The Murder Megapack

by Talmage Powell

  “How’d you find out all this?” Mr. Grenick asked. “About me, I mean?”

  “That’s a rather silly question, Bob,” Mr. Friedland said. “I’m still a top reporter when it comes to digging out the facts. And I have the resources of a metropolitan newspaper at my disposal, don’t forget.”

  “All right,” Judge Corday said, like he was on the bench considering a motion by a lawyer. “It’s laid out between us. We three were her patsies. Each had the same reason to dispose of her. We re cruising, in a word, in the same leaky boat. Now it remains to determine whether or not we have a paddle. Unfortunately, I have no alibi for the three hours between two and five this afternoon. Have you, Bob?”

  “What?” Mr. Grenick was looking sort of gray, like a prospect for a dose of calomel.

  “Where were you between two and five this afternoon?”

  “I was…”

  “Yes, Bob?” Mr. Friedland prompted.

  Mr. Grenick lifted his eyes and looked at his friends. “I didn’t go in, understand. A block away, I turned the car. I didn’t go all the way to her apartment.”

  “You were going to see Marla?” the judge asked.

  “Yes. I was going to appeal to her, to prove to her that I couldn’t afford the blackmail tariff any longer. I was going to convince her that she’d have to be satisfied with less—or nothing more at all. I simply couldn’t rake up the money. I’m not as well heeled as you two.”

  “But you got cold feet,” Mr. Friedland said. “You didn’t actually see her?”

  “That’s right, Arch, and you’ve got to believe me.”

  “Whether or not we believe you,” the judge said, “cuts little ice. The important thing is that you have no alibi. How about you, Arch?”

  Mr. Friedland shook his head. “I got a call from her at two o’clock. She reminded me that William was due at five with a thousand dollars. I drove out for a quiet, private look at some acreage I may purchase. I came back in time to send William on his errand.”

  “So any one of us might have killed her,” the judge said.

  “Listen,” Mr. Grenick said in a tight voice, “I didn’t do it. But if a scandal of this sort brushes off on me, I’m ruined. The three of us,” his eyes looked wetter than usual, “are ruined. There are too many people in city hall and police headquarters who’d like to collect our scalps. We can’t hush up a thing as big as murder, not even if Arch does control the press and TV.”

  “Precisely,” Mr. Friedland said. “Sometimes, Bob, you almost convince me you have a mind, in addition to the cunning you’ve shown in the political jungles. We cannot cover this thing.”

  “So what do you propose?” Judge Corday asked.

  “An unbreakable gentleman’s agreement,” Mr. Friedland said. “Whichever of the three of us is nailed, he must bear the entire thing alone. He must not turn to his friends for help or implicate them in the slightest. He must stand firm on the statement that he, and only he, was involved with Marla Scanlon. Whichever of us is doomed will at least have the satisfaction of knowing that he shielded his friends.”

  “It might be rough,” the judge said. “When a man’s slapped in the face with murder, the natural reaction is to name others, to confuse the issue, to point suspicion elsewhere.”

  “I know,” Mr. Friedland nodded, “and that’s my reason for calling you here. We must decide in advance. We must agree that the two who escape will, throughout the future, stand by the loser’s loved ones in any crisis, any trouble, as if the loser himself were still there. ”

  “Mr. Friedland,” I said.

  He turned his head in my direction. “Yes, William?”

  “All the time you been talking,” I said, “I been thinking. I got an idear.”

  “William,” Mr. Grenick said in a sore tone, “we’ve far more important things to consider than any ideas you…”

  Mr. Friedland shut him up with a motion of his hand. “I don’t think we have anything to lose by listening to you,” Mr. Friedland said. “Go ahead, William.”

  “Thank you, sir. You see, Mr. Friedland, you’ve been real nice to me, giving me a chance to live like I never knowed people live, when I was a hillbilly back up beyond Comfort, North Carolina.”

  Mr. Grenick groaned. “This is no time for asinine, emotional speeches.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “Anyhow, I’m all through speechifying. I just wanted Mr. Friedland to know one of the reasons I’d be willing to do you-all the favor of standing trial for Miss Marla Scanlon’s murder.”

