Dead Men Kill (Stories from the Golden Age)

by L. Ron Hubbard

  “And after you get that?”

  “Who knows?” shrugged Loup-garou. “The other part of my bargain is your resignation from the force.”

  “I see,” said Lane with a hard smile. “You don’t want to kill me right away. You’d rather have me resign, so you can pin something on me and kill me afterwards.”

  “I want the pharmacy bill, Lane. As far as killing goes, I don’t care when you die. You might even die within the next ten minutes. It would be amusing to turn you over to the three dead men out there.”

  Loup-garou paused, to see what effect this last had had on the detective. But if he looked for fright, he was mistaken.

  “You can buy your life with the bill and your resignation,” he snapped. “I want the bill now!”

  Lane shrugged bleakly, sudden hopelessness on his face. Slowly he reached back toward his hip pocket, as though searching for the required slip of paper. The automatic tightened against him.

  Cautiously, he leaned even harder against the weapon’s barrel. Then, as swiftly as a striking snake, he snatched at Loup-garou’s wrist. Instead of pushing the gun away from him, he pulled it toward him. Loup-garou pulled the trigger, not realizing that the slide had been pushed back and that the firing pin would never touch the cartridge.

  Lane smiled brittlely. He drew back his right fist and swung it straight for the masked one’s jaw. Loup-garou struggled for an instant. He pulled the gun back and again pressed the trigger.

  Flame stabbed into Lane’s side. Then his fist came back and traveled a second short arc to the masked one’s jaw. A bellow of rage came from outside the car as Loup-garou sank unconscious to the floor.

  The detective heard the car door swinging open. A red tongue roared at him. Swiftly he plunged for the driver’s seat. A bullet from the outside shattered the glass beside his head. It seemed an age before he found the switch and an eternity before the car’s motor barked into life.

  The burly one’s arm was encircling from behind. Lane crashed the gears into low, snapped a chance blow to his attacker’s jaw. The burly one sagged and fell away from the speeding car.

  A hard grin of victory was on Lane’s face as he saw the long, moonlit road unwinding ahead. He turned to make sure of his captive. In a moment, he knew, he would have to stop and tie the man up before consciousness should return. The fist he had sent to Loup-garou’s chin had packed an hour’s worth of sleep.

  Then, when he turned, Lane’s grin faded. The car’s door was swinging open and the back seat—was empty!

  CHAPTER THREE

  Permanently Dead

  REYNOLDS pulled at his short briar pipe and gave Terry Lane a judicial look. “You needn’t worry about those powder burns in your side. They’ll heal up in a day or so—maybe a week. Did you get anything in return for it?”

  “That’s what I want to know!” snapped Inspector Leonard from the doorway of Lane’s office.

  “I found out that the car I swiped was registered under the name of Dr. Leroux,” said Lane evenly. “And I found out that Jackson’s grave is empty. And I know that Haitian pharmacy bill is worth something. Isn’t that about enough for one night’s work?”

  “Humph!” growled Leonard. “You rob a grave, steal a car, get shot up and lose your arrest. That’s successful, I suppose.”

  “Say, listen,” began Lane in sudden heat.

  “Now, now,” interjected Reynolds. “He doesn’t mean anything, Terry.” And then, with a doctor’s license, he added: “Be nice to him. I just noticed the other day that his blood pressure is way up. He’ll be popping off on us any minute.”

  “Yes?” cried Leonard. “Why, you old fossil—wait a minute, your phone’s ringing, Terry.”

  Lane picked up the instrument, faintly bored. He spoke for a moment, then sat bolt upright.

  “When? This afternoon at three? Yes sir, Mr. Morton, we’ll be there.” He whirled on Leonard. “Morton’s secretary just died.”

  “You mean Morton, the banker?” exclaimed the coroner.

  “Morton, the banker,” affirmed Lane. “His secretary, the private one, has had a fever for a few days and now he’s dead. Morton received an extortion note a few days ago and he refused to listen to it. Told the gang he was too broke.”

  “Morton broke!” snapped Leonard. “What else?”

