Manhunt. Volume 14, Number 1, February/March, 1966

The Oriental Bathing Parlors occupied the entire second floor of a four-story building of red brick. The first floor, split by a tiled lobby, contained a pool hall to the right and a hock shop to the left; and the third and fourth floors, according to the directory beside the self-service elevator, were inhabited by bill collectors, blueprinters, mimeographers, second mortgagors, and a chiropodist. The address was 177 Market Street.

“Quiet as a tomb,” said Damroth, entering the elevator.

“I bet it bustles on weekdays,” said McFate.

The open-cage elevator transported them with an agonizing moan to the second floor. They stepped out into a foyer with red linoleum on the floor and dusty pictures of prize fighters and race horses on the plywood walls. A glass-topped counter stood near the only door, offering an assortment of cigars, cigarettes, chewing gum and playing cards. A long-jawed man, chewing rhythmically, sat behind the counter with the Sunday paper in his lap, but he didn’t seem to be reading it.

He said, still chewing, “How’s tricks?”

“You tell us,” said McFate.

“Bath?”

“No. We’re nice and clean. Are you the manager here?”

“That’s me. Massage maybe?”

“Whipple?”

“Right. Homer Whipple. Or sun lamp? Nice tan in no time.”

“We’re looking for a man named Jackson,” said McFate.

“He’s somewhere around. Can I give him a name?”

“The police.”

“This is our day.” Without breaking his chewing stride, Whipple flicked a switch on a battered intercom on a shelf behind him. “Calling Mistah Jackson on one-two.” Nothing. “Mistah Jackson on one-two, please.” Nothing. “One-two for Mistah Jackson.”

“Maybe he stepped out,” said McFate.

“I didn’t see him.”

“Is this the only exit?”

“Pretty much. Except the fire escape.”

With a nod of invitation to Damroth, McFate went to the only door and opened it. It let on a locker room. Two fat men, attired in florid shorts and gartered socks, were palavering over a pint of whisky. McFate passed them with a cursory look and headed for a pair of swinging doors which proved to be the entrance to a small gym, now unoccupied. To the left was a glazed glass door lettered in black: Massage & Sun Tables. Straight ahead was an open archway with a red arrow pointing downward from the keystone and flanked on either side with the words Steam & Shower.

Damroth remained in the center of the gym while McFate tried the Sun Room first. Then together they went through the archway.

It didn’t take them long to find Jackson. He was squatting fully dressed in one of the shower stalls. The brown eyes gazed stonily from the flaccid gace. The plump hands were hugging something to the chest as if in a childish effort of concealment; they fell away at McFate’s touch to disclose the brown haft of an ice pick.

“No wonder Welinski didn’t recognize him from the mug shot,” said McFate. “White hair, white eyebrows, double chin, fifty pounds heavier.”

“This then is Iacobucci?” asked Damroth.

“I’d say so, but let’s make sure.” McFate turned the squatting corpse’s head a trifle to get a look at the left ear lobe. “Pancake makeup,” he said, holding his right hand out to catch a slow drip from the shower. Then, with thumb and forefinger moist, he rubbed the lobe fastidiously. “Here it comes, Doc. A blue tattoo. D, U, E.”

Fingers tapping the glass-topped counter, McFate fixed the gum-chewing Whipple with a bleak eye. “How long has Iacobucci worked here?”

“That his real name, Cap.?”

“Yeah. Now answer the question.”

“He was here when I came, Cap.”

“How long have you been here?”

“A year thereabouts.”

“Who hired you?”

“Mistah Jackson or whoever.”

“He called himself assistant manager, didn’t he?”

“Yessir.”

“And you’re supposed to be the manager, aren’t you?”

“That’s so.”

“Are you trying to tell me, Whipple, that the assistant manager hires the managers around this plague spot?”

“That’s a fact, Cap.”

“Are you silly enough to think that makes sense?”

“Titles don’t mean nothing here, Cap. A slob wants a massage and he’ll get it from me or Jackson if Tippy ain’t around.”

“And he ain’t around today, is he, Whipple?”

“That’s for sure, Cap.”

“Who really owns this place anyway?”

“A corporation.”

“I bet you don’t even know the name of it.”

“You’d win, Cap.”

“What’s the signature on your paycheck?”

“They pay by cash.”

“Who hands you the cash then?”

“Mistah Jackson does. Or did.”

Damroth, who had been wandering through the far reaches of the establishment, now appeared in the doorway from the gym. McFate greeted the smiling old man with a shoulder shrug.

“No progress, my friend?”

“Circular only. Whipple swears nobody but us has gone in or out that door since that last time he saw Iacobucci walk through it alive. And that was about twenty minutes before we arrived.”

“If true, it narrows the suspects rather severely.”

“Nobody on the premises except the two stout boys in their underpants and the Negro errand boy. And I’m convinced they’re as clean as you can get in a place like this.”

With a glint in his eyes Damroth said, “That leaves us nobody but Mister Whipple.”