An Edison Hill Crime Case
I was there to see beautiful naked women. So was everybody else. It's a common failing.
I climbed on a stool at the end of the bar in Jack Joy's Joint and spoke to Jack himself, who was busy setting up two old-fashioneds. "Make it three," I said. "No, make it four and have one with me. What's the pitch, Jack? I hear you set up a peep show for the suckers."
"Hi, Ed. Nope, it's not a peep show—it's Art."
"What's the difference?"
"If they hold still, it's Art. If they wiggle around, it's illegal. That's the ruling. Here." He handed me a program.
It read:
THE JOY CLUB
PRESENTS
The Magic Mirror
Beautiful Models in
a series of Entertaining
and Artistic Pageants
10 p.m.
"Aphrodite" — Estelle
11 p.m. "Sacrifice to the Sun" — Estelle and Hazel
12 p.m. "The High Priestess" — Hazel
1 a.m. "The Altar Victim" — Estelle
2 a.m. "Invocation to Pan" — Estelle and Hazel
(Guests are requested to refrain stomping, whistling, or otherwise disturbing the artistic serenity of the presentations)
The last was a giggle. Jack's place was strictly a joint. But on the other side of the program I saw a new schedule of prices which informed me that the drink in my hand was going to cost me just twice what I had figured. And the place was jammed. By suckers—including me.
I was about to speak to Jack, in a kindly way, promising to keep my eyes closed during the show and then pay the old price for my drink, when I heard two sharp beeps!—a high tension buzzer sound, like radio code—from a spot back of the bar. Jack turned away from me, explaining, "That's the eleven o'clock show." He busied himself underneath the bar.
Being at the end of the bar I could see under the long side somewhat. He had enough electrical gear there to make a happy Christmas for a Boy Scout—switches, a rheostat dingus, a turntable for recordings, and a hand microphone. I leaned over and sized it up. I have a weakness for gadgets, from my old man. He named me Thomas Alva Edison Hill in hopes that I would emulate his idol. I disappointed him—I didn't invent the atom bomb, but I do sometimes try to repair my own typewriter.
Jack flipped a switch and picked up the hand mike. His voice came out of the juke box: "We now present the Magic Mirror." Then the turntable picked up with Hymn to the Sun from Coq d'Or, and he started turning the rheostat slowly.
The lights went down in the joint and came up slowly in the Magic Mirror. The "Mirror" was actually a sheet of glass about ten feet wide and eight high which shut off a little balcony stage. When the house lights were on bright and the stage was dark, you could not see through the glass at all; it looked like a mirror. As the house lights went out and the stage lights came on, you could see through the glass and a picture slowly built up in the "Mirror."
Jack had a single bright light under the bar which lighted him and the controls and which did not go out with the house lights. Because of my position at the end of the bar it hit me square in the eye. I had to block it with my hand to see the stage.
It was something to see.
Two girls, a blonde and a brunette. A sort of altar or table, with the blonde sprawled across it, volup'. The brunette standing at the end of the altar, grabbing the blonde by the hair with one hand while holding a fancy dagger upraised with the other. There was a backdrop in gold and dark blue—a sunburst in a phony Aztec or Egyptian design, but nobody was looking at it; they were looking at the girls.
The brunette was wearing a high show-girl head dress, silver sandals, and a G-string in glass jewels. Nothing more. No sign of a brassiere. The blonde was naked as an oyster, with her downstage knee drawn up just enough to get past sufficiently broad-minded censors.
But I was not looking at the naked blonde; I was looking at the brunette.
It was not just the two fine upstanding breasts nor the long graceful legs nor the shape of her hips and thighs; it was the overall effect. She was so beautiful it hurt. I heard somebody say, "Great jumping jeepers!" and was about to shush him when I realized it was me.
Then the lights went down and I remembered to breathe.
I paid the clip price for my drink without a quiver and Jack assured me: "They are hostesses between shows." When they showed up at the stairway leading down from the balcony he signalled them to come over and then introduced me.
"Hazel Dorn, Estelle d'Arcy—meet Eddie Hill."
Hazel, the brunette, said, "How do you do?" but the blonde said,
"Oh, I've met the Ghost before. How's business? Rattled any chains lately?"
I said, "Good enough," and let it pass. I knew her all right—but as Audrey Johnson, not as Estelle d'Arcy. She had been a steno at the City Hall when I was doing an autobiography of the Chief of Police. I had not liked her much; she had an instinct for finding a sore point and picking at it.
I am not ashamed of being a ghost writer, nor is it a secret. You will find my name on the title page of Forty Years a Cop as well as the name of the Chief—in small print but it is there: "with Edison Hill."
"How did you like the show?" Hazel asked, when I had ordered a round.
"I liked you," I said, softly enough to keep it private. "I can't wait for the next show to see more of you."
"You'll see more," she admitted and changed the subject. I gathered an impression that she was proud of her figure and liked to be told she was beautiful but was not entirely callused about exhibiting it in public.
Estelle leaned across the bar to Jack. "Jackie Boy," she said in sweetly reasonable tones, "you held the lights too long again. It doesn't matter to me in that pose, but you had poor old Hazel trembling like a leaf before you doused the glim."
Jack set a three-minute egg timer, like a little hourglass on the bar. "Three minutes it says—three minutes you did."
"I don't think it was more than three minutes," Hazel objected. "I wasn't tired."
"You were trembling, dear. I saw you. You mustn't tire yourself—it makes lines. Anyhow," she added, "I'll just keep this," and she put the egg timer in her purse. "We'll time it ourselves."
"It was three minutes," Jack insisted.
"Never mind," she answered. "From now on it'll be three minutes, or mamma will have to lock Jackie in the dark closet."
Jack started to answer, thought better of it, then walked away to the other end of the bar. Estelle shrugged, then threw down the rest of her drink and left us. I saw her speak to Jack again, then join some customers at one of the tables.
Hazel looked at her as she walked away. "I'd paddle that chippie's pants," she muttered, "if she wore any."
"A bum beef?"
"Not exactly. Maybe Jack is a friend of yours—"
"Just an acquaintance."
"Well . . . I've had worse bosses—but he is a bit of a jerk. Maybe he doesn't stretch the poses just out of meanness—I've never timed him—but some of those poses are too long for three minutes. Take Estelle's Aphrodite pose—you saw it?"
"No."
"She balances on the ball of one foot, no costume at all, but with one leg raised enough to furnish a fig leaf. Jack's got a blackout switch to cover her if she breaks, but, just the same, it's a strain."
"To cover himself with the cops, you mean."
"Well, yes. Jack wants us to make it just as strong as the vice squad will stand for."
"You ought not to be in a dive like this. You ought to have a movie contract."
She laughed without mirth. "Eddie, did you ever try to get a movie contract? I've tried."
"Just the same—oh, well! But why are you sore at Estelle? What you told me doesn't seem to cover it."
"She— Skip it. She probably means well."
"You mean she shouldn't have dragged you into it?"
"Partly."
"What else?"
"Oh, nothing—look, do you think I need any wrinkle remover?" I examined her quite closely, until she actually blushed a little, then assured her that she did not.
"Thanks," she said. "Estelle evidently thinks so. She's been advising me to take care of myself lately and has been bringing me little presents of beauty preparations. I thank her for them and it appears to be sheer friendliness on her part . . . but it makes me squirm."
I nodded and changed the subject. I did not want to talk about Estelle; I wanted to talk about her—and me. I mentioned an agent I knew (my own) who could help her and that got her really interested, if not in me, at least in what I was saying.
Presently she glanced at the clock back of the bar and squealed. "I've got to peel for the customers. 'Bye now!" It was five minutes to twelve. I shifted from the end of the bar to the long side, just opposite Jack's Magic Mirror controls. I did not want that bright light of his interfering with me seeing Hazel.
It was just about twelve straight up when Jack came up from the rear of the joint, elbowed his other barman out of the way, and took his place near the controls. "Just about that time," he said to me. "Has she rung the buzzer?"
"Not a buzz."
"Okay, then." He cleared dirty glasses off the top of the bar while we waited, changed the platter on the turntable, and generally messed around. I kept my eyes on the mirror.
I heard the two beeps! sharp and clear. When he did not announce the show at once, I glanced around and saw that, while he had the mike in his hand, he was staring past it at the door, and looking considerably upset.
There were two cops just inside the door, Hannegan and Feinstein, both off the beat. I supposed he was afraid of a raid, which was silly. Pavement pounders don't pull raids. I knew what they were there for, even before Hannegan gave Jack a broad grin and waved him the okay sign—they had just slipped in for a free gander at the flesh under the excuse of watching the public morals.
"We now present the Magic Mirror," said Jack's voice out of the juke box. Somebody climbed on the stool beside me and slipped a hand under my arm. I looked around. It was Hazel.
