The Thursday Turkey Murders

by Craig Rice

  “Or maybe they just weren’t as broke as we were,” Handsome said. He glanced at Bingo and said, “Never mind. We ain’t broke now. Go on.”

  “Well,” Bingo said. “Then Henry Siller was shot. That messed things up. Then our guests came along to keep their date. Meantime the girl had come along to keep her date. And from then on—well, I guess we know what happened, except who’s been doing the shooting?”

  “That Chuck Engan was a liar,” Handsome said. He started the convertible and began driving slowly down the road. “He made a dying statement that he was the only guy knew where the money was. Whereas, not only did the other guy—I mean the third party in this bank robbery—know where it was, but Chuck Engan didn’t know himself. I guess maybe he did that because he was sore at the two guys who hadn’t been caught and sent to jail, and he thought maybe that would start Henry Siller digging for the money and the other guy would find it out and start shooting at him. And then Henry Siller would get shot and the other guy would get hung. He was right, too. Chuck Engan, I mean. Except that the other guy ain’t been hung yet.”

  “That other guy,” Bingo said. “Could it of been Gus?”

  “Uh-uh,” Handsome said. “Gus couldn’t of shot himself from a coupla hundred yards away with a high-powered rifle.”

  Bingo said, “The murderer—it must be the third man in the bank robbery. The one who buried the money. Someone who lives in Thursday County. Is Dalesport in Thursday County, Handsome?”

  “Yep,” Handsome said. “On State Highway 27. It was named after—”

  “Never mind,” Bingo said hastily.

  “And,” Handsome said, “the Thursday County courthouse burned down the week after the bank robbery. Old Judge Henry had a stroke and died, the same week.”

  “When I want to dig into Thursday County history,” Bingo said, “I’ll tell you. Anyway. We know a lot of things now. Three men robbed a bank. One of them was caught and sent to prison. One of them escaped, grew a beard, and changed his name. The third escaped, with the money, and hid it somewhere. Wonder why he didn’t spend it.”

  “He couldn’t,” Handsome said. “That gold was really hot.”

  “Well,” Bingo said. “The man in prison died. Before he died he confided to a pal the name of the third man. The second man got together with this pal in prison and arranged his getaway. So he could catch up with the third man and collect his share of the money. Maybe all of it. And the third man would be found some day at the bottom of a well. But the third man decided to go on a shooting spree. I think we have everything straight now.”

  “Uh-huh,” Handsome said. “Except for a few things. Where’s Clancy’s body?”

  Bingo sat up straight. “What?”

  “Clancy’s body,” Handsome said calmly. “He can’t be alive. He and that girl were friendly. She was buying groceries and carrying ’em out to his car. Those escaped convicts didn’t say nothing about having kidnaped him, too. So if he’s alive, he’d be trying to find her, and he wouldn’t of just disappeared like this.”

  “I see what you mean,” Bingo said.

  “And another thing, Bingo. That girl. She ain’t the same girl—”

  “Handsome!” Bingo said.

  Ahead he could see the shanty. Home, sweet home. A tumble-down shack, like the one in the song. With a bunch of turkeys in the front yard.

  “You never did tell me,” he said, “how you made out with Christine.”

  He glanced at Handsome. Handsome’s dark hair was a little mussed. There were a few smudges of lipstick on his face.

  “Well,” Handsome said, “she wanted to ask me some questions. Did I think she was pretty. I said yes. Did I think she would photograph well. I said no, her face was too flat. She said I might be wrong about that, and did I think she ought to go to Hollywood. I said no, she oughta settle down and get married, account of she’s the type that in a coupla years she’ll start getting fat and she can’t go on keeping her hair bleached forever.”

  He turned into the driveway. “You know, Bingo, she got sore. She walked out on me. And, after all, it was just that she wanted my advice. And I gave it to her.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Be it ever so humble—

  Bingo sighed and relaxed. The shanty did seem like home. Maybe it was the dinner he’d just had. Maybe it was the pleasant darkness and the glow from the red lamp on the table where Handsome was developing pictures. Maybe it was the prints of the corset saleswoman spread out to dry on one of the bunks. Or maybe it was Monk playing on a comb and tissue paper.

