The Second Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK®

by Deming, Richard

  The following morning Barney dropped by police headquarters, handed over the Luger so that the record clerk could copy off the serial number and had the gun registered in Mark Drennan’s name. He also had the carrying permit changed to the new gun.

  When he left headquarters he drove to a sporting goods store and bought a Borchardt-Luger exactly like the one he had just registered. When he got to the Drennan-Nash Realty Company, he delivered the second Luger to Mark Drennan. The one which was registered was locked in the glove compartment of his car.

  He had to wait two more weeks before the precise set of circumstances necessary to carrying out his plan developed. Two factors were necessary: Johnny Nash had to be home alone and Mark Drennan must have no alibi.

  Both circumstances developed on a Friday. Johnny Nash announced that his wife’s mother in Chicago had died, and that Nina had flown to Chicago that morning. She planned to be gone a week, Johnny said. Hardly fifteen minutes later Mark Drennan told Barney he intended to spend the weekend at his cabin on Mud Lake.

  “Alone?” Barney asked.

  “Sure. I always fish alone. Every once in a while I need the solitude. You have the phone number up there in case you have to get in touch with me, haven’t you?”

  Barney nodded. “Yeah, I have it. When do you leave?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  Things worked out even better than Barney could reasonably have expected. Saturday afternoon Phyllis announced that her mother was again ill and that she was spending the night with her. Barney didn’t figure he would need an alibi, but it was convenient not to have a witness who could testify that he was away from home at the time of the killing.

  He said, “Okay, hon. I’m kind of bushed anyway. I’ll hit the sack early and get a decent night’s sleep for a change.”

  The Nashes employed two servants, but neither lived in. To make sure they would be gone for the evening, he waited until ten p.m. before phoning the Nash home. Johnny Nash answered.

  “You going to be home for a while?” Barney asked.

  “I was planning to go to bed. Why?”

  “A little business. I’ll stop over in about a half hour.”

  “Okay,” Nash said. “I’ll wait up for you.”

  Barney hung up and dialed station-to-station to Drennan’s Mud Lake cabin.

  When Drennan’s voice said, “Hello,” Barney said, “I get you out of bed?”

  “Oh, hello, Barney. Yeah, but I wasn’t asleep yet.”

  “Anybody listening?”

  “No. I’m all alone.” Barney’s sole motive in phoning was to make sure Drennan had no alibi witness, but he had to give some excuse for the call. He said, “Hank Brassard, who runs the book at Fourth and State has been holding out, I just found out. I planned to run over and lean on him a little, but I thought I’d better check first.”

  “Couldn’t you have checked with Johnny?”

  “He seems to be out.”

  “Oh. Well, use your own judgment. You’re a big boy. You don’t have to check stuff like that with me.”

  “Okay,” Barney said. “Hope you catch a fish.”

  Carrying a briefcase, he arrived at the west-side mansion where Johnny Nash lived at ten thirty. Nash, wearing a robe and slippers, admitted him and led him into the huge front room.

  “Drink?” he asked.

  “No thanks,” Barney said. “Anybody here?”

  When Nash shook his head, Barney opened the briefcase and took out the Luger, now equipped with a silencer. Johnny Nash’s eyes were just beginning to widen when the bullet crashed into his heart.

  Without haste Barney detached the silencer, replaced it in the briefcase and wiped the gun clean. Dropping it on the floor, he lifted Nash’s body to a seated position on the sofa. Positioning a chair on the opposite side of a low cocktail table from the sofa, he wrapped his handkerchief around his hand and removed two highball glasses from the briefcase one at a time, setting them side-by-side on the cocktail table.

  Going behind the bar, he carried a bottle of whisky and a seltzer siphon over to the cocktail table. After dribbling a little whisky into each glass, he squirted an ounce of seltzer on top of it. He carefully wiped off the bottles before replacing them where he had found them.

  The glasses behind the bar were not the same type as the ones he had brought, he noted. It was a good thing he had come equipped with two, as different sized glasses might have struck the police as odd. He felt a touch of uneasiness that no other glasses on the backbar matched the ones on the cocktail table, then decided that probably no one would notice, since the two on the table matched.

  He left the front-room lights on and opened the front window drapes before letting himself out. He drove directly home and phoned the police.

  “I was just driving by a house when I heard a shot from inside it,” he said. “It’s at twelve twenty-four Urban Drive in the Chensworth district.”

  “Who are you?”

  “A neighbor from up the street.”

  The murder occurred too late to make the Sunday morning papers, but it was on the air. The announcer said that as the result of an anonymous phone call reporting gunfire at Nash’s home, police had visited the place. When there was no answer to their ring, an officer had peered through a window into the lighted front room, had spotted Nash’s body and the police had then broken in.

  Beyond these bare details, the police had as yet issued no statement, but the news commentator surmised that inasmuch as Johnny Nash had been a known racketeer, it had been a gang killing.

  At three p.m. Barney got the first of a series of phone calls from combine personnel wondering if he had heard the news. Pretending that he hadn’t, he phoned police headquarters for details.

