County Kill

by Peter Rabe

  Dahl rubbed the back of his neck and put down the papers he’d been studying. “If it’s not in his file, we have no record of it. Do you think it could be important?”

  “Maybe not. Lacking anything solid, I’m looking for straws.” I paused. “You know, the way Vogel came charging into what should have been a county case, there’s a possibility that we’re lacking important information.”

  “Easy, now,” he said. “I know you don’t like Vogel much, but let’s not use him as a whipping boy.”

  I hesitated and then said, “I’ll tell you somebody else who doesn’t like Vogel — Deputy Gerald Dunphy.”

  The bright-blue eyes began to frost. “Any police officer worth his salt works with any other police officer whether he likes him or not. Both Dunphy and Vogel are first-class officers.”

  “But also human beings,” I said. “Dunphy has a right to resent the way Vogel took over.” I paused. “Because of his pal Ritter.”

  Silence. Captain Dahl was angry, I could tell. But I had a hunch he was also thinking hard, digesting what I’d said.

  I added quietly, “I’m not being arrogant or malicious. I’m simply trying to explain why there might be a gap in our knowledge on Johnny Chavez.”

  After about ten seconds of silence, he said, “It’s Monday. Dunphy could be at the courthouse. He often is, on Mondays. Why don’t you run over there?”

  It was only a block away; I walked over. Dunphy was in town as Dahl had guessed, but he was in court and not available until noon.

  I went-back and reported that to the captain. He said, “Maybe you and Vogel could meet him for lunch and see if there are any gaps.” He smiled.

  “Wouldn’t that be cozy?” I commented. “Why don’t I meet Dunphy without the help of Vogel? It would probably make all three of us happier.”

  “A good suggestion,” he said. “I’m glad to see you’re finally working with the Department. Carry on, Callahan.”

  He was a cutie, that Dahl. He was undoubtedly the Department comedian, in his dry way. But how was his loyalty? I had helped him. When the time came, would he remember that?

  And would the time come that I might need him? What was I working on? A hunch, an instinct, a nothing. Routine and detail — that was the municipal route. It was the most efficient way to function. It took men and equipment and leg work — and all the details.

  Because of Vogel’s desire to move into this case involving his buddy’s married loved one, one of the details could have been lost in transference. There was no reason to think it was an important detail.

  I sat in the courthouse park, watching the pudgy tourists photograph this prime example of Spanish architecture, waiting for noon and lunch with Dunphy. I had left a message for him to meet me at a nearby restaurant.

  Because of Dahl, I was finally feeling like a citizen. Because of Montegro, I had gained the forced acceptance of Dahl. But they were still cops — and I wasn’t. I hadn’t forgotten that.

  Finding the killer of Johnny Chavez wouldn’t get Skip off the hook they hoped to keep him on. But it would force them to make a new decision — a new charge on which to hold Skip. And then I would need a reasonable enemy if I couldn’t find a friend in the Department.

  Dahl might never be a friend, but he was beginning to shape up as a reasonable enemy.

  Deputy Gerald Dunphy was waiting in the bar for me when I got to the restaurant. He smiled and said, “I was surprised to learn you were still in town. Get a new client, did you?”

  “The man I was looking for decided to hire me. I’m working for Lund and with the San Valdesto Police Department, finally.”

  “Oh? And the great Vogel has decided he needs county help?”

  “No. This was my idea. Let’s go in and get a table.”

  When we were seated in the restaurant, Dunphy said, “I don’t know how I can be of any help. The Department here has everything we have on Johnny Chavez. We don’t have anything on his cousin.”

  “It was a remark you made,” I said, “in your office. You mentioned someone who had attacked Johnny Chavez with a knife.”

  He frowned and I thought his face looked guarded.

  I tried to recall his words in that hot office. “Let’s see … you said something about bar fights and then — oh, I remember. A woman whose husband had a knife.”

  “So?” Dunphy said.

  “So there’s no record of a knifing of Johnny Chavez at San Valdesto Headquarters and I wondered about it.”

