Shakedown for Murder

Chapter 6

Andy asked, “Is poor Matty sick?”

I finally took my eyes off the cat, looked coldly around the room. I was frightened, but most of all I was too angry and upset to speak. Before I'd been grandstanding for the boy, maybe for myself, doing Bessie a favor, or perhaps having a little something going for the sake of “justice.” But that was all over. Now I was just plain goddamn burning mad!

Andy asked, “What's the matter with Matty? If we give him some warm milk...?”

Bessie put an arm around the boy's fat shoulders, told him softly, “He's dead, Andy. He took sick and died and he's—”

“Gone to Heaven? Mom, do cats and dogs go to Hell, too?”

“Keep still, Andy.” She turned to me, her eyes troubled. “He is dead, isn't he, Matt?”

Sure, I knew he was dead at first glance. But I stepped over and poked his stiff legs with my fingers, stared into the glassy little eyes. I was putting on an act for Bessie. My eyes kept working the room, waiting for any movement or sound behind the doors, in the other rooms. But the killer wouldn't be dumb enough to hang around. If he'd been down for real action, he wouldn't have bothered with my cat. The room looked okay, not a thing disturbed.

Andy was asking, “But, Mom, how did he die? Did he eat some of the stuff in that plate? Looks like there's some of it on his mouth.”

“I don't know,” Bessie said, starting for the table.

I grabbed her shoulder, told her, “Don't move. Did you touch anything when you came in?”

“No. Soon as I opened the door and saw Matty, I yelled. I don't understand how I could have been so careless as to leave those vegetables out of the refrigerator. It isn't like me to....”

“What's in the bowl?” I asked, my eyes still covering the room.

“I was going to make keftethes for supper, so I....”

“What's that?”

I must have been snapping the questions at her, for Bessie sort of blinked and backed away from me as she said, “It's a... uh... fried meat ball. But there isn't any meat in the dish—just some vegetables I intended to saute first—tomato paste, peppers, mushrooms, olives, herbs and.... Obviously the heat must have turned the food and Matty ate some and got ptomaine and... oh, Matt, I know how fond you were of the beast... I'm sorry I was so careless, really!” She was on the verge of tears.

“Stop it, Bessie.” My voice was hard and curt; I knew I had to simmer down, cool off and use my head. “It wasn't your fault, you didn't do anything to Matty.”

Andy said, “Gee, think what would have happened if we had eaten the food. I bet....”

Bessie nodded, her face a sudden sickly white. “Matty saved our lives. But—even if it has been a hot afternoon, why should vegetables spoil that fast?”

There was a moment of silence. I was trying to think a few steps ahead. Then Bessie said, “Matt, will you take... him... away? I'll clean up and....”

I told her, “Bessie, I want you to stay out of the house, for awhile. You and Andy eat out.”

“Why?”

“I have some things to do here.”

She shrugged. “Well, if you wish. We'll change and eat in the village.” She started for the bedroom.

“No! I want you both out right now!”

“In our bathing suits? Please, Matt, while I realize how deeply you felt about the cat, I said I was sorry about the accident but....”

“Will you stay the hell out of here! I don't care where you eat—just leave me alone!” I heard the roar of my own voice and Andy's shrill, “Grandpops!”

I suddenly relaxed, got my nerves somewhat under control. Even tried to smile at Bessie as I took her trembling band, told her, “Honey, don't you see, I'm not only thinking about Matty—he's dead and gone. This wasn't any accident. This is a warning.”

“A warning? About what?”

“An attempt to frighten me off the Doc Barnes murder.”

Bessie tried to hide the anxious look mat slipped across her soft face. “But, Matt, that's over, solved.”

“The killer thinks I'm still on the case, didn't fall for that Nelson suicide thing.”

“Matty ate some bad food, that's too bad, but aren't you going overboard trying to connect a simple accident with...?”

“Bessie, Bessie, are you blind? You know what a fussy eater Matty is—was. You commented upon it several times. He wouldn't have eaten that food—I've never seen him jump on the table to steal food in his life! Don't you see, this is a plant, and a clumsy one at that, to scare....” I saw Andy staring up at me with big eyes—and bigger ears. “Andy, without saying a single word to anybody about what's happened, run over to the Johnsons, or whoever has a phone, and call the police. Just tell Roberts I want him up here pronto.”

“Yes, sir!” the boy said, taking off like a sprinter.

I waited until I heard him running down the road.

“Bessie, honey, this isn't any joke—it's damn serious. The killer came around to put the fear of God in me. He found Matty. Suppose he'd found you or Andy?”

Her face said she still didn't believe me. “Matt, doesn't that sound rather—fantastic? The heat spoiled some food and Matty ate it.”

“That's exactly what he wants us to buy—well, no sale! The killer has been riding his luck high, but with Matty he made his first mistake. He couldn't know Matty's eating habits, that Matty would never leap on the table for food.”

“Who knows how hungry the cat was?”

“Look, I certainly know all about his dainty appetite—it's impossible!”

“Now, Matt, be reasonable. I mean Matty could have.... He? You know who the killer is? Why Barnes was killed?”

“I don't know the why, but I have a hell of a strong idea as to who did it Bessie, what are we wasting time and arguing about? Whether you think I'm crazy or not, let's not take any chances. Take Andy over to the Johnsons and stay there for the night. Or until I call for you. I have a lot of work to do here: fingerprints and other clues. Okay?”

“Oh, Matt, you're not making much sense. I think you're....”

“Damn it, honey, what do you know about murder? Listen, at least humor me, even if you think I'm an old fool!”

