Ed Lacy - Shakedown for Murder
There wasn't anything to do until Roberts showed. I brushed away a fly buzzing Matty, washed up at the sink. I went outside, “locking” the screen door. It wasn't a lock, merely a catch.
I dropped in on the three cottages nearest ours. No one had been home in the afternoon—they'd all been at the beach. But he could have easily checked that first... seen me on the sand, too, or out digging those damn clams.
The entire End Harbor police motor pool was parked in front of the cottage—Roberts leaning out of the radio car. He waved a lazy hand at me. “Nobody home. What's all the excitement about now?”
My old distrust of him returned—hard and fast. Not that I thought he did it, but the motive behind everything had to be this small town scandal—and Roberts' main job was to keep a lid on it.
“Come inside,” I said, “unlocking” the screen door. He got out of the car, straightened his shirt, followed me in. When he saw Matty on the table Roberts whistled, pushed his hat back on his head, asked, “Ate some rat poison?”
“No, he was killed.”
“Got to be careful leaving these insecticides around. Too bad. What you want to see me about, Lund?”
“What kind of fingerprint equipment do you have here?”
“Not much—actually nothing to speak of. They've got a complete outfit at Riverside, of course, and Hampton Point. Guess if we ever had any need for taking prints, we could call on them. Why?”
“Why? To see if the killer left any prints!”
Roberts pulled at one of Matty's stiff legs. “What killer? Left what prints?”
“The guy who killed my cat. I think he also killed Doc Barnes and maybe Nelson. It's obvious.”
Roberts gave me a queer look, as if I was nuts. He sat down on a chair, fanning his face with his fancy cap. I asked, “What's the matter with you? If there were prints on the chair, your big ass has smeared them.”
“I'm far from getting the message, Lund,” he corned. “Send it to me slower. Now what about the cat?”
I told him about coming home from the beach, finding Matty dead, added, “But it's all a clumsy job. First off, the food was cool, meaning it hadn't been spoiled—that it was taken out of the icebox recently and poison added. Secondly, it must have been forced down Matty's throat, he never in his life ate off the table. It was done to scare me off.”
“Scare you off what?” Roberts asked, his voice sarcastically polite.
“Come on, Roberts! Off the Barnes killing.”
“Lund, you can't be starting that again? The case is over.”
“The killer doesn't know that! Listen to me, Roberts, before I was sticking my nose in for no real reason, but from now on I'm in with both feet. That's my cat!” He still was looking at me as if waiting for the punchline of a gag. The hell with you, I thought. You won't get off those glamour-pants, you're too much of a jerk. And the devil with trying for prints. Killer would be too smart for that And there wasn't time, anyway.
“Lund, I got a dog I'd flip over if he died. So I can understand why the death of your cat has upset your better judgement, but....”
“Stop it.”
He got up. “Yeah, I can stop it. I can get back to some paperwork I was doing when your boy phoned. Talk sense, man, you're basing a lot of wild talk on what? That you think the cat would never jump on the table! You know how curious cats are, and he might have been very hungry, so he ups and eats some of this spoiled food and....”
“Damn it, it isn't spoiled! Stick your ringer in the stuff now, see if it feels like it's been out all afternoon.”
Roberts touched the mess with a thick finger, said, “Yeah, does feel cool.” He cleaned his fingertip on the tablecloth. “Let's start again; maybe he choked on a bone or...?”
“And maybe somebody is being murdered while we're gassing!”
“You're not sure how the cat died—why don't you ask a vet before shooting off your mouth about murder?”
I was too mad to even get riled. “Where can we find an animal doc?”
“Nearest one is in Hampton. You see what he says and then. Your car is still in the shop. I'll drive you there.”
“Thanks!” I got Matty's basket, gently placed him in it I couldn't bend his legs, so I left the top open. I put the bowl in a big saucepan, held that in my left hand and took the basket under my right arm, said, “Let's go.”
