There was a traffic cop talking to a driver at the side of the road. The traffic cop turned his head at the braying of horns but without interest. The driver he had pulled over looked, too, but without much interest in the problems of others. Georgie looked at them and laughed softly.
“Get out of that one, fool.”
Another thing about Georgie was that he hated major roads. Once out of the city, he always headed for the country roads, where he said he could breathe a little without having some bastard in a semi trying to climb into the back seat. Frank didn’t mind that. To be truthful, he was always a little nervous when being driven. And Georgie wasn’t a talking driver like some others. He sat grimly in his seat, his vast stomach pressing against the wheel, and concentrated on the road with a fierce unblinking stare.
Frank felt the need to talk. About something. Maybe it was the guilt coming out. He wasn’t breaking bread with Georgie, but he was being driven by him in his Lexus, and that made him feel guilty. Normally he didn’t. But here he did. There you go. And he felt the need to make conversation.
He said, “These Greeks going to be a problem?”
Georgie said, “Problem, what problem? We brace ’em, we take a look around in the safe, see what they been taking off the top. Then we see what the options are.”
Frank nodded. There was a river up there. With a river you always had options.
“ ’Course, they could always start something silly,” said Georgie. “That case, it’s simple.”
He lapsed into a silence. “Simple,” he said half to himself.
After a couple of hours driving they were up in the forested country, running down a two-lane road, with pine forests on both sides.
Georgie slowed down. There was a muddy track cut into the forest on the right, a logging road, or something like that. Georgie pulled over onto the muddy entry.
“Gotta take a leak,” he said. “You should do likewise.”
He got out of the car and trotted into the trees. Frank sat for a moment. Then he pulled out the Glock which had been giving him trouble since they started and flipped open the glove compartment. Georgie’s .45 was in there; he put the Glock in with it, and closed the lid.
He got out of the car and followed Georgie into the trees. There was a little snow, but it didn’t look like it was going to settle. The pines or spruces or whatever they were, were thick here, but he could see Georgie up ahead in a little clearing sort of, with his back to Frank, and with little wisps of steam rising around him.
Frank stopped a little short of Georgie, and turned away to open his fly. He peed and then fastened his trousers. When he turned towards Georgie, Georgie was facing him with a gun in his hand. It wasn’t the .45, that was back in the car. This was a smaller gun, a revolver, probably a .38, Frank thought idly. Georgie’s backup.
“Okay,” said Georgie, “this is where it stops.”
“Look, Georgie,” said Frank, looking for words, looking for ideas. What was this about? “Look, Georgie.” But Georgie wasn’t in the mood, Frank could see that and he backed away a little to try and put a bit more space between him and that .38 or whatever it was. He stepped on a small log which rolled beneath his foot and suddenly he was off balance and falling. Georgie fired. The shot was a flat clap of sound among all those trees, and Frank heard a chunk of wood come flying off one of them. He was clawing in his pocket for the Browning; it came out, a miracle, with no snagging. Georgie fired again. This time it was a better shot and a branch next to Frank jumped a foot in the air.
Frank said, “No.” Not knowing why he was saying that, no to Georgie, no to the .38, no to getting shot. He pointed the Browning at Georgie and fired. The bullet took Georgie full in the middle of the chest. Georgie sighed and turned with a tired look on his face. The .38 went off one last time, the bullet going nowhere, aimlessly. Then he knelt and fell over onto his right side.
Frank waited. There was no sound in the forest. The snow was falling more heavily now, but, filtered through the trees, was still hardly more than individual flakes. Frank got to his feet. He was breathing as though he had run five miles. He walked over to Georgie with the Browning aimed at the fat man’s body. He kicked the .38 away from Georgie’s hand. Then he sat down on a nearby log, and looked at Georgie.
“Well, Georgie,” he said, “this is a mess.”
Georgie didn’t say anything. His face was half buried in dead leaves, his eyes staring at something just in front of his face.
Frank thought for a bit, taking his time. There was no one about. He couldn’t even hear traffic on the road. But that wasn’t going to last. There would be people, forestry people working here, people passing on the road, and a Lexus sitting there with no one in it invited questions.
He wondered if Georgie had a shovel in the car, but decided Georgie wasn’t one to go dirtying up his nice new Lexus with shovels and such.
He got to his feet, feeling about a hundred years old. He stared around him. Over to his right there was a sort of hollow, or appeared to be. He got a grip on Georgie’s overcoat collar and started to pull him across. Georgie weighed a ton; by the time Frank reached the hollow, he was sweating like a pig. The hollow was in fact a steep dip in the ground; Frank laid Georgie on the lip of the depression and let him roll down to the bottom. There was an old tree trunk, rotted away inside, poised on the lip. He pushed it experimentally with his foot. It rocked a little and then stopped. He pushed it harder, and this time it swiveled suddenly, catching him by surprise so he had to leap back, then it slowly trundled over the edge and down into the hollow, coming to rest on Georgie as if it had been made for it.
