Playing Catch-Up

by Guthrie, A. B. ;

  Inside, over coffee, I said, “I’ve just been to call on Gracie Jones.”

  “And something’s on your mind?”

  “More or less. She hasn’t enough clothes to flag a toy bull. Just rags and few of them.”

  “That’s demeaning to a woman.”

  “I rather like her.”

  “I’m following you, Jason. Clothes you want for her?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “And can and will I help?”

  “I know you will if you can.”

  “Lucky thing, Jason. For the last week or so the Ladies’ Aid has been gathering castoff clothing for foreign missions or the poor or something. I donated three dresses, all with wear in them but I was tired of them, and a couple of blouses and stuff. Others donated, too.”

  “Any under things?”

  “Of course. How big is Gracie?”

  “About your size, but all angles.”

  “I’ll comb my hair and slip on something and go see. You want to come with me?”

  “I’ll show up later and gather up the loot. Do you have a spare nail file?”

  She didn’t answer but got up, rummaged in a drawer and handed me one.

  She had forgotten about lunch, though it was coming on to noon. I went to the hotel again, had something to eat and called again on Gracie. I handed her the file and asked, “What size shoes do you wear?”

  She looked down at the shapeless, broken leather on her feet. “I ain’t had a new pair in a coon’s age and don’t hardly know. Sevens, I think. What’s the idea?”

  “Just routine, Gracie.”

  I dodged in on Charleston long enough to tell him Gracie would testify. Another woman, Mrs. Innis, was on the board with Blanche.

  Mother had a stack of clothing on the bedroom floor. “Quite a haul, Jason,” she said. “Come help me sort it.”

  “We forgot about shoes.”

  “You mean you did. Look here.”

  She had picked up three pairs, all in good shape. The black ones were size 7 medium.

  When we got through picking and choosing, we had two dresses, a skirt, two blouses, a pants suit and the shoes, together with under things, including a bra that Mother put in without comment. We packed all the stuff in a box.

  “Gracie will bless you,” I said.

  “All blessings gratefully received.”

  So for the third time that day I knocked on Gracie’s door. She opened it warily at first, without speaking, looking at the box I carried. I opened it on the bed and said, “See how these suit you.”

  “Me?”

  “All of it you want.”

  She lifted a dress, saying, “Good God Almighty! I never seen the like.”

  She put the first dress aside and picked up a second. “If you wasn’t the law, I’d think you held up a store. All clean and nice, too. Know something? I can’t abide dirt. Well, blessed Jesus, here’s shoes, too.”

  She kicked off her old ones and tried on the blacks. “They squeeze a little but that’s on account of I ain’t used to close fits. They’re fine and dandy.” Her good eye lifted to mine. “You know I ain’t got a cent, but I’ll pay off somehow. You know that.”

  “They’re yours free of charge. You can thank my mother and the Ladies’ Aid.”

  She bowed her head. “Just when you think there’s no good people left, then up …” She didn’t finish the sentence. She sat on the bed and cried.

  I left her crying, crying over her treasures, crying because of the good people in the world.

  Two afternoons later I sat with Charleston in his office. On the way in I noticed that Mrs. Stafford was on watch command. She looked composed and competent and said all was quiet.

  “Isn’t it supposed to be your day off?” Charleston asked me.

  “I didn’t take notice.”

  “So what’s with you?”

  “It’s about Gracie Jones. I’ve been thinking.”

  “She’s not getting difficult?”

  “Not at all. But she hasn’t got a cent, and neither the county nor the court is going to put out forever for room and board.” I wasn’t sure that was the case with a material witness. “One or the other will start yelping.”

  “I would think that’s my concern.”

  “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  “Quit it, Jase. I’m sorry. Go ahead.”

  “When Susan Strand took the job with us, she left quite a few housewives in need of day help.” The statement was half question.

  Charleston was rolling a pencil between his fingers. “I get the drift, Jase, but I don’t know.”