  “He wants Reynolds and me to come to the funeral and make sure that Cramer, the secretary, is really dead. This looks like Loup-garou all over again.” And Lane regarded the knife on his desk with its snake handle.

  “If Morton’s killed,” growled Leonard, “I’m going to string both of you up to the nearest telegraph pole. Get me?”

  He stalked to his door and then whirled on them again. “The newspapers will have this thing on the streets inside the hour. If you slip up, it means both our jobs. If Cramer isn’t dead, by God, Reynolds, fix him up so there won’t be enough of him to walk. Do you get me?”

  A thin smile flitted across Reynolds’ wizened face and he winked at Lane.

  “When I leave that place, believe me, Cramer will be permanently dead!”

  The funeral procession which was lined up at the door of the undertaking establishment was long. It was evident that Cramer had many friends and that Morton, in spite of his terror, was making an occasion out of it.

  “Is that undertaker reliable?” asked Lane as he and the coroner watched from across the street.

  “Reckon so. He’s the biggest in town.” Reynolds knocked the bowl of his pipe against his heel. “Let’s wander over and see Gault, the undertaker.”

  They walked through the throng on the sidewalk and glanced about them, spotting three or four of the men Lane had placed to watch the crowd for possible “mugs.” The detective followed Reynolds up the steps of the building and then stopped abruptly.

  There, beside the rail, was the girl who had disappeared after the Gordon murder. She was looking straight into the detective’s eyes and he felt a giddy sensation in the top of his head.

  She stepped up to him quickly as Reynolds disappeared inside. “I want to see you after you come out. It’s a matter of greatest importance. I don’t dare be seen talking to you.” Then she turned and hurried away before he could say anything.

  Lane found the coroner near the door. Gault, the undertaker, replete in afternoon formal clothes, met them as they stepped inside.

  “And what is it, gentlemen?” he asked. “You are friends of the unfortunate deceased?”

  Lane flipped open his coat and displayed his badge. He gazed narrowly at Gault before he spoke, and saw that the man had glanced furtively to the right and left. “We want to inspect the corpse.”

  Gault’s relief was obvious.

  “But certainly! Step right this way, gentlemen. Mr. Cramer is lying in state.” He quickly led the way to the side of the coffin.

  The detective gazed down at the dead face of Cramer and failed to repress a shudder. Perhaps, in a short time, Cramer would be one of the walking dead!

  Reynolds stepped through the cluster of potted palms and swept away the bronzed fronds from the casket cover. Gault started to protest, but Lane silenced him with a glance.

  “Of course, if the police wish to inspect,” shrugged Gault, “who am I to stop them?” He smiled unctuously.

  At that instant, an elderly woman detached herself from the crowd, which had backed away from the coffin at Lane’s appearance. She was dabbing fitfully at her eyes.

  “No, no!” she cried to Reynolds, sweeping his arms away from the box. “You shall not desecrate my poor nephew’s body!”

  Lane looked closely at the woman, compassion on his face. “I’m sorry, madam, but—” he stopped and his eyes went hard. “Hello, Janey Lou. Why the masquerade?”

  The woman drew back away from him, terror suddenly stamped in her features. Lane thrust out a finger and touched her cheek.

  “Glycerine tears, eh? Monahan!” he glanced toward the door where Monahan waited. “Put our old pal, Janey Lou, in the lockup.”r />
  “Huh!” grunted Monahan, rolling up. “It is Janey, isn’t it? I haven’t seen her since she finished ninety days for larceny last year. You sure got the eyes, Terry.”

  He took the woman into custody and walked her, through the gaping mob, to the door.

  “Plant?” queried Reynolds. Then, without waiting for an answer, he pulled up the lid and began to unbutton Cramer’s shirt front.

  The coroner pulled a heavy stethoscope from his pocket and hooked it into his ears, to press it against the dead man’s heart. He listened intently for several minutes. He finally shrugged, then rolled back the shirt until he exposed the chest. He inspected the scars which had been left there by the embalmer’s knife and shrugged again.

