Ричард Деминг: The Second Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK®

Only two weeks before, the FBI fingerprint department had identified as Larry MacDowell an unclaimed accident victim lying in a Brooklyn morgue. No news release had been made for the specific purpose of letting Mac use his name.

Their physical descriptions roughly tallied, but Mac was counting more on the psychology of his acting than on physical resemblance. Most persons in describing someone do not say something like, “A man weighing 240 pounds, light brown hair, gray eyes, freckles, a hook nose and a dimple in his chin.” Instead they say, “A big fellow with horn-rimmed glasses, who is always pursing his lips and talks about nothing but baseball.”

Mac hoped that Emory’s description would be something like, “A stocky guy of average height who sort of bounces when he moves. Wears his hat on the back of his head and always has a mocking grin, like he doesn’t give a damn about anything.”

There was a good possibility the stunt would work, but there was also a double risk. Possibly Larry MacDowell’s death had been gangland vengeance, rather than the accident it seemed, in which case Dude Emory undoubtedly would be aware of it through the underworld grapevine. And also Emory might mention the cheek scar MacDowell bore, which MacDonald Sprague lacked. Mac found himself wishing Cougar had made the call instead of Nan for the alert light in her eyes warned him she would not be too easily fooled.

When Nan finally returned, Mac forced his gaze to meet hers, and immediately he knew he had won, for there was a faint touch of respect in her eyes.

“Dude Emory seems to think you’re the devil on wheels with a gun, Mac.” She handed back his automatic butt first. “Sorry for the inconvenience, but we don’t take any chances.”

“That’s all right,” Mac said agreeably, concealing his flood of relief. “I prefer working for an outfit that doesn’t.”

He slipped the automatic back in its holster and stared pointedly at the revolver still in Cougar’s hand. Slowly the Strangler replaced it beneath his arm, but none of the hostility disappeared from his eyes, and very little of the suspicion, This guy is going to watch me, Mac told himself , and I better watch him if I want to stay alive.

Nan had returned to her chair and was eying Mac speculatively. “How would you like to work for Homicide, Incorporated?” she asked abruptly.

Mac sat up straight and forced a look of surprise on to his face. “Homicide, Inc.! I’ve heard of that, and it’s bigger than any of the guys I mentioned. Don’t tell me that outfit is run by a woman!”

“I won’t tell you anything,” she said in a suddenly cold voice. “Who runs it is none of your business. You’ll get your orders and your salary from me. Who I get them from is something you don’t have to know, and if you try to find out, Thomas will discourage the attempt by squeezing your throat until you stop breathing—permanently.”

“All right,” Mac said agreeably. “I won’t pry. Just so I get paid regularly, and know I’ll be taken care of if I get in a jam.”

“You’ll get five hundred a week, and if you get in a pinch, the best legal talent in the country will be retained to defend you.”

“You’ve got a new employee,” Mac said.

For the first time Nan almost smiled; but instead of being reassured, coldness crept along Mac’s spine.

She turned to Cougar and said, “You better run along now, Thomas. I want to talk to Mac for a while.”

The already tight skin seemed to tighten even more across the Strangler’s narrow face, and his eyes shot open hatred at Mac. But he rose obediently, muttered a good night and left.

As soon as the door closed behind Cougar, Nan’s brittle mask seemed to melt away. For a moment she stood staring at the door with a kind of uneasy relief, looking more like a bewildered young girl than a lieutenant in a murder organization. Again Mac experienced a sense of shock at the combination of sympathy and revulsion her two faceted character aroused in him.

“I hate him!” she said in a low voice. “I’ve wished him dead a thousand times!”

Mac looked at her with his mouth open, unable to correlate her obvious fear and detestation of Cougar with the cold and domineering manner in which she ordered him around. If she really wished the man dead, she was certainly in a position to get him that way. He wondered if for some obscure reason she was putting on an act, and resolved to guard his reactions carefully.

She shook herself like a kitten throwing off water, moved over to Mac’s chair, took his hand and led him to the sofa. Puzzledly he sat beside her while she continued to hold his hand tightly.

“I’m afraid,” she said simply. “I needed you badly.”

On guard, he examined her face, noting the wild excitement deep in her eyes. For a moment he thought the excitement was amorous, and wondered how he could duck such a squeamish situation, for he had no desire to make love to his brother’s murderess. But immediately he sensed it was something else—an uncertainty and something closely allied to terror.

She released his hand suddenly, clasped both of hers in her lap and looked up at him with a strange mixture of hope and wariness in her expression.

“I’m glad you’ve come in with me, Mac,” she said, then added quickly, “With us, I mean.”

A theory began to form in Mac’s mind, a theory that explained her dialogue with Cougar as well as her present action, which he half suspected was a deliberate act. The theory was that Nan was the real head of Homicide, Inc., and her talk of a “next higher contact” plus her present act was deliberate red herring.

At the same time she looked so frightened, so small and so defenseless, he automatically dropped a protective arm across her shoulders, one part of his mind half believing she really needed masculine protection, and the other part regarding himself with amazed disgust. Her head tilted upward, and in spite of his resolution, he kissed her. For a second he completely forgot himself.

Her lips clung to his coolly. For a moment he completely forgot she was a murderess, forgot his mission, forgot everything but the soft outline of her mouth. Then recollection sent a wave of revulsion over him and he jerked back so suddenly, Nan’s eyes widened in surprise.

At the same moment the door opened quietly and a woman entered from the hall.

She was a slim, shy-appearing brunette of about twenty-eight, pretty in a delicate-featured, subdued sort of way, but the type that instinctively huddle in the background and are therefore overlooked.

She gave an embarrassed cough, and stood twisting the strap of her bag uncertainly.

“Why, Claire,” Nan said in a surprised voice. “Is it after five?”

“Five-thirty,” Claire said apologetically.

Mac rose and Nan said, “This is Mr. MacDowell, Claire. Claire D’Arcy, Mac. She shares the apartment with me.”

Nan’s air of defenselessness had vanished, and her eyes were again brittle and mocking. “Claire is a working girl. Chief file clerk for Argus Mutual. She toils from eight to five while I flit from cafe to cocktail lounge, and secretly she disapproves of me.”

“Why, I do no such thing!” Claire said, coloring.

Mac lowered his lids to conceal the flash of interest inspired by the name, Argus Mutual. But he made no attempt to slow his racing mind.

The leak at Argus was immediately obvious, yet so simple it was no wonder it worked. One look at Claire D’Arcy was enough to indicate that her company would regard her as above suspicion, as she probably was. Even if they knew of Nan, it would never occur to Argus that the attractive apartment-mate of their chief file clerk was part of Homicide, Inc. Nor would it occur to the shy girl, who undoubtedly was glad of a sympathetic audience to listen to her story of the day’s work, never suspecting she was furnishing information to the most ruthless murder gang in the country.