The Big Book of Reel Murders

by Stories That Inspired Great Crime Films (epub)

  Richmond rumples the boy’s hair and goes into his private office. He shuts the door behind him and leans back against it wearily. His smile is gone. He pushes his hat back and mutters: “Gee, I’m smart! I got thirty thousand dollars and will probably have to go to jail or at least blow town, where I could have had ten million and the one woman that’s ever really meant anything to me—maybe.” He touches his forehead with the back of his hand and repeats, “Gee, I’m smart!”

  The telephone-bell rings. He goes to it. “Gene Richmond speaking,” he says with mechanical suavity. “Oh, good morning, Mr. Fields. No, nothing yet….” He looks thoughtfully at the phone, then: “It might be wise to place another man in the Dartmouth Cement Company’s offices and see what we can get from the inside….Yes, I’d advise it….All right, I’ll do that.”

  He hangs up and presses the button on his desk. Tommy opens the door, says, “Miss Crane hasn’t showed up yet.”

  Richmond blinks, then laughs. “That’s right,” he says. “That’ll be all.”

  Tommy shuts the door.

  The Road to Carmichael’s

  RICHARD WORMSER

  THE STORY

  Original publication: The Saturday Evening Post, September 19, 1942

  VERY EARLY IN HIS CAREER, soon after graduating from Princeton, Richard Edward Wormser (1908–1977) took a job at the giant pulp magazine publishing company Street & Smith with the assignment of attempting to create a news magazine, which was not in the strike zone of the house and quickly failed. He then began to submit stories to its hugely successful pulp publication, The Shadow. Although Wormser wasn’t writing the full-length Shadow novels (all written in those days by Walter B. Gibson), the magazine filled out its page count with additional short stories.

  The publisher liked his stories so much that he was given the opportunity to write the lead novels in its new pulp title, Nick Carter Magazine, producing nearly twenty of them between 1933 and 1936. It did not turn out to be the hit that Street & Smith had envisioned, and Wormser moved on quickly to continue writing with fewer restrictions. His first two books, The Man with the Wax Face (1934) and The Communist’s Corpse (1935), illustrated his style as a pulp writer, with short, crisp dialogue, lots of action, some purple prose, and chapters frequently ending with a cliff-hanger.

  A prolific writing career—he estimated that he wrote about three hundred short stories, two hundred novelettes, more than two dozen novels, and a large number of screenplays—saw his talents somewhat refined as he wrote more and more, sometimes using the pen names Ed Friend and Conrad Gerson. He won an Edgar for best paperback original for The Invader (1972).

  As early as 1937, he began to have screenplays produced, beginning with 1937’s Let Them Live! with Bruce Manning and Lionel Houser, followed by Start Cheering (1938), written with Eugene Solow and Philip Rapp, and Fugitives for a Night (1938) with Dalton Trumbo. Although he also wrote other types of film, he specialized in writing westerns, including Plainsman and the Lady (1946), Powder River Rustlers (1949), The Half-Breed (1952), and The Outcast (1954).

  Wormser also wrote teleplays for such shows as Lassie, Zane Grey Theater, 77 Sunset Strip, and Cheyenne.

  In “The Road to Carmichael’s,” an official in the US Treasury Department has been accused of a theft and heads across the border into Mexico to chase the real culprit, frequently just missing him but staying close on his tail. He attempts to get help from a Mexican colonel but quickly faces numerous challenges.

  THE FILM

  Title: The Big Steal, 1949

  Studio: RKO Pictures

  Director: Don Siegel

  Screenwriters: Gerald Drayson Adams, Daniel Mainwaring

  Producer: Jack J. Gross, Sid Rogell

  THE CAST

  • Robert Mitchum (Lt. Duke Halliday)

  • Jane Greer (Joan Graham)

  • William Bendix (Captain Vincent Blake)

  • Patric Knowles (Jim Fiske)

  • Ramon Navarro (Inspector General Ortega)

  The birth of the film saw numerous changes and some unusual problems. Columbia Pictures had originally bought rights to “The Road to Carmichael’s” for George Raft but, when RKO bought the rights from Columbia in 1947, he was replaced by Robert Mitchum.

