One Good Deed

Chapter 35

The following afternoon, Archer ventured down to the Rexall drugstore, with the big orange-and-blue sign. Sitting at the counter he smoked a pair of Luckys while he devoured his bologna-and-cheese sandwich with a pickle, and drank down a lukewarm bottle of Coca-Cola. He bought some aspirin from the blue-smocked druggist standing behind the counter and downed a couple pills with the remnants of his soda pop. He idly watched a young, slender woman in geranium red coveralls loading Life and Look magazines into a wire rack next to a shelf of toiletries.

Finished with his meal, Archer ducked into the phone booth adjacent to the lunch counter, looked up the number in a phone book dangling from a chain, then dropped in a nickel and made the necessary call because he didn’t want to surprise a man who answered his door with a shotgun. As he fingered the rotary dial and listened to the familiar clicks and whirls as it spun, he thought about what to say. He decided to make it short and sweet. When the call was answered, it wasn’t Tuttle, it was his secretary, Desiree. The conversation went far more pleasantly than if Tuttle had been on the line.

Later, under a vast, blue sky, Archer pushed the Nash fast as he roared down the road leading to Lucas Tuttle’s. The big, bulky car handled well and had plenty of power, like Shaw’s Buick. Before taking the wheel of the Buick, Archer hadn’t driven a car in years. For obvious reasons, the prison folks had not deemed it sensible to allow convicts to command heavy pieces of equipment.

He felt open and free, and part of him contemplated taking this Nash all the way to California, where he had heard the jobs were plentiful, the weather was always warm, and all the women looked like Rita Hayworth. Then the thought of Irving Shaw with his ribbon of mustache and indefatigable thirst for the truth made Archer ashamed he had even thought of making a run for it. Now he wanted to know the truth as much as the lawman did.

He turned past the leaning mailbox and hurtled down the road, cut to the right, and pulled up in front of the neat house a bit later.

He climbed out and looked around, thinking it had to have been something pretty bad for Jackie to forgo all this to take up with someone like Hank Pittleman. He didn’t care how much money the man had. He had forsaken his wife and chosen a younger woman because Marjorie had the audacity to grow old. Well, Pittleman had gotten old, too. For Archer, who had never taken the plunge, marriage was for life, right or wrong, good or bad. You just didn’t wake up one day and decide enough was enough because your mate had a few more wrinkles or a few more pounds.

Maybe that’s why I never got hitched. Maybe I’m afraid I can’t live up to the vows.

He put on his hat, angled it just so, and headed to the front door.

Rapping twice, he expected to see the door open and the Remington over-under appear in his field of vision. He braced himself for that in fact, but it wasn’t necessary.

Desiree Lankford, dressed in a dark gray skirt and a three-button jacket with a pale blouse and sensible pumps, greeted him.

“Hello, Mr. Archer,” she said. “You’re right on time. This way.”

She led him down a hall floored in two-by-two-foot terra cotta tile. As he gazed around, he noted once more the old wooden beams running along the ceiling and the walls plastered and thick. The place smelled of wood fires and age.

“You live here?” asked Archer.

“No, but I don’t live too far away. I’m heading out now, in fact. I hope your meeting goes all right.”

Desiree led him to a door and opened it.

Archer stepped through and she closed the door. He could hear her firm tread heading back down the hall. The room he was now in was large, comfortably furnished, and set up as an office or study of sorts, with shelves full of books and papers, a large weighing scale in one corner, and a map of the area with little pins stuck in it. A credenza stood against one wall with an ice bucket and scoop, and a line of liquor bottles and cut crystal tumblers behind that. Just the sight of it gave Archer a painful thirst.

Behind the desk was a stone fireplace, built of knobby gray-and-brown rock, that climbed to the arched ceiling. Next to the fireplace was a broad leafy plant on a wooden stand. In another corner was a hunter-green Mosler safe about six feet tall with a silver combination lock and matching spin wheel. Cigar and pipe smoke mingled aromatically in the air Archer was breathing. It actually made him want a Lucky Strike in the worst way.

On a console set next to the door were two revolvers: a .38 Long Colt double action with a three-and-a-half-inch barrel, and a Smith & Wesson .32 hammerless with a two-inch muzzle. He could see that both the wheel guns were fully loaded.

