Shakedown for Murder
Page 15
Jane sat on a kitchen chair hard, seemed to fall down on it. She lit a cigarette. “I still can't believe it. This sixty dollars a month, or whatever you get on Social Security, is that worth killing for?”
“I think you can get from thirty dollars to about one hundred and sixty dollars a month, depending on how high your salary was. Let's take an average, say each man was getting ninety dollars a month, and keep to the eight cases we know about—that's seven hundred and twenty dollars a month, over eight grand a year. If they've been doing it for, well, ten years, that adds up to over $80,000. So it wasn't any penny ante scheme. And you see how it all fits—explains Anderson's ready money—not enough dough to shout about, but to quietly repair the house, buy a new truck, pay bills quickly. He undoubtedly has a bundle hidden some place.”
“I don't know, Mr. Lund, I simply can't believe it. For one thing, how would Pops be eligible for all these checks under different names? He couldn't have held jobs under those names for any length of time. I mean, he's always worked in and around the Harbor.”
“Wait up, Jane, you still don't get it. Remember, if Larry did kill Barnes, then it had to be a hell of a cold-blooded killing, for Barnes was his good friend and Anderson was murdering merely to continue his racket for another few months, or a year. But then it would take a cool killer to strangle my cat, to shoot a dog, and certainly to gun Nelson. Know what makes a cold-blooded killer? Only one thing: practice!”
“I still don't.... What are you getting at?”
“The perfect deal he and Pops had. Larry's place is on the edge of town, surrounded by high trees. You told me Pops sometimes had friends, other old men, out at the house. Did you, or anybody else, ever see any of them leave?”
“But I'd hardly know when they came or went. His house is out of the way and....” She suddenly froze, her mouth wide open with horror.
“I walked across his ground on Monday, came in unexpectedly from the bay, and he threw a gun at me and Andy. Know why? We were walking on his private cemetery!”
“Eight murders?”
“At least. Ever read about the Bluebeard killings—the French guy who married a score of widows and killed them for their money? This is the same idea, but using men.”
I felt so excited I got up and started walking around the kitchen. Jane kept following me with her eyes, her long face sickly. Finally she said, “But to... to... kill so many...?”
“After they knocked off one man... you know the line: they could only get the chair once. I don't know how they lured the old men to the farm, but I can make a damn good guess,” I said, talking aloud to myself, to get things straight in my own mind. “Here's Larry, a single man in a small town. He can't marry—a wife would get on to his racket. Okay, he's young and healthy, must see a woman some place. Has plenty of time on his hands, especially after the summer months. Suppose he drives into Jamaica, New York, Long Beach, hangs around bars to pick up babes. Okay, during the years he also has met a lot of lonely old men hanging around the bars. Be a snap to strike up a beer conversation, find eight who are not only getting Social Security, but who are alone in the world. Larry sells them on his big house in the country, maybe Pops goes along on these recruiting jobs, asks the other old guy to come out and keep him company, all for free. When did Larry's mother die?”
“In 1943.” Jane whispered.
“They've had well over a dozen years to take their time, pick at least eight victims. They lure an oldtimer out and once he starts getting his checks, a matter of weeks, they knock him off. Who would know? No relatives, and the guy probably sticks to the grounds for the first few weeks. So a Social Security check for a... Robert Berger keeps coming promptly every month. Pops has already set up the storekeeper, in this case the one near Riverside, to cash it for him—and keep cashing them. Except for Pops dying this racket could have gone on for years, in almost perfect safety.”
“Somehow I still can't believe it. Doesn't the Social Security board ever check to see if a person is still living?”
“Frankly I don't know. I think a person has to file a yearly report if they continue working. Seems to me the earnings can't be above a certain figure. I'll find out. But in this case the men weren't working, so the only way Washington would know they had died would be when the checks were returned, the envelopes marked DECEASED, and... Lord, Lord!”
“What is it?” Jane asked, sitting up.
“Merely thinking what a really perfect deal Larry has— he's the postman! I'm sure on the first of every month, or whenever the checks are due, little Larry is in the post office early, boxing up the mail like mad—making sure nobody notices the checks, taking them out when he starts delivering the mail. Of course, that explains Nelson's death.”
“I'm bewildered. What does it explain?”
“Now listen: Nelson's story—according to Roberts— was that an old buddy of his had sent him a card from the Harbor. This guy named Hudon. Nelson assumes he's living here, perhaps he'd said so on the card. I'll bet folding money this Hudon was one of the old men killed on Anderson's place, only he got the card off without their knowing it. Okay, Nelson happens to come East, decides to look up his friend. No Hudon. He went to Barnes because his pal Hudon was sickly and Barnes is the only doc. Barnes can't help him, he never heard of Hudon. Nelson asks Roberts, the police chief, who also isn't any help. But who would Roberts send Nelson to, who of all people in the Harbor would know if a man named Hudon had ever lived here? Anderson the mailman!” I pounded the table like a debater, delighted with myself.
