the black purse: a winter's tale

by horace p sternwall

illustrated by roy dismas and konrad kraus

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

it had been snowing for most of the day outside the venerable hotel st crispian and the weather forecast on the radio predicted that it would continue through the night. when jake arrived for his hitch as night bellhop, he was told to forget bellhopping and just keep the sidewalks, front and back, shoveled. he was not too happy about it, but what could he do? there went his tips for the night. on the other hand, if the snow did not fall too fast he should have plenty of time to just hang out and relax in the lobby between trips outside to keep the sidewalks clear. jake knew the drill. a shovel and a pair of heavy galoshes were kept inside the garage on the seventh avenue side of the hotel. he would pick them up and start by shoveling the steps that led up to the hotel’s “front” entrance where old olaf or one of the other doormen presided and which led directly to the corridor beside the prince hal room. he would shovel the seventh avenue sidewalk in front of the hotel. then he would take the shovel and cut through one of the two alleys that led to bedford street and shovel the sidewalk outside the street entrance which led to the front desk and the lobby. then he would retrace his steps, leave the shovel, the galoshes, and his coat and hat in the garage, and take the elevator upstairs, where, if he was lucky and the snow not falling too fast, he might have a much as half an hour to just shoot the breeze with mortimer the elevator operator or roland the night clerk or anybody else who might be around, before he would have to go back outside again. jake’s idea of “the snow not falling too fast” might not be the same as roland’s or mr bernstein the night manager’s. but jake for various reasons especially wanted to remain in mr bernstein’s good graces, so he was not going to push it. old olaf was on duty. that was good, as he could be counted on to keep the front steps clear unless it was an absolute blizzard. just a little less for jake to do - although he would have to make the offer to olaf to do the steps, just for form. so - night has fallen, the snow is coming down pretty good, and jake is shoveling the snow on the bedford street sidewalk. not too many pedestrians pass him by, and even fewer cars. he picks up the shovel and feels and sees something on it - something besides the snow. a purse - a small black lady’s purse. it was very light - when he picked it up it felt like it was empty. jake looked up and down the street. he was an old hand at these things. was it some kind of scam? in a snowstorm? the way he figured it, even if the purse hadn’t felt empty, either there was nothing worth taking in it, or whoever dropped it would be back looking for it. he decided to just give it to roland and let him or mr bernstein worry about it. he had finished clearing the sidewalk so he retraced his steps back to the garage, and then took his find up to the lobby. the lobby was pretty empty. there were only three people in the chairs. "farmer" brown, looking a little forlorn without his usual two cronies “lord” wolverington and miss charlton. all three of them cheapskates that jake had little use for. pierre, one of the foreign gentlemen from the upstairs suite. another lousy tipper - or no tipper - like most europeans. give jake a south american any day! and little miss gwendolyn, also from the upstairs suite. much more generous, a real nice american girl! she was seated part from the others, reading “under the greenwood tree” by thomas hardy. mr nolan, the house detective, was not in his usual chair, but leaning on the front desk, chatting with roland. neither nolan nor roland seemed too interested in jake’s find. nolan looked the black purse over, then opened it. “empty.” he looked at jake. he didn’t have to say anything. “i never opened it,” jake said. “the way i figured it , either there was nothing in it, or whoever dropped it would be back looking for it. not,” he added quickly under nolan’s gaze, “that i would have taken nothing out of it anyway.” nolan nodded. “of course not.” farmer brown had come up to the desk. “you know,” he told nolan, “sherlock holmes or dr thorndyke could have told if it had been opened recently, just by the amount of moisture on the clasp.” “i am sure they could have,” nolan agreed. he dropped the purse on the desk. “just hold on to it,” he told roland. “if no one comes by looking for it by the time you go off, put it in the lost and found.” now pierre had joined the little group. he stared down at the little purse. “singular, “ he remarked, “most singular.” “what is singular about it?” farmer brown asked. “it reminds me of something that happened to me, in paris, just after the hostilities.” “and what might that have been?” the farmer raised his eyebrows. thus encouraged, pierre began to tell his