The Mammoth Book of Roaring Twenties Whodunnits Page 39

  That sounded right to Ruby, but she ventured to ask, “When will you arrest Harold? I’ll have to pack something for him, you see.”

  “We’ll let you know,” he replied gravely. “It’ll be out of my hands, Mrs Smart.” Greatly relieved, Ruby had her tea and left. After all, Harold knew she was coming here, so she wasn’t worried about getting home quickly – even though she suddenly realized it was Tuesday and she’d forgotten to cancel Cyril’s visit. Harold must have been at work, though, and even if he were home early Cyril would have thought up some excuse. When she got back home, Harold was indeed there, however. He was watering the tomatoes. A keen gardener, was Harold.

  “I’ve done it,” she announced, just a little uncertain of her reception.

  “Oh good. By the way, Ruby, I’ve put a little memento from New York for you in the spare room.”

  She flew upstairs, half expecting to find Rudolph’s dead body, maybe even something personal to him. Heart aflame, she could see just a single red rose, very withered – as one would expect if Rudolph had handed it to Harold two or three weeks ago. Underneath, however, was a little note from Harold:

  “Ha, ha, I was joking, Ruby.”

  She didn’t know whether to be furious or relieved. She decided on fury for tonight and then she’d relent tomorrow.

  The next morning she duly relented. First of all, she’d found the receipts from his hotel while he’d been away, and that had been in York, not America. So it was a joke, although one in very poor taste. Never mind. Perhaps since he was disappointed yesterday, her very own Rudolph in the form of Cyril would come this afternoon instead. After all, she and Gladys had agreed Valentino was immortal, and so she could mourn him through Cyril. That’s what Gladys was going to do, anyway. Strangely, no milk had been delivered that morning. It didn’t arrive until lunchtime, and was then delivered by a new unknown milkman. “Where’s our usual man?” Ruby asked, trying to sound as if she didn’t care.

  “Don’t know, missis. Didn’t turn up for work.”

  Now that was unlike Cyril. Perhaps he was ill, she thought, although he had certainly been in the pink of health last week. He’d danced the tango with her, she swathed in a sheet, he bare-chested. It was a preliminary to a most exciting sequel, when he steered her to the divan, whipped off her sheet, and proceeded to treat her very masterfully indeed.

  “What’s up, Ruby?” asked Harold, who had belatedly told her he had the week off.

  “Our milkman’s ill,” Ruby said, trying not to go pink.

  “He’s getting quite a reputation round here,” Harold observed.

  “For not delivering milk?”

  “With the ladies. So Frank says.”

  Ruby was instantly alert. “I haven’t heard.”

  “You wouldn’t.” Harold replied darkly. “Wouldn’t be surprised if some jealous husband hadn’t done him in.”

  No milk? Frank involved? Ruby couldn’t wait for Harold to go out so she could run round to Gladys’s. At last, he went, and the minute Gladys saw Ruby she burst into tears.

  “Rudolph’s dead,” she moaned.

  “Well, I know that, Glad. It’s awful but Rudolph’s in heaven now.”

  “Not him. Our Valentino. Cyril.”

  “Cyril?” Ruby went white. What was this all about?

  “Strangled with a stocking, he was,” Gladys continued. “Found in the woods at Shooter’s Hill.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Ruby gasped. “Not Cyril.”

  Even as she said it, though, she thought of Harold being alone in the house when Cyril would have called yesterday. Thought of what Harold had said about jealous husbands, and wondered if by any terrible chance Harold knew about Cyril somehow. But how could he? They’d been so careful, she and Gladys. There was no doubt there was something odd about Harold yesterday though. Yet how would Harold have got the body to Shooter’s Hill? Almost instantly she realised how he could have managed it. Behind The Cedars was a back alleyway which the dustmen used. Cyril used to leave his horse and cart there out of sight when he called as Valentino. All Harold would have had to do was hide the body amongst the churns and bottles, put Cyril’s cap and big apron on and drive off. He liked driving horses and carts. He’d told her once it all came of having an auntie who lived out Dartford way in the country.

