The Man with the Lumpy Nose

by Lawrence Lariar

  “I’ll take Hank’s word for Dino,” said Bull, “and accept him as normal.” He flipped a page. “It seems to me that we have another path to the murderer, and a more logical one. This path leads away from the cartoonists and begins with Chance himself. It concerns, too, the man Smith, the wallet full of bills and the search through Chance’s apartment. All these signs point the case far away from any cartoonist’s machinations.” He turned to McElmore. “Or do you propose to forget about these clues, Dick?”

  The inspector studied his shoes. Bull sometimes embarrassed a man with his questions. “Go ahead, Bull.”

  “We must begin with the robbery of Chance’s place immediately after the murder. From what I’ve found, I believe the men who came to the penthouse were searching for a manuscript. We recovered sections of an apologist tract in the waste paper down in the basement. We can only guess how much of this sort of writing our friend Chance did.” Homer placed his manuscript on the bookcase and slowly relit his cigar. “I must confess, Dick that this writing leads only to further confusion—but don’t you feel, honestly, that it might eventually make sense?”

  McElmore rubbed his long jaw for a moment. “I’d be a dope if I didn’t agree with you, Homer. But what in hell do we do now?”

  “We must find the murderer, Dick!” said Bull with a slow smile.

  At eleven-forty-one, Bull stood over Hank MacAndrews, holding a sheaf of drawings in his hand. “I’ve been shouting at you for ten minutes, but you sleep the sleep of the beasts. These sketches—the drawings we found in Chance’s desk. They’re very interesting.”

  MacAndrews slid his feet around slowly and sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Very interesting. So what?”

  “I was trying to reckon the earnings of these freelance magazine cartoonists.”

  “You think of the weirdest projects. That’s about the toughest job of figuring in the world. You have to go through all the magazines and total each issue for each man.” He yawned a full winded yawn. “And even then you’d be nowhere, because the income of each man has nothing to do with each magazine. There are hundreds of magazines you never see that are simply loaded with cartoons.”

  “I know that, but I’m still curious. Take these men, for instance: Bragiotto, Alfonte, Simonson, Grundy, Hedge, Winters and Tinnover. Which one of the group earns the most each year?”

  “Lincoln Winters or Sim Simonson.” He paused to yawn again. “I can’t tell.”

  “You can guess.”

  “If it’s a guess, I’d say Simonson. He’s one of these quiet fellows and doesn’t hit the big markets so much, but he does a land-office business among the trade journals and the cheaper humor books. And he gets a lot of advertising work, too.”

  “And next?”

  “Lincoln Winters, maybe. He always has plenty of dough. I don’t know. I guess he and Alfonte earn about the same. They both draw for the bigshot magazines.” He blinked around the room and then got up. “I’ll show you what I mean, Homer.” In the corner of the hallway he found Raleigh Peters’ gay portfolio and brought it to the desk. “It just happens that our little friend Raleigh began to collect and file the humor pages of The Country. He has a swell start here—it’s just the thing I need to give you a groundwork in the business.”

  Raleigh’s portfolio was bursting with clipped pages from The Country, together with large sheets of Bristol-board filled with countless original sketches.

  Hank began to assort the huge collection of clipped pages, putting in one stack the reproductions of those artists Homer had mentioned.

  When this was finished, Hank again went through the group and created individual piles until all were weeded. There were then five piles, for Grundy, Simonson and Bragiotto had never sold a drawing to the magazine. He pointed to the largest stack. “There’s our good friend Winters—the top of the heap. Why? Because, in addition to his regular weekly feature, he also sold Chance many cartoons for the rest of the mag. Are you beginning to see which man makes the most money in this market?”

  Bull nodded. “Alfonte doesn’t do badly, either.”

  “That’s right—Tim is second—but that’s only because you’ve excluded Sue Bates from your list. Sue runs Winters a close second, at least in The Country, despite the fact that she isn’t selling them as many drawings as she did not so long ago.”

