Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  Munson almost had to boot in a lower panel of the door before a light flashed on in the hall and footsteps shuffled toward the door. It was an old man who opened up. He wore a bathrobe over a long-tailed nightshirt. He was pink and shining bald except for cottontail tufts of white hair over each ear. His round blue eyes practically hung on his cheeks when he saw Munson standing there, sopping wet and shivering, with a woman in the same condition in his arms.

  “Don’t get alarmed,” Munson said quickly. The old fellow looked as if he were ready to keel any moment. “This is Mrs. Eshmont from next door. She got trapped in their flooded cellar and almost drowned. I think she’s all right, though. Just fainted from shock or exposure or something.” He didn’t say anything about the fact that Mr. Eshmont had been murdered. The old boy didn’t look as though he could have stood that.

  “Come in then, come in,” the neighbor mumbled finally. He tugged nervously at his pinkish jowls. “My name’s Jeremy. My wife’ll be right down. Glad to do anything we can to help.”

  Mrs. Jeremy, an apple-cheeked little old lady in horn-rimmed glasses, put in her appearance then and bustled around, wringing her hands and exclaiming what a terrible, terrible thing it was, that the Eshmonts seemed like such a nice young couple, too. She supervised the job of putting Betty Eshmont to bed in a guest room, shooing out her husband and Munson, ordering them to call a doctor immediately.

  Mr. Jeremy gave Munson the doctor’s number, showed him the phone in the dining room, and told him to make the call while he tried to dig up some dry clothes for Munson to put on. After he’d called the doc, Munson phoned the police about Eshmont’s death. They said they’d send somebody right out.

  As he hung up, Munson heard the Jeremys’ doorbell ring. When the old man answered it, Munson heard an excited familiar voice. He was just starting out into the living room where Jeremy was talking to the new arrival when he heard his own name mentioned. He stopped in the doorway and listened, recognizing the voice. It was the man named Magraw, Eshmont’s cousin. He was saying:

  “It must have been that guy, Munson, who did it. Lew brought him home from the office for dinner and he and Betty were playing up to each other all night. Lew was terribly jealous of his wife. They were having a big fight out in the kitchen when I got scared and left. I—”

  Munson stepped out into the living room. He said, “What is all this, Magraw? Where did you disappear to?”

  Magraw was a slightly built, dapperly dressed young man with thick, wavy yellow hair and a high-cheek-boned handsome face. His eyes popped and his long thin jaw fell when he saw Dan Munson.

  Magraw stabbed a finger toward Munson. “That’s him, Mr. Jeremy. That’s the man who killed my cousin and his wife Betty! What’s he doing here? Listen, Munson, you aren’t going to get away with this!”

  “Killed Betty?” Munson said. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know damned well what I’m talking about, Munson,” Magraw snarled. “Go phone the police, Mr. Jeremy. We’ll take care of this guy. I come home and find my cousin Lew dead in the kitchen and Betty floatin’ around in the flooded cellar. What happened, Munson, after you killed Lew? Did you get afraid that Betty would tell on you? You had to get rid of her, too, didn’t you?”

  Dan Munson stood there, water still trickling from his wet hair down into his shirt collar. He stood there with his legs aspraddle, a tall, rangy-shouldered man, and slowly his fists closed against his thighs. This was beginning to get him. He’d had enough of this business tonight. It was too much now, with Magraw standing there accusing him of murder.

  It was then that the puzzling things Magraw had said began to penetrate and Munson saw what was wrong with the other man’s excited statements.

  “Wait a minute,” Munson said. “You say Betty is over there in that flooded cellar? What makes you think that? Was she there before you left the house tonight?”

  “Of course not,” Magraw said. “But when I came back a few minutes ago, I found Lew Eshmont in the kitchen, dead. Then I heard water flooding the cellar and looked down there. I—I saw Betty down there and—”

  “You did?” Dan Munson’s lean, haggard-looking face tightened and a tiny muscle began to jump along his jaw line. “That’s peculiar, Magraw, because Betty isn’t over there in the cellar any more. She’s right here, in the Jeremys’ bedroom. She’s alive and the police are coming here, too, Magraw. I imagine she’ll have a lot of things to tell them about what went on over there tonight.”

