The Talmage Powell Crime Megapack

by Talmage Powell

  A wild shriek came from Henry’s throat. He felt the hard pressure of the alarm button behind the teller’s cages under his toe.

  A bell began to clang. A gun blasted. A female employee screamed. Mr. Darcy Featherstone made a dull noise as he fainted and keeled over again.

  Henry was vaguely aware of being in motion, the shrill yells still coming from his lips. He had a strange object in his hand which he’d scooped up from the shelf below and inside a teller’s cage. He curled his forefinger, pointing the object, and the bank resounded with the blast of gunfire.

  Then half the building seemed to fall on Henry’s right shoulder. The process was instant. He blacked out.

  * * * *

  Henry returned to the realm of consciousness with a wince, a groan, a slow opening of his eyes. A doctor, a nurse, and Mr. Joshua Tipton, bank president, were hovering beside his hospital bed.

  “Welcome back, Henry,” Mr. Tipton said as if speaking to a son. “Did they.…”

  “They didn’t, Henry,” Mr. Tipton said. “When their deal soured, they broke and ran. Both got caught. Unfortunately for them, they were stranded on foot. When she heard the commotion, the blonde woman bolted in the get-away car. In her panic, she ran into a bridge abutment. But she was the only fatality. ”

  “Better let him rest now,” the doctor said.

  “I’ll give him something to rest on,” Mr. Tipton said. “When you come back, Henry, you’re through as a teller.”

  “I am?”

  “The most miserable showing of Darcy Featherstone in a crisis has convinced me that he’s not quite the man for the v-p post. Your experience and length of service, along with proof that still waters do run deep, qualify you for the job, I think.”

  “They do?”

  “Welcome to our ranks, fellow executive. Mr. Vice-President!”

  “Hmmm,” said Henry. He squinted one eye in deep thought. In five years, he realized, he had come to like the bank. Except for that shrimp Darcy, the other employees were pretty nice. And Mr. Tipton…why, the old man had unsuspected emotions behind that leonine exterior!

  “You have the personal interest we all must share in the great responsibility entrusted to us,” Mr. Tipton was saying. “Even I, Overby, must take a lesson from your courage and intense personal devotion to our fine bank.”

  “You must?” Henry inquired. His thoughts skittered briefly on a tangent. After all, bank vice-presidents do belong to country clubs. They do buy imposing homes, being in a position to ferret out a bargain. A v-p can invest, handle his money wisely, even purchase a fine car, and court a slightly snobbish fruit off a fine old family tree, although she may be a bit plain.

  Henry’s ambition began to leap and dance. The mere thought of filching from the vault seemed puerile. Certainly it was unworthy of Henry Overby, vice-president, who in a few more years would very likely occupy the very office in which now Mr. Tipton reigned.

  “Yes, Overby,” Mr. Tipton’s tone was an oratorical flourish. “We are proud to have a man with your sense of duty, your very personal regard for our noble institution. You expressed it fervently, Judkins reported, even if somewhat abstrusely.”

  “I did?” Henry said cautiously.

  “Certainly, man! Don’t you remember? As you went down under the gunman’s bullet, you were yelling it at the top of your lungs. Overby, the heroic words you uttered were, precisely, ‘You can’t have the treasure out of my vault…my vault…my vault…’”

  LONE WITNESS

  Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, January 1966.

  Marco tingled with excitement and pure delight when Timothy Watkins came to him in a moment of extreme trouble. Marco didn’t reveal these feelings. Instead, he ushered a disheveled Timothy into his apartment on a drizzly midnight with a show of concern and sympathy that appeared genuine.

  After all, he and Timothy were supposed to be friends. Timothy’s money, purchasing a chunk of Marco’s foundering business, had bailed Marco out of deep financial difficulty. And like a true friend and honest man, Timothy had come straight to Marco when it appeared Miss Sharon Randall, a lovely brunette, preferred him over Marco.

  When he opened his door on the man whom he secretly hated, Marco took in Timothy’s appearance at a glance. Timothy was wet and muddy. His face had lost all color. His eyes were glazed, stricken, not quite in complete touch with reality.

