The door opened with a gust of wet wind that nearly blew out the lamp, and a broad-shouldered, well-built man stepped inside. He had pale blue eyes and close-clipped brown hair. He was wearing civilian clothes—a plaid shirt, jeans, and rubber boots—under a half-open hooded yellow slicker, and carrying a duffel bag over his shoulder. He closed the door behind him and dropped the heavy bag on the floor.
“Hey, Homer,” he said, “I’m going to need a—” He broke off when he saw the captain and Buddy. “Sorry. I see you’re busy.” He stooped to pick up the duffel bag. “I’ll come back later.”
“Corporal Anderson,” the captain said crisply, “this is Sheriff Norris, from Darling. He’s investigating an unfortunate incident that took place in town last night, and I’m placing you in his custody. You can leave that duffel bag here. I’ll have somebody stow it in your quarters.”
The corporal straightened up and looked at Buddy, whose open raincoat showed the sheriff’s badge pinned to his shirt pocket. His mouth dropped open, snapped shut. There was an instant’s sheer panic in his pale eyes, then determination. His face hardened, and he whirled on one foot, yanked the door open, and bolted through it into the rain.
“Hey!” Homer yelled. “You forgot to sign the Harley in last night!”
“Corporal Andrews!” the captain shouted. “Stop! That’s an order! The sheriff wants to talk to you about—”
But the corporal didn’t obey the order and Buddy wasn’t wasting his breath on talk. He sprinted through the open door and out onto the parking lot. Andrews was hotfooting it across the open space, dodging puddles and aiming for a patch of woods on the other side of the road. But Buddy had been a champion sprinter in high school, and he had never failed to win the hundred-yard dash. He may not have run much in the past few years, but he still had the legs and the wind, and he was younger. And definitely faster.
Andrews vaulted a split-rail fence that ran along the road. He stumbled, staggered, caught himself, and half turned, shoving a hand into his raincoat pocket. He pulled out a handgun and raised it to fire, then turned, gun in hand, and kept running across the road, toward the nearby woods.
Buddy cleared the fence easily. He caught up with Andrews, threw a flying tackle at the back of his knees, and brought him facedown, hard, in a patch of gravel. The gun went flying and skidded under a flowering clump of Joe Pye weed. Swearing, Andrews struggled to push himself up, but Buddy scrambled to his feet, pushed the struggling man’s shoulders down, and planted a knee squarely in the middle of his back. Breathing hard—the sprint across the parking lot was more exercise than he’d had for a while—he unclipped the handcuffs from his belt, pulled Andrews’ arms together behind his back, and cuffed his wrists.
Captain Campbell ran up. He took one arm and Buddy the other, and together they pulled Andrews to his feet. His forehead, nose, and mouth were bleeding where he had slammed into the gravel. His head was hanging and he was gulping air, but he still had some fire left in him.
“What the devil—” he sputtered. He raised his head and licked the blood off his lips. “What’s all this? Why did you—?”
“Because you ran,” Buddy said. “It would have been smart not to, Andrews. And smart not to draw a gun on a police officer. It’s a good way to get yourself shot.” He retrieved the gun, a Colt 1911 automatic, and handed it to Captain Campbell. In his official voice, he added, “I’m taking you in for questioning in the murder of Rona Jean Hancock.”
“Murder? The hell you say!” Face working, eyes wide and showing panic, Andrews appealed to the captain. “I’m innocent, Captain! I don’t even know Rona Jean Hancock!”
“Then you won’t object to having your fingerprints taken and answering the sheriff’s questions,” the captain replied calmly.
“Fingerprints?” Andrews sounded surprised.
“Yeah.” Buddy chuckled. “Darling may be a rinky-dink town, but that doesn’t mean it’s got a rinky-dink police force.”
The captain pocketed the Colt. “I’m confiscating your weapon, Corporal. You may retrieve it when the sheriff clears you and returns you to the camp.”
Buddy felt the hair on the back of his neck tingle. A bolt of electric-blue lightning split the air and was followed immediately by a deafening thunderclap. The storm was getting too close for comfort.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said, and pushed his handcuffed prisoner toward the patrol car.
