The Thursday Turkey Murders

by Craig Rice

  “This is utter nonsense,” Uncle Fred said. “I have never seen this woman before.”

  “Oh, yes, you have,” she said. “You used to hang out at our place, looking for customers. Until the city fathers tumbled to your racket and ran you out of town, and good riddance.”

  “The whole thing is a lie,” Uncle Fred said furiously. “I’ve never been in Reno in my life.”

  She stared at him and said, “Why, how did you know I was talking about Reno?” She turned to Sheriff Judson and said, “You’d better notify the Nevada authorities, so they can come and get him.”

  “We think we’d better keep him here,” the sheriff said. “You see, ma’am, he’s the only suspect we got in this here now murder case.”

  Her eyes blazed. “You think he might have murdered Hal?”

  “Could of,” the sheriff said. “He’s got no alibi. Only, he don’t seem like the criminal type to me. I been reading a book lately about criminal types, and he don’t seem to fit the murderer classification.”

  “I protest,” Uncle Fred said.

  “Nobody asked you anything,” Sheriff Judson said mildly. He smiled at the widow Silton and said, “Furthermore, he’s that there brother-in-law that made your late husband marry that there girl, back in that so-called hick town. And, by doing so, got him into such a lot of trouble and probably caused his murder, though not at all intentionally, unless he did it himself.”

  The widow Silton didn’t pause to figure out that statement. She flung herself at the cell bars as though she would tear them loose in her bare hands, breaking one of her beautifully manicured fingernails in the process. She dropped her purse and gloves, and her hat slid on one side.

  “Now, ma’am,” Sheriff Judson said, “don’t you turn into no one-woman lynching bee.”

  Uncle Fred cowered against the back of the cell. His round face was gray, his plump hands were shaking. He said, “This is a mistake. A deplorable mistake.”

  “Let me at him!” the widow Silton bawled.

  “Maybe,” Sheriff Judson said, “you’d better tell us the whole truth, Parson. Or else I’m just as likely as not to unlock this cell and let her come in and talk things over with you, personally.”

  “No,” Uncle Fred said. “No!”

  He stood there, at the back of the cell, the plump little businessman in the neat gray suit. “I’ll tell you all about—everything,” Uncle Fred whimpered. “If you’ll only—” He choked.

  “Talk,” Sheriff Judson said.

  Uncle Fred tried to talk. He opened and shut his mouth. His lips formed words. But no sound came out.

  “If you’re too scared to talk,” the widow Silton snapped, “I’ll talk for you.” She turned to the sheriff. “Doc, here, showed up in Reno a couple of years ago and started this racket of his. Everything was jake until a couple of months ago when a couple of the ex-patients of his got together and began comparing notes. And when they figured out just how they’d been had, they quietly tipped off the cops.” She smiled nastily. “And the least of the charges he’s wanted for is practicing medicine without a license.”

  “How come you, went to Reno?” Bingo asked Uncle Fred. “Did you run into trouble in the parson racket, too?”

  Uncle Fred opened and shut his mouth a few more times. Finally he managed to say, “It was entirely a misunderstanding.”

  “Why did you pick Reno?” the sheriff asked gently. “Did you know that Henry Siller was there?”

  Uncle Fred shook his head so vehemently that even Bingo had to decide he was being truthful. “I had no idea,” he gasped. “I went to Reno for purely—purely business reasons. I thought it would be a—a profitable location—believe me. That was my only motive for going there. If you don’t believe me, I can prove it. When I went there, I was still—trying to find him—private detectives—” He paused.

  “Oh,” Bingo said. “Then you were looking for him. Was it because you were anxious about your niece’s welfare, or because he might know where a quarter million dollars in gold was buried?”

  Everyone looked expectantly at Uncle Fred. Uncle Fred shut his mouth like a trap and refused to say a word.

  “It must have been a pleasant surprise to run into him out there in Reno,” the sheriff said. He turned to the widow Silton. “Do you happen to know if the parson, here, got together with—with your late husband, out there in Reno?”

