The Noir Mystery MEGAPACK ™: 25 Modern and Classic Mysteries Read online

  “Sure. But it wouldn’t take you more than a few days at the most to run into a stone wall on your investigation. You couldn’t pin anything on her because there’d be nothing to pin. You’d let her go and she’d collect the insurance.”

  “So what?” Eldritch growled belligerently.

  McGee snorted, as if in derision at Eldritch’s ignorance.

  “So whoever’s behind the scheme,” he said, “forces her to hand over the money, telling her he has proof she killed her husband, and making the frame look so good that it scares her into doing as he says. Then he kills her, making it look like suicide, and leaving a fake suicide note confessing the murder of her husband. Maybe he even burns up a pile of dollar bills and says in the note that her conscience nagged her until she destroyed the blood money. That would close the case forever. Murder solved, guilty party punished and money accounted for. The real killer would be absolutely in the clear, with half a million to spend as he pleased and nobody to trip him up.”

  “That,” Eldritch gusted, “is absolutely the most outlandish pipe dream I ever heard. You’ve done a whale of a lot of talking but you still don’t give any reason for beating it off with Mainwaring’s corpse.”

  “You’re sitting on your brains again,” McGee said wearily. “Look, sonny boy. Without the corpse you can’t prove death, can you? All right, and until you can prove Mainwaring’s death, the insurance company won’t pay off. So I’m standing between somebody and a half-million take, and Mrs. Mainwaring’s in the clear. The killer had a good scheme, but I made it back-fire. Sure Mainwaring’s dead—as dead as your imagination—but nobody’ll know it officially until the guy who killed him is dead or behind bars. You want to make something of it?”

  Eldritch tugged at his thinning hair. “When I think how peaceful crime was before you opened shop!” he mumbled. “So who’s behind this carnival of murder you got so beautifully doped out, Screwball? How you gonna trip the murderer?”

  “It’s between three men,” McGee said thoughtfully. “When I walked into the murder tonight, I got a flash of this idea and worked by instinct when I snatched the body. Most of this I reconstructed afterward when I had time to think. At first it was simply that nobody had any other reason to kill Mainwaring. He was such a harmless, likable little guy, with no enemies and his business completely on the square. That was why I jumped to this idea of why he was killed. Then, thinking back, I figured who might be behind it.

  “For one, there’s a fellow named Ashley, the insurance agent who wrote the policy. He’d insured Hilda Mainwaring before and was a frequent caller there. Then there’s Lofting, Mainwaring’s lawyer, who was an old family friend and the guy she jilted to marry Mainwaring. The third possibility is Luger, the family doctor. When Mainwaring first came to me, he’d been doing some nosing and had found out that either Luger or Lofting suggested the insurance. He thought Ashley, the agent, hadn’t been brought in until afterward, though nobody’s in a better spot to plan such a deal than the guy who sold the policy.”

  “All right,” Eldritch said briskly, getting to his feet. “You maybe got something, at that, Mac. I’ll put men to work on all three of ’em right away. You hand in Mainwaring’s body and I’ll call off the hounds. Of course, you’ll have to sit in jail for a couple of days but if this works out like you got it doped, I’ll see you get clear.”

  “Oh, no,” McGee cried violently. “You don’t slap my pants in any jail-house while you investigate. The guy behind this will be too clever to leave holes, and I’ll wind up behind the usual eight ball. There’s only one way to get the killer. I keep the body of Mainwaring and use it to smoke out the guilty rat. He’ll be desperate to get his hands on that corpse.”

  “You crazy mick!” Eldritch bawled furiously. “You play ball my way or I’ll send you over if it’s the last thing I do! Either come down with me now or I’ll have a ‘shoot-to-kill’ broadcast on you and put every reserve cop in town on—”

  “I was afraid you’d be stubborn.”

  Sam McGee sighed regretfully. His left fist balled and came up from his side. Eldritch heard the sharp rustle of McGee’s raincoat as the blow started. He tried to dodge and succeeded only in ramming his big square jaw straight into the punch. He sighed explosively and went down in a heap.

