by Craig Rice
“Handsome,” he said hoarsely, “tell me something. Do you think we could make it to Hastings, Nebraska, by morning?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“I told you so,” Will Sims said sternly. “We should have called in someone from the state crime laboratory. That bullet might have stayed there till—till—” He paused and just glared.
“Till the shanty fell down of its own weight,” Sheriff Judson said in his mild voice. He turned the bullet over and over in his hand. “Can you imagine that!”
Herb looked at Bingo and Handsome with half-reluctant admiration. “How’d you fellers happen to find it?”
“With the camera,” Handsome said.
Sheriff Judson said, “A camera, huh? That’s interesting. Never heard of hunting for a bullet with a camera before.”
“There’s a lot of things you never heard of,” Will Sims snapped. “Those experts—”
“We weren’t hunting for it,” Bingo said. “We didn’t know it was there.” Under other circumstances, he would have taken credit for a brilliant piece of clue-hunting. But not with Will Sims looking disapprovingly at Sheriff Judson. “It was just a lucky accident.” He added, for good measure, “I doubt if even a police expert could have found it any other way.”
Sheriff Judson stole a look at Will Sims and said, “Oh, I dunno. Those experts are pretty smart. What kind of a lucky accident was it?”
“Show ’em the pictures, Handsome,” Bingo said.
Handsome opened a manila envelope, took out two prints, and laid them on the desk. Will Sims, the sheriff, and his deputy bent over them.
“That’s Mrs. Kurtz,” Herb said, “from up near Thompson’s Creek. Good picture of her, too.”
The sheriff turned to the second print. “That’s old man-Miller. Certainly does get around everywhere, don’t he? How’d you find the bullet from taking these here pictures?”
Bingo leaned over the desk to point out the highlight on the prints. It wasn’t there. He looked questioningly at Handsome.
“Those are the two best pictures in the whole bunch,” Handsome said.
“Where’s the prints with the spots on them?” Bingo demanded.
“Oh, them,” Handsome said. “I burned ’em up. They were terrible pictures, with those spots showing. But I retouched the negatives so carefully you couldn’t tell where the defect was if you had a magnifying glass.” He noticed the expression on Bingo’s face and added anxiously, “Did I do wrong, Bingo?”
“No,” Bingo said. “Not at all.” He sighed, turned to Sheriff Judson, and explained how it had happened; the pictures, the spot of light that had showed on the print, and the bullet embedded in the wall.
“Too bad he destroyed those other prints,” Will Sims said. “They would have showed the exact spot where the bullet struck the wall, and to the experts at the crime laboratory, that might be important.”
Handsome looked unhappy and said, “I didn’t think about that.”
“Makes no difference,” Sheriff Judson said consolingly. “We can find out the exact spot by looking at the wall itself. And if you didn’t think the pictures you made were any good you done right in burning ’em up.”
He picked up the phone, called “2-4-7-J,” waited a minute, and said, “Charlie? Henry. How come you didn’t tell me there was a hole in the back of that feller’s head?” He waited another minute and said, “You figured we knew it already, huh? And you fixed it so it don’t show anyhow, huh? That’s fine, Charlie. No, everything’s all right. You did a nice piece of work, Charlie.” He hung up, and turned to Handsome.
“Now Charlie Hodges,” he said, “is just like you. He takes real pride in his work. He fixed up that there wound in the back of the murdered feller’s head so’s it won’t show, in spite of the fact that the feller ain’t going to be seen face-down at his funeral, if he has one. Charlie said he never could of done it, though, if the feller hadn’t had real heavy hair. But then, Charlie’s modest.”
“What I want to know, as District Attorney of Thursday County,” Will Sims said coldly, “is why nobody else noticed there was a wound in the back of the man’s head.”
“Why,” Sheriff Judson said, “I guess because nobody looked. We could tell he was dead, all right, and if an officer of the law says somebody is dead, that makes it legal. Anybody could see he’d been shot through the forehead. So we just called up Charlie Hodges to come and move him.”
“You should have sent for the coroner,” Will Sims said. “Before he was moved.”
