The Talmage Powell Crime Megapack

by Talmage Powell

“I reckon. I didn’t feel the urge to poke around. Just had a look at her there on her living-room floor and hightailed it here.”

  Mr. Friedland absently put the thousand bucks in his inside coat pocket. “She was alive three hours ago. She phoned me, just before I went out. I returned, gave you the envelope, and you went to her place and found her dead. Three hours. She was killed between two and five this afternoon.”

  “Could have been a lot of traffic in that much time, Mr. Friedland.”

  “I doubt it. Not today. Today she was expecting a caller with a white envelope. William, you didn’t see anyone on your way out of the building?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Phone anyone? Speak to anyone?”

  “Not a soul, Mr. Friedland, until I got here and asked the butler where you was.”

  “Good. You’re always a good man, William.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “I try to be.” Which was no lie. I’m a hillbilly from near Comfort, North Carolina, which is back up in the mountains. It’s a mighty poorly place, believe me. Mr. Friedland came up there one summer for a week of fishing. I worked for him that week, and when the week was over he said as how would I like to keep working for him. He said I was intelligent and clean-cut and had respect for other people. He said he needed a chauffeur and a man to do errands and personal chores. He said I would have quarters on a nice estate and steady pay. So naturally I jumped at the chance. That was near five years ago, and I’m glad to say that Mr. Friedland has come to depend on me as few folks can depend on a personal worker. He trusts me and knows I can keep my mouth shut. And that means a lot to a big shot newspaper publisher and television station owner like Mr. Friedland.

  While I was simmering down and losing the shakes from my experience in Miss Marla Scanlon’s apartment, Mr. Friedland was busy on the phone. He called Judge Harrison Corday and Mr. Robert Grenick, who is the prosecuting attorney. They were both close friends of Mr. Friedland. He told them to drop everything, he had to see them right away. He said a thing of utmost importance had happened which couldn’t be talked about on the phone. He asked them to come to his study pronto, which they did.

  Judge Corday got there first. He was one of the youngest superior court judges in the state. He liked parties and booze, and it was beginning to show around the softening edges of his face. He was a big, reddish man. He’d been a famous football star in college.

  He said to Mr. Friedland, “What’s up, Arch? I’ve got a dinner engagement and…”

  “You may not want any dinner when you hear what I have to say,” Mr. Friedland said. “To save a lot of repetitions, we’ll wait until Bob Grenick arrives.”

  Judge Corday didn’t press Mr. Friedland, knowing it would do no good. He sat down and lighted a dollar cigar and tried to read Mr. Friedland’s lean, tight face.

  Mr. Grenick showed up almost before Judge Corday got his cigar going good. Bald, chubby, and middle-aged, Mr. Grenick had thick, heavy lips and thick, heavy eyes. Both his lips and eyes always looked slightly damp, like a lizard’s back that lives in a spring branch.

  As soon as Mr. Grenick was in the study and the door safely closed, Mr. Friedland said, “Tell them, William, what you just told me.”

  “Miss Marla Scanlon is dead,” I said.

  The judge took it without blinking an eye. The state’s attorney, Mr. Grenick, choked, put a hand to his neck, fumbled for a chair, and sat down.

  “How?” Judge Corday said, cool.

  “Murdered, I reckon,” I said.

  Mr. Grenick made noises like he was having a hard time getting air.

  “By what means?” the judge asked.

  “Choked to death, it looked like,” I said.

  “When?”

  “Sometime between two and five,” Mr. Friedland put in.

  “What makes you think I have any interest until the murderer is caught and I act in official capacity?” Mr. Grenick said raggedly. “I hardly knew Marla Scanlon.”

  “Oh, come off it, Bob,” Mr. Friedland said. “Marla Scanlon worked artfully and most skillfully. One by one she compromised the three of us. She didn’t stretch her luck. We three were enough. She had her gold mine. She was content. She didn’t intend to incur further risk by developing, in a manner of speaking, a source of silver.”

