The Thursday Turkey Murders

by Craig Rice

  “Say,” Bingo said. “I’ve got an idea!”

  His idea had to do with the mailing of postcard photographs to all the department-store buyers she expected to contact. The photograph would not only show her gorgeous figure, Bingo explained, but also the sign on the coupé door. She could lay in a stock of postcards and mail them out so they’d precede her by about a week. He and his partner would be glad to make them for her at cost. A mere twenty-five cents each.

  After a brief argument they settled for twenty cents each for fifty postcards, ten per cent down, the rest on delivery.

  “Fifty postcards times twenty cents is ten bucks,” Bingo murmured as they moved away.

  “Only,” Handsome said, “we ain’t seen anybody here that even looks like Clancy.”

  Before Bingo could answer, the horde of homely children surrounded them. Their father waved at Bingo and said, “Hey! You take pitchers?”

  “That’s our profession,” Bingo said, with as much dignity as he could exhibit while kicking a small child out from underfoot.

  “I’d admire to have some pitchers took of our’n,” the man said, “iffen it ain’t too costly.”

  “Two bits per each,” Bingo said.

  The man counted on his fingers, glancing over the assembled children.

  “Sounds reasonable,” he said. “Reckon we kin git in me ’n Ma too, at that rate. Hey!” he bawled. The children stared at him. “Comb your hair and line up. You’re gon’ta have you’re pitchers took.”

  Eight homely, pop-eyed, and awed children were photographed, then Ma and Pa. One print of each, terms, cash in advance.

  “So far,” Bingo said happily, “we’ve made twenty-one dollars and fifty cents. Pure profit. And think how many tourist camps there must be between here and the West Coast. Handsome, it’s a universal failing, as I’ve said before. Everybody wants to have a picture taken.”

  “Yep,” Handsome said. “But, Bingo. Clancy—”

  Mrs. McComb emerged from her cottage before Handsome could finish or Bingo could answer. She’d changed into a red-and-blue print dress with white ruffled collar and cuffs. She’d curled her hair. She’d put on stockings and patent-leather pumps that looked uncomfortably tight.

  “You look gorgeous,” Bingo said. “No wonder your son Artie is so proud of you.”

  He postponed asking any questions until Handsome had photographed her under the big painted sign, posed beside the filling station, and in a portrait view. Then he promised to bring her free prints of the pictures. Finally he said, “Say, I wonder if a friend of mine has stopped here lately. His name’s Clancy.”

  Her broad face was perfectly blank. She shook her head. “Don’t remember anybody of that name.” She smiled apologetically at Bingo and said, “So many people stop here at Happy Home Haven. Let me look in my books.”

  “Never mind,” Bingo said. “I’ll describe him to you. He has red hair and—”

  “Well, yes,” she said. “There was a red-haired fellow stayed here about three or four weeks ago. Short, fat little guy. But his name was Werfel. Stayed over the week end, in cabin C.”

  “That don’t sound like our friend Clancy,” Bingo said. “He’s sort of tall, and skinny.”

  She shook her head. “I guess I haven’t seen him here. Of course, you know how it is in a place like this. So many people come and go. Sometimes not for a full day, just for an afternoon. That’s only fifty cents. I could get two bucks from those afternoon customers, but I figure, what the hell. You’re only young once.”

  “But our red-headed friend Clancy hasn’t been here?” Bingo said.

  “Not unless he changed his name and wore a wig,” she told him.

  “Oh, well,” Bingo said. “Maybe he’ll send us a postcard from Omaha.” He got into the convertible, slammed the door, leaned out, and said, “Say, if those pictures turn out well, would you like some extra prints? So, for instance, if you wanted to give postcard pictures of you and this nice little place here to your customers—well, they might mail ’em to their friends, and if their friends happened to be passing through here—” He turned his head and said, “Handsome, we’ve got plenty of postcards, haven’t we?”

  “Yup,” Handsome said, stepping on the starter.

  “You can have as many as you want,” Bingo told her. “For just what they cost us. Naturally, you see the pictures first, and if you like them, you pick out the one you like the best, and we’ll make the postcards for you while we’re still here.”

  After a little haggling they settled on a price of two dollars and fifty cents for one hundred postcards.

