Tuesday evening, February 4, 1930
Shortly after 6:15 p.m., Rose and Rob Waddell and my last-minute date for the night, Annalisa Manning, and I were enjoying supper at Mama Cappacino’s restaurant. The young lady was Judge Victor Poole’s secretary. We’d met during one of my many appearances in his courtroom. Our little group was celebrating Rob’s birthday with a meal earlier than usual, because my detective pal had to attend a trial first thing the next morning.
Over pie and coffee, Rose and Anna were exchanging opinions regarding the latest fashion craze. They were going on about the women’s hat styles moving from the snug fitting cloche to a slouch hat to something with a brim. It was Greek to me.
Meanwhile, Rose’s husband, a tough plainclothes copper on the city payroll, and I discussed the recent armed robbery of the Farmers and Merchants Bank on Market Street. One robber, a lowlife named Franciszek Paderewski, had been captured while the other three culprits lammed off into the sunset.
The cops found Paderewski cowering in a janitor’s closet in the Pembrook Manor Apartment Building, which sat kitty-cornered across the street from the bank. Adding to the poor slob’s misery, the local news ferrets had sarcastically labeled him the “Pitiful Pole.” They’d cleaned up the description of the man given them by the newly promoted Detective Gus Donovan, the gumshoe assigned to the case, as “that dumb-ass pollack.” That was before I came to meet Gus. As time passed, I developed a love-hate relationship with the corpulent cop: he loved doing a half-assed investigation and I hated the cavalier way he did his job.
The girls were reeling with laughter over something or other when a waiter approached our booth.
“Detective Waddell?”
“Yes?”
“There’s a telephone call for you, sir.”
Rob thanked the man, excused himself, and walked to the restaurant’s blower at the front counter.
In a few minutes, he returned. “I hate to break up this party, but somebody’s discovered a body that demands an explanation.” Waddell ran his fingers through his widow’s peak, plucked his hat from the peg at the end of the booth, and donned it. “I need to get there in a hurry, according to the chief. I don’t know why,” he chuckled. “The guy will probably still be dead when I show.” He directed his eyes at me. “Gil, do you mind taking Rose home?” He shrugged. “I’d invite you along, but the ladies need an escort.”
“…somebody’s discovered a body that demands an explanation.”
“Just a minute there, Philo Vance!” Rose chided her spouse. “While I won’t assume to speak for Anna, I think I know her well enough by now to say we can make it to our respective homes without a male chaperon.” My shapely, dirty-blonde companion was nodding in agreement. That emboldened Rob’s tough-minded better half. “If you want to tag along, Gil Tanner, you go right ahead. We’ll grab a taxi.”
“If you’re serious, there’s no need for a cab. You and Anna can take my car,” I offered, as I silently prayed it wouldn’t give the girl any trouble. “I’m sure Rob will drop me off later at my place. I’ll pick up the Durant in the morning. Then,–”
“You can knock on my door and get it tonight if you want, Gil,” Anna breathed. Intended or not, the double entendre caught everyone, including yours truly, by surprise.
“Swell,” I gulped. I cleared my throat and managed to croak, “Okay, if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
“C’mon, Gil, before you change your mind,” the amused city flatfoot urged.
* * *
A few minutes later, as my pal drove his department’s Ford through the darkened streets toward Old Pike Road on the south side of our burg, he elaborated slightly. “A guy’s body was found by his cousin in their aunt’s home. That’s all I know at this point.”
“Okay,” I said hesitantly. I wasn’t certain what lay ahead.
* * *
The city detective pulled in behind a patrol vehicle, which was parked at the curb in front of the older mansion. We climbed out and ankled along the crushed-stone walkway to the front steps.
Inside, we found a young harnessed bull standing over the body of a dead man in a large room comprising the library. Two distraught women sat on a nearby chesterfield.
“What do we know so far, Sheridan?” Waddell asked.