  Ruby’s imagination worked overtime.

  “What kind of stocking was it?” she blurted out the question without thinking how odd this sounded.

  “How would I know?” Gladys shrugged.

  When Harold came back with the evening papers, it was all over the front cover. “That’s our milkman,” she said to him, as he hung up his coat and handed it to her to read.

  “That’s right,” Harold said in his jolly tone.

  “It says he was strangled with a silk stocking.”

  “Two, actually.”

  “Two?” Ruby wailed. “How do you know?”

  “One stocking is strong, so I tell my ladies,” Harold carefully explained. “But it’s not that strong. Our milkman was a big man, Ruby. Bigger than Valentino. But then you’d know that, wouldn’t you?”

  Ruby couldn’t speak for fear at first, then she managed to say, “What can you mean, Harold?”

  “I said some jealous husband probably did him in. It was me. I’ve been jealous of him for some time. He would keep leaving his blessed turban in the spare room. I couldn’t stand it, Ruby. I was joking about the first Valentino, but I decided to murder this one for real. I got the idea in York. There was an American newspaperman in the hotel who got all the details about Valentino’s death, more than the papers here carried. So I decided to act. Do you know, Ruby, I believe I’m becoming very masterful indeed.”

  Ruby let out one long wail, as Harold went on to describe exactly how he’d killed Cyril Tucker and how he’d got the body to Shooter’s Hill – just the way she’d thought. He even considerately described a birthmark on Cyril’s chest for her, just in case she should be in any doubt.

  “I suppose you’ll have to tell the police, otherwise they’ll suspect all the other husbands around here,” Harold said, using his jolly voice again.

  “All?” Ruby repeated faintly.

  “Oh yes. Our Rudolph was quite a Casanova. Quite a Valentino in fact. He had a day for each of you. You weren’t the only one. I wonder what you’ll all do now?”

  Ruby suddenly found her voice. “I’m going to tell on you. You killed my very own Rudolph.”

  “I’m glad you believe me, Ruby. I did bring his Monsieur Beaucaire wig with me to convince you. I found it in the cart.”

  Ruby screamed. Sobbing, she ran from the room. She had to get back to Scotland Yard to tell them the terrible truth. She didn’t even stop to put her best dress on this time, and she ran all the way from Charing Cross to the Embankment. She was quite out of breath by the time she finally panted up to the front desk.

  “It’s me again, Mrs Ruby Smart,” she told the man.

  He grinned at her. “I’ll take your statement, madam.”

  “No, I must see the policeman I saw yesterday.”

  She had to wait some time on this occasion, and when he appeared she wasn’t taken to another room, but had to tell him the awful truth then and there.

  “My husband did it. Rudolph Valentino, no, I mean the milkman in the woods. He’s Valentino. My husband murdered him.” She saw the disbelieving look in his eyes, and struggled on desperately. “It was really Cyril Tucker, well you know that, but we call him Rudolph Valentino, and my husband—”

  “Now, Mrs Smart, we’ve already arrested a man in connection with that. Frank Perkins, I think he lives further up your street.”

  “Frank? But he didn’t, he couldn’t. Oh no, you’ve got it all wrong.”

  “We had good reason to arrest him, Mrs Smart. You’ll see it all in the papers tomorrow no doubt, so I’ll tell you. He had all the Valentino kit in his study, poor fellow. Wigs, turbans, whips. Round the bend with jealousy. So you go home and have a n
ice cup of tea, Mrs Smart.”

  She wasn’t even entitled to receive one here today. Frank couldn’t possibly have been involved. It was obvious Harold was trying to blame it on Frank and now they weren’t even listening to her, and Harold would go scot free. Perhaps it was all a joke. Perhaps Frank really had done it, but somehow she knew that couldn’t be true. Anyway, she’d done her best, and it wasn’t her fault they wouldn’t listen. She put her key in the lock and turned it. As she kicked off her shoes inside so as not to dirty the desert-coloured carpet (her choice), she could hear voices from upstairs which was odd. And odd sounds too. Thumps and giggles.

  Coming from the Room of Araby.

