Judas Cat

by Dorothy Salisbury Davis

  “I don’t think she ever forgave him for it, though,” Mr. Whiting continued “All the old biddies thought she had something. Maybe she thought so, too. But after that night, I don’t think she ever had another fling in her life.”

  “It was a mean thing for him to do,” Mrs. Whiting said.

  “Sure it was. I don’t think Andy was ever known for his kindness.”

  “I guess she asked for it,” Alex said. “When I see her smiling and scraping, and I know butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, I can’t stand her. But what in hell could she do about it? Go and hang herself?”

  Mr. Whiting sighed and looked down at his hands. They were whiter now than they had ever been in his life, almost as white as his hair. Everybody grew old and white and lonely. He at least, had a full life and Laura and Alex. “Yes, I know what you mean, son. I don’t much care for them old maid jokes myself.”

  “She’s done a lot of good things in her day,” Mrs. Whiting said.

  “How old would you say she is, Mom?”

  “Probably in her seventies.”

  “That old?”

  “She was out of high school before your father got in.”

  “You know it’s a queer thing,” said Alex. “I can never remember what people looked like years ago. I just see them now. I don’t remember Andy as anything but a dried up old man. I can’t get over there not being pictures or letters or something in that house.”

  “There should be a deed to the property at least.”

  “That’s right,” said Alex, “unless he has a box in the bank. But why would he keep that much cash in the house if he had?”

  “You can find out easy enough. Call Milt Johnson. He’s home by now.”

  Alex went into the house to phone. Mrs. Whiting went to the kitchen to get supper.

  “Nope,” he said when he returned to the porch, “never set foot in the bank all the years he’s been here.”

  “Give me a cigarette, boy,” his father said. He lit it and inhaled thoughtfully. “Just what do you expect to do in this business?”

  “I don’t know, Dad. Maybe just look for a story. The more inklings I get into the kind of guy old Andy was, the more I want to know about him.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No. I still feel somebody wasn’t satisfied he was dying fast enough. And I think the attitude of the county is typical of their whole rotten setup there.”

  “That’s something else again,” his father said. “That’s serious stuff for you to step into.”

  “I know it is. But damn it, Dad, I know Waterman had the same idea at noon today.”

  “But somebody side-tracked him.”

  “Between the mayor and Mark Tobin he went cold as a mackerel.”

  “Who else came down from Riverdale, Alex?”

  “Jim Olson, a deputy sheriff.”

  “That’s Mel Olson’s boy,” his father said. “He’s a good man, I think. Just light on experience. You know they’re not all bad up there. Just most of them.”

  “He seemed to be doing a good job. I don’t know much about it.”

  “Where did Mayor Altman come in on it?”

  “He came up to the house while the county men were there. I figure he wants to keep the town’s skirts clean in case the Addison clan’s involved.”

  Mr. Whiting looked intently at his son.

  “Yes, that’s probably it,” he said. “That’s going to make all of them wary. I don’t like you bucking into that outfit, Alex. I know that’s what you’re after, but I hate to see it start this way.”

  “I’d like to see them cleaned out,” Alex said.

  “I know. But it’s a hard, long job. You know what happened to me while you were away. It bears thinking about again now. I figured there was funny business in the draft board. The whole damn town was going into war plants—Addison Industries. Every recruit was coming from the farm kids. I broke it up, but for two years I couldn’t get enough newsprint for a handbill.”

  “That’s power,” Alex said.

  “Sure it’s power. And it’s one thing to buck into that every election time, but when you go in there swinging a charge of murder at somebody, or willful negligence … that’s dynamite, Alex.”

  He got up and flicked his cigarette out the door.

  “It makes you wonder where to begin, doesn’t it, Dad?”

  “Yes, it does. You’ve got to have the discretion of St. Paul.”

  “There was something thicker than water between Andy and old Addison. Maybe that’s the place to start.”

  “Maybe. But don’t fool yourself, Alex. They’re too big to take any chances. I want you to think about something it’s taken me a long time to learn: people with influence don’t very often corrupt a community. It’s the community corrupts themselves trying to curry favors.”

