A Century of Noir

by Max Allan Collins

  Ah, the plans! The preparations! How newly filled were my so-recently empty days!

  I spent most of the last week closing my apartment on Newbury Street. The furnishings would be moved to our new home by Tom, while Gerald and I were in Washington. But, of course, there was ever so much packing to be done, and I got at it with a will.

  And so at last I came to my desk, and my genealogical researches lying as I had left them. I sat down at the desk, somewhat weary, for it was late afternoon and I had been hard at work since sunup, and I decided to spend a short while getting my papers into order before packing them away. And so I opened the mail which had accumulated over the last three months.

  There were twenty-three letters. Twelve asked for information on various family names mentioned in my entry in the Exchange, five offered to give information, and six concerned Euphemia Barber. It was, after all, Euphemia Barber who had brought Gerald and me together in the first place, and so I took time out to read these letters.

  And so came the shock. I read the six letters, and then I simply sat limp at the desk, staring into space, and watched the monstrous pattern as it grew in my mind. For there was no question of the truth, no question at all.

  Consider: Before starting the letters, this is what I knew of Euphemia Barber: She had been born Euphemia Stover in Salem, Massachusetts, in 1765. In 1791, she married Jason Barber, a widower of Savannah, Georgia. Jason died two years later, in 1793, of a stomach upset. Three years later, Euphemia appeared in Virginia and married John Anderson, also a widower. John died two years thereafter, in 1798, of stomach upset. In both cases, Euphemia sold her late husband’s property and moved on.

  And here is what the letters added to that, in chronological order:

  From Mrs. Winnie Mae Cuthbert, Dallas, Texas: Euphemia Barber, in 1800, two years after John Anderson’s death, appeared in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, and married one Andrew Cuthbert, a widower and a prosperous feed merchant. Andrew died in 1801, of a stomach upset. The widow sold his store, and moved on.

  From Miss Ethel Sutton, Louisville, Kentucky: Euphemia Barber, in 1804, married Samuel Nicholson of Louisville, a widower and a well-to-do tobacco farmer. Samuel Nicholson passed on in 1807, of a stomach upset. The widow sold his farm, and moved on.

  From Mrs. Isabelle Padgett, Concord, California: In 1808, Euphemia Barber married Thomas Norton, then Mayor of Dover, New Jersey, and a widower. In 1809, Thomas Norton died of a stomach upset.

  From Mrs. Luella Miller, Bicknell, Utah: Euphemia Barber married Jonas Miller, a wealthy shipowner of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, a widower, in 1811. The same year, Jones Miller died of a stomach upset. The widow sold his property and moved on.

  From Mrs. Lola Hopkins, Vancouver, Washington: In 1813, in southern Indiana, Euphemia Barber married Edward Hopkins, a widower and a farmer. Edward Hopkins died in 1816, of a stomach upset. The widow sold the farm, and moved on.

  From Mr. Roy Cumbie, Kansas City, Missouri: In 1819, Euphemia Barber married Stanley Thatcher of Kansas City, Missouri, a river barge owner and a widower. Stanley Thatcher died, of a stomach upset, in 1821. The widow sold his property, and moved on.

  The evidence was clear, and complete. The intervals of time without dates could mean that there had been other widowers who had succumbed to Euphemia Barber’s fatal charms, and whose descendants did not number among themselves an amateur genealogist. Who could tell just how many husbands Euphemia had murdered? For murder it quite clearly was, brutal murder, for profit. I had evidence of eight murders, and who knew but what there were eight more, or eighteen more? Who could tell, at this late date, just how many times Euphemia Barber had murdered for profit, and had never been caught?

  Such a woman is inconceivable. Her husbands were always widowers, sure to be lonely, sure to be susceptible to a wily woman. She preyed on widowers, and left them all a widow.

  Gerald.

  The thought came to me, and I pushed it firmly away. It couldn’t possibly be true; it couldn’t possibly have a single grain of truth.

