‘The Seventh Suggestion’ -- a flirty newsroom story

Author Harry M. Zubkoff

In earlier posts on this blog, we’ve seen some of Harry’s fictional stories, long saved and never published. The story I posted last week is a little different -- it’s an advice article that offers 10 tips for submitting ads to a newspaper -- and it complements the fiction below. 

To set the mood ... imagine it’s 1962. You’re relaxing with a fresh cup of coffee and a magazine story hot-off-the-press. 

Saturday, June 20
She placed her bag on the chest-high counter that separated the editorial office from the small reception area and took a deep breath in an effort to stay calm. Her eyes took in the jumble of envelopes and crumpled papers strewn on the floor before settling on the battered desk and its occupant.

He was sitting, head down, deeply engrossed in reading something, obviously unaware of her presence.

“Excuse me,” she said. No reaction. She raised her voice and repeated, “Excuse me,” so loudly that she startled herself. Now settle down, she told herself sternly, watch your temper. Then he raised his eyes, the bluest pair of eyes she had ever seen.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

The eyes shocked her. Electric blue, she mused, remembering what the women had told her. Now I know what they mean, she thought, staring at the eyes, almost hypnotized. A girl could get lost in those eyes.

“Can I help you?” he repeated.

She felt the color rising to her cheeks at her thoughts.

“Are you the editor,” she said abruptly, “Mr. Palmer?”

“That’s me.”

“That is I,” she corrected automatically. The eyes continued to regard her, but the question in them was replaced by speculation.

“I’m a teacher,” she added, uncertain how to proceed and uncomfortably aware of the disconcerting effect of his eyes.

“I never would have suspected,” he said dryly.

“Mr. Palmer,” she felt her temper rising again, “I'd like to know why you won't give the PTA any publicity about our Independence Day activities. It's only two weeks away and you haven't run a word about it in the Overview.”

“Oh, that,” he nodded thoughtfully. “Well, I’ve been waiting for someone to send me some information on it. Are you by any chance in charge of publicity for it, Miss ... ?”

“Armstead,” she replied shortly. “It’s Mrs. Armstead. Yes, I am.”

“Well, Mrs. Armstead, did you expect me to write your publicity for you?” He was an infuriating man, she decided.

“Mr. Palmer,” her eyes flashed ominously but her voice was dangerously quiet, “I personally delivered a story here. And,” with increasing force, “in time to meet last week’s deadline, too.” His eyes seemed to be boring holes in her. “And stop looking at me like that,” she ordered.

“Well, I never saw it,” he snapped, startled by the sudden vehemence. “When did you bring it and who did you give it to?”

“I brought it by on Wednesday night,” she replied. “There was nobody here, so I dropped it through the mail slot in your door.”

He looked pointedly at the stacks of papers on his desk and on the floor around it. “Maybe it’s still here,” he suggested. “Would you recognize it?”

With a withering look, she came through the swing-door at the end of the counter and started sorting the papers on his desk. The smell of freshly brewed coffee came from a pot burbling away on a hot-plate in the corner, and she saw, out of the corner of her eyes, that he had poured himself a cup.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” he asked.

“Eureka,” she exclaimed, waving an envelope in the air. “Yes, I would like some,” She handed him the story and took the proffered cup. After the first sip she made a face.

“What you need around here,” she said, “is someone to take care of the mail and make you some decent coffee.”

“All offers cheerfully accepted,” his smile was almost boyish.

“Now that you have the story,” she continued, “can we expect some publicity in next Thursday’s paper?” Her anger was gone, disarmed by his smile.

“I don’t know. I’ll have to look at it first. Meanwhile, did I hear you offer to help out?”

“Well, if it’s bribery you’re after,” her own smile was infectious, “okay.” She looked around. “I’ll clean up a little.”

“Then it’s a deal,” abruptly he turned away. “I’ll be in the back in case anyone wants me,” he said over his shoulder before he disappeared through the doorway into the printing plant.

She looked after him, puzzled, searching for a clue to his abrupt withdrawal, then shrugged resignedly as she felt the wedding band on her finger. Through the Venetian blinds she could see the town’s Main Street outside. It was 9:30 and the stores would not open until 10:00; the street would not fill up with traffic and shoppers until noon or later. It’s a good time to work, she reflected as she began sorting the mail. Through the open door she heard the chatter of the wire service teletypes spitting out yellow sheets of news stories, punctuated by occasional bursts of clatter from a typewriter. It was almost two hours before he came out, holding a sheaf of freshly typed papers. She was seated at his desk, lost in thought. The office was swept and tidy, with a small stack of papers on one corner of the desk and a somewhat larger stack next to it. The coffee pot glistened and the aroma of fresh coffee was enticing. He went over and poured a cup. The movement startled her.

When he faced her she laid a hand on the smaller stack of papers. “These,” she said, “you’ll want to do something about. These,” moving her hand to the larger stack, “you may want to look at. The rest I threw out.”

He looked at her, but said nothing. After a moment she went on. “You certainly get a lot of nonsense in the mail, don’t you?”

Her faint smile didn’t quite come off.

“Yes.” This time, the silence lasted longer.

“What’s your first name?” she asked suddenly.

“Perry,” he answered.

“Perry,” she tried it. “Is that short for something? Percival?”

“Pericles,” he said, and in answer to her upraised eyebrows, “my father was a Greek scholar.”

This time her smile was genuine, though it faded when he spoke. “Isn’t there someone waiting for you?” he asked quietly. “A husband, maybe?”

She drew a deep breath, dropped her eyes, and exhaled slowly. Then she raised her eyes to his. “I’m a widow, Perry,” she said simply. “My husband died four years ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said automatically. He glanced at her hand, motionless on the stack of papers, and at her ring. Her eyes followed his.

“I know I should take it off,” she said, “and one of these days I will. It’s just that – I don’t know – it didn’t seem to matter …”

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Elizabeth. Most of my friends call me Liz.”

“Liz,” he rolled it around his tongue. “I’m not sure,” he grinned, “if it fits you, exactly. What else do they call you?”

“Well,” she admitted, “my maiden name is Deering, and when I was a little girl, the kids used to call me Deedee.”

“That’s not bad,” he approved. “In fact, I like it. Deedee it is, Dee for short. Okay?”

“Okay,” she smiled, eyes aglow.

“Now then,” he continued, “how would you like to work for me?”

“Me?” she looked surprised. “Doing what?”

“Oh,” he spread his hands, “just about everything, I guess. Running the office, keeping the books, billing the advertisers, taking care of correspondence, screening the mail, and so forth. Sort of a gal Friday.”

“But I have a job. I’m a teacher.”

“Well, school’s over, isn’t it? You’re on summer vacation, aren’t you?” Before she could answer, he glanced at his watch. “Look, I haven’t had breakfast this morning. Would you like to join me for some ham and eggs, or something?”

She hesitated only a second. “Well, maybe a donut.”

“Come on.” He took her elbow as she rose and led her out.

* * *

She came in Monday morning, cleaned the office, made coffee, sorted the mail and even typed some stories, which he had edited, before passing them to Old Art, who operated the linotype machine. She also met the four full-time and dozen part-time reporters and advertising salesmen who gathered the news and discussed slants, angles, treatments and facts with Perry. The problems connected with the publication of a weekly newspaper in a city of 30,000 were a revelation to her.

The first thing she noted was the enormous amount of editing Perry did. The material submitted by the reporters was ruthlessly trimmed, but the material which came in unsolicited, the dozens of stories about local events turned in by publicity chairmen of all kinds of organizations had to be rewritten completely to meet Perry’s high standards. The national and international news pouring off the teletypes received similar treatment. After the first two days she regarded Perry with something akin to awe, admiring the facility with which he wrote and the deft sureness of his editing.

* * *

Wednesday, June 24
On Wednesday he took her to lunch for the third consecutive day. “This is your third day,” he said while they were eating. “Have you learned anything?”

“Oh, yes,” she smiled. “I’ve learned that putting out a paper is a lot of work.”

“And what else?”

“Well, that there are a lot of people on your back trying to get free publicity for their favorite causes.”

“And what else?”

“You know,” she said, “I’ve been toying with an idea. Why don’t you run an article someday advising all those – us – publicity chairmen, on how to go about getting their organizations publicized in the paper?”

“They don’t need any encouragement,” he said wryly, and then, noting her crestfallen expression, went on slowly. “Now, don’t get me wrong. I happen to be a great believer in local organizations. Next to the churches and the schools, community organizations are the greatest force for good in our society. As a matter of fact, I believe that our success as a democracy in this country is due, in large part, to our ability to get things done through community organizations at the local level, with people acting voluntarily.” Her eyes widened as he warmed up to the subject. “What’s more,” he went on, “every one of the 10,000-odd weekly newspapers in America depends to a great extent on the news which these groups generate, and I’m aware that our readers want to see this news in the paper.” He broke off suddenly. “Hey, do I sound like I’m writing an editorial?”

