The Thursday Turkey Murders

by Craig Rice

  “Some people might not think so,” Sheriff Judson said. His voice indicated that he did. “When did you find out your husband was living under an alias, and that he was wanted for participation in a bank robbery? Before or after you married him?”

  “Why, before,” she said, without batting an eyelash. “He was living under an alias at the time of the bank robbery, too, or hadn’t you found that out?”

  “But why,” Will Sims said, “did he come back here?” He asked it almost accusingly, as though the murdered man had deliberately, and with malicious intent, picked this place to come to and be murdered in, to the distress of the law-enforcement officers of Thursday County. “Why?”

  The woman frowned. “I wish I knew that. It had to do with a lot of money. Sometimes I used to think he was a little cracked. When business would fall off a little, he’d always say, ‘Don’t worry, we’re going to have a lot of money, some day.’ Just as if he was waiting for a rich uncle in Australia to die, or something like that.”

  “Didn’t you connect that with the missing money from the bank robbery?” the sheriff asked.

  “Naturally,” she said. “Except when I thought it over—Well, nobody knew where it was. The guy that had hidden it had died in jail, and he was the only person who knew where it was hidden. To find it, you’d have to plow up the whole state of Iowa.” She frowned again. “Until—”

  “Until recently, that’s what you thought,” Bingo said. “How did Clancy get mixed up in this?”

  “He was—” She broke off and glared at him. “How come you’re asking the questions? Are you the sheriff? Are you a deputy?”

  “I wish he was one,” Sheriff Judson said wearily. “I’ll ask the same question. How did Clancy get mixed up in this?”

  “He worked for me,” she said. “He was a bouncer in my place. Came there about a year ago. At first he and Hal didn’t get along at all well. Jealousy.” For a moment she almost simpered. “You see, I always kept everything in my name, and a lot of people didn’t know Hal and I were married. Clancy came along and I gave him a job, and not knowing about Hal, he decided he wanted to marry me. One night he made a few passes at me, and Hal happened in just then, and he caught Clancy off guard and blacked his eye. Clancy was sore at first, but after he understood how things were, he and Hal got to be good friends.”

  Bingo glanced at her. Was she telling the truth? Was she deliberately lying? Or just being naïve? With her husband out of the way, the widow Silton might very well fall for the matrimonial blandishments of the personable Clancy. And a still handsome woman, who owned a profitable gambling house in Reno, was a matrimonial prize any way you looked at her. Enough so that it might even be worth murdering her husband.

  The trouble with this questioning, he realized suddenly, was that he knew things to ask that Sheriff Judson didn’t. And he couldn’t very well explain why he knew them. The only thing to do was to plunge right in and hope for the best.

  “How long was Clancy in jail?” he flung at her.

  “Six months. But—” She stopped. “Oh, it’s you again. Say, what are you? One of these amateur dicks I see in the movies?”

  “That’s it exactly,” Bingo said. “As a matter of fact, I’m getting material to write a novel. What was Clancy in jail for?”

  “He went on a trip. A vacation. He said he had folks in Iowa and he wanted to visit them. While he was away, he got in a jam. He must have been crazy. He was arrested for robbing a drunk. I can’t understand Clancy doing a thing like that.”

  “Couldn’t you have gotten him out of trouble?” Bingo asked. “You must have influence.”

  “Hal talked me out of it,” she told him. “He said it would teach Clancy a lesson.”

  “Oh,” Bingo said, nodding wisely. “Well, he was probably right. Only I’m surprised that six months was enough. For the kind of lesson Clancy needed, I mean. And when did Clancy get back?”

  “About three—about four weeks ago.”

  “And then he went away again?”

  “Yes. He had to go on a business trip. He promised to come back and take his job again. I hope he will. He’s the best bouncer we ever had. Tough, but a nice, gentlemanly way with him.”

  “And was it about that time,” Bingo asked very casually, “that your husband began to have delusions of grandeur?”

  She lifted her head and looked at him, her eyes popping. Then she recovered herself. “He was very excited and happy, if that’s what you mean. He seemed to be convinced that he was going to be very rich very soon. He wouldn’t tell me any details. I didn’t know what he was talking about.” She shut her mouth, hard.

