fun, part 3

by harold p sternhagen writing as "ralph desmond"

as originally appearing in the july-august 1951 issue of sinister destinies magazine

illustrated by konrad kraus and roy dismas

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

for previous episode of "fun" , click here

to begin "fun", click here

in our previous chapters, we met jerry and roselle winfield, socialites and slummers extraordinaire. on a lazy afternoon, roselle has attempted to take slumming to a new level by enticing the drifter "humphey p strawfeather" to murder jerry. * the man who had called himself "humphrey p strawfeather" stared at the woman who had just treated him to the best meal he had had in a week, and then told him she wanted him to murder her husband. "i don't believe you, " he told her. "no? why not?" "it don't make no sense. you don't even know me." "and you don't know me. that's the point. the less you know about me, the less you can tell the police. and if i tried to ask one of my friends to help me - well. i ask you, would that be any way to treat a friend? to ask them to maybe get into trouble for me? do i look like that sort of person?" humphrey stated at her. "you know, lady, even though you got all sorts of dough, i bet you don't really have a lot of friends." "ha, ha! you may be right. i don't have any friends who would run through the proverbial brick wall for me if that is what you mean." she took a pack of herbert tareyton cigarettes and a ronson cigarette lighter out of her purse. "but's that not really here or there, is it? " "what's here or there is whether you're serious. and if you are serious, why you picked me." "well, what would you have me do? go to the better business bureau and ask them to recommend someone?" she lit her cigarette, and blew a smoke ring. "yeah, but why me?" "why not you? i like your looks." humphrey laughed. "yeah, sure you do." "ha, ha! i mean, i like your looks for what i am proposing. would you like one of my cigarettes? i see you looking at the pack like a hungry wolf." "yeah, thanks. i'm out myself." he took a cigarette and she lit it for him with the ronson. "you see, humphrey, as soon as i saw you, i thought, that's the man for what i have in mind. you have killed people, humphrey, haven't you?" humphrey was a bit startled. "well, uh, a lot of guys have killed people. in the war and all." "that's not what i meant and you know it. you see, i'm a pretty good judge of people. and do you know why i'm a pretty good judge of people." "no, why?" humphrey looked down into his empty coffee cup. "because i practice. people interest me , and i watch them all the time. some people might think just because i'm a nasty person other people don't interest me, but i assure you that the opposite is true. i think the most fun in the world is watching other people, trying to figure out what they do. you see a little woman with a kerchief around her head carrying a bag of groceries, does she beat her husband with a frying pan every night? maybe she has poisoned three husbands already, and was a guard in a concentration camp during the war. or you see a priest in black or a rabbi, do they cry themselves to sleep every night, dreaming of some woman in their congregation with nine kids and a backside the size of grant's tomb? " "uh - i want another cup of coffee." "let me finish, please. like i say, it's ever so much more interesting than the cin-e-ma or the the- a - ter , which are so predictable." "yeah, where the bad guy always gets caught." "exactly. now see here, humphrey, if you want to see how serious i am, i have just the thing here. we could sit here and palaver, and talk about going to the police, but we both know neither of us is going to do any such thing." she reached into her purse again. she took out a greenback and shoved it across the table. "are you familiar with these?" it was a one hundred dollar bill. "yeah, i seen these before. i used to see them all the time, at the track, and in casinos out on the water, back when i was on top." "how nice for you. go ahead, take it. no strings attached." humphrey hesitated, but only for a second. he folded the bill and put it in his shirt pocket. "no strings attached. just a token of my sincere intentions. think my offer over. if you are interested, meet me here on wednesday, at five o'clock. " she zipped up her purse, and looked over her shoulder. the woman who had served them was back behind the counter, staring into space. she was not nearly close enough to have heard them, talking in their low tones. "i am going to leave now. i will pay enough for you to have some dessert and more coffee, and your little friend too, if he decides to come back and not go to south america with my dollar. " "i don't know nothing about him. what about the smokes he was buying you?" "i am sure you can divide them most agreeably between you." she stood up. "so long." humphrey didn't look up at her. "ta ta. till wednesday. " * roselle spent the rest of the afternoon walking around uptown and, true to her stated inclinations, looking at people. she stopped in at the west end bar for about half an hour but the marijuana seller she sometimes encountered there did not show up. as dusk settled in, she got a bacon lettuce and tomato sandwich and a cup of coffee at a little diner on columbus avenue. then she got a cab back to the apartment on east 82nd st. morris the doorman was waiting for her with a familiar expression, one combining greed and obsequiousness with just a pinch of moral disapproval. he bowed slightly to roselle. "mister winfield arrived a little while ago, ma'am." "did he? and did he require assistance?" "he did indeed, ma'am. considerable assistance, if i may say so." "i am sure you responded to the situation with your usual efficiency, morris." she slipped him a fifty dollar bill. "thank you, ma'am." he touched his cap and opened the door for her. * jerry was sprawled across his bed. morris had gotten his jacket and his shoes off and loosened his tie. he did not look as if he would wake up any time soon. what a slob he's getting to be, thought roselle. she lit a cigarette, then went over and opened a window, but the breeze blowing in was too cold, so she closed it again. she made up her mind to go through with her plan with humphrey - or some one else, if humphrey didn't come through. pursuing humphrey as she had had been a spur of the moment thing, though she had had doing something like it in her mind for a while. and she had at first thought she might just have a little fun with humphrey, and let jerry in on the fun. but now she changed her mind. she would do it for real. she felt humphrey was dangerous, but she had complete confidence in her ability to handle any human male. maybe she could even make something out of humphrey after jerry was out of the way and she had his money. not marry him of course - ha ha! she had believed humphrey when he said he had been "on top" - though his idea of "on top" and roselle's would not be quite the same. but maybe he wasn't completely raw and she could touch him up a little. new york was getting to be a bore. people were interesting in some ways, but in other ways they were boring and never wanted to have any fun. maybe she could take humphrey - or somebody else like him, a little better looking - to some place like tangier or hong kong or a plantation in bolivia. and they could have some real fun. * night had fallen. humphrey walked down broadway, lost in thought, hardly noticing where he was going. he had ditched buddy, after taking one of the packs of cigarettes from him , and, in a fit of generosity, letting him keep all roselle's change. the hundred dollar bill was burning a hole in his pocket. it had been a while since he had so much money at one time. too long. and that just wasn't right. he decided to meet roselle on wednesday, back at the little diner. he would make something out of all this, he wasn't sure what. part 4