Referring to a notepad, the officer explained that the younger woman, one Bernadine McMasters, came to visit the older lady, her Aunt Leola Arthur. She noticed lights burning in the library. When she entered the room, the younger woman discovered the dead man’s body. She panicked, but then found Mrs. Arthur upstairs in her bedroom in a very agitated state. The deceased had been identified as Silas Johnson. He was Arthur’s nephew, McMasters’ cousin.
When she entered this room, the younger woman discovered the dead man’s body.
“I had the old lady brought down here to make your investigation easier.” Rob’s jaw muscles tightened at this revelation and the words his subordinate used. He obviously felt exposing the elderly woman to the sight of her dead nephew was unnecessary and possibly counterproductive. Seemingly unaware, the cop continued, “It looks as if Johnson died from small caliber gunshots to his noggin, as far as I can tell. I’m waiting for the meat wagon to arrive.” The senior man cringed at Sheridan’s choice of term for the coroner’s vehicle in front of the women.
Waddell stepped to McMasters, introduced himself, and suggested she take her aunt to her bedroom, then return. When asked, Bernadine said she had no problem speaking with him. As she stood and helped Mrs. Arthur to her feet, the older woman glanced my way with a glimmer of recognition. I quickly turned my back to her to take in the space.
When the pair left, Rob surveyed the library, which was in total disarray. He inquired of the officer, “Did you learn if there’d been a struggle?”
“Not that I could determine, sir, but it sure looks like it.” He jerked his chin toward the home’s foyer. “Somebody also ripped the telephone wire from the wall out there at some point.” Mrs. McMasters told me she had to go to a neighbor’s home to call headquarters.
“Okay. Wait outside for the coroner’s folks and bring them to the late Mr. Johnson.” After Sheridan disappeared through the doorway, Waddell shook his head and offered, “There’s more to this than meets the eye.”
“So, you noticed the slight bruising on the old lady’s face and neck and around her wrists?”
“On her wrists, too?” he replied with surprise. “No, I didn’t notice those. She was wearing a long-sleeved housedress. When did you see them?”
I’d possibly overplayed my hand. Trying to recover, I clarified, “Oh, when the McMaster girl helped her up from the sofa.”
“Oh, yeah,” Rob nodded, accepting my explanation.
I breathed a quiet sigh of relief as Bernadine returned to the room. “I put Aunt Leola to bed, but I’m not sure if she’ll sleep. She looks as if she’s had a pretty rough time of it. I think she needs to be seen by her doctor as soon as possible. I need to tell you I just observed fresh burn marks on her arms,” Bernadine blurted.
Caught by surprise, Waddell exclaimed, “What?” I was flabbergasted, too, but was unable to let on. I’d missed the injuries.
“They’re small round burns. I … I found them when I helped her into a dressing gown a few minutes ago. They remind me of the hole that gets burned into a chair or sofa by a careless smoker. My aunt didn’t smoke.”
The detective nodded toward a half-full ashtray sitting on an end table. “How do you explain those?”
“My cousin indulged in the filthy habit. And before you ask, I don’t.”
Quickly stubbing out the Chesterfield I only just set fire to, I watched my companion pocket a Camel he was preparing to light. I could tell by his expression he was processing the facts. The wheels in his brain going full tilt behind those piercing eyes.
“If you’ll give me the physician’s contact information, I’ll have Officer Sheridan call him from your neighbor’s. Please have a seat, Mrs. McMasters. I’m certain this must be a jolt to your system. Do you feel up to answering a few questions?”
“Yes. Yes, it is quite a shock,” she agreed, returning to the seat she’d previously occupied. “But I want to help in any way I can. Ask away, detective.”
While I eased into a nearby stuffed chair, Rob sat beside her. “How did you come to be here this afternoon, ma’am? Do you live here?”
“No, I’m a widow and live in a boardinghouse on Bradley Avenue. It’s close to Woodrow Wilson High School, where I teach Literature and Composition.”
“Did your cousin reside with your aunt?”
“No. She’s lived alone since Uncle Emmett died. But that’s only been in the past month. They had no children. As far as I know, Silas hasn’t been here in years. Frankly, I have no idea where he’d been staying. He and I are … were Aunt Leola’s only living relatives.” She shot me the kind of sideways glance I hoped Rob didn’t pick up on. My uneasiness increased slightly.”
