One Good Deed
Page 17
Archer ceased his pacing. “Don’t get me wrong, Jackie. You’re a wonderful gal and all, but to kill a man I would at least have to know you for longer than a few days and sleep with you more than twice.”
“So you say.”
“So you really think I did it? Killed a man?”
“It doesn’t matter a whit what I think, Archer. It matters what Shaw thinks.”
“It matters to me what you think.”
“I know you can kill because you did that in the war.” She paused as he stared her down. “But I guess I don’t see you killing Hank, no.”
“You guess? Well, thanks for nothing.”
She gripped his hand and pulled him down on the sofa next to her.
“Don’t be that way, okay? You say you don’t really know me? Well, that works both ways, Archer, because I don’t really know you. You can see that, right?”
Archer didn’t want to see that, but what she said made good sense.
She said, “Hell, maybe somebody robbed him. Shaw wouldn’t tell me if Hank’s wad of cash was missing. He was always waving that around. Everyone knew he carried a lot of money. Stupid thing for him to do. But that could be it.”
Archer knew it wasn’t robbery. He put his hat back on. “Okay, well, thank you.”
“For what?”
“For sort of believing me. You may be the only one in Poca City who does.”
“You still going to try to collect that debt?”
“I need the money. I don’t want to bash hog brains in.”
She looked at him in confusion. “Hog brains?”
“Never mind.”
“Now, when you’re ready to head out to my daddy’s place, let me know. I’ll give you the keys to the Nash. It’s over in a covered garage on Fulsome Street. You can’t miss it.” She gave him directions to the place. “Just leave the keys in the glove box when you get back.”
“I will. Thanks.”
“And Archer? Be careful when you go out there.”
“Your old man pulled a shotgun on me last time I was there. Careful is all I’m going to be.”
Chapter 22
ARCHER ROSE EARLY the next morning, washed his face, armpits, and other strategic locations of his person in the communal bath, put on fresh socks and underwear, and headed down the hall. He halted when he saw the door to 615 standing open.
“Hello?” he said, poking his head in.
The door swung fully open, and there was Shaw eyeballing him. He had on another suit, a faded gray double-breasted with a black-and-white polka-dot tie and a pair of scuffed black moc toe shoes. His hair was neatly combed and his features fresh. He smelled of aftershave and had another unlit stogie perched in his mouth.
“You’re up early, Archer.”
“Don’t like to let the grass grow under my feet. You never know when you might get yanked off ’em.”
“Let me ask you something. Come on in here.”
Archer stepped through and Shaw closed the door behind them. He pointed to the connecting door. “You ever been in that room?”
“No. And if my damn fingerprints are on that doorknob then somebody put ’em there.”
“Get off your high horse and just listen. We didn’t find a single fingerprint on the two doorknobs there, or the two on the hall door to 617.”
“Okay.”
“You find that puzzling?”
“Should I?”
“Presumably he went into that room on occasion? Why would there be no prints there?”
“You mean someone might have wiped them off?”
“Bingo.”
Archer looked at the connecting door. “Jackie told me he had the two rooms, but she didn’t tell me what for. Thought it was a waste, a man having two rooms. But she said he wanted ’em, and the man owns the whole hotel, so he can have what he wants.”
“Interesting. How’s your ‘job’ coming?”
“Well, I met with Mr. Pittleman and his wife before he was killed to let them know something.”
“Really now, what was that?”
“That Mr. Tuttle had apparently torched the car that was collateral for the loan from Mr. Pittleman that I was trying to collect for him.”
“Did he, by God?”
“I didn’t see him do it, but I saw the Caddy all burned up.”
“What were you doing out there, then?”
“Trying to get the damn car. It was collateral after all. That’s legal, right? Pittleman said it was.”
“Don’t know, Archer. I don’t do anything with debts and collateral and such.”
“Well, since I didn’t touch the car, no harm, no foul regardless.”
“Why wouldn’t Tuttle pay back the loan if it’s owed?”
“His daughter was hanging out with Pittleman, and Lucas Tuttle hated that. Told me he’d pay the loan if Jackie came back home. So long as she was with Pittleman, he wasn’t paying.”
“So Old Man Tuttle had a grudge against Pittleman, then?”
Archer was alarmed. “Now hold on. Don’t go get all riled up about him. He wasn’t going to do anything against Pittleman. I told him I was working on it. And, hell, if he was going to kill the man, he wouldn’t use a knife. He woulda shot him with the same damn Remington he pointed at me when I went out there.”
Shaw shook his head and grinned.
“What?” asked Archer.
“I just right now put up another plausible suspect to have killed Pittleman and you shot it down, boy. Are you dumb or just too honest, or both?”
“I did my time. I’m not looking to have anyone go behind bars if they did nothing wrong. I know how that feels.”
“So, you were innocent, were you?”
“Hell, yes, I was.”
“If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that.”
“Yeah, I know, you’d be as rich as a Rockefeller.”
“No, I’d be richer.” He eyed the connecting door to 617. “Want to see what’s in there?”