* * *
By the time Charlie had dragged the fallen schoolhouse roof timbers off Lucy Murphy, her eyes were open and she was able, shakily, to get to her feet. “I guess there’s no need for fake names now,” she said disconsolately. “You know who I am.”
It was true. Charlie knew Lucy—and knew her husband, Ralph, who worked on the railroad and was gone during the week. “I understand why you didn’t want to reveal yourself,” he said. “I’ve always protected my confidential sources, and I’m not changing that practice now. But you’ve got to talk to the sheriff, Lucy. He needs to know what you know. It might mean the difference between catching Rona Jean’s killer and losing him.”
“What you said about that bag over my head,” Lucy said, leaning on Charlie’s arm. Her hair was wet and her blouse stuck to her revealingly. “Maybe I could do that?” She chuckled wryly, to show that she was joking.
“I hope you won’t want to,” Charlie said in a neutral tone. “The sheriff will see that your part in this is kept confidential. I’m sure of it.”
“I hope you’re right.” Lucy was glum. “I’d do anything to keep Ralph from finding out what a fool I’ve been.”
A tree had fallen across the car Lucy had parked back of the building, so they took Charlie’s, leaving the ruins of the school behind. It should have been a short drive to town, but the storm was howling around them and the few miles seemed to take forever. The wind rocked the car, the lightning struck perilously close, and the rain sheeted down so heavily that the windshield wipers were powerless to clear the glass. Driving was like running an obstacle course. At several points, downed pine trees made Loblolly Road impassable, and Charlie had to get out and slog through the driving rain and the thick, gooey mud to pull the fallen limbs and small trees out of the way. Lucy took the wheel and drove cautiously behind him, struggling to keep the car from sliding sideways off the slick track.
But at last they managed to get to the highway. Soaked to the skin, with mud up to his knees, Charlie crawled behind the wheel and drove the rest of the way to town. The streets were flooding, and trees and utility wires—electric and telephone—were down everywhere. By the time Charlie pulled up in front of the sheriff’s office, next to the sheriff’s patrol car, he was shaking.
“You ready?” he asked Lucy, who was huddled in the front seat beside him.
“No.” She sighed. “But I don’t think I have any choice. At this point, all I want to do is keep this from Ralph, if I can.”
“Hmm.” He considered this for a moment. “Look, Lucy. I think you should wait out here. I’ll go in and . . . kind of lay the groundwork. That might make it easier for you. But you’ve got to promise not to run off,” he added.
She threw up her hands with a despairing laugh. “On a day like this? You’ve got to be kidding.”
Inside the sheriff’s office, the electricity was out and the deputy was at his table, working by the light of a kerosene lamp. There was an empty Dr Pepper bottle in front of him, covered with dark gray fingerprint dust. He turned to look at Charlie. “Man, oh, man, you are wet.”
“Yeah. It’s pretty bad out there,” Charlie said, shaking rain out of his hair. “Some of the roads are blocked. I was lucky to get back to town.” He paused, looking around. “Sheriff Norris here?”
“He’s questioning a suspect in the Hancock murder,” the deputy said, nodding toward a closed door. “An Army corporal, from the CCC camp. Andrews, his name is.”
“Corpo
ral? Corporal Raymond Andrews?” Charlie was surprised—and then immediately relieved. The sheriff must have some other evidence against the man. Lucy’s evidence about the motive for the murder would be corroborating, which might mean that she wouldn’t have to testify if he was brought to trial.
“Yeah.” Springer turned and one eyebrow went up. “That’s who it is. Andrews. His commanding officer is in there, too. Captain Campbell. Seems like he has his head screwed on straight.” He stopped, frowning. “Say, Dickens, you know this guy? Andrews, I mean. You maybe got something on him?”
“Yeah,” Charlie said. “Matter of fact, I have. She’s out in the car.”
“She?” Both eyebrows disappeared under Springer’s hair.
Charlie nodded. “If you’ll ask the sheriff to step out here for a minute, I’ll be glad to explain the whole thing. It might give him some extra leverage with Andrews.”
