The Fifth Grave

by Jonathan Latimer

  The Fifth Grave

  Jonathan Latimer

  MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

  CHAPTER 1

  From the way she looked under the black silk dress, I knew she’d be a hot dame. The silk was tight and under it her hips worked slow and easy. I saw weight there, and control, and, brother, those are things I like in a woman. I put down my bags and went after her along the station platform.

  She walked towards the waiting-room. She had gold-blonde hair, and plenty of curves. Every now and then, walking, she’d swing a hip until it looked like it was going out of joint and then she’d throw it back in place with a snap, making the buttocks quiver under this dress that was like black skin. I guess she knew I was following her.

  A big limousine waited beyond the magazine stand. I stood in the shadow of an apple machine and watched her get in. Her legs were strong, like a dancer’s. I was staring at the white flesh above the silk stocking when the chauffeur closed the door and took her bags from a redcap and put them in front. He gave the redcap four bits and climbed back of the wheel. She had been looking straight ahead, but suddenly she turned to the window and smiled at me. Her smile said: We could have fun together, big boy.

  The limousine went away. I watched until it was out of sight. Some doll! Maybe the town wouldn’t be so bad after all. It was hot on the platform and I felt sweat ooze under my arms. I showed my bags to the redcap and called a cab. The train began to pull out of the station, the engine throwing steam on a baggage truck. I gave the redcap two bits and got in the cab. It had a sign saying: Anywhere in town–50c. The driver didn’t bother to close the door.

  “Where to?”

  “Any air-cooled hotels?”

  “In this burg?” The driver snorted. “Don’t make me laugh.”

  “What’s a good one then?”

  “There’s the Greenwood.” The driver turned around and squinted at me. “Or the Arkady.”

  “Which is the best?”

  “The drummers use the Greenwood.”

  “Take me to the Arkady.”

  Hot air rose from the brick pavement on Main Street, making the building look distorted. I saw the town was mostly built of red brick. The pavements and the business buildings and even some of the houses were made of red brick. I saw a cop leaning against the front of a drug store. He had on a dirty shirt and needed a shave. Main Street was littered with papers and trash. A Buick went through a red light by the drug store, but the cop didn’t move. There were plenty of cars parked diagonal to the curb, but there weren’t many people outdoors. It was too hot.

  We went by a movie house, turned left where it said No Left Turn, and climbed a hill. I saw a gully with a shallow stream. The water looked stagnant. In the distance there was another hill with four brick buildings and a smaller white one near the top. There were green fields and grape vines on the hill. The white building looked like a temple. I pointed out the hill to the driver.

  “That’s Solomon’s Vineyard”

  “What?”

  “You heard of it,” the driver said. “A religious colony. Raise grapes … and hell.”

  He looked around to see if I liked the joke. I liked it all right. I laughed.

  “About a thousand of ’em up there. All crazy. Believe in a prophet named Solomon.” We crossed a square with street-car tracks and a park. “He’s dead. Died five years ago, but the damn fools’re still expecting him back.”

  About five blocks from the square we came to the Arkady. It was a rambling three-story brick building with metal fire-escapes on the front. There were a dozen or so rocking-chairs on the porch. I saw a sign: Mineral Baths, and that gave me an idea what kind of a hotel it was. A porter saw us and loafed down the steps.

  “How much?” I asked the driver.

  “A buck.”

  “Your sign says anywhere in town for fifty cents.”

  He shifted a plug of tobacco to the left side of his mouth. “Don’t always believe in signs, mister.”

  He had shifty eyes and his lips were stained yellow from the tobacco. He looked like a ball player I used to know. I got out a fifty-cent piece and flipped it in his face. “Give the boy my bags,” I said.

  He snarled and I got ready to hit him, and then his face fell apart. He gave the bags to the porter. There was a red mark where the coin had caught the bridge of his nose. He bent down to pick it off the floor-board, and I went up the stairs and across the veranda and into the lobby. The air inside stank of incense. I saw potted palms and heavy mahogany furniture and brass spittoons. Three women were sitting by the reception desk. The clerk was a small man with a smile and coy brown eyes. He had on a red necktie. I wrote Karl Craven on the register.

