John MacDonald - The Good Old Stuff

Maclaren chewed his lip. “Pretty damn slim, Jud, but we’ll go along. We’ll check into her before we check you.”

“How about Hodge Oliver? As far as I know he’s the only guy who knew her in the past.”

“I don’t think so, Jud. He’s a clean-looking kid with a good record. He worked in Washington too. At the Pentagon. He says that he knew Galloway as one of the girls who worked in a nearby office. She was a stenographer for a while, and then she was in charge of the filing of blueprints and specifications. He was upset about her being shot. You could see that. He doesn’t owe any dough, he’s got a steady gal, and he got a raise two weeks ago. I got all this from him and from others. Of course, I’ll check it, but I’ve got a hunch it’ll all be true.”

“Personally I don’t think Brasher’s got the guts to shoot anybody.”

“Don’t low-rate those nasty little soft guys who can only talk big. Force them into a corner and you can’t tell what they’ll do. I could see from the way he acted that you moved in on him in this investigation. In a way, I don’t blame you. After all, she was knocked off on her way to see you.” Brock felt quick alarm and a feeling of loss at the easy way Maclaren made the assumption that Stella was already dead. “Suppose that this Brasher made a pass at Galloway and she pushed him off in a way that hurt his pride and then, when he saw her falling for you, he couldn’t take it. After all, the woman who turned him down getting chummy with... well, with unskilled labor. Did you notice anything about him, any way he might have looked at Galloway in the past?”

Brock stared down at his clenched knuckles. “John, I’ve been in a fog for a long time. I haven’t paid much attention to what has been going on around me.”

“Sure, kid. I see what you mean. But you’re out of the fog now?”

“Way out. Brasher’s line is plugged open on the switchboard, John. I’m going to see about Stella. Mind if I use your name?”

After Brock had identified himself as Lieutenant Maclaren, the night intern came on the phone and said, “Condition unchanged, sir. She’s had two more plasma transfusions, but she’s losing fluids so fast that she’ll be due for another one soon.” Brock thanked him and hung up, told Maclaren the score.

“You tired, Jud?” Maclaren asked.

“Not yet.”

“Here’s Hodge Oliver’s address. An apartment on Quenton Street. I’ve got to follow the book or they’ll yank my badge. Maybe you could”

“Kick him around and see if anything drops out?”

“Something like that. But you’re on your own. I’m going over and have another talk with Brasher.”

Hodge Oliver’s eyes were puffed with sleep. He blinked in the hall light and said, “Oh, it’s you, Brock. What do you want?”

Brock pushed in, found the switch, clicked the lights on, and closed the door.

Oliver said, “Now wait a minute! Can’t you—”

Brock planted a big palm against Oliver’s chest and sent him sprawling across the living room couch. Oliver braced himself on his elbows and stared at Brock. “I’m going to toss you out of here,” he said quietly. He was lean and rangy, with brush-cut blond hair, a strong-looking neck, and knobby knuckles.

He came off the bed fast, charging in. Brock caught a wild right in the palm of his left hand and blocked a left hook with his elbow. As Oliver planted a second right high on Brock’s cheek, he was caught right on the point of the chin with a gentle right. It made a noise as though a clod of wet mud had been thrown against a brick wall. Brock caught him and laid him gently on the couch.

Oliver’s papers were in the second drawer of his bureau. Not much to go on. A file of personal letters. An address book listing people in Washington, Louisavale, and Detroit — plus a few other people scattered across the country. On the bureau was a large picture of a very lovely girl with blond hair. She looked something like Caree had once looked... Brock, realizing that, was surprised to find how little pain there was in the thought — as though Caree had been married to someone else, a different Judson Brock. A younger, softer Judson Brock.

He pulled a chair up beside the couch. A few minutes later Oliver opened his eyes wide and groaned. He tried to sit up. Brock reached out a hand and pushed him back down. “Take it easy, boy,” he said.

Oliver felt of his chin and gave Brock a twisted grin. “What did you hit me with, a city bus?”

“I was afraid you’d be sore. As you know, I’m handling the company end of the investigation of Miss Galloway’s injury. She will probably die without regaining consciousness. You knew her in Washington. What’s the angle? Anything you can say to give us a reason?”

Oliver hoisted himself up and reached for his cigarettes on the coffee table. He gave Brock one, and Brock lit the two of them. “Look, Brock. I just knew her in Washington. She happened to be in the same section, that’s all. Ordnance procurement. I had lunch with her a few times, and a few times we went to the cola bar in the Pentagon in the middle of the afternoon. She was very nice in a quiet way, very tidy and polite. She seemed to know her job well. That’s all I know about her. I’ve got a girl of my own, man. That’s her picture over there.”

“Did you know her friends in Washington?”

“I saw her with the women she worked with, of course. And I remember seeing her once at a hotel. She was dancing with someone, but I haven’t any memory of what he looked like. I remember thinking he was too short for her, and that’s all.”

Brock leaned back in the chair, shook his head, and sighed. “Sorry I had to pop you, Oliver.”

He shrugged and smiled. “I didn’t give you much choice. No hard feelings.”

Brock stared at the far wall of the room for a few moments, and then at the glowing end of the cigarette he held. “Where are you from, Oliver?”

“Detroit, originally. Before I tried the civil service job, I had a two-bit position working in the mechanical drawing department of one of the independent auto-parts makers.”

“You’ve got family there?”

“Sure, but I don’t want to go back. They try to run my life. My mother is a very domineering woman. I’ve been around some, and I like the looks of it here. It suits me. I’m not sorry I stayed. I wouldn’t have met Alice if I hadn’t found a job here.”

“Like your work?”

“Well enough. The money is medium okay. Enough to get married on, at least. Hey, maybe I shouldn’t ask. You sound like a man with education. I’ve wondered about you off and on. What are you doing out in that yard as a common laborer handling all that heavy scrap?”

Brock didn’t smile. “You might call it a health course.”

“Oh.”

Brock stood up. “Go on back to sleep, boy. You’ll have a little mark on that chin in the morning.”

Brock was sitting in Brasher’s office when the puffy little man walked in that morning. He marched up to Brock and said, “A fine thing! A very fine thing! You force me to put you in charge of the company end of the investigation, and then you let that Maclaren hoodlum get me out of bed at three thirty in the morning to ask a lot of insane questions leading to nothing. The kids woke up. My wife got a headache. You aren’t worth the dollar a week you asked for.”

Brock saw Maclaren when he came in. Brock said, “No dice on Oliver; how about Brasher?”

“I think he’s clean. I got to Lavery last night, too. Rather, at five this morning. I think that angle is okay too. I found out that this Karkoff had told Lavery to knock off and grab himself a smoke. The way it works, the crane that Lavery runs gets ahead of the baler once in a while, and then Karkoff gives him the sign to climb down and go out in the end of the shop to the can where he can smoke. If Lavery was the one, it would mean that he’d have to depend on Karkoff giving him the sign at just the right time for him to slip out, plug the girl, and get back. It’s too thin. I saw Karkoff and he backed the guy up. By the way, this Karkoff has a record. Yeah. Did a year back in 1973. Grand theft auto. Been straight ever since — he says. You sure that baler was working all the time?”