by Jerry eBooks
For a minute that seemed an hour, he was quiet, alert.
Then he shook himself, as if to clear his mind of a groundless fear. Resolutely, he turned on the flash.
Carefully, he searched the ground, foot by foot. Footsteps, he figured, would have flattened out the small ridges, without showing definite prints. He found them presently, the evidences of footsteps on crusted ground. They seemed to form a line, and he followed it.
The line ended in a small area under a tree. Here, obviously, much more had happened than just someone standing under a tree. Bill frowned down at the disturbed soil. Then, not very hopefully, he turned his flash up, played it on the fruit hanging above his head.
The lower oranges were within easy reach. He examined them closely, one by one. It seemed like a futile job. But then, in a few minutes, he grinned faintly, grimly.
There, just above his head, was an orange which had been punctured. He could see the small round hole!
Bill, exultantly, held the flash high, stared at that orange. He could, he thought, figure something definite from this. He was about to lower his flash again, and again came a faint sound, this time definitely behind him.
He started to turn, but too late. Something crashed with sharp force against the crown of his head, stunning him. It was as if a fiery spike was being driven down his neck. He was dropping, sagging, and he knew it. He couldn’t see anything, couldn’t help himself, but he knew the ground was cold as the back of his hand touched it. Then, for a little while, he didn’t even know that.
It was just a little while later, Bill thought, as his eyes began to focus again. Two minutes? Five minutes? He couldn’t be sure. He was on his feet again.
There was no sign of anything, anyone. Yes, there was! Off to the right, not far, a flashlight had snapped on. Someone was holding it, steady. Then the light moved, was going out toward the road.
Bill hurried through the trees. A car stood against the edge of the road. Bill was close to it. He stopped within a few yards of a moving figure; a large young man.
He said abruptly: “Charlie Flax!” The young man halted, swung about.
Flax looked surprised, then faintly mocking, as if he were enjoying this.
“I didn’t expect you to be running around without a guard,” Flax said.
Bill scowled. “How about you? What are you doing here?”
Flax laughed. “What do you think? I had to take your place on the frost patrol. Horton called me—emergency.”
“Oh.” That should explain it, but Bill wasn’t satisfied. “Where were you when Horton called you?”
“Home, in bed.”
“How long had you been there?”
In the darkness, Bill could see Flax’s contemptuous grin. “Since fifteen minutes after midnight. I was with Osa, remember? In the cafe, when you were there. I took her up to the office before midnight, then went straight home and to bed.” Flax moved away, toward his car. “See you around.”
Bill watched him, not moving. There was something he wanted to ask Charlie Flax, but not here. It should be somewhere in the presence of witnesses.
Flax’s car shot away.
Bill went back to the spot under the tree with the punctured orange. He kicked around until he found his own flash.
Then, again, he examined the ground, very carefully.
And presently, scattered through the soil, he discovered tiny particles of glittering glass.
The sound of another car brought him to his feet. Flax may have stopped somewhere, he thought, and reported seeing him. He hurried toward the road.
The car clattered toward him. It was coming from town. Then he recognized it; the vague shape, the lurching motion. An old truck.
Bill dashed out to the road and shouted: “Felix!”
The car seemed to stick its nose in the ground in its anxiety to stop. It was just ahead of Bill, and he was staring up into the cab. The man behind the wheel sat straight. He had black hair and black eyes, and his face was big-boned, Indianlike. Bill knew Felix Dominquez. Felix had his own crew, working in the groves.
Bill said: “You heard what happened, Felix?”
“Sure,” Felix said. He was smart, Felix was, and alert. “I heard just now, so I drove out.”
“I thought you handled Smalley’s smudgepots for him?” Bill said.
“I did, but I had trouble with him yesterday. He didn’t treat my boys at right.”
“Well, he’s dead now.”
“That’s what I heard. So I didn’t know what to do.”
