Ричард Деминг - The Second Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK®

“Hey rube at the count of go!” Ed chanted.

He could see Mary’s eyes widen at the carny expression, “Hey rube”—the traditional call for help when the carnival was threatened. Her eyes sought his, read his mind, and she nodded.

“A-one and a-two and away and go!” Ed intoned.

Both shifted their feet to half face the bar and the twin streams of spinning clubs suddenly spurted in that direction. Mark, seated nearest to Ed, took the heavy butt of the first one squarely in the center of his forehead and tumbled to the floor like a poled ox. Sliver, next in line, slid from his stool with incredible swiftness, ducked the second club, and darted a hand beneath his coat. The third club smashed between his eyes.

With the fourth club poised for throwing, Ed looked to see how Mary was doing. Joey the driver was unconscious on the floor. The red-faced Puffy was on his knees wearing a groggy expression, but still conscious enough to claw for the gun beneath his arm.

Ed’s fourth club went spinning end-over-end and thunked solidly against Puffy’s temple. Puffy pitched forward on his face.

Ed and Mary nodded sadly.

“I’m getting old,” she said. “I didn’t connect solidly with any but the first throw. I hit him with the other three, but they were all glancing blows.”

“We’re both a little rusty,” he agreed. “Go call the Sheriff. I’ll collect their guns.”

He stooped over each unconscious man, relieved him of his gun, and carried them all behind the bar. The Indian club which Sliver had ducked had sailed into the backbar, smashing a couple of bottles of whiskey, and now lay on the floor behind the bar.

Ed picked it up, came from behind the bar, and gathered up the other seven clubs. He lay four on the end of the bar and held the other four, three in his left hand, the fourth in his right.

He had never trusted guns. He felt safer with the Indian clubs.

When Mary returned from the phone, she picked up the four clubs from the bar and aligned herself next to him. They were still standing there when Sheriff’s Deputies arrived.

All four of the bank robbers had regained consciousness by then, but they still lay on the floor. As each had awakened he had decided against moving as soon as Ed and Mary began juggling their clubs.

Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine , September 1972.

When I learned my brother-in-law was going to be out of town for a whole week, I got pretty upset about my sister being alone for seven nights when a psychotic killer was running around loose. I was having Sunday dinner with them at their place when Lyle casually mentioned he was flying to Chicago the next morning.

“For how long?” I asked.

“I’ll be back the following Monday.”

“Seven days!” I said so loudly that I startled young Tod into dropping a spoonful of mashed potatoes and gravy onto his high-chair tray. “You’re going to leave Martha alone in the house for seven days!”

The moment the words were out, I wished I hadn’t raised my voice. I liked Lyle, but he was so touchy you had to be careful how you talked to him. I had seen him abruptly withdraw from conversation at some imagined slight and sit without uttering a word for hours.

Martha was having the same thoughts, because she threw him a concerned glance, but this time he seemed undisturbed.

Relieved, she said lightly, “I’ll have Tod to protect me.”

Big deal. My namesake nephew was two-and-a-half-years old.

The boy, whose high chair was between me and my sister, looked from me to his mother and inquired, “Why Unkie Tod talk so loud?”

“Because he has a vivid imagination,” she told him. “Eat your mashed potatoes.”

My fears were hardly imaginary, though. The wraith known as the Stocking Killer had so far strangled six local women with their own stockings, and incidentally had inspired a couple of other nuts in Kansas City and Chicago to imitate him by each killing one victim. All six St. Louis women had been young, attractive married women, alone in their homes when murdered. In two cases their husbands had been out of town, but in the other four they had merely been out for the evening.

The M.O. had been the same in each case. The killer had obtained entry after his victim was asleep, had searched the house until he found a pair of stockings recently worn by the victim but as yet unlaundered, then had strangled the woman with one stocking and had carried the other away.

There had been no evidence of sexual attack in any of the cases, and no strange fingerprints were ever found, leading the police to believe the killer wore gloves. The only clue was that a female witness had seen the man who probably was the killer, just after he left the home of one of the victims.

Unfortunately she had seen him only from the back and by moonlight. The victim and her husband had lived in the lower flat of a two-family building and the witness lived in the upper. At two-thirty in the morning the witness had gone down the back stairs to let in her squalling cat, and as she opened the back door she saw a man just disappearing through the rear gate into the alley.

Aside from describing his dress and approximate size, she hadn’t been able to tell the police anything about him. He had been dressed all in black, she said, with matching slacks, sweater and cap. She had estimated his height as from six feet to six-two and his weight at 180 to 200.

In a more moderate tone I said, “I’m serious. One of those killings was less than a mile from here.”

Martha said, still in a light tone, “He might be in for a surprise if he picked me. Don’t forget I had judo training as an Army nurse.”

“Yeah, about two lessons, wasn’t it?” I said dourly. “And how do you know the Stocking Killer doesn’t know judo too?”

Martha elevated her chin. “We trained an hour a week for twelve weeks. I could toss you all over the room, big brother.”

I made a dismissing gesture. “I’m out of condition from eating my own cooking. The one witness who saw this guy described him as being as big as Lyle, and you can’t weigh over a hundred pounds.”

“Ninety-nine,” Lyle said. “But she’ll lock the doors after dark, and I’ve instructed her not to open to anyone until she’s established his identity.”

I leaned forward in order to emphasize what I was saying. “Listen, Lyle. I’ve been on this story since the first murder, and I know a few things the general public doesn’t. The police asked the press to sit on it, because they’re afraid of public panic, but from crime-lab examination of the barrels of the door locks of a couple of the victims, they’ve decided he’s expert with a picklock. It seems a picklock leaves certain distinctive scratches that show up under a microscope.”

Martha looked at her husband. Lyle frowned. “Maybe there ought to be draw bolts on the doors,” he conceded, “but I have to catch a plane tomorrow morning before any hardware stores will be open.” After a pause, he said, “Would you have time to pick up a couple of bolts tomorrow and install them, Tod?”

“I could take the time, but that still wouldn’t be enough protection. In one case, where the woman had her doors bolted from inside, the Stocking Killer used a glass cutter to make a neat little hole next to a window catch. That was the one where the published report was that he gained entry by breaking a window. The cops were afraid that if the public knew what an efficient break-in man he was, the warning might make some woman jittery enough to shoot her husband when he came home late and keyed open the door. How necessary is this trip of yours?”

“The company’s sending me. It’s the annual electronics manufacturers’ convention, and all the new products will be on display.”