“Maybe a little, but go on, I’m fascinated. If you believe all this, why is it so hard to get our news in the paper?”

“Well,” he shrugged, “you have to understand some of our problems. One of our troubles is that we don’t have unlimited space, you know, so we have to be pretty selective. Every week I have to make some decisions on what to leave out as well as on what to print, and those decisions often depend on what kind of material I get from publicity chairmen.”

“I know, so wouldn’t it be a big help to you if their stories came in neatly typed instead of scribbled on old envelopes?”

“Say,” he said, “that’s a wonderful idea. I’m glad I thought of it.” They both laughed. “Why don’t you try writing it?” he added.

“Oh, I couldn’t.”

“Sure you could. At least, you could work up a draft and maybe I could add some ideas and polish it up a little.”

“Well, okay,” she agreed, reluctantly, “I’ll try.”

* * *

When the paper came out the following afternoon, there was a huge front-page spread on the Independence Day plans, describing all the events that would take place, from the parade in the morning to the picnic in the afternoon to the fireworks in the early evening and the dance afterwards. The combined PTA organization, which was sponsoring the daylong festivities, was mentioned prominently, and the Independence Day Publicity Chairman, Elizabeth Deering Armstead, was quoted liberally.

* * *

Wednesday, July 1
Mrs. Marcia Rockingham thrust her impressive bosom forward and rapped the gavel peremptorily. “Ladies,” she announced, “the meeting will come to order. As you know, this will be the last meeting before the 4th of July. Now let’s review everything tonight and make sure that nothing goes wrong.” When the buzz of assent died away, she continued. “I want to pay a special compliment to Liz Armstead for the excellent publicity we’ve received in the Overview. I don’t know what her secret is, or how she did it, but she must have hypnotized that good-looking Perry Palmer, or something, because we never got such good treatment in the paper before.”

“Hear, hear,” someone shouted.

“Would you like to comment, Liz?” asked Mrs. Rockingham.

She rose, slightly embarrassed, but noting the genuine interest in the faces around her, went forward. “There really is no secret,” she explained. “I just went to work for Mr. Palmer, and I’ve sort of been learning about the newspaper business. As a matter of fact,” she added, “I’ve written an article, which I think will be published tomorrow, telling the publicity chairmen of other organizations how to get more of their publicity into the paper.”

“Wonderful,” several of them exclaimed.

“Tell me,” someone said, “is that Palmer as nice as he looks? Is he a wolf or is he a sheep? Have you got him eating out of your hand?”

“Girls, please,” she held up her hand to quiet the hubbub. “Mr. Palmer is a hardworking, competent, charming man,” she said, “and as for me hypnotizing him, I’m afraid it’s the other way around.” She resumed her seat, aware of the thoughtful, appraising looks following her.

* * *

She had left the finished article on his desk just before she went home at six o’clock, but he saved it till after he had read and edited all the other copy. Then he looked it over carefully, surprised and pleased by the way she had handled the material. Embodied in the article was a list of six suggestions on how to get publicity into the paper:

1. Type stories double-space, using only one side of each sheet of paper, and leave out all adjectives.
2. Learn the difference between news and advertising. Then buy advertising space for ads, and put only news in the stories you want published free.
3. Stress the unusual aspects of your story to distinguish them from the normal facts of who, what, where and why. Put in some background, which the editor may or may not use, but which may just wind up in a good feature.
4. The deadline for news is the latest possible time for stories to be accepted – but the earlier the better. Stories turned in a week ahead or even a day ahead of the deadline are more likely to be used.
5. Give the newspaper follow-up stories after the publicized event; frequently, the follow-up report is more newsworthy than the prior publicity.
6. Turn-about is fair play, so publicize the newspaper at your meetings and affairs, and invite the paper to all affairs you want it to publicize.

Reading over the list, he smiled at the memories the suggestions evoked. If heeded, they would certainly make his job easier. He put a heading on it and marked it for a 2-column box on the editorial page, and put her byline on it. Then, hesitantly, he scrawled an editor’s note at the bottom with his blue editor’s pencil:

      7. “If none of these work, try marrying the editor!” and signed his initials, P.P. He placed it neatly on her typewriter, where she would see it in the morning.

But she did not go to the office that Thursday. Her statement at the meeting the night before had brought her face-to-face with a stunning fact. She was in love with him. It had happened so quickly, and so insidiously, that she was not fully aware of it, nor fully prepared for it. She needed time to think.

He missed her, but it was publishing day, and in the weekly mad scramble to get the paper out he forgot about the article. One of the regular reporters saw it on her typewriter, noted that it had been edited and marked for print, and passed it along to linotype. Old Art, who had seen everything, shrugged as he knocked it out on the linotype. The proofreader duly corrected errors in the copy without regard for meaning or sense, and the press-man put the forms on, concerned only with space, position, and fit. So it was not until Thursday evening, after the paper had been printed and the circulation boys were well started on their delivery routes, that Perry finally saw it in black and white. He tried at once to call her, but no one answered phone.

* * * 

Saturday, July 4
She looked at herself in the mirror and noted the new sparkle in her eyes. Then, thoughtfully, she removed the wedding band from her finger and placed it gently in her jewel box. For a heart-clutching moment she felt an infinite sense of loss; and then, her quickening pulse reflected a growing sense of anticipation.

The day’s activities went off without a hitch, from the parade in the morning, through the carnival atmosphere in the afternoon, to the fireworks at the lake-shore in the evening. Now, culminating the successful day, the high-school auditorium had an overflow crowd at the dance and, with a reporter and a photographer covering the affair, Perry was there to enjoy himself.

* * *

There was a roll of drums, the crowd gradually hushed as Mrs. Rockingham majestically approached the bandstand and paused at the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” her rich voice filled the huge auditorium, “on behalf of the combined PTA organizations of Overton, I want to welcome all of you to this affair, which climaxes the most marvelous Fourth of July we ever had.” The applause was thunderous, but after a moment, she raised her hand and continued. “I want to thank everyone who participated in making today’s activities so successful. The list of names is simply too long to mention, but all of them will be in the newspaper next Thursday. I do want to make special mention though,” she paused and looked around, “ ... in accordance with the list of suggestions which we all read in the Overview,” there was a roar of approval, “of the newspaper, which gave us such wonderful publicity and which did so much to make this day so successful.” This time the applause almost raised the ceiling and it took repeated rolls of the drums to quiet the crowd. “And now,” she finally resumed, “in honor of Liz Armstead and Perry Palmer, who are the beneficiaries of the seventh suggestion,” another mighty roar of approval, “we dedicate the next dance to them.”

The laughter and applause drowned out the first few bars of music as he made his way toward the bandstand. He saw her near the microphone, her shapely figure accentuated by her evening gown, deep in conversation with several women. They fell silent when he approached.

“Good evening, ladies,” he said.

“Good evening, Mr. Palmer,” they chorused.

“Hello, Deedee,” he said.

“Hello, Perry.”

“I want to explain …” he started and hesitated.

“Yes?” softly.

“… about that article,” he continued. “What I mean is …”

“Dear, dear,” said Mrs. Rockingham, “our editor is speechless.”

He managed a smile. “What I mean,” he repeated firmly, “is that I love you, DeeDee. Will you marry me?”

She smiled radiantly. “Shall we dance?” she raised her arms and he came into them. It was a perfect Fourth of July.

THE END

Copyright 2016

Elaine Blackman  

'What’s Love?' -- a short story

Author Harry M. Zubkoff in the '70s

Harry's books were his greatest possession. In 2011, he wrote an email to dear friends describing his 2007 move with my mother, from their house to an apartment: “The most traumatic thing about moving for me is that I had to get rid of a thousand books or more, but now I’m starting to accumulate them again.” 

Unfortunately, he parted with hundreds more when he prepared to move again in 2014 to an elderly friendly community. During another painstaking process, my dad (then 92) held up one book at a time, told us (his family) a brief story about it, and decided which pile it should grace – “keep” or “donate.” As for stacks of long-stored boxes, he insisted he “keep them all.” I never imagined that only months later, after he passed away, I’d open those boxes to find unpublished novels, stories, and poems he’d written over a lifetime.
 
In one of those stories, Harry tells a tale of someone else who was making a move, and moving on with his life.

“After all,” said Pop, “what’s love? Is it more important than food? Will it fill an empty stomach?” His face crinkled up as he smiled, and his eyes almost closed.

“Listen,” said Phil, his eyes fixed grimly on the road ahead, “don’t give me any of that curbstone philosophy. Maybe love makes me miserable, but I’m still crazy about her, even if she is marrying that half-baked jerk.”

“Aha!” said Pop. “Then it is love that’s bothering you. You have that look.”

“What look?”

“My boy,” said Pop, “when you’re as old as I, you’ll know what look I mean. What’s your name?”

“Phil. Phil Kimberly. What’s yours?”

