One Good Deed

Chapter 30

The next morning, Archer left a note for Jackie and returned to Ernestine’s before the woman got up, using his key to get in. He figured she’d be sleeping in, since she didn’t work on Saturdays, and he turned out to be right. He opened her bedroom door a crack and saw her still in bed, her novel lying open beside her.

He made his own breakfast, left Ernestine a note, and headed over to the Derby. Shaw had mentioned that he was staying there but hadn’t told Archer which room. He wanted to tell the detective what had happened at the slaughterhouse. Archer was afraid that Dill was going to do something at some point. But there was something else bothering Archer about the change in Dill. The little man had become more focused in his aggression, and Archer sensed some purpose behind the man’s normally mean-spirited disposition.

Archer walked over to the front desk where the same man who had evicted him was parked behind the counter reading a newspaper. When he saw Archer coming, he dropped the paper and backed away.

“What do you want with me?”

“Hold on, pal. Just want to know if Mr. Shaw’s in his room.”

“I don’t know. Haven’t seen him today.”

“It was 201?”

“No, 304.”

“Oh, that’s right. Thanks.”

The man picked up his newspaper but shot suspicious glances at Archer as he walked quickly away.

He ran the three flights up and approached Number 304. He knocked on the door and received no answer.

“Hey, Mr. Shaw,” he called out, his mouth close to the wood. “It’s me, Archer. We have to talk. Found some things out.”

No sound. No nothing.

He walked back down the stairs. Shaw had told him he was married and had kids. After this was over, he would presumably go back home to them.

Who do I have to go home to?

First, he didn’t have a home. And, second, even if he did, there would be no one in it other than him. He hadn’t accomplished much in his life so far. And maybe he was running out of opportunities to improve upon that dismal record.

He checked his watch and left. It was about time for the truck to pick them up. The slaughterhouse worked every day but the Sabbath, he’d been told. Surprisingly, Dill wasn’t there. Archer asked around, but no one knew where the little man had gotten to. They just seemed collectively relieved that he was not among them.

Archer worked all day and rode back on the truck with the other exhausted men. At least tomorrow there would be no work. When he got off and was heading down the street, Shaw’s big Buick pulled up alongside him.

“Hey, been looking for you,” said Archer.

“Been outta town. Get in.”

Archer climbed in.

“Why were you looking for me?” asked Shaw.

Archer told him about Dill and the threats and his wanting to know what Archer was doing with Shaw.

The detective took this all in with a few nods.

“Now, where have you been?” asked Archer.

“To see a doctor and an insurance man.”

“You sick?”

“Not for me. Hank Pittleman’s.”

“I’m not following.”

“Let’s go get some grub. And I could use some coffee.”

They again ate at the Checkered Past, this time opting for chicken over steak. And this time Archer paid for the meal with his slaughterhouse money.

When Shaw put down his second cup of coffee and wiped his mouth with his red and white checkered napkin, he eyed Archer closely.

“You been spending time with Miss Crabtree.” It wasn’t a question.

Archer’s face fell. “How do you know that?”

“My job is to know everything, Archer. Sometimes I get there, and sometimes I fall short. But I’m always trying.”

“She’s letting me stay at her place till I can afford something else. Look, you don’t have to tell anybody about this. She’s just helping me out. There’s no funny business going on.”

“I don’t doubt that. And from all accounts, Miss Crabtree can take care of herself.”

“Now, I went over to Jackie’s last night. And slept there.” Before Shaw could say anything, he added, “On the couch, by myself.”

“So why’d you go to Jackie’s?”

“I told her about Pittleman’s cancer.”

“And why did you do that?”

“You think I messed up again?”

“Not necessarily, I just want to hear your reasoning is all.”

“I guess I wanted to see if she already knew about all that. See her reaction.”

“And?”

“And either she’s as good an actress as Katharine Hepburn, or the woman didn’t know anything about it.”

Shaw took this in, rubbing at his jaw.

“And Miss Crabtree?” he said, his tufty eyebrows hiking suggestively. “Despite what you just said, you like her, don’t you?”

Archer nodded. “She’s a special gal.”