Frank went back to where Georgie had fired at him. He found the .38 lying among the leaves. He wiped it with the tail of his coat, then pushed it barrel first into the earth and stamped it well down. He took out the Browning and wiped that, too, then hurled it into the trees as hard as he could. Okay, let them sort it out for themselves when the proverbial man walking his dog came across the body. He turned away and walked through the trees and the thickening snow to the Lexus.
He walked round the front and climbed into Georgie’s seat. Incredibly, it was still warm from Georgie’s body. He started the motor and did a U-turn. There was no point in going on with this. The only thing to do was to get back to town, two hours say, dump the Lexus, then ring Those People, say, “I don’t want to cause no trouble, but I’m sitting here waiting for Georgie; we were supposed to go up north today.”
That was the thing to do, and the other thing to do was not to call Donna. Let it lie for a couple of days. But keep calling Those People to ask where’s Georgie, I haven’t seen him for a bit, is he okay?
That was the thing to do. Yet another thing not to do was to ask himself if Georgie had been told to kill him. Had he done something to annoy someone? Possible. There were some nervy, unpredictable people around. But he almost never came into contact with them. Georgie was his boss, his cut-out. So what was it?
He’d found out about Donna and him. Was that it? A possibility. But he would have made some sort of noise before this. And why wait until they were in the middle of nowhere? That wasn’t Georgie’s style. Georgie didn’t care. He’d shoot someone in the middle of the city if he felt like it. He could have walked up to Frank’s place this morning, shot him there, no problem. No, that didn’t feel right. There was something else here, something he didn’t know about. Well, he’d have to find out. There were ways.
The snow was coming down thicker now. It was about midday, but he seemed to have been on the road for days. He switched on the sidelights.
And it must have been that that caused the police car to approach him from behind and flash its headlights and give him a yelp from the siren. He swore. This he didn’t need. He pulled over onto a gravel patch and waited. The first cop came alongside the driver’s window. Frank pressed the button and rolled the window down.
“Good morning, sir,” the policeman said. He was young and fresh faced, he looked
like he could have been just out of training college. “Did you know that one of your taillights is out?”
“Really?” Frank kept his tone light with no irritation. He got out of the car.
“Is this your vehicle, sir?”
“No, it belongs to a friend. I’m taking it back to town for him. He got held up, up north,” Frank said. Well, it was all true except for the bit about Georgie being a friend.
“Can you bring the car registration with you, please, sir?” said the cop.
Frank reached across to the glove compartment. He opened it and felt inside for the car documents. Then he closed the glove box again. If they wanted to search the car, that would mean he was in trouble anyway.
He got out of the Lexus and walked back to where the two policemen were standing looking at the rear of the car.
“It’s the near side,” said one, pointing. Frank looked. Sure enough, dammit, the taillight was out.
The second policeman was looking with interest at the bodywork.
“Looks like you’ve had mice here,” he said. Frank went and looked. There was a neat small hole in the bodywork just there where it housed the taillights.
“Looks more like someone took a shot at you,” the first one said.
The second policeman said, “You mind opening up, sir?”
Frank said, “No.” He went and took the keys from the ignition. Then he went back and put the key in the trunk lid. Then he opened it.
“Jesus Christ,” said the first policeman.
After that, Frank knew a number of things. He knew that Georgie did carry a shovel. It was right there next to Donna. He also knew where that last stray shot of Georgie’s had gone. It had gone through the sidelight’s wiring and had ended up in Donna’s forehead, though there wasn’t much blood because it hadn’t killed her. What had killed her was the yellow tie that was around her throat, embedded really deep in the flesh, but not so deep you couldn’t see the large stain where Frank had bled onto it. The yellow tie that poor, brainless Donna had sneaked out of the linen basket in his bathroom because she wanted to show how she could look after him. And Georgie had known exactly how many ties he owned and what color.
“You said this vehicle belongs to a friend,” said the first policeman.
They were flanking him now, one on each side.
“That’s right,” he said. “Check the registration. George Wentzell.”
“Any idea about where we can find Mr. Wentzell?” the second policeman asked, almost casually.
The final thing, Frank thought while they were putting the cuffs on him, was that now he knew why it was called a catchphrase.
Get out of this one, Georgie whispered in his ear.
Copyright © 2010 Neil Schofield
Previous Article MYSTERY CLASSIC
MYSTERY CLASSIC
SELECTED AND INTRODUCED BY STEVE RITCHIE
Cardula and the Mystery Writer Jack Ritchie became interested in mystery fiction during World War II when he was stationed on Kwajalein Atoll in the Marshall Islands. Years later he would explain that after having read everything else available on the island, boredom forced him to turn to the small...
THE CARDULA DETECTIVE AGENCY
JACK RITCHIE
I yawned, rubbed the stubble of my beard, and reflected once again what a boring and basically awkward process it was for me to shave myself every evening. Janos—my man—had done the task for me until two months ago, when I had had to let him go. I simply could not afford to feed him any longer. I...
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FICTION DEPARTMENT
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MYSTERY CLASSIC
SELECTED AND INTRODUCED BY STEVE RITCHIE
Cardula and the Mystery Writer
Jack Ritchie became interested in mystery fiction during World War II when he was stationed on Kwajalein Atoll in the Marshall Islands. Years later he would explain that after having read everything else available on the island, boredom forced him to turn to the small collection of mystery novels in the company’s paperback library. To his surprise, and to our benefit, he found that he liked them.
