Rumba To A GraveBy John Fredericks
Young and handsome Cipriano Castillo often stopped at the bar of the Alma Latina in Houston for a glass of sherry. But this particular Sunday night was to be his last visit there, or at any other bar. For deep in the shadows of Navigation Avenue, just across from the popular resort, lurked a phantom figure. One of his hands cupped a pair of girl's dancing slippers, and these had something to do with his sinister mission that night. The other hand gripped a deadly .38 automatic. This, too, had even more to do with his mission. The bullets in that .38 were destined to end the career of Cipriano Castillo as a clever dancer and an irresistible ladies' man.
Castillo poured himself a drink, sipped it, and walked over to put a coin in the juke box. The phantom figure across the street watched the young Latin's every move; watched him as he came back to the bar and had another sherry; watched him as he tossed a couple of coins on the bar; watched him as he started out to the street.
As Cipriano Castillo stood framed in the doorway two shots rang out in the night. The young dancer staggered, lurched across the sidewalk, and fell face forward on the sidewalk.
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As Cipriano Castillo stood framed in the doorway two shots rang out in the night. The young dancer staggered, lurched across the sidewalk, and fell face forward on the sidewalk. |
Then the sound of running feet, fading away, fading away . . .
Immediately the street became alive. The bartender in the Alma Latina grabbed the phone and notified police headquarters. "It's a shooting," he said. "Navigation and Seventy-fifth Streets. Better bring an ambulance.
Word was flashed to the homicide squad, where Lieutenant W.P Brown dispatched Detectives Breck Porter and Frank McCurry to the scene. The Police teletype rapped out the staccato message to all precincts. Patrol cars were alerted via radio. Sirens screamed. An ambulance sped out of nearby Jefferson Davis Hospital. Quickly there converged upon the East Side spot a legion of ace investigators, uniformed officers and medical men.
Cipriano Castillo lay in a wide pool of his own blood. Circled about him were more than a hundred persons who had been attracted to the scene by the sound of shots. His shirt was crimson from two bullet wounds in his chest.
"Still breathing," the ambulance intern told the detectives. "We'll rush him to the hospital."
Porter and McCurry assigned an officer to ride along and stay near the victim in case he recovered sufficiently to talk. Then they asked if anybody had witnessed the shooting.
Word was flashed to the homicide squad, where Lieutenant W.P Brown dispatched Detectives Breck Porter (R) and Frank McCurry (L) to the scene. |
A sailor who identified himself as Robert Rhode, 32, a wireless operator aboard a vessel called the Oceanic, stepped forward.
"I was coming up on the other side of the street," this man said. "The gunman was on that side. He ran to the center of the street and fired twice as a good-looking young fellow came out from the bar. The young fellow was slender and graceful, I noticed. Then the shots came, and the young fellow took a few staggering steps forward, almost like he was doing a rhumba."
Port nodded grimly. "It'll turn out to have been a rhumba to the grave, I'm afraid. Which way did the gunman run?"
"Did you see his face?"
"Sorry. I didn't. I was coming from the east. I saw him toss something near the body; but that's all. I'd say he was five feet ten, maybe weighed a hundred and sixty, and wore a gray hat and suit. Nicely dressed. If you're wondering why I didn't give chase, I'll remind you that he had a smoking gun in his hand."
"You say he tossed something near the body," Detective Porter reminded him. "Any idea what it was?"
The sailor shook his head. "It looked like a pair of shoes."
McCurry said he hadn't seen anything like that near the body when they arrived.
Another man spoke up. "I'm Clyde Wallgren," he began. "The wounded man is Cipriano Castillo, a dancer in the floor show at the Latin Quarter night-club, two blocks down the street. I own it."
A patrolman interrupted. He had two .38-caliber cartridges in his hand. "Found these near the middle of the street," he said.
Detective Porter wrapped the cartridges in a handkerchief and put them in his pocket. He asked Wallgren to wait a minute. Then he turned to the others in the crowd.
