Shakedown for Murder Page 4

  “I wanted to ask him about this reel he sold me,” Andy said, “It don't—doesn't work.”

  The guy smiled and it completely changed his face, gave it some life. “You must be the kid who wouldn't take the reel for a gift, wanted to buy it. He told me about you. What's wrong with it?” he asked, coming down the porch steps.

  “Stuck.”

  He rested the gun between his knees as Andy handed him the reel. I said, “If you're so fond of guns, learn how to handle them. If you should happen to kick the shotgun now, it would blow your head off.”

  “I know about guns, but thanks for the advice,” he said, resting the shotgun against the steps.

  “And you ought to think twice or three times about pointing it at people—even trespassers.”

  He looked up from the reel, eyes staring right into mine. He had honest eyes. “You must be this city policeman causing all the fuss.” He held out a large hand. “I'm Larry Anderson.”

  “Matt Lund,” I said, shaking his mitt.

  “Sorry I shouted at you. This used to be farm land and it's full of ruts and holes. I'm always afraid somebody will break a leg. As for the gun, I've been jumpy as a cat all morning. Pops had a mild heart attack right after breakfast and—you know about Doc Barnes. I couldn't even get a Hampton doctor to come over, those society snobs. Anyway, Pops' condition isn't serious and one of the docs gave me instructions over the phone. Pops will have to rest for a week or so, absolute rest. Meantime, just to play it safe, I've contacted a specialist in New York.” He took out a penknife and loosened a screw in the reel. It spun smoothly. “It's okay, son, you had it down too tight.”

  Andy thanked him and as we turned to walk back to the boat, Anderson said, “I'd better show you the path.”

  “I don't want to put you out....”

  “That's okay.” As we followed him across the field he said over his thick shoulder, “Of course the doc's death upset me too. As a member of the town council, I—and Art, Chief Roberts—have called a meeting for noon. Murder makes it a terrible mess. But you were right, Mr. Lund. At least the Chief agrees it's murder. But it sure don't make sense, anybody killing a sweet guy like Ed Barnes who always.... Careful, step around these wooden boards. Old well here and the weather may have rotted the cover. I know Doc would have been the first to agree with us about the publicity.”

  “What publicity?” I asked.

  “The summer season hasn't been too good, as it is. Now this murder talk—it won't help business or the good name of the Harbor.”

  When we reached the beach he said something about wind taking the POSTED signs he'd tacked to the trees. He showed Andy how to oil the reel, and pointing to a red buoy out in the water, said, “Tide should be in strong soon, brings in the fish. I've always found buoy 9 out there a good spot for kings.” He turned to me. “On behalf of the Harbor Council I want to thank you for helping out the police department.”

  “Guess in time Roberts would have noticed the door lock. He was excited. Young bunch of policemen you have.”

  “Chief Edwards died of kidney trouble last year, just after Jim Harris resigned to live with his girl in Brooklyn; she married a big dress man there. Art was new to the force, but that left him chief. Maybe you can give him a hand on this case?”

  “Nope, I'm on vacation here, for a week.”

  “Well, thank you again for your interest. Don't think we'll have much more sun, I'll take Pops back to his room. I'm trying to get a woman to help out around the house, but help is difficult to find during the summer.” He touched the binoculars around my neck. “Getting a lazy man's view of the harbor?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I have to tend to Pops. Treat that reel with care and it will work fine, sonny.”

  Andy said he would and we rowed out to the buoy. The kid got off some long casts while I pulled in a fair-sized porgy and the bastard cut my hands with his fins. Andy gave me a lecture on how to land a fish and I gave up fishing for the day. I saw Anderson up on the widow's walk, talking to Pops. Then he lifted the old man in his arms, stopped for second as if to point us out to Pops, then easily carried him into the house.

  The sun came out again and we hung around the buoy for a long time, Andy catching a couple more porgies. I was getting stiff and when it started to cloud up again, over Andy's protests, I said it was time to head for home.

