The Murder Megapack

by Talmage Powell

  Operating the automobile brought me back to almost complete consciousness, and with it came a heart-stopping fear. Where was Janet? What had happened to her? Why had I gone to sleep instead of continuing to search for her?

  I burst into the police station, and into Harrity’s office, at a fast trot. Before he could say award, I grabbed his telephone, called the hotel and asked for Janet’s room. “Miss Gordon left word that she is not to be disturbed,” the operator reported. After a little futile sparring, I hung up, somewhat relieved but still mystified.

  “The young lady is all right,” said Harrity softly.

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  He smiled, and told me to sit down. “Just take it from me, she’s all right,” he said. “Now, if you can regain your manners and your interest in your job, tell me—did you hear Dooley Williams’ speech at the hotel last night?”

  “Yes,” I said, “as much of it as I could stomach.”

  “What did he talk about?”

  “The usual clap-trap. Our great state must be made safe for you and your children, and that sort of hogwash. Meaning, of course, that Dooley Williams must be allowed to go on taking dough from lobbyists.”

  “Now, think a little bit,” the chief said. “Do you remember anything he said about the warning beacon at the Wabena-Littleton intersection?”

  “Yes—I recall that he mentioned it. Something about its being a bright, shining symbol of civic righteousness, or words to that effect.”

  Harrity leaned back in his chair, and began tapping his pudgy fingers together.

  “Do you know,” he asked, “when that beacon was put into operation?” I didn’t.

  “Last night,” he said.

  My wits were still slightly scrambled, and I did not catch it right away.

  “Last night?” I repeated. But he sounded as if he were describing an old friend. “If it just started to operate last night, why—”

  “Why, Dooley Williams was in Littleton last night,” the chief added, “and he doesn’t seem able to prove otherwise. The boys have been working on him for quite a while, in the back room.”

  I must have jumped pretty high, because Harrity restrained me.

  “They’ve just been asking him questions,” he said. “We don’t use rubber hose in this police station.”

  I had not recovered from my incredulity.

  “Do you mean you think Williams committed this murder?” I asked. “Why?”

  “If he was here last night, he could have,” Harrity said. “As for his motive, I thought you might be able to give me that. You been investigating the guy, haven’t you?”

  The telephone rang, and the chief listened for a minute with no more comment than a couple of “uh-huhs.” When he turned back to me, I was hammering my forehead.

  “The bank account!” I said. “The bank account in Chicago. I found out in the lobby investigation that Williams had a dummy corporation with a bank account at the Second National in Milwaukee. I wasn’t able to get authorization to see its statements—the state banking department blocked that—but I have a hell of a suspicion that a lot of cash went in and out of that account. Could some of it have gone into Turner’s?”

  Harrity picked up the telephone again, and told the desk sergeant to place calls to the Milwaukee and Chicago detective bureaus.

  “We’ll know by the time the banks open,” he said. “That other call was from Wabena. That’s a small place, as you know, and the cops have found a guy who swears he saw Williams driving through there last night.”

  “What does Dooley say?” I inquired.

  “He don’t know about the Wabena witness yet. But he’s got absolutely no alibi. He says he had dinner at the Park Hotel in Lakeville last night—which is true enough—and retired to his apartment, and didn’t budge out of it till morning. Since he lives alone in a ground floor apartment in a big building, there’s no way of proving that either true or false, unless we find a witness who saw him come home in the wee, small hours—and I doubt we’re gonna be that lucky.”

  I was shaking my head, and trying to dope it out.

  “It may add up,” I said, “but it’s all damned circumstantial. What the hell would he kill Turner for?”

  “Looks to me like it was for money,” the chief replied. “He’s mixed up in a lotta crooked dough, as you found out. Maybe this guy Turner was bleeding him.”

  “But—” I said, “Turner wasn’t involved in any of the lobbying, or in politics. I know the roster on all those deals, backward and forward, and Turner just wasn’t on it.”

