Shakedown for Murder

Chapter 1

My “vacation” started off as I expected—by giving me a hard time.

The railroad station at Hampton was full of sleek cars and people standing around as nude as they could get, without being arrested. I never saw so many scrimpy shorts and stuffed halters in my life. The young people showed off their trim thighs and bosoms, while even the old duffers walked around without shame, holding their sloppy stomachs in. I stepped off the train with my battered bag in one hand and Matty in his wicker basket in the other. I was sure a standout: I was the only person not sporting a tan. Also, I had on a tie and a shirt, not to mention my old blue serge suit. Everybody looked at me as though I were an escapee from a museum.

I was sweaty and in a bad mood. I didn't want to coma out here and a three-hour ride on the Long Island Railroad isn't exactly any laughs for me. Matty was evil too, cooped up in his basket all that time. On the train he'd been wailing and making a small racket When I poked my finger in to quiet him, he'd showed his feelings by biting it. I'd snapped my finger in his gut and he had hissed like a snake, then shut up.

As I was looking around the station, sorry I hadn't told Danny to meet me, a fat little man in worn slacks, high shoes, an outrageous sport shirt and an ancient sweaty straw hat hustled over to me and made a pass at my bag.

As I snatched it to me, he asked, “Hey, mista, you wants the taxi, huh?”

I nodded and followed him to an old Dodge. I sat on the front seat, Matty's basket on my lap. The car was hot as a Turkish bath. The driver went up and down the platform trying to drum up trade, finally got in and started the car with a jerk. “Mista, where yeu go?”.

“End Harbor.”

“Gooda summer, now. That my town. Cost you one dolla. You visit some-abody?”

“Know where the Lund cottage is, on Beach Road?” I never found dialect funny, even on TV.

“You bet I know. Vera nice people. You a friend?”

“I hope so. Dan Lund is my son.”

A real smile flitted across his weather-beaten face as he turned into a main highway. The Dodge kept edging toward the road shoulder. “Your Danny is a lucky man, his Bessie is a wonderful wife. The second I first saw her I knew she was a Greek, like me. She has all the warm beauty of the....”

I didn't have time to wonder what happened to the dialect. I shouted, “You're going off the road!”

He turned the wheel too hard. The car went into a shimmy dance, finally got squared away as Matty growled savagely. This joker stuck a fat hand in my face, told me, “I'm Jerry Sparelous, a true friend of your daughter-in-law. Will you stay in the Harbor long?”

“A week,” I said, shaking hands fast so he could pat the paw back on the wheel. “Then I visit my daughter in the mountains for a week.” Matty seemed to sigh. Or maybe it was me.

I had a month off and Dan insisted I spend the first week with him. The second would be with Signe and her basketball team of noisy kids. Then maybe I could get some real rest in my flat on Washington Heights, sitting in my underwear next to the big window fan, watching TV or doping the nags.

“End Harbor is nice—I've lived here for thirty-five years,” this Jerry said, the car starting off on a tangent again. “What you do, Mr. Lund?”

“I'm a cop. Look, Mr.... Jerry... side of the road again.”

“Don't worry,” he said, jerking the car around. “In twenty years I never had an accident—that was my fault. Yes, yes, Bessie has told me about you. They want you to retire. You and me. I sold my store and some land a few years ago. I have enough money. But people ask why I drive a taxi. They think a man of sixty-four is fit for nothing but dying....”

We went around a turn and made directly for some bushes on the side of the road. I tried to put my foot through the floorboard before he headed down the highway again. I said weakly, “Perhaps you need glasses.”

“I have two pair—at home. Hot in New York?”

“Yeah.”

“Big city is all rush, crazy. I haven't been back to New York in thirty-two years. Who wants to rush?”

I didn't answer. Three hours away and he hadn't been to the big apple in a third of a century! They couldn't drag me away from New York.

We drove in silence for awhile, except when I told him he was going off the road. It was starting to grow dark and we seemed to be driving through a lonely, wooded section. But on reaching End Harbor we passed a lot of new ranch-type houses. With a scream of tires he turned into a wide road that went by a pond the size of the Central Park skating rink. “Plenty big bass in there, and they bite on a plug. You a fisherman?”

