The Walt Whitman MEGAPACK ™

by Millard, Joseph J.

  The stinging I was beginning to feel in my face and the right side of my body paled in comparison to the one lashing my heart.

  “I took Waldo’s advice last year when he checked in with me regarding your increasing the death benefit on my insurance policy. I found myself in complete agreement with him that I should do likewise with yours.

  “It takes money to launch an acting career, Roy; and connections. As you know, I have the connections—thanks to you—but I’ve lacked the money…at least until now. James is very good with money matters also. He’ll know just how to pursue the production of an independent feature that will finally gain me the entree into the business I’ve longed for during more years than I’m comfortable remembering. But ‘good things come to those who wait,’ don’t they?”

  My vision was blurring now and unbidden tears began to slowly course down my cheeks even as the rain continued to carve liquid trails upon the window pane behind me.

  With the last of the ebbing strength I could muster, I forced myself to finish reading her letter.

  “Goodbye, Roy. And may hell itself welcome you with open arms.

  With the greatest of relief,

  Stella.”

  The stationery slipped from my fingers and I leaned back in the chair, looking over my shoulder, through the window in my office.

  I was sinking below the “alpha state” now, to “theta,” on toward “delta” and whatever else might lay beyond, when once the brain finally ceases from its electrical activity.

  The streets were almost completely vacant of cars. The entire neighborhood seemed strangely silent, except for the rain.

  MURDER THROWS A RINGER, by Carl G. Hodges

  Originally published in Thrilling Detective, Dec. 1947.

  CHAPTER I

  IF AT FIRST

  Dwight Berke’s long legs took the stairs three at a time. He reached the third floor and rounded the corner of the corridor of the Berkshire apartments. He heard the noise of a door closing violently behind him. Then he threw up his arms instinctively to ward off a blow he knew was coming. Something steely flashed in the dim light and a metal bulk crashed against his head. Blackness seemed to cloud his brain. He felt a raking pain flash along the line of his jaw, working down from above his ear.

  Subconsciously he knew that a clubbed revolver had smacked against his skull. He struggled to draw his own gun from his armpit holster. But his fingers fumbled and it dropped from his hand and he heard it rattle on the metal banister as it tumbled down the steps.

  His senses blacked out. His brain was cotton. His body seemed to be floating in space. His tan topcoat ripped from his shoulders as it caught on the stairway, and he bumped down the carpeted steps. A gun blasted. A burning sensation stung his temple. He heard a brittle voice saying, “That’s what you get for butting in, Joe!”

  Oblivion closed in on him, but he felt someone bend over him and pick up a gun. His brain blacked out completely.

  When he came to, pain caressed his head and his eyes were fuzzy as he tried to orient himself. He reached out his hands to gather his body under him. His fingers brushed something cold and hard and he knew it was a gun. He put it in his armpit holster and struggled to his feet, weakness staggering him. His temple felt warm and sticky and his feeling fingers came away reddened.

  “Creased me,” he thought, “probably thinks he made me a gone goose.”

  He got his hat off the floor and put it on. His brain was clearing somewhat but he was still confused. He remembered his wife waiting in the Journal’s press coupe and his impulse was to get to her. If anyone wanted to kill him, that desire might also include Gail. He wrote for the Journal; Gail took pictures; a killer’s enmity might embrace them both.

  He moved toward the front of the corridor, then remembered the courtyard at the rear of the apartments. He turned and moved down the back stairs, his hand nervously trembling on the banister. He opened the back door and stepped out on to the concrete that led along the tall hedge. He heard a car engine start as he walked along the hedge and he noted that the light from the electroliers along the path behind the hedge, struck high on the wall above his head.

  He gained the sidewalk and he peered quickly up the street and across to the other curb where he had left Gail parked in the coupe. He stepped off the curb and started to hurry diagonally across. He was conscious dimly of a whirr of sound behind him and the lights of an approaching automobile bathed the asphalt as he broke into an unsteady and staggering run toward her. He saw her open the car door and step out on the sidewalk. And then he heard her high-pitched scream.