And sitting behind a large, paper-littered desk about the size of a dinner table set in front of the tall stone fireplace was Lucas Tuttle. The green eyes in the center of that face swiveled around and took hold of their target. He was holding what looked like a phone receiver in his hand, though it was hooked by a squiggly cord to a funny looking little machine.

“So you called for a meeting, huh? I wonder why?” said Tuttle, as he reached down, slid his Remington out from the kneehole, and laid it on the desk, the muzzle pointing in Archer’s general direction.

Archer swept off his hat and came forward. “Told you I’d be working this thing. And like you told Detective Shaw, the matter was in my hands.”

Tuttle’s eyes indicated a wooden-backed chair with a nail-head upholstered seat on Archer’s side of the desk. Archer took it, making sure he was not directly in front of the Remington’s muzzle, not that it would matter much with the scattergun’s shot field. He crossed his legs and perched his hat on his knee.

When Archer glanced at the double barrels, he thought he saw a bit of something that was white colored in one of them.

“Hello, Archer, you all there or are you drunk?”

He looked up to see Tuttle staring at him.

“What’s that thing?” asked Archer, indicating what Tuttle was holding.

“Called a Dictaphone. Records my voice. I can talk into it and then have Desiree type up what I said.” He put the Dictaphone receiver down. “Has that Detective Shaw found out anything about who killed Pittleman?”

“No, but not for lack of trying. He’s a good man. He’ll get there.”

Tuttle shook his head, not looking convinced. “I don’t share your confidence. But then I don’t get involved with the police as a matter of course.”

“Then you’re a smart man, but then again sometimes you can’t get around it.”

Archer fell silent and looked pointedly at the older man.

“Well?” said Tuttle. “You called and wanted to see me. I’m a busy man, so let’s have at it, son.”

“Two men tried to kill Jackie Saturday night.”

Tuttle half rose from his seat. “What? Is she—?”

“She’s fine. One was Malcolm Draper, he worked for Hank Pittleman. The other man was an ex-con named Dickie Dill who worked at the slaughterhouse.”

Tuttle’s eyes narrowed. “Why would somebody working for Pittleman want Jackie dead?”

“Well, it couldn’t be Hank Pittleman’s doing, since he was already dead.”

“Wait, are you saying it was Marjorie? I can’t believe that.”

“Jackie was seeing her husband.”

“Everybody knew that, including Marjorie.”

“But still, it couldn’t sit well with her.”

“I told you before, I’m sure it did bother her. But Hank controlled the money. Without him she doesn’t get to live in that big house.”

“Fair point.” Here Archer paused, considering some advice that Shaw had given him about revealing information. A smart detective had to have a good reason to do so.

“Turns out Pittleman had a cancer in his brain. He was dying and he had a lot of gambling debts. His money was running out.”

He stopped talking and watched Tuttle carefully for his reaction to this.

Tuttle sat up and said, “But he was a rich man. The richest man around. So how could that be?”

“You’re not rich if you spend more than you have. Then you’re just like everybody else.”

Tuttle leaned back in his chair. “Well, I can’t argue with that logic. What does all that mean with regard to our meeting today?”

“Pittleman’s dead. Do you take that as your debt to him no longer being valid?”

Tuttle shook his head. “No, I don’t see it that way at all. Marjorie Pittleman will now become the holder of the debt. And from what you just told me, she can probably use the money.”

“Did you talk to her about the debt when you were there?”

Tuttle looked at Archer as though he had a screw loose. “Good Lord, boy. I don’t talk business with a woman. They don’t have the sense for it. Certainly, Marjorie doesn’t. Like I said, I was there to pay my respects, nothing else.”

“With no Hank Pittleman around, the problem with your daughter goes away, too.”

Tuttle said eagerly, “You’ve convinced her to come home then?”

“No, not exactly.”

Tuttle frowned. “Then what are you doing here except wasting my time, son?”

Archer gazed at him. “How about if I can get Jackie to meet with you, to talk things out? You make your case to her. If I could make that happen, would it be enough for you to repay the debt and give me my commission?”

The green eyes blazed with curiosity. “Are you serious about her meeting with me?”

“First, is that a deal? Will that satisfy you to honor the debt and pay me my fee?”

Tuttle considered this for a moment and then nodded. “It’s a deal.”

