Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 44, No. 4, April 1980

George by R. C. Tuttle

He was about three inches long, he could spread his legs out to six inches, and his bite could create a serious problem in a human body — like maybe death!

Mrs. Vivian Van Leer walked-briskly down the sidewalk, her delicately-featured face slightly apprehensive. The closed stores lining the side street seemed to be staring at her, telling her: You old fool, you shouldn’t leave your apartment after dark. She was a slim figure in her brown, polyester coat and floppy hat atop well-kept snow-white hair and could easily be mistaken in the dim light for a teenager instead of an ex-psychologist of seventy-eight. Perky was the word for Vivian. She enjoyed good health, a youthful outlook on life, a comfortable income, and she wasn’t about to be chained to her apartment by a few crazies.

Nevertheless, she was tense as she stepped past shadowy, staring figures, night people who, like poisonous toadstools, emerged from the depths at night to do their thing. A street peopled with furtive figures — who wrote that? Sax Rohmer in one of his mysteries.

Her husband, dead ten years, had been a detective story writer with a small but faithful following. As her eyes panned the street ahead, she thought about Tom and his battered old typewriter. Wherever he was, He was probably devising a diabolical plot of murder and mayhem. Yet, he’d been a gentle, loving man whom she had loved dearly.

Now, her only love was George — which was unique because tarantulas don’t, usually have lovers, even among the spider set.

As she walked, her purse dangled loosely from her hand.

Suddenly, a figure appeared and a quick hand yanked the purse out of her grasp. There was a rush of feet, and the purse snatcher sped down the street.

She staggered but quickly recovered. She had gotten a glimpse of his face and his hair! Especially his hair. His picture had been in the paper a week ago — a suspect in a drug bust. Greg Matson. His father was a lawyer and an official, in the city administration.

She quickened her step and ten minutes later stepped into her second story apartment. After closing the door and flipping the lock in place, she turned on the lights and called the police.

Then, she caught a silverfish in the bathroom and fed it to George.

George was a South American tarantula — the clerk in the pet Central America, as a bird spider. He was about three inches long, he could spread his legs out to six inches and his bite could create a serious problem in the human body — like maybe death. In the jungle he would be living in a tree and feasting on small birds, but in the apartment he resided in a large glass tank among rocks, dirt and exotic plants. Vivian kept him well fed with roaches, silverfish and other bugs that inhabited the nooks and crannies of the apartment. Thinking that George might need some female company, she had bought a smaller California tarantula, known in his homeland, store had assured her it was a female — and put the eight legged beauty in with George. The romance never got off the ground. Perhaps the small spider was actually a male or George, a female. George had promptly pounced on the hapless intruder and had him or her for supper.

George’s entrance into the United States was unexpected. One minute he had been eating a bug on a bunch of bananas and suddenly he found himself on a banana boat headed for the United States. He had surfaced in the fruit section of the local supermarket, luckily, just as Vivian was checking the oranges. She had lured him into a paper bag and taken him home.

They were great friends. He let her stroke his back, and he liked to walk on her hand and arm.

“You’re a nice guy, George,” she mused as she stroked his fuzzy back while he disposed of the silverfish.

The doorbell rang. That should be the police. She pulled her arm out of the tank and put the cover in place. Then, after covering the tank with a cloth, she opened the door.

Sergeant Al Grimes was a tall, thin, tired-looking man who looked older than his thirty-nine years. He had a narrow, prematurely-lined face that reminded Vivian of a hound dog she had as a child. He was bald and wore a nondescript gray suit.

They sat down and she told him about the purse snatching.

“I see.” He took out a notebook and a pencil. “What was in it?”

“Five dollars and fifty-six cents, a bottle of vitamins, a handkerchief, a comb, a ticket to an art show, and a package of mints,” she said promptly.

He wrote in his notebook for a moment. “Now — you say you know who the purse snatcher was?”

“Certainly. Greg Matson. I saw his picture in the paper last week and I’m certain he was the one.”

A look of pain crossed Grimes’ face. “Are you sure, Ma’am? We just got through a session with him, and he was found innocent.”

She eyed him closely. “Innocent? Charges were finally dropped, weren’t they?”

