The Walt Whitman MEGAPACK ™

by Millard, Joseph J.

  The young man was Lloyd Fornash, son of the wealthy department store owner. Childers knew this was the Fornash Store basement. Lloyd Fornash was an assistant manager in his father’s store. He had a reputation for level-headedness, honesty, and ambition.

  “I thought—” he stammered, staring into Childers’ grimy face, “that—you see—it’s like this. Our night watchman phoned the house a few minutes ago. I was the only one out of bed, so I took the call. He said someone had broken into the basement here. I came right over, and—”

  “And didn’t call the cops?” interrupted the detective.

  “I wanted to make certain before bothering them,” replied Fornash, his voice becoming more calm. “If it interests you, our night watchman has been murdered. Maybe you killed him?”

  Childers gave a cheerless grin, stepped back. For the first time Fornash actually saw the gun. He deliberately lunged forward, sent a hard right at Childers’ head. It connected. Childers went down. While his head buzzed, Fornash tore the gun from Childers’ hand, then aimed a kick at his face.

  Childers dodged it, grabbed Fornash’s foot with both hands and jerked. Fornash’s back smacked the floor. Childers had the department store executive’s throat in his hands when he said, “You don’t know me, squirt, but I know you. I’m Detective Tony Childers, City Homicide Detail.”

  “We-l-l,” gurgled Fornash, wincing painfully, “why didn’t you say so? I’ll be glad to return your gun.” He did, graciously, not asking to see Childers’ badge, and said, “Come along, I’ll show you the night watchman, He was stabbed in the throat.”

  One glance told Childers that a dart like the one in his coat pocket had punched the bloody hole in the night watchman’s throat. The man was sprawled at the foot of a basement stairway. He’d been dead only a matter of minutes.

  “What time did he phone your house?” Childers asked.

  “I can’t say exactly,” Fornash replied thoughtfully. “Twenty-five minutes ago would be a close guess.”

  “That phone on an outside line?” Childers pointed at a telephone on a billing-clerk’s desk behind the stairway.

  “Yes, sir,” said Fornash, clearing his throat uneasily. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Childers, just how did you get in here?”

  “I was brought here. By whom I don’t know. After they came in here they didn’t turn on the lights. One of them pushed me into the elevator pit, then pushed the down button on the wall. The elevator is automatic, I know. At what floor is it usually parked at quitting time?”

  “The first floor,” Fornash told him. “But the watchman often used it.”

  Childers took the dart that had killed Tork from his coat. “Ever see a hellish thing like that?” he asked Fornash, holding it out. “Does anybody use such wicked things in games—target throwing?”

  Fornash’s face paled slightly as he wagged his head. “We sell dart-and-target sets in the store, but nothing like that. I never saw one a third that large.”

  “There’s a model works in your store. A Miss Flower Blue. Know her?”

  “Yes, I—I—” Fornash’s voice jerked into silence, he sent a confused glance at the floor.

  “Friendly with her?”

  The executive lifted his head, eyes flashing angrily. “That’s none of your business,” he snapped.

  “Right,” said Childers, smiling. “I take it you know Miss Blue is sweet on the crook, Joe Estramer?”

  “That’s a lie!” Fornash’s face reddened, bulged at the jowls.

  Childers laughed, “You’d know,” he said.

  “I knew—know Joe Estramer,” retorted Fornash. “He swindled our firm out of a number of rare silver fox furs. He cleaned up something like twenty-five thousand dollars, then managed to come clear with the law.”

  “It didn’t come under Homicide,” said Childers. “So I wouldn’t know. But I’m told you doubted your own furrier’s appraisal on those fox pelts and turned them over to an outside furrier for a check appraisal. It was too bad the outside appraiser turned out to be a crook. Handsome Joey is a slick number. One time he’s a fake prize fight promoter, next he’s a bogus real estate agent, and next he’s a big gee for a junky furrier—a little hophead who claimed you sold him some furs, and you couldn’t prove you didn’t.”

