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

by Mack Reynolds

  “What rotgut!” he choked. “But it’s whiskey, and anything goes in this hole.”

  Now, however, the other jail guests sighted the liquor. They swept forward like the tide coming in. Tod took a spraddle-legged stand between them and the racketeer.

  “I’ll slug the first one of you who comes any closer!” he declared grimly, working on the theory that this should go far toward clearing his record with the gangster. But he had underestimated the lengths to which a rum-soaked stew-bum will go to get a drink.

  “Whiskey!” The drunks chanted it as if the word were a battle cry. As one, they charged. The young warehouseman went down under a barrage of arms, legs, and breaths. He caught glimpse of Kroloski swinging back the bottle as if it were a club.

  But the next instant all hell broke loose. Drunks began staggering backward in all stages of confusion, bellowing epithets and stumbling over each other in a mad rush for anywhere but where they were.

  Seconds passed while Tod sat scratching his curly thatch in stunned bewilderment at the exodus. Then he got the vaguest of flashes of an amber streak close on the trail of the last laggard. “Beezlebub!”

  Like magic the satanic little figure appeared on his knee, barbed tail swishing wickedly. The tiny eyes sparkled with malicious joy.

  “Brother,” Tod declared with feeling, “that was a noble deed.”

  “Oh, it was noble, was it?” leered the whiskey-hued imp. “Well, just you wait and see how noble it was!”

  The husky one felt a wave of misgiving dash over him. “What is this?” he demanded “What d’you mean?”

  “You wanted trouble, didn’t you?”

  Protestingly: “But I’ve had trouble. Too much trouble.”

  “Trouble? You don’t know what it means, yet.” Beezlebub snickered in his most devilish fashion. “But you will. That’s why I got you out of this jam by driving away those drunks. I’ve got other plans for you.” Another wicked laugh. “Worse plans!” And—like that—the tiny spirit was gone.

  “Beezlebub—!”

  “Hey, you off your bat?” interrupted the voice of Steve Kroloski. “What you talkin’ to yourself for?”

  Tod pulled himself mournfully to his feet. “One of those stiffs must have landed a lucky punch,” he explained, rubbing his jaw in rueful substantiation. “My head’s still spinning.”

  The racketeer showed his tonsils in a guffaw. “That sure was a sight,” he roared, slapping his thigh with one of the suitcase-model hands. “They was swarmin’ all over you. But they sure went the other way when I swung that bottle.” He extended the nearly empty Old Harbor Light flask to its owner. “Here, buddy. You better strap this back on your leg. We don’t want no dumb screw takin’ it away from us.”

  Tod was barely pulling down his pant-leg again when a guard appeared.

  “Steve Kroloski!” he called. “Come on out.”

  The big gangster rose. “Ah!” he grunted. “So that blank blanked mouthpiece of mine finally got here.” Then, turning to Tod: “What’s your name, buddy?”

  Crossing his fingers the young warehouseman announced it. And added, under his breath: “I hope he isn’t just lining up advance data for his bump-off squad.”

  A moment later the guard was back. “Theodore Barnes!”

  In a matter of minutes, Tod found himself standing outside the jail, once more a free man. Steve Kroloski was beside him. The lawyer already was heading down the street.

  “Gee, thanks a lot, Mister Kroloski,” effused Tod. “I’d have been in that tank ’til Christmas, probably, if you hadn’t gotten me out.” He paused. Then: “Well, I guess I better be getting home now. So long!”

  One of the big gangster’s oversized hands promptly descended on his shoulder. “Hey, wait a minute, Barnes. You ain’t goin’ no place.”

  Tod’s heart stopped dead. Again he saw visions of lonely country roads, black touring cars, and leering trigger men.

  “I like you,” the racketeer continued, beaming. “You got nerve. I can use your kinda people. You come along with me and tell me all about you.”

  A few moments’ meditation convinced Tod of the wisdom of agreement. In half an hour he and Kroloski were entering the latter’s east-side headquarters.