He shrugged. “Lack of evidence.”

“As I understand it, you people had a pretty good case against him,” she said, “then suddenly you didn’t.” She paused. “What does his father do in City Hall?”

“Right now, Mr. Matson is working for the DA, and I think he’s going to run for Supervisor in the next election.”

She smiled mirthlessly. “Very interesting. Here’s a lad, caught with drugs on him — and suddenly there’s no evidence. Mr. Matson must have been pleased with the outcome.” She nodded her head briskly. “Well, you get young Matson, and I’ll identify him as the purse snatcher. We’ll see if that pleases Mr. Matson.”

Grimes shifted in the chair as though suddenly uncomfortable.

“Ma’am, are you sure it was young Matson? Sometimes in the dark, faces look like other faces. You aren’t as young as you used to be and—”

“Grimes,” she interrupted in cold tones, “I’m not young but I’m not senile. My eyesight is excellent and any time you want to take me on in an IQ test, I’ll be glad to comply. That thief was young Matson. My God, with a rat face like that and a mop of shaggy hair, he couldn’t possibly be mistaken for anyone else.”

Grimes sighed. “That’s him all right. We tried to get him to get a haircut down at the jail and he threatened to sue.” He stared at his notebook for a second. “All right. I’ll go through this again. I’ll have him down at City Hall at nine in the morning.” He looked at her. “You can formally identify him.”

“I’ll be there,” she said.

“I gotta tell you, Ma’am, Mr. Matson isn’t a shrinking violet. He’s got lots of power behind him.”

“I am not the least bit afraid of him, Sergeant. His son is mentally sick and should be treated accordingly. Doesn’t the boy work or go to school?”

“No Ma’am. He dropped out of high school a couple of years ago and hasn’t done anything since.”

“Except get involved in drugs and steal my purse,” she snapped. “Why in the world do you allow, people like that to roam the streets?”

Grimes started to answer the question, then evidently realizing that he had no good answer, merely nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow at nine. In fact, I’ll pick you up if you like. About ten of nine?”

“Fine.”

He stood up, smiled briefly and left.

Vivian went over to the tank, pulled the cover aside and looked in at George who was stretching himself on a rock. “George,” she said, “I have the feeling that we aren’t going to get anywhere in this Matson thing.”

George who was voiceless, seemed to understand. His antenna quivered a bit, seemingly sending out the timeless message; you can’t fight City Hall.

Greg Matson at nineteen, did indeed resemble a rat with black, curly hair that sprang out of his head in all directions. His last haircut was at the age of twelve. He had a thin, tight, sharp-featured face that could be menacing or innocent looking. He was wearing the uniform of the night people — dungarees, dirty shirt and bare feet.

Vivian, completely composed and sharply dressed in a brown outfit, sat down in the interrogation room and pointed a steady finger at a young Matson. “That is the person who took my purse last night.”

Matson, who was standing between his father and Grimes, wore an expression of injured innocence. “I did not,” he whined. “I was home watching TV.” He looked pleadingly at his father. “Wasn’t I Dad?”

“Certainly!” exclaimed the older Matson, a broad, puffy-looking man with a large featured face and full head of gray hair. He looked severely at Vivian. “I’m sick and tired of my son being blamed for every crime in the city.”

“That is the person who took my purse last night.” Her words were almost spelled out.

Matson, who had pushed, shoved, connived his way through the years to a pretty good job in the city government, was taken aback by this slip of an old lady who apparently was unimpressed by his position in life. He tried again. “Madam, I am a lawyer, and my enemies will tell you that I’m a tiger in the courtroom. I am convinced that, my son had nothing to do with the loss of your purse — if, indeed you did lose your purse.”

“I did,” she said coolly. “Your precious son took it.”

He eyed her grimly. “Are you sure you’re not a member of the opposition party trying to discredit me? As you probably know, I’m running for Supervisor in the coming election.”

“I’m not going to vote for you,” she said. “And I’m not in politics.”

“We’re ready for him, George.”

She spent the rest of the day rereading one of Tom’s early detective novels.

After supper, she sat down next to the telephone and sipped a cup of tea. George made himself comfortable on a pile of dirt. They waited.