“Everybody calls me Pop. How old are you?”

“Twenty-one,” said Phil. “By the way, I really appreciate this lift. It’s a long walk from Chicago to Buffalo.”

“That’s all right,” said Pop. He glanced quickly at Phil, while his big hands guided the truck carefully through the night. “Are you hungry?” He asked softly.

“No,” said Phil.

“Well,” said Pop, “what’s hunger, after all? An emptiness in your stomach. What’s an emptiness? Nothing. So what’s hunger? Nothing! Just the same, wouldn’t you like to stop at the Truck Bar up ahead and have a bite with me?”

“Okay, okay,” said Phil. “I guess maybe I could go for a cup of coffee, at that.”

“Fine,” said Pop. “Anything is better than nothing, especially on an empty stomach.”

* * *

In the lighted restaurant, Phil looked even younger than twenty-one. Only his stubborn jaw kept him from looking like a boy of sixteen.

“Would you like to tell me about her?” said Pop, two sandwiches and two cups of coffee later.

“I don’t know,” said Phil. “There isn’t much to tell. We wrote to each other while I was in Vietnam, and she promised to wait for me. But when I came home, I was broke and I just couldn’t afford to get married. I don’t have a job and I can’t find a job. Now I ask you, would any guy in his right mind get married without a job and no prospects?”

“Some people do,” said Pop, “but go on. What happened?”

“That’s all there is,” said Phil. “I guess she got tired of waiting. Anyway, she told me she decided to marry some guy who was chasing after her all the time I was overseas. A guy with a job who has something to offer, I suppose.”

“I see,” said Pop, “and being the noble young man you are, you decided she’d be better off with him so you ran away. Right?”

“It’s not that so much,” said Phil. “It’s just that all of a sudden I got fed up with being a nobody, without a job and no chance of getting one. So I thought I’d just go to New York and see if I could get a break there.”

“Yeah,” said Pop, I know. You figured to make a quick fortune there and then come back for a visit someday and show her what she could have had if she’d waited for you. Come on, let’s go. I’ve got a schedule to keep.”

* * *

It was raining steadily on the steel top of the truck cab, and the wind moaned past the side windows, monotonously, soothingly.

“There’s plenty of room to relax, if you’d like to take a short nap,” said Pop.

“No, thanks,” said Phil. “I don’t feel like sleeping.”

“Ah, well,” said Pop, “after all, what’s sleep? You close your eyes, you stop thinking, your mouth opens, your muscles relax, your heart beats slower, your blood moves slower and it’s almost like being a little bit dead.”

“That’s a nice, morbid thought,” said Phil. “Do you always talk like that?”

“Oh, it’s just a habit, I guess,” Pop shrugged. “Being alone on the road so much gets a guy to thinking. There’s not much else to do but drive my truck – it’s my own, by the way – and think, except when I pick up hitchhikers like you. Then I drive and talk.”

“You think I ran away, don’t you?”

“Well, partly,” said Pop, “but I also think that you don’t love the girl. Not really.”

“Oh, but you’re wrong,” Phil protested. “I do love her. That’s why I left. I don’t mean to be noble exactly, but – well, you know what I mean. Maybe I didn’t think it all out like you did, but you figured it about right back there in the restaurant.”

“No,” said Pop, “you don’t love her. Consider, now, what’s love? It’s a desire for someone. A desire to share your life with someone, to make a home together, to raise a family. Not to leave her, to spend the rest of your life apart. That’s not love. That’s a sacrifice. Maybe not even a sacrifice. It’s probably just your pride that makes you want to run away. Your pride, that won’t let you stay and face her and everyone else.”

“Look,” said Phil, “if you want to give me lectures like that, just stop the truck and I’ll get out and walk.”

He sat back in the seat, his stubborn jaw sticking out at an absurd angle.

Pop laughed.

“That’s your pride speaking again,” he said more gently. “Look, Phil, let me tell you a story. It’s about a guy I knew once. We’ll call him Joe. Joe was in pretty much the same boat you’re in. Oh, he wasn’t a veteran and he didn’t have a problem in adjusting to civilian life after a war, or anything, but he did live through some pretty hard times.

“Anyway, he didn’t have a job when he fell in love. Nice girl, too. But instead of running away, like you, he married her. He really loved her, you see, and couldn’t imagine a life for himself without her.

“Well, they had three kids, and with each one things were a little tougher. Believe me, son, they had a mighty rough time of it. They even lost one child because they just didn’t have enough money for doctors and medicine. But they never stopped loving each other, not once, and today they’re just as happy as anyone would want to be. He still isn’t making much money, but they’re together, and that’s what counts. And if they had it all to do over again, they still wouldn’t do it any differently.”

They were both silent for a moment, lost in thought, while the big truck droned steadily through the night.

Phil broke the silence.

“That doesn’t prove anything,” he said. “Maybe it worked out okay for them, but that doesn’t mean it would for everyone. And besides, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t ask a wife of mine to go through so much … hardship. It just wouldn’t be right for me, that’s all.” He wondered if the mythical Joe were Pop himself. But no, Pop wasn’t old enough. He was no more than thirty-five, maybe forty at the most. Still, he did look as though he’d known many hardships in his life. Well, maybe he had.

* * *

He woke up when the truck stopped. It was just getting light out and it had stopped raining.

“Time for breakfast,” said Pop, seeing his eyes open. “You must have been pretty tired.”

“Yeah,” Phil yawned, “guess I was. What time is it?”

“Almost five. You’ve been sleeping over two hours.”

“I’ve been thinking,” said Phil, “about that guy Joe you were talking about. I can’t help wondering how it would have worked out if he hadn’t gotten married right away, if he and his girl had waited till they could afford it.”

“Well,” said Pop, “let’s eat first, and then I’ll tell you another story.”

* * *

The countryside looked freshly washed and the air smelled sweet and clean in the early morning. The big truck seemed to drive itself with only an occasional nudge from Pop’s capable hands. Now he looked older, somehow, or more tired, and his voice was slightly husky as he spoke.

“This guy’s name was Joe, too,” he said, “and like the other Joe, he didn’t have a job either when he fell in love. So he decided to wait. Well, he waited and he waited and because his girl was so fine and understanding about it, almost eight years went by before he realized it. By that time, he was making enough to get married, even by his standards.

“But then a terrible thing happened. You see, after being a bachelor for so long, the thought of marriage suddenly became terrifying to him. What’s even worse, he realized that he didn’t love her after all. Not enough to give up his so-called freedom, anyway.

“On the other hand, he was aware of the sacrifice his girl had made, waiting so long for him, and ruining her chances for another marriage. Who would marry a girl who had been engaged to one man for eight years? And besides, she did love him, or at least she claimed to. No, in all fairness to her, he just couldn’t leave her flat. His conscience just wouldn’t permit it.

“So he married her. And their marriage has not been a happy one. No, it has not been a happy one. They’ve been miserable together, just plain miserable.”

“Well,” said Phil after a moment, “that’s not an encouraging prospect, is it?”

“No.”

“Of course,” Phil went on, half to himself, “that’s kind of carrying it to extremes. After all, who’d expect two people to stay engaged for eight years? I know I certainly wouldn’t ask any girl to do that. I mean, she might want to wait for me, but we wouldn’t be engaged. She’d be free to go out with other guys, too. That way, if someone else came along, she wouldn’t be tied down, so to speak. Anyway, you see my point, don’t you?”

“Sure,” said Pop. “What you’re saying is that it couldn’t happen to you. Maybe to someone else, but not to you.”

“Okay,” said Phil uncomfortably, “have you got any more stories up your sleeve?”

“As a matter of fact,” Pop smiled, “I have. Just by way of variety …”

“I know,” Phil interrupted, “This guy’s name is Joe, too.”

“Yeah,” said Pop, “how did you know? Anyway, this Joe was something like you. Young, very much in love, and not earning enough money to marry on. His girl, her name was Norma, would have married him. She was working, and she could have continued working, but no, he was too proud – or foolish – to let his wife work.

“Well, she waited for a couple years, but when she saw that Joe wasn’t getting any closer to setting the date, she broke it up and told him that she couldn’t wait any longer, that she was going to marry someone else.

“So he ran away, just like you. And for ten years he worked away from home, making a decent living and wondering all the time what happened to Norma. Do you know what the tragedy of his life is? It’s this, that for ten years he wanted nothing so much as to go back to her, but he never had enough nerve. He was a coward.

“For ten long years, his mind was full of her. There never was another girl for him. Many times he almost wrote to her. But he never made it. So for ten years, he lived like half a man. You see, Phil, a man without a woman to love is only half a man. Why, he never even knew if she married the other guy. He only wondered, and wondered, and sometimes in the lonely night, he even cried.”

The truck had reached the outskirts of Buffalo before Phil spoke again.

“I can’t go back,” he said miserably, “I’d feel like a fool.”

