Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 36, No. 6, June, 1975

A Record of Guilt by James McKimmey

A dog found the body, but it was up to one lone cop to translate what just had to be.

It was the sixth time Inspector Harry Grange had made the commuter-train trip from the city up to the small town in the low mountains. And it was twenty-eight days since the bullet ridden body of Noel Berry had been found buried behind the weekend cabin of John Shrewer.

Grange, tall and rocky with cop-cold eyes, climbed from the train. He walked the length of the main street of the town, then continued along the narrow winding road which led to the various cabins interspersed through the woods beyond.

A half mile out, Grange paused in front of a white-painted house, the size and durable look of it indicating its year-around use. A brown and white beagle, ears flying, back legs splaying out with each bound, speeded toward Grange.

“Hello, Biscuit!” Grange said with enthusiasm. He reached down to ruffle the hair of the dog’s head.

A tall man in boots and suede jacket appeared in the doorway, saying, “Hello, Inspector. Back again I see.”

Grange nodded.

“And I guess Biscuit hasn’t forgotten you,” the man said.

“A good dog, Mr. Martin,” Grange said. “Mind if I take him for a walk?”

George Martin shook his head, smiling. “He’d tear the house up if I didn’t let him. You’re going to look over Shrewer’s property again?”

“Yes,” Grange said.

“You’re a stubborn man, Inspector. But then maybe that’s what makes a good policeman. I mean, take Biscuit there, he’s stubborn, too. That’s why he’s a good rabbit hunter. If he hadn’t been so stubborn that way, why, we’d never have found that fellow’s body, never have known anybody’d been murdered up here. Well, I wish you luck, Inspector. I think John Shrewer did it, all right. I hope you can prove it, in time.”

Grange nodded, then he and the dog moved on. A mile further along the road, Grange stopped. A brown and yellow mountain cabin was perched just off the road along a bank that ran down into a deep ravine. Grange knew that Shrewer was not there. His car was absent, and, although it was a warm day, the front door of the house was closed and windows were covered securely by strongly-built metal shutters. The beagle stood beside Grange, panting happily, then stood up on short hind legs and licked his hand.

Absentmindedly patting the dog’s head Grange thought of the day he’d come here and had first seen the dug-up body of Noel Berry, John Shrewer’s bright young bookkeeper. It had not been a pleasant experience, but Grange had been through enough such sights that he was able to concentrate on the details of his work.

Professional impersonality had left him twice, however. Once he’d felt compassion when he’d been required to talk to Berry’s distraught mother and to the young man’s intended bride. When he had begun his questioning of the obvious suspect, John Shrewer, his usual lack of emotion had been replaced by a distinct distaste, nearly approaching hate.

Shrewer, of course, had been implicated the instant Noel Berry, missing for several days, had been discovered here. The body had been securely buried, until Biscuit’s sensitive nose had come near, at the bottom of the ravine behind Shrewer’s weekend cabin.

Because Shrewer’s permanent residence was in the city, and because of the logical suspicion cast upon him, Grange had been assigned to the case.

Looking down the slant of the ravine, Grange remembered his first impression of Shrewer. He had tried very hard to shake his immediate dislike for the man. Shrewer, however, had only helped intensify the feeling by the way he looked, by the way he acted.

He was, in truth, a bitter, aging bachelor, whose cold gray eyes reflected no warmth or sympathy. There was a rasping, domineering quality to his voice. His temper was short. He was the owner of several small retail businesses, and he was the controlling factor of an expanding real-estate corporation development.

Even though Grange put little faith in first impressions, he was nevertheless certain that Shrewer’s exterior was an exact reflection of the inner man. And Grange had been certain, from the beginning, that Shrewer had killed Noel Berry.

Investigation had proven only that Shrewer was a man whom nobody liked, a man whose business dealings were as deadly as though he used a sword instead of crafty intelligence. His neighbors in the city avoided him. His associates aligned themselves with him solely for business purposes. The people of this small town where Shrewer spent occasional weekends characterized him as a flinty, sharp-tongued, tight-fisted old man who argued over bills honestly charged to him and who tried in every way possible to get the most for nothing.

He could, most townsmen fervently agreed, kill a man as easily as he could cheat at a purchase. But, there was no legitimate indication of Shrewer’s guilt. No proven motive. Not even a small piece of evidence that Shrewer had even been in the area at the time of the killing.

Shrewer had stood angrily on his statement that he had not left his city apartment the Sunday of Berry’s murder; that, in fact, he had not been to the cabin in over two months. There was no proof available that he had remained in that city apartment; but then there was no proof that he had not. No one had seen him drive through town; but he could have arrived and left unnoticed by an alternate route on the other side of the woods.