“I guess Osa—Miss Dunne—owns the grove now,” Bill said. “I think you should get your boys and go to work on the firing. Might cost her plenty if nobody tends the pots.”
“Sure,” said Felix. “My boys are in town, at the poolhall. I’ll go get ’em.”
Bill swung up beside him. “I’ll go in with you, if it’s okay with you.”
Felix merely nodded. He yanked the truck around in a sharp U-turn and headed it back toward town. This was the shortest route, of course,—the last part of the frost rider’s route. Ten minutes should get them into town.
The lights were still on in the office of the Central Packinghouse as they clattered past.
Suddenly Felix shouted over the din: “I came out to see Smalley awhile ago.”
Bill jerked his head up, startled. “You mean you were out to see him earlier?”
“Sure.”
“What time?”
“I left town about five or ten after midnight. I was sore at him, but I thought I’d dicker with him. I figured he’d lose too much if he didn’t have a crew for the smudging.”
“What happened?”
“I didn’t see him. I got out as far as his place, and then I got to feeling sore at him again. At that time it wasn’t cold enough for smudging anyway, so I turned around and drove back to town.”
“Did you see anyone else?”
“No.”
Bill smiled, and was silent. They were drawing into the quiet streets of Moravia. The car halted in front of lighted windows.
Bill said: “Thanks, Felix.” He dropped off the truck and walked to the office of the Frost Patrol Service.
The girls at the switchboard stared at him, startled. Then Shirley Blane smiled in a worried way. Shirley was still his pal, apparently.
Bill said: “Charlie Flax get in yet, Shirley?”
“Yes. He’s in with Mr. Horton.” She motioned toward the office.
“Is Horton feeling okay?”
“I guess so. Why?”
“Well, he went out tonight before I did—about twelve twenty-five, I guess. Said he was going home for medicine. When did he get back here?”
Shirley wrinkled her brow. “I think he was gone about twenty minutes, maybe a little more.”
Bill started towards Horton’s office. He pushed the door open. Flax was sitting on a corner of Horton’s desk. They were talking low. They looked up, sharply.
Bill said: “I want to ask you experts something.”
“What about?” Horton said harshly. “Thermometers,” Bill said. “I don’t know this orange grove racket like you, but I’ve picked up a little.”
“Thermometers? You mean the big grove thermometers?”
“No. Not those big ones, I mean the very little ones, the ones they use to test the inside temperature of the fruit.”
Charlie Flax was listening intently, warily, but not talking.
“Yes, there are such thermometers,” Horton said. “You see, if the inside of the. orange freezes, and then thaws out too rapidly, you get a dry orange, which is no good. So—”
“I know that much. But do many of the orange growers have such thermometers?”
“Not many. It doesn’t help them much. It’s more of a technical problem. A few have them.”
Bill smiled. “Did Hank Smalley have one?”
“I don’t know.” Horton’s brow furrowed, suspiciously. “I don’t think so. No, I remember now he didn’t. He was talking
about trying to get one.”
“And where would he get it?”
“Through the packinghouse, of course. They have a supply department for the growers.”
With a wry grin, Bill faced Charlie Flax. “You should know about that, Flax. You work in the packinghouse office, don’t you? You’re Silas Hocking’s assistant there, aren’t you?”
Flax was being careful. His lips moved tentatively before he spoke. “Well, yes. There’s been a shortage of those small thermometers. Since the war, you know. I don’t know anything about Smalley having one.”
“But are there any at the packinghouse?” Flax breathed hard. “Yes. We just got in a few, only yesterday. Half a dozen. That’s all we could get. First we’ve had for a long time.”
“Just yesterday? Have any of ’em been passed out?”
“Not that I know of,” Flax said cautiously. “Well, you’d know about it, wouldn’t you? You’re the guy that keeps the supply records, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes.”
Bill peered thoughtfully at Flax. Then his gaze swerved to Horton. They were both vaguely uncomfortable, and definitely hostile.