  McGee rummaged around the garage, found a coil of clothesline rope and used it effectively. Finally he gagged the inspector and rolled his limp form into a corner.

  “A fine cop you are,” McGee snorted at the deaf ears. “You forgot to tell me I was under arrest.”

  He climbed into the inspector’s small sedan, kicked over the motor and backed out the driveway into the street. Ten minutes of tortuous driving along twisted streets brought him to the south edge of the city. He turned onto a small, rutted country road and drove steadily until the road ended suddenly at the edge of a cavernous pit.

  McGee got out and stood for a moment, staring down into the pit. It had stopped raining, now, and the lightening sky reflected on the gleam of water far below. Off to one side, the headlights caught the gaunt framework of a steam shovel and the towering bulk of sifting screens.

  This was a clay pit, the only one of its kind in that part of the country, from which a local pottery manufacturer dug a peculiar shade of red clay for the making of vases and lamps. It was deserted at this hour of the night, with not even a watchman on duty.

  McGee stood for a moment, staring grimly down at the blackness of the pit. Then he gingerly let himself over the edge, slid down the greasy clay slope for a few yards and scrambled back up. When he reached the top, he was a mess. His pants legs and raincoat were liberally smeared with red clay and his feet were merely shapeless blobs of the same substance.

  McGee spent twenty minutes cleaning himself off, removing the worst of the accumulation. Then he got back into Eldritch’s car and drove rapidly back into the city.

  He stopped presently beside a white house, set back from a wide street. A small illuminated sign on the lawn bore the name “J. L. Luger, M. D.” There were lights on in the house, despite the lateness of the hour, and a big sedan was parked in the driveway.

  McGee hesitated, scowling. Finally he shifted his gun back to his side pocket, went up over the lawn and rang the bell.

  Presently a light came on overhead. The door opened, framing a chubby man with a black Vandyke beard and gold-rimmed spectacles. He stared at McGee’s gaunt, mud-smeared figure and his lips tightened.

  “Yes-s-s?”

  “You Doc Luger?” McGee growled.

  “I am. What is wrong? An accident, perhaps?”

  “Not yet, Doc,” McGee said grimly. “But any minute, now, if you don’t behave. Scram along inside and don’t beef.”

  He jammed his gun into the chubby man’s paunch and pushed. The pressure of the gun and McGee’s menacing attitude drove the bearded man backward. McGee followed him into a white-trimmed entry hall, kicked the door shut with one muddy heel, and jerked his head toward a lighted doorway down the hall.

  “In there, Doc. And don’t get any ideas. This thing goes bang and somebody gets hurt every time.”

  “What—what’s the meaning of this intrusion, sir?” Luger found his voice. “Put that weapon down or I shall call the police.”

  “What’s wrong, John?” A slim, immaculate, gray-haired man suddenly appeared in the hall doorway, his eyes widening at the sight of McGee and the gun. “Shall I call for help?”

  “Go ahead,” McGee suggested gently, moving the gun. “Try it, friend.” He jerked his head toward Luger. “Who’s this monkey, Doc?”

  “I,” the slim man said frigidly, “am Cyrus Lofting, attorney-at-law. I demand to know the meaning of this outrage!”

  “Lofting!” McGee’s breath gusted out and a grin tugged at his wide lips. “This is just perfect. Inside, you two, and don’t crowd to see who
gets shot. If you behave, nobody will.”

  He forced the two furious men ahead of him, into a comfortable, book-lined den, slapped a careless hand over their pockets, then nudged them down into chairs. McGee himself took a stand in the center of the floor, gun in hand, face twisted in an ugly snarl.

  “The sawbones and the mouthpiece. This is fine.” His lips twisted in a crooked grin. “You want to see Mainwaring again?”

  He shot that question out suddenly, harshly, studying them narrowly. Both men started violently and wariness came into their eyes.

  “Yeah, I’m Sam McGee, if that’s what you’re thinking. Screwball McGee—Eight Ball McGee. The only guy in this whole town who knows where Mainwaring is right this minute.”

  “Wh-where is he?” Dr. Luger choked, bending forward. “Is he badly hurt? What have you done with him? I’ve got to see him. He may need medical—”

  “Anything he needs,” McGee cut in flatly, “I’ll give him. If you want to see Jonathan Mainwaring again, start digging.”