“Matt, you know I don't think that. I mean, it's simply that.... All right, I'll wait for you at the Johnsons. Can I at least take some meat out of the refrigerator to cook over there?”

“No. After I have it analyzed, I'm throwing out every bit of food here. Forget food, you ate enough clams to last you a week. Honey, just turn right about and get. And don't worry.”

She giggled nervously. “Now you tell me—don't worry! I'll be waiting for you at the Johnsons. Matt, please take care—don't do anything foolish.”

I nodded, watched her cross the porch, go down the steps. It suddenly came to me how right she was: the chips were down and I'd damn well better be a good detective —no more second guessing.

I walked through the house slowly. Things seemed okay. But then he hadn't been hunting for anything—except me. I returned to the table and Matty. There didn't seem to be any skin or blood sticking to his claws. Yet I couldn't see him being manhandled without a fight. His mouth was wide open in a sort of gasp and some of the tomato-red food stuck in his throat. I sniffed at the bowl, the food smelled spicy and good. I took another sniff, bending so low the tip of my nose touched the mess. I jerked my head back, laughing aloud like a goon—the food was cold! I stuck a finger in: it was all cool—proving Bessie hadn't left it out on the table. There wasn't any doubt, it had been deliberate.

There wasn't anything to do until Roberts showed. I brushed away a fly buzzing Matty, washed up at the sink. I went outside, “locking” the screen door. It wasn't a lock, merely a catch.

I dropped in on the three cottages nearest ours. No one had been home in the afternoon—they'd all been at the beach. But he could have easily checked that first... seen me on the sand, too, or out digging those damn clams.

The entire End Harbor police motor pool was parked in front of the cottage—Roberts leaning out of the radio car. He waved a lazy hand at me. “Nobody home. What's all the excitement about now?”

My old distrust of him returned—hard and fast. Not that I thought he did it, but the motive behind everything had to be this small town scandal—and Roberts' main job was to keep a lid on it.

“Come inside,” I said, “unlocking” the screen door. He got out of the car, straightened his shirt, followed me in. When he saw Matty on the table Roberts whistled, pushed his hat back on his head, asked, “Ate some rat poison?”

“No, he was killed.”

“Got to be careful leaving these insecticides around. Too bad. What you want to see me about, Lund?”

“What kind of fingerprint equipment do you have here?”

“Not much—actually nothing to speak of. They've got a complete outfit at Riverside, of course, and Hampton Point. Guess if we ever had any need for taking prints, we could call on them. Why?”

“Why? To see if the killer left any prints!”

Roberts pulled at one of Matty's stiff legs. “What killer? Left what prints?”

“The guy who killed my cat. I think he also killed Doc Barnes and maybe Nelson. It's obvious.”

Roberts gave me a queer look, as if I was nuts. He sat down on a chair, fanning his face with his fancy cap. I asked, “What's the matter with you? If there were prints on the chair, your big ass has smeared them.”

“I'm far from getting the message, Lund,” he corned. “Send it to me slower. Now what about the cat?”

I told him about coming home from the beach, finding Matty dead, added, “But it's all a clumsy job. First off, the food was cool, meaning it hadn't been spoiled—that it was taken out of the icebox recently and poison added. Secondly, it must have been forced down Matty's throat, he never in his life ate off the table. It was done to scare me off.”

“Scare you off what?” Roberts asked, his voice sarcastically polite.

“Come on, Roberts! Off the Barnes killing.”

“Lund, you can't be starting that again? The case is over.”

“The killer doesn't know that! Listen to me, Roberts, before I was sticking my nose in for no real reason, but from now on I'm in with both feet. That's my cat!” He still was looking at me as if waiting for the punchline of a gag. The hell with you, I thought. You won't get off those glamour-pants, you're too much of a jerk. And the devil with trying for prints. Killer would be too smart for that And there wasn't time, anyway.

“Lund, I got a dog I'd flip over if he died. So I can understand why the death of your cat has upset your better judgement, but....”

“Stop it.”

He got up. “Yeah, I can stop it. I can get back to some paperwork I was doing when your boy phoned. Talk sense, man, you're basing a lot of wild talk on what? That you think the cat would never jump on the table! You know how curious cats are, and he might have been very hungry, so he ups and eats some of this spoiled food and....”

“Damn it, it isn't spoiled! Stick your ringer in the stuff now, see if it feels like it's been out all afternoon.”

Roberts touched the mess with a thick finger, said, “Yeah, does feel cool.” He cleaned his fingertip on the tablecloth. “Let's start again; maybe he choked on a bone or...?”

“And maybe somebody is being murdered while we're gassing!”

“You're not sure how the cat died—why don't you ask a vet before shooting off your mouth about murder?”

I was too mad to even get riled. “Where can we find an animal doc?”

“Nearest one is in Hampton. You see what he says and then. Your car is still in the shop. I'll drive you there.”

“Thanks!” I got Matty's basket, gently placed him in it I couldn't bend his legs, so I left the top open. I put the bowl in a big saucepan, held that in my left hand and took the basket under my right arm, said, “Let's go.”

Roberts nodded at my trunks. “Your legs aren't that good. Ordinance against walking around in swim trunks— even old ones. Get dressed.”

I slipped on my clothes, wondering how much more of this patronizing “humoring” I could take. Even a hick cop should take murder seriously. Roberts carried the pot out to the car as he said, “I'll have to stop at the station, tell 'em where I'm going. Kind of late—best we phone the vet and see if he's around.”

I didn't say a word. When we pulled up in front of the “police station” I had cooled off enough to admit Roberts was at least trying to work intelligently. I should have thought of seeing a veterinarian. I should have used my head instead of my temper. I had to play it careful, not risk Andy or Bessie—or myself. I stared out of the car window, Matty heavy and silent in his basket on my lap, watching the people pass by on the street, wondering if I were being watched, too.

