State Department Murders

by Edward S. Aarons

  “What Communists?” Cornell asked.

  “Why, the rat that killed Mr. Stone. Ain’t you heard about him?”

  There was an abrupt edge of suspicion in the barman’s voice. Cornell grinned. “I’m on my honeymoon,” he said.

  “Oh, you’re that Smith?”

  “That’s right,” Cornell said.

  The barman relaxed a little. “Guess you ain’t got time to worry about other things, at that. Gootsie was askin’ for you.”

  “Gootsie Thomas?”

  “Ain’t but one man with a name like that around here.”

  The boy at the pinball machine giggled. Cornell said, “Where can I find him?”

  “That sounds like him comin’ in now.”

  Cornell heard the familiar laboring of an outboard engine and put the empty Coke bottle on the bar. He started out, and the barman called, “Hey, you forgot your razor.”

  Cornell turned back and said, “Thanks,” and went outside.

  Gootsie was busy fastening a heavy chain and padlock to his outboard when Cornell approached. The man’s broad back was stained dark with sweat. He looked up as Cornell’s long shadow fell across the open boat, and said: “Hi. Oh, it’s you.”

  “Good morning,” Cornell said.

  Gootsie looked him over critically. “That’s some outfit you got.”

  “It will do.”

  In bright daylight he saw that Gootsie Thomas was much older than he had thought, about fifty, with a lot of gray shot through his dark crinkly hair. The man’s squat body was powerful, however, and there was enormous strength in the square hands that finished padlocking the motor. Gootsie wiped them on a rag and stepped to the dock, scowling.

  “It’s a hot day. Lots of heat on.”

  “Yes,” said Cornell.

  “Them cheaters won’t be good enough in a clutch.”

  “Maybe not. I just wanted to thank you again for the help last night.”

  “I did it for Sally, that’s all.”

  “You’re not a native here, are you, Gootsie?”

  “I come from Sally’s home town. Like a beer?”

  Cornell shook his head. “We can talk better out here.”

  “I got some bottles in the boat. That robber Kelly charges an extra nickel.” Gootsie dipped into a water bucket and came up with two dripping bottles that had lost their labels. “Been wanting to talk to you. Here is as good a place as any.”

  The beer was cool and friendly. Cornell sat on the edge of the pier and shook out cigarettes while staring out over the bay. A tanker made a ribbon of smoke against the far horizon. Two small sails bent in the breeze closer inshore. It looked quiet.

  Gootsie said, “It ain’t for me to ask questions. I don’t want to know what you were doing at the Stone place last night. The guy who killed him rates a medal, so I don’t care if you did it or not.”

  “I didn’t,” Cornell said.

  “So you didn’t. That’s as may be. It’s what happens to Sally now that worries me. She’s got ideas of her own, and she’s got her pop’s stubborn neck, too.”

  “I understand you knew Sally’s father,” Cornell said.

  “I knew him.”

  “How well?”

  Gootsie laughed. “I was his bootlegger, back in the old days. Tim Smith was a fine man, mister. The very best. He brought Sally up the best he knew how, after his wife died.” Gootsie paused and no longer smiled. “She died after Jay Stone had Tim sent to Eastern Pen for ten years.”

  Cornell was silent for so long that Gootsie looked up sharply. “What’s the matter?”

  “I didn’t know Sally had any connection with Jason Stone.”

  Gootsie said, “For the guy who married her, you don’t know much about Sally, do you? Sure, she knew Jay Stone. She hated his guts. Stone framed her father in politics. Tim was the leading candidate for the Congressional district against Stone’s stooge, and Tim somehow got the goods on the dirty electioneering Stone worked out—stuffed ballot boxes, intimidating voters, blackmail and bribery, the works. Tim had documentary proof, too. But you know Stone. He framed Tim on a manslaughter rap and Tim got sent up in the middle of the campaign. Stone’s candidate got elected and Tim got ten years.”

  “So that’s the reason,” Cornell said quietly.

  “That’s the reason Sally first got interested in you. Because you were fighting Jay Stone. Maybe she didn’t expect to fall in love with you, but she did, and that’s that. All I can say is that you’d better take good care of her.”

