Macon Magazine

It’s May 7, 1923. Macon’s Centennial Celebration is about to commence. Tomorrow hundreds of locals will

 perform in the ambitious Centennial Pageant chronicling the city’s first 100 years. An audience of thousands is expected. Young Stribling, Mamie Tiller and Horatio Broome, back on the case of the murder of Abbey Walker and the disappearance of Earl Metcalf, have just made a break in the case: The burly World War veteran, Buster Marque, has been implicated by one of Metcalf’s fellow workers at the Payne Cotton Mill.

CHAPTER SIX
THE RIVER GIVES UP ITS SECRETS

“I just knew that dirty rat had something to do with it!” exclaimed Horatio.   The young reporter leaned over the front seat of Strib’s touring car. Mamie Tiller’s hair whipped in the wind as Strib raced down Vineville Avenue.

“Take us straight to the Chronicle, Strib. I’ve got to tell Wakefield the news!” shouted Horatio.

The trio wound through the streets of downtown Macon, arriving at the Chronicle still fueled by the knowledge of Marque’s involvement. They hopped out of the car once it stopped and raced into the Chronicle building and down the hall toward Wakefield’s office.

Broome burst into his editor’s office with Strib and Mamie in tow. “You’re not going to believe this, Mr. Wakefield. We just had a break in the Abbey Walker case! All signs point to Buster Marque!”

“Slow down Broome,” counseled Wakefield. “Slow down and tell me what’s happened.”

“Strib, Mamie and I went to the Payne City mill to talk with some of Metcalf’s co-workers, and a reliable source there told us that Metcalf was running a gambling ring and Marque was working as his muscle. That explains everything! Marque must have taken out Metcalf so he could keep all the money for himself. Every time I’ve asked him about Metcalf, he’s gone berserk and taken a swing at me. It was Marque! We have to break this story immediately.”

“Whoa! Easy there, Broome. We have to do no such thing. Marque may be involved, but there’s no proof of murder here. It’s not the Chronicle’s job to speculate on such matters. I suggest you take this bit of news to Police Chief Garland. And keep your head, son. I still need you to report on the Centennial Pageant.”

At these words, Horatio balled up his fists, thrust them in his coat pockets, and scowled.

“He’s right, Horrie,” said Strib. “Come on. Let’s go about this right, whaddaya say?”

When the trio arrived at the police precincts, Horatio had lost none of his urgency or persistence.
“We need to see Chief Garland immediately!” he demanded, banging his fist on the front desk.
Seeing the perturbed look on the clerk’s face, Strib and Mamie took a more tactful approach.

“Sir, we apologize for our friend’s directness,” interjected Strib, “But we have some very important news to share with Chief Garland.”

“Yes sir,” added Mamie, wide-eyed. “We have news regarding the murder of Abbey Walker and the disappearance of Earl Metcalf.”

Inside the head man’s office, the police chief listened carefully before speaking.

“Well that hardly indicts Marque, but it is the best lead we’ve had in a long time. I’ll get someone on it immediately.”

The Telltale Monogram

After supper at the Tillers’ boarding house on Telfair Street, Broome found Mamie sitting on the porch swing, looking glum. As tall as Honest Abe himself, he stood over her, hands on his hips, and fired the question he had wanted to ask across the supper table.

“OK, Miss Grouch, just what did I do to deserve your displeasure?”

Two tears rolled down Mamie’s cheeks, and the sight of them erased Broome’s anger like magic. Poor little girl, he thought. She’d been through so much it was no wonder she was snappish.

Overcome with remorse, he dropped onto the swing beside her and gathered her in his long arms, his former shyness completely forgotten as he lavished tiny kisses over her face and hair.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispered between kisses. “My darling girl, please don’t cry. You can’t imagine how much I care for you.”

She let out a sigh and he felt her whole body relax as she nestled against his shoulder.

“Oh, Horrie, you don’t know how hard it’s been not to pretend I haven’t fallen for you. I was afraid you thought of me as just a stupid little dope.”

Before he could protest, she sat up straight and remarked, “What on earth is that awful noise?”

From beneath the porch came the sound of cloth ripping, accompanied by an animal’s growls.

Broome stood up just as a large dog emerged from under the front steps, baring its teeth at the sight of Horatio. No doubt it was one of the strays that regularly raided the garbage cans behind the boarding house. The brute began backing onto the lawn, dragging a cloth bag from which something dangled. It looked like a shirt sleeve.

Broome advanced down the stairs, waving his arms and shouting. The mutt bared his teeth again, but dropped the bag and ran off down the street.

“Look at this, Mamie,” Broome called excitedly, as he pulled a man’s shirt, suit, handkerchief and tie from the bag.

Mamie ran down the porch steps and crouched beside him, fingering the fabric. “Mmmmm, this is expensive stuff,” she said. “That tie’s pure silk, the coat is tweed, and the wool in these pants… just feel how soft it is.”

She reached for the still-folded handkerchief. “Linen,” she said breathlessly. “And, Horrie! Look!”

In one corner was an embroidered monogram: E.C.M. “Oh, my God!” Mamie exclaimed in a hoarse whisper. “Earl Metcalf. Horrie, these must be Earl’s clothes - he must be dead!”

But Broome was staring raptly at the rough bag in his hand. “Mamie, this looks like the croker sack your father was carrying the night he was so drunk, the night we met him on the bridge with Strib. But why would your father carry a dead man’s clothes around in an old sack?”