“I can take it or leave it.”

“Me, too. Funny, you don't look like a policeman—you're too thin. Me, I wish I was thin. Every day I'm getting more like a squash. Too much beer. Doctor gives me plenty of hell. But I say, what difference does it make if I'm fat, I'm not making a show for the girls. How old are you, Mr. Lund?”

“Fifty-eight.”

“Your wife is dead, too. Bessie told me. Jesus, I almost went crazy when my Helen died eight years ago, God rest her soul. I got three boys. Two of them run a garage in Chicago, the other is a tinsmith out in Los Angeles. My boys all leave the Harbor fast.” He shrugged, waved both hands. “But everybody has to live their own life.”

The Dodge went over the only bump in the road and Matty whined.

He turned to smile at the basket. “You have a cat, I have a dog—when he comes home. Strange, isn't it, how in our old age we turn to the companionship of animals?”

“I always had a....”

“Now we don't talk, Mr. Lund. I have to cross a busy highway on which people race toward Montauk like they are going to St. Peter's gates.”

He brought the car to a complete and jerky stop, screwing up his eyes as he peered up and down the road. Cars were going by doing at least seventy. A motorcycle cop stationed here could keep a town tax-free. Jerry kept looking up and down the road, waiting for a break, and talking all the time. Some junk about the days when End Harbor was a whaling port, the houses that still had shell marks, or something, from the days of 1776 when, according to Jerry, the British Navy bombarded the village.

He suddenly stepped on the gas and I banged my forehead against the windshield as the car leaped across the road. Then he stopped abruptly to ask if I was hurt, shaking me up again. I had a hell of a headache but told him, “I'm okay. How much farther to the house?”

“Just down this street,” Jerry said, starting the car before I could get out. He drove past a few houses and I could smell the salt in the air. Then he stopped, said proudly, “Here we are, Mr. Lund.”

I wanted to say I wouldn't have given even money we'd get here, but I paid him a dollar as the cottage door opened and Andy yelled, “Grandpa is here!”

It always gives me a start to hear myself called grandpa.

Andy came leaping at me and almost knocked me down with a hug. He's big for his age but still lardy. When my Danny had been ten, he was already muscular, and coming down the porch steps now, in shorts, he still looked in good shape. Maybe Andy got his softness from Bessie— she had an apron around her bathing suit. She wasn't fat but all a kind of sensuous softness that went with her creamy skin, dark hair, and flashing eyes. Sometimes I thought Bessie was too much woman for Danny—or any one man.

They were all over me, pumping my hand, everybody talking at once. Matty was yelling to get out of his basket, and Bessie and Jerry were rattling off Greek. The noise didn't help my headache any. Somehow we finally got into the cottage and I put my bag in the room I was to share with Andy. I wanted to take a hot bath but Andy was trying to show me a spinning reel he'd just bought and Matty was screaming. I opened the basket and the cat immediately made a quick sniffing tour of the cottage. I asked Bessie for an empty box and began filling it with torn newspapers. She said, “Oh, for—can't that beast do its business outside?”

“Matty isn't for any outdoors stuff. Doubt if he'll ever leave the house. And he might get ticks. I'll take care of his box. Just leave him alone for awhile, he has to get used to the place. Will I have time to take a hot bath?”

Danny burst out laughing. “Bath? All we have is a shower. Bess, have we time for a fast swim?”

“If you make it real quick.” She patted my face. “Special for you I'm making rice pilaf and that wine pudding you love, moustalevrai.”

“That settles it, well take a swim,” Danny said. When I hesitated, he poked me on the arm—and my head rang —and asked, “What the devil kind of a Norseman are you?”

“Yes, Grandpa,” the kid chimed in, “We have the blood of Leif Ericson in our veins. That's what you told me.”'

“Did I say that? And I bet old Leif never took a dip if he could help it. Okay, I'll change.”

As I got into my old woolen trunks the room seemed quiet and my headache eased up. I unpacked my suitcase into a drawer, carefully hid my empty service gun. I didn't want to leave it around the flat, in case the place was robbed or something. I could smell Bessie's cooking and I was real hungry, so I decided to get the damn swim over with. Swimming! I sure missed the peace and quiet of my flat!