“Well—” Sheriff Judson scratched his ear. “Art was on a fishing trip, and we didn’t know just how to reach him. Besides, about the only causes of death he can identify are distemper, and hoof-and-mouth disease. We should have a reg’lar doctor or, anyways, an undertaker for coroner instead of a vet, but Charlie was too busy to run for office and nobody’d vote for Doc Svensen because he’s a Communist.”
Herb scowled and said, “Yeah, but—” He paused. “Look, Henry. If the bullet went clear through and came out on the other side, how come it didn’t blow the back of his head off? Remember that guy from St. Louis who was hunting up by Clear Lake and somebody thought he was a deer or something—”
“I remember,” Will Sims said hastily.
“The bullet hit that guy at Clear Lake right on the point of the jaw, and—”
“That’s enough,” Will Sims said. “I told you, I remember.”
“—the whole back of his head, and his—”
“I said, that’s enough,” Will Sims roared. “You, don’t have to remind me. Shut up!”
Herb finished with, “—was all over the ground,” and shut up.
“Now, Will,” Henry Judson said mildly. “Don’t get so fussed. And don’t look so embarrassed. Anybody might of felt the way you did, under the circumstances. Me ’n’ Herb, we didn’t feel so good, either.”
“But, Henry,” Herb said. “That bullet—” Will Sims gave him a look, and he subsided.
Sheriff Henry Judson tossed the bullet around on the palm of his hand. “Could happen that way,” he said thoughtfully. “Depends on a lot of different things, of course. Now, for instance. This here is a rifle bullet, not a pistol bullet.” He closed one eye for a minute and squinted meditatively with the other one. “Herb. You wrote down that feller’s description so’s he could be identified. How tall was he?”
“I’ll look it up,” Herb said. He pulled out a drawer in the filing cabinet, pawed through a few papers, and said, “Five foot ten and a half.”
“Mmm,” Sheriff Judson said. He picked up one of the prints. “I don’t suppose you could point out to me exactly where that spot was before you took it off.”
“Easy,” Handsome said. He made a tiny mark with a pencil. “It was right there.”
Sheriff Judson said, “Uh-huh. Was old man Miller standing close up against the wall when you made this here picture?”
“Just about a foot away from it,” Handsome said.
“Thought so,” the sheriff murmured. “And old man Miller is about six-foot-one. All the Millers was tall. That would be about—” He looked closely at the picture. “Now a bullet from a high-powered rifle would go through a feller’s head and come out the other side without making much of a hole, providing the feller had the right kind of bones in his skull and that the rifle was shot off from far enough way. To judge from this here picture, and from how tall the feller was, and the fact that the bullet stuck in the wall and didn’t go clean through the wall—” He paused and appeared to be deep in thought.
“Well?” Will Sims said impatiently.
“I’d say,” Sheriff Judson said slowly, “this here bullet must of been fired from a 30-30 rifle about a hundred feet away from where the bullet stuck in the wall, and the feller who was hit must of been standing about twelve feet in front of the wall.” He looked once more at the pictures. “The feller must of been just about to go into the shanty, when somebody standing about halfway across Elbert McMillan’s corn field l
ifted up a rifle and shot him. Darn good shot, too.” He bounced the bullet up and down in his hand and said, “I feel real grateful to you two. This here bullet and this here picture are a lot of help.”
“That’s nice figuring, Henry,” Will Sims, said. His impatience had changed to admiration. “Be careful of that bullet, though. We’ll want to send it in to the ballistics experts.”
“Oh, sure,” Henry Judson said. “Only first we got to find the gun it came out of, so’s we can send that in to the ballistics experts too. They gotta have the gun and the bullet both.”
Bingo drew a long breath. “If you ask me,” he said, “I’d say you’re something of an expert yourself.”
Sheriff Judson chuckled. “Maybe we could teach those fellers at the state police laboratory a thing or two ourselves. Such as, how to find a bullet with a camera.”
“I didn’t know you gentlemen were photographers too,” Will Sims said. “That’s very interesting. I’ve always felt that photography was a very fine hobby. Several of the campers have Brownies.”
