Читать интересную книгу Shakedown for Murder - Ed Lacy

     “Well,” Bessie said, stacking the dishes in the sink, “now you understand, Andy, why I wouldn't bring your bike out here. This means we'll have to go to Hampton if we need a doc.”

     I wanted to stay home, sit on the porch for awhile, but Bessie insisted I drive to the station with them. Andy argued all the way about how careful he'd be if they let him have his bike. There was a small crowd at the station, mostly wives giving their husbands last minute advice, or vice versa.

     It was cold and damp, the coffee had worn off, and I sat in the car, feeling irritated, wishing I was home in my own bed. Jerry drove two young girls to the station, stood around chattering with Bessie in Greek. The old man looked like I felt—as if he'd been up all night. We saw Dan off and Bessie said I had to see the countryside. She and Andy got into a long argument over whether he could go fishing if it was cloudy. I wanted to tell them both to shut up.

     Bessie had to make like a guide, stopping at every goddamn landmark, even making me walk through a cemetery full of jokers who had been killed while whaling long ago. I couldn't have cared less.

     Andy was making a pest of himself, impatiently asking the time every few minutes and Bessie told him if he didn't stop it there wouldn't be any fishing even if the sun came out. We finally parked in front of the End Harbor supermarket at a little after eight. The sun was dodging behind rain clouds and it was a muggy day. End Harbor was sure a hick town: a small movie house, a dozen or so stores including the big supermarket. There was an ancient building, a three-story brick job, that I later learned was a combination hotel, city hall, police and fire department headquarters, post office, and telephone company. There was a small crowd in front of this building.

     Andy wanted to see what was up and Bessie said, “You go down there with Grandpa while I shop. Yes, yes, I won't forget to get clams for bait. Don't you forget to buy a paper.”

     We stopped at the one stationery-tobacco-newspaper store, where I bought the Times and the moon-faced woman behind the counter gave me a silly grin as she said, “You're new to End Harbor. Now I know the summer has really started.”

     “Has it? Do you carry the Morning Telegraph?”

     “Oh, my, I never even heard of it. A new paper?”

     “It's a racing sheet.”

     “We wouldn't carry that,” she said, clamping her fat lips together.

     The week was growing worse every minute. I couldn't even dope the nags.

     Outside, Andy headed for the crowd and I said, “You go along, I'll sit in the car and read the paper.”

     “Come on, Grandpa, don't be such an old crab,” he said, pulling on my arm. I was too mad to even swat his tear.

     The crowd was around an old Buick, the front battered in, all doors open. The entire motor was shoved back, the steering wheel almost touching the seat Andy asked if this was the doctor's car and somebody whispered, “Yes. It hit a tree and he was thrown out.”

     A young cop in a fancy light blue uniform, red bow tie and red shoulder patch, black leather belt and puttees, was leaning against the fender of the car, obviously enjoying his self-importance. He looked like a store cop. His cap was carefully crushed down the center, as if he was a plane jockey.

     Andy met some kid he knew and when they took a few steps forward to get a better look at the wreck, the cop actually screamed, “Hey! Get back there!”

     The kids jumped with fright. Andy said, “My Grandpop is a cop, too, a New York City policeman!”

     People turned to glance at me. I felt like a fool. The boy-cop, feeling he had to prove his authority, walked over to the kids, barked, “I told you to keep back.” He pushed them—Andy nearly fell.

     I said, “Take it slow, buster, the kids aren't doing anything.”

     “Okay, oldtimer, you keep out of this.”

     Andy looked up at me, to see what I would do... and that's how the whole mess really started.

     I couldn't let this badge-happy jerk talk me down in front of Andy. I strolled over to the wreck, casually examined the front doors. Buster yelled, “What the hell you doing?” and grabbed my arm.

     Pulling my arm away so hard he stumbled, I said, “Keep your mitts off me.” As I took out my wallet, flashed my tin, I heard the crowd whispering.

     “You haven't any authority here,” junior said, his voice not sure.