Everybody remarked about the whiteness of my skin as I gave Andy a boat kit I'd brought for him. He let out a whoop of joy that split my eardrums. Then Danny rushed us out to his new Ford and we drove the two blocks to the beach. I felt dizzy. As they used to say during the war, was this entire trip necessary?

The water was smooth and the tide low. I splashed around in the damn chilly water, then banged my toe on a rock, while the boy showed off his underwater swimming. He pointed out a rowboat in which we would go fishing tomorrow. Dan had to swim under my legs, come up arid throw me over. I spit out a mouthful of salt water and tried to hold my temper.

As we stood on the sandy beach and toweled ourselves dry, Danny started working on me. First he made some crack about my wool trunks with the white belt being the only pair in existence and why didn't I live it up a little and buy a new pair? Then, driving back to the cottage, he told me, “Dad, I'm a sure thing to be made head of the accounting department next month. It means a big raise and... well, if you want to retire I could easily give you fifty or sixty dollars a month.”

“Who wants to retire? I like being a cell block attendant, hanging around the precinct house all day. No walking a post or worrying about the weather, no carrying a belt full of junk.”

“But Dad, you're practically a janitor there!”

“He's not a janitor, he's a cop,” Andy said quickly.

I stared at Dan with surprise; being a phony had never been one of his faults. “What's wrong, son? Are you getting that snob executive outlook, too, along with your big desk? Sure, I sometimes sweep up and put out the ashes, depending on the tour I'm working, but there's nothing wrong with that. No work is degrading—as long as you always have a choice of work. And you know how simple my wants are—anytime I feel like retiring my pension will do me fine.”

“Okay,” Dan said, “It was just an idea.”

When we reached the cottage Bessie gave me a small hug—and she smelled fine—asked, “Matt, don't you feel invigorated?”

“You bet,” I said, slapping her plump behind, and going to my room to dress—and sneak a nip of brandy to ward off a cold. Matty was sitting on my bed, switching his tail nervously, his eyes seemed to be asking me, “What the devil are we doing out here?” Andy came in to put on a sweatshirt and poked at the cat. Matty got up on his hind feet to box and I told the boy, “Take it easy, he's hungry.”

“Mama put down a saucer of milk for him but he wouldn't drink it. Gosh, Grandpa, I go for that boat kit you gave me. After we go fishing tomorrow, I'll start on it.”

“Do we have to go fishing?” I was thinking of spending tomorrow sleeping.

“Sure, porgies are biting. I want to try out my spinning reel. Pops wanted to give it to me but I insisted on paying for it Two dollars. Pops is some fisherman, can catch any....”

Bessie called us in to eat I added a little beer and sugar to Matty's milk before I sat down and the cat licked it up like a pig. Dan said, “I'll be damned!” While Bessie said, “Really, Matt, you and that fat cat. You need a wife.”

“Figure out a way of doing away with Danny and I'm your man,” I cornballed. Bessie blushed with pleasure. Her good breasts seemed ready to pop over the top of her skimpy bathing suit. I glanced at Dan. His eyes met mine and they were full of pride—like when he was a kid and Martha would be telling me about some smart thing he'd done. Martha would have liked Bessie.

The rice pilaf was a dish of steaming spiced rice packed with livers and other meats served like an upside-down cake. I tried not to stuff myself only I couldn't resist the wine pudding and I was barely able to get up from the table. I gave Matty some scraps which he picked over. Bessie said, “Don't leave the scraps around, they'll bring bugs.”

“Don't worry, he'll eat it. But he likes to take his time,” I said. I got my pipe working and sat on the couch, knowing I was in for a rough night my guts drum-tight. Andy and Dan washed the dishes while Matty sat by the screen door, gazing cautiously out at the country night.

Andy went to bed after warning me, “You hit the sack soon, too, Grandpops, we have to be full of pep for fishing tomorrow.”

