No requiem for the tin m.., p.1
No Requiem for the Tin Man, page 1
No Requiem
For the
Tin Man
A
LOU
TANNER
P.I.
Mystery
T.E. MacArthur
Table of Contents
Title Page
LOU | TANNER | P.I. | Mystery | Number Two
Lady Shamus, | Damn right that’s me. Gumshoe in high heels.
The Setup
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
About the Author
About the Publisher
LOU
TANNER
P.I.
Mystery
Number Two
Also by T.E. MacArthur
The Praetorious Agency Files
(A Paranormal Romantic Thriller Series)
The Skin Thief
The Pillar (October 2024)
Lou Tanner, P.I. Mysteries
(A Dieselpunk San Francisco Detective Series)
A Place of Fog & Murder
No Requiem for the Tin Man
The Volcano Lady
(A Steampunk Lady Geologist Adventure Series)
Volumes 1 - 4
Volumes 5 - 8
The Doomsday Relic
The Gaslight Adventures of Tom Turner
The Yankee Must Die: Huaka’I Po
Death and the Barbary Coast
Terror in a Wild Weird West
The Omnibus Collection of Tom Turner
Anthologies
Second Star to the Right (IUPH anthology)
Twelve Hours Later: 24 Tales of Myth
& Mystery
Thirty Days Later: Steaming Forward
Some Time Later
Next Stop on the #13
No Requiem for the Tin Man by ©T.E. MacArthur.
Published by Indies United Publishing House, LLC
First Edition — First Printing, 2024
Book format by T.E. MacArthur
Cover design by Thena MacArthur
All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this publication may be replicated, redistributed, or given away in any form without the prior written consent of the author/publisher or the terms relayed to you herein. This includes no replication by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author / publisher. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts as part of a review.
The character of Philip Marlowe was created by Raymond Chandler.
The characters of Nick and Nora Charles, and Sam Spade are the creation of Dashiell Hammett.
ISBN: 978-1-64456-744-9 [Paperback]
ISBN: 978-1-64456-745-6 [Mobi]
ISBN: 978-1-64456-746-3 [ePub]
Library of Congress Control Number: 2024913948
Attributions:
Veteran Typewriter font by Koczman Balint.
Bridge photo used for cover: Eric Fischer/Flickr
Robot background image created on Perchance.com
Zeppelin image designed by S.N. Jacobson
www.indiesunited.net
Acknowledgements
To Indies United Publish House – Publishers and bastion of patient knowledge. Thank you.
To the usual suspects for all their support and love: Ana Manwaring (author and editor,) Lisa Towles (author,) Dover Whitecliff (author and artist,) Chuck Johnston (Beta Reader,) Stephen Jacobson (artist and photographer,) Jeff Cathcart (cabana man,) and Sharon E. Cathcart (author).
To Sisters in Crime (Coastal Cruisers Chapter & the Northern California Chapter,) the Horror Writers Association (San Francisco Bay Area Chapter,) The Authors of Clockwork Alchemy, and the Southwest Writer’s Group.
In loving memory of Bill Christianson.
Author’s Note and warning
This is a fair warning to all my readers: I use language and descriptions here that were grotesquely but commonly in use during the 1930s in America yet are considered (thankfully) inaccurate, distasteful, and just plain wrong today. Sadly, there are people today who would gladly use this language towards people who don’t look or think like them. And even worse, many of the circumstances described historically from the 1930s are happening again.
Oh, and yes, I changed Howie (Howard) Johnson’s last name. That’s because I’m terrible with names and the fact that I named a character Howard Johnson. Apologies to the restaurant chain.
Lady Shamus,
Damn right that’s me. Gumshoe in high heels.
The Setup
Don’t ever count on a client falling into your lap. Getting business takes a lot of time, a lot of advertising know-how, and a hell of a lot of glad-handing. You will be kissing babies, accept that fact. Clients simply don’t bust into your office begging for help.
~Lou Tanner, P.I., 1935.
I should never listen to my own advice.
Crazy Guy busted in my door, clutching a ripped-up bundle in his arms, and bled all over my floor.
I yelled.
Marley screamed.
Not My Cat, resident feline squatter, puffed up his black tail and hissed like a Halloween demon while knocking over a vase of flowers as he sprinted for safety.
One smart cat.
Two shocked dames.
Crazy Guy shrieked at us, “They’re coming! Sweet Jesus, you gotta’ hide ... hide before they get ya’! They’re coming an’ no one can stop them!”
Them? “Who is coming?”
My first thoughts went immediately to the offensive parade goose-stepping its way down Market Street outside. American Nazis? There’s an oxymoron full of oxy-Morons.
Normally, I love a parade. Not this parade.
Seconds before Crazy Guy started decorating my office in red, Marley and I were watching the spectacle below from the window of the empty office across the hall from my own. Drums, horns, slogans, all shaking the window glass in their frames. Every hooligan or ne'er-do-well with a gripe and a home-made uniform had shown up for this one.
