“No, it’s me,” George replied.
“Me who? Why the hell don’t you turn on the light?”
From the sound, Grouse had just fallen down the last few stairs and landed on an umbrella stand filled with pokers and tongs. Madoc turned on the flashlight he’d brought with him. Jelly was a big man, running to fat. He lay sprawled amid a welter of lacrosse sticks and baseball bats, wearing nothing but an unfastened bathrobe. Madoc had a fleeting urge to arrest him for indecent exposure, then decided he’d better stick to the book. He pulled a string to switch on a bulb that shone directly down into the fallen man’s eyes. Dazzled, Grouse squinted up at him.
“Who the hell are you?”
“RCMP,” Madoc told him. “Detective Inspector Rhys. And you’re Jellicoe Grouse, commonly known as Jelly, right? You’re under arrest, Mr. Grouse. It is my duty to remind you that anything you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you.”
“For what?”
“At the moment, you’re charged with arson and conspiracy to commit a felony. I expect we’ll be tacking on a number of other things once we get you sorted out. There’s really no sense in making those obscene noises, Mr. Grouse. We have a positive identification of you from the woman whom Buddy McLumber failed to murder before he stole her car Thursday afternoon. This was after Perce Bergeron’s bull box tipped over and burned, as you doubtless surmise, and immediately before you and your confederate dragged the furniture out into the road and set fire to it and the house.”
“You’re crazy. The woman wasn’t there. I mean—”
Jellicoe Grouse realized too late that he’d meant what he said. He tried to get up, caught his foot in a lacrosse stick, and fell again. He must still be half-drunk, Madoc decided, from whatever rite of passage had followed the session at Ben Potts’s.
“George, would you mind helping him up? I’ll just slip these handcuffs on him first, for form’s sake. Perhaps Mrs. McLumber will be kind enough to bring down his boots and trousers.”
By now, Buddy’s mother was at the top of the stairs, clutching a patchwork quilt around her. “What are you doing to him? He never did anything. He’s been right here in the house all the time.”
She sounded a trifle smashed, too, Madoc thought, and who could blame her? “Sorry to disturb you, Mrs. McLumber,” he apologized. “The crime for which Mr. Grouse is being arrested took place this past Thursday in the early evening. That was the same night your son had the breakdown and came home late from Harvey Station, remember?”
“It wasn’t Harvey Station. He’d been out to Bull Moose Portage for one of those meetings Pierre Dubois had been running. I told Pierre what I thought of him for keeping my boy out so late.”
“And what did Pierre say?” asked Madoc, keeping his mitten firmly clamped over Jelly’s mouth so he couldn’t shut her up.
“Oh, he put me off as you might expect. He said he guessed some of the brothers must have got together for a little informal discussion. Cecile claims Pierre took her over to the movies that night, but of course Cecile would say anything Pierre wanted her to.”
And of course Pierre had assumed Buddy’d been somewhere he didn’t want his mother to know about, which was undoubtedly the truth, and been too noble and high-minded to rat on a brother. He’d check with Dubois as a matter of form, but Madoc had washed out the nature writer as an effective conspirator ever since that inspirational session at the lean-to.
Nella McLumber could be dropped off the list, too, he was sure. This woman was a natural-born dupe, the kind who could always be fooled because she always knew she was right.
Madoc decided he’d better take his mitten away and let Jellicoe Grouse come up for air. The prisoner at once began to bluster.
“You can’t do this to me. I’ve got influential friends.”
“If you’re talking about Mr. Badger, you might as well save your breath,” Madoc told him. “He’s down at the lockup under armed guard, waiting for transport to the county jail. Jason Bain has been arrested and confessed his part in that game you’ve been playing, in order to save his own skin. You’ll be well advised to do the same.”
Jellicoe Grouse retorted with a suggestion about what Inspector Rhys could do. As this involved an anatomical impossibility, Madoc took little heed.
“George, why don’t you go get the truck? Drive right up to the door. Mrs. McLumber may be saved some embarrassment if we remove Mr. Grouse before the sun comes up and her neighbors begin to wonder.”
