Murder Trail

By Bruce Cassiday

It began like a game of drop-the-hanky. It ended with Cash Madigan fighting his way out of the arms of his brother Buzz’s lovely widow — and out of the hot seat for his brother’s murder, who had been found brutally murdered in Madigan’s home. Why had Buzz died? Did it tie in with Madigan’s investigation of a big-money robbery for a surety company? After he had buried his brother, Madigan swore vengeance and doggedly followed a tangled trail strewn with more murdered bodies, and people who were not who they said they were. Along the way to uncover the truth he survived several attempts on his own life ... but for how long would his luck hold out?

Bruce Cassiday — Popular Publications author and editor, and fiction editor for Argosy — published this fast-moving tale of Cash Madigan, bonding investigator in 1957.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bold Venture Press
• Release date: Apr 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463077535

Bruce Cassiday

A prolific author of fiction and nonfiction, Bruce Cassiday’s career spanned five decades and various mediums. His early career was rooted in radio drama. Soon afterward he was an author and editor of pulp fiction magazines.Bruce Bingham Cassiday was born in Los Angeles, in 1920. He graduated in 1942 with a B.A. in journalism from the University of California, and spent the next four years in the Air Force, receiving battle stars and rising to staff sergeant. He engaged in North Africa and Italian theatres, and later in the West Indies and Puerto Rico. From 1946 he became a professional writer, scoring a big success with radio dramas and big CBS shows, including Grand Central Station, and Suspense. He became an editor at Popular Publications, heading both Western and Crime pulps, and published some three dozen short stories and novelettes in the late forties and early fifties, in such magazines as All-Story Detective and Dime Detective. As well as editing numerous Popular magazines into the 1970s, Cassiday also served as fiction editor for Argosy from 1954 until 1973.He penned the adventures of agent Johnny Blood, a continuing character in Popular’s F.B.I. Detective Stories magazine. The series ran from 1949 to 1951, until the magazine’s demise. Then, bonding investigator Cash Madigan appeared in two novels — Murder Trail and The Buried Motive — in 1957.Cassiday married Doris Galloway in 1950, and they had two children, Bryan and Cathy. In the late 1950s and early 1960s he diversified into paperback novels, excelling in crime noir thrillers for numerous publishers, such as Ace, Beacon, Belmont, Lancer and Monarch Books. Throughout the 1960s, whilst still working as an editor, Cassiday continued to produce an astonishing flood of paperback originals including private eye, police procedurals, action, war and spy thrillers, medical novels, gothics and science fiction, as well as numerous adaptations of TV shows and movies, such as Marcus Welby, M.D., General Hospital, The Bold Ones, Flash Gordon and Gorgo. They were written under his own name and personal pseudonyms such as Carson Bingham and Annie Laurie McAllister.His output was diverse and prodigious, including numerous non-fiction books on many subjects from landscaping to carpentry, and ghosting Film Star biographies. He also held Administrative posts with the Mystery Writers of America and the International Association of Crime Writers.He died in 2005, in Stanford, Connecticut.

Book preview

MURDER TRAIL

A Cash Madigan mystery

Bruce Cassiday

Bold Venture Press

Copyright

Murder Trail

Copyright © 1957 Bruce Cassiday

Copyright © 2019 by the Estate of Bruce Cassiday

All rights reserved.

Millions in Blood Money

First published in Mike Shayne’s Mystery Magazine, December 1962

Copyright © 1962 Bruce Cassiday

Copyright © 2019 by the Estate of Bruce Cassiday

All rights reserved.

Cover copyright © 2020 Rich Harvey. All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without express permission of the publisher and author.

All persons, places and events are fictitious, and any resemblance to any actual persons, places or events is purely coincidental.

Published by Bold Venture Press

Available in print edition

TOC

Title

Copyright info

Murder Trail

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Millions in Blood Money

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Other Books by Bruce Cassiday

About the author

Bold Venture Press

Murder Trail

It began like a game of drop-the-hanky. It ended with Cash Madigan fighting his way out of the arms of his brother Buzz’s lovely widow — and out of the hot seat for his brother’s murder, who had been found brutally murdered in Madigan’s home. Why had Buzz died? Did it tie in with Madigan’s investigation of a big-money robbery for a surety company? After he had buried his brother, Madigan swore vengeance and doggedly followed a tangled trail strewn with more murdered bodies, and people who were not who they said they were. Along the way to uncover the truth he survived several attempts on his own life … but for how long would his luck hold out?

Chapter 1

On the darkest street corner of Greenwich Village, on the coldest night of the year, a man stood squinting against the surrounding blackness. It was seven o’clock; he was punctual to the minute. But where was the girl?

With numbed fingers he found a cigarette, struck a match.

Mr. Madigan?

Cash Madigan whirled at the sound of the soft, feminine voice.

