Shakedown for Murder

by Ed Lacy

  We finished the ride in silence. Roberts helped me into the cottage with the stuff, planted his rear on a chair again —his favorite hobby. I wondered what he was hanging around for. I knew I was wasting valuable time talking to the big dope. The toadstool told me all I wanted to know... except for one other thing I had to clear. I asked, “How old would Jack Wiston be now?”

  “Who?” His face looked blank and I doubted if he was that good an actor.

  “Priscilla Barnes' missing brother,” I said.

  “You really get around, Lund. I don't know. That was long before my time. I never saw or knew any of her family, not even when I was a kid.”

  “How old was Barnes?”

  “Around sixty-three. I have his exact age in my files. Had a nice funeral for Ed today. Worked out fine.”

  “You mean Jane Endin didn't show. How old was Nelson?”

  “Seventy-one.”

  “And Pops?”

  Roberts looked startled. “What's Pops got to do with this?”

  “How old is he?”

  Roberts shrugged. “Never could count that high. This a quiz program?”

  “It was, up till now. Roberts, do me one favor, give— or sell—me a handful of .38 shells.” I touched his polished belt lined with bullets. I knew there was little chance the hardware store carried them.

  Roberts couldn't have jumped to his feet faster if a shell had goosed him. His eyes actually narrowed—again —as he asked, “What for?”

  “For my empty gun.”

  “That tears it, Lund. You've been a wild-hair from the moment you came to the Harbor. Pack a gun and I'll jail you!”

  “The law says I can carry a gun anywhere in the state.”

  “Then I'll lock you up for disorderly conduct, for being a loony! You sore because your Greek buddy is free and you haven't anything to do now? Who the devil do you think you are? Dick Tracy? I'm warning you, Lund, and only this once, annoy anybody else in the Harbor and I'll throw your ass in jail so fast it will make your badge smoke!” He started for the porch, his big frame filling the doorway.

  “Maybe the Hampton Point police will be interested.”

  Roberts spun around so quickly I thought he was going to swing on me. “Sure, go tell them about your cat—they'll toss you in a cell, a padded one! Maybe you don't believe this, but I'm doing you a favor—although you sure act like you're cracked. Well, here's the favor, some free advice: don't make a fool of yourself in Hampton Point They have a big force, a rough one. It's a rich town and they got plenty of cops because they're afraid the migratory potato pickers might get out of hand in the summer. You go there and they'll laugh you out of town!”

  He ran down the porch steps, and into the radio car. I leaned against the wall, watched the lights of the car disappear—wondered what to do next. For a second I was full of doubts... But it had to be Pops. He was the “old goat,” and for some reason he'd killed Barnes, then taken off. That accounted for the dummy up on the widow's walk. I'd seen the hands move this afternoon, but whose hands? On a hot day why would anybody, even a supposedly sick man, keep a hat over his face, a blanket on? Somehow Larry Anderson was in this, probably protecting Pops, maybe being blackmailed. It all fitted. Larry had seen me out on the bay this afternoon with the glasses, thought I was spying on Pops again, that I hadn't been taken in by the Nelson “suicide.” So Larry told the “old goat.” Or he and Pops could be in this together.

  Hell, everybody in the Harbor might be in on this. Jane Endin hadn't been at the funeral, she only lived a few blocks from here, must know about mushrooms and herbs. She could be working with Pops, trying to scare me off.

  But off what? What possibly could be going on in this peaceful lousy hick burg that called for murder? I didn't know who did the other killings, but Matty had to be the work of Pops, whoever he was and wherever he was. That was why Larry had put his glasses on me this afternoon.

  I either had to pack up Andy and Bessie, get away from here at once, or if I stayed, I had to solve it before anything happened to them. And I had to do it alone—me, the do-it-yourself detective. Maybe I was being an old fool, but I just couldn't run.

  I went inside and dumped every bit of food I could find—the stuff in the icebox along with sugar, salt, cereals —in the garbage can. Even the toothpaste. Some flies were on Matty. I rummaged around until I found an empty hat-box and put Matty in it. I carefully wrapped the box in aluminum foil, tied it securely with fishline, then put the package in his wicker basket. I scrubbed the tabletop, threw out the cleanser and a box of soap powder.

  There was a clam rake in the back of the house. I took it down the road to an empty field, buried Matty. It took me a long time to dig the grave and it was very dark when I finished. There couldn't be a doubt in my mind now, I was sweating drops of pure anger.

  I dropped into the Johnsons where everybody stared at me as if seeing the village idiot—maybe because I was still carrying the clam rake. Bessie asked if I wanted supper. I said no and took her aside, whispered about the toadstool and that I had thrown out all the food in the house.

  “I can't understand how one possibly got in. I can easily recognize a toadstool when I....”

  “Never mind that now; you didn't do a thing. Just keep quiet about it and spend the night here.”

  Mr. Johnson, a character with a big belly and lard shoulders, boldly assured me he would most certainly... “look after Bessie and the child...” meaning Bessie had let her big mouth go.

