Death Wears Pink Shoes

By Robert James

Death Wears Pink Shoes, first published as a Crime Club book in 1952, is a New York City murder mystery. From the book’s synopsis: “The tenants of 17 Crane Street were a highly combustible lot, and when they came together fireworks usually resulted. A lively display was set off one particular night when Mrs. Gladys O’Leary gave a party. They played a game of writing down the names of animals which their fellow residents resembled, and one of the entries was odd. It read ‘something dead.’ Later that night Mr Potterwait was found in his shabby apartment, a bullet through his forehead, and pink ballet slippers wedged awkwardly on his feet.” Police detective Cherney investigates the crime, but the case is not solved until a second murder occurs. Robert James was a pseudonym for author Iris Little Heitner (1910-2003).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phocion Publishing
• Release date: Nov 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781789129342

Robert James

Dr. Robert's life story reads very much like some of his novels. A rock 'n roll run-a-way at thirteen, he has travelled the world extensively in many professions. Blessed with many talents, Dr. Robert spent just over two decades as a performer in the music industry, before becoming an entrepreneur and creator of both audio and video productions. He holds a Bachelors in A/V and a Masters in Science Business Administration. After a major heart attack in 1998, Dr. Robert ceased his business activities, began his current career as a novelist, and also began his Doctorate in Philosophy, which he graduated in 2005 at sixty years of age. Additionally, he holds a 16 year US patent for an 'improved computer game controller', which is soon to be launched. Having started out writing a post-apocalyptic situation comedy series for television, he is now well past his millionth word of fiction.

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© Phocion Publishing 2019, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

DEATH WEARS PINK SHOES

By

Robert James

Death Wears Pink Shoes was originally published in 1952 for The Crime Club by Doubleday & Company, Inc., New York. All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

1 5

2 17

3 28

4 39

5 52

6 64

7 74

8 85

9 95

10 106

11 117

12 127

13 135

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 141

1

Number 17 was shabby, but no more than its mates up and down Crane Street. It stood, tall and somber and faced with faded stone, and it gave the appearance of sagging, as though only the presence of numbers 15 and 19 on either side kept it upright. It was an old street with old houses that had seen more prosperous days, and most of the dwellings had been broken up into apartments. Number 17 was no exception, and it was beneath its frowning countenance that Keith Sherman paused.

He checked the address again, and his eyes strayed up the worn steps to the dusty black door. Somewhere behind it was Uncle Lawson. He was about to mount the steps when a window in the basement apartment opened and a girl stuck her head out.

I can save you a peck of trouble if you’ll tell me what you want. She jerked her head to indicate the building above her. It’s a long haul to the top.

Keith walked over to the iron railing that separated the entrance to her apartment from the street, and studied her a moment before replying. She had light brown hair which was done up in curlers—a fact which did not seem to disturb her at all. Her face beneath it was round and smooth with blue eyes that smiled with her carefully crimsoned mouth.

Thanks, he said at last. ‘Tm looking for Mr. Potterwait. The girl was surprised. Mr. Potterwait? she exclaimed. Why, no one ever comes to see him. She folded her arms. Hell be pleased, she said thoughtfully, and then with sudden suspicion, You’re not a bill collector?"

Keith rested his arm on the railing. Do I look like one? he asked indignantly.

The girl shrugged. They come in all shapes and sizes. Still, Mr. Potterwait should have all his bills paid and the stubs neatly stashed away somewhere. She laughed. He’s such a prim old gent.

Keith straightened. He’s my uncle, he said stiffly.

The girl’s eyes widened. Why didn’t you say so? He isn’t home yet, but you can wait in here. Her head bobbed in and she disappeared.

No, Keith shouted after her. I’ll just leave him a note. He searched his pocket for a card and started scribbling on the back of it.

The girl appeared again at the door. Don’t be stuffy, she said. Your uncle always comes in on the dot of five-thirty, and that will be in ten minutes.

An expression of indecision crossed Keith’s face.

Come on, she urged. You make me hot standing there in the sun.

It was a telling argument—it had been a blistering day—and he followed her in, grateful for the comparative cool of the apartment.

She led him to a large, airy room that looked out on a tiny back garden.

You’re full of surprises, he said. I never expected a garden back here.

She waved him to a chair and went into the kitchen. We’re very proud of that, she called. Although Diana does most of the work on it. There was a slight pause. Diana is my roommate, she explained.

Diana must have a green thumb.

The girl returned with ice water and dropped down carelessly on the couch. Is your name Potterwait too?

Keith spluttered over the ice water. Sherman, he explained hastily. He put the glass down. Here I am partaking of your hospitality and I don’t even know your name.

Sally Trotter. She patted the metal curlers on her head. It’s a silly name, isn’t it?

On the contrary, it rolls comfortably off the tongue. He smiled. You could have been saddled with Potterwait—my mother was.

Sally shook her head. I was thinking of the Sally part—it sounds like somebody in a comic strip. She tapped her lip thoughtfully with one finger. I could always change it like Herman’s girl friend—she was never born Greta.

