key West. Instead, I told myself I couldn’t do it gracefully.

Although the season was late and there were reports of squally weather, Marty aimed the Peri at the Gulf, where he heard a few tarpon were still running.

“Those running this late,” he decided, “will be monsters. We might even set a record!”

The weather reports weren’t exaggerated, and the fifth day out, Corson asked Marty to make for Fort Myers.

“There’s even rougher weather ahead,” Corson said, “and this craft ain’t as seaworthy as she looks. She’s been built for looks, Mr. Janus — to...”

“Yes, Corson?

“All right,” Corson said, rubbing his palms on his ducks, “I’ll say it. The Peri’s a tub. I suspected it from the second I looked at her. Now I know it. She was built to grab a rich landlubber’s dollars. There’s too much of her topside. I don’t like the way she handles. I don’t like the roll of her. As a fancy toy, she’s fine, but it’d take a lot better craft than the Peri to weather the blow moving up from Dry Tortugas.”

“Well,” Marty said, “I guess I’m not the first man to get stuck.” He grinned wryly. “Nor the last. We’ll put in at Fort Myers.”

We failed to reach the port. The heavy blow caught us off the unexplored wilderness shown on the charts as Ten Thousand Islands.

The darkness and wind and rain came quickly. The tropical hush was filled with a roar. The sky disappeared, and the seas came over the Peri’s deck.

Just before the blow hit, Corson had seen the smudge of an island on our portside horizon. He swung the Peri wide, making for the island.

When the leaden sky came down to meet the angry sea, the island disappeared. Corson put the nose of the craft into the teeth of the wind and tried to hold her there. She kept sheering off, rolling heavily, like a creature alive and wanting to flee in panic.

The rain was icy after the heat of the day. One moment the diesels labored so hard it seemed they would quit; the next, they tried to tear themselves out of their mountings as the prow of the Peri wallowed heavily and the screws screamed free.

It was up to Corson now.

We stayed topside, Peri at Marty’s side, keeping her fear under tight control.

The Peri shuddered as she crested, the wind tearing at her. She fell like a toboggan, her stern free, her prow slicing to the depths of the watery trough. She met the wall of water with a booming crash. Her stability was gone, and the water swept her decks clean, pouring into her depths.

I heard Peri scream Marty’s name. Then panic blanked everything else from my mind as the world turned to angry black water.

I felt Corson’s weight slam into me. His arms grabbed for me. I slugged at him and clawed my way toward the surface.

Something hard slammed against my shoulder. I grabbed it, locked my arms about it. We’d all had on life preservers, of course, but they wouldn’t keep a man from drowning in this weather. The short length of broken mast helped.

I was under the surface more often than not as the water roiled over me. But I was alive, and I clung to the mast and gagged out water — and heard her cry out Marty’s name once again. It was a very feeble cry, but I knew she must be close. The human voice was no competition for the angry bellow of the wind.

I glimpsed her face, a few feet away. I worked the mast toward her. I felt the dizzying pitching and knew another mass of water was coiled over us. I grabbed her arm. As we went under, she was almost torn away. The water parted, and she put her arms across the mast, gagging and coughing. She never stopped saying his name for long. Only when there was no breath in her did she refrain from calling for Marty.

I felt the warm sand of a beach beneath my back, and opened my eyes. The sky was blue, bland, capriciously innocent. There was a stillness, broken only by the light surf breaking with faint, rasping sounds.

I sat up, remembering the blow, the touch of solid bottom beneath my feet. Remembering that I had dragged her with me until I’d collapsed.

My wild, swinging gaze jerked to a halt. She lay near me. I could almost reach out and touch her. She was a carven, golden image there on the quiet beach.

As I stood up, she stirred. She looked at me blankly. Then her eyes darkened, deepened. She sat up and looked toward the sea.

“We made it to the island,” I said.

“Marty...” she said.

“Maybe he made it too.”

She didn’t look at me. “No,” she said. “He didn’t.

I kneeled beside her and touched her shoulder. “Don’t borrow trouble. Let’s not decide about Marty until we know for sure.”

She sat looking at the sea, not feeling my touch.

A voice from down the beach called, “Hallo, there!”

The sea still held her attention, for it was Ralph Corson’s voice she heard.

He came walking up the beach, his clothing stiff with salt and sand j£ He stood breathing heavily. “I’ve been looking for you. I was beginning to think I was the only one who made it.”

“There’s no sign of Marty,” she said.

“No,” Corson said.

She made no move, sitting as if nothing could surprise or hurt her.

“We re on the island,” Corson said. “It appears to be a sizeable strip of land. I reckon we re somewhere southwest by south of Ten Thousand Islands. I think we can manage, until somebody picks us up.”

He looked down at her. “We’ve got some immediate problems to think about.”

“I’ll be all right,” she said dully. “Just give me a little while.”

Corson jerked his head. I followed him as he moved away. We walked toward the interior of the island. It was heavily grown with palms, palmetto, low brush. As we moved into the jungle, I said, “Something’s on your mind.”

“We may have to call this place home for quite awhile,” Corson said. “We’re off the shipping and air lanes.”

“The Coast Guard will search.”

“Maybe. But where do they start? Where do they look? Ten Thousand Islands may be a part of the United States, but even that area has never been explored. From this point, civilization might as well be a million miles away.”

I was sweating heavily; from the dense heat, and from his words.

“Somebody will find us,” I said doggedly.

“Or what’s left of the Peri,” Corson said. A wolfish grin came to his face. “At least we won’t starve — as long as you and the woman follow my orders.”

“You fancy yourself king of this island, Corson?”

“Damn right I do. I’ve lived in swamp country. I know how to live off the land. Without me, you and her wouldn’t last a week.”

I sensed the unleashed arrogance in Corson-I thought that if anything happened to me she’d be here alone with him.

It seemed we had to accept a king, for a little time, anyway.

Corson hadn’t been boasting when he said he knew how to live off the land.

Our first problem was water. In a small, sandy clearing near the center of the island, Corson and I dug with sticks. We scooped out a shallow pan, four feet across, nearly three feet deep. There was dampness, and from the dampness came the seepage of water.

“It’ll be brackish,” Corson said, wiping sweat from his face with his forearm. “It’ll have the taste of the sea, but it’ll sustain life.”

The next three days ran together in an endless moment of heat, toil, hunger, with only the meaty buds of the wild cabbage palm to stave of! starvation.

Corson spared himself no more than he spared Peri and me. Under his direction we gathered the wild thistle that Seminole tribes once used to mix with water and make a form of bread. We dug coontie root, scrounged bird and turtle eggs. We explored every inch of the island, until we knew where snakes might be had for emergency rations.

Wildlife was plentiful, hares, field mice, swarms of birds. We set snares and deadfalls. We fashioned crude, basket-like crab traps from strips of palm frond, baiting them with putrid meat after our traps began operating. We had vines and plaited palm fibers for cordage, and when we hauled in the first of the crabs, I looked at the size and numbers of them, and I shuddered, thinking of Marty.

There were wild bananas on the island. As for vegetables, Corson assured us that a human being could eat practically anything growing out of the earth so long as it did not run milky sap when broken.

We gathered the largest shells on the beach for cooking and eating utensils.

One of Corson’s very first achievements was fire. He took the crystal from Peri’s useless diamond-studded wristwatch. It was convex, to magnify the delicate numbers on the watch face. Corson piled a bit of tender dried grass near the edge of the jungle. He crushed more of the grass to make a volatile powder and added it to the pile. Then for a solid hour he crouched in the merciless heat, concentrating the power of the sun through the tiny watch crystal. Finally, the grass began to smoke around the pin-point of sun fire that Corson held so steadily on a single spot. We lighted sticks and carried our fire to our campsite beside the spring Corson and I had made.

And then it seemed that quite suddenly our time of exhaustion, of drugged sleep alternating with periods of violent activity, was over.

We possessed thatched huts. We ate well, even salting our food with the residue left after evaporating sea water in shallow shells. We refreshed our pile of greasy, green vegetation near the campfire. This would be thrown on the fire to send up a column of smoke, a signal, if the empty sky or brassy hot horizon ever showed a sign of life.

Until we were a going concern, there was little chance to think or feel the things that plague civilized people. Peri had to work shoulder to shoulder with us, until we were all ready to drop in our tracks. During those first days, our individuality and the things that had made us what we were aboard the Peri were pushed into the background.

Then we had a little leisure again — and I saw the grossness of Corson, because Peri was once more a woman, a very special woman, the only one of her kind in all the earth.

Corson knew what I was feeling, and his thoughts were as plain to me as if he had spoken them aloud. Outwardly, neither made a move, not yet, but the men inside the cloaks of sun-blackened skin crouched and watched with mounting wariness and hatred.

Peri seemed to sense nothing of it at first. She had worked like a robot, as tireless as Corson or me. Now she walked the beach just as tirelessly, trying to find something to interest her, but never able for long to keep her gaze from seaward, from the place far out where Marty had died.

She still pulled her own share of the load. She still said little, living in those days before crashing waves had washed across the Peri.

I loved her with a tenderness I didn’t know was in me. At night, when she sat silent, bathed in the flickering light of the campfire, so beautiful she was a creature beyond belief, I wanted to tell her. I wanted to help her accept the fact that Marty was gone, forever. I wanted to say things I’d never said to another woman.

I said nothing.

Because there was Corson. Corson would never believe the way I felt. He’d never understand. I couldn’t explain to him, and so lone as Corson was in the way, I could say nothing to her.

I began sleeping badly. Even in sleep, I was aware of her near me at one hand, Ralph Corson at the other.

Then one night he went to her.

It was a night brilliant with moonlight, the skies blue and clear, a faint breeze curling off the Gulf over the island.

I woke and lay perfectly still, seeing the bulk of him standing near her shelter. He was crouching a little, looking in at her as she lay spangled with moonlight.

I heard a shuddering breath come out of him. I saw his hand pass over his face. I witnessed the final struggle of the man with himself.

There was cunning on his face as he looked toward the thatched lean-to where I slept. And I knew then that he had made his decision, finally. He had decided that the three of us could live no longer on this island. It might come to me tomorrow, or next week. He might use a club, or report to her that I’d drowned accidentally.

Or he might not wait at all.

He was looking around. Cat-like, he moved toward the fire. From the old edges of the fire he picked up a stick. It was thicker than my wrist. Its end had been burned to a fire-hardened point.

With a sound that I didn’t recognize as coming from my own throat, I threw myself out of the lean-to as he came toward me with the spear upraised.

He cursed, changed his mind, swung the stick as a club.

I stumbled and fell. I rolled away. He was in a momentary fury, beyond all reason, goaded with the knowledge that he had actually put dark thought to action and could not turn back now.

I grabbed a club, larger than Corson’s, from the wood pile. I met him snarling. The clubs crashed together. We both fell back, circled. Panting, sweat rolling down our faces and naked chests, we went at each other savagely.

This was the picture of us that Peri received. She had wakened, and she stood looking at us.

As I fell back from Corson’s heavy blows, I glimpsed her face.

For a brief instant I could visualize what she was seeing. I saw the change hit her face as a horrible understanding came to her.

Corson s swing brought his club against mine. The weapon almost left my hands. I continued to fall back. She was out of range of my vision now. All I could see was Corson’s face, the exultation in it as he sensed triumph.

He was less cautious, and I was filled with a sudden cunning. He was stronger, but I was faster. I invited a blow by appearing to be off balance. When he swung, I slipped to one side, and I had him.

I laid the stick along the side of his head. He fell, legs twisting.

He went scrabbling away like a killer crab. He seized his club, tried to rise, and I knocked the weapon out of his hands.

He fell hack and lay gasping, looking up at me.

“Corson,” I said, “you’re not king any longer.”

“You’re the boss, Danton. All the way the boss,” he panted. “Danton! She’s gone!”

I thought at first it was a trick. I stepped back, still watching him. Then I glanced over my shoulder.

He hadn’t been lying.

“Peri!”

There was no answer from her. I forgot Corson for the moment.

I couldn’t see her around the edges of the clearing. I moved down the pathway we d worn toward the beach.

I didn’t see her there, either.

Not at first.

I was in water to my waist when Corson grabbed me from behind.

“You fool,” he said, “you’d never catch her.”

Together we stumbled backward to the beach. I hated him as I’d never hated before, and I knew the feeling was mutual. I knew too that we’d live in uneasy truce until the day in the indeterminate future when someone else fished these waters and saw our smoke column and came to investigate. There was no reason now for blood letting and neither Corson nor I wanted to face the future alone on the island.

We stood and watched, and as the golden head crested the low, murmuring waves, we called to her.

I shouted, the sound an agony in the bright night, until I had no voice left.

She was out of sight then, and she would keep going. Until she reached that spot far, far out where the part of her known as Marty Janus had gone down.

Finally, Corson and I stood under the vast sky in silence, not looking at each other, thinking of the way we had killed her, and of the weapon we’d used...

Somebody Cares

Originally appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, December 1962.

Being teamed with Odus Martin wasn’t an inviting prospect, but I didn’t intend to let it blight the pleasure of my promotion to plainclothes.

His own reaction was buried deep in his personal privacy. I, the greenie fresh out of uniform, was accepted as just another chore. Martin volunteered no helpful advice; neither did he pass judgment on me. I suspected that he would be slow to praise and reluctant to criticize.

If my partner’s almost inhuman taciturnity made him a poor companion, I had compensations. A ripple of pleasure raced through me each time I entered the squad room. To me it was not a barren bleak place of scarred desks, hard chairs, dingy walls, and stale tobacco.

My first days as Martin’s partner were busy ones. We rounded up suspects in a knifing case. Martin questioned them methodically and dispassionately. He decided a man named Greene was lying. He had Greene brought back and after seven hours and fifteen minutes of additional questioning by Martin, Greene signed a statement attesting his guilt.

Martin’s attitude irritated me. A man’s life had been cut short with a knife. Another man would spend his best years behind bars. Wives, mothers, children, brothers, sisters were affected. Their lives would never again be quite the same, no matter how strong they were or how much they managed to forget.

But to Odus Martin it was all a chore, nothing more. A small chore at that, one of many in an endless chain.

When I mentioned the families, Martin looked at me as if I were a truant and not too bright schoolboy. “Everybody in this world has someone,” he said. “Accept that — and quit worrying about it.”

“I’m not necessarily worrying,” I said, an edge creeping into my voice.

He shrugged and bent over some paper work on his desk. His manner was a dismissal — a reduction of me to a neuter, meaningless zero.

“Since you put it that way,” I said argumentatively, “how about the nameless tramp the county has to bury?”

He looked up at me slowly. “Somewhere, Jenks, somebody misses that tramp. You take my word for it. There are no total strangers in this world. Somebody cares — somebody always cares.”

I hadn’t expected this bit of philosophy from him. It caused me to give him a second glance. But he still reminded me of a slab of silvery-gray casting in iron.

As the weeks passed, I learned to get along with Martin. I adopted a cool manner toward him, but only as a protective device. I told myself I’d never let a quarter of a century of violence and criminals turn me into an unsmiling robot, as had happened to Odus Martin.

I paid him the respect due a first-rate detective. His movements, mental as well as physical, were slow, thorough, and objective. He made colorless — hence, uninteresting — newspaper copy. This, coupled with his close-mouthed habits, caused most reporters to dislike him. Martin didn’t mind in the least.

But when it came to criminals he had the instincts of a stalking leopard. As I became better acquainted with him, I realized these were not natural endowments — they were the cumulative conditioning and results of twenty-five years. He seemed never to have forgotten the smallest trick that experience had taught him.

The day Greene was arraigned, I put a question to Martin that had been bothering me. “You decided Greene was lying when he told us his alibi. Why? How could you be sure?”

“He looked me straight and forthrightly in the eye with every word he spoke,” Martin explained.

This drew a complete blank with me.

Martin glanced at me and said patiently, “Greene normally was a very shifty-eyed character.”

Well, I knew I could learn a lot from this guy, if I were sufficiently perceptive and alert myself. He didn’t regard it as his place to teach. He was a cop.

As usual, I was fifteen minutes early to work the morning after the murder of Mary Smith. Martin was coming from the squad room when I arrived. He was moving with the slow-motion, elephantine gait that covered distance like a mild sprint. It was clear he’d just got in and had intended to leave without waiting for me.

I fell in step beside him. “What’s up?”

“Girl been killed.”

“Where?”

“In Hibernia Park.”

She lay as if sleeping under some bushes where she’d been dragged and hurriedly and ineffectually hidden. It was a golden day, filled with the freshness of morning, the grass and trees of the park dewy and vividly green.

Squad cars and uniformed men had already cordoned off the area. Men from the lab reached the scene about the same time as Martin and I. Efficiently, they started the routine of photography and footprint moulage.

I had not, as yet, the objectivity of the rest of them. The girl drew and held my attention. She was small, fine of bone, and sparsely fleshed. Her face had a piquant quality. She might have been almost pretty, if she’d known how to fix herself up.

As it was, she lay drab and colorless in her cheap, faded cotton dress, dull brown hair framing her face.

Her attitude of sleep, face toward the sky, became a horror when my eyes followed the lines her dragging heels had made. The lines ended beyond a flat stone. The stone was crusted with dark, dried blood. It was obvious that she’d been knocked down there, as she came along the walkway. The back of her head had struck the stone. Perhaps she’d died instantly. Her assailant had dragged her quickly to the bushes, concealing the body long enough for him to get far away from the park.

Looking again at her, I shivered slightly. What in your nineteen or twenty years, I asked silently of her, brought you to this?

The murder scene yielded little. Her purse, if she’d had one, was gone. She wore no jewelry, although she might have had a cheap watch or ID bracelet. The golden catch from such an item was found near the flat stone by one of the lab men.

Later in the squad room, Martin and I sat and looked at the golden clasp.

“Mugged, robbed, murdered,” Martin decided. “I wonder how much she was carrying in her purse. Five dollars? Ten?”

He held the catch so that it caught the light. “We’ll check the pawnshops. A hoodlum this cheap will try to pawn the watch. Nothing from Missing Persons?”

I’d just finished the routine in that department. I shook my head.

“Nothing from the lab, either,” Martin said. “Her clothes came from any bargain basement. No laundry marks. Washed them herself. No scars or identifying marks. No bridgework in the mouth. We’ll run the fingerprints, but I’m not hopeful. The P.M. will establish the cause of death as resulting from compound fracture of the skull, probably late last night.”

“None of it will tell us who she is,” I said.

“That’s what I’m saying. But somebody will turn up, asking for her. Somebody will claim her. Girl that young — she can’t die violently and disappear without it affecting someone. Meantime, all we got is this clasp.”

We took it to all the pawnshops in the city. No watch with such a clasp missing had been pawned.

Martin next picked up every punk who had a mugging or mugging attempt on his record. We questioned each one of them. The task ate up two days, and when it was over we had placed nobody near Hibernia Park at the right time.

The girl’s body remained in the morgue. No one inquired about her. She wasn’t reported missing. She continued to be an unclaimed Jane Doe.

“It means,” Martin said, “that she has no family here. She must have come here to work, maybe from a farm upstate. Lucky for us that we live in a reasonably small city. We’ll check all the rooming houses — places where such a girl might have lived.”

We did it building by building, block by teeming block, from landlord to landlady to building super.

Martin would take one side of the street, I the other. Our equipment was a picture of the girl, and the question was always-the same. So were all the answers.

We spent two fatiguing, monotonous days of this. Then about mid-afternoon the third day, I came disconsolately from a cheaper apartment building and saw Martin waving to me from a long porch across the street.

I waited for a break in traffic and crossed over. The rooming house was an old gables-and-gingerbread monstrosity, three stories, a mansion in its day, but long since chopped into small apartments and sleeping rooms.

A small, gray, near-sighted woman hovered in the hallway behind Odus Martin.

“This is Mrs. Carraway,” Martin said.

The landlady and I nodded our new acquaintance.

“May we see Mary Smith’s room?” Martin asked.

Mary Smith, I thought. I’d begun to think you’d remain Jane Doe forever, Mary Smith.

“Since you’re police officers I guess it’s all right,” Mrs. Carraway said.

“You’ve seen my credentials,” Martin said. “We’ll take full responsibility.”

We followed Mrs. Carraway to a small clean room at the end of the hallway. She stood in the open doorway while we examined the room.

The furnishings were typical — mismatched bed, bureau, chest of drawers, and worn carpet, faded curtains.

A neat person, Mary Smith. The few items of clothing she’d owned were pressed and properly placed in the closet and chest of drawers.

The room reflected a lonely life. There were no photos, no letters. Nothing of a personal nature except the clothing and a few magazines on a bedside table.

“How long she lived with you?” Martin asked.

“A little over two months,” Mrs. Carraway said in her cautious, impersonal voice.

“When did you see her last?”

“A week ago Thursday when she paid a month’s rent.”

“She have any callers?”

“Callers?”

“Boy friend, perhaps.”

“Not that I know of.” Mrs. Carraway pursed her lips. “I’m not a nosy landlady. She seemed like a quiet, nice girl. So long as they pay their rent and don’t raise a disturbance — that’s all I’m concerned with.”

“Know where she came from?”

“No. She came and looked at the room and said she’d take it. She said she was employed. I checked, to make sure.”

“Where was that?”

“At the Cloverleaf Restaurant. She’s a waitress.”

Martin thanked her, and we started from the room.

Mrs. Carraway said, “Is she in serious trouble?”

“Pretty much,” Martin said. “I’m sure she won’t be coming back.”

“What’ll I do with her things?”

“We’ll let you know.”

Mrs. Carraway followed us to the front door. “I’ve told you everything I know. I’m not an unkind person. But whatever she’s done is none of my business. You’d just be wasting my time to be calling me in as a witness.”

“We’ll trouble you no more than we have to,” Martin said.

We returned to the unmarked police car parked in the middle of the block. Martin got behind the wheel and drove in silence.

“Any doubt of her identity?” I asked.

“I don’t think so. We’ll check fingerprints in the room against the Jane Doe to be sure. But the landlady showed no hesitation when she saw the picture. She was Mary Smith, right enough.”

Hello, Mary Smith, I thought. Hello, stranger. Who were you?

A man named Blakeslee was the owner of the Cloverleaf, a large drive-in on the south side of town. He was a slender, dark, harried-looking fellow, about forty.

He was checking the cash register when we arrived. We showed him our credentials, and with a gesture of annoyance he led us to a small office off the kitchen.

“Well,” he said, closing the door, “what’s this all about?”

“Got a Mary Smith on your payroll?” Martin asked.

“I did have. She quit without notice. A lot of them do. You’ve no idea what it is to keep help nowadays.”

“What were the circumstances?”

“Circumstances?” He shrugged. “She didn’t show up for a couple of days, so I put another girl on. There weren’t any circumstances, as you put it.”

“Did you wonder if maybe she was sick?”

“I figured she’d have called in. She’s not the first to quit like that. I haven’t time to be running around checking on them. What’s your interest in her?”

“She’s dead.”

“What’s that?” After his initial start, Blakeslee raised his hand and stroked his chin. “Why, that’s too bad,” he said in a tone without real meaning.

“The papers carried a story,” Martin said. “Unidentified girl murdered.”

“I don’t recall seeing it. Probably wouldn’t have connected it with Mary Smith anyway. How did it happen?”

“She was apparently on her way home. We think she was knocked down for whatever of value she was carrying.”

“It couldn’t have been much.”

“Can you tell us anything about her?”

“Only that she came to work here. She seemed nice enough, always on time. Too quiet to make many friends.”

“Where did she work formerly?”

“She came here from Cross-more.” Blakeslee spread his hands. “I wish I could help. But after all, what was she to me?”

Martin and I took the expressway out of town. The drive to Crossmore, a small town in the next county, required only forty minutes.

I wondered how many restaurants there were in Crossmore. Very few, I guessed. We had at least that much in our favor.

However, Martin drove right on through the village.

“I’m playing a hunch,” he said.

Just beyond Crossmore, overlooking the busy highway, were the rolling hills and meadows and buildings of the country-supported orphanage.

Martin turned into a winding driveway which was shaded by tall pines. He stopped before an old colonial-type home that had been converted into an administration building. More recent structures of frame and brick housed dorms and classrooms. Beyond there were barns and workshops.

A few minutes later we were in the office of Dr. Spreckles, the superintendent. A wiry, sandy man, Spreckles struck me as being a pleasant individual who nevertheless knew how to run things.

He looked at the picture of Mary Smith that the lab boys had made.

“Yes,” he said. “She was one of our girls.” His lips tightened slightly. “We hope she has done nothing to reflect on the training she received here.”

“She hasn’t,” Martin assured him. “Who were her people?”

Spreckles went behind his desk and sat down. “She had none. She was born out of wedlock in the county hospital to a woman who gave her name only as Mary Smith. As soon as she was able to get about, the mother abandoned the child.”

“The girl grew up here?”

“Yes.”

“Never adopted?”

“No,” Spreckles said slowly, resting his elbows on his desk and steepling his fingers. “As a child, she was quite awkward, too quiet, too shy. She lived here until she was eighteen.”

“Who were her friends?”

“Strangely enough,” Spreckles frowned, “I can’t say. I don’t think she had any really close ones. She was a face in a crowd, you might say. Never precocious. Not at the bottom of her classes, you understand, but not at the top. I do wish you’d tell me what difficulty she’s in.”

“She’s dead,” Martin said. “A mugger killed her during a robbery attempt.”

“How terrible!” Spreckles made an honest attempt to muster genuine grief, but he simply didn’t have it. He was shocked and upset by the passing forever of an impersonal image, but that was all...

As we drove back through Crossmore, Martin broke his silence — with a single utterance. It was softly spoken but the most vicious oath I’d ever heard. It was so unlike Martin that I stared at him out of the corner of my eyes.

But I let the silence return and stay that way. Right then, he had the look about him of a heavy-chested, steel-gray tomcat whose wounds have been rubbed with turpentine and salt.

We returned to grinding routine. The pawnshops. Still no watch. The vicinity of Hibernia Park — questioning all the people, one by one, who lived in the area. No one had glimpsed a man coming from the park about the time she was killed.

At night I was too tired to sleep. I wondered what this was getting us, if we’d ever catch the man. Yet there wasn’t the slightest letdown in Martin’s determination. I only wished I shared it...

Martin and I returned to the squad room late Wednesday afternoon. A few minutes afterward, a uniformed policeman walked in and handed Martin an inexpensive woman’s watch.

My scalp pulled tight. I crossed to Martin’s desk as he opened a drawer. He shook the golden clasp from a small manila envelope. The clasp matched the broken band of the watch perfectly.

Martin stood up. His nostrils were flaring. “Where’d this come from?”

“The personal effects of a guy named Biddix,” the man in uniform said. “He was in a poker game we just broke up in an old loft. The desk sergeant said you’d want to see the watch.”

Martin’s big hand closed over the tiny timepiece. I followed him out of the office.

Biddix was a dried-up, seedy little fellow in his late sixties. He’d been separated from the other poker players and put in a solitary cell.

When the cell door opened, Biddix took one look at Martin’s face and backed against the wall.

Martin held out his hand and opened it. “Where’d you get this?”

