by Jada M Davis
“Sorry,” Halliday said. “I just want you to know I won’t be a party to violence.”
“Understood.”
“When does Barrick’s paper come out?” Ree asked.
“He’ll get out an extra on this thing if I know him,” Halliday answered.
“Maybe I can stop that, anyway.”
“How?”
“Well, if I can find him he’ll jump me sure as shootin’, and we can haul him in for assaulting an officer and resisting arrest.”
“Too risky,” Halliday said. “There might be witnesses, and he might kill you. Or you might kill him. No, I don’t want you two clashing. We’ll have to think of something else.”
“He won’t kill me, and I sure as hell won’t kill him.”
“What makes you think he’ll jump you, Ree? He’s no fool.”
“No, he’s no fool, but he’s mad. He hates my guts. Swing and a nurse at the hospital saw him trying to start trouble with me last night. He used what you could call abusive language. He made threats.”
“And he spit in your face,” Swing said.
“And he spit in my face.”
“In that case,” Halliday said, “my advice is to find him. At once.”
“Where?”
“Newspaper office, on the streets, at home. How should I know? Just find him.”
“Come on,” Swing said. “He’ll be on the street or in a café. We’ll find him.”
Halliday stopped them at the door. “Be as tactful as humanly possible,” he said. “And remember, he’s not to be hurt.”
“Just mussed up a little,” Ree said. “That’s all.”
Ree grinned at Swing’s mocking mutter, “Be as tactful as is humanly possible,” as they left the Hall.
“That’s what the man said!”
“It’s too late for tact!”
“Look who’s talking now,” Ree laughed.
“Well, I don’t say the guy should be harmed. You’re the one started all this, but it’s gone too far!”
“What would you suggest?”
“Someone’s calling you,” Swing said, pausing.
It was Pounds, on the Hall steps, yelling and motioning.
They went back.
“Telephone,” Pounds said. “I thought I’d better stop you.”
“Is that all?”
“Well, I—”
“Never mind. Thanks.”
Ree picked up the receiver.
“Is this the chief of police?” a woman’s voice said. An old woman’s voice.
“Yes, it is.”
“This is Mrs. Larrimore.” The old voice cracked and quavered.
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Larrimore?”
“I’m calling about Mr. Lemuelson’s things. I want to know what I should do with them.”
“Lemuelson?”
“Yes, Mr. Lemuelson. I had to rent the room, you see. Not that he ever stayed here, that is, but he had his things here, you know, and now I don’t know what to do with them.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Well, I have to rent the room, you see. Though I did intend to wait until the end of the month because his rent was paid until the first, you know, and it wouldn’t be right to rent it to anyone else before that time. Don’t you agree?”
“I don’t know. I don’t—”
“Well, I just want to know what to do with his things. Mr. Barrick took the diary, of course, but I guess you know all about that because he said you told him to take it.”
“No.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Did you say diary?” Ree asked, his voice thin and high.
“Yes. Yes, I did.”
He began to sweat. A drop trickled along the side of his nose.
Somebody pulling his leg, maybe.
Barrick.
Barrick had cooked up this deal, but it wouldn’t get him anywhere.
“Did you say Mr. Barrick took the diary?”
“Yes, he said you told him it would be all right. Of course, if I did wrong—”
“Cliff Barrick?”
“Yes, that nice boy with the newspaper. Was it all right?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what this is all about. Who was this Lemuelson?”
“Oh! You surely know! This is Chief Ree, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but I don’t know any Lemuelson.”
“But, Mr. Ree, you’re the one. Well, you shot—Mr. Lemuelson.”
Baldy! Diary? Baldy’s diary? Ree thought wildly.
“Mr. Ree?” The old voice was evil, whispery evil and mocking. “Are you there, Mr. Ree?”
“Yes, I’m still here. I’m sorry, Mrs. Larrimore. I understand now, of course. It’s just that I didn’t know Baldy’s real name.”
