by Jerry eBooks
He said, “Come on. What gives? If it was the car you wanted—”
“It ain’t the car, buddy.”
Charlie grinned. “It ain’t the car. Not by a long shot.” He bared his teeth at Carmody. “You look like a pretty nice fella. Bet you had a happy childhood.”
“Shut up,” Wally said.
“What of it?” Carmody said. “What about my childhood?”
Wally was chuckling as he wheeled the car over into a winding dirt lane. “Nothin’ much, bud. Only—you better hope it was happy.”
He stopped the car in front of a rambling stone building.
“All right. Get goin’. Watch him, Charlie.”
WALLY got out, waving the gun openly now. Carmody went up the six stone steps, hesitating. The door opened at once and a tall, white-haired man wearing tweeds stood looking at them.
“What is it, Wally?”
Wally kept prodding Carmody with one hand, carefully holding the gun away from him. “Inside, bud. We picked this guy up at the Garden, Doc. His ears are too big.”
“How much does he know?”
“Not much. He tried to cut in on Tom and Linda. When she flagged him, he looked pretty suspicious about it. He was going to follow them when we picked him up.”
The white-haired man said, “You think perhaps a slight treatment—”
Charlie was grinning from ear to ear. “The works, Doc. Go ahead. He says his childhood was happy.”
Carmody said, “What kind of a damn nuthouse is this? Treatment for what? Listen, Doc, you pull any damn—”
“Pipe down,” Wally said. He pushed Carmody into a dimly lit room whose four walls were lined with books. Carmody strained his eyes, trying to make out the titles, but the doc had trained a bright lamp on him. The man kept staring at him with a queer light in his eyes, until Carmody blinked and glanced away, spluttering:
“Holy Hannah, you’re all screwy!” The white-haired man frowned. He poured a tumbler half full of liquid from a decanter beside him. “Here, you, drink this,” he ordered.
Carmody didn’t move. “Do I look crazy?”
Wally’s gun waved at him. “You heard the doctor.”
“Yeah, you heard what he said,” Charlie, the thin one, added.
“How do I know it’s not poison or something?” Carmody stalled. If Wally had started pulling trigger on him, he could hardly have been more frightened. The whole crew was nuts, he’d decided.
“I give you my word it isn’t,” the doctor said calmly.
Carmody looked at the gun. Wally made a hard face and waved it jerkily at him. He picked up the glass, tipped his head back, and drained it.
His heart pumped a quick tattoo against his ribs. He was waiting for something drastic to happen. Nothing did. He felt nothing at all, except the doc’s shining eyes boring into his own again.
There was a peculiar quality about those eyes; they seemed almost self-illuminated.
Carmody felt at once repelled and attracted by them. His fright gave way by slow degrees to a strange feeling of nonchalance, a devil-may-care attitude toward the whole screwball setup.
The doc had a nice voice, gentle, almost caressing. Carmody felt a strange sense of confidence in him. This man would do nothing to hurt him, he decided.
“What’s your name?” the quiet voice prodded.
“Carmody. Steve Carmody.”
“Well, Steve, nobody’s going to hurt you here. I want you to believe that. We’ll just talk along, us two, and have ourselves a bit of a party. Here, I’ll take a drink too.”
He did, but from another decanter.
“How do you like city life, Steve?”
“I dunno. So-so, I guess. But you can’t beat the country.”
“No,” the lulling voice said. “You can’t, at that. You grew up in the country?”
“Sort of. A suburb. Out in Montgomery County. But it was real countryside then. Before the real estate men—”
“Built it up. I know. And ruined everything. I suppose you played baseball and football, went camping and—”
“I mostly went trapping.”
“Oh. Muskrats?”
“That’s right. And skunks. Plenty of skunks out that way. And possums and weasels. Used to get fifty cents bounty on weasels. You cut off their ears and—”
“Well, Steve,” the voice rolled on lulling, distant, “those were great days. Great days. I often think what fun it’d be to go back and follow the trap line again. Up bright and early first thing in the morning, gun and a dog, dozen or so traps on the shoulder—”
“Two dozen, Doc. I had two dozen.”
