Murder Plus: True Crime Stories From The Masters Of Detective Fiction

Beacon Books, a notorious, low-rent house that specialized in soft core sex-cum-crime novels, published Charles Burgess’s one book, The Other Woman, in 1960. Sadly, this minor masterpiece is all but forgotten today. Stylistically understated, it springs to lyrical heights in lurid sex scenes. And its intricate plot about a horny real estate agent who rediscovers the joys of marriage after a fling with a beckoning wanton pays rich dividends to the careful reader. These same talents are evidenced here — in a story about a man who couldn’t live without redheads... or with them.

A Killer with Women

Joe Balli surveyed himself in the mirror and liked what he saw. A man in his middle thirties, Balli knew that women were especially attracted to him, and that pleased him. Angelina, for instance. There was a woman!

Several rooms away he could hear the raucous voice of his wife, Mary, scolding their two-year-old son, and he frowned. Life had become a steady succession of quarrels ever since they were married in Galveston, Texas, six years before. For months now he’d been trying to think of some way to ditch Mary and the kid and marry Angelina.

Thoughtfully, he slipped into a leather jacket and pulled up the zipper. He donned his cab driver’s cap and straightened his tie. There was only one way to deal with people who wouldn’t listen to reason, he decided. Murder.

He was surprised and pleased to find that the idea didn’t shock him any more. He would need a clear head when the time came, and now he knew the time was near. He couldn’t stand his wife’s infernal bickering much longer. Whatever happened to her now she had coming to her, he told himself stubbornly.

Slipping quietly out the back door, he slid behind the wheel of the cab and gunned the motor. In less than ten minutes he would be with Angelina at their rendezvous on Bourbon Street.

She was waiting for him when he entered the dimly lit restaurant in the heart of New Orleans’ teeming French Quarter. Winding his way carefully between the maze of white-clothed tables, he hurried to their favorite booth. She looked up, her smile held little warmth.

“Hello baby.”

“Hello Joe. You’re late.”

Balli nodded. “Yeah. I got tied up in traffic. Forgive me?”

“I suppose so.”

Balli noticed her mood, “What’s the matter, Angie? You got something on your mind?”

“Yes. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about you and me, Joe. How long we been going together? It’s been quite a while, hasn’t it?”

Balli frowned. “Oh, I don’t know. Six, seven months maybe. Why?” Angelina leaned forward, her dark eyes probing into his. “I hate to rush into things, Joe, but where are we going? What’s going to happen to us?”

“What do you mean?”

Angelina sighed. “Okay, so I’ll draw you a diagram. When are you going to ask me to marry you? Or are you allergic to wedding bands?” Balli grinned and took one of her neatly gloved hands in his. “Just a little while longer, baby. I promise.”

Angelina withdrew her hand. “Why the delay? You’re not married, are you?” she snapped sharply.

Balli laughed. “Married? Me? Of course not! Whatever gave you that idea?”

The girl shrugged. “Nothing, I guess.” Suddenly her eyes narrowed to smoldering slits of fire. “If I thought you were lying to me, Joe, I’d stomp your eyes in!”

Balli spent the next half hour and several drinks placating and assuring her of his love and fidelity. For some reason she seemed hard to convince and it worried him. Had she been checking up? He breathed easier when he saw the fire finally fade from her eyes. She didn’t know — yet. But he’d have to watch his step. Angelina was a redhead and they played rough.

Balli was convinced that he had to do something and fast. Angelina wouldn’t wait forever. During the next few days, a number of ideas raced through his mind, but he quickly discarded them. No hit or miss plans for him. Then suddenly, it came to him. The perfect plan. Carefully he went over it again and again. It would work, he was sure of it. He decided to kill his wife on Monday. That would give him three days to smooth over any loose ends that might crop up...

Captain Joseph Sonnenberg was about to go off duty when the phone rang. Monday, April 23, 1951, had been a busy day, and he was anxious to get home and relax. The moment he picked up the receiver, however, he knew he wasn’t getting any sleep that night.

