Fly Paper and Other Stories

  “He lost two teeth, but his skull wasn’t cracked. He’ll be out in a couple of days.”

  The Old Man nodded and asked:

  “What remains to be done?”

  “Nothing. We can put Peggy Carroll on the mat again, but it’s not likely we’ll squeeze much more out of her. Outside of that, the returns are pretty well all in.”

  “And what do you make of it?”

  I squirmed in my chair and said: “Suicide.”

  The Old Man smiled at me, politely but skeptically.

  “I don’t like it either,” I grumbled. “And I’m not ready to write it in a report yet. But that’s the only total that what we’ve got will add up to. That fly paper was hidden behind the kitchen stove. Nobody would be crazy enough to try to hide something from a woman in her own kitchen like that. But the woman might hide it there.

  “According to Peggy, Holy Joe had the fly paper. If Sue hid it, she got it from him. For what? They were planning to go away together, and were only waiting till Joe, who was on the nut, raised enough dough. Maybe they were afraid of Babe, and had the poison there to slip him if he tumbled to their plan before they went. Maybe they meant to slip it to him before they went anyway.

  “When I started talking to Holy Joe about murder, he thought Babe was the one who had been bumped off. He was surprised, maybe, but as if he was surprised that it had happened so soon. He was more surprised when he heard that Sue had died too, but even then he wasn’t so surprised as when he saw McCloor alive at the window.

  “She died cursing Holy Joe, and she knew she was poisoned, and she wouldn’t let McCloor get a doctor. Can’t that mean that she had turned against Joe, and had taken the poison herself instead of feeding it to Babe? The poison was hidden from Babe. But even if he found it, I can’t figure him as a poisoner. He’s too rough. Unless he caught her trying to poison him and made her swallow the stuff. But that doesn’t account for the month-old arsenic in her hair.”

  “Does your suicide hypothesis take care of that?” the Old Man asked.

  “It could,” I said. “Don’t be kicking holes in my theory. It’s got enough as it stands. But, if she committed suicide this time, there’s no reason why she couldn’t have tried it once before—say after a quarrel with Joe a month ago—and failed to bring it off. That would have put the arsenic in her. There’s no real proof that she took any between a month ago and day before yesterday.”

  “No real proof,” the Old Man protested mildly, “except the autopsy’s finding—chronic poisoning.”

  I was never one to let experts’ guesses stand in my way. I said:

  “They base that on the small amount of arsenic they found in her remains—less than a fatal dose. And the amount they find in your stomach after you’re dead depends on how much you vomit before you die.”

  The Old Man smiled benevolently at me and asked:

  “But you’re not, you say, ready to write this theory into a report? Meanwhile what do you purpose doing?”

  “If there’s nothing else on tap, I’m going home, fumigate my brains with Fatimas, and try to get this thing straightened out in my head. I think I’ll get a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo and run through it. I haven’t read it since I was a kid. It looks like the book was wrapped up with the fly paper to make a bundle large enough to wedge tightly between the wall and stove, so it wouldn’t fall down. But there might be something in the book. I’ll see anyway.”

  “I did that last night,” the Old Man murmured.

  I asked: “And?”

  He took a book from his desk drawer, opened it where a slip of paper marked a place, and held it out to me, one pink finger marking a paragraph.

  “Suppose you were to take a millegramme of this poison the first day, two millegrammes the second day, and so on. Well, at the end of ten days you would have taken a centigramme: at the end of twenty days, increasing another millegramme, you would have taken three hundred centigrammes; that is to say, a dose you would support without inconvenience, and which would be very dangerous for any other person who had not taken the same precautions as yourself. Well, then, at the end of the month, when drinking water from the same carafe, you would kill the person who had drunk this water, without your perceiving otherwise than from slight inconvenience that there was any poisonous substance mingled with the water.”

  “That does it,” I said. “That does it. They were afraid to go away without killing Babe, too certain he’d come after them. She tried to make herself immune from arsenic poisoning by getting her body accustomed to it, taking steadily increasing doses, so when she slipped the big shot in Babe’s food she could eat it with him without danger. She’d be taken sick, but wouldn’t die, and the police couldn’t hang his death on her because she too had eaten the poisoned food.

  “That clicks. After the row Monday night, when she wrote Joe the note urging him to make the getaway soon, she tried to hurry up her immunity, and increased her preparatory doses too quickly, took too large a shot. That’s why she cursed Joe at the end: it was his plan.”

  “Possibly she overdosed herself in an attempt to speed it along,” the Old Man agreed, “but not necessarily. There are people who can cultivate an ability to take large doses of arsenic without trouble, but it seems to be a sort of natural gift with them, a matter of some constitutional peculiarity. Ordinarily, any one who tried it would do what Sue Hambleton did—slowly poison themselves until the cumulative effect was strong enough to cause death.”

  Babe McCloor was hanged, for killing Holy Joe Wales, six months later.

  The Farewell Murder

  Black Mask, February 1930

  The Continental Op is called in to protect a man and runs into plenty grief.