  Dunphy said quietly, “We haven’t any record of it either.” He seemed embarrassed. “That was some time ago. I … happened to be around, though not on duty, that Sunday when this husband tried to knife Chavez. I didn’t think it should go on the kid’s record; he already had enough strikes against him.”

  “Logical enough,” I agreed. “But what was the man’s name?”

  Dunphy stared at the table and then up at me. “So help me, I’ve forgotten it.”

  I sighed.

  “It was a nothing,” he insisted, “a two-minute incident. You’re not thinking it has any connection with his murder, are you?”

  “There’s not much reason to think so.” I paused. “Except that the police down here have kept an eye on Johnny for a long time. And with all that background they’ve come up with absolutely no lead. So we’re looking for leads they didn’t have. This was one of those.”

  The waitress came and we ordered. Dunphy was lost in thought.

  I said, “All I have now is an accumulation of remarks from people that were dropped during my questioning and that didn’t seem related to the trail we were on. That one about the husband and the knife was one.”

  “And what happened last night — does that fit in?”

  “Pete,” I said, “was probably looking for Johnny’s killer. He made a remark to a girl friend that the law wasn’t seeing what was right under their noses. Well, the law doesn’t overlook the obvious. So it occurred to me that what Pete thought the law knew had never been recorded.”

  Dunphy said, “I’m almost sure I can find out the man’s name for you. I remember some other people who were there now and they’ll know his name. I think it was Jose. I’ll check those people. Where can I phone you?”

  “I don’t know. Couldn’t I phone you?”

  He would be in court until two-thirty and he would need an hour after that, he estimated. He gave me a phone number where he could be reached at four o’clock.

  That was three hours from now, and I decided to look up Lars Hovde while I waited.

  At Headquarters they had Red’s home address and the name of the place where he was employed. It was the lumberyard near the home of Mary Chavez.

  The manager there told me that Lars had phoned this morning and reported himself too sick to work. “He quite often does,” the manager added, “on Mondays. I only put up with the slob because he’s such a demon worker when he’s sober.”

  At the rooming house where Lars lived his landlady told me, “He was in bed until one o’clock. Then he said he had to go out and get some medicine.”

  Medicine, eighty-six proof, blended…. I asked, “Does he drive a Rambler?”

  “He don’t drive nothing,” she said scornfully. “The law took away his driver’s license and the finance company took away his car six months ago. He don’t drive nothing and he ain’t got nothing.”

  I thanked her and left.

  There was no other place to go. I wouldn’t have any new hope until four o’clock, and that could prove to be nothing. I headed the flivver toward Montevista.

  Pete, I kept reminding myself, had known Johnny longer than Skip had. Pete had been familiar with Johnny’s old loves and new. And his steady love?

  Under the overhanging trees in peaceful Montevista the flivver chugged along. She seemed to turn almost automatically between the stucco pillars.

  There were three landscape men working in the front yard and an improvement was already visible. On the front porch June Christopher Lu
nd was sitting with a cup of coffee, overseeing the work. She smiled as I came along the walk from the parking area.

  “You’re the foreman,” I guessed.

  “Right. I want it nice for Skip when he comes home. And he’s coming home, isn’t he?”

  “We live in hope.”

  She smiled confidently. She turned to call through the open window behind her. “Glenys, your boy friend is here.” She turned back to grin maliciously. “You caught her with her hair down and no Einlicher in the refrigerator.”

  “You shouldn’t tease her,” I said. “She’s a real citizen.”

  “I’ve always teased her. You can go right in.”

  In the living room Glenys was going through a stack of phonograph records, arranging them in two piles. She was wearing blue jeans and a T shirt and there was a long streak of dust on her forearm.

  “Coon-Saunders,” she said, “and their Kansas City Night-hawks. Have you ever heard of them?”

  “I remember Joe Saunders,” I said, “but the original band was before my time.” I nodded toward the front yard. “Your idea?”