“Yeah, I got the address,” he said. “Eleven thirty-nine Saint Philip Street, ground floor. Okay, we’ll be right out. In the meantime don’t touch anything.”

Ten minutes later he was standing over the body of a woman in her early 20’s. The fully clothed victim lay face up on the kitchen floor. Tied around her throat in a vicious knot was a short piece of rope. An empty ice tray lay close to her left hand.

Sonnenberg looked up as a bevy of officers entered the room. Captain Dowie, a stocky, florid-faced man, was in the lead, closely followed by two members of his homicide squad, Detectives Arthur Jordan and Allen Dupre. The quartet was studying the body when Coroner Gillespie arrived.

They waited while the medical man made a cursory examination of the dead woman. Finally, he looked up. “Dead about an hour, no more,” he said tersely. “As you can see, she was strangled.”

“Did she put up a fight?” asked Dowie.

Dr. Gillespie examined the dead woman’s hands. “There’s no indication of it.” He pointed to a wet spot on the floor near the ice-cube tray. “She was probably removing the tray from the Frigidaire when her murderer came up behind her and slipped the rope over her head. She didn’t have a chance.”

Dowie nodded. The medical man’s theory made sense. “What do you know about her, Cap?” he asked, turning to Sonnenberg.

“Not much. Her name is Mrs. Mary Balli. She’s 20 years old, married and has a two-year-old son, Joseph, Junior. Her husband’s name is Joseph Balli. He’s a cab driver.”

“Where is he?”

Sonnenberg shrugged. “According to Mrs. Lena Martinez, the dead woman’s sister who lives upstairs, Balli takes his cab out every morning and doesn’t get home until around six P.M.”

Dowie checked his watch. “It’s almost six now. Maybe he can tell us what this is all about when he gets here.”

Leaving Sonnenberg to look after things, Dowie climbed a short flight of carpeted stairs to question the victim’s sister, Mrs. Martinez. The latter, who bore a remarkable resemblance to the dead woman, seemed stunned by the tragedy. She said that as far as she knew, her sister had no enemies. On the contrary, she was quite popular in the neighborhood.

“How did she and Mr. Balli get along?”

Mrs. Martinez hesitated. “All right, I guess. They had their spats like other married folks, but nothing serious.”

“Any arguments between them lately?”

“No, not that I know of.”

Mrs. Martinez explained that her sister met Balli in Galveston shortly after his divorce from his first wife in 1945. Balli was a truck driver then, working at the Navy Air Base in Hitchcock, Texas. They had moved to New Orleans five years ago, but had only been living in the murder house a month.

“Did you find the body?” inquired Dowie.

“No, a man named Robert Williams found Mary. He lives up the street.”

Mrs. Martinez revealed that her sister was employed as a machine operator in a textile mill a few blocks from the house. Because work at the plant was slack, she’d said she hadn’t bothered to report for duty that morning.

“How did your sister get along with the other girls?” probed Dowie.

Mrs. Martinez frowned. “Come to think of it, she did have a fight with one of the girls a while back. The other girl was let go because of it.”

“What’s her name?”

“I don’t know her last name. Her first name’s Stella.”

When Mrs. Martinez promised to check her sister’s things to see if anything was missing, Dowie thanked her and left. He found Williams, a personable young man in his early twenties, on the porch. Questioning him closely, Dowie learned that he had been brought to the house by two neighborhood children.

“They stopped me on the street and said something about a lady being dead, so I followed them into the house,” said Williams. “When I saw they were telling the truth, I called the police.”

“Was there anyone loitering around the house before you found the body?”

“No, sir.”

Dowie took Williams’s name and address and excused him with thanks. He then talked to the two children. They said they were playing in the hall when they noticed that the door to the Balli apartment was open. When they investigated they found Mrs. Balli’s body. Like Williams, they saw no one hanging around the house prior to their finding the body.