"You're not here; you're up there," I said foolishly.
"Huh-uh. Estelle said— I'll tell you after the show."
The lights were coming up in the Mirror and the juke box was cranking out Valse Triste. The altar was in this scene, too, and Estelle was sprawled over it much as she had been before. As it got lighter you could see a red stain down her side and the prop dagger. Hazel had told me what each of the acts were; this was the one called "The Altar Victim," scheduled for the one o'clock show.
I was disappointed not to be seeing Hazel, but I had to admit it was good—good theater, of the nasty sort, sadism and sex combined. The red stuff—catsup I guessed—trickling down her bare side and the handle of the prop dagger sticking up as if she had been stabbed through—the customers liked it. It was a natural follow-up to the "Sacrifice to the Sun."
Hazel screamed in my ear.
Her first scream was solo. The next thing I can recall it seemed as if every woman in the place was screaming—soprano, alto, and some tenor, but mostly screeching soprano. Through it came the bull voice of Hannegan. "Keep your seats, folks! Somebody turn on the lights!"
I grabbed Hazel by the shoulders and shook her. "What's the matter? What's up?"
She looked dazed, then pointed at the Mirror. "She's dead . . . she's dead . . . she's dead!" she chanted. She scrambled down from the stool and took out for the back of the house. I started after her. The house lights came on abruptly, leaving the Mirror lights still on.
We finished one, two, three, up the stairway, through a little dressing room, and onto the stage. I almost caught up with Hazel, and Feinstein was close on my heels.
We stood there, jammed in the door, blinking at the flood lights, and not liking what we saw under them. She was dead all right. The dagger, which should have been faked between her arm and her breast with catsup spilled around to maintain the illusion—this prop dagger, this slender steel blade, was three inches closer to her breastbone than it should have been. It had been stabbed straight into her heart.
On the floor at the side of the altar away from the audience, close enough to Estelle to reach it, was the egg timer. As I looked at it the last of the sand ran out.
I caught Hazel as she fell—she was a big armful—and spread her on the couch. "Eddie," said Feinstein, "call the Station for me. Tell Hannegan not to let anyone out. I'm staying here." I called the station but did not have to tell Hannegan anything. He had them all seated again and was jollying them along. Jack was still standing back of the bar, shock on his face, and the bright light at the control board making him look like a death's head.
By twelve-fifteen Spade Jones, Lieutenant Jones of Homicide, showed up and from there on things slipped into a smooth routine. He knew me well, having helped me work up some of the book I did for the Chief, and he grabbed onto me at once for some of the background. By twelve-thirty he was reasonably sure that none of the customers could have done it. "I won't say one of them didn't do it, Eddie my boy—anybody could have done it who knew the exact second to slip upstairs, grab the knife, and slide it into her ribs. But the chances are against any of them knowing just when and how to do it."
"Anybody inside or outside," I corrected.
"So?"
"There's a fire exit at the foot of the stairs."
"You think I haven't noticed that?" He turned away and gave Hannegan instructions to let anybody go who could give satisfactory identification with a local address. The others would have to go downtown to have closer ties as material witnesses put on them by the night court. Perhaps some would land in the tank for further investigation, but in any case—clear 'em out!
The photographers were busy upstairs and so were the fingerprint boys. The Assistant Medical Examiner showed up, followed by reporters. A few minutes later, after the house was cleared, Hazel came downstairs and joined me. Neither of us said anything, but I patted her on the back. When they carried down the basket stretcher a little later, with a blanket-wrapped shape in it, I put my arm around her while she buried her eyes in my shoulders.
Spade talked to us one at a time. Jack was not talking. "It ain't smart to talk without a lawyer," was all Spade could get out of him. I thought to myself that it would be better to talk to Spade now than to be sweated and maybe massaged a little under the lights. My testimony would clear him even though it would show that there was a spat between him and Estelle. Spade would not frame a man. He was an honest cop, as cops go. I've known honest cops. Two, I think.
Spade took my story, then he took Hazel's, and called me back. "Eddie my boy," he said, "help me dig into this thing. As I understand it, this girl Hazel should have had the twelve o'clock show."
"That's right."
He studied one of the Joy Club's programs. "Hazel says she went upstairs to undress for the show about eleven-fifty-five."
"Exactly that time."
"Yeah. She was with you, wasn't she? She says she went up and that Estelle followed her in with a song-and-dance that the boss said to swap the two shows around."
"I wouldn't know about that."
"Naturally not. She says she beefed a little but gave in and came on downstairs, where she joined you. Correct?"
"Correct."
"Mmmm . . . By the way, your remark about the fire door might lead to something. Hazel put me onto a boy friend for Estelle. Trumpeter in that rat race across the street. He could have ducked across and stabbed her. Wouldn't take long. Trumpet players can't be pushing wind all the time; they'd lose their lip."
"How would he know when to do it? It was supposed to be Hazel's show."
"Mmmm . . . Well, maybe he did know. Swapping shows sounds like Estelle had made a date, and that sounds like a man. In which case he'd know about it. One of the boys is looking into it. Now about the way these shows worked—do you suppose you could show me how they were staged? Hannegan tried it but all he got was a shock."
"I'll try it," I said, getting up. "It's nothing very fancy. Did you ask Jack about Hazel's statement that Estelle had permission from him to swap the shows?"
"That's the one thing he cracked on. He states flatly that he didn't know that the shows were swapped. He says he expected to see Hazel in the Mirror."
The controls looked complicated but weren't. I showed Jones the rheostat and told him it enabled Jack to turn either set of lights down slowly while the other set went up. I found a bypass switch back of the rheostat which accounted for the present condition—all lights burning brightly, house and stage. There was a blackout switch and there was a switch that cut the hand microphone and the turntable in through the juke box. Near the latter was the buzzer—a small black case with two binding posts—which the girls used to signal Jack. Centered on the under side of the bar was a hundred-and-fifty watt bulb hooked in on its own line separate from the rheostat. Except for the line to this light all the wires from all the equipment disappeared into a steel conduit underneath the bar. It was this light which had dazzled me during the eleven o'clock show. It seemed excessive; a peanut bulb would have been more appropriate. Apparently Jack liked lots of light.
I explained the controls to Spade, then gave him a dry run. First I switched the rheostat back to "House" and threw off the bypass switch, leaving the room brightly lighted and the Magic Mirror dark. "The time is five minutes of twelve. Hazel leaves me to go upstairs. I shift around to the bar stool just opposite where I am now standing. At midnight Jack comes up and asks me if I've heard the buzzer. I say 'No.' He fiddles around a bit, clearing away glasses and the like. Then come two beeps on the buzzer. He picks up the microphone but he doesn't announce the show for a few seconds—he's just noticed Hannegan and Feinstein. Hannegan gives him the high sign and he goes ahead." Then I picked up the mike myself and spoke into it:
"We now present the Magic Mirror!"
I put down the mike and flipped on the turntable switch. The same platter was on and the juke box started playing Valse Triste. Hazel looked up at me sharply, from where she had been resting her head on her arms a few tables away. She looked horrified, as if the reconstruction were too much for her stomach.
I turned the rheostat slowly from "House" to "Stage." The room darkened and the stage lit up. "That's all there was to it," I said. "Hazel sat down beside me just as Jack announced the show. As the lights came on she screamed."
Spade scratched his chin. "You say Joy was standing in front of you when the buzzer signal came from upstairs?"
"Positive."
"You gave him a motive—the war he was having with Estelle. But you've given him an alibi too."
"That's right. Either Estelle punched that buzzer herself, then lay down and stabbed herself, or she was murdered and the murderer punched it to cover up, then ducked out while everybody had their eyes on the Mirror. Either way I had Jack Joy in sight."
"It's an alibi all right," he conceded. "Unless you were in cahoots with him," he said hopefully.
"Prove it," I answered, grinning. "Not with him. I think he's a jerk."
"We're all jerks, more or less, Eddie my boy. Let's look around upstairs."
I switched the bypass on, leaving both stage and house lighted, and followed him. I pointed out the buzzer to him, after searching for it myself. A conduit came up through the floor and ended in a junction box on the wall, from which cords ran to the flood lights. The button was on the junction box. I wondered why it was not on the "altar," then saw that the altar was a movable prop. Apparently the girls punched the button, then fell quickly into their poses. Spade tried the button meditatively, then wiped print powder off on his trousers. "I can't hear it," he said.
"Naturally not. This stage is almost a soundproof booth."
He had seen the egg timer but I had not told him until then about seeing the last of the sand run out. He pursed his lips. "You're sure?"
"Call it hallucination. I think I saw it. I'll testify to it."
He sat down on the altar, avoiding the blood stain, and said nothing for quite a long time. Finally he said, "Eddie my boy—"
"Yes?"