  Bull sat at the desk and began to thumb through the pages slowly. He studied the drawings, smiled feebly at some of the gags. He held up a drawing by Tinnover. “I wonder whether psychologists have ever investigated the arts thoroughly, Hank. Isn’t it amazing how some of these men are reflected in their drawing? Look at Tinnover, for example. He’s as willowy as a reed, as shy as a child in his pictures. His men are short—his women, frail. He seems to be drawing his subconscious and mirroring his physical being at the same time.”

  “That’s old stuff to cartoonists,” smiled MacAndrews. “And the hell of it is that a man can’t ever change his style unless he somehow changes his personality. I know—I’ve tried.”

  “And failed?”

  “Of course. I’m naturally the sloppy type. You know what I mean—I don’t fuss much over the little—unimportant things. It’s the same in my art work. I’m more concerned with the mass—the huge blocks of light and shadow, than I am with all the details some of the boys seem to enjoy. I draw a man in one fell stroke. There are a couple of others who do it my way—matter of fact, most cartoonists draw by suggestion, probably because they’re a little lazy.” He reached across the desk and held up a reproduction. “Take this man Alfonte—he’s the other type. He’s neat as a pin all the time. Dresses well, shines his shoes and all that. You see how his drawing gives him away?”

  Homer didn’t answer. He was bent over a grey pamphlet he had found in the large pocket of Raleigh Peters’ portfolio. He flipped the cover and began to read the lead article, captioned “The German People.” As he read he whistled a thin and tuneless melody through his teeth.

  “Get me those Chance manuscripts, Hank,” he said, suddenly. “Our little friend Raleigh has brought us the payoff on Earl Chance.”

  Hank laid the sheaf of manuscripts on the desk.

  Homer thumbed through the Chance writings for a long time. Then, with a short grunt, he handed one of the typed pages to Hank. “Read the first part of this page.”

  “The great masses of the German people are simple folk …”

  “Check!” said Homer. “I have that morsel of great thought right here in this little grey pamphlet.” He examined the cover of the pamphlet carefully. “This is our first big break, Hank. We could never have guessed that Chance would have lent his talents to a sheet of this type. This is the sort of propaganda swill that reaches its customers in a plain manila envelope. You’ll notice that the title page bears no printer’s imprint—no return address. These little messengers of malice, you see, are mailed out in wholesale lots to a choice mailing list. Circulation is achieved via the pass it system. It was by just such a system that the fraudulent Protocols of Zion were smeared across the face of the earth.”

  MacAndrews scratched his head. “But Peters? He seems like such a nice kid.”

  Homer opened the pamphlet to a full page drawing, a political cartoon signed Rowlandson. “Raleigh Peters probably picked up this booklet for the cartoon,” he said. “His portfolio contains quite a few reproductions of the Old English master.”

  Hank studied the cartoon. “You’re probably right. Only a stupid kid could have confused this blob with a real Rowlandson item. This drawing was done by some contemporary hack who decided to imitate Rowlandson because he didn’t want to sign his own name. Whoever did it was a keen student and a good copyist, because he’s done a pretty good job of bringing all of Rowlandson’s tricks of drawing up to date.”

  “Has he? Is the job good enough to fool you?”

  “What do
you mean?”

  “You couldn’t, for example, probe this fakery and tell me which artist did this job?”

  Hank made a face, bent over the drawing. “There are approximately twelve thousand artists of all types right here in New York. Of this gang, not many are equipped to do cartoons. But this job may have been done by an illustrator or a commercial artist, understand?”

  Homer puffed slowly on his cigar. “It would be nice to know this erstwhile cartoonist, Hank. The creative workers on such sheets as this are very close, very close indeed. I’d give a lot to know the name of the artist who worked so intimately with the late Earl Chance.”

  Hank flipped the pamphlet onto the pile of reproductions and sprawled on the couch. “That’s a job for a brain like yours,” he yawned. “Me, I get ants in my conk even thinking about it.”