“Look...” Biddix swallowed. “If it’s stolen, I swear I had nothing to do with it.”

“It was torn from a murdered girl’s wrist,” Martin said.

The dead-gray of Biddix’s beard stubble suddenly blended exactly with the color of his skin.

“A guy put the watch in the game,” Biddix said. “And that’s the truth, so help me!”

“Which one?”

“He left before we was raided.”

“What’s his name?”

“Edgar Collins.”

“Know where he lives?”

“Sure. In a flop on East Maple Street, number 311.”

We went out. The cell door clanged behind us. Biddix came over and stood holding the bars. “I didn’t know anything about the watch.”

“Sure,” Martin said.

“You’ll put me in with the others now, won’t you?”

“No,” Martin said. “Not yet.”

We got the location of Edgar Collins’ room from the building super, went up one flight, and eased to the door.

The house was hot and the hallway smelled of age and many people. We listened. After a little, we heard a bedspring creak.

We put our shoulders to the door, and it flew open. A stringy, big-boned, bald-headed man sprang off the bed and dropped the tabloid he’d been reading. He was tall and stooped. He wore dirty khaki pants and a dirty undershirt.

“What’s the big idear?” he demanded.

“Your name Edgar Collins?” Martin asked.

“So what if it is?”

“We’re police officers. We want to talk to you.”

“Yeah? What about?”

“A girl who was killed in Hibernia Park. If you’re innocent, you got nothing to worry about. If not... We’ve got a shoe-track moulage to start. We’ll find plenty of other things with the help of the lab boys, once we know where to start looking.”

Collins stared at us. An explosion took place behind his pale eyes. He lunged toward the open window.

Martin got between me and Collins and grabbed the man first. He dragged Collins back in the room. Collins threw punches at Martin in blind panic.

Martin hit him three times in the face. Collins fell on the floor, wrapped his arms about his head, and began rolling back and forth.

“I didn’t mean it,” he said, babbling. “She fell on the stone. She was a stranger, nothing to me. It was an accident... please... give me a break! I didn’t mean it, I tell you.”

For a moment I thought Odus Martin was going to start hitting the man again.

A volunteer minister performed graveside rites the next morning.

Martin and I stood with our hats in our hands.

I looked at the casket and thought: Goodbye, Mary Smith — that name will do as well as any. No father, no mother, no one. Killed by a man who never saw you before.

The sun was shining, but the day felt bleak and dismal.

Then, as we returned to headquarters, it came to me that Odus Martin had been right. There are no absolute strangers in this world, no zeros.

The death of Mary Smith had affected Odus Martin. Because I was his partner, it had affected me. Through us, it seemed to me, the human race had recognized the importance of her and expressed its unwillingness to let her die as an animal dies.

Mary Smith had lived and died in loneliness, but she had not been alone.

I didn’t say anything of this to Odus Martin. He was a hard man to talk to. Anyhow, I felt that he understood it already, probably much more deeply than I ever could.

A Break in the Weather

Originally appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, August 1963.

Pearly Jenkins chose a cold, clear, brittle winter day to reveal his discovery — a day with the sky frozen to blue silence, a day when nothing should have happened.

I was at my desk catching up on paper work. I paused to load my pipe, and when I glanced up, I was startled to see Pearly standing patiently in the open doorway of my office.

A lean and grizzled old man, Pearly was dressed in his usual tattered and motley hand-me-downs. The cold, which he’d endured on his long trek down from Lake Poco, had given his face the appearance of a plum pudding with a cherry stuck in the middle.

His blue eyes had a quality in common with the cold sky outside. He took off his cap and shuffled into the office. “Good morning. Sheriff John.”

“How are you, Pearly?”

“At peace now,” he said. “I’m ready to confess and take my medicine.”

I was faintly irritated. In some ways Pearly has the mind of a ten-year-old. “I haven’t heard of any crimes might be laid at your door.”

“Oh, I done this in secret. Covered up the fact of a murder, I did.”

He was so woebegone it was hard to get really sore at him. “Come now, Pearly, these hills haven’t seen a killing in a long time.”

He stood blinking and frowning. “We’ve had one,” he said doggedly. “We’ve sure had one.” Sudden tears came to his eyes. “She’s so beautiful, Sheriff John, like a sleeping princess.”

“Who, Pearly?”

“Mavis. Mavis Worsham.”

He was the sort of old fellow who just naturally called on your more charitable instincts. Right now, my urge to comfort him was mingled with a desire to kick him out of the office.

“Pearly, why don’t you leave that lonely cabin and stay here in the county seat for a while? We’ll find something for you to do.”

“Don’t you believe me, Sheriff John?”

“I reckon I can’t. Mavis Worsham left here nearly three months ago. She was bored here. She told me herself it had been a mistake for her to return to her home town after living in the city so long. She got the yen for brighter lights and went to Scranton.”

He inched closer to my desk and said softly, “A tale to cover up her murder — that’s all it is, Sheriff John. She never got out of this county!”

He was chipping away at my patience. “She wrote a note back here after she reached Scranton, Pearly. Did you know that?”

His eyes were confused for a moment. “Who’d she write to?”

“Me, and I still have the letter kicking around here in my desk someplace. The cottage she rented belonged to summer people. She’d agreed to keep it through the winter. The rent was paid, everything in order. But leaving ahead of time, she asked me to keep an eye on the place until the summer folks returned.”

Pearly’s brow knotted. His eyes were full or pain as his mind worked. Then an inspiration lighted his furrowed face. “The note was a forgery — that’s what it was, Sheriff John!”

“You get hold of yourself, Pearly. The note was in Mavis’ own handwriting.”

“Then,” he said stubbornly, “the person who murdered her forced her to write the note — and after she was dead, he took it to Scranton and mailed it. A dad-burned slick and mean trick to make it look like she really left.”

I was now beginning to worry a little. Pearly had spent a short period in the state mental hospital several years ago, following the death of his wife.

I got up, moved over to him, took his arms, and eased him gently into the big old leather chair near my desk. “All right. Pearly. I guess we better talk this over. Who would want to kill a girl like Mavis?”

“There was talk about her. Sheriff John,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “Loose woman — men slipping in her back door — only there was good in her, I know it for a fact! She let me work for her, and paid me too.”

“Sure, Pearly. And don’t think about the gossip. There’s always talk about a girl like Mavis, beautiful, blonde, and different than most of the village women.”

“Lordy...” he groaned. “Beautiful as she was, there was truth in the gossip — first she got herself in a family way, and then she got herself killed.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying. Pearly!”

“Yes, I do, too. Day or two before she left — before she was murdered — I overheard her talking on the phone. She was telling some man she was going to have a baby. Must have been someone important, ’cause she said it was going to cost him plenty.”

Pearly raised his head, his eyes imploring me to believe him. Unaccountably, a shiver crossed my shoulders. I had a mental picture of our Main Street, snug and secure in its clean blanket of snow, where the important men in town were safe and comfortable in their shops and offices.

“Pearly, are you absolutely sure about this? Positive you didn’t imagine it up there in the loneliness of Poco?”

“I’m all the way positive,” he cried. “You see now why she was killed?”

“I can see why she might have been. But you haven’t told me why you think she was.”

He glanced spookily about the office. “I’ve got her up there. I slid her under the floor of the shack, because the sun don’t shine there.”

“I see,” I said, although I didn’t see at all. “You don’t want the sun shining on her?”

“Not the pale winter sun, Sheriff John. She’s beautiful, just like the day she died. Resting there and smiling at me, if I look real close. Dreamy and wavery, kind of, in the ice.”

“When did you find her, Pearly?”

“Three days ago. I went clear to the upper end of the lake and was about to chop a fishing hole in the ice when I felt like I wasn’t alone. She was friz there — friz in the ice. I went back to the cabin and fetched my sledge and a saw. I cut the ice around her, real careful-like, and the block floated free and easy while I put ropes around it and brought her out.”

He sat kneading his knuckles as the experience unfolded in his mind. “She had a little smile on her lips and the yellow hair like cobwebs around her face. I sat with her the rest of the afternoon.”

“What did you plan to do, Pearly?”

“Just have her around, I guess — somebody who’d trusted and liked me. I knowed what had happened to her. She had marks on her throat — made when she’d been strangled. Around her waist a piece of knotted leather strap. At the other end, I figured, somebody had put a heavyweight and dropped her in the lake, so’s the water creatures would devour the evidence before spring. Only a muskrat or a turtle had eat through the strap. She’d floated to the surface, where the freeze had protected her with ice.”

“I see,” I said, and this time I was beginning to.

“Long as the ice holds,” he said, “she’ll stay the same. But a break is coming in the weather. Yesterday I went to the valley below the dam. There were trickles in the low places, and green shoots in the ground. The change will climb higher — until it reaches the ice.”

His voice broke. His eyes beheld a private nightmare. Then he said, “I realized I done a bad thing. I knew I tampered with powers I oughtn’t to. I understood why she’d been put in the ice.”

“Why, Pearly?”

“So’s you can catch her murderer,” he said with utter simplicity.

I used a Jeep with four-wheeled drive for the trip up to Pearly’s squatter’s shack. When the Jeep could go no farther, we got out and walked the remaining three hundred yards to the tumble-down house where the keeper of the old dam had lived many years ago.

Wind had blown away the loose snow. The crust was firm underfoot. Evergreens stood tall and slim, and bluish-white hills rolled one behind the other to the darkening horizon. Below, the lake glittered, following the contours of the hills until it twisted out of sight.

Pearly didn’t seem to feel the sting of the cold wind that was stabbing across the peaks. He was running ahead of me now, his quick breath making little puffs of fog in the air.

“Foller me, Sheriff John!” he was yelling. “She’s right here. I’ll show you!”

The weathered old house with its crumbling chimney rested, without a cellar, on squat, low stone pillars. Pearly raced to the lower corner of the house, threw himself down, and wriggled underneath.

By the time I huffed up, he’d slid a block of ice out and was standing beside it, a sweat slick on his old face despite the cold.

“Now I guess you’ll believe me. Sheriff John!”

I looked down at the cake of ice. It was about two feet wide by six feet long. Carefully cut. Dragged here with great effort — and no small degree of danger, considering that Pearly might have fallen in or had the ice cave in under him.

I hardly knew how to say it to him. “Pearly... sometimes when even a good, gentle fellow like you is lonely and isolated for too long...”

He grabbed my arm and stared wildly into my eyes. Then he dropped beside the cake of ice and ran his hands up and down the surface as if he could straighten out the light waves.

“Sheriff John, she’s in there. I tell you! Look at the last light catching her hair...”

I took him by the shoulders and pulled him to his feet. “Take it easy, Pearly.”

“Damn you,” he shouted, “you look in there and see her!”

“I’ve looked, Pearly.”

An intense trembling passed through him. He turned without warning and started to run.

“Pearly!”

I lunged after him. I might not have caught him if he hadn’t slipped as he rounded the corner of the house.

He was almost on his feet when I reached him. But I was prepared for him now. I pushed him hard to the ground, smothering him with my weight.

He writhed and screamed and fought me viciously until, in the midst of our thrashing, I finally got the handcuffs on him. With the click of the steel he became suddenly calm.

Very quietly he began to sob...

Only a few lights showed in the village when we got back. I unlocked the county building and led him to my office. He had continued that subdued weeping all the way down from Poco.

Now he slumped in a chair, his shoulders twitching. His back looked more hunched, his bowed head more ancient than the aged, blue-white hills.

Looking at him, I felt heavy with sorrow. “Pearly, whatever am I going to do with you?”

“I don’t know.” He lifted his head “Please... don’t put me back in that hospital. I’ll die if I have to go back there. You don’t want me to die, do you?”

“No, Pearly — and I don’t think you’d harm anyone.”

“I never have. Sheriff John — you know I never did.”

“All right, Pearly, I’ll take a chance on you. You can work around my place for a while and we’ll see how things go.”

“You won’t be sorry, Sheriff John. Only...”

“Yes, Pearly?”

“You won’t tell folks about me cutting that cake of ice? The way they’d josh me...”

“Don’t worry about it, Pearly. We’ll forget the whole thing. I promise you, I’ll never give anyone in the village any reason for needling or hazing you.”

He wiped his nose, then smiled at me with gratitude. The feeling was, strangely enough, rather mutual. Old Pearly had come straight to me with his tall tale. Now I’d tuck him in a warm, comfortable cell for the night. It would give me plenty of time to return to Poco, melt the ice, and bury Mavis — this time permanently.

The Favor

Originally published in Manhunt, September 1957.

At first there was only pain. It filled his whole being. It crackled down his nerves and flowed into his muscles. He lay and endured it because there was nothing else to do. He didn’t fight it or analyze it. There was this moment of pain and nothing else to Lonnie’s way of thinking. No past. No future. Only the present tick of time.

After awhile the pain subsided to a slight degree. He opened his eyes. He was lying in a comfortable bed in a room that was strange to him. It was a room of faded, peeling wallpaper, furnished with a rickety washstand and the bed on which he lay. But to Lonnie it was a very good room, the cleanest he had ever been in.

He wondered briefly how he had gotten there. He remembered sticking the knife in Marti during the teenage gang rumble in L.A.. He hadn’t meant to do it. But Marti had got in his way and there’d been the knife in Lonnie’s hand. He recalled, without feeling, the way Marti had looked in the alley, loose, disjointed.

It was Hawkins who’d advised Lonnie to get out of town. “You’re in trouble, plenty,” Hawkins said. “Marti ain’t just another punk.” Hawkins paced back and forth before Lonnie. Hawkins had brought Lonnie to his room, and Lonnie sat on the edge of the rumpled bed and considered everything Hawkins said.

“The Panthers’ll be after you, Lonnie.” Hawkins said.

“I ain’t scared of them,” Lonnie said.

“Hell, I know that. But look at the spot it puts our boys in. You wouldn’t want some of them getting hurt because of you?”

“Nah. Hawkins you know I wouldn’t want that. They’re my friends.”

“Sure. Lonnie,” Hawkins said, laying his hand on Lonnie’s beefy shoulder. “You got a screwy way of looking at things. But in your own way you’re a right guy. That’s why I stuck my neck out and took the trouble of getting you here.”

“You’re my friend, Hawkins,” Lonnie said.

“And I’m giving you the best advice. Get out of town. Lay low for awhile. Work on a farm or something.”

“You think I should? You really think so?”

“I know so. Otherwise you’re going to cause some of your friends to get hurt.”

“I wouldn’t want that. I like to help my friends. I was trying to help the Spig when Marti got in my way.”

“I know, kid. Just do as I say. Here, this’ll help you a little.” Hawkins opened the bureau drawer and took out a five dollar bill.

Lonnie sat with his hands hanging between his knees and shook his head.

“Take it,” Hawkins said.

“Nah, I couldn’t. You need it. And I wouldn’t have no way of paying it back.”

Young, sleek, hard, Hawkins looked at him a moment. “I don’t want it paid back. Now take it. Do what I say. Hop the first freight out of town.”

“All right, Hawkins, if you say so.”

“I’m saying so. So long, kid, and good luck.”

“Good luck to you,” Lonnie said, standing up.

He’d gone down to the freight yards and got into a box car without any trouble. Because things had happened fast, his mind felt confused and tired. He’d closed his eyes and gone to sleep, under some straw far back in the corner.

The train had been in motion when he’d awakened. A big, bearded guy had been bending over him, going through his pockets.

“Hey, you!” Lonnie had said.

The big hobo had hit him hard in the face, smashing the back of his head against the side of the car. From that point on there was no memory.

The door across the room opened, the sound bringing a movement of Lonnie’s head.

A girl was standing in the doorway. She looked to Lonnie to be about twenty to twenty five. She was slender and had a nice figure that swelled against her faded cotton print dress, pulled snug about her slim waist with a cracked patent leather belt. Her hair was dark blonde, uneven in its short cut as if she’d done the cutting herself. She wore no makeup, and her face was tanned, not pale like the faces of the girls on Lonnie’s street.

“Hello,” she said. “Feeling better, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Lonnie said. “But I got a awful headache.”

“I guessed as much,” she smiled. “I’ll fix you something.”

She went away and came back in a few seconds with a glass of water and a couple of pills. She crossed the room, stood beside the bed, and offered the pills on her open palm. “These’ll make you feel lots better.”

“Thanks,” Lonnie said. “You’re really a friend.” She smiled. She had even, white teeth. Lonnie forgot the pain, looking at the smile. She was sweet and wonderful and his friend, even if he didn’t know her name.

“Anybody would have done as much for you,” she said.

“I guess not,” Lonnie said. “You could have left me be. Some people would have.”

“The people where you came from?”

“Some of them.”

“Is that why you were going away?”

“Yeah.”

“We guessed you’d been on the freight. We found you in the gravel beside the roadbed.”

“We?”

“My husband and me. We run this place here.”

“It’s a nice place.”

“No, it ain’t much. A stinking little farm out in the middle of the desert.”

She didn’t look so bright talking about the farm and that gave Lonnie a moment of brief sadness. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Louise. What’s yours?”

He sipped the water to swallow the pills and said, “Lonnie Speare.”

“From L. A.?”

“Yeah.”

“I’d like to go there sometime. I never been in a city.”

“It’s all right,” Lonnie said.

She put her hand forward and wiped the fine hairs back from Lonnie’s brow. He closed his eyes. He wished she’d keep doing that for a long time. Her touch was cool and gentle. His heart swelled as he realized how kind she was being to him.

“You’re tired,” she said. “Rest now. I’ll look in on you again when supper’s ready.”

Lonnie heard her go out and close the door softly. He went to sleep without effort.

He felt much refreshed when he woke. He lay content, a big-framed, fleshy youth regenerating physical power quickly. He threw back the sheet and stood up. He was dressed in his dirty shorts. He padded to the chair near the bed and picked up his jeans. He put them on and stood scratching the matted brown hairs on his chest. He was dizzy for a few seconds; then it passed.

He moved to the washstand and looked at himself in the faded brown mirror that hung on the wall. Close cut brown hair was like a cap on his head fitted close about his protruding ears. The features of his face were heavy, without visible bone structure. There was a mottled yellow and purple discoloration on his left cheek where the big hobo had struck him.

He turned from the mirror and ran his hand in the pocket of his jeans. Sure enough, the fiver that Hawkins had given him was gone.

“Okay, big fellow,” Lonnie muttered under his breath. “I’ll remember you. I’ll fix you if I ever run across you again.”

Moving to the bed, he sat on the edge of it and put on his socks and shoes. He was getting into his shirt when the door opened and a man came into the room.

He was taller than Lonnie, but slender. Slender to the point of looking stooped and hollow-chested. His face was narrow with thin, sharp features, his skin rough, flaked from the sun and hot wind. The whites of his slate gray eyes were bloodshot and he brought the smell of whiskey into the room.

“You about ready to eat?”

“Yeah,” Lonnie said.

“Well, come on. Louise has got it waiting.”

Lonnie buttoned his shirt quickly. “I want to thank you...”

“Skip it,” the man said. “Louise found you. Wasn’t nothing else we could do, except leave you out there for buzzard bait.”

Lonnie followed the man out of the room. They entered into the kitchen where Louise was busy at the oil cookstove. There were four chairs about a bare, scarred table, a kitchen cabinet, and an electric refrigerator to complete the furnishings of the kitchen. Through a second doorway Lonnie glimpsed a small living room in which were cramped an old wicker set and straw rug.

“This is Bart Houser, my husband,” Louise said.

The tall, slender man grunted and moved around the table.

Lonnie sat down stiffly. Bart had destroyed his feeling of contentment. It was plain that Bart didn’t want him here. Bart would have left him for the buzzards, Lonnie guessed. Too bad. People ought to be friends and help each other. It was only right to do things for your friends.

“Give me the bottle, Lou,” Bart said.

She turned from the stove, her face clouded. She didn’t look as young as she had earlier today when she’d smiled. “Bart, don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

“No, I don’t. And I’m big enough to do my own thinking. A man works hard all day, he’s entitled to a little relaxation without a she-cat jawing at him. Now give the bottle to me.”

Louise opened the cabinet and took out a half full quart bottle of cheap whiskey. She set it on the table.

“Now water,” Bart ordered.

Louise moved to the sink and worked and worked the hand pump to bring up a glass of fresh water. She put it on the table beside the whiskey.

“Something’s burning on the stove,” Bart said. “You gonna burn the supper?”

Louise sprang to the stove. Bart took a pull at the bottle and chased it with water. He set the bottle on the table, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and glanced at Lonnie. “Man works like I do deserves a little waiting on at the end of the day.”

Lonnie said nothing. He sat staring without expression at the red death of the desert day outside.

“From L. A.?” Bart said.

“Yeah,” Lonnie said.

“What you running from?”

“Bart...” Louise said.

“Shut up,” Bart said. “I’m talking to him — not you.”

“I ain’t running from nothing,” Lonnie said, keeping his hands under the table because his palms were sweating.

“Then what you doing out here?”

“I got throwed off the train.”

“Railroad dick?”

“No. A bozo robbed me, slugged me, threw me off.”

“Robbed you?” Bart sneered. “Of what?”

“Bart, please,” Louise said. “Can’t you see the boy’s been through a rough time? I know he’s telling the truth. Why don’t you leave him alone?”

Bart finished a second long drink. “He’s probably got a record a mile long in L. A.. Or maybe you’re so lonely out here you don’t care what kind of riffraff you talk to.”

“No, I ain’t got a record a mile long,” Lonnie said.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Bart said. “I was asking her something. Come on, Lou. Why the look? Maybe you think because he’s from L. A. he can talk a lot better than your husband?”

“Bart,” she said quietly, “you’re tired.” She glanced at Lonnie. “He isn’t always this way. He’s a good, hardworking man, really. It’s just that we’ve had troubles and they’re getting him down.”

Lonnie’s throat filled with feeling. She was like an angel, he thought.

Bart laughed without humor. “The very soul of generosity. That’s you, Lou. Why don’t you give up and go back to Salinas?”

“Quit torturing yourself, Bart.”

Bart shoved his chair back. “Oh, the hell with it. I don’t want any supper.”

He stalked into the other room, the whisky bottle dangling in his hand. He slammed the door so hard the small frame house shook.

Lonnie sat looking at the closed door. Then he turned his head and saw that Louise was crying.

She brushed the back of her hand across her eyes and brought a smile to her lips. “Why don’t you tell me about L. A.? I’m going there someday. See the lights. Eat in the restaurant.”

“You’d look real good there,” Lonnie said.

“Would I? Well a woman appreciates compliments — and I thank you.”

“You deserve nice things, Louise. You’re real pretty.”

She looked at him, suddenly serious. Then she wagged a finger. “Don’t you forget — I’m a married woman.”

“I know,” Lonnie said, “and my friend. About the best friend anybody ever had, I guess.”

She took fried potatoes from the stove. “How old are you, Lonnie?”

“Twenty two,” he said, stretching his age three years. “Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes you impress me like a serious old man — then again you’re like a little kid with the heart swelling inside of him.”

“Louise!” Bart shouted from the next room.

“Yes, Bart?”

“Open the door! Or maybe you wouldn’t like to. Maybe you’re making gaga eyes in there at the railroad bum.”

Lonnie felt a quiver pass over his big frame. What a snake this Bart was! He understood nothing. Louise is my friend, Lonnie thought. I’d risk my neck to help her for what she’s done for me, but I’d never lay a finger on her.

Never. This thing between him and Louise was so beautiful it stopped the breath in his chest. And across the face of that beauty Bart had thrown sullied words, like mud.

Louise crossed the room and opened the door.

“Eat hearty, L. A.,” Bart called. “I’m taking you to the junction tomorrow morning early. You can bum a ride from there. I ain’t having you eat my hard-earned grub and moon-eye my wife, understand?”

Lonnie half rose from his chair. Louise laid her fingers on his shoulder. Her touch was light, delicate, but the most real thing in the world. Lonnie sat down again and began eating in silence.

After supper Bart called Louise into the living room and closed the door. Lonnie washed the dishes and tidied the kitchen. After that there was nothing else of immediate nature he could do for her.

He opened the back door and stepped outside. The short, tense desert twilight was over the face of the land. The solitude and loneliness caused a shudder across Lonnie’s shoulders as he walked aimlessly over the fields.

There wasn’t another house visible anywhere in the twilight. Nothing moved. Even the very air seemed dead. The whole earth felt empty.

But it was not. Back there stood her house, like a small, lost thing. A tiny prison. Worse. A cell. This endless emptiness, this lack of life, this ear-crushing silence was the real prison.

Back in L.A. right now, the lights were beginning to twinkle on. There would be talk and occasional laughter and shouted hellos on the sidewalks. People would be eating in restaurants, rubbing elbows with each other. Juke boxes would be playing, and if you were in the know you could slip through the gimmicked window over the alley, through the men’s room, across the lobby, down into the theater itself and catch the movie for free at the Bijou.

People, lights, sound. That was life. That was all Lonnie had ever known. This emptiness was a thing of terror, a trap, a suspended moment of death.

And she was out here. The moment never ended for her. While in the midst of life moved women that were not half so pretty or nice or friendly as she was.

A lump came to Lonnie’s throat as he thought of the waste. He wondered how she had come to marry Bart and be imprisoned here in the wide circle of death.

Maybe Bart was hiding from something out here. A man must have something pushing him to live in a place like this.

Pain returned to Lonnie’s head as he struggled with his thoughts. He was confused. It was too much for him. He shook his head and started back toward the house. He noticed how quickly the twilight was fading, how complete the darkness was over the bluffs in the east. His steps quickened.

He could hear Bart’s voice before he stepped again into the house. Bart was cursing, railing at her because of some money she’d spent a week ago.

Lonnie stepped into the kitchen.

He heard her say, “Bart, please...”

And then he heard Bart slap her. Lonnie could have taken the blow without feeling it very much. But when she took it, Lonnie flinched.

She cried out softly as Bart slapped her again. Lonnie sucked in his breath as if he’d been hit hard in the stomach. A burning sensation filled his chest.

He had dried the long, thin butcher knife when he’d washed the dishes and put the knife in the wall rack. His hand went out. He took the knife down.

He crossed the kitchen and jerked open the door to the living room.

Bart was standing in the middle of the room taking the last drink from his bottle. He could barely keep on his feet. Louise was half sprawled on the wicker settee, holding her cheek and crying bitterly.

Both of them turned toward the noise of Lonnie’s sudden entry.

Bart saw the long, shinning length of the butcher knife and his eyes were suddenly, coldly sober. He instinctively backed away from Lonnie and the knife.

Lonnie advanced with a heavy stride, the knife held at his belt pointing forward.

Bart stood slack-jawed, his knees backed hard against the easy-chair. “What do you want?”

“You can’t hit her,” Lonnie said. “I won’t let you hit her anymore.” He moved closer to Bart.

“You’re crazy!” Bart shouted.

“No. I’m just going to stop you from hitting her again.” He came a step closer, the knife now held out from his body.

Louise had stopped crying. She looked with terror from Bart to Lonnie, her eyes wide and staring. She was fascinated by the flashing knife in Lonnie’s hand.

“You keep away from me! You got no business interfering. She’s my wife; I can do with her like I please!” He was shouting again. The bottle fell from his nerveless hand with a crash, but he didn’t even look down.

