Richard Deming

The Frame and the Dame

Undoubtedly, there is at least one man in the world dumber than Mouldy Greene, but it has never been my bad luck to meet him. Marmaduke Greene, who derived his nickname from his sallow complexion, was the sad sack of my army outfit. In civilian life, I still had the Impulse to kick him every time he bent over, yet his talent for irritating me was tempered by a kind of exasperated fondness I had for the guy.

I had not realized how deep either the exasperation or the fondness was until Mouldy got tagged for a murder rap.

I learned about it at nine o’clock in the morning, which increased my exasperation, for my usual rising hour is noon. I awakened to a gentle shaking, opened one eye, and was confronted by a pleasing hunk of feminine anatomy.

In astonishment, I popped open the other eye and immediately understood why I was being offered a reverse view. I sleep raw, and in the early morning summer heat, I had kicked off the sheet almost completely. With her back to me, the woman was reaching behind herself and shaking my bare shoulder.

With one hand I brushed her fingers from my shoulder and with the other pulled the truant sheet to my chin.

“All right,” I said. “You can turn around now.”

I already knew that my caller was Fausta Moreni, for I had recognized both her figure and her natural, platinum blonde hair, but I pretended surprise when she swung around.

I said, “Who let you in?”

“Manny, your phone is out of order.”

Her tone made it an accusation, and though I was unable to generate any feeling of guilt, I explained that it must be the phone company’s fault, because I had paid the last bill.

“I will wait in the front room,” she announced, and marched out, closing the door behind her.

It takes me a little longer to dress than most people, because I have to strap a mechanical apparatus of cork and aluminum to the stump below my right knee. Nevertheless, I made it in fifteen minutes, including a shower and shave.

Fausta was standing by the mantel when I entered the front room. Ordinarily, we play a little game for our mutual amusement — she burlesques jealous infatuation, and I go along by simulating frightened resistance. Today, however, she bypassed her usual greeting technique, which was to fling her arms about my neck, plant an impassioned kiss on my chin, then step back and lightly slap me, just as though I had been the aggressor.

Instead, she announced simply, “Mouldy’s in jail, Manny.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “I told you the eight-ball shouldn’t have a driver’s license, Fausta. It was only a question of time.”

“Not for a traffic violation,” she interrupted. “He’s been charged with murder.”

I let my jaw hang. Then I said irritably, “You know it’s three hours before I usually get up. Make me some Coffee before you tell me about it.”

She surprised me again by not responding as usual. Fausta is an extremely independent woman, as she can well afford to be, since as sole owner of the fabulously successful El Patio Club she possesses not only beauty, but riches. But, instead of telling me to make my own coffee-and then dunk my head in it, she obediently headed for the kitchen.

Obviously, she was upset.

When she told me the story over coffee, I was not surprised at her mental state, for like myself Fausta regarded Mouldy Greene with somewhat exasperated fondness. Mouldy was El Patio Club’s official customer greeter and Fausta’s pet employee.

Evenings, he stood just inside the club’s great double doors with a hideous smile on his flat face and his rhinoceros-sized body uncomfortably encased in a dinner jacket. With earthy informality he greeted each customer by name, usually the wrong one, pumped celebrities by the hand, and pounded the bare backs of dowagers. Once the customers got over the initial shock, they loved it, and in cafe society Mouldy was accepted as an institution.

The tale of Mouldy’s trouble was simple enough, at least on the surface. Apparently, what had happened was that a woman customer of El Patio had made a play for Mouldy. Mouldy had returned the play, and the previous evening had been enjoying a cozy time at her apartment when the husband walked in. Mouldy was accused of shooting the husband to death during the ensuing unpleasantness.

However, two factors made the tale a little incredible. Fausta and I agreed that no woman attractive enough to possess a jealous husband would make a pass at Mouldy; and unless the husband had been a professional strong man, it would never have occurred to Mouldy to use a gun on him. A guy who can lift one end of a grand piano with one hand doesn’t need a gun to defend himself.

After my second cup of coffee I said, “Let’s take a run down to headquarters.”

