The Murder Megapack

by Talmage Powell

  Eddie went over to Bunny. He moved with a sinuous grace. She got up. In the terrified glance she gave me was a lot of regret for the box she had put me in.

  I tried to smile reassuringly. It must have been a ghoulish grimace, the kind of facial contortion featured by one on the way to the gallows.

  Eddie took a look up and down the corridor. He gave Nick the nod and we started out and down the rear stairs. They had been put there during the festive prohibition era for the convenience of patrons who didn’t want to meet the local police force socially. They were just as good now as they had been then—for Nick’s purpose.

  He escorted me across several feet of pavement and into a snappy sedan parked at the curb. People were passing. They didn’t pay any attention to me or I to them. I had Nick’s pocket on my mind and what was in it.

  I sat down between Bunny and Nick. There was a third man at the wheel. A quiet, efficient character who seemed to know exactly what was wanted. The minute Nick pulled the door shut the car started.

  We crossed Broadway. Hoodlum Avenue was a riot of lights, noise and traffic. I caught a glimpse of the Astor, the Globe, the Times Building. They never looked better. Like illustrations for a fantastic tale that would never be told again.

  “So you lost the letter?” Nick murmured, musingly. “I suppose it fell out of your pocket—right into a copper’s big paw.”

  “I don’t know where I lost it.”

  Eddie Beam, silently meditative on one of the pulled-down rear seats, jerked his head up.

  “Say,” he exclaimed. “I got a flash of Castle at the rehearsal, before we went up to the dressing room. He was in a box with a dame. Maybe he passed the letter to her!”

  “What dame?” Nick asked sarcastically. “There’s a lot of ’em in this town.”

  Beam leaned forward. “That’s not too tough. I know a hundred people who know Castle. Any of them can tell us who he chases around with regularly.”

  The empty feeling spread. Things seemed to be going from worse to much worse. Now, if the little gunman had his way, Libby would be dragged in to add to the merriment. And Libby, all unknowingly, would probably spill at Beam’s first question!

  The girl was smart at everything but murder.

  The car went as far as Lexington, up that avenue for a dozen blocks and then east again. It delved into a neighborhood where poverty and riches rubbed elbows. Cheap tenements stood a sneer away from lofty layouts crowned with penthouses.

  Finally the sedan, slowing, stopped before a three-story, remodeled job that had a modernistic facade and a neat areaway filled with rows of geraniums.

  From the exterior the place might have been a high-class club. But it wasn’t.

  The driver got out of the car. He went up the front stairs and rang the bell. I saw the door open. The conversation didn’t last long.

  The driver came back. Nick said, “Okay?” and the other said, “Okay.”

  The gun came out of Nick’s pocket.

  “All right, Castle. Step down. We’re calling on a lady. Don’t forget your manners. After you, friend.”

  Bunny, who had sat frozen all the way over from Ward’s place, went up the stairs after us, Beam bringing up the rear.

  A small girl in a maid’s outfit stood at the door. We filed past her, Nick pushing the gun under his coat so she wouldn’t see it. We went on back to a rear room, the maid hurrying forward to switch on the lights.

  “I’ll tell her you’re here,” she said, and slid on past.

  Chapter V

  Glass For Ashes

  The room we went into was the type they picture in half-buck magazines devoted to the decorating trade. It was done in Napoleonic blue and red. Pickled pine had been tossed around with a prodigal hand. Over the mantel of an unused fireplace a pair of expensive Chinese vases caught and reflected the indirect lighting.

  The cream-colored rug underfoot was moss-soft and ankle deep. The furniture, modernistic as the outside of the house, was upholstered in coffee-colored leather. Brass nail studding glinted. So did a lot of crystal ornaments on some picture window shelves.

  Likewise the gun Nick kept trained on me.

  “Sit down, Miss Dunlap. You too, Castle.” Nick played a host with sardonic graciousness. “Help yourself to some furniture and relax.”

  Bunny stole a look at me. Her eyes were like jewels, bright and feverish. I dropped into a chromium-armed chair, trying to think and getting more muddled by the minute.

  Whose place was this? Who had the maid gone to get?

