by M. K. Wren
Conan checked his watch, taking two runs at it when he automatically looked for it first on his left wrist.
“Brian, you’d better give me a fast rundown on what happened here last night.”
Either the question or Conan’s search for his watch on the wrong wrist jarred Brian with remembrance of at least one occurrence of the night before, and his face reddened. “Damn, I didn’t even think to—how…how’s the hand?”
“Well, fortunately, I’m right-handed.”
“I guess you’ll be eating on the right side of your mouth, too. Oh, Conan, that was so…I’m sorry.”
“Yes, I know. You made that clear last night.” He laughed with that, but Brian couldn’t manage it. “Look, the state troops will be arriving soon; we haven’t much time. So, start with what happened after you laid me out.”
He took a puff on his cigarette, frowning sourly at it.
“Well, it was a little confused, and like I said, everything’s sort of fuzzy. I was too busy trying to bring you around and stop you from bleeding all over the new carpet to notice what happened to Nye, but I guess Bea got an arm lock on him and took him out of the bar. I think he left then.”
“Left the restaurant? Did anyone see him leave?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t really talked to anybody about it except Tilda, but she was with me the whole time.”
“Okay, I remember vaguely being walked out to a car. You and Tilda and Max were with me, and Dore.”
He nodded. “We took you to the hospital in my car. Dore followed in yours.”
“Did you close the restaurant before you left?”
“No. Bea came out of the ladies’ room just as we got out into the hall, and I told her to tend bar till Max or I got back, or just to close up if she wanted to.”
“What did you do after you left the hospital?”
“Well, Max was driving. Let’s see, first we dropped Tilda off at her apartment, then when we got back here, I told Max to go on home.”
“Did he?”
“Yes. I saw him drive off, anyway. You can ask his wife when he got home.”
“I’ll leave that to Kleber. It’ll be something to keep him busy—along with tracking Dore down.”
Brian laughed curtly, then asked, “How come he bristles up so much when you come around?”
“I don’t know.” Conan paused to light a fresh cigarette, smiling obliquely. “As a matter of fact, Earl should feel rather kindly toward me. I helped make him chief.”
“You did?” His brows nearly met his red hair at that.
“I sent his predecessor to prison, and that opened up the job for Earl. I’ll tell you that story sometime over a few drinks, but right now let’s get back to last night.”
Brian sighed. “Where was I? Oh—after I sent Max home, I came in here to the bar and told everybody else to go home.”
“What time was it then?”
He had to think about that. “Maybe one-thirty.”
“Who was ‘everybody’?”
“Bea, of course, and Howie and Claude. They were still here, but Bea had closed up and locked the front door.”
“Who has keys to that door?”
“I do, and Bea and Claude. And Howie. He usually opens up in the morning.”
“Anyone else?”
“No. Why?”
“Well, it might be useful to know who could’ve gotten in here last night—assuming none of the doors or windows were jimmied.”
Brian hesitated, eyes averted in an oddly sheepish manner. “Nobody would’ve had to jimmy any doors or windows. You see, I…didn’t get around to locking the front door again. Howie said it was open when he came in this morning.”
Conan’s black eyes turned opaque; he was afraid he knew what was coming, but he had to ask.
“When did you go home, Brian?”
He shrugged and muttered, “Well, I didn’t. After everybody left, I decided to have another drink, and I guess it got to be quite a few. Finally, I just…stretched out on the bar and went to sleep. When Howie came in at seven, he found me. Heard me, I guess. He said I was snoring to raise the—” He swallowed hard at that. “Anyway, Howie woke me up, and I went home to try to pull myself together.”
“That was at seven? When did Howie find the body?”
“Nearly eight. That’s when he phoned me.”
“That’s almost an hour.”
