Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 39, No. 5, November 1976

The Packing Case by James Holding

The caper was Joe Hadley’s last chance — which is just the way it turned out.

The small man said, with the air of one who isn’t certain about anything, even his own name, “My name is Joe Hadley.”

“Glad to meet you, Joe,” the redhead said. His fox-eyes examined Joe Hadley from crown to toe and seemed to like what they saw. “Sit down. Care for a drink?”

This seemed an odd question to Joe Hadley since he could not see where a bottle of anything could be kept in the cluttered garage-workshop in which they faced each other. Assorted piles of lumber and plywood, rolls of steel strapping, sheets of corrugated cardboard surrounded them. There were no chairs. The redhead waved at a stack of two-by-fours in short lengths, so Joe lowered his slight frame gently on top of them.

“A drink would go fine, Mr. Stacey,” he said.

“How’d you know my name?” Stacey interrupted his groping behind a battered workbench to glare at Hadley.

“Mr. Carr told me.”

“Damn that Carr!” Stacey came from behind the workbench with a half bottle of cheap bourbon. “His big mouth will kill us all yet!” He smiled at Hadley as though he were joking, but Hadley had the impression he wasn’t. “Here, Joe — you’ll have to drink out of the bottle.”

Joe took a long gulp, gagged, “Thanks, Mr. Stacey.”

The whiskey burned all the way down. It was as harsh as it was cheap. Stacey put the bottle back behind the workbench without sampling its contents himself. He settled himself on a teetering stack of packing paper facing Hadley.

“Now then. Did Carr tell you what this is all about?”

“No,” said the small man. “Only that if I was interested in making a potful of money, I should come and see you.”

The fox-eyes stared into his for a moment, then Stacey said, “Why you, Joe? Did he tell you that?”

“Why me?”

“Yeah, why he told you that, instead of some other fellow who was hard up for money, too.”

Hadley flushed. “He didn’t tell me. But I thought it might be because of my — my record, Mr. Stacey. I was suspended twice when I was a jockey and then ruled off for good for pulling my horses. I gathered that you and Mr. Carr wanted somebody who wasn’t too honest to help you with something that isn’t” — Joe cleared his throat uncomfortably — “too legal, maybe.”

Stacey gave him a vulpine grin. “You guessed it, Joe. Your crooked riding and the year you spent in jail was why we picked you.”

“The jail term was for something else entirely,” Joe said defensively. “It had nothing to do with riding. I was innocent, anyway.”

“I know. They all say that. Armed robbery, wasn’t it?”

“Well, they found some stolen jewelry on me, but they never found the gun the lady said I had, and besides—”

Stacey held up a hand. “Okay. Okay.”

Joe said, “Is it something illegal you want me to do, Mr. Stacey?”

Stacey grinned. “Slightly, yes.”

Hadley squared his narrow shoulders. “I won’t have anything to do with violence, Mr. Stacey!”

Stacey raised his eyebrows. “Not even a little harmless blackjack work?”

“Well...” Joe swallowed. He needed money very badly.

“Relax, this won’t involve any rough stuff, Joe. I promise you that, on my solmen word. It’ll be quick, clean and easy, the way we’ve worked it out.” He gave Joe another clinical look. “How tall are you, Joe?”

“Only five-one, Mr. Stacey.” Joe flushed again. “But I’m pretty strong.”

Stacey interrupted him brusquely. “We don’t care how strong you are. Or how much you weigh, either. We want you because you’re little.”

“Oh?” Joe waited for Stacey to explain.

Stacey pointed to a packing case at the end of his workbench. “Take a look at that.” The packing case was made of nailed lumber, reinforced with four bands of steel strapping near the corners. It stood about five feet high on a three-foot-square base. The words From Fairfield Electronics were stenciled in black on one side, and under that, in smaller letters, Unit 4472, Computer Component. A red arrow was painted on each face of the packing case with the words This End UP.

Joe said, puzzled, “The packing case?”

“Yeah. It’s just about your height, isn’t it?” The fox-eyes were amused.

Joe felt a sudden chill. He tried a weak grin. “Made to measure for me? Is that what you mean?”

“Pretty nearly. Actually, I made it as small as possible to do what we want it to do.”

“And what’s that, Mr. Stacey?” Joe came out with it at last.

“Travel by Air Freight to Atlanta with you inside it,” Stacey said.