“Best Wishes for your Speedy Recovery”

by Horace P. Sternwall

Originally published in “Juvenile Crime Stories”, December, 1950; reprinted for the first time  ever in book form in They Call Me Mrs. Big: The “Gwendolyn and Auntie Margaret” Stories of Horace P. Sternwall, Vol. 12, the Olney Community College Press; edited by Dan Leo, LL.D., Assistant Professor of Mid-20th Century Popular Fiction, Olney Community College.

illustrated by eddie el greco and danny delacroix

for previous Gwendolyn story, click here

to begin the Gwendolyn stories, click here

“Let me get this straight, Dooley,” said Captain Callaghan. “You want ten officers at three a.m. tonight?” “A dozen would be better, sir,” said Detective Dan Dooley. “A dozen men. At 3 a.m.” “That’s right, sir, and if possible I think the men should be armed with shotguns. Tommy guns if we have them.” “Shotguns,” said Callaghan. “Yes, sir,” said Dooley. “And Tommy guns.” “Tommy guns would be good, sir, provided the men are trained to use them.” Captain Callaghan tapped his cigar into his ashtray. The cigar didn’t need to be tapped, but he tapped it anyway. Then he fixed Dooley with the look all the guys in the Ninth called “the Callaghan look”. “How about some Browning Automatic Rifles, Dooley? Would you like a few of them?” “Do we have them, sir?” For a long moment the Captain said nothing. Then he said: “Six weeks you’re on this assignment and I hear bupkus. You know what bupkus is?” “Yes, sir, I actually speak conversational Yiddish pretty well, because the neighborhood I grew up in –” “Six weeks I hear bupkus from you, and then you stroll in here and tell me you’re planning World War III.” “I believe I’m ready to make a major arrest, sir.” “Mrs. Big?” “Well, to be honest, no, sir.” “Your assignment was to find this so-called Mrs. Big.” “I know, sir, but I think I have a chance to arrest someone even bigger than, uh, Mrs. Big.” “Bigger than Mrs. Big. Who, Uncle Joe Stalin?” “No, sir. Bartolomeo Baccini.” “Big Bart Baccini?” “Yes, sir.” “He’s untouchable.” “He has been untouchable, sir, but I think I can nail him.” “Nail him for what?” “For accepting a cargo of approximately a hundred pounds of heroin, to be delivered tonight at 3 a.m. at the 14th Street Dock on the East River. By a tugboat.” The captain stared at Dooley much as if Dooley had just declared himself to be a citizen of Mars, and then he said: “A tugboat.” “That’s right, sir. The tugboat is getting the shipment from a Lebanese freighter docked in the harbor. Baccini and three of his associates are to pick it up at the 14th Street Dock tonight, where they will load it into one of Baccini’s bakery vans. They’re planning to take the truck and the heroin back to the bakery’s garage, where they will split up the heroin and then parcel it out to his dealers all over town.” For a very long time the Captain said nothing. Finally: “And how did you come by the information about this shipment of heroin, Detective Dooley?” “A tip, sir. A confidential informant who came forward during my investigation into, uh, Mrs. Big.” The Captain paused again. “I can get you six men. And none of them are gonna be happy about it.” “I didn’t expect they would be, sir.” “We have two shotguns, and one Thompson. You trained on a Thompson?” “Trained very well on a Thompson, sir.” “You think two twenty-round mags will be enough for you?” “I hope so, sir. Thank you, sir.” “Oh, one more