Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT INFO
A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER
HOMICIDE, INC.
FOR VALUE RECEIVED
MUGGER MURDER
STRANGERS IN THE HOUSE
THE BLONDE IN THE BAR
HIT AND RUN
THE HAPPY MARRIAGE
SAUCE FOR THE GANDER
A LITTLE SORORICIDE
THE PRICE OF FAME
FALSE ALARM
ERRAND BOY
THE MOST ETHICAL MAN IN THE BUSINESS
HONEYMOON CRUISE
THE MONSTER BRAIN
THE JOLLY JUGGLERS, RETIRED
AN ELEMENT OF RISK
MAGGIE’S GRIP
PREMARITAL AGREEMENT
GUARDIAN OF THE HEARTH
THE EVILS OF DRINK
MOTHER LOVE
FRIENDLY WITNESS
The MEGAPACK® Ebook Series
COPYRIGHT INFO
The Second Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK® is copyright © 2016 by Wildside Press, LLC. All rights reserved.
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The MEGAPACK® ebook series name is a trademark of Wildside Press, LLC. All rights reserved.
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“Homicide, Inc.” was originally published in F.B.I. Detective Stories, October 1949.
“For Value Received” was originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, August 1952. Copyright © 1952, renewed 1980 by Richard Deming.
“Mugger Murder” was originally published in Manhunt, April 1953. Copyright © 1953, renewed 1981 by Richard Deming.
“Strangers in the House” was originally published in Detective Tales, June 1953. Copyright © 1953, renewed 1981 by Richard Deming.
“The Blonde in the Bar” was originally published in Manhunt, May 1954. Copyright © 1954, renewed 1982 by Richard Deming.
“Hit and Run” was originally published in Manhunt, December 1954. Copyright © 1954, renewed 1982 by Richard Deming.
“The Happy Marriage” was originally published in Manhunt, August 1955. Copyright © 1955, renewed 1983 by Richard Deming.
“Sauce for the Gander” was originally published in Manhunt, February 1956. Copyright © 1956, renewed 1983 by Richard Deming.
“A Little Sororicide” was originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, May 1957. Copyright © 1957 by Richard Deming.
“The Price of Fame” was originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, March 1964. Copyright © 1964 by Richard Deming.
“False Alarm” was originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Feb 1965. Copyright © 1965 by Richard Deming.
“Errand Boy” was originally published in The Saint Mystery Magazine, March 1965. Copyright © 1965 by Richard Deming.
“The Most Ethical Man in the Business” was originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, April 1965. Copyright © 1965 by Richard Deming.
“Honeymoon Cruise” was originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, October 1966. Copyright © 1966 by Richard Deming.
“The Monster Brain” was originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, November 1966. Copyright © 1966 by Richard Deming.
“The Jolly Jugglers, Retired” was originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, March 1967. Copyright © 1967 by Richard Deming.
“An Element of Risk” was originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, September 1972. Copyright © 1972 by Richard Deming.
“Maggie’s Grip” was originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, March 1975. Copyright © 1975 by Richard Deming.
“Premarital Agreement” was originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, July 1973. Copyright © 1973 by Richard Deming.
“Guardian of the Hearth” was originally published in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, December 1979. Copyright © 1979 by Richard Deming.
“The Evils of Drink” was originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, April 1980. Copyright © 1980 by Richard Deming.
“Mother Love” was originally published in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, April 1981. Copyright © 1981 by Richard Deming.
“Friendly Witness” was originally published in The Saint Magazine, July 1984. Copyright © 1984 by Richard Deming.
A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER
Richard Deming (1915-1983) was an American pulp writer who specialised in mystery and detective fiction. In addition to original novels, he found a lucrative niche writing books based on movies TV series (such as Dragnet) and also ghost-wrote no less than ten “Ellery Queen” novels. In addition to numerous stand-alone books and stories, he created series featuring Manville (Manny) Moon and Matt Rudd. This volume provides a great sampling of his work. Enjoy!
—John Betancourt
Publisher, Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidepress.com
ABOUT THE SERIES
Over the last few years, our MEGAPACK® ebook series has grown to be our most popular endeavor. (Maybe it helps that we sometimes offer them as premiums to our mailing list!) One question we keep getting asked is, “Who’s the editor?”
The MEGAPACK® ebook series (except where specifically credited) are a group effort. Everyone at Wildside works on them. This includes John Betancourt (me), Carla Coupe, Steve Coupe, Shawn Garrett, Helen McGee, Bonner Menking, Sam Cooper, Helen McGee and many of Wildside’s authors…who often suggest stories to include (and not just their own!)
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HOMICIDE, INC.
