Rex Stout - Death of a Dude

MORLEY HAIGHT

SHERIFF

Inside, not even turning my head for a glance at the county employee seated at a table inside the railing, I kept going, on through the gate in the railing, across to a door in the left wall, opened it, and stepped in.

I admit it wouldn't be correct to say I was in pursuit of a fugitive from justice, but the man I had had in tow had broken loose, and it would have been a pleasure to bulldog him. I had not been cocky. Arriving at the Presto gas station twenty minutes ago, at 9:55, I had pulled over to the edge of the gravel, got out, asked the help politely if Gil was around, and gone where his thumb pointed, on through the bright sun to the shady inside. Gilbert Haight, over to the left, stacking cans of oil on a shelf, twisted his long neck for a look at me, twisted it back to see his hand place a couple of cans nice and even, turned around, and said, "Nice mahrnin'."

If it had been yesterday instead of today and I had just come from Jessup's office with the credentials, I would have had a little fun, but now it was just a job. "Better than yesterday," I said. "That was quite a rain."

"It sure was."

"Maybe we could sit somewhere for a little talk?"

He nodded. "I knew you'd be comin'."

"Naturally. If your father still says you mustn't talk to me maybe I should see him first. I wouldn't mind."

"I bet you wouldn't. He don't say that. He says the law's the law. He knows the law. But this is no place to talk, people comin' and goin'. I suppose you've got some kind of a paper from the county attorney."

I got an envelope from a pocket, took from it the "To Whom It May Concern," unfolded it, and handed it to him. He read it twice, taking his time, handed it back, and said, "It looks legal to me. I guess the best place to talk is right there in his office, where it sure will be legal. My sister's got my car so we'll go in yours. Miss Rowan's."

I could have said something like "Father knows best," but didn't bother. He put a few more cans in place, went out and told his colleague he was leaving for a while-his privilege, since his father owned the place-and came and joined me on the front seat of the station wagon. It was only half a mile to the courthouse. As usual on a Saturday morning all the nearby parking spots were occupied, but I turned in, swung around the courthouse to the rear, and on past a sign that said OFFICIAL CARS ONLY. One, I was now official, and two, his name was Haight. The rear door of the courthouse was standing open, and I led the way in and headed down the long hall to the front, where the main stairs were. We passed doors on both sides, but the three on the left were criss-crossed with iron bars because that was the old part of the county jail. Entering the big lobby, I turned right toward the stairs, but halfway there I stopped and wheeled because I no longer had company. He had headed back toward the opening to a side hall and was turning into it on the trot. I had no desire to stop him but wanted to know, not just guess, so I got to the hall fast, in time to see him open a door and go in-and as I said, the door was shut when I reached it.

The county employee at the table barked something and jumped up as I crossed, quick, to the inner door and on in. I stopped short of the desk and said, "What the hell, as long as it's legal."

You haven't met Sheriff Morley Haight, which is fair enough, because he hadn't met himself. Lily and I, having had occasion to discuss him, had done so. His basic idea of a Western sheriff was Wyatt Earp, so that was how he dressed, but obviously the modern way to tote a gun was on a belt like a state trooper's, so he did, though he knew he shouldn't. An even bigger difficulty was that he was a born loudmouth, a natural roof-raiser, and of course that wouldn't do at all for a Wyatt Earp. As if that wasn't enough, he had told various people, two of whom I had met, that when there was a problem to handle he always asked himself what J. Edgar Hoover would do. The product was a personality mess that couldn't have been made any worse even by a trained psychoanalyst.

Since he had known what I would do as soon as he heard about my credentials from Jessup, and since he had told his son what to do, my marching in was no surprise for him and he didn't pretend it was. He just squinted at me, his Wyatt Earp squint, and growled, "What kept you?"

His son Gil, who was standing over by a tier of filing cabinets, had got his long-limbed setup, including his extra inch and a half of neck, straight from Dad, and of course that wasn't ideal for a sheriff, but he had got elected anyway and that's the test-lick your handicaps. One of his dodges was keeping his shoulders up and back to make them look broader, and he was doing that now.

There was a plain wood chair at the end of his desk, and I went and took it. "Mr Wolfe thought there were better things to do yesterday," I said politely. "This will be the first time I ever questioned a murder suspect with a sheriff listening. Do we want a stenographer?"

"We don't need one." He opened a desk drawer, fingered in it, brought papers out, and selected one. "Here's an extra copy of a signed statement by one of the suspects I questioned." He held it out and I took it. "I guess you can read?"

I didn't bother to bat that back. The exhibit was typewritten on a plain 8Ѕ-by-11 sheet, single-spaced and wide-margined:

Timberburg, Montana

July 27, 1968

I, Gilbert Haight, living at 218 Jefferson Street, Timberburg, Montana, hereby state that on Thursday, July 25, 1968, I was at the Presto Gas Station on Main Street continuously from 12:50 p.m. to 2:25 p.m. The times given in this statement are exact within five minutes, and are all for the aforesaid Thursday, July 25.

From 2:35 p.m. to 4:25 p.m., continuously, I was with Miss Bessie Boughton at her home at 360 Willow Street, Timberburg. From 4:40 p.m. to 5:05 p.m., continuously, I was with Mr Homer Dowd at his place of business, the Dowd Roofing Company, on Main Street, Timberburg. From 5:20 p.m. to 6:00 p.m., continuously, I was with Mr Jimmy Negron at his chicken farm on Route 27 south of Timberburg.

Gilbert Haight

Witness: Effie T. Duggers

The names were typed below the signatures. Apple-pie order.

Of course he expected me either to tackle Gil on the alibi, trying to find a crack, or to get personal with him about his relations with Alma Greve and his contacts with Philip Brodell, so I had to do something else. There weren't many alternatives. I folded the document carefully, pocketed it, narrowed my eyes at him, and said the way Wyatt Earp would have said it, "That seems to account for him, subject to a check, but what about you? Where were you from two p.m. to six p.m. on Thursday, July twenty-fifth?"

The reaction was even better than expected. His hand went to his belt and for half a second I thought he was actually going to draw; his eyes bugged; and he roared like a bull at the touch of the branding iron, "You goddam New York punk!" He then jerked his chair back and started up, but I don't know how fast or far he came because I was walking out and my back was turned. On through the anteroom and down the hall and out to the car.

Having been to 360 Willow Street once before, I didn't have to get directions. It was a neat little one-story white cottage with a narrow concrete walk leading to the three steps up to a little covered porch. I hadn't been inside because Miss Boughton had spoken her few words to me through the screen door, but this time she pushed it open and I entered. Obviously she too had been expecting me, though she didn't say so. All she said, after inviting me in and taking me to a neat little room with two windows, and one wall covered nearly to the ceiling with shelves of books, was that I should have phoned because she often spent weekends at her brother's ranch. Before she sat on the biggest chair of the three available she had to pick up an embroidery frame with work in progress that was there on the seat. Probably the Thomas Jefferson that decorated the back of my chair had come from that frame.