Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 4, August, 1961

Death by the Numbers by Ed Lacy

The maid heard Tim Williams arguing with Mrs. Buck. Then Tim ran away... and Mrs. Buck was dead.

Harbor Point sticks out into the ocean like the fat neck of a steamer clam. It’s a rich village but not much for action — too many solid residents, not enough tourists or working stiffs. It’s at the far end of the county and the last time I came here was for a hit and run manslaughter — about seven months ago.

Chief Bob Moore looked his same hick-self; a man mountain running to lard in his middle-age. Seeing me he said with real surprise, “Well, well, ain’t we honored! Hardly expected the head of County Homicide up for this murder. You sure climbed fast, Jed. Rookie investigator last summer and now it’s Inspector Jed. Took me 19 years to become Chief of our three man police force. Proves a college education pays off.” His sarcasm was followed by a stupid grin of his thick mouth and bad teeth.

“I guess it helps,” I said, paying no attention to his ribbing.

“Never could figure out why you ever wanted to be a cop, Jed. You’re not only young but... well, you don’t even look like a police officer. A runt with narrow shoulders and that brush haircut... hell, you’d pass for a juvenile delinquent of the hotrod set. In my day the first requirement for a cop was to look like the law, big and tough. Man, when my 275 pounds and six-four comes along, why it’s the same as another badge. When I say move, a guy moves!”

“Don’t worry about my being tough, Moore. Also, it’s far too early in the day for corny lines like the bigger they come... You’ve had your gassy lecture, let’s get to work. Who was the murdered woman... Mrs. Buck?”

“Widow, nice sort of woman. Comfortably fixed. Ran a fair-sized farm. Came to the Harbor as a bride and... Don’t worry Jed, this one is in the bag. I know the killer, have the only road off the peninsula covered.”

“Yeah, passed your road block as I drove in,” I said, sitting on his polished desk. Although Bob dressed like a slob, he kept a neat office. “Okay, what happened?”

“About nine this morning Mrs. Buck phones me she’s having trouble with one of her farm hands — money trouble. Colored fellow named Tim Williams — only hand she has working for her now. Tim come with the migratory workers that follow the crops up from the South last year, but Tim and his wife settled here. Never had no trouble with him before, thought he was a hard worker, hustling around to get a full week’s work. Anyway, Julia asks me to...”

“Julia?”

“Come on, Inspector, look alive. Julia Buck, the deceased,” Moore said, slipping me his smug, idiot-grin again. “Julia asks me to come out at once. But she didn’t sound real alarmed... you know, like there was any immediate danger. I got there at 9:47 A.M., found her strangled. I would have come sooner if I’d known... No doubt about Tim being the killer — I have a witness. Don’t know why the County had to send anybody up here. Told them I can handle this.”

“Yeah, seems you have a nice package, with all the strings tied. Who’s...?”

“I’ll collar Tim before night.”

“Who’s your witness?”

“Julia had — has — an old Indian woman cooking for her — Nellie Harris. Probably the last of the original Island Indians. Nellie was in the kitchen, had just come to work, when she heard Tim arguing with Julia in the living room. Swears she recognized his voice, that Tim yelled, ‘It’s my money and I want it!’ and then rushed out of the house. Then she heard Julia phone me. Nellie went on with her house work — until I found Julia dead. And before you say it, Nellie ain’t near strong enough to have strangled Julia. There’s no doubt this Tim sneaked back and killed Mrs. Buck. Another fact: Tim’s disappeared — on the run. But there’s no way off the Point except through my road block. Guess you want to see the body — have her up the street in Doc Abel’s office.”

“Let’s see it.”

We walked up Main Street to this big white house, then around to the back. Being the Harbors sole doctor, Abel was also its Medical Examiner. The corpse was on a table, covered by a sheet. Doc Abel was busy up front with some of his live patients. Pulling back the sheet, I examined the bruises around Julia Buck’s once slender throat. Powerful hands had killed her. “Find any prints?”

Chief Moore shook his big head, seemed lost in thought as he stared at the nude body. Then he said, “Never noticed it before... I mean, when she was dressed... but for a woman her age, Julia had a real fine figure.”

I dropped the sheet, glanced at my watch. It was almost one and I hadn’t had lunch. Still, I wanted to get this over with, had a lot of paper work waiting in my own office. I told him, “I want to go see the Buck house.”

