Exeunt Murderers

by Anthony Boucher

  Philip Newton sat in the cold jail cell, but he was oblivious of the cold. He was holding his wife’s hands through the bars and she was saying, “I could come to you now, dear, where I couldn’t before. Then you might have thought it was just because you were successful, but now I can tell you how much I love you and need you—need you even when you’re in disgrace. …”

  They were kissing through the bars when Michaels came with the good news. “She’s admitted it, all right. It was just the way Smith reconstructed it. She’d destroyed the paste replica and was trying to use us to pull off an insurance frame. She cracked when we had Strauss point out a picture of what he called ‘Mikki Maus.’ So you’re free again, Newton. How’s that for a Christmas present?”

  “I’ve got a better one, officer. We’re getting married again.”

  “You wouldn’t need a new wedding ring, would you?” Michaels asked with filial devotion. “Michaels, Fifth between Spring and Broadway—fine stock.”

  Mr. Quilter laid down the final draft of Tom Smith’s story, complete now with ending, and fixed the officer with a reproachful gaze. “You omitted, sir, the explanation of why such a misunderstanding should arise.”

  Tom Smith shifted uncomfortably. “I’m afraid, Mr. Quilter, I couldn’t remember all that straight.”

  “It is simple. The noun Maus in German is of feminine gender. Therefore a Mikki Maus is a female. The male, naturally, is a Mikki Mäuserich. I recall a delightful Viennese song of some seasons ago, which we once employed as background music, wherein the singer declares that he and his beloved will be forever paired, ‘wie die Mikki Mikki Mikki Mikki Mikki Maus und der Mikki Mäuserich.’”

  “Gosh,” said Tom Smith. “You know a lot of things.”

  Mr. Quilter allowed himself to beam. “Between us, sir, there should be little that we do not know.”

  “We sure make a swell team as a detective.”

  The beam faded. “As a detective? Damme, sir, do you think I cared about your robbery? I simply explained the inevitable denouement to this story.”

  “But she didn’t confess and make a gesture. Michaels had to prove it on her.”

  “All the better, sir. That makes her mysterious and deep. A Bette Davis role. I think we will first try for a magazine sale on this. Studios are more impressed by matter already in print. Then I shall show it to F.X., and we shall watch the squirmings of that genius Aram Melekian.”

  Tom Smith looked out the window, frowning. They made a team, all right; but which way? He still itched to write, but the promotion Michaels had promised him sounded good, too. Were he and this strange lean old man a team for writing or for detection?

  The friendly red and green lights of the neighborhood Christmas trees seemed an equally good omen either way.

  (1943)

  Code Zed

  “Eight!” Wolfgang Ritter commanded as the elevator started to rise.

  “Five!” said a British voice behind him, and steel pressed the base of Ritter’s spine.

  They got off at five. Ritter did not turn his head. He glanced at the portly executive waiting for the down elevator as casually as though he were the most ordinary salesman visiting the building on routine business.

  “This way, old boy,” the Englishman suggested, and emphasized the direction with a prod in the back. Ritter’s face was expressionless as they marched down the corridor.

  The door said THE WESTMINSTER TRADING COMPANY.

  The Englishman said, “Here we are.” His right hand unlocked the door while the left remained in the pocket next to Ritter. The sagging pocket ruined the drape of the faultlessly tailored coat.

  Ritter went first into the room. Rolltop desk, telephone, two chairs, wastebasket, green metal files. Most such shabby small offices omit the combination padlocks on the files.

  The Englishman’s teeth bucked out between a faint mustache and a fainter chin. He said, “The amenities, what? Captain Hughes-Hargreave, at your service.”

  Ritter bowed and clicked his heels. “Wolfgang Amadeus Ritter.”

  “No von und zu? Not even a von? Come now, old boy, mustn’t have the lower classes too active.”

  Ritter nodded at the door. “What is the trade?”

  “Trade? Oh, dear old Westminster. Touching name, what?” He drew the automatic from his pocket and glanced ruefully at the drooping cloth. “You got Code Zed from Holzheim this morning. You were bringing it to your headquarters upstairs.”

