Chapter 2 Chapter 2 The Tsar of Poison Town
The Morning Herald reported the death of Donna Wilson in two pages.It showed him with a bright, pleasing face, curly hair, smiling eyes and mouth, a dimple in the middle of his chin, and a striped tie around his neck.
Reports of his death were simple.He had been shot four times in the stomach, chest and back at 10:40 the night before and died instantly.The shooting happened on the block beginning at 1100 Hurricane Street.Residents of that block looked out when they heard gunshots and saw the dead man lying on the sidewalk, with a man and a woman bending over him.The streets were too dark for anyone to see what they looked like or what they were doing.The man and woman disappeared before anyone else appeared on the street.No one knew what they looked like, and no one saw them leave.
Wilson was shot six times with a .32.Two shots missed and struck the wall of a house facing the street.By tracing the paths of the two bullets, police discovered that the shooter had shot in a narrow alley across the street.That's all we know so far.
The Morning Herald's editorial section summed up the deceased man's short career as an urban reformer, noting that he had been killed by people who did not want Boshen to be clean. The Morning Herald also said the chief of police had better catch the killer and sentence him—or them—to show he wasn’t an accomplice.The entire editorial is direct and poignant.
I finished the editorial in the time it took to drink my second cup of coffee, then hopped on a Broadway streetcar, got off at Laurel Avenue, and turned and walked toward the dead man's house.
When I was half a block away from his house, something happened that changed my mind and my destination.
A small young man in a dark brown three-piece suit crossed the road in front of me, with a beautiful dark profile.He is Max Thaler, alias The Whisperer.I turned onto Mountain Drive just in time to see his brown pant legs disappear in front of the late Donna Wilson's house.
I walked back to Broadway, found a pharmacy with a phone, found Elihu Wilson's number in the Yellow Pages, and dialed it.The other person claimed to be the old man's secretary, and I told him that Donna Wilson had sent me from San Francisco; that I knew something about his death; that I wanted to see his father.
It wasn't until I emphasized the various stakes several times that I finally got an invitation.
The Tsar of Poison Town propped himself up on his hands in bed as I was ushered into his bedroom by his secretary—a quiet, thin, piercing-eyed man of forty.
The old man's head was small, almost perfectly spherical, with white hair cut close to his scalp.His ears were too small and stuck to the sides of his head, ruining the spherical effect.His nose was also small, like an extension of the bony forehead arc.The mouth and chin were straight lines on a globe, and below that was a thick, stubby neck, wrapped in white pajamas, sandwiched between broad, fleshy shoulders.One of his arms lay outside the quilt, short and strong, followed by a hand with blunt knuckles.His blue eyes were small and round and watery, and they looked as if they were deliberately hidden behind curtains of water and under bushy white eyebrows, only to pop out at the right moment and grab something.Unless you're too confident in your fingers, you definitely won't touch his pockets.
His round head jerked two inches, motioned for me to sit on the chair by the bed, drove the secretary away in the same way, and asked, "What's wrong with my son?"
The sound is harsh.He is full of confidence, but his mouth is too small, which makes his pronunciation not so clear.
"I am an agent with the San Francisco branch of the Continental Detective Agency," I told him. "A few days ago we received a letter and a check from your son asking us to send someone to do something for him. So I was sent He came. He asked me to go to his house last night, and I went, but he was not there. I didn’t know he was killed until I returned to the city the next day.”
Elihu Wilson stared at me suspiciously and asked, "Oh, and then?"
"While I was at his house waiting for him to come back, his wife got a call and went out. She came back with what looked like blood on her shoes and told me her husband wouldn't be coming home tonight. Your son at ten o'clock She was killed at 40, and she went out at 10:20 and returned home at 11:50."
The old man sat up straight on the bed and cursed young Mrs. Wilson with a bunch of nasty things until he couldn't find the words anymore.But he found that he still had some strength, so he used it to yell at me.
"Is she locked up?"
I said I don't think so.
This made him very unhappy.He viciously yelled a bunch of dirty words that I didn't like, and finally said, "Then what the fuck are you waiting for?"
He's too old and too sick for me to slap him.I smiled and said, "Wait for the evidence."
"Evidence? What evidence do you need? You've—"
"Don't be an idiot," I interrupted him shouting, "Why did she kill him?"
"Because she's a French slut! Because she—"
The secretary's frightened face appeared at the door.
"Get out!" the old man growled at him, and the face disappeared.
