by Ben Benson
I clutched for the automatic in my belt, yanked it out and cocked it. “Cluett,” I called. “Drop the gun. You’re under arrest.”
“Punk,” he said, softly in the darkness. “I always wanted to kill a cop. Now I’ve got double pleasure.”
I tried to range in his voice. It had come from the left of the windows. Now I heard him move closer. I lowered myself gently to my knees. I began to inch out of the alcove toward him. My shoe made a scraping noise. I flattened immediately, spread-eagling on the bare floor.
Two shots flared out. I heard them buzz over my ear. There was a crunch and tinkle of glassware. The cut-glass vase.
“Cluett,” I called out. “Don’t be a damn fool. Throw out your gun.”
He laughed bitterly. “So you’re a cop. All along I knew you were a wrong one. You think I was stupid enough to go to Sharon? No, I turned around and came back here to call off the job. I knew from the beginning you were no good.”
He became silent. It was so still in the room I could hear his harsh breathing. I brought up the Fabrique Nationale and aimed it in his direction.
“Once more, Cluett,” I said. “Throw out the gun. It’s no good. There are more cops on the way.”
“No, you’re not taking me,” he said harshly. “There’s no way out for you, Scotty.”
“If I go down, you’re going down with me. You’ve got it coming. Everything was working fine and you had to show up and spoil everything. A punk like you had to come along and mess it up.”
That was another thing wrong with him. He was blaming me for his trouble. Not that he had himself to blame for engaging in crime. That didn’t enter his mind. It never would. In his warped reasoning the cops were picking on him. He felt he had a right to do what he wanted, to take whatever he wished. There was no conscience in him. They were a breed, his type. So incorrigible you had either to isolate them like deadly bacteria in a test tube—or kill them.
But you couldn’t kill an eighteen-year-old boy for automobile larceny. Not unless you had your back to the wall and had to do it to save your own life. I was close to it. But there was a chance I could sweat it out, to stall, to talk to him until the troopers came.
“Listen, Cluett—” I started to say.
“Keep talking,” he said hoarsely. “Talk yourself into the grave.” Then I could hear him creeping against the wall, toward the old sofa under the windows, toward me.
No, I thought, it’s no use. There’s no compromise in him. He’s deadly. His mind had been made up. There was one thing he wanted. He might die doing it, but he must kill me.
He fired again. The bullet burned by me so close I felt the swish of air. As the cartridge flashed I was trying to count how many rounds he had left. It was an H & R with an eight-round clip. He had fired four. He had enough left. There was nothing else to do but shoot him.
I heard him move again. I felt around for a piece of the broken vase. My fingers found a fragment. I got up on one elbow and tossed the little piece of glass to my left. It hit against the wall. I held the pistol ready, my finger tight against the trigger.
Cluett fired at the sound. In the brief muzzle flash I saw him on one knee behind the arm of the sofa. It was a bad place to hide. The sofa was soft, of felt and horsehair padding, and I had a thirteen-shot Belgian automatic in my hand.
“Cluett,” I said once more, but desperately, without hope. “It’s not as big a rap as you think. Drop the gun.”
He cursed at me. He fired at the sound of my voice, this time lower. I could hear the bullet ricochet off the floor, close to my hip.
I swung the Fabrique Nationale higher and rapidly pumped six shots in his direction. A gasp of breath, then a high keening sound came out of him. There was a rustling sound near the sofa. I fired three more shots. There was a strong smell of cordite in the room.
“Cluett,” I called.
There was no answer. I reached for my pencil flashlight, then put it back. I couldn’t use it. He might be shamming. I crept out of the alcove. I crawled along the floor toward him, snaking myself forward on my belly. I reached my hand out. First there was nothing. Then I felt a sticky wetness on the floor. My fingers searched. I touched flesh, a limp empty hand, an arm. My fingers moved down and explored the floor. My hand closed over the gun a foot away. I lifted it, tucking it into my belt. I stood up now and went over to the light switch.
He was lying on his side against the sofa. Five of my bullets had punched the soft fabric of the arm so that they had made a pattern like a cluster of moth holes. His face was almost unrecognizable, smeared with blood and bone gristle. The top of his head had a deep bloody furrow in it, parting his hair. His chest was soaked with blood.
