Death of a Flapper

DEATH OF A FLAPPER

A Novella of the 1920s

by

Bill Gutman

Text copyright © 2013 Bill Gutman

All Rights Reserved

Books in The Mike Fargo Mysteries Series

Murder on Murderer's Row – A Novel

Death of a Flapper – A Novella

Murder on Broadway – A Novella

Seven Days to Murder – A Novella

A Mike Fargo Trilogy – All Three Novellas

Roaring Twenties Cop – Mike Fargo's Own Story

Mike Fargo Mysteries Website: www.mikefargo.com

Contact the Author At: Bill@mikefargo.com

Cover Design by Jennifer Strang

Death of a Flapper is a novel that combines real people with the fictional. The real people are represented as they were. With the fictional characters, any resemblance to those living or dead is purely coincidental.

This book, as well as others in the series, pays

tribute to a special era in America and especially

New York City. The Roaring Twenties were

tailor made for New York with its mix of

the arts, sports, Broadway, politicians, speakeasies,

dancing, bootlegging and crime.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One – DEAD IN A DOORWAY

Chapter Two – RICH GUYS, POOR GUYS

Chapter Three – ONE AND ONE MAKES . . . THREE

Chapter Four – THE CASE TAKES A TURN

Chapter Five – DIGGING DEEPER

Chapter Six – SURPRISE

Chapter Seven – ANOTHER TWIST

Chapter Eight – WHO, WHAT AND WHEN

Chapter Nine – THE CIRCLE CLOSES

Chapter Ten – TRAPPING A RAT

Chapter One – DEAD IN A DOORWAY

When Detective Mike Fargo first laid eyes on Marjorie Reems, two things quickly came to mind. She looked very beautiful and also looked very dead. The young beauty was sprawled in an awkward position inside the doorway of a posh building on Park Avenue, her right arm pinned behind her head and against the door, her left ankle turned inward at a ninety-degree angle. The bullet that killed her went clean through her heart, leaving her youthful face unmarked and almost appearing to be in a restful sleep. Only it would be a very long, restful sleep.

A uniformed cop told Fargo who she was, having filched a wallet from her small purse, which also contained several pieces of makeup, a wad of cash and a half-smoked pack of Sweet Caporals. One of the tenants of the building ran for a cop when he tried to leave early that morning and found the door blocked by her body. Tenants were then told to come and go through the rear door until the police were finished and the body could be loaded into the meatwagon for a free ride to the morgue.

Name sounds familiar, Fargo said to the uniformed cop, as the coroner pulled up along with a photographer from the precinct.

Think she's one of them society dames, the uniform said. You know the Reems family. Hunter Reems, the guy's richer than sin.

Not the same kind of sin as this, Fargo said, looking back at the dead girl. She can't be more than twenty or twenty-one. And if she's a Reems, how come she's dressed like a common flapper?

The uniform shrugged, but Fargo didn't really expect an answer. The 35-year-old detective considered himself an old-fashioned guy and, in the New York City of 1922, he'd rather buy an apple off a horse-drawn pushcart than from one of the new, motorized vehicles with that foul engine smell. Bottom line, Mike Fargo didn't like a lot of the goings on in the modern world. That, however, didn't necessarily include the new, liberated woman – the flapper. Fargo had always liked women who were somewhat on the other side of proper. He was also a big burlesque and vaudeville fan, and never forgot the image of Mae West dancing the shimmy in the 1918 review, Sometime. Fargo had seen it twice and had been a Mae West fan ever since.

The flapper was a phenomenon that emerged after the Great War, women who dressed seductively with short skirts, wore their hair short, drank and smoked, and loved to dance the night away. Their attitude toward sex was definitely a lot looser than their predecessor, the Gibson Girl, long the accepted and proper model for young women. The New York City of the 1920's, with its many clubs, dancehalls and speakeasies, was the perfect flapper town.

Fargo had been a cop since 1911, when he was twenty-four. He was promoted to detective in early 1921, so he had worked both the pre- and post-war city. A rugged five-foot-eleven with a barrel chest and slightly roundish face, his most distinguishing characteristic was a red scar running along his left cheek, the result of being slashed by a straight razor while making an arrest years earlier. That was his closest call and since then, he had learned to always act first, before his adversary. He was quick to assert himself and his fist was always at the ready. So was his .38, if needed. As a New York City detective, Mike Fargo took no prisoners.

As tough as it was to accept some of the changes in the city, Fargo knew he had to adapt to the times. After all, it made for good business. You had to know your enemy if you wanted to pinch him and that often meant playing their game. Now he was staring at the body of a young, extremely wealthy girl who could have slipped seamlessly into the high society lifestyle, but chose to do the shimmy and the Charleston instead. He reached down and pulled her skirt up a little higher. There it was, a small silver flask slipped under her garter belt. The outfit was complete. He removed it and took a whiff. Cheap rye, probably bootleg hooch. Surely, she could afford better.

Let's get an address for the family, he said to the uniform. By the way, did you find a shell?

Not yet, just the casing.

Keep looking. Has to be here somewhere.

Finally, when all the preliminaries were complete, the body of Marjorie Reems was loaded into the wagon for the trip to the morgue. As soon as they had lifted her there was the shell from a .45. It must have gone through her, ricocheted off the wall and was concealed by her body.

She must have been shot at close range, Fargo said. Maybe even knew the killer.

It was one clean shot through the heart, the coroner confirmed, wiping his glasses with a dirty handkerchief. Couldn't miss from that close if he was blind.

Yeah, was all Fargo said. With the increase in crime spawned since Prohibition had become the law of the land in 1920, murder was the one he hated the most, especially when the victim was young and not part of the growing criminal element in the city. He knew this one would attract citywide attention and the pressure would be on him to wrap it up quickly.

Within five minutes the uniform was back and informed him that the Reems family lived right on Park Avenue, just a block away on 77th Street. That told him the girl was probably either coming or going when she was killed. He took a breath, popped a Lucky Strike into his mouth and began walking toward the apartment with news no parent ever wants to hear.

When he reached the entrance to the ornate building, a tall, stocky doorman blocked his path.

Can't just walk in here, pal, he said. No you can't.

Maybe I can't but this can, Fargo said, pasting his badge right in the doorman's mug. And I ain't your pal.

The doorman cleared his throat. Sorry, I didn't know.

Now you do, was Fargo's answer. Where does Hunter Reems live?

Uh, top floor . . . he's got the whole floor. But you have to be announced.

Not today, Fargo said. So dummy up if you know what's good for you.

When Fargo reached the door of the suite he took a final drag on his Lucky, deposited the butt in a nearby receptacle, then knocked. This was never easy, even for a cop who had seen it all since joining the force some eleven years earlier. The door was opened by a small, thin man wearing a black suit.

Mr. Reems? Fargo said.

No, sir. Whom shall I tell him is calling?

A butler. Fargo should have known. He took out his badge and held it up, a bit more delicately than usual. Detective Fargo, 17th Precinct, he said.

Can you tell me what this is in reference to?

No, I can't. I've got to see Mr. Reems.

One moment, sir.

This was the kind of brush off Fargo hated. If the circumstances were any different he would have pushed past the little man and sought out Reems himself. Finally, after several minutes, the little man was back.

Follow me, sir.

Fargo was led through several rooms, all of them adorned with finery, much of it from an earlier time. Had it not been for electric lights and running water, the place could have passed for something out of the 19th century. Finally