  Timothy, Marco knew, had had a dinner invitation from Miss Randall. Marco had spent the evening seething at the thought of the two of them alone in the intimate seclusion of her lakeside cottage.

  A big, expansive sham of a man, Marco helped Timothy to the couch.

  Timothy began mumbling a garbled apology. “No one else I could think of—had to tell someone; better leave…”

  Timothy started to rise, but Marco pushed him back. “No nonsense, now,” Marco said. He was so eager to know the nature of Timothy’s trouble he would have locked the door to keep him here. “You did exactly right. Just relax and tell me what it’s all about.”

  Timothy was incapable of relaxing. Marco crossed the room to the buffet, poured a stiff drink, and brought it to Timothy, who gulped gratefully, shuddered the liquor down straight, and a bit of color came to his face.

  “Marco,” he said in a whisper of suffering, “I’ve killed a man.”

  “What!”

  “A stranger. A man I never saw before. Never knew he was there, hardly, until the car hit him. ”

  All the bitterness went out of the evening, as far as Marco was concerned. He put on a front of gravity and trouble. He dropped beside Timothy and put his hand on the wiry, sandy man’s shoulder. “Better tell me about it from the beginning, Timothy.”

  Timothy was miserably reluctant. “I don’t want to involve…”

  “More nonsense,” Marco said, giving him a slight shake. “What are friends for, anyway?”

  Timothy’s need was so great and Marco so kind and understanding that Timothy’s slate-gray eyes misted. “Miss Randall and I… We had cocktails before dinner and a couple drinks afterward. I left there pleasantly mild. Not drunk, but not completely sober either. Not knowing that a man’s life would be in my hands…” He closed his eyes and shivered briefly.

  “You were returning home from Miss Randall’s, Timothy?”

  “Yes, driving along, thinking of her, of our evening. I saw the truck stop at the intersection far ahead. It pulled away, and I know now that the driver had let a hitchhiker out. The truck was going no closer to town than the intersection. The hitchhiker was headed on this way.

  “I—I didn’t see him until I was through the intersection. He was just there, all of a sudden. On the edge of the road, flagging me for a ride.

  “I slammed on the brakes and the car skidded slightly. Felt like it was going to flip over. I hadn’t realized how fast I’d been driving.

  “I jerked the steering wheel. The car slewed off the edge of the pavement, and I heard a bump, exactly like cold metal slapping meat and bone.

  “When I managed to get the car stopped, I got out but I didn’t see the hitchhiker. It was as if he’d been a mirage in the rainy night, an impression of a thin, slightly stooped guy in jeans and out-at-the-elbows jacket.

  “Remembering the sound of that bump, I began to shake all over, I tell you! I grabbed the flashlight from the glove compartment, ran up the road…”

  “And found him?”

  “Yes,” Timothy mourned, his head in his hands. “In a thicket down the embankment beside the road, his head all bloody—I knew he must be dead.”

  “How did you know? Did you go down and examine him?”

  Timothy lifted his head slowly. “No, I—come to think of it the sight of so much blood—I panicked, I guess. Don’t remember anything else clearly until I got here. But he couldn’t have been alive with his head battered so badly.”

  “Did you leave any traces of yourself out there, anything that might link you to him?”

  “I—I d
on’t know,” Timothy said.

  “Then we’ll have a look.”

  “Marco, I don’t want to drag you in…”

  “Forget it,” Marco said, keeping his face averted so Timothy wouldn’t see the glint in his eyes. “We’re business partners, aren’t we?”

  Timothy stood up slowly. “You know, I always had the feeling you really didn’t like me. Deep down, I mean. Well, after all, you might have felt I stole your girl.”

  “Come now, Timothy, give me credit for being a bigger person than that.”

  The highway was a dark, deserted ribbon of slippery black. Timothy slowly stopped his car. “Right over there, Marco,” he whispered, although there was no reason for keeping his voice so low. “Across the road. I was heading in the other direction, you know, toward town.”

