Ed Lacy - Shakedown for Murder

I sat up in the mud. I had to tangle with a muscle man, and the long haired son-of-a-bitch probably was older than me, too! My behind was soaking wet. I stood up, wanted to slug him but decided he'd flatten me. Without a word I gave him two five-dollar bills, got in the car and backed out. I headed for End Harbor, expecting to b» collared any second for driving without lights.

I'd never been this angry before in my life. The great Sherlock Lund—a mass of mud! One thing, I couldn't have Bessie and Andy see me like this.

I cooled off as I drove, paying full attention to the rainy road. I could see fairly well, there were enough cars going the other way to light up the road. I didn't stop at Hampton but pulled into a garage on the outskirts of End Harbor. A young fellow eating his supper in the office came out wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “What happened to you? New car, too.”

“I ran into Sitting Bull. Tell me how bad it is. Got a test room?”

He nodded toward a small white door. Inside I washed most of the mud off, using a lot of paper towels. I looked pretty good, considering the damn oversize windbreaker, but I was still wet all over. When I came out the mechanic was back in the office, finishing his supper. I went in, tried drying out my pipe bowl with matches as he said, “Nothing wrong with your lights, just need new glass and bulbs. Where you heading for?”

“I'm staying in the Harbor.”

He finished his container of coffee, said, “Brooklyn license plates. Well, I know the summer has really started with you....”

“Aw, cut it off. Can you fix the lights now? I want to get back to my cottage.”

“Can't put the glass in, but I can give you bulbs,. Look, suppose you bring the car around in the morning and leave it. I'll straighten out the fenders, paint 'em, take care of the lights and the bumper. Do it in a day if I at busy. Cost you thirty-five dollars.”

“Okay.”

He went out to the car and put in bulbs, carried the bumper back into the shop. The lights weren't much good, but at least I wouldn't get a ticket. As I lit my pipe and started the car, he said, “That's seventy-five cents for the bulbs. Deductible from the thirty-five dollars but payable now.”

“It's touching to see your faith in your fellow men,” I said, giving him three quarters.

He smiled. “I'm a union man—E. Pluribus Unum. See you in the morning, mac.”

He was so pleased with his corny wisecrack I didn't say a word, puffed harder on the pipe. I still had to kill time until Andy went to bed. There was one thing I'd overlooked—the scene of the crime. Not that I expected to find anything there now. I should have gone there yesterday. As a detective I was a good cell block attendant. I rolled down the window, asked, “Know where the killing of the doctor happened?”

He came to the office door, a sugar doughnut in his dirty hand. “Crazy the way people are on the morbid kick. I went out there myself to have a look this morning. Instead of turning into Main Street, take the other fork— that's Montauk Road. Follow that for about a mile and you'll see another road crossing it, a wide road. That's Bay Street. Make a right turn on Bay, away from the water. Couple hundred yards down you'll see a busted tree—that's the spot.”

“Bay Street?” I repeated. Jane Endin lived on Bay Street—Roberts was trying hard to overlook the obvious clues.

“Can't miss it, jack. There's a new brick house on one corner, boarded up—some rich cat who's been in Europe for last two years. On the opposite corner, toward the bay, you'll see a picket fence and a house. Not much of a house but nice piece of land. Belongs to an Indian gal. Don't forget, make a right turn on Bay.”

Ten minutes later I was on Bay Street, looking at the big tree with the splintered gash in the thick trunk. The tree was at an angle, its roots torn up. It would probably die soon. Keeping my faint lights on the scene I walked around in the rain, not knowing what I expected to find... and finding nothing.

Turning around I drove back to the highway. I stared at the boarded-up bright ranch house. The way Roberts operated, it could have belonged to Mr. Nelson. Then I looked at the Endin house. It was a weather-beaten two-story affair with at least an acre of land behind the low picket fence. There was an old car in the driveway; no lights in the house. I pulled off the road, decided to snoop around the house.

Of course there wasn't anything to see. A grape arbor in the back of the house, an unused chicken coop, a locked Shed. On the door there was a knocker shaped like an arrowhead, or maybe it was an arrowhead. I looked into one of the dark windows. As I turned away a porch light came on and the door opened.

A woman stood there who made me forget all about Indians, being a detective, even about feeling tired. She wasn't any beauty. She was tall and straight, black hair with streaks of gray pulled severely away from her angular face. Her eyes were bright and tired, and her face came down to an over-long jaw. Her skin was creamy and she was wearing a man's gray shirt and dungarees. Perhaps she was far from a beauty, but there was such a bitter, sullen look about her—she looked sexy. In fact, she looked like she was ready to explode with sex. I mean, she seemed about thirty-five and... well, as if she'd been storing it up all those years.

Her eyes took in my wet and dirty clothes before she asked, “What do you want?” It was a cold voice, proud and clear.

I took off my cap. “Excuse me, I was looking for a Miss Endin.”

“I'm Jane Endin. Why are you snooping around my property?”

Chapter 4

Being an amateur detective I hadn't given much thought as to the type of man Doc Barnes had been. If anything, I'd pictured him a prissy sort, a bluenose. My respect for the doc soared—this was indeed a woman. Then I told myself to act my age, stop the schoolboy crap—Jane Endin looked capable of anything: passion and/or murder.

“Why must you stare at me—so rudely? What do you want?”

“Sorry, I don't mean to be rude. I expected a....

“A tommyhawk in my hand?” Her voice was sharper than one.

“My name is Matt Lund. Perhaps you've heard of me, the New York City policeman interested in Doc Barnes' death.” I went through the motion of flashing my badge.

“I haven't heard of you.” Her voice became a talking-to-herself whisper. Her eyes looked through me, as if I weren't there. She seemed dazed and when her face slackened the high cheekbones stood out.

“I've been looking for you, Miss Endin. Can we talk?”

“What have we to talk about?” She turned and started to close the door. Her hair was a thick juicy braid that went to her waist—an exciting braid.

“Aren't you interested in finding Doc's killer?”

“Killer?” she repeated, back still to me, everything about her straight and tense. “Who would kill Edward? I can't associate killing with Edward, he was only interested in healing, the living.”

“Do you think Jerry murdered him?”

“Murder?” She spun around, her eyes coming alive again. “Jerry, the taxi man? But.... I thought it was an accident? Who says Jerry killed Edward?”

“The Harbor police. Jerry's in the Riverside jail this second, charged with murder.” I wondered where she could have possibly been not to have heard. Or was it all an act? “I'm trying to help Jerry. I don't think he did it. That's what I wanted to talk about.”

“Wipe your feet on the mat as you come in.”

She had an odd walk, sort of threw her legs out—and all the stiffness left her. I followed her into a living room which looked too neat to have been lived in much. The furniture was old but the walls were covered with various-size abstract paintings, violent splashes of color that didn't make sense yet were strangely exciting. There was also a large photo of a brown-skinned man in a gold frame who had to be her father—almost the same features. She pointed toward a maple chair with red cushions but I said I'd rather stand, didn't want to dirty the chair. She shrugged, lit a cigarette, and sat on an ancient leather chair, curling her legs under her. With that one movement, despite the shirt and dungarees, the stern face, a touch of feminine warmth came over her.