The Murder Megapack

by Talmage Powell

  Under the car I saw the gleam of Bucky’s puttees crossing from the armored truck. Bucky had to get me—as he’d had to get Pink—regardless of the outcome of the raid.

  “Damn you!” I choked again, heaving upright. The driver looked startled, seeing me come up so near to him. He died with that startled look on his toothy face and a hole in his head.

  The car rocked with a shifted weight. There came one more shot from it. Something caught me high on the side and spun me into the gutter. I propped on my elbow and aimed at the man in the light coat creeping out of the wrecked sedan. His head was in the dim glow reflected from the bent headlight and it turned just as I squeezed the trigger. I recognized her at the same instant my arm jerked with the shot.

  “Jerry!” I cried…and cried into blackness…

  * * * *

  I thought another white-capped nurse was coming into my room. Then I saw it was Marcourt. He came over to the high bed.

  “Feeling better today, Evans? Good. You cleaned up on ’em, boy. Gang of the toughest thugs ever came down here from the big town. You were right, too, about the inside man. Bucky Newsome. He—”

  “The hell he was,” I interjected.

  “No? What d’you mean?”

  “Not the real inside man—she was a woman. Jerry Nolan. But I got her!”

  “Jerry—” Marcourt put a broad palm on my forehead. “You all right, Evans? Don’t feel feverish, do you?”

  I tried to sit up, but I was stiffer than a mummy. “Dammit, don’t tell me she got away, Luke. But she was wounded, the double-dealing cat! Find her, Luke, get her!”

  For a few minutes I lay there wondering how I could have missed that final shot. True, I was wounded, too, but she was so close, spilling out of the back of that sedan.

  Marcourt entered again. “I got her, boy! Here!”

  This time I managed to get halfway up, but some imp seared my side with a hot poker. Standing beside Marcourt, pale even in the pink haze of my pain-filled vision, was Jerry!

  “Paul!” she said.

  “But—I killed you—that gang car—”

  Tears were running down her cheeks. “No, it was George. I heard him come downstairs after you left. He’d been in his room all the time. He’d heard everything, Paul! But I didn’t dream—He drove away in his car. Later, I found a gun behind the hat rack in the front hall! I knew at once something terrible was happening, so I called Luke. We rushed to the bank as fast as we could…”

  “And got there just too late,” Marcourt said. “I wasn’t going to mention it to you, boy, but Jerry’s brother was dead. He was the fingerman for that crew of hoods, working with Bucky Newsome. He looked a lot like Jerry, maybe that’s why—”

  “George?” I asked. “George who?”

  “Horn. You know—Candy Horn. You asked me who he was once.” Marcourt looked puzzled.

  “Why doesn’t somebody tell me these things?” I said. Then, “Jerry—darling, I’m sorry. I’m—”

  She came closer and put a trembling finger to my lips.

  MURDER SET-UP, by Charles Marquis Warren

  Originally published in Secret Agent X, January 1936.

  “Murder and oranges don’t mix,” Charlie Usher rapped across the dingy room to the little man pacing the floor nervously. “Get rid of it, Spotty.”

  The ratty, pock-marked little crook stopped abruptly and stared at the half-peeled orange he had been sucking on. Holding it gingerly in his hand, he moved to the door and reluctantly threw it out. With a look of reproach at Charlie, he resumed his agitated pacing.

  Spotty’s personality and appearance blended perfectly with the cheap shabbiness of the small room. Even his furtive, fidgety manner matched the way the room seemed to cringe every time the El thundered by. A small-time crook and a worried one.

  Not so his debonair companion. The flashy smartness of Charlie Usher’s immaculate outfit lent a striking incongruity to his drab surroundings. He sprawled indolently on the shoddy bed, his eyes following the restless movements of Spotty.

  The little man paused and turned his narrow eyes on Usher. “What’d you mean by that crack about ‘murder,’ boss?”

  Charlie rolled over on his back and grinned slowly, his eyes studying the cracked ceiling. “I meant,” he said quietly, “if you didn’t quit eating that orange and sit down and collect your nerve, I’d murder you.”

