The Brass Shroud

By Bruce Cassiday

At first, skip tracer Johnny Midas’ mission to Mockridge was as familiar as an old tune—to find a missing bank clerk. But swiftly this changed—the search had a jazz beat to it now. The only friend the bank teller had claimed in town was a has-been jazz trumpeter named Buck Legrande, a man desperately trying for a comeback. Though Buck himself swore he didn’t know the missing man, he must have known a lot about some other shady people. Buck’s comeback soon ended in his murder. Johnny knew he would have to use everything he had to solve this one...but he didn’t count on being as sharp with his ear as he would have to be with his gun!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bold Venture Press
• Release date: Jun 12, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463103944

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

THE BRASS SHROUD

Bruce Cassiday

Bold Venture Press

Copyright

Copyright © 1958 by Bruce Cassiday;

Copyright © 2020 by the Estate of Bruce Cassiday

Cover art: Harry Barton

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.

Available in print.

Published by Bold Venture Press

www.boldventurepress.com

THE BRASS SHROUD

At first, skip tracer Johnny Midas’ mission to Mockridge was as familiar as an old tune—to find a missing bank clerk. But swiftly this changed—the search had a jazz beat to it now. The only friend the bank teller had claimed in town was a has-been jazz trumpeter named Buck Legrande, a man desperately trying for a comeback. Though Buck himself swore he didn’t know the missing man, he must have known a lot about some other shady people. Buck’s comeback soon ended in his murder. Johnny knew he would have to use everything he had to solve this one...but he didn’t count on being as sharp with his ear as he would have to be with his gun!

CHAPTER 1

The October night was clean and fresh, and with her last breath the girl smelled the tang of ripe apples from the valley below. In a grotesque, lethal embrace the two straining figures rocked together, the man grasping the girl’s slender throat in his hands, the girl feebly clawing at the man’s face with her nails. But the man’s face was out of reach. Waves of blackness closed in over her, so much like the waters of the lake at her back, so much like the darkness of the sky above, so much like the finality of death.

She summoned the last ounce of strength left to her, and kicked at the man’s shins and knees, but he moved away, and bent her down, slowly down, toward the moist earth in the reed grass next to the lake. She heard a humming in her ears, and she felt the chilling cold of the earth pressing in on her body. She went weak. All the terror drained out of her. All the terror and the panic and all her life.

After a moment the man stood abruptly, staring about him. He looked down unbelievingly at the inert form at his feet. He knelt and touched her, but she did not stir. He rose slowly to his feet, staring down at his hands. They shook. He looked across the cold surface of the lake at the electric lights of the dance pavilion on the opposite shore twinkling gaily in the night. There was no music now; it was intermission time.

He moved back, ten feet away from the girl’s body. He leaned over and searched the dark ground. He reached in his pocket for a match, but looked across at the dance hall and shook his head. A flame would show where he stood, would alert someone. He moved about quickly, searching on the ground.

It was not there.

He felt the cold moisture of perspiration on his forehead. He moved back to the inert shape of the girl’s body. For a long moment he stared down at it, a sudden weakness crawling through him. Trembling, he leaned down and touched her. He pulled at her waist and lifted her clumsily. He lifted her and slid her down through the thick reed grass toward the waters of the lake. He stepped into the rank sludge and sank to his ankles as he carried her to the water. Here the reeds grew tall and straight. He let her body down. It disappeared from sight and the water oozed back over it. She was invisible from the bank.

He walked back again, making one last effort to search the ground near where he had choked her to death. He could not find what he looked for. He was bending over when he heard a slight sound thirty feet away. He ducked down, crouching.

Voices murmured. He could hear a girl’s soft giggle and a man’s deeper voice.

The crouching figure bobbed away through the undergrowth, heading up the hillside sloping away from the lake. Moving like a crab, the man vanished among the shadows and gulleys of the rising ground. The girl’s voice giggled again, smothered, intimate. Then there was silence. Silence broken only by the incessant drumming of crickets.

The lake water lapped quietly at the shore. The body of the dead girl swayed under the lake’s surface with every movement of the water. And the crisp tang of ripe apples hung over everything with a cloying, primitive fragrance.

* * * *

Two days later when the noon train drew in to Mockridge from New York, a tall, slow-moving man with blond curly hair stepped down off the last car and slung his suitcase onto the station platform with a businesslike air. He glanced up and down and then stared off along the highway which led to the nearby town. A sign on the platform read Mockridge: Pop. 7530.

Johnny Midas walked over to the ticket office window and leaned in. Morning.

Morning, said the withered man inside. Help you?

Where can I rent a car?

Um, said the man. There’s a taxi service if you want that.

Nope, said Johnny Midas. I want to rent a car. I have some running around to do.

In that case, take the first turn to the right on the way in to town. The old man leaned out and jabbed a wrinkled finger down the platform toward the highway.

That’s Mockridge? Johnny asked.

