Doing a reasonably good impression of Manuel’s baritone, Archer said, “Mrs. Pittleman needs you right now, Amy.”
“Just a minute.”
Less than a minute later the door opened and there stood Amy. She looked up at Archer, astonished beyond belief, and then she smiled disarmingly. “What are you doing here, Mr. Archer?”
She stopped smiling when Archer pulled out the .38 and pointed it at her.
Terrified, she backed up, and Archer entered and closed the door behind him. He looked around the tiny dimensions of the room, which was not much bigger than his prison cell had been. It was furnished in a rudimentary fashion. Cot, dresser with a washbowl and pitcher on top. One wooden chair with a broken back. Pegs on the wall for clothes, of which she had few. A small square of tattered rug over the cold plank floor. There was a chill in the air and the distinct odor of mildew. He figured her bathroom would be a nearby outhouse.
“Sit down,” he ordered, pointing to the cot, while he took up residence in the chair.
She sat and looked at him fearfully. “Please don’t hurt me.”
“I need you to tell me, right now, where Jackie and Ernestine are.”
She looked at him blankly and said nothing. She just sat there with tears forming in her eyes and her small face twitching.
He rose and roughly gripped her by the arm, jerking the woman to her feet. “Okay, let’s just go to the coppers then. They’ll be able to hang somebody, might as well be you, sister.”
Amy’s bloodless face collapsed, and she pulled against him and wailed, “Wait, wait, please. Don’t. I—”
He looked around the room again. “They shake some cash in front of you? A way out of this dump. How much?” When she didn’t answer he pointed the revolver at her again and said quietly, “I’m one desperate son of a gun, lady. So how much?”
“A…a th-thousand dollars.”
Archer sat back down, took out his pack of smokes, flicked one out, and placed it, unlit, between his teeth. “Where’s the crate?”
“Crate?”
“Box, crate, whatever the hell you want to call it. This is pretty damn simple, Amy, it was all about the dough.”
When she didn’t say anything, Archer nodded slowly. “Okay, let me just spell it out just so you know I’m not bluffing. They came that night in the Nash. Not to see Marjorie. No way Jackie’s working a deal with a lady who hates her guts. So my gut tells me they came to see you. ’Cause you look like the sort that would do just about anything for money. And Jackie would be over here a lot because she was seeing Hank Pittleman. And I bet she sized you up real quick. And that other maid, old sourpuss Agnes, doesn’t have the grit that Jackie needed. They had a trunk full of gold bars, cash, hell, maybe the damn crown jewels, for all I know. And they needed a way to get it outta Poca City.” He glanced out the window in the direction of HP Trucking. “Is it in the warehouse over there?” When she didn’t answer, Archer said very quietly, his gaze boring into her, “You willing to swing at the end of a rope for a thousand bucks, sister? Better give it to me straight, or that’s where you’re ending up.”
She started to sob. “I just did what they told me to do. I didn’t know nobody was going to get killed.”
“Well, they did. And the law says ignorance is no excuse. You’re just as guilty as they are. Now, take me to what they brought here that night.”
They took the long way around to the Buick and drove directly over to the warehouse. There was no one yet there, it still being early. The big double doors were locked, but Archer found a window on the side that succumbed to his knife. He pushed Amy through and followed her in. He turned on his flashlight and aimed the beam around the huge interior of the place. It was piled high with merchandise ready to be shipped out.
“Where?” he demanded.
She led him to the very back corner where a number of boxes were piled high. Right behind this stack was the large metal four-wheeled trolley cart the men had used to bring the boxes in that Archer had loaded on Sid Duckett’s truck. And behind that was something covered with a blanket. Archer slipped off the blanket and a wooden crate was revealed. He aimed his light beam at the shipping label on top and read off what was written there.
He looked at the quivering Amy. “I…I don’t even know where that is,” she said, eyeing the crate’s final destination.
Archer said, “Well, I do. And it makes a lot of sense, actually.”
He found a crowbar, popped open the top of the crate, and peered inside. He found the contents of Lucas Tuttle’s safe underneath a great deal of folded-up women’s clothes and shoes and blankets and sheets, probably for additional padding and also to fool anyone chancing to look inside that it was just full of such items and no hint to a king’s ransom lurking there. He thought that some of the clothing might have come from Jackie and Ernestine. In fact, he believed that he recognized a few items from Ernestine’s closet. And they would want their personal things to also be delivered to where they were headed.
Then Archer found something stuck inside a pillow case that he had not been expecting. It was a sheaf of papers stapled together. He read down the first page and then flicked back to the last, eyeing the signatures at the bottom.
“Son of a bitch,” he hissed.
“What’s that?” Amy said in a trembling voice.
“Nothing.” He put the papers in his jacket pocket, put the crate top back on, and pounded the nails back in using one end of the crowbar.
Next, he eyed the trolley, and his plan came together. Squatting down and using all his strength he heaved one end of the crate up on the trolley, and then squatted down once more and lifted the other end up. He rolled the trolley to the front doors, unlocked them, and managed to get the crate from the trolley into the enormous trunk of the Buick. He closed the warehouse door and pointed the .38 at Amy.