"Because she's jealous?" I asked before he could go on yelling, "and, even if you weren't yelling like that, I might still be able to hear you. My deafness has gotten better since I started eating yeast flakes. "
He put his fists on the place where his legs were propping up the quilt just now, and his square chin pointed at me.
"Even though I'm old and sick." His tone was very serious, "I still really want to stand up and kick your ass."
I didn't care, and asked again: "Is it because of jealousy?"
"Yes," he stopped roaring, "and domineering, pampered, suspicious, greedy, mean, unscrupulous, lying, selfish, hopelessly—in a word, down to the bone!"
"Has she any reason to be jealous?"
"I hope so," he said bitterly. "I don't want my son to be faithful to her! Too bad he seems to be like that. It's his way of doing things."
"You don't know any reason why she wanted to kill him?"
"Don't know any reason?" He began to growl again. "Didn't I tell you—"
"Yes. But those are meaningless and rather childish."
The old man jerked off the quilt covering his legs and was about to get out of bed.But he thought about it for a while, then raised his red face and roared angrily, "Stanley!"
The door swung open, and the secretary walked in.
"Throw the bastard out!" the master ordered, shaking his fist at me.
The secretary turned to look at me.I shook my head and suggested to him: "It's better to find a helper."
He frowned.We are about the same age.He was skinny, about a head taller than me, and fifty pounds lighter.Some of my one hundred and ninety pounds are fat, but not all.The secretary was a little uneasy, smiled politely, and left.
"What I want to say," I told the old man, "is that I was going to talk to your daughter-in-law this morning, but I saw Max Thaler come into the house, and I postponed my visit."
Elihu Wilson carefully pulled the quilt back on his lap, leaned his head on the pillow, stared at the ceiling, and said, "Well, that's what it is, isn't it?"
"What's the meaning?"
"She killed him," he said firmly, "that's what she meant."
There were footsteps in the corridor, heavier than the secretary's.I was in the middle of a sentence when footsteps came to the door: "You use your son to manage—"
"Go away!" the old man yelled at the person at the door, "close the door!" He looked at me fiercely and asked, "What am I using my son for?"
"Knives at Thaler, Yard, and Finn."
"nonsense!"
"It's not what I said, it has spread throughout Bosheng City."
"Nonsense. I gave him the news agency, and he can do whatever he wants."
"You should explain it to your fellows, and they will believe you."
"What the hell they believe! That's what I said!"
"So what? Your son won't come back from the dead just because he was killed by mistake—if he was killed by mistake."
"That woman killed him."
"maybe."
"Death to you and your 'maybe'! It must be her."
"Perhaps. But there's something else to consider too—political. You tell me—"
"I told you it was the French slut who killed him. And I can tell you that all your other stupid ideas are out of the question."
"It's still worth looking into!" I insisted. "You know more about the politics inside Bosen City than anyone else I could find. He's your son, and you can at least—"
"I can at least," he growled again, "tell you to go back to San Francisco, you and your stupid head—"
I stood up and said displeasedly, "I'm staying at the Great Western Hotel, so don't bother me unless you want to change your attitude and have a good talk."
I walked out of the bedroom and down the stairs.The secretary lingered on the stairs, smiling apologetically.
"What a yelling old rascal," I growled.
"Have a rare exuberant energy," he murmured.