Joe drew in his breath sharply. He wanted to ask Stacey why, but heard himself asking instead, “When?”

“Tomorrow. Flight three-nine-three at noon.”

“I hate to fly,” said Joe. “Mr. Carr didn’t say anything about flying.”

“It’s not really flying, Joe. Only forty-five minutes in the air. You’ll be back on the ground before you know it.”

Joe protested, “But in the cargo compartment, in a wooden case! How high do they fly?”

“Twenty-six thousand top. You don’t need to worry about that, though. You’ll have oxygen if you need it.” Stacey stood up and put a hand on Joe’s arm. “Come over and have a look at it,” he said, pulling the ex-jockey to his feet.

They stepped over to the packing case. One face of it didn’t seem to be nailed down yet, because Stacey pulled at it and it came open. At least a kind of vertical oblong trapdoor came open between the steel straps that reinforced the case from without.

Joe decided that the door must be hinged on the inside. Its edges coincided unnoticeably with the edges of the other boards. Both top and bottom edges were studded with what must have been false nailheads, to give the impression the case’s contents were securely boarded up.

Joe looked inside. A metal oxygen flask had been clamped securely to the wooden top of the case, and a tube, fitted with a mouthpiece, depended from the shut-off valve.

“See that?” Stacey said with an odd note of pride in his voice. “All the comforts of home. Go on inside, Joe. Try it. You won’t even be cramped.”

Joe stooped his head slightly to get through the false door and past the oxygen flask, stepped into the case and turned around and straightened to his normal height. Stacey was right. His hair barely brushed the top.

“Look at the hand grips!” Stacey said. “To hold yourself steady with, while they’re handling the case.”

Joe nodded and stepped out. He said, “All right, Mr. Stacey. I’ll probably do it, whatever it is. Mr. Carr said you’d pay me a lot. How much?”

Stacey hesitated. “Twenty-five thousand dollars.”

Hadley clamped his lips tight together just in time to choke off a shout of amazement. Twenty-five thousand dollars for flying forty-five minutes in a packing box! It was an unbelievable price. It made Joe very curious. He sat down again, on his pile of two-by-fours, yawned and knuckled his eyes. “You got yourself a boy, Mr. Stacey,” he said, “no matter what you’re trying to do.”

“Good,” said Stacey. “Welcome aboard.” He didn’t offer to shake hands. Instead, he watched while Hadley smothered a yawn, then asked, “What the hell is it with you, Joe? Does the mention of twenty-five thousand dollars make you sleepy, for God’s sake?”

Joe smiled and shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I was up most of the night getting here, Mr. Stacey. I had to hitch-hike.”

Stacey stared at him. “Don’t you have a car?”

“No.”

“Couldn’t you come on the bus?”

“No money for fare,” Joe said, and flushed once more in embarrassment.

“Why didn’t you tell Carr that?”

“I didn’t like to,” Hadley said.

“Well, you’ll have plenty of time to catch up on your sleep tonight. The truck will pick up the case here about nine tomorrow morning for delivery to the air-freight office at the airport.” Stacey thought for a minute, then added, “You can bed down right here in the shop if you like. It won’t be too comfortable, but you’ll be handy to your traveling case.” He uttered a barking laugh.

“Okay,” said Joe, looking around him. “Are you a carpenter, or what do you do, Mr Stacey?”

“I’m a designer of shipping containers for delicate, odd-shaped, hard-to-crate products made by manufacturers around town.” Stacey lit a long thin cigar, puffed out acrid smoke, then jerked his head at the shipping carton in which Joe Hadley would fly to Atlanta. “Like, for instance, that computer component.” He laughed again.

Joe said, “Can you tell me what I’m supposed to do, Mr. Stacey, to earn that twenty-five thousand bucks? I know it’s got to be something more than just riding in the box.”

Stacey nodded. “You noticed the fake door in the shipping container can be fastened shut from the inside?”

“I saw the hooks and clamps.”

“That’s so you can get out of the crate while you’re in the cargo hold. Any idea why we want you to get out?”

“To steal something else being shipped in the same load?”

Stacey clapped his hands softly together, mockingly. “Bravo, Joe!”

“What am I supposed to steal?”

Stacey seemed to take pleasure in feeding Hadley information only in bits and pieces. He said, “That’s where the fourth member of our team comes in.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. He’s more important to the operation than the rest of us all put together.”