  “So old Jake Griggs gave you a raw deal, huh?” muttered the big thug. “Say, buddy, that’s fine. I got just the job for you. You’ll love it.” He chuckled, heavily.

  “What is it?” There was a note of anxiety in the young warehouseman’s voice. He couldn’t forget Beezlebub’s threat of more trouble to come. Somehow, he had a hunch that things were going too smoothly; that this, indeed, might be the beginning of the portended grief.

  The racketeer grinned and slapped the other on the shoulder.

  “It’s a cinch!” he enthused. “A lead-pipe cinch. Old Griggs has got the biggest tire warehouse in the state. I been planning to knock it off tonight. With the rubber shortage there is, we can bootleg those non-skids for more money than there is in the mint.” He guffawed. “If that isn’t a good one! We’ll have old Griggs’ best warehouseman to play overseer while we hi-jack his tire vaults!”

  Tod gulped. “Look, Steve,” he pointed out, “robbing that tire warehouse is like trying to walk off with the Fort Knox gold. Old Jake Griggs isn’t any sap. He’s got that place so looped up with burglar alarms a rat couldn’t get in. And to top it off, he sealed up all the doors but one, and put a regular vault door in there, with a combination and everything. You wouldn’t have a chance of getting in.”

  “Don’t kid yourself, Barnes,” advised the gangster. “You think we didn’t finger that job? Everything’s all taken care of. In another hour we’ll have truck-loads of tires rolling out.”

  Tod breathed a silent prayer that the beads of sweat which he felt on his forehead didn’t show. For the dozenth time he readjusted his cap and spat with deadly precision into the racketeer’s waste-basket.

  “Well, if everything’s all set,” he remarked in what he hoped was a casual tone, “then you won’t need me along to help. So I’ll be on my way home and get some sleep. It’s nearly two a.m. now.” Rising, he started for the door.

  And, once again, Kroloski’s big paw stopped him cold. He turned, and noted with nervous interest that a large automatic pistol had appeared in the gangster’s other hand.

  “Barnes,” said Kroloski, “you’re not goin’ to disappoint me by turnin’ out to be a blank blank yellow dog, are you?” Licking his dry lips with a tongue that suddenly felt like a piece of old shoe leather, the young warehouseman eyed the gun thoughtfully.

  “Why, no, of course I wouldn’t disappoint you, Steve,” he said at last.

  Kroloski beamed. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down!” he declared triumphantly. “We could do all right without you, but you might be quite a help if somethin’ unexpected came up.”

  He walked over to a desk in one corner of the room and pressed a button.

  In a matter of seconds the door opened and several individuals who looked like gorillas or ex-cons, or both, came in. With them was another, taller figure, wearing a mask.

  “Our finger man,” Kroloski explained, gesturing toward him. “He don’t like no one to see his mug.” He nodded to two of the thugs. “You boys know what to do?”

  “Sure thing, Steve. We got it down pat.”

  “Okay. On your way.”

  The two hoodlums stalked out.

  Five minutes passed. Then Kroloski stuck the automatic into a shoulder holster. “That does it, boys,” he declared. “Let’s go.”

  Together the men left the room and climbed into waiting cars. Tod noted uneasily that no chances were taken with him; always some of the thugs maneuvered themselves to cover him, and always their hands were stuck carelessly in their coat pockets. In the car, he found himself in the back
seat, squeezed between two low-browed individuals.

  “Well, well! So now you’re a gangster. On your way to rob your old employer. Ha!”

  The thin, piping voice sizzled through the brawny young warehouseman’s brain like a hot knife through butter. He jumped in his seat. Instantly a hard object rammed into his ribs from either side.

  “Just take it easy, Mister!” remarked the thug to his left.

  “Yeah,” agreed the gunsel on the right, digging him harder with the pistol barrel for emphasis, “if yuh wanta stay healthy, take it easy.”

  Tod took it easy.

  “Won’t you have a time explaining this to your Molly!” Beezlebub’s voice plagued again. Tod could see the fiendish little fellow now; he had resumed his favorite pose on his tormentee’s knee.

  “You little devil!” Tod snarled. “Why can’t you let me alone?”