  Neither Bessie nor the car were at the beach. Andy asked some women where she was but they said she hadn't been down as yet. We went to the cottage and Bessie wasn't there either. While the boy took the oars back, I showered and shaved, and then climbed into the mushy bed for a nap. It started to rain lightly and I lay there, listening to the rain hit the roof—an interesting sound for anybody accustomed to working in the damn rain. I was too pooped to sleep.

  I was only wearing shorts and my knees were lobster red; in fact my skin was so hot I couldn't cover myself with a sheet and had to shove Matty off the bed. He tried to jump back on and I got up and pushed him into the living room, closed the door. I took a belt of brandy and stretched out again. If I was in the city now, just coming off at four o'clock, I'd go back to my old beat and play cards with some of the storekeepers after they closed. Or sit around the house and watch an early cowboy movie on TV.

  Pain in my legs awoke me. Bessie was sitting on the bed, shaking me, her slacks pressing against my sunburnt knees. Her dark eyes were large and frightened. I asked, “What's the matter?” and moved away from her. It was still raining and at first I thought the shades were down, then I glanced at my watch—it was after eight.

  “Matt, Andy and I have been riding all over town looking for you, and here you are, pounding your ear!”

  I sat up and groaned; my skin felt as if it was cracking. “Damn, but I've got a burn. Got anything for that?”

  “I saw Matty on the couch outside so I thought you had gone to town or... I'm all mixed up. Matt, Matt, they've arrested Jerry for Dr. Barnes' murder!”

  I stood up and shook with a small chill; my red skin seemed to change from hot to ice every second. I was afraid to put on a robe. “Jerry, the dialectician? Where did you learn that?”

  “It's all over the village. And every one of these bigoted souls is pleased as punch now that the village 'foreigner' is labeled a murderer! I tried to see him but that dumb-ox police chief wouldn't even let me talk to him. Matt, there's nobody to help him. You saw Jerry, I know trim—he couldn't possibly kill anybody.”

  Stiffly, I headed for the door.

  “Matt, are you sleepwalking? Didn't you hear what I told you?”

  “I'm not deaf, but when I get up the first thing I have to do is take in the John. I'll be back in a second.”

  Washing was torture and I couldn't find a thing in the medicine chest for sunburn. When I came out, Bessie had tea bags is a pan of hot water, cotton, and a bottle of baby oil. She told me to stand still and began dabbing my red skin with the tea bags. It embarrassed me to have her touch me all over so I cornballed, “Thinking of serving me with sugar?”

  “No, with an apple in your mouth. Tannic acid is the best thing for a bum. Now I'll put on the oil, and dress you warmly before you catch a cold. Matt, we simply....”

  “Where's the kid?”

  “Visiting down the street. Matt, we must help Jerry. I'm certain they're making him the whipping boy, the goat.”

  “Do you know why they think Jerry did it?”

  “Oh, something about his having an argument with the doctor last night. Jerry is a diabetic, or on the verge of becoming one. He felt ill last night and called the doctor, who bawled him out for drinking beer. A neighbor heard them shouting at each other. Mrs. Barnes claims Jerry's was the only call the doctor had last night. There, that's enough oil, now get dressed. I have supper working.”

  “I'm not hungry, stuffed myself on sandwiches in the boat,” I said, going to my room and dressing. Matty was wailing for his supper.

  Bessie had hamburgers, potatoes, and a cup of strong spic
y tea waiting. She sat down opposite me and lit a cigarette. When I asked when she started smoking, she said, “Only when I'm nervous. Matt, you have to prove Jerry is innocent.”

  “Me?”

  “You're a policeman and the only one who can—and will—help him. You know he's being framed.”

  “Bessie, honey, because he's your landsman doesn't make him innocent. They must have something else on him beside what you've told me.”

  “They don't! You can almost feel the sigh of relief in the village now that he's arrested—they all hate him.”