“You say one word to anyone about this, you’re going to hang, do you understand me?”
Teary-eyed, and her hands gripping her white apron, she nodded. “But I don’t understand one thing.”
“What?”
“I was nice to you. I was even…flirty with you. So why’d you ever think I was involved in all this?”
“You just answered your own question, lady.”
“What?”
“I’ve discovered some gals like to play me for a sucker because I lose my good sense around them. Well, not this time.”
He left her to walk back while he drove off down the road and hit the main strip. He had to find some place safe to hide the contents of the crate. Two miles down the road, the perfect place came to him.
He floored the Buick and shot down the road to where he needed to go.
Chapter 47
LATER THAT DAY ARCHER went back to his room at the Derby to do some serious thinking. He had taken the shipping label off the crate and stuck it between two pages of the Gideon Bible in his bureau drawer. He had just finished two cigarettes and a fifth of the bottle of Rebel when someone knocked on his door.
He muttered, “Who is it?”
“Front desk sir, you got a message.”
“What? Who from?”
“She wouldn’t say.”
“She?”
Archer jumped up from the bed and hurried over to the door. As soon as he opened it, it flew inward, and Bart and Jeb plowed through the opening. They slammed him up against the wall.
“Well, good day to you, too,” Archer said breathlessly.
“Your ass is under arrest,” growled Bart.
“What for?”
“The attempted murder of Irving Shaw. And that’s added to what you’re already charged with, the murder of Lucas Tuttle. How the hell you made bail with that hanging over your head is beyond me.”
“That’s bullcrap. I had nothing to do with any of that. And I sure as hell didn’t do anything to Mr. Shaw.”
“So you say, Archer. We have it on good authority that you were seen with him last night right here at this hotel. The
n he was found nearly bled to death early this morning three floors down from your ass.”
“Is he going to be okay?”
“They moved him to the big hospital over in Garfield. He’s still unconscious, not that you give a damn.”
“We were working the case together.”
“What case?”
“These damn killings.”
“Again, so you say. We don’t know nothing about that.”
“But I’m out on bail.”
“Not anymore you’re not. Not after what happened to Lieutenant Shaw.”
They hauled him out of his room and led him out the front in handcuffs.
Shortly after that he was behind bars in a holding cell.
They had found Shaw’s spare gun on him, which did not help his cause in the least.
Indeed, when they had found the .38, Bart had eyed him triumphantly. “Shot the man and took his gun. Don’t get any lower than that in my book.”
“Well, maybe you should read some more books then, Bart.”
That had cost him a heavy fist in the face and a bloodletting from his nose.
He sat on the bench against the wall of his cell, wincing from his shiner and pinching his nose. His facial injuries from his encounter with Draper hadn’t even fully healed yet. Archer took a deep breath and contemplated his options. That didn’t take long, because he really had none.
But then a tall, portly man in his late forties with slicked-back hair and wearing a gray three-piece suit and a tightly knotted blue tie appeared on the other side of the bars. He looked like a preacher or a politician, and Archer didn’t really care to be jawing with either one right now.
“Mr. Archer?”
Archer looked up. “Who’s asking?”
“I am Herbert Brooks, the district attorney for Poca City.”
Herbert Brooks. Archer recognized the name from the letter that Archer had found inside Tuttle’s shotgun barrel.
“That means you’re no friend of mine.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Come again?” said Archer, rising to his feet and coming over to the bars.
“It appears that Lieutenant Shaw’s current condition was due, unfortunately, to a previous injury.”
Archer’s brows knitted together. “I’m not following.”
“He was wounded in an altercation at Miss Jackie Tuttle’s house.”
“I know that, I was there. I stopped the bleeding and got him to the hospital.”
“Yes, however, the doctors did not realize that that injury had nicked an artery. Either through some exertion or otherwise on Lieutenant Shaw’s part, the nick turned into a partial tear of the artery. He nearly died from blood loss. He’s still unconscious and still not out of danger. We’re speculating that he realized something was wrong and rushed out into the hall for help and collapsed.”
“I hope to hell he pulls through. But then why did they arrest me for shooting him?”
“The police didn’t know what had happened. He had blood all over him. They thought he had been freshly wounded.”
“So am I free to go?”
“You are, and I’m seeing to that. But please keep in mind that you are still charged with the murder of Lucas Tuttle. And I must tell you in all fairness that I’m also thinking of charging you with the murder of Hank Pittleman. I can’t imagine, after studying the evidence, that Lieutenant Shaw did not arrest you for that crime as well. But you are not to leave Poca City under any circumstances. I understand that you have made bail, which again strikes me as quite unbelievable. But Lieutenant Shaw did not go through me for that. He apparently talked one of my underlings into agreeing to it. And while I would like to revoke your bail, since you clearly did not attack Lieutenant Shaw, I have no grounds to go to court and seek that remedy. But because of the unusual conditions, I have ordered that you be kept under constant watch. If you attempt to leave town you will be immediately arrested.”
“When will my trial come up?”
“Probably in a few weeks or so. I am putting together my case now and lining up my witnesses. It’s a little more difficult, what with Lieutenant Shaw being incapacitated, but we must push on, and the notes he took during his investigation will be part of the trial record.” He looked keenly at Archer. “And I must say, the evidence against you is quite compelling.”
