Shakedown for Murder

Chapter 5

I was as stunned as if I'd stopped a haymaker with my chin. “Nelson is dead? Who killed him?”

Jerry shrugged. “I do not know. Art Roberts and the police at Riverside were very excited. I'm not feeling well, so when they said they were sorry and I was free, I ask no questions and let them take me home. Now I come over to thank you, then I will go to my bed.”

Bessie asked if he wanted something to eat, was he really sick, and Jerry said a good sleep would fix him up. I questioned him about Nelson but he didn't know a thing. I'd been tired before, now I felt exhausted, beat and old.

Bessie said she would drive him home but Jerry said it wasn't necessary and pulled his glasses from his shirt pocket, as if proving something.

When he left Bessie danced over to me. “Matt, you did it! You're the best policeman ever!”

“I did what?” I felt like a terrible fool. That son-of-a-bitch Roberts must have known about the Nelson business, when he stopped me before. Matt, the big detective—the first-grade horse's end!

“Why, you freed Jerry!”

“All I did was race around in circles, chasing my tail.”

“Nonsense. If you hadn't stirred things up, they never would have looked farther, Jerry would still be in jail. You're wonderful!”

I shook myself. “I suppose that's one way of looking at it. Honey, I'm going to turn in... I'm tired.”

“Get a good night's sleep. I'll see to it Andy is quiet in the morning.”

“Okay.”

Bessie blew a kiss at me. “Don't act so blase, you're tremendous. In a few hours you've solved everything. Say—I have to phone the news to Dan. I'll drive down to the store.”

“Well, be careful, the lights aren't much good. Better wait until morning.”

“Oh, no. I'll go to the Johnsons down the road, use their phone. You get your sleep.”

I went to bed and started tossing and turning. I kept telling myself I had done a good day's work. What the hell, it was rough working against the police, even against hick cops. But I couldn't buy that; still felt like a fool. I'd been so tightly smug, bragged and shot off my big mouth... and all the time this comic-cop Roberts had found the killer. Or was this another cover-up? It did seem too convenient—no scandal, not even a phony trial for Jerry, a dead stranger did it! And who killed Nelson? Had Roberts gunned him to make the collar? That was far-fetched but the way they worked things around here... Lord, the D.A., and the magistrate sure let people in and out of jail easily here. Well, it wasn't my business any longer—it never had been.

I had a headache. All Bessie's fine chicken stuck in my gut like a dead weight. For a time I lay in bed and listened to the rain, then I knew I couldn't sleep, got up and took a couple soda pills to settle my stomach, went back to the sack. Bessie came in, humming; I heard her wash up, go to bed. About a half hour went by and I was no nearer sleep. Without knowing exactly why, I felt defeated.

Andy was breathing heavily in the next bed. I tried to think about my grandson, but think what? So I said the hell with it and took a long swig of brandy, damn near threw it up. But a few moments later I went off into a good sleep.

I had a number of small dreams. In the last one I was out in a storm, the rowboat rocking like mad. I seemed about to capsize when I opened my eyes. Andy, in a bathing suit, was shaking me. The sun was starting to come through the bedroom window.

I sat up, rubbed my face. I still felt lousy. “What time is it? Finally got us a nice day.”

“Yes, Grandpa. Think we can get in some more fishing? It's almost seven-thirty.”

“Seven-thirty? Bessie said she'd let me—damn it, Andy, did you wake me up to tell me about fishing?” I asked, angry.

“No, sir. There's a policeman outside. He has something for you.”

I put on a robe and nodded to Bessie, washing up in the bathroom. She should have closed the door, the sun silhouetted her figure against her short nightgown.

End Harbor's one police car was parked outside and a cop I'd never seen before, a stocky joker about thirty, waved a letter at me. “Special delivery.”

“A special?” Then I remembered, Nat and his credit report. “You fellows deliver mail, too?”

He was looking me over; I guess I didn't look like much. “I heard a lot about you—big city cop. Yeah, when we're cruising around we deliver specials and telegrams.”

“They nab whoever killed Nelson?”

“It was a suicide. Found the gun right in his lap, I hear. He had a gun permit, too.”

“What makes him the doc's killer?”

“Found the doc's scarf in the glove compartment Doc was wearing the scarf the night he was killed.”

“Roberts said nothing was missing.”

“Mrs. Barnes didn't remember he was wearing a scarf until we—I mean the Hampton Point police—found it.”

