The Willie Klump

by Joe Archibald

  “I do not know what you’re talking about, you crazy man!” Mrs. Frostick yipped, but Willie knew better as the doll seemed to step out from behind her makeup and become as wan as a penguin’s dickey.

  “Le’s stop horstin’ around, shall we?” Willie sniffed. “You will tell me next you wa’n’t Bebe Delatour oncet an’ got tossed into the hoosegow one time for slicin’ a soberette with a nail-file? Who was the ginzo with the bankroll, Mr. Frostick? The article in Frankie’s scrapbook didn’t mention the citizen’s name. Mrs. Clusp told you all about my file from B to L and so where would you figure was a better place to get a Roscoe, huh?”

  Mrs. Frostick poured herself a drink. She used a beer glass for the rye and filled it two-thirds the way up. She did not offer Willie one. The brew handed her some nerve and she dared Willie to prove such a simply ridiculous story.

  “Easy,” Willie said. “It is no doubt the prints of your pretty fingers are on file downtown, Bebe, as you was held that time for felonish assault an’ prints never change if you know about such things. It looks like you turned Frankie down one time for Mr. Frostick who took you away from it all. Later on, Frankie, havin’ no more burlesque joint open to give him a bare livin,’ figured to get hunk more ways than one. Mr. Frostick, Frankie figured, had to have the society vote to make him president of that bureau or whatever Mrs. Clusp meant. So he put the bee on you, sister. You paid up or he would tell everybody you oncet trod the runways with little more on than a kewpie doll. Well?”

  * * * *

  Mrs. Frostick collapsed on a divan and clutched at her throat.

  “How much you want, Klump?”

  “Why, the very idea!” Willie sniffed. “A citizen has been liquidated and you dare to suggest a bribe? You rubbed out Frankie and made it look like suiside an’ now you . . . Tsk tsk! Well le’s take a trip down . . . Who’s that?”

  “It isn’t Miss Hush, sweetheart!” a gruff voice aid. “Excuse me, for listening outside!”

  Willie hadn’t heard the door open or close. But there stood a big distinguished- looking gee wrapped up in a big camel’s hair coat with pearl buttons. The most disturbing part of it all was that Mr. Gaylord Frostick—who else?—had a cane clutched in his right fist and it had a shiny metal knob as big as a half grown Idaho potato. And he held it by the wrong end.

  “So he wa’n’t as dumb as he seemed, Baby?”

  “I fool all kinds of crooks,” Willie said. “I hope you won’t make no more trouble than there is, Mr. Frostick.”

  “No kidding, Buster? You see, my unfortunate friend, it was yours truly that has been paying Frankie off as wouldn’t I have known all along she was Bebe Delatour when I married her? Yeah, I was the ginzo you mentioned a couple minutes ago. Yeah, I was going around with the other doll until I met Bebe. And it was yours truly fixed Frankie’s wagon as he stepped up the bite too much.”

  “Now we got about everythin’, Mr. Frostick,” Willie said. “I’ll try an’ get lenients for you both. Blackmailers generally ast for . . . I don’t like the way you look at me, Mr. F—”

  “Look, Klump, you think we’re going to throw everythin’ away—my career, my wife’s position in society?” Mr. Frostick said in a voice that curdled Willie’s blood. “Here’s the story the newspapers will get.

  ‘At about three o’clock yesterday afternoon, Gaylord Frostick, owner of the Frostick Plastic Girdle Company, Inc., arrived at his apartment to discover his wife fighting off the advances of an intruder. Mr. Frostick struck the man over the head and called the police. Later it was discovered that the dead man was a private detective calling himself William J. Klump. Neither Mr. Gaylord nor his socially prominent wife could explain Mr. Klump’s presence there. It was known, however, that Klump, a few days previous, had frightened a group of clubwomen almost to death with a loaded revolver. His sanity had been questioned by some of his associates.’ How’s that sound, Mr. Klump?”

  “Too good,” Willie admitted. “No jury would convict you.” He backed away from the advancing Mr. Frostick. The man said, “Tear your dress to make this perfect, Bebe. Here’s where we get in the clear!”

  “You fiends!” Willie gulped. “Won’t you stop at nothin’?”

  “You can see how it is, Klump!”

