Coffin Customer and Other Stories by Harold Q. Masur

Book Details

Coffin Customer and Other Stories – Murders, frameups, double crosses and greed star in these five stories from Harold Q. Masur.

Doctor of Doom (1940) – The mystery of the headless cadavers hurled Assistant Coroner Craig into a sleuth role—with a slab setting. And he was chosen to fill the corpse cast when crime’s curtain fell on Satan’s last act.

Hell’s Impersonation (1940) – Young Joe Brion was no actor, but the advertisement called for an impersonation. So Joe put on a pistol performance that flung him into a coffin curtain call.

Coffin Customer (1940) – Detective Ed Travis had to cash in on bargain booty to keep his client from becoming a Coffin Customer.

Graveyard Gratuity (1942) – Sidney Perrin had a deadly gift for his wife, but he was unaware that his poison present would bring him a Graveyard Gratuity.

Shroud Me Not (1949) – Trying to probe murder’s strange secret he not only fell into the arms of the Law—but had to shake hands with Death as well.
A four chapter novelette.

Harold Q. Masur (1909–2005) was a lawyer and author of mystery novels. He started writing mysteries and crime fiction in the late 1930s. In 1973 he was President of the Mystery Writers of America.

Coffin Customer and Other Stories has 6 illustrations.

Files:

1. Masur-CoffinCustomer.epub

Excerpt: Coffin Customer

I  TOOK one look at the guy who came through the door and got out of my chair fast. I carry a Colt .45 that has enough push behind it to stop a charging bull. I always say when a fellow needs a gun he needs it bad. This guy’s face was pasty, distorted, his eyes bulging with a crazy expression. What made me draw was his right hand, stuck stiffly in the side pocket of his Chesterfield.

The Colt was out before he’d taken two steps and I squeezed the trigger at the same time. By all rights I should’ve scattered his brains over the room. His hand had come out of his pocket, empty, and it was easier to jerk my aim than pull my trigger finger. The neat derby flew off his head as if snapped back by a string.

He stood motionless, gaping at me, his jaw hanging open against a bow tie. I saw then I’d misinterpreted the look in his eyes. They were glazed, terror-stricken. The guy was positively paralyzed with fear.

I said: “Brother, never walk into my office like that again, not unless you want to decorate a casket.”

He gulped, working his mouth before the words came. “You—you too—” he whispered.

“Me too—what?”

He fell back a step and his knees were shaking like dice. He accused hoarsely: “You’re in on it, Travis.”

“Look, friend,” I told him slowly, “I never saw you before and I don’t know what you’re talking about. People are always hiring some monkey to polish me off. The way you had your hand stuck in your pocket I thought sure—”

My office used to be part of a dentist’s suite and the floor is covered with white linoleum. So of course the blood made little slapping sounds as it fell and stood out in stark crimson relief. It came from his hand, dripping off the limp fingers.

I got up, went around the desk and looked at it. Sunlight, bleak and diffused through the alley window, showed right through the palm. A brace and bit couldn’t’ve drilled a cleaner hole. Nothing less than a .38 did that job.

I whistled. “How come?”

THE fear in his eyes blossomed. He said: “It started last night. Somebody’s trying to kill me. First it was a car when I left the house. Then someone pushed me off the subway platform, but I just managed to crowd against the wall. A couple of minutes ago, on my way to see you, I reached for my derby to wipe the sweat band—and a bullet almost tore my hand off.”

I went over to the door and locked it. The lad needed medication, but if I sent him out to a doctor I might never see him again—alive. Besides, one more attempt and he might check out just from heart failure. I pulled a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and tied it around his hand.

I said: “Now stick that back in your pocket before you make this place look like a slaughter house. And I give me the story—short.”

He did. Because there wasn’t much to tell. His name was Leonard Gordon. He lived with and worked for his uncle, J. C. Gordon, of Gordon, Hornday Co., the big-shot brokers. He was engaged to a girl named Sylvia Saint who sang in the Swing Club. His uncle liked her and they got along swell.

“What else?”

He opened his mouth and closed it. Something was on his mind. I cocked an inquiring eye at him and waited. His lips pressed down firmly. I got up, unlocked the door, held it wide, said:

“Lam, brother. Before I pitch you out of here. When I get mixed with a couple of gun-crazy stooges I like to know what I’m letting myself in for.”

His eyeballs rolled up, he drooped slowly forward, then pitched off the chair in a dead faint. I relocked the door, went through his pockets and in his wallet found fifty bucks in small bills. But folded into one of the compartments was a single bill that made me tingle. Five thousand smackeroos. And that, gents, is not tin.

I appropriated it—for the time being.

When he came around, his first pleading words were: “Help me, Mr. Travis, please.”

The guarantee for my fee was right in my pocket so I said, “Certainly,” and pulled the phone across the desk and dialed headquarters. When I heard Sergeant Fargo’s racking voice I said: “Sarge, Ed Travis talking. Send a prowl car over to my office. I got something hot for you.”

Young Gordon watched me, still shaking like a guy with fever chills.

The two-way radio works fast and downstairs a siren was already moaning. I got up again, twisted the key in the door, went back to my desk and drew out an old unregistered .22. I laid it on top of the blotter. Then I pointed the Colt right at Gordon’s heart.

Two cops burst in. They were both big and none too bright. I nodded to the red-faced one. “Here, McKeever. This nut barged in brandishing a rod. I had to shoot it out of his hand. Book him for violation of the Sullivan Act.” I waved at the .22. “Take the evidence along with you.”

McKEEVER glowered. Gordon shrank back in his chair, eyeing me with horror. Suddenly he yanked out his wallet, pushed feverish fingers through it, and jumped up half across my desk, clutching wildly at my lapels.

“Give it back,” he screamed. “Give me back my money. You double-crossing—”

I slapped him into McKeever’s arms. “The guy’s nuts. Take him away. I’ll be down later to prefer charges. In the meantime, print him up and see if he’s got a record.”

McKeever collared him, the other cop grabbed his arm and together they dragged him out. I took out the five thousand dollar note and looked at it. That was a mistake.

Excerpt From: Harold Q. Masur. “Coffin Customer and Other Stories.”