“You’ve been keeping her here like she was in prison. I’m just going to stop you, that’s all.”

Bart was going to say something, but the knife was quicker. The knife slid into him to the hilt in the point of very soft flesh where his chest bones parted to yield to ribs.

Bart toppled without a sound, and Lonnie let out a soft, satisfied breath. A heavy weight seemed to have gone from his chest. He felt good.

And then the bewilderment came to his eyes as Louise leaped up from the settee, her eyes wild, and started screaming.

Lonnie had never heard such screams in all his life, not even in the kind of movies he liked to see. He couldn’t understand why she was screaming.

He stood there, trying to explain everything to her. She had saved his neck, and for a friend like that you were compelled to do a favor at every chance. He had done her the highest favor he could think of.

He had given her freedom, but, somehow, she didn’t seem happy about it.

The Seven Year Hitch

Originally appeared in The Man from U.N.C.L.E. Magazine, August 1966.

From the arched doorway of the fine old home, Mr. Peabody stared down the winding, tree-shaded drive.

“Mother!” he summoned his wife.

Mrs. Peabody came to the entry foyer behind him, breathless and slightly rumpled from house cleaning. “Yes, Mr. Peabody?”

“A car just turned in the driveway. Must be Teddy.”

“Gracious, he’s early!” Warmly plump, Mrs. Peabody shucked her apron and thrust it in the cloak closet.

As the sleek sports car with a lone occupant rolled to a stop, Mr. Peabody gallantly took his wife’s jolly fat arm and hurried with her down the broad steps of the veranda.

The two old people reached the car as the young man was getting out.

“Welcome home, Mr. Hockins,” Mr. Peabody said.

“We opened the house and cleaned it, as your letter instructed,” Mrs. Peabody added.

“Thank you,” Teddy said languidly. As he stood looking at the house, Mr. and Mrs. Peabody exchanged a covert glance.

Mr. Peabody cleared his throat. “Well, how does the place look after all these years?”

“As dreary as ever,” Teddy said.

“Do get his baggage, Mr. Peabody!”

“Yes, Mother. Where are your bags, Teddy?”

Still staring at the house, Teddy Hockins extended his hand and dropped the car keys into Mr. Peabody’s palm. Mr. Peabody hustled to the rear of the car, opened the deck, and began loading himself with Teddy’s suitcases.

The house was drawing Teddy magnetically. A trace of jerkiness in his motions, he started trancelike up the veranda steps.

Beside her husband, Mrs. Peabody whispered, “I don’t think he’s glad to be back.”

“Not a bit. The ghost of his mother and the memory of his terrible deed is still in that house. Seeing him, I’m more certain than ever. He never would have returned, if she hadn’t been declared legally dead and the estate gone into probate.”

“He’ll stay only as long as necessary, Mr. Peabody.”

Mr. Peabody nodded. “But it takes time to settle an estate. And there are other matters he must settle. Don’t forget — he’s lived like a prince these seven years, borrowing against his future inheritance. Before he is through here, we’ll have time to do what must be done.”

“We’ve a big job, Mr. Peabody. Until the day he died in office, Sheriff Tomerlin was sure Teddy had murdered the old lady. Yet he never found the first shred of evidence.”

“Teddy was cunning,” Mr. Peabody admitted. “He simply reported her disappearance, then waited, knowing the law would declare her legally dead after seven years. Now we’ll be close to him, have the opportunity to watch and observe. The devilish memories have had a long time to ferment in him. He’ll make a slip, Mother, that even he won’t notice. It’ll point us to the truth — if our wits are sharp enough.”

“Do be careful, Mr. Peabody.”

“Now you quit worrying. I’m not a mean, neurotic old lady with a vapid, neurotic offspring I’ve driven to momentary madness. No, sir-ree. In a showdown, I’d whip Teddy with my right wrist tied to my left anklebone.”

“I can’t help being a bit frightened, now that he’s actually here.”

“I know,” Mr. Peabody said gently. “But bear in mind, it’s a job only we can do. If we fail, Teddy goes scot free with four million dollars, blood money.”

Teddy Hockins dined by candlelight, his pallor almost lost in the large old dining room.

As she served him, Mrs. Peabody coaxed, “Another cocktail, Mr. Hockins?”

He looked at her morosely. “What are you trying to do, Mrs. Peabody?”

“I don’t believe I understand, sir.”

“You’ve been attempting to ply me with drink, Mrs. Peabody. Hoping to addle my wits, loosen my lips?”

“Really, sir—”

As she started to turn from the table, Hockins reached and caught her wrist.

“I know what you think,” Teddy said, his eyes gloomy and chill. “What you’ve all thought for seven years. You and your husband have remained in the cottage on the rear of the estate, living on my monthly checks. You were necessary, to protect the place from prowlers and thieves.”

She quaked. Was he saying she and Mr. Peabody were now no longer necessary?

“Surely, Mrs. Peabody, in all that time you’ve had a chance to go over every inch of the estate. But you had no more luck than the sheriff had years ago, did you? You’ve found no sign of a grave.”

“You are mistaken, Mr. Hockins.”

“Oh, come now. When I sent the keys and asked you to open the house, you had a couple of days to poke in every nook and cranny.” A thin laugh came from him. “And yet — where are the bones, Mrs. Peabody?”

Later, as the light of a cold moon streamed through the cottage windows, Mrs. Peabody slipped out of bed. She moved to the window and stood looking at the dark, distant hulk of the Hockins house.

Mr. Peabody got up and came to stand beside her. They were fat and thin images of silver in their long nightgowns.

“I couldn’t sleep either,” Mr. Peabody said.

“He suspects us, Mr. Peabody.”

“He suspects everyone. Encouraging, I’d say. Indicates a lingering doubt, a faintly remaining question in his mind as to whether the body might one day be found. And this means it isn’t perfect, means there’s still the chance of finding it.”

Mrs. Peabody stood with her face almost against the window pane. “But where? Years ago, Sheriff Tomerlin went over every inch of the estate. Not a blade of grass or a flower bed disturbed. No abandoned quarries or handy lakes in this area. No patches in the concrete floor of the basement to mark a grave. And our recent search of the house yielded nothing — no false walls in the closets or bones in old chests or trunks.”

“No key to the attic, either.”

“Don’t forget — Tomerlin was too thorough to pass up the attic seven years ago.”

“I know,” Mr. Peabody said doggedly, “but Teddy didn’t include an attic key when he sent us the keys from New York. I’ll grant you the attic was empty. Now — I’d like to look again.”

The lock on the attic door so fascinated Mr. Peabody that he failed to hear Teddy’s silent approach.

“Peabody!”

Mr. Peabody whirled. Hockins was a thin, gloomy form in the scant sunlight filtering into the narrow passageway.

“What are you doing, Peabody?”

“I thought you might want the attic cleaned, Mr. Hockins.”

“The attic is empty. It needs no cleaning.”

“Yes, sir.” Mr. Peabody started from the door.

Teddy blocked the way. “What did you think I have in there, Peabody?”

Mr. Peabody carefully wiped his lips with the back of his hand. If he doesn’t get out of my way, Mr. Peabody thought, I’ll break the young pup in two.

“Well, Peabody?”

“I considered the possibility,” Mr. Peabody said coolly, “that you might have put a certain object in the attic after the sheriff searched.”

“Really? You mean that an object was hidden in one place while the sheriff searched the attic, then slipped into the attic as the search progressed to other areas.”

“Could be. Will you open the attic?”

“Of course not.”

“The law might force you to.”

“Go ahead, Peabody. Make a fool of yourself. The attic remains locked. Why should I admit any glimmer of truth in your wild accusation?”

Teddy Hockins stepped aside. “You may go now, Peabody. And by the way — I have all the necessary papers ready. My lawyer can take care of the remainder of my chores here. I’ll be leaving tomorrow. I suggest you and your wife look for another position. I’ll take into account your age and obvious senility and be generous with you.”

Exasperation and frustration rose in Mr. Peabody, almost choking him. “So you’ve got away with it!”

“Peabody, really! I’d suggest you see a doctor. In view of your long term of service, I shall try-hard not to be offended by you. Instead, I’ll give you a few dollars to help you resettle. The cottage will be torn down. The house will be closed, never to be opened again as long as I live.”

Dismally, Mr. Peabody sat alone in the cottage. Mrs. Peabody came in. Her cheeks were pink and damp from her labors in the big house.

“Are you ill, Mr. Peabody?”

“Yes, in a manner of speaking. He’s leaving tomorrow. Pulling it off. Escaping for good.”

She came and stood beside his chair. “Mr. Peabody, could we have been wrong?”

“No,” he said. “I share the view that Sheriff Tomerlin held, rest him. An old lady simply doesn’t walk out of her house one dark night and disappear.”

“It’s happened, Mr. Peabody. It’s happened.”

“But not to an old witch like her. She wouldn’t turn her back on her house and money unless her mind cracked. And I don’t believe her mind slipped over the edge that evening, as Teddy cleverly insinuated. She was slightly balmy, all right, but not in that way.”

“She was fearful and it made her fearsome, Mr. Peabody.”

“You can say that again! Afraid Teddy’d look at a girl his own age, or get interested in a business that would take him away from here. She made him what he was, and is. And the final rebellion took place the night he killed her.

“Oh, I don’t say he meant to do it. I think they argued, like always, her alternately screaming and whining at him until he was half out of his mind. I think, as Tomerlin thought, that Teddy struck her — and when he saw that she was dead, he made her disappear.”

Mr. Peabody had spoken so rapidly he was out of breath. He inhaled deeply and added explosively, “We’ve got to get in the attic — and we have to do it right now!”

Mrs. Peabody wandered about the room, apparently aimlessly. Then she stopped and regarded him thoughtfully. “Mr. Peabody, you were a wonderful fox-hunter when you were young.”

Mr. Peabody raised his hands, let them fall to slap his thighs. “Honestly, Mother—”

“You used to say to me: ‘The fox is smart. He centers your attention in one direction so’s you won’t look in another.’ You also said that Teddy would give himself away when he came back. Maybe he has done that, Mr. Peabody.”

A momentary rigidity overcame Mr. Peabody. Then he jumped up and hugged his wife. “Mother, you are marvelous. The young fox — he centers our attention upward, when we should be looking down. The old lady’s body is surely in the basement!”

“Not under the concrete floor.”

“No good. Previously eliminated.”

“But the basement walls were always kept fresh and white, Mr. Peabody.”

“A fact that never meant anything before Teddy directed our attention to it,” Mr. Peabody said. “A new inner wall, parallel to an old wall, could be painted white and would be right in keeping with the rest of the basement. A wall to form a crypt — the old lady’s final resting place.”

Mrs. Peabody was breathless. “We do work well together, Mr. Peabody!”

“I’ll say. Now it’s simple arithmetic to measure the base of the house outside, the basement inside, and determine—”

“Oh, dear! Oh, my goodness—” Mrs. Peabody gasped.

“Something wrong?”

“Where did he get all those bricks, Mr. Peabody? It would take quite a few, you know.”

Mr. Peabody scratched his head. His brow knotted. He sat glumly. Then he sprang to his feet again. “There’s one way — and only one way — he could have made a grave with never a surface mark to show it. He carried the body the crime down to the basement, moved a few bricks, tunneled a short distance deep under the lawn, disposed of the evidence, replaced the bricks and painted over them. Given a whole night, even Teddy could have handled it.”

“How can we prove it, Mr. Peabody?”

“We must make Teddy tip his hand.”

Mr. Peabody was pecking with hammer and chisel on the basement wall when Teddy Hockins’ shadow fell across him. Mr. Peabody paused with the hammer half drawn back. He turned slowly.

“What are we doing this time, Peabody?” Teddy said tightly.

“Examining mortar, Mr. Hockins. This house is nearly a century old. I’m positive the original mortar will differ in color and texture from mortar used seven years ago. Finding strange mortar, I propose to remove a few bricks and see what lies beyond.”

Teddy Hockins slipped a small gun from his jacket pocket. His face was very white. “Too bad you came in here, Peabody. I can’t very well let you leave, can I?”

“I’d better warn you — Mrs. Peabody knows what I’m about.”

“She won’t get off the estate either, Peabody. I’m afraid the two old faithful servants are going to have a terrible accident when their cottage burns.”

Mrs. Peabody stepped from behind a massive brick pillar and struck Hockins on the back of the head with a heavy piece of wood. Teddy lost sensation immediately and curled to the floor.

Mr. and Mrs. Peabody sprang to catch him. Between them, they carried him upstairs and stretched him on a sofa.

Teddy groaned. Mrs. Peabody sat down and pillowed his head in her lap.

“Well, Mother,” Mr. Peabody said, “we’ve waited a long time.”

“Yes, we have. And I’m sure Teddy will understand and accept the situation quickly and entirely.”

“We’ll give him the freedom of the world, Mother.”

“So long as he treats us likewise. Ah — won’t it be nice to have a son, in a manner of speaking, worth four million dollars!”

Last Run of the Night

Originally appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, January 1967.

The thin, hump-shouldered old man got off the bus at Trivet Street, and Marika was the sole remaining passenger.

The rear door closed with a hiss as the old man’s shadow dissolved in the late-night darkness. The Diesel engine eased from an idling whisper to a sullen growl. An awkward sluggard, the bus lumbered from the curb-side stop.

As the lonely, deserted street crawled beneath the bus, the soft rattle of the empty seats jabbed at Marika. The night was warm, with a summer mist transforming the pale street lights into ornaments of silver; but a shudder built inside Marika and snaked through her.

“Anything wrong?” The driver’s voice had the rough edges of an untutored man; but it was a strong baritone, a human sound intruding into the emptiness.

The bus was sighing past freight yards, a trailer park, the lights of a small manufacturing plant, and rumbling toward desolate tracts of undeveloped suburban land. Marika pulled her gaze from the forlorn scenery. The driver was looking at her reflection in the curved mirror that gave him full visual scope of his bus.

A small breath gusted from Marika. “No, I’m all right.”

“You look mighty pale to me.” The driver hesitated. He was a big powerful man, his beef competent to handle the bus as if it were a toy. He turned his head to flick a glance at her. She was sitting on the right, three seats from the front of the bus.

“If you’re sick, lady, I can stop this heap for a minute.” He had a reddish-golden coloration, a face that had been hacked from hard rock maple with a dull ax. “I got no real schedule to make. Last run of the night. To the end of the line, then on to the bus garage. Won’t matter if I’m a couple of minutes late.”

“Thanks, but I’m feeling better.” Marika opened her large handbag, took out a wisp of handkerchief, touched it to her face. “For a minute there — being alone at this hour — I got a little jumpy, I guess.”

The driver had again centered his attention on the suburban parkway, Sherman Boulevard. The creases in the back of his neck yawned as he dipped his head in a nod. “Yeah, after what’s happened, I guess some jumpiness is natural.”

Marika studied his reflection in the windshield. It was erased by the flowing shadows of a stretch of tall trees. Marika gave a little laugh.

“I’m such a ninny sometimes.”

“Ninny, my eye.” A plaque over the windshield announced the driver’s name: Your Operator, G. G. Harbison. “When a couple of girls get murdered out here, it’s time for a — a beautiful young woman to let a ninny streak show.”

His voice had softened when it fumbled for the descriptive adjective.

Marika slid her eyes from him. Beautiful? The word wasn’t often used to describe her. She was of sturdy Slavic stock, and she was intelligent enough to know herself for what she was. Her figure wasn’t bad, if judged by a big-woman standard. Neither was her face, its broad planes and high cheekbones softened by her mass of gleaming black hair. Attractive? Yes, definitely attractive. Young, healthy, robust, attractive. But hardly beautiful.

Outside, nothing bearing a light was any longer visible. Even traffic on Sherman Boulevard had disappeared. The indistinct shadows of a few shacks, a tumbledown garage, slipped past.

The soft hissing of the tires became the sibilant whisper of a creature lurking in the darkness. The Diesel, settling into a steady rhythm, began to chant. Dead — dead — dead — dead—

“Have you—” Marika started at the sound of her own voice — “been on this run long?”

“Couple of months,” Harbison said.

“Do you like it?”

The shoulders that bulged the gray uniform jacket went up, down. “It’s okay. It pays a buck. I guess I like it better than the company does. They lose money, running a city transit bus all the way out to the new shopping center and housing development. But they got to do it. Something about their franchise — I dunno the details. Anyhow, they should bellyache, the way they got the city bus business locked up.”

The headlights of a short string of cars suddenly danced by.

Harbison glanced into the interior-view mirror. “You live in one of the new homes in Sherman Forest?”

“No,” Marika said, “but I’m going all the way — to the end of the line.”

For a full minute Harbison divided his attention between the road and mirror. Marika knew he was trying to figure her. She didn’t live out there. She didn’t have a suitcase, so she wasn’t going for a visit. A visit—

Harbison lifted a muscle-corded hand from the steering wheel and raked it across his lips. A visit. Her nervousness. Maybe some jerk in a fancy Sherman Forest home had a wife who wasn’t home, had cozy music on the stereo and a bottle of if champagne waiting on ice—

Marika slipped a small rat-tail comb from her handbag, touched it to the ends of her hair.

“You got somebody to meet you?” Harbison asked.

She shook her head.

“You be careful,” he said, a rough note in his voice. “If you got far to walk from the end of the line, you be careful.”

“I will,” she promised.

“It’s late, and you ought to have somebody to meet you.”

“I’ll be okay.”

The Sherman Forest development formed a lazy curve around a large lake. Moonlight lay in a bank of silver to the farther shore.

“Did you know them?” Marika asked.

“Who?”

“The two girls.”

“Oh, no,” he said. “They rode my bus now and then — both of them worked out here. One was a maid, the other a nurse to an old invalid lady. I’d nod and say hello, but I didn’t know their names or anything until I read about them in the papers.”

“The papers sure made the most of it,” Marika remarked.

“They always do.”

She shivered. “They said that the man — before he strangled them — assaulted them.”

“The dumb bulls will never catch the guy, either.”

“Why do you say that?”

He met her glance briefly in the mirror. “Do they ever?”

“Sometimes,” she said. “Sometimes they do. If they get suspicious, they have ways, I’ve heard.”

The negative shake of the square-hewn reddish face was emphatic. “But not this time. This guy is too slick for them. He could be anybody. Right on this bus — if we had another passenger.”

Marika folded her arms and hugged herself. Framed in the bus window, a palatial country estate swam in the moonlight, a Colonial-style mansion remote and austere.

“Do you—” Marika’s teeth chattered. “Do you think the man is still around?”

“Who knows? Maybe he’s a rich young guy sleeping peaceful in a Sherman Forest home right at this minute. Maybe he’s a fiddle-footed character five states away. Maybe—”

The tires keened in the silence. A gleeful note crept into the insidious chanting of the Diesel.

“Yes?” Marika prompted.

“Forget it.”

“But you—”

“Forget it, I said!”

“Well, okay! If you want to be that way about it, okay!”

His eyes sought hers in the mirror. “So if you insist,” he said, a tight, thin laugh behind his voice. “The guy may be somebody who likes to find a dark corner and wait for the bus to arrive. Wait to see what’s getting off the Route 109, Sherman Forest bus.”

“I’ve made you angry,” she said.

“Why should I be angry?”

“But you are.”

“No,” he barked. “I’m not sore. You’re old enough to know what you’re doing. You want to go around asking for it, that’s your business!”

“I’m not asking for it. I have to go to Sherman Forest, that’s all.”

“At this hour?”

“Why not?”

“Nothing’s open there at this hour, unless it’s a house where somebody is expecting you.”

Marika tossed her head in a flash of contrived haughtiness. “I’ll admit I wanted some conversation, but you’ve got no right to pry into my personal affairs.”

He looked at her in the mirror. His teeth snapped together. His voice dropped to such a low pitch that it was almost lost in the shrilling of the tires. “Like I told the dumb bulls, I haven’t seen a thing. No suspicious guys riding my bus, none hanging around the shopping center stop. Like I’m telling you. The guy is too slick to get caught. And you’re too dumb not to.”

“Now look here! You’ve got a real nerve—”

“Dumb and no good.”

“I won’t listen to any further—”

“And just like the others,” he said. “Husky just like them. And dark. Know what the cops said? Said maybe the guy had a thing about husky, dark women. Maybe his mother had been a dark, husky woman and she’d hated him and he’d hated her, or maybe there was a dark, husky woman later in his life who gave him the business real good.”

Marika’s eyes were fixed on him.

The thin, cold laugh scratched its way past his throat. His foot suddenly hit the brake. Marika was thrown forward. He wrestled the wheel. The bus tilted, swayed, then lurched onto a side road.

He killed the lights before the bus had stopped moving, and the vehicle was swallowed in the shadows flung by a canopy of trees.

Marika crouched in the far corner of the seat. Bits of leaf-filtered moonlight outlined his heavy silhouette. He was getting out of the driver’s seat. Moving slowly. Taking his time. Savoring his madness, relishing this suspended moment.

Nearer and nearer the huge bulk of him came. His laugh was a rumble far more grim than the Diesel chanting had been.

“Go ahead, number three, and scream,” he said. “Let me hear you scream one time. There’s nobody but me to hear you — not a soul. Scream, I say!”

But Marika did not scream. Instead, her hand slid into her large handbag. The pin on her policewoman’s badge pricked her knuckle slightly as her fingers slid past to curl around the butt of her service revolver.

A Friendly Exorcise

Originally appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, March 1968.

I was putting up the traverse rods for the living room draperies when Judy let out a screech. She sounded like a woman who’d had the world’s biggest mouse scurry between her feet.

The sound lifted me off the hassock where I’d been standing to add height to my somewhat bony six-one. I jetted toward the source of the sound, skidding off the hallway into the empty bedroom.

Judy, the delectable, hadn’t been frightened by a mouse. Instead, the culprit was a sweatsock. That’s right, an ordinary white woolen sweatsock, misshapen and slightly bedraggled from having been laundered many times. It lay in the middle of the bare floor, and it had to be the source of her trouble. Besides Judy there was nothing else in the room. She stood pressed against the wall, elfin face pale, blue eyes round. Pointing at the sock, she tried to talk, getting hung up on the “J” in my name.

“J-J-J-Jim, that darn thing floated out of the closet and g-g-g-gave me a hug across the face!”

She was making no sense whatever to me. I gawked at her, and the expression on my face bugged some of the fright out of her. Her eyes began to flash.

“Don’t you care that an old sweatsock floats out of a closet, halfway across an empty room, and nuzzles up to your bride, Jim Thornton?”

“Well, I... uh... Sure I care! But how could it have happened?”

“You tell me. You’re the brain. All I know is what happened. When I’d finished putting things away in the bedroom, I came in here. I was thinking how we’d fix this room for a nursery some day. Then that sock...” She shuddered. “I wouldn’t let my baby take a twenty minute nap in this room.”

I detoured the sock, grinning at her. “Baby? Judy, you’re pregnant already!”

She shook off my clutching hands. “Don’t be silly! We’ve been married less than a month. I haven’t had time to know if I’m pregnant or not. But when we do have a baby, James Arnold Thornton, you’d better have an explanation for anti-gravity sweat socks, if we stay in this house.”

I turned and sank to one knee beside the sock. I poked it with a finger. Nothing supernatural occurred. The sock was as commonplace and ordinary as... well, as old sweat socks.

“When the Bicklefords moved out,” I pronounced, “the sock was overlooked. It was probably in a dark corner of the closet shelf.”

“Brilliant,” said Judy, putting her sunny blonde head next to my drab brown thatch. “Of course it was overlooked by their movers.”

“And a breeze happened to blow it across your face.”

“Breeze?”

“Capricious breeze.”

She tilted her head and gave me a look. “Capricious breeze in an empty room with the windows closed.”

Her matter of fact tone was worse than sarcasm. My male ego recoiled. “Naturally,” I said with a certain hauteur, “the first home I finagle with a mortgage company for my wife has to be fouled up with a poltergeist!”

She gingerly picked up the sock, stood, held the sock dangling at arm’s length. “Now you’re a little closer to the beam.”

I stood up beside her, dusting my hands. “Come on, you can’t be serious. You don’t believe in zombies or voices from beyond the grave.”

“Nope,” she said, “but this sock is real as life. And poltergeists are too well authenticated to deny that something every now and then acts up in somebody’s house. There have been any number of cases in England. And how about those people in Massachusetts whose house made the newspapers? And the house on Long Island — or was it in the Bronx — that was shown on the television newscast? Crockery flying all over the place in that one — and a team of tough New York cops staked out the joint and saw some of it happen! You going to fly in the face of hard-bitten, super-realistic New York cops?”

“Not me,” I said helplessly.

“So there,” Judy said. She had riveted her gaze on the sock all this while. Now a strange mood seemed to have overtaken all of her initial fright. “You know, I really don’t think he was trying to frighten me. The touch of the sock was ever so gentle, a caress. I think he was trying to say hello and make friends. Still,” she glanced about, “I’m not sure we should plan a nursery in here.”

That’s where the subject rested for the moment. I wandered back to work, more concerned than I cared to show. In our recent college days, Judy and I had both been as far from the LSD crowd as you could polarize. Just a couple of the hard-studying non-jets that made up ninety-five percent of the student body, sans publicity, and floating sweat socks didn’t fit into our pattern of living at all.

I finished hanging the living-room draperies, heard Judy safely rattling pots, pans, and crockery from their packing crates in the kitchen, and ambled quietly out the front door.

If it hadn’t been for that sweat-sock, the day would have been perfect. Even if secondhand, the house was a cozy picture of antique brick and redwood. Judy and I hadn’t dared hope to start off so well. It had been pure luck that we’d picked up the house for practically nothing down and payments no higher than rent on a decent apartment. Wedding gifts and credit provided enough furniture to keep us from sleeping on the floor as a starter. Great luck, I’d thought. Now I was having second thoughts. Frankly, I was wondering why that Bickleford fellow had been so anxious to get out.

The house next door, to the west of us, was as quietly white collar as the rest of the neighborhood. The nameplate over the bell button said, “Tate Curzon.”

I used the button, and chimes sounded inside. The door opened a few inches and stopped.

“Yes?” he said. He had a voice like a loose violin string being stroked with a scratchy bow.

“Mr. Tate Curzon?”

“So what if I am?”

The door offered no further welcome, remaining just slightly open. From what I could see of him, he was a wiry, narrow shouldered little guy in his late forties or early fifties. He had a long red neck rising out of his starched white collar, a narrow and cruel looking face, and a pinched-up bald pate that was so freckled it looked bloody. It was easy to behold the snappish visage and imagine a vulture’s head.

I shuffled a bit uncomfortably. “Just thought I’d say hello. We’re your new neighbors, James and Judy Thorton.”

He looked me up and down, without approval. “I don’t loan tools, carpet sweepers, fuse plugs or lawn mowers.”

“No, sir.” I jammed my hands into my slacks pockets. “I didn’t want to borrow anything.”

“Then you’re not disappointed. You got any kids?”

“Not yet, Mr. Curzon.”

“Good thing. I hate brats. Always breaking down my rose arbor and throwing trash in my fish pond.”

“Yes, well... I guess the Bicklefords had kids?”