She shot me the kind of sideways glance I hoped Rob didn’t pick up on.
Just then, Officer Sheridan escorted Dr. Herman Clyatt of the coroner’s office and a couple of attendants in. The city sleuth asked Clyatt to go upstairs and give Mrs. Arthur a cursory examination before dealing with the deceased. He requested he pay particular attention to the burns on her arms. The croaker left the room to do so.
After getting the name and telephone number of Mrs. Arthur’s doctor, Waddell passed it to Sheridan and directed him to hurry to a neighbor’s home and call for the physician. Then Rob continued probing for answers from Mrs. McMasters. “What brought you here today?”
“I’ve tried to keep tabs on my aunt since her husband’s death. I telephoned this morning, but got no answer. Leola was an early riser, so it struck me as odd. After my third attempt during the day, I was very concerned and drove here around an hour ago. When I entered, I found Silas just as you see him now. To find him here, dead or alive, stunned me. I hadn’t seen him in quite a while. And he cared nothing for anyone in the family. That included our elderly aunt and uncle. I didn’t see Leola and became frantic. Rushing upstairs, I located her lying on her bed, badly shaken. After I determined she was in no danger, I ran next door and called for help.”
“Have you any idea why Silas might suddenly make an appearance here?”
After a thoughtful second, Bernadine began, “They say don’t speak ill of the dead, but allow me to be perfectly frank. Silas was always a greedy, vicious person, even as a child. My mother once made the comment that every family has its black sheep. But she saw Silas as a wolf in the guise of a mere black sheep. I don’t know it to be a fact, but talk was he had spent time in prison someplace.”
McMasters cleared her throat and shifted in the seat. “See here, Detective Waddell. My Uncle Emmett had made a small fortune during his lifetime. It has long been another family rumor that the Arthurs had a substantial amount of wealth, either in cash or gold or both, hidden somewhere in their home. Physically, Emmett was an enormous, powerful man. And he was tough despite his age. He could be prickly. Silas didn’t dare come near here while he was alive. But now ….” her voice trailed off as she surveyed the room.
Our eyes followed hers around the space. Drawers had been emptied or removed from a large secretary, paintings had been taken down and those not thrown to the floor were leaning against walls. Throughout the library, books had been pulled from shelves and carelessly tossed.
Drawers had been emptied or removed from a large secretary, paintings had been taken down and those not thrown to the floor were leaning against walls.
“The upstairs areas I’ve seen look similar to this. No doubt, Silas came here to find that ‘treasure.’ He always claimed he was going to get the brass ring someday. I imagine that was his quest here in my aunt’s home: his chance for El Dorado,” she finished, shaking her head sadly.
“Did you see anyone else either inside the house or loitering outside when you arrived?”
“No.”
“I’ll need to know your movements, your whereabouts for the last seventy-two hours.”
Bernadine’s brow furrowed. “Surely, you don’t consider me a suspect in Silas’s murder.”
“As of now, everyone is a suspect.” The woman guardedly nodded her understanding.
Dr. Clyatt re-entered the room and stepped to the detective. “Someone has roughed up the lady upstairs up in the past day or so. She has minor contusions on her face and neck. Same thing on her wrists, as if somebody had bound her or forcibly held her very tight.” Waddell glanced at me when he heard this. Herman continued, “More concerning to me are the burns on her arms. They need to be taken care of as soon as possible. She’s been burned repeatedly with what I suggest were cigarettes. I’ve seen them before, where our mobster friends were trying to elicit information from a poor sap.
“Thanks, doc.”
Clyatt then turned his attention to the purpose for his visit.
Rob returned to his questioning of the niece. “Mrs. McMasters, when was the last time you were in this home before today?”
I flinched at the question. Would the woman give appropriate answer in the heat of the moment?
“It was the day of Uncle Emmett’s funeral around a month ago.”
