Mrs. Murphy's Underpants Read online

  Mrs. Murphy's Underpants

  By Fredric Brown

  THE DEAD RINGER

  COMPLIMENTS OF A FIEND

  HERE COMES A CANDLE

  MURDER CAN BE FUN

  THE BLOODY MOONLIGHT

  THE FABULOUS CLIPJOINT

  THE SCREAMING MIMI

  NIGHT OF THE JABBERWOCK

  DEATH HAS MANY DOORS

  THE FAR CRY

  WE ALL KILLED GRANDMA

  THE DEEP END

  MOSTLY MURDER

  HIS NAME WAS DEATH

  WHAT MAD UNIVERSE

  THE LIGHTS IN THE SKY ARE STARS

  ANGELS AND SPACESHIPS

  THE WENCH IS DEAD

  MARTIANS, GO HOME

  THE LENIENT BEAST

  ROGUE IN SPACE

  THE OFFICE

  ONE FOR THE ROAD

  THE LATE LAMENTED

  KNOCK THREE-ONE-TWO

  THE MURDERERS

  THE FIVE-DAY NIGHTMARE

  THE SHAGGY DOG AND OTHER MURDERS

  MRS. MURPHY'S UNDERPANTS

  MRS. MURPHY'S UNDERPANTS

  by

  Fredric Brown

  New York E. P. Dutton & Co., Inc.

  1963

  Copyright, ©, 1963 by Fredric Brown

  All rights reserved. Printed in the U.S.A.

  FIRST EDITION

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper or broadcast.

  Published simultaneously in Canada by Clarke, Irwin & Company Limited, Toronto and Vancouver

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER: 63-15789

  Mrs. Murphy's Underpants

  Chapter One

  I was lying on my bed that evening with a broken rib and a broken trombone. The rib would heal but I'd just decided that the trombone wouldn't.

  I'd broken them both the evening before, going down the stairs on my way to a strictly amateur jam session with a few guys I'd got to know who like to get together for an evening every couple of weeks to make noise. My toe had caught in a tear in the stair carpeting, a tear that hadn't been there before, a few steps from the bottom, and I'd taken a header into a three-point landing, the first point of which had been the end of the trombone case. It had knocked the wind out of me for a minute and had hurt, but no worse than when you stub your toe or kick your ankle against something. Mrs. Brady, our landlady, heard the crash and came running from her apartment at the back of the first floor; she got there and was fussing over me like a mother hen before I even got up. My first thought wasn't either for myself or the trombone—I don't bruise easily, and the case should have protected the trombone—but for the carpeting. Somebody could break his neck on it. Uncle Am had heard too and came down from our room; he said he'd tack the carpeting and I could run along if I was sure I wasn't hurt. And that started Mrs. Brady again, and the only way I could get out of the house was to promise to stop and see Dr. Yeager, who lived only a few doors away, and let him check me over before I went on to the jam session. He had me strip to the waist and poked a finger where I said it hurt a little, and I said ouch. Then he listened with a stethoscope and had me cough a little and told me I had a broken rib; he'd heard a pop—and I'd felt it. He taped me up and told me there was no reason why I couldn't go on to the jam session, to listen, but he doubted if I'd feel like blowing a wind instrument for at least a couple of weeks. I took a deep breath for size and decided he was right. So I went back home and called up to call off my showing up at the session, and played gin rummy with Uncle Am instead.

  The next morning my side was even sorer and Uncle Am talked me into staying home and letting him hold down the office for at least one day. We didn't have any cases on hand anyway at the moment, and it would be just a matter of sitting around hoping for one to come in. He promised to phone me if anything came up that he couldn't handle by himself.

