Hue and Cry

by Thomas B. Dewey

  “Look, Singer,” Sam said, “do you think I killed Miss Mason?”

  I guess even Singer is surprised sometimes.

  “Do I think what?” he said.

  “Eastman said I killed her,” said Sam.

  Far away I heard voices.

  “For God’s sake,” I said, “let’s go.”

  “Do you think I did it?”

  “No,” Singer said. “I know you didn’t.”

  “Can we go now?” I said.

  “You take Eastman’s head,” Singer said. “I’ll take the feet.”

  “You know how to get out of here?”

  “Yes. It’s only a few steps to the alley. We’re on the ground floor.”

  I grabbed Don’s shoulders and Singer took his legs. We pushed through the door into a narrow corridor, lighted by a dull red bulb. Far away we could hear voices. They came closer in a hurry.

  “The door at the end,” Singer said.

  At the end of the corridor there was a door with iron bars running the entire height of it. We carried Don to the door and Singer got it open. Just as we went through I looked back. Far down the corridor I could see the shapes of two guys coming toward the door of the room we had just left. One of them was wearing a white coat.

  “That little Willie,” I said. “I wish he’d come back a little sooner.”

  “What was that?” Singer said.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Just saw a familiar face.”

  CHAPTER 13

  The alley was littered with rubbish and there were deep ruts. We stumbled around a lot, but managed to get Eastman out to the street. We stood him up then and I put one of his arms around my shoulders and supported him while Singer stepped out on the pavement to hail a cab. Sam Granger stood around, not saying anything. Once in a while he would start to help me with Eastman, but he wasn’t much good to me. He was completely sober now, but shaky. Singer finally got a cab to stop and we pushed Don into it.

  “Passed out,” I said to the driver. “Had to take him out the back way.”

  The driver nodded and started off. We headed for the Greyhound Bus Depot. Sam Granger sat on the edge of the seat near the door.

  We didn’t talk in the cab. Most of the time we spent trying to keep Eastman upright. He was really out.

  At the bus depot I saw by a clock in the waiting room that it was ten-fifty. I felt more like five o’clock in the morning.

  If we took the eleven-o’clock bus, we’d get to Preston about two minutes before twelve.

  We sat down and propped Eastman up between us.

  “What did you hit him with?” I said. “The desk?”

  “I kicked him,” Singer said, looking ashamed.

  I had to laugh.

  “You look terrible, Joe,” Singer said.

  “Yeah?” I said. “You don’t look like Tyrone Power yourself.”

  “I’ve got to find a telephone and call the narcotics agents,” he said. “You stay here with Don and Granger. The only thing you have to remember is that we absolutely have to get him back to Preston by midnight. Don’t let anybody interfere.”

  “All right,” I said.

  He went away and I sat there, holding Don Eastman up with one hand, cleaning myself up with the other, and watching Sam Granger out of the corner of my eye. People walking by would stare a little and some of them looked disgusted and some of them thought it was funny. But nobody bothered us and we were getting along fine until one of the passersby turned out to be a cop.

  He strolled by, glanced at us, and went on a few steps. Then he stopped, looked back, and came over. He peered at me, then at Don, then at Sam Granger. He asked, “What’s the matter, son? Been in a fight?”

  “Fell down,” I said. “Friend here passed out. Fell down trying to get him across the street. Damn near got run over. You ought to do something about those cab drivers. Much as your life is worth—”

  “Passed out, eh?” he said, looking at Don.

  He bent down and pushed Don’s head to one side and watched it flop back.

  “He sure did,” I said. “Tried to show off. Boilermakers.”

  “You going somewhere? Can’t just sit here, you know. This is a bus station.”

  “We live in Preston,” I said. “We’re taking a bus at eleven o’clock, little local bus, runs to Montpelier.”

  “Got any tickets?” the cop said.

  I was scared for a minute. Then I remembered I’d bought a round-trip ticket from the driver when I got on at Bridgeville. I dug around, found the return stub, and handed it to the cop. I started going through Eastman’s pockets.

