The Devils & Demons MEGAPACK ®: 25 Modern and Classic Tales

by Mack Reynolds

  The result was that fifteen minutes later a squad car with siren screaming pulled up in front of police headquarters. From it descended Grady and Waller, smiling broadly. The watching throng cheered them as they escorted their battered and somewhat dazed captive up the steps. Flashlight bulbs popped as the press recorded the scene for posterity.

  The prisoner sang the same tune all the others had sung.

  “You ruffians! You can’t do this to me. I have influence in this community.”

  “Book him for loitering,” Grady told the desk sergeant. “Also for attempted robbery. He tried to break a pawnshop window. Also you can put the bite on him for resisting an officer.”

  Sergeant Buck put in an appearance, tagged by the chief and the mayor. “Good work, huh, Sarge?” Grady said. “We caught a dangerous character here. Better have him printed and mugged. He looks like he’s got a record to me. Maybe we can have the rest of the night off, huh, Sarge?” he finished.

  Sergeant Buck started to say something but the words caught in his throat. A deadly pallor crept across his face.

  “What’s the matter, Sarge?” Grady asked. “Ain’t you feeling well?”

  “No,” Sergeant Buck whispered. “No. I’m not.”

  “That’s too bad,” Grady said sympathetically. “Maybe you better take the rest of the night off too?” How about it, Chief?” he said, turning to the head of the police department. “The Sarge is sick. Maybe we all better knock off now—”

  It was at this moment that Grady perceived that the strange malady that had afflicted Sergeant Buck had also spread to the chief of police. The chief looked like he had taken a big bite into what appeared to be a very sound apple, and to his shocked surprise had encountered a worm. The chief looked sick, and the mayor looked sicker.

  A strange silence had fallen in the room. Even the press, normally vociferous, was silent. Grady saw the faces of the reporters. They looked dazed, slightly bewildered.

  “What’s the matter?” Grady said. “What’s wrong?”

  It was the mayor who stepped forward to make a brief formal statement. “You ignorant fools,” the mayor said. “I’ll tell you what’s the matter. That man you have arrested is my brother.”

  For an instant the stunned silence continued. Then it was broken as press, whooping with joy, made a dash to the telephones, where they could be heard shouting headlines to happy rewrite men on the other end of the wire.

  MAYOR’S BROTHER ARRESTED AS COMMON THIEF

  Two detectives, investigating a suspicious character loitering on Sixth Street tonight, caught the brother of the mayor in the act of breaking a pawnshop window. He resisted arrest, but after a short struggle was subdued and brought to police headquarters, where he was booked on charges of loitering, attempted theft, and resisting an officer in the discharge of his duties.

  So much the press reported in the column devoted to news. In the editorial department, however, pessimists who had written for years about sin and crime in the city, with no visible results, let themselves go in freer vein.

  The long suspected connection between the present administration and the crime wave afflicting our fair city was brought to light tonight by the arrest of the brother of the mayor on charges of theft. Thus, it is obvious that the mayor, instead of trying to free our city from the crime so common here, is in reality harboring and protecting the criminals. It is also obvious that all right-thinking citizens, with this evidence before their eyes, will know how to mark their ballots in the coming election.

  On the back steps of police headquarters that night a conference took place. It was short and to the point.

  “How was we to know this guy was the mayor’s brother?” Grady protested.

  “Yeah, how was we to know?” Waller added.

  “How do I know the names of two guys who will be in the breadline by this time tomorrow night?” Sergeant Buck said bitterly. “You two miserable misbegotten— — — — fool—” The sergeant paused for breath. “Get out of here. You either bring back the big shot who is responsible for this crime wave, or don’t come back yourselves. Get goin.”

  With these kindly words of advice, the sergeant dismissed them. And as they turned to go, he kicked them down the steps.

  CHAPTER III

  The Captive

  Thus it is obvious that all the blame for what happened later cannot justly be laid on Grady and Waller. They were harassed men. But for that matter, the mayor was a harassed man, as was the chief of police, and Sergeant Buck.

  At police headquarters, after the identity of his brother was disclosed, and after the press had steadfastly refused to accept any explanation for the incident, the mayor retired to the office of the chief, taking the chief with him. What was said there was never disclosed but when the chief emerged from the conference, it was observed that he had aged remarkably, some said five years, others ten. He was barely able to speak.

  “Boys,” he said to his assembled .men, “you will either catch the big-time crook who is back of this crime-wave, or I will break your damned necks.”

  Thus inspired, his men went forth to battle. Among the criminal element, times, already tough, took a quick turn for the worse. It was a bad night for crooks.

  Again there was singing at police headquarters. “You can’t do this to me. I got protection. Wait until the Big Shot hears about this.”

  “CROOKS CLAIM PROTECTION,” the newspaper headlines said. Every paper in town was holding over its staff and was turning out extras.

  “There is no protection of criminals in this city,” the mayor announced.

  “What about your brother?” a critical reporter asked. “An ex-convict, ain’t he? You’ve been protecting him, ain’t you?”