tale. * it was a dark and windy night. i was crossing the pont de n——— on my way to the boulevard de s———— when i spied a woman’s small black purse beside the railing. one, if memory serves, identical to the one we see before us. you may ask, why would i spot something so insignificant in the darkness? there was nothing extraordinary about it, my friends. for as i was crossing the bridge i was not looking at the brooding sky, or the dark river, but at my feet, in hopes of finding a sou, a coin of any kind, or the most trivial object i might redeem at a pawn shop. i was cold and hungry and in desperate straits, as desperate as any man’s who has ever lived. but that is neither here nor there. i snatched up the little object, as quickly as if i had been fighting with a dog for it, though there was in fact, neither man nor beast on the bridge with me. as i suspected, the purse was empty. but might i not get a sou or two for the purse itself from a pawnbroker? i in fact knew one member of the brotherhood of the three balls who might, out of pity, and because i was a regular habitué of his establishment, give me enough for a half glass of wine. as the shop in question was just over the bridge, i hastened to it, and found my old friend pere gustave just about to close for the night. he inspected my find with his professional disdain, and i was ready to begin the requisite bargaining, when he extracted from it something i had not noticed. a tiny scrap of paper, which had been stuck in the lining, and which he briefly inspected. with a grunt, he handed to me. “whoever finds this purse,” i read, “and returns it to me, will find themselves most generously rewarded. “ it was signed “madame de t——————, 1108 rue de b——————.” the rue de b——————, i should add, was on the other side of paris. pere gustave shrugged. “what do you think?” he asked me. “but there is nothing in it!” i cried. “surely whatever was worth the reward has been extracted. “ “so it would seem,” he agreed. “the purse itself might be carried by any grisette, “ i continued. “it is hard to imagine anything of value being in it.” pere gustave looked me in the eye. “it is up to you,” he said. “i would not want you to think i am taking advantage of you. you may take it to the rue de b———— in the morning, and take your chances.” “or - “ i said. “i will give you two sous for it right now.” “the two sous!” i cried a bit too eagerly. “as you wish.” he closed the purse and placed it beneath his counter. “but, “ i added, “do you mind if i keep the note? it will make for a good story.” “as you please.” and so i departed, and happily made my way to the nearest wine shop. the next day was bright and sunny, and as i had nothing better to do, i decided to make my way across the city to 1108 rue de b————. although i had nothing but the paper, perhaps my curiosity might be satisfied as to the nature of the reward, if there really had been any. and for what had the reward been offered ? 1108 rue de b———— proved to be a formidable private residence of the old school, but as i had nothing to lose, i made my way to the front door. the door was opened by a redfaced old maidservant, a relic of the old paris, an ogress who might have served in the court or camp of king clovis. i showed her the scrap of paper from the black purse. but before i begin my explanation, she handed it back to me with a loud laugh . “this matter has been settled,” she told me. “another fellow was here before you - with the actual purse in question.” pere gustave, to be sure. i was mildly surprised. “and what was the result of his visit?” “i an afraid that is no business of yours, my good fellow. off with you!” i stiffened. “is madame de t—— at home?” i asked in my most refined manner. “no, it happens that she is not,” the beldame laughed in my face. “now, be on your way!” intrigued as you may imagine by all this, i found my way back to pere gustave’s shop. and found it closed! i had never before found it closed during the hours of daylight. i went back the next day, and the next, but again found the shop closed. i never heard from, or heard about, pere gustave again. nor could i ever obtain any information about the mysterious madame de t——. * “and that’s it?” jake asked pierre. “yes, my friends, i am afraid that was it.” pierre sighed. “ i have often wondered what the moral, if any, of the story was.” “why,” exclaimed farmer brown, “the moral is obvious! a bird in the hand—“ “to be sure,” pierre replied. “but what was the bird, and did i have it?” “you know,” said nolan, who had not seemed to listen to pierre’s tale with much interest, “ a funny thing happened to me once involving a lady’s purse - back in the old 12th precinct - “ “let’s hear it!” insisted farmer brown. roland and jake nodded. but before nolan could begin, roland glanced meaningfully at jake, and jake had to go back outside to clear the sidewalks of the snow, which had begun to fall more heavily. ***