“They’ll wonder anyway,” said Mrs. McLumber bitterly.
“Then tell them you went out for a ride because you couldn’t sleep, and your car broke down so you called my father and we towed you home,” George suggested. “I’ll back you up, Mrs. McLumber. Bud used to give me rides when I was a kid.”
That started the poor woman sobbing. She made no further comment while Madoc and George bundled Jellicoe Grouse into enough clothes to keep him decent and unfrozen, and stuffed him into the tow truck’s seat between them. Here was another tight squeeze for three abreast. Next time he came to Pitcherville, Madoc vowed silently, he was going to bring more adequate transport.
Chapter 22
FRED OLSON HAD SLEPT, but not long enough. His eyes were puffy and he was still having to yawn every two minutes. But as soon as the tow truck hove into the yard, he was right there to unload Jellicoe Grouse and hustle him into the lockup with Jelly’s influential friend. Sam Neddick was still on guard; Madoc could swear he hadn’t moved a muscle since they’d last seen him.
“Prisoner give you any trouble, Sam?” Madoc asked.
“Nope.” Sam nodded at a fresh star in the concrete wall behind the bars. “Tried to, once. I had to demonstrate what happens when a rifle goes off accidental in a closed room an’ the bullet ricochets. Messed up your wall some, Fred. Lately he’s been offerin’ me money. Got it up to fifty thousand so far.”
“He hasn’t happened to mention how he made the money?”
“Nope. Don’t s’pose he done it sellin’ hockey pucks.”
“Would you care to tell us now, Mr. Badger?” Madoc inquired politely.
Mr. Badger, it appeared, would not.
“How about you, Mr. Grouse?”
Jelly, who was shying away from his former boss only a little less cravenly than Bain had done, didn’t appear inclined to speak, either.
“Then I suppose we’ll have to go and find out They may think it a bit strange down at the county courthouse if we send in a batch of prisoners and can’t tell them why. Fred, how does one go about getting a search warrant in Pitcherville?”
“The marshal fills out a form an’ the notary stamps it.”
“Who’s the notary?”
“My wife Millie. What you want searched?”
“McLumber’s hardware store. Would you care to oblige?”
“No trouble at all. I guess George must o’ told you about Henry, eh?”
“He did.”
“I kept the bullet.”
“Good man. Hard luck on Mr. Badger, of course.”
Fred stepped into the house and was back in a couple of minutes, waving a sheet of paper. “Signed, sealed, an’ delivered. Want me to come along with you, Inspector? I phoned down to see what was keepin’ the wagon an’ it turns out they’ve been roundin’ up a bunch o’ drunk an’ disorderlies that was takin’ a schoolhouse apart.”
Badger sneered. “At least that’s one rap you can’t pin on me.”
“I shouldn’t be too sure about that, Mr. Bandicoot,” said Madoc. “Marshal Olson is a surprisingly versatile man. Like yourself. George, since you were so helpful about bringing in Jellicoe Grouse, perhaps you’d better stay with Sam and make sure we keep him.”
Sam was not going to need any help, but Madoc wasn’t sure what kind of reception he and Fred might run into at the store. News of Jelly Grouse’s arrest must already have percolated all over Bigears and perhaps beyond. He took the pool car this time, and didn’t loiter on the road. Bef
ore long, Fred was remarking, “Cripes, if I was outside this buggy instead of in it, I’d arrest us both for speedin’.”
“And I’d have no squawk coming if you did,” said Madoc. “It’s just that I’d like to get to the store before— ah, there he comes now. We’ll beat him by a whisker.”
They could see a black Lincoln about the size of a battleship coming at them out of the Bigears Road, toward the junction where McLumber’s hardware store stood. Its driver wasn’t wasting any time, either. Madoc let the Lincoln get to the parking lot first, and pulled in just as McLumber was stepping out with the door keys in his hand.
“Show him your warrant, Marshal. We’ve got to find out what it is he’s been wholesaling before he has a chance to get rid of the evidence.”
“This is kind of embarrassin’,” Fred muttered. “Ed’s an Owl.”
“Would you rather I served the warrant?”
