Jackie said, “They have. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here.” Then she called out, “Marjorie?”
The same elderly sourpuss woman in a maid’s uniform toddled out into view.
“Mrs. Pittleman’s in the conservatory, Miss Jackie.”
“Thank you, Agnes.”
Miss Jackie? thought Archer. One would think his companion was mistress of the place.
Jackie led the way down the same long hall that Pittleman had led Archer on his first visit here. She stopped at a door and took a deep breath, seeming to collect herself for the confrontation ahead.
“You okay?” he asked.
She looked up at him. “You ever felt like you were walking into the lion’s den?”
“Yeah, it was called World War II.”
“Well, that’s how I’m feeling right now.”
“But you said Marjorie got what she—”
“That means nothing now, Archer. Not with Hank dead. I could walk in there and get my ass handed to me.”
Archer looked at her in confusion.
“Well, here goes nothing,” she said to herself.
Jackie opened the door and strode in. Archer followed and closed the door behind them.
This was the room he’d been in before, only he didn’t know it was called a conservatory. In the same chair she’d been perched in before was Marjorie. Sitting in front of the woman was a tall glass with chunky ice in it and an amber-colored liquid halfway up.
Jackie walked right up to the woman and swept her arms around her.
“Oh, God, Marjorie, I am so sorry.”
Marjorie Pittleman looked up at her, and then glanced at Archer. Her face was shiny with tears. As he had thought before, while the woman was nothing to write home about in the looks department, Archer was once more struck by the delicate refinement in her features that bespoke of perhaps a sympathetic soul within.
A soul that was clearly in distress right now.
“I can’t believe it. I really can’t. Why, Hank was just here.”
“I know. I know.”
“And someone killed him? How could that be? The law won’t say much at all.”
“I don’t understand it either, Marjorie. I was stunned when Bart came to tell me.”
She patted the older woman’s shoulder and placed a kiss on her flat cheek. “Tell me what you need, and I’ll go get it, or do it. Anything, Marjorie, really.”
“I can’t think of a thing. But with Hank gone, what am I supposed to do?”
“Don’t you even think about that now. Not for one second.”
Marjorie glanced at Archer. “Where are my manners? Hello. You were here before. Hank had hired you for something or other.”
Archer took off his hat and glancing nervously at Jackie said, “Yes, ma’am. Name’s Archer. I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Pittleman.”
“Thank you, Mr. Archer.” She looked back at Jackie. “The whole world seems to be crashing down on me. But it was sweet of you to come visit.”
Jackie sat down next to her and took Marjorie’s hand in hers. “We’ll get through this. They’re going to find who did this and that person will be punished, as they should be.”
Marjorie nodded at these words. “I hope you’re right, dear. I hope so.”
“Did Bart come by? Or was it someone else?”
“No, it was Bart Coleman and the other one. The tall boy.”
“Jeb Daniels.”
“I guess they’ll be looking into this?” interjected Archer.
Marjorie said, “No, I don’t think so. Whenever we have a murder out here, they send in someone from the state police to investigate things.”
“How many murders do you folks have?” asked Archer, his eyes growing wide.
“Well, every place has somebody killing somebody else,” pointed out Jackie matter-of-factly. “And Poca City is no exception.” She patted Marjorie’s hand. “We’ll find out what we can, and then we’ll come see you again. Now you need to get some sleep.” She eyed the glass. “You think that’s a good idea?”
“Better than pills.”
“I suppose.”
“But what about all Hank’s businesses? He never told me anything. I suppose there are things to do.”
“All you need to do right now is get some rest. Here, let me help you up to bed. Archer, I won’t be long.”
The women departed, and Archer was left to his own devices.
He was about to light another Lucky but changed his mind. He stuck it in his hatband for later. He looked out the window. In the rear he could see numerous outbuildings. And cattle in fenced fields. Crops in other fields. Horses in adjacent paddocks. Men and trucks and tractors and dogs racing to and fro. Crop silos rose up from the dirt like the rocket ships Archer had seen in comic books. He had seen all this on his previous trip, too, and it was just as impressive the second time around. There was a lot of business going on here, and the missus of the house didn’t appear to be up for any of it.
He opened the glass door and walked out into the back.
He spotted Sid Duckett holding a clipboard and talking to three other men who looked tired but were listening intently. After the men left, Archer walked over to the big man, who was dressed nearly the same as before, in dirty pants, a tucked-in cotton shirt, dusty boots, and a straw hat.
“Guess you heard the news?”
Duckett nodded.
Archer surveyed all the activity. “A lot going on here.”
“Yeah but it’s not just here. He’s got a lot of businesses. Including a bank.”
“A bank?”
“Man owned First City Bank in Poca. And the Derby Hotel and the Cat’s Meow.”
