Mike Shayne's Torrid Twelve

by editor Leo Margules

  The man got out of the car.

  “Sally,” Hacker said to the bored young lady at the only other desk. There was a paperbound book propped in her typewriter, and she was chewing something dreamily.

  “Yes, Mr. Hacker?”

  “Seems to be a customer. Think we oughta look busy?” He put the question mildly.

  “Sure, Mr. Hacker!” She smiled brightly, removed the book, and slipped a blank sheet of paper into the machine. “What shall I type?”

  “Anything, anything!” Aaron scowled.

  It looked like a customer, all right. The man was heading straight for the glass door, and there was a folded newspaper in his right hand. Aaron described him later as heavy-set. Actually, he was fat. He wore a colorless suit of lightweight material, and the perspiration had soaked clean through the fabric to leave large, damp circles around his arms. He might have been fifty, but he had all his hair, and it was dark and curly. The skin of his face was flushed and hot, but the narrow eyes remained clear and frosty-cold.

  He came through the doorway, glanced toward the rattling sound of the office typewriter, and then nodded at Aaron.

  “Mr. Hacker?”

  “Yes, sir,” Aaron smiled. “What can I do for you?”

  The fat man waved the newspaper. “I looked you up in the real-estate section.”

  “Yep. Take an ad every week. I use the Times, too, now and then. Lot of city people interested in a town like ours, Mr.—”

  “Waterbury,” the man said. He plucked a white cloth out of his pocket and mopped his face. “Hot today.”

  “Unusually hot,” Aaron answered. “Doesn’t often get so hot in our town. Mean temperature’s around seventy-eight in the summer. We got the lake, you know. Isn’t that right, Sally?” The girl was too absorbed to hear him. “Well. Won’t you sit down, Mr. Waterbury?”

  “Thank you.” The fat man took the proffered chair, and sighed. “I’ve been driving around. Thought I’d look the place over before I came here. Nice little town.”

  “Yes, we like it. Cigar?” He opened a box on his desk.

  “No, thank you. I really don’t have much time, Mr. Hacker. Suppose we get right down to business.”

  “Suits me, Mr. Waterbury.” He looked toward the clacking noise and frowned. “Sally!”

  “Yes, Mr. Hacker?”

  “Cut out the darn racket.”

  “Yes, Mr. Hacker.” She put her hands in her lap, and stared at the meaningless jumble of letters she had drummed on the paper.

  “Now, then,” Aaron said. “Was there any place in particular you were interested in, Mr. Waterbury?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. There was a house at the edge of town, across the way from an old building. Don’t know what kind of building—deserted.”

  “Ice-house,” Aaron said. “Was it a house with pillars?”

  “Yes. That’s the place. Do you have it listed? I thought I saw a ‘for sale’ sign, but I wasn’t sure.”

  Aaron shook his head, and chuckled dryly. “Yep, we got it listed all right.” He flipped over a loose-leaf book, and pointed to a typewritten sheet. “You won’t be interested for long.”

  “Why not?”

  He turned the book around. “Read it for yourself.” The fat man did so.

  AUTHENTIC COLONIAL. 8 rooms, two baths, automatic oil furnace, large porches, trees and shrubbery. Near shopping, schools. $75,000.

  “Still interested?”

  The man stirred uncomfortably. “Why not? Something wrong with it?”

  “Well.” Aaron scratched his temple. “If you really like this town, Mr. Waterbury—I mean, if you really want to settle here, I got any number of places that’d suit you better.”

  “Now, just a minute!” The fat man looked indignant. “What do you call this? I’m asking you about this colonial house. You want to sell it, or don’t you?”

  “Do I?” Aaron chuckled. “Mister, I’ve had that property on my hands for five years. There’s nothing I’d rather collect a commission on. Only my luck just ain’t that good.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you won’t buy. That’s what I mean. I keep the listing on my books just for the sake of old Sadie Grimes. Otherwise, I wouldn’t waste the space. Believe me.”

  “I don’t get you.”