  “Trouble!” snickered Beezlebub. “More trouble than you ever dreamed of! Yes, sir, I’m outdoing myself.” And then, very mysteriously: “But wait ’til you see what I’ve got fixed up to bring you and your Molly back together! Oh, you’ll die!” His tail switched about in a spasm of glee. “Oh, you and Molly!”

  “You leave Molly out of this!”

  In spite of himself, Tod bellowed the command aloud. The next instant twin pistol-barrel blows knocked the wind out of him.

  “Quit hollerin’!” advised the right-hand gunman.

  “It ain’t polite!” rejoined Number Two.

  Their victim couldn’t decide whether the sound he heard was the ringing of his own ears or the echo of Beezlebub’s mocking lighter.

  But not for long was the warehouseman left to the relative peace of his own bitter meditations on life in general, spirits in particular, and specifically Beezlebub. The car wheeled onto a familiar dead-end street and, in a moment, its occupants were hurrying toward the shadows that marked the Griggs Company’s office entrance. The masked finger man led the way.

  That made Tod frown some more. There was something vaguely familiar about that tall figure, but he could not quite place what it was.

  “Inside!” barked Kroloski, prodding his men forward.

  The masked man still leading, they went straight through the receiving and shipping departments to the big vault door old Jake Griggs had installed to protect his precious tires. There they paused while Big Steve consulted his watch.

  “Two t’irty already,” he grunted, impatiently. “They oughta be here by now.”

  As if in echo, a distant door slammed. In a matter of seconds the two thugs he had sent out from his headquarters ahead of the rest came hurrying down the loading platform. Between them, half-dragged and half-carried along, was a slim, familiar figure. “Molly!” exploded Tod.

  The girl’s head jerked up. “Tod!” she gasped. Then: “What are you doing here?”

  Before the young warehouseman could open his mouth, Steve Kroloski cut in.

  “This is our finger man, Miss Shannahan,” he announced with more smoothness than it seemed possible he could assume. “He’s the guy who figured out just how we could knock this place off. Now he’s got cold feet, though. Seems like he’s not as sore at his old boss as he thought he was.” He laughed harshly. “He’s a little late to come down with that Holy-Joe stuff, though. We’re goin’ through with the job.” He bowed elaborately. “With your help, o’ course.”

  “My help? What do you mean?”

  Kroloski grinned evilly. “Your boyfriend, here, tipped us off that you was the only one besides Old Man Griggs who had the combination to this trick door. So you’re goin’ to open it. Why else did you think we got you out of bed in the middle of the night?”

  “Tod Barnes, I hate you!” the girl flared, gray eyes flashing with anger. “Of all the cheap, contemptible tricks! I hope they throw you in jail for a hundred years—”

  “Molly! He’s lying! I never fingered this job—” The warehouseman struggled frantically against the grip of the two thugs who held his arms.

  Kroloski’s hand flashed out in a savage slap that sent Tod reeling. “Shut up, you punk! You were anxious enough to get the dough for this job. Now quit tryin’ to crawl out from under it.” He turned to Molly Shannahan. “The guy’s yella. The job was his idea, an’ now he’s scared stiff of it.”

  “That doesn’t make any difference to me!” she snapped. “Just because he dirtied himself with a thing like this doesn’t mean I’ll help you.” She was a proud little figure, standing slim and erect as a young gazelle. The gray eyes, burning with anger, almost seemed to match the glow of her auburn hair.

  “Don’t be a sap, sister. You’ll help us. You’re pretty, an’ I bet you’d hate like hell to end up lookin’ like somethin’ a bottle of acid had got at… The gangster’s voice trailed off to a threatening silence.

  “I don’t care. I won’t unlock it.”

  Crack! Kroloski’s open hand caught her full in the face with savage force.

  “How about it, sister?”

  “No!”

  Crack!