  It did the mayor no good to protest that until the moment of his unfortunate arrest, his brother had been a deacon in the church and a Sunday school teacher. “Mayor’s brother, ex-convict, once taught Sunday school,” the headlines said.

  An hour passed. Squads were scouring the town, with no results. “Everybody has heard of this big shot but nobody knows who he is,” the reports came in.

  “Get him,” the chief of police said.

  * * * *

  Another hour passed. By this time the harassed officers of the law, driven to desperation, were bringing in honest citizens almost exclusively. The crooks had ail been caught, according to the cops. They were arresting everybody that looked as if he might be guilty of thinking about committing a crime.

  “Big Clean-Up Catches Only Honest Citizens,” the newspapers said.

  The mayor, mopping his face, retired to the chief’s office. “I’m licked,” he said. “The public will never forget this.” He looked at the chief. The chief turned pale.

  “Beginning tomorrow morning,” the mayor said. “You will be back pounding a beat.” He was going to elaborate on this statement but he was interrupted. From the hallway outside a calm voice said:

  “Get on in there, you big lug, before I knock your block off.”

  Entranced, the mayor and the chief went to the door. Moving between gaping rows of spectators were two detectives—the mayor winced at the sight of them.

  “Grady and Waller!” the chief gasped. “But who’s that they’ve arrested?”

  “We got him,” Grady answered. “The big-time crook that has been causing all this trouble. We got him.”

  Grady’s lips were puffed and his right eye was already turning black. He walked with a slight limp, but seemed otherwise all right. He was very calm.

  “Caught him with the goods,” Waller supplied. “No doubt about it this time. We got the evidence. He’s the big shot all right.”

  Waller’s nose was slightly out of line and he was tenderly caressing the knuckles of his left hand. He was also very calm.

  There
was silence at headquarters. Everyone was staring at their captive. He was something to stare at. Built on the generous lines of a gorilla, Gargantua would have taken; one look at him and run to hide. He must have weighed three hundred pounds, all of which was muscle. Apparently he had no neck, his head sitting squat on his shoulders. His face, while not exactly ugly, would do as a model until an ugly face came along. The bruises on it didn’t help its appearance any.

  He was clad in a checkerboard suit the alternate squares of which were green and yellow. Obviously the suit had been cut to fit him perfectly, once. It no longer fitted perfectly. One sleeve had been torn out of the coat and the buttons had been jerked off the vest.

  “He resisted arrest!” Grady explained.

  “We caught him just opening up a new gambling joint,” Waller added.

  “Good work, men, good work,” the mayor exulted. He was already visioning headlines: “Mayor’s Clean-Up Drive Succeeds.”

  “Good work, men,” the chief said. “Take him up to the desk and book him. We’ll see that he is prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”

  “Get along, you,” Grady said. He did not actually strike the prisoner—there were too many witnesses present—but he did contrive to shove him so that the captive lost balance and fell.

  “Youse mugs will pay for this!” he snarled from the floor, in a surprising show of spirit from one subject to the tender mercies of the police. “Youse’ll be in my book from now on.”

  Threats frightened neither Grady nor Waller. Men who had faced Sergeant Buck seldom feared anything that walked the earth.

  “Get up,” said Grady, smartly kicking the prisoner in the rear.

  As they led their captive up to the desk, Grady and Waller could see admiration on the faces of the reporters surrounding them. They glowed. Victory had been hard-won, but victory was theirs. To them the laurel wreath!

  “Name?” the desk sergeant said, glowering at the sullen prisoner.

  There was no answer.

  “Tell the sergeant your name,” Grady said, cuffing him on the side of the head.

  This produced results.

  “Satan,” the prisoner muttered.

  “Satan what?” the desk sergeant automatically asked, his pen poised as he prepared to write.

  “Just Satan!” the prisoner snarled in a guttural tone of voice. “Ain’t that enough for youse? Just Satan.”

  For a space of time that must have lasted minutes the desk sergeant held his pen poised in the air while his startled eyes traveled over the captive before him. Then his face began to jerk as he realized the meaning of the words he had heard. “You—you mean—” he quavered.

  “Satan!” the prisoner shouted. “I come up here to get this town organized and these two mugs grab me. Satan’s my name. How long is it going to take for you to get it through your thick heads that I’m the devil!”

  Again there was silence at headquarters, complete silence. With an air of utter abstraction the desk sergeant put the point of the pen between his lips to moisten it. Then he put it down. Behind him was a wall with a window in it. He took one final, horrified look at the prisoner before him and leaped straight through the window. He was shouting:

  “Great saints in heaven, the boys have brought in the devil himself!”

  * * * *

  The tinkle of falling glass from the broken window had no more than died into silence before the public, which had jammed and crammed the corridors of headquarters, began to make a general exodus. Some people walked to the nearest exit; others ran. Still others, noting with approval the action of the desk sergeant, went through the windows.

