Murder Picks the Jury

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Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 3

CHAPTER ONE 5

CHAPTER TWO 9

CHAPTER THREE 16

CHAPTER FOUR 20

CHAPTER FIVE 25

CHAPTER SIX 32

CHAPTER SEVEN 38

CHAPTER EIGHT 45

CHAPTER NINE 50

CHAPTER TEN 57

CHAPTER ELEVEN 62

CHAPTER TWELVE 69

CHAPTER THIRTEEN 75

CHAPTER FOURTEEN 82

CHAPTER FIFTEEN 89

CHAPTER SIXTEEN 96

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 105

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 109

CHAPTER NINETEEN 116

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 126

MURDER PICKS THE JURY

Harrison Hunt

Murder Picks the Jury was originally published in 1947 by Mystery House, New York.

* * *

There were three witnesses to swear that only Gregory Drake could have been in the back room with Maysie Grey when she was strangled to death. Even Randolph Lee, Drake’s defense counsel, thought that his client was guilty. It took two more murders to wake Lee up, to show him that the only way he himself could survive was to track down the killer, before the killer found him...

CHAPTER ONE

Randolph Lee’s shoes were old and cracked and patched, but they moved with a stealthy quietness, making only the faintest rustle in the dried brown leaves that covered the surface of the narrow path.

It was almost dusk, and the fading rays of the sun came on a long slant across the branches of the willows. The thin, keen coldness of coming fall was in the air. A little creek bubbled in frosty, sly laughter to Lee’s left, and to his right there was the high dike of the railroad embankment, with its rails gleaming like parallel streaks of ice.

At the turn in the path, Lee paused to listen with his bearded face turned a little up-wind. The only sound was the faint, faraway chuff-chuff-chuffing of a switch engine in the yards a mile down the track.

The smoke tang he had been stalking was strong, and Lee knew he was getting very near the hidden fire which was its source.

He went on, moving his feet even more carefully. The path angled away from the railroad embankment, following the creek, crawling deeper into the rustling, massed willows.

Again Lee paused, throwing his head back and breathing deeply. The smoke tang was stronger, the fire must be ahead. But there was another smell, an odor that was unmistakable to a hungry man, the odor of food cooking.

He stepped away from the path, moving his gaunt body noiselessly and expertly through the thick willows. Here the creek made a loop, and the fire was on the point, backed on two flanks by running water. Lee caught its orange nicker through the matted branches and crept forward with the care and patience of a wild animal, coming suddenly through the last screen of laced boughs into the little clearing.

Two men, leaning close over the flames, hoarded the crackling warmth with their bodies. A battered coffee tin dangled from a clumsy tripod and from it came the simmering food odor which Lee had detected.

Lee stood close behind them, quite still, watching. Both men whirled to look at him with the instinctive wariness of hunted things.

Hello, Lee said.

The ragged beard made his face a black and formless blur. His hat was battered, crownless, with the front of the brim ripped off. His hair, thick and black like his beard, curled raggedly across the back of his neck. His clothing matched: a gray sweater, pinned with careless inattention at the neck, and a pair of faded canvas trousers.

Hi, said the smaller of the two men. Kind of light on your feet, ain’t you? Gave us a start, you did.

He had a quick, breathless voice and he spoke in jerky, nervous starts.

The second man did not speak. As he crouched, staring unblinkingly, he resembled a sluggish, deadly spider.

Lee had not answered the small man, who tried again: Just come in, did you?

A while ago, said Lee. On the through freight. What have you got cooking?

Why, a little stew, as you might say, the small man answered. A bit of meat and a carrot or two.

I can use it, said Lee.

The big man stirred, easing his weight forward. The small man giggled a squeaky falsetto.

"Why, so can we. And you see, there ain’t but a bit of it. Not enough for three.

I know that, said Lee. I want it all..

The man moved his shoulders so that the paper inside his coat gave a rustling protesting. The small man giggled again, and his thin soiled hand crept out slyly toward the thick cudgel that lay half hidden in the weeds.

