The Richard Deming Mystery Megapack

by Richard Deming

  As we walked out, I said, “Was that more of your technique? Proving your honesty in a small way, so you wouldn’t be suspected of stealing anything big?”

  “Uh-huh,” he admitted cheerily. “I deliberately switched a penny for that nickel.”

  I couldn’t quite decide whether to be amused by his chronic larceny or disgusted with him. Like most people, I’m conditioned to believe that stealing is wrong regardless of how you rationalize it, but I had to concede that Tom’s dishonesty at least possessed an imaginative flair. And if his technique was always similar to what he had demonstrated tonight, it was extremely unlikely he would ever be caught.

  As he stowed the shopping bag in the trunk, he said, “You’d be surprised how it adds up, Sid. Individually it’s pretty stiff, but it probably adds up to a couple of thousand a year.”

  “Doesn’t your conscience ever bother you?” I asked.

  “Why should it? The people I take would take me just as fast if they had the chance.”

  We both got into the car and Tom backed from the slot.

  As we drove off the lot, I said, “Well, then, doesn’t it worry you that you might get caught?”

  “I won’t be,” he said with confidence. “I’m never even suspected. You can’t beat the old con trick of building confidence in small ways. That girl knows me. I’ve called attention to undercharges a couple of times, and once before I gave her back money when I got too much change. Last time it actually was her mistake. Think she would ever believe that a customer who’s always so honest would try to pull anything? The secret is to build confidence in the sucker’s mind before you ever make a move.”

  I still wasn’t quite sure whether to be amused by his shenanigans or disgusted. I finally decided it was none of my business.

  “You do what you want,” I said. “I’ll stick to the old-fashioned way of paying for merchandise.”

  It was twenty after eight when we arrived at the Elks. The door to the bar was closed and locked, as the bar always shut down while lodge was in session. There was no one in the lobby.

  “You particularly interested in attending the meeting?” Tom asked.

  “I thought that’s what we came for.”

  “We came for the stag afterward. I happen to know nothing very interesting is coming up tonight. It’s just routine business. Let’s have a game of pool in the basement.”

  I really wanted to attend the meeting, but I didn’t particularly care to go in late alone. Despite last week’s instructions during initiation on various ritualistic procedures, I wasn’t quite sure how to request admission from the tyler, or just what I was supposed to do and say after I was let in. I did vaguely recall that the procedure wasn’t very elaborate, but I would be up there going through it all alone in front of the assembled brotherhood. Without Tom’s moral support. I didn’t have much stomach for it. I gave in and followed Tom to the basement poolroom.

  We decided to play eight-ball. Tom won the cushion shot and racked the balls. As we both chalked our cues, Tom said, “Why don’t you play poker tonight instead of getting in the crap game, Sid?”

  “Why?”

  “I told you I don’t take friends. And you’re a friend.”

  I cocked an eyebrow at him. “You mean the game’s crooked?”

  “Not exactly. It’s just that I can’t be beat. Examine these.”

  He dipped a hand into his side pants pocket and tossed a pair of red, transparent dice on the pool table. They came up six-four.

  I knew enough about dice to catch crooked ones on close examination. I matched them and the markings were all right. Then I squared them against each other on all six planes. They weren’t shaved. Wetting my thumb and index finger, I suspended one die between them by two corners, holding it loosely enough to turn easily. If it had been unevenly weighted, one corner would always have ended down when the die was spun. It passed the test, and so did the second die.

  “They looked square to me,” I said.

  “They are. Toss them back.”

  I rolled them toward him, he scooped them up and immediately tossed again. This time they came up five-one.

  “Examine them again,” Tom said.

  I went through the same tests. This time, on the wet-finger test, one die failed to pass.

  I bounced it on the green felt and it came up five. I bounced it twice more and the same number showed.

  “This one’s loaded always to come up five,” I said. “What’d you do? Switch dice?”

  Grinning, he showed me a third die, palmed.

  “What advantage does that give you?” I asked. “So everybody always throws a five on one die.”

