Shakedown for Murder - Ed Lacy

     “All right, I'll get one.”

     “Okay, but do it at once. Did anybody in End Harbor, or in any of the other burgs around here, have any reason for killing the doc? Did he have any enemies, any at all?”

     “No, no. Edward is—was—the only doctor in the Harbor, a big man in the town.”

     “But you just told me the Harbor didn't have much use for him either.”

     “I don't like to repeat... gossip. They keep this quiet because Barnes was the mayor at one time, an important man in the church... but he told them all to go plum to hell, even his wife.”

     “Told them to go to hell about what?”

     “You know how the town got its name, End Harbor?”

     “I suppose because it's at the end of the bay.” He shook his head. “A long, long time ago a tribe of Indians lived there, part of the Shinnecock Nation, called Endins—sounds like Indians. That was a couple hundred years ago. When I first came to the Harbor there were still several Indian families, but they moved away. Only one family left, Joe Endins and his daughter Jane. Jane grew up to be a fine girl but there was nothing for her in the Harbor, no job, no man to marry—because she's Indian. All she can do is work as a maid. Her papa died and she still hung around, maybe she's twenty-three, twenty-five, a very lonely young woman. Then the story starts she is going with Doc Barnes. That was about ten years ago. This is all gossip, you understand, but this I do know, Edward trained her to be a nurse and took her on all his calls. His wife is mad as the devil and the town is buzzing with whispers. After a year or so, Jane stops working for the doctor. She still lives in the Harbor but works in a Hampton factory. But the doctor, he keeps seeing her, you can usually find his car parked boldly in front of the Endin house a few times a week. Gossip is the devil's tongue in a small town. Because Priscilla Barnes helped Art Roberts, sort of kept an eye on him when his mother died, why some dirty people hinted....”

     “Wait up, Mrs. Barnes and Chief Roberts are an item?”

     “No, no! She's old enough to be his mother. I merely show you the evil power of gossip... and how well I've known that power!”

     “But this other bit, Doc and an Indian gal, jeez! Changes everything, gives the doc's wife a motive for the killing.”

     Jerry patted my knee, as if he was talking to a kid. “Indeed not. You shock me, Mr. Lund. But of course you don't know Priscilla Barnes. A very quiet and meek woman. If she stood the cross of gossip all these years, when Jane was working in the Barnes home—Edward had his office in the house—why should she get angry sow, when the affair, if it was that, seemed to be dying out?”

     “Some people carry a long fuse and you never know—when....”

     The attendant rapped on the bars. “Time's up.”

     “Think hard: the doc didn't give you any hint as to who the 'old goat' might be? Didn't say in which direction he was driving to see the goat, for example?”

     “Nope. He said it in passing; you know.”

     “Let's go, break it off.” The cell block attendant opened the door.

     “Whatsa the bigga rush with you?” Jerry mumbled.

     “When you get that lawyer, I want to see him. And don't talk to anybody but the lawyer,” I told him.

     “What is there to talk about?”

     I stood up. “Maybe I'll be back to see you tomorrow, or the next day. Need any cigarettes, cigars—anything?”

     Jerry shook his head. “I am glad you came, Mr. Lund,” he said, getting up and shaking my hand. “You made me feel better—a little.”

     Bessie was sitting in the car, puffing on a cigarette, bags of groceries on the rear seat. She started pumping me with questions and I said, “Relax, Jerry is fine. Bessie, the whole Harbor is lying in their carefully brushed teeth.”

     “But why? It's such a peaceful community—I know they dislike Jerry, but to frame him for murder—that I can't understand.”

     “Let's get going, I have a lot of work to do. The why is the usual old one: your pillar of the community, Doc Barnes, was carrying on for years with an Indian woman, a descendant of the tribe that founded End Harbor. Name is Jane Endin. You know her?”

     “No. We tourists rarely get to know anybody but the storekeepers. You think this Indian woman killed him?”

