Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 29, No. 4, September 1971

Blood Money by Edward D. Hoch

Who was she, the shadowy lady of the evening, who found her love at last — to lure him to his death?

Walt Neary was tired. He’d been driving for eight hours straight when he turned into the familiar tree-lined street that was home. He’d been away three nights, covering the southern part of the state on his monthly swing.

Usually he took a fourth night for the trip, breaking up the long drive home, but this time he’d come right through, anxious to be back home with Ellen.

Though it was after eleven, there was still a light in the living room of their little ranch home, and this was the first thing that struck him as odd. He knew Ellen usually liked to read in bed while he was away, curling up beneath the covers with the latest best seller.

Usually she turned out the front lights and went to the bedroom at ten-thirty, reading for an hour or so before sleep overcame her.

But this night it was different, and he swung into the driveway wondering why. Almost at once he had his answer. The front door and side door both faced the street, and now, with the sudden impact of a thunderclap, that side door by the garage was thrown open.

A man ran from the house, in almost the same instant that Ellen’s scream split the night air.

Neary’s first reaction was to go for the loaded revolver he always carried in his glove compartment. The running man was halfway across the front yard when Neary jumped from the car and raised the pistol, his wife’s screams still echoing in his ears.

“Stop or I’ll shoot!” he shouted.

The fleeing man paused, hesitated uncertainly, and then went down on one knee, pulling a snub-nosed automatic from beneath his coat. Walt Neary fired twice and the man toppled over on the grass.

Ellen was at the door then, screaming and sobbing. Her nightgown had been half tom from her body.

“My God, Walt, you’ve killed him!”

“I hope so. What happened?”

Neighbors were beginning to come from their houses now, and already in the distance Neary could hear the rising shrillness of a police siren. He led Ellen back into the house, and saw at once the overturned lamp and shattered vase.

“I was in bed, reading, and I heard a noise at the door,” Ellen told him. “I thought it might be you, coming home a day early, so I got up and opened it to see. This man grabbed me and forced me inside. He said he wanted money. We struggled and overturned some things, and he ripped my nightgown. Just then you turned into the driveway. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t arrived just then!”

“It’s all right,” he said, comforting her. “I did arrive. That’s the important thing.”

A police car had pulled up in front of the house, and he went out to meet them.

“What happened here?” one of the officers asked, and Neary told him, handing over the gun.

The other officer bent over the body on the lawn.

“This one’s dead,” he announced. The circle of watching neighbors moved a bit closer at his words.

“I hope there won’t be any trouble over this,” Walt Neary said. “I fired in self-defense.”

“One of the detectives will be here soon to question you,” the first cop said. “Don’t worry about it.”

Ten minutes later, a detective named Bryant arrived with a photographer and an ambulance. He stood talking with the two cops by the body for a few moments, supervising the picture taking, and then went through the corpse’s pockets. He rose to his feet, talked some more, and then came into the house.

As the body was taken away, the neighbors began to drift back to their houses.

“Suppose you tell me about it, Mr. Neary,” Bryant began. “Do you always carry a gun in your car?”

Walt Neary cleared his throat. “I travel a lot. Sometimes I have valuable samples with me. The gun is registered. I have a license for it.”

“Samples of what?”

Neary looked blank, and then understood the question. “Men’s and women’s wrist watches. I’m a salesman for National Time. On some trips I might have a thousand dollars or more in samples.”

Bryant nodded absently, then listened while Ellen told her story.

“Well,” he said at last, “I don’t think there’ll be any trouble over it. The man you killed is Tony Ancona, a petty crook with a record a mile long. He testified in a narcotics case a few months back, and he’s been more or less in hiding since then. I’m sure nobody’s going to shed any tears over him.”

Walt Neary felt himself relax a little for the first time since he turned in the driveway. “That’s good to know.”

“In fact,” the detective told him with a smile, “the newspapers will probably make you out to be something of a hero.”

The next day, Walt Neary knew it was true. Reporters from both newspapers were at the house for interviews, and one local television station even sent a camera crew out for footage of Walt and Ellen Neary standing in the front yard at the spot where the shooting had occurred. For the next two days, he was something of a community celebrity.

Three nights later, as he was leaving work, a dark-haired young man walked up to him at his car.

“You’re Walt Neary,” the man said, making it a statement.

“Yes,” Neary admitted. “What—”

“I have something for you.” He reached into his coat and Neary froze in panic, imagining a silenced pistol that would gun him down right here in the company parking lot. But instead the young man produced a thick white envelope.

“What’s this?” Neary asked, accepting the envelope. He opened the flap and saw it was filled with twenty-dollar bills.

“Two thousand dollars, Mr. Neary. That was the price on Tony Ancona’s head. You did the job, so you get the money.”

