AHMM, July-August 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  * * * *

  I heard from Marnie again three days later, shortly before six in the morning.

  She called to tell me Laura was dead.

  Murdered.

  Smothered to death with one of her bed pillows.

  Her voice drained of emotion, Marnie described how she was awakened around four A.M. by strange noises coming from Laura's room and charged over. It was too late to help her auntie, but she saw the killer's face when he tossed the pillow away, shoved her aside, and fled.

  "It was Clifton Hatcher,” she said. “Clifton Hatcher in that stupid makeup, the handlebar mustache and all the rest. Almost like he wanted me to know it was him."

  "Did you report this to the police?"

  "They're here now. Yes. Detectives are on their way over to the studio, the Two Guys from Surrey set, but they figure it's unlikely he'll show up, seeing as how I recognized him and all."

  "In makeup again. We never got a look at his real puss."

  "No, but the detectives said they'd know soon enough, if they had to, through the casting director or his agent. That there has to be his photo around somewhere."

  There wasn't.

  By midafternoon, the detectives had determined that everything about Clifton Hatcher was fake, not only the mustache. He wasn't in the Brynie Foy movie. He'd used it to angle his way onto the lot. The Screen Actors Guild had no member named “Clifton Hatcher.” AFTRA records came up with a member who used that name professionally and gave an address and a phone number in Studio City for a private mailbox service that went out of business four years ago.

  His real name was Elrod Stump, Jr.

  * * * *

  He's still out there somewhere, Elrod Stump, Jr., under some name, some face I wouldn't recognize. Were I to stumble across him, Elrod Stump, Jr., would doubtless be surprised by what I'd have to say to him, words he'd probably least expect to hear out of my mouth: Thank you.

  Before he murdered Laura Dane, she was another of those half forgotten stars who retreat into the past, a prisoner of memory until their minds fail them, then their bodies. They get a final, brief review on the obituary page, sometimes accompanied by a photograph of the star that was, not the relic they became.

  By killing Laura, Elrod Stump, Jr., restored her to stardom. He gave her the leading role in a murder mystery that remains unsolved to this day. He put her name and her photograph on page one of newspapers throughout the world. He turned her into another of the enduring icons in an exclusive club, the Stars of Scandal, whose members live in perpetuity in books, magazine articles, and films.

  He took Laura Dane's life and gave her legend.

  Who could ever ask for more than that?

  Certainly not Laura, who lived to be remembered.

  Copyright (c) 2007 Richard S. Levinson

  * * * *

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  [Back to Table of Contents]

  GERMAN JOHNSON AND THE LOST HORIZON by L. A. Wilson, Jr.

  * * * *

  Tim Foley

  * * * *

  THE ETHIOPIAN COASTAL PLAINS, JUNE 13, 1940

  A British doctor who had just dropped from the sky walked through a field hospital a few kilometers inland from the Ethiopian coast. He averted his eyes from the anguish-filled gazes of the sick and dying. The long open ward of the hospital tent was saturated with the odors of diseased and dying flesh. The doctor had to do his job quickly. The hospital was an international humanitarian effort, but the Italian invaders remained suspicious and only reluctantly tolerated its presence. As a citizen of a hostile Allied government, he would be shot as a spy if discovered.

  At the end of the ward Adonis Abebe lay on a pallet. Abebe's face was covered by a thick layer of gauze wrapped around his head, giving him the appearance of a mummy. A woman completely covered in black robes sat on the floor beside him, fanning constantly to ameliorate the sweltering temperature as well as to discourage the flies.

  The doctor spoke softly to the man as he began to cut away the bandages.

  "Do you remember what happened to you?"

  His associate translated the question, and Abebe responded painfully with a barely audible whisper.

  "Uh ... something ... I didn't understand all of it,” the translator said. “He followed something into the desert. It disappeared over a dune."

  The outer layer of dry gauze was cut away revealing an ointment saturated dressing that had been applied directly to the skin.