"You've not only given Jack Joy an alibi, you've damn near made it impossible for anyone to have done it."
"I know it. Could it have been suicide?"
"Could be. Could be. From the mechanics angle but not from the psychological angle. Would she have started that egg timer for her own suicide? Another thing. Take a look at that blood. Taste it."
"Huh?"
"Don't throw up. Smell it then."
I did, very gingerly. Then I smelled it again. Two smells. Tomato. Blood. Blood and tomato catsup. I thought I could detect differences in appearance as well. "You see, son? If she's going to have blood on her chest she won't bother with catsup. Aside from that and the timer it's a perfect, dramatic, female-style suicide. But it won't wash. It's murder, Eddie."
Feinstein stuck his head in. "Lieutenant—"
"What is it?"
"That musician punk. He had a date with her all right."
"Oh, he did, eh?"
"But he's clear. The band was on the air at midnight, in a number that features him in a trumpet solo."
"Damn! Get out of here."
"That ain't all. I called the Assistant Medical Examiner, like you said. The motive you suggested won't go—she not only wasn't expecting; she hadn't ever been had. Virgo intacta," he added in passable high school Latin.
"Feinstein, you'll be wanting to be a sergeant next," Spade answered placidly, "using big words like that. Get out."
"Okay, Lieutenant." I was more than a little surprised at the news. I would have picked Estelle as a case of round heels. Evidently she was a tease in more ways than one.
Spade sat a while longer, then said, "When it's light in here, it's dark out there; when it's light out there, it's dark in here."
"That's right. Ordinarily, that is. Right now we've got both sides lighted with the bypass."
"Ordinarily is what I mean. Light, dark; dark, light. Eddie my boy—"
"Yes?"
"Are you sweet on that Hazel girl?"
"I'm leaning that way," I admitted.
"Then keep an eye on her. The murderer was in here for just a few seconds—the egg timer and the buzzer prove that. He wasn't any of the few people who knew about the swap in the shows—not since the trumpet-playing boy friend got knocked out of the running. And it was dark. He murdered the wrong party, Eddie my boy. There's another murder coming up."
"Hazel," I said slowly.
"Yes, Hazel."
Spade Jones shooed us all home, me, Hazel, the two waiters, the other barman, and Jack Joy. I think he was tempted to hold Jack simply because he wouldn't talk but he compromised by telling him that if he stuck his head outside his hotel, he would find a nice policeman ready to take him down to a nice cell. He tipped me a wink and put a finger on his lips as he said good night to me.
But I didn't keep quiet. Hazel let me take her home readily enough. When I saw that she lived alone in a single apartment in a building without a doorman, I decided it called for an all night vigil and some explaining.
She stepped into the kitchenette and mixed me a drink. "One drink and out you go, Ed," she called to me. "You've been very sweet and I want to see you again and thank you, but tonight this girl goes to bed. I'm whipped."
"I'm staying all night," I announced firmly.
She came out with a drink in her hand and looked at me, both annoyed and a little puzzled. "Ed," she said, "aren't you working just a bit too fast? I didn't think you were that clumsy."
"Calm yourself, beautiful," I told her. "It's not necessarily a proposition. I'm going to watch over you. Somebody is trying to kill you."
She dropped the drink.
I helped her clean it up and explained the situation. "Somebody stabbed a girl in a dark room," I finished. "That somebody thought it was you. He knows better by now and he will be looking for a chance to finish the job. What you and I have got to figure out is: Who wants to kill you?"
She sat down and started to manhandle a handkerchief. "Nobody wants to kill me, Eddie. It was Estelle."
"No, it wasn't."
"But it couldn't have been me. I know."
"What do you know?"
"I— Oh, it's impossible. Stay all night if you want to. You can sleep on the couch." She got up and pulled the bed down out of the wall, went in the bath, closed the door, and splashed around for a while. "That bath is too small to dress and undress in," she stated flatly. "Anyhow I sleep raw. If you want to get undressed you won't scare me."
"Thanks," I said. "I'll take my coat and tie and shoes off."
"Suit yourself." Her voice was a little bit smothered as she was already wiggling her dress over her head.
She wore pants, whether Estelle ever did or not—a plain, white knit that looked clean and neat. She did not wear a brassiere and did not need to. The conception I had gotten of her figure in the Magic Mirror was entirely justified. She was simply the most magnificently beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life. In street clothes she was a beautiful, well-built woman; in her skin—wars have started over less.
I was beginning to doubt my ability to stay on the couch. I must have showed it, for she snorted, "Wipe the drool off your chin!" and stepped out of her pants.
" 'Scuse, please," I answered and started unlacing my shoes. She stepped over and switched off the light, then went over to the one big window and raised the shade. It was closed but, with the light out, you could see outside easily. "Stand back from that window," I said. "You're too good a target."
"Huh? Oh, very well." She backed up a few steps but continued to stare thoughtfully out the window. I stared thoughtfully at her. There was a big neon sign across the street and the colored lights, pouring in the window, covered her from head to foot with a rosy liquid glow. She looked like something out of a dream of fairyland.
Presently I wasn't thinking how she looked; I was thinking about another room, where a girl had lain murdered, with the lights of a night club shining through a pane of glass, shining through like this neon.
My thoughts rearranged themselves rapidly and very painfully. I added them up a second time and still got the same answer. I did not like the answer. I was glad, damn glad, she was bare naked, with no way to conceal a gun, or a knife, or any other sort of deadly weapon. "Hazel," I said softly.
She turned to me. "Yes, Eddie?"
"I've just had a new idea . . . why should anyone want to kill you?"
"You said that before. There isn't any reason."
"I know. You're right; there isn't any. But put it this way—why should you want to kill Estelle?"
I thought she was going to faint again, but I didn't care—I wanted to shock her. Her lusciousness meant nothing to me now but a trap that had confused my thoughts. I had not wanted to think her guilty, so I had disregarded the fact that of all the persons involved she was the only one with the necessary opportunity, the knowledge of the swapped shows, and at least some motive. She had made it plain that she detested Estelle. She had covered it up but it was still evident.
But most important of all, the little stage had not been dark! True, it looked dark—from the outside. You can't see through glass when all the light comes from one side and you are on that same side—but light passes through the glass just the same. The neon on the street illuminated this room we were in fairly brightly; the brilliant lights of Jack's bar illuminated the little stage even when the stage floodlights were out.
She knew that. She knew it because she had been in there many times, getting ready to pose for the suckers. Therefore she knew that it was not a case of mistaken identity in the dark—there was no dark! And it would have to be nearly pitch black for anyone to mistake Hazel's blue-black mane for Estelle's peroxided mop.
She knew—why hadn't she said so? She was letting me stay all night, not wanting me around but risking her reputation and more, because I had propounded the wrong-girl-in-the-dark theory. She knew it would not hold water; why had she not said so?
"Eddie, have you gone crazy?" Her voice was frightened.
"No—gone sane. I'll tell you how you did it, my beautiful darling. You both were there—you admitted that. Estelle got in her pose, and asked you to punch the buzzer. You did—but first you grabbed the knife and slid it in her ribs. You wiped the handle, looked around, punched the buzzer, and lammed. About ten seconds later you were slipping your arm in mine. Me—your alibi!
"It had to be you," I went on, "for no one else would have had the guts to commit murder with nothing but glass between him and an audience. The stage was lighted—from the outside. You knew that, but it didn't worry you. You were used to parading around naked in front of that glass, certain you could not be seen while the house lights were on! No one else would have dared!"
She looked at me as if she could not believe her ears and her chin began to quiver. Then she squatted down on the floor and burst into tears. Real tears—they dripped. It was my cue to go soft, but I did not. I don't like killing.
I stood over her. "Why did you kill her? Why did you kill her?"
"Get out of here."
"Not likely. I'm going to see you fry, my big-busted angel." I headed for the telephone, keeping my eyes on her. I did not dare turn my back, even naked as she was.
She made a break, but it was not for me; it was for the door. How far she thought she could get in the buff I don't know.
I tripped her and fell on her. She was a big armful and ready to bite and claw, but I got a hammer lock on one arm and twisted it. "Be good," I warned her, "or I'll break it."
She lay still and I began to be aware that she was not only an armful but a very female armful. I ignored it. "Let me go, Eddie," she said in a tense whisper, "or I'll scream rape and get the cops in."
"Go right ahead, gorgeous," I told her. "The cops are just what I want, and quick."
"Eddie, Eddie, listen to reason—I didn't kill her, but I know who did."
"Huh? Who?"
"I know . . . I do know—but he couldn't have. That's why I haven't said anything."
"Tell me."
She didn't answer at once; I twisted her arm. "Tell me!"
"Oh! It was Jack."