Yep, said the man. Ask for Danny’s Garage. He’ll rent you a car reasonable.

Thanks, said Johnny. He picked up his suitcase and swung on across the platform, off into the road, and toward the town. It was at pleasant little place, with several low buildings, a gas station, and two diners on opposite sides of the street. There was a building that said Chief of Police on its window, and a bank that said Mockridge Trust Company, several dry goods stores and a grocery or two.

The maple trees that lined the main street were tinted all shades of red and yellow. It was the height of October, and the smell of autumn hung in the air, making the blood stir excitedly in the body.

Johnny Midas rented a brown 1945 Ford and drove to the far side of town where the man at Danny’s Garage had recommended a good inexpensive motel. He took a room for a week, with the assurance from the proprietor that he could leave any time he wished. Then he unpacked his things, climbed in the Ford, and drove back to town. This time he parked in front of the bank and entered.

The Mockridge Trust Company was a clean, freshly painted building with big windows and a colonial column on each side of the entrance. To the right inside stretched a chest-high wall, with a teller’s cage and a cashier’s cage in plain sight. The teller’s cage was tended now by a young man with freckles. He nodded pleasantly.

I’d like to see Mr. Preston Belfonte, Johnny said, glancing at a slip of paper in his hand.

Yes sir, said the freckle-faced man. Right over there. He pointed to a door at the end of the bank with the word President painted on it.

Johnny knocked on the door. The man who opened it was prim, fastidious, and only about five feet three, with wisps of gray hair, and bright, deep-set black eyes.

I’m Midas, Johnny said. He took out a telegram and a leather identification folder and handed them over to the prim little man.

Belfonte looked at Johnny and glanced beyond him at the teller’s cage where the freckle-faced man was watching them both. Come in, he said in a low voice, and propelled Johnny into the little mahogany-paneled office. Belfonte moved around behind a large desk and sat down cautiously in a large swivel chair in front of a wide window, keeping his eyes on the leather folder Johnny had handed him.

Yes, yes, he said nervously. Mr. Midas. Pleased to meet you. He handed back the folder and the telegram and smiled. Johnny put the folder back in his jacket pocket.

He glanced at the telegram, reading it aloud.

Will pay your expenses to Mockridge if you accept retainer to trace Andrew Claussen, a teller at my bank. Respond if available. Preston Belfonte, Mockridge Trust, Mockridge.

Johnny put the telegram away. Here I am, sir. And I’d be interested to hear why you sent for me.

Why I sent for you? Belfonte said hoarsely, sounding like the whirring and riffling of a stack of dollar bills. I sent for you because I’ve heard you’re the best skip tracer in the business.

Johnny nodded. It’s been said.

Well, I’ve got a man missing. One of my tellers.

Johnny leaned back in his chair. Oh? Anything else?

Belfonte paused a moment. No, he said. Nothing negotiable, if that’s what you mean.

That’s what I mean. Has this Andrew Claussen always lived in Mockridge, Mr. Belfonte? Johnny asked.

Not at all. He’s only been working for me three months. He comes from Boston.

Johnny nodded. Naturally you got good references before hiring him on.

They seemed adequate, Belfonte said. The day before yesterday he turned up missing. When he didn’t come in by noon, I called his boarding house on Dove Street and was told he never came home the night before.

Any relatives here? A wife? A mother?

Belfonte shook his head. Only Andrew.

Well, what about him? Anything interesting that might give me some indication where he’s skipped to?

Belfonte spread his hands. There’s only one thing about him that makes him different from a million other people. He’s a great jazz fan and considers himself an expert. Suddenly Belfonte leaned across his desk with a frown. Aren’t you taking notes, Mr. Midas?

Johnny tapped his skull. "I keep it in here just as well as I do on paper. Besides, I might lose my notebook. I’ve never lost this yet."

Belfonte smiled. Well put, Mr. Midas.

There’s one thing I want to know.

Belfonte raised his eyebrows.

Why did you hire me to help you? I’m expensive.

Belfonte nodded. I’m willing to pay good money. He glanced about him, the trace of a smile on his dry lips. There’s plenty here, you know.

Five hundred dollars, Mr. Belfonte. That’s a lot of retainer to trace a skip who hasn’t taken anything. Don’t tell me things are that good in the banking business.

Belfonte’s face looked troubled. No sir, they aren’t. But I need the best man I can get. I must have Andrew back.

Johnny smiled ingratiatingly. I know that. It’s obvious. But what isn’t is this: why? I could understand your concern if there was a stack of thousand-dollar bills missing. But in that case you’d be telling all this to the bonding people and letting them take over. Why me?

Belfonte drew himself up suddenly, trying desperately to inhale courage in one long breath. You’ve no real right to question me like this. If I want to hire you, that’s all I need to say. I…

Johnny nodded. "I see. Everything isn’t peaches and cream, is it, Mr. Belfonte? Or else why are you so jumpy?"