Disgusted, we sauntered back to our own sanctuary to twist the cap off a bottle and send off the workweek with a two-finger salute.
Crazy Guy rudely interrupted our early evening reveling. He looked like hell. Not too tall but boney. Rail-thin arms clinging to a pile of newspapers. No hat but plenty of ripening blue bruises on his face. He’d taken a beating and his red-rimmed, wide eyes told me how terrified he was that more was coming.
Had one of those jack-booted goons chased this poor guy up to my office and would come bashing in after him? What had this wretched man done to warrant being busted up like he was?
I’ve got a loaded gun for such emergencies and I’m only happy to use it. This poor mook needed all the help he could get.
Have I ever mentioned I’m a sap?
A real, honest-to-God push-over.
Yeah, me, Lou Tanner, lady P.I. and occasional volunteer rube.
Thankfully, after two minutes, no one followed after Crazy Guy.
The obnoxious parade stayed down on the main thoroughfare, focusing its ire on the various immigrants and “new arrivals,” and other so-called “subhumans” they love to hate, waving their flags and handing out fliers to the confused or intrigued people lining the sidewalks. Mostly lists of who or who not to vote for.
Ah, election season in San Francisco. Nothing brings out violent opinions quite the same way at any other time. For all their issues and candidate promoting, the only thing I figured the marchers managed to do was hold up traffic.
As long as they kept their flapdoodle-con game down there, it wasn’t my problem. My problem was currently staining my landlord’s hardwood floors. My problem was not getting kicked out of this office.
I opened my trap to question Crazy Guy when he grabbed me by the lapels and yanked me off my heeled oxfords. In seconds we were flailing around like turtles on our shellbacks, sprawled out on the reception room floor. His bundle, looking more ragged than his shirt hem, clunked on the floor and skidded away.
He reeked to high heaven — I smelled like Outers Gun Oil.
He wore rags — I wore my best togs.
Had he waited two more minutes, I would have been wearing Eau d’Old Forester Brand Bourbon, a favorite, and the epicurical aromatics of leftover sweet and sour Sam Wo noodles.
Just my luck: the guy has crappy timing.
He clutched me by the shoulde rs as I sat up. Spittle landed on my blouse while he shrieked on and on, never once blinking during his tirade. That is never a good sign. I generally don’t work with crazy. Crazy has a reputation for being untrustworthy or unreliable. Both, usually. Crazy is also renowned for not paying its bills. I need my bills paid in full. Right now, that last part about paying was too urgent for me to ignore.
“You ... have to hide! They’re coming!”
“Who? Mister, who’s coming? People from that parade down there? Did they do this to —”
“I can’t tell you. I shouldn’t tell you. Maybe I’m supposed to tell you. I can’t remember. Please ... get out of this city. Now while you still can!”
I eyed the front door and knew I could oust him with a bit of effort ... except ...
I couldn’t do it.
Something in his voice told me not to write him off so easy. Something in the terror forcing his bug-wide peepers to stare straight into my soul, appealing if not begging for relief I couldn’t deny him. Something about the blood seeping from a nasty cut at his hairline, dripping down his battered doughboy cheeks, that only plucked at my heartstrings.
I’m a real sap alright.
He shrank into a tight human ball, trembling, fighting off some demon in his brain, while only one phrase came out of him.
“Tin Man.”
Chapter One
My rules are generally simple:
Don’t fall in love, especially with a client,
Don’t trust the cops – they don’t trust you.
And the end will always justify the means.
~Lou Tanner, P.I., 1935, Letter to Female Pemberton Graduates
If only I followed my own rules and advice with any sense of commitment. Translation? First class sap.
Protégée and all-around amazing Girl Friday, “Irish” Marley O’Brien, who has a hell of a lot more going on under those bouncing blond curls than most mooks assume, returned a second later with water, soap, and tissues. We couldn’t let him bleed out for a bunch of reasons, not the least of which was that my landlady only needed one more excuse, like stained carpets, to boot me out and replace me with a higher paying, tidier renter. One who can pay the full bill next month, which I could not.
As we eased Crazy Guy up and over towards the couch, the shamus in me couldn’t help herself and I launched right in, interrogating the man while he was still conscious. “Who should we hide from?”
I thoroughly expected him to talk about the uniformed men in the parade, stomping away down Market Street. A couple of baseless ideas were flopping around between my brain cells, like maybe he cheesed off someone marching by and they bashed him on the noggin for the grins. But maybe not. If anyone from the parade had thrashed Crazy Guy, they hadn’t followed him up to the third floor.
Since he was heavier than expected, we accidentally dropped him on the couch. As his coconut thumped against the wall, Marley and I both cringed in sympathetic apology. Closing his eyes at last, though his lips kept moving in a conversation with parties unknown, Crazy Guy rocked his head back and forth, and he clutched desperately to remnants torn from that tattered package. Where the hell had that thing gone to?
