Sin In Their Blood

TUESDAY

I awoke early and felt pretty good—I'd had over twelve hours shut-eye. I took a warm shower, examined my body in the mirror as I dried myself. This was my second day out of the hospital and I was still alive. After a big breakfast I dropped in at Saxton's bank, identified myself with my VA papers, cashed the check. Mrs. Wilson's murder was in the morning headlines and the teller looked at Saxton's signature, said, “Hard to believe Mrs. Wilson is dead.”

“Know her?”

“She had an account here, saw her a few times. But Mr. Wilson came in every day. He's a swell guy. You know what I mean, real friendly, even though he's a big manufacturer. Papers are crazy, hinting he did it.”

“Never tell what makes a guy murder.”

“But not Mr. Wilson—never heard Henry raise his voice. He and I are members of the same Masonic Lodge. I know him pretty well. There isn't a nicer guy. Ask anybody.”

“Haven't time,” I said, counting the ten tens and walking away.

I stopped at the VA office and after waiting awhile saw a snooty young doctor named Kent, who told me, “Report here every two months for a check-up. Of course if you should feel sick, raise a fever, spit blood, have a bad cold, get in touch with us immediately.”

“Want to look me over now?”

“Why? Only 24 hours since you were released from the hospital. Feel all right?”

“Good as I can,” I said. He had a folder on me the hospital must have sent along and he thumbed through this, then stopped and read a page and looked up at me with puzzled eyes. So he knew. I didn't give too much of a damn about that. Being called a coward never worried me much—didn't mean a thing now. No one had ever exactly called me that. Still it was in his eyes. But what the hell did he know, sitting here in his comfortable office? Probably had a bum heart or a doc his age would be in the army.

When I left him it was only eleven and I started to look about for a room, but decided I ought to see Max, find out what was new on the great case.

Max gave me the double slap on the back before I could pull away, asked. “Dig up anything?”

“Plenty. Henry Wilson was a swell guy.”

Max raised his eyes. “Was?”

“Slip of the tongue,” I said casually. Max had missed some gray hairs under his chin this morning. “What's new on the murder?”

“Not a damn thing. We'll pick up Wilson soon—wired every police department in the country, checking airlines and trains. Can't figure the motive. From all the dope we can turn up, they were a happily married couple, both active in civic organizations, country club. Far as we can dig, he wasn't skirt-chasing.”

“What do you know about him?”

“Not too much. No record. He and Beatrice Saxton met in college. He was drafted in 1942, wounded in Africa, discharged in '44. They married then. He was born down South, doesn't seem to have any relations. All we can find out is he's one of these clean-living boys: played penny-ante poker and good bridge, worked out at the “Y” regularly, did the golf course under a hundred, stuff like that. Saxton took him into his chair business—Saxton seems to have liked the guy from the start—and Wilson was good, built the business up to where it is now. He had money—made about fifteen grand a year—position, a pretty wife, was well thought of. Lovely, isn't it?”

“Where was he wounded—in the head?”

“Checked that. Bullet almost cut his leg off, but it healed up okay. The maid's alibi checks. As for the corpse, can't find any enemies or boyfriends. Of course we're still looking into that.”

“How's his nibs, Saxton, stand up?” I asked.

“A little too anxious, but strictly a pillar-of-the-community character. Big joiner, member of the Chamber of Commerce, Lions, Rotary, Elks, comes from an old family. They were orphaned when he was 20, and he took care of his sister. Worked hard, sent her through college. Loved her and, as I said, liked Henry. This is going to be a tough one to crack.”

“Where was Saxton Sunday night?”

“Take it easy, his being anxious don't mean a thing— he spent the night with his girlfriend. A bachelor, but he's been keeping a Madeline Moore out at White Beach. He came there for supper Sunday, they killed a bottle, and went to sleep. He left her Monday morning at eight, drove to the factory.” Max wrote an address on a slip of paper, gave it to me. “Here's her address if you want to check. What have you been doing?”

“Sleeping.”

Max looked hurt. “Aw, Matt, snap out of it. You're taking the guy's money and...”

“I do my best work when I'm sleeping.” I stood up. “Check with you if I learn anything. Know where I can find a room—around the beach?”

“Saxton was asking about you this morning. At least drop over to see him. He's at the factory.”

“Sure.”