“I’ll need you to help me go through the house later and see if anything is missing. We’ll–”
“Detective,” Dr. Clyatt interrupted, summoning the copper.
Waddell crossed the distance to the kneeling cutter’s side. “My preliminary examination shows,” Herman said softly, “that, based on the state of rigor mortis progression, this man was killed four or five hours ago.”
“But not within the last hour or so?”
“Definitely not that recent. And, contrary to what Officer Sheridan opined when I arrived, he wasn’t shot. He has two puncture wounds to his head, but not from a firearm. The things appear to have been made by a spike or a hard, pointed object. There is bruising around the entry point. Whatever it was, it had to be long enough to penetrate the brain fairly deep.”
“How sure are you of that at this juncture?”
“As certain as my training and experience allow,” Clyatt sighed. “I’ll know more when I get him on the slab.”
The plainclothesman waggled his head. “Okay, doc. Thanks.” As he moved to go back to Bernadine, he stopped suddenly. I saw Rob’s eyes focusing on the stand holding the fireplace tools. He strolled over to them. Using a handkerchief, he lifted the poker and studied it. The hook toward the working end was longer than usual. He half-turned. “Doctor Clyatt?” he asked, indicating the rod.
Using a handkerchief, he lifted the poker and studied it.
Herman looked up, nodded, and mumbled, “Possibly,” before going back to examining Johnson’s body.
The detective laid the instrument on the floor to be collected later. He settled his lanky form once next to Mrs. McMasters. “It looks as if I’ll only need to confirm your whereabouts for today.”
“As I said, I phoned here from my rooming house when I first awakened. No answer. I got dressed and had a light breakfast with my fellow boarders. Afterwards, I telephoned my aunt again with the same result. Not yet terribly concerned, I called a friend and arranged to meet for lunch. I had no classes today, so I returned to my room and worked on a syllabus for the next semester. Then I gathered the materials I’d need with me when I went to the library later.”
Mrs. McMaster’s recounting of her day was interrupted by the arrival of Dr. Flournoy, Mrs. Arthur’s physician. Carrying himself with an air of assurance, he was above average height and well-dressed, with a hint of graying hair peeking from under his fedora. Waddell stood, explained the circumstances, and directed him upstairs with a brief explanation of his concerns over his patient’s condition.
Then Rob sat and redirected his attention to Bernadine. “Who did you have lunch with?”
“Mr. Leroy Higgins. He is a pharmacist at People’s Drug Store at the corner of Market and Karnes. We ate at Cappacino’s Restaurant.”
“Are the two of you romantically involved?”
The prim Mrs. McMaster’s face flushed but turned firm. “Not in the slightest, detective. We’re friends. It so happens we both enjoy reading the classics.”
“Fine. You understand I must be thorough in my investigation.” Bernadine merely nodded tersely. “What did you do after lunch?”
“As I alluded to before, I went to the Carnegie Library to decide which books my students will read next semester. I wanted to make sure they were available and, if so, how many copies of each the library had on hand. I spent the afternoon doing that before I came here an hour ago.”
“Is there anyone who can vouch for you being there and the time you spent?”
“When I’m planning my class reading assignments, I work with Naomi Everhart, one of the librarians. She, too, is a widow, an avid reader, and a good friend. Her daughter, Helen Everhart, teaches at the school, also. Naomi usually invites me to have a cup of tea with her in their break room when I have an extended visit, such as today.”
“I see.” The bull exhaled audibly. “So, the question remains, who killed Johnson?” he asked of no one in particular.
As I continued to sit quietly to the side and observe the flurry of activity, Dr. Flournoy re-appeared. He inquired if the detective knew who had been abusing Mrs. Arthur. Rob outlined the details of the affair as he understood them to that point. In the end, he stated that, although his inquiry wasn’t completed, he’d concluded that the dead man had been trying to force information from Leola regarding the whereabouts of an alleged treasure hidden in the home. Subsequently, he’d been murdered by a person or persons as yet unknown.
…Dr. Flournoy re-appeared. He inquired if the detective knew who had been abusing Mrs. Arthur.
