The Big Book of Reel Murders

by Stories That Inspired Great Crime Films (epub)

  “If I’ll have you.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Yes, certainly that.”

  * * *

  —

  Luise Fischer and Harry Klaus reached the Links’ flat late the next morning.

  Fan opened the door for them. She put her arms around Luise Fischer. “See, I told you Harry would get you out all right.” She turned to face the lawyer quickly and demanded: “You didn’t let them hold her all night?”

  “No,” he said; “but we missed the last train and had to stay at the hotel.”

  They went into the living room.

  Evelyn Grant rose from the sofa. She came to Luise Fischer, saying: “It’s my fault. It’s all my fault!” Her eyes were red and swollen. She began to cry again. “He had told me about Donny—Mr. Link—and I thought he’d come here and I tried to phone him and Papa caught me and told the police. And I only wanted to help him—”

  From the doorway Donny snarled: “Shut up. Stop it. Pipe down.” He addressed Klaus petulantly: “She’s been doing this for an hour. She’s got me screwy.”

  Fan said: “Lay off the kid. She feels bad.”

  Donny said: “She ought to.” He smiled at Luise Fischer. “Hello, baby. Everything O.K.?”

  She said: “How do you do? I think it is.”

  He looked at her hands. “Where’s the rings?”

  “We had to leave them up there.”

  “I told you!” His voice was bitter. “I told you you’d ought to let me sold them.” He turned to Klaus. “Can you beat that?”

  The lawyer did not say anything.

  Fan had taken Evelyn to the sofa and was soothing her.

  Luise Fischer asked: “Have you heard from—”

  “Brazil?” Donny said before she could finish her question. He nodded. “Yep. He’s O.K.” He glanced over his shoulder at the girl on the sofa, then spoke rapidly in a low voice. “He’s at the Hilltop Sanatorium, outside of town—supposed to have D.T.’s. You know he got plugged in the side. He’s O.K., though—Doc Barry’ll keep him under cover and fix him up good as new. He—”

  Luise Fischer’s eyes were growing large. She put a hand to her throat. “But he—Dr. Ralph Barry?” she demanded.

  Donny wagged his head up and down. “Yes. He’s a good guy. He’ll—”

  “But he is a friend of Kane Robson’s!” she cried. “I met him there, at Robson’s house.” She turned to Klaus. “He was with him in the restaurant last night—the fat one.”

  The men stared at her.

  She caught Klaus’s arm and shook him. “That is why he was there last night—to see Kane—to ask him what he should do.”

  Fan and Evelyn had risen from the sofa and were listening.

  Donny began: “Aw, maybe it’s O.K. Doc’s a good guy. I don’t think he—”

  “Cut it out!” Klaus growled. “This is serious—serious as hell.” He scowled thoughtfully at Luise Fischer. “No chance of a mistake on this?”

  “No.”

  Evelyn thrust herself between the two men to confront Luise Fischer. She was crying again, but was angry now.

  “Why did you have to get him into all this? Why did you have to come to him with your troubles? It’s your fault that they’ll put him in prison—and he’ll go crazy in prison! If it hadn’t been for you, none of this would have happened. You—”

  Donny touched Evelyn’s shoulder. “I think I’ll take a sock at you,” he said.

  She cringed away from him.

  Klaus said: “For God’s sake, let’s stop this fiddledeedee and decide what we’d better do.” He scowled at Luise Fischer again. “Didn’t Robson say anything to you about it last night?”

  She shook her head.

  Donny said: “Well, listen. We got to get him out of there. It don’t—”

  “That’s easy,” Klaus said with heavy sarcasm. “If he’s in wrong there”—he shrugged—“it’s happened already. We’ve got to find out. Can you get to see him?”

  Donny nodded. “Sure.”

  “Then go. Wise him up—find out what the layout is.”

  Donny and Luise Fischer left the house by the back door, went through the yard to the alley behind, and down the alley for two blocks. They saw nobody following them.

  “I guess we’re in the clear,” Donny said, and led the way down a cross street.

