Cocktails or Corpses? by Talmage Powell

Book Details

Cocktails or Corpses? – Five stories of murder, betrayal, attempted murder, blackmail and setups. And a lot of thoroughly bad people.

Blood On Her Hands (1946)
Paula Sloan had plenty of reason for killing her patient, and when he suddenly died things looked pretty bad for her!
Chapter I – “I Wanted to Kill You!”
Chapter II – Shroud of Darkness
Chapter III – Escape
Chapter IV – A Dead Man Is Hard to Find
Chapter V – “You Bet Your Life, Babe!”

Homicide Hoax (1944)
With an iron-clad defense, Ralph Smith still had to remain silent when his last mile came. For a murder he’d never committed had trapped him hopelessly in the steel jaws of homicide justice.

Biers for Two (1948)
It was a romantic setting—the right place, maybe the right girl—but instead of cocktails, it turned out to be … corpses!

Barracuda! (1948)
Everything was ready for Nero Bristline’s fishing trip in that barracuda-infested sea: for trolling—tackle … for warmth—liquor … for companionship—the lovely Madeline … and for bait—me!

Dance, Little Devil-Doll! (1949)
The steady beat of the drums pulsed through the hot, still air of the crowded night club as Vasha danced … with every fiber of her lovely body alive … to the strange, exotic rhythm of the Juju—the dance of death!
Chapter One – Juju
Chapter Two – La Broun’s Curse
Chapter Three – Death Dance
Chapter Four – Lonely Wait

Talmage Powell (1920-2000) began writing in 1942 after a career as a professional clarinet player. He wrote more than 500 short stories, many published in magazines like Dime Mystery, Black Mask, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine and Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. His stories are characterized by concise storytelling and engaging plots. He is best known for his Ed Rivers series, featuring a private detective in Tampa, Florida.

Cocktails or Corpses? contains 9 illustrations.

Files:

1. Powell-CocktailsOrCorpses.epub

Excerpt: Blood On Her Hands

Chapter I

“I Wanted to Kill You!”

RAIN had come with darkness. Now, at nine o’clock, Jared Avenue was slick black asphalt devoid of life or light save for an occasional passing car and the blob of yellow that spilled from a bar halfway down the block, and the light on the corner.

A tall, thin man, hatless and in shirtsleeves, his hair plastered to his head by the cold rain, came in a staggering run out of the shadows. He stood swaying drunkenly under the corner street light. His rasping breath mingled with the patter of raindrops. His body was twisted, bent. His hands clutched his stomach. Blood dripped through his fingers, splashing on the dark rivulets of water at his feet.

He turned, his eyes searching the darkness behind him. This was a neighborhood of cheap rooming houses, and in an unkempt yard the thin man saw a flicker of movement. He sobbed.”

“Tires made a sucking sound in the night as a car turned the corner. “Help me!” the thin man yelled hoarsely, almost incoherently. “He’s murdering me!”

The car slowed, a creature of hesitation.

“Put it to bed, you lush!” a voice said.

The car shot ahead. Blood dripped through the thin man’s fingers. He cursed chokingly.

The drifting shadow behind the tall man came closer. The tall man watched; his mouth worked.

“As long as I’m here in the light,” he thought, “he won’t bother me. He hasn’t a gun, only a knife. He won’t come close to the light.”

The tall man was bleeding too much to stand in the shelter of the light all night. Sometime he would have to make a break for the bar ahead, where there were people. He was weak. It would be a race to see if he could beat the drifting shadow to the bar.

Seconds ticked away. The tall man licked his lips. Abruptly, he gathered himself, plunged toward the bar like a twisting broken-field runner. There was light there, people, warmth.

Behind him, footsteps pounded, two to the thin man’s one. The tall man began screaming without pause. The thudding feet behind him pounded in his head, filled his skull. Nearer and nearer. He was halfway to the bar when he stumbled, fell.

Still screaming, he crawled forward, the footsteps behind him rushing upon him. Then the thunder of the footsteps stopped, retreated softly. Voices came to the tall man on the ground.

“I ain’t had that many drinks, Joe. I tell you I heard a guy screaming. Like bloody murder.”

Three men hesitated in the doorway of the bar, scanning the street.

“There he is is!” one of them cried, and they tumbled out of the bar.

One of them knelt over the tall man. Hands turned the thin man and rain beat in his face. Distantly, he heard a startled gasp:

“Look at his stomach! It’s slashed open!”

“Yeah,” another voice quavered, as the man who spoke became suddenly sick, “he couldn’t have done a better job if he’d been trying to commit hara-kiri.…”

IN THE white corridor of the hospital, the mutter of rain outside was distant, lulling. Paula Sloan neared the stairwell, her white nurse’s uniform rustling softly. She almost bumped into a large man with a heavy face and glistening bald head who stepped out of the stairwell.

“Excuse me, Doctor Broughton,” she said. Dr. Carl Broughton, looking like an English country gentleman in rough tweeds, stepped aside.

“You’re excused, my dear.” He smiled, and added, “Your young doctor performed a miracle of surgery tonight, you know.”

“I didn’t know. I just came on duty.” She smiled also. “My doctor?”

His eyes were searching. “Isn’t that the way you feel about Doctor Scott?”

She said nothing. He moved his great bulk closer.

“I know that isn’t a thing a doctor should say, Paula,” he said softly. “But I have said it, and I’m not sorry.”

“Please, Doctor!”

His eyes clouded. “Must it always be ‘Doctor’?” he asked. “You must know how I feel about you, Paula.”

“I’m sorry, but I—”

He forced a laugh that boomed in the corridor.

“Larry Scott—he’s a very lucky man,” he said. “I would give you anything, my dear, but Larry Scott— Suppose we just say that I am not the sort of man to impress the ladies. My ugly face, my bald head, are naturally not impressive.”

“You’ve always impressed me, Doctor,” Paula said.

“As a doctor, yes.” He laid his hand gently on her shoulder. “I’m an old fool, I suppose. Don’t let the things I’ve said make you feel badly.”

She relaxed as footsteps approached. Then they saw Dr. James Craddock.

“That was a fine piece of work you and Larry Scott did in surgery tonight, Jim,” Broughton said.

Craddock nodded a perfunctory greeting to Paula and Dr. Broughton. He was a tall man, slightly stooped. On his long, sharply-featured face spread a wry smile.

“You’ll have to give Larry credit for that,” he said. “I only assisted him. But it was a pleasure, watching him put the fellow on the operating table back in one piece. I think I’d have hobbled that job.”

“It sounds serious,” Paula said. “What was the operation?”

Carl Broughton nodded.

“It was serious,” he assured. “They brought a man in with his stomach slashed open. Three men in a bar on Jared Avenue heard screams, found the man unconscious on the sidewalk. As soon as they got him to the hospital Larry and Jim went right to work on him. They’ve brought the man down now. I suspect, my dear, that Doctor Scott will want you to attend his patient tonight.”

“The superintendent asked me to see Larry,” Paula said. “Who is the patient?”

Dr. Craddock ran long, lean fingers through his sandy hair.

“Some cheap gunman. He’s down in Four-o-three. I think you’ll find Scott there. Our patient is still under ether, Paula, but drop in on him often tonight. Larry and I did a lot of hard work on the fellow.”

“I will,” Paula promised, and moved away from them.

She felt Dr. Broughton’s eyes, hurt and patient, on her. The big, jolly-faced man had been kind to her, carrying his heart in his hands. She valued his friendship, but some men, Paula thought, are not satisfied with friendship alone. She went softly down the corridor on her rubber-soled shoes.

Excerpt From: Talmage Powell. “Cocktails or Corpses?”