In an impatient tone, Flournoy advised Rob he was having the traumatized Mrs. Arthur transported to a hospital for treatment of her injuries, regardless of whether the law had a problem with it. Waddell shrugged and agreed with that course of action completely. He assured the doctor he had no reason to suspect the elderly and apparently fragile older lady of any wrongdoing.
With that, my friend had Sheridan escort Flournoy to the home next door to summon an ambulance. It occurred to me that neighbor might wish they had installed a pay station in their place to make a few bucks off the night’s activity.
In due course, the coroner’s folks completed their work and removed Johnson’s body. Likewise, the ambulance came and carted Leola away. The police finished their investigation at the scene, and we all departed.
* * * *
Approximately nine hours earlier on the morning of Tuesday, February 4, 1930
I sat at my desk in the Tanner Detective Agency, perusing magazine ads for various heaps and trying to decide which one I wanted and could afford. The winter of late ’29 and early ’30 had been unusually mild. Spring seemed just around the corner with each day. And as Tennyson wrote, “In the Spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.”
Being the mug that I was, with no romantic prospects on the horizon, my deliberations instead turned to getting a new set of wheels. My ’23 Durant Runabout, which I’d bought second-hand, was at death’s door. Since purchasing it, I found a reliable, trustworthy mechanic named Max Eberhardt. After my most recent visit to his garage, the grease monkey laughingly informed me he’d be willing to perform the last rites on my jalopy, but he was Lutheran, and not a Catholic priest. So I was ready for something new. Besides, a private detective needed a crate that was dependable.
At the time, I was still flush from my brief excursion into the world of bootlegging a few years earlier. I had escaped the Motor City with the load of booze I’d been after and, because of unforeseen, yet advantageous events (to me, anyway), still held the cash with which I set out to buy it. As a result, I repaid my full-time barkeep and part-time shrink, Harry Bittles, the money he’d advanced me and divvied some premium hooch his way for Harry’s Paradise Tavern. What he didn’t take, I’d sold to a pair of speak owners for a swell price.
I had pocketed a sizeable sum. Not being an extravagant soul beyond Jack Daniels whiskey, Chesterfield smokes and an occasional wager on the bangtails or a prize fight, I managed to hang on to the better portion of it. Now I was determined to spend part of it to get a new boiler.
Though the magazine pages made it sound great, I dismissed the notion of a Packard. Packard was a luxury carmaker. Even the dames in the advertisements looked too ritzy and out of my league. I also passed on a Graham and a Buick. The latter’s trademark was too closely linked with Durant. I’d had enough of that brand to last a lifetime.
Even the dames in the advertisements looked too ritzy and out of my league.
I turned my attention to the ads for Dodge automobiles. The vehicles had won acclaim for their durability in military service during the U.S. Army’s Pancho Villa Expedition during the U. S. Mexico Border War in the 1910s. Dependability was something I was looking for. The company represented itself as an upscale competitor to Ford. John Dodge was once quoted as saying, “Someday, people who own a Ford are going to want an automobile.” But since the brothers’ deaths during the influenza epidemic, the company was said to have gone downhill. I moved on from a Dodge.
It was finally a choice between Ford’s Model A 2-Door Roadster and a LaSalle Roadster 340. Since everybody and their dog were driving Fords, I decided on the LaSalle. There was something to be said about motoring around in a Cadillac. And that hood ornament….
While I was quietly celebrating my final decision, there came a gentle knock on the office door. I slid the magazines I’d been flipping through into my desk belly drawer and answered the summons.
When I opened the door, I encountered a smallish woman standing in the hall. With a rosy complexion, graying hair, and hazel eyes, she appeared to be in her mid-fifties. The lady had a frightened look.
“I’m looking for Mr. Gil Tanner, the private investigator.”
“You’ve found him,” I responded, stepping back to let her enter. “Come on in, Miss.”
“It’s missus actually,” she said with a slight titter. “Though I’m a widow, I still go by Mrs. McMasters. Bernadine McMasters.”
