The Cutthroats and Criminals Megapack

by Vincent McConnor

  Stan shoved the recorder’s PLAY button. The plastic reels began to turn.

  On the recorder, a cultured male voice drawled: “This is Laverage.”

  “Newt?” The question was phrased in a hoarse, barking, almost unintelligible croak.

  “Yes, Hank. Good to hear from you.”

  “How’s da market?”

  “Quiet. Some interest in the rails, that’s all.”

  “Swell. I want ya to pick up a thousand Pennsy and a thousand Com Ed.”

  “Pennsy’s already jumped to 45. Why don’t I place the order at 44½, in case the price dips later?”

  “Naw, don’t fool around tryin’ to save nickels and dimes. Buy at da goin’ price, whatever it is. And buzz me at the hotel soon as ya know wot we got it for.”

  Someone hung up. Stan pushed the STOP button and leaned back, smiling.

  “Who,” Gus asked, “was Laverage talking to?”

  “Henry W. Braun, the scrap king. He cleaned up in metals during World War II and has pyramided his profits a hundredfold since. He’s a financial genius, but his formal education stopped at the second grade. You’ll have no trouble imitating his speech mannerisms.”

  “I heard of Braun. But his voice, that weird squawk, what’s wrong with it?”

  “He had a throat operation last year and it didn’t turn out right. With practice, Gus, I’m sure you can croak well enough to convince Leverage that you’re Hank Braun. I’ll drill you thoroughly on what to say. I’ve even picked out the stock we’ll move—Fireball, Inc. They make washing machines, but that doesn’t matter. What does matter is, ordinarily only a couple hundred shares of Fireball change hands daily, and for months the price has hung steady at about six dollars a share. When the supposed Hank Braun tells Laverage to buy a huge block of Fireball, the price will skyrocket.”

  “Won’t Laverage get suspicious? I mean, if Braun is such a genius, why would he wanna knock the price to the moon? Like you explained the price will drop like lead when he stops buyin’, on account nobody else was willin’ to pay more than six bucks a share before, and probably still ain’t.”

  “A good question. And most rich men spread a big purchase over weeks and months, instead of buying all at once, so they don’t disturb the price too much. But Hank Braun is impetuous and eccentric. He’s done this sort of thing before, but he always comes out ahead because he’s deduced the price will ultimately go higher than what he paid for it anyway. When Braun wants a stock, he wants it today, no matter what it costs.”

  “Uh-huh. But suppose the real Braun calls Laverage the same day I do?”

  “Gus, Braun has no real home. He hops all over the country, checking his business interests. Laverage is Braun’s broker here, but Braun also has brokers in even other big city he visits regularly. He only calls Laverage when he’s in town, usually from a hotel suite kept ready for him, whether he’s in the city or not. Laverage never knows if Braun is here until he gets a call. For a small bribe, I can get a key to Braun’s suite and a guarantee you won’t be disturbed while you’re in there. After you give Laverage the buy order, you’ll have to remain in the suite to receive calls Laverage will make to you, reporting on the progress of the purchase. Tentatively, I’ve decided you’ll stage your act on October 25th, between 2 and 3:30 p.m.”

  “Why then?”

  “For two reasons. First, Braun’s private pilot has an account with us, and he mentioned casually the other day that during the last week of October Braun is scheduled to visit a throat specialist in Canada. By October 25th, everyone will have forgotten that remark, and it’s not the sort of thing Braun would tell Laverage, since he’s very sensitive about his voice. And second, October 25th is the date of Fireball’s annual meeting. It begins at 2 p.m., the very minute Laverage will start buying the stock heavily. Nothing important will happen at the meeting, but investors all over the country will note the coincidence and think something happened. Some of them will jump in to buy Fireball too, in hopes of a quick profit, and they’ll kick the price up even further. Meanwhile, as the price goes higher and higher, you, I, and Nick will be the sellers. We’ll unload all our Fireball before the market closes at 3:30 p.m. When the bubble bursts the next day, we’ll all be collecting fat checks from our brokerage houses.”

  Gus sat deep in contemplation. “It’s crazy, but I like it. Stan, I’m beginnin’ to like it a lot.”

