The Screaming Mimi

by Fredric Brown

  “I’ll hold the line,” Sweeney said.

  It was scarcely a minute before the manager’s voice was back. He said, “I’ve got it all here – luckily we keep a separate record on each number. There were – uh – two sold in Chicago. Only two, and both to a place called Raoul’s Gift Shop. Altogether we sold about forty of them – mostly on the East and West Coasts. Want the exact figures?”

  “Thanks, no,” Sweeney said. “What does the SM-1 designation mean, if anything?”

  “The SM part doesn’t; it’s just our serial number, picked in rotation. Our number before that was SL and the one after it was SN. The figure one is the size and finish. If we’d put it out in other sizes and materials, they’d have been SM-2, SM-3, and so on. But we won’t, in this case. Unless, the first time our salesmen carry it, they take orders for several gross, we drop the number from our line and don’t even catalogue it. It wouldn’t pay. And we make only the very popular things in various sizes and styles.”

  “What will you do with the hundred-odd Mimis you have left?”

  “We’ll get rid of them next year, in with mixed lots. If a customer orders, say, a dozen mixed figures, our choice, he gets them about half the usual list price; we get rid of our odd lot and remainders that way. At a loss, of course, to us – but it’s better than throwing them away.”

  “Of course,” Sweeney said. “Do you recall who nicknamed SM-1 the Screaming Mimi?”

  “Our book-keeper; it’s a hobby of his to try to think up names that match the figures and the letter designations – says it helps him remember which is which.” The manager chuckled. “He hits well once in a while. I remember our number SF. He called it Some Fanny, and it was.”

  “I’m tempted to order one,” said Sweeney. “But back to Mimi. Who designed her, or sculptured her, or molded her?”

  “Fellow by the name of Chapman Wilson. Artist and sculptor, lives in Brampton, Wisconsin. He modeled it in clay.”

  “And sent it to you?”

  “No, I bought it from him there, in Brampton. I do the buying myself, make trips several times a year. We’ve got quite a few artists we buy from and it’s much more practical to go to their studios to look over what they have than to have a lot of stuff shipped here and have to ship most of it back. I bought SM-1 from him about a year ago, and two other numbers. I guessed right on the others; they’re selling okay.”

  “This Chapman Wilson – did he model Mimi from life, or what?”

  “Don’t know; didn’t ask him. The original was in clay, same size as our copies, about ten inches. I took a chance on it because it was unusual. Something unusual may go over really big, or it may not sell at all. That’s a chance we take.”

  “Know anything about Chapman Wilson personally?”

  “Not much. He’s rather an eccentric, but then a lot of artists are.”

  “Married?”

  “No. At least, I don’t think so. Didn’t ask him, but I didn’t see a woman around, or any sign of one.”

  “You say he’s eccentric. Could you go as far as psychopathic, maybe?”

  “I don’t think so. He’s a little screwy, but that’s all. Most of his stuff is pretty routine – and sells fairly well.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Sweeney said. “Guess that’s all I need to know. Good-bye.”

  He checked the charges on the call so he could settle with Mrs. Randall and went back to his room.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at the black statuette. His luck had been better than he had hoped – only two Mimis had come to Chicago. He was looking at one of them. And the other – maybe the Ripper was looking at it now.

  The luck of the Irish, Sweeney thought. He’d been working on the case a day and had a lead the cops would give their eye teeth for.

  And besides that, he felt pretty good for the shape he was in. He was even getting mildly hungry; he’d be able to put away a meal today.

  He got up and hung his bathrobe on the hook, stretched luxuriously.

  He felt swell. He grinned at Mimi. He thought, we’re a jump ahead of the cops, Baby, you and I; all we got to do is find your sister.

  The little black statuette screamed soundlessly, and Sweeney’s grin faded. Somewhere in Chicago another Mimi was screaming like that – and with better cause. A madman with a knife owned her. Someone with a twisted mind and a straight razor.

  Someone who wouldn’t want to be found by Sweeney.

