The Mammoth Book of Roaring Twenties Whodunnits

by Mike Ashley

  Millie was uncertain. “I don’t know. I really don’t.”

  “Sleep on it tonight.”

  “What do I tell my husband?”

  “That’s up to you, honey. Though my guess is that you got nothing to worry about. Your husband trusts you. He knows you’re not in the habit of going out with guests.”

  “That’s right, Mr Halio. I’m not.”

  “Then I’m the exception to the rule.”

  “I haven’t said that I will yet.”

  “But you promise to give it every consideration?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’ll settle for that. Goodbye, Millie.”

  “Goodbye, Mr Halio.”

  “Ah-ah,” he said, wagging a finger. “The name is Skip.”

  “Okay, then – goodbye, Skip.”

  Millie giggled again. She was hooked.

  Until he blew into town, I hadn’t taken much interest in gambling. I hate playing cards for money and I’ve never placed a bet on a horse in my life. Mind you, I’ve met dozens of guys who have, real suckers, always down on their luck, always boring you with stories of how they almost cleaned up, always trying to borrow those few bucks that they’re convinced they can turn into a fortune. Dreamers, all of them. It ain’t never going to happen. Why? Because they’re up against the pros like Skip Halio, seasoned experts, smooth-talking jaspers who live on their wits and who make sure that they live well.

  The only way you can hope to make a killing is by getting to know one of these privileged insiders, hard-nosed masters of their trade who seem to have a telepathic relationship with every horse that runs, every baseball player who picks up a bat, every golfer who steps on a tee in a major championship, and every boxer who puts his life on the line. In short, with someone like Skip Halio. Sniffing the chance to make some real money for once, I did my best to befriend him.

  “Hi, Skip,” I said. “Just bought me a ticket.”

  “Didn’t know you was a fight fan, Walter.”

  “I’m not, but something tells me this bout is gonna be special.”

  “Oh, it is,” said Skip, chuckling. “I can vouch for that.”

  I bumped into him outside the Sesquicentennial Stadium, the only place in Philadelphia big enough to host such an event. After queuing for hours, I paid my money and made my own small contribution to what turned out to be a two million dollar gate. Lots more dough would be generated by betting. Skip was clearly determined to have his share of it.

  “I been reading the newspapers,” I told him.

  “So?”

  “Most of them reckon that Dempsey is clear favorite.”

  “Then why not stick your money on Jack?”

  “I got my doubts, Skip.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Well, it seems that Dempsey hasn’t had a fight for three years.”

  “Except with his wife,” he said with a chuckle.

  “The guy must be outa condition.”

  “Don’t you believe it, Walter. The reason Jack has kept the title on ice for three years is that he can make more money out of the ring than inside it. Last year, he notched up half a million bucks as a vaudeville and movie star. Everyone loves a champ. But he has to look like a champ,” he added, adopting a fighting pose. “That means he has to keep in shape. Jack’s trained hard for this fight. He’ll get into that ring real mean.”

  “You backing him to win?”

  “I’m offering odds of 4-1 on Tunney.”

  “But he’s had over sixty fights with only one defeat.”

  “That’s because he’s never been tested. Look at the guys he’s been in with – second-raters and no-hopers. Besides, they weren’t all victories for Tunney. Some of those fights ended with no decision.”

  “They say that Tunney can move like lightning.”

  “Then how come someone as slow as Harry Greb beat him? Okay, Tunney’s a good-looking guy who can prance around a ring like a ballet dancer but he hasn’t got the punch to finish off Dempsey. Jack will split him in two.”

  “You advising me to bet on Dempsey, then?”

  “It’s your choice, Walter.”

  “Can’t you just give me a hint?”

  “I’ve told you the odds I’m offering. How big a hint do you need?”

  “Sounds to me as if Dempsey is a cert.”

  “Nothing’s certain in the fight game,” warned Skip. “Look at Jess Willard. Six foot, five inches, weighing near on three hundred pounds. When he took the title from Jack Johnson, everyone said he’d hold it for a decade or more. Then along comes this unknown from Colorado, this hobo by the name of Dempsey. Nobody gave him a chance.”