  Maybe I should tell you that my name is Ed Hunter and that my uncle, Ambrose Hunter, and I run a two-man private detective agency from an office in a building on Wabash Avenue just north of the Chicago Loop. And room together on Huron Street, also on the Near North Side, not too far away. We're not getting rich, but we get by, and we get along pretty well together. My Uncle Am is shortish, fattish, and smartish; he's in his forties and has most of his hair and a scraggly mustache that I keep trying to talk him into getting rid of. I'm still in my twenties and still single, although I've had some narrow escapes. Uncle Am is, by now, a perennial bachelor. Anyway, the accident was a little over twenty-four hours old and I was just getting around to checking out the trombone after all. And finding that I'd been too optimistic in thinking that because the case hadn't been damaged, neither had the instrument. The jar had sprung either the slide or the tubing onto which it fitted, or was supposed to fit. Maybe it could be repaired, and I'd certainly find out, but I had a hunch it couldn't be. You think of a trombone as being a fairly rugged piece of plumbing, but it isn't, not that part of it. A dent in the horn part doesn't matter, but denting or bending of the slide means you've probably had it. You can't even buy a new slide for an old trombone; those two basic parts are made together and fitted together and that's that.

  Which gets me back where I started, on my bed with a broken rib and a broken trombone. I put the instrument back in the case and put the case away.

  It was still early, not much after nine, but I felt sleepy and considered whether I wanted to get undressed and into bed instead of on it. I decided just to take a nap as I was. Whenever Uncle Am came home he might be in the mood to go out for a beer or a nightcap, or might even phone to ask if I wanted to meet him somewhere. If I got an hour or two of shuteye now I'd probably want to, but not if it meant getting dressed again from bare hide.

  So I reached up and turned off the light and of course found I wasn't sleepy after all.

  I hadn't the faintest idea when Am would get home, or phone. He'd called up late in the afternoon and said a job—a tail job—had just come in and he'd be working on it this evening. He was to pick up the subject when she left her hairdresser's after a four-thirty appointment and stay with her until she got home, whether that was right away or the next morning. All I knew by now was that she hadn't gone right home, but she could still make it a short evening.

  I'd been lying there just a minute or two when a very slight sound made me open my eyes and look toward the door of the room. The sound seemed to have been the click of a light switch—and that's what it had been, because before there'd been a crack of light under the door and now there wasn't. Someone had just turned off the upstairs hallway light, and that didn't make sense because nobody would have had a legitimate reason for doing it. It's not a very bright bulb because there's no reason for it to be, but such as it is, it stays on all night once it gets turned on at dark.

  I reached up for the switch of the lamp I'd just turned off, thinking to light it first and then look out into the hallway, and just had my hand on it when I heard another sound that made me freeze that way.

  There was a faint but stealthy sound of movement in the hallway, just outside our door. And the door itself started to open inward, very slowly.

  I kept my hand on the lamp switch, but didn't turn it on. If I did, I'd be giving an advantage away. I'd been in the dark for a while and my eyes were accustomed to it. I could see the outlines of furniture, the shape of the opening door. I'd have a silhouette, however dim, of whoever was coming through it. He, on the other hand, had turned out the light on his side of the door only seconds ago.

  But the panicky thought hit me that maybe he had a gun and maybe I shoul
d make a try to get to the one in the upper drawer of Uncle Am's dresser. We don't carry guns often in the type of work we do, but we have one apiece at the office and the extra one, an old revolver, we keep in the room just in case. Well, this might be the case all right, so why the hell wasn't it under my pillow instead of across the damn room?

  But the door was open wide now and someone was coming through it and I could hardly believe the little that my eyes told me in the dimness. He was small—a midget or a kid. If it was a kid, he couldn't be over nine or ten years old.

  He was closing the door behind him now. Then he was feeling his way along the wall to the right of the door—and I'd been right, because of the care with which he felt his way, that he couldn't see as well as I could. I let him make it as far as the dresser (my dresser, not Uncle Am's with the extra gun in it), and I knew he could never get the door open and get through it before I could get him, so I flicked on the switch.

  And then I had my back against the door and—both of us blinking in the sudden light—he was frozen in the act of opening a dresser drawer, looking at me over his shoulder with frightened eyes.