  “Then let me explain.” He took out a cigar, but just to roll it in his fingers. “Old Mrs. Grimes put her place up for sale five years ago, when her son died. She gave me the job of selling it. I didn’t want the job—no, sir. I told her that to her face. The old place just ain’t worth the kind of money she’s asking. I mean, heck! The old place ain’t even worth ten thousand!”

  The fat man swallowed. “Ten? And she wants seventy-five?”

  “That’s right. Don’t ask me why. It’s a real old house. Oh, I don’t mean one of those solid-as-a-rock old houses. I mean old. Never been de-termited. Some of the beams will be going in the next couple of years. Basement’s full of water half the time. Upper floor leans to the right about nine inches. And the grounds are a mess.”

  “Then why does she ask so much?”

  Aaron shrugged. “Don’t ask me. Sentiment, maybe. Been in her family since the Revolution, something like that.”

  The fat man studied the floor. “That’s too bad,” he said. “Too bad!” He looked up at Aaron, and smiled sheepishly. “And I kinda liked the place. It was—I don’t know how to explain it—the right kind of house.”

  “I know what you mean. It’s a friendly old place. A good buy at ten thousand. But seventy-five?” He laughed. “I think I know Sadie’s reasoning, though. You see, she doesn’t have much money. Her son was supporting her, doing well in the city. Then he died, and she knew that it was sensible to sell. But she couldn’t bring herself to part with the old place. So she put a price tag so big that nobody would come near it. That eased her conscience.” He shook his head sadly. “It’s a strange world, ain’t it?”

  “Yes,” Waterbury said distantly.

  Then he stood up. “Tell you what, Mr. Hacker. Suppose I drive out to see Mrs. Grimes? Suppose I talk to her about it, get her to change her price.”

  “You’re fooling yourself, Mr. Waterbury. I’ve been trying for five years.”

  “Who knows? Maybe if somebody else tried—”

  Aaron Hacker spread his palms. “Who knows, is right. It’s a strange world, Mr. Waterbury. If you’re willing to go to the trouble, I’ll be only too happy to lend a hand.”

  “Good. Then I’ll leave now…”

  “Fine! You just let me ring Sadie Grimes. I’ll tell her you’re on your way.”

  Waterbury drove slowly through the quiet streets. The shade trees that lined the avenues cast peaceful dappled shadows on the hood of the convertible. The powerful motor beneath it operated in whispers, so he could hear the fitful chirpings of the birds overhead.

  He reached the home of Sadie Grimes without once passing another moving vehicle. He parked his car beside the rotted picket fence that faced the house like a row of disorderly sentries.

  The lawn was a jungle of weeds and crabgrass, and the columns that rose from the front porch were entwined with creepers.

  There was a hand knocker on the door. He pumped it twice.

  The woman who responded was short and plump. Her white hair was vaguely purple in spots, and the lines in her face descended downward toward her small, stubborn chin. She wore a heavy wool cardigan, despite the heat.

  “You must be Mr. Waterbury,” she said. “Aaron Hacker said you were coming.”

  “Yes.” The fat man smiled. “How do you do, Mrs. Grimes?”

  “Well as I can expect. I suppose you want to come in?”

  “Awfully hot out here.” He chuckled.

  “Mm. Well, come in then. I’ve put some lemonade in the ice-box. Only don’t expect me to bargain with you, Mr. Waterbury. I’m not that kind of person.”

  “Of course not,” the man said winningly, and followed her inside.

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nbsp; It was dark and cool. The window shades were opaque, and they had been drawn. They entered a square parlor with heavy, baroque furniture shoved unimaginatively against every wall. The only color in the room was in the faded hues of the tasseled rug that lay in the center of the bare floor.

  The old woman headed straight for a rocker, and sat motionless, her wrinkled hands folded sternly.

  “Well?” she said. “If you have anything to say, Mr. Waterbury, I suggest you say it.”

  The fat man cleared his throat. “Mrs. Grimes, I’ve just spoken with your real-estate agent—”

  “I know all that,” she snapped. “Aaron’s a fool. All the more for letting you come here with the notion of changing my mind. I’m too old for changing my mind, Mr. Waterbury.”

  “Er—well, I don’t know if that was my intention, Mrs. Grimes. I thought we’d just—talk a little.”

  She leaned back, and the rocker groaned. “Talk’s free. Say what you like.”

