The Paperback Show Murders (8 page)

“GIRL FRIDAY”

Sunday, March 27

“She came from the Bayou country, a place of gators and skeeters and funny-talking Frenchies. But she was determined to make it in the big city—Texarkana, Arkansas (or was it Texas?), and to send whatever money she made back to her poor old Mama in Voyoute, Louisiana.

“‘Hulotte!' her boss, Mr. Ginrak, said, ‘bring me a pencil, please.'

“
He noticed me
, she thought to herself.
He wants a pencil!
And she carefully picked up the best implement she could find, and sharpened it right down to a perfect point.

“‘Here you are, sir,' she said, a half hour later.

“‘Uh, thanks, but I already got one for myself.'

“‘But…but…,' and then she started to cry.

“‘What is it, Hulotte?'

“‘I try so hard, sir, to become a Girl Friday, but I never seem to make it past Thursday! Not ever!'

“‘Don't be sad,' he said. ‘Even though I'm laying you off tomorrow, you can still be my special friend. I won't let you get lost on the streets. Why, you can come live with me!'

“‘Really and truly! I can become your own Girl Friday?'

“‘Oh, yes, it'll be like Friday every day!'

“Poor country lass: she just didn't understand that TGIF almost never outlasted the inevitably weak end.”

—Girl Thursday
,

by DiDi Wickheiser (1963)

Just before lunch, Lieutenant Pfisch made another appearance at our display. “Can I talk with you?” he said, pulling me to one side.

“I'll be back in a minute,” I told Margie, walking away with him to where we could talk without being overheard.

“Did you look at the book again?” he asked.

“I did glance at the passage you indicated,” I said, “and I agree, when you read between the lines, it's suggestive of some unnatural relationship. But if this was based on some
real
father-daughter incest, the parent in this instance would have to be at least eighty-five, if not older.”

“And probably dead.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “I'm not sure this is about that, though.”

“Then what
is
it about? I still haven't cleared your partner, you know.”

“I think she knows more than she's letting on, but I can't pry whatever it is loose from her. I've tried, Lieutenant.”

“We've got two people dead, and we still haven't figured out who did the deed or why—and I'm not sure we've come to the end of it yet,” he said. “Another thing. I can trace your friend back to the mid-1970s in the records, but not before. I know you said she worked for certain firms in the 1960s, but there's nothing that I can find that actually lists her as an editor.”

“I doubt if she had that kind of status back then,” I said. “She was probably an intern or editorial assistant or what they used to call a ‘Girl Friday'; those folks never get shown on the company registers of publishing firms.”

“Is there anybody I could ask who might have worked for one of those lines?” Pfisch said.

“Probably, but off the top of my head, I can't think of anyone. Heckelmann's dead, and so's Ned Pines. It'd have to be one of the lower-level editorial personnel, someone who was young enough to have worked there at the same time she did. Or maybe one of the authors that lived close enough to pay frequent visits to either firm. These weren't very large companies, when you come right down to it. Not back in those days.”

Then I saw someone shuffle by, and yelled out, “Marty! Marty Hughes!” When he turned around, I motioned him towards us, whispering to Pfisch, “He created some of the artwork on the books these firms published.”

“Hey, good to see ya again,” he said, peering at my face. His sight had faded a bit with age. “You're, uh, it'll come to me, uh….” I reminded him of my name. “Yeah, yeah, now I remember. You're Margie's friend, aren't you?”

“I am,” I said. “Mr. Pfisch here is a fan of classic paperbacks, and he was wondering about the personnel at Monarch Books and Popular Library back in the 1960s. You did work for them, didn't you?”

“Oh, yeah, they didn't pay much, particularly Monarch, but I always liked working for Mr. Heckelmann. He knew what he wanted, a real pro, if you know what I mean.”

“Did Margie Brittleback work for them?” I asked.

“Yeah, she was there for a couple of years, working as an aide to Mr. Heckelmann, until they started going downhill in '64. They finally closed their doors a year later. 'Course, that wasn't her actual name.”

