Ed Lacy - Shakedown for Murder Страница 13

     Strong as Anderson seemed, he'd hardly lift a man with one arm. It sure was a careless way to carry a sick man, even if he could do it. And Pops—the floppy straw hat over his face, arms under the blanket... maybe that wasn't a man up there but a straw dummy!

     I told myself that was plain silly, but couldn't get the idea out of my mind. What would be the point of carrying a dummy up to the widow's walk, the reading act? After all, suppose Pops only weighed ninety to a hundred pounds, a guy built like Anderson could carry a hundred-pound sack of potatoes in one arm—maybe. Still, to lift a man recovering from a heart attack you'd think he would have put the glasses down, used both hands to carry Pops?

     Nuts, I thought, stop acting like a jerk. You're not on the case. You're not on anything but supposedly enjoying fishing. Keep it at that or you'll make a fool of yourself— again.

     I rowed out near some red and black buoys and we tossed out the anchor. We were in real deep water and I baited up but we didn't catch a damn thing. I picked up the boat model, it was even a better job than I thought—the kid had fashioned tiny furniture out of cardboard and matches. When I told him he was right smart Andy said, “Heck, I didn't do that part. Jenny Johnson did it. Bob— that's her brother—and I put the hull and deck together, but she fixed up the inside, even painted the name on the back. You'll see her on the beach today. She's pretty and smart.”

     “Your girlfriend?”

     “What? I should say not. Jenny is going on fifteen— she's old.”

     “That's not...” I began, and stopped. How old was Nelson? How old was Doc Barnes? Judging from Priscilla who looked about fifty-eight, the Doc must have been sixty-five, or so. Hell, of course he could have married an older woman.... But suppose he was sixty-five, anybody he called an “old goat” would have to be at least seventy, seventy-five or even eighty. That could be Nelson, if he was that old... and it could also be Pops! “Andy, how old was Pops?”

     “Not was, Grandpa, but is. My teacher told me to always be sure about the proper tense of a....”

     “Too hot for lessons. How old would you say Pops is?”

     “Gee, I don't know. He looks awful old.”

     “As old as I am?”

     “No, way older. Heck, I betcha Pops is at least... forty.”

     I stared at the kid, then grinned—at myself. He'd started me on the idea, what more could I expect? “Andy, how old do you think I am?”

     “I don't know,” he said, his voice uncomfortable. “Thirty-seven?”

     “Come on, now. Your daddy is going on thirty-five, I think, so I have to be at least twenty years older than he is.”

     “Why?”

     “I just have to,” I said, not wanting to explain the birds and lie bees to the kid. Pops was the man I had to talk to, and right away I tried to think of a way of going in now, without the kid asking a million questions.

     “You could only be fifteen years older than Dad.”

     “Okay, let's forget it This is sure a swell model. Next time we go shopping, I'll buy you another kit. In fast, if we row in....”

     “Great, Grans! Make it a helicopter kit this....”

     A siren went off back in the Harbor. “What's that—a fire?”

     Andy shook his head. “No. That was only one.... Do you say ring or blast or blow?”

     “Blast, I guess.”

     “One blast means it's noontime.”

     “I've had enough sun and I'm starved. Think we can make for the beach?”

     To my surprise the boy said, “Any time you wish.” He poked at the pail with his toe. “I wanted to go in before, show Mom my big porgy. Can I row?”

     I gave him the oars, slipped on a shirt and got my pipe working. When we came within sight of Anderson's house I put the glasses on the widow's walk. Pops was on the cot again, blanket and all. The hat was covering most of his face and he was still wearing the tan shirt. But he seemed to be holding a newspaper up on his stomach. Then I saw him turn a page, adjust his hat.

     Matt Lund and his great deductions? The old straw dummy was me. The hell with playing detective—I'd had it.

     Back on the beach I had a sandwich and some warm soda. After showing off his fish, Andy and another kid took it way down the beach to clean. I curled up in th» shade of the beach umbrella, listened to Bessie's small talk with the other young women, watched some tots busy making sand pies. I completely forgot the “case.” I felt so relaxed I even dozed off for a few minutes.