  He shook himself a little, mentally, to get rid of that thought, and turned to the mirror over the washbowl. He rubbed a hand over his face. Yes, he’d better shave; he’d be meeting Yolanda late in the afternoon, if Doc Greene was as good as his word. And he had a hunch the agent would be.

  He held out his hand and looked at it; yes, it was steady enough that he could use his straight razor without cutting himself. He picked up the shaving mug from the shelf above the washbowl and ran hot water into it, working up a lather with the brush. He lathered his face carefully and then looked, and reached, for the razor. It wasn’t there, where it should have been lying.

  His hand stayed that way, a few inches above the shelf, frozen like Mimi’s scream, until he made a conscious effort to pull it back.

  He bent forward and looked, very carefully and disbelieving, at the mark in the thin layer of dust, the mark that was just the shape of the razor.

  Carefully he wiped the lather off his face with a wetted towel, and dressed.

  He went downstairs. Mrs. Randall’s door was ajar and she said, “Come on in, Mr. Sweeney.”

  He stood in the doorway. “When did you dust in my room last, Mrs. Randall?”

  “Why – yesterday morning.”

  “Do you remember if–” He was going to ask if she remembered seeing the razor and then realized he didn’t have to ask that. Whether she remembered or not, that fresh spot in the dust was proof that the razor had been there after the dusting. He changed his question. “Was anybody in my room yesterday evening, or yesterday after I left?”

  “Why, no. Not that I know of, anyway. I wasn’t here yesterday evening; I went to a movie. Is something missing?”

  “Not anything valuable,” Sweeney said. “I guess I must have taken it while I was drunk, the last time I was here. Uh – you haven’t been in my room at all since yesterday morning?”

  “No, I haven’t. Are you going out this afternoon? I’ll want to make your bed, and if you’re going to be around anyway, I might as well do it now.”

  “I’ll be leaving in a few minutes. Thanks.” He went back up to his room and closed the door. He struck a match and examined the mark in the dust minutely.

  Yes, there was some dust in the bare patch that was the shape of the closed razor, about half as much as in the surrounding area. Then the razor had been there for a while after the dusting. It must have been taken late yesterday afternoon or yesterday evening.

  He sat down in the Morris chair and tried to remember whether he’d seen the razor at all, either last night when he’d come home with Mimi or earlier in the day when he’d been in his room to change clothes. He couldn’t remember seeing it. He hadn’t looked for it, of course; he’d shaved at Goetz’s room, with Goetz’s electric razor.

  Was anything else missing? He went over to the dresser and opened the top drawer in which he kept small miscellaneous items.

  The contents looked intact until he remembered that there’d been a two-bladed penknife in the drawer.

  It wasn’t there now.

  Nothing else was missing. There was a pair of gold cufflinks in the. drawer, in plain sight, that was worth three or four times what the penknife was worth. And a stickpin with a zircon in it that a thief or burglar could not have been sure wasn’t a diamond. But only a knife had been taken from the drawer. And only a razor from elsewhere in the room.

  He looked at Mimi, and he knew how she felt.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The shining razor hovered above Sweeney’s throat. It descended under his chin and scrape
d gently upward, taking away lather and stubble, leaving a clean, smooth swath. It rose again.

  “Take this Ripper business,” said the barber. He wiped the razor on a piece of tissue and poised it again. “It’s got the whole damn town jittery. It got me pinched last night.” Sweeney grunted interrogatively.

  “Carrying a razor. I keep my good hone – I got a Swatty – at home because somebody’d walk off with it around this joint. So every once in a while I take a razor home, never thought anything of it. Put it in the breast pocket of my suit coat and the top of it shows and damn if a harness bull didn’t stop me right on the street and get tough. I was lucky to be able to show identification I was a barber or he’d have run me in. Pretty near did anyway. Said for all anybody knew, the Ripper’s a barber, too. But he ain’t.” The razor scraped. “How do you know?” Sweeney asked.

  “Throats. A barber that went nuts would cut throats with it. All day long people lay stretched out in front of him with their throats bare and their chins thrown back and he just can’t help thinking how easy it’d be and how – uh – you know what I mean.”

