by Hugh B. Cave
Eh? Well … maybe I didn’t mean just that. Maybe I can’t prove nothing. But I’m entitled to my own opinions, I guess. For one thing I know she’s not so death on liquor as she pretends to be. Oh, I know, I know she has a lot of lordly opinions on the subject. I’ve heard her shooting off. “Liquor,” says she, “is all right in its place, but its place is not in the home.” Well, maybe, but I can tell you I’ve seen her come home with a skinful!
About a week ago, it was. This car pulled up at the corner of the street, just a little ways down from my house, and she was in it with a man. I didn’t get a look at the man. I wouldn’t know him again if he walked in here right now. But I was sitting there at my front window, and with my own eyes I seen Miss Goody-goody Whitson get out of that car and walk along to the house—if you can call it walking when a person stumbles over her own feet every other step and just about gets there.
I was over there the next morning and I sort of let fall a remark. “Where was Miss Whitson last night?” I said. “Why,” said Nora, “she went to a concert with some of the teachers from the school where she works.”
“Did she get home late?” I said. “Why,” said Nora, “I guess she did. I was in bed and I guess everyone else was. I didn’t hear her come in.”
So there you are, Captain. You can’t always judge a person by the fancy front they put on. But as for this murder, I’d say Mr. Lee done it. I’d say there was no question about that. He always impressed me as a sneaky sort, and I never did like him.
Why certainly, Captain. Any time at all. My telephone number is—Oh, you do? Well—he-he!—I’m surprised at you, Captain. You’re a lot faster than you look!
INTERSTATE POLICE TELETYPE, FEBRUARY 7
ATTENTION POLICE DEPARTMENTS ALL NEW ENGLAND CITIES STOP NEW HAYDON MASS HQ REQUESTS COOPERATION IN APPREHENDING GEORGE ALDEN LEE WANTED FOR QUESTIONING IN KILLING OF ALVIN PAINE STOP LAST SEEN TEN PM FEBRUARY SIXTH IN VICTIMS RESIDENCE THIS CITY STOP AGE ABOUT THIRTY HEIGHT FIVE FOUR WEIGHT ABOUT ONE THIRTY BLUE EYES LIGHT BLOND HAIR SMALL MOLE UNDER LEFT EYE STOP IS PROBABLY WEARING LIGHT BROWN HERRINGBONE WEAVE SUIT DARK BROWN HARRIS TWEED OCOAT BROWN HAT STOP ALSO WEARS HEAVY YELLOW GOLD SIGNET RING LEFT HAND STOP IS LIQUOR SALESMAN STOP IS PROBABLY DRIVING MAROON CHEVROLET TOWN SEDAN MASS C4042 STOP NHPD
THE NEW HAYDON TIMES, FEBRUARY 9
HUNT FOR LEE CONTINUES! NEW ENGLAND COMBED FOR LIQUOR SALESMAN SOUGHT IN BOARDING HOUSE SLAYING POLICE HINT NEW ANGLE
The New England wide search for George Alden Lee, missing liquor salesman, continued today with local and state police feverishly running down rumors from more than a score of widely separated communities.
While admitting that most of the clues are undoubtedly the work of cranks or mistaken well-wishers, police insist that all leads, no matter how seemingly worthless, are assiduously being followed in an attempt to locate the man who, they believe, holds the answer to the Paine stabbing.
Meanwhile, reliable sources hint that there may be other angles to the case.
4. THE COCKEREL CLUB
Hello, Joe. You look pretty swell this evening. Ha! Who, me? Well, you know how it is, Joe. Monday nights are pretty dull out here. I think sometimes I do better if I sell this place and buy a place in town. Out here, when you figure it all up, Saturday night is the only night I make the money. Plenty of times I say to myself, “Salvatore,” I say, “this is tough life. Everybody is sit at home saving the money so they can eat. Over there in Europe a war goes on. Nobody here feels like dancing and drinking and having good time any more.
“Well,” I say to myself, “Don’t you worry. If Salvatore Puleo’s night club is not make the money, nobody else is make it either.” I see in the papers you have a murder, Joe. I shake my head when I see that. I say to myself, “This job of being a cop is fine till people start killing somebody.” Plenty of times I envy you, Joe. I say, “Maybe I should give up the night club business and be a cop like Joe Gleeson.” But I don’ know. I don’ like murders. You think you will catch this feller?