Bessie brought out a bottle of Irish whisky and we sat around, had a few belts, she and Dan going over some local gossip. When Matty curled up on the couch beside me we had a mild argument as to whether cats were cleaner than human animals. My stomach eased up a bit and I asked, “What's with your friend Jerry? One minute he talks like a bad comedian, and then all the dialect vanishes.”

“Oh, he's a character,” Bessie said. “Waged a one-man war with End Harbor for years. When he first came here he really had an accent and they gave him the cold shoulder. You know the jive: most people in town can trace their ancestors back to 1776, as if that means a thing. Then it seems Jerry wrote a letter to the local paper against the execution of Sacco and Vanzetti, making him the village radical. So he said the hell with them and purposely kept on talking with his horrible accent. Why, he even refused to buy a brick for the Legion building here, but he always marches at the head of the July Fourth parade and they can't leave him out—he won the Distinguished Service Cross in World War I, highest medal anybody in the Harbor has. Whole thing is pretty silly: on both sides.”

“Yeah. Still, a man has to have plenty of moxie to thumb his nose all his life at his neighbors,” I said.

“And a stubborn capacity for loneliness,” Dan added, yawning. “I have to catch the seven a.m. train back to the job, I'd better turn in.”

“Me, too. I can't let a week-end husband sleep alone,” Bessie said. She rubbed her knee. “My leg aches, bet it will rain.”

“Dad, don't you bother getting up early tomorrow,” Dan said, coming over to take a mock punch at my head. “I'll see you Friday night—all tanned and rested.”

And with a nervous breakdown, I told myself. I feinted a left and jabbed his belly with my right. We used to box a lot, until he reached sixteen and got too big for me.

They washed up and went to their bedroom. I listened to the radio, and the noises in my stomach, read through the local paper. The radio had a lot of static. So did my belly. If I'd been home, I would have soaked in a hot tub, read a book. I could hear Bessie and Dan whispering and laughing behind their door. Finally at ten, as it began to rain hard, I went to bed, Matty following me.

The bed was soft as mush and I kept twisting and turning like a live pretzel. After years of working round-the-clock tours sleep either comes easily, or it's work. It's always a battle for me. I kept sinking in various parts of the mattress, for a time I fanned at a buzzing mosquito, then I listened to the rain and tried to think about Jerry's one-man fight, and if it was all worth it. I got up and took a swig of brandy, sat in the John for a time reading a woman's fashion mag that was all ads. Then I made myself some tea.

As I was puttering around in the kitchen, Bessie came out wearing hip length baby-doll pajamas, and my God, she looked like a walking barbershop calendar. “Anything the matter, Matt? Told you it would rain.”

“Be my luck, a rainy week. I couldn't sleep so I'm making some tea. Want a cup?”

“Nope. Heard you padding around.” She pointed to my flannel pajamas and shook her head. “You're a goner if an antique shop spots that outfit. Right out of Esquire— 1910 issue.”

“You ought to be more careful how you walk around.”

“Why, does it excite you?”

“Okay, okay, it's too late for the super-sophisticated chatter.”

She reached up and batted a finger against my long nose. “I've thought about you, father-in-law. You worry me. We're going to have a talk during the week. Now go to sleep.”

As Bessie walked across the room I couldn't keep my eyes from the sway of her hips. “I worry you? A talk about what?”

“Sex,” she called over her shoulder, closing their bedroom door.

For a second I was completely confused. I had my tea and wondered why young folks think it's smart to make conversation about four-letter words. Or was my generation any brighter in keeping them hidden, making them words of fear?

When I got to bed Matty fixed himself around my big feet and I closed my eyes, waited for sleep to come. It turned cold and I had to get up to adjust the blanket Suddenly I hated summers: Things were so simple the rest of the year, weekly suppers with Danny and Signe, then coming back to the comforts of my own place. No soft beds or mosquitoes, no... or was I getting cranky in my old age?

I fell off into a deep sleep and the next thing I knew Andy was shaking me. I opened my eyes to see a cloudy dawn outside the screened window. The boy said cheerfully, “Six o'clock. We're going fishing today.”

“Damn it, can't you let me get some rest!” I snapped.

He backed away. “Dad and Mom are up and I... I thought you'd want to ride to the station with them. Then we'd go fishing. That's all.”