“Okay, then. She’ll meet you at nine o’clock tonight. At her house.”

Tuttle glanced at him in surprise. “Is that a fact? And where is her house?”

“Number 27 Eldorado Street.”

Tuttle wrote this down and then glanced up at Archer. “So you knew all along she was willing to meet with me? You could’ve just said so.”

“I wanted to make sure you would agree to the deal first.”

Tuttle looked at him in a new light. “You might make a pretty fine businessman, Archer.”

“Well, let’s just start my career off with this one, then.”

Archer pulled out the note papers. “Got the documents right here. Good as cash, Pittleman told me. You give me the five thousand dollars plus interest and my two hundred dollars, and you get these papers and the meeting with Jackie.”

Tuttle took his time getting up from his desk as Archer watched him closely, but keeping one eye on the Remington, too, just in case.

Tuttle walked over to the Mosler safe, worked the combination dial this way and that, and then spun the wheel and lifted the lever, and the heavy steel door slowly swung wide. Archer rose for a better look. Inside the maw of the safe were stacks of cash and coins, little cloth bags of something with string ties, what looked to be piles of stock and bond certificates, and a large stash of gold bars. It looked like what might be in a proper bank vault. It was more wealth than Archer supposed he would ever see again collected in a single place.

“Holy Lord,” said Archer, which he followed up with an appreciative whistle.

Tuttle spun around and caught the wonder on the man’s face. “This sort of thing doesn’t come easy, Archer.”

“I never thought it did, Mr. Tuttle.”

He closed the safe and walked back to his desk with a bundle of money as Archer sat back down.

“The interest I calculated at one thousand five hundred dollars. All fair and square. Tell Marjorie I said so.”

“Will do. Now, I got a question. With all that wealth you got in that safe, why did you need to take a loan from Pittleman in the first place?”

Tuttle pointed at the Mosler. “When I took out the loan, Archer, that safe was empty.”

“What changed then?”

He next pointed to the map on the wall with all the pushpins in it. “What changed was they found oil on my land. Two of the largest oil concerns in this country are presently figuring out how best to bring it to the surface. And the contents of that safe reflect the value of their interest, with a great deal more to come, since I, like Hank Pittleman, drive a damn hard bargain.”

“So you were near to broke before then?”

“Six straight years of drought, Archer, would challenge any farmer no matter how competent. Fact is, it nearly did me in. The oil is the only thing that saved me. And it was a damn close call. One month or two the other way, this house and land are gone from me. I had been engaged in discussions with the oil folks before I took out the loan. They just didn’t have their reports back yet, and I needed the funds from Pittleman to keep things going, wages and bills to pay. Timing is everything in this world.”

“Pittleman owned the bank, too. So why not just do a deal with those folks?”

“I would have preferred that, but Pittleman’s bank turned me down for a loan. His doing, I’m sure. You see, he can charge a lot more interest if the loan was from him. And I believed he liked the fact that I had to come to him personally for my financial survival. He was just that sort of man. Loved nothing better than putting the screws to folks.”

“I can see that.”

“When the field reports came in better than anyone possibly thought they would, I struck my deal with the oil company and received initial payments. Being a savvy man, I diversified my holdings immediately: stocks, bonds, gold dust in those little pouches, along with cash and rare coins.”

“And gold bars,” added Archer. “Now you’re rich again. Does your daughter know?”

“The oil companies cannot act with stealth in a place like this. But no one knows that the reports came back favorably. And I would appreciate it if you would not tell anyone, including Jackie.”

“Okay.”

“You see, I would not want my daughter to come back to me solely because she thought I was now rich. I hope you can understand that.”

“If I had a daughter, I guess I’d feel the same way.”

Tuttle slapped his desktop. “God, I sometimes think that that devil of a man hypnotized her or something.”

“Don’t know what to tell you there.” He glanced at the envelope in Tuttle’s other hand. He had put the cash from the safe in it. “Now, you added in my two hundred dollars to that sum, didn’t you?”

“I actually made it three hundred, Archer.”

Archer’s eyes widened in amazement. “Why’s that? Our deal was for two.”

“Because I never really believed you would accomplish your task successfully. And I like to reward exceptional performance.”

“She hasn’t agreed to come home yet.”

“But you’ve given me the opportunity to talk some sense into her, and that’s good enough for me.”