  “He’s got his own,” I said.

  “What about you?” the cop said to Sam Granger.

  Sam started fumbling through his pockets. “Sure,” he said, “somewhere…

  He didn’t find anything, and I wasn’t finding anything on Eastman either, but after a minute the cop said:

  “All right, son. Hope you get home safe. You young fellows do too much drinking. Ought to be careful, get in trouble.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, and he walked away.

  It was three minutes to eleven when Singer came rushing up.

  “Did you get some more tickets?” I said. “There are four of us now, you know.”

  “I forgot,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “You go get two more tickets. I’ll take little Donald and Sam here out to the bus.”

  Singer dashed off again. I hauled Eastman out to the platform and found the Montpelier bus. Sam stayed right behind me. The bus, luckily, was empty. Few people rode that bus anyway, and hardly ever at that time of night.

  The bus driver looked at me kind of funny, but I grinned at him and handed over my ticket. The driver looked at Eastman.

  “Passed out,” I said. “Trying to get him home.”

  The driver didn’t laugh. “You country boys ought to stay away from the big city,” he said.

  “All right,” I said. “Anything you say. I don’t want any trouble. I had enough.”

  “You look like it,” the driver said. “What about fares for these guys?”

  “There’s another fellow coming,” I said. “He’ll have two tickets extra.”

  “He’d better get here,” the driver said. “Time to go.”

  “Any minute,” I said. “Any minute.”

  I staggered to the back seat with Eastman and dumped him. He was beginning to come around now. Every once in a while he’d move his head and groan. Sam Granger sat and stared at him. Sam’s face was white as milk.

  Singer came scrambling onto the bus just as the driver shifted into low. He hurried back to our seat and flopped.

  “I see you made it,” I said.

  He looked hurt.

  “Don’t berate me, Joseph,” he said. “I’m not used to these late hours.”

  “Forget it. Did you get hold of the Feds?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  He didn’t sound happy about it. When he didn’t say anything more I got suspicious.

  “Everything all right?” I said.

  “Oh yes. Everything is fine.”

  “Then what are you acting so funny about?”

  “Well, it’s only a little thing—maybe I’m nervous.”

  “I’m nervous as hell,” I said. “What is it?”

  “They didn’t like it very well when I told them we couldn’t wait, but would have to go back to Preston.”

  “Oh,” I said. “They didn’t like that… You didn’t by any chance mention that we had one of their key witnesses with us?”

  “Well—yes, I did. I mentioned that.”

  “Great God Almighty,” I said. “The F.B.I., the F.B.I.—” It was all I could think of to say.

  “Not the F.B.I., Joe. It’s the Treasury Department that handles narcotics.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Then it’s all right. An entirely different branch of the Federal Government.”

  “Don’t be sarcastic, Joe,” Singer said.

 
“So sorry. The prospect of spending the next ten years in Alcatraz unnerved me.”

  “You won’t go to jail,” he said. “The officers will understand when they see we needed Don in order to solve a murder case.”

  “And suppose,” I said, “the murder is not solved?”

  “Have no fear, Joe.”

  “You know who did it?”

  “I’m certain.”

  “Who?”

  “Suppose you tell me what you heard in the hotel,” he said. “While you were apparently unconscious.”

  “All right,” I said.

  I told him what Don Eastman and the mug had talked about. I told him about the girl Don said he had ready to turn over to the boys. Singer made a sad face. I told him about Curly snooping around the place. I told him about the wad of dough Don had suddenly flashed.

  “Was anything said about whether the money was crisp and new or whether it was just ordinary old bills?”

  “No,” I said.

  “We’d better find out,” Singer said and started looking for Don’s wallet.

  “Hell,” I said. “Money’s money.”

  “Of course,” Singer said.

  He found the wallet and opened it. It was loaded with dough. They were mostly big bills, fifty—a hundred—. It was all bright and new and crisp.