  Mid pleasures and palaces—Monk began to swing it.

  “Cut that out, Monk!” Terrier’s voice said sharply.

  The comb-and-paper music stopped abruptly. Handsome lighted the oil lamp and turned out the red one.

  Bingo could see Crip at the window, with the sawed-off shotgun. The Professor and Loogan were asleep. Terrier had been watching Handsome work on the pictures.

  The illusion of home and security was suddenly shattered. Bingo sat upright. His skin began to turn cold again.

  The afternoon and early evening hadn’t been so bad. It had been pleasant to get back to the shanty, shotguns or no shotguns. Terrier and the others hadn’t had any comments to make on the shooting of Gus, except that the turkeys’ squawking had kept Crip from sleeping, and the Professor was getting hay fever from hiding under the bunk every time the sheriff came around.

  Monk had cooked dinner while Handsome worked on the pictures and Bingo rested his feet. Crip had taken over the window-watching job after dinner and the Professor and Loogan had gone to sleep.

  Now, suddenly, there was a different atmosphere in the shanty.

  Monk began to play again on the comb-and-paper.

  You gotta see Mamma—every night.

  “Them prints of the corset lady are dry,” Handsome said. “We better take ’em to her and collect, account of she’s leaving early in the morning.”

  Bingo had an uncomfortable feeling that Monk was trying to catch his eye.

  “Are you going to let them go?” Crip said, without taking his eyes from the window.

  I’ll be glad when you’re dead, you rascal you—

  Monk’s eyes moved fearfully from Terrier, on the word “I’ll,” to Bingo on the word “you’re.”

  “I said, stop that, Monk!” Terrier snapped.

  “We promised the corset lady she could have her pictures tonight,” Handsome said. “And she paid ten per cent down.”

  Bingo yawned and said, “Why worry? I could do with a good night’s sleep, myself.”

  Monk began suddenly to play again. There was a frantic urgency in his tune. It took Bingo a minute or two to recognize it, though.

  Just turn your back on me

  And walk far away—

  “Monk!” Terrier said.

  The little man grinned, shrugged his shoulders, lifted up his comb, and played one unmistakable line:

  I’m ready for the river.

  Everyone laughed, even Terrier.

  “Look,” Terrier said. “We can’t stay holed out here forever. The cooking may be better than in the pen, but the plumbing isn’t as good. We’ll let you walk out of here, but on one condition. That you locate Clancy and bring him back.”

  “Dead or alive?” Bingo asked, trying to be gay about it.

  “He’d better be alive,” Terrier said. His lips lifted in an unpleasant grin. “And you’d better bring him back. Because Loogan is beginning to get a little fretful about that girl.”

  “Well,” Bingo said, hoping his voice was steady, “we aim to please.” He began tying his shoes.

  “Bingo,” Handsome said, tucking the prints into an envelope. “We got to get going.”

  “Go ahead,” Terrier said. “But don’t forget to come back. And you’d better not make it too long.”

  “We need Clancy in our business,” Crip said.

  “All right,” Bingo said, putting on his coat. “We’ll try to find him and bri
ng him back.”

  “Find him,” Terrier said. “And come back. Or you come back.”

  Monk picked up the comb and played just five notes:

  Good-by forever—

  “Or else we’ll let Loogan deliver your girl to you, one finger at a time.”

  “We’ll be back,” Bingo said.

  He was uncomfortably conscious of the shotgun muzzle watching from the window as they got into the convertible.

  As Handsome started down the driveway, he could hear Monk’s comb-and-paper music from the shanty. Loud.

  I—ain’t got—nobody—

  Handsome turned onto the concrete highway. “Nice of that Mr. Monk to warn us,” he said.

  “Handsome,” Bingo said hoarsely. “Never mind about anything. Just turn the car around. Head for Hollywood. Monk. First he gave us an excuse for getting out of there. Then he warned us. Beat it. Scram. Because Terrier has murder in his eye.”

  Handsome kept on driving without any indication of turning around. “That girl, Bingo.”