  He twisted backward as he ran. Car lights blazed into his eyes and blinded him. He felt unyielding power strike his knees, then thighs and hurl him out of its path. He smashed into the curb and his head struck. For the second time in ten minutes he blacked out....

  Something jarred his brain awake and a blurred awareness seeped into his tortured body. His opened eyes hurt with the shock of glaring light. He forced his eyes to focus and he saw the white walls of the room; the white sheet that covered him in the hospital bed; the sun streaming in between the white slats of the venetian blinds. He saw his wife, Gail, sitting quietly in a chair beside the bed, her eyes blinking sleepily.

  He tried to be flippant but it was a sorry attempt. His voice cracked with weakness. “Hi, baby.”

  She bent over him and buried her dark head on his chest. He felt her trembling against him. “Bazooka!” he said, “Take it easy, sweetheart. I’m still in one piece, I hope, I hope.”

  Her fingers touched the white patch of adhesive tape on his temple. “Any pain, honey?”

  “I guess I ought to feel like I’ve been slugged by Mr. A. Tom Bomb but I’m just hungry. I could eat a cow.” He smiled at her with a twinkle brightening in his eyes. “I play tag with the Nips for three years and get some shrapnel for a souvenir and then I start working for the Journal and wind up in a hospital bed. What is this, the maternity ward?”

  She glanced at the wrist watch he had picked up on Saipan and given to her when she met him at the separation center. “You’re in the prison ward. It’s three o’clock in the afternoon, now. You’ve been sleeping like a baby for fifteen hours. Only babies don’t snore like you do.”

  “Prison ward?” His tone was incredulous. “What happened?”

  She sobbed; she couldn’t mask her emotions any longer. “It’s awful. Inspector Morf says—”

  The door opened and a nurse came in and she was followed by round-headed, apple-faced Inspector Fleming Morf of the Homicide Squad. His eyes were frigid and there was a mean glint of triumph in them. “Well, Berke,” he gloated, “murder’s been your hobby for a long time. Now let’s see if you can talk yourself out of this one.”

  Di’s head cleared with the shock of Morf s words. “Somebody banged me over the head. What’s this murder talk?”

  Morf grinned sourly. “You figured you were pretty slick, bumping off Anton Spivak. You didn’t have me fooled for a minute.”

  Di had to fence for time to get his bearings on this new puzzle. “Knocking off Anton Spivak? Why? What would I have against the guy? He’s a square shooter. Just stubborn, that’s all.”

  “I ain’t dumb Berke. Everybody that reads the Journal sport pages knows how you been riding Spivak, how you been raising Cain with the race track he runs because they keep all the breakage instead of giving it back to the fans or putting it into a fund for disabled vets. You and him tangled about it last night in his apartment. You plugged him.”

  Di grinned and his head ached like he had a migraine. “Okay. Just because Spivak pays a guy that cashes a win ticket on Susie Q, nine dollars and ninety cents instead of nine dollars and ninety-four cents, I shoot Spivak. That don’t make sense, Inspector.”

  Morf’s eyes closed to mere slits. “Smart guy, you’ve been
in my hair ever since you got out of the Marines and took over the sport desk on the Journal. You stumbled into half a dozen murder cases, and your luck held out and you think that you solved ‘em.

  “This one’s different, bub. You’re right smack underneath a rap for murder. You tumbled into murder, all right, but here’s one you won’t talk yourself out of. I’m taking you in. The prison ward doc says you’re O.K. The bullet only creased your temple.”

  Di shifted his weight in the bed as the impact of Morf’s words snagged his brain. “You’re nuts! A few pennies of breakage one way or another is no motive for murder.”

  Morf’s face relaxed into a chilly grimace. “We got evidence you can’t alibi, scribbler. Jock Harrison saw you running out of the courtyard at the Berkshire with a gun in your hand. He followed you in his car trying to keep you in sight. But you ran into the street and right into his car and you got banged up a little. Then the cops picked you up and brought you here.”