“What? But I don’t—”

The dark-haired man turned and walked quickly away, not looking back. Walt Neary was left holding the envelope of money. He stood there for several minutes, pondering what to do with it. Finally he stuffed it into his pocket and drove downtown to police headquarters.

Detective Bryant was in the squad room, taking a burglary complaint over the telephone. When he had finished, he glanced up and seemed surprised to see Neary standing there. “Well. What brings you down here, Mr. Neary?”

“I... I was wondering about that man I killed. I don’t know, it’s been bothering me, I guess. I want to know some more about him.”

Bryant smiled indulgently. “Sure, have a seat.” He passed the burglary report to another detective and leaned back in his chair. “Tony Ancona’s been around town for maybe ten years. He had a petty arrest record, mostly gambling and narcotics violations, and he served two years on one charge.”

“Was he married?”

“Divorced, I think. A long time ago. Lately he mostly lived with various women.”

“What about this trial you mentioned?”

The detective shrugeed his broad shoulders. “Fairly routine. We picked him up in a narcotics raid last spring, and promised him immunity from prosecution if he’d testify against his bosses in court. He did, and we convicted them. I understand some of the underworld goons were pretty upset about it. There was even word that they’d pay money for Tony’s removal, as a sort of lesson to others. But Tony was smart. He stayed under cover, at least until the other night.”

“Why do you think he tried to rob my house?”

Another shrug. “Probably needed money to get out of town. Maybe the pressure was getting too much for him here. Anyway, I wouldn’t worry your head about it, Mr. Neary. If you hadn’t killed him, some underworld goon probably would have, and that would be just more work for us.”

“I see,” Walt Neary said quietly. “Well, thanks very much.”

He left the building with the two thousand dollars still in his coat pocket. He drove on home.

Ellen met him at the door, frowning with apprehension. “You’re late,” she said. “I was worried.”

She hadn’t really been relaxed since it happened, and he couldn’t blame her. Already he’d promised to speak to his boss about traveling less frequently, though he hadn’t quite gotten around to it yet.

“Oh, I just stopped by to talk with that detective, Bryant.”

“Why? What for?”

“Nothing, nothing. Just thought I’d chat with him.” She seemed on the verge of hysterics, and it was hardly the time to mention the envelope with the money. “Calm down now. I’m home.”

That evening, as he watched her preparing dinner and going about her usual chores, he thought a bit about the life that was passing them both by. He was still a youthful-looking thirty-one, and he was only six years older. But they had never had children, never traveled, never really done much of anything except buy this little ranch home on a quiet suburban street where they rarely talked to the neighbors.

He thought about the things they could do with two thousand dollars, the places they could go. Europe, perhaps, or South America. She would like that.

Walt Neary had already decided against surrendering the money to the police. That would only raise awkward questions, and someone might even begin to think that he really had been paid to kill Tony Ancona. But keeping the money for his own use was another matter, and despite the attractions of a second honeymoon with Ellen in Europe, he couldn’t quite bring himself to accept the envelope in his pocket. It was, after all, blood money.

He considered giving it to some charity, but could not decide which one. Even simply throwing the money away crossed his mind as a solution, but he was too frugal for that. No, there had to be another way. If only Tony Ancona had possessed a wife and family an easy solution would have presented itself. He would have given the money to them, anonymously, of course.

Ellen was already asleep in the big bed when he decided on a tentative plan of action. He would try to find one of the women Ancona had been living with lately, and determine if she needed the money. If she didn’t, or if a brief quest was unsuccessful, he would think again about that trip to Europe with Ellen.

In the morning he told his boss he wasn’t feeling well, and took the rest of the day off. The death notice in the newspaper had mentioned a brother, Mike Ancona, who had a florist shop across town. He seemed unconnected with the underworld, or with his brother’s activities, and Neary figured it would be safe to approach him.

The florist shop was large and prosperous, a description that could also have fit Mike Ancona.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, studying Walt’s face with a frown.

“I’m Walt Neary, the man who... who caused your brother’s death.”

Mike Ancona nodded. “I thought I recognized you from the pictures.” Then he asked again, “What can I do for you?” His tone was neither hostile nor friendly. He might have been talking to a wall.

“I... I’ve been feeling bad about what happened. I was wondering if your brother had a family of any kind, anyone who might be suffering now that he’s gone.”

The florist snorted. “Maybe some of the whores and junkies around town are suffering, but no one else!”

“There was no woman he especially cared for?”

Mike Ancona sighed. “Really, I don’t know what you’re wasting your time for! He’s dead and buried! You don’t need to feel sorry.”

“All right.” Neary turned to leave.