He struck another match. The two faced each other, a classic tableau, the man and the woman, the hunter and the hunted. Cash recognized her: she was Sandy Vinson, all right. Number three on his list. She had the light hair, the gray eyes, the stubborn chin and the wide, inviting lips. She was dressed nattily in a baggy tweed coat without any buttons and a red hat—one of those monstrosities someone had earned a lot of money not to design.

Hello, Miss Vinson, Cash said briefly. This way, if you please.

They climbed into Cash Madigan’s Ford hardtop, circled Washington Square, and headed for the West Side Highway. Sandy Vinson stretched herself alluringly on the front seat, like a cat appropriating a comfortable hearth for a stormy evening.

She had long legs and a calm, quiet face and those sober gray eyes. Cash liked all that about her. She did not seem to have much to say. Indeed, she did not speak a word until, as they were passing under the George Washington Bridge, she opened her purse to fish for a cigarette.

Smoke? she asked, and left the bag lying open on the seat between them. As she lit up, Cash’s practiced eye glanced down and identified the outlines of a hard, cylindrical object in the purse which might have been a small automatic. A Colt .25, say.

He calmly accepted, nevertheless, the ignited cigarette she proffered. And he was not surprised that, at last, curiosity got the best of her and she started talking.

What about those questions you want to ask, Mr. Madigan? You told me the bonding company would give me money if I made the right answers.

Cash glanced idly into the rear-view mirror to check the traffic. He watched a car approach to pass him, and then slow down, pulling in behind him again.

Let’s wait a while. I intend to soften you up with a steak.

She laughed cheerfully. Do we have to drive so far for it?

Little place I know near Mt. Vernon. That fieldstone atmosphere. But if you want to start answering questions, I’ve got one for you. Why the arsenal in your purse?

Oh, she said. That. She closed her eyes and stretched her legs, but he could see she was not relaxed the way she had been. Maybe I’ll tell you about it, some time. Then she frowned. Anyway, what business is it of yours?

Not much, Cash realized. And she seemed like such a nice girl. The home-by-the-fire, or somebody’s sister, type. Cash glanced idly into the mirror again as the car behind him hung there. The headlights burned brightly into the silver and Cash pulled his head to one side to get the glare out of his eyes.

Damned fool! That driver behind us. He’s been wanting to pass, but can’t seem to work up the nerve.

He pushed his foot against the accelerator. The Ford shot ahead and the two lights behind him fell back. Then, as Cash watched, they slowly picked up speed until they were once again glued to the rear window.

Cash’s hands tightened on the wheel.

We’ve got company, he said. Any idea who?

Sandy Vinson sat up slightly. Company? That car behind, you mean?

It’s following us.

The girl laughed. Oh, come now!

One of those new Packards, I think. You set this up, baby? Who are you decoying for?

You’re not serious, are you?

She was being too elaborately casual, too innocent, in Cash’s estimation. If you’ve got a signal to call them off, use it. Because if this is a trap, I promise you we’ll both go together.

She sucked in her breath. A—trap? You mean you think I’d be low enough to deliberately lure you into a trap—?

Cash’s cold eye swept the mirror again. He stamped on the gas pedal and the hardtop leaped, hurtling along the parkway. The speedometer needle crawled up to seventy. The car following them dropped behind.

And then the lights appeared once again in the mirror, expanding rapidly. The distance between the two cars diminished. Seventy-five. Eighty. Cash’s hands around the wheel felt like concrete blocks. His back was stiff and the sweat came out all over his body. The Ford was swaying and rocking and shuddering.

I’m scared! Sandy Vinson shouted.

You and me both! grunted Cash, trying to hold the jarring, vibrating car to the road.

Slow down. Please! The girl’s words wrenched up out of her throat.

Cash jammed on the brakes as hard as he could. The Packard behind them hurtled almost into their rear. Then it swerved out, zooming around them, with screaming tires.

Cash caught a glimpse of the car in profile as it shot past; Sandy Vinson screamed and buried her face in her hands. Now the Packard was cutting in on the smaller car, pushing it to the right, forcing it toward the grassy side of the parkway and the darkness beyond. Cash twisted to the left, thrusting, shoving, trying to jockey off the heavy Packard. But the hardtop jumped the curbing, crossed the grass strip, and plunged down a twenty-foot embankment. With a final bone-cracking smash, the car tried to climb a massive oak tree at the bottom of the grassy slope, failed, slid down, and stopped dead.

Cash tasted blood and salt and saw reddish blackness in his eyes and then nothing…

* * * *

In a vague way he became aware of voices and intense cold and bright lights and deep shadows and the feel of damp ground underneath him. He sat up and looked around. He saw the strip of pavement lighted by headlights and spotlights, and he saw the slope and he saw the blackness of the night beyond it. Over him loomed the solid bulk of a uniformed man. From where Cash lay, the cop looked like a giant. Finally he leaned down toward Cash, poking through the darkness with the beam of a flashlight.