  I didn’t have to wait long to find out. Steps sounded on the stairs, in the hall, on the cream-colored rug.

  Steps made by bright red backless slippers strapped around curved white ankles.

  Swan Millard entered the room and pulled the door shut behind her!

  She stood there, one hand on the ornamental knob, her crimson housecoat accenting every curve and contour of her slim, perfect figure, while her gaze, questioning and puzzled, swept over Bunny and me.

  “I don’t think I understand.” Her voice was low and quiet.

  I thought that I did. But I was wrong again.

  Nick spoke without moving from the spot opposite me.

  “This is clean-up night, honey. We’re rubbing the chalk off the blackboard. We’ve got one name erased. There’s a couple of others to follow.”

  Swan Millard’s hand dropped from the knob. Her expression changed swiftly. The lids went down over her eyes. Her curved red lips tightened to a scarlet streak.

  “What are you talking about? You must be drunk!”

  Nick chuckled. “I haven’t touched a drop in years. Pass that. Who was at the rehearsal this afternoon with Castle?”

  “Don’t answer that, Miss Millard,” I said, and got the heel of Nick’s left hand in the side of my face.

  Bunny choked out a muffled cry. Swan walked further into the room. I could see her begin to stiffen, to draw into herself.

  “I don’t know any of Mr. Castle’s friends or who he was with at the theater.” She made it sound disinterested and I could see she was a better actress than I had thought she was.

  “See what you can do, Eddie,” Nick directed, casually.

  The little runt smiled and reached. His small hand went around Swan’s wrist. He bent it back and then sideward. He did it smoothly, effortlessly, and nothing ever worked better. The red lips opened, but Eddie’s other hand, clamping over them, muffled the scream that would have emerged.

  “Her name is Hart—Libby Hart!” The words came when Eddie pulled his hand away.

  “Where does she live?”

  I sat and listened while Swan Millard went the rest of the way.

  Nick dealt out some instructions. She sat down at a table beside a telephone. Numbly I watched her dial a number. Usually, when I called Libby, she was never home. But the honey-haired beauty hit the jackpot at the first try.

  “Miss Hart?… This is Swan Millard. Could you come up to my house tonight, now?… Yes, there’s something important I want to talk over with you.… Fine… Thank you.”

  She pronged the telephone. Nick nodded.

  “Much obliged.” His tone turned velvety smooth. “Now, baby, before she gets here we’ll take care of something else—you!”

  The blue-steel gun moved from me toward her. Nick’s hand rose a few inches, his finger closing over the trigger.

  Bunny’s gasped exclamation sounded like paper tearing. Eddie Beam did a repeat, grabbing her wrist and clapping his left hand over her mouth.

  Swan, the gun on her, promptly fainted.

  At least, from where I sat it was a perfect imitation of a faint. Maybe she was acting again. I didn’t know, and I didn’t wait to find out.

  I was gun-clear. Beam was busy with Bunny and on a pickled pine stand beside the chromium-armed chair was a wedge of crystal used as an ashtray. I caught it up and let it go—straight at Nick!

  No big league pitcher ever put more on the ball. It had to be good, and it had
to be a third strike!

  It was.

  The point of the big hunk of glass caromed off the back of Nick’s skull with a bone-cracking thud. He dropped the gun and staggered forward, half falling over the slumped figure of Swan. Eddie let Bunny go and drew.

  The two shots he angled at me would have made a perfect score if I hadn’t ducked down to snatch for the hooded gun that had done the job on Gusman. The quick leanover saved my life. Temporarily, at least, I thought. Twin lead slugs hissed past, inches above me. I got Nick’s cannon. It was off safety and ready for use. I squeezed the trigger, blazing away at Eddie Beam as if he were the side of a barn.

  I missed as completely as he had!

  Bunny was screaming at the top of her lungs. I saw Nick was coming out of it. I had the fantastic idea he was wiping blood away from the back of his red head while he stood shaking it like a horse, trying to clear it.

  The little gunman had dived in behind a tall secretary for cover. My next shot splintered its grilled bulge front. Glass broke in a tinkling shower. I heard Beam yelp like a run-over dog. I banged away again in the same general direction, dropping down behind a leather-lined sofa.