  But what did I know of Gerald Fowlkes, other than what he had told me? And wasn’t I a widow, lonely and susceptible? And wasn’t I financially well off?

  Like father, like son, they say. Could it be also, like great-great-great-great-great-grandmother, like great-great-great-great-great-grandson?

  What a thought! It came to me that there must be any number of widows in the country, like myself, who were interested in tracing their family trees. Women who had a bit of money and leisure, whose children were grown and gone out into the world to live their own lives, and who filled some of the empty hours with the hobby of genealogy. An unscrupulous man, preying on well-to-do widows, could find no better introduction than a common interest in genealogy.

  What a terrible thought to have about Gerald! And yet, I couldn’t push it from my mind, and at last I decided that the only thing I could possibly do was try to substantiate the autobiography he had given me, for if he had told the truth about himself, then he could surely not be a beast of the type I was imagining.

  A stockbroker, he had claimed to have been, in Albany, New York. I at once telephoned an old friend of my first husband’s, who was himself a Boston stockbroker, and asked him if it would be possible for him to find out if there had been, at any time in the last fifteen or twenty years, an Albany stockbroker named Gerald Fowlkes. He said he could do so with ease, using some sort of directory he had, and would call me back. He did so, with the shattering news that no such individual was listed!

  Still I refused to believe. Donning my coat and hat, I left the apartment at once and went directly to the telephone company, where, after an incredible number of white lies concerning genealogical research, I at last persuaded someone to search for an old Albany, New York, telephone book. I knew that the main office of the company kept books for other major cities, as a convenience for the public, but I wasn’t sure they would have any from past years. Nor was the clerk I talked to, but at last she did go and search, and came back finally with the 1946 telephone book from Albany, dusty and somewhat ripped, but still intact, with both the normal listings and the yellow pages.

  No Gerald Fowlkes was listed in the white pages, or in the yellow pages under Stocks & Bonds.

  So. It was true. And I could see exactly what Gerald’s method was. Whenever he was ready to find another victim, he searched one or another of the genealogical magazines until he found someone who shared one of his own past relations. He then proceeded to effect a meeting with that person, found out quickly enough whether or not the intended victim was a widow, of the proper age range, and with the properly large bank account, and then the courtship began.

  I imagined that this was the first time he had made the mistake of using Euphemia Barber as the go-between. And I doubted that he even realized he was following in Euphemia’s footsteps. Certainly, none of the six people who had written to me about Euphemia could possibly guess, knowing only of one marriage and death, what Euphemia’s role in life had actually been.

  And what was I to do now? In the taxi, on the way back to my apartment, I sat huddled in a corner, and tried to think.

  For this was a severe shock, and a terrible disappointment. And could I face Tom, or my other children, or any one of my friends, to whom I had already written the glad news of my impending marriage? And how could I return to the drabness of my days before Gerald had come to bring gaiety and companionship and courtly grace to my days?

  Could I even call the police? I was sufficiently convinced myself, but could I possibly convince anyone else?

  All at once, I made my decision. And, having made it, I immediately felt ten years younger, ten pounds lighter, and quite a bit less foolish. For, I might as well admit, in addition to everything else, this had been a terrible blow to my pride.

  But the decision was made, and I returned to my apartment cheerful and happy.

  And so we were married.

  Married? Of course. Why not?

  Because
he will try to murder me? Well, of course he will try to murder me. As a matter of fact, he has already tried, half a dozen times.

  But Gerald is working at a terrible disadvantage. For he cannot murder me in any way that looks like murder. It must appear to be a natural death, or at the very worst, an accident. Which means that he must be devious, and he must plot and plan, and never come at me openly to do me in.

  And there is the source of his disadvantage. For I am forewarned, and forewarned is forearmed.

  But what, really, do I have to lose? At seventy-three, how many days on this earth do I have left? And how rich life is these days! How rich compared to my life before Gerald came into it! Spiced with the thrill of danger, the excitement of cat and mouse, the intricate moves and countermoves of the most fascinating game of all.

