The Big Book of Reel Murders

by Stories That Inspired Great Crime Films (epub)

  STOLEN CHINESE SNUFF-BOTTLE RECOVERED POLICE ACCUSE BACHMAN BUTLER

  Richmond smiles ruefully. “Too bad,” he says. “He was good for another five hundred or so anyhow.” He shrugs philosophically. “Oh, well, we didn’t do so badly, at that.” He runs a hand slowly over his hair. “Write him a letter of congratulations and enclose him a check for his unused balance of”—he pauses—“make it some odd amount like thirty-six dollars and forty cents.” He grins. “We can give him that much back to make things look right. Fix up a statement of his account to show how it happened.”

  The girl is regarding him with worried eyes.

  He pats one of her hands lightly. “This is a racket, my dear,” he says lightly, “but you can get out of it any time you want.”

  She bites her lip, turns to leave his office.

  He says: “I think I’ll run over to Palm Springs for a couple of days’ rest. You understand all the jobs we’ve on hand well enough to take care of the reports, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” she says, “I—I hope you have a good time.”

  “Thanks.” He returns to his letter as she goes out.

  * * *

  —

  The sound of heavy surf in utter darkness. The darkness pales enough to let the white lines of breakers and the wet sand of a beach become barely visible. A motor boat is dimly seen coming through the breakers. Shadowy figures of men go over the sides of the boat and run it up on the beach.

  From the complete blackness of the higher beach, the long white beam of a flashlight suddenly comes, to settle on the prow of the boat, on its painted name, Carrie Nation. The shadowy figures of men sink swiftly into the lower shadows of the boat’s sides. From the side nearer the camera comes the report of a pistol and a small brief streak of light pointing at the flashlight.

  The flashlight is tossed high in the air, spinning, its beam making slow eccentric patterns in the darkness. It falls to the ground and lies there, throwing a long thin triangle of light across the sand. Just beyond the light a man’s body lies face-down, motionless, on the sand. There is the sound of men’s feet running away.

  Next day. A middle-aged stout man, indignation written on his perspiring face, hurrying down the corridor of an office building. He stops at a door labeled Gene Richmond, Private Detective, wipes his face with a handkerchief, takes a deep breath, opens the door, and goes in.

  The outer office is arranged as before, but it also is now furnished expensively. Inside the railing at the desk facing it, an office-boy of fifteen—freckled, his hair somewhat rumpled—sits facing the door, but his elbows are on the desk, his head is between his hands, and he is immersed in a book that lies on the desk. His eyes are wide and he is chewing gum rapidly.

  Helen Crane is at her desk using a typewriter, but looks around immediately at the stout man. Then she speaks to the boy: “Tommy!”

  The boy looks up at the man without taking his head from between his hands and says: “Yes, sir.”

  The stout man clears his throat. “I want to see Mr. Richmond.”

  The boy, automatically, as if speaking from habit: “Have you an appointment?”

  “No.” The man takes a card from his pocket and puts it on the boy’s desk. “Is he in?”

  The boy looks at the card. It reads: “Milton Fields, President, Star Portland Cement Corp. The boy says: “I’ll see. Have a seat.” He turns his book face-down on the desk—its title is “The Backgammon Murder,” and goes into Richmond’s private office.

  Richmond is smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper. Tommy looks at him with obvious admiration. Richmond takes Fields’s card, glances at it, tosses it on his desk, and, returning his attention to the newspaper, says: “Bring him in, Tommy.” He puts the newspaper aside slowly when Fields is ushered in, smiles, says, “How do you do, Mr. Fields,” and nods at a chair.

  Fields sits down as Tommy, going out, shuts the door.

  Fields says: “Mr. Richmond, three times in succession in the last few months we have been underbid on large contracts by another company—the same company—the Dartmouth Portland Cement Company.”

  Richmond nods attentively.

  Fields continues, impressively: “I have reason to believe that one of my employees is supplying the Dartmouth Portland Cement Company with copies of our bids.”

  Richmond nods again, saying: “You want us to find out which of your employees?”