"Did anybody see a pair of shoes or anything else near the body?" he asked.
Nobody spoke up.
The detective looked at Rhode. "Funny," he said, "that a pair of shoes, or whatever it was, could disappear right under your eyes."
The bartender from the Alma Latina said he hadn't seen any shoes. "The guy who got shot made it a habit to stop in every night for a drink just about the same time," he volunteered. "I had an idea he was in show business by the way he was dressed."
This man hadn't seen the gunman.
The detectives lined all the witnesses up and frisked them for extra shoes or anything else suspicious, but found nothing.
"All right," Porter said to a patrolman, "take down all their names. Make'em identify themselves. Somebody's trying to pull a fast one. If the wound man dies, we'll have a murder case on our hands. We'll pull every one of these people in for questioning. They'll talk then."
While this was being done the two detectives walked two blocks to the Latin Quarter with Wallgren, the owner. The show was on; so the three took seats out front.
"Tell us everything you know about Castillo," McCurry said.
"Well," the showman began, "his people live in Chicago. That's where he joined us. He's twenty-six.
| Cipriano Castillo as a clever dancer and an irresistible ladies' man |
A mighty nice kid. A wow with the women. The girls can't keep their hands off him.
"That means he could have plenty of jealous boy-friends on his neck?" Porter suggested.
Wallgren nodded. "You probably didn't get a good look at him in the dark there," he said, "but Castillo was tall and dark, and maybe too handsome. That, combined with the fact he was a very graceful dancer and made a profession of it made him a favorite with the ladies. Some dance experts who caught the show from time to time predicted he's go places, with his talents. Poor kid! He must have stepped on somebody's toes"
"What about girl-friends?"
The night-club owner said that young Castillo played the field. "Lately it's been Janet Parker," he added, pointing out a curvaceous blonde number in the frontline of the dancing chorus.
The girl seemed aware they were talking about her. She missed a step just as the act ended.
Porter and McCurry asked a few more questions and then Wallgren ushered them back to the girls' dressing room. It was too crowded there to talk, so the club owner gave them his office to question the Parker girl in.
Janet was obviously nervous. The first thing she asked was, "How's Cippy?"
Porter said he didn't know. "Blood transfusions might save him," he said. "We'll know about that later. Now, tell us what you know. Where were you when your boy friend was shot? Anything you think important."
The blonde said she was in the dressing room of the Latin Quarter when she heard about the shooting. "Some of the other girls hadn't returned yet," she told the detectives. "They came in and told me about it. I was going out to see for myself, but they said an ambulance had taken Cippy to the hospital. The show was about to start. You understand how that is."
Porter said he wasn't sure he did. "One of the witnesses thinks the gunman threw a pair of shoes near the body," he told her. "But we couldn't find'em. Know anything about that?"
The girl shook her head. "Cippy played around a lot," is all she said.
After that the detectives questioned the other members of the troupe without learning anything new. Then they decided to go to the hospital and find out how Castillo was making out.
Doctors there said that the wounded man was in a bad way. "We've given several blood transfusions already," the physician in attendance said. "One lung got it bad. Plenty of blood lost. We'll do everything we can to save him. But don't expect too much."
The patrolmen assigned to the hospital continued to stand by. Porter and McCurry headed back for the station house for a talk with Lieutenant Brown.
On the way they dropped the two empty .38 cartridge shells in the Identification Bureau for Captain Edward Moellering to go to work on the first thing Monday morning.
Lieutenant Brown listened to the detective's story and then told them to knock off and get some sleep. "Captain Seber'll probably put you on this case full time if Castillo dies," he said. "Better rest while you can.:
The following morning the head of the Homicide Bureau looked over their report, saw the seriousness of the wounds and decided that it was only a matter of time until the shooting became a full fledged murder investigation.
Captain Moellering went to work on the cartridge shells along with two slugs taken from the victim's body.