About ten minutes later Roberts came out, waved to a couple of passing girls before he told me, “It's after six— the vet shut at four. Wife says he's on his boat fishing, won't be back until late.”

“Another vet around?”

“In Riverside. I phoned him, too—no answer. Tomorrow morning well....”

“Tomorrow will be too late. Where can I get this food analyzed?”

“At this hour?”

“Right now!”

“We haven't a lab and the county lab at Riverside will be shut. Doc Barnes would have been our man. Guess Jessie—the druggist—might help us.”

“Think he's out fishing, too!”

Roberts gave me a stupid grin. “Let's walk across the street and see.”

The druggist turned out to be a serious-faced kid of about twenty-six or so, wearing a loud yellow sport shirt and Bermuda shorts. We went to the back of the store, waited while he made a soda for an old lady. Then I told him we wanted to know what had killed Matty, showed him the dish of food. He sniffed at it, rubbed some between his slender fingers. He ran water over a spoonful of the stuff, washing away the red tomato paste. He held up a small white sliver. “I don't have to be a research chemist to spot this—piece of toadstool. There's a quantity of mushrooms here and at least one of them is toadstool.”

He handed it to Roberts who said, “Yeah, it is a toadstool. That makes for a simple answer, Lund, your daughter-in-law picked wild mushrooms and....”

“She buys her mushrooms.”

“Lucky you—got a good lawsuit. Hope she got 'em at the supermarket.”

“I doubt that, Artie,” Jessie the druggist said. “Store mushrooms are cultivated and there's little chance of a toadstool mixing in. Beside, this type is a cinch to spot. Of course, remember there could be something else in the food and if you give me a few days to....”

I cut in with, “What would have happened if we—I— had eaten some of this? Would it have caused death?”

“You understand, I'm not a toxicologist, so this is far from an expert opinion. There are various species of poisonous mushrooms, or toadstools, as they are commonly called, and I imagine some are quite deadly. However, judging by the structure of this sample, it's a local variety. I used them for doll umbrellas when I was a kid. I believe you'd have to eat a far larger quantity than could be found in this plate to possibly cause death. But there's enough here to have made you miserably ill for several days.”

I nodded. “One thing more, doc, wouldn't...?”

Jessie gave me a solemn grin. “I'm not a doctor.”

“But you're a country lad and maybe you know about animals. Wouldn't an animal by instinct leave a toadstool alone?”

“I couldn't say. I suppose an animal might know food was poisonous by the smell, but mushrooms are odorless. And it seems to me I recall pictures of cows dying out West when they were driven by thirst to drink at alkaline wells. Notice how the cat's neck is swollen and the large, almost abnormal amount of food in the throat, as if the food were forced down his throat.” He gave me a suspicious glance.

“But, Jess, couldn't the swelling be caused by the toadstool making the cat sick?” Roberts asked.

Somebody called out from the front of the store, “Jessie?”

“Yes.”

“Leaving a dime for the paper on the counter.”

“Thanks.” The druggist turned to Roberts. “That's possible. I really don't know. Say, Artie, what's this all about?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “Thanks for your time, Mr.... Jessie.” I picked up Matty's basket and the pot of food. Roberts followed me out to the police car, opening the door for me. I told him, “I'd appreciate it if you'd drive me back to the cottage.”

“Why, sure, I always give door-to-door service,” he said, starting the car. “Well, guess you're convinced now it was an accident.”

“Accident? How often have you had a case of toadstool poisoning in the Harbor?”

“Never heard of any, but they do happen,” he said, glancing at a car making a brake-screeching turn off Main Street, muttering, “Dumb kid drivers.”

“I'll tell you what happened. The killer came to our cottage with a toadstool while we were at the beach, found the food in the icebox, cut in the toadstool. He figured after eating the food we'd get sick enough to pack up for New York. I'd be off his back. Then he saw my cat, thought he had a better way of making sure his plan worked fast—forced food down Matty's mouth and left the bowl beside him on the table.”

“You're going off half-cocked, Lund. All that is only what you think.”

I patted Matty's basket. “I didn't think up this!”

“But you can't be positive that...?”

“I'm positive!”

“Look, Lund, all we know is your cat ate a toadstool and died. That doesn't prove a thing. You heard Jessie, he wasn't even certain how the cat died. And don't keep saying 'he'—if you think the cat was deliberately killed— I recall hearing your daughter-in-law wasn't keen on the cat. And her boy—some kids get kicks out of hanging dogs and....”

“Oh cut it. I've had enough talk.”

“What the hell do you expect me to do? If the cat was killed deliberately, so what? I'm not the SPCA. Killing a cat isn't any crime. As for this being part of the Barnes business, old man, you're way off your rocker.”

We finished the ride in silence. Roberts helped me into the cottage with the stuff, planted his rear on a chair again —his favorite hobby. I wondered what he was hanging around for. I knew I was wasting valuable time talking to the big dope. The toadstool told me all I wanted to know... except for one other thing I had to clear. I asked, “How old would Jack Wiston be now?”

“Who?” His face looked blank and I doubted if he was that good an actor.

“Priscilla Barnes' missing brother,” I said.

“You really get around, Lund. I don't know. That was long before my time. I never saw or knew any of her family, not even when I was a kid.”

“How old was Barnes?”

“Around sixty-three. I have his exact age in my files. Had a nice funeral for Ed today. Worked out fine.”

“You mean Jane Endin didn't show. How old was Nelson?”

“Seventy-one.”

