Clifford Simak - A Death in the House - And Other Stories

From the back of the shop came a high, shrill voice:

“Pa, you worked long enough. Quit your jawing and close up. Land sakes, you work all the time.”

Jake grinned lop-sidedly. “That’s my wife,” he said. “Guess you better go, mister. Thanks for dropping in.”

It was almost as if a weight had been lifted from Culver. For long miles on the way from St. Louis, he had thought of Farson, had argued with himself, blamed himself for the black suspicion that hovered in his brain. Mark hadn’t run away, he told himself, exultantly. He hadn’t run away.

When Culver got back to where the plank had been the plank and man were gone. Gazing ruefully at the muddy street, he sat down on the step of a harness shop and rolled up both pants legs. If he had to wade that muck out there, there was no sense getting his pants muddy as well as his boots.

From up the street came a tapping sound, a broken, hobbling sound. He listened for a moment, puzzled, then it came to him. It was Crip stumping down the walk. He rose from the step, walked to the edge of the sidewalk and stepped into the mud.

Suddenly the tapping ceased, then began again, faster, hurried, as if the man were running, dodging and ducking as he ran. Boots thumped heavily and there was the sound of scuffling.

A gasping voice cried: “No! No!”

Spinning around, Culver leaped back to the sidewalk, sprinted up the street toward the noise that suddenly was silent. And as he ran his hand snapped back and snatched the sixgun from its holster.

Ahead of him orange flame blossomed in the night and even as it did a howling thing went past him and smashed into the window of a building. Glass crashed and tinkled and the bright orange flame flared again.

Culver brought up his gun, worked the trigger swiftly, ducking sideways as he fired, heading for the pitch-dark mouth of an alleyway between two buildings.

Out ahead of him the six-gun yammered, its blasting reverberating between the buildings, and Culver heard the sodden chunking of the bullets slamming into the clapboards by his side. Then he was in the alleyway, backing on cat-like feet, six-gun ready.

Something caught the back of his ankles and tripped him. He tried to catch himself, but failed, flung back his left hand to break the fall, felt the harshness of coarse fabric underneath his fingers. He hit a yielding, rounded object and rolled to one side, put out an exploring hand, stiffened with horror at the thing he found. It was Crip.

In the darkness, Culver slid his fingers along the dead man’s back, found the sticky place that surrounded the horn hilt of a knife. Crouched in the darkness between the two buildings, Culver’s mind clicked rapidly.

The peg-legged man had been knifed out there on the street, had crawled into the alleyway before death had overtaken him. Killed by someone who had used a knife for silence, but someone who had been desperate enough to use a gun when he faced detection.

Crazy, Jake had said back there in the printshop, crazy as a coot. Dead long ago if he hadn’t been. And now he was dead. Even craziness couldn’t hold off death.

Tensed above the body, Culver found the dead man’s pocket, slid his hand swiftly into it. His fingers touched the notebook and closed about it, pulled it free.

Then, on his feet again, he was racing down the alleyway, ears strained for the sound of running boots that did not come.

Back in his hotel room, Culver closed and locked the door behind him, stood for a moment listening for the slightest stir to come out of the blackness of the room. But the room was dead. He found the lamp and lighted it, strode to the window and pulled down the blind.

Pulling a chair close to the lamp table, he took the notebook from his pocket, leafed swiftly through the pages. Items caught his eyes and he stopped to read:

Black Jack rolled for 100 dolars at Golden Slipper. Jim done it.

July 16—Col. Newhouse came to town. Frank Smith found gold. Geo. Johnson lose 80 dolars playing poker with Big Steve.

July 17—H. Jackson kiled by Nelson. Old Henry dide.

July 18—Stover kiled stranger, got 500 dolar. No one nos this.

Stover, thought Culver. Stover had been the man out on the walk, the man with the bushy beard and the pig-like eyes. So Stover had robbed a stranger of $500 and no one, said Crip’s crabbed scrawl, knew about it. No one but Crip, who had written it down. Crip, who wasn’t so good at other spelling, but liked to get the names right. A gossip book, things that Gun Gulch knew and things it didn’t know. Things that a man would know only if he hung around and listened and put two and two together … a man who was a little cracked or he’d been dead long ago.

The book slipped in his fingers and he lost the page. He bent his head and opened it again, searching for a date. May. June. And suddenly, there it was.

June 9—Perkins kiled Farson for money belt. Hamilton had him do it. No one nos this. Buried him at nite.

Culver stiffened in his chair, his hand tightening into a fist that crushed and wrinkled the book in its savage grasp.

June 9—Perkins kiled Farson. …

And now Crip himself was dead. Dead, more than likely because of that very entry in the book. Killed because Hamilton was afraid that it might be there, because he knew that Crip had many things in the book that no other man should know. That especially a man named Culver should not know.

Culver rose from the chair, blew out the light and let himself into the hall.

Downstairs he stopped and tossed the book onto the desk.

“Will you put this in your safe?” he asked.

The clerk picked up the book and stared at it nervously.

“Know it?” asked Culver.

The clerk gulped and nodded.

“Someone killed Crip to get that book,” said Culver. “Only I got there first.”

“But … but … where are you going, sir?”

“I’m going out to collect a debt,” said Culver.

Hamilton glanced up swiftly from his desk at the sound of the footstep, froze at the sight of the gun in Culver’s hand.

Culver chuckled softly. “How are you, Cal?” he asked.

Hamilton’s lips moved drily in his face. “How did you get in?”

“Through the basement window,” said Culver. “All the others were locked. The place was dark but I saw the light in your window here.”

One of Hamilton’s hands slid along the desk top and Culver snapped at him: “Keep those paws where they are. Don’t go reaching for a drawer!”

Hamilton slid his hand back again and Culver moved into the room, closed the door behind him. Piles of bills and heaps of silver coin were piled upon the desk top and in front of Hamilton was a heavy ledger.

“Counting up the profits?” asked Culver.

Hamilton didn’t answer and he went on. “I been wondering what you do when you make a windfall. Ten thousand dollars, say. Put it in the book, all regular-like and neat?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hamilton said.

“Suppose you kill a man,” said Culver. “Or have someone kill him for you. Suppose he has a money belt with ten thousand dollars in it. What do you do with that?”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Hamilton. “It’s never happened. I never thought about it.”

“I’d hate to have a memory like yours,” Culver told him, softly. “Bad for business. Imagine going around and forgetting a wad of cash like that.”

“Look,” said Hamilton. “I’m busy!”

Culver snarled savagely. “Don’t try to high-hat me, Cal. You can’t run a sandy on me because I know you from the bottom up. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m talking about Farson.”