Stories of Death, Horror and Murder

STORIES OF DEATH, HORROR AND MURDER

Copyright 2015 Tony Flye, LLC.

Published by Tony Flye at Smashwords

SMASHWORDS EDITION LICENSE NOTES

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Table of Contents

Dedications

Acknowledgements

Death in the Levee

Horror in Gaslight Square

Death in the Cemetery

Triangle of Death

Deadly Grandma

Looking for Maria

Killer Cruise

Fatal Robbery

Third Time’s the Charm

Murder in the Monastery

The man in Bed Two

The Dead Veteran

The Red Dining Room

About Tony Flye

Other Books by Tony Flye

Connect with Tony Flye

DEDICATION

For Susan, my inspiration and the joy of my life.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Cover Photo from www.3.bp.blogspot.com: Cover art by Rocky M.

DEATH ON THE LEVEE

The early morning sun climbing over the eastern horizon cast long shadows of the twin smoke stacks of the docked steamboat Queen Marie on the cobblestone paved levee. The twin shadows crossed over the body of a stevedore laying dead in a pool of his own blood. The wooden handle of a Bowie knife sticking out his chest.

The former French city of Saint Louis, located on the western banks of the Mississippi River, was the last bastion of civilization in the western Unites States in the year 1845. Saint Louis was the jumping off point to the unexplored, unsettled west for settlers, adventurers and folks feeling squeezed in the east. Saint Louis was also the destination for the fur trappers, who braved the western wilderness alone or in pairs, to trap and bring to market their harvest of furs, especially the fine fur of the beaver, to be felted into the hats for the gentlemen of the American east coast and Europe.

The Saint Louis Levee was alive since well before sunrise with the loading and unloading of the great river boats docked beam to beam. The line of riverboats stretched as far as the eye could see. The Levee of the port of Saint Louis evolved into one of the largest transshipment centers on the northern Mississippi River.

Three men dressed in what were at one time wedding, funeral and church clothes, now worn and tattered to work clothes and wearing heavy scuffed boots stood in a rough circle staring down at the knife handle sticking out of the dead man's chest.

The steamboat's cargo, bales of cotton from the plantations of the south, waited impatiently for the stevedores to unload the bales. Draymen, their horses harnessed to the wagons snorting in the cool morning air, waited for their wagons to be loaded so they could drive the short block to the canvas sail factory off the Saint Louis riverfront.

Jaysus Christ, tis me focking cousin Paddy O'Rourke himself, Tommy O'Shea said, in his Irish brogue, as he made the Sign of the Cross over the body. Tommy a wiry built. red headed Irishman who looked as if he always needed a shave was off the boat from Ireland two months ago. O'Shea looked undernourished but his looks were deceiving. He could, and usually did, move bales by himself that would take two normal sized men to move. He lived in a boardinghouse on Second Street at Pine next to Belle's Saloon sharing a room with his brother Seamus. Seamus came over from Ireland the year before. Tommy and Seamus could be found in Belle's almost every night.

Paddy O'Rourke laid on his back, his eyes still open staring sightlessly at the sky. The look of horror forever etched on his face. The large handle of a knife stuck out from his chest, the blade totally buried in the dead body. His blood saturated Paddy's checkered shirt.

Will you look at that fucking knife, Elijah King, known to everyone as Eli, said. He spat a glob of tobacco juice on the ground from the ever present wad found between his right cheek and rotting teeth. The glob of tobacco juice just missed hitting the remains of Paddy O'Rourke by an inch. Eli was a short barrel chested man almost as wide as he was tall. He looked to be in his early thirties but he was only twenty-three. The heavy work on the levee twelve hours a day, six days a week aged and wore a man down quickly.

Eli's parents were killed in a rooming house fire ten years ago when he was thirteen. Just before the fire broke out, his parents sent him to the corner saloon to bring home a bucket of beer. The bucket of beer turned out to be his supper that night. Eli started working on the Levee the morning after the fire taking his father's job but not his father's pay.

Loading and unloading the great steam boats since his first day on the levee built muscles on Eli's short frame. It also made him bitter and meaner then hell. As he grew older his muscles filled in and with his dark wavy hair and a bushy mustache, women followed him with their eyes as he walked past. Quite a few stopped in front of him hoping he would strike up a conversation. He lived on Walnut Street across from the new Cathedral, The basilica of Saint Louis, King of France, with, Millicent, a woman he claimed to be his wife.