  Mitchum had recently been arrested for possession of marijuana and was sentenced to sixty days in jail. The studio asked the judge for a postponement until after filming of The Big Steal was completed but the judge forced Mitchum to serve his sentence, though he later reduced the sentence and the actor was released ten days early for good behavior.

  RKO had negotiated with Hal Wallis to use Lizabeth Scott, who was under contract to Wallis, to play Joan Graham. Scott withdrew from the film, claiming illness, but it was later revealed that she didn’t want to be in the film because of Mitchum’s criminal record, fearing that it would hurt her reputation and career. Jane Greer took the role while she was in the early stages of pregnancy.

  In an amusing side note, Greer was taking medication to lessen the effects of morning sickness. William Bendix saw her taking the pills and asked what they were for. She told him it was to combat “Montezuma’s Revenge” and he asked for some. He later thanked her because he had not contracted any of the debilitating sickness.

  Production delays because of Mitchum’s incarceration created havoc with the final film. Exterior filming was spotty because the seasons had changed, Greer was becoming more obviously pregnant, and Mitchum lost weight in jail and looked more gaunt than when he went away.

  In spite of production delays, some reshooting and attendant costs, the film grossed $1.6 million, double its production cost.

  THE ROAD TO CARMICHAEL’S

  Richard Wormser

  JIM HOWARD INTRODUCED HIMSELF to the Mexican officials at Ensenada as a United States detective named Johnson. He had Johnson’s shield to back it up. He figured it would take Johnson a day or two to explain himself when he got to Ensenada. He’d probably have to wire Washington and get a reply before he persuaded these people that he was the real Johnson. Jim knew his only chance was to keep ahead of Johnson.

  The Mexican officials were polite. They said they recognized the extradition treaty, of course. Plainly, this Howard, whom Señor Johnson sought, was a criminal. They would be glad to turn him over to the United States authorities, if they found him. But in a matter of so great importance, did not Señor Johnson wish to see the chief?

  Jim said he would be delighted.

  Colonel Ortega was dark, handsome, and sad. Jim sat opposite him and reminded himself again how a tough cop named Johnson would talk.

  “It’s like this, chief,” Jim said: “This guy Howard holds an important job in the department. We think he double-crossed us in a little matter of counterfeit ten-dollar bills. He picked them up—a hundred thousand dollars’ worth—as evidence. And then”—Jim paused for effect—“he lost them.”

  Colonel Ortega’s dark eyes regarded Jim with interest.

  “Could happen,” Jim said. “But then he seems to have used one of those lost ten-dollar bills in a café.”

  “Ah!” Colonel Ortega said. “I understand.”

  “I was ordered to bring him in. He got away from me. He is the only man who ever did get away from me. So I must find him.”

  Colonel Ortega nodded. “A matter of honor.”

  “It’s my job to find him. Actually I can’t apply for extradition until there’s an indictment. So far, you see, we’ve kept it inside the department.”

  “I quite understand,” Colonel Ortega said. “It’s a matter of discretion. I am in sympathy. We officials should stick together.”

  Jim sat back. The real issue was whether he could go south or not. Colonel Ortega knew it, but so far he had made no offer. He was sympathetic, but he was not helpful. Jim switched to Spanish.<
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  “We know that Howard crossed the border and took the road this way. He must have come through here; there is no other way to go.”

  “It is conceivable,” Colonel Ortega said. “We take much pains, but we are not infallible.”

  “You understand why it is necessary for me to go south?”

  “You speak good Spanish, Señor Johnson. To a Mexican ear there is a slight Castilian lisp. But it is excellent.”

  “I took Spanish for three years in prep school,” Jim said. “Since then I have spent a lot of time in Latin America.”

  “I also went to prep school in your country. To a place in Connecticut called Harkness. You perhaps have heard of it?”

  “Heard of it? That’s where I went.”