  Mrs. Whiting called them to supper.

  Chapter 7

  EVERY MONDAY AND WEDNESDAY evening, weather permitting, the teams of the soft ball league met at the edge of town for seven innings. On Labor Day the league winners, or “the survivors” as the Sentinel referred to them, took on their counterpart from Mason City. It was late in the season now, and that night Baldwin’s Bottlers, composed mostly of fellows who worked at the bottling plant, were meeting Fabry’s Fables. Alex played first base on the latter team. Both teams had suffered eleven defeats, each having won a single game. Very few people would have been on hand ordinarily, but that night half the town was there.

  Scarcely a man got to first base who hadn’t some comment to make on Andy Mattson’s death. That would also account for the crowd along the sidelines and on the car fenders. Every once in a while Alex heard somebody yell, “Hey, what happened?” They weren’t paying much attention to the ball game. He saw Joan talking with Sarah Randalls. Sarah worked for the telephone company. Overworked today, no doubt, unless she was on the board at night this week.

  “Come on, Whitie. Get some life into it.”

  Alex scooped up a handful of dust and trotted away from the bag. “All right, gang. Let’s go. Let’s go. Put him away, Pete. This guy couldn’t hit a barrel with buckshot. Give it to him slow. Nice and slow.”

  Jim Brennan swung hard on the spinner and loped it over second base. The center fielder, coming in fast, overran it, and the ball rolled out to the target Chief Waterman had set up for practice. Here he trained Gilbert, and kept his own hand in. It had taken a steady hand to hit the cat, flying at him as it had. There was something wrong with it. No animal turned like that unless there was something physically wrong with it.

  “For cripe’s sake, Whitie, get the lead out of your shoes.”

  He should have been covering second base, but it was too late now, anyway. Brennan was already sliding into third. This was not his night in the field. Lou Ivantic got to first on a bunt, but Brennan was held at third. The pitcher grew cautious then and the game slowed up.

  “Some business up there with the old man, huh, Whitie?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He was in thick with the Addisons, wasn’t he?”

  “I don’t know how thick,” Alex said.

  “I’ll bet Altman had convulsions.”

  Alex followed him off the bag a couple of steps. “Why?”

  “He’s been out at the factory a lot. Going over expansion plans with Hershel. I got a notion they’re working on a deal with Addison.” Lou Ivantic worked at the toy factory.

  “Are you guessing, Lou, or are you sure of that?”

  “I wouldn’t go to court and swear to it, if that’s what you mean. I just work there. He don’t consult me on those things. I heard the name a couple of times and put two and two together.”

  The Fables’ pitcher was standing with his hands on his hips looking at them. “Are you playing Siamesie with that guy, Whiting? For cripe’s sakes, make up your mind if you’re going to play ball or detective.”

  “Keep your shirt on, Pete. I’ll get on it now.”

  The game ended in a twelve to
ten victory for the Fables, no thanks to Alex in the field. Most of the crowd hung around for a while. “… Used to deliver coal in that shack of his. It’d come out the window and he wouldn’t let me go in and shovel it away. The place all boarded up. You’d think he had the atom bomb secret. What the hell, I didn’t care. Less work for me. Crazy as a loon if you ask me …” Alex went to the car and changed his shirt. A shack would have to be in the bushes behind the house. He remembered the path. The bushes were so thick it had not been visible from the porch.

  “Going to the stand for a coke, Whitie?”

  “Yeah. I’ll be over.” He met Joan at the door of the barbecue stand. Someone had already started the juke box, and the place was jammed. “Let’s stay outdoors for a while,” he said. “You look nice tonight.”

  “Thanks. Alex, everybody’s talking about Andy Mattson. They seem to take for granted he was murdered.”

  “That’s because the coroner was down. You know how people are. When they see a fire truck there has to be a fire. Want to take a walk, Joan? I don’t have the heart for a jam session tonight.”

  “I’d just as soon stay outdoors,” she said.