  As the combine had pretty good relations with the police, the desk man was cooperative enough, but he didn’t have much information to pass out. He told Barney that they had the murder weapon and were running a check on it and that they also had the killer’s fingerprints, but a make hadn’t as yet come back from the R. and I. bureau. He also informed him that a wire had been sent off to Nash’s wife in Chicago.

  Phyllis came home at four p.m., completely unaware of what had happened. She exhibited more surprise than shock at the news, and her first reaction was eminently practical.

  “How will this affect you?” she asked.

  “It won’t. Mark will just start running things by himself. He’s hardly likely to elevate me to partnership.”

  “Well, at least the police can’t look your way then. My first thought was that maybe you had gotten ambitious.”

  Barney felt a tingle move along his spine. “What kind of a crack is that?”

  “I was just searching for a motive. Somebody obviously had one. But since you don’t stand to gain anything, you shouldn’t fall under suspicion. Has Nina been informed?”

  “The cops sent her a wire,” he said shortly.

  Monday morning Barney and Phyllis were at breakfast when the district attorney’s secretary phoned. She asked Barney to come down to the office and bring his wife with him.

  “Why my wife?” he inquired.

  “Mr. Eland didn’t say, but he wants you both.”

  When Barney informed Phyllis of the call, she frowned. “I suppose it’s about Johnny Nash, but why do they want me?”

  “Eland’s secretary didn’t know, but she was pretty definite about it.”

  When they arrived at the district attorney’s office, they were escorted right into Maurice Eland’s private office. Mark Drennan was already there. He smiled at both Barney and Phyllis as though he didn’t have a care in the world.

  Short, plump District Attorney Maurice Eland was plainly uncomfortable, which didn’t surprise Barney. Since the man was on the payroll of the combine, there
were two factors in this affair to upset him. He wouldn’t like the headlines about Johnny Nash’s death being a gang killing, and he wouldn’t be enthusiastic about having to prosecute one of the men who lined his pockets. He bustled about nervously placing chairs before his desk for his trio of visitors before seating himself behind the desk.

  “We have a pretty embarrassing situation here,” he announced. “I’m hoping you can straighten it out, Barney.”

  Barney hiked his eyebrows, but remained silent.

  Mark Drennan said offhandedly, “They’re trying to pin Johnny’s kill on me, Barney. Seems my gun was found at the scene and checked out as the murder weapon. There was also a highball glass with my fingerprints on it.”

  Phyllis emitted a little gasp. “Mark! You didn’t!”

  Drennan gave her a reassuring smile. “Hardly. When I was picked up, I was carrying a gun exactly like the murder weapon, but it seems it wasn’t registered to me. Somewhere along the line there was a switch.”

  Maurice Eland cleared his throat. “If Mark did commit this crime, he seems to have been incredibly sloppy about it. Which inclines me to give credence to his claim that it’s a frame. That’s why you’re here, Barney.”

  “What do I know about it?”

  “Time of death has been pretty definitely established as around ten thirty Saturday night,” the D.A. said. “The body was discovered only an hour later, so they were able to cut it pretty close. Mark has advanced an alibi, and if it stands up, he’ll be in the clear despite the circumstantial evidence against him. He says you’re his alibi, Barney.”

  Barney put a puzzled expression on his face. “At ten thirty Saturday night I was home in bed.”

  “Mark claims he got a phone call from you at his Mud Lake cabin at ten Saturday night. If you can verify that, he obviously couldn’t have been in St. Vincent a half hour later. It’s a good hundred mile drive.”

  Barney looked at Drennan, who had a waiting expression on his face. Barney let his own expression become dubious.

  “Well?” Drennan asked. “What are you waiting for?”

  Barney slowly shook his head. “Sorry, Mark. I’d do a lot for you, but not perjury.”

  Mark Drennan seemed more regretful than disturbed. He said quietly, “You’re denying you phoned me. Barney?”

  “I have to, because I didn’t.”

  Drennan shrugged. “Then I guess I’ll have to spring my other alibi witness. I was hoping I wouldn’t. Tell Mr. Eland, honey.”

  Barney’s gaze swung to his wife. Her sudden flush sent a shock wave through him.

  When Phyllis remained silent, her eyes avoiding everyone in the room, Drennan said gently, “You have to talk, honey. Barney set this up, because he was the only one in a position to switch guns on me. The frame will work if you don’t talk.”

  Phyllis’ flush deepened. After one quick glance at Barney, her eyes moved straight ahead to the space between Barney and Drennan. In a metallic voice she said, “I was at the cabin when my husband phoned. I had been there about an hour. I was still there until twelve noon on Sunday. Mark wasn’t out of my sight the whole time.”

  Barney gaped back and forth from his wife to Drennan in stunned disbelief. “But—but Nina was the one—”

  His voice trailed off.

  “Not since your trip to Kansas City,” Drennan said calmly. “You haven’t any kick. All I stole was your wife. You tried to steal my life.”

  Maurice Eland said with distaste, “It does seem pretty obvious that you tried to frame Mark, Barney. Which makes it equally obvious that you killed Johnny Nash.”

  Barney pulled himself together enough to throw Phyllis a murderous glance. “Try to prove it,” he spat.

