Харлан Эллисон - Murder Plus - True Crime Stories From The Masters Of Detective Fiction

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In their heyday, the true-crime pulp magazines spawned many of the masters of American detective fiction. These early gems have been unearthed and collected here for the first time.

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Alex, however, never made the trip.

At this period, in early April of 1908, Belle Gunness’s position became shaky for the first time. She heard from a sheriff's deputy that Ray Lamphere, while drunk, had told a group of fellow drinkers that if anything ever happened to him at the farm, they were to request the sheriff to investigate. He had hinted darkly at horrendous doings at Belle’s place.

Belle Gunness’s reaction was characteristic. She didn’t defend herself. She attacked.

Vowing that she had never been so insulted in all her life, she showed up at the county courthouse and announced that Lamphere had threatened her life on several occasions. She swore out a warrant for his arrest. However, after a private session with him in his cell, during which no one knows what compromise was reached, Belle withdrew the charge and Lamphere was freed.

But Belle remained uneasy. Perhaps, the little racket of running gentlemen possessed of substantial means through the sausage grinder was petering out. Perhaps, the time had come for a “twenty-three, skiddo,” which in those days meant to take it on the lam.

Late in the evening of April 27th, 1908, the Gunness farm was suddenly ablaze. No one gave the alarm until it was too late, and the buildings were burned to the ground.

On the following morning, the charred ruins were carefully searched. Four blackened bodies were found. One was that of a woman. The other three were bodies of children — two girls and a boy. The inference was obvious. Belle Gunness and her three children had been destroyed by the flames. Moreover, there was a natural suspect for the sheriff — Ray Lamphere, who curiously enough had not slept at the farm that night. Too, it was a matter of record at the courthouse that Belle had sworn he had often threatened her life.

Ray Lamphere was arrested, tossed in jail and charged with murder, arson and everything else that the prosecutor was able to think of at the moment. The charred corpses were sent to the morgue. There, the coroner, who Belle Gunness rightly had considered a most suspicious man, viewed them. He conceded that the smaller bodies were those of Belle’s adopted children.

He announced flatly that the adult corpse was not that of Belle Gunness.

“It was three inches shorter,” he stated. “It is eighty pounds lighter, Belle Gunness was possessed of good, sound teeth. This cadaver is wearing an ill-fitting plate.”

By this time Ray Lamphere, in order to demonstrate his own innocence, was talking like a radio announcer trying to beat the clock. He told the sheriff of the death of John Alden and of the mysterious disappearance of Belle’s other suitors. The sheriff promptly armed his deputies with shovels and sent them out to the farm.

By dusk they had dug up the remains of what were twelve recognizable skeletons. In addition, they had discovered four cartons full of miscellaneous bones. Helgelin and John Anderson had not entirely decomposed, thus they were identifiable.

Further examination by the coroner revealed that the children had not died by fire. They had been neatly cracked on the skull before the blaze had started. It was evident now that Belle had committed murder and arson to hide her own tracks. Exactly where she had obtained the woman’s body which she hoped would be taken for her own was never known.

That isn’t all which was never known. The State of Indiana offered a large reward for her apprehension. Every police headquarters in the United States was notified. But Belle made her 230 pounds hard to find. During the years the search spread into Australia, Canada, England, Europe, both Americas and Africa. But no one ever wittingly laid an eye on Belle Gunness.

If “Madame Murder” — Belle Gunness — still lives, she will be about 80 years old. Most officials are inclined to believe that she is dead, that she died quietly and respectfully in a feather bed — not while being run through a sausage machine.

Harlan Ellison

It is an honor to present this expose by the one and only Harlan Ellison.I was a teen when I first read Ellison’s Gentleman Junkie and Other Stories of the Hung-Up Generation , his remarkable collection of stories from the 1950s and 1960s. Most of the subjects were far from my dreary suburban diet of “Brady Bunch” reruns, but his voice spoke to me, awakened something in me. For the first time I was aware of the presence of the author in the creation of a literary text. I’ve often returned to his books over the years — Gentleman Junkie; I Have No Mouth & Must Scream; No Doors, No Windows; Angry Candy. Now a better, wisely mature reader, I’ve come to appreciate even more his remarkable gifts: his ability to mix and match genres, to turn on a dime from comedy to tragedy, the land mines he sets up, unforeseen till it’s too late. And I am not alone in my belief that Ellison has singularly revolutionized the detective story, brought both its content and form into the modern age. It is asking a lot of Ellison to be able to instill a minor historical-criminal footnote like “Mystery Man Lucks and His Missing Bucks” with this kind of power. Maybe too much. But even here, very early in Ellison’s career, when he was writing as Ellis Hart, one hears his sly wit and unique voice, as he brings to life the death of con man Al Lucks.

Mystery Man Lucks and His Missing Bucks

There are a good many ways to make a million dollars: you can save Eagle stamps for fifty years, or you can rob a bank, or you can marry a millionairess, or you can figure a foolproof method for beating the Irish Sweepstakes. There are all kinds of ways.

Then there was the method employed by Allen M. Lucks. Simply stated, it ran about like this:

A stunning, long-legged redhead, accompanied by a shorter, but no less gorgeous brunette, walked up to an apartment door in Paris’ swank George V hotel. Idly patting her expensive coiffure into place, the redhead rang the buzzer.

Had anyone familiar with Paris night-life been strolling down the corridor at that moment, he might have wondered why two of the more well-known Folies Bergère showgirls were unaccompanied that early in the evening, and what they were doing ringing the bell of that apartment.

The passerby would have been totally floored had he seen the squat, florid, slightly balding man, with an excess in the tummy category, who opened the door. The man looked pleasantly surprised. “Yes?” he inquired.

“Monsieur Lucks sent us,” the redhead answered, smiling prettily. “He told us to tell you we are at your disposal, for as long as you are in Paris, Monsieur.”

The fat little man’s eyes lit up. He remembered Lucks from dinner the night before. The fellow had said he was a go-between for some people who wanted to sell war surplus. The fat man had smiled at Lucks — that was his business, buying war surplus. And Paris, this June of 1952, was abounding in quick-change artists wanting to unload war supplies.

Now this. He looked at the girls more appreciatively as Lucks’ words ran through his head.

“Tomorrow at 7 P.M.,” Lucks had said, “there will be a knock at your door and two girls will walk in. Ask no questions, pay no money, enjoy yourself and tell them when to report back.”

As the fat little man ushered the girls inside, bolted the door, and prepared for a night of vive la France , he made a mental note to get in touch with Lucks the very next day to thank him. Have to throw some business the way of a fellow who’d do anything as nice as this.

And that, dear reader, is how mystery man Allen M. Lucks went about making several hundred millions of dollars for himself and clients... millions which no one can find! November 27, 1955, was an important day for 53-year-old bachelor Al Lucks. He died that day. And all his relatives are currently weeping sad, dark tears. No one can say how sorry they are to see good old Al go, but they are moaning because Lucks’ vast uncountable fortune is nowhere in sight.

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