  Marco’s’ raincoat rustled as he shifted his bulk out of the car. He had the flashlight in his hand. “Leave the parking lights on, and if you see another car coming, get out and open the hood like you have car trouble.”

  “Marco…”

  “I know. You can thank me later. ”

  Marco went quickly across the highway and started down the slope. He moved below highway level, the flashlight probing a rough, sparsely-grown landscape. His excitement grew higher. Surely, this was the opportunity of a lifetime. He’d get his business and his girl back. Once he went through the motions of friendship, he’d have to go, finally, to the cops, wouldn’t he, before Timothy had a chance to move the body? He had conscience, didn’t he? He was a law-abiding citizen, wasn’t he?

  The topping on the cake was the knowledge that if Timothy had played it cool he might have got away with it. Now, he never would.

  Irritation began to crowd the elation in Marco. The finger of light became more hurried in its movements. Where in blazes was the guy, the dead man who would return to Marco everything Timothy had taken? The light swung across the heaviest of the thickets. Stopped. Returned.

  Marco moved forward, holding the light steady. He cursed under his breath. Clearly, this was the place where the hitchhiker had landed, where Timothy had seen him. There were freshly broken twigs, an impression where a man’s body had lain. The wet leaves had been disturbed where the hitchhiker had dragged himself away.

  With a growing sense of having been cheated, Marco moved the light slowly. He could see exactly how the man had pulled himself around, groaned his way to his feet A few feet beyond the thicket was a tattered, soiled handkerchief with a smear of blood on it. The guy had paused there to touch his wounds, steadying, feeling the return of strength.

  Marco plunged forward, hoping the hitchhiker had collapsed. Marco’s eyes and brain were hungry for the sight of the dead body.

  But the hitchhiker had recovered and gone. Marco had to admit the fact. He finally stopped his search and stood overcome by the death of hope. Wouldn’t you know it? Those stringy, bewhiskered bums and winos, you couldn’t kill them with a meat-axe. A passing motorist had probably picked up the guy. Right now, the bum was no doubt dry and comfortable in a hospital charity bed. The cops would give cursory attention to his accident and invite him to get out of town.

  “Marco?”

  Marco raised his head. Timothy’s shadow was visible up on the highway.

  “Marco, what is it? Where are you?”

  The sound of the hated voice at this moment put Marco’s teeth on edge. He hadn’t until tonight known how much he really wanted to remove Timothy, when for a little while it had seemed possible.

  And then a thought came to Marco. Timothy had no way of knowing he was down here alone. Without turning on the flashlight, which he’d extinguished when he’d quit searching, Marco called softly, “Get back in the car, Timothy! Trying to attract the attention of anybody who happens to pass? You crazy or something? I’m coming right up.”

  Chastened, Timothy was under the wheel of the car when Marco returned.

  “Let’s get out of here, Timothy.”

  “What took you so long?”

  “For pete’s sake, I wasn’t so long. It only seemed that way to you. I had to find the guy. And then I tried to figure something to do. Thought about moving him. Looked around for a place maybe to hide him.”

  “Then he’s—”

  “Deader’n a burned out match, Timothy.”

  A sob came from Timothy as he hunched over the wheel.

  “Look,” Marco said, “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m a murderer, Marco.”

  “I wouldn’t feel…”

  “Murderer,” Timothy said. He suddenly beat on the steering wheel with the heel of his palm. “I’m a murderer—and the fact can never be changed.”

  “Hey, now get hold of yourself. We’ve got to think. ”

  “One second,” Timothy sobbed wildly, “I was a decent, law-abiding guy with a business interest and a girl. The next tick of the clock and I’m a killer, and nothing will ever make things exactly the same again. ”

  Marco gripped him by the shoulders. “That’s right Timothy. You have to get used to the idea. ”

  “Marco, I’m scared to face the police.”

  “No need for you to. Crazy if you do, pal. You were drinking when you hit that guy. They’ll really throw the book at you!”

  Timothy shuddered and dropped his forehead on the rim of the steering wheel.

  “But cheer up, pal,” Marco slapped him on the shoulder. “There’s a way out.”