Roberts nodded at my trunks. “Your legs aren't that good. Ordinance against walking around in swim trunks— even old ones. Get dressed.”
I slipped on my clothes, wondering how much more of this patronizing “humoring” I could take. Even a hick cop should take murder seriously. Roberts carried the pot out to the car as he said, “I'll have to stop at the station, tell 'em where I'm going. Kind of late—best we phone the vet and see if he's around.”
I didn't say a word. When we pulled up in front of the “police station” I had cooled off enough to admit Roberts was at least trying to work intelligently. I should have thought of seeing a veterinarian. I should have used my head instead of my temper. I had to play it careful, not risk Andy or Bessie—or myself. I stared out of the car window, Matty heavy and silent in his basket on my lap, watching the people pass by on the street, wondering if I were being watched, too.
About ten minutes later Roberts came out, waved to a couple of passing girls before he told me, “It's after six— the vet shut at four. Wife says he's on his boat fishing, won't be back until late.”
“Another vet around?”
“In Riverside. I phoned him, too—no answer. Tomorrow morning well....”
“Tomorrow will be too late. Where can I get this food analyzed?”
“At this hour?”
“Right now!”
“We haven't a lab and the county lab at Riverside will be shut. Doc Barnes would have been our man. Guess Jessie—the druggist—might help us.”
“Think he's out fishing, too!”
Roberts gave me a stupid grin. “Let's walk across the street and see.”
The druggist turned out to be a serious-faced kid of about twenty-six or so, wearing a loud yellow sport shirt and Bermuda shorts. We went to the back of the store, waited while he made a soda for an old lady. Then I told him we wanted to know what had killed Matty, showed him the dish of food. He sniffed at it, rubbed some between his slender fingers. He ran water over a spoonful of the stuff, washing away the red tomato paste. He held up a small white sliver. “I don't have to be a research chemist to spot this—piece of toadstool. There's a quantity of mushrooms here and at least one of them is toadstool.”
He handed it to Roberts who said, “Yeah, it is a toadstool. That makes for a simple answer, Lund, your daughter-in-law picked wild mushrooms and....”
“She buys her mushrooms.”
“Lucky you—got a good lawsuit. Hope she got 'em at the supermarket.”
“I doubt that, Artie,” Jessie the druggist said. “Store mushrooms are cultivated and there's little chance of a toadstool mixing in. Beside, this type is a cinch to spot. Of course, remember there could be something else in the food and if you give me a few days to....”
I cut in with, “What would have happened if we—I— had eaten some of this? Would it have caused death?”
“You understand, I'm not a toxicologist, so this is far from an expert opinion. There are various species of poisonous mushrooms, or toadstools, as they are commonly called, and I imagine some are quite deadly. However, judging by the structure of this sample, it's a local variety. I used them for doll umbrellas when I was a kid. I believe you'd have to eat a far larger quantity than could be found in this plate to possibly cause death. But there's enough here to have made you miserably ill for several days.”
I nodded. “One thing more, doc, wouldn't...?”
Jessie gave me a solemn grin. “I'm not a doctor.”
“But you're a country lad and maybe you know about animals. Wouldn't an animal by instinct leave a toadstool alone?”
“I couldn't say. I suppose an animal might know food was poisonous by the smell, but mushrooms are odorless. And it seems to me I recall pictures of cows dying out West when they were driven by thirst to drink at alkaline wells. Notice how the cat's neck is swollen and the large, almost abnormal amount of food in the throat, as if the food were forced down his throat.” He gave me a suspicious glance.
“But, Jess, couldn't the swelling be caused by the toadstool making the cat sick?” Roberts asked.
Somebody called out from the front of the store, “Jessie?”
“Yes.”
“Leaving a dime for the paper on the counter.”
“Thanks.” The druggist turned to Roberts. “That's possible. I really don't know. Say, Artie, what's this all about?”