  Color washed out of Magraw’s face. His hands worked nervously at his sides. “Betty—she’s here?” he gasped. “She’s alive? But—but that’s impossible. She couldn’t be. She—”

  “You should have made sure she was dead, there in the cellar, before you left,” Munson cut in. “You’ve just given yourself away, Mister. You took too much for granted. You figured Betty wouldn’t have a chance, lying there unconscious after you busted the rotten water pipe open. If you hadn’t been so cocksure that your whole plan had succeeded, you might still have gotten away with it and pinned it on me. Even after what you did to her, Betty still tried to cover up for you. She told me she fell down the cellar steps.”

  Magraw opened his mouth several times, but no words came out. A corner of his mouth twitched and his green eyes took on a glassy hardness so that the light reflected from them as it does from a cat’s.

  “Betty covered for me?” he finally managed.

  “Yeah. She had to, you damned fool, because she’s as guilty as you are. The way I see it, you and Betty had just been waiting for a chance like my visit tonight afforded. You’ve been seeing each other secretly and tonight gave you a chance to knock off two birds with one stone. You would get rid of Eshmont, leaving you free for each other, and Betty would grab off a big hunk of insurance. Lew was an insurance salesman and they always carry heavy policies on themselves.”

  Slowly, Dan Munson started toward Magraw. He said, “I’m going to fix you right now before the cops come. I don’t like being made the patsy, the fall guy in any murder rap like you cooked up tonight. I resent it.”

  Magraw fell back before him. Suddenly his hand darted into his pocket and he yanked out a small-calibered automatic, lined the black hole of its muzzle onto Munson’s stomach.

  “Stay away from me,” he snarled and started edging toward the door. “You haven’t got a damned thing on me, really. You won’t be able to prove anything.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Munson answered. “I have an idea Betty will cook your goose for you, soon as she comes to and finds the whole thing’s come out. She’ll be ready to sing plenty loud. I imagine she’s plenty sore about you deciding at the last minute to double-cross her, kill her, too. What happened, Magraw? Did you suddenly get it figured that as Eshmont’s next of kin, if Betty was dead, too, you’d get that big hunk of insurance money?”

  Just as Magraw was reaching a hand out toward the knob of the front door, footsteps pounded up onto the porch outside and the doorbell clanged loudly. Magraw spun about in panic at the sound. Dan Munson dived at him. He hit him around the knees in a perfect flying tackle and they crashed against the wall and went down. It took two cops and old man Jeremy to pull him off Magraw’s still figure . . .

  It was broad, staring daylight when Dan Munson was released from headquarters, on bail, as a material witness. The little men were back again, kicking his head around, only he couldn’t actually see them this time. He could only feel them. Reaction from all the excitement and the hangover, in full glow now, made him feel like a walking version of a Dali horror painting. It didn’t help any, either, to think of facing Laura the way he looked, the way he felt.

  Before he headed home, he stopped in a drugstore and bought a five-pound box of candy. At a florist’s, he got a dozen roses. But even thus armed, Dan Munson knew a man wasn’t too safe, going home to his wife after being out all night. Even with the whopping story he had to tell. She probably wouldn’t believe it, even when she read about it in the
papers. Wives were like that. He got into a cab and settled back into the seat and hoped for the best. And let no man invite him home for dinner for a long, long time to come.

  HOME FOR CHRISTMAS

  Larry Holden

  His convict brother’s escape from jail plunges stolid, law-abiding Sam Murtagh into a confusing murder mix-up!

  Murtagh stopped his lumbering, old-fashioned LaSalle at the curb in front of the Ko-Z Maple Shoppe. Outside the wind was whipping itself into a temper and frantic dead leaves and bits of paper fled before it up the avenue. To the west behind the wind, the snow clouds were assembling. Sam Murtagh pulled his hat squarely on his head and stepped out into the cold and plodded, head down, toward the entrance of the store, holding his light overcoat tight to his neck.

  He was a heavy man, thick-thewed and dour, broad-jawed and frosty-eyed. All the Murtagh men had been iron and humorless. As he stepped into the furniture shop, solidly closing the door behind him, Mrs. Bird came fluttering from the chintz of a Ko-Z display.