  “Yet he beat Willard to a pulp in three rounds,” I said. “At the start of the fourth, someone threw in a blood-soaked towel from Willard’s corner.” I smiled quietly. “I been reading up on Dempsey’s career.”

  “Enough to make you put money on the guy?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What’s holding you back?”

  “I always got a soft spot for the underdog.”

  “Underdogs go under.”

  “Dempsey didn’t go under against Willard.”

  “Jack is one in a thousand, that’s why?”

  “What about Tunney? I like what I’ve heard about him.”

  “In that case – if you promise to keep this between the two of us – I’ll give you odds of 5-1. Just think, Walter. Give me ten bucks and you could walk way with fifty.”

  “Unless you get to the railroad station first,” I pointed out.

  He laughed. “Oh, I don’t aim to skip town this time.”

  “You sure?”

  “Dead sure. I got the betting rigged so I can’t lose. Besides,” he said, airily. “I got personal reasons for staying around for a while. Philly is growing on me. Tunney wins, you get your dough. That’s a promise.”

  “Okay,” I decided. “Let’s shake on it.”

  Millie Eberhard had also decided to trust him. The first night she went out with Skip Halio was a revelation. Prohibition was keeping most of the restaurants in the city dry but he knew exactly where to take her to get the very best champagne. Millie had never tasted food like it or danced to the music of the finest band in Philly. Being with Skip was exhilarating.

  “You never told me where your wife lives,” she said.

  “Let’s not talk about her. Tonight is a night when my wife and your husband don’t even exist.”

  “I just wondered. Is she far away?”

  “Far enough,” he said. “She’s in Chicago.”

  “I’ve always wanted to go there, Skip.”

  “Who knows? Maybe you will one day.”

  Millie giggled. “You gonna invite me, then?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Will you be coming to Philly again soon?”

  “Now that I’ve met you, I’ll have a job keeping away.”

  It wasn’t just the delicious meal in the luxurious surroundings that excited Millie. She was being given a glimpse into a world of the elite, the freemasonry of the wealthy and powerful. Skip pointed out the more celebrated diners to her with the ease of a man who’d rubbed shoulders with Presidents.

  “That’s Andrew Mellon,” he said, knowledgeably, “and the guy on the table behind him is Joseph Pulitzer. I reckon you never been in a restaurant before with a Biddle, a Rockefeller and a Roosevelt, have you? Not to mention the greatest baseball player of all time – Babe Ruth. See him in the corner? He’s the big fella, chewing his food like he’s got no table manners.”

  “What are they all doing here?”

  “Hoping to take a peep at Millie Eberhart.”

  “Don’t tease, Skip. I’m nobody special.”

  “You are to me, honey.”

  “So why are all these bigwigs in Philly tonight?” she asked.

  “They’ve come for the same reason as that guy,” he said, indicating the dapper figure, being shown to a table with a young woman on his arm. “They’re a
ll fight fans.”

  Millie goggled at the newcomers. “That looks like Charlie Chaplin.”

  “It is Charlie Chaplin.”

  “Wow! I’m in the same restaurant as a movie star?”

  “Correction. A movie star is in the same restaurant as the prettiest gal in Philly,” Skip told her, taking the opportunity to stroke her thigh. “You got class, Millie. You belong in a joint like this – not serving behind that bar. Glad you decided to come out with me?”

  “Very glad.”

  “Skip Halio knows how to treat a lady proper.”

  “Charlie Chaplin,” she sighed, still gazing at the little man in wonder. “I don’t believe it. Thank you so much for bringing me here. This has been the most wonderful night of my life.”

  Skip smiled complacently. “And it’s not over yet.”

  When the cab dropped her off at her home, Millie Eberhart was relieved to see that her husband was not back yet. He always had a night out with the boys on Thursday. True to his word, Skip had given her an unforgettable time before returning her safe and sound to her modest house in the suburbs. Head still swimming, Millie hugged her memories to her breast like the children she could never have. There was only one drawback. She could never share her secret with anyone else, especially with her poor sap of a husband who thought she was visiting a friend.