“What's the tie-up between Nelson and the doctor?”

He shrugged. “We don't know—yet. But having the dead man's scarf in his car proves he saw the doc last. That's why he probably killed himself, sense of guilt.”

I wanted to ask more questions but told myself to mind my own business. I thanked him for the letter, wondered if he expected a tip, went back inside.

“What's the special about?” Bessie asked. She'd changed to a bathing suit.

“Nothing. Just some info I asked for. You done in the John?”

“Sure.”

I went in and washed up. When I came out she said, “Well, at least open it.”

“The case is over.”

“It's special delivery, open it!”

I opened it, showed her Nat's report. Bessie said, “That's all? I'll make breakfast, then we'll spend the day on the beach. Andy, take out the milk and juice, set the table.”

I dressed and glanced at Nat's report. He didn't have a thing on Jerry, or about Jane Endin. Doc Barnes was rated as a highly respected citizen. A former mayor, his income was over $15,000 a year. Nat had plenty of information about the doc's background, college, war record —but none of it interesting. Larry Anderson also had a good credit rating, although his income averaged under $5000. Art Roberts only made $2800 a year but somehow owned his house and car. The few other names I'd picked at random were either not listed, or mostly considered poor credit risks.

Nat wrote:

“In general, End Harbor is a two-bit town, business-wise. There's a few retired people with dough, and of course the doctor. He's always been comfortable, in fact he married into money. His wife inherited a neat bundle from her folks, shortly before Barnes married her. However, since her older brother had disappeared years before, there was some difficulty settling the estate and Priscilla Barnes (maiden name—Wiston) spent many thousands of bucks hunting for the missing brother—Jack Wiston. He was never found, thought to have vanished in a Canadian gold rush.

“This Anderson seems to be the only merchant making a go of things. He owns his house and land, free and clear, never asks for credit, pays all bills promptly. Of course most of the people there own their homes. Handed down from father-to-son stuff, but everybody is money-poor. Barnes probably has stocks and bonds. By the way, if you're thinking of buying property, real estate in End Harbor is considered a very sound investment. People are pushing out all along the Island, and the summer tourist trade has been growing steadily. There's been a small real estate boom in End Harbor and considerable building —mostly of summer cottages—as a result. However, the contractors are all from Hampton and other towns. Odd there isn't a building contractor in the Harbor. That should be a sweet business if you're thinking of investing. So is real estate. And where did you get your pile from? I always thought you were an honest slob. Or did you finally bring in a horse?”

Matty got up, stalked into the room, stretching and yawning. I cleaned his box, washed my hands, and fed him. I had to coax him to eat. He took a few sips of his milk, started to walk away. I ran my ringers through his fur for ticks. He must have been as irritable as I was— he swung on me.

Bessie put breakfast on the table, told me, “At least wash your hands after touching that filthy beast.”

“He's cleaner than you or I,” I said, making for the kitchen sink.

She steered me toward the bathroom, as if I were a child. Maybe I felt kind of childish. Or would senile be the correct word?

During breakfast Andy had to tell me—in detail—how he'd built the model boat. Then he started asking when we'd go fishing. I was far too restless to sit in a damn rowboat. I made the mistake of saying I had to see about fixing the car and that started another flood of questions. I finally snapped, “Andy, it's too early in the morning for so much talk. I've had a hard night.”

“Doing what, Grandpops?”

“Oh, Andy... leave me alone.”

The kid sulked until Bessie told him to cut it out before he got walloped. No sooner did the kid quiet down than Bessie started to run her mouth. Danny had assured her his insurance covered the damage. If I wanted to wait until he came down on Friday, he would take care of things.

Andy cut in with, “Anybody knows you should be towed out of mud, not pushed.”

“Nonsense. How about the time I was pushed out of the sand with the old car?” Bessie asked.

I finished my coffee quickly as they argued, all the petty talk increasing my nervousness. I finally got in a word, told Andy I'd meet him on the beach, to take the rods and stuff there and wait. Then I told Bessie I was merely going to get the Indian's license number, leave the car at the garage.

I undressed and put on my bathing trunks, then dressed again. Matty was back on my bed and I poked him and he hissed at me. I don't know what it was, but driving toward Hampton I felt depressed as hell.

I found the reservation without any trouble, didn't bother going into the shack they called a store. Chief Tom's truck was parked outside and I got down the license number, and his full name from the fly-specked beer license in the dirty store window. His name was Tom Claude Faro.