“Really?” I said.

“She called herself ‘Margie,' even then, but her real name was Mina something or other, I don't remember now.”

“Mina Lamberth?”

“Yeah, that was it! Lamberth! She wrote a couple of sexy books for Mr. Heckelmann under house names, and edited a few others, I seem to recall. I always wondered how she got that kind of experience. I mean, she was just a frail little thing, very shy and naïve, not long out of high school, I don't think. She had a Southern accent back then, too, but I never met any of her relatives. I was just there once in a while, along with some others, to peddle my cover art. Mr. Heckelmann gave me some good tips.”

“What about Popular Library?”

“Well, she went there after Monarch and Gold Star folded, but I don't think I ran into her there very much. I did ask her out once, but she politely refused. I think she had something else going on the side. By then, she was only known as Margie, and she was writing gothics and maybe a few other novels for houses like Lancer. I think I heard that she also worked for Midwood for several years, but I didn't do any work for them.”

I thanked Marty for his time, and asked him to come by our table to autograph a few of the books that featured his cover art.

“So, who's this Mina?” Pfisch asked.

I told him about my searches through the various bibliographical databases, and what I'd found there.

“You think maybe there was no friend, just her?”

“I don't know,” I said. “I still think we're missing something vital here. I just wish the hell I knew what it was.”

I left the Lieutenant standing there, gazing after me with a frown on his face. Suddenly, I almost chuckled. I had the thought, I don't know from where, that he looked like he'd been sideswiped by a wet, slimy fish, right across the ole kazoo. Pfisch-fish, get it?

Then I stopped by our display briefly, and told Margie I was going out to pick up some lunch for us.

“YOU CAN'T DO THAT”

Sunday, March 27

“The Bardol Brothers loved robbing trains: big ones, little ones, it made no difference. Truth be told, they just liked playing with the things. If they'd grown up near a town that had had railroad service, they probably all would have wound up as engineers, brakemen, conductors, and such. But Perdunk, Wyoming, shared the dubious record of being located the furthest distance from a rail line of any town in the U.S. of A.

“So, they had to go looking for them, and since they never had been trained for any gainful work, they robbed them, combining both of their interests into a single pastime.

“It was Bustap Bardol, the second of the boys, who had the brilliant idea: ‘Saay,' he said, ‘why don't we go steal ourselves a train!?'

“‘Yeah,' Brother Bart said, ‘why not? Then we wouldn't have to keep movin' around from place to place. We could just keep drawing our cash from the same place all the time.'

“‘Yeah!' they all agreed. So they went looking for the ideal heist.

“It was Beau Bardol who figured it out. ‘See, if we hijack a train from a short line, the agents will track us down, 'cause, well, they don't have but a short ways to go. But if we do one from the Transcon, they'd have to look across the whole blasted country to find us.'

“Beau's irrefutable logic carried the day, and a few weeks later, the Brothers boarded a Frisco Western train heading west from Kansas City, and quickly took control.

“‘We want you to take us to Perdunk, Wyoming,' Brother Bret said.

“‘I can't do that. There's no line that goes there,' the engineer replied.

“About that time, the federals stopped the train at Grand Terrace, near the Food Connection, and arrested the entire gang.

“‘What happened?' Brother Brent asked his siblings inside the Palouse County clink.

“‘We forgot one thing: you can't get there from here unless your there is already here.'

“‘Huh?' they all said. Even in Perdunk, Wyoming, Bardol was not a synonym for smart.”

—The Great Brain Robbery
,

by John M. Crichton (1969)

And that brings us around full circle, back to where we started, with Freddie the Cur being impaled through his teeny-weeny little knot of a black heart right behind his own table, in public view of everyone. Who would do such a thing, and why? I had a pretty good idea by this point, but I couldn't prove a thing.

Of course, Lieutenant Pfisch immediately shut down the Paperback Show, permanently this time, and ordered all of us to gather in the Bloomberg Auditorium, a large room adjoining the Nelson Display Center, under the close supervision of his officers, who were now being constantly augmented with reinforcements.