  Sheriff Judson blinked. The discussion was beginning to get a little beyond him. “Let’s get back to this here now alias of his,” he said. “And about you knowing he was wanted, account of the bank robbery. He told you all those details, didn’t he?”

  “Yes,” the widow Silton said.

  “Well,” the sheriff said, “well, why did he?”

  “He was explaining why he’d lost his job as teller in the Reno bank,” she said. “It turned out his references were forged, and he was fired. He explained everything.”

  “Oh, did he?” Bingo said.

  “Everything.” She gave him a look. “His first job. It was in some hick town, like this one. But it was a start. He went there to work in a bank. Some dopey little small-town babe, who couldn’t get a husband any other way, went to work on him. Well, after all, he was lonely, and it was springtime, and all that sort of thing. Along comes autumn, and her family announces he has to marry the girl.”

  A nice, succinct way of telling a story, Bingo thought admiringly.

  “It wasn’t her family that was such a headache. But she had some goon of a brother-in-law. Not just a goon but a crook of the first water. From Hal’s description I’d say he was one of those guys you wouldn’t trust with an old chewing-gum wrapper.”

  Bingo and Sheriff Judson looked at each other and tried not to grin. Both of them were wishing that Uncle Fred could be eavesdropping.

  “So this brother-in-law really put the screws on poor Hal. And Hal married this babe. Only she was a terrible pain to him. Just not his type at all. He saved up all he could from his salary and when he figured he had enough, he scrammed. Maybe it wasn’t a very gentlemanly thing to do, but I don’t blame him. In a pinch, he could have put up with her, but her brother-in-law—phew!”

  “Dunno’s I blame him too much myself,” Sheriff Judson said. “Go on, ma’am.”

  “Well, he hid out in Chicago with some pal of his he’d gone to school with. This pal, a fellow by the name of Henry Siller, took sick and died. So Hal just adopted the fellow’s name and references and everything, and got himself a job in a bank out here in Iowa. Everything went along fine. He got promoted to be cashier. He fell for the daughter of the president of the bank, and her old man approved, and they got engaged, and everything was rosy.”

  She paused. A look of sympathy suddenly altered her carefully made-up face. There were real tears in her eyes. “It’s a dirty shame,” she said slowly, “that it didn’t work out that way. Hal was born to be a banker. And she sounded like the sort of girl he should have married. He could have had a nice home, and a family, instead of the life he had to lead. Kids. Hal was crazy about kids. He had a daughter, you know.”

  She blew her nose, and sniffed. “Gosh! He used to talk about that daughter. Even if her mother was this dopey jane in the hick town. He never saw her, but he was always talking about her. He tried to find her, too. Then along came Clancy and—”

  All at once she clammed up. Just like that.

  “I’m getting off the subject,” she said stiffly. “Anyway, it was a nice setup, in this Iowa town. If you can stand Iowa. I know I couldn’t. Anyway. Along comes this double-crossing bastard.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Will Sims said, with a gasp.

  She didn’t bat even one eyelash. “Double-crossing bastard,” she said, very politely. “Yo
u heard me. This guy who knew a lot of gold was being turned in at the bank, and found out, somehow, that Hal was there with forged references and an alias. This guy teamed up with someone named—wait—” She put a hand to her temple.

  “Chuck Engan.”

  “There was a bad streak in the whole Engan family,” Sheriff Judson said. He was almost apologetic about it, as though the whole thing was Thursday County’s fault.

  She ignored him. “They put it up to Hal. Either he helped them rob the bank, and get his split of the dough, or else they told the world about the forged references and the alias. What could he do?”

  “Help rob the bank,” Sheriff Judson said. “That’s what I’d do, under the circumstances.”

  “He told me all about it,” she said. “It was to be arranged so that he’d be in the clear. He’d just give certain signals, and so forth. And keep them informed about the amount of gold turned in and when it was to be shipped, so they’d hit at just the right time. And, when the robbery took place, pretend to be trying to stop them, and make enough confusion so that they could get away. Then afterward they’d get together and make a split, and he could wait until it would look kosher for him to announce that he’d inherited a bunch of money from an aunt or something.”

