Shakedown for Murder

Chapter 7

I got up at three and turned off the alarm. I must have slept a few winks, I felt rested, although my mind was still down in the dumps. I washed and shaved, careful not to make any noise. When I came out of the bathroom I found Bessie at the stove. She had a robe over her baby-dolls, but the robe was open and gave her a very deshabille effect. “Coffee, Matt?” she whispered.

“What are you doing up?”

“I've always been a light sleeper. Danny and Andy— take a bomb to wake them.”

“What did you have to send for Dan for?”

“You have me worried, Matt. Danny says you're going out with this Jane Endin today. Any danger?”

I laughed. “That's what you've wanted, me to take her out. No danger, we're merely going around and asking a few questions.”

“So early in the morning?”

“Okay, take me off the witness stand. Can you make some of that thick Turkish coffee? It will stay with me awhile.”

“Certainly. How about toast, eggs?”

“Just coffee.”

I went into my room and watching the sleeping boy, I hid my empty gun. The kid had a big knife in his fishing box, but I didn't know much about using a knife.

I was sipping a tiny cup of the thick, soupy coffee when a car pulled up outside. I went out and asked Jane if she wanted coffee. The dim light from the dashboard hit the planes of her face at an odd angle, making it look like a long soft mask. She was wearing slacks, a tight white blouse with a big jade pin at the neck, and a short suede jacket. The tightness of the blouse said she was a bigger woman than I'd imagined. She hesitated, then said she would take a cup. We walked to the house and I introduced her to Bessie—for a second they looked each other over like pugs listening to the ref's instructions. Jane drank her coffee in silence, and drank it fast. Then she stood up, told Bessie, “I never had anything like that before. It's very good. Thank you.” She turned to me. “It's getting late.” She walked toward the door, the odd, stiff-legged walk, her thick braid doing a saucy dance on her back.

I put on Danny's too-big windbreaker, told Bessie I'd probably be back in the afternoon but not to worry if it was later. Bessie put her lips to my ear and whispered a single word:

“Wow!”

As we drove toward Riverside and Patchogue the sky was bright with pale stars and the road spotted with fog pockets. Jane was a good driver, real good. After a while she said, “Your daughter-in-law is a very attractive woman. It must be a joy to have children, visit with them.”

“I don't know. After kids grow up they should stay out of their parents' way, and vice versa. I don't think they want to be bothered with an old man. And I didn't want to come out here. I have a better time alone in the city.”

“That's a strange thing to say.”

“Why? I'm old, set in my ways, and I know it. Next week I have to go up to the mountains to see my daughter Signe and her kids. It's a routine. Another crowded, noisy cottage. I won't get any rest there and neither will Signe.”

“The fortunate are not always aware of their fortune.”

I didn't know if that was supposed to be an old Indian saying or not, and didn't ask. “Shouldn't we see if Anderson has pulled out with his truck?”

“He's left. We'll pick him up at Patchogue. He never makes any stops until he starts back. He'll return to the Harbor by nine, then take out his station wagon to deliver the mail. About ten-thirty he'll pick up his truck, head out toward Montauk.”

My mind began to wrinkle with doubts as I wondered how often Jane had tailed Anderson before—or driven with him?

“That was an odd coffee Mrs. Lund served. I hear she makes an interesting wine pudding.”

I turned and stared at her. “How did you know that?”

“Just heard it.”

“Hasn't anybody in the Harbor anything to do but snoop on...?” I saw her face tighten up and added. “What I mean, exactly how does this village gossip work?”

“Very simple. Mrs. Lund asked Charley, who has the store as you turn into Main Street, for grapes, said she was going to mash them. Naturally he asked why and she told him about the wine pudding. I happened to be in the store later in the afternoon when he was repeating the recipe to some other woman. Don't people talk to each other in New York?”

“I suppose so, but there's so many people it's hard to tell.”

The roads were empty and she kept the car at fifty, only slowing down as we went through Riverside, and as we neared Patchogue an hour later, in a lot of truck traffic.

It was starting to turn light as she pulled up before some old buildings, nodded down the street. There were lights on in a warehouse beside a railroad siding, and several trucks were backed up to a loading platform. Anderson was watching two colored men loading his neat truck.

“What do we do now?”

“Wait,” I said, reaching into a pocket for my lost pipe and a notebook. I borrowed one of her cigarettes as I wrote down the name of the wholesaler and the time. Jane sat there, staring at nothing; she made me uneasy. I couldn't entirely lose the feeling I was walking into a trap.

At six forty-eight, the day starting bright and sunny, Anderson headed back toward the Harbor. I nudged her knee, told her not to stay too close. If I'd had my wits about me, I would have brought the glasses along. But there were more cars on the road and it wasn't any trick tailing the big green truck. Anderson drove some twenty miles before he stopped at a village of two stores; a hardware shop and a general store. The owner of the general store helped Larry unload a few crates of stuff. Although we were parked behind a bend down the road, I could make out a kind of mild argument—the storekeeper evidently wanted Anderson to take back a small basket of tomatoes. Finally Anderson was paid and drove off.

I made a note of the store and time, told Jane to drive on. She asked, “I thought you were going to talk to the man in the store?”

“We'll return later. You know Anderson's route, don't you?”

“No. From here on he'll make a lot of stops. Suppose you get out and talk to this man, while I follow Larry? Takes him five or ten minutes at each stop, and when I find where he's stopping, I'll come back and get you.”

“We can return here later in the day....”

“I'd like to get this over quickly. I don't like spying on people.”

“But suppose we lose him?”

“Island's so narrow here if we cruised about for ten minutes, we'd run into him,” Jane said, opening the door for me.

There wasn't anything for me to do but get out. I told her, “If you don't see me when you come back, honk your horn twice. And park a ways down from the store.” She nodded and drove off. I knew I was making a rock play. Why had she practically put me out of the car? Was she warning Larry? But she could have done that last night, or refused to come with me, or give me her car.

The storekeeper was a pudgy Italian, or maybe a Syrian, with a very straight large nose and dark eyes. He was opening a crate of melons, feeling each one, as I walked in.

I bought a corncob pipe and some tobacco. He gave me the “Now I know summer is really here, seeing you. Stopping at the Fan Tail Hotel, sir?”

“No, I'm staying at End Harbor, merely riding around this morning.”

Giving the last melon a feel he took the bait, told me, “My vegetable man comes from there. You know Larry Anderson?”

“I've seen his truck. Hard worker.”

“Kills himself three times a week, and of course he's the mailman, too. But in the winter he only makes a trip here once a week. Me, I stand on my feet all day long, winter and summer.”

“I bet,” I said, trying to turn the conversation around to something—and not knowing what “something” was. “Guess you know Pops is sick? Larry must have his hands full.”

“I know. Larry takes good care of old man Watson. Tell you, you won't find many people these days giving a hoot about anybody else or.... Up early, Mrs. Kane.”

A young woman customer was at the door. “I have the baby in the car, Joe. Give me a bottle of milk, package of bacon, two packs of cigarettes. Put it on my tab.”

I waited until he had taken care of her, feeling excited. Then I asked, “Did you say Pops' name was Watson?”

“Sure.”

“Of course I'm only down for a week, but my son knows him and I thought his name was Pops Brown?”

He shook his fat head. “Naw, not the old man living with Larry. Used to help him out. His name is John Watson, I know.”

“I suppose you do, but I'd have sworn it was Brown.”

“Well, you have him mixed up with somebody else.”

I considered flashing my badge to get more dope, but tried talk. “I don't want to contradict you, mister, but I never forget a name. I'm sure it's Brown.”

The storekeeper sighed. “Look, I know, every month I cash his Social Security check. John Watson—no middle name. For seven years I been cashing them every month. Mister, if I was on Social Security I'd sit for the rest of my life.”

