The Cutthroats and Criminals Megapack

by Vincent McConnor

  I was cold all through me. She liked it. I could see it in her eyes when she glanced up at me. I could see the flare to her nostrils, the small, quick pulse in her throat.

  “Maybe she’d like to—”

  “Shut up,” Sloan told Bill. “Take her upstairs and let her get a coat or something to throw over that playsuit.”

  Then my heart drove into my throat as Millie looked at me. Her eyes were hard, and her mouth twisted. She flaunted her body, tilted one hip out sharply, knowing the men’s eyes were on her. “My husband,” she said. “What a joke.”

  “Millie—”

  “Ah, shut up,” she said. There was something in her voice I’d never heard before.

  She and Bill left the room. Sloan prodded me into the living room, carrying the black bag. Bill followed Millie up the stairs.

  Sloan said, “Make it snappy. Not much time.”

  I slumped into a chair. Sloan grinned at me, lifted his upper lip off his teeth. “A lousy punk,” he said. “Imagine.”

  But that didn’t worry me. All that bothered me now was Millie. She had liked that money, the way the men acted.

  I knew she’d make out all right. I’d be the one to get it. She wouldn’t. These men might be deadly and desperate, but they’d never be able to kill Millie. Not when she turned on that charm.

  “I know what you’re thinking, pal,” Sloan said. He still held the gun on me. His eyes kept flicking to the front windows and he listened all the time. “Maybe you’re right. You were pulling the job for her, weren’t you?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “She isn’t worth it, Caldwell. But it’s too late now. I know her kind. We been in town over two weeks. We checked everybody at the bank. She’s been hounding you, hasn’t she?”

  It bit into me. I knew what she was now, too. But he was right. It was too late. I’d loved her. Now she’d throw me over in a minute. Something took fire inside me. I went hard and still.

  Somebody was on the stairs. It was Millie. Her hair was mussed up. She said to Sloan, her voice husky, “Your friend wants to ask you something.”

  “Damn that fool!” Sloan stared at her. For that instant, his gun hand drooped, and his eyes grinned mockingly at my wife.

  Something happened to me. It was like when I knew I couldn’t rob the vault. Fear rushed out of me and hard hate took its place. I leaped at Sloan’s gun arm. I got it.

  “Millie!” I shouted. “Please! Get help!”

  Sloan kicked viciously at me. The gun went off and pain exploded in my left arm. It sagged, useless. I grabbed with my right hand, gripped the gun, slammed down with my shoulder and full weight on his forearm. The snub-nosed gun clattered to the floor.

  Sloan gasped, broke away, dove for the gun. I kicked it across the room. He went after it. I tackled him and we came up hard on the couch, half on the floor. I pounded my right fist into his face and he grunted. I was crying deep inside as I beat him. All the sorrow and longing, the blind hate inside me came out. I couldn’t stop. Then suddenly I realized he was unconscious.

  I stood up, reeled, and leaped for the stairs. Millie stood there. She didn’t smile, didn’t do anything as I rushed past her.

  I scrambled up the stairs. The pain in my arm lanced me with every movement. It was broken, I knew, bleeding. I lurched onto the landing, scraped along the wall to our bedroom. I stopped.

  There, on the floor, was the tall, thin man, Bill. I stepped over to him, grabbed at the high bedpost for support.

  He had a lump on his head. A heavy bookend lay on the floor beside him. I heard Millie in the doorway, turned to her.

  “You hit him!” I said. My voice was just a whisper. “He’s the one murdered Lanihan.”

  She trembled, and there was fear in her eyes. It was the reaction setting in.

  She nodded. “I had to do something, Harve. I prayed when I went downstairs that you’d have some chance—and take it.”

  I reached her. She came into my arms. She was breathing hard, and she shook all over.

  “I’ll bet you thought bad things, Harve,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. It was all I could do.”

  Something had changed inside me. I held her close, not feeling the faintness coming from the pain in my wounded arm.

  “You mean,” I said, “you did it for me, Millie? I was robbing the bank—for you.”

  She nodded against me. “We’d better call the police.” She looked up at me and her eyes were misty and the fright was gone now.