  “Oh, Mr. Murtagh,” she caroled, “Helen called and wants you to call back immediately. She said it was very, very urgent.” Mrs. Bird continually looked flustered and vague, as if she were lost in a mildly distressing nightmare. “Very urgent,” she repeated. She watched him with uplifted eyebrows.

  He took off his hat and nodded shortly. His hair was slate gray. He said, “Thanks,” and walked ponderously to the rear of the shop where the telephone stood on Mrs. Bird’s desk. She followed him, twittering, her eyes bright. He picked up the phone, mumbled into it, and mumbled again when Helen’s answering voice came lightly to his ear. Helen was the only office employee the Clifton Banner could afford.

  “Your mother called, Mr. Murtagh,” she said quickly. “She wants you to come home right away. She sounded upset.”

  He said “Thanks,” and hung up. No expression crossed his dark face as he unbuttoned his overcoat and took a thick sheaf of folded newsprint from his inner pocket. He spread it open on the desk.

  “Here’s the dummy for the Christmas supplement, Mrs. Bird,” he began in a business-like voice.

  When he left, fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Bird had signed for a full page ad.

  Only then did Sam Murtagh turn the blunt nose of the old car homeward. He frowned sternly as he passed the three-story red-brick building of the Cook & Greenlock Printing Company, but characteristically he did not turn his head away. The Murtagh’s faced things.

  Five years ago, before the old man had been killed, it had been Murtagh, Cook and Greenlock Printing Co., doing a heavy business in directories and catalogues. Killed? Murdered! Murdered in one of his thunderous fights with his younger son. Les.

  That unsuspected partnership agreement, the agreement that the old man had literally forced on Cook and Greenlock, had been discovered only then, following the murder. On the death of one of the partners the business would remain in control of the surviving two and a weekly payment of one hundred dollars would be paid to the widow. If either of the partners died subsequently, the same procedure would be followed. On the death of all three partners, the business would pass to the survivors of the three families. The old man, Murtagh reflected bitterly, had expected to outlive everybody, and he wanted no outsiders sticking their fingers in his business.

  Murtagh had been general superintendent of the firm, and both Cook and Greenlock had urged him to stay in that position, but the Murtaghs were dark, proud men, unwilling employees, and Sam Murtagh had taken what money had been left, after the New York lawyer had finished fumbling Les’s defense, and had bought the almost defunct Clifton Banner. He had to. Printing was all he knew.

  There was another car parked before the house and he stopped behind it. It was a dark sedan with an M-G license. He nodded once as if confirming an expectation. The uniformed policeman at the wheel waved at Murtagh, who lifted his hand perfunctorily and strode into the house.

  In the living room, Chief of Police Evans sat on the hard horse-hair sofa and uneasily faced the embittered glance of old Mrs. Murtagh, who sat stiffly upright on the edge of the wing-back chair, both hands resting before her on the curved head of her cane.

  The silence between them was as oppressive as the surrounding gloom of the Victorian room. Murtagh methodically took off his overcoat and hung it on the moose-head halltree. He walked wooden-faced into the living room.

  “Hello, Evans,” he said. He did not offer to shake hands. He bent over and kissed his mother’s cold cheek, remained standing behind the chair, one hand resting on her shoulder.

  The Chief coughed and shifted his hat on his knees. “You know why I’m here, don’t you, Sam?” he said.

  Murtagh shook his head. “Why?” He knew, but the Murtaghs were clannish. All the rest were outsiders.

  “It’s about Les. He broke jail this morning. You must have heard it over the radio, Sam.”

  “We heard it.” His hand tightened just slightly on his mother’s fleshless shoulder.

  Evans looked puzzled and spread his hands. “But that’s why I’m here, Sam.”

  His mother looked up sharply into Murtagh’s set face. Her beady eyes found the Chief again.

  “That doesn’t explain why you’re here, Evans,” Murtagh said stolidly. “We didn’t help Les to escape.”

  “Nobody said you did.”

  “Then why did you come to us?”