“You want me to?”
“Maybe you’ll see something I missed.”
Shaw opened the door and they passed through. It was then that Archer could see why the man wanted two rooms.
“Is this his office?” he said, looking around.
“It is indeed.”
There was a large desk with a glass top with a squat black phone sitting on it and a slim white phone book next to it. On the other side of the desk was a tobacco pouch; a briar pipe with a worn mouthpiece was aligned next to it, and a box of Van Dyck cigars sat alongside that. A calendar sat in its own holder on the desk glass with the days ink-filled with appointments and meetings, and a few manila files were next to it. Behind the desk was an oak shelving unit full of stacked paper, files, and an odd book or two having to do with land-title issues, at least that was what Archer gathered from reading off the spines. Against one wall was a four-drawer wooden file cabinet with alphabet ranges written on them from A to Z, top to bottom. Comfortable chairs and a couch were on the other side of the room. A full bar was set up against one wall, with an empty silver ice bucket and scooper off to the side. Though it was still morning, Archer looked lustfully at the bottles lined up there.
“You poked around already?”
Shaw nodded. “Checked his calendar and such. Didn’t find much there. But I did find some interesting things.”
“Like what?”
“Man was sick. Dying, actually.”
“Who? Pittleman? You got to be kidding?”
Shaw shook his head. “Found some medical reports. Man had a brain tumor. Inoperable, it said. Checked with his doctor. He confirmed it.”
“Funny.”
“What is?”
“First night I met him, Pittleman clutched at his head. Said it was the bad liquor.”
“Nope, it was cancer.”
“How long did he have?”
“Not long, the doc said.”
“Damn. So why kill the man if he was already dying?”
“I never wanted a woman bad enough to slit a man’s throat, Mr. Shaw.”
Shaw perched on the edge of the dead man’s desk. “What do you know about Pittleman?”
“Hear he’s the richest man around. Owns most of the town. He’s got a place outside of Poca almost as big as this hotel. His wife is okay with him seeing Jackie, or at least she knows about it. Mr. Pittleman spoke about it right in front of her while I was there.”
“Did he now? What else?”
“I helped haul some stuff from here to his trucking warehouse the other day. Got paid a dollar for it. By a man named Sid Duckett. He works for Pittleman. Met another man there too, name of Malcolm Draper. He works for Pittleman, too. He’s his business manager. Man carries a gun.”
Shaw rubbed at his thin mustache. “Okay.”
“Anything else you find?”
In answer, Shaw picked up some pieces of paper and handed them to Archer.
“Didn’t find those in here. Found them in the trash bins behind the hotel.”
“You checked the trash bins?”
“You always check the trash bins, Archer. I even looked at the one in your room. Only found a drained gin bottle and empty packs of Lucky Strikes.”
Archer looked at the papers. “They’re bills of Pittleman’s and they’re all stamped ‘past due.’”
“That’s a fact. Man was apparently not paying them.”
“But Pittleman was rich.”
“Even a rich man can spend more than he’s got coming in. And that makes him a poor man.”
“Doesn’t make much sense.”
“It will, eventually.”
“Well, I wish you luck. I just hope you’re coming to the conclusion that I had nothing to do with the man dying.”
“I’m not there yet, Archer. I’m truly not. Just so we know where we stand with each other.”
“Okay.”
“Why were you up so early the morning Pittleman was found dead?”
“Heard a noise outside in the hall.”
“Well, son, I asked you about that, and you said you heard nothing unusual.”
“You were asking about unusual sounds in the night. I heard that sound in the morning.”
“What time again?”
“Around six. Why?”
Shaw’s features turned grave. “Something’s going on in this town I don’t like. You watch yourself, Archer. You watch yourself close and don’t be no fool, son.”
As Archer headed to the door, the lawman added one more warning.
“And don’t trust nobody.” He added warningly, “I don’t care how damn pretty they are.”
Chapter 23
HEY, FELLA?”
Archer was crossing the lobby of the Derby when the front desk clerk called out to him. It was the same one who had initially checked him in.
“Yeah?” said Archer, coming over to him.
“You got to pay up if you want to stay here.”
This was not what Archer had been expecting. “What’s that again, mister?”
The clerk swung the register around. “You only paid for three nights. You been here way longer than that. Woulda caught it before ’cept poor Mr. Pittleman got murdered.”
“How much we talking then?” asked Archer, and the clerk told him.
Archer reached into his pocket and counted out his remaining cash, including the two half-dollars he’d gotten for loading the crates.
The clerk snatched all this up and said, “That don’t even cover what you owe. And what about going forward?”
“That’s all the money I got, brother.”
“Then I guess you’re gonna have to find other accommodations.”
“But if I don’t have any more money, how am I gonna do that?”
“Not my problem, fella. Now, go clean out your things. And, see here, I’ll be watching. You got ten minutes. Gotta get that room ready for a paying guest.”
