The Bigger They Come

by Erle Stanley Gardner

  ‘How big was this man who tried to choke you?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I tell you it was dark.’

  ‘Was he big and fat, or small and thin?’

  ‘He wasn’t fat.’

  ‘His hands must have been small.’

  ‘Well-I don’t know—’

  ‘Look here,’ I said, ‘there are little scratches on the skin which could have been made by fingernails. Now, are you certain it wasn’t a woman?’

  She caught her breath at that. ‘Scratches?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, scratches, nail scratches. The person who choked you must have had long, pointed fingernails. Now why couldn’t it have been a woman as well as a man?’

  ‘Because I don’t think-no, I think it was a man.’

  ‘But you couldn’t see anything at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It was pitch dark?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And whoever it was made no sound?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Simply started to choke you and you fought free?’

  ‘Yes, I pushed him away.’

  ‘And you have absolutely no idea who it was?’ I asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘There’s nothing whatever to give you a clue?’

  ‘No.’

  I patted her shoulder. ‘All right, dear. I just wanted to find out. That’s all.’

  ‘I-I think I’ll sit down,’ she said. ‘I get nervous every time I talk about it.’

  She went over to the overstuffed chair and sat down.

  ‘I think you’d better tell me about your boy friend,’ I said.

  ‘He’s in Kansas City.’

  ‘But you don’t think he’s going to stay there?’

  ‘If he finds out where I am, he may come here.’

  ‘Don’t you think he’s found out already?’

  ‘No. He couldn’t have found out.’

  ‘And yet in the back of your mind there’s the thought that he may have—’

  ‘Don’t, Donald, please,’ she interrupted. ‘I don’t think I can take any more.’

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘You don’t have to. Better button up your blouse. Sandra and Bleatie may be here any minute.’

  She raised her hands to her blouse. I saw the fingers quiver as she fitted the loops over the buttons.

  Afternoon sun streamed into the room, made it hot and close. There was no breeze, and the open windows seemed merely to attract the hot air which radiated up from the side of the building.

  The bell captain knocked at the door, pushed a brown paper package into my hands. ‘Listen, buddy,’ he said, ‘don’t get into any trouble with this rod. It’s a good one, but I had to lie like hell to get old Mose to let loose of it’

  I said, ‘Thanks,’ kicked the door shut, ripped off the brown wrappings, and brought to light a thirty-two blue-steel automatic. The blue was worn off the steel in places; but the barrel was in good condition. I opened the box of shells, pushed the magazine full, and said to Alma Hunter, ‘You know how to work this?’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Here’s a safety catch that you work with your thumb,’ I explained. ‘Here’s another safety catch on the back of the handle which you automatically release when you squeeze your hand about the grip. All you have to do is to hold it in your right hand, pull this little lever down with your thumb, and pull the trigger. Do you understand?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Let’s see if you do.’ I removed the magazine, jerked the mechanism back and forth, snapped the safety catch into position, handed it to her, and said, ‘Shoot me.’

  She took the gun and said, ‘Donald, don’t say that.’

  ‘Point it at me,’ I said. ‘Shoot me. You’ve got to. I’m going to choke you. Come on, Alma, snap out of it. Let’s see if you can point the gun and pull the trigger.’

  She pointed the gun and tried to pull the trigger. The skin grew white across her knuckles, but nothing happened.

  ‘The safety catch,’ I said.

  She jerked the catch down with her thumb. I heard the click of the firing pin against the chamber, and then she sat down on the bed as though her knees had lost all their strength. The gun dropped from her limp fingers to the carpet.

  I picked up the gun, shoved the magazine back into position, jacked a shell up into the chamber, saw that the safety catch was on, removed the magazine, and shoved in a shell to take the place of the one that had gone up into the firing chamber. I put the gun in her purse.

  She watched me with frightened, fascinated eyes.

  I wrapped the extra box of shells in the brown paper and dropped it into the bureau drawer. Then I went over and sat down on the bed beside her. ‘Listen, Alma,’ I said, ‘that gun’s loaded. Don’t shoot anyone unless you have to, but if anyone starts playing with your neck again, you start making noises with that gun. You don’t need to hit him. Just cut loose with the gun. That will bring help.’