"Jack? Nonsense—I was watching him."
"I know. But he did it, just the same. I don't know how—but he did it."
I held her down, thinking. She watched my face. "Ed?"
"Huh?"
"If I punched the buzzer, wouldn't my fingerprint be on it?"
"Should be."
"Why don't you find out?"
It stonkered me. I thought I was right but she seemed quite willing to make the test. "Get up," I said. "On your knees and then on your feet. But don't try to get your arm free and don't try any tricks, or, so help me, I'll kick you in the belly."
She was docile enough and I moved us over to the phone, dialled it with one hand and managed to get to Spade Jones through the police exchange. "Spade? This is Eddie—Eddie Hill. Was there a fingerprint on the buzzer button?"
"Now I wondered when you would be getting around to thinking of that. There was."
"Whose?"
"The corpse's."
"Estelle's?"
"The same. And Estelle's on the egg timer. None on the knife—wiped clean. Lots from both girls around the room, and a few odd ones—old, probably."
"Uh . . . yes. . . . well, thanks."
"Not at all. Call me if you get any bright ideas, son."
I hung up the phone and turned to Hazel. I guess I had let go her arm when Spade told me the print was not hers, but I don't remember doing so. She was standing there, rubbing her arm and looking at me in a very odd way. "Well," I said, "you can twist my arm, or kick me anywhere you like. I was wrong. I'm sorry. I'll try to prove it to you."
She started to speak and then started to leak tears again. It finished up with her accepting my apology in the nicest way possible, smearing me with lipstick and tears. I loved it and I felt like a heel.
Presently I wiped her face with my handkerchief and said, "You put on a robe or something and sit on the bed and I'll sit on the couch. We've got to dope this out and I can think better with that lovely chassis of yours covered up."
She trotted obediently and I sat down. "You say Jack killed her, but you admit you don't know how he could have done it. Then why do you think he did?"
"The music."
"Huh?"
"The music he played for the show was Valse Triste. That's Estelle's music, for Estelle's act. My act, the regular twelve o'clock act, calls for Bolero. He must have known that Estelle was up there; he used the right music."
"Then you figure he must have been lying when he claimed Estelle never arranged with him to swap the shows. But it's a slim reason to hang a man—he might have gotten that record by accident."
"Could, but not likely. The records were kept in order and were the same ones for the same shows every night. Nobody touched them but him. He would fire a man for touching anything around the control box. However," she went on, "I knew it had to be him before I noticed the music. Only it couldn't be."
"Only it couldn't be. Go ahead."
"He hated her."
"Why?"
"She teased him."
"'She teased him.' Suppose she did. Lots of people get teased. She teased lots of people. She teased you. She teased me. So what?"
"It's not the same thing," she insisted. "Jack was afraid of the dark."
It was a nasty story. The lunk was afraid of total darkness, really afraid, the way some kids are. Hazel told me he would not go back of the building to get his parked car at night without a flashlight. But that would not have given away his weakness, nor the fact that he was ashamed of it—lots of people use flashlights freely, just to be sure of their footing. But he had fallen for Estelle and apparently made a lot of progress—had actually gotten into bed with her. It never came to anything because she had snapped out the lights. Estelle had told Hazel about it, gloating over the fact that she had found out about what she termed his cowardice "soon enough."
"She needled him after that," Hazel went on. "Nothing that anyone could tumble to, if they didn't know. But he knew. He was afraid of her, afraid to fire her for fear she would tell. He hated her—at the same time he wanted her and was jealous of her. There was one time in the dressing room. I was there—" He had come in while they were dressing, or undressing, and had picked a fight with Estelle over one of the customers. She told him to get out. When he did not do it, she snapped out the light. "He went out of there like a jack rabbit, falling over his feet." She stopped. "How about it, Eddie? Motive enough?"
"Motive enough," I agreed. "You've got me thinking he did it. Only he couldn't."
"'Only he couldn't.' That's the trouble."
I told her to get into bed and try to get some sleep—that I planned to sit right where I was till the pieces fitted. I was rewarded with another sight of the contours as she chucked the robe, then I helped myself to a good-night kiss. I don't think she slept; at least she did not snore.
I started pounding my brain. The fact that the stage was not dark when it seemed dark changed the whole picture and eliminated, I thought, everyone not familiar with the mechanics of the Mirror. It left only Hazel, Jack, the other barman, the two waiters—and Estelle herself. It was physically possible for an Unknown Stranger to have slipped upstairs, slid the shiv in her, ducked downstairs, but psychologically—no. I made a mental note to find out what other models had worked in the Mirror.
The other barman and the two waiters Spade had eliminated—all of them had been fully alibied by one or more customers. I had alibied Jack. Estelle—but it wasn't suicide. And Hazel.
If Estelle's fingerprint meant what it seemed, Hazel was out—not time enough to commit a murder, arrange a corpse, wipe a handle, and get downstairs to my side before Jack started the show.
But in that case nobody could have done it—except a hypothetical sex maniac who did not mind a spot of butchery in front of a window full of people. Nonsense!
Of course the fingerprint was not conclusive. Hazel could have pushed the button with a coin or a bobby pin, without destroying an old print or making a new one. I hated to admit it but she was not clear yet.
Again, if Estelle did not push the button, then it looked still more like an insider; an outsider would not know where to find the button nor have any reason to push it.
For that matter, why should Hazel push it? It had not given her an alibi—it didn't make sense.
Round and round and round till my head ached.
It was a long time later that I went over and tugged at the covers. "Hazel—"
"Yes, Eddie?"
"Who punched the buzzer in the eleven o'clock show?"
She considered. "That show is both of us. She did—she always took charge."
"Mmmm. . . . What other girls have worked in the Mirror?"
"Why, none. Estelle and I opened the show."
"Okay. Maybe I've got it. Let's call Spade Jones."
Spade assured me he would be only too happy to get out of a warm bed to play games with me and would I like a job waking the bugler, too? But he agreed to come to the Joy Club, with Joy in tow, and to fetch enough flat feet, firearms, and muscles to cope.
I was standing back of the bar in the Joy Club, with Hazel seated where she had been when she screamed and a cop from the Homicide Squad in my seat. Jack and Spade were at the end of the bar, where Spade could see.
"We will now show how a man can be two places at one time," I announced. "I am now Mr. Jack Joy. The time is shortly before midnight. Hazel has just left the dressing room and come downstairs. She stops off for a moment at the little girls room at the foot of the stairs, and thereby misses Jack, who is headed for those same stairs. He goes up and finds Estelle in the dressing room, peeled and ready for her act—probably."
I took a glance at Jack. His face was a taut mask, but he was a long way from breaking. "There was an argument—what about, I don't know, but it might have been over the trumpet boy she had swapped shows to meet. In any case, I am willing to bet that she stopped it by switching out the dressing room light to chase him out."
First blood. He flinched at that—his mask cracked. "He didn't stay out more than a few moments," I went on. "Probably he had a flashlight in his pocket—he's probably got one on him now—and that let him go back into that terrible, dark room, and switch on the light. Estelle was already on the stage, anointing herself with catsup, and almost ready to push the buzzer. She must have been about to do so, for she had started the egg timer. He grabbed the prop dagger and stabbed her, stabbed her dead."
I stopped. No blood from Jack this time. His mask was on firmly. "He arranges her in the pose—ten seconds for that; it was nothing but a sprawl—wipes the handle and ducks out. Ten seconds more to this spot. Or make it twenty. He asks me if the buzzer has sounded and I tell him No. He really had to know, for Estelle might have punched it before he got to her."
"Hearing the answer he wanted, he bustles around a bit like this—" I monkeyed with some glassware and picked up a bar spoon and pointed with it to the stage. "Note that the Mirror is lighted and empty—I've got the bypass on. Imagine it dark, with Estelle on the altar, a knife in her heart." I dropped the spoon down and, while their eyes were still on the Mirror, I brought metal spoon across the two binding posts which carried the two leads to the push button on the stage. The buzzer gave out with a loud beep! I broke the connection by lifting the spoon for a split second, and brought it down again for a second beep! "And that is how a man can— Catch him, Spade!"
Spade was at him before I yelled. The three cops had him helpless in no time. He was not armed; it had been sheer reflex—a break for freedom. But he was not giving up, even now. "You've got nothing on me. No evidence. Anybody could have jimmied those wires anywhere along the line."
"No, Jack," I contradicted. "I checked for that. Those wires run through the same steel conduit as the power wires, all the way from the control box to the stage. It was here or there, Jack. It couldn't be there; it had to be here."
He shut up. "I want to see my lawyer," was his only answer.
"You'll see your lawyer," Spade assured him jovially. "Tomorrow, or the next day. Right now you're going to go downtown and sit under some nice hot lights for a few hours."