I looked around. The package wasn’t where I thought it would be. I thought about looking for it but Crazy Guy needed all the urgent attention we could give him.
Over and over, he repeated his warning.
“’Tin Man?’” Marley asked, doing her best to pluck the remaining shredded newspaper out of his locked fingers. To me, she asked, “Slim? What’s he talking about?”
“No idea. The only ‘Tin Man’ I know of was in that kid’s book I read a while back.”
She managed to get some of the clump from his right hand. “Aren’t they gonna’ make a motion picture of it?”
“Bet they make it a musical,” I grumbled, thinking about having to crawl around under the furniture looking for his package and ruining my last pair of stockings.
The phone rang, causing us both to jump. Crazy Guy didn’t notice. Marley grabbed up the receiver and tucked it between her ear and shoulder, signaling to me to keep quiet. Both hands snagged the notebook and pencil she kept handy out of habit. “Tanner Private Investigations.”
I recognized the man speaking so loud on the other end he made Marley squint.
“Oh! Hello Agent Hayes,” she cooed professionally. “Let me see if she’s in.” She looked to me for the answer to her question.
Timing. Yeah, it really is everything.
Only my new chum, Agent Christopher Hayes of the War Department, would call at a time like this.
Today was all sorts of crappy and would be a terrible day to play the ponies or the lottery.
Politics. Parades. Crazy Guy. Now the War Department’s calling? All while waiting for the first paying client in over three months? Yeah, that kinda’ luck is the sort of luck you take down to one of those Nevada casino cities if you want to die in debt.
I started to shake my head no — tell him I’m not here.
As if he could see us, Hayes responded. “Put her on the phone, O’Brien. She’s there. I know she’s there. She can hear me too!”
“The folks in Poughkeepsie can hear you,” Marley grimaced while I held back a giggle.
I waved for Marley to give me the phone.
“You sure, Slim,” she whispered. “With all this?” her head cocked towards Crazy Guy.
I didn’t care who was listening. “Darling, quick, hand it over before a vein bursts in the G-man’s forehead and we're accused of killing a Federal employee. You remember what sensitive, namby-pambies they are.”
“I heard that,” the voice in the phone shouted.
Holding the receiver almost to my ear, I put on my sweetest voice. “Good afternoon Agent Hayes. What can I not do for you?”
“Hilarious Tanner. You’ve gotten less cordial by the week. So, don't talk, just answer my questions.”
“You haven’t asked any. And I can’t answer without talk —”
“You gonna’ shut up long enough for me to ask?”
What a schmuck. “Why that would be too easy Agent Hayes.”
For a moment, silence.
I sighed loudly into the receiver. I suppose it was better than laughing at him. “Look, it’s been a hell of a day and if I’m coming off as sarcastic it’s because —”
“You ever meet a Joe named Augustin Gruber?”
This time I gave him a long pause to ponder all while signaling to Marley to eavesdrop on the line. To cover the sharp click on the line when she picked up, I sneezed and apologized. “Sorry about that. A case of the snuffles. What was your question again? I truly want to be cooperative.”
“Sometimes you make me crazy, Tanner.”
“Only sometimes?”
“Is Marley on the line now?”
Marley shrugged. The ploy hadn’t worked. I shouldn’t expect every trick to work on Hayes.
“Of course . What are phone extensions for?”
“Fine. Both of you listen up! If someone asks you if you’ve ever met or even overheard the name of Augustin Gruber, the answer is ‘no.’ Com-pre-hen-dee?”
Was that his idea of Spanish or Italian? “Who?”
“Perfect answer. You don’t know him, you don’t know his family, and —”
Crazy Guy groaned, shouted about us being in danger, then fell silent again.
“Tanner, what the hell was that?”
Damn it. With both our phone receivers picking up noise from the same room, of course Hayes heard Crazy Guy. Oh well, with G-man Hayes, it was safer to use the truth. Or at least some version of it. I didn’t trust him with everything.
“A client. A potential client ... I think ... if he ever sobers up.”
Marley glanced my way and mouthed the words, “Nice cover.”
“You lying to me, Tanner?”
“Agent Hayes, I’m affronted —”
“What’s your client’s name?”
“He hasn’t told us.” Again, the truth. Mostly. Although at the moment, I was certain Crazy Guy’s real name started with a “A.”
“What does he want?”
“He hasn’t given us that yet either. In and out of conversational condition at the moment. But ... should you like, I can always provide you full details, in a report I will submit, in three copies, initialed and signed ...” Then I went for the gut punch, “Of course that’s after you supply a copy of the warrant. I hope getting a warrant won’t put you into too much hot water with a judge, since it is Friday afternoon, and, well you recall how much judges love to be pestered at the start of the weekends ...”