  “June’s. She no longer needs an Aunt Glenys — not with Uncle Brock around. Do you like warm Einlicher?”

  “At this price I can drink it warm.”

  She went out and came back with two bottles, one for her and one for me. She sat down near me and said acidly, “I see another of Skip’s dear friends was killed last night. Well, at least the hot-rodder can’t be blamed for that murder.”

  “Easy, now, Aunt Glenys. Skip’s in enough trouble without having family enemies.”

  “He’ll be clear now, won’t he?”

  “I don’t know. He’s in trouble. I have one small, last hope of finding the murderer, but he’ll still be in trouble. If I find the murderer, I’ll have to stop investigating and turn into a politician. I’m not very good at that.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Politician? Does that mean … a … a deal?”

  “In a way. It’s too complicated to explain and I would have to betray a trust to make it clear. Let’s talk about something else.”

  Her chin lifted. “What shall we talk about?” A pause. “Jan?”

  I flushed. She did, too.

  She sipped her beer. “Damn you! I’ll get a man even bigger than you. And one with some class — a halfback!”

  I grinned at her. “I know one like that, and he’s rich and single, too. His name is Scooter Calvin. I’ll bring him around some night when you’re back in civilization. He’s lighter than I am, but better looking and taller.”

  “Oh, shut up!” she said, but there was no venom in her voice.

  We talked about other things then. When Bud came home from school and learned that his Aunt Glenys had planned to throw away all his Coon-Saunders records, we had a temporary domestic crisis.

  And then it was time to call Dunphy.

  SEVENTEEN

  THE HUB AND nub of it had been here all the time. At Chickie’s, where the queen reigned. I stood in the hot, late-afternoon sun in front of her place and saw the faded, ancient Rambler parked about half a block up the street, under the shade of a eucalyptus.

  I went up the steps slowly and into the dim coolness. The blind on the largest window had been lowered and it was dark in the bar. The guitar player and one of his buddies were playing gin rummy at a table near the kitchen door. There were no customers.

  “Mrs. Rico here?” I asked.

  The guitar player nodded and inclined his head toward the kitchen door. “She’s busy now.”

  “Who’s out there?” Juanita called. “Is that Pancho Callahan?”

  “Right.”

  “Come back,” she called. “I can’t come out; my hands are full of flour.”

  The boys at the table said something in Spanish as I pushed through the swinging door. I came into a small, cluttered, dark, but well-scrubbed kitchen. There was a light directly over Juanita’s head and her lustrous hair glinted. She was kneading dough.

  Her smile was innocent and cordial. “What’s new?”

  “Most of it’s old,” I said. “As old as time. You never told me you and Johnny Chavez were lovers, Juanita.”

  She stopped working. Her brown eyes went toward the swinging door and then came back to rest sadly on me. “Not so loud. Who told you that?”

  “You didn’t; that’s what is important. Your husband tried to knife Johnny once, didn’t he? So your husband must have known what was going on.”

  She shook her head. “Jose was drunk that day. Since that day he has never again mentioned the name of Johnny Chavez.”

  “But he knew about it. Last night he brought Red Hovde over to my motel room. That’s Jose’s Rambler up the street, isn’t it?”

  She nodded. “Why would he bring Red over?”

  “Maybe he thought Red was big enough and drunk enough to scare me off. He knew about you and Johnny, Juanita. And he killed him. Does he still have the rifle?”

  “Damn you,” she whispered, “not so loud. I have the guns. Jose has no guns.”

  “A knife, though? He used it on Pete because Pete knew what was going on. But out in the open country it’s not easy to creep up on a man with a knife. So he used one of your rifles. There’s a slug down at Headquarters waiting to be matched to your rifle, Juanita.”

  “No,” she whispered, but there was doubt on her face. “Never!”

  “They jumped Red, too — Jose and his friends — didn’t they?”

  The doubt grew in her face and she looked at me fearfully.

  I asked. “Do you live in this building?”

  She nodded.

  “Get me the.30-.30 then. I’ll take it down to Headquarters and we can check it out.”