Nor had a murder weapon been found.

Once again the beagle leaped up to lick at Grange’s hand, and Grange reached into a pocket to draw out a wallet, the one that had been found in Berry’s hip pocket. Grange extended the wallet toward the beagle, letting the dog sniff it. Then he patted the dog’s flank. “All right, boy.”

The beagle romped down the cliff. Grange did not know what he expected to discover. It was only that he couldn’t quit. Shrewer had murdered, he was certain, and Shrewer was not paying for that crime. Grange had to keep on searching, even if he had no explicit plans.

He watched the dog move on, deeper into the ravine, until the animal reached the spot where the body had been buried. Biscuit circled the area, sniffing, then came back up the bank.

Grange shook his head, sighing. “Good boy. We’ll find it. Whatever there is to find.”

He started down the stone steps leading to the front door of the cabin when, from behind, up the road and deeper in the woods, came a tan sedan with an electric-company label on its door.

It stopped, and a thin man with yellow hair scrambled out, a book in his hand, saying, “Howdy, mister.” He grinned. “Well, hello there, Biscuit. How are you, pup?” He came down the steps toward Grange. “Friend of his owner?”

“In a way,” Grange replied. “I’m Inspector Grange, from the city.”

“Oh, yeah,” the man said. “Sure. I thought you looked familiar. I’ve seen you around.”

The man walked to a corner of the cabin and stopped in front of the meter and electrical switches controlling the circuits of the structure. “Still after figuring out who killed that boy, right?”

Grange nodded. “That’s right.”

“Well,” the man said, “You ask me, the guy who done that is the guy who owns this here house. But I don’t know. Maybe it’s just because I don’t like the old boy. He’s tried to get me into trouble with my job more than once. And I don’t forget it.”

“How?” Grange asked.

“Keeps claiming I read his meter wrong. Raises hell with the company. Tries to get out of paying the bill. Well — maybe that don’t mean he’d kill somebody, even if he is a tight, old skinflint. But maybe it does. Good luck, Inspector.”

The meter man recoded figures in his book, then returned to his car and started forward in the direction of town. As he did, another car — a long black sedan — appeared on the narrow road. The meter man stopped. And the black sedan kept approaching, horn blasting angrily. The meter man backed then, allowing the black car to come to a rest above the cabin. He then came forward again, skirted around it, and moved out of sight.

Grange watched a flashing-eyed John Shrewer step out of the black car. Once again that familiar, unescapable hatred rose up inside Grange — he couldn’t help repicturing the confused, sorrowful look on the face of Noel Berry’s mother, on the face of the young girl he was to have married.

Shrewer came down the stone steps dressed in an old suit the color of his car, glaring at Grange, rasping, “Haven’t you and the rest poked around her enough? I’m going to see my lawyer about this!”

Grange started to reply, then did not. His throat had constricted with anger; he tried to fight it because he was trying very hard to retain his neutrality.

“Why don’t you get out of here?” Shrewer snapped. “And get that dog off my property!” He extended a large key into a heavy lock on the door of the cabin. The door was sturdy-looking, and Grange had decided that the lock had been specially installed to increase its strength. Shrewer, he’d learned, trusted no one.

“Do you mind if I come in?” Grange asked.

“Certainly I mind! You’ve got no right.”

“You’re still a suspect,” Grange said, controlling his temper, “and don’t forget it. But I’ll make this a polite call, unless you force me to make it something else.”

Shrewer grumbled angrily, but then threw the door open and stomped inside. Grange followed.

Inside, Shrewer turned. “Why don’t you quit, Grange? You have no proof, nothing. And you know it.”

Grange’s eyes examined the room — barely illuminated from the open doorway — taking in the heavy beamed ceiling, the thick oak furniture, the stone fireplace with its hearth cold and black. He’d seen the room endless times by now, but still…

“One thing I don’t have to put with,” Shrewer snapped, “is that dog in this house. Either get him out or—!”

The beagle had followed them inside and had half-circled the room; now it went to the fireplace, raised up on its hind legs, and sniffed at the stones.

As Grange watched the actions of the dog carefully, Shrewer picked up a fire poker.

“I’m telling you,” Shrewer cried, “remove that dog, or I’ll fix him!”

“All right,” Grange said shortly. “Come on, Biscuit.”

As he left the house with the dog trotting beside him, he heard Shrewer bang the door shut behind him. He walked up the stone steps slowly, feeling weary and defeated.

