Hue and Cry

by Thomas B. Dewey

  “What do you think Curly knows about the murder?” I said.

  “I don’t know that he knows anything about the murder, Joe, but apparently he knows something about the quarrel that Bill Fogarty had with Miss Mason.”

  “Maybe that quarrel doesn’t have anything to do with the murder.”

  “That is possible.”

  “You wouldn’t say offhand that Bill Fogarty had killed her, would you?”

  “I wouldn’t say that offhand about anybody, Joe.”

  And that was all I could get out of Singer during the ride.

  I shuddered when I turned into the side road leading into the camp. My tires were like paper now and that road was a washboard made of jagged rocks. Singer sat on his side clutching the handle of the door. I swerved once to miss a big one and he bumped his head against the window. It seemed to wake him up.

  “Almost there?” he muttered.

  “Yeah. It was a tough fight, Ma.”

  We dipped down and wound toward the camp. There were trees and thick bushes that hung over each side of the road and swished against the sides of the car as we passed. Then we got into the woods where the road twisted among tall old trees that cut out most of the sunlight. It was always gloomy in that patch of woods.

  Hell of a place to build a camp, I thought.

  We wound around some more and finally came into the little clearing where the building stood. Curly Evans’s old Ford was parked a little off the road and I pulled up behind it. There was nobody in sight and we couldn’t hear anybody working.

  “Must be having himself a smoke,” I said.

  We got out of the car and started toward the bathhouse. All the doors on the near side were open and you could see at a glance that Curly was not in any of the rooms. We went around the corner to the other side. All those doors were open, too, except one—at the far end. Curly was not in any of the open rooms.

  We tried the door of the last room. It wouldn’t open. It wasn’t exactly locked, but there was something in the way, something heavy, that gave a little. I was about to let go at the door with my shoulder when Singer stopped me.

  “Go into the next booth,” he said, “and look over.”

  The partitions between the rooms were not built up to the ceiling. You could take hold at the top, pull yourself up and look over into the next room.

  I went into the second room from the end. Singer followed me. I got a good grip on the top of the partition and hoisted myself. I locked my elbows and took a breath. Then I looked over into the next room.

  At first I almost lost my hold. I must have made a noise of some kind because I heard Singer ask, “What is it, Joe?”

  “It’s Curly,” I said.

  He was huddled over on the floor, his head jammed against the door, and there was blood all over his back, soaking through his denim shirt.

  I told Singer.

  “Is he dead?” Singer asked.

  “I don’t know.” I called, “Curly!”

  I don’t know whether it was because I called or not, but pretty soon he moved—moved his head away from the door and lifted up from his waist a little.

  “Curly,” I said again, and this time his hands moved.

  “Tell him to crawl away from the door,” Singer said.

  “Curly,” I said once more, “can you hear me?”

  He lifted his head slightly, then dropped it forward.

  “Try to crawl back from the door some,” I said, “so we can get to you.”

  I repeated it three times. Then at last, slowly, inch by inch, he rolled to one side and got on to his hands and knees. It broke my heart to watch him, the big bruiser, crawling like a baby, his head sagging and that blood on him. It was like watching a sick dog or horse.

  “Look, Singer,” I said. “I’ll let myself down the other side and help Curly out of the way. You open the door from outside.”

  I skinned up to the top of the partition and swung over. It was tough going down. I had to push out and away from the wall to keep from stepping on Curly. I almost tore my arms loose, but I made it without landing on him.

  I knelt down and got one of Curly’s arms around my shoulders. I held onto his arm and put mine under his back. It was sticky under there. I didn’t like getting that blood all over me.

  He opened his eyes when I moved him and looked at me. But he didn’t seem to be able to tell who it was. He muttered something, but I couldn’t make it out. Singer was opening the door from outside and I pulled Curly clear. Singer helped me get a grip on him and we started to ease him out onto the grass. Those little dressing cubicles weren’t big enough for anybody to stretch out in.

  “Take it easy now,” Singer said. “Maybe he has a chance.”

  “He don’t look like it,” I said.

  “Lot of blood.”

  “Yeah. All over me.”

  “It will wash off,” Singer said.

  We got Curly out on the grass beside the bathhouse and rolled him over. Singer took out a pocket knife and cut away part of Curly’s shirt. It was soaked with blood and in one spot under his left shoulder blade it was stuck to him. There was a little hole in the shirt at that point and that was where the blood had come from.

  “Shot,” Singer said.

  “You don’t say,” I said.

  “Get that first-aid kit out of your car, Joe.”

  I ran to the car for the kit. When I got back to Singer he had cut away more of the shirt and was crouched down close to Curly’s head, talking to him. I handed him the kit.

  “He’s trying to say something,” Singer said.

  “He tried in there, too. I couldn’t make it out.”

  Singer took a sterile dressing out of the kit and laid it over the little hole in Curly’s back. Then he rolled him onto his back and lifted his head a little and held it. Curly’s lips were moving, but no sound came out.

  “Hey,” I said. “Shouldn’t we tell somebody about this?”