  And, of course, a pleasant and charming husband. Gerald has to be pleasant and charming. He can never disagree with me, at least not very forcefully, for he can’t afford the danger of my leaving him. Nor can he afford to believe that I suspect him. I have never spoken of the matter to him, and so far as he is concerned I know nothing. We go to concerts and museums and the theater together. Gerald is attentive and gentlemanly, quite the best sort of companion at all times.

  Of course, I can’t allow him to feed me breakfast in bed, as he would so love to do. No, I told him I was an old-fashioned woman, and believed that cooking was a woman’s job, and so I won’t let him near the kitchen. Poor Gerald!

  And we don’t take trips, no matter how much he suggests them.

  And we’ve closed off the second story of our home, since I pointed out that the first floor was certainly spacious enough for just the two of us, and I felt I was getting a little old for climbing stairs. He could do nothing, of course, but agree.

  And, in the meantime, I have found another hobby, though of course Gerald knows nothing of it. Through discreet inquiries, and careful perusal of past issues of the various genealogical magazines, the use of the family names in Gerald’s family tree, I am gradually compiling another sort of tree. Not a family tree, no. One might facetiously call it a hanging tree. It is a list of Gerald’s wives. It is in with my genealogical files, which I have willed to the Boston library. Should Gerald manage to catch me after all, what a surprise is in store for the librarian who sorts out those files of mine! Not as big a surprise as the one in store for Gerald, of course.

  Ah, here comes Gerald now, in the automobile he bought last week. He’s going to ask me again to go for a ride with him.

  But I shan’t go.

  TALMAGE POWELL

  Talmage Powell (1920–2000) did some of the best pure storytelling to be found in the pulps of the forties and fifties. Like most pulpsters, he had to work in a variety of genres to pay the bills. But unlike most pulpsters, he was as good at horror as he was at crime, and his Western stuff was damned fine, too. Editors could rely on him. He had a forty-year run as a freelancer, something few can claim.

  While he wrote a number of excellent books (including a nice, tight puzzler called The Smasher), his best crime work was probably the Ed Rivers private eye series. Powell created a different kind of character for his lead man, working against most of the genre’s clichés, finding a fresh if sometimes grumpy voice for his hero and cases that each had a nice new twist.

  Somebody Cares

  Being teamed with Odus Martin wasn’t an inviting prospect, but I didn’t intend to let it blight the pleasure of my promotion to plainclothes.

  His own reaction was buried deep in his personal privacy. I, the greenie fresh out of uniform, was accepted as just another chore. Martin volunteered no helpful advice; neither did he pass judgment on me. I suspected that he would be slow to praise and reluctant to criticize.

  If my partner’s almost inhuman taciturnity made him a poor companion, I had compensations. A ripple of pleasure raced through me each time I entered the squadroom. To me it was not a barren bleak place of scarred desks, hard chairs, dingy walls, and stale tobacco.

  My first days as Martin’s partner were busy ones. We rounded up suspects in a knifing case. Martin questioned them methodically and dispassionately. He decided a man named Greene was lying. He had Greene brought back and after seven hours and fifteen minutes of additional questioning by Martin, Greene signed a statement attesting his guilt.

  Martin’s attitude irritated me. A man’s life had been cut short with a knife. Another man would spend his best years behind bars. Wives, mothers, children, brothers, sisters were affected. Their lives would never again be quite the same, no matter how strong they were or how much they managed to forget.

  But to Odus Martin it was all a chore, nothing more. A small chore at that, one of many in an endless chain.

  When I mentioned the families, Martin looked at me as if I were a truant and not-too-bright schoolboy. “Everybody in this world has someone,” he said. “Accept that—and quit worrying about it.”

  “I’m not necessarily worrying,” I said, an edge creeping into my voice.