  “Digging?” Lofting echoed blankly.

  “Digging—deep into the bankroll, shyster. I’ve got Mainwaring and I’m keeping him until some of his pals want to see him bad enough to dig up twenty-five grand.”

  “You—you scoundrel!” Lofting burst out furiously. “Don’t you realize that kidnapping is a capital offense? You’ll go to the chair for this!”

  “Just remember that,”—McGee grinned nastily—“when you get any ideas about tricking me. I can’t fry any browner for knocking off a couple of dopes who got in my way. Are you going to play ball?”

  “It’s murder!” Luger cried hoarsely. “Jonathan was wounded. He may die for want of medical aid.”

  “If you love him so,” McGee sneered, “buy him back and get to work, Doc. It’s all up to you.”

  “But we can’t raise twenty-five thousand dollars in a minute!”

  “That’s okay.” McGee shrugged expansively. “I’ll give you until noon tomorrow. If you spill to the cops or try to cross me, you’ll never see Mainwaring again. I got him at a place where nobody’ll ever find him—dead or alive. You raise the dough and I’ll phone you at noon tomorrow and tell you where to leave it. Now sit tight and behave yourselves. I’m leaving and you’d better not try to stop me.”

  He stood in the doorway a moment, studying their furious faces. Then, with a mocking salute, he spun around and ran out of the house. No one followed or tried to stop him.

  Ten minutes later, McGee drew up in front of an imposing apartment building. It was the type using an automatic elevator and at this hour, the lobby was deserted. McGee barged boldly in, consulted the directory, then took the stairs to the third floor. At the door of three-ten he leaned on the button and waited, hearing the muted whine of the buzzer inside.

  After several minutes he heard shuffling steps beyond the panels and the door slid open, to frame a heavy-eyed man in striped pajamas and blue dressing gown. The man’s sleepy eyes slid over McGee and down to the gun in his hand. Abruptly the sleepiness vanished, replaced by startled fear.

  “You, Ashley, the insurance peddler?” McGee growled.

  “Y-yes, I’m—”

  “Then inside, lug. I want to talk to you.”

  Driving the scared salesman backward, McGee slammed the door and jerked his head at a chair.

  “I’ll make this short and sweet, guy. You know what happened to Mainwaring tonight, don’t you? Okay, I’m Sam McGee.” He waited, watching Ashley’s eyes flick over his mud-smeared clothing. “You know who I am and you know I’m tough and desperate. I got me a new wrinkle and I need you to help me play it, see. I’ve got Mainwaring in a safe place and he ain’t too badly knocked around. If he gets fixed up soon enough, he might live. If he lives, your company doesn’t have to pay out half a million bucks in cold cash. If he kicks off, you’re stuck. So how much is it worth to keep your trap shut and buy him back, all in one piece?”

  “I—I—” Ashley wet his lips, swallowed noisily, and tried again. “I don’t—I mean, I never heard of such a thing. You want the Pinnacle Insurance Company to pay ransom for one of their policy holders to keep him from being killed?”

  “Right,” McGee barked crisply. “You pay twenty-five grand or you pay half a million. Make up your minds—but make ’em up fast. If anybody beefs to the law about this, Mainwaring dies and your outfit has to pay. I’ll give you until noon tomorrow to work it out. I’ll phone you here, at noon. If you want to save four hundred and seventy-five grand, it’s your only chance.”

  “I—I’ll talk it over with them,” Ashley said.

  “Don’t strain a tonsil doing it,” McGee growled, and turned to the door. “Remember, one phony play anywhere along the line and Mainwaring is all through. I get the same chair if I’m caught, whether he lives or dies, so I’ve got nothing to lose.” He went out, slamming the door.

  In the sticky, ink-black darkness that preceded dawn, McGee crouched in the mud beside the little supply shanty on the edge of the red clay pit. His gun was in his hand and every nerve in his body was wire-tight with a tension that put an aching sickness in the pit of his stomach.