  Mr. Grenick got half out of his chair, gripping its arms. “I deny any…”

  “Please shut up,” Mr. Friedland said quietly. “None of us is on trial, not yet. But we’re the three who might have killed her. It’s reasonably certain that one of us did. She’s milked you the longest, Harrison. I was next. Bob, you’re her third and final golden goose. Between us, we’ve contributed, over a period of time, something like a total of sixty-thousand dollars.”

  “Too bad we never reported all that stashed cash to the income tax people,” Judge Corday said. “They might have taken her off our backs.”

  “And the hides from our backs right along with her,” Mr. Friedland said.

  “How’d you find out all this?” Mr. Grenick asked. “About me, I mean?”

  “That’s a rather silly question, Bob,” Mr. Friedland said. “I’m still a top reporter when it comes to digging out the facts. And I have the resources of a metropolitan newspaper at my disposal, don’t forget.”

  “All right,” Judge Corday said, like he was on the bench considering a motion by a lawyer. “It’s laid out between us. We three were her patsies. Each had the same reason to dispose of her. We re cruising, in a word, in the same leaky boat. Now it remains to determine whether or not we have a paddle. Unfortunately, I have no alibi for the three hours between two and five this afternoon. Have you, Bob?”

  “What?” Mr. Grenick was looking sort of gray, like a prospect for a dose of calomel.

  “Where were you between two and five this afternoon?”

  “I was…”

  “Yes, Bob?” Mr. Friedland prompted.

  Mr. Grenick lifted his eyes and looked at his friends. “I didn’t go in, understand. A block away, I turned the car. I didn’t go all the way to her apartment.”

  “You were going to see Marla?” the judge asked.

  “Yes. I was going to appeal to her, to prove to her that I couldn’t afford the blackmail tariff any longer. I was going to convince her that she’d have to be satisfied with less—or nothing more at all. I simply couldn’t rake up the money. I’m not as well heeled as you two.”

  “But you got cold feet,” Mr. Friedland said. “You didn’t actually see her?”

  “That’s right, Arch, and you’ve got to believe me.”

  “Whether or not we believe you,” the judge said, “cuts little ice. The important thing is that you have no alibi. How about you, Arch?”

  Mr. Friedland shook his head. “I got a call from her at two o’clock. She reminded me that William was due at five with a thousand dollars. I drove out for a quiet, private look at some acreage I may purchase. I came back in time to send William on his errand.”

  “So any one of us might have killed her,” the judge said.

  “Listen,” Mr. Grenick said in a tight voice, “I didn’t do it. But if a scandal of this sort brushes off on me, I’m ruined. The three of us,” his eyes looked wetter than usual, “are ruined. There are too many people in city hall and police headquarters who’d like to collect our scalps. We can’t hush up a thing as big as murder, not even if Arch does control the press and TV.”

  “Precisely,” Mr. Friedland said. “Sometimes, Bob, you almost convince me you have a mind, in addition to the cunning you’ve shown in the political jungles. We cannot cover this thing.”

  “So what do you propose?” Judge Corday asked.

  “An unbreakable gentleman’s agreement,” Mr. Friedland said. “Whichever of the three of us is nailed, he must bear the entire thing alone. He must not turn to his friends for help or implicate them in the slightest. He must stand firm on the statement that he, and only he, was involved with Marla Scanlon. Whichever of us is doomed will at least hav
e the satisfaction of knowing that he shielded his friends.”

  “It might be rough,” the judge said. “When a man’s slapped in the face with murder, the natural reaction is to name others, to confuse the issue, to point suspicion elsewhere.”

  “I know,” Mr. Friedland nodded, “and that’s my reason for calling you here. We must decide in advance. We must agree that the two who escape will, throughout the future, stand by the loser’s loved ones in any crisis, any trouble, as if the loser himself were still there. ”

  “Mr. Friedland,” I said.

  He turned his head in my direction. “Yes, William?”

  “All the time you been talking,” I said, “I been thinking. I got an idear.”

  “William,” Mr. Grenick said in a sore tone, “we’ve far more important things to consider than any ideas you…”

  Mr. Friedland shut him up with a motion of his hand. “I don’t think we have anything to lose by listening to you,” Mr. Friedland said. “Go ahead, William.”

