He and a girl had been in the club several hours. I was waiting down at the corner, as usual, when I saw Humphries hurry out of the entrance by himself. Grabbing a cab, he took off in a direction opposite to the one I was parked. His cab swung around the corner and disappeared, and by the time I reached the intersection, it was out of sight. I returned to my original location and waited. In less than half an hour, Humphries re-entered the club.

  I could figure it out from there. The recurring patterns of clubs, and drunken girls. Humphries would get his companion high, excuse himself from the table, make his contact with the printer, and return. The girl, in her drunken condition, wouldn’t know if he had been gone three minutes or thirty and would always be able to give him an alibi for the evening.

  After that, I watched the backs or side entrances of the different clubs, and invariably Humphries would show up. He’d take a cab, and I would follow him. Driving for only a few minutes, and stopping in front of a drugstore or a restaurant… any place… and with the cab waiting, Humphries would walk in—and in a moment be out again. Back in the cab. Back in the club! It was that simple, and he never went near the printing plant.

  I decided that sometime during the day, Humphries would call the printer and tell him the club he was going to attend during the evening. They’d arrange to meet at a place near the club, and the printer would slip Humphries the money as he walked past. I never saw the actual transaction, or the printer either, because of the danger in following Humphries too closely, and being recognized. After watching Humphries perform the cab and pickup routine a number of times, for caution’s sake I stopped following him entirely.

  It was with a degree of sardonic pleasure that I realized Humphries wasn’t getting any real enjoyment out of his life. He worked hard during the day passing the queer money to pay the cost of running the house, and the salaries connected with it. And always he was working under the pressure and tension of possible discovery. Every night, he was back at a bistro, getting a floosie drunk, setting up an alibi, and contacting the printer. He had no opportunity to make friends or relax—except in drinking. Humphries was on a treadmill, running hard and fast in the same place just to keep even. Of course, he spent much money on clothes and personal jewelry, but after all where are the kicks—if only paid prostitutes and your valet can admire them?

  Over the Fourth of July holiday, Humphries announced that he was going up to a lodge near Bear Mountain for a few days. I had to drive him up, and we edged our way in bumper-to-bumper traffic out of New York, cutting across the short slice of New Jersey, and then angling back into New York State again. During the drive, Humphries pulled a notebook from his pocket, scribbled on it, and handing me the piece of paper, drawled, “I’ll call you to come fetch me… when I’m ready to leave. If anything comes up around the house, you phone me. Hear?” He indicated the paper. “That there’s the number for up here.”

  “What might come up, sir?”

  Suddenly irritable, he climbed out of the car impatiently, and I followed him carrying his luggage. “How’d I know what might come up? But if anything does, call me.

  “Yes, sir,” I assured him. Back in the car, I examined the note. Humphries had scrawled on it: “Reddick… Bear mt. 8500.” Bear Mountain 8500 was the number of the lodge. He had written it across a small sheet of blue-lined paper—and I deliberately tore it across one edge. When I had finished, it read: “Reddick… mt. 8500.” I carefully placed the paper in my pocket.

  Returning to the city, I stopped at Duval’s… a magicians’ supply house on Eighth Avenue near Forty-fourth Street. Like all professional magicians’ shops, it is located on the second floor of a building… to prevent nonprofessional trade from wandering in off the street. These places specialize in making up highly complicated productions and sell only a few great effects a year, although they also carry a stock of all the standard stage props. A little guy named Harry Lohr has always operated Duval’s as far back as most magicians can remember, and I have regularly bought my mechanical stuff from him. In most of these shops, good regular customers are permitted to store their props… when they’re not using them, or are out on the road… and the stores will keep them in good condition. When I had moved into Humphries’ place, I had delivered my big theatrical trunk to Duval’s, to hold for me. The store is open until late at night as many of its customers do not come in until evening. I slipped my glasses in my pocket, and kept my lip down over my missing tooth. When I walked in, Harry said, “How’s the mechanic, Lew? You look different, kid.”

