by Craig Rice
He paused and half closed his eyes. “I should of figured it this way, around that time. The money from that there bank robbery was the motive. And everybody interested in it was coming to Thursday. Now it was easy to figure the third one of the bank robbers was the murderer and that he had the money hid. Now at that point, I should of thought it over.”
“We thought it over at that point,” Bingo said, “and didn’t get anywhere.”
“Naturally,” the sheriff said. “You don’t know Thursday County. I should of asked myself, now who was there here, round about fifteen years ago, needing money bad enough to take a chance at a bank robbery. If I had, I’d of thought of Chris, right off. “Because he had that new mail-order wife, and she was pressing him for money all the time.”
“I thought you said Chris Halvorsen was rich—I mean, that he was worth fifty or sixty thousand dollars,” Bingo said.
“Oh, sure,” the sheriff said. “Only he couldn’t spend it. Account of, it wasn’t in money. It was in land and livestock and crops and farm equipment. “Course, he could borrow on it at the bank, but times were bad then, anyhow.” He sighed. “No wonder Chris had a stroke. Always thought he would have, some day.”
Bingo said, “I don’t quite follow you.”
“Why,” the sheriff said. “He’d risked his life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness to help steal that money. And he had all of it. But he couldn’t spend any of it. Not even one five-dollar gold piece. Because every bank in the country was watching for that money. All he could do was bury it.”
“In the turkey yard,” Will Sims said.
“I should of thought of that right off, too,” the sheriff said. “Should of suspected something long ago. Chris never was one to spend money he didn’t have to. But he went on year after year keeping his turkeys there and paying that Gus ten dollars a month to watch ’em. I got to thinking about it right after that Gus was found killed, and that’s when I knew where the money was.”
There was a long silence.
“Talked to Chris last night,” the sheriff said. “He couldn’t answer, but he could nod. Told him what I’d figured. He let me know I was right.”
He drew a long, sighing breath.
“Those convicts got out of jail,” Sheriff Judson said. “Chris, he was a deputy. So he acted like he was starting out after ’em. Only he thought quick. All the Halvorsens think quick. Those convicts had busted out of the prison where Chuck Engan died. They headed this way. So Chris, he went up in the field and watched the shanty. Along came Henry Siller, and Chris shot him.”
“But the turkeys,” Bingo said. “Who stole the turkeys, and brought them back?”
“Why,” the sheriff said, “that was Gus. Gus and Clancy. They got together and figured they had to get Chris Halvorsen lured away so’s they could search his house. Gus knew Chris was terrible particular about them turkeys. Gus didn’t know why, at the time. But he figured Chris’d go chasing after ’em, so he just piled ’em in a truck and drove ’em off and parked ’em some place. Clancy told me about that. They got Miz Halvorsen outa the house with a phone call, tied up Chrissie, and went through the place and didn’t find a thing.
“Chris, he came back and found out the house was all upset, and he got scared. He a’most had his stroke right then and there. But it came to him, the folks that’d searched the house didn’t know the money was in the turkey yard, or they’d of gone there first. So he just set himself to watching the turkey yard.”
“Then Gus came along,” Bingo said.
Sheriff Judson nodded. “Looks like Gus did some thinking. He musta figured there was something funny about that turkey yard. Clancy told me he’n Gus brought them turkeys back, account of they were evidence, in a way. And a truck-load of turkeys is an awful bothersome thing to keep hid. So they couldn’t figure where else to take ’em, so they put ’em back. Then Gus, he got to thinking. He musta been a smart feller, that Gus.”
He paused and sighed heavily. “Looks like everybody mixed up in this was smart, except me.”
“Henry,” Will Sims said sharply, “you’re the smartest sheriff Thursday County ever had.”
Sheriff Judson looked sad. “That don’t mean a thing. Bert Miller, he was so dumb—” He grinned and went on, “Anyhow, Gus decided to do some looking around in the turkey yard. Chris shot him. Meantime, Chris had seen that girl go in the shanty coupla nights before, and took a shot through the window. He figured she was mixed up in it, too. Only, he can’t shoot so good at night, so he didn’t hit anybody. Chris musta been about crazy by that time.”
There was another silence.
“Poor Chris,” Sheriff Judson said. “Worrying all these years about that money. Being bothered all these years by his mail-order wife wanting to make Christine a great actress or something. And then all this breaking loose. Finally, Clancy comes to see him. Clancy, he was smart, too. He knew who’d hid that money, so he figured he’d make a deal with Chris. That way, he’d cut out dividing up with the convicts, or that girl, or anybody. Clancy says he told Chris he could change that gold, in what’s known as devious ways, into money anybody could spend any place. Only, by the time he talked to Chris, why Chris was so plumb worried and suspicious and sick, he just banged Clancy on the head. Then he had a crazy idea he could use Clancy as a hostage, in case them escaped convicts really got tough.”
Sheriff Judson shook his head. “Poor Clancy. A’most two days under a henhouse. Oh, well—”
He went on, “Then he got worried Clancy mighta had somebody with him, so he investigated. Saw the girl, and shot. Looked at her and recognized her as Clancy’s girl. Knew where Clancy was living at. So he figured he’d hide what he thought was her body in that tourist cabin. Drove her there in Clancy’s car, and then walked home. You know, if it’d been daylight, he’d a killed her. But Chris, he can’t—couldn’t—see much in the dark. They say eating raw carrots cures that, but I never knew a rabbit could see so good in the dark, either.”