“I see, Mr. Ree. And what am I to do with his things?”
“Hold on to them. I’ll be there to examine them today.”
“Did I do right about the diary? Letting Mr. Barrick have it, I mean?”
“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Larrimore. He didn’t have my permission.”
“But he said—”
“It isn’t your fault, Mrs. Larrimore.” Butter up to her. Soft soap the old crow.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Now, if you’ll give me your address?”
“Oh, I forgot. You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Ree.”
“Quite all right.”
“It’s at the end of Oak Street. You cross the railroad track and turn left, and it’s the last house on the road. I’m off the pavement out here—in the country, really. But you can find it, I’m sure. You go right along beside the railroad track until you reach the old covered well, and the white house with the red roof is my place.”
Well, covered well, but no old oaken bucket the moss covered bucket but the well where he’d intended to dump Wesley’s body.
The phone was hot to his hand, hot to his ear, and his breath came in gasps.
Diary?
Well, hell.
“Mr. Ree?”
It wasn’t true.
“Yes, Mrs. Larrimore. I just wrote down the directions. I’ll see you sometime today.”
“All right, Mr. Ree. Good-by.”
“Good-by.”
Hands, stop trembling.
He found Swing in the car. He slid under the wheel and let his head rest on the back of the seat.
“Ree,” Swing said, “I was just thinking.”
“What?”
“I was just wondering what’s happened to Wesley.”
“What?”
“I was just wondering what happened to the bastard. Left his room, left his clothes, left town. Why?”
“Maybe he’s on a binge.”
“Maybe. But he wouldn’t be likely to leave town. He never has. And they found his car with blood on the seat.”
“He probably had a fight. Or nose bleed. He’ll show up.”
“Maybe so.”
“To hell with Wesley! We’ve got to find Barrick! Where’ll we look?”
“His office, probably.”
“Why there?”
“Well, he’s mad, madder’n all hell, and he’ll be moody and mean feeling. He’ll sit down at a typewriter and froth, that’s what he’ll do.”
“If he’s at his office we’re too late. Once he sits down to a typewriter we’re sunk.”
“He may be in a bar.”
“Let’s look around.”
Ree rubbed his eyes and fingered the stubble on his chin.
Tired, tired, tired.
Tired, and time to blow, far away.
“Ree!”
“What?”
“Look coming down the street!”
It was Barrick.
“It’s him!”
“Yeah.”
“Right in our hands,” Ree said. “I thought he was smarter’n that!”
“Why? It’s a civilized country, or supposed to be. He doesn’t know—”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
Barrick passed the car without seeing them. They watched him go up the Hall steps, pause at the door, and then go inside. They followed.
Barrick was talking to Pounds. They could see him through the glass door. He turned his head. His head came up, and he saw Ree. Swing saw it first, and threw himself to the floor. Barrick had a gun. He could have shot through the glass, but he chose to open the door.
Ree grabbed at the gun on his hip, fumbled.
Barrick opened the door slowly.
Ree crouched as Barrick’s gun came up, tugged at his own .38. Barrick’s gun came up, and Ree beat him to it. He fired.
The roar was deafening.
Barrick’s gun fell to the floor. His right hand went over, quite slowly, to clutch at his left shoulder.
“I could have killed him,” Ree said to the echoing vacuum.
Barrick walked forward.
“Why didn’t you shoot?” Ree asked.
Barrick smiled. “I decided that wasn’t the way I wanted it.”
Ree waved his gun. “Get back.”
Barrick’s left arm dangled. He moved his right hand away from his shoulder and looked at the blood.
Ree looked at the hand, Barrick’s hand. He saw it turn into a fist, veined and hairy, grow bigger and bigger.
It exploded in his face.
“The bastard hit me!”
He was sitting on the floor, shaking his head, spitting blood. Barrick’s blurred figure was there, and Ree raised his gun, but something slammed at his hand and the gun clattered away.