As I was waiting for a bus on the corner, a big car passed and the guy at the wheel turned to stare at me for a split second, his sharp face full of hate. I vaguely remembered him as a junky I once had pinched and roughed up, although the arrest hadn't held. I went to the nearest hockshop and bought a pigskin shoulder holster. I wore it over my heart and when I buttoned my coat. An experienced eye could plainly see the outline. It wasn't a bad bluff.

The Saxton Chair Company, Inc., was a modest three-story factory, a squat old brick building that seemed humming with activity. It was time for a pill and I dropped into an empty bar across the street from the factory, ordered a glass of stout. The barkeep was a fat old man, busy reading the papers. He was reading about the murder and I asked, “A juicy killing—ever see this Henry Wilson?”

“You bet. Regular guy. Dropped in here every afternoon for a cocktail. Why he was in Friday—day they say he disappeared. Didn't seem to have a care in the world. Say, even the workers in the factory liked him. Salt of the earth, no airs, or bossy ways about him. Why he won the baseball pool here one day last summer and spent it buying drinks on the house.”

“Saxton the same?”

The barkeep screwed up his fat face. “That do-gooder! He tried to have my license revoked when I opened—didn't want his workers drinking. Know what he is, one of these babies that talks dry but knocks off a bottle at home. Always shooting off his mouth in public about the evils of drink, but I can spot a rummy and... He a friend of yours?”

“Nope. I'm merely passing through.”

The old man studied my face, his eyes worried. “You're a dick! Sure, I remember you... when I was tending bar at the Silver Spoon on 4th Street. Sure, you once flattened two guys who were acting loud and wrong. Now listen, this is my own joint and everything is run according to the rule. Quiet joint, no fights or dancing, never sell to minors or...

“Stop running yourself down. I used to be a dick— I'm nothing now.”

He hesitated, then returned to his paper and I finished my stout and went across the street to the factory. The girl at the switchboard asked my name and what I wanted and I said, “Tell Mr. Saxton his secretary is here to see him,” and she stared at me as though I was crazy.

Saxton's office was large, plainly furnished, everything looking as though it had been there for years. He slipped me the iron handshake again, asked, “Found anything, Mr. Ranzino?”

“Nothing the police don't know.”

“I imagine these things take time. I simply can't believe Henry would do this. Lord, he was like a brother to me. The police are so sure he did it... yet... I don't think he could. Although, frankly, he's been a bit upset the last few weeks. Once told me he and Bea were having a little family trouble. And I think he was gambling or something.”

“You mean the two grand that's missing?”

“Yes, and several times in the past month he borrowed from me—ten and twenty dollars. Really nothing for a man of his income. And I'm sure his fight with Beatrice was just one of those things. If Henry would only show up—I can't understand it.”

Saxton looked at me as if I should understand it, so to do something I made with the talk. “You have a partnership will—where the surviving partner gets the entire business in case of the death of the other partner?”

“I believe we have,” Saxton boomed. “That's the usual procedure in a partnership, although according to law, we're incorporated.”

“How about his insurance and bank accounts—all in order?”

Saxton nodded. “Far as I know. Of course we can't open his vault box, or make much of an investigation, till Henry returns.”

“Mrs. Wilson—have any money of her own?”

“No. Oh, maybe a few hundred dollars.”

I couldn't think of any more silly questions, so I sat there, waiting, and Saxton waited and after a moment I got to my feet and he asked, “Care to look around his office? Right through that door.”

“Sure.”

I went into the adjoining office, which was about the same size as Saxton's, but painted a canary yellow, had several paintings on the wall—abstract stuff—and a red leather couch with a magazine rack beside it. The chairs were red-webbed leather and the desk was some sort of ebony wood and very modern. There was the usual framed picture of his wife on the desk, a picture taken several years ago, and she had a good face, not beautiful or flashy, but warm and attractive. I banged a few drawers loudly—for Saxton's benefit. There couldn't be anything in the office, the cops had been over it.

There was a closet with a raincoat hanging in it and an old pair of rubbers. Another door opened on a small bathroom. There was a hanging bookshelf above the John and I grinned—this Henry loved his comforts. The books were a couple of best-sellers and one titled, A Study of Geometric Planes and Angles. It was a worn book and I wondered why a guy would read that in the can and when I opened it, a large folded paper fell out. It was a deed to a cabin up on Arrow Mountain, dated two months ago.

I pocketed it—couldn't be possible the cops were that sloppy—returned to Saxton's office. He was leaning back in his chair, dictating a letter into a machine. I stood there, waiting. On his desk, among the morning mail, I saw a copy of America! America!

