Sin In Their Blood

by Ed Lacy

  Saxton said, in a selling voice, “I understand you are a crackerjack private detective.”

  “If you mean I come with corn—yeah.” They didn't get my little joke. “I used to be a private dick.”

  “Listen, Matt,” Max cut in, “Mr. Saxton mentioned he was so anxious to clean up the death of his sister, he was going to hire a private investigator to help us. Of course I thought of you.”

  I almost laughed in Max's puss. That private investigator stuff, and a copper likes to have a private dick around a case the same way a rat loves to have a kitten around. But Max was going to rehabilitate me—as though the hospital hadn't tried enough of that.

  “I can't take a case, I'm not licensed,” I began.

  But Saxton boomed, “I know, and I want you to start at once—this very second! Suppose I don't hire you as a detective but as a... eh... secretary? I want everything possible done on this... case. The smallest detail investigated. I'm willing to pay you fifty dollars a day, starting as of this minute.”

  “Be wasting your dough,” I told him. “Been over a year since I've worked and...”

  “Fine! Fine! I like that—honesty, a rare quality,” Saxton said.

  “And you couldn't find a better man. Matt was tops in his field,” Max said, giving me the eye.

  I didn't say anything and Saxton said, “I don't expect miracles, but thorough work. Now Mr.... eh...?”

  “Ranzino,” Max said.

  “Are you working for me, Mr. Ranzino?”

  “Well...” I was far from flush and even if I worked two days it meant a hundred—almost a month's pension. And this joker was too eager to give me his dough.

  “Take it, Matt,” Max said, giving me the double pat on the back that annoyed me. “Wouldn't ask you unless I thought you could help.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But you know in front where I stand, I'm rusty and...” I was about, to add, “And not too well,” but Saxton boomed, “I understand,” and shook my hand. He had a big hand and a powerful grasp. “I'll give you a retainer. Hundred do?”

  I nodded and he pulled out a checkbook, looked around for a table, then pushed the kitchen door open with one finger and we all went in and he sat down and wrote me a check.

  I waved it to let the ink dry and Max said, “Now let's go down to the station and talk. Start from the beginning and see what we end up with.”

  I said I'd stay there and Saxton told me to keep in touch with him and I said I would and they went out. I pocketed the check and the maid asked, “You a detective now?”

  “Seems so.” I went out and tried the kitchen door again. It was still stuck. For a man his age—or any age—Saxton was damn strong... or I was weaker than I thought.

  Outside, I took a fairly deep breath and looked around for the nearest bus. I walked to the corner, noting the fine houses on the block, thinking of that old fine about the rich and poor having one thing in common—death. I felt tired and hailed a cruising cab— now that I was in the dough.

  In my room I undressed to my underwear and went to bed. It took me some time to fall asleep. I thought of Harry and how the nance in him was coming out more and more. I could see it after being away all this time. Flo got hooked up with the wrong guy this trip—even for the car and the money. And having to sleep with the creep as a topper. It was a crazy scared world I'd returned to—frightened worse than the world of the hospital. There it was simple: either you lived or you died. Here... nothing added up. And I was the silliest joker of them all—getting fifty bucks a day for a case I didn't give a damn about, didn't intend to do any work on. Maybe that maid was right when she said nothing would be done—maybe she had me in mind, ..without knowing it.

  But Saxton was crazier—he was paying me. And Max, the Big Brother, helping me rook Saxton.

  But I didn't feel bad about the rooking. I didn't feel anything, one way or another, except tired.

  TUESDAY

  I awoke early and felt pretty good—I'd had over twelve hours shut-eye. I took a warm shower, examined my body in the mirror as I dried myself. This was my second day out of the hospital and I was still alive. After a big breakfast I dropped in at Saxton's bank, identified myself with my VA papers, cashed the check. Mrs. Wilson's murder was in the morning headlines and the teller looked at Saxton's signature, said, “Hard to believe Mrs. Wilson is dead.”

  “Know her?”

  “She had an account here, saw her a few times. But Mr. Wilson came in every day. He's a swell guy. You know what I mean, real friendly, even though he's a big manufacturer. Papers are crazy, hinting he did it.”

  “Never tell what makes a guy murder.”

  “But not Mr. Wilson—never heard Henry raise his voice. He and I are members of the same Masonic Lodge. I know him pretty well. There isn't a nicer guy. Ask anybody.”

  “Haven't time,” I said, counting the ten tens and walking away.

  I stopped at the VA office and after waiting awhile saw a snooty young doctor named Kent, who told me, “Report here every two months for a check-up. Of course if you should feel sick, raise a fever, spit blood, have a bad cold, get in touch with us immediately.”

  “Want to look me over now?”

  “Why? Only 24 hours since you were released from the hospital. Feel all right?”

  “Good as I can,” I said. He had a folder on me the hospital must have sent along and he thumbed through this, then stopped and read a page and looked up at me with puzzled eyes. So he knew. I didn't give too much of a damn about that. Being called a coward never worried me much—didn't mean a thing now. No one had ever exactly called me that. Still it was in his eyes. But what the hell did he know, sitting here in his comfortable office? Probably had a bum heart or a doc his age would be in the army.