Dowie thanked them and rejoined Sonnenberg in the kitchen. He found the precinct captain studying the short piece of rope which was used to murder Mrs. Balli.

“Make anything out of it?” inquired Dowie.

“Not much,” replied Sonnenberg glumly. “It’s about three and a half feet long and has been recently cut from a longer piece. However, it’s ordinary clothesline rope, which practically makes it impossible to trace.”

A thorough search of the premises failed to uncover any additional clues. It wasn’t until they examined the hall outside the Balli apartment that they got their second lead, an odd-shaped piece of worn leather.

“It’s a lift from a woman’s spike heel,” said Sonnenberg quickly.

“It certainly doesn’t belong to Mrs. Balli,” said Dowie. “She was wearing low-heeled sandals.”

Nor did a check of the slain woman’s wardrobe reveal a pair of high-heel shoes. Examination of Mrs. Martinez’s shoe rack also proved entirely unproductive.

“Maybe a woman killed Mrs. Balli?” suggested Sonnenberg.

“It’s possible,” agreed Dowie. “It doesn’t take much strength once you’ve got the rope around your victim’s neck. However, we know it’s got to be someone who Mrs. Balli trusted enough to turn her back on.”

“Maybe she was going with some guy and his wife got sore. I’ve known women to kill for less.”

“It’s a good angle,” nodded Dowie. “Suppose we talk to a few of the neighbors? They may have seen something.”

They did. A woman who lived across the street from the Ballis said that she saw a pretty redhead enter the murder house about an hour or so before the police arrived.

“How long did she stay?” pressed Dowie.

“Five, ten minutes. I can’t be sure.”

“Can you describe her?”

“I think so. She was about five feet eight in spike-heeled shoes. She was wearing a white linen dress and carried a large patent leather handbag. She was about twenty-three years old.”

The woman added that the redhaired woman appeared somewhat agitated when she left.

Another neighbor said that she was looking out the window when a taxi stopped before the house around three o’clock and Mrs. Balli got out. After talking to the driver for a few minutes the two of them went inside. He emerged five minutes later and drove off.

“Did you notice what kind of cab it was?” asked Dowie.

“Yes, it was a Red Top.”

Their informant said the cabbie was about medium height and weight, somewhere in his late twenties, and good looking.

Dowie jotted down the information and left. Outside, he said: “Suspects are popping all over the place. The redheaded woman and the cabbie had good opportunities, and we mustn’t overlook the husband.”

“Whoever did it knew Mrs. Balli wasn’t going in to work today,” said Sonnenberg thoughtfully. “Which means it could be an inside job.”

Back at the murder house, Dowie sought out Mrs. Martinez.

“This Stella you mentioned,” said Dowie. “Do you know what color hair she has?”

“Yes, she’s a redhead.”

Dowie nodded thoughtfully. The trail was getting warm, he decided grimly.

When Dowie returned downstairs he found Assistant District Attorney Peter Campagno waiting for him. The homicide sleuth quickly brought him up to date on what he had learned thus far. The men were about to leave when a tall, scholarly looking man in his late fifties, entered the apartment.

“My name is John Meeker,” he said. “I’d like to speak to the officer in charge.”

“That’s me,” said Dowie. “What’s on your mind?”

After explaining that he was a friend of the Balli family, Meeker said: “I met Balli a couple of days ago on Canal Street. He seemed unusually worried and I asked what was troubling him. He said that he had caught his wife fooling around with another man, a cabbie like himself. When he ordered the man out of his house, the man got very angry and threatened him.”

“What kind of threats?” pressed Dowie.

“Joe didn’t say, but he was obviously afraid for his life. When a neighbor told me his wife had been murdered, I hurried over to tell you about it.”

“Did Balli tell you the man’s name?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Can you tell us anything about the Ballis?” inquired Dowie.