  The gravel of the parking lot crunched beneath their feet. It was almost dark now, the way darkness comes quickly in late August, and in the open field at the back of the stand the lightning bugs were as thick as stars. “I wonder where it’ll all end,” Alex said. “I wonder where it started. I get a melancholy sort of feeling when I think of the old man.”

  “Peggy Shiel and I were talking at the game,” Joan said. “She told me how she had met him down in front of the town hall one day during the war. He was looking at the honor roll. When he saw her he asked her if she knew the boys on the list. She said she knew most of them, and he pointed his stick at her and asked her if she knew why they were there. ‘Greed,’ he said. ‘That’s all it is, my dear. Greed, stupidity and arrogance.’ Then he asked her where they were fighting now. She told him about the Battle of the Bulge. He kept repeating ‘the bulge, the battle of the bulge. And where is the bulge, my dear?’ She started to tell him. ‘Not geographically, silly child.’ Peggy was afraid of him then and got away as fast as she could. I think he spoke more sharply than he really meant to.”

  “Peggy’s not very smart anyway,” Alex said. “But then none of us are. Not one of us had the brains or heart to think about the old man until he was dead.” At the edge of the parking lot he stooped down to examine a path that began there and continued through the field toward the backs of the houses on Sunrise Avenue. “Wait here a moment for me, Joan.” He went to the car and got his flashlight. He threw its beam through the long grass, catching in its light pieces of the white gravel. “A car’s been through here lately,” he said. “I’d be willing to bet on it.”

  They followed the tracks. As they neared the shrubs they heard someone whistling for his dog. Alex switched off the light. Presently the whistling stopped and a door banged. Closer to them the chickens in a nearby coop had been disturbed. “No zoning laws over here,” he said. With the flashlight on again, he caught the glisten of grease on the grass tops. “I think whoever was in here turned the car around right here. If we’d had some rain there might be tracks, but this stuff’s hard as a straw mattress.”

  “We’re behind Mattson’s place, aren’t we?” Joan said.

  “Directly behind it.” They followed a path through the bushes past the door of Andy’s shack. For a moment he played the light on the back steps of the house. “Let’s see if the shack is open.” As they pushed the door open the smell of damp coal and wood reached them. Alex found a light switch at the side of the door. The sudden light blinded them for a moment. He closed the door. There were windows in the place, but they were boarded up with inside shutters.

  “I’ll bet you can’t even see the light in here from the outside,” Joan said.

  Alex turned around and examined the door. It had been unlocked from the outside, but there was a bolt on the inside. “Seems as though he felt safe outdoors,” Alex said, “but inside he didn’t take any chances.”

  “We shouldn’t touch anything, should we, Alex?”

  Alex felt a draft of wind behind him. “No ma’m, and by rights you shouldn’t even be here.”

  It was Waterman who had come in the door soundlessly behind them. “You want to tell me when you’re coming here, Alex. I was just laying out there waiting for somebody to show up.”

  “Why?”

  “No particular reason. Take a look around here, Alex. I didn’t mean to speak sharp to you, Miss Joan.”

  “It’s our own fault,” she said. “It just gave me a start.”

  “Look at this place,” Waterman said. “You’ll get more than that.”

  Alex was getting his first feeling that Andy Mattson had ever been alive. There was a work bench the length of the building, about twenty feet. The light he had turned on hung from a cord above the bench, shaded by an old-fashioned office globe, green on the outside and white within. Directly beneath the light was a drafting board built above the bench. It had been sandpapered smooth, but a film of dust clung to it now. Beside the drafting board was a tall stool, the kind bookkeepers used many years before. Chief Waterman sat down on it and stretched his long legs.

  “Some nest, ain’t it?” he said.

  In one corner of the room was the coal bin. Beside it was a sink between the work bench and the bin. A couple of feet from the other side of the bin was a stove, the same kind that was in the house, and beyond that, against the wall, an old leather couch with an Indian blanket folded at the bottom.

  “Andy must have worked here at night,” Alex said.