“One. Stupid oaf. Boy. Eighteen. Always roaring in and out of the driveway in that stupid sports car of his.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, agreeable as butter. “I guess all boys are that way with their first car.”

“His first and last,” Mr. Tate Curzon said on a note of malice.

“You mean — he smashed it up?”

“And himself with it. Skidded one rainy night and went over the cliffs south of town. They picked up Andrew Bickleford — and his sports car — in little pieces.”

“Gee, that’s too bad!”

Mr. Curzon’s eyes beaded. “You should care. Andy’s mother had a nervous breakdown, and that nincompoop father couldn’t put the house on the market fast enough.” The inference that I’d profited by a young stranger’s death caused the heat to rise. I felt red from cheek to jowl. I let my eyes give Mr. Curzon’s gimlet gaze tit for tat, and said stiffly, “Good day.”

He slammed the door.

When I carried my burn back into my own premises I heard a couple of female voices in the kitchen. Judy and a blowsy and slightly brassy redhead of middle age were dunking teabags in Judy’s new cups.

“Oh, hi, Jim. This is our neighbor, came over to say hello.”

“Mrs. Curzon?” I asked, moving out of the doorway toward the kitchen table.

“Heavens, no,” the woman laughed. “I’m Mabel Gosness. I live on the other side of you.”

She chatted through the ritual of sipping tea and departed with the remark that it was wonderful to have young people in the neighborhood.

Judy carried the cups to the sink and began washing them. “We had real talk before the male presence befell us.”

“Did you now?”

“She seemed terribly lonely, eager for someone to talk with. She lives alone — her husband ran away with another woman nearly a year ago.”

“Maybe one who talked less.”

Judy looked over her shoulder long enough to stick out her tongue. “And guess what else?”

“I give. What?”

“On the other side of us is a mean little man named Tate Curzon. He hates everybody. Had four wives, no less, children by one of them. But even his own kids — they’re grown up now — never go near him. Mrs. Gosness says we’re to have nothing to do with him.”

“Thanks for the advice, but I’ve met the gentleman.”

“Honest?”

“Sure,” I said, taking the cups and saucers from her to dry. “Went over and said hello. Wondered if he could tell me why Bickleford was so anxious to sell this house.”

Judy practically wriggled. “And did you find out?”

I hesitated, balanced on the point of a fib, then realized she would find out from Mrs. Gosness anyway. So I told her about young Andy Bickleford who’d been picked up in pieces and a mother whose mind hadn’t been able to take it and a father-husband to whom the end of the world had come.

“I’ll bet that sock was Andy’s. The room must have been his.” A suspicion of tears touched Judy’s eyes.

By bedtime, our first day of settling into our new home had got our minds off the tragic Bicklefords. They were, after all, strangers, and the present was much too vivid. I lounged in the master bedroom in shorts, my sleeping apparel, nonchalantly pretending to read with the pillow stuffed behind my head. Actually I had the dressing room doorway framed in my vision over the edge of the book; and then the door opened and Judy stepped into the soft bedroom lighting wearing a nylon nightgown that was next to nothing. My civilized veneer barely stifled a roar of pleasure.

Hair brushed about her shoulders and a little smile of mystery playing across her mouth, she seemed to glide toward me. A remark on my pulse rate would be needless.

Then as she passed the bureau, a strange thing happened. A ten by twelve inch picture of me which Judy had framed suddenly rose, hurled itself across the room and smashed against the wall.

The picture fell to the floor. There was a moment of dead silence, then a whispered tinkle as a bit of glass settled in the wreckage.

I sat up with the dream movements of a man swimming through molasses. Judy and I knelt beside the picture, neither wanting to touch it.

“Your gown must have brushed against it,” I mumbled.

“And knocked it all the way across the room?” Judy said with fearful logic.

I gathered the bits of broken glass, piled them on the picture, and carried the wreckage to the bureau. Judy watched me, wide-eyed and steeped in her own thoughts.

As I turned from the bureau, the murder mystery I’d been pretending to read jumped up and down on the bedside table. The edge of the book cover jarred against the lampshade. The lamp teetered, fell with a crash. Darkness flooded the room.

I wasn’t sure whether Judy or I moved first, but in an instant we were standing in shivery embrace.

“Maybe we should check into a motel for the night,” I suggested through chattering teeth.

Judy’s warmth stirred in my arms. “Nope,” she said, “I’m not being chased so easily out of our own house. Anyway, our poltergeist doesn’t want to hurt us.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“He hasn’t thrown anything at us or on us,” she said with supreme female logic. “He could have socked you with the picture frame if he were antagonistic.”

“He’s a sadist,” I said, “who’d rather scare people to death a little at a time.”

“Or a lonely fellow who’s trying to tell us something,” Judy mused. “He’s certainly picking out a variety of items to toss around, which means he has method and purpose. If we could just get the message, I’m sure he’d go away and rest in peace.”

Red-eyed and haggard, I muddled through my junior accountant’s job the next day. I was worried about Judy’s almost natural acceptance of the existence of a poltergeist. In the warm light of day, I just didn’t believe what I had seen for myself. There had to be an explanation, like the juxtaposition of magnetic forces at the spot where our house stood.

I would have welcomed some advice, but could think of no source. My hard-headed, realistic boss was definitely out. If I went to the cops, the newspapers would pick it off the public record. We’d be subjected to the same glare of publicity that had roasted every other family so rash as to reveal acquaintance with a poltergeist. I wondered how many, like myself, had preferred to suffer the inexplicable in silence.

The house looked as normal as peaches and cream when I hurried up the front walk. A bouncy and smiling Judy had a not-very-dry martini waiting, the kind I like. She’d also fractured her grocery budget with a two-inch-thick T-bone steak, but I applauded her.

“No flying crockery today?” I asked as she slipped the steak under the broiler.

“Not even a saucer,” she said.

“Maybe the strain proved too much for him,” I said hopefully, munching the olive marinated in vermouth and gin.

We dined elegantly by candlelight, the table graced with snowy linen that had been a wedding present from my Aunt Ellen.

I’d had no appetite for lunch, but I worked like a scavenger on the steak. Judy served coffee, and we eyed each other across the table in affectionate silence.

The steak bone made like a Mexican jumping bean all of a sudden, rapping against the plate.

Judy blinked. I jumped. My chair tipped over backward. I grabbed the edge of the table and hung there, watching the bone jump up and down at eye level.

The bone made no threatening motions, but it was a desecration of our privacy. “Enough is enough,” I snarled. I rose, cupped my hands, and pounced on the bone. It offered no resistance as I smacked it against the plate. I raised my fingers one at a time, and was a little miffed when the bone just lay there after it was freed.

I sneaked a glance at Judy. “You did see that, too, didn’t you?”

Judy nodded an affirmative, her eyes glinting. “I wonder what he meant?”

“Maybe that he’s hungry,” I growled. “Maybe you should brew him up a spot of newt’s eyes over some sulphur and brimstone.”

“Don’t be facetious, Jim!”

“Facetious? I’m not even rational any longer.”

While Judy washed the dishes and tidied up after dinner, I did a sneaky search of the house from attic to basement. I didn’t find any wires, magnets, or other device remotely resembling the tools of a screwball practical joker.

When I went upstairs from the basement, Judy was curled in our new wing chair before the television set.

“You might have saved your time,” she said with wifely forbearance. “I covered every nook and crack myself today. Not that I needed any more proof that we really have a poltergeist.”

“I favor selling,” I said. “I could put the place on the market by phoning the real estate agent at his home right now.”

She sat up. “Don’t you dare, Jim Thornton! This poor fellow got stuck here, and when he gets unstuck he will go away and leave us alone.”

“Oh, yeah? And I suppose you still think he’s trying to deliver a message?”

“More than ever. That rattling bone meant something... if I could just figure out what. Why’d he wait all day until he had the bone to rattle, if he wasn’t trying to tell us something?”

I eased to a sitting position on the hassock before her. “Judy,” I said gently, “I think I’d better get you out of here before we spend another night in this place.”

“Don’t be sil! It’s a perfectly lovely house.”

“But all this talk...”

“He’s a perfectly nice poltergeist — and I’m not going to leave.” She smiled, leaned forward to pat my cheek. “Be a darling and flip the tuner to channel twelve. There’s an hour-long comedy special coming up in about five minutes.”

I not only switched the TV, I went and made myself a double-barreled martini, very dry this time. I sipped it and also its big brother while the hour-long was on. Six ounces of nearly straight gin later I settled back in the recliner, a wedding gift of Judy’s cousin Ned. I clasped my hands across my midriff comfortably and prepared to think it out.

The TV music faded. The draperies seemed to waver and shake as my heavy lids blotted them out. Lousy draperies, I thought vaguely, with their floral pattern of red roses. Just like Judy’s Uncle Horace to give them to us...

I awoke with a muscular jerk that popped a crick out of my neck. I dropped the recliner to sitting position, running my tongue around the inside of my gin-wool mouth. A late newscast was on the television. A crashing mortar attack by guerrillas against an American base overseas seemed to have awakened me.

“Judy?” I said.

She was nowhere in the living-room, bedroom, or kitchen. I made the circuit, beginning to sweat hard by the time I’d come full circle.

The emptiness and silence of the house (except for the insistent TV) began to smother me. I turned off the set with a vicious flip of fingers that were trembling.

“Easy,” I ordered myself. “If anything had happened, you’d have heard the ruckus.”

Maybe she’d stepped next door to chin a little with Mrs. Gosness and break the boredom of listening to a husband’s snore.

I hurried to the east window, pulled the drapery aside; no lights over there. Mrs. Gosness was already off to dreamland, not sipping tea with a next-door neighbor.

I took jerky steps back to the middle of the room. My skin was turning icy and exuding a steam of sweat at one and the same time. If the house hadn’t been haunted before, it certainly felt so now. The empty wing chair where Judy had been sitting seemed to throb in my vision. Then I saw that something new had been added. On the hassock before the chair, she’d laid a piece of paper, a pencil, and the magazine she’d used for a backing as she’d written.

I snatched up the paper. She hadn’t left me a note. Instead, it was a record of her thoughts while I’d slept. Around the margin were curlicues where she’d doodled between words, sentences, phrases.

She’d written:

“The hints... sock... smashed picture... mystery novel... broken lamp... rattling bone... agitated rose-patterned drapes.”

So the drapes had really shaken. I steadied the paper and kept reading.

“Sock... friendly... friendly Andy Bickleford... but picture smashed with a great deal of violence... picture of Jim... Jim’s a male... only picture of male in house... male smashed by violence! Friendly Andy trying to say he was smashed violently? Not killed accidentally at all! Slugged, put in sports car, pushed over cliffs!... Why? Because of something he’d done?... done bone... bone did... bone does... darn you, bone!... Well, let’s see... If Andy didn’t do anything, maybe he was undone because of something he’d witnessed... see bone... bone from T-bone steak, useless... except to a doggie... doggie would go out and bury bone... BURIED BONE... hidden weapon?... Buried weapon that killed Andy before he was stuffed in sports car and driven to those dreadful cliffs?... Buried where... Next hint, final clue, quaking draperies... draped for burial... nope... bedroom draperies weren’t chosen... specific draperies... those in the living-room with roses... buried with roses... buried under roses...weapon buried under only rose arbor in neighborhood!”

I dropped the paper. The gimlet eyes and the scratchy violin-string voice flashed through my mind “...hate brats. Always throwing trash in my fish pond and breaking my rose arbor.”

The night coolness washed across my face before I even realized I’d run outside. A pale moon bathed our backyards, ours and Mr. Tate Curzon’s. I slipped through the shadows cast by our house, my eyes seeking and searching.

Then I heard a muffled cry and jerked my attention from the rose arbor next door. I saw the struggling shadows near Mr. Curzon’s basement door. He heard my pounding footsteps, and as my presence loomed over him, Curzon shoved Judy sprawling and laid a hard little fist in my kisser.

My knees buckled and my nose dug a furrow. He kicked me hard in the ribs. Breath whoofed out, but as he spun and started to run away, my grabbing hand found an ankle. I yanked, and this time Mr. Curzon fell. He writhed around and started lashing me with his fists. I disliked picking on such a little fellow, but he ignored my orders to lie still, so I grabbed him by his thin neck and popped his head against the hard ground. It proved to be an anesthetizing measure. He would remain unconscious for several minutes at least.

Judy grabbed my arms, helped me to my feet. Then she put her arms around me and collapsed against my chest.

“Oh, Jim! I was peeping about his rose arbor and suddenly he was there. He grabbed me, and I screamed just once before he—”

I tipped her face up and kissed her. She began to sob with relief. I picked her up and my shoulder was a very nice cradle for her head.

“I think we’d better call the police,” I said.

We thought it discreet to omit mention of the poltergeist, inferring to the police that Mr. Curzon had been acting strangely around his roses and launched his murderous attack when Judy’s curiosity got the better of her.

It turned out that the police had previously questioned Mr. Curzon in the disappearance of one of his wives. Their probe of the rose arbor turned up the remains of the fourth Mrs. Curzon. Perhaps it was suspicion or evidence of this that led to Andy Bickleford’s untimely demise.

We can’t know for sure. The poltergeist hasn’t been around since that fateful night, and if the subject came up, Judy and I would be first to agree that nobody in his right mind could believe in poltergeists. Like all the silent others who’ve shared similar experiences, we don’t want our friends thinking we are soft in the head.

I do, however, feel the poltergeist should have assisted a bit longer. An army of cops and insurance investigators are going nuts trying to find out what happened to Mrs. Curzons, numbers one, two, three.

A Truly Honest Man

Originally appeared in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, September 1972.

As soon as I got wind of the coming calamity, I drove out of Comfort a lot faster than a fellow of my age should. My destination was a few miles west of Comfort, which is a nice hamlet nestled in the gentle folds of the Smoky Mountains.

The narrow road snaked toward the heights in dizzying hairpin curves. The scenery was something else; wooded peaks, sheer cliffs, blue-misted valleys that seemed depthless with their gossamer veils of wispy cloud swirling below the level of the road. But right then, I was contrary to the beauties of my native mountains. My recent suspicions of Mr. Randolph P. Fogarty flumped in a painful pulse between my temples.

I gunned my dusty sedan to the upper rim of a miles-long valley. It dropped breathlessly away on my right. To my left, Spurgeon Mountain strained its steep, thicketed slopes on toward the sky. The towering peak was as primitive as in the day of the Cherokee, except for the raw earthen scars Randolph P. Fogarty would leave as painful reminders to us ignorant natives.

I braked the sedan, turning it onto a vast muddy stretch that bulldozers had gouged as a beginning for a huge parking area. I jounced along slowly, twisting the steering wheel to avoid boulders and ruts. From the side window I glimpsed the naked incision that slashed straight up to the mountain’s distant crest, the clearing for the proposed chairlift.

Straight ahead, and already sprouting a few young weeds, were the humps of concrete forms and stanchions, foundations, supposedly, for a building that showed, on paper, as a large souvenir shop and restaurant.

I beaded my eyes on the small travel trailer that had served as a construction site office for Fogarty Enterprises. Fogarty’s gun-metal gray Continental was parked beside the office, and my pulse tripped a beat of thanksgiving. At least I could have a private, man to man talk with him before the boom was lowered all the way.

I risked the welfare of the sedan’s springs, covering the last fifty yards of ruts, humps, and slits the rains had cut.

I was out of the sedan almost before it stopped pitching and rearing. Getting from under the wheel, I flicked a glance over the scars the ’dozer had made. The mountain seemed so dismal now, so silent with the small crew and machinery trucked away when the work was barely begun. It all added up to a brutish bequest by Fogarty, a disdainful mockery of the big-deal dream he’d painted—

Fogarty must have heard the sedan’s engine in the mountain silence, seem me coming. But he chose to ignore me, even when I’d stood a few seconds outside the trailer-office doorway. He continued to stand imposingly at his desk, gathering up papers and stuffing them into a gold-monogrammed attaché case.

A good way to get a mountain man riled is to make out like he isn’t there, and I was more than a little riled already.

“Fogarty,” I said, stepping into the confines of the low-ceilinged trailer, “I want a few words with you.”

He glanced at a couple more documents, slipped one in the briefcase and dropped the other in the general direction of the overflowing trash basket. He shifted his two-dollar cigar with a movement of his lips.

“Make it a few,” he said in his stentorian baritone. “I’m busy.”

I faced him across the desk. We were sure a mismatched pair. I was scrawny, gray as a mountain winter from sixty years of living, a little rumpled in my store-bought suit, squint-eyed, arid red-necked.

Fogarty was about the furthest contrast you could imagine, big, robust, exuding the air of a Philadelphia banker or Wall Street tycoon. He wore an English suit, Italian loafers, a Madison Avenue shirt and tie, and a big, glittering stone on his manicured pinkie. But his stock in trade was his affable, honest looking face, with just enough gray at the temples to give him the final touch of dependability and last-notch respectability.

It was sure the perfect con man’s cover, that face, inspiring instant trust and confidence in even the experienced and wary.

“Fogarty,” I said, “I just had lunch with a member of our legal bar, Judge Bine. He mentioned something that kind of posed some questions in my mind.”

Fogarty picked up a paper, studied it briefly. “Such as?”

“Are you figuring on a quick action for bankruptcy?”

He smiled. It wasn’t like the hearty, genuine looking smiles he’d worn for Comfort. It was a little ugly. “Do you believe every bit of lunch table gossip that comes your way?”

“As head of the Comfort Savings and Loan Association I’m concerned with anything you do with our depositors’ money,” I reminded him.

He gave me the impatient look of a really big man dismissing a worm.

“I’m sure,” he said with mild scorn, “that you’ve spent every night biting your nails since you made the loan.”

I leaned toward him and gripped the edge of the desk. “I didn’t loan you a hundred thousand dollars of other people’s money entrusted to the care and keeping of the Comfort Savings and Loan Association. It was the board that you conned into the loan, Fogarty. The poor, pitiful group of hillbillies you bedazzled with your manner, your talk, your wining and dining, your fancy plans for turning Spurgeon Mountain into a sure-fire gold-mine tourist attraction.”

Our eyes locked. His lost a little of their calm self-assurance. Every word I’d said was true, and Fogarty knew it. He’d despised me from the start because I’d glimpsed behind his front. I’d held out, but he’d turned the savings and loan board against me.

I remembered their joshing just before the vote was taken: “You getting old and cranky, Lemuel?”... “Catch up with the times, Lemuel. The Spurgeon Mountain development as a tourist playground can’t miss.”... “Sure, Lemuel, look at what they’ve done around Blowing Rock and Maggie Valley near Asheville.”... “Not to mention Gold Mountain and Tweetsie Railroad.”... “We’ll have ’em by the station wagon load when Mr. Fogarty completes the chairlift, the mountaintop golf course, the frontier village, the open air amphitheater.”... “Every summer, Lemuel, Comfort will bust at the seams with tourists and their money.”... “It ain’t like he was asking us to foot the whole bill”... “That’s right, Lemuel, he’s just asking us for a piddling hundred thou.”

So it had gone. Piddling hundred thou, my foot! I’d looked about the board room table at their faces, struck a little dumb at the way Fogarty had shifted their way of thinking.

“Fogarty,” I said bluntly, “what have you done with our money?”

Neither of us let our eyes waver or drop. His fancy cigar had gone out, but he hadn’t noticed.

“Unfortunately, Lemuel, I made some bad investments.” Pointedly, he hadn’t called me Mr. Hyder, but Lemuel, in the tone of a man permitting a mountain hooger to shine his shoes or carry his golf bag.

“Or some mighty good investments,” I suggested. “Maybe in a numbered Swiss bank account?”

That little shot in the dark got to him. He couldn’t quite hide the flicker deep in his eyes.

“What makes you say a thing like that?” he probed.

“You,” I said. “You, being what you are. I think it was your goal from the beginning. You staked out yourself a bunch of naive hillbillies with a nest egg who were ready for the taking. I don’t think you ever intended to go further on Spurgeon Mountain than you’ve gone.” I jerked a thumb toward the window.

“And you sure haven’t gone more than five or six thousand out there. Just some motions, to pave the way for the next act, a bankruptcy action while the loot is safely salted away somewhere out of reach.”

He studied me a moment. Then he reached with his soft right hand and nudged my splayed hands from the papers on his desk. He did it like he was picking up a dirty bug.

“I don’t like you, Lemuel Hyder,” he said, “but I’ll have to admit I admire you more than I do the rest of them.”

“Then you’re admitting the truth of what I say?”

Towering over me, his eyes crinkled with a sort of warped pleasure. Not liking me, he was enjoying this moment and the chance to rub it in.

“Why not?” he said. “It’s salted away, all right. But not necessarily in a numbered Swiss account. There are any multitude of choices where to tuck money if you know the angles.”

I felt even sicker at heart. Somehow, I’d hoped in the back of my mind that he would tell me the bankruptcy caper wasn’t really true. I’d wished for him to say that the setback and work stoppage was just temporary, that Spurgeon Mountain would blossom and glitter and show a neon face to happy crowds.

He rolled his cigar in his lips, savoring the grayness of his wizened face more than the taste of expensive tobacco. “Does knowing help, Lemuel? Or hurt, perhaps?” He bent his head to look at me a little closer. “You poor fellow, it does hurt! And not a thing you can do about it, is there? If you repeated my admission, I would simply deny it. You’ve no witnesses. Just you and me up here on Spurgeon Mountain. Your word against mine.”

I couldn’t talk for a little while. I guess we both ached with his sense of victory, only in totally different ways.

“Fogarty,” I pleaded gently, “it isn’t as if you were conning some rich kid. Comfort can’t afford what you’ve done.”

“My heart bleeds, Lemuel.”

“Comfort ain’t much of a town, Fogarty. But it’s people, nice, quiet people.”

“Sticks and clods,” he said.

“Ain’t a soul in Comfort wouldn’t help you fix a flat or give you a meal and lodging if you lost your wallet.”

“Suckers,” he decided.

I moved around to the back corner of the desk. “Fogarty, will you really be able to enjoy it?”

“I always enjoy fat living,” he assured me with a big, maddening smile.

“Maybe I ought to tell you how it was,” I said.

“I’m really not interested, Lemuel.”

“It was depression times,” I said, “and I started the savings and loan because Comfort needed it. Thirty-five or more years ago, I started it. With a few dollars of my own and the trust of good people, Fogarty.

“If a woman eked out an extra dollar selling eggs, she trusted it to me. A man plowed a neighbor’s field for a fiver he could scrimp by without and he would put it on deposit where it would grow a little and do some good. We loaned money to a man to buy a milk cow, a tractor to replace a mule, seed com to change a fallow hillside, and houses. Not mansions, Fogarty, but small, decent houses to people who needed them.”

I paused to take a breath. “That’s Comfort Savings and Loan, Fogarty. That’s the outfit you’re robbing, the little backstop for the people of Comfort that’ll go under itself the day you go bankrupt. A hundred thou is a great big passel of money to us, Fogarty.”

“If you’re quite finished, Lemuel, I’ve other things to do,” Fogarty said.

“Nope,” I said. “I came here to collect the people’s money, and that’s what I aim to do. Me and the rednecks of Comfort, Fogarty, we never let each other down yet. And I don’t fancy that today is the proper date to start doing so.”

His eyes became dark, wholly nasty. “Get out of here, you paltry little ass!”

“That’s your last word, Fogarty?”

“You and the coon hunters of Comfort wouldn’t know what to do with your hundred grand if I gave it back!” he spoke in rising rage. “And my last word is — get lost!”

He moved a hand toward his desk drawer. As he jarred it open, I glimpsed a revolver inside. A revolver is always a strong argument, but he’d had his say and I didn’t see any point in further debate.

Before his hand could reach the gun, I’d already hauled off and let him have one on the side of the jaw. I was so small and quick he never saw it coming.

He staggered back from his desk, his eyes suddenly bulging. I hit him three more times like a rattler, which is also small, striking. He never knew where the punches came from.

Big, soft fellow, I thought as I stood over his prone bulk. Big, soft bully, losing all his candy.

I hadn’t even worked up a sweat, and Fogarty was lying there on his big, broad back, his mouth gaping, his jaws reddening where my fists had struck.

He groaned and tried to stir. I put a stop to that by picking up a heavy quartz paperweight, which I’d noticed on his-desk, and bending over him and banging him on the left temple.

He gave no trouble at all after that, except for his weight. It took me nearly thirty minutes to drag him across the parking area and on across the road and right to the edge of a precipice that overlooked the beautiful, serene valley.

Below the precipice, the cliff fell straight down for a thousand feet. I gave Fogarty the final push, kneeling beside his unconscious bulk. Still on my knees, I craned my head over the edge and watched him fall. Down and down. Turning, twisting. Through the wispy gossamer veil of cloud. Down a thousand feet to the stones at the base of the cliff.

Driving back to Comfort, I noticed that my lunch was settling pretty good. At my afternoon coffee break, I decided, I’d have a piece of that fine apple pie in Mom Roddenberry’s restaurant.

My first stop of course was the sheriff’s office. Gaither Jones, the lank deputy, was on duty.

I stood beside his desk, shaking my head sadly. “Terrible accident, Gate. One minute Mr. Fogarty, all excited, was running about, showing me where he planned a pavilion overlooking the valley. And the next — poor fellow; the shale looked solid, but the edge crumpled under his feet, and afore I could reach him, Mr. Fogarty was falling.”

Gate, in the act of rising, was frozen for a second. “All the way down?”

“Plump to the bottom,” I said. “Gate, you better take a couple men out there and blot up what’s left of our friend Mr. Fogarty.”

Gaither reached for his hat, and bounded from the office.

I walked out, traded friendly nods with good folks I’d known a lifetime as I hurried along the sidewalk. A block further on, I turned into my own office. I had to pause a moment and look at the lettering on the front window: Comfort Savings and Loan Association. I must say that the gold leaf looked a lot brighter than it had when I’d driven out of town.

Business was moving along at its normal pace as I passed through the large outer room. An overalled farmer, stained with honest toil, was making his monthly savings deposit at the single teller’s cage. A young man and wife were discussing a loan with Jed Markham at his desk.

Jed started to rise and ask a question when he looked up and saw me.

“Later, Jed,” I said. “Got something else on my mind right now. And you treat those young folks right, hear me?”

With a wave of the hand, I went through the doorway at the rear. It provided entry to my private office, which was wedged in a portion of the building beside the board room.

Miss Meffort, the tall, spare, no-nonsense woman who has been a most efficient secretary to me for twenty-five years, was busily typing. She greeted me with a short but friendly nod as I moved on to my old walnut desk in the comer.

I picked up the phone, rocked back in my swivel chair, and called Judge Bine. I told him to forget about Randolph P. Fogarty’s preliminaries for bankruptcy. “Just keep the whole thing under your hat, Judge. Fogarty won’t be petitioning, and sleeping dogs never bit anybody or howled any questions.”

I knew it was all I had to say. The judge would understand, at least a little of it, in due time.

Comfort, as Fogarty should have realized, is more than a town. It’s an organism, you might say. And the cells work together to fight a hint of cancer.