Saxton turned off the machine and I pointed to the newsletter. “That any good? My former partner runs it—Harry Loughlin.”

Saxton looked at me with new interest. “Oh. Heard him speak—energetic chap. I was one of his first subscribers. Henry was against it, but if we ever wanted to get in on defense contracts, had to be on the safe side. Finished with the office?”

I dropped the deed on his desk. He read it, his big face showing mild surprise. “Henry never mentioned this. Sometimes went hunting, but I'm surprised he never said anything about buying a cabin.”

I beat him to the question. “Want me to look the cabin over? Arrow is about fifty miles from here.”

“Think it would be worthwhile?”

“Never tell what may be a lead. I haven't a car.”

“You can take mine.” He handed me the keys and told somebody over the interphone I'd be down. He said, “I won't need the car before five, you'll be back by then. Probably a wild goose chase... but.”

He said it all very nicely—not too much of a straight face. He tried to break my hand again as we shook and I left. He had a heavy Caddy, about three years old, but well kept. I hadn't driven a car in too many months and it felt good to be behind all that smooth steady power. The roads were empty and I made it in an hour. It took me another twenty minutes to locate the cabin. A kid in a gas station pointing it out to me, said, “You buy it? Heard it was sold months ago.”

“Anybody living there?”

“No. You didn't buy it?”

It was a new cabin, made of logs or imitation logs, and set off by itself up on a wooded rise. I parked the car and walked up the slope, puffing a little. There were dark-blue burlap curtains over the window, but nothing moved. I was a fine target for anybody in the cabin, but I had a pretty good idea whoever was in there wasn't in any shape to do much shooting, or anything else.

I knocked, to be polite, and there wasn't any answer. I waited till I had my breath back again, took my pulse which surprised me by being normal, and tried the door.

It didn't feel like much of a lock. I put my shoulder to it twice.

There was an overturned chair, and the straight legs of a man—a man hanging from the rafter by a clothesline. The place had a slight stink and I judged Henry Wilson had been, dead for two days, or longer. Some field mice scampered away from the remains of a loaf of bread and some moldy meat on the table. There was an open fountain pen lying there, several crumpled sheets of paper—none of them with any writing. Wilson stared down at me with the vacant look of the dead. He had on an open white shirt, and the pants of a business suit. The coat was flung on a bed in the corner. Wilson was built like a welterweight, slight but compact, seemed on the handsome side. I saw a key inside the door, tried the windows—they were easy to open and shut. I put my handkerchief back in my pocket, didn't touch anything else.

I went back down the hill, drove to the gas station, called Max. He said he'd be right out. It was a little after one and I drove back to the cabin, walked up the hill slowly, watching my breathing—I didn't puff much —remembered it was time for my pill. I went to the sink and found the water off. There was a small valve under the sink, but I didn't turn it on, swallowed the pill dry. I'd had a lot of experience lately swallowing pills—wet or dry.

I sat on the doorstep and it hardly seemed any time at all before I heard the lonely wail of sirens and Max and Saxton and half the police department were charging up the slope. They all were puffing.

A doc cut Wilson down and said he'd died sometime Sunday morning, and Saxton looked thoroughly upset. Max actually shook my hand, gave me a line about a job well done and Saxton thanked me, gave me another check for a hundred for “excellent work.” I protested—lightly—that he'd already paid me for the two days I'd put in, but he shook his head and sat down and stared at the floor.

While everybody was gassing about the suicide and the case being closed, and being busy-busy, I said goodbye, or maybe I didn't bother, and got a ride back to town in a radio car. I didn't blame Max too much, he had a solution, an answer that fitted, why should he look for more work? Of course actually Saxton had killed his sister and brother-in-law; the only reason he hired me was to make damn sure the cops found the body.

Maybe I should have told Max about the water being off—not that it was conclusive proof of anything, still it could be enough for a starter, a real investigation. But what would that get me? I didn't give a damn about the case, who killed who, didn't want to get on it in the first place. Max was happy, so was Saxton, and I had two hundred bucks and was tired.

I slept most of my way back to town and it was only 3 p.m. and I decided I'd had my afternoon nap. I took a bus out to White Beach to look for a room. There weren't many VACANCY signs out, and what rooms were for rent were either about the size of a phone booth or must have been built of uranium and priced accordingly. But it was sunny and it felt good to walk along the beach, near the ocean.