  I had their attention now, believe me. Right then, you could have heard a mouse crossing the attic, only of course there wasn’t none in Mr. Friedland’s attic.

  “William,” Mr. Friedland said finally, “I’m touched. But I suspect that you haven’t quite finished.”

  “No sir, Mr. Friedland. Not quite. All three of you have society wives and fine kids and fancy homes and just everything to make life good. You stand to lose a real passel. But me, I got nobody but myself. And I never before had a chance to get me a stake together.”

  “How much?” Judge Corday asked.

  “Well, you been paying Miss Marla Scanlon plenty. One final payment—to me—will finish it for good. Just chip in five thousand dollars apiece, and I’ll protect you all from the aftermath of this terrible thing.”

  “I won’t do it,” Mr. Grenick said, “not five thou—”

  “Yes, Bob, I think you will,” Mr. Friedland said. He eased his backside to the edge of his desk and brought his eyes back to me. “How do you propose to do it, William?”

  “It ought to be simple as picking corn when the sun ain’t hot,” I said, “With your newspapers and TV on my side, and Judge Corday on the bench, and Mr. Grenick handling the case for the state, I ought to come off all right. I’ll say that I had been hanky-pank with Marla Scanlon. I’ll say she was giving me the boot. I’ll say we got in a big fight and I lost my head and killed her without really meaning to. Nobody in this town really cares that she’s gone, nobody to question or suspect what you do. I figure the judge should give me about three years for manslaughter. I’ll behave good and be on parole inside of a year.”

  “And then?” Judge Corday said.

  “I’ll just take my fifteen thousand and go back to Comfort,” I said. “None of us has got to worry about any of the others going back on the contract, account of we’re all in this together and we sink or swim together.”

  “William,” Mr. Friedland said, “I think you’ve got a deal. How about it, friends?”

  Both the judge and Mr. Grenick were quick to nod.

  “I suggest,” the judge said, “that you and William contrive to rehearse a bit in private, Bob.”

  “A good idea,” the prosecutor said.

  “And you’ve fine material to work with here,” Mr. Friedland said. “You won’t have to worry about William botching his part.”

  “Well, gentlemen,” I said, “let’s get finished up here with the practice questions and all, soon’s we can. I reckon I ought to get to police headquarters in a reasonable time. It’ll look better if I surrender myself and show them how sorry I am for what I done to that girl.”

  “Excellent, William, excellent,” Mr. Friedland said.

  I got to admit it looked pretty excellent to me too. I’d go back to Comfort a little over a year from now with over fifty thousand dollars, counting the fifteen thousand these men would cough up.

  Miss Marla Scanlon, in life, had had an eye on the future. When I’d made her open the wall safe in her apartment before I strangled her I’d picked up a little over forty thousand.

  Folks around Comfort, North Carolina, are all eligible for this poverty program the government is running. It’ll sure be nice, going back and being the richest man in the whole durn town. The air is clean, the scenery eye-popping, the likker mellow, and the girls all corn-fed beauties. I might even hire myself a chauffeur and personal errand boy—only I’ll make sure his name ain’t William.

  CORPO
RAL DOWNEY CALLS THE TUNE, by James B. Hendryx

  Originally published in Short Stories, May 1937.

  Chapter I

  “How much further is this crick where you say the dead man is?” asked Corporal Downey, of the Northwest Mounted Police, as the canoe cut smoothly through the water of a still stretch, giving the paddlers a breathing spell in their ascent of the turbulent Klondike River.

  The Indian who was paddling the bow scanned the skyline of the mountains. “Mebbe-so com’ tonight—mebbe-so tomor’,” he replied, without turning his head.

  “I should hope so. You told me it was only two days up the Klondike—an’ we’ve be’n out four days, now—an’ ain’t even come to the crick.”

  “Two day, com’ down to Dawson. Too mooch fas’ water—tak’ mor’ day go oop.”

  “How far is the dead man up the crick from the river?”

  “W’at you call—short far. Mebbe-so wan mile.”