"No, Lieutenant!" It was Hazel.
"Eh? And why not, Miss Dorn?"
"Don't put him under lights. Shut him in a dark closet!"
"Eh? Well, I'll be— That's what I call a bright girl!"
It was the mop closet they used. He lasted thirteen minutes, then he started to whimper and then to scream. They let him out and took his confession.
I was almost sorry for him when they led him away. I should not have been—second degree was the most he could get as premeditation was impossible to prove and quite unlikely anyhow. "Not guilty by reason of insanity" was a fair bet. Whatever his guilt, that woman had certainly driven him to it. And imagine the nerve of the man, the pure colossal nerve, that enabled him to go through with lighting up that stage just after he looked up and saw two cops standing inside the door!
I took Hazel home the second time. The bed was still pulled down and she went straight for it, kicking off her shoes as she went. She unzipped the side of her dress and started to pull it over her head, when she stopped. "Eddie!"
"Yes, Beautiful?"
"If I take off my clothes again, are you going to accuse me of another murder?"
I considered this. "That depends," I informed her, "on whether you are really interested in me, or in that agent I was telling you about."
She grinned at me, then scooped up a shoe and threw it. "In you, you lug!" Then she went on shucking off her clothes. After a bit I unlaced my shoes.
Pete Perkins turned into the all-nite parking lot and called out, "Hi, Pappy!"
The old parking lot attendant looked up and answered, "Be with you in a moment, Pete." He was tearing a Sunday comic sheet in narrow strips. A little whirlwind waltzed near him, picking up pieces of old newspaper and bits of dirt and flinging them in the faces of passing pedestrians. The old man held out to it a long streamer of the brightly colored funny-paper. "Here, Kitten," he coaxed. "Come, Kitten—"
The whirlwind hesitated, then drew itself up until it was quite tall, jumped two parked cars, and landed sur le point near him.
It seemed to sniff at the offering.
"Take it, Kitten," the old man called softly and let the gay streamer slip from his fingers. The whirlwind whipped it up and wound it around its middle. He tore off another and yet another; the whirlwind wound them in corkscrew through the loose mass of dirty paper and trash that constituted its visible body. Renewed by cold gusts that poured down the canyon of tall buildings, it swirled faster and even taller, while it lifted the colored paper ribbons in a fantastic upswept hair-do. The old man turned, smiling. "Kitten does like new clothes."
"Take it easy, Pappy, or you'll have me believing in it."
"Eh? You don't have to believe in Kitten-you can see her."
"Yeah, sure-but you act as if she-I mean 'it'—could understand what you say."
"You still don't think so?" His voice was gently tolerant.
"Now, Pappy!"
"Hmm...lend me your hat." Pappy reached up and took it. "Here, Kitten," he called. "Come back, Kitten!" The whirlwind was playing around over their heads, several stories high. It dipped down.
"Hey! Where you going with that chapeau?" demanded Perkins.
"Just a moment—Here, Kitten!" The whirlwind sat down suddenly, spilling its load. The old man handed it the hat. The whirlwind snatched it and started it up a fast, long spiral.
"Hey!" yelped Perkins. "What do you think you're doing? That's not funny-that hat cost me six bucks only three years ago."
"Don't worry," the old man soothed. "Kitten will bring it back."
"She will, huh? More likely she'll dump it in the river."
"Oh, no! Kitten never drops anything she doesn't want to drop. Watch." The old man looked up to where the hat was dancing near the penthouse of the hotel across the street. "Kitten! Oh, Kitten! Bring it back."
The whirlwind hesitated, the hat fell a couple of stories. It swooped, caught it, and juggled it reluctantly. "Bring it here, Kitten."
The hat commenced a downward spiral, finishing in a long curving swoop. It hit Perkins full in the face. "She was trying to put it on your head," the attendant explained. "Usually she's more accurate."
"She is, eh?" Perkins picked up his hat and stood looking at the whirlwind, mouth open.
"Convinced?" asked the old man.
" 'Convinced?' Oh, sho' sho'." He looked back at his hat, then again at the whirlwind. "Pappy, this calls for a drink."
They went inside the lot's little shelter shack; Pappy found glasses; Perkins produced a pint, nearly full, and poured two generous slugs. He tossed his down, poured another, and sat down. "The first was in honor of Kitten," he announced. "This one is to fortify me for the Mayor's banquet."
Pappy cluck-clucked sympathetically. "You have to cover that?"
"Have to write a column about something, Pappy. 'Last night Hizzoner the Mayor, surrounded by a glittering galaxy of highbinders, grifters, sycophants, and ballot thieves, was the recipient of a testimonial dinner celebrating—' Got to write something, Pappy, the cash customers expect it. Why don't I brace up like a man and go on relief?"
"Today's column was good, Pete," the old man comforted him. He picked up a copy of the Daily Forum; Perkins took it from him and ran his eye down his own column.
"OUR FAIR CITY by Peter Perkins," he read, and below that "What, No Horsecars? It is the tradition of our civic paradise that what was good enough for the founding fathers is good enough for us. We stumble over the very chuckhole in which Great-uncle Tozier broke his leg in '09. It is good to know that the bath water, running out, is not gone forever, but will return through the kitchen faucet, thicker and disguised with chlorine, but the same. (Memo-Hizzoner uses bottled spring water. Must look into this.)
"But I must report a dismaying change. Someone has done away with the horsecars!
"You may not believe this. Our public conveyances run so seldom and slowly that you may not have noticed it; nevertheless I swear that I saw one wobbling down Grand Avenue with no horses of any sort. It seemed to be propelled by some new-fangled electrical device.
"Even in the atomic age some changes are too much. I urge all citizens—" Perkins gave a snort of disgust. "It's tackling a pillbox with a beanshooter, Pappy. This town is corrupt; it'll stay corrupt. Why should I beat out my brains on such piffle? Hand me the bottle."
"Don't be discouraged, Peter. The tyrant fears the laugh more than the assassin's bullet."
"Where'd you pick that up? Okay, so I'm not funny. I've tried laughing them out of office and it hasn't worked. My efforts are as pointless as the activities of your friend the whirling dervish."
The windows rattled under a gusty impact. "Don't talk that way about Kitten," the old man cautioned. "She's sensitive."
"I apologize." He stood up and bowed toward the door. "Kitten, I apologize. Your activities are more useful than mine." He turned to his host. "Let's go out and talk to her, Pappy. I'd rather do that than go to the Mayor's banquet, if I had my druthers."
They went outside, Perkins bearing with him the remains of the colored comic sheet. He began tearing off streamers. "Here, Kitty! Here, Kitty! Soup's on!"
The whirlwind bent down and accepted the strips as fast as he tore them. "She's still got the ones you gave her."
"Certainly," agreed Pappy. "Kitten is a pack rat. When she likes something she'll keep it indefinitely."
"Doesn't she ever get tired? There must be some calm days."
"It's never really calm here. It's the arrangement of the buildings and the way Third Street leads up from the river. But I think she hides her pet playthings on tops of buildings."
The newspaperman peered into the swirling trash. "I'll bet she's got newspapers from months back. Say, Pappy, I see a column in this, one about our trash collection service and how we don't clean our streets. I'll dig up some papers a couple of years old and claim that they have been blowing around town since publication."
"Why fake it?" answered Pappy, "let's see what Kitten has." He whistled softly. "Come, baby-let Pappy see your playthings." The whirlwind bulged out; its contents moved less rapidly. The attendant plucked a piece of old newspaper from it in passing. "Here's one three months old."
"We'll have to do better than that."
"I'll try again." He reached out and snatched another. "Last June."
"That's better."
A car honked for service and the old man hurried away. When he returned Perkins was still watching the hovering column. "Any luck?" asked Pappy.
"She won't let me have them. Snatches them away."
"Naughty Kitten," the old man said. "Pete is a friend of ours. You be nice to him." The whirlwind fidgeted uncertainly.
"It's all right," said Perkins. "She didn't know. But look, Pappy-see that piece up there? A front page."
"You want it?"
"Yes. Look closely-the headline reads 'DEWEY' something. You don't suppose she's been hoarding it since the '48 campaign?"
"Could be. Kitten has been around here as long as I can remember. And she does hoard things. Wait a second." He called out softly. Shortly the paper was m his hands. "Now we'll see."
Perkins peered at it. "I'll be a short-term Senator! Can you top that, Pappy?"
The headline read: DEWEY CAPTURES MANILA the date was "1898."
Twenty minutes later they were still considering it over the last of Perkins' bottle. The newspaperman stared at the yellowed, filthy sheet. "Don't tell me this has been blowing around town for the last half century."
"Why not?"
" 'Why not?' Well, I'll concede that the streets haven't been cleaned in that time, but this paper wouldn't last. Sun and rain and so forth."
