The Walt Whitman MEGAPACK ™

by Millard, Joseph J.

  “One of them, a big fellow, took a gun from his pocket. ‘It’s your pistol,’ he said. It was true; it was mine. The gun I leave under the counter, near the register.

  “‘You killed that man,’ the smaller fellow said. ‘So we’re here to help you out. You pay us, and we’ll remove the body. If you won’t pay us, we’ll call the law. They’ll fry you for murder.’”

  A helpless look clothed Gentz’s face. “So what could I do?”

  “How much did you give them?” Childers asked.

  “All I had in the store safe. Two thousand, three hundred dollars.”

  “And what happened?”

  “They went out. I thought they’d double-crossed me. I didn’t know what to do; then I did what I should have done at first. I called the police department.”

  “And then?”

  “When I came out of the phone booth the man I thought was dead was gone. He’d walked out. See? He wasn’t dead at all. It was a skin game, a swindle.”

  “Let me guess how the man you thought was dead was dressed. See if I’m right. He had on a black and grey pencil-stripe suit, a maroon tie, a white shirt, a light grey hat.”

  “Yes. Yes,” chattered Gentz. “That’s correct. Have you got him in jail?”

  “No,” said Childers. “You made a bad mistake. You should have told me all about it at first.”

  “I know, I know,” said Gentz, twisting his fingers together. “Has something else happened? Have they worked the same trick on somebody else?”

  Childers nodded, taking the unloaded .32 from his pocket. “This your gun?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Gentz nodded, staring at the weapon. “They didn’t give it back.”

  “Maybe they did take the man from the booth. Maybe while you were at the phone—”

  “No. They didn’t come back.”

  “But you aren’t sure?”

  “No, not sure, but almost. I don’t think they came back.”

  “I think,” said the detective, moving to the door, “that you, Simon Tork and Aussie Mellon were guinea pigs in a test. Used to perfect an experiment before it was tried on bigger specimens.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Gentz, his face confused.

  Childers grinned cheerlessly. “Guinea pigs carry no tales—but don’t worry about it.”

  His grin quit. “Be ready to go down to headquarters. The police may need your help soon.” He went out, saying, “S’ long, Mr. Gentz.”

  * * * *

  Childers thought he recognized the sedan parked in front of Julius Carp’s house on North Avenue. He drove on past, parked around the next corner. After talking with Gentz he’d searched the car he’d driven away from the alley in back of Mellon’s house. Besides other interesting things, he had found a loaded .45 automatic and a ring of keys. He had gun and keys as he walked back to Carp’s house.

  Carp’s house was dark. The fog had lifted on a soft breeze. All objects near the street-lamps were clearly visible. Childers entered the vestibule. Carefully then, as noiselessly as possible, he began trying the keys in the door. One fit and he let himself inside. With the door closed, he stood in the dark, listening. Soon he knew others were awake in the house.

  Voices, muffled and almost unintelligible, came from upstairs. One, vaguely familiar, said, “You’d better make the call, and fast.”

  “First you’ll have to prove the girl is safe,” came the reply. “If you’ve harmed her I won’t go through with it.”

  “You’ll go through with it, okay,” was the reply. “They’re your darts. The cops will find more like them in your room. They’ve already pinned one killing on you. Now besides looking for you, they want to know what you did with little Miss Blue. Since they found her purse you don’t have a ghost of a chance.”

  “Kill me then,” retorted the familiar voice.

  Another voice, soft and silky, broke in. Childers heard it, showed the darkness a satisfied smile. “We can turn the play,” it said. “It works either way. Stick a knife in your gullet and your hot-headed chum here will pay up. How about it, chummy? Fifty grand, cash on the barrelhead, and we’ll puncture his pipes and leave Cockleburr Annie’s knife in the hole. It makes for a motive. The dicks will believe she bumped him for killing her sweety.” The silky voice laughed. “Her sweety, get it? Little Joey Estramer, the bright-minded boy.”

  “I’ll pay it,” came a muffled voice.

  The familiar voice sounded, its tone desperate. “I’ll make the call. Give me the phone.”