“Wait a minute. Here’s an address, over on the east side. A girl named Marge Morgan. He was living with her, last I knew. But that was before he testified and got in trouble with the mob.”

“Thanks.” He accepted the slip of paper.

“You don’t need to feel sorry,” Tony Ancona’s brother said again as he left.

Marge Morgan worked as a cocktail waitress in a little downtown lounge, and it was there that Walt finally found her, wearing white hip-hugger pants and a short blouse that left her tanned midriff exposed.

“Sure,” she told him immediately. “You look just like on TV. I watched you the other night.”

Neary sipped a beer and said, “I understand from Tony’s brother that he was living with you.”

She tossed her blonde head. “That was six months ago. I hadn’t seen him lately.”

“Who had?”

“Why’d you want to know?”

Could he really explain it? “If there’s someone suffering because of what I did, I’d like to help out. He had no family I could give money to, but perhaps a girl friend—”

“Mister, you can lay that money right here! I need it worse than she does!”

“She? Who’s that?”

“The latest one. The last one, as it turned out. He met her right here in this joint too! I was watching the whole thing. A lonely gal looking for excitement, and she found him!”

“How long ago was that?”

“Just before the trial. After that, he laid low. I guess he knew there was a price on his head.”

“What was the girl’s name?”

She was suddenly sly. “Don’t know her name.”

“Does she still come in here?”

“No. Haven’t seen her in months.”

“Well, was Tony living with her?”

“No, nothing like that. He was holed up somewhere, and he just went to see her when he could.”

Walt Neary sighed and sipped his beer. It seemed to be a dead end. He watched Marge Morgan move away to wait on another table. Well, she didn’t need the money, and it was doubtful if the other one did, either. Maybe this whole search had only been an effort at salving his own conscience. Maybe he really wanted to keep the two thousand dollars.

After a few moments Marge returned to his table. “What’s it worth to you to find this girl?” she asked.

“Well, I hadn’t...”

“A hundred bucks?”

“Do you know where she is?”

“I can reach her.”

“I thought you didn’t know her name.”

“I just remembered it.”

He thought about that. “Can you call her?”

“Sure.”

“All right. Let me listen to the call and then I’ll give you the hundred dollars.”

She led the way to a pay phone in an alcove off the lounge, and looked up a number in the book, careful not to let him see it. Then she dialed the number.

“Hello, honey? You don’t know me, but this is Marge, one of the waitresses at the Sunnyside Lounge. Look, honey, I’ve got something important to tell you about. I know you were Tony Ancona’s girl before he got killed. I saw him pick you up in here one night last spring. He told me he was seeing you— What? No, no, I don’t want no money. I just want to see you down here. You can’t?” She covered the mouthpiece and turned to Walt. “She can’t come today. Her husband’s due home.”

“Then give me her address.”

“No.” She turned back to the phone. “Honey, could you come here tomorrow? During the day? Fine. That will be fine. Three o’clock.” She hung up.

“She’s coming?”

“Tomorrow at three. Where’s my money?”

Walt Neary took out the envelope and counted five twenty-dollar bills. “Here. I hope you’re telling the truth.”

Marge Morgan took the money and smiled. “You just be here at three tomorrow afternoon, Mr. Neary.”

Walt Neary was just parking his car in his driveway when the dark-haired young man appeared at his side window. He’d obviously been waiting nearby, watching for his return home.

“What now?” Neary asked, wondering if he could reach the pistol in the glove compartment if he had to. “Another envelope for me?”

The man leaned on the car door, his face very close to Walt’s. “You been asking questions. You went to see Tony’s brother today. What for?”

“Nothing that concerns you.”

“We paid you for killing Tony. It concerns us.”

“Look, I didn’t ask to be paid! I don’t even want your damned blood money! I didn’t kill Ancona for you!”

The young man leaned closer. “Why did you go see Tony’s brother?” he asked again.

“I was trying to find out if he had any family, anyone close that I could help. I feel some responsibility, after all!”

The man nodded. “All right. Just keep your nose clean, Mr. Neary.”

He faded back into the shadows, and for some minutes Neary sat gripping the steering wheel. Did he really fear the dark-haired young man that much? Why hadn’t he flung the money back in his face and been done with it? What was he doing now, arranging to meet some woman he didn’t even know and bestow upon her a gift of two thousand dollars? Nineteen hundred, he corrected mentally, subtracting the hundred he’d already paid to Marge Morgan.

Presently he went into the house and found Ellen waiting for him. She seemed hardly less nervous than he did.

“What is it, Walt?” she asked. “You’re so white!”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. How was your day?”

“Fine.” Her hands were twisting a handkerchief. “Walt, I think we both need to get away. After what happened the other night, I think it would do us both good.”

“You’re right, I suppose,” he said.