“A fool?” said Pop. “What’s a fool? Someone whose pride has been hurt. Nothing more. All of us have been fools at one time or another. All of us have too much pride.”

“Besides,” said Phil, “I’m broke. I can’t go back like this, with nothing to offer her.”

“You have yourself,” said Pop, “and your future. But it won’t be a good future unless you share it with someone.”

“Okay, okay, you win,” Phil sighed, then grinned. “Can I hitch a ride with you on your return trip?”

“No,” said Pop, “I’m not going back – not for a while, anyway.” He smiled, and for an instant he looked almost as young as Phil. “You see,” he added, “I’m getting married today.”

“No kidding!” Phil gasped.

“Yes,” said Pop, “it took me ten years to get back here, but I finally made it. You see, she never did marry that other guy. She’s been waiting for me all this time, and if I’d come home the day after I ran away, we’d have been married ten years by now.

“Someone once said that experience is the name we give to our mistakes, Phil, so don’t make the same mistake I did. You’ll never forgive yourself, not if you really love her.”

“Pop,” said Phil, “I’ll send you an invitation to our wedding. What’s your address?”

“Just send it to Joe and Norma Poppin, care of the Poppin Trucking Company, Chicago.”

“Thanks, thanks Pop, thanks for everything. And I really do love her, too.”

“Well, after all,” said Pop, “what’s love? An extra heartbeat. What’s a heartbeat? Life. So what’s love? Why, it’s life itself! Good luck, Phil.”

THE END

Copyright 2016

Elaine Blackman 

‘Black Market Murder’ – a mystery, of course

Hobby fiction-writer Harry Zubkoff in Buffalo with Jeanette and son, circa 1949

Possibly Harry's pilot ID 

Harry wrote the following story when he lived in Buffalo, N.Y., before his 1949 move to Maryland at age 28. Like many of his tucked-away writings, I discovered the yellowed, typed pages held together with rusty paper clips. I have to wonder what Harry would've thought about these fictions if he had taken another look in his old age, say, 60 years after he wrote them. We'll have to trust that he would have been as proud as ever.

(Note: During WWII, the government issued ration stamps to purchase gasoline and other necessities.)





It was 2:00 Monday afternoon when the strident ringing of the telephone startled Handy Marker as he was dozing in the comfortable leather chair in his office.

“Handy Marker speaking,” he mumbled into the phone.

“Hello, Handy, this is Al.” The voice at the other end was large and hearty, with an undercurrent of laughter running through it.

“Yes, Al, how do you feel today?” Handy’s voice flowed as his words brought to mind the hazy, but nonetheless pleasant recollection of the party he and Al had attended the night before.

“A little tired, Handy.” The hearty voice sounded slightly hoarse. “Say Handy, if you’re not busy this afternoon I’d like you to stop in and see me.”

“Why sure, Al. I’ll come right now, if you want.”

“No, no. Not now. Say about 4:30.”

“Okay, Al. Anything wrong?”

“Well, I’d rather not talk about it over the phone, Handy, but I … there is something wrong and I need some good advice.”

“I’ll see you at 4:30, Al.”

As he replaced the receiver, Handy could not help thinking that Al sounded worried. But that wasn’t like Al. Not Al Honesty. That big galoot never worried about a thing.

“Oh well,” he shrugged, “he’s probably got a hangover; I know I have.” As he resumed his interrupted nap he was dimly aware of a feeling of self-satisfaction that Al should be asking him for advice. Of course, he was Al’s closest friend and it was only natural that … Ah, how we do admire the wisdom of those who come to us for advice!

It was exactly 4:30 p.m. on Handy’s expensive wrist watch when he tooled his powerful coupe through the snowy ruts of the driveway leading into Al Honesty’s Service Station. He drove past the gas pumps and parked beside the small building, which housed a modest office and a tiny rest room – a building so familiar to thousands of similar stations.

As he sauntered around to the front of the building, he slanted a cigarette between his firmly chiseled lips and applied flame from his lighter. Then, his hat adjusted at a rakish angle, he pulled the door open.

The joyous greeting in his heart was frozen on his lips. For there, lying on his back in the middle of the floor was Al Honesty. It was immediately apparent that Al was dead.

For one moment of incredulous shock Handy stood petrified in the doorway. Only gradually did he become aware of the details of the scene before him. The thin, but noticeable gash in Al’s exposed throat, with blood still oozing out of it. The wicked-looking dagger lying beside him on the floor, its blade shining dully where it was not covered with blood. And the man sitting silently at Al’s little desk, his hand still resting on the telephone.

An innocent enough setting for tragedy.

The Inspector turned his impassive gaze on the man, still silently seated at the desk.

“You called Headquarters?” It was more a statement than a question.

The man stirred and sighed. He was short and stout, with jet-black wavy hair and incredibly black eyes. His normally olive complexion had turned a sickly, sallow color.

“Yes,” he murmured in an almost inaudible voice.

While they talked, the Inspector’s assistant was directing the activities of the Homicide crew. They were operating with the smooth precision of a well-trained football team, yet they scarcely made a sound.

“What’s your name?” asked the Inspector.

“Allen Carmello,” replied the black-haired man.

“What’s your business?”

“I run a gas station down on Jersey Street.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Why – why –” he was obviously fumbling for words. “I – that is, Al Honesty called me and asked me to come and see him at 4:15.”

“Yes?” the Inspector prompted.

“I was delayed a little and I had a flat tire about a block from here so I walked from there. I guess I was a little late.” He trembled, as from a sudden chill. “When I got here,” he continued in answer to the Inspector’s relentless gaze, “I found him like that – so I called Headquarters.” His voice trailed away curiously.

The Inspector, an old, old hand at this game of question and answer, regarded him quietly for a moment, trying to put a mental finger on a flaw.

“Hey, Chief,” cried his assistant suddenly, “this knife’s got the initials A.C. on it.”

The Inspector’s steel-grey eyes seemed to bore holes through Carmello. The man lost all vestige of his self-control.

“No, no,” he cried brokenly, “I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it. They framed me. I didn’t do it!”

Handy watched the grim scene with distaste.

At that moment the Medical Examiner walked in, exuding the faint scent of a morgue. The Inspector pointed to the corpse and stood by silently while the doctor made his preliminary examination.

Handy, fully himself now, lit a cigarette and studied the wall above the desk where Al’s gasoline permit hung. Hanging beside it, elaborately framed, was a beautiful certificate, proclaiming Al Honesty President of the Local Service Station Organization. He almost smiled as he recalled the party last night which had celebrated Al’s election to that coveted position.

When the Medical Examiner had finished, he rose and faced the Inspector.

“This man’s throat has been cut as neatly as though it had been done by a doctor,” he said.

“What time did it happen?” asked the Inspector.

The doctor frowned. “It’s hard to say exactly until I’ve made an autopsy,” he muttered. “But I’d say offhand that it was sometime between,” he consulted his watch, “four and four-fifteen. I’ll send the boys in to take him out.” And he walked out.

“How soon will I have your report?” shouted the Inspector after his retreating figure.

“Sometime tonight,” came the reluctant rejoinder.

“Damn all doctors!” the Inspector exploded.

“Physicians mend or end us,
Secundum artem; but although we sneer
In health – when ill we call them to attend us
Without the least propensity to jeer.”

Handy quoted the lines absently and was immediately sorry, for the Inspector turned the full batteries of his camera eyes on him.

“What’s your name, son?” he sounded almost friendly.

“Harry Marker.”

“Business?”

“I’m a writer – mystery stories and other foolish things.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Well – I might have come for gas.”

“Your car isn’t parked by the gas pumps.”

“Hmm – you are observant, aren’t you? Well, the truth is, Al Honesty happens to be – or was, a close friend of mine. He called me this afternoon and asked me to stop in at 4:30.”

“He liked to make appointments, didn’t he?” Inspector Donaldson murmured in an aside.

“What time did you get here?” he asked.

“It was exactly 4:30,” said Handy displaying his wrist watch. The Inspector looked at it a moment, thinking.

“Was this man,” pointing to Carmello, “here?”

“Yes, he was.”

Abruptly, he whirled on Carmello.

“What kind of flat tire did you have? Blowout or leak?” The question was so completely unexpected that even Handy blinked.

“L-l-leak, I guess,” Carmello stammered.

“Listen Carmello,” all at once Inspector Donaldson became a friend and a confidante, “you’re in a jam. Who do you think is trying to frame you?”

“I d-d-don’t know, Inspector.” He looked terror-stricken and his lips were quivering uncontrollably.

Inspector Donaldson regarded him for a few seconds, his all-seeing eyes seeming to pierce through to his innermost secrets. Then, with a sigh, he straightened his massive shoulders.

“Sarge,” he directed wearily, “bring him along back to the office.”

“You’d better follow us down to Headquarters, son,” he remarked. “I’ll need you when I fill out my report.”

“Inspector,” said Handy, “have you got any ideas? Do you think he did it?” He pointed at Carmello.