  “No doubt about it, Terry,” stated Reynolds. “This is one of the deadest stiffs I’ve ever seen. He’s even been embalmed. In short, Terry, this man Cramer is permanently dead!”

  The detective ran his handkerchief over his forehead. Then he put the bit of silk back in his breast pocket. He faced Gault.

  “You took care of Hamilton and Jackson?”

  “Yes,” affirmed Gault. “I have, I might add, the largest undertaking business in town.”

  “Well,” breathed Lane, “get along with your undertaking, and be darned sure that you bury Cramer good and deep. Get me?”

  But Gault was not permitted a chance to answer. The chattering snarl of a machine gun bit through the hum of the crowd. Panes of glass seemed to explode in the building windows. Several men in the crowd and two women lurched forward, crumpled up. The piercing screams of bullet-hacked people split the air.

  Lane raced for the entrance, knocking aside the surging, panic-stricken crowd. He paused on the steps and looked out into the street. Horror spread over his face.

  At the other curb, sprawled in his scout car, was Monahan, his face shot away, splattered with his lifeblood. And beside him was Janey Lou, quite dead.

  A plainclothes man had already leaped aboard a passing car and had started out in pursuit of the black machine which had sprayed the death. Three other plainclothes men were now at Lane’s side, awaiting orders.

  The detective threw off the horror which had momentarily swept over him. From the steps, he looked at the wrecked squad car. Evidently, Monahan had been coming away from the curb on the undertaker’s side of the street when the death-blast raked him.

  Dead instantly at the wheel, Monahan had not stopped the rush of the car across the street and it had piled up against the opposite curb, injuring two men who had stood in its path.

  Lane nodded at his men. “Clear that up. Check up on the gun and the ballistics. Trace Janey Lou’s course backward.”

  The detective moved with leaden feet across the asphalt to the side of the wrecked squad car and stood for some seconds, quietly regarding it. The coroner had followed and stood nearby, silently watching the grim scene.

  Then, once again, Lane stiffened and stared.

  Pinned on Monahan’s chest was a note addressed to Terry Lane, and it was written—in green ink!

  “Terry Lane,” he read. “Just a hint that I want that bill. Get off this case, or— Loup-garou.”

  The crowd, morbid and shuddering, was drawing in toward the wreck. Impatiently, Lane tried to sweep them back, pocketing the note as he did so. Bluecoats were coming up, ringing the machine while the plainclothes men worked. The detective ran a nervous hand across his face as though to sweep away the sight in front of him. Then he caught a glimpse of a familiar figure.

  Dr. Anton Kaler was on the edge of the crowd, leaning on his cane, surveying the wreck with a judicial eye.

  Lane moved toward him.

  “Sort of scooped you, didn’t they?” remarked Kaler with a wry smile. “It’s ugly work!”

  “Uh-huh,” sighed Lane. “This is one swell mess! Listen, Doc, I want to ask a favor of you. You know something about Haiti, don’t you?”

  “A little,” was the deprecating reply.

  “Well, I want you to check up on this pharmacy bill for me. Will you?”

  Kaler shifted the cane to his other hand. “Certainly. Glad to be of any help I can. You’ve learned that, haven’t you?”

  “Of course, Doc. And I want you to check up on—”

  “Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” smiled Kaler affably. “Let one thing ooze through my poor brain at a time, will you? First of all where’s the bill, so that I can get the address?”

  “Here’s a photostat of the original.”

  Lane reached into his pocket and extracted the thick piece of printing paper.

  Kaler took the bill, glanced at it and placed it in his coat. “Now what else?”

  “I want you to check up on black magic for me.”

  “Ho!” jeered the doctor. “You don’t expect a chemist of my standing to believe in anything like that, do you?”

  “No. But seriously, I want to know all about the green serpent, and the human hyena that steals people for sacrifice, and just how far voodoo magic can run. Will you?”

  “All right,” nodded Kaler with an amiable smile. “I’ll delve through the wee sma’s and get you the works. That all?”

  “That’s all for now. Be seeing you.” And Lane moved back through the crowd, remembering suddenly that he had promised to meet the girl.