  The people had come to headquarters to witness a roundup of crooks. They had not known that the leader of these crooks was the devil and they had not expected to see him. They had not seen the devil before, and after one look, they did not want to see him again. Consequently, they left.

  The mayor, after all, was one of the people. He started to leave, but when flashlight bulbs began to pop, he was forced to change his mind. As long as the press stayed, he would have to stay. As long as the mayor stayed, the chief would have to remain, and while the chief was there, the police force would not depart.

  It is highly likely that at least two members of the police force would have left headquarters if they had been able to move their legs. But for the space of several seconds Grady and Waller were completely paralyzed and when the paralysis left them and they started to run, it was too late.

  “Lock him in a cell,” a voice said.

  “Huh?” Grady gasped, looking around.

  It was Sergeant Buck who had spoken. The sergeant was calmly surveying the situation.

  “You—you mean—lock him up?” Grady whispered. “But he’s the devil, he’s Old Nick himself.”

  “So I heard,” Sergeant Buck answered imperturbably. “Lock him up.”

  “But—but he’s the devil.”

  “Yes,” came the answer. “And I am Sergeant Buck. The chief is watching me and the mayor is watching the chief and the newspapers are watching the mayor. Now do you want to lock him up, or don’t you?”

  There was only one answer to that question. They locked him up.

  CHAPTER IV

  The Dilemma

  The press promptly besieged the cell.

  “Are you really the devil?” a reporter demanded.

  “Sure I am,” the prompt answer came.

  The press, true to its traditions of not believing half the things it saw, was incredulous.

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “You’re faking.”

  “The devil has hoofs and horns and tail. You don’t. Where’s your tail, where’s your horns? We think you’re lying,”

  The occupant of the cell was not in a good humor anyhow. This accusation enraged him. “So you don’t believe I’m the devil, huh?” he shouted “Well, I’ll just show you.”

  With this, he began jerking off his clothes. He had a fine head of curly red hair. This was a wig. He jerked it off, revealing a bald head ornamented with unmistakable horns. The suit came off next. When the last garment had been angrily flung against the bars, the devil stood stark naked.

  The press, gazing upon this spectacle, was no longer incredulous. The occupant of the cell had hooves all right. He stamped them against the stone floor. Sparks flew. He also had a tail, which terminated in a horny point. Thrusting the tail between the bars, he jabbed a reporter in the leg.

  “E-yow!” shouted this representative of the press.

  “I guess that shows you smart guys something,” the devil said, in a satisfied tone of voice.

  Grady and Waller witnessed this scene from a little distance. Grady was perspiring freely and Waller had a decidedly thoughtful look on his face. Sergeant Buck was with them.

  “You know what?” Grady said hesitantly.

  “Yeah,” Waller said. “I been thinking the same thing. He said you and me were going down in his book.”

  Grady shuddered.

  “Don’t let that bother you, boys,” Sergeant Buck said. “You did a good job. The force will stand back of you.”

  “It ain’t somebody to stand back of me that I want,” Grady answered. “It’s somebody to stand in front of me.”

  It had suddenly occurred to Grady that he might spend the rest of his life dodging a revenge-seeking devil. This was not a comforting thought.

  “You boys caught the devil all right,” Sergeant Buck said. “But the thing that is worrying me is—what are we going to do with him?”

  Almost simultaneously the same idea occurred to the chastened press. The reporters went immediately, to the fountain of all knowledge, and put the question to him.

  For once in his life the mayor was struck dumb. Until that mome
nt he had been making a speech, to which no one was listening, to the effect that the police department, under his administration, “Has become so efficient that it can catch the devil himself.”

  “All right, you’ve caught him,” a reporter said. “But what are you going to do with him now that you’ve got him?”

  “I—uh—we—that is—” His Honor floundered. He immediately perceived that this problem had more angles than he had thought. It was one thing to catch the devil. It was quite another thing to decide what to do with him. The mayor didn’t know the answer. He turned to the chief of police. The chief shook his head.

  “Here they come down our street,” said Grady bitterly, seeing what was going to happen.

  It happened. The chief asked Captain Gallagher and the captain asked Sergeant Buck.

  “I don’t know what the hell we’re going to do with him!” Grady shouted at the Sergeant. “We just caught him. It’s up to you big shots to decide what to do about him. I only work here.”

  “You might hang him,” the reporter who had been jabbed in the leg suggested. “He’s guilty enough to be hung a thousand times over.”

  The occupant of the cell overhead this suggestion.

  “I’d like to see you mugs try to hang me!” he shouted. “It wouldn’t work, of course; the rope would break and the scaffold would fall down and a lot of other things would happen. But I’d like to see you try it,” he ended, blowing smoke and yellow flames out of his mouth.

  “I don’t—ah—believe we will hang him,” the mayor said nervously. “Is that burning brimstone I smell?”

  “I ain’t nothing else but brimstone,” the devil answered.

  “How about shooting him?” a detective asked.

  The devil snorted in derision. “You point a gun at me it won’t go off. Also,” he added, “I would hate to be in the shoes of any guy who does try to take a shot at me.”