Long Live the Dead

by Hugh B. Cave

  Rose.

  “Krauss brought that in half an hour ago,” O’Brien scowled. “He was nervous as a rabbit and had the shakes. Said she wrote it three days ago. Said he thought we ought to have it because it might throw some light on the case.”

  “He’s not so dumb,” Bill said. “Looks bad for Valliers.” “Yeah? Where’s Macy?” “Out feeding his face.” “Valliers in the back room still?” “Nope. I let him go and put Kennedy on his tail.” “When Macy shows up,” Bill said, “give him this letter

  and send him over to the girl’s boarding-house. Send some guy with him that knows handwriting. There’s a scrapbook in the bureau drawer with writing in it. Her writing. Tell Macy to check up.”

  “You think Krauss wrote this letter himself?” “I think Krauss is a wise guy.” “Yeah? Well, why send Macy? You on a vacation?” “I got a date,” Bill said.

  It was three-forty-five when Bill climbed out of a cab and walked up the street towards Jules Valliers’ house. On the opposite sidewalk a short, thickset man leaned against a brick wall between a neighborhood grocery and a delicatessen store. Bill strolled over, nodded, and said: “’Lo, Kennedy.” “Greetings,” Kennedy growled. “Gimme a cigarette. If there’s a lousy job around, I get it every time.”

  “Valliers home?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let’s go,” Bill said.

  He crossed the street again, climbed stone steps, and pushed the button above the brass name plate. Valliers’ good-looking housekeeper, Katherine Mitchell, opened the door.

  Bill said: “Good day. Valliers in?” The girl nodded and stepped aside. Bill and Kennedy walked in and waited. A moment later Valliers, in lavender dressing-gown and leather slippers, descended the stairs and stood staring. “You want me?” he said slowly.

  “Want to look around,” Bill shrugged. “Kennedy here has an idea the evidence is still in the house.”

  “The evidence?”

  “The knife.”

  Valliers said: “Oh,” and looked at Kennedy helplessly. “If there is anything I can do, I hope you won’t hesitate to—But I’m afraid I’m not much help.” He summoned a weak smile. “The whole affair has upset me?”

  “I’ll get along all right,” Kennedy said.

  “Then if you won’t need me, I believe I’ll—”

  “Yeah. Okey.”

  Valliers walked upstairs again, holding the banister. Katherine Mitchell said calmly: “You prefer to be alone, gentlemen?” “Talk to you later,” Bill nodded. She said: “Certainly,” and paced down the hall without

  looking back.

  Bill glanced at his watch. He said to Kennedy: “Listen. I gotta scram. All you’re supposed to do is mope around dumb like and keep an eye on Valliers and the girl. Especially the girl. You’ll get wise when you see the papers.”

  “Give me the low-down,” Kennedy grumbled. “What am I, anyway?”

  “Some other time, mister. Some other time.”

  “Say, listen—”

  “Keep an eye on the girl,” Bill said, and closed the door behind him.

  Down the street a newsboy was hiking across front lawns, tossing papers on verandas. Bill went towards him. “What one does Valliers take, Bud?” he asked the boy. “The Globe,” the boy said.

  Bill fumbled in his pocket and slapped a half dollar into the boy’s hand. “Here. Throw a Times-Herald on his porch, too. And give me one.”

  The boy gaped and said: “Sure. Thanks, mister.”

  “Been over by Fern’s Pet Shop yet?”

  “That ain’t on my route.”

  Bill snatched the paper, looked both ways for a cab, swore under his breath, and ran down the sidewalk. Five minutes later, at the corner of Matthew Fern’s street, he saw more newsboys climbing down from a truck and catching bundles of papers that a man heaved out to them. He exhaled slowly and stopped to light a cigarette. Then he grinned. Farther down the street a wide shouldered man with a derby was waddling along on big feet. The man was Macy.

  Bill strolled towards Fern’s Pet Shop, ambled past, and glanced inside. Fern was talking to a customer. Edwin Krauss was on hands and knees among an assortment of wire cages. Bill strolled past again and casually tossed his Times-Herald on the sidewalk, in the doorway. A moment later the door opened, the customer came out, and Matthew Fern picked up the paper.