  Handsome shoved in the clutch and said, “We’ll bring them pictures over tonight, ma’am, so’s you can pick out the ones you like best.” He started the car with a jerk.

  Bingo waved good-by out the window and then settled back against the seat cushions.

  County Highway K turned into the highway just outside the town of Thursday. Handsome made the turn and began driving fast toward the town.

  “You didn’t have to be in such a hurry,” Bingo said.

  “I did, too,” Handsome said. “You got a date at two o’clock.” The dreary, yellow-brick store fronts of Thursday, Iowa, were rushing past. “And first you gotta stop here. At Charlie Hodges’. I got his pictures here in the big envelope.”

  He stopped the convertible in front of the sign that read THE FINEST LOW-COST FUNERALS IN THURSDAY COUNTY.

  Charlie Hodges wasn’t in. They were met at the door by a tall, thin, mournful-looking young man with thick-lensed glasses, who explained that he was Mr. Hodges’ assistant. Bingo wondered if he’d been hired to give Thursday County’s funerals the proper atmosphere. The young man said that Mr. Hodges had gone off somewhere with the sheriff, about ten minutes before. No, he didn’t know where Mr. Hodges and the sheriff had gone, or why, or when they’d be back.

  “I wonder if we ought to try and find them,” Bingo murmured as he got back into the car. He glanced at his watch and said, “Oh, well, it can wait, if it’s another murder. There’s no novelty about murders any more. But this is the first time I’ve ever had a date with a Farmer’s Daughter.”

  Handsome didn’t say anything. Bingo glanced at him, out of the corner of his eye, and felt a pang of conscience. After all, this was the first date either of them had had since leaving New York. And Handsome was the good-looking one, the guy who should have had the first date. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Uh-uh,” Handsome said. “I gotta make them pictures. Account of that corset lady wants hers tonight. I’ll make ’em all up at the same time.”

  A sudden thought struck Bingo. He said, “Say! You can’t go back there to the shanty alone.”

  “Why not?” Handsome said. “If those guys got sore at something and got tough, two of us couldn’t do more’n one of us. And they ain’t gonna get sore and get tough, account of they need us to do their shopping. You tell me where I should take you, and then I’ll go get some pork chops and some more potatoes and onions, and maybe a pie if I can find one. They oughta be hungry by now, and that Monk, he’s a good cook.”

  “You’ll have to explain why I’m not with you,” Bingo said uncomfortably. “It’ll have to be a good reason, too.”

  “I’ll tell ’em you met up with a farmer’s daughter,” Handsome said. “And you’ll be back in half an hour. Where should I take you to?”

  “Make it an hour,” Bingo said. “And just let me out by Joe Hibbs’ icehouse.”

  “Oke,” Handsome said. “Want I should come back and pick you up, and when?”

  “Don’t bother,” Bingo said. “It isn’t much of a walk to the shanty.”

  Handsome stopped the car just halfway between Joe Hibbs’ icehouse and the THANK YOU, COME BACK TO THURS DAY sign. Bingo got out, slammed the car door, and said, “Well—”

  “Say,” Handsome said. “Bingo—”

  Bingo waited a full minute, and then said, “Yes, what?”

  “Oh, nothing,” Handso
me said. “I’ll tell you later.”

  The convertible shot down the road. Bingo looked after it longingly. He should have told Christine to bring along a friend for Handsome. He felt guilty and miserable.

  Besides, it was a hot, dusty day, and the brown calf oxfords weren’t made for country walking.

  The convertible turned around just beyond the COME BACK TO THURSDAY sign and headed back toward town. Handsome was going to the market to pick up groceries, Bingo remembered.

  He’d never stood up a girl in his life, but suddenly he decided this was a good time to start. Farmer’s daughter or no farmer’s daughter. As the convertible approached, he waved frantically to Handsome.

  Handsome waved back and went on driving toward town.

  Oh, well. It wasn’t everyone who got to meet a beautiful golden-haired, innocent young country girl in the privacy of a big red barn. Some day in Hollywood he’d tell about it—not mentioning any names, of course—half lightly, half wistfully.

  There was a path just beyond the icehouse that led in the direction of the barn. It looked a lot more comfortable to walk on than the concrete highway.