I wonder what happened, Jacques Marceau, called Jack, said. Marceau came from a long line of Frenchmen who had lived in Saint Louis well before Tom Jefferson bought Louisiana from Napoleon. His dark complexion and hair betrayed his French ancestry. He was taller than the average man in the city at five feet ten inches. He also enjoyed more than his fair share of the cheap French wine and Caribbean rum which flowed up the Mississippi from New Orleans. He lived on Chestnut Street with Cora, a woman who worked at The Delta sporting house, whom he told his friends was his sister. When not working, Marceau could always be found in a saloon, well into his cups.

He got stuck like a pig, Eli said with a sneer. Served the bastard right.

Did ya stick him? Asked the stout man dressed in a black suit with a tight fitting black vest across his chest and a black bowler hat on his head as he walked towards the group of men surrounding the dead man. A distance behind the man walked two uniformed cops; each with a wooden baton in his right hand slapping it against their left in an intimidating manner.

Who the hell wants to know? Eli shot out. He spat another glob of tobacco juice as the final period to the end of his sentence. His glob of tobacco juice missing the man in the black suit's polished black boot by an inch. The man glared at Eli. The two uniformed cops walked up behind the man in the black suit still slapping their batons into the palm of their left hands. The three stevedores stared at the cops. The man in the black suit flipped his jacket lapel over revealing his Saint Louis police badge. Eli closed his mouth.

The nattily dressed and portly detective, five feet two inches tall, two hundred pounds, wore a gold watch chain across his vest. His dark eyes bore deep into the eyes of anyone he looked at. His large bulbous nose red veined from too much whiskey. He'd been a patrol cop for fifteen years and a detective for another three. He'd seen almost every type of crime imaginable and it hardened his resolve. Make the arrests at all costs. He would find the evidence to get the convictions, even if he had to invent it. He was a good cop with plenty of arrests which resulted in convictions.

I asked ya a question, did ya kill this man? The detective asked Eli again, pointing to Paddy O'Rourke's body. The two uniformed cops took a step closer to Eli.

No.

What's your name? The detective asked. Eli told him.

So what happened here? The detective asked.

I don't know, Marceau said.

Wouldn't I not be knowin' now, at all, at all? Tommy said. The Irish had a peculiar way of making a statement come out sounding like a question.

The sound of iron clad hooves and iron rimmed wagon wheels rattled over the two sets of the newly laid railroad tracks along the Levee and clattered over the rough cobblestone pavement and came to a stop near where Paddy O'Rourke's body lain. The sounds got closer then silent as the morgue wagon stopped to pick up Paddy's mortal remains.

What’s his name? The wagon driver asked as he dismounted from the wagon. His assistant, a younger man, remained seated on the wagon's bench.

Tis Paddy O’Rourke, me cousin, Tommy said. The wagon driver took the stub of a pencil and a folded piece of greasy paper from the pocket of his stained shirt, licked the tip of the pencil and made a note of the victim’s name.

You gonna pay for your cousin's funeral?the wagon driver asked.

Hell no, Tommy said.

The wagon driver walked over to the body, bent down, grabbed the knife handle and tried to pull it out. The knife, the handle slippery with Paddy's blood, didn't budge. He stood, put his heavy booted foot on Paddy O'Rourke's hip, wrapped both hands tightly around the handle and, using his leg muscles for leverage, yanked the blood covered Bowie knife from Paddy O'Rourke's chest.

The force of the wagon driver's pull spun him around as the knife came out causing a swirling splatter of O'Rourke's blood to streak across the detective's jacket and vest.

Must'a been stuck on a bone, the wagon driver said, with a shrug of his shoulders. The stevedores and the uniformed cops laughed at the detective's plight.

What the fuck are youse assholes laughing at? The detective shouted. The detective was a hard man. not liked to be laughed at. The three men tried to suppress their laughter but with little success. Even the two uniformed cops had a hard time controlling themselves. They stopped suddenly when the detective gave them both dirty looks. The wagon driver wiped the bloody blade on his grimy pants and then handed the knife to the detective.

Come 'ere boy, shouted the wagon driver to the man still sitting in the wagon. The man dropped from the wagon seat and ran up to the wagon driver. A closer look at the younger man revealed the younger man to be a teenage boy, not more than fourteen years old but old enough to do a man's work.

Grab his legs, the wagon driver told the boy while the man grabbed O"Rourke under the armpits. They swung the body onto the back of the wagon and covered it with a old piece of dirty canvas. The driver and the boy climbed back on the wagon bench and with a flick of the reins on the horses' rumps, the wagon clattered off.

