Ed Lacy - Sin In Their Blood

“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.