The Thursday Turkey Murders

by Craig Rice

  “We ought to take her picture,” Bingo said to Handsome, “and give it to Herb.”

  “Thanks,” Herb said, “but you don’t need to. I think of her, anyway. I wish you’d let me pay for this here picture. I feel awful grateful to you guys for this.”

  “Forget it,” Bingo said uncomfortably, remembering that he had a date to meet Christine Halvorsen at two o’clock in an abandoned barn just this side of Joe Hibbs’ icehouse.

  “Well,” Herb said, “I’ll do something for you some day. Say, sheriff says you should come in and see him right away.”

  Bingo said, “We’re pretty busy.” Were Terrier and his pals going to object?

  “He says it’s important,” Herb said.

  “I—I guess I’d better change my clothes first,” Bingo said. He turned toward the suitcase beside his bunk. The blanket over his bunk moved an inch and he caught just one glimpse of the right-hand half of Terrier’s face. There was a wink and a nod. In other words, go ahead.

  Bingo took out the green gabardine slacks, and the dogtooth-check sport jacket. He selected a tan shirt and a green-and-maroon plaid necktie. He decided on the brown calf oxfords. He tried out two different shades of handkerchiefs with the tie.

  By that time Handsome had jacked up the cameras, the pictures to deliver to the campers, Will Sims, and Sheriff Henry Judson. He handed them to Herb and said, “Would you mind taking them out to our car for us? I’ve got my hands full with these other pictures.” He picked up the souvenir pictures.

  “Glad to,” Herb said. He kicked the door open with one foot and went out.

  Handsome glanced anxiously at Bingo, who was fastening the tan shirt.

  “Go ahead,” Bingo said, reaching for his tie. “I’ll be right with you.”

  “Make it snappy,” Handsome said. “These small-town sheriffs don’t like to be kept waiting.” He kicked the door shut as he went out.

  Bingo finished tying his tie, gave his hair an extra lick with the brush, and put on the sport jacket.

  “We’ll handle things carefully,” he said in a low voice. Terrier’s voice came from under the bed. “Better. Remember we promised Loogan the girl, if we have to dispose of her.”

  Loogan’s giggle came from under the other bunk.

  “Leave it to us,” Bingo promised. He fled.

  Handsome had the car door open for him. Herb was standing beside the convertible, chatting with Handsome.

  Bingo got in, slammed the door, lit a cigarette. Handsome stepped on the starter. Bingo leaned out the window.

  “Say,” he said very casually, “you don’t happen to know what the sheriff wanted to see us about, do you?”

  “Oh,” Herb said, “there’s a dame turned up at the office. He thinks you might like to hear what she has to say.” He spat into the dry dust. “She’s the widow of that guy who got killed out here at your place.” He started for the sheriff’s car and called back. “See you there.”

  They’d driven halfway to Thursday before Bingo tossed his cigarette out the window and said, “That’s all we needed. Henry Siller’s widow.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sheriff Judson was at the telephone in the outer office when Bingo and Handsome came in. He waved at them cheerfully and went on into the phone, “I told ya, Chris, I’ll do the best I can. But I don’t think you got a thing to worry about. G’by.”

  He hung up, sighed, and said, “Sure wish you boys weren’t from out of town. I need more deputies, and Lord knows where I’ll find ’em at. Folks are raising particular hell because there’s these escaped convicts running loose, and I need Herb here at the jail, so I had to call Earl back from the Halvorsens’. Now Chris is raising hell. All Earl did out there was sit on the front porch and read magazines and trail along with Chris if he had to go into town or anything.”

  He mopped his brow. “Folks are funny. Could be a couple dozen criminals running around Thursday County, for all anyone knows, and nobody stays awake nights over it. But just let a bunch of guys fresh out of jail be in the neighborhood and everybody gets scared. And Chris acting up like this. Wish I’d stayed in the feed-and-seed business. How’d the pictures turn out?”

  “Swell,” Handsome said. He took them out of the envelope. “I made you a half-dozen prints, case you have any relatives you’d like to send your picture to.”

  He spread them out on the desk. Sheriff Judson stared at them. A pleased light came into his eyes. He said, “Well, I’ll be switched!”