“He had to set up for breakfast first. It wasn’t till he started pulling stuff for lunch that he had any reason to open the freezer. When he called me, I thought he’d just been hitting the booze too hard, but…” He stared into nothingness, but what he was seeing in memory was undoubtedly something that would haunt him forever. “I told him to wait for me, then I came down and…and looked in the freezer.” Conan didn’t ask what he saw; it was highly unlikely he’d observed any meaningful details.
“You called the police then?”
“Yes. I gave Howie a shot of whiskey—and he needed it—then I phoned Kleber. And don’t worry, I didn’t touch anything. I didn’t even go back in the kitchen.”
“Did you go into the kitchen for any reason last night?”
“I didn’t set foot in the kitchen after the dining room closed. That was at ten.”
“After Nye left the restaurant last night—did you see him at all?”
Brian frowned quizzically. “See him? How could I? I was at the hospital until nearly one-thirty, and then—well, I told you the rest.”
Conan turned, distracted by a noise in the entry hall. The angled opening precluded visual access, but he could hear footsteps and voices passing, one raised in surly complaint. He recognized Kleber’s voice effectively squelching the surly one.
Brian said, “They must’ve found Johnny.”
“Who?”
“Johnny Hancock.” He pulled a wry grin. “John Hancock, yet, but ask him who the father of our country is, and he thinks it’s the first line of a dirty joke. I tried kidding him once—told him to put his John Hancock on his time card, and he just looked at me and said he always signs his name Johnny.”
“Mm. So, Johnny works for you?”
“Yes, he’s our night man.”
“Your what?”
“Janitor, really. All the cleaning has to be done at night after the dining room closes. I guess that’s why they call them night men.”
“Was he here last night?”
“Sure. He goes on at ten…” He stopped short, then, “Oh, damn, I forgot about him. He came into the bar to clean up about an hour after I sent everybody else home. I think it was an hour. Anyway, I told him to leave, too.”
Conan sighed. “You didn’t just happen to see anyone else here in the course of the night?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean nobody was here. I think it was right after Johnny left that I decided to take a little nap on the bar. Conan, I haven’t slept at all for three nights and—well, I was bombed out of my mind.”
Conan puffed at his cigarette, refraining from comment on the advisability of getting bombed and catching up on lost sleep on the bar the night his freezer acquired a body. “Brian, do you have a lawyer?”
He stared at the cigarette in his hand, apparently unaware that it had burned itself down to the filter.
“Well, Herb Latimer takes care of all our legal business here at the restaurant.”
“Herb isn’t exactly a qualified criminal lawyer. I know a good one, though, and he owes me a favor.”
Brian finally dropped the cigarette butt in the ashtray. “You know, yesterday I thought things couldn’t get any worse. Not unless I found out I had a terminal disease. And now…” He gave a bitter laugh because he was on the verge of something else. “How in the hell did I ever get into this? How does something like this—”
He choked off the words and turned away, and Conan tried to think of something meaningful to say, but with no success. Then he frowned, again distracted by sounds from the hall.
The front door had opene
d; a shuffle of footsteps tangled in a murmur of voices moved past and into the dining room where Kleber’s and Wills’s respectful greetings were audible.
“The state has arrived,” Conan said. “We’ll have some action now, one way or another.”
Brian roused himself for a flippant, “Well, with my luck, it won’t go my way. I guess I’m one generation too far removed. The Irish luck ran out.” He finished off the tomato juice with a sick grimace. “Whoever decided this stuff is good for hangovers?”
Conan put out his cigarette as he rose.
“Some tomato-juice canner, probably. Come on, we might as well—”
“I’ll be damned. You just never know who you’re going to run into.”
Conan turned, startled both by the unexpectedness and the familiarity of that dry, drawling voice.
The man slouching against the screen at the entrance was tall and rangy, with dust-colored hair that always looked windblown and sage-gray eyes set in a habitual long-distance squint. He wore a dark suit replete with tie, but even after twenty years he never seemed comfortable in city clothes. Levi’s, boots, and a Stetson would suit him better.
