James Chase: We'll Share A Double Funeral

With a sigh of contentment, Sheriff Ross settled his bulky body into the big armchair before the TV set.

“That was a fine dinner, Mary,” he said, “and you’re a fine cook.”

“Well, as long as you are satisfied,” his wife said as she began to stack the dishes. “My ma was a better cook, but I reckon I’m not so bad.” She paused to listen to the rain hammering down on the roof of the bungalow. “What a night!”

Ross, around fifty three, big, balding, with a pleasant suntanned face, nodded agreement.

“About the worst we have had for months.” He reached for his pipe, looking affectionately at his wife, whom he had married some thirty years ago.

Regarding her, he remembered her as a young girl, bright eyed with long dark hair. Now, thirty years on, Mary had filled out, but she still had magic for him.

He had often told himself how lucky he had been to have had her as a partner and companion for over thirty years.

Ross had had a good, unsensational career. He had left school to become a military policeman, then the war over, he became a Highway Patrol officer, attached to the Miami headquarters, then, because he was liked and trusted, he had been elected Sheriff of Rockville. He wasn’t an ambitious man. To be Sheriff of Rockville was no great shakes, but it suited him and, more important, it suited Mary. The money was acceptable, and they were content to live modestly.

They had this comfortable bungalow, attached to the Sheriff’s office. All Ross had to do was to walk through a doorway from his living room to reach his office, and he was in business.

Rockville was situated in the north of Florida, amid the citrus farmers. The town’s population was around eight hundred, mostly retired farmers, but there was a sprinkling of young kids only waiting to shake Rockville off their backs and get into some action further south. There was a good self-service store, a bank, a garage, a small church, a schoolhouse and a number of wooden bungalows. The crime rate in Rockville was practically zero. Now and then some kid thieved from the self-service store. Some drunks had to be cooled. The main highway passing through Rockville brought hippies and undesirables on their way south, and often they had to be dealt with. All this was easy for Ross, and he often wondered why he had been given a deputy, who did little except drive around, chat up the outlying farmers, check on the blacks who worked on the farms and give tickets to the kids who were speeding. All the same, Ross was fond of his deputy, Tom Mason, a young, keen, good looking twenty eight year old. He and Mason had one evening together each week devoted to the game of chess. Neither of them played well, and it was a turn-and-turn-about who won.

Ross stretched out his long legs and sucked at his pipe which was drawing well and listened to the rain. Some night!

Then feeling guilty that, after a good dinner, he should be already making himself comfortable, he called a little halfheartedly, “Hi, Mary, are you sure I can’t help with the dishes?”

“You stay away!” Mary called back firmly. “I don’t want you in here!”

Ross sucked at his pipe, grinned and relaxed. He thought of tomorrow. He would drive over to Jud Loss’s farm, which was situated some fifteen miles from Rockville. Loss’s daughter, Lilly, a sixteen year old, had been kicking over the traces, according to Miss Hammer, the schoolteacher. Miss Hammer, a dried up, elderly spinster, had come to Ross and had told him that Lilly, bright enough at school, was keeping undesirable company. The girl was going around with Terry Lepp, the town’s Casanova, who owned a powerful Honda motorcycle, and all the girls in town fought each other to have a ride. Miss Hammer had hinted that Terry gave them a lot more than a ride.

Ross had hidden a grin. That was youth. No one was going to stop that kind of thing. Nature is nature. All the same, he was a good friend of Jud Loss who ran a small but prosperous farm. He would go out there and have a careful word in Jud’s ear. Maybe the girl could be cooled.

Listening to the sound of the hammering rain, Ross hoped it would cease before morning. A drive out to Loss’s farm in weather like this wasn’t his idea of fun.

As he tapped ash out of his pipe, he heard the telephone bell ringing.

“The telephone!” Mary shouted from the kitchen.

“Yeah. I hear it.” With a sigh, Ross heaved himself out of his chair and, in his stocking feet, padded over to the table on which the telephone stood.

A well known voice barked in his ear.

“Jeff, we have trouble!”

“Hi, Carl, hell of a night, isn’t it? What’s the trouble?” Ross asked, knowing he was talking to Carl Jenner, head of the Highway Patrol.

“This is an emergency Jeff,” Carl said. “Haven’t time to go into details. I’m calling all local sheriffs. We have a dangerous runaway on our hands. This man, Chet Logan, was being conveyed to Abbeville lockup. There was an accident. Both police officers with him were killed. Logan has disappeared. This man is dangerous. He just might be heading your way. In this goddam storm, he’ll be difficult to track. I want you to alert every farm in your district to be on guard.”

Ross sucked in his breath. “Okay, Carl. I’ll get busy.”

“Do that. Here’s his description: Chet Logan, around five foot ten, powerfully built, blond hair cut in a fringe, age around twenty three, and he has a cobra snake tattooed on his left forearm. This description will be out on radio and TV within an hour. He’s wearing blue jeans and a brown shirt, but could have found other clothes. This guy is really vicious. He was caught busting a gas station. The patrol officer, trying to arrest him, was stabbed to death. Logan then knifed the gas attendant, who isn’t expected to live. He tried to make a getaway, using the patrol officer’s motorcycle. He was nabbed as he was trying to get the bike to start. Two patrol officers, alerted by radio by the murdered officer before he investigated what was going on at the gas station, had a rough time with this man. He cut one of them, before the other clubbed him. Now he’s loose again. What worries me is he might get to some outlying farm and get a shotgun. You with me?”

Breathing heavily, Ross tried to assemble his wits. He now wished he hadn’t had a second helping of Mary’s chicken pie. It was the first time in years he could remember having an emergency like this.

“I’m with you, Carl,” he said, forcing his voice to sound brisk.

“The accident took place at Losseville junction, some twenty miles from you. Logan has been two hours on the run. Warn all outlying farmers, Jeff, and keep in touch.” Carl Jenner hung up.

Ross slowly replaced the telephone receiver as Mary came into the living room.

“Something?” she asked, her good natured face anxious.

“I guess. We’ve a killer loose,” Ross said. “Look, Mary, I’ve got to get busy. Let’s have some coffee.”

He crossed the room, tugged on his boots, then, opening the door to his office, he turned on the light and sat at his desk.

Mary wasn’t one to ask questions. Ross had told her enough. A killer was loose. She went immediately to the front door and locked it, then went to the back door and shot the bolt, then she put the kettle on to boil.

Ross made a list of the names and telephone numbers of all the outlying farmers. He was dialling the telephone number of his deputy, Tom Mason, as Mary brought in a jug of coffee and a cup and saucer.

Although the time was only 9:30, Tom Mason was on his bed with Carrie Smitz, who ran the local post office, under him. When the telephone bell rang, Tom was thrusting good and deep, and Carrie was squealing with pleasure. The sound of the telephone bell made Tom abruptly cease his activities. He cursed, then broke free from Carrie’s frantic and sweaty arms, and swinging off the bed, grabbed the telephone receiver.