Tar Heel Dead

by Sarah R. Shaber

  In 1946 Wellman won the Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine Award over William Faulkner for the short story included here, “A Star for a Warrior.” Faulkner, incensed, fired off an angry protest to the magazine’s editors, but they were firm. Wellman’s story won for two reasons, the editors said: it introduced a new type of detective character, and it set his story against a background not previously used in the detective field.

  Copyright 1946 by Manly Wade Wellman. First printed in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, April 1946. Reprinted with permission of David Drake.

  The Dissipated Jeweler

  O. Henry

  You will not find the name of Thomas Keeling in the Houston city directory. It might have been there by this time if Mr. Keeling had not discontinued his business a month or so ago and moved to other parts. Mr. Keeling came to Houston about that time and opened up a small detective bureau. He offered his services to the public as a detective in rather a modest way. He did not aspire to be a rival of the Pinkerton agency but preferred to work along less risky lines.

  If an employer wanted the habits of a clerk looked into, or a lady wanted an eye kept upon a somewhat too gay husband, Mr. Keeling was the man to take the job. He was a quiet, studious man with theories. He read Gaboriau and Conan Doyle and hoped some day to take a higher place in his profession. He had held a subordinate place in a large detective bureau in the East, but as promotion was slow, he decided to come West, where the field was not so well covered.

  Mr. Keeling had saved during several years the sum of $900, which he deposited in the safe of a businessman in Houston to whom he had letters of introduction from a common friend. He rented a small upstairs office on an obscure street, hung out a sign stating his business, and, burying himself in one of Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories, waited for customers.

  Three days after he opened his bureau, which consisted of himself, a client called to see him.

  It was a young lady, apparently about twenty-six years of age. She was slender and rather tall and neatly dressed. She wore a thin veil, which she threw back upon her black straw hat after she had taken the chair Mr. Keeling offered her. She had a delicate, refined face, with rather quick gray eyes, and a slightly nervous manner.

  “I came to see you, sir,” she said in a sweet, but somewhat sad, contralto voice, “because you are comparatively a stranger, and I could not bear to discuss my private affairs with any of my friends. I desire to employ you to watch the movements of my husband. Humiliating as the confession is to me, I fear that his affections are no longer mine. Before I married him he was infatuated with a young woman connected with a family with whom he boarded. We have been married five years, and very happily, but this young woman has recently moved to Houston, and I have reasons to suspect that he is paying her attentions. I want you to watch his movements as closely as possible and report to me. I will call here at your office every other day at a given time to learn what you have discovered. My name is Mrs. R——, and my husband is well known. He keeps a small jewelry store on——Street. I will pay you well for your services, and here is $20 to begin with.”

  The lady handed Mr. Keeling the bill, and he took it carelessly as if such things were very, very common in his business.

  He assured her that he would carry out her wishes faithfully and asked her to call again the afternoon after the next at four o’clock, for the first report.

  The next day Mr. Keeling made the necessary inquiries toward beginning operations. He found the jewelry store and went inside ostensibly to have the crystal of his watch tightened. The jeweler, Mr. R——, was a man apparently thirty-five years of age, of very quiet manners and industrious ways. His store was small but contained a nice selection of goods and quite a large assortment of diamonds, jewelry, and watches. Further inquiry elicited the information that Mr. R——was a man of excellent habits, never drank and was always at work at his jeweler’s bench.

  Mr. Keeling loafed around near the door of the jewelry store for several hours that day and was finally rewarded by seeing a flashily dressed young woman with black hair and eyes enter the store. Mr. Keeling sauntered nearer the door, where he could see what took place inside. The young woman walked confidently to the rear of the store, leaned over the counter, and spoke familiarly to Mr. R——. He rose from his bench, and they talked in low tones for a few minutes. Finally, the jeweler handed her some coins, which Mr. Keeling heard clinking as they passed into her hands. The woman then came out and walked rapidly down the street.

  Mr. Keeling’s client was at his office promptly at the time agreed upon. She was anxious to know if he had seen anything to corroborate her suspicions. The detective told her what he had seen.

  “That is she,” said the lady, when he had described the young woman who had entered the store. “The brazen, bold thing! And so Charles is giving her money. To think that things should come to this pass.”

  The lady pressed her handkerchief to her eyes in an agitated way.

  “Mrs. R——,” said the detective, “what is your desire in this matter? To what point do you wish me to prosecute inquiries?”

  “I want to see with my own eyes enough to convince me of what I suspect. I also want witnesses, so I can instigate suit for divorce. I will not lead the life I am now living any longer.”

  She then handed the detective a $10 bill.

  On the day following the next, when she came to Mr. Keeling’s office to hear his report, he said:

  “I dropped into the store this afternoon on some trifling pretext. This young woman was already there, but she did not remain long. Before she left, she said: ‘Charlie, we will have a jolly little supper tonight as you suggest; then we will come around to the store and have a nice chat while you finish that setting for the diamond broach with no one to interrupt us.’ Tonight, Mrs. R——, I think, will be a good time for you to witness the meeting between your husband and the object of his infatuation and satisfy your mind how matters stand.”