The telephone rang at eight-thirty. She flipped the recorder switch to ON position and pressed the RECORD button, then picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

“Hey ole lady,” came the sneering voice. “You’re wasting your time calling the cops. My ole man’ll take care of them, you—”

She listened calmly to the parade of obscenity that followed, her eyes on the turning tape and the blinking red light on the recorder.

“Why,” she interrupted, “are you doing this to me, Matson?”

“I don’t like you. Maybe for a hundred bucks, I’d like you.”

“Not on your life. I wouldn’t give you a penny.”

“You—! you better not walk around the streets after dark, ole lady! I’ll—”

She let him record for a few minutes longer, then hung up. She played back the recording and found it to be a perfect reproduction.

The telephone rang again. She picked up the receiver and heard Matson’s voice again. After putting the recorder on RECORD again, she smiled. “Hello, Matson.”

She recorded his tirade for a few minutes, then hung up. She then called Grimes. The recorder was still recording.

“Grimes, I have a recording of young Matson’s phone calls, two of them. I’d like you to listen to them — and you might get his father to listen too.”

“You sure now?”

“Yes. Will nine in the morning at the police station be all right?”

“Yes,” he sighed.

Vivian walked into the police station promptly at nine the next morning and set her tape recorder on the table in the interrogation room. Grimes, looking nervous, was standing next to an angry-looking older Matson while young Matson in dungarees and sweatshirt stood next to his father.

Matson glared at her. “As you know, I’m a lawyer, Madam — and a good one. Tape recordings of innocent victims are not acceptable in a court of law unless the victim has given his permission to be recorded. You are doing something illegal.”

“Just keep quiet and listen to your innocent son.”

An expression of fear covered young Matson’s sallow face. “Dad! She’s a liar! I never made any phone calls.”

“Don’t worry, Son,” Matson said. “She’s just an old lady with an over active imagination.” He eyed Grimes. “Grimes, I object to this.”

Grimes shook his head. “I’d like to hear it. There’s no law against playing the tape in here.” He smiled suddenly at Vivian. “Go ahead.”

She set up the recorder to play and pushed the button. The Matsons and Grimes listened in shocked silence as the sneering voice repeated the filthy, obscene wordage. The final recording was her dialogue with Grimes.

He reddened and his face tightened. “If you prefer charges against my son, I’ll sue you. The poor boy is having a tough time finding himself.”

Vivian was smart enough to see that Matson, with the weight of City Hall behind him, could wipe her out with legal proceedings — and all for five dollars arid fifty-six cents.

“I’ll let it go this time.”

Matson did an about face and put on his best vote-getting smile. “I’m glad you see your mistake, Mrs. Van Leer. Now, I don’t like to see you elderly people living alone. I know of a nice retirement home in the Bay area where—”

She stood up. “Good-bye, gentlemen.”

Grimes smiled at her. “If you need help sometime, you be sure and call me.”

“Yes,” chimed in Matson. “We are here to serve the public.”

She eyed them for an instant. “Coming in here to complain about something is similar to a German Jewish citizen in the thirties complaining to Goering about something that Hitler did.”

She walked out.

For the next two days, Vivian led a trouble-free life — a movie, art show, and a baseball game. One night when she was feeding George, the telephone rang. She picked up the receiver.

“Hello.”

“I’m gonna get you, ole lady,” snarled a voice into her ear. Young Matson. “Call in the cops, did you. Next time I’m gonna drag you into an alley and—”

“Matson, I’m calling them again.” She hung up and immediately dialed a number Grimes had left.

Grimes arrived at the apartment a half hour later.

“Ma’am,” he said sadly. “Young Matson said he didn’t make any phone call to you. And his father’s pretty mad.”

“It was young Matson,” she said. “I recognized that voice.” She sipped the drink in her hand. “He even mentioned my calling in the police.”

Grimes sighed. “You drinking liquor?”

“A martini. I have one every night. Been doing it all my life.” She paused and looked at the drink thoughtfully. “My husband and I used to have delightful little conversations over a martini.”

Grimes took a deep breath. “I can’t arrest him on such flimsy evidence. His father would tear it apart.”

She nodded. “I suppose he would. You’re afraid of Matson, aren’t you, Sergeant?”

