by Hugh B. Cave
“He’s my husband, dearie. You can have him if you want him, but you’ll be awful surprised.” She wagged the finger again, took the ring off it. She threw the ring and it rolled to Reurto’s feet, stopped there, and he pulled his feet back as though it were a snake about to bite him.
Mrs. Reurto said to Kimm, “I’m on my way and don’t anybody try to stop me.” She went out.
Fern Macomber looked down at the gun in her hand, shuddered and dropped it. Inwardly grinning, Kimm said to Gleeson, “Run out, fella, and hunt up the cops.”
Kimm drove leisurely over the highway from Key West to Miami, the night air cool off the Atlantic, strange and interesting sounds rising from the cypress swamps on both sides. It was one A.M., the day was Wednesday, and after he got to Miami and called Fred Meaton, the Kelver City storekeeper, to come and get the car, a plane would take him to New York in time for Fern Macomber to speak her little piece in defense of her father. Kimm was at peace with the world.
The girl beside him stirred a little and opened her eyes. She had been sleeping. She said, “I suppose you think I’m an awful fool.”
“Mmn,” Kimm said.
The stars were very bright.
“It’s just that I’m so darned romantic,” Fern declared gravely. “I wouldn’t have married him, really. I mean I don’t think I would. He was handsome, though.”
“Mmn.”
“You’re kind of handsome yourself.”
“Mmn.”
“And brave, too. Awfully brave. Why, the way you sailed into that man Dutchy …” She snuggled closer. “I’m a fool about strong, brave men. I guess I need someone to take care of me.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Kimm said.
“What?”
“There’s something I ought to do, just to make this night complete.”
Her wide eyes looked up at him under long lashes and she whispered, “Yes? What?”
“This,” Kimm said.
He stopped the car. Then the bright stars looked down in solitude on a strange sight. They saw Abel Kimm, grimly chewing an unlighted cigarette, shift himself out from under the wheel, turn the daughter of Julius Macomber over a knee and spank her. Soundly.
The Missing Mr. Lee
This is another 1940 tale published in Black Mask, appearing in the magazine’s November number. For me, at least, it’s a one-of-a-kind story. I don’t believe I ever wrote another such, with each of five or six characters coming forward to tell what he or she thinks happened. It’s a favorite tale of mine, and I hope it will rate high with you as well.
HBC
He was wanted for murder and troopers, city cops, reporters, and mere citizens combed New England for him. How could they tell he had evaporated in a cloud of alcohol fumes? Of course they might have guessed, for wasn’t Mr. Lee a liquor salesman after all?
1. NORA ABBOTT
In my own words? Well now, that’s what I’m trying to do—if you’ll just be good enough to let me. After all, I have my rights, don’t I? There’s no law says I have to sit here and be insulted. Some of you policemen think … Oh, all right, all right! Shut up then, and listen. This Mr. Lee was an odd sort of person, right from the beginning. I said so to Judith, the day he rang the doorbell and asked if I had any rooms to rent. He knew right well I had rooms to rent. I keep a sign on the front door all the time. But he asked me in that little pipsqueak voice of his, and I said yes, and then I took him upstairs and showed him the perfectly elegant front bedroom, but he didn’t like it.
“No,” he said, “I don’t want anything so pretentious, Mrs. Abbott. It isn’t the price I object to,” he said. “It’s just that I like to be off by myself. There are too many windows in this room, for one thing,” he said.
So I showed him my other rooms and the one he liked, mind you, was that little back bedroom, the smallest and gloomiest room in the house. I hadn’t rented that room in six months! But he liked it, so I cleaned it up for him and he moved in.
What’s that? Oh, yes, he paid his rent promptly enough. I never had any complaints on that score, the whole nine weeks he was with me. For that matter I don’t suppose I had any complaints. He was quiet enough, and he never bothered anyone. But I tell you I just couldn’t bring myself to like him.
Why? Well, his looks, for one thing. He was only half a man for size, and bald as a doorknob. It gave me the creeps to look at him, sometimes. And I swear he used rouge, his cheeks were so pink. I always said, “If that’s what they’re passing off for a specimen of manhood these days, I’ll go right on being a widow.”
