Ed Lacy - Sin In Their Blood

I went downstairs and there was a swinging door leading into the kitchen, only the damn thing was warped and I had to put my shoulder to it before it opened. The maid was a thin, dark-skinned colored woman, maybe fifty, maybe older. She had a towel wrapped around her hair, was wearing a plain house dress, her stockings too big for bony legs that disappeared into a pair of old slippers. It was pretty unusual for a person to bother looking up the police number in a phone book when calling in a murder.

She was cleaning the gas stove and two young cops were sitting at the white kitchen table, smoking. One of them said, “Come on, Aunty, make us a cup of coffee. Got any doughnuts handy?”

“I'll Aunty you!” the maid told them in a high voice. “Get out of my kitchen!” ..

“Don't get tough, you old bag,” the cop said. “You may be in our kitchen soon—we do a special hose job on shines. All I'm asking is for a cup of Java and...”

“Shines! You have your filthy nerve! And don't you call me a bag, don't even speak to me! Sitting there so big, cluttering up my place and all because you got a badge, a...”

“Watch it,” the second cop said, “or you'll get that fresh mouth of yours slapped shut. Make us some coffee!”

“I'll make you some lye first!” the woman said, on the verge of tears.

“You're asking for a boot in the ass,” the first cop said. “Now get that...”

I said, “Captain Daniels didn't bring you here for coffee, or to be hanging around the kitchen.”

The two of them looked me over, trying to figure who I was, if I was from headquarters. They both crushed their cigarettes on the kitchen table and shuffled out.

The maid took a rag and wiped the table, muttering, “Pigs!”

I sat down and she said, “What do you want? Ain't no murder been done in my kitchen—stay upstairs where you belong!”

“I wonder if I could get a glass of milk, Miss Samuels?”

She looked at me for a moment, then said, “At least you got enough manners to call me Miss. And it's Mrs.”

She took a container of milk out of the big spotless icebox, poured me a glass. I sipped it slowly so as not to chill my guts. She asked, “You a detective?”

“The detectives are upstairs.”

“Hump! lot of good they'll do. Even if they find the killer—lot of good that will do. They won't touch him.”

“If they find him, they'll take care of him,” I said, thinking how sure she was it was a “him,” wondering why she had hesitated before phoning the police.

“Will they?”

“They usually do. Cops like convictions.”

She grunted, turned on me and said fiercely, “They'll do nothing, not a mumbling thing—you'll see!”

I finished my milk and wondered if I could leave, go back to my hotel and get my nap. Waiting around the house would only get me a ride back to town, and more of Max's pep talk.

Mrs. Samuels kept puttering around the stove, mumbling, “Them asking me all sorts of fool questions. As though I wanted Miss Beatrice to die. Or hinting Mr. Henry murdered his wife. Like asking the earth if it killed a seed. Say that to say this, wasn't a sweeter, more lovey-dovey couple than them two. Fine people, good to work for. Woman keep her dignity working for them. Why I wouldn't do nothing to...”

“Yeah. Well, thanks for the milk,” I said, getting up. The door wasn't stuck from the kitchen side.

My timing was lousy. I was crossing the hallway when Max and this Saxton came down the stairs. Max said, “Matt, have something for you.” And I didn't like the happy note in his hoarse voice.

Saxton said, in a selling voice, “I understand you are a crackerjack private detective.”

“If you mean I come with corn—yeah.” They didn't get my little joke. “I used to be a private dick.”

“Listen, Matt,” Max cut in, “Mr. Saxton mentioned he was so anxious to clean up the death of his sister, he was going to hire a private investigator to help us. Of course I thought of you.”

I almost laughed in Max's puss. That private investigator stuff, and a copper likes to have a private dick around a case the same way a rat loves to have a kitten around. But Max was going to rehabilitate me—as though the hospital hadn't tried enough of that.

“I can't take a case, I'm not licensed,” I began.

But Saxton boomed, “I know, and I want you to start at once—this very second! Suppose I don't hire you as a detective but as a... eh... secretary? I want everything possible done on this... case. The smallest detail investigated. I'm willing to pay you fifty dollars a day, starting as of this minute.”

“Be wasting your dough,” I told him. “Been over a year since I've worked and...”

“Fine! Fine! I like that—honesty, a rare quality,” Saxton said.

“And you couldn't find a better man. Matt was tops in his field,” Max said, giving me the eye.

I didn't say anything and Saxton said, “I don't expect miracles, but thorough work. Now Mr.... eh...?”

“Ranzino,” Max said.

“Are you working for me, Mr. Ranzino?”

“Well...” I was far from flush and even if I worked two days it meant a hundred—almost a month's pension. And this joker was too eager to give me his dough.

“Take it, Matt,” Max said, giving me the double pat on the back that annoyed me. “Wouldn't ask you unless I thought you could help.”

“Okay,” I said. “But you know in front where I stand, I'm rusty and...” I was about, to add, “And not too well,” but Saxton boomed, “I understand,” and shook my hand. He had a big hand and a powerful grasp. “I'll give you a retainer. Hundred do?”

I nodded and he pulled out a checkbook, looked around for a table, then pushed the kitchen door open with one finger and we all went in and he sat down and wrote me a check.

I waved it to let the ink dry and Max said, “Now let's go down to the station and talk. Start from the beginning and see what we end up with.”

I said I'd stay there and Saxton told me to keep in touch with him and I said I would and they went out. I pocketed the check and the maid asked, “You a detective now?”

“Seems so.” I went out and tried the kitchen door again. It was still stuck. For a man his age—or any age—Saxton was damn strong... or I was weaker than I thought.

Outside, I took a fairly deep breath and looked around for the nearest bus. I walked to the corner, noting the fine houses on the block, thinking of that old fine about the rich and poor having one thing in common—death. I felt tired and hailed a cruising cab— now that I was in the dough.

In my room I undressed to my underwear and went to bed. It took me some time to fall asleep. I thought of Harry and how the nance in him was coming out more and more. I could see it after being away all this time. Flo got hooked up with the wrong guy this trip—even for the car and the money. And having to sleep with the creep as a topper. It was a crazy scared world I'd returned to—frightened worse than the world of the hospital. There it was simple: either you lived or you died. Here... nothing added up. And I was the silliest joker of them all—getting fifty bucks a day for a case I didn't give a damn about, didn't intend to do any work on. Maybe that maid was right when she said nothing would be done—maybe she had me in mind, ..without knowing it.

But Saxton was crazier—he was paying me. And Max, the Big Brother, helping me rook Saxton.

But I didn't feel bad about the rooking. I didn't feel anything, one way or another, except tired.

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?”