  Fields shakes his head. “I know. I want you to get me proof. It is a young fellow named Kennedy, a clerk. I pay him thirty-five dollars a week, and I am told it is common knowledge in the office that he spends his week-ends in Caliente, is out every night gambling, running around with fast women.”

  Richmond begins: “Sounds likely, but maybe we’d better—”

  Fields interrupts him: “He’s the one all right. I want you to get me the proof.”

  Richmond looks thoughtfully at Fields, then says: “O.K. We ought to put two men on it. One to shadow him, one to get acquainted with him and pump him.” He looks thoughtfully for another moment at Fields, who says nothing, and goes on: “They’ll cost you ten dollars apiece—and expenses.”

  Fields says: “Very well, but I must have action—quick.”

  Richmond nods carelessly and presses a button on his desk.

  Helen Crane opens the door and comes in, stenographic notebook and pencil in her hands.

  Richmond addresses her: “Miss Crane, Mr. Fields will give you the name, address, description, and so on of a man he wants investigated.” He rises slowly. His movements—like his words—are very deliberate, as if carefully thought out beforehand. He has the manner of a man too sure of himself to feel the need of trying to impress anybody. As he walks toward the outer office door he adds, casually, over his shoulder: “He’ll also give you a check for say two hundred and fifty dollars to start with.” He passes into the outer office, shutting the door behind him.

  Tommy, looking around, tries to cram his book out of sight in a desk drawer.

  Richmond smiles at the boy with good-natured mockery and asks: “Still keeping posted on how really good detectives work?”

  The boy grins in embarrassment, then, in a burst of enthusiasm blurts out: “You’d make all these guys in the books look like a bunch of bums, Mr. Richmond.” He drops his eyes, they look searchingly up at Richmond, his voice and countenance become ingratiating, and he begs: “Aw, gee, Mr. Richmond, I wish you’d give me a chance to—”

  Richmond holds up a hand, palm out. “Stop it,” he orders wearily, as if answering a familiar plea. “Stick around till you’re grown and I’ll send you up against all the thugs you want. Till then—see if you can get the result of the third race.”

  Tommy, crestfallen, reaches for the telephone.

  Richmond goes over to Miss Crane’s desk, lights a cigarette, picks up a small stack of unopened mail, and glances idly through it.

  Tommy: “Not in yet, sir.”

  Richmond nods, drops the unopened mail on the desk again, and strolls back into his private office.

  Tommy watches the door until it is shut, then draws his book out of the drawer, puts a fresh stick of gum into his mouth, and resumes his reading and chewing.

  The inner office. Richmond is seated at his desk. Fields, standing, is handing a check to Miss Crane. She takes it, thanks him, and goes into the outer office. Fields picks up his hat from a chair. Richmond rises, holds out his hand to Fields, and, as they shake, says: “I’ll keep in touch with you.” He ushers him out through a door opening on the corridor, then returns to his chair and newspaper.

  His telephone bell rings. Still reading the paper, he puts out a hand, picks up the phone, and says: “Gene Richmond speaking.”

  The other end of the wire, a luxuriously furnished library. A very dapper elderly man—rather prim-faced, white hair carefully trimmed and brushed, wear
ing nose-glasses with a black ribbon draped from them—is seated at a table, holding a telephone to his ear.

  Standing close to him, head bent a little, watching and listening with a strained, frightened expression on a face meant by nature to be genial, is a man of forty-five. He is a little plump, a well-fed, well-groomed man, with a normally rather good-looking frank countenance. The hand in which he holds a cigar within six inches of his mouth is trembling, and his breathing is audible.

  The elderly man speaks into the telephone: “Mr. Richmond, this is Ward Kavanaugh, of the law firm of Kavanaugh, Baker, and Kavanaugh. Can you meet me in my office at ten o’clock this evening?”

  Richmond, his eyes still on his newspaper: “I can come over right now if you wish, Mr. Kavanaugh.”

  Kavanaugh: “No, I won’t be back in the city until ten o’clock.”

  Richmond puts down his newspaper carefully. He purses his lips a little, but there is no other change in his face. He says: “Just a moment. I’ll see if I’m free then.” He puts down the telephone, goes to the outer office door, opens it, and says, in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone: “Have this call traced, Miss Crane.”