  She frowned for a moment, and then shook her head. “No. I know for a fact that they didn’t. Because when the cops started looking for him, they came around to us for a description. I could give them one, but Hal couldn’t. Hal said he’d heard of him, but he’d never seen him.” Suddenly her eyes narrowed. “Come to think of it. This guy dodged Hal. I know it. Doc here paid me a business visit one day. Hal had just left to drive downtown and deposit some money for me. Doc came in and made a big sales talk about my assisting him in his great work for humanity. What he was really doing was offering me a percentage on any customers I steered to him. Hal’s car broke down and he came back unexpectedly. Doc spotted him coming in through the back way—we were talking in the bar—and beat it out the front way right in the middle of making the pitch. Later he phoned and said he’d remembered an urgent appointment.”

  “Say,” Handsome said. “Bingo—”

  “Just a minute,” Bingo said. “Mrs. Silton, how long ago was it that this guy ran into difficulties, out there in Reno?”

  “I told you,” she said. “A couple of months ago.”

  “But, Bingo,” Handsome said.

  Bingo ignored him. “I was wondering where the hell he’s been for the last couple of months and what he’s been doing.”

  “Bingo!” Handsome said.

  Everyone stared at Handsome, who blushed, stammered, and finally said, “The guidebooks. Maps.”

  “What about them?” Bingo demanded.

  “I remember something now. Didn’t he say he came here from his home, which is in Michigan, and his car broke down on the way and he had to take a bus?”

  “He did,” Sheriff Judson said.

  “Well, then,” Handsome said anxiously, “what’s his car doing being repaired in Council Bluffs? Because Michigan is east of here, and Council Bluffs is west?”

  Sheriff Judson blinked and said, “By golly! I never thought of that!”

  “It’s all a misunderstanding,” Uncle Fred bleated.

  “Would you like to try explaining it?” the sheriff said.

  Uncle Fred said, “I have nothing to say.”

  “Did you hide out in Reno after you got into a jam there?” Bingo demanded.

  Uncle Fred nodded miserably.

  “It wouldn’t have been so you could keep an eye on Henry Siller, or Hal Silton, or whatever his name is, would it?” Sheriff Judson asked.

  Uncle Fred gulped and nodded again.

  “And when he left,” the sheriff said, “you trailed along.” He turned to the widow Silton. “Just how did your husband get here, anyway?”

  “Clancy drove him,” she said.

  The sheriff nodded. “Oh,” he said. “Clancy drove him. And the parson—I mean, Doc, here—followed him. Had a little trouble because his car broke down in Council Bluffs. Couldn’t wait to get it repaired, so he took the bus. He still got here about the same time as your husband.”

  He looked thoughtfully at Uncle Fred. “Do you happen to own a high-powered rifle?”

  “I never owned a firearm of any make or description in my life,” Uncle Fred whimpered.

  “He could of hid it somewheres,” Bingo said. “If you could find it and prove that he owned it.”

  The sheriff rubbed his jaw reflectively. “Maybe that won’t be necessary. Looks like we got a good case against him anyways. And if we can’t convict him of homicide, we can send him back to Nevada.”

  “And if Nevada turns him loose,” the widow Silton said, “I’ll be waiting for him.”

  “I—protest,” Uncle Fred said feebly.

  “Go right ahead,” t
he sheriff said cheerfully. “It’ll make you feel better. Meanwhile we’ll keep you here and don’t make no complaints about it, either. The cooking in this jail is the best in the state.” He turned to the others and said, “Well, I guess that’s all.”

  Will Sims drew a long breath of relief, and smiled happily. “Fine,” he said, “Just fine. Now everything’s settled, we can go out to the camp and hold the swimming tests.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Damn campers,” Bingo groused, “damn Will Sims. Damn photographs. Damn everything.”

  “Now, Bingo,” Handsome said.

  Bingo sighed, leaned back against the seat cushions, and tried to relax. “I wanted to talk to the widow Silton,” he complained. “And we get dragged off to look at a lot of silly swimming tests. And take a lot of silly pictures.”

  “Twenty-five cents a print,” Handsome murmured.

  Bingo said nothing.

  “And we can talk to Mrs. Silton later,” Handsome said.

  That was true, Bingo reflected. In fact, it might even be a little more tactful to do the talking later. If he’d settled down to a private conference with the widow Silton immediately after leaving the jail—well, there was no point in making Sheriff Judson unduly suspicious.