Is funny thing, this murder, Joe. Last night I look in the paper and I see a picture of this girl who live in the house where the guy was killed. I look at the picture a long time and I say to myself, “Salvatore, you know this girl. She is out here not so long ago, stinko drunk.”
Eh? Sure she was out here! So what if she is a nice girl—plenty of times I see nice girls take one drink too many out here, and then they are like every one else—stinko. You want to know something? When the nice girls get drunk they are worse than the others. They make more noise. They cause more trouble. Most of the time they get sick all over the place.
Well now, let me think.When she first comes in I do not pay any special attention to her, because she is not drunk then—or anyhow she is not so drunk I have to be watching her. She is with some feller. They sit in booth over there. Bye and bye a lot of noise begins to come from over there, and I walk over, easy like, and the girl is having a high old time for herself.
This time I do not say nothing. After all, is it for me to hush up the customers just because they enjoy themselves? That way I would lose all my business sure!
But this girl, the first thing I know she is sick, and I have to help Nicky clean up the mess she make. Then the man she is with, he begins to take her out of the place right in the middle of the floor show when Antonina is dancing. And the girl fall down, and everybody say “Ooooh!” and Antonina gets mad because nobody pay attention to her any more. Well, it is a fine mess, I tell you. I am glad when I get rid of them. I say to myself …
Hey? No, I do not think so. I think that is the first time I ever see them here.
Him? No, I do not know who he is, Joe. I tell you how you can find out who he is, though. Wait a minute.
Here, Joe. You see this number? M-8991. When they get into the car to go away from here that night, I say to myself, “A man so drunk as he is should not be driving an automobile. Maybe there will be a smash-up. Maybe the cops, who are all the time doing favors for Salvatore Puleo, will come around looking for information. So I write down his number.
This time I do you a favor? That makes me very happy, Joe. Me, Salvatore Puleo, I hope you catch this killer.
THE NEW HAYDON TIMES, FEBRUARY 10
LEE TRACED TO PITTSFIELD! TRUCK DRIVER SAYS HE GAVE HUNTED MAN A LIFT
THE NEW HAYDON TIMES, FEBRUARY 11
LEE SOUGHT IN HARTFORD LUNCH CART EMPLOYEE SAYS MIDNIGHT CUSTOMER WAS LIQUOR SALESMAN
5. RODNEY TILLSON
Are you the guy I talk to about the feller that was killed over to Mrs. Abbott’s house? Yeah? Well, I’m Rodney Tillson. I live acrost the street, under Mrs. Baylis, and I know somethin’ about that murder. My mom said I’d have to come over here to the police station and tell you about it, so here I am. Huh? I’m thirteen. What difference does that make?
Well, it’s like this. I’m always runnin’ errands for old lady Baylis, see. Mom says I got to be nice to her because she’s old and kinda feeble. So the night Mr. Paine was killed, I was in the back room workin’ on my airplanes, and Mrs. Baylis banged on the floor, like she always does when she wants me. So I went up the back stairs and she was in the kitchen, talkin’ to Mrs.Abbott.
She says to me, “Be a good boy, Rodney, and run across to Mrs. Abbott’s house and get the pair of scissors out of the sewin’ machine.” And Mrs. Abbott, she says, “You know where the sewin’ machine is, don’t you?” And I says, “Sure. It’s in the kitchen.”
“Well,” Mrs. Abbott says, “just pull out the drawer and you’ll find the scissors. Hurry now.” She’s always in a hurry, that dame is.
So she give me a key to the front door, and I went acrost the street. But I didn’t get no scissors, see? I was just about to go up the front stairs, when I heard someone talkin’ in a loud voice, in the hall up there.
Now get this, and don’t be tellin’ me I’m crazy. The person I heerd talkin’ was Mrs. Baylis!
Huh? Of course I was just talkin’ to her in he
r own kitchen! That’s what’s so queer about it. A person can’t be in two different places at the same time, can they? Nope, I’m positive. Gee, I live under her, don’t I? I been runnin’ errands for her ever since I was big enough to walk, I guess. I ought to know her voice, if anyone does.
Well, I ain’t exactly sure what she was sayin’. It sounded sarcastic-like. Awful sarcastic. “So you despise people who get drunk, do you? Well, well, well. You wouldn’t touch the stuff, would you now?” It was somethin’ like that she was sayin’. I couldn’t make nothin’ out of it, honest.