“Why, sure, I’d forgotten. You had two dozen. Well, suppose we go back . . . go back and make certain . . . I mean . . .”
The voice rolled away into meaningless distance. Stove lay back limply in the chair he had taken while the doctor talked. His head flopped down on his shoulder. His eyes closed and a boyish smile came over his features.
Wally said, “Traps. Muskrats. You kill me, Dec. Where’ll we put him?”
“Take him back where you found him,” the white-haired man ordered.
THE morning sun, glinting in through the coupe’s windshield, awoke him. He was cold and stiff in his arms and legs. When the policeman passed by and yelled, “Hi-yuh, Steve,” he didn’t answer, because he felt bad and, besides, the policeman didn’t really know him.
The policeman came back and stuck his head in the window. “You musta got a real load on last night. Slept in the car, huh? What’s the idea givin’ me the high hat?”
He looked straight out through the windshield. “Where can I get a train out to Lansdale?”
“Lansdale? What for? And why don’t you drive it?”
“I have to hurry and look at my traps. By now, all the muskrats have chewed off their legs and gotten loose, darn it.”
The policeman thought that was funny. He kept rocking back and forth on his heels, laughing and laughing. “You’re killin’ me, Stevie. You’re killin’ me.”
“I am not. I just asked you a question.”
“Huh?”
“How can I get the train to Lansdale?”
“Why—damn you—you mean—you ain’t kiddin’ ?”
The policeman had a funny look in his eyes. He came closer. “Steve. You ain’t still drunk?”
“I’ve never been drunk in my life.”
The policeman opened the door and climbed in back of the wheel. “Move over,” he said.
“Gee, that’s swell. Will you drive me to Lansdale?”
“I’ll drive you somewhere,” the policeman said. “We’ll have a nice ride, sonny.”
The room had a cloudlike haze hanging over everything in it. There were a lot of people standing in a circle around him, looking down curiously at him. He couldn’t make out their faces, nor did he know the voice of the stoopshouldered man in the waiter’s apron who was saying:
“He’s coming out of it now, Captain.” Coming out of what? Steve wondered. He sat up quickly and things came clearer. He was on a table of some kind in the middle of a big white-walled room. He saw Rafferty and said:
“What goes on here, Mike?”
Rafferty grinned and said, “How about them muskrats? They chewed their legs off yet, Stevie?”
“What muskrats? What the—”
The man in the white clothes said, “Easy, now. Take it easy,” and Rafferty clammed.
Steve said irritably, “Come on, come on, let’s have it.”
“Somebody hypnotized you, Stevie.” His face twitched. “No kiddin’. Boy, you killed me. ‘Lemme go,’ you was yellin’. ‘I wanna go look at my traps’ !”
The man in white frowned. “Better keep his mind off that awhile yet, Captain. I—”
“Patrolman,” Mike said. “Not cap rain, doctor.”
Steve said suddenly, “Two-thirteen Walnut Drive. By damn, I’ve still got it!”
Mike Rafferty said, “What?”
“A promotion for you, you thick
-headed flatfoot. Come on. Let’s get going.”
The doctor said, “Er—I wouldn’t recommend any—”
“That’s all right, Doc,” Steve said. “And thanks for bringing me out of it. Send me a bill. I’m in the phone book.” He grabbed Mike’s arm. “Come on.”
“Come on where?” Mike still hesitated. “Chestnut Hill. We’re gonna blow the lid off something. Something important.”
“Maybe I’d oughta phone for a squad car. I ain’t supposed to—”
“You want to pound pavements the rest of your life?” Steve said irritably.
“No. Of course not.”
“Come on, then.”
TWO-THIRTEEN Walnut Drive was one of those mansions you either dream about or see in the movies, but seldom actually come across in real life. There were about six acres of lawn, all smooth and well-groomed as a typical golf green, and a winding lane of hard-packed sandstone.
Steve parked the coupe a half block away, approached the gate stealthily on foot. Mike took one look at the place and shied off.
“You’re still off your track, Stevie. I know a legitimate joint when I see one. You’ll get us in trouble.”
“So maybe we’re selling brushes,” Steve said. “If it’s all on the up and up, there’s no need to worry, is there? Come on.”
Mike followed, grumbling, “Selling brushes in a cop’s uniform. Ain’t you subtle?”
Steve knocked on the big oaken door. There was a long moment’s waiting. The door opened. Steve had to look twice to recognize last night’s aging jitterbug when he wasn’t whirling around a dance floor. But it was the same man who stood there glaring at him. And the nifty blonde was right behind him.
The old boy said in an acid tone, “Not much good at taking a hint, bud are you? What do you want? And why the policeman?”
Steve started in. “Just a social call Pop.” He tried to push past the old man. That was when the old be: swung on him. There was plenty of ambition behind the punch; Pop was sore enough to kill him, but hadn’t the strength to back up his intention.
At is was, caught by surprise, Stew stumbled against the blonde. She tripped and they fell in a heap on the carpet.
Behind Steve, Mike said, “Wow! Tough old bugger, ain’t he?” He made a grab for Pop. The old man jumped to one side quickly.
“Wally! Charlie!”
Steve spotted the door through which the summons was aimed. He waited till the sound of running feet had almost reached them, then picked up a chair and hurled it along the floor blocking that path.
No All-American ever threw a prettier block. Wally came storming in with one side of his face lather-coated, a safety razor in one hand, his gun in the other. The chair took him in the knees and he did a beautiful header. The gun tumbled over the carpet. Steve dove on it, yelling:
“Watch out for the other one, Mike!”
The tragedy of Charlie’s life was that he always seemed destined to follow Wally’s example. He didn’t fall over the chair. He fell over Wally. But he came in prepared for trouble and as he fell, his gun was blazing.
Steve heard one of the slugs plop into the hardwood floor in back of his head. He pulled trigger just once, but at that distance he couldn’t miss. It hit Charlie’s shoulder and he dropped his gun with a groan of anguish.
Steve went over and picked up that gun, too. He looked around at them with a pleased expression.
“All right, boys and girls, let’s have it. You, Pop, what’s this dame to you?”
“My wife,” the old man grunted. “And don’t call me Pop, dammit.”
“Why not?”
“You seem to have some idea I’m an old man, I’m not. I was thirty-three last August.”
“You’re kidding yourself. You’ve been hypnotized, Pop. Your wife’s been dragging you out all hours and dancing your feet off, trying to kill you. I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts she stands to inherit your last nickel.”
“You—” The old, man looked dazed. “Sorenson—Dr. Sorenson—maybe—”
“Yeah. And we’ll look him up in the phone book. It was a very nice plan, boys and girls. But it didn’t work, did it?” He leered at the girl. “Should’ve let me cut in last night, sister. Things might’ve been different. What was the matter? Couldn’t you wait for the old boy’s money?”
He went to the phone and put in a call for a squad car. Wally said in a thick, frightened voice, “Wha-what’re ya doin’ ?”
Steve grinned at Mike. “I’m puttin’ a call through to my kid brother,” he said. “Up at Lansdale. I wants find out did I catch any muskrats.”
“Nuts,” Wally grunted sourly.
“What’s the matter?” Steve said. “Don’t look so sour. Some one’ll think you had an unhappy childhood.”
THE KILLER CAME HOME
Robert C. Dennis
Ben Tucker wasn’t smart, like the killer, so there wasn’t a thing he could do to protect his home—or was there?
BEN TUCKER cut his meat into bite-sized pieces and then began chewing methodically. Across the bare kitchen table his wife huddled in her chair, her soft brown eyes staring at nothing. The little radio on the shelf emitted a crackle of static and dance music.
“You ain’t eating Stell,” Ben said. Outside, the rain kept up its dreary patter on the roof. The wind had shifted a little, and the river was slapping at the piles that supported the wharf. “Can’t hear nothin’ with that racket, anyhow,” Ben said. “We might as well turn it off.”
Stell motioned for him to be silent. The news came on in a burst of static.
“Late advices . . . indicate . . . Jerry Rand has broken through the dragnet . . . daylight robbery . . . Northern Michigan bank . . . Rand seeking means to cross into Canada . . . police have doubled their guard at Abbotsville, Michigan, Rand’s birthplace . . . on the . . . river . . .”
Stell’s voice was flat. “They didn’t get him.”
Ben reached up and clicked off the radio. This was the first time she’d referred to Jerry since that day, three years ago, that she had decided for some reason to marry Ben instead. Even now, Ben couldn’t tell whether or not his wife was still in love with Jerry. He wished he knew, but he didn’t. He just didn’t know.
He got up and lumbered over to the window. In the failing light the black line of the Canadian shore seemed far away. It was only a mile across, or a little more—allowing for the jog to get around Pigeon Island. A lonesome, uninhabited clump of undergrowth, the island lay midway between, too unimportant to be used by either country. Ben spoke without turning. “They’ll gather him in, sooner or later. They get ’em all.”
“Do you think he’ll come this way?” Stell looked at Ben and there was something unreadable in her eyes.
“Reckon so,” Ben said. “He’ll need a boat. He couldn’t swim when we was kids, and I don’t figger he’s taken time to learn since. He knows the river best long here.”
“Maybe he’ll steal one of our boats.”
Ben nodded. He’d been worrying about the boats. There were eight of them, clinker-bottom rowboats that he rented to fishermen from the city. He also sold bait and fishing tackle. It wasn’t very profitable, but it was an honest living. . . .
The room was strained with a sense of expectancy, of waiting. It grew as time dragged on. Ben was mortally certain that Jerry would come this way. It was his best chance; his only chance. The police should be watching for him here; up at the corner by the highway was no good. Jerry would slip around them. Ben wandered why he didn’t just go up there and bring the cops down.
He looked at Stell. He wouldn’t go unless she suggested it. It was up to her. She stared back without speaking. Ben looked away. He was afraid to look any deeper for fear of seeing what he didn’t want to see. . . .
When the time came—when they both heard the sound on the sodden boards outside—Stell’s eyes met his again.
Ben said evenly, “I guess that’ll be him.”
It was. Jerry pushed through the door, a gun in hi
s hand. Ben had a sudden feeling of disappointment. He had never been able to associate his remembrance of Jerry with the headline killer. He had expected that Jerry had changed in the three intervening years. He hadn’t. He had the same thin, cowardly face, the same cruel eyes. The only difference was the gun.
HE MOVED across the room, dripping water from the brim of his dark hat and from his sodden trench-coat. He said, “Hello, Benny . . . hello, Stella.” He kept one ear cocked, listening all the time. “You still got boats, Benny?”
Ben said, “Yeah.”
“Get moving then,” Jerry said, harshly. “You’re rowing me across the river.” Ben said, “No.”
Jerry leaned forward and struck him across the bridge of the nose with the gun. Ben lunged off his chair, disdaining the weapon. He knew that Jerry wouldn’t dare shoot. A shot would bring the cops.
Ben kept walking in, and Jerry dodged back, slashing viciously. Ben threw a punch that staggered Jerry against the wall. Jerry swung the gun again, a frightened, hunted look in his eyes. “Stay away, Ben!” he screamed. “Back up or I’ll kill you! Stella—!”
“Stop, Ben,” Stell cried. “Stop—don’t touch him.”
Ben let his arms drop limply. All feeling went out of him.
Stell’s voice was completely colorless. “Row him across, Ben.”
Ben put on a raincoat and an old cap, moving silently, dully. Then he led the way out, never once looking back. The rain had stopped and fog lay on the river like a huge ghost. He unlocked one of the boats and waited until Jerry was seated in the stern. Then he shoved out.
“I’d row around all night in this soup,” Jerry said, “but you can do it in ten minutes. I’ll give you just that long.”
“It’s more than a mile, goin’ around the island,” Ben said.
“Twelve minutes,” Jerry amended. Ben rowed steadily for a while, then asked, “How do I know you won’t start banging anyway?”
“Why you poor dope, I wouldn’t waste a bullet on you. You’re small-time, Ben, you ought to know that by now.”
The fog hung like a curtain, cutting the boat off into a world alone. “Maybe so,” Ben said, “but there ain’t nobody chasing me. I got a home and a—a wife.”