I took her coat, hung it on the office hat rack, then showed the lady to a visitor’s chair. While she settled in, I asked, “May I offer you coffee?”
“That would be very nice, thank you. Black with a little sugar, if you have it.”
I poured each of us a cup and delivered Bernadine’s to her.
“It’s a bit strong,” I offered apologetically.
“That’s fine. My husband was in the navy at one time and always made it strong.”
With that out of the way, I asked, “So, what can I do for you?”
After a long sip of her java, she looked me hard in the eyes. “It’s somewhat complicated, and I’m not really certain if you can help me.”
“Well, suppose you explain your issue and we’ll see.” I prepared to make notes. “Out of curiosity, how did you choose to call on me?”
“Oh, Mr. Leroy Higgins recommended I come to you.” She paused before hesitantly adding, “He and I courted at one time years ago.” She blushed slightly. Based on her reaction, I’d have loved to hear the story behind it.
A druggist, Higgins had hired me a while back to get to the bottom of an allegation he’d messed up a prescription. It was a fabrication and turned out to be an attempted extortion by a fella with a history of such. On the threat of criminal charges, I persuaded the accuser to melt away into the scenery.
Higgins had hired me a while back to get to the bottom of an allegation he’d messed up a prescription.
“So please fill me in on your problem.”
Her dark eyebrows knotted in thought. Finally, she volunteered, “I have an elderly aunt who lives here on the south side of the city. Her name is Leola Arthur. Uncle Emmett, her husband, died a month ago. Since that time, she’s lived alone in their old mansion. At least, some might call it a mansion. It’s showing its age.” My Durant came to my mind. Mrs. McMasters continued, “I do my best to keep an eye on her, check in on her several times a week. Early this morning, I tried to telephone her, but there was no answer.”
“Perhaps she was asleep.”
“No, no, that wasn’t the issue. Besides, she’s always up with the roosters. Something just didn’t feel right. So, because I had no classes to teach today, I decided to pay her a visit and see that she was okay. After breakfast, I drove to her home. When I entered, my cousin met me. Silas Johnson is his name. He and I are her only remaining relatives. I was stunned to find him here. I hadn’t seen him in quite a while. And he’d taken no interest in anyone in the family, much less our elderly aunt and uncle. When he confronted me, he had a wild-eyed look.”
She pulled a tissue from her pocketbook and dabbed her eyes. “Silas yelled at me to get out and stay out. He said he’d moved in and intended to take care of ‘the old hag,’ as he referred to Leola, from now on. When I objected, he threatened to kill me if I interfered or showed my face again. I was petrified. I assure you he has a horrible malicious streak. He’s been in prison before. What for, I’m uncertain. But I know he will not think twice about killing me and Aunt Leola. I left and, in desperation, went to Leroy for advice. He recommended I speak with you.”
“Why didn’t you contact the police?”
She moved a shoulder, a hint of a shrug. “I have no more right to take charge of my aunt than he does. Regarding his threat, I had no proof he’d made it. It would be my word against his. But I’m very concerned about the safety of Leola.”
“Did you see Mrs. Arthur while you were there?”
“No. I didn’t get very far into the place before the ruffian confronted me and forced me out.”
“Why might this cousin of yours suddenly appear at your aunt’s home?”
“As with many clans, mine had been rife with family lore, noteworthy and notorious, when I was growing up. One of the most enduring ones was the ‘legend’ that the Arthurs, who had accumulated a good measure of wealth, had a great deal of it hidden in their residence. Most of us took it to be only the imaginings of daydreamers. I never have believed the fairy tale. Apparently, Silas gave the notion more credence than the rest.” Mrs. McMasters paused and reached into her purse again. She withdrew a handful of currency. “I want to hire you to get him away from Aunt Leola. As long as she’s able to and wants to live on her own, she has that right. I intend to protect it.”
The idea of Bernadine’s motive being greedy self-interest momentarily crossed my mind. But she seemed sincere, both in her concern for Mrs. Arthur and in her dismissing the rumor of concealed riches. I took her at her word.