  “I want to find out more, but I know this. Gracie hates dirt. The few rags she had she kept clean. She kept that camper as neat as she could in the circumstances.”

  “It’s a big risk. How do you know she won’t steal?”

  “I don’t. Just a hunch.”

  “The language she uses would curl any good housewife’s hair.”

  “I know. Maybe she could change, cut out the cursing.”

  “She might even kidnap a child.”

  “Never. You know that.”

  He put the pencil down. “The plain fact is that you like her.”

  “In a way, yes. I feel sorry for her.”

  “Talk to her some more, Jase. If you’re still of your present opinion, well? It’s your judgment.”

  “Thanks. I’ll go now.”

  Gracie opened the door a little, then wide. I had to step back. She had on Mother’s black dress, trimmed with white at throat and sleeves. She had done up her hair.

  “It’s me all right, Mr. Jase,” she said, laughing. “Come right in.”

  I sat down, giving myself time for the transformation.

  “It was hard with this gimpy arm, but I tried them all on. I like this one best. Don’t I look grand?”

  The clothes aside, she did look better. The black eye had begun to fade out. The patches were gone from her face, leaving only pink spots. The cheek gash was healing. The stitches on her mouth were still there.

  “Doc Yak’s been to see you,” I said.

  “That funny old geezer, cussin’ all the time while he fixed my face. He said the stitches could come out in a couple of days. He asked me—this was for the second time—if I hadn’t been drunk when I got beat up. I said again I didn’t drink. Then he told me that whiskey was a friend of man, only don’t get too damn friendly or it would turn against you.”

  “Sounds like Doc.”

  “I knew what he said already, but puttin’ it in words kind of neats it in the mind.”

  “Sure. Now, Gracie, I want to sound you out. Let’s both sit down. Maybe I have work for you. Just maybe.”

  “Kind of work I can do?”

  “Day work. Cleaning house for housewives.”

  “I can sure as hell do that.”

  “Tell me the truth now. Do you have a record?”

  “Record?”

  “Have you ever been charged with any crime anywhere?”

  “Only by you. That’s a fact. Only time I ever spent in jail was your doin’s. You know all about that.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Honest to God, Mr. Jase. Hope to die if that ain’t the truth.”

  “In these houses there’ll be temptations. There’ll be some nice stuff to steal.”

  She drew herself up. The one eye flashed. “Well, goddamn your hide! The only thing I ever stole was that sapphire, and it was stoled already.”

  “Calm down. I have to make sure. Now there’s your language. It’s hardly fit for a nice home.”

  Her indignation turned into a grin. “I ain’t never learned to speak proper, but I can hold back on the hells and goddamns. I can and I would.”

  “You want the work?”

  “Damn right.” She caught herself. “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “I’ll be taking a lot on faith.”

  “I’d go to hell before I let you down.”

  “All right, Gracie. I’ll see about t
hings. Call on you later.”

  Susan Strand was at home. Her nose, I decided, was not so much stubborn as what my mother would call pert. She put her hand to her mouth when she saw me and asked without real alarm, “Did I do something wrong? Am I fired?”

  “Nothing like that.”

  I told her about Gracie and her need and desire for work. I said I trusted the woman and would recommend her. “Now,” I went on, “are you willing to give me the names of the people you worked for?”

  She had me sit down while she wrote out a list. “Gracie’s uneducated,” I put in while she worked. “They may kick at her language.”

  She smiled, presumably at my ignorance, saying, “Not for a moment. What they want is to get the house cleaned. For that they’d put up with an army sergeant so long as he tackled the dirt.”

  She handed me the list. I left her and went to the office and a phone.

  I had a little sales spiel made up in my mind. To each housewife I said that Gracie Jones needed work and would be available in about a week. No matter what they may have heard about her, I recommended her as good and reliable help. More, she had been highly instrumental in solving the murder of the Smitson girl, and I felt the community owed her something. How about it?

  From each of them I received a firm and thankful yes.

