Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine 12/01/12
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EDITOR'S NOTE
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Objectification
LINDA LANDRIGAN, EDITOR
Stories are about characters, but crimes are often about things. This month's stories feature important objects that range from the suggestive to the symbolic and from the functional to the highly...
FICTION
FICTION
EDITOR'S NOTE
Objectification
LINDA LANDRIGAN, EDITOR
Stories are about characters, but crimes are often about things. This month's stories feature important objects that range from the suggestive to the symbolic and from the functional to the highly coveted. They include a computer, coins, a cigarette case—and a certain titular green-checked jacket. "No ideas but in things," wrote William Carlos Williams, and those things may ground a mystery story as well as a poem.
It's a pleasure this month to welcome Terrie Farley Moran, an author new to our pages, and to welcome back perennial reader favorites Mitch Alderman, Kristine Kathryn Rusch, and Marianne Wilski Strong. For our mystery classic this month, John H. Dirckx introduces a story by R. Austin Freeman featuring Dr. Thorndyke, an early adopter of forensic science in criminal detection.
Go to our blog, trace-evidence.net, for more background on selected stories in this issue, and let us know what you think.
FICTION
FICTION
JAKE SAYS HELLO
TERRIE FARLEY MORAN
Since the end of the Great War I'd been a grifter, plying my trade on the big-money crowd. Stayed anonymous, struck for just enough, and got out of Dodge before anyone knew what hit them. The crash in...
EUREKA
MITCH ALDERMAN
It was July in Winter Haven, Florida, and two in the afternoon. Bubba Simms was dozing in the air conditioning that blew through his office and across his face. Without AC, Bubba knew that most of the people who lived here would relocate far away. Bubba didn't know if there were need for private...
THE ABBOT AND THE DIAMONDS
MARIANNE WILSKI STRONG
Brother Leo put down his shovel, bent and scooped up a handful of soil, and kneaded it. Yes, he thought. The rich brown color spoke of nutrients, and the slight touch of orange indicated just enough...
TRICK OR TREAT
KRISTINE KATHRYN RUSCH
Sometimes in the mundane world, I feel like a fish out of water. But on that Halloween day, driving my Lexus SUV in a part of San Francisco I had never seen before, I felt like a whale covered in...
EDITOR'S NOTE
MYSTERY CLASSIC
Next Article
FICTION
JAKE SAYS HELLO
TERRIE FARLEY MORAN
Art by Hank Blaustein
Since the end of the Great War I'd been a grifter, plying my trade on the big-money crowd. Stayed anonymous, struck for just enough, and got out of Dodge before anyone knew what hit them. The crash in 1929 didn't really crimp my style until 1931. I was operating on the West Coast when the bottom fell.
Working my way back east, I hooked up with Fred just outside of Cincinnati. He was one of those door-to-door insurance guys. He'd sell you a policy and come back week in and week out to collect a nickel or a dime, always trying to talk you into more life insurance. Fred cooked up a nifty swindle. He'd backdate a policy for a couple of grand, then I would play dead and we'd split the money. Only thing is, I went over the top.
I had a '28 LaSalle Convertible Coupe that I won in a floating crap game in Chi-Town. Car needed parts I couldn't afford, so I doused lighter fluid on the back of the driver's seat. Then I loosened the screw on an old cigarette lighter to make it look like the fluid leaked by accident and I set the jalopy on fire. Trouble was, I put a wino's body, dead drunk but still breathing, in the car along with a wallet and ring. I identified the body as my brother Sam, collected the insurance, split it with Fred, and headed east. Just in time. Who knew Federated Insurance was watching Fred? When they nailed him for fraud they nearly nailed me for murder. But my luck held and I made it to New York and took a new identity: Wilson Grimes.
Times were tough. It was hard to get a mark to part with a dollar, never mind some real dough. So, I slipped over the edge, moved from grifting to knocking over jewelry stores and, after a few successes, I got caught.
From 1933 to the end of 1937 the Depression didn't bother me none. I spent those years on the government dime—four hard in Sing Sing prison. Still, I wasn't sure what the outside held for scalawags like me, so I was grateful for the food, the bed, and the doctor who took out my appendix in 1934.
When I was in the slammer, we had a saying: Every one of us is innocent, especially if proven guilty. And we'd laugh about it. Oh, there were plenty of those "no really, I didn't do it" guys, but I never believed any of them until I met Jake Hartly. He lived two cells down from me on D block. A quiet guy, he kept to himself and spent all his free time in the library.
In the yard he walked the perimeter, hands in his pockets, head up. Sometimes he'd whistle, like he was calling a dog or something.
We'd never said as much as hello until I got in a jam over game two of the 1936 World Series. With Babe Ruth gone, first to the Boston Braves and then out of the game entirely, what chance did the Yankees have against their rival New York Giants? The Giants took the first game by six to one and I had them as a sure thing for the series, so I bet heavier than I should have on game two. But the Yanks came roaring back and took out five Giant pitchers in nine innings to win the game eighteen to four.