  “You are not asking,” Ritter observed. “You are telling. Also, what is the use to lie? Your men are efficient.” His eyes gazed over the Englishman’s shoulder.

  “Bit of a compliment from a German. Teuton efficiency and all that. Yes, old boy, we muddle through.”

  Ritter said nothing. His stare was still fixed behind Hughes-Hargreave. The Englishman started to shift his eyes, then laughed. “Sorry, old boy. No use. Bit more subtle than shouting, ‘Who’s that?’ but no use in the world. But as to Code Zed. Can’t have this sort of thing going on, you know. Foreign spies dashing about our dear old ally snapping up codes. Won’t do, old boy.”

  “You are not foreign?” Ritter asked levelly.

  “Blood brother and all that. Common tongue, common culture. Bit different from a bloody Hun.” The automatic balanced in his hand lightly, almost playfully. “Do I get Code Zed simply, old boy?”

  Ritter looked at him coldly. “No.”

  “Dash it, that’s sheer Hunnish perverseness. Calculate your chances.”

  “No.”

  “I’m no simpleton, old boy. I’m not coming around patting your pockets till you snatch my Webley.” He yawned. “I went last night to something called a Girlie Show. Fascinating American custom, the strip tease. Professional possibilities …”

  Ritter stood motionless.

  Captain Hughes-Hargreave made a sharp motion with his armed hand. “Start in.” He whistled a slow lugubrious version of Roll Out the Barrel as Ritter began to undress.

  The Webley was never more than an inch from the Englishman’s hand as he examined the garments. A razor blade ripped open seams, slit the soles from the shoes. He grinned up at the naked German. “Don’t fret, old boy. Never should have worn a double-breasted coat with those shoulders anyway. Overemphasis. Remember that.”

  Hughes-Hargreave was not smiling when he finished his search. “Our information was correct, old boy. You do have Code Zed, you know. Tell Uncle.”

  “The principle of the code is of the simplest. Papers would be cumberful.”

  “Cumbersome, old boy, if you don’t mind. Wore a crimson one for dinner when I was stationed in Kuala Lumpur …” His tone changed slightly. “So you memorized it! Dash it, hadn’t realized that was possible. You will make trouble for us.”

  The Englishman picked up the phone, dialed, and said, “I like a bustle that bends.” He replaced the mouthpiece and deliberately dialed the number again. “Count the clicks all right? No use. We change sentences every day.”

  Ritter nodded at the phone. “Colonel Jeffreys?”

  “Right, old boy. You do get about, don’t you? Hate to take such measures. Humanity and all that. But Jeffreys is a good man on naughty boys who memorize such codes.”

  “I have much heard of the Colonel.”

  “Don’t doubt it. Dash it, I could do with a spot of tea … I say, old boy, you’re shivering. Take my trench coat over there. No, nothing in the pockets. And now, while we wait—I dare say you’ve never played cricket?”

  Hughes-Hargreave had reached the day that he made a century playing for England when the key grated in the lock. He rose and saluted the short heavy-set Colonel. “Our German friend’s been a bit clever. He memorized Code Zed.”

  Colonel Jeffreys grunted and sat down. He bit at a cigar and lit it carefully. “I hate tobacco,” he announced to no one. “But we’ll start with the cigar. Much more satisfactory than cigarettes. Burns longer.”

  Hughes-Hargreave jerked off the trench coat. Ritter stood while the Colonel’s
small red eyes roved up and down his body. “Arm pit first,” he decided at last, and rose.

  The Captain was near the window. “Jove!” he exclaimed. “The stars in their courses and all that.”

  Colonel Jeffreys joined him. He looked out, then laid his cigar down on the desk. Hughes-Hargreave pocketed his Webley and restored the trench coat to the German. “Reprieve, old boy.”

  The window cleaner swung himself over from the next office, adjusted his belt, and set to work. He looked in uncuriously. Two men were seated by a desk, one was standing. There was nothing more to be seen.

  Hughes-Hargreave leaned forward. “It’s your chance, old boy. Your one and only. We don’t want to use these methods. Tell us what you know.”

  “No.”

  Colonel Jeffreys grunted and fingered the cigar. Ritter’s hand reached up to shield his arm pit.