“Nothing wrong with liking special gals.”

“And the woman has had to deal with some bad stuff.”

“Like what?”

Archer was about to tell the lawman about what was in the scrapbook but decided not to. It had nothing to do with the case, and he didn’t feel he had the right to share such personal information that he had gained only by looking at something he had no business looking at.

“Just boys being idiots. Catcalls and crummy notes passed under her door. Even a deputy sheriff who’s got the hots for her.”

“She’s a fine-looking woman. Just the way it is. Like you said, boys are boys. Not saying it’s right. I got a daughter and two sons. Up to the parents to teach them right. Respect goes both ways, or it don’t count.”

“That’s all I got. What about you?”

“I tell you on the condition that you don’t go blabbing it around, you hear me?”

“I hear you. I guess I’m kinda surprised you’re even letting me know anything. Or work with you on this thing.”

“First time I ever let a suspect help me investigate, Archer, and that’s no lie.”

“So why me?”

“I got my reasons. And that should be good enough for now.”

“Okay.”

“Anyway, met with a medical specialist Pittleman was seeing on the south side of the state, good ways from here, I tell you. Put some miles on the Buick.”

“What’d the man say?”

“He confirmed that Pittleman was dying. Incurable. Even cutting him up woulda done no good. This was about six months ago. Told Pittleman he had about a year left to live at that time.”

“Okay. But we already knew that.”

Shaw held up a finger. “What we didn’t know was that the doc told me that Marjorie Pittleman was there with her husband on a couple of occasions.”

“So she knew he was sick?”

“That’s right.”

“How’d you even figure to check on that?”

“I don’t take nothing people tell me as the truth till I get someone or something else to absolutely confirm it. See, the thing is, people lie, all the time.” He gave Archer a hard stare. “We call it corroboration.”

“Okay. But why is that important?”

“Think about it, Archer. When someone lies, it means they’re trying to cover something else up, only reason to lie. Hell, son, you should know that, as much as you lied to me! Now, when a husband kills a wife or a wife kills a husband, there are normally only two motivations, least in my experience. First, they have somebody on the side.”

“Well, Pittleman had Jackie, but Marjorie knew about that.”

“Doesn’t mean she was happy about it.”

Archer thought back to what Jackie had told him about it and nodded his head in agreement. “And the second motivation?”

“Hell, Archer, ain’t it obvious? Money!”

“But we found out that he might not be as rich as some think.”

“Which is why I checked with the insurance company that wrote a policy on Hank Pittleman.”

“Insurance policy? How’d you hunt that down?”

“It’s my dang job, Archer. I got good relations with all the insurance folks. See, they don’t want to pay out money any more than you and me would on debts we owe. We find a way to save them the dough, they like that. And they cooperate.”

“So what’d they tell you?”

“That a half-million-dollar life insurance policy was taken out on Hank Pittleman about four months ago. His wife’s the sole beneficiary.”

“Hold on, why would they give a policy to a sick man who’s dying?”

“You struck the nail on the damn head there, Archer. I like that. You could be a detective yourself with some training. You got the right nose for it.” He motioned over the waitress and ordered another cup of coffee and a piece of the cobbler.

“Here’s the thing. They had Pittleman undergo a physical, see. I mean, they all do that. Nurse or a doc comes and does what they do. But they ain’t gonna find a tumor in your head by sticking a thermometer under your tongue or putting a stethoscope against your chest.” Shaw grinned. “But there’s a but. You figure out what it is?”

Archer took only a moment to think about this. “If he was told six months before that he was dying, and they took out the policy four months ago and didn’t tell the insurance folks?”

Shaw’s grin deepened, and he pointed at Archer. “Bingo. That’s insurance fraud. See, on the form they got a little clause that says the applicant knows of no medical or other health condition that would materially alter the risk of the policy being written, or some such legal language like that. Companies do that to cover their ass, and keep the customers honest, and, more important, build in a way not to pay out the money.”

“And since they knew he was dying when they got the policy, the Pittlemans committed fraud?”