He used to read a lot, Mr. Lee did. Every other night or so he’d go over to the branch library on Elmwood Street and get more books. He spent most of his time reading, and it wasn’t until the last week that he began going out nights. But when he did begin going out, he certainly did it up brown! Every single night, until two and three o’clock in the morning! And never a word to the rest of us where he’d been. Oh no! He was a sly one. It was always, “Good morning, Mrs. Abbott,” nice as you please, or, “You’re looking bright and cheerful today, Miss Whitson,” but never a word about himself. Why, he’d been with us nearly two whole weeks before I even knew what his business was.
Yes, he was a liquor salesman. Can you imagine it—a liquor salesman! But I never saw a sign of liquor in his room—not even a bottle of beer. If you ask me, I think a good stiff drink of anything stronger than water would have killed him!
Well, I am telling you. I’m coming to that. For heaven’s sake, don’t rush me.
The night you’re asking about—the night he and poor Mr. Paine had their argument—I was playing Chinese checkers with Judith and Mrs. Baylis. She’s the lady across the street. We were playing in Judith’s room and listening to some silly drama on the radio, and we heard Mr. Paine shouting.
It’s a funny thing, but we thought it was part of the radio play at first. But the man on the radio began talking about face powder, and of course Mr. Paine wasn’t shouting about any face powder. So we listened, and I distinctly heard him say what I’ve told you.
What’s that? Well, if I must repeat it, I suppose I must. It doesn’t seem to occur to you people that I’m a lady. What he said was, “It’s a filthy rotten way to make a living, that’s what it is, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself!” It’s very evident he was talking about Mr. Lee’s job, because Mr. Paine was always dead set against liquor in any form. Why I’ve even seen him throw away a bottle of expensive medicine because it contained alcohol.
Yes, I suppose he was an eccentric sort of person, though that isn’t exactly the word I would have used myself. He was with us almost five years and I was used to his ways.
But he was queer. There’s no denying that.
I beg your pardon? Well, for one thing, he used to be on the stage, and he was forever quoting Shakespeare and such nonsense. And another thing. Mr. Paine was awfully clever at imitating people. Why, he’d sit down by the radio and listen to some of those performers and he’d take them off so smart you couldn’t tell the difference. You absolutely couldn’t tell—I beg your pardon, Captain. Unless I’m sadly mistaken, you asked me to tell this story my way. What? Well, I am offended. I think I have every right to be offended.
Well … all right. I was coming to that, anyway. You see; there was bad feeling between Mr. Lee and Mr. Paine, and while we never did wholly understand it, I’m morally certain it was about the liquor. At any rate, Mr. Paine made some very cutting remarks about liquor, in Mr. Lee’s presence. And I think that was the cause of what finally happened.
No, I wasn’t at home when it happened. I’ve already told you I was across the street, helping Mrs. Baylis shorten a dress. When I opened the door and walked in, there was Mr. Paine lying in the hall outside the door of Mr. Lee’s room, and Miss Whitson at the telephone, calling you people. And I want to tell you right here and now, I was never so frightened in all my life! After all, you could see the man was dead. I mean, you could see the—the instrument stic
king right out of him.
Well, it was and it wasn’t. I mean—well—we used to have a nice old gentleman named Mr. Freelove, who was retired from the Arnold Silver Company. He was a jewelry designer and he had all these tools up in his room, and he used to make little brooches and pendants and things, just as a hobby.
It was about a year ago he died, and his son came on from Ohio I think it was, by plane, to bury him. The son said he had no use for any of the old man’s things—heaven knows they weren’t worth anything, anyway—so I took them. I kept the box of jewelry tools on a shelf in the kitchen. Once in a while I’d find a use for some of them, such as—
What? Yes, he asked me for it. I was getting supper and he came into the kitchen with a belt in his hand. “Mrs. Abbott,” he said, “have you an ice-pick around, or something sharp? I want to punch a hole in this belt,” he said.
