Speaker 1: The triple murder in Mulberry Bend, you will find three
dead men in Moulspiny's cellar in Mulberry Bend. The single
typewritten line was undated and unsigned, but on the lower
right hand corner of the paper were three distinct fingerprints,
made with such precision that obviously they were placed there
with a purpose. Silent Cass, Lieutenant of Detectives, read the
note without visible excitement or interest. Looks like the real thing,
he grunted, tossing it across the desk. What do you think, Gaddie?
Sergeant Gaddy glanced stolidly at the writing, arose slowly, and
put on his hat. Cass also stood up, shifting a
small automatic from his hip to an outside coat pocket.
Let's walk, he said. Mulberry Bend was only ten minutes
from headquarters. Anonymous letters belonged to the routine, but they
rarely yielded anything worthwhile. Sometimes they came from a revel
ungeful crooks bent on getting even. Often they were of
the poison pen variety, written out of sheer malice, and
more frequently they could readily be identified as the fulminations
of half cracked persons moved by morbid obsessions. But this letter,
which had been left at the outside rail at headquarters,
addressed to the police, did not fall within any of
these categories, not that it appealed to a trained sixth
sense or any such nonsense. The simple fact was that
Mike Mulspieny's place was known to both men in the
shadowy past, when as lusty young cops on the Lower
East Side, they had pounded the pave together. It had
been the resort of such picturesque criminals as the Wolf
and the Ox, and had achieved a molodorous celebrity as
the scene of a barrel murder. Latterly, however, its evil
repute had waned, and Moulspieney was conducting the place as
a provision shop, falling in line with the growing respectability
of the quarter. As the detectives turned into the bend
from Center Street, a policeman placidly saluted them with one
hand while he jingled a handful of coins in the other.
Anything do on, O'Hara asked, cass. Bunch of crabshooters took
it on the run when they saw me coming, chuckled
the uniformed man exhibiting the spoils. Sergeant Gaddy looked appraisingly
into the open palm. Hardly the price of a drink
these days, he sighed, get busy, thrust in Cass Curtly O'Hara,
you just mope along behind us and keep an eye
almost Spieney's place while we go inside. A bronzed, sturdy
man of about thirty, with a suggestion of the military
in his garbing carriage, sauntered past them, halting for an
instant as the lieutenant spoke. While Spiiney was standing in
the door of his shop, He greeted the detectives with
an over cordial grin. What you got in the cellar?
Mike Cass asked the question casually. Not a drop, Chief,
not a drop. The revenue men got me a month
of AGD with ten gallons of claret. I was let
off with a fine, but the next time who Cassngaddy
left with him The revenue men enjoyed no great popularity
with the local detectives. You don't mind if we go
downstairs and look, do you, asked caskod naturedly. Hell no,
come right in. As the detectives followed Mulspiny into the store,
O'Hara slouched past the front door, his eyes roving over
the cinder covered playground that lay directly in front of
the bend. Any show of interest in the shop would
have collected a crowd in no time. If there is
anything that a good policeman hates, it is an assemblage
of curious citizens mixed with the inevitable small boys and
peering old ladies, whom one cannot very well wallop with
a night stick. The bronze young man, who overheard the
lieutenant's orders to the patrolman, had crossed the street and
was standing at the curb directly opposite the shop. As
O'Hara eyed him. The man drew the makins from a pocket,
rolled a cigarette, and walked lazily away in the direction
of Worth Street. With care free alacrity, Moulspiiny led the
detectives into the rear room and lifted a trap door.
A faint flood of light came up from the cellar.
Must have left that lamp burn and all night, muttered
the shopkeeper fretfully, as though estimating the cost of his carelessness.
Silent casts walked half way down the steps. Gaddy started
to follow, but His superior jerked a thumb over his shoulder,
and the sergeant remained upstairs. If you find any booze
down there, save a drink for me, called Mulspieny jocularly.
As Cass reached the bottom of the stairs, the detective
looked around the dimly lit cellar, a vault like chamber
of masonry extending the full length and width of the building.
Two small windows closed now afforded the only means of ventilation.