  “Sounds plausible,” Bingo said. “But why didn’t it work that way?”

  “Because,” she said, “they got the money, but they bungled the job. So that it looked like somebody had to be on the inside. And the town cops got to buzzing around and found out that Hal was there with a phony name and references. He beat it just in time. And this—what’s his name?—Chuck Engan got picked up. And the other guy beat it with all the money.”

  “Who was the other guy?” Sheriff Judson asked.

  She shrugged her shoulders and reached for another cigarette. “I don’t know. Hal didn’t know. Chuck Engan knew him, but Hal didn’t. I bet he wished he did know. Anyway, he had a heck of a time for a while. He made it to the West Coast, and since he had to have a job, he forged himself some references and got that job in Reno. He’d changed his name, of course.”

  “He didn’t change it with much originality,” Bingo said. “Henry Siller, to Hal Silton. In his place I’d have picked something fancy like, for instance, Maximilian McGillicuddy.”

  Will Sims frowned and said, “Wouldn’t a name like that be a trifle conspicuous?”

  There was a brief silence. Then Sheriff Judson coughed and said, “I guess that brings us up to date. He got this job in Reno. You met him and married him. Just one more question, ma’am. Did your late husband have any enemies?”

  “Enemies?” She lifted her eyebrows. “Hal have enemies? He was the gentlest, most mild-mannered man that ever lived. Why, everybody liked him!”

  “I just thought I’d ask,” Sheriff Judson said. “Anything else you can tell us that would be helpful?”

  “I’ve told you everything I know,” she said coolly. Suddenly a red, savage rage blazed in her eyes. “Except.” She paused. Her face softened. “I was fond of the guy. I don’t mean we had the world’s greatest love story or any such stuff. It was a business proposition, when we got married. But I was fond of him and I guess he was fond of me. And, after all, when you’re married to a guy for that many years, you get attached to him.”

  Sheriff Judson rose and put a hand on her shoulder. “Ma’am,” he said, “you don’t need to apologize for feeling bad.”

  She began to cry, wetly and noisily. She sopped her face with a handkerchief Sheriff Judson handed her, and blew her nose. She lit another cigarette. She opened the patent-leather bag, took out her compact, and repaired the damage to her face.

  “There’s a few people I’d like to lay my hands on,” she said. “Such as the guy who murdered him. And the guy who crossed him up in the bank robbery. And this smalltown babe’s brother-in-law, who caused all the trouble in the first place.” There was vicious anger in the way she crushed out the just-lighted cigarette. “Hal had a bunch of raw deals I’d like to even up.”

  Sheriff Judson and Bingo looked at each other. Will Sims blinked, bewildered. Handsome yawned.

  “You’ve been very helpful, ma’am,” Sheriff Judson said. “I’ll tell you. We’ve got a suspect for his murder locked up in the jail. Maybe you’d like to look at him. You might happen to recognize him.”

  “Who is he?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Why,” the sheriff said, “just a suspect. We ain’t sure he committed the murder, but we arrested him to be on the safe side.”

  She smiled, and stood up, adjusting her hat and tucking her patent-leather purse under her rounded arm. “Lead me to him,” she said.

  There was a long corridor between the sheriff’s office and the jail proper. Somehow, as they left the office and started for the jail, Bingo found himself paired off with the widow Silton. She took his arm, and he realized that she had done so to get the two of them just halfway between Sheriff Judson and Will Sims, up ahead, and Handsome and Herb, just behind.

  “I think I’d better talk to you privately, later, smart boy,” she whispered, without moving her face.

  Bingo pretended to be surprised and said, “Weren’t you telling the truth? Or weren’t you telling all you know?”

  “Every word was the truth,” she hissed under her breath. “And it was all I know. Only I know arithmetic, too. I can add two and two together as well as anybody.”

  “What does it add up to?” Bingo murmured. He felt a sudden tingle of excitement.

