Highway Homicide and Other Stories by Carl G. Hodges

Book Details

Highway Homicide and Other Stories by Carl G. Hodges (1902-1964) – three Dwight and Gail Berke novelettes of greed, revenge and murder!

Dwight Berke was the sports editor of the Journal and his wife Gail was the photographer for the paper. The Berkes found themselves in the middle of various crime mysteries but somehow always got the story.

Highway Homicide (1948) – The murder of Police Captain Ferguson baffled the law – but a routine news picture put Di and Gail on the trail that led to the killer!
Chapter I – Corpse On The Road
Chapter II – Stolen Pictures
Chapter III – Narrow Escape
Chapter IV – Killer At Bay

My Vote’s For Murder (1949) – Dwight and Gail Berke start adding up all the clues in a mystery case and get a total that checks with crime!
Chapter I. – Body in the Shower.
Chapter II. – A Strip of Tape.
Chapter III. – Denials.
Chapter IV. – Another Corpse.
Chapter V. – Closed Case.

Murder Throws A Ringer (1947) – Di Berke mixes a tasty stew of horses and bullets and serves up a blue plate killer.
Chapter I – If At First
Chapter II – He Went That Way
Chapter III – Win, Place And Show
Chapter IV – Photo Finish

Highway Homicide and Other Stories has 11 illustrations.

Files:

1. highwayHomicide.epub

Excerpt: Murder Throws A Ringer

Chapter I

If At First

DWIGHT BERKE’S long legs took the stairs three at a time. He reached the third floor and rounded the corner of the corridor of the Berkshire apartments. He heard the noise of a door closing violently behind him. Then he threw up his arms instinctively to ward off a blow he knew was coming. Something steely flashed in the dim light and a metal bulk crashed against his head. Blackness seemed to cloud his brain. He felt a raking pain flash along the line of his jaw, working down from above his ear.

Subconsciously he knew that a clubbed revolver had smacked against his skull. He struggled to draw his own gun from his armpit holster. But his fingers fumbled and it dropped from his hand and he heard it rattle on the metal banister as it tumbled down the steps.

His senses blacked out. His brain was cotton. His body seemed to be floating in space. His tan topcoat ripped from his shoulders as it caught on the stairway, and he bumped down the carpeted steps. A gun blasted. A burning sensation stung his temple. He heard a brittle voice saying, “That’s what you get for butting in, Joe!”

Oblivion closed in on him, but he felt someone bend over him and pick up a gun. His brain blacked out completely.

When he came to, pain caressed his head and his eyes were fuzzy as he tried to orient himself. He reached out his hands to gather his body under him. His fingers brushed something cold and hard and he knew it was a gun. He put it in his armpit holster and struggled to his feet, weakness staggering him. His temple felt warm and sticky and his feeling fingers came away reddened.

“Creased me,” he thought, “probably thinks he made me a gone goose.”

He got his hat off the floor and put it on. His brain was clearing somewhat but he was still confused. He remembered his wife waiting in the Journal’s press coupe and his impulse was to get to her. If anyone wanted to kill him, that desire might also include Gail. He wrote for the Journal; Gail took pictures; a killer’s enmity might embrace them both.

HE MOVED toward the front of the corridor, then remembered the courtyard at the rear of the apartments. He turned and moved down the back stairs, his hand nervously trembling on the banister. He opened the back door and stepped out on to the concrete that led along the tall hedge. He heard a car engine start as he walked along the hedge and he noted that the light from the electroliers along the path behind the hedge, struck high on the wall above his head.

He gained the sidewalk and he peered quickly up the street and across to the other curb where he had left Gail parked in the coupe. He stepped off the curb and started to hurry diagonally across. He was conscious dimly of a whirr of sound behind him and the lights of an approaching automobile bathed the asphalt as he broke into an unsteady and staggering run toward her. He saw her open the car door and step out on the sidewalk. And then he heard her high-pitched scream.

He twisted backward as he ran. Car lights blazed into his eyes and blinded him. He felt unyielding power strike his knees, then thighs and hurl him out of its path. He smashed into the curb and his head struck. For the second time in ten minutes he blacked out. . . .