Originally published in F.B.I. Detective Stories, October 1949.
MacDonald Sprague sat sidewise at the bar, frankly admiring the grave-faced blonde who sat with an escort a few feet away. But the admiration was entirely a surface veneer covering his cold loathing for the woman.
She looks more like a kitten than a murderess, he thought, studying the grave oval face with its slightly upslanting eyes. It was a face that seemed constantly to hold the promise of a smile which never materialized, a poker face, concealing all that lay behind it, yet somehow suggesting that if the mask were lifted, only laughter and innocence would be revealed.
It was hard to imagine those soft lips tensed in a cruel line and that tiny hand deliberately pump
ing bullets into a man. So hard that a strange reluctance mixed with the loathing in Mac’s mind for the women he believed had killed his brother.
With his hat tilted back at a jaunty angle and with a glint of satanic humor in his eyes, no one would have suspected MacDonald Sprague’s thoughts were composed of anything but admiration. He had rehearsed his part until everything about him was carelessly jaunty: his dress, his speech, his expression—even the way he moved in sudden controlled bounces. In physical appearance he only faintly resembled the deceased killer whose name he had assumed, but his personality was an almost exact copy.
The girl, though obviously aware of his scrutiny, seemed neither offended nor gratified, apparently accepting male admiration as a matter of course. But the man seated beside her did not share her indifference. Repeatedly he scowled at Mac, and once made as though to rise, but was stopped by the girl’s small hand touching his arm. Though it was the merest touch, he subsided immediately.
The movement re-emphasized to Mac that he was playing a game so dangerous, the slightest slip would make it fatal. For the girl’s scowling escort was Thomas Cougar, sometimes referred to as “The Strangler” because of his rumored proficiency with his pale, powerful hands.
Thomas Cougar was a tall, raw-boned man with an oddly narrow face with gray skin stretched so tightly it gave him a mummified appearance, an effect heightened by sparse, nearly colorless hair and eyebrows. Momentarily the mocking smile on Mac’s lips died as his eyes unconsciously dropped to the man’s enormously long and narrow fingers, which played with the stem of a cocktail glass. A mental image of those hands reaching for his throat caused Mac to shift his gaze hurriedly back to the girl.
The Town House was one of those glittering cocktail lounges of chrome and artificial leather, new but cheap, and already beginning to tarnish on the edges. It was the kind of place where the fringe of the underworld gathered—not actual criminals, but grifters and racetrack touts and petty gamblers. A forty-foot bar ran along one wall, and facing it along the opposite wall ran a forty-foot leatherette-upholstered bench before which, at spaced intervals, were set tiny cocktail tables. The blonde and her escort sat behind one of these a dozen feet closer to the door than Mac.
At this hour of the afternoon there were few customers, Mac was gratified to note, for the scene scheduled to occur at any minute was designed solely for the lovely blonde murderess. The fewer interested spectators, the better. At the moment, aside from Mac and the couple, two men seated at the bar near the door were the only customers.
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George Doud slammed open the street door and stalked in exactly on schedule. Without glancing at him, Mac drained his beer, set down the glass and slid from his stool, as though preparing to leave.
Purposefully, George stalked the length of the bar, his wide, flat face set in the belligerent stare of the slightly drunk, and his massive arms swinging at his sides. As he neared the table at which the blonde and her companion sat, he leered sidewise at her, slightly changed direction, and still looking, crashed heavily into Mac.
The smaller man bounced away like a tennis ball, automatically raised both hands to sparring position, then dropped them back to his sides.
“Stick out your hand when you make a turn, mister,” he advised mildly.
George stared him up and down contemptuously. “Smart apple!” he said thickly, and lashed out with a fist the size of a grapefruit.
Mac’s knees bent, lowering his head a foot, so that the blow merely swept off his hat. His left stabbed into the big fellow’s stomach, his right immediately followed to the heart; then the heel of his left palm shoved against the other’s blue-black jaw and smashed the man into the leatherette bench next to Thomas Cougar.
For a moment George remained seated, his expression dazed and his arms spread wide for support on either side. Then he whipped his arms toward each other. His right hand darted at his left sleeve, and a six-inch blade suddenly glittered.
Shifting his back toward the barkeep and the two customers near the door, Mac’s fingers twinkled under his coat and out again. He held the automatic close to his body, so that only George, the blonde and Cougar could see it, but the muzzle centered unwaveringly between George Doud’s eyes.
George let his mouth drop open, and the knife slipped from his fingers to the floor.
“Kick it over here,” Mac said softly.
Obediently George toed the knife toward Mac. The smaller man stooped with a sudden spring-like motion, and when he straightened with the knife in his left hand, the gun had disappeared.
