by Jerry eBooks
“You said it, pal,” agreed another driver. “To hell with him!”
At that moment a tall, muscular-looking blond lad walked up silently, tuned into the conversation, and said, “That’s a fine way to talk about a dead man. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves!”
Later, we learned that the newcomer was Joe Hatfield, supervisor of delivery. He spat on the platform and walked away. The men made no reply.
WE FOLLOWED Hatfield to the end of the platform, to a small office, which was his headquarters.
“I’m glad to hear someone say a kind word for Jonathan Rumley,” said Howard, showing his official credentials. “In fact, it’s the first kind word I have heard.”
“He must have treated you better than the rest,” I added.
“I admit that he was rather hardboiled,” said Hatfield, “but he just expected his help to work for their pay. You never seen such a bunch of loafers in your life. Half the drivers used to stop off for drinks while on their routes.”
“Why does everybody think he was murdered?” asked the chief.
“I guess it was because of the women he played around with. If he was really killed, you can bet it was some woman.”
“Why a woman?” asked Howard. “Such a question!” I shove in. “Ever look at a month’s police reports? Take away booze and dames and half the cops would be out of a job!”
Howard gives me a stare that says, in neon, “Shut up!”
“Well,” said Hatfield, “what I mean is, you take a few women who want the same man, and one of them is liable to get jealous. If the man tells her he likes the other, she is liable to get sore and blot him out.”
“Do you happen to know any of Mr. Rumley’s lady friends?” asked Howard.
“There is one named Nina Shirley—a pretty girl, if ever I saw one.”
“Married or single?”
“Completely married,” replied Hatfield. “And her husband is nuts about her. I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t get wise that she was visiting him up in the penthouse now and then for a cup of tea—or something. But there’s another angle to that story.”
“What?”
“Racine is also sweet on her. Two weeks ago, I was working late one night, and I heard Rumley and Racine fighting about her. Racine wanted Rumley to fire her and Rumley told him to go to hell. Racine is a big man and Rumley is rather small in comparison.”
“Did you chance to see Rumley when he left the store last night?” quizzed the chief.
“Yeah; I sure did. It was nearly 7:00 P.M., and everybody but the porters had gone home. I was making out my daily report on deliveries when he came down from the penthouse. He got in his car and drove away. He didn’t even say goodnight to me, as he always does. I guess he had something on his mind.”
“Can you tell me something more about this Nina Shirley’s husband?” asked Howard. “Did he work here in the store?”
“No, sir. I heard he was a professional gambler. Anyway, every time I go into a bookie joint I see him tossing the dice at the green table. But maybe he does work some place; I’m not sure. I know he used to call for her after work several times a week. Then sometimes he would go for a whole week without calling and picking her up once.”
“Have you seen him lately?” pursued Howard. “Yes; last night. He drove up just a few minutes before Rumley came down from the penthouse. He asked me if I knew where his wife was, and I said, ‘How the hell would I know?’
“Then he said, ‘I’m going up to the penthouse and have a showdown with that s.o.b.’ I didn’t know he knew anything about the penthouse. I told him he could not go up, and he got sore and finally drove away.”
“YOU SAID Rumley came down while you were here last night. Was he alone or was Mrs. Rumley with him?” asked Howard.
“You must think Rumley is a dope,” said Hatfield. “I don’t think Mrs. Rumley was ever up there. Anyway, he came down first and, about ten minutes later, Nina Shirley came down. I made out I was working and didn’t see her. It was none of my business.”
“You’re not sure that Mr. Shirley works any place?”
“As far as I know, he’s just a broke-and-flush-again gambler.”
“Did it ever occur to you that he and his wife were blackmailing Rumley?” I asked. Howard gave me another look, this time in fireworks.
“Well,” said Hatfield, “maybe so; I wouldn’t know about that. Sounds reasonable, though. He could be the type, when broke, to go in for the old shakedown stuff.”
“Can you recall just how many delivery trucks were here when Rumley came down?”