  “It’s a cinch.” Stan rose. “If Braun returns unexpectedly, or if I learn Laverage knows Braun is in Canada, I’ll tip you off and we’ll postpone it. But you can tell Nick to start buying Fireball now. Warn him to buy just a little at a time, at the lowest price he can get it for. It’s nearly two months until October 25th, and Nick should be able to acquire a sizeable block of Fireball at reasonable prices by then. I’d advise you to borrow more money and do the same. And play the tapes on this recorder so often you can imitate Braun’s voice in your sleep.” Stan smiled. “As for J. Newton Laverage—he and Braun will have one wonderful long-distance brawl on October 26th. No doubt their dispute will wind up in the lap of the Securities and Exchange Commission. But by that time, you’ll be free of your debt and Nick will be rolling in dough.”

  * * * *

  The car pulled to the curb on a quiet side street around the corner from Braun’s hotel. Gus started out of the back seat. One of the two men in front turned and said, “Remember, Gus. If this don’t work—”

  “Stop worryin’. If anythin’s wrong, we postpone it to next week. But if I’m still in the hotel at 2 o’clock, the price of Fireball will start up at two minutes after two.”

  “It better, I’ll be in a booth in a cigar store, talkin’ to Nick, who’ll be talkin’ to his broker on another line. And if Fireball don’t go up far enough by 3:30, you might as well ride to the roof of that hotel and jump off.”

  “Thanks for the encouragement.”

  Scowling, Gus walked from the car. He rounded the corner, strolled into the crowded hotel lobby, and headed for the elevator bank. He rode up to 18 and then walked down to 16, Henry W. Braun’s floor. A key provided by Stan opened the door to the suite. One room had been furnished as an office, and Gus pulled up a chair and sat behind the desk. Everything had gone well so far. He picked up the phone, dialed the Laverage company, and in his normal voice asked for Stan.

  “Gus? It’s all set. Braun is still up in Canada. Anyone see you go in there?”

  “Naw. But what’s with Fireball? Nick had to pay nine bucks a share for the block he bought yesterday. It’s already up three points since September.”

  “I know. There’s been a lot of buying interest in the last few weeks. Nick must have invested a fantastic sum.”

  “It ain’t just Nick. I didn’t mention no names to him, but I gave him a rough idea how I’d rig the price, so Nick told all his friends. All the big boys are in on it—the Chicago mob, the New York crowd, the guys in Buffalo, Miami Beach, Las Vegas...”

  “No wonder the price has been rising. I should have guessed. A chronic market player like Nick always shares a hot tip with his friends. But that’s just a sample of what’ll happen when Laverage executes the mammoth buy order you’re going to place. Did you tell Nick to instruct his broker to sell Fireball when it reaches 13?”

  “Yeah. You sure it’ll go that high before starting to go down?”

  “It’ll go higher. But it wouldn’t pay to be too greedy. If Nick ordered the stock sold at 15 and it only went to 14, he’d be stuck with it when the price tumbles tomorrow. But if he sells at 13, he’ll make a nice profit, since he only paid from six to nine dollars for his shares.”

  “Nick understands that. All the boys got sell orders in around 13. But Stan, I’m worried. Nick went overboard, tellin’ all his pals and investin’ a huge chunk of his own dough. If Fireball don’t reach 13...”

  “It will. Gus, you’ve got Braun’s voice down pat. And we’ve drilled a dozen times on what Laverage might say to you, and what you should say to him. It’s nearly two. Lavera
ge just returned from lunch. So good luck.”

  Gus depressed the hook. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He cleared his throat, raised the hook, and dialed the Laverage company again.

  A girl said: “J. Newton Laverage. May I...”

  “Lemme talk,” Gus croaked, “to Newt.”

  “Of course, Mr. Braun.”

  The girl made the connection. Gus began to perspire. At least, he had fooled the girl...

  “This is Laverage.”

  “Newt? Hank Braun. How’s da Market?”

  “Good volume, Hank. The average is up about three dollars, with the aerospace issues leading the advance. About that General Dynamics you bought last month...”

