by Craig Rice
The Thursday Turkey Murders
Craig Rice
MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
CAST OF CHARACTERS
BINGO RIGGS, meticulously attired mastermind of the International Foto, Motion Picture, and Television Corporation of America, who dreamed of millions
HANDSOME KUSAK, his partner, who had an encyclopedic memory, particularly where Sunday supplements were concerned
GUS, manipulator of a turkey transaction
CHRIS HALVORSEN, farmer, who owned the gobbling herd
HENRY JUDSON, Thursday County’s sheriff, who frequently wished he’d remained in the feed-and-seed business
HERB, a deputy, who courted the farmer’s daughter
EARL, another deputy, who wooed Morpheus
CHRISTINE HALVORSEN, the blushing, gingham-gowned farmer’s daughter, who only wanted some fatherly advice
WILL SIMS, county attorney and thwarted athlete, preoccupied with woodcraft examinations and swimming tests
HENRY SILLER, who would gladly split a quart of beer with you
HENRIETTA SILLER, with “a body that would have made Venus jump back into the sea,” but whose eyes held fear
OLLIE, long-time resident of the county jail, who wasn’t very bright, although “no deterioration of the brain was involved”
UNCLE FRED, a missionary who almost became a chiropractor, but who settled for a “reverend”
CHARLIE HODGES, who restricted profanity to the front parlor of his establishment
CLANCY, redheaded, but not an officer of the law
MONK, TERRIER, PROFESSOR, LOOGAN, CRIP, a quintet with a penchant for the wide open spaces
WIDOW SILTON, owner of a quiet little gambling joint—strictly legal
ARTIE, who learned all he knew at his mother’s knee
DOC SVENSEN, who blamed it all on the capitalist system and economic determinism
CHAPTER ONE
The white cement road curved around a small grove of trees and began to climb a low hill. Halfway up the hill a large black-and-white sign beside the road announced:
SLOW DOWN!
YOU ARE APPROACHING THURSDAY
“Slow down, Handsome,” Bingo Riggs said. “These small-town cops can smell a twenty-dollar fine two miles off.” He paused suddenly. “What the devil did the sign say?”
“We’re getting into Thursday,” Handsome Kusak said.
“Maybe you are,” Bingo told him, “but as far as I’m concerned, it’s still Monday.”
Handsome said, “It’s the name of a town. Population one thousand and forty-two. It was founded in 1839 by Jacob McMillian, a settler from New York State. Thursday is located in the center of a rich farming area—”
“That’s enough,” Bingo said hastily. He sighed. “I knew I should never have let you read those guidebooks before we left New York. And if you ask me, it’s a silly name for a town.”
“Jacob McMillian named it that,” Handsome said, “because he got here on a Thursday. A lot of these midwest towns have been named like that. Remember Soldier’s Grave, Wisconsin, and Halfday, Illinois?”
“I suppose Halfday got its name because it took a half day to get from there to anywhere else,” Bingo said.
“Oh, no,” Handsome said seriously. “It was located on the old highway between Chicago and—”
“Shut up!” Bingo said.
They approached Thursday, population one thousand and forty-two, in a strained silence.
The glittering maroon roadster was crammed with luggage. On the rear tire cover was printed, in gold paint:
RIGGS AND KUSAK
INTERNATIONAL FOTO, MOTION PICTURE, AND TELEVISION
CORPORATION OF AMERICA
HOLLYWOOD, CALIFORNIA
“We’re going to Hollywood, aren’t we?” Bingo had explained when the sign was painted.
A month before, a series of fortunate circumstances had lifted Riggs and Kusak out of a life of sidewalk photography and placed them—temporarily, at least—in the moneyed class.* Bingo had come to the conclusion that only Hollywood offered proper scope for their unique talents, and that they might as well see some of the country on their way—neither of them having been farther from home than Brooklyn. A good share of the remaining capital had gone for the purchase of the maroon roadster and a fine set of calfskin luggage. What was left—about $1200—was in Bingo’s wallet.
“We’ll double that in a week, when we hit Hollywood,” he reassured Handsome from time to time.
