Ричард Деминг - The Second Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK®

I believe he was a trifle uneasy for a few days when Staff Sergeant Jud Peters finally returned home, but his uneasiness stemmed solely from fear that the bereaved father might create an embarrassing public scene the first time they met, and not because he felt any further responsibility to the man. He was not without animal courage, however, and made no attempt to avoid contact with Jud Peters, a feat which would have been difficult anyway, since Peters’ farm was only five miles from Tom’s lodge. In that country five miles makes you neighbors.

I vaguely recall him mentioning the first time they finally met, a casual encounter in one of Catskill’s taverns. I remember there was a note of relief in Tom’s voice when he described the meeting, for apparently the young father harbored no active resentment. I gathered he had been cool to Tom, but not uncivil, and left Tom with the impression that his sole wish was to forget everything connected with his son’s death.

I myself had entirely forgotten the Peters affair, for in the six years since the accident Tom had been in many intervening scrapes requiring my attention. I was only reminded of it when I had to make an unexpected trip to Catskill.

It came about when Mathewson phoned me from the hunting lodge and asked me up for a weekend. I would not have gone had it been only a social invitation, for I must confess I detested the man even though he was one of my best clients. But he wanted to see me on a legal matter—not a jam this time, something concerning the transfer of certain securities he owned.

Catskill, as you may know, is not on the New York Central line—you have to change to a bus at Hudson. Since the trip by car from Mathewson’s lodge to Hudson takes only a quarter-hour more than a trip to Catskill, you would think my host would have met me at Hudson. But Thomas Mathewson III could never be described as a considerate host. He paid well for my services and felt he owed me nothing beyond that payment.

Consequently, my instructions were to meet him in the bar at a small hotel near the Catskill bus depot. And as was his habit in keeping appointments, he was about fifteen minutes late. I had a beer while I waited.

I was sipping my beer and recalling without pleasure the sole previous occasion I had visited Catskill when the bartender broke in on my thoughts.

“Ain’t you the lawyer who was down here from New York a few years back about the Peters boy?” he inquired.

Startled, I glanced up and admitted I was.

“Pretty slick way he got out of that,” the bartender commented. “Mathewson, I mean.”

“He didn’t exactly ‘get out of it,’ as you put it,” I said coldly. “He was convicted of manslaughter.”

“Yeah. On paper. Never served a day, did he? Not that I care, Mister. I was brand-new here when it happened and didn’t know any of the parties concerned. Still don’t, for that matter.”

Then occurred one of those odd coincidences which make life so unpredictable. The only other occupant of the bar at the moment, a man of about thirty-five clad in quarter-boots and a hunting jacket, turned an intelligent but moody face in our direction.

He said, “Just happens I’m Jud Peters, it that means anything to you.”

The bartender was as startled as I was and immediately withdrew from the conversation to start polishing glasses. But after my first surprise, I examined the man with friendly curiosity. His tone had been neither bitter nor belligerent. On the contrary, it had seemed faintly apologetic, as though he disclosed his identity merely to prevent the bartender and myself from creating an embarrassing situation.

Moving along the bar toward him, I offered my hand and introduced myself.

“I needn’t tell you how much I sympathized with your loss at the time, and still do, Mr. Peters,” I said. “It was a terrible tragedy, and Mr. Mathewson did everything in his legal power to atone for it.”

“He did?” he asked in a mildly surprised tone. “Oh, you mean the money.”

“Naturally no amount of money could make up for the loss of your son,” I said. “But in fairness to my client you should know I advised him that a settlement of $10,000 would probably be accepted by your wife, and Mr. Mathewson insisted on offering $50,000.”

He looked at me curiously for a long time, then finally said in a puzzled voice. “I didn’t know that. He was exceedingly generous, wasn’t he?”

“Well, he recognized his responsibility. There was no question about the accident being his fault, and I suppose he realized the only way he could begin to make restitution was with money. Some hard things have been said about Mr. Mathewson, but he does have the virtue of being scrupulously fair in money matters.”

A voice behind me said, “Who’s been saying hard things about me, Counselor?” and I turned to find Tom had come in unnoticed by either of us.

While his tone was bantering, there was a barely concealed edge to it, and I could tell he was not happy to find me talking to Jud Peters about him.

Tom Mathewson had changed physically in the six years since the accident. He was now just past forty, and masseurs were no longer able to erase the effects of long dissipation. While still appearing in good physical shape, a weal of fat encased his middle, his jowls were beginning to sag, and a sun-lamp tan could not entirely hide the tiny criss-cross of veins gradually forming in his cheeks.

With the physical change he had undergone a psychological change too, becoming even more overbearing in manner and even more prone to treat those he engaged professionally like servants. He was examining me now with an expression which would have been appropriate had he discovered his valet stealing scotch from his cellar.

Since his expression irked me, I said, “Who hasn’t said hard things about you, Tom? But as a matter of fact we were saying nice things for a change. Until now, Mr. Peters here was unaware that the size of the settlement for his boy was your own idea, and otherwise might have been only a fraction of the actual amount.”

Tom’s eyebrows raised. “Fifty thousand, as I remember,” he said indifferently. “But I believe I once mentioned that Mr. Peters prefers to forget the whole matter. I see no reason to rehash it.”

“It came up kind of accidentally from a remark the bartender made,” Jud Peters said, and again his voice impressed me as being almost apologetic. “And the remark you overheard Mr. Chalmers make was prompted by my comment that you were very generous.”

“Thanks aren’t necessary,” Tom said shortly. “Come on, Counselor. I left my motor running.”

“Oh, I wasn’t thanking you,” Jud Peters said. “I imagine you could afford it.”

Tom had started for the door, but now he stopped and turned around slowly. “No one can really ‘afford’ that kind of accident, Mr. Peters. I’ve had that same remark addressed to me on a number of occasions, particularly by my ex-wives. And, as usual, the implication is that a man with money is fair game. For your information that $50,000 settlement was a small part of the total cost of that accident. When lawyer Chalmers here and a few others were through with me, I had spent exactly 5 percent of my total assets. That’s one-twentieth of an estate intended by my father to provide reasonable comfort for a lifetime. One-twentieth, Mr. Peters, for an incident which lasted approximately three seconds.” The man’s tone was so frosty that both Peters and I stared at him in amazement. Peters’ face perceptibly reddened and there was a moment of embarrassed silence.

Then Jud Peters asked in a soft voice. “You think one-twentieth of your fortune was a fair purchase price for my son, Mr. Mathewson?”

Tom blinked at him, opened his mouth, then closed it again. Finally he said. “You’ve twisted my meaning, Peters. Let’s drop the subject.”