  “Seventy-five grand if you kill him and not me,” said the muffled voice.

  Silky said, “Maybe you’ll make a higher offer, kid.”

  There was a gasp. “Yes, yes. One hundred thousand!”

  “One hundred and twenty-five,” bid the muffled tone.

  “You want to go higher, darling, to save your life?” The silky voice was gloating.

  “One-fifty,” came the choked reply.

  The silky voice was confident now, viciously happy. “Whoever has the most dough lives to ride out a murder frame. Speak up, suckers.”

  “I’ll pay two hundred grand. It’s all I got,” chokingly said the muffled voice. “Untie me. I’ll get it for you.”

  “I’ll go higher!” sobbed the other bidder. “Give me the phone. I’ll make the call.”

  “My friend and I will go outside and talk it over,” come the smooth-toned reply.

  Childers saw a dim oblong of light on the upstairs ceiling blur as the men walked into the hall. From near the top of the stairs, Silky Voice said, “We’ll take the two hundred grand, then turn the play. After he hands over the money, we’ll kill him. The sap will still pay up. He’ll have to, or stew in his own broth.”

  “Play both ends against the middle, eh?” came the guttural response. “In the end the sap will fry anyway. What sticks me is what we’re going to do with Cockleburr Annie.”

  “Bury her somewhere in her leg o’ beef coffin,” replied Silky Voice. “Just leave Annie to me.”

  “So far in this play, so good,” was the throaty reply. “We got guys in frames for the other killings, but we ain’t got anybody in a frame for Annie’s murder, if it happens. We’d be better off if you hadn’t led her on, got her all browsy over you. Her butting in on the Tork play wasn’t too good. It was the first hitch. That dick, Childers, was the next one.

  “That flatfoot’s got more lives than a bobtailed cat. You got to give him credit, swiping Ray’s car while Ray was waiting by his jalopy, waiting to give him lead poisoning. He might get smart enough to find us. Ray’s car had a key to this place in it, also a gun.”

  “He won’t come here,” said Silky Voice. “Gentz didn’t talk. Tork and Aussie Mellon didn’t get a chance. He hasn’t got a thing on us.”

  “We got to bump old man Gentz,” was the reply. “We got to tighten things up. This game is going to earn some real dough. One more worry, though, the flatfoot has the darts to work on. He might go to the Medieval Sports Club and check on guys that can throw them.”

  “And where will that get him? The guys we got in frames are all expert dart-throwers, except Aussie Mellon, and he’s croaked. The more the flatfoot noses in, the more he’s going to think wrong is right. I tell you I’ve planned this one solid. We’re manufacturing the reasons for blackmail, then collecting on them. It’s a sweet new angle. As the old saying goes, we’re having our cake and eating it, too.

  “The old way a guy had to have something dirty in his past before the squeeze could be put on. Our way, we give them what looks like a dirty present. Frame them for murder, then let them see the frame—they’ll always fork over before you call the coppers. You saw how Gentz paid up, and Tork—and Aussie Mellon, too, when he saw Tork’s corpse. This racket is a natural.”

/>   The guttural reply was tinged with some doubt. “The only hitch is Annie. We can leave the department store model where she is, let her rot if nobody finds her. What does she know? Nothing. But, Annie...”

  “I’ll figure out a way to dispose of Annie, don’t worry,” said Silky Voice.

  “The flatfoot knows we got her, don’t forget.”

  “Sure, he does; but he doesn’t know who we are, neither does Annie. She hasn’t seen any of us. The only voice she’d recognize is mine, and she hasn’t heard it.”

  “Let’s go in and collect, get this over with,” was the reply. The guttural tone was edged with impatience.

  The sound of their voices dropped, became almost indistinguishable, as they reentered the room.

  Childers moved forward, groping his way. Four steps and he kicked something that gave with a hollow sound. He went to one knee, felt along the wall. A leather object came under his hands. He finger-traced it. “A fiddle case,” he whispered. “The musicians...”

  He recalled the human monstrosity that had stopped him in his chase after the girl. He hadn’t got a good look at the big ape’s face, but “Could be,” he mused.

