“I guess you’re right.”
“No guessing about it. Now, you were saying this Dickie Dill was threatening you ’cause maybe you were working with me?”
“What he said, more or less. And he wasn’t at work today.”
“Wonder where he got to, then?”
Archer shook his head. “No idea.”
Shaw stretched and yawned.
“You look tired, Mr. Shaw.”
“During the war they gave us Benzedrine to help us stay awake when we were flying bombing missions. We were popping so many pills, Archer, it was like goddamn candy.” Shaw shook his head. “Hardest damn thing I ever had to do, kick that crap.”
“Got a question.”
“Shoot.”
“Why would Marjorie hire someone to kill her husband so she could collect the half-million bucks if he was going to die anyway?”
“Now that’s a right good question, Archer. Shows your instincts again. But I’ll tell you why, son, and this is called putting the whole picture together based on what we know. What I figure is she knew about the gambling and was worried he might mess things up so badly that even the life insurance policy wouldn’t help her. Or he might not have the dollars to keep the premiums paid up. Policies that big ain’t cheap, and you miss one payment, they cancel the policy. So, she doesn’t want to wait for him to kick the bucket from the cancer. She speeds up the process.” Shaw paused when his coffee and pie came. He shared the slice with Archer.
“Has she tried to collect on the policy?” Archer asked.
“Not so far. I asked the company to let me know. And that Malcolm Draper never tried to get hold of me. I’m thinking we need to pick that man up and make him talk.”
“He was looking out the window at us when Lucas Tuttle was leaving after paying his respects to Mrs. Pittleman.”
Shaw paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “He was? Why didn’t you tell me then, Archer?”
“I don’t know. I mean, the man works there. Didn’t see it as odd that he was in the house.”
Shaw chewed on his cobbler, took a sip of coffee, and considered this. “How likely do you think it was that Tuttle was over there paying his respects?”
“About as likely as Dickie Dill winning a personality contest.”
Shaw snorted at this and then grew serious. “So why was he there?”
Archer looked sheepish.
“What?”
“Tuttle was putting some papers in his pocket when he was coming out of the house.”
“What sort of papers?”
“Couldn’t tell. But he owed Pittleman five grand plus interest. Maybe he paid it off.”
“And the papers might be the promissory note. So Marjorie must have had it.”
Archer tried hard not to show his confusion, because Marjorie didn’t have those papers. Archer did. Part of him wanted to confess this to Shaw. The other part of him won out.
“Maybe” was all he could manage.
They finished their meal and headed over to the Derby Hotel. They asked at the front desk for Draper’s room and whereabouts.
“He went out about an hour ago,” said the clerk.
“And what’s his room number?” asked Shaw.
“Two fifteen.”
“Give me the key.”
“But—”
Shaw held up his star. “Right now, mister, ’less you want to get to know the insides of a jail cell real good.”
The clerk nearly threw the key at him.
Instead of taking the elevator, Shaw joined Archer on the stairs. When Archer looked at him inquiringly, Shaw said, “Even a lawman sometimes don’t like doors closing on ’im.”
Chapter 31
DRAPER’S ROOM WAS NEAT and spare, and they found no evidence that the man was involved in any criminal activity whatsoever. In fact, other than the man’s clothes and toiletries, they found nothing at all.
“Maybe you were wrong then,” said Archer. “Maybe he doesn’t know anything.”
“No, I think it means I’m right. No man is that tidy without a reason. He doesn’t want to leave anything for someone to find.”
Archer slowly nodded. “I could see how that might be.”
“Then you’re learning, son.”
They went back downstairs, where Shaw turned the key back over.
“Mr. Draper will probably be back around ten,” said the clerk.
Shaw shot him a look. “How do you know that?”
“He most likely went out to the slaughterhouse.”
“What the hell?” barked Shaw. “You sure?”
“I didn’t see him, if that’s what you mean, but he goes out there most days after dinner.”
