Dead Man's Tunnel

by Sheldon Russell

  “Push?”

  “I can’t get my own shoes on,” he said. “Bad back.”

  “Sorry to hear it,” the lieutenant said, looking at Hook.

  Hook guided her inside.

  The lieutenant hung her purse over her shoulder. “What was that about?”

  Hook shrugged. “Every town has one, you know. I’ll have them bring the corporal out.”

  * * *

  The deputy brought Thibodeaux into the office handcuffed.

  “You can take them off,” Hook said.

  Thibodeaux sat down and rubbed at his wrists. Both eyes were black.

  “You have a smoke?” he asked.

  “I owe you one,” Hook said. “Drink, too, though that will have to wait.”

  The lieutenant took a notepad from her purse. “Corporal,” she said. “The army will be filing formal charges. You’ll be transferred to the base and tried under army regulations. Do you understand?”

  Hook lit Thibodeaux’s cigarette.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  “You’ll be charged with armed robbery, desertion, and the murder of Sergeant Joseph Erikson.”

  “Murder! But I didn’t kill no one, ma’am. Maybe I did some of those other things you said, but I didn’t kill the sergeant.”

  The lieutenant said, “I admit to misjudging this case. But I can no longer believe that Sergeant Erikson’s death was accidental. Evidence to the contrary is now convincing; I might say overwhelming.”

  “No, ma’am,” he said. “I didn’t kill him. I swear it.”

  The lieutenant leaned in. “Sergeant Erikson was involved with Linda Sue, your girlfriend. He held up your promotion. You had the motive and the means, and you’ve since proven yourself to be capable of criminal behavior. Somehow you managed to get Erikson in that tunnel, knowing the whole time that train was coming.”

  Thibodeaux drew on his cigarette. “I hated Erikson, I admit. He didn’t care about no one, see, and after spending all that time together at that tunnel. A man can listen to only so much, you know. I’m glad he’s dead. I wished him dead a thousand times. I wished I’d been there when that train ended the bastard’s life. But I wasn’t there, and I didn’t kill him.”

  The lieutenant jotted something in her notebook. “You’d save yourself and the army a great deal of trouble if you’d confess, Corporal. Get this burden off your shoulders.

  “Mr. Runyon,” she said, turning to Hook. “If you have anything to ask, do so now. The corporal will no longer be under civilian jurisdiction.”

  “A couple of questions,” Hook said. “Were you going to make a career out of the army, Corporal?”

  Thibodeaux snorted. “I’d as soon pick cotton.”

  “Were you in love with Linda Sue?”

  Thibodeaux paused before answering. “Lap cats can be real cozy. But in the end, they don’t give a damn whose lap they’re sitting in.”

  “No more questions,” Hook said.

  The lieutenant stood. “I’ll arrange for the transfer, Corporal, and for a defense attorney. You’ll be hearing back from me soon.”

  When they came out of the sheriff’s office, the old man had gone.

  “I need to talk to Blue,” Hook said. “Would you care for a cup of coffee?”

  “Alright,” she said.

  “Let’s walk,” he said. “It isn’t far.”

  The lieutenant’s heels clipped on the concrete as they walked to Blue’s Café. Blue himself poured their coffees and set the pot on the table.

  “This is Lieutenant Allison Capron,” Hook said.

  Blue nodded. “Lieutenant.”

  “I talked to that survey crew foreman, Blue,” Hook said. “He didn’t strike me as the sharing kind.”

  Blue scraped at the spot on his apron. “Appreciate you trying, anyway, Hook.”

  “Maybe things will pick up,” Hook said. “Looks like a pretty good crowd here now.”

  Blue shrugged. “Oh, it’s a crowd, alright. Same crowd’s been in here all morning telling lies and getting free refills. Come lunch, they’ll all disappear without so much as a tip.

  “I heard you caught that corporal breaking into Linda Sue’s trailer.”

  “We caught him. Thanks to you,” Hook said.

  “You ain’t heard from Linda Sue, I guess?”