Why didn’t I go upstairs? Because I was scared, that’s why! Who wouldn’t be scared? Gee, I don’t believe in ghosts and stuff like that, but I knew Mrs. Baylis wasn’t up there, not really. How could she be? So I beat it out of there, fast as I could go.
Yeah, I went back to Mrs. Baylis’s house and there she was, big as life, just like I’d left her. She could see I was scared, I guess. She and Mrs. Abbott asked me what the trouble was, and I told ’em. Then Mrs. Abbott went over to her house—maybe she thought I was lyin’, but gee, what would be the point of lyin’ about a thing like that?
Anyhow, the next thing I knew there was a police car outside Mrs. Abbott’s house and Mrs. Baylis was tellin’ me not to breathe a word of all this to anyone. And I didn’t, except today I told my mom, and Mom sent me straight over here.
Captain Lovett? Who’s he?
Shucks, do I have to talk to him? Can’t you tell him?
Well … aw right, if I got to. But I got a date to play hockey with the kids. I can’t be wastin’ too much time.
MEMO TO DETECTIVE MACOMBER, NEW HAYDON P. D.
Here’s the latest on that screwy Paine killing—a statement from a neighborhood kid
who believes in ghosts. Maybe you can make sense out of it. I admit I can’t.
The case shapes up as follows: Paine and Lee hated each other and were often close to blows. Both Mrs. Abbott and Miss Whit-son agree on that. At the time of the kill, Mrs. Abbott was across the street with Mrs. Bay-lis, unless you can believe this kid’s statement, which puts Mrs. Baylis in two places at once. Miss Whitson was in her room, working. She didn’t hear any argument, but heard Paine scream, ran out into the hall and found him lying there in front of Lee’s room. No one seems to have seen Lee make his getaway, but he certainly did vanish.
As for sidelights on the case, we have the following: Miss Whitson pretends to be a snooty dame but Joe Gleeson learned she was drunk to the eyes at Salvatore Puleo’s Cockerel Club one night recently, with a guy named Anderson, assistant principal at the school where she works. Mrs. Baylis was doing some neighborhood snooping that night and saw Whttson come home. Anderson is out of town.
See what you can do. The newspapers are driving us crazy. LOVETT.
“Captain Lovett? Macomber speaking. Listen, Fred. About that memo you sent over. Do I have free sailing on this job, or do I have to answer for my methods? Good. Why sure, sure, it’s open and shut. I’ll have your killer before you can get a cell ready for him. ‘Bye.”
6. DETECTIVE MACOMBER
Good evening to you, madam. I am Detective Macomber, of the police department. Is Miss Whit-son at home? Good.
Ah, Miss Whitson! Delighted. The name is Macomber—Detective Macomber. Perhaps Captain Lovett has mentioned my name. Now, if I may have a word or two with you in private … This is your room? Now if I may just shut the door … I beg your pardon, Mrs. Abbott, but privacy is essential to one of my—er—profession. Really? But I assure you, dear Mrs. Abbott, I have no designs on the young lady. None at all. My dear Mrs. Abbott, I don’t give a damn what the rules of the house are! Miss Whitson and I are going to talk behind a closed door! Go away, Mrs. Abbott. Sit down somewhere and knit a sweater for some freezing Finn.
Now, Miss Whitson. Thank you, I will. Cigarette?
The purpose of my visit, Miss Whitson, is to acquaint you with a few new developments in the murder of Mr. Paine, and to ask one or two rather pertinent questions. First, I must ask that none of this be repeated.
Thank you. I am sure of it.
Mr. Lee, Miss Whitson, has been found. He is at present in custody. He insists, Miss Whitson, that he is not guilty of the murder of Mr. Paine.
You think he is lying? Perhaps he is. Let me tell you the story as he tells it.
On the night of the murder, Miss Whitson, Mr. Lee left the house sometime between nine thirty and ten o’clock. He is not sure of the time, but he insists that he was out of the house before anything happened.As a matter of fact, he swears that he knew nothing of the murder until he read about it in the newspaper.
A logical question, Miss Whitson. I expected it. If Mr.
Lee departed before the murder, who did kill Paine? As I understand it, you and Lee and Paine were the only occupants of the house. Mrs. Abbott was across the street. So … if Lee went out before the murder, only you and Paine were left. And discarding the vague possibility that Paine killed himself … You see, Miss Whitson, you’re in rather a spot.
