“You were fond of her, weren’t you?”
“Wasn’t everybody?”
“Not as you were. How were you making out?”
Behind his dark glasses his eyes flickered, like light blue under running water. “I don’t have to answer such personal questions.”
“That’s a fact. But will you?”
“Don’t you see it’s personal. Can’t you see it’s painful?”
“So is rape and murder.”
“Horrible,” he said. “Just horrible.” I would have thought his face paled if it wasn’t by nature pale.
“I asked you how you were making out with her.”
“We were friends.”
“More than that. You wanted to have her.”
“I wanted her to be my wife.”
“Meantime, were you intimate? Sexually, that is?”
His answer came in little explosions. “No. No. She wasn’t that kind of a girl.”
“But when she wouldn’t let you, I imagine you got mad?”
“Think what you want to, but I couldn’t get mad at her. Disappointed is what I was.”
I couldn’t read anything in that white face or see anything in those shielded eyes. He had his hands clasped in front of him. They were big hands. So were mine.
I repeated his words. “She wasn’t that kind of a girl?”
“That’s what I said.”
“How can you be so sure? She had other dates.”
His body tightened now. He said through thin lips, “That’s an insult. A slur on her memory. Goodbye.”
I shook my head. “Sorry then.” I tried to see his eyes. “You think a man could get to her only by force?”
“I know it. I know it. As I told you, I wanted to marry her. We were both interested in music, and I was sure we could get along.”
“She wasn’t of age.”
“I was willing to wait. I told her that.”
“She refused?”
“Yes, she refused.” Of a sudden he slumped, put his hands over his eyes and bowed his head. Then he raised a tear-stained face. His voice came out in a cry. “Sure she refused. Who wouldn’t, goddamnit! Marry a poor son of a bitch of a ghost with weak eyes! Who wants that? What can an albino hope for? Not one goddamn thing. I hate God.”
I put a hand on his shoulder, feeling sympathy for him and shame for myself. “All right, Roland. All right.”
We joined, Charleston and I, outside the bank and, walking to the office, exchanged useless information.
The afternoon produced nothing helpful. The school music teacher showed up. So did more kids. So did old man Shirley Southby, who thought he had written an opera with a big part in it for Virginia Stuart. They exhausted the list of those present at the last practice.
At six o’clock, as Charleston stretched, I said, “I’m going home, get a quick supper, and come back to type all this dreary stuff.”
“It could wait until tomorrow.”
“I want to get it off my hands. It’s no good. Not one clue, not one helpful idea, in the lot. But, then, I didn’t expect any.”
Charleston looked at me, not smiling, and answered, “Never expect anything, Jase, and you’ll never be disappointed—and probably never surprised.”
I told him, “Thanks.”
12
The whole force, except for Blanche Burton, attended Virginia Stuart’s funeral, though not in one group. I had to accompany Mother, who dressed in black, wore a hat and pulled on long black gloves. For all formal occasions and some not so formal, she wore gloves as if, without them, she would be baring something better left covered.
The service took place in the Methodist church, which couldn’t accommodate all those who came. Quite a number stood outside in pleasant sunshine. With the church windows open they could hear most of what went on.
As Mother and I were ushered to seats, I caught a glimpse of Mr. and Mrs. Stuart. A small woman, dressed in mourning, she wore a long overcoat, too heavy for anyone save an invalid. A dark scarf covered half her face. I was put in mind of something coming out of a cocoon. Mr. Stuart sat straight, rigid as angle iron. Near them was Mr. Antonelli, looking sad.
The coffin, covered, rested on a platform just below the pulpit. To one side of the pulpit stood the high school mixed quartet. To the wheezy chords of the organ the long-coated minister came forward and read from the Bible.
“The righteous live forever, and the care of them is with the Most High; with His right hand shall He cover them, and with His arm shall He shield them.”
He bowed his head and began a prayer, “Mighty God, fount of all life …”
His words droned on, lost in my self-concern, lost in my thoughts of the abused and dead girl in the gulley and of my sick horror. As a consequence of that image and my reaction I had been short with Mother, almost quarreled with Anita and been less than courteous to Chick Charleston, my best friend.
The school quartet sang “Beautiful Isle of Somewhere.” It was meant, I supposed, to be heartening. The teacher must have put the singers through an intensive drill, for their performance wasn’t too ragged.
I had to get hold of myself, I said silently. I had to find in myself what I wanted to do. If law enforcement, or aspects of it, repelled me, then what? No purpose in thinking, though. Just sit and be miserable.
The minister was reading again. “Eternal God, Who committest to us the swift and solemn trust of life …”
All the gods of all the faiths couldn’t undo what had been done. What consolation in the thought that Virginia might already be singing in the heavenly choir?
The minister looked away from his Bible and said on his own, “A loved one has been taken away from us for reasons no mortal can understand. The Lord works in mysterious ways for His own purposes. But let us have faith in the divine wisdom. And may the good Lord extend to the sorrowing the healing power of His love.”
There followed the Lord’s Prayer, recited by preacher and audience, and his final words, “The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit, be with you all.”