  “A wonderful likeness,” Bingo said. If only he could say to Sheriff Judson, “Look, those escaped convicts are holed up in our shanty; be careful because they’re watching the windows with sawed-off shotguns.” But he couldn’t. Because there was Henny, somewhere. He couldn’t take any chances.

  True, he reasoned, he might explain to the sheriff about Henny. Sheriff Judson was a reasonable man. Then, after Henny was found and rescued—

  But Sheriff Judson might not be reasonable. Folks were worried about the presence of a bunch of escaped convicts in the neighborhood. He had a shortage of deputies.

  No, Bingo decided, he didn’t dare.

  “I wish you feller’s’d let me pay for these,” Sheriff Judson said admiringly.

  “Nonsense,” Bingo said. “It’s just a hobby with us. We do it for fun. And where have you hidden the murdered man’s widow?”

  Sheriff Judson jerked a thumb toward the private office. “I asked her to wait until Will could get in from camp. Fact is, I wanted to check by long distance and see if she really is his widow. He had about five hundred dollars in cash money on him when he was killed, and she might just be an enterprising lady who could use it. Things like that happen sometimes, when a feller gets killed and nobody knows who he is.”

  “Sensible of you,” Bingo said. “And nice of you to invite us to meet her.”

  Sheriff Judson grinned and said, “Figured maybe you might be helpful.”

  Bingo thought that over, and didn’t say anything. He suspected the way in which Sheriff Judson figured they might be helpful. Everything was on a friendly basis; he and Handsome were not only theoretically in the clear, but they’d fixed Sheriff Judson up with a nice bunch of photographs. However—

  There was a possibility that the woman waiting in the private office would recognize them. Therefore, their pal, Sheriff Judson, wasn’t taking any chances.

  “You’re a smart cop,” Bingo said admiringly.

  “Just a small-town sheriff,” Henry Judson said, shaking his head. “Like the town constable”—he pronounced it “consta-bewl”—“used to be in the tent-show comedies thirty, forty years ago. Before your time. Should of stayed in the feed-and-seed business.” He looked pleased just the same.

  Will Sims arrived just then, and Will Sims was mad. He explained, rather bitterly, that this was the morning when the campers were to take their swimming badge tests, and now the tests had to be put off till he could get back. He was even more bitter about the fact that a Des Moines daily had carried a story that the murder in Thursday County was being left to the dubious handling of the local law-enforcement officers. He made one more statement about the advisability of calling in the state crime laboratory experts, and then returned to the subject of the camp swimming tests.

  “Say, that’s lucky,” Bingo said hastily. “About the swimming tests, I mean.”

  Will Sims looked at him sourly and said, “Huh?”

  “If those tests can’t be made till later,” Bingo went on, in his smoothest tones, “why, then my partner and I can be out there and take some pictures of the tests. Special pictures of the prizewinners, too. Look, I’ve got an idea. Let my partner and me donate special-size mounted pictures of the winners as extra prizes, which they can take home and show their folks!”

  The county attorney looked a little mollified.

  “And,” Bingo went on, before he could be interrupted, “your pictures are terrific. I give you my word, terrific. Handsome—”

  Handsome opened the m
anila envelope marked “Sims” and took out the forty-three postcard prints of Will Sims posed against the trophy wall, the prints of Will Sims standing beside the murdered man, sitting at the desk in his office, pointing to the TRUTH AND JUSTICE sign over the courthouse entrance, standing with one foot on a tree stump with his hiking stick in hand, starting a campfire, and examining a bird’s nest. He’d hardly had time to examine them all when Handsome pulled out an eight-by-ten mounted print of Will Sims against the trophy wall.

  “Handsome wanted to test the enlarging camera,” Bingo said, “so we used that picture to test with. We thought maybe you’d like to have it for a souvenir.”

  Will Sims’ eyes were wet. His voice was hoarse. He said, “These are wonderful. I’m very grateful—I can’t tell you how much I appreciate—It’s been a very great—”

  The phone rang, cutting off what might have wound up as an oration. Herb picked it up, said, “Yup. Yup, he’s here,” handed the phone to Sheriff Judson and said, “There’s your long-distance call, Henry.”

