The Murder Megapack

by Talmage Powell

  I introduced him to Janet, and said: “You know reporters don’t have time to elope. Get in. We’re on our way to Littleton, to cover a murder.”

  “That’s where I’m going, too,” he said. He pushed in beside Janet, moving her into very close physical contact with me. It occurred to me that that fat bottom of his had finally served a useful purpose.

  “What happened to your car?” I asked him.

  “Don’t know,” he said. “I just gave up. I am helpless on anything mechanical, so I just had to sit there.”

  His voice, as I had noticed before, had a funny way of rising to a high pitch, almost shrill, as he came to the end of a sentence.

  “Did you check the gas tank?”

  “Yes,” he said, “there’s plenty of gas.” We drove on, after I had checked an impulse to look under the hood of the sedan. I am mechanically illiterate, too, but I was almost willing to bet that there was a purposely disconnected wire somewhere in the entrails of Mr. Williams’ car. However, after a little meditation, I quietly laughed off my own suspicion. What could the guy gain by stopping me on an open highway to bum a ride?

  Nothing, I finally decided.

  Janet obviously fascinated him, and he turned on the charm with which he had so successfully persuaded so many legislators to vote his way.

  “Tad Gordon’s daughter!” he exclaimed. “Well! I knew Tad very well indeed. Best reporter that ever lived, begging Dawson’s pardon. Helped me get elected state senator from the old Fourth ward in Millersburg, Tad did.”

  This, strangely enough, was true. But Gordon had lived to regret it, as Williams became transformed from his original role of rebel against political machines into a powerful, behind-the-scenes dispenser of machine patronage. His hold over the current Governor was notorious, and I had discovered among other things that he was the principal owner of a dummy corporation which seemed to exist primarily as a repository for undercover political slush funds.

  “Dooley,” I said, breaking in on him, “tell Miss Gordon about the time you saved Governor Anderson’s life.”

  “Oh, that,” he said. “Everybody knows about that.”

  “I don’t,” said Janet. “I’ve been away at school most of the last four years.”

  “It wasn’t much,” Williams said, modestly. “One night, when I was conferring with the Governor at his house, a man, obviously a fanatic of some kind, pushed his way in and came at the Governor with a pistol. I tackled him just as he was firing, and the bullet went into the ceiling. He kicked me in the chin and ran away. He was never found.”

  “Didn’t he have a thick beard?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Williams said, “probably a disguise.”

  “It always seemed a little fishy to me,” I said, brutally.

  “To you, it would,” he retorted. “You’re even trying to find something fishy in a bill designed to give this state of ours the fine, improved highway system which it needs and deserves. You are the kind of reporter who would suspect the motives of a mother trying to help her only child.”

  “I might, at that,” I admitted. “Especially if the only child happened to be in the pen and the mother had money to spend to get him out.”

  This was an oblique reference to a pardon-selling scandal that had developed in the closing days of another administration with which Williams had been connected. He let it pass, and staved off further argument by asking us about the murder. We told him what we knew, and discovered in return that he was booked for a very busy day in Littleton, himself. Morning conference with the county chairman and his wardheelers. Speech to the Kiwanis Club at noon. Visit to the state home for the indigent in the afternoon, and an address before the Civic Betterment League in the evening.

  “Why does a guy go into politics,” I asked, “if it means that he has to go through days like that? Does power or money make up for all that clap-trap?”

  “The cynical Mr. Dawson forgets that there is such a thing as public service,” Williams replied, pompously.

  “The cynical Mr. Dawson,” I said, “hasn’t seen enough evidence of it to be over-impressed.”

  Again he declined to fight back, and turned his attention to Janet, who had dug into my ribs in disapproval at a couple of my nastier cracks. I detected a few tentative attempts on his part to get in some fatherly knee-pats with his chubby left hand. When Janet frustrated him by crossing her knees and leaning in my direction, I smiled my appreciation.