I put the phone down and sat there with my fingers laced across my flat, trim stomach, content to listen to the everyday music of Miss Meffort’s typewriter.

But there was still work to do.

“Miss Meffort, bring your pad, please. I have to dictate a letter.”

A brisk flick of movement, Miss Meffort was seated in the secretary’s chair beside my desk, pencil poised for shorthand.

“The letter is to Amalgamated and Consolidated Life Insurance Company of Dixie,” I said.

That brought a startled look from her, a most unusual reaction, seeing as how Miss Meffort is a real cucumber when it comes to coolness.

“Yes, Miss Meffort,” I sighed. “Like any reputable institution loaning money we’ve insured every borrower for the amount of his loan over all the years. There has been, I fear, an accident. A fatal accident. So we must file a claim for a hundred thousand dollars with ACLIC of Dixie to repay in full the loan which Mr. Randolph P. Fogarty took with us some weeks ago.”

“My goodness!” Miss Meffort said. She’d have questions later, but she’d await them until the completion of business.

In the moment before I started dictating the letter that would put a hundred thousand back in our vaults, ready for usage by deserving customers, I experienced a strange flicker of fondness for Mr. Fogarty. Alive, he’d been a smooth con man, his front covering the dirtiest of crooks. Dead, he was surely the most honest man I knew, repaying to the final penny his indebtedness to Comfort Savings and Loan Association.

Parole Violation

Originally appeared in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, May 1973.

The parole supervisor’s office fitted the man. It was gloomy, a little seedy, with a feeling of dusty untidiness.

The big cop who’d escorted me in said, “Here he is, Sam. Fred Davis. Another nose to wipe.”

A cop of the old school, he shoved me another step toward Sam Lagin’s desk and then turned around and went out.

“Pull up a chair and sit down, Freddie,” Lagin said.

He stood behind his desk, a moth-eaten, bullish figure. Baggy gray suit, rumpled shirt, necktie with a wrinkled knot. Big, fleshy face with a drab, brown, old-uncle mustache that matched his hair and mean little eyes that were almost colorless.

With the power of the state to back him, Sam Lagin was the parole officer who’d run my life for the next two years, and I wondered if the pokey may not turn out to be just the frying pan...

As I eased onto a scuffed wooden chair, Lagin settled behind his desk. He pawed through the litter until he found the file he wanted.

He let me sweat while he read, grunting now and then while he did so. He looked at me at last, the loose lips below the unkempt mustache tightening into a smile that was more sly and secret than happy.

“Fred B. Davis, age twenty-five, fair education, better than average I.Q.,” he recited. “What’s your trouble, Freddie? Can’t stand the routine of punching a time clock?”

I let it hang there, and after a few seconds his heavy face darkened a shade.

“Boy, you answer when I speak to you!”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

His eyes drifted back to the folder. “Bought yourself some real trouble, didn’t you? Mugged a well-heeled citizen one dark night and took his cash, watch, ring, credit cards and car. Picked up your chick Clemmie and partied through three states before the law put the arm on you.”

“I’ve learned my lesson, Mr. Lagin,” I said earnestly.

“Have you, Freddie? I’m betting you’re a natural born criminal, easily bored, lacking in self-discipline, itching for excitement, and always looking for the easy way out. You’re a good looking kid, Freddie, even if it’s on the tall, skinny side. That boyish face and wide brown eyes might fool a lot of people — But not me. I’m pegging you as lazy, self-centered, with no stomach for the responsibilities acceptable to most members of society.”

His words brought a pink anger to my face, but I pressed my elbows hard on the wooden arms of the chair and kept my mouth shut.

Lagin spotted my reaction, and the first glint of pleasure came to his smile.

“Well,” he said, “we’ll see. Seventy-eight percent of your kind return to crime almost the minute you’re back on the streets. It’s my job to whittle away at that figure, Freddie, and I do the best I can. I’ve fifty-three of you to wet-nurse at the, moment, and despite the gloomy prospects I’m pulling for you, Freddie.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lagin,” I said, because it seemed the thing to say.

He dropped the folder carelessly on the desk. “You know the rules. You entered a contract when you applied for parole.”

“You’ll have no trouble from me, Mr. Lagin.”

“Thus spake seventy-eight percent,” he muttered dourly. “But in prison or out, you won’t make much difference in the crime rate, Freddie. It always rises, no matter how hard Mrs. Lagin’s boy Sam tries.”

He pushed back his chair, ending the interview. “Even with fifty-three, I always try to keep an extra close eye on new members of the club for awhile.”

“I understand, Mr. Lagin.”

“I hope so. Get a good night’s sleep, stay off the streets and on the job that’s been arranged for you. It’s up to you, Freddie. It’s your parole.”

I didn’t get a good night’s sleep. Sam Lagin’s face drifted through too many dreams.

It was a day laborer’s job on the construction site of a housing development, the kind where the shortage of bone and flesh makes even a parolee welcome. It was hodding bricks, barrowing loads of cement, and staggering under burdens of lumber. It was a big-mouthed foreman and an hourly wage barely over the minimum.

At night I was too gut-wrung for even the threat of Sam Lagin to bother my sleep, the daytime nightmare being more than enough. Prison began to look good by comparison. In the pokey I’d been the star hitter on the softball team, the chow had been better than greasy spoon slop, and the cell bunk cleaner than the cot in the flophouse room my paycheck could afford.

Worst of all were the tormenting memories of the times with Clemmie and the woman-hungers a guy builds during three years of prison.

I didn’t see hide or mustache of Sam Lagin for three weeks, and I began to relax on that score. I figured out how much time it would take him to chase around after fifty-three of us and decided that no man could move that fast. With seventy-eight percent of fifty-three always in trouble, Lagin needed to divide himself into five parts. It was some pleasure to fancy the old galoot’s headaches.

By the third weekend I couldn’t stand the nothingness any longer. Without admitting to myself that fresh plans for the future were stirring in my mind, I ambled out of the rooming house. Wow! I blinked. There was sunshine on the sidewalk!

I set off with the old blood turning warm and red in flesh that had been too long in cold storage.

Finding Clemmie was easy, although it took a good part of the day. She’d moved half a dozen times since I’d last seen her, changing from one job to another. At each place she’d either left a forwarding, or somebody who’d worked with her knew the location of the next job.

I traced her to a blue-collar bar and grille run by a scrawny, tough little gamecock named O’Leary. I reached the place after dark. It was fairly crowded with guys working their jaws with talk, pastrami, beer, boilermakers, and pickled eggs.

My pulse rate slipped into high gear as I threaded through the talk, juke box noise, and lazy layers of tobacco smoke, craning my neck for the first sight of that center-fold figure, that impish face, that golden tumble of hair.

My knees shivered suddenly. I threw out my arms. “Clemmie!”

She almost dropped the tray of drinks she was carrying. “Freddie!” she squealed.

She plopped the tray on the nearest table. We met in the middle of the room, my hug lifting her feet from the floor. Several of the customers tossed laughing remarks and clapped their hands.

We tugged each other to a small vacant table against the further wall.

“Freddie,” she said, her shining blue eyes dancing all over me, “it really is you!”

She seemed so happy I didn’t tell her I’d been out going on a month. I wondered at my dumb, earlier fears of Sam Lagin.

“Baby,” I said thickly, “you look so good—”

“And you, Freddie.”

“It’s been so long. Say, you haven’t got married or anything?”

“Nothing I can’t break off like kicking off an old shoe, Freddie.”

“That’s great, baby.”

“There’s never been anybody but you, Freddie. Not in my heart, where it counts.”

I laughed, just from the way the world had changed all of a sudden.

“You were so sweet, Freddie,” she said, “the way you protected me when they arrested you.”

I shrugged, feeling like a big man. “I told you a long time ago you were my girl, didn’t I? I take care of what’s mine. Anyway, the fuzz had me dead to rights. The least I could do was stick to my story that you didn’t know I’d been operating with somebody else’s dough, car, and credit cards. No matter what they suspected, they couldn’t build a case against you.”

“Freddie,” she said through moistly parted lips, “you are the bravest, greatest, most loyal man—”

Her sweet music was interrupted by the arrival of her boss at the table. Clemmie introduced us, explaining that I was an old friend of the family and schoolmate she hadn’t seen in years. O’Leary’s ire was somewhat soothed. Reminding me of a twitchy mouse, he shook hands and suggested to Clemmie that she get back to work.

It was great, sitting there and chugging my first cold beer in more than three years and watching Clemmie’s bright movements from table to table.

A beautiful half hour passed, and then I felt like I was being stared at. My eyes cut along the bar. A big, dark-haired man had come in and was being served a shot glass. His gaze caught with mine. He glanced away, as if trying to decide whether or not to admit he’d seen me.

He was Porter Attics, a bricklayer on the construction job. Making up his mind, he tossed his drink down in one swallow, swiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and came over to the table.

“How goes, Freddie?”

“Okay. Sit down, Port.”

He lowered his beef into the chair Clemmie had vacated, sat looking at his knuckles, then lifted his eyes to mine.

“Freddie,” he said with some hesitation, “ain’t neither of us seen the other in a gin mill. Okay?”

I didn’t dig. He saw the frown grow on my face.

“I mean when we have to report to Sam Lagin,” he explained. “He’ll figure we’ve met on the job. You’ll find that he’s always picking, trying to make a stoolie out of you.”

I gawked at him, then laughed. “Well, how about that! Two members of the fifty-three club.”

“Yeah,” Attics said, “and joints serving booze are off-limits to us — with six more months of my parole to go.”

I slapped him on the shoulder. “So forget it, Porter! Sam Lagin, the creep, couldn’t make me stoolie if he ran over me with a bulldozer.”

“Likewise,” Port nodded, relaxing. “I had you pegged as a right guy, first day you reported on the job. How about I buy?”

“To drink to Sam Lagin,” I suggested.

He got a laugh out of that. “I got a feeling you and me is going to get along, Freddie.”

Lovely evening. I’d found a pal with common interests, common lingo, and Clemmie was serving the drinks.

I reported in to Sam Lagin at my appointed hour. He grunted that he was glad to see my punctuality, asked me how I was getting along on the job.

I conned him with some talk about how I wanted to look into this job training deal.

“Don’t want to barrow cement for the rest of my life, Mr. Lagin.”

“Well, that sounds fine, Freddie. Always good to see a man who wants to better himself. We’ll certainly look for an opening in some line of work you’d like to do.”

I halfway listened to him ramble along about various opportunities in the job training programs. I nodded when I was supposed to and asked a question when it seemed proper. But in my mind, I was way ahead of him. Now that I was back with Clemmie, the job was a hole in the head.

There was a big, wide world out there waiting for Clemmie and me. We’d already talked about it some. Sam Lagin would be no problem at all. I was already more than up to here with him, his stinking job, with wrestling piles of lumber all day after a night with Clemmie.

Parole violation had lost its first fears for me. The country was full of parole absconders, as file legal term put it. I’d got caught the first time because I’d played it dumb. I wouldn’t play it that way again.

Question was, what kind of hit? Not a two-bit job like sticking up a filling station? I wanted loot Clemmie and I could really enjoy.

I wondered — for a second — if Porter Attics might have some ideas. He and I had got to be real pals since the night we met in O’Leary’s. But I nixed him. We only had a few more months until he could thumb his nose at all the bricks his parole slavery had forced him to lay. Also, he’d done time twice for rough stuff, assault with a deadly weapon and a truck hijacking. I wanted a hit that was much less spectacular...

“Got all that, Freddie?” Lagin finished, lifting his baleful little eyes.

“Oh, yes, sir, Mr. Lagin.”

“Fine. Just stick with it and we’ll get you into one of those tech school night classes when the new semester starts in the fall.”

“I’m looking forward to it, Mr. Lagin.” And that was partly the truth. I didn’t bother to mention to him that I was looking forward to being with Clemmie on a nice southern beach when autumn rolled around.

Clemmie wanted to go out that night, but the best I could go was drag into her apartment and flop on the couch, bushed from laying sewer line laterals all day.

“You poor baby,” she said, flinging me a beer and stroking my forehead with her tantalizing fingertips, “what are they doing to you?”

“Killing me,” I said.

“Like you were no better than a mule. Freddie, it’s not fair — we’re going to put a stop to it!”

I forced my beat-up muscles to work me to a sitting position, asking a book full of questions with a single word: “How?”

She snuggled down beside me. “You remember when I was a cocktail waitress in the hotel lounge, I spotted the guy with the car, the cash, credit cards?”

“Sure do,” I said.

“Best job I ever had,” she mused. “But I didn’t regret walking off from it, not for a minute, Freddie.”

“Likewise. Great party while it lasted.”

“The next will last a lot longer, Freddie.”

“With whose loot?” I asked.

“O’Leary’s.”

I drew away from her a little, looking her full in the face.

“It’s like this,” she explained. “Every first and third Saturday of the month, when Kreighton Mills makes a payday, O’Leary’s does a land office business from early opening to late closing. Sometimes there’s nearly five or six thousand dollars-in the kitty by the time O’Leary locks up.”

“And O’Leary with that big forty-five automatic he keeps under the bar and police cruisers prowling the neighborhood! Even if I got out of the bar, one yell from O’Leary and the fuzz would corner me in half a block. Uh-uh, baby, heist at gunpoint isn’t my prescription.”

Clemmie kissed me lightly on the ear. “I know, darling, and I wouldn’t have you take that risk. I want you to walk out of O’Leary’s with everything nice and quiet, and the money under your shirt.”

“O’Leary doesn’t strike me as the nice, quiet, donating type.” I killed the remainder of the beer, crumpling the empty in my fingers. “We’ll have to think of something else, Clemmie.”

She pouted, tilting her cute blonde head. “Don’t you want to hear the rest of it?”

“Is there a rest of it?”

“You just listen, honey pot.” She wriggled comfortably on the couch. “This is how it is. O’Leary used to take all that bread to the night depository of the bank. But when he was stuck up for the third time, he made some changes.”

“I’ll bet he did. Third time’s always the charm.”

“Please, Freddie,” she huffed. “Will you let me finish?”

“Be my guest.”

“Well, O’Leary turned his private office into a fort. Steel bars on the windows. Burglar alarm wires all over the place. And a huge, burglar-proof safe to keep his boodle in until he can make trips to the bank in daytime hours with a security guard.”

“That really cuts it. Steel bars, hot wires, and huge safes are all beyond my calling.”

“You need another beer,” she said in that endearing, unpredictable way. She was up and back with the beer like a golden wisp.

She sat down and rested her head against my shoulder. “O’Leary unlocks his private office door, walks to the safe, opens it, and puts his money in. If someone quick and strong, like you, Freddie, were hiding inside the office, it would be simple to tap O’Leary on the head — not too hard so he isn’t seriously hurt — as he walks through the door. Then someone quick and strong could take the money and walk right out that door, quiet as a little old kitten.”

“Yeah, if someone could melt his way through steel window bars and burglar alarm wires and be inside the office when O’Leary entered.”

“Just slip into the short hallway that leads to the office, Freddie. You could do it, easy, with that late, noisy crowd in the bar. Then unlock O’Leary’s office, close the door so the lock clicks, and be waiting in there when the unsuspecting little hamster comes in with the loot.”

“Let’s forget the impossible right now,” I said, nuzzling her cheek. “With the beer and rest, I’m feeling like a new man. Also I couldn’t pick the lock on a piece of discount house luggage, much less the lock O Leary s bound to have on that office door.”

She didn’t move away from my nuzzling, but it didn’t have the desired effect on her chemistry either. As if her mind was elsewhere, she said, “Freddie, a girl working in a place like O’Leary’s learns to keep her eyes open. She meets all kinds of people, too.”

I shifted position, taking a swallow of beer, “So?

“So she knows where Mr. O’Leary keeps his bundle of keys, beside the automatic gun under the counter,” Clemmie said. “She knows how to make an impression of a certain key in a piece of wax in a few seconds when nobody is looking. And she knows a fellow or two who will make a key from that impression for a twenty-dollar bill, no questions asked.”

She stirred, sitting up and wriggling her fingers into the slash pocket of her hotpants. She slipped out the duplicate key to O’Leary’s office.

Dangling in her fingers, bright new metal catching the fire of reflected light, it positively hypnotized me.

One thing O’Leary had failed to put in his office was air-conditioning. Or maybe the sweats came from the waiting there in the darkness.

From the bar came the muted sounds of the last customers leaving, guys shouting good night to O’Leary, a character with too many under his belt singing a mournful song.

The song was cut off in the middle of a flat note and I knew O’Leary had closed the door behind the customer.

Silence.

Nothing, except this vacuum sucking at my ears and trying to stifle my breath.

I stood pressed close to the wall beside the office door, the length of old pipe in my gloved hand.

Distantly, I heard Clemmie say good night.

“See you tomorrow, Clemmie,” O’Leary responded in his high, thin voice.

More silence.

All of them were gone now, except O’Leary and the bartenders. The bartenders would be rinsing the last of the glasses, shucking their barman’s jackets, gulping tired yawns. O’Leary would be taking the last of the receipts from the cash register.

Time was the slow crawling of hot lava.

A few more muffled words out there that I couldn’t make out. O’Leary seeing his barmen off. O’Leary closing the front door and springing the lock, alone in the bar now. Giving the place the final glance for the night. Cutting the lights to night-dim.

The sudden rattle of his key in the office door lock almost jarred me out of my shoes.

The door swung open, and too suddenly almost, he was there, a scrawny silhouette in the very faint night light filtering from the bar.

I suddenly felt so clumsy and awkward that I almost panicked. The pipe weighed half a ton. He surely knew I was there.

I didn’t realize it was over until I heard the pipe thunk against his crown. He folded without a whisper, and I stood looking at the dim shadow of him, too scared to move. Was it I who actually hit him?

The pipe bumped on the floor. I kneeled beside O’Leary. I’d padded the pipe with a wrap-around rag, and the skin on O’Leary’s scalp wasn’t even broken. He looked for all the world like a little kid dreaming happily as he lay there. His breathing was steady, and I figured he wouldn’t be unconscious for more than half an hour. It was time enough for our purposes.

He’d carried a heavy brown paper bag into the office. I opened it just long enough to make sure it was full of money.

When I crossed the bar and reached the front door, I clung to shadows, looking at the street. A car slipped past, then the wee-hours desertion returned to the street.

I worked quickly, going out, making sure the door spring-locked behind me, and then, the money stashed under my jacket, I strolled along innocently whistling a Bacharach tune until I had rounded the corner. There, I moved faster, using the next twenty minutes to put me into Clemmie’s apartment.

We had to tone down the celebration somewhat to keep from waking other tenants in the grubby old building. I spilled the bread in a lovely green mound on the coffee table. We laughed. We hugged. I picked her up and we went round and round. We kissed and kissed again. Then she popped the cork on a bottle of champagne she’d bought for the occasion.

We were just lifting the glasses when, quite without warning, a big brute in the hallway put a heavy heel against the door and kicked it open, tearing the lock into several dozen pieces.

The open doorway framed Sam Lagin, and Clemmie and I stood looking at him, two frozen stills cut from a movie by a film editor.

Lagin was breathing hard, and his eyes had color now. Deep pink was the hue, almost blood red.

I moved then, trying to shield the money from Lagin’s sight. But he’d seen it already. He heeled the broken door closed, crossed to Clemmie and me, and strangely enough, instead of touching the money, he picked up the champagne bottle and looked at the famed label.

He had his breathing steadied down. He set the bottle slowly on the table.

“Celebration’s kind of premature, isn’t it, kids?”

“Whoever you are,” Clemmie said angrily, “you can’t break in here and—”

“I can’t?” Sam Lagin said. He looked at the broken door lock, then all around the room. “But it seems I have, doesn’t it?”

“Throw the nut out of here, Freddie,” Clemmie’s voice was a suppressed shriek. “I’ll call the police and—!”

It was my turn to interrupt her. “Easy, baby. He’s Sam Lagin.”

“Your parole officer?” she choked.

“Awakened by a telephone call at an unearthly hour, which I don’t like,” Lagin added in venomous complaint. He cut those chilling eyes at me. “I told you, boy. I always keep close tabs on new members of the club.”

I looked from Sam Lagin to the money, and I went over to the couch, clutched the arm weakly, and sat down.

“How?” I asked. “You haven’t been around.”

“Spies, boy. I keep the club shot full of spies. You haven’t made a move without my knowing.”

My teeth clicked together. Feeling surged through me. Almost as great as my sense of loss was the anger I suddenly felt for Porter Attics. The rotten stoolie! Tipping Lagin off to everything I did or said.

Grizzly mean, Lagin stood before me, hands on hips. “I see you guessed about Porter Attics, boy. Now there’s a man who values his parole, just as you should. You lifted a few with him tonight.”

“You know I did!” I said, my throat filled with the bitterest frustration.

“And he figured, from your manner, that you were plenty up, boy. Planning something, maybe. He said good night and drifted out — and drifted back in again. He saw you slip into O’Leary’s hallway and not come out again. Enough to heighten his suspicions, wouldn’t you say, boy? So when the bar is closing and you still haven’t showed up, he drifts across the street and takes up a station in a dark doorway. He sees you come out at last — after everybody, except O’Leary, has left and O’Leary has locked up for the night.”

“That rat,” I said, clenching and unclenching my hands, “that scum of scum!”

Clemmie simply crumpled in a heap beside me and started crying.

Lagin let out a long sigh. “Don’t feel so hard at Porter, boy. Doing his job, that’s all. He sees you clutching that bulge under your jacket and he naturally assumes a heist. At least, he figures it’s enough to call me. And while I’m cranking up my car I hear the news on the police band. O’Leary has recovered consciousness and hollered cop. So all I had to do was to decide whether to head for your place or here.” He laughed, drily.

“You know the saying, Cherchez la femme,” he said. “So Clemmie’s place it was. And look what I find.”

He turned toward the coffee table and touched the money with a fingertip. “Boy,” he said, “a long time ago I decided I was on the losing end of a lousy, thankless job. That’s what I sure did decide, boy. Downtown they think I’m a great parole officer because my boys always beat the seventy-eight percent average who return to crime. It’s the way I handle them, boy, the way I do my job. The worst ones, murderers, rapists, I send back, boy, the minute they breathe wrong on the rules of parole. But there are others. Bright kids, the naturals — they’re the ones I work hardest with, boy, in private little efforts to preserve their paroles. That’s why I’m working so hard with you, boy.”

I inched to a tight, sitting position while I watched him drag a hassock over to the coffee table.

“Sam,” I husked, “what is it you want?”

He sat down, wet his fingertips, and began counting the money. “My half, boy. I always want my half — and if you value your parole you’ll always make damned sure you’ve got it ready!”

Welcome Home, Pal

Originally appeared in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, June 1973.

There were eight of us in the prison library. We’d drifted in one by one, choosing books and magazines and finding chairs at various tables. If a guard happened to look in he’d never suspect a meeting had been called to discuss a subject of the highest priority.

Murphy was the last to amble in. I watched over the edge of my newspaper as he fingered a Jules Verne from a bookshelf and shuffled over to sit down across the table from me.

Except for the missing face — Kowalski’s — all were present and accounted for.

I called the meeting to order by clearing my throat. There was a rustle of news print, book pages, and shifting bodies as one and all gave me his attention.

“You know the problem,” I said out of the side of my mouth in a whisper that razored all the way to Ordway, who sat furthest from me. “The parole board has met. And the lousy creeps have opened the front gate for Kowalski.”

A mutter of sullen anger slipped through the reading room.

“At least Kowalski can’t leave the state without breaking his parole,” Myrick said, not moving his lips. He was a member of the team by virtue of his inclinations to write stacks of checks with other people’s names on them.

“Beyond the walls and past the gate,” Ordway pointed out, “Kowalski is like on the moon, far as we’re concerned.”

Ordway is a soft-spoken little guy with big ears and large round eyes. His mama had masterminded a fur warehouse job. Mama had got the furs, Ordway the rap. I was fond of Ordway. How many guys would go to such lengths for their mama?

“I didn’t think the parole board would be so dumb,” Murphy said. “Anybody can look at Kowalski and tell he’s a ruffian.”

Murphy certainly didn’t look like one. He was a handsome, blue-eyed Irishman. He wasn’t a crook, in the sense that the rest of us were. With a big bat and sticky glove, Murph had once second-based his way almost into the majors. Trouble was, he loved women. Just about all women. And any woman he loved, he felt he should marry. Free love is one thing. But the courts still take a dim view of bigamy. Murph was doing time on three counts.

“That don’t cut no ice,” Jellison said, a pickpocket without that finesse that separates the real pros from the better-than-average. Jellison was doing a long stretch this time, being a three-time loser. “What the parole board has done, the parole board has done. Bellyaching about it won’t help one damn bit.”

“I’ll give you a bellyache,” Murph said.

“You and whose army?”

I tapped the table with my knuckles in the library quiet, restoring order.

Determined to have the last word, Jellison said, “Curly, inform Mr. Murphy that he should offer constructive suggestions when he opens his big yap.”

I ignored the crack and Murph let it pass. Kowalski’s being on the outside was too important to waste time wrangling.

“The chair is open to suggestions,” I said. “How do we restore Kowalski inside these walls where we can keep an eye on him?”

Nobody had any offerings for several minutes. The silence was broken only by the fussing of a bluejay in the tree outside the west windows. If the warden had dropped in right then, he’d have smiled in satisfaction, seeing eight of his boys apparently wrapped up in good literature.

Byers was the first to venture an idea. “I can bust Kowalski! I’ll go to the warden and confess that Kowalski was with me on the last safe and loft job.”

Mirrored in seven other faces, contempt for his idea withered Byers a little. His neck reddened.

“You mean the job where you parked your heap by a fire plug and waltzed out with the loot while a cop was writing you a ticket?” Murph inquired disgustedly.

Byers shot a withering look of his own. “So you got a better idea, Pretty Boy? Maybe you could sick that little number, Darlene, onto Kowalski, the woman-crazy galoot.”

Like that. From the mouths of babes, or dummies like Byers. The sudden inspiration jolted through the room and everyone was suddenly looking at Murphy.

“Now wait a minute!” His library voice was rising almost to natural pitch. “I wouldn’t let a monkey like Kowalski in a thousand miles of a nice kid like Darlene!”

“So she’s nice,” Ordway said. “So is my mama. But Darlene knows the score. With his yen for feminine charms, Kowalski would be putty in her hands, to coin a phrase. She could lead him like Eve leading Adam to the apple tree.”

“Into busting his parole,” Jellison added, as if Ordway’s suggestion needed clarification.

Murphy looked at me for help. “Curly, you’re the brain in this outfit, the educated guy who could con his way into social circles, the keeper of the library. Tell these bohunks what a lousy idea it is!”

“Murph,” I said with a sigh, “wish I could agree with you. But I think Byers has displayed a rare stroke of genius, perhaps the highest moment of his life. Darlene is the one weapon we have on the outside against Kowalski. He has met her already. With the slightest encouragement from her, he would be foaming at the mouth.”

“You guys make me sick! I think I’ll go throw up. To ask me to ask a kid like Darlene—”

“Aw, come off it, Murph,” Granger said, a once-successful off-track bookie. “It ain’t like we was asking anything drastic. All Darlene has got to do is encourage him along a little until he breaks his parole.”