Conan gave him a slow smile. “No, Steve, you just never know.” Then to Brian, “Your Irish luck hasn’t run out yet. Brian Tally—Steve Travers. We used to ride fence together when we were kids.” He paused, then added, “Steve is Chief of Detectives for the Salem division of the state police.”
Chapter 4
In the dining room the suits and ties of the newcomers gave the gathering a straitly formal aspect. Besides Steve Travers, there were three members of the crime scene team carrying odd-shaped cases, tools of their trade, and a thin, sardonically handsome man with a trim mustache and beard: Dr. Daniel Reuben, state medical examiner. He sent Conan a brief smile; they had met before in similar circumstances. Also present was Owen Culpepper, Taft County district attorney, looking paler and more dyspeptic than usual, one hand moving repeatedly to his face to push his glasses up on his nose.
There was one newcomer whose attire was anything but formal. While the official contingent deliberated, Conan turned to Brian and asked, “Is that Johnny Hancock?”
Brian nodded, eyes narrowing as he looked over at the man standing near Tilda’s chair being thoroughly ignored.
At first glance, he seemed an unkempt and rebellious eighteen, clothed in artfully ragged Levi’s and sweatshirt, long, lank hair constrained by a beaded band, the lower part of his face obscured in an attempted beard, the upper part by dark glasses. On second glance, however, Conan decided he was closer to thirty than eighteen.
“Right, Mr. Travers. You just holler if my office can help out in any way.”
Sheriff Wills was making his exit, trying not to let his relief at surrendering this particular case to the state seem too obvious. He was in such a hurry, he didn’t notice that the relief at his departure was mutual.
With Wills out of the way, Kleber turned to Steve.
“I guess you’ll want to look at the body first, Mr. Travers.”
“Yes. Who are those people?”
Kleber glanced toward the windows. “That’s everybody who was here last night when Nye came into the bar. At least, everybody we had a name for and could round up. I figured you’d want statements from all the witnesses.”
“Witnesses? You mean you have witnesses to the murder?”
“Well, not exactly to the murder, but there was a scrap between Nye and Brian Tally, and Tally tried to—”
Brian said hotly, “I didn’t even touch him!”
“Well, it damn sure wasn’t because you didn’t try!”
Owen Culpepper turned even paler and put in, “Uh, Earl, maybe you’d better hold off on any, uh, official comments?”
Steve frowned impatiently and headed for the kitchen, waving to the crime scene men and Dr. Reuben to follow.
“Come on, let’s see what we’ve got. Conan, you might as well come, too.”
That last was put so casually, it was only when Conan started after Steve that Kleber came to with a startled, “Now, wait just a damn minute!”
When Steve turned on him questioningly, he assumed a more conciliatory tone.
“Mr. Travers, he’s only here as one of the witnesses. He’s got no business in official police business.”
Steve said in a velvet-gloved drawl, “Chief, I’ve known Conan for a long time, and this won’t be the first time he’s been involved in police business—sometimes on request.”
With the state firmly established in command, Steve led the way into the kitchen, Conan only a pace behind, Kleber hard on his heels, Dr. Reuben and the crime scene team trailing after them.
The entourage marched through an anteroom of sorts, which Brian always referred to as the pantry, an area devoted to preparation of the accessories of a meal. On the left-hand wall was an ice well, coffee brewers, water, soft drink, and milk dispensers, and under the counter, racks of glasses and cups.
On the right-hand wall in the corner was a cash register, and Conan wondered about that; there was another in the dining room where customers paid their dues. Above this one was a blackboard with the remains of hasty messages incompletely erased. One was still there. “86 prime.” In the code of the kitchen, that meant prime rib had been deleted from the menu due to temporary shortage.
Centered in this wall was a pass-through from the cooking area, and below it a wide counter cluttered with condiment racks, bread baskets, and butter warmers. Beneath it were stainless-steel drawers, miniature ovens for warming bread and rolls.