thing, Dooley. I can’t be putting a half-dozen men on overtime on wild-goose chases. So if this little shindig of yours turns out to be a dud, you’re off the Mrs. Big case and you’re back to regular duty, just like every other first-year detective.” “I understand, sir.” “And do me a favor.” “Yes, sir.” “If your little party does pan out, try not to let it turn into World War III.” “I’ll try, sir.” **** My Dear Detective Dooley, I hope this missive finds you recovering well from your gunshot wound, and that you are not in too excessive a state of agony. But it must make you proud despite the inconvenience of what I read in Flossie Flanagan’s account in the Federal-Democrat described as a “dose of hot mafioso lead” that you have succeeded in ridding the earth of scum like Big Bart Baccini and his three goons as well as intercepting such a large quantity of illicit heroin and getting a commendation from the mayor himself.  I hope you enjoy the lovely bouquet of multicolored hyacinths. I picked them (please don’t ask from where, ha ha) and arranged them myself, so please do not waste your time trying to track them to a particular florist, as you know by now you are not dealing with an amateur, far from it, and I want you to know that I wish you a speedy recovery and perhaps someday who knows we shall again do business together, preferably something that won’t result in physical injury or death to yourself. You will find in a folded piece of wax paper included in this envelope a “cigarette” of a brand which I know you will enjoy, and which will I hope bring you sweet dreams. I remain, again with best wishes for your speedy recovery, your admirer, she whom you know only as, Mrs. Big  Dan looked into the envelope, saw the rectangle of wax paper with a fat hand-rolled cigarette in it. He folded up the note, which was composed of letters and words cut and pasted from magazines, put it back into the envelope, folded the envelope in two, and put it into his pajama jacket pocket. “Who was that letter from, Danny?” said Dan’s mother, looking up from her knitting. “Just a concerned citizen, Mother,” said Dan. “Aw, sure, that’s lovely,” said Mrs. Dooley. “Yes,” said Dan. “Very lovely.” **** The pretty twelve-year-old blonde girl in her smart blue coat and matching blue beret was sipping her hot cocoa at a small table in the Schrafft’s down the street from the hospital, sitting where she could watch the door, when Roger came in, wearing his camel’s hair coat and grey fedora. The fedora made him look so much older than fifteen years of age, as of course did the false moustache he wore, and the horn-rimmed glasses. Smiling, he came over and took a seat across from Gwendolyn. “So,” said Gwendolyn, “did he get the flowers?” “Oh, yes, of course,” said Roger. “I only wish I could have seen his face.” “Oh, I’m sure he was very pleased, Gwendolyn,” said Roger, taking out his new gold-and-enamel cigarette case. “You know I never wished for him to get plugged like that,” said Gwendolyn. “Oh, I’m sure you didn’t, Gwendolyn,” said Roger. He lit his cork-tipped Turkish cigarette with his new Ronson, which matched the gold-and-enamel cigarette case. “Fortunes of war,” said Gwendolyn. “Yes, of course,” said Roger, picking up the menu card. “What should I order? I’m absolutely famished.” “I can recommend the Welsh Rarebit here,” said Gwendolyn. “Welsh Rarebit sounds excellent.” said Roger. ****