  “Maybe not,” Harrity conceded, “but he was mixed up with that bird some way—and we’ll find out how, now that you remembered that dummy corporation. I’m much obliged to you, Dawson. With your help, I’m gonna be able to prove in a few hours that Dooley Williams put that bullet into Frank Turner’s head.”

  Bullet. I kicked the word around, silently, for a moment.

  “Bullet,” I said. “Chief, that word is going to save you those hours. You aren’t going to have to wait until the banks open.”

  “Whatta you mean?”

  “If you’ll take me to see Williams,” I said, “I think we can wind this case up right here.”

  Stifling further questions, Harrity led me through to the station to the bullpen, where Dooley was seated on a bench, more or less surrounded by three towering detectives. He was a far cry from the dapper secretary to the governor, the eloquent after-dinner speaker, the smartly tailored politician who cracked the whip over legislators and ward-heelers.

  His coat was off, his shirt collar open, and his tie awry. He looked unutterably tired. But he was smoking a cigarette, and there was a spark of jauntiness left in him.

  “Ha, Dawson!” he greeted me. “Maybe you can convince these—gentlemen that they are making a big mistake. They won’t listen to me. There is going to be hell to pay when the governor learns about this. Do you know they have not even allowed me to call him?”

  “You won’t need him—for a while,” I said. “After you’ve been sentenced, you might be able to persuade him to pardon you—if he really thinks more of you than he does of his political future. Aren’t you glad we don’t execute murderers in this state?”

  He threw down his cigarette, ground it into the cement floor, and stood up in a gesture of defiance.

  “You’re crazy,” he said. “The whole thing is absolutely ridiculous.” He was too scared to make it sound as if he meant it.

  “No, it isn’t,” I said. “You might as well tell all now, Dooley, because you haven’t got a chance. We found the fake beard in Turner’s house.”

  He turned on me, and screamed in a frightened tenor.

  “It wasn’t a fake beard!” he exclaimed. “It was real.”

  “Yah,” I said, “but it was Turner’s, wasn’t it? He staged a phony attack on the governor and let you stop him, so you could be a hero and stay solid with the governor forever after.

  “You let him get away because you had to. And you’ve been paying him off ever since, through that dummy company of yours, with the filthy dough you extort from lobbyists.

  “And when he started to demand more and more money, you couldn’t take it any longer and killed him. We found a letter in his house—”

  I was virtually pushing the words down his throat. When I came to “letter” Dooley started to disintegrate, after the manner of an ice cream cone in a summer sun. He slumped back onto the bench with such a pitiable expression in his eyes that I actually felt sorry for him.

  “You couldn’t have found a letter,” he whined. “You couldn’t have found a letter.”

  “You thought you’d got ’em all, didn’t you?” I sneered. “But there was one you didn’t find.”

  He was licked, and he gave up. He always had been the kind who would give up if you pushed him into a corner. His giving up made me a little sick.

  He turned away from me, and toward Harrity.

  “All right,” he said,
limply, “I’ll give you a statement. I—I had to do it. The man was bleeding me white.”

  Harrity nodded, and one of the detectives took Williams by the arm and half-carried him into the chief’s office. He was on the verge of hysteria, but he had one more taunt left for me.

  “There’s no credit in this for you, Dawson,” he said. “You weren’t smart enough—it was that girl. That damned dame trapped me some way. I saw her here when they brought me in. She did it—the dame did it.”

  “Shut up!” Harrity said. “When we want you to talk, we’ll tell you.”

  I grabbed the chief’s arm and held him back as the detective went on into the office with Williams. He tapped me on the shoulder, approvingly.

  “You did it, my boy,” he said. “But you certainly are an awful liar. We got no letter, and I never heard of this beard business before.”

  “You didn’t think the truth would do any good, did you?” I asked. “Now, what’s this stuff about a dame? Is he talking about Janet?”

  Harrity adorned his moon face with its most benign expression.

  “Yes,” he said. “I promised her I wouldn’t tell you, but you know anyway, now. She came here last night after the dinner, and gave me the tip on the road beacon. She knew it had been put up last night. Art Russell gave her quite a speech about it while he was driving past it on the way over to the hotel.”

  “And—and she didn’t say anything to me?” I asked, sounding very hurt indeed.

  “From what I hear,” the chief said, “you weren’t giving her much chance to talk. I musta given you a few too many drinks. But you might be glad to know she wouldn’t tell me a thing until I agreed to give the whole story to you first, if and when it broke.”

  I started for the door, fast.

  “Jess,” I said, “I’ll be back soon. I have to—”

  “I know you have to,” he said, “but I think you’d better go to the railroad station instead of the hotel. She was planning to catch the Chicago sleeper to Lakeville, so you wouldn’t be burdened by her company on the trip back.”

  He looked at his watch. “Nearly two,” he said. “The sleeper’s due through here at 2:18.”

  I drove into the station parking lot at 2:14. Janet was seated inside, beside her ridiculously tiny overnight bag, and staring straight ahead of her, at nothing. She started when she saw me, but didn’t get up. So I sat down. I was almost, but not quite, tongue-tied.

  “Hello,” I said, stupidly.

  “What are you doing here?” she questioned.

  “Looking for you,” I said. “I want you to—hell, I just want you, that’s all.”

  “Well, that’s a quick change of pace. The last time you saw me, you didn’t want any part of me.”

  “Baby,” I whispered, “I’m sorry—I—” I was fumbling for her hand. She pulled it away, but I could feel the ice melting slightly.

  “Did Harrity call you?” she asked.

  “Yes, that’s all settled. The case is solved. Williams confessed.”

  She was wide-eyed and excited. “He did? What did the office say?” Much to my amazement, I hadn’t even thought of the office.

  “I haven’t called the office yet,” I said. “I was sort of hoping that when I did I’d have a society page item to go along with the murder story.”

  “Such as what?”

  “Such as an announcement of the Gordon-Dawson engagement. That would be kind of an exciting story in Lakeville, too.”

  In the distance, bells started to ring and the noise of wheels on rails penetrated the waiting room. Janet reached for her bag and started to rise, but I held her arm firmly.

  “You’re not going,” I said. “You can’t go.

  “Janet—Janet darling, I’m in love with you. I want you to marry me.”

  She stood up, in spite of me, and I bobbed up, too, still clutching her arm. “What makes you think I’d marry a drunken reporter?” she asked.

  “The same thing,” I said, “that makes me know I’ll never take another drink.”

  For the first time, she smiled, and to me it was the most beautiful smile in the history of the world.

  “No, you don’t,” she said. “Don’t give me that going-on-the-wagon speech. From now on, you just drink at a more lady-like pace, as I do.” She stood very close. “My God, George, how I want to be married to you!”

  She put both hands on my neck and pulled my face down for a kiss that was both wild and tender. Then she pushed away and stared at me.

  “I guess I never would have been any good as a reporter, anyway,” she said, resignedly.

  “The trouble is,” I replied, “you’d have been too good. I couldn’t afford to let my wife beat me to the punch on stories, the way you did on this one.”

  The few other persons who had been in the station had gone out to catch their train. We had the place all to ourselves, and we just stood there in the dim half-light, locked in the tightest embrace that the fusty old barn had ever witnessed.

  SURROGATE, by Janet Fox

  Originally published in Fears. Copyright © 1980 by Janet Fox.

  Steve was repainting the walls of what had been the guest bedroom when he heard the doorbell. “Diane,” he shouted, and certain that he’d done his duty, turned back to rolling a pale yellow swath onto the wall. The new crib, bureau and bassinet that Diane had bought lay under protecting sheets and there were several unopened boxes bearing a toystore logo. His own attitude was as chaotic and half-formed as this room. Earlier he’d given up all hope of being a father, and it took a certain effort of will to resurrect that hope. He was trying, mostly for Diane’s sake, but turning this room into a nursery still seemed a kind of fantasy.