  Indignant and terrified at the same time, she raced up the stairs, as she heard the grating sound: “Lie still, you little fool.”

  It must be one of her gramophone records. It must be. Heart pounding she threw open the door.

  Rudolph Valentino in sheikh’s outfit, minus the top half, but including a whip, didn’t even look up. Below him Lady Diana Mayo sighed in ecstasy. Gladys had found another sheikh.

  “Harold! What are you doing?” Ruby moaned.

  Harold grinned before he turned back to his captive:

  “Are you not woman enough to know?”

  Skip

  EDWARD MARSTON

  You may have already noticed that boxing has been a recurrent theme in several of the stories, and in a few more to come. It takes centre stage in this story. World champion boxers became amongst the first superstars in the 1920s. The match between Gene Tunney and Jack Dempsey on 23 September 1926, brought in the largest ever crowd for a championship fight. What better place for a whodunnit.

  Keith Miles, who writes as Edward Marston and, for that matter, as Conrad Allen, Martin Inigo and Christopher Mountjoy, has written many historical novels, perhaps the best known being the Domesday Book series which began with The Wolves of Savernake (1993). His architectural mysteries, featuring Merlin Richard, are set somewhat closer to the 1920s and include Perspective (1997) and Saint’s Rest (1999).

  Philadelphia, 1926

  When the cops arrived at the scene, there wasn’t much left of the body. If you choose a locomotive as your murder weapon, you can rely on it to do the job properly. Most times, they bring a coffin to carry away the corpse. All they needed on this occasion was a sack. It was one of the worst crimes ever perpetrated in Philly. Who on earth could do such a thing?

  I never met a guy who was as smart as Skip Halio. He had a mind like a razor and a tongue that could talk a bird out of a tree. Skip didn’t get either of them things out of book learning. No, sir. He hated school like the plague. Got expelled at least three times for activities that were not considered to be either scholarly or, for that matter, entirely wholesome. At least, that’s the way Skip tells it and he’s the sort of man who somehow makes you believe him. For a time, anyway.

  His real name was Elmer Duane Halio but everyone called him Skip. I thought it was because of his walk – a funny, skipping action on tiptoe – but that wasn’t the reason at all. Skip was a gambler who worked exclusive in the field of sport. He’d take bets on anything. Usually, he made a profit. When he didn’t, and when angry punters were demanding their winnings, Skip just skipped town. Apart from a wad of money, the most important thing in his pocket was a railroad timetable.

  As I was driving him in my cab that morning, he talked freely. You can learn a lot about a guy on a long journey. I’m a good listener. I find that I get bigger tips that way.

  “Always know how soon you can beat it from a place,” he told me. “Choose a hotel near the station in case you wear out your welcome. When you have to skip – skip fast!”

  “I’ll remember that,” I said.

  “The thing is, Walter – I’m telling you this as a friend – that you can always go back in the fullness of time. Get me? Tempers cool, memories fade. At the racetrack in Saratoga, I was making big bucks by offering the kind of odds that a betting man just can’t refuse. One day,” admitted Skip, pulling on his cigar, “an outsider comes in at 100-1 and I don’t have enough dough to meet my commitments. So what did I do? I skipped town. I high-tailed it out of there with a dozen guys baying at my heels. Coupla years later – listen to this, Walt – I go back there, wearing a new suit and a new mustache and not a soul recognizes me. That means I can work Saratoga once more.”

  “So what are you doing in Philly?”

  He laughed. “You need to ask a question like that?”

  “Ain’t no races on this week, Skip.”

  “There’s something far better than a string of horses pounding their way round a track, Walter. Two men, filled with ambition and darkness, thirsting for blood, ready to kill each other.”

  “The big fight,” I said, catching his drift. “Dempsey versus Tunney.”

  “That’s it, my friend,” he agreed, stretching forward to slap me on the shoulder. “William Harrison Dempsey, Heavyweight Champion of the World, against James Joseph Tunney, the challenger.”

  “I thought it was Jack Dempsey versus Gene Tunney.”

  “Those are just the names they fight under.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Though Dempsey is also called the Manassas Mauler.”