“Would one of those witnesses be Jackie Tuttle?”
“Yes.”
“She’s gone. Left town.”
“So I understand. And while her testimony is not critical to our case, we have put out notices in as many places as we can think of for her to return and testify. I like to cover all bases.”
“Well, good luck with that.”
Brooks gazed at him suspiciously. “You haven’t done any harm to her, have you?”
“Other way around, actually. And while you’re at it, try to find Ernestine Crabtree.”
“The parole officer?”
“Yeah, she’s skipped town, too. I wonder why?”
Brooks looked at him skeptically and shook his head.
“Hey, Mr. Brooks, one more thing.” From his pocket Archer drew out the onion skin copy of the letter he’d found in Tuttle’s shotgun. He passed it between the bars to Brooks.
Brooks looked at it and then glanced sharply up at Archer. “Where did you get this?”
“Mr. Tuttle gave it to me. But he sent the original to you, right?”
“Yes.”
“And what do you intend on doing about it?”
“I represent the law, Mr. Archer. So I intend on following it up. Mr. Tuttle was a very important man hereabouts and his word carries great weight. And that’s the other reason I want her back here. And if she doesn’t come back, I have ways to track her down. One way or another, justice will be served.”
“Okay.” Archer put out his hand for the letter.
“I’m not sure I should give this back to you.”
“You already have the original of it, and I might need it for my defense.”
“How so?”
“I don’t need to tell you that, do I?”
“Well, actually no.”
“Okay then.”
He reluctantly passed the copy back to Archer.
Archer slowly put the paper back in his pocket and said, “Hey, do I get a lawyer, or what?”
“Yes, if you can afford one. If not, well…” He shrugged.
“Yeah, that happened to me last time. I didn’t have a lawyer because I didn’t have any money. Doesn’t seem right that justice should depend on how much you have in your wallet.”
“The U.S. Supreme Court has actually agreed with you, Mr. Archer. Under the Sixth Amendment a criminal defendant is entitled to a lawyer provided by the government if he can’t afford one.”
“Well, then?”
“But, at the current time, that rule only applies in federal court criminal prosecutions, not state court, except in very special circumstances—none of which you meet, unfortunately.”
“Well, hell, I can be hanged if I’m convicted. What’s more special than that?”
In the face of this, Brooks seemed to take pity on Archer. “I can recommend someone who comes relatively cheap.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me, Mr. Archer. I’m going to do my best to see that you hang.”
He walked off. Archer sat back down and leaned against the concrete wall, desperately wanting a smoke. But they’d taken his Lucky Strikes and matches along with the gun.
An hour later a stringy, beady-eyed, bald-as-a-billiard-ball gent in a dark blue worsted suit with a porkpie hat in hand walked up to the cell and peered through the bars. He had a battered leather briefcase in his other hand.
“Hey, Archer?” he said.
“Yeah?”
“I’m Jervis Donnelly. Hear you need a lawyer.”
“Okay. What do you charge?”
“For you, my best rate, a hundred bucks.”
“And wha
t do I get for the C-note?”
“Got some ideas.”
“I’m listening.”
“Gonna plead you guilty and see if we can get you life in prison. That way you avoid the noose. A damn good deal, considering. I’m filling out the paperwork now. I’ll take fifty bucks now and the other fifty when the court approves your life sentence.”
“What’s your next idea?”
“You being funny?”
“You see me laughing, mister?”
“Come on, Archer. You know you did it. Just take your medicine. This way you get three squares and a roof over your head till you croak. And they’ll teach you how to make license plates. Most folks would love to have that deal.”
“Well, I guess I’m not like most folks, then. I came back from the war looking for something more than three squares and making damn license plates.”
Donnelly shrugged. “You don’t listen to my advice, what can I do?”
“You can get lost is what you can do. Go on, beat it.”
Donnelly’s beady eyes became beadier. “You need a lawyer, Archer. Nobody else will take your case. Me, I’m a nice guy. I got empathy.”
“But you won’t even put up a fight?”
“Hell, son, I’m not a magician. I can’t change the damn facts. And you’re a dirty ex-con on top of it. Plus, to me, you got a shifty look. They’ll give you the noose sure as I’m standing here, or this ain’t Poca City.”
“Then I’ll just represent myself.”
“I would not advise that,” said Donnelly gravely. “A man representing himself, particularly in a murder case, has not only a fool for a client, but a damn fool.”
“The only damn fool around here is the one I’m looking at.”
“Suit yourself, bumpkin,” groused Donnelly, and he stalked off.
When Archer was released, he noted that two plainclothes men were trailing him as he headed back to his hotel before he changed direction and walked over to Ernestine’s bungalow. He let himself into her house using the key she’d given him, went over to her shelf, and took out the law books she had there.
He walked back out and nodded to the pair of plainclothes dicks.
“Hey,” said one. “You stealing?”
Archer held up one of the books. “I’m entitled to them for my legal defense. You read the Constitution? Says it right in there. Sixth Amendment. It’s a good one.”
One Good Deed Page 33