  “I didn’t care about money, Harve. I just kept at you before so you’d go out for something better. I didn’t ever mean that you should rob or steal for me. You must have misunderstood. I was worried about you. I needed you. I needed you right, Harve. You were accepting only what they gave you. You didn’t fight back.”

  Her lips came close to my cheek. “The men will tell the police about you. But no matter what happens, I’ll be waiting, Harve. And when we’re together, now, I’ll know you have some starch in you. Not just in your shirts.”

  Hell. I guess a guy can kiss his own wife. Especially when there’s only an unconscious man present to witness it.

  TRESPASSER, by Fletcher Flora

  Originally published in Manhunt, September 1957.

  She was beautiful in black. Even climbing the hotel stairs, flight after long flight upward, she moved with ease and ineffable grace. Anyone seeing her might have wondered, however, why she bothered to climb the stairs at all. Why she did not, that is, take the elevator. But no one saw her. She was very careful that no one did.

  On the floor to which she was climbing, which happened to be the twelfth, she walked with assurance to the numbered door which was her objective. She knocked without hesitation, and the door was opened after only the slightest delay. The man who opened it was neither particularly young nor particularly old, having reached that interim span of years which has, in certain instances, a charm superior to its past or future. He smiled graciously and bowed slightly, bending ever so briefly from the hips. He was extremely handsome, she noted at once, his black hair and thin black mustache neatly trimmed and meticulously groomed, his white teeth flashing in his face. Together, she and he, they made a striking pair.

  “Mr. Agnew?” she said.

  “You’re an hour early, Mrs. Fenimore,” he said, nodding. “But it’s unimportant. Won’t you come in, please?”

  “Thank you.”

  She walked past him through a short hall into the sitting room of a small suite, simply and expensively furnished. She could look at an angle through an open door into a corner of the bedroom, and she thought that the rental on the suite, though not exorbitant, was certainly substantial.

  “You’re living quite comfortably,” she said. “I understood from our conversation over the telephone that you were desperately in need of funds. Practically destitute.”

  She turned to face him as she spoke with a dry inflection of irony, remarking with a faint feeling of admiration, which did not show or significantly modify her predisposition toward him, that he was not in the least disconcerted. He smiled again, ruefully, rather like a philosophical delinquent caught out of hand in mischief.

  “I’m anticipating an improvement in my financial condition. A quite considerable sum of cash, to be exact.”

  “Really? Isn’t it rather risky to obligate yourself on the strength of a possibility?”

  “I’d say that this is somewhat more than a possibility. Probability, I’d say. The truth is, I consider it a certainty. I’m so confident that I’ve even obligated myself for a bottle of very fine brandy. May I offer you some?”

  “No, thanks. I’m not particularly fond of brandy.”

  “Too bad. A cocktail, then?”

  “A cocktail would be pleasant. A martini if you have it.”

  “Of course. I hardly ever drink martinis myself, but I’m aware of your partiality to them. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Fenimore, I know quite a great deal about you in general. But we’ll get to that in g
ood time. Won’t you sit down while I mix the drinks ?”

  “Thank you.”

  She sat down on the edge of a deep chair upholstered with some heavy fabric treated to afford additional resistance to stains and burns. Holding her knees primly together, her body erect, she laid her purse on the knees and folded her hands on the purse. Watching him measure ingredients into a shaker, she was poised and perfectly still. The rise and fall of her breasts was barely discernible in the quiet cadence of her breathing. When he brought her martini to her, she took it and nodded her thanks and wet her lips in it and waited. Crossing to a chair opposite hers, with perhaps five feet of gray carpet between, he sat down facing her and

  crossed his legs and seemed for a moment considering what he should say. Lifting his fragile glass, containing one of the martinis he hardly ever drank, he performed what might have been a subtle salute to her beauty, or possibly to the perfect poise that disturbed him more than he liked to admit or intended to show.

  “You are much lovelier than I expected,” he said. “Frankly, I’m reluctant to waste our time with the dull conditions of a business arrangement.”

  “Do you concede, then, that it’s a waste of time?”

  “Not at all. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “We’ll see. Suppose you state the conditions.”

  “They’ve already been stated. I did that over the phone. We have met, I think, to consummate them.”