Most of those present joined in the parade to the cemetery, where the quartet sang “Abide with Me.” On the bare and breezy hillside, against the great silence of the high plains, their voices rose frail and sad and were blown away. The minister went through his final ritual. I thought I could hear the clump of sod on the casket as Mother and I drove away.
She said as we poked along in the car, “Mr. Stuart, I’m sure, is a Presbyterian. I wonder how he felt about John Wesley?”
“In the absence of a Presbyterian church, he had no choice. Are Calvin and Wesley so different then?” I asked. “Anyhow, it’s over.”
I left her at home and went to the office. Ralph Otter, the reporter and ad-hustler for the local Messenger was waiting, along with an older man. Otter introduced him as Sam Worthington, special correspondent from the city. “We hope to have a word with Sheriff Charleston,” Worthington said. In almost the same instant Charleston entered. With him were Doolittle, Cole and Amussen. He told the two reporters to come into the inner office. I didn’t know whether he wanted me there, but I went.
Once we were seated, Worthington said, “I hope you have some fresh copy for us, sheriff.”
“Nothing much to add to what I told you previously. When were you in here?”
“Just yesterday, no, day before. I caught you alone. Remember?”
“Vaguely. Since then we’ve questioned everyone who attended the girl’s final practice and a few others in addition.”
“And?”
“Nothing on the surface. We have to go through the statements again. And then, maybe, again.”
“That’s not much to hang a story on.”
“That’s all there is.”
“No fresh or new directions?”
“Just more questions. Further search.”
“Two murders and no clues, huh?”
Charleston’s tone was sharp. “W
e’re not filing the cases away.”
Worthington shook his head. Otter kept quiet as if in the presence of greater talent. “The murders were much alike. Violent, death and rape. Do you suspect just one man?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Two, then, one in imitation of the other, a copy-cat crime.”
“Can you imagine we haven’t thought of that?”
“Or perhaps just one man? After one killing others come easier, so they say.”
“I should add you to the force.”
When Worthington stood up, Charleston continued, “You may say we’re going to catch the man or men.”
“How can you be sure of that?”
“Consult our record, Mr. Worthington.”
To the closing door Charleston said, “Smart people, these newspapermen.”
Doolittle rapped and came in. “Anything for me?”
“Not now. How about lunch?”
I wasn’t hungry and so shook my head. Doolittle said he would eat later. “Hold the fort then,” Charleston told us and left the room.
Doolittle sat down and grinned at me. “Jase, pardon me all to hell, but every time I look at you a piece of a poem runs in my mind. Like this: ‘I am weary of days and hours, blown buds of barren flowers.’ You’re the barren flower, my friend, dead on the stem.”
“What of it?”
“Exercise is what of it. A good workout.”
“Is that so, doctor?”
“Yep. I prescribe two or three rounds to work the poison out.”
“You’re against me, with gloves?”
“Sure. I got it set up.”
“David and Goliath, for God’s sake. I outweigh you what? Forty pounds?”
“Never mind that. It’s the boxer against the puncher. Sometimes I feel sorry for poor old Goliath. Poor bastard didn’t have a friend on earth and none to help him. Next thing, if you’re game, I’m going to feel sorry for you.” He kept grinning at me, a question in his eyes.
I said, “This is crazy.”
“I got it set up with that Lenihan kid. There’s gloves at the high school and a kind of a ring. I bought trunks for both of us, and here’s a stopwatch for the rounds.”
“I can’t punch you around. Not fair.”
“You’re right you can’t punch me around. The question is will you try?”
“You acted pretty damn sure I would. And you’re mighty sure of yourself.”
The whole idea was foolish, but I could use some exercise, and I’d pull my punches. I said, “It’s dumb, but all right.”
At the switchboard Doolittle said, “King, we’ll be at the high school for an hour or less. Anyone asks, tell them we’re pursuing our investigation, besides tuning up for the final push.”
We walked to the high school. Pat Lenihan met us at the door, a wondering eagerness in his eyes. With classes in summer recess, no one else was about.
“All set, kid?” Doolittle asked.
“Sure am. Follow me.” He led us into the gymnasium. There was a ring of sorts in it. “Our phys-ed instructor believed in what he called the manly art of self-defense, but the parents objected to black eyes and headaches, so he got fired.”
Young Lenihan showed us the locker room, where we peeled off our clothes and put on trunks. “I figured we could do without shoes,” Doolittle told me. “Want to punch the bag a little, or jump rope?”
“No need to.”
We walked back to the ring.
“All right, kid,” Doolittle said. “Come and put the gloves on us. Here’s the stopwatch. Three two-minute rounds with a minute between. Understand?”
We climbed into the ring, each in his own corner. After a second or two the kid rang the bell. We came from our corners, ready, and Doolittle landed a light left on my eye. It was a powder-puff punch, and I told myself to go easy. I tried a left and right, missing both. Dancing in, Doolittle tapped me again. He was fast on his feet and fast with his hands. He flitted around me, shifting, dodging, ducking, slipping my punches. And always that left kept flicking. In time it would soften a man up.
The bell ended the round. I was a little winded but couldn’t see that Doolittle was. His grin was merry.