  “You sure he's arrested or merely held for questioning?”

  “Oh—I don't know the legalities... Matt, what are you going to do?”

  “Go back to sleep. I'm on....”

  “Matt, I'm serious!”

  “So am I. Bessie, no matter what you may think, people are rarely framed for murder. At least not in New York State. I'm on vacation, not to mention that I have no business here as a cop.”

  “Matt, I'm counting on you. You're the one who started this murder business, you just have to help!”

  “Bessie, be sensible. I acted like a horse's ass this morning, playing the big cop. It's... well... like a matter of professional ethics. Suppose Roberts was in New York and tried playing cop—they'd laugh him out of town, if they didn't actually boot him out of the station house. Actually, as a peace officer, I have no more authority over Roberts than... well, than any citizen. I mean....”

  “Matt, you're spouting about ethics like this was a debate, a bull session. A man's life is at stake!”

  I nibbled at the hamburger. “Easy, Bessie. You say go out and solve a murder like it was the same as going to the store. I mean, exactly what do you think I can do? This isn't a movie. I'm not a detective; all my life I've been a plain old beat-cop. The truth is that except for a couple of busted store windows and petty house robberies, I've never taken part in a real crime. Jerry will get a lawyer, a chance to prove his innocence. Damn it, Bessie, what I'm trying to say is: I'm not sure I can help him or....” I let the rest of the sentence die, turned away to give Matty a piece of hamburger.

  I saw disgust and shame in Bessie's eyes. “I hate to say this, Matt, but you're an old maid. All you want is your bed and to fool around with a dumb cat. Jerry is a good man, doesn't that matter to you? I suppose if he was a lousy cat with a broken leg, you'd run to....” She held her face in her hands and began to weep.

  I'm a sucker for tears—any kind. I went around the table and put my hands on her shoulders. She hugged my waist. “Okay, Bessie, I'll see what I can do. But don't expect me to work miracles, be a super-sleuth.”

  She wiped her face on my shirt. “Matt, I'm sorry.... about calling you an old maid. You're like Jerry—a good man. I know you'll solve this. I just know!”

  “Yeah.” It sounded like nothing. “Let me have the keys to the car. I'll see what I can get from this alleged Chief of Police.” My fingers were stroking her hair, it was very soft.

  Bessie insisted I wear one of Danny's windbreakers, which was too big for me and I knew I looked comical as I parked in front of the Harbor's main building. I was hoping Robert's would be out. He wasn't. He was behind his desk sucking on a big cigar, and from the sneering expression on his face I had the feeling Roberts had been waiting for me. I was all set to explain about Bessie nagging me and how I was on vacation, and hardly wanted a fight with my daughter-in-law on any occasion. But the sight of him got my dander up, making it harder for me to apologize for sticking my nose into his business. I fully realized I was being a prize pain in his rear.

  Roberts boomed, “If it isn't Peace Officer Lund. I suppose you heard the news?” The sarcastic “Peace Officer” bit didn't help my mood.

  I relit my pipe and sat in the chair beside his desk. “Yeah, I heard. I know this sounds kind of dumb—I mean, this morning I was talking up because of the boy, and now, well, my daughter-in-law is after me. You see, she's Greek, like Jerry, and she wants me to....”

  “How come you let your son marry a Greek?”

  That ended any explanations I had in mind. I puffed on my pipe and stared at this big young handsome dressmaker's dummy. He puffed, too—purled out his chest, said, “Not bad for a hick cop: murder in the morning, an arrest in the afternoon.”

  “I never called you a hick cop, Roberts. Yeah, it was fast work. How did you do it?”