  He shrugged and bent over some paper work on his desk. His manner was a dismissal—a reduction of me to a neuter, meaningless zero.

  “Since you put it that way,” I said argumentatively, “how about the nameless tramp the county has to bury?”

  He looked up at me slowly. “Somewhere, Jenks, somebody misses that tramp. You take my word for it. There are no total strangers in this world. Somebody cares—somebody always cares.”

  I hadn’t expected this bit of philosophy from him. It caused me to give him a second glance. But he still reminded me of a slab of silvery-gray casting in iron.

  As the weeks passed, I learned to get along with Martin. I adopted a cool manner toward him, but only as a protective device. I told myself I’d never let a quarter of a century of violence and criminals turn me into an unsmiling robot, as had happened to Odus Martin.

  I paid him the respect due a first-rate detective. His movements, mental as well as physical, were slow, thorough, and objective. He made colorless—hence, uninteresting—newspaper copy. This, coupled with his close-mouthed habits, caused most reporters to dislike him. Martin didn’t mind in the least.

  But when it came to criminals he had the instincts of a stalking leopard. As I became better acquainted with him, I realized these were not natural endowments—they were the cumulative conditioning and results of twenty-five years. He seemed never to have forgotten the smallest trick that experience had taught him.

  The day Greene was arraigned, I put a question to Martin that had been bothering me. “You decided Greene was lying when he told us his alibi. Why? How could you be sure?”

  “He looked me straight and forthrightly in the eye with every word he spoke,” Martin explained.

  This drew a complete blank with me.

  Martin glanced at me and said patiently, “Greene normally was a very shifty-eyed character.”

  Well, I knew I could learn a lot from this guy, if I were sufficiently perceptive and alert myself. He didn’t regard it as his place to teach. He was a cop.

  As usual, I was fifteen minutes early to work the morning after the murder of Mary Smith. Martin was coming from the squadroom when I arrived. He was moving with the slow-motion, elephantine gait that covered distance like a mild sprint. It was clear he’d just got in and had intended to leave without waiting for me.

  I fell in step beside him. “What’s up?”

  “Girl been killed.”

  “Where?”

  “In Hibernia Park.”

  She lay as if sleeping under some bushes where she’d been dragged and hurriedly and ineffectually hidden. It was a golden day, filled with the freshness of morning, the grass and trees of the park dewy and vividly green.

  Squad cars and uniformed men had already cordoned off the area. Men from the lab reached the scene about the same time as Martin and I. Efficiently, they started the routine of photography and footprint moulage.

  I had not, as yet, the objectivity of the rest of t
hem. The girl drew and held my attention. She was small, fine of bone, and sparsely fleshed. Her face had a piquant quality. She might have been almost pretty, if she’d known how to fix herself up.

  As it was, she lay drab and colorless in her cheap, faded cotton dress, dull brown hair framing her face.

  Her attitude of sleep, face toward the sky, became a horror when my eyes followed the lines her dragging heels had made. The lines ended beyond a flat stone. The stone was crusted with dark, dried blood. It was obvious that she’d been knocked down there, as she came along the walkway. The back of her head had struck the stone. Perhaps she’d died instantly. Her assailant had dragged her quickly to the bushes, concealing the body long enough for him to get far away from the park.

  Looking again at her, I shivered slightly. What in your nineteen or twenty years, I asked silently of her, brought you to this?

  The murder scene yielded little. Her purse, if she’d had one, was gone. She wore no jewelry, although she might have had a cheap watch or ID bracelet. The golden catch from such an item was found near the flat stone by one of the lab men.

  Later in the squadroom, Martin and I sat and looked at the golden clasp.

  “Mugged, robbed, murdered,” Martin decided. “I wonder how much she was carrying in her purse. Five dollars? Ten?”

  He held the catch so that it caught the light. “We’ll check the pawnshops. A hoodlum this cheap will try to pawn the watch. Nothing from Missing Persons?”

  I’d just finished the routine in that department. I shook my head.