“Damn right. And it wasn’t just the wife’s doing. I mean, Hank Pittleman had to know about the policy, otherwise why would they be sending somebody to check out his health? Now Pittleman’s beyond the law, but his wife’s not.”

“You think she had him killed? I mean, I can’t imagine her doing it herself.”

“Naw, if she did kill him, she got someone to do it. Now we just have to prove it.”

“But you have the motive right here. A half-million bucks.”

“Yeah, I can prove insurance fraud all right, and that’ll get her a year in prison maybe. But that’s not why I’m here, Archer. I’m here to catch a murderer. Whoever killed that man needs to hang. And if his wife paid someone to do it, she needs to go to prison for a long time, maybe the rest of her life. Hell, they might hang her, too.”

Archer shook his head.

“What?” said Shaw.

“She just looked like a lost old lady, not a killer.”

Shaw wagged a finger at him. “Remember this, son, if you remember nothing else: Sometimes it’s the ones that look and act like angels you got to watch out for. People are funny. And sometimes a nice outside covers up a real nasty dark side. Dealt with a lot of folks like that in my time. Smile at you while they’re readying the knife to cut your throat.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“No guessing about it. Now, you were saying this Dickie Dill was threatening you ’cause maybe you were working with me?”

“What he said, more or less. And he wasn’t at work today.”

“Wonder where he got to, then?”

Archer shook his head. “No idea.”

Shaw stretched and yawned.

“You look tired, Mr. Shaw.”

“During the war they gave us Benzedrine to help us stay awake when we were flying bombing missions. We were popping so many pills, Archer, it was like goddamn candy.” Shaw shook his head. “Hardest damn thing I ever had to do, kick that crap.”

“Got a question.”

“Shoot.”

“Why would Marjorie hire someone to kill her husband so she could collect the half-million bucks if he was going to die anyway?”

“Now that’s a right good question, Archer. Shows your instincts again. But I’ll tell you why, son, and this is called putting the whole picture together based on what we know. What I figure is she knew about the gambling and was worried he might mess things up so badly that even the life insurance policy wouldn’t help her. Or he might not have the dollars to keep the premiums paid up. Policies that big ain’t cheap, and you miss one payment, they cancel the policy. So, she doesn’t want to wait for him to kick the bucket from the cancer. She speeds up the process.” Shaw paused when his coffee and pie came. He shared the slice with Archer.

“Has she tried to collect on the policy?” Archer asked.

“Not so far. I asked the company to let me know. And that Malcolm Draper never tried to get hold of me. I’m thinking we need to pick that man up and make him talk.”

“He was looking out the window at us when Lucas Tuttle was leaving after paying his respects to Mrs. Pittleman.”

Shaw paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “He was? Why didn’t you tell me then, Archer?”

“I don’t know. I mean, the man works there. Didn’t see it as odd that he was in the house.”

Shaw chewed on his cobbler, took a sip of coffee, and considered this. “How likely do you think it was that Tuttle was over there paying his respects?”

“About as likely as Dickie Dill winning a personality contest.”

Shaw snorted at this and then grew serious. “So why was he there?”

Archer looked sheepish.

“What?”

“Tuttle was putting some papers in his pocket when he was coming out of the house.”

“What sort of papers?”

“Couldn’t tell. But he owed Pittleman five grand plus interest. Maybe he paid it off.”

“And the papers might be the promissory note. So Marjorie must have had it.”

Archer tried hard not to show his confusion, because Marjorie didn’t have those papers. Archer did. Part of him wanted to confess this to Shaw. The other part of him won out.

“Maybe” was all he could manage.

They finished their meal and headed over to the Derby Hotel. They asked at the front desk for Draper’s room and whereabouts.

“He went out about an hour ago,” said the clerk.

“And what’s his room number?” asked Shaw.

“Two fifteen.”

“Give me the key.”

“But—”

Shaw held up his star. “Right now, mister, ’less you want to get to know the insides of a jail cell real good.”

The clerk nearly threw the key at him.

Instead of taking the elevator, Shaw joined Archer on the stairs. When Archer looked at him inquiringly, Shaw said, “Even a lawman sometimes don’t like doors closing on ’im.”