And at that, the $1200 was approximately $1150 more than either of the two partners had possessed at any one time during their lives.
The highway dipped down on the other side of the hill and ran through the village of Thursday. Handsome dropped the speed down to a good five miles per hour less than the local speed laws demanded, and idled along the main street.
Thursday was a gloomy village, with a main street about three blocks long. Most of the store and business buildings were a dingy yellow brick, with awnings over the sidewalk. The gray concrete façade of the First National Bank stuck out like a monument, and the new red-brick post office looked enormous in contrast with the rest of the buildings. Beyond the shopping district were a few blocks of tree-lined street with well-cared-for frame houses on either side, then a block or two with a few houses, less well cared for, with no trees and no sidewalk. Then one large red wooden building with a sign reading:
JOE HIBBS & SONS, ICE
Finally, a roadside sign proclaiming:
THANK YOU
COME BACK TO THURSDAY
“Not us,” Bingo said. “Step on it, Handsome.”
Handsome stepped on it. The maroon roadster sped around a curve in the road. Suddenly there were screaming of brakes, some confused yells and squawkings. Handsome leaned on the horn as he applied the brakes and swerved. Something big and dark struck the front of the car, which careened across the road and came to rest with its front wheels in a ditch.
“For Pete’s sake,” Bingo said, “what did we hit?” He climbed out of the car and stood for a moment, catching his breath. He was a small, skinny man with sandy hair, a sharp-featured face, and a wide grin. Right now he was wearing blue Hollywood slacks, a tan polo shirt, and a blue-and-brown jacket with two-inch checks.
“Just a turkey,” Handsome said, getting out on the other side of the car. He was a good six inches taller than Bingo and his dark hair had a slight wave. He had on navy-blue corduroy slacks, slightly soiled, and an old pullover sweater.
“So that’s what they look like with the feathers on,” Bingo murmured. “It’s good and dead, all right.”
“Ran right out into the road,” Handsome said. “I tried to miss it, but I couldn’t. Turkeys are dumb. I read an article once in a Sunday supplement. May 3rd, 1939. It was on page two, continued on page nine, left-hand column. Right across from it was an article about head-hunters.”
“Wonderful,” Bingo said. “What page was the article about head-hunters continued on?”
“Fourteen,” Handsome said, puzzled. “Why?”
“Nothing,” Bingo said. “I just wondered if you knew.” As long as he’d known Handsome, the latter’s memory continued to fascinate him. He looked down at the mangled mass of feathers. “Did it hurt the car?”
“Scratched one fender a little,” Handsome said. “I can fix it.” He poked at the turkey with the toe of one shoe. “What shall we do with it?”
“Pay for it,” Bingo whispered. “Here comes the owner.” He prodded Handsome with one elbow and said, “Shut up and let me do the talking.” It was a totally unnecessary admonition.
A tall, thin, irate man in overalls was advancing from across the road, where a noisy herd of turkeys milled about in a f
enced-in yard. Beyond the yard was a small, unpainted, and weather-beaten shanty.
“I’ll have the law on you,” Bingo shouted when the farmer was halfway across the road, “letting these birds run wild. They’re a menace to life and property. We might have smashed up our car. We might have been killed. I’ve got a good notion to sue you.”
The farmer came to a stop beside the car. He looked down at the ruined turkey. He spat accurately at a clump of weeds beside the road. Then he said, “Ten bucks.”
“Ten bucks!” Bingo gasped. “It’ll take more than ten bucks to repair the damage to our car. Look at that front fender. Look at that scratch.” He turned to Handsome, “How much is it going to cost to get that fixed?”
“Why,” Handsome began, dazed, “I can—”
Bingo interrupted Handsome just in time. “It’s going to cost plenty, I can tell you,” he said to the farmer. “And you’re going to have to pay for it. Letting these turkeys run all over the road! You ought to be arrested.”
The farmer spat again. “Ten bucks.”
“Perfect nonsense,” Bingo said wrathfully. “Look, I’m not going to make any trouble for you this time. But you’d better be warned—”
“Guess I oughta call the sheriff,” the farmer said.