  The path led along the edge of a green-and-golden field that was bordered with big, shadowy trees. Somewhere a bird was singing. There was the rich fragrance of red clover in the air.

  For the first time, Bingo began to feel really enthusiastic about the whole thing.

  What trees! What flowers! What birds! Too bad Artie wasn’t along! What a song lyric he could have written about all this!

  The hay barn stood by itself at the far corner of the field. Bingo paused at its open door, glancing in a little hesitantly. It was dim and shadowy. The sweet odor of hay was almost like incense.

  A soft little whisper came from the shadows. “Oh, Mr. Riggs! I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me!”

  She looked very young and very lovely. Her golden hair was loose over her shoulders, and there was a blue bow holding it back from her forehead. She had on a dress of some soft blue stuff, and tiny white kid slippers with very high heels.

  “I’m terribly bold, asking you to meet me here like this,” she breathed, “but I did so want to ask your advice.” She took his arm. “I guess you can’t see very well in here, after coming right in out of that sunshine. Let me find you a place where we can sit down and talk.”

  She led him to a pile of hay. Bingo sank down on it, and she sat down beside him, her face almost on his shoulder. The delicious odor of wood violets came to his nostrils.

  “I wouldn’t have dared ask most anybody else to meet me here,” she murmured, close to his ear. “But you’re different. I trust you.”

  Bingo glanced down at her and reminded himself that no one but the lowest kind of scoundrel would take advantage of someone so innocent and lovely and trusting. He wouldn’t even put one arm around her. He’d give her some good fatherly advice about whatever was on her mind, kiss her gently on the forehead, and send her home.

  “What do you want advice about, my dear?” he asked, trying to sound at least sixty.

  She moved so close to him that he had to put just one arm around her to support her.

  “Mr. Riggs. I’m going to run away from home.”

  He looked down at her. In the shadows, her wide blue eyes were like stars.

  “Now, why do you want to do such a thing as that?” he said indulgently.

  “I want to go to Hollywood,” she confessed shyly. “Ever since I was a little girl in first grade I’ve wanted to be an actress. Mr. Riggs, don’t you think I ought to go to Hollywood?”

  “Well—” Bingo said.

  “Tell me, Mr. Riggs. Do you think I’m pretty?”

  “I think you’re gorgeous,” he said. Just in time he remembered about fatherly advice. “But it’s a hard life, in Hollywood. So many girls go there—”

  “But,” she whispered into his ear, “I’d have you to help me, wouldn’t I?”

  He didn’t know just how it had happened, but they were lying back on the soft and fragrant hay, and he had both arms around her. Her smooth little fingers were caressing his face. He hadn’t intended to kiss her but—

  The hell with fatherly advice!

  She nestled closer. “Maybe”—it was a very soft whisper—“I’d better take my dress off so it won’t get mussed.” Her arms tightened just a little around his neck. “Oh, Mr. Riggs! You will take me to Hollywood with you, won’t you?”

  Before he could answer, indeed, before he could think of an answer, her lips were against his. This time there was no doubt about it, it was she who was kissing him.

  There was a loud and sudden pounding at the door. Christine jumped away from him, hastily smoothing her hair. Bingo stood up, straightening his tie.

  “Maybe it’s Pa! This is his barn!”

  Bingo had a fleeting suspicion which he immediately discarded as unjust. After all, a rich farmer would hardly bother running a badger game. Besides, if that had been the setup, Christine wouldn’t have moved away.

  The knocking continued. Then a voice called, “Hey! Psst! Bingo!”

  It was Handsome. Bingo relaxed.

  “How did he know where you were?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know,” Bingo said. “But it must be important.” He glanced down at her. “I—”

  “Never mind,” she said. “Go on. I’ll meet you—”

  “Bingo!” Handsome called again.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.

  “Well—” He aimed a kiss at her. It landed on her chin. “Tomorrow.”

  He slipped carefully out the door. The sunlight made him blink for a minute.

  “Sorry,” Handsome said. “But the sheriff’s looking for us. There has been another murder. I got the car right here.”

  “Who?” Bingo asked hoarsely.

  “Gus,” Handsome said. He added, “Charlie Hodges was there to get him when I got there, but I didn’t talk to him about them pictures.”