     “She had more reason than Jerry. Not to mention the doc's wife, who's been having the affair flung in her face all these years. But this explains Chief Roberts' attitude —from the go he knew darn well it was murder but all he can think of is the Harbor doesn't want a scandal. In a small town everybody is close friends—especially Mrs. Barnes and Roberts. He's even willing to call it an accident and let it go at that. Then enter the clown—me—who has to shoot off his big mouth. Now the Harbor has to call it murder but they find a custom-made patsy—the doc was known to have visited Jerry, the village bogeyman.”

     “But to put Jerry on trial for his life, Lord, how can they be so heartless!”

     “Honey, that's the angle, the reasons Roberts doesn't give a fat damn his evidence is weak and circumstantial— he knows Jerry won't be found guilty. So what? The mess is over, hushed without any scandal. I told you I was the joker in the deck, well, honey, I'm going to knock over their can of peas, bust this wide open!”

     “Matt, I knew you would!”

     “You didn't know a mumbling thing, and neither did L Frankly, I only went to Riverside this morning to go through the motions. But that's all changed now—I know he's being railroaded. Being an ordinary patrolman, a harness bull, I've never looked upon 'police work' as anything but a job. But like everybody else I sometimes thought, had daydreams, about being a real detective. So in my old age I'm frankly going to give it a try.”

     The odd thing was I said this rah-rah pitch cold sober, actually meant every word. Listening to Jerry I'd decided to goose End Harbor wide open, expose all the petty scheming and hatreds, a kind of concentrated form of big city vice. If I was doing it for Jerry, I was also doing it for my own ego. And all the time I knew I was showboating; a four-flusher—for the case was a set-up and I would knock it over with the speed of a fiction private eye.

     Bessie wanted to know what I had in mind but I merely puffed on my pipe with great self-importance, told her I couldn't discuss it at the moment, but I would need the car.

     She said I could have it and even managed not to talk all the way back to the cottage. I gave Matty his lunch in three seconds flat and with Bessie watching with admiring eyes I dashed off—the great detective about to run himself ragged.

     Roberts was out but the boy-cop was holding down the desk. He told me Roberts was working. I asked, “Did you know the doc was deaf?”

     “Yeah. Everybody knew that, he had one of them transparent hearing buttons stuck in his ear.”

     “You know why Jerry was loud-talking him, why the doc was shouting back? The hearing device wasn't working that night.”

     “That so? There wasn't enough left to say if it was working or not Who told you all this?”

     “Jerry. Didn't you fellows question him at all? He claims Barnes had another call to make—which means Jerry wasn't the last person to see the doc alive.”

     Junior fooled with his red tie, almost yawned in my face. “Guess that would change things—if you can prove it. We grilled old Jerry, but who can understand the way he talks? After a couple questions he wouldn't say a damn word. To my way of thinking, this proves Jerry guilty— for he'd sure as hell make up a story about the doc having another call. Mrs. Barnes says he only had to see Jerry.”

     “She might say anything. Jerry says the doc told him he was on his way to see the 'old goat.' Any idea who that would be?”

     He showed a mouthful of teeth in a big grin. “Offhand that could be anybody over the age of thirty. There's a summer population of around 2800, not to mention the 1468 actual residents of the Harbor, and at least half of them are over thirty—you plan to question about 3000 people, mister?”

     “I might, to save a man's life,” I snapped, knowing I was wasting time: the End Harbor police weren't interested in finding the killer. “Where does Jane Endin live?”

     “Out on Bay Street, couple houses past the entrance to Tide Beach. So you know about her?”

     “I sure do,” I said, starting for the door.

     “All this rushing about will tire you out, man your age.”

     I spun around. “Don't let that pansy uniform go to your head, sonny. I've put in more years as a cop than you have weeks!”

     “Take it easy, mister. I'm only trying to save you work. She ain't home. We been trying to locate her since yesterday.”

     I almost swallowed my tongue: a possible suspect leaves town and they sit on their butts! “Know where she works in Hampton?”

     “Sure, at the watch factory. We phoned there, she wasn't to work yesterday or today. What you want to see her for?”

     “To ask who she thinks will win the pennant!” I said, walking out.

     He called after me, “Hell, I can tell you that—the Giants.”