  “I don’t figure they’ll be too hard on her. She didn’t hurt anyone but herself.”

  When Blue had gone, Hook sipped at his coffee. He looked up to find the lieutenant watching him from across the table.

  “What?” he said.

  She set her cup down. “Now that things are wrapping up, I guess you’ll be moving on?”

  “Not so long as Eddie’s unhappy.”

  She dropped her spoon into her coffee. “That’s not really why, is it?”

  “What do you mean?” he said.

  “You’ve contended all along that Sergeant Erikson’s death was suspicious. Now that we have the culprit, and with blood on his hands, you aren’t convinced?”

  “I’m not saying this guy is an upstanding citizen. Any man who hits a woman shouldn’t be on her take-home list. I’m just not certain he’s our killer.”

  The lieutenant poured sugar into her coffee and stirred it.

  “So why the skepticism?”

  “When I arrested Thibodeaux, he had the advantage on me for a brief moment. He could have taken my head off.”

  “And?”

  “He hesitated.”

  “And you think that exonerates him?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Then why the change of mind about him and Erikson?”

  He thought about her question.

  “There are too many parts missing,” he said. “And I’m not sure he’s capable of murder.”

  “He’s the only one who had a motive,” she said.

  “I don’t know what I don’t know yet,” he said.

  “You do know you can be exasperating?”

  “So I’ve heard,” he said. “Look, there’s a townwide rummage sale. Want to go?”

  “Books?”

  “With luck.”

  “No, thank you.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “There’s a great deal left to do. I’m afraid Corporal Thibodeaux has complicated the situation.”

  “In the scheme of things, maybe it’s not so much,” he said.

  “I’ve arrangements to make.”

  “Sometimes it’s best to back off a problem,” he said. “Stop trying for a while. Let the world go on its own.”

  She shrugged. “I’m afraid the army doesn’t work that way, but good luck with your rummage sale.”

  * * *

  Hook walked around town until locating a promising sale. Boxes were stacked about everywhere, and tables overflowed with items dug from closets and attics and garages. Two women sitting at a card table manned the cashbox. Pickers were already busy gleaning bargains from the piles of junk.

  Soon, he discovered a trunk that had been shoved under one of the display tables. When he opened it, the smell of old books rose up. A set of Encyclopedia Britannica lay on top.

  Hook stacked them to the side. Everybody bought encyclopedias, being convinced they would keep their kids from growing up stupid. Didn’t work; besides, there was almost always at least one volume missing.

  Digging deeper, he found a 1932 first edition of Battle: The Life Story of the Rt. Hon. Winston S. Churchill. He didn’t read everything he collected, but Churchill was a pretty interesting subject. A book could be rare and unreadable. It could be readable and not rare. The relationship between the two things was pretty weak. Churchill was a man among men and a drinker of fine whiskey. How could he not be interesting?

  From there, he worked his way into the garage, looking through piles of old planters, kitchen utensils, kids’ clothes, and tools with broken handles. He spotted a box full of old books, fifty cents for the lot.

  He paid his money and sat on the curb to examine his purchase. A spider
skittered over his hand and disappeared into the grass.

  Finding nothing of value, he lit a cigarette and checked his watch. He’d completely forgotten that he had no transportation back to the caboose. He’d just have to walk. Taking the box of books back to the garage, he slipped the Churchill book under his belt and headed down the road.

  * * *

  Scrap sat at his desk going through his weekly figures. He dropped his glasses to the end of his nose and looked at Hook.

  “How’d that dang dog get in my office?” he said. “I found him in here sleeping on my coat.”

  “I knew him to be smart,” Hook said, “but didn’t know he could open doors.”

  “If I ain’t mistaken, you might of had something to do with it.”

  “That’s mighty small of you, Scrap.”

  “Maybe you’ll want to use my jeep again, or maybe you’ll need some secretarial work for the railroad.”

  Hook walked to the door. “Like to stay and chat, but I’ve got to go find my dog. He’s likely been hurt or shot up by a crazy man.”

  “Well, he ain’t, but that don’t mean he don’t have it coming.”

