Ed Lacy - Shakedown for Murder

     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.