  “Stop it, you dirty dog!” Tod foamed. He hurled himself forward with all his might, tried to twist his arms free from the mobsters who held him. “Let her alone! I’ll kill you—”

  The big gangster’s black eyes glittered. He whipped out his automatic, slashed down with it across the young warehouseman’s face. And, as Tod went limp: “Take him over there an’ hang onto him. I got work to do.” So, for five interminable minutes, while Tod bit his lip ’til the blood ran, the racketeer “worked.” At last even Molly’s staunch Irish spirit could stand the torture no longer. The hoodlums who held her carried her—half-blind with pain—to the vault door. Seconds later it swung open.

  Big Steve Kroloski nodded his satisfaction. “Nice. Now everything’s set.” He turned to one of his henchmen. “Get movin’. Pull the trucks in as fast as you can.” Then, wheeling to the thugs who held Tod: “Bring the dope into the vault: We’ll tie him up ’til we get a chance to…take care of him.” They dragged the young warehouseman into the great, air-conditioned storage room, where monster stacks of defense-vital tires rose like columns clear to the roof.

  “Remember how much trouble we were supposed to have with the burglar alarms?” Kroloski taunted Tod. He led the way to where half-a-dozen loops of wire—the bright copper of new connections glittering—protruded from a gash in the wall behind a stack of tires. “See? We just wired a new circuit around the door. It’s a tricky business, but you can do it nice if you get inside help. An’ that’s what we had!”

  A few feet farther on he halted in a corner.

  “Tie him up!” he commanded.

  One of the hoodlums produced a length of fishline. “They told me at the hardware this stuff’d take a hundred- pound pull,” he commented as he began his work, “so six or eight turns oughta hold this bird like log chains.”

  Kroloski grinned. “Do a good job of it,” he advised. “Then you stand guard on him.”

  Already the rumble of hand trucks was echoing through the warehouse. The big racketeer made a hasty check of Tod’s bonds, then turned. “I gotta see they speed up the loadin’,” he explained. “I’ll be back soon.”

  The concrete floor of the warehouse was cold and damp, and so were Tod’s spirits. He lay where he had been dumped, in a sort of compromise between sitting up and lying down. This was brought about by the fact that he was against the intersecting walls which joined to make the corner. All in all, it was about as uncomfortable a position as a person could imagine, especially when wrists and ankles were bound.

  “Well, well!” exclaimed a thin, piping voice. “Aren’t you the pretty one, now!”

  “You!”

  “Sure,” acknowledged Beezlebub brightly. “Me.”

  The young warehouseman peered about, only to discover i
n the end that the imp was perched in the middle of his chest.

  “You little devil! “ he raged under his breath, glaring down at the spirit the while. “If ever any living creature deserved murder—”

  “Only, you can’t kill me,” retorted his tormenter with great good humor. “Remember? You’ve been trying to do something to me all night, and how far have you gotten? Here you are, trussed up like a Christmas goose, just waiting for these goons to take you out and shoot you. I’ve made you sick, had you thrown into jail, fixed it so you’d get pushed around by half the hoodlums in the county and completed the arrangements for your execution. And you were the stupid oaf who said that nothing more could happen to him! That he’d seen all the trouble there was!” The tiny demon held its sides against the ravages of its; spasms of laughter, while Tod mouthed incoherent oaths.

  Recovering at last, the amber son of Satan went on: “Don’t forget your girl, either!” he warned. “She’s in a nice spot, too! I really got clever on that one. First I had Steve Kroloski decide it would be a good stunt to make you the goat for the whole deal. He figured the girl would tell the police you planned the robbery. With you dead, that’d leave the detectives at a dead end.

  “Now, though, I’ve planted another idea. I’ve got Mr. Kroloski to thinking that maybe he’d be safer if he didn’t leave any witnesses. After all, you know, the girl might see his picture in the paper sometime and recognize it. So the girl’s going to be killed, too. They won’t bother to tell her you’re innocent, though. She’ll die, thinking you’re the one behind it all.”

  “Damn you!” raved Tod. “If I had my hands free—”

  “But you haven’t!” Beezlebub pointed out gleefully. “See, you can’t do a thing!” And with that, he jumped to a position on his helpless victim’s nose, there to torment Tod by tickling the inside of his nostrils with the long, barbed tail.