  “I’m warning you, old boy, that’ll be only the start. The Colonel was with the Black and Tans. He was dashed successful, you know. Make it easy for all of us.”

  Ritter’s lips formed “No,” but no sound came.

  “I understand, old boy. You have your ideals, we have ours. A man has to follow what he believes. But it’s hopeless now. You can see that.”

  Ritter stared at the door.

  “Come now! Not again. Blighter tried that on before,” he explained to the Colonel.

  “He’s not trying it on,” Jeffreys grunted. “Noise at the door.”

  Hughes-Hargreave listened and rose. The two Englishmen moved silently toward the door. There was a metallic scratching outside.

  “If this …” the Captain began. His sentence was lost in a crash of glass. He turned to find Ritter lifting a pistol from the shards of the window. There was another in the hands of the window cleaner.

  The door burst open as Hughes-Hargreave fired futilely.

  Wolfgang Amadeus Ritter, christened for Mozart by his Viennese parents, accepted the hand of the F.B.I. official. His wounded shoulder ached with the handshake.

  “We’ve got them cold,” the government man assured him, “on failing to register as agents of a foreign power. We checked with the Yard, of course; they were both prominent in British Fascism till it got too hot for such games over there. We may have other charges against the Colonel. We’ve heard rumors for a long time of this expert torturer.”

  “It was good to be bait,” said Ritter simply. “I have seen what can happen in my own country. I must help you to prevent it here.”

  “Good man. But,” the F.B.I. man grinned, “if the department has to deal with many Englishmen like that pair, and many Germans like you and your Underground friends—well, it’s going to be hell keeping things straight.”

  (1944)

  The Ghost with the Gun

  The radio said, “So remember, folks: Murder, though it has no tongue, will speak.” A deep voice on a filter mike echoed it horribly: “Murder—will—speak!” Then the electric organ music came up loud.

  Ben Flaxner flicked the switch. He said, “That’s a cheerful thought,” and the outside corner of his left eye began to twitch again.

  Rose looked up from mending her pink housecoat. “I don’t see why you’ve got to keep listening to stuff like that. As if it wasn’t bad enough to be living in this dump with your nerves all shot and—”

  She broke off and gasped, “Oh!” as a terribly twisted face goggled leeringly at the glass in the door. The doorbell rang and Ben jumped. Then he saw the face, and grinned. “Kids,” he said.

  He answered the door and a high voice outside on the sidewalk said, “Trick or treat?”

  Ben laughed. “You kids got you a good racket. A shakedown, we used to call it back in—” He glanced back at Rose and stopped the sentence.

  “Trick or treat?” the voice repeated.

  “Treat,” Ben said. He went across to the kitchen, which was a part of the same room as the living-room, and the bedroom, too, for that matter. He came back with a double handful of hard candy.

  Ben grinned as he shut the door. “Sometime I’ll have to hold out on ’em,” he said. “I’d like to see what they do for a trick. Usually they soap up windows, and with ours all soaped up already—”

  “That’s it,” Rose snapped. “Remind me!” In repose her features were pretty, especially if she remembered all her makeup. Now they looked sharp and tight and a lot older. “Remind me I’ve got to live here in one little room with you and your brother and it isn’t even a room. A store, facing right on the street, where you’ve got to soap the windows so the customers won’t look in and think you’re an ad for tomato juice!”

  Ben spoke a little slower even than usual. “Look, baby! Where’s there a safer place to hole up? Berkeley’s full of transients now, defense workers, service families. Nobody keeps an eye on strangers; there’s too many of ’em. With Joe already working here, it was a natural.”

  “For how long?” Rose flared up.

  Ben said, “So long as the heat is on.”

  “The cops couldn’t pin it on you,” she said.

  Ben waved a big fist vaguely. “Yeah, but—”

  The doorbell rang again. Ben’s body jerked and his hand moved toward his hip. Then he relaxed, seeing another masked face.

  He opened the door and heard “Trick or treat?” and went through all the routine again. When it was over he fetched out a fifth and showed it to Rose. She shook her head and sat sullen. He poured himself a slug and held it up and said, “Here’s to Halloween.” He downed it and gasped. “I got to make me some good contacts out here. This stuff. … Rrrrr!”