  “Never mind Dynamics. I wanna buy into Fireball. Two hundred thousand shares.”

  There was a pause. Then Laverage said: “That’s a big order. Fireball has already climbed recently. If you’re willing to take your time, I think I can pick it up in small blocks for less than it’s selling for now. The last quote was 9¼. You know what’ll happen if I buy two hundred thousand shares all at once.”

  “I know. But buy at da market price anyhow, I got my reasons. And buzz me at da hotel soon as you hear anythin’.”

  Gus hung up. He sank back in the chair and lit a cigar. Nervously he puffed, his eyes on a mantel clock. Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang.

  “Hank?”

  “Yah,” Gus squawked.

  “We bought twenty thousand shares of Fireball so far, but the price is already at 10½. Are you sure...”

  “I’m sure. Keep buyin. You’re doin’ fine.”

  Gus lit another cigar. Laverage called again at 2:35 to admonish.

  “I don’t like it, Hank. We have forty thousand shares now, and the last sale was at 12¼. Fireball’s annual meeting is today...”

  “You think I don’t know dat?”

  “Well, then you know nothing will happen at the meeting. But all sorts of wild rumors are flying around. Speculators all over the country are starting to buy Fireball, hoping to sell it a few minutes later at a higher price. They’re bidding against you, and if this keeps up...”

  “Just buy more stock. I want them two hundred thousand shares before the market closes. Or do you want I should get another broker to help you?”

  “Of course not, Hank. Whatever you say.”

  Laverage’s third call came at 3:14 pm.

  “We have a hundred and eighty thousand shares now. The price held at 13 for a while—an awful lot of sellers came into the market at 13—but the last quote was 13 3/8.”

  “Swell.”

  The phone rang for the last time at 3:35. Laverage sounded weary.

  “Hank? We got it all. We picked up the final block one minute before the bell. But you had to pay dear for it. The closing price was 14 1/8.”

  “Dat’s okay. You couldna done better. I sure appreciate it.”

  “I’ve run a quick tabulation. Your average price for the 200,000 shares was a little under thirteen dollars.” Laverage hesitated. “Hank, I don’t want to presume on our friendship. But I just can’t help wondering why...”

  “I can’t tell ya now, Newt. But you’ll learn soon. Real soon.”

  Gus hung up. He mopped his brow. That was that, and as Stan had emphasized so often, the next step was to get out of the hotel—fast.

  Gus rose. He wiped the telephone with a handkerchief to eradicate fingerprints. He opened a window and emptied the cigar butts from the ash tray. He washed the ash tray and set the chair back against the desk, leaving the room exactly as he had found it.

  Quickly, Gus walked out of the suite. His exit was unobserved. He took the stairs to the 14th floor and rode an elevator to the lobby, which was happily packed with conventioneers pouring from the hotel’s main ballroom.

  Gus edged through the mob and into the revolving doors. On the street, for the first time in weeks, he began to relax. His stride became jauntier; his face contorted in an unaccustomed smile. He lit another cigar, turned the corner, and approached the car where Nick’s trusted lieutenants waited. “Hi, boys. You talk to Nick?” The driver said: “Yeah, just now.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said to do this.”

  The barrel of an automatic pistol snaked from the car window. The gun barked four times and Gus tumbled backward. He sprawled dead on the pavement.

  With a squeal of tires, the car roared away.

  * * * *

  J. Newton Laverage put his signature on a check. “There you are, Stan. A little bonus. And forget those youthful indiscretions you mentioned when you first told me about Gus. I’m not going to allow a man of your business acumen to leave our firm. Beginning tomorrow, you’re a junior partner.”

  Stan mumbled his thanks, picked up the check and fingered it.

  “Poor old Gus,” Laverage went on. “Sitting there in the suite you rented down the hall from Braun’s, thinking I was actually buying all that Fireball, taking my word for it when I told him the price was rising to 10, 11, 12, 13! Well, I suppose we had to go through with that charade, but it does seem hard on Gus...”

  “If you knew him as I did,” Stan replied, “you’d conclude nobody deserved it more.”

  SHADOWED, by Richard Wormser

  Originally published in Manhunt, March 1957.