  “Have you a reservation, Mr. Craven?” the clerk asked.

  I looked at all the keys in the boxes. “What the hell would I need a reservation for?” I asked.

  He giggled. He got out a key and gave it to the boy. “We have to ask,” he said. “It impresses some people.”

  I went to the elevator. The women were looking at me. One of them was younger than the others; a pretty redhead with her skirt pulled high over crossed legs. Her face was sullen, and when I looked at her she stared right back at me. She had beautiful legs.

  The elevator made it to the third floor and the bellhop led me to 317. He put the bags down, and while he opened the windows I took a gander at the room. There were twin beds, a big dresser and a couple of big chairs. There was a Bible and a phone book on the dresser. There was a patch in one of the green bedspreads. By the door the rug was worn. On a table between the beds was an old-fashioned telephone with an unpainted metal base and a transparent celluloid mouthpiece.

  The bellhop finished the windows. He looked in the bathroom and the closet. He was stalling for a tip. “Boy, who’s the babe in the lobby?” I asked him.

  “The young one?”

  “The redhead.”

  “That’s Miss Ginger. She’s a friend of Mr. Pug Banta.”

  I remembered the name. He was a former East St. Louis gangster. Not an important hood, though. He’d run alky and killed a couple of guys in the old days. He was tough enough, but he never was a big shot. I remembered he was supposed to be running a bunch of roadhouses somewhere further west.

  “And Mr. Banta wouldn’t like it if I fooled around?”

  “No sir.” He was positive about it. “Sure wouldn’t like it.”

  “Well, I got another chance,” I said. “A very swell blond. She’s got a chauffeur.”

  The bellhop said:

  “That’s the Princess.”

  “The hell!” I said. “What Princess?”

  “She live at the Vineyard. Head of the women there.”

  “The place up on the hill?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Charles.”

  “Well, Charles, what are they like up there?”

  “Oh, they all very holy.”

  “I couldn’t call up and ask the Princes for a date?”

  His eyes got big at the idea. “No sir,” he said. “No sir.”

  I threw him a quarter, but he didn’t go away.

  “I can …” he began.

  “How young?”

  “’Most any age.”

  “I like ’em around fourteen.”

  His eyes spread out. “Mister, that’s jail bait in this state.”

  “Well, I’ll let you know,” I said.

  He started to go. “Hold it,” I said. I looked in the phone book for Mrs. Edgar Harmon’s boardinghouse. It was at 738 B Street. Charley said that was only six blocks away. “Okay,” I said.

  He left. I took off my coat and the shoulder holster and my shirt. The shoulder holster always chafed me when it was
hot. I went in the bathroom and washed my face and chest. I dried myself and put on a clean shirt. My old one was wringing wet. Oke Johnson was living at Mrs. Harmon’s boarding-house. I decided to walk over there. He’d written he had something. We needed something.

  The clerk behind the reception desk simpered at me. He looked like a pixie. I thought, quite a hotel; service for all. I went out. I saw A Street to the left, and a block further along I saw B Street. I was in the three-hundred block. The numbers went up on my right. Seven hundred and thirty-eight was a big, red-brick house with maples growing in front. There was a porch and stairs that needed a coat of grey paint. Oke had picked the place, he wrote me, because he wanted to work quietly. He was a smart Swede; the only smart one I ever saw. I went up the stairs and pushed the doorbell.

  A fat woman in a black dress with white lace on it came to the door. There was a mole on her left cheek, just past the corner of her mouth. She had been weeping. “Yes?” she said.

  “Mr. Johnson, please.”

  Her puffy eyes came open. “Are you from Mr. Jeliff?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, you’re from the police. Come in.” She went on talking so fast I didn’t have time to say anything. “I guess you know I sent for Mr. Jeliff. He was Mr. Johnson’s only friend in town. It was funny, him not being a butcher himself. I never knew what he did, though I will say he had plenty of money.”