  “There is?”

  “Sure. I’m going to help you, Timothy.”

  “How?”

  “We’ll go back to my apartment I’ll give you all the ready cash I’ve got. You’ll have a long head start before that guy is found. They’ll never find you.”

  “You mean—run away?”

  “Any better ideas, Timothy?”

  “But I’d lose my share of the business, my girl.”

  “There are other businesses, other girls. But you just have the next twenty years one time, Timothy. Of course, if you want to throw them away, along with the business and girl…” Marco shrugged. “I’m trying to help you salvage what you can, that’s all. I see no other way but for you to get going quick, go far, and never look back. And try not to take it so hard, Timothy. You’re not the first guy to have a thing like this happen.”

  Timothy became quieter. He pulled himself erect, reached to the ignition key, and started the car. Marco was glad he had the cover of darkness to hide his elation.

  They rode the self-service elevator up five flights to Marco’s apartment. Marco let them in and turned on a light in the living room.

  He gripped Timothy’s bicep briefly. “Cheer up, Timothy You’ll start a new life under another name a thousand miles away, and all this will seem a bad dream. Now, I’ll see how much cash I can rustle. ” Timothy moved dully to the window and opened it. He drew in a deep breath of air. The rain had stopped. The night outside was clean tasting and very silent.

  Marco returned. “Here’s about five hundred bucks, Timothy. Not much, maybe, but used sparingly, it’ll take you a long way.” Timothy took the money, looked at it as if he didn’t quite realize what it was, and slipped it into his pocket. The lower portion of his face parted in a gray smile. “Murderer…” he mused. “You know, Marco, once you get over the first shock of knowing you’re a murderer, it changes your whole outlook.”

  “Just don’t think about it, Timothy,” Marco admonished him then.

  “Why not? Once you’ve killed, then human life assumes a completely new value. Or should I say lack of value?”

  Marco began to feel uneasy. “Timothy, you ought to use every possible minute to put as much distance…”

  “I hate to think of losing the business and my girl, Marco. Really I do, especially since there is only one thing that can definitely link me to the hitchhiker. The rain must have washed the tire tread marks from the shoulder of the road, and I can burn my shoes, in case I left footprints. That leaves just one thing, Marco. You, the lone witness. ” Before Marco could
speak, Timothy clipped him on the jaw. As he crumpled, Timothy took Marco’s shoulders and directed his fall out the open window. Then he kicked back the throw rug from under the window, which made everything reasonably obvious. Timothy would agree with everyone that it had been most unfortunate for the rug to slip.

  PROXY

  Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, June 1966.

  When I left her apartment, I skedaddled straight to Mr. Friedland’s estate. I left the car standing in the driveway and went in the big stone mansion like a coon with a pack on his trail.

  I asked the butler where Mr. Friedland was, and the butler said our boss was in the study. So I busted in the study and closed the heavy walnut door behind me quick.

  Mr. Friedland was at his desk. He looked up, bugged for a second by me coming in this way. But he didn’t bless me out. He got up quick and said, “What’s the matter, William?”

  I knuckled some sweat off my forehead, walked to the desk, and laid the envelope down. The envelope had a thousand smackers, cash, in it.

  Mr. Friedland picked up the money. He looked a little addle pated.

  “You did go to Marla Scanlon’s apartment, William?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “She was there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But she didn’t accept the money? William, I simply can’t believe it. ”

  I couldn’t think of an easy way to explain it to him. “She’s dead, Mr. Friedland.”

  He cut his keen eyes from the money to me. He was a lean, handsome man who looked about thirty-five years old in the face. It was just the pure white hair that hinted at his real age.

  “Dead?” he said. “How, William?”

  “Looked to me like somebody strangled her to death. I didn’t hang around to make sure. There’s bruises on her neck, and her tongue is stuck out and all swelled up like a hunk of bleached liver. She was a mighty fetching hunk of female,” I added with a sigh.

  “Yes,” Mr. Friedland said, “she was.”

  “But she don’t look so good now.”

  “Was she alone in the apartment?”