  “Just younger! I shaved off my lip-wig so I can practice catching that bullet in my teeth,” I told him. This was a standard joke between the two of us. Some years back, an inventor had come up with a composition that disintegrated completely after passing through a quarter-inch pane of glass. A pellet made of the substance would pass through the glass, leaving a nice round hole, and then it disappeared without leaving any traces. A magician, with an authentic lead bullet concealed in his mouth, could create the illusion of catching the real bullet in his teeth, after a gun had fired it through the glass. It was a really great piece of business. The fellow who invented it sold the idea to Harry. Harry bought a supply of the stuff and showed it to me. I went for it. While I was rehearsing the act… building it up as a topper… I ran out of the material with which to make the composition, imitation bullets. Harry called the phone number the inventor had left but the guy had moved away. We couldn’t locate him, and we never saw him again… and neither did anyone else. Because no one ever did the act. “Where do you have my trunk stored?” I asked.

  “Third room back,” Harry directed. “You can find your own way.”

  Passing through rooms filled with loaded shelves, built-in bins, costumes, masks, and a half century of collecting all the instruments of miracle-making, I arrived in a dark bare room, containing half a dozen large, metal-reinforced trunks. I had no difficulty recognizing mine. From it, I extracted a thick packet of stage money… not the ordinary green and orange fake stuff which you see in novelty stores, but a reasonable facsimile of real money both as to size and color. Naturally, the stage money was covered with “goon” writing… doubletalk words… and fake portraits. It could never be passed as real money, but magicians substitute the bills when they pretend to tear up a genuine five-dollar bill before the audience’s eyes. From a short distance, it is difficult to detect a difference between the two. My trunk was crammed with a hundred other props, and finally I managed to get it closed and locked again.

  Back in my room at the top of the house, I wrapped genuine one-hundred dollar bills of my own money, and a number of legitimate fifties around the roll of stage money. I had a wad of dough that would have impressed even a bank!

  The following night I took Mary Deems out to a movie and to dinner. She was a nice person who didn’t go out very often and was very anxious to be pleasant. Carefully, she ordered the less expensive items on the menu; my plans, however, called for me to flash my roll of bills and play the lout. I did, and the sight of the money hit her, hard. That was what I wanted.

  Humphries had been away three days when on the morning of the fourth, I read a small item on page nine of the morning paper. The story said a man identified as Adrian Magarian, proprietor of the Inland Printing Shop, had been found murdered in his office. From what I read, the printing shop was just a small place located near Canal Street, and the police regarded it as another hold-up killing. Magarian had been struck down and killed by a blow on his head, and his shop had been ransacked. Judging by the position and briefness of the story, it was evident that Magarian wasn’t very important.

  I decided that the police hadn’t found Humphries’ counterfeit plates, or the story would have been page one! I wondered if Humphries had killed him… or had someone else killed and robbed Magarian. I was inclined to believe it was Humphries; it followed his pattern… no guns, no knives. Anyway, I decided to see what kind of reaction I could raise from him, so I called Bear Mountain 8500… the number he had given me. When he got on the phone I said, “Sir, I don’t know if this is important, but I thought I’d better call.”

  “Yes. What is it?” It seemed to me his drawl sounded a little forced.

  “Well,” I told him, “some man just called the house and asked for you. I said you were out of town. Then he wanted to know if I could put him in touch with someone named Magarian.”

  “Who?”

  “Magarian.”

  There was a long pause. “Never heard of him,” Humphries finally remarked. “Who was it called?”

  “I don’t know. He wouldn’t leave his name.”

  “Is he going to call back?” Humphries attempted to sound indifferent.

  “He didn’t say.”

  After a moment, Humphries said slowly, suspiciously, “How come you called me?”

  “You said to call if anything happened…”

  “Well? What has happened?”