  On the next corner there was a garage and repair shop. A small dark man was tinkering with an engine.

  “Hello, Tony,” Donny said. “Lend me a boat.”

  The dark man looked curiously at Luise Fischer while saying: “Surest thing you know. Take the one in the corner.”

  They got into a black sedan and drove away.

  “It ain’t far,” Donny said. Then: “I’d like to pull him out of there.”

  Luise Fischer was silent.

  After half an hour Donny turned the machine in to a road at the end of which a white building was visible. “That’s her,” he said.

  After leaving the sedan in front of the building, they walked under a black-and-gold sign that said “Hilltop Sanatorium” into an office.

  “We want to see Mr. Lee,” Donny told the nurse at the desk. “He’s expecting us.”

  She moistened her lips nervously and said: “It’s two hundred and three, right near the head of the stairs.”

  They went up a dark flight of stairs to the second floor. “This is it,” Donny said, halting. He opened the door without knocking and waved Luise Fischer inside.

  Besides Brazil, lying in bed, his sallowness more pronounced than usual, there were two men in the room. One of them was the huge tired-faced man who had arrested Luise Fischer. He said: “I oughtn’t to let you people see him.”

  Brazil half rose in bed and stretched a hand out toward Luise Fischer.

  She went around the huge man to the bed and took Brazil’s hand. “Oh, I’m sorry—sorry!” she murmured.

  He grinned without pleasure. “Hard luck, all right. And I’m scared stiff of those damned bars.”

  She leaned over and kissed him.

  The huge man said: “Come on, now. You got to get out. I’m liable to catch hell for this.”

  Donny took a step toward the bed. “Listen, Brazil. Is there—”

  The huge man put out a hand and wearily pushed Donny back. “Go ’way. There’s nothing for you to hang around here for.” He put a hand on Luise Fischer’s shoulder. “Go ahead, please, will you? Say goodbye to him now—and maybe you can see him afterwards.”

  She kissed Brazil again and stood up.

  He said: “Look after her, will you, Donny?”

  “Sure,” Donny promised. “And don’t let them worry you. I’ll send Harry over to see you and—”

  The huge man groaned. “Is this going to keep you all day?”

  He took Luise Fischer’s arm and put her and Donny out.

  They went in silence down to the sedan, and neither spoke until they were entering the city again. Then Luise Fischer said: “Will you kindly lend me ten dollars?”

  “Sure.” Donny took one hand from the wheel, felt in his pants pocket, and gave her two five-dollar bills.

  Then she said: “I wish to go to the railroad station.”

  He frowned. “What for?”

  “I want to go to the railroad station,” she repeated.

  When they reached the station she got out of the sedan.

  “Thank you very much,” she said. “Do not wait. I will come over later.”

  Luise Fischer went into the railroad station and to the newsstand, where she bought a package of cigarettes. Then she went to a telephone booth, asked for long distance, and called a Mile Valley number.

  “Hello, Ito?…Is Mr. Robson there? This is Fräulein Fische
r….Yes.” There was a pause. “Hello, Kane…Well, you have won. You might have saved yourself the delay if you had told me last night what you knew….Yes…Yes, I am.”

  She put the receiver on its prong and stared at it for a long moment. Then she left the booth, went to the ticket window, and said: “A ticket to Mile Valley—one-way—please.”

  * * *

  —

  The room was wide and high-ceilinged. Its furniture was Jacobean. Kane Robson was sprawled comfortably in a deep chair. At his elbow was a small table on which were a crystal-and-silver coffee service, a crystal-and-silver decanter—half full—some glasses, cigarettes, and an ashtray. His eyes glittered in the light from the fireplace.

  Ten feet away, partly facing him, partly facing the fireplace, Luise Fischer sat, more erectly, in a smaller chair. She was in a pale negligee and had pale slippers on her feet.

  Somewhere in the house a clock struck midnight. Robson heard it out attentively before he went on speaking: “And you are making a great mistake, my dear, in being too sure of yourself.”

