The crime which the papers played up as the blow torch murder occurred, so it seems, at six o’clock that spring evening, though it was not discovered until six the following dawn, much to the disgust of Ham Logan the homicide veteran.
Springtime was rather trying for Ham. He was sleepy enough for ten months of the year, but in spring . . . !
That afternoon, a couple hours before the announced time of the killing, Ham Logan was stretched out on a bench, his derby hat tilted over and hiding his small eyes and fat jowls, but revealing his open mouth from which came sonorous symphonies of pure enjoyment. His hands were folded across his paunch and gently rose and fell in perfect time.
All in all it was a very peaceful scene. The sergeant at the desk had his feet higher than his head, his collar was open and he dozed blissfully to the accompaniment of the twittering birds outside the station house.
At four o’clock, crime raised its ugly face in the form of Weasel Martin.
Weasel Martin was thin, quite able to squeeze through cell bars. He was dressed in a checkered vest, a black coat and light-colored pants. He swung a cane and tried to look repentant.
Weasel Martin rapped sharply on the desk to wake up the sergeant. Ham Logan shoved back his derby and sat up, blinking at this unheard-of appearance. The sergeant lowered his feet and scowled to hide the fact that he had been asleep.
“I just stole a car,” said Weasel Martin impatiently.
The sergeant looked at Ham and Ham looked at the Weasel.
“Since when,” said Ham, “did you get so law-abiding as to steal cars?”
“Never mind when. I stole it all right.” The sergeant yelled for a harness bull and when that worthy had lumbered into the room, the sergeant said, “Check up and see if Weasel’s lying. Meantime, lock him up.”
The Weasel, still trying to look sad, was led off to the cells. Ham Logan scratched his head for a while and then began to slump down for another forty winks.
At four-thirty Chink Edwards came bustling in, very much in a hurry. He looked rumpled and his slant eyes were as shifty as ever. He was pasty white.
“What do you do with guys who break windows?” said the Chink.
The sergeant pulled himself awake, lowered his feet and blinked. Ham Logan raised his derby and peered under the black brim.
“I said I broke a window,” repeated the Chink. “Whatcha going to do about it?”
Ham Logan grunted, “You broke a window? I thought you were in the numbers racket.”
“Beat it,” said the sergeant.
“You mean . . .” spluttered the Chink, “that you ain’t got any more respect for the citizens of this town than to let them go around breaking windows every time they feel like it?”
The sergeant scowled horribly and yelled for another harness bull. “Lock him up and see about it,” said the sergeant. “The Chink says he broke a window.”
The Chink was led off toward the cells.
“Hm,” said Ham Logan. “Looks like a convention.”
Neither of them had time to settle themselves. Papa Johnson and Joey the Mick wandered in and looked the place over with critical eyes. Papa Johnson looked like a turtle with his long hooked nose and his oversized collar. Joey the Mick was wearing a brilliant yellow suit and a purple silk shirt and a tan derby. They both smiled and bobbed their heads in greeting.
“What the hell is this?” said Ham Logan. “Old Home Week?”
“We heard—” began Papa Johnson.
“We just beat up Flossie, the Chink’s girl,” said Joey the Mick. “You still arrest guys for assault and battery here?”
“Ow,” said Ham Logan. “Has the Salvation Army been around or what? Who cares what happens to the Chink’s moll, huh? G’wan, beat it.”
“You mean,” said Papa Johnson reprovingly, “that you allow our fair city to become stained with woman-beaters? You mean you won’t uphold the worthy statutes of the state?”
“That from a snow peddler?” said Ham. “Wait until we catch up with you, Papa. You’ll find out all about jails then. I thought you had a smart mouthpiece with you. He wouldn’t worry about beating up a dame. What’s the racket?”
Neither Joey the Mick nor Papa Johnson had anything to say.
The sergeant called out another officer and instructed him to lock up both of the newcomers.
“Wait a minute,” said Ham Logan. “Where’s Dude MacFarlane? What’s the idea, anyway?”
“Perhaps my lawyer,” said Papa Johnson, “will be here a little later. At present, gentlemen, pray do your duty.”
They too were led away, leaving Ham Logan sitting up straight and frowning darkly.
“Something funny about this,” said Ham. “Just you wait. All hell’s going to pop loose.”
“Think so? Maybe they suddenly got a conscience or something.”
“Conscience! Those guys would cut off a kid’s hand to get a stick of candy, any one of them. What’s the gag?”
It puzzled him not a little, but soon the spring air stole over them and the twittering birds lulled them and they dozed on, waiting for the six o’clock shift.
At six nothing had happened, but Ham stayed around until midnight, sleeping on the hard benches and in the chairs, waiting.
