William Haggard - The New Black Mask (No 5)

Piggott swabbed his laughing mouth with a handkerchief and straightened in his old leather chair. Amusement warmed his face. “I know she’s different I’m going to marry her, Ed.”

The Honda reeled on the road. He jerked the wheel straight It was not quite nine o’clock in the morning and cold, and the road twisted as complexly as his thoughts.

Two miles from the highway the fields smoothed out bordered by white fencing that might have been transplanted from a Kentucky horse farm. When the fence reared to an elaborate entrance, he turned right along a crushed-gravel road gray with rain. A square, big house loomed sternly white behind evergreen and magnolia. In the parking lot two Continentals and a dark green BMW sat like all the money in the world. Rain sprinkled his glasses. As he walked across the road to a porch set with frigid white ornamental-iron chairs, the front door swung open to meet him. A slight man with very light blue eyes and a chin like a knife point waved him in.

“Out early, Ed.”

Ralston nodded. “I need the sheriff bad, Elmer.”

“He just got to bed.”

“Tough. Tell him it’s official and urgent.”

The man behind Elmer snorted and showed his teeth. “Official and urgent” he said, arrogantly contemptuous. He was thick-shouldered, heavy-bodied, round-faced, and scowled at Ralston with raw dislike.

Elmer said, “I can’t promise. The game lasted all night You and Buddy mind waiting here?”

He stepped quietly away down a high white hallway lined with mirrors and horse paintings. The hall, running the length of the house, was intercepted halfway by a broad staircase. Beyond lounged a man with a newspaper, his presence signifying that Piggott was in.

A sharp blow jarred his arm. He turned to see Buddy’s cocked fist.

“We got time for a couple of rounds, Champ.”

Ralston said, “Crap off.”

Buddy, hunched over shuffling feet, punched again. “Ain’t he bad this morning.” Malice rose from him like visible fumes. “The sheriff’s little champ’s real bad. Couple of rounds do you good. You lucked out that last time.”

“You got a glass jaw,” Ralston said.

Elmer appeared on the stairway to the second floor. He jerked his hand, called, “Come on up.”

Ralston walked around Buddy, not looking at him. Buddy, clenching his hands, said distinctly, “You and me’s going have a little talk, sometime.”

The second floor was carpeted, dim, silent expensive, and smelled sourly of cigars. Eddie pointed to a carved wooden door, said, “In there,” wheeled back down the hall.

Ralston pushed open the door and looked at Tom Huber, Sheriff of Pinton County, sitting on an unmade bed. The sheriff wore a white cotton undershirt tight over the hairy width of his chest, and vivid green and yellow undershorts. Hangover sallowed his face. He was a solid, hard-muscled old roughneck, with a hawk-nosed look of competence that had been worth eighty thousand votes in the last four elections.

He said, “Talk to me slow, son, I’m still drunk.”

Easing the door shut, Ralston said, “Last night, Fleming was shot dead. In his own car. In the country. With his own gun, couple of inches from the right temple. Gun in car. Wiped off. Far as we know, he wasn't on duty. You need to show up out there. Broucel’s in charge, and he’s got the white shakes.”

“Fleming shot?” A slow grin spread the sheriff’s mouth. “So that grease-faced little potlicker went and got himself killed. That’s not worth getting a man out of bed for. Let Broucel fumble it.”

“Fleming was your chief deputy,” Ralston said sharply. “You have to make a show. The media’s going crawl all over this. You got to talk to the TV — sheriff swears vengeance. Hell, we got an election coming.”

“There’s that.” The sheriff touched his eyes and shuddered. “Lord a mighty, I didn’t hardly get to sleep. Cards went my way all night.”

In a neutral tone, Ralston said, “You don’t ever lose, playing at Piggott’s.”

“That's why I play at Piggott’s.” He got up carefully. “God, what a head. Well, now, that’s one less candidate for the high office of Pinton County Sheriff. Ain’t it a shame about poor old Lloyd Fleming?”

He moved heavily into the bathroom to slop water on his head and guzzle from the faucet. Ralston drifted around the bedroom, face somber, peering about curiously, fingering the telephone, light fixtures, pictures.

The sheriff emerged, toweling his head. “I’m scrambling along, Ed. Don’t prance around like a mare in heat.”

Ralston said, “I need to tell you a little more. But I’ll save it. Too many bugs here.”

“I counted one,” Huber said pleasantly.

"Two, anyhow.” He knelt to reach under the airspace of a dresser and jerk. His fingers emerged holding a microphone button and line. It seemed a twin of the one on Sue’s shelf. “These may be dummies to fake you off an open phone tap.”

The sheriff sighed. “It’s hard for an old fellow like me to bend over to squint in every hole. You know, you got to like Piggott. He don’t trust nobody.”

They returned unescorted to the first floor. “I best make my good-byes,” the sheriff said. “Not fit for a guest to leave without he thanks his host for all those blessings.”

Ralston followed him to the rear of the white hall. The watcher there, a burly youngster with a face like half a ham, stared at them eagerly. The sheriff asked, “Piggott up?”

“Oh, Lordy, sure,” the youngster said. “He don’t hardly ever sleep.”

He clubbed the door with his fist, opened it, saying, “Mr. Piggott, it’s the sheriff.”

A cheerful voice bawled, "You tell him to bring himself right in here.”

It was a narrow, bright room stretched long under a hammered-tin ceiling. The walls were crowded with filing cabinets and messy bookshelves, stuffed with as many papers and magazines as books. A worn carpet; :the color of pecan shells, led to an ancient wooden table flanked by straight-backed wooden chairs. Behind the table, Piggott lolled in an old leather chair.

He bounced up as they entered. He burst around the table, vibrating with enthusiasm, grinning and loud. He had curly black hair over a smooth face, deeply sun-burned, and he looked intelligent and deeply pleased to see them. “Didn’t expect you up till noon, Tom.” He smiled brilliantly. “Lordy, you’re tough.”

He pounded joyously on the sheriff’s shoulders, then seized Ed’s arm. “Now you come over here and look at this picture. You’ll like this.”

He extended a large color photograph. Sue Ralston beamed from it. She stood close to Piggot, arms clutching each other, heads together, delighted with themselves.

Through rigid lips Ralston said, “Nice photo.” He felt nauseated.

Piggott burst into his rolling laughter. “That’s our engagement photo, Ed. Listen, don’t look so sour.” His arm slipped around Ralston’s shoulders. “It’s OK. I’ll make a great husband. I grow on you.”

Ralston swallowed, standing stiff within the embrace. “Piggott…”

“ ’s all right, Ed. I know.” He smacked Ralston's shoulder amiably. “It’s a funny world. Who wants a postage-stamp Capone for a brother-in-law?”

He emitted a howl of joy, throwing back his head, opening the deep hollow of his mouth. “Even us booze merchants fall in love, Ed. We even get married. Ain’t it a crime?”

Ralston forced, “Congratulations, then,” from his closed throat It was now imperative to tell them about Sue. But he could not. He listened to Piggott and the sheriff bantering. He could not.

Piggott had set it up, sometime, for some purpose. And she was dead because of it. Somehow. Set a trap and what dies in it is your responsibility.