In the offices of the Herald, I found the victim's secretary.She was a little girl of nineteen or twenty, with big chestnut eyes, light brown hair, and a pretty little pale face.Her last name is Lewis. She said she had no idea why the boss called me to Bosheng City. "But," she explained, "Mr. Wilson has always liked to keep things to himself if he could, and that's because—I don't think he can trust anyone here completely." "Even you can't?" She blushed and said, "No. After all, he has only been back for a short time, and he doesn't know us very well." "It's not just because of this!" "This..." She bit her lip, leaving a row of fingerprints on the edge of the deceased's polished desk with her index finger, "His father didn't... didn't support what he did. Due to the fact that the newspaper still belonged to him Father, I think it would be natural for Mr. Donner to think that some employees are more loyal to Mr. Elihu." "Does the old man not approve of the reform movement? Since the newspaper is his, why doesn't he stand up and oppose it?" She lowered her head to study the fingerprints she had pressed, her voice was very low. "To understand this, you have to know that ... the last time Mr. Elihue fell ill, he called Donner back - Mr. Donner. As you know, Mr. Donner lived in Europe most of his life Dr. Pride told Mr. Elihu that he had to give up managing his business, so he sent a telegram telling his son to go home. When Mr. Donner returned, Mr. Elihu could not feel comfortable letting go, but he wanted to Mr. Downer stayed, and he gave him the newspaper office—as it is now, as publisher. Mr. Downer liked it very much, he was interested in journalism when he was in Paris. When he found out that the When it got so bad - municipal work and stuff - he started reforming. He didn't understand...he left home when he was a kid...he really didn't understand..." "He didn't understand that his father was as deep as everyone else." I finished her sentence. She squirmed uneasily and continued to study her fingerprints, not contradicting me, but continuing to talk. "Mr. Elihu had a big fight with him, and told him to stop making trouble, but he wouldn't let it go. Maybe if he knew the situation--knows everything he should know--he would. But I think He may never find out how deeply his father was involved. His father wouldn't tell him that. I think it's hard for a father to say that to his son. He threatened to take the newspaper from Mr. Downer Take it back, I don't know if he really thought so. Then he fell ill again, and things carried on as they were." "Didn't Donal Wilson tell you anything?" "No." Her voice was low as a whisper. "Where did you hear these things?" "I'm trying...trying to help you find out who murdered him," she said sincerely. "You have no right to—" "It would be of the greatest help to me if you could tell where you heard these words from," I insisted. She stared at her desk, biting her lower lip.I wait.After a while she said, "My father is Mr. Wilson's secretary." "thanks." "You mustn't think we—" "I won't," I assured her. "What was he doing on Hurricane Street last night when Wilson asked me over?" She said she didn't know.I asked her if she heard him tell me on the phone that he would come to his house at ten o'clock, and she said yes. "What did he do after that? Think about it and try to recall everything he said and did before you left from get off work." She leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and frowned. "You called—if that was you—and he told you to come to his house, and it was about two o'clock. After that, Mr. Downer dictated some letters for me to write, one to the paper mill and one to the Senator Keefer, talking about some changes to the post office regulations. And then—oh, yes! He was out about twenty minutes before three o'clock. Before he went out, he wrote a check." "Who is it for?" "Don't know, but I saw he wrote it." "Where's his checkbook? Does he have it with him?" "Here." She jumped up and walked around to the late boss's desk, trying to open the top drawer. "It's locked." I will help her.I straightened a paper clip, and with the help of my razor blade, pried the drawer open. The girl produced a thin First National Bank checkbook.The last stub filled out said five thousand dollars.There is nothing left, no name, no notes. "He went out with the check," I said. "Twenty minutes? Is that enough time for him to go to and from the bank?" "It takes less than five minutes to go to the bank." "Didn't something happen before he wrote the check? Come to think of it, was there a message, a letter, a phone call?" "Let me see." She closed her eyes again. "He was dictating some letters, and then—oh, how stupid I was! He did make a phone call. He said: 'Yes, I can be there at ten o'clock.' , but not for long.’ Then he said: ‘Okay, ten o’clock!’ Then he said nothing but ‘Yes, yes’ a few more times.” "Is the other party a man or a woman?" "I have no idea." "Think about it. There must be some differences in his voice when he speaks to different people." She thought for a while and said, "It should be a woman." "Which of you - you or him - left first that night?" "I went first. He--I told you my father was Mr. Elihu's secretary, and he and Mr. Donner had an appointment to meet earlier in the evening to discuss the financial situation of the newspaper. My father arrived just after five o'clock. Here it is. I think they had dinner together." That's all the Lewis girl can tell me.She said she didn't know why Wilson was in the 1100 block of Hurricane Street, and admitted to knowing nothing about Mrs. Wilson. We rummaged through the dead man's desk, but found nothing.I tried to find the lady who was in charge of transferring the phone, but I couldn't find it.Then I spent another hour asking correspondents and local editors and such, and still nowhere.As his secretary said, the dead man liked to keep things to himself.
