Ричард Деминг - Manhunt. Volume 1, Number 6, June, 1953

“A joke?” Miss Turner said, stunned.

“Yes. He says he was doing somebody a favor.”

“A favor?”

“That’s right.”

Miss Turner felt sudden panic. “You mean there’s still another lunatic at large who was in on it?”

The Chief smiled. “Don’t get flustered, Miss Turner. Not quite. He claims somebody asked him to do it as a joke on you. Says it was one of your friends or associates. Says they gave him your telephone number, told him you were hot stuff, and said he should go ahead and give you the works, pull no punches over the telephone.”

Miss Turner was incredulous. “But why?”

“So they could tease you about it afterward. All they told him was to ask for Phoebe. Says he doesn’t have the slightest idea who he’s been talking to.”

“Who’s this 'friend or associate’?” Miss Turner didn’t try to hide her skepticism.

“He won't say.”

“He won’t?”

“No.”

“Well, why not make him?”

“I tried,” the Chief said. “He won’t talk. On that score says nobody can make him talk. He doesn’t want to get anybody in dutch.”

Miss Turner thought it over and laughed. “Well, that’s the best I’ve heard yet. I don’t believe a word of it. It’s ridiculous. He wasn’t just spoofing. Not the way he talked over the phone. What about the way he demanded a date? What about the date he fixed for tonight?”

The Chief laughed helplessly. “Well,” he said, “since this particular party told him you were so gorgeous, and terrific, a raving beauty, and willing , it would appear, he thought while he was about it he’d just go ahead on his own and see how far he could get. That was his own idea. He admits it. It wasn’t part of the agreement.”

“Well, so far as I’m concerned,” Miss Turner said bitterly, “that’s enough for prosecution. But I suppose the way all of you are taking it, as a joke, that ends the case right there.”

The Chief became businesslike again. “No,” he said. Miss Turner could tell he was swiveling the cigar around in his mouth. “We’ve decided, even if his story is true, we’re going to teach him a lesson he won’t forget. We’re going to ask for a stiff thirty day sentence plus a fine. You come down here quick as you can for the hearing.”

“Me?”

“In view of his claiming it was a joke, we’ll need you, after all, to swear out the warrant and identify him, to put the thing on ice.”

“I thought my helping to trap him in the cafeteria was enough.”

“Well, I’ve told you; it isn’t.” The Chief sounded as though he were getting a little tired, or anxious to get this silly business over with so he could go home. The hour was late.

“Oh, I wish you didn’t need me,” Miss Turner said.

“Why not?”

“I feel terribly flustery; I’m scared to death.”

“Why?”

“When that awful man gets to know what I look like he’ll come back after his thirty days and try to do me or my mother some harm.”

She sounded just like someone looking under the bed, and this time the chief really laughed. “Take my word for it, Miss Turner. I can appreciate your concern, but this man is just a dope, perfectly harmless. He’s sitting in there blubbering like a baby right now. He’s so ashamed he wants to go find a hole and get lost. He’ll eat right out of your hand.”

“Oh, please, don’t ask me,” Miss Turner persisted.

“Now, look,” the Chief said. He was getting really annoyed. There was no mistaking the authority.

“Well, all right,” Miss Turner said. “I still can’t believe it, not the way he talked, but I’ll be right down. If I must I must. How long will it take? Will I be able to just pop in and out?”

“Of course,” the Chief said. “Not more than a minute or two. All you have to do is say he’s the man. You won’t even have to take off your hat and coat.”

Thirty minutes later Miss Turner got off the bus and went inside the stone building and the sergeant directed her to the entrance where the police magistrate for that month was presiding over night court.

The magistrate was up on the bench looking over the police report. Off to one side, in the press box, the Chief was chewing on his cigar and watching a cluster of night-duty boys matching pennies. The man, Pete Jones, was seated directly in front of the desk, shaking his head as though he couldn’t believe it. He was red-eyed, and so completely crushed that Miss Turner had to look twice. She remembered with amazement the self-possessed calmness of his voice on the telephone.

She walked in and went over to the chief, who smiled at her graciously and things began to get started. Jones was told to come up and be identified. He came forward with his head still down and stood that way, like a dozing mule, but when Miss Turner was called up beside him, Jones snapped his head around and couldn’t take his eyes off her. He seemed to be fascinated. She was wearing the same veiled hat and pink carnation.

“All right,” the magistrate said. He took a look. “Miss Turner, suppose you take off that lovely veil and let us get started. Once you’ve identified him it wont take more than two, three minutes. The man has admitted everything.”

Miss Turner looked to the chief at her elbow. “Must I, Chief Harrington?”

The chief smiled reassuringly. “Must you what?”

“Take off my veil? You said I could just pop in and out.”

The chief laughed pleasantly. “Sure. Accused must be confronted face to face. That’s the law. You still afraid of him?”

“Yes.”

The chief turned to the prisoner grimly. “Well, you don’t have to be. We’ll straighten this out right now. If this man ever molests you in any way, shape, or form again, we’ll give him the works. A three year rap. Did you hear that, Jones?”

“Yessir, I heard you,” Jones mumbled. He still couldn’t take his eyes off Miss Turner. He was like a man in a trance. It was clear he didn’t have a shred of courage left, just a kind of hypnosis.

“Well, all right,” the magistrate said. He was getting impatient. “Miss Turner take the stand, remove your veil, and let’s go.”

Miss Turner went up to the stand, turned around, lifted both hands to the veil and tossed it back over her hat. Regardless what the chief had said, she was still scared to death. But there was nothing else to do. She was smiling like a ninny. It was a kind of trap. She’d never dreamed it would go this far.

“Okay,” the magistrate said. “That’s better. Now we’ll move fast. Is that the man who called you on the telephone, told you obscenities, and in pursuance of an indecent proposal came up to you in the restaurant?”

There was no answer and after a split second all the reporters’ heads snapped up to look. Miss Turner was staring at the prisoner. Jones had turned red, then absolutely dead white, then he laughed one quick abrupt laugh and finally took a stumbling step forward.

“Are you the lady I been talking to on the telephone?” It didn’t have the slightest braggadocio. It was simply a pleading question.

Miss Turner tried, but couldn’t answer. Only her mouth opened.

“She sure is,” Chief Harrington said.

“My God.” Jones turned his head to look at everybody in a dull stupid way. It was hard to tell if he was beginning to grin or beginning to cry.

The chief looked at him sharply. “What’s the matter with you, Lothario? Now you see her, you disappointed, you dumbfounded?”

Jones’ lips were quivering, opening and closing soundlessly as though he were full of some horrible thing.

“Oh, my God,” he kept saying. Everybody looked at everybody else.

“Say, what’s the matter with you?” the chief demanded.