  “A queer old duck,” the chief said, “sitting on the front porch dozing that way all day, and larking out here at night. Except he wasn’t larking. Beats everything what you don’t know about people.”

  Beneath the table of the bench was a row of drawers. Alex opened one after another of them. “Would you look at the tools he had?”

  Some of the finer tools were wrapped in cotton batten. “Took care of ’em too,” Waterman said. “They say you can tell a workman by the care he takes of his tools.”

  The bench was cupboards from one end to the other beneath the drawers. Alex opened the doors. “Joan, take a look at this,” he said. He threw the beam of his flashlight over a tray of miniature animals carved by hand.

  Joan picked one up and turned it around and around. “What beautiful, beautiful work.”

  “Here’s one that works on some sort of track,” Alex said. He opened one cupboard after another. “There’s everything—farm animals, wild animals, little men, trains, tractors. Would you look at this squirrel!”

  Waterman took it from him. Its legs were on wires that gave it an amazing mobility. It could be wound up by turning the tail. Waterman set it loose across the bench. It ran and bobbed and stopped. “Watch, Alex.” In a second it started up again and repeated its life-like routine. “Did you ever see a squirrel more like it?”

  “Never.”

  “Everything’s got the same naturalness,” Waterman said. “It’s like he spent a lifetime watching things move and making them over like he was God.”

  “That may be the reason he was so fond of cats,” Joan said. “They have wonderful movement, the staccato sort of thing when they’re kittens, and a gracefulness as they mature.”

  “That might be it,” Alex said. In the last cupboard he found the wired board into which some of the animals could be set and operated on a battery. “I wonder what he used for models for the inanimate things.”

  “Mail order catalogues,” Waterman said. “They’re in the desk part under the drafting board. There’s sketches too, and arithmetic going into the x, y, z business. I used to wonder what good that did anybody.”

  Across the bottom of the two cupboards were blocks of wood and two sheets of metal. Alex drew his finger along them. The dust was very heavy. “He hadn’t been working lately,” he said. “But I don’t kn
ow how he could have done it this long. This stuff takes a steady hand and good eyes.”

  “Just now I wouldn’t put anything past him,” the chief said. “But it looks like we might visit Joe Hershel at the toy factory, don’t it?”

  Alex closed the cupboard doors and straightened up. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Somebody told me tonight Altman was going over plans with Hershel for an expansion of the factory. He heard the name Addison mentioned between them.”

  “That a fact?” Waterman said. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I wonder if this is what the old man and Andy worked on when he came to see him.”

  “Henry Addison wasn’t very active in the Industries for quite a while,” Alex said.

  “No. That’d be George, and they don’t go in for this kind of stuff.”

  “Any more word on the post-mortem, Chief?”

  “It’s finished,” Waterman said. “I’ll get a copy in the morning. Just like they figured, weak heart aggravated by the attack from the cat. Dead eight to ten hours.”

  “What about the cat?”

  “Nothing wrong with it except the tear in its stomach from the glass, the bullet hole in its head and a sore under the right forearm.”

  “I’d say it was in pretty bad shape,” Alex said. “What kind of sore?”

  “I don’t know. They didn’t say. What kind of sores do cats get?”

  “Cat sores,” Alex said. “Do you honestly think they did an examination on it, Chief?”

  “Between you and me, Alex, I don’t. If something showed up in the tests on the old man, maybe they would have.”

  “Chief, Joan and I walked in along an old path from the barbecue stand. There was a car through there recently. There’s grease on the grass tops where it brushed the transmission. I don’t think anybody’s delivered coal here in months.”

  Waterman didn’t say anything for a moment. The corners of his eyes were crinkled the way he looked at Alex trying to weigh the importance of what was said. “I don’t know,” he said. “I just don’t know. The county’s closed the case up. Or to put it right, they didn’t find any case. If I go looking for one and don’t find it …” He let the sentence finish in his mind and in theirs. Waterman was getting old, Alex thought. There was a motion before the town board for his pension next year. “But I’ll tell you something else that’s kind of funny, boy. Andy had an extra key made to his back door the other day, and it ain’t showed up any place.”