Дэвид Балдаччи - One Good Deed

“I guess you’re right.”

“No guessing about it. Now, you were saying this Dickie Dill was threatening you ’cause maybe you were working with me?”

“What he said, more or less. And he wasn’t at work today.”

“Wonder where he got to, then?”

Archer shook his head. “No idea.”

Shaw stretched and yawned.

“You look tired, Mr. Shaw.”

“During the war they gave us Benzedrine to help us stay awake when we were flying bombing missions. We were popping so many pills, Archer, it was like goddamn candy.” Shaw shook his head. “Hardest damn thing I ever had to do, kick that crap.”

“Got a question.”

“Shoot.”

“Why would Marjorie hire someone to kill her husband so she could collect the half-million bucks if he was going to die anyway?”

“Now that’s a right good question, Archer. Shows your instincts again. But I’ll tell you why, son, and this is called putting the whole picture together based on what we know. What I figure is she knew about the gambling and was worried he might mess things up so badly that even the life insurance policy wouldn’t help her. Or he might not have the dollars to keep the premiums paid up. Policies that big ain’t cheap, and you miss one payment, they cancel the policy. So, she doesn’t want to wait for him to kick the bucket from the cancer. She speeds up the process.” Shaw paused when his coffee and pie came. He shared the slice with Archer.

“Has she tried to collect on the policy?” Archer asked.

“Not so far. I asked the company to let me know. And that Malcolm Draper never tried to get hold of me. I’m thinking we need to pick that man up and make him talk.”

“He was looking out the window at us when Lucas Tuttle was leaving after paying his respects to Mrs. Pittleman.”

Shaw paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “He was? Why didn’t you tell me then, Archer?”

“I don’t know. I mean, the man works there. Didn’t see it as odd that he was in the house.”

Shaw chewed on his cobbler, took a sip of coffee, and considered this. “How likely do you think it was that Tuttle was over there paying his respects?”

“About as likely as Dickie Dill winning a personality contest.”

Shaw snorted at this and then grew serious. “So why was he there?”

Archer looked sheepish.

“What?”

“Tuttle was putting some papers in his pocket when he was coming out of the house.”

“What sort of papers?”

“Couldn’t tell. But he owed Pittleman five grand plus interest. Maybe he paid it off.”

“And the papers might be the promissory note. So Marjorie must have had it.”

Archer tried hard not to show his confusion, because Marjorie didn’t have those papers. Archer did. Part of him wanted to confess this to Shaw. The other part of him won out.

“Maybe” was all he could manage.

They finished their meal and headed over to the Derby Hotel. They asked at the front desk for Draper’s room and whereabouts.

“He went out about an hour ago,” said the clerk.

“And what’s his room number?” asked Shaw.

“Two fifteen.”

“Give me the key.”

“But—”

Shaw held up his star. “Right now, mister, ’less you want to get to know the insides of a jail cell real good.”

The clerk nearly threw the key at him.

Instead of taking the elevator, Shaw joined Archer on the stairs. When Archer looked at him inquiringly, Shaw said, “Even a lawman sometimes don’t like doors closing on ’im.”

Draper’s room was neat and spare, and they found no evidence that the man was involved in any criminal activity whatsoever. In fact, other than the man’s clothes and toiletries, they found nothing at all.

“Maybe you were wrong then,” said Archer. “Maybe he doesn’t know anything.”

“No, I think it means I’m right. No man is that tidy without a reason. He doesn’t want to leave anything for someone to find.”

Archer slowly nodded. “I could see how that might be.”

“Then you’re learning, son.”

They went back downstairs, where Shaw turned the key back over.

“Mr. Draper will probably be back around ten,” said the clerk.

Shaw shot him a look. “How do you know that?”

“He most likely went out to the slaughterhouse.”

“What the hell?” barked Shaw. “You sure?”

“I didn’t see him, if that’s what you mean, but he goes out there most days after dinner.”

Shaw slammed his fist down on the man’s counter so hard, the fellow jumped clear back to the wall. “Why in God’s name didn’t you tell me that before?”

The man stammered, “Y-you d-didn’t ask.”

Shaw pointed at him. “Don’t you go nowhere, fella, less I wanna arrest your ass when I get back.”

“What for?” cried out the man.

“For being stupid if nothing else.”

He and Archer rushed out and climbed into the Buick.

“Of all the dumb sons of bitches,” exclaimed Shaw.

“What’s the hurry going out there?” asked Archer.

“I want to see what that man does out there every night. And if we can catch him in the act of doing something wrong, I can use that to get him to rat on the others. Ain’t no honor among thieves, Archer. They’re just bad folks you got to grab by the neck and shake.”

The big Buick roared to throaty life.

With Archer giving directions, they made it to the slaughterhouse far faster than the truck Archer normally rode there on. The place was dark and there were no vehicles out front.

Shaw peered through the Buick’s windshield. “You got a gun, Archer?”

“I’m on parole. I can’t have a gun, Mr. Shaw.”

“Well, I’m making an exception right here and now. Just don’t tell nobody.”

Shaw hit a button on his dashboard and a little panel dropped down under it. Revealed was a revolver with black walnut grips held in place by pressure clips. Shaw freed it.

“Smith and Wesson .38 Special Victory Model, double action with fixed sights. Carried this baby in the war. Never fired it once.” He cracked a grin. “Couldn’t hit anything with it on the ground from ten thousand feet up in the air.” He handed it over to Archer. “But whatever you hit with that sucker ain’t getting back up.”

He grabbed a flashlight from the glove box.

“Maybe Draper already came and went,” said Archer.

“Maybe. God, this place stinks,” said Shaw, covering his nose with his free hand as they headed to the building.

“Wait’ll you get inside,” replied Archer. “You’ll have to hold your nose and your belly.”

The door was locked.

“Do we break it in?” said Shaw, tapping on the stout wood.

“Hold on.”

Archer stuck the gun into his waistband, took out his knife, and worked away at the lock for about thirty seconds. Then it swung open.

“I won’t ask where you learned to do that,” Shaw said.

He clicked on the flashlight and they entered the space. Archer, who knew the layout of the building pretty well, led the way.

When they reached the space where the hogs were sledgehammered and the walls and floor were coated with blood and brain matter and Archer explained what went on here, Shaw said firmly, “I ain’t never eating another piece ’a pork, long as I live, swear to God.”

They moved through the building, listening for any sound of Draper, but there was no noise at all, other than the litany of grunts from the ill-fated hogs penned up outside.

They finished searching the place and went back outside.

“Okay, this is a right puzzle,” said Shaw.

Archer wasn’t paying attention to him. He was looking over at the hog pens.