  The shop was midway between the ends of a one-story block. Bill ran to one end of the block, plunged down an alley, strode along a cement walk at the rear. The back door of the shop was locked; so was the rear window. Bill hauled out a clasp-knife, finger-nailed the blade open, poked the point into the door-lock, and slapped the heel of the knife sharply with his palm. He opened the door, stepped inside, and closed the door quietly.

  The room was dark; the door leading into the shop was closed. Bill tiptoed past a mound of empty boxes, squatted with one eye to the keyhole, and saw Matthew Fern standing near the counter, staring nearsightedly at a spread newspaper. Krauss was wiping birdcages with a white rag.

  Fern laid his newspaper down and walked along behind the counter. The front door opened, and he stopped. Macy came in. Macy and Fern stared at each other, and Fern took a step backward. Macy said: “Hello, Fern,” put one hand in his coat pocket, strode to Krauss, and said: “You’re wanted, Krauss. You’re comin’ with me.”

  “What for?” Krauss said, staring.

  “Never mind that. Come on.”

  Krauss said in a shrill voice: “But I haven’t done anything! I—”

  “Come on.”

  Krauss continued to stare, then mumbled: “All right. I’ll—come.” Without looking at Fern he walked slowly behind the counter, took his hat from underneath, and paced stiffly to the door. Macy strode out behind him.

  Fern peered at the door. He took the newspaper, unfolded it, and bent over it again, fingering his cheek. He looked at the door again, frowning, then paced quickly to the rear of the shop.

  Bill flattened against the wall just in time. The door creaked open. Fern entered, pushed the door shut quickly, stood blinking in the semi-dark. He began to mutter to himself, then groped nervously along the rows of shelves. In the far corner he pushed aside some empty cardboard cartons and tin cans, reached his whole arm behind them, and stepped back, holding a roll of newspaper. He pawed the newspaper apart, took a knife out of it, and stared at the knife intently, still muttering. He jerked a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped the hilt and blade of the knife carefully, and rewrapped the knife in the crumpled newspaper. Reaching up, he moved the empty cartons back into place. Again muttering, he thrust the newspaper into his pocket and started towards the door which led to the back alley.

  “Thanks, Fern,” Bill said. “You’re a big help.”

  Fern spun around and stood rigid, and Bill paced quietly into the open. Fern took a step backward, stopped, and stood rigid again, eyes wide, mouth twisted. His fingers clawed the newspaper in his pocket.

  “I’ll take that,” Bill said. “Then we’ll go for a walk, mister. A long walk. Your own fault. You shouldn’t believe all you read in the papers.”

  Fern said: “What are you talking about? What are you doing here?”

  “I’ll take the knife, Fern.”

  “Knife? What knife?”

  “This one, wise guy.” Bill stepped closer and reached for the newspaper. Methodically he stuffed it into his own pocket. “Let’s go, Fern.”

  Fern put his hand out timidly and said: “Listen. Why do you come here? What have I done? What—” Then he leaped. Breath exploded from his mouth. His head rammed Bill’s jaw and his fist made a loud crunching sound against Bill’s face. Bill stumbled back, gasping, turned on one toe and tripped into a cairn of piled-up boxes. Fern struck again blindly, and struck a third time, snarling viciously.

  Bill groped up. Fern pushed him back with both hands and kicked him. The mound of boxes toppled, smothering Bill’s oath. Fern whirled and ran.

  Dazed, Bill rose on one knee and elbowed himself free. He
stood up, swaying. He said: “Well, I’m damned,” and limped slowly to the rear door. He stood there, scowling, and said: “Of all the fat-head fools.”

  He limped back again, entered the store, and looked for a phone. There was one on a shelf behind the counter. He lifted the receiver, dialed a number, and said a moment later: “Listen, Jay. I just had a complete massage, from a guy named Matthew Fern. Yeah, the same Matthew Fern. He got away. Smacked me down and took the first train. Yeah. Send a couple of bloodhounds after him and pass the good word along.”

  He forked the receiver and opened the phone book, looking for the name Jules Valliers. He dialed again and Katherine Mitchell answered the ring.

  “Kennedy there?” Bill said.

  “Just a moment, please.”

  Bill waited, then said scowling: “Listen, Kennedy. Matthew Fern just gave me the works and got loose. He’s in the neighborhood. See what you can do.” “If there’s a lousy job around,” Kennedy growled, “I get it every time.”

  “The girl make any trick moves?”

  “Naw.”

  “Okey. Find Fern.”