We settled for two days’ pay toward my services. I figured no more time might be necessary to resolve the matter. Nonetheless, my client’s description of Johnson’s viciousness gave me pause.
I glanced at the office clock, gaging the time and hoping for inspiration. “Please, give me your aunt’s address,” I requested, sliding a pencil and piece of paper to her. “Listen, my gut tells me you need to be seen elsewhere today in case this whole thing goes south on us. What are your plans for the day?”
“Well, I intended to be at the library this afternoon.”
“I’ll go to Leola’s a half hour after you leave here. But that still leaves an hour or so gap in your alibi.”
“Why in heaven’s name might I need an alibi?”
“I’m not certain you will, but better to be safe than sorry. In my line of work, things can go haywire in a hurry.” I rubbed my chin in contemplation. “What if you give Mr. Higgins a call and invite him to lunch as a ‘thank you’ for recommending me? Make it a lingering meal somewhere you’ll be seen.” She was nodding in agreement with the idea. “That’ll allow me time to get there.” Another inspiration hit me. “Do you like Italian food?” When she said she did, I suggested, “Invite him to meet you at Cappacino’s Restaurant down on Broad Street.”
“In my line of work, things can go haywire in a hurry.”
“Yes, I’m familiar with the place.”
“While you’re there, be sure to speak to Mama Cappacino and tell her I send my regards. She’s a friend of mine, and she never forgets a face. After you eat, go ahead to the library as you’d planned. I recommend you spend as much of the afternoon there as possible. Do you know anyone who works there?”
My client waggled her head in the affirmative. “A librarian is a friend.”
“Swell. Make certain they see you and can attest to your time there.”
Bernadine started gathering herself to leave.
“Wait. I want you to call Leroy Higgins from here. We have to make sure you don’t need a backup plan.”
While she returned her handbag to my desktop, I grabbed the city directory to get the telephone number of People’s Drug Store. I dialed it and slid the horn to McMasters. She got her friend on the wire and extended the invitation. After a few seconds of bickering concerning whether her offer of lunch was necessary, she convince the pharmacist to meet her.
We agreed I’d contact her at the library to relate the results of my involvement. She departed for the restaurant. Meanwhile, I waited thirty minutes and headed south in my Durant.
* * *
In less than a half hour, I eased to the curb in front of Leola Arthur’s residence. It sat in a neighborhood of substantial homes on sizeable plats. Bernadine had been right; the place was showing signs of age, maybe even a little neglect. I slid from behind the wheel and faced the structure. The house stood tall and threatening. This was it. I was definitely going in, but, based on McMasters’s depiction of Silas Johnson, there was no guarantee I’d come out in one piece.
I approached the front door cautiously. Muffled sounds of a woman screaming came through it to me. Pain seemed to accompany each howl. There was no need to knock or use the doorbell pull. I gave the entrance a hard try. Not surprisingly, it was locked. The shrieks increased in intensity. I turned a shoulder to the door and lunged forward. The thing cracked. Grateful for the joint’s age and apparent deterioration, I attacked again. Wood snapped this time, and I crashed through into a foyer.
The squeals of distress came from a room to my right. When I burst through the closed door, I found a large man standing over an older woman sprawled on a sofa. He was slapping her hard across the face and yelling at her. The space had been ransacked.
I found a large man standing over an older woman sprawled on a sofa.
At the commotion of my entry, he stopped and turned to me before I could react. His face contorted in anger. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded, as he moved toward me.
Pure reflex caused me to draw my gat. He froze, not so much out of fear as accessing the situation. His lips parted as a slow smile exposed crooked, yellow teeth. He had eyes too shallow to hold a soul.
“You look like you used that piece afore.”
“Once or twice.”
“What’s your racket?”
“Detective. Private.”
“Well, you ain’t got no business here, shamus,” he scoffed. He raised an arm and pointed a gnarly finger toward the street. “You need to git on outta here afore you git hurt.”
He moved slowly at me again. I stepped to my left to keep a stuffed chair between us. I didn’t want to shoot him, but had no qualms about it if I had to.
