Джон Макдональд - More Good Old Stuff

The drivers had heard. They came in, gawped at Vincens’ body. Davo went to one of them. “Did a load of papers go out?”

“Huh? Yeah. One truck. Sammy Bart.”

“Do you know his schedule?”

“Sure. Residential stuff.”

“I want you to drive me after him in your truck.”

“Mister, I’m on company time. I don’t take any runs like that. I’ve got the sheets to deliver and—”

“Hold your hat, mister.”

The tires screamed as the man yanked the panel delivery around the first corner. The dawn streets were empty. A similar truck headed toward them, going back to the plant.

The driver said, “What the hell! That was Sammy! He hasn’t had time to drop his sheets.”

“Follow him.”

He spun the truck around in a roaring U-turn and caught Sammy’s truck just as it stopped near the delivery chute. Sammy Bart climbed out, another man beside him.

Davo hurried over and said, “What goes on?”

The stranger with Bart said, “Orders from Farner. These newspapers go back in.”

“That’s what the man says,” Bart sang out cheerfully.

Davo looked for a long moment at the narrow, silent face of the man with Bart, then turned and walked back into the plant.

The police were there. Somebody had thrown a worn blanket over Vincens’ body. Bart struggled past Davo with some bundles of papers. A stranger was standing near the press, giving orders. “Bring them all back in and round up two other drivers. These all get carted into the furnace room.”

Davo saw what was happening. All copies of the papers were being gathered in to be burned. Chief of Police Lanker was one of Farner’s men. The police were studiously taking no interest in the newspapers still standing on the shallow platform as they had fallen from the press. Of course they wouldn’t look at the newspapers. They had their instructions. They were concerned about the murder of Vincens. Motive unknown. Murderer unknown. Unexplained tragedy.

All the copies of the paper were taken away while he watched. Davo felt a deep amazement at the speed and efficiency with which the group had moved. They knew it was hot. And they sewed everything up. No opening.

He suddenly thought of Jane, and turned toward the stairs. Two of the policemen were walking toward him, angling in from two directions. When he turned away, they came toward him quickly.

“William Davo?”

“That’s right.”

“Come on along. There’s a warrant out for you. Assault. Sworn out by a fellow named Vittano.”

One of them slapped the side pocket of his trench coat and said, “My! My! You got a permit for this thing?”

“No.”

“Sort of unlucky this morning, aren’t you, Davo? Did you see Vincens shot? One of those guys over there pointed you out to me and said you saw it, that you and a girl came in here with Vincens just before he got it.”

“I saw him shot, by Farner’s man.”

“Farner’s man! Are you taking the stuff in the leg or sniffing it.”

“Don’t argue with him, Al,” the other one said.

“Okay, Junior. The county can for you. Material witness for now, and they’ll talk to you about the other stuff later.”

Davo sat in the back of the sedan beside the fatter of the two cops, who whistled tunelessly between his teeth all the way down to the county prison. Davo knew Marion Kelz, the sheriff.

“Got me out of bed for a welcoming committee, Bill,” Marion said.

He was a lean, pulpy man who looked as if he had been roughly constructed of rotting leather. Dave knew that Kelz cleared about thirty thousand a year on his percentage of upkeep of the prisoners. Of that thirty he turned back about ten to Farner, who kept some and split up the balance. The county allowed seventy cents a day per prisoner for food, and Kelz fed them on less than thirty cents.

“So I’m a guest,” Dave said bitterly.

“Don’t fuss about it, Bill. We’ll take this dough you got here and keep books on it. The boys’ll be glad to buy your food down the block.”

“At double cost to me.”

“They got to make a living, Bill. Take him down to number eight, Jud.”

Number eight was a two-man cell, about eight by eight, lighted by one small, high window. The dampness was peeling the cheap white paint off the wall. There were sheets on the bunks, black from the previous occupants. The flat felt mattress stank.

Davo sat on the edge of the bunk and lit a cigarette. He was directly across the corridor from the women’s tank. There were eight or nine of them in there, ranging from about thirteen to fifty. They were dirty, noisy and, somehow, strangely alike. White brittle faces, ragged dyed hair. He noticed that they had access to lipstick, caked thick and red on their mouths.

They called across to him, thinking it a great joke.

He grinned wearily at them and said nothing.

“Toss over some butts, mister,” one of them yelled.

He took three cigarettes from his pack and threw the rest of the package across, through the bars of their large cell. One of the young ones grabbed it, and as she stooped she got a knee in her face that smashed her nose. She screamed and dropped back out of his sight. One of the older women shoved the pack down the front of her dress.

Davo sat on the edge of his bunk and thought how hopeless his position was. He had tried, but they had been too quick, too efficient, too merciless. He knew that he could look ahead to possibly two years in prison. They’d never call him as a witness in the death of Vincens. They’d let him rot on the basis of minor charges, and not take a chance on his bringing Farner’s name into the Vincens case.

He doubted that the editor’s murder would ever come to trial. It would be an unexplained death; and without a newspaper to whip up public interest, the citizens of Amberton would accept the mystery with the same dull, unthinking lethargy that they accepted everything else.

The proof was gone. He had no chance. All the papers destroyed. Vincens dead. Jane running. Running fast and far, he hoped.

He wondered that he felt so little anger, so little fear. His mind and his body felt numb, dead, unresisting. What was there to do? Sit and take it. The chance to fight was gone. He should have run while he had the chance.

Sure, there were people who would feel sorry for him, who would know that he had been framed — but they wouldn’t dare buck the system. It wasn’t healthy. It was better to smile when you met Stobe on the street and say, “Good morning, Mr. Farner,” accept his grunt graciously. Never mention that Davo guy. Never ask what happened to him. Davo might get a small paragraph on page eight of the paper, and he might get nothing.

He stood up and stretched, his fingertips touching the damp ceiling. Just relax and take it easy. Let the time go by — wait for the day when you can walk out of the cell and go away. Far away. Hell, they aren’t going to kill you, Davo. They’re just going to keep you a little while. Teach you a lesson. Teach you not to try to be a reformer. Teach you that when you see fraud, try to cut yourself a slice instead of ripping the lid off it.

Suddenly he heard steps in the corridor, heard a familiar voice. Marion Kelz came into sight. He held Jane Fay by the upper arm. There was a bruise across the left side of her face. Her expression was stiff, tight; her lips thin and straight. Her eyes were enormous and Davo felt the fear in her.

Kelz said, “Here’s your playmate, Bill.”

Davo jumped up off the bunk, held to the bars on the door, looked into Jane’s eyes. “She hasn’t done anything, Kelz. Nothing! What’s she here for?”

“Material witness in the death of Vincens, Bill.”

The one known as Jud came along with the keys and unlocked the door of the women’s tank. Davo said, “You can’t put her in there!”