Nick: “Never mind—but Mr. and Mrs. Charles aren’t going anywhere but home—to sleep. Think you’ll be able to fish Mrs. Landis’s gun up from where David threw it?”
Abrams: “I guess so. Anyway, the boys are down there working now.” He pauses. “And when we get that, then we’ll know. It will only take a few minutes to go over to that apartment house.”
Nick: “Call me later. We’ve been on a train for three days and look what kind of a night we’ve had.”
Abrams: “All right—I could use a little sleep myself but I’ve got to talk to Mrs. Landis and got to stop at the bank and see about that check.”
Harold pulls over to the curb and Abrams gets out. Nora almost falls out after him as he withdraws his support. Abrams helps Nick put her back on the seat and, placing her head on his shoulder, Nick nods goodbye to Abrams, who waves to him as they drive off.
NICK AND NORA IN THEIR CAR GOING HOME
She is sleeping on his shoulder. With his free hand he unties his necktie and takes off his collar. When he twists around a little to unbutton his shirt in back, Nora wakes up and asks:
Nora: “What are you doing?”
Nick: “I’m getting as few clothes as possible between me and bed.”
Nora: “That’s cheating.” She begins to loosen her clothes. They arrive at the house. As they go up the front steps, Nora: “Last one in bed is a sissy!” They run into the house pulling off clothes.
From the living room to meet them come Asta and the reporters that they left at the Hall of Justice, the reporters asking questions: “Do the police suspect Mrs. Landis?” “What connections did Pedro Dominges have with the Landis killing?” etc., etc.
Nick insists he knows nothing about it and has nothing to say as they go back into the living room, winding up with:
“I’m going to give you boys one drink apiece and then put you out.”
One of the reporters asks: “Well, answer another question for us and we won’t print it if you don’t want us to. Is it true that you actually didn’t retire as a detective but are working undercover?”
Nick, starting to pour drinks: “No, it’s not true, but don’t print it, because I don’t want my wife’s relatives to know I’m living on her money.”
A stone with a piece of paper wrapped around it crashes through the glass of the window and knocks the bottle out of his hand. Asta joyfully grabs the stone and runs under a sofa with it, and starts to chew the paper off while Nick and the reporters scramble after him. By the time Nick recovers the stone with the paper, the note has been pretty well chewed up. He spreads it out, glances at it, and puts it in his pocket before the reporters, who are crowding around him, can read it.
Nick: “Silly little woman. I told her to stop writing me.”
The reporters, failing to get anything else out of Nick, rush out to see if they can find out who threw the stone. Nick smoothes the note out and he and Nora, patching it as well as they can where Asta’s teeth have torn it, read it. It is crudely printed:
MR. CHARLS PHIL BYRNES ALIAS RALPH WEST
IS A EX CON AND WAS MARRIED TO POLLY IN
TOPEKER THREE YERS AGO. HE LIVES AT THE MIL
The rest of the note has been chewed off by Asta.
Nick, indifferently: “Well, what are we supposed to do, send them an anniversary present?”
Nora: “Nick, phone Lieutenant Abrams!”
Nick: “And have him up here to keep us awake some more?”
Nora insists: “Phone him, Nick. Don’t you see, if Phil was her husband . . .”
Nick grumbles: “I guess you’re right,” and goes out of the room.
Nora plays with Asta for a minute or two and then goes to the door of the next room, where the phone is. Not seeing Nick, she calls him. There is no answer. After a little hesitancy, she goes up to the bedroom. Nick, in pajamas, is asleep. On her pillow is a sign: SISSY.
AUNT KATHERINE AT TELEPHONE AT HER HOME
Dr. Kammer is sitting in a chair nearby. She calls a number and asks: “Mr. Moody. This is Miss Forrest calling.”
STRING OF SHORT SHOTS
Printing press running off extras with enormous headlines about “MEMBER OF PROMINENT FAMILY KILLED.”
Editorial Room of newspaper office—men being assigned to cover this story.
Then up to Publisher’s Office, where Peter Moody, a very dignified old man with a grave and courteous manner, is picking up the phone, saying: “Yes, Katherine, how are you? I’m awfully sorry to hear about Robert’s death.”