“Sure.”

Walking back down Main Street, I said, “I saw the Harbor’s one squad car at the road block, we’ll ride out in my car.”

“Naw, we’ll use mine,” Moore said, opening the door of a sleek white Jaguar roadster. As I slid in beside him he said, “Some heap, hey? Got a heck of a buy on this, dirt cheap.”

“Yeah, it’s a real load,” I told him, looking up the street at my battered Ford.

Five racing minutes later we pulled into the driveway of this typical two-story house, and when the Jaguar stopped I managed to swallow. There was a garage and a modern barn in the rear, all of it standing between two large flat fields planted in early potatoes. Everything shouted gentleman farming, the kind of grandfather-father-to son folding money the Point is known for. The fins of a Caddy were sticking out of the garage, while the inside of the house was a comfortable mixture of old and expensive contemporary furniture.

Nellie Harris wasn’t old, she was ancient — a tiny shriveled woman with a face like a tan prune. She was also stone deaf in her right ear. She calmly repeated what Moore had told me. When I asked, “Why didn’t you go into the living room to see how Mrs. Buck was?” the old gal stared at me with her hard eyes, said, “She didn’t call. I do the living room last. I went up stairs and did the bath and her bedroom — way I always do in the morning.”

“Have you any idea what this Tim and Mrs. Buck were arguing about?”

“Probably wages. Miss Julia was a hard woman with a dollar. Years ago when I asked her to put me in Social Security, so’s I wouldn’t have to be working now, Miss Julia threatened to fire me — all because it would mean a few more dollars a year to her.”

“Did you hear Tim return?”

“No sir. Nobody came until Chief Moore.”

I drummed on the kitchen table with my pencil. “Mrs. Buck have any men friends?”

“Her?” The wrinkled mouth laughed, revealing astonishingly strong, white, teeth. “I never see none. But then I wasn’t her social secretary.”

“Was she on friendly terms with other members of her family?”

“Didn’t have no family — around here. They had a son — killed in the war.”

I walked into the living room. There didn’t seem to be any signs of a struggle. I told Moore, “Where does Tim’s wife live?”

“I’ll take you there. Look Jed, this is an open and shut case and I have to relieve my men at the road block soon. Okay, come on.”

We did 80 miles an hour across a hard dirt road to a cluster of shacks. In late summer migratory workers lived five and six to a room in these. Now they were empty, except for a cottage across the road.

Mrs. Tim Williams was about 21, with skin the color of bitter chocolate, and if you discounted the plain dress and worn slippers, she was startlingly pretty. The inside of their place was full of new furniture, five bucks down and a buck a week stuff, but all of it clean and full of the warmth of a home.

Mrs. Williams was both sullen and frightened. She said she didn’t know a thing — Tim had left the house at six in the morning, as usual. She hadn’t seen him since.

“Did Mrs. Buck owe him any wages?” I asked.

“Well, for this week, but they wasn’t due ’till Saturday. Listen, Mr. Inspector, no matter what anybody say, my Tim didn’t kill that woman! Tim is a good man, hard working. He strong as a bull but gentle as a baby. Even if he angry, Tim wouldn’t hurt a woman. He never in his life took a hand to a woman or...”

“We’ll get him soon, see what he says,” Chief Moore cut in.

“Does your husband have a car?” I asked.

“Got us an old station wagon. Need it for the job.”

I asked a silly question: “You’ve no idea where your husband could be, now?”

She shook her head. I knew she was lying. I stood there, staring at her for a moment — thinking mostly of her beauty and her poverty.

Moore said, “Come on, Jed, I have to get to my men.”

On my way out I told her, “If you should... eh... just happen to see your husband, get him to give himself up. He’ll get a fair trial. Hiding out like this won’t get him anything, except more trouble, or a bullet.”

“Yes. I’ll tell him — if I see him.”

We made it back to the Harbor in less than four minutes. I tried not to act scared. That Jaguar could really barrel along. I told Moore I was going to eat, get some forms filled out by Doc Abel.

Chief Moore said, “If I don’t see you when I return, see you for certain at my road block, Inspector.”