  * * * *

  We made last 50 miles, which is a fairly straight stretch, in a little less than 50 minutes, and were parked in front of the Hotel Littleton before 11 o’clock. We all registered, and Williams was effusive in his thanks for the ride. He insisted that he wanted us to be his guests at the dinner that night.

  “They’re going to put on a real feast,” he said. “Steaks that thick—and all the liquor you want.”

  I knew he thought free liquor was open sesame to the confidence of a reporter, and I regretted that some reporters had given him cause for thinking so. But I didn’t want him putting us in that category.

  “We can buy our own liquor,” I said brusquely. “We’ll be in the cocktail lounge between 5:30 and 6, and if we can get to the dinner, we will.”

  Janet wanted to go to her room and primp, but I kiboshed that.

  “We have two deadlines to meet between now and three o’clock,” I said. “I’ll give you three minutes in the little girls’ room on the mezzanine.” I watched her walk up the stairs, and saw that she was drawing glances from several other males in the lobby. She was very trim in her well-fitted blue suit and white blouse with a collar open at the throat. Her legs didn’t exactly discourage attention, either.

  “Now I know what they mean by wolf bait,” I thought; and somehow, the thought was quite saddening. She was so young and fresh and eager, and I didn’t like to contemplate what five years in the newspaper business might do to her.

  She was back fast, and we took a cab to the police station. I could see that she was excited again, and I took her hand and told her to relax. She let it linger in mine for a second.

  “You don’t like Mr. Williams much, do you?” she asked.

  “Not much,” I admitted. “Do you?”

  “No,” she said, “but he’s rather fascinating—in a disgusting sort of way, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I guess I do.” There wasn’t much time just then for figuring out the vagaries of a female mind. We were in front of the Littleton police station, a dirty, red-brick monstrosity bearing the date “1883” above the doorway. I led Janet inside, past the desk sergeant, who must have known me vaguely because he made no move to keep us from going right on into the chief’s office.

  Jess Harrity looked bigger than ever, sitting there in a cushioned swivel chair behind the old-fashioned roll-top desk. He smiled and waved, but made no effort to lift his bulk off the chair.

  “Well,” he said, “what’s this—newlyweds?” I had forgotten how incredibly soft his voice was.

  I felt my ears turning red, and looked at Janet. She was blushing, too. My laugh was a little feeble.

  “That’s the second time we’ve heard that crack today,” I said to Harrity. “We’re getting a little tired of it.”

  “Then you shouldn’t look the part so thoroughly,” he retorted. “Why don’t you introduce me to the young lady?”

  “Jess,” I said, “this is Janet Gordon, the Lakeville Journal’s newest reporter. Tad Gordon’s daughter. Miss Gordon, Chief Harrity.”

  Janet looked at me a little reproachfully, and I could see that she was biting her lip.

  “I know,” I said. “I’m supposed to quit introducing you as Tad Gordon’s daughter. You’re a reporter, yourself.”

  Harrity didn’t get it. “I’m very pleased to meet you,” he said. “I knew your father years back. A fine man he was, too.” The remnant of a brogue came through an occasional word in his speech. “Is there a shortage of news in Lakeville, that you two come traipsin’
down to our poor little city?”

  “There’s a shortage of murders,” I replied. “We’ve got lots of news about politicians and lobbyists and university budgets, but you’ve got all the murders.”

  “One murder,” he corrected me. “One little murder in two years, and you come down on me like vultures. A simple thing it is, too, not worth the time of busy reporters from the great capital city.”

  “So?” I said. “If it’s so simple that you have got a signed confession and the murderer is locked up in your crummy jail, we’ll just take a few notes and be out of your way. If it’s any less simple than that, it’s going to cost you a drink—unless, by some miracle, you’ve gone on the wagon.”

  A grin spread over his round, red, honest face.

  “My boy,” he said, “you know better than that. Father Cleary always told me—and he was right—that if a man doesn’t drink or smoke, you have to be on guard against him, because everybody does something. And me, I can’t stand the taste of tobacco.”