I was in the yard trying to explain to a couple of heavy-handed B and E guys from C block how I could pay off my debt in a few weeks, but they were having none of it. Just as the heftier mug buried a punch in my gut, I heard that soulful whistle. Jake Hartly. He stepped up beside me and asked, "How shy is he?"
"Two packs."
"Come see me after commissary. I'll make it square."
The goons exchanged a glance, shrugged, and eased off to the center of the yard, but not without the puny guy throwing a growl to us both.
I stuck out my hand. "Wilson Grimes, four year bit, robbery.
We shook.
"Jake Hartly, lifer." He didn't have to name the crime, life meant murder. It seemed peculiar that a lifer would violate the prison code: Keep your mouth shut and look the other way.
"Jake, you know after commissary if you don't have the butts, they're going to beat us both. Maybe even a shiv."
"Don't worry, I'll stake you. What should we give them? Lucky Strikes? Camels?"
"Yesterday I won eight loosies, mostly Luckies."
"Luckies it is." And he turned and walked away.
The next day when the two B and E guys walked past me in the yard, one muttered, "Hey Grimes, your credit is good. Who you want in today's game?"
Alert and ready to duck, I pled poverty and inched away.
Over time, the one thing that inmates have aplenty, Jake and I became friends of a sort. He loved the ponies. As a trustee assigned to the library, he spent hours poring over the sports section of the New York World-Telegram. I'd get a library pass as often as I could. Jake taught me about handicapping horses, and I regaled him with stories of glamorous scams and good times. Once, when I asked how he knew so much about the ponies, he brushed me off with a quick "used to work around the track" and asked me to retell the California gold mine scam, which always made him shake his head, amazed that marks thought they were so smart, yet their greed always made me the big winner.
I was nearing the end of my stay in the joint when I walked into the library and found Jake sitting in a corner staring at a wrinkled snapshot.
He raised his eyes and they pled forgiveness, but I knew that no one's forgiveness could heal the pain I saw in them.
"I loved horses. I loved the track. I loved the whole game. I got into the bookie hot and heavy and then went to the shylock. It got worse with each bet. My only way out was to give them a win. For every long train ride between racetracks, the vet would give me some horse dope and I'd give Bright Star a small shot. Keep her calm. I thought a shot on race day would just slow her pace. But she stumbled and went down on the edge of the far turn. She never got up again.
"That's why I deserve to be here."
Jake picked up his broom, turned his back, and began sweeping aimlessly. I knew there was more to the story. Jake Hartly wasn't doing life for killing a horse.
I was down to counting days before I got the rest out of him.
Sitting in the library, I was researching potential marks in the society pages of The New York Times. Jake was straightening out the newspapers on a nearby shelf.
An article, along with some with funeral pictures, caught my interest. I cocked an eye at Jake. "Do you think I still have what it takes to rope in a grieving widow? She looks like a swell dame. Might even have a little fun before the final grab and dash."
Jake glanced over my shoulder. Something he saw stopped him cold. His legs went rubbery. He steadied himself, hands on the table and then sat down. After a while, he pulled an old news clip from his pocket.
"Gloria Dumont."
"Nah, name's Braskey."
"Second husband. I'm in here for killing her first."
He pushed the clipping at me. It was a picture of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Braskey selling the Dumont horse farm to some aeronautics company.
I looked at him. "You killed her first husband?"
"Didn't kill him, not that it matters. Here I am. She set me up. Tip Braskey helped, I guess. Looks like he's gone now too."
We sat quiet for a few moments, then Jake spoke, his voice a monotone.
"After Bright Star went down, I was finished. No decent stable would hire me. I couldn't get a job cleaning stalls, and believe me I tried. Then one day Gloria Dumont sashayed into my life and offered me a job at her husband's ranch on Long Island. Said her husband was out in the Dust Bowl buying cheap horses for a summer camp for city kids. Needed me to take care of the horses. I figured they took me because I'd come cheap."
He sighed and I waited a long minute before he spoke again.
"Mr. Dumont came home. Regular gentleman. I liked him. Next thing I knew, he was dead in the horse barn, with a broken needle in his neck. The other half of the needle was in my tack box, and the dope was the same as killed Bright Star."
He shook his head.
"I went to jail, and not long after she sold the land meant for the summer camp to the airplane people. All nice and tidy."
"Where does Braskey fit in?"
"Ranch foreman. Broke my balls each and every day. Came with the territory. I figure him for the killer. He was sure quick to point out my history to the cops. Sent them searching through my stuff."
"And you never felt the setup coming?"
"I was desperate for work and Gloria Dumont was very persuasive."
Looking at her picture, I could see how that would be true.
My last day finally came.
I'd come into jail wearing a single-breasted suit with pleated trousers. While I packed the few things I had in my cell, I wondered if it was still in style. The screw assigned to take me out was a reasonable guy named Hawkins. I asked if we could stop by the library so I could say good-bye to Jake.
We shook hands, wished each other well, and when I asked if there was anything I could send him from the outside, Jake answered, "Guess I got everything I need right here."