  “Indeed,” Singer said. “Suppose you run up to Seton’s place and call Doctor Blane.”

  “I better call the District Attorney, too,” I said.

  Singer frowned, shook his head.

  “No. Just call Doctor Blane. In the meantime, I will try to understand what Curly is trying to say.”

  “Good luck,” I said and went off, across the field back of the tourist camp toward the Seton’s place up on the highway.

  * * * *

  When I got back to the bathhouse, Singer was washing Curly’s face with some muddy water that he had probably got out of the creek.

  “Doc’s coming right out,” I said.

  “And Mr. Weaver?” Singer asked.

  “No. I talked him out of that. He said the only person he really had to tell was Pete Haley. He’s going to tell Pete and bring him out if he wants to come.”

  “Good,” Singer said.

  “Did Curly talk?”

  “Since you left he’s said just three words. He’s out of his head and he doesn’t say who shot him. Just three words.”

  “What three words?”

  “He says, ‘Hotel Sheraton—City.’ Just like that, over and over. Three words. ‘Hotel Sheraton—City’!”

  “Never heard of it,” I said. “Maybe he’s got a girl there, or something.”

  “Or it might be the place where the Granger boy is hiding,” Singer said. “I don’t know how much longer Curly’s got.”

  “He’s out of his head,” I said. “He might say anything.”

  “I know. But he says it as though he were trying to make me understand it.”

  About then Curly opened his eyes and looked up at us. His eyes were clearer than I had seen them since we found him. He looked straight at Singer and his lips moved a little, and then I could hear him saying, very softly, “Go to Sheraton Hotel—City.”

  That seemed to be all he could manage at one time. His eyes closed again and his head fell back and lolled over to one side.

  We heard a car coming down the road
into the camp.

  “That would be Doc Blane,” I said.

  Singer was bending low over Curly.

  “Listen, Curly,” he said. “Who shot you? Tell us who shot you?”

  Curly’s eyes opened again and he looked first at Singer and then at me, but he didn’t answer.

  “Maybe he don’t know who shot him,” I said. “After all, he got it in the back. Some dirty bastard—”

  “I just thought he might be able to guess,” Singer said.

  The car we had heard came rolling into sight and pulled up behind my jalopy. The Doc and Pete Haley got out and came toward us. Doc was carrying his bag. Pete already had his hat off and was mopping his face, looking worried.

  Doc said nothing, but squatted down beside Curly and went to work. Pete began to make funny little growling noises.

  “What next!” he said. “What next! Murders and killin’s and people gittin’ shot—”

  “That covers everything,” I said.

  “Who done it, Singer?” Pete asked.

  Singer shook his head. “I wish I knew, Pete,” he said.

  Doc Blane got up. I had been listening to Pete and hadn’t paid any attention to Curly.

  “He’s dead,” Doc said. “He never had a chance.”

  I’ll never be able to explain this, but when the Doc said that and I looked down and saw that big hunk of guy and knew he would never get up again, a big lump came in my throat. I had never been a special friend of Curly’s, but I had known him the way you know people in a little town, and had heard stories about him that were more like legends than anything else, and I had come to have a great respect for him. It didn’t seem right.

  Curly had been a simple kind of guy, no angel. He had batted around plenty—both liquor and women—and he was a tough egg in a combat. But he had never been known to hurt anybody who didn’t deserve to be hurt. He had helped a lot of people in our town, one way and another, without making any fuss about it. He had been tough and hard, but he had always been on hand when something good had to be fought for and he had always been on the right side. And now somebody who had not been on the right side had sneaked up behind him and knocked him off.

  I began to get a little sore.

  “I hope you find the rat that did this,” I said, “and I hope I’m around when you do.”

  “You know, Joe,” Singer said, “I was thinking the same thing.”

  Doc Blane cleared his throat.

  “Pete,” he said, “you stay here with Curly. I’ll go back to town and send the hearse to pick him up.”

  “We’ll go back to town, too,” Singer said.

  Pete mopped his face. It was clear he didn’t want to be left alone with the body, but he was ashamed to say so.

  “All right,” he said. “Hurry it up.”

  We followed Doc to his car, where he turned to Singer.

  “You have any ideas about this one?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Singer said.

  “You want to come in with me and talk to Mr. Weaver?”

  “No,” Singer said. “I’m not ready to talk to Mr. Weaver yet. Joe and I have a little trip to make first. Has Mr. Weaver got hold of that traveling salesman yet?”

  “Yes,” Doc said. “I think Weaver will be leaving soon.”

  “He’s going to charge that man with murder?”

  “That’s the way it looks.”

  “Mr. Weaver still thinks he did it?”

  “Yes.”

  “With a knife?”

  “No. We convinced him that she was poisoned. He revised his theory. He thinks the salesman got into her room and got acquainted—for no good purpose, you may be sure—and they had a couple of drinks, and when the salesman tried to get fresh and she didn’t come across, he tried to knock her out by doping her drink. Then he found he’d given her too much, so he went back to his room, got one of his knives and stuck it in her, in order to throw the police off the track.”

  “That sounds stupid even to me,” I said.