Easy, bub, he said in his heavy, ponderous voice. Cash could barely make out the thick-set body and the square face peering down at him. The man looked a true bulwark of civilization: all cop and a yard wide.

The Packard, Cash whispered shakily. We were sideswiped by a big Packard. Yellow, I think. Some light color. Couldn’t get his license number.

The officer nodded cheerily. Blew out both his tires. We let the driver go as soon as we saw you were okay. But I got his name. Benny Caruso.

Cash closed his eyes wearily. I’m much obliged to you for getting the name.

That’s my business, the cop said patiently. Address, too. Don’t worry about a thing, Mr. Madigan. Let the insurance companies fight it out.

Cash mentally noted that the fellow had already gotten his own name too.

You’re all right, the other went on. All you need is some rest. We’ll take you into town. Your car won’t be going anywhere for a while.

Cash remembered something and he tried to sit up. The world spun about him dizzily. Where’s that girl? The girl who was with me! She’s not—not hurt, is she?

She’s wrapping herself around some good hot coffee. Might not be a bad idea for you, bub. His eyes peered at Cash humorously.

Cash groaned. The cop helped him to his feet. Cash took a breath, and tried to accommodate himself to the world floating about him. He followed the cop over to the prowl car. He saw Sandy Vinson standing there, leggy and attractive and cool even with her pale, shaken face. She was drinking out of a paper container. She nodded to Cash. This is fine coffee, Mr. Madigan. The officer drove a couple of miles to get it.

Cash saw a second cop get out of the car, holding another container. Cash poured the black stuff down his throat. I’m glad you got off easy, he said. We both might have been killed.

She lowered her eyes.

* * * *

A cab and a subway later, they were seated at a mahogany bar back downtown in Greenwich Village, drinking slowly, looking out into the street where a light powdery snow was falling.

Did you like the steak, Sandy? Cash said suddenly. I apologize for not delivering the promised fieldstone fireplace and Connecticut landscape.

I’m gorged, she sighed, and closed her eyes. Her face was relaxed and calm. He had to admit to himself that she was beautiful, in a simple, uncomplicated way.

All right, Cash said. I hope you’re going to take all this in the right spirit.

She opened one eye and cocked her head. It sounds like medicine time. I can always tell when the bitter stuff is about to be administered.

Cash laughed. But first I’d like to know one thing. Who was in that Packard following us?

He could see the redness creep up her neck and into her cheeks. But her chin went up and her lips tightened. She stared blandly at the ceiling of the bar and said nothing.

Cash sighed. Okay. So I’m a bully with a rubber hose. I’ve wined you and dined you, and now I have to collect. You know what I’m after, don’t you?

She relaxed. Her gray eyes slid to his face innocently. But in their depths he thought he detected a flicker of humor. He felt better immediately. Information, she said vaguely.

Yes. About a man named Herman Exeter.

She giggled. Her nose wrinkled, and her gray eyes danced. Same old line, she said joyously. Without a deviation. It must be a panic to be a policeman!

His hands clenched suddenly; his face burned. What are you talking about?

Jane Bowers and Susie Wilson.

Cash stared.

We had a long talk about you in the powder room the other day, Mr. Madigan, she went on, chuckling softly.

Cash shoved his glass away and beat the edge of his thumb on the mahogany bar. He was trying to hold his temper, but its edges were coming frayed.

Well, that’s just ginger-peachy, he said finally. How did I rate?

Sandy smiled mischievously. You go down real smooth. For a detective.

Cash stared straight ahead of him. I’m an investigator, not a detective.

Sandy nodded, Yes. For a bonding company—Whitby and Gatling.

It’s a surety corporation, Cash corrected laboriously.

The Whitby and Gatling Surety Corporation. That’s a real mouthful of noise. What does it all mean?

Cash snorted. Thought you knew. A surety corporation is a betting concern that bets an employer his employees are more honest than he thinks. We bond executives and bank clerks and payroll clerks.

Sandy nodded knowingly. I’m aware of all that.

From Jane and Susie, Cash said slowly.

Yes.

Then you know we’re willing to pay a thousand dollars to anyone giving us information as to the whereabouts of the embezzler, Herman Exeter. Now, you’re certainly not going to sneeze at a grand in greenbacks, are you? What about it, Sandy? What have you got to say?

Nothing.

Cash folded one knee over the other and leaned sidewise against the bar. Think about it. I’m a patient man. I’ve been told you had several dates with Herman. Are your intimate memories worth more to you than one thousand in cash?

She pouted. Memories, my elbow! He wasn’t my idea of a grand passion, or even a Grade-A date. We had spaghetti and meatballs at Pietro’s a couple of times and then went up to listen to records in my apartment.