  When I left him it was only eleven and I started to look about for a room, but decided I ought to see Max, find out what was new on the great case.

  Max gave me the double slap on the back before I could pull away, asked. “Dig up anything?”

  “Plenty. Henry Wilson was a swell guy.”

  Max raised his eyes. “Was?”

  “Slip of the tongue,” I said casually. Max had missed some gray hairs under his chin this morning. “What's new on the murder?”

  “Not a damn thing. We'll pick up Wilson soon—wired every police department in the country, checking airlines and trains. Can't figure the motive. From all the dope we can turn up, they were a happily married couple, both active in civic organizations, country club. Far as we can dig, he wasn't skirt-chasing.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Not too much. No record. He and Beatrice Saxton met in college. He was drafted in 1942, wounded in Africa, discharged in '44. They married then. He was born down South, doesn't seem to have any relations. All we can find out is he's one of these clean-living boys: played penny-ante poker and good bridge, worked out at the “Y” regularly, did the golf course under a hundred, stuff like that. Saxton took him into his chair business—Saxton seems to have liked the guy from the start—and Wilson was good, built the business up to where it is now. He had money—made about fifteen grand a year—position, a pretty wife, was well thought of. Lovely, isn't it?”

  “Where was he wounded—in the head?”

  “Checked that. Bullet almost cut his leg off, but it healed up okay. The maid's alibi checks. As for the corpse, can't find any enemies or boyfriends. Of course we're still looking into that.”

  “How's his nibs, Saxton, stand up?” I asked.

  “A little too anxious, but strictly a pillar-of-the-community character. Big joiner, member of the Chamber of Commerce, Lions, Rotary, Elks, comes from an old family. They were orphaned when he was 20, and he took care of his sister. Worked hard, sent her through college. Loved her and, as I said, liked Henry. This is going to be a tough one to crack.”

  “Where was Saxton Sunday night?”

  “Take it easy, his being anxious don't mean a thing— he spent the night with his girlfriend.
A bachelor, but he's been keeping a Madeline Moore out at White Beach. He came there for supper Sunday, they killed a bottle, and went to sleep. He left her Monday morning at eight, drove to the factory.” Max wrote an address on a slip of paper, gave it to me. “Here's her address if you want to check. What have you been doing?”

  “Sleeping.”

  Max looked hurt. “Aw, Matt, snap out of it. You're taking the guy's money and...”

  “I do my best work when I'm sleeping.” I stood up. “Check with you if I learn anything. Know where I can find a room—around the beach?”

  “Saxton was asking about you this morning. At least drop over to see him. He's at the factory.”

  “Sure.”

  As I was waiting for a bus on the corner, a big car passed and the guy at the wheel turned to stare at me for a split second, his sharp face full of hate. I vaguely remembered him as a junky I once had pinched and roughed up, although the arrest hadn't held. I went to the nearest hockshop and bought a pigskin shoulder holster. I wore it over my heart and when I buttoned my coat. An experienced eye could plainly see the outline. It wasn't a bad bluff.

  The Saxton Chair Company, Inc., was a modest three-story factory, a squat old brick building that seemed humming with activity. It was time for a pill and I dropped into an empty bar across the street from the factory, ordered a glass of stout. The barkeep was a fat old man, busy reading the papers. He was reading about the murder and I asked, “A juicy killing—ever see this Henry Wilson?”

  “You bet. Regular guy. Dropped in here every afternoon for a cocktail. Why he was in Friday—day they say he disappeared. Didn't seem to have a care in the world. Say, even the workers in the factory liked him. Salt of the earth, no airs, or bossy ways about him. Why he won the baseball pool here one day last summer and spent it buying drinks on the house.”

  “Saxton the same?”

  The barkeep screwed up his fat face. “That do-gooder! He tried to have my license revoked when I opened—didn't want his workers drinking. Know what he is, one of these babies that talks dry but knocks off a bottle at home. Always shooting off his mouth in public about the evils of drink, but I can spot a rummy and... He a friend of yours?”

  “Nope. I'm merely passing through.”

  The old man studied my face, his eyes worried. “You're a dick! Sure, I remember you... when I was tending bar at the Silver Spoon on 4th Street. Sure, you once flattened two guys who were acting loud and wrong. Now listen, this is my own joint and everything is run according to the rule. Quiet joint, no fights or dancing, never sell to minors or...

  “Stop running yourself down. I used to be a dick— I'm nothing now.”

  He hesitated, then returned to his paper and I finished my stout and went across the street to the factory. The girl at the switchboard asked my name and what I wanted and I said, “Tell Mr. Saxton his secretary is here to see him,” and she stared at me as though I was crazy.

  Saxton's office was large, plainly furnished, everything looking as though it had been there for years. He slipped me the iron handshake again, asked, “Found anything, Mr. Ranzino?”