fun, part 2

by harold p sternhagen writing as "ralph desmond"

as originally appearing in the july-august 1951 issue of sinister destinies magazine

illustrated by konrad kraus and roy dismas

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

for part one, click here

the man who had called himself "humphrey p strawfeather" in the coffee shop began walking up broadway. i shouldn't let myself get riled up, he told himself for the ten thousandth time. especially by people like that. "humphrey" hated the whole human race , including himself, but he especially hated rich people and people who thought they were better than anybody else. he tried to look in the reflections in the windows he passed to see if anybody was following him, but the way the sun was shining he could not do it very well. this was something he did all the time, because you never knew who was after you. there was a little park further up broadway where he could do a little panhandling. then maybe he would catch a bus up to the polo grounds. the giants' game would just be getting over, he could panhandle there too. he didn't really like to panhandle. or snatch purses and run, though he did that sometimes too. he would much rather kill people and take their money. that way he could think of himself as a noble beast of prey prowling the jungle of the city, and not just a pathetic bum. but he had learned you couldn't kill somebody every single day. even though there were so many people in the world - way too many. with these familiar thoughts he wended his way toward morningside heights. he remembered the danish he had put in his pocket when he let himself get riled up and left the coffee shop. he took it out and started chewing on it as he walked. it was a little soggy from being wrapped in the handkerchief he had put under his teacup. "hey, aloysius!" the squeaky voice was right at his elbow. was it talking to him? "aloysius" might have been a name he used. he used a different name every day. or every time somebody asked him his name. it was like camouflaging himself in the jungle, even though the cops had his fingerprints. "you look like a dingbat, aloysius, walking along eating a danish pastry in the street. you'll get crumbs all over the street. it's not something respectable people do." he looked down. a wrinkle faced little person wearing a long stocking cap like santa claus was walking beside him. he couldn't tell if it was male or female. probably male, even with the squeaky voice. for some reason the little person didn't rile him up. instead he laughed. "do i know you?" he asked, coming as close as he could to smiling. "aloysius b cadwaller. that's you, right? who could forget a name like that?" "i might be." "we was in the tombs together, in the big snowstorm, remember?" "oh, yeah." humphrey-aloysius looked down at the little man. he remembered being in the tombs in the great snowstorm in 1947, but he didn't remember him. "jeez, those were the days huh? when they let us out to shovel? with those big shovels? they were made out of pure lead!" "yeah, right." humphrey-aloysius took another bite of his soggy danish. he kept walking, and the little man kept pace beside him. "what was that cop's name - that was in charge of us? big irish guy." "i don't know - how about o'reilly?" "naw, that wasn't it. it was - it was - " "cornelius patrick mcshanahan o'shaughnessy." "now you're being a wise guy. i don't remember you as a wise guy, aloysius." they crossed w 114th street . humphrey-aloysius looked back over his shoulder . and saw roselle. she was only about twenty-five feet behind him. she smiled at him. he knew right away she was following him. why? he couldn't be more surprised if eleanor roosevelt or gloria vanderbilt was following him. had she actually followed him for almost three new york blocks just to annoy him? he could make mistakes about things, but she couldn't be a cop. a reporter? he had a little bit of experience with reporters, but she wasn't a reporter any more than she was a cop. and he'd seen her before, with her boy friend or husband, he was sure of it. what could she want from him? and where was the boy friend? she smiled again and came right up to him. "hello, humphrey." he was still too surprised to be riled up. "you forgot something, humphrey." all right, he'd play along for now. "what did i forget, lady?" roselle looked him in the eye. "you forgot how much i wanted to be your pal." "oh." roselle looked down at the little man in the stocking cap. "who's your friend?" "joe", said humphrey. "everybody has a friend named joe," roselle replied. the little man spoke up. "that's because happiness is just a guy named joe," he said, staring at roselle. "why, of course." "but it's not my name. my name is buddy. buddy bashon. at your service." people continued to pass by the curiously assorted trio without glancing at them. "i'm so pleased to meet you," roselle