“We’ll talk about that later, son.”

“But I’ve got to know. Look, Inspector, I know I’m not a detective, but I have written mystery stories and have got imagination. And from what I’ve seen and heard in here, there are possibilities. And,” he added slowly, “I think you’ve seen them.”

He paused breathlessly. A faint glimmer of interest showed in the Inspector’s eyes.

“Maybe you have too much imagination,” he commented dryly. “But go ahead, let’s hear it.”

“You’ll have to ask this fellow – uh – Carmello a few more questions, first.”

“That’s why I’m taking him down to Headquarters,” was the Inspector’s calm rejoinder.

“Then can I just sit in on the questioning?” asked Handy, hopefully.

“Yes, son, I think we can arrange it,” he replied, while his right hand, with its powerful stuffy fingers, absently stroked his cheek.

As they were filing out, Handy reached up and detached the framed certificate from its hook on the wall and tucked it under his arm. Inspector Donaldson glanced askance at him but said nothing.

In front of the gas pump, where the Squad Car was parked, the Inspector took the Sergeant and one of the other detectives aside and spoke to them in a low voice for a few minutes. He was evidently giving them some unorthodox instructions, for both men looked violently surprised. Handy, leaning against one gas pump, gazed unseeingly at the figures beneath the glass face, thinking furiously.

The Inspector, finished issuing mysterious orders, settled himself into the car and waved as he drove off, leaving the Sergeant and his cohort behind. As he turned toward his own car, Handy noticed things. One; the sergeant had departed, walking, and the other detective had gone inside the little building. Two; the figures under the glass face on the gas pump represented the last disbursement of gasoline as 19.7 gals.

“That reminds me,” he muttered, “I’d better buy some gas on my way down to Headquarters.”

Twenty minutes later, having filled his gas tank (10 gals. – 2 C stamps) he was seated in Inspector Donaldson’s office, with the Inspector and an alert-looking, bright-eyed man who had been introduced as District Attorney Farrell.

The Inspector was leafing through several typewritten reports on his desk, and, from time to time during the next few hours, more reports were delivered by silent stenographers.

“Did you know anything about Al’s family, son?” asked the Inspector, his eyes casually raised to Handy’s.

“No, I didn’t,” Handy regretted. “He never mentioned anything about his family connections to me. As a matter of fact,” he almost grinned, “I don’t know if he was born or hatched.”

“Hmm, ahem,” the Inspector cleared his throat while the District Attorney lit a cigar and concentrated on some vague point on the ceiling.

“His parents died ten years ago in a train accident. He was forty-four years old, he had a brother forty and a sister thirty-six. His brother joined the Army three years ago, spent two years in the Pacific killing Japs and deserted when he came home on furlough. The F.B.I. is still looking for him. His sister married seven years ago, but her husband died two years later and she collected the insurance and disappeared. We’re still looking for her.” He paused for breath.

“Quite a family,” muttered the District Attorney.

The Inspector grunted, but whatever he had to say was interrupted when his erstwhile assistant, Sergeant Bolton, entered the room, bearing bags of sandwiches and coffee. Handy and the District Attorney both noticed the glance of understanding that passed between him and the Inspector.

For the next ten minutes, the four men consumed sandwiches and drank coffee, but not a word was spoken. Handy, his brow furrowed in concentration, found it difficult to reconcile this little scene with the previous conceptions of police work.

When they had finished, the Inspector left the room with the Sergeant, leaving Handy and District Attorney Farrell alone for a few moments. He returned with Allen Carmello, whom he seated under a lamp. Then, resuming his own seat behind his desk, he spoke.

“Carmello,” his voice was almost soothing, “you told me before that you arrived at Al Honesty’s station a little late for your 4:15 appointment. Is that right?”

“Yes, sir.” Carmello had regained control of himself, but the corners of his mouth still twitched a little now and then. Handy wondered, suddenly, if he were acting or …

“You also said,” the Inspector continued, “that you were delayed a little and that you had a flat tire a block away and walked from there. Is that right?”

“Yes, sir.” There was an air of tension about him.

“What delayed you?”

Handy smiled to himself in approval. This Donaldson knew his business.

“My – Herb – he’s – he works for me.” Carmello was visibly trembling again. “He was out on a service call with the truck and I had to wait till he got back before I could go.”

“Why?”

“I had to use the truck to go. And besides, I couldn’t leave my station alone.”

“What time did he get back?”

“It was ten after four. I remember bawling him out for being so late.”

“Where was this service call?”

“Oh – it was way down on the East Side. One of my best customers.”

“Mr. Carmello, where did you keep your knife?”

“Why – why – in my desk at the station.”

“I see. Now tell me, who do you think would want to frame you?”

“I don’t know, Inspector. Honest, I don’t.”

“What did Al Honesty want to see you about?”

“I don’t know that, either. He just called and asked me to come over and see him.”

The Inspector raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

“It’s the truth, Inspector,” Carmello pleaded. “He’s the President of the Service Station Organization, and he could have called anybody to come and see him and – well, it’s his privilege,” he finished lamely.

A quiet-footed stenographer stole in, deposited a sheet of paper on the Inspector’s desk, and stole out again. Then the phone rang and the Inspector spoke quietly for a minute and hung up.

He pressed a button on his desk and when the Sergeant appeared in the doorway, motioned him to take Carmello away.

“Now, son,” he said, turning to Handy, “why did Al Honesty want to see you?”

Handy frowned. “I don’t know,” he replied. “He said he wanted some advice and he sounded worried.”

“Was he in the habit of asking you for advice?”

“No, he wasn’t. That’s why I know he must have been pretty much upset.”

The Inspector sighed, his fingers absently stroking his jaw.

“What do you make of this, son?” he asked slowly.

It was a challenge. No, it was an invitation. The District Attorney stirred in his seat and gazed at Handy with his bright eyes. Handy lit a cigarette idly and took several deep drags.

Must uphold the honor of mystery-story writers and other foolish things, he thought to himself, wryly.

“Well, Inspector,” he said aloud, “I may be off the track and somehow, I don’t think we have all the facts, but – here’s how it looks to me.” He drew a deep breath. “This Carmello is either acting or he’s being framed. Let’s assume for the moment that he’s being framed. If so, who had the opportunity to frame him? And the first one that comes to my mind is the fellow who works for him. He had access to Carmello’s knife. He was responsible for Carmello’s original delay because he was late getting back from a service call – he says. And he could have tampered with Carmello’s tire so that it would go flat before he reached Al’s place. These are possibilities, mind you, and I can’t see any motive at all but – well, I’d pick him up and question him if I were you.”

Inspector Donaldson smiled, the grim wrinkles under his eyes folding into genial lines.

“That,” he said as he pressed the button on his desk, “is exactly what we’ve done. Oh Sergeant,” to the opening door, “bring him in.”

The Sergeant reappeared with a medium sized, sandy-haired man in tow, a man with huge bags under his pale green eyes. Handy wondered if they were from dissipation or lack of sleep.

“What’s your name?” asked the Inspector quietly, when the man had been seated.

“Herbert Jenkins, Sir.” His voice was thin and cracked.

“You work for Allen Carmello?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This afternoon you went on a service call for Carmello and returned late. Is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where was it?”

“Down on the East Side. Mr. Gardin, one of our best customers wanted … I told the Sergeant all about it.”

“Never mind. What time did you leave him?”

“About a quarter to four, sir.”

“What time did you get back?”

“About ten after. Mr. Carmello bawled me out.”

“You know we can check with Mr. Gardin on that, don’t you?”

“Oh, but he wasn’t there, sir. I just fixed his car and came back.”

During this interchange of words, Handy intently studied Jenkins’ face. Instinctively he distrusted the man. The Inspector evidently shared this distrust, for his next question was blunt and forceful.

“Did you tamper with Carmello’s truck tire so it would go flat?” he demanded.

“Oh no, sir. I had barely pulled into the station, when Mr. Carmello jumped in and drove away.”

“Hmmm …”

“As a matter of fact, sir, the truck was very low on gas, almost empty, and I wanted to fill it up, but he drove away too fast.”

“Did you know Al Honesty?”

The question had a strange effect. Not a muscle of the man’s face moved, yet his pale green eyes suddenly had an unholy light in them. The District Attorney, veteran of many courtroom battles and wise in interpreting facial expressions, caught his breath audibly.

“Only slightly, sir.” The answer was innocent enough.

“Did you kill him?”

This time the reaction was violent. He got out of his chair and covered the three feet to the Inspector’s desk in a single, tigerish leap.

“No!” His thin, cracked voice was barely audible with suppressed hatred. “But I would have, if I had the chance. The d - - -  righteous rat.”

The outburst was so unexpected that the Inspector blinked several times before he spoke.

“Sit down, Jenkins,” he snapped. “Now, that’s better. Why didn’t you like him?”