“And Pops?”

Roberts looked startled. “What's Pops got to do with this?”

“How old is he?”

Roberts shrugged. “Never could count that high. This a quiz program?”

“It was, up till now. Roberts, do me one favor, give— or sell—me a handful of .38 shells.” I touched his polished belt lined with bullets. I knew there was little chance the hardware store carried them.

Roberts couldn't have jumped to his feet faster if a shell had goosed him. His eyes actually narrowed—again —as he asked, “What for?”

“For my empty gun.”

“That tears it, Lund. You've been a wild-hair from the moment you came to the Harbor. Pack a gun and I'll jail you!”

“The law says I can carry a gun anywhere in the state.”

“Then I'll lock you up for disorderly conduct, for being a loony! You sore because your Greek buddy is free and you haven't anything to do now? Who the devil do you think you are? Dick Tracy? I'm warning you, Lund, and only this once, annoy anybody else in the Harbor and I'll throw your ass in jail so fast it will make your badge smoke!” He started for the porch, his big frame filling the doorway.

“Maybe the Hampton Point police will be interested.”

Roberts spun around so quickly I thought he was going to swing on me. “Sure, go tell them about your cat—they'll toss you in a cell, a padded one! Maybe you don't believe this, but I'm doing you a favor—although you sure act like you're cracked. Well, here's the favor, some free advice: don't make a fool of yourself in Hampton Point They have a big force, a rough one. It's a rich town and they got plenty of cops because they're afraid the migratory potato pickers might get out of hand in the summer. You go there and they'll laugh you out of town!”

He ran down the porch steps, and into the radio car. I leaned against the wall, watched the lights of the car disappear—wondered what to do next. For a second I was full of doubts... But it had to be Pops. He was the “old goat,” and for some reason he'd killed Barnes, then taken off. That accounted for the dummy up on the widow's walk. I'd seen the hands move this afternoon, but whose hands? On a hot day why would anybody, even a supposedly sick man, keep a hat over his face, a blanket on? Somehow Larry Anderson was in this, probably protecting Pops, maybe being blackmailed. It all fitted. Larry had seen me out on the bay this afternoon with the glasses, thought I was spying on Pops again, that I hadn't been taken in by the Nelson “suicide.” So Larry told the “old goat.” Or he and Pops could be in this together.

Hell, everybody in the Harbor might be in on this. Jane Endin hadn't been at the funeral, she only lived a few blocks from here, must know about mushrooms and herbs. She could be working with Pops, trying to scare me off.

But off what? What possibly could be going on in this peaceful lousy hick burg that called for murder? I didn't know who did the other killings, but Matty had to be the work of Pops, whoever he was and wherever he was. That was why Larry had put his glasses on me this afternoon.

I either had to pack up Andy and Bessie, get away from here at once, or if I stayed, I had to solve it before anything happened to them. And I had to do it alone—me, the do-it-yourself detective. Maybe I was being an old fool, but I just couldn't run.

I went inside and dumped every bit of food I could find—the stuff in the icebox along with sugar, salt, cereals —in the garbage can. Even the toothpaste. Some flies were on Matty. I rummaged around until I found an empty hat-box and put Matty in it. I carefully wrapped the box in aluminum foil, tied it securely with fishline, then put the package in his wicker basket. I scrubbed the tabletop, threw out the cleanser and a box of soap powder.

There was a clam rake in the back of the house. I took it down the road to an empty field, buried Matty. It took me a long time to dig the grave and it was very dark when I finished. There couldn't be a doubt in my mind now, I was sweating drops of pure anger.

I dropped into the Johnsons where everybody stared at me as if seeing the village idiot—maybe because I was still carrying the clam rake. Bessie asked if I wanted supper. I said no and took her aside, whispered about the toadstool and that I had thrown out all the food in the house.

“I can't understand how one possibly got in. I can easily recognize a toadstool when I....”

“Never mind that now; you didn't do a thing. Just keep quiet about it and spend the night here.”

Mr. Johnson, a character with a big belly and lard shoulders, boldly assured me he would most certainly... “look after Bessie and the child...” meaning Bessie had let her big mouth go.

Everybody talked in hushed tones, as if not to excite me. I told Bessie I had buried Matty, not to worry if I didn't return that night. I asked for Jerry's address.

“What do you want his address... for?” she started to ask. But something in my face stopped her and she said in a loud whisper, “He lives on Belmont Lane. Not far away. Matt, be careful.”

“Don't worry about me. And remember, don't leave this house.”

I stopped at our cottage for my gun, feeling the silence of the house, before starting for Jerry's place. I suppose it wasn't far at that, the whole Harbor wasn't much, but I kept walking in circles until I asked a couple of people and finally found this one-block side street with the ritzy name. In the dark all I could see was a small house set in a large garden. I lit a match to read a crude TAXI sign nailed to a small fence. He wasn't home. The garage was empty, too. I wondered where he was.

But it didn't matter much, I'd wanted to ask what he knew about Pops. And borrow his car—see if I could get any help and ammo from the Hampton Point police. But Roberts was probably right. If I walked in and told them I was gunning for a killer, that the Nelson thing was a set-up... all because my cat was dead... they'd laugh me into a straitjacket. These village cops, washing each ether's hands. I had to play it alone.

I headed for the bay, walking across the harbor. Through the open doors and windows I saw everybody in their houses, silently watching TV, and maybe nibbling at a bottle. Crazy yokels who never went to a big city, maybe never to another village unless they had to.