Hawkins took me to the gate and pointed the way to the tiny bus station. I had a plan. I'd hit Albany first. I knew a couple of semiretired flimflammers who'd been headquartered there for years. If they'd give me a role in a sting or two I could build a stake and head south to New York City where, I was sure, the plucking would be the ripest.
On the first day of Spring in 1940, a spiffy Hudson J3A locomotive heading south out of Albany Union Station hauled a dozen cars behind it. I sat comfortably in a compartment near the midpoint of the train. I had a more than modest stake in my pocket and introductions to some inventive con men currently working New York society.
In many ways, the world was going insane. Everyone knew war was right around the corner; still, most people hoped that Roosevelt's proposed Lend Lease to the Allies would keep the war in Europe off our shores. In my line of work, I knew the odds of that were slim. But, if people were in a mood to pretend that skies were sunny, well, that's when a guy like me has his best shot at scoring.
I came up the stairs of Grand Central Terminal and strode across Forty-second Street to Fifth Avenue, a street of opulent residences and expensive shops. I stood on the corner and took a deep breath. The smell of money.
I already had a mark picked. Gloria Dumont, a woman I knew would kill for wealth and power. That kind of greed just begs for a scam artist. I moved over to Seventh Avenue and found a hash house with a pay phone. A few nickels later, I had a new name, uptown wardrobe, a room at The Pierre, and an invitation to a social soirée at the Waldorf-Astoria. It was a fundraiser for a lawyer running for state senate who happened to work in the law firm that represented Gloria Dumont.
She was sure to show.
Whitey Crowley had been working this crowd for a while. They knew him as Kyle Bossard. When I told him all I wanted was Gloria Dumont, he was happy to let me in.
Whitey/Kyle had a terrific scam well underway. In the early thirties he and JoJo "The Banker" Montera had bought up some bank foreclosures in the out-of-the-way boroughs sprinkled around Manhattan—Brooklyn, the Bronx, like that. The small one-family houses hid money right out in the open and anyone in the racket who needed to lay low for a while could rent a quiet spot. Whitey eased in by selling one or two of the houses to rich folks for a small amount and then he'd stake some grifters to buy them out at a price of, say, fifteen to twenty percent higher. For the closing, JoJo, a k a Thomas Laurent, Senior Vice President of the nonexistent Orange Valley Bank, would approve the transaction. After a few of those deals, the suckers wanted in big and we were ready with a grand plan.
The Depression had lasted too long. Rich people were getting tired of hiding their money under mattresses and were ready to gamble big, and the group he'd spent a couple of years cultivating trusted Whitey. The state senate contender could fit right into the scam. Out in Queens on the eastern edge of the city, during the boom of the mid 1920s, one or two farmers sold a few fields to developers who, in turn, subdivided and built small homes on thirty-by-hundred plots. There were hundreds of acres left, but after the crash the housing market dried up like crops in a drought. And all that nice, level farmland surrounded the site of a three hundred-acre state hospital.
Whitey's idea was simple. Convince the soon-to-be senator that when elected he should propose closing the hospital. If New York State sold the land to a private developer, it would increase the state's tax base. Build a smaller hospital elsewhere on a few acres of land. The patients would still be cared for, the state would earn annual revenue, and the senator would come out a hero. Naturally, those in the know would buy up the surrounding farmland before the election. Whitey would handle all the finances, and JoJo would certify to the marks that everything was kosher.
I was determined to make sure that Gloria Dumont invested a hefty amount. JoJo and Whitey would bag the loot and take off for parts unknown before anyone was the wiser. Me, I'd be happy to see Gloria Dumont get her due.
The candidate, a wimpy guy with thick glasses and a bad toupee, had the unfor
tunate name of Smedley. Hard to wrap a fancy campaign slogan around that.
I wore a tux to his fundraising party. A little overdressed for cocktails, but I wanted to make an impression, let them think I had plans for later in the evening.
I exchanged nods with a few business types who were wondering why I looked familiar. I didn't, of course, but a few head nods back and forth with some major players made me fit right in.
She was standing in the midst of a half dozen society types dressed in evening wear. I watched as she half pouted, half smiled at a fat, bald guy who I suspected was on her list of possibilities for husband number three. Glad now for the tux, I ambled to the edge of her circle. The satin fabric of her tight black dress shimmered with every breath she took, every word she spoke. Her white-blonde updo exposed a long elegant neck just waiting to be kissed. The bald guy said something I didn't catch. Gloria put her hand on his lapel and tapped gently.
"Surely you've heard of Queens. One drives through it to reach the Hamptons."
I could guess the topic and was pleased that Gloria was at least interested.
"My dear, driving through a place and investing money there is not quite the same." The bald guy's voice implied a harrumph.
I moved into the circle.
"Let's not forget there was a time when Manhattan was nothing but fields and trees. Foresighted people built what surrounds us today."
Gloria Dumont Braskey's remarkable blue eyes bored into mine with such intensity that I feared she was recognizing a kindred soul.
"A gentleman with vision. Something you could use, Louis." She handed the old guy her empty glass. "Now be a lamb and get me more champagne."