By five I was ready to give up and go back to town when I passed a cottage and the number stuck in my mind. I got it after a moment—this was the house of Saxton's girlfriend, his alibi, Madeline Moore. I dug through my pockets, found the address Max had given me, and my memory was right. More out of curiosity to see what a clown like Saxton went for, I rang the bell.

I was surprised. A tall girl with a strong figure opened the door. Her face was good-natured rather than pretty, with large, frank eyes, a big heavy mouth, and a lot of dark hair that reached her shoulders. She was wearing short woolen socks, sandals, and a skirt and a blouse she must have put on in the dark. There wasn't a trace of make-up on her face—not that it would have helped things much, yet it was a face I liked.

For a moment we didn't speak, while I quickly ran my eyes over her body—as a guy does to every girl, and she did the same to me... but slower. Then she said, “Oh damn, another dick! I spent all day yesterday telling you guys all I know. And then it was the reporters. Why don't you leave me alone?” Her voice was throaty and for some reason excited me.

“I'm looking for a room. Do you...?”

“Bullshit, you've got detective written all over your pan, and those big shoulders.”

“I used to be a cop, but I'm not now. Honestly, I'm looking for a room.”

“My, isn't it simply a ginger-dandy coincidence you just happened to stop at my place! You see a VACANCY sign around here?”

“On the level—I was on the case as a sort of private eye, hired by Saxton but now that...”

“What's he doing, checking up on me?” she asked, her eyes still roaming over my body, measuring my shoulders—embarrassing me.

“Look, the case is over, they found Wilson's body and I...”

Her eyes looked shocked. “His body? Mr. Wilson dead?”

“Suicide—they say. Now...”

“Gee, he was a nice guy. Well, I guess he must have done it, but you'd never think it, looking at him. Never raised his voice or...”

“Anyway, I was down here looking for a room and... your address stuck in my mind.”

“This isn't a rooming house. Mr. Wilson dead...?”

“You know of any rooms? Cheap ones? I'm on a pension, and not very well. Have to rest. I was hurt in Korea and...”

Something in her face changed, I don't know exactly what, but she almost seemed as if she was going to weep. “Come in, Mr....”

“Matt Ranzino, Miss Moore.”

“Mrs. Moore. You see... my... my husband was killed at Taegu. Here...” We were in a small living room furnished with the kind of stuff you pay a few bucks down and another couple of bucks a week for. She opened a thick leather-bound book and showed me a small black-bordered picture of a cocky corporal. The book was one of these regimental history things. I was surprised they had them out so fast—usually takes a few years before they're issued. But a quick buck will always find an eager-beaver. The guy was wearing a tank helmet, looked handsome and big—about twenty-two. Madeline's head was near mine and I realized she couldn't be much more than that herself—a big kid.

A big kid with the faint odor of whiskey on her big breath.

Staring at the picture for a long moment, she said, “We were jobbed. Hardly had more than a few months of marriage. Then... Tell me about Korea, if you want to talk about it.”

“I don't.”

“Those yellow savages! What did they do to you boys?”

“They gave us a rough time, when I was there. But let's forget the war,” I added, afraid she was getting ready to cry on my shoulder. “Let's get back to now— do you know of a room?”

“I've an extra bedroom here. Been thinking of renting it out but... I... eh... never got around to it. I wanted a girl, but the hell with it.”

She never got around to it because Saxton didn't want anybody else in the house. If she would take me in, she must be washed up with Saxton. But if she wasn't.... I didn't want to get into any messy deal. I said, “That's right, would look odd having a male roomer in this small cottage. Best I...”

“Forget that. I gave up worrying what the neighbors thought a long, long time ago. You want a room—take a look at this.”

We went through the kitchen and into a fairly large bedroom with a big double bed, a chest of drawers, and a small table-bookcase beside the bed. The sun was streaming in past the red polka-dot curtains and the whole room had a sort of homy atmosphere—something my hotel room lacked. I said, “How much you asking for...?”

“Whatever you want to pay. I'm so far behind on my mortgage payments, it won't make much difference.”

“Well...” I wanted to say six bucks, but I knew that was too cheap. “Eight a week be okay?”

“You have a room, Matt. And call me Madeline, using last names is silly. You can use the kitchen any time you feel like cooking. Guess the bed will be big enough for you. You've got some pair of shoulders up there.”

“Worked in a warehouse when I was a kid, got the shoulders juggling trunks.”

“Biggest I ever saw,” she said, and ran her hands over my shoulders, felt of the muscles in my arm, poked her finger against my stomach. It was the first time I'd let a girl so... so brazenly feel me up, and I felt like blushing, and then like laughing.