  “What do they call Tunney?”

  “Ask me after the fight.”

  “Who’s going to win?”

  “I am,” he said, flashing me that grin of his. “I am, Walter.”

  Skip’s confidence was amazing. It sort of oozed out of him. You could see it in the way he dressed, hear it in the way he talked. When he came into a room full of strangers, he skipped in like he owned the place. Within minutes, he’d be on first-name terms with just about everyone. But it was when it came to women that Skip was really in his element. Don’t ask me what his appeal was. All I know is that it worked.

  I mean, it’s not as if he was handsome. He was short and fat with one of those squashed tomato faces that make you feel sorry for the guy. Then you’d notice the suit he was wearing, and the rings on his fingers, and that huge gold watch he liked to fish out of his waistcoat pocket. You’d smell the smoke from his Havana cigar and know you were in the presence of money. Okay, he was flashy. He liked to brag. Skip Halio had the air of a veteran carpetbagger. But women – some women – fall for that kind of thing.

  Millie Eberhart was one of them. She worked at the hotel.

  “What time d’you get off, Millie?” said Skip.

  “Why’re you asking me that, Mr Halio?”

  “I told you – call me Skip.”

  “We’re not allowed to get too friendly with the guests.”

  “So what’re you gonna do – punch me on the nose instead?”

  Millie giggled. She had a wonderful giggle. Her face lit up, her head was tossed back and those two big, round, succulent breasts of hers bobbed up and down for the best part of a minute. Skip couldn’t take his eyes off them. Leaning across the bar counter, he lowered his voice to a seductive whisper.

  “You on duty this evening, Millie?” he said.

  “No, Mr Halio.”

  “That mean you’re open to offers?”

  “I’m afraid not, Mr Halio.”

  “Ah,” he went on, noting her tone of regret, “in other words, you wish that you did have some free time. That correct?”

  “I’m not saying.”

  “Hey – don’t be coy with me, honey. There’s only two of us here.”

  “I know, but I’m supposed to be working.”

  “Entertaining a guest is working, Millie. And you sure as hell are entertaining me. I just hate to think that the most exciting thing that’s gonna happen to you today is to serve me a glass of lemonade.”

  Millie Eberhard was a full-figured woman in her late twenties, one of those pretty gals who can look almost beautiful when you see them, in a flattering light, all gussied up. She’d been working behind that bar for over five years now and was used to customers trying to hit on her. Most of the time,
she pretended that she didn’t even hear their brash propositions or their sly innuendoes. Millie had certainly never taken up any of the invitations that routinely came her way. She had standards. Until, that is, Skip Halio turned on his charm.

  “I’m new in town,” he explained, beaming at her. “All I need is a guide, for a couple of hours, to show me the sights of Philly.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr Halio. I can’t help you.”

  “Would you like to, Millie?”

  “I don’t think I should answer that, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m married.”

  “So am I,” he said, pointing to one of the rings on his left hand. “That means it’s perfectly safe. We pick up a cab, hit a few nightclubs then I deliver you back to your husband without a fingerprint on you. Where’s the harm in that?”

  “It won’t work, Mr Halio.”

  “How do you know if you don’t try it?”

  “I’ve got plans for tonight.”

  “Then how about tomorrow?”

  “Look, Mr Halio—”

  “Millie,” he interrupted, putting a gentle hand on her arm, “don’t be frightened of me. I’m not suggesting that we run off and commit bigamy. You’re happily married and so am I. All I want is the pleasure of your company for a while. You’re my type. I could tell it at a glance. “Come on,” he said, squeezing her arm softly. “Gimme a chance, will you? What can you lose?” He released her arm. “Or, to put it another way, when was the last time a guy was ready to buy you a meal for a hundred bucks?”

  Millie’s eyes widened in surprise. Nobody had ever spent that kind of dough on her. She lived in a world where a two-dollar tip was the most she could expect. Yet someone was prepared to lay out fifty times that amount to show his appreciation of her. Millie was tempted. Skip Halio clearly had money to burn.

  “Think it over,” he suggested.