  “Nothing,” I admitted brightly, “except this guy… man called. I thought maybe it might be important.”

  “Well, ’tisn’t,” said Humphries, back in his old characteristic drawl again. “Incidentally,” he added, casually, “I’m getting mighty tired of sticking around this here place. Ain’t stepped a foot outside the door since I been here; guess maybe you better mosey up and get me… this afternoon.”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied. I didn’t mention the item in the paper to Humphries… then or later… and he never said a word about it to me. However, I could never shake the conviction that Humphries had used his trip to Bear Mountain as an alibi, to slip back to New York to knock off Magarian. The facts were that Magarian was dead and, as I soon discovered, Humphries still had the plates.

  That Humphries had known Magarian, and also knew that he was now dead, was proven by his acts of omission. For several weeks, until after the first of August, Humphries made no more sorties into the saloons and bistros. Then, abruptly, he began the old routine of sneaking out of the clubs at night, and I knew that he had found another printer.

  In the meantime, I was still developing my own plans. As a motive for Isham Reddick to kill Humphries, I selected the motive of blackmail… with a reverse twist. Usually, it is the blackmailer who is killed, and not the victim. I would reverse the plot; as the blackmailer I would kill my golden goose. The cops would figure that I had pushed my victim to the end of his endurance, and to prevent him from turning me in—I had killed him. Flashing my roll of bills around the house, at every opportunity, I dropped hints and insinuations regarding the source of my wealth. Deliberately, I went out of my way to lend the caretaker… a prying ass of a man… money. To make the story better, I doctored up an envelope, with a list of fantastic figures including the number 8500… and arranged for Lightbody to get it. I hoped it would give him something to remember… and to talk about… when the time came.

  Although my three thousand dollars were dwindling fast, it was imperative that I make my story convincing. The cops had to believe that I had taken Humphries for a big bank roll, and had spent it like a profligate. Making certain to leave a wide and easily followed path, I bought a solid gold wrist watch, jewelry, suits, sport equipment, and about everything else I could conceive; I couldn’t be positive that the police would dig up all the purchases, but I knew they would trace some of them.

  At one point, I nearly made a serious error. It was imperative I have a complete set of teeth the day I walked out of Humphries’ house after killing him. The cops would be looking for a man with a tooth missing. Somewhere I had misplaced my tooth with the removable bridge. I couldn’t remember seeing it since I had moved to East Eighty-ninth Street, and I couldn’t find it. Consequently, I had to have another made. I realized the dentist might remember making one, and possibly inform the police. This would change their broadcast description of me, but I decided that it would take him several days to notify the police, and that would be enough of a start for me.

  I called a dentist named Boss and went to see him. Attempting to remain as inconspicuous as possible, I stayed within the role of Isham Reddick—poor, hardworking chauffeur. Knowing that I would have to give an address and telephone number to his office, I was afraid to use a fictitious name in case Boss should call me to cancel an appointment. If he should become suspicious of me, he might remember me that much more quickly. He made me another tooth.

  There was still a decision to be made concerning the method by which to kill Humphries. I had been so busy painting in my protective coloring that I continually postponed reaching a conclusion. Deciding, finally, that the best plan would be to strike when we were out of town, I determined to strip the body of identification and conceal it where it might remain undetected for a few days. This would give me even more time in which to disappear. Humphries, however, remained in town.

  Shortly after the first of November, I began suggesting he take another short vacation, hoping that I might arouse some restlessness within him. Indirectly, I recommended a trip to Virginia, but he refused to rise to the bait. With each day, he seemed to become more taciturn and moody. When I had first found him, Humphries had been loud, blustery, and partly drunk most of the time. Since his return from Bear Mountain, in July, he had begun a slow deterioration. Possibly the idea that someone knew about his connection with Magarian worried him; or perhaps the strain of passing the queer, day after day, was wearing him down. The veneer of the open-handed Texan was getting very thin; occasionally his drawl would slip; and he took less interest in his appearance.