But Jenkins’ lips were sealed. Not another word could they get out of him. Finally, the Inspector ordered the Sergeant to take him away, after which he sat and absently stroked his jaw with his eyes closed. The District Attorney paced up and down the room, also thinking. And Handy smoked furiously.

Suddenly he jumped up, muttering oaths under his breath.

“Inspector,” he said, “will you trust me? Will you let me do something, something that may break this case?”

“Now wait a minute, son.” The Inspector was disconcertingly calm. “This thing isn’t so tough. Besides, there are a few angles which you don’t know of yet.”

“Such as what?” murmured Handy.

“Oh,” the Inspector shrugged his huge shoulders, “such as, for example, this report on my desk which tells that Allen Carmello was dealing in black market gasoline and that Herb Jenkins was the contact man for the black market gang. Also, that Al Honesty, early this morning, notified the executive committee of the Service Station Organization that, by virtue of his authority as President, he was going to have a talk with Carmello and maybe order him to close down for two weeks. Also, that Mr. Gardin, the one whose car Jenkins serviced, says that his neighbor saw Jenkins leave at three-thirty, not at a quarter to four.”

The Inspector paused, breathless.

Handy remained standing, a cigarette smoldering unnoticed between his fingers.

“Say, you really get around some, don’t you?” he whistled.

“That, my boy,” said Inspector Donaldson, “is what a Police Department, and more especially a Homicide Squad, is for. That is why I have six men on my staff; and what’s more, that’s why I’m getting paid. The trouble with you mystery-story writers,” he added with a good-natured chuckle, “is that that is what you fail to take into consideration. You think that cops are dopes, and you forget that actually we do solve quite a few cases without the help of a Sherlock Holmes or an Ellery Queen.”

“Well, this is certainly an education to me,” Handy murmured. “By the way, Inspector, who did kill Al Honesty?”

“We’ll both know soon,” said the Inspector grimly.

“Then do you mind if I borrow one of your men for a private experiment?” asked Handy hopefully. “I’d rather not tell you right now,” he added hurriedly in response to the questioning eyes aimed at him. “Maybe I’m silly, and if I am, I’d rather keep it to myself, but then again, there is the possibility …” he spread his hand deprecatingly.

The Inspector said nothing. The District Attorney, whom Handy had begun to suspect had lost his tongue, rose suddenly, yawned and stretched.

“Well gentlemen,” he said, “I really must be going.” He winked at the Inspector. “And give this young fellow a break, Don,” he added, glancing at Handy.

“Nice guy!” exclaimed Handy when he had gone.

“Yes, he is,” the Inspector nodded as he pressed the buzzer, “and he doesn’t miss much either. Oh Sarge, send Matthews in here.”

Matthews was the detective whom Handy had seen at the gas station, the one who had remained there at the Inspector’s orders. In his hand he held two official looking sheets of paper and he handed them to the Inspector with a smile. “Mat,” said the Inspector, dryly, without looking at the papers, “Mr. Marker would like your help in the performance of a little experiment. See what you can do to make him happy.”

“Thanks, Inspector,” said Handy. “Now Mat,” he turned to the detective and in a low voice whispered some instructions in the man’s ear. “And when you come back,” he concluded aloud, “just stick your head in the door and say ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”

When Matthews had gone, the Inspector raised his head from the papers he had been reading and with a twinkle in his grey eyes jovially asked Handy whom he suspected.

“Blessed if I know,” Handy muttered, “but I will,” he added brightly, “when Matthews gets back.”

“Well, son,” the Inspector chuckled, “I’ve got the answer right here.” He tapped his powerful forefinger on the papers on his desk. “Listen to these two reports,” he went on in a brisk tone. “One; Matthews canvassed the neighborhood around Honesty’s station and found someone who will swear that he saw Carmello’s truck standing at the gas pumps about 4:00. That could only have been Jenkins’. Two; we’ve checked Jenkins’ fingerprints with the F.B.I., and he happens to be Honesty’s brother, the one who deserted from the Army.”

The words exploded, one by one, on Handy’s consciousness, till the whole picture was clear. He had thought … but there was still a possibility … must wait till Matthews got back, though. Automatically, he lit a cigarette and silently reviewed the whole case in his mind. He felt a sense of admiration for the Inspector, but that faint glimmer … still, the man knew how to get things done.

“Well,” he mused philosophically, “we’ll see at the end.”

Meanwhile, the Inspector had ordered Sergeant Bolton to bring two suspects in, and a stenographer, and another detective. The room was beginning to look like a small congregation was going on, when Handy was suddenly startled by the Inspector’s voice, speaking in harsh tones. He was addressing Carmello and Jenkins.

“One of you killed Al Honesty,” he began grimly, “and before that one gets out of here, he’ll confess.” There was a hush in the room.

“All right,” the Inspector went on. “Carmello,” his voice snapped like a whip, “we know that you’ve been dealing in black market gasoline; we know that Honesty called you down to talk to you about it with the idea of ordering you to close your station; we know that you have been chiseling on the black market gang so that they had to put a watch on you; we know that you were at Honesty’s place at the approximate time of the murder; and we know it was your knife that killed him. Are you ready to talk?”

By the time the Inspector had finished talking, Carmello was trembling violently, and beads of perspiration were forming on his forehead.

“What you say is true, Inspector,” he pleaded, almost whining, “but I swear I found him dead when I got there. And why would I have killed him with my own knife, and why would I have called the cops?”

Handy had to admit, ruefully, that the man’s defense was good.

The Inspector, however, focused his chilled steel eyes on Jenkins.

“You, Jenkins,” he continued in the same whip-like tones, “we know that you left Gardin’s car at 3:30; we know that you were at Honesty’s place around 4:00; we know that you had an opportunity to swipe Carmello’s knife; we know that you were contact man for the black market gang; and,” he paused to lend emphasis to his final statement, “we know that you’re an Army deserter and that you’re Al Honesty’s brother.”

Suddenly Jenkins broke. One moment he had been sitting there, composed and collected, and the next moment he was a quivering mass of flesh. His thin, cracked voice was hoarse when he spoke, and his pale green eyes looked hideous.

“No,” he rasped, “no, I didn’t do it, I didn’t, I tell you.”

“Why did you go to see him this afternoon?”

“I … I,” he licked his lips, “I was sent, because we knew he was gonna crack down on Carmello and … I tried to talk him out of it.”

“Why?”

“Carmello owed us money and we wanted it, and we couldn’t get it if he was forced to close.”

“Go on.”

“He wouldn’t listen to me … threatened to call the F.B.I. and turn me in … he knew they’d shoot me if they caught me.”

“So you killed him with Carmello’s knife and then …”

“No, no … you’ve got to believe me, I swear I didn’t … but,” he continued slowly, “if I had a knife, I would have.”

He subsided weakly in his chair, then suddenly pointed a bony finger at Carmello.

“He did it,” he shouted wildly, leaning forward, “he did it. He’s smart enough to do a thing like that. And he knew if Al made him close he’d be ruined. And he knew I went to see him. He framed me, the fat slob. He thought he could kill two birds with one stone, because no one would believe me. He knew I was Al’s brother and he knew I was a deserter. And he knew I hated Al and would have …” the expression on his face altered as he turned and faced the Inspector. All of a sudden he was calm again.

“Inspector,” he said quietly, “how did you know I went to see Al?”

“Someone saw your truck parked in his station about 4:00,” the Inspector replied.

“That proves it.” Jenkins sprang to his feet, and shot a vindictive glance at Carmello, who, strangely, had ceased trembling and was quietly smoking a cigarette. “He must have planted that guy, because I parked the truck a block away and walked to Al’s place – and I can prove that.”

The Inspector swung his steel-grey eyes to Carmello. There was no denying the sincerity in Jenkins’ voice. For a moment he allowed his eyes to bore holes through Carmello.

“Well?” he snapped.

“Okay, Inspector, I did it.”

At that moment Matthews stuck his head in the door, looked at Handy and said, “Yes!”

A half hour later, Carmello’s confession having been duly signed and witnessed, and Jenkins having been turned over to the local F.B.I., Handy found himself once more closeted with Inspector Donaldson. He withdrew the last cigarette from his crumpled pack and lit it thoughtfully.

The Inspector, with a satisfied air, lit a huge corncob pipe and looked at Handy out of those incredibly grey eyes.

“Now that it’s all over,” he remarked idly, “I don’t mind telling you that I really thought Jenkins did it. He’s a pretty bad egg.”

Handy agreed silently.

“By the way, son,” the Inspector continued, “what was that experiment of yours all about? In the excitement I almost forgot about it.”

“Once a detective, always a detective,” Handy chuckled, then sobered. “You see, Inspector, I suspected Carmello all along. When Jenkins came back to Carmello’s place, he said the truck was out of gas, or almost out of gas, but he didn’t have a chance to fill it up because Carmello jumped right in and drove away.”

“So what?” growled the Inspector.