  “Thank you, sir. You see, Mr. Friedland, you’ve been real nice to me, giving me a chance to live like I never knowed people live, when I was a hillbilly back up beyond Comfort, North Carolina.”

  Mr. Grenick groaned. “This is no time for asinine, emotional speeches.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “Anyhow, I’m all through speechifying. I just wanted Mr. Friedland to know one of the reasons I’d be willing to do you-all the favor of standing trial for Miss Marla Scanlon’s murder.”

  I had their attention now, believe me. Right then, you could have heard a mouse crossing the attic, only of course there wasn’t none in Mr. Friedland’s attic.

  “William,” Mr. Friedland said finally, “I’m touched. But I suspect that you haven’t quite finished.”

  “No sir, Mr. Friedland. Not quite. All three of you have society wives and fine kids and fancy homes and just everything to make life good. You stand to lose a real passel. But me, I got nobody but myself. And I never before had a chance to get me a stake together.”

  “How much?” Judge Corday asked.

  “Well, you been paying Miss Marla Scanlon plenty. One final payment—to me—will finish it for good. Just chip in five thousand dollars apiece, and I’ll protect you all from the aftermath of this terrible thing.”

  “I won’t do it,” Mr. Grenick said, “not five thou—”

  “Yes, Bob, I think you will,” Mr. Friedland said. He eased his backside to the edge of his desk and brought his eyes back to me. “How do you propose to do it, William?”

  “It ought to be simple as picking corn when the sun ain’t hot,” I said, “With your newspapers and TV on my side, and Judge Corday on the bench, and Mr. Grenick handling the case for the state, I ought to come off all right. I’ll say that I had been hanky-pank with Marla Scanlon. I’ll say she was giving me the boot. I’ll say we got in a big fight and I lost my head and killed her without really meaning to. Nobody in this town really cares that she’s gone, nobody to question or suspect what you do. I figure the judge should give me about three years for manslaughter. I’ll behave good and be on parole inside of a year.”

  “And then?” Judge Corday said.

  “I’ll just take my fifteen thousand and go back to Comfort,” I said. “None of us has got to worry about any of the others going back on the contract, account of we’re all in this together and we sink or swim together.”

  “William,” Mr. Friedland said, “I think you’ve got a deal. How about it, friends?”

  Both the judge and Mr. Grenick were quick to nod.

  “I suggest,” the judge said, “that you and William contrive to rehearse a bit in private, Bob.”

  “A good idea,” the prosecutor said.

  “And you’ve fine material to work with here,” Mr. Friedland said. “You won’t have to worry about William botching his part.”

  “Well, gentlemen,” I said, “let’s get finished up here with the practice questions and all, soon’s we can. I reckon I ought to get to police headquarters in a reasonable time. It’ll look better if I surrender myself and show them how sorry I am for what I done to that girl.”

  “Excellent, William, excellent,” Mr. Friedland said.

  I got to admit it looked pretty excellent to me too. I’d go back to Comfort a little over a year from now with over fifty thousand dollars, counting the fifteen thousand these men would cough up.

  Miss Marla Scanlon, in life, had had an eye on the future. When I’d made her open the wall safe in her apartment before I strangled her I’d picked up a little over forty thousand.

  Folks around Comfort, North Carolina, are all eligible for this poverty program the government is running. It’ll sure be nice, going back and being the richest man in the whole durn town. The air is clean, the scenery eye-popping, the likker mellow, and the girls all corn-fed beauties. I might even hire myself a chauffeur and personal errand boy—only I’ll make sure his name ain’t William.

  THE CONFIDENT KILLER

  Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, October 1967.

  Nom Roddenberry took the news of her daughter’s death like a durable hill woman. Her sallow, bony face went as gray as fog. Her slate-gray eyes went out of whack as she tried to keep on seeing me. Her gnarled hands lifted and grabbed her wrinkled cheeks, as if she could make a physical pain that would lessen the hellfire scorching her inside. A wail like a cat caught in a steel trap split her thin lips.

  Then she steadied, pulled her shoulders together, stood gasping behind the counter in her cafe. “Gaither…Jerl Brownlee murdered my girl?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to say, ma’am.”