  “Nevertheless, you had better repeat them. I want to be certain where I stand.”

  “Certainly. Happy to oblige, of course. You are to hand me fifty thousand dollars with which to pay for my fine brandy that you are not fond of. In return for this reasonable sum, I guarantee my silence regarding a period of your life with which we are both familiar.”

  “Are we?”

  “I assure you that I know very nearly as much about this regrettable time as you do yourself.”

  “I’m not convinced.”

  “Surely you don’t want me to give you an account in detail. I’m quite sincere in saying that I’d rather not subject you to the embarrassment.”

  “Never mind that. I’ll try to bear it.”

  Looking at her across the five feet of space, lifting his glass to his lips again, he was once more aware of genuine admiration for her poise. Also for her beauty. He wished for a second that he could have approached her from a different position, with a different intention. He wished it, for the second, in spite of the fifty thousand dollars and all the brandy it would buy. For another second, following the first, he was uncomfortably incredulous that this sleek woman had actually committed the extraordinary follies, and worse, far worse, that constituted the substance of the savory little case history he had begun by chance and completed by design. Both seconds passed, however, and the wish and the doubt with the seconds.

  “Whatever you say,” he said. “For your sake, I’ll restrict myself to essentials. Just enough to convince you once again that I’m not running a bluff.”

  “Thank you so much. I’m grateful for your consideration.”

  “Sarcasm? You seemed disturbed enough on the telephone, Mrs. Fenimore—so much so that I took none of the usual secondary precautions—no messages left in case of my death, you see. Well, no matter. To get on with our business, you were born in this city thirty years ago.”

  “Please. Twenty-eight.”

  “Very well. I allow you the two years. What’s more important, you had the good luck to be born the only daughter of Reuben Webster, which made you heir to several million of dollars.”

  “That’s public knowledge. If you know anything significant, you had better get to it.”

  “Sorry. I promised to restrict myself to essentials, I know, but you must admit that the millions are essential. If it weren’t for them, I’d scarcely have gone to so much time and effort to develop my proposition. All right, then. You were the only daughter of Reuben Webster, and at the age of twenty by my account, eighteen by yours, you disappeared. Not many people knew that. Very few. It was feared at first that you had been abducted, but of course you hadn’t. You had merely run away. You wrote your father once from St. Louis to assure him you were all right. You wrote him once more, quite a while later, from Los Angeles. That was all. If you will pardon me for saying it, I have learned that you had, as a girl, what is commonly known as a queer streak. A proclivity, let’s say, for the unconventional. The sensational. Even, unfortunately, the illegal. The thing that saved you, so far as your father was concerned, was that he had the same proclivity. Therefore, he was inclined to forgive you. He wanted you to come home, but he did not insist, and when he died four years ago, he left you his fortune without any strings, just as if you had been a good, obedient girl instead of what you were.”

  “You’re being quite a bore. I haven’t yet heard a word that is worth the smallest fraction of fifty thousand dollars.”

  “You want me to go on? I’d much prefer not having to become any more personal than I’ve already been compelled to be.”

  “And I’d much prefer not having to hand you fifty thousand dollars.”

  “I see your point.” He distorted his lips to show that the taste of what he was going to say was already sour in his mouth. “Well, your father devised an explanation for your absence. He said you were in Switzerland, I believe, but that’s irrelevant to the matter in hand. You were actually, of course, elsewhere. Los Angeles and points south, to be precise. Much of the time in Mexico City. I suppose, actually, that it would take a corps of psychiatrists to explain this period in your life. Let’s just say that you were living with your queer streak. Satisfying a rather perverted need for questionable thrills. Many things were involved. Narcotics for a while. A number of men, naturally. You were known to everyone as Maria Melendez. Your appearance and a fluency in Spanish made it quite easy for you to pass as a cultured Mexican woman. Have I said enough?”

  “Not quite.”

  “You’re very hard to convince, Mrs. Fenimore. I admire your spirit, and I truly regret the necessity for taking my present position in this.”

  “It’s possible that you’ll regret it even more before you’re finished. I understand, however, that one must pay his brandy bill. Go on, please.”