  “You won’t make contacts sitting in here all day scared of your shadow.”

  He didn’t hear her. “But damned if I don’t like Halloween. I remember when Joe and me was kids. We used to have us a time, all right. And sometimes I think maybe that’s what got me started—trick or treat. You walk up to some dope and you tell him ‘… or else!’ It’s all the same. … Come on, honey, just one snort? For Halloween?”

  “You couldn’t get me something hot on that radio, could you? Or does it just play murders?”

  The doorbell rang again, and Ben grinned happily at the little sheeted, masked figure outside. Rose groaned, and got up and fiddled with the dial herself. She heard Ben open the door and she heard the little voice say, “Trick or treat?” Then she heard the shots. When she turned, all she could see was a wisp of a white sheet whisking away in the darkness, and Ben squatting there on the floor, holding his stomach with both hands.

  He started to roll over backwards as she reached him. Somehow it seemed very important to hold him up. Men aren’t dead till they’re stretched out. His lips were making noises, but there was a choking rattle in his throat that kept the lip noises from being words. Rose knelt there beside him, propping him up, and the tear she’d just mended ripped open again with the tension on her housecoat where she was kneeling on it, but with all that blood you could never clean it, anyway.

  She thought silly thoughts like that because you can’t think: He’s dying here in my arms and the last words I said to him were mean. Then there weren’t any more lip noises and she let go. But the body didn’t just keel over backward. She’d been holding it somehow off balance and it started to topple toward her. She screamed one short, sharp high scream and pushed at it. This time it did go over backward. She screamed again, and then after a while it seemed that screaming was all she could do—ever.

  A key clicked, the door opened and Joe was standing there. He slapped her face and said, “What do you want to do? Bring the whole street in here? What’s Ben been—”

  Then he saw the body and stopped. His next movements were quick and efficient. He shut the door behind him, making sure the latch caught. He went to the kitchen part of the room and brought her water. Then he fetched the fifth from the table. After a minute he said, “All right?”

  She nodded and gulped, “All right.”

  Joe said bluntly, “Did you—?”

  She choked. She
tried to tell him, even if it didn’t make any sense. “It was one of those kids, I thought. You know: ‘Trick or treat?’ And then it shot—”

  Joe looked her over carefully. “All right,” he said at last. “I’m not asking any questions. I don’t know what it was Ben got mixed up in back in Chicago, and I don’t want to know. I do know he was hiding out here and scared of his skin, and now something got him. It’s tough, but we’ve got to keep our noses clean.”

  Rose said, “You’re strong, Joe. You’ve got sense, not like—”

  “Whose gun is that?”

  Rose hadn’t seen the gun before. She shook her head.

  Joe said, “I’ll get rid of it.”

  She nodded dumbly.

  Joe thought aloud, sharply, decisively. “Nobody’s showed up, so I guess they didn’t hear you screaming. Lucky the stores on either side of us are still stores, and dark at night. You give me five minutes, then go up to the drugstore and call the police from there. Understand?”

  Rose nodded again. Joe went close to her and put his hand on her soft upper arm. She pulled away. “We can’t, Joe! Not with Ben—”

  He shrugged his shoulders and walked out of the store.

  She looked at her watch and took a drink. She tried not to look at what was on the floor. She sat there looking at the watch. Then the doorbell rang and a shrill voice said, “Trick or treat?”

  When Joe came back, she was lying on the floor. She came to when he shook her, muttering, “It came back. It came back, Joe!”

  “Huh? Oh, another trick or treat?”

  “Joe, don’t be so hard. How can you stand there—”

  He gripped her by both shoulders. “Rose,” he said, “I gave my brother a hideout. That’s one thing. From now on I’m rid of him. I’m looking out for me—and you. Understand?” He went on rapidly, “The gun was easy. I got on a San Francisco train, paid a local fare, rode to the next stop, and walked back. I left the gun there. It may turn up in San Francisco. Much more likely, some Halloween drunk’ll pick it up and we’ll never hear of it again. We’re rid of it—too,” he added. “Now get on that phone.”