“I’m not sure,” I said. “But I think we’ll find Alan Marsten there.”
“You know something?”
“I might. Want to help me take a look?”
“Right!”
He was up and around the desk like a shot. He dropped the cigarette to the floor and covered it with his foot. Then the two of us were out of the building.
“My car’s by the corner—”
“We’ll take mine,” I said. “It moves faster.”
We piled ourselves into the MG. I noticed the gun on his hip on the way and remembered that I had a gun of my own, on my own hip. His was in a holster while mine was tucked under my belt.
I wondered if we’d be using them.
I got the MG going and gave the engine its head. The car picked up quickly and scooted over the road.
“Some car,” Piersall said.
“It’s a good one.”
He was laughing and I looked at him. “Just thinking,” he said. “Just struck me. Wouldn’t it be hell if some dumb son of a bitch of a trooper stopped us for speeding? Wouldn’t it be the thing?”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “They couldn’t catch us.”
I put the accelerator pedal all the way to the floor and left it there.
“Hank Sutton,” I said. “Know anything about him?” We were hitting the outskirts of McNair and I let the MG slow down a bit. The weather was beginning to clear up. I remembered how the weather had matched the miserable mood of the early part of the day. I wondered if the improvement was supposed to be an omen.
“I know he’s a son of a bitch.”
“Is that all?”
“Nope,” he said. “I know he runs everything crooked in this part of the state. And that a lot of people would like to see him in a cell. Or with a rope around his neck. He lives in McNair, doesn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“That where we’re going?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Bill Piersall said. “I’ll be a ringtailed son of a bitch.”
There was something totally disarming about the way he swore. It was almost embarrassing, as it is when you overhear a maiden aunt use a dirty word. It seemed improper, a betrayal of the Scout Law or something of the sort.
“We going up against Sutton?”
“Probably. He’s in this up to his ears.”
“In what?”
“This Marsten mess.”
“Didn’t Marsten kill the gal?”
“No.”
“Son of a bitch,” he said. “Who did? Sutton?”
I said: “I don’t know who killed her. But now Sutton’s going to kill Marsten. Maybe.”
“I don’t get it,” he said, puzzled. I told him that I really didn’t get it myself, not entirely, and that we’d both know a lot more about it in a short enough span of time. This didn’t really satisfy him but it left him without any questions to ask. So he stopped asking questions.
Either I remembered the route Jill and I had taken the night before or the car knew the way all by itself. Whichever was the case, I made the right turns and did the right sort of driving until, all at once, we hit the other side of McNair and Sutton’s large and ancient house came into view. There it was on the other side of the field in front of which Jill had waited just the night before.
We didn’t wait by the field. I pulled the car right into the driveway and hit the brakes hard. We stopped dead just a few feet from the rear of Sutton’s big Lincoln. It was still where it had been the night before.
And a blue Pontiac was parked in front of the house.
“He’s here! I’ll be a son of a—”
But we were in motion before he could get the word “bitch” spoken. We got out of the car and started moving automatically. He was heading for the house’s side door while I went around in front.
“I’d like to get that bastard,” he said. “That Sutton bastard. He’s big but he’s not too big to take down a peg.”
“Well, he’s inside.”
“Yep,” he said. “Maybe he’ll come out.”
He shouted: “Open up, Sutton! Police!”
There was no answer. I tried the door; it was locked. I didn’t bother playing childish games with my German knife this time. I aimed Sutton’s gun at Sutton’s lock and squeezed the trigger. There was an appropriately impressive noise and the smell of burning wood. Then I kicked the door and it swung open.
Piersall was at my side suddenly. Evidently he’d decided to give up the side door approach and join me at the front. He shouted at Sutton again. There was no answer.
We went inside to the vestibule, guns still drawn. I looked up at the flight of stairs that I’d gone up so slowly and silently the night before.
Then I saw motion. I grabbed Piersall and gave him a shove and dove myself for the floor.
A gun went off and a bullet went over our heads.
We crouched on either side of the vestibule archway. Sutton was in the bedroom at the head of the stairs, the room where I had halfway knocked his head in just twelve or thirteen hours ago. He couldn’t come down and we couldn’t go up.
“Must be another staircase,” Piersall was saying. “I’ll go around, see what I can do.”
I shook my head. “No other stairs,” I said. “Not in a house like this one. There’s this staircase and that’s all. He’s stuck up there and we’re stuck down here.”
“We can wait him out. Call back for help, starve him out.” He scratched his head. “Maybe have them drag up some tear gas. That gets ’em every time.”
“On television?” He looked sheepish and I felt ashamed of myself. “Anyway, he’s got the boy. Alan Marsten. He may still be alive but he won’t be unless we get him in a hurry.”
“How?”
It was a bloody good question. On the surface it looked as much like a stalemate situation as anything had ever looked, But there had to be an answer. There were two of us and there was only one of Sutton.
And that should make some sort of difference, a difference in our favor. Two to one is fine odds.
I peered carefully through the archway. His gun went off again and I jerked back. The bullet was a foot off and it still seemed too close.
“He’s got us shut up tight,” Piersall said. “And we got him shut up just as tight.”