     “Haven't I? You don't know your law—I'm a peace officer anywheres in the state of New York.” I only intended going through the motions of looking at the wreck and let it go at that, but the boy-cop spoiled things by pointing to the building, telling me, “You'd best go in and see Chief Roberts.”

     Everybody was watching me and I had to follow through. It still would have been a snap to get out of, if Andy had remained outside, like I told him. Instead, the dumb kid followed me into the building, which was older than the NYC precinct houses—which are older than God. In the lobby there was another bronze marker, something about the British shelling the spot in 1777. I was ready to turn and walk out, when Andy suddenly opened a door marked POLICE CHIEF, yelled, “Here it is, Grandpa!”

     It was a small office and the man behind the desk was sporting the same musical comedy uniform, and a big gold badge. End Harbor had the youngest police force in the world: Chief Roberts looked like a heavyweight boxer, with a collar-ad face. He was doing some paperwork, snapped, “I'm busy.”

     With the kid in the room with me, I couldn't back out, so I flashed my badge, said in a small voice, “Matt Lund, New York City Police. Thought I... eh... might give you a hand.”

     “Chief Art Roberts,” he said, holding up a big paw for me to shake. “A hand with what?”

     “With the Doctor Barnes case,” Andy cut in. I put a hand on the boy's shoulder; to keep him still.

     For a second Roberts looked as if he were being kidded, then he said, “We're used to accidents here and can....”

     I couldn't just stand there like a dummy. I asked, “Accident? Is that for true, or just for public gossip?”

     He tried to hold himself in, but he jumped a little. He waved a big hand at me, said, “Plain as the nose on your face: The doctor skidded into a tree, was thrown clear of the car. Medical Examiner isn't sure if death was a result of the fall or came from being run over.”

     “Chief, my nose is plainer that that. I don't like sticking it in anybody else's business, I'm here on vacation...” I nodded down at Andy, hoping Roberts would understand why I had to make the play.

     He merely growled, “What are you trying to say, pop?”

     Maybe it was the “pop” that did it. “That it couldn't have been an accident. Look at the steering wheel, it would have pinned the driver against the seat.”

     “Maybe yes and maybe no. No witnesses. Also possible he was thrown out of the car on impact, before the wheel was pushed back. I think it was an accident.”

     I should have let it go at that, but Andy said, “My grandpa is a peace officer, too,” although I squeezed his shoulder hard.

     “You don't say,” Roberts said, his voice loaded with sarcasm. “I'm busy, so if you'll....”

     “Look, I'm not trying to tell you your business, but if you'll come outside I'll show you something that says it couldn't have been an accident.”

     He stood up, and Lord, the tight uniform showed off his fine build; like Maxie Baer in his prime. “Now, listen, Mr. —”

     “Lund.”

     “Lund, ain't you pushing your badge kind of far? One of our best citizens is killed in a routine accident and you start calling it something else.”

     “Aren't you interested in how your best citizen: was killed?”

     He stuck his cap on—at a practiced cocky angle, said —as if talking to an idiot, “Okay, I'll look to make you happy.”

     “I merely want to have you explain one thing, then it's all yours. I'm going fishing.”

     We went out and the boy-cop whined, “Chief, I tried to tell him....”

     The Chief waved him silent, then the son-of-a-bitch tried to showboat me. He said, loudly, “Pay attention, Wally, a big-time cop from the big city is about to show us yokels how to operate.”

     “I didn't say that, or that I....”

     “You got me out of my office, Lund, now either put up or shut up.”

     He was so childish I wanted to take a chance and hang one on his square jaw: he was built so perfectly there had to be something wrong, like a weak chin. The crowd was watching us with mild curiosity and that made me sore, too—I must have looked pitiful next to Mr. America in the fancy uniform.

     “Well, come on, whet have you got to show me.?” Roberts asked.

     I went over to the door by the driver's seat, shut and opened it; did it again. “Notice it isn't loose nor in poor working condition. Look at the lock, it isn't sprung, not even scratched.”

