DEATH ON PAGE THREE
  By Hugh Lessig

Published on the Web by Frisco Foil Inc. 
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Shadowlands/8002/


PROLOGUE

I saw her once when she was alive, strutting through the newsroom on the way to Photo. Someone muttered "Page Three Girl walking," so I knew who she was, or at least what she represented. Soon every reader of The Frisco Foil would know her name, her measurements, her hobbies and where she liked to "do it."

Women all over San Francisco applied to be Page Three girls. They wore bathing suits and they got fifty bucks. We picked one every Thursday, shot her on Friday and ran her on Saturday. Week in, week out, this glorious treadmill of sex helped our readers face the day.

Every Wednesday, the circulation manager pranced into the newsroom with a list of canceled subscriptions. He warned us that Page Three Girls "would ruin our figures one of these days." His name was Fudgeball Roberts, and he used to be an Anglican priest. God blessed him with the gift of humor, but Roberts had yet to realize it, so he was funny without meaning to be.

On this particular Wednesday, Roberts came in with both chins spilling over his bowtie. He looked like someone trying to hold his breath.

"You cover cops?" He asked me.

I gave him a look that said I might.

"I got a story for you," he said quietly. "But you need to move on it right away, before the cops get there."

I kept my smile while reaching for a notebook "You're not in the habit of giving us tips, preacher, so why should I trust you?"I asked. "In fact, this should be the time for your weekly lecture about how our Page Three Girls are corrupting everyone's morals and cooking the books."

Roberts cleared his throat.

"I am here about the Page Three Girl," he said. "The most recent one."

His watery eyes nearly rolled up white, and he looked past me at something else. I had seen the look a hundred times.

"Take it easy, preacher," I whispered. "Just tell me where."

"Hotel Gastone. Parking lot. Stuffed in the back of a Ford. One of my delivery guys saw it. She got cut real bad. "

My mind raced back to the girl who had strutted through the newsroom. I tried to put a face on her: Jet black hair that bounced when she walked, dark complexion, too much lipstick, silver jewelry, high-boned face with honest eyes. She knew she was pretty. She might have tried too hard.

I got my hat and my favorite pen. "Get photo!" I snapped to one of the copy boys. "There's a body at the Hotel Gastone. I'm on my way!"

The copy boy disappeared. Roberts put a hand on my shoulder. It was a freshly washed hand. I imagined him going to the toilet after hearing the news and splashing water in his face, maybe throwing up once or twice. That's why circulation managers should stay out of the newsroom.

"The thing is, them Page Three Girls never hurt our circulation," he said.

"They always did wonders for mine."

He couldn't smile. I lifted his hand off my shoulder. "Don't worry, padre," I said. "I'll sell you a few more papers."

***


CHAPTER 1

She was still in the car when I arrived. Her face registered with me right away, even considering what had been done to it.

The killer had carved her a smile, extending the edges of her mouth upward with a stiletto blade. I knew the type of blade because it was buried in her chest. For good measure, the killer had torn her Page Three picture from the newspaper and stuck it on the hilt.

A dark blue cocktail dress clung to her body. She had lost one black high-heeled shoe. The upholstery of the car was white, with splotches of pink from her blood. The mix of colors gave the whole thing a kind of Mexican look that I liked for no particular reason.

The hotel dick stood guard, and I flashed him my press pass. He grunted and said "Frisco Foil, eh? It figures. That's your Page Three stuck on the corpse. Did she used to be one of those?"

Hotel dicks have minds like steel traps. Nothing gets by them. I said. "How about giving me a look-see?"

He stepped aside. The killer had posed the body in the back seat the same way as our photo showed her. I looked at the copy beneath the photo. It listed the usual dope: her measurements, her hobbies and where she liked to "do it."

She listed her hobby as "building ships in a bottle." I made a note of it.

Under favorite place to do it, it said "the back of a new Ford roadster." I stepped out and checked the car. This being November, the new 1938s were just starting to come out. Sure enough, it was a 1938 Ford that, except for the blood and gore in the back seat, looked like it had just been driven off the lot.

"Well," I muttered to myself, "there's that."

A sultry voice popped up behind me. "My mother used to say that a guy who talks to himself must have a lot of money in the bank."

