Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 5, No. 11, November 1960

One Pound of Death by Donald Honig

It’s wholesome and American for a criminal to want to rise in the world, to want to get on to bigger, but not better things. And so we have our hero, Carl Luca, about to make the most of an important illegality.

Carl wondered if the valise looked as suspicious to other people as it did to him. Beside him on the back seat of the cab, it looked positively lethal. When he had taken it from his friends (along with his instructions) a little while ago and hailed the cab and got in and told the driver to take him to the airport, he was certain the driver could tell that the valise held a can containing a pound of heroin. That was one of the hazards of carrying something like that — its grimness seeped into you and made you look suspicious.

Carl told himself as they sped along the highway toward the airport that his fears were ridiculous, of course, that no one had X-ray vision. The driver’s whistling nonchalance, eased him somewhat.

Arriving at the terminal, Carl got out — valise in hand. From gratitude (for what he didn’t quite know) he was going to give the cabbie an inordinately large tip, but suddenly became afraid it would draw attention to him — one of the cardinal rules was not to draw attention to one’s self — and so tipped only a quarter.

Entering the terminal, he straightened his shoulders and determined to walk as casually as he could, despite what seemed like a thousand pound weight in his hand. He went to the flight desk and inquired concerning the time of departure of his plane and then checked in his luggage — the single valise. Checking the valise was the most difficult act of all, but he felt he had no alternative. For him to insist upon clinging to it, would be certain to arouse suspicion. (He had been thinking about all these things since they had told him two days ago he was being entrusted with this mission.) So he watched the valise go riding away on the belt, through the little archway. When it was out of sight he was almost relieved, as if he were no longer responsible for it. Then he went to the waiting room and lighted a cigarette.

All he had ever done for the organization, heretofore, had been to collect money from their various bookmakers. So why they had chosen him for this dangerous assignment, he did not know. Maybe because it was not as dangerous as he thought. To their way of thinking it was probably simple. All he had to do was ride on the plane and then when he landed in Chicago give the valise to men who would be waiting for him, and then turn around and catch the next plane back. It was all so very simple, except, of course, if he happened to get caught. But there was no way for that to happen, he felt. This was a simple, uncomplicated plan.

Perhaps he was finally getting his chance. He had been in the organization for almost ten years now, and had always been deep in the lower echelons. But he had always been loyal and competent — he was sure the higher-ups were aware of this — and perhaps this assignment was in the form of a promotion, a first chance to do bigger things. After years and years of running errands and fulfilling menial jobs, perhaps he was finally getting his chance.

These thoughts were like a dream, a dream that included all the trappings: the expensive suits, the big cars, the showy women, the nods of respect from his associates. The desire to make good on his mission suddenly became a passion.

Sitting there smoking, thinking these things, Carl almost leaped out of his seat at the sight of a dozen policemen swarming through the terminal. He would have ignored caution and run out of there, but — partly because he was too terrified to move and partly because he knew, in a moment of clear, logical reasoning, they couldn’t all possibly be looking for him — he remained where he was. Then, out of curiosity, he rose and pushed aside the waiting room door and sauntered out into the terminal. The policemen were standing around the desk, in their midst two distinguished old men.

“What’s all that about?” Carl asked a stewardess who was just passing.

“Oh,” she said, “that’s the Prime Minister.”

Then Carl remembered. The foreign dignitary was touring the country. He recalled having read in the morning paper that the man was going on to Chicago after having pled in Washington for assistance for his strife-torn country. He was evidently going on the same plane as Carl.

Carl breathed with relief, then congratulated himself for not panicking and running away. He would have to report this to his employers, let them know how he had handled himself in what had appeared to be a bad situation.

Feeling smug with self-confidence, he mingled with the police, a wry humor amusing him. It would be a good one to tell when he got back, how he had virtually had a police escort right to the plane. He looked at his watch and then checked it-against one of the wall clocks. They would be boarding the plane shortly. He began to feel the nervous excitement that follows the relaxation of tension.

Then it was time. The Prime Minister had gone first. The other passengers stood back and watched the police escort him across the field to the plane. The little truck had been emptied of its baggage and was coming back. Carl watched it with some satisfaction. In a few minutes he would be boarding the plane. The Prime Minister was going up the ramp now. At the door he paused and posed for photographers, a small, grave, austere man.

“I don’t know why we’ve got to stand around waiting for him,” someone behind Carl grumbled.

Then the Prime Minister disappeared into the plane and the police were coming back — with them several well-dressed men who had been there to shake the dignitary’s hand. The other passengers were permitted to board then and they walked across the field toward the plane. Carl felt again that wry amusement as the police filed back past him. If they only knew what was concealed in his luggage. It would probably be worth the attention accorded to six Prime Ministers.

He went up the portable stairway and found his seat and sat down and buckled himself in. He had a window seat and from it a view of the Administration Building and the spectators’ ramp. The Prime Minister was sitting up towards the front and Carl could not see him.

After about fifteen minutes, when all the passengers had been seated, Carl glanced at his watch and noted that it was past take-off time. He began to feel an uneasiness which his new feeling of importance could not quite put to rest. He cursed the Prime Minister, certain that the delay had something to do with that personage.

Then he saw two men coming across the field toward the plane. They were walking very quickly. Carl looked around. He came forward in his seat; the safety belt pulled him back, infuriating him, as though it were suddenly symbolic of some abruptly sprung trap. He unbuckled the belt and let the halves fall back around him. He was certain that he had been found out. It was their way, the law’s infernal way, he was convinced, to let him think he was getting away with it until the very last moment, and then come and take him off the plane. There was no way out. He saw himself being confronted by the can of heroin, his mission a failure.

But, at the same time, he realized he was letting himself be carried away by unreasonable fears. So he waited.