  That night they camped at the mouth of the creek, on the bottom of which, weighted down with stones, the Indian had reported finding the body of a dead man. He had been paddling down the creek when, glancing over the side of the canoe, he found himself looking squarely into the face of the man who lay on his back with some six feet of crystal-clear water between. Terrorized, the Indian had stopped long enough to see that the body had been weighted with stones secured with lengths of rope to his feet and neck. Then he had hastened to Dawson to report the matter to the police.

  Early morning found them at the spot, and ascertaining that the body was still there. Lowering a grappling hook, Downey caught the rope between the man’s neck and the stone, and the two succeeded in drawing the body from the water. Leaving it to drain, the young officer glanced about him. The valley of the creek was narrow, and some thirty yards back from the creek bed, close against the rimrocks stood a tiny cabin. A small dump that gave evidence of recent working, had been piled beside a shaft straddled by a windlass. Walking over to the shaft, Downey saw that it was not more than eight feet deep. The upper four feet of its sides showed weather-wear, while the remainder had been recently dug. The windlass was a crude affair, old, but evidently freshly patched up. A bit of rope dangling from the roller was new, and of the same kind that had been used in weighting the body.

  Passing on to the cabin, Downey saw at a glance that it, too, had been recently patched and made habitable—the roof showed a layer of new dirt, and the chinking had been augmented with fresh mud.

  Pushing the door open he stood for several moments staring into the bare interior as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom. The furniture consisted of a rude pole table, three short pole benches, and two pole bunks. One of these bunks particularly drew the officer’s attention. It had evidently been recently widened by the addition of green poles, also, one of the three pole seats was new.

  A discarded pair of socks, and a torn shirt had been tossed into a corner. Stepping into the room, Downey stooped and peered beneath the bunks. Reaching under the wider one, he drew forth an object that caused him to emit a low whistle of surprise. It was a battered violin case, and inside the case was a violin, and a bow. The instrument, with all its strings intact, seemed in excellent condition. It was the only thing of any value whatever that had been left behind by the occupants of the cabin.

  Downey next turned his attention to the stove which had been abandoned as not worth removing, being a homemade affair, constructed out of two square five gallon petrol tins. The stove, he saw, was well filled with ashes. Lifting it, he carried it outside and peered into the interior.

  “Lot of stuff besides wood has been burnt in here,” he muttered, and began to remove the ashes with his hands, sifting them between his fingers. Some thin strips of steel puzzled him, and these he laid aside, together with a number of small metal eyelets. He next removed a curved metal rim, hinged at each end, and provided with a thumb catch and two small rings to which ferrules were attached. Bits of charred leather clung to the ferrules and to the under part of the metal rim. “So,” he muttered to himself, as he squatted there and regarded his findings, “there’s a woman mixed up in this, somewhere. This is all that’s left of a woman’s hand-bag—an’ those strips an’ eyelets must have been parts of her corsets. I wonder if I’ll be findin’ her body, too?”

  Search of the dirt in the bottom of the woodbox revealed two or three common wire hairpins and a discarded toothbrush. On the floor beside the box lay three or four wood shavings, that had evidently been prepared for kindling. Picking up one of these, Downey glanced at it idly—then, carrying it to the door, examined it closely with his pocket glass. He examined each of the other shavings, and placed them in his wallet. The bits of metal he had removed from the stove, he placed in the case with the violin.

  Examination of the body revealed that the man had been killed by a terrific blow on the back of the head with some sort of a club. The blow had shattered a considerable area of the occipital bone, and death must have been instantaneous. His pockets yielded a jack knife, part of a plug of tobacco, a blue cotton handkerchief, the stub of a lead pencil, and a small sodden notebook. Pressing the water from the book, Downey examined its pages. On the inside of the cover what had evidently been a name written in ink was hopelessly blurred by the water. Penciled on the first page was the number 3016. The next page held a penciled list of figures that had been added to a total of 1142. Farther on in the book was a penciled list of supplies, with price notation after each entry—and nothing more. No name—no bit of writing of any kind. Drawing a sheath knife from the man’s belt, Downey examined the blade, and the two blades of the jack knife, and tying the objects up in the handkerchief, he called to the Indian, who had seated himself on the ground, evincing no interest whatever in the proceeding.