I fished around in the box and found that particular tool, whatever it is, and gave it to him… . It’s what? An engraving tool? Well, I wouldn’t know. I only know it was long and sharp, like an ice-pick, and had a good solid handle you could get your hand around. I gave it to him and he said, “I must be getting thin, when my belts won’t fit me any more, Mrs. Abbott. Maybe you’re not feeding me enough.” He was always making pointed remarks like that.
It was about five thirty, I think. Of course if I’d known he was going to murder poor Mr. Paine a few hours later, I would have paid more attention to the time. But good heavens, how was I to know? It seemed harmless enough, him asking me for …
No, he didn’t. He went straight to his room after supper, and he was there when I went across the street to Mrs. Baylis’s. I heard his radio going. That was about half past eight.
Close to ten o’clock, I think. You can figure it out easily enough, I expect. Miss Whitson was telephoning you when I came in, and it seems to me you were at the house almost before she hung up.
No, I didn’t touch him. For one thing, I had my hands full with Miss Whitson. She was just about out of her mind, poor thing, and why wouldn’t she be, with that happening right under her nose. Nobody touched him. Nobody even laid a hand on him.
No. I’ve already told you that. His door was open, but he wasn’t in his room. I did look. After all, the body was lying right there within a few feet of the open door. But he wasn’t around. What I think happened—he rushed out right after killing Mr. Paine It’s only a cat-jump to the back stairway, and I think he ran down the back stairs and made his escape that way. He could have done that without being seen by anyone.
Well, I’m not so sure. If you ask me, I think he’s a whole lot smarter than you realize. Naturally, I hope you do catch him, but I have my doubts. Meanwhile, if you’re finished with me … After all, I’m a very busy woman, Captain.
2. MISS WHITSON
Thank you, Captain. I am a little upset, naturally, after what has happened. If you care to tell me how much of the ground Mrs. Abbott has covered, perhaps I can go on from there.
I see. Yes, I understand. Please don’t think that I am attempting to run your business for you. It’s just that I have very little knowledge of police procedure.
Yes, a teacher. In a small private school for children who are not too gifted. In these difficult days one takes what one is able to get, and the teaching profession is sorely overcrowded.
Twenty-eight, Captain.
I’ll do my best. You realize, of course, that I have been living with Mrs. Abbott only about a month. I came here from New York, and frankly was forced to look for an inexpensive place to live, not too far from the school. Mrs. Abbott’s house is not exactly what one might prefer, but it was recommended to me as being inexpensive and quite respectable. I find Mrs. Abbott herself rather trying at times—she’s so garrulous, you know—but one mustn’t be too particular.
Mr. Paine? I hardly knew him, Captain. He was a late riser and seldom had breakfast with us. Then of course I was away at the school all day, and was often too tired to bother with supper. In the evenings I usually confined myself to my room. A teacher’s work does not end in the classroom, you know.
He was eccentric. Old people so often are, aren’t they? Well … no, I can’t give you any concrete examples. He just impressed me as being rather a queer, childish old man. He’d been on the stage, I understand. His superficial knowledge of Shakespeare was truly amazing. At the oddest moments he would break out in a positive rash of quotation.
I think I did, once. It was Bing Crosby, I believe. For myself, I didn’t think much of the imitation, but Mrs. Abbott was immensely impressed by it. He had a knack, of course—there’s no denying that—but I seldom enjoy imitations. Especially of Bing Crosby. Oh, you do? Well, tastes do differ, Captain.
Yes, I remember that particular evening well. We were playing Chinese checkers, I think it was—or some equally childish game—Nora and myself and that atrocious creature, Mrs. Baylis, who lives across the street. I hadn’t wanted to play, but Nora is sometimes so insistent. Orson Welles was doing Lost Horizon—a beautiful interpretation!—and all at once we were disturbed by a violent argument from Mr. Paine’s room. Mr. Lee and Mr. Paine, you know, simply did not get along.
It was something about liquor. Mr. Lee is a liquor salesman, and Mr. Paine had definite ideas about the evils of alcohol.