“Damn, didn’t know about the Cat’s Meow. So, what’ll happen to everything now that the man’s dead?”
Duckett looked toward the house. “The missus don’t really get involved in all that. Maybe sell out?”
Archer scratched his ear. “Hell, who around here can buy all that?”
“Well, there’s Lucas Tuttle.”
“Jackie’s father?”
“That’s right. He’s got a lot of land. I mean a lot. And he’s got money, least so I’ve heard. So how’d he die, Archer, you know?”
“Law says murder.”
“Damn.”
“You think of anybody who’d want to do him in?”
Duckett shook his head. “He could drive a man who works for him hard and don’t I know that. And cut some tough bargains with other folks. But kill the man?” Duckett took off his hat and slapped it against his leg to clear the dust off. “I can’t think of a one.”
“There was at least one.”
He walked back into the conservatory in time for Jackie to reenter the room.
“You ready?” she said.
“I guess so. Was just talking to Sid Duckett out there. He said Pittleman owns a bank and the Cat’s Meow.”
“That’s right. Didn’t you know that?”
“How the hell was I supposed to know that?”
“Don’t snap at me, Archer. I was just asking a question.”
“Anyway, he said Mrs. Pittleman might have to sell out.”
“She might, and she might not. That’s not our concern right now, is it?”
“He said your daddy may want to buy it.”
Jackie looked warily at him. “Is that right?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Nothing.”
“How’s Mrs. Pittleman doing?”
“Terrible. She just lost her husband.”
“Good news is, she seemed to like you.”
“I explained that. And, no, she doesn’t like me.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so. Now I would still like to know where those debt papers are. You got any ideas?”
“Not a one,” lied Archer because it just seemed the smart thing to do right now.
They stopped on the way back at a roadside store and got some cold cider and a bag of peanuts s
till in their shells.
They sat in the Nash’s front seat, which was so big it seemed capable of holding Archer’s old platoon in its entirety. They ate and drank their fill while an occasional truck or car passed by on the road. They just tossed the shells out the windows. Archer watched as a man on a mule trotted by with a burlap sack over his shoulder.
“What was the war like, Archer?”
He glanced over to see her sweeping peanut skins off the lap of her mourning dress.
“What do you think war’s supposed to be like?”
“I’ve never been to war. It’s why I’m asking. You like your questions and so do I.”
“It wasn’t a lot of fun.”
“Were you wounded?”
He finished his cold cider and laid the empty bottle on the floorboard. “I was.”
“I saw a scar on your back and another one on your leg when we were in bed. Why didn’t they send you home?”
“Because I could still fight.”
“You ever kill anyone?”
“That was sort of the point of me being over there.”
“How’d you do it?”
“What sort of question is that?”
“I’m just trying to understand you.”
“Why’s that?”
“I find you interesting.”
“Shouldn’t you be thinking about the dearly departed Hank Pittleman?”
“I already told you, I’m sorry he’s dead, but it’s not like I loved the man.”
“Do you have to give the house and car back now?”
“It’s up to Marjorie. Which means I won’t be able to keep them. But back to the killing.”
“You won’t let it go, will you?”
“Well?”
“Okay, I shot a bunch of Germans and Italians. Then I killed some with my grenades, and some with my bayonet when it came down to man-to-man slogging it out. Slit one’s throat with my knife. Killed one man with my bare hands when we both ran out of bullets. Broke his neck the way I’d been taught.”
“My God, Archer. That must’ve done something to you.”
“How do you mean?”
“You can’t kill all those people and not be affected by it.”
“It’s what I was trained to do.”
“Didn’t you feel anything?”
“Yeah, I felt damn lucky I was alive, and they weren’t.”
She put the Nash in gear. “Well, I don’t see how it couldn’t have affected you.”
“I don’t think about it much. Seems to work okay.”
“Yeah, well, one day that may not work anymore.”
“How do you know about things like that?”
“I told you I studied psychology in college, Archer. After the First World War, men came back with shellshock, or so they termed it. The human brain was not designed for war. It changes you. You weren’t a killer before you went to war, were you?”
“Never killed anything before I went across the Atlantic. Man or beast.”
“Wait a minute, you never hunted, even?”
“Not much to hunt where I’m from.”
“But then you became a killer in the war.”
“Well, I’m not in the war anymore. And I’m no killer.”
She gave him a worried look and steered the Nash onto the road back to Poca City.
Chapter 16
AFTER JACKIE DROPPED HIM OFF, Archer walked down the hall of the Derby Hotel. As he passed by Number 615, a man in his forties stepped out dressed in a wrinkled dark blue three-piece pinstriped suit, worn black leather shoes, and a solid red tie that could have done with some laundering. He was about five-ten and 160 pounds, and looked lean and wiry and tough, with a face that reminded Archer of a boxer he had once seen in the ring during an impromptu match he’d attended during the war when they’d had a brief respite from fighting. A jutting chin of granite, a nose knocked off center, two hardened lumps for cheeks, and flattened, cauliflower ears. His hair was thick, unkempt, and graying. Over his mouth was a ribbon of dark mustache. He wore a black homburg with a gray band.