The place was stuffy to a point of suffocation. The
rear half was filled with provision cases and the usual
litter of a grocery store room. In a clear space
well forward, three men were seated at a large round table,
over which hung a single, dust covered electric lamp. Tips
half true anyway, muttered the detective whimsically. Three men are here,
all right, but they're not dead. Kicking over an empty
egg crate, he yelled, hey, you fellows, stir your stumps.
What are you doing here? The men at the table
did not move or utter a sound. Silent casts walked
over and jarred roughly against the one nearest him. The
man rolled from the chair, fell to his back, and
remained motionless. One arm covering his face with a grotesque crook.
The detective reached down and grasped the upturned wrist. It
felt like a piece of damp rubber hose. He released
it quickly, and the arm oscillated stiffly, without alteration of
its original position. Dead, The word followed in the wake
of the detective's surprised whistle. The two men remaining at
the table showed no interest. Cass gripped his automatic and
glared at them, jerking the hat off the second man.
The head swayed slightly, and a wavering glint came from
the staring, apalescent eyes. Dead. This time, the word was
uttered in a tense, staccato. An echo seemed to come
from the dim recesses in the rear Silent casts wheeled
and backed slowly against the masonry, his eyes darting about
the cellar. The third man was seated in the most
natural position possible. His chin rested within his hands, and
he seemed to be asleep. Cass moved toward him cautiously,
and with the broad side of his left arm, swept
the hands from under the chin. The man lurched forward,
his head, striking the table with a bang. A couple
of playing cards fluttered from under him and fell to
the floor, face up dead, the three of them. Cask
glanced down at the cards buried aces Eh, gunner, knife
play I suppose again Mulspiiny's laugh sounded through the open hatch.
The detective wheeled in sudden wrath. Hey Gaddy, he shouted,
trust that fellow up and throw him under the pool table.
A swift scuffle, snarl on a thud, as from the
impact of a billie on a skull, came to the
ears of the listener below. Then a bleeding protest from Mulspini. Don't, sergeant, don't,
I'll be quiet. Cass heard the snap of handcuffs and
a heavy sound as though a sack of potatoes had
been tossed to the floor. A moment later, Gaddie's head
appeared at the top of the stairs. What's up, chief,
he asked, eagerly, Lock the door and fetch the wop down,
answered Cass. Somewhere in the back of his head lurked
to the thought that the presence of the three men
in the cellar would be a surprise to Mulspiiny, Spanish,
Jel and Louis. The lawyer, he muttered, gazing into the
faces of two of the dead men. He was about
to lift the head of the third when Mulspieny stepped
gingerly down the steps, followed by Gaddie. The shopkeeper gazed
in stupid bewilderment at the three inanimate figures. Cass watched
him keenly. If the man was acting, he certainly was
a master of dissimulation. Lifting his manacled hands above his head,
he yelled, arrest those guys. They ain't got no business
in my place. He had started toward the table when
Gaddie seized him and threw him back into a pile
of crates under the steps. Stay there till your numbers called,
snarled the sergeant. Leaping toward the table like his superior,
he instantly recognized the two whose faces were revealed. There
must have been a hell of a time in hell
when those birds flew in, he said, grimly. Silent. Cass
laid his hands on the third man's shoulders. As he
drew back the head. The light reflected from the oilcloth
on the table cast a ghastly green shadow across his face.
Both men looked long and earnestly at the rigid features.
And I don't get that bird, do you, said Gaddie. Finally,
Cass shook his head and beckoned to Mulspiny. The shopkeeper
sprang to his feet and ran to the table. For
a single instant, his frightened eyes rested upon the dead
face of the man at the table. A shriek, womanish
in its intensity and shrillness, broke from him. He strained
vainly for a moment at the irons, then, with incoherent gibberings,
slithered around the table and kissed the dead man's forehead.
A look of loathing passed between the detectives. Neither made
any effort to sustain the man as he swayed for
a moment and then crashed through the floor. Without uttering
a word. Cass drew the anonymous note from his pocket,
gazed at the fingerprints, and then at Gaddie. The sergeant
seized the right hand of the man on the floor
and examined the index finger. A faint smudge appeared upon it.
Similar smudges were discernible on the corresponding fingers of the
other two sign their own death warrants. Surmised Gaddie silent cash,
shook his head sailed him after death. More likely, he said,
the person who left the note at headquarters probably did
the job. The lieutenant had taken the pendant lamp from
the hook, uncoiled the loops, and was holding the light
clob to the face of Spanish Joe. The countenance wore
a look such as might be possible to one which
in life bore the marks of all the evil passions.