I turned around to see a woman in a black trench coat and heels only slightly lower than the corpse's, but still high enough. She walked up to me in a scented swish of Lucky Strikes and expensive perfume. She had two cigarettes in her mouth. She lit both and gave one to me.

"This has lipstick on it, Henrico," I said.

"So I won't charge you extra, Smith."

I took a long drag on the cigarette and locked gazes with Blanche Henrico. She wore her private investigator's license in her hat. Always on the up and up.

"How'd you get this case so fast?" I asked her.

She cracked a sideways smile. "I was hanging around the police station when the call came in. I remained hanging around while they notified the family. A nice Christian set of parents in Topeka, Kansas. I had a cup of coffee, counted to 100, called information for Topeka and got their number. When the mother answered, I asked if she wanted a private dick, because after all, the San Francisco police have a lot of cases, and they might not get around to solving the mystery of a Page Three girl. Then the mother asked me what a Page Three girl was. I told her. It didn't go over well."

"Did you sell her a subscription?"

"Please. The cops didn't tell her anything about her daughter's newspaper career. I said she could trust me to give her the straight dope, and for $20 a day plus expenses, she could trust me even more."

"The cops won't like you working their side of the street."

She rolled her doe brown eyes. "Think again, Foiler. This case has low priority. The corpse had no money and she wasn't important, and besides, the cops want to avoid these press cases. They hate getting their name in the headlines -- especially yours."

My hand went to my heart. "Why Henrico, I'm deeply hurt by that remark. It may take me all day to recover."

"Fine. In the meantime, you want to compare notes? There's a coffee shop in this hotel. They serve a pretty good crueller this time of morning."

I took out the cigarette and studied it for a moment. Henrico's lip prints made a fine, inlaid patter on the filter tip.

"Who's to say I want you working my side of the street?," I drawled. "You might get in my way."

She tossed back her head and laughed. The muscles in her throat moved back and forth. "Smith, you once put me on your top ten list of best tipsters. I still remember your toast at the The Chinaman's Tooth: 'To Blanche Henrico, the bestest private eye with the mostest."

"That was done in a weak moment, Henrico. I'm a lot stronger these days."

"Good. You can buy me a crueller." She walked off and let me look at her.

***


CHAPTER 2

Blanche and I sat in a corner booth and laid out everything. The corpse's name was Magda Maleva. She was 23. She had just moved to Frisco. She had graduated high school back in Kansas and done six months of secretarial school. She wanted to be a movie star, or failing that, a model. Or failing that, a non-Kansas resident. That bit came from the mother. The Maleva family moved to the States from the Ukraine after The Great War. Magda wanted to escape her gypsy roots and become an all-American girl. That also came from the mother.

"But why would a girl from Kansas like to build ships in a bottle?" I asked.

Blanche thumbed through her notebook, then stopped. "She always wanted to see the ocean, according to mother. I didn't think much of that comment at the time, but now that I've seen her 'hobby' in your Page Three spread, it makes sense."

"Why Henrico," I said. "I didn't realize you read our Page Three girls so religiously."

"Sometimes I do, Smith. You'd be surprised."

I let that one pass. "I happen to know the best place in Frisco where you can buy models of ships in a bottle," I said. "It's run by a man named Jebidiah Van Zandt. His shop is on the fringe of Chinatown. I go there sometimes."

"To buy models?"

"You know me, Henrico. I'm a stay-at-home-kind of guy. Growing tulips, darning socks, building models. That's me all over."

"Puh-leeze."

We got in my car and drove to Van Zandt's Modeling Emporium. The owner greeted us from behind the counter. He wore pincer glasses. A small mustache crawled across the top of his lip. He gave me a nervous smile, which was normal for him.

"Why, if it's not Picasso Smith!" He said. "It's so good to see you again. I'm sorry we have no Flash Gordon ships in stock. You bought the last one."

I flashed my notebook. "I'm here on official business, Doc. Writing a story about a murder that you might help with." Van Zandt's small, feminine hands stopped shuffling through papers and folded themselves on top of the counter. He assumed a formal pose. "Of course. Anything to help a good customer."

I introduced Henrico and explained our case. I showed him a clean picture of Magda Maleva.

"Oh certainly," he said. "I've seen her. She's bought several models from me. She favors clipper ships, if I recall. They're difficult models to build. Kansas girls must have a lot of time on their hands. I've always thought women were better model-builders than men. Smaller fingers, you know."