  Spotty knew that had been invented on the spur of the moment. “You didn’t mean it that way, boss,” he persisted. “Somethin’ more’n that. And I don’t get it.” He edged as far away from Charlie as the limited space in the room permitted. “You come up to me on the street and ast if I wanted to make fifty bucks. I never seen you before. You said let’s go up to my room and now you’re talkin’ about murder. I don’t want no part of that word, boss—not even for fifty bucks.” Reluctantly he put his hand in his pocket and withdrew five ten dollar bills.

  Charlie laughed imperturbably. “Don’t talk like a damn fool, Spotty. Keep the money. If I wanted murder I could get it cheap enough. All I’d have to do is fill you full of dope. You’d rub out any man in the city for five bucks when you’re coked up.”

  Spotty shook his head with a convulsive jerk. “Not this man, boss. Not Shannigan. When he threw me in stir I lost my nut and swore I’d kill him for it when I got out. The papers played it up. Why, if somebody rubbed Shannigan out right now in Mexico and I’m here in New York at the same time, they’d swear I done it. They’d burn me—just because I went crazy once and blabbed I’d get him. I didn’t mean it then and I don’t mean it now. I’m—afraid of Shannigan!” The scared look in the little crook’s eyes corroborated his statement.

  Charlie Usher waited for the noise of a passing El to subside.

  “Listen, Spotty,” he said softly, “I’m not asking you to bump Shannigan—or anybody. All I want you to do to earn your fifty bucks is—”

  Spotty cut in on him shrilly.

  “Yeah,” he blurted, “I know. All I got to do is go downstairs and ast Shannigan to come up to my room. There’s somethin’ screwy about that.”

  “Shannigan passes this way on his way home every day. He’ll be along here in a couple of minutes. I know. I’ve checked him.”

  A gnawing fear suddenly crawled across Spotty’s disfigured face. His rat-eyes narrowed with suspicion. His hand jerked inside his coat, and a blunt automatic covered Charlie Usher.

  “Get out of here!” Spotty rasped. “You ain’t murderin’ him up here and stickin’ it on me!”

  Charlie sat up on the edge of the bed impassively. He raised his hands above his head and grinned.

  “Frisk me, Spotty,” he invited softly. “How am I going to shoot anybody without a gat?”

  Cautiously, Spotty ran his hands over every inch of Charlie’s body. Relieved to find him unarmed, the little man put his gun back in its shoulder holster.

  “Okay, boss,” he muttered. “But remember, any funny stuff and I’ll start using this—” he patted the bulge under his coat, “and it won’t be on Shannigan.”

  Charlie stood up and stretched, watched with an amused smile while Spotty put the fifty dollars back in his pocket. Then he glanced at his watch. “Better get down stairs, Spotty. Shannigan’s due in two minutes.”

  * * * *

  Lieutenant James L. Shannigan strolled down the shabby street on his way to the subway that would carry him home and away from a routinely dull day at headquarters. Tonight he was off duty and glad of it.

  He was mildly surprised but not at all disturbed to be suddenly confronted by a wizened little man who shuffled out of a doorway and tapped him on the shoulder.

  Shannigan stopped and grinned broadly. “Hello, Spotty. Long time no see. How’s it going?”

  The little crook spoke in a low voice. “Can I see you for a second, lootenant?”

  “Sure, Spotty, if you don’t make me late for supper. Haven’t seen you since the day you swore you’d spill my guts all over the City Hall.”

&n
bsp; Spotty ignored the remark and nodded to the doorway from which he had come. He preceded the detective up the one flight of darkened stairs that led to his room.

  Shannigan chuckled good naturedly as he followed. “Guess you know as well as I do that it’s safe for me to go up to your room, Spotty,” he said. “All I’d have to do is get mashed by the subway and they’d burn you for it.” His tone bantered but there was a significant ring to it that Spotty didn’t miss. As the detective stood on the landing, he noticed Spotty’s abandoned orange.

  “Still sucking oranges, eh, Spotty? That’s how I knew it was you pulled the job in that restaurant—couldn’t resist an orange.”

  Spotty didn’t see any humor in the remark. He held the door open for the detective. Shannigan went in.

  Charlie Usher stood in front of the window, facing them. At first Shannigan couldn’t, see who it was. Then Charlie moved. He had a cigarette going calmly and he grinned as the detective recognized him.