  A room had been found for the widow Silton at O’Callaghan’s boardinghouse. She’d thanked Handsome for carrying in her smart-looking navy-blue canvas traveling bag, thanked the sheriff for finding her such a pleasant place to stay, and announced, with a meaningful look at Bingo, “And now you all know where to find me, if you need me.”

  All right, he’d talk to the widow Silton later. But meanwhile there were other problems.

  “We have to get back at two o’clock,” he announced.

  “O. K.,” Handsome said. The convertible turned a corner. “That’s Mr. Sims’ car just up ahead, isn’t it? He said to follow him and we wouldn’t get lost. Have you got a date at two o’clock?”

  “Yes,” Bingo said.

  Handsome said, “Oh,” and drove in silence for a mile or two. “I hope Herb don’t find it out, though. He wouldn’t like it, you having a date with Christine.”

  “How do you know who I’ve got a date with?” Bingo said.

  “Well,” Handsome said, “she’s the only girl we know around here, outside of Henny. And if it was with Henny, then we’d know where she was, and we could tell the sheriff about those escaped convicts. Don’t worry, you’ll get there by two o’clock.”

  Bingo looked at his watch and said, “Sure, we’ve got about four hours.” He sighed again, closed his eyes, and pretended he was riding down Hollywood boulevard in a big, gorgeous limousine with maroon upholstery. A chauffeur at the wheel, of course. By his side the most beautiful real blonde in the world. She’d be looking up at him adoringly and murmuring, “Oh, Mr. Riggs, I owe everything to you!”

  People on the sidewalks would recognize the limousine, of course. They’d tell each other, “Say, there goes Bingo Riggs’ car!” When they stopped for a traffic signal, he’d lean out and buy a newspaper. Paying a dollar for it. The newsboy would tell his family and all his friends, “Gosh, guess who bought a paper from me today! Bingo Riggs!”

  They’d be on their way to the most important première of the year, of course. The corner cop would spot the big limousine and wave it into the most favored line of traffic, and he, Bingo, would lean out and call, “Hi, Mike!” Later the cop would tell his pals, “Imagine that! He knows every cop in the city by his first name!”

  Naturally, there’d be a crowd in front of the theater. The chauffeur would slow down and say, “Mr. Riggs, would you like me to drive around to a side entrance?” “Nonsense,” he’d tell the chauffeur. “I’m always glad to meet the public.” The limousine would slide gracefully to a stop right in front of the crowd. He’d step out, the most beautiful blonde girl in the world on his arm. A cry would go up from the crowd.

  “There they are now!”

  Bingo would whip out his fountain pen, smile graciously, and say, “All right, kids. All the autographs you want.”

  “Hey, Bingo,” Handsome said. “Wake up!”

  Bingo opened his eyes. The car was surrounded by a mass of small boys. Beyond them Will Sims stood smiling benignly.

  “All right, campers,” Will Sims called. “How do we greet visitors?”

  The small boys disengaged themselves from the convertible, stood up straight, and chanted in unison:

  Oke, oke, oke,

  Oke, oke, oke.

  Three cheers for Triple Oak,

  Okey-dokey, okey-dokey,

  Three cheers for Triple Oak-y,

  Just watch our smokey.

  “Our camp cheer,” said Will Sims. He added modestly, “I composed it myself.”

  One of the boys hopped up on the running board and said proudly, “We got the hell-damnedest best camp in the state.”

  “Artie!” Will Sims said in a scandalized voice. “I’ll have you sent home.”

  Artie made a sound unmistakably like a Bronx cheer. “You’ll send me home in a dead pig’s eye,” he said. “Camp’s over Monday. You’d hafta pay for the camp bus to take me home before Monday.”

  Will Sims managed a feeble laugh and said, “Well, boys will be boys!”

  “Whadd’ya expect ’em to be?” Artie said. He glared at Bingo and said, “Why the hell should I ask you for your autograph?”

  Bingo’s heart warmed toward Artie. He looked down at a dirty, freckled, and pugnacious face.

  “Because,” Bingo leaned over and whispered, for Artie’s benefit, “if you don’t, I’ll kick your ___ _____ _______ teeth down your ___ _____ _______ throat.”

  Artie gazed up at him and said in an innocent voice, “Mr. can I really have your autograph?”