“No,” Murphy said, thumping the table top softly with his palm.

“For us, Murph,” Ordway pleaded.

“No! In the first place, Darlene wouldn’t do it.”

“How do you know?” Byers asked reasonably. “You ain’t even asked her yet. Visitors’ day is tomorrow. You could ask her tomorrow.”

“No!” Murph stuck to his guns, although, feeling the strain of seven other overpowering presences, he was beginning to sweat.

“I know what’s eating Murph,” Jellison said.

“Yeah?” Murphy shot an angry look. “Like what?”

“Like you’re scared to expose Darlene to a lady killer like Kowalski,” Jellison shot back. “That’s right, Murph. You think you’re the end of all lover boys. But with his big, rough, kind of ugly good looks Kowalski might make you look kind of pale. You’re scared of the competition, boy, afraid of the contest.”

Murph was in an angered crouch, halfway out of his chair. “Punk, any dame who takes my brand wears it for keeps. They never get over old Murphy-boy. I got wives the courts have never even heard about!”

“Yeah,” Jellison needled, “you have to marry them.”

I reached and grabbed Murphy’s arm, my grip coaxing him back into his chair. “Easy, Murph. You want us all to draw solitary from brawling?”

“Well, okay,” he said, tight-lipped. “But tell the punk to keep his yap shut! Darlene would stay true blue to me if Cassanola himself came along.”

“Casanova,” I corrected, and Jellison put in, “You got talk, Murph. But talk is cheap. I ain’t seen you proving anything. If you got the guts, put up or shut up. Sick Darlene onto Kowalski and just see if her faithful appearances on visitors’ day don’t shortly stop.”

Murphy sat breathing thinly. He looked slowly from face to face. For him, it was a moment of being starkly alone, the pack waiting for his reaction.

“Okay,” he snarled, “I’ll show you. But just how is my girl supposed to jerk the parole out from under Kowalski?”

“Well,” Byers leered, “she could—”

“Oh, no!” Murph grated. “There are some measures to which I will not agree!”

“Sure, Murph,” I placated. “And your terms are acceptable.”

“So?” Murphy threw at me.

“So let me think a minute,” I said. “Being more or less your captain, boys, I need a moment to crack a gray cell.”

Everyone pretended to read, affording me more than a dozen moments. I found the factors conducive to clear thinking, the absolute quiet, the need to finger Kowalski, the urgency of the time element, and the prospect of a weapon on the outside in the form of a cute doll.

Unfortunately, I have not always thought so clearly in the past, such as the time I perjured myself before a judge who did seem slightly senile. On that occasion I was trying to help a friend who had helped himself to sizeable company funds and needed an alibi. It was a greater misfortune not to receive my promised share of the aforesaid company funds.

I raised my head slowly and felt the room taking in and holding a breath.

I gave a nod to their expectant gazes.

“I have the solution,” I announced. “Darlene is still working as a cocktail waitress in the same place?”

“Sure,” Murph said. “Working. Paying her taxes. Visiting me every chance. And just counting the days until we can get a Mexican marriage license.”

“Excellent,” I said. “Then she will have no trouble in ruining Kowalski’s parole. I predict that we shall see Kowalski within a week or two, if Darlene is as faithful as you say, Murph.”

“She will prove the most faithful of all my wives,” Murph said, now having built himself beyond fear of contradiction. “But just what is she to do?”

“Working in the nightclub, she will experience no trouble in making a connection,” I said. “She is simply to buy a deck or two of heroin, plaint it in Kowalski’s place of abode, and then simply place an anonymous phone call to his parole supervisor.”

The simplicity and absolute workability of the scheme brought their nods and generous remarks of admiration. In here, at least, the well-mannered, well-spoken Harrison Currance Abbott, otherwise known as Curly, the repetitive failure on the outside, was top of the roster.

Darlene was every bit as good as Murphy’s word, and my prediction as to Kowalski’s return missed by only a couple of days.

We were gathered in the prison library when Kowalski came barging in. He looked rather glum at first. No one even dared to think about the chain of little events that had returned him here. For the eight of us, it would be a secret for all time to come.

Kowalski had figured an explanation that satisfied his own mind. As we broke library rules and crowded around him, he said, “Yeah, it’s me. Lousy fuzz framed me. Planted some heroin in my room and nailed me for parole violation. That’s why I’m back here.”

Murph pounded Kowalski on the shoulder while I grabbed and pumped his hand.

“Tough break,” Murph said, “but it sure is good to see you, Kowalski!”

Everybody murmured approval of that sentiment, and as he looked from face to face, Kowalski began losing his glum.

“Come to think of it,” he said, his teeth glinting in the first stages of a smile, “it’s not so bad seeing you monkeys either!”

I let out an easy breath. His experience seemed not to have unduly upset Kowalski psychologically. And that was important. As team captain, I was certainly counting on Kowalski to pitch us to another inter-prison championship.

“You got back just in time,” I remarked. “Baseball season starts next week.”

For a second, the merest glint of suspicion flicked across Kowalski’s big face. But how could we have broken his parole? So now his smile came full blown and eager.

“I guess you bums were plenty worried by the thought of starting without me. You’d never get anywhere.”

Which was the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

The Jury Caper

Originally published in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, July 1974.

While Clara tidied the dinette and did the dinner dishes, Eddie passed the minutes restlessly in her small living room, pacing the carpet, fiddling with the TV set.

When he heard her closing cabinet doors in the kitchenette, he settled into the large orange-colored armchair, feigning an air of well-fed contentment that masked the out-of-sight idea churning in his mind.

With his superficial good looks, curly black hair styled long about his ears, slender body clothed in carefully coordinated brown-tan-gold, Eddie was a good imitation of a fashion advertisement depicting a young executive taking his ease. The fact is, he spent a lot of time studying the ads, then picking with ferret determination through the cut-rate and chain stores when he had to buy a shirt, tie, jacket, shoes, or suit.

Clara came in, palming a stray wisp of dull brown hair from her forehead. Eddie turned his head, looking up and hitting her with the Bailey special smile, glint of white teeth, a crinkling at the corners of sooty-lashed eyes.

It worked as always.

Clara pinked with pleasure as he took her hand and drew her down on his lap. She was plain, but not a real dog, Eddie reflected. The lack-luster hair set the tone for the rest of her. Ordinary face and figure. Dull brown personality. Sum total not unpleasant, just blah. A shy, lonely, affection-starved working girl.

But she was a cool cook, and her apartment was always open when there was no place else to spend an evening. Her eagerness to please him sometimes annoyed Eddie. Still, it was nice to receive golf clubs and Swedish sweaters for presents and to know she would always override his protests about accepting loans from her.

He slipped his arms about her waist.

“Was the dinner okay, Eddie?”

“The greatest.” His lips nuzzled her neck, bringing a shivery little sigh from her. She wriggled comfortably in his lap, resting her head against his shoulder.

He let her have a moment of idyllic contentment; then he murmured against her hair, “Kitten, I’m darn tired of not being able to give you things.”

“You’re all I want, Eddie.”

“See what I mean? Girl like you, you rate the best. I want us to play on the sand at Miami Beach. Dine at Antoine’s. Shop for a bauble in a Parisian shop.”

She raised slightly and looked at him, their eyes inches apart. “What are you talking about, Eddie?”

“You and me, baby.” He kissed her quite suddenly, feeling her response of passionate longing. His own mind was more concerned with the immediate future than with this moment. Clara’s job in the courthouse hadn’t interested him, except as an incidental source of bread — until the recent murder of a girl named Nancy Chavez.

He broke the kiss lingeringly. “We can have all those things, Kitten, everything we’ve dreamed of, and we don’t have to necessarily rob a bank to do it.”

“How, Eddie?”

“You just make sure I’m on the jury when the Chavez case comes to trial. I’ll take care of everything else, and when the trial is over we’ll have so much bread you’ll think I’ve printed the stuff, believe me.”

She drew back, but not much. “I don’t understand, Eddie.”

“It’s simple. You’ve told me about your job and how the jury setup works in this state. First, a list of jurors is summoned, making up a jury pool. From this pool the jury clerk makes up the lists that will act as juries in the civil and criminal cases scheduled for trial in the courthouse before the various judges.”

“That’s about the way it works,” she said, “but I still don’t see—”

“Who is the jury clerk, Kitten? Who handles the papers, keeps the records, draws the jury lists from the pool?”

“I do, Eddie. You know that.”

“So I’m volunteering, baby, for a duty that most citizens try to duck. You add my name to the pool. Then you make sure I’m included in the jury for the Chavez trial. After that, who knows? Maybe a honeymoon to Hawaii.”

“Oh, Eddie!” A sob of happiness filled her throat. “Did I hear you say honeymoon?”

“Your ears don’t lie, Kitten.” He bruised her lips with a Bailey special. He knew he’d overrun the first objective. He was as good as sitting in the jury box already, hearing the indictment read against young Richie Wood for the murder of Nancy Chavez.

Eddie escaped Clara shortly before midnight. Instead of going directly home, he tooled his Toyota sports crosstown to a modestly fashionable apartment building. He thumbed the communicator button in the lobby half a dozen times before he admitted to himself that Joella Marlowe wasn’t home.

He gritted his teeth, glowered about the small empty lobby. Often when he had to take Clara in his arms, his mind would displace her with the lovely blonde image of Joella. Right now, he was stung with the thought of Joella living it up with some well-heeled creep while he’d had to make the scene with Clara.

Okay, Joella baby, he thought as he kicked the lobby door open, but you’ll be singing Eddie-boy’s tune...

The next morning at ten o’clock Eddie was in a corner booth in a downtown bar and grill. He drank coffee in nervous sips, his eyes riveted to the front door. Now and then he blotted his forehead with a purple-hued handkerchief.

The back-bar clock registered ten-fifteen when Baxter Wood appeared in the doorway and paused to look the bar over. Eddie recognized him instantly, from pictures splashed on television and front pages when Nancy Chavez was murdered.

Eddie stumbled in his haste to get out of the booth. He hurried over to the multimillionaire plastics manufacturer.

“Mr. Baxter Wood?”

“Yes.” The word was a guttural. Even in a cashmere suit and twenty-dollar necktie, Baxter Wood struck Eddie as a character who would be right at home in a lumber camp. The guy had a blunt, square face topped with a style-scorning crewcut the color of iron.

“I’m Eddie Bailey, Mr. Wood, the fellow who phoned you earlier this morning and suggested a meeting.” Eddie was sweating only a little. “Not many people in here this time of day. We can have all the privacy we need over there in that corner booth.”

When they were seated, facing each other, Baxter Wood waved the waitress away and folded his hands on the tabletop; they looked like sledgehammers.

“Okay, bub,” Wood rumbled in that bullfrog basso, “what’s it all about? You said enough on the phone to get me over here. Let’s hear the rap.”

“I got this idea from statements you made to the press when your son Richie was charged with the murder of Nancy Chavez,” Eddie said, “and because I know someone who could be used.”

Wood drummed the table with thick fingers, eyes spearing Eddie from under craggy brows. “I buy boys with slide rules to work my equations, bub: Right now I’m interested in Richie.”

“You said you’d fight to your last penny to free him,” Eddie said. “You won’t have to. I’m going to spare you that expense.”

Before Eddie was aware of movement, his lapel was clutched in a beefy hand, his midriff yanked against the table. The big, blunt face was only inches from his, the eyes steaming.

“Bub, if you got some evidence, know something the police don’t—”

Eddie somehow managed to smile his Bailey man-to-man, a quirk of the lips, a John Wayne tilt of the head. “The deal’s a lot cooler than that, if you’ll just stop manhandling me for a minute.”

Wood released his grip. Eddie eased back, brushing the wrinkles from his jacket. “This person I mentioned who could be used, she happens to be the jury clerk as well as a friend of mine.”

Eddie saw the warm shift in the steel-hued eyes.

“Well, now, that’s what I call interesting,” Wood said.

“I can guarantee you I’ll be on the jury, working for a verdict you and Richie want to hear.”

Wood rubbed his flattened lips with the knuckles of his left hand as he thought it over. “How much?”

“Twenty-five thousand dollars, pocket change to you,” Eddie said, “payable the day Richie walks out of the courtroom a free man.”

“If he walks out free, how will I know it was your doing, that he wouldn’t have come clear anyway? I should pay you twenty-five grand for that?”

“It’s up to you, Mr. Wood, if you want to take that kind of chance. But for twenty-five thou you’ll know that he is free and that I was in the jury room. Like, you ever bought any better insurance?”

“Suppose the other eleven are a hard-nut bunch who want to railroad my kid?”

“They don’t come that hard, Mr. Wood. I’ll stick in there until Hell’s Angels are teaching Sunday School.”

“What if you’re excused during the impanelling of the jury and an alternate juror takes your seat?”

“With the deal made, would your lawyers excuse me?”

“Don’t act cute, bub! You know I’m talking about the prosecutor.”

“Mr. Wood, please,” Eddie sighed, “give me a little credit. When the prosecutor quizzes the jurymen, you think I’ll let him see anything other than an alert, open-minded young man without anti-Establishment hangups?”

A faint hint of friendliness tugged the corners of Wood’s mouth. “I swear, bub, I’m beginning to think you could pull it off.”

“Trust me, Mr. Wood.”

“But no money in advance, see?”

Eddie endured a small, inward groan, letting the hope fade of talking Wood into a binder.

“The terms are fine, Mr. Wood,” he said blandly. “The day Richie is freed I drop by and pick up twenty-five in the privacy of your home.”

“You got a deal bub!” Wood said, leaning back.

“We’ve got a deal,” Eddie amended. As Wood started to rise, Eddie said softly, “I trust your honesty, but if you shattered my faith, we’d both go to jail, on a charge of jury fixing. I’d just have to spill the beans, and you got so much more to lose than I have. Big trouble for yourself. Not to mention Richie standing trial again after a blaze of terrible publicity.”

Halfway to his feet, Wood paused. He gravelled a laugh. “That’s good, bub. You covered all the angles.” He reached across and plumped Eddie on the shoulder. “You deliver, you’ll get paid. We got what you might say is a perfect business understanding.”

“We mustn’t be seen together,” Eddie reminded. “You won’t hear from me again until the trial is over.”

“Sure, bub. Total strangers fill the jury box.” He knuckled Eddie lightly on the jaw. “Keep your nose clean. Stay out of drafts so you don’t come down with a virus. I’d feel terrible if you broke a leg or something and missed the trial.”

With that bit of advice, Wood turned and barged out of the bar.

Two down, Eddie thought.

It took Eddie until three o’clock to track down Fleschetti. He found the lean, swarthy man in the bookie joint behind Rudeen’s tavern. Fleschetti was sitting propped back against the dirty wall in a straight chair, his outthrust feet resting on the chair’s twin. He was watching the tote board and chewing on a cigar.

Eddie threaded his way through the crowded, smoke-filled room.

“Hi, Mr. Fleschetti.”

Fleschetti glanced up. He was about as attractive as a dagger-thrower for the Mafia, but he said pleasantly enough, “How ya, Eddie?”

There wasn’t a vacant chair and Fleschetti didn’t offer the one he was using for a hassock. Eddie bent a knee and half-sat, the wall supporting his back.

“I need a loan, Mr. Fleschetti.”

“Sure, Eddie. You always paid up in the past, one way or another.”

“Then my record ought to be good for a big chunk of bread this time.”

“Yeah?” Fleschetti took the wet, ragtag, chewed end of the cigar from his mouth. “How big?”

“A thou.”

Fleschetti squinted, absently waving away a short, fat man who was hobbling over to talk to him.

“That’s pretty big for a guru in your shoes, Eddie. How come?”

“I got a sure fire deal. But it’ll keep me tied up for a few days starting Monday morning. Meantime, there’s a long weekend.”

“And a chick?” Fleschetti shook his narrow, oily face. “Always a chick with a guy like you, Eddie.”

Fleschetti shrugged, dropped his feet to the floor. He reached inside his jacket pocket and took out a pad of printed forms about the size of a letter envelop. He scribbled in an amount with a ballpoint pen and handed pen and promissory note to Eddie for him to sign.

“You’re borrowing twelve hundred, Eddie. You get a thou. Service charges, two hundred. Interest five percent per week, compounded weekly. Note payable by the week with the interest taken out first.”

“I know,” Eddie murmured. His eager fingers dashed his signature across the bottom of the note.

“I hope she’s worth it, Eddie.”

“She is,” Eddie said, exchanging the note for ten one-hundred dollar bills Fleschetti counted from a scuffed, bedraggled, two-inches-thick wallet.

“You asked for it, Eddie. I didn’t make a pitch to sell you. I never do with my customers.”

“Sure,” Eddie said, cramming the money in his pocket.

Fleschetti swung his feet back up on the chair. “Don’t forget I always collect, Eddie. I know a tough old shiv what’s out of work. I’d hate the expense of putting him on the payroll and sending him around for a collection.”

Eddie laughed. “Don’t be such a worrier, Mr. Fleschetti. I always been good for it. This time I got a deal that’ll make twelve c-notes look like chicken feed.”

“Plus interest,” Fleschetti reminded.

Out of the bar, Eddie dialed the courthouse and got Clara on her extension.

“Kitten, I just had some terrible news,” he choked the words into the phone. “My aunt Hilgred, she’s almost like a mother—” His voice broke.

“Eddie,” Clara’s voice was sharp with alarm, “what is it? Is she sick or something?”

“Terrible accident, Kitten. Car full of teenagers barreled into a shopping center parking lot and knocked her fifty feet as she was going to her car.”

“How awful!”

“I’ve got to go out there, to Des Moines.”

“Of course, Eddie. Can I do anything to help?”

“Just pray for the poor old lady, Kitten,” even though you’ve never met her. “I won’t know the setup for sure until I get there, so I may not have a chance to call you until I get back.”

“I understand, Eddie.”

“I’ll make sure aunt Hilgred is comfortable and getting the best of care. I’ll be back Sunday night, ready for jury duty Monday morning.”

“I’ll be thinking about you every minute, Eddie.”

“That’s my Kitten. ’Bye now.” He blew her a kiss, hung up, and made an aaagghh! face at the phone.

Joella opened her apartment door a crack in answer to Eddie’s rapping knuckles.

“Hi, doll.” Before she could say anything, he put enough pressure on the door to brush his way inside.

Joella was a vision in a filmy pink shortie. Eddie’s eyes took a dizzying ride over a leggy figure a showgirl would have envied. Her honey-gold hair was piled in casual, little-girl disarray atop her head. Her tanned face glistened from a careful massage with cleasing cream.

A glint of impatience made her doe-shaped green eyes a shade darker. “Eddie, I’m really very busy—”

He moved through the cozy, pleasantly pastel decor of the small living room and dropped on a Danish couch. He stretched, settled comfortably, thrusting out his legs and crossing his ankles.

“Yum-yum-yummy,” he grinned at her. “Can anything so beautiful be real?”

“Thanks, friend. But I haven’t time to listen now. I have to dress for dinner.”

She walked to the couch, lifted her hand, and wiggled a slim, tapering finger in the direction of the door. “It’s unlocked, Eddie. Close it on your way out.”

“Now is that the sweetest doll in the world? Kitten, you don’t know how I’ve missed you.”

“No rap, Eddie. I’m not listening.”

“You’d like to.”

She shook her head. The movement spilled a lock of hair from the careless, temporary upswept. It curled vagrantly about her cheek, making her all the more delectable in Eddie’s eyes.

“Look Eddie,” she said reasonably. “Be nice. Just run along. You’re a great guy, except in the important department. I’m expensive, Eddie, and you always end up as an also-ran.”

“Too bad I can’t afford you.”

She gave a little sigh, her green eyes holding with his for a brief second. “Maybe so, at that. But we’ve been through the routine before, haven’t we? So leave it as friends. Don’t spoil the bit that we had, Eddie.”

He plucked at his lower lip.

“I really believe you’re going to throw me out.” He breathed out heavily. “In that case, what’ll I do with this?” Reaching inside his jacket pocket, he drew out the wad of hundred-dollar bills. With a melodramatic movement, he threw them toward the ceiling. The cluster broke apart, and he watched the widening of Joella’s green eyes as the bills fluttered down about her.

“Some shower, doll,” he chuckled. “Just the first drops. Plenty more where that came from.”

He reached and took her slender wrist. She was gazing raptly at the clutter of money, making no resistance as he pulled her onto his lap.

“Time we turned in again, doll,” he murmured against her ear.

She was a warm rustling, arms gliding about his neck. “I’ve missed you, Eddie. Really I have.”

“So let’s make up for lost time with a weekend in Las Vegas.”

“You’re beautiful, Eddie...”

At eleven o’clock Sunday night Eddie dragged his exhausted body and brain into his down-at-the-heels bachelor pad. He struggled out of jacket and necktie, tossing the garments on a chair that already held a dirty shirt and sweater. Grunting with the effort, he opened the hide-a-bed convertible couch, kicked off his shoes, and lowered his fatigued bones.

Tired as he was, he lay on his back grinning at the ceiling, licking his memory chops. What a weekend! It shimmered in his mind, an elysian haze. First-class accommodations on the jetliner... the swank of the Vegas hotel... the intimate dinners... floor shows... the balconied room with the king-size bed... the smoky smoothness of expensive Scotch sipped beside the pool... the craps table...

All of it a lovely, lovely backdrop for the warmth of Joella’s arms, the fire of her kisses.

They’d gone through every dime in four days, but Eddie kept that thought out of his mind. Right now, he didn’t want anything to spoil the memories.

The skirling of the alarm clock reached into the deep vacancy of sleep earlier than usual the following morning. Eddie mumbled himself awake, reaching out to turn off the clock and lying there for a moment staring at nothing in particular. He was drearily hungup with the idea of being penned in the jury box. He dosed himself with strong medicine, the thought of Baxter Wood’s twenty-five thou. It gave him the energy to get out of bed.

He came out of the building an hour later, his appearance totally out of keeping with the messy apartment he left behind. Dressed conservatively and groomed to his fingernails, he might have been a bright young customer’s man in a brokerage office.

A tension gnawed at him as he drove downtown, parked the Toyota in an all-day lot, and walked into the impersonal fifteen-story stone mass of the courthouse.

He didn’t doubt Clara, or himself, but he wouldn’t feel really easy until he was actually on the Chavez jury.

The jury pool room on the fourth floor was filling with people of all shapes, sizes and colors when Eddie strolled in.

Clara appeared at nine o’clock sharp, in sensible skirt, blouse, fiats, hair in a brown bun at her nape. She was carrying a clipboard and looked so drab and frumpy, compared to Joella in Vegas, that Eddie felt a little sorry for her.

She stood beside a desk in the corner of the room, introducing herself and reciting her routine jazz in a sing-song voice. She commended them all for answering the call to civic duty, mentioned the importance of the jury system under the American banner of freedom, and touched on the state laws governing responsibilities of jurymen.

Then she was calling out the lists, and a short time later Eddie was among the group being herded by a bored deputy into a huge courtroom. The vaulted expanse seemed to Eddie to have all the warmth of a mausoleum, when he took his place, third chair front row, in the jury box.

The lawyers were shuffling papers and exchanging pleasantries at their tables. John Ward was the prosecutor, a lean, spare man with a grizzled face. Wood had retained the firm of Proctor, Proctor, and Adams to defend his son. Old man Proctor himself, who looked like a wily white-haired Mississippi senator, was in charge of the legal battery.

The bailiff rapped a gavel. All rose in the crowded courtroom as the judge entered. The bailiff called court to session with his “O-yez, O-yez.”

The following hour was more nerve-wracking than Eddie had anticipated. Defense and prosecution questioned each juror in turn. The defense excused juror number eight, the prosecution five and nine. The alternates who took their seats were accepted. Eddie surreptitiously pressed a handkerchief in his wet palms and experienced a pleasant inner unwinding. The trial was underway, and he was in his twenty-five thousand dollar seat.

He slipped his first direct look at young Richard Wood, slouched at the defense table. The boy had the brawn, the bulldozer-operator look of his father. Aside from their years, the main difference in father and son was visible in Richie’s petulant, self-centered curl of lips. The punk kid, Eddie reflected, had the natural sneer of a spoiled brat.

During the two days of the trial, Eddie was struck by the lack of drama. In his television-conditioned mind, murder trials were drawn-out featurelengths of sudden surprises, witnesses cracking under cross-examination. Much of this one was conducted in voices at conversation level, with the florid judge sneaking a yawn behind his hand now and then.

The story came out in simple, bold terms, to Eddie’s way of thinking. The evening of last June fifth a group of affluent young people got together for a lakeside party. Grass was smoked. Non-smokers washed down speed pills with beer.

High on speed, Richie Wood kept forcing his attentions on Nancy Chavez. The girl decided to leave the party. Richie followed her to her car. A little later, the others heard a scream. The boys rushed from the lake and saw a figure very much resembling Richie disappearing into the dark underbrush. A few yards from her car, they found Nancy Chavez, clothing torn. Dead. Strangled. Her screams cut off by a pair of powerful hands.

The prosecution said it was cut-and-dried. The defense said, not so; for isn’t it just possible that the fleeing figure seen by the witnesses was a skulker about Richie Wood’s size looking for a chance to loot parked cars?

The judge charged them, and the jury filed out. Seated in the private room adjacent to the courtroom, Eddie looked at the faces hovering about the long table. Butcher, baker, clothing maker. A housewife and a secretary. A salesman, used car appraiser, retired bookkeeper.

It was an ill-at-ease gathering, everyone glancing at the others, waiting for someone else to break the ice.

The retired man, a tall, skinny, gray wisp, cleared his throat. “Guess our first job is to elect a foreman.”

“I’ll nominate you,” Eddie said. “And I move the nominations be closed. We don’t have to waste a lot of time, seems to me. The prosecution didn’t prove the man guilty beyond a shadow’ of doubt.”

Resembling a side of his own beef, the butcher, on leave from his supermarket employer, snorted in derision. “Proved him guilty beyond a reasonable doubt! Plain as the nose on your face. The punk tried to rape that girl and grabbed her by the neck to shut her up.”

Eddie cut the juror with a cool look. “I think we’re all intelligent human beings who won’t ruin a young man’s life by jumping to conclusions.”

He sensed that most of the others were with him, especially the plump housewife and the sickeningly pale secretary with the washed-out blue eyes.

“Mr. Foreman,” Eddie suggested, “why not take a vote right now to see how we stand, how we may be split?”

“Sounds like a good, efficient idea,” the old bookkeeper nodded. “How many think the boy is guilty?”

The butcher’s hand went up. So did the salesman’s and the tailor’s. After a moment, when there was no other show of hands, the tailor indecisively lowered his. The salesman held out a minute longer. He shrugged, dropped his hand. “With a start like this, we’ll never get a guilty verdict, and I got competition selling my customers every hour I’m in here.”

The butcher stood alone, and Eddie relaxed in his chair knowing he had it made.

Shortly after nightfall, Eddie parked the Toyota in the shadows of the elm trees that lined the driveway of the Wood suburban estate. He got out and walked the few remaining yards to the imposing, white-columned colonial home.

Baxter Wood was waiting for him, standing as a shadow beside a wrought-iron veranda table.