  By this time I was in the house. “I’m not from the police,” I said.

  “Oh,” she said. “Why do you want to see him?”

  “I’m a friend. St. Louis. Has anything happened to him?”

  “Oh!” she said. “Oh!” She hurried up the stairs, moving fast for so big a woman. I began to feel funny. It was one of those things you get sometimes, premonitions, it says in the dictionary, that tell you something is wrong. I didn’t try to think what it could be; I just waited until she came downstairs with two men. I saw they were plainclothes cops.

  “This is him,” the woman said.

  The younger of the cops got behind me so I couldn’t run away. The other, a middle-sized man with a pasty face, squinted at me.

  “What do you want with Johnson?”

  “I’d like to see him.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m a friend.”

  “Yeah?”

  “That’s what he said,” the fat woman gasped. She was out of breath from the stairs.

  “Is he in trouble?” I asked.

  The cop laughed. I didn’t see what was funny. The woman began to weep. I looked at the cop.

  “He’s dead,” he said, watching me. “He got knocked off this morning.” I was half expecting it, but still it gave me a jolt. I’d had a letter from him only two days ago. He wasn’t in any trouble then.

  “My God!” I said. “Who did it?”

  The cop behind me spoke. “Suppose we ask you that.” His voice was harsh.

  “I didn’t.” I pretended fright. “I hardly knew him.”

  “Yeah? Then why are you calling on him?”

  “I was just looking him up. I’m from St. Louis. I used to know him there. Slightly. Very slightly. I got in this afternoon, and I didn’t know anybody else in town.”

  “How did you know …?”

  The pasty-faced cop broke in. “Save the questions. We’ll take him to the station. Chief’ll want to see him.”

  “I don’t want to go to jail.”

  “Don’t get scared. If your nose is clean, nothing’ll happen.”

  “But my name will be in the papers. I’m a hardware salesman. It’ll hurt my business.”

  “That’s your look-out,” the young cop said.

  We started for the station; but on the sidewalk they decided I’d better look at the body. They wanted an identification. We went back up the stairs and into the house. We passed the fat woman, still weeping, and climbed another flight of stairs. I wondered if Oke had been making love to her. He used to say they were all alike with your eyes closed. His room was on the second floor. It was a large room with a bay window, a double bed with a clean white spread, a hand-carved mahogany dresser, and a couple of mohair chairs. I could see an elm tree out of the window.

  The body was in the bathroom under a sheet. “I don’t want to look at him,” I said. “I’ll get sick.”

  “A big guy like you!” the pasty-faced cop said.

  I said: “I’m not used to bodies.”

  The cop pulled off the sheet. “It’s time you were.”

  Oke was lying on his side in front of the toilet. He looked smaller dead, and not so fat. He had on a shirt, pants and black silk socks. He had been shot just behind the right ear. There was a brown smear under his head, and blood had darkened his blond hair.

  “That’s Mr. Johnson,” I said.

  We looked at him. At the right was an open window.

  The bullet had come through there. I could see the back yards of three houses.

  “Hell of a time to shoot a man,” the young cop said. “Just when he was taking a …”

  “Never mind,” the pasty-faced cop said.

  The young cop slid the sheet back over the body. We left the house and got in a green Dodge sedan. The young cop sat in back with me. They didn’t talk. The station, like everything else, was built of red bricks. We went right into the chief’s office.

  He was a fat man with a red face and pale blue eyes, and his name was Piper. He had a cigar in his mouth. His salt-and-pepper suit looked as though he had slept in it. An elk’s tooth hung from a gold chain on his vest.

  “Who’s this?” he said, staring at me.