  “Hunt up an’ down the crick in the brush an’ find another canoe, an’ keep your eyes open for another body or a place that’s been freshly dug—like a grave. An’ if you see a club layin’ around that could have been used to bash this man’s head in, holler for me—but don’t touch it—savvy?”

  “Mor’ man’s dead?” asked the Indian;

  “I don’t know—more likely a woman, if there’s anyone. There were three people here—probly two men an’ a woman. If they came here together they must have had two canoes, what with the stuff they had to carry. I figure there was a man an’ a woman here, an’ the other man came later—either way, there would be two canoes. We know what happened to one of the men. Now, if the other two went away together, they’d only take one canoe—because there’s damn few women that could handle a canoe alone in this water—an’ prob’ly no woman that would wear corsets an’ have a handbag. If the man knocked the woman off—of course he’d only take one canoe. You hunt the crick banks, an’ I’ll hunt back along the rims.”

  Downey located the murder weapon in a nearby ravine where it had been tossed—a billet of green spruce with a few red hairs clinging to the bark. He gave it scant attention however as a glance told him that the rough surface would furnish no fingerprints. Search of the little valley in the vicinity of the shack failed to turn up another body, or any evidence that one had been buried. The Indian located the other canoe, concealed in the bush, a short distance up the creek. Search of the creek bottom from the canoe failed to disclose another weighted body, so gathering his evidence, Downey ordered the Indian to paddle the other canoe while he placed the body in the police craft, and the two proceeded to Dawson where they arrived two days later.

  Chapter II

  On the morning following his return to Dawson Corporal Downey sat in his office and scowled at the objects spread out on his desk top, as he tried to mentally reconstruct the crime.

  The door opened and Black John Smith stepped into the room and sauntered to the desk. “Looks like you’d gone into the insurance adjustin’ business,” he grinned, eyeing the fire-blackened bits of metal. “That there corset an’ the handbag is a total loss—too bad it couldn’t have been the fiddle.”

&nb
sp; “What you doin’ in Dawson?” Downey asked. “An’ how’s everything up on Halfaday?”

  “Fetched down a batch of dust to trade fer bills,” the big man answered. “Cush’s safe got to bulgin’ a little at the sides. Everything on Halfaday is fine, fer as I know.” Pausing, he stooped and examined the spruce billet that lay on the desk. “Looks like, what with them red hairs stuck to the bark of that club, an’ all the rest of this stuff, you had the ingredients of a first class murder,” he ventured. “Who killed who—an’ why?”

  Downey grinned wryly. “I don’t know,” he answered, “an’ it looks like I’m goin’ to have plenty of trouble findin’ out.”

  “Someone tap a red-headed woman on the head an’ burn the body? You hadn’t ought to be too hard on him—them red heads is hell to handle.”

  “No, it was a red-headed man that got tapped—an’ the body was sunk in a crick—not burned. The woman’s stuff was burnt in a stove.” Black John seated himself, as Downey went over the evidence, step by step. “So,” he concluded, “it’s up to me to find the man and the woman.”

  “Yeah,” Black John agreed, “an’ the way the chechakos is pourin’ into the country, it’s liable to be quite a chore. Anyhow, the woman was a chechako; she’d got that far off’n the river before she found out she didn’t need neither handbags nor corsets in this country.” Downey nodded, and the other continued. “An’ one of the three was a fiddler.”

  “Prob’ly the murdered man,” added Downey. “If either of the others had owned the instrument they’d have taken it with them—they’d never have lugged it that far an’ then abandoned it. I’d sure like to dope out the motive for the murder.”

  “Motive!” exclaimed Black John. “Cripes—with a woman an’ a fiddle both mixed up in the case, it looks like you had more motives on yer hands than anythin’ else. Either one of ’em would furnish a reasonable motive. Killin’ a fiddler on general principles would be the natural reaction of any normal man, an’ hadn’t ought to be considered no more than a tort, at most.