  Half an hour later Bill limped out of a cab on LaRonge Street, climbed the stationhouse steps with painful awkwardness, and found Jay O’Brien, Great Brain Macy, and Edwin Krauss in the room behind headquarters. Macy was standing on spread legs, hands hipped, neck out-thrust, over the chair which held up Krauss. Jay O’Brien was sucking a fat cigar, slipping the paper cigar-band on and off his little finger and listening without interest to Macy’s harsh syllables.

  “Now listen,” Macy was rasping. “We got it on you, see? You bring a letter in here and hand it to us in a nice, sweet way, and the letter’s a fake. The girl didn’t write it, see? You did. You wrote it to hang suspicion on Valliers, see? And to clear yourself. But you’re in a jam. You’re gonna come clean.”

  “I wrote it because I was afraid,” Krauss mumbled.

  “You wrote it because Matthew Fern told you to,” Bill said.

  Macy spun around and growled: “What?”

  “Didn’t you, kid?” Bill said quietly.

  “Y-yes,” Krauss said, licking his lips. “He—he said it would clear me and it wouldn’t do any harm. I was afraid I’d be accused of the murder. I took some old letters I had from Rose and—and—”

  “And faked the writing. Give the kid a break, Macy. He’s just dumb.”

  “You’ll be tellin’ me next he didn’t kill the girl, wise guy,” Macy said irritably.

  “I even might,” Bill shrugged. He leaned against the table, looked at O’Brien, and said softly: “You get Fern yet?”

  “I don’t get anything,” O’Brien said pleasantly. “I’m in a complete fog.”

  Macy exhaled loudly and swung back to face Krauss. He hipped his hands again and rocked back and forth on stiff legs. He said savagely: “Well, are you gonna talk, young feller, or do I have to show you how?”

  “Lay off, flatfoot,” Bill said. “He didn’t do it. Fern did it.”

  “What?”

  “Save it for Fern.”

  “What else do you know, wise guy?” Macy scowled.

  “Plenty.”

  “Well?”

  “All right,” Bill shrugged. “You asked for it.” He put a cigarette in his mouth and took a light from O’Brien’s cigar.

  “Valliers and the girl are in the studio, see? The phone rings. Valliers hikes out to answer it. Fern is waiting at the top of the back stairs outside the studio’s other door, which is kept locked. Fern has a key. He lets himself in, the girl screams, he does his dirty work, goes out the same way and locks the door after him. He does all this to frame Valliers with the killing. Instead Valliers gets rid of the body. So Fern calls up O’Brien here and reports the girl missing, to put the cops wise.”

  Macy said: “Now isn’t that nice? Isn’t that just lovely?”

  Someone else said bitterly, from the doorway: “You’re clever, Mr. Evans. Damned clever.” Kennedy and another man came in, holding Matthew Fern between them. Fern’s face was convulsed.

  Kennedy said: “He was walkin’ down Vernon Street near Valliers’ house. When he spotted me he dove for a cab. Your pal Ricki was parked on the corner, and him and me chased this guy halfway across town before we got him. He had this on him.” Kennedy took a gun from his pocket and banded it to Bill. “There’s two shots been fired out of it.”

  Matthew Fern said again, standing with feet wide apart and fists clenched: “You’re clever, Mr. Evans You think you know everything. I hope it does you some good.”

  Jay O’Brien pulled the cigar out of his mouth and said, scowling: “What is this, anyway?” Macy walked away from Krauss’ chair and stood staring, eyes narrowed and a sneer widening his lips. “Yeah,” Macy said. “What is this?”

  “You’re right, Mr. Evans,” Fern said viciously. “I killed the girl. I planned it right. I stole the key to the studio door when I went to Valliers’ house for money, a week ago. I knew he’d never miss it. At the same time I learned the layout of the studio and the rear stairs. The whole thing was planned right. Maybe you’d like to know the details.”

  “It might save time,” Bill shrugged.

  “Then you don’t know everything after all.”

  “You killed her,” Bill said through his cigarette, “to send Valliers to the chair. You hated Valliers for playing around

  with your wife.”

  “So you know that, do you?”

  “And more.”

  “Good,” Fern said. He was enjoying himself. His face was flushed and his eyes smouldering, and a little mad. “Then I’ll tell you the rest. My wife was one of his women. I wasn’t supposed to know. They thought I was dumb.”