Archer went to his room, collected his few possessions, and marched out of the lobby while the clerk watched him go every step of the way. Archer looked up and down the street and decided he had only one option. He headed over to the Courts building and waited on the steps with his hat tilted over his eyes.
“Mr. Archer?”
Archer pushed his hat back and gazed up at Ernestine Crabtree.
She had on a plain blue A-line skirt with a pleated front, a long-sleeved white blouse, puffy in the arms and tight at the wrists with a wide, open V-neck collar, and low pumps with chunky heels. Her dark hat, made of felt, was narrow brimmed with a band around it and a little bow of ivy green in front. The hair was not done in the usual tight bun. It was actually down around her shoulders, in the same style that he had complimented her on before.
“What are you doing here?”
“Coming to see you about a job.”
“You mean you need work to pay back the forty dollars?”
“I mean I got kicked out of the Derby and I’m flat broke, so yeah.”
“Come on up.”
They took the interior stairs up to her floor and he followed the woman down the hall.
Another man passed them going the other way, leered at Crabtree, and then wolf-whistled. “Woo-wee, baby. You got something I need.” Smiling, he eyed Archer. “You’re a lucky man getting that skirt all for yourself, pal.”
Archer had done this very same thing more times than he could count. But that was before he had read about Ernestine Crabtree’s terrible past. And when he glanced at her and saw first embarrassment and then resignation, he wasn’t sure which one made him angrier.
“Hey, buddy,” said Archer sharply. He dropped the things he was carrying, grabbed the man by the lapels, and slammed him up against the wall, knocking his porkpie hat off in the process.
“What’s your problem, fella?” barked the man.
“Show the lady some respect.”
“Respect? You kidding, pal? Dames love when guys do that.”
“Not this dame. Now apologize to her, right now, before I smash your damn nose in.”
Crabtree called out, “Mr. Archer, it’s all right. Let it be. Please.”
“But—”
“I don’t want you to get in trouble on my account. Please.”
Archer slowly and reluctantly let the man go. The shaky fellow grabbed his fallen hat and rushed off down the hall.
Archer picked up his things and followed Crabtree down the hall but looked back twice at the man.
“I’m sorry about that idiot,” he said.
“Yes, well…Thank you, Mr. Archer, that was very…chivalrous.”
She opened the door and let him into the office.
“Have you had anything to eat?” she said. “Or some coffee?”
“No, ma’am, but I’m fine.”
“You sure? You look hungry.” She opened her purse and held out two dollars, but Archer put his hand up.
“I’m not taking money from you, ma’am, though I thank you. It’d be against the rules, no doubt, and I’m not gonna put you at risk for losing your job. Back there you said you didn’t want me to get into trouble. Well, I feel the same way about you. Just let me get to work and earn some on my own.”
She closed her purse and looked up at him with her wide, depthless eyes and said, “Well, I know what you said earlier, but the only thing I have where you can start work immediately is the slaughterhouse.”
“I’m in no position to be choosy, so if you could call ’em and tell ’em I’d like the job, that would be good. And how do I get out there?”
She looked at the clock on the wall. “A truck takes the men out there every day. Leaves at eight-thirty sharp right down the street from here. You’ll see them gathering.”
“Sounds fin
e.”
She looked at his suit. “However, I would not wear your new clothes to do that sort of work.”
He looked down. “You’re probably right about that. I got my old ones in this bag.”
“There’s a bathroom down the hall on the right.”
He changed his clothes in the bathroom and put the new ones into his bag.
When he came back to the office, Ernestine was just hanging up the phone. “It’s all settled.” She eyed his new suit in the bag. “Why don’t you leave those here? I can hang them up. You can pick them up when the truck brings you back.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Like you said, my job is to help people like you. Just come and see me after. I’ll wait for you.”
“Thank you, Miss Crabtree.”
“Well, good luck to you, Mr. Archer. At that place, you, um, you may need it.”
* * *
Archer saw the men collecting at the corner and headed over to join them. And, as he had expected, there was old Dickie Dill smack in the middle of them. He and a few other men were engaged in a game of “back alley” craps right there against the front steps of a building. Archer watched this for about a minute while the men were focused on the game and took no note of his presence.
Dill’s final roll of the dice brought a curse and an evil look from the man. Archer saw a dollar bill pass between the ex-con and another fellow.
“Hellfire, Archer, thought I might see your butt out here before long,” exclaimed Dill when he spied Archer.
“Hey, Dickie,” he said with little enthusiasm.
“This here’s Archer, boys,” announced Dill to the group of rough-looking gents. Most were smaller than Archer, but a couple were giants who looked like they were put out by having to share the same air with him.
“He’s one of us,” said Dill.
“What were you in the joint for?” growled one of the giants. His clothes were filthy and so was his thick beard. One eye lurched inward too far, giving him an unsettling expression.
Archer looked up at him. “Something stupid. What were you in for?”
“Killing a man who needed it. And he wasn’t the first one who bought the farm with me. Just the only one they caught me on,” he added proudly.
“How long did you do?”