“Just one. Why?”
“Never mind: I was just thinking. Er, did Rumley return while you were still here?”
“No, sir; but he may have returned after I left. I understand that he used to come back some nights and hold wild parties in the penthouse. So did Racine, only at different times, of course. They should have had two penthouses. They seemed to like the one upstairs very much.”
“Let me ask your opinion of something, Mr. Hatfield,” said the chief. “From what you read in the papers, would you assume that Mr. Rumley had been murdered, or would you assume it was done by a hit-and-run driver?”
“I can’t really tell,” he replied, pushing his brown fedora to the back of his head. “At the same time, I just can’t believe that he was killed by any hit-and-run driver. More, I also can’t imagine a little guy like him, who was also neat-and prissy, fixing his own flat tire.”
“Why?”
“I don’t think he would know how to operate a jack, especially one with a cog missing, like I read in the papers.”
“Thanks, Hatfield, for your cooperation. I may call on you again.”
“Any time, sir. Do anything I can to help. Goodnight.”
NINA SHIRLEY was a snappy looking chickadee. Anyone trying to describe her in print would be a sucker—or Shakespeare, which same I ain’t. As to her husband, he was of the dime-a-dozen type, the kind you see at a ballpark, rooting for the home team, with a beer in one hand and a hotdog in the other.
A check-out on Shirley showed he worked a few months a year, usually at a pari-mutuel window at one of the Miami horse tracks. For the most part he touted and gambled and was usually broke. His wife, Nina, was an expert stenographer. She was now 26 and had been employed as Rumley’s private secretary for nearly two years.
Dick Rundell and Sandy Schnier were waiting for Howard when we got back to Headquarters.
“Just in time to make the Home Edition,” said Sandy. “So?”
“So,” echoed the chief, “I just saw another one of those detective movies, entitled The Happy Homicide. I rather enjoyed this one; they killed a wisecracking reporter in the first ten minutes of the show.”
“Yeah,” I said, “he died with his scoop on.”
“By the way,” went on Howard, “did you boys want anything about the Rumley hit-and-run case?”
“Come on, chief,” said Rundell; “give! Haven’t you always been treated fair by me?”
“Come to think of it, I have. I can recall when you actually spelled my name right on one occasion. It was only three years ago.”
“Leave us cut out the Martin and Lewis stuff,” said Sandy. “Jackie Gleason has taken their place—for a while, at least. Besides, vaudeville is dead.”
“Like the News,” grinned Rundell.
Howard toyed with his nail file and looked toward the high ceiling. “Well, boys,” he said, “you may inform your panting readers that the Rumley death may not be a hit-and-run case after all. Remember, I said may not.”
“I trust we can quote you on that,” said Sandy, “and not have you deny it before the next edition?”
“Well, now,” said the chief, “you wouldn’t want me to give you a fairy tale, would you?”
“Hell, no,” I butted in. “They got enough fairy tales in the Herald as it is.”
“You’re trying to starve us to death,” complained Rundell.
“Look, bo
ys,” said Howard. “I am indeed sorry to inform you that I have no magic wand which I can wave over a case and solve it just so you can get a front page sensation. All the magic wands appear to be owned and operated by Hollywood producers, and the guys who write the whodunits, after studying the technique of Hans Christian Andersen and the Brothers Grimm. But, you might state, and with considerable accuracy—and I understand your papers are sometimes concerned with accuracy—it is now my quite humble judgment that Jonathan Rumley was not killed by a hit-and-run driver.”
“Don’t tell me an alligator crawled out of the Everglades and did the job,” said Sandy.
“I have reason to believe that he was killed by a person or persons unknown to date. Just to whet the mental appetites of your readers, you may also state that it is fairly evident that Rumley was not killed in the place in which his body was found.”
“Swell,” said Rundell. “Now would you mind naming the murder suspect or suspects, or do I have to write forty stories for forty days?”
Howard left the chair, put on his broad-brim Stetson, flipped his nail file and headed for the door.