  She yawned. “I slept very little last night,” she said. “I am too sleepy to be frightened.”

  He rose, grinning at her. “I didn’t get any either. Shall we take a look at the invalid before we turn in?”

  A nurse—a scrawny middle-aged woman in white—came into the room, panting. “Mr. Conroy’s recovering consciousness, I do believe,” she said.

  Robson’s mouth tightened, and his eyes, after a momentary flickering, became steady. “Phone Dr. Blake,” he said. “He’ll want to know right away.” He turned to Luise Fischer. “I’ll run up and stay with him till she is through phoning.”

  Luise Fischer rose. “I’ll go with you.”

  He pursed his lips. “I don’t know. Maybe the excitement of too many people—the surprise of seeing you back here again—might not be good for him.”

  The nurse had left the room.

  Ignoring Luise Fischer’s laughter, he said: “No; you had better stay here, my dear.”

  She said: “I will not.”

  He shrugged. “Very well, but—” He went upstairs without finishing the sentence.

  Luise Fischer went up behind him, but not with his speed. She arrived at the sickroom doorway, however, in time to catch the look of utter fear in Conroy’s eyes, before they closed, as his bandaged head fell back on the pillow.

  Robson, standing just inside the door, said softly: “Ah, he’s passed out again.” His eyes were unwary.

  Her eyes were probing.

  They stood there and stared at each other until the Japanese butler came to the door and said: “A Mr. Brazil to see Fräulein Fischer.”

  Into Robson’s face little by little came the expression of one considering a private joke. He said: “Show Mr. Brazil into the living room. Fräulein Fischer will be down immediately. Phone the deputy sheriff.”

  Robson smiled at the woman. “Well?”

  She said nothing.

  “A choice?” he asked.

  The nurse came in. “Dr. Blake is out, but I left word.”

  Luise Fischer said: “I do not think Mr. Conroy should be left alone, Miss George.”

  Brazil was standing in the center of the living room, balancing himself on legs spread far apart. He held his left arm tight to his side, straight down. He had on a dark overcoat that was buttoned high against his throat. His face was a ghastly yellow mask in which his eyes burned redly. He said through his teeth: “They told me you’d come back. I had to see it.” He spit on the floor. “Strumpet!”

  She stamped a foot. “Do not be a fool. I—” She broke off as the nurse passed the doorway. She said sharply: “Miss George, what are you doing?”

  The nurse said: “Mr. Robson said he thought I might be able to reach Dr. Blake on the phone at Mrs. Webber’s.”

  Luise Fischer turned, paused to kick off her slippers, and ran up the steps on stockinged feet. The door to Conroy’s room was shut. She flung it open.

  Robson was leaning over the sick man. His hands were on the sick man’s bandaged head, holding it almost face down in the pillow.

  His thumbs were pressing the back of the skull. All his weight seemed on his thumbs. His face was insane. His lips were wet.

  Luise Fischer screamed, “Brazil!” and flung herself at Robson and clawed at his legs.

  Brazil came into the room, lurching blindly, his left arm tight to his side. He swung his right fist, missed Robson’s head by a foot, was struck twice in the face by Robson, did not seem to know it, and swung his right fist into Robson’s belly. The woman’s grip on Robson’s ankles kept him from recovering his balance. He went down heavily.

  The nurse was busy with her patient, who was trying to sit up in bed. Tears ran down his face. He was sobbing: “He stumbled over a piece of wood while he was helping me to the car, and he hit me on the head with it.”

  Luise Fischer had Brazil sitting up on the floor with his back to the wall, wiping his face with her handkerchief.

  He opened one eye and murmured: “The guy was screwy, wasn’t he?”

  She put an arm around him and laughed with a cooing sound in her throat. “All men are.”

  Robson had not moved.

  There was a commotion, and three men came in.

  The tallest one looked at Robson and then at Brazil and chuckled.

  “There’s our lad that don’t like hospitals,” he said. “It’s a good thing he didn’t escape from a gymnasium or he might’ve hurt somebody.”