  He shuts the door again, puts his hands in his trouser pockets, strolls idly about his private office for a little while, then returns to the telephone. “Yes, Mr. Kavanaugh,” he says, “I can make it.”

  Kavanaugh: “Thank you. At ten, then.” He puts down the phone and turns his face toward the man standing beside him.

  The man sighs, as if with relief, and puts his cigar between his teeth, but his face does not lose its strained, frightened look.

  Richmond’s office. He is reading the newspaper again.

  Miss Crane comes in, halting just inside the door. “The call came from Herbert Pomeroy’s residence at Green Lake,” she says.

  Richmond nods thoughtfully. “That’s the stockbroker, isn’t it?” he asks in the manner of one already knowing the answer. “That would be his country house.”

  Miss Crane: “Yes, sir.”

  Richmond: “See what you can dig up on him.”

  As she turns toward the door it opens and in comes a blonde girl of twenty-three pretty in a somewhat showy way, smartly dressed, carrying a small traveling bag. She has a breezy manner, an immense store of vitality.

  Richmond rises, smiling delightedly, calling: “Hello, Babe.”

  As Helen Crane goes out, shutting the door behind her, Babe drops her bag, runs across the office to Richmond, throws her arm around him, and they kiss. She wriggles ecstatically in his arms, rumples his hair, pulls his head back by his ears to look at his face. “Gee, it’s good to see you again, you no-good darling!” she says. She pulls his head down again, rubs her cheek against his and begins scolding him happily: “What was the idea of leaving me to roost up there alone for two months before sending for me? Some other gal, huh? You two-timing scoundrel, and you waited till you were tired of her.” She squeezes him tightly in her arms trying to shake him.

  Richmond chuckles, frees himself, picks her up and sets her on his desk. “Don’t be such a rowdy,” he says. He sticks a cigarette in her smiling mouth, puts one in his own, smoothes his hair, straightens his tie while she holds a match to his cigarette and her own.

  In the outer office Helen Crane is looking thoughtfully at the connecting door.

  The inner office again. Babe crosses her legs, knocks ashes on the floor, and looks admiringly around the office. She is never still; a hand, a shoulder, a leg, her head—one is always in motion. “A nice flash you got here, Gene,” she says. “In the money again, huh?”

  He looks complacently at the expensive furnishings. “Not bad.” He grins at her. “There’s a penny to be picked up here and there in this town.”

  She laughs. “There always will be in any town for you,” she says, “and a gal.” She waves her cigarette at the connecting door. “But not that curio that went out as I came in?” she asks, and then, before he can speak, says: “No, I can’t see you going for that. That’s a novelty—you having a gal in the office that you wouldn’t want to take home with you.” She looks sharply at him and demands with mock severity: “You haven’t reformed, have you, Gene?”

  He shakes his head good-naturedly. “Lay off Miss Crane,” he says. “She’s a find.” He touches Babe’s uppermost knee with a forefinger. “I’ve got a job for you tonight, honey.”

  She pouts at him. “You mean you’re going to put me to work right away, we’re not even going to have this first evening together?”

  “I’m sorry,” he says, coming closer to put his hands on her shoulders, “but I’ve got to toil too. You know how things break in this racket. I want you to pick up a kid named Kennedy whose boss thinks is selling him out—make him—see what you can work out of him. Miss Crane will give you the dope.”

  Babe squirms petulantly under his hands, still pouting.

  He pats her cheek lightly and reaches over to press the button on his desk.

  Helen Crane, notebook in hand, enters.

  Richmond addresses her: “Miss Crane, this is Miss Holliday, who will be working with us.”

  The two women acknowledge the introduction politely while sharply sizing each other up.

  Richmond continues: “Miss Holiday’s first assignment will be on the Fields job. Will you give her the particulars? She will…”

  FADE OUT

  * * *

  That night. Richmond at the wheel of a Cord roadster. As he parks near the entrance of an office building he looks at the clock in the dashboard. It is 9:55. He leaves the automobile, goes into the office building, looks at the lobby directory until he sees Kavanaugh, Baker, & Kavanaugh, 730, rides in an elevator to the seventh floor, and walks down the dimly lighted corridor to the lawyer’s door. There is nothing in his manner to show he is on a serious errand.