  “Look,” said Fornash, his manner suddenly peevish, “I didn’t release those furs for appraisal. Permission was given by telephone, presumably by my secretary. But that was all wrong, and—”

  “Skip it,” said the detective. “It didn’t come under Homicide. Now if there’d be been a murder... “ Childers picked a long bright blonde hair off his coat, glanced at it, decided Flower Blue was a blonde.

  Fornash gaped at him, a puzzled frown creasing his face.

  “One more thing,” the detective said, “anybody try to blackmail you lately?”

  “No,” said Fornash.

  “No?” Childers returned, flatly. He slipped the dart into his pocket, glanced studiously down at the night watchman’s purpling face.

  “Why don’t you report this killing to headquarters?” Fornash asked.

  Childers wrapped the golden hair around his finger, slipped off the curl, put it in a vest pocket. “My plans are different,” he said. “Let’s take a walk.”

  “Am I under arrest?” Fornash asked as Childers took his arm.

  “Not yet. We’ll find a cop out front.” There was a cop on the corner. Childers whistled to him. When he came up, Childers said, “A fresh stiff inside, officer. The store night watchman. Mr. Fornash here will explain—it was murder.”

  “Where you pick up the oil, Tony?” asked the patrolman, squinting at Childers’ face.

  “In an elevator shaft—I almost went to press. You’ll hear about it later. Phone Lieutenant Anderson, report the murder. Fornash will show you the corpse; also make certain Fornash is around when Homicide arrives. Get me?”

  “I get you,” said the cop tightly, glancing at Fornash with cold eyes. “I thought you might be around, Tony. I saw your coupe parked up the block, and—”

  “My coupe? Up which block?” interrupted Childers.

  “This block. Up there.” The cop pointed the direction. “And I heard about you playing tricks over at Tork’s shoe store. Anderson’s sore as hell, the way you ran Homicide down to Tork’s to see a corpse that wasn’t there. All they found was a couple of puddles of blood, one out front and one in back. Anderson is shouting that Medical ought to send you to the behavior clinic.”

  “It’ll all come out in the wash,” Childers said thoughtfully.

  “Anderson’ll skin you for leaving here—if you do,” said the cop.

  “I’ll risk it,” Childers said, shoving his hands deep into his hip pockets and gnawing his upper lip studiously. “You say my coupe’s up the block?”

  “Don’t you even know where you parked your own car?” said the patrolman.

  “Tell Anderson I’ll need that suspension for disobeying departmental rules. It’ll give me a chance to take the rest I’m going to need.”

  * * * *

  Childers found his coupe parked up the block, like the cop had said, key in ignition where he’d left it. “Accommodating of them,” he mused, slipping under the wheel. He wondered why his coupe had been driven from in front of Gentz’s candy store—thought that perhaps riding space required by him and Flower Blue, with whatever had encased them, had forced part of the mob to find other means of transportation. The car that had stopped for Tork’s killing had been a sedan. If they’d needed his car, that meant there were several of them.

  He switched on the ignition. Light from the instrument panel lit up the fresh blood soaking the seat beside him. His heels raked something on the floor. He reached down, picked up a pair of woman’s shoes. He recognized them instantly. They were the only things ab
out her he could have recognized. His flash’s beam had limned them clearly as they’d disappeared through Tork’s back window.

  In a twinkling he’d sent power to the coupe’s engine, angled it away from the curb. His lean jaws went squarish, his curved chin, blunt. He didn’t even think to abuse the swirling fog when it impeded his driving. He thought he knew where he was going now. He only hoped it wasn’t just a way station on a red road to hell.

  At Julius Carp’s Medieval Sports Club the custodian was a scrawny man with a weedy mustache and shriveled face. When Childers knocked on the side door he opened it, but on seeing the begrimed condition of the detective’s face tried to close it again. Childers grinned, pushed in past him.

  “It’s Homicide, old chum, so don’t mind the oil,” he said. He flashed his badge. “I’m interested in medieval sports, especially dart-throwing. Suppose you lead me to the range room?”

  “Can’t refuse a copper,” wheezed the old man. “Nothin’ in the range room, though. Nothin’ anywheres. Mr. Carp keeps things on the up an’ up, I tell you.”