The sun had disappeared now and darkness was approaching rapidly. Grange turned and surveyed the house once more, watching slivers of light appear between the cracks of the metal window coverings as Shrewer lighted the room. Grange’s forehead suddenly furrowed into a frown, his mind spinning. Then his eyes switched to gaze at the fuse box on the side of the house where the meter man had stood taking his reading.

Softly, excitedly, Grange said, “Come on, Biscuit!”

Forty-five minutes later, Grange — alone now reappared along the path, moving rapidly. He walked straight down the stone steps and rapped on the door.

“Who is it?” Shrewer rasped.

“Grange. Open up.”

“I don’t have to!”

“I think you’d better, and quickly.”

A moment later Shrewer grudgingly opened the door, eyes blazing at Grange. “I tell you, I will call my lawyer!”

“Better do it then,” Grange said, coming inside. “You’re going to need him.”

“What’s that?”

“Get your hat, Shrewer. I’m taking you in.”

Shrewer finally smiled, a hard, mean, humorless smile, and shook his head. “You are a fool, Grange.”

“Maybe I was for a time, not thinking any better than I did,” Grange said. “But that doesn’t matter now. Because I can prove you were up here when Berry died.”

“You’re crazy,” Shrewer said, his smile disappearing.

“No, I’m not,” Grange said. “Your meter was read this afternoon. Because you don’t have the electricity cut off while you’re gone, do you? Just in the event that you might come up here at any time?”

Shrewer frowned, eyes seeming to become smaller.

“I’ve just checked,” Grange said. “The electric-company records show that electricity was used in this house between August first and September first — during the period that Berry was murdered.”

Shrewer’s eyes widened, then seemed to become smaller again. “That doesn’t prove anything.”

“You claimed that you hadn’t been up here for two months. You were lying about that, Shrewer.”

Shrewer’s head shook back and forth, his mouth paling. “It could have been anybody using this place. The murderer—”

“This cabin’s a very tough place to break into,” Grange said. “And if it had been broken into, you’d have known it the minute you stepped into it afterward. You didn’t report it, did you? Besides, and more important, you paid the last electric-company’s billing. And you’ve got a reputation, Shrewer.

“You’d never have paid that bill for electricity you hadn’t used. An error on your part. And a big one, as it turns out. But at the time you thought the body would never be found, didn’t you? Is that why you wanted to kill the dog with the poker earlier? Because it found the body?”

“Nonsense!” Shrewer shouted. “Everything you’re saying. You can’t prove a thing. You simply can’t—!”

“It’s what we need,” Grange said. “All we need for now. Because it opens it again — the possibility. And now we’ll start over and crack your alibi apart inch by inch. You’re through, Shrewer.”

Shrewer kept shaking his head, turning away from Grange toward the fireplace, hands trembling. “I’m an old man,” he said quiveringly. “Old. Not well…”

Then, suddenly, he had knocked a stone from the edge of the fireplace. He was reaching inside, into an exposed hole, clutching.

Grange stepped forward, pistol out, the barrel whipping at Shrewer’s wrist. Shrewer cried out in pain as the revolver he’d drawn from the hole bounced harmlessly to the floor.

“Step back now,” Grange said, motioning with his gun. The old man backed, eyes blazing again.

Grange glanced once at the hole Shrewer had exposed by knocking away the stone. He saw a folded white envelope. He took it out.

It was addressed to the board of directors of Shrewer’s real-estate firm; Grange knew from past investigation that it was the murdered youth’s hand that had addressed it.

Grange pulled out the letter. He glanced only at the beginning of what Noel Berry had written:

Grange looked at Shrewer again.

Shrewer’s face twitched. “All right! Berry was too holy for his own good! Came to my apartment and told me he was going to submit that letter unless I reported the shortage to the board. Wouldn’t take what I offered him to forget about it. So I made him drive us up here in my car. I shot him, in the chest, then in the back — and buried him! The fool! Full of stupid self-righteous honesty! That was a lot of money involved. I worked hard to get it!”

Grange spoke softly, cooly: “But why did you keep this letter?”

“Because it tells how Berry had found the discrepancies. I was going to use it to fix the figures. But now—”

The old man’s face was white. His whole body was quivering. And quite suddenly he reached out for the fireplace poker.

Grange, motioning his gun, said, “I wouldn’t. I would just get your hat now and we’ll be going.”

Then he was directing the old man out, gun and letter in possession. And as they climbed the stone steps, Grange listened to familiar barking.

He would, he decided, come back to this town very shortly. But for different reasons now. He needed a rest. And a rabbit hunt in country like this would be a nice way to relax. Especially with a good dog.