A horn honked twice outside. “None of my business, but why does... eh... Watson come all the way over here to cash his check?”

He shrugged. “Maybe he don't want the End Harbor bank to know his business. Maybe it's a habit—I started cashing the checks when old man Watson was helping Larry on the truck. Now—every month Larry brings me the check. It's for... I don't even know why I'm telling you this, Larry always says he don't want people knowing his business. But like I said, that's how I'm sure his name is Watson.”

The horn sounded again. “Guess you have me,” I said, making for the door. “First time I've been wrong on a name in years.”

“Always a first time for everything,” the storekeeper said, opening another crate.

Jane's car was down the road. When she saw me she turned around and as I slid in beside her she said, “Larry's about seven miles from here, making a delivery to a roadside diner, having breakfast there. Learn anything?”

“I don't know. What did you say Pops' name was?”

“Brown.”

“Are you positive?”

“Certainly. Why?”

“Nothing, I couldn't remember it. We'll wait until Larry leaves the diner then do the same thing—you go on to the next stop, come back for me.”

The diner was a fancy chrome job at a road intersection, and seemed too imposing for the orange juice I ordered. I said I noticed Anderson's truck leaving, were these his oranges? The place wasn't busy and the counterman bent my ear explaining how all juices come canned these days and a what a great timesaver it was. I had to order another juice before I could turn the talk around to Pops. But he only knew Pops as Pops.

Jane returned to tell me Anderson was at a store a dozen miles away. At this store and the next one, as I stocked up on tobacco, and cigarettes for Jane, I found out nothing. One storekeeper was a newcomer, the other knew Pops, but had no idea of his last name. I was beginning to think the first storekeeper had been batty, when at a few minutes before eight we stopped at a small store outside Riverside, several minutes after Larry pulled out. The store was run by a skinny Jewish woman who insisted Pops' name was Robert Berger. When I started my polite argument about having a memory for names, she cut me off with: “Mister, I don't like to contradict a customer, especially you, for now I know the summer has started well, but on this I'm sure. Berger himself wanted it.”

“Wanted what?”

“When he was driving around with Larry, years ago, he personally asked me to cash his Social Security check. I remember, it was the first time I'd known the old man's same and I asked if he was Jewish—a name like Berger. He told me he was part Jewish on his mother's side. Tell you the truth, I admire Larry for being nice to the old man, all this time, even though they're of different religions. And every month Berger insists Larry bring his check here for me to cash,” she said, proudly—I thought.

“Doesn't he trust the End Harbor banks?” I cornballed.

“Berger doesn't want his business mixed up with Larry's. That's smart, I say.”

“I suppose so. Do you go into the Harbor to visit Berger often?”

“Me? Mister, I'm lucky to have time to read a book. My husband takes care of the chickens, I run the store, and any free time we have isn't for visiting—we rest.”

“This Anderson certainly sounds like a good soul. Does he have many old men living with him?”

“Look, he isn't running a hotel. Just Pops Berger, and believe me if others looked after their old workers the way Larry does, this would be a better world.”

I said it would; wanted to add it would be a world full of cemeteries.

Anderson made a fast stop in Riverside and Jane told me, “Now he'll go home, leave his truck, and take out the mail for an hour. Shall we follow his mail route?”

“No, that would be too obvious, a store is a public place, a home isn't. Let me talk to the guy in tins Riverside store.”

I bought some bacon and eggs and learned nothing—the storekeeper vaguely remembered Pops—but as Pops.

Back in the car I asked Jane. “How often do you go to these little villages we've stopped at?”

“Never. I don't know anybody there.”

“Do the people in these villages, the storekeepers, do they come to End Harbor much?”

“Of course not. They might go into Riverside or Patchogue at times, to the bigger stores, once in a while. Like on Christmas. What's the bacon and eggs for?”

“I had to buy something. Thought we might have breakfast at your place, then pick up Anderson when he starts on his route again.”

“Worried about taking me into a restaurant?”

I heaved the package of eggs and bacon out the open window. She stopped the car, got out and pulled the drippy package of bacon from the mess, wrapped it in the remains of the paper bag, slid back in the car. As we drove on she said, “Waste is stupid.”

“So was that crack of yours. Stop at any diner or restaurant you wish.”

“I'd rather make us breakfast,” she said. And I didn't make any remarks about understanding women—even to myself.

We put away a healthy snack of blueberry pancakes and coffee, although I'd eaten so much junk at the stores I had to force myself. When we finished she said, “You look tired, lay down while I do the dishes.”

I said I was okay, helped dry the few dishes. She didn't talk for a time, then she asked, “Well, do you think we're getting anyplace?”

“Yeah. I'm not absolutely sure yet, but I think we've stumbled on the key to the whole mess.”

“You still believe Pops has run away? Do you know where he is?”

“I think Pops is dead.”

She spun away from the sink, her hands falling to her side. Even her braid jumped. “Dead?”

“Maybe murdered.”

“What did we see today that could possibly make you think that? I mean, I can't believe it. Pops murdered, why it's—”

I said, “I don't actually know how he died. Could be Barnes killed him. Or....”

“That's crazy!”

“Miss Endin, I said I wasn't sure yet. Until I am, let's not argue about it. I don't want to blow holes into a half-formed idea.”

“All right.”

The surprising thing was she didn't talk about it again. At ten o'clock we started shadowing Anderson once more. His route took him all the way out to Montauk. After a time I didn't bother to stop at all the stores Larry serviced —the pattern was easy to follow: Social Security checks under various names, eight that I'd been able to find, were cashed each month but always at a store twenty or thirty miles away from the other. Although Hudon hadn't been among the names.

At a few minutes after three we were back in Jane's home, and Anderson's truck was in his garage. Jane insisted upon fixing lunch and I told her, “I'm sure of the motive now. Anderson and Pops had a Social Security racket going for them. Pops was getting checks under eight different names, besides his own, and maybe more that we haven't found out. Anderson has the perfect set-up for cashing them, the storekeepers, miles apart, who know Pops under his various names. In fact, Pops himself cashed the checks when he was working, then Larry took it from there when the old gay retired. As you said, there's little chance of the store owners meeting each other, checking on Pops' names.”

“Where did Edward fit into this?”

“Here's what I think: Larry was away that. Sunday night. The doc got a call from Jerry and then Nelson dropped in to find out about his old buddy, who'd sent him a card from End Harbor. Now, as Barnes was about to leave he got another call—from the 'old goat.' That had to be Pops, who must have felt sick—or maybe Larry was threatening him, over what I don't know, but you can never tell when the crooks will fall out. The point is, I think, the doc found Pops dead and Larry then killed Barnes.”

“But why? I can't believe he'd kill Edward.”

“If I'm right, he not only killed him but did it up the street, so you'd be blamed.”

“Me?”

“Of course, you should have been the number one suspect, But Larry didn't know about Jerry yelling at the doc.

Jerry was picked up instead and of course it didn't matter to Anderson.”

“But suppose Pops is—did—die? He was an old man, why kill Edward?”

“Way I see it, Larry wanted to continue this Social Security racket and for that he had to have a live old man. Once the word went around Pops was dead, he couldn't cash any more checks, no matter what names he used. Let's say Pops had a heart attack and Barnes got there before Larry—Anderson had to think fast, if he killed Barnes and kept up the line that Pops was sick, but still alive, his racket could continue for another few months, or years. Even if he supposedly sent Pops to a sanatorium out of the Harbor, he could have Pops lingering for another year or so, keep on cashing the checks. My idea is Anderson had to think fast, so he switched the devil for the witch, as the old saying goes, killed Barnes.”