“Could we, Walt? Could we go away tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? Well, that’s a bit soon for me. I’d have to clear it with my boss and all.”

“Walt, I’ve never asked you anything, have I? I’ve never complained about all those nights you were on the road, away from home.”

“No,” he admitted.

“Then please, can’t we go away tomorrow?”

He sighed and patted the envelope in his pocket. “Let me talk to the boss in the morning. I’ve got an afternoon appointment but maybe we can get away tomorrow night.” Later, while she was getting ready for bed, he counted out the remaining money into two bundles. A thousand dollars would be enough for Tony Ancona’s mysterious girl friend. The other nine hundred could take him and Ellen away for two weeks’ needed vacation. After all, he’d earned that much.

Shortly before noon the next day Detective Bryant phoned Neary at his office. He was getting his desk in order for the vacation trip the sales manager had approved.

“How are you today, Mr. Neary?” he asked.

“Oh, fine. Is anything wrong?”

“No, not a thing. But I just thought you’d be interested in knowing we’ve arrested Ancona’s brother, a florist here in town.”

“What... what for?”

“Seems he was tied in with this whole narcotics ring. We think he might have even put up some money for his own brother’s killing. But he’s behind bars now.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

Walt Neary found that he was sweating, though he didn’t know why. “Look, the wife and I are going away for a week or two. The excitement’s been a bit too much for us both.”

“Good idea,” Bryant told him. “Wish I could do the same.”

Neary finished straightening his desk and left the office at noon. He knew he should go home to Ellen and forget his three o’clock appointment at the Sunnyside Lounge, but it was a loose end he couldn’t leave dangling. Certainly the girl Marge Morgan had spoken to on the phone was not responsible for anything that had happened. She deserved a little of the blood money that had come from Tony Ancona’s killing.

He killed a couple of hours time until it was getting near three o’clock. Then he drove downtown and parked next to the Sunnyside Lounge. Marge was inside, serving drinks to the scattering of customers.

“Hi, there,” she greeted him. “Back again?”

“To meet this girl. You’re sure she’ll show at three?”

“She’ll show, because she’s scared what I’ll do if she doesn’t.”

“How’d you find out who she was?”

Marge looked away, wiping the wet from a table. “I saw her picture somewhere, and it gave her name. I said to myself, now that’s the girl Tony picked up in here.”

“But how’d you know she was still seeing him?” Neary asked, but Marge had already moved off to serve another customer. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was five minutes to three.

The street door opened and Walt Neary tensed himself. But it was not a girl. It was the dark-haired man who’d given him the envelope. Neary turned his head and hoped he wouldn’t be seen, but it was no good. The man had followed him here, of course, or else recognized his car.

“Neary” he said, coming closer. “What in hell did you do?”

“I... I don’t know what you mean.”

“You turned in Mike to the cops, didn’t you?”

“No. I didn’t know anything about it. I thought he was just a florist. I thought—”

“You’re done thinking,” the young man said. His hand came out of his jacket, holding a gun.

“Look, take back your money! I never wanted it. Take it back!”

“It’s too late for that, Neary!”

The gun was coming up fast when Marge hurled her tray of drinks at the young man. It spoiled his aim, and he had only an instant for a quick shot at her before Neary was on top of him, beating him to the floor. He hit him once, twice, three times, before someone was pulling him off, before a policeman was handcuffing the dark-haired man.

They helped Neary to his feet and he looked around, and the first person he saw was Ellen, standing in the doorway. “My God, Ellen, what are you doing here?”

Her face was as white as the tablecloths, and she clung to the door frame for support. She was in near collapse. After a few moments of hesitation, she managed to say, “I... I was shopping and thought I’d stop in for a drink. What happened here?”

“Never mind that. Never mind anything. Let’s get out of here.” But then he remembered Marge Morgan and walked over to where she sat bleeding on the floor. Another waitress was trying to bandage her arm. “Are you all right?”

She looked up at him and smiled. “Hell, yes. He only nicked me with that shot.”

“I guess you saved my life.”

“I guess you saved mine too.” She glanced over to where Ellen stood. “Why don’t you take your wife and get out of here? I’ll answer their questions. Take her and go, and tell her there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Sure,” Walt Neary told her. He straightened up and went back over to Ellen. He was walking slower now, as if the air was very heavy.

“What about it, Walt?” Ellen asked. “Can we still get away?”

He looked over at Marge, and at the handcuffed young man, and then at his wife.

“Sure,” he said at last. “Sure we can. I’ll just talk to the cops and tell them how it was. And then we can go.”

Neary thought about what had happened these last few days, and about what the future held for them. He thought about the man he had killed, that night he came home unexpectedly. But most of all he thought about the questions he would never ask his wife.