  Luise Fischer took off her rings and put them on the floor beside Robson’s left foot.

  Inside Job

  RAOUL WHITFIELD

  THE STORY

  Original publication: Black Mask, February 1932; first published in book form in The Hard-Boiled Omnibus, edited by Joseph T. Shaw (New York, Simon & Schuster, 1946)

  WHEN JOSEPH SHAW, the legendary editor of Black Mask, compiled his 1946 anthology of what he regarded as the greatest stories published in its pages, he included (of course) a story by Dashiell Hammett, another by Raymond Chandler, but he used two by Raoul Fauconnier Whitfield (1896–1945), one published under his real name and another under his Ramon Decolta pseudonym.

  The pulp community was not a huge one. The editors knew each other, and they knew the writers. The writers, too, knew each other, and their common meeting place was often a bar. While the two greatest writers for the pulps, Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett, are believed to have met only once, Hammett became very close to one of the other giants of the era, Raoul Whitfield. There seems to be a good deal of evidence that Hammett became even closer to Whitfield’s wife, Prudence, but that’s another story.

  Whitfield was born in New York City. During World War I, he served with the US Army Air Corps in France as a pilot. When he returned to the United States, he went to learn the steel business (he was related to Andrew Carnegie), then worked as a newspaper reporter and began to write fiction for pulp magazines. He used his flying background to write aviation stories for the pulps in the early 1920s, then sold his first mystery to Black Mask for the March 1926 issue. He went on, in a serious burst of prolificity, to write nearly ninety stories, under his own name and as Decolta, for Black Mask between that first effort and his last one, only eight years later, for the February 1934 issue.

  The prolific Whitfield had quickly become one of Black Mask’s best and most popular writers, but his career was cut short when he became ill in 1935; he never fully recovered and died ten years later.

  He also wrote five mystery novels, three under his own name: Green Ice (1930), Death in a Bowl (1931), and The Virgin Kills (1932), and two under the pseudonym Temple Field, Five (1931) and Killers’ Carnival (1932). As Whitfield, he wrote four juveniles, all with aviation backgrounds: Wings of Gold (1930), Silver Wings (
1930), Danger Zone (1931), and Danger Circus (1933).

  In the story “Inside Job,” Hugh Fresney, editor of a Los Angeles newspaper, takes on the mob and seems a good choice for assassination. The wealthy owner of the paper, Clinton Vaupaugh, is nervous when he thinks he might be the target. Tim Slade, a former reporter who now works as a private detective, is brought in by Fresney to work the case.

  THE FILM

  Title: High Tide, 1947

  Studio: Monogram Pictures

  Director: John Reinhardt

  Screenwriter: Robert Presnell Sr.

  Producer: Jack Wrather

  THE CAST

  • Lee Tracy (Hugh Fresney)

  • Don Castle (Tim “T. M.” Slade)

  • Julie Bishop (Julie Vaughn)

  • Anabel Shaw (Dana Jones)

  • Regis Toomey (Inspector O’Haffey)

  • Douglas Walton (Clinton Vaughn)

  The outstanding element added to the screenplay is the opening scene when the newspaper editor Fresney and the private investigator are seen driving too fast when the car flips and they are injured and trapped in the car on a beach in Malibu, Fresney with a broken back and Slade immobile. The tide is rapidly coming in and threatening to drown them as their conversation reveals that one of them is a villain, though it is unclear which one. Fresney tells Slade, “You know, kid, if you had only not answered that telegram I sent you…” The story is then told in flashback, closely following Whitfield’s short story.

  It would be useful to have read the story before watching the film. It is a reasonably complicated plot and its resolution comes so rapidly at the denouement that it is nearly impossible to follow the events and how everyone is connected to all that activity.

  Lee Tracy had a successful career on Broadway, television, and motion pictures, being nominated for an Academy Award for his role as Art Hockstader, former president of the United States, a character loosely based on Harry Truman, in both the 1960 stage and 1964 film versions of The Best Man, written by Gore Vidal.