“I haven’t had a picture taken in years,” Sheriff Judson said.
The definition of Opportunity, Bingo reflected, was “something to grab, quick, before she has time to knock.” He cleared his throat and said, “Say! How about letting us take a couple of nice pictures of you!”
“Oh, now,” Sheriff Judson said, pleased and highly embarrassed.
“Sure,” Bingo said. “You’ve been awful nice to us. How about letting us take some pictures, as a little present? And you too, Mr. Sims.”
“Well,” Will Sims said slowly, “I hate to let you—I hesitate to accept—”
“Nonsense,” Bingo said briskly. “It would be a pleasure.” And, he thought, a good advertisement. “You’d take a swell picture. Especially, if you’ve got some kind of camper’s outfit with insignia and stuff.”
“I—” Will Sims paused. “It wouldn’t take me a minute to run home and put it on.”
“That’s the stuff,” Bingo said. “You do that, while we take pictures of the sheriff, here. Handsome, you get the cameras out of the car. And those flash bulbs. This is as good a time as any to use ’em.”
“You bet,” Handsome said. “I’ll bring ’em right in.”
While he was waiting, Bingo had another thought. He turned to Herb. “Tell you what! Let’s take a picture of you, and Handsome can mount it up fancy, and you can give it to Chr—Miss Halvorsen, when you go out for Sunday dinner. I bet she’s never had a picture of you.”
“I dunno as she’d want one,” Herb said.
“Of course she would,” Bingo said. “And if she had a picture of you around, right where she was seeing it all the time, she’d keep thinking about you. That’s psychology. Am I right, Sheriff?”
He looked at Sheriff Judson, who gave him a long, slow, meaningful wink. “Darned right, Mr. Riggs.”
“I guess—” Herb slowly turned a bright cerise under his tan. “Only I’d have to go home and put on my other suit.”
For the next two hours, Bingo and Handsome were busy. They photographed Sheriff Judson in his office, in front of the jail, and standing beside the police car. They drove over to Charlie Hodges’ and photographed Sheriff Judson, and Will Sims, standing beside the murdered man. Charlie Hodges got into the spirit of the occasion and was photographed beside the murdered man, at the entrance to his undertaking parlor, and, finally, beside the sign that read THE FINEST LOW-COST FUNERALS IN THURSDAY COUNTY.
“That’s a real investment,” Bingo whispered to Handsome. “We’ll give him one print each because we’re friends, and when he sees them, he’ll want a bunch of prints for advertisements. We’ll give ’em to him ‘at cost.’”
They photographed Will Sims in a variety of poses: with one foot on a tree stump, a hiking stick in his hand; showing the proper method of starting a campfire; examining a bird’s nest. They took more pictures in his office, a small, musty room with a golden-oak desk, a filing cabinet, and a collection of stuffed birds, squirrels, and opossums. On one wall was an assortment of trophies and ribbons for hiking, swimming, woodcraft, Indian lore, handicraft, and the like, including a handsome framed certificate for editing the Thursday High School Annual for 1931.
“That ought to make a dandy background,” Bingo said, looking admiringly at the wall.
Will Sims pretended not to be delighted at the suggestion, but he posed against the wall with very little protest.
“That’s going to be a terrific picture,” Bingo said. “And what an inspiration to all your campers!”
He detected a wistful gleam in Will Sims’ eye and decided this was the time to make the pitch. “Yes, sir,” he said enthusiastically. “I wish every one of those campers could have a print of that picture.”
Will Sims rose to the bait fast. He said, “Would it be very expensive?’
Bingo frowned, deep in thought. He was silent for a moment, then he said, “Well, we could give you the negatives and you could have the prints made. Of course, this kind of film takes a special printing process, and not everybody could do it for you.”
Will Sims’ face fell. He looked like a small boy who’d been told that electric trains weren’t being made any more.
“But you could send them to Chicago or New York,” Bingo said.
“But, Bingo,” Handsome began. Bingo silenced him with a nod.