Belfonte sank back in the creaking chair and looked through lidded eyes at Johnny Midas. Then he lifted a hand feebly and placed it on the desk in front of him—the desk that was too big for him, symbol of a job that had obviously gotten out of hand.

All right, he whispered. A deathlike smile crossed his white lips. It’s true. I need help—desperately!

I’ve got nothing personal against you, Mr. Belfonte, Johnny said quietly. But in my business I have to know all the facts before I start in. Now...you were about to say?

Belfonte ran a dry tongue over his chapped lips. A man in the banking business runs the constant risk of...uh...investing the bank’s money in something that might not pay off.

Naturally, Johnny said. That’s what collateral is for—to protect your loans and mortgages.

Belfonte smiled a thin smile. Yes, yes. Of course. A good banker never buys a mortgage unless he is sure to make a profit if the borrower defaults.

Sure, Johnny nodded. Simple banking procedure.

Preston Belfonte stood up and walked across the small office to a window that looked out over the fields in back. In the distance bluish hills rose into the western sky. There were yellow trees and green grass and a scattering of houses and red barns in the foreground.

He smiled. But at the same time a bank is more than a cold-blooded theory, Mr. Midas. A bank can be the lifeblood of a community. Places such as Mockridge are not always lucky enough to have thriving industries to tide them over the bad times. Communities like this one are constantly facing poverty when there is a bad crop year.

Johnny nodded. Sure. So?

The bank becomes more than just a stone building with white pillars in front, and cages full of money. Belfonte turned and stared at Johnny Midas, almost challengingly. I helped build this town, Mr. Midas. I’ve loaned judiciously and wisely. I have financed a great majority of the businesses in Mockridge and the farms surrounding.

A commendable achievement.

Preston Belfonte sank down into his swivel chair again, laced his tiny hands over his stomach, and swung back and forth slowly. But once in a while a banker oversteps the bounds of caution. Take a hypothetical case: He loans out money that does not come back.

Johnny leaned forward, interested. Go on.

And when he goes to investigate, the collateral is...uh...so to speak...non-existent.

Johnny’s eyebrows rose. Ah. But how could that happen?

Belfonte shrugged. Who knows? The collateral was investigated. And the loan was investigated...by...uh...a trusted employee.

Trusted? Johnny couldn’t help putting a slightly different inflection on the word.

Andrew Claussen.

Johnny looked up. But he was only employed here three months. By your own statement, he was a new man. How did you ever decide—

We all make mistakes, Belfonte interrupted, his face reddening. But, in this case I’m afraid mine was a fatal one.

But why fatal? I still don’t see.

I’m responsible, Mr. Midas. Until I can get hold of Andrew Claussen and make him assume the burden for this grave error, I alone am responsible for the fifteen thousand dollars we loaned.

Johnny nodded. And you just found this out two days ago?

Belfonte explained. When I found Andrew was not coming in the other day, I went over his papers to take care of anything which might be pressing. The borrower had defaulted on his first payment. I discovered him in the county hospital with a wrenched back. He had spent all the money paying off debts and buying some feed. Then, when I investigated further, I found that the farmhouse, barn, and crop borrowed against were figments of the imagination.

But why not turn it over to the bonding people? I can’t see why you should waste money on me. Claussen was bonded for at least fifteen thousand, wasn’t he?

He was covered for embezzlement, yes; but not for a mistake in judgment. Not for swearing to the existence of a ‘ghost’ farm: a structure that hadn’t been built, a crop that hadn’t been planted.

Johnny frowned. You’re not culpable, Mr. Belfonte. I just don’t get it at all. Unless, of course, they proved collusion.

Belfonte’s face turned red. He was staring angrily at Johnny. I don’t like all these suspicions and innuendoes, Mr. Midas! Why do you keep asking me and asking me?

Because I want to know! snapped Johnny Midas.

Belfonte hopped out of the chair to his feet. He walked over to the window and stared out at the golden apple trees and the blue mountains in the distance. Johnny watched him.

Then Belfonte’s shoulders sagged. "All right. It’s thin. I’ll grant it. Andrew did make a mistake, but it was my fault as much as his. The main problem is different, Mr. Midas. I can’t afford to let the bank examiners look too closely at my records."

There was a long silence. Johnny could hear his own heart beating. He could hear a fly buzzing busily at the window out which Belfonte was staring.

I get it. He let out his breath in a soft sigh. I didn’t mean to have to force it out of you, Mr. Belfonte. I’m not the law. It’s not my business what you’ve done. As long as I’m not asked to break the law, I’ll take the job. Now I understand why you have to find Claussen.

Belfonte had a wan, dry smile on his face. If I reported Andrew’s disappearance, and the error in the fifteen-thousand-dollar loan, they’d be down here in droves—the federal people—and they’d take my books apart in twenty-five minutes. Belfonte looked