The Devils & Demons MEGAPACK ®: 25 Modern and Classic Tales

by Mack Reynolds

  Sheriff hastened in, looked about quickly. “I’m safe here?”

  The demon chuckled. “Really, Alan Sheriff!”

  “They’re after me. The cops…”

  “Ah?”

  Sheriff’s eyes went to the small table. “Two glasses left,” he muttered. “I could hire Liber for a lawyer, grease a few palms. With more than two hundred grand I could beat this rap, or, for that matter, I could go on down to Mexico, live there the rest of my life.”

  “It’s been done,” the demon agreed.

  “Fifty-fifty chance,” Sheriff hissed in sudden decision. He lifted one of the glasses from the table, said “Cheers,” downed it and stood back to wait, his face empty and white. Nothing happened.

  He turned to the other. “Give me the money,” he said triumphantly. “You know what, sucker? It’s like you once said. It’s never too late to change. I beat you all the way down the line, but I know when I’ve pushed my luck as far as it’ll go. After I’ve got myself out of this jam, I’m going to straighten up, see?”

  “I doubt it,” the demon murmured.

  “Yes I am, buster. You’ve lost this boy.”

  The demon said, “I suggest you drink the other martini.”

  The other stared at him. “That’s the one with the poison.”

  The demon shook his head gently. “I suggest you take the thirteenth glass, Alan Sheriff. It might help you somewhat in the tribulations that lie ahead. After all, it is the very best of gin and vermouth.”

  Sheriff chuckled his contempt. “Give me my dough, sucker. I’m getting out.”

  The demon said, “What gave you the impression that the poison was a quick acting one, Alan Sheriff?”

  Sheriff blinked at him. “Huh?”

  “I don’t remember informing you that death was to be instantaneous following your choice of the wrong glass. ”

  “I… I don’t get it…”

  “But of course you got it,” the demon said smoothly. “The poison was odorless and tasteless and you got it on your eighth try. Since then your life and soul have been mine to collect at will. The fact that I haven’t done so sooner was my own whim—and excellent business, as it developed. Surely in the past few years you have done more for the, ah, cause I serve than you would have had I collected my wager immediately.”

  After a long moment Sheriff picked up the last glass. “Maybe you’re right. I might be needing this, and they are good martinis.

  “One for the road,” he toasted with attempted bravado.

  “Down the hatch,” the demon corrected.

  CRIME CLEAN-UP IN CENTER CITY, by Robert Moore Williams

  Originally published in Fantastic Adventures, April 1942.

  The mayor of Center City was a kind and humane man, always thoughtful and always soft-spoken. So when he spoke to the chief of police about the crime wave that had broken over this city of churches, his voice could not be heard beyond the walls of his sound-proofed office.

  “Listen, you big tub of lard,” his honor, the mayor, said. “I want you to get off your can and do something about this crime wave that the papers are hollering about. I don’t want any excuses, see? I want something done and you…well better do it. I got an election coming up. You get it?”

  “Yes sir,” the chief of police said. “I understand, sir.”

  “You damn well better understand,” the mayor said. “Or there will be a new chief of police in this town. And I ain’t fooling!”

  The chief of police was also a kind and humane man. He took his departure from the office of the mayor and returned to headquarters, where he called his captains before him and spoke as follows:

  “Boys, I have been talking to the mayor and he tells me the newspapers are saying this town is a hot-bed of vice, sin, and crime. Of course I know that none of you read anything in the papers except the pictures, so this is news to you. Now I hate to ask you to soil your lily-white hands with anything as crude as work, but I do want to slip you a tip—if Center City ain’t cleaned up by this time tomorrow night, there is going to be some police captains pounding beats in this town, and I don’t mean anybody else but you. Boys,” the chief said, “have I made myself clear?”

