Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  When the telephone rang, be became frenzied with fear and at times had to be forcibly restrained from leaving his bed.

  The gist of all this was sent to London by the consular authorities, actuated merely by a desire to locate the sick man’s relations and to notify them of his condition. The police were asked to co-operate, and it was a policeman with a well-developed bump of curiosity who applied himself to finding out why a man named Stewart McWatt should insist so vehemently that he was not Edward Langley because Edward Langley was dead. Then the latter name came to light as that of a victim of the fire which had destroyed the house belonging to Henry Ansell in Hallgrove Gardens, Willesden.

  In the police dossier on the fire which had caused the deaths of Henry Ansell and Edward Langley only one suspicious observation had been noted. One sentence stood out from the rest in the schoolboy handwriting of a detective who had made the inquiries: “The deceased, Henry Ansell, long suspected of being a receiver, was known to keep large sums of money in the house, but his safe, when opened, contained almost nothing of value.”

  Despite the inquest verdict, it was decided to reopen the inquiry.

  Scotland Yard sent a man out to France to make inquiries on the spot. He went straight to the heart of the matter. He wanted to know precisely what had been said to Stewart McWatt over the telephone on the night of the storm, and by whom.

  Accordingly, with the assistance of the French police, he was taken to see the telephone operator at the exchange which served the mountain hotel where McWatt had been staying, and from which he had fled, panic-stricken.

  It emerged that some English tourists in Nice wanted to speak to some English friends who had planned to spend the night at the hotel, but had been held up by the weather. On being informed that there was, in fact, an Englishman staying in the hotel, the understandable error becomes apparent.

  “Then,” said the detective, “the hotelkeeper fetched the Englishman. Is that it?”

  “Yes, monsieur,” replied the operator.

  “Now what I would like to know is just what you said to him which had the effect of terrifying him. Can you remember?”

  “I remember perfectly, monsieur. First I asked him to wait. ‘Attendez un instant,’ I told him. Then I spoke to the operator in Nice, telling her that he was on the line and waiting to speak. ‘Monsieur l’anglais est ici’ is what I said.”

  “Thank you, mademoiselle,” said the man from Scotland Yard. “You have told me everything I need to know.”

  Edward Langley would disagree with Shakespeare when he said that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, for the sobering fact is that if he had been Monsieur Smith, or Monsieur Jones, or indeed Monsieur anything else but Langley, a guilty conscience would not have caused him to panic when he heard himself referred to as “monsieur l’angais.” THE END

  DEAD MEN DON’T MOVE

  Thomas Thursday

  Anyone who knew him laughed at the thought of Jonathan Rumley being killed by a hit-and-run driver while he was fixing a tire. The idea of Rumley stooping to manual labor, under any circumstances!

  THAT’S the time the call came into Headquarters, 8:15 A.M.; it was Signal 17, meaning accident, and was radioed by Officers Suggs and Stanton, Car 22. They informed Lieut. Rice that a dead man was under a new Caddie coupe, with the right wheel jacked up.

  The signal should have been 27; that means homicide, murder.

  The scene: Less than five feet this side of the county-city line, on the Tamiami Trail. If it had been five-feet one inch over the line it would have been a job for John Tyler, of the sheriff’s CBI. John did not complain about the matter; the cases in the county drove him nuts.

  I was at the wheel of the car that drove Chief Howard, along with Frank Mullady, of Identification Bureau. The chief lets me drive because he says I should be good for something. I used to be on street traffic, but I took a course in fingerprinting and general criminalistics, then asked to be assigned to Homicide. Howard still wonders why.

  The chief took a quick glance at the scene, then looked down at the still male form lying under the rear of the car. The locale was lonely, except for a few early motorists heading West toward Tampa and St. Pete.

  The back of the dark brown hair was matted with blood. The right rear wheel was jacked up. The observation of any novice would be to the effect that some careless or drunk driver had hit the Caddie while the guy was changing his flat tire. Which, of course, was the surface evidence. But the homicide officer who goes by surface evidence alone will soon learn that he should have remained behind some hamburger counter.