I bent down over him, feeling for his pulse. What surprised me was that he was still alive. The heartbeat was very faint, almost indiscernible.
“Cluett,” I said.
His mouth moved. He coughed terribly, trickling blood from his lips. Suddenly he spoke, his voice a thin whisper. “I knew from the beginning,” he murmured, choking on each word. “You handled yourself too well. I knew it and I told Ken. The stupid creep said no, you were a green kid. Said you were too young for the FBI.” His eyes, glazed and dull, turned up to me with difficulty. “So you must be a trooper, you sonovabitch.”
I said nothing. He tried to say something else. “You’re a—” But his voice gagged in him and blood began to bubble from his nostrils. He gave a deep shudder and his eyes became fixed and vacant.
I looked at the dead face, then down at the H & R .32 automatic in my belt. I heard the sound of a siren. I went to the windows. A state cruiser, flashing its blue roof light, careened into the yard. It came to a squealing stop. The doors opened and two troopers ran out, long-barreled service revolvers in their hands. I knew them both. Joe Nulty and Dave Pesin. I went to the door to meet them. My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped my gun.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THEY STRODE INTO THE LIVING ROOM PAST ME. Nulty looked at the shambles of the room and whistled tunelessly. Dave Pesin was putting his revolver away and snapping his holster flap down.
“You all right, Lindsey?” Pesin asked.
“Fine,” I said. I watched as Nulty squatted over Scott Cluett.
“This is a dead one,” Nulty said, turning to me. “Who?”
“His name’s Cluett,” I said. I handed Pesin the H & R and pushed the Belgian automatic into my belt. “Never mind the dead one for now. Let’s get out to the Peppermint Stick and muckle onto Osanger. He’s in a black Chrysler.”
We hurried outside to the cruiser. I jumped into the back seat. Pesin got in behind the wheel, Nulty beside him. The cruiser slewed around and went off in the direction of Carlton. Nulty was on the radiophone talking to Troop A Headquarters.
The Chrysler wasn’t in front of the Peppermint Stick. Pesin drove the cruiser into the parking lot, sweeping the area with the spotlight. He scared some couples in their parked cars and we heard a few squeals, but there was no Chrysler.
“Let me find out,” I said. I hopped out of the car and ran for the entrance. I saw Pesin leave the cruiser and race around to cut off the back. Nulty was coming up behind me.
“You’d better watch outside, Joe,” I said to him. I went inside. The counter was crowded, the booths filled. The juke box blared bop and the jitterbuggers were out, writhing in the middle of the floor. I saw the big hulking form of Arkie Nodecker surveying them, like a lord over his domain.
I pushed over to the fountain and spoke to Monty, the little counterman. “Did you see Ken Osanger?”
“Just left,” Monty said. “No more than three, four minutes ago. He went out loaded with burgers, a malt and french fries.”
“You didn’t see which way he went, did you?”
“No.”
“Thanks,” I said. Four minutes, I thought. He had started back to the farmhouse. On the way he had heard the shooting. Or maybe he had heard the siren and seen the cruiser approaching. He had turned arou
nd and made tracks fast.
I started back for the door. Arkie Nodecker saw me. He cut over and blocked my way.
“Oh, you moron,” he said. He put out his hand and pushed it against my chest. Behind him two of his henchmen snickered eagerly and edged up closer. The dancing around us stopped.
“You should have more brains,” Arkie said. “You should never come back here when I’m around. I’m no Scotty Cluett.”
I had had just about enough of him, and I had taken more than my share of lumps. “Take your damn hand away,” I said.
The corners of his mouth curled up. Very deliberately and showily he began to unbuckle his big silver-ornamented belt. “Some guys never learn. But never.”
“Oh, for chrissakes,” I said hurriedly. “I’ll help you.” I reached out quickly and grabbed the tongue of his belt. I ripped it from around his waist. The belt loops tore off and his pants began to slide down. I slapped him hard across the face with my open hand. Then I grabbed him by the shoulders and twisted him around. I booted him hard in the seat of the pants. He went sprawling across the floor, going down with a crash, ending up with his head under a table.