“Nelson must have given Larry a bad turn, but by this time Anderson has already killed Doc, and somehow still has his scarf. Maybe Nelson doesn't take a fast 'no,' maybe he's asking around too much. Or, because I'm sticking my big nose into the thing, Larry feels Jerry won't even come up for trial and by now the 'accident' is no longer an accident. Larry's in a small sweat. All right. Probably Nelson left a forwarding address in case Anderson should hear about Hudon. Nelson's in Hampton Point, Our boy Larry has to get out from under fast—he remembers the scarf, finds Nelson and kills him with his own gun, the suicide touch. How lucky our Larry seemed, Nelson packing a rod! He leaves the doc's scarf in Nelson's car and Roberts—he swallows the hook, again!”
Jane shook her head. “Edward only wore one scarf, a worn one I gave....” Her voice died to a painful whisper, then came alive as she said, “This is all a nightmare, a murder factory here in the Harbor.”
“What better place than a sleepy village? Actually, the only bad mistake Anderson made was killing my cat. Yeah, hadn't been for that, I would have forgot things.”
“Mr. Lund, this just can't be true. I can't picture Larry doing all these... murders.”
“Why not? As I told you, you can only burn once.”
Jane said slowly, “It's so hard to think of somebody you once knew as a killer. It's an insult to your memory. Well, what do we do now?”
“We could call in Roberts, or the Federal men,” I said, not quite certain what I wanted to do. I suppose deep in my mind I had the idea of taking Larry solo—but I was too old for that. Truth is, I'd probably never been that young. I told myself to stop being a fool, not let my anger over Roberts refusing to do anything about Matty blind my better judgment.
She said, “If Larry is such a monster, we have to put an end to this at once. I think we should get Art Roberts, demand to see Pops.”
“Yeah, that's what we should do. But he'll kick like a mule on reopening his nice little neat case, arresting a pillar of the community.”
“No, murder is a serious thing, even in the Harbor. Want to phone him from here or shall we go downtown?”
That “downtown” forced me to grin. I said we could phone. When I got Roberts on the phone I told him, “Come out to Miss Endin's house at once—I have something for you.”
“Again? What is it this time, a dead clam? I'm busy with....” The light sarcasm in his voice changed abruptly as he asked, “Jeez, not Jane Endin?”
I suddenly wondered what her life would have been like If she'd had a sense of humor. Or would she have ended up the village whore?
Roberts and his musical comedy uniform were planted in Jane's living room chair less than four minutes after I phoned. I briefed him on what I'd found and he rubbed his big hands together as he said flatly, “I don't believe that Larry Anderson would....”
“I know, he's the salt of the earth. Roberts, it's a bit late for the chamber of commerce spiel. End Harbor is in for some messy publicity but that can't be helped. I want you to demand to see Pops Brown. You won't see him because he's buried in Larry's yard—I think.”
“But for... all those murders,” he muttered, shaking his big head. “I can't bust into his house without a warrant, and if Pops is alive, I'll look—”
I know what he was thinking and for a second I felt sorry for the handsome slob: Larry was the village big shot and if Roberts crossed him and the case turned out to be a dud, Roberts wouldn't have the pretty uniform for long.
I said, “What have you got to worry about? If for nothing else, we have him dead to rights as a Social Security fraud. Don't stall me or I'll go over your head. Hell, Roberts, I'm giving you a break, letting you make the collar.”
“Actually, all we know is he cashed some checks. Maybe people on his mail route gave them to him?” Roberts turned to Jane. “Did you hear these storekeepers say they cashed checks under different names?”
“No, I was in the car all the time, following Larry.”
Roberts sprang to his feet—really sprang—and turned to me in triumph. “Then I've only your word for this whole....”
The way the jerk towered over me made me angry. “You want to question the storekeepers? Go ahead, I'll give you the addresses. But I'm phoning Washington in a minute and I'll give you odds they have somebody at Anderson's house before dark!”
Roberts shrugged his beefy shoulders and sighed like a guy about to ask the boss for a raise. “Okay, okay. I'll see Pops. But, Lund, if he's alive, if this turns out to be a rhubarb, I'll not only collar you as a public nuisance, but I'll work you over!”
“Cut the big talk, you're not a public hero yet. I'm going with you. Another thing, Anderson is shotgun happy, can you get a couple more of your men?” I nearly added, “If there are a couple more.”
He sort of pulled himself erect and threw out his wide shoulders—all in one motion. “I can handle Larry.”
He looked as if he could handle Floyd Patterson but looks don't stop bullets. “How about giving me some ammo, and I'll pack my gun?”
“No need, there won't be any gun play,” he said sharply. “I know Larry... why, I was trolling for blues with him only last week. And for all I know, you might be trigger-happy over that dumb cat of yours. You want to go, let's do it.”
I didn't say another word, he was working up his courage and a push might have spooked him. We all walked out to the polished squad car and he told Jane, “This won't be any place for you.”