Danny's car looked bad in the daylight and I was glad to drop it off at the garage. The mechanic I'd talked to yesterday was there and I got quite a shock when I saw Art Roberts changing from coveralls into his snappy uniform. He called out, “Wait a minute,- Lund, I'll give you a lift back to the Harbor.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Working. This is my cousin Hank,” he said, nodding at the other mechanic. “When will Lund's car be ready?”

“Not for a day, maybe two. Phone me in the morning, Mr. Lund,” this Hank said.

Roberts carefully dressed, paying a lot of attention to his hair. A mirror was his best friend. When he saw me watching him he winked, said, “I have to look my best— going to Edward's funeral in an hour. Come on.”

He had a snappy white MG and as I sat in the bucket seat, I said, “Some car.”

“Keeps me broke. Bought it two months ago from a society kid I pinched for drunk driving. Got a good buy.”

We drove for a moment before he said, “Suppose you know about Nelson. We have everything but the motive. Hampton Point police are having the L.A. cops look into Nelson's life.”

“How come he had a gun permit?”

“Don't know. He was a retired bank guard, maybe they let them keep their rods. Pretty good work for hick cops, isn't it?”

“Stop that 'luck' routine. I never called you one.”

“Sure, but you're thinking it: I'm a hick cop in a gaudy uniform. Okay, I am. And I like it. I have to take another job to keep going, everybody in the Harbor works at a couple jobs. See, plenty of work around here but not any good jobs. Anyway, the case is settled. Jerry is off the hook so I think you're happy. Now stop getting into everybody's hair. Heard you visited Mrs. Barnes and Jane Endin yesterday. I guess now you'll stick to fishing and stop throwing your badge around.”

“Sure. I only did it because of my daughter-in-law, had to showboat a little.”

He gave me a patronizing grin; with his looks, the uniform, and the MG, Roberts must have been God's gift to the women—in the Harbor. He said, “You won't believe this, but I'm damn glad you were so nosey. Matter of fact, I learned something, working with you.”

I laughed. “Working with me!”

“I was a little steamed at first when you showed me up, my saying it was an accident.” We turned into Main Street, stopped in front of the Municipal Building. “Want me to run you up to your cottage?”

“No, thanks, I could use a walk. You know, I was thinking it could have been an accident Suppose Barnes saw a drunk driver coming at him, had to swerve to escape hitting him, went off the road and was killed when the car hit the tree? The drunk could have stopped, dragged the body out of the car, then panicked when he saw he had a stiff, taken off. Perhaps later the body was run over by a hit-and-run driver. Too much of a coincidence, two lousy drivers, but it's possible. I mean, was possible.”

Roberts had real dismay on his big face. “Jeez, you ain't starting to open this all over again, Lund?”

I crawled out of the MG, straightened up. “Nope. Merely talking. From now on I'm just another tourist.”

Roberts sort of jumped out of the car, brushed his uniform. “Great. I've had all the action I want for one summer. Let the Hampton Point police dig up the fine details.” He held out a heavy hand. “Good knowing you, Lund.”

I shook his hand. “Sure. Whenever you're in town, drop into the precinct house. Boys be jealous of your uniform.

He smiled. “I might do that.”

“I work out of the...”

“I know where you work. Checked on you. You're a cell block attendant. Guess you'll be retiring soon.”

I didn't know if he was sarcastic or not when he said cell block attendant. “In a year or two.”

He sighed. “Wish I had a pension to look forward to. Guess I'll have to die in harness. I plan to take the next state trooper exam. Well, have to get back to the office. Hope you have decent weather for the rest of your stay.”

We shook hands again and as I walked toward the cottage I wondered whether Roberts was a ham or sincere. In either case he still was a jerk. But with his looks and set-up, be odd if he didn't take himself seriously. It was getting hot and I was sweating by the time I reached the beach.

Bessie was sitting under a striped umbrella with some other young women, all of them in brief bathing suits. She introduced me with a big build-up, great detective line, gave me a sandwich and a cold drink. The women made a small fuss over me, asked a lot of dumb questions. All the talk made me jittery again.

Andy came out of the water, said he was ready to go fishing. He had the model of the cabin cruiser under the umbrella, wanted to try it in the water. Bessie said it wasn't meant for that, he should know better. She seemed to be picking on the boy, or maybe it was my nerves. They argued about the boat. I finally cut in and told him he could take the model along but to keep it in the rowboat.

