Читать интересную книгу Shakedown for Murder - Ed Lacy

     It was after eleven and I stopped at the Johnsons to tell Bessie I'd spend the night in her cottage. Mr. Johnson was playing solitaire on the kitchen table, said, “Bessie and Andy went home about an hour ago. It's all right, their....”

     I ran out of the house and sprinted for the cottage as if I were a kid. I came busting into the place, puffing like a whale and there was Danny grinning nervously at me. I fell into a chair as I tried to ask, “What are you doing here?”

     “Take it slow, Matt. Man your age shouldn't be racing down the street. Anybody chasing you?” I noticed he had the kid's baseball bat leaning against a chain.

     I shook my head. “Where's Bessie and Andy?”

     “Sleeping. They've had a big day. I happened to got some time off, thought I'd make it a long week end, be with you.”

     “Cut the slop, Danny, Bessie phoned you to come.”

     He came over and sat on the arm of my chair. “Yes. She's worried about you, Matt. Dad, I've always looked up to you as a man with plenty of good old common sense— so tell me one thing and I'll be quiet—are you sure you're not going off the deep end on Matty's death?”

     “Matty's death got me angry but it didn't make me hysterical, if that's what you mean. I'm not going off half-cocked. Before I was kind of playing at solving this murder, now I'm serious. I think I know what I'm doing.”

     He slapped me on the back lightly. “Okay, Dad. What can I do to help you?”

     “Stay with Bessie and Andy every minute of the day tomorrow. Don't frighten them, go to the beach and all the other things you usually do, but don't let them out of your sight. Having that bat around isn't a bad idea, either. I'm going to set the alarm and sleep on the porch because I have to be up in a few hours. I'll be gone most of tomorrow.”

     He wanted to ask where I was going, but didn't He pointed at my clothes. “Been in a fight?”

     “Nope, merely crawling on the grass. Now stop worrying. Tomorrow I'm only going riding, to see some of the other towns. With a woman. No danger.”

     “This Indian sex-boat Bessie told me about?”

     “Sex-boat? I ought to fan Bessie's.... Go to sleep, Dan, and let me work things out in my own way.”

     “Hungry? I have tea on and....”

     “Where did you find food here?” I shouted.

     “Easy, Dad. Bessie told me over the phone that you'd thrown out everything, so I brought some down with me. Hungry?”

     I nodded.

     I washed up, had a cup of tea and a few sandwiches, made up the porch cot, set the alarm. I didn't need a clock to wake me—I never went to sleep. I listened to the country noises, and thought of nothing and everything. I was bushed but my mind kept spinning like a top. Mostly I lay there waiting—waiting for something to happen. I had this feeling I was in way over my head, had dragged Dan and his family in, too. I wanted bullets for my gun, I wanted Roberts at least working with me... and most of all, I wished I was back in the precinct, had the platoon with me.

     In the quiet I couldn't kid myself any longer—as a cop I didn't have much confidence in me. I was goddamn frightened.

Chapter 7

     I got up at three and turned off the alarm. I must have slept a few winks, I felt rested, although my mind was still down in the dumps. I washed and shaved, careful not to make any noise. When I came out of the bathroom I found Bessie at the stove. She had a robe over her baby-dolls, but the robe was open and gave her a very deshabille effect. “Coffee, Matt?” she whispered.

     “What are you doing up?”

     “I've always been a light sleeper. Danny and Andy— take a bomb to wake them.”

     “What did you have to send for Dan for?”

     “You have me worried, Matt. Danny says you're going out with this Jane Endin today. Any danger?”

     I laughed. “That's what you've wanted, me to take her out. No danger, we're merely going around and asking a few questions.”

     “So early in the morning?”

     “Okay, take me off the witness stand. Can you make some of that thick Turkish coffee? It will stay with me awhile.”

     “Certainly. How about toast, eggs?”

     “Just coffee.”

     I went into my room and watching the sleeping boy, I hid my empty gun. The kid had a big knife in his fishing box, but I didn't know much about using a knife.