“Who is he?”

“Never mind. You’ll never meet him, so you don’t need to know.”

“Then what’s so important about him?”

“He set this whole caper up. He’s the one with the necessary information.”

“What information?” Joe was tiring of this cat-and-mouse game.

“The vital information about the package being shipped to Atlanta on the same plane with you.” Stacey blew a cloud of smoke, his fox eyes gleaming. “It’s a package of considerable value, Joe, containing precious property which is fortunately negotiable.” Stacey turned serious.

“We want you to crawl out of your packing case in the plane and steal that precious property, Joe, between here and Atlanta. The property is in a metal chest, double-locked. We want you to open the chest, transfer the property it contains to your own shipping crate, then close up the empty chest, crawl back into your crate and fasten the door on the inside.”

Joe nodded understanding. “Mr. Carr will arrive in a pick-up truck to collect you at the freight office of Hartsfield Airport soon after your plane lands tomorrow. He’ll drive your crate to a safe place, where you will emerge from it, transfer the valuable property to Mr. Carr and receive your twenty-five thousand dollars in cash on the spot. After which you will never, I trust, mention the incident to a soul, if you want to live long enough to get rid of your twenty-five thousand.”

Stacey said all this in a level didactic tone, keeping his fox-eyes fixed on Joe’s sleepy ones. Only the last sentence carried any suggestion of threat. But it was enough to send Hadley into another shivering spell, despite his weariness.

Stacey waited for him to say something. When he didn’t, Stacey asked, “Is that all clear? Any questions?” He sounded like a platoon leader briefing a patrol.

Joe said, “What’s the property?”

“Negotiable securities. As good as cash.”

“A lot of them?”

“Put it this way — enough to warrant paying you twenty-five thousand dollars to steal them.”

“How do I break into this double-locked metal chest?”

“You’ll be supplied with keys.”

“By the important member of our team?” Joe essayed a joking manner, but it didn’t come off.

Stacey nodded without smiling. “Any other questions?”

“I work in the dark?”

“There’s a flashlight in a clip behind the oxygen flask inside the crate.”

Hadley said, “It’s a hell of a risk, Mr. Stacey.”

“It is not. It’s a damn sure thing.”

“How can it be?” Joe’s uncertainty showed plainly.

“We gave it a trial run three weeks ago, Joe. Sent another packing case exactly like this one — except you weren’t in it — on this same flight to Atlanta, and it went through slick as grease. This one will too, I guarantee it.”

Which made it all the more shocking when Joe Hadley emerged from his packing case next day in Atlanta, to find himself greeted not by Mr. Carr with twenty-five thousand dollars in hand for work well done, but by a circle of policemen.

Blinking helplessly in the bright daylight Joe allowed them to snap handcuffs on his wrists without a single word of protest. When they put him into a police car, he noted without much surprise that the man seated beside him, also handcuffed, was Mr. Carr. Joe had no doubt that Mr. Stacey and the mysterious Man with the Information would soon join them in custody.

On the way to the police station, Joe went to sleep.

That evening Lucas Harmon, the freight agent at Hartsfield Airport, was interviewed on the local TV news program. The reporter asked him what had made him suspicious of the large packing case unloaded from flight 393.

Lucas Harmon, delighted by his sudden fame, replied with the relish of a man who has never before appeared on television, “Well, that packing case was supposed to have a computer in it, see? That’s what the label said. And I know that computers can do a lot of things. But I never heard of one that could snore the way this one did when I off-loaded it!”

As for Joe Hadley, he kept dropping off to sleep at irregular intervals during his trial. This odd behavior led to a physical examination by a police doctor, who came up with the diagnosis that Joe Hadley was suffering from narcolepsy — a strange disease, the doctor explained, that causes deep sleep to overcome its victims at unexpected moments.

So Joe embarked on his prison term almost cheerfully, buoyed by the hope of early parole and by the gratifying knowledge that he hadn’t, after all, pulled those horses. He had merely happened to fall asleep.

And he hadn’t, after all, been guilty of the robbery for which he spent a year in jail. For now he understood that the real thief, hotly pursued by the police, perhaps, must have rid himself of his incriminating loot by slipping it into the pockets of an innocent ex-jockey named Joe Hadley, who happened to be leaning against a lamppost nearby, fast asleep.