###
At twelve o’clock a lawyer named Lambert bustled into the station with a briefcase and an air of preoccupation. The new desk sergeant looked between the white globes at him.
“You’ve got four or five men in here,” said the lawyer. “I want them out.”
“Who do you mean?” said the sergeant.
“Martin, Edwards, Johnson and Joey the Mick. They haven’t done anything.”
Ham Logan woke up in the corner and pried the derby off his face. He approached the lawyer. “I thought Dude MacFarlane was their mouthpiece.”
“I have been called. That is all I know. What are the charges?”
The sergeant looked over the daybook and discovered that Weasel Martin was wanted for stealing a car, that Chink Edwards had broken a window, and that Papa Johnson and Joey the Mick had beaten up a woman.
“Have you made any investigation of these charges?” said Lambert.
The sergeant looked through the day’s reports, growing more and more puzzled. “Why, no. No stolen cars have been reported, Haines couldn’t find a broken window in the whole town. What’s this all about, Lambert?”
Lambert looked toward the door. The girl named Flossie came in, walking with greasy hips.
“Tell these gentlemen you haven’t been touched,” said Lambert.
“Who do ya mean?” said Flossie.
“Tell them,” said Lambert, “that you didn’t see Papa Johnson and Joey the Mick all day.”
“Those dear boys? Why, of course not,” said Flossie.
“Huh,” snapped Ham, “keep them in on principle. They got it coming.” “I can’t do that,” said the sergeant. “They . . . Isn’t there something I could hold them on? Disrespect to the law or—”
“I don’t know of anything, damn it,” replied Ham.
“Let ’em out,” said the sergeant to an officer.
It was exactly one o’clock when Weasel Martin, Chink Edwards, Papa Johnson and Joey the Mick filed out of the station. They told Ham Logan goodbye very politely when they went. Flossie gave Ham a cheap smile and followed them.
“Well,” said Ham, “there’s nothing I can do.” He yawned noisily and adjusted his derby. “I’m going home and get some sleep.”
###
The body was found at six the next morning, and at five minutes after six the phone beside Ham Logan’s bed knifed his slumbers with its raucous roar.
“Hello,” yawned Ham.
“Desk,” said the receiver. “Get over to the Hanover Hotel right away. You know more about this than anyone else.”
“Know more about what?” sighed Ham. “Honest, I don’t know anything, and besides, six is a hell of a time—”
“Dude MacFarlane’s been murdered.”
“I knew it, I knew it,” wailed Ham. “Something was bound to happen just when— What else?”
“Go on over and find out.”
Ham Logan peeled off his nightshirt, put on his derby and dressed. He staggered out into the half-light of spring and took a trolley car to the Hanover Hotel.
Two men were waiting there for him. He shoved them aside and took the elevator. Another man stood outside the room twiddling his nightstick.
“In there,” said the officer.
“Anybody here yet?”
“Not yet.”
Ham went in. Dude MacFarlane was dead, no question about it whatever. He was sprawled in the center of the room, arms outflung, black mouth gaping, sleek hair still sleek, black eyes wide open.
In life the man had been slender, even lean, but now his stomach was grotesquely swollen under his torn evening shirt, as though about to explode.
“Poison?” said Ham. “Or . . .”
Ham walked around the body. He moved sluggishly as though his shoes were made of lead. He sighed deeply and sat down in an easy chair to wait for the headquarters gang and the coroner. There was nothing he could do before they came.
The door slammed open and activity and noise rushed into the room. The coroner was followed by a fingerprint man, a photographer, and five reporters who eagerly sent their pencils flying.
Blake, the coroner, nodded to Ham. “Done anything?”
“Waiting for you,” said Ham. “Let’s get this thing over with.”
Blake, conscientious as any coroner should be and although not required by law to do any detecting, was anxious to help out. He knelt beside the corpse and as a formality, placed his stethoscope against MacFarlane’s chest.
“Dead,” said Blake. He examined the dead man’s mouth, playing a flashlight into it. “Corrosive action on the flesh. My God, Ham, it looks like this guy swallowed a keg of molten steel. Tissue all burned up as far down as I can see.”
Ham looked about the floor and picked up a blow torch which lay in a pile of burned matches. The fingerprint man dusted it and found glove marks only.
“It would appear,” said Ham, “that they turned this blow torch down his throat. That right?”
“Yes, that would do it. Hell of a way to die. Blue flame didn’t even blacken his teeth, but it charred his tongue. Ate up most of his throat, too. Blow torch seems to be the answer.”