He squirmed around, staring up at me with frightened surprise. I glanced at the two boys with him. I began to wrap the belt around my fist.
“Get him,” Arkie shouted at them, half-crying, but not stirring from under the table.
But they didn’t move. They hung back sheepishly, watching the belt with fascination. There was a confused babbling from the crowd.
“Go on home, you stupid kids,” I said. I turned and headed for the door.
Arkie was getting to his feet, holding onto his pants. “You’d better give me my belt,” he said whiningly. “I’ll tell my father.”
I paid no attention to him. As I reached the door, it swung open. Joe Nulty came in. The babbling died down immediately. Nobody moved. The only sound in the room was the wailing of the juke box.
“What’s up, Ralph?” Nulty asked softly. He looked the crowd over, his thumbs hooked into his wide belt, his booted legs straddled.
“Nothing,” I said. I tossed him the belt. “Add this to the collection at the barracks.”
“Whose is it?” Nulty asked. “Not that overgrown horse there who looks like he’s going to wet his pants?”
“Yes,” I said. “Come on, Joe.”
I went outside. Nulty followed me. Dave Pesin came around from the back. He was looking at the ground.
“Beer cans,” he said. “This place hasn’t got a beer and wine license, has it, Joe?”
“Not that I know of,” Nulty said, pushing his cap back. “Say, there wasn’t a kid in there over twenty-one. What the hell’s the matter with Clemmisson, anyway?” He turned to me. “This place is new. We checked it when it opened and we asked Clemmisson about it. He said it was a nice, peaceful place for the young crowd.”
“Sure,” I said. “About as peaceful as a buzz saw.”
“That’s too bad,” Nulty said. “We’ll have to come back. But what about Osanger?”
“He’s gone,” I said. “We missed him.”
“I’ll radio in and have them get out a GBC.”
I got into the cruiser. Pesin swung it around and we sped back to the farmhouse. Nulty was talking into the radiophone. “Cruiser Sixty-Six calling K. Broadcast an alarm for Kenneth Osanger driving a black Chrysler sedan. Registration number—”
We pulled into the driveway of the farm. I saw Newpole’s headquarters sedan, lights on, motor running. Newpole was on the porch with Lieutenant Tileston. I stepped out of the cruiser. As I did, another cruiser drove up and stopped behind us. One trooper was at the wheel. Another was in the back seat with Mrs. Osanger. The trooper helped her squeeze her bulk through the car door. She started for the house with him. She saw me standing there. As she passed me she turned and spat full in my face.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
WHEN I CAME INTO LIL’S CAFÉ THE NEXT MORNING at seven, Lieutenant Newpole was already there having breakfast. I sat down across from him at the checkered-cloth table. He was cutting a piece of fried ham with careful deliberation. My mouth started to form the question.
“No,” he said, without even waiting for it. “We haven’t picked up Osanger yet. The twelve-state alarm is out. His Chrysler was found abandoned in Fall River. They have the area closed off. He can’t get far. Besides, he couldn’t have had much money with him. It’s all in the Carlton bank. That must be frustrating.”
“Osanger’s got his gun,” I said. “He calls it his ‘baby,’ sir. He’s supposed to be good with it.”
“Orders are out to approach with caution,” he said.
I bought my breakfast. Newpole watched me eat. “Ah,” he said. “These young appetites. The poor cook at your barracks must catch it.”
“Not only from me,” I said.
“In my day I could pack it away, too,” Newpole said. “But now I’m getting old and I have to keep the bicarb handy. By the way, did you call Ellen?”
“Last night,” I said.
“There’ll have to be an inquest on the Cluett killing,” Newpole said casually. “Nothing to worry about, though.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. My appetite had disappeared as soon as he mentioned Cluett. I toyed with my coffee. “Lieutenant, what about Cluett’s gun? Has it been checked?”
