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.