  He unlocked the fourth door down the hall, stood aside for Childers to enter. “Here it is, the range room, like you wanted,” he said. “Look all you like. What’s the matter, somebody murder somebody?”

  Childers didn’t reply. The range room was just that—a long narrow room with archery racks and dartboards at one end, a long row of targets at the other. Beyond the dartboards, filled with brightly feathered missiles much smaller than the vicious instrument that had killed Simon Tork, Childers saw an array of photographs tacked on the wall.

  “Pictures?” he said, stepping over to stand in front of them, hands shoved deep in his hip pockets.

  The old man shuffled to a stop behind him. “Yeah, some pictures of contest winners. Everyone of ‘em is a ace-high dart-thrower, too. Every one of ‘em is a prize-winner.”

  Childers pointed to a picture of a pretty, wide-eyed brunette. “She’s a prize-winner, sure enough,” he said. “Who is she?”

  The custodian’s reply wasn’t much of a surprise. “Miss Flower Blue. She’s one of the top-notchers. Won more prizes on the darts than anybody, ‘ceptin’ Guy Boomer.”

  Childers’ gaze lingered approvingly on Flower Blue’s face for a moment, then he pointed to another picture, that of a big man with a head shaped like a keg. “Maybe that’s Boomer?”

  “Right,” said the custodian. “He used to be a wrestler, an’ a good one. Now he kind of works around for Mr. Carp.”

  A picture at the end of the row gave Childers a shock. “Lloyd Fornash comes here too, eh?” he said.

  “Used to,” replied the custodian, “but not since last week. Last week him and Mr. Carp got to bettin’ money on a dart match, an’ Mr. Carp lost a great lot—a great lot! I reckon Mr. Fornash won ten, ‘leven thousand from Mr. Carp. Then he quit and wouldn’t give Mr. Carp a chance to win his money back. Mr. Carp got sore and ordered the young whippersnapper out of here. Told him never to come back, too.”

  “Carp right handy with the darts?” Childers inquired.

  “He’s good with ‘em,” said the custodian. “Throws a bit too hard, but he’s good.”

  Childers turned to leave. “If you’d like to look in some of the other rooms, you’re welcome,” said the old man.

  “No, thanks,” Childers said. In the hall he stopped at a phone booth long enough to make sure of Aussie Mellon’s address.

  * * * *

  Simon Tork’s former partner in the shoe retailing business lived on Ridenour Street, in a little house that showed no light as Childers drove up and parked. After the detective had rung the door bell four times a hall light winked on. A minute later a wispy middle-aged man entered the hall. He didn’t open the door, but spoke through the glass.

  “Who is it?”

  “Detective Tony Childers. You know me, Mr. Mellon.”

  “Yes—yes, so I do. What do you want?”

  “There’s been some trouble at the shoe store. I want to talk with you.”

  “I got nothing to do with the shoe store now,” said Mellon. “I sold my interest to Simon. I got nothing to do with any trouble of his.”

  “Open the door,” said Childers, leveling his voice. “Tork’s been murdered.”

  Mellon quickly unlocked the door, stepped back, holding a faded bathrobe tightly about his little figure. “I don’t know anything about it. Simon owed me money, but I don’t—”

  “You two quarreled,” interrupted Childers, moving close to the frail man, “Simon refused to pay you some money you thought you had coming. This morning, around two o’clock, you killed him. I’m arresting you, Mr. Mellon.”

  “No! No!” whined Mellon, “I was asleep at two o’clock. Honest. I didn’t kill Simon. He was my friend. A little squabble, we had. Yes. But nothing like makes for murder. I didn’t do it.” His voice softened, purring with defeat. “If my wife was only home she’d tell you the truth. She’d tell you I was asleep since early last night. And—”

  Childers grabbed at Mellon’s bathrobe, caught the lapel, jerked it from the little man’s hands. Mellon was fully dressed, wearing a dark business suit. “You sleep like that—in worsteds?” asked the detective.

  Mellon’s lips loosened, wobbled. “No. You see...” He gulped, sent out a colorless tongue to swab blistery lips. “I should have called the police,” he moaned. “But I was scared. I’ll tell you all about it. Only give me time. I’ll tell you, truly.”