  “Oh, I doubt that we could. I was just interested in seeing Mark cleared. What happens now is up to him.”

  Mark Drennan came lazily erect, took Phyllis’ hand and drew her to her feet. Ignoring Barney, he said, “Shall we go, baby? I think we’re finished here.”

  The chill didn’t begin to hit Barney until the door closed behind them.

  Then he said huskily, “What do you mean, what happens now is up to Mark?”

  “You ought to know that,” Eland said. “Johnny was his best friend.”

  There were twenty-two members of the combine with gun permits, Barney thought. He was staggering slightly when he rose from his chair and left the office…

  THE MOST ETHICAL MAN IN THE BUSINESS

  Originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, April 1965.

  In my business it isn’t often that I get two assignments in the same month, let alone on the same day. I average about four contracts a year, which at my standard fee of five grand each just barely carries me.

  You might think that twenty grand a year tax free would be enough to keep any bachelor in luxury, but I have an expensive hobby: girls. So I need all the business I can get.

  The first of the two assignments came through regular channels and in the usual manner. It came by first-class mail in the inevitable thick manila envelope, addressed simply to Spencer Quade, with no Mr. preceding the name, and with no return address.

  Inside were the usual 50 one-hundred-dollar bills wrapped in a single sheet of bond paper. There was also the key to a Yale lock, which isn’t as usual, but had happened once or twice before. On the paper was typed:

  Date: Friday, March 6

  Time: 8:30 p.m.

  Place: Apt. 3-C, Grandview Apts., Sterling Road, Brooklyn (key enclosed) Description: Male Caucasian, age 35, hgt. 5’10”, wgt 165

  Plan: It will be arranged for subject to win a substantial horse bet on the afternoon of March 6. He will be instructed to pick up his winnings at the above place at the above time. The apartment has been rented in an untraceable false name, so it will be unnecessary for you to clean up afterward.

  There was, of course, no signature or any other means of identifying the sender.

  It always gave me a lift to get a stack of hundred-dollar bills in the mail. Not just for the money, you understand, although I always needed that. The real lift came from pride—pride that my reputation for professional ethics was solid enough to bring me full payment in advance.

  I knew there were a couple of others in the business who got half in advance, but I was the only one The Arranger trusted so completely that the whole fee arrived with the assignment.

  It had taken a long time to build a solid enough reputation to earn that kind of respect. You don’t merit trust from The Arranger until you’ve proved over and over that you always deliver the goods and that you hit clean. There was a tacit understanding, of course, that if for some reason I was ever unable to finish an assignment, all the money would immediately be mailed back; but I had never had to do that and I never expected to. I didn’t want even any minor stains on my record and reputation as the most ethical man in the business.

  I put the money in my money belt and strapped it under my shirt until I could get to the bank that afternoon. After memorizing the instructions, I burned the paper and ground out the ashes.

  This was on the morning of Monday, March 2. That afternoon I visited the bank and transferred the five grand to my safe-deposit box. For current expenses I removed a couple of hundred from the rapidly shrinking amount previously in the box. Until I had completed my assignment, I wouldn’t touch the new five thousand even if the box became otherwise empty, because there was always the remotest possible chance that I’d have to return the fee.

  At about 8:30 that evening my door chimes sounded. When I answered the door, I found Joey Thomas standing in the hall.

  “Evening, Speck,” he said, giving me an uncertain smile. “Can I come in?”

  Shrugging, I stepped aside to let him enter. I had nothing against Joey Thomas, but he was no bosom pal either. A
s a freelance legman and sometime strong-arm man for a half dozen bookies, he was more or less on the inside; but he didn’t carry enough weight to make him worth cultivating. I like to mingle socially only with the top echelons.

  He stood in the center of my front room with the same uncertain smile on his face until I told him to sit down. When I asked if he wanted a drink, he accepted so eagerly that it was obvious he needed it.

  I only mixed one, because I don’t drink myself. Not good for business.

  When he was settled with a bourbon highball he said, “This isn’t a social call, Speck. It’s business—strictly business.”

  I frowned. I hadn’t been aware that he was far enough on the inside to know my business. Of course, even those on the fringes could guess, from my known associations, that I must be in pretty solid with a lot of big people; but only those really high up were supposed to know precisely what my function was.

  I said, “What makes you think I have any business?”

  He downed most of his highball before speaking, presumably to give himself courage. “I heard some rumors—you know how it is—and finally figured it out. You’re not going to get sore at me, are you?”

  I said irritably, “Even if I do, all you’re risking is a bawling out. What the devil are you so scared of?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want you practicing your specialty on me.”

  I made my voice cold. “If I had a specialty, as you call it, I’d practice it only for money. I wouldn’t waste it on a personal grudge.”

  He breathed a little easier. “You do work for the—ah—The Arranger, don’t you?”

  Practically everybody in the know has heard of The Arranger, so his reference to the Big Guy didn’t surprise me. It would have surprised me, though, if he knew who The Arranger was—because even I didn’t know that.

  I said, “If I did, what business would it be of yours?”

  “I want to hire you, Speck.”