“Go home, you fools!” he cried. “He’s only a kid!”
And then his large shoulders shook with sobs and he stumbled into the mob, pushing aside or striking at anyone who stood in his way and crying out loudly for all to go home.
The stunned mob milled about uncertainly for awhile, and then the rumor started and swept through the ranks that, in an adjoining county, the real murderer of Henry Rankins had been captured and was being held in jail. The mob became a group of shamefaced individuals and the individuals hurried from the scene as if fleeing from some nameless terror. Soon the square in front of the jail was deserted.
Of course the rumor that had dissipated the mob was as unfounded as the one that had created it, but, later that night, Doc Doran, the coroner, came into the office and found Sheriff Ben sitting at his desk, now cleared of weapons.
“I just finished the autopsy on Henry,” Doc announced. “He died of heart failure. He must have been pitching hay up in the loft when the stroke hit him and, in falling, he sustained those head injuries.” Doc looked curiously at the sheriff, who seemed not to be listening to him. “Say, what’s this I hear about a mob forming in front of this place?”
“They went home,” said Sheriff Ben. “Their kids were sleepy.”
Sheriff Ben sat slumped over his desk long after the coroner had left. He had, he realized, no more reason to be proud than any member of the recent mob. At first, in his abject fear of personal harm, he had wanted to hand Claude Warren over to the mob. Then he had decided that, no matter what he did, his days as sheriff of Green Valley were ended and his fear had turned into blind, unreasoning hatred and he had felt the urge to turn his guns on the mob and to kill as many of them as possible, not in the interests of justice, but to avenge himself against the others for having placed him in such a predicament. He had been spared having to make a choice between the two alternatives only because, out of his desperation, a third expedient had occurred to him.
That is why I say to you that a lyncher is neither tall, nor short, nor young nor old, nor male nor female, and he is faceless, but, under certain circumstances and conditions, he is you and you and you and, yes, even me.
I am Ben Hodges.
The Double Frame
by Harold Q. Masur
I spent four hours with Lucille Gilian and never made a pass at her. It took a bit of doing. I had to keep a tight lid on my impulses, which must have been a novel experience for a woman with her assets. Those assets made her as solvent as the Federal Reserve Bank.
She was a tall, sleek, graceful creature, with ebony hair piled high over a pale forehead and coal black eyes rimmed inside a fringe of curled lashes. Her face was oval, her smile provocative, the movements of her body a little wicked. It was a pleasant evening. She knew how to dance and how to talk.
So long as men are motivated by glands and hormones, Lucille Gilian would never have to stand in a bread line. Not for a long time, anyway.
I didn’t touch her because one, she was already married, even though she and her husband were estranged, and two, she was a prospective client.
At midnight I drove her home. It was a tall apartment on Gracic Square. Light from a street lamp reflected in her eyes as she turned toward me. “Nightcap, Scott? One for the road?”
“Some other time,” I said. “How about a rain check?”
“All right.” She sounded disappointed. “But it's settled. You’ll handle my case.”
“We’ll talk about it,” I said.
She pouted. “Aren’t you going to take me to the elevator?”
“Sure.” I got out, went around, and opened the door for her. She linked her arm familiarly inside mine while I convoyed her into the lobby. I pushed the button. As I did so, I noticed a man standing in the shadows, but didn’t give it much thought.
In a low voice, half whisper, Lucille said, “Good night, Scott.”
She had moved around and was standing in front of me, very close. Her chin was tilted, her eyelids at half mast, her lips slightly parted, full and shining. It was an invitation no gentleman of breeding with red blood flowing in his veins is likely to reject. I had a little breeding and plenty of red blood and besides, I didn't want to hurt her feelings. So I reached out and gathered her in and performed on schedule.
My idea was to kiss her once, perfunctorily, and let go. Her idea was something else. She was a good technician and she took hold of me, her body up close, her mouth hungry and searching. My resolutions dissolved and I started to respond.
So the guy came out of the shadows and dropped his paw on my shoulder. His fingers dug in like the jaws of a steam shovel. A Mack truck couldn’t have spun me around with more ease. His left hand stayed on my shoulder while his right hand made an enormous fist.
A meteor swam out of nowhere and exploded in my face.
There was a roaring in my ears. My brain seemed to be sloshing around as if it were loosely anchored inside my skull. Pain knifed all the way down from the side of my chin to the heels of my feet. My knees buckled and only the hand on my shoulder kept me perpendicular. I heard his voice from a distance.
“You dirty, conniving little shyster! I ought to ram the two of you down each other’s throats.”
Lucille was crouching back against the elevator door, her knuckles plugged into her mouth, muffling a cry.
My eyes cleared and I saw him towering over me. Max Gilian, Lucille’s husband, one day out of prison on parole. A big man, Max, heavy-jawed and barrel-chested, his mouth cast in cement, unsmiling and unpleasant, bitter and grim. There was a kind of savagery in his baleful eyes. He was under a full head of steam, as if the pressure inside was too much to contain.
“Let go, Max,” I said. “It’s my fault. I made a pass. Lucille had nothing to do with it.”
The elevator door slid soundlessly open. Lucille cowered back into it, her fingers pawing frantically at the buttons. The door closed and the cab shot upward. Max released my shoulder.
I knew what ailed him, I thought. Their estrangement had left him emotionally crippled. It’s not easy being locked behind bars with memories of a woman like Lucille. A lesser man might have cracked.
But I was wrong.
“The hell with her!” he said. “It’s you I’m after.”
The gun was small, swallowed up in his huge fist. He produced it with a swift economy of motion. It prodded me ungently in the ribs.
“Outside,” he said. “Into your car. Let’s go, Jordan.”
I obeyed. You don’t argue with a loaded gun. He sat beside me in the Buick, teeth clenched, lips flat and white.
“Where to?” I asked.
“My place.” His tone was brief and curt. He didn’t feel like talking.
I said, “If they catch you with that gun, Max, you’ll go back up the river to finish your sentence. Put it away. Or better still, throw it away.”
“Shut up,” he said. “And drive. I may have to use the gun.”
I drove to the Belmore. Max had taken a suite on the fifth floor. The gun was back in his pocket when we crossed the lobby. I was thinking better now and I had a pretty good idea what was eating him. He opened the door and nudged me inside.
The light was burning and he had company. A man was seated on the sofa, smoking a long thin Havana cigar. Apparently he’d been waiting for us to get back.
Paul Hadley, attorney and counselor-at-law. An expert at probing contractual loopholes and interlocking corporations, with a good brain that knew how to get down to essentials. A slender man, dapper and impeccable, with a high scholarly forehead, intelligent eyes, a precise mouth, and the confident air of a man who knew what he wanted out of life and had the ability to get it.