We found Inspector Warren Day bent over reports in his office. When we entered, he bowed his skinny, bald head to peer over his glasses at us, scowled at me, then turned the scowl into a simper when he looked at Fausta. In theory, Warren Day is a woman hater, but bare female shoulders have an odd effect on him. The yellow halter which went with Fausta’s shorts left her shapely, tanned shoulders exceedingly bare. Behind their thick-lenses the homicide chief’s eyes bulged noticeably.

“Miss Moreni,” he said with choked affability, “sit down.” Then he looked at me and the bulge left his eyes. “What do you want, Moon?” he asked sourly.

The greeting was routine. For years, Day and I have maintained a cooperative agreement: I get in his hair, and he gets in mine. Yet, beneath the surface, I respect his ability as a cop, and I think he likes me — admissions neither of us would make to the other even under torture.

I said, “You’ve got a friend of ours down here on some asinine charge of murder.”

The inspector scowled at me. “Greene, eh? I been half expecting you, since I knew he worked for Miss Moreni.” He paused to simper at Fausta, then sat back in his chair and clasped hands over his lean stomach.

“We got him cold,” he said abruptly. “It’s his gun, and the shooting was witnessed. There isn’t a thing you can do for him.”

“Mind giving details?” I asked.

The inspector did not mind. The woman, he told us, was Mrs. Minerva Talcott, and her husband, Henry Talcott, was the corpse. The facts in the case were essentially what Fausta had told me, with the additional information that the shooting had occurred at approximately two thirty a.m.

“Mrs. Talcott is the witness you mentioned?” I asked.

Warren Day nodded. “And Greene admits the gun was his.” He frowned suddenly, and rumpled the fuzz over one ear. “Why he was carrying a gun on a date, I don’t know. When we asked him, all we got was a blank look and a stupid answer. He said, ‘I should leave it home and maybe have somebody steal it?’ ”

For the first time that morning, Fausta grinned. “He has a permit for the gun, you know, Inspector. One of his duties at El Patio is to act as house officer.”

“Greene admit he shot this Talcott?” I asked.

The inspector gave me an irritated look. “Naturally not. What killer does, aside from those who bump off their spouses or lovers?”

“Mind if we see him for a few minutes?”

He glowered at me, obviously preparing to refuse, then glanced at Fausta’s shoulders and emitted a preoccupied grunt of permission, which seemed to surprise him. Once out, he decided to stand by it though, modifying his decision only to the extent of limiting our visit to five minutes.

Mouldy was flat on his back on a canvas drop-down bunk when the turnkey led us to his cell. When he saw us, he swung to his feet, arranged his misshapen face in a smile of pure pleasure, and thrust a hairy forearm as big around as my neck through the bars. I took his hand cautiously, gave it a quick squeeze, and dropped it before his enthusiastic friendliness could break any fingers.

“Sarge,” he said happily, “I figured you and Fausta would be down to spring me.” The “Sarge” was a holdover from army days, and I had given up trying to break him of the habit.

“Spring you?” I repeated.

“Yeah.” He looked at the turnkey. “Well, what you waiting for? Open the door!”

I said, “You’re a little ahead of yourself, Mouldy. This is just a five-minute visit. Talk fast, and give me the whole story.”

But talking fast was not one of Mouldy’s talents. He was willing enough to tell his story, but somewhere between Mouldy’s brain and his vocal chords was a maze in which ideas frequently got lost before he could express them. By virtue of dogged questioning and the kind-heartedness of the turnkey, who risked the inspector’s wrath by letting us stay ten minutes instead of five, I finally managed to piece together Mouldy’s version of what had happened. But the ordeal left me almost exasperated enough to let him take the rap.

The “Talcott dame,” as Mouldy referred to her, had dined at El Patio three nights in a row, and each night stopped a few minutes to chat with Mouldy.

“She acted kind of lonesome,” he said. “Though why a dandy-looking babe like her should be lonesome, I couldn’t figure. She said she liked me because I reminded, her of a polio athletic man.”

“A what?” I asked.

“Polio athletic. She said that was some kind of cave man.”

“Paleolithic,” I said. “Go on.”