  Everybody talked in hushed tones, as if not to excite me. I told Bessie I had buried Matty, not to worry if I didn't return that night. I asked for Jerry's address.

  “What do you want his address... for?” she started to ask. But something in my face stopped her and she said in a loud whisper, “He lives on Belmont Lane. Not far away. Matt, be careful.”

  “Don't worry about me. And remember, don't leave this house.”

  I stopped at our cottage for my gun, feeling the silence of the house, before starting for Jerry's place. I suppose it wasn't far at that, the whole Harbor wasn't much, but I kept walking in circles until I asked a couple of people and finally found this one-block side street with the ritzy name. In the dark all I could see was a small house set in a large garden. I lit a match to read a crude TAXI sign nailed to a small fence. He wasn't home. The garage was empty, too. I wondered where he was.

  But it didn't matter much, I'd wanted to ask what he knew about Pops. And borrow his car—see if I could get any help and ammo from the Hampton Point police. But Roberts was probably right. If I walked in and told them I was gunning for a killer, that the Nelson thing was a set-up... all because my cat was dead... they'd laugh me into a straitjacket. These village cops, washing each ether's hands. I had to play it alone.

  I headed for the bay, walking across the harbor. Through the open doors and windows I saw everybody in their houses, silently watching TV, and maybe nibbling at a bottle. Crazy yokels who never went to a big city, maybe never to another village unless they had to.

  Cutting across Main Street, I walked toward the water down a narrow street I'd never been on before. To my surprise next to a boat and bait place I found a small store still open. It was a tiny shop, the downstairs of a house, and seemed to stock a little bit of everything. I wanted a flash and also I was very hungry. A fat woman with wispy gray hair and wearing a bag of a dress waddled out of a back room, asking, “Yes, sir, what can I do for you?”

  I bought an expensive light, the only kind she had, glad she hadn't cracked about my being a sure sign of summer. I ate a candy bar as I went over to a basket of fresh vegetables, felt of the string beans and cabbages—like I knew what I was doing, asked if they were local produce.

  “Only the potatoes and tomatoes. Be more truck vegetables in a week or two. Long Island potatoes ain't much this year.”

  Over a bottle of soda I listened to a speech about what the local potato growers did wrong, how expensive the California and North Carolina crops were. I ha
d a hunk of over-sweet cake before she mentioned Anderson, said he went into Patchogue for vegetables three times a week. I said, “I've seen his truck around. New one. He must be making out pretty well.”

  “He's always cheerful. Joy to have that man around. And once you're straight with him, he's easy on credit. Frankly, I don't know how Larry does it; he can't meet the supermarket's prices. I used to sell four or five baskets of fruits and vegetables a day during the summer. Now I'm lucky to sell that much a week. Had anything else to do, at my age, I'd give up the store. I order less and less from Larry, but I suppose he does better in the other towns.”

  “This Anderson lives with his father, doesn't he? Old man they call Pops?”

  “That's not his daddy,” the fat lady said, getting up steam. For ten minutes she told me what a wonderful man Larry was, how Pops wasn't “even a relation,” merely an old friend, but Larry couldn't have treated him any better “if the old man had been his father.” It also seemed that Pops was a wonderful man, always full of jokes and willing to help out; sometimes he brought her fish.

  End Harbor was simply full of “wonderful” men and women—when they weren't killing or getting killed. The storekeeper went on to tell me how active Larry was in the city council, had organized a Scout troop—only there weren't enough kids interested. Pops was busy in the various cake sales and used to sell chances for the annual Legion car raffle—up till last year when his arthritis got real bad. I paid her and left in the middle of a speech about the younger generation.

  I walked down to the beach, along the shore toward the spot where Andy and I had landed a couple days ago.

  I had company, a big Irish setter tagged along behind me. I threw some stones for him to chase and when I reached Larry's property I shooed the dog away. Climbing the bank I saw a light in the kitchen of Anderson's house. I walked carefully through the rough grass until I reached the garage. The doors were open, the truck standing inside, and the concrete floor was wet. Stepping inside I covered the flash with my hand and turned on the light. All I saw were stacks of empty wooden crates and bushel baskets. On the truck there were crates of lettuce and fruit, all recently watered down. Everything was neat and businesslike. I don't know what I expected to find but I didn't find a damn thing. There was an outboard in one corner, on a rack, a....

  I heard a sound outside the garage and froze, my hand sneaking toward the gun inside my belt—until I remembered it was empty. Somebody was walking around the outside of the garage, walking softly. I heard them come to the door as I strained to see in the darkness. The padding sound came directly toward me, despite the fact I was hidden behind a pile of peach crates. A moment later there was a small whine and the cold muzzle of my buddy, the dog, touched my hand. I was so relieved I nearly giggled as I whispered, “Beat it, boy.”

  It must have seemed a caressing sound to him for the big son-of-a-bitch put his paws on my chest and tried to lick my face. I pushed him away and he hit one of the stacks of empty crates—which came down with all the thunder in the world. I ran out of the garage, knocking over more boxes, headed for the beach. I heard a door slam and then heavy steps as a flashlight sliced the darkness. I kept running as fast as I could, bent low and zigzagging, my breathing harsh. I hit a rut, or some damn thing, and went sliding on my face and chest in the heavy grass. The air was knocked out of me, the lousy gun in my waist felt like it had gone through my stomach. I lay there, sobbing for breath, wondering if I'd busted my store teeth. The heavy footsteps came closer and I clamped a hand over my open mouth to muffle my breathing.