  Just then Dick Rundell, of the Herald, and Sandy Schnier, of the News drove up as if they were practicing for the Indianapolis Speedway. Both guys covered Headquarters, and a few other things, for their papers. Dick was driving and Sandy said a prayer of thanks when he got out in one piece.

  “What’s going on here?” asked Rundell, smacking his chops over a possible headline item.

  “We have been casting for catfish in the canal,” I said. “The chief loves to eat catfish. You guys care for catfish?”

  “Nuts,” says Sandy. “That ain’t no catfish lying under the back of the car.”

  The chief paid less attention to the reporters than if they were absent. He examined the road, sand-gravel. A single set of footprints were noticeable. I observed that the clothing of the corpse was hardly wrinkled. If this was really a hitand-run job, it was about the neatest in all accident history.

  The jack under the car was not only strange, but out of place in such a car’s equipment. It was of the heavy, old-fashioned type, and the top cog was missing.

  The chief frisked the pockets and came out with a billfold. When he read the name of the deceased his eyebrows went up an inch and a half.

  “So who is he?” demanded Dick Rundell. “It’s neither Eisenhower nor Napoleon,” I said. “This looks tough.” said the chief. “I think I’ll let you news gents solve it for us, or don’t you see those TV and mystery movies? In those plays the police are just in the way, getting in the hair of the reporters, who have all the brains.”

  “I love them things,” says Sandy. “The official cops always wind up looking stupid; it’s either the star reporter or the great private eye-wash who solves the murder.”

  “Yeah,” I says, “me and the chief got tossed out of the Tivoli theatre last week for enjoying one of those fairy tales in technicolor. The gem of gizzum was called The Corpse Can’t Speak English. We started to giggle in the first reel and the usher asked us to please shut up, claiming that the picture was not starring Jackie Gleason or George Gobel. The guy who wrote the screenplay must have got his notions of official police procedure by spending his time in the Young Women’s Christian Association.”

  “What I enjoyed about the story,” said the chief, “was when the star reporter kept insulting the chief; aided by the private detective.”

  “Who informed the chief he was being insulted?” demanded Rundell, with a cherubic grin.

  “The guy who wrote the screenplay, I guess,” said Sandy.

  “Me,” I says, “I got a kick out of the part where the private eye-wash picked up the murder weapon. It’s a .38 and he picks it up with his handkerchief, to preserve—he thinks—fingerprints.”

  “Doesn’t that smudge them?” asked Sandy. “It should,” I says, “according to Lesson 29 in my Correspondence course. It says—”

  Rundell leaned over and looked at the body under the car. “Face looks like someone I know.”

  “No doubt,” said Sandy. “Herald reporters know all the dead ones.”

  Frank Mullady began to pack his ID kit. “Okay,” said Frank to the chief. “that does it.”

  “Who is he?” asked Sandy. “Jonathan Rumley,” said Howard. “The Jonathan Rumley, of the Rumley & Racine Department Store.”

  “That name should be good for a streamer headline,” I said. “If he was a flophouse wino, he would have his passing printed near the classifie
d ad sections, account of the flophouse wino not placing two full-page ads in your sheet every day, with six on Sunday.”

  “You flatfeet don’t understand the art of journalism,” said Rundell.

  “And a lot of you flatheads don’t understand the art of fair play. When one cop gets out of line, you give the public the notion—with slanting—that all members of the force are lice. Anything to sell your papers.”

  I thought I was doing okay in the debate, when Howard said, “Oh, both of you shut up. Life can be beautiful.”

  “Where?” demanded Sandy, who was about to get married.

  WE WENT back to Headquarters, first releasing the body to Jackson Memorial hospital, with a request for an autopsy.

  In the upstairs office, where Rundell and Schnier followed us—without invitation—the chief sat down, took out his nail file, then pointed it at the reporters, and said, “You might state for publication that Jonathan Rumley was killed by a hit-and-run driver while trying to change a flat tire.”