  Bull sat frowning over the pamphlet. A cigar was clamped in his fat jaw and the smoke lay in a heavy cloud around his head. Through the cloud he blinked unceasingly down, thumbing the pages, pausing for a long look, thumbing again.

  At twelve-twenty-nine MacAndrews yawned and went home.

  At one-fifteen Homer Bull stuffed some of the clippings into his pocket, snubbed out his cigar, clicked off the desk lamp and walked into his bedroom.

  His hand was reaching for the light switch when he heard the voice.

  “Stand where you are!” said the voice. It was low-pitched and menacing. “If you move, I’ll shoot.”

  Bull dropped his hand. The voice came from the far corner of the room, to the left.

  Bull said, “I’m not moving. What do you want?” As he spoke he began a deep knee-bend. He was on his knees at the end of his speech.

  “I want those papers you took!”

  Bull waited for the sound of movement. “Which papers?”

  “You know what I’m talking about!” The voice rose and with it came the almost silent sound of a footfall.

  Bull un-sprung his body toward the sound. He hurled himself at the voice in a sudden lunge, arms outstretched. He hit the man low in a flying tackle, bowling him over. The stranger was a big man. He fell with a grunt and when he landed the gun went off. Bull heard the gun fall on the carpet. He shot a fist at the man’s jaw but the blow went wild. The man brought his knee up and kicked him away.

  Bull fell against the bed and rolled quickly to one side but his assailant anticipated the movement and threw his huge bulk upon him. His hands were reaching for Bull’s throat when he heard the banging on the living room door. Somebody had heard the shot.

  The big man brought his fist down on Bull’s jaw. Hard. Bull lay quiet. The big man lit the light, found his gun and took the Chance manuscripts from the living room.

  He ran to the open window and let himself out on the fire escape. He climbed the fire escape to the roof and left the building the way he had come.

  When the janitor finally came with the pass key to Bull’s apartment, his anxious neighbors found the fat man sitting on the floor in the bedroom, rubbing his jaw tenderly and smiling.

  The janitor brought him a drink. “Somebody try to kill you, Mr. Bull?”

  Bull gulped the brandy. “Just a social call. An old friend of mine.”

  The janitor gaped. “You knew who it was?”

  “Not exactly. You see, he paid me a call in the dark. But I’ve got a pretty good idea. I can’t remember his voice, but his mustache felt familiar.”

  CHAPTER 18

  At nine-thirty the following morning, Homer Bull entered the New York Public Library and requested the full list of instruction manuals and reference works on the subject of cartooning.

  At eleven-forty-five, Mr. Cummings, the librarian with the horn-rimmed glasses, strolled down the aisle and paused to offer his further services.

  “Have you found what you needed, Mr. Bull? I’m afraid the last two volumes the boy brought out are the latest books we have on the subject.”

  Homer Bull looked up to smile. “I think I’ve found what I wanted, Cummings. You were quite right when you told me that most of these small instruction manuals were written for schoolboys. However, I’ve unearthed two or three that aim for a higher type of artist. Ashbee’s Caricature is well seasoned with high art atmosphere. And this little work”—he held aloft a small volume—“offers me almost exactly the sort of information I want. You see, I’m researching in abstractions. I’m trying to find out whether one artist can successfully change his style of drawing completely. According to the comic gentleman who wrote Cartooning for Everybody, such a task is superhuman.”

  The librarian was puzzled. “It seems to me that he’s wrong, Mr. Bull. Why should it be more difficult for a cartoonist to change his style than, let’s say, an author?”

  “Let me quote,” said Homer Bull. “He says:

  “… Style, in cartooning, is the accumulation of years of background experience, experience built of drawing the same objects for a long time until one simple method for each object is achieved. It is a simple task to recognize the faces of a famous cartoonist. This is because our artist has arrived at a symbol for a face which he uses over and over again. Notice how this system of drawing by habit applies to each unimportant detail in your favorite cartoonist’s work. Your great cartoonist draws all men’s shoes the same way; he follows a uniform pattern for his figures, his hands, his wrinkles, his eyes, his backgrounds and his foregrounds. It is important for all beginners to realize this fact and to practice details over and over again, for only through the experience of years can he realize a final style which will be made up of simple symbols. For this reason, too, it is difficult to unlearn the background knowledge and change a style after many years’ work. It is much the same as tying your shoelaces with a repeated system each morning. Drawing, after a while, becomes a natural thing and a professional artist can no more hide his symbols in a new style than a professional soprano can suddenly sing bass!”