Blake looked the body over. “No marks of violence at all. Whoever did it just held him and squirted fire down his throat. Killed him instantly.” He tapped the taut and swollen stomach. “But this looks like it might be poison of some kind. Have to have a thorough autopsy, of course. Still, hot flame shot into a man’s insides would be apt to puff him up quite a bit. Ventilating system must be good in here. Otherwise the odor would drive us out.”
“Thanks,” said Ham. “Now listen,” and his voice took on the tone of a prayer, “how long has he been dead?”
“We can determine that two or three ways,” said Blake. “Post-mortem rigidity would be delayed a little, I think, by this applied heat. Make it four hours minimum time. Now . . .” He took a clinical thermometer from his bag and took MacFarlane’s body temperature.
“Body heat eighty-seven. Room about seventy. A little higher because of this blow torch.” Blake scowled for a moment and then said judicially, “That looks like he’s been dead eleven or twelve hours. But wait a minute, let me try something else.”
Ham sighed deeply. So far it looked like Dude MacFarlane had been killed between six and nine the evening before, and if that were so, then what a hell of a case this would be!
Blake made some preliminary coagulation tests. The dead man’s blood was thick and heavy, clinging to the applied horse hairs and dragging them.
“I think I am right,” said Blake. “He was killed eleven or twelve hours ago. I’ll make a thorough autopsy for poison. That swollen stomach looks suspicious.” He packed his things into his black bag. “That all you want, Ham?”
“Got the pictures?” Ham asked the photographer. “Okay, take it out. I’m going to stay around here for a little while and think. Wait a minute.” He leaned over the corpse and unfastened an expensive watch from the stiff wrist. “Now go ahead.”
“Since when did you start stiff-frisking?” said Blake, smiling.
“I wanna see,” said Ham, “whether dead men wind watches.”
The apartment was cleared and Ham wandered through the rooms, looking things over.
In a closet, on the floor, he found a white vest which contained a few coins and a cigarette lighter. He brought it out to the light and examined it.
“That’s funny,” said Ham, removing his derby and scratching the few hairs which remained on his otherwise lacquered pate. “That’s funny as hell.”
He laid it on the desk for future reference and then turned his attention to Dude MacFarlane’s files. A small strongbox had been forced open. Not even dust remained. Ham went to all the deep ashtrays in the apartment and discovered a fluttery heap of black paper ash in each.
“Records,” he decided. “Incriminating records.”
The easy chair beckoned to him. He sank luxuriously into its depths and pulled the phone over to him. He called headquarters.
“Round up Chink Edwards, Papa Johnson, Joey the Mick and Weasel Martin,” said Ham. “Hold ’em for questioning.”
“Okay, Ham. How’s it going?”
“I feel like a squirrel trying to crack a cast-iron nut,” sighed Ham.
He rang off and called the morgue. “Hello, have you got MacFarlane’s corpse there? Yeah? Well, listen, go into the autopsy room and see what kind of a vest he was wearing. . . . Yeah, is that so? A black vest. Thanks. Gimme that autopsy report as soon as you can.”
He eyed the white vest on the desk for a full minute and then muttered, “He’d know better than that. Y’don’t wear a black vest with a tail coat. You wear a white vest—or Dude MacFarlane would.”
Ham took the blow torch out with him and approached the nearest hardware store. Yes, that was a Vesuvius torch. Only one store in town carried them.
Ham took himself there and found that the store was a narrow affair set between dingy houses, fronted by an entanglement of red rakes, dusty garden hose, watering cans, and brooms with green and yellow handles.
The proprietor came out rubbing his hands when the dinner bell tinkled over the door. He was small, hunched over, and he wore a round cloth cap squarely on his gray locks. He adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses and saw that Ham carried a blow torch.
“This was bought here, wasn’t it?” said Ham.
“Yes, yes . . . it’s a Vesuvius torch. But what’s the matter, huh? I can’t give no money back. It’s been used!” He eyed Ham for a moment. “But maybe I could give half, huh? I hope it gave satisfaction. If it—”
“It gave satisfaction all right,” said Ham. He flipped open his shiny dark coat and showed the proprietor the badge. “I want to know who bought it.”
“Oh . . . aw . . . why, yes, I maybe got a sales slip. I only sold one like this in six months. You wait right here.”
Ham sank down on a keg of rusty nails and waited patiently. Soon the proprietor came back with the sales slip. Ham took it from him. “Can’t you remember the guy that bought it?”
“Sure, sure. I remember him fine.” Ham waited, fearing to breathe. Here was the clue and the case. The hardware man added, “A messenger boy. He was a little feller with—”
“Rats,” said Ham, disgustedly. “There are ten thousand in town. But look here, he also got a thermos bottle. How about that?”
“That’s right. A small thermos bottle.”
Ham stuffed the slip in his pocket and went out. He took a trolley car back to headquarters.
to be continued
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