  Bingo got into the car. “When you got where?”

  “Why,” Handsome said, “back to the shanty. Gus, he was out in the turkey yard and somebody shot him. With a rifle, sheriff says. That Mr. Halvorsen came by and his turkeys were kicking up a big fuss, so he investigated and found the body, and called the sheriff.”

  “Handsome!” Bingo gasped. “The shanty!”

  “Everything’s O. K.,” Handsome said. He maneuvered the convertible carefully down the narrow dirt lane and turned onto the highway, headed toward Thursday. “They hid. The sheriff went right in the shanty, looking for us, and he didn’t see a thing. He was just coming out when I got there and I was worried for a minute. Then I remembered that if the sheriff had seen those guys, he wouldn’t of been coming out of there alive, so I knew everything was O. K.”

  Bingo drew a long sigh of relief. He mopped his brow, ran a comb through his hair, and lit a cigarette.

  “But, Handsome. How did you know where I was?”

  “Oh,” Handsome said. “I knew you were going to meet Christine.” He avoided Bingo’s eyes as he spoke. “So I just figured you’d be in that red barn. Because that’s where she asked me to meet her. This afternoon. At four o’clock.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “Poor Gus,” Sheriff Judson said, shaking his head. “He wasn’t much good, and he never earned an honest dollar, and I guess about the only friend he had was Chris, here, but it’s a doggone shame, anyway.”

  It was, Bingo realized, an entirely different attitude than the sheriff had shown over the murder of Henry Siller. He sensed the reason. Gus, good-for-nothing or not, was a local resident. Someone the sheriff, like everybody else, knew. Henry Siller was a stranger, someone from out of town.

  “I wasn’t any particular friend of Gus,” Chris Halvorsen said. He looked extremely tired and pale.

  “Well,” the sheriff said mildly, “you let him look after them turkeys for you, when everybody knew you had room for ’em out to your place. Just so’s he’d have a few dollars a week f
or groceries and tobacco.”

  “Nothing of the kind,” Chris Halvorsen said. “Gus made himself a living selling them skinny chickens of his to tourists, and chopping a little wood now and then. That yard of his was a good place to keep turkeys. You can’t keep turkeys any old place.”

  “All right,” Sheriff Judson said. “If you want to hide your light under a bushel basket, I don’t care. But it’s too bad about poor Gus. Still, he would of died anyway, sooner or later.” He turned to Bingo and said, “Good thing you got an alibi, account of you had a motive to kill him.”

  “Henry!” Will Sims said, scandalized. “Do you think these Hollywood producers would murder a man because he’d cheated them out of a mere thousand dollars!”

  “Feller over in Climbing Hill,” Sheriff Judson said calmly, “cut the throat of another feller account of he was done outa four bits in a crap game. And a thousand bucks ain’t so doggone more, even if you do come from Hollywood.” He turned and smiled at Bingo and said, “But don’t you worry. We checked up on you a’ready.”

  “Thanks,” Bingo said. “What did you find out?”

  “Well,” the sheriff said, “when Herb drove out to get you this morning Gus couldn’t of been murdered, account of them turkeys were acting perfectly natural. Chris here found him about twelve o’clock. Twelve o’clock, you were taking pictures of them campers. I know where you were at in the meantime. Figure that’s what you’d call a perfect alibi.”

  “I can’t imagine a better one,” Bingo said gracefully.

  “So,” the sheriff said, “it appears you didn’t murder that other feller, either. Not that I ever thought you did. Far’s Thursday County’s concerned, you ain’t got a thing to worry about.”

  Not a thing, Bingo thought, except five escaped convicts hidden in the shanty.

  Sheriff Judson sighed. “It’s a doggone shame,” he said again.

  “Don’t feel bad about it,” Bingo said consolingly. “He was all alone in the world. He couldn’t have been living a very happy life, anyway.”

  “Gus?” the sheriff said. “Oh. That ain’t what I mean. It’s, now we gotta let Nevada have the parson, or Doc, or whatever he is. The way things were, Will, here, could of got him convicted of murder without no trouble. Now we gotta give him to Nevada, and arrest someone else, and the fact is, I ain’t got the faintest idea yet who it oughta be.”