“Always open, what you need?”
“Not here.”
“Why, you scared of the cops? I got my boys either end of the street. They see a car, you’ll hear ‘Five-O’ same as me.”
“Look, I get busted again, I’m an adult. Ain’t no juvey court. I got to be careful. You don’t want the business, I’ll go someplace else.” Darnell turned toward the alley.
“Man, you buying, I’m selling.” The dealer followed.
Darnell turned just as the dealer entered the darkness of the alley. He fired twice into the man’s face, the bullets striking his cheek and eye. Darnell made sure that the ejected casings were in plain view, then fled the alley. His victim lay slumped against a wall, a crooked smile and a bloody wink waiting for whoever found his body.
Darnell did sleep that night, not well, but he slept. In his dreams he saw vague forms, the men he killed, future victims, the police, all staring in silent accusation.
The body was not found until the morning. Dark alleys in that neighborhood were not well traveled. It was not until a derelict stopped to relieve himself that the dead dealer was noticed. It was not until the trash men came to pick up the garbage that the police were called.
In the next few weeks, three more dealers were killed. From each scene the Crime Lab recovered .32 caliber cartridge cases. As Darnell had planned, these casings were matched in the firearms laboratory and all were found to have been fired in the same weapon. It was the only lead that the police had. There were no prints from any of the scenes, and descriptions from the few witnesses who had come forward were so varied that they could have been describing different people.
* * * *
Darnell did nothing stupid. He did not return to any of the scenes, choosing a different site for each execution. He did not call in false descriptions of the assailant in the hopes of leading the police astray. And he told no one of his crusade, so there was no one to inform on him. Unless he was careless or unlucky, he was safe from arrest.
With each death, sleep came easier. He was still troubled by disturbing dreams, but the accusing faces and the chases through endless alleys were no worse than his previous fears and nightmares of what the drug problem was doing to him and his world.
The toll was higher than Darnell knew. By chance, the first two dealers had worked for the same gang leader, who decided that their deaths had been the opening moves in a war that had been developing between his and another organization. In retaliation, he ordered the deaths of several of his rival’s dealers. In turn, his rival ordered out his own troops. In the resulting chaos, the deaths of three additional dealers went unnoticed by the gangs, were ignored by the press, and were merely recorded by the police.
Darnell was not surprised that there had been no mention of the killings in the papers or on TV. The police do not usually admit to, much less inform the press about, a series of related deaths, especially one for which they have no suspects. Darnell planned to correct that after his next hunt. He would send a typed letter to both of the city’s papers, all of the television stations and to those radio stations that still regularly broadcast the news. His letter would reveal how and why the deaths were related, and announce his campaign to the city. He would invite others to join him, and together they would rid the city of the plague of drugs. He would, of course, leave the letter unsigned. He had considered using a pen name, but signing himself “The Scourge” or “The Dragon” seemed a bit silly. Besides, all the really good names had been used by the comics.
Two weeks went by before Darnell found his next target. Because of the war, dealers had been extra cautious. Police patrols had been increased and the gangs’ own hit squads were out looking for rivals. Finally, he found a target.
Darnell made his connection and was told to wait on the street. The dealer turned away and went down an areaway that connected the street with the back of the vacant house where he kept his goods. Darnell waited until the dealer was halfway through the tunnel before quietly following him. It was not until the dealer was in the yard that he noticed Darnell. He was dead before he could object.
The gunshots had just finished echoing when Darnell heard the sirens. From the sound they were heading his way.
“Damn!” he thought, “not now.”
Whether they were for him or not, he could not take the chance. He could not be stopped anywhere near the body, and not with a gun. He quickly wiped it off, dropped it by the body and fled through the back alleys, wiping his hands as he ran.
Just as Darnell had met with the dealer and was arranging his buy, a bored patrol officer decided it would be fun to roust a group of kids on the corner, not knowing that he would be interrupting a drug transaction. One of the kids shot him three times, the large caliber bullets easily penetrating his body armor. The officer lived just long enough to call for help.
Except for the vague description of “several black males,” the officers responding to the call for help had no idea who they were looking for. They covered the area, looking for anyone suspicious. The police helicopter reported that a young black male was running through the alleys just a few blocks from the scene of the officer’s murder.
* * * *
The increasing sound of the sirens and the darkness of the alleys conjured up Darnell’s nightmares. He ran blindly, convinced that the entire police force was hunting him. The connecting alleys through which he fled seemed endless, so it was a relief when he finally saw an exit to the street. Then he saw the police car and knew the game was over.
The rookie officer had stationed herself at the end of the alley for a purpose. Based on the helicopter’s report, this was the running man’s most likely exit. She was convinced that it was he who had gunned down her fellow officer. As Darnell came out of the alley and raised his hands in surrender, she fired three times, hitting him twice. He fell, and died.
The officer who had killed Darnell was assigned to administrative duties pending the hearing that would, to no one’s surprise, exonerate her of any blame in his death. After the police tried and failed to connect him in some way to drug activity, a department spokesman called Darnell “a victim of a tragic accident which at times is inevitable in our ceaseless campaign against drugs.” The deceased officer, whose boredom had killed two people, was hailed by the mayor as “a fallen champion in the war against crime, a true hero for our times.”