  This was the payoff. He had stuck his neck out to the limit, now. If his scheme failed, it was the electric chair for Sam McGee, and no fooling about it.

  He had Jonathan Mainwaring’s body and he had attempted extortion. Whatever his motive, those were the incontrovertible facts as the law would see them.

  And from those facts, a jury could deduce only one answer—“We find the defendant, Samuel McGee, guilty as charged!”

  Suddenly the tension flowed out of McGee’s body, leaving him cold and ready. Somewhere, off in the near darkness, a faint splash had betrayed an incautious footstep. Someone was coming, walking quietly through the night.

  His scheme was working! But so much still depended on the soundness of McGee’s guesses—and it was all crazy guesswork.

  Quietly McGee stood up close to the wall, waiting. Now that he was listening in the right direction, he heard other tiny sounds. The figure was coming closer, closer.

  Without warning it was there—a blacker blackness at the door of the shanty. McGee could hear muted breathing, then the soft scrape of metal against wood. He tensed himself, lifted the gun and leaped at the dark figure.

  He slammed into a thick, muscular body. There was a quick grunt of surprise and the body jerked furiously. McGee felt the cold hardness of a gun and slapped it away with his left hand, an instant before its flaming thunder split the night. Cursing, McGee wrestled with his unknown victim, slipping and splashing through the rain-soaked clay. He was clinging to the man’s gun hand, fighting to keep the gun from exploding again, and his adversary was clinging with equal desperation to McGee’s gun. Neither spoke a word beyond grunted profanity.

  Suddenly McGee’s foot slipped and he started skidding. The movement help jerked his own gun hand free. He fell onto the body before him and slammed the barrel of his gun at a spot where he figured the head would be. It connected with a solid, satisfying thock. The squirming body went limp and McGee fell on it. This time he used his free hand to locate the unseen head and struck it again, hard enough to insure a long period of inactivity.

  Then, grunting and panting, McGee kicked open the shack door and dragged his victim inside. With the door shut, he struck a cautious match and stared at the blank face of the man he had jumped. A gasping curse rushed out of his lungs.

  He was staring at a square, reddish, totally unfamiliar face. For a moment, a sick sense of failure flooded McGee. He had banked his life on a desperate gamble and had failed.

  Suddenly he lit another match and fumbled at the stranger’s pocket, turning out a sheaf of papers and a small, black case. He looked inside the case and the sickness went out of his nerves. It bore the card with the name, “Martin Eckson, Insuran
ce Investigator.” McGee got up suddenly, blowing out the match.

  “One down and two to go,” he whispered softly. “The killer had better be one of those two, or...”

  He started to turn away and swung his face full into the beam of an electric torch that suddenly flamed at him from the doorway. He had left the shack door ajar when he dragged the insurance investigator inside and this other man had slipped up to it without a betraying sound.

  The flash beam caught McGee flatfooted. He blinked at it for a dazed moment while a man’s voice, harsh and scratchy with tension, cried:

  “There you are, you murdering kidnapper!”

  The words were still coming from the unseen lips when the gun went off. It flamed behind the light and something like a padded hammer slammed into McGee’s shoulder and spun him around. He felt his own gun go flying across the shack, then he was sinking down onto his knees, scrabbling for it with his left hand.

  The man with the flashlight came leaping forward and crashed into him, sending lances of pain through McGee’s wounded shoulder. He went over backward, using his knees and his left hand to fight off the kicking, clawing fury of the attack. He was weak and dizzy from the wound, but he managed to get leverage for his knees and force the other man back so that he could swing a solid punch with his left hand.

  The punch connected and the flashlight went rolling across the floor. McGee reared up, following his advantage, and punched again. The man grunted and rolled away from him.

  A face flopped into the wash of the light and McGee’s breath caught as he saw the unmistakable dark Vandyke beard of Dr. J. L. Luger, the Mainwaring’s personal physician.

  Luger still held the nickel-plated pistol with which he had shot McGee, but he was dopey from the blows, and slow getting up. McGee reared forward and punched again. The doctor went out for keeps.

  “That ties it,” McGee panted, struggling to his feet and using the flashlight to find his own gun. “Now for the payoff.”