     Outside I sat in the car and got my pipe going—watching the people on the main drag—trying to figure my next step. I knew what I had to do but I didn't want to rush it, act like a jerk—the way I'd just done with the uniform-happy boy. One thing was for sure; I couldn't shake this village loose by myself.

     I made a list of all the names I'd heard since coming to the Harbor—Jerry's, Doc and Mrs. Barnes, Chief Roberts, Jane Endin, Mrs. Bond, Larry Anderson, Pops (but what was his name?), even copied the names from the store windows on Main Street—obviously the big apples in the village. Getting a handful of change I put in a long distance call, which would also take it away from the ears of the local operators, to Nat Reed in New York. Nat and I shared a post for a brace of years before he quit to go into private work, ended up in a cushy spot with a credit agency. Credit outfits have become the largest snoop agencies in the country outside the government. They have complete files on millions of people. I gave Nat a fast rundown on what I was doing, the list of names.

     As I expected, he said, “Matt, you know I can't give out info like that. It's only for our subscribers.”

     “I know—that's why I'm wasting dough on a long distance call.”

     Nat sputtered a little before he said, “Okay, I'll send you whatever we have, get it out today.”

     “Put it in a plain envelope. Seal it good.”

     “Things that bad?”

     “I'm playing it safe, wind blows a lot of ways out here.”

     “I'll mail it special delivery.” He laughed. “Going in for police work as a hobby in your old age?”

     “Isn't it about time? And if I'm in my old age, where does that put you, you old belch? Thanks, Nat. Say hello to the wife for me.”

     I drove along Main Street until I reached the picture-window white house set back on a neat lawn with Doc Barnes' shingle hanging from a post made to look like an old whaling ship's mast. I rang the doorbell and a stout woman with a healthy face and heavy gray hair in a big bun topping her head opened the door. A plain worn short red dress showed off arms and legs that belonged on a football team.

     “Mrs. Barnes?”

     “No, no, I'm only staying with Priscilla in her hour of need. I'm Mrs. Jenks.”

     “Can Mrs. Barnes see people? It's important.”

     The bright eyes in the large face turned suspicious. “You're new in the Harbor, ain'tcha?”

     “Yes. My name is Matt Lund. I'd like to speak to Mrs. Barnes.”

     “Well, you certainly don't look like a reporter. They've been ringing our phone like.... Well, I keep telling them all this excitement is bad for shock. My son is a doctor, too, you know. Practicing in Brooklyn. Edward urged him to come home and share his practice but Don thought there wouldn't be enough for two doctors to.... Say! You're that city police inspector!”

     Gossip was promoting me fast. “Your son going to take over Doctor Barnes' practice now?”

     “I should hope so. After all, Edward would have wanted it that way—he practically insisted Don go to med school. This is what I've been dreaming about—Don back in the Harbor, where he belongs and.... But this is no time to talk about such things.”

     “Maybe not. Will you ask Mrs. Barnes if she'll Bee me for a few minutes?”

     “Priscilla is piddling around in the kitchen. This morning she was busy with the funeral arrangements. You'll only upset her and she needs her rest.”

     There was a moment of silence while we stared at each other. I suppose I should have gone away but I stood there, waiting. Finally she snorted, “Hmmm! I'll ask Priscilla,” and shut the door in my face.

     A frail little woman with an unhealthy waxen skin and thin white hair opened the door a moment later. Her delicate features and mild eyes added up to a washed-out look, and the mouth was merely a faint pink line. She was wearing a white apron over a black dress. The apron was even starched. But the more I looked at her I realized she wasn't exactly frail—more on the wiry side. She had been a pretty woman at one time, in fact still had a kind of beauty—if you go for the fragile type of looks—which I don't. Her voice was a shock; it was far from delicate—it was hard, almost brittle, as she said, “I'm Mrs. Barnes. What do you wish to speak to me about?”

     “May I come in?”

     She seemed to wince and shake, as if I'd hit her. She closed her eyes for a moment and I had this feeling the very last thing she wanted was to talk to me—or even see me. Then she opened her eyes, stared at me boldly, and that strong, harsh voice said, “Of course. Excuse my manners.