BLACKMAIL IN THE RED, by Chester Whitehorn
Originally published in 10-Story Detective, Feb. 1945.
Julius Conar, efficiency expert for Wendell Toys & Games Co., adjusted his glasses and checked the list of figures on his desk. When he finished his count, he leaned back in his swivel chair and smiled. The report showed a considerable saving over the previous month, a considerable saving.
Conar was pleased, with himself, with his own efficiency. He was a small man—paunchy, pinkish, slightly bald—and he enjoyed his position immensely. There was a great satisfaction in telling the owner of a company that he couldn’t buy this, couldn’t spend that. It was power, and Julius Conar loved power, loved it as only a small man can. The phone on his desk rang. The smile left Conar’s face as he leaned forward. He became briskly businesslike. Lifting the receiver, he spoke an abrupt, “Yes?” into the mouthpiece.
“There’s a Mr. Harry Nichols calling, Mr. Conar,” the switchboard girl’s voice replied. “Will you speak to him?”
Conar hesitated, He became confused. His briskness deserted him. Some of the pink drained from his face.
“All right,” he said, at last, “put him through.” His voice was hoarse.
The girl made the connection. A nasal voice spoke Conar’s name. Conar answered automatically.
“I just thought I’d call,” said Harry Nichols. “Just sort of sociable.”
“What do you want?” Conar demanded stiffly.
“Now is that a nice way to talk to a friend? A friend calls sociable and you treat him like a disease. Is that a way?”
Conar tried to keep the nervousness out of his voice as he repeated his demand, “What do you want, Nichols?”
“Okay. Okay. If it’s got to be business right off, it’s got to be. I’ll tell you what. I got a chance to swing a good deal, see? But I need some dough. About five hundred. It’s some deal.”
“I told you a month ago—” Conar began. “You promised to destroy the letters if I gave you a thousand dollars. Why haven’t you kept up your end of the bargain?” His voice grew weakly threatening. “I won’t give you another cent. Not one more cent.”
“They’re such nice letters,” the nasal voice sighed mockingly. “They read so pretty. Especially the one that starts, ‘Dearest Lambie.’ That’s a corker. Your wife would love that one; wouldn’t she, Conar?”
Sweat trickled down the small man’s round forehead.
“You wouldn’t dare. Not my wife. You wouldn’t dare.”
“I don’t blame you for feeling that way,” Nichols laughed. “Not that you give a rap about the woman herself. No. But she has a nice piece of change in the bank. You’d never get a chance at that, if I showed her the letters.”
Nichols voice became dead earnest. “I’ll tell you what, Conar. I’ll give you a break. I could keep milking you until you were dry, if I wanted to. But I’ll give you a break. You can have the letters for five thousand. Give it to me in a lump sum and I’ll slap the letters right into your palm.”
“But I haven’t got that much,” Conar pleaded. “I swear I haven’t.”
“You could raise it. Besides, you’ll get ten times that from your wife sooner or later.”
Conar straightened in his seat. Nichols was right, he decided. His voice held a determinate ring as he said, “All right. I’ll raise it somehow. When do I meet you?”
“Tonight okay? At nine. Grantland Hotel. Room four-twelve.”
Conar breathed, “Yes, tonight,” and hung up.
For a long time Julius Conar sat very still. Beads of sweat still stood out on his forehead. His undershirt was soaked. Finally he took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face. He felt a little better. There was plenty of time until nine o’clock; time enough to worry then.
The report on his desk still awaited a signature. His pen scratched as he signed. The desk blotter dried the scrawl, and he rose from his seat.
It felt good to walk out of the office—like leaving a prison cell. His footsteps echoed as he marched, almost briskly, down the corridor to Oscar Wendell’s office.
Oscar Wendell, president of Wendell Toys and Games, was a stout, shaggy headed man. Great, bushy eyebrows made him look almost fierce.
It was he who had seen the need of cutting expenses, who had hired the efficiency expert. Conar, however, was made aware, from the first day of his employment, that he was nothing more than a necessary evil. Mr. Wendell despised efficiency experts, especially brisk little men who thrived on being petty.
Conar knocked on the office door, then entered. Wendell’s secretary showed him into the president’s inner sanctum. For the tenth time, as he stepped into the comfortable private office, Conar tried to think of an excuse to cut expenses by making Wendell do without a secretary.
President Wendell nodded his great head at Conar.
“I have my report for last month, Mr. Wendell,” said the small man. “I’d like you to check it. You’ll see the results of my methods.”
Wendell accepted the report wordlessly. He scanned over it swiftly. A protest welled out of him at the third item. “Two secretaries fired? Why?”
“Mr. Reese and Mr. Morgan are sharing the same girl now. And in the future Mr. Martin will use a dictaphone for his dictation.”
Wendell grunted and went back to the list. A moment later he said, “Oh, come now, Conar. This is really too much. Items seven and eight are ridiculous. What good will it do to remove desk lamps from all the offices? And how much can we possibly save by refusing all letters with postage due?”