“Well,” Handy continued imperturbably, “when I was at Al’s place I noticed that one of his gas pumps showed the last disbursement of gasoline as 19.7 gals. Now most cars have small tanks and won’t take that much gas, but most trucks will. So right away I figured that maybe Carmello pulled into Al’s place and filled his tank. Then he talked to Al. Maybe he didn’t mean to kill him when he went there; that’s why he drove in, and seeing that he was out of gas, filled up. And, incidentally, took the awful risk of being seen himself. Or maybe he filled up his tank after killing Al, when he was leaving and saw that he was out of gas. I don’t know. Anyway, after he killed Al, he probably fixed the tire so it would go flat and drove a block away and left the truck. Then he came back and called Headquarters. That was a pretty smart trick. But I figured that if his truck was full of gas, that we could prove he had been at Al’s before the time he said he got there … in other words, he must have killed Al, or else why go to all that trouble just to prove he was a few minutes late for his appointment. So I sent Matthews to look at his truck, and sure enough, the tank was full.”

The Inspector, who had listened intently to Handy’s words, solemnly rose, came around his desk and extended his huge hand.

“Put ‘er there, kid,” he exclaimed, and added, “contrary to public opinion, son, the cops don’t mind when an honest citizen like you out-thinks them – once in a while. But don’t let it go to your head,” he warned. “And incidentally, if you ever want a job as a detective, son, look me up.”

“I’ll remember that, Inspector,” Handy smiled, “and by the way, do you think you can detect a place where I can buy some gas – without stamps?” he asked as he ducked out the door.

THE END

Copyright 2016

Elaine Blackman 

'Picture of a Man' -- a WWII story

The address at the top of the stale, typewritten story in Harry's files reads: H.M. Zubkoff, 192 Crestwood Ave., Buffalo 16, New York. It means he wrote it before he moved to Maryland in 1949, and before he turned 29. We can assume he was back from his post-war stint with the U.S. Army Counter Intelligence Corps. He served in France and Germany on a mission to hunt down Nazi war criminals and gather evidence for the Nuremberg Trials. Harry spoke little about those years, vowing silence because, he would say, "If I tell you, they'll kill me." He stated for the WWII Veteran's History Project, however, that he had spoken extensively with Holocaust survivors in internment camps. Writing fictional stories may have given him an outlet to “reveal” his observations and experience. The top photo in the graphic below is Harry in Germany, 1946. We can only guess about the other two -- one looks like a mass gravesite; the other a soldier with a whip. Did he confiscate these during his mission?

                                       

The little man worked silently, his blunt, efficient little fingers moving as of their own volition. He was a mild looking man, with greyish hair, thinning at the top, and watery blue eyes looking out of a face on which many hardships had etched deep lines. Now and then he glanced furtively up at the uniformed guard, standing so rigidly at the end of the aisle.

Around him, the noises of mass-production in an underground factory swelled in a discordant volume of sound, the vibrations causing the air itself to almost visibly palpitate in the deafening, maddening din.

On balconies, circling and crisscrossing the huge cavern, other guards stood or leaned against the wood railings, peering intently into the inferno below, some even using binoculars.

The sudden, unearthly shriek of a whistle cut through the clamor like a knife. Within thirty seconds the almost unbearable noise was replaced by an even more unwelcome, deadly silence. Every man stood stiffly at attention by his machine, eyes downcast. The measured tramp of two highly polished pairs of boots resounded through the silence as they made their way in unison to a spot two aisles away. Then that hated voice spoke in metallic tones over the loudspeaker.

“Maurice deWitt, for inefficiency in the performance of his work. Twenty lashes!”

Not a face lifted, not a muscle twitched, not an eye blinked, and yet the already tense atmosphere of the underground cavern was suddenly surcharged with electricity – the electricity generated by the soul-consuming hatred of a thousand slave laborers. The guards must have sensed it, for they became even more watchful, alert for the slightest indication of an outbreak.

The little man had not moved a muscle. Like the rest, he had given no sign that he had heard. But behind the impassive mask of his face he knew, from bitter experience, only too well what those words meant. His body still bore the scars from the twenty lashes he had received months before. And beneath his thinning patch of greyish hair, his thoughts boiled and seethed with all the concentrated fury of his terrible hatred.

Outwardly, he gave no sign of the turmoil within. For he must not give his thoughts away. He must wait and bide his time. His day would come. And when it did, let those Nazi pigs beware.

They had led the offender away to the “Area of Punishment” and now, as he stood motionless at his bench, he could hear the whip whistling as it slashed its way through the air to cut its victim’s back into ribbons. But no shrieks of agony. No, these poor, tired, broken slaves no longer cried out with pain. They knew how the Nazi beasts loved the sight of their suffering, how they licked their chops like hungry dogs at the prospect of inflicting pain and torture on these defenseless slaves. And they had long since ceased crying out at their beatings. Not out of bravery, but rather out of spite. Now their silence in their torment was even more terrible than their screams.

The Nazis were baffled by this awful silence in the face of their brutality. Bewildered and angry, they continued to heap more and more abuse on these “stupid slaves”.

The sudden unearthly shriek of a whistle cut through the silence like a knife. Within thirty seconds, the deadly silence was replaced by the almost unbearable noises of mass production in an underground factory. Life resumed its maddening monotony to a thousand slave laborers as they again took up the routine of production.

The little man worked silently, his blunt, efficient little fingers moving as of their own volition. But they turned out less than half the amount of work of which they were capable. His heart was heavy as he performed the mechanical motions of his job. How could he, how could they ever throw off the yoke of this tyrannical oppressor? How could they ever again attain their freedom, their hopes, their happiness? Their only possible hope lay with the American Armies advancing from the West. God grant that they would arrive soon. Neither he nor his people could last much longer under these conditions. And the Nazis had a way of dealing with men who have outlived their usefulness.

That night, as he rested fitfully on a filthy straw mat, he could hear the intermittent rumbling of the big guns to the West. They kept time with the tom-tom beating of his heart and he almost slept well.

In the morning the guns sounded considerably closer and the Nazi guards were visibly nervous as they herded their captives toward the yawning hole in the ground that was the entrance to the hated factory.

Once again the utterly meaningless routine of production absorbed his attention, while the air resounded to the vibrations of the infernal machines.

But as he glanced surreptitiously around the huge hall, he noted that there seemed to be many guards missing from their posts. So, they were worried! And they had good cause to be, too.

It was late in the afternoon when he discovered that the guards had all disappeared. The corners of the aisles, the balconies circling and crisscrossing above, all were deserted. Fearful lest it be another of their fiendish tricks, he continued his methodical output of work.

Gradually others became aware of this curious phenomenon of the missing guards. But it was not until after dark, not until the first American patrol cautiously advanced into the tunnels with leveled guns, that they realized that their days of slavery were over, that their dim, half-forgotten hopes of freedom were at last being realized.

* * *

Two days had passed, two eventful days in which the Americans had consolidated their position and in which the slaves, once more restored to the rightful state of free humanity, had celebrated. Many were on their way home, if their homes were still standing. Many had elected to stay and work their machines voluntarily to produce for their newfound allies. And so, the third day found the underground factory once more in the full swing of production.

The little man worked silently, his blunt efficient little fingers moving as of their own volition. He was a mild looking man, with greyish hair, thinning at the top, but his bright blue eyes looked out of a face on which many hardships had etched deep lines. Now and then, he glanced absently up at the uniformed guard, lounging at the end of the aisle. Occasionally, the guard winked at him, a simple act which caused his heart to beat warmly in him.

Around him the noises of mass production in an underground factory swelled in an harmonious volume of sound, a huge symphonic arrangement as the machines beat out their pattern of music, producing weapons for victory.

He would stay here and work till his job was finished, till the beasts of nazidom were wiped from the face of the earth. Then, and only then, would he feel free to go home, to take up the threads of his shattered life and rebuild all that had been destroyed in the brief days of the tyrant.

The little man worked silently, his blunt efficient little fingers moving as of their own volition.

THE END

Copyright 2016

Elaine Blackman  

'It Will Never Was' – a story of time travel

I'd been avoiding many of the old boxes in my basement, overwhelmed with the thought of reading piles of my dad's unpublished novels and stories. They vary in length -- and age, ranging from 30 to 70 years old. Well, I finally started with the short stories. I posted the first ("The Surprise") on this blog last week. Although some may appear long, they read quickly, even for a non-speed reader like me. This one has traveled safely through time, I'm guessing from the 1950s or '60s.

“We know that time machines have never been invented – neither in the past nor in the future,” said Professor Angel. “Or at least,” he amended his statement thoughtfully, “we know that time travel devices have never achieved any widespread use.”

“How do you know that?” asked O’Neil.

“Because,” said the Professor, “we have never been visited by travelers in time – neither from the past nor from the future.”

