The Third Talmage Powell Crime MEGAPACK™: 25 Classic Mysteries

Before one of these, Bob’s cab pulled to a stop. He paid the driver, tipped sparingly. The driver muttered, pulled the hack away.

Bob stood on the sidewalk a moment. Banklin wasn’t living well, judging from the looks of his apartment. It had taken Bob an hour and a visit to two of Banklin’s old haunts to get this address.

He mounted the steps, entered the building. The vestibule was dimly lighted, thick with old mustiness. Stairs creaked here and there under his feet as he climbed to the second floor.

With the passing of the light shower, the heat had returned to the night. Sweat beaded on Bob’s forehead. Somewhere down the hall a man was snoring loudly.

Bob stopped before the doorway of Banklin’s room. A thread of light showed under the door. He put his ear against the panel, heard nothing at first. Then he heard Banklin’s heavy sigh and the clink of a glass against the neck of a bottle. Bob waited, but there was only that one clink, indicating that Banklin was probably alone.

Bob gripped the doorknob in his sweaty hand, turned it. He jammed the door wide, stepped into the room.

He got a flashing impression of a worn rug, a lumpy couch, a cheap radio almost buried in a mound of racing forms on a table. On the walls were photographs of prizefighters, ball players, night club entertainers: mocking, dusty reminders of Banklin’s better days.

Banklin was in a threadbare easy chair, his shirt open at the throat, a glass in his hand, a bottle beside the chair on the floor. He heaved himself up at the sight of Bob, his eyes bulging. Breath rushed out of him as he stared at the gun Bob had taken from Steve Ivey. He slipped back in his chair.

“Well...” Banklin wheezed, trying to gain a little composure. “I see you’re up late tonight, Bob. Have a drink?” He eyed the gun.

Bob advanced in the room. Banklin sat poised, his hands trembling faintly. He tossed off his drink, eased his bulk up out of his chair.

“Bobby pal, why the gun?”

“To make sure a little talk we’re going to have goes perfectly straight. I’ve got no time to beat around the bush. I saw Darran. He’s dead.”

Banklin’s face went slack; his jowls quivered. “Dead? Hell, Bobby, I never dreamed... I just thought you’d rough him up... Bobby, you’d better scram out of town fast!”

“Why?” Bob said harshly. “I didn’t kill him. I think you did, Banklin!”

Stark surprise whitened Banklin’s face. “What gave you that kind of idea, Bobby?”

“I think you were in that blackmail mess. Old Thad Berrywinkle, remember? You were shaking Berrywinkle down. He kicked. You’re the one who killed him. But Darran knew. You located him, but were trying to figure a way to kill him with safety. Then I walked into the picture. The perfect fall guy. The perfect way to kill Darran and never have the police even suspect you, because they’d already have a sucker to burn!”