  "What was it?” the doctor asked. “How did this happen to you?"

  Abebe responded with a hoarse and weakened voice. He summoned all of his strength in his effort to speak. The doctor's associate leaned close to him while meticulously avoiding direct contact.

  "He says that he remembers light. I think he's confused,” the translator said.

  The doctor removed the final dressing and frowned as if repulsed by what he saw.

  Abebe's face was a bloody bed of ulcers and blisters. His left eye was swollen shut, and the pupil of the right eye was opacified and gray.

  "What did you see?” the doctor asked more forcefully. “What did you see?"

  Abebe managed hoarse gurgles through fissured lips. The doctor nodded unconsciously at him, although it was obvious that Abebe couldn't see.

  "I ... I couldn't hear that,” his associate said.

  The doctor took a syringe from his bag and slowly injected morphine into a vein in Abebe's forearm.

  "Is there anything I can do for you, old friend?” the doctor asked.

  Abebe shook his head no in response to the translated question.

  The doctor patted his shoulder gently before walking away. He knew Abebe would not recover, and he had done the only humane thing that he could do. Abebe would be dead before he reached the far end of the ward.

  Outside the hospital a familiar figure wearing a quasi-military uniform without rank insignias awaited him.

  "What did he say?” the man asked.

  The doctor shook his head, indicating a lack of information.

  "He followed a truck into the Denakil Desert where it disappeared over a dune. He saw a light somewhere. He said he saw the face of God."

  * * * *

  German Johnson was forever a day late and a dollar short. He had learned to fly airplanes before he was sixteen, but when he tried to enter aviator training in Tuskegee, their quota had already been met. Eventually he joined the Army, only to find himself building roads with an all-black engineering unit.

  Toward the end of 1939, it looked as though his luck was changing. He was chosen for a squad of black soldiers being trained for special operations, who were eventually loaned to the British government. They were inserted into a group of Ethiopian rebels in an effort to discover and report the nature of an increased Nazi presence evidenced by submarine activity off the Ethiopian coast. German Johnson spent a year of exploring the country from the northeastern plateau to the sun-baked coastal plains, but without confirming anything useful, the operation was scrapped. The Italians were ousted, Emperor Haile Selassie returned from exile in England, and German Johnson returned to digging roads in some of the worst terrain ever conceived. When America entered the war in 1941, German Johnson kept digging roads.

  Eventually the Nazis were defeated, Hitler committed suicide, President Truman bombed the Japanese, and German Johnson returned to a society that had no job for him. He became a man without direction. After eight years in uniform, his best available opportunity was waiting tables in a Harlem restaurant.

  * * * *

  The Royce was located on Lenox Avenue, a short walk from 125th Street. It was a place whose name implied more elegance than it presented. The restaurant was owned by Leonard Royce, who had named the restaurant not for himself but for the Rolls-Royce he hoped it would allow him to afford.

  Leonard was a big man—a towering six feet four inches tall with three gleaming gold upper tee
th. He had a penchant for Cuban cigars and the music of the Caribbean in his voice. He never missed an opportunity to recount the lamentable failures of his life. He was a man made insecure by a limited intellect, and he craved acceptance in a society obsessed with discrimination. In such a society, a Negro with gold teeth and a weak mind generally had more detractors than friends.

  German Johnson was a friend. Leonard had given him a job when nobody else would and tolerated German's depressions and bad manners.

  German suspected that it was because he had always treated Leonard with respect. He didn't laugh behind Leonard's back when he spoke. He didn't belittle him for his garish taste in clothes. Leonard had passions and aspirations that were no different from his own; the fact that Leonard didn't articulate them well was no reason to demean him. Besides, Leonard had money, and a streak of mean tenacity that insured that he would keep it. Such a friend was valuable, although German refused to accept that as being the core of their friendship.

