The Big Book of Reel Murders

by Stories That Inspired Great Crime Films (epub)

  Doc Pennypacker opened the glass door. Nothing happened. He was inside. He was walking funny, like a guy on ice. Anybody could see what was coming, anybody with sense. But not the pantywaist. He gave Pennypacker a look and went on selling the guy and the girl.

  Pennypacker picked the girl. He would do that, that louse of a Pennypacker. He went up behind her, close, and put the gun in her back. Nobody moved. The clerk didn’t faint. Nobody fainted, nobody yelled, nobody screamed. Nothing happened. But plenty was happening inside Steve Lacy. He could feel his insides jumping up and down, going crazy. You do your damnedest and nobody believes you.

  The clerk went to the big box. He came back with a tray. Envelopes were on it, lots of them, and little wrapped packages. They spilled out on the counter. They went into Doc Pennypacker’s pockets.

  Maybe they would believe that.

  Doc Pennypacker came away from the girl, backing up. Across the floor, backward, his gun on the three of them to the door. He got to the door. His left hand went behind him to open it. He turned his head a little bit. A little bit he turned his head and that was it.

  Those cops. There was one somewhere in the back of the store, a sharpshooter, that cop. He put one in Doc Pennypacker’s shoulder, a big one that spun him around and knocked him through the door. The girl disappeared. The clerk and the guy in front of the counter had guns on Doc Pennypacker. And two more had come out of nowhere on the sidewalk to land on Doc Pennypacker. And that was it.

  Steve Lacy cut the switch and killed the motor. Like before. That other time it was just like this. Now he had it ahead of him again—twenty-five long ones. He put his hands over his face. Mother of God, those long years.

  But no slugged coffee for Ella. Doc, Hastle, and Devers would know it was a loused-up job. The cops waiting. But he was going with Doc, wasn’t he? A twenty-five for him too. So it couldn’t be him that’d spilled. They’d leave Ella alone. “Those damn cops,” they’d say. “Those damn cops got lucky.” Ella, baby. A hell of a thing, but don’t waste your tears. A dumb guy. An ex-con. A stacked deck, a rigged deal. Right from the start, a loused-up thing.

  Ella baby.

  “You slob,” Pat Simms said that. “You soft-headed slob,” Pat Simms, the cop, was yanking at the handle of the rear door. He was in the back seat. “Start the motor, Lacy.”

  Steve leaned forward to reach the switch. The motor caught—velvet and kittens, that motor. Steve put his hands on the wheel. Simms was going to make him drive to the station. He’d do that. If he was going to hang you he’d make you bring your own rope. He was sitting in the corner of the back seat. Steve could see his cheek, an ear, a slice of hat brim in the mirror.

  “Down Fourth,” Simms said. “To Washington.”

  Steve cramped the wheel. He put out his hand and pulled away from the curb. He was going up. They were going to hit him with the book and he put out his hand so he wouldn’t get a ticket. He moved with the traffic flow. His head was numb. He couldn’t think. He stopped for a red light, moved on again.

  “You slob,” Simms said.

  Steve didn’t answer that. Simms didn’t want an answer. His whole face was in the rear-view mirror now; a stub of toothpick bobbing in the corner of his mouth. A fat man, a hog with ulcers, chewing a toothpick because he couldn’t have a cigar.

  “This’s a nice buggy,” Simms said. “Motor sounds good.”

  “The hell with you,” Steve said.

  Simms said, “Turn right at the corner.”

  “I know where the station is.”

  Simms said, “Turn right, Lacy.”

  Steve put out his hand again. West on Washington. Across the bridge. They weren’t going to the Central Station. Harbor Precinct or the West Side Station then. Where they could put you on ice. Where they could work on you for a week before they wrote your name on a blotter.

  “You’re an ugly guy,” Simms said. “You got scrambled eggs for brains. Take a wrench out of your hand and you can’t find your way across the street.”

  The hair crawled on Steve’s neck. Ella, baby.