  He swabbed his lips again, stared at the detective with frightened eyes, then stared beyond him at the blackness beyond the door glass. A hard shudder traced his small frame.

  “A while ago the doorbell woke me. I got up and came to the door. I was afraid of nothing then—I opened the door. Just like that—I opened it. And Simon fell—fell inside. He—Oh, heaven help me, Mr. Detective! It was horrible—horrible. Blood—blood...” Mellon moaned, wrung his pale hands. His chin jerked, tears broke from his fear-stretched eyes.

  “How can I tell you?” he chattered. “They asked for five thousand—it was here. The money. I had it in the house. So I—”

  The door swung open. No one was there. Out of the darkness came a soft fluttering sound, then a thud. After Aussie Mellon fell onto the floor on his back a thin wisp of feathers at his throat quivered.

  Blood, as if drawn forth by that quiver, sprouted under the cork haft of the giant dart.

  Childers threw a hand, mashed the light button, bringing darkness. He slammed the door, flipped home the night latch. “I wonder,” he murmured, “was that one meant for me or—him?”

  He felt his way to a hall stand where he’d spotted a phone. He’d dialed the number so often that the darkness was no hindrance. A sergeant answered.

  “You, Tony?” he barked. “We thought you’d been croaked.”

  “Where’s Lieutenant Anderson?” Childers inquired.

  “Out with the boys chasing old man Fornash’s only son,” said the sergeant. “The rich boy got away.” The sergeant drew his breath so hard it rattled in the receiver. “The beat cop found something you missed. It was in Fornash’s car—a dame’s purse. Identification cards in it too; belonged to a Miss Flower Blue. After the patrolman found it he was biffed on the noggin. Some of Fornash’s pals helped him get away.

  “Anderson’s raising hell because you left a killer like him in one man’s care. He got the chief out of bed. The whole department’s on its ear. This time, Tony, your high-handed ways are going to cost you your job. The chief’s already said he’s going to kick you out of the department, and personally.”

  Calmly, Childers said, “There’s a corpse at 2232 Ridenour Street. A poor little shoe salesman named Aussie Mellon. You’d better see to it somebody comes right over. And I won’t be here. Thirty minutes from now, if I’m able, I’ll call or come in. If I d
on’t, you can tell Lieutenant Anderson the dozen doughnuts in my locker are his. They can go as a peace offering from a dead dick.” He cradled the phone and began feeling his way down the hall, toward the back of the house.

  He was sorry he’d ever bluffed Aussie Mellon, trying to scare out of him the full story of what had happened when the killers brought Simon Tork’s corpse to his door. He knew now how the blood had got in his car. They’d used it to transport Tork’s body.

  The man clutching a gun, crouched and waiting beside Childers’ coupe, didn’t move until he heard a car’s motor come to life in the alley back of Mellon’s house, then he stood up, mumbling an oath. When he looked in the detective’s coupe, he cursed some more. This time Childers had taken the ignition keys with him.

  CHAPTER III

  Old man Gentz, the candy man, awoke from a troubled sleep with a hand gently pressing his shoulder. The bedlamp was burning when he opened his eyes. He came up with a jolt, stared wildly at the oil-streaked face of Detective Tony Childers.

  “Nice and easy,” said the detective soothingly. “Your wife let me in, told me where to find you. It’s four A.M., and you’re not being arrested for killing a crook named Joe Estramer. That is, you’re not unless you refuse to tell me exactly what happened at your candy store this morning.”

  Gentz gulped, twisted into a sitting position, then said, “He wasn’t dead—I told you the truth. He was alive, like I said. But he was not a customer. I didn’t know him.”

  “But you really thought he was dead at first?”

  “Yes,” Gentz nodded loosely. “I got the call and went to the store, like I told you. When I went in he was in a booth, his head back, his arms down. There was blood over his face, from a hole between his eyes. I didn’t go to him. While I’m standing there, scared, not knowing which way to turn, two men came in. I’d locked the door, but they had a key that fit.