  “Good night, Scrap.”

  “Night,” he said. “And you can tell that sheriff I ain’t paying no fine.”

  * * *

  Hook fixed Mixer’s food and sat it on the floor. “From now on, stay out of Scrap’s office,” he said. “His sense of humor isn’t what it should be.”

  He fixed himself a shot of whiskey, neat, and then doubled it for luck. He took another look at his purchase. The Churchill had been a good find and made the long walk back worthwhile.

  In the distance, the whistle of a westbound rose and fell. The caboose trembled and creaked as an old steam engine rumbled by with a short haul. Little more than a car or two long, it ticked off into the night.

  He fixed himself another drink and slipped off his shoes. He thought about the lieutenant, about her account of things, about the inconsistencies in her details. He wondered why she was so anxious to get the corporal out of his reach? But then he had only one Eddie Preston to answer to. The lieutenant, being in the army, probably had a dozen just like him. Such could account for her odd behavior at times.

  In any event, he was determined to concentrate on the facts before him. In the detective business a person could get in trouble following his emotions instead of his head.

  31

  HOOK FOUND SCRAP fueling up his crane. “How about borrowing the jeep for a bit?” Hook said.

  “Maybe you’d like to borrow my wife, take her for a spin and then back to your caboose like them other poor girls.”

  “You don’t have a wife.”

  “And now you know why,” he said.

  Hook kicked his foot up on the platform.

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  Hook scratched his head. “Can I borrow the jeep or not? I want to go talk to Sheriff Mueller.”

  “I guess you won’t be drinking and getting tickets and such?”

  “I hadn’t planned on it, Scrap.”

  “And you might put a little gas in her while you at it,” he said, handing him the keys.

  “Did you get those headlights fixed?” Hook asked.

  Scrap knocked his pipe against the heel of his shoe before blowing it out.

  “I take care of my equipment, Hook.”

  “Where did you get them?”

  “That old school bus back by the fence.”

  “Jeez, Scrap. A school bus?”

  “Course, you could always drive railroad vehicles, I suppose.”

  Hook picked up the keys and walked to the door. “I’ll be back before dark,” he said.

  * * *

  Sheriff Mueller came out of the men’s room zipping up his pants.

  “Making love by yourself?” Hook asked.

  “Beats board games,” he said, grinning.

  Pulling up a chair, Hook waited for Mueller to sit down.

  “I’ve been trying to wrap this tunnel thing up, Sheriff, but I’ve still got a few loose ends.”

  “You wanting to talk to that corporal again, Hook, you better hurry up. That Lieutenant Capron called. She’s coming in to finish up the paperwork. They can’t wait to get him in the brig. Didn’t know the army could work that fast.”

  “I don’t need to talk to Thibodeaux,” Hook said. “But I am needing to run a check on someone. Think you could help me out?”

  “Possible,” he said. “What’s the name?”

  “Rudy Edgeworth.”

  Sheriff Mueller took off his hat and tossed it on the desk.

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He’s the foreman on the surveying crew, the one who’s working the track upgrade.”

  “What you needing to know, Hook?”

  “Just a standard check, criminal record, that sort of thing. He’s out of Kansas City, I think.”

  “Anything I should know?”

  “Just routine. Someone’s been picking up a few Santa Fe tools, thinking they own them.”

  “Alright, Hook, I can make a call and get back to you.”

  “I’m in a bit of a rush on this, Sheriff.”

  Mueller checked his watch. “I reckon I could do it now. Give me a minute,” he said.

  Hook sat on the bench outside. The sun cut though the morning, and a slight breeze blew in. He could hear Mueller through the window, though he couldn’t make out the conversation.

  He lit a cigarette and looked down the street. A car had parked next to the filling station, and an elbow protruded from the window. The sun moved behind a cloud, and Hook could see a man behind the wheel of the car. He wore a fedora and was smoking a cigarette.

  Sheriff Mueller opened the door behind him. “Hook?”

  Hook stood. “Yeah?”

  “No record.”