     “What you trying to prove, that they made better caw in the old days?” Roberts wisecracked.

     “It proves that unless the doc drove with his door open, he wasn't in the car when it crashed into the tree. If his body had hit the door with enough of a wallop to force the door open, or if the impact of the car hitting the tree had been great enough to fling the door open—the lock would have been sprung.”

     Roberts glanced around at the crowd like a ham actor, whispered, “What the devil are you trying to say, Lund?”

     “Just that with the steering wheel pushed to the back of the seat, and the door lock in good shape, it seems clear to me that Doctor Barnes wasn't in any accident— he was murdered.” I wasn't talking loudly but a gasp went up from the crowd and I heard the word “murdered” repeated in a shocked chorus.

     “We haven't had a murder in End Harbor in seventy-six years. As for the steering wheel, like I told you, the doc might have been thrown out before the steering wheel could pin him.”

     “That's possible, but not probable. But tell me how a man can be thrown through a closed door without springing the lock?”

     Roberts' handsome face flushed. “It was a muggy night, maybe he was driving with the door partly open.”

     “The car must have been doing at least seventy when it hit the tree, judging by the battered motor. What man drives that fast on a rainy night with the door open?”

     The boy-cop who had been staring at the door with puzzled eyes, now said, “Chief, everybody knows Doc Barnes was a bug about safe driving. He was always preaching....”

     “Aw, shut up, Wally!”

     I gave Roberts a small smile, I suppose I was really enjoying myself. “I hope I haven't given you more work. I didn't mean to butt in, it's your case, but my grandson here... well, you know how it is. I had to play cop for him.”

     There wasn't anything more to say and I walked Andy through the crowd. Glancing at Roberts, I saw him glaring at me. Murder would sure upset the quiet routine of his job.

     As we headed for the supermarket Andy looked up at me with big eyes, said, “Gee, Grandpa! Gee!”

Chapter 2

     Bessie was waiting with a pile of packages outside the cashier's counter. “I've been standing here so long the butter and frozen foods have probably melted. Let's take these out to the car. Imagine what they're saying—that Doctor Barnes was murdered. If that isn't the most fantastic thing I ever....”

     “Grandpa told them so, Mom!” Andy cut in, his voice high with excitement. “Oh, Mama, you should have seen the way Grandpa told the Police Chief why it had to be murder. Grandpa is a peace officer, too! I bet like Wyatt Earp in the cowboy....”

     “Keep still, Andy. Matt, you didn't start this horrid rumor?”

     “Isn't a rumor, but murder. I told you this morning that hit-and-run business didn't rest right with me. Newspapers to the contrary, most people aren't hit-and-run drivers. At least the guy would have stopped and....”

     “Guy?” Bessie asked, opening the car door for us. “We women drive, too, remember?”

     “.... slowed down, even if he didn't stop. Once he saw the wrecked car, knew he wouldn't be blamed for hitting the doc, he certainly would have reported it.”

     Driving away Bessie said, “A murder in End Harbor, in this quiet little village... Matt, are you positive?”

     “Let's put it this way: Certain factors point to murder, and until they're investigated and explained, the case should be handled as a homicide.”

     “Tell Mom about the door locks,” Andy called out from the back seat. “Grandpa, how many killings you been on?”

     “None.”

     His “Oh” oozed with disappointment.

     Bessie's knee nudged mine and she made a waving motion with her little finger. Andy must have been watching her in the windshield mirror, for he asked, “Who you telling to shut up, Mom?”

     “Nobody, mister big eyes and ears. I don't like all this murder talk. I don't want to hear another word about it —especially from you.”

     “Can I ask Grandpa one last question?”

     “Go ahead. Lord, you should have heard the way the gossip spread through the supermarket. An absolute stranger, a woman, came up and whispered it to me as if....”

     “You said I could ask the question,” Andy cut in. “Grandpa, when are you going to catch the killer?”

     “Andy, all I plan to catch is some sleep. I'm on vacation.” I tried to change the subject. “Clouds seem to be lifting; don't you want to try your spinning reel?”