The Second Pulp Crime

by Mack Reynolds

  He reached Twelfth and drove down it and parked his car a block above the building in which Johnny and the Swede sat waiting for something they didn’t expect. He walked the block in the shadow of buildings and turned into the entrance to the building and climbed narrow stairs to a narrow hall, and the air in the hall was hot and oppressive, and it stank. He walked down to the door to the Swede’s old office and knocked and as he knocked with one hand the .45 was in the other.

  Beyond the door. Johnny Derry’s voice said, “Who is it?” and he answered, “Campan,” in Campan’s voice, which was a trick he’d perfected for practical purposes.

  The lock clicked, and the door opened, and there was Johnny like a sitting pigeon, acquiring and losing in a terrible instant the knowledge that he had made a mistake that would be his last one. The .45 coughed, and he was pushed back out of the way as if by the breath of it, and beyond him, behind an ancient desk which was another item of sentiment, the Swede moved with a jerk in the desperate exigency, but the Swede was getting old, the Swede was getting slow, and now he was too old and too slow to live, but not to die, and he fell back into the chair and slipped sidewise out of it and was swiftly dead before he reached the floor. Johnny, who had begun dying first, was not yet dead. He lifted his head from the floor and coughed blood and was dead then. Carey put the .45 away and went downstairs and rewalked the block to his waiting car.

  It was then ten-o-five. When he reached the parking lot behind the Line Club, it was ten-thirty. About eleven, Campan had said. Carey left his own car by the lot exit and went across to Campan’s reserved slot and got into the front seat of Campan’s Caddy. He lit a cigarette with the dash lighter. A man and a woman came and got into a car and drove out of the lot. He sat and smoked and waited.

  It must have been eleven when Campan came. Carey couldn’t see the face of his wrist watch, and the clock on the dash had quit running. Campan opened the door on the left side and slipped in under the wheel. He was smoking a cigar and had been drinking. He was heavy with the smell of rich Havana tobacco and rich Kentucky bourbon.

  “How did it go?” he said.

  “Fine. Everything went fine.”

  Campan laughed. There was no other sound in the lot. There was no one else in the lot to make a sound. Just Campan, drop the Joseph, and Carey, his right arm.

  “You’re a good boy, Carey,” Campan said. “Campan won’t forget it.”

  “Thanks,” Carey said.

  He took the .45 out of its holster and shot Campan twice. Campan’s body struck the door and arched upward in a violent reaction that drove the belly against the wheel, and then it collapsed with a great sigh and the head dropped back against the seat, and it looked for all the world as if Campan were catching forty winks, and that’s exactly what they thought at first when they found him later. Carey got out on his side and went back to his own car and drove to Campan’s apartment.

  Phyl opened the door, just as she had opened it earlier, and this had the effect of completing the cycle nicely. She had been drinking alone and listening to tangos, and the last of the drinks was still in her hand, and the last of the tangos was still on the machine. Her eyes flared with pleasure that he had come and fear that he would be caught at it.

  “Are you crazy?” she said. “Campan may be here any minute.”

  He stepped into the room and closed the door.

  “Campan won’t come,” he said.

  “How do you know? Have you seen him?”

  “I have. He’s dead.”

  She stood looking at him, the blood draining from her face and returning slowly in two feverish spots high on the bones of her cheeks. She breathed deeply and very slowly, as if breathing were a great pain to her.

  “Dead?” she said, “Campan dead?”

  “Campan dead, the Swede dead. The Swede died first and left an empty place, and Campan was going to fill it, but now Campan’s dead too, and that still leaves the empty place for someone to fill. Guess who.”

  “You? Carey Regan?”

  “Campan said he had connections. He said he had strategy. Work and deals and waiting, he said. Was he the only one? Did he really think he was the only one? Working and dealing and waiting are things that anyone can do, even an odd-times guy, and it was his mistake if he never knew it.”

  “Can you do it, Carey? Can you fill the place?”

  “I can fill it. It’s fixed. Once it’s fixed, you move hard and fast, and that’s all of it.”

  The spots were spreading and brightening in her cheeks. In her eyes was a gathering intensity of light. She seemed to be burning with a fever of excitement that would surely consume her and leave her a cinder.

  “Carey,” she said. “Carey.”

  He smiled at her thinly.

  “Just call me Regan,” he said.

  TURNABOUT, by Colby Quinn

  Originally published in Spicy Detective Stories, December 1938.

  The filling station was only a hundred feet ahead when she felt headlights blooming on the road behind her, turned and saw the car slow down. He might be slowing for the filling station, but maybe not just for that. And she wanted a ride badly.

  It would be hell to be stuck on a swamp road at night. Paved highway, but the shoulders were mucky and soft, and from three feet on either side of the road began the swamps, with their slimy water, their thickly sprouting trees dripping with moss, that harsh, incessant croaking of bullfrogs. Ugh!

  “Want a ride, sister?”

  She looked the gray V-eight sedan over carefully and looked intently at the man’s face, which was about all she could see as he leaned over toward the window on her side. He was young, honest-looking; handsome even. He looked all right.