  The Chief felt his temper rising, but he checked it sharply. He said reasonably, “I know how you feel about Les, Sam, but he’s broke jail and I have to bring him in if it comes to that. According to latest reports, he was heading this way. Les is desperate. He hurt a guard getting out.” His voice chilled. “Hurt him bad, too.”

  Murtagh said contemptuously, “Les just broke his arm, the radio said.”

  “Well, that’s neither here nor there, and I’m not arguing with you!” Evans’ temper surfaced and flashed. “Les is an escaped murderer—”

  The old woman cried fiercely, “That’s never been proved!” She pounded her cane on the floor.

  And Murtagh snapped, “You talk civilly, Evans, or out you go, police or no police!”

  The Chief glowered from the eagle-sharp face of the old woman to the flushed face of Murtagh over her. His teeth clicked as he set his jaw. He pushed himself to his feet. He walked angrily to the doorway, turned and leveled his finger at Murtagh.

  “I know you’ll protect your brother,” he said thickly, “but I’m warning you, it’ll go hard with you.” He stopped, looked embarrassed and muttered, “Blast it all, Sam!”

  Murtagh stared at him impassively, “I haven’t seen Les, Evans. If I do,” he took a breath, “if I do,” he continued in the same stony voice, “I’ll turn him over to you myself.”

  “Nobody expects you to do a thing like that, Sam.”

  “He had his chance to prove he didn’t kill my father, and he couldn’t do it. I’ll bring him down to headquarters myself the minute I set eyes on him. With my own hands.”

  The Chief stared unbelievingly at him, stood with his hat half raised to his square, chunky head. The old woman’s upturned face was cold. Murtagh was oblivious to both of them. He came from behind the chair and preceded the Chief to the front door.

  “Good night, Mrs. Murtagh,” Evans mumbled, but the only acknowledgment he received was a tightening of the jaw muscles in her averted face. On the porch he said, “Sam, nobody’s asking you to do a thing like that. If he turns up here, we’ll get him. All I’m asking is that you don’t help him get from here to some place else. Like I said, Les is desperate, and a murderer ain’t like other people. He’ll kill again. You don’t think so maybe, because he’s your brother, but . . .”

  “I’ve said all I have to say,” Murtagh said. “Good night, Evans.” He closed the door. For a moment, he stood there with his eyes closed, his forehead resting against the cold panel, then he turned and went back into the living room. His mother kept her head turned from him, and her lips were drawn as fine as a pen-line scratch.
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  Murtagh waited until he heard the police car drive from the curb, and then said in a low voice, “When did he get here?”

  Her chin lifted. “When did who get here?”

  “When did Les get here?”

  “He isn’t here.”

  He sighed. He went to the sofa and sat facing her. “He’s here,” he said. “I knew he was here when you called Helen at the Banner office. If he hadn’t been here, you wouldn’t have called me. If he hadn’t been here, you wouldn’t have needed help with a self-righteous donkey like Evans. When did he get here?”

  “This afternoon,” she said unwillingly. “He’s—”

  “Just answer what I ask. How did he get through?”

  She talked past him, talking to the oil painting of his father that hung over the ornate marble mantel.

  “He called me on the phone. He said to order two tons of coal from The Erie Coal Company and to wait until it was dark. He knew they would get a special truck for us. He came hidden under the body of the truck.”

  Her face relaxed for a moment and she said impulsively:

  “He’s in the cellar. He wants to see you, Sam. He wants to talk to you. He didn’t—”

  He cut her off with a short chopping motion of his hand. “I can’t see him. You heard what I told Evans. I can’t see him. I had to say something to Evans to keep him quiet and,” he said grimly, “I have never yet given my word and broken it. Have you fed him?”

  Her voice dropped back into its iron niche. “I fed him. He’s your brother, Samuel. He’s my son.”

  “I’ll talk to him through the heat register, but I can’t see him.”

  They looked at one another, but it was the fierce gaze of the old woman that broke first. She wasn’t one of the black Murtaghs. She was a MacAlister, with roots in the warmer lowlands of Scotland. The Murtaghs were all born on an iceberg, sired by a glacier. Sam was like his father. Les was leavened by the MacAlisters. She was proud of Sam, but she loved Les.