  “Very interesting,” Singer said. “It has the advantage of simplicity and directness. The attorney doesn’t have to clutter his mind up with a number of suspects.”

  “Has anybody told him,” I asked, “that Tommy Rowe went up to Miss Mason’s room last night with a package containing liquor, ice, and so on?”

  Doc started. “Tommy Rowe? Why, no. I’m sure he hasn’t heard about that.”

  “That would be a good thing to tell Mr. Weaver,” Singer said.

  Doc studied Singer for a minute and then got into his car. He started up, then stopped and stuck his head out of the window. “You don’t think it was Tommy Rowe, do you, Singer?”

  “I don’t know, Doctor.”

  Doc drove off.

  Singer looked impatient.

  “We’ll have to go back to the hotel,” he said.

  “That’s all right,” I said. “I’ve got blood all over me. I can change into my last suit.”

  We climbed into the car and headed back to town. Singer was keeping his mouth shut tight.

  CHAPTER 8

  It was five-thirty when we went into the hotel through the back door.

  “You want me right away?” I said.

  “No,” Singer said. “I want to talk to Weaver.”

  “Then I’ll change my clothes.”

  “All right, Joe.”

  Singer went on to the lobby and I slipped into the suite. I didn’t bother to pull the door to. In a little place like Preston people are pretty careless about locking doors. You get in the habit of trusting everybody.

  I went into my room and hauled down my last clean suit—I’ve got three altogether. It was a plaid job that I saved for special occasions, like the stag banquet the Eagles threw every spring up at the Lake. I figured it was a sort of symbol of my progress. All I had when I met Singer and went to work for him was a pair of corduroys, a blue denim shirt, and a bundle of rags. Now I was no longer a bum. I was a businessman, with three suits. In Preston that was high. Most guys had two—one to work in and one to dress up in. I never figured it out. I wasn’t so careful with my money.

  I was zipping up my pants when I heard the door to the suite squeak and somebody pussyfooting into the living room. I strolled out there.

  It was Tommy Rowe. He was bending over my desk, looking for something. I noticed when he touched a paper that it shook like a leaf in a gale.

  “Hello, Tommy.”

  He jerked away from the desk as if he’d heard a shot. He looked at me and then half-grinned.

  “Lose something?” I said.

  “That envelope, Joe, that I gave you this morning. Since Marian’s dead—”

  “Oh—sure. I should have given you that before. Been busy.”

  I pulled open the middle drawer of the desk, hauled the envelope out, and handed it to him.

  He looked at it, turned it over, spotted the loose flap.

  “I sealed it,” he said.

  “Yeah?” I shrugged.

  He was only whispering when he said, “Who opened it, Joe?”

  I felt like a worm, but I had to keep clear on this little deal.

  “I didn’t,” I said, “and Singer didn’t. I’ve got no idea what’s in it.”

  “You think it was Weaver?”

  “Don’t see how. It’s been in here all the time. I never did put it in her box.”

  “Maybe”—he brightened up a little—“I only thought I sealed it.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, thanks, Joe,” he said, and started to leave.

  Then he stopped. He had something else on his mind. But he wasn’t getting it out very fast. I tried to help him along.

  “Curly Evans got knocked off this afternoon,” I said.

  “He did?”

  His eyes stared through me. He closed them, then opened them wide. “You think it was the same person that killed Marian?”

  “I don’t know. Curly had a couple of angles on her murder.”

  “It’s t
oo bad. Curly was a good fellow.”

  “The best.”

  Tommy stood there for a minute and then started away again.

  “What’s on your mind, Tommy?” I asked.

  He stopped. I had a hunch he was glad I’d asked him. Gave him a start.

  “Well…there’s something… I guess I ought to tell somebody, even though it looks bad for me. But I didn’t kill her. Really.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “It’s only—Last night I went up to Marian’s room.”

  “When?”

  “About eleven o’clock. I took a bottle of whisky and some ice up with me and we had a few drinks. I did that every once in a while.”

  “Some hotel I’m managing,” I said. “Wonder we don’t get run out of town… Go ahead.”

  “The important thing is that somebody else was up there—”

  “With Miss Mason?”

  “No. I mean on the same floor—watching.”

  “Watching what?”

  “I’m not sure. But whoever it was, he watched me come out of her room. He was in the bathroom, and I noticed when I left her room that the bathroom door was partly open, and suddenly somebody pushed it shut—or almost—just as I stepped out into the hall.”

  “That could have been an accident, a coincidence.”

  “I don’t think so,” Tommy said. “He didn’t slam the door shut the way you would if you were just going in there and didn’t give a damn. He pushed it to fast, but he didn’t let it click. He kept it quiet.”

  “You’ve got no idea who it was?”

  “No.”

  “Might have been a woman.”

  “It might have been.”

  Because of those bare footprints on the window-sill in Marian Mason’s room, I kept coming back to the theory that a woman had come into the room from the fire escape and killed her. I hadn’t discussed it with Singer yet and I couldn’t figure out what woman in Preston would have killed her. But it nagged at my mind.