Aunt Katherine: “Thank you, Peter. It’s terrible and that’s what I called you about. The police, it seems, are trying to make a great deal of mystery out of what must have been—it couldn’t have been anything else—simply an attempted holdup. I hope I can count on you to do your best to give the whole terrible affair no more publicity than is absolutely necessary.”
Peter Moody: “Of course, of course, Katherine. But you must understand that if the police make it news we must print it.”
Aunt Katherine: “I understand, but you will handle it as quietly as possible?”
Moody: “Certainly, I can promise you that. And will you please convey my sympathy to poor Selma.”
Aunt Katherine: “Thank you, Peter.”
As Peter Moody puts down the phone, a man comes into the office bringing an early copy of the extra that had been run off with the enormous headlines seen in the previous shot.
Moody looks at it and nods with approval, saying: “Very good.”
Aunt Katherine phones her brother, the General, who is having his whiskers trimmed by a valet almost as old as he is. The valet hands him the phone, saying: “Miss Forrest, sir.”
The General hems and haws between his words a good deal: “It’s terrible, Katherine—I just heard—I’m on my way over.”
Aunt Katherine: “Yes, terrible, Thomas, and I want to see you—but first will you see if you can get in touch with the mayor?”
General: “The mayor?” He clears his throat some more.
Aunt Katherine: “Yes. I’m sure poor Robert was killed by a robber but the police seem determined to make as big a mystery out of it with as much resultant notoriety for all of us as possible. I wish you would ask him to do what he can.”
General: “Certainly, my dear,” clearing his throat again, “I shall look after it immediately.”
As Katherine hangs up, he gives the valet the phone, saying: “Get me the mayor” in the tone one says: “Get me the newspaper.”
As Aunt Katherine turns from the phone toward Dr. Kammer, the butler appears at the door to announce Lieutenant Abrams.
Several hours later the General arrives at Nick’s house. He hands his hat to the Butler, who opens the door and says: “Take me to Mr. Charles immediately.”
Butler: “But he’s still asleep, sir.”
The General snorts, saying: “Yes, yes, so you said when Miss Forrest phoned. Devilish inconsiderate of all of you.”
The Butler says apologetically: “But we never disturb him when he’s asleep, sir.”
The General snorts some more: “You said that over the phone, too. Now stop this silly nonsense and take me to him.”
The butler, overawed by the General, takes him up to Nick and Nora’s room. They are sleeping soundly. The General prods one of Nora’s shoulders with his fingers and says: “Here, here, wake up.”
Nora stirs a little and mumbles something but doesn’t open her eyes.
The General prods her again, saying: “Come—this is no time to be sleeping. Devilish inconsiderate of all of you.”
This time Nora opens her eyes and stares up at him in amazement.
General: “Wake up your young man, my dear. Why doesn’t the fellow sleep at night?”
Nora asks: “But what’s the matter, Uncle Thomas?”
General: “Matter? We’ve been trying to get you for hours. Wake him up.”
Nora shakes Nick, who says without opening his eyes: “Go away, Porter, I told you
not to call me till Sacramento.”
Nora: “Wake up, Nick, Uncle Thomas wants to talk to you.”
Nick: “Tell the white-whiskered old fossil to do his snorting in somebody else’s ear—I’m busy.”
Nora: “But Nick, he’s here, standing beside you.”
Nick sits up blinking and says: “Why, Uncle Thomas, how nice of you to drop in on us like this.”
General: “Come—enough of this nonsense. Selma has been arrested and you lie here snoring.”
Nora looks horrified.
The General snorts some more: “The mayor did nothing to stop it—the bounder.”
Nick: “Maybe he didn’t know.”
The General asks: “Didn’t know what?”
Nick: “That I was snoring.”
General: “Come, get up. You know about these things—Katherine is counting on you.”
Nick, putting on his robe and slippers, says: “You don’t need me now, you need a lawyer.”
The General says contemptuously: “A lawyer—old Witherington is running around in circles, completely at sea; no ability at all—that fellow.”