  “It adds up to more than a quarter of a million dollars in gold,” she said. “Do you know where it is, smart boy?”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  There was a turn in the corridor just before they came to Uncle Fred’s cell. And there was a voice from around the corner. Unmistakably Ollie’s.

  “I have already been psychoanalyzed,” Ollie was saying, with a certain coldness, “by a quite competent gentleman who was vacationing at Clear Lake twenty years ago. I have also been examined by psychiatrists, mind-readers, phrenologists, palmists, and ordinary doctors. My parents overlooked nothing. They have all come to the same con clusion. Therefore, sir—”

  “My dear friend,” Uncle Fred said, in his oiliest voice. “Understand, I would not charge a cent for my services. It is quite possible that the Majestic Science of the Inward Light would heal your unfortunate difficulty.”

  At this point Sheriff Judson held up a hand to the others in the corridor. Everyone paused.

  “Difficulty?” Ollie said. “What difficulty? Are you referring to the fact that I am a half-wit? To me, that is no difficulty.” There was the sound of a broom, moving vigorously.

  “You don’t understand me at all,” Uncle Fred said. “Possibly you, like myself, are unjustly imprisoned. If, in exchange for ten simple lessons in the Majestic Science of the Inward Light—” There was a pause, and then he went on, “Tell me, my unfortunate friend. Why are you in jail?”

  “Why?” Ollie said. “Why, because—”

  The widow Silton interrupted with a sudden shriek. “I know that voice!” she said. “That’s Doc!”

  She tore around the corner of the corridor and came to a dead stop in front of Uncle Fred’s cell.

  “How come they got you, Doc?” she said. “Did you forget to carry your bail money with you?”

  Uncle Fred looked at her coldly from behind the grating. “I think you must have mistaken me for someone else.”

  “Not you,” the widow Silton said. “There couldn’t be more than one of you in the world.” She turned to Sheriff Judson and the others and said, “When I knew this guy he always carried eleven thousand dollar bills in his wallet. Ten thousand bail, and a thousand for a getaway.”

  “You must be making a mistake,” Will Sims said. “He’s a parson.”

  “He may be a parson now,” she said, “but last I saw of him he’d been running the fanciest ab—well, call it a hospital—in our vicinity. Across the border, so the city fathers wouldn’t bother him, b
ecause that sort of thing isn’t tolerated in a decent community. But he worked the town as a consultant-on-problems. Difficult cases he referred to his—well, sanitarium. He ran a daily want ad in the paper. ‘Do you need sympathy? Do you need advice? Do you need someone to talk to?’ He did a rushing business, until they caught up with him.”

  Uncle Fred looked insulted and as dignified as is possible inside a cell.

  Ollie snickered, said, “Do you need a psychoanalyst?” and went on sweeping the corridor.

  “I protest,” Uncle Fred said. “There is no reason why I should be subjected to this kind of treatment.”

  “You shut up,” the widow Silton said. She turned to the others and said, “He could have cleaned up, if he hadn’t been so greedy. But a lot of his cash customers were no more pregnant than”—she looked over the group, and her eyes lighted on Will Sims—“than you are.”

  Will Sims blushed.

  “It was a swell racket, wasn’t it, Doc?” she went on. “I sent you a couple of legitimate customers myself.” She turned to Sheriff Judson. “Understand. A lot of babes getting divorces are jittery. All on edge. Dying for somebody to talk to. So much they’ll answer want ads like his. And then they pour out their troubles to this snake-tongued son-of-a-bitch. Yes, I mean you. All the details. And maybe there’s been a little misstep with the neighbor’s husband, or the drugstore clerk, or the husband’s boss.”

  “Mr. Sims,” Uncle Fred said. “I insist—”

  Nobody paid any attention to him, not even Will Sims.

  “So this sanctimonious bastard,” she went on, without pausing for breath, “says, ‘How do you feel?’ The babe says, ‘I don’t feel so good.’ He suggests symptoms, and she believes she’s had ’em all. He says, ‘My poor child,’ and goes into his routine. Then he recommends what’s nicely called The Way Out. He can suggest a private sanitarium—three days—five hundred dollars—and no publicity. The legitimate cases, of course, he charged twice as much.”