  “Yes.” He mopped his face again, and shoved the handkerchief only halfway back into his pocket. “Well, let me put it this way, Mrs. Grimes. I’m a business man—a bachelor. I’ve worked for a long time, and I’ve made a fair amount of money. Now I’m ready to retire—preferably, somewhere quiet. I like Ivy Corners. I passed through here some years back, on my way to—er, Albany. I thought, one day, I might like to settle here.”

  “So?”

  “So, when I drove through your town today, and saw this house—I was enthused. It just seemed—right for me.”

  “I like it too, Mr. Waterbury. That’s why I’m asking a fair price for it.”

  Waterbury blinked. “Fair price? You’ll have to admit, Mrs. Grimes, these days a house like this shouldn’t cost more than—”

  “That’s enough!” the old woman cried. “I told you, Mr. Waterbury—I don’t want to sit here all day and argue with you. If you won’t pay my price, then we can forget all about it.”

  “But, Mrs. Grimes—”

  “Good day, Mr. Waterbury!”

  She stood up, indicating that he was expected to do the same.

  But he didn’t. “Wait a moment, Mrs. Grimes,” he said, “just a moment. I know it’s crazy, but—all right. I’ll pay what you want.”

  She looked at him for a long moment. “Are you sure, Mr. Waterbury?”

  “Positive! I’ve enough money. If that’s the only way you’ll have it, that’s the way it’ll be.”

  She smiled thinly. “I think that lemonade’ll be cold enough. I’ll bring you some—and then I’ll tell you something about this house.”

  He was mopping his brow when she returned with the tray. He gulped at the frosty yellow beverage greedily.

  “This house,” she said, easing back in her rocker, “has been in my family since eighteen hundred and two. It was built some fifteen years before that. Every member of the family, except my son, Michael, was born in the bedroom upstairs. I was the only rebel,” she added raffishly. “I had new-fangled ideas about hospitals.” Her eyes twinkled.

  “I know it’s not the most solid house in Ivy Corners. After I brought Michael home, there was a flood in the basement, and we never seemed to get it dry since. Aaron tells me that there are termites, too, but I’ve never seen the pesky things. I love the old place, though; you understand.”

  “Of course,” Waterbury said.

  “Michael’s father died when Michael was nine. It was hard times on us then. I did some needlework, and my own father had left me the small annuity which supports me today. Not in very grand style, but I manage. Michael missed his father, perhaps even more than I. He grew up to be—well, wild is the only word that comes to mind.”

  The fat man clucked, sympathetically.

  “When he graduated from high school, Michael left Ivy Corners and went to the city. Against my wishes, make no mistake. But he was like so many young men; full of ambition, undirected ambition. I don’t know what he did in the city. But he must have been successful—he sent me money regularly.” Her eyes clouded. “I didn’t see him for nine years.”

  “Ah,” the man sighed, sadly.

  “Yes, it wasn’t easy for me. But it was even worse when Michael came home because, when he did, he was in trouble.”

  “Oh?”

  “I didn’t know how bad the trouble was. He showed up in the middle of the night, looking thinner and older than I could have believed possible. He had no luggage with him, only a small black suitcase. When I tried to take it from him, he almost struck me. Struck me—his own mother!

  “I put him to bed myself, as if he was a little boy again. I could hear him crying out during the night.

  “The next day, he told me to leave the house. Just for a few hours—he wanted to do something, he said. He didn’t explain what. But when I returned that evening, I noticed that the little black suitcase was gone.”

  The fat man’s eyes widened over the lemonade glass.

  “What did it mean?” he asked.

  “I didn’t know then. But I found out soon—too terribly soon. That night, a man came to our house. I don’t even know how he got in. I first knew when I heard voices in Michael’s room. I went to the door, and tried to listen, tried to find out what sort of trouble my boy was in. But I heard only shouts and threats, and then…”

  She paused, and her shoulders sagged.

  “And a shot,” she continued, “a gunshot. When I went into the room, I found the bedroom window open, and the stranger gone. And Michael—he was on the floor. He was dead.”

  The chair creaked.