  No more shots came from the direction of the secretary, but something else dropped over the top of the sofa and fell on me like a load of coal.

  Nick!

  His arm got a throat-hold. It shut my breath off like the turn of a faucet. His other hand ripped down my arm and fastened over the gun. Groggy though he must have been, Gusman’s killer still had enough power to make it child’s play. He wrenched the rod out of my fingers. The nose of it dug into my side. All the fleeting thoughts commonly attributed to those about to sink for the third time rushed chronologically through my brain.

  Thoughts of the Orbit, the pretty pieces I dreamed up about competitive sports. Thoughts of Libby. How lovely she was, how nice she always smelled, how soft and warm her lips were. Thoughts that included Captain Fred Mullin. Mullin, fishy-eyed and ice cold, saying, “Served him right! I told him it was only a question of time, the nosy such-and-such!”

  Other thoughts, clear-cut and distinct. Principally, one of a darkly robed gentleman who carried a large scythe and shook an admonishing finger at me. I tried to remember a quick prayer to murmur on the way out.

  Then, before Nick could squeeze the trigger, he let the gun and my neck go the same moment.

  Air, piped down to my lungs, sent a roaring noise into my ears. I remember sitting down on the cream-colored carpet and pushing Nick’s legs off. I remember staring at him, wondering if he’d had a stroke or something, trying to figure why his eyes were shut and why he was lying with his face pressed to the rug.

  It took another minute or two to get Bunny into the proper perspective. Bunny standing a little way off, the crystal ashtray in her good right hand, a fresh smear of Nick’s claret on one of its other points.

  “I—I guess I’ve killed him!” she said, her teeth chattering like the castanets in a Latin band.

  I began to get up. Then, as I was on one knee, the door with the ornamental knob opened and the dulcet tones of Lieutenant Ed Wheeler zephyred in:

  “Get your hands up! This house is surrounded!”

  He stalked in, gun in hand, followed by Hartley and several gentlemen in civilian garb, all armed and prepared for any eventuality.

  Wheeler pulled himself up short. He looked at the unconscious Swan. At Eddie Beam, whose legs were protruding from behind the shattered secretary. At the recumbent figure of the red-headed Nick, at the paralyzed Bunny, and then at me.

  “A one-man army, Castle! What do we need your gal friend’s call for? We tail you all evening, you shake us and then she throws in a set of directions. But why—when you can knock ’em over with your bare hands?”

  I got all the way up.

  “There’s the one who liquidated Gusman in the dressing room at the St. Regis.” I pointed a shaky finger at Nick. “There’s his helper, behind the cabinet. You’d better find the smelling salts for Mrs. Gusman. I think she needs them. The faint’s on the level…”

  I rode Bunny home in a taxi about an hour later and turned her over to the gilt-top Della in 6F. Then I got hold of Libby and shared a table with her at the Silver Drum, just as Joey Andra sprang out to tie the patrons up with his Ray Bolger imitations.

  Outside of being a little pale, Libby was enchanting in something new and something blue she had designed for herself in between costume plates for “Let’s Have Music!”

  “Mrs. Gusman?” she led off with.

  “Part of the production price, no doubt.” The double Scotch was good, even if it wasn’t Scotch. “The only trouble was she used to be Nick’s heart in the sweet long ago. Nick Rowen, that is, to give him his baptismal monicker.”

  “Rowen?” Lib wrinkled her tip-tilted nose. “Isn’t he the character who handled that Wall Street stock swindle some years back?”

  “A hundred grand caper. Correct. The same one Mr. Gusman wept for, but dried his eyes after the jury sent Rowen away for a long stretch. Why not? He was keeping the hundred G’s safe for his red-headed client—also the client’s heart interest. A real daily double that paid off in round numbers.”

  “Or round holes!” Libby put in. “You knew Rowen?”

  “Even under the blanket of the Len Fain he’s been using since he got out of stir. Enough to send me to the morgue at the office to hunt up some old pictures of him and refresh my mind about his going away party. It just goes to show you that when you’re in the penitentiary you brood and brood. Then when you come out you’re all set to do something to put you back—in the death house this time. Funny world, isn’t it?”