I tried to remember back to the night before. Something about his room—
“There’s a porch in back,” I said. “An upstairs porch off the bedroom, a sort of small balcony.”
“There is, huh? You sure?”
“You can see it from the road,” I lied.
“Didn’t notice it,” he said. “What do you figure?”
“You stay here,” I told him. “Don’t let him get out of that bedroom. Take a shot at him every few minutes to keep him sitting up there. I’ll see what I can do.”
“You going up on that porch?”
“I may.”
He whistled soundlessly. “That’s a neat trick,” he whispered. “If he sees you coming—”
“Then I’m dead.”
“You said it. Sure you don’t want to wait him out?”
“We’d wait all day. I’d rather take the chance.”
I took a pot shot at Hank Sutton’s doorway and let the noise of the gunfire cover me while I scurried out of the house like a frightened rabbit. Then I went through the driveway and alongside the house to the back yard. There was a porch off the bedroom. Incredibly enough, you could see it from the road.
The garage contained everything on God’s good earth, with the singular exception of a ladder. I looked around for a ladder until I was convinced it wasn’t there, then backtracked to the house itself again. The garbage cans were arranged in a neat row by the side of the cellar door. If I could haul one close to the porch without Sutton hearing me, and if I could stand on it and reach the porch—
And if wishes were horses.
I hadn’t seen many beggars riding recently. None but Alan Ma
rsten, and he had come riding in someone else’s car. If wishes were Pontiacs—
I found one of the garbage cans, the only one not filled with garbage of one sort or another. I picked it up, first setting the lid in the snow, and carried it over close to the porch. Then I inverted it so that I’d have a surface to stand on and set it down.
It made noise. But at that precise moment one of the men inside the house shot at the other man, and that covered the comparatively small sound of the garbage can. I managed to climb up on top of it, again making a small amount of noise that no one seemed to notice.
Now I could reach the porch.
I found a convenient pocket and dropped Sutton’s gun into it, hoping it wouldn’t go off while I was climbing and shoot a hole in my leg. I reached up and took hold of the edge of the porch floor with both hands, then got one hand onto a bar in the wooden railing. I hoisted myself up partway and saw that I’d gauged things badly. I was climbing up directly in front of the door that opened out onto the porch. If he looked around he would see me. And if he saw me, he would be looking at the world’s most beautiful target since the invention of the bull’s-eye. I had both hands on the damned railing, and if I let go I’d fall on my face.
But there were compensations. This way at least I had the ability to see inside of the bedroom. I took a good look.
Sutton had his back to me. I saw the gun in one of his big hands. He was by the door, ready to squeeze off another shot at Piersall.
Then I saw Alan.
He was not much to look at. He was crumpled up by the foot of the bed and it was impossible to tell whether he was alive or dead. I saw bloodstains—or what looked like them—on the rug. It seemed logical to assume the blood was Alan’s.
I pulled hard with both hands and raised myself a few more feet. I reached for the top of the railing, took hold of it and wondered how strong it was. It was evidently strong enough. I placed both feet on the outer edge of the porch floor and prepared to step over the railing.
A gun went off and I almost fell down again. Sutton jerked his head back—evidently Piersall had squeezed off another shot at him.
I drew a breath. Then I drew my gun, taking it from my pocket and letting my index finger curl around the trigger. I wanted him alive, but it might be hard that way.
I looked at Sutton. He still hadn’t turned toward me, which was ideal. I hoped he wouldn’t.
I succeeded in getting one foot over the rail. I started to bring the other one over to keep it company, then stopped in the middle of the act and poised there like a ballet dancer in the fifth position.
Because Alan Marsten moaned.
The sound was barely audible through the porch door, but it must have been clear enough to Hank Sutton. I stood there posing prettily while he turned around in the direction of the moan. I brought up the gun to cover him.
But he didn’t see me. He was looking at Alan.
Then he turned the gun on Alan. And I realized at once that he was going to eliminate this moaning nuisance, that he was going to shoot Alan dead.
I yelled: “Sutton!”
He whirled at the noise and his gun came up fast, away from the boy and pointed straight at me. I must have fired at about the same time he did, because I heard only one noise. A bullet snapped through the glass door and whined over my shoulder. Another bullet—one of mine—snapped through the door and took him in the center of his big barrel chest.
He grunted. He took one reluctant step backward, and then a big ham of a hand came up to grope around that hole in his chest. It did not do him any good. He backed up again—just a half-step this time—and then reversed his direction, pitching forward onto his face.
And there I was, with one foot on either side of the railing. I reacted very slowly now, almost numb. I picked up the retarded foot and promoted it, lifting it ever-so-gently and leading it over the railing. The porch door was locked so I shot the lock off for the sheer joy of it. The bloody gun was a toy now and I was a child playing games.
I went to the head of the stairs and called for Piersall.
Sutton was stone cold dead. We rolled him over and checked his pulse. We put a shard of broken glass from the porch door first to his nose and then to his mouth. There was no pulse, no heartbeat, and no breath frosted the shard of glass. We let go of him and he fell back down again, staring at the ceiling through empty eyes.