  “I will,” Cornell said. “Don’t worry.”

  “You’re the one to worry,” Gootsie shrugged.

  But Cornell felt good. Gootsie’s information gave him enormous relief. All his doubts about the girl were swept away, and he suddenly felt better than he had in a long time. His way ahead was clear and simple, it didn’t matter that he was a fugitive, hunted by every law-enforcement agency in the country. He knew what he had to do now. Jason Stone was dead, and he had to find the man’s murderer. More important, the country was full of the hue and cry over the death of a supposed patriot. It was up to him to expose Jason Stone for what he really had been.

  He became aware of Gootsie’s hand suddenly tightening on his arm. The man’s face had suddenly gone sharp and alert.

  “Here it comes,” he whispered. “Hang on, that’s all.”

  “What—”

  Cornell turned to look across the clearing. The fat man who had arrived earlier in the rattletrap Ford was coming toward them, waddling on stubby, purposeful legs. Cornell noted again the man’s broad suspenders, and this time he noticed something more—the wink of sunlight shining on the metal badge pinned to the elastics.

  At the same moment he heard the sound of several cars roaring down the road through the woods from Calvert Beach. The fat man was still some distance away when the cars squawked to a halt and half a dozen uniformed men tumbled out and scattered among the tourist cabins.

  Gootsie Thomas looked pale.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE fat man had a round, moonlike face dangerously flushed by the heat. His baggy trousers were frayed and dirty. The lavender stripes on his silk shirt were almost black with the perspiration that came through. He took off his Panama and mopped his balding head and looked at the state police fanning out through the Excelsior Cabins. He wheezed and looked at Gootsie and Cornell.

  “Been expectin’ ’em,” he announced. He looked at Cornell. “You Smith?”

  “Yes,” Cornell said.

  “I’m Hannigan. Calvert Beach Police. All the police we ever had, till that danged thing last night.” The man scowled at the uniformed men going up to Kelly’s porch. “Won’t listen to me. Don’t even know I’m alive. Hell of a note. Can’t even get my name in the papers. Big thing, and they push me aside.”

  “You got it tough,” Gootsie said.

  Some of the color had returned under the oysterman’s tan. His small dark eyes touched Cornell briefly. The fat man’s eyes were bright and penetrating, with a sly shrewdness that took in Cornell’s slacks, the gaudy sport shirt, and the sun glasses. Cornell looked beyond him and saw two troopers and a plain-clothes man striding down the path toward the bar. A knot of children from the tourist cabins romped after them. A group of adults had gathered near Kelly’s house, aloof and detached from the police.

  “Lookin’ for the killer,” Hannigan said.

  “Here?” Cornell asked.

  “Every place they can think of.”

  Gootsie said, “Nobody in his right mind would hide out at Pheeney’s Landing.”

  “Tried to tell ’em so. Wouldn’t listen.”

  Cornell fought the tension in him. The fat man might be stalling, waiting until the troopers drew near before dramatically announcing an arrest. He wondered what chance he would have with violence. None at all, he decided. He would be shot down before he got twenty feet from the dock. The sun glasses, the sport shirt, all seemed ridiculously thin as a covering. Hannigan knew. Hannig
an was going to say it now. He had to say it and get it over with, to get his name in the newspapers.

  Hannigan said, “You want to tell Kelly about tonight. Call it off.”

  Gootsie said, “Call what off?”

  “Don’t act dumb,” Hannigan said. “Cockfightin’ is illegal in this state. You know that, Gootsie. Cruelty to dumb animals. No pit, no ring, no bettin’ tonight. Too many outside cops around. Got that?”

  “I got it,” Gootsie nodded.

  “Best this way,” Hannigan said, in explanation to Cornell. “Folks got to have some recreation. I shut one eye. They’re the folks ’lected me. Can’t help it if a bunch of shiny boots come trampin’ around, makin’ with the big brains and catchin’ nothing.”