darkness, my home town - part 8

by fred flynn

illustrated by roy dismas

originally appeared in the june 1949 issue of frontiers of space magazine

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

to begin at the beginning, click here

click here for previous episode

jerry murphy has returned to chicago from a hitch in deep space, to discover that his uncle stan has been framed for murder - and is headed for the chair! now jerry has to dig something up to save him - fast! he grabs a cab to the east side, hoping to find something before it is too late. a stop at the late packy miller's flower shop is a dead end.... but a dropped matchbook points to the lair of the mysterious chuck borgia, who proves affable enough until... *** is that right, kid?’ chuck finally asked, almost in a whisper, “you came to see me about red fuller?” there was no sound except the announcer’s voice calling the undercard fight on the television . other than that it was so quiet that an ant halfway across the floor aiming for a drop of spilled liquor stopped and raced back to his crack in the wall. but jerry was used to silence - the silence of deep space. “if red fuller had anything to do with railroading stan murphy, then yes, mr borgia, that is what i wanted to see you about,” jerry answered . chuck raised his eyebrows and gave jerry a little smile as if he appreciated his frankness. “that’s all very well, kid, but why now - at this time of night and with the big fight on and all?” “because i don’t have much time,” jerry told him. “no?” chuck glanced at the group at the round table. “it can’t wait until tomorrow - tomorrow when it is daylight and the world is up and about?” “no,” jerry answered. “it has to be tonight.” “and why is that?” “because stan is going to the chair in about two hours - at midnight.” “you don’t say so.” chuck took a sip of his drink. he looked over at the table. “is that right, judge? is the guy going to the chair tonight?” the “judge” laughed. “i don’t know, chuck. people go to the chair every night, all over the world. i might send a guy to the chair once in a while myself, but it’s not my job to keep track .” terry, seated beside jerry, piped up. “send a guy to the chair once in a while! you wouldn’t have just happened to have sent his uncle to the chair, huh?” the judge laughed again. the adam’s apple in his long neck bobbed up and down. “no, miss, i did not.” he took a cigar out of his breast pocket and inspected it. “and anticipating your next question - i do not remember who did - assuming i ever knew it at all.” the little man that chuck had addressed as “maury” and identified as his lawyer, now leaned forward and spoke to jerry. “this is all very well, young man, but what does it have to do with my client? “ “maybe, not much,” jerry admitted. “oh, maybe not much,” maury replied. “how about a little, then? or maybe nothing at all?” “you see,” jerry said, “i’m desperate…” “oh ho! desperate!” the little lawyer waved his big cigar at jerry. “not a good thing to admit, young fellow, but go on - please, go on.” “i was looking for red fuller tonight - and i didn’t find him.” maury shrugged. no one else spoke, but all eyes were on jerry. “but i found this .“ jerry produced the matchbook he had found on the corpse at the flower shop. he put it on the bar in front of chuck. he did not mention that he had taken it off a dead body. chuck looked at it. “is there any writing or anything in it?” jerry had, at terry’s suggestion, checked the inside of the matchbook. “no, it’s just what you see.” chuck laughed. “and that’s it? everybody in chicago has one of those.” he turned to the table. “or so my business manager tells me.” he did not pick up the matchbook, and jerry, after a moment’s hesitation, took it back. “that’s great, kid,” chuck went on. “really impressive. you should give lessons to sherlock holmes and bulldog drummond and professor einstein. you know, i’m sorry about your uncle and all, but i really don’t see any connection here. any connection at all. but thank you for diverting us while we sit here waiting for the main event. “ “which should be coming up right about now,” said the big guy at the table that jerry had taken for a bodyguard. “no,” said the bartender, who had been the only person watching the screen . “they got one more prelim after this one.” “in that case,” said chuck, “let’s have another round. including for our two guests here.” jerry felt defeated. he had no idea what to do or where to go next. he wondered if he should get up and leave, but before he could make a move, terry spoke up again. “i got a question,” she said. “for who?” chuck asked, a little impatiently. “for anybody who can answer it. you, sir, over there, you are a judge, right?” “i am indeed, miss.” the judge smiled over at terry, but did not, jerry noticed, identify himself further. “all right, let’s suppose, just suppose, that jerry here can come up with some new evidence in the next couple of hours - “ the judge nodded, and smiled tolerantly. “ - what would he do with it? who can he go to - the governor?” “no, miss, the governor has nothing to do with it. the appeals court in this case would be in rio de janiero, which handles all the appeals in the western hemisphere.” “that’s right,” jerry said. “that’’s what i was told by - that’s what somebody told me - brazil.” “so,” the judge went on smoothly, seeming to enjoy himself, “assuming that you knew the number to call in brazil - “ “we could get it from information,” put in terry. “ - you would have to call brazil. of course, if you had never called before, you would probably get a secretary - if you were lucky, at this time of night.” jerry felt his heart sink. but terry pressed on. “suppose you knew somebody in brazil?” she said, looking at chuck borgia. “don’t look at me, “ said chuck. “i’m a chicago guy. i stay home, i don’t know anybody in brazil.” the judge smiled at terry, and took a puff of his cigar. it’s hopeless, thought jerry. then the woman in the black evening gown spoke. “you know, young man, there is still something you can do. if you have the nerve.” she took a sip of the fresh drink the bartender, who was handing the drinks for the new round to the five people at the table, had just put in front of her. “what?” jerry asked. “i’ll tell you later,” the woman replied. “after the fight. i mean, we all came here to watch the fight, isn’t that right, chuck?” “that’s right, lily.” “wait!” exclaimed jerry. “but time is running out! every minute counts.” “no it does not,” lily answered coolly. “look, we can’t save your friend - your uncle, or whatever he is, tonight. you are right, it is too late for that. but we can save him.” “are you -“ “am i serious? yes, i am serious. just be patient, and you will see how serious i am.” jerry was not that close to the woman, but he could feel her eyes on him. it sounded crazy, but what other chance did he have? finished at the table, the bartender faced jerry and terry. “you want refills?” he asked them. “i’ll have another ginger ale,” said terry. she glanced at jerry and the draft beer he had hardly touched “and i think you better have a ginger ale, too.” “you’re right. a ginger ale for me,” jerry told the glowering bartender. chuck borgia laughed. part 9