  “Why the hell, then,” Jay O’Brien grumbled, “didn’t you kill Valliers? Why the girl?”

  “Killing was too easy. That’s why.”

  “So you picked on an innocent girl.”

  “I’d kill a dozen innocent people to see him hang.”

  “Oh, you’re a tough guy, hey?” Macy growled. “Well, I’m no sap. I don’t go for fairy tales, Fern. What about that phone call?”

  “My wife,” Fern said precisely, “telephoned her lover at exactly the same time each day. I made my plans accordingly.” He swung on Bill. “What I should like to know is how Mr. Evans discovered me.”

  “Should you?” Bill said quietly.

  “Yeah. And so would the rest of us,” Macy snapped.

  “Your wife,” Bill shrugged, looking without emotion at Fern, “is listed on the Times-Herald scandal sheet as one of Valliers’ latest attractions. Also, when you charged out of Valliers’ studio after killing Rose Veda, you stopped to wipe your fingerprints off the doorknob. You took a handkerchief or something out of your pocket. And you spilled some bird seed on the floor, little one.”

  “Bird seed,” Fern repeated slowly, mouthing the words.

  “Right. Bird seed. So it was either you or Krauss, sweetheart, and the scandal sheet pointed to you. Then you did your own pointing. You read what the Times-Herald said about the knife, and you fell for it. Psychology, feller, psychology.”

  “What about Valliers’ secretary?” Kennedy said.

  “Couldn’t be sure of her,” Bill shrugged.“She’s more than a secretary, and hell hath no fury like a woman double-crossed. And that phone call was a sticker. She might have chipped in.” He gazed calmly at Matthew Fern. “All nice and straight now, little one?”

  “Thanks, yes,” Fern said, smiling.

  “For a guy that’s gonna burn,” Jay O’Brien frowned, “you seem almighty happy. You’re a wise guy, huh?”

  “Sure,” Fern said. “I’m a wise guy. I just came from Jules Valliers’ house. I found Valliers and my wife together. If you don’t think I’m a wise guy, go and look.”

  Dead Dog

  By the time this story about Pooch Hanley and Mr. Buttons appeared in Black Mask in March 1937, Cap Shaw had been replaced as editor by Fanny Ellsworth. other tales of mine appeare
d about that time in Adventure, Clues Detective Stories, Detective Fiction Weekly, Federal Agent, The Feds, Popular Detective, Thrilling Mystery, and, under my jokey pen-name Justin Case, in The Spicy magazines (which, incidentally, by today’s freedom-of-speech standards wouldn’t raise an eyebrow). as for the Mr. Buttons character in this story, I’ve had dog and cat friends since I was a kid, and have turned out dozens of stories about these four-footed friends. If you’re interested in cats, you might want to check the internet or certain bookstores for a collection of mine called The Lady Wore Black and Other Cat Tails, published this year by Ash-Tree Press.

  HBC

  Mr. Button buys a life with his death.

  Everybody was always giving Pooch Hanley dogs, and when he left the Palace Bar that evening and strolled homeward he had no intention of picking up a dog en route. He had dogs enough at home already. But the mongrel mutt came sniffing along the sidewalk in front of the Corsair Club, and got tangled up in the legs of a drunken young man who was being steered to a taxi by Louis Zapelli, the Corsair’s head thief.

  The mutt was pathetically frail and certainly meant no harm. But the young man pushed Zapelli aside, shouted drunkenly, “Punt formation, hip!” and punted the dog with sickening accuracy into a No Parking sign. And when that happened, something exploded in Pooch Hanley’s brain.

  Hanley strode forward. With one hand he swung the young man around and with the other he sent the fellow staggering against the open door of the taxi.

  It was a hard punch, loosening several teeth. Blood trickled down the young man’s chin.

  Pooch Hanley said to Louis Zapelli: “When he sobers up, tell him why I did it and who I am. If he wants to make something of it, all right.”

  The dog had not moved after dropping to the curb. Han-ley picked it up. “Hip broken,” he muttered, and glared at the man who had broken it.

  He took the mutt home with him.

  There were dogs galore at the Hanley homestead. There were kennels in the back yard, near the fringe of woods sloping down into Pine Pond, and countless cartons of canned dog food in the cellar. Pooch Hanley liked dogs, all kinds of dogs. Being a bachelor, he could give them his undivided attention and affection.