The black patent leathery hair was banked smoothly down over
the forehead. The clothing was undisturbed, and the whole attitude
of the body that of some poisonous thing suddenly bereft
of life by being sealed in a vacuum. In whatever
guise death had come to him, it had borne no
message of terror to Spanish Joe. With deft fingers, Gaddie
ran over the upper part of the body, and under
the clothing there was no sign of blood. From a
secret pocket in the vest. Under the left armpit, he
drew a ponyard. It glinted in the light as he
held it up, clean as a hound's tooth, said Cass.
Gaddy turned to examine the other two. The surager revealed,
no outward sign of physical violence, nothing in fact, but
the usual pocket miscellane. A billfold taken from the body
of Louis the Lawyer contained nearly five hundred dollars, nothing unusual,
as Louis's wealth was a matter of common knowledge on
the lower east side. If the source thereof was not silent.
Cass stooped and moved the lamp slowly along the floor. Gaddie,
with face close to the cement, followed the light until
he came to the cards buried. Aces, explained Cass, they
fell out from under one of these fellows when I
shook em. This didn't happen in a crooked game, said Gaddie, sagely,
not if the cards were still buried when he died.
He picked up a broken Chianti flask near the table. Frah,
he sputtered, thrusting it out at arm's length. Whatever was
in that bottle had an awful kick to it. Kass
also thrust his nose into the broken flask, then set
it gingerly down on the table. Kick He echoed, why
this bottle seems to be dry inside, yet it's got
a kick like a South African jackass One whiff made
me dizzy. Wonder if it's wood alcohol. The detectives were
erecked now and gazing at more Spieney's silent figure, so
much like the others that he too seems dead. Gaddie
went to the rear, drew a bucket of water from
the specket, and returning, threw it over the prostrate man's face.
Molspieny spluttered and sat up. Gaddie dragged him to his
feet and faced him toward the dead man, whom the
shopkeeper had kissed on the forehead. Who is he demanded
the sergeant. Molspieny gave a frightened whimper, but did not answer.
Who is he repeated Gaddie, relentlessly, drawing back his billy cass,
thrust out an intervening hand man was handcuffed. Besides, the
Lieutenant Well knew the futility of confessions made under duress
when a case came to trial. Gaddie dropped the billy
back into his coat pocket with a snarling laugh. He'll
change his mind after a night in the old slip.
We'll give him the best room in the house, nice
quiet place where nobody can hear him squawk. When we
throw the boots into him. Cass turned away to conceal
a grin from the prisoner. He did not like Gaddie's
coarse third degree work. There were grits in it. Wheeling
suddenly upon the shopkeeper, he demanded, when did your brother
come from Italy? Mike? The long finger of conjecture touched
the point. It's my brother, Tony, he admitted brokenly. But
I don't know these other fellows or how they came
by their death. Tony has a key to the shop.
He was a deserter from the other side and had
to keep under cover, so I let him use the
cellar once in a while for card games with his friends. Why,
snorted Gaddy. Nevertheless, he turned to Cass and said, gleefully.
We cleared up that point anyway, did we. There was
a sarcastic note in the lieutenant's voice. Take this fellow
over to headquarters. Better remove the irons and slip out
the back way if you don't want to play drum
major in front of an east side procession. Gaddy and Mulspiny,
both trying to look unconcerned, walked rapidly across the playgrounds
toward headquarters, just as three police wagons came clanging into
the bend by way of Worth Street. The bronzed young man,
who had observed the detectives entered the provision shop, jumped
from a bench as the two men passed him. What's
the matter over there pulling a raid, he asked, beat it,
snapped Gaddie, pushing Mulspeiny roughly ahead. The young man smiled
but did not resume his seat. Gaddy moved along a
few yards, then paused uneasily, wonder if I overlooked a
bet and not putting the basket over that guy? He muttered,
He's the same fellow who passed us on our way
into the shop. When he turned, however, the bronzed young
man had disappeared in the crowd that was flocking toward
the police wagons. O'Hara, in the meantime, had relinquished the
task of handling the mob to the reserves and resumed
his post. The young man, who had been rebuffed by
Gaddie paused at his elbow. The policeman looked into the open,
smiling face, and relieved his chest of a weight that
had been lying there since. The meaning of the whole
affair began to dawn upon him. What chance has a
harness bull got in a case like this, he asked bitterly,
you might as well hang a red lander on and
send him out with a fife and drum corps. The
bronze young man smiled as O'Hara moved disconsolately away stone
blind both of them. He chuckled. The right way to
escape the cops is to keep on their heels or
hide in the grill room of a Waldorf. Little that
was new was discovered at headquarters. The finger prints of
Spanish Joe and Louis the Lawyer tallied with those in
the archives, which also contained the records of both men.