Nick: “Then why don’t you get another lawyer?”
The General draws himself up: “Witherington has been our family attorney for years.”
Nick: “Well, what do you expect me to do?”
General: “To make the police stop being so silly—to get Selma out of there right away—to put an end to all this beastly notoriety.”
Nick asks: “Is that all?”
General: “Come—we’re wasting time—get into your clothes.”
In a barely furnished office in the Hall of Justice, Nick is talking to Abrams.
Abrams: “I know how you feel about it, Mr. Charles. I guess I’d feel the same way if it were one of my family; but what can we do? Everything points to her.”
Nick asks: “You mean you found out some things I don’t know about?”
Abrams: “Well, not much maybe, but there’s that check thing.”
Nick asks: “What check thing?”
Abrams: “Maybe the district attorney isn’t going to like this much, but I’ll tell you: I went down to Landis’s bank and that $10,000 check he gave the girl is perfectly okay. It was okay because his wife had put $10,000 in there for him just the day before.”
Nick looks surprised. He asks: “Are you sure?”
Abrams: “Sure, I’m sure. I saw it myself.”
Nick: “Did you ask her about it?”
Abrams replies wearily: “Yes, and there’s some kind of hanky-panky there, too, but I can’t figure out just what it is. She started to say she didn’t and then the old lady, Miss Katherine”—he breaks off to add— “that one’s a holy terror—”
Nick: “Make two copies of that.”
Abrams: “—she spoke up and said: ‘You did, Selma, you told me so yourself,’ and then Mrs. Landis said yes, she did.”
Nick asks: “So where does that fit in?”
Abrams: “So maybe she gave it to him and found out he was passing it on to the girl—how do I know? Every time I tried to pin her down she gets hysterical.”
Nick asks: “Find out anything else at the bank?”
Abrams: “No. He had given the Byrnes gal a check for $100 and one for $75 like she told us.” He takes the checks out of a desk drawer saying: “Here, if you want to see them.”
Nick looks at them and asks: “Have you got the $10,000 check he gave her?”
Abrams: “Yes.” He gives it to him.
Nick stands up, tilting back a light-shade, holds one of the small checks with the $10,000 check over it up against the light and tries the big check with the other small one. Abrams stands up to look over his shoulder. Nick fiddles with the checks until the signature of the top one is exactly over the bottom one.
Abrams exclaims: “A forgery!”
Nick nods, saying: “Yes, a tracing. Nobody ever writes that much the same twice.”
Abrams picks up the telephone and says: “Give me Joe,” then says: “Joe, go out and pick up that Polly Byrnes for me.” When he puts down the phone, Nick asks: “You aren’t holding any of them?”
Abrams shakes his head and says: “No. The guns we got from the Chinaman and Dancer are .38s all right like he was killed with, but the experts say they are not the guns that did it. I’m still not sure this forgery is going to help Mrs. Landis much. I already told you I knew there was some hanky-panky about those checks.”
Nick asks: “You haven’t found her gun yet?”
Abrams: “I got a couple of men in diving suits working over the bottom down around where David Graham threw it. But it was night, you know, and we can’t be too sure of the exact spot.”
Nick: “And you think you are going to convict her if you don’t find the gun?”
Abrams: “Maybe I do and maybe I don’t. It’s what the district attorney thinks.”
Nick: “Does he think she killed Pedro Dominges?”
Abrams: “That’s not funny, Mr. Charles. Her alibi covering that time is just no good at all. She claims a cigarette case had been mailed to her from the Li-Chee and she sent it back saying it wasn’t hers; but she thinks it belongs to some woman who was there with Robert, so that afternoon when she’s kind of nuts over him not being home for a couple of days, she goes down there to see if she can find out about him. Of course that joint don’t open till evening and so she didn’t see anybody that could tell us she was there. She says she went back home again and that just about covers the time that Dominges was being killed. On the level, Mr. Charles, we had nobody else but her that we could hold.”
Nick: “Found your Selma Young yet?”
Abrams: “No.”
Nick: “How about Phil?”
Abrams: “Sure, maybe, if we can find him.”