Notes:
In the offices of the Herald, I found the victim's secretary.She was a little girl of nineteen or twenty, with big chestnut eyes, light brown hair, and a pretty little pale face.Her last name is Lewis. She said she had no idea why the boss called me to Bosheng City. "But," she explained, "Mr. Wilson has always liked to keep things to himself if he could, and that's because—I don't think he can trust anyone here completely." "Even you can't?" She blushed and said, "No. After all, he has only been back for a short time, and he doesn't know us very well." "It's not just because of this!" "This..." She bit her lip, leaving a row of fingerprints on the edge of the deceased's polished desk with her index finger, "His father didn't... didn't support what he did. Due to the fact that the newspaper still belonged to him Father, I think it would be natural for Mr. Donner to think that some employees are more loyal to Mr. Elihu." "Does the old man not approve of the reform movement? Since the newspaper is his, why doesn't he stand up and oppose it?" She lowered her head to study the fingerprints she had pressed, her voice was very low. "To understand this, you have to know that ... the last time Mr. Elihue fell ill, he called Donner back - Mr. Donner. As you know, Mr. Donner lived in Europe most of his life Dr. Pride told Mr. Elihu that he had to give up managing his business, so he sent a telegram telling his son to go home. When Mr. Donner returned, Mr. Elihu could not feel comfortable letting go, but he wanted to Mr. Downer stayed, and he gave him the newspaper office—as it is now, as publisher. Mr. Downer liked it very much, he was interested in journalism when he was in Paris. When he found out that the When it got so bad - municipal work and stuff - he started reforming. He didn't understand...he left home when he was a kid...he really didn't understand..." "He didn't understand that his father was as deep as everyone else." I finished her sentence. She squirmed uneasily and continued to study her fingerprints, not contradicting me, but continuing to talk. "Mr. Elihu had a big fight with him, and told him to stop making trouble, but he wouldn't let it go. Maybe if he knew the situation--knows everything he should know--he would. But I think He may never find out how deeply his father was involved. His father wouldn't tell him that. I think it's hard for a father to say that to his son. He threatened to take the newspaper from Mr. Downer Take it back, I don't know if he really thought so. Then he fell ill again, and things carried on as they were." "Didn't Donal Wilson tell you anything?" "No." Her voice was low as a whisper. "Where did you hear these things?" "I'm trying...trying to help you find out who murdered him," she said sincerely. "You have no right to—" "It would be of the greatest help to me if you could tell where you heard these words from," I insisted. She stared at her desk, biting her lower lip.I wait.After a while she said, "My father is Mr. Wilson's secretary." "thanks." "You mustn't think we—" "I won't," I assured her. "What was he doing on Hurricane Street last night when Wilson asked me over?" She said she didn't know.I asked her if she heard him tell me on the phone that he would come to his house at ten o'clock, and she said yes. "What did he do after that? Think about it and try to recall everything he said and did before you left from get off work." She leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and frowned. "You called—if that was you—and he told you to come to his house, and it was about two o'clock. After that, Mr. Downer dictated some letters for me to write, one to the paper mill and one to the Senator Keefer, talking about some changes to the post office regulations. And then—oh, yes! He was out about twenty minutes before three o'clock. Before he went out, he wrote a check." "Who is it for?" "Don't know, but I saw he wrote it." "Where's his checkbook? Does he have it with him?" "Here." She jumped up and walked around to the late boss's desk, trying to open the top drawer. "It's locked." I will help her.I straightened a paper clip, and with the help of my razor blade, pried the drawer open. The girl produced a thin First National Bank checkbook.The last stub filled out said five thousand dollars.There is nothing left, no name, no notes. "He went out with the check," I said. "Twenty minutes? Is that enough time for him to go to and from the bank?" "It takes less than five minutes to go to the bank." "Didn't something happen before he wrote the check? Come to think of it, was there a message, a letter, a phone call?" "Let me see." She closed her eyes again. "He was dictating some letters, and then—oh, how stupid I was! He did make a phone call. He said: 'Yes, I can be there at ten o'clock.' , but not for long.’ Then he said: ‘Okay, ten o’clock!’ Then he said nothing but ‘Yes, yes’ a few more times.” "Is the other party a man or a woman?" "I have no idea." "Think about it. There must be some differences in his voice when he speaks to different people." She thought for a while and said, "It should be a woman." "Which of you - you or him - left first that night?" "I went first. He--I told you my father was Mr. Elihu's secretary, and he and Mr. Donner had an appointment to meet earlier in the evening to discuss the financial situation of the newspaper. My father arrived just after five o'clock. Here it is. I think they had dinner together." That's all the Lewis girl can tell me.She said she didn't know why Wilson was in the 1100 block of Hurricane Street, and admitted to knowing nothing about Mrs. Wilson. We rummaged through the dead man's desk, but found nothing.I tried to find the lady who was in charge of transferring the phone, but I couldn't find it.Then I spent another hour asking correspondents and local editors and such, and still nowhere.As his secretary said, the dead man liked to keep things to himself.
Notes: