Ed Lacy - Sin In Their Blood
Saxton pitched to the floor.
I picked up the gun, locked the door. His feet were trembling a little—a sign he was still out. I went through his pockets. The letter was in his wallet. I put the wallet back.
The letter was written in neat, dignified, thin strokes —like an old model used in a penmanship lesson. Old Doc Snell probably never saw a typewriter in his life. The Doc came right to the point... told Henry Wilson he'd recognized his picture as a baby he'd brought into the world, that he hadn't been paid for his services and needed the money, to “please send me via airmail, five hundred dollars ($500) in cash, at once, or I shall be forced to go to the courts and the papers.”
The Doc was a real amateur... five hundred bucks!
Saxton was starting to groan, but it would be a lot of seconds before he knew what was happening. I tore the letter into little pieces, ran to the bathroom and flushed them down the John.
When I came back, Saxton was sitting up, his eyes still glassy, rubbing the side of his jaw. There was some bloody spit at the ends of his mouth.
I told him to get up.
He got to his feet slowly, shook his head several times, then glared at me. I waved the gun. “Sweet little .38. Ever use it?”
“I have a permit.”
“Good for you. Now, as you said, we'll have a bit of talk. Sit down on the couch. And be careful, I'm lousy with marksman's medals.”
He sat down and I backed away toward a chair and the next thing I knew I was falling backwards—I'd tripped over one of his damn barbells again.
He was still too dizzy to be fast, but he came charging at me. I landed flat on my back and I pointed the gun at him through my legs and he stopped short. “Sit down and be smart,” I yelled, getting up. “You shouldn't be tossing weights around at your age—strain on the heart.”
“Ranzino, what's your game?” he asked. I sat down facing him, brushed off my trousers.
“My game is... I don't like you.”
“I don't give a fat damn what you like!”
“Saxton, your big mistake was in not minding your own business. Fact is, the world is in a mess because everybody is sticking their snoot in other people's business. I...”
“Then why don't you mind your own business?”
“I did. But you... well... you kept spoiling things for me. Like the way you treated Mady—that kept annoying me. Other little things. Of course I knew all along you killed your sister and Henry, and I didn't do a thing about it because it wasn't my...”
“That's a lie! The police know Henry killed poor Beatrice, then took his own miserable life,” Saxton boomed.
“Stop it. I'm the guy you hired to find the planted deed, the body, remember? It was so...”
“The police...”
“You'll get a chance to talk to the police soon—in a few minutes. The police haven't really dug into the Wilson case. There's that water you turned on while we were in the cabin, and if they really work at it, they can trace the rope to you, lot of other things. The odds are always against a perfect crime, because the more you plan, the more chances you have to make a mistake. Then too, you're only one man, while the cops can put twenty or thirty trained men on a case... they always find everything you've overlooked.”
He sneered. “You're angry because of Mady. Everybody in town knows I was fond of Henry, loved my sister.”
“Sure. They also knew Henry and Beatrice Wilson were a happy couple, swell people. Were you jealous of their happiness?”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“And Mady, were you jealous of her spirit? Is there some kind of crazy urge in you that makes you crush everything that's free and happy?”
“Really, Mr. Ranzino, you're talking like an ass.”
I laughed at him. “We're under control now, got the slick veneer and polish back on again, hey? I've done a lot of thinking about you, Willie, as to what makes you tick. Way I figure you with Mady is this: you were having what you call an illicit relationship with her. That's a sin, and therefore you had to see her unhappy, crushed, as a sort of punishment. Just as you probably felt uneasy about the affair, never really enjoyed it. The great god Willie Saxton the Third!”
“I think you'd better leave.”
“And be impolite? You brought me here—at the point of a gun. That will sound interesting on the witness stand.”
“Only your word against mine—the word of a busted cop.”
“I can also testify Mady sleeps soundly, when potted, so your alibi isn't worth repeating. And a little routine checking will probably show she was doped last Sunday night, too.”
“I thought you were so fond of her, yet you're willing to smear her name in the papers.”