  The night was split with the roar of a shotgun blast, followed by a tiny, unreal scream.

  The footsteps approached slow, cautiously. I pulled my gun from out of my stomach—a bluff was better than nothing. Then some fifteen feet to my right a flash snapped on and I saw Anderson, shotgun in work-gloved hands, bending over. He raised the bloody remains of the Irish setter by one leg, the head resting on the ground. Anderson remained bent over like that for a few minutes, an odd smile on his thick face. It could have been a smile of relief or of sorrow. I wondered what he was doing... he seemed to be listening to the night. Then I knew he was waiting to see if the sound of the shot brought anybody on the run.

  I was as flattened to the ground as I could get. I was scared outright silly—he hadn't known it was a dog he was shooting at. And I was impressed by the gloves-touch— Anderson believed in being prepared—fingerprints must have been uppermost in his mind at all times.

  Satisfied no one was coming, he dropped the dog and walked back to the garage, the light bouncing ahead of him. The fall had knocked my own flash from my hand and I didn't try to find it, but crawled toward the beach like a frightened snake, thankful I hadn't broken any real bones or false teeth. When I heard Larry returning I played dead in the grass again, grateful I could still play at it. He held the gun in his right hand, a shovel in his left. Dragging the dog farther away from me, he sent the light dancing around—trying to decide where to dig, then finally dug a deep grave and buried the mutt It was a rough night in the Harbor for animals.

  It took him almost an hour and all that time I was flat in the damp grass, fighting gnats and watching his powerful movements. He was sure a strong clown. One thing was for certain: my theory about Pops being out of the house, that dummy on the widow's walk, was right. If the old man was sick in the house with a bad ticker Anderson sure wouldn't be blasting a shotgun on the grounds. And if Pops had been hiding in the house, the gun blast would have brought him out. He was probably on the run for killing Barnes and Nelson. But theory wasn't worth its salt unless I found the motive. If I went to Roberts he would stall me with his Anderson-is-a-big-citizen kick. I might try the Riverside or Hampton Point police, but I'd have to come up with more than I had. Suppose Pops wasn't home— what did that prove? Pops and this Anderson were doing something shady and the only way I could get a lead on them would be to find out everything about Anderson and his too prosperous business.

  When Anderson returned to his house I got up and walked stiffly along the beach, then over to Jerry's house. He was still out and I stood on his porch, wondered again where he could be. There was a light in the house across the way and I saw a shadow behind the curtain. That would be nosey Mrs. Bond.

  I crossed the street and the shadow disappeared. I rang her bell and a moment later this little old lady opened the door. I said, “Mrs. Bond, I'm....”

  “I know,” she squeaked, her beady eyes bright and a faint whiff of port clinging to her words, “You're that secret service man.”

  “You know where Jerry went?”

  “Oh, my, what's he done now?”

  “He hasn't done a damn thing, I....”

  “See here, young man, don't raise your voice to me.”

  “I... uh... wanted to hire his car, taxi me to the station,” I said, almost floored by that “young man.”

  “I haven't the slightest idea where he is. He drove away in the middle of the afternoon and hasn't been back since. You were here before, weren't you?”

  “Yeah. If he returns soon, tell him I'd like to see him.”

  “If you think I have nothing better to do than watch for that—that foreign devil to come home....”

  “You've been watching him for years, what's a few more hours?” I said, walking away. I walked across the Harbor till I reached our cottage; suddenly kept walking. Jane Endin's car was in the driveway and two of her windows were lit. I worked the arrowhead knocker. When she opened the door she looked different—much younger. Some of the tenseness was gone from her face, her eyes rested. She was wearing a mannish sport shirt and jeans, the pants full of paint stains. I said, “Hello,” and she nodded, asked, “Mr. Lund, what has happened to you now, or do you always dress this sloppy?”

  I looked down—hadn't realized my pants and shirt were streaked with grass and dirt stains. “Seems I had another accident.”

  “Be careful, you may be accident-prone. Come in. Like to wash up?
Your face is dirty.”

  She took me to the bathroom, and as we passed through the living room I saw her latest work standing on an easel. It seemed to be a picture of a rough sea but the water was a violent red, the wave-caps a terrible purple, and the sky a dead, sickly green. At least it wasn't a picture you forget quickly.

  The bathroom fixtures were bulky and ancient. I washed, drying my face and hands on toilet paper—the towels looked like they'd never been used. For a second I glanced at the big bathtub with envy, then went back to the living room.

  I stared at the new painting and she asked, “Do you like it? Don't touch it, please, it's still wet.”

  “That's okay, I'm wearing gloves.”

  For a fast second her eyes seemed to harden, then she giggled—and for a moment she seemed about eighteen, “That's a wonderful joke.”