  He had made himself clear. The captains went to speak to the sergeants. Now it is not necessary, for the purposes of this narrative, to report what all the captains said to all the sergeants. It is not even necessary to reveal what Captain Gallagher, of the plainclothes division, said to Sergeant G.B. (Give ’em the Boot) Buck. It is enough just to mention that Captain Gallagher spoke to Sergeant Buck.

  Under normal circumstances, Sergeant Buck was not an unkind man. He did not bite the ears off every drunk that got thrown in the lock up. And there were times when his own men, every one of them ex boy scouts who had won all their merit badges, could enter his office charged with some trifling offense, such as helping themselves to an apple from the cart of a huckster, and emerge without a single permanent mark on their bodies.

  Two of the men who worked for Sergeant Buck were Plainclothesmen Grady and Waller. Both of them were kindly men who loved their superior officer and in turn were loved by him. Of the conference between the mayor and the chief, they knew nothing. Nor did they know that the chief had conferred with his captains and the captains in turn had conferred with the sergeants. They knew, of course, that a sudden and mysterious crime wave had broken over Center City, but it was none of their affair. It was Saturday night and they were off duty. Crime could wait. They were in the locker room of police headquarters and their attention was fully occupied by something far more important than crime.

  “Here’s how,” said Grady.

  “Mud in your eye,” Waller stated firmly.

  “Down the hatch,” Grady said again.

  “Here’s to the mayor,” Waller said.

  “Here’s to the chief,” Grady echoed.

  At this point they stopped for breath. The bottle, a gift from a kindly saloon keeper on Sixth Street who sometimes stayed open after hours, had been full when they started. It was no longer full.

  “Here’s to Sergeant Buck,” Waller said, starting again.

  “May he fall down a well and break his blasted neck!” Grady fervently echoed.

  “Thank you, men, for your kind wishes,” a voice said from the doorway.

  To say that the two officers jumped half out of their skins would be to understate the situation. They leaped. Grady, with a sinuous motion that would have interested a professional contortionist, tried to get the bottle under his coat. It was against the rules to drink at headquarters. According to Scoutmaster Buck, it was against the rules to drink anywhere. And it was Buck who had spoken to them from the doorway. Too often had they heard the kindly sergeant speak in nightmares for them ever to mistake his voice.

  “Oh, hell,” Grady gasped. “Here’s where we catch it.”

  Grady stood a flat six feet in his bare feet and weighed a good two hundred pounds. Waller was an inch shorter and ten pounds heavier. The coach of any professional football team would have welcomed them with open arms. When Sergeant Buck appeared in the doorway each turned a sickly white.

  “Ah,” said Buck, advancing into the room. “Drinking, I see.”

  “Y—yes sir,” said Grady.

  “N—no sir,” Waller denied.

  Buck smiled fondly at Waller.

  “I—mean yes sir,” Waller hastily corrected himself.

  Buck gazed fondly at both of them. “Ah, well,” he said. “After all, it’s Saturday night.”

  “Huh?” said Grady.

  “I said it’s Saturday night,” Buck patiently repeated.

  “What’s that got to do with it?” Waller asked.

  “I am aware that on Saturday night some of my men wish to celebrate,” Buck explained.
“You were afraid I was going to be harsh with you for violating regulations by drinking at headquarters, weren’t you?”

  Waller nodded.

  “Well, I’m not,” Buck said.

  “You’re not—” Waller choked. He looked at Grady but got no comfort from that source. Grady was standing stiffly at attention. He had succeeded in getting the bottle under his coat, all but the neck, which was sticking straight up.

  “Not at all,” Buck continued. “I am not even going to mention the matter, especially since you men have volunteered for extra duty tonight.”

  Buck’s voice had exactly the same patient tone of a scoutmaster saying, “Men, it is wrong to pull the tails off tadpoles. Good scouts do not do that.”

  Grady came to life. “Hey!” he yelped.

  “I ain’t volunteered,” Walter shouted.

  “We’re off duty, Sarge,” Grady protested.