“Pretty shooting,” Piersall said admiringly. “He was going to shoot you, eh?”
“He tried. He was getting ready to put a bullet in the boy. To get him out of the way, I’d guess.”
That reminded us that there was a third person in the room. We turned to Alan. He was conscious, after a fashion. But he had obviously taken a rugged beating. One eye had been hammered shut and his face was caked with blood from nose and mouth. He was missing an occasional tooth and it was an odds-on wager that a few of his ribs were dented.
He said: “—had the pictures.”
I listened to him. We had to get him to a hospital in a hurry, but first I wanted to get everything he had to tell me.
“Thought . . . thought I took them. I didn’t. Came after him to get them. But—”
He stopped, tried to catch his breath by sucking huge mouthfuls of air into his lungs. His good eye closed for a moment, then managed to open.
He said: “Bastard.”
And that was the extent of his conversation. He closed his good eye again and quietly passed out I decided it was his privilege. I didn’t blame him a bit.
“This kid’s got to go to a hospital,” Piersall said. “He took a beating.”
“I know. Is there one nearby?”
“Five miles down the road. Want to give me a hand with him? We better be careful—he’ll have broken ribs and God alone knows what else. We don’t want to make him any worse than he is already, the poor son of a bitch.”
We each took an arm and managed to get Alan to his feet. We walked him over to the stairway, then got him downstairs a slow step at a time.
“Be a son of a bitch,” Piersall said again. The swearing was beginning to sound somewhat more natural now. He was growing into it.
“Got to give that kid credit,” he said. “He went up against a bastard, all right. Sutton can take most anybody. Could, that is. Guess he can’t take anybody now, can he?”
“I guess not.”
“That was pretty shooting,” he told me again. “I was just a damn fifth wheel, wasn’t I? Sitting safe and cozy while you went and climbed right up after him.”
“One of us had to stay there.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I guess.” He bit his lip. “But that was sure nice shooting.”
We carried Alan out of the house and down the walk. He was still unconscious and I hoped he would stay that way until he was in the hospital where a needle of morphine would make things easier for him. Sutton was a professional, and nobody can hand out a beating the way a professional can.
“Hell,” Piersall said. “How we gonna do it?”
“Do what?”
“Take him there,” he said. “Only room for one in that damn MG. One plus a driver, I mean. We can’t stick him in the trunk, can we?”
We rather obviously couldn’t.
“Suppose we could take him in the Pontiac,” he said doubtfully. “But it’s going to be cute enough at the roadblock as she stands. Some of those troopers don’t know me. They’ll give us a hard time if they see the Pontiac.”
“Take the MG.”
“Just me and him?”
“That’s the idea,” I said. “It moves faster, for one thing. For another, you don’t need me along. And you can strap him in with the safety belt That will keep him in place.”
“I never drove one of these,” he said. Then he grinned hugely. “It’ll be fun trying, I guess. She got a regular H shift or what?”
I explained that there were three forward speeds and showed him where each gear was. Then we loaded the still-unconscious form of Alan Marsten in
to the right-hand seat and strapped him securely in place.
Piersall settled himself behind the wheel. He played around with the gearshift lever until he figured it out for himself, then turned to look at me.
“How’ll you get back to town?”
“In the Pontiac or the Lincoln. One or the other.”
“Good luck,” he said. “That was sure some action we had, wasn’t it?”
“It was.”
“We don’t get much of that around here,” he said. “It’s mostly a quiet town, quiet part of the country. I hardly ever shot a gun before in what they call the course of duty. Warning shots now and then, that kind of thing. But never shooting to kill.”
“A little excitement never hurts,” I said.
“Yeah. Well, I’m glad somebody finally got to Sutton. He was a son of a bitch, a real live son of a bitch. And now he’s a dead one.”
He started the MG, put her in low and drove away. I watched him until he was out of sight, then walked over to the Pontiac. The keys were not in the ignition.
I swore softly, then checked the Lincoln. No keys.
I went back into Hank Sutton’s house, tugged a lamp loose from the wall socket and cut off a length of wire. I stripped the ends with my knife, carried the wire to the Lincoln and pretended I was an all-American juvenile delinquent running a hot wire on a car for a joy ride around the block.
If I had to hot-wire a car, it might as well be the Lincoln. Not only was it more fun to drive, but the Pontiac was a car the police would be looking for. I didn’t want to be stopped.
I remembered what to do and did it. Amazingly enough it worked. The engine turned over and I put the Lincoln in reverse and backed out of the driveway. After the MG, the Lincoln was bulky and awkward, an oversize and overweight bundle of metallic nerves.
But on the highway it loosened up and showed me what a nice clean motor it had. I pointed the car toward Cliff’s End and glanced at my watch. It was only a quarter to three, and it didn’t seem possible.
I was going to be on time for our date.
Twelve
THE RADBOURNE coffee shop was a cold gray room in the basement of the student lounge. A cluster of tables—round ones seating eight and square ones seating four—gleamed of formica here and there around the room. Students drank coffee, sipped unidentifiable beverages through straws, munched cheeseburgers and talked noisily, and incessantly.
You Could Call It Murder Page 12