Van Zandt looked at Henrico. She burned him with a smile.

"Can you remember anything that might give us a lead on her killer?" I asked "Something she said, perhaps?"

"If you can help us," Henrico purred, "I might buy a few models myself"

Van Zandt squinted at a pile of customer orders on the counter. His hands began to peel through them one by one, those small fingers working expertly. Van Zandt was a retired doctor, or at least that's what he said. I could imagine him earning real money as a jeweler or a watchmaker, although maybe he had it pretty good just like this. Sometimes all I wanted out of life was to own a little model shop like his.

Suddenly he let out a triumphant little cry. "Here it is! I knew I had it somewhere!"

He handed me a piece of paper. It was an order form filled out by a customer named William Zigenfoos about three weeks ago.

"All right, Doc," I said. "Tell me why I'm looking at this."

"This man was in here three weeks ago at the same time as Magda," he said. "He noticed her. In fact, he tried to start up a conversation. She gave him the brush-off, but he persisted. Finally, she bought some glue and left. Mr. Zigenfoos stayed around to fill out his special order. When he handed it over, he started asking questions about Magda. It made me a bit uncomfortable, I must say."

"Did you tell him anything?"

Van Zandt puffed himself up. "Our customer information is confidential, Mr. Smith. Except where you're concerned, of course." He looked sideways at Henrico.

"OK. Thanks for this. It's a lead anyway."

"It may be more than that," Henrico said. "Look at what he ordered, Smith."

She was looking over my shoulder -- which I didn't exactly mind -- and I followed her finger to a spot on the page. Mr. William Zigenfoos had requested a model of a 1938 Ford Roadster.

"Let's go grill him," Henrico said. "Maybe he's hanging out with Ming the Merciless."

"Don't start with me, Henrico."

***


CHAPTER 3

I phoned my editor to tell him the plan. He needed something by 3 p.m. to fill a hole at the top of page one. But for now, he could live with the nuts and bolts of the case, which I could write in my head.

Page Three Girl Diced Up. Knife-whacko eludes cops. Whatever.

I dictated a few sentences and promised to call back.

William Zigenfoos lived at the wrong end of the docks. Henrico and I arrived there after lunch, an apartment just off an alley within smelling distance of the canneries. His front door was halfway down the alley -- far enough off the main drag to be secluded. The alley ended in darkness some distance away.

"I'm glad you're along for the ride," I said. "Frisco Foil reporters don't carry guns. I suspect you do."

Henrico patted a small bulge at her hip.

The door was made from corrugated metal, and it clapped like thunder when I pounded on it. Heavy footsteps sounded from inside. Several locks ratcheted open and the door opened a few inches. The twin barrels of a sawed-off shotgun greeted us.

I pasted a goofy smile on my face. "Good morning," I said. "Mr. and Mrs. Twelve Gauge, I presume."

A man's voice came from inside: "I got one barrel for each of you. I won't think twice about blowing holes clean through to your backbone. That's just a fact, and we don't need to talk about it." The voice was wound tight.

Henrico pushed ahead of me. "We're investigating a murder."

"You cops?"

"He's a reporter and I'm a private investigator. Did you know a Magda Maleva?"

"No. Get gone."

"If you didn't know her," I put in, "why the act with the gun?"

"You see this area of town, newspaperman? This is where I live. This is also where you might die. I have nothing to say to you. Where did you get my name?"

Henrico and I looked at each other. "That's confidential," I said.

The voice laughed just a little. "Right. Like I'll never know. What paper you work for, mister?"

"Frisco Foil. The name is Picasso Smith."

"Hmph. You got good crossword puzzles."

"Yeah, I make them up myself," I said. "Now come on, Mr. Zigenfoos. Why not have a chat? Just you and me and your pet shotgun."

The door slammed shut. The locks clicked back into place. We were left standing in the middle of an empty alley with the smell of dead fish blowing through our hair. Henrico gave me a look, and I nodded back.

"Of course we're following him," I said.

