Rex Stout - The Mountain Cat

“Did you show the paper to Jackson?”

“That’s what I went there for. I showed it to him and gave it to him. I told him all about it and about Ken Chambers having that old grudge and how I felt about Charlie, and I said for instance where in the holes of hell have I cached the thirty-two thousand dollars? Am I saving it till they bury me and I go there? So I gave him the paper and he believed me and he staked me. Three hundred dollars. I was going down on the Cheeford range again, and then like a goddamn jackass I let Slim Fraser—”

“It was the money Jackson gave you that you lost at The Haven?”

“Yes it was.”

“Was anybody there when he gave it to you?”

“There was that girl, Charlie Brand’s girl, in the other room. The door was shut, but he called her in and gave her a receipt I signed.”

Bill Tuttle put in, “Could she have heard your talk with Jackson?”

“I don’t think so, not through the door, and her running that printing machine that I could hear.”

“Printing—?”

“Typewriter,” said Baker. “Now, Hurley, that piece of paper. Was it a single sheet of paper?”

The old prospector made no reply.

“Well, was it?”

Still no reply.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing really the matter.” Hurley looked at Tuttle and back at the county attorney. “You see, I’m not so young maybe, but I’m as strong as I ever was and I’m an old hand and my eyes is good. You didn’t exactly reply to what I said about you might know someone who would stake me or maybe you might do it yourself.”

“I’m not in the grubstaking business. What has that got to do with that paper?”

Hurley only squinted at him.

Baker glowered at the squint. “Are you trying to extort a promise that I’ll see that you get staked?”

“I wouldn’t try any extorting, no, sir. But a man naturally considers this and that. It came in my head that Jackson was killed pretty soon after I gave him that paper, and maybe there was a hitch-up, and maybe the news about the paper would help you about who killed Jackson, and maybe you’d be glad enough to get it so that you’d be willing to risk a little — not that there’s any risk to speak of, because I know that Cheeford range and I know a certain tumble back—”

“Can it!” Baker leaned forward for emphasis. “Listen to me. You removed evidence from the scene of a crime and concealed it. How would you like to be turned over to your friend Chambers and let him work on that? As for your getting staked, that’s your problem. The county will see that you don’t starve as long as you’re held in Cody. I won’t lock you up, at least not now. Provided. I want to know about that paper.”

“I won’t live much longer if I’m locked up again. I couldn’t breathe.”

“Then don’t get locked up. Was it a single sheet of paper?”

“It was a piece about as big as my hand, folded up so it was maybe three inches square.”

“What color was it?”

“White.”

“Was the writing on it in ink or pencil?”

“It was black ink.”

“What did the writing say?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you mean to say you kept it two years and never read it?”

“Well, naturally I looked at it, but I never read it because I can’t read.”

Baker stared. “Hurley, you’re lying.”

“No, I ain’t. Would I lie to you when you’d lock me up if I did? I can read reading but I can’t read writing.”

Baker turned to the sheriff. “What about it, Bill? Do you believe it?”

“Search me.”

“Go downstairs and use your phone. Get Clara Brand and ask about Hurley’s visit to Jackson’s office Tuesday morning. All about it. Whether she could hear what they said and about the three hundred dollars, was it entered on the books as a grubstake, and does she know if Hurley can read and write, and did she see any paper that Hurley gave Jackson — wait a minute! I don’t like all that on the phone. Just ask her— Let’s see, Mrs. Cowles is due at nine. Ask her if she can come here for a talk at ten o’clock. On your way out ask one of the boys to get hold of Quinby Pellett and have him here at eight — and hey! Ask another one, Ray if he’s out there, to get me a couple of hamburgers and a pot of coffee.”

The sheriff lumbered out. Baker swiveled, leaned back and gazed at Hurley. “So you can’t read, huh?”

“Not writing I can’t.”

“Can you write?”

“I can print pretty good. I never got onto writing.”

“Can you write your name?”

“I can sign it. I don’t guess you could call it writing it exactly. A man showed me how once.”

“You know, Hurley, if you’re lying, I can investigate and find it out. But that doesn’t help me any right now.”

“I don’t hardly think it ever would help you much.”

Baker sat scowling, rubbing his lip. In a little he resumed. “How much writing was there on the paper? Was it on both sides?”

“Only one side. There wasn’t much, maybe five, six words.”

“Goddamn it, what did it say?”

Hurley shook his head.

“What did it look like? What was the first letter?”

“I couldn’t say the first letter. Maybe I could have told one or two letters if I’d worked at it, but I just knew I couldn’t read it, so I didn’t use up any time on it. But about what it looked like, I could tell you one thing, it wasn’t Charlie Brand that wrote it. Because I’ve seen him write things, like a receipt for me to sign maybe, and it didn’t look like that at all. He wrote sort of a hard trot, sort of up and down, but this was more like... like...”

“Like what?”

“Well, I would say big and round and heavy. Like what the hell, ink don’t cost much. I signed my name once with Charlie Brand’s fountain pen and it wrote thin.”

“You say you found this paper under his body?”

Hurley nodded. “It was there on the floor under him. When I turned him over there it was. I got a habit of keeping little things I don’t want to lose in my boot lining and I tucked it away. Then I lugged him out and tied him across his horse that was outside, and led the horse into Sugarbowl. The first yelp out of Ken Chambers, just to show you, first thing when he got there, he ast didn’t I know a dead body shouldn’t be moved, and I said sure, what I should’ve done was come on to Sugarbowl alone and leave him there for the rats and coyotes to play with and then he would’ve been a pretty looking thing. Next thing I knew—”

“All right, save it. Where was the paper when you saw it last, Tuesday morning?”

“I gave it to Jackson.”

“What did he do with it?”

“He stowed it away in a wallet he had in his pocket.”

“The same wallet he got the three hundred dollars out of?”

“No, he got the money out of the safe. This was a sort of a brown leather wallet.”

“Did he put it back in his pocket after he put the paper in it?”

“Yes, he did.”

The county attorney had reached for his phone and now he spoke into it. After a little wait he spoke again and then waited some more. Finally he said, “Mac? This is Ed Baker. They tell me Frank’s gone home to supper, and I don’t want to disturb him. Maybe you can tell me, did anyone go through Jackson’s pockets Tuesday night? You did yourself? Good! Did you find a brown leather wallet? Did you examine its contents? Was there a piece of paper — no, wait a minute, it was a piece of white paper...”

Five minutes later he shoved the phone back and stood up. Looking down at Squint Hurley, he said shortly, “It wasn’t there.”

Hurley made a noise with his tongue. “By all hell, I saw him put it there. Somebody must’ve took it. Or maybe he shifted it to another pocket—”