told buddy. "any friend of humphrey's is a friend of mine." buddy just stared at her. his first surprise over, humphrey started to revert to his old self. "what exactly do you want, lady?" "i told you - i want to be your friend." "you want something from me. you are trying to set me up for something." "i am." roselle smiled. "something for both of us. and i don't take no for an answer. i mean to have my way." humphrey laughed, a little uncertainly, and looked around. a police car went by, heading downtown. it stopped at the light on 114th street. "i think i'll walk away, lady. it was nice talking to you." "there is a police car right over there." "so? i didn't do nothing." "i'll tell them you did. i'll tell them you did something nasty. who are they going to believe, you or me?" "you don't have any witnesses." "i don't need them." roselle looked back at the police car. the light had changed and it was pulling out. "at the very least they'll throw you in jail overnight." "they are gone." roselle laughed. "what are they, the only police in new york? come on, humphrey, i'm just trying to be your friend." "what about me?" buddy asked. "can i be your friend?" "why not? but i really want humphrey to be my friend. i have my little heart set on it. come on, humphrey, don't be difficult." "this is crazy. you're crazy. why are you picking on me like this?" "there's a nice little diner over there, let's go and over a grab a seat. i'll bet they have the most wonderful hamburgers. my treat, of course." for the first time humphrey wavered. "how about a steak sandwich?" "how about one? let's go." roselle walked into the slow moving traffic on broadway. horns honked but the are stopped. humphrey followed her and buddy followed him. * > jerry was making good on his determination to have a few drinks. "nother. another." "i don't know, pal. you look like you might have had enough." "hey, the day is young. it's only - it's only the afternoon. " "it's quarter to three, if you could read the clock." "it's quarter to three, there's no one on the place except you and me. so set em up, joe..." "quarter to three in the afternoon." "i know, there's too much light in here. can't you draw the shades a little tighter." "you got enough money for a cab to take you home? just in case you need it, i mean." "do i have enough money for a cab? buddy, i got enough money to buy every cab in new york and line them up from here to yonkers - line them up from here to yonkers for a parade to take me home ..." "okay, you've made your point." "i've had a hard day. you know what happened to me today?" "what?' "i got treated like dirt." "people are like that sometimes." "people looking at me sideways with their beady little eyes - i knew what they were thinking - thinking i didn't really belong there - i didn't know anything - " "but what do they know, right?' "treating me like garbage just because i'm worth forty-five million dollars." "look here, you sure you don't want that cab?" "no, i want another drink." * roselle flicked some ashes into the saucer of her coffee cup. humphrey and buddy were finishing up their steak sandwiches. buddy had a big smear of ketchup on his left cheek. no one else was in the diner. the waitress who had served them was not in sight. roselle had only had coffee. "you sure you don't want anything?" humphrey asked her. "no, i'm just enjoying watching you two eat." "how about some dessert?" buddy asked. "dessert?" roselle reached into the purse she had beside her on the seat in the booth. "i tell you what." roselle took a dollar out of the purse. "why don't you go over to that drugstore on the corner and buy me a couple of packs of cigarettes. tareytons. when you get back, i'll buy you some dessert, how's that? chocolate cake, strawberry shortcake, whatever they got.". "sure. what if they don't have tareytons?" "chesterfields. get chesterfields." roselle handed buddy the dollar. "and look here - take your time. take a little walk, get some fresh air. you're a growing boy, you look like you need it." "sure, sure, i get it. i get your drift. " buddy stood up and carefully folded the dollar and put it in his coat pocket. roselle turned and watched buddy as he went out the door. "how much can you trust him?" she asked humphrey when the door was closed. "trust him? i don't even know him. any more than i know you. he just came up to me on the street, just now." "i see. i thought he was your old pal." "nah, he's just along for the ride. he said he recognized me, i didn't recognize him." humphrey looked around. the waitress had not returned behind the counter. "so what is all this? you keep talking about fun. what kind of fun exactly?" roselle took her time lighting the next to last cigarette in her pack. "humphrey, i think you must have guessed what kind of fun i'm talking about. it can only be one thing." she blew a smoke ring. "i want you to murder my husband." * part 3