Most remarkably for Archer, his eyes were twin darts of crystallized coal, or close to it. They were the calmest pair of eyes Archer had ever seen.
Those eyes now looked at Archer with interest.
“You staying here on this floor, son?” the man said.
“Who’s asking?”
The man opened his coat, revealing a silver pointy badge on his vest. “State police. Detective Lieutenant Irving Shaw is asking, Mr.…?”
“Archer. You’re a homicide dick, then?”
Shaw ignored this and said, “So you’re Archer? You were at Miss Jackie Tuttle’s residence this morning, correct? The deputies reported that to me.”
“I was.”
“You two going out or something?”
“Just a friend. Told the same to your deputies.”
“A friend who’s at her house early in the morning? You sure you didn’t spend the night?”
“I slept here last night. I went to see Jackie at her place this morning.”
“Why that early?”
“Missed her, I guess.”
Shaw took out a worn, small notebook and a stubby pencil and wrote something down. “You say you slept here last night? What room?”
“Number 610.”
Shaw eyed the location of Archer’s room and his bits of coal eyes lit up like someone had flamed them.
“You hear anything last night?”
“Like what?”
“Anything out of the ordinary.”
“I haven’t been here that long. So I don’t think I know what’s ordinary for Poca City yet.”
“Just use your common sense then.”
“No, I slept pretty hard. Didn’t hear anything.”
Shaw wrote something else down. “You coulda just told me that to begin with.”
“I could’ve, sure. Sorry about that.”
“You’re in from Carderock Prison, I hear.”
“And I served my time.”
“Not all of it. I looked you up. You’re on parole now. Ernestine Crabtree?”
“That’s right. Already reported in.”
“Good for you. So, your story is you were asleep from when to when?”
“Oh, about midnight to six or so.”
“You see the deceased last night?”
Archer had been stunned that the two deputies had not earlier asked this question. But this fellow Shaw appeared to be a far superior sort of person. He seemed to like asking questions as much as Archer did.
Shaw had his pencil poised over his notebook.
“You hear me, Mr. Archer?”
“Yeah, I saw him. He was drunk. Outside the Cat’s Meow. Me and Miss Tuttle helped him to his bed in there and left.”
“So you were at the bar last night with them?”
“I’m not allowed in the bar. Against my parole.”
“So it is. Then how’d you run into them?”
“I was passing by the bar last night when I saw them come out. Miss Tuttle was having a struggle holding him up. So, I helped her out.”
Shaw rubbed at his mustache with the pencil. “And she let a stranger do that?”
“I had met her before. Both of them, actually.”
“Is that right? Where would that have been?”
Archer felt something go hard in the pit of his stomach.
“Around town. My first night here, actually. We struck up a conversation. Interesting man. And she was nice, too.”
Shaw wrote something else down and shook his head.
“What?” asked Archer, trying to peer at his scribblings.
“Every question I ask you, it seems to get deeper and deeper.”
“What does?”
He ignored this query, too. “The deputies said Mr. Pittleman had hired you to collect a debt owed by one Lucas Tuttle?”
“That’s right.”
“And you have not been successful?”
“Not yet.”
“Would that have been Miss Tuttle who dropped you off in front of the hotel? I just happened to be looking out the window.”
Archer felt the stomach pit grow larger. “Yeah, it was. We went out to pay our respects to Mr. Pittleman’s widow.”
He chuckled. “Short time in town and you met all these folks already. Impressive.”
“I’m a friendly sort.”
“I’m sure you are, Archer, I’m sure you are. So you and Miss Tuttle helped the deceased from the bar back to here and put him in his bed right there in Room 615? Correct?”
“That’s right.”
“And what time was that?”
“Eleven or so.”
“Eleven or so. And then what’d you two do?”
Archer wanted to lie, desperately wanted to say they had gone their separate ways, but he was unsure what Jackie would say, and once you lied to the law, it was all over.
“We went to my room.”
The man’s eyebrow went up as he wrote this down. “You went to your room. Number 610 right there? You and Miss Tuttle?”
“That’s right.”
“What for?”
“We had a drink, well maybe more than one when all was said and done.”
“Doesn’t your parole forbid the consumption of alcohol?”
“Does it?”
Shaw gave him a patronizing look. “What else did you have?”
“Why is that important?”
“Use your common sense again, Archer.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with that man’s death.”
“And I don’t remember accusing you of it.”
“Well, your questions are kind of funny.”
One Good Deed Page 13