  Gordon Harris fidgeted with his private checkbook, his fountain pen, a blotter. He was the fidgeting type. Finally he slid the check across the desk, and said: “I won’t need you any more.”

  The man from the detective agency examined the check. He grinned a little. “This is the seventh day,” he said. “The check’s only for six and a half.”

  “It is now two o’clock,” Gordon Harris said. “Since you have not had a man on duty until ten each morning, precisely one half of a business day has expired; no more.”

  The detective waved a good-natured hand. “Have it your own way, Mr. Harris. Who knows, you may have more business for us some other time.”

  “Hardly.”

  The detective got up, swinging his hat against his thigh. “You’d be surprised, pal. Once a guy gets to suspecting his wife, he goes on from there. Next thing, it’s his partner, then his secretary, then the office boy. Plenty work for us.”

  Gordon Harris ended the conversation where it had started: “I won’t need you any more.”

  The detective left...

  * * * *

  Muriel Harris dressed with great care. The slip and panties were imported silk; the stockings were her sheerest. The dress was one her husband had never seen; the hat had an intriguing little veil.

  It was necessary, if Gordon searched her room, that he know how much care she had taken. Very necessary.

  As she came out of the house, she let her eyes slide sidewise, once. The battered series of cars that had been parked—with clumsy innocence—somewhere on the block every day for the last seven business days had ended. But just around the corner, she thought she caught the sparkle of the gold ornament on the front of a black Cadillac. She couldn’t be sure, but she knew her husband well enough to be almost sure.

  For all his money, he hated expenditure almost as badly as he hated the income tax. Seven days of paying a private detective would nearly strangle him; now that he was sure on which house she called every day, with whom she rendezvoused, he would cut the detectives off and take over himself.

  She smiled a little as she opened the door to the garage, climbed into her own Cadillac convertible—Gordon was generous enough when it was a matter of show.

  She smiled, because the thing about Gordon she hated most, his strict routine, his dry determination to do today what he had done yesterday and would hope to do tomorrow—this very thing was undoing him. He was not accustomed to pay money to private detectives, and—she knew him so well—he had been uneasy while paying that money. So he had stopped it as soon as possible, and taken over himself.

  He would be sorry for that, Muriel Harris thought. The motor was warm now, an
d she backed gently out of the garage, touching the control to make the windows roll down.

  She drove less than two miles, and three times she got glimpses of the other Cad in her rear-view mirror. But at that, Gordon was shadowing her as expertly as his hirelings had done.

  Muriel Harris thought wryly that this was a mighty expensive shadowing job. The shadow car and the one it followed had cost nearly twelve thousand dollars, and they were less than four months old.

  But now it was time to park and start walking, as she had done for a month; the same parking spot, the same walk.

  Halfway there, she had to pass a supermarket. At this hour of the morning, all the shoppers were women, but even so she got admiring glances from some of them, and she completely stopped a clerk in his work of pyramiding oranges.

  She walked very straight, careful not to let her thin hips roll. Her breasts were small, but well shaped, her legs long, and the frock she had on had cost enough for her to feel securely beautiful.

  It was a lovely spring day.

  The rest of the walk was through residential streets. The only persons she bothered were a gardener spading up a flower bed, a young mother putting a baby out in a playpen. She could read their thoughts: the gardener wishing he were twenty years younger, the mother wishing she had clothes like that.

  Here she was. Muriel Harris took a key out of her French handbag, opened the door she had opened regularly for a month, let herself into the house. She paused at the front door long enough to see Gordon’s black Cadillac go sweeping by. The reports, of course, would have told him which house she visited.

  After the pause, she went to the hall closet under the broad steps that rolled upstairs. She opened the closet door, smiled again, and went into the closet. A high window showed her only the top of a newly-budded tree; when she had first hid in this closet, the limbs had been bare.

  She settled down on the little boudoir chair there, and took up the book she had been reading.

  At ten-forty-five—as on all other mornings—the front door opened and heavy footsteps banged into the house. She heard the rocking noise as Hervey Melton threw his topcoat and hat on the chair opposite the closet door.