“Well, one thing led to another, and first thing I know she invites me to drop over some time. I tell her I work till one a.m., and she says make it one thirty some morning. I ask, what morning? The one coming up, she says. This was about nine last night, see. So when we close at one, I shed my tux, put on another suit, and drive over to her apartment.”

Mouldy said the apartment was in the Grand Towers, probably the most expensive apartment house in town. After feeding him several drinks, his hostess left him alone and entered the bedroom, with the routine remark about getting into something more comfortable. They had been drinking in a small card room between the front room and the bedroom, and while Mouldy waited for his lady love to return, he heard a key open the front door and someone enter the front room.

Since Minerva Talcott had neglected to inform him she had a husband, Mouldy was mildly interested in the new arrival, but not in the least alarmed. He simply sat and continued to sip his drink, until a shot boomed in the front room. Then he sat a moment longer, thoughtfully considering the meaning of the explosion, finally set down his drink and ambled into the front room to investigate.

He found a thin, middle-aged man with gray hair lying on his stomach in a pool of blood.

I interrupted to remark, “Warren Day says your gun killed him.”

“Yeah, Sarge. You could’ve knocked me over with a feather.”

“Where was your gun when you found the body?”

“In my holster.”

I looked at him for a moment, finally had a bright idea, and asked, “Where was the holster?”

“Attached to the harness.”

“You silly moron!” I yelled. “Stop playing games!” Then, I brought myself under control and pursued him further in a subdued tone, “Where was the harness?”

It developed the harness was hanging from a chair in the front room, where Mouldy had left it along with his coat when things started to get cozy. Apparently, the first drink had been served in the front room, and the move to the card room was a later development.

The gun was still in its holster when Mouldy discovered the body, but he managed to get it into his hand before Mrs. Talcott entered the room attired in a fetching negligee, took one look at the body, another at Mouldy’s gun, and fainted.

“I figured with shooting going on, maybe I better have a rod in my hand,” he explained brightly.

He was still wandering around the apartment carrying it when the police arrived.

When we got outside, Fausta said, “What do you think, Manny?”

“He was suckered,” I said. “A frame, pure and simple. Go on home. I got a date with another woman!”

“Minerva Talcott?” she asked. “Can’t I go too?”

“She probably wouldn’t offer to change into something more comfortable if you were there,” I said.

Fausta screwed up her nose at me. “She won’t anyway. Even a woman who would chase Mouldy must draw the line somewhere. No woman but me would want a man of such ugliness.”

Apparently, my expression of belief in Mouldy’s innocence had begun to restore Fausta’s spirit.

A card beneath a mail slot at the Grand Towers informed me that Mr. and Mrs. Henry Talcott occupied apartment one hundred and eleven, which proved to be a rear apartment on the first floor. The woman who answered my ring fitted Mouldy’s description perfectly. She was a dandy-looking babe.

She was not more than five feet three, and her legs, arms and waist were slim, yet she must have weighed at least a hundred and twenty-five pounds. The excess weight was in the right places, and the negligible sun dress she wore indicated that she was proud of every pound of it.

Sultry eyes beneath square cut, coal black bangs appraised me silently.

“I’m Manville Moon,” I said, and showed her my license as a private investigator.

When she had examined it and returned it without comment, I said, “Mr. Marmaduke Greene has retained- me to dig up evidence in his defense. May I come in?”

“I’ve already talked to the police,” she said distantly. “And losing my husband has been an awful shock, of course.”

Since, according to her own story, her husband had died because he discovered her with another man, I withheld any expression of sympathy, merely waiting for her either to invite me in or slam the door. She waited too, and when the silence finally became absurd, petulantly stepped aside and asked me in.

Cleaning service at the Grand Towers must have been excellent, for there was no mark whatever on the rich, gray rug of the apartment’s front room, not even a light spot to indicate where blood had been scrubbed away.

Mrs. Talcott had two other visitors; a chunkily-built man with smooth, blond hair and a lean, gray-faced character with rubbery eyes and absolutely no expression. The moment I glanced at the latter, I felt the short hair along the back of my neck rise like a dog’s hackles. It’s a sensation I almost always experience when I encounter a hood, a sort of sixth sense which fingers a professional killer for me the moment I see one.