Jane sat on a kitchen chair hard, seemed to fall down on it. She lit a cigarette. “I still can't believe it. This sixty dollars a month, or whatever you get on Social Security, is that worth killing for?”

“I think you can get from thirty dollars to about one hundred and sixty dollars a month, depending on how high your salary was. Let's take an average, say each man was getting ninety dollars a month, and keep to the eight cases we know about—that's seven hundred and twenty dollars a month, over eight grand a year. If they've been doing it for, well, ten years, that adds up to over $80,000. So it wasn't any penny ante scheme. And you see how it all fits—explains Anderson's ready money—not enough dough to shout about, but to quietly repair the house, buy a new truck, pay bills quickly. He undoubtedly has a bundle hidden some place.”

“I don't know, Mr. Lund, I simply can't believe it. For one thing, how would Pops be eligible for all these checks under different names? He couldn't have held jobs under those names for any length of time. I mean, he's always worked in and around the Harbor.”

“Wait up, Jane, you still don't get it. Remember, if Larry did kill Barnes, then it had to be a hell of a cold-blooded killing, for Barnes was his good friend and Anderson was murdering merely to continue his racket for another few months, or a year. But then it would take a cool killer to strangle my cat, to shoot a dog, and certainly to gun Nelson. Know what makes a cold-blooded killer? Only one thing: practice!”

“I still don't.... What are you getting at?”

“The perfect deal he and Pops had. Larry's place is on the edge of town, surrounded by high trees. You told me Pops sometimes had friends, other old men, out at the house. Did you, or anybody else, ever see any of them leave?”

“But I'd hardly know when they came or went. His house is out of the way and....” She suddenly froze, her mouth wide open with horror.

“I walked across his ground on Monday, came in unexpectedly from the bay, and he threw a gun at me and Andy. Know why? We were walking on his private cemetery!”

“Eight murders?”

“At least. Ever read about the Bluebeard killings—the French guy who married a score of widows and killed them for their money? This is the same idea, but using men.”

I felt so excited I got up and started walking around the kitchen. Jane kept following me with her eyes, her long face sickly. Finally she said, “But to... to... kill so many...?”

“After they knocked off one man... you know the line: they could only get the chair once. I don't know how they lured the old men to the farm, but I can make a damn good guess,” I said, talking aloud to myself, to get things straight in my own mind. “Here's Larry, a single man in a small town. He can't marry—a wife would get on to his racket. Okay, he's young and healthy, must see a woman some place. Has plenty of time on his hands, especially after the summer months. Suppose he drives into Jamaica, New York, Long Beach, hangs around bars to pick up babes. Okay, during the years he also has met a lot of lonely old men hanging around the bars. Be a snap to strike up a beer conversation, find eight who are not only getting Social Security, but who are alone in the world. Larry sells them on his big house in the country, maybe Pops goes along on these recruiting jobs, asks the other old guy to come out and keep him company, all for free. When did Larry's mother die?”

“In 1943.” Jane whispered.

“They've had well over a dozen years to take their time, pick at least eight victims. They lure an oldtimer out and once he starts getting his checks, a matter of weeks, they knock him off. Who would know? No relatives, and the guy probably sticks to the grounds for the first few weeks. So a Social Security check for a... Robert Berger keeps coming promptly every month. Pops has already set up the storekeeper, in this case the one near Riverside, to cash it for him—and keep cashing them. Except for Pops dying this racket could have gone on for years, in almost perfect safety.”

“Somehow I still can't believe it. Doesn't the Social Security board ever check to see if a person is still living?”

“Frankly I don't know. I think a person has to file a yearly report if they continue working. Seems to me the earnings can't be above a certain figure. I'll find out. But in this case the men weren't working, so the only way Washington would know they had died would be when the checks were returned, the envelopes marked DECEASED, and... Lord, Lord!”

“What is it?” Jane asked, sitting up.