We found a pool hall across the street where we could shoot eight-ball and watch the alley. Halfway through our first game, Zigenfoos came walking out of the alley. He stood on the corner and tried to hail a cab. We spilled out the back door so he wouldn't see us. By the time we came around to the front and tumbled into my chariot, his cab was pulling away. We followed it through the city for the better part of 45 minutes until it stopped in the Warehouse District. Zigenfoos got off in the middle of a block that was all empty factories and busted-out windows. He walked up to a graystone building, knocked once, looked both ways and walked inside.

I parked two blocks away and got out my notebook. Henrico pulled out her .38 snubnose and put it in her pocket.

"You think you'll need that?"

Henrico shrugged. "It makes my feel better when I hold onto something."

We approached the door. I opened it a crack and heard the voices of two men speaking in a foreign language. I listened closer.

It was German.

"Hey," Henrico whispered. "Come look here."

She had taken off her fedora and crouched under a broken window. I followed her example and rose just high enough so I could see inside the room. Two men yammered excitedly. They were smiling like old friends. They passed leaflets back and forth across a small table.

One was William Zigenfoos.

The other was Jebidiah Van Zandt, model builder.

They talked for about 15 minutes, during which time Blanche and I stayed next to the window and said nothing. When they made for the front door, we hightailed it across the street and hid behind a Packard sedan. Zigenfoos and Van Zandt exited the abandoned factory and parted ways. Zigenfoos walked down the street, presumably to find another cab.

Van Zandt headed directly for the Packard.

"I hate it when we hide behind the wrong car," Henrico whispered.

We crouched at the driver's side door. As Van Zandt came around to the front of the car, we edged toward the back. By the time he opened his door, we were kneeling next to the trunk.

"I don't think he saw us," I said.

Henrico pulled a hairpin from under her hat and began to jimmy the trunk lock. It opened with a soft click. She lifted the door a few inches.

"What do you expect to find in the trunk?" I asked.

"I expected to find me. Help me crawl in."

"Henrico, are you crazy?"

"We've got to split up and see what this is about," she said. "You go follow Zigenfoos. He likes your crossword puzzles anyway. I'll ride along with Mr. Van Zandt here and see where he goes. I should be able to charm a story out of him."

"Be careful, Henrico."

"Hey, it's me."

She tumbled into the trunk without creaking the springs. I lowered the lid without closing it and backed away on my knees, careful to stay out of Van Zandt's rearview mirror. The Packard pulled away in a cloud of blue smoke. I walked across the street to the abandoned factory and went inside. I found the table where Van Zandt and Zigenfoos had been talking. A few papers remained here.

I picked up a leaflet. It said "Arbeit macht frei" in big, bold letters. Something like "Work will make you free," I would guess.

Beneath that was a Swastika.

"Great," I muttered. "Just great."

***


CHAPTER 4

I drove back to Zigenfoos' apartment while trying to keep a lid on my imagination. I tried to tell myself that the stories about the Nazis weren't true, that they didn't crave world domination, that Hitler was satisfied with annexing Austria and he wouldn't go making war on Poland or Belgium, and he didn't have a serious hard-on for every non-Aryan human being.

But by the time I knocked on Zigenfoos' front door, I was in no mood to argue.

"Just shut up and let me in," I barked. "I'm on business." Zigenfoos rubbed his eyes and stepped aside without a word. I stepped into a front room that held an overstuffed couch and a radio as big as a V-8. A cup of coffee and an ashtray sat on the floor near the couch. Zigenfoos motioned me towards a chair. He looked a little shagged out. A sweet smoke hung in the room.

"Are you smoking dope in here?"

He smiled dreamily. "So? Arrest me."

"I don't arrest people. I quote them. Let's start with your fascination about 1938 Ford Roadsters in general and a Miss Magda Maleva in particular. I know you had a run-in with her in Van Zandt's hobby shop. So what gives?"

"Did Dr.Van Zandt tell you about the run-in?" He asked.

"Yes he did," I answered. "By the way, what kind of doctor is Van Zandt?"

"He's a plastic surgeon," Zigenfoos said. "I thought you knew that."

"I did. I was just testing you." Questioning slow-witted hopheads was one of my favorite things to do. "Anyway, about this run-in. Van Zandt said you were bothering Maleva at the hobby shop. And then she shows up dead in a 1938 Ford Roadster. You bought a model of said roadster. It's safe to say you were unduly fascinated with her, then bumped her off when she wouldn't produce. Correct?"

"That's funny," Zigenfoos muttered.

"I don't get the joke."