  “He played I Ain’t Got Nobody. Handsome, he was trying to let us know they hadn’t kidnaped her. We were taken in. They found out there was some girl we were interested in, and we didn’t know where she was. So they pretended they had her kidnaped somewhere.”

  “Yep,” Handsome said.

  “Look. We’ve got more money than we had when we hit Thursday, Iowa. The photographic equipment we left in the shanty we can replace. We can send Sheriff Judson a postcard saying good-by.”

  “We got to print them pictures for Charlie Hodges,” Handsome said.

  Bingo groaned. “Monk warned us. He was trying to let us know we should get out of there and never come back. Handsome! Turn around! We could be way over in Nebraska by morning.”

  “There’s that girl,” Handsome said. Suddenly he made a turn off the highway and started up the dirt road. “It’s been bothering me. Then I remembered. That’s why we gotta deliver them pictures tonight. Bingo, I never heard of a guy on a honeymoon carrying his bride into a house except on the first night they were married. And be sides—”

  He turned sharply to the right, into the driveway of the Happy Home Haven.

  “Hi’yah, you—s!”

  It was Artie, his voice raised in cheerful greeting.

  Handsome pulled the car off the main drive and stopped. Bingo looked severely at Artie.

  “What are you doing away from camp?”

  “Oh,—camp,” Artie said. “I skip out every Saturday night and hitchhike home. Saturday night’s always busy here. And Ma ain’t got a license to sell beer, so I steal a half-dozen quarts or so from a place down the road and bring ’em up here and sell ’em for thirty or forty cents apiece. Say, I’m glad to see you. I sold every one of those _____ ___ ________ out to that—camp a picture. Fifty cents apiece. You said twenty-five, but what the—hell, if I can get fifty cents, why not? Got it all in advance, too. So you better hustle up and make them pictures.”

  Bingo mentally multipled fifty cents by forty-two. “We’ll make the pictures first thing in the morning. Hand over the money.”

  “Oh, no,” Artie said, grinning. “Ten per cent down. You get the rest when the pictures are delivered.” He fished through his pockets, finally dug out a crumpled dollar bill, a half, two quarters, and a dime. “There’s your—down payment. You get the rest when the pictures are done. Less a nickel on every sale.”

  Bingo pocketed the two dollars and ten cents and said, “We’ll deliver the pictures in the morning.”

  “You should make it a dime on every sale, though,” Artie said, “considering I doubled the price. What are you _____ ________ doing here?”

  “Delivering some pictures,” Bingo said severely, getting out of the car.

  “If it’s somebody staying here,” Artie said, “gimme ten per cent.”

  “If I give you ten per cent,” Bingo said, “I’ll ______ ___ _________ ___, understand?”

  Artie said, “My pal!” And darted off toward the filling station, where a customer had appeared for one of the stolen quarts of beer.

  The plump, bright-eyed lady who traveled for Katz Korsets was delighted with the pictures. She examined every one. She said “Oh!” and “How darling!” and “I just adore them!” Then she tried to talk Bingo down on the price. Bingo, after his encounter with Artie, was feeling stern. He held out for the full amount, and after a fifteen-minute argument, she paid all but ten per cent of it.

  He walked down the steps and paused for a moment at the bottom.

  “Say, Bingo,” Handsome whispered.

  The cabin next door was ominously dark. The DO NOT DISTURB sign still dangled from the door.

  “Listen!” Handsome whispered.

  There were moans. Very faint moans.

  Bingo raced up to the filling station. He managed to explain it in a few gasping sentences to the bewildered Mrs. McComb. The cabin. Dark. Sign still on door. Moans.

  She grabbed a ring of passkeys and hurried down the walk, panting. She knocked on the cabin door, listened, unlocked the door, and peered in. Then she turned around, her face dead white.

  “Doctor,” she gasped. “Doctor!”

  Suddenly she darted across the driveway and began pounding on the door of the cabin beside which the station wagon was parked. It was only a few seconds before a face appeared at the door.

  “Dr. Echo!” Mrs. McComb said frantically. “I want Dr. Echo!”

  “I am Mr. Hoskins,” the face said.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, yes, yes. But I want Dr. Echo.” She waved toward the station wagon, with its sign F. HOSKINS. GLEN ECHO, MD.