“Nope. It’s my job. I might as well give the town its money’s worth even if I do get hove out o’ the lodge for doin’ it. Mornin’, Ed. Gettin’ to work kind of early, ain’t you?”
“Have to,” Ed grunted. “I’ve lost my helper, in case you hadn’t heard.”
“Oh, I heard. The inspector here an’ I thought we better drop over an’ give you a hand. You goin’ to let us in peaceable, or do I have to haul out the warrant?”
McLumber had been a big man when he’d stepped out of his Lincoln. Now he seemed to shrivel. He stared at Fred Olson for a moment, then hung his head. “Oh, what’s the use? I told that maniac we’d never get away with it.”
“The maniac being the man who calls himself Badger?” asked Madoc. “When did you tell him this, Mr. McLumber? Before or after he shot Henry?”
McLumber jerked his head up and tried to bluster. “What do you mean he shot Henry? Henry shot himself.”
“I got the bullet, Ed,” said Olson. “What you an’ Badger been runnin’? Come on, you might as well show us an’ get it over with.”
“All right, Fred, I know when I’m licked. Christ! Two of them gone and their blood’s on my head.” He unlocked the door and let them through the store, down to the basement. It was clean, dry, spacious, and stacked with pasteboard cartons. “There it is. Help yourselves.”
“What do you think it is, Inspector?” asked Fred.
“I think it’s the reason why Armand Dubois is able to sell his drinks so cheap.” Madoc tore open the topmost carton, marked FLOOR WAX. There were a dozen one-liter bottles, each bearing the label of a well-known whiskey. He twisted the cap off one and sniffed.
“Good God! What’s in it?”
McLumber shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I was only the distributor.”
“How did you get involved with Badger?”
“I suppose it would be nearer the truth to say he was the one who got involved with me. If you must know, Inspector, we’ve always done a little bootlegging out of the store. My grandfather started it back during the first war when Prohibition came in, and it got to be a family tradition, as you might say. Nothing big, you know, just a jar here and there to a good customer and no questions asked. We ran a little still of our own out back a ways. If anybody ever discovered it, they never let on. But then this Badger blew into town.”
The hardware dealer sighed. “He tempted me and I fell. That’s the long and the short of it, Fred. He waved this wad of bills big enough to choke a horse in front of my nose, and told me there was plenty more where that came from. Business had been kind of off, and I can’t say I rose up in my wrath and told him to take his filthy money elsewhere because I’d be lying if I did. I hemmed and hawed, I suppose, waiting to see what he’d say next. Badger’s quite a talker, you know.”
“Not to us he hasn’t been,” said Olson.
“Well, he sure as hell was to me. First thing I knew, he was dropping a few gentle hints that if I didn’t run a more efficient operation—meaning if I didn’t do it his way—I’d pretty damn soon be in trouble with the excise men, not to mention the customs, considering we happened to have a few customers across the border we’d been supplying. He never threatened, mind you. If he had, I hope I’d have been man enough to tell him what to do with his money, bust up the old still, and walk thenceforth in the paths of righteousness hoping nobody would throw it up to me about having maybe been a little too diligent about following in the footsteps of my forefathers. But Badger was too subtle for that. He kept waving those greenbacks around and harping on modern efficiency till it began to make sense to me.”
McLumber sighed again. “I don’t know if you can understand, Fred, being a sworn upholder of the law yourself, eh, but Badger made it all sound like what you might call a thrilling adventure. And adventure is something I’ve never had much of in my life, as you well know. I worked right here in the store ever since I was old enough to see over the counter. When I got through school, it stood to reason I’d go in with Father, Grandfather being pretty bad with the rheumatism by then and me not being able to get into the army anyway on account of flat feet from all that standing behind the counter. So here I was and here I stayed, and when Father went, I carried on by myself. Hardware was in my blood, as you might say. And I’d married Lilybelle and joined the Owls and I can’t say it’s been a bad life. But as time went on, I couldn’t help asking myself, ‘Is this all?’ So I took Lilybelle on a cruise up the St. Lawrence, but somehow it wasn’t enough. Two years later we went all the way to Disneyland on one of those charter tours, but it still wasn’t enough.”