  “Not everybody,” he said. “Only me, whenever I come out. On my second roll it goes back in my palm and we play with straight dice. So it can never get away from me and work its way around the table, you see.”

  I said puzzledly, “I still don’t get it.”

  “You would if you thought about it. If I’m always sure of a five on one die on my first roll what points are possible on both dice?”

  After thinking a moment, I said, “You can come up with a six, seven, eight, nine, ten or eleven.”

  “Exactly. I can’t ever throw craps. Once out of every three times I get the next best thing: a six or an eight. Once out of six times I have to shoot for a nine, and once out of six times I’m stuck with a ten. It throws the odds around eight-to-five with me. If you want the exact odds, they’re eight-to-five-point-one, seven, seven. Anyway, they’re enough so that over the long haul I can’t possibly lose on my own rolls.”

  I said slowly, “You pull this against brother Elks?”

  “Brother Elks, fiddle flap,” he said. “They’re just guys. Some are my friends and some are just barroom acquaintances. To my friends I pass the word to stay off me. The others don’t count.”

  My brows went up. “You mean some of the other Elks know about this loaded die?”

  He shook his head. “The other guys I don’t want to take, I just warn that I feel hot and to stay off me. You’re the only one who knows the real lowdown. That’s because you’re a particularly good friend.”

  I wasn’t sure whether to feel flattered or uncomfortable. I didn’t like the idea of standing by while fellow members, whom only a week ago I had pledged to regard as brothers, were taken in a crooked crap game. Yet how could I violate a confidence told me because of friendship? Particularly since if I said anything, my avowed good friend would undoubtedly be kicked out of the lodge.

  There couldn’t be many stags during the year, I told myself. The best thing to do was just forget it.

  “Do you cheat at pool too?” I asked.

  Pocketing the dice, he grinned at me and addressed the cue ball. “I don’t have to. We won’t make a bet, because I’m going to skin your pants off and I don’t make suckers out of my friends.” Whereupon he proceeded to wallop me in two straight games.

  Near the end of the second game we heard the members trooping downstairs and knew the meeting was over. When we finished the game, we racked our cues and went up to join the party.

  I decided to take Tom’s advice and stay out of the crap game. There were three poker games, ranging from twenty-five-cent limit to five-dollar limit. I got in the two-bit game.

  The crap game was held on blanket-covered table shoved against the wall, immediately behind where I was seated. I didn’t pay much attention to what was going on there, as you can’t afford to play poker with a wandering mind, but occasionally when I was out of a hand I glanced over my shoulder.

  On one such occasion I turned my attention to the crap game just in time to hear Tom Slider say, “You covered with a buck too much, Joe. Here.”

  The trust-building technique again. I thought ruefully, as I saw Tom separate a bill from his sizeable wad and toss it to another player. Who was going to suspect
him of cheating, when he returned an extra dollar mistakenly given him?

  At a quarter past eleven I was three dollars ahead when a hand fell on my shoulder from behind. Glancing around, I found Tom standing behind me.

  “I cleaned the game and everybody quit,” he said. “Think you could snare a ride home if I took off?”

  Andy Carter, across the table, said, “I’ll be here until closing. Ill run you home, Sid.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Go ahead, Tom. See you for dinner next Wednesday.”

  At midnight I was two dollars out. By then I had drunk a little too much beer and was beginning to tire of the game. When I was dealt a pair of jacks in five-card draw. I didn’t even bother to open. Passing, I tossed in my cards, lit a cigarette, leaned back in my chair and waited for the next hand.

  Idly I wondered why Tom Slider had singled me out to demonstrate his dice cheating system. His excuse that I was a particularly good friend didn’t quite hold up. While we had been pretty thick in high school, we had barely been in contact since. Actually I qualified more as what Tom classed as an “acquaintance” than as a friend.

  Then a peculiar thought drifted into my mind. Remembering what Tom had said about the old con trick of “building confidence in small ways”. I wondered if he had stressed our friendship for the purpose of throwing me off guard. Had his repeated insistence that he never cheated friends been merely groundwork to allay any suspicions I might have, so that eventually he could move in for the kill?