  He was a kid, a boy a little younger than I'd guessed in the dark. Eight maybe, rather than nine or ten. Neat and well dressed, not the dirty urchin I'd expected. His slightly wavy hair was neatly combed and his face was clean. I didn't know him, but he looked familiar somehow, like someone I'd seen around the neighborhood. "Well, kid," I said. "What's the idea?" Some of the fright went out of his eyes and a touch of what seemed to be defiance was substituted for it. He straightened up and faced me squarely, at any rate.

  "You got me," he said. "Go ahead and call the cops."

  I realized that I was still standing in front of the closed door with my arms out to hold it shut, and I felt foolish. I relaxed a little. I said, "Let me worry about calling the cops if I decide to. I want to know what this is all about first. Maybe this is something your father should have a chance to straighten out. Who is your father?"

  He didn't answer.

  I let that one go and tried, "What's your name?"

  "You got me. Go ahead, call the cops."

  "That's a funny name," I said. "Let's get back to my first question: What's the idea? Is this your idea of fun, or do you need money worse than you look as though you need it?"

  "Money!" he said, as though it was a swearword. "I got lots of money." He proved it, partly, by reaching into a hip pocket and showing me a pinseal wallet, then putting it back.

  I said, "All right, you probably have more money than I have. But what were you looking for, then?"

  "A gun."

  I felt like sitting down. I remembered that there is a snap lock on the inside of our door that we seldom use because it sticks and is hard to open. With it thrown he wouldn't be able to get out of the door before I could get to him even if I didn't stand between him and it. I threw it and went back to the edge of the bed and sat down. I waved a hand at Uncle Am's favorite chair, which was near where he stood. "Sit down, kid," I said. "That bit about the gun was too much or not enough. We're going to have to do some talking."

  "What for? Call the cops. Or take me to them." But he sat down on the arm of the chair.

  "Not if this takes all night, till I know what I'm doing. What made you think you'd find a gun here? Or were you just canvassing the neighborhood for one?"

  "You're a detective. I don't know your name, but I know—somebody told me, I mean—two detectives live here. You and your father."

  "My uncle, for the record. And yes, we have guns but not here. We keep them at the office. All right, now we know why you tried here. But here comes the big question. What do you want with a gun?"

  No answer.

  "We've got all night," I said. "We're not going to go to the police or even get to first base till you tell me the score."

  He glared at me for a moment, but then he began to realize he wasn't as tough as he thought he was; his lower lip began to tremble.

  "Because some men are going to kill my father. I heard them talking about it."

  "When and where?"

  "At home, this afternoon." He gathered momentum now that he'd started. "I had to take a nap—something I ate for lunch upset my stomach and I had to lie down. I heard them talking just outside my room."

  "Kid," I said, "you could have dreamed it. You were taking a nap."

  "I didn't mean really a nap. I didn't go to sleep, just lay down."

  "I gather you didn't tell your father about this?"

  "He wouldn't have believed me either. He'd've said I dreamed it, just like you say. I didn't, Mr. Hunter."

  "Slight slip, kid. Before, you didn't know my name. But that's not important—I suppose you had to case the job."

  "I'd heard it but I'd forgotten it, honest. I just happened to remember. Do you think I'm telling the truth, Mr. Hunter?"

  "Well, let's say I think you think you're telling the truth. But you sure got hold of the wrong end of the stick in the way you're handling it. Now here's how I'm going to handle it—whether you like it or not. No cops. Not yet anyway. Listen—you get along good with your father? You're not afraid of him, are you?"

  "I—I love him."

  "Good. Then I'll take you to him and you're going to tell him just what you've told me. Or if you won't open up, I'll tell him. What to do about it, or about you, is his decision to make."

  "No!" The defiance was back now. "And besides, you can't because I haven't told you who I am."

  I shook my head. "But you're forgetting something."

  "What?"

  "That I'm a detective. Want to hear me make a deduction?"

  "What?"