  That, in a sense, was true. What she would never dare to tell him, of course, was that the friend in question was a certain Skip Halio, a guest at the hotel where she was employed. Her husband would be deeply hurt. He was a good man, kind, loving and hard-working but the romance had long been drained out of their marriage. It had taken an evening with Skip Halio to prove that to her. She was realistic about her new friendship. Skip would soon move on and she might never see him again, but that didn’t matter. He’d opened her eyes in every way. He’d shown Millie her true potential. And before he did leave Philly, he was going to take her to the Big Fight.

  By the time her husband got back, Millie had washed off the smell of Skip Halio and the stink of his cigar. Tucked up in bed, she didn’t even feel someone climbing in beside her to plant a farewell kiss on her cheek. She was too busy dreaming about Charlie Chaplin.

  To anyone interested in the noble art, the return to the ring of the world champion was like a Second Coming. Jack Dempsey was an American hero, a teak-hard, no-nonsense fighter who’d learned his craft in a hundred bars, hobo jungles and mining camps, taking on all-comers in brawls that had no room for such niceties as boxing gloves, referees or rests between rounds. In that dog-eat-dog world, there was only one long, unrelenting, blood-covered round. The papers kept harping on about the contrast. Inside the ring, they said, Dempsey was all muscle and iron determination. Outside it, he was gentle, quiet and shy.

  The more I read about Dempsey, the more I wondered if I should’ve put my money on him. Except that I couldn’t raise a big enough stake to make a sizeable profit. Ten bucks was all I could afford. For guys like me with slim billfolds, Tunney was the better option. If, by a miracle, he actually won, we’d go home real happy. In order to convince myself that he stood a chance, I found out everything I possibly could about the challenger. I was encouraged.

  On the night itself, 23 September 1926, the biggest crowd I’d ever seen converged on the stadium. Hundreds of cops were on duty. Bodyguards made sure that celebrities got safely to their seats. The air of anticipation was almost tangible. I was pushing my way towards the entrance when I saw the man who’d first sparked my interest in the contest. He was checking that big gold watch of his and looked as if he was waiting for someone.

  “Don’t you try to skip out on me, Skip,” I cautioned.

  “No chance of that.”

  “I want to collect my dough.”

  “Only if Tunney wins,” he reminded me, “and that’s not exactly on the cards. Tell you what. I’m a fair-minded guy. You want to switch your money to Dempsey, that’s okay by me.”

  “I’ll stick with Tunney.”

  “Then you’re in the minority, Walter.”

  “There’ll be two of us in that stadium at night who believe that Jack Dempsey will lose,” I declared. “Me and Gene Tunney.”

  “You’re crazy. Tunney will be shitting his pants.”

  “Oh, no. He’s been waiting a long time for this chance.”

  “He won’t even last the first round.”

  “You got inside information?”

  “I got eyes, Walter. I got instincts.”

  “Well, so have I, Skip,” I said with conviction. “While Dempsey was taking a rest from the ring, Tunney trained or fought every single day. He’s battle-hardened and he’s pickled his hands in brine to make them like lumps of stone. For the champ, this is just one more fight. For the challenger, it’s everything. Tunney will win because he’s hungrier.”

  Skip grinned broadly. “Thanks for your ten bucks, Walter,” he said, punching me playfully in the chest. “You’re a brave loser. There’s no way your man will win.” He stood on his toes, to look over the heads of the people who were thronging past. “I gotta go. Friend to meet. Enjoy the fight – and don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Tunney,” I said defiantly.

  But he’d seen the person he was waiting for and skipped off.

  If you really want to know what the Roaring Twenties was all about, you should’ve been there in the Sesquicentennial Stadium. It was like walking into a zoo when all the cages have been opened. Most everyone there seemed to be liquored up and ripe for action, especially the women. The noise was deafening. In the mad scramble for seats, I had to fight to get mine, then put up with the reek of stale sweat and the stench of cigar and cigarette smoke. Stuck at the back, all I could see of the ring was this tiny canvas square that blazed with light. People like Charlie Chaplin, William Randolph Hearst and all the other people who mattered were down at the ringside. Skip Halio would be somewhere close to them.