“I guess we made it, Mr. Wood.” Eddie felt that he was one big goosepimple of anticipation and excitement. He could hardly keep his voice from breaking into a delirious falsetto. “Had some trouble with one fellow, a butcher, but I carried the ball without a stumble.”

“So you did, and I’m grateful.” A note of real feeling was in Wood’s voice. He thrust out a manila envelope. “Count it, if you like. It’s all there. Twenty-five thousand in hundred and fifty dollar bills.”

Eddie took the money with the feeling that he was swooning. Wood threw a meaty arm about his shoulders and walked Eddie to the edge of the veranda.

“Don’t’ ever feel that we did anything wrong, young fellow. Remember that you gave my son — and me — a fresh chance. I’ve bought into some mining interests in Mexico, and I’ve had it out with Richie. He’s going down there and make a man of himself, work in the earth, learn to sweat a little and eat plain, gut-sticking grub. Appreciate a cot in a mining camp when he flops after a day’s honest labor.”

Wood dropped his hand and looked out into the darkness. “Yes, young fellow, it should make a man of my son, this final chance for him to be a man.”

“I’m glad to have had a part in it, Mr. Wood,” Eddie said, anxious only to be away, paying off that bloodsucking loan shark Fleschetti, then blasting off to Joella.

“Good night, m’boy.”

“So long, Mr. Wood.”

Eddie nudged the speed laws as he drove back to his apartment. He left the Toyota in the no-parking strip in front of the scabby brick building. He would be inside just long enough for a change of shirts and a phone call to Joella.

He took the steps to the second floor two at a time, keyed open his door, clicked on the bed-sitting room light. Whistling merrily, he rummaged through the chest of drawers, finding a pink broadcloth in its laundry plastic.

He turned, heading toward the bath with the fresh shirt in his hands. Halfway across the room, he caught a movement out of the side of his vision. He stopped suddenly, with knees almost buckling.

Richie Wood was standing in the dark kitchenette doorway, as big, tough, and twice as mean looking as his father.

Heart pounding at the sudden sight of the intruder, Eddie clutched the back of a chair and swallowed the dryness in his throat. “Why... what...” he stammered. “How’d you get in here?”

“Simple,” Richie said, taking a couple of grizzly bear steps into the bed-sitting room. “Good old dad told me about our juror to spare me strain during the trial. I looked you up in the phone book, climbed the fire escape, and broke the kitchen window. Then I waited, figuring you wouldn’t be long in dashing in after the payoff.”

Eddie backed a step, feeling an acid sweat eat suddenly across his face.

“Wh-what do you want?” he asked thickly, guessing already from Richie’s presence, Richie’s eyes, Richie’s deadly determined manner what Richie wanted.

“The last thing I want is that deal the old fool has hatched for me in Mexico,” Richie said. “Man, I’d blow my mind down there with those peons and time clocks and holes in the ground.”

Eddie hugged the manila envelope stuffed under his belt. “No! You can’t have it! It’s my money!”

“Yeah?” Richie said, inexorably closing in. “Who you squawking to? The fuzz? Man, how you going to report a theft you don’t dare explain?”

Richie snapped his fingers. “Hand it over, punk. Have a heart. The old man has cut off my allowance, bought that one way ticket to Mexico, told the foreman down there to treat me just like the hired help. So make like a love-child, man. Return the Wood lettuce, to me. By the time I get through jetting off and having a twenty-five thousand dollar ball the old man will wish he’d never heard of mines in Mexico.”

Richie’s hand was reaching. Eddie lunged back. Richie lunged forward. The bleat from Eddie’s lips was cut in half by the impact of Richie’s fist.

Eddie slammed against the wall. Almost beyond feeling, he sensed that Richie had grabbed him by the neck and was banging his head against the dirty plaster. Then Richie, the room, the panic all vanished.

The apartment was filled with a deep-space silence when Eddie began to live again. The process was a torment. The pain in his head squeezed a thin moan through his lips. He was crumpled with his face against the musty-smelling carpet. He felt as if he was being put back together with a welder’s torch. Even more painful was the knowledge that Richie Wood and the twenty-five thousand were long gone.

He dragged himself up and slumped on the couch, two big tears filling his eyes. He knew he was going to have to make dull, dumb Clara feel lovely and adored for a long time.

He dredged up the strength to reach for the phone and dial Clara’s number. She must have been sitting on her phone. She answered instantly.

He took a breath and gave it all he had, the Bailey special sockeroo, an intimate huskiness: “Baby, these last days have been endless without you.”

“Me too, Eddie. Please hurry to me, Eddie. I’ve picked a wedding dress and—”

“Easy, Kitten,” he smothered a groan. “We got to talk this thing over. I mean, something has come up. My deal fell through, and aunt Hilgred, she had to have emergency surgery.”

“The poor dear!”

“She had nobody else to turn to, Kitten. I had to do what I could.”

“Of course you did, Eddie.”

“So I wired a loan from a character named Fleschetti who sends out shivs to do his collecting. And I love you too much, baby, to have you see me if I was ugly. Like, with all my teeth missing or an ear lopped off.

A Change of Heart

Originally appeared in The Executioner Mystery Magazine, August 1975.

Turning the continental onto the white-graveled driveway of Aunt Crabby’s estate, Eddie Crabtree listened to the chit-chat in the back seat between his aunt and Dr. Picard. Each innocent word distilled another drop of venom in Eddie’s reservoir of bitterness.

He choked back a monstrous case of heartburn as he tooled the heavy car through spangles of bright sunlight filtering through the elm-shaded lane. Today, he hated mother nature along with everything else. As if by special arrangement, a lovelier spring day couldn’t have been imagined for Aunt Crabby’s homecoming from the hospital. The first subtle taste of summer was in the air. The sky was a misty blue. Quickened and freshly green, the very earth shared with Aunt Crabby a bursting of new life, renewal. The death rattle of falling leaves was past, for Aunt Crabby as well as the trees.

The glistening, steel-gray car wended around the terraced front lawns and gardens. Ahead loomed the imposing, two-story, brick neo-colonial home that Aunt Crabby’s husband, deceased, had left as a reflection of himself. Its quiet, fortress-like solidity was relieved by the touch of ivy growing on the walls. The servants, five in number, had noted the car’s approach and were lining up on the veranda beside the front door to welcome Aunt Crabby home.

Aunt Crabby was holding her breath as she leaned forward for her first look after all these long weeks. “Home...” she murmured from just behind Eddie’s right ear. “I can’t wait to get inside and caress every stick of furniture!”

“You’re not eighteen, my dear,” Dr. Picard grumped, “even if you do have the heart of an eighteen-year-old. You follow my orders, now. No overdoing it.”

“I certainly don’t feel my forty-nine. But I don’t want a shaggy old bear of a heart surgeon growling at me,” Aunt Crabby giggled happily.

Eddie stared hard through the windshield. Laughing? Aunt Crabby? It didn’t seem possible. He was dreadfully certain her new vitality would last another fifty years...

He stopped the car at the shallow front steps, which were flanked by a pair of stone lions. He jumped out and opened the rear door. His face a carefully-composed and long-practiced mask, he offered a tender hand to help Aunt Crabby from the car.

Her gaze lingered on his face. Her eyes were almost like those of a stranger, deeper, gentler, quieter than the eyes he remembered. “Thank you, dear,” she gave his hand a quick, motherly squeeze.

Dr. Picard bumbled out beside her. He permitted her to take the short walk up by herself, slowly and carefully, one step at a time while the servants strained with each of her movements.

She paused on the veranda to accept their welcome. Cook, gardener, maid, butler, the spare-boned registered nurse who had been assigned by Dr. Picard to live in for awhile.

“Welcome home, mum...

“It’s so good to have you back!...”

When all the murmured greetings were over, the servants sneaked bewildered glances at each other. The eyes of Mrs. Violetta Crabtree Harper had actually filled with tears of tenderness and gratitude!

Aunt Crabby led the way into the spacious foyer with its vaulted ceiling, gold-framed mirror, antique hat-rack and umbrella stand. Eddie was the last to enter, on dragging feet.

The servants scattered to their tasks. Dr. Picard gave Aunt Crabby a few moments to look about brightly and exclaim how good it was to be home. Then he ordered her into the chair-lift that had been installed at the graceful, curving stairway.

“Up we go, my dear,” he said. “You’ve had plenty of excitement for the first day. Don’t rush things. You’ve years and years to enjoy your home now.”

He was a big, slovenly looking man whose appearance belied his genius as a heart surgeon. It took the setting of an operating room the touch of a scalpel in his hand to transform him.

Aunt Crabby, Dr. Picard, and the skeletal nurse (Miss Mayberry was her name) disappeared in the upper reaches toward Aunt Crabby’s bedroom. Eddie slouched into the living room and flopped in a huge wingchair upholstered in dark green silk. The chair seemed to shrink his slender frame. Behind heavy black glasses, his face was sparrow-like, with a thin cap of brown hair plastered on a long, narrow skull.

He stared blindly. His scanty, wiry muscles twitched now and then, visible echoes of his churning thoughts.

Right up until today he’d fought the idea that Aunt Crabby would leave the hospital alive. Sure, heart transplants were no longer news. But it just hadn’t seemed possible to Eddie that Dr. Picard could tear the heart from the still-warm body of the Dutcher youth, jam it into Aunt Crabby’s bosom, and have the whole thing work out. Her tissues would reject the alien flesh; her kidneys would collapse; her lungs would fill with fluids and she’d drown in pneumonic juices. But her tissues, kidneys, and lungs had performed with the ease of a computer.

“She’s a lousy, sneaky cheat!” Eddie whispered, his voice quivering with savagery even as it cracked on a note of intense self-pity.

That was the sum and substance of it. For two long, insufferable years he’d played the role of dutiful nephew. Whipping boy. Slave, no less.

He’d leaped to obey her whims. He’d soothed away her fears of death when nightmares had brought her screaming to wakefulness at three in the morning. He’d borne her vituperations as she’d grown to hate those whose days weren’t numbered.

The seemingly certain and foreseeable goal had sustained Eddie. He’d stuck it out, even if the effort to stay in the compliant nephew character had cost him an ulcer. Each day she’d used up had brought him twenty-four hours closer to the moment when he could buy his dear, departed aunt the biggest funeral wreath in town.

He’d played the game honestly. Like the time when he was a kid with the Monopoly game in the neighborhood, skipping squares on the board.

When the sole surviving relative passes “Go” he collects two million dollars. Wasn’t that the rule?

But they had conspired, that horrible old man with the doctors degrees and Aunt Crabby. And they had reached into the “Chance” pile and sneaked out for Eddie a card that read: Go to jail. Go directly to jail. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two million dollars...

A burning-knife sensation gathered force behind Eddie’s navel and shot through viscera to his spine. He gritted his teeth, labored out of the chair, and struggled upstairs to his room. He was in the bathroom, chasing a slug of Amphojel with a shot of Alka Seltzer, when timid knuckles rapped on his bedroom door.

“What is it?” he snarled through the open bathroom doorway.

The maid’s voice drifted from the hallway: “Mr. Crabtree, Mrs. Harper wants to talk to you.”

Eddie slammed the glass into its porcelain holder and glared at himself in the medicine cabinet mirror. Sucker... you’ll probably pop off with a bleeding ulcer long before she ever again thinks of dying...

Aunt Crabby was reposing on a white chaise lounge near the tall, gossamer-curtained windows when Eddie entered her room. She dropped the book she was reading, smiled at him. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Edward. I excused Miss Mayberry. I wanted us to have a chat, just the two of us.”

From long habit, Eddie’s face was a bland, myopic mask. Only a tremor in the jaw muscle suggested a gritting of teeth.

She studied him as he shuffled forward, his bony shoulders slightly stooped. A glow of compassion softened her brown eyes. “You poor boy, the lines in that dear little pale face are my doing, aren’t they?”

She held up a slender hand as Eddie started to speak.

“No, dear. You don’t have to fib to me.” She drew a breath. “Don’t forget, I’ve had weeks in which to think, about myself, other people, life, the really important things. Did you know there’s no place quite like a hospital to do some heavy thinking?”

She reached out to pat the arm of the nearby boudoir chair. The gesture was quick and lively. One thing for sure, the restoration of life — in the midst of certain death — seemed to have peeled the years from her. It was hard to look at the almost youthful glow of her face and imagine the drawn, vulturous visage that had entered the hospital.

“Please sit down, Eddie. Bear with me for a moment. What I have to say isn’t easy.”

“Aunt Violetta...”

“No, Eddie. Don’t try to gloss it over. I know what a real shrew I’ve been.” A smile trembled in the dainty oval face. “Vixen. Harridan. Old witch. I made life perfectly dreadful for all those around me. I repaid kindness with ire, compassion with wrath. But I was lost, Eddie. Nothing was real to me except suffering and the darkness of death. I know now that I was lashing out...”

She drew a breath. “Yes, just lashing out.”

Staring at her, Eddie eased to the edge of the boudoir chair.

“But Dr. Picard... the new heart...” Her solemn eyes sought his face. “What I’m trying to say is that the old heart, Eddie, and all the vile rancor that stemmed from it are gone. I can’t go back and undo the meanness of the old witch that I became. So we must let her rest in peace, mustn’t we?

Eddie glanced away, hating the vitality of her. “Why not?”

“I knew I could count on your kindness and understanding!” She sat up, a fire of excitement building in her eyes. “I want to start writing on the new page of life with a little act of repayment, Eddie. My new heart has given me faith and hope. Now it behooves me to express charity.”

Eddie held his breath. Was she actually going to do something decent for him?

Then the burning sensation began to spread throughout his insides as he heard her intention, this big deal she’d dreamed up in the hospital.

“This boy whose heart beats at this moment within my own breast...” she was saying. “This Spades Dutcher... I had a hospital orderly make inquiries on his days off, Eddie.”

“But I didn’t know you were...” Eddie burst out.

She cut him off with a pat on his hand. “Yes, you would have tackled the chore, had I asked. I know that. But you’d have stuck out like a little green man from Mars in that poor, ghetto neighborhood. No one would have told you anything.”

“And what did this accepted individual, this hospital orderly, learn on his days off?” Eddie asked stiffly.

“Much that I’ll remember always,” Aunt Crabby gazed thoughtfully at the sunny window for a moment. Then her eyes gradually re-focused on Eddie.

“Never mind all the little details,” she sighed. “You need only the highlights for your chore.”

“Chore, Aunt Violetta?”

“Yes, dear. That’s what I’m getting to. The boy, Spades Dutcher, had so little. Broken home. Lack of education. All that. Yet he left me so much. He also left a poor old mother who lives all alone.”

Eddie stared at Aunt Crabby blankly. She caught the look and smiled wryly.

“Yes, Eddie,” she nodded. “The old Violetta Crabtree Harper, wrapped in her own troubled self, wouldn’t have cared two pins about Mrs. Dutcher. She was just a signature on the legal papers necessary for the transplant, obtainable at the cheapest price possible. But now she is a person, Eddie. And I want to do something for her. Something lasting, for the memory of her son.”

Aunt Crabby pointed toward her dressing table. “You’ll find her address written on the pad there, Eddie. Go to this poor woman. Tell her that my bankers will arrange for her to draw on a small but adequate account monthly, for so long as she lives. The bank will advise her the details later. But hurry now, with the good news! She need never be cold or hungry again.”

Eddie groped with a feeling of blindness to the dressing table. He ripped the top sheet from the waiting pad. He was tempted to turn and stuff the address down Aunt Crabby’s throat. She’d do a kindness for a stranger — but for him... nothing. She’d had a change of heart, all right. She was a worse creep than ever!

Eddie expected to find a pitiful, malnourished, rickety scarecrow of the slums. Instead, meeting Mrs. George Dutcher was something of a shock. She lived in a two-room walkup in a scabby, century-old brick building. Eddie parked the Continental at the trash littered curbing, and it was the immediate center of a gang of ragged, fearsome looking kids. Eddie didn’t dare open the door until a beat cop came up.

Eddie thumbed the button that opened the electrically-operated window, thrust his head out of the car, and explained to the cop that he had important business upstairs.

“Better make it snappy,” the cop said. “I can’t keep an eye on the heap all day, and if I didn’t you wouldn’t have even a sparkplug left when you come out.

Eddie nerved himself, dashed across the sidewalk, and scurried up the dark, stinking stairway. His stomach was a bubbling cauldron of hydrochloric acid by the time he reached the fourth floor, sought out a rusty number hanging by one tack, and knocked on the door.

A big woman in a greasy wrapper opened the door. She had a bulbous, liverish colored face and the frizzled ragtags of hair that perhaps in a dim and forgotten past had been a rather luxuriant dark blonde.

“Yeah?” she snarled. “If you’re a bill collector, beat it. I’m broke.”

“No, M’am.” Eddie gulped. He fought the urge to hold his nose. The woman’s breath was coming on like a lion with a three-day muscatel hangover. “I mean, are you Mrs. George Dutcher?”

“So what if I am?”

“My name is Edward Crabtree.” He glanced up and down the gloomy hallway where wooden lathes showed here and there like gaunt ribs exposed by fallen plaster. “Could we talk — briefly — inside?”

“What about?”

“Doesn’t my name — Crabtree — mean anything to you?”

“Can’t say that it does.”

“How about Harper? Mrs. Violetta Crabtree Harper?”

Came the dawning of knowledge to the wine-soaked gray eyes in their folds of greasy fat. “Sure — Harper... The woman who got my son’s heart — for a lousy hundred bucks.”

“It’s about the stipend that I want to talk to you, Mrs. Dutcher.”

“The what?”

“Money.”

“Well, why’n’cha say so! Come in.” She jerked the door wide.

A feeling of faintness smote Eddie when he entered a dark hole furnished with a sway-backed bed carelessly covered with dirty linens, a broken-down washstand, and a sofa with gray stuffing spilling from rents in its filth-greased arms. He glimpsed the adjoining kitchen, where swarming flies battled with a colony of marching cockroaches over a table littered with tin cans, dirty dishes and wine bottles.

“I told Spades he was going to get in trouble fooling with them gangs.” Mrs. Dutcher shoved several tattered confession magazines aside to make room for Eddie to sit down. Crossing the room to turn off the battered, snow-blurred TV set, she added, “Like a good mother should, I warned him. Did my duty, I did. Think it helped, changed anything? Not a bit, it didn’t. He was down there in the next block — it’s all colored — busting windows with the best of them the night the riot happened. Some excitement around here for awhile, I tell you! Six big buildings going up in smoke. People running around like crazy. Say, don’t you want to sit down, Mr. Crabtree?”

“Well, I... what I have to say won’t take long.”

“If it’s about money, let’s get on with it. It’s high time I was getting a break. Never had one. Like Spades, my poor boy. Running across the street, he was, when some joker tossed that hunk of busted cement from the roof of the building. Spades and the brickbat... they both picked the same spot on the street at the same second. Knocked a hole right in his skull.” Her head moved slowly from side to side. The watery content of her eyes overflowed a trifle. Her huge, pulpy chin snapped up. “And where the hell was the pigs, the lousy cops? They’re always there to kick you in the teeth, but how come they couldn’t stop somebody from busting my poor Spades in the head!”

The lumpy sofa sagged a few inches further as her ample bottom dropped onto it. She sat there for a moment, raising a thick-fingered hand to knuckle moisture from her eyes. “Anyhow, guess you ain’t here to talk about all that. You know the rest. Spades was taken to the hospital, and he was dying sure enough, and this doctor tells me he’s got a waiting list a yard long of patients who need and want new hearts real bad.” She squinted up at Eddie. “And this lady what sent you is the one got Spades’s.”

“That’s why the bank will be in touch, Mrs. Dutcher. You won’t move into the Hilton by any stretch of the imagination, but neither will you have to worry about beans or a roof.”

“It’s hard to believe... hard to believe.” She shook her head. Gradually, she became very still, staring at a crack in the floor.

The moments passed. Eddie cleared his throat in twitchy discomfort.

“I don’t want you telling George about this,” she muttered, not looking up.

“What?”

“George, my husband.”

His eyes popped behind the heavy glasses. “A husband? I thought you were a widow.”

“Might as well be.” She wiped her nose with the back of a forefinger. “If you’re worried about them legal papers I signed for the doctor, don’t. I told the doctor about George. I guess he just didn’t bother to tell you. George can’t sign no papers, no-how, him being out in the state run loony bin.”

“I’m sorry,” Eddie said.

“Sure, I know. But it’s all right. George had his day, he did. Two-hundred and thirteen fights. He fought in every tanktown ring from Maine to Miami. Ring Magazine even mentioned him once. Great days, those, Mr. Crabtree. George paid down on a real fur coat for me one time and I got to wear it nearly the whole winter before the finance company nailed us in Greensboro, North Carolina.”

Her sigh was heavy. “Last fight... George couldn’t stand the bees buzzing in his head no more. Couldn’t hear nothing else. Kept right on fighting after the bell ended the fourth. Liked to have killed the other fighter, and the referee, and the two cops it took to drag him out of the ring.

She looked toward the kitchen, probing the wine bottles. “George is all right most of the time, Mr. Crabtree. They let him walk around the grounds when the keepers are watching, and even have company. But sometimes it don’t take much to tee George off, real bad. So just let him be. He’s real happy where he is, and he might get a crazy idea if he learned I come into a little money.”

Eddie’s silence, his very stillness, drew her attention from the wine bottles. She began to frown as she looked at him. She stood up slowly. “Something wrong, Mr. Crabtree?”

“Wrong?” He looked at her, starry-eyed. His happy laugh burst against the scaly walls. “Mrs. Dutcher, you’re a source of sheer inspiration, no less! I’ve never enjoyed meeting anyone so much in all my life!” As if quite out of his senses, he reached and gave her repulsive hulk a quick hug.

As he turned and dashed for the doorway, she lunged after him. “Hey, about the money...”

“The bank will be in touch.” He threw the words over his shoulder as he disappeared in the stairwell.

A big man with iron gray hair and a creased face as patient looking as a hound’s, the white-coated warder strolled the grounds of the state mental hospital keeping an eye on his charges. It was a lovely afternoon, very quiet and peaceful. Little Miss Quackenbush was quietly reading the same thin volume of poetry over and over as she strolled about the walkways bisecting the green lawns. Mr. Heaterly was quietly leaning against the trunk of a huge oak tree discussing the market situation with an invisible broker; Mr. Heaterly’s short-circuited brain had arranged for that black market day in 1929 to be always in a non-existent tomorrow.

The warder glanced toward the long wings of the brick buildings that were beginning to cast shadows over the lawns. Just about time to herd them in, see that they didn’t try to eat their spoons for dinner, and tuck them in for the night.

The warder yawned, stretched, and then lowered his arms slowly. He mused on the pair of men sitting on the low stone bench near the splashing fountain.

Now don’t it take the cake? The warder’s head moved in a wry shake. All this time everybody had thought George Dutcher was nothing more than a beat-up, punch-drunk ex-pug. Then this skinny young guy wearing the heavy glasses comes swooping up in a snazzy Continental. Says he’s a cousin from a distant branch of the family. Been in Europe a long time. Tried to look up George and was shocked to find him out here. Wants to see the old boy. Maybe arrange for him to enter a private sanitarium. After all, says the young fellow, one doesn’t like to think of one’s family being in a public institution, does one?

George hadn’t remembered his visitor at all. That wasn’t surprising. Sometimes George Dutcher remembered things in detail that had happened twenty years ago. Simple unimportant things that most people couldn’t have recalled at all. Then, in the next second George might forget what had happened five minutes ago.

Anyway, the young guy had been pleasant and easy and patient with George. That was good. The visit should be fine for George.

“...He’s watching us,” Eddie said softly, his face close to George Dutcher’s frightfully lumpy visage. “The big man with the iron gray hair.”

“I’ll break ’im in two!” George graveled.

Eddie quickly laid his hand on the hairy mitt that was curling into a fist. “No, no, George! Don’t even look around. He’ll suspect. He’s the warder, remember, and we don’t want anybody to suspect, do we?”

George’s elephantine shoulders relaxed. His hands, twisted and misshapen from bone and tendon breakage, slowly uncurled. He sat hunched, popping his knuckles in his lap. “Nah! Nobody. Just me and you, pally. And thanks for coming out and giving me the tip.”

“You sure you got it all?” Eddie said. “You won’t forget? Her name? Where she lives? How to get to her house?”

“I won’t fergit nuttin!”

“She’s the one, George.” Eddie glanced over his shoulder. The white-coated warder was strolling toward the old geezer at the oak tree, suspecting nothing. “She had a guy bust Spades’s skull with a brickbat. Then she had your boy’s heart cut out.”

George lifted his left hand and beat the palm against his skull just above the ear.

“George?”

“Yeah, pally? Okay... I’m okay... Don’t worry about me. Nobody flattens Battlin’ George. I’ll get to her and put a stop to these noises in my head...”

Eddie flinched as he looked into George’s milky eyes. Eddie gulped. His scalp prickled. He kept a tight control on his voice, and the urge to run. “But you got to be smart, George. You can get out of here easily enough, but you got to be smart to keep them from dragging you back. Here...” He quickly fumbled a fifty dollar bill into George’s hand. “This will help. You’ll know where to buy a gun in some pool hall.” Eddie jumped to his feet. “I got to go now, George. Really I have.”

“You been a real pal, pally. I won’t fergit. Spades... he was my boy... my only kid...”

Eddie kept his report to Aunt Crabby brief, stating only that he had seen Mrs. Dutcher and the poor woman had been quite grateful.

“You were gone a long time, dear,” Aunt Crabby said from the provincial writing desk where she had been penning a note.

“Had the car checked over,” Eddie mumbled. “The engine started missing a little. Nothing serious. It’s all fixed. Everything, in fact, is fixed.”

“Well, tell cook you’re here. She’s been holding your dinner.”

“Right-o,” Eddie said cheerfully. He paused at the doorway, glancing back at her. He returned her sweet smile. Hmmmm, he thought, who’ll I get for pall bearers?

With its mad, conspiratorial smile, Dutcher’s lumpy face was a horror from another realm. He inched his right hand up to show Eddie that he was holding a gun.

“You planned great, pally. It’s a snap. Now where’s the witch what had my boy’s heart cut out?”

“Listen,” Eddie gasped, “it’s all a mistake!”

“And it’s the last one she’ll make,” Dutcher said. “You can take a walk, pally — while I pay off for Spades.”

As Dutcher edged toward the stairway, Eddie wrenched movement from his muscles. He grabbed Dutcher’s arm.

“Please, George, she’s got to live. As long as she lives, I’ve got it made. But the minute she dies a bunch of guys with test tubes and microscopes pass Go and collect two million dollars! George... you’ve got to understand!”

Eddie flung himself between George and the stairway. It was like trying to turn aside a ponderous slab of cement.

“George,” Eddie screamed softly, “you simply can’t kill her! You wouldn’t kill an innocent woman, would you, George?”

George slowed. “Innocent?”

“Sure,” Eddie said. “She wasn’t the one who busted Spades’s skull.”