Well now, cully, he said breathlessly, that ain’t hardly reasonable. Not hardly a bit. This here stew is ours, you see. This here Stew belongs to Streak and Block. Streak, that’s me, and Block, that’s him. We kind of collected this stew, bit by bit, and we’ve got our mouths all made up for it, you might say. So now, if you want some, why don’t you go find some of your own?

I haven’t time, said Lee. I need it now. I’ll have to take yours.

Block came to his feet in a single swaying motion as if his legs had been springs coiled under him. He was still leaning a little forward, his head down, and his square, thick shoulders made it seem that he had no neck at all.

Git! His voice was a murmur of hoarseness. Scram, smart guy.

Lee came forward two quick, sliding steps so that he was entirely clear of the brush. I don’t want trouble. Give me the stew and call it quits.

No! Streak was positive. "Take him, Block. He talks too slick to suit me.

Block rushed. His head was down, his big arms swinging loosely at his sides. Lee hit him once, twice, three times, squarely in the face, and the blows made quick, savage, spattering sounds in the silence of the clearing. But they did not stop Block. He caught Lee around the chest, locking his big hands behind the slender man’s back, and began to squeeze.

Lee hurled himself backward, taking Block with him. When he hit the ground, he straightened his legs with all the force of his bowed body behind them. The jarring force broke Block’s grip and he was thrown sprawling awkwardly clear over Lee’s head.

Better stop it, Lee warned, panting. Better quit.

But neither heeded. Streak was up on his feet, circling a little to take Lee from behind. They would kill if they could.

Lee met Block’s second rush. He met it, balanced on his toes like a dancer, his arms wide spread. He kicked Block in the face. Not a short kick, but one with the full lunging force of his body behind it, as a football player kicks.

The toe caught Block’s jaw, and it stopped him, snapping his head back, but he still did not go down. Lee did not wait this time. He hit the man with a straight left, high on the forehead to tilt his head back, then he smashed him full in the throat with a swinging right.

Block’s mouth opened wide, and his little eyes popped in their reddened sockets. He was trying to scream, but there was no sound. He staggered sideways on legs that were suddenly rubbery, and Lee went after him with merciless cruelty. He hit the man three times while he was falling, and Block struck the ground all at once, his head bouncing a little. Then he lay there, flat on his back, not moving.

Lee whirled lightly as Streak stepped in, the club upraised. Hard it fell, missing by a hair’s breadth. Lee caught the man’s wrist, held it, twisting slightly.

There was a crack, like a dry stick breaking. The club fell from Streak’s numb fingers. His hand was bent backward at a horrible angle.

More? said Lee.

No, Streak whispered. No, no!

I warned you, said Lee. I didn’t ask for this trouble.

Streak sobbed. You’ve broken my wrist. I can feel the bones. They’re loose in it. His eyes strayed and he shuddered. Block’s dead. You’ve killed Block!

Lee moved to shift Block’s prone form with his toe. He wouldn’t be the first, if I had, but he isn’t dead. He’ll be sick for a while. Get some water from the creek and dump it in his face.

Streak said: You’re not human, you’re not. You haven’t got a soul left in you.

I know, Lee agreed calmly. I lost it quite a while back. Now, I’m taking the stew. Don’t follow me.

Leave a little, Streak pleaded, swaying back and forth in agony. Just a little, please. I ain’t had a bit all day. I’m starving!

Starve then, said Lee. The world will be that much better off. He found a stained bandanna in the pocket of his canvas trousers, wrapped it about the loop of wire which was the can’s handle and lifted it from the tripod. He lifted it with care so that not one drop of the rich, smelly liquid could spill, and went cautiously across the clearing toward the path.

Please, Streak called his appeal, "leave a bit, leave just a mouthful for me.