  “You mean you were off duty,” Buck corrected. He cleared his throat. “For your information, I will reveal some facts that may have escaped your attention. First, there is a crime wave in this fair city. Honest citizens are getting their pockets picked. Ladies walking along the street are having their purses snatched. Banks are getting held up. Also,” Buck said, “new gambling joints are springing up like mushrooms. The school children are playing slot machines and pin ball games, which are to be found in every service station and confectionery—”

  “I ain’t seen any slots,” Grady protested.

  “If you will look in the newspapers, you will see plenty of them,” Buck said. “The papers say that some underworld big shot has moved in on Center City.”

  “Who is he?” Waller asked.

  “That,” said Buck, “is another thing the newspapers are asking. They asked the mayor, in a front page editorial. The mayor didn’t know. But he does know he’s got an election coming up, so he asked the chief of police. The chief don’t know, either, so he asked Captain Gallagher. The captain came down and asked me if I knew who this big shot that has caused this crime wave was. When I said I didn’t know, the captain said maybe I had better find out. So—” Buck’s voice took on a slightly acid tone, “the minute I saw you two boys having a drink, I knew you were going to volunteer for special duty tonight to solve this crime wave. And now,” the sergeant finished, “do I hear you volunteering or do I hear myself slapping a fifty dollar fine on each of you, for drinking at headquarters?”

  The sergeant smiled. It was within his power to fine the men under him for infractions of regulations. He would not hesitate to exercise that power.

  “Look, Sarge—” Grady wailed.

  “We’re off duty,” Waller protested. “We been on our feet all day and my dogs are killing me. You’re not going to send us out, are you?”

  “In the first place,” Buck corrected, “I’m not sending you out. You are volunteering. And in the second place, the mayor wants this crime wave solved, the chief wants it solved, the captain wants it solved. And so do I. Does that mean anything to you?”

  It meant something all right. It meant that two plainclothes detectives might suddenly move from a cushy spot at headquarters back to a beat. It meant that the same thing might happen to any number of sergeants, several captains, the chief himself. It meant the mayor might no longer find himself in a position to negotiate contracts for public buildings, paving, et cetera. Detective Waller was silent. He plainly perceived the situation.

  Not so Grady. He was rebellious. “This is my night off,” he announced. “I am not going to volunteer.”

  Sergeant Buck perceived that he was being defied. He didn’t mind. He knew how to handle mutiny. “Seventy-five dollars,” he said.

  “Seventy-five! Huh?” Grady gulped.

  “For drinking at headquarters,’ Buck explained.

  “I volunteer!” said Waller hastily. Grady began to sweat. He knew the sergeant would enforce that fine. But he was still mutinous. “I’m not going,” he announced. “I don’t have to. You can’t force a man to accept duty without his consent.”

  According to regulations, Grady was quite right.

  “One hundred dollars,” said Buck, like an auctioneer selling an extra fine batch of tobacco. “The regulations empower me to assess any fine I see fit.”

  Grady’s lips began to work. But no sound came forth. Buck, however, could hear what hadn’t been said aloud.

  “An additional twenty-five dollars,” he said. “For swearing at your superior officer.”

  “All right!” Grady screamed. “I volunteer.”

  CHAPTER II

  The Big Round-up

  Thus began what was to go down in the history of crime as “The Big Round-up at Center City.” The scene between Sergeant Buck and Plainclothesmen Grady and Waller was repeated in other places at headquarters as various other sergeants, inspired by the kindly words of their captains, went down to reason with their men. The men, detectives, uniformed patrolmen, the rackets squad, the vice squads, the bunco detail, the arson squad, even the laboratory force, after listening to the cheering, patriotic words spoken by their fatherly sergeants, went forth into the night resolved to do or die for dear old Center City. They were also resolved to kick the teeth out of every crook they could catch.