“Nothing,” I said quickly. “Thanks for your time, Mr.... Jessie.” I picked up Matty's basket and the pot of food. Roberts followed me out to the police car, opening the door for me. I told him, “I'd appreciate it if you'd drive me back to the cottage.”
“Why, sure, I always give door-to-door service,” he said, starting the car. “Well, guess you're convinced now it was an accident.”
“Accident? How often have you had a case of toadstool poisoning in the Harbor?”
“Never heard of any, but they do happen,” he said, glancing at a car making a brake-screeching turn off Main Street, muttering, “Dumb kid drivers.”
“I'll tell you what happened. The killer came to our cottage with a toadstool while we were at the beach, found the food in the icebox, cut in the toadstool. He figured after eating the food we'd get sick enough to pack up for New York. I'd be off his back. Then he saw my cat, thought he had a better way of making sure his plan worked fast—forced food down Matty's mouth and left the bowl beside him on the table.”
“You're going off half-cocked, Lund. All that is only what you think.”
I patted Matty's basket. “I didn't think up this!”
“But you can't be positive that...?”
“I'm positive!”
“Look, Lund, all we know is your cat ate a toadstool and died. That doesn't prove a thing. You heard Jessie, he wasn't even certain how the cat died. And don't keep saying 'he'—if you think the cat was deliberately killed— I recall hearing your daughter-in-law wasn't keen on the cat. And her boy—some kids get kicks out of hanging dogs and....”
“Oh cut it. I've had enough talk.”
“What the hell do you expect me to do? If the cat was killed deliberately, so what? I'm not the SPCA. Killing a cat isn't any crime. As for this being part of the Barnes business, old man, you're way off your rocker.”
We finished the ride in silence. Roberts helped me into the cottage with the stuff, planted his rear on a chair again —his favorite hobby. I wondered what he was hanging around for. I knew I was wasting valuable time talking to the big dope. The toadstool told me all I wanted to know... except for one other thing I had to clear. I asked, “How old would Jack Wiston be now?”
“Who?” His face looked blank and I doubted if he was that good an actor.
“Priscilla Barnes' missing brother,” I said.
“You really get around, Lund. I don't know. That was long before my time. I never saw or knew any of her family, not even when I was a kid.”
“How old was Barnes?”
“Around sixty-three. I have his exact age in my files. Had a nice funeral for Ed today. Worked out fine.”
“You mean Jane Endin didn't show. How old was Nelson?”
“Seventy-one.”
“And Pops?”
Roberts looked startled. “What's Pops got to do with this?”
“How old is he?”
Roberts shrugged. “Never could count that high. This a quiz program?”
“It was, up till now. Roberts, do me one favor, give— or sell—me a handful of .38 shells.” I touched his polished belt lined with bullets. I knew there was little chance the hardware store carried them.
Roberts couldn't have jumped to his feet faster if a shell had goosed him. His eyes actually narrowed—again —as he asked, “What for?”
“For my empty gun.”
“That tears it, Lund. You've been a wild-hair from the moment you came to the Harbor. Pack a gun and I'll jail you!”
“The law says I can carry a gun anywhere in the state.”
“Then I'll lock you up for disorderly conduct, for being a loony! You sore because your Greek buddy is free and you haven't anything to do now? Who the devil do you think you are? Dick Tracy? I'm warning you, Lund, and only this once, annoy anybody else in the Harbor and I'll throw your ass in jail so fast it will make your badge smoke!” He started for the porch, his big frame filling the doorway.
“Maybe the Hampton Point police will be interested.”
Roberts spun around so quickly I thought he was going to swing on me. “Sure, go tell them about your cat—they'll toss you in a cell, a padded one! Maybe you don't believe this, but I'm doing you a favor—although you sure act like you're cracked. Well, here's the favor, some free advice: don't make a fool of yourself in Hampton Point They have a big force, a rough one. It's a rich town and they got plenty of cops because they're afraid the migratory potato pickers might get out of hand in the summer. You go there and they'll laugh you out of town!”