The uncertain look in his eyes made me ashamed. I reached out and rubbed his plump shoulders. “Sure. I always wake up... eh... cranky. You got the bone structure, now it's time you started making muscles, young man. Maybe I'll get you a barbell for Christmas. Rowing is good, too.”

The boy left and I lay in bed for a moment, wishing I could go back to sleep, knowing I couldn't. I still felt bloated and a little tired. I finally got up; a soak in a hot tub would cure me. Matty gave a sleepy whine in protest as I pulled my feet away from his back.

Dan and Bessie were moving around in the kitchen-living room, Bessie in a robe, Dan wearing shorts. As I waved and headed for the bathroom, Dan asked, “What are you up so early for, Dad? Want to take a quick dip?”

“Keep up that kind of talk and I'll spank you—with a baseball bat,” I said, closing the bathroom door. I cursed, forgetting they didn't have a bath. But I took a hot shower, and things came out all right, and I felt better as I dressed, my clothes slightly damp.

Dan was now wearing a tropical suit, coconut straw, shirt and tie, and we had a big breakfast. Andy talked about fishing and Bessie kept reminding Dan of things she wanted brought out the following week end. The milkman drove up and Bessie said, “I'd better pay him for last week's milk.”

She left the screen door open and I was surprised to see Matty up and stretching. The cat went outside and sniffed around with disdain, then followed Bessie back into the cottage, shaking the dew from his paws. Bessie sat down to finish her coffee, said, “The milkman told me Dr. Barnes was killed last night in an auto accident.”

“It's six-twenty, we haven't much time,” Dan said. “Who's Barnes?”

“You know, that old doctor who has the big house just past the shopping district on Main Street. A fat man with a ring of gray hair around his head like a monk. Only doctor in End Harbor. Seems he ran his car into a tree, not far from here, was thrown out on the road, and run over by another car.”

“Can we see where it happened?” Andy asked.

“You certainly can't,” Dan told him. “Everybody drives too sloppy-fast around here.”

“They can't take much of a driving test,” I put in, enjoying my first cup of coffee for the day. “Take your friend Jerry, he can barely see the road.”

“Imagine, the poor man out on the road, dead all night in the rain,” Bessie said, crossing herself.

“You mean he was killed by a hit-and-run driver?” I asked.

“I don't know. A post office truck found the body two hours ago. Perhaps whoever ran over the doctor thought he'd hit an animal or something.”

“Nuts. When you hit 'something' weighing one hundred fifty or two hundred pounds, you certainly know it isn't a squirrel,” I said.

Dan got up and locked his briefcase. “Lots of dogs killed by cars. Sometimes even a deer.”

“Sounds odd. If I hit a dog or a deer, I'd damn well get out to see what I hit.”

“Well,” Bessie said, stacking the dishes in the sink, “now you understand, Andy, why I wouldn't bring your bike out here. This means we'll have to go to Hampton if we need a doc.”

I wanted to stay home, sit on the porch for awhile, but Bessie insisted I drive to the station with them. Andy argued all the way about how careful he'd be if they let him have his bike. There was a small crowd at the station, mostly wives giving their husbands last minute advice, or vice versa.

It was cold and damp, the coffee had worn off, and I sat in the car, feeling irritated, wishing I was home in my own bed. Jerry drove two young girls to the station, stood around chattering with Bessie in Greek. The old man looked like I felt—as if he'd been up all night. We saw Dan off and Bessie said I had to see the countryside. She and Andy got into a long argument over whether he could go fishing if it was cloudy. I wanted to tell them both to shut up.

Bessie had to make like a guide, stopping at every goddamn landmark, even making me walk through a cemetery full of jokers who had been killed while whaling long ago. I couldn't have cared less.

Andy was making a pest of himself, impatiently asking the time every few minutes and Bessie told him if he didn't stop it there wouldn't be any fishing even if the sun came out. We finally parked in front of the End Harbor supermarket at a little after eight. The sun was dodging behind rain clouds and it was a muggy day. End Harbor was sure a hick town: a small movie house, a dozen or so stores including the big supermarket. There was an ancient building, a three-story brick job, that I later learned was a combination hotel, city hall, police and fire department headquarters, post office, and telephone company. There was a small crowd in front of this building.

