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

“The remaining thirteen clippings and photostats convey information along the same lines. A certificate is issued, a man vanishes. Shall I read you the most recent?”

McFate nodded grimly. “I suppose it concerns Jackie Whistler, the so-called numbers king.”

“Precisely how he is described in the headline of this clipping twelve days ago. Number Up For Numbers King, Wife Tells Cops. The gist of the story is that Whistler left his home after dinner one night to go bowling with some friends. He never came back. A few days earlier a cremation certificate was issued for the disposal of the remains of Paul B. Taunton.”

“Are you implying Whistler and Taunton arc the same man?”

“Not at all, my friend. In each of these cases I am sure the certificate was issued on a bona fide corpse. Paul B. Taunton died. A doctor so certified. His wife or a relative perhaps requested that the body be cremated. Using the death certificate, Memorial Mortuary applied for—”

“Just a second, Doc. Is Memorial Mortuary the applicant in each of these cases?”

“Exactly. They have their own crematorium on the premises. Quite convenient.”

“Let me see if I follow you, Doc. A body is scheduled for legal cremation by Memorial Mortuary. Shortly thereafter an unwanted man — from the point of view of persons unknown — disappears. We assume he has been murdered but we never find the body because — I don’t believe it, Doc.”

Damroth suddenly smiled. “A wonderful thought has just occurred to me, Captain.”

“You have some beauts.”

“If you were the Numbers King and went bowling with some friends at night, where would you go afterward?”

“Home.”

“No. You are sweaty and a little lame in the legs and shoulders. So are your friends. They suggest an hour in a Turkish bath. Would you go along with the suggestion?”

McFate’s eyes brightened. “To the Oriental?”

“One seventy-seven Market Street,” added Damroth.

McFate smote the desk with the palm of his hand. “Of course, of course, Doc. Market runs parallel to Essex Avenue, back to back. What was that address again?”

“One eleven. And that map on the wall over there seems to show the city in great detail.”

They went to the map and rapidly traced Market Street to the point occupied by the Oriental Bathing Parlors and so indicated by the microscopic numeral “177”. Directly opposite and a half inch away was the numeral “111” on Essex Avenue. The Oriental Bathing Parlors and the Memorial Mortuary practically rubbed spines.

“A pretty setup,” said McFate softly.

“Ideal for the purpose,” said Damroth. “You shed your clothes and all identification in the Oriental, enter a steam room where you are dispatched without interference, and then transported to the Mortuary probably via a catwalk that slides from one of its second-story windows to that fire escape.”

“I guess we can stop looking for Jackie Whistler.”

“If you do find him, Captain, you may have to sort him out.”

“Meaning what?”

“It’s my opinion that the Numbers King is now mingling in an urn with the ashes of Paul B. Taunton.”

“You really believe that, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Convince me, Doc.”

“I’ll try. Have you ever attended a cremation, my friend?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, generally speaking, this is the procedure. Just before the casket is sealed, the family and the official witness leave the chapel or whatever the mourning room may be called and go to the crematorium. A few minutes later the closed casket follows and is popped into the oven. In certain specific instances I believe that casket contained two bodies instead of the one authorized by the cremation certificate.”

“And this is what Mulcahy found out?”

“He seems to have been putting it together. Which proves your good opinion of him. When he was young and sober he must have been an excellent reporter.”

McFate became aware that his name was being called by Tony Waterford. “There’s a call for you, Captain. You can take it on Mulcahy’s desk.”

Dinny Shannon was on the line.

“You got the dope?” McFate asked.

“To be sure,” said Dinny. “The Oriental Bathing Parlors and the building it occupies are owned by a corporation named Marble Monuments. Here’s the list of officers and stockholders.”

McFate scribbled the names on a sheet of yellow paper, then he said, “Don’t go away yet, Dinny. One more thing. I want the same stuff on Memorial Mortuary.”

“Just a minute.” Just a minute elapsed. “You’re a fine boy for coincidences, Tom. Marble Monuments also owns Memorial Mortuary. And one of the stockholders is asterisked here in the records — let’s see — yes, as the managing director of Memorial.”

“What’s his name, Dinny?”

“Ronald Padgett. I’ve seen his name in the funeral news.”

“So have I,” said McFate. “Thanks, Dinny. I’ll go your bail someday.” A moment later he hung up and turned to Damroth. “It’s a Combination deal all right, Doc. This list of officers and stockholders contains the names of some of the shadiest characters in the state. Two of them have been arrested a dozen times but never convicted.”