  The pasty-faced cop told him. The chief’s eyes went over me, and then they went to the window.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  I told him Karl Craven. I pretended to be scared. I told him I knew Mr. Johnson, but not intimately. I said Mr. Johnson used to bowl and drink beer with our crowd in St. Louis. I said we had worked for a collection agency. I didn’t know what he was doing in Paulton. He’d come into the bowling alley one day about a month ago and said he was living in Paulton. He didn’t say what he was doing. He’d asked me to look him up if I ever got there. That, I said, was what I’d been trying to do.

  The chief’s pale eyes slid over the two dicks. “Beat it,” he said.

  They went out. The chief took the cigar out of his mouth and looked at it. The end was chewed. He tossed it in a brass spitton and got another from his vest. He found one for me, too. I took it, bit off the end and lit it. It was an expensive Havana. We blew smoke at each other for a while.

  The chief asked casually: “When’d you leave St. Louis?”

  I found my railway ticket and gave it to him. “This morning.”

  He examined the ticket, looking at both sides of it. “Then you couldn’t have killed him,” he said.

  “I wouldn’t kill him,” I said. “I wanted to drink beer with him.”

  The chief stared out the window.

  I said: “If I’d shot him, would I come around later in the day?”

  He sucked at the cigar. “People do funny things.”

  “Not that funny.” I said.

  I showed him a card that said I was a representative of the Acme Hardware Company of St. Louis. That seemed to satisfy him about me. He told me about the shooting. He said somebody shot Mr. Johnson with a rifle from the outside of the house. The landlady had heard him come in about four-thirty in the morning, and a little later she’d heard something heavy fall in his room. There weren’t any other noises so she didn’t worry about it. Mr. Johnson didn’t come down for breakfast, but she thought he was sleeping and didn’t call him. When he missed lunch, too, she went up and found the body.

  “Anybody hear the shot?” I asked.

  “The rifle must have had a silencer,” the chief said, beginning to look bored.

  I said: “That’s damn queer.”

  “I figure,” he said, “that Mr. Johnson was playing around with a woman. Maybe a married woman.”
He took the cigar out of his mouth and tapped ashes into the spittoon. “What else would keep a man up so late?”

  I laughed heartily. He went on:

  “And I figure the husband, or the brother, followed him home and plugged him from the outside with a rifle while he was undressing.”

  I said: “Husbands don’t usually have rifles with silencers lying around.”

  “That’s so,” the chief said. His eyes met mine for a second, then went back to the window. ‘Where’re you staying?”

  “At the Arkady.”

  “If we want you, we’ll let you know.”

  The pasty-faced cop was waiting outside. He pointed out the way to the hotel. “It’s only five blocks,” he said.

  I thanked him and started out. The sun was low, but it was still hot. There was no breeze at all. I thought what lousy cops they were, not even knowing enough to frisk me. I hated cops anyway, especially dumb ones. I wondered what they’d have done if I told them Oke Johnson was my partner.

  CHAPTER 2

  When I got in my room I wanted a drink bad. Oke Johnson had been a shock, even though we’d never got on together. You don’t have a partner killed every day. I telephoned for Charley. He came to the door and I told him to get me a quart of bourbon and some magazines. Movie magazines and some of those others with photographs of half-naked babes, and a pulp detective. I gave him a fin.

  The room was like a tent in the sun. I could feel the heat coming right through the window-shades. I got out of my clothes and put my revolver in a bureau drawer. On my way to the shower I caught sight of myself in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door and stopped to look at my belly. The knife wound was healing fine. There would be a scar, but what the hell! What’s a scar on the belly?

  I saw I was getting bigger. Every time I looked at myself naked I saw that. It wasn’t all fat; the flesh seemed hard enough, but it still kept coming. I thought I’d probably hit the scales at two hundred and forty. That was twenty pounds too much. I thought, well, maybe the heat will take it off. Or those baths downstairs. I went to the shower and turned on the cold water. I got in. It felt fine.

  Charley knocked while I was in the shower. I put a towel around my middle and let him in. He had a bottle of Old Crow and four magazines. I gave him the sixty cents change.