  Willie found himself in a corner just as Frostick swung with the streamlined shillalah. Willie ducked like a cornered meatball and plaster jumped off the wall where the weapon had landed. Willie lowered his noggin and dived for Mr. Frostick’s legs, and the next swipe of the cane hit him on his fanny and tore a painful yowl out of him.

  But he played like a horse when he got between the society citizen’s legs and spilled Mr. Frostick. Willie tried to follow up and spread-eagle his quarry but the knob of the cane glanced off his pate and crossed his glimmers. He saw three Mr. Frostick’s and guessed it was all over.

  It would have been if Mrs. Frostick hadn’t become too eager to help. She threw a bottle with a picture of Lord Calvert on it and it was a billiard shot. It caromed off the Klump rump and tagged Mr. Frostick right between the eyes.

  Willie got to his feet and shook the canaries out of his ears. Mrs. Frostick, however, was still in there fighting, and she selected next a statuette of “The Discus Thrower.” Willie eluded same and it went right through a big window and out into traffic, and then he picked up Mr. Frostick’s cane and chased the ex-stripper around and around.

  As Mrs. Frostick passed by her prostrate hubby, Gaylord Frostick suddenly reached out for what seemed a likely weapon, and pulled. It was one of Mrs. Frostick’s shapely gams and down she went to scatter her marbles every which way. William Klump rapped Gaylord just hard enough to deep-freeze him until outsiders arrived.

  The first one to enter was a big policeman, and he held a statuette of “The Discus Thrower.”

  ”Awright, who flang this?” he yelped. “It went through the top of a Grimble delivery truck an’—”

  Willie had never felt like kissing a cop before. He had to use all his will power.

  “We can explain at the precinct house,” he choked out. “Call Kelly an’ Grogan from downtown like a good feller. Tell ‘em to bring that Roscoe that knocked off the comic. These two citizens are the ones rubbed out Frankie Servo.”

  “Wha-a-a-a?” the big cop yelped. “This, is Mr. and Mrs. Frostick, you lemonhead! Every Chris’mas they gimmie twenty bucks! Why, Mrs. Frostick is a society doll an’—”

  “Yeah, an’ she oncet packed ‘em in for Finsky,” Willie said, and took a gander at Bebe who was just getting to her hands and knees. “Hey, Bebe, take it off! Take it off!”

  “Ah-h-h-h, shuddup!” Mrs. Frostick squawked and got to her feet. “You want we should git raided? Awright, you ol’ bald-headed buzzards! Yippe-e-e-e-e!”

  She yanked a zipper, and the big cop gaped like a goldfish at feeding time.

  “Why, she’s takin’ off her . . . Hey, stop that!”

  “Oh-h-h,” Mrs. Frostick suddenly squeaked. “Wh-where am I?”

  “Let’s be goin’, huh?” Willie suggested.

  “No kiddin, pal,” the cop said. “The rest of this I must see.”

  Satchelfoot Kelly and Grogan arrived at the precinct station half an hour later. The D.A.’s right-hand man was with them. They took a look at the prisoners while Willie diagnosed.

  “They’d better get the best mouthpiece in town,” he said. “The evidence is too inclusive for them to beat the rap. It was quite an idea them gettin’ my Betsy. It looks like Mr. Frostick didn’t own a gun an’ knew wherever he borrowed or bought one he would git on record about it. So Mrs. Frostick remembered what Mrs. Clusp said about my gun an’ figured if she could grab it, it wouldn’t never be hot. Well, she did by a clever roose.”

  “But wouldn’t she figure you might see the Betsy when the cops got it, Willie?” the D.A.’s first assistant asked, putting the hot end of a cigar in his mouth. �
�It looks like Mrs. Clusp told her pal, Margie, everythin’ went on at the meetin’,” Willie divulged. “Like me sayin’ real cops and private eyes don’t see clues or evidence each other gits. Because of perfessional jealousy. An’ I only saw the Roscoe by accidents downtown, don’t forget. It is too bad for the culprits Frankie Servo kept a scrapbook they didn’t know about. I guess Mrs. Clusp will have to testerfy. Imagine it, Satchelfoot. When you have to give a phony name quick, you always grab one you or somebody used before. Huh, Mrs. Beebe. Bebe Delatour.”