Cutting across Main Street, I walked toward the water down a narrow street I'd never been on before. To my surprise next to a boat and bait place I found a small store still open. It was a tiny shop, the downstairs of a house, and seemed to stock a little bit of everything. I wanted a flash and also I was very hungry. A fat woman with wispy gray hair and wearing a bag of a dress waddled out of a back room, asking, “Yes, sir, what can I do for you?”

I bought an expensive light, the only kind she had, glad she hadn't cracked about my being a sure sign of summer. I ate a candy bar as I went over to a basket of fresh vegetables, felt of the string beans and cabbages—like I knew what I was doing, asked if they were local produce.

“Only the potatoes and tomatoes. Be more truck vegetables in a week or two. Long Island potatoes ain't much this year.”

Over a bottle of soda I listened to a speech about what the local potato growers did wrong, how expensive the California and North Carolina crops were. I had a hunk of over-sweet cake before she mentioned Anderson, said he went into Patchogue for vegetables three times a week. I said, “I've seen his truck around. New one. He must be making out pretty well.”

“He's always cheerful. Joy to have that man around. And once you're straight with him, he's easy on credit. Frankly, I don't know how Larry does it; he can't meet the supermarket's prices. I used to sell four or five baskets of fruits and vegetables a day during the summer. Now I'm lucky to sell that much a week. Had anything else to do, at my age, I'd give up the store. I order less and less from Larry, but I suppose he does better in the other towns.”

“This Anderson lives with his father, doesn't he? Old man they call Pops?”

“That's not his daddy,” the fat lady said, getting up steam. For ten minutes she told me what a wonderful man Larry was, how Pops wasn't “even a relation,” merely an old friend, but Larry couldn't have treated him any better “if the old man had been his father.” It also seemed that Pops was a wonderful man, always full of jokes and willing to help out; sometimes he brought her fish.

End Harbor was simply full of “wonderful” men and women—when they weren't killing or getting killed. The storekeeper went on to tell me how active Larry was in the city council, had organized a Scout troop—only there weren't enough kids interested. Pops was busy in the various cake sales and used to sell chances for the annual Legion car raffle—up till last year when his arthritis got real bad. I paid her and left in the middle of a speech about the younger generation.

I walked down to the beach, along the shore toward the spot where Andy and I had landed a couple days ago.

I had company, a big Irish setter tagged along behind me. I threw some stones for him to chase and when I reached Larry's property I shooed the dog away. Climbing the bank I saw a light in the kitchen of Anderson's house. I walked carefully through the rough grass until I reached the garage. The doors were open, the truck standing inside, and the concrete floor was wet. Stepping inside I covered the flash with my hand and turned on the light. All I saw were stacks of empty wooden crates and bushel baskets. On the truck there were crates of lettuce and fruit, all recently watered down. Everything was neat and businesslike. I don't know what I expected to find but I didn't find a damn thing. There was an outboard in one corner, on a rack, a....

I heard a sound outside the garage and froze, my hand sneaking toward the gun inside my belt—until I remembered it was empty. Somebody was walking around the outside of the garage, walking softly. I heard them come to the door as I strained to see in the darkness. The padding sound came directly toward me, despite the fact I was hidden behind a pile of peach crates. A moment later there was a small whine and the cold muzzle of my buddy, the dog, touched my hand. I was so relieved I nearly giggled as I whispered, “Beat it, boy.”

It must have seemed a caressing sound to him for the big son-of-a-bitch put his paws on my chest and tried to lick my face. I pushed him away and he hit one of the stacks of empty crates—which came down with all the thunder in the world. I ran out of the garage, knocking over more boxes, headed for the beach. I heard a door slam and then heavy steps as a flashlight sliced the darkness. I kept running as fast as I could, bent low and zigzagging, my breathing harsh. I hit a rut, or some damn thing, and went sliding on my face and chest in the heavy grass. The air was knocked out of me, the lousy gun in my waist felt like it had gone through my stomach. I lay there, sobbing for breath, wondering if I'd busted my store teeth. The heavy footsteps came closer and I clamped a hand over my open mouth to muffle my breathing.

The night was split with the roar of a shotgun blast, followed by a tiny, unreal scream.

The footsteps approached slow, cautiously. I pulled my gun from out of my stomach—a bluff was better than nothing. Then some fifteen feet to my right a flash snapped on and I saw Anderson, shotgun in work-gloved hands, bending over. He raised the bloody remains of the Irish setter by one leg, the head resting on the ground. Anderson remained bent over like that for a few minutes, an odd smile on his thick face. It could have been a smile of relief or of sorrow. I wondered what he was doing... he seemed to be listening to the night. Then I knew he was waiting to see if the sound of the shot brought anybody on the run.

I was as flattened to the ground as I could get. I was scared outright silly—he hadn't known it was a dog he was shooting at. And I was impressed by the gloves-touch— Anderson believed in being prepared—fingerprints must have been uppermost in his mind at all times.

Satisfied no one was coming, he dropped the dog and walked back to the garage, the light bouncing ahead of him. The fall had knocked my own flash from my hand and I didn't try to find it, but crawled toward the beach like a frightened snake, thankful I hadn't broken any real bones or false teeth. When I heard Larry returning I played dead in the grass again, grateful I could still play at it. He held the gun in his right hand, a shovel in his left. Dragging the dog farther away from me, he sent the light dancing around—trying to decide where to dig, then finally dug a deep grave and buried the mutt It was a rough night in the Harbor for animals.