“I like a man to be a man. A...”

“And a woman to be a woman?” I asked. This kid was really something—or she was drunk.

“All right, stop making like clever. Sure, a woman to be a woman. But a man should be big and hard. Billy— my husband—he used to hang around muscle beach, did acrobatics. Gee, hard to think a lousy little hunk of lead could kill all that man. Want a drink?”

“No, thanks.” I took out my wallet. “Here's two-weeks rent.”

She took the sixteen bucks, and I said I'd be back in an hour or so with my suitcase, and she went into her bedroom—which was furnished about the same as mine, didn't even have a dressing table, and took a key out of her pocketbook, said, “Most times I forget to lock the door, but here's your key. And if the front door is locked, back door is always open.”

I said thanks and tried not to laugh. I took the bus back to the hotel, checked out, and was looking around for Abe to see if he could get the desk to cash my check, but he was out to supper. On second thought I figured it would be a mistake to let him know too much of my business. I had a light supper and two glasses of milk, and got to the cottage at about seven. There was a burly joker sitting in a battered car parked near the house and he gave me the eye, but I couldn't recall ever having seen him before, told myself I'd have to get over the jittery feeling every time some big ape looked at me.

Madeline wasn't home and I hung up my few things, wrote the Finance Office and told them where to send my checks. I'd had a big day and was pretty tired, but figured I should mail the letter at once.

The stars were just coming out and the air was clean and cool and I left the mailbox and walked along the beach, kicking up the sand with my big feet. It reminded me of machine-gun bullets ripping up the ground. Tomorrow, I thought, I'll get a lot of sun, and some swimming wouldn't hurt.

I was watching the Pacific, thinking of Korea on the other end of the water, when I heard footsteps in back of me and as I turned I was tackled from behind and went sprawling on the sand. I felt like I'd been hit by a ton. My breath shot out of me with a terrifying ssssish! I tried to turn over and then I saw this burly guy jump in the air and land on my chest... and I could picture my lungs collapsing.

I went limp, fighting for breath, afraid to move and this goon was half astride me, cursing and punching, working his knee toward my groin. His blows didn't hurt much, except for one I stopped with my eye, and I kept rolling my head from side to side, trying to escape the punches. But it didn't work, there wasn't enough space.

There wasn't much point in lying there getting crushed to death while he found out he'd made a mistake, unless this was robbery—which I doubted—so I got my left hand over his mouth and nose and pushed. He went backwards a bit and I raised my shoulders and hips off the sand and slugged him in the belly.

His grunt was loud in the quiet of the beach and he dropped his hands to his stomach and rolled off. I sat up and got a solid left cross on his big jaw and he fell on his side—out cold. I jumped up and looked around to see if anybody was with him, but the beach was empty, just the lights of the cottages across the road. The guy was still out and I felt of my chest, surprised it was still there, took a deep breath. I was puffing and sweating, but otherwise okay. I sat down in the sand again, watching him and resting. My right eye was swollen and there was a small taste of blood on my mouth. For a moment the blood gave me a hell of a fright—I was sure I'd hemorrhaged. I ran my tongue over my lips and felt the cut there and nearly cried with relief.

“Bully-boy started to stir and I opened my coat and sat so the moonlight played on my shoulder holster. I got to my feet and when he started to sit up, I slapped him sharply across the forehead and he tried to kick me and fell over backwards. He was just a big fat soggy slob. He lay there, staring up at me with angry eyes and I knew that slap had left him dizzy. I asked, “What's your story, fat boy? Why the rough and tumble play? Got me mixed up with some other guy?”

“I know who you are.” He rubbed his jaw, touched his stomach. “Jesus, you hit hard.”

“Talk or I'll give you a real going-over. Who the hell are you?” I was sure rusty, I hadn't even frisked him.

“Stay away from Madeline!”

“What? Why, you dummy, I'm only rooming at her house. I'm not...”

“Stay away from her!”

“I never saw her till a few hours ago. I'm not cutting in on your time or...”

“Ain't no time, I'm her brother.”

I touched my holster. “Get up.”

“I warn you....”

“Get up!”

He scrambled to his feet and I looked him over closely in the moonlight and could see the resemblance—the same careless features. I dropped my hand, “Listen Madeline's brother, you got something awful wrong. Told you I never saw her till this afternoon. I was looking for a room and she rented me one. That's all.”

He sighed, worked his jaw, then said, “That's what she said. How come you picked her house?”

“I was-working for Saxton—on the Wilson murders— remembered Madeline's address when I came down here for a room.”

He spit out a glob of blood, straightened his suit and tie. “That lousy bastard, whatcha working for him for?”

“For a hundred bucks. What's your angle in all this, blubber?”

“Hell, let's sit down, I feel shaky, like there's a hole in my stomach. Never even saw that punch to the jaw,” he said, and I followed him across the sand, to a bench.

“A licking; as though I haven't got enough troubles. Got plenty of my own troubles and I got to watch Mady too. She's a good kid, only people don't understand her. She's been hitting the bottle. Don't like that, but I can't blame her too much. She's had a rough time.”

He lit a cigarette, offered me one. I shook my head. I didn't mind listening to his family troubles, I was curious about Madeline.

He said, “I'm Joe, the oldest one, Joe Shelley. Then there's Pete—a few years older than Mady, and her. I was almost a man, about fifteen, when she was born, and I always been looking out for her... you know how it is with kid sisters.”

“I never had none.”

“Pop died two months before she was born—heart attack. Ma died when Mady was ten. Me and the Wife raised her, and Pete. I've been like a father to her.”

“Okay, Pop, so what?”

“Mady's... a good kid, but with a lot of spirit, and that gets her in trouble because guys don't understand it.”

“What kind of spirit—besides the bottled ones?”

“Independence. She's on this equality for women line like some people get religion. See how it was, in Pop's will he left some insurance to see Pete through college, but none for Mady. Suppose she resented that, especially since Pete lit out East when he graduated. Then, Mady was just finishing high school at the end of the last war. Got an after-hours job in one of the plane factories. Did something with the wires on the wings. She's pretty good with her hands and made fine money. She quit school. I was against that but she thought she had a solid future in the plant. But after the war all the women workers were fired and that made her boiling. Just like they wouldn't make her a foreman because she was a woman, even though she knew more about the work than her foreman and...”

“Where does Billy come in?”

“Another tough break Mady got. They started going together back in '45, both about eighteen then. Tell you, I never thought much of him—one of these muscle-happy kids. But they hit if off, a little wild, but in a clean way—you know. Wanted to get married. But first he thought he'd be drafted so they should wait. Then when the war was over his folks wanted him to finish college before marrying. They waited four years, finally married, and a few months later he was taken in the army, killed in Korea. Poor boy was killed a long way from home. Mady sort of went to pieces, turned to the bottle. Along about then she met this louse, Saxton.”

“How?”

“She was working in his factory, clerking in the stock department. After awhile she went in to see Saxton, the big boss, asked to be promoted, that she could do the same work as the men, get the same salary. She wasn't drinking much then, it was only a few months after Billy died and she was taking it out in hard work. She...”

“Know Wilson, too?”

“Sure, just as one of the bosses, but Saxton got interested in her. Mady's kind of outspoken about things... and some guys mistake that for being loose. She ain't. I think she really went for Saxton for a time. Of course lot of people might think it's wrong for a girl to be living with a man like that, maybe it is. But then it was wrong for Mady to lose her husband after a couple months of marriage too, wasn't it?”

“Yeah.”

“Me and the wife thought it was okay, even though Saxton was twice her age. He was single, an important man, looked like what Mady needed. We thought in time they might even get married. That important man! He put her on the bottle, kept her liquored up, treating her like a... a kept woman.”

“You slug him too?”

Joe shook his head, a little sadly. “Wished I had. I went to see him couple months back. Mady wants to live with the guy, well, she's over twenty-one, and that's her business. And Mady isn't the kind you can tell anything. But when she quit work, slobbered around the house, tanked up all day, with him doling out the rent and food money, well, I had a talk with him. He was nasty and right after that—three days after to be exact —my own trouble started. Haven't any proof, but I feel sure Saxton is mixed up in it somehow.”

“You in a jam?”

“I'm a postman.”

“Thousands of guys take exams to get in that kind of a jam.”

“Look, Franzinb, I.....”

“Ranzino, and call me Matt.”

“Matt, I been carrying mail for nearly twenty years, it's all I know. You never get rich and it's no job for a guy with ambition, but I like it. People on my route are my friends. Why, for Christmas they gave me.... Look, three days after I see Saxton and almost get told out of his office, I get a telegram from a Harry Loughlin who runs an outfit called America! America! I go down there and he tells me he knows I was a union delegate in '48, talked about the postmen going out on strike for more pay. He says that makes me a Red, he's going to report me to the loyalty board. I told him...”

“They can't do anything to you for being a union man.”

“Hell, they can't!” Joe said, his voice coming alive. “It's against the law for postal workers to strike—I was going to have everybody call in sick—-and anyway, in these hearings most times you don't even know what the charges are against you, even who informed. And this Loughlin outfit is powerful. I begged him to leave me alone, my wife has a bad heart and if I lose my job, what else can I do? Besides, what did I do wrong? Cost of living was going up, everybody else was getting a raise so why not the post...?”

“You fired?”

Joe shook his head. “No. But he has me over a barrel. I got to prove what a 150% American I am by buying some big books on American history. The set costs a grand and I shell out a hundred a month—almost half what I make, and with prices so high, taxes...”

“You're in a real swindle,” I said. A grand for a set of books—Harry was playing a big-time con game. “But it doesn't pay to give in to blackmail.”

“Better than losing my job. This Loughlin is a shrewd sharpie, a...”

“I know all about him. He'll bleed you to death, then toss you to the wolves.”

“I don't know which way to turn. Already hocked my car, my TV set. I can't even tell the wife, it would worry her sick.”

“Many other post office men in the same jam?” I asked, getting up.

“Who knows? Any civil service guy is a wide open sucker for this racket.” Joe stood up, rubbed his jaw. “You wounded in the hand?”

“No.”

“Feels like you had a silver plate in your fist. Look, Matt, I'm sorry I made a mistake about you, and try to keep Mady off the bottle.”

“I'm only rooming there—don't involve me in anything. I came down here for a rest.”

“Well, do what you can,” he said, hopefully.

I said I'd see him around and walked back to the cottage. The living-room light was on and Mady was sitting in the one big chair, looking at some snapshots of her husband, the thick outfit history book open on her lap. She had a fifth of rye on the table beside her, a glass, and a pitcher of water, and one look at her eyes and I knew she was loaded. It was expensive rye—bonded Canadian stuff. When she saw me she asked, “Want a shot, Matt? Where you get the eye?”

“Guy claims he socked me—by mistake. And I don't want a drink.”

“So you don't want a drink—more for me. Thought you weren't a cop... why you carrying a gun?”

My coat was open, the holster showing. “That's empty.”

“Then why do you wear it?”

“Keep myself warm.”

She shrugged. “You don't want a drink... good night, roomer.”

“Good night.” I started for my room and she called out, “Hey, Matt, you know—I like the solid way you walk.”

I kept walking. If that was an invitation to anything, I wasn't buying. I undressed, went to the bathroom to wash. Mady seemed to be dozing in her chair.

A cold towel helped the eye. It was turning purple but the towel reduced the swelling. It wasn't going to be too bad.

When I hit the bed I couldn't sleep, even though I was tired. For one thing I could see the light in the living room and that annoyed me. I thought about this poor slob Joe, never asking for much, and the rooking Harry was giving him. Harry would be all right if he didn't push all the time. He never left a single stone unturned—especially if there was a fast buck under the stone.

When I did fall into a light sleep I dreamed I was sitting in the Wilson kitchen again and there was a close-up of the maid yelling at me over and over, “They'll do nothing, not a mumbling thing— you'll see!” And I kept telling her not to shout and asking why nothing would be done and when I woke up I had a head-sweat. The house was quiet, but the light was still on in the living room.

I reached over and got my T-shirt, wiped my head dry, then lay there, wondering what the maid had meant. She must have known Saxton did the killings, maybe that's why she hesitated before phoning the cops. But that didn't make sense, she seemed angry at the killing, so why should she protect Saxton, if that's what she was doing?

I tried not to think of the colored maid or the killing or Saxton or Joe—tried to get some sleep. I got up and shut my door but I could still see the light outline the door through the cracks, and after awhile I put on my slippers, straightened my pajamas and went into the living room.

She was out cold and I was about to turn out the light, but then she'd wake up later and fall over something in the darkness and wake me anyway, so I put an arm around her shoulders, pulled her to her feet. She was a heavy kid.

Mady opened her eyes, blinked a few times, then slobbered, “Hello... big shoulders... big wonderful shoulders.”

“Go to bed.”

She tried to nod and put an arm around me and I walked her to her room without too much trouble, put her on the bed. I didn't undress her and if she had to go to the John, that was her business. I put her legs on the bed and she stared up at me with that serious-comic look drunks have and I laughed at her and she smiled and sat up, said, “Matt, you're so ugly you're handsome.”

