She walked in and went over to the chief, who smiled at her graciously and things began to get started. Jones was told to come up and be identified. He came forward with his head still down and stood that way, like a dozing mule, but when Miss Turner was called up beside him, Jones snapped his head around and couldn’t take his eyes off her. He seemed to be fascinated. She was wearing the same veiled hat and pink carnation.
“All right,” the magistrate said. He took a look. “Miss Turner, suppose you take off that lovely veil and let us get started. Once you’ve identified him it wont take more than two, three minutes. The man has admitted everything.”
Miss Turner looked to the chief at her elbow. “Must I, Chief Harrington?”
The chief smiled reassuringly. “Must you what?”
“Take off my veil? You said I could just pop in and out.”
The chief laughed pleasantly. “Sure. Accused must be confronted face to face. That’s the law. You still afraid of him?”
“Yes.”
The chief turned to the prisoner grimly. “Well, you don’t have to be. We’ll straighten this out right now. If this man ever molests you in any way, shape, or form again, we’ll give him the works. A three year rap. Did you hear that, Jones?”
“Yessir, I heard you,” Jones mumbled. He still couldn’t take his eyes off Miss Turner. He was like a man in a trance. It was clear he didn’t have a shred of courage left, just a kind of hypnosis.
“Well, all right,” the magistrate said. He was getting impatient. “Miss Turner take the stand, remove your veil, and let’s go.”
Miss Turner went up to the stand, turned around, lifted both hands to the veil and tossed it back over her hat. Regardless what the chief had said, she was still scared to death. But there was nothing else to do. She was smiling like a ninny. It was a kind of trap. She’d never dreamed it would go this far.
“Okay,” the magistrate said. “That’s better. Now we’ll move fast. Is that the man who called you on the telephone, told you obscenities, and in pursuance of an indecent proposal came up to you in the restaurant?”
There was no answer and after a split second all the reporters’ heads snapped up to look. Miss Turner was staring at the prisoner. Jones had turned red, then absolutely dead white, then he laughed one quick abrupt laugh and finally took a stumbling step forward.
“Are you the lady I been talking to on the telephone?” It didn’t have the slightest braggadocio. It was simply a pleading question.
Miss Turner tried, but couldn’t answer. Only her mouth opened.
“She sure is,” Chief Harrington said.
“My God.” Jones turned his head to look at everybody in a dull stupid way. It was hard to tell if he was beginning to grin or beginning to cry.
The chief looked at him sharply. “What’s the matter with you, Lothario? Now you see her, you disappointed, you dumbfounded?”
Jones’ lips were quivering, opening and closing soundlessly as though he were full of some horrible thing.
“Oh, my God,” he kept saying. Everybody looked at everybody else.
“Say, what’s the matter with you?” the chief demanded.
“This woman,” Jones said. You could barely hear him.
“What about this woman?”
“She’s the one asked me to do it.”
“What!” the chief said, sharply.
“She’s the one asked me, I tell you. I wouldn’t of told on her before if it cost me my life. I know her well. She’s Miss Marie Turner from the big insurance office up on the 14th floor. I’ve known her twenty years. Always give me a kind word and a fine expensive Christmas present. Always real kind to me and my family. Always kidded with me real chummy in the halls every chance she had. Three weeks ago she gave me a ten-dollar bill and handed me this telephone number and said I should ask for a girl named Phoebe. Said I shouldn’t stop calling until she gave me the word.”
The magistrate was searching frantically on the docket. “It’s Marie P. Turner, all right, chief,” he said, finally. “P for Phoebe.”
Jones went on as though he hadn’t heard, speaking right to the magistrate, anywhere but where Miss Turner’s eyes might be — glittering now at last with the same, fixed, hypnotized smile. He looked heartbroken, miserable, utterly demoralized. “She said this Phoebe was her good friend. Told me what kind of a girl she was, and told me lots of things about her past. Surprised me, her knowing her. But ten bucks is ten bucks. She said it would be a joke. She said there wasn’t any limits to what I should say on the phone. Oh, Judge, I never had an idea. I never had an idea at all. How can it happen? How can a thing like this ever go and happen?”
Hot-Rock Rumble
by Richard S. Prather
Somehow Mr. Osborne didn’t look like the type. He was a tall, distinguished-looking guy of about fifty, with all his hair still on his head, rimless glasses over his blue eyes, and about three-hundred dollars worth of clothes on his short body.
He’d come in through the door marked “Sheldon Scott, Investigations” at ten this morning and he’d given me his whole story in five minutes, his sentences clipped and to the point. About every minute he’d gone to the window that overlooks Broadway and peered out to see if his wife were standing down there screeching.
I said, “Sounds O.K. I’ll get on it right away, Mr. Osborne.”
“Thank you.” He got up, found a thousand-dollar bill in his fat wallet and dropped the bill on my desk. “I hope that’s all right for now. I’ll give you the other nine thousand in cash too, if you’re successful. Is that satisfactory?” He went over to the window again.
“Perfectly.” I was admiring Cleveland’s picture and the number one and three zeros in the bill’s corner when he said, “Ohmigawd. There she is. She didn’t shop long. She can spend more money faster than anybody I...” He let it trail off, turned and went sailing out without another word.
In his haste he left my office door standing open. I shut it, then walked to the window where he’d been standing. I saw him appear beside a plump woman in a fur coat. She put her hands on her hips and yacked something at him.
It seemed likely she was asking him where in the hell he’d disappeared to, because Mr. Jules Osborne had sneaked away from his wife to see me. I went back to my desk and looked at the notes I’d taken while he’d talked. Mr. Osborne had spent $100,000 on jewelry which, unknown to his wife, he had given to what he described as “an, ah, er, young lady.” Two nights ago the jewelry had been stolen from the girl’s — Diane Borden’s — home. Diane missed her rocks so much that she brought forth an ultimatum: If Julie boy didn’t replace them, or at least get the “old” ones back, Mrs. Jules Osborne might start hearing from the little birds. So, with a possible outlay of $100,000 staring him in the wallet, Jules was quite willing to pay me $10,000 if I could recover the originals.
Osborne hadn’t gone to the police because he didn’t want any record of this deal anywhere. He’d checked on me, satisfied himself I could be trusted, and laid his problem in my lap. And time was important because he’d said to me, “I can trust the jeweler, I’m sure. The only one I’m worried about is Diane. She’s apt to go berserk any day. Any—” he groaned — “hour. If my wife finds out about this she’ll gouge me for a million-a-year alimony. What with alimony and taxes I’ll have to borrow money.”
Anyway, Osborne wanted action, Diane lived in a rent-free house on Genesee Street. I put the thousand bucks in my wallet, got my black Cad out of the parking lot, and headed for Hollywood.