Bessie told him to dig clams for bait but he pulled a paper bag from out under the towels, said he still had clams from the other day and a hunk of squid somebody had given him. She asked him where he kept it all the time and he said in the freezer. She bawled him out, again, for keeping the stinking squid in the refrigerator. He whined that he wouldn't do it again. Then she started on me, warning me to be careful of the sun. I said okay and that I was going into the swamp grass to take off my pants. The women all laughed as Bessie said, “Oh, for, Matt drop your pants here. My God!”

All this chatter didn't help my nerves or blue mood and I was happy when Andy and I finally got into the boat. He rowed and gave me the glasses to wear around my neck. The tide was starting to come in and when we reached the breakwater we drifted. I had a few small bites, then didn't bother baiting up. Andy caught a large hump-back sea-porgy that damn near snapped his rod. He was so excited he didn't nag me to fish. The sun felt good, took the last of yesterday's chill from my bones. I was content to glance around the harbor through the glasses: they almost put me aboard the big yachts. Andy kept up a line of chatter, looking into the pail with pride at “my” fish.

For no reason, before we drifted out of view, I put the glasses on Jane Endin's house. Of course I didn't see a damn thing, except her car was still in the driveway. I examined a few more boats, the shore at Haven Island across the bay. We were drifting in front of Anderson's house and up on the widow's walk Pops was laying on the cot, Larry Anderson sitting beside him, reading the paper. I turned the field glasses on the Endin house for a last look. Jane was out in the back yard, wearing a loose-fitting loud purple robe, hair hanging down her back like a thick black brush stroke. She was putting small towels on the line. The towels were full of bright red splotches—undoubtedly the rags she used to wipe her paint brushes. But why only red paint?

Andy yelled, “Grandpa!” He was standing, his rod forming a rigid U as the line jerked.

“Reel it in!”

“It's too heavy! Gee, I must have a whale!”

I moved over to help him and out of the corner of my eye I saw two quick flashes of light from the walk atop Anderson's house. For a second I thought they were shots, waited for the shotgun sounds. No sound came.

It was just a big ugly skate on the line and I held the rod while Andy cut the hook out of the wing, his face full of disgust. Was Anderson signaling somebody? As I gave Andy back the rod, I turned and put my binoculars on the widow's walk. Anderson was standing up, talking to Pops. Larry was holding something in his right hand that at first I thought was an automatic: then I realized what the light flashes were—he'd been watching us through binoculars and the flashes had been the sun striking the lens.

Anderson seemed to shrug, as if having an argument, then got his left hand under Pops and lifted him up. He got his right hand, still holding the glasses, under the old man's ankles, carried him downstairs.

There was something phony about the scene, exactly what I didn't know. Andy said he wanted to row out into the bay. I took the oars: exercise might quiet my restlessness. I told him to troll. As I rowed I faced the top of Anderson's house. Why was he watching us through the glasses? But that wasn't what struck me wrong.

I told myself to stop it, I was no longer playing movie dick. What the devil, with a view like that, he'd certainly spend a lot of time looking through binoculars. Why assume he was watching us—could have been looking at the yachts going past the lighthouse way out in the bay? I put muscle to the oars, we were going against the tide... and suddenly I knew what was wrong—the way Anderson had lifted the old man—he'd done it with one hand! His right hand, holding the glasses, had been used merely for balance.

Strong as Anderson seemed, he'd hardly lift a man with one arm. It sure was a careless way to carry a sick man, even if he could do it. And Pops—the floppy straw hat over his face, arms under the blanket... maybe that wasn't a man up there but a straw dummy!

I told myself that was plain silly, but couldn't get the idea out of my mind. What would be the point of carrying a dummy up to the widow's walk, the reading act? After all, suppose Pops only weighed ninety to a hundred pounds, a guy built like Anderson could carry a hundred-pound sack of potatoes in one arm—maybe. Still, to lift a man recovering from a heart attack you'd think he would have put the glasses down, used both hands to carry Pops?

Nuts, I thought, stop acting like a jerk. You're not on the case. You're not on anything but supposedly enjoying fishing. Keep it at that or you'll make a fool of yourself— again.