  “Common sense. We checked with Pris... Mrs. Barnes, on the doc's night calls. His last one was at Jerry's house. Mrs. Ida Bond—she lives across the road from Jerry—she heard the doc bawling Jerry out for drinking beer and Jerry telling him to leave him alone. She is ready to swear she heard Edward, Doc Barnes, shouting, 'Then I won't be responsible for your life,' and Jerry answering, 'And I won't be responsible for yours.' That's the exact words. Naturally when we questioned Jerry he denied the killing, but did admit he had some words with Doc. Claims he was home all night, but living alone... that ain't much of an alibi.”

  “You arrested him on that evidence?”

  Roberts waved a long hand at the smoke in the air. “Sounds good to me: two men have an argument and later one of them is found murdered.”

  “Find any fingerprints?”

  “Didn't look,” he said calmly. “First off, being out in that rain all night, hardly be any prints or tire tracks. Then, we were so sure it was an accident... I mean, the undertaker was already working on the body when you convinced me it had to be murder. But I got all the evidence I need.”

  “Come off it, Roberts,” I said, not blaming him for holding out on me. “Your evidence won't stand up in court.”

  He blew a cloud of lazy smoke, watched it drift up to the ceiling. “If it doesn't, Jerry's acquitted.” He leaned across the desk, lowered his voice. “Between you and me, being a diabetic old Jerry could plead he was in a state of shock, sort of nuts, get off with that.”

  This was the screwiest cop ever! “Anything missing? Wallet or money gone, any signs of robbery?” I asked.

  “Nope. Made a careful check with Mrs. Barnes. Everything's there. This wasn't any robbery.”

  “What time was the doctor at Jerry's house?”

  “Around nine-thirty. Jerry phoned him just before nine. Mrs. Barnes says the doc was peeved at having to make a night call. And before you ask what time the doc died— I'll tell you. Medical Examiner puts it around eleven P.M., but he can't be positive, give or take an hour or two. So that fits.”

  I was fed up with this hot air. I got to my feet. “Jerry has a lawyer?”

  A shrug of the heavy shoulders—and it wasn't padding either. “He must have plenty of dough, been living like a miser all his life. He can get himself a good one. He's over at the Riverside jail—that's the county seat.”

  “Think I can see him?”

  The handsome face tightened. “Look, it's an open and shut case....”

  “Can I see him?”

  Roberts stared at me, his eyes narrowing. There was a silent pause while he made a fist with his big right hand, balanced it on his left palm for a second, examining it. Finally, convinced he still had all his fingers, or something, he looked at me again, asked, “What you making a production of this for, Lund?”

  “No production. He's a kind of friend of the family. I merely want to see that he has a lawyer, cigarettes, understands his rights.”

  Roberts opened his fist, slapped the desk—lightly. “You should know it isn't up to me. Go down to the jail in the morning, if it will make you feel any better. Only if you're still on this peace officer kick, remember I'm in charge here and you'll do what I say or....”

  “You're the one making a thing of it. I told you why I'm here: Jerry is a friend of my daughter-in-law and... uh... Fm only doing this as a friend.”

  “Suit yourself, friend. But don't let me trip over you.”

  “Thanks.” I zipped up the floppy windbreaker on the way out.

  I didn't feel like rushing back to more of Bessie's needling. There was a dreary-loo
king bar across the street. I went in and ordered a beer. The bartender was a tall man with the kind of shoulder and arm development that came from doing something a darn sight harder than mixing drinks. He had weak eyes and his thick glasses gave his fleshy face an unreal look. There were a couple of young kids, about eighteen or nineteen, hanging around a pin-ball machine. They were drinking straight gin, or maybe it was vodka.

  I bought a bag of potato chips and sipped my brew slowly. Bessie said Jerry used his mumbling dialect on everybody in town—did that include the doc? If so, how could a woman across the road understand what he was yelling? And Barnes—now, why would a doctor be shouting at a patient? The whole dumb village was acting screwy: first they didn't want to call it murder, pass it off as an accident. Then they tagged Jerry and from the way Roberts acted, he couldn't care less if it held up in court. He seemed to want an acquittal.