  He walked down past the line of cars which were still drawn up for the funeral. A low voice came to him and he stopped to look about. Then he saw the door of a gray custom-built sedan swing open and a slim arm beckoned to him. People were all about him and he trusted their very number to hide his movements. It was evident that the girl wanted secrecy.

  Quickly, the detective stepped into the machine and slammed the door behind him. As were the shades of many others of the cars, the curtains of the sedan were closely drawn.

  Terry Lane sank down on the seat before he allowed himself to look at the girl. She was even more beautiful than he had recalled from their last meeting.

  Her voice trembled with subdued excitement.

  “I have waited long to talk with you.” She leaned forward toward him, and he caught the faint whiff of a tantalizing perfume.

  “My name is Dawn Drayden and I am one of the entertainers of the Club Haitian.”

  Dawn Drayden

  Lane smiled. “You mean you’re the star. I’ve seen the ad in the papers.”

  She took no notice of the remark. “I have wanted to talk with you about these crimes . . .” She shuddered and broke off.

  Patiently, Lane waited for her to speak again.

  “Do you have any proof of the identity of these murderers?” she whispered tensely. “Is it a fact that dead men are actually coming back from the grave and killing their employers?”

  Lane gave her a cautious glance, and then decided that she was safe. “Yes, dead men are doing the killing.”

  He looked out through the curtain and saw that the procession was starting off. The chauffeur of the gray sedan was putting their machine in motion.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Dead Return

  THE long procession of cars had stopped on the circular highway of the cemetery. Men and women were getting out of the sedans to stand in a circle about the open grave which was to hold Cramer.

  “Just a minute,” said Lane to Dawn Drayden. “I want to see if Cramer is still in the box.”

  “Please don’t go!” implored the girl. “Somebody may see us and trace us.”

  “You hired this car, didn’t you?” Lane demanded.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then, if you keep out of sight when I open the door, they’ll think that it’s mine. Sit tight. I’ll be back in a second.” And holding the door open just wide enough to allow his passage, Lane slid out to the turf and walked with uncovered head toward the grave.

  A minister was reading above the coffin and the solemn tones of his voice fell leaden upon the hushed burying ground. Lane caught one phrase, “And the dead shall rise again.”

  To the detective, t
he words had but one meaning, and that jarred. With a shudder he vividly recalled the fight he had had in this same place with the three dead men. The remembrance was shaking and Lane stepped forward quickly.

  Gently elbowing his way to the fore, he gazed at the coffin. The long black box was tightly sealed, but he could not be sure Cramer was actually inside. The detective shrugged and stepped back. He could do nothing now, had no desire to create a scene by insisting that the coffin be opened there.

  “And the dead shall rise again” echoed in his brain.

  A chunky individual who wore a white, double-breasted waistcoat and swallowtails stepped nervously to Lane’s side. “You’re Detective Lane, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right,” returned Lane.

  “I’m Morton.” Somewhat self-consciously, the banker adjusted his tie with a shaking, bejeweled hand. “I want you to detail some men to my house. Will you?”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Morton. But I don’t think you need worry. Cramer was pronounced dead by Reynolds, the coroner. There isn’t much chance of that boy’s coming back to life.”

  Lane gave the man a reassuring smile. “But I’ll put four or five plainclothes men at your house, starting tonight.”

  Morton grunted, a slight shudder running over his chunky frame. “Nevertheless, Lane, I can’t help but worry. I knew Gordon and Burnham. And though Cramer was a nice fellow and we were the best of friends, I can’t stand the thought—”

  “Of having him come back and choke you to death,” finished Lane.

  “Precisely. You won’t forget about the men?”

  “I’ll detail them as soon as I get back.”

  Lane moved away toward the gray sedan. In a moment, he was inside once more with Dawn Drayden.

  “That didn’t prove anything,” said the girl.

  “You mean seeing if he was still there? No, I’m afraid not. Although,” he smiled, “maybe yes, and maybe no.”

  Dawn twisted her handkerchief nervously. “Don’t jest about it.”