“Mr. Wendell,” Conar said briskly, “you hired me to save you money. In order to do that, I must have a free hand. More than that, I must have co-operation. Item seven will save almost ten dollars a month in electricity. Ten items like that will add up to a twelve-hundred dollar a year saving. Item eight is also a very small saving, but—”
Mr. Wendell interrupted by sighing his resignation. Waving his hand slightly, he said, “All right, Conar. I guess you know your job. This report shows you’re getting results, so I’ll say no more.”
Conar smiled his triumph. He enjoyed Wendell’s annoyance.
* * * *
But by a quarter to nine that evening Conar had forgotten his victory. Once again his brisk manner deserted him. It was almost time for his appointment with Harry Nichols.
Conar had gone home for dinner after work, had spent an endless two hours with his wife. Finally, at eight o’clock, making an excuse, he left home.
In the inside pocket of his overcoat he carried an envelope containing one hundred fifty-dollar bills, drawn from the bank that afternoon. His right hand pocket was weighted down with a loaded automatic.
The small man entered the Grantland Hotel at five to nine. He rode the elevator to the fourth floor. His face was grim as he marched through the deserted corridor, noted the stairway exit, then found room four-twelve. He rapped sharply.
Nichols opened up immediately. He squinted at Conar, smiled, and stood aside as the small man entered.
Conar waited uncomfortably while Nichols shut the door. He stared at the blackmailer’s back. Nichols was slightly taller than himself, a hawk-faced man, redheaded, pinch-eyed, skinny. Conar hated him; hated him, not because of what he stood for, but because Nichols could force him to do things. Conar disliked anyone with more power than himself.
“Nice to see you again, Mr. Conar,” Nichols said, turning from the door.
Conar was annoyed by the man’s politeness. It gave him a feeling of being played with.
“Where are the letters?” he asked coldly.
Nichols studied him, and something approaching disgust came into his hawkish face. His nasal voice lost its polite tone as he said, “I don’t like you, Mr. Efficiency. And I don’t trust you. You’re always so businesslike, so that’s how we’ll do now. Let’s see the money first.”
Conar was suspicious, but he took out the thick envelope. Nichols reached for it. The smaller man withdrew it quickly.
“The letters,” he said.
Nichols removed a packet from his pocket. There were five letters. Conar licked his lips when he saw them. What a fool he’d been to write them. It wasn’t like him to lose his head over a woman.
“Let me look at them,” he said, holding out a shaking hand.
Nichols laughed and opened the envelopes one by one. He held up each letter in turn and Conar recognized the handwriting.
“Here’s how we do it,” Nichols said. “I don’t want no trouble with you, so here’s what I figured out. I’ll stick the letters in a hotel envelope and address it to you. We’ll mail it right outside in the chute. Then you give me the dough and we’re done.”
“Why don’t you just hand me the letters?” Conar protested. “I’ll give you the money. Why make a fuss?”
“Because I don’t want no kid games,” Nichols replied. “You know, like, ‘You give me first.’ ‘No, you give me.’ If I hand you the letters, you might try to run out without paying. And I know damn well you won’t give me the money first. So we don’t play games. We drop the letters in the mailbox and that’s that.”
“What’s to prevent me from running out once they’re mailed?”
Nichols laughed, “I figured that too. The mail don’t get picked up u
ntil ten o’clock. Right up to that time, with the hotel manager vouching for me, I can get the letter back.”
He paused, then said, “It works your way, too. You watch me mail them. You pay me. Then you sit here with me until after ten so you know I don’t pick them up.”
Conar shrugged, nodded. The plan was good, and safe. It satisfied him. He gave Nichols his office address for the envelope. It wouldn’t do to have his wife get hold of the letters now.
Nichols finished addressing, wrote, “Room 412,” under the hotel address, explaining, “In case I have to identify it,” and pasted a stamp in the upper right hand corner. Conar watched him slip the letters in and seal the envelope.
They left the room together and Nichols dropped the letter in the mail chute. Conar followed the blackmailer back to four-twelve.
The small man stared at the back of Nichols’ head as he fumbled his key in the lock. Conar felt differently toward the man now. He had nothing to fear from him. He felt contempt, a desire for revenge. The worry and hate he’d known in the past months welled up in him.
“See how easy,” Nichols was saying, lightly, as the door swung in. “Everything’s settled. You give me the money. We sit and talk a while. And soon—”
Nichols’ back was still turned. Conar felt the gun in his pocket. He hadn’t intended using it—or had he? It was fear of Nichols made him carry it, he’d told himself. But now the burden of fear was lifted. And it was hate he felt. Strong hate.
His hand whipped from his pocket. Nerveless fingers clutched the weapon, not as a gun, but as a heavy lump of steel. His arm, swung in a high, swift arc, came down on Nichols.
Metal cracked dully on bone.
Nichols dropped without a sound. Conar stood over him, panting. His face was flushed.
A sense of power flowed through him, more power than he’d ever felt before. He’d never done anything like this before.
The Walt Whitman MEGAPACK ™ Page 16