Shaw slammed his fist down on the man’s counter so hard, the fellow jumped clear back to the wall. “Why in God’s name didn’t you tell me that before?”
The man stammered, “Y-you d-didn’t ask.”
Shaw pointed at him. “Don’t you go nowhere, fella, less I wanna arrest your ass when I get back.”
“What for?” cried out the man.
“For being stupid if nothing else.”
He and Archer rushed out and climbed into the Buick.
“Of all the dumb sons of bitches,” exclaimed Shaw.
“What’s the hurry going out there?” asked Archer.
“I want to see what that man does out there every night. And if we can catch him in the act of doing something wrong, I can use that to get him to rat on the others. Ain’t no honor among thieves, Archer. They’re just bad folks you got to grab by the neck and shake.”
The big Buick roared to throaty life.
With Archer giving directions, they made it to the slaughterhouse far faster than the truck Archer normally rode there on. The place was dark and there were no vehicles out front.
Shaw peered through the Buick’s windshield. “You got a gun, Archer?”
“I’m on parole. I can’t have a gun, Mr. Shaw.”
“Well, I’m making an exception right here and now. Just don’t tell nobody.”
Shaw hit a button on his dashboard and a little panel dropped down under it. Revealed was a revolver with black walnut grips held in place by pressure clips. Shaw freed it.
“Smith and Wesson .38 Special Victory Model, double action with fixed sights. Carried this baby in the war. Never fired it once.” He cracked a grin. “Couldn’t hit anything with it on the ground from ten thousand feet up in the air.” He handed it over to Archer. “But whatever you hit with that sucker ain’t getting back up.”
He grabbed a flashlight from the glove box.
“Maybe Draper already came and went,” said Archer.
“Maybe. God, this place stinks,” said Shaw, covering his nose with his free hand as they headed to the building.
“Wait’ll you get inside,” replied Archer. “You’ll have to hold your nose and your belly.”
The door was locked.
“Do we break it in?” said Shaw, tapping on the stout wood.
“Hold on.”
Archer stuck the gun into his waistband, took out his knife, and worked away at the lock for about thirty seconds. Then it swung open.
“I won’t ask where you learned to do that,” Shaw said.
He clicked on the flashlight and they entered the space. Archer, who knew the layout of the building pretty well, led the way.
When they reached the space where the hogs were sledgehammered and the walls and floor were coated with blood and brain matter and Archer explained what went on here, Shaw said firmly, “I ain’t never eating another piece ’a pork, long as I live, swear to God.”
They moved through the building, listening for any sound of Draper, but there was no noise at all, other than the litany of grunts from the ill-fated hogs penned up outside.
They finished searching the place and went back outside.
“Okay, this is a right puzzle,” said Shaw.
Archer wasn’t paying attention to him. He was looking over at
the hog pens.
“What?” said Shaw, eyeing him.
“Seems to be a ruckus going on over there.”
Archer hustled over to the hog pen with Shaw on his heels.
They reached the fence and peered over to where a group of hogs was worrying at something on the ground.
“Give me that light,” said Archer. He shone it on the spot.
“What the hell is that?” cried out Shaw.
Archer pointed his pistol in the air and fired two shots. This scattered the hogs, who ran toward the far end of the pen. Archer gripped the top fence rail and swung over, his shoes softly hitting the muck on the other side. Shaw climbed over the fence and landed next to him. They slowly walked over to the spot.
“Holy Lord,” said Shaw.
Holy Lord, thought Archer as he stared down at what was left of the body. It was not Malcolm Draper.
It was Sid Duckett. Or what was left of him.
* * *
“His head was bashed in before he died,” said the short, rotund coroner, a cigar perched in one side of his mouth, as he rose from beside the body.
Shaw had called in the police and an ambulance and the coroner from a call box down the road. He nodded to the ambulance men, and they took the unfortunate man’s remains away on a stretcher.