This Castillo will probably never live to tell us his story," Detective Porter said to McCurry. "Even if he does regain consciousness the odds are that he didn't see his assailant in that dark street. The other members of the troupe aren't talking. We'll have to question everybody in the neighborhood."
McCurry agreed. "There was no attempt at robbery," he said, "simply a shooting, something thrown near the body that disappeared immediately, and a victim who was a ladies man. Let's see how many of the showgirls Castillo dated and throw a few scares around. Maybe that's get results.
A few people near the Latin Quarter had seen the dancer around because the show had been in town for more than tow months. Nobody, however, knew anything definite about him. The people at his hotel said he made a lot of telephone calls and was seen with different women. That was all.
Porter and McCurry kept in touch with the hospital, but there was no news from that end.
When the first show went on at the Latin Quarter Monday night the two detectives were out front. Both of them were playing a hunch that the solution would be round right on Castillo's home grounds.
As the singers and dancers went through their acts, they eyed the homicide squad men nervously. Monday night is slow, anyway, and the few customers saw a pretty ragged show.
Halfway through the performance Porter nudged McCurry. "See the girl on the end?" he said. "Notice her shoes. They're different from those worn by the others.
The second detective nodded. "Wait till it's over. We'll get her name and ask her a few questions."
Owner Wallgren came over to their table and Porter asked the end-girl's name.
"That's Mary Phillips," the night-club man answered. "If I'm not very much mistaken, she's dated Castillo in the past."
Told about the difference in shoes he said: "That's not too unusual. Maybe Mary has the others in the repair shop. This isn't Broadway, you know."
He let the detectives use his office to question Mary Phillips. They had talked with her the previous night of course, but this time they had a slight clue to work on.
The showgirl first feigned ignorance of anything to do with Cipriano Castillo. "Sure, I went with him once in a while," she said. "When a troupe's traveling around it's just like one big family. People outside of show business wouldn't understand."
Detective McCurry motioned to her shoes. "How does it happen," he asked, "that all the other girls are wearing blue dancing slippers and yours are green?"
The girl didn't seem too surprised at the question. She looked down them and said: "That's simple. Somebody liked my blue ones well enough tosteal them. These green ones are the ones we all used before Wallgren told us to get blue ones. We buy our own costumes, you know.
Porter asked, "How long ago did this happen?"
"Just a couple of days ago."
"Didn't you hear about something being thrown near Castillo's body?" McCurry asked. "Something like a woman's shoes?"
The showgirl bit her lip. "Yes," she answered. "I knew about that, but I was very upset last night. Cippy was a swell guy. I wasn't thinking about shoes when I heard he'd been shot. I'd have told you about it if I'd thought it was important."
Detective Porter told her that was quite an oversight. "If this man dies the whole troupe is going to be under suspicion," he added. "Now collect your thoughts. Tell us anything else you should - right now."
Mary Phillips stared to speak, and then stopped. After a long silence she said; "All right. You'll find it out sooner or later anyway." She took a long breath before adding. "I was married to Cippy once, but we're divorced."
"Now we're getting somewhere," McCurry said.
"Not so fast!" Mary Phillips snapped. "There was never any real trouble between us. Cippy was young, and so was I. We made a simple mistake. I oke good times, and so does he. We broke up, but we're still good friends..
"Divorce and bullets sometimes go together," Porter told her. "Who's your current boy-friend?"
The showgirl didn't want to say. Finally she gave in. "Joe Martinez," she admitted. "But he couldn't have had anything to do with this. He's been in San Antonio for days. Anyway, he's not the type."
The officers didn't have to be told about Joe Martinez. He was well known in the night-club circles as a big-shot gambler, ladies' man and owner of the Casa Loma Club.
As the detectives turned these thoughts over in their minds, the girl talked more. "I don't know a thing about that shooting," she said, "but if I were a cop and I wanted to know who pulled the trigger I'd look into Janet Parker's boy-friends."