The chunky, blond man she introduced as Gerald Brand, and identified him as her deceased husband’s partner. Gerald gave me a hearty handshake and the bluff sort of greeting you usually get only from fellow lodge members. The gray-faced man was identified simply as Mr. Fen, but was addressed by Gerald Brand as Deuce. He gave me a distant nod, and kept his hands by his sides.

It did not require any particular brilliance to deduce that Mr. Fen was Gerald Brand’s bodyguard, which set me to wondering what sort of business he and his deceased partner had been in together.

Not being a subtle person, I bluntly asked for an explanation.

“My husband and Gerald operated a news publishing and distribution business,” Minerva Talcott said.

I hiked an eyebrow. “What paper?”

“No paper,” Brand said easily. “Turf news.”

I understood the bodyguard then. Horse-racing dope sheet distribution was big business, and while legitimate in itself, its customers were largely illegal bookshops. It was more or less common knowledge that the national gambling syndicate was trying to monopolize the field by crowding out independent publishers and distributors. The mortality rate among independents across the nation had grown to the point where only a distributor with either a syndicate tie-in or a suicide complex would appear in public without a bodyguard.

I asked Mrs. Talcott, “Mind if I look over the apartment’s layout, so I can get a picture of just what happened last night?”

Her dubious expression suggested that she did mind but, nevertheless, she showed me around. There were five rooms in the shape of an L. If you walked straight ahead after entering the front room from the outside hall, you passed through a dining room and then into a kitchen. If, instead of going straight ahead, you turned right, you found yourself in the card room Mouldy had mentioned. Beyond that was the single bedroom and bath.

In the bedroom, I glanced out the window and noted that there was a drop of not more than six feet to the ground. Since the apartment faced rear, the window looked out over a neat back yard and a row of garages, beyond which was an alley.

When we returned to the front room, I thanked my hostess for her courtesy, seated myself, and asked if she minded cigar smoke. She shook her head, but at the same time frowned and glanced sidewise at Brand, as though mutely inquiring why I did not leave.

Gerald Brand, who sat in an overstuffed chair directly opposite me, smiled reassuringly at her and gave a slight shrug. The gray-faced Deuce Fen was not seated, but leaned idly against a bookcase at one side of the room.

When my cigar was burning satisfactorily, I said, “Mrs. Talcott, I understand from what you told the police, you think Greene actually shot your husband.”

She looked surprised. “But of course he did. How could there be any question about it?”

“Just exactly what happened?”

She frowned again. “I have already told the police, Mr. Moon.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me also.”

“Just a moment,” Gerald Brand interrupted pleasantly. “This whole thing has upset Minerva terribly, and I see no reason to make her hash it over and over. If there were any possible doubt as to what happened...”

He let his voice trail off; I waited politely for a moment, then repeated, “Just exactly what happened, Mrs. Talcott?”

“See here!” Brand said, reddening slightly.

The whole thing began to bore me, so I stopped trying to be subtle. I’m not very good at it anyway.

“Suppose I tell you what happened, Mrs. Talcott?”

She looked at me wide-eyed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean this was the rawest kind of a frame. Greene not only didn’t shoot your husband, but you know he didn’t. You deliberately set him up as a patsy.”

Gerald Brand rose out of his seat and advanced toward me threateningly. Laying my cigar on an ash stand, I stood up too, and looked down at him from a three-inch height advantage. He stopped far enough away to study my shoulders, glanced at Deuce Fen for reassurance, then stuck out his jaw at me. The bodyguard seemed indifferent to the whole thing, but I noted his rubbery eyes never wavered from my face.

Brand said, “Suppose you explain that remark, Mr. Moon!”

“Sure,” I said. “Minerva picked Mouldy Greene because he was the dumbest guy she could find. She gave him a play and got him over here with the deliberate intention of framing him. Her husband walking in was no surprise. She knew he was coming home, and just about when he’d arrive. And she very adroitly arranged that when he did arrive, Greene’s gun and holster would be hanging from a chair in the front room, Greene would be in the card room and she would be in her bedroom, ostensibly getting into something comfortable.