Margie and I brought lunch with us, and continued to munch and sip while the rest of our immediate audience gazed at us with unbridled lust and gluttony. We just smiled at them, we two: the happy—the full—business couple belching straightforwardly into the future on Johnny-burgers and roast beef melts.

“When do you think they'll allow us to retrieve our stock?” Bartleby asked. “I've got some valuable stuff setting out in public view.”

“Probably never,” I said, “at least until they solve the murders.”

That
shut him up. He scribbled something down on a piece of paper, the little twerp.

“We want DNA samples from all of you,” Pfisch announced in a loud voice. “We've found DNA residue on the scarf that strangled Melissa Boaz, and we believe it may come from her killer.”

The whole room started buzzing in consternation.

“You can't do that,” Ferd Bartholomew said. “You have to have our consent or something.”

“We'll start with the ones who are willing,” the policeman said, “and then work down to the rest of you. If we have to get warrants, we'll do so.”

Suddenly Gully Foyle stood up and said in a quiet voice that carried over the entire crowd: “You don't have to do that, Lieutenant. I know that Brody killed Lissa Boaz. Even though I cared for him, I won't have anyone else accused of a crime that he committed.”

“Why would he do that?” Pfisch said.

“He was seriously in the hole,” she said, “and being harassed by phone calls and personal visits from debt collectors. Lissa gave him a couple of really valuable paperbacks to hold for her, in exchange for which she paid him a few hundred bucks. When she asked for them back again, so she could auction them to the highest bidder, he found himself in a bind, because he'd already arranged to mortgage the books to Freddie the Cur on the side, for enough to get caught up again. He'd have a clean slate, and then he could buy the books back from Freddie later on.

“At least, that was his idea, poor foolish man. In his later years, he never had two nickels to rub together, and I knew that, and still fell for him anyway. I would have supported him.

“So, he went to Lissa's room, and she threatened to sue him, which would have ruined his reputation, such as it was, and he killed her. He came to me afterward, and said that he didn't mean to, but it just happened. And then he started drinking and drinking and drinking to drown the guilt, but it didn't work. He did sell the books, but I don't think he got as much from Freddie as he thought he would; and he felt like a Judas later.

“Brody was the killer,” she said.

“Then who killed Brody?” the Lieutenant asked.

“
Brody
did,” Gully said. “I saw it. He was drunk and he misstepped and he fell down the stairs and broke his neck—just like it appeared in the first place.”

“Where were you?”

“I was a flight above him, on the landing. We'd had a terrible row, because I told him he had to turn himself in. He didn't want to. He ran away, down the stairs, and the rest just happened. I knew he was dead the moment he landed on the asphalt of the parking lot. And goddamn me, I turned my back on him and walked away. I've been walking away from people my whole life, ever since I abandoned my mother.”

“What about Freddie the Cur?” Pfisch asked.

“I don't know anything about that,” Gully said. “I do know Freddie had the books—there were at least two of them, that Tarzan thing and that awful gothic—and I know that Brody had a wad of money stuffed in his pants when he returned from his meeting with him, but I don't know any of the details.”

“And conveniently, there's no one left to ask,” the policeman said.

“As you say, Lieutenant,” she said.

“Well, Ms. Foyle, I think you and I are going to have an extended conversation about this matter, in private, along with Ms. Brittleback over there, and her ‘companion' in bookselling”—he motioned to me. “The rest of you will remain here under the watchful eyes of my men. We'll escort you as needed for various personal breaks, and we'll bring you some food and water.”

Fifty voices tried to talk at once, before Pfisch shouted them into silence: “Enough!” he said. “I'll get back to you once we sort this out. You
will
remain here for the time being, until I'm convinced we have a true picture of the situation. Please pass your phones and communication devices to Sergeant Hamm.”

And then the four of us went off to Romper-Room—or so it seemed to me.