Suddenly, a dull thud resounded across the room as if someone had hit a ripe watermelon with a baseball bat. Johnson’s eyes rolled back in their sockets. Only the whites showed. Just before a second such thump came to me, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. Upon the last blow, Silas dropped to the floor and didn’t move. Blood poured from the two wounds to his head and soaked the Oriental rug beneath him.
Filling the space he’d occupied was the old lady, holding a fireplace poker. Instinctively, I raised my hands in the international sign of surrender. “Mrs. Arthur!” Her vacant eyes redirected to me. “Your niece, Bernadine, sent me to see if you needed help!” I shouted. More calmly, I added, “Please put the poker down and let me take care of you.”
The woman gave me an almost psychotic grin, dropped the fireplace tool, and collapsed back onto the couch. I re-holstered my rod and moved to her. Leola’s eyes were closed. I couldn’t tell if she’d passed out. Her face and neck were bruised. Blood seeped from a corner of her mouth and her nose. The sleeves of her housedress had been pulled up a little, revealing she had abrasions on her wrists.
“Mrs. Arthur!” Her eyes opened to mere slits at my voice. “Let’s get you to your bed and cleaned up.” She gave me a very weak smile. I lifted her small body and carried it up the winding staircase to the second floor. One door in the hallway there was open. When I glanced in, the bed had been slept in and the room appeared to belong to the mistress of the house. I laid her down.
I lifted her small body and carried it up the winding staircase to the second floor.
From a pitcher on a bureau, I poured water into an accompanying basin. Dipping a washcloth into the water and wringing out the excess, I washed away the blood and tried to cool her face, neck, and wrists.
As I worked, I pondered the situation. The lady needed a medical professional. Fortunately, the injuries were not life-threatening. If I called for a doctor, I might well put myself in the middle of a murder investigation. Under those circumstances, Silas’s death came at my hands or those of the old lady. I wasn’t inclined toward either option. My best bet was to get to Bernadine as quickly as possible, let her come here, “discover” the body, and call the police.
I quietly explained to Mrs. Arthur she was now safe from Silas, and I was going for help. She mouthed Bernadine’s name. I nodded and assured her that her niece would be there very soon. She smiled and appeared to drift off to sleep. I placed a glass of water on her bedside table and hustled downstairs.
Back in the room where Silas’s body lay, I used a handkerchief to wipe the poker clean of prints and blood and replaced it in the tool stand by the fireplace. As I passed through the foyer to the front door, I noticed the telephone wires had been ripped from the wall. So much for calling for help from the Arthur home, anyway.
* * *
Tossing my bloody handkerchief along the way, I burned road to the library and located Mrs. McMasters among the stacks. We moved to just outside the entry, so any raised voices that might ensue wouldn’t draw the attention of the patrons. I explained what I had found and what I’d left at the house, including the body of her cousin, but leaving out her aunt’s role in his demise. At the same time, I assured her I had nothing to do with his death. Her face clearly reflected confusion. I also cautioned her not to mention her earlier visit to the home that day. It could only complicate things. Finally, I told her Silas had ripped the phone from the wall, so she’d need to go to a neighbor to call the police. That could help to establish her innocence in what the coppers would find in the home.
At the same time, I assured her I had nothing to do with his death.
We then went our separate ways. Bernadine to her aunt; me to get ready to pick up a dinner date.
* * * *
8:40 on the night of Tuesday, February 4, 1930
So, there I sat next to my good friend, Rob Waddell, as he drove me to Anna’s place. Not admitting the whole truth to him didn’t feel right. After all, he was the guy who’d convinced me several years before to go into the PI racket. But I’d live with the deceit, because I owed a duty to my client. And nothing was to be gained from jamming the old lady up for the death of a ruthless cretin like Silas Johnson, who had beaten and tortured her to find a stash of cash supposedly secreted somewhere in her home. And a man who would likely have murdered her in the end.
Riding through the dark, deserted streets, I thought back over the day’s events. While they had comprised a series of surprises, twists, and turns, I wondered what the night might still hold for me. ©