“I liked them very much,” replied Meeker. “They seemed very much devoted to each other, and it certainly was a shock to learn that Mrs. Balli played around. Although she was an extremely good-looking woman, I somehow got the impression that she was crazy about her husband.”

After Meeker left, one of the lab men announced that a score of legible fingerprints had been uncovered in the apartment, all but two of which had been made by the victim, Mrs. Balli.

“Check those two with our files,” instructed Dowie. “It’s very likely you’ll find their mates in the license files, seeing as how Balli’s a cab driver.”

Meanwhile, Detectives Jordan and Dupre had learned that a redhaired woman, answering the description of the one seen leaving the murder house, had been observed boarding a Broad Street bus shortly after four o’clock. According to their informant, she was crying.

“Find out which bus it was and question the driver,” ordered Dowie. “If she was as agitated as our witnesses claim, the bus driver ought to remember her.”

Next, Dowie called Joe Balli’s employer, the Veteran’s Cab Company, and learned that Balli had not contacted the office since one o’clock that afternoon. Fearing the worst, Dowie instructed Detective Charles Wersling to get the police dispatcher to send out an all-points bulletin on the missing man.

Accompanied by Capt. Sonnenberg, Dowie drove to the textile mill where the comely victim was employed, and sought out the personnel manager.

“We’re looking for a redhead whose first name is Stella and who was recently discharged for fighting,” explained Dowie. “Can you help us?”

“I think so,” nodded the employee. He rifled through a pile of 3 X 5 index cards until he found the one he wanted. “Her full name is Stella Marshack,” he said. “She’s twenty-two years old and she lives on Allen Street.”

“What do you know about her run-in with Mrs. Balli?” asked Sonnenberg.

“According to what I heard, there’s been bad blood between them for some time,” replied the mill worker. “It seems Stella once attended a party at the Balli apartment and took a fancy to Mary’s husband, Joe. Whether Joe gave her a play or not, I can’t say, but I do know that Stella and Mary hated each other’s guts after that.”

As for the brawl that resulted in Stella Marshack’s dismissal, it took place in an alley behind the plant.

“It’s a lucky thing somebody interfered,” he explained. “Stella had Mary on her back and was stomping her in the face. Witnesses say she would have killed Mary. When a checkup showed Stella had started it, she was fired.”

Dowie and Sonnenberg drove to the address on Allen Street after leaving the plant. Inquiries revealed that Stella Marshack had a large hall bedroom on the second floor. Receiving no answer to their repeated knocking, Dowie induced the landlady to open the door. A careful inspection of the room, however, failed to yield anything that would connect the redhead with Mrs. Balli’s murder.

“Her clothes are all here, so that’s some consolation,” mused Sonnenberg. “At least we know she hasn’t skipped.”

Questioning the landlady, they learned that the suspect left the house shortly after two o’clock, saying she wouldn’t return until late.

“She seemed terribly upset over something,” she said. “I tried to find out what was bothering her, but she won’t confide in anybody.”

After Dowie made arrangements to have the house watched, he returned to headquarters with Capt. Sonnenberg. Electrifying news awaited them.

“Better hop over to St. Philip and Bergundy streets right away,” Chief of Detectives Harry Daniels told him. “Jordan and Dupre have located Joe Balli’s cab, and there’s blood splattered all over the front seat!”

Dowie and Sonnenberg sped to the spot, a run-down neighborhood several blocks from the murder house. The cab doors were open and the keys were in the ignition. A number of fresh bloodstains were visible on the cushions behind the driver’s seat, the steering wheel and the dashboard. Balli’s wallet, containing his personal papers but no money, lay on the back seat.

“It certainly looks as if Balli met the same fate as his wife,” said Dowie glumly. “But what about the body? This is a well-populated neighborhood, which makes it practically impossible for anybody to remove a body unseen.”

“Maybe Balli was knocked off elsewhere and the killer left the car here to throw us off?” Sonnenberg suggested.