Will Sims looked hopeful again. Bingo went on mercilessly. “It shouldn’t cost you more than ten or fifteen dollars a print.”
“But, Bingo,” Handsome said again. “We’ve got material. I could make the prints.”
Bingo looked as though that was a new and wonderful idea to him. He beamed. He turned to Will Sims and said, “Stupid of me not to think of that. Of course we could make the prints. Mr. Kusak here could probably make them overnight.”
“Easy,” Handsome said.
“But,” Will Sims said unhappily, “ten or fifteen dollars—and I’d want quite a few—I’m afraid—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bingo said. “You know how these Chicago and New York outfits have to make a big profit on everything. After all, we’re personal friends. Naturally we’d be delighted to make them for you at cost.”
“Oh, I couldn’t let you do that,” Will Sims said, but he looked now like the small boy who’d discovered that Santa Claus had somehow located the last electric train in the world. “Especially since I’d want—well, quite a few.”
“Think nothing of it,” Bingo said magnanimously. “After all, photography is a hobby with us, and my partner here likes nothing better than making prints. If you insist, of course, we’ll let you pay the cost of the material. But since we get everything wholesale, that won’t amount to much. You’d want a print for each one of your campers, wouldn’t you? How many of them are there?”
“Forty-two,” Will Sims said. “There were forty-three when we started, but little Bobbie Hartel had to be sent home with poison ivy.”
“You’d better give Bobbie a print, too,” Bingo said, sympathetically. “I bet he feels terrible about not being able to stay at camp. That makes forty-three.” He turned to Handsome and said, “Let’s see, now. The cost of those special postcard-size prints. Never mind the developing material, just the cards themselves.” Then, quickly, before Handsome could say that they cost one and a half cents each, he added, “They don’t cost us, more than a quarter apiece, I’m sure.”
Handsome, who had opened his mouth to speak, closed it again. His face was a mixture of disapproval and admiration.
“That’s wonderful of you boys,” Will Sims said. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. Will it take very long?”
“I’ll make ’em overnight,” Handsome promised.
“And you can give ’em to your boys at camp tomorrow,” Bingo added. Suddenly an idea seemed to strike him. “Say, while we’re here. It just occurred to me. While we’re here, we ought to take some pictures of that camp. I wonder if the parents of those boys at camp wouldn�
�t like pictures of them on their camping trip.”
Will Sims’ eyes fairly shone. He said, “That would be wonderful, but would you—”
“We’d love to,” Bingo said hastily. “I’m anxious to see that camp, anyway; it must be something worth going a long way to visit, and if we could do your campers a little favor while We’re there, such as taking pictures for them to give their folks as a little surprise when camp is over—”
He paused and looked very thoughtful. “Of course, I don’t imagine the boys could afford to pay for the printing materials, so—”
“Oh, that can come out of the camp fund,” Will Sims said. “And, if you don’t mind, we’ll put your names down on the list of camp donors—for donating your time and trouble.”
“Don’t give it another thought,” Bingo said.
They left Will Sims looking blissful. His last words to them were on the subject of what a wonderful motion picture could be made of a day in the life of a camper.
“Now for Herb,” Bingo said. “One way or another, he ought to be a good investment, too.”
Herb proved to be a more difficult subject. Handsome tried a number of poses; in all of them Herb looked bashful and embarrassed. At last Bingo turned him full face to the camera and said, “Remember, this is the picture she will look at every day of her life. So stare straight at the camera and think of Christine.”
Herb stared straight at the camera and looked like a grinning imbecile. Handsome snapped the picture.
“Wonderful,” Bingo said. “She’s going to love it. We’ll make you a real elegant print of it, in a fancy mounting, and you can give it to her for a present when you go to dinner Sunday. Every girl likes presents.”
He sensed that Herb was about to say, “How much—” and added hastily “Now, don’t try to offer us anything for the picture, or we’d be insulted. We’re pals, aren’t we?”
Herb nodded and said, “Yeah.”
Bingo wasn’t sure just how to turn that particular picture to profitable use, but certainly some inspiration would come to him. Meantime, he’d just consider it as unused capital.