  Jim studied the chief a little anxiously. There had been a number of Latin Americans at school, though he wouldn’t remember any of them now.

  This Ortega was older than he—old enough to have graduated before Jim entered.

  Colonel Ortega was smiling a friendly smile. “As one Harkness man to another, Señor Johnson, I will lend you two of my men. I will lend you a squad if you like. Next June—or maybe even in May.”

  “But this is September.”

  Colonel Ortega nodded. “I know. The country to the south will be impassable till spring.”

  “It is not impassable now.”

  Colonel Ortega leaned forward. “Man, I am going to talk truth to you. In the meantime, have a beer. We Mexicans are proud of our beer.”

  “Sure, chief.”

  The colonel pressed a button. An Indian boy in a clean white suit stuck his head in.

  “Two beers,” the colonel said, and turned to Jim. “Listen to me,” he said in English. “I am not kidding now. This Howard is a bad man—a menace to good government. As you say, he will head south. They will tell him the road is no good, but he will pay no attention. It is impossible for a citizen of the United States to believe roads could be as bad as they are south of here. He will get to Carmichael’s ranch. But, my friend, once south of there, he will do well to make twenty miles a day. A horse is faster than a car and a man may be faster than either. I don’t know. I’m from Sonora myself. This country is new to me.”

  The Indian boy came back with the beer. The colonel poured the beer carefully and handed Jim his glass. “Here’s to Harkness,” he said. “Here’s to old Baldy Putnam.”

  “He isn’t headmaster any more. He retired.”

  “I know,” Colonel Ortega said.

  Jim started all over again. “Colonel, I appreciate your kindness.”

  Colonel Ortega smiled. “We are both cops, both Harkness men. I was going to have a little fun with you. After all, you gringos amuse me, coming down here in such a hurry, wanting to make us hurry. Your affairs are always so important, so very pressing. But you are a Harkness man. I’ll forget my fun. You want to find Howard. What do you think is going to happen to him?”

  Jim waited for the chief to go on.

  “Within a month he’ll be a skeleton in the brush. The buzzards will have picked him clean. In the spring you come back. We’ll take a couple of shotguns and a plane. We’ll fly south until we find that skeleton. Then we’ll fly back to Carmichael’s for a little shooting. Nature will have done your work for you.”

  “Colonel Ortega,” Jim said, “are you forbidding me to go south?”

  The chief shook his head, with a gesture of displeasure. “Do you have to be official?”

  “What does that mean?”

  Colonel Ortega frowned. “If you insist, I will tell you. My government wishes to remain friendly with the United States. I would not forbid an American Federal officer access to the south, or authority to carry his gun and shield.”

  “I may go?”

  “I am asking you to be reasonable. Surely you have heard what the country to the south is like.”

  “I have heard that the country to the south is not altogether the desert it is supposed to be.”

  “True,” Colonel Ortega said. “There is gold and silver and copper and tungsten and mercury and antimony. There are virgin forests of pine and incense cedar and fir. There may be much more—who knows? Half of it has never been truly mapped.”

  “How about La Paz? It’s down there, isn’t it? A big city?”

  “Not a big city. An old city. One of the oldest cities of white men on this continent. But what of it? La Paz is more than eight hundred miles from here, and even if there were a road all the way, there are no gas stations.”

  “When I run out of gas I will buy a horse.”

  Colonel Ortega’s sad eyes grew sadder. “It is true that a horse does not require gasoline. But he requires to eat. And the same is true of you, my friend. There are no hot-dog stands between here and La Paz.”

  “The Mexicans are always kind to strangers.”

  “You may travel for days in that country without seeing a Mexican.” Colonel Ortega leaned forward. “Why not go over to Al Masoni’s bar and fill yourself with good liquor and blow your brains out? It is a more agreeable way to die.”

  “But you will give me permission to go south?”

  Colonel Ortega shrugged wearily. “I am not refusing. You will have to sign a paper saying you recognize the risk; that I have warned you.”

  Jim nodded. “Draw up your paper.”

