M is for Murder by Roger Torrey

Book Details

M is for Murder by Roger Torrey – three stories of crime, corruption and murder by a master of hard-boiled crime fiction.

Justice Borrows Bullets (1937) – The tragic, cowardly finish of his pal’s career, and the spirit of a small boy who might some day meet a like fate, lashed Special Agent John Archer on to follow a microscope hunch that could earn him a fool’s name or death—or both.

Gun Trap for a Money-Killer (1938) – The trap O’Malley set for that shakedown slayer was baited with death — boomerang death!

M Stands For Murder (1944) – Playing watchdog all night in a warehouse isn’t much fun, but it’s a little different when it’s war stuff. As a matter of fact, most everything is, directly or indirectly, war stuff these days. And when it’s war stuff in a warehouse, that spells d-a-n-g-e-r.
Chapter I
Chapter II – The Lady
Chapter III – A Delicate Errand
Chapter IV – Another Friend of Duffy
Chapter V – Three in a Row
Chapter VI – Shooting in the Dark
Chapter VII – The Loot
Chapter VIII – The Wind-up

Over a thirteen year period, Roger Torrey (1901-1946) turned out about two hundred and eighty stories and novellas, and one novel. Over one hundred of them were cover stories in magazines like Black Mask, Dime Detective and Detective Fiction Weekly. Torrey was as hard-living as his hard boiled characters. He died in 1946 of acute alcoholism and organ failure, in the arms of his long-time mistress.

M is for Murder has 21 illustrations.

Files:

1. Torrey-MisForMurder.epub

Excerpt: Gun Trap for a Money-Killer

O’MALLEY was waiting for the light to change at Sixth and Oak when they got the call. The radio announcer’s calm and stolid voice said:

“CALLING CAR THIRTEEN. CAR ONE THREE. MEN FIGHTING AT CORNER OF EIGHTH AND OAK STREETS. CAR ONE THREE. EIGHTH AND OAK STREETS.”

O’Malley swung the radio car around the corner, and Hitchcock, at his side, said: “That’s us. Roll her, kid.”

“How am I doing?” O’Malley grunted. He was half-way down the block toward Seventh by then, and the little police coupe was doing forty in second. O’Malley’s young red Irish face was tight, tense, and his heavy, lumpy shoulders were bunched over the wheel. One big foot had the accelerator down to the floor, and he gave quick, darting glances at side streets as the coupe whipped along.

He said, in a complaining voice: “If I put my foot down any harder it’ll go through the floor boards. They shouldn’t be able to hurt each other much by the time we get there.”

Hitchcock said: “First call tonight. That’s the way they start. Easy.”

The corner of Eighth and Oak was outlined by a street lamp, and O’Malley swung the squad car into the curb, his approach heralded by screaming brakes. He saw a still figure on the sidewalk, full in the glare of the lamp, swung from behind the wheel and heard running footsteps racing away down the street. He cried out to Hitchcock:

“There he goes!” and started in the same direction. He heard Hitchcock’s big feet pounding along behind him, saw a dim figure ahead, and shouted:

“Hey, you! Stop! Stop!”

The dim figure seemed to put on an added burst of speed, and O’Malley, still running, unbuttoned his holster flap and yanked out his heavy service gun. He shouted again: “Stop!” and then shot.

Not at the running figure; at the sidewalk ahead of his own feet. Police work didn’t demand his killing a sidewalk roisterer and police training had taught him the danger of shooting in no particular direction.

The gun shot did what it was supposed to do. It stopped the running man in his tracks. O’Malley dashed up to him, saw he was facing a badly frightened boy of not over eighteen, and demanded:

“Hey! Didn’t you hear me telling you to stop? What’s the idea of running from the cops? Hey!”

The boy said: “I . . . ugh . . . I was scared.”

“Why?”

HITCHCOCK turned his flash in the boy’s face right then, and O’Malley saw the boy looked sick and white. He also saw a heavy bruise under the boy’s right eye and another at the corner of his jaw. And the boy blurted out:

“Harry! It’s Harry! He’s dead.”

O’Malley said: “Hunh!” reached out and gripped the boy by the shoulder. He pulled him back with him, toward the corner, and said:

“Dead, eh? We’ll look into this, kid.”

The boy spoke so fast the words almost tumbled out. “We . . . ugh . . . we was fighting and Harry clipped me on the jaw. When I come to we both was lying there. Harry’s dead. His head is smashed in. I saw it in the light.”

Hitchcock’s heavy voice snapped: “What did you smack him with, guy? What did you beat his head in with? You might as well tell us; we’ll find it anyway.”

“We was just fighting . . . with our fists that’s all. He was like that when I come to.”

“We’ll see, kid, we’ll see,” O’Malley said. If you didn’t do it, you’re okey. If you did we’ll find out how and why. Agh . . . here he is.”

The boy hadn’t lied. Harry, whoever Harry was, was still lying where he’d been when the two policemen had passed him. Under the light. He was flat on the sidewalk, arms and legs stretched out as though he’d been crawling ahead when he’d died. His neck was twisted, his right cheek up in sight, and the right temple was smashed in. His face looked oddly mis-shapen because of this. O’Malley said: “Take him, Hitchy!” and turned the prisoner over to Hitchcock, then knelt by the body. His big blunt fingers found a wrist and no pulse; found the big neck artery without the tell-tale throb that meant life. He looked up, said:

“Dead, all right! Just now; he’s bled some but the blood hasn’t set. He’s still warm and limp.”

The boy, almost hysterically, repeated his story of the fight, and Hitchcock grunted and said to O’Malley: “There’s a phone in the apartment house down the next door. I’ll call in and report. What was his name, kid?”

“Harry Wise,” the boy told him.

“And yours?”

“Billy . . . ugh . . . William Fisher. He . . . ugh . . . he was my brother-in-law.”

Hitchcock repeated the two names and started away. He wasn’t out of the circle of light made by the street lamp, however, before a woman flashed past him and threw herself on the dead man. She was crying: “HARRY! HARRY! HARRY!” while she did this, but she suddenly realized the man was dead and turned her head toward the boy that O’Malley still held. She said:

“Billy! You did it. You said you would.”

Excerpt From: Roger Torrey. “M is for Murder.”