  Sandy Schnier whistled and Dick Rundell curled a mean lip.

  “Now I’ll tell one about Snow White and the Seven Cops,” snorted Dick.

  “You know, Cap,” said Sandy, “Rumley might have been murdered.” Sandy was a bit naive, and had not been around Headquarters as long as the blasé Rundell.

  “Gentlemen,” said Howard, “if I may insult that fine word by addressing you as such; gentlemen, when will you members of the press understand that your papers must cooperate with the police? Let us assume that Mr. Rumley was murdered—just assume, mind you, because I’m not saying he actually was—but suppose he has been. You print it in your papers that I said he was killed. What happens when the murderer reads about it?”

  “That’s no riddle,” said Dick. “The bum just hires a criminal lawyer, who puts in a claim for temporary insanity—with his dear old mother telling the judge and the jury that Benny was always such a good boy—after which he gets two or three mistrials, and winds up writing his life story in Bloody Detective Cases Magazine.”

  “Well,” grinned Howard, “you got something there. A detective will risk his life apprehending a killer, and some attorney will get the sweet boy off on six pounds of legal technicalities. But speaking of Mr. Rumley, if the papers publish that Rumley was killed by a hit-and-run driver that will put the possible murderer off guard. In turn, that will give us a chance to do some quiet investigating.”

  “Look,” said Rundell, “you admit that Rumley was banged off, don’t you?”

  “Nope,” said the chief. “I admit nothing because I don’t know anything positively. You must remember that this is a real life case, not the kind you see in the movies or hear on the radio. By the way, Dick, where were you at the time this happened? Even you can be a suspect.”

  “Well,” said Sandy, “goodnight. See you tomorrow, same time, same police station. And when I tune in, I hope the show is more informative.”

  “If you get any information out of him,” sniffed Rundell, “let me know. I’ll dial in, myself.”

  AFTER WE ducked the news-eagles, Howard and me went to the police garage, next door, and drove out to the semi-mansion of Jonathan Rumley, down on Brickell Avenue, near the famous Deering Estate.

  A cross between a butler and a twin to Bob Hope opened the door. Howard flashed his badge, and said, “I’d like to see Mrs. Rumley for a moment.” From the rear came a high contralto female voice, “You may show the gentleman in, Horatio.”

  Come to think of it, this bird looked as if he should be named Horatio. Had it been Mike, I’d have fallen flat on my pan.

  The voice of Mrs. Rumley was quiet, cultured and it would sound swell on Marilyn Monroe. Her first name was Alice, and she appeared to be in her fading forties—though she must have been a pip up to, say, thirty-five. She smiled graciously and waved her right hand for us to be seated.

  “May I presume that you came to talk about my husband?” she said. “Well, frankly, whatever you have to tell me will not surprise me too much.”

  “May I ask when you talked to him last?” asked Howard.

  “First,” she replied, “won’t you tell me what happened?”

  I forgot her cultured voice when I looked into her eyes. They were below zero, calculating and altogether hard. But the dame was a lady, far from the common herd of dolls.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Rumley, but I would appreciate it if you answer a few questions,” said the chief.

  “I’d rather not parry with you,” she said. “I am perfectly aware that you have come to report the death of my husband. Death by murder.”

  I gave this babe a quick look-see. How come she knew her old man was banged out?

  “Madame,” said Howard, “I have not even suggested that Mr. Rumley was killed. Why did you?”

  “Well, wasn’t he?” she replied, adding more ice cubes to her eyes. “And would it interest you to know, Chief Howard, that I am not too much surprised?”

  “Yes, ma’am; I’m afraid it would.” Howard flipped his nail file a few times, then added, “May I ask why you are not surprised?”

  “I believe you will find that out for yourself, and very soon. And now, do you mind telling me where, and how, he was murdered?”

  “Up to this time, I have no positive evidence that Mr. Rumley was killed. Not even circumstantial. I can just tell you that his body was found in the rear of his jacked-up car on the Tamiami Trail, just this side of the city-county line. He could have been trying to fix a blowout or perhaps changing a tire.”