Keith looked politely puzzled, and glanced secretly at his watch. It was half past five, but how was he going to know when his uncle came in?

—has a girl friend. No, he has several, and all of them have to be seen to be believed, but I think Greta gets the cake.

She looked at him and seemed to expect an answer, so he cleared his throat and said, It seems to me that I’ve seen the name Greta in a comic strip somewhere.

I’ll bet someone cut her out of a comic strip at that, Sally said. She stood up and caught sight of her head in a mirror. When I get married, I must remember never to let my husband see me like this—its most unbecoming.

Keith grinned. If my uncle is as punctual as you say, he must be home. I’ll go up and see.

Sally started taking the curlers out of her hair. If he’s not there come on back—I’ll tell you some more about Herman. He’s a fascinating character.

Keith thanked her and left. The heat outside wrapped itself around him like a soggy blanket, and as he mounted the steps he realized that he still didn’t know which floor his uncle occupied. He stepped into the vestibule and waited for his eyes to accustom themselves to the gloom, and almost immediately a door inside opened and his uncle stepped out.

I saw you outside, he said. Its nice of you to call, Keith. They shook hands, and Mr. Potterwait led his nephew into his apartment. I’ve just the room and bath—I take my meals out. It’s small, but I find it adequate.

Keith’s eyes strayed over the room, and he couldn’t help comparing it with Sally’s attractive living room. Where hers had been careless and comfortable, Mr. Potterwait’s gave the impression of a neat clutter. His furnishings were bare, but his possessions threatened to crowd him out. Keith smiled. The old boy undoubtedly knew exactly what he had and where to find it. It was gloomy—two tall, narrow windows hung with heavy drapes allowed a meager light to trail through, but apparently Mr. Potter-wait’s housecleaning did not extend to them, for the panes were grimy with accumulated dirt.

The two men sat down, and Mr. Potterwait started a pipe. How is Mattie? he asked.

Fine. She wants you to come out for the week end.

Mr. Potterwait sighed. It will be good to have her close by again. I missed her those years she was in Ohio. He glanced at his nephew. But, of course, you did too.

You bet. Keith mopped his damp forehead with a handkerchief. How about it? Will you come? he asked, anxious to be done with his business.

Mr. Potterwait smiled and nodded. Id be delighted, my boy. Tm staying in town—convention—but I’m going home tomorrow. I’ll stop by for you and we can go out together."

The door had been left open in an attempt to catch any passing breeze, and at the sound of footsteps the two automatically peered out into the hall. A woman appeared and as automatically peeked in. Keith’s eyes popped, and he tried to keep his mouth from sagging. She was very tall with flaming red hair that curled up under an enormous cartwheel hat. It was of a bright, turquoise blue with a white veil running noisily over it. The matching blue dress was so tight that it appeared that she must have been poured into it, and the plunging neckline had definitely gone out of bounds. Her sandals were a maze of narrow blue straps with the highest heels Keith had ever seen.

She waved at Mr. Potterwait. Hello, darling. And without waiting for an answer passed on down the hall.

Lawson! Keith exclaimed. Tm surprised at you."

Don’t be absurd, Mr. Potterwait replied angrily. She’s come to see that Blode chap.

Blode? His first name wouldn’t be Herman?

It would, Mr. Potterwait replied. You must have seen his name in the vestibule.

I have more interesting avenues of information. Keith chewed his lip. I’ll go even further. I’ll bet the girls name is Greta.

You seem to know more about her than I do. I have no idea what her name is. Mr. Potterwait stood up with offended dignity.

Don’t take me seriously, Keith said hastily. He stood up too. This is the last night of the convention, so I’d better get going. I’ll see you tomorrow.

Mr. Potterwait nodded. Too bad you’re busy tonight. You could have come to Mrs. O’Leary’s party. He winked. She’d have been pleased. She’s always looking for a young man for her daughter Wanda.

Keith suppressed a shudder. Business before pleasure, he said righteously. He gave his uncle the name of his hotel and left.

Mr. Potterwait knocked out his pipe with a regretful sigh. It was too bad about Keith. He was a personable young man who had done well, and he would have enjoyed taking him to the party. He would have made Gladys’ eyes pop.

He walked over to the daybed and picked up the old black alarm clock from the table beside it. It had been minus a crystal for many years, but it still ticked away faithfully. He frowned. It was getting late, and he must still go out and have his dinner. He took a worn leather change purse from his pocket and opened it to consider its contents. The frown deepened. It was the food—so expensive. He closed the purse with a snap. It didn’t matter-one had to eat. Perhaps when he came back he would change his tie. Something brighter for the party. It would be nice to have a new tie, he thought wistfully. He pushed the extravagant desire away from him. Absurd. He didn’t need one yet.

He meticulously washed his hands and gargled with a little mouthwash—just in case. Even in the summer one could get sick. He picked up his hat and flicked a few specks off it as he stepped out into the hall. No one was around, and he locked the door. He went out, and the heat flashed up at him from the dusty sidewalks. He sighed, settled his hat on his head, and walked sedately down the steps.