  That was silly, I told myself. I didn’t have enough extra money to be cheated out of anything substantial. And if Tom planned anything as corny as trying to sell me fake stock, he hardly would have let me witness his larcenous ways.

  I decided that even though I was no longer so sure of my friendship for Tom, he must have been sincere in his proclamation of friendship for me.

  It was close to one-thirty when I got home. Again Evelyn was in bed, but not asleep. When I switched on the bedroom light, she smiled as me.

  “Hi, hon,” she said. “Have fun?”

  “I lost four dollars and drank too much beer, but I guess you could call it fun. Just sleepy now.”

  “How did Tom do?” she asked casually.

  I hung my coat in the closet. “He broke the crap game and left early. Another guy brought me home. Incidentally, I’m not so sure we ought to get thick with Tom.”

  “Why not?” she asked in a surprised voice.

  I started to take off my tie. “He’s changed since high school. He wasn’t the nicest guy in the world even then, as a matter of fact. I just don’t think he’s our kind of people.”

  “Fiddle flap,” Evelyn said. “I think he’s very nice.”

  I stood still for several seconds, but I didn’t say anything. Then I finished undressing, put on my pyjamas and climbed into bed.

  The next morning I left at my usual time to call on clients. Our life went on as normally as ever.

  The thing which makes me think Evelyn suspects is that when Tom’s murder was announced in the paper, she never even mentioned it.

  THIS IS MY NIGHT (Novel Sample)

  This Is My Night is an original crime novel.

  Chapter I

  The Office of the Assistant Minister of Information for the Republic of Cuba was plush and over-decorated, a relic of the Batista regime. Three men were in it. A bald, heavily built man with a swarthy complexion sat behind the elaborate, oval-shaped desk. A burly man with flaming red hair and a cherubic Irish face leaned quietly against a wall, listening to the conversation between the other two, but taking no part in it.

  The third man was lean, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a finely featured face whose almost delicate lines were tempered by the opaque hardness of his eyes and the faint aura of recklessness which seemed to surround him. He lounged indolently in a guest chair next to the desk, his spine curved against the chair back and his feet outthrust so that he lay as nearly horizontal as possible without sliding to the floor. He was not a large man, no more than five feet eleven and weighing possibly a hundred and seventy pounds, but his body was so smoothly muscled that even in relaxation he gave an impression of feline alertness. You sensed that, like a cat, he could move from complete repose to violent action in a split instant.

  He made the bald man uncomfortable.

  The bald man said in meticulous English, with no trace of Spanish accent, “Where did you learn that Pedro Bianca got away with so much money, Captain Denver?”

  “Just plain Casey Denver,” the lean man corrected. “I have an honorable discharge in my pocket.”

  “Ah, yes,” the bald man said. “I keep forgetting that you and Sergeant McCabe are no longer members of our armed forces.” He glanced briefly at the red-haired man, then returned his attention to Denver. “But to repeat the question. The Ministry for Recovering Stolen Government Property has released no such figure as you claim.”

  “They haven’t released figures on most of the Batista stooges who absconded with loot. They’d rather get it back quietly through their own agents than go through the red tape of asking foreign governments to confiscate it. Particularly when they’re not sure where the abscondees are hiding. Bianca got away with four million. In crisp United States currency. I was present when the rebels questioned what was left of his staff.”

  Rudolfo Cassino, newly appointed Assistant Minister of Information for the Republic of Cuba, digested this information with a musing expression on his face. “I wondered why the Ministry was so eager to find a relatively minor official such as Bianca,” he said finally. “What you say explains it. But what you suggest is perilously close to treason.”

  “For you, maybe,” Denver said. “Sam and I are citizens of the United States.” He threw a grin at the redhead, who grinned back.

  Cassino nodded. “I forget again. Of course you and Senor McCabe are no longer subject to our laws. But I am,” Casey Denver said amiably. “A little treason shouldn’t bother you, Senor Cassino. You’re about as crooked as they come.”