  Madame Rumley smiled like a cat swallowing its third canary. “That,” she said, “is absurd. I can’t imagine Jonathan Rumley fixing anything that would require manual labor. Another thing, he disliked getting his hands dirty; if something happened to his tires I know he would phone for a garage to repair it.”

  “You can’t phone when the nearest phone was more than two miles away. Therefore it is reasonable, under the conditions, that he would attempt to fix the tire himself.”

  “Possible, but highly improbable: No; if Mr. Rumley was found dead, I feel assured that he was murdered.”

  “I assume you have your reasons for believing he was killed. Would you mind telling me what they are?”

  “I’d rather not comment, but I am sure it will all come out in the wash, as they say. And the linen will be very, very dirty. Good evening, gentlemen. The butler will show you to the door.”

  THE RUMLEY and Racine Department Store was the largest in the city, founded by the deceased Rumley’s grandpop, Jonathan Rumley the First. It was kind and considerate to its employees, meaning when you worked there twenty-five years—without croaking—they gave you a nice letter, along with a watch, bought wholesale for at least fifteen bucks. More, the employees were given a special discount of ten percent when they shopped in the joint. The fact that the same stuff could be bought around the corner for nearly half-price rarely occurred to the employees.

  B. Algernon Racine, partner, was three years younger than the late Rumley, and some of the older employees said the ‘B’ stood for ‘Bum.’ Mr. Racine liked women, horses and crap games in that order, but he never permitted the last two to interfere with the first.

  The chief and I got in through the employees entrance one-half hour before the store opened the next morning. Most of them had read the morning Herald’s account of the passing of their beloved employer, and even the chief was astounded to hear that none of them believed it.

  A tall, anemic-looking assistant department manager, named Joe Stanton, said, behind his hand, “Well, he sure asked for it; it’s a mystery to me that they didn’t kill him long before this.”

  “Why?” asked Howard. “Why!” echoed Stanton. “Women, women, women, that’s why. That guy was cracked about dames. I think he was either over-sexed or over-stupid. And I can tell you something else, Mister Racine is almost as bad. I heard they had some rough parties on the penthouse roof, atop of the store. I just happen to know about that little love nest. Why, both
Rumley and Racine used to take some of the pretty store employees up there for tea. Tea—hell!”

  An old gal, working in the ladies lingerie—second floor, rear—with the name of Abagail Gamper—turned up her beak at a 45-degree angle, and informed us, “Now, if you really want to know what I think—”

  “Just the facts, ma’am,” I said. “You can’t get a conviction on thinks.”

  “I think both Mr. Rumley and Mr. Racine were too sporty for their own good,” went on the decayed Marilyn Monroe. “Did you notice that all the prettiest women are working in the business office, where Mr. Rumley and Mr. Racine can see them, right near their private office? And don’t think for a moment that Mrs. Rumley is not wise to it. You know what? I have seen her, with my own two eyes, snooping around once in a while. I would not be surprised if they find that she—well, maybe I am saying too much. So just forget what I said, please.”

  “You mean you think that Mrs. Rumley murdered her own husband?” asked Chief Howard.

  “If she did, she did it the hard way,” I said. “Why in hell should she go way out there on a lonely road to get him, when she has him home every day? I know 57 ways to bump off a husband at home and I hope my old lady don’t know any.”

  Abagail Gamper left us to wait on a customer who was trying to tune in on the conversation.

  We went out to the loading platform, back of the store. The place was crawling with delivery trucks. As we walked slowly down the platform we overheard three drivers holding a platform post mortem on their late boss.

  “I should cry about that guy!” said a big, redheaded driver. “Did he treat his employees square? I’m asking you, did he, the big louse? On Christmas, he and the other louse mails each one of us a form letter, wishing us a very you-know-what, and thanking us suckers, for being so nice to Rumley and Racine. Did any one ever get a check in the letter, for as much as a dime?”