  Then I made for home, feeling like a Boy Scout, like a Boy Scout who wouldn’t make Eagle rank until another murder was solved.

  22

  It was well after dark, and I was half-ready for bed when the telephone rang. I went to it in my bare feet, hearing the steady pound of rain on the roof. June was reminding itself that it was supposed to be our rainy month and was making up for lost time.

  “Jason Beard here,” I said into the telephone.

  The voice identified itself. It was that of Blanche Burton. Her words came staccato. “Emergency. Meet Mr. Charleston. At the bank. Right away.”

  I put my shirt back on, hitched up my pants and got into socks and shoes. I hurried to the outside door, opened it and ducked back in to put on my slicker and rain hat. Not only was the rain sheeting down, but the night was dark, so black that I made my way to the car by memory, not sight.

  Charleston was pulling up in front of the bank when I arrived. “Bad night. Bad business,” he said, the water dripping from his oilskins.

  The bank was full-lighted. Mr. Stuart met us at the door. “I told you,” he said to Charleston, “I have just shot and killed a man, a brute of a man. Here is the gun.” He held out, butt first, a revolver. It was probably a Colt, caliber .44 or .45, big enough, aimed right, to disable a grizzly.

  About him again was that suggestion of stern control. It extended from his eyes and mouth to the trimmed beard and the three-piece suit. For a man who had just killed another, he was a study in iron reserve. He said, “Come.”

  We followed him, streaming, past the windows to the rear of the bank. Roland Day sat rigid in a chair as if transfixed. Before him on the floor lay the body of Mike Day in a pond of blood. “There he is,” Stuart said, pointing to the body.

  “You’re a witness?” Charleston asked young Day quickly as he stooped over the body.

  Mr. Stuart answered for him. “Aye. He saw and heard it all.”

  “We were working late,” Roland put in to no particular point. “The bank examiner comes tomorrow.” The words came from the shallows of his mind.

  There was a commotion at the front door, and Doc Yak came in, followed by Felix Underwood and two helpers, one of whom carried a litter, the other a covering sheet.

  Doc grunted at us and knelt by the body, careful to keep his pants out of the blood. He felt of a wrist and stared into the open eyes. He opened Day’s shirt and examined the wound.

  Over his shoulder Felix asked, “Poor devil’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, no, goddamnit, he’s not dead. He just needs a new heart.”

  Mr. Stuart said quietly, “I aimed for it.”

  “Killing doesn’t solve anything, you damn fool,” Doc said savagely. Death, whether from natural causes or as a result of violence, always enraged him.

  Mr. Stuart’s tones still were mild, in contrast to his words. “Fool, yourself, to speak without knowledge.”

  Felix said, “Can we take him?”

  “Ask Charleston.”

  “I suppose so,” Charleston said. “No need for pictures under the circumstances. You’ll have a report, Doc?”

  “Sure. I love to write themes.”

  The helpers lay a cloth over the body and eased it onto the litter. The weight made them stagger a little as they made for the door. Doc and Felix followed them, too busy or too tired to inquire about details.

  “I will give you the facts, Mr. Charleston,” Mr. Stuart said.

  “Not here. At the office. We’ll have to detain you, Mr. Stuart.”

  “I came prepared.” He pointed to a suitcase by the end wall. “I arranged in advance for a good woman to look after my wife.”

  “You came, then, determined to kill him?”

  “Aye. And good riddance.”

  “Come along then. Both of you. In my car.”

  “What about mine?” Mr. Stuart asked. “There’s a thing I forgot. My wife or the woman will need it.”

  “We’ll see to that. Don’t worry.”

  It was in character, I thought, that this dignified Scot would have an umbrella, which he opened at the door. Roland brought up the collar of his suit coat, clamped a brimmed hat on his head and ran for it. I carried the suitcase.

  Blanche regarded us with interest and something of distaste as we entered the office, slopping the floor with our drips.