  “The wretch,” cried the lady with flashing eyes. “He told me at dinner that he would be detained late tonight with some important work. And this is the way he spends his time away from me!”

  “I suggest,” said the detective, “that you conceal yourself in the store, so you can hear what they say, and when you have heard enough you can summon witnesses and confront your husband before them.”

  “The very thing,” said the lady. “I believe there is a policeman whose beat is along the street the store is on who is acquainted with our family. His duties will lead him to be in the vicinity of the store after dark. Why not see him, explain the whole matter to him, and when I have heard enough, let you and him appear as witnesses?”

  “I will speak with him,” said the detective, “and persuade him to assist us, and you will please come to my office a little before dark tonight, so we can arrange to trap them.”

  The detective hunted up the policeman and explained the situation.

  “That’s funny,” said the guardian of the peace. “I didn’t know R——was a gay boy at all. But, then, you can never tell about anybody. So his wife wants to catch him tonight. Let’s see, she wants to hide herself inside the store and hear what they say. There’s a little room in the back of the store where R——keeps his coal and old boxes. The door between is locked, of course, but if you can get her through that into the store she can hide somewhere. I don’t like to mix up in these affairs, but I sympathize with the lady. I’ve known her ever since we were children and don’t mind helping her to do what she wants.”

  About dusk that evening the detective’s client came hurriedly to his office. She was dressed plainly in black and wore a dark round hat and her face was covered with a veil.

  “If Charlie should see me he will not recognize me,” she said.

  Mr. Keeling and the lady strolled down the street opposite the jewelry store, and about eight o’clock the young woman they were watching for entered the store. Immediately afterward she came out with Mr. R——, to
ok his arm, and they hurried away, presumably to their supper.

  The detective felt the arm of the lady tremble.

  “The wretch,” she said bitterly. “He thinks me at home innocently waiting for him while he is out carousing with that artful, designing minx. Oh, the perfidy of man.”

  Mr. Keeling took the lady through an open hallway that led into the backyard of the store. The outer door of the back room was unlocked, and they entered.

  “In the store,” said Mrs. R——, “near the bench where my husband works is a large table, the cover of which hangs to the floor. If I could get under that I could hear every word that was said.”

  Mr. Keeling took a big bunch of skeleton keys from his pocket and in a few minutes found one that opened the door into the jewelry store. The gas was burning from one jet turned very low.

  The lady stepped into the store and said: “I will bolt this door from the inside, and I want you to follow my husband and that woman. See if they are at supper, and if they are, when they start back, you must come back to this room and let me know by tapping thrice on the door. After I listen to their conversation long enough I will unbolt the door, and we will confront the guilty pair together. I may need you to protect me, for I do not know what they might attempt to do to me.”

  The detective made his way softly out and followed the jeweler and the woman. He soon discovered that they had taken a private room in a little out-of-the-way restaurant and had ordered supper. He lingered about until they came out and then hurried back to the store and, entering the back room, tapped three times on the door.

  In a few minutes the jeweler entered with the woman, and the detective saw the light shine more brightly through a crack in the door. He could hear the man and woman conversing familiarly and constantly but could not distinguish their words. He slipped around again to the street and, looking through the window, could see Mr. R——working away at his jeweler’s bench while the black-haired woman sat close to his side and talked.

  “I’ll give them a little time,” thought Mr. Keeling, and he strolled down the street.

  The policeman was standing on the corner.

  The detective told him that Mrs. R——was concealed in the store and that the scheme was working nicely.

  “I’ll drop back behind now,” said Mr. Keeling, “so as to be ready when the lady springs her trap.”

  The policeman walked back with him and took a look through the window.

  “They seem to have made up all right,” said he. “Where’s the other woman gotten to?”

  “Why, there she is sitting by him,” said the detective.

  “I’m talking about the girl R——had out to supper.”

  “So am I,” said the detective.

  “You seem to be mixed up,” said the policeman. “Do you know that lady with R——?”

  “That’s the woman he was out with.”

  “That’s R——’s wife,” said the policeman. “I’ve known her for fifteen years.”

  “Then, who—?” gasped the detective. “Lord A’mighty, then who’s under the table?”

  Mr. Keeling began to kick at the door of the store.

  Mr. R——came forward and opened it. The policeman and the detective entered.

  “Look under that table, quick,” yelled the detective. The policeman raised the cover and dragged out a black dress, a black veil, and a woman’s wig of black hair.

  “Is this lady your w-w-wife?” asked Mr. Keeling excitedly, pointing out the dark-eyed young woman, who was regarding them in great surprise.

  “Certainly,” said the jeweler. “Now what the thunder are you looking under my tables and kicking down my door for, if you please?”

  “Look in your showcases,” said the policeman, who began to size up the situation.

  The diamond rings and watches that were missing amounted to $800, and the next day the detective settled the bill.