  “Some guys learn,” Simms said. “Some don’t. Repeaters, plenty of them. Once isn’t enough. How many times has Pennypacker been up? The smart boys write it all down in a book. Percentages and numbers. The hell with percentages. What good is a table of numbers for a cop? You want to find out if a guy is wrong—lean on him, that’s how you find out. Ride him, ride the hell out of him. If he’s wrong he cracks. If he’s rotten it shows up.”

  Not Harbor Precinct. Harbor was behind them. West Side Station then. Out in the sticks where they could take their time. Where you could fall downstairs before they wrote your name on the blotter.

  “Three years I let you alone,” Simms said. “You got a job, a wife, a bank account. You’re a good mechanic. Your foreman says you’re a good hand.” Simms spat the shredded toothpick from his lips. “Then I come around. After three years of letting you alone. You think that’s an accident? You got mush in your head. Where do these guys come from—the fast hustle boys, the boys with the guns? Out of the pen—that’s where they come from. We’ve got wires in the pen. We hear all the whispers. One of the fast boys goes to spit, we know about it.”

  The cops had known it was coming. They’d known it all the time.

  “Doc talks too much,” Simms said. “We knew where he was going and what he was going to do before he ever walked out of the gate. ‘He’s going to see Lacy; Lacy’s going to drive for him.’ That’s what the whispers said. So I start riding you. If you’re wrong I want to know it.”

  The car ran on. Sunshine in the streets. Stores. People walking on the sidewalks. A kid with a quart of milk. A beer sign. Ella had beer in a cardboard box. Ella was waiting on the porch.

  “It’s eleven-thirty,” Simms said. “You’re going to be held up at noon. At noon—straight up. And who’s this talking? A friend of yours. A guy who knows.” There was a fresh toothpick in Simms’s mouth. “You slob,” he said. “You think we didn’t know Doc was staying with you? Your phone’s been tapped for two weeks. We’ve been reading your mail.”

  Steve rubbed his neck. Sweat stung his eyes.

  “Straight ahead,” Simms said. “Drive on.”

  Bay Road. The big freeway that cut the city like a knife.

  “You didn’t crack,” Simms said. “I rode the hell out of you and you didn’t crack. You used the phone. You cut it thin, but you used the phone. We had time to have it rigged for Doc.” Simms rubbed his face. His beard was sandpaper under his hand. “Stop here,” he said. “Pull over and stop.”

  Steve stopped. This was no place. This was a curb alongside a vacant lot. The West Side Station was a mile away. Bay Road ran straight ahead.

  “Next time call me,” Simms said. “A cop’s job is to protect the citizens, the taxpayers. You want help, you got trouble, call me. You’ll have to call, Lacy. I won’t be around unless you do.”

  That Simms—that beautiful man. Old and tired. His face was tired. He put his hand on the door latch. He let the door swing open, but he didn’t get out. He flipped the toothpick through the door and fumbled in his vest.

  “You won’t have any trouble,” he said. “No matter what they told you; no matter what the whispers say. No trouble, Lacy. Nothing you can’t handle. But if you need me—call.”

  “I’ll call,” Steve said. “Like a taxpayer should. I’ll call.”

  “The hell with the ulcers.” Simms had a cigar in his hand. He lit a match. He was a long time lighting his cigar. He rolled the smoke around his mouth tasting it. “Good,” he said. “Tomorrow the ulcer’ll be kicking up, but I figured today was the day for a cigar.” He smiled a little. “As ugly as you are,” he said, “I don’t know how anybody could love that face. But your wife loves it. Go on home, Lacy. And sleep easy.”

  “Today we’re going on a picnic,” Steve said.


  A couple of kids started playing catch in the vacant lot. A woman went by with a sack of groceries. An inbound bus appeared far down Bay Road. Simms got out of the car and closed the door.

  “Have fun,” he said. “Tell your wife hello.”

  He went across the street to catch the bus.

