Аврам Дэвидсон - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 67, No. 3. Whole No. 388, March 1976

“No you don’t!” Kane turned to intercept him, but he was already reaching for the bag.

“Let go of that!” Kane shouted.

The little man tried to pull away, but Kane’s hand swooped down frantically into the open bag and clawed. Then it rose, gripping the scalpel.

The little man yanked the bag away. Clutching it, he retreated as Kane bore down upon him furiously.

“Stop!” Woods cried. Hurling himself forward, he stepped between the two men, directly into the orbit of the descending blade.

There was a gurgle, then a thud, as he fell.

The scalpel clattered to the floor, slipping from Kane’s nerveless fingers and coming to rest amidst the crimson stain that seeped and spread.

The little man stooped and picked up the scalpel. “Thank you,” he said softly. “You have given me what I came for.” He dropped the weapon into the bag.

Then he shimmered.

Shimmered — and disappeared.

But Woods’ body didn’t disappear. Kane stared down at it — at the throat ripped open from ear to ear.

He was still staring when they came and took him away.

The trial, of course, was a sensation. It wasn’t so much the crazy story Kane told as the fact that nobody could ever find the fatal weapon.

It was a most unusual murder...

Chick the comic, alias Chick the Dick, falls in love, which with Chick’s affinity for crime leads to murder, and if Chick himself isn’t up to his neck as a suspect, Chick’s chick is .. . Deal ’em, Chick!...

Every time I open this big generous heart of mine, someone moves into it and opens up a Welfare Department. Take Jeepers Jordan, for instance. (If you got a look at Jeepers, you’d take her somewhere for 3,000 years, and keep it a secret.) For two weeks I’m Mr. Terrific, and then she drops the bomb on me.

“You’re a big buddy of Billy Tibbs, aren’t you, Chick darling? Does he have anything to do with soap operas?” she purrs.

She didn’t have to push one more well-formed syllable out of that kitten mouth. I know the bit. Tibbs is a TV network producer, right? And what aspiring young actress wouldn’t like to be on a soap? That is not a multiple-choice question, obviously.

Does Chick Kelly fly into a rage? Do I feel wounded? No. El Dopo calls Tibbs and gets her a part on “River of Life.” As they say in Brooklyn, I shoulda stood in bed. But once she is on the show, that is precisely what I can’t do. Now Jeepers insists that I watch “River of Life” every weekday afternoon at two P.M. I’m an ex-comic who runs his own bistro all night and never gets up until sex or seven, or at least until night life has come to a halt. So, slave of love that I am, I’m conscious in the wee hours of the post meridian, staring at the tube.

I decided to watch the show at the club, because I thought I could get some of the office work done at the same time. That was a mistake, because I had forgotten about Mrs. Mangerton. Nellie Mangerton is herself a mistake. She is a widow, a crony of my partner’s wife, and what I loosely call my secretary. She comes in for a few hours a day and types up customers’ statements and miscellaneous letters, and complains about anything that ever took place after 1910.

Mrs. Mangerton thinks my prices and the cocktail waitresses’ skirts are too high and her salary and the lighting too low. Nothing pleases her. I buy her a new electronic calculator and she moans that it doesn’t produce a tape for rechecking her figures. I buy her a spanking new electric typewriter, the latest model, and she groans that “you need to be an electronics engineer just to change the ribbon.” When I start watching “River of Life,” she joins in with the critique. She’s appalled by the plots of soap operas. In a way I agree with her.

We watched several segments and I couldn’t believe what they get away with on these shows. Murder, bigamy, drug addiction, wife and husband stealing, and I swear every woman has had at least one illegitimate baby. That’s some programing, when you consider that most tots are up from their naps or home from nursery school in the afternoon. I figure the network censors sleep all day to be ready with their blue pencils for evening prime-time adult shows. But in comparison to the other soaps on the afternoon roster, “River of Life” was tame.

I settle down after a few weeks and find myself getting hooked on the trials and tribulations of the Martin family. Now Jeepers is a good 24 years old, but with her hair tousled and wearing a baggy sweater she can pass for a teenager. She plays the cousin of young Timmy Martin. She has come to live in Loganburg with the Martins because her own family has been run over by a freight train. Her real family lived in Florida.

I’ve heard of actors starting to live their roles, but soap-opera people are ridiculous. Jeepers starts walking around my club dressed like she was going to a high-school pep rally and mooning about poor Mums’ and Dads’ horrible death. I’m afraid the Liquor Commission will lift my license for serving minors.

But in a way I can understand the actor’s role-identification. Hell, you play a part every day. Not the same lines, as you would in a play, but an on-going part like life itself. After a while I can see where you’d end up confused as to who you are. But Mrs. Mangerton doesn’t waver. She keeps telling me, “Wait and see. The niece will end up pregnant yet.”

By the middle of the third week I’ve got the secret of writing soaps. Always keep five subplots going at the same time and resolve the major one each Friday, building up the next in line for the following week.

On this particular Friday I know young Timmy Martin is going to beat a marijuana rap that has worried the family for four days. We all know he’s got to beat it because he is one of the show’s regulars. They can’t have the kid in the slammer and still sell soap.

I’m watching the tube at two P.M. and my prediction is turning out fine. Jeepers’ part is getting bigger all the time, and I am wondering just how friendly my babycakes is with Billy Tibbs. Such are the problems of show biz.

Suddenly I know something is wrong, because at a point where Jeepers says, “I think that’s Timmy now,” the camera pans to an empty doorway and just sits there for one long empty minute. Then another camera picks up Pop Martin, who is obviously departing from the script and faking it with ad libs.

I’ve seen actors throw some very good cover for another cast member who has blown his lines, but this guy is fantastic. Jeepers is doing all right too, and between them they got through to the end of the segment.

I didn’t think any more about it, and switched over to a channel where they have cartoons playing. Cartoons have straight truth in them, if you look for it.

Half an hour later I got the phone call. Jeepers was slightly hysterical and under suspicion of murder. Hush, baby. Rush, Kelly.

They shoot the show live in a refurbished theater on upper First Avenue. All I got from Jeepers was that there was a murder, so I guessed it had to be of Timmy Martin. If you ever met a stage brat, you’d know why. I was wrong. It turned out to be the show’s writer-producer, Walter Powers.

Getting onto the scene of a crime without a badge can be tougher than getting a bank loan without collateral. The blue boy on the front door looked like an old pro at plowing away snow jobs, so I passed him up and hit the side door on 74th Street. The younger cop stationed there swallowed my story when I flashed my AGVA membership card and did five minutes of baloney schtick, then let me in.