Shaw tilted his hat back and rubbed his forehead. “I’m man enough to admit I didn’t see that one coming.”
“You think I maybe spooked him with my talk about Pittleman’s money problems?”
“Could be.”
While Shaw went over to talk to the coroner, Archer borrowed a flashlight from one of the deputies and examined the dirt in front of the building. He knelt down next to one particular spot.
“Hey, Mr. Shaw.”
The lawman hustled over. When he reached Archer, the man was brushing at the dirt. He stepped back and shone his light on this spot.
“See those tire tracks?”
Shaw nodded. “I can see ’em now. Good eye.”
“They’re fresh, for sure. And I can tell you something else—those tire treads are the same as on the truck Sid Duckett was driving.”
“You sure?”
“I saw ’em up close and personal when I was loading those boxes on it. It had two square misaligned patches, just like you see there.”
Shaw pulled his Buick keys out. “Okay, we got to find Malcolm Draper, fast.”
They drove off, the Buick eating up the miles back to town.
Shaw said, “See, that’s the other motivation to kill somebody: Shut ’em up. Duckett might or might not have been involved in all this. But when you told him about Pittleman’s money problems, he might’ve thought he wasn’t going to get paid. Or Duckett planned to use that knowledge to make a lot more money from folks who didn’t want certain information to get out.”
Archer had a sudden thought. “Coroner said his head was bashed in.”
Shaw glanced sharply at him. “Right. So?”
“Dickie Dill is an expert head basher.”
Shaw eyed him. “You think somebody hired him to kill Duckett?”
“Might be. I mean, Dill would do anything for money. And I’ve never met a meaner man in my life. And he didn’t come to work today.”
“Well, Duckett ain’t talking to anybody ever again. Loose lips sink ships.”
Archer’s thoughts went back to a discussion he’d had the previous night and he suddenly felt dizzy in the head and sick in his stomach.
He cried out, “We need to get to 27 Eldorado Street, fast as this damn Buick will go, Mr. Shaw.”
Chapter 32
THE BUICK HAD NOT YET REACHED Jackie’s house when Archer told Shaw to pull to the curb.
“Don’t want to warn anybody we’re coming.”
They leapt out and Archer led the way, approaching the house from the back.
It was nearly midnight now, and the silence was complete except for the movements of the two men.
His shoes skimming across the dry grass, Archer quickly reached the back door with Shaw behind him.
“Didn’t see Duckett’s truck out front,” said Shaw.
“Wouldn’t expect to.”
“You sure you’re barking up the right tree here?”
The scream inside the house made Archer put his shoulder to the door and burst the lock from its frame. They both rushed inside, their guns drawn. Another scream was heard, and Archer shot down the hallway and kicked open Jackie’s bedroom door. It was pitch-dark inside.
In a flash of illumination from Shaw’s flashlight, Archer saw Dickie Dill next to the bed, a raised knife in hand as Jackie cowered below.
“Dickie!” shouted Archer, pointing his gun at the man and firing.
At the same instant, something hit Archer and sent him tumbling against the wall face-first. He felt warm blood gush from his nose and a shiner swell under his eye.
Shaw got off a shot, too, and this time Dill let out a sharp cry. The pilot had hit his target after the infantryman had missed.
“Archer, look out!” screamed Jackie from her bed.
Another shot was fired. This time from the second assailant, who had slammed into Archer when he’d fired at Dickie. After Jackie’s warning cry, Archer had ducked. He felt the bullet fly past and then slam into the wall. He kicked out, catching the shooter’s arm, and the pistol went flying. Archer lost his balance and fell back against the wall, then turned and pushed off from it.
