Ed Lacy - Shakedown for Murder

“Don't be prissy, and I'm certainly not trying to be clever. Why, if you looked thin I'd ask you what you were eating. A person needs sex the same way they need food and shelter.”

“When I get in need for a woman, I find one!” I snapped, lying.

“This Miss Endin sounds like something you ought to get next to.”

“What's the matter with you? I'm an old man.”

“Only in your mind. Dan and I worry about you. He wants you to marry again. Matt, you're hard and lean, | homely in a way that appeals to women. You could easily find plenty of women. You're not sixty yet, most men your age start chasing chippies. But you, if you'd stop being an old maid, forget that silly fat-assed cat and....”

“I've had enough of this damn talk. I have no complaints about my sex life, never had!” I didn't realize I was talking so harshly until Bessie backed away. Changing the subject I asked, “Did you feed Matty?”

“The pig ate two helpings of liver. What do you plan to do tomorrow, about Jerry?”

“Oh, there's a lot to do,” I said, patting her cheek as we both grinned at each other. “I have to see what I can find out about this Mr. Nelson, maybe talk to him. And I want to learn more about Mrs. Jenks' sons, maybe snoop into Priscilla Barnes' background. I'm going to examine Jerry's car—if I can. Probably have a long talk with the lawyer Jerry hires. I'll be busy—busy all day doing....”

A car pulled up in front of the cottage. We both looked out at the rain sparkling in the headlights. Bessie groaned. “I hope this isn't the summer plague—unexpected guests. They come barging in and expect you to put them up for the night like it was....”

There were slow, tired steps on the porch until the door opened. Jerry stood there, blinking at the light. He looked haggard, sickly.

For a long moment we didn't speak, then I whispered, “Lord help us—how did you break out?”

“I came by to thank you both,” Jerry mumbled. “Now I go to my house and sleep. I sleep a long time. Yes, I need sleep.”

Bessie raced over and kissed him, said something in Greek. He nodded and touched her face with his fingers, his eyes began to water.

“How did you get out?” I asked, trying to keep my voice down.

“Out?” He blinked stupidly, wiped his eyes with the back of a dirty hand. “It's over, they set me free. The District Attorney, the judge, the policemen, they told me to go. They found the real killer. Didn't you hear? They found the body of a man in a car out at Hampton Point. They told me he killed the doctor. Some man named Nelson.”

Chapter 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why, you freed Jerry!”

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

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

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

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

“Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They nab whoever killed Nelson?”

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

“What makes him the doc's killer?”

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

“Roberts said nothing was missing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure.”

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

“The case is over.”

“It's special delivery, open it!”

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

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

Nat wrote:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Doing what, Grandpops?”

“Oh, Andy... leave me alone.”

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