“Yes, it is. Edward Barnes was my friend.”
She said it with such quiet dignity Roberts glanced at her to tell her something; I motioned for her to get in.
Larry's truck and station wagon were parked in the driveway but he wasn't in sight. We walked up onto the porch and Roberts rang the bell. Roberts was sweating a bit, but only over fear of losing his job—the jerk hadn't loosened his gun in its holster. After a moment Anderson opened the door. He had his shirt off, the thick muscles under this thin T-shirt, and a towel in his hand. He said, “Hello, Jane, Artie, Lund. I'm just washing up. What's this, a delegation? Something up for the Harbor Council?”
“Larry,” Roberts said, “I want to see Pops.”
Anderson was good, nothing changed on his face—but I saw the great muscles of his arms stiffen. “You know Pops is very sick, he can't see anybody or be disturbed. Doctor's orders.”
“What doctor?” I asked.
“The specialist in New York. Pops is sleeping right now. Everybody knows a person suffering from heart trouble needs absolute rest. What's this about?”
“I won't do a thing to harm Pops,” Roberts said. “Let me see him, I won't awaken him.”
“Pops couldn't have done anything, he's been in bed since.... Legally you have no right to bust into my house.”
“Larry, don't put this on a legal basis,” Roberts said softly. “I'm asking to see Pops, as a friend. You want me to ask as a police officer—I'll have to place you under arrest if you don't let me see Pops.”
“Arrest? Artie, are you crazy?”
“Let me see Pops and I'll explain all this.”
I smiled—Anderson hadn't bothered to even ask what the arrest would be for—he damn well knew! But he suddenly stepped back from the door, told us, “Come in, but don't make any noise.”
Roberts went pale, hesitated. I walked past Anderson followed by Jane... and then Roberts. We were in an old-type large living room, nicely furnished, everything neat and spotless, and impersonal. Larry started up the carpeted steps to the floor above. As we followed he turned, asked, “Is it necessary for all of you to come up? Any shock can mean Pops' life.”
“We'll be very quiet, won't make as much noise as a shotgun killing an Irish setter. Only Roberts will take a look into Pops' room. All he wants to see is his face.” I stressed the word “face.” Roberts was so jittery he might be satisfied seeing a couple of pillows under a blanket.
Anderson stared at me without showing any emotion. “Then keep your voices down,” he said, turning to walk up the steps again. “I'll let you see Pops and then I'll want a goddamn good—excuse me, Jane—a good explanation for this foolishness!”
I saw the back of Roberts' neck become a sickly pink. He stopped climbing the stairs until I goosed him with my knee. Although I was certain Anderson was bluffing, a very tiny clammy feeling was working in the pit of my guts. If I was wrong about things....
The upstairs hall was wide, several potted plants on small tables lining the flower-papered walls. There was another staircase, smaller and steeper, at the end of the hall, that probably went up to the widow's walk. We walked past several open bedrooms, stopped in front of a closed door. Anderson whispered, “This is Pops' room. Artie, the more I think of it, I can't risk his life by letting you see him. I don't know what this city snoop has filled you with but....”
“Open the door a crack,” Roberts said; almost pleaded.
“Suppose he's awake? The shock might....”
“Cut the production number, Anderson,” I said, trying to keep my voice both a whisper and tough. “Suppose he is awake? Roberts isn't a stranger, he's a friend of Pops.”
Anderson shrugged, turned toward the door. He dropped me towel as he spun back around and clipped Roberts on the chin with a wild right. As Roberts folded and I leaped at Larry. I thought with a sort of stupid satisfaction I'd always known Roberts looked too good, had some glass in his square jaw. I was diving for Anderson's waist and I stopped thinking as he straight-armed me.
I was sailing through the air and then I hit a wall as if going through it, slid down to the floor, shaken and dizzy. Vaguely I knew Anderson was heading for the stairs going down to the living room... and that I was crawling toward Roberts to get his gun. My eyes wouldn't focus and I wasn't sure if I was alive or dead.
I heard Larry yell, “Stay away, Jane, I don't want to hurt you!” and the picture turned real and clear. Jane was backed against a wall, letting him run past. Then she calmly picked up a potted plant and threw it like a bowling ball.
She was smart, didn't aim for his head but for his legs. The pot seemed to bounce o
nce behind him, then break into a hundred pieces as it hit the back of his knees, sending him crashing down the stairs.
I yanked Roberts' Police Special from his shiny holster and staggered toward the steps. I expected to see Anderson out cold, but he was a rugged joker—he was standing on file landing below, blood on one side of his face. He shook himself like a floored pug. As he started down the stairs, I grabbed the railing to keep from falling, fired a shot into the ceiling. The staircase seemed full of thunder and over it—to my surprise—I heard a firm voice saying, “Don't move, Anderson, or I'll plug you! You've had it!” I wished I felt half as strong as my voice.