  “Evidence? Bah! One man’s word against mine. Heck, this Harrison guy could have killed Spivak himself.”

  “This’ll kill you, Berke.” Morf was pleased at his obvious play on words. “The bullet that killed Anton Spivak was fired from your gun. I had the slug checked by ballistics down at headquarters. We’ve got you where the hair’s short, Berke.”

  The inspector turned churlishly to the nurse. “When can we lug him out of here?”

  The nurse spoke primly. “As soon as he can get dressed. He may be sore and stiff, but the doctor says he’s all right.”

  Morf moved toward the door. “Have him ready for us in an hour. We want to get him behind bars!” He closed the door quietly.

  CHAPTER II

  HE WENT THAT WAY

  Berke moved his pillow high against the white metal of the hospital bed and looked forlornly at Gail as he recounted the happenings of the previous night after the nurse left the room on Morf’s heels. “I went in to the Berkshire. I went up the stairs to the third floor. Somebody hit me over the head. I must have fallen over the stair banister and landed on the second floor near the rear stairway. My gun went off and creased me, I guess. At least that’s where I was when I came to.”

  Gail watched him with an unspoken fear in her eyes. “Could you have shot Spivak while you were dazed? Could you tell who it was that slugged you?”

  “I’m not sure. I was dazed. My jaw was bleeding and my head was buzzing. But I do remember going down the back stairway and out through the courtyard to the sidewalk. Then I started up the sidewalk toward you sitting in the coupe. That’s all I remember.” He passed his trembling hand worriedly over his eyes.

  Gail finished for him. “I saw you running—staggering almost—toward the coupe and you cut across the street like you were headed for the driver’s side. Then Harrison’s car hit you and knocked you down. He stopped as quick as he could and then a cop came running up and we brought you here in Harrison’s car.”

  “Who’s Harrison?”

  “Philip Henry Harrison. He’s the owner of the Happy Hour Stables. He owns Pirate Boy; the three year old that won the Bulwark Stakes at the track day before yesterday. Harrison won about fifty thousand dollars.” Her eyes warmed. “It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. He was worried sick about hitting you with his car until the doctors assured him you’d be all right.”

  “How’d Morf find out Spivak had been shot with my gun?”

  “This morning the maid at the Berkshire found Spivak’s body and they sweated the information out of Harrison that he’d seen you running out of the courtyard at the Berkshire with a gun in your hand. They just put two and two together and checked your gun. There was only one cartridge fired and it was in Spivak’s body.”

  Di shook his head woefully, and a crinkle of worry creased across the bridge of his nose. “That’s tough evidence to fight, Toots. I’m positive I didn’t kill Spivak. I don’t even remember going to his room—but if he was killed with a bullet from my gun—”

  “Would you know who it was that slugged you?”

  “No. I rounded the corner of the corridor when he slugged me from behind. I heard his voice, that’s all. I didn’t really ever see him.” Gail’s eyes brooded in her quiet face. “We’ve got to prove that you didn’t do it, Di.”

  “How? I can’t do it in a jail cell.” Di looked sharply at his wife. “If I ever let Morf turn a key on me in a jail cell, I’ll fry.” His jaw jutted out sternly. “I’ve got to find the real killer. I’ve got to get out of here!” He threw back the sheet and swung his legs weakly to the floor.

  Gail got up, alarmed. “You’re not strong enough.”

  Di laughed, but there was no humor in him. “The electric chair fries just the same, medium or rare.” He looked at her, with sudden hope in his eyes. “Take a look around out in the hallway. Locate the fire escapes—the stairways—the elevators. We’ll have to figure some way to get out of here. I’ll have my clothes on by the time you get back.”

  Several minutes later Gail ran into the room and there was a raw excitement in her voice. “Morf and Chuck Ryan got back ahead of time. Morf’s using the phone downstairs. They’ll be up here in a moment.”