“Only she wasn’t in the bedroom and she didn’t change into something more comfortable until after her husband was dead. She climbed out the bedroom window, walked around to the apartment’s front entrance and waited for her husband. What explanation she gave for waiting for him outside at two thirty a.m., I don’t know. Maybe she made a practice of it every morning. At any rate, they came in together. Minerva walked over to where Greene’s gun was hanging, borrowed it, and shot her husband. Then she put it back in its holster and walked out the front door again. While Greene was discovering the body, Minerva was climbing back in the bedroom window, stripping off her clothes, and getting into a seductive negligee.”

Minerva Talcott’s face had turned dead white. Gerald Brand’s was scarlet. He took one step toward me and brought a right uppercut from below his knees to my chin.

I moved my head back two inches to let the uppercut whistle past. Then I stepped in with a left hook which set him to trotting backward a half dozen steps. He would have trotted farther, but his knees caught the edge of the overstuffed chair he had left a few moments before and he abruptly sat down.

The moment my fist connected, Deuce Fen moved, or at least part of him moved. His right hand flashed under his armpit. Mine moved too, a bare micro-second faster.

I let him look at the muzzle of my P-38, until he decided to drop his half-drawn gun back into its holster. When his hand returned to his side, I put away the P-38 and grinned at him.

I said cheerfully, “I want to talk to Mrs. Talcott alone. You gentlemen wouldn’t mind calling another time, would you?”

Gerald looked at Deuce, Deuce continued to look at me and his fingers began to caress the edge of his coat.

“You can try it again,” I said, “but this time I’m going to pull the trigger.”

Gerald looked amazed. Rising from his chair, he looked from Deuce to me and then back again, as though not quite willing to believe his bodyguard was refusing to tangle with me.

When the door closed behind them, I picked up my cigar, walked over and seated myself in the chair Gerald Brand had occupied, which left me facing the door, instead of with my back to it. Minerva Talcott watched me with pale fascination.

In a breathless voice she said, “It isn’t true — any of it.”

Before I could make any comment in reply, there was a sharp rap on the door. I again set down my cigar, and waited with my right hand under my coat while Minerva went to answer it.

Warren Day strode in, with a curt greeting for Minerva and a suspicious scowl for me.

Without preamble, he announced, “The guard reported your, conversation with Greene, Moon, and you’re on to something I missed. What is it?”

This sort of thing was what made me respect Warren Day as a cop. He had an airtight case against Mouldy, but the moment he discovered it contained a false note, his mind was wide open. And when he suspected he might have made a mistake, he followed up personally, instead of sitting in his office and sending out a subordinate.

“I’ve got an alternate theory, Inspector,” I said mildly. Then I outlined the case against Minerva.

I said, “Now tell your version again, Mrs. Talcott. Only this time, include a good reason for getting Greene over here.”

Her hands were fumbling nervously and she made two attempts to speak before words came. In a toneless voice, she said, “Your accusation is only partly true. I admit that I got Marmaduke over here deliberately, and I knew my husband would arrive at two thirty. But I only meant for him to get beaten up. It never even occurred to me that Marmaduke might kill him.”

Day said, “You’d better elaborate a little.”

“Henry and I haven’t lived together for two months,” she said wearily. “I wanted a divorce, but he wouldn’t give me one. He was insanely jealous and he made my life hell by creating scenes over my seeing other men. He still had a key to the apartment, and a week ago he unexpectedly walked in and found me with a male friend. He beat the man unmercifully.

“This incident was the last straw. Twice before he beat men friends of mine, but never so seriously. I decided to teach him a lesson. I picked Marmaduke Greene, not because he is dumb, as you suggested, but because he is the strongest man I ever knew. I knew Henry would attempt to beat up any man he found with me, and this time I wanted Henry to end up in a hospital. In a roundabout way, I managed to let Henry learn that he could surprise me with a man if he dropped in about two thirty a.m. Believe me, my faint was genuine when I discovered Marmaduke had killed him, instead of merely beating him up.”

Something about the tone of her voice, possibly its resigned weariness, led me to believe the woman was telling the truth. The inspector’s expression indicated he was believing nothing Minerva said, however, now that she had changed her original story.

Before he could speak, I said, “Just what was the roundabout way you mentioned you let your husband learn he could surprise you?”