It took him almost an hour and all that time I was flat in the damp grass, fighting gnats and watching his powerful movements. He was sure a strong clown. One thing was for certain: my theory about Pops being out of the house, that dummy on the widow's walk, was right. If the old man was sick in the house with a bad ticker Anderson sure wouldn't be blasting a shotgun on the grounds. And if Pops had been hiding in the house, the gun blast would have brought him out. He was probably on the run for killing Barnes and Nelson. But theory wasn't worth its salt unless I found the motive. If I went to Roberts he would stall me with his Anderson-is-a-big-citizen kick. I might try the Riverside or Hampton Point police, but I'd have to come up with more than I had. Suppose Pops wasn't home— what did that prove? Pops and this Anderson were doing something shady and the only way I could get a lead on them would be to find out everything about Anderson and his too prosperous business.

When Anderson returned to his house I got up and walked stiffly along the beach, then over to Jerry's house. He was still out and I stood on his porch, wondered again where he could be. There was a light in the house across the way and I saw a shadow behind the curtain. That would be nosey Mrs. Bond.

I crossed the street and the shadow disappeared. I rang her bell and a moment later this little old lady opened the door. I said, “Mrs. Bond, I'm....”

“I know,” she squeaked, her beady eyes bright and a faint whiff of port clinging to her words, “You're that secret service man.”

“You know where Jerry went?”

“Oh, my, what's he done now?”

“He hasn't done a damn thing, I....”

“See here, young man, don't raise your voice to me.”

“I... uh... wanted to hire his car, taxi me to the station,” I said, almost floored by that “young man.”

“I haven't the slightest idea where he is. He drove away in the middle of the afternoon and hasn't been back since. You were here before, weren't you?”

“Yeah. If he returns soon, tell him I'd like to see him.”

“If you think I have nothing better to do than watch for that—that foreign devil to come home....”

“You've been watching him for years, what's a few more hours?” I said, walking away. I walked across the Harbor till I reached our cottage; suddenly kept walking. Jane Endin's car was in the driveway and two of her windows were lit. I worked the arrowhead knocker. When she opened the door she looked different—much younger. Some of the tenseness was gone from her face, her eyes rested. She was wearing a mannish sport shirt and jeans, the pants full of paint stains. I said, “Hello,” and she nodded, asked, “Mr. Lund, what has happened to you now, or do you always dress this sloppy?”

I looked down—hadn't realized my pants and shirt were streaked with grass and dirt stains. “Seems I had another accident.”

“Be careful, you may be accident-prone. Come in. Like to wash up? Your face is dirty.”

She took me to the bathroom, and as we passed through the living room I saw her latest work standing on an easel. It seemed to be a picture of a rough sea but the water was a violent red, the wave-caps a terrible purple, and the sky a dead, sickly green. At least it wasn't a picture you forget quickly.

The bathroom fixtures were bulky and ancient. I washed, drying my face and hands on toilet paper—the towels looked like they'd never been used. For a second I glanced at the big bathtub with envy, then went back to the living room.

I stared at the new painting and she asked, “Do you like it? Don't touch it, please, it's still wet.”

“That's okay, I'm wearing gloves.”

For a fast second her eyes seemed to harden, then she giggled—and for a moment she seemed about eighteen, “That's a wonderful joke.”

“And very old. Yeah, I think I like it. It's the nightmare terror a rough sea can give you.”

“Thank you, that's exactly what I had in mind. The other day, when I was staring at the sea all day... it seemed so terribly ruthless. Since I decided not to go to Edward's funeral today, I worked hard on the painting to pass time. I'm glad Jerry is out. I knew he couldn't have done such a thing. Who is this Nelson, the man they say did it?”

“I never saw him. Did you?”

She shook her head as we sat down opposite each other. She lit a cigarette, started to hand me the pack, said, “But you smoke a pipe. I'm sorry about what happened to your cat.”

“Who told you?” I patted my pockets; my pipe was some place in Anderson's field. It was a damn good piece of briar, too. I reached over and took one of her cigarettes.

“I have Newsday delivered here every afternoon, and the boy told me. First time I ever heard of anybody making a mistake about toadstools. Lucky it was only the cat.”

“Yeah, only a cat. And it was a mistake all right, a big one,” I said slowly, wondering if I'd be booting things by taking her into my confidence. I had a hunch Jane was completely straight, still these Harbor people were all hard to make. Any horse player knows a hunch addict is a fool, but I couldn't waste any more time. And I couldn't go it alone. I took the plunge. “You see, now I'm sure I know the real killer.”

“Killer? You think somebody killed your cat?”

“I know the louse who killed my cat also murdered Doc Barnes and this Nelson.”

She jumped a little, went pale. “But I thought...? That is, they are so sure; they said they found Edward's scarf on the dead man?”

“Forget Nelson for now. I think I know who killed the doc. But I don't know the motive, the reasons why, all the little things that will round out the full picture. I need your help for that.”

“My help? I'll do anything to get Edward's killer, but... but I hardly see how I can be of any help. What can I do?”

“You...” I wiped tobacco crumbs from my lips. I never could smoke cigarettes, not even when I was sneaking a smoke on my post. “You can be a big help. I need background information about Pops. I want to know all about him. And about Larry Anderson.”

“Not Larry. He's—”

“Skip telling me what a community pillar he is. I'll give it to you from the shoulder—I think he and Pops are in some kind of racket. I've checked, and he's making too much dough from his vegetable business. Wait—let me talk for a second. Pops is supposed to be very sick— Anderson takes him up on the roof, that widow's walk, every day for the sun. I'm sure that's an act, with a dummy. I think Pops killed Barnes—but I don't know the motive, yet—and is in hiding. I was out on the bay this morning, with my fieldglasses. I believe Larry thought I was watching the house, that he told Pops, and my cat was killed to scare me off the case.”