  On the Make

  DASHIELL HAMMETT

  THE STORY

  Original publication: The Hunter and Other Stories (New York, Mysterious Press, 2013)

  DURING THE LATE 1920S, Samuel Dashiell Hammett (1894–1961), having had tremendous success writing for Black Mask magazine, the greatest of the mystery pulp magazines, saw his serialized novels published to great acclaim and movie money came along soon after. Having priced himself out of the pulp market, he wrote for such “slick” magazines as Collier’s, Redbook, and Liberty and then inevitably found himself in Hollywood, working for Howard Hughes’s Caddo Productions, Warner Brothers, Universal Studios, and Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, among others.

  One of the original screen stories he wrote was “On the Make,” which was filmed as Mr. Dynamite (1935). The story is a lengthy scenario, complete with dialogue, carefully described characters, and a richly complex plot. It was never published in his lifetime, making it into print for the first time in 2013.

  “On the Make” begins as the type of story one would expect from Hammett, with a totally broke Gene Richmond placing an advertisement for a secretary to assist in his new private detective agency. He has to pay five dollars to the man who painted the sign on his door with three single dollar bills and loose pocket change—and even tips him a quarter.

  The young woman who applies for the job is nervous when she hands the reference letters he asks to see because, as he quickly ascertains, they are forgeries. She has spent the past five years in prison, assisting her boss to embezzle. She suspects Richmond is not entirely on the up-and-up but takes the job out of desperation in spite of her fear that she’ll wind up in jail again, once more being involved with someone on the wrong side of the law.

  Her fears are well-founded as Richmond is not like Hammett’s other private detectives who may not always adhere to the law but have a code of honor.

  Richmond takes on several cases with no intention of working on them, instead taking retainers and calling the police, figuring they’re better at recovering stolen antiques and finding missing teenagers than he is. After billing for hours, nonexistent assistants, and expenses, he returns a small portion of the advances when the mysteries are solved.

  On what he believes will be his biggest score, he connives to extract a big payoff from a multimillionaire whose beautiful daughter has fallen in love with him. When he is found out, he realizes he has lost out on marrying into the ultrawealthy family.

  THE FILM

  Title: Mr. Dynamite, 1935

  Studio: Universal Pictures

  Director: Alan Crosland

  Screenwriters: Doris Malloy, Harry Clork

  Producer: E. M. Asher

  THE CAST

  • Edmund Lowe (T. N. Thompson/Mr. Dynamite)

  • Jean Dixon (Lynn Marlo)

  • Victor Varconi (Jarl Dvorjak)

  • Esther Ralston (Charmian Dvorjak)

  The promotion, advertising, and lobby posters gave extraordinary credit to Hammett, with his name on the posters the same size as the title, identifying the film as Dashiell Hammett’s Mr. Dynamite.

  While it was unusual to see an author’s name displayed more prominently than the title and the star actor, this attention was remarkable on two counts. First, Hammett had written the scenario for Warner Brothers and they turned it down. Darryl Zanuck had commissioned the story as a follow-up to The Maltese Falcon (1931), also featuring Sam Spade. Zanuck claimed that “the finished story [had] none of the qualifications of The Maltese Falcon.” Hammett recovered the rights to his story, changed the detective’s name to Gene Richmond, and after some rewriting sold the treatment to Universal, with yet another name change. Although Hammett’s name apparently was the main attraction, he did not even write the screenplay.

  Second, and even more extraordinary, the film has nothing to do with Hammett’s story.

  Mr. Dynamite begins with concert pianist Jarl Dvorjak inviting an attractive young woman to his house to hear him play while his wife is away. He then goes to a casino owned by the young woman’s father, where he meets a young man who has won handsomely. They exchange heated words and when he is murdered just outside the casino, Dvorjak denies that he has ever met him.

  When the police close down the casino, private detective T. N. Thompson (nicknamed Mr. Dynamite because of his initials) is hired to solve the murder, vowing to do it before the San Francisco Police Department can do it. There are more bodies, including Dvorjak, who is shot to death while playing the organ for the young woman.

