Charles Williams - Man on a Leash

He shaved and showered and came out of the bath scrubbing himself vigorously with the towel, a heavy set figure of a man with haze-gray eyes, big, beat-up hands, and an all-over leathery tan except for a narrow strip about his middle. He ran a comb through the sun-streaked blond hair without noticeably improving an indifferent haircut, shrugged, and tossed the comb back into the toilet kit.

He put on slacks and sport shirt. It was only a short walk to the center of town; there was no need to take the car. He went up the sidewalk under the increasing weight of the sun, accustomed to it and scarcely noticing it but aware at the same time of the unfamiliar dryness of the air and the faint odors of dust and sage. Not many of the places of business were open yet, and the pace was unhurried along the street.

Just ahead was a coffee shop with a couple of newspaper vending racks in front. One of them held the San Francisco Chronicle. He fished in his pocket and was about to drop in the coins when he saw it was yesterday’s; it was too early yet for today’s. Something half forgotten nudged the edges of his mind as he went inside and ordered coffee. What was it? And where? Then he remembered, and grinned, but with a faint tightness in his throat.

It was in New York. He’d got permission from the military academy he attended in Pennsylvania to come down to meet his father for a day while his ship was in port. They’d had lunch somewhere, and afterward out on the sidewalk his father had flagged a taxi to take them to the ball game at Yankee Stadium. As it was pulling to the curb, he dropped a coin in a vending machine for a newspaper. There was no sign on it warning that it was out of order, but it refused to open, and punching the coin return was of no avail. It didn’t work either. Passersby turned to gawk at this familiar scene of man’s being bilked by another complacent, nickel-grabbing machine, and while somebody else might have given it a shake and retreated muttering, his father stepped back, calmly shoved a size-12 English brogue through the glass front, lifted out his paper, folded it under his arm, and strolled over to the cab while he, Eric, watched aghast in his cadet’s uniform. By the time he’d got into the cab and they pulled away his father was already immersed in the financial section, and when he ventured some doubt about the legality of this direct action, the old man had looked up, puzzled.

“What? Oh— Son, never expect anything free in this world; you pay for everything you get. But at the same time make sure they give you every goddamned thing you pay for.”

The sheriff’s office was on the ground floor at the rear of the new courthouse and city hall, a long room with a wide double doorway. A blond girl came out carrying a sheaf of papers and nodded as he went in. There was a railing just inside, and beyond it five or six desks and banks of filing cabinets. At the back of the room were two barred windows and a door that presumably led to the alley and the parking area for official cars. From an open doorway into another room at the left there issued the sound of static and the short, staccato bursts of police-band voices. There was a corridor at the right end of the room, and next to it a bulletin board, a case containing shotguns and rifles, and a small table holding a percolator and some coffee cups. A dark-haired man of about thirty was typing at one of the desks near the railing. He got up and came over.

“Good morning. Can I help you?”

“I’d like to speak to the sheriff,” Romstead replied. “Is he in yet?”

“No. He’s got to go to court today; he may not be in at all. But if it’s a complaint, I can take it. My name’s Orde.”

“No complaint,” Romstead said. “It’s about Captain Romstead.”

“And you are?”

“Eric Romstead. He was my father.”

There was no reaction this time unless it was the total lack of any expression at all, which was probably professional. Romstead went on, “There was a wire from your office. I called last night from San Francisco and talked to a man named Crowder.”

“Yeah. Well, Crowder doesn’t come on till four, but the man you want to see is Brubaker, chief deputy. He’s in charge of the case. Just a minute.”

He went back to his desk and spoke into the phone. He replaced the instrument and nodded. “Just have a seat there. He’ll be with you in a couple of minutes.”

There was a bench along the wall beside the doors. Romstead sat down. A teletype clattered briefly in the communications room. Orde lit a cigarette and stared at the form in his typewriter.

“What happened anyway?” Romstead asked.

“Didn’t Crowder tell you?”

“Just that he’d been shot. Executed is the word he used.”

“Crowder watches a lot of TV.” Orde leaned back in the swivel chair and dropped the book of matches onto the desk. “But then I guess you can’t argue with it, even if it is a little Hollywood. He was found on the city dump, shot in the back of the head. I’m sorry.”

“But for Christ’s sake, who did it?”

“We don’t know. Except that it was real professional and some action he brought here with him. We could have done without it.”

This made no sense at all, of course, and Romstead was about to point it out but did not. He’d come this far to get the facts from somebody who knew what he was talking about, so he could wait a few more minutes. At that moment the door opened at the rear of the room, and a white-hatted deputy came in, ushering ahead of him an emaciated middle-aged man whose face was covered with a stubble of graying whiskers. The latter looked around once with an expression that managed to be sly and hangdog at the same time and then down at the floor as he shuffled forward when the deputy released his arm and gestured toward the chair by Orde’s desk. “Park it, Wingy.”

“Not again?” Orde asked.

“Again,” the deputy replied.

The prisoner sat down, still looking at the floor, and began to pat his clothing for nonexistent cigarettes. Orde tossed the pack across the desk.

“Who’d he unveil it for this time?” he asked. “The League of Women Voters?”

“Rancher’s wife out on the Dennison road.” The deputy sighed and went over to the table to pour a cup of coffee. “I wish to Christ I had one I was that proud of.”

The prisoner was now patting his pockets for matches. Orde tossed him the book. “Here.” He shook his head as he rolled a new form into his typewriter and spoke in the tone of one addressing a wayward child.

“Wingy, someday you’re going to wave that lily at some woman’s got a cleaver in her hand, and she’s going to chop it off and stuff it in your ear.”

A phone rang. Orde punched a button on the desk and answered it. “Okay,” he said. He looked over at Romstead and gestured toward the corridor. “That was Brubaker. Second door on the left.”

“Thanks.” Romstead let himself in through the gate in the railing and went up the hallway. The door was open. It was a small office. Brubaker was at the desk with his back to a closed Venetian blind, removing the contents of a thick manila folder. He stood up and held out his hand, a heavy, florid-faced man with spiky red hair graying at the temples. The handshake was brusque and his manner businesslike, but he smiled briefly as he waved toward the chair in front of the desk.

“You’re a hard man to get hold of.” He sat down, picked up his cigar from a tray on the desk, and leaned forward to study the material from the envelope. “We’ve been trying to run you down for two weeks.”

“I was out of town,” Romstead said. “I just got back last night.”

“I know. We got your address from your father’s attorney. We kept trying to call you and finally asked the San Francisco police to check your apartment. The manager said he didn’t know where you were. Crowder’s note here says you were on a boat somewhere. You a seaman, too?”