So when in the 1950s he decided to try his hand at being an author, he naturally wrote mysteries. However, he didn’t limit himself to them—he wrote in every genre he could manage. His stories from that period range from crime and mystery, sports, and westerns to science fiction, fantasy, and even some romance.
Though the subject matter of his stories from that time covers a wide range, they are nonetheless filled with the deft use of language, twists of logic, and economy with words that would later come to define his style. His newspaper romances in particular are mostly humorous wordplay, with very little actual romance.
Having been a boxer in college, he also wrote a number of stories set in the boxing ring. Eventually, he combined boxing with a supernatural theme in a story about a mysterious boxer who never ate, was incredibly strong, and would only fight at night.
That story, “Kid Cardula,” was published in AHMM in June, 1976. Later this character would return as a detective and become Jack Ritchie’s second series, coming a few years after the start of his Sherlockian Ralph and Henry stories. Altogether he would write nine Cardula stories, and a few others featuring an unnamed vampire.
One notable element in the series is that Jack Ritchie never tells us what Cardula is, even though his unique condition is essential to solving the mystery. The oblique references to vampiric powers and limitations become a conspiratorial wink between the author and the reader. A “poor night for flying” is a common and factual statement, but when it is used in the context of merely traveling across town . . .
This game with the reader reached its peak in Dial an Alibi when he actually included his home telephone number in the story, just to see if anyone would call. He was betting no one would, though, since whenever we do see a phone number in a story we naturally assume that it couldn’t possibly be legitimate.
And that’s one of the great aspects of a Jack Ritchie story: None of your assumptions are safe.
So with that in mind, let us continue on to the shadowy world of Cardula.
Copyright © 2010 Steve Ritchie
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MYSTERY CLASSIC
THE CARDULA DETECTIVE AGENCY
JACK RITCHIE
I yawned, rubbed the stubble of my beard, and reflected once again what a boring and basically awkward process it was for me to shave myself every evening. Janos—my man—had done the task for me until two months ago, when I had had to let him go. I simply could not afford to feed him any longer.
I climbed out of bed and went to the dark windows. It was raining heavily. Certainly no weather for flying.
I plugged in my electric razor and went to work. I was becoming a bit more skilled at the job. Actually, of course, putting a straight part in my hair was much more difficult. When I finished shaving, I slipped out of my pajamas and showered.
I moved on to the closet and surveyed my two remaining suits. Top quality, certainly, but both had seen better days. I sincerely hoped that some night soon I might replenish my wardrobe with something new, possibly even other than black.
I finished dressing and donned my black raincoat. I checked to make certain that I carried my tobacco pouch. There was no telling where circumstances might force me to spend the day.
Outside my apartment building, I raised my umbrella and began walking toward my office, slightly more than a mile away.
The rain slackened to a light drizzle as I proceeded down Wisconsin Avenue, crossed the bridge, and turned into the alley shortcut I usually take when I find it necessary to walk.
I had almost reached the opposite street—East Wells—when someone leaped upon me from behind, hooking his arm under my chin.
Clearly I was being mugged.
I reached back, grasped his collar, and flipped him head over heels some twenty feet into the side of a brick wall, from which poi
nt he dropped to the alley surface and remained still.
But apparently he was not alone. Another and larger figure sprang from a building recess and threw an overhand right which caught me squarely on the jaw. I distinctly heard several phalanges of his fist fracture and he yelped with surprise at the injury.
I then lifted him high overhead and sent him crashing across the alley to join his inert companion.
I brushed off my raincoat, picked up my umbrella, and continued on to my office. Really, I thought, this was outrageous. It was no longer safe for an innocent pedestrian to walk the streets or alleys at night.
When I reached my office, I found a young woman, probably in her late twenties, waiting at my office door.
She seemed a bit startled when she first saw me, but then most people are. She looked at the keys in my hand. “Do you work for the Cardula Detective Agency?”
I smiled sparingly. “I am the Cardula Detective Agency.” I unlocked the door and we entered my one-room office.
She sat down, produced a silver case, and offered me a cigarette.
“No, thank you,” I said. “I don’t smoke.”
She lit her cigarette. “My name is Olivia Hampton. I phoned about an hour ago. A recording said your office hours are from eight P.M. to four A.M.”
I nodded. “They vary according to the solstices.”
“It’s my Uncle Hector,” she said. “Someone shot at him while he was dressing for dinner. The bullet went through his bedroom window and missed him by inches.”
“Hm,” I said thoughtfully. “Since you came to me, I gather that you did not go to the police.”
“We regard the incident as a family matter. All of the logical suspects are relatives. Except for Uncle Custis Clay Finnegan. I mean, he’s a relative but not one of the suspects because he has millions of his own.”
“Why does anyone want your Uncle Hector dead?”
“Because he’s going to change his will tomorrow morning when he sees his lawyer. He called us into his study and told us that he was cutting all of us out of his will.”
Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine 03/01/11 Page 13