This O'Rourke, is he, or rather was he, married? The detective asked.

Aye, Tommy said. Wouldn't it be he told us he married the young girl he knocked up?

I think he once said her name was Violet, Marceau said.

Where did he live? I'll have to go tell the woman she's now the widow O’Rourke, the detective said. Tommy gave him the address on Olive Street.

Did youse slobs work with him? The detective asked.

Did we now? Tommy said. Right here on the Levee, rain or shine.

'Cept when the river’s froze over, Marceau added.

Youse slobs know why anybody would want to kill him?

I don't know of anybody who wouldn’t want to kill him. Nobody liked him, Eli said.

Why?

He was a petty thief, Eli said. "He once stole the good luck charm my sainted mother gave me. I took some things from my pocket and set the on the table in Jake’s Saloon while I took something else from my other pocket. Paddy sat at the table with me and when I looked up the charm was gone. I had to threaten to break his arm before he gave it back.

You couldn't trust Paddy. He once made a pass at a lady while I was trying to make her acquaintance, if you know what I mean, Eli said, a twinkle in his eye.

The sun climbed into the morning sky, over the steamboats moored at the Levee. The sunlight reflected off the steeple of the new Basilica of Saint Louis, King of France and beamed down on Paddy O'Rourke's still fresh blood pooled and shined a deep vibrant red on the cobblestones.

The detective waived the Bowie knife in front of the three stevedores and asked, Anybody recognize this?

It's not mine, Marceau said, jumping in quickly, almost too quickly. The others stood by silently. Tommy looked sideways at Eli and then Marceau. The detective noticed the look Tommy gave and stored the information for future use.

Youse two slobs, the detective said, indicating Eli and Marceau. Go with these two coppers and give them your names and addresses and answer their questions He pointed to Tommy, ya come with me. The detective led him a few paces away from the others.

I saw the look ya gave those guys, what gives? The detective asked.

Did he not show me a Bowie similar to the one, Marceau did? Tommy said.

Who?

Jack Marceau.

Is this the knife he showed ya? The detective asked, holding the knife up so Tommy could get a better look.

Wouldn't I not be telling now? Tommy said. Doesn't the handle look the same? He shrugged his shoulders.

Do ya know if this Marceau would have any reason to kill ORourke?"

Paddy was me cousin. His mother and me sainted mother were sisters. At the mention of his dead mother, Tommy made the sign of the cross. "But me cousin Paddy was no focking good. He was a gobshite, an eejit. He wasn't a robber, he was a petty thief, a small time conniver, a schemer, always trying to take a little edge, always the little stuff. Doesn't he not have the stones for the big stuff?

Wasn't I with him and Eli the night he picked up Eli's charm? Eli 'twas mad as the devil. Tommy pronounced it div-vil. Didn't Eli grab Paddy's wrist and yanked in back over his shoulder. And didn't Paddy scream and open his fist and didn't the charm fall to the table. Eli put the charm back in his pocket and quietly walked out. But the look in his eyes...

What look was that?

Twas the look of hatred. Wasn't I was talking up this lady in Belle's one night, like I told you, and in walks me cousin Paddy. Instead of walking on by like any respectful cousin would, he walks up to her, flashing his smile and starts talking her up. Next thing I know, isn't he walking upstairs with her.

It's reason why ya would want to kill O'Rourke, but do ya know any reason why this Marceau would want to kill him? The detective asked. Tommy shook his head.

Ya think Eli killed your cousin? Tommy shrugged his shoulders.

Did ya kill your cousin?

No. Didn't I hate him but he's still me focking cousin, me family.

All right, we'll talk again later, the detective said. Tommy O'Shea hurried off to join Marceau and Eli who were preparing to load the cotton bales onto the horse drawn wagons for the trip to the canvas factory. They didn't get paid when they weren't working.

The detective and the two uniformed cops conferred near the place where O'Rourke's corpse had laid dead. The cops gave the detective Eli and Marceau's names and addresses but they were unable to get any other significant information from them. It was alright with the detective.

I'll get the information myself. I have my own ways for getting information from people who don't want ta tell me. The two uniformed cops knew the ways the detective mentioned. The detective made most of his arrests after the liberal use of the baton, an axe handle or his fists.

The two uniform cops headed for their beats along Wharf Street while the detective headed towards