“Yes,” Newpole said. “The H & R didn’t kill Pomeroy.” His eyes came up and searched my face. “Don’t be so disappointed, son. This isn’t a half-hour television show. Some of these murders take months. We pick up a piece here, a piece there. We try to fit them together like a jigsaw puzzle. But you did a good job for us and we won’t forget it. A commendation has gone in to the major.”
“Thanks,” I said shortly. “Did Mrs. Osanger talk?”
“She says nothing. Leta Joyce Nofke says nothing. I’ve never seen two females who talked less. You’d have to travel far and wide to find two like that in the same town.”
I stirred my coffee and looked outside. I saw a group of town people clustered together on the sidewalk, talking animatedly. Newpole’s eyes followed mine.
“The Cluett killing,” he said. “It makes a big stir in a small town.” His eyes scanned me shrewdly. “Bothers you, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. I was thinking of the inquest, and how it would be to appear there and face the grief-stricken aunt, Madelaine Cluett. “I didn’t sleep much last night, Lieutenant. How are you supposed to feel after you kill an eighteen-year-old kid?”
“You had no way out,” Newpole said. “And you’ve killed before, son.”
“In the war,” I said. “Where killing is impersonal, remote.”
“You also killed a thug a little while ago,” Newpole said. “When you were stationed in western Mass. Before you came to Concord. Or did you forget that one?”
“No, sir. But that was different, too. There were three of them and we had them surrounded in a summer cottage. It wasn’t a personal thing. We were all shooting and being shot at. I happened to hit this one with a burst from a Tommy gun. Even so, it bothered me. It still does. But this is worse, Lieutenant.”
“I know,” he said thoughtfully. He took out his pipe. “An eighteen-year-old kid, running around like a wild animal instead of preparing for a future. A kid with a good background, who had one ambition before he died. He wanted to kill a cop. There’s another one in this town headed that way. Maybe one of these days we’ll have to shoot down this Arkie Nodecker.”
No, not Arkie Nodecker, I thought. I had bumped into the Arkies before. There was one who had been the leader of a gang of young hoodlums in a town near Concord. Eight of them had attacked a younger boy and they had knifed him badly. The kid would carry a lifetime scar that ran from chin to eye. An older man had seen the attack and had gone to rescue the boy. The gang jumped the man, too, beating him so badly he was sent to the hospital with a concussion and a fractured jaw. We had picked up the gang and the leader. At the Concord Barracks the leader ha
d cringed and whined and groveled, afraid that we were going to work him over. That was the Arkie type, gang-brave, but, by himself, yellow and cowardly. It wasn’t the Scotty Cluett type. Cluett had had stubborn, fanatical courage.
Newpole was thumbing tobacco into his black briar pipe. He said, “Fifteen, twenty years ago you hardly ever heard of these things. Now everybody is scurrying around trying to figure out what’s happened to these modern kids. It’s a question that’s been worrying the brass. Maybe it’s the war scare and the atomic bomb. Maybe these kids think they’ve got to get a heap of living in quick.”
“No, sir,” I said. “They don’t even think of the atomic bomb. They don’t even have time to read the newspapers. They’re too busy having a good time.”
“I wish we knew,” Newpole said sadly. He flicked a match with his thumbnail and lit his pipe. “A probation officer, an old warhorse, once told me he was still trying to figure out if juvenile delinquency was caused by heredity or environment, or both. He had a little book and when kids were born to certain parents in his area, he marked the kids’ names in his book. Sure enough, ten or twelve years later these kids, with few exceptions, come up before him on some criminal conviction. But this probation officer is from a slum area and these Carlton kids are not. I don’t know what to say, son. Maybe there’s a moral degeneration going on in the country. The family unit isn’t closely knit any longer. The parents don’t spend time at home like they used to. Too many cars and too many divorces. Too many good times and too many gin mills and beer joints. Too many dog tracks and horse tracks where the month’s rent goes. Too much of everything but discipline and guidance. So the kids run wild. What the hell do they expect?”
“I don’t know,” I said moodily. I lit a cigarette and stared out into space.
“Something else is bothering you,” Newpole said.
“Yes, sir. The Pomeroy murder.”
“Sure, I thought so,” he said. “Maybe you think you should have cracked it yourself.”