  The other fights on the card were simply there to warm up the crowd, to turn decent, law-abiding citizens into bloodthirsty morons who were on their feet as soon as the first punch was landed. By the time that we reached the main bout, I was part of this seething mass of humanity that roared like angry lions and that could only be appeased by the sight of ritual slaughter. I was frightened yet I was only in the audience. How must Gene Tunney be feeling?

  Well, to his credit, he looked fairly calm during the preliminaries and didn’t seem to mind that Dempsey got a much bigger cheer when he was introduced to the howling mob. In the general pandemonium, I didn’t even hear the bell but it must have been rung because they came out of their corners with their guards up. Even from that distance, I could see that Tunney was wary, conscious of the champ’s reputation. He held back, as if afraid of Dempsey, ignoring the ear splitting jeers from all sides of the stadium and biding his time.

  Jack wanted to get it over quick. Charging in with both fists flailing, he tried to floor his opponent by sheer, raw, animal power but his over-confidence let him down. Tunney had kidded him. To show that he didn’t really fear the champ at all, he hit Dempsey with a perfectly timed right that sent him reeling backwards and all but knocked him out. Weaker fighters would have been stopped there and then, but Dempsey had the strength to come back. The trouble was that Tunney now had the upper hand. He was fitter, faster and landed much the cleaner punches. Dempsey just couldn’t seem to get through his defense.

  Unable to knock the champ out, Tunney simply wore him down, round by round, until Dempsey was sweating like a pig on a spit and panting for breath. He was also bruised and bloodied whereas Tunney seemed to be unmarked. He was fighting the crowd as well as Jack Dempsey. They wanted Tunney to slug it out, toe to toe with their hero, to be smashed into oblivion by the famous fists of the Manassas Mauler. Instead, they saw a courageous fighter being out-foxed and out-boxed by a tall, skinny guy from nowhere. After ten rounds, they were both still standing but there was no doubt who won the contest. Gene Tunney had become the f
irst man in history to take the title on a points decision.

  The stadium was like bedlam. Arguments started, fights broke out and the first few chairs were used as weapons. All I was interested in was my fifty bucks from Skip Halio. Shoving and shouldering my way down the aisle, I got close enough to the ring to recognize some of the famous faces who’d watched their hero slowly crumble before them. It took me a while to find Skip but I eventually spotted him, making for the exit and having an argument with a woman who was trying to hold his arm. With a sudden movement, he shrugged her off, slapped her hard until she backed away in pain, then vanished through a doorway. In a flash, I realized what he was doing. Unwilling to pay all of us who’d bet on Tunney, he was falling back on his favorite trick.

  Skip Halio was trying to skip town.

  Most boxers who’d just won a world title would have celebrated all night and drunk themselves into imbecility. But not Gene Tunney. He was a modest, clean-living young man. After a shower, he got dressed and went off to a hotel to have several pots of tea. How do I know that? Because it was in all the papers, underneath a picture of the new champ. But even Tunney couldn’t dominate the front pages in Philly the next day. The big story was spelled out in a banner headline – MURDER AT THE RAILROAD STATION.

  It seems that a bookie named Skip Halio was violently attacked by a local man. In the course of the struggle, Skip was deliberately hurled across the track, seconds before a train came steaming into town. Iron wheels ploughed on regardless, mangling the body beyond all recognition and ruining an expensive gold watch into the bargain. The killer made no attempt at escape. He gave his name as Walter Eberhard, a cab driver from Philadelphia.

  “It wasn’t really the fifty bucks,” I told them. “It was the way I saw him treat my wife at the fight. Nobody hits Millie like that and gets away with it.”

  The Broadcast Murder

  GRENVILLE ROBBINS

  The early 1920s saw a Radio Craze in Britain and America. The first commercial radio broadcast began in 1920 from Station SMK in Detroit, and the BBC began broadcasting over Station 2LO in London in 1922. And this story, written and published in 1928 is, so far as I know, the first radio murder mystery – certainly the first “locked room” one. Robbins was a newspaperman who wrote for The Times. He was also a writer for radio, and though he had no books published (leastways, not under that name) he had several unusual stories in the popular magazines of the 1920s and 1930s, several of which I hope to resurrect in later anthologies.