"Kitten is very careful of her toys. She probably put it under cover during bad weather."
"For the love of Mike, Pappy, you don't really believe—But you do. Frankly, I don't care where she got it; the official theory is going to be that this particular piece of paper has been kicking around our dirty streets, unnoticed and uncollected, for the past fifty years. Boy, am I going to have fun!" He rolled the fragment carefully and started to put it in his pocket.
"Say, don't do that!" his host protested.
"Why not? I'm going to take it down and get a pic of it."
"You mustn't! It belongs to Kitten-I just borrowed it."
"Huh? Are you nuts?"
"She'll be upset if she doesn't get it back. Please, Pete-she'll let you look at it any time you want to."
The old man was so earnest that Perkins was stopped. "Suppose we never see it again? My story hangs on it."
"It's no good to you-she has to keep it, to make your story stand up. Don't worry-I'll tell her that she mustn't lose it under any circumstances."
"Well-okay." They stepped outside and Pappy talked earnestly to Kitten, then gave her the 1898 fragment. She promptly tucked it into the top column. Perkins said good-bye to Pappy, and started to leave the lot. He paused and turned around, looking a little befuddled. "Say, Pappy—"
"Yes, Pete?"
"You don't really think that whirlwind is alive, do you?"
"Why not?"
" 'Why not?' Why not, the man says?"
"Well," said Pappy reasonably, "how do you know you are alive?"
"But...why, because I-well, now if you put it—" He stopped. "I don't know. You got me, pal."
Pappy smiled. "You see?"
"Uh, I guess so. G'night, Pappy. G'night, Kitten." He tipped his hat to the whirlwind. The column bowed.
The managing editor sent for Perkins.
"Look, Pete," he said, chucking a sheaf of gray copy paper at him, "whimsy is all right, but I'd like to see some copy that wasn't dashed off in a gin mill."
Perkins looked over the pages shoved at him. "OUR FAIR CITY by Peter Perkins. Whistle Up The Wind. Walking our streets always is a piquant, even adventurous, experience. We pick our way through the assorted trash, bits of old garbage, cigarette butts, and other less appetizing items that stud our sidewalks while our faces are assaulted by more buoyant souvenirs, the confetti of last Hallowe'en, shreds of dead leaves, and other items too weather-beaten to be identified. However, I had always assumed that a constant turnover in the riches of our streets caused them to renew themselves at least every seven years—" The column then told of the whirlwind that contained the fifty-year-old newspaper and challenged any other city in the country to match it.
" 'Smatter with it?" demanded Perkins.
"Beating the drum about the filth in the streets is fine, Pete, but give it a factual approach."
Perkins leaned over the desk. "Boss, this is factual."
"Huh? Don't be silly, Pete."
"Silly, he says. Look—" Perkins gave him a circumstantial account of Kitten and the 1898 newspaper.
"Pete, you must have been drinking."
"Only Java and tomato juice. Cross my heart and hope to die."
"How about yesterday? I'll bet the whirlwind came right up to the bar with you."
"I was cold, stone—" Perkins stopped himself and stood on his dignity. "That's my story. Print it, or fire me."
"Don't be like that, Pete. I don't want your job; I just want a column with some meat. Dig up some facts on man-hours and costs for street cleaning, compared with other cities."
"Who'd read that junk? Come down the street with me. I'll show you the facts. Wait a moment-I'll pick up a photographer."
A few minutes later Perkins was introducing the managing editor and Clarence V. Weems to Pappy. Clarence unlimbered his camera. "Take a pic of him?"
"Not yet, Clarence. Pappy, can you get Kitten to give us back the museum piece?"
"Why, sure." The old man looked up and whistled. "Oh, Kitten! Come to Pappy." Above their heads a tiny gust took shape, picked up bits of paper and stray leaves, and settled on the lot. Perkins peered into it.
"She hasn't got it," he said in aggrieved tones.
"She'll get it." Pappy stepped forward until the whirlwind enfolded him. They could see his lips move, but the words did not reach them.
"Now?" said Clarence.
"Not yet." The whirlwind bounded up and leapt over an adjoining building. The managing editor opened his mouth, closed it again.
Kitten was soon back. She had dropped everything else and had just one piece of paper-the paper. "Now!" said Perkins. "Can you get a shot of that paper, Clarence-while it's in the air?"
"Natch," said Clarence, and raised his Speed Graphic. "Back a little, and hold it," he ordered, speaking to the whirlwind.
Kitten hesitated and seemed about to skitter away. "Bring it around slow and easy, Kitten," Pappy supplemented, "and turn it over-no, no! Not that way-the other edge up." The paper flattened out and sailed slowly past them, the headline showing.
"Did you get it?" Perkins demanded.
"Natch," said Clarence. "Is that all?" he asked the editor.
"Natc-I mean, 'that's all.' "
"Okay," said Clarence, picked up his case, and left. The editor sighed. "Gentlemen," he said, "let's have a drink."
Four drinks later Perkins and his boss were still arguing. Pappy had left. "Be reasonable, Boss," Pete was saying, "you can't print an item about a live whirlwind. They'd laugh you out of town."
Managing Editor Gaines straightened himself.
"It's the policy of the Forum to print all the news, and print it straight. This is news-we print it." He relaxed. "Hey! Waiter! More of the same-and not so much soda."
"But it's scientifically impossible."
"You saw it, didn't you?"
"Yes, but—"
Gaines stopped him. "We'll ask the Smithsonian Institution to investigate it."
"They'll laugh at you," Perkins insisted. "Ever hear of mass hypnotism?"
"Huh? No, that's no explanation-Clarence saw it, too."
"What does that prove?"
"Obvious-to be hypnotized you have to have a mind. Ipso facto."
"You mean ipse dixit."
"Quit hiccuping. Perkins, you shouldn't drink in the daytime. Now start over and say it slowly."
"How do you know Clarence doesn't have a mind?"
"Prove it."
"Well, he's alive-he must have some sort of a mind, then."
"That's just what I was saying, the whirlwind is alive; therefore it has a mind. Perkins, if those long-beards from the Smithsonian are going to persist in their unscientific attitude, I for one will not stand for it. The Forum will not stand for it. You will not stand for it."
"Won't I?"
"Not for one minute. I want you to know the Forum is behind you, Pete. You go back to the parking lot and get an interview with that whirlwind."
"But I've got one. You wouldn't let me print it."
"Who wouldn't let you print it? I'll fire him! Come on, Pete. We're going to blow this town sky high. Stop the run. Hold the front page. Get busy!" He put on Pete's hat and strode rapidly into the men's room.
Pete settled himself at his desk with a container of coffee, a can of tomato juice, and the Midnight Final (late afternoon) edition. Under a 4-col. cut of Kitten's toy was his column, boxed and moved to the front page. 18-point boldface ordered SEE EDITORIAL PAGE 12. On page 12 another black line enjoined him to SEE "OUR FAIR CITY" PAGE ONE. He ignored this and read: MR. MAYOR-RESIGN!!!!
Pete read it and chuckled. "An ill wind—" "—symbolic of the spiritual filth lurking in the dark corners of the city hall." "—will grow to cyclonic proportions and sweep a corrupt and shameless administration from office." The editorial pointed out that the contract for street cleaning and trash removal was held by the Mayor's brother-in-law, and then suggested that the whirlwind could give better service cheaper.
"Pete-is that you?" Pappy's voice demanded. "They got me down at the station house."
"What for?"
"They claim Kitten is a public nuisance."
"I'll be right over." He stopped by the Art Department, snagged Clarence, and left. Pappy was seated in the station lieutenant's office, looking stubborn. Perkins shoved his way in. "What's he here for?" he demanded, jerking a thumb at Pappy.
The lieutenant looked sour. "What are you butting in for, Perkins? You're not his lawyer."
"Not yet, Clarence. For news, Dumbrosky-I work for a newspaper, remember? I repeat-what's he in for?"
"Obstructing an officer in the performance of his duty."
"That right, Pappy?"
The old man looked disgusted. "This character—" He indicated one of the policemen "—comes up to my lot and tries to snatch the Manila-Bay paper away from Kitten. I tell her to keep it up out of his way. Then he waves his stick at me and orders me to take it away from her. I tell him what he can do with his stick." He shrugged. "So here we are."
"I get it," Perkins told him, and turned to Dumbrosky. "You got a call from the city hall, didn't you? So you sent Dugan down to do the dirty work. What I don't get is why you sent Dugan. I hear he's so dumb you don't even let him collect the pay-off on his own beat."
"That's a lie!" put in Dugan. "I do so—"
"Shut up, Dugan!" his boss thundered. "Now, see here, Perkins-you clear out. There ain't no story here."
" 'No story'?" Perkins said softly. "The police force tries to arrest a whirlwind and you say there's no story?"