It took more than a minute for Charlie to summarize what Lucy had told him about the kickback racket Andrews was running. In fact, it took more like three or four minutes, because the scheme had so many moving parts. But the note he’d gotten from Mata Hari a few days before spelled it out pretty well, and the sheriff grasped its significance as soon as he read it. And even before Charlie had finished, Buddy was guessing how Rona Jean Hancock had gotten involved.
“She found out what was going on by listening in on the telephone,” the sheriff said, narrowing his eyes. “She figured since there was money involved, she’d get a piece of the action. She hit Andrews up for money, but he saw her as a loose cannon. He killed her to keep her mouth shut about his bribery scheme. Is that it?”
“That’s about the size of it,” Charlie admitted.
“Then it looks like we’ve got a case,” Buddy said with satisfaction. “We’ve got testimony that puts him with Rona Jean after her shift on Thursday night. We’ve got his scarred thumbprint on the car door handle. And now we’ve got a motive.”
“We’ve also got the same thumbprint on the Dr Pepper bottle,” Wayne put in, gesturing to the bottle on the table. “Just confirmed, Sheriff. On the neck of the bottle, exactly where you’d hold it if you were going to use it to knock somebody out.”
Buddy clapped the deputy on the shoulder. “That’s my man!” he exclaimed. “More than enough for an arrest!”
Charlie grinned, thinking what a great story this was going to make, with or without Lucy Murphy. Which reminded him that she was sitting out front in the car. “I think Lucy would prefer not to confront Andrews, at least right now,” he said. “But maybe if one of you could go out to the car and take her statement, you might be able to use it to pry a confession out of him.”
“Yeah.” Buddy’s smile lit up his whole face. “But we don’t need to do it out in the car. Wayne, you go out and get Miz Murphy, and you and her go in the kitchen and shut the door. Get it all written down and signed and dated—you can type it up later. Oh, and if she can come up with the names of some of the folks that have been paying these bribes, that would be great. We’re going to need to talk to them. I’m thinking maybe Mr. Moseley will want to trade immunity for testimony.”
“I may have something on that,” Charlie said. “Ophelia Snow, who works at the Dispatch, also works in the quartermaster’s office. With any luck, she’s getting the full list.”
“Ah.” Buddy looked at him. “Doing a little spy work on the side, are you, Dickens?” He grinned. “Got an angle on a story?”
“I have,” Charlie agreed. “But I didn’t reckon on setting foot in the middle of a murder investigation.”
“Snow,” Wayne muttered, taking a handful of pink slips off his table. “Snow. Ophelia Snow. There’s a message here somewhere— Here it is.” He handed the pink slip to Charlie. “Said she called your apartment and your wife told her you headed here after lunch, so she left a message.”
Charlie took the pink slip. On it, the deputy had written: Mrs. Snow’s got the list Dickens asked for and something else he didn’t. Call her or go over there as quick as you can. He looked up at Wayne.
“Something else? Something I didn’t ask for?” he asked curiously. “Did she say what it was?”
“Nope. She was pretty excited about it, though.” Wayne picked up a yellow tablet and headed for the door. “On my way to take care of the Murphy interview.”
The sheriff put out his hand. “Thanks, Dickens. I owe you. I’m going back in the office and lay out what you’ve given us. Andrews is pretty spooked just now. This might be all we need to get a confession out of him.”
Charlie grinned. “You owe me. That must mean that I get the story. Right?”
“That’s what it means,” Buddy said. “You get the story.”
* * *
Charlie left Lucy at the sheriff’s office, then drove around the corner to the apartment to let Fannie know that he was safe. But despite her entreaties, he couldn’t stay. He changed into some dry clothes and drove through the pouring rain and branch-littered streets to Ophelia’s house.
“Charlie!” she gasped when she opened the door. “You shouldn’t have come out in this! It’s terrible out there!”
“It’s not as bad as it was earlier this afternoon,” Charlie said, thinking of what he and Lucy Murphy had been through. “The wind has died down and people are starting to clear their streets. I think the worst of the storm missed us. But there are still a lot of limbs down.”