  “That was five years ago,” she said. “Five long years. It was a while before I realized what had happened. The police told me the story. Michael and this other man had been involved in a crime, a serious crime. They had stolen many, many thousands of dollars.

  “Michael had taken that money, and run off with it, wanting to keep it all for himself. He hid it somewhere in this house—to this very day I don’t know where. Then the other man came looking for my son, came to collect his share. When he found the money gone, he—he killed my boy.”

  She looked up. “That’s when I put the house up for sale, at seventy-five thousand dollars. I knew that, someday, my son’s killer would return. Someday, he would want this house at any price. All I had to do was wait until I found the man willing to pay much too much for an old lady’s house.”

  She rocked gently.

  Waterbury put down the empty glass and licked his lips, his eyes no longer focusing, his head rolling loosely on his shoulders.

  “Ugh!” he said. “This lemonade is bitter.”

  THREE WIVES TOO MANY

  by KENNETH FEARING

  Richard C. Brown gazed in contented speculation across the breakfast table at the plain but pleasant face of his wife Marion. He was aware not only of her companionable silence, but savored also the cozy perfection of the tiny alcove, in fact, the homey restfulness of the entire bungalow.

  For a moment, he almost regretted the need to leave this suburban idyll on the outskirts of Camden, and Marion, in order to reach his home in Newark by nightfall, and to be with Bernice, his fourth and most recent wife, at the usual hour. But he knew that domestic peace, to say nothing of his own safety, depended upon the most rigid adherence to his fixed routine.

  Bernice, a natural and vivacious blonde, was much younger and very much prettier than Marion, whose tightly combed hair showed an unmistakable tinge of gray in its otherwise inky darkness. Marion, in fact, was the wife Richard had who was as old as himself. When he married her, he had rather felt he was making a reckless gamble.

  But now, after four years—no, come to think of it, five years—he felt she had turned out extraordinarily well. Whereas Bernice, he had to face it, still couldn’t cook, after almost a year of marriage. Her cooking, like her disorderly housekeeping, would probably never improve.

  Still, she was lively, and decorative, though by no means as gorgeous as the ripe, still magnificently cream-skinned and red-haired Lucille.
Lucille was his first wife, and although nowadays she was showing more and more ill temper, especially when she drank, he was still very fond of her, and they still maintained their original home in Hartford.

  He would be seeing her, on schedule, three days hence. After that, came the turn of the dark, brooding, capricious Helen, his second, in a suburb of Boston. Helen was a little extravagant. She always had been. But what were a few faults? They were only to be expected. After all, he probably had a few himself.

  So Richard C. Brown speculated, as he often did, weighing the pros and cons of this life he led.

  Had he chosen wisely in selecting matrimony as his profession? Richard frowned, faintly, and softened the harsh phraseology of the question. He hadn’t chosen it, exactly. He had drifted into it, beginning as an ardent, even a romantic, amateur. It was so easy to get married that he had not even thought of that vulgar word, bigamy, until some time after he had already committed it.

  But after two ceremonies, with a third impending—his match with Marion—yes, by then he had realized he was launched upon a special type of career, one that might have certain risks attached, but one that also, with care and prudence, offered rich rewards.

  “Richard? Is that what’s worrying you?”

  Richard returned his attention to Marion, suddenly aware that her voice echoed a whole series of remarks he had not quite caught. Richard smiled, genuinely surprised. “Worrying me, dear?”

  “For a minute, you were frowning. I thought perhaps your mind was on that offer to buy the house and lot. It was such a big price the broker offered, I could hardly believe it. I thought maybe you regretted turning it down. I wonder if you did it just on my account, even though you thought it was really a mistake to pass up the chance. Was that it, Richard?”

  Richard was still more surprised—honestly surprised, and deeply touched. “No, nothing’s worrying me,” he said, in affectionate rebuke. “Least of all, that proposition to sell. I’d forgotten all about it.”

  Marion, pouring him a second cup of coffee, pursued the subject to its logical end. “Because, if the offer is still open, and you think we ought to sell, I’ll sign. Our joint title to the deed, I mean. Perhaps you thought I sounded unwilling before. But that was only because I didn’t really understand what a wonderful price we were being offered.”