  “One more point should be sufficient. Among the men Maria Melendez knew was one named Brannigan. He had a private lodge in the mountains. He died there one night. Shot to death. There was some evidence of a woman’s having been there at the time. The police worked on that angle but never came up with anything conclusive. I knew Brannigan. Many people even thought we were friends, but that was something of an exaggeration. Believe me, I did not grieve for him then, and I don’t regret his death now. Vengeance, I mean, is no consideration. Anyhow, I had access to certain information that the police did not have, and I know that there was, in fact, a woman at the lodge, and I know who she was. Her name was Maria Melendez.”

  “Can you prove this?”

  “I’m sure I can. However, I’m equally sure that I’ll not be called upon to do so. Maria Melendez is dead. Mrs. Fenimore, I think, does not want her resurrected.”

  “True. Maria Melendez is dead. Without benefit of psychiatry. Did you ever see her? Do you know what she looked like?”

  His brows arched in the faintest expression of surprise. “Allowing for the possibility of a little dye and certain tricks of dress and makeup, I rather fancy that she looked like you, Mrs. Fenimore. However, I never saw her, actually.”

  “You don’t, then, actually know what she looks like now.”

  “Oh, yes. Certainly. Would you like me to describe her? It will be a pleasure after the regrettable things I’ve been forced to say about her.” His eyes made a leisurely inventory of the woman opposite him. “She is quite tall and slender. Beautiful body. Incredibly lovely face. Very dark brown hair which she wisely pulls back simply into a bun. Impeccable taste in clothes. Truly a ravishing woman.”

  “How charming of you to say so.”


  “I prefer being charming when I’m allowed. It makes one’s relationships so much more amicable. Are you prepared to deal with me now?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I’m prepared to deal with you.”

  And then a small series of events happened in very rapid sequence. The brittle crystal in her hand dropped softly to the carpet. The remains of the martini it contained ran out into the pile of the gray carpet, making a dark stain. In the hand that held the glass, a stubby blue automatic appeared in an instant, apparently taken from the purse on the prim knees. In accomplishing this, Mrs. Fenimore hardly seemed to move. She still sat poised, in an instant resumption of stillness, on the edge of her chair.

  In the eyes of the man who called himself Agnew was a flickering of fear that was barely discernible before it was gone. He leaned forward slightly toward the automatic, apparently trying to convince himself that such a vulgar element had actually been introduced.

  “I do hope you don’t intend anything indiscreet,” he said. “I’d never rest easily, I assure you, if I were, as a victim, even incidentally responsible for the execution of a beautiful woman.”

  She smiled, nodding her head in a slight gesture of acceptance without disturbing the stillness of the rest of her body.

  “It’s the worst kind of mistake to compliment the wrong woman.”

  “I accept your judgment, but I don’t see how it pertains.”

  “It’s simple. I mean that I’m not Mrs. Fenimore. My name is Ellen Melton. I’m Mrs. Fenimore’s secretary.”

  “I see.” He leaned back and made a tent of his fingers, looking at her over the tips. “A prerogative of the rich. She sent you to handle the matter for her. I apologize for my mistake.”

  “It’s not the only one you’ve made. Nor the worst.”

  “Is that so? I’m becoming deeply ashamed of myself. Tell me the worst at once.”

  “Gladly. Your worst mistake is trespassing.”

  “Perhaps I’m dull. Again I don’t understand.”

  “Let me clarify it. I’ve known Mrs. Fenimore for quite a long time. In fact, I knew Maria Melendez. I know about her all the facts that you know, and many others besides. I was on the west coast with her. When she returned here after the death of her father, I couldn’t bear to be separated from her. Especially after I’d discovered who she really was. She told no one she was coming here, of course, and none of us had known her true identity. By methods that were no doubt similar to yours, I traced her. She had assumed, naturally, a way of life that could not possibly afford to recognize the old way. Besides, she had married and wished to remain married. She was living quietly, as she now does, avoiding publicity and never permitting her picture to appear in print. Wisely, when I arrived, she accepted me. I have a position that requires of me precisely nothing. I am paid a salary that is twenty times the normal salary of a secretary. I live exceedingly well and have many pleasures. All this in spite of the fact that Mrs. Fenimore would like to see me dead.”