by Ed Lacy
He stood stock-still for a split second, then turned and faced me, an open-mouthed, stunned look on his wide face. With the blood, the dumb look, his big muscles under the torn shirt, he looked like a brute, a human ape. I said, “Put your hands behind your head, keep 'em up there!”
My voice was like a whip and as he put his hands up, his bigness seemed to shrink. The great muscles began to tremble and his big face took on a puzzled expression for a second—until it went to pieces.
Anderson was standing with his hands behind his head, body shaking, crying softly. For a split second he reminded me of an overgrown kid being punished... but only for a very very short split second.
Chapter 8
Dan and I were on the Sunday night train to New York. He wanted to go back Monday morning but I insisted I needed a decent night's sleep in my own bed before taking off to visit Signe and her kids. I even considered postponing seeing her for a week, to rest up in my flat, or maybe recover would be a better word. But I figured it was best to get it over with, then hang around the flat for a straight two weeks' rest before returning to the old grind.
As the train pulled out of Hampton we waved at Jerry, Bessie and Andy. Jerry was talking out of the side of his mouth, probably retelling Bessie how he had come to our cottage the night I was looking for him—before he drove to see the doc in Hampton, but found the cottage empty.
Jerry had insisted upon driving us to the station, for free, despite Sunday being his busiest night; and had only gone off the road a few times as Bessie yelled at him in Greek that he was a road menace. He'd felt bad when I told him I'd come to his place to use his car, had to get Jane and her struggle-buggy instead. The old guy seemed to worship me—a new feeling for me; and it wasn't a bad one, either.
I gave them a final wave and tried to make myself comfortable in the seat. I was loaded down: Bessie's gifts for Signe's brood, Jane's framed picture carefully wrapped in an old table cloth—which was just as well, it would have caused a sensation in the crowded train otherwise.
I was also carrying a new batch of mosquito bites, an aching back, a lot of peeling sunburnt skin—and was togged out in one hundred forty-one dollars worth of fancy clothes which Bessie had horsed me into buying. I was wearing a natty coconut straw, tropical blue suit, nylon sport shirt, Italian loafers, and a thin bow tie almost as red and loud as Roberts'. Bessie insisted I had to look “the part” when the reporters interviewed me. God knows Td been cornered by enough newsmen and photographers. One magazine writer even rented a speedboat to talk to me while I was fishing with Andy. Of course I'd spent a lot of time with the D.A. in Riverside. The last couple of days had been a marathon—even the hot-rod set had bought me a round of beers in a Harbor gin mill. I should have been exhausted but I felt just fine.
Dan nudged me, whispered, “Your public,” and nodded toward the front of the car. A couple of suntanned jokers In their correct summer “gray flannel” outfits were in a huddle, pointing toward me. For once I was glad I'd bought the new duds, looked like I belonged on the train, although my inner man scornfully told me that was a snobbish damn fool sentiment. One of the characters left the huddle and then walked down the aisle toward me with his confident-salesman approach, stopped at our seat and said, “Excuse me, sir, but aren't you Mr. Lund, the famous detective in the End Harbor murder cases?”
“You mean the cop in the case,” I said. “Yeah, my name is Lund.”
He gave me a practiced junior-executive smile, a firm handshake, said his name was Benson, or something like that. I introduced Dan and then Benson-shemson said, “Told my friends I recognized you from the news pictures. Wonderful work, Mr. Lund. I hope you don't mind this intrusion, sir, but there's one aspect of the case that puzzles me—how did Anderson ever think up such an ingenious scheme?”
Of course he had to talk in a crisp board-of-directors voice and more people turned around. I had quite an audience as I said, “He didn't think it up, merely fell into it. As stated in his confession, an old friend of Pops came to live with them in the winter of '47. About a month later the man took sick, died in his sleep. The following morning his Social Security check arrived. They were hard up and had planned to borrow some dough from him when he got his check. Anderson claims Pops said they should take a chance and cash it, as he was certain the dead man had no relatives to ask questions. They shoved the body under the ice at the edge of the bay—to make it look like a drowning—and kept cashing his checks all during the winter. In the spring they quietly buried him on the farm. According to Anderson it was Pops who got the idea of killing more men, doing it wholesale.”
“I see,” this character said, as if it mattered whether he saw things or not. “One more point, for my wife: you know women and their sense of the morbid. How did they kill the others—shoot them?”
“Your wife should read the papers, if she's that curious. No, they killed them 'painlessly,'“ I said, wishing he would leave me alone. I'd gone over the story so damn many times. “After the victim had put in a change of address with the Social Security board, and Anderson was certain it was in the mail, they got the man roaring drunk. Soon as he passed out, they poured a shot of carbon tetrachloride down his throat, or had him drink it as straight gin. Carbon tet is a cleaning fluid and easy to buy. This was Larry's brain storm. Carbon tet and alcohol causes uremia, so in case anything went 'wrong,' they could claim the man died of natural causes. There, that's the details, now you can go into business for yourself.”
My new found buddy flung back his head and laughed. “Not me, I know you can't get away with murder.” He gave me a flash of his strong teeth, grinning in appreciation of his own cleverness. “Ironic, though—Anderson had no possible way of foreseeing his partner, this Pops, would call in Doctor Barnes and the doctor would find him dead. I suppose if he hadn't murdered the doctor he never would have been caught. Greed is the basis of most crimes, isn't it, Mr. Lund?”
“That's what I hear,” I said and we shook hands again and he left to rejoin his pals. Danny said, “My, my, makes me proud to be the son of a famous superman.”
“Yeah—I'm a goddamn hero in my old age. Boys at fee precinct house will rib me for months,” I said, thinking how surprised I'd been that Art Roberts hadn't hogged the publicity. In fact when you got to know him he wasn't a bad slob. My luck sure had been riding the rail, lucky as hell on the case, lucky on the glory angle, too.
I shifted Jane's painting on my lap. It was too big to risk putting up on the luggage rack. And my lap had gotten big, too, with Bessie's cooking. Dan said, “Here, rest the picture on my knees.”
“It's okay. I'll hold it. Certainly brightens up the old flat.”
“Going to see her again?”
“Stop it. I took enough of that from Bessie.
Danny shrugged. “You'll still have two weeks' vacation after Signe's kids work you over. Be nice, for you both, if you showed Jane New York. Dad, you might as well be prepared to do it—all this coming week my dear Bessie will be working on Miss Endin. If I know my good wife, you might even find Jane waiting on your doorstep when you return from the mountains.”
“If Bessie tries to... !” I stopped, my voice full of alarm—at myself. Of course I had a whole week to think it out up at Signe's place... but what scared me was I had to admit the idea gave me a kind of happy glow... the kind a guy my age isn't supposed to have—they say.
Hanns Heinz Ewers