"Why?" asked Porter.
"Because Cippy's been running around with her," the girl stated flatly. "And she's plenty sought after."
The detectives weren't surprised. "You're a smart girl," Mccurry told her. "Telling us these facts now will save you a lot of trouble later."
They sent her back to the dressing room.
"Let's tail this Parker girl tonight," Porter suggested. "If there's a boyfriend waiting for her we might have something."
McCurry agreed. "You do that," he said, "and I'll look into the Martinez angle. Maybe he's in San Antonio and maybe he's holed up in this town somewhere."
As the last show ended and time had been allowed for the girls to dress, Detective Porter was standing in the same shadows where the gunman had stood the previous night. The customers filed out, and finally the girls. Most of them got in cabs.
Janet Parker was the last one out. She looked around as though expecting someone. Then a cab pulled up and she got in. Porter saw a man's silhouette inside.
He followed close behind in another cab.
For a while it looked like they were given him the run-around, but then their cab stopped in front of a hotel smack in the heart of Houston. The man who got out answered the description furnished by Sailor Rhode the previous night.
Porter didn't hesitate. He jumped out of his cab and confronted the couple. "Pretty quick to forget Castillo arent' you?" he snapped at Janet.
The startled girl put her hand to her mouth. Her escort demanded to know what it was all about.
"Just a little shooting that took place last night," the detective told him. "Maybe even murder. We want to talk with you at headquarters."
The girl came along. Detective McCurry was waiting there. "Martinez is apparently out of town," he said to Porter on the side. "At least that's what his employees at the club claim."
The man taken in with Janet Parker gave his name as Joseph Rocco. He was about five feet then inches tall, weighed around 160 and was wearing a gray hat and suit. And he didn't lose his calm just because detectives had picked him up for questioning.
"You can check what I tell you," he said. "I've dated Janet on and off ever since she blew into town with the Latin Quarter show. Last night I had dinner at the Club Madrid. I was with a party of friends and I didn't leave the place until after one o'clock. You've got nothing one me."
The first part of Rocco's story stood up. The bartender at the Club Madrid knew him well and said he had been there all Sunday evening.
Just for luck the detectives searched his hotel room. They found a .38 caliber gun. That's when they put Mr. Rocco in a cell for the night and turned the weapon over to Captain Moellering for ballistics comparison with the shells and slugs. Janet Parker left police headquarters in tears.
Constant checking at the Jefferson Davis Hospital assured Porter and McCurry that they were eventually going to have a murder case on their hands. "We're doing everything possible," the doctors told them, "buy this man's a goner. It's merely a matter of time."
The two homicide men conferred with captain Seber and Lieutenant Brown after each development.
At one such conference Captain Seber said; "Why not try to find some local girls that this Castillo dated? Ask them about him. They'll be more likely to talk than the showgirls."
Porter and McCurry combed the bars again. There were plenty of gay girls who had been willing to help them in the past. Maybe this would be an angle.
Several knew Cipriano Castillo casually, but for the most part none had dated him. It was not until the investigators got around to Joe Martinez club, the Casa Loma, that anything developed.
Two cocktail-sippers there shook their heads at all questions, but when Porter and McCurry left, these girls followed outside.
"You guys nuts?" one of them asked. "That's Martinez place. We couldn't talk in there, even if we knew where the hot gun is."
"Do you?" Porter asked.
"No," the girl replied. "But I'll tell you that we were drinking with a fellow the other night whose lips got loose after a few. He said he was almost a witness to the shooting. Claimed he was coming up Navigation from the east and almost ran smack into a guy running just after the shots were fired. Maybe it was the liquor talking; but, Mister, I'd sure have a talk with that guy!"
The girl gave the man's name as William Elliott and told the detectives where he usually hung out. Porter and McCurry went there immediately.