I sat down on the bed, tried to push her back into the pillow as I said, “Why don't you go to sleep?” She felt nice to push.

“Sleep. Egg... eggnog.”

“What?”

“Listen,” she said, trying hard to collect her thoughts, her big lips struggling with the words. “Listen, I'm drunk.”

“You sure are.”

“Listen, please get me a glass of milk and three eggs. Three.” She held up three fingers, one at a time. “And sugar. Tomorrow, no hangover, see? My secret remedy.”

And I don't know what it was: either the warmth in her drunken voice did things to me; maybe I felt sorry for her; or maybe it was because this was the first time I was with a girl in a long long time—a girl I knew I couldn't have picked up the bugs from. When she tried to sit up again, her big eyes staring at me, I took her in my arms and we kissed awkwardly. I could sure feel those heavy lips working, taste the rye on her breath. She pulled away and I, couldn't tell if she had enjoyed the kiss, or even knew I'd kissed her. But those lips felt hot and wonderful and it was fine to hold a girl in my arms. She said, “I'm tired,” and fell back on the pillow.

“Still want that milk concoction?”

She nodded, her eyes shut.

I went into the kitchen, broke three eggs into a glass of milk, added a spoonful of sugar. It was a slimy mess.

I sat on her bed again, pulled her up—her eyes had a hard time making me out. “What's the matter?” she asked.

“Here's your milk—the secret weapon,” I said, holding her up with one arm behind her back, putting the glass of milk to her mouth with the other hand. She took a long gulp and began to cough and choke. I slapped her on the back and she neatly spit out a mouthful of the mess—all over me.

I jumped up, spilling the rest of the glass over myself. Mady fell back on the bed, looked away from me, embarrassed, mumbled she was very sorry... and passed out!

My pajamas were damp and cold, smelled like a dairy truck. I cursed her, almost yanking the switch off the wall as I snapped out the lights, and went to the bathroom. I removed my pajama top, washed myself. As I dropped my wet pants, there was a gentle knock on the front door.

I stood there, waiting, not sure I'd heard right, and then the knock sounded again, louder.-1 walked through the dark living room and looked out the window.

Saxton was standing there. I was nude and thought the expression on his face would be worth the risk of a draft.

When he knocked again, I yanked the door open.

The moonlight hit me and I felt like a strip-tease artist facing the final spot. Saxton's thick mouth actually dropped open as he said, “What the devil...?” There wasn't any boom in his voice now.

The cool night air was chilling me, but I asked in a matter-of-fact voice, “What's on your mind, Willie?”

We stared at each other for a moment, his glance resting on my black eye, then he said softly, “You work too hard at your job, Ranzino. The case is solved, closed.”

“After a fashion.”

“What do you mean, after a fashion?”

“Exactly what you said, the case is over. I'm not working for you any longer. Any other questions, Willie Saxton, the third?”

“You're rather peppy tonight. Weren't like that yesterday, or this...”

“I delivered, you got what you paid for—a body. Now if you want me to do some more work on the case... I can think of a few angles that haven't been touched.”

He didn't say anything, merely stared at me, and I was getting cold. I said, “Good night, Willie,” and shut the door and he boomed, “You tell Madeline to call me in the morning!”

I stood behind the door, shivering a little and he knocked again, said, “Matt, open the door, want to talk to you.”

When I opened the door he said, “No hard feelings. You know, all's fair in love and war and gal-chasing.” He held out his hand.

I wasn't completely fooled, only I thought he was going to swing on me and I was watching his feet as I shook hands. My left was faster than his any time. I should have watched his shoulders—this strong ox suddenly yanked on my hand and I went sailing past him, off the steps, on my shoulders and face in the cold damp grass. It took me a moment to get my bearings and Saxton walked by, chuckling, said, “A little something to go with that eye.”

I'm a damn fool, I thought. Playing hero, lying out here like a fallen statue. Cold grass will fix me, but fast.

When my head stopped spinning, I dashed back into the house. I tried to wipe the green grass stain from my shoulders, and shoved a thermometer iii my chattering mouth as I put on long woolen underwear and climbed into bed, waiting for the cold to come. I didn't have any temperature, but I was too worried to be angry at Saxton. I was mad at myself for being a prize patsy, risking my health by sticking my fool nose in other people's business.

I turned off the table light and lay there, worried stiff and when I opened my eyes again it was daylight and 8 a.m.