     Then Bessie shook me awake and soon had me digging clams with my fingers, squatting in the shallow water with the women. I managed to find a few. Bessie had a couple dozen small ones down her bosom, in fact all the girls had “clam bras” as they called it.

     When the tide came in high enough to make any more digging impossible, Bessie sat on the beach and smashed clams together and ate them. I skipped that—the fresh clams looked too gritty and snotty. I curled up for another nap but didn't complain when Andy said it was high enough for swimming. I fooled in the water with the kids. When Bessie stood up and shouted it was five, time to go home as she had a special meat pudding to make... I was completely pooped, glad to drag my tired rear toward the cottage.

     Walking along the road Bessie kept bawling me out for getting too much sun, but I told her I felt fine. And I did. I was honestly tired without a worry or a thought on my mind. All I wanted was to eat and swim—get some sleep, and the hell with being a jerk detective. When Bessie said something about asking Jane Endin over I was so bushed I only put up a mild argument.

     Reaching the cottage I went around to the back, with Andy, to hang out the beach towels. He asked how soon we'd buy the helicopter kit and....

     Bessie screamed. A hell of a scream.

     I dropped the towels, damn near fell over Andy as we rushed around front, into the house. Bessie was standing in the doorway, pointing, her face full of horror.

     Matty was on his back, his four feet sticking stiffly up in the air. He was laying on the tabletop, next to a dish of food. One glance told me he was dead.

Chapter 6

     Andy asked, “Is poor Matty sick?”

     I finally took my eyes off the cat, looked coldly around the room. I was frightened, but most of all I was too angry and upset to speak. Before I'd been grandstanding for the boy, maybe for myself, doing Bessie a favor, or perhaps having a little something going for the sake of “justice.” But that was all over. Now I was just plain goddamn burning mad!

     Andy asked, “What's the matter with Matty? If we give him some warm milk...?”

     Bessie put an arm around the boy's fat shoulders, told him softly, “He's dead, Andy. He took sick and died and he's—”

     “Gone to Heaven? Mom, do cats and dogs go to Hell, too?”

     “Keep still, Andy.” She turned to me, her eyes troubled. “He is dead, isn't he, Matt?”

     Sure, I knew he was dead at first glance. But I stepped over and poked his stiff legs with my fingers, stared into the glassy little eyes. I was putting on an act for Bessie. My eyes kept working the room, waiting for any movement or sound behind the doors, in the other rooms. But the killer wouldn't be dumb enough to hang around. If he'd been down for real action, he wouldn't have bothered with my cat. The room looked okay, not a thing disturbed.

     Andy was asking, “But, Mom, how did he die? Did he eat some of the stuff in that plate? Looks like there's some of it on his mouth.”

     “I don't know,” Bessie said, starting for the table.

     I grabbed her shoulder, told her, “Don't move. Did you touch anything when you came in?”

     “No. Soon as I opened the door and saw Matty, I yelled. I don't understand how I could have been so careless as to leave those vegetables out of the refrigerator. It isn't like me to....”

     “What's in the bowl?” I asked, my eyes still covering the room.

     “I was going to make keftethes for supper, so I....”

     “What's that?”

     I must have been snapping the questions at her, for Bessie sort of blinked and backed away from me as she said, “It's a... uh... fried meat ball. But there isn't any meat in the dish—just some vegetables I intended to saute first—tomato paste, peppers, mushrooms, olives, herbs and.... Obviously the heat must have turned the food and Matty ate some and got ptomaine and... oh, Matt, I know how fond you were of the beast... I'm sorry I was so careless, really!” She was on the verge of tears.

     “Stop it, Bessie.” My voice was hard and curt; I knew I had to simmer down, cool off and use my head. “It wasn't your fault, you didn't do anything to Matty.”

     Andy said, “Gee, think what would have happened if we had eaten the food. I bet....”

     Bessie nodded, her face a sudden sickly white. “Matty saved our lives. But—even if it has been a hot afternoon, why should vegetables spoil that fast?”

     There was a moment of silence. I was trying to think a few steps ahead. Then Bessie said, “Matt, will you take... him... away? I'll clean up and....”

     I told her, “Bessie, I want you to stay out of the house, for awhile. You and Andy eat out.”

