Ed Lacy - Shakedown for Murder

I looked down—hadn't realized my pants and shirt were streaked with grass and dirt stains. “Seems I had another accident.”

“Be careful, you may be accident-prone. Come in. Like to wash up? Your face is dirty.”

She took me to the bathroom, and as we passed through the living room I saw her latest work standing on an easel. It seemed to be a picture of a rough sea but the water was a violent red, the wave-caps a terrible purple, and the sky a dead, sickly green. At least it wasn't a picture you forget quickly.

The bathroom fixtures were bulky and ancient. I washed, drying my face and hands on toilet paper—the towels looked like they'd never been used. For a second I glanced at the big bathtub with envy, then went back to the living room.

I stared at the new painting and she asked, “Do you like it? Don't touch it, please, it's still wet.”

“That's okay, I'm wearing gloves.”

For a fast second her eyes seemed to harden, then she giggled—and for a moment she seemed about eighteen, “That's a wonderful joke.”

“And very old. Yeah, I think I like it. It's the nightmare terror a rough sea can give you.”

“Thank you, that's exactly what I had in mind. The other day, when I was staring at the sea all day... it seemed so terribly ruthless. Since I decided not to go to Edward's funeral today, I worked hard on the painting to pass time. I'm glad Jerry is out. I knew he couldn't have done such a thing. Who is this Nelson, the man they say did it?”

“I never saw him. Did you?”

She shook her head as we sat down opposite each other. She lit a cigarette, started to hand me the pack, said, “But you smoke a pipe. I'm sorry about what happened to your cat.”

“Who told you?” I patted my pockets; my pipe was some place in Anderson's field. It was a damn good piece of briar, too. I reached over and took one of her cigarettes.

“I have Newsday delivered here every afternoon, and the boy told me. First time I ever heard of anybody making a mistake about toadstools. Lucky it was only the cat.”

“Yeah, only a cat. And it was a mistake all right, a big one,” I said slowly, wondering if I'd be booting things by taking her into my confidence. I had a hunch Jane was completely straight, still these Harbor people were all hard to make. Any horse player knows a hunch addict is a fool, but I couldn't waste any more time. And I couldn't go it alone. I took the plunge. “You see, now I'm sure I know the real killer.”

“Killer? You think somebody killed your cat?”

“I know the louse who killed my cat also murdered Doc Barnes and this Nelson.”

She jumped a little, went pale. “But I thought...? That is, they are so sure; they said they found Edward's scarf on the dead man?”

“Forget Nelson for now. I think I know who killed the doc. But I don't know the motive, the reasons why, all the little things that will round out the full picture. I need your help for that.”

“My help? I'll do anything to get Edward's killer, but... but I hardly see how I can be of any help. What can I do?”

“You...” I wiped tobacco crumbs from my lips. I never could smoke cigarettes, not even when I was sneaking a smoke on my post. “You can be a big help. I need background information about Pops. I want to know all about him. And about Larry Anderson.”

“Not Larry. He's—”

“Skip telling me what a community pillar he is. I'll give it to you from the shoulder—I think he and Pops are in some kind of racket. I've checked, and he's making too much dough from his vegetable business. Wait—let me talk for a second. Pops is supposed to be very sick— Anderson takes him up on the roof, that widow's walk, every day for the sun. I'm sure that's an act, with a dummy. I think Pops killed Barnes—but I don't know the motive, yet—and is in hiding. I was out on the bay this morning, with my fieldglasses. I believe Larry thought I was watching the house, that he told Pops, and my cat was killed to scare me off the case.”

“Mr. Lund, do you realize what you're saying? It's ridiculous. Strong as he is, Larry has never struck anybody, not even in anger. As for Pops, why, he's a jolly, gentle old man. They're like father and son.”

“Maybe. But Pops has to be the 'old goat' the doc was going to see after he left Jerry. And if Pops didn't kill the doc, he knows who did—that's why he's hiding. The point is, Larry isn't acting like he has a sick father in the house, he's firing a shotgun like he's in a battle. Nor was my cat an accident—and it couldn't have been Nelson, he's dead. There's a lot of whys I have to answer, and maybe I'm all wet. But if I'm not, there's a killer loose. I need your help to see if I'm wrong.”

“But Larry and Pops—they're the last two people in the world I'd think of as.... killers.”

“Will you help me, Miss Endin?”

“I simply can't believe they are crooks or... even bad...

I crushed the damn cigarette in a clam shell ashtray. “Okay, you answer a few questions and convince me I'm wrong. Who is Pops? What's his full name?”

“I don't know his first name but his surname is Brown. Long as I can recall he was just called Pops, Pops Brown.”

“Know where he came from?” Maybe Pops knew Nelson in California and they both had something on Barnes.

“No. Seems to me he was always around the Harbor, always an old man. When Mrs. Anderson was alive she needed a farm hand. Of course it really wasn't a farm, more of a truck vegetable patch. But it was plenty of work and she needed a part-time helper, or she'd have to take Larry out of school. Pops was working around: clam digging, potato picker, fixed up the roads—he helped Mrs. Anderson out in return for room and board. He's lived there ever since. When Larry started his wholesale business Pops helped him for a time, mostly on the raising end. But it became too much work for him. For the last couple of years, even though he was too old to work, Larry has taken care of him, treated him fine. Pops always has spending money.”

“I bet,” I said, wondering if maybe Larry was working for Pops. “Did Pops ever leave here, say for a few days or weeks at a time?”

“No.”

“Doesn't anybody know where he came from? Has he any relations?”

“Pops is about the oldest person in town, all his pals have passed on. Guess there isn't anyone who knows much about him. I do know he sometimes has a friend or two, also old men, visiting him for a month or so.”

“Any of Priscilla's family live around here?”

Jane shook her head.

“Did you ever see or hear of Jack Wiston?”

“No. I think that's Priscilla's maiden name but her folks were all dead before I was born. Who is Jack Wiston?”

“Forget him, I'm crossing him off. Let's get back to Pops.”

“Mr. Lund, you're terribly wrong about all this.”

“I don't think so, there's too many phony angles about Pops, and Anderson. Larry's mother leave him any money?”

“Oh, no, they were always very poor.”

“And from what you've told me Pops was a bum, so he didn't have any. Anderson's post office job isn't much, he gets around $1500 a year. Yet he pays his bills promptly and with cash, his business is the only one in the Harbor that's able to buck the supermarket—why only Larry's?”

“I don't know, but if he was so rich, why would he keep the mailman job? Also, Larry doesn't deal only in the Harbor. He serves a number of stores from Patchogue out to Montauk. Most of these other towns haven't any supermarkets.”

“Is Anderson the only wholesale produce man in these parts?”

“In End Harbor, but I'm pretty sure there are others around. Of course there are, the Henderson boy works for one in Hampton, come to think of it.”