“May we hope that you will feel like talking some more sometime?” asked Dick Rundell.
“Unless I am transferred back to the uniform division,” grinned Howard, “I should have some news for you and myself by noon.” As he opened the door, he added, “I hope.”
“Which makes three of us,” said Sandy. “Well,” said Rundell, “I guess I’ll go back to the office and bang out some copy.”
“Me, too,” said Sandy, and both had the same idea, viz., speed out to the Rumley home and get a spot interview with the Widow Rumley.
BUT THE chief and me had the same notion, and beat them out there by at least three minutes. Rundell got there a few seconds ahead of Sandy.
“Nice day,” said Sandy to Dick. “Beautiful,” replied Rundell.
The chief walked out from in back of the house, and said two words: “Beat it.”
After the news-eagles left, Howard and me drove about five miles west. We stopped two blocks from a small frame house, in need of paint. It was rather lonesome; the nearest neighbor was a full block away. Nobody answered our knock, so we forced the lock. We went inside and came out with a bundle.
After which we drove to the banks of the Tamiami Canal and sat on the bank. I kept my mouth shut, knowing Howard was trying to do some heavy thinking. We remained there, in silence, for at least half an hour, then back to Headquarters.
Comes midnight of the same day. We drove to the loading platform of Rumley and Racine, showed the night watchman our official credentials, and he hoisted us up to the penthouse. We had a search warrant, in case there might be some legal kickback later.
The joint was fitted out for love and romance. The best stuff in the store had no doubt been put there. The two bedrooms were fit for a complete family of kings, only one judged from the silk lingerie around that some queens had also found it pleasant.
“See anything?” asked the chief. “Nope,” I said.
As we stepped out the door, the chief spotted something shining on the floor. Without a word he slipped it into a pocket. Then he aimed his flashlight on the floor.
The strong beams showed dark stains. It looked like blood, and what’s more, it was.
Just before the store opened next morning we made a call on Racine, in his very private office. The guy was big, muscular and looked like Gene Tunney right after the second Dempsey fight. The type of gent who said “No!” and could back it up with two good fists.
After the usual courtesies, which Racine merely grunted in a bored manner, Howard got down to business. “Do you recognize this lodge button, Mr. Racine?” asked the chief, showing him the object he had found on the floor.
Racine examined the button hastily. “It certainly isn’t mine.”
“Perhaps it belonged to Mr. Rumley.”
“No; I am sure it wasn’t Rumley’s. And I don’t know who it belongs to. Now, if you will excuse—”
The chief came closer to the desk, looked Racine straight in the eyes. “Mr. Racine,” he said, “I must ask you a blunt question.”
“Ask it.”
“Do you know who murdered Jonathan Rumley?”
The question evidently hit Racine in the solar plexus. He rose from the chair, all six feet of him, and shook a finger in the chief’s face. “I consider that question an insult,” he snapped. “Besides, I thought it was common knowledge that Rumley was killed by a hit-and-run driver while he was changing a tire. Isn’t that the truth?”
“It isn’t; the man was murdered, unquestionably.”
“That is a serious thing to say,” replied Racine. “Are you positive he was murdered?”
“I am fully aware that it is a serious statement, just as murder is a serious matter. Unfortunately, murderers do their thinking after the crime. Incidentally, can you tell me something about one Nina Shirley?”
“Well—eh—why, all I know is that she was Rumley’s private secretary. I sincerely trust you don’t suspect her of killing Rumley?”
“At the moment, I am apt to suspect anybody, including you.”
“Including me?”
“I said anybody, Mr. Racine. Good morning, sir.”
ABOUT FIFTEEN minutes later we drove up in front of a four-unit apartment house in the Northwest section. We looked at the names on the mail boxes and under Apt. 3 was John Shirley.
He opened the door at the fifth knock, the last two bangs were hard and loud. He was still in bed and still looked half-drunk.
“What the hell d’yer want?” he asked, and his throat was gravel, paved with booze.