You know what that spells—in any language.

Sandy smiled. Not here, Cash. This is Greenwich Village. He’s a sad, pathetic little man.

He stalked off with fifty thousand in payroll money from Vitality Products. This is pathetic?

Sandy’s lips moved in and out. I’ve told you all I intend to.

Maybe someday you’ll decide to tell me the rest, Sandy. All about it.

All about what?

About that man in the Packard. And why he was following us. And maybe you’ll even tell me some time why he tried to kill us both.

Her breath came quickly. I know nothing about that!

The gray eyes now were blazing. She gathered up her purse and slid down from the stool. She stalked out into the snow-powdered street.

He paid the check, a smile frozen on his face. He caught her outside and took her arm in his and guided her along the slippery pavement to her apartment. He let her in and watched her climb the stairs. He said nothing; nor did she. On the dark stairs she turned for an instant, and he saw the pale circle of her face. Then she disappeared. He couldn’t tell whether or not she had been smiling just the least bit at the last instant.

He hoped she had been.

Even though she might be a deadly decoy, she was beautiful and lovely. And when trouble came wrapped in a body like that, a man could fall in love with death.

* * * *

Next morning, having oriented himself to the fact it was Thursday by a glance at the Daily News, Cash Madigan checked in at the home office for just long enough to grab a company car and head for Jennifer, New Jersey.

No lead was too improbable to follow up in the Herman Exeter case. For a routine embezzlement in the classic manner, it was a surprisingly tough nut to crack. Four weeks before—this Exeter, this mousy little payroll clerk of a cosmetic and soap empire called Vitality Products—had vanished with more than $50,000 of the organization’s money. Cash Madigan, chief investigator for the Whitby and Gatling Surety Corporation, had been called in to take charge of the case the day the loss was reported.

Cash had begun by trying to fill himself in on the embezzler’s background. He learned that Herman Exeter had been a timid, unpretentious man of fifty, a bachelor. To Cash, as he worked and uncovered the meager and unrewarding details of Herman Exeter’s life, it seemed a matter of the worm that had finally turned; there was the distinct possibility that Herman Exeter had disappeared into the boondocks to end up in bed with a blonde floozy in the one big orgy of his frustrated life.

Exeter had had no close friends, it seemed. But among his acquaintances three women turned up: Jane Bowers, Susie Wilson, and Sandy Vinson. Neither Jane nor Susie had been able to give him a solid lead. Nor had Sandy Vinson—at least in so many words. But there had been the little gun in her purse, and there had been the incident of the pursuing Packard.

Something was strictly not kosher. It was entirely possible that Sandy Vinson knew a great deal about Herman Exeter; it seemed quite likely that someone was afraid Sandy would talk; it was entirely conceivable that this was the reason a car had been following her on the parkway. The reason for the try against the lives of Sandy Vinson and Cash Madigan was something to be investigated thoroughly—and quickly.

The driver of the Packard was a man named Benny Caruso. According to the cop with the built-in man-of-distinction look, Benny Caruso lived in Jennifer, New Jersey. There were a few things Cash would like to find out from Mr. Benny Caruso: why he had been following Cash and Sandy; and what his connection was—if any—with Herman Exeter.

Jennifer turned out to be one of those developments tossed up by a get-rich-quick contractor for what is kindly known as a fast, rather than a dishonest, buck. The shacks were made of a combination of cardboard and spit, with an accent on the spit, and they were set into chopped-up squares of land the average-sized man might find cramping to play checkers on. Each house had a picture window; each picture window, from inside, had a fine panoramic view of the picture window opposite.

Cash curbed the jalopy at the end of one street that looked like a carbon copy of all the other streets, and walked toward 119 Maiden Lane. That was the number Cash had in his little black book opposite Benjamin Caruso’s moniker. The neighborhood was virginal, if, as could be judged from the number of baby carriages in the yards and on the walks, the inhabitants were not. The grass hadn’t had a chance to spring up yet and there were no trees. It was as sterile and unattractive a development as it is possible to find nowadays, even blanketed under its present layer of fresh white snow.

Cash punched the bell at 119. Inside, somebody snarled something and started moving toward the front door. A man stood framed in the entryway. He was slender and pale-faced, with curly black hair. His skin looked gray in color, and smooth, with blue traces where his razor had mowed through heavy beard. His teeth were large and straight—all the better to eat you with, thought Cash.

Caruso readily acknowledged his identity, and showed Cash into the living room.

I was the one you clobbered out on the parkway last night, Cash announced, seating himself in a bulky overstuffed couch that squatted uncomfortably and in extremely bad taste next to the picture window.

Caruso chewed a shredded cigarette; Cash noticed the cat-like, furtive movements of the man’s