“It’s an idea. If he’s really dead, it’s a cinch his death is tied in somehow with his wife’s.”

“Meaning Stella Marshack?”

“Why not?” countered Dowie. “The dame is supposed to have a violent temper, and there’s no telling how deeply she felt towards Balli. Let’s ask some questions around here. We may come up with something.”

A check of the homes nearest to the taxicab uncovered nothing, however. When it was apparent that they could learn nothing of importance in the area, Dowie and Sonnenberg returned to headquarters. A message on the former’s desk informed him that Stella Marshack had returned to her room. Accompanied by Detective Jordan, Dowie hurried to the address.

The officers found the good-looking suspect in her room preparing a late supper. After they identified themselves, she waved them to chairs.

“What can I do for you guys?” she inquired.

“Mrs. Balli was murdered late this afternoon,” said Dowie, watching the woman’s face closely.

She turned, a look of amazement on her face. “Mary? Dead?” she exclaimed. “Why, that’s impossible! I spoke to her a few minutes before five. She was all right then.”

“Why did you go there when you were on bad terms?”

Stella fidgeted. “So you know about that? Well, I might as well tell you the truth. I went there to tear her limb from limb, but she wouldn’t open the door when she found out who it was.”

Dowie looked skeptical. “You went there looking for trouble and an hour later they found her dead,” he said. “Pardon me if I don’t believe you.”

Stella crossed a nylon-clad leg nervously. “It’s the truth, so help me!” she said anxiously. “If I’d gotten into her apartment I know I would have given her a good going over, but I didn’t even see her. She spoke to me through the door. That’s why I was so darn mad.”

Dowie studied the woman closely. Her story sounded plausible enough. Finding the heel lift in the hall outside the apartment was a strong point in her favor, he admitted.

“What about you and Joe Balli?” he asked.

Stella shrugged. “It was just one of those things,” she said. “I met Joe at a party a couple of months ago, and I kinda went for the guy. I knew he was married and had a kid, but he sure had a great line. He said he liked me because I was a redhead. His first wife was a redhead, too.”

Dowie nodded. “Go on.”

“There isn’t much more to tell. His first wife had five kids by him and lives in Victoria, Texas. He met his second wife when she was only fourteen. He sure is a great ladies’ man.”

Dowie advised Stella Marshack not to leave town and returned to his office. He felt reasonably certain that she had nothing to do with the murder, despite the fact that she was there around the time it happened. He was studying the shortened length of rope used by the killer when Detective Dupre entered with a short, powerful-looking man in his early 30’s. The man wore a cab driver’s cap and was obviously nervous.

“This is Bob Benoit, chief,” said Dupre. “He’s the cabbie who took Mrs. Balli home this afternoon.”

Dowie waved him to a chair. “How well do you know Mrs. Balli?” he inquired.

“I never laid eyes on her until this afternoon,” maintained Benoit, twisting his cap nervously. “I was cruising along Canal Street when she hailed me. It was a fifty-cent trip, but when we got to her place on Saint Philip she had only forty cents in her bag. She told me to come inside with her and she’d give me the other dime. That’s all there was to it, I swear it!”

“You were inside for at least five minutes,” Dowie pointed out. “Did it take that long for her to get the money?”

“No, not exactly. After I got the dime she asked if I wanted a glass of beer. I said ‘yes’ and she got two cans out of the refrigerator. When I finished the drink I left.”

“Did you notice anyone or a car in the vicinity when you left?”

The cabbie frowned. “No, I don’t think so. There was another cab parked around the corner on Miro Street, but that was all.”

Dowie straightened in his chair. “This other cab, can you remember what company owned it?”

“Yeah, it was a Veteran’s Cab. The city is full of ’em.”

Dowie thanked the cabbie and released him. Then he turned to Jordan and Dupre. “That other cab,” he said. “Does it give you any ideas?”