“We’re police officers,” said Howard. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.
“I understand that you were seen at the delivery platform of the Rumley and Racine store the night Mr. Rumley was murdered. Is that correct?”
He clenched his fists and made with the temper. I shoved him back on the bed, and said, “Be nice, chum, be nice. We’re just trying to make a living.”
“What if I was? Ain’t a man got a right to call for his own wife, when she works there?”
“Where’s your car?” asked the chief. “Front of the house. That dark red coupe. What about the car?”
The three of us went out to the car. The chief made a search and came up with nothing of official interest.
“In case you may be planning on taking a little trip,” said Howard. “I advise you not to. Thanks for your cooperation. Go back to bed.”
Late that night we went to the delivery platform and searched the trucks. Evidently the night watchman was not watching—probably taking his customary sleep, the normal work of department store watchmen.
Under the front seat of the fourth truck, Howard yanked out a monkey wrench, wrapped in old burlap. On the burlap was dry blood. Same on the wrench.
He went to the phone and called Frank Mullady, in the CBI.
“Frank,” said Howard, “go out and get Joe Hatfield. If he’s asleep, wake him up. He’s turning out to be my star witness. Take him to my office and tell him I will be right there. If those two news-snoopers, Rundell and Schnier, show up and ask any questions, just tell ’em that I said that the track is muddy at Hialeah and little things like that. If they can figure that out, good luck to them.”
We were back in the chief’s private office half an hour later. With Frank Mullady was Rundell and Schnier, nostrils extended for a break in the case. Between the two news-eagles sat Joe Hatfield, wondering what it is all about.
IT WAS NOW 1:35 A.M. Howard locked the door behind him. “Sorry to disturb you at this hour,” said Howard to Hatfield, “but murder is a serious business. Now, I would like to ask you a few more questions. First, are you positively certain that Shirley did not go up to the penthouse that night? I mean the night Rumley was found dead on the highway.”
“Of course it is possible,” said Hatfield. “But I don’t see how he could get there without me seeing hi
m. He could have sneaked up while I was writing my reports.”
Howard leaned over and scooped up something from the floor, right next to Hatfield.
“Did you drop this, Hatfield?” asked Howard. “It must have fallen out of your lapel when you came in here.”
It was the lodge button, found in the penthouse. Hatfield looked at the button, then at his coat lapel, and said, “Gosh, now how did that come loose? Thanks, I’m real proud of that button.”
Howard left his chair and walked around Hatfield, Rundell and Schnier several times, all the time flipping his nail file. Suddenly he halted in front of Hatfield.
“Hatfield,” he said, “I’m certain who killed Rumley but I am uncertain of the motive.” He paused and walked around the trio once again. “Hatfield,” he went on, “what possible motive did you have to murder Rumley?”
As far as Hatfield was concerned, that question was an H-bomb dropped right in his lap. For a long moment he sat statue-like. Then his facial muscles began to twitch. “Are you kidding?” he finally asked. “I never killed anybody! Why, I liked Mr. Rumley very much. He was a good friend of mine. Why should I kill him?”
“You told me that you have never been up to the penthouse,” said Howard. “Is that correct?”
“That’s correct. Why?”
“Then how do you figure that the lodge button I just handed you was up there? I didn’t notice any wings on it.”
“Why, why,” sputtered Hatfield. “You just found it here on the floor; didn’t you?”
“On the contrary, I found it outside the penthouse door. I also found some dry blood on the floor. The laboratory test proves it to be that of Mr. Rumley.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” exploded Hatfield. “You must be crazy. You can’t make me the goat, just because you can’t solve the case!”
“Listen, buster,” I said, “you made yourself the goat. Get the notion out of your head that there can be any such thing as a perfect crime. When a homicide goes unsolved, it merely means that the men working on the case couldn’t find a clue. But there’s always some clue, some place.”
Howard looked at me, and asked, “Are you through with the lecture, professor?” Rundell and Schnier thought this was good for a laugh, but Hatfield didn’t.