  He opened the fiddle case. A short-snouted automatic rifle was inside. He recalled there had been three musicians. He moved his hands, found another case—a monster. “For the cello,” he told himself. He found the huge metal clasp that locked it. He had to use both hands to pry the clasp open.

  A scream from above brought him to his feet, automatic in hand. “I’ve paid you—don’t kill me! Don’t!”

  Childers mounted the stairs four at a leap, thanking the heavy carpet that muffled his steps. It was rotten odds, four to one, but with the gun and a surprise entrance, maybe he’d have a chance. He couldn’t let murder happen under his nose and do nothing to stop it.

  They heard him coming. The hall lights flashed on behind him. A huge form shadowed the stair well. Something wafted past his ears, thudded in the wall. The automatic pounded his palm, hard, as he drove lead and fire upward.

  Fire and lead answered fire and lead. Something, like a mighty hand, grabbed his left wrist, jerked it. The big shadow up there was falling. He flattened to the wall, sidestepping the plunging body.

  Two figures suddenly popped up where the big one had been. Guns roared.

  Twin fingers of fiery death sought him out. His left arm went dead to the shoulder as a slug tore through it. He climbed on, leaping into the stifling smoke, upward, pumping lead! A hoarse scream. Another body hurtled down. The top of the stairs went vacant.

  Down the hall a door slammed. Childers raced at the sound, tore at the door knob.

  A warning voice came from beyond the door. “They’re not here. They slammed the door, went down the hall.” The warning came too late. Childers whirled. Joe Estramer stood at the end of the hall, an automatic in his fist. “Drop the gat, Tony,” he said.

  Childers let the gun fall. “Hello, Joey,” he said, a cold smile flicking his lips.

  “Not surprised, eh?” the blackmailer said.

  “No. After talking with Gentz, I knew you were alive. You played dead in his candy store, so it was easy to guess you also played dead in Tork’s back room—played dead there to fool Cockleburr Annie. If she hadn’t been there to lure me away, I’d have found you out then.”

  “And died for your trouble,” said Estramer. “One more step my way, and I meant to kill you.”

  “Then I have little Annie to thank for saving my life,” said Childers. “I’ll not forget.”

  “Dead men can’t remember, Tony.”

  “But I’m not a dead man, Joey. Not yet.”

  “You’re busy borrowing minutes, though. After you’re dead and rotten we’ll still be skimming along on the golden wave, playing our little game. Does that gripe you, shamus? Those two guys you gunned just now aren’t important. Are they, Ray?”

  A voice behind Childers said, “No. Boomer was good with the darts, and Skinny was a good locksmith; but there are others.”

  “Locking Annie and me in that fake cello case was a smooth stunt, Joey,” said Childers, talking to gain time, and not knowing what he’d do with it when he’d gained it. “Dressing your hoodlums up like musicians was another slick trick. Where you made your mistake was letting old man Gentz live.”

  “Still time to fix that little slip after we croak you,” Estramer said.

  Childers went on, “Gentz told me about you practicing your play on him. I figured if you’d played dead once, you’d do it again. I’d been to the Medieval Sports Club and found out Lloyd Fornash and Julius Carp had quarreled. That quarrel gave a motive, and put Fornash or Carp in a frame in case either of them was murdered. It was easy then to guess where and on whom you meant to pull your first big stunt. Especially after I learned Fornash had been grabbed away from the cop. It was logical you’d stage the play here, in Carp’s house.”

  “Gab on, Sherlock,” said Estramer, grinning. “We’ll listen. I’m trying to think now who’ll pay up when he finds your corpse in his bedroom. Maybe it’ll be old man Fornash—could be he’d believe his son had killed you.”

  Childers smiled. “Nice headwork, Joey. Only before I left Gentz’s house I phoned headquarters, told them where I was going. They ought to be outside just about this minute.” He knew the lie was weak.

  Estramer’s wicked smile failed to fade. “And didn’t come in when the guns popped awhile ago? Don’t make me laugh. You know what, Tony, I think I’ll have Fornash kill you. It’ll be better to have a legit’ case when we go to bleed his papa. Open the door, Tony, and take a look at what we got in there.”

  The detective opened the door. Lloyd Fornash and Julius Carp were tied in chairs. The strain the past few minutes had brought upon them was painfully evident in their haggard faces.

  “Two valuable babies,” commented the man called Ray, coming in close at Childers’ back.

  Estramer strode over to a clothes closet, opened the door, and helped out a pretty barefooted brunette. She was bound and gagged.

  At sight of her Lloyd Fornash gasped. Estramer led her to a chair, then untied Fornash’s hands. “I got a little piece of work for you, kid.” he said. He took a giant dart from his coat. “I want you to throw this—right into the middle of the flatfoot’s neck. If you’ll oblige, and quick, I won’t push pins under your beautiful girl friend’s fingernails.”

  Childers knew, then, why Estramer had grabbed up Flower Blue. She was the goad that made Fornash skip rope. Fornash shuddered, gasped, as Estramer put the dart in his hand.

  Julius Carp spoke. “Fiends! Murderous fiends!” His voice was a rattling croak.

  “He feels bad,” Estramer told Childers. “We got two hundred grand from him, now we’re going to bump him off.” He pulled a pin from his coat lapel, reached and got the brunette’s hand. “Pins under her pretty nails first,” he said. “Then a knife across her white throat, if you won’t play ball, Fornash.”

  Fornash clutched the dart with trembling fingers, fought to force his eyes up to his target. The room grew quiet. After a few seconds the man called Ray said, “Make it fast. We’re taking too much time here.”

  Fornash raised his hand for the throw. Childers glanced at Flower Blue, noting the beautiful, pure hazel of her eyes. He forced a stiff grin of defiance. They’d never understand, he knew, but he said it anyway. “This gives Lieutenant Jock the doughnuts.” He set his soul to meet death.

  “You can keep the doughnuts, Tony,” spoke a steady voice from the door.

  They all looked that way and saw Jock Anderson’s big square face, saw the Police Positive in his strong right hand, saw the hall filled with hard, official faces behind him.

  Estramer and Ray did as told and shelled out their guns. “How—?” began Tony Childers, then, “Hello, Jock.”

 
Lloyd Fornash dropped the dart as Cockleburr Annie wriggled into the room past Anderson.

  “You were in the fake cello case,” Childers said to her. “When I unlocked it, you got out and phoned headquarters?”

  Annie nodded. “That cello case is the satchel they used to transport us to Fornash’s store. After they took you out and closed it again they turned on the lights. The night watchman saw them, and one of them killed him. From what they said I thought they’d smashed you with an elevator.”

  Childers said, “Why did you lie, tell me you were Flower Blue?”

  “I was scared. If you got away I was afraid you’d arrest me for Joey’s murder. Last night he forced Flower Blue into his car. I believed she’d killed him. I knew you didn’t get a good look at me.”

  “How’d you know he’d picked her up?”

  “After I found her purse and shoes in his car he told me. He said he was holding her to force a payment from Lloyd Fornash. I threw her things into a couple of parked cars while you were chasing me.”

  The police had snapped handcuffs on Estramer and Ray; had untied Carp, Fornash, and Flower Blue. Flower was crying gladly in Fornash’s arms. Carp was folding a stack of money Anderson had taken from Estramer.

  Childers took a curled, golden hair from a vest pocket, held it out for Annie to see. “Something you lost in that oversized cello case,” he told her. “It told me you weren’t Flower Blue after I saw Miss Blue’s picture at the Medieval Sports Club.”

  He slipped it back in his pocket, said, “Too bad you had to fall for a lug like Joey, with so many right guys in the world. But maybe there’s one guy who knows enough about life that he could forgive a hell of a lot for the sake of a fresh start for a square little kid like yourself.”

  Anderson came over. “Those two at the bottom of the stairs are dead, if you’d like to know,” he said. “And, Tony, there’s something I want to tell you. I—”

  “Skip it, Jock,” said Childers, tiredly. “I know it all—I’ve heard it so many, many times. Insubordination. Willful neglect of duty. Disrespect for a superior officer...”