"Now?" said Clarence.
"Nobody tried to arrest no whirlwind! Now scram."
"Then how come you're charging Pappy with obstructing an officer? What was Dugan doing-flying a kite?"
"He's not charged with obstructing an officer."
"He's not, eh? Just what have you booked him for?"
"He's not booked. We're holding him for questioning."
"So? Not booked, no warrant, no crime alleged, just pick up a citizen and roust him around, Gestapo style." Perkins turned to Pappy. "You're not under arrest. My advice is to get up and walk out that door."
Pappy started to get up. "Hey!" Lieutenant Dumbrosky bounded out of his chair, grabbed Pappy by the shoulder and pushed him down. "I'm giving the orders around here. You stay—"
"Now!" yelled Perkins. Clarence's flashbulb froze them. Then Dumbrosky started up again.
"Who let him in here? Dugan-get that camera."
"Nyannh!" said Clarence and held it away from the cop. They started doing a little Maypole dance, with Clarence as the Maypole.
"Hold it!" yelled Perkins. "Go ahead and grab the camera, Dugan-I'm just aching to write the story. 'Police Lieutenant Destroys Evidence of Police Brutality.' "
"What do you want I should do, Lieutenant?" pleaded Dugan.
Dumbrosky looked disgusted. "Siddown and close your face. Don't use that picture, Perkins-I'm warning you."
"Of what? Going to make me dance with Dugan? Come on, Pappy. Come on, Clarence." They left.
"OUR FAIR CITY" read the next day. "City Hall Starts Clean Up. While the city street cleaners were enjoying their usual siesta, Lieutenant Dumbrosky, acting on orders of Hizzoner's office, raided our Third Avenue whirlwind. It went sour, as Patrolman Dugan could not entice the whirlwind into the paddy wagon. Dauntless Dugan was undeterred; he took a citizen standing nearby, one James Metcalfe, parking lot attendant, into custody as an accomplice of the whirlwind. An accomplice in what, Dugan didn't say-everybody knows that an accomplice is something pretty awful. Lieutenant Dumbrosky questioned the accomplice. See cut. Lieutenant Dumbrosky weighs 215 pounds, without his shoes. The accomplice weighs 119.
"Moral: Don't get underfoot when the police department is playing games with the wind.
"P. S. As we go to press, the whirlwind is still holding the 1898 museum piece. Stop by Third and Main and take a look. Better hurry-Dumbrosky is expected to make an arrest momentarily."
Pete's column continued needling the administration the following day: "Those Missing Files. It is annoying to know that any document needed by the Grand Jury is sure to be mislaid before it can be introduced in evidence. We suggest that Kitten, our Third Avenue Whirlwind, be hired by the city as file clerk extraordinary and entrusted with any item which is likely to be needed later. She could take the special civil exam used to reward the faithful-the one nobody ever flunks.
"Indeed, why limit Kitten to a lowly clerical job? She is persistent-and she hangs on to what she gets. No one will argue that she is less qualified than some city officials we have had.
"Let's run Kitten for Mayor! She's an ideal candidate-she has the common touch, she doesn't mind hurly-burly, she runs around in circles, she knows how to throw dirt, and the opposition can't pin anything on her.
"As to the sort of Mayor she would make, there is an old story-Aesop told it-about King Log and King Stork. We're fed up with King Stork; King Log would be welcome relief.
"Memo to Hizzoner-what did become of those Grand Avenue paving bids?
"P. S. Kitten still has the 1898 newspaper on exhibit. Stop by and see it before our police department figures out some way to intimidate a whirlwind."
Pete snagged Clarence and drifted down to the parking lot. The lot was fenced now; a man at a gate handed them two tickets but waved away their money. Inside he found a large circle chained off for Kitten and Pappy inside it. They pushed their way through the crowd to the old man. "Looks like you're coining money, Pappy."
"Should be, but I'm not. They tried to close me up this morning, Pete. Wanted me to pay the $50-a-day circus-and-carnival fee and post a bond besides. So I quit charging for the tickets-but I'm keeping track of them. I'll sue 'em, by gee."
"You won't collect, not in this town. Never mind, we'll make 'em squirm till they let up."
"That's not all. They tried to capture Kitten this morning."
"Huh? Who? How?"
"The cops. They showed up with one of those blower machines used to ventilate manholes, rigged to run backwards and take a suction. The idea was to suck Kitten down into it, or anyhow to grab what she was carrying."
Pete whistled. "You should have called me."
"Wasn't necessary. I warned Kitten and she stashed the Spanish-War paper someplace, then came back. She loved it. She went through that machine about six times, like a merry-go-round. She'd zip through and come out more full of pep than ever. Last time through she took Sergeant Yancel's cap with her and it clogged the machine and ruined his cap. They got disgusted and left."
Pete chortled. "You still should have called me. Clarence should have gotten a picture of that."
"Got it," said Clarence.
"Huh? I didn't know you were here this morning, Clarence."
"You didn't ask me."
Pete looked at him. "Clarence, darling-the idea of a news picture is to print it, not to hide it in the art department."
"On your desk," said Clarence.
"Oh. Well, let's move on to a less confusing subject. Pappy, I'd like to put up a big sign here."
"Why not? What do you want to say?"
"Kitten-for-Mayor-Whirlwind Campaign Headquarters. Stick a 24-sheet across the corner of the lot, where they can see it both ways. It fits in with-oh, oh! Company, girls!" He jerked his head toward the entrance.
Sergeant Yancel was back. "All right, all right!" he was saying. "Move on! Clear out of here." He and three cohorts were urging the spectators out of the lot. Pete went to him.
"What goes on, Yancel?"
Yancel looked around. "Oh, it's you, huh? Well, you, too-we got to clear this place out. Emergency."
Pete looked back over his shoulder. "Better get Kitten out of the way, Pappy!" he called out. "Now, Clarence."
"Got it," said Clarence.
"Okay," Pete answered. "Now, Yancel, you might tell me what it is we just took a picture of, so we can title it properly."
"Smart guy. You and your stooge had better scram if you don't want your heads blown off. We're setting up a bazooka."
"You're setting up a what?" Pete looked toward the squad car, unbelievingly. Sure enough, two of the cops were unloading a bazooka. "Keep shooting, kid," he said to Clarence.
"Natch," said Clarence.
"And quit popping your bubble gum. Now, look, Yancel-I'm just a newsboy. What in the world is the idea?"
"Stick around and find out, wise guy." Yancel turned away. "Okay there! Start doing it-commence firing!"
One of the cops looked up. "At what, Sergeant?"
"I thought you used to be a marine-at the whirlwind, of course."
Pappy leaned over Pete's shoulder. "What are they doing?"
"I'm beginning to get a glimmering. Pappy, keep Kitten out of range-I think they mean to put a rocket shell through her gizzard. It might bust up her dynamic stability or something."
"Kitten's safe. I told her to hide. But this is crazy, Pete. They must be absolute, complete and teetotal nuts."
"Any law says a cop has to be sane to be on the force?"
"What whirlwind, Sergeant?" the bazooka man was asking. Yancel started to tell him, forcefully, then deflated when he realized that no whirlwind was available.
"You wait," he told him, and turned to Pappy. "You!" he yelled. "You chased away that whirlwind. Get it back here."
Pete took out his notebook. "This is interesting, Yancel. Is it your professional opinion that a whirlwind can be ordered around like a trained dog? Is that the official position of the police department?"
"I—No comment! You button up, or I'll run you in."
"By all means. But you have that Buck-Rogers cannon pointed so that, after the shell passes through the whirlwind, if any, it should end up just about at the city hall. Is this a plot to assassinate Hizzoner?"
Yancel looked around suddenly, then let his gaze travel an imaginary trajectory.
"Hey, you lugs!" he shouted. "Point that thing the other way. You want to knock off the Mayor?"
"That's better," Pete told the Sergeant. "Now they have it trained on the First National Bank. I can't wait."
Yancel looked over the situation again. "Point it where it won't hurt anybody," he ordered. "Do I have to do all your thinking?"
"But, Sergeant—"
"Well?"
"You point it. We'll fire it."
Pete watched them. "Clarence," he sighed, "you stick around and get a pic of them loading it back into the car. That will be in about five minutes. Pappy and I will be in the Happy Hour Bar-Grill. Get a nice picture, with Yancel's features."
"Natch," said Clarence.
The next installment of OUR FAIR CITY featured three cuts and was headed "Police Declare War on Whirlwind." Pete took a copy and set out for the parking lot, intending to show it to Pappy.
Pappy wasn't there. Nor was Kitten. He looked around the neighborhood, poking his nose in lunchrooms and bars. No luck.