  She took off the clean white smock that she wore over her simple gray dress as her cafe uniform and came around the counter, a small, spry woman that the Smoky Mountain winters and endless toil had whittled down to a collection of hickory sticks and leather.

  “Is Pretty at Doc Weatherly’s undertaking parlor now, Gaither?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Will you walk over with me?”

  “You know I will!”

  “And tell me the whole of it.” Her fingers were like wires on my wrist “Every last detail. You hear me, Gaither?”

  She turned over the cardboard sign that hung inside the glass part of the cafe door. The sign said “Closed.” We stepped onto the sidewalk. The old lady closed and locked the door, then stood a minute looking up and down the dusty street like she was a stranger, although she’d lived in the town of Comfort all her life.

  “Not much here to satisfy a gal young’un who dreamed of fancy clothes and big city excitement, Gaither.”

  “She wasn’t a bad girl, ma’am.”

  “That she wasn’t, Gaither. Just too innocent and ignorant of the ways of the world and too—attractive to men.”

  With me at her side, Mom Roddenberry thought of the short eighteen years of Pretty’s life, I reckon, as she set off with dogged hill-woman’s stride. “I’m listening, Gaither,” she prodded.

  So I told her how Pretty Roddenberry had come to her end, as we tramped toward the old gingerbread house where Doc Weatherly lives upstairs and undertakes on the ground floor.

  Pretty had met her death in cruelly simply manner. She’d sneaked up to the Brownlee lodge to keep a date with Jerl. He was the last of the Brownlees, had inherited a timber and tobacco fortune, and figured he was cock of any walk he cared to set foot on.

  Jerl didn’t show up in Comfort often, preferring to spend his time and squander his money in resorts where fancy women were plentiful. With a bunch of friends, he had boozed it up at the UT-Clemson game last week, which took place in Knoxville. The swanky Brownlee lodge being on a thousand-acre estate across the line in North Carolina, the gang had trekked over and kept the party roaring.

  They caroused over land, lake, and mountainside for three days before they fizzled out. Finally Jerl was left alone, surly and restless. He got to thinking of that cute little trick he’d made a few pas
ses at previous when he happened to be in Comfort, so he called her on the phone, and she was dumb enough to sneak up there.

  Who knows what went through Pretty’s excited mind as she dolled up in her best dress and perfume? Did she think she could tease her way into that rustic mansion and let it go at that? Did she think Jerl would actually take her away from the drabness and boredom of an isolated little mountain town such as Comfort? Did she kid herself into thinking she might even have a chance of marrying into the Brownlee millions?

  Ever how her noggin worked, when the showdown came she just couldn’t snatch off her clothes and jump into young Jerl’s bed. But she’d called her shots all wrong. She hadn’t figured on the size of Jerl’s spoiled selfishness. His boozing had sharpened all the meanness in him. Even sober, he reckoned that anything he wanted should be his for the taking.

  Pretty fought him. It must have been an unholy sight, Pretty struggling and begging for mercy, of which there was none in the inflamed face before her. She barked his shins and scratched his face; then he knocked her down and busted the back of her head. Maybe she struck the big fireplace or a piece of the heavy furniture.

  Jerl thought he’d killed her then and there. He dragged her out put her in his car, got in and drove a ways across the mountain until he was off the estate, then shoved her out. He must have thought he was reasonably safe. Days, even weeks, might pass before anybody found Pretty’s body. By then, Jerl figured, it wouldn’t matter what folks suspected. Suspecting and proving are two different matters. He’d just deny that she ever had come to the lodge. Nobody, he reckoned, could prove that some hill renegade hadn’t seen her walking up the road and got passionate ideas.

  Only thing, Jerl hadn’t figured on a situation which the Brownlees themselves had set up. For years the Brownlee estate had been posted and the old man, before his death, had kept a mean caretaker up there to enforce the rule. As a result, the thousand acres teemed with game, and a mountain farmer with a taste for fresh meat had set out that morning to do a little poaching, thinking Jerl’s drinking party had adjourned to the lowlands and wouldn’t bother him.