     I was sipping a tiny cup of the thick, soupy coffee when a car pulled up outside. I went out and asked Jane if she wanted coffee. The dim light from the dashboard hit the planes of her face at an odd angle, making it look like a long soft mask. She was wearing slacks, a tight white blouse with a big jade pin at the neck, and a short suede jacket. The tightness of the blouse said she was a bigger woman than I'd imagined. She hesitated, then said she would take a cup. We walked to the house and I introduced her to Bessie—for a second they looked each other over like pugs listening to the ref's instructions. Jane drank her coffee in silence, and drank it fast. Then she stood up, told Bessie, “I never had anything like that before. It's very good. Thank you.” She turned to me. “It's getting late.” She walked toward the door, the odd, stiff-legged walk, her thick braid doing a saucy dance on her back.

     I put on Danny's too-big windbreaker, told Bessie I'd probably be back in the afternoon but not to worry if it was later. Bessie put her lips to my ear and whispered a single word:

     “Wow!”

     As we drove toward Riverside and Patchogue the sky was bright with pale stars and the road spotted with fog pockets. Jane was a good driver, real good. After a while she said, “Your daughter-in-law is a very attractive woman. It must be a joy to have children, visit with them.”

     “I don't know. After kids grow up they should stay out of their parents' way, and vice versa. I don't think they want to be bothered with an old man. And I didn't want to come out here. I have a better time alone in the city.”

     “That's a strange thing to say.”

     “Why? I'm old, set in my ways, and I know it. Next week I have to go up to the mountains to see my daughter Signe and her kids. It's a routine. Another crowded, noisy cottage. I won't get any rest there and neither will Signe.”

     “The fortunate are not always aware of their fortune.”

     I didn't know if that was supposed to be an old Indian saying or not, and didn't ask. “Shouldn't we see if Anderson has pulled out with his truck?”

     “He's left. We'll pick him up at Patchogue. He never makes any stops until he starts back. He'll return to the Harbor by nine, then take out his station wagon to deliver the mail. About ten-thirty he'll pick up his truck, head out toward Montauk.”

     My mind began to wrinkle with doubts as I wondered how often Jane had tailed Anderson before—or driven with him?

     “That was an odd coffee Mrs. Lund served. I hear she makes an interesting wine pudding.”

     I turned and stared at her. “How did you know that?”

     “Just heard it.”

     “Hasn't anybody in the Harbor anything to do but snoop on...?” I saw her face tighten up and added. “What I mean, exactly how does this village gossip work?”

     “Very simple. Mrs. Lund asked Charley, who has the store as you turn into Main Street, for grapes, said she was going to mash them. Naturally he asked why and she told him about the wine pudding. I happened to be in the store later in the afternoon when he was repeating the recipe to some other woman. Don't people talk to each other in New York?”

     “I suppose so, but there's so many people it's hard to tell.”

     The roads were empty and she kept the car at fifty, only slowing down as we went through Riverside, and as we neared Patchogue an hour later, in a lot of truck traffic.

     It was starting to turn light as she pulled up before some old buildings, nodded down the street. There were lights on in a warehouse beside a railroad siding, and several trucks were backed up to a loading platform. Anderson was watching two colored men loading his neat truck.

     “What do we do now?”

     “Wait,” I said, reaching into a pocket for my lost pipe and a notebook. I borrowed one of her cigarettes as I wrote down the name of the wholesaler and the time. Jane sat there, staring at nothing; she made me uneasy. I couldn't entirely lose the feeling I was walking into a trap.

     At six forty-eight, the day starting bright and sunny, Anderson headed back toward the Harbor. I nudged her knee, told her not to stay too close. If I'd had my wits about me, I would have brought the glasses along. But there were more cars on the road and it wasn't any trick tailing the big green truck. Anderson drove some twenty miles before he stopped at a village of two stores; a hardware shop and a general store. The owner of the general store helped Larry unload a few crates of stuff. Although we were parked behind a bend down the road, I could make out a kind of mild argument—the storekeeper evidently wanted Anderson to take back a small basket of tomatoes. Finally Anderson was paid and drove off.