  Explanations were made to the jeweler that night, and an hour later Mr. Keeling sat in his office busily engaged in looking over his albums of crooks’ photos.

  At last he found one, and he stopped turning over the leaves and tore his hair. Under the picture of a smooth-faced young man with delicate features was the following description:

  “JAMES H. MIGGLES, alias Slick Simon, alias The Weeping Widow, alias Bunco Kate, alias Jimmy the Sneak, General confidence man and burglar. Works generally in female disguises. Very plausible and dangerous. Wanted in Kansas City, Oshkosh, New Orleans, and Milwaukee.”

  This is why Mr. Thomas Keeling did not continue his detective business in Houston.

  O. HENRY’S (1862–1910) distinguished career as a short-story writer began in less than distinguished circumstances—a prison cell, where he was jailed for embezzlement. Henry’s wife had died, and he began to write short stories from prison to support his daughter, Margaret, who lived with a relative. After leaving prison, he moved to New York City, where he became very successful. During his lifetime Henry published ten collections and wrote over 600 short stories, including the famous The Gift of the Magi,” “The Ransom of Red Chief,” and “The Furnished Room.” O. Henry was a pseudonym assumed by William Sydney Porter, who was born in Greensboro.

  First printed in the Houston Post, May 17, 1896.

  Murchison Passes a Test

  Toni L. P. Kelner

  I am Abram Murchison, and even though I don’t know Freud or Jung, after almost fifty years of running a store, I know people. So maybe you can learn psychology without going to college.

  Not that I’ve got anything against going to college. Would I put a convenience store across the street from North Carolina State University if I didn’t want educated people around? The students are like any kids—they buy potato chips and Coca-Cola and get embarrassed when they need sanitary items or men’s protections. The professors aren’t so different from the other people in the neighborhood. In the morning they buy coffee and sweet rolls, and in the evening they buy milk and bread so they don’t have to go to one of those supermarkets that takes up an entire city block.

  Some of the professors act as if they’re better than a man who runs a store, but most of them are polite. A few even take a minute to pass the time of day. I talk to them the same way I do to people who don’t have half a dozen letters after their names. By me, I think they’re glad to talk about normal things, like the weather and basketball, instead of Milton and statistical variance and isosceles triangles.

  Being across the street makes it convenient for my son David when he’s ready to go to college. He walks to class and then comes to the store in the afternoon, because college or no college, David still has to do his share at the store, so I’m not too surprised when he bursts through the front door one day in May, only a little because he’s early.

  “Pop, you’re not going to believe this! You’ve got to do something!” he says.

  “What is it I’m not going to believe?” I say, wondering how upset I should get. I can tell from David’s face that he’s upset plenty.

  “That son of a bitch—”

  “Watch your language. This is a business, not a locker room.”

  There’s nobody in the store but the two of us, but I don’t want him to get in the habit of swearing where people can hear. I expect him to argue that I’m living in the past, but he just keeps going, which tells me he’s even more upset than I thought.

  “That idiot is flunking my entire class!”

  I don’t know what to say, I’m so shocked. If this had been David’s freshman year, it would have been bad, but this is the final semester of his senior year, which makes it worse. “You’re not going to graduate?”

  “No, I’ll still graduate,” he says, as if that’s not the point. Never mind the cap and gown we’ve bought him, and the invitations we’ve sent to our family, and the big party his mother has been getting ready for all month. Not to mention the gold class ring hidden in my sock drawer.

  He says, “But it’s going to mess up my
G.P.A. I won’t graduate Cum Laude.”

  “What do you mean, Cum Laude?”

  “It’s Latin for ‘with honors.’”

  “I know what it means. Since when are you graduating with honors?”

  He looks embarrassed, which he almost never does. “It was going to be a surprise for you and Mom. I figured out at the end of junior year that I might make it. That’s why I took Intro Psych in the first place. I heard it was an easy A, and I wanted to boost my average.”

  He tries to make it sound as if he was doing me a favor by taking an easy class. I know better, but now isn’t the time to discuss it.

  David says, “I only needed a B, which meant I only needed a 75 on the final exam.”

  I think kids learn more arithmetic by figuring out what scores they need to get by than they do by studying. “And you didn’t get a 75?”

  “I don’t know what I would have gotten, but what I’ve got now is 0. Professor Spratlin found out that somebody cheated, and he got so mad when nobody would confess that he’s flunking us all. He won’t even tell us how we really did on the exam.”

  “Spratlin,” I say, thinking that this explains a lot. He’s one of the good professors, the ones who talk to me, but the man always fidgets. N.C. State is a big engineering and agriculture school, and he thinks they don’t take psychology professors seriously.

  This worries him, which makes him fidget, which means people don’t take him seriously, which is why my son only took his course to get an easy A. “But you’re still going to graduate?”

  David nodded. “I’m one of the lucky ones. Some of the others are going to have to go to summer school if he doesn’t change his mind.”

  I think about the other parents, and the caps and gowns they bought, and the invitations they’ve sent, and the parties they’ve planned. “It’s not right that he should do this.”