“Merely thinking what a really perfect deal Larry has— he's the postman! I'm sure on the first of every month, or whenever the checks are due, little Larry is in the post office early, boxing up the mail like mad—making sure nobody notices the checks, taking them out when he starts delivering the mail. Of course, that explains Nelson's death.”

“I'm bewildered. What does it explain?”

“Now listen: Nelson's story—according to Roberts— was that an old buddy of his had sent him a card from the Harbor. This guy named Hudon. Nelson assumes he's living here, perhaps he'd said so on the card. I'll bet folding money this Hudon was one of the old men killed on Anderson's place, only he got the card off without their knowing it. Okay, Nelson happens to come East, decides to look up his friend. No Hudon. He went to Barnes because his pal Hudon was sickly and Barnes is the only doc. Barnes can't help him, he never heard of Hudon. Nelson asks Roberts, the police chief, who also isn't any help. But who would Roberts send Nelson to, who of all people in the Harbor would know if a man named Hudon had ever lived here? Anderson the mailman!” I pounded the table like a debater, delighted with myself.

“Nelson must have given Larry a bad turn, but by this time Anderson has already killed Doc, and somehow still has his scarf. Maybe Nelson doesn't take a fast 'no,' maybe he's asking around too much. Or, because I'm sticking my big nose into the thing, Larry feels Jerry won't even come up for trial and by now the 'accident' is no longer an accident. Larry's in a small sweat. All right. Probably Nelson left a forwarding address in case Anderson should hear about Hudon. Nelson's in Hampton Point, Our boy Larry has to get out from under fast—he remembers the scarf, finds Nelson and kills him with his own gun, the suicide touch. How lucky our Larry seemed, Nelson packing a rod! He leaves the doc's scarf in Nelson's car and Roberts—he swallows the hook, again!”

Jane shook her head. “Edward only wore one scarf, a worn one I gave....” Her voice died to a painful whisper, then came alive as she said, “This is all a nightmare, a murder factory here in the Harbor.”

“What better place than a sleepy village? Actually, the only bad mistake Anderson made was killing my cat. Yeah, hadn't been for that, I would have forgot things.”

“Mr. Lund, this just can't be true. I can't picture Larry doing all these... murders.”

“Why not? As I told you, you can only burn once.”

Jane said slowly, “It's so hard to think of somebody you once knew as a killer. It's an insult to your memory. Well, what do we do now?”

“We could call in Roberts, or the Federal men,” I said, not quite certain what I wanted to do. I suppose deep in my mind I had the idea of taking Larry solo—but I was too old for that. Truth is, I'd probably never been that young. I told myself to stop being a fool, not let my anger over Roberts refusing to do anything about Matty blind my better judgment.

She said, “If Larry is such a monster, we have to put an end to this at once. I think we should get Art Roberts, demand to see Pops.”

“Yeah, that's what we should do. But he'll kick like a mule on reopening his nice little neat case, arresting a pillar of the community.”

“No, murder is a serious thing, even in the Harbor. Want to phone him from here or shall we go downtown?”

That “downtown” forced me to grin. I said we could phone. When I got Roberts on the phone I told him, “Come out to Miss Endin's house at once—I have something for you.”

“Again? What is it this time, a dead clam? I'm busy with....” The light sarcasm in his voice changed abruptly as he asked, “Jeez, not Jane Endin?”

I didn't want to talk much on the phone, maybe the operator was Anderson's cousin or something. “Look, Roberts, I'm waiting exactly five minutes. If you're not out by then I'm making another call and there will be a flock of tourists in the Harbor, all of them with Federal badges!” I hung up and winked at Jane, thinking what a ham I was. She stared back with solemn eyes, as usual.

I suddenly wondered what her life would have been like If she'd had a sense of humor. Or would she have ended up the village whore?

Roberts and his musical comedy uniform were planted in Jane's living room chair less than four minutes after I phoned. I briefed him on what I'd found and he rubbed his big hands together as he said flatly, “I don't believe that Larry Anderson would....”