Pain came from nowhere to splatter in his face. Guess the bastard’s kicked me, he thought.
And then he couldn’t see at all, couldn’t feel at all nor hear at all.
Then he could see again. Someone was helping him to his feet. Blood was flowing from his nose, and his lips burned.
“Take me home,” he said.
His voice was thick, blood thick and hoarse.
“I want to clean up,” he said.
Barrick was seated on a bench, his face drawn white and twisted. Pounds and Swing bent over him.
Halliday was standing by the outer door, his hand on the knob.
Ree laughed.
Swing looked up. “What’ll we do with Barrick?”
“Take him to the hospital,” Ree said. “Put a man on him. Don’t let him see anybody or call anybody.”
Barrick looked up. “Call my office,” he said. “Tell them I’ll be away for a while.” He tried to laugh. “Maybe you’d better call my lawyer.”
“Call an ambulance,” Ree said. “The guy’s bleeding.”
Blood stained Barrick’s shirt, oozed between the fingers of his clutching right hand.
“You’d better get out of town, Ree. You’d better go and get down on your knees, or get out of town in a hurry.”
Ree turned away. He bumped into Halliday on the way out.
Chapter Twenty-three
Things were piling up. Luck had been on his side, so far, but things were piling up.
Of course, Baldy’s diary might not mean a thing. Funny to think of Baldy keeping a diary—and funny Baldy would rent a room at the edge of town, so far from town.
Things piling up—and that Barrick punk!
He had a shower as soon as his nose stopped bleeding, and then shaved. His lips were puffed and a couple of teeth were loose and sore. Then he dressed and returned to the office.
“Halliday said call him at his home,” Pounds said.
Halliday must have been waiting by the phone, for he answered immediately. “Ree?”
“Yeah.”
“I saw Arthur Fry again, and he’s been up to talk to the waitress. Her story substantiates yours in every way.”
“Does that end it, then?”
“Unless someone stirs up a stink.”
“Good.”
“Ree, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Where in hell is Wesley?”
“They say he’s on a big drunk,” Ree said. “Somebody found his car out at the edge of town.”
“Well, I guess that finishes Wesley, then,” Halliday said. “He’s done it before, but I warned him. Guess we’ll just have to jump Swing up to captain.”
“That’s what I’d recommend.”
“See to it, then. I’ll see you later. By the way, how’s business?”
“Good,” Ree said. “I’ve been intending to tell you, but things kept piling up. Anyway, our plan will show dividends tonight.”
“Tonight, eh? Fine, fine! See you later.” He hung up.
Things piling up....
Ree’s insides felt tight and coiled, like a spring begging for release.
And he thought, time to blow, go away, come again some other day, time to blow, far away and long ago, to hell away, gone. Time to grab that forty grand and blow.
His lips hurt, his nose hurt, his head hurt. He put his head in his hands and tried to think. How long before they’d know? What’s in Baldy’s diary? Nothing! But where is it now? Cliff Barrick has it— If he has it, there’s nothing in it, or he’d have used it before now. That’s it! That makes sense. But—what about Laura? Does she have the forty grand? And will she talk? That wrapper has Johnson Tool printed on it. She knows I must have taken it. Will she talk? No. She knows. She must know, and she hasn’t talked. She’s had plenty of time, and she hasn’t talked. But she could change her mind.... She won’t talk. If she has the money, she’ll keep it. She’ll try to keep it, but she won’t talk. She’d have to be tamed—again.
“A lady to see you, Chief.”
Ree hadn’t heard Pounds enter and he started at his voice. “Send her in.”
The woman was fat and she waddled. Her face was red and creased, and she had a black mustache, sparsely mottled, above her upper lip.
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m Mrs. Coker,” she said. “I’m Wesley’s landlady.” She giggled. “He’s like a son to me.”
