Dzhon Lutc - Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 25, No. 3, March 26, 1980

March 26, 1980

Dear Reader:

Detectives and criminals arent always just detectives and criminals often they have outside professions, and sometimes their involvement with crime stems directly from their jobs.

In this issue, for example, youll meet Percy Spurlark Parkers hotel owner/detective Bull Benson in Lady Luck. A sportswriter who follows a baseball team turns sleuth in Road Trip by Dick Stodghill. A house painter gets caught up in a death trap in The Last One To Know by William Bankier, and a meek bookkeeper indulges in murderous fantasies in Ernest Savages How Do I Kill Thee?

The eerie atmosphere may chill you in Jon L. Breens tale about a mysterious race horse called Silver Spectre and the unfolding of a harrowing plot will thrill you in A Deal in Dust by Dale L. Walker. And though none of the twelve stories in this issue is intentionally lethal, you may die laughing at the would-be heisters who bumble their way through Mary Ruth Furmans The Odds Are Even.

Ive been asked to remind you to keep writing to the Letters Editor, Susan Calderella. The address is: 380 Lexington Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10017.

Good reading.

Alfred Hitchcock

Ollie Hymes was as dead as he was ever going to get...

Big Bull Benson took a deep drag as he lit his cigar. The tobacco was light and fresh and welcomed the flame from his gold lighter. He blew the smoke out in a slow billowing stream, looking steadily at Sergeant Vern Wonler who sat across from him on the couch. Verns long dark face held no warmth of recognition for their years of friendship. Vern was all cop now, and the business at hand was murder.

Wheres Sam, Bull?

I havent seen him since last night.

It wasnt a lie. Sam held the slot as his head bartender, and Bull hadnt seen him since closing time last night. But he wasnt about to volunteer the fact that hed been rapping with Sam over the phone less than twenty minutes ago. Sure, he and Vern were tight theyd done some things as kids that shouldve gotten them thrown under the jail. And there wasnt a cop on the force he trusted as much as Vern. But in a lot of ways, he and Sam were tighter. It had been Sam whod taken the punk kid off the streets and taught him the beauty in a deck of cards. He had never thought his big mitts could be graceful with the pasteboards, but Sam had taught him how to stack a deck in what appeared to be an innocent shuffle till dealing seconds and thirds became as easy as putting on one shoe after another. But Sam taught him these things for defensive purposes only, things to look for when he was sitting with strangers.

Gamblin is knowin the odds an makin em work for you, Sam had said. Treat Lady Luck like a lady, an shell take care of you.

Sams schooling culminated a few years back at a high-stakes game where Bull won the deed to his hotel. A lounge took up most of the first floor of the hotel, which he quickly renamed the Bull Pen and brought Sam in with him.

Lets cool the lying from the get, O.K., Benson? Charlie Evans, Verns partner, was standing behind the couch. He had never gone in for the afro, keeping his hair cut short, which seemed to go with his puffy square-chinned face. Charlie had as much use for Bull as a drummer with a headache, and he never pretended otherwise.

Bull pulled gently on the cigar, leaned back in his chair, and scratched at the corner of his moustache taking his time, letting the play form in his mind. Look, you dudes bust in here without so much as a good morning and expect me to start popping off with the answers. Well, man, I dont know where Sam is. He should be at home. Have you tried there?

We wouldnt be here if we hadnt, Charlie said.

You know, cops for breakfast aint the best way to start off a Monday morning. Bull straightened himself and tried to get the right amount of concern in his voice. Lay it out for me, Vern. How serious is this thing?

Vern grimaced. It was easy to see he wasnt buying the acting job. Theyd known each other too long for lies to work well between them. O.K., Bull. Sams running scared and I guess Im suppose to believe he hasnt contacted you for help. Well, I know better, pal. Youre sitting there thinking about what you have to do to get Sam out of this mess, but theres too much heat on this one, Bull. The only thing you can do for Sam is advise him to turn himself in, and back out of it from there.

Bull waited.

Want me to lay it out clearer than that? The Feds have been on Ollie Hymess back ever since his release from prison three days ago. They had him pretty well covered until this morning when he gave them the slip, then wound up dead two hours later in Sams apartment. So youve got us and the Feds in on this, which means you stay out, or so help me you and Samll get to share a cell together.

After they left, Bull hit the kitchen and started throwing some breakfast together, letting what he knew straighten itself out in his mind. Ollie Hymes had been involved in a string of suburban bank and savings-and-loan jobs that netted him and his partner around ninety grand. Mutt and Jeff wouldve been a good name for the team, with Ollie being the big dude, but because they both wore phony beards the papers had labeled them the Smith Brothers. Their full getup actually consisted of wide-brimmed hats pulled low over their eyes, the beards, double-breasted dark suits, black leather gloves, and a pair of sawed-off pump guns that did most of their talking. It had ended with Hymes getting shot up pretty badly and his partner barely getting away. Hymes never talked, and he did fifteen years of hard time for his silence. The cops had rattled Hymess every known acquaintance who fit the size of the missing Smith Brother and Sam had fallen into that category. They leaned on him heavily before turning their attention elsewhere.

Bull scooped up his eggs and sausage, poured himself a big mug of coffee, and took four slices of toast from the toaster. He was carrying about five pounds more than his normal 270. He had decided long ago that if he ever lost weight he wasnt going to do it by starving himself.

He sat at the table and began to eat. Whether he was going to get involved or not wasnt the question that occupied his mind. He needed to decide what was best for Sam.

Sams call had awakened him from a deep sleep, but the grogginess had split when he heard the urgency in Sams raspy voice.

I got my of butt in the wringer this time, Bull.

Spell it out, Sam.

Ollie Hymes. Hes up in my place with a bullet hole in his chest. Hes as dead as hes ever going to get.

You do it, Sam?

Hell no, but the cops are gonna think so. He called me last night at the bar, said he was gonna come by this morning, he had a favor to ask me for ol time sakes. So I was up this morning waitin for him when I hears this gunshot out in the hall. I opened the door and he stumbles in.

I learned a long time back to take cover when somebodys shootin, but I guess I wasnt thinking right. I ran out to see if I could spot anything, but all I got was a bunch of folks shoutin and pointin at me. My head started buzzing bout the heat the cops gave me before with Ollie and I just kept running. It was a dumb play. With all the preachin Ive done bout knowin the odds, I sure went dead against them this time.

Well, Bull had told him, were not ready to fold our hand just yet. Plant yourself in some hotel and give me a call to let me know where you are. Ill get a hold of Chet and well figure something out.

Besides being a close friend, Chester K. Lonsworth was a wicked studpoker player and the head of the largest black law firm in the city. Keeping Sam under wraps permanently was an impossibility. Having him turn himself in as Vern suggested was the best bet. But Bull wasnt going to have Sam walk into any police station without Chet at his side.