The men exchanged cash for promissory note. Tuttle extracted a match from a box on his desk, struck it afire, and placed it against one edge of the papers. Both men watched the document flame up until Tuttle tossed the inferno into the fireplace behind him.

“I think that we’re finished here, Archer. I need to get some work done,” he added. “And if you see Jackie, tell her I will be at 27 Eldorado Street promptly at nine o’clock tonight.”

“I’ll do that.”

Archer left the house, stepped off the front porch, and looked around.

A whirl of dust in the distance was coming closer and revealed itself to be a man on a farm tractor. He was heading for the barn that lay about a hundred yards behind the house. Archer glanced back at the house to see if anyone was watching him and then headed that way.

“Hey there,” he said when he came within earshot. The man had parked the John Deere tractor, and was presently checking its engine.

It was the man who had driven Tuttle in the car. He didn’t have his chauffeur’s uniform on now. He wore dirty jeans, a checkered shirt, and a straw hat with a white band. Dusty, worn boots covered his feet, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing a mass of writhing muscles as he torqued a bolt with a long wrench.

The man looked up, then set down the wrench, took off his hat, and wiped his forehead with a greasy cloth lying on the engine cover of the tractor.

“Hey there, yourself.”

“You were driving the Cadillac the other night.”

“Sure was.”

“Nice-looking car.”

“It’s a beauty all right. You’re Archer, right?”

“Yep. I was just here doing some business with Mr. Tuttle.” He put out his hand. “It’s Bobby, right?”

“That’s right. Bobby Kent. Nice to meet you, Archer.”

The men shook hands.

Archer said, “Quite the farm he’s got.”

“Yeah, but it’s been nothing but a pain in the ass for the last half-dozen years or so. Not nearly enough rain.”

“But now I understand everything’s okay.” He gave Kent a knowing look.

“You mean the oil?”

“Didn’t know if you knew about it.”

“I been showing them boys from Texas all over the dang place for about ten months now. They dig a hole here, then run their tests and do their calculations. And then dig another hole fifty feet over from the last one and do it all over again. Drove me crazy. Just give me a tractor to ride all day and soil to tend, and I’m a happy man.”

“Well, it paid off for Mr. Tuttle.”

“Guess it did, yeah.”

“How long you been here?”

“Hell, fifteen years if it’s been a day.”

“So you knew Isabel and Jackie?”

Kent put his hat back on and nodded, his expression turning somber. “Sure did. They’re both gone now. Isabel’s dead and Jackie left, oh, it’s been about a year gone by now for both.”

“An accident, I heard?”

Kent turned and pointed to the hay bale doors on the second story of the barn. “Happened right there. She fell out of there and got impaled on the upraised cone of a corn picker. It was damn awful. Bloody as all get out.”

Archer thought back to the piece of equipment he had seen on an earlier visit here to one of the outbuildings while he was looking for the Cadillac.

“Allis-Chalmers Corn-picker?” he said.

Kent looked at him in surprise. “That’s right. You a farmer?”

“I’ve done a little bit of everything over the years.”

He wondered why Jackie had not added in this detail of her mother’s death, but then again, what did it matter? The woman was still dead, regardless of the exact particulars.

“Who found her?” He knew what Jackie had told him, but remembering Shaw’s method, he wanted corroboration.

Kent’s face twisted into disgust. “Poor Jackie did.”

Archer looked over at the spot and imagined the daughter finding the bloodied corpse of her mother.

“Maybe that’s why she left, huh?” said Archer, looking back at Kent.

“Could be. She loved her ma. All’s I know is she was gone pretty soon after.”

“Mr. Tuttle took her leaving hard, I understand. And he wants his daughter back.”

“Don’t know nothing about that.”

“Okay, well, good talking to you.”

“See you around, Archer.”

Archer retraced his steps, climbed into the Nash, and drove off.

He felt the bulge of money in his pocket, which was a nice feeling. But what had happened to Jackie and her mother had left him with a level of sadness that he supposed was a little odd, since he’d never met Isabel and barely knew her daughter.

Yet maybe there was a reasonable explanation.

You might be an ex-con, Archer, but you kept your heart, despite a war and then prison. And that’s something. As bad as things might get, don’t ever sell yourself short on that.