  The two troopers and the plain-clothes man were standing in the doorway of the bar, talking to the barman. The plain-clothes man was looking their way. Gootsie turned toward the boat, his face and voice casual. “Beer, Hannigan?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  The fat man wiped the top of the bottle with the palm of his hand and tilted it to his mouth. His eyes met Cornell’s and he sighed, belched, and drank again. The troopers were coming toward the dock now. Cornell felt the tightness increase inside him. Maybe Hannigan would blurt it out now; or, if the man really didn’t suspect his identity, then the troopers, more acute, would certainly spot him. He finished the small remainder of beer in his own bottle, and as he lowered it he heard one of the troopers say:

  “It’s just Hannigan. Come on.”

  Hannigan said, “Hear that? Just old Hannigan, the local yokel.”

  Gootsie said, “Ah, don’t let them slickers bother you, Al. They’re just chasing their tails in circles.” His face was shiny with fine sweat. “Like another beer?”

  “You got more?” Hannigan asked. Cornell turned slightly to watch the police. They had moved away from the path to the dock, after recognizing Hannigan, and were heading back to the cabins, where most of the other troopers had already gathered around their cars. His legs trembled. His ribs ached, and he realized he had been holding his breath, more or less, for the past few moments. He didn’t dare to sit down. He had to wait while Gootsie dipped into the water bucket and felt around. The oysterman’s face was apologetic. “I’m sorry, Al. I thought I had one more bottle.”

  “It’s all right,” said Hannigan. “Guess I better go see what the big brains are doing.” The man looked at Cornell and grinned. “Nice little wife you got there, Mr. Smith.”

  “Yes, she is,” Cornell said.

  “Smart little gal.”

  “Yes, she is,” Cornell said.

  The troopers were leaving by way of the rutted, winding road to Calvert Beach. In a moment they were out of sight.

  Hannigan said, “Big brains.”

  Gootsie said, “You tell ’em, Al.”

  The fat man waddled off, after a further admonition about the cockfight scheduled for that night. Gootsie said he would pass the word along to Kelly. Hannigan got into his ancient flivver and presently jounced away after the shiny police cruisers.

  Gootsie looked at Cornell. “You’re in, chum.”

  Sally did not come back. In a few minutes, Gootsie went away on business of his own, after inviting Cornell to drop in at his place at Muskrat Point. It wasn’t like the penthouse he’d had during bootlegging days, he said, but he was satisfied with it. There wasn’t much he wanted or needed now.

  Cornell returned to the tourist cabin. It seemed empty and unfriendly. Without Sally, the whole situation took on the aspect of a slow-moving nightmare. The need to do something made him restless. He couldn’t just sit here and let others take the risks for him. Yet the danger if he wandered abroad was only too obvious now. When Sally came back, he decided, they would plan a specific course of action.

  But Sally did not come back. He made another pot of coffee, shaved, and drank two cups. The heat began to build up inside the cabin. There was little activity within the area of the tourist camp. A radio droned out a soap opera nearby; two small boys played cops and robbers on the little street; an occasional patron visited Kelly’s Bar. No one would suspect that the greatest man hunt in the area’s history was going on all around him.

  Shortly after noon he went into the bar and had a ham sandwich and a glass of beer. The little barman nodded and asked no questions. Cornell had no appetite. There could be no reassuring reason for Sally’s failure to return. Something had happened to her. Perhaps Johnny Acorn had picked her up. Or she might have got into trouble pursuing her clue of the paint smear. His worry deepened. He tried to remember the name of the studio where the party had been going on last night, and when it came to him he asked the little barman about it.

  “What do you know about this Yvan Rulov?”

  The barman grinned. “Screwball.”

  “An artist, isn’t he?”

  “Teaches the tourists. Some folks say he ain’t a real American. Drinks vodka, and that’s a Roosian drink, ain’t it? Throws some nifty shindings, though.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Just off Main Street, in the village.”

  “At his studio?”

  “Just behind it. You want another beer, Mr. Smith?”

  “Not just now,” Cornell said.

  The barman said, “I’m kinda surprised. Most fellers ask about pore old Yvan, but they really wanta know about his wife. A nifty number, she is. But you bein’ just married, I’m kinda surprised.”

  “I’m not interested in his wife.” Cornell said.

  “Wait till you see her.”