  “I am Mr. Hoskins,” the face repeated. “I come from a town named Glen Echo, Maryland. And I am trying to get some sleep. Good night.”

  The door slammed.

  “The oily, _________ son of a bitch,” Mrs. McComb yelped. “With a girl lying dead in the cabin across from him!”

  Bingo turned, ran up the steps to the cabin, and flung the door wide open. The glow from the overhead light in the driveway fell on her.

  It was Henny, all right. But her lovely face was white, and her silky eyelids were closed. The sheet pulled up over the bunk where she lay was stained with blood. Her dark hair was like a shadow on the pillow. He knelt beside her, reached for the small, pale hand that hung so limply over the edge of the bed.

  The hand was warm.

  He listened closely. There was a faint sound of labored, difficult, painful breathing.

  He lifted the sheet a few inches and saw the wound, so terribly near her heart.

  At the doorway, Mrs. McComb began screaming.

  Immediately, lights flashed on in every cabin.

  “Shut up, Ma,” Artie said. He pushed his way into the cabin, carrying a big box marked crudely, FIRST-AID STUFF. He looked at Henny, and then said to Handsome, “You go in the filling station and call Doc Svensen, 679-W. Ma, you go get some hot water.” He pulled a blanket off a shelf in the cabin and wrapped it gently around the injured woman. Then he gave the big box an indignant kick. “Can’t do a thing for her until the doctor comes.”

  “She’s—alive?” Bingo whispered.

  “—, yes,” Artie whispered. “Suffering from shock, exposure, and loss of blood. Pulse strong, though.”

  “You talk like a doctor,” Bingo whispered.

  “What the ___ _________ ___ do you think I took those ___ ______ __________ ___ first-aid lessons at camp for?” Artie whispered. He bent over the injured woman. “She’s getting a little warmer. Bet she has to have a transfusion. Sssh!”

  Henny’s delicate eyelids moved, fluttered, finally opened. She stared, bewildered and frightened, at the ceiling, at Artie, and at Handsome. Her eyelids began to close again. But her lips parted.

  “Clancy?” she breathed. “Clancy? Murdered?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  One room of the Thursday county jail served as Thursday’s emergency hospital and first-aid station. Bingo sat in it, watching
Doc Svensen bandaging the wound in Henny’s side. Now and then he lifted his hand and touched the little square of gauze on his arm. There was still a little soreness there.

  Doc Svensen was a great big man, tall, paunchy, and untidy. He had stiff gray hair that had once been red, and there were freckles on his broad face, his massive arms, and his huge hands. He moved with amazing speed and deftness, and he looked angry. Not at anyone or anything in particular, just angry. He probably looked that way all the time, Bingo decided.

  Charlie Hodges’ hearse, which was also Thursday County’s ambulance, had arrived with Doc Svensen in it just sixty seconds ahead of the sheriff. Artie’s diagnosis had proved correct. Shock, exposure, and loss of blood. The wound itself—made by a rifle bullet, Doc Svensen said—was not a serious one.

  Obviously, however, she’d lain there, unattended, since the night before. Someone, pretending to be an attentive husband, had carried her into the cabin, and hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door, on the theory that if she were not already dead, she didn’t have long to live.

  Doc Svensen had worked fast, once he got the wounded girl into the emergency room. He’d sent Earl to his office, over McHenry’s garage, for a number of items, including a microscope. He’d put Ollie to work as an operating-room nurse. And as he worked, he’d talked angrily about the attempted murder, which, it appeared, was entirely the fault of the Capitalist System.

  In the midst of his tirade he glared at the anxious spectators and said, “All right. Roll up your sleeves. Get in line.”

  For just a moment Bingo thought the capitalist system had been too much for Doc Svensen. It turned out the girl did need a transfusion. That was the reason for the items, including the microscope, Earl had been sent to fetch. Doc Svensen worked expertly making his tests, discussing blood groups and Economic Determinism simultaneously.

  Bingo was elected. He was scared, but he stretched out on the table as Doc Svensen directed. He wasn’t sure if he was more scared of the transfusion or of Doc Svensen.