  She stretched out on the bed, and twisted her lithe, supple body around to mine with a gesture that reminded me of a kitten twisting around in play. Her arms came around my neck, drew me to her. I felt the tip of her tongue searching my lips.

  It was perhaps an hour later that a quick succession of knocks announced the arrival of Sandra Birks and her brother.

  I opened the door.

  ‘Where’s Alma?’ Sandra Birks asked.

  ‘In the bathroom,’ I said, ‘washing her eyes. She’s nervous and upset. She’s been crying.’

  ‘And I presume,’ Sandra said, looking at the rumpled bed, ‘you were comforting her.’

  Bleatie stared down at the pillow and said, ‘Hell, they’re all the same.’

  Sandra turned on him. ‘You shut up, Bleatie,’ she said. ‘You have a dirty mind. You don’t think any woman’s decent.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘what were you thinking?’

  I said, ‘Did you see anything of Morgan Birks?’

  Sandra seemed anxious to change the subject. ‘No, we came in the back way, bribed the porter to take us up in the freight elevator.’

  Alma came out of the bathroom.

  ‘She hasn’t been crying,’ Bleatie said.

  Sandra ignored him. ‘What’s going on in the next room?’ she asked.

  ‘Miss Sally Durke has become Mrs. B. F. Morgan,’ I said. ‘She’s waiting for Mr. Morgan to join her. Doubtless it’ll be before dinner. They may have dinner served in their room.’

  ‘We can prop this door open and listen,’ Sandra Birks said.

  ‘You don’t give your husband credit for very much intelligence, do you?’ I asked.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’d spot that open door before he was halfway down the corridor. No, we’ll have to take turns listening at the bathroom door. We can hear him when he comes in.’

  Bleatie said, ‘I’ve got a scheme that beats that all to pieces.’ He took a pocket drill from his pocket, tiptoed into the bathroom, listened a minute, and said, ‘The place to bore holes in a door is right in the corner of the panel.’

  ‘Put that thing away,’ I said. ‘You’ll just spill wood particles all over the floor and put her wise.’

  ‘Have you any plans?’ he asked me.

  ‘Plenty of them. We take turns listening at the bathroom. When we hear a man come in, I go around to their room. If it’s Morgan Birks, I serve the papers on him.’

  ‘You’ll recognize him from his photographs?’ Sandra Birks asked.

  ‘Yes, I’ve studied them carefully.’

  ‘How are you going to get in?’ Bleatie asked me.

  ‘I’m going to ring the room, tell them it’s the office talking, that there’s a telegram for Mr. B. F. Morgan, and ask if I shall send it up.’

  ‘That’s an old dodge. They’ll get suspicious, and tell you to slip it under the door.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll have the telegram and a registration book. I won’t be able to get the book under the door. I’ll try. The telegram will b
e real.’

  ‘They’ll open the door a crack, see you, and slam it shut.’

  ‘Not when they see me, they won’t,’ I said. ‘I’m going out and collect the stage properties. You stay here and hold the fort. Don’t get excited if Morgan comes in. I’ll be back inside of half an hour. He’s certain to stay at least that long. Remember, she’s brought an overnight bag.’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Bleatie said. ‘It sounds crude and—’

  ‘Everything sounds crude when you outline it in cold conversation,’ I said. ‘It’s the build-up. Look at all the bunco games which are pulled by the slickers. You read about them in the newspapers, and they seem so crude you can’t imagine anyone falling for them. Yet people fall for them three hundred and sixty-five days out of the year just like clockwork. It’s the buildup.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I still think it’s crude. I—’

  I didn’t see any sense debating it with him. I slipped out of the door and into the corridor, leaving him to explain to the others how crude it was.

  Chapter 6

  I WAS gone about an hour. When I came back, I had a bellboy’s uniform which I’d rented from a costume house, a telegram I’d sent myself, under the name of B. F. Morgan, and a notebook with ruled pages, half a dozen of which had been scrawled with signatures that I’d faked with pencil and pen.

  I tapped gently on the door of my room in the hotel.

  Alma Hunter opened it.