  The bald man’s spine stiffened. But his anger at the insult was modified by the caution of a man who is trying to make friends with a rattlesnake. With more petulance than indignation he said, “You needn’t be rude, Senor Denver.”

  Denver said, “I’m not in the habit of tiptoeing around an issue, Senor Cassino. If you weren’t a crook, I wouldn’t be talking to you. I need a crook in the right place to swing this. You want a million dollars, or don’t you?”

  The Assistant Minister of Information licked his lips. His expression was a mixture of offended dignity and greed. As though seeking strength, his eyes strayed to the painting of Fidel Castro on the far wall. The painting showed the bearded revolutionary leader wearing a green fatigue cap, with a flowing banner behind him on which was printed: 26 Julio. Not too long in the past a painting of Fulgencio Batista had hung in the identical spot.

  The portrait of Castro didn’t strengthen the moral fiber of the Assistant Minister of Information, but studying it gave him a chance to control his indignation. He said, “You are a hard man to understand, Captain—Senor Denver. You fought valiantly with the anti-Batista forces. You were given a citation for bravery by Castro himself. You were regarded by your fellow officers as dedicated to the cause. Yet now you suggest bleeding the cause for which you fought of four million dollars.”

  “Why not?” Denver inquired cheerfully. “I’m a professional mercenary. You’re a professional opportunist. If either of us had thought there’d be more in it for us on the other side, we’d have fought for Batista.”

  Cassino frowned. Then, deciding it was useless to keep up a feeble pretense of patriotism, he shrugged. “How do you propose to relieve Pedro Bianca of his four million dollars?”

  Casey Denver pushed himself up in his chair until he was seated erect, produced a cigarette and lit it. “I thought you’d come around,” he said wi
th faint cynicism. “It’s going to take some doing. You have one ear stuck into everything going on in the current regime. Where does the Ministry for Recovering think he is hiding?”

  Cassino raised his eyebrows. “If you don’t even know that, how do you expect to steal the money he absconded with?” Denver said impatiently, “If I knew where to look, I wouldn’t be offering you a million-dollar cut. I figure he’s somewhere in the States. The Ministry has agents spread all over the United States, hunting down fugitives of the Batista regime. Or at least the ones who absconded with government funds. If they’d already found him, you wouldn’t waste your time talking to me. But they must have at least a hint as to where he is.”

  The Assistant Minister of Information considered for a moment, then said reluctantly, “Someone in the area of Los Angeles, California, is aiding fugitives of the former Batista regime to escape our vengeance.”

  “And the Ministry for Recovering thinks it’s Bianca?”

  “He’s the only one of the whole filthy crew with enough fanaticism to worry about anything but his own skin. They don’t think any other former Batista aide would bother. Pedro Bianca actually believes in Batista.”

  “He wasn’t so fanatical about the cause to neglect taking all the loot he could carry when he skipped,” Denver said drily.

  “Which you plan to steal how?”

  “Not steal,” Denver said cheerfully. “Just liberate. It doesn’t belong to Bianca. I consider it fair spoils of war.”

  “All right,” Cassino conceded. “If you insist on rationalizing. How do you plan to liberate it?”

  “Simply take it away. He can’t very well kick to the law. He’d be jailed for illegal entry the minute he poked his nose out of hiding.”

  “You make it sound easy,” Cassino said. “But Bianca is no fool. He is not alone, either. Three of his key aides, two servants and his mistress fled with him.”

  “Yeah, I heard. Tell me about them. I didn’t want to excite any curiosity by inquiring around too much.” Cassino said, “As you know, Bianca was a district commander of the secret police. The three aides he took with him were secret policemen in his district, all ruthless killers and all fanatically loyal to Bianca. Their names are Juan DiMarco, Alfredo Cruz and Jose Mantellagro. I am sorry I cannot give you their descriptions. I have never heard them. The servants are unimportant—merely a valet and a cook whose names I don’t recall. His mistress is the famous flamenco dancer, Magdalena Diego, half gypsy and one of the most beautiful women in all Cuba.”