Andy wanted to see what was up and Bessie said, “You go down there with Grandpa while I shop. Yes, yes, I won't forget to get clams for bait. Don't you forget to buy a paper.”

We stopped at the one stationery-tobacco-newspaper store, where I bought the Times and the moon-faced woman behind the counter gave me a silly grin as she said, “You're new to End Harbor. Now I know the summer has really started.”

“Has it? Do you carry the Morning Telegraph?”

“Oh, my, I never even heard of it. A new paper?”

“It's a racing sheet.”

“We wouldn't carry that,” she said, clamping her fat lips together.

The week was growing worse every minute. I couldn't even dope the nags.

Outside, Andy headed for the crowd and I said, “You go along, I'll sit in the car and read the paper.”

“Come on, Grandpa, don't be such an old crab,” he said, pulling on my arm. I was too mad to even swat his tear.

The crowd was around an old Buick, the front battered in, all doors open. The entire motor was shoved back, the steering wheel almost touching the seat Andy asked if this was the doctor's car and somebody whispered, “Yes. It hit a tree and he was thrown out.”

A young cop in a fancy light blue uniform, red bow tie and red shoulder patch, black leather belt and puttees, was leaning against the fender of the car, obviously enjoying his self-importance. He looked like a store cop. His cap was carefully crushed down the center, as if he was a plane jockey.

Andy met some kid he knew and when they took a few steps forward to get a better look at the wreck, the cop actually screamed, “Hey! Get back there!”

The kids jumped with fright. Andy said, “My Grandpop is a cop, too, a New York City policeman!”

People turned to glance at me. I felt like a fool. The boy-cop, feeling he had to prove his authority, walked over to the kids, barked, “I told you to keep back.” He pushed them—Andy nearly fell.

I said, “Take it slow, buster, the kids aren't doing anything.”

“Okay, oldtimer, you keep out of this.”

Andy looked up at me, to see what I would do... and that's how the whole mess really started.

I couldn't let this badge-happy jerk talk me down in front of Andy. I strolled over to the wreck, casually examined the front doors. Buster yelled, “What the hell you doing?” and grabbed my arm.

Pulling my arm away so hard he stumbled, I said, “Keep your mitts off me.” As I took out my wallet, flashed my tin, I heard the crowd whispering.

“You haven't any authority here,” junior said, his voice not sure.

“Haven't I? You don't know your law—I'm a peace officer anywheres in the state of New York.” I only intended going through the motions of looking at the wreck and let it go at that, but the boy-cop spoiled things by pointing to the building, telling me, “You'd best go in and see Chief Roberts.”

Everybody was watching me and I had to follow through. It still would have been a snap to get out of, if Andy had remained outside, like I told him. Instead, the dumb kid followed me into the building, which was older than the NYC precinct houses—which are older than God. In the lobby there was another bronze marker, something about the British shelling the spot in 1777. I was ready to turn and walk out, when Andy suddenly opened a door marked POLICE CHIEF, yelled, “Here it is, Grandpa!”

It was a small office and the man behind the desk was sporting the same musical comedy uniform, and a big gold badge. End Harbor had the youngest police force in the world: Chief Roberts looked like a heavyweight boxer, with a collar-ad face. He was doing some paperwork, snapped, “I'm busy.”

With the kid in the room with me, I couldn't back out, so I flashed my badge, said in a small voice, “Matt Lund, New York City Police. Thought I... eh... might give you a hand.”

“Chief Art Roberts,” he said, holding up a big paw for me to shake. “A hand with what?”

“With the Doctor Barnes case,” Andy cut in. I put a hand on the boy's shoulder; to keep him still.

For a second Roberts looked as if he were being kidded, then he said, “We're used to accidents here and can....”

I couldn't just stand there like a dummy. I asked, “Accident? Is that for true, or just for public gossip?”

He tried to hold himself in, but he jumped a little. He waved a big hand at me, said, “Plain as the nose on your face: The doctor skidded into a tree, was thrown clear of the car. Medical Examiner isn't sure if death was a result of the fall or came from being run over.”

