Дэвид Балдаччи - One Good Deed

“You want me to?”

“Maybe you’ll see something I missed.”

Shaw opened the door and they passed through. It was then that Archer could see why the man wanted two rooms.

“Is this his office?” he said, looking around.

“It is indeed.”

There was a large desk with a glass top with a squat black phone sitting on it and a slim white phone book next to it. On the other side of the desk was a tobacco pouch; a briar pipe with a worn mouthpiece was aligned next to it, and a box of Van Dyck cigars sat alongside that. A calendar sat in its own holder on the desk glass with the days ink-filled with appointments and meetings, and a few manila files were next to it. Behind the desk was an oak shelving unit full of stacked paper, files, and an odd book or two having to do with land-title issues, at least that was what Archer gathered from reading off the spines. Against one wall was a four-drawer wooden file cabinet with alphabet ranges written on them from A to Z , top to bottom. Comfortable chairs and a couch were on the other side of the room. A full bar was set up against one wall, with an empty silver ice bucket and scooper off to the side. Though it was still morning, Archer looked lustfully at the bottles lined up there.

“You poked around already?”

Shaw nodded. “Checked his calendar and such. Didn’t find much there. But I did find some interesting things.”

“Like what?”

“Man was sick. Dying, actually.”

“Who? Pittleman? You got to be kidding?”

Shaw shook his head. “Found some medical reports. Man had a brain tumor. Inoperable, it said. Checked with his doctor. He confirmed it.”

“Funny.”

“What is?”

“First night I met him, Pittleman clutched at his head. Said it was the bad liquor.”

“Nope, it was cancer.”

“How long did he have?”

“Not long, the doc said.”

“Damn. So why kill the man if he was already dying?”

“That’s the question, Archer. But then your motivation would have nothing to do with that. If you wanted Jackie Tuttle, you wouldn’t want to wait on it. And by your own admission just now, you didn’t know he only had a little time left to live.”

“I never wanted a woman bad enough to slit a man’s throat, Mr. Shaw.”

Shaw perched on the edge of the dead man’s desk. “What do you know about Pittleman?”

“Hear he’s the richest man around. Owns most of the town. He’s got a place outside of Poca almost as big as this hotel. His wife is okay with him seeing Jackie, or at least she knows about it. Mr. Pittleman spoke about it right in front of her while I was there.”

“Did he now? What else?”

“I helped haul some stuff from here to his trucking warehouse the other day. Got paid a dollar for it. By a man named Sid Duckett. He works for Pittleman. Met another man there too, name of Malcolm Draper. He works for Pittleman, too. He’s his business manager. Man carries a gun.”

Shaw rubbed at his thin mustache. “Okay.”

“Anything else you find?”

In answer, Shaw picked up some pieces of paper and handed them to Archer.

“Didn’t find those in here. Found them in the trash bins behind the hotel.”

“You checked the trash bins?”

“You always check the trash bins, Archer. I even looked at the one in your room. Only found a drained gin bottle and empty packs of Lucky Strikes.”

Archer looked at the papers. “They’re bills of Pittleman’s and they’re all stamped ‘past due.’”

“That’s a fact. Man was apparently not paying them.”

“But Pittleman was rich.”

“Even a rich man can spend more than he’s got coming in. And that makes him a poor man.”

“Doesn’t make much sense.”

“It will, eventually.”

“Well, I wish you luck. I just hope you’re coming to the conclusion that I had nothing to do with the man dying.”

“I’m not there yet, Archer. I’m truly not. Just so we know where we stand with each other.”

“Okay.”

“Why were you up so early the morning Pittleman was found dead?”

“Heard a noise outside in the hall.”

“Well, son, I asked you about that, and you said you heard nothing unusual.”

“You were asking about unusual sounds in the night. I heard that sound in the morning.”

“What time again?”

“Around six. Why?”

Shaw’s features turned grave. “Something’s going on in this town I don’t like. You watch yourself, Archer. You watch yourself close and don’t be no fool, son.”

As Archer headed to the door, the lawman added one more warning.

“And don’t trust nobody.” He added warningly, “I don’t care how damn pretty they are.”

“Hey, fella?”

Archer was crossing the lobby of the Derby when the front desk clerk called out to him. It was the same one who had initially checked him in.

“Yeah?” said Archer, coming over to him.

“You got to pay up if you want to stay here.”

This was not what Archer had been expecting. “What’s that again, mister?”

The clerk swung the register around. “You only paid for three nights. You been here way longer than that. Woulda caught it before ’cept poor Mr. Pittleman got murdered.”

“How much we talking then?” asked Archer, and the clerk told him.

Archer reached into his pocket and counted out his remaining cash, including the two half-dollars he’d gotten for loading the crates.

The clerk snatched all this up and said, “That don’t even cover what you owe. And what about going forward?”

“That’s all the money I got, brother.”

“Then I guess you’re gonna have to find other accommodations.”

“But if I don’t have any more money, how am I gonna do that?”

“Not my problem, fella. Now, go clean out your things. And, see here, I’ll be watching. You got ten minutes. Gotta get that room ready for a paying guest.”

Archer went to his room, collected his few possessions, and marched out of the lobby while the clerk watched him go every step of the way. Archer looked up and down the street and decided he had only one option. He headed over to the Courts building and waited on the steps with his hat tilted over his eyes.

“Mr. Archer?”

Archer pushed his hat back and gazed up at Ernestine Crabtree.

She had on a plain blue A-line skirt with a pleated front, a long-sleeved white blouse, puffy in the arms and tight at the wrists with a wide, open V-neck collar, and low pumps with chunky heels. Her dark hat, made of felt, was narrow brimmed with a band around it and a little bow of ivy green in front. The hair was not done in the usual tight bun. It was actually down around her shoulders, in the same style that he had complimented her on before.

“What are you doing here?”

“Coming to see you about a job.”

“You mean you need work to pay back the forty dollars?”

“I mean I got kicked out of the Derby and I’m flat broke, so yeah.”

“Come on up.”

They took the interior stairs up to her floor and he followed the woman down the hall.

Another man passed them going the other way, leered at Crabtree, and then wolf-whistled. “Woo-wee, baby. You got something I need.” Smiling, he eyed Archer. “You’re a lucky man getting that skirt all for yourself, pal.”

Archer had done this very same thing more times than he could count. But that was before he had read about Ernestine Crabtree’s terrible past. And when he glanced at her and saw first embarrassment and then resignation, he wasn’t sure which one made him angrier.

“Hey, buddy,” said Archer sharply. He dropped the things he was carrying, grabbed the man by the lapels, and slammed him up against the wall, knocking his porkpie hat off in the process.