by Jerry eBooks
His master mind came promptly to his rescue. He paused, as though listening to the woman past the edge of the partly open door, said distinctly: “Thank you again, Mrs. Anderson.” He almost grinned at the name, he had noticed it on a small, plate on her mailbox. He stepped out onto the porch, his hand on the knob holding the door several inches ajar. “I really am sorry. . . .” He paused politely to let her speak, stood listening and nodding, aware that the little man on the sidewalk had slowed, was looking at him curiously. Rick ignored him. “Yes . . . I understand . . . believe me, I’m sorry, too. Well . . .” He laughed ruefully. “Guess I’ll have to ask elsewhere. But thank you again. And goodbye,” he added gallantly and closed the door behind him, knowing that the spring lock would work.
The little guy on the sidewalk was still looking at him, walking slowly, and a sudden rage flared up in Rick Haines, and he swore silently that he’d be damned if he’d leave a witness this time, no matter how remote the chances of being identified, nor how involved the task of bumping him off. He had cleverly and effectively lulled any suspicions the lug may have had as to his business here, and now to get him into the Chewy and the rest would be easy. And in his pocket a gun, which he had a license to carry because of his apparent lawful profession, would be enough persuasion. This buzzo was going to die!
He stopped the little man with a word. What a skinny, innocent-looking worm! “Can you please tell me where J.E. Thalmus lives hereabouts?” he asked politely. “Mrs. Anderson tells me she never heard of him at all.” The little man’s eye brows went up just a twitch. “Mrs. Anderson said that? Now that is strange—I mean, she has lived here all her life and gets about a lot and knows every soul on this quiet little street. She’s a nice woman, Mrs. Anderson; kind and quiet-spoken.”
“You know her?” Rick asked and a little alarm bell tinkled back in his brain somewhere. “Yes, she is.” Who is this lousy little runt, anyway? Have I seen him some place before? His hand went rigid, hard on the gun in his pocket. He was aware of the little guy’s stare, of his quick glance at the bulging hand in his pocket. He laughed. “Well, I guess I’ll have to go back for a better address.”
He moved a little, looking about to see if any chance window-watcher might see him force the little mug into the Chewy. Then the pee-wee surprised him.
“Look,” he said suddenly, in a sort of desperate, choked voice, “would you give me a lift downtown?” He laughed ruefully. “That blasted skate of mine there quit on me up the street and I coasted to here.”
“Sure, sure!” Rick agreed heartily. “Glad to have you.” His heart was singing now—boy, what a break! A solid, hard whack on the buzzo’s neck, then drive out along the highway, open the door on that curve and let the body spill out, over the bank in the dark, and into the river below. As simple as that—and the little runt asking for it!
They came down off the quiet, tree-lined street onto the boulevard lanes, then turned west; there were plenty of places along here where he could knock the little guy out before they got into the congested district where traffic was heavy. He’d take it slow. . . .
At an intersection, a cop stood in the renewed drizzle, directing cross-traffic. Rick slowed the car to the required twenty-five; he was too smart to slip up now. But as they approached the officer, the little man suddenly caught at the steering wheel with both hands, heaved with all his puny might. His might was as little as his body, but the maneuver caught Rick off guard because it was totally unexpected. Before his amazed senses could react properly, the wheel spun in his relaxed hands, the car swerved and plowed with a, rending crash into an iron trolley pole.
The impact dazed him; for a moment he couldn’t move. But the little man had the door open, was out on the street. The cop came over, angry and bawling.
“Watch that man!” the little fellow shrilled. “He’s dangerous. He just killed Mrs. John Anderson because he thought she saw him kill my cashier.”
My cashier! Rick heard the words and went numb—so he had seen the mug before—when he had cased the joint. He started up, but the cop was beside him, the door open, his big service pistol in his mitt. That cop wasn’t a coward, but he wasn’t a fool either.
“Come out of there, fellow,” he said stolidly. Cold terror revived Rick Haines. “He’s a fool,” he said furiously. “The jackass asked me for a lift, wrecked my car. I’m a salesman and I called on Mrs. Anderson on business.”