“But,” Bingo said. “But look. When someone fired into the shanty, and when the girl was shot, and all that—I mean, all that time—he—Chris Halvorsen—he had a police bodyguard.”
“Oh, sure,” Sheriff Judson said. “Only, anybody could sneak past Earl.”
He jerked a thumb toward the corner. Earl was there, on a chair tilted perilously back. Earl was snoring.
“Earl’s a good boy,” Sheriff Judson said, “but he sleeps sound and often.”
Everything seemed to be settled. Bingo rose. “Well,” he said, “if we’re going to be in Omaha by tonight—”
Herb came into the office. He looked tired and pale, but there was a happy look in his eyes.
“My old lady’s staying out to Halvorsen’s a few days,” he reported. “Miz Halvorsen’s carrying on something terrible. She went all through the house and found Chris’s will. He left everything he had to Chrissie, on condition she never go on the stage, screen, or radio in a professional capacity.” He caught his breath and said, “We’re gonna be married six months to the day after the funeral.”
The sheriff’s office resounded with congratulations.
“And,” Herb said. He looked at Bingo and Handsome, “I didn’t have no chance to give Chrissie that picture yesterday. So today she was crying I put my arm around her and I said, ‘Look, Baby Doll, I got something for you,’ and I gave her the picture and she looked at it and she kissed me! First time she ever kissed me! Turns out, first time she ever kissed anybody!”
Bingo and Handsome looked at each other and then at Herb.
“You’re a very lucky man,” Bingo said solemnly.
The white cement road climbed a small hill and curved around a grove of trees. Bingo leaned back and lit a cigarette.
“We had about a thousand and eighty dollars when we landed in Thursday,” he said dreamily. “And right now—” He began counting on his fingers. “We got the same amount. Plus the two thousand dollars that’s our share of the reward. Plus fifteen seventy-five from
the souvenir hunters, twenty-one twenty-five from Will Sims, twenty-four at the tourist camp, thirty dollars from Charlie Hodges, and twenty-one dollars for the pictures Artie sold, less his ten per cent.”
“Three thousand, one hundred and eighty-nine dollars and ninety cents,” Handsome said.
“Not bad,” Bingo said, “for about three days’ work.”
“Only,” Handsome said, “I spent three dollars and eighty-five cents this morning for gas, oil, and cigarettes. That leaves three thousand, one hundred and eighty-six dollars and five cents.” He added, “If you want to know what we made in Thursday, it was two thousand, one hundred and nine dollars and ninety cents.”
“Call it four days,” Bingo said. “That makes it—”
“Five hundred and twenty-seven dollars, forty-seven cents and five mills per day,” Handsome said, “unless you deduct expenses.”
“The hell with expenses,” Bingo said. “And we’ll do a lot better than that per day when we hit Hollywood.”
The partings in Thursday had been almost tearful. A handshake and a promise to return and visit Sheriff Henry Judson some time. Warm congratulations and good wishes to Christine and Herb. A promise to Will Sims to look into the possibilities of a motion picture about boys’ camps when they got to Hollywood. Handsome had turned up with a magnificent box of cut-out paper airplanes for Ollie. Bingo had written down the address of the widow Silton’s place in Reno, and promised the widow Silton and Clancy to drop in there on their way to the Coast. They’d bid Lula Higgins an affectionate farewell and told her to be sure to look them up in Hollywood when she got there. Finally, Bingo had promised Doc Svensen to read Selektor’s Dialectical Materialism and the Theory of Equilibrium. Though, he’d explained to the doctor, his equilibrium felt fine since he’d had that last cup of coffee.
He’d closed his eyes when they passed the COME BACK TO THURSDAY sign. He’d turned his head the other way when they passed the shanty.
Now, they were approaching another town. Bingo sat up and looked around. “Where are we?”
“Just coming into Lima Junction,” Handsome said. “Not named for the bean, but for the capital of Peru. It was founded in—”
“Never mind,” Bingo said. “And next time we go on a motor trip, you’re not going to read any guidebooks first.”
They drove through a gloomy village with a main street about three blocks long. Beyond it was a sign reading THANK YOU. COME BACK TO LIMA JUNCTION.
“Never, I hope.” Bingo said.
The maroon roadster sped around a curve in the road. Suddenly there was a frightened squawking, then a screeching of brakes. Something hit against the front of the car, with a loud impact. A handful of chicken feathers blew past the windshield. There was a loud angry yell from the farmhouse they’d just passed.
“Never mind, Handsome,” Bingo said. “This time, drive on!”
About the Author
Craig Rice (1908–1957), born Georgiana Ann Randolph Craig, was an American author of mystery novels and short stories described as “the Dorothy Parker of detective fiction.” In 1946, she became the first mystery writer to appear on the cover of Time magazine. Best known for her character John J. Malone, a rumpled Chicago lawyer, Craig’s writing style was both gritty and humorous. She also collaborated with mystery writer Stuart Palmer on screenplays and short stories, as well as with Ed McBain on the novel The April Robin Murders.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1943 by Craig Rice
Cover design by Andy Ross
ISBN: 978-1-5040-4853-8
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