Thomas Cougar made a furtive movement toward his shoulder.
“Don’t touch it,” Mac advised, “I can beat you with my back turned.”
To prove it, he swung his back on all three, scooped his hat from the floor and started to move toward the entrance—a gesture not so heroic as it seemed, since in addition to the probability that Cougar’s motion toward his gun had been instinctive rather than overt, Mac knew George Doud would drop all of his 220 pounds on the gunman if Cougar even looked like he intended to draw.
“Wait, please,” a soft voice called behind him.
Instantly Mac stopped. She took the bait, he thought with savage elation, but his expression was merely quizzical as he eyed her over his shoulder. When her lip corners lifted in the faintest hint of a smile, he turned around. Tossing George’s knife on the bar, he said to the bartender, “Souvenir,” and walked back to the table.
His eyes hard and his face expressionless, he said to George, “Scram.”
George eyed the smaller man warily, licked his lips, rose to his feet and sidled widely around Mac. Like a frightened bear he lumbered toward the door and was gone.
With his face still expressionless, but with the light in his eyes turned from cold to mocking, Mac said to the girl, “Yes?”
“Sit down,” she suggested, “and have a drink.”
Mac shrugged, took a seat next to the girl and dropped his hat on the leather bench beside him.
“My name is Nan Tracy,” she said. “And this is Thomas Cougar.”
“Larry MacDowell,” Mac said. “Generally called Mac.” It was pure coincidence that he and the deceased gunman whose identity he had assumed answered to the same nickname, a coincidence which gave him the slight advantage of not having to learn to respond without thinking when his name was mentioned.
Mac nodded briefly at Cougar and received an equally brief nod in return. Hostility and suspicion seeped from the tall man’s eyes, and his pale fingers caressed his glass stem as though he wished it were Mac’s throat. For a wild moment Mac thought the man had detected the farce with George Doud, and he shifted his gaze to Nan Tracy in order to hide the uneasiness in his eyes.
The blonde was easier to look at anyway. Again he experienced a feeling almost of unbelief that her mask of innocence concealed a coldness and cupidity rare even in criminals—a mind that deliberately planned murder for profit.
“Your best contact is Nan Tracy,” Mac’s chief had said, “because Bart’s last report was on her.”
The chief had paused uncomfortably after mentioning Bart’s name, and Mac felt the bitterness rise in him again. Young Bart, only a year out of law school, already advancing in the bureau and engaged to be married. The kid had the world by the tail, but suddenly the bright future was snuffed out by a senseless bullet.
Mac had said harshly, “All right. What about her?”
“She seems to be the recruiter of professional killers for the organization,” the chief went on. “Possibly she even heads the whole setup. We’re almost certain it was she who killed Bart when they suspected he was an FBI agent. At least we’re sure it was a woman, and as far as we know, she’s the only woman actively connected with Homicide, Incorporated.”
“Nice name they picked for themselves,” Mac
commented.
“Describes the organization perfectly,” the chief said grimly. “It’s pure murder for hire, organized down to a T. For a fee they’ll kill anyone, anywhere, anytime. Already they’ve operated in seven states that we know of, and no telling how many we don’t know about.”
“How the devil do they get customers?” Mac asked.
“Mainly through tie-ins with underworld gangs who hire them to do their dirty work. But they also seem to have a plant in at least one insurance company, because they seem to be able to find out what wives have heavily insured their husbands and vice versa, and then they quietly move in and offer to make the insurance payable for a fifty percent cut.
“Drake found out that much, which is why he began to work cooperatively with the insurance investigator from Argus Mutual. But when he and the Argus man both disappeared, we suspected the leak was at Argus, so Bart was instructed to contact no one but local police. Since his death, we don’t trust anyone, and you’re going in on your own. I’m giving you George Doud as an assistant, but aside from you two, myself and the big chief, no one at all will know you’re a bureau man. If you slip up, it’s your own fault, and not because of a leak.”
At the time this information had been reassuring, but now that Mac was actually confronted by his adversaries, a chill skittered along his spine. He knew that at the slightest suspicion that he was a federal agent, he would follow the same road as Drake and Bart Sprague.
Nan Tracy said, “What will you drink?”
“I’ve had it,” Mac said. “I came back for the proposition, not the drink.”
Her eyes widened innocently. “Proposition?”
“I’m a direct guy,” Mac said. “For a half-hour I give you the eye from the bar, and you don’t even know I’m alive. Then I draw a gun faster than you’ve ever seen one pulled, and right away you get chummy. Your pal has ‘mug’ written all over him and a heater under his arm. I can add. You’ve got a proposition for my gun. So spill it.”
The Second Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK® Page 1