Bill said abruptly: “How did you find things at home, Horton?”
“What do you mean?” Horton said stiffly. “You went home for medicine, didn’t you? And your place is close to Smalley’s isn’t it?” Bill’s face was hard and tense now. “In fact, it’s right back of Smalley’s. And if I was going there and was in a hurry to get back, I think I’d get out of my car on the edge of Smalley’s grove and cut across to your place on foot. Quicker, that way.”
“Maybe it is,” snapped Horton. “Thank you,” Bill said.
He turned toward the door just as it opened.
In the doorway was the robust figure of the deputy-sheriff, Dennison.
CHAPTER IV
Guilty Man
Dennison’s face wore a pleased grin. He said to Bill: “I had a hunch you’d show up here. Ward was disappointed you left.” He chuckled. “Just found out something else, too.”
“What?”
“You got drunk in the cafe just before going on duty.”
“I wasn’t drunk,” Bill said stubbornly. “That’s not what the witnesses say. They tell me you staged a brawl with Smalley and that there was bad blood between you two. Murder motive.”
Bill was glumly silent. He’d expected that trouble with Smalley to be brought up. It came as no surprise. But he didn’t like Dennison being here at all. He started through the door.
Dennison made a quick pass at him, grabbed him by the shoulder. Bill swung about, shook off Dennison’s hand. Dennison’s grin twisted into a scowl, and his hand came up and flipped against Bill’s face.
He is now, Bill thought, talking my personal language. Bill didn’t do it with one blow. He had swerved so that he was facing Dennison, and Dennison was standing truculently, legs apart. Bill’s fist drove straight into Dennison’s face. Dennison crashed backwards, scattering Horton and Flax out of the way.
The corner of Horton’s desk shuddered as Dennison’s head struck it.
Bill hurried out through the other room and raced down the stairs. At the curb were three cars. One of them he recognized as Charlie Flax’s. The keys were there. Bill got in and drove away.
Two cars were parked outside the Central Packinghouse when Bill reached there. One of them belonged to the manager, Silas Hocking. He knew the other car very well, too—it belonged to Osa Dunne.
Bill thought about that as he drove around the building; what was Osa doing here? He parked under a pepper tree in the rear. There was a back door, but Bill avoided that, knowing that the night watchman would be “watching” in a little cubbyhole just inside, lingering over a hot stove.
He walked around to the front entrance and quietly let himself in.
Noiselessly, he moved past the sorting belts toward the office. Bare boards underfoot responded brittlely to his wary steps. He reached the wall of the office, and he stood against it, near the door.
The wall was thin. He could hear voices; Osa’s and Hocking’s. Only occasional words came clear to him.
They were talking about him, Bill Treat—that much he could tell.
And presently Osa’s voice rose fervently: “Bill didn’t do it! I’m sure of it! No matter what else he’s done, I know he wouldn’t do a thing like that!”
Hocking’s voice rose to match it: “You may be right, my dear. The evidence is all against him, but you may be right.” His voice dropped again: “I don’t know what I can do to help him.”
“But you’ll do what you can?”
“I’ll promise you that, yes.”
Their voices were vague again. So Osa was appealing to Hocking to help him! Well, it was natural that she should go to Hocking for help, for he was a man of influence, and Osa had known him all her life.
And, while she didn’t believe he, Bill Treat, had committed murder, she did believe something else of him—something that had caused her to draw away from him. That something, she believed, had nothing to do with the murder, but Bill wondered about it. He’d been wondering for some time.
There came the sound of feet moving toward the door. Bill flattened himself against the wall. The door creaked open. Through the crevice between the door and the jamb Bill could see Osa, her eyes bright with fear and entreaty.
He could see Silas Hocking, rather short, heavy, his smooth face weighty around the jowls, the sheen of his bald pate a ghastly white in the light from the office.
Then Osa was hurrying past him. Hocking’s eyes followed her anxiously as she moved toward the door. She opened the main door and stood there for a moment. Then she moved out into the blackness beyond.