     “Why?”

     “I have some things to do here.”

     She shrugged. “Well, if you wish. We'll change and eat in the village.” She started for the bedroom.

     “No! I want you both out right now!”

     “In our bathing suits? Please, Matt, while I realize how deeply you felt about the cat, I said I was sorry about the accident but....”

     “Will you stay the hell out of here! I don't care where you eat—just leave me alone!” I heard the roar of my own voice and Andy's shrill, “Grandpops!”

     I suddenly relaxed, got my nerves somewhat under control. Even tried to smile at Bessie as I took her trembling band, told her, “Honey, don't you see, I'm not only thinking about Matty—he's dead and gone. This wasn't any accident. This is a warning.”

     “A warning? About what?”

     “An attempt to frighten me off the Doc Barnes murder.”

     Bessie tried to hide the anxious look mat slipped across her soft face. “But, Matt, that's over, solved.”

     “The killer thinks I'm still on the case, didn't fall for that Nelson suicide thing.”

     “Matty ate some bad food, that's too bad, but aren't you going overboard trying to connect a simple accident with...?”

     “Bessie, Bessie, are you blind? You know what a fussy eater Matty is—was. You commented upon it several times. He wouldn't have eaten that food—I've never seen him jump on the table to steal food in his life! Don't you see, this is a plant, and a clumsy one at that, to scare....” I saw Andy staring up at me with big eyes—and bigger ears. “Andy, without saying a single word to anybody about what's happened, run over to the Johnsons, or whoever has a phone, and call the police. Just tell Roberts I want him up here pronto.”

     “Yes, sir!” the boy said, taking off like a sprinter.

     I waited until I heard him running down the road.

     “Bessie, honey, this isn't any joke—it's damn serious. The killer came around to put the fear of God in me. He found Matty. Suppose he'd found you or Andy?”

     Her face said she still didn't believe me. “Matt, doesn't that sound rather—fantastic? The heat spoiled some food and Matty ate it.”

     “That's exactly what he wants us to buy—well, no sale! The killer has been riding his luck high, but with Matty he made his first mistake. He couldn't know Matty's eating habits, that Matty would never leap on the table for food.”

     “Who knows how hungry the cat was?”

     “Look, I certainly know all about his dainty appetite—it's impossible!”

     “Now, Matt, be reasonable. I mean Matty could have.... He? You know who the killer is? Why Barnes was killed?”

     “I don't know the why, but I have a hell of a strong idea as to who did it Bessie, what are we wasting time and arguing about? Whether you think I'm crazy or not, let's not take any chances. Take Andy over to the Johnsons and stay there for the night. Or until I call for you. I have a lot of work to do here: fingerprints and other clues. Okay?”

     “Oh, Matt, you're not making much sense. I think you're....”

     “Damn it, honey, what do you know about murder? Listen, at least humor me, even if you think I'm an old fool!”

     “Matt, you know I don't think that. I mean, it's simply that.... All right, I'll wait for you at the Johnsons. Can I at least take some meat out of the refrigerator to cook over there?”

     “No. After I have it analyzed, I'm throwing out every bit of food here. Forget food, you ate enough clams to last you a week. Honey, just turn right about and get. And don't worry.”

     She giggled nervously. “Now you tell me—don't worry! I'll be waiting for you at the Johnsons. Matt, please take care—don't do anything foolish.”

     I nodded, watched her cross the porch, go down the steps. It suddenly came to me how right she was: the chips were down and I'd damn well better be a good detective —no more second guessing.

     I walked through the house slowly. Things seemed okay. But then he hadn't been hunting for anything—except me. I returned to the table and Matty. There didn't seem to be any skin or blood sticking to his claws. Yet I couldn't see him being manhandled without a fight. His mouth was wide open in a sort of gasp and some of the tomato-red food stuck in his throat. I sniffed at the bowl, the food smelled spicy and good. I took another sniff, bending so low the tip of my nose touched the mess. I jerked my head back, laughing aloud like a goon—the food was cold! I stuck a finger in: it was all cool—proving Bessie hadn't left it out on the table. There wasn't any doubt, it had been deliberate.