  The sheriff took the phone, identified himself as Henry Judson, Sheriff of Thursday County, Iowa, and said, “I requested some information—why should you reverse the charges? If this murdered man comes from your county, it’s as much your business as ours, isn’t it?” Evidently the party on the other end of the wire put up an argument. Finally Sheriff Judson said, “Oh, all right, we’ll pay for it. Did you check the description, and is she the widow?” He paused for several minutes, interrupting once with: “Talk faster, Thursday County’s paying for this call.” At last he said curtly, “Thank you for the information,” and hung up.

  “It’s her, all right,” he said. “Let’s go in.”

  The woman who’d been waiting in Sheriff Judson’s private office certainly didn’t belong in Thursday, Iowa, Bingo reflected. He’d seen her duplicate a hundred, a thousand times. Women on the verge of middle age, beautifully and smartly dressed, with flawless make-up, and hair-dos and manicures straight from the most expensive beauty parlors. Most of them were divorcées, some of them were widows, a few of them married, and practically none spinsters. They wore handsome fur coats and met each other for lunch at the best restaurants. They owned beauty parlors, or dress shops, or apartment hotels, they sold real estate or cemetery lots or encyclopedias; or else they lived on alimony or insurance payments. Most of them had little dogs.

  “Mrs. Silton—” Sheriff Judson said.

  Bingo glanced at her sharply. Siller. Silton. It made sense. She had on a well-tailored print traveling suit, a becoming black straw sailor, costume-jewelry earrings and necklace and a diamond bracelet, and patent-leather sandals with high heels. There was a big patent-leather purse with the initials L S on it in her lap.

  She was the type, all right. Dyed hair that was neither gilt nor brassy. Not too much lipstick, and the eyebrows not too thin. A shrewd, good-natured face. She’d be as tough as a Maine Yankee in a business deal, but she’d tip generously, and she’d be an easy mark for a touch. She’d never bawl out a salesgirl, but she’d bite the dollars she got in change. She’d start out ordering a special brand of Scotch and soda, and after the fifth one she’d settle for a quick gin.

  “What are you staring at me for?” Mrs. Silton snapped.

  Bingo started. “I beg your pardon,” he said smoothly. “You reminded me so much of a friend of mine, back in New York. Used to be in the Follies. Retired, now, but a very gorgeous girl.”

  “If your friend looks like me,” Mrs. Silton said amiably, “she must have retired from the Follies about 1925. That’s when I did. LaVerna Verne. You wouldn’t remember me, you’re too young.” She turned to Sheriff Judson and said, “Who are all these people? And when may I take Hal’s body back to Reno?”

  The sheriff and Will Sims looked at each other. Will Sims said, “The inquest—say, when is Art coming back from that fishing trip?”

  “Monday or Tuesday,” Sheriff Judson said. He turned to Mrs. Silton with all the respect due a recently bereaved widow and said, “You see, ma’am, when a person has been murdered, there are a great many formalities to go through.”

  “I’m in no great hurry,” the widow Silton said, “if there’s a decent place to stay in this town.”

  “And,” Sheriff Judson went on, “if you don’t object—there are certain questions—” He paused, cleared his throat, glanced around the room, and said, “This is Will Sims, the county attorney. And these are Mr. Riggs and Mr. Kusak, who”—he paused again, apparently trying to think of a reason for their presence—“well, it just so happened that they happened to find the body, as it happened.”

  Bingo said modestly, “And under the circumstances, naturally we are anxious to help find the murderer of—your late husband. You may be able to give information which will—I mean, you would know more about his private life than—well—”

  She turned to him and said, “Did you know Hal?”

  “No,” Bingo said. “I never saw him when—I mean—well, not until after he was murdered.”

  “Then why do you want to find out who murdered him?” she asked. “Is it any of your business?”

  “We feel responsible,” Bingo said stiffly. “He was murdered in our house. Or just outside it, anyway.”

  “Oh,” she said, raking him up and down with her eyes. “You live here?”

  “We live in Hollywood,” Bingo said. She was beginning to get on his nerves. “But we happen to own property here.”

