Джон Макдональд - More Good Old Stuff

Matt realized he would never be able to twist the thick wrist hard enough. He released the wrist suddenly, brought his fist down in a diagonal blow against the man’s jaw, jumped back as the heavy sap in the man’s hand grazed his shoulder. The force of the blow swung the man off balance. Matt brought his left fist up and the jolt of the blow sent needles of fire up his arm to his shoulder. The sap dropped from nerveless fingers. But the man didn’t fall until Matt snatched the sap from the floor and laid it above the man’s ear. He caught him as he fell and eased him down onto his face.

“Chinese Army technique?” Patience said, her voice shrill with hysteria. Matt grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward the stairs.

The first upstairs room was empty. A still form lay in a huge bed in the second room. Patience found the light switch. Susan lay on her back, breathing through open lips. There was a bubble of saliva at the corner of her mouth and her eyes seemed sunken.

Patience said, “Sue! Wake up!”

Susan’s head wobbled on the pillow, but there was no break in the rhythm of the deep breathing.

“Doped,” Matt said. “That way she could give Roy an alibi. We’ve got to walk her.”

Patience found a robe in the closet and Matt sat Susan on the edge of the bed while Patience got the robe on her. Matt threw the inside bolt on the door and, with one on each side, they tried to walk her. Her head hung limply and she moaned. At first her feet dragged and she was an inert, awkward lump. In a few moments she began to walk in a stumbling fashion, tripping frequently on her own feet. Her walk grew better articulated and her head lifted, the eyes still closed.

At last she opened puffy eyes and said, “What — wha’ you doing?”

“We can get her out of here now,” Matt said. “You get her dressed. I’ll wait in the hall.”

Matthew stood in the hall and heard, through the closed door, the murmur of their voices. He looked down into the lower hall. The husky man was on his hands and knees, shaking his head from side to side.

A thick skull on that one, Matt thought.

He hurried down the stairs, making plenty of noise. He got in the lower hall just as the man scrambled drunkenly to his feet. Matt drove him over against the wall and put a forearm across his throat, the sap poised.

“Try anything,” Matt said, “and you get it across the bridge of the nose this time. Shut up and listen.” The man stopped his feeble struggling.

“Your boss is wanted for murder,” Matt said, watching the man’s eyes widen. “Too much trouble out of you and we can think up some rap to pin on you in connection with the murder.”

“Cop?” the man said hoarsely.

“No. But I’m on the same side. Will you be good?” The man nodded. Matt stepped back. “Where’s Mr. Bedford?”

The man looked genuinely surprised. “Isn’t he up there?”

“No. Did you think he was?”

“Yes, I did. I don’t want any part of any trouble, mister. I thought he was up there and my job is to keep people from busting in. A lot of people get sore at him.”

“A mastery of understatement.”

There was a sound of sirens in the distance, whining through the night, descending at last to a low growl and then silence, followed by the stamp of heavy feet on the porch. Matt flung the door open. A spidery little man with a sharp red nose stood with a uniformed patrolman hulking large behind him.

“Who’re you?” the little man demanded.

“Matthew Otis. Bedford tried to kill me and Miss Furnivall.”

“I’m Canady. You should have come in when you dropped Cleveland at headquarters. You got a warrant to swear out. We’re going on the basis you’ve signed it. You won’t back out?”

“Don’t be absurd!”

“Where’s Miss Furnivall? Who’s this man?”

“Miss Furnivall is getting her sister ready to leave this place. This man works for Bedford. Bedford isn’t here.”

“I figured he wouldn’t be. We’ve put the plates of his Chrysler on the tape in case he left town. The troopers’ll get him if he tries the coast road.”

“I don’t think he’ll run,” Matt said. “He’s got a genius complex. He doesn’t think anything can touch him.”

“He’ll run, Otis. Suppose you get the women over to the Furnivall place. Then get yourself back to the hotel. We’ll get hold of you if we need anything. Leave the keys to Cleveland’s car at the hotel desk.”

The two women came down the stairs. Susan still had a drugged look, a faraway look. Patience held her arm and walked carefully with her.

“Mrs. Bedford!” Canady snapped.

Susan turned her head slowly and looked at him blankly.

“What happened when you got home?”

“I got it out of her,” Patience said. “Don’t snap at her. When she was ready for bed Roy Bedford gave her a capsule. He told her it would quiet her nerves. That’s all she remembers.”

“Otis will take you home, Miss Furnivall. You and your sister. Stay there until you hear from me...”

After Matthew had helped Patience get Susan out of the car and up to bed, he held Patience tightly for a moment, kissed her and left.

He drove through the wet, deserted streets wondering where Roy Bedford could be. Roy must know that the unexpected maneuver on the part of the car he was trying to force off the road had carried away a piece of the mechanism he had designed so long ago. He would know that there had been no chance to identify him as the driver of the murder car.

The evidence would be circumstantial. Damage to the Chrysler. Roy had three choices. The first was to run — and that didn’t seem practical. It didn’t match Bedford’s character. The second was to provide himself with an alibi and to pretend that his car had been stolen. That seemed a feeble defense.

The third bet would be to remove from the Chrysler all evidence that it had been used on the hill.

The last idea made the most sense. Roy could either attempt to repair the car or dispose of it. Burning would be too risky. Evidence might remain. The ocean was handy. There was deep water at the end of the docks. Or he might even drive the car into a tree, planning that the impact would remove evidence of the previous lighter one.

The idea of the plunge off the dock didn’t seem too practical. There was too much chance of the car being recovered. A crash that would obliterate all evidence. Better than burning. Better than driving it into the sea.

Pleased with the logical procession of his thoughts, Matthew stopped, lit a cigarette and tried to carry his reasoning further. Before Roy could risk a collision, he would have to remove from the car the rest of the mechanism which made the lights movable. He would have to dispose of that. To remove it meant tools, working space, lights. A garage, preferably.

He began to wonder if Roy had ever disposed of the garage which had given him his start. It would be typical of him to retain ownership of the garage so that he could point it out to people he wished to impress. He could almost hear Roy say, “Ten years ago I was a grease monkey in that shack.”

With sudden resolve, Matt started the car, made a U-turn at the next intersection and turned back toward the garage where Roy had been working nine years before.

It was in a neighborhood of narrow flats, grocery stores, liquor stores, gas stations. It was in back of an ancient rooming house, the unlighted sign hanging out at the curb.

He drove beyond the entrance and walked back. The garage was dark. The structure of reasoning collapsed.

He glanced down. A tire had made a deep hollow in the dirt. The tread marks were crisp. Water from a nearby puddle flowed with a slow current into the deep track. He felt a sudden excitement. A car had gone in there not over a half hour before. It was a little more than an hour since the accident. To be safe, Roy would have taken the long way around to get back to the city.