“I know, he's the salt of the earth. Roberts, it's a bit late for the chamber of commerce spiel. End Harbor is in for some messy publicity but that can't be helped. I want you to demand to see Pops Brown. You won't see him because he's buried in Larry's yard—I think.”

“But for... all those murders,” he muttered, shaking his big head. “I can't bust into his house without a warrant, and if Pops is alive, I'll look—”

I know what he was thinking and for a second I felt sorry for the handsome slob: Larry was the village big shot and if Roberts crossed him and the case turned out to be a dud, Roberts wouldn't have the pretty uniform for long.

I said, “What have you got to worry about? If for nothing else, we have him dead to rights as a Social Security fraud. Don't stall me or I'll go over your head. Hell, Roberts, I'm giving you a break, letting you make the collar.”

“Actually, all we know is he cashed some checks. Maybe people on his mail route gave them to him?” Roberts turned to Jane. “Did you hear these storekeepers say they cashed checks under different names?”

“No, I was in the car all the time, following Larry.”

Roberts sprang to his feet—really sprang—and turned to me in triumph. “Then I've only your word for this whole....”

The way the jerk towered over me made me angry. “You want to question the storekeepers? Go ahead, I'll give you the addresses. But I'm phoning Washington in a minute and I'll give you odds they have somebody at Anderson's house before dark!”

Roberts shrugged his beefy shoulders and sighed like a guy about to ask the boss for a raise. “Okay, okay. I'll see Pops. But, Lund, if he's alive, if this turns out to be a rhubarb, I'll not only collar you as a public nuisance, but I'll work you over!”

“Cut the big talk, you're not a public hero yet. I'm going with you. Another thing, Anderson is shotgun happy, can you get a couple more of your men?” I nearly added, “If there are a couple more.”

He sort of pulled himself erect and threw out his wide shoulders—all in one motion. “I can handle Larry.”

He looked as if he could handle Floyd Patterson but looks don't stop bullets. “How about giving me some ammo, and I'll pack my gun?”

“No need, there won't be any gun play,” he said sharply. “I know Larry... why, I was trolling for blues with him only last week. And for all I know, you might be trigger-happy over that dumb cat of yours. You want to go, let's do it.”

I didn't say another word, he was working up his courage and a push might have spooked him. We all walked out to the polished squad car and he told Jane, “This won't be any place for you.”

“Yes, it is. Edward Barnes was my friend.”

She said it with such quiet dignity Roberts glanced at her to tell her something; I motioned for her to get in.

Larry's truck and station wagon were parked in the driveway but he wasn't in sight. We walked up onto the porch and Roberts rang the bell. Roberts was sweating a bit, but only over fear of losing his job—the jerk hadn't loosened his gun in its holster. After a moment Anderson opened the door. He had his shirt off, the thick muscles under this thin T-shirt, and a towel in his hand. He said, “Hello, Jane, Artie, Lund. I'm just washing up. What's this, a delegation? Something up for the Harbor Council?”

“Larry,” Roberts said, “I want to see Pops.”

Anderson was good, nothing changed on his face—but I saw the great muscles of his arms stiffen. “You know Pops is very sick, he can't see anybody or be disturbed. Doctor's orders.”

“What doctor?” I asked.

“The specialist in New York. Pops is sleeping right now. Everybody knows a person suffering from heart trouble needs absolute rest. What's this about?”

“I won't do a thing to harm Pops,” Roberts said. “Let me see him, I won't awaken him.”

“Pops couldn't have done anything, he's been in bed since.... Legally you have no right to bust into my house.”

“Larry, don't put this on a legal basis,” Roberts said softly. “I'm asking to see Pops, as a friend. You want me to ask as a police officer—I'll have to place you under arrest if you don't let me see Pops.”

“Arrest? Artie, are you crazy?”

“Let me see Pops and I'll explain all this.”