“Can that slop—she's already been smeared by you as your alibi. And that good-name junk went out with your ideas. But let's get back to the Wilsons—you'll get the gas chamber for that. Although you might plead insanity and spend the rest of your life in a padded cell, which is where you belong. If I were...”
Saxton sat up. “Mr. Ranzino, I don't know what the hell you are talking about. If you're trying to scare me, I'm merely amused. And if this is a shakedown, you're wasting time. I shall protest to the police, have both you and Madeline arrested for blackmail.”
“Listen to you. How do you sound?” I asked softly, motioning toward the phone with the gun. “Call the cops.”
He sat there, staring at me for a moment. Then he relaxed, took out a handkerchief and wiped the blood from his mouth. He said, “You hit hard—for a tubercular. You see I've done a little checking too.”
I didn't say anything, but the very sound of the word made my heart pound. After a long moment he asked, “Let's get this over. What do you want?”
“To convict you—get you out of my hair for good. Too many of your kind in the world these days. Everywhere I turn I see the smug, self-righteous, self-appointed...” I stopped. There wasn't any point in making a speech. “About the Wilsons...”
“Good Lord, Ranzino, what possible motive could I have for killing them!” he said angrily. It nearly sounded real.
“A motive good enough for a jury is that you got full control of the factory by knocking off Henry. You killed Beatrice to make Henry's suicide stand up, look good, and also being her brother and only relation, you get her share of the factory and her money. Want to buy that?”
“That's ridiculous!”
“Sure, but it makes a little sense. A jury could understand it better than your real motive... you knew Henry Wilson had some Negro blood in him. That shocked the hell out of your bigoted mind. Why, here you had a Negro in your family, your brother-in-law was the guy you were telling the Rastus and change-your-luck jokes about!”
For a split second his fat face went white, then the color crept back and he said smoothly, “You must be crazy.”
“One of us sure is. Couple months ago a doctor tried to shake Henry down for five yards and you learned about it—probably by snooping around Henry's desk, you're the type. To your way of thinking Henry couldn't have committed a worse crime—a Negro daring to marry your sister. So you decided to do Beatrice a big favor, kill Henry. You took your time, went over all details. Had a lucky break with Mady—a ready-made lush, a ready-made alibi. You bought the cabin in Henry's name—and a little concentrated digging will prove that. You took two grand—petty stuff—to make it look like Henry was in some kind of mess. That was the only truly smart move you made, two grand wasn't big enough to make the cops suspicious, it fitted in. I suppose it wasn't much trouble getting Henry up to the cabin Friday, was it?”
Saxton smiled. “This is a fascinating story, do you take dope?”
“Wait, it gets better. There you tied Henry up, probably had a hard time resisting the urge to give him a going-over. But you had something better in mind, a personal lynching. There must have been a sweet one-way conversation between you two up in the cabin. But when you told Beatrice about the 'horrible thing' you'd learned—on Sunday night—she shocked hell out of you by saying she'd known all the time, didn't care. In fact she told you to mind your business, leave them alone. You were ready to explode with anger, you smashed her head in with the lamp.”
“Did I? Why you let your imagination run...?”
“You didn't plan to kill Beatrice, it was a crime of passion, of intense anger, as the books say. You drove back to the cabin, hung Henry, then raced out to White Beach. All told, less than five hours passed, and there you were, in bed, when Mady woke up.”
“I was in bed with that... all night,” Saxton said with a big forced smile. “Now if you're done raving, I'll...”
“Know something,” I said, calmly. “The druggist across the street forgot to turn off a gas burner, returned to his store in the middle of the night. He left at 4 a.m., says he saw you come back to the cottage then.”
“That's a damn lie! He couldn't have....” Saxton's face actually got waxy—like a corpse's.
I laughed. “Maybe it's a lie, maybe it isn't. Merely want to convince you how thin your story is, how nobody can cover all the angles—for sure. You'd have to be awfully lucky, even if you didn't make any mistakes. Once the cops start working, they'll dig up a hundred things you never counted on.”