  Di jumped to his feet. He was weak, but he forced himself to stand erect until the dizziness passed. “Where’s the fire escape on this floor?”

  “At the end of the hall.” Her eyes were clouded. “But you can’t take a chance that way. It’s in full sight of the street. And Morf could shoot you from any window.”

  “He’d do it, too.” Di’s eyes had a furtive look. “I’ll sit on my fanny in a cell till they put me in the big chair.”

  She grinned, unsure of herself. “I think I’ve found a way to get you free, darling. If you’ll do as I say.”

  “Okay, Toots.”

  “When Morf and Ryan get here, go with them quietly. I’ll tag along with you. When we pass the freight elevator on this side of the hall, we’ll come to another door. It’s marked ‘Linen Supply’. It will have a key in the lock. Get away from Morf somehow and get through that door. I’ll take care of everything else.”

  “Are you nuts? What good will it do me to lock myself in a linen closet?”

  Before she could answer, the door opened and the nurse came in. Fleming Morf and his oafish aide, Chuck Ryan, barged into the room behind her. Morf brushed the nurse aside and glowered at Di. “All right, Berke. Let’s get going. We got a nice comfortable cell fixed up for you.”

  Di moved toward the door and Ryan walked out into the hall ahead of him. Morf walked behind Di. Gail tagged along. She said, brightly, “Inspector, can’t he have supper before he goes to jail? He hasn’t eaten for almost twenty-four hours.”

  “Yeah,” grunted the huge Ryan, looking back, “how about some lobster a la Newburg?”

  “He’s hungry for barbecued ribs,” Gail said.

  “It won’t be long till his ribs’ll be barbecued in the hot seat.” Morf smiled coldly at his own humor. He moved on doggedly, and they passed the heavy doors of the freight elevator. “He’ll eat beef stew and like it.”

  “I’ll eat it but I won’t like it.”

  They had reached the door marked ‘Linen Supply’. Di whirled and drove his right hand smack into Morf’s stomach. The inspector howled in misery and doubled up in pain. Breath whistled out of him. In that one brief second, Di dove for the door, his fingers clutching for the knob. He jerked it open viciously. Leaped through, and slammed it after him.

  Gail leaped around the inspector and twisted the key in the lock. Chuck Ryan had whirled and leaped back. He reached out a ham-like paw and barked, “Gimme the key, sister, or I’ll blast through that door with my rod!”

  Gail swung her hand and tossed the key down the hall. The metal flashed as it skidded over the asphalt tile and stopped against the baseboard at the end of the hall.

&
nbsp; Morf was holding his stomach with both hands, and his round face was mottled with pain and rage. “Beat it downstairs, Ryan! This may be a trick. I’ll get the key.”

  Ryan ran for the door across the hall, marked ‘Stairway’. He jerked the door open and leaped through. He staggered back in howling pain as he ran into a tier of shelves. He bounced backward into the hall, with bed sheets, pillow cases, and blankets cascading down around him.

  Morf cursed, and glared at Gail. “You’re a slick chick, sister, changing the name plates on them doors. Your hubby’s outside by now, but we’ll catch up with him. It’ll be pretty hard for him to hide that bandaged dome and that taped jaw. We’ll drag him in within an hour.”

  Di felt like a fool with the woolen scarf draped over his bandaged head and tied under his stubbled chin. He hadn’t shaved for many hours and the reddish beard had sprouted well. The long black woman’s coat that covered his lean frame was a little tight for him and unbearably warm. But it was the best he could find in a hurry at Jim Watson’s second-hand store.

  No one paid any attention to him, however, as he walked into Joe’s Diner, which was made from an old streetcar. He moved down the line of wobbly stools in front of the counter and slipped onto the stool next to Gail, propping his umbrella against his leg.She looked aside—and almost choked on a doughnut. She had to struggle to hold back her humor. “Lady,” she said, “you’ve got an awful red beard.”