There goes old Watterpait—damned if the old goat isn’t late. Usually you can set your clock by him.

I wish you wouldn’t call him Watterpait, Mother. Someday you’ll say it to his face. Wanda flicked a duster ineffectually across the table. I do think you ought to get things ready for the party instead of staring out of that window.

Stop whining, Mrs. O’Leary said without turning her head. Leave it till the last minute and you’ll find things will get themselves done. Besides, I’m not going to make a fuss just for the crumbs that live in this house.

Wanda’s mouth turned down at the corners, and she went on with the dusting. She had colorless brown hair carefully done up in a lot of fussy little curls that were not at all suitable to her long, narrow face with its habitual expression of discontent. She was thin rather than slim, and her clothes always ran to laces and bows.

That’s why I don’t have any boy friends, because you never have things nice like other mothers.

Oh, shut up, Mrs. O’Leary said amiably. You’re almost thirty, and if you don’t have any beaux it’s not my fault. She turned around and looked at her daughter. As a matter of fact, it’s because you have such a corny line.

I suppose you have a better one, Wanda flashed.

Mrs. O’Leary heaved herself up. I’ve been married twice, she said, as though the argument were unanswerable.

Wanda found it so, and vented her temper by taking a vicious swipe at the radio with the duster. You didn’t have to live with yourself and that creep Donny, she said sullenly.

Leave Donny alone.

A slow smile spread over Wanda’s face. You and your darling boy. You think he’s just perfect, don’t you? Well, there are a lot of things you don’t know about Donny. Plenty you don’t know about him. She threw down the duster and walked out of the room.

You talk like a ninny, Mrs. O’Leary said weakly. It was nonsense, of course. Wanda just said those things to tease her, but at the back of her mind was a nagging little doubt. Unconsciously, she dared not question any of Wanda’s ominous insinuations for fear of what she might uncover. Donny was her beloved son, and he must remain nothing less than perfect in her eyes regardless of what the true picture might be.

She followed her daughter out of the room. Why don’t you get dressed now? she said in a conciliatory tone. You’ll have fun tonight—there’ll be men here.

Who? Wanda asked eagerly.

Well, just the house, Mrs. O’Leary admitted. There’s the Millers—that’s Fred—and dear old Mr. Potterwait, and Herman. Wanda sighed. Why couldn’t you have got someone else? She studied herself in the mirror. Is Herman bringing a girl friend?

I suppose so. He always does.

I wonder if he’ll ever marry any of them.

Not Herman. The day they plant him he’ll have a crew of dizzy females hanging over the coffin.

Why is it that the men never want to get married? Wanda asked.

Mrs. O’Leary shook her head. It’s just an act—really they’re always on the lookout for some sucker to take care of them.

I haven’t found it so, Wanda said sourly.

Mrs. O’Leary gave her daughter a smack where it would do the most good. Let’s have some eats before the morons descend on us.

The two women prepared a quick salad and plunked it without ceremony on the table. They were halfway through the meal when Donny came in. He was tall, dark-haired, and gray-eyed, and his sharply cut features ran to straight, rather handsome lines. When good looks had been parceled out to the O’Leary children he had taken the lion’s share, and Wanda had had to be content with the leavings.

Mrs. O’Leary jumped to her feet. Darling, you’re late, but we couldn’t wait with this lousy party coming up. She trotted over to him, but Donny fended her off with one arm.

Please, Gladys, it’s too hot, he said irritably. He sat down at the table and looked with disfavor at the food. Is this all?

I could get you something else, Gladys offered at once.

Donny nodded. Some iced tea. He removed his tie, and as he hung it over the back of his chair his eye fell on Wanda, who was thoughtfully sucking her teeth. Cripes! Will you stop that? I can hear you a block away when you start eating what you’ve lost in your cavities.

Ah, shut up, Wanda said without looking at him.

Children, Gladys admonished, and then to Wanda, You know he’s hot and tired. Do you have to annoy him?

Is it all right if I breathe? Wanda asked. She turned to her brother. Don’t you know anybody at the office that you could bring home?

What for? Donny asked rudely. You’re too thin and Gladys is too fat.

Gladys bustled back with the tea and set it down in front of him. You shouldn’t talk like that, darling. She tugged defiantly at her girdle. Besides, I’m not really fat—a little plump perhaps.

You’re fat, Donny said flatly.

You’re afraid he might cut you out with the girls, Wanda said. You’re going to have a wonderful time tonight chasing after them. She half closed her eyes. Only I don’t think Diana is coming.

Donny looked at her sharply. Who in hell cares? he snapped.

Wanda hooted. You’d love to make time with her if she’d give you a second glance.

Donny sat up and almost knocked over his iced tea. That’s one bitch I’d like to see stretched out with her toes curled up.

Donny just doesn’t like girls, Gladys said hopefully.

I don’t mind girls, Donny said emphatically. It’s the bitches that get me down.

Wanda