Elliott was evasive at first. "I could be wrong," he conceded. "First place it was dark. Maybe I shouldn't have shot my big mouth off."
Porter told him to forget about being wrong. "We've got practically nothing to go on," he said. "Did you see this guy's face?"
"Yes," Elliott admitted. "He was a Latin of some sort. And he had a cute little mustache."
"You're coming to headquarters and have a look at out photo files," McCurry told him. "This is the hottest lead we've had yet."
This was done, but it didn't get the investigators anywhere, because Elliott couldn't find a single mug that matched the man he had seen running from the scene.
"How long have you been around here?" Porter asked him.
"Only a short while," was the reply. "I don't' know many people."
The detectives let him go reluctantly, after telling him not to make any out-of-town trips without their permission. "You saw the guy," McCurry stated flatly. We'll use you before this case is closed."
Captain Moellering's report on the gun found in Joseph Rocco's hotel room was disappointing.
"The thirty-eight bullets were not fired from this weapon," the ballistics man said. "Sorry, but that's what the comparison shows."
There was nothing for Porter and McCurry to do but order Rocco's release. The Club Madrid people remembered he had been in there Sunday night, and the ballistics report was in his favor.
Tuesday passed. So did Wednesday. Cipriano Castillo didn't get any worse, and he didn't get any better. Porter and McCurry worked 12 hours a day and they didn't get anywhere.
"If we could only clear up the mystery about those shoes," Porter said on Thursday. "Somebody's holding out. Leather doesn't' vanish in thin air."
That night they went back to the Latin Quarter and watched the show. A few more days and it would move on to New Orleans with Cipriano Castillo still in the hospital and the mystery of the shooting as baffling as ever.
Right smack in the middle of a number Porter grabbed McCurry's arm. "Take a gander at Mary Phillips' shoes!" he said.
The detective saw what his partner meant. There was no difference between hers and the others now. They were all blue.
"Either that gal's giving us the run around or something's happened since we talked with her last," McCurry said.
After the show Mary Phillips was questioned again.
"Looks like the little blue shoes found their way home," Detective Porter said when they were alone with the girl.
The dancer forced a smile. "I don't think anybody stole them at all," she said. "I just overlooked them before. Then I found them again."
"Let's see'em," McCurry ordered.
When Mary Phillips took the shoes off and handed them to the detective, they saw the initials "MPC" marked in both.
"That's for Mary Phillips Castillo," she hurried to explain. "Cippy gave them to me just a short time ago. Of course we're divorced and he had no right putting his name along with mine, but that's the way he wanted it."
"Just who was you current boyfriend, Cippy or Joe Martinez?" Porter asked.
The girl started to get sore. "Look," she said, "I'm leveling with you guys. I work in the same show with Cippy. I've nothing against the boy except I don't want him for a husband. Joe Martinez is my friend too. If you've got anything on any of us, why don't you pull us in?"
McCurry looked her in the eye. "Somebody's going to be pulled in fast," he said.
And then they left.
"Let's give this Martinez a little of our valuable time," Porter said. "The last time I saw him he didn't have a mustache, but it wouldn't take a he-man like him long to grow one."
Joe Martinez wasn't to be found at the Casa Loma, so the two investigators went to his apartment. The housekeeper let them in without any trouble. "Mr. Martinez has been gone since Friday night," this woman told the officers. "Said he'd be in San Antonio a week or more. Lining up a show, I think."
McCurry asked if he owned a gun.
The housekeeper shrugged. "I wouldn't know," she said.
"Well, if he was returning in a week that's about up," Porter reminded her. Then he thought of the mustache. "Has your boss grown a mustache recently?"
The woman said he had. She smiled and added. "Not a real one. Just one of those French things."
The detectives thanked her and left.
Friday and Saturday were spent trying to check on the club owner in San Antonio, but police there couldn't locate him.
"My hunch is he's been right here in Houston holded up all this time," Porter said late Saturday night.