They were no prince or history of the third man,
whom Mulspieny had admitted to be his brother. Spanish Joe's
record was such as must have assured him a warm
welcome beyond the sticks. Listed as an agent for burlesque shows,
he had been twice convicted as a white slaver, and
once for felonious assault. It was noteworthy, however, that he
had never served a full term in prison. His birthplace
was given as Havana, Cuba, and his origin mixed Spanish
and carib Indian. The record and antecedents of Louis the
Lawyer were hardly more savory. From a shyster practice in
Essex Market Court, he had branched out to the dubious
distinction of being considered the chief lawyer and go between
in the nether world. It was his dark and secret
operations that were responsible for the immunity from prison that
Spanish Joe had so long enjoyed. Although he had a
fine home in Riverside Drive, it was in the purlieus
of the Lower east Side that he found his true atmosphere,
his horizon. Not having widened a pace with his increasing wealth.
In that stifling, dirty cellar and mulberry bend, the hog
had returned to his wallow and had been smothered in it.
One thing was evident from the beginning. The triple murder,
if such it was, did not have its origins in
a vendetta. All the fantastic earmarks usual to a Southern
European feud were absent. There was no hideous marring of
the bodies. Indeed, no mark of any kind was found
upon them, nor did the coroner find a trace of poison.
After the autopsies, a chemical analysis of the organs revealed nothing.
The men apparently had died of natural causes and simultaneously
brooding like three black crows over the sinister mystery. The
finger prints on the mysterious note to the police seemed
to afford the only clue who had placed them with
such care upon the clean white paper. What practiced hand
had written the note itself? It was not the work
of a bunglesome amateur. The nicety of spacing and general
evenness of the work precluded such a conclusion. Silent casts
and Sergeant Gaddy went over the back trails of the
three dead men, encountering nothing but blank walls everywhere, and
emerging from blind alleys with empty hands. From the very
first cass had been satisfied that Mulspieny had told the truth.
When he came out of his faint in the cellar, Gaddy,
though he did not admit it to his superior, had
beaten the shopkeeper almost to a pulp, avoiding only bruising
of his face, without getting any additional information. Nor did
the sergeant say a word word about his encounter with
the bronzed young man in the playground. Somehow, through his
turgid reasoning, the thought persisted that this smiling, open faced
stranger had not thrust himself into the case by accident.
The hope grew in him that some subtle influence would
draw this man to the tombs, or perhaps into the
court room when Moulspieney was arraigned. But in this he
was disappointed. Although the cooperation of the entire detective and
uniformed forces of the city was enlisted, the case technically
was in the hands of silent casts. Eager reporters sought
him for news of the latest developments, But as one
star remarked in his story, Lieutenant Cass continues to have
brilliant flashes of silence. Another, in the unharnessed freedom of
the editorial rooms, complained gloomily that he could get nothing
out of cast but silence, and damn little of that.
In view of all this, it is not strange that
the record of the Lieutenant should have become an object
of curious inquiry. Nothing of outstand brilliance was found in it.
From the day he had joined the force. He had
been taciturned to a point of eccentricity. It was his
own fellows in the clubhouse under the Green Lamp, who
first dubbed him silent casts. In the days of the
old Red Light District on the Lower East Side, he
had been known as a relentless pursuer of cadets, but
he had never shared in the public glory of having
cleaned out these worst of human vermin. His private life
was found to be equally drab and uninteresting. He owned
a little home in the far reaches of the Bronx.
His wife was dead, and his daughter, now about eighteen,
kept house for him. All this was water on Gaddy's wheel.