  Of course the crook they wanted most to catch was that mysterious and elusive big shot who, moving in on Center City a month or so previously, had brought about this carnival of crime about which the newspapers were so eloquently talking. His teeth they wanted to kick down his throat, and then kick back out again. But not knowing his identity, they could only throw out a general dragnet in the hope of catching him. If they failed to land the big fish they really wanted, they would certainly land a horde of smaller fry, and by persuasion and reason the small fry could no doubt be induced to leave town. Thus Center City would again become a fit place to rear children.

  “We’ll get him,” the chief reported to the mayor. “All the boys have agreed to cooperate. By midnight we’ll have every jack-leg crook run out of this town, or my name ain’t McCarthy.”

  The mayor, relying on this promise, made a statement to the press. “I want to extend an invitation to every citizen and voter to be present at police headquarters tonight and see for yourselves the efficiency with which our noble boys in blue clean up this town. The chief of police joins with me in this invitation. We make you this promise: that from tonight on, Center City will be clean of crime.”

  The press received this statement with great reserve, but, of course, printed it. The radio stations put it on the air. The public, or as many of them as could crowd into police headquarters, took advantage of the mayor’s invitation, so that by nine o’clock the police station was crowded with a waiting throng, eager to see the animals.

  The animals began to arrive.

  They came singing. The words were different in each song but the tune was the same. “You can’t do this to me. I got protection. Wait until the Big Shot hears about this.”

  The panhandlers sang this song, the confidence men sang it, as did the disturbed girls from the red light district, who added the information that they were ladies.

  “You better get this Big Shot,” the mayor said grimly to the chief.

  “We’ll get him,” the chief promised. “I’ll issue an order to pick up every suspicious character in town.”

  * * * *

  The order came to Grady and Waller, via radiotelephone, as they sat morosely in a squad car on Sixth Street.

  “We better make an arrest,” said Grady.

  “Don’t I know it?” Waller said gloomily. “But where are we going to find anybody to arrest? The boys have been over this whole town with a fine tooth comb. I ain’t even seen a panhandler in the last couple of hours.”

  “It don’t make no difference,” Grady said. “We got to drag somebody
in. From all that noise up at headquarters, everybody on the force must have caught at least one crook. We got to catch somebody. Buck’ll have our hide if we don’t.”

  “You show me a crook and I’ll catch him.”

  “All right,” said Grady, pointing. “There he is.”

  A mild, inoffensive-appearing little man was coming down the street. As he neared the squad car he paused and looked in the window of a pawn shop.

  “He don’t look like a crook to me,” Waller said doubtfully.

  “What difference does that make?” Grady said sarcastically. “He’s looking in that pawn shop window, ain’t he? That makes him a suspicious character, don’t it? Maybe he’s going to throw a rock through that window and grab something and run, for all we know. You talk like an old maid. Come on.”

  The two detectives piled out of the squad car. The little man saw them coming. He took one look and shied like a frightened horse.

  “Help!” he bleated.

  “He’s trying to run!” Grady shouted. “Don’t let him draw that gun. He’s dangerous. Don’t give him a chance to—”

  If the little man was trying to draw a gun he must have been planning to pluck it from the empty air. Both hands were in plain sight. But, for all Grady knew, maybe this little man was a magician and could indeed pull a gun out of nothing but air. The big cop grabbed at him.

  “Get away from me, you big bums,” the little man shouted, shoving Grady.

  “Hah!” Grady said gratefully. “Resisting an officer. All right, bub, you asked for it.”

  Whether or not this suspicious character had asked for it, he got it. Grady’s open palm smashed into the middle of his face. As he staggered backward, Waller, who had run around behind, tripped him.

  “Work him over,” Grady panted. “We’ll show him to respect the law in this town.”

  Under normal circumstances, the two officers would have dealt more gently with a captive, in accordance with the boy scout code. But after their interview with Sergeant Buck, they had forgotten all about the boy scout maxims, “Kindness Pays,” and “Look Before You Leap,” Grady especially.