The men came up into the plane. There was a murmured conversation with the stewardess. Then she came down the aisle and said:

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid there will be a slight delay in our departure. It seems,” and she grew a trifle embarrassed here, smiling, “there has been a bomb scare. Would you all mind going back to the terminal while the plane is searched?”

Carl almost laughed out loud with relief. Was that all it was? Just a little old bomb ticking away someplace under somebody’s seat? He got up and stepped out into the aisle and was one of the first off the plane.

“There’s probably nothing to it,” one of his fellow passengers said as they walked back across the field. “Somebody probably read that the Prime Minister was going to be aboard and decided to have a little joke.”

“Probably,” Carl said.

“I say they’re foolish to print every little move these people make. It gives the practical jokers a chance.”

“That’s right,” Carl said, smiling and most agreeable.

As he was about to re-enter the terminal, Carl happened to look back. What he saw made him stop, his body stiffening as though struck by lightning. The big, down-opening door in the plane’s fuselage had been opened and several airport personnel were removing the luggage and piling it onto the small truck.

“What are they doing?” Carl asked, trying to keep the fear, the astonishment, the incredulity front his voice.

“They’ve got to search everything,” a man said. “Don’t worry it won’t take long. They’re fast and thorough.”

He just stood there and gaped while the others filed around him. The police passed around him again, going out to escort the Prime Minister back. Blank-faced, feeling as if his every artery had been sealed shut, Carl followed the others into a special waiting room. There, while the others sat and relaxed or griped, he stood by the window and watched the luggage as it was being unloaded.

What was he to do now? Run away while there was still a chance? That was the most appealing idea that occurred to him. But he couldn’t just abandon the valise. His employers would hardly take kindly to such a course. They were extremely touchy about their merchandise, especially about any of it being lost. Perhaps there was a chance the can would not be discovered; perhaps the search would be routine and cursory. Didn’t airports get these kind of warnings all the time? Perhaps the searchers had become blasé about their job, cynical and skeptical. But even if they were, the fact that the Prime Minister was a passenger upon this plane attached more significance to the warning and would make them much more thorough than usual. They would open his bag and look through it and find the can, and they would become suspicious and would ask him what was in it. They would make him open it.

All these things kept passing through his mind as he stood at the window, the tension building in him like a fire being stoked. He felt as a man feels who is about to be sentenced. Then he realized there was but one course for him: he would have to get the valise back before it was searched and escape with it. That was what his employers would expect him to do. If he could accomplish this, they would be greatly impressed with him and congratulate themselves for having picked so astute a man for the assignment.

His future suddenly was bound up with that valise.

He went out into the terminal and over to the flight desk.

“Excuse me,” he said to the girl, “but where do they do the searching of the luggage?”

She smiled. “They’re probably doing it in the employees’ room, next to the main waiting room.”

He moved away. He paused, tried to appear casual, and then headed for the main waiting room. Entering it, he saw the door marked Employees’ Room. He went to it and opened it. They were bringing the luggage in, throwing it around rather carelessly. The policemen were still with the Prime Minister and hadn’t come in yet. The other door opened out upon the field. Carl closed the door behind him and stood there. Two young airport employees in gray overalls were unloading the luggage, pitching it into the room. His eyes feasted upon every piece, watching tensely. His heart burned with an exciting urgency as he realized he might get his chance.

Then the two young men left the room completely. They were taking the truck back to the plane to complete the unloading. Carl moved quickly then. He pushed aside various sized and colored pieces of luggage, looking for his own blue and white valise. Then suddenly it stood before him, as incriminating as ever.

He reached down and quickly picked it up. He looked around. No one was about. He turned and hurried back to the door of the main waiting room. He opened the door and walked straight across the waiting room, eyes severely ahead, looking at no one, a hot, giddy excitement inside his head.

Then he was out of there and walking through the busy terminal, hardly daring to breathe, no longer afraid but unwilling to permit himself to feel gratified too quickly lest his optimism prove premature. But he saw no reason why it should be so. The automatically opening doors were just ahead. He walked on the approach and the door marked Out mysteriously and wonderfully swept out before him and he passed through and was outside.

He walked along the curb and then headed away from the terminal, trembling with excitement. He was almost glad now that the bomb scare had occurred. He hailed a taxi and got in, slamming the door hard, with satisfaction He told the driver the address and then leaned back and crossed his arms. He felt quite smug about himself.

About a half hour later, Carl was taking the elevator to a very luxurious apartment. His knock at the door was answered by a large, broken-faced man, wearing a gun holster over his shoulder.

“You back already?” the man asked.

“Yes,” Carl said. The man closed the door. “Where are they?”

“In conference. You can’t see them.”

“It’s very important.”

“What’s so important?”

“This,” Carl said lifting the valise.

“You can leave it, can’t you?”

“I have to talk to them.”

The man took the valise from him. “I’ll give it to them,” he said. “Now get out of here. They’re expecting some people.”

Carl opened his mouth to protest, but it was of no avail. The man opened the door and pushed him out into the hall. Carl stood there for a moment, then headed for the elevator.

In the apartment, “they” were sitting behind a closed door at a long, shiny, mahogany table.

“I’m surprised you took a job like that,” one was saying.

The other shrugged. “Why not? Their money is as good as anybody else’s.”

The door opened and the man with the holster came in, holding the valise. They didn’t look at him. He waited a moment and then put the valise down and went out.

“Who was the fellow who took it to the plane?”

“Carl Luca. He’s been a hanger-on for years. We told him it was a load of heroin for Chi. There’s enough dynamite in there to blow up a dozen planes.” The speaker pushed back his cuff and looked at his watch. “It should be going off about now...”

Carl was crossing the street when he heard the explosion. He looked up as bits of glass tinkled at his feet.