  “A scream.” Libby shuddered discreetly. “What happens to the hundred grand now?”

  I looked at her quizzically. Surely, she couldn’t be as naive as that.

  “That dough, darling,” I said, “helped pay your fee for designing those handsome costumes. That was the angel money that bought Gusman’s wings. He took the money—and the gal!”

  She nodded. Joey Andra was doing a whirlwind finish. I waited until he was off and the lights were up.

  “Just for your information,” I went on, “Eddie Beam, the small punk Rowen got friendly with behind, not in front of the bars, will recover from my not-so-good target practice. So that’s about all except I should really do something to show my appreciation for our splendid Police Department.”

  Libby laughed. There wasn’t any amusement in it.

  “What do you mean, splendid, Johnny? It’s terrible. Your friend Mullin ought to be impeached or something. I opened that note the girl gave you, read what she had written and telephoned Captain Mullin at five minutes after four. And look at all the time it took before they caught up with you!”

  The band was playing a tune that reminded me of something I’d heard before. Or was it that all tunes are more or less alike? This one reminded me of a tune Broadway hadn’t heard yet. Something about Monday morning blues. Something Swan Millard had sung in an ermine robe, in a purple spot, on a platinum-plated chaise.

  “Serves you right for opening my mail!” I said. “That’s one thing I didn’t think you were—jealous.”

  Libby’s dark eyes flashed.

  “Get another letter from a cute little blonde and see how I perform, Johnny!” she warned.

  WRITTEN IN BLOOD, by Seabury Quinn

  The Washington Night’s Stories of the U. S. Secret Service

  Originally published in Real Detective Tales Aug.-Sept. 1926.

  “‘The smallest, least-considered trifle may lead to events which will change the entire plan and scheme of your life’—aw, applesauce!” Shreve tossed the advertisement across the office and smothered a yawn. “Did ya ever hear such tommyrot?”

  “Nope,” agreed Williams, who shared offices with Shreve, of the Blade, and Loomis, of the Clarion-Call, “those inspirational writers can spread more words and say less than—”

  “Sure I have,” Loomis broke in, neatly extr
acting a packet of cigarettes from Shreve’s overcoat pocket. “Gimme a match.” He held an expectant hand toward Williams and continued:

  “I’ll tell the double-jointed universe that the ‘smallest, least-considered trifle’ can produce some important results. Change the plan and scheme of your life? Boy, it darn near flung my existence into the discard, and I don’t imply peradventure, either!”

  “How come?” demanded Shreve.

  “What was it, a blonde?” Williams wanted to know.

  Loomis snapped the match alight with his thumbnail as he answered solemnly: “A hole in my pocket.”

  “What?” his companions demanded in unison.

  “A hole in my pocket. A small, unconsidered hole, but it packed a kick like a ton of TNT.”

  * * * *

  It was the fourteenth of last February, as mean a night as Washington could boast, and I was so broke I was pulverized. My car was in the garage, and likely to stay there till I could bail it out, my pay check was three days distant, and my available assets wouldn’t have bought a petit déjeuner for a self-respecting canary bird. Behold our gay and sprightly young hero, then, all dressed up like the Queen of Sheba’s favorite brother-in-law, flinging a wicked pair of dogs all over the hardwood floors of the Broadhead’s mansion in Cleveland Park and wondering how in thunder he was going to get back to Washington.

  The party broke up about one o’clock in a burst of carefree laughter and synthetic gin, and, being in luck, I managed to dodge all the unescorted Janes and slip unobtrusively over to Connecticut Avenue to catch an owl car.

  I was as near frozen as a man can be and remain human before the headlights of the car showed against the snow, but the chill in my feet was a raging fever compared to the state of my spine when I unbuttoned my overcoat, reached into my trousers pocket and found—a hole.

  Yes, sir, a bloomin’ hole, and nothing else but. My last and only car token had slipped out that hole and down my leg while I was ambling lightly through the mazes of a fox trot, and here I was, four miles from my rooms, with no more money than a gold fish has shock absorbers, paper-soled dancing pumps on my feet and five inches of half-frozen slush all over the ground. Gentlemen, I could feel the pneumonia germs warming up for a clubby little game of leap-frog on my chest right then!