  “He makes it very clear,” said the librarian. “It’s pretty hard to imagine anybody getting so scientific about the cartoonists’ art.”

  Homer Bull stuffed several sheets of well-scrawled paper into his jacket. “Not at all, Cummings. I, for instance, am about to embark upon a highly scientific cartooning project.” Bull reached into the mass of clippings on the desk and found the Rowlandson drawing brought to him in Raleigh Peters’ portfolio. “Take a good look at this thing and tell me whether you think it’s possible to discover the man who drew it.”

  The librarian smiled at the drawing. “You can be very sure it wasn’t Rowlandson. But beyond that, it might have been done by any number of artists.”

  “You know your cartoonists?”

  “Pretty well.”

  “Good. Here’s a pile of clippings from the contemporary magazine boys. Suppose I gave you twelve artists from this bunch and asked you to pick one of them as the man who did this fake Rowlandson. Think it’s possible?”

  Cummings studied the group of reproductions carefully. “Impossible for me,” he shrugged.

  “Not at all. May I suggest that you follow the instructions of our scientific friend who warned us that a man must slip up on detail? Suppose you try to find me a man who draws details like the chap who did the Rowlandson. While you’re looking over the details, study the general swing of the pen line.”

  One by one, Cummings fingered the reproductions, his sharp eyes now bright with a new enthusiasm. It was several minutes before a slow smile curled the corners of his mouth. He held one reproduction alongside the Rowlandson and squinted from one to the other. Then his smile became a broad grin. “This is your man, Mr. Bull.”

  “Exactly,” said Homer, rising. “A simple and scientific conclusion. My thanks to you for your help thus far—and I’ll let you know soon whether our science has done us any good.”

  Bull reached McElmore’s office before the great man had arrived. When the inspector walked i
n Homer was at the files.

  “Is this what you mean by going back to the beginning, Bull? I see you’re on those knifings.”

  Homer laid two bulky envelopes on the inspector’s desk. “I’ve pulled out the back files on the two old stabbing cases that bothered you not so long ago, Dick.” He sat at the desk and opened one of the manila binders. “Here’s number one—the case of the Flushing girl, Miss Vera Simms. How did it wind up?”

  “It didn’t.” McElmore threw out his hands.

  “And the other one—our Mr. Bartlett?”

  “Another blank.”

  Bull studied the pages, blowing a little tuneless dirge between his teeth. He spread the Simms case all over the desk and began to read. The background was well researched. Vera Simms was a music teacher. She taught piano. She lived alone because her parents were dead and she could afford her own apartment. She was a graduate of Manual Training High School, well thought of by her teachers, a leader in school work, a girl with a wide circle of friends. Homer thumbed through the glossary of facts as Vera’s friends had given them to the police.

  The Bartlett case followed the same pattern. Bartlett was a local merchant, a druggist with a small store on Fifth Avenue in Brooklyn. He had many friends, thousands of acquaintances whom he knew through his dealings with them at the store. He was an Elk, a Rotary Clubber, a Protestant, lived with his new wife in a new home on a quiet street in Bay Ridge.

  McElmore scraped his feet to attract attention. “Have you found anything yet?”

  Bull folded away the documents. “Nothing here that I can see. But I want you to do me a favor, Dick. This Vera Simms girl had a boyfriend by the name of Orenson, a fiddler uptown somewhere. Will you get him for me? I’d like to talk to him.”

  “Easy,” said the inspector, reaching for the phone. He checked himself, however, and didn’t lift the receiver. “I forgot—I mean, I remember now that this bird is working up at Radio City and can’t get out until the late show is over. You want him then?”