  After we had arranged ourselves in the inner office, Charleston said, “All right, Mr. Stuart. Now for explanations if you please.”

  “To be sure. You must understand that in our family we regard privacy almost as one of the ten commandments, or I should say the eleventh.” He looked at us for understanding as a teacher might look to make sure his point had been taken. “I would not think of opening letters addressed to my wife or of reading them unless she requested. The same is true of her. A civilized attitude, Mr. Charleston.”

  “Agreed.”

  “To proceed then,” he said, again like a schoolmaster. “My daughter kept a diary. We never asked to read it and never did so secretly. Even after her death the entries seemed privileged and not for our eyes or anyone else’s. We put it, unopened, with her things. Could I have a drink of water, please?”

  “Something stronger?”

  “No thanks. Just water.”

  I got it for him.

  He drank and considered and went on. “Then I began to wonder about the diary. I began to think that perhaps it might bear on the brutal facts. With great reluctance I opened and read it, and it did.”

  “How?”

  “I have the particular entry by heart. It goes: ‘Last night Mr. Day offered me a ride home after practice. I had ridden with him before, and he was always all right. I better put in that he had begun calling me Pet. Then last night he stopped the car and started pawing me, making cooing noises. He tried to kiss me, or anyhow he brought his face awful close. I was scared. I squirmed away, got the car door open and ran home. I won’t tell my parents, but no more Mr. Mike Day.’”

  Charleston leaned forward. “That’s exact? You have the diary?”

  “It’s exact, and I have the diary in my pocket.”

  “You must hand it over to us.”

  “And have every man jack knowing my little girl’s thoughts?”

  “It will not become common knowledge, I can assure you. Only what is pertinent will become known. And it will be needed as evidence, in your defense, incidentally.”

  With apparent misgivings Mr. Stuart handed over the book.

  “So, after reading that entry?” Charleston prompted.

  “I read it late this afternoon. Gradually I came to know what to do. I packed the suitcase, made the arrangements for my wife’s help,
and oiled the revolver …”

  “And came right to town, looking for Day.”

  “I set out after supper, thinking he would be at home then. He wasn’t. I went to the bank, and there he was, in company with young Mr. Day.”

  “And shot him right off?”

  “No. Not immediately. I cornered him and read from the diary, showing the revolver all the time. He began pleading. He said I didn’t know what he had in mind for Virginia. He said I didn’t know how he loved her. I knew what he had had in mind all right. I knew the kind of love he had for her. It was then, at this point, that I shot him, aiming for the heart.”

  “Does that statement agree with what you witnessed, Mr. Day?” Charleston asked Roland.

  Roland answered woodenly. “That’s the way it was. I can’t repeat it word for word, but that’s the way it was.”

  “You seem curiously unaffected by the death of your uncle.”

  “I’m plain struck dumb. To see a man shot and killed and him your own uncle? I don’t know what to say.”

  Charleston’s eyes went back to Mr. Stuart. “Just now, Mr. Stuart, the charge must be homicide, to be altered if at all by subsequent legal proceedings. Now I’ll give you the customary warnings …”

  “No, please. I waive them.”

  “You are aware that a homicide defendant must be kept confined. He is not allowed bail or bond.”

  “As I have told you, I came prepared for jail. I shall plead not guilty. I do not believe that the good people of this county will ever convict me in view of the evil of my daughter’s death. A father surely must be excused for avenging the abuse of his child. Call it quick justice, but justice it is.”

  “So be it.” Charleston’s gaze switched to Roland. “Mr. Day, I must ask you not to leave the county. Good night to you.”

  After Charleston had examined the contents of the suitcase in accordance with standard procedure, I led Mr. Stuart back to a cell.

  23

  After I had taken Mr. Stuart to a cell and asked him if he wanted something from the office to read, and he had said no, he proposed to sleep the sleep of the just, I returned to find Charleston sitting quiet, looking into distance. I gave him time to think, then said, “It looks as if we have been playing catch-up all the time.” I meant to sound him out.