On Sunday morning word came in from the hospital that Cipriano Castillo had died during the night. He had never regained consciousness.
Captain Seber made a trip down to headquarters to tell Porter and McCurry to find Joe Martinez fast. "Tail his co-workers here," he ordered. "Those guys don't let themselves get out of touch with things. They can't stay away from telephones."
A dozen officers were detailed to watch the Casa Loma Club and other hangouts frequented by Martinez.
"What if we're on a wild-goose chase?" Porter said to McCurry. "Just because the guy's got a mustache is no sign he's a killer."
"I'm working on the theory that those shoes have something to do with this," McCurry answered. "Don't ask me now, but I'll bet my badge they fit in some place."
The careful trailing paid off late Sunday night.
It was Porter himself who saw one of the Casa Loma boys go to a telephone booth and make a call. He sidled into the booth next to it and listened. The detective was puzzled at first because no call was made. Then pretty soon the phone rang. The Martinez worker answered with a "Hello, Joe?"
The detective let him talk and nabbed him when he came out. "Where's Martinez?" he demanded.
The Casa Loma man now realized that the detective had heard what was said. "I don't know," he protested. "Joe was calling from a pay booth in San Antonio. He'll be back tomorrow.
"So will Little Red Riding Hood!" Porter snapped.
Then he pulled the man back into the booth and told the operator he was a policeman and to trace the call pronto.
Just as the detective thought, the call had been made, not from San Antonio, but from 2917 Harrisburg.
Porter turned the Casa Loma man over to a patrolman to be taken to headquarters, and then he contacted Lieutenant Brown and McCurry.
Minutes later they were headed for the Harrisburg address. Two police cars were right behind them.
It was midnight when the officers arrived; and there was only one light burning in the house. Porter and McCurry detailed the other men to cover all entrances. They took the front themselves. They didn't ring, but went straight in, guns in hand.
"We've got you covered, Martinez!" they shouted through the darkness. "Come out with your hands high!"
But there wasn't a sound anywhere.
Porter reached the door where the light was, and kicked it in with one broadside of his foot. Joe Martinez was standing there in his silk pajamas.
"You guys are all wrong," he protested politely.
McCurry threw the bed mattress back. There was a .38.
"Alibi yourself out of this," the detective said, "and we'll admit you're a bright boy."
Back at headquarters Captain Seber and Lieutenant Brown were waiting. The four detectives say Martinez down and outlined their case. "We've got you dead to rights," Porter told him. "And when Captain Moellering compares your gun with the two shells and slugs he has, we won't need any explanation."
"And a man saw you running down Navigation," McCurry added. "He didn't just get a glancing view. He saw you good. He'll pick you out of a lineup fast."
The Casa Loma Club owner looked first at one detective and then at the others. "Sure, I shot him," he said at last. "The guy wasn't satisfied with one or two girls. That guy had to have'em all. First he was married to Mary. Then de ditched her for Janet Phillips. So he cools off on this last one and starts back in with Marty. I'd moved in, and it so happens Mary's my type. Then this Cippy starts giving her presents. He gave her those shoes with his last name initialed next to hers. I saw he was going to get her back, so I swiped the shoes out of Mary's dressing room and threw them at him after I shot him."
When Martinez paused, Porter asked: "Who picked the shoes up at the scene of the crime?"
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The confessed killer shrugged, "That's one place I made a mistake," he said. "I hired a guy to be on the spot. Well, he was there and he got the shoes. The trouble is, he didn't put'em back in Mary's room until three days later. I guess he got cold feet. I shouldn't have thrown those shoes on the body."
Joe Martinez was charged with murder in Justice of the Peace Thomas M. Maes' court early Monday morning, just one week after the shooting. A few days later a Harris County Grand Jury indicted him for the murder of Cipriano Castillo.
Joe Martinez This murder occurred on Sunday, September 25, 1949. Story published in Crime Detective Magazine, February, 1950. |