  Looking past the open door, I saw Bertha Cool squeezed into the big, overstuffed chair, filling it to overflowing. A bottle of Scotch, some ice, and a siphon of soda were on the table beside her. She was sipping from a tall glass. Sandra Birks came gliding toward me, like some supple shadow. ‘Oh you bungler!’ she said. ‘You’ve ruined things.’

  ‘Why the bouquets?’ I asked, my eye drifting past her to rest apprehensively on the head of the Cool Detective Agency.

  ‘For God’s sake, close the door,’ Bertha Cool said to Sandra. ‘If you want to bellyache, go ahead and do it, but don’t advertise your troubles to the hotel. Come on in, Donald.’

  I walked in and Alma Hunter closed the door. I couldn’t see Bleatie anywhere. The bathroom door was closed. I could hear voices coming from behind the door.

  ‘What’s the trouble?’ I asked.

  ‘You went away and didn’t tell anyone where you were going,’ Sandra Birks said. ‘You had that original summons and the copy for service, and Morgan has been in there for an hour. He came in just a few minutes after you left. Of all the dumb, bonehead tricks—’

  ‘Where is he now?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s still there-I hope.’

  ‘Where’s your brother?’

  ‘He had a hemorrhage. His broken nose started to bleed back into his mouth, and I telephoned for the doctor. It may be serious. He and the doctor are in the bathroom.’

  Bertha Cool said, ‘You evidently started something, Donald. Mrs. Birks telephoned me to try and find where you were. Why don’t you keep in touch with the office?’

  ‘Because you told me you didn’t want reports. You wanted the papers served,’ I said. ‘If I’m let alone long enough, I’ll serve them. I’m sorry you were disturbed. It’s what I get for trying to be polite and letting Mrs. Birks know what is going on. I wasn’t in favor of her and her brother coming up here in the first place.’

  ‘That’s all nonsense,’ Sandra Birks said coldly. ‘You’re trying to dodge responsibility by putting the blame on us.’

  ‘I’m not putting the blame on anyone,’ I said. ‘If your brother’s having a hemorrhage in the bathroom, I’m going to change into this bellboy suit in the closet. I suggest you try keeping your back turned.’

  Sandra Birks said, ‘The papers. We want those papers. My God, we’ve been telephoning frantically—’

  ‘Keep your shirt on,’ I said. ‘I’m supposed to serve these papers, and I’m going to. Do you know that it’s Morgan in there?’

  ‘Yes, you can hear his voice through the bathroom door.’

  I glanced across at Bertha Cool. ‘How long have you been here?’ I asked.

  ‘About ten minutes,’ she said. ‘My God, you’d have thought the place was on fire, the way they’ve been burning up the wire. If Morgan Birks gets away from you, Donald, I’m going to be very angry about it.’

  I didn’t say anything. I went in the closet, unwrapped the costume, got out of my clothes, and put on my bellboy’s uniform. There was no light in the closet so I left the door ajar to see to make the change. Through the open door, I could hear what was taking place in the other room. I heard Alma Hunter say, ‘I think you’re unjust, Sandra. He had to use his best judgment, didn’t he?’

  Sandra said, ‘His best judgment wasn’t good enough, that’s all,’ and then I heard the glug-glug-glug-glug of whisky being poured from a bottle which was almost full, the hiss of siphon water and Bertha Cool’s calm voice saying, ‘After all, Mrs. Birks, he let you in on this. If he hadn’t telephoned you, you wouldn’t have known a damn thing about it. We’re hired to serve papers. If Morgan Birks has left and Donald can’t serve the papers, then it’s a horse on me. If Morgan Birks is still there and Donald serves the papers, you’re going to be charged for getting me to drop everything else and come rushing out here as fast as a cab could bring me.’

  Sandra Birks said, ‘Well, if you want to know the truth, I think my attorney made a mistake in recommending you. I’m sorry that I ever came to your agency.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs. Cool said in the voice of a perfect lady discussing the latest novel, ‘it is regrettable, isn’t it, dearie?’