  I

  I was the only one who left the train at Farewell.

  A man came through the rain from the passenger shed. He was a small man. His face was dark and flat. He wore a gray waterproof cap and a gray coat cut in military style.

  He didn’t look at me. He looked at the valise and gladstone bag in my hands. He came forward quickly, walking with short, choppy steps.

  He didn’t say anything when he took the bags from me. I asked:

  “Kavalov’s?”

  He had already turned his back to me and was carrying my bags towards a tan Stutz coach that stood in the roadway beside the gravel station platform. In answer to my question he bowed twice at the Stutz without looking around or checking his jerky half-trot.

  I followed him to the car.

  Three minutes of riding carried us through the village. We took a road that climbed westward into the hills. The road looked like a seal’s back in the rain.

  The flat-faced man was in a hurry. We purred over the road at a speed that soon carried us past the last of the cottages sprinkled up the hillside.

  Presently we left the shiny black road for a paler one curving south to run along a hill’s wooded crest. Now and then this road, for a hundred feet or more at a stretch, was turned into a tunnel by tall trees’ heavily leafed boughs interlocking overhead.

  Rain accumulated in fat drops on the boughs and came down to thump the Stutz’s roof. The dulness of rainy early evening became almost the blackness of night inside these tunnels.

  The flat-faced man switched on the lights, and increased our speed.

  He sat rigidly erect at the wheel. I sat behind him. Above his military collar, among the hairs that were clipped short on the nape of his neck, globules of moisture made tiny shining points. The moisture could have been rain. It could have been sweat.

  We were in the middle of one of the tunnels.

  The flat-faced man’s head jerked to the left, and he screamed:

  “A-a-a-a-a-a!”

  It was a long, quivering, high-pitched bleat, thin with terror.

  I jumped up, bending forward to see what was the matter with him.


  The car swerved and plunged ahead, throwing me back on the seat again.

  Through the side window I caught a one-eyed glimpse of something dark lying in the road.

  I twisted around to try the back window, less rain-bleared.

  I saw a black man lying on his back in the road, near the left edge. His body was arched, as if its weight rested on his heels and the back of his head. A knife handle that couldn’t have been less than six inches long stood straight up in the air from the left side of his chest.

  By the time I had seen this much we had taken a curve and were out of the tunnel.

  “Stop,” I called to the flat-faced man.

  He pretended he didn’t hear me. The Stutz was a tan streak under us. I put a hand on the driver’s shoulder.

  His shoulder squirmed under my hand, and he screamed “A-a-a-a-a!” again as if the dead black man had him.

  I reached past him and shut off the engine.

  He took his hands from the wheel and clawed up at me. Noises came from his mouth, but they didn’t make any words that I knew.

  I got a hand on the wheel. I got my other forearm under his chin. I leaned over the back of his seat so that the weight of my upper body was on his head, mashing it down against the wheel.

  Between this and that and the help of God, the Stutz hadn’t left the road when it stopped moving.

  I got up off the flat-faced man’s head and asked:

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  He looked at me with white eyes, shivered, and didn’t say anything.

  “Turn it around,” I said. “We’ll go back there.”

  He shook his head from side to side, desperately, and made some more of the mouth-noises that might have been words if I could have understood them.

  “You know who that was?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  “You do,” I growled.

  He shook his head.

  By then I was beginning to suspect that no matter what I said to this fellow I’d get only head-shakes out of him.

  I said:

  “Get away from the wheel, then. I’m going to drive back there.”

  He opened the door and scrambled out.

  “Come back here,” I called.

  He backed away, shaking his head.

  I cursed him, slid in behind the wheel, said, “All right, wait here for me,” and slammed the door.

  He retreated backwards slowly, watching me with scared, whitish eyes while I backed and turned the coach.

  I had to drive back farther than I had expected, something like a mile.

  I didn’t find the black man.

  The tunnel was empty.

  If I had known the exact spot in which he had been lying, I might have been able to find something to show how he had been removed. But I hadn’t had time to pick out a landmark, and now any one of four or five places looked like the spot.

  With the help of the coach’s lamps I went over the left side of the road from one end of the tunnel to the other.

  I didn’t find any blood. I didn’t find any footprints. I didn’t find anything to show that anybody had been lying in the road. I didn’t find anything.

  It was too dark by now for me to try searching the woods.

  I returned to where I had left the flat-faced man.

  He was gone.

  It looked, I thought, as if Mr. Kavalov might be right in thinking he needed a detective.

  II

  Half a mile beyond the place where the flat-faced man had deserted me, I stopped the Stutz in front of a grilled steel gate that blocked the road. The gate was padlocked on the inside. From either side of it tall hedging ran off into the woods. The upper part of a brown-roofed small house was visible over the hedge-top to the left.

  I worked the Stutz’s horn.

  The racket brought a gawky boy of fifteen or sixteen to the other side of the gate. He had on bleached whipcord pants and a wildly striped sweater. He didn’t come out to the middle of the road, but stood at one side, with one arm out of sight as if holding something that was hidden from me by the hedge.