“I repeat,” said O’Neil, “how do you know that?” He looked around the classroom, seeking assurance in the blank gazes of his fellow students. Finding none, he shrugged and continued. “After all, Professor,” he said, “how do we know? Any number of time travelers may have visited us. Besides, the fact that we haven’t been visited, if we haven’t, isn’t conclusive proof that they don’t exist. Maybe they just haven’t gotten around to visiting this age yet.”

The professor smiled. “On the surface,” he said, “you make a good point. But consider, a moment. It is only in the very recent past that men have achieved the technological ability to make a time machine, even assuming that we had the basis in scientific knowledge. And it would seem incredible that such a device could be made and put into use, say within the last hundred years, without some information about it becoming public. Why, a project big enough to make a time machine, with the associated research and development aspects, would compare in size with the Manhattan Project. Impossible to keep it secret. This leaves us, then, with the future. If you assume, for the sake of argument, that a time machine was invented in the future, what would be the most logical age for them to visit? Why, the period in which the greatest scientific discovery in history was made, of course, the 20th century, when the energy of the atom was harnessed by man. Inevitably, Mr. O’Neil, an explorer from the near or the distant future would be irresistibly drawn to witness the first explosion of a nuclear weapon, the first atomic bomb to be dropped in war, the first H bomb, the first peaceful uses of atomic energy, and so on.”

The smile on the professor’s face broadened. “As I have heard you observe on several occasions, Mr. O’Neil,” he said, “it’s a natural. And the mere fact that absolutely no evidence exists that this period of time was ever visited, indicates conclusively to me that time machines have never been invented.”

“Well,” said O’Neil slowly, “that’s pretty involved reasoning, Professor, but I’m not sure I go along with it all the way. For example, what if time travel involved a dematerialization so that the traveler was invisible to …”

“Oh, come now, Mr. O’Neil,” said the professor, “you’ve been reading too much science fiction.”

“Okay,” said O’Neil reluctantly, “but there’s a flaw somewhere.”

* * *

Professor Angel walked slowly down the leaf-strewn sidewalk cutting across the northeast corner of the campus. A flaw, he thought, a flaw somewhere. I’ve been thinking about time travel half my life, and a 20-year-old boy says I’ve got a flaw. A flaw indeed. He sighed heavily. But where? His reasoning, he knew, was sound, his presentation, effective. The class, he was sure, accepted his arguments without reservation. Except for O’Neil, of course. That O’Neil, singularly intelligent young man, he thought, but what was there about him?

His wife greeted him at the door of their small, ranch-style house. “Call for you,” she said with that thin, tight-lipped expression that meant only one thing. “You’re to report to Dean Willard at once.”

O’Neil, he thought instantly, it must be him.

“All right,” he said. He patted her shoulder.

First time in three years, he thought, that’s not a bad record. It can’t be serious. He went down to the basement, pressed the button that moved one wall aside, and entered the room with the squat ugly machine. The wall rolled back before he was settled in the seat and as the machine began its powerful humming-throbbing noise and the room disappeared before him. The machine was pre-set; he could do nothing to control it. When it stopped, he emerged into the presence of two men. One was Willard; the other – O’Neil. Good heavens, he thought, the man’s a spy. And even while he thought it, his mind was saying no, not a spy, a security agent, that’s it, a security agent.

He said nothing, watching them silently. Willard spoke first.

“Ahem,” he said, “uh, Roger, I believe you know O’Neil.”

The professor inclined his head slightly.

“Now then,” said Willard, “O’Neil is not with Security. He’s with a special squad covering the whole time sector – some thirty thousand years. They have two missions – one, to discover the principles of time travel, and two, to discover the principles of releasing nuclear energy.”

“Isn’t that what I’m doing?” said the professor.

“Of course,” said Willard, “except that you are stationed in the 20th century of the Christian Era, and O’Neil can move about from time to time at will. Also, where you are looking for details, he is looking for broad clues. And he has one.”

They are playing with me, thought the professor, they know. The whole fearful weight of his knowledge pressed upon him. His shoulders drooped as he sighed.

“Indeed,” he said, “and what is it?”

“I think,” said O’Neil, speaking for the first time, “that you have discovered the principle of time travel.”

No, thought the professor, he can’t know. I can’t be that transparent.

“Man,” O’Neil went on suddenly, “it’s a natural. Think of it. We discover two time machines, both obviously built at different times, by different technologies, yet necessarily operating on the same principles. We learn how to make them work, but no matter how we try, we can’t fathom the principles, the secret of making more. So, with two machines, we set out to explore time, to learn the twin secrets, so that we can set a dying world on its feet again.” He paused, breathless, then continued, more slowly. “One of those machines,” he said, “I suspect was built during the Atlantean Age, and we’re checking it. But the other could easily have been built during the 20th century of the Christian Era, and that, Professor, is where you’re stationed.” He pointed an accusing finger. “You’re the only one of us,” he said, “who could have figured it out himself. The rest of us would have had to steal the secret, but you could have learned it. And I think, Professor, that sometime in the last three years you have learned it.”

“If you have time,” said Willard, and his voice was suddenly menacing, “you had better tell us, Roger.”

“No,” said the professor, “I can’t. I’m not sure. Don’t you see? Time. I need time. It takes time. I must have more time.” He watched them closely, noting the swift glance that passed between them.

“How much time?” asked O’Neil.

“A year, maybe two,” he answered.

Again the swift glance, this time with something more than understanding, something infinitely cynical in it.

“Very well, Roger,” said Willard. “We’ll give you this time. Go back to your work. We will be in touch with you.”

When the professor was gone, O’Neil turned to Willard. “Can we trust him?” he asked.

Willard shrugged. “What can he do? He is but one man, a scientist, alone. The last of his kind – and perhaps the first.” He shrugged again. “What can he do?” he repeated.

* * *

“What can I do?” said the professor. “I’m only one man, alone. What can I do?”

“Tell them you don’t know,” said his wife. “Stop building that – that – thing. Tell them you can’t learn the secret; it’s too much for you.”

“It’s no use,” he said hopelessly, “they’ll only put me under the tele-thought. They’ll use it,” he continued, “to plunder the ages.” He shuddered. “They’ll destroy everything. They respect nothing. They’ll sack the world. The rape of time. They’ll come back to this time in force, robbing, destroying – they’ll …” He stopped. Slowly the frown straightened out, the eyes brightened, the smile broke through. “Of course,” he said softly, “of course.”

* * *

Two years later he appeared before Willard and O’Neil, serene and self-confident.

“I’ve done it,” he announced, “I’ve built a nuclear powered time machine. I know the principles.”

Willard rubbed his hands while O’Neil smiled.

“Good, Roger, very good,” he said. “We will set up a factory to produce them in quantity, and you will direct the work.”

“No.” said the professor calmly, “I will not.”

“Eh,” Willard scowled, “you know better than that, Roger, we’ll put you under the tele-thought. You can’t resist.”

“No,” said the professor, still calmly, “you can’t make me do anything anymore. You can’t win, gentlemen. You’ll never win, because you haven’t won. Don’t you see?”

“No,” said O’Neil, “I don’t. We’ve got you, Professor, and now we have three machines. I don’t see how we can lose.”

“Very well,” said the professor, “I’ll explain. You see, the machine, which I built back in the 20th century of the Christian Era, is the same one we’re using now, the one which you suspected was built during that period. By the way, where is it now?”

“One of my men has it in the Atlantean period,” said O’Neil. “Goddard. Maybe you know him?”

“Ah yes,” said the professor. “A very capable fellow. Perhaps even capable enough to – well, never mind, let’s continue. In any event, I built my machine – and used it to do some exploring. With it I discovered that I remained in the 20th century, Christian Era, and lived out my life there. Subsequently, others used it – then it was lost for some ten thousand years, until you found it again. It conclusively proved, however, that no one else ever built another machine – except for the Atlantean model. So you see, you lose.”

“But, but,” sputtered O’Neil, “how could you and Goddard be using the same machine at the same time?”

“Oh, but it’s not at the same time,” the professor smiled, “it’s at different times.”

“Even so, Roger,” Willard broke in, “what’s to prevent us from putting you under the tele-thought, from learning the secrets, and from building more machines?”

“Just this,” said the professor, slowly walking over to his machine, “If you will notice, I came here in my machine, not yours, which is still in my 20th century basement. When I leave here, you will no longer have a machine at your disposal. I’ll be out of your reach forever. I’m going back now to warn Goddard – or to destroy his machine, which is really my machine, if he won’t listen to reason. But I think he will. When I’m gone,” he added, “ponder this, gentlemen. You cannot change time, you can only witness it.”

The last he saw of them was the stunned expressions on their faces, the dawning realization of defeat.

* * *

Professor Angel looked at the blank faces of his students, compressed his lips, then smiled as he concluded his lecture.

“There is only one conclusion,” he said. “Observation bears out the fact that time travel never has and never will achieve widespread use. To coin a phrase,” he added thoughtfully, “it will never was.”

THE END

Copyright 2016

Elaine Blackman