  "That your name and address are in that nice wallet in your left hip pocket." I stood up and held out my hand. "Let's see it."

  He hadn't thought of it. He slid off the arm of Uncle Am's chair and started to back around behind it. "No!"

  I said patiently, "Hand it over, kid. I'm bigger than you are and there's no place to run. I'll take it away from you if I have to, but don't make me."

  Especially, I thought, with this broken rib; a struggle, even with a kid, would hurt like hell.

  He handed it over reluctantly, but he handed it over. There was money in it, I couldn't help seeing, a few bills, but I didn't look to see whether they were singles or hundreds. I opened it only to read what was typed on the card under the glassine insert. Michael Dolan, his name was. And under the ready-printed line "In Case of Illness or Accident Notify:" was what I was looking for. The person to be notified was a Vincent Dolan, with a telephone number and an address only about one block from where we live.

  Then I did an almost double-take. A Vincent Dolan or the Vincent Dolan? I mean the Vincent Dolan who was a big wheel—not the big wheel but a big wheel—in Chicago sporting circles, if you consider horse racing a sport. Not a bookie himself, but a man behind bookies who kept them in line, let them lay off bets too big for them to handle, and arranged bail for them when they needed it.

  But the name didn't go with the address. A man like that made money. And Huron Street, Near North Side, isn't Lake Shore Drive.

  "What does your father do, Michael?" I asked the kid.

  "Mean you haven't heard of him? He's famous. He works for the syndicate."

  Well, that answered my question, and a kid should be proud of his father, as Mike Dolan obviously was. And, for all I knew, with full justification. I didn't know anything against Vincent Dolan except the fact that his business was technically outside the law. But then again I've laid a few bets with bookies in my life and that makes me as criminal as a bookie.

  I handed back the wallet. "Yes, I've heard of him," I said. "Wait till I put on shoes and a coat, and we'll be on our way."

  Going down the stairs and outside I didn't try to hold him by the arm. He could have broken and run, and likely got away from me, but I knew he wouldn't; now that I had his father's name and address, he was stuck. He'd have to face the music anyway, whenever he did ge
t home.

  The outside of the building didn't answer any questions for me. It was typical of the block and the neighborhood in general—a three-story stone front not quite flush with the sidewalk but almost. Three worn steps led up to the front door, and as we went up them the kid took a key from his pocket and aimed it at the lock, but I stopped him.

  "Better let me ring," I said. "I'll feel better doing it that way my first time here, even under such august auspices."

  I rang the bell.

  Chapter Two

  The man who opened the door didn't seem to fit my idea of what Vincent Dolan would look like. He was big, plenty big, but a little too young for the role, about my own age, give or take a year or two. Which didn't mean, of course, that he couldn't be the father of an eight-year-old, although he'd have had to get an awfully early start to do it. But he just didn't look like anybody's father. He looked like Hollywood, by way of Muscle Beach. Too good-looking, even though it was in a rugged way.

  He asked me, "Yes?" without either cordiality or animosity, but before I could even start to answer that all-embracing question his eyes happened to go down—a long way down from his height—and see the kid. "Mike!" he said. "What the h— You're supposed to be in bed. Aren't you?"

  I'd definitely decided by now that he wasn't Vincent Dolan, so I interrupted. "Is Mr. Dolan here?" And then, realizing that I didn't know how many Dolans there were, "Mr. Vincent Dolan?"

  He stepped back. Maybe he wouldn't have, at least as readily, if I hadn't had Mike as a ticket of admission.

  "Yeah," he said. "He's here."

  And Mr. Dolan proved it by stepping through a doorway into the hall. He was a wizened little Irishman of maybe fifty. And it was his turn to look startled at Mike. "Mike boy! What happened? Where were you?"

  And before anybody could answer anybody the situation got further complicated by the appearance of an angel at the head of a stairway to which the hallway led. A raven-haired Irish beauty of an angel, somewhere around twenty and not wizened at all.