  “This Kavalov’s?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir,” he said uneasily.

  I waited for him to unlock the gate. He didn’t unlock it. He stood there looking uneasily at the car and at me.

  “Please, mister,” I said, “can I come in?”

  “What—who are you?”

  “I’m the guy that Kavalov sent for. If I’m not going to be let in, tell me, so I can catch the six-fifty back to San Francisco.”

  The boy chewed his lip, said, “Wait till I see if I can find the key,” and went out of sight behind the hedge.

  He was gone long enough to have had a talk with somebody.

  When he came back he unlocked the gate, swung it open, and said:

  “It’s all right, sir. They’re expecting you.”

  When I had driven through the gate I could see lights on a hilltop a mile or so ahead and to the left.

  “Is that the house?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir. They’re expecting you.”

  Close to where the boy had stood while talking to me through the gate, a double-barrel shotgun was propped up against the hedge.

  I thanked the boy and drove on. The road wound gently uphill through farm land. Tall, slim trees had been planted at regular intervals on both sides of the road.

  The road brought me at last to the front of a building that looked like a cross between a fort and a factory in the dusk. It was built of concrete. Take a flock of squat cones of various sizes, round off the points bluntly, mash them together with the largest one somewhere near the center, the others grouped around it in not too strict accordance with their sizes, adjust the whole collection to agree with the slopes of a hilltop, and you would have a model of the Kavalov house. The windows were steel-sashed. There weren’t very many of them. No two were in line either vertically or horizontally. Some were lighted.

  As I got out of the car, the narrow front door of this house opened.

  A short, red-faced woman of fifty or so, with faded blonde hair wound around and around her head, came out. She wore a high-necked, tight-sleeved, gray woolen dress. When she smiled her mouth seemed wide as her hips.

  She said:

  “You’re the gentleman from the city?”

  “Yeah. I lost your chauffeur somewhere back on the road.”

  “Lord bless you,” she said amiably, “that’s all right.”

  A thin man with thin dark hair plastered down above a thin, worried face came past her to take my bags when I had lifted them out of the car. He carried them indoors.

  The woman stood aside for me to enter, saying:

  “Now I suppose you’ll want to wash up a little bit before you go in to dinner, and they won’t mind waiting for you the few minutes you’ll take if you hurry.”

  I said, “Yeah, thanks,” waited for her to get ahead of me again, and followed her up a curving flight of stairs that climbed along the inside of one of the cones that made up the building.

  She took me to a second-story bedroom where the thin man was unpacking my bags.

  “Martin will get you anything you need,” she assured me from the doorway, “and when you’re ready, just come on downstairs.”

  I said I would, and she went away. The thin man had finished unpacking by the time I had got out of coat, vest, collar and shirt. I told him there wasn’t anything else I needed, washed up in the adjoining bathroom, put on a fresh shirt and collar, my vest and coat, and went downstairs.

  The wide hall was empty. Voices came through an open doorway to the left.

  One voice was a nasal whine. It complained:

  “I will not have it. I will not put up with it. I am not a child, and I will not have it.” br />
  This voice’s t’s were a little too thick for t’s, but not thick enough to be d’s.

  Another voice was a lively, but slightly harsh, barytone. It said cheerfully:

  “What’s the good of saying we won’t put up with it, when we are putting up with it?”

  The third voice was feminine, a soft voice, but flat and spiritless. It said:

  “But perhaps he did kill him.”

  The whining voice said: “I do not care. I will not have it.”

  The barytone voice said, cheerfully as before: “Oh, won’t you?”

  A doorknob turned farther down the hall. I didn’t want to be caught standing there listening. I advanced to the open doorway.

  III

  I was in the doorway of a low-ceilinged oval room furnished and decorated in gray, white and silver. Two men and a woman were there.

  The older man—he was somewhere in his fifties—got up from a deep gray chair and bowed ceremoniously at me. He was a plump man of medium height, completely bald, dark-skinned and pale-eyed. He wore a wax-pointed gray mustache and a straggly gray imperial.

  “Mr. Kavalov?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir.” His was the whining voice.

  I told him who I was. He shook my hand and then introduced me to the others.

  The woman was his daughter. She was probably thirty. She had her father’s narrow, full-lipped mouth, but her eyes were dark, her nose was short and straight, and her skin was almost colorless. Her face had Asia in it. It was pretty, passive, unintelligent.

  The man with the barytone voice was her husband. His name was Ringgo. He was six or seven years older than his wife, neither tall nor heavy, but well setup. His left arm was in splints and a sling. The knuckles of his right hand were darkly bruised. He had a lean, bony, quick-witted face, bright dark eyes with plenty of lines around them, and a good-natured hard mouth.

  He gave me his bruised hand, wriggled his bandaged arm at me, grinned, and said:

  “I’m sorry you missed this, but the future injuries are yours.”

  “How did it happen?” I asked.

  Kavalov raised a plump hand.

  “Time enough it is to go into that when we have eaten,” he said. “Let us have our dinner first.”