“You kept on running booze, though.”
“Yes, but that was just part of the business. We’d been doing it so long there was no kick to it. I might as well have been selling bug spray.”
Fred Olson took another whiff of the stuff in the bottle, then a very cautious sip. “Christ A’mighty, Ed, you sure this isn’t bug spray?”
“I already told you I don’t know what it is, and that’s the God’s honest truth. What we used to make in the old still, Fred, that was just what anybody’s grandmother might have brewed in her own wash boiler, which most of them did back in those days and don’t let anybody try to tell you they didn’t. You’d just boil up your wormy fruit, spoiled grain, pig potatoes, whatever you had lying around handy that wasn’t going to cost you anything, you’d condense the steam to get the alcohol, add a little caramel syrup to enhance the bouquet and give a better color, and there you’d be. All homegrown and homemade. Nowadays they’d be peddling it in those health food stores as organic whiskey. This stuff here, to tell you the truth, I don’t care much for it myself. Badger’s been getting it from someplace.”
“As you may have gathered, Mr. McLumber,” said Madoc, “Badger won’t be getting any more. Are you sure you have no idea who his suppliers were?”
“None whatsoever. He said it was safer for me not to know. I didn’t catch on to what he meant till the day Henry caught me sticking labels on the bottles.”
“How did that enlighten you?”
“Well, see, we never put any labels on in the old days. In fact, we didn’t use bottles, not to speak of. It was mostly old pickle jars or whatever came handy. Later on we got more sophisticated and bought up used bottles for a cent apiece. But Badger said we needed more modern marketing methods if we wanted to get into the big time, so he had it put up in nice new bottles, and got a printer he knew to make us up some different labels, just like the real thing.”
“Thus adding forgery to your list of adventures,” Madoc noted. “What you’re saying, then, is that Henry had not till then been aware you’d gone into business with Badger?”
“That’s right, he hadn’t. You see, Henry was what the Immortal Robbie called unco’ guid or rigidly righteous. He’d always known we were doing a bit of business on the side, of course, but he respected our adherence to family tradition and wasn’t above taking home a jar himself now and again, so long as it was out of the old home still. But getting it from somebody else, well, that put a different face on the entire matter. So Ba
dger and I talked it over and decided we’d better not let on to him that we’d changed our source of supply. I’d get Badger to stamp the cases turpentine or denatured alcohol, things like that.”
“Any one of which might not have been far off the mark,” said Madoc. “And that was enough to fool Henry?”
“Well, you see, Henry never had much to do with the stockroom. His job was mostly to wait on the customers. His back was none too good and I tried to spare him any heavy lifting. My nephew Bud would come in and help out when I needed him. Bud was so flighty, speaking no ill of the dead, that I wasn’t too worried about his catching on. And Mr. Badger himself, I guess, would bring in the stock and take it out again, all but the local deliveries that Bud handled.”
“Why do you say ‘I guess’? Don’t you know what was happening in your own store?”
“Not about the deliveries, no. The boxes would be here, and then they’d be gone. It all happened in the dead of night. I was supposed to keep clear so I wouldn’t be involved in case they got caught.”
“Why do you say ‘they,’ when you’ve just told me you assumed Mr. Badger brought in the stock himself?”
“Well, I figured he must have had some help. That’s a lot of lugging for a man like him.”
“If you’re tryin’ to keep from squealin’ on Jelly Grouse an’ Jase Bain, you needn’t strain yourself, Ed,” the marshal broke in. “We already got them pegged. Go on about Henry.”
“Oh. Well, it just happened one day I was down here sticking labels on a batch Mr. Badger had told me we had to get ready for shipment and somebody came in needing a light of glass cut. So Henry came downstairs to get it ready for her, and here’s me with a Cutty Sark label in one hand and a green bottle in the other. You know yourself, Fred, there were no flies on Henry. I guess he’d been getting suspicious when my ill-gotten gains went to my head and I started throwing money around on that Lincoln and the mink coat for Lilybelle. When he saw what I was up to, he knew”
“Took it hard, did he?”
A Dismal Thing To Do Page 19