Nick takes out the note that was thrown through the window, gives it to Abrams.
Abrams reads it carefully, then asks: “And where did this come from?”
Nick: “Somebody wrapped it around a dornick and heaved it through my window.”
Abrams asks: “Where’s the rest of it?”
Nick: “Somewhere in my dog’s intestines.”
Abrams reads slowly: “—lives at the Mil—”
Nick pushes the telephone book over to him and says: “Maybe that won’t be so tough. Polly said he lived in a hotel on Turk Street.”
Abrams: “That’s right,” and opens the telephone book to the hotel classification and runs his finger down the Mi’s, finally coming to the Miltern Hotel, ______ Turk Street.
Abrams: “That could be it—want to give it a try with me?”
Nick: “Right!” They get up. As they go toward the door, Nick says: “You noticed that whoever wrote the note misspelled easy words like my name and years, but did all right with ‘alias’ and ‘married’?”
Abrams: “Yeah, I noticed.”
EXTERIOR OF MILTERN HOTEL
A small, shabby, dirty joint with a door between two stores, and stairs leading up to an office on the second floor. Abrams, Nick, and two other detectives get out of a car, which draws up with no sound of sirens. One of the men remains at the outer door. Nick, Abrams, and the other detective start up the stairs. They go up to a small and dark office. Nobody is there. Abrams knocks on the battered counter. After a little while, a man in dirty shirt sleeves appears.
Abrams: “Is Mr. Phil Byrnes in?”
The Man says: “We ain’t got no Mr. Byrnes—not even a Mrs. Byrnes.”
Abrams: “Have you got a Ralph West?”
The Man: “Yep.”
Abrams: “Is he in?”
The Man: “I don’t know—room 212—next floor.”
Abrams says to the detective with him: “Get on the back stairs.”
Abrams and Nick walk up the front stairs and down a dark hall until they find 212. Abrams knocks on the door—there is no answer. He knocks again, saying in what he tries to make a youthful voice: “Telegram for Mr. West.” There is still no answ
er. He looks at Nick. Nick reaches past him and turns the knob, pushing the door open.
Nick: “After you, my dear lieutenant.”
Sprawled on his back across the bed, very obviously dead, is Phil, fully dressed as when we last saw him.
Nick points to something on the floor between them and the bed. It is a pair of spectacles, the frame bent, the glass ground almost to a powder. Abrams nods and comes into the room, stepping over the glasses, and leans over Phil.
Abrams: “Dead, all right—strangled and he was beaten up some before the strangling set in.” He looks down at one of Phil’s hands, then picks it up and takes half a dozen hairs from it. Turning to show them to Nick, he says: “Somebody’s hair in his hand.”
Nick looks at the hairs, then at the broken glasses on the floor. He says nothing. It is obvious he is trying to figure something out.
Abrams goes out saying: “Wait a minute—I’ll have one of the boys phone and then we’ll give the room a good casing.”
Nick moves around the room looking at things, opening and shutting drawers and looking into a closet, but apparently not finding anything of interest until he sees an automatic on the floor under one corner of the bed. He bends down to look at it but doesn’t touch it.
While Nick is looking at the gun, Abrams returns to the room.
Nick: “Here’s another .38 for your experts to match up.”
Abrams: “Hmm, what do you think?”
Nick: “I don’t think—I used to be a detective myself.”
Abrams: “Nobody downstairs seems to know about any visitors, but I guess the kind he had wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of knocking on the counter like we did.”
He leans over Phil and begins to go through his pockets.
Abrams straightens up and says: “I guess the heater’s his. He’s wearing an empty shoulder holster.” He holds up a flat key and adds: “And I guess this is the key to the Byrnes gal’s apartment. It’s got her number stamped on it.”
Nick: “Another good guess would be that Selma Landis didn’t do this.”
Abrams: “Fair enough, but he wasn’t killed the way the other ones were, either.”
Policemen enter, some in plain clothes, some in uniform, and Abrams starts to give them instructions about searching the room, looking for fingerprints, questioning the occupants of adjoining rooms, etc., etc.
Crime Stories Page 113