He headed back toward the Forum building, telling himself that Pappy might be shopping, or at a movie. He returned to his desk, made a couple of false starts on a column for the morrow, crumpled them up and went to the art department. "Hey! Clarence! Have you been down to the parking lot today?"
"Nah."
"Pappy's missing."
"So what?"
"Well, come along. We got to find him."
"Why?" But he came, lugging his camera.
The lot was still deserted, no Pappy, no Kitten-not even a stray breeze. Pete turned away. "Come on, Clarence-say, what are you shooting now?"
Clarence had his camera turned up toward the sky. "Not shooting," said Clarence. "Light is no good."
"What was it?"
"Whirlwind."
"Huh? Kitten?"
"Maybe."
"Here, Kitten-come, Kitten." The whirlwind came back near him, spun faster, and picked up a piece of cardboard it had dropped. It whipped it around, then let him have it in the face.
"That's not funny, Kitten," Pete complained. "Where's Pappy?"
The whirlwind sidled back toward him. He saw it reach again for the cardboard. "No, you don't!" he yelped and reached for it, too.
The whirlwind beat him to it. It carried it up some hundred feet and sailed it back. The card caught him edgewise on the bridge of the nose. "Kitten!" Pete yelled. "Quit the horsing around."
It was a printed notice, about six by eight inches. Evidently it had been tacked up; there were small tears at all four corners. It read: "THE RITZ-CLASSIC" and under that, "Room 2013, Single Occupancy $6.00, Double Occupancy $8.00." There followed a printed list of the house rules.
Pete stared at it and frowned. Suddenly he chucked it back at the whirlwind. Kitten immediately tossed it back in his face.
"Come on, Clarence," he said briskly. "We're going to the Ritz-Classic-room 2013."
"Natch," said Clarence.
The Ritz-Classic was a colossal fleabag, favored by the bookie-and-madame set, three blocks away. Pete avoided the desk by using the basement entrance. The elevator boy looked at Clarence's camera and said, "No, you don't, Doc. No divorce cases in this hotel."
"Relax," Pete told him. "That's not a real camera. We peddle marijuana-that's the hay mow."
"Whyn't you say so? You hadn't ought to carry it in a camera. You make people nervous. What floor?"
"Twenty-one."
The elevator operator took them up non-stop, ignoring other calls. "That'll be two bucks. Special service."
"What do you pay for the concession?" inquired Pete.
"You gotta nerve to beef-with your racket."
They went back down a floor by stair and looked up room 2013. Pete tried the knob cautiously; the door was locked. He knocked on it-no answer. He pressed an ear to it and thought he could hear movement inside. He stepped back, frowning.
Clarence said, "I just remembered something," and trotted away. He returned quickly, with a red fire ax. "Now?" he asked Pete.
"A lovely thought, Clarence! Not yet." Pete pounded and yelled, "Pappy! Oh, Pappy!"
A large woman in a pink coolie coat opened the door behind them. "How do you expect a party to sleep?" she demanded.
Pete said, "Quiet, madame! We're on the air." He listened. This time there were sounds of struggling and then, "Pete! Pe—"
"Now!" said Pete. Clarence started swinging.
The lock gave up on the third swing. Pete poured in, with Clarence after him. He collided with someone coming out and sat down abruptly. When he got up he saw Pappy on a bed. The old man was busily trying to get rid of a towel tied around his mouth.
Pete snatched it away. "Get 'em!" yelled Pappy.
"Soon as I get you untied."
"I ain't tied. They took my pants. Boy, I thought you'd never come!"
"Took Kitten a while to make me understand."
"I got 'em," announced Clarence. "Both of 'em."
"Where?" demanded Pete.
"Here," said Clarence proudly, and patted his camera.
Pete restrained his answer and ran to the door. "They went thata-way," said the large woman, pointing. He took off, skidded around the corner and saw an elevator door just closing.
Pete stopped, bewildered by the crowd just outside the hotel. He was looking uncertainly around when Pappy grabbed him. "There! That car!" The car Pappy pointed out was even then swinging out from the curb just beyond the rank of cabs in front of the hotel; with a deep growl it picked up speed, and headed away. Pete yanked open the door of the nearest cab.
"Follow that car!" he yelled. They all piled in.
"Why?" asked the hackie.
Clarence lifted the fire ax. "Now?" he asked.
The driver ducked. "Forget it," he said. "It was just a yak." He started after the car.
The hack driver's skill helped them in the downtown streets, but the driver of the other car swung right on Third and headed for the river. They streamed across it, fifty yards apart, with traffic snarled behind them, and then were on the no-speed-limit freeway. The cabbie turned his head. "Is the camera truck keeping up?"
"What camera truck?"
"Ain't this a movie?"
"Good grief, no! That car is filled with kidnappers. Faster!"
"A snatch? I don't want no part of it." He braked suddenly.
Pete took the ax and prodded the driver. "You catch 'em!"
The hack speeded up again but the driver protested, "Not in this wreck. They got more power than me."
Pappy grabbed Pete's arm. "There's Kitten!"
"Where? Oh, never mind that now!"
"Slow down!" yelled Pappy. "Kitten, oh, Kitten—over here!"
The whirlwind swooped down and kept pace with them. Pappy called to it. "Here, baby! Go get that car! Up ahead-get it!"
Kitten seemed confused, uncertain. Pappy repeated it and she took off-like a whirlwind. She dipped and gathered a load of paper and trash as she flew.
They saw her dip and strike the car ahead, throwing paper in the face of the driver. The car wobbled. She struck again. The car veered, climbed the curb, ricocheted against the crash rail, and fetched up against a lamp post.
Five minutes later Pete, having left Kitten, Clarence, and the fire ax to hold the fort over two hoodlums suffering from abrasion, multiple contusions and shock, was feeding a dime into a pay phone at the nearest filling station. He dialed long distance. "Gimme the FBI's kidnap number," he demanded. "You know-the Washington, D.C., snatch number."
"My goodness," said the operator, "do you mind if I listen in?"
"Get me that number!"
"Right away!"
Presently a voice answered, "Federal Bureau of Investigation."
"Lemme talk to Hoover! Huh? Okay, okay-I'll talk to you. Listen, this is a snatch case. I've got 'em on ice, for the moment, but unless you get one of your boys from your local office here pronto there won't be any snatch case-not if the city cops get here first. What?" Pete quieted down and explained who he was, where he was, and the more believable aspects of the events that had led up to the present situation. The government man cut in on him as he was urging speed and more speed and assured him that the local office was already being notified.
Pete got back to the wreck just as Lieutenant Dumbrosky climbed out of a squad car. Pete hurried up. "Don't do it, Dumbrosky," he yelled.
The big cop hesitated. "Don't do what?"
"Don't do anything. The FBI are on their way now-and you're already implicated. Don't make it any worse."
Pete pointed to the two hoodlums; Clarence was sitting on one and resting the spike of the ax against the back of the other. "Those birds have already sung. This town is about to fall apart. If you hurry, you might be able to get a plane for Mexico."
Dumbrosky looked at him. "Wise guy," he said doubtfully.
"Ask them. They confessed."
One of the hoods raised his head. "We was threatened," he announced. "Take 'em in, lieutenant. They assaulted us."
"Go ahead," Pete said cheerfully. "Take us all in-together. Then you won't be able to lose that pair before the FBI can question them. Maybe you can cop a plea."
"Now?" asked Clarence.
Dumbrosky swung around. "Put that ax down!"
"Do as he says, Clarence. Get your camera ready to get a picture as the G-men arrive."
"You didn't send for no G-men."
"Look behind you!"
A dark blue sedan slid quietly to a stop and four lean, brisk men got out. The first of them said, "Is there someone here named Peter Perkins?"
"Me," said Pete. "Do you mind if I kiss you?"
It was after dark but the parking lot was crowded and noisy. A stand for the new Mayor and distinguished visitors had been erected on one side, opposite it was a bandstand; across the front was a large illuminated sign: HOME OF KITTEN-HONORARY CITIZEN OF OUR FAIR CITY.
In the fenced-off circle in the middle Kitten herself bounced and spun and swayed and danced. Pete stood on one side of the circle with Pappy opposite him; at four-foot intervals around it children were posted. "All set?" called out Pete.
"All set," answered Pappy. Together, Pete, Pappy and the kids started throwing serpentine into the ring. Kitten swooped, gathered the ribbons up and wrapped them around herself.
"Confetti!" yelled Pete. Each of the kids dumped a sackful toward the whirlwind-little of it reached the ground.
"Balloons!" yelled Pete. "Lights!" Each of the children started blowing up toy balloons; each had a dozen different colors. As fast as they were inflated they fed them to Kitten. Floodlights and searchlights came on; Kitten was transformed into a fountain of boiling, bubbling color, several stories high.
"Now?" said Clarence.
"Now!"