Mum’s the Word

THWAP! Edwin plucked at the drunk’s sleeve and let his arm fall on the bar.

Nothing happened.

“You know, Cliff… I think he might be dead.”

“Of course he’s dead, numbskull!” Clifford fished the flask out of the man’s overcoat and gave it a whiff. “He’s gone and spiked his drink with turpentine.”

“Well, he did say it needed a bit more kick.”

Cliff’s Joint wasn’t what you’d call a high-class establishment. It was no secret that his bathtub gin was more bathwater than alcohol. But even if the boozehounds crowding into his back-alley speakeasy were willing to overlook the weakness of the sauce, they’d surely notice Old Man Willard had finally checked out. Everyone had already cleared off — last call was nearly an hour ago, and even flappers have to sleep sometime. But they’d be back tonight, swarming like moths to an intoxicating flame, and he didn’t need his customers giving too much thought to when the last call might really be their last.

“Well, what are we going to do with him, then?” Cliff asked. Thinking wasn’t exactly Ed’s strong point, so Cliff wasn’t expecting anything spectacular, but he’d give the old boy a shot. Besides, he needed more time to think, himself.

“When my gramp’s hunting dog kicked the bucket, we buried him behind the outhouse,” said Ed.

Cliff rolled his eyes. “There’s no outhouses in the middle of Chicago, genius. And even if we had someplace to bury him, the milkman’s already making his rounds, not to mention Officer Sullivan’s beat. There’s not enough whiskey in the world to make a cop look the other way while we carry a body down the street.”

“We could just tell Sullivan what happened. Weren’t our fault he doctored up his own drink.”

Cliff’s eyeballs were in serious danger of lodging in the back of his skull.
No — it was no use looking to Ed for ideas. This called for some real brain work.

He decided to skip over the matter of transportation, for the moment, and focus on the destination. Once they got him out of the bar, they’d need a plan.

Cliff had read a dime novel once about a mobster who disposed of a body by dumping it in an open grave. But even if they hauled the guy all the way to Saint Mary’s, what were the chances they’d find a grave all dug and ready for them? And besides, if the grave was already opened, that meant someone else was expecting to fill it. City real estate was expensive — even a crowded tenement in Little Sicily cost a bundle — and though three feet by eight was a tad smaller footprint than an uptown apartment, if you needed a place to lay your head, you had to pay. No one was going to tolerate a squatter in their final estate.

A rogues’ gallery of bad ideas paraded through his imagination, each more improbable than the last. The medical college always needed more specimens to practice on…they might ask too many questions, though. Piranhas? No, that was dumb. Where were they going to get piranhas? But there was a circus camped out by the railroad tracks…maybe they had a hungry lion or dancing bear or something that wasn’t too picky. And speaking of traveling shows, ever since Houdini died, there had been a flood of imitators trying their hand at disappearing acts — maybe he could convince one of them to vanish the body?

The alley door swung open, sending Cliff’s thoughts scattering like roaches. He grabbed a dishrag and pretended to polish the bar. Ed tilted Willard’s hat to cover the man’s face and leaned casually on the next stool over.

“What’s the word, fellas?”

Cliff let out an anxious breath. It was only Jukes, one of the trumpet players from that night’s gig. “Just clearing up for the night,” he answered. “Gotta sober this one up first.”

Jukes laughed. “He sure looks zozzled, all right.” He retrieved his forgotten mute from the stage and returned to the bar, plopping down on the stool next to Ed and waving a flyer at Cliff. “Mind if I tack a few of these up? My girl’s cousin works for a traveling museum that’s coming to town in a couple weeks — they’re trying to get the word out.”

“Knock yourself out,” said Cliff. He’d agree to anything to get Jukes back out the door before he got too observant.