  I came out of the closet, buttoning up the bellboy’s coat around my neck. I took the yellow envelope with the telegram and the notebook, walked over to the telephone, and said to the operator, ‘Ring 618, please.’ A moment later, when I heard a woman’s voice on the line, I said, ‘There’s a telegram for Mrs. B. F. Morgan.’

  ‘I’m not expecting any telegram,’ she said. ‘No one knows I’m here.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs. Morgan. This telegram has a very peculiar address. It reads: “Mrs. B. F. Morgan, Perkins Hotel, or deliver to Sally Durke.” Now, we have no Durke registered here.’

  ‘Well, I’m certain I don’t know what it’s about,’ she said, but her voice was a little less positive than it had been.

  ‘I’ll send it up,’ I said, ‘and you can look at it. Open it if you want to and see if the message is for you-you have a right to do that, you know. Boy, oh boy! Telegram to 618’ I hung up.’

  Bertha Cool dropped more ice into her glass, and said, ‘Better make it snappy, Donald, she’ll call the office to verify the information.’

  I tucked the book under my arm, unlocked the door, and stepped out into the corridor. The three of them stood looking after me. I walked down to 618 and tapped on the door.

  I could hear a woman’s voice talking over the telephone, and said, ‘Telegram.’

  The woman’s voice quit talking. Then I heard her on the other side of the door.

  ‘Slide it under the door,’ she said.

  I squeezed the notebook partially under the door, so that she could see just the edge of the yellow envelope in between the leaves. ‘I can’t make it,’ I said. ‘You have to sign for it. The book won’t go under the door.’

  She said, ‘Just a minute, I’ll unlock the door’

  She unlocked the door and opened it a crack, stood staring out at me suspiciously. I kept my face lowered. When she saw my uniform and the telegram in the book, she opened the door six or eight inches. ‘Where do I sign?’ she asked.

  ‘Right on this line,’ I told her, shoving the book through the door and handing her a pencil.

  She was wearing a rose-coloured robe over not very much of anything. I looked through the crack in the open door and could see nothing, so I pushed the door open and walked in.

  At first she didn’t get the idea. Then as the light fell on my face, she recognized me. ‘Morgan!’ she cried. ‘Look out! It’s a de
tective.’

  Morgan Birks, attired in a double-breasted gray suit, was lying on the bed, his ankles crossed, a cigarette in his mouth. I walked over to him and said, ‘This is an original summons, Mr. Birks, in the case of Sandra Birks versus Morgan Birks. This is a copy of the summons and a copy of the complaint which I hard you herewith.’

  He calmly removed the cigarette from his lips, blew smoke at the ceiling, and said, ‘Pretty smart, aren’t you, buddy?’

  Sally Durke came running up behind me, her rose-colored robe trailing out behind her. She had ripped the yellow envelope open. and pulled out the fake message. She slammed the book on the floor, tore the telegram in two and flung it at me. ‘You damn double-crossing stool pigeon,’ she said.

  ‘What else?’ Birks asked me.

  ‘That’s all.’

  ‘No warrant of arrest?’

  ‘No, this is just a civil case.’

  ‘Okay, buddy. I wish you luck’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘and you might call off your dog. I don’t like’, her bark.’

  I turned and started toward the door just as it banged open’ and Sandra Birks came rushing into the room. Behind her came’ Alma Hunter, apparently trying to pull her back. And looming’ behind them, a cigarette in her lips, was the huge form of Bertha Cool.

  On the bed, Birks said, ‘Well, well, well!’

  Sandra Birks shouted at him, ‘You dirty chiseler. So this is the way you’ve been carrying on is it? This is the little hussy you’ve been squandering your money on. This is the way you treat your marriage vows.’

  Birks took the cigarette out of his mouth, yawned and said, ‘Yes, dearest, this is Sally Durke. I’m sorry you don’t like her. Why didn’t you bring your doctor friend along if you wanted to make the party complete?’

  Sandra Birks sputtered indignantly. ‘You-you-you—’

  Birks raised himself to one elbow. I could see the sharp features, the long, slender body, the tapering fingers of his hands. Light glinted from rich black hair which was combed straight back from a high forehead. ‘Never mind the fireworks, Sandra. You want a divorce, and you don’t want it any worse than I do. Get the hell out of here.’