While Cass had been silent and colorless, the sergeant had
always been garrulous and spectacular. Now he was playing true
to form. Hardly a day passed without some new development
from this energetic and ambitious officer. He combed the underworld
for suspects and dragged bloodied intosheveled prisoners into headquarters for
the line up. He was always on the eve of
an important arrest. The Commissioner looked with tolerant, if skeptical
eye upon these activities, and with growing impatience at the
lieutenant's failure to produce results. In the midst of all this,
a reporter journeyed to the Bronx with the dimly burning
hope that he might be able to smoke casts out
right in his own home. He found the lieutenant in
overalls spading the garden, and young miscasts pruning the fines
around the porch. An ironic description of this bucolic scene
was duly printed the next morning, coupled with the news
of another important arrest by Sergeant gaddy. Then things began
to happen around headquarters. In a special order by the Commissioner,
Lieutenant Cass was reduced to the rank of patrolman and
assigned to duty in the Bronx with a post at
the Zoological Park. This play to the gallery met with
instant applause. One smart paragrapher remarked the cast would find
congenial companionship among his Simian brethren in the zoo. A
few days later, later, the promotion of Sergeant Gaddie to
the rank of lieutenant was announced. Molspini and a few
other mysterious prisoners were transferred to the detention house as
material witnesses, and the triple murder in Mulberry Bend began
to wear down in public interest. Cass accepted his reduction
without protest. The day he had been caught in the
garden was the first one he had taken off in
a month, but he did not urge the point. Instead,
he left his measure for a new uniform, and soon
was pounding the pavement around the buffalo entrance of the zoo.
The larger measure of leisure he enjoyed in his humbler
task was spent in the garden with his daughter. So
things went on for another week. One morning, when silent
Cass was putting down his radishes, a bronze young man
swung from the rear platform of a trolley car directly
in front of the house and walked briskly over to
the fence. Cass looked up and nodded pleasantly. Is this, lieutenant,
Cass asked the stranger abruptly. Patrolman casts the gardener. I
want to give myself up, said the stranger. Cass made
a trench with his stick and sewed a handful of seed.
Come in, he said, standing erect and looking squarely at
the newcomer, What have you been up to? I'm the
man who killed those three rats in Mulberry Bent explained
the bronzed young man. Coolly. Cass bent down on one knee,
made another shallow little trench and sprinkled it with seed.
Oh yeah, the mulberry bend case, he said, reflectively. I've
been expecting you. Turning to his daughter, he continued, you
don't mind leaving us alone for a few minutes, do you, Nelly?
The girl smiled at the stranger and walked to the porch.
The policeman nodded toward a bench under a magnolia that
was just bursting into blossom. Tell me about it, he said,
as the two were seated. If the newcomer found anything
strange in this reception, he made no sign. I read
in the papers that you have been broken for not
finding the murderer, he said quietly, And I've been off
my feet and sleep since then. I didn't stand it
any longer. I want you to lock me up. Silent
Cass glanced at him. Swiftly. The newcomer spoke up quickly. Now,
the ghosts of the dead men were not roosting on
my pillow. Damn them. They were not the kind that
come back to haunt honest men. Although they seemed to
have done it to you that is in a way,
casts nodded. I knew them. They're snug at home in hell.
He looked toward the porch, and Nelly smiled back at him.
I'm a serviceman myself, resumed the stranger medical corps. I
was on the other side for two years, and it
was during that time these three dogs are in their
death over here. The record of Spanish Louis the White
Slaver flashed through the mind of the listener. Girl. He
queried casually, Yes, said girl. The words snapped brokenly from
the stranger's lips. It was the first sign of emotion
that he had shown, sweetheart, I suppose, murmured cass pityingly.
The young man's face had dropped into his hands, and
he was shaking violently. Worse than that, he groaned a sister.
Cas looked again toward the porch and laid his hand
gently on the men's shoulder. Go On, he said. The
tale came out in a torrent of anguished, broken words.
The girl was an only sister, and both had been
orphaned since childhood. Out of his earnings as a chemist,
he had been able to support and educate her until
he entered the service and went abroad. She was pretty,
had a sweet soprano voice and a turn for the stage.