  The bell resounded through the house again, an impatient sound, and he shouted again, this time with less confidence. He put down the roller and listened but heard no footsteps. “Damn, she must have gone out.” He wiped his hands and hurried toward the door just as the bell sounded again. Through the screen he saw a young woman very visibly pregnant under a cheap dress whose pink-and-yellow print was very nearly phosphorescent. Her eyelids drooped under a layer of blue eyeshadow, and lipstick more nearly black than red glistened on her lips. Her jaw worked a wad of gum.

  “Mr. Winston?”

  “Yes, I’m Steven Winston.”

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and realized that Diane was behind him.

  “I’m Kelsy Adams,” she said, thrusting out a small hand. Several plastic bracelets clacked together on her wrist.

  Confusedly he clasped hands with her. “I’m sorry—” he began.

  She patted her stomach. “I’m your surrogate mother.” He heard Diane’s indrawn breath, felt her hand clutch his arm. The moment with its tension lengthened until it threatened to pull reality apart, yet here she was on their doorstep in a splash of sunlight. He’d never seen her before, yet it was his child she carried. Thrown badly off balance, he could feel only anger.

  “You had no right to come here,” he said. “According to the terms of our agreement—”

  “Invite her in,” whispered Diane.

  “No. No, you’ll have to go. This isn’t right.”

  “The neighbors…invite her in.”

  Reluctantly he opened the screen. “All right, we’ll talk,” he said. “But only for a few minutes.”

  Diane moved newspapers off the divan with a nervous motion. She wore what Steve called her white look—shocked but still functioning. It turned her normal fragile prettiness harsh somehow, masklike, hollow.

  “Maybe I should’ve called,” said Kelsy, settling herself on the cushions with the air of a cat getting comfortable.”

  “How did you find us? The terms of our contract stated that we were to have no contact.”

  “I got the information from a…friend who works in the office.”

  “Well, I’m calling Doctor Joshua,” Steve said. “I think something is very wrong here.”

  As he moved toward the phone, a dribble of mascara mel
ted down Kelsy’s cheek. “I had to go somewhere. I got kicked out of my apartment. Those old biddies said I had…bad…morals.” Diane moved to stand beside her, looking down helplessly. “I didn’t know people would think I—” began Kelsy, the rest lost in the tissue that Diane handed her.

  Diane made a warning gesture as Steve reached for the phone. “Calling the doctor isn’t going to change the fact that she’s here. She’s not just on paper; she’s real.”

  “But this isn’t how it’s supposed to be. It can cause terrible complications. It must nullify the agreement.”

  “I’m causing trouble. I’ll go. I’ll go and you’ll never have to see me again.” Kelsy wiped her face, smudging streaks of blackness across her cheek, a strangely vulnerable gesture.

  “How can anything be nullified” Diane said. “Look at her. It’s your—our baby. What does it matter about your agreements and pieces of paper?”

  “I didn’t mean to bother you; I just didn’t know where else to go, but I see I can’t stay here.” For all of her protests Kelsy wasn’t making any moves to leave the comfort of the cushions.

  “Don’t go. Not just yet. I’ll fix us some coffee, no, some juice, that’d be better.” A tentative smile appeared amid the ruined makeup. A simpleminded girl, Steve thought. That was all she was. This agreement might be the only stable relationship in her life. But even as he lectured himself, trying to find some compassion, he was wondering how a simpleminded girl could so easily break the security of a doctor’s private files.

  After Kelsy had downed her second glass of juice, Diane directed her to the bathroom so she could, as she put it, put on a new face. “I wonder if we shouldn’t call the doctor,” Steve said. “He shouldn’t be so careless with confidential information.”

  “But what if he cancels the agreement? Did we wait this long for it to be like the other time, when I—” Her voice fell to a murmur. “Lost the baby.” Her skin seemed translucent, stretched taut over the fine bones of her face, and he was afraid to say anything as if the sound of his voice would shatter her.