  There was a certain satisfaction in watching Humphries break up, and because of this satisfaction, I continued to procrastinate. The idea that I should get him out of town, although a sound one, was based, subconsciously perhaps, on a premise to help postpone my final action. There were plenty of opportunities for me to walk into his bedroom at night, and simply put a bullet through his head.

  But the decision was finally forced on me!

  Humphries forced it himself. On the morning of November twentieth, he arose with his usual terrific hangover. The night before, at the club, he had been absent longer than usual, over an hour. When he returned, he had been carrying a very heavy package wrapped in brown paper, and securely tied. The girl he had with him had noticed his departure from the table, and they had argued about it in the car. Angrily, he had me stop and send her off in a cab.

  Sitting on the side of his bed, eating aspirin, and sipping a pick-me-up, Humphries said, “Reddick, I’ve got some sad news. I’ve decided to close up this here house and haul stakes back to Texas.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I replied. Recalling the tightly wrapped package of the night before, I knew Humphries had secured the return of the plates. Possibly he felt that he had run his luck too long in New York, or perhaps he had printing troubles again. Either way, he was folding up.

  “Yes,” he said, “I’m going back. I’m planning to leave in a week. That’s not much notice, but I’ll pay yore wages for an extra week.”

  “What about Deems?” I asked.

  “She’ll stay on for the owner’s family to keep the house open.” For a moment, he whirled the liquor around in the glass, watching it intently, and not meeting my eyes. Finally, he said, “I’d… shore… appreciate it, if you didn’t mention it until I’m ready to tell her myself…”

  That was it. Humphries was planning to take a runout powder and skip out from under his lease. He was afraid that Mary Deems might notify the owners. Momentarily, I couldn’t understand why he had told me, and then I realized it was because of the car. Humphries was a wretched driver, and he needed me to sell the auto. “Yes, sir,” I agreed, “I won’t say anything about it.”

  That afternoon, I went down to buy a ticket for France… an airline ticket. I now planned to kill Humphries the night of November twenty-third. When the police discovered that Isham Reddick had bought a ticket for Paris, the news would confuse them for a day or two. Particularly, as I had not applied for a passport, the authorities would have no record, and they could not be sure… without detailed checking… that I hadn’t slipped through under another name.

  The next day, November twenty-first, I went through the motions of looking for someone to buy the car… driving it around to several car dealers… and repeating to Humphries the offers I had received. On the morning of November twenty-second, Humphries arose… earlier than usual… and sober for a change. He told me that he would be downtown all day, and wouldn’t be home until late that night. I drove him down to Fifty-seventh Street and Fifth Avenue, where he got off in front of a bank. That evening, around dinner time, I pretended I had received a call from Humphries and told Mary Deems that she could have the night off, as well as the entire next day. She was very happy to go visit her mother who lived in St. Albans. I also notified the Lightbodys.

  Mary Deems left the house around seven o’clock in the evening. At eight, I drove downtown and stopped for a sandwich; then I went over to Duval’s. From my trunk I took a snub-nosed .32, a pistol which I had used while rehearsing the “catching-a-bullet-in-my-teeth” routine. On my way out, I asked Harry, “Do you have any bullets?”

  “Blanks?” he asked.

  “No, regular ones.” I held up the revolver and forced a grin. “Remember this? I have another idea.”

  “Be careful, Lew. Don’t forget that guy who got killed on the stage in London.”

  “Sure,” I told him. “I just have an idea… for a shot-in-a-pillow illusion. I need some shells.”

  “I think I got some here, someplace,” replied Harry. He began rummaging through the shelves, and eventually came up with a partly filled box of .32’s. “Will these do?” he asked.

  Shoving one into the chamber, I said, “Sure, they’ll do great. How much?”

  “Take the box,” Harry said. “Nobody else wants ’em.”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21