darkness, my home town - part 7

by fred flynn

illustrated by roy dismas

originally appeared in the june 1949 issue of frontiers of space magazine

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

to begin at the beginning, click here

click here for previous episode

jerry murphy has returned to chicago from a hitch in deep space, to discover that his uncle stan has been framed for murder - and is headed for the chair! now jerry has to dig something up to save him - fast! he grabs a cab to the east side, hoping to find something before it is too late. a stop at the late packy miller's flower shop is a dead end.... but a dropped matchbook points to the lair of the mysterious chuck borgia... *** jerry looked uncertainly at the front door of chuck borgia’s fine food and drink emporium. the street behind him was dark and deserted, and the emporium, though its lights were on, seemed awfully quiet. he glanced back at terry, but she just gave him a what are you waiting for? look. jerry pushed open the door. there was no sign of a doorman or bouncer or any kind of greeter in the small dark entryway, but there was light at the end of a short corridor and they could hear voices. they sounded like voices from a radio or television. there was a glass door marked “cloakroom” on their left but there was no light on behind it. jerry and terry moved carefully down to the end of the corridor. they found themselves on a wide night club floor. it was lit up. not too brightly, but lit up. the tables all looked empty, although there were tables along the walls in the shadows that could have been occupied. there was a raised bandstand, also unoccupied. and bare, except for a tall standing microphone. but there was a bartender, and one man seated at the bar. neither of them noticed jerry and terry right away. “that’s chuck borgia,” terry whispered to jerry. “the guy sitting down.” but the bartender and chuck borgia were not alone. there was a large round table just to the right of the bar, and four men in suits and a woman in a black evening dress were seated at it . there were looking, through a cloud of cigarette and cigar smoke, at a large television set suspended above the bar. the voices jerry and terry had heard were coming from the television. chuck borgia looked up from the drink he had been staring into and saw jerry and terry. he pointed at them and the bartender turned around. the bartender was about six foot six and had a broken nose. “place is closed,” he announced. terry stepped a few paces closer to the bar. “it didn’t say so outside,” she said. “that’s as may be,” the bartender answered, “but it’s closed. what you see here is a private party. to which i do not believe you are invited.” chuck borgia waved at the bartender. “i’ll take care of this, donny.” jerry got his first good look at chuck borgia. unlike the four men at the round table, who were all wearing blue or gray suits and sober ties, chuck’s husky frame was clothed in a bright orange suit with padded shoulders, a red and black striped shirt with a high collar, and a white tie with a ruby tiepin. he looked about forty years old, but his hair was done up in a high pompadour like a juvenile delinquent’s. he addressed jerry in a friendly manner. “what’s that uniform you got on, son? you some kind of soldier?” “he’s a spaceman,” terry said. “just back from the furthest depths of the great unknown.” “you don’t say so,” chuck borgia replied amiably. he took a cigarette from a flat pack in front of him and tapped it on his wrist. “and how about you, sweetheart? are you back from the great unknown too?’ “she’s a cab driver,” the bartender said. “i seen her around.” “that’s what i am,” terry agreed. one of the men at the table - the smallest one, with the biggest cigar - said something to chuck that jerry and terry could not make out. jerry thought he heard the words “patriotic” and “another”. chuck laughed. “you might have a point,” he told the little man. he finished lighting his cigarette, and looked at jerry again. “make yourself at home, kid.” he pointed to his right, where the bar curved back away from the round table. “sit over here, where you can see the screen.” jerry moved around between chuck and the table, and terry followed him. “what about her?” the little man at the table asked chuck. “what about her?’” chuck replied. “i suppose she drove him here, she can drive him back, ain’t that right?” “that’s right,” terry answered, as she took a stool on the other side of jerry, leaving him between her and chuck. “unless you want to drive him home yourself,” chuck added to the little man, and a couple of the other men laughed. another man, a tall man with a long neck and a small head, said something in the little man’s ear. jerry thought he caught the words - “have too many witnesses”. “don’t mind maury,” chuck told terry. “he’s a lawyer. i pay him to be suspicious.” he turned to the bartender. “give them what they want. on me. it’s a private party, after all.” he smiled at terry and jerry. “um - i’ll have a draft beer,” jerry told the scowling bartender. “ginger ale for me,” said terry. the woman in the evening gown laughed. “at least they are not abusing your hospitality, chuck.” “no, they look like good kids, “ chuck agreed. “so what brings you here, young man? you just happen to drop by? you came to see the big fight? the fight of the century? live, all the way from stalingrad?“ the television had been on through all the palavering - although nobody had seemed too interested in it - and jerry finally looked up at it. it showed a boxing ring. two fighters - little guys, probably featherweights - sat in their corners. the referee was speaking into an overhead microphone. “that ain’t chicago jimmy kelly, “ said terry, looking up at the screen. “you’re right, it’s something from the undercard,” chuck agreed. he looked up as the two small fighters left their corners and advanced towards each other. “but i see you are familiar with our hometown hero, miss.” “yes, i am very familiar with him,” terry answered. she tok a sip of the ginger ale the bartender put in front of her. “but you know,” chuck said to jerry, “you could have seen the fight just about anywhere in town. with the wonder of modern television. so why did you come here?” “he could have seen it from outer space,” said the long-necked man. “that’s right, judge, he could have,” chuck laughed. “he didn’t come here to see the fight,” said terry. ‘hey, hey, let him speak for himself. you don’t want to let a dame do your talking for you, kid,” chuck said to jerry. “that is one of the worst habits you can get into. so why did you drop by, at this late hour?” jerry thought for a few seconds. “it’s a long story,” he said, “but i’ll get right to the point.” chuck and the others waited. “it’s about my uncle - stan murphy.” jerry looked at chuck. “stan murphy,” chuck repeated. “why does that name sound familiar?” a deep voice emerged from the round table, from the biggest man there , a big gorilla jerry immediately decided must be chuck’s bodyguard. “that was the guy that that took the fall for gunning down packy miller.” “the poor fellow who was set up,” added the long-necked man that chuck had addressed as “judge” , “who was set up by - .“ he hesitated. “by red fuller,” the woman in the evening gown finished for him. at the name “red fuller” they all fell silent. it seemed to jerry that the temperature in the place dropped about fifty degrees. the voice calling the undercard fight on the television seemed to echo off the walls. “and lopez connects with a left!” chuck and his friends all stared at jerry. “is that right, kid?’ chuck finally asked, almost in a whisper, “you came to see me about red fuller?” part 8