Jordan rubbed his chin. “Balli drives a Veteran’s Cab. You can’t mean—”

“That’s just what I do mean,” said Dowie grimly. “It might have been a coincidence that Stella Marshack was around when the murder occurred, but we can’t write off the cab as another one so easily. I want the two of you to turn Miro Street inside out for anyone who used a Veteran’s Cab around three o’clock this afternoon. Hustle back here the moment you get anything.”

After the officers left, the autopsy report came from Coroner Nicholas J. Chetta’s office. It stated that Mrs. Balli met death by strangulation sometime between four and five o’clock that afternoon. The rope had fractured her larynx, indicating that the killer was a person of considerable strength. A second report, this time from the lab, stated that Balli’s blood-type had been obtained from his family physician and had matched the bloodstains found in the abandoned car.

Dowie hurried to Campagno’s office where he quickly briefed the young assistant district attorney on the latest developments.

“You figure Joe Balli killed his wife?” asked Campagno when he was finished.

“I’m sure of it,” replied Dowie. “From what I can learn about him, he’s crazy about redheads. His first wife was one, and so is Stella Marshack, and I’ll bet a month’s pay he’s got another one on the string right now. He’s planned this caper pretty well, but too many redheads tripped him up.”

Jordan and Dupre were waiting for him when he returned to his office.

“No dice, chief,” said Jordan. “Nobody around Miro Street hired a cab this afternoon.”

“That settles it,” snapped Dowie. “We’re going back to the Balli apartment and turn it inside out. We’ve got to find out who that third redhead is!”

A thorough inspection of this missing man’s room failed, however, to reveal the name of Balli’s latest paramour. Questioning Mrs. Martinez a second time, Dowie learned that the suspect was extremely fond of fish food, and frequently patronized a certain restaurant on Bourbon Street.

With a snapshot of the suspect they drove to the restaurant. The manager nodded when he saw Balli’s picture.

“Sure, he comes in here a lot,” he said. “Angelina’s his girl friend.”

“Is Angelina a redhead?”

The man raised his eyes in ecstasy. “And what a redhead!”

They discovered that Angelina’s last name was Prima, and that her father ran a tavern on Calumet Street, and lost little time in getting to the address. Papa Prima blanched when he learned that his daughter’s lover was a married man wanted for the murder of his wife.

“But that can’t be!” he exclaimed, horrified. “My girl and Joseph are going to be married someday.”

“Don’t bet on it,” advised Dowie. “Where is your daughter now?”

Prima kept shaking his head. “She’s with Joseph. They left for Rayne early this afternoon.”

Dowie returned to his office where he put through a call to the Acadia parish authorities in Rayne. He gave them complete descriptions of the wanted pair and requested that they be picked up on sight.

He felt confident that it wouldn’t be long before Balli would be in custody, and he was right. At three A.M. the next morning word came from Rayne that the couple had been apprehended.

Jordan and Dupre brought them back to New Orleans later that day. The girl was stunned when she learned of her lover’s duplicity. She swore she had no idea he was married.

Meanwhile, Balli, grilled incessantly for eight hours, finally broke down and admitted his guilt.

“Yes, I killed her,” he sobbed. “She and the kid were in my way. I couldn’t go on living with her any more. That’s why I got into the house the back way, strangled her when she wasn’t looking and went back to my cab. Nobody saw me. Then I cut myself on the wrist and let blood splatter on the cushions so that you’d think I had been murdered, too.”

“Didn’t you know it would get into the papers and that your girl friend or her parents would read about it?” asked Dowie.

Balli grinned. “You think I’m dumb, eh? Everybody thought my name was Joe Garcia, even Angelina. It was a wonderful idea, but something musta’ went wrong.”

Joseph Balli was indicted ten days later on first degree murder charges and will be tried sometime during the Fall term. Meanwhile he has lots of time to rue the day he began preferring redheads to blondes or brunettes.