The far wall was divided, the left half given over to a salad counter, the right a doorless opening into the kitchen proper. To the left of the opening, behind the wall, was a narrow tier of five steps and a door.
Behind that door, Conan knew, was the corridor giving access to the restrooms and connecting with the entry hall.
Beyond the pantry, the kitchen loomed large in every dimension. It was shaped roughly like a reversed L, and they were entering at the toe of it. The initial impression was a maze partitioned with worktables and carts. Folding itself around the corner of the L were ten stainless-steel yards of dishwashing apparatus, looking like an aborted assembly line; enigmatic machines squatted here and there like cast-iron trolls, and esoteric tools and instruments hung over shelves bearing in gargantuan containers the ingredients of gastronomic delight.
Past the side entrance, a short wall extended back to make a corner with a transverse wall. Against the short wall was a table surfaced in laminated wood two inches thick, and on the transverse wall, a wooden door mounted with a heavy metal latch.
The door was at least eight inches thick. Conan could see that because it was ajar, but it didn’t open into the freezer as he expected when he saw the kind of door it was.
A cooler. He waited while Steve and Kleber conferred, aware for the first time of the level of noise here; a constant roaring rush. He looked back into the cooking area where a huge metal hood revealed the source. Exhaust fans. The sound seemed to emphasize the ghostly inactivity of this place designed for work.
Steve turned to enter the cooler, and Conan was ready at his side.
“Am I still welcome in this part of the business?” He had to lean close to make himself heard.
Steve laughed and nodded. “Just watch your hands and don’t give Kleber a chance to say I told you so.” Then over his shoulder to Dan Reuben, “Close quarters. Let me take a look, then I’ll get out of your way.”
Inside the cooler the mechanical roar was augmented by refrigeration equipment pouring cold air out of a duct above the door. The cooler was about twelve by six feet, its shelves inundated with crates of fruits and vegetables, giant steel stockpots of soups and gravies, gallons of dressings and sauces, butter in sixty-pound blocks, bacon in twenty-pound cartons, eggs in boxes of thirty dozen, hotel pans filled with whole prime ribs, steaks, preformed hamburgers, boned chicken breasts, crab, oysters, cocktail shrimp, breaded prawns and razor clams, sc
ampi, sole, and whole salmon staring glassily.
It was stultifying, the realization of the quantitative mass of food processed in this kitchen each day, skillfully prepared for the delectation of demanding diners, a large portion of it inevitably returning as garbage.
A waste, but a great deal in life could be called a waste. And some lives.
On the wall to the right of the cooler door was another identical to it. The latch wasn’t closed. Steve pushed the door open with the back of his hand.
The freezer was a third the size of the cooler, three of its walls lined with shelves, the food on them nearly all contained in white boxes or wrapped in frost-filmed plastic. Another duct poured out a glacial wind, misting the air with cold steam, and for the second time in a single day, Conan was reminded of his thirteenth winter.
The open space in the center of this boreal pocket was small; the body filled it. Even then, it was cramped into a fetal position.
Many cultures in human history considered that position appropriate for the dead.
And what culture advanced enough to find it necessary to collect taxes didn’t despise its tax collectors? Conan thought, Poor little tax collector, curled in a frozen womb, who despised you this much?
Eliot Nye lay on his left side, right hand near his face, his head toward the door. It had been pressed against it, in fact; his hair retained the flattened impression. At the back of his head the hair was matted with brownish frost; the blood had frozen. It was impossible to assess the wound, but it had bled freely. The floor was thick with the same grim frost.
Steve went down on one knee.
“He wasn’t dead when he was put in here.”
“No. And he didn’t stay unconscious.”
The spilled boxes on the floor, the bloody imprints of desperation on the lower shelves were silent evidence of that and of unthinkable terror. There was blood on the shoulders of the raincoat; Nye had been partially upright for a short time. Conan touched the coat. It was stiff with frost.
“His coat was still wet.”