Why had he killed James Douglas Harrington?
Why?
Curious thing, how one point could run away from a man like a fear-stricken live creature. Perhaps the reason didn’t want to be known. This new theory filled him with sudden alarm. If Why was really unwilling to be found, it made the whole search tenfold harder.
“Get it some day,” Old Beetle murmured. “Stick to it — that’s the notion. Stick to it. The penholder did it. Yes. Then there must have been a cause. No, not a cause — that was the penholder. A reason. No other word. Reason. What was it? If the penholder was How, what was Why? Answer me that. Don’t know? Nonsense. Nonsense, I say! Well, then — stick at it till you do. Bound to get it some day. Bound to.”
Then, just as he was pulling off his socks one night, the brilliant inspiration came to him. The method of finding out that elusive Why. With a happy chuckle he began to draw on his sock again, but in time he remembered that nothing could be done so late. He must wait until the morning. Then he would know. I was a gorgeous idea, and the only winder about it was that he hadn’t thought of it before.
The police. They would know. Or if they didn’t actually know, they could find out. Their job. Paid for it, they were — to find out things for people. He’d simply go to them and let them get on with it. Have to confess, of course, but he didn’t mind that. No. The main object was to find out what that Why was. Of course.
The next morning saw Old Beetle carrying out his splendid notion. He knew where he could find a policeman, not far from the office, and then he would soon know. Up to the young constable he shuffled, and spoke in nervously eager tones. After the first slight shock of surprise the officer seemed to understand perfectly. He took Old Beetle along to the station, where he found a bald-headed man in uniform sitting behind a low table. Old Beetle patiently repeated what he had said to the constable.
“I want to confess to the murder of James Douglas Harrington. I did it with a penholder. Years ago.”
“Eh?” Glances were exchanged by the youthful constable and the bald-headed man at the table. “I see. What was it, again?”
“James Douglas Harrington. I killed him years ago. With a penholder.”
“Quite so.”
The bald-headed man’s tone was gentle, soothing. He gave orders, pressed his broad thumb on bells, made notes, and asked questions. Old Beetle was glad he had taken this step. Soon now he would solve the mystery of that everlasting Why.
“How long ago did you do it?” queried the man at the table, after sitting a while in silence, apparently waiting for the return of the constable, who had departed mysteriously.
Old Beetle thought hard. “Forty-three years,” he said presently.
He made no attempt to break the silence that followed. Minutes ticked by. Then footsteps approached.
It was the young constable back.
“Well?” said the bald-headed man at the table, in an undertone.
“I’ve seen Mr. Pattinson, sir,” whispered the young constable, bending to bring his lips close to the other’s ear. “Says he’s not particularly surprised. Been behaving very queerly for some time. They’d thought of pensioning him off. He’s been with the firm forty-three years in March.”
The bald-headed man started.
“Forty-three years, did you say?”
“That’s it, sir. Quite a character. Old Beetle, they call him. A record period of service, he’s got. One of the juniors told me he can’t imagine how anyone could stick the place for all that time. Like burying yourself, he said it was.”
The bald-headed man shot a quick glance across at Old Beetle, who was sitting still on his chair, perfectly happy now, a smile curving his mouth.
“Forty-three years. Like burying yourself,” murmured the bald-headed man, very thoughtfully. “And he’s sure he murdered someone forty-three years ago. With a penholder, of all things — with a penholder... What did you say his name was?”
The constable bent down again.
“Old Beetle, they call him,” he said quietly. “But his real name’s Harrington — James Douglas Harrington!”
Cemetery Bait{Copyright, 1936, by Crowell-Collier Publishing Co.}
by Damon Runyon
Are you interested in what might be called “the criminological coincidence of names”?
Do you believe that names have a subtle and pervasive influence — the ability to attract mates, to reincarnate themselves, or to have a perpetual life?
Take, for example, the name of that “master of the art of anonymity in the first person,” that immensely popular short-story writer whose tales of Broadway banditti and Gotham gunmen have left an indelible mark in the history of Bagdad-on-the-Hudson — we mean, of course, the late and beloved Damon Runyon.
It is curious how his name — both ends of it — has come to have a related significance in other branches of bloodhounding; and it is a double coincidence that both ends have become linked with Dashiell Hammett. For consider: an actor named Damon played the radio part of Hammett’s Thin Man, and the name of Hammett’s Fat Man is Runyon.
And talking of names, here is the sad story of a character named Gentleman George, and the even sadder story of some characters named Mr. and Mrs. Samuel B. Venus and a 22-carat fink named Count Tomaso.
One pleasant morning in early April a character by the name of Gentleman George wakes up to find himself in a most embarrassing predicament.
He wakes up to find himself in a cell in the state penitentiary at Trenton, N. J., and while a cell in a state penitentiary is by no means a novelty to George, and ordinarily will cause him no confusion whatever, the trouble is this particular cell is in what is known as the death house.
Naturally, George is very self-conscious about this, as it is only the second time that he ever finds himself in such a house, and the first time is so far back in his youth that it leaves scarcely any impression on him, especially as he is commuted out of it in less than sixty days.
Well, George sits there on the side of the cot in his cell this pleasant April morning, thinking what a humiliating circumstance this is to a proud nature such as his, when all of a sudden he remembers that on the morrow he is to be placed in Mister Edison’s rocking chair in the room adjoining his cell, and given a very severe shock in the seat of his breeches.
On remembering this, George be comes very thoughtful, to be sure, and sighs to himself as follows: Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, heigh-ho. And then he sends for me to come and see him, although George is well aware that I have no use for penitentiaries, or their environs, and consider them a most revolting spectacle.
In fact, I have such a repugnance for penitentiaries that I never even glance at them in passing, because I am afraid that peepings may be catchings, but of course in a situation such as this I can scarcely deny the call of an old friend.
They let me talk to George through the bars of his cell, and naturally I am somewhat perturbed to observe him in this plight, although I can see that his surroundings are clean and sanitary, and that the hacks seem kindly disposed toward him, except one big doorknob who is inclined to be somewhat churlish because George just beats him in a game of two-handed pinochle.
Furthermore, I can see that George is in pretty fair physical condition, although a little stouter than somewhat, and that he looks as if he is getting some rest.