I had a bowl of decent chowder, phoned the Doc and he said he’d leave the death statements with his girl — in a half hour. Lighting my pipe, I took a walk. The Harbor is a big yachting basin in the summer. Even now, there were several slick cruisers tied to the dock, an oceangoing yawl anchored inside the breakwater. There was a 34 foot Wheeler with CHIEF BOB’S in big gold letters on its stern also tied up at the dock. It wasn’t a new boat, about five years old, but fitted with fishing outriggers and chairs. I asked an old guy running a fishing station if the boat was Moore’s. He said, “You bet. Bob Moore is plumb crazy about blue fishing.”

I dropped into the doctor’s office, picked up my forms. As I was walking back to the Police Station, which was in the same building with the City Hall and Post Office, I saw Mrs. Tim Williams sneaking into the back of my car. If she moved gracefully, she was clumsy at it.

I got in the front seat. She was ‘hiding’ on the floor of the back seat, the soft curves of her back and hips — rousing lines. I drove out of the Harbor, turned off into a dirt road among the scrub pine trees and stopped. I waited a few minutes and she sat up. For another moment we didn’t talk, then she began to weep. She mumbled, “I just know that Chief Moore is out to kill my Tim!”

“Maybe. I never saw him so anxious before,” I said, lighting my pipe and offering her a cigarette. “Of course, it could be because this is his first murder case. You know where Tim is, don’t you, Mrs. Williams?”

She puffed on the cigarette slowly, sitting slumped against the back seat; didn’t answer. I hadn’t expected her to. Then, almost as if talking to herself, she said, “Mister Inspector, it took us a long time and lots of hard work to come up here... just so we could live with some dignity. Chopping cotton down there, you’re like an animal. Tim, he works hard, not much of a drinking man. Got ambition, always talking about he has to leave farm work, maybe get us a gas station. He’s good with motors, too. Two weeks ago he had the dream. Then, couple days later, we both had it.”

“What dream?”

“Tim, he dream he driving a racing car with a big 801 on it. Then I have this dream where I’m looking at a fine new house. The number on it was 80 First Street. That same night, Tim he dream he’s counting pennies — they come to $8.01. Now... sure, we play some numbers up here, a dime, a quarter, a day. We play 801. The first day nothing like it comes out. But we keep the number in. Then 865 hits. Then 110 comes up. Yesterday we puts ten dollars on 801. It come in — $6000 we wins! This is the real dream for us. $6000 for poor people. You understand?”

I nodded. “You get paid off, this morning?”

“Oh yes, this is a good numbers outfit around here. Early this morning Tim go see the man, gets the $6000. Tim give him $400 as a tip. Think of that — a $400 tip! You see the kind of good man my Tim is, even with all that money he ain’t for losing a day’s work. Also, he afraid to leave the money with me — somebody might try rob us. He drives to Mrs. Buck’s, asks her to please put this envelope in her safe for him, ‘till he ready to quit in the afternoon. She take it but opens the envelope — asks where he got all that money. Tim, he have to tell her he hit the number big. But Mrs. Buck think he stole it. Say she calling the police, the Federal government. Tim, he snatch the money from her and run. Ain’t done no wrong, the money his. He never see her again. God’s truth, mister. I’m going to have a child: I swear it on my baby!”

She began to cry again. Starting the car, I drove her home. Stopping before their cottage, I told her, “Listen to me carefully. You know where Tim is. You tell him...”

“I don’t know!”

“Come on — listen! Tell him to stay hidden for a few more hours. Be sure he doesn’t try to make a break for it — he’ll be killed. Have him home at 5 P.M. Now, remember this, you never talked to me just now. After Tim returns, if the police come, Tim is not to say one word about hitting the numbers. If he does, the Feds will tax the money, take most of it. Understand me?”

“Yes. But what he tell the police?”

“Tim’s story is he was feeling sick, couldn’t work, asked Mrs. Buck for his wages. When she wouldn’t pay him, he went to sleep in the woods, didn’t know a thing about her being killed until you told him when he returned home. Got that straight?”

She nodded.

“Remember, the only time you spoke to me was when I was out with Chief Moore. You say otherwise, I’ll come back and throw Tim under the jail!”

She stared at me, dark face full of suspicion. “You don’t think Tim done it?”

“I’m sure he didn’t. I’m trying to help you.”

“All right, I tell him.”

“Remember what I said, nothing about hitting the numbers.”

“I remember.”

