“I swear to you—”
“It won’t do, Amanda,” Jericho said. “You’re going out of here with me now, and just pray to God that your confession comes in time to stop blood from running in the gutters.” He looked down at the unconscious giant. “And just pray that I can make that poor jerk believe that your body wasn’t worth the price he was willing to pay. Get moving, Amanda.”
Robert Bloch
The Man Who Never Did Anything Right
Wasn’t it Gilbert K. Chesterton who asked, “Where hide a leaf?” And answered, “In a forest.” And “Where murder a man?” And answered, “In a battle” Well, Robert Bloch goes further, much further — to the ultimate...
He came on duty promptly at ten o’clock.
Hanson was already waiting inside the door when he unlocked it, and Hanson was scowling.
“Late again,” Hanson said. “I got a heavy date.”
“But it’s just ten now — here, look at my watch—”
Hanson brushed past him. “You never do anything right,” he muttered. “Okay, into the cell, Shorty.”
Hanson took the keys, locked him in, and went away.
And then he was alone in the room.
Hanson had called it a cell, and in a way it was. The room was too small, too hot, too bare. It had no windows, and the indirect lighting produced a constant glare. The only furniture was a table and one chair; there was no radio, no TV, nothing to read, not even a cot to rest on. He wasn’t supposed to rest, of course: he was supposed to stay alert and wait for orders from the loudspeaker set high up in the wall.
That’s all there was to it — just one hour of guard duty every night, from ten to eleven. All he had to do was wait for orders, and of course there never were any orders. It wasn’t a hard assignment at all, but the button made him nervous.
It was just a small button, set in the wall under the loudspeaker. He could sit with his back to it if he liked and pretend it wasn’t even there.
But it was there, and it made him nervous. One hour a night was about all he could take: one hour a night, sitting in that locked room with the little button.
The trick was to think about something else.
He sat down and reached for a cigarette, then remembered he didn’t have any cigarettes. No smoking — that was one of the rules. No wonder Hanson had made that crack about it being a cell.
Maybe the routine was getting to Hanson too. Maybe he too was ready to flip. But no, Hanson wouldn’t flip. He wasn’t the flipping kind. Not handsome Hanson — that big ape, always talking about his heavy dates. He’d sure been in one hell of a hurry to get out tonight. And he’d had that nasty grin on his face, just as if he was still seeing Myrna.
But he wasn’t, of course. Myrna wasn’t Hanson’s girl; she was his girl. She’d told him so last week, swore she was through with Hanson, said she’d given him the gate. From now on there’d be just the two of them, Myrna and himself.
And tonight, in just one hour, when he got out of here—
Then he remembered. Myrna had called and left a message for him. She couldn’t see him tonight, she had a headache.
Headache. He had a headache, too. Particularly when he remembered Hanson’s grin. Could it be that—?
No, she wouldn’t doublecross him.
But Hanson would.
“You never do anything right,” Hanson had said. And he’d grinned when he muttered it, grinned as though he had some kind of secret. He couldn’t wait to lock him up, here in the cell.
“Okay, into the cell, Shorty.”
Shorty. That was the part that really hurt.
Because he was short. He knew it, Hanson knew it, Myrna knew it.
But was it his fault he was a runt? Was that any excuse for being picked on, laughed at, tricked? He couldn’t help being short any more than Hanson was responsible for being tall and good-looking. It wasn’t fair.
He stood up, feeling the heat and the closeness in the little room. God, why didn’t something happen? But there wasn’t a sound. And he still had fifty minutes to go. Fifty minutes — that meant only ten minutes had passed. How could he stand it? How could he stand it, knowing that Hanson was out there, free? Hanson and Myrna, together, laughing at him in the cell, laughing at Shorty who never did anything right.
Think of something else, he told himself.
He found himself staring at the button.
The button, the small button in the wall.
He turned away, telling himself not to be nervous, to forget about the button. In a little less than fifty minutes he’d be out of here, he could phone Myrna, she’d tell him she loved him, and they’d laugh about his fears together.
Or was she laughing now? She and Hanson, together? Why try to fool himself — it was true, he was sure of it. That damned Hanson! He ought to be killed.
Think about that for a moment. Yes. Think about killing Hanson.
The trouble was, he couldn’t. Because he was Shorty. And Hanson was big and strong. There would never be a chance; none of them was ever allowed access to weapons, for obvious security reasons. Besides, he had never used a gun or a knife. He’d bungle the job for sure. “You never do anything right.”
So Hanson would go on living and laughing and loving, while Shorty stayed here locked in the cell with the little button.
If only there was some way to kill Hanson, some way to commit the perfect crime!
But he wasn’t smart enough to figure out anything like that, and he wasn’t big enough or brave enough to carry it through.
He paced the tiny room, cursing under his breath. Perfect crime! There was no such thing. No matter how cleverly one planned it, there could always be a slipup somewhere along the line. The only perfect crime is one that nobody can ever possibly know about.
That’s when he stopped, standing in front of the button, standing and staring.
There was a way. A way in which he could kill Hanson and nobody would ever know. Because nobody would ever be left to know.
He stood there for a moment, staring at the button, seeing it up close for what it really was. A little round world. But that didn’t matter, as long as Hanson died.
He reached out, pressed.
Lawrence G. Blochman
The Killer with No Fingerprints
It was a knife job — a bloody one; and when the 64,000,000-to-1 fingerprint angle showed up, Lieutenant Max Ritter turned to his private medical examiner, Dr. Daniel Webster Coffee, chief pathologist and director of laboratories at Northbank’s Pasteur Hospital... a modern medical detective story in the great tradition...
The place was almost a shambles when Max Ritter, Lieutenant of Detectives, arrived. All the living-room furniture was slashed or overturned. Chair legs and lamps littered the apartment. So many light bulbs had been broken that the police had to work by flashlights until more bulbs could be sent up. The bed was a rat’s nest of bloody tatters, and a trail of gore led from the bedroom through the living room into the bathroom.
The dead man was lying in the bathroom in a pretzel-like posture that would have made a Ringling Brothers contortionist green with envy. He had one foot in the toilet bowl, one arm in the wash basin, and his head in the bathtub. The wood-handled long-bladed kitchen knife which had carved hieroglyphics into his torso had been left lying on the bathroom floor. So had a cheap plastic raincoat which the murderer had obviously worn to protect his clothing, as well as the crumpled bloody towels with which he had wiped his hands and probably his shoes.