  Sheriff Judson cleared his throat loudly. “Never mind about these gentlemen, ma’am. Just give us some important information and we’ll appreciate it very much.”

  “I’ll be glad to,” she said calmly. She took out a cigarette and lighted it. “Beginning with what?”

  “Well,” the sheriff said, “for instance. Just where were you at about six or seven o’clock, night before last?”

  She stared at him. “Why, you—” She paused suddenly. “Are you going to claim I murdered Hal? Well, I didn’t. At six o’clock night before last I was in a beauty parlor in Reno, having a permanent wave.”

  “Reno?” Will Sims said.

  “Sure. We live there. I guess now I should say I live there. And I thought, with Hal out of town, it was a good time to get a new permanent. Lord knows I needed one.” She patted her back hair.

  “Ma’am,” the sheriff said, a little uncomfortably, “there has been a murder in Thursday County, where I am the sheriff. I did not know the individual who was murdered, and he was not even a resident of Thursday County. However, as sheriff of Thursday County it is my duty to ask everybody who knew this individual where he or she was at the time this individual was murdered. I hope you didn’t take offense. Especially, account of I got a lot more questions to ask you, and I don’t want you to take offense at them, neither.”

  “I don’t mind,” she snapped. “Go ahead.”

  “I suppose,” Will Sims said, almost timidly, “you have viewed the—I mean, you have identified him as your late husband—”

  “Naturally,” she said. “You don’t suppose I’d still be here if he’d turned out to be somebody else, do you?” She turned to Sheriff Judson and said, “It was in yesterday’s newspapers. The description sounded like Hal. I got a plane to Omaha and then the train to Des Moines. I had to come the rest of the way on the bus. The first place I went was the undertaking parlor. It was Hal, all right. So I came right over here to find out what happened. Do you know?”

  “If you don’t mind, ma’am,” the sheriff said, “you talk first. Such as, when did you meet your late husband, how long have you been married to him, what do you know about him, did he have any enemies, and so forth. Just make me a complete statement.”

  She said tartly, “That doesn’t sound like a statement, it sounds like a whole book. I met Hal in a bank in Reno. We were married about eleven years ago. After he left the bank. Since then, he helped manage my business for me. He had a good head for figures. How am I doing so far, Sheriff?”

  “Not
so good,” Sheriff Judson said. “You oughta put in more details.”

  Surprisingly, she smiled at him. “All right. My former husband, a Mr. Temple, left me a little money. I felt that the best thing to do was put it into a good sound business that I could run myself. I’d been in Reno a couple of times, and it struck me that was the place to go. So I packed up and moved out there, and opened up a nice, quiet little gambling house. It’s legal there, you know. I made a comfortable living out of it, nothing to brag about, but enough. Hal was working in the bank where I went every day with my receipts, and we got acquainted. Chummy, in fact. Then he came out to visit my place, and he made some very helpful suggestions about keeping the books. One thing led to another, and—you know how it is. You don’t want me to go into details about our courtship, do you?”

  “Not necessarily,” Sheriff Judson said. His voice was unusually gentle.

  “Neither of us was young,” she said, almost in a whisper. “And both of us were alone in the world. He was living in a little rooming house. He was—terribly lonely. He hadn’t had an easy life. He really should have settled down years before and had a home and family. Anyway. He used to come over every night, and help me go over the books, and we’d have a sandwich—usually Swiss cheese on rye—and split a quart of beer. First thing he’d do would be untie his shoes and half slip ’em off his feet. He had a lot of trouble with corns.”

  Bingo closed his eyes for a moment. For the first time he could think of the beautifully embalmed murder victim in Charlie Hodges’ undertaking parlor as a person. A man, no longer young, and terribly lonely, who lived in a rooming house, and had trouble with corns. A guy who liked Swiss cheese on rye, and would split a quart of beer with you. Suddenly, and for the first time, he felt a violent, unreasonable anger at the man who’d shot him.

  “You said you married him after he left the bank,” Sheriff Judson said mildly. “Why did he leave the bank?”

  “There was some misunderstanding about the references he’d given when he got the job,” she said, “and he was fired. He came to tell me good-by, and I suggested he stay on and help me run the place. So, we were married. Romantic story, isn’t it?”