  It was late the next day when the Frosticks huddled and decided a second- degree rap saving the commonwealth a lot of dough would be better than gambling on the shock rocker up the river. Willie’s picture was in the evening papers. He was the man of the hour once more, and so Gertie called him up the next morning. “Oh, Willie, you darlin’!” Gertie greeted.

  “Make up your mind,” Willie said loftily. “How about Orville Bugwhiskey or whatever his name is? Huh?”

  “Him!” Gertie replied sourly. “I don’t know what I seen in the big bum, Willie. Last night—why, I was never so mortarfried in my life. We’re in this swell French rest-rant uptown an’ the place is crowded. They run out of tumblers so they bring Orville some water in a glass bowl. Willie, the dumb cluck, washes his han’s in it.”

  “Ha-a-a-a-a!” Willie laughed. “So you thought I was dumb, Gertie? You don’t miss the well until the water goes dry, huh?”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Skip it,” Willie sighed. “Be seein’ you, Gert.”

  He hung up. Ah, he thought, what a team they would have made. Frankie Servo and Gertie Mudgett. Out of this world! Huh, Frankie was already, wasn’t he? Willie grinned. He wasn’t such a bad comic himself when he thought it over.

  STATE PENMANSHIP

  The phone rang in the office of the Hawkeye Detective Agency early one morning. William J. Klump,

  President, picked it up and let the slightly gravelly voice of his girl friend, Gertrude Mudgett, trickle into his left ear.

  “Willie, what do you think?” Gertie asked.

  “I think business is worst than awful,” Willie retorted. “Also I think I will learn me a trade after all the G.I’s are educated. What’s with you?”

  “Oh, I’m so thrilled, Willie,” Gertie yelped. “I opened a checkin’ account an’ writ my firs’ one yesterday.”

  “With my dough that I gave you to put away for me?” Willie choked out. “Look, did you think to open one in my name?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Gertie sniffed. “Nobody can open no joint account unlest they are married. Of courst if you want to get hitched—”

  Willie groaned. There was the old bear trap again. It was as bad as the badger game. It was worse than blackmail, although legal.

  “Uh, er, I got t’ have a little more time t’ think it over in, Gert,” he hedged. “What with all this inflatin’ and I don’t mean just auto tires. An’ where would we get an apartment, huh? I’ll call you later.”

  “Oh, I knew you wouldn’t mind, you darlin’,” Gertie gushed. “I am goin’ shoppin’ this very minute.” She hung up. Willie did likewise and then mopped his not so classical brow, and wondered if he shouldn’t call up the nearest lawyer.

  “Huh, that would be all she’d need,” he told himself. “I’d be part of a joint account inside of twenty-four hours. Dames! You go with ‘em two, three years an’ they expect you to marry ‘em. I—”

  The door opened and Willie turned his head and saw a reasonably prosperous looking citizen close it behind him. The man was on the portly side and was wrapped up in a pin-striped, cocoa-colored suit. Willie was sure he would look quite distinctive if photographed holding up a glass of bourbon, what with his crisply cropped mustache and the sprinkling of snow in his dark locks.

  “You mean this is the Hawkeye Detective Agency?” the visitor asked, and reached for the door-knob.

  “Don’t be hasty,” Willie said quickly. “Let me explain. I put on no big front on purpose, as then criminals don’t hear too much about me. Do cats put on bells when they go chasin’ mice?”

  THE man grinned and came over and took a chair near Willie.

  “Maybe you got somethin’ there, pal,” he said. “Guess you’re just the guy I want after all. I’m Buford Hake and I am lookin’ for a missin’ person I would like t’ find very much.”

  Willie reached for paper and pencil. “Leave us have the facts. His name an’ inscription, please.”

  Buford Hake sat down, touched off a cigar the size of a sashweight. “His name is Penrod Snerr and he is about your height an’ build, Klump. Wears glasses sometimes, an’ has brown hair and a turned-up nose. Has a gold inlay in his lower jaw. Snerr’s last address was the Elko Hotel on East Forty-ninth. I went there, but he had checked out. Here’s my card so’s you will know where to reach me.”

  “I should know that, shouldn’t I?” Willie said. “Now I have t’ have a detainin’ fee, Mr. Hake. Say about—”

  “A hundred smackers now, Klump,” the client said. “Another C when you have Snerr. I will write you a check. Of course, I want this very confidential, you understand.”