H’m. That is a poser. Of course, if I were an ordinary run-of-the-mill detective, I might suggest that you and Mr. Paine were in love, or something like that, and that you quarreled … but that would be a tabloid murder, Miss Whitson, and I am not a tabloid detective. Ah, no. We have a different motive here, I think. But first, about the engraving tool. You borrowed that from Mr. Lee’s room, I suppose.
Oh, come now, Miss Whitson. Surely the time for stubborn denials is past. You must have borrowed the tool. I don’t say you borrowed it with the intention of killing someone with it—but let’s say you wanted to punch some holes in a sheet of paper with it. Shall we say that? No? Well, some other time, perhaps.
As for the murder itself, I believe it was quite impromptu. I’m going to sketch a picture of it for you.
Here you are, Miss Whitson, in this very room, working on some papers. I see you have a desk here. We’ll assume, then, that you are sitting at the desk, with the lamp turned on and the rest of the room more or less in shadow. The house is very quiet. Mr. Lee has gone out. You are engrossed in your work.
Suddenly you hear a voice—the voice of—now wait a moment, Miss Whitson. Let me continue, please! The voice you hear is not that of Mr. Paine. Oh, no. It is the voice of a woman who hates you, who has tormented you with sarcastic innuendoes ever since a certain night, not long ago, when she happened to see you come in drunk.
Perhaps she has done more than torment you, Miss Whit-son. Perhaps she has threatened to write a letter to the school where you are employed. She knows, and you know, that such a letter would result not only in your dismissal, but in the dismissal of the young man with whom you got drunk that night. The assistant principal, I believe.
And now, suddenly, you hear the voice. Her voice. The voice of Mrs. Baylis. “So you despise people who get drunk, do you?” she says. “Well, well well. You wouldn’t touch the stuff, would you now?”
What happens, Miss Whitson? You stiffen on your chair. This is more than you can bear. It is the last straw. You lurch to your feet as the door opens. You snatch up the first thing that comes handy and rush toward the person who stands there. You think you are striking Mrs. Baylis.
But when this unfortunate person stumbles back, his face twisted with agony, his hands clutching at the engraving tool which you have plunged into his breast, you realize your mistake. You have not killed Mrs. Baylis. No. You have slain poor old Mr. Paine, who was a positive whiz at imitating people, and who probably thought it would be a fine joke to announce himself in the voice of Mrs. Baylis, using certain words he had overheard on some previous occasion.
Well?
O.K., lady. Let’s go. And by the way … that story of mine about Lee. A little white lie. We don’t know where Lee is.
THE NEW HAYDON TIMES, FEBRUARY 16
NOTES IN THE NIGHT BY J. C. OWLE
The boarding house murder of Alvin Paine, put on ice two days ago with a full confession from the guilty party,
spawned a strange aftermath this fine February afternoon. Mr. George Alden Lee, new claimant to the title of Vanishing American, has been found!
“Found” is hardly the word, at that. What Mr. George Alden Lee did was “emerge”—even as The Groundhog.
It appears that Mr. George Alden Lee takes his annual vacation in winter, because, being a Floridian by birth, Mr. Lee finds our New England winters just too, too arduous. And Mr. Lee, when he vacations, takes a page from the book of The Groundhog.
Mr. Lee hibernates. He hibernates with a quantity of festive beverages sufficient to last him a full two weeks. In a comfortable little camp on Hidden Lake, less than eight miles from the heart of downtown New Haydon, Mr. Lee secludes himself from telephones, radios, and all the sordid troubles of the world without.
This afternoon Mr. Lee emptied his last bottle, closed the door of his
Sanctuary behind him, stepped into his car and drove to town. He was slightly bewildered by his reception.
“Me, a murderer?” Mr. Lee gasped. “Well, good gosh, i didn’t think i was that drunk!”
Ain’t murder wonderful?
Front-Page Frame-Up
This story, published in the February 1941 Black Mask, is told in the first person, in a sometimes humorous fashion, by Detective Jeff Cardin. I seem to remember that i wrote several stories about Jeff Cardin, and he was a popular character with pulp-tale readers. This could be one of the better stories in the book you are now reading. Here’s hoping.
HBC
The lecher and the lady—that was the way the papers and the public regarded Jeff Cardin and the Anderson girl. The mere fact that it was the other way around—that she happened to be a tart and he a gentleman didn’t cut any ice with the cops who needed a fall-guy to preserve their “untarnished reputation.”