* * * * *

Something jarred his brain awake and a blurred awareness seeped into his tortured body. His opened eyes hurt with the shock of glaring light. He forced his eyes to focus and he saw the white walls of the room; the white sheet that covered him in the hospital bed; the sun streaming in between the white slats of the venetian blinds. He saw his wife, Gail, sitting quietly in a chair beside the bed, her eyes blinking sleepily.

He tried to be flippant but it was a sorry attempt. His voice cracked with weakness. “Hi, baby.”

She bent over him and buried her dark head on his chest. He felt her trembling against him.

“Bazooka!” he said, “Take it easy, sweetheart. I’m still in one piece, I hope, I hope.”

Her fingers touched the white patch of adhesive tape on his temple. “Any pain, honey?”

“I guess I ought to feel like I’ve been slugged by Mr. A. Tom Bomb but I’m just hungry. I could eat a cow.” He smiled at her with a twinkle brightening in his eyes. “I play tag with the Nips for three years and get some shrapnel for a souvenir and then I start working for the Journal and wind up in a hospital bed. What is this, the maternity ward?”

She glanced at the wrist watch he had picked up on Saipan and given to her when she met him at the separation center. “You’re in the prison ward. It’s three o’clock in the afternoon, now. You’ve been sleeping like a baby for fifteen hours. Only babies don’t snore like you do.”

“Prison ward?” His tone was incredulous. “What happened?”

She sobbed; she couldn’t mask her emotions any longer. “It’s awful. Inspector Morf says—”

The door opened and a nurse came in and she was followed by round-headed, apple-faced Inspector Fleming Morf of the Homicide Squad. His eyes were frigid and there was a mean glint of triumph in them. “Well, Berke,” he gloated, “murder’s been your hobby for a long time. Now let’s see if you can talk yourself out of this one.”

Di’s head cleared with the shock of Morf’s words. “Somebody banged me over the head. What’s this murder talk?”

Morf grinned sourly. “You figured you were pretty slick, bumping off Anton Spivak. You didn’t have me fooled for a minute.”

“Di had to fence for time to get his bearings on this new puzzle. “Knocking off Anton Spivak? Why? What would I have against the guy? He’s a square shooter. Just stubborn, that’s all.”

“I ain’t dumb Berke. Everybody that reads the Journal sport pages knows how you been riding Spivak, how you been raising Cain with the race track he runs because they keep all the breakage instead of giving it back to the fans or putting it into a fund for disabled vets. You and him tangled about it last night in his apartment. You plugged him.”

Di grinned and his head ached like he had a migraine. “Okay. Just because Spivak pays a guy that cashes a win ticket on Susie Q, nine dollars and ninety cents instead of nine dollars and ninety-four cents, I shoot Spivak. That don’t make sense, Inspector.”

MORF’S eyes closed to mere slits. “Smart guy, you’ve been in my hair ever since you got out of the Marines and took over the sport desk on the Journal. You stumbled into half a dozen murder cases, and your luck held out and you think that you solved ‘em.”

“This one’s different, bub. You’re right smack underneath a rap for murder. You tumbled into murder, all right, but here’s one you won’t talk yourself out of. I’m taking you in. The prison ward doc says you’re O.K. The bullet only creased your temple.”

Di shifted his weight in the bed as the impact of Morf’s words snagged his brain. “You’re nuts! A few pennies of breakage one way or another is no motive for murder.”

Morf’s face relaxed into a chilly grimace. “We got evidence you can’t alibi, scribbler. Jock Harrison saw you running out of the courtyard at the Berkshire with a gun in your hand. He followed you in his car trying to keep you in sight. But you ran into the street and right into his car and you got banged up a little. Then the cops picked you up and brought you here.”

“Evidence? Bah! One man’s word against mine. Heck, this Harrison guy could have killed Spivak himself.”

“This’ll kill you, Berke.” Morf was pleased at his obvious play on words. “The bullet that killed Anton Spivak was fired from your gun. I had the slug checked by ballistics down at headquarters. We’ve got you where the hair’s short, Berke.”

The inspector turned churlishly to the nurse. “When can we lug him out of here?”

The nurse spoke primly. “As soon as he can get dressed. He may be sore and stiff, but the doctor says he’s all right.”

Morf moved toward the door. “Have him ready for us in an hour. We want to get him behind bars!” He closed the door quietly.

Excerpt From: Carl G. Hodges. “Highway Homicide and Other Stories.”