  “Jose,” she said softly, “has not fired a gun since he was a boy. He wouldn’t … he couldn’t … he plays cards, he plays the guitar, he is happy. No!”

  “Get the gun,” I said. “And I’ll take Jose down to Headquarters. There’s a fingerprint that needs matching, too — a fingerprint in blood from the doorknob of Skip Lund’s apartment. The blood is the blood of Pete Chavez. And the fingerprint could be Jose’s.”

  “No,” she said. “We can’t have the police in my business. If Jose is guilty — ”

  “The police must know,” I finished for her. “You’re not an executioner, Juanita. There is no other way.”

  From the barroom I heard a door close. The front door. And then there was a shade being pulled. Juanita looked doubtfully at me. The big shade had been down; what shade was being pulled now?

  She stared at the swinging door.

  “The shade on the door?” I asked quietly. “The shade that says ‘Closed’ on it when it’s down?”

  She was breathing heavily, staring at the motionless swinging door.

  I said, “He was playing cards when I came in. I think he has now sent his friend home and locked the front door. I guess he overheard us, Juanita.”

  “Wait,” she said hoarsely. She wiped her hands on her apron. “You wait here.”

  I thought she was going into the bar, but she headed for another door, a door that probably led to their living quarters.

  I stood near the big triple sink, cursing my inadequacy. I had come here directly from Montevista, not going back to the motel for my.38.

  When I had left the motel this morning, there hadn’t seemed to be any need for a gun; it was now safely locked in my valise.

  Quietly I moved over toward the doorway through which Juanita had disappeared.

  And then, from the other room, I heard the ring of the phone and I waited. I heard his voice, the quiet voice of the matriarch’s husband, the dominated man named Jose Rico. The guitar man.

  He spoke too low for me to hear, but then he called, “Mr. Callahan, it’s for you. It’s Sergeant Vogel.”

  Vogel? How would he know I was here? Well, maybe…. I said, “I’ll be there in a second.” But I stood where I was.

  In a few seconds he swung the door open and stood
half in the kitchen, half out, holding the door open with his back. There was nothing in either of his hands, and no noticeable bulge was in his pockets.

  He said quietly, “Sergeant Vogel says it’s important.”

  “Thank you.”

  I went past him warily, wondering about Juanita, keeping Jose in sight peripherally as I walked to the phone behind the bar.

  I still had Jose in sight as I picked up the phone. It was a dead line.

  I said, “Now your friend is involved, too. You had him phone, didn’t you? That makes him an accomplice.”

  He shrugged and smiled. He walked to the other end of the bar and reached a hand underneath it. When the hand came out, there was a gun in it, a big service automatic, a.45.

  His voice was soft and musical. “Pete is dead. Johnny is dead. Adulterers, both. Home wreckers, men of violence and no substance. They are better off dead.”

  “It was murder,” I said. “You can’t change that.”

  “Nor bring them back to life. How much money do you want?”

  I stalled, hoping for time, hoping for the return of Juanita. I stalled and pretended to be considering his question.

  “How much?” he asked again.

  I said doubtfully, “Juanita wouldn’t stand still for murder. She wouldn’t let you buy me off.”

  “Juanita,” he said quietly, “will not spoil her charity work with police. Juanita needs me and I her and we are wasting time.”

  “Let’s wait until she gets here,” I said. “We’ll talk it over, the three of us.”

  His eyes smoldered in suspicion and he said, “Come out from behind the bar; come out in the open where I can see you have no gun.”

  Out in the open, where he could get a shot at me. Out in the open, where I couldn’t dive for cover if he missed the first shot.

  I stayed where I was.

  “Move!” he said softly. “Move now!”

  Slowly I moved around the end of the bar, keeping an eye on the tables, looking for one with a chair missing, a table I could get under in one dive if I saw his trigger finger tightening.

  He came around from his end of the bar, the big blue-black gun steady in his bony hand, his soft eyes appraising me carefully, his long face showing no emotion but his wariness.