I let her out of the car and drove to Mrs. Buck’s house. Nellie Harris was cleaning the kitchen, as if nothing had happened. I was inside the kitchen before she even heard my steps. She grunted at me, “You again. Probably close the house. Don’t like leaving a dirty place.”

“Nellie, after Tim and Mrs. Buck had their argument and he left, what did Mrs. Buck do?”

“Told you: I heard her phone Chief Moore.”

“What did she tell him?”

“How would I know? I don’t hear too well, especially when a body is talking right into the phone.”

“Then, how do you know she phoned him?”

“When she starts dialing the phone makes a kind of ringing sound. I can hear that real good.”

“After that, did she phone anybody else?”

“No sir.”

“You’re positive there was only one phone call?”

“Positive.”

I drove back to the Harbor police station. A young fellow, a ‘special’ judging by his badge number, was holding down the desk. Specials work part-time, mostly directing traffic on weekends. We sat around and gassed about nothing. Moore came in a half hour later, told the special to take off. Putting his fat behind in the desk chair he told me, “That bastard didn’t show. I hate to start combing these woods. All the summer cottages he could be holed up in.”

Moving my chair so I blocked the door, I took out my gun, asked, “Bob, why did you kill Julia Buck?”

“What? Jed, have you gone crazy? I...” He started to get up.

“Sit there — hands on top of your desk! Tim Williams hit the numbers today for six grand. Don’t bull me, Moore, the numbers couldn’t operate here without you getting a cut.”

“I’ve been an honest cop all my life! Never...”

“Cut the slop! Bob, you’re stupid as hell. Everybody in the Harbor knows your take home pay isn’t sixty a week — the Harbor votes on it every year. Yet you’re sporting a flashy Jag, a cabin cruiser. What was the numbers syndicate paying you — $100 a week for protection?”

“That’s goddamn lie! Got me a good buy on the car. The boat is old and...”

“On sixty a week? I’ll tell you what happened: when Mrs. Buck phoned she told you Tim said he’d won the dough on a hit, that she was calling the Feds. You told her to wait, you’d be right out. Riding there you were worried sick; if there was a Federal stink and the numbers racket ruined here, put an end to your weekly sugar. So you parked your Jag, sneaked into the house, killed Mrs. Buck, then drove up minutes later as if you’d just arrived. Nellie Harris never heard a thing. Now you figure on gunning Tim — maybe even getting his six grand. Killing Mrs. Buck was even more stupid than buying a Jaguar, showing off your money. Bob, you got muscles for brains!”

Moore’s fat face was a chalk pumpkin. “I thought...”

“I know, you thought you were helping the numbers gang, but you did exactly the opposite by panicking! Even if the Feds knew of Tim’s hit, outside of taxing him, what could they have done? The racket would have died down for a few weeks here, that’s all. But a murder is the last thing the syndicate wants.

“Listen, Jed, give me a break! I’ll kill this Negro farm hand and nobody...”

“You idiot, you think his wife will stand still for that? Bob, I’m going to give you a break,” I said softly. “You kidded me before about not being tough, a muscleman like you. I’ll show you how tough I can be. We’re going to forget the numbers bit — spin a different story. You and Julia Buck were lovers.”

“What?” His bloodshot eyes became alert. “Who told you that silly bunk?”

“You did, Bob. You confessed to me you killed her because she was turning you out. That’s what she told you over the phone.”

Now his big face looked so confused it was comical. “What good does that do me?”

“You told me that after I said I might have found your prints on Mrs. Buck’s neck. Then...”

“Jed, I was careful about prints.”

I giggled at him. “Lord, you’re a dumbox! I didn’t finish our new story: you told me that and went for your gun. I had to kill you, Moore.”

He stared at me for a long second. A single drop of sweat zig-zagged down one fat cheek. Then he whispered, “That’s odd talk for the County Inspector.”

“I know it is. But now I’m talking for the syndicate.”

“You? You’re... the big boy?”

“Not the big boy, but near the top. Your stupid murder of Mrs. Buck could have spoiled our whole set-up,” I said, and shot him twice around the heart.

He merely swayed, then his big body slumped back in his chair, slack mouth open. While the office thundered with the sound of my shots, I jumped across the room, yanked his 38 Police Special from his holster-holding it with my coat — stuck it into his right hand as if he had gone for his gun.

I turned and ran for the door, to call for help...