“Mr. Lund, do you realize what you're saying? It's ridiculous. Strong as he is, Larry has never struck anybody, not even in anger. As for Pops, why, he's a jolly, gentle old man. They're like father and son.”

“Maybe. But Pops has to be the 'old goat' the doc was going to see after he left Jerry. And if Pops didn't kill the doc, he knows who did—that's why he's hiding. The point is, Larry isn't acting like he has a sick father in the house, he's firing a shotgun like he's in a battle. Nor was my cat an accident—and it couldn't have been Nelson, he's dead. There's a lot of whys I have to answer, and maybe I'm all wet. But if I'm not, there's a killer loose. I need your help to see if I'm wrong.”

“But Larry and Pops—they're the last two people in the world I'd think of as.... killers.”

“Will you help me, Miss Endin?”

“I simply can't believe they are crooks or... even bad...

I crushed the damn cigarette in a clam shell ashtray. “Okay, you answer a few questions and convince me I'm wrong. Who is Pops? What's his full name?”

“I don't know his first name but his surname is Brown. Long as I can recall he was just called Pops, Pops Brown.”

“Know where he came from?” Maybe Pops knew Nelson in California and they both had something on Barnes.

“No. Seems to me he was always around the Harbor, always an old man. When Mrs. Anderson was alive she needed a farm hand. Of course it really wasn't a farm, more of a truck vegetable patch. But it was plenty of work and she needed a part-time helper, or she'd have to take Larry out of school. Pops was working around: clam digging, potato picker, fixed up the roads—he helped Mrs. Anderson out in return for room and board. He's lived there ever since. When Larry started his wholesale business Pops helped him for a time, mostly on the raising end. But it became too much work for him. For the last couple of years, even though he was too old to work, Larry has taken care of him, treated him fine. Pops always has spending money.”

“I bet,” I said, wondering if maybe Larry was working for Pops. “Did Pops ever leave here, say for a few days or weeks at a time?”

“No.”

“Doesn't anybody know where he came from? Has he any relations?”

“Pops is about the oldest person in town, all his pals have passed on. Guess there isn't anyone who knows much about him. I do know he sometimes has a friend or two, also old men, visiting him for a month or so.”

“Any of Priscilla's family live around here?”

Jane shook her head.

“Did you ever see or hear of Jack Wiston?”

“No. I think that's Priscilla's maiden name but her folks were all dead before I was born. Who is Jack Wiston?”

“Forget him, I'm crossing him off. Let's get back to Pops.”

“Mr. Lund, you're terribly wrong about all this.”

“I don't think so, there's too many phony angles about Pops, and Anderson. Larry's mother leave him any money?”

“Oh, no, they were always very poor.”

“And from what you've told me Pops was a bum, so he didn't have any. Anderson's post office job isn't much, he gets around $1500 a year. Yet he pays his bills promptly and with cash, his business is the only one in the Harbor that's able to buck the supermarket—why only Larry's?”

“I don't know, but if he was so rich, why would he keep the mailman job? Also, Larry doesn't deal only in the Harbor. He serves a number of stores from Patchogue out to Montauk. Most of these other towns haven't any supermarkets.”

“Is Anderson the only wholesale produce man in these parts?”

“In End Harbor, but I'm pretty sure there are others around. Of course there are, the Henderson boy works for one in Hampton, come to think of it.”

“So we have a lot of two-bit stores and competition for their trade, but for some reason Anderson is rolling in dough—the new truck, station wagon, top credit rating, well-kept house. I think he has too much money, more than his business can account for. In both his jobs, mailman and trucker, he gets around. Could he and Pops be in some kind of racket, like the numbers, or making a book?”

She smiled. “You don't know Larry.”

“That's why I need your help, I want to know all about him. I don't seem to know anybody in the Harbor. Yesterday you told me he'd made some... passes at you. Yet now you're defending him.”

“Not defending him but trying to have you understand how wrong you are about him. Larry was always a mama's boy. His father died when he was about eleven or twelve and Larry....”

“How did he die?”

“Heart attack while clamming in the winter. They found his frozen body in the boat. I was just a kid then, but I think Edward was starting his practice and Larry's father was his first real case. I remember he had him stretched out on the dock, trying everything to revive him. You see, up until before the war, when factories started springing up in Hampton, and even in the Harbor, this was a very poor town. Everybody was on short rations. They clammed, fished, rented rooms, picked potatoes—in addition to whatever regular jobs they might have. My dad used to go out in his old leaky boat over the week ends at low tide and bring in a dozen bushels of clams. It's hard work and in those days brought in about ten dollars a weekend, more in the winter. Of course now they get as much as five dollars and six dollars a bushel, but the bay is pretty well cleaned out It takes over fifteen years for a clam to grow and....” She shook her head, as if scolding herself. “I'm talking all around what you want to know—about Larry. He just lived to make money for his mother. Always was a hard worker; delivered papers, peddled berries in the summer, any odd job he could get. And of course he worked hard on their farm. He never had time for girls. Although he's about eight years older than I am, since there's only one school here, we knew each other—a little. Larry never had time for school games either. He was even deferred from the army on account of his mother being sickly and he was her sole support, but he was drafted when she died in '43. It was just before he went into the army he began seeing me.”

“What does 'seeing me' mean exactly?”

“Not what you think,” she said quickly. “We saw each other for a few weeks. He would take me driving—at sight, to a movie—in some other town... always careful we weren't seen together in the Harbor. One night he tried to paw me and that was the end of it. He even apologized afterwards, but I never saw him again, except on the street, of course. I imagine he was very lonesome. It was hard for the single men who weren't in the army, what with fathers being taken. I never cared for him and I resented his thinking he could... you know... just because I'm an Indian.”