  * * * *

  Four men gathered at a table in the rear of The Royce. White people dropped by The Royce occasionally, but these men had come consistently once a week for the past three weeks. They would huddle at a corner table, talking among themselves in hushed tones. They always ordered full meals, and they always tipped well. This was the first time they had been seated at German Johnson's table, and he moved quickly in anticipation of a hefty gratuity.

  One of the men, balding and in his forties, fixed German's eyes with a mirthless gaze. He ordered for the entire table in a slightly accented staccato voice.

  German had to struggle to prevent himself from recoiling from the steely stare, yet he was still afraid his surprise was apparent. German had seen the man before, and his presence in this place chilled his soul.

  * * * *

  "How do you know it was him?” Angie asked. “I mean, it was a long time ago, and you only saw him from a distance, didn't you?"

  "Yeah, but I saw him maybe fifteen or twenty times. It was him, Angie. It took me back. It was just like I was there again, and I could have reached out and touched him. I could see the pimples on his face. It was him, Angie. I could swear it."

  "So what are you gonna do?” she asked.

  "I don't know,” he sighed.

  He saw the expression on her face. The question she didn't ask was, Why are you talking about this if you're not going to do anything about it?

  Angelina Ruiz had lived with German for two years. She had given his life focus and direction, everything that had been missing during his years in the military. Most people called her his wife, although he had made no effort to legalize their bond. German didn't understand his own reluctance. There was no other woman in his life, and they had talked about having children, so he had at least made a subconscious commitment to the permanency of their relationship. He found that he depended on her, needed her wisdom, and looked forward to awaking to her smile. Still, there were mysteries about her—things he didn't understand. He had begun to believe that those things were more about him than about her. He had grown up in a single parent home, and he had come to realize that it was hard to learn to be a man when he hadn't spent much time around one.

  "What do you think I should do, Angie?” he asked.

  "You got to tell somebody, German."

  * * * *

  German Johnson had not been able to get the four men off his mind, especially the bald man with the penetrating eyes. Each time German saw the man, he became more convinced that he had seen him before. And if he was right, the man had a history of evil. His presence here could only mean the worst. The next week they were seated at one of his tables again, and German dutifully served their needs while watching the balding man with a jaded eye.

  As the restaurant filled quickly with hungry patrons, waiters scurried from table to table. Raucous laughter erupted from the bar and stole German's attention. Two uniformed police officers sat at the bar sucking down the free drinks that came with the beat, unless the business owner was stupid.

  German perceived an opportunity, but he was hesitant to grasp it.

  Hardy McPhail was a veteran officer. He was a big redhead whose stomach hung over his belt. He was no friend to the neighborhood. Cops like him came there to break heads and keep the masses in line.

  German decided to try him anyway.

  "Officer McPhail, can we talk for a minute?"

  McPhail scrutinized him from head to toe and appeared annoyed at having been interrupted.

  "Whaddaya want, Johnson?"

  "Those people at that table in the corner. I think they're up to something."

  McPhail responded with a skeptical frown. He leaned back on his stool in order to get an unencumbered view of the table at the far end of the restaurant.

  "They look all right to me. What are they doing?"

  German swallowed the lump in his throat. There was only so much information that he wanted to share with the likes of Hardy McPhail. He was afraid that his suspicions would sound so preposterous that he would be regarded as a fool.

  "I don't know. They're acting suspicious. Maybe they're mobsters. I just thought they should be checked out."

  McPhail's eyes shifted back and forth between German and the men he had pointed out. Finally, he tapped his partner on the shoulder, slid off the stool, and swaggered to the other end of the restaurant.

  German watched from across the room as McPhail spoke to the men. Maybe, just maybe, speaking to a cop might rattle them enough to make one of them slip and reveal something incriminating. The more he thought about it, the more uncomfortable he became. The thought was foolish. It was too simplistic to imagine.

  To his chagrin, within minutes McPhail was laughing and slapping them on their shoulders. The worst possible outcome seemed to unfold. They looked in his direction as the laughter continued. The balding man laughed as well, but there was no humor in his eyes.