The sawed-off shotgun appeared from underneath the couch. Zigenfoos held it loosely, dangerously. "Let's quit the by-play, Foiler. We saw you and the dame at the factory a few minutes ago. We know you overheard our conversation, and even if you don't know German we know you're not a stoop. We saw you hide behind the doctor's Packard. I suspect the doctor even saw the dame climb into the trunk. Your cover's blown. You got no cards left."

A tight smile remained frozen on my face. I worked hard to keep my breath on an even keel. "If that's true, Zigenfoos, you might as well give me the satisfaction of knowing what this is all about. Because I suspect you're going to kill me with that cannon."

"You news hawks are so perceptive." Zigenfood flashed a yellow-toothed smile. "This is how it goes, then. The doctor is in big with Der Vaterland. He does experiments, because keeping ahead of science is what will allow us to dominate in the end. But he needs subjects."

"Guinea pigs."

"Call them what you will," Zigenfoos said.

"Why Magda Maleva?"

The Nazi shrugged. "Why not? She's gypsy trash. If he makes a mistake, it's no loss."

Goose-stepping, book-burning, gray-uniformed morons. I grabbed the edges of my chair to keep from hitting him, shotgun or no.

"How did Van Zandt come to know her?" I asked pleasantly.

"That's the beautiful part. Magda Maleva really did enjoy building ships in a bottle. She literally walked in off the street, a ready-made patient. The doctor got to talking with her, and convinced her that a face-lift would help her make it big in pictures."

"But it didn't work, did it?"

Zigenfoos smiled around glassy eyes. "She didn't trust him. We staged a confrontation at the store between me and her -- the one he told you about -- so the Doctor could step in like a knight in shining armor to defend her. But by then, she was too suspicious. She considered herself an 'All American girl,' and she stumbled across some of our literature. She had to disappear."

"Which one of you killed her?" I asked.

Zigenfoos smiled through dope smoke. "It was a team effort."

"You like doing that stuff, don't you?" I was getting hot.

"I won't debate you, Foiler. Van Zandt wanted to lead you and the dame to me. So he told you about the run-in at the model shop, figuring you'd seek me out. The problem was, he didn't tell me. That's why I was a little surprised when you two showed up at my door."

"So you had to have a little conference with the good doctor to get your stories straight."

"Something like that." Zigenfoos took a deep breath and let it out. The shotgun dropped just a little. "Now he has another woman to practice on. What's her name? Henrico, right? That must be Greek or Eye-talian. Obviously non-Aryan. She'll do nicely."

Sometimes I shoot off without loading my brain, and that usually gets me into trouble. But when I launched myself from my chair straight at Zigenfoos, it caught him off guard. Maybe the dope slowed his reflexes. Maybe the newspaper gods were watching out for me. Or maybe I was just lucky that his shotgun had dropped by a couple of inches.

The top of my head hit his chin. I heard the sickening snap of a bone, and Zigenfoos screamed in pain. The shotgun fell to the floor, touching off both barrels. The blast knocked a giant hole in his radio and sent wood splinters flying everywhere. When the dust cleared, Zigenfoos was curled up on the couch, holding his face.

"You broke my jaw," he said through clenched teeth. "You broke my damn jaw."

I reached out and grabbed his chin. It felt all loose and gangly, like a bag of marbles. I squeezed as hard as I could. The scream that came from the Nazi's mouth sounded like something other than human.

"Oh I'm sorry," I said in my best altar boy voice. "Did that hurt? How about this?"

I squeezed again, and this time a gout of blood spilled from the man's mouth, choking off his scream.

"Where would Van Zandt take Henrico?"

"His . . . shop."

"Where in his shop?"

"A back room. Behind the office. He's got equipment set up there . . . .. . help me. Jesus."

I stood up and kicked him in the ribs. "You're the master race, Jack. Heal yourself."

***


CHAPTER 5

I took a chance that Zigenfoos wouldn't bleed to death and tied him to the couch. Let him sit with his pain for a while. I locked the door behind him and stepped into the alley. Darkness had started to settle on San Francisco. Somewhere, the gongs of a grandfather clock filtered through an open window.

Six o'clock.