I rowed out near some red and black buoys and we tossed out the anchor. We were in real deep water and I baited up but we didn't catch a damn thing. I picked up the boat model, it was even a better job than I thought—the kid had fashioned tiny furniture out of cardboard and matches. When I told him he was right smart Andy said, “Heck, I didn't do that part. Jenny Johnson did it. Bob— that's her brother—and I put the hull and deck together, but she fixed up the inside, even painted the name on the back. You'll see her on the beach today. She's pretty and smart.”

“Your girlfriend?”

“What? I should say not. Jenny is going on fifteen— she's old.”

“That's not...” I began, and stopped. How old was Nelson? How old was Doc Barnes? Judging from Priscilla who looked about fifty-eight, the Doc must have been sixty-five, or so. Hell, of course he could have married an older woman.... But suppose he was sixty-five, anybody he called an “old goat” would have to be at least seventy, seventy-five or even eighty. That could be Nelson, if he was that old... and it could also be Pops! “Andy, how old was Pops?”

“Not was, Grandpa, but is. My teacher told me to always be sure about the proper tense of a....”

“Too hot for lessons. How old would you say Pops is?”

“Gee, I don't know. He looks awful old.”

“As old as I am?”

“No, way older. Heck, I betcha Pops is at least... forty.”

I stared at the kid, then grinned—at myself. He'd started me on the idea, what more could I expect? “Andy, how old do you think I am?”

“I don't know,” he said, his voice uncomfortable. “Thirty-seven?”

“Come on, now. Your daddy is going on thirty-five, I think, so I have to be at least twenty years older than he is.”

“Why?”

“I just have to,” I said, not wanting to explain the birds and lie bees to the kid. Pops was the man I had to talk to, and right away I tried to think of a way of going in now, without the kid asking a million questions.

“You could only be fifteen years older than Dad.”

“Okay, let's forget it This is sure a swell model. Next time we go shopping, I'll buy you another kit. In fast, if we row in....”

“Great, Grans! Make it a helicopter kit this....”

A siren went off back in the Harbor. “What's that—a fire?”

Andy shook his head. “No. That was only one.... Do you say ring or blast or blow?”

“Blast, I guess.”

“One blast means it's noontime.”

“I've had enough sun and I'm starved. Think we can make for the beach?”

To my surprise the boy said, “Any time you wish.” He poked at the pail with his toe. “I wanted to go in before, show Mom my big porgy. Can I row?”

I gave him the oars, slipped on a shirt and got my pipe working. When we came within sight of Anderson's house I put the glasses on the widow's walk. Pops was on the cot again, blanket and all. The hat was covering most of his face and he was still wearing the tan shirt. But he seemed to be holding a newspaper up on his stomach. Then I saw him turn a page, adjust his hat.

Matt Lund and his great deductions? The old straw dummy was me. The hell with playing detective—I'd had it.

Back on the beach I had a sandwich and some warm soda. After showing off his fish, Andy and another kid took it way down the beach to clean. I curled up in th» shade of the beach umbrella, listened to Bessie's small talk with the other young women, watched some tots busy making sand pies. I completely forgot the “case.” I felt so relaxed I even dozed off for a few minutes.

Then Bessie shook me awake and soon had me digging clams with my fingers, squatting in the shallow water with the women. I managed to find a few. Bessie had a couple dozen small ones down her bosom, in fact all the girls had “clam bras” as they called it.

When the tide came in high enough to make any more digging impossible, Bessie sat on the beach and smashed clams together and ate them. I skipped that—the fresh clams looked too gritty and snotty. I curled up for another nap but didn't complain when Andy said it was high enough for swimming. I fooled in the water with the kids. When Bessie stood up and shouted it was five, time to go home as she had a special meat pudding to make... I was completely pooped, glad to drag my tired rear toward the cottage.

Walking along the road Bessie kept bawling me out for getting too much sun, but I told her I felt fine. And I did. I was honestly tired without a worry or a thought on my mind. All I wanted was to eat and swim—get some sleep, and the hell with being a jerk detective. When Bessie said something about asking Jane Endin over I was so bushed I only put up a mild argument.

Reaching the cottage I went around to the back, with Andy, to hang out the beach towels. He asked how soon we'd buy the helicopter kit and....

Bessie screamed. A hell of a scream.

I dropped the towels, damn near fell over Andy as we rushed around front, into the house. Bessie was standing in the doorway, pointing, her face full of horror.

Matty was on his back, his four feet sticking stiffly up in the air. He was laying on the tabletop, next to a dish of food. One glance told me he was dead.