  He swung around in his chair, opened a large bottom drawer in the old desk, and pulled out a quart bottle of Bourbon, half empty.

  “For the young lady,” he said, “there’s a glass.”

  He lifted himself out of the chair, and walked to a wash basin in a corner. I had seen Jess Harrity often, but I always marveled anew at his size and the way he carried it. He was well over six feet, broad and thick, and must have been toting at least 230 pounds. Yet he moved across the floor with the agility of a basketball player.

  I saw Janet try to repress a shudder when he handed her a tumbler half filled with whiskey. I didn’t know much about the child, and nothing about her drinking habits, but it seemed obvious that she was unaccustomed to large alcoholic jolts on an empty stomach, before midday. I smiled at her.

  “You don’t have to drink it,” I said, as Harrity handed me the bottle.

  She smiled back, and tossed off most of the whiskey, as if to say, I won’t be outdone and I won’t be patronized. While I tipped the bottle, I watched her move, in a fair hurry, to the wash basin, where she drew herself a chaser and downed it. By the time she got back to the desk, Harrity was absorbing a final snort that didn’t leave much in the bottle.

  “George,” she said, “may I have a cigarette, please?”

  I caught the exaggerated attempt at nonchalance, and I knew she was wondering whether Harrity’s low-grade Bourbon would ever stop burning her insides. I was having a little difficulty with it, too. While I lighted cigarettes for both of us, Harrity put the bottle back in the desk and locked the drawer.

  “Want to see the body?” he asked. “It’s right around the corner.”

  I nodded, and we all walked to the undertaking parlor. As we reached the door of the shabby, somber little place, Janet tossed her cigarette away and threw back her shoulders.

  I grasped her arm firmly, but she pulled away in resentment.

  “I’m perfectly all right,” she insisted, too vehemently.

  I had a few interior butterflies myself, although death was a fairly common story to me. However, it wasn’t bad, and Janet took it standing up.

  The object of our curiosity was very peaceful. We knew there was a bullet hole in the back of his head, but I didn’t ask to see it and nobody insisted on showing it. The guy was medium-sized, middle-aged and thin-faced, and his thin, grayish hair was neatly combed. We didn’t take a very long look. Janet stood there until I touched her elbow, and we walked out into the fresh air together.

  “Ever see him any place?” Harrity asked. “Know anything about him?” We shook our heads.

  “All I know is what we got in the early story this morning,” I said. “His name is Frank Turner, and he was in the real estate business.”

  Harrity nodded, and led the way back to his office, where he reclined again in his big swivel-chair.

  “He was a partner in the Ideal Real Estate Company,” he said. “Only been here a couple of years, and caused us no trouble. Came from Chicago, far as I can find out, but the cops there got no line on him.”

  “You said this was a simple case,” I reminded him.

  “That it is,” he replied. “Only two people coulda done it. I got evidence they was both at his house last night, and his maid found him dead this morning. One’s a widow named Lucy Marston, the other’s his partner. French guy named Francois Lemay.”

  “What makes you think he might have killed Turner?” I asked.

  “Only three things people kill for,” said Harrity, “unless they’re drunk or crazy—love, money and revenge. The widow was in love with Turner, or maybe she was just getting money out of him. Anyway, I got witnesses who saw her at his house often, including last night. And I got witnesses who saw this Lemay leave the house last night after the widow was there.”

  “Must have been a mass meeting right in front of the house,” I said.

  “Neckers,” the chief explained. “Coupla carloads of kids and their girl friends. Turner’s house is up in a kind of half-developed suburb, and the road is off by itself. I guess a lot of neckin’ goes on up there. It’s a thing you can’t stop even if you try. You can preach against it and legislate against it, but you can’t make it unpopular.”

  “You’re quite a philosopher, Jess,” I said, “but how did you find out about these kids?”

  “They came in after they heard what happened. Good kids—they were kinda scared, but they knew they should tell the police what they saw.”