Lee did not trouble to answer. The bush closed behind him, and he moved with quick yet careful stealth through the willows. Behind him, Streak’s voice was raised in a chant of blasphemy which grew incoherent and faded gradually as Lee moved away.

CHAPTER TWO

Lee covered the path at a dog trot, careful of the swinging, smoking can. He stopped at the turn of the path, looked back, listening, but there was no sign of pursuit. Then he moved forward more slowly, paused at the break in the willows, pushed the branches carefully aside and crawled through the thick tangle into a small open space.

Duncy, he whispered.

The shadows cast by the fading sun were deep, dappling the golden leaves in moving, shallow pools. There were branches dragged into a rough heap on the far side of the open space, and what looked like a bundle of old clothes was lying on the branches.

Duncy, Lee repeated, going forward and bending over.

The bundle of rags moved and became a man, a man that was no longer young. His thin features were twisted all awry by pain and fear. The eyes were gleaming, brightly feverish. Oh, he breathed, oh, I thought you weren’t coming back.

Lee’s ragged overcoat was spread over Duncy like a quilt, and Lee adjusted it around the thin shoulders more closely with light, surprisingly gentle hands.

I told you I’d be back.

You shouldn’t have come. The man’s voice was a weak, reedy whisper, without body or substance. It’s my fault that we’re in this fix. If I hadn’t trusted those guys in Denver, if I hadn’t let them roll me....I had the money to bring you back.

No, said Lee. It’s my fault. A man shouldn’t run away, but the trail is almost ended, Duncy. Hear that freight engine? It’s in the yards at Vale City. I’ll go in after dark. I’ll see her tonight.

Duncy was quiet, breathing slow and deep. I’m going to die, Lee. I can feel it, like a man, reaching out to put a hand on my shoulder. I’m going to die, and I don’t care, only I hate to leave you alone, boy. The world is cold, and ugly, and it does things — things which shouldn’t happen to people. I’m not afraid to die, but I want to see you clear first.

Stop it, Lee ordered. Stop this talk of death. There’s nothing wrong with death, Duncy. It’s quiet, and peace and rest, but you won’t know about that for a long time, because you aren’t going to die. You’re going to be all right. Look, I brought you some food, something to cat.

Duncy’s eyes grew round, and some of the fever brightness dulled as his fingers curled greedily. Food? Where’d you get it?

From a couple of ‘boes who didn’t need it as much as we do. He raised Duncy’s head, tipped the coffee can up to his lips and gave the man a few hasty gulps.

That’s enough for a minute. Lee lowered the can. How’d it taste?

Like — like nothing I ever tasted before.

Lee smiled. Fine. Rest a while and I’ll give you some more. It’s not good for you to take too much at once.

It feels warm inside of me. Duncy lay back, breathing easier. I can feel it spreading, like a fire, all slow and tinglin’. You — you take some, too.

No. I’m not hungry, Duncy. He eased him back on the boughs and was just pulling the old coat into place when he paused.

Duncy stared up at him. What’s the matter?

Someone’s coming, Lee said. He turned in the direction of the sound, still on his knees, and crouched there, waiting.

Heavy feet moved the dry leaves along the path, and the branches which concealed the tiny clearing were suddenly whipped aside. A man stepped into the opening and stood there, watching. Lee came to his feet and moved a step, then halted as his eyes saw the heavy hickory club in the man’s hand.

Yeah, said the man. Thought I heard voices. He raised his own in a shout. Here’re some more, boys! Down this way!

He was a thick-set man, not solid and yet not quite flabby. His eyes were small and round and callously blue. There was a little scar on his left cheek and it turned the mouth corner down in an expression of permanent distaste. He wore a gray hat with a broad brim. Under it his hair was yellowish and thick. He wore a dark suit, and his shoes were big and black and highly polished under the film of loose yellow dust.

Copper? Lee had not moved his eyes from the man’s face.

The newcomer nodded. "Yeah. We’re rounding up the bums. You boys are going to work. No room for idleness now. You’re