What was she trying to say? Had Wesley returned? The spring, that spring inside him, slipped and threatened to unwind.
The woman continued to speak. Her silly lips moved. Sweat, droplets of sweat, clung to the hairs on her upper lip.
“...so I got worried,” she was saying. “He left without a word and didn’t take any clothes, but when I went in there this morning his dresser drawers were open and clothes were strewn around, and I don’t know whether he’s been back or if someone burglarized his room, you see.”
Wesley was back in town—somewhere in town!
“It must have been Wesley,” he said. “He’s been out of town on a case, an important case, you see, and he didn’t have time to pick up any clothes.”
“But why should he slip in like that?”
The old bat, the damned old bat, he thought, but he said, “He may have passed through town in a hurry, or he may have tailed—trailed—someone here. But, at any rate, he’ll call me today.”
“Oh.” The woman frowned. “Well,” she said, “it was sort of funny and I was in town and thought I’d drop by. How long will he be gone, do you think?”
“He may show up today, or it may be a week.”
“Well, I guess I can wait on the rent.”
He reached for his wallet.
“I’ll be glad to pay his rent, Mrs. Coker.”
She tittered. “That won’t be necessary, unless you’d rather. I guess Wesley can pay you back.”
“Of course. How much is it?”
“Forty dollars a month.”
Ree fumbled through the bills in his wallet, hoping the woman wouldn’t notice his trembling fingers. “Here you are, Mrs. Coker.”
“Thank you, I’m sure.” She waddled out.
And now he had no time to waste, no time at all. Wesley had returned. Right now he was in town, somewhere in town, holed up in a tourist court or at a hotel or in the home of a friend, biding his time, waiting it out.
Ree shrugged.
Well, he’d have to wait and see.
Maybe he could deal with Wesley. Maybe Wesley wouldn’t spill the beans until he’d tried making a deal. Wesley would want the forty thousand. He wouldn’t spill a thing until he’d tried getting his claws on that money.
Ree went into the outer office and said, “I’m going out for a beer, Pounds. Be back after a while.”
“So early, Chief?”
“I need it. I feel like I’ve been run through a sausage grinder.”
“You look it.”
Ree rubbed his fingers across his lips. “Does it look so bad?”
“Nah, I was just kidding. It’s puffed up a bit, but it doesn’t look so bad.”
“I’ll be back in a little while. Oh, I almost forgot. Swing is moving up to captain in Wesley’s place. You’ll take Swing’s job. Arrange the shifts and make the assignments.”
“Gosh,” Pounds said. “What about Wesley?”
“The crud hasn’t considered the department, so he’s out.”
“Good riddance.”
Ree flipped a butt at a cuspidor. “Yeah,” he said. “Good riddance.”
He went over to Main street and ducked into a pool hall. The place was crowded, smoky, stale with wet tobacco drowned in pools of table-top beer, smelly with a urine smell, acrid and evil. Foursomes played dominoes or cards, and pool addicts humped over tables.
Ree shouldered his way to the bar and ordered a beer.
A hand fell on his shoulder. Messner, he thought, turning.
“Hello, Sheriff,” he said.
“Hello, Ree. Had a little trouble, I hear.”
“Too damned much.”
“Trouble always comes in bunches,” the sheriff said. “How’s business?”
“Looks good. We’ll know tonight.”
“How come you got rough with my deputy, Ree?” Messner’s stare was direct. Ree, for a moment, was puzzled, and then he remembered the big deputy and the old Negro woman.
“Oh, that,” he said. “Guess I owe the boy an apology. He was baiting an old woman and it rubbed me the wrong way.”
“It was a Negro woman,” the sheriff said.
“Yeah.”
Messner’s face was expressionless as he stared at his beer. “Say, Ree, there’s something screwy happened.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. We found Wesley’s car out at the edge of town. Blood all over the seat. Where is Wesley, anyway?”
“Wesley’s on a hell of a drunk, the boys tell me.”