  “Hello, Shannigan. Surprised?”

  “Why, hello, Charlie. We’re not supposed to be surprised in my business.” But he had a slight frown on his face. He turned to Spotty. “This what you wanted to see me about?”

  Spotty passed his tongue over dry lips. The hand that readily indicated Charlie wasn’t steady. “He wanted to see you, lootenant. He give me fifty bucks to get you up here.”

  Shannigan looked at Charlie. His eyes hardened, all semblance of humor left his face. “Is that so?” he queried slowly. “Just what would you be wanting to see me for, Charlie?”

  Charlie moved to the bed and sat down. “Little matter of unfinished business, Shannigan,” he drawled laconically.

  “Such as—”

  “Well, I never was as loud-mouthed as Spotty here, but I guess I been thinking the same threats he made when you nabbed him.”

  Shannigan smiled, but it was humorless. “One of these silent crooks who nurses a grudge, are you?”

  Charlie nodded, and flipped his cigarette through the window.

  “Listen, Charlie. You got five years. You deserved every one of them. You thought you were smart enough to pull a job without any slips. You weren’t. Nobody is.” Charlie got up and moved to the back of the chair Spotty had crawled into. He grinned at the detective.

  “Just wanted to see how you looked, copper. That’s all.”

  “Take a good look.”

  Spotty instinctively sank as low in his seat as he could. He wished fervently to be as far away from these two as possible.

  Shannigan, frowning, moved towards the door. “If that’s all you want with me I’ll be going,” he rapped impatiently.

  Charlie pointed suddenly through the window. “That’s what I want you for!” he snapped.

  Lieutenant Shannigan shouldn’t have, but he did allow himself to be caught off guard by the old gag. He turned momentarily, glanced at the window. By the time he had checked himself, he was staring into the muzzle of Spotty’s .38 automatic held in Charlie Usher’s hand. Spotty had flung himself off his chair, snarling:

  “He swiped it, lootenant! I didn’t give it to him! So help me—he reached around my neck and swiped my gat from behind my back!”

  “Shut up, Spotty,” Charlie said blandly. “Shannigan, don’t move except to put your hands up, or I’ll drop you.”

  Spotty slunk away in a corner mumbling inaudibly to himself. Shannigan raised his hands above his head and eyed Charlie with cold contempt. Indolently, Charlie relieved the detective of his heavy service gun.

  “So I wasn’t smart enough to pull a job without any slips, eh, Shannigan? Not smart enough, eh? Well, I’ve wised up considerably since the day you pinned a stretch on me. I had plenty of time to think up a perfect job—thanks to you.”

  Shannigan shook his head. “You’re bluffing, Charlie. Snap out of it. They don’t take it easy on cop-killers.”

  “They don’t have to!” The arrogant, debonair Charlie Usher had disappeared to be replaced by a man whose years of pent-up fury and hatred for this detective had turned him into a killer. “Take a look around, Shannigan,” he snarled softly. “A good look. It’s the last you’re going to see.” Over in the corner Spotty whimpered. Sheer desperate fear tensed his muscles for a sudden leap at Charlie. Abruptly, Usher’s gat included Spotty in its range. Spotty sobbed and relaxed.

  “You sent me up when nobody else could, Shannigan.” Charlie’s voice was thick with emotion. “Made you look pretty smart, didn’t it? You think I didn’t eat my heart out until I thought of a way to get you for it? Well, it’s all figured out now, copper. I got it perfect—and this time no slips!”

  Charlie moved close to the detective. He shoved Spotty’s gun into Shannigan’s chest. An El train was roaring past the grimy window. Charlie raised his voice.

  “Hold your breath, Shannigan. It’s coming! Five seconds and it’s all over—a second for each year you took out of my life. You won’t be able to tell me how it feels, but it’s going to hurt like hell. Here it comes, Shannigan!”

  The detective made a desperate lunge for Usher’s wrist. There was a muffled crack of the automatic. The change that came over Shannigan wasn’t very apparent. A look of bland surprise covered his face as he stared down at his left breast pocket. A small, black-edged hole hadn’t been there a moment before. Suddenly his knees gave away and he sank to the floor. He twisted his face around.