  He laughed. “I don’t blame you for being careful, getting picked up by a man at night. But you can trust me.”

  She smiled. “Thanks. I’ll take a chance.”

  He opened the door for her. She settled down beside him, pulling her skirt neatly over her knees.

  “We need gas.” He pulled in at the filling station. She glanced at the gas gauge, which showed almost empty. But that meant, she knew, still a little gas in the tank. Probably enough for a few miles.

  Her companion got out, ordered the single attendant on duty to fill the tank, and departed toward the wash room.

  Lois leaned out, glancing nervously around. She asked softly of the gas man: “Are there any cops around here handy?”

  The fellow grinned familiarly. “Nope, lady, not a one in miles. Don’t worry, the law against hitch-hikers doesn’t work this time of night. I saw you thumb the ride, but don’t worry about me.”

  “Well…” Lois sat back, her heart pounding. “Thanks.”

  * * * *

  Two hours later they were still traveling together. She could have got away from him before now, if she’d really wanted to. They’d stopped at one more filling station, but he hadn’t left the car, and she didn’t either. A painful sort of fascination kept her.

  He hadn’t asked her much. “Where you going, sister?”

  “Atlanta.” Carefully looking him over as she answered. He didn’t seem to be paying much attention to her.

  “Long ways off. Well, here’s part of your trip.” He didn’t say how much. She didn’t ask. “Live in Atlanta?”

  She hesitated. “N-not exactly. My husband just got a job there, and I’m going to join him. He doesn’t know I’m on my way.”

  Instantly she regretted having said that her husband wasn’t expecting her. Why, she wasn’t sure. If she was in any danger, that wouldn’t make any difference. She examined this man again, furtively. You read so much about attacks and murders committed either by hitch-hikers or their benefactors. And certainly she didn’t trust this man, despite his looks.

  Once she stared intently at a passing motorcycle and he watched her curiously. He said unders
tanding:

  “You don’t have to tell me any more than you want to. But I can assure you there aren’t any cops along this road tonight.”

  “I—I was just wondering,” she said weakly.

  Neither made any more mention of cops, and after another hour, he said matter-of-factly, “I can’t drive all night. And there’s a place about three miles from here, according to the map, with good tourist cabins. Cheaper than hotels, anyway we don’t hit any towns soon, and if we did there wouldn’t be a hotel, the size they make towns here. I’ll get you a cabin if you want. What do you say?”

  Lois drew a deep breath, considering. She was afraid of this man, yet she wanted to stick with him. They’d go on in the morning.

  “All right. Thanks.”

  * * * *

  The young man reported to her, after consulting the proprietor of the cabins:

  “They’ve only one left, but it has two rooms, if that’s okay by you.”

  “All right.” Her heart jumped. He’d be right in the next room. A man she’d only met tonight. But she had to take a chance now. She couldn’t back out.

  Inside her room, Lois set the little suede zipper bag on the one chair and opened it. She drew out closely folded pajamas and then peeled out of her dress. She sat on the edge of the bed and took off her shoes, her stockings, apprehensively watching the curtained doorway. For there was no door between the rooms. Slowly she reached for one shoulder strap of her slip, let it slide down her arm.

  It was then that the curtain rustled and her companion stepped casually into the room.

  “Pardon me,” he said, but his eyes were bright on her thinly clad form, from bare feet to shoulders.

  “What do you want?” she asked tensely, one hand going instinctively to her breast.

  “Just to say good night.” He was still fully dressed. He must have been waiting for her…“And to tell you I’m only going to Mobile. But I’d like to help you get on to where you’re going.”

  Gradually he advanced into the room toward her. Lois stood up and retreated almost to the wall.

  “You would?” Her heart was pounding heavily again. And what surprised her, almost frightened her, was that it wasn’t entirely from fear. She was thinking with a hard cool thought that the best thing she could do was stick with this man. Lead him along, until…

  She had to get along with him now.

  She knew he wasn’t just big-hearted. And neither was she. Her eyes narrowed as he approached her. “You’d better stay there,” she whispered.

  He smiled, his eyes still stabbing brightly at her. “I said I wanted to help you.”

  “You don’t need to come any closer to do that.”

  “I like you, baby. That’s why I’m willing to help you.” He took another step.

  When he took hold of her arm, Lois didn’t scream. She couldn’t do that…but he’d pay for this!

  “Let me alone!” she whispered fiercely. But she didn’t twist away from him. His arms enclosed her stiff, unyielding figure and pressed her while he kissed her mouth, her face, her throat. Shivers crawled over her skin, and abruptly she began pushing at his chest and face, trying to get away. She knew now she couldn’t go through with it, no matter for what advantage.

  But she’d let him go too far. He held her, one arm low around her waist. With the other hand he finally captured her two wrists and held them while he kissed her again. He worked her arms down between their bodies and locked them there quickly as he held her tight with both arms.