Bingo snorted indignantly and opened the car door.
“Guess I oughta call the deputy in the town up ahead,” the farmer said. He might have been talking to himself. “Ten bucks.”
Bingo sighed. He was set back, but he wasn’t licked. “You can’t tell me that mangy old bird was worth ten bucks.”
“That was a prize turkey,” the farmer said sadly. “Must of got over the fence.”
“How do you know it was a prize turkey,” Bingo challenged him. “All those turkeys look alike to me.”
“They’re all prize turkeys,” he was told. “All them birds in there. Come November, I’ll get ten bucks apiece for the bunch of them.”
Bingo looked across at the herd. It looked to him like a lot of turkeys. At ten bucks a head. Maybe farmers didn’t have such a hard life, after all.
Handsome looked at his watch. “Bingo, if we’re going to get to a good hotel tonight—” he began anxiously.
“All right,” Bingo said. He took out his wallet and took out a ten-dollar bill. “I won’t argue with him. What’s ten bucks to us?” He handed it over. “You must make a pretty nice thing out of this turkey raising.”
“Sure do,” the farmer said. “I got five hundred birds there. Come three, four weeks from now, I’ll sell ’em for ten bucks apiece.” He sighed. “And right now I’d sell the whole bunch for two thousand bucks. My mother’s real sick, back in Grove Falls, Illinois, and I oughta be with her. But I can’t leave my turkeys.”
“You’d lose a lot of money,” Bingo said.
The farmer shrugged his shoulders. “She may not live more’n a couple of weeks. I’d sell my whole place here, turkeys, house, and all, for a couple thousand dollars. And three, four weeks from now, them turkeys will bring ten bucks apiece. All prize birds, every one of them.”
“Here, have a cigar,” Bingo said. “Are turkeys very hard to take care of?”
“No trouble at all,” the farmer said. “Just gotta watch ’em. Throw a little feed out once or twice a day. I got a month’s supply of feed back of the house there.”
“Bingo!” Handsome said in a low, warning voice.
Bingo didn’t hear him. He was gazing thoughtfully at the herd of all prize turkeys that would bring ten bucks apiece in three or four weeks. That wasn’t such a long time—
“Two thousand dollars is a pretty high price,” he said thoughtfully.
“If it was spot cash,” the farmer said, “I might take less.”
Bingo sat down on the running board of the roadster, and motioned the farmer to sit beside him. “Now,” he said, “you’re beginning to talk sense.”
*The Sunday Pigeon Murders.
CHAPTER TWO
“You never ran a turkey farm in your life,” Handsome said.
“Never mind,” Bingo said. “It’s only for a few weeks. And we’ll land in Hollywood with five thousand dollars instead of twelve hundred. You can run the car up back of the house.”
“Just as you say,” Handsome said unhappily. He got in and started the motor.
“And there’s no work to it,” Bingo added. “We’ll have ourselves a pleasant little vacation here, loaf around a few weeks, and sell the turkeys and beat it. Maybe we’ll sell the house and lot too, if we can get anything for it. All we have to do is throw out a little feed once or twice a day.”
“That Sunday supplement article,” Handsome muttered, “said turkeys were terrible hard to raise. They get scared easy, and they stampede and get smothered.”
“We’re not going to scare them,” Bingo said. “We’re going to make four thousand dollars pure profit, for a few weeks’ time. I got the whole works for a thousand dollars.”
Handsome sighed, and started the car up toward the unpainted shanty. Bingo followed slowly on foot, inspecting his property. It was going to be a dull and tiresome few weeks, but for four thousand dollars profit, it would be worth it. Certainly, when it meant landing in Hollywood with that much cash on hand, to re-establish the International Foto, Motion Picture, and Television Corporation of America.
The turkey yard was small—about, Bingo guessed, a quarter the size of a city block, and fenced in with heavy wire. In it the turkeys milled about, contentedly scratching and feeding. A little gold mine, he thought happily.