  “You’ll—slip—Charlie,” he gasped. “You’ll—slip.” His head sagged crazily against the floor.

  Charlie looked at him for a moment, then he turned him over with his feet. Satisfied that the detective was dead, he turned to Spotty.

  The little crook stared at him, his rat-eyes round with terror.

  “They’ll pin it on me,” he whispered. “You done it with my gat. I’ll burn for it!”

  Charlie laughed and moved towards Spotty. “Sure they’ll pin it on you Spotty. But you won’t burn for it.” A ray of hope glittered in Spotty’s eyes. “You mean—”

  “I mean they don’t burn corpses in this state, Spotty.” Charlie laughed again, a grim satisfied laugh. “You see, Spotty, Shannigan was wrong. I am smart. I’ve figured it all out. A perfect job by Charlie Usher—and no slips!”

  Spotty was suddenly calm, the hopeless resignation of a doomed man. “Charlie,” he whispered, “you’re making one slip.”

  “What’s that?” sharply.

  “Me. If you rub me out, they’ll know I didn’t kill Shannigan.” Spotty almost laughed with relief at his discovery.

  “Not,” said Charlie significantly, “if I rub you out with Shannigan’s gun. He got it from your gat, you got it from his. You both shot it out. See how it works?” Charlie threw back his head and laughed at his own cunning.

  Spotty started to yell. Charlie kicked him hard in the shins.

  “One squeak out of you and I’ll let you have it in the guts. You want it where it won’t hurt much, don’t you?”

  Spotty had sunk supine to the floor, almost in a grotesque attitude of prayer. His mouth worked spasmodically, flecks of foam slobbered over his lips and chin.

  Charlie’s head snapped erect, listening. Finally, he heard it. The hum of an approaching El. Bending over he grasped Spotty by the neck and yanked him to his knees. He waited until the oncoming El thundered to a crescendo, then with cold precision he raised Shannigan’s gun and shot Spotty twice through the forehead. The staccato report of the two shots from the service gun blended with the heavier din outside. By the time the roar of the train had subsided the little crook lay in a lifeless heap on the floor.

  Charlie stooped over the small corpse at his feet and delicately retrieved the fifty dollars he’d given to Spotty. Quickly, quietly he wiped the butts of both guns with his handkerchief and placed each weapon in the hands of its respective owner.

  Picking up his hat from the bed he paused for a moment in front of a cracked mirror to set the smart fedora at the correct angle, adjust his tie. Pleased with his reflection he moved to the door. He
listened silently for a moment to make sure that no one was coming up or down the stairs outside. He knew he could slip unobserved into the home-from-work crowd that flowed by downstairs on the street. Another lingering glance over the interior of the room and its gruesome inmates. He smiled thinly.

  “No slips, Shannigan,” he whispered in mock salute to the still body of the detective. “No slips, Spotty,” he grinned at the shriveled figure of the little crook.

  Opening the door silently, he stepped out onto the landing.

  There was a clatter and a thump and an excited crowd pressed around the doorway in the street.

  “Jeese!” somebody whispered in an awed voice, noticing the shredded particles of orange-peel on the sole of the shoe. “He slipped all the way down!”

  “And how,” somebody else muttered fervently, noticing the broken, grotesquely twisted neck. “And what a slip!”

  PAY FOR YOUR PEANUTS, by Tom Thursday

  Originally published in Crack Detective, May 1943.

  Half the force disliked the rookie, Andy Dann. The others considered him quaint, a youngster who would soon fall into the groove with the rest of the force. For a cop, Andy had strange ideas. Among his novel notions was one that all cops should pay the small fruit dealers for their apples and bananas. Especially Tony Romalli, the little peanut vendor two blocks from headquarters. Tony had a large family and a small income. Andy felt that Tony and his ilk were also taxpayers and helped defray expenses of the department of police.

  “That Dann mug gives me a pain!” said Sergeant Jake Sands, a veteran who hadn’t paid for either fruit or peanuts since the Battle of Bull Run. “It’s guys like him that makes it hard for the rest of us. Why shouldn’t we get a bite of fruit or a lousy bag of peanuts, free? When them guys are in trouble, who do they yell for? The cops, that’s who they yell for!”