  “No criminal record?”

  “No record, period.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, there was a Rudy Edgeworth, alright. The only thing is, he’s been dead for five years.”

  “That’s a bit peculiar, Sheriff. Well, thanks for checking.”

  The sheriff straightened his gun belt. “About that traffic ticket, Hook?”

  “You tearing it up, Sheriff? I’d sure do the same for you had it been on railroad property.”

  “It’s overdue. A man don’t pay his traffic ticket could wind up in big trouble.”

  “Scrap said he’d pay it, given it was his fault in the first place.”

  “The driver’s what owes the ticket, Hook, though I don’t care who pays it, long as it’s paid.”

  “I’ll check on it and get back to you, Sheriff.”

  “And you might want to keep an eye out for Hoffer. He’s been hobbling around town saying as how he’s going to give you an upbringing.”

  “Thanks, Sheriff. I’ll keep an eye out.”

  * * *

  Blue slid into the booth across from Hook.

  “Sure you wouldn’t like something, Hook? You look a little peaked.”

  “It’s from living with Scrap West,” he said, pouring a sugar into his coffee. “Open up his head, and all you’d find would be frayed wires and junked cars.”

  “He tried to sell me a cement mixer once,” Blue said. “Claimed I could make a hundred pounds of pancake batter in half an hour. I said, ‘What the hell would I do with a hundred pounds of pancake batter, Scrap? This ain’t the army, you know.’ ‘Freeze what you don’t use and sell it on the open market. You’d be a millionaire in no time, once you got the bugs worked out. Course, I wouldn’t require a cent more for giving you the idea,’ he said.”

  Blue pulled at his chin. “So I says, ‘Does it run?’ And he says, ‘All it needs is a new motor, and she’ll be good as new.’”

  “You didn’t buy it, did you?” Hook asked.

  Blue laughed. “I ain’t stupid, ’cept on special occasions, but I admit to thinking it over. Scrap has a way of making every
thing seem possible.”

  “Dealing with Scrap is like sitting in a boat with a hole in the bottom. Sooner or later you know you’re going to drown.”

  Blue turned to check the cash register. When he turned back, he said, “I heard from Linda Sue.”

  “Oh? How is she?”

  “She thinks she might get prohibition.”

  “You mean probation?”

  “That’s what I said. Jesus, Hook, you’ve been living with Scrap West too long.”

  “You got that right,” Hook said.

  “Since she’s never been in trouble before, they think they might cut her some slack.”

  “Well, I’ve run into worse criminals in my time,” Hook said.

  Blue got the coffeepot and brought it back to the table to top off Hook’s cup.

  “The truth is, I’ve been thinking about asking Linda Sue to marry me,” he said. “She cornered me in the kitchen one time, and the steam whistled out my ears so loud folks thought the Super Chief had come in early.”

  “Why, Blue, that sounds like a hell of an idea to me.”

  “And I wouldn’t have to pay no waitress, either.”

  “Wages can come in many forms, Blue. But I can see you making a hell of a couple.”

  “Well, a man my age gets to thinking,” he said.

  Hook stirred another sugar into his coffee. “You haven’t seen any strangers in town lately, have you?”

  Blue leaned in on an elbow and thought it over. “A man was in here earlier and ordered eggs Benedict. I says, ‘We got eggs been raw and eggs been scrambled but no eggs Benedict.’ The son of a bitch didn’t crack a smile.”

  “Maybe he was a railroad official,” Hook said. “They’ve been known to be uppity.”

  “I don’t think so. He had clean fingernails and wore a fedora.”

  * * *

  When Hook approached the jeep, he paused and looked over at the car. The man was gone. He opened the jeep door and glanced in the side mirror as he slid in. Someone ducked into the alley behind the pool hall.

  “Enough of this,” Hook said to himself, climbing back out.

  When he stepped into the alley, he could see the Dumpster and the stacks of empty beer cartons. The jukebox thumped from the pool hall, and the smell of cigar smoke wafted from out the back door. Snooker balls clattered in the distance, and men laughed.