101 Mystery Stories

55 The Dispatching of George Ferris Jack Foxx

Mrs. Beresford and Mrs. Lenhart were sitting together in the parlor, knitting and discussing recipes for fruit cobbler, when Mr. Pascotti came hurrying in. “There’s big news,” he said. “Mr. Ferris is dead.”

A gleam came into Mrs. Beresford’s eyes. She looked at Mrs. Lenhart, noted a similar gleam, and said to Mr. Pascotti, “You did say dead, didn’t you?”

“Dead. Murdered.”

“Murdered? Are you sure?”

“Well,” Mr. Pascotti said, “he’s lying on the floor of his room all over blood, with a big knife sticking in his chest. What else would you call it?”

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Lenhart agreed. “Definitely murder.”

Mrs. Beresford laid down her knitting and folded her hands across her shelflike bosom. “How did you happen to find him, Mr. Pascotti?”

“By accident. I was on my way down to the john—”

“Lavatory,” Mrs. Lenhart said.

“—and I noticed his door was open. He never leaves his door open, not when he’s here and not when he’s not here. So I’m a good neighbor. I peeked inside to see if something was wrong, and there he was, all over blood.”

Mrs. Beresford did some reflecting. George Ferris had been a resident of their roominghouse for six months, during which time he had managed to create havoc in what had formerly been a peaceful and pleasant environment. She and the other residents had complained to the landlord, but the landlord lived elsewhere and chose not to give credence to what he termed “petty differences among neighbors.” He also seemed to like Mr. Ferris, with whom he had had minor business dealings before Ferris’ retirement and who he considered to possess a sparkling sense of humor. This flaw in his judgment of human nature made him a minority of one, but in this case the minority’s opinion was law.

The problem with Mr. Ferris was that he had been a practical joker. Not just an occasional practical joker; oh, no. A constant, unending, remorseless practical joker. A Practical Joker with capitals and in italics. Sugar in the salt shaker; ground black pepper in the tea. Softboiled eggs substituted for hardboiled eggs. Kitchen cleanser substituted for denture powder. Four white rats let loose in the dining room during supper. Photographs of naked ladies pasted inside old Mr. Tipton’s Natural History magazine. Whoopee cushions, water glasses that dribbled, fuzzy spiders and rubber-legged centipedes all over the walls and furniture. These and a hundred other indignities — a deluge, an avalanche of witless and childish pranks.

Was it any wonder, Mrs. Beresford thought, that somebody had finally done him in? No, it was not. The dispatching of George Ferris, the joker, was in fact an act of great mercy.

“Who could have done it?” Mrs. Lenhart asked after a time.

“Anybody who lives here,” Mr. Pascotti said. “Anybody who ever spent ten minutes with that lunatic.”

“You don’t suppose it was possibly an intruder?”

“Who would want to intrude in this place? No, my guess is it was one of us.”

“You don’t mean one of us?”

“What, you or Mrs. Beresford? Nice widow ladies like you? The thought never crossed my mind, believe me.”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Pascotti.”

“For what?”

“The compliment. You said we were nice widow ladies.”

Mr. Pascotti, who had been a bachelor for nearly seven decades, looked somewhat uncomfortable. “You don’t have to worry — the police won’t suspect you, either. They’d have to be crazy. Policemen today are funny, but they’re not crazy.”

“They might suspect you, though,” Mrs. Beresford said.

“Me? That’s ridiculous. All I did was find him on my way to the john—”

“Lavatory,” Mrs. Lenhart said.

“All I did was find him. I didn’t make him all over blood.”

“But they might think you did,” Mrs. Beresford said.

“Not a chance. Ferris was ten years younger than me and I’ve got arthritis so bad I can’t even knock loud on a door. So how could I stick a big knife in his chest?”

Mrs. Lenhart adjusted the drape of her shawl. “You know, I really can’t imagine anybody here doing such a thing. Can you, Irma?”

“As a matter of fact,” Mrs. Beresford said, “I can. We all have hidden strengths and capacities, but we don’t realize it until we’re driven to the point of having or needing to use them.”

“That’s very profound.”

“Sure it is,” Mr. Pascotti said. “It’s also true.”

“Oh, I’m sure it is. But I still prefer to think it was an intruder who sent Mr. Ferris on to his reward, whatever that may be.”

Mr. Pascotti gestured toward the parlor windows and the sunshine streaming in through them. “It’s broad daylight,” he said. “Do intruders intrude in broad daylight?”

“Sometimes they do,” Mrs. Lenhart said. “Remember last year, when the police questioned everybody about strangers in the neighborhood? There were a series of daylight burglaries right over on Hawthorn Boulevard.”

“So it could have been an intruder, I’ll admit it. We’ll tell the police that’s what we think. Why should any of us have to suffer for making that lunatic dead?”

“Isn’t it time we did?” Mrs. Beresford asked.

“Did? Did what?”

“Tell the police what we think. After we tell them Mr. Ferris is lying up in his room with a knife in his chest.”

“You’re right,” Mr. Pascotti said, “it is time. Past time. A warm day like this, things happen to dead bodies after a while.”

He turned and started over to the telephone. But before he got to it there was a sudden eruption of noise from out in the front hallway. At first it sounded to Mrs. Beresford like a series of odd snorts, wheezes, coughs, and gasps. When all these sounds coalesced into a recognizable bellow, however, she realized that what she was hearing was wild laughter.

Then George Ferris walked into the room.

He was wearing an old sweatshirt and a pair of old dungarees, both of which were, as Mr. Pascotti had said, all over blood. In his left hand he carried a wicked-looking and also very bloody knife. His chubby face was contorted into an expression of mirth bordering on ecstasy and he was laughing so hard that tears flowed down both cheeks.

Mrs. Beresford stared at him with her mouth open. So did Mrs. Lenhard and Mr. Pascotti. Ferris looked back at each of them and what he saw sent him into even greater convulsions.

The noise lasted for fifteen seconds or so, subsided into more snorts, wheezes, and gasps, and finally ceased altogether. Ferris wiped his damp face and got his breathing under control. Then he pointed to the crimson stains on his clothing. “Chicken blood,” he said. He pointed to the weapon clutched in hisleft hand. “Trick knife,” he said.

“A joke,” Mr. Pascotti said. “It was all a joke.”

“Another joke,” Mrs. Lenhart said.

“Another indignity,” Mrs. Beresford said.

“And you fell for it,” Ferris reminded them. “Oh, boy, did you fall for it! You should have seen your faces when I walked in.” He began to cackle again. “My best one yet,” he said, “no question about it. My best one ever. Why, by golly, I don’t think I’ll live to pull off a better one.”

Mrs. Beresford looked at Mrs. Lenhart. Then she looked at Mr. Pascotti. Then she picked up one of her knitting needles and looked at the pudgy joker across its sharp glittering point.

“Neither do we, Mr. Ferris,” she said. “Neither do we.”