  “The Hawkeye sees all an’ hears all, my dear sir,” Willie said indignantly. “But it tells nothin’! I shall have my crew of ops at work by sundown.”

  Hake lowered his voice and gripped Willie’s lapel. His beefy pan oozed worry dew. “I have reason to know Snerr’s life is in grave danger, Klump, and I must locate him before it’s too late. Even now they may be closin’ in on him.”

  “Don’t say it.” Willie gulped. “That could cost me a C note, Mr. Hake.”

  The client wrote out a check for Willie and then departed. Willie picked up the citizen’s business card. Under the man’s name was KISMET IMPORTING CO. The detective looked at the check and tried it for a two-way stretch and was quite intrigued with the signature.

  “Odd writin’,” Willie told himself. “A man of extinction awright. Sure is anxious t’ find Snerr.”

  He looked up at the clock and it told him to get over to the bank and fast if he would eat this night.

  Ten minutes later William Klump emerged from the financial institution fondling ten sawbucks and there was a picture of a five dollar steak in his mind.

  “An’ with mushrooms,” Willie said aloud. It was a little above the average eating place where Willie sat an hour later, a great slab of charcoal-broiled steer in front of him. He was half way through the gastronomic binge when he got a whiff of a certain brand of perfume that cut the aroma of the steak to ribbons. He looked up, and there was Gertrude Mudgett, a fire blazing in each of her eyes.

  “So!” Gertie yelped. “This is the way you throw your dough away! An’ where did you git it, Willie Klump?”

  “Now look,” Willie choked out. “Is it against the law for me t’ eat? I just happened to git a client this aft an’ he give me a detainer an’— Why, hello Satchelfoot!” He cast an eye on the big detective from headquarters who was with her, and then glared back at Gertie. “Huh, so you was lettin’ me starve t’night while you was playin’ around with this schmoe, huh, Gert? You are bawlin’ me out, ha ha! I guess the shoe is on the other foot, ain’t it? Kelly, you would two-time your own gran’ma. I s’pose you heard my dame got a check account with my scratch an’ bein’ the jigglelow you are, you’re gonna sponge on it.”

  “Look, lemonhead!” Satchelfoot Kelly snapped, “I’m takin’ none of that from you.”

  “William Klump, how much was that fee you got?” Gertie Mudgett demanded to know. “You worm! How do I know you ain’t been stashin’ dough away for yourself without tellin’ me.”

  “I’m a worm, huh?” Willie sniffed like a bull, the steak having filled him with moxey. “Well, I’m makin’ a U-turn, Gertie. It is about time I tol’ you off.”

  “Leave me room to slap him one, Kelly,” Gertie yowl
ed, and over came the headwaiter with another citizen who looked capable of picking up a steam- shovel and tossing it across the Harlem River.

  “Here, here, we can’t have this,” the headwaiter said sternly. “Where do you think you are? There’ll be no fighting in here.”

  “Git lost!” Gertie said.

  “Yeah, who ast you?” Satchelfoot contributed.

  “They was annoyin’ me,” Willie said loftily, and then the powder keg exploded.

  Gertrude Mudgett hit Willie over the head with her shoulder bag and the trouble-shooting character nudged the headwaiter out of the way and laid hands on Miss Mudgett. Somebody, Willie thought as he ducked out of range, should have warned the character about Gertie before the catsup bottle whanged him right over the left ear. Satchelfoot Kelly took fast evasive action and was out in the street ahead of Willie. Here Kelly reached for Willie’s hand and pumped it hard.

  “I don’t get it,” Willie said.

  “You never did me a better favor, Willie, ol’ friend,” the detective said. “I was wonderin’ how I’d beat that six buck check in there as I only had four singles in my poke. I may be a wolf, Willie, but she eats like a horse. I ain’t forgettin’ this and if I ever git a hot tip for you, it is yourn. G’bye now, Willie.”

  “But Gert—she’s in there, Satchelfoot! She’s in trouble.”

  “You got any senst, you start runnin’,” Kelly threw back as he hiked for the nearest underground rattler. “In a fight she needs no help.”

  “Yeah,” Willie said to himself as he took Kelly’s advice. “Let her settle that one. I should stay an’ git my brains beat out an’ then how could I earn the rest of my detainer fee? Git smart, Willie, an’ don’t spare the horses!”

  * * * *