“I told his and Gerald’s private secretary,” she said dully. “A woman named Nancy Stark. We’ve always been friendly, but ordinarily I wouldn’t tell her anything I didn’t want known, because she’s the worst gossip in town. I knew she’d lose no time in relaying the news to my husband and anyone else who would listen.”

“Where’s your husband’s office?” I asked.

“In the Rand Building. The Standard Racing News Service.”

I glanced at my watch and saw it was only eleven thirty. “Inspector, if we hurry we can catch this secretary before she goes to lunch.”

Day looked at me like he thought I was crazy. “I’ve got a lot more questions to ask this woman,” he growled, “and I’m going to ask them at headquarters.”

“Well, I won’t wait then. See you around.”

“Hey!” he bawled as I started for the door.

When I stopped, he examined me uncertainly. “You’re on to something else I don’t know,” he accused.

I shrugged and pulled open the door. After a moment’s hesitation, the inspector scurried after me.

In the doorway, he turned and snarled at Minerva, “You leave town and I’ll send after you with a warrant for your arrest!”

The office of the Standard Racing News Service was on the fourth floor of the Rand Building. Just as Warren Day reached for the knob of the glass-topped door, it opened from inside. Gerald Brand, a friendly arm draped across his visitor’s shoulder, was ushering out a thick-bodied, beetle-browed man with a flat nose and practically no forehead.

Momentarily, Day gaped at the man in surprise, then his lips drew back in a delighted snarl and he centered his forefinger in the man’s chest.

“Hello, Rocco,” he said with gentle ferocity.

Rocco blinked at him uneasily. “Just visiting, Inspector,” he explained hurriedly. “My plane leaves at eight tonight.”

“Check if there’s an earlier one,” Day advised, “and take it, or you may miss the one at eight.”

“Sure, Inspector.” The big man sidled past, and was gone without even bidding Gerald Brand goodbye.

“Rocco Polito,” Day informed me in an aside to my unasked question. “Syndicate contact man.” Then he blared at Gerald Brand, “What’s your business with that hood?”

“No business, Inspector,” Brand said with a hurriedness as great as Rocco’s. “I knew him in New York, and he just dropped in.”

“Want to talk to your secretary,” Day growled.

Nancy Stark proved to be a middle-aged blonde who dressed and acted like a college girl. She was thrilled to death to be questioned in a murder investigation, and she gushed out everything she knew.

“I knew she was having that man over last night,” she confided, “of course, I would never have mentioned it to Mi. Talcott, if I had thought he would be mad enough to go over there. As a matter of fact, from what he said I assumed he had no intention of going himself.”

“What did he say?” I asked.

“He said he was fed up with Minerva’s cheating, and thought he’d use her date as grounds for divorce. I assumed he meant he’d have a private detective or someone break in and take pictures.”

I looked over at Gerald Brand, who was hovering to one side and listening uneasily.

“Where’s Deuce?” I asked.

Gerald’s lip curled, “I fired him.”

I grinned at the inspector. “Need any more?”

Day looked at me blankly...

“Henry Talcott got tired of beating up his wife’s lovers,” I explained. “He decided he wanted a divorce. He didn’t want to pay alimony, so he needed her cheating. Unsupported testimony of a husband isn’t accepted in court, so naturally he took along a witness. The witness probably hadn’t planned to murder Henry right at that moment, but when he ran into a perfect setup, he took advantage of it. The motive? This is only a guess, but suppose Henry was fighting a tie-in with the syndicate, and the syndicate offered his partner a good deal if Henry was put away?”

“What are you getting at?” Gerald Brand asked tightly.

“At you,” I informed him. “If Rocco Polito being in your office isn’t evidence enough of a syndicate tie-in, your firing Deuce before you hired another bodyguard is. The only people in your business who — don’t need, bodyguards are members of the syndicate.”

Warren Day rubbed his palms together. “This time, Moon,” he said, “I think you’ve got a tenable theory. Now step aside, and let an expert take over!”

An hour later the door of Mouldy Greene’s cell opened — Gerald Brand walked in as Mouldy walked out.

Fausta treated me to dinner that night.

Content

Richard Deming
The Frame and the Dame