He frowned. “No, I’m not. It’s just that our legal system is so complicated and—”

“Full of loopholes,” she continued, “that it’s difficult to make a charge stick, especially when the accused has a father in the DA’s office. All right. Forget it.”

“Well, now, for example, he could make something big out of you drinking a martini, like you’re imagining things—”

“Do you think I’m imagining things?”

“I don’t know what to think.”

“Good night, Sergeant. Sorry I wasted your time.”

“It’s my job to look into these—” He sighed and shrugged. “Goodnight, Mrs. Van Leer.”

After he had gone, Vivian pulled the cover off George’s tank and smiled sadly at the furry creature. “What can I do, George?”

Then, an idea dropped into her agile mind. A tape recorder. Of course. She’d buy one tomorrow.

The next morning she went to an electronics store and bought a small tape recorder and a microphone that could be attached to the base of the telephone. After buying several tape cassettes, she went home and quickly attached the microphone to the telephone, plugged in the recorder and grinned at George.

Young Matson’s face was a blend of anger and fear. “It’s a fake! She faked it! That ain’t me!”

Lawyer Matson seemed to have turned a shade of gray. “Of course it’s a fake. What are you trying to do to my son, Madam?”

Grimes, also visibly affected, shrugged. “That sure sounds like me in that last recording.”

Vivian removed the cassette from the recorder and dropped it into her purse. “I suggest you put a voice analyzer on it. I think you’ll find that young Matson’s voice and the voice on the recorder are the same.”

Grimes looked at Matson. “Are you willing to have it checked?”

Matson hesitated a few seconds, then nodded. “All right.”

Grimes held out his hand. “I’ll take care of it. May I have the cassette, Mrs. Van Leer?”

She studied him for an instant. “The telephone company has a voice analyzer. I’d rather they did it.”

“Oh no!” exploded the older Matson. “We have all the facilities for voice analysis and that’s where I want it done. I’m afraid that the telephone company would be biased.”

“No more biased than you!” shot back Vivian.

“I am confident,” he said, “that the voice on the tape is not my son’s, therefore, I’m willing to have it checked — but only in our laboratory. I think you are a sick woman who for some reason wants to destroy my son and I suggest that you consult with a psychologist as soon as possible.”

Vivian’s face reddened. He probably had enough power down at City Hall to put her in some home or something. Was there no way to fight back? Oh God, if she were only fifty, or even sixty instead of seventy-eight! She handed the tape to Grimes. “Will you take good care of it, Sergeant?”

He took the cassette. “I will.” He turned to the older Matson. “I’ll have to hold your son until we can check this out. My voice on the tape is quite real.”

Greg Matson backed off. “I don’t wanta go to jail, Dad, don’t let them—!”

Vivian watched, unmoved by tears. She’d seen that act many times during her working life — phoney as an eleven-dollar bill. “Sergeant, let me know the results of the test.”

“Yes Ma’am.”

She left amid an elder Matson tirade against crazy old ladies.

But she had an odd feeling that she had failed again.

That afternoon Vivian had a visitor from the City Welfare Department, a Miss Caroline Eckel, a tall, thin, sober-faced woman with straight black hair, who looked as though she should be working in the public library. She wore a knee-length brown skirt, chilly white blouse and a plain brown coat.

Vivian, after a glance at George’s tank which was covered, motioned the woman to a chair. “I suppose this has to do with the Matson boy,” she remarked, sitting down in an easy chair. “Are you a psychologist?”

“Why, yes,” was the brittle reply. The woman was nervous. “My superior suggested that I pay you a visit.”

“Why? I’m not on welfare.”

“True, but you seem to be having a problem.” She leaned forward and cast what was meant to be a steady gaze on Vivian’s placid face. “Do you have dreams?”

Vivian smiled. The woman was obviously right out of college. “Yes, one recurring dream — that young Matson will stop bugging me. How long have you been out of college?”

“College? Six months.” She frowned. “Then young Matson is a fixation with you. You are convinced that he lives only to harm you.”

Vivian rubbed her chin reflectively. “At the moment, that appears to be the case.” She laughed. “Caroline, you are a lousy shrink.”

