Stephen Barr - Best of the best detective stories - 25th anniversary collection

And the first time? The swarthy man had been entering a lunchroom. He hadn’t known Crane would be there. He had been shocked nearly out of his wits at the sight of the man he thought he had killed. He had merely dropped into a neighborhood lunchroom for food.

Neighborhood! The swarthy man lived somewhere near the lunchroom.

Crane did not remember walking those five blocks. It was as if his brain had blacked out, and when he came out of it he was looking at a neon sign which said: COFFEE. The weight on his head was becoming unbearable. His legs were turning to water.

Well, here he was, and except for an occasional passing car, the city slept. He moved on, slowly now, fighting to keep his thoughts from clouding and his legs from folding.

Running feet broke the silence. He stood very still, concentrating on the receding sound. And then, far down on the other side of the street, he glimpsed a fleeting shadow. Abruptly it swung away from the curb and vanished through a doorway.

It did not occur to Crane that it might not be the swarthy man he had seen. This was the completion of a pattern which had gone beyond his own logical reasoning. He did not doubt that he had been deliberately brought here for the same reason that he was still alive.

There was a fire hydrant where the shape had left the street, so he was sure of the exact spot. The hydrant was in front of a box-like two-story building. The ground floor consisted of a grocery store, and lights were in the two windows above.

There was a door to be entered, a dimly lit staircase up which to pull himself with infinite weariness, and then a small hall and another door. Men were speaking beyond that door.

One voice Crane recognized as that of the swarthy man, even though now it was shrill with terror. “I tell you. Flick, he’s haunting me. Go on, laugh, but I killed that guy. I told you how he came in just when I got done with the girl, so I had to give him the business too.”

“How do you know he was dead?” a bantering voice asked.

“I know how to hit ’em. It’s nice and quiet and not messy. A sock on the head and they’re dead before they hit the floor. And I saw what I did to that guy. Hell, half his head was knocked in!”

“Did you make sure he was dead?”

“I wasn’t hanging around there longer than I had to,” the swarthy man replied hesitantly. “Well, all right, say I didn’t finish him. But what would he be doing hours later sitting in Steve’s lunchroom, drinking coffee as calm as you please? he’d be dead or in a hospital. And he knew me. Flick. He never seen me before. How the hell did he know me? And he went after me. My gun didn’t scare him none. And when I pulled the trigger, nothing happened.”

“You missed him?”

“The gun was right up against him. But no bullet came out. The gun didn’t shoot, and I’d just oiled and cleaned it for that payroll job.”

The man named Flick chuckled derisively. “You dope! Guns miss fire lots of times.”

“Maybe. So all right, the gun missed fire. So I went back to the house to see if the cops were there. They were there all right. I didn’t get it. Say this guy was hurt bad, would they let him go? Then an ambulance pulls up and they carry somebody out. It’s the guy, I think. Maybe I been dreaming I seen him. Then all of a sudden there he is, not in the ambulance. He’s coming across the street, straight to where I’m standing. He couldn’t see me. I tell you, he couldn’t. I was in a doorway. But he came straight at me. So I ran.”

“You’re a brave lad.”

“Yeah, it’s funny to you. Sure I was scared. He chased after me, but the funny thing is he didn’t run. He kept walking, like he knew I couldn’t get away from him. But I shook him off with no trouble. I cut through yards. I went out of my way. A bloodhound couldn’t have followed me.” His voice faded and then rose stridently: “Listen, Flick! I’m downstairs on this street and look back — and there he is. And he’s still walking, like nothing can stop him.”

“You damn fool! Did he see you come in here?”

“What’s the difference? He knows where we live. But how does he know? That’s what I’m asking. He’s supposed to be dead. I killed him.”

“Of all the saps!” Flick shouted. “Maybe he’s calling the cops. Go look for him.”

“He don’t need cops. Flick. He’ll come himself. He knew all along where we lived and he didn’t bring no cops.”

“Then go out and get him.”

“I’m scared.”

“You got a gun. Use it.”

There was a brief silence. Then the swarthy man said more quietly: “I get the dirty jobs. I kill the girl for you. I get sent out to kill a guy I killed once already.”

“Don’t be a damn fool. I’ll be with you as soon as I get my pants on.”

The door opened so suddenly that Crane had no time to retreat. In the dimness of the hall, he stood facing the swarthy man.

An insane moan trickled from the swarthy man’s lips. He said brokenly, “Flick!” and reached under his shoulder.

Crane had no plan of action. He simply moved in, and his body struck the swarthy man and the arm which was coming out with the gun. The arm and wrist and gun-muzzle were pressed against the swarthy man at the instant the fingers contracted the trigger.

Thunder shook the small hall. The swarthy man fell away from Crane and slumped against the wall. His eyes stared sightlessly. He was dead.

“All right, guy,” a voice said hoarsely. “Reach.”

Crane lifted his gaze. A tall, gaunt man wearing only underwear stood in the doorway, and a black automatic was in his hand. The face was the one Ellen had described. She had died because she had seen that face during the holdup.

“So you’re the lad who’s been haunting Carlos.” The gaunt man’s eyes flicked to the dead man and back to Crane. “How much do you know?”

Crane swayed. His knees quivered; his shoulders were bowed under the weight of his head. But he felt no fear. He felt only a little relief that he was so near the end. He said: “I know that he murdered Ellen and that you are her murderer too.”

The gaunt face tightened. “What I want to know is, do the cops know?”

“They don’t have to know,” Crane said. His voice sounded flat and unfamiliar in his ears. “I’m going to kill you.” And he moved forward.

The gun roared. Crane paused at the impact of the bullet and then resumed motion.

“Stay back!” the gaunt man gasped. “I hit you!” He retreated backward into his room. His face fell to pieces with terror.

Crane smiled. “You can’t kill a dead man,” he said, and lunged.

The gun spoke again as Crane’s hands closed over that skinny neck. He felt nothing. He was past physical sensation.

He fell with the gaunt man under him. Once more there was the sound of a gun, distant and unimportant. Inches from his own face. Crane saw another face that no longer looked quite human. The eyes bulged, the tongue protruded, the skin turned purple.

There was no warning. Between the drawing of a breath, Jim Crane ceased to be...

They had a great deal of trouble loosening the dead fingers from the skinny throat of the other dead man.

Dr. Rowland, the coroner, was puzzled. “The shooting was heard only twenty minutes ago. Rigor shouldn’t have set in so firmly.”

Lieutenant Blanchard turned from the hall where he had been looking down at the body of the swarthy man. “Crane must have continued to hang on while he was dying from the bullet wounds.”

Dr. Rowland frowned and said nothing. After a while he stood up. “Crane was hit three times, but none of the bullets could have been fatal. He was bound to drop dead any moment. The exertion of the struggle finished him.”

Blanchard drew smoke deep into his lungs. “But not until he had killed these two.”