  She moaned, suffering the roughness of his mouth, bruising her lips, parting them. Soft, tender curves were forced savagely against his chest until she could hardly move. When she tried to thresh her legs, he held her back to the wall…

  * * * *

  Lois was crying presently, her face in her hands, and he was bending over her, urging:

  “Listen, baby, don’t take it that way. I like you, see? And I’ll help you along.”

  Fury and humiliation almost choked her, but she managed to lift her face to his and smile. She kissed him, tasting it bitterly. “Thanks.” Her eyes still didn’t meet his.

  He seemed relieved. “That’s the way to act. I thought you would.”

  “Good night.”

  “Okay, baby. I’ll get out.”

  He did.

  As he disappeared through the doorway, she called, “Oh!”

  When he reappeared, she was standing close beside the doorway with the water pitcher from the table, poised.

  She brought it down with an awkward cross-arm swing that took him across the temple. He stumbled, sank to his knees, clawing blindly with his arms and groaning, and she hit him again, this time squarely on top of the head. He folded with his face against the floor.

  “Damn you!” she cursed him in a whisper, bending over him. She felt his pulse. It still beat strongly, so she was not a murderer.

  She searched his pockets, found the car keys in a license folder, looked at the license briefly and got to her feet.

  Lois smiled as she completed dressing and packed the zipper bag.

  Outside, she got into the car, found the handbag in the glove compartment, and made up her face practically in the dark. A minute later she was speeding down the road.

  With daylight, she stopped at the first place she could find a phone, called the police in the last large town she had stopped.

  “I want to speak to Lieutenant Moore. He’s not—Well, I’d like to leave a message. This is Lois Wharton. I reported my car stolen last night, and I want to report I’ve recovered it. I started out hitchhiking for Atlanta, and I must have got a head start on the thief, because he came along and gave me a ride! What? Oh… I was scared of him, and I couldn’t get to a phone or find a policeman. So I stayed along with him and finally hit him over the head. If he’s still there, you’ll find him in a tourist cabin at…”

  AN EXERCISE IN INSURANCE, by James Holding

  Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, March 1964.

  When three masked men walked into the bank with sawed-off shotguns that afternoon and calmly began to clean out the tellers’ cash drawers, I wasn’t even nervous. I was sure they weren’t going to get away with it. I was perfectly certain that five straight-shooting policemen, strategically placed, would be waiting for the robbers outside the bank door when they emerged.

  That’s the way it would have happened, too, if it hadn’t been for Miss Coe, Robbsville’s leading milliner.

  As proprietress and sole employee of a hat shop, just around the corner from the bank and felicitously called Miss Coe’s Chapeaux, Miss Coe fabricated fetching hats for many of the town’s discriminating ladies. She was an excellent designer, whose products exhibited a fashionable flare, faintly French, that more than justified her use of the French word in her shop name.

  Miss Coe was middle-aged, sweet, pretty, methodical, and utterly reliable. Indeed, her dependability was often the subject of admiring comment from local ladies who had become somewhat disillusioned by the unreliability of other tradesmen. “You can always count on Miss Coe,” they frequently told each other. “If she says she’ll have the hat ready on Tuesday at eleven, she’ll have it ready. She’ll be putting in the last stitch as you come in the door.” I had even heard remarks of this kind at my own dinner table, since my wife was one of Miss Coe’s steady customers.

  But perhaps you are wondering what Miss Coe, a milliner—reliable and methodical as she undoubtedly was—could possibly have to do with the robbery of our bank?

  Well, you may remember that some years ago, several of the companies that insured banks against robbery agreed to reduce the premium rates on such insurance if the insured bank was willing to conform to a certain security arrangement.

  This meant, simply, that to win the lower insurance rate, a bank must maintain a robbery alarm system so
mewhere outside the bank itself; that in the event of a robbery, a warning bell or buzzer must sound elsewhere so that police could be instantly alerted without interference, and arrive on the scene in time to prevent the robbery and even, hopefully, to capture the bandits in the act.

  In those days of rather primitive electrical wiring, the insurance companies did not insist that, to meet this security requirement, the outside alarm be necessarily installed in the police station itself. Any other location where the ringing of the alarm would unfailingly initiate instant action would serve as well.

  The potential savings on insurance premiums made possible in this way were quite substantial. Our bank accordingly decided to take advantage of them. As Cashier, I was entrusted with the job of selecting a suitable outside alarm site, preferably somewhere near the bank, since the installation charges would thus be minimal.

  After some thought, and with the memory of my wife’s recent words to a bridge partner, “You’ll find Miss Coe utterly dependable,” fresh in mind, I went around to see the milliner on my lunch hour one day.

  After introducing myself, I explained to her that the bank intended to install an alarm buzzer somewhere in the neighborhood. I explained the alarm’s purpose. Then I went on diplomatically, “Miss Coe, I have never heard you referred to among the ladies of my acquaintance without some warm testimonial to your complete reliability, to your calm, methodical turn of mind.”

  “How nice,” she murmured, pleased. “I do try to be precise and methodical about things, it’s true. I find life less complicated that way.”

  “Yes. And that’s exactly why I am going to ask you to permit us to install our alarm buzzer in your shop.”