The office door clicked shut.
Bill could hear Hocking, shuffling around inside. Hocking should be going home soon as there was no reason for him to stay up all night. If Charlie Flax, making the round of the thermometers again, should need to use the packinghouse telephone, he could easily let himself in.
It was quiet in the office. Hocking apparently had sat down at his desk. Bill’s thoughts returned to Osa. He recalled that she had said that the trouble between her and Bill had nothing to do with the murder of Hank Smalley.
Was she right about that? Bill didn’t think so.
Smalley himself, Bill believed, had been intent on separating them. That was because Bill had resented the way Smalley imposed on Osa, making unreasonable demands on her time and energy.
Bill stiffened suddenly. Hocking was moving toward the door. The door swung open. Hocking emerged, buttoning his overcoat. A tiny bend in the wall helped to conceal Bill. Hocking closed the door gently, turned and walked briskly toward the outer door.
Then he was gone. Bill could hear his car snort away.
The packinghouse was very still, very cold. From a distance came the sound of iron scraping; that would be the watchman lifting the lid off the stove to spit into it.
Bill opened the office door.
Hocking had turned the lights out. Bill stood in the darkness and figured the angles. A light in the office could be seen from the county road, but he’d have to take a chance on it. He snapped on the wall switch.
It was a large oblong room. At one side was Hocking’s massive desk. At the other end stood a typewriter desk adjoined to a small bookkeeper’s desk, and this, Bill knew, was where Charlie Flax worked. Along the far wall was a large supply cabinet, and near it some letter files.
The letter files!
Bill stared at them. They had become, just lately, of interest to him. He felt attracted to them, perhaps because of a vague notion gradually assuming tangible form, that had been batting around in his sub-conscious.
Slowly, he pulled out the top file. He pushed it back, drew out the second. He pushed that back and drew out the third, and then went back to the second, quickly.
The label on one of the folders said: DULUTH.
That was Bill’s home town. That’s what attracted him. And u
nder the name of the city, in smaller lettering, was: Lingley Fruit Distr. Co.
Bill pulled out the folder, leafed through the letters. He fastened on one dated Jan. 11, less than two weeks ago. It was a routine letter, full of information about citrus sales on the Duluth market, a regular commission merchant’s market letter.
But, under the letter, was a postscript in ink:
Mailed your enclosure today—Joe.
Blood pounded into Bill’s head, drummed against his ears. Mailed your enclosure today!
With a gesture of disgust, he replaced the letter and slammed the drawer shut.
He strode to Charlie Flax’s desk, yanked open drawers until he found a large pair of scissors. He hurried then to the supply cabinet. The thing had three doors, all locked. With the scissors, Bill forced them open.
Almost at once he found what he was looking for. A small box, well-padded. He opened it. Inside were some very small glass thermometers. He counted them.
There were five. Not a half dozen, not six, Five!
Bill gazed at them, not touching them. That was that. One was gone. Bill replaced the lid on the box, closed the cabinet doors. Now he had something. But how to handle it? He was a little uncertain. He crossed to Flax’s desk again, sat in a chair. He stared at the wall.
A tiny squeak startled him. He swiveled his head. The office door was open.
Silas Hocking stepped in quietly, smiling at Bill, mildly reproving.
“I’m surprised,” he said. “Are you here to see me?”
Bill cleared his throat. “Well, not exactly.” Hocking waved a plump hand. “Well, never mind,” He pursed his lips, studying Bill. “Osa was here to see me not long ago. She’s worried about you.”
“Is she?”
“Oh, yes. She’s afraid you won’t be able to get clear of this murder. I promised to help.” Hocking tapped his fingertips together. “I feel a trifle guilty about it, but I like Osa. We—Osa and I—more or less agreed that you should make a break for it—leave town. If you stay in hiding, it may blow over.”
Bill said uneasily: “And how am I going to make a break for it?”