“And wires,” Ophelia said, leading him into the parlor. “Our lights have been out for several hours.” She took matches out of a drawer and lit a kerosene lamp on the table next to the overstuffed chair and another on the coffee table in front of the sofa. “The family’s in the kitchen playing cards, so we’ll talk in here. But first I’ll go and get the papers I want to show you. And something for us to drink.”
A few moments later she was back with a sheaf of papers under her arm and a tray with two cups, a teapot, and a sugar bowl. She sat down next to Charlie on the sofa and poured their tea.
“I went to the quartermaster’s office this morning and got what you asked for—a list of all the suppliers who are due to get checks. I knew what to look for, because it’s the voucher list I typed last week. Here it is.” She put down a two-page list.
“Swell!” Charlie said with enthusiasm. “That’s what I was hoping you’d get.” He picked up the list and flipped through it. “The sheriff can use it to corroborate Lucy’s claims about the bribery.”
“What?” Ophelia frowned at him, puzzled. “The sheriff? What bribery? And how is Lucy Murphy involved in this?”
“It’s a long story,” Charlie said, feeling that he’d jumped the gun. “Let’s finish this part of it first.”
“Well . . .” Still frowning, Ophelia put down another typed list. “When I took my list out of the file, I found this one there, too. It had to have been typed by Sergeant Webb, because I didn’t do it, and Corporal Andrews doesn’t type.” She smiled ruefully. “Sergeant Webb asked me to teach him, but the poor guy just can’t seem to get the hang of it. It’s a real problem for him.”
“Mmm,” Charlie said, thinking that the corporal’s inability to type was the least of his problems now. He was facing indictment for murder. He could get the death penalty.
“Anyway,” Ophelia went on, “you can see that the sergeant’s list is longer than mine. It has more names on it. Eighteen more, to be exact.” She put another list down, this one handwritten. “These eighteen people are due some twenty-two thousand dollars.”
“Huh.” Charlie frowned down at the list. “Well, maybe you didn’t get everybody. Maybe you skipped some. Maybe the sergeant saw the problem and typed up a correct list.”
“Or maybe not.” Ophelia produced a Cypress County telephone directory. “Here. Pick a few names at random and look up their phone numbers.”
Charlie chose one, checked for the listing, and couldn’t find it. Dit
to for his second and third attempts. “Hey,” he said, frowning. “What gives? What’s going on here?”
“Exactly my question,” Ophelia said triumphantly. “None of those eighteen people are listed as having telephones, Charlie. What’s more, I don’t recognize a single name on that list, and neither does Jed. Plus, he doesn’t recognize any of the addresses. He says they’re fakes.”
“Fakes!” Charlie blinked. “But that means . . .” He stopped, considering, and put his finger on the bottom line. $22,000. “Okay. Tell me how the process works, Opie. How are these checks distributed?”
“Exactly the right question,” Ophelia said. “Every few months, I type up a voucher list like this one.” She tapped her list. “The checks are mailed in a batch to the quartermaster’s office. Sergeant Webb keeps them in his desk until the individual suppliers come in and pick them up.”
“Ah,” Charlie said. “And the sergeant will keep any that are not picked up.”
“I suppose.” Ophelia shook her head, frowning. “I hate to say it, Charlie, but this looks like a case of fraud. I wouldn’t have thought it of Sergeant Webb, who is such a by-the-book kind of guy, but I don’t see any other way to explain it.” Her frown deepened to a scowl. “And I don’t see how this is connected to the story you wanted me to help you with. Mata Hari’s tip was about a bribery scheme, wasn’t it? This—” She tapped the list again. “This isn’t bribery. It’s something else. So maybe Sergeant Webb was running both a bribery scheme and this . . . this voucher fraud?”
“No,” Charlie said, thinking that the plot was thickening at a rate he could barely keep up with. “Sergeant Webb wasn’t involved in the bribery, at least so far as we know. That was Corporal Andrews.”
“Corporal Andrews?” Ophelia pressed her lips together, shaking her head. Then she said, reluctantly, “I should have guessed, though. He was the one with the opportunity, since he was the one who arranged the contracts. I’m afraid I just didn’t see through his charm.” She gave him an uncertain look. “You’ve got evidence, I suppose. You’re sure?”
The Darling Dahlias and the Eleven O'Clock Lady Page 25