Round two went much like round one, except that in frustration I was punching harder but again without hitting. The damn little dancing master kept flitting in and away and in again, darting out that light left, his head never where it was an instant before. He was as elusive as a loose Ping-Pong ball. I had begun to sweat.
When the round ended, the kid was licking his lips. He said, “Man, oh, man.”
I came out, totally exasperated, at the beginning of round three. I would get him yet. He hit me with a left and a right and slipped under or away from my counters. Yet I knew I was getting closer. Where I had been hitting air, my left grazed his shoulder, my right the top of his head. He couldn’t dodge me forever. The round ended with his fist in my face.
I had the grace to say, “You’re too good for me, Ike.”
“Wrong decision,” he answered. “In another round or two you would have nailed me. I can’t do the polka forever. Three rounds is my limit.”
He went on as we walked to the shower, “I never told you, but I boxed professionally once. In the early rounds I could outbox most of them. Light stuff, you know. I never had much of a punch. One night I went against a sure-enough brawler, and in the sixth round he landed his Sunday punch. For a week I had no more brains than a cabbage. When I came to I said enough. A man’s got better use for his head than to offer it up for a pudding.”
We were slipping into our clothes when he continued, “Don’t give up on yourself, Jase. You’re damn good.”
I wondered how far that reference went.
After we were dressed and had said thanks to the boy, Doolittle asked, “Feel better now, don’t you?”
The fact was I did.
13
In June daylight comes early in Montana. By four A.M. the dark has lifted, and by five o’clock the sun is ready for its sweep.
Rousing with the first flush of day, I lay still, hoping to go back to sleep. I put a hand to my eye and cheek, feeling a soreness there from Doolittle’s left jabs. Slowly I began to think maybe I was feeling better, about both my work and myself. Doolittle’s therapy may have been good medicine. Opposites came into conjunction, it almost seemed. Pugilism and peace of mind. Sweat and serenity. There was even an affinity between bowel and brain. Regularity begat rationality. I gave up on this line of conjecture and told myself to go back to sleep.
But the murder, the two murders, wouldn’t go away. We hadn’t a clue and no one to suspect. Mefford? No sure connection. Fenner? I had crossed him off. Antonelli? Highly unlikely. Either one of the Days? Not from what we’d gathered. Might as well suspect Alfred Parsons, the principal, or any one of the high school boys. It could be one of them. Then it struck me that we hadn’t given thought to newcomers in town. What with seismographers and drill crews at Overthrust, the town hadn’t accommodations for all, with the result that a good many workers commuted from Midbury. And they were a brash bunch. I would inquire.
At eight o’clock I walked to the office. The day might turn hot later, but now the weather was a caress. Charleston was at his desk, rereading reports. “There must be something here,” he said, “but I can’t find it.”
“Same here.”
“Don’t think I’m giving up, Jase.”
“Don’t think I am.”
He glanced up and smiled, as if he had found something fresh in my words or expression. “That’s the spirit.”
The reviving spirit came close to collapse when Gewald came in without asking or knocking. Clarence Gewald, state criminal investigator, or properly, had there been any grammarians in the attorney general’s office, state crime investigator. We had had our fill of this character a couple of times before. He was a mule-headed bumbler whose job must have owed itself to political pull. He offered his hand to Charleston, ignoring me, and sai
d out of his tight and righteous mouth, “I understand you need some help here.”
Charleston answered, “I wasn’t aware of it.”
“Couple of murders, rape-killings, on your hands, haven’t you?”
“We can attend to them.”
“Cases unsolved?”
“So far.”
“So,” Gewald said as if the point were clinched. “May I see your records?”
Charleston got up, sighing, and said, “I suppose.” He went to the files and got out my reports.
Gewald took them, saying, “I’ll take these to my room to study. Jackson Hotel.”
Charleston told him, “You’re responsible.”
“That’s my name.”
Gewald went out.
Charleston barely had time to say, “Pisswillie,” before Amussen came in through the back door. “I’ve got my man,” he announced.
“Good for you.”
“I spilled him in the back cell. He’s too drunk to question.”
Charleston nodded, as if stalling, not making the immediate connection any more than I did.
“It’s the Bar Star break-in I’m talking about,” Amussen said, offended at the lack of response. “I collared the guilty party and also collected a few bottles of stolen booze.”
“Where did you find him?”
“Northwest, in an old cabin by the big swamp. There was a sleepy old mule, too, but I left it.”
“Good thinking,” Charleston answered with a smile. “We could hardly charge it with transporting stolen goods.”
I asked, “What put you onto him?”
Amussen drew himself up. “I got my sources.”
I could guess what those sources were. Amussen, half kid himself, was popular with the high school boys, who, with no classes to attend, were here, there, and everywhere.
“How drunk is he?” Charleston wanted to know.
“Not just falling-down drunk. So drunk that lying down he has to hold on, if he’s got enough sense to do that.”
Turning to me, Charleston said, “Better get hold of Doc Yak. The man could die on us.”
Doc happened to be in his office. He said he’d be right over.
When he arrived with his bag, Amussen took him back to the cell. On their return Doc said, “He won’t kick the bucket, not right away anyhow. I gave him paraldehyde to ease him over the horrors.”
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