  He knocks on the door lightly, opens it without waiting for an answer, and goes into a reception room lighted only by one desk lamp. Ward Kavanaugh appears in a doorway across the room, saying precisely, “Ah, good evening, Mr. Richmond. It was good of you to come,” coming forward with quick short steps to shake hands.

  They go into Kavanaugh’s office. Richmond takes off hat, overcoat, and gloves, and puts them on a chair, sitting in another large leather chair that Kavanaugh has pushed a little forward for him.

  Kavanaugh sits at his desk, erect, adjusts his nose-glasses, then puts his fingertips together in front of his body, and, in his precise voice, says: “This matter upon which I wish to—ah—consult you, Mr. Richmond, is one of the—ah—greatest delicacy.” He takes off his glasses and, holding them in one hand, looks sharply at Richmond. He is obviously somewhat flustered.

  Richmond says nothing.

  Kavanaugh puts his glasses on again, clears his throat, goes on: “One of my clients has unfortunately—or, rather, injudiciously—allowed himself to become involved—legally if not morally—in a somewhat—a decidedly—serious affair”—he jerks his head a little sharply at Richmond and concludes his speech quickly—“a crime, in fact.”

  Richmond is lighting a cigarette. His eyes are focused attentively on Kavanaugh’s. He says nothing.

  Kavanaugh takes off his glasses again and taps the thumbnail of his left hand with them, nervously. He says: “He—my client—is a man of the highest standing, socially and in the business world.” He puts his glasses on his nose again. “Several days ago his bootlegger’s—ah—salesman came to him and said he was going into business for himself, but had not a great deal of capital. He suggested that my client advance him a thousand dollars, in exchange for which he would supply my client—out of the first shipment—with—ah—merchandise worth much more than that at current prices.” He takes his glasses off again. “My client is a man who lives well, entertains extensively. He had dealt with this man several years, satisfactorily. He agreed.” He takes out a handkerchief, polish
es his glasses and returns them to his nose.

  Richmond smokes in silence.

  Kavanaugh continues: “Unfortunately, in landing the first shipment from the rum-running ship—there was a—a serious accident. The bootlegger is now a fugitive from justice and threatens—if my client does not assist him—to—ah—involve my client.” He takes off his glasses again.

  Richmond asks casually: “How serious was the accident?”

  Kavanaugh: “Very serious.”

  Richmond, still casually: “Murder?”

  Kavanaugh hesitates, makes a nervous gesture with his fingers, says reluctantly: “A man was—was killed.”

  Richmond tilts his head back a little to look at a plume of smoke he is blowing at the ceiling. He says thoughtfully, unemotionally: “Your client is legally guilty, then, of first degree murder?”

  Kavanaugh, startled, begins a protest: “No, that’s—”

  Richmond quietly interrupts him, speaking as before: “The thousand to help finance the bootlegger makes your man an associate of the bootlegger’s in the rum-running enterprise, maybe even makes him the principal and the bootlegger only his agent. Either way, rum-running’s a felony and any killing done while committing a felony is first degree murder and everybody involved in the felony—whether they have anything to do with the actual killing or not—is equally guilty. It’s a tough spot for your man.”

  Kavanaugh puts his glasses on, and begins, unconvincingly: “It is, as I said, a very serious matter, but I think you—ah—exaggerate the—”

  Richmond shrugs carelessly, and in his quiet, deliberate voice says: “Take him into court then.”

  Kavanaugh makes no reply to this. He puts his fingertips together again and looks at them with worried eyes. Then he raises his head, looks at Richmond, and asks: “Mr. Richmond, do you think that we—that you could extricate my client from this—ah—affair?”

  Richmond, casually: “Why not? It’ll cost money, though. I wouldn’t touch it under twenty-five thousand down, and maybe it’ll cost you a couple of hundred thousand before you’re through.”