  The chief rang for a stenographer and began dictating. “Don’t bother about a pistol,” he said, interrupting himself. “Take a shotgun—to eat by.”

  Jim Howard took the paper and shook hands with Colonel Ortega, concealing his satisfaction.

  “Go with God,” the chief said.

  “Thank you,” Jim said, and hurried out.

  But he paused in the anteroom in spite of himself. The blonde girl who sat there waiting looked cool in a beige cotton sports dress with a narrow leather belt. And the stare she gave him as she glanced up from under her rather wide-brimmed straw hat was cool also—as if she did not see him.

  He turned to look back when he got to the outer door. She was walking into Colonel Ortega’s office and he noticed, without reason, that the seams of her stockings were straight as a movie star’s. He found himself picturing her and remembering her eyes and the pale gold tan of her skin and wondering why she was there—as if he hadn’t important things to think about.

  He had to find Fitz Jordan. He had no idea where to look. He had only his belief that an American traveling south would leave a trail. Every Mexican who saw Fitz would remember him. The real problem was to keep ahead of Solid Man Johnson. If Johnson caught up with him he would never have a chance to catch up with Fitz.

  * * *

  —

  The Fiore di Alpini is a dingy restaurant, Italian, except for an American jukebox. But genius goes into the food. To eat lobster at the Fiore di Alpini is to eat the Pacific-coast crayfish at its best; and the wine, from Santo Tomás, is good.

  Jim Howard ordered dinner there. He told the anxious little waiter to have it ready in fifteen minutes, and went into the bar.

  He saw five men, all but one dressed in the breeches and high-laced boots of engineers. Four of them were Mexicans. The fifth, the one in uniform, was a bright blond man who didn’t look Latin at first glance, but was. They were celebrating something. Jim ordered a Martini and leaned on the bar, knowing for the first time how tired he was. It was wearing to be trailed by Johnson. Almost as broad as he was tall and completely without the glamour they liked over at the Justice Department, Johnson was just a secret-service man with a shield, a gun, a pair of handcuffs and two flat feet—just a guy who put those two flat feet ahead of each other until he found the man he was after. It was less than two days since Jim had got away from Johnson. Since then he had driven a hundred miles up into the mountains and exchanged his big car for a four-cylinder roadster of the kind Johnson always used, explainin
g that he had to go into the tough country south of the border, where a light car was so much better. He had driven then from somewhere north and east of Los Angeles to San Diego and on to Ensenada, seventy miles into Baja California. He hadn’t had much sleep.

  The Martini came and he drank it quickly and shoved the glass back at the barman for another. The drink exploded gently within him and the warmth spread to his head.

  The blond man said in Spanish, “Another round, Lazaro. To our return!”

  One of the other Mexicans said loudly, “To our return to Mexico!”

  The barman set Jim’s second drink in front of him and said, “They do not annoy, señor? They are celebrating.”

  “It’s all right,” Jim said.

  But the Mexican next him had overheard. “You will have a drink with us, señor? Tomorrow we go home to Mexico and we are celebrating.”

  “And where are you now?” Jim asked.

  “Ah,” the blond one said, “we have been in the Sahara, in Mongolia, in Tibet. This Baja!” He spat. “They tell me you gringos want to buy it. I, El Tigre, I give it to you.”

  Jim could feel his smile getting a little thin. The man who called himself The Tiger was not trying to be pleasant. He looked tough, too, with his thick neck and his heavy shoulders.

  “We thank you, señor,” Jim said.

  “It is perfect for gringos, this Baja,” El Tigre said. “It is hell. I give it to you.”

  “My Tiger, you are perhaps a little drunk,” the Mexican next to Jim said.

  “There’s the waiter. Now we shall eat.”

  The polite little waiter had come in. He said to Jim, “The dinner awaits you, señor.”

  The man who called himself The Tiger turned. “But the gringo is still sober. We must make him drunk.”

  “Sí, señor.” If nothing else had warned him, the waiter’s manner was enough to tell Jim that this Tiger was a known bully.