Jukes thunked his trumpet case down on the bar and pulled out a stack of papers. He pinned a couple from the rafters, saved a few to paste on the alley wall later, and left the rest on the bar. PROFESSOR PHILANEUM’S COLLECTION OF CURIOSITIES, the headline proclaimed. EXOTIC ARTIFACTS TO DELIGHT AND AMAZE.

“Well, see you in the funny papers,” said Jukes, waving as he wandered back out the door. And then at last, to the bartender’s relief, they were alone again.

Ed stared at the papers for a minute before he spoke. “Say Cliff — how’d you suppose they fixed up those mummies, anyhow?”

“Who?”

“The Egyptians.” He shoved a flyer under Cliff’s nose and pointed at the picture. “Says here they’ve got a mummified cat in the curiosity show. I bet they’d pay a few bucks for a human mummy to go with it.”

Cliff scratched his chin. “You mean Willard?”

“Sure. We got all kinds of ingredients in the back room for mixing the hooch. And he’s so full of rotgut and turpentine, he’s practically pickled already. Couldn’t be that hard to dry him out a bit and wrap him in bandages.”

Cliff’s roachly ideas crept out of the shadows. They could not only be rid of the body, but turn a profit in the bargain! Ever since those explorers opened King Tut’s tomb, Egyptian artifacts were all the rage; this museum wouldn’t be able to turn down an actual mummy. A week in an alcohol bath, another week packed in rock salt, a few bandages dipped in linseed oil, and the old man would fool Queen Cleopatra herself.

“Well, Willard,” he said, addressing the final patron of the evening, “I always said you got the royal treatment at Cliff’s Joint.”

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Professor Philaneum peered into the wooden crate. “You certain this is a real mummy?” he asked. “It’s not just a bunch of bandages stuffed with pillows, is it?”

“What kind of cheat do you take me for?” Cliff protested. “Of course it’s real.”

“All the way from Cairo,” Ed added. Willard always said he was from somewhere on the south end of the state; who’s to say it wasn’t Cairo, Illinois?

The showman still looked dubious. “How did you come to have it, then?”

“That depends,” Cliff argued, holding his customer’s gaze. “Where did you go to college, Professor?”

Professor Philaneum regarded the men in shrewd silence. He knew a con when he saw one, but whoever was in those bandages, he looked convincing. Convincing enough for the suckers that came through his tent, anyway.

“Tell people the mummy’s cursed, if you like,” said Cliff. “Tell them vengeful spirits will torment them if they don’t fill the tip jar.”

“This one’s chock full of spirits,” Ed mumbled.

“I’ll give you twenty dollars for it,” the professor decided. “Or for him, rather. I don’t know who you’ve got wrapped up in there — I don’t want to know — but that’s all I’m paying. I have to admit though, you’ve done nice work. You’d have nearly anyone else fooled.”

“Pleasure doing business with you, Professor,” Cliff said, holding out his hand.

They shook on the deal, and the showman handed over their money. But as Cliff and Ed were lifting the tent flap for their victorious exit, he called them back.

“I have a few… contacts, you might say, who would be willing to pay even better money for your skills. People who need help mopping up loose ends now and then. They would have to insist on your discretion as businessmen, however — complete confidentiality.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, because we’re not having this conversation now,” Cliff said with a wink.

The professor tipped his hat to them. “I’ll be in touch, then. Enjoy your earnings, gentlemen.”

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When they got back to the bar, they found the door in the alley hanging from its hinges, splintering like it had been chopped up with a hatchet. The scene inside wasn’t much better: shattered bottles, overturned tables, and puddles of spilled alcohol coated the floor.

“Looks like we got raided,” Ed observed, unnecessarily. “Good thing we were at the museum, I guess.”

“Sullivan must have rolled over on us,” Cliff grumbled.

“What’ll we do now?” Ed wanted to know. “They smashed all our stock — even if we find another place to set up shop, we don’t have any juice left to serve.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Cliff. “I think we just landed ourselves an even more lucrative set of customers. And my brain’s brimming with creative ways to keep them happy.”