Have I? Well, I do hold an opinion, of course, but on the other hand I believe in respecting other people’s rights. After all, the eighteenth amendment was repealed, and if foolish people wish to ruin their health and lose the respect of their friends, it is legally their privilege to do so. I firmly believe—
I quite agree with you, Captain. On the other hand, murders are frequently committed with even less reason, are they not? To me it is quite conceivable that Mr. Lee turned on Mr. Paine in the heat of argument… .
No, I didn’t. On the other hand, I was in my room with the door shut, and there are times, Captain, when I become so engrossed in my work that I hear absolutely nothing of what is going on around me. People speak to me on the street, sometimes, and I walk past without noticing them. Many a time I’ve had to apologize … But don’t misunderstand me, please! I’m not expressing any opinion. After all, it’s your duty to find out who killed Mr. Paine, not mine.
I realize that. But on the other hand, what I think and what I saw with my own eyes are two utterly different things, Captain. I really saw nothing.
Why, he screamed. I heard the scream and rushed out of my room and there he was, on the floor in the corridor.
I don’t know. Obviously he came from Mr. Lee’s room. He most certainly was not murdered in my room, and there are no other rooms at that end of the hall. I suppose the murderer must have been there when I rushed out. The hall itself was empty except for Mr. Paine.
Yes, right away. Or at least, within a very few minutes. I don’t remember exactly what I did, because I was so upset, but it seems to me I ran toward him and then realized he was dead, and then I believe I just stood there for a moment, too stunned to think or act. But I ran to the telephone as soon as the first shock passed, and—
Yes. Yes, he could have slipped out of the room while I was telephoning. I hadn’t thought of that. He could have fled down the rear stairs, without my seeing him. Still …
May I have a glass of water, please? Thank you.
Well, I hardly know just how to answer that question, Captain. One really should know a person a lot longer than I have known Mrs. Abbott before attempting to form an opinion. I don’t believe in snap judgments. She is, however, a rather quick-tempered woman. That much I do know. And of course not what you and I would call exactly literate, certainly not cultured. She talks entirely too much, not only about herself but about everyone with whom she comes in contact. She—
No, I wouldn’t say she had many friends. Most of the neighbors avoid her because she is such a gossip. Mrs. Baylis is a close friend, of course, but Mrs. Baylis is not the sort to be choosey, and for that matter is an inveterate gossip herself. As for friends of the o
ther sex, I don’t believe Nora Abbott has even looked at a man since her husband passed away.
You’re entirely welcome, Captain. If I can be of any further help …
3. MRS. BAYLIS
Good afternoon, Lieutenant What’s that? Well, I’m sure it don’t make a bit of difference to me whether you’re a captain or even a corporal. I’m not here because I want to be here, I can tell you that, and the quicker I’m out, the better. Go right ahead. Them I can answer, I’ll answer. Them I can’t, you’ll have to plague someone else with.
Sure I knew Mr. Paine, and it’s a dirty shame, I’m telling you, that he’s gone to the land of his fathers. A positive scream the man was, when he got going with his imitations. Listen to some of them big shots on the radio, he would, and come out with stuff of his own that put them to shame. Why, only the other night—
Eh? Sure he had a temper! Let fall a word about alcohol and he’d turn red with rage to the roots of his hair. A crank he was on that subject, a downright crank. I always said to myself, I said, “The trouble with that man, he’s had his fling and it was a rip-snorter, and now with his head subject to aches and his liver out of order, he’s forgotten all the fun he had and remembers only the mornings after.” Lord, the arguments him and Mr. Lee got into over liquor!
When? Well, there was one night Nora and Miss Whitson and myself was playing checkers, and … Oh, you do? Well, if you know all about these things, why ask me? No, I can’t remember any other times. I didn’t know Mr. Lee so good. The only time I ever saw him close up was when I’d drop over there around supper time. He didn’t hang around much of an evening. Off he’d go to the library or to a movie, as if he never could find time to be sociable. He wasn’t much of a man anyway.
Miss Whitson? Well, now, she’s not my type, and I’m frank to say I never could make head nor tail of her. I always get suspicious of girls that act too goody-goody, Captain. Miss Whitson, now, you’d think to look at her and hear her talk, she was just too good to live. But I know better.