He went on up to the shanty from which the last owner had carried a battered straw suitcase to an even more battered Model A Ford. “Everything else in the house,” the ex-owner said, “you can keep, and welcome.”
At the time, Bingo had considered it a very decent attitude. Now, peering in through the doorway, he began to wonder. There were a couple of sagging bunks covered with ragged old blankets, a table and a couple of battered chairs, some chipped white dishes, and a rusty little stove where a smoke-smudged gray enamel coffeepot and a dirty frying pan sat side by side. There was an upturned packing box in one corner, on top of it an enamel washbasin half full of dirty water. Ancient burlap bags were tacked over the windows by way of shades. An oil lamp stood on a shelf. There was a half sack of potatoes leaning against a wall and the remains of a side of bacon hanging from a hook in the ceiling.
Still, it was the first home Bingo Riggs had ever owned, and though it was to be only a temporary one, he gazed at it with a kind of wonder and excitement. The rented rooms in which he’d spent most of his life might have had a few more conveniences in the way of plumbing, electricity, and furniture, but they’d still been rented rooms, subject to the whims of frequently difficult landladies. This might be a dirty old shanty, but it belonged to him alone. Well—to him and to Handsome.
Handsome finished parking the car, walked in the door, and stood, looking around. He didn’t say a word.
“Maybe you’d better clean it up a little,” Bingo said. “And air it out a little, too.” He went to the door and breathed deeply. “I guess I’d better feed our turkeys. Where’d he say that stuff was?”
“Out back of the house,” Handsome said. He rolled up his sleeves and picked up a pail. “Wonder if there’s any soap.”
After a brief search, Bingo located a small sack of grain. He guessed that that must be the turkey feed. It didn’t look like much with which to feed five hundred prize birds over a period of several weeks, but the previous owner must have known what he was talking about. Bingo gazed at it dubiously. An evil-eyed cat came out from under the shanty, leered at him maliciously, and scooted off across the yard. He began to feel a little apprehensive about the venture.
He took a pinch of grain out of the sack, walked timidly to the turkey yard, and poked his hand through the fence. The turkeys ignored him. He opened the gate, went in, and offered the grain to the nearest hen. She squawked, and fled.
It occurred to him that if every
one of these unreasonable creatures had to be fed by hand, it was going to take a long time. Besides, he didn’t know just how much to feed each one. They looked terribly big. Maybe he’d better ask Handsome.
“I don’t think you feed them by hand,” Handsome said. “I think you just throw it at them.”
Bingo took a full handful of grain, went back through the gate, wound up, and threw. It happened to hit a large gobbler full in the face. He made an indignant noise and charged straight at Bingo, who skinned up the nearest available tree faster than he’d ever thought he could climb, and yelled for Handsome. The gobbler waltzed around and around the tree, sputtering turkey profanity.
Bingo began to feel that nursing five hundred turkeys for five weeks wasn’t going to be as simple as it sounded. Not even for a four-thousand-dollar profit.
Handsome raced out of the house and grabbed the gate. The enraged turkey flung himself at the gate, protesting against the new intruder.
“Don’t let him intimidate you,” Bingo called from the tree.
The entire herd began to mill around excitedly. In the resulting din, Bingo and Handsome failed to notice a large produce truck pull into the driveway and stop. Bingo retreated another few inches up the tree.
A big, red-faced man in overalls got out of the truck and strode over to the fence. “Quit scaring my turkeys!” he bellowed at the top of his voice.
“They’re not your turkeys,” Bingo bellowed back. “They’re my turkeys. Our turkeys. And I’m not scaring them. How do I get down from here?”
“Jump!” Handsome yelled. He threw a small stone at the noisy gobbler. Bingo jumped, and made it to the gate in three bounds.
He slammed the gate behind him, took out his handkerchief, and mopped his brow. “Nervous brute, isn’t he?” he said, nodding toward the still spluttering gobbler.
“I’ll have the law on you,” the red-faced man said. “Trespassing and scaring my turkeys. Where’s Gus?”
“Gus?” Bingo asked.
The red-faced man jerked a thumb toward the shanty. “He lives here. Where is he?”