“Why hasn't Anderson married since his mother died? Has he any girl friends?”

“None that I know of. I suppose he's married to his business, he works very hard at it. If you really think Pops and Larry are mixed up in this, that Pops is gone, why not ask Chief Roberts to look into it?”

“I don't trust him. Frankly, I don't trust anybody in the Harbor—except you. Everybody seems to be working hand in hand to cover up this mess.”

“Why do you trust me, Mr. Lund?”

“I don't know why. I just do. When are you going back to work?”

“In a day or two. Fm still pretty jittery, even though I had a restful day, today.”

“The main thing Fm lacking is the motive, the why, to all this. Anderson was around the house today, which means he should be out on his vegetable route tomorrow. I have this... hunch, I guess, that his traveling around the countryside is the key to everything. It's the only thing he does different from anybody else in the Harbor. Maybe he has a couple of wives or gal friends stashed away, maybe he's peddling dope—that would tie him in with the doc. Most likely he has Pops hiding out someplace around here. I'd like to tail him tomorrow and I need a car. I busted up my son's. Can I borrow yours?”

“If he had anything to do with Edward's death, M not only let you have the car, I'll go along with you.”

“I don't want to put you out,” I said, full of suspicion again.

“I haven't anything else to do, and I know the countryside. But there's one condition: if you don't find anything to definitely prove mat Pops is gone, what I mean is, if you're not absolutely sure, one way or the other, I want you to go to Chief Roberts, have him ask to see Pops.”

“I'll buy that,” I said, my suspicions melting—a little. “What time do we start?”

“Larry is usually at Patchogue by five a.m. Sometimes when I'm too nervous to sleep I take long rides during the early morning hours, before going to work. I enjoy driving in the dawn fogs. I often see him leave his house at four A.M. That's when we should start, too.”

“Good,” I said, getting up, thinking of the dizzy young thing in the Hampton watch factory. Driving seemed to be a psychiatrist's couch out here. “I'll call for you at three-thirty.”

Jane got up slowly, seemed to stretch. “It will save time if I pick you up in front of your cottage.”

“Okay. I live at—”

“I know where you live, Mr. Lund.”

I said that would be fine and stopped to look at her painting again. Standing beside me, she asked, “Would you like to have it?”

“Well... I'd like to buy it,” I said as if I bought paintings every day. “How much?”

“That's being silly. If you want it, I'll give it to you.”

“I do want it. Thank you.”

“It should be dry in a day or two. I'll have it framed and ready before you leave the Harbor. I'm glad you want one of my works.”

Walking back to the cottage I was confused. For no reason except my instinct, which I didn't trust, I was taking Jane into my confidence. But I didn't like the business of her going with me, began to doubt who was actually tailing who. And it was odd she knew where I lived. Still, it was a small village, she would know... maybe.

It was after eleven and I stopped at the Johnsons to tell Bessie I'd spend the night in her cottage. Mr. Johnson was playing solitaire on the kitchen table, said, “Bessie and Andy went home about an hour ago. It's all right, their....”

I ran out of the house and sprinted for the cottage as if I were a kid. I came busting into the place, puffing like a whale and there was Danny grinning nervously at me. I fell into a chair as I tried to ask, “What are you doing here?”

“Take it slow, Matt. Man your age shouldn't be racing down the street. Anybody chasing you?” I noticed he had the kid's baseball bat leaning against a chain.

I shook my head. “Where's Bessie and Andy?”

“Sleeping. They've had a big day. I happened to got some time off, thought I'd make it a long week end, be with you.”

“Cut the slop, Danny, Bessie phoned you to come.”

He came over and sat on the arm of my chair. “Yes. She's worried about you, Matt. Dad, I've always looked up to you as a man with plenty of good old common sense— so tell me one thing and I'll be quiet—are you sure you're not going off the deep end on Matty's death?”

“Matty's death got me angry but it didn't make me hysterical, if that's what you mean. I'm not going off half-cocked. Before I was kind of playing at solving this murder, now I'm serious. I think I know what I'm doing.”

He slapped me on the back lightly. “Okay, Dad. What can I do to help you?”

“Stay with Bessie and Andy every minute of the day tomorrow. Don't frighten them, go to the beach and all the other things you usually do, but don't let them out of your sight. Having that bat around isn't a bad idea, either. I'm going to set the alarm and sleep on the porch because I have to be up in a few hours. I'll be gone most of tomorrow.”

He wanted to ask where I was going, but didn't He pointed at my clothes. “Been in a fight?”

“Nope, merely crawling on the grass. Now stop worrying. Tomorrow I'm only going riding, to see some of the other towns. With a woman. No danger.”

“This Indian sex-boat Bessie told me about?”

“Sex-boat? I ought to fan Bessie's.... Go to sleep, Dan, and let me work things out in my own way.”

“Hungry? I have tea on and....”

“Where did you find food here?” I shouted.

“Easy, Dad. Bessie told me over the phone that you'd thrown out everything, so I brought some down with me. Hungry?”

I nodded.

I washed up, had a cup of tea and a few sandwiches, made up the porch cot, set the alarm. I didn't need a clock to wake me—I never went to sleep. I listened to the country noises, and thought of nothing and everything. I was bushed but my mind kept spinning like a top. Mostly I lay there waiting—waiting for something to happen. I had this feeling I was in way over my head, had dragged Dan and his family in, too. I wanted bullets for my gun, I wanted Roberts at least working with me... and most of all, I wished I was back in the precinct, had the platoon with me.

In the quiet I couldn't kid myself any longer—as a cop I didn't have much confidence in me. I was goddamn frightened.