The Sunday Pigeon Murders
Page 25
“You bet,” Chris said. “Lemme park the truck out back of the jail. It’s got a coupla milk cans in back. And I’ll phone home I won’t be there for supper.” He paused at the door and said to Bingo and Handsome, “You look after them turkeys overnight. I’ll be around in the morning.”
Sheriff Judson tucked one gun into his belt holster and another under his arm. The two tanned-faced young men worked with quiet and deadly efficiency, getting a county police car out of the jail garage, getting a machine gun out of the office safe, telephoning other deputies to watch the roads.
“These guys killed a guard up to the prison,” the sheriff said, sticking a package of cigarettes in his coat pocket. “Fella name of Sampson.”
“There were some Sampsons used to live up near Clear Lake,” the young man named Herb said.
“Can’t be the same family,” the sheriff said. “Those Sampsons moved to California in ’35. Sold their place to a family named Stoppenbach, from Illinois.” He walked to the door, paused to yell, “Ollie! Watch the phone!” and went out.
Bingo and Handsome looked at each other. “That was an emergency,” Handsome said. “He just happened to forget we were here.”
“Ours was an emergency, too,” Bingo said gloomily. He led the way out to the courthouse yard, a broad, pleasant expanse of green grass and old maple trees.
The sun had set, and the twilight was fading to a dreary gray. There was a faint chill in the early autumn air. Thursday, Iowa, seemed like a tiresome place to be.
“Don’t worry about it,” Handsome said. “Those turkeys would probably have been a lot of trouble, anyhow. Probably we couldn’t of raised more’n a dozen. I remember that article said they were awful delicate. Even if they don’t get sick, they get scared to death.”
“You shut up,” Bingo said gratefully and affectionately. “I wonder if we can buy a meal somewhere in this town.”
The only restaurant turned out to be the Crescent Café, in the second block up Main Street. Handsome parked the roadster and they went in.
“Roast beef with brown gravy, roast pork with applesauce, hamburger steak, veal stew, and Spanish omelet,” Bingo predicted gloomily as they went in the door. He’d been looking at restaurant menus all the way from New Jersey.
He was right. He was also right in his later prediction that the roast beef would be stringy and pale gray, the gravy greasy, and the mashed potatoes watery. The apple pie had a tough lower crust and not very much apple. The coffee was flavorless and not very warm.
It was dark when they left the café and took a look up and down Main Street. There was one movie, showing a double feature, Westerns. The rest of the street was deserted.
“This town may be named Thursday,” Bingo said, “but it looks like a rainy Monday to me. Let’s shove on to Des Moines and get a good bed in a good hotel.” He slid into the car and slammed the door.
“We own that house,” Handsome said unhappily. “We might as well sleep in it tonight. It’ll save one hotel bill.” He started the motor and shoved in the clutch. “Besides,” he added, “Mr. Halvorsen wants us to look after his turkeys.”
“The hell with Mr. Halvorsen,” Bingo growled. “The hell with his turkeys. The hell with Thursday.” He paused. Chris Halvorsen was a decent guy, and those were valuable turkeys. It was a long drive to Des Moines, and it was late. Besides, he’d never slept under a roof he owned, especially a roof that had cost a thousand dollars. Some day he’d be saying to some wide-eyed, impressionable and beautiful girl, “Once I spent a thousand dollars just for a place to sleep overnight.”
He leaned back against the maroon cushions and said, “Oh, O.K. But in the morning I’m going to send Chris Halvorsen a bill for playing nursemaid to his damned turkeys, while he goes out chasing escaped convicts.”
Handsome said nothing, tactfully.
“Besides,” Bingo added, “they’ll probably keep us awake all night, yelping.”
“Turkeys don’t yelp,” Handsome said, swinging the car around the curve. “They gobble.”
“By me, they yelp,” Bingo said sulkily.
Handsome slowed down around the last curve, turned up the bumpy driveway, and stopped behind the little shanty. Bingo climbed out, looked at the sky, and stretched. The sky was clear. The air was very still.
“Maybe they’re all asleep,” he said. “Maybe they’ll stay asleep till morning.”
“I’ll take the flashlight in and light the oil lamp,” Handsome said.
Bingo strolled around the shanty, whistling under his breath. He’d lost a thousand dollars, plus the chance to make four thousand more—and half of it Handsome’s, too—and he’d had a terrible dinner. Still, he felt a certain warm glow of satisfaction. Even if he only slept in it for one night, and then never saw it again, he owned a house.
Funny, how quiet those turkeys had become, all of a sudden.
He came to the fence, paused, and peered through. Suddenly his hands tightened on the top of the gate.
There weren’t any turkeys in the yard. Not any turkeys at all.
Bingo stared for a moment, not believing it. Then he turned and raced wildly back to the shanty. At the corner he almost collided with Handsome. “The turkeys—” he began, and stopped.
Handsome’s face was pale in the dim glow from the flashlight. His hands were shaking. He said, “You’d better look, Bingo, you’d better look in the house. In there.”
“Now what?” Bingo said. He grabbed the flashlight and strode to the door of the shanty.
“See!” Handsome said.
There was a man lying on the floor. He was a well-dressed man, in a black broadcloth suit, a white shirt, and a flowing black tie. He had a neat dark beard, heavy dark hair, and a thin, handsome face. One of his hands clutched a small looseleaf notebook from which the pages had been ripped. There was a small, round bullethole in the center of his forehead, and a look of terrible surprise in his glazed, wide-open, and motionless eyes.
Bingo shoved the flashlight back in Handsome’s limp hand and staggered outside. “I told you,” he said, in a dazed whisper, “we should have gone to Des Moines.”
“Get in the car,” Handsome said, “and we will.”
Bingo didn’t seem to hear him. He stood for a moment, drawing long, almost gasping breaths. At last he said, “No, we won’t. Handsome, what was the name of that sheriff?”
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About the Author
Craig Rice (1908–1957), born Georgiana Ann Randolph Craig, was an American author of mystery novels and short stories described as “the Dorothy Parker of detective fiction.” In 1946, she became the first mystery writer to appear on the cover of Time magazine. Best known for her character John J. Malone, a rumpled Chicago lawyer, Craig’s writing style was both gritty and humorous. She also collaborated with mystery writer Stuart Palmer on screenplays and short stories, as well as with Ed McBain on the novel The April Robin Murders.
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Copyright © 1942 by Craig Rice
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ISBN: 978-1-5040-4852-1
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