George’s eyes focused on Eddie. They were wracked with the pain of trying to link up a thought process. Then, as an invisible switch clicked behind them, they escaped. The eyes were almost at peace. George’s voice was almost gentle. “I get it, pally. I been around. I know the score. You was covering — for yourself! That’s the only way you could’ve knowed so much. So here’s a present for Spades!”

“No, George... George, you have to...”

George didn’t have to do anything but press the trigger once, twice, three times, to stop the noises in his head. The bullets punctured a lung, the solar plexus, and a bleeding ulcer.

Just after midnight, a young intern brought Mrs. Violetta Crabtree Harper the news. She rose quietly as he crossed the hospital waiting room.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Harper. Everything possible was done for Eddie. But your nephew has only a few more hours at best. Dr. Picard sent me ahead. He’ll be down as soon as possible.

“No,” Aunt Crabby said after a thoughtful moment, “the need for Dr. Picard is much greater in surgery...” Aunt Crabby took a long breath. “Please advise him to begin immediate preparations for the next heart transplant on his waiting list. It appears we shall have a donor — and I’m sure poor Eddie’s dear, wonderful heart will keep life’s blood pumping for someone else for a long time to come...”

The nervous sweats didn’t hit him until late that evening. In his bed-sitting room suite down the hall from Aunt Crabby’s, he tried to focus on a TV show. He’d expected tension, not knowing precisely when George Dutcher would make his move. He could handle himself — if his ulcer didn’t start bleeding. Every few minutes he went from his sitting room to the medicine cabinet to gulp soda mints, tranquilizing pills.

He fiddled with the TV set while his mind rolled a film of his own. He was talking with quiet grief to a policeman: Yes, sir, I drove up-county to the mental hospital. I saw Dutcher. My aunt asked me to do so. She’d learned that Mrs. Dutcher had a living husband. She told me to stop by Mrs. Dutcher’s first and then visit Mr. Dutcher on some kind of pretext. My aunt wanted to help both of them. She was going to set up a small fund for Mrs. Dutcher. The bankers will tell you that. She wanted to know something about Mr. Dutcher, how he looked, what he was like. Then, I suppose, she planned to take further steps on his behalf... Yes, sir...terrible thing, Mr. Dutcher breaking in and killing her like that... But no doubt at all as to who did it... I’m sorry, sir... Only my aunt could tell you any more, and she’s no longer with us...

Pat story. Stand on it. Stick to it. No one could disprove it. If the police started whistling, it would be in the dark.

The acid fount was loosed for the third time since dinner. Eddie clutched his stomach, came off his sitting room couch, and headed for the medicine cabinet with its woefully inadequate balms.

Halfway across the bedroom, he grimaced as someone knocked on the door. He turned to the door and yanked it open. Dr. Picard was standing in the hallway.

“Well...” Eddie said. “How are you, doctor? I didn’t expect to see you.”

“Routine call on my patient — in a way.” Dr. Picard chuckled. “But it turned into quite a chat. Say, my boy, do you feel up to par? You look very pale.”

“Just tired.”

Dr. Picard laid his hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “You’ve been through it, all right. But you can relax now. Take a vacation. Start enjoying yourself.” He glanced down the empty hallway. “She really is a changed woman, Eddie. I think she’s going to open up the purse strings — for as long as she lives. And you do deserve it, you know. You’ve attended her faithfully for a long time now.”

“For as long... as she lives?”

Dr. Picard’s hand gave Eddie’s shoulder a benign squeeze. “No, no, my boy! I didn’t mean it that way! She’s taken no turn for the worse. By the time she passes away you’ll be an old retired businessman yourself.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“She wants to further the kind of research that did so much for her. In fact, during her last days in the hospital she whiled away some of the boredom of convalescent time by discussing it with her lawyer and having him draw up all the necessary papers.” Again Dr. Picard looked in the direction of Aunt Crabby’s closed door. “I think it wonderful of her. Upon her demise, the bulk of the estate will go for heart research.” The hand lifted. “Just thought you’d like the news about those loosened purse strings. If her present mood lasts — and I think it will — you won’t have to worry about settling down for a long time yet. You’ll have a ball, the kind young men dream about. But see a good G.P. and have a check-up so you can really enjoy yourself.”

With a final slap on the shoulder, Dr. Picard was gone.

Eddie came out of his stupor with a spasmodic shudder. He dashed down the stairway, grabbed the phone in the foyer, glaring wildly. Who to call? Who to warn that a madman was probably already loose and had armed himself? Hospital? Police? An anonymous call, that was the ticket.

His finger was stabbing at the dial when a voice graveled from the shadows, “Hullo, pally.”

Eddie dropped the phone and spun, his back against the table. George Dutcher was standing just inside the open front doorway. “Had to let that guy drive off, pally,” Dutcher said, shuffling forward. “Almost bumped into him.”

Classified

Originally appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, December 1977.

Rooms For Rent

Lonely widow, recently bereaved, will consider tenant for cheerful room, kitchen privileges. Must be companionable and willing to assist in care of fine old home in Rathmoor Estates. Phone 253-6655. Mrs. Thelma McCarson.

Household Goods For Sale

Moving to Rathmoor Estates. Must sell several pieces of furniture from bachelor apartment, including zebra rug, waterbed, beanbag chairs. Call 367-8765, ask for Larry Summers.

Personals

Marie, I didn’t run out. Glommed a deal. Tried to call. You had moved. Am petting gray old pigeon. List your new address or phone number in Personals column as quickly as possible. L.

Personals

L.: 564-2380. I’d better be part of the big deal. M.

Wanted To Buy

Fully restored 1S55 model Thunderbird with cloth top. Must have by April 14 for birthday gift to young friend who will be 28 on that date. His expressed desire. Price no object. Call Mrs. Thelma McCarson. 253-6655.

Lost & Found

No questions asked for return of lady’s purse taken from T-Bird parked at Foster Motel night of May 10. Keep money. Return papers, especially the reference qualifying bearer as maid in well-to-do home. Marie, 564-2380.

Employment Opportunities

Maid wanted for Rathmoor Estates home. Cheerful quarters, pleasant surroundings. Engaged couple sole occupants. Thursdays and Sundays off. Best pay. Call Mr. Larry Summers. 253-6655, who will arrange interview with employer.

Employment Opportunities

Need temporary caretaker, preferably with watchdog, to look after estate while occupants and maid travel for few weeks. Call 253-6655.

Announcements

Mr. and Mrs. Larry Summers have returned to their Rathmoor Estates home after honeymooning in Acapulco. Mrs. Summers is the former Mrs. Thelma McCarson. Friends are invited to call.

Employment Opportunities

Girl needed to do chores in Rathmoor Estates home, assistant to maid, freeing maid for other duties. Short hours, top pay. Call 253-6655 for interviews with Marie and employer.

Lost & Found

Must recover hubcaps taken from T-Bird while parked at Foster Motel on night of Sept. 21. No questions asked. Will pay reward. Call 253-6655 and hang up if Larry does not answer.

Wanted To Buy

A copy of “Toxicology. The Complete Encyclopedia of Poisons” by Harbison & Brackett. Will pay top price. Condition not important as long as contents complete. Box L-6 Chronicle-Times.

Lost & Found

Reward for return of package taken from trunk of T-Bird while parked at the Foster Motel the night of Oct. 26. Package contains book on poisons of interest only to students and book collectors.

Will double antiquarian book market price for immediate return. No questions asked. Call 253-6655 and hang up if Larry doesn’t answer.

Personals

To “Bookman”: Terms satisfactory. Will have cash on hand for delivery of book at Pickens Park, bench near fountain, at 9 p.m. Saturday. L.

Wanted To Buy

Centrifuge, distillation equipment, small laboratory furnace for amateur experiments in basement lab by student of toxicology. Call 253-6655 and ask for Larry or leave message with Marie, housekeeper.

Announcements

Due to illness Mrs. Thelma McCarson Summers of Rathmoor Estates will not receive callers until further notice.

Positions Wanted

Assistant maid seeks employment. Efficient and whiling worker. Box C-883 Chronicle-Times.

Employment Opportunities

Need fine craftsman and crew to clean out and restore basement in Rathmoor Estates home where explosion due to inexperienced handling of volatile chemicals resulted in severe damage and claimed lives of my husband and young housekeeper. Call 253-6655.

Announcements

Mrs. Thelma McCarson Summers, recovered from recent illness, is again receiving at her Rathmoor Estates home.

Autos For Sale

Classic T-Bird. Cheap. 253-6655.

A Mother’s Heart

Originally published in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, December 1981.

Dr. Terrence Gramling awoke that fine spring morning thinking about one of his patients, Camilla Jordan. She claimed his conscious mind as he briskly went through the automatics of his morning ritual — icy shower, aerobic exercises timed to the final second, choice of monogrammed underwear, bench-made shoes and gray vested suit by the best tailor in the city. As he emerged from the master bedroom of his expensive, severely-modern bachelor apartment, he looked every inch the successful and brilliant young psychiatrist. With his clipped Vandyke, whose lustrous brown matched the color of his hair, he did indeed resemble the Master, a Freud in mid-thirties.

He sat down to a breakfast prepared by his housekeeper-cook — two minute eggs, Danish bacon, whole-wheat toast and a cup of steaming Swiss mocha. As he ate, he beheld the new day through floor to ceiling glass that opened onto the balcony-terrace of his condominium. Golden warmth of sun. Clear azure sky. Birds singing, mating, wheeling in exuberant flight. Saps all rising to burst brilliant green through the landscaping of the courtyard. Spring... time of renewal... the moment for Camilla...

She had never been very far from his mind during the long past months that he had been her messiah. Now on this lovely spring morning his mind held a calculated inspiration for her. Perhaps his subconscious in its primeval wisdom had turned the final key while he’d slept...

Dr. Gramling was chief of staff at Haven Hill, a private sanitarium for the wealthy. He had chosen psychiatry because the infinite jungle of the human mind offered a challenge worthy of his talents. Even in medical school, comparing himself to his fellow students, he had assumed that he would quickly make a name for himself. And so he had. In a science so filled with mystery and uncertainty, Gramling was never visibly unsure of himself. He preferred to ignore his failures, of which even genius must suffer a few, but he was never reticent or shy about bringing his successes into the light of public and projected. Even hoary old colleagues, savants among the chosen, spoke Gramling’s name nowadays with a nod of respect.

Haven Hill claimed fifteen gently rolling acres behind stone walls softened and subdued by clinging ivy. As Gramling’s white jag nosed past the wrought-iron gate, his fiefdom spread before him, carpet-like green lawns, walkways bordered by clipped box hedges, the shadows of majestic live oaks, the white purity of multi-storied colonial style buildings with verandas tucked behind the tall columns. Here and there ambulatory patients were strolling in the company of nurses in the soft blue uniforms that Gramling, having done a study on the emotional effects of color, favored for his personnel. But it was the dark skeins beneath this surface patina of peace that absorbed Terrence Gramling. At Haven Hill in the space of a few weeks he would deal with a broader range of cases than many of his colleagues would experience in half a lifetime. Hill patients varied in age from six to octogenarian; and such a circus of fetishes, fixations, obsessions, compulsions, regressions, and you-name-it. Never was an orchard more fruitful, Gramling thought; and the pun was a verity, fully intended.

As soon as he was in his spacious, walnut-paneled private office, he rang for Iva Twugg. She was a short, dumpy woman of middle age whose blue eyes, an echo of the color of her uniform, had seen it all.

“Good morning, Twugg.”

The head nurse nodded a respectful, impersonal, neutral response, as Gramling would have it.

He stood behind the precise order of his huge desk. “I want to see Camilla Jordan, Nurse. Right away.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“And phone Camilla’s parents. I want them to come over for a talk. We may have something encouraging to discuss, the parents and I.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“And tell my private secretary, as you go out, to bring in Camilla’s file while you’re fetching our patient.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Twugg ushered Camilla into the office fifteen minutes later. The head nurse lingered at the patient’s side, easing away; and Gramling’s Vandyke twitched below his brightest smile as Camilla stood alone in the middle of quiet office.

“Good morning, Camilla. You’re looking wonderful. Isn’t it a lovely day?”

She looked at him steadily, in silence. In her early twenties, she was a slender creature of dark, exotic beauty. Her straight black hair was brushed to glistening highlights, framing the shadowed angles of her face. Neatly manicured, in an expensive, simple white dress, she seemed to have stepped from a society page. But there were two almost obscure details., the faint bulge of her dress over her abdomen, and the inverted cone of blackness in her eyes... eyes that nailed on Gramling with the intensity of a frozen bunny rabbit’s.

At Gramling’s slight nod, Twugg continued her retreat, softly closing the office door as she melted away. Camilla’s eyes jerked to the closed door, and Gramling knew she was feeling her isolation in this room with a male. He heard the hiss of her indrawn breath; it seemed he could feel her pulse rate thud through the room.

Once, the nearness of a male would have triggered her to violence, to a mad, screaming, tooth-and-claw struggle to escape. But Dr. Terrence Gramling had, at least, eased her from that precipice. This morning she pulled from the invisible knife-edge through a racking effort of her own, turning slowly to face him finally. She tilted away from his friendly smile, but at last accepted his gentle gesture and nod and eased onto the chair near his desk.

He moved quietly to a table in the further corner, picked up a silver carafe and poured steaming coffee into two bone-china cups. “Let’s see,” he smiled casually over his shoulder, “it’s two sugars and a spot of cream, isn’t it?”

She pressed back in the chair, clutching the leather-upholstered arms.

He crossed over to her, both hands burdened with cups and saucers. “There now. Nothing like a second morning cup, is there?”

He stood for a long moment with a cup and saucer extended. Gradually her slender hand moved to accept it. He strolled from her, going behind his desk, sitting in his high-backed chair, sipping his coffee and murmuring a sound of pleasure. Watching him, she slowly brought her own cup to her lips.

He rocked back casually. “Did you finish the ‘Times of Helena’? I didn’t. Personally, it seemed a dull, superficial book.” He tilted his cup against his mouth, lowered it, continued in the quiet, conversational tone, “Just because they’re best sellers doesn’t mean they’re good books. Do you think?”

She looked at him, saying nothing.

“By the way, from the fine healthy look of you,” he said, “the pregnancy is coming along marvelously.”

Her cup rattled on its saucer. Her other hand moved to lay its curled fingers against her slightly swollen stomach. She had carried her pregnancy for two years now. It was her reality. The sun might spill ice; the stars disappear from an unreal sky. But the pregnancy... it was the singular actuality behind the cone-points of blackness in her eyes.

“He’s very quiet,” she said, fingertips kneading. “The baby stretched and squirmed in there half the night. But now he must be sleeping.”

She had carried the non-existent baby from the morning after the nearly-fatal battering and rape. College girl, out late, hurrying across a dark lawn to her sorority house. A girl suddenly not alone. A man looming beside her, as if a part of a tree had detached itself. A blow on her head leaving her lips parted on a scream that never came. A drifting in the darkness. Then stars, twinkling distantly above a wooded hill in the hands of a sex-crazed sadist...

A farm worker had spotted her at early dawn staggering along a country road. Drunk, he’d thought. Then his thoughts had turned to fire and ice as she’d stumbled blindly closer. He’d gasped and stood rooted for a moment by the sight of the battered and desecrated image. Then he’d got her to the hospital. The first hospital. She’d been one of the few virgins in her sorority house.

She’d now carried the pregnancy through the two years of padded cells, shock treatment, chemotherapy, psychoanalysis. So powerful was her obsession that her menstrual periods altered and her abdomen had that visible bulge.

Of all the doctors, only Gramling had helped her to a measurable degree. And to him, the case was a chaffing frustration, a challenge to his science, his ingenuity.

“Camilla,” his voice reached gently, “it has been a long and difficult pregnancy, and I know what it will mean to you to have it end.”

“Oh, God...” Her body cramped forward. Her cup and saucer fell to the carpet and spun to rest, “...if only I could have this baby!”

“Look at me, and believe.” He was the prophet down from the clouds. “You must believe. You are nearing the end of your pregnancy.”

Mr. and Mrs. Jordan, Horace and Harriet, were a smallish, bland, gray, gently polite and very wealthy couple who gave some credence to the belief that people long married tend to look alike as they pass the years and grow old together.

With inherited money from both their families, they might have spent their lives faced only by the problems of where to spend the winters or summers and whom to have in as weekend house guests. All that had changed two years ago. They’d taken their daughter to the finest psychiatrist in New York, to a famous clinic in Switzerland, to Mendoza in Mexico City who, they’d heard, had worked a miracle in several cases similar to Camilla’s. At last, three months ago, they’d appeared at Haven Hill with an open checkbook seeking a reservation.

This lovely spring morning they drove quickly from their rented house in response to the call by Gramling’s secretary. Gramling crossed the thick carpet as they were shown into his office. He shook Horace’s tensile hand and gave Harriet a warm, friendly squeeze about her slender shoulders. Their eyes were hard on his face, daring a small light of hope.

As he strolled them toward his desk, he said, “I do have a proposal.”

He sensed their heightened strain. Before questions starting pouring from their lips, he requested crisply, “Let me outline what I have in mind, first. Then you may ask whatever you like.”

They sank stiffly on the edges of the massive leather chairs he’d arranged in front of his desk. Gramling walked around and remained standing behind the desk.

“We have brought Camilla a long way,” he preambled.

“Yes, Doctor,” Horace choked, “from the days of strait jackets and wet-sheet packs.”

“But we’ve not yet surmounted the key obstacle,” Gramling said.

“The baby...” The eyes of Camilla’s mother filled. “When I see her feeling her stomach, talking about the non-existent child in her womb...”

“And yet,” Mr. Jordan choked, “so very normal at times... until she feels the stirring of the baby that isn’t there... if the baby were... exorcised... Camilla would return to us... maybe not entirely the Camilla we once knew, but we would have our daughter back.”

“But so many things have been tried,” Harriet said. “Drugs, shock, even hypnotism. Is anything left?”

“Perhaps,” Gramling said. “A long shot. The therapy lay full blown in my mind when I awoke this morning. It has been working through my mind for days.” He hesitated for a short beat. “We shall take the baby.”

He felt their reaction. The office was silent for a moment while they stared at him. Then Harriet’s lips moved. “A baby that isn’t real? You mean...”

“I think you know precisely what I mean,” Gramling said. “Nothing more can be done for Camilla until the pregnancy obsession is removed. Once she is convinced that she isn’t carrying a baby, we might break through. Destroy the obsession. Set her on the path to final recovery.”

“If it could only be,” Harriet wept.

“Destroy a delusion with a counter delusion, Doctor?” Horace said.

“It’s not uncommon in my field of medicine,” Gramling said.

“How will you go about it?”

“First, give Camilla something to make her tractable. Then go through all the motions, to the final detail, even leaving her with a mild uterine soreness. And, when the long obstetrical procedure is over, break the news to Camilla carefully that she has miscarried. Her pregnancy is over, done with, and she is free of it forever. She is as free, clear, unsullied as she was the night before the assault upon her. That is the thought which we shall implant, reinforce, develop — leaving no room for thought of pregnancy.”

Horace strained forward. “What are chances of it working?”

“What are chances of it not working?” Gramling countered. “But I shall of course need your permission.”

That evening, dining on surf and turf, Gramling reviewed the hours after he’d shown Horace and Harriet Jordan out of his office. He’d called in Conover and Hemmings, two of his most able nurses, and briefed them carefully. Then the ritual... the ceremonial staged to open a human mind, extract a thought and implant another...

He’d taken Camilla through the routine of examination. Returned her to her room. Appeared a little later at her bedside with the news that a follow-up was necessary. Soothed her with scopoline. Prepped her. Wheeled her into surgery. Gowns, masks, rubber gloves, all the trappings. Anesthetized her mildly. Removed her to the recovery room exactly as if she’d gone through an operation. From there, back to her room. And finally, while Camilla was in that nether state, that twilight zone known since the first use of scopolamine, Gramling had sat by her bed, taken her hand, and whispered that she’d developed complications. They’d had to take the baby. Her pregnancy was finished. The baby was gone, forever.

She’d lain passively, looking at him.

He’d moved his face a little closer. “Do you hear me, Camilla?”

“Yes,” she’d whispered.

“Do you understand? You are free. It is over. You are bound no longer. You can stretch, laugh, lift your face and throw your arms to the sun. Once more you are Camilla, and only Camilla.”

She’d closed her eyes slowly, and Gramling had risen, nodding at the nurse assigned to Camilla’s bedside. “We’ve turned a corner,” he’d said softly. “Now... during the days ahead... the careful, skillful follow-up...”

Now, as he poured a quick after-dinner Benedictine, he was already planning the follow-up, the guidance he would give to Camilla.

He glanced at his watch. He set down the small brandy snifter with quickening movement. He was picking up Marcy Lewis, his favorite among his women friends, in an hour. Marcy was a department store executive, and enjoyed an occasional evening of Wagner as much as he did.

At last, Camilla opened her eyes and said, “Please... may I have something cold? A Coke? And something to nibble on?”

Miss Archer, the young blonde nurse on duty until midnight, laid aside her Gothic novel. She smiled serenely. “Coke? Of course, Miss Jordan. But something to eat?” She glanced at the heavy numerals of the watch on her wrist. “It’s almost eleven o’clock. The kitchen’s long-since closed, the last of the help home and fast asleep. But perhaps...” She rose quietly. “...I could raid the ’fridge. Nothing substantial, mind you, not so soon after surgery. What would you like? Bit of fruit? Perhaps a little cup of custard?”

“No, please. Don’t make me feel like a bother. Just a Coke and package of those little crackers from the vending machine in the rec room.”

Miss Archer nodded, moved to the door, paused and looked at the bed. The patient’s eyes had already closed once more. Miss Archer shrugged. She could always go for a Coke herself, if Jordan didn’t re-awaken.

In her veil of darkness, Camilla heard the click of the door latch. Her eyelids snapped. Light scorched her. She eeled out of bed, steadied herself through a gasping moment, and reached toward the closet where her lavender silk robe hung.

A moment later she cracked the door and looked out into the corridor. It was a long, dimly-lighted cavern, empty, silent. Belted robe swishing, she was out quickly, a wraith slipping into a stairwell, disappearing.

Gramling’s phone was burring an insistent demand when he keyed open his apartment door. He rushed through the soft glow of the night light, past the shadowy impressions of Danish modern furnishings, and snatched up the phone in the middle of its next snarl.

“Doctor,” the stone-like voice was that of night nursing supervisor Stephens, “Camilla Jordan has disappeared.”

The pleasant afterglow of his evening with Marcy Lewis was consumed in a quick fire. His teeth clicked; his knuckles whitened. “How did it happen? Who was on duty in her room?”

“Archer, Doctor, the young RN who just came to us from Central Hospital.”

“Who can pack and return to Central’s payroll as of this moment,” Gramling rasped. “Was she catching a catnap?”

“Hardly, Doctor. She stepped into the rec room to get the patient a soft drink.”

Gramling’s thin nostrils flared out a breath. “And when she stepped back in, she found the covers thrown back, the bed empty. Well, so much for that. It’s done now, isn’t it? I’ll be there immediately. She must not leave the grounds — and not a hint of a patient-escape leaking out, especially to the local press.”

“Of course, Doctor. We started searching on the instant. She will never get over the walls.”

Shivering, Camilla stepped from the meat cooler into the dim vastness of the institutional kitchen. Before her in the faint light filtering from the night outside were obscure details, the long table where food was prepared, the butcher’s block with its rack of knives, the gas-fired ranges, the rows of pots and skillets dangling from the long rafter overhead.

Haven Hill had been home for two long years, and she knew every door and passageway. Once out of her room, she’d hurried down a service stairs. At a doorway in the ground-level corridor, she’d known a search had already started. She’d heard footsteps crackling quickly on tile, voices, subdued but strained, calling out her absence from her room. She’d crossed quickly into the kitchen. They would search every hallway, each linen and storage closet, she’d known. Even the kitchen. When she’d heard the quick approach of footsteps, she’d ducked into the cooler between hanging loins of beef, the side of a pig, the quarter of a veal. As from a muffled distance, she’d heard the brief murmur of voices when two of them had clicked a light on and off in the emptiness of the kitchen.

Now they were gone, and she drifted to the tall windows. She saw the light of electric torches flickering, moving about the dark landscape. In the distance jouncing headlights marked a pickup truck. That would be Pickens, the maintenance supervisor, cruising carefully, hoping to catch sight of her as she tried for the ivy-grown outer wall.

She drew back from the shadowy window, nodding slowly; Very well. Quite well let them search the trees and shrubs and pan along the wall, searching in all the wrong places...

Castleneau, the night man in gray security guard’s uniform, swung open the wrought-iron gate and the white jag shot through. Gramling slammed the car to an immediate halt and looked up through the open side window as Castleneau bent and peered in.

“Well?” Gramling demanded through gritted teeth.

“Not yet, Doctor. But we’ll find her. She is still inside the grounds.”

“Are you absolutely certain?”

“As sure as I can be of anything. She simply didn’t have that much time. I had Pickens, his crew, orderlies and aides spreading about the perimeter in everything available on wheels within thirty seconds after the night nursing supervisor notified me. Camilla Jordan will have to grow wings to get out of here.”

“Very well.” Gramling was only slightly mollified. “But every second counts. She is a patient, Castleneau. Don’t forget that for a moment. No telling what she will do. It’s worth your hide if she hurts herself.”

“If we had a few more people...”

“You will have people in sufficient number to take Haven Hill apart,” Gramling said, gunning the engine. “I’ll have day crews, from grass cutters to RN’s reporting in immediately. Nobody gets any sleep until Camilla Jordan is safely back in her room.”

Gramling threw the clutch, and the jag shot toward the white shadows of colonial buildings at the further end of the driveway.

Camilla stood in the soft darkness of the munificent, walnut-paneled office, looking at the deeper shadows of chairs in leather, the imposing desk with its high-backed chair like a throne upon the heights. This was Terrence Gramling’s sanctum, his lair, the place where his mind wormed in its patterns.

She turned her head, hearing the sound of his voice speaking to someone out in the corridor. She eased backward, until her shoulder blades were pressed against the wall close beside the door.

She heard the sound of the doorknob turning in his hand.

And she was quite prepared. Her face was a glint of sweat-slick whiteness. The cones of black erupted in her eyes. Her right hand was lifted, poised, her fingers burning with strength as they gripped the cleaver from the butcher’s block.

The door opened. And in walked the unspeakable monster who had destroyed her child...

Content

Talmage Powell
The Third Talmage Powell Crime MEGAPACK™: 25 Classic Mysteries

A Note from the Editor

Her Dagger Before Me

Chapter One Cold Meat

Chapter Two Knife for Hire

Chapter Three Kill One, Skip One

The Wind of Fear

Murder Goes to the Dogs

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

The Beautiful Miss Borgia

Deadliest Enemy!

A Beautiful Babe and Money

Next!

Midnight Blonde

Lead Cure

Return No More

The Dame Across the River

Murder Method

Somebody Cares

A Break in the Weather

The Favor

The Seven Year Hitch

Last Run of the Night

A Friendly Exorcise

A Truly Honest Man

Parole Violation

Welcome Home, Pal

The Jury Caper

A Change of Heart

Classified

A Mother’s Heart