  “And even at night, they recognized Lemay and Mrs. Marston?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he said, “everybody in town knows Lemay. He’s a kind of half-breed. Says he’s one-eighth Indian, but he looks a hell of a lot more. Some of the kids knew the widow. She used to be married to old man Marston, the banker, and there’s been a lot of gossip about her goin’ here and there with men, but there’s nothin’ really against her, I guess. Besides, I don’t really need witnesses. Both of ’em admit being at Turner’s house last night. Naturally, they both say Turner was O.K. when they left, but the kids say they both lit out of there pretty fast.

  “I kinda favor the widow as the killer, at that. She was there first, and the other guy might’ve just been running away from the corpse. She’s a mean dame, too; you can tell that by talking to her. Exactly the kind of woman who’d plug a man that was trying to give her the toss.”

  “Have you pulled her in yet?”

  “Naw, I’m just lettin’ her sit for a while, until the dicks turn up some stuff on her. She’s not going any place. Got a guy watching her house.”

  I pulled a wad of copy paper out of my pocket and made a few notes. Then I turned to Janet, who had been sitting in silent awe as the chief unwrapped his theories.

  “Your story,” I said, “is the woman’s angle. Go talk to the dame and see what you can get out of her. Call the desk by three o’clock with whatever you get. I’ll call now with the start for the early afternoon edition, and later with whatever develops. And after you get through with Mrs. Marston, go over to the Littleton Times and pick up all the pictures they’ve got on the case. Mason made a dicker for us to buy ’em. Since the economy wave struck, he won’t send one of our own photographers more than six blocks from the office. I’ll see you at the Littleton Hotel cocktail lounge by five-thirty.”

  Janet jumped up, grabbed her handbag, and inquired sweetly:

  “Shall I ask for a new picture of Chief Harrity, too?”

  My reaction must have been about that of an established movie star who has just had a scene stolen from him by a brat of a child, but I gave back with the same sweetness.

  “By all means,” I said. “We certainly ought to have a nice new picture of Mr. Harrity.”

  At this point, Mr. Harrity reached for one of the two telephones on his desk.

  “Wait a minute, Miss Gordon,” he said. “I’ll send you in a squad car.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” I exploded. “Harrity is going to send you in a squad car, even if the taxpayers ar
e screaming about how much the police department costs. I am beginning to see the value of a college education on a murder story, especially when it’s accompanied by a pair of big, baby-blue eyes.”

  Janet gave me a baby-blue glare, and stuck out her tongue; then turned to Harrity and thanked him prettily.

  In response to the chief’s call, a red-faced, broad-shouldered individual introduced as Detective-sergeant Herrick came into the room for orders. When Harrity told him to drive Miss Gordon to the Marston house and anywhere else she wanted to go, his relish for his assignment broke out all over him. He took Janet’s ridiculously tiny bag as though it were a great burden that he was proud to assume for her, and ushered her out the door with much play of his big left hand on her charming right arm. Moreover, she acted as if she liked it.

  “I hope,” I said to Harrity, “that that guy is not under the impression that he has just started out on a blind date with a pony from the chorus.”

  “What the hell!” Harrity sputtered. “Sure he’s all right. He’s got a wife and three kids.”

  “They’re not getting much of his attention, at the moment,” I said.

  The chief grinned at me.

  “Not jealous, are you, son?” he asked.

  “Of a flatfooted dick?” I sneered. “Hell, no. I just want to be sure Janet keeps her mind on her work.”

  Frankly, the violence of my own reaction to such a harmless little scene startled me when I thought about it. Fortunately, I couldn’t think about it long, because it was past time to call the office with my little nuggets of information.

  I gave what I had to Hawley, our best rewrite man, and he took it without comment.

  “I suppose,” I concluded, “that you are going to add the usual corn about an arrest being imminent. Just remember, please, that the Old Man doesn’t like libel suits and nobody has been charged with a damned thing in this case yet.”

  “Take it easy, Dawson,” he said. “We’ll just hint at mysterious developments until you really turn up some news.”