I smiled—Anderson hadn't bothered to even ask what the arrest would be for—he damn well knew! But he suddenly stepped back from the door, told us, “Come in, but don't make any noise.”

Roberts went pale, hesitated. I walked past Anderson followed by Jane... and then Roberts. We were in an old-type large living room, nicely furnished, everything neat and spotless, and impersonal. Larry started up the carpeted steps to the floor above. As we followed he turned, asked, “Is it necessary for all of you to come up? Any shock can mean Pops' life.”

“We'll be very quiet, won't make as much noise as a shotgun killing an Irish setter. Only Roberts will take a look into Pops' room. All he wants to see is his face.” I stressed the word “face.” Roberts was so jittery he might be satisfied seeing a couple of pillows under a blanket.

Anderson stared at me without showing any emotion. “Then keep your voices down,” he said, turning to walk up the steps again. “I'll let you see Pops and then I'll want a goddamn good—excuse me, Jane—a good explanation for this foolishness!”

I saw the back of Roberts' neck become a sickly pink. He stopped climbing the stairs until I goosed him with my knee. Although I was certain Anderson was bluffing, a very tiny clammy feeling was working in the pit of my guts. If I was wrong about things....

The upstairs hall was wide, several potted plants on small tables lining the flower-papered walls. There was another staircase, smaller and steeper, at the end of the hall, that probably went up to the widow's walk. We walked past several open bedrooms, stopped in front of a closed door. Anderson whispered, “This is Pops' room. Artie, the more I think of it, I can't risk his life by letting you see him. I don't know what this city snoop has filled you with but....”

“Open the door a crack,” Roberts said; almost pleaded.

“Suppose he's awake? The shock might....”

“Cut the production number, Anderson,” I said, trying to keep my voice both a whisper and tough. “Suppose he is awake? Roberts isn't a stranger, he's a friend of Pops.”

Anderson shrugged, turned toward the door. He dropped me towel as he spun back around and clipped Roberts on the chin with a wild right. As Roberts folded and I leaped at Larry. I thought with a sort of stupid satisfaction I'd always known Roberts looked too good, had some glass in his square jaw. I was diving for Anderson's waist and I stopped thinking as he straight-armed me.

I was sailing through the air and then I hit a wall as if going through it, slid down to the floor, shaken and dizzy. Vaguely I knew Anderson was heading for the stairs going down to the living room... and that I was crawling toward Roberts to get his gun. My eyes wouldn't focus and I wasn't sure if I was alive or dead.

I heard Larry yell, “Stay away, Jane, I don't want to hurt you!” and the picture turned real and clear. Jane was backed against a wall, letting him run past. Then she calmly picked up a potted plant and threw it like a bowling ball.

She was smart, didn't aim for his head but for his legs. The pot seemed to bounce once behind him, then break into a hundred pieces as it hit the back of his knees, sending him crashing down the stairs.

I yanked Roberts' Police Special from his shiny holster and staggered toward the steps. I expected to see Anderson out cold, but he was a rugged joker—he was standing on file landing below, blood on one side of his face. He shook himself like a floored pug. As he started down the stairs, I grabbed the railing to keep from falling, fired a shot into the ceiling. The staircase seemed full of thunder and over it—to my surprise—I heard a firm voice saying, “Don't move, Anderson, or I'll plug you! You've had it!” I wished I felt half as strong as my voice.

He stood stock-still for a split second, then turned and faced me, an open-mouthed, stunned look on his wide face. With the blood, the dumb look, his big muscles under the torn shirt, he looked like a brute, a human ape. I said, “Put your hands behind your head, keep 'em up there!”

My voice was like a whip and as he put his hands up, his bigness seemed to shrink. The great muscles began to tremble and his big face took on a puzzled expression for a second—until it went to pieces.

Anderson was standing with his hands behind his head, body shaking, crying softly. For a split second he reminded me of an overgrown kid being punished... but only for a very very short split second.