He was silent for a few minutes, sitting back against the couch as though exhausted, then he asked in a hoarse whisper, “How much do you want?”
“Got much cash on you?”
“A few hundred. The banks are shut, but on Monday I'll give... ten thousand. Or do you,, want a check right now?”
“A check? Willie, do I look that simple?”
“I swear on Monday, soon as the banks open, I'll give you ten thousand dollars.”
“You hold your life cheap,” I said, torturing him like a bastard, but enjoying it.
“Fifteen—that's all I can raise.”
“No, it isn't. You got Henry's insurance, via Beatrice's death, and hers, if she had any.”
“That will take months. Look, I can raise twenty thousand, and that's my final offer.”
“You're not in any position to make a final offer. How you got that couple of hundred? And pull out your wallet slowly.”
“In twenties and tens and fives,” he said, taking out his wallet.
“Throw over a hundred and sixty bucks. Just drop—the dough on the floor—near me.”
He counted out five twenties, two fives, and five tens, leaned over and tossed them on the floor. The bills made dizzy circles till they hit. I picked them up with my left hand, looked to see if-they were marked, then shoved them in my pocket.
Saxton said, “I'll get the rest Monday. By noon I'll...”
“There isn't any rest.”
“I don't understand. You said...?”
“I'm not shaking you down, Willie. This represents about what I spent—getting the goods on you. I'm turning you in!”
His sullen mouth dropped open, and a stupid expression covered his face for a second, then he burst out laughing—real roaring laughter. When he finished, he snapped, “You idiot, you don't get a dime now! I detest scandal, but it won't ruin me, and I'd rather that than paying you off for the rest of my life. Have me arrested! There isn't a jury that will convict me for killing a nigger who tricked my sister. And there's nothing to pin poor Beatrice's killing on me. Why I can claim I killed Henry in revenge!” His voice grew more confident. “I'm a big man in this town, people will sympathize with me... important people. I killed a nigger who tricked my sister into marriage and then murdered her... it will be better than any unwritten law! You can't touch me. But to avoid the headlines, I'll give you five thousand to forget it.”
“Back on the pay-off kick, again? I don't want money.”
“Then call the police! Henry murdered Beatrice when she discovered he was a nigger, and I killed him when he told me that. I might even plead self-defense—he tried to kill me too.”
The odd part was, Saxton sounded as though he believed this hog-wash he was inventing. I said, “Know where that yarn will land you—in the loony bin, if you beat the death rap.”
“Why I'll be a hero, no jury would...”
“You just might get away with it, Willie, if you could prove Henry was colored, considering you'd get a blue-ribbon jury with all the trimmings. Only what makes you think Henry Wilson was colored?”
“Come, Ranzino, you just said...”
“I never said nothing. I never knew Henry—the only one time I saw him he was dead. But lots of people in town knew him well, played cards and golf with him, did business with him, liked him. They'll call you crazy when you say he was colored...”
He glanced at his wallet, opened it. I asked, “Looking for something?”
He tore at the wallet with frantic fingers, then looked at me and asked in a rasping whisper, “Where is it?”
“Where is what?”
“Goddamn it, Ranzino... where is it?”
“In little pieces, floating in the sewer—with the other garbage. I took it when I flattened you at the door. Might as well tell you what I spent that hundred odd bucks for—you're paying for it. Doc Snell is dead. I was pretty sure of that since he only sent one letter, let the deal drop. He was a very old man and he died in a drunken sleep three days after he mailed the letter. Guess you know that, too, probably tried to get in touch with him. Henry Wilson was born 'out of wedlock,' to use a silly term, he hadn't any relations. Also, in the one-store-wide-spot-in-the-road where he was born, they never bothered with birth certificates for colored kids or poor whites. So it boils down to this, there's only one person in the world who knows about that letter— me. And if you call me to the witness stand, I'll act as astonished as anybody else. From here on in, I don't know what you're talking about.”