  While Hammett’s private eyes have many laudatory traits, they could not be considered warm and lovable, but Thompson can most generously be described as unpleasant. His animosity toward the police is evident in his sneering, insulting tone, and he even steals evidence at crime scenes to frustrate them or to enable him to solve the crimes before they do. He also has no compunctions about buying expensive jewelry and furs for his girlfriend and charging the cost to his clients as expenses.

  Edmund Lowe made his debut in silent films but moved seamlessly into sound pictures, starring in more than a hundred films before becoming a supporting actor. He did a good job as T. N. Thompson in Mr. Dynamite but his sarcastic remarks were seldom as amusing as those made by Jean Dixon, who played his wisecracking secretary.

  ON THE MAKE

  Dashiell Hammett

  CLOSE-UP OF A railroad station newsstand. Gene Richmond, his back to the camera, is leaning over the counter talking to the girl in charge. His voice is blotted out by the combined sounds of hurrying feet, puffing locomotives, rattling trucks, clanging gates, distant cries of newsboys and taxi-drivers, and a loudspeaker announcing unintelligibly the names of cities for which a train is about to leave.

  Widen shot to show two burly men standing on either side of Richmond a little behind him. They are typical police detectives. One looks at his watch, then taps Richmond’s shoulder. “Come on, Richmond,” he says, “your go-away’s leaving.”

  Richmond straightens and turns putting a couple of packages of cigarettes in his pocket. He smiles mockingly at the police detectives and says: “Boys, this is breaking my heart.” He picks up his Gladstone bag.

  One of them growls somewhat bitterly: “It’d’ve broke your heart a lot more if you hadn’t had dough enough to fix it so you could leave town this way instead of going up the river with cuffs on you.”

  The other one says impatiently: “Come on. What are you trying to do? Miss the train so you can give the twist”—he jerks his head a little toward the girl behind the counter—“a play?”

  Richmond chuckles. “That might be nice, too,” he says. He turns his head over his shoulder to say, “By-by, baby,” to the girl, then walks away from the newsstand between the two police detectives.

  At the gate, Richmond produces his ticket, one of the detectives shows his badge, and they go through with him, the gateman looking curiously after them. They walk down the platform beside a train, past Pullman cars where porters are already swinging aboard. A few passengers are hurrying down past them. Train-hands are shouting, “All aboard.” Richmond seems in no hurry and undisturbed by his companion’s scowls.

  Finally they reach the day coaches. One of the detectives jerks his thumb at the entrance to the first coach and growls: “And don’t forget—the orders are ‘out of town and stay out!’ ”

  Richmond puts a foot on the bottom step as the train slowly starts to move and, holding on with one hand, his bag swinging in the other, smiles at the detective and replies: “I won’t forget. And
any time you bums are fired off the force for getting brains, look me up. I’ll be running an agency somewhere—with ex-coppers working for me. Ta-ta! Give my love to the Chief.” He climbs aboard.

  The two police detectives stare after the departing train. One of them sighs as if relieved and says: “That’s a good day’s work. One crooked private dick like him can make more trouble than a hundred out-and-out thugs.”

  The other rubs a hand across his chin and shakes his head a little. “It’s plenty of bad news for some other city,” he says.

  The first one shrugs. “That ain’t our grief,” he says.

  They turn back toward the gates.

  Close-up of a glazed office door on which a hand is lettering:

  GENE RICHMOND

  PRIVATE DETECTI

  Enlarge to show painter starting to work on V, then inside to an unoccupied but furnished outer office (wooden railing fencing off space for visitors, three wooden chairs for them; one desk facing railing, another desk at other end of room, filing cabinet, wastebaskets, telephones, etc., all somewhat worn) and to a wooden door marked PRIVATE, and through this to a room where Gene Richmond is sitting at a desk, a cigarette in his mouth, looking narrow-eyed through smoke at a mannish looking woman of about thirty in mannish clothes who is seated in a chair beside the desk.

  She is saying: “…and, as I wrote you when I answered your advertisement, I’ve had experience in bookkeeping and general office work as well as stenography.”

  Richmond nods slowly, still looking narrow-eyed at her, and asks: “References?”