But this gave the man an opening. He flew forward, his arm encircling Archer’s neck. He commenced trying to pull his head backward to a point necks weren’t supposed to bend. Archer felt the ligaments in his spine begin to howl and buckle in protest. However, a sharp elbow to the gut, a gasp of air forced from a pair of lungs, and Archer quickly gained the upper hand. A stiff palm strike to the nose drove cartilage back into the man’s face, then Archer spun the man around and the thrust of his shoulder slammed the man with force up against the wall. Archer finished him off the way he’d been taught in the military, with a knee to the base of the spine and a hard punch to the kidney. Then he grabbed the man’s hair, jerked it back, and then, using all the leverage he could muster, slammed the man face-first into the plaster wall. The fellow fell with a groan, then didn’t move.
Archer had no time to dwell on this victory.
Dill had flung his knife across the room and had caught Shaw, betrayed by the beam of his light, in the upper arm. He dropped his gun, groaned, and fell back against the wall.
Dill used the bed as a trampoline and bounced to the other side of the room, something in his hand.
Jackie screamed and tried to reach for Dill to stop him, but missed, falling out of the bed with the effort.
Dill landed on the floor and lifted the thing high over his head.
It was a sledgehammer.
With a murderous yell he began to drive it downward, but it never reached Shaw’s head. Archer tackled him hard and the men tumbled to the floor, slid across it, and hit the wall, leaving them both momentarily stunned. Dill recovered first and tried to wedge the wooden handle of the sledgehammer against Archer’s throat, but two rapid punches to the smaller man’s face and Archer was able to seize the hammer and throw it clear. Then Archer felt the very thing he’d been afraid of—Dill’s steel-like fingers around his throat, trying to suffocate the life out of him. Although Dill had been shot in the arm and was bleeding badly, he still had the upper hand.
“Shoulda killed me when you had the chance, boy,” roared Dill gleefully.
Something hit Dill on the head. Archer saw Jackie standing there with a lamp. However, Dill let one hand go from Archer, flung his fist around, and knocked Jackie off her feet. She fell with a thud.
But Dill’s actions allowed Archer an opportunity, of which he took full advantage.
Archer reached what he needed in his pocket and then stabbed Dill in the side with the clasp knife, driving it up to the hilt in the man’s belly. Then a second time and then a third just for good measu
re.
Dill coughed up blood in Archer’s face, his grip lessened, and he finally let go and fell on his back onto the floor.
Archer stood on unstable legs and looked down at the man, just as Dill gazed up at him and snarled something incomprehensible. He tried to rise up as Archer took a step back, his knife held at the ready. Archer put his foot on the man’s chest and pushed him down, holding him there.
Archer had killed even more men in the war than he had let on to Jackie. And he had no compunction about ending the lives of any of them. He only thought about it later, actually, and then there had been no real remorse, only anger at the situation in which he’d been placed to have to kill another. He had no remorse this time, either. Not even close. Just relief.
“Dammit, just die, Dickie,” he said quietly.
And a few moments later, after a throat curdle and a body shiver, the man’s eyes grew rigid and his chest grew still as his life ended.
Archer turned to Jackie and helped her up. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she said shakily. “I’m fine. Just sore from where he hit me.”
“Turn a light on,” he said. He dropped his bloodied knife and raced over to Shaw, who was on the floor, his back against the wall.
Jackie turned on the nightstand lamp. Shaw was holding his arm where blood was leaching out. He had pulled the knife free, which might not have been a good thing.
Archer helped him off with his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeve.
“Jackie, get me a towel. Do you have any bandages? And I’ll need some hot water and soap. And some liquor. And some hydrogen peroxide if you got it.”
Jackie rushed out of the room and returned with all of the items, including a bottle of brandy. Archer used his belt as a tourniquet above the wound, stanching the flow of blood.
“Give him the liquor,” said Archer.
Jackie helped Shaw to drink it straight from the bottle.
Archer cleaned and bandaged the wound.
“We got to get you to the hospital,” said Archer, helping the other man up. Shaw, gray faced, merely nodded.
“Jackie, get dressed and grab a few things. I’m taking you some place safe.”
One Good Deed Page 23