My editor needed another call, but Henrico needed more than a good lead paragraph. I jumped in my car and headed toward Van Zandt's Modeling Emporium. It took me 15 minutes. I found a parking space out front. The shop was closed and locked. I took a tire iron from the trunk and ran around to the back. The shop had a single back door with a padlock. I broke the padlock with my tire iron.

I barged in like I owned the place.

The sound of a Wagner opera boomed through the room. The smell of formaldehyde hung heavy.

Henrico was tied to a table, minus half her clothes, her face still clean. A splotch of blood showed on her arm. Van Zandt bent over a tray of surgical tools. He wore a white smock and his back was to the door. He was into the Wagner and he hadn't heard me.

I pulled out my notebook and held it in my left hand. I held the tire iron in my right hand. When you're advancing on a source with a tire iron and a notebook, you have to figure this is a pretty damn good story.

Van Zandt turned around at the last minute. He held a bloodied scalpel and looked at me with wide eyes. I brained him with the tire iron and pushed him to his knees.

"Care to comment, doc?"

He made a sound like a rabid badger and lunged from his knees. I brained him again. A small trickle of blood snaked down his forehead Normally when I use a tire iron in the course of an interview, the subject begins to talk. But Van Zandt was a particularly tough nut to crack.

"Smith!" Henrico yelled. "Quit bashing the Nazi and get me off this table!"

I turned to Henrico, who was struggling with her bonds. I picked a clean scalpel off the surgical tray and cut her loose.

"Over there! On the chair! The purse!"

"Henrico," I drawled. "Why would you want your purse at a time like this?"

"Just get it!"

I shrugged and went to the chair. Van Zandt got up and stumbled toward me. I tossed him aside. He crawled back and bit me on the ankle. I kicked him off like I would a chihuahua. What was the big deal with Henrico's purse? I grabbed the purse and looked inside. It was spattered with blood and brains and gore. I saw a driver's license with a name.

The purse was Magda Maleva's.

"His prints have to be on it," Henrico gasped. "That's got to be her blood."

"Good work Henrico," I said. "Now, doc. About that comment."

Van Zandt had retreated to a corner. He still held the scapel. He still knew how to use it.

Blood poured from fresh slits in both wrists. A red pool slowly expanded in front of him. He stared with glassy eyes at something beyond both of us. I walked up to the dying man and stopped just before his blood touched my shoes.

"Just one question, then doc. Why?"

Van Zandt's right hand slowly rose. His fingers pointed together in a straight line.

"Sieg . . . . heil," he whispered.

***


EPILOG

Magda Maleva became a one-day story. That's what I got for wrapping it up so quickly. In a history-making move, The Foil re-ran her photo on Page Three for two straight Saturdays with a heavy black border.

The headline said: "In Memoriam: She Made Good Copy."

Henrico recovered from her flesh wound. She never figured out what Van Zandt was trying to do to her. Maybe he didn't know, either.

A couple of days after the story broke, Fudgeball Roberts looked me up in the newsroom. He had dark circles under his eyes, and I thought his shoulders stooped just a little. He walked up to my desk and sat in a chair.

"How goes it, padre?" I asked.

Roberts smiled painfully and nodded his head. "I just wanted to tell you I was leaving," he said. "I just handed in my resignation."

"Sorry to hear that," I said truthfully. "But maybe it's for the best. The newspaper business isn't for everyone, and The Foil isn't for everyone in the newspaper business. You got any plans?"

"I'm going back to the clergy," he said. "I still have my degree, and I think I can find my collar somewhere."

"You'll have your own church?"

"Nope. I plan to open up a mission in the middle of the city. I figure there's a few Magda Maleva's out there who come to this town and need a place to stay, maybe a word or two of advice. I can do that for them."

"That sounds like a good deal, padre." We shook hands, and he got up to leave. "One more thing," I said. "If you ever find a girl who needs a quick fifty bucks, we always need more Page Three girl candidates."

Roberts smiled. "Bless you, Foiler," he said.

"Yeah," I answered. "Someone's gotta."


Hugh Lessig, 41, is a newspaper reporter for the Daily Press in Newport News, Va. He lives in the state capital of Richmond, with his wife, Ann Marie. He writes about state government, politics and whichever elected official happens to commit news on a given day. Given his life's calling, he is a particular fan of reporter-detectives such as Frederick Nebel's "Kennedy of the Free Press."

Copyrights (c) 2000 Hugh Lessig