Caroline’s ample mouth dropped open. “What do you mean?”

“For forty years, young lady, I was an industrial psychologist. One of the first things you do when seeing a patient is to gain their confidence, talk about their daily life, their home, anything. You just barge right in an accuse me of being nutty as a fruit cake.”

“I did not. I merely—” Tears appeared in her eyes. She looked down at the floor for an instant. “I’m so afraid—”

“Afraid of what?” Vivian asked gently. “Talking to people?”

The girl nodded. “I freeze in front of people.”

“You must train yourself to relax,” Vivian said. “Make friends with your patient before you start probing. Talk about baseball, football, anything that the patient finds interesting—”

The telephone rang, Vivian walked over to the table and picked up the receiver.

Grimes was on the other end.

“Ma’am, I hate to tell you this, but your tape was wiped off by accident. Now, I told the lab to take good care of it, but—”

“Sergeant!” Anger flashed in her face. “The lab isn’t under Matson’s jurisdiction, is it?”

There was a pause. “I’m afraid so.”

“I guess I am an old fool. What do I do now?”

“Well, now,” Grimes said earnestly, “you just be careful and if you have any more trouble, you just let me know—”

“Sergeant?”

“Yes.”

“Horse droppings!” She hung up.

She went back to her chair and sat down. Then, with a wry smile, looked at the welfare worker. “Caroline, where do you come from?”

“A little town in Ohio,” Caroline said eagerly. “Remford. It’s just a tiny town and—”

Vivian settled back and half listened to the wonders of a small town in Ohio.

The next three days went by with no messages of hate from young Matson, either on dark corners or the telephone. She hadn’t really expected him to use the phone any more, thanks to the tape recorder which she kept connected just in case. Perhaps he had tired of his little game.

Then, one Saturday night at dusk she was walking home from the bus stop and as she paused on a corner, a familiar voice oozed out of a dark store front. “If it ain’t the ole lady with the tape recorder.” An icy chill went up her spine. The street ahead was deserted, with no help anywhere. She must make a run for it! But it was too late. He grabbed her and pulled her into the dark store entrance.

His ratty face wore a horrible expression of lust. “You made me spend the night in jail, ole lady.” He grabbed her purse and emptied the contents on the sidewalk. “One buck!” He put the dollar into his pocket. “Know what I’m gonna do, ole lady? I’m gonna strip you and let you walk home naked.”

She was both angry and frightened. Somewhere back in her memory, there was a nephew, a marine who had shown her a few dirty tricks that could be used in self defense. One of the tricks emerged in her mind.

He put his hand inside her coat, grabbed her blouse and started to pull when she lifted her skirt slightly and brought her sharp knee up hard into his groin.

With a cry of anguish, he crumpled to the ground. She picked up her purse and whatever else she could find, and hurried home. After resting a moment, she called Grimes.

“Ma’am,” Grimes said, “we could pick him up but... well, you know the problem.”

“His father has you people in the palm of his hand. That’s the problem.” She slammed the receiver down and made herself a double martini.

Twenty minutes later, the telephone rang again arid Grimes’ voice hit her ear.

“Ma’am, I just talked to Mr. Matson and he says his son never left the house tonight.”

Somehow, she had expected that from the Matsons. “One really can’t fight City Hall, can one, Sergeant?” She slammed down the receiver.

Completely frustrated, angry, she made up a martini and sat down next to George’s tank. “What are we going to do, George?”

The telephone rang. She picked up the receiver. “Hello,” she said in a tired voice.

“Kill!” and then there was a click.

She hung up. She suddenly felt frightened.

Vivian stayed in her apartment all the next day and read. As darkness approached, she stood at the window and watched the shadows close in on the buildings along the street. An ocean fog was gently rolling in, swirling about the dull street lights and people were becoming indistinct figures.

Young Matson was out there somewhere waiting for her.

She had half of a tuna sandwich for supper, fed George a silver-fish, then slipped into a pair of slacks and a sweater. Her face tense, she slid a small briefcase out of a closet. She put on her polyester coat and floppy hat.

Then she opened the briefcase. “Let’s get him, George.”

She carefully deposited the quivering George inside the briefcase and stepped out into the night.