  Sweeney said, “You got something there. You don’t feel like cutting one today, I hope.”

  “Nope, not today.” The barber grinned. “But once in a while – well, your mind does screwy things.”

  “So does yours,” Sweeney said.

  The razor scraped.

  “One of the three dames he killed,” said the barber, “used to work a block from here. Tavern down on the next corner.”

  “I know,” Sweeney said. “I’m on my way there. Did you know the girl?”

  “I seen her in there, enough to place her when I saw her picture in the paper. But I don’t go in B-joints very often, not with the money I make. You get taken before you know it for five or ten bucks in percentage drinks, and what have you got. Not that I won’t put out five or ten bucks if I get something for my money besides a little conversation. Me, I get enough conversation all day long. The whacks that sit in that chair!”

  He put a steaming towel over Sweeney’s face and patted it down. He said, “Anyway, I figure the Ripper uses a knife instead of a razor. You could use a razor like that, sure, but I figure it’d be too awkward to hold for a long hard slash across the guts like he uses. You’d have to tape the handle to get a good grip on it, and then it’d be awkward to carry, taped open. And it’d be a dead giveaway if anybody saw it. I figure he’d use a pocketknife, one small enough he could carry it legally. A pre-war imported one with real steel in it, so he could have one of the blades honed down to a razor edge. Haircut?”

  “No,” said Sweeney.

  “What do you figure he uses? A knife or a razor?”

  “Yes,” said Sweeney, getting up out of the chair. “What do I owe you?”

  He paid, and went out into the hot August sunlight.

  He walked a block west to the address that had been given in the newspaper.

  The place had a flashy front. Neon tubes, writhing red in the sun’s glare, proclaimed that this was Susie’s Cue.

  Hexagonal windows were curtained off to block the view within, but held chaste photographs of unchaste morsels of femininity. You could see in, if you tried, through a diamond-shaped glass in the door.

  But Sweeney didn’t try; he pushed the door open and went in.

  It was cool and dim inside. It was empty of customers. A bartender lounged behind the bar and two girls, one in a bright red dress and the other in white with gold sequins, sat on stools together at the far end of the bar. There were no drinks in front of them. All three looked toward Sweeney as he entered.

  He picked a stool in about the middle of the row and put a five-dollar bill on the mahogany. The bartender came over and one of the girls – the one in red – was getting off her stool. The bartender beat her there and Sweeney had time to ask for a rye and seltzer before the girl, now on the stool beside him, said “Hello.”

  “Hello,” Sweeney said. “Lonesome?”

  “That’s my line; I’m supposed to ask that. You’ll buy me a drink, won’t you?”

  Sweeney nodded. The bartender was already pouring it. He moved away to give them privacy. The girl in the red dress smiled brightly at Sweeney. She said, “I’m awfully glad you came in. It’s been dead as a doornail in this joint ever since I got here an hour ago. Anyway you don’t look like a jerk like most of the guys come in here. How’d you like to sit over in one of the booths? My name’s Tess, so now we’re introduced. Let’s move over to one of the booths, huh, and Joe’ll bring us–”

  “Did you know Stella Gaylord?”

  Stopped in mid-sentence, she stared at him. She asked, “You aren’t another shamus, are you? This place was lousy with ‘em, right after what happened to Stella.”

  “You did know her, then,” said Sweeney. “Good. No, I’m not a shamus. I’m a newspaperman.”

  “Oh. One of those. May I have another drink, please?”

  Sweeney nodded, and the bartender, who hadn’t gone far, came up to pour it.

  “Tell me about Stella.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Everything you know. Pretend I never heard of her. For all practical purposes, I haven’t. I didn’t work on the case. I was on vacation when it happened.”

  “Oh. But you’re working on it now?”

  Sweeney sighed. He’d have to satisfy her curiosity before he could satisfy his own. He said, “Not for the paper. I’m going to write it up for a fact detective magazine. Not just Stella Gaylord, but the whole Ripper business. As soon as the case is cracked, that is. The true detective mags don’t buy unsolved cases. But I’ll have to be ready to write it up quick, once the thing breaks.”