She had smothered his misgivings with the assurance that she
was able to care for herself, and so they parted
after he had been in France six months, her letters
always regular. Theretofore ceased abruptly again, Cass's mind reverted to
Spanish Joe. The men on the bench had grown calm.
A gentle breeze swept through the tree overhead, and a
few blossoms fluttered downward. If she had only died before
it happened, he said, gazing at the broken petals. Cas
patted him on the shoulder, and he resumed. It was
a long time after I came back before I was
able to trace her. It was down in New Orleans,
in a place that was worse than the deepest gulf
of hell. Her mind and soul were gone, gone completely
with whiskey and cocaine. That and he pressed his hands
over his eyes. Dad called the girl in the porch,
it's time for you to go on post. Cass stood
up mechanically and pulled off his overalls. Wait here till
I get into uniform, he said, walking into the house.
He was gone fully five minutes, but when he returned,
the young man was still seated on the bench. The
policeman dropped to a place beside him, with a trace
of disappointment in his manner. The young man had not
seemed to notice the long absence. I was able to
get the story out of her before she finally broke
away from me, He continued. Then she ran upstairs and
drank poison. It was the only thing left. I brought
her back here and buried her beside her mother. There
was a postcard picture taken its Coney Island in her trunk.
She was sitting in an automobile with Spanish Joe and
Tony Beanie. She was smiling, and all the innocence that
I had known before I left her. His jaws came
together with a snap. It was on that day she
got the theatrical engagement with Louis the lawyer, posing as
a producer of musical comedy. How did you get him
into the cellar and what did you use to kill them?
Asked cass Prosily. Enough, I paddle around with them for
a month and let them win a month's salary from me.
One night, right down there, in that hole. They had
it all ranged to trim me again when he paused,
and there was a sudden ferocity in his tone when
he burst forth again. The death I gave them was
too easy. I was watching across the street when they
entered the store together. When I saw a light in
the cellar, I knew I had them. It was just
a matter of walking in, lifting the trap door, and
tossing down the flask of gas. Gas, shouted Kass, jumping
to his feet. There was no trace of gas poisoning
found in the examination of the organs. It was a
formula of my own. The answer came with a touch
of pride. I had been working on it in France,
but the Armistice before the use of it became necessary.
The action is negative, absorbs the oxygen from the air,
you know, he chuckled grimly. I simply sealed the three
of them up with it. A horn toad, a centipede
and a tarantula all in one bottle. Why did you
make the fingerprints? The question seemed natural enough, but the
answer came in a tone of surprise. I wanted to
let the authorities know I had done the world a favor.
Why not Cass smiled approvingly and stood up. The bronze
young man also got to his feet. I'm ready, he said.
On the way to the gate, he drew an envelope
from his pocket and handed it to the policeman. Cass
read the contents curiously. Under the caption Army orders appeared
a brief paragraph Captain Franklin Hines's Medical Corps is hereby
relieved from duty at Camp Merit and transferred to Panama. Silent.
Cass carefully folded the official order, put it back in
the envelope, and handed it to the army man. As
Simon in the Yellow Fever squat eh, he remarked, what
are you gonna sail? Captain Hines stared at him. Aren't
you going to arrest me? He demanded stupidly. Don't you
want to make good and get your old job back?
Cass shook his head. Not at that price, he said.
His hand was on the gate latch and his eyes
roaming down the street toward an approaching trolley car. Wait
father called Nellie from the porch. She ran down into
the garden, plucked a white crocus and pinned it to
his coat against regulations, he laughed, but I've earned the
right to wear it today. In a moment, he had
bounded across the pavement and boarded the car, leaving the
army man and the girl together. Captain Hines glanced down
the street. Another car was coming. Won't you have a
flower too, asked the girl, stooping to pick a red
blossom from the garden. Yes, thank you, he said huskily.
Won't you give me a white one, the same as
you gave to your dad. She fastened a white flower
in his coat, and in a moment he was scrambling
aboard the second car. As the rear door slammed on him.
Gaddy swung off from the front and walked over to
the fence. Nellie greeted him familiarly. He just missed Dad,
she said. He's gone out on post. Oh has, he said, Gaddie,
I just came out here to tell him I got
another promotion to day. I'm Captain Gaddie now. And of
the Triple Murder in Mulberry Bend by Christopher Hawkins