“Yes,” the little man cut in, dancing in his excitement. “Look, officer, I returned from lunch, found my man dead, the safe looted. I remembered that this is the day of the month that poor Kelly stayed to attend to Mrs. Anderson. She always came at noon when everyone else was out—you see, Officer, she was sort of sensitive about her—her ailment, and Kelly was the only one she would converse with. She came today, stumbled on this guy tapping the till, didn’t see poor Kelly, and left because she was unwilling to deal with anyone else! I don’t believe she had any idea at all that this thug had killed, but—”
“You libelous little fool!” Rick ranted. He kept his senses by reminding himself that they couldn’t pin a thing on him. Sure they’d find her dead, but this runt himself would have to admit she was still alive when they left her! “I never harmed your man, nor Mrs. Anderson. You heard me talking to her when I—”
“Yes,” the little man said again. He grinned suddenly. “That’s what put me next to you, warned me you were a phoney with something to hide. I came out to talk to Mrs. Anderson because she—well, she can’t use the phone. I saw you come out, got a little suspicious, but I’d have to let you go unnoticed—if you hadn’t stopped to talk to her. The rest I added up, and when I saw that gun in your fist in your pocket, I was sure. I was sure, too, that the car was stolen, so I deliberately got you to give me a lift so I could—”
“You’re a fool!” Rick snarled, but something in the little man’s grin put terror in his soul. “Mrs. Anderson was alive when I left her. I talked to her—”
“Sure, but she didn’t talk back. She didn’t, because she couldn’t! That’s why she used a door-light instead of a bell—that should have tipped you off, if you saw it. And that’s why Kelly alone could talk to her; he alone could talk with his hands! You see, wise guy, Mrs. Anderson did not talk to you, because she was a deaf mute, born deaf and dumb!”
Rick’s panic possessed him completely then. He forgot everything, even his gun, in his lust for life. He swung around the car, raced in agony for the shielding corner and escape. The policeman’s bullet shattered his leg, dropping him screaming to the street.
“Wise guy,” the little man said. “Just a death house dummy.”
MURDER RIDES HIGH
Leonard Finley Hilts
They told Buzz his flying days were over. But when a killer broke loose he remembered that a man may have bad nerves but an excellent nerve!
Buzz Ford was sore. His anger hung over his desk in the Operations Office like a nimbo-cumulus getting ready to spit thunder and lightning. He stretched his long legs and moved his arms nervously, trying to accustom himself to the feel of a swivel chair. He scowled as his knees knocked into the sides of the desk. Damn it, he wasn’t built for a desk. It had been a week since he took over as Operations Officer, and he still felt like a ship in dry dock. Swivel chair jockey, that’s what he was. From fighter pilot to pencil pusher in one easy physical exam.
He held his hands up and examined them closely, then dropped them back to the desk blotter. They shook a little, but hell, that didn’t mean a guy couldn’t fly. Fifteen months of punching fifty caliber holes in Jap Zeros would make anyone a little shaky, but it didn’t necessarily affect his ability to throw a Hellcat around the sky. But just try and tell a flight surgeon that. Yeah, just try.
Tommy Reynolds glided up to his desk. He was still in flight coveralls and helmet, and his face was grimy from his recent hop.
“Hi, Buzz boy,” Tommy grinned. “You look as though you need a few of the chaplain’s choice words of sympathy. What’s corroding your soul?
”
Buzz glared at the stocky blonde flyer and growled. “He’ll be reading a memorial service for you in a minute, chum,” he replied, “if you don’t cut the merry sunshine act.” Then he added, “Damn it, I’ll bet you’re even cheerful with a hangover.”
Tommy pushed a pile of papers from the corner of the desk and deposited his bulky frame where they had been. “Okay,” he said, “so you’re not happy in the Navy. Tell me the sad story.”
Buzz pushed himself out of the swivel chair so hard that the chair bounced off the wall in back of his desk. “Nuts! You’d be griped too, if you’d got the keelhauling I just had.”
Tommy’s face softened. “The Skipper give you hell this morning because of the crashes?” he asked.
Buzz nodded and combed his unruly black hair with his fingers. He took three strides across the office and whipped around. “Look, Tommy, I didn’t ask for a damned desk job. The flight surgeon just said, ‘You look nervous, better sit on the ground for three months.’ ”
“I know that, Buzz,” Tommy said soothingly. “But what did the Skipper say?”
“Oh hell,” Buzz shrugged, “he just said that he would give me twenty-four hours to prove that the two crashes this morning weren’t my responsibility. If I don’t prove it, he’s going to court martial me for gross negligence in the line of duty.”
Tommy looked at him, startled. “Hey, that’s serious. But how can they court martial you? You had nothing to do with them.”
“No, but my men did. They’re supposed to see that every plane that takes off is ready for flight. Both of these planes took off, then dived for the end of the runway. Of course, they exploded and burned when they hit, but the Skipper says it looks like the planes weren’t checked and took off with faulty controls.”
“So you get the rap,” Tommy put in, “because your men dropped the ball.”
Buzz nodded. “Skipper said I didn’t stay on ’em enough. That I was griped about being grounded, and didn’t do the job I was given. So I’m all set for a pack of trouble.”
Before Tommy could add his opinion, the wail of the crash siren split the air. The two officers looked at each other for a fraction of a second. Tommy’s eyes were full of sympathy, Buzz’s full of fear. Here came more trouble.
Buzz jumped to his feet and grabbed at the crash phone beside his desk in one motion. His eyes swept the crisscrossing runways of the Lake Monroe Naval Air Station. At the far end of the runway-in-use a plume of black smoke spiraled skyward from a burning heap of shattered plane. It had hit with terrific impact from a hundred feet in the air, and flames licked at the broken fuselage.
The yellow trucks of the field crash crew were already streaking across the field toward the scene.
“Stand by on the crash circuit,” Buzz intoned in a deep voice that was surprisingly steady. “An F6F has just spun in on the downwind end of runway two-seven, and is burning. Dispensary, send an ambulance and doctor; photo jeep, crane, and engineering crew go to the scene. No further action need be taken for the present. Secure your phones.”
Now a mixture of different voiced sirens filled the air. The ambulance from the dispensary and the photo jeep howled from their posts. Knots of people gathered in front of the hangars and stared across the field at the frantic efforts of the crash crew to save the pilot’s life.
Tommy was examining the crash through powerful field glasses. “The crash crew has the fire under control,” he reported. “But it looks as if the pilot hadn’t a chance.” Buzz took the glasses and nodded in agreement.
He watched the flames surrender to the foamite hoses of the crash crew. He could see now that all that was left of the plane was a smouldering mass of molten metal. He had seen men die often enough, but it still made him sick. When they died in a plane crash you stood by and watched, as helpless as if it were happening on a movie screen in front of your eyes. You kept saying to yourself, “He’ll get out,” but you knew he wouldn’t.
“No chance at all, Tommy,” Buzz said. “And that makes three in one day.” He reached across his desk and pushed a button on the intercom box. “Tower from Operations. Who was the pilot of that plane?”
“Lieutenant Nichols, sir,” the tower answered. “The plane was Fox seven two. It happened just like the other two crashes this morning. We couldn’t see any reason for it happening.”
Buzz made a few notes in his log while Tommy lit a cigarette and drew heavily on it.
“Wow!” Tommy said finally, shaking his head and exhaling an expanding cloud of bluish smoke. “Three senior instructors in one day! That just doesn’t make good sense.”
“It’ll make sense to the Skipper,” Buzz said gloomily. “He’s probably convening the court martial board right now.”
Tommy smoked in silence for a while. Then his face brightened. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, hoping to change the subject. “I came here in the first place to tell you about the sight I saw at the gate when I came in this morning.”
Buzz was sitting behind his desk again, building steeples with his fingers. He looked up without much interest.
“I drove up just behind a taxi cab,” Tommy went on cheerfully, “just in time to see a strange character get out. He claimed that he was an ensign going through operational training here. But the funny thing was, all that guy had on was his underwear. I almost croaked when I saw him.”
Buzz grinned in spite of himself. “I’ll bet the Marine Guard had a great time with him,” he said.
Tommy nodded. “Yeah, they gave him a pretty bad time. His story was that somebody conked him and stole his uniform, his money and his identification card. I think they threw him in the brig until they could check his story.”
“Probably got tangled up with some local witch,” Buzz noted dryly, “and had to make a hasty exit before her old man could aim his shot gun.”
“Speaking from experience?” Tommy asked with a sidelong glance at him.
Buzz reached for his telephone and shrugged. “Could be,” he answered. He started twirling the dial with a pencil. “Now I’ve got to see if I can find out what these crashes are all about.”
Tommy gave him a farewell pat on the shoulder. “See you later. I’ve got a hop now. And I hope you have some luck.”
An hour later Buzz studied the notes on his scratch pad. A deep frown creased his forehead, and his blue eyes were clouded with worry. There was something screwy somewhere, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
Three instructors, all of them back from the fleet and all of them pilots with several thousand hours in the air, had spun in. They got off the ground and began to turn away from the field when suddenly they peeled off, dived into the runway and exploded. And when the debris was cleared away after each crash there was nothing but the charred remains of the pilot and a twisted mound of metal. No way of telling what had caused the crash.
Buzz drew figure eights on the scratch pad and the furrows in his forehead got deeper. He checked his notes again.
“Line crew says planes were checked this morning before takeoff,” he read. “Only people seen around the planes all day were mechs, students, and instructors. Each of the three men who crashed was flying his own plane.”
There was nothing there to excite his suspicions. Everything was normal. Too normal, considering what had happened. Buzz rested his forehead on the palm of his hand and tried to figure it out. He was sure that some fact was eluding him, but he couldn’t grab it.
His eyes avoided the last note on the page.
“Report to the Skipper’s office at ten in the morning.”
The note was as crisp and impersonal as the Skipper’s voice had been when he phoned. Buzz was to be court martialled for “gross negligence in the line of duty,” and “being partially responsible for the death of three men.”
Buzz put the thought of what he had to face in the morning out of his head. Instead he drove himself by thinking that he had until that time to find that elusive fact, to prove that he hadn’t been res
ponsible for the crashes. He knew that such proof was the only thing that could save him from the court martial.
He paced back and forth in his office. “There’s something missing,” he kept saying to himself. “Something that I know already but can’t remember.” He slugged and cudgeled his brain until it cringed at the idea of thinking any more.
And then he got it.
What he got didn’t make sense, but it was something to work on. He headed out of the Operations Office. He stopped in the Records Office long enough to find the dossiers of the three men who had been killed. He took the bulging manila folders to his office and settled down at his desk. He made a chart for each of the men, showing a general outline of his career in the Navy. Then he sat back to study what he had.
He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he hoped he would recognize it when he found it.
“Whitey Garner,” he read from his irregular scrawl, “trained at Pensacola and Jacksonville.
Spent eleven months in the fleet, got nine Japs definitely. Received the Purple Heart, a DFC, two Air Medals. Was returned to the Lake Monroe Naval Air Station as an instructor.”
Buzz scowled. Nothing there that gave any indications as to why the crashes might have occurred. He continued to read.
“Garner put seven flights through the training syllabus and was rated as an A-I instructor. As a senior instructor he sat on the Washout Board for three months.”
“Doesn’t prove anything except that it shouldn’t have happened,” Buzz said aloud.
He turned to Tim Muslowski’s record. It was substantially the same as Garner’s. And so was Pete Nichol’s. The awards and the number of Japs shot down were different, but the records were similar in all other respects.
Similar! An idea flashed across the back of Buzz’s mind like a streak of lightning. Of course they were similar. They had all sat on the Washout Board together. The three of them, plus Tommy Reynolds, had sat on the same Washout Board for three months.