  McPhail was a dumb sonuvabitch. They didn't stick cops like him in Harlem as a reward. They were laughing at him. McPhail had told them who had sent him over there.

  Eventually McPhail swaggered his way back to the bar and started gobbling down more free drinks and food.

  "They're businessmen,” he announced, while stuffing his mouth with hors d'oeuvres. “You ought to be glad they're over here putting money in your colored businesses. They could take their money somewhere else where they're appreciated."

  The four men left shortly afterward. An uneasy feeling remained with German, however. The balding man's eyes never left him until they had gone.

  * * * *

  "You seem to have developed an unusual interest in me, Mr. Johnson."

  A week had passed and they were back at the restaurant again. The balding man's gaze was riveting; his eyes would not let German Johnson escape.

  German fidgeted uncomfortably as he tried to formulate a response to the unexpected remark. Burning in his mind was the realization that the man had taken the time to remember his name.

  "I'm not sure what you mean,” he replied lamely.

  "Of course you do,” the man said. His voice exuded smug confidence while projecting an undercurrent of condescension. There was an element of darkness about him that German had seen before. It lay in that superior attitude others like him wore on their chests like medals of honor. But why come all the way to Harlem every week if that was the attitude they harbored? There were plenty of other places to eat in New York City.

  Somehow German Johnson muddled his way through the evening. The man with the burning eyes attacked him with a silent malevolence. His gaze seemed to follow German throughout the room. Was it real or was it his insecurity? He continued to serve the four men while gingerly avoiding conflict. By the end of the evening he was convinced that he would have to convey his suspicions to someone of substance.

  * * * *

  Waking up with Angelina was the most exhilarating part of German's life. She hugged him warmly and bathed his face with loving kisses.

&nb
sp; "I've got to go,” she finally said. “My mother's expecting me."

  He released her reluctantly. The mention of her mother made him feel guilty. Rosaria Ruiz was a religious woman who could not understand why a man of integrity would allow her daughter to live in a bond without the blessing of the Church. She never spoke about it, but her body language made her thoughts very clear. German started avoiding her a year ago, but her concerns seldom left his mind.

  He and Angelina had settled into a comfortable pattern. It had become easier to continue than to change.

  Breakfast odors quickly filled their apartment. Angelina's thoughts were always of him. She would never leave without bringing him breakfast.

  Soon she was there—barefoot and clad in only a loose robe and the pleasant aroma of her morning bath. He wanted her more than the food, but she quickly slipped out of the robe and into her clothes.

  "I'll see you this afternoon,” she said and kissed him briefly before walking away.

  "Angie, I love you,” he said.

  She stopped and turned toward him with a disarming smile.

  "I love you too."

  She started to leave again.

  "Angie, I mean I really do love you."

  Curiosity clouded her face. She came back and sat on the edge of the bed. Her dark eyes were trying to read him. She waited patiently for whatever was coming.

  "Tell your mother that I'm not such a bad person,” he said.

  "Where'd that come from?” she asked. “She doesn't think that."

  "Yes she does, but she's not right. I'm gonna do the right thing, Angie. I promise."

  She looked at him intently without speaking.

  "Okay,” she whispered simply, and then she was gone.

  * * * *

  "Captain Bracken speaking."

  For a moment German wished he hadn't called, but Bracken was the only person he knew who might believe him. It was only that when it came to Captain Roger Bracken, his emotions got in the way. He disliked Bracken as much as Bracken disliked him. Bracken had disliked all of them.

  They had never wanted Negro soldiers in the army, but once in, they certainly didn't want them in the same units with white soldiers. Of course Negro soldiers couldn't be in charge of themselves, so the Army chose white officers to command them. Roger Bracken's fortunes had led him to command a Negro unit. After President Truman integrated the military, Bracken's unit technically qualified as an integrated unit because he was there, and to his chagrin he remained there.