  He paid for his sandwich and beer and went out into the glaring sunlight. The breeze had died, and an early-afternoon quiet had settled everywhere. The sun was like a blast furnace. Cornell started to pass the camp entrance on the way to the village, and then paused. His cabin door was open. He was sure he had closed and locked it, and there was no breeze to force it open if he hadn’t. He turned off the path and went toward the cabin and stepped inside.

  Kelly was there, making himself at home. The lanky, gray-haired proprietor sat on the couch, a glass of milk held in both hands. The man’s grayish face turned as Cornell came in. He grinned. His teeth were yellow and uneven, and his small pale eyes spelled trouble. There was a thin shine of sweat on his long face and a little drop trickled down his cheek and was lost in the gray stubble of his beard.

  Cornell said quietly, “Waiting for me, Mr. Kelly?”

  “That’s right. Wanted you to finish lunch first.”

  “Did you want anything special?”

  “Just a little talk, Mr. Smith.”

  Cornell said, “I don’t know if Gootsie gave you Al Hannigan’s message. It’s about the cockfight you were going to stage tonight. Hannigan said to call it off.”

  “Hannigan gets scared out of his pants,” Kelly said scornfully. “The law don’t worry me, local or outside. We sure got a lot of law around here today, ain’t we? But they don’t bother me, like they might bother certain other people.”

  Cornell said, “I see.”

  “Do you?”

  Cornell said, “Make it plain and quick, Mr. Kelly.”

  Kelly grinned, again showing his yellow teeth. He got up and returned the empty milk glass to the kitchen table, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and sighed.

  “There’s no hurry. I ain’t givin’ you away to the cops, Mr.—uh. Smith. Not if you’re sensible, that is.”

  “What do you want?” Cornell asked sharply.

  “You seen the cops go through the cabins. They wanted to know when you and the girl checked in. I told ’em it was a couple days ago. I figured they might get to wonderin’ if I said you checked in just after Mr. Stone was killed. I didn’t want any trouble, and I figure you don’t want any, either.”

  Kelly knew who he was. It was bound to have happened, sooner or later. Maybe it was better this way, Cornell decided. There was no one else in the cabin except Kelly, so Kelly hadn’t yet given the alarm. Maybe
he didn’t intend to. Cornell lit a cigarette and waited impassively for the gray-faced man to go on. Kelly was in no hurry. The man walked toward the door as if he were going to leave, but he didn’t go out. He stuck his head outside, looked around, then came back in and closed the door behind him. He chuckled.

  “I guess you’re going to be sensible, Mr. Smith.”

  “That depends,” Cornell said.

  Kelly said, “You’ve got no choice. I’m takin’ a risk by not reporting suspicious circumstances. That’s what the cops asked me to do. Anything or anybody that looked suspicious. You fit the bill, Mr. Smith. What’s more, I hear there’s a reward for information leadin’ to the arrest of this Cornell feller. Two thousand dollars. A certain Mr. Hand is offerin’ a separate reward of five thousand. That’s a lot of money, Mr. Smith, to a fellow who has to struggle and scratch out a living here at the Landing.”

  Cornell said tightly, “What do you want?”

  “A hundred a day. And extras. Extras are meals and miscellaneous services, like. You buy a lot with the hundred.”

  “I don’t have that kind of money with me.”

  “How much have you got?”

  Cornell counted out the bills in his wallet. There was only sixty-seven dollars there. He counted off two twenties and a ten and dropped them on the couch beside Kelly. Kelly looked at them and poked them around with a grimy forefinger.

  “That’s not so much,” he said.

  “It’s all I have with me.”

  “But you can get more, can’t you?” There was a sly certainty in his small eyes as he looked at Cornell. “Lots more.”

  Cornell said, “It will take time.”

  Kelly scooped up the three bills and stuffed them in his pocket. “All you got to do is contact your friends. I’ve been askin’ around, in the village. Mr. Evarts is stayin’ at the Inn, with Mrs. Stone. The cops questioned him and the lady all last night, but I guess they wriggled out of it, somehow. People like them can always get out of trouble. They ain’t poor folks, like me. It’s money that talks in this world, Mr. Smith, and Mrs. Stone is a real rich woman. I want to hear money shout out loud.”