“Chief, my nose is plainer that that. I don't like sticking it in anybody else's business, I'm here on vacation...” I nodded down at Andy, hoping Roberts would understand why I had to make the play.

He merely growled, “What are you trying to say, pop?”

Maybe it was the “pop” that did it. “That it couldn't have been an accident. Look at the steering wheel, it would have pinned the driver against the seat.”

“Maybe yes and maybe no. No witnesses. Also possible he was thrown out of the car on impact, before the wheel was pushed back. I think it was an accident.”

I should have let it go at that, but Andy said, “My grandpa is a peace officer, too,” although I squeezed his shoulder hard.

“You don't say,” Roberts said, his voice loaded with sarcasm. “I'm busy, so if you'll....”

“Look, I'm not trying to tell you your business, but if you'll come outside I'll show you something that says it couldn't have been an accident.”

He stood up, and Lord, the tight uniform showed off his fine build; like Maxie Baer in his prime. “Now, listen, Mr. —”

“Lund.”

“Lund, ain't you pushing your badge kind of far? One of our best citizens is killed in a routine accident and you start calling it something else.”

“Aren't you interested in how your best citizen: was killed?”

He stuck his cap on—at a practiced cocky angle, said —as if talking to an idiot, “Okay, I'll look to make you happy.”

“I merely want to have you explain one thing, then it's all yours. I'm going fishing.”

We went out and the boy-cop whined, “Chief, I tried to tell him....”

The Chief waved him silent, then the son-of-a-bitch tried to showboat me. He said, loudly, “Pay attention, Wally, a big-time cop from the big city is about to show us yokels how to operate.”

“I didn't say that, or that I....”

“You got me out of my office, Lund, now either put up or shut up.”

He was so childish I wanted to take a chance and hang one on his square jaw: he was built so perfectly there had to be something wrong, like a weak chin. The crowd was watching us with mild curiosity and that made me sore, too—I must have looked pitiful next to Mr. America in the fancy uniform.

“Well, come on, whet have you got to show me.?” Roberts asked.

I went over to the door by the driver's seat, shut and opened it; did it again. “Notice it isn't loose nor in poor working condition. Look at the lock, it isn't sprung, not even scratched.”

“What you trying to prove, that they made better caw in the old days?” Roberts wisecracked.

“It proves that unless the doc drove with his door open, he wasn't in the car when it crashed into the tree. If his body had hit the door with enough of a wallop to force the door open, or if the impact of the car hitting the tree had been great enough to fling the door open—the lock would have been sprung.”

Roberts glanced around at the crowd like a ham actor, whispered, “What the devil are you trying to say, Lund?”

“Just that with the steering wheel pushed to the back of the seat, and the door lock in good shape, it seems clear to me that Doctor Barnes wasn't in any accident— he was murdered.” I wasn't talking loudly but a gasp went up from the crowd and I heard the word “murdered” repeated in a shocked chorus.

“We haven't had a murder in End Harbor in seventy-six years. As for the steering wheel, like I told you, the doc might have been thrown out before the steering wheel could pin him.”

“That's possible, but not probable. But tell me how a man can be thrown through a closed door without springing the lock?”

Roberts' handsome face flushed. “It was a muggy night, maybe he was driving with the door partly open.”

“The car must have been doing at least seventy when it hit the tree, judging by the battered motor. What man drives that fast on a rainy night with the door open?”

The boy-cop who had been staring at the door with puzzled eyes, now said, “Chief, everybody knows Doc Barnes was a bug about safe driving. He was always preaching....”

“Aw, shut up, Wally!”

I gave Roberts a small smile, I suppose I was really enjoying myself. “I hope I haven't given you more work. I didn't mean to butt in, it's your case, but my grandson here... well, you know how it is. I had to play cop for him.”

There wasn't anything more to say and I walked Andy through the crowd. Glancing at Roberts, I saw him glaring at me. Murder would sure upset the quiet routine of his job.

As we headed for the supermarket Andy looked up at me with big eyes, said, “Gee, Grandpa! Gee!”