     I made a note of the store and time, told Jane to drive on. She asked, “I thought you were going to talk to the man in the store?”

     “We'll return later. You know Anderson's route, don't you?”

     “No. From here on he'll make a lot of stops. Suppose you get out and talk to this man, while I follow Larry? Takes him five or ten minutes at each stop, and when I find where he's stopping, I'll come back and get you.”

     “We can return here later in the day....”

     “I'd like to get this over quickly. I don't like spying on people.”

     “But suppose we lose him?”

     “Island's so narrow here if we cruised about for ten minutes, we'd run into him,” Jane said, opening the door for me.

     There wasn't anything for me to do but get out. I told her, “If you don't see me when you come back, honk your horn twice. And park a ways down from the store.” She nodded and drove off. I knew I was making a rock play. Why had she practically put me out of the car? Was she warning Larry? But she could have done that last night, or refused to come with me, or give me her car.

     The storekeeper was a pudgy Italian, or maybe a Syrian, with a very straight large nose and dark eyes. He was opening a crate of melons, feeling each one, as I walked in.

     I bought a corncob pipe and some tobacco. He gave me the “Now I know summer is really here, seeing you. Stopping at the Fan Tail Hotel, sir?”

     “No, I'm staying at End Harbor, merely riding around this morning.”

     Giving the last melon a feel he took the bait, told me, “My vegetable man comes from there. You know Larry Anderson?”

     “I've seen his truck. Hard worker.”

     “Kills himself three times a week, and of course he's the mailman, too. But in the winter he only makes a trip here once a week. Me, I stand on my feet all day long, winter and summer.”

     “I bet,” I said, trying to turn the conversation around to something—and not knowing what “something” was. “Guess you know Pops is sick? Larry must have his hands full.”

     “I know. Larry takes good care of old man Watson. Tell you, you won't find many people these days giving a hoot about anybody else or.... Up early, Mrs. Kane.”

     A young woman customer was at the door. “I have the baby in the car, Joe. Give me a bottle of milk, package of bacon, two packs of cigarettes. Put it on my tab.”

     I waited until he had taken care of her, feeling excited. Then I asked, “Did you say Pops' name was Watson?”

     “Sure.”

     “Of course I'm only down for a week, but my son knows him and I thought his name was Pops Brown?”

     He shook his fat head. “Naw, not the old man living with Larry. Used to help him out. His name is John Watson, I know.”

     “I suppose you do, but I'd have sworn it was Brown.”

     “Well, you have him mixed up with somebody else.”

     I considered flashing my badge to get more dope, but tried talk. “I don't want to contradict you, mister, but I never forget a name. I'm sure it's Brown.”

     The storekeeper sighed. “Look, I know, every month I cash his Social Security check. John Watson—no middle name. For seven years I been cashing them every month. Mister, if I was on Social Security I'd sit for the rest of my life.”

     A horn honked twice outside. “None of my business, but why does... eh... Watson come all the way over here to cash his check?”

     He shrugged. “Maybe he don't want the End Harbor bank to know his business. Maybe it's a habit—I started cashing the checks when old man Watson was helping Larry on the truck. Now—every month Larry brings me the check. It's for... I don't even know why I'm telling you this, Larry always says he don't want people knowing his business. But like I said, that's how I'm sure his name is Watson.”

     The horn sounded again. “Guess you have me,” I said, making for the door. “First time I've been wrong on a name in years.”

     “Always a first time for everything,” the storekeeper said, opening another crate.

     Jane's car was down the road. When she saw me she turned around and as I slid in beside her she said, “Larry's about seven miles from here, making a delivery to a roadside diner, having breakfast there. Learn anything?”

     “I don't know. What did you say Pops' name was?”

     “Brown.”

     “Are you positive?”

     “Certainly. Why?”

     “Nothing, I couldn't remember it. We'll wait until Larry leaves the diner then do the same thing—you go on to the next stop, come back for me.”