  “Nothing the police don't know.”

  “I imagine these things take time. I simply can't believe Henry would do this. Lord, he was like a brother to me. The police are so sure he did it... yet... I don't think he could. Although, frankly, he's been a bit upset the last few weeks. Once told me he and Bea were having a little family trouble. And I think he was gambling or something.”

  “You mean the two grand that's missing?”

  “Yes, and several times in the past month he borrowed from me—ten and twenty dollars. Really nothing for a man of his income. And I'm sure his fight with Beatrice was just one of those things. If Henry would only show up—I can't understand it.”

  Saxton looked at me as if I should understand it, so to do something I made with the talk. “You have a partnership will—where the surviving partner gets the entire business in case of the death of the other partner?”

  “I believe we have,” Saxton boomed. “That's the usual procedure in a partnership, although according to law, we're incorporated.”

  “How about his insurance and bank accounts—all in order?”

  Saxton nodded. “Far as I know. Of course we can't open his vault box, or make much of an investigation, till Henry returns.”

  “Mrs. Wilson—have any money of her own?”

  “No. Oh, maybe a few hundred dollars.”

  I couldn't think of any more silly questions, so I sat there, waiting, and Saxton waited and after a moment I got to my feet and he asked, “Care to look around his office? Right through that door.”

  “Sure.”

  I went into the adjoining office, which was about the same size as Saxton's, but painted a canary yellow, had several paintings on the wall—abstract stuff—and a red leather couch with a magazine rack beside it. The chairs were red-webbed leather and the desk was some sort of ebony wood and very modern. There was the usual framed picture of his wife on the desk, a picture taken several years ago, and she had a good face, not beautiful or flashy, but warm and attractive. I banged a few drawers loudly—for Saxton's benefit. There couldn't be anything in the office, the cops had been over it.

  There was a closet with a raincoat hanging in it and an old pair of rubbers. Another door opened on a small bathroom. There was a hanging bookshelf above the John and I grinned—this Henry loved his comforts. The books were a couple of best-sellers and one titled, A Study of Geometric Planes and Angles. It was a worn book and I wondered why a guy would read that in the can and when I opened it, a large folded paper fell out. It was a deed to a cabin up on Arrow Mountain, dated two months ago.

  I pocketed it—couldn't be possible the cops were that sloppy—returned to Saxton's office. He was leaning back in his chair, dictating a letter into a machine. I stood there, waiting. On his desk, among the morning mail, I saw a copy of America! America!

  Saxton turned off the machine and I pointed to the newsletter. “That any good? My former partner runs it—Harry Loughlin.”

  Saxton looked at me with new interest. “Oh. Heard him speak—energetic chap. I was one of his first subscribers. Henry was against it, but if we ever wanted to get in on defense contracts, had to be on the safe side. Finished with the office?”

  I dropped the deed on his desk. He read it, his big face showing mild surprise. “Henry never mentioned this. Sometimes went hunting, but I'm surprised he never said anything about buying a cabin.”

  I beat him to the question. “Want me to look the cabin over? Arrow is about fifty miles from here.”

  “Think it would be worthwhile?”

  “Never tell what may be a lead. I haven't a car.”

  “You can take mine.” He handed me the keys and told somebody over the interphone I'd be down. He said, “I won't need the car before five, you'll be back by then. Probably a wild goose chase... but.”

  He said it all very nicely—not too much of a straight face. He tried to break my hand again as we shook and I left. He had a heavy Caddy, about three years old, but well kept. I hadn't driven a car in too many months and it felt good to be behind all that smooth steady power. The roads were empty and I made it in an hour. It took me another twenty minutes to locate the cabin. A kid in a gas station pointing it out to me, said, “You buy it? Heard it was sold months ago.”

  “Anybody living there?”

  “No. You didn't buy it?”

  It was a new cabin, made of logs or imitation logs, and set off by itself up on a wooded rise. I parked the car and walked up the slope, puffing a little. There were dark-blue burlap curtains over the window, but nothing moved. I was a fine target for anybody in the cabin, but I had a pretty good idea whoever was in there wasn't in any shape to do much shooting, or anything else.

  I knocked, to be polite, and there wasn't any answer. I waited till I had my breath back again, took my pulse which surprised me by being normal, and tried the door.

&nbs
p; It didn't feel like much of a lock. I put my shoulder to it twice.

  There was an overturned chair, and the straight legs of a man—a man hanging from the rafter by a clothesline. The place had a slight stink and I judged Henry Wilson had been, dead for two days, or longer. Some field mice scampered away from the remains of a loaf of bread and some moldy meat on the table. There was an open fountain pen lying there, several crumpled sheets of paper—none of them with any writing. Wilson stared down at me with the vacant look of the dead. He had on an open white shirt, and the pants of a business suit. The coat was flung on a bed in the corner. Wilson was built like a welterweight, slight but compact, seemed on the handsome side. I saw a key inside the door, tried the windows—they were easy to open and shut. I put my handkerchief back in my pocket, didn't touch anything else.