  “Look at that spinach,” I said.

  “You don’t make money like that working in a bakery,” Singer said.

  “No, you don’t,” I said. “And he didn’t make it working for the drug racket either. That mug in the hotel was just as surprised about it as you are.”

  Singer put the money back into Don’s wallet. Then he called out to the driver, “Will you stop for ten or fifteen minutes in Bridgeville?”

  “That depends,” said the driver.

  “Would you?”

  The driver took out his watch.

  “I’m ahead of schedule,” he said. “I could stop for maybe ten minutes.”

  “I wish you would,” Singer said. “I’ve a telephone call to make before I get to Preston.”

  “I’ll think about it,” the driver said.

  Don Eastman opened his eyes and looked around. He didn’t seem to like what he saw.

  “Go back to sleep,” I said. “You got nothing more to worry about.”

  He didn’t answer.

  I had a stiff neck and my head was still throbbing. The cuts on my face where that big mug’s ring had hit me smarted, and my eyes were puffy and heavy-lidded. I was a minor mess.

  I lay back in the seat and closed my eyes.

  The last thing I heard was Singer talking to Sam Granger. Sam didn’t tell him anything I hadn’t heard or figured out. Then I fell asleep.

  The next thing I knew Singer was shaking me, saying: “Come on, Joe, we’re in Bridgeville. Have to make a phone call. Help me with Don.”

  I was sleepy. “Can’t we just sit here and wait for you?” I said.

  Singer shook his head. “I want Don to hear this conversation.”

  I struggled to my feet and shook Eastman until he opened his eyes.

  “Get up,” I said. “We’re taking a little walk.”

  Don groaned and grabbed the seat with both hands.

  “I won’t go,” he said.

  I didn’t have much patience left. I’m not long on patience anyway—as you may have noticed.

  “You’ll go,” I said, and I jerked him up by the collar. “Move now, or I’ll beat you to a mess of pulp.”

  He tried to hang back some more, and I cuffed his face.

  “What are you training for, Joe?” asked Singer. “The Gestapo?”

  “You want him to get off?” I said. “Okay. Let me handle it my way.”

  Singer looked away.

  “Come on, Eastman,” I said, “let’s walk.”

  He came along then, and we lurched down the aisle of the bus and into the fresh air. It seemed to revive him a little. He shook his head and took a couple of deep breaths. Then he came right along, meek as a baby.

  “If you’ve got any idea of making a break,” I said, “forget it. I’m right here all the time.”

  “Where did you get all that money, Don?” asked Singer.

  But Don only shut his lips tight and said nothing.

  “Want me to make him talk?” I said.

  “No, Joe. A confession should be drawn, not wrung.”

  “Who said I had anything to confess?” Don said suddenly.

  “Nobody,” said Singer. “I just thought you’d like to help.”

  Don’s voice was bitter. “What’s in it for me?” he said.

  “About twenty years in Atlanta,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah?” he said. But he wasn’t that brave really. He was just bragging. He knew it, too.

  We went into McCarthy’s drugstore. I noticed my car was gone and hoped Elsie Schaffner had got home without cracking it up. When we went in, the bus driver was sitting at the soda fountain having a cup of coffee and a sinker. He looked at us but didn’t speak. He gave Don the once-over and then went back to his coffee.

  There was a public telephone in the back. We went over there and I pushed Don into a chair right beside it. Sam Granger sat down in another chair and I stood. Singer got out some change and rang the operator. He asked to speak to Doctor Blane in Preston. Then he waited. After a while there were some clicks in the telephone and Singer put the money in. You could hear it clanging. Made a terrible racket.