  “Oh. They pay pretty well for something like that, don’t they? What’s in it for me?”

  “A drink,” said Sweeney, motioning to the bartender.

  “Listen, sister, I’ll be talking to about fifty people who knew Stella Gaylord and Dorothy Lee and Lola Brent, and to coppers who worked on it, and to other reporters. Wouldn’t I be in a beautiful spot if I gave everybody a slice of it? Even if the case does break and I do sell the story, I’d come out behind, see?”

  She grinned. “It never hurts to try.”

  “That it doesn’t. And, incidentally, I will split with you if you can crack the case so I can sell it. You don’t happen to know who killed her, do you?”

  Her face hardened. “Mister, if I knew that, the cops would know it. Stella was a good kid.”

  “Tell me about her. Anything. How old she was, where she came from, what she wanted, what she looked like – anything.”

  “I don’t know how old she was. Somewhere around thirty, I guess. She came from Des Moines, about five years ago, I think she told me once. I knew her only about a month.”

  “Was that when you started here, or when she did?”

  “When I did. She’d been here a couple of months already. I was over on Halsted before that. It was a worse joint than this, for looks, but I made better dough. There was always trouble there, though, and God, how I hate trouble. I get along with people, if they get along with me. I never start–”

  “About Stella,” said Sweeney. “What did she look like? I saw the newspaper picture, but it wasn’t very good.”

  “I know. I saw it. Stella was kind of pretty. She had a beautiful figure, anyway; she tried to get into modeling once, but you got to have contacts. She was about thirty; her hair was kind of a darkish blonde. She ought to’ve hennaed it, but she wouldn’t. Blue eyes. About five-five or so.”

  “What was she, inside?” Sweeney asked. “What was she trying to do?”

  The red dress shrugged. “What are any of us trying to do? Get along, I guess. How’d I know what she was like inside? How’d anybody know? That’s a funny question for you to ask. How’s about another drink?”

  “Okay,” said Sweeney. “Were you working here with her the night she was killed?”

  “Yeah. I told the cops what I knew about that.”
>
  “Tell me, too.”

  “She made an after-date. After two, that is; we closed at two. It was with a guy that was in around ten or eleven o’clock and talked to her for half an hour or so. I never saw him before, and he hasn’t been in since.”

  “Did he pick her up at two?”

  “She was going to meet him somewhere. His hotel, I guess.” She turned and looked at Sweeney. “We don’t do that with anybody. But sometimes, if we like a guy – well, why not?”

  “Why not?” Sweeney said. “And you girls don’t make much at this percentage racket, do you?”

  “Not enough to dress the way we got to dress. And everything. This ain’t a nice racket, but there are worse ones.

  At least we can pick which men we want to go out with, and we get ten or twenty propositions a day.” She grinned at him impudently. “Not often this early, though. Yours will be the first today, when you get around to it.”

  “If I get around to it,” Sweeney said. “What do you remember about the guy she was going to meet?”

  “Practically nothing because I didn’t notice him. After he went out, Stella came back to me – I was sitting alone just then for a few minutes – and mentioned she was meeting him after two and what did I think of the guy. Well, I’d just glanced at him sitting there with her before and all I remembered was that he was pretty ordinary looking. I think he had on a gray suit. He wasn’t specially old or young, or tall or short or fat or anything or I’d probably have remembered. I don’t think I’d know him again if I saw him.”

  “He didn’t have a round face and wear thick glasses, did he?”

  “Not that I remember. I wouldn’t swear he didn’t. And I’ll save you one thing; nobody else around here noticed him or has any better idea. That’s one thing the coppers dogged everybody about. No use asking George, behind the bar, or Emmy – that’s the girl in the white dress. They were both here that night, but they didn’t remember as much about it as I did.”

  “Did Stella have any enemies?”

  “No. She was a nice kid. Even us girls who worked with her liked her, and mister, that’s something. And to beat your next question, no, she didn’t have any serious men friends and she didn’t live with anybody. I don’t mean she never packed an overnight bag, but I mean living with anybody, serious.”