  “You’re damned right you can,” Bingo said. “Would you rather have it carved on you, or just tattooed?”

  Artie grinned and said, “Mr., from now on you and me is pals.”

  “You know, Mr. Riggs,” Will Sims said, beaming, “you have a wonderful talent. It isn’t everybody who can handle twelve-year-old boys.”

  Before Bingo could make some modest and deprecating answer, Artie had looked up and said, “It isn’t every son-of-a-bitch who can handle me.”

  “Artie!” Will Sims said. “Where do you learn such words?”

  Artie gazed at him very innocently and said, “All I know I learned at my mother’s knee.” He jumped off the running board, waved at the other campers, and said, “C’mon, gang, let’s give ’em the mother’s knee song.”

  He gave a signal and forty-two campers burst lustily into song, more or less to the tune of My Wild Irish Rose:

  My dear Mother’s knee

  Was all the world to me,

  She gave me her blessings,

  And taught me my lessons,

  At my Mother’s knee—

  I promised to be good,

  And do all the things I should.

  Some day she’ll be proud,

  For that’s what I vowed,

  At my dear Mother’s knee.

  They didn’t finish all at the same time, or on the same note, but Bingo was able to get the general idea.

  “I wrote that,” Artie said.

  Another small boy, tow-headed, and with a couple of teeth out, climbed on the running board and said, “Artie wrote a lot of things. One of them ith, ‘Triple Oakth camp ith a thtinky ole camp, the food ith awful, the bedth ith damp—”

  “Shut up,” Artie said.

  Will Sims coughed apologetically. “You know how boys are, Mr. Riggs.” He turned to the boys and said, “Swimming drill. Right now. This is test day, so make it good.” Nobody moved, and he said, “Artie—”

  “Get going,” Artie said.

  The boys began to move toward their tents.

  “Artie is a born leader,” Will Sims said, smiling. “Artie! These gentlemen can’t spend all day here. The boys will have to hurry and get ready for the swimming tests.”

  �
��I’ll hurry ’em,” Artie said. He raced after the departing campers, bawling varied profanities and obscenities.

  “And, Artie,” Will Sims called, “watch your language!”

  “Okey-dokey, Triple Oak-y,” Artie called back. He added a rhyming word which was definitely rude.

  “Boys!” Will Sims said with a sigh. “High-spirited. Full of fun.”

  The hour that followed was an exhausting one. Forty-two campers were photographed, one by one, poised on the diving board. Forty-two campers demonstrated diving, swimming under water, and a variety of swimming strokes. Then forty-two campers were lined up and photographed beside their tents.

  About the time the twenty-second camper was being photographed on the diving board, Bingo left the scene, found a friendly looking tree with a bed of leaves at its base, stretched out, and relaxed, trying to pretend that he was at, say, Forty-fifth and Broadway. Or Hollywood and Vine. Or anywhere except Triple-Oaks camp.

  Pretending wasn’t any use. He could still hear Will Sims and Artie bawling commands at the campers.

  Then one of the campers came around from behind the tree, a skinny, tall, red-haired boy.

  “Hey, you,” the boy said. “How’s about a beer?”

  Bingo sat up and blinked.

  “Artie thought you might like some,” the red-headed boy said. He put an opened, but nearly full bottle of beer down beside Bingo. “We stole this from the store at Lima Junction, thinking it was coke, and it turned out to be beer. None of us like it so we just let it sit in the creek where we keep cokes so’s they’ll stay cold.”

  The day was hot and dusty. Bingo was tired and thirsty. He smiled gratefully and said, “This is swell. How about letting me buy you guys some cokes?”

  “Buy ’em?” the boy said, aghast. “Why should we buy ’em when we can steal ’em? But thanks just the same.” He tore down the incline toward the lake.

  Bingo relaxed and began slowly drinking the beer. He was comfortable. He didn’t bother to think about forty-two campers being photographed, or about five escaped convicts hidden in the shanty, or about the widow Silton, Uncle Fred, Clancy, Henny, or even the date he had at two o’clock. He didn’t waste time dreaming about Park Avenue, Hollywood, or beautiful blondes. And he was far too comfortable to sleep. He just sat and drank the beer.