  I heard Singer say: “Hello, Doctor. I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, but I have some interesting things on the murders and I need your help… Thank you. In the first place, is the District Attorney still there?… He is? That’s fine. Now then, I wish you would tell him in the presence of some people who will be likely to gossip about it that I know who the murderer is… What’s that?… I’m certain, Doctor. Now I want you to do this. I want you to round up certain people who must be in the hotel for me to talk to. Here are their names: Tommy Rowe.… I know his mother is not well, but perhaps one of the neighbors would go in and stay with her.… I want Elsie Schaffner to be there, and Mrs. Coolidge, who runs the bakery. Also Mrs. Fogarty. Those are the ones… What’s that? Don Eastman? Don is right here with us. He’ll be coming back with us… I don’t like to tell you my suspicions at this time, Doctor. I’m going to have to produce some evidence. But I must have these people together in the lobby of the hotel… Thank you. I guess that’s all. I hate to ask it of you at such a time, but it’s very important. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Thank you very much.”

  Singer hung up.

  “You sounded pretty sure of yourself,” I said.

  Singer laughed. He looked at Eastman. Don looked bad. He was the color of dirty ashes. I thought his teeth were chattering, but I could have been wrong about that. He sat and stared at Singer without blinking, and his mouth was open.

  “Well, Don,” Singer said, “let’s go home.”

  I’ve never heard those words sound so cheerless. Don got up out of the chair like a guy in a dream. I took one arm and Singer took the other. Don wobbled when he walked. We had to keep setting him on an even keel. Sam Granger, as usual, plodded along behind us.

  The bus driver had got into his seat and was waiting. Singer went in first and headed for the back seat. Don followed him. The driver stopped me as I climbed in and asked in a low voice, “Your friend a dick or something?”

  “In a way,” I said.

  “Was there a murder?”

  “There were two murders,” I said, with dignity.

  “Yeah? Where?”

  “In Preston.”

  “That little hick town?”

  “That little hick town.”

  The driver shook his head and shifted gears. “I’m damned,” he said.

  “Me, too, brother,” I said, and went back to join Singer, Eastman, and Sam.

  I guessed that the reason Singer had wanted Eastman to hear the telephone conversation was to get him to talk before we got home. But
he never did. He just sat like a dummy, his mouth half open, his face gray, all the way into Preston.

  CHAPTER 14

  At twelve o’clock exactly we went in the back door, through the kitchen into my bedroom. We could hear voices in the sitting room of the suite. So Weaver and his henchmen were still around.

  “Sam,” Singer said, “you keep your eye on Don Eastman and stay right here till I call you. Joe and I have to make a little conversation with the county attorney.”

  I followed Singer into the bathroom. He put his hand on my shoulder.

  “This won’t be easy, Joe,” he said. “The murderer of Marian Mason didn’t leave any positive clues. The evidence is circumstantial. He’s going to have to be trapped, and I think I can do it. I need your help.”

  “I’m still breathing,” I said.

  “Good. The switch-box for the hotel is in the wall just under the stairway, as I remember.”

  “That’s right.”

  “It opens from the back wall of the lobby?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This is what you’re to do…

  He told me. Then he said, “And now we confront Mr. Weaver.”

  He opened the door and we stepped into the suite. Weaver and the uniformed cop were there. Mr. Pfeffer, the salesman, was still present, minus the handcuffs. When the bluecoat saw me he made a noise and started up out of his chair. Weaver motioned him back down.

  “Hello, wonder boy,” Weaver said. “I hear you’ve got it all figured out.”

  “Thank you for waiting, Mr. Weaver,” Singer said.

  “Well, spill it,” Weaver said. “I’ve got to get along. Doctor Blane told me you’d asked him to set your little scene. I don’t like it, but I’ve gone this far… Let’s get going.”

  “First there are some questions I want to ask you,” Singer said.

  Weaver’s eyes widened. “Ask me!” he said. “I didn’t kill anybody.”

  “Of course not,” Singer said—and waited.

  Weaver sighed and settled back in his chair. “All right,” he said.

  “I suppose,” Singer said, “you’ve begun an investigation of the murder of Curly Evans?”

  “Sure,” Weaver said.

  “Our salesman killed him, too?”

  “Of course not,” said Weaver. “That’s an entirely different case.”