The Genuine Article

by Guthrie, A. B. ;

  “Not like in town,” Jimmy put in. “Bunch of jokers around here.”

  “Make it sons of bitches, Jimmy. Unthinking but cruel sons of bitches.” Charleston got to his feet. “All right. To the bank. Better bring your pad, Jase.”

  But we didn’t get to see Mike Day until late afternoon. The cashier, name of Keith Morris, who looked as if figures were his dish for breakfast, lunch and supper, said Day was appraising some property. He had left word he’d be back, though.

  Charleston spent the time going over papers, dictating to Jody Lester, his part-time stenographer, and talking to Rod Smith, the newspaper editor, who was maybe as good a newshound as I was a detective. I relieved Jimmy again.

  The bank was closed to customers when we knocked on the door. The setters had moved aside to let us approach. Morris undid the lock, saying as we went in, “Mr. Day is in his office.” His head inclined toward a back room where Day did his thinking.

  Day rose from his chair and shook hands. His left hand held a cigar. “Mighty good to see you,” he said, blowing smoke through his hail-fellow smile. Then, “Good Lord, Jase, get socked with a ball bat or what?”

  “A pebble,” I said.

  “Well, have a chair, you two. I bet they’ve kept you boys on the jump, what with a murder and all.”

  “That’s what we’re here for, to see where to land if we can,” Charleston said.

  “Why, sure. Of course. It’s here for you, any assistance we can give you, any help within reason. I’m mighty puzzled, though, mighty puzzled you should come here, but you can bet your bottom dollar on us.” He puffed out a plume of puzzled smoke.

  “That’s good,” Charleston said, taking on the smile that Day had lost. “I was afraid you might be a little standoffish.”

  “Standoffish?” Day let the word roll around in his head. “Discreet, yes. Standoffish, no. But you must realize there are matters we must consider private affairs.”

  “Like bank statements? Like deposits?”

  “In specific cases I’m afraid so. You understand that a bank stands in a confidential relationship with its clients. It’s privileged information, like a doctor’s or lawyer’s. We mustn’t betray our trust.”

  I wanted to answer “Bullshit.” Day had skated on the thin edge of the law until a lucky break made him respectable. That much I knew.

  Charleston asked, “Dave Becker banks with you, doesn’t he?”

  “Obviously you know that much. It’s not a secret. So yes, he does. He’s a valued client. Good balance always. No overdrafts.”

  “I want the dope on him for the last year or two. Show me the records.”

  Day put his cigar in a tray with thoughtful attention to it. “I must say no,” he said to the cigar. “No, unless you have his consent. You can appreciate my position.”

  Charleston wasn’t smiling anymore. “It’s murder, and to hell with you, Mike, and to hell with your pretty scruples. So answer up and answer all right.”

  “I really can’t, Chick. The confidential relationship remains.”

  Charleston got up abruptly. “Keep those records intact. I’m going for a subpoena.”

  Day rammed his chair back. “My God, Chick, you can’t do that! Subpoena the statements! Think of the good name of the bank, man.”

  Charleston said, “Too bad. Too bad the bank obstructs justice. Come on, Jase.”

  Day moved from behind his desk and came forward, his hands out. “Don’t leave, Chick. Don’t leave in a huff. You’ve upset me. I haven’t had time to think.”

  “The records,” Charleston said.

  A big, tired sigh came out of Day, leaving him slumped. He trudged to the door, opened it and called, “Keith.” After he’d received a “Yes, sir,” he went on, “Dig out the stuff on Dave Becker for the last couple of years. Bring it in, please.” He went back to his chair, sank in it and said, “You’ve forced me to compromise my principles.”

  “First time for everything,” Charleston answered.

  After a minute Morris came in with pages of figures and put them on Day’s desk, his face one sad cipher. He went out.

  “Use my desk,” Day said, rising.

  “All right. May want to question you.”

  “I’ll be in front.”

  “Right now,” Charleston told me as he fingered papers, “Dave Becker has seven thousand plus in the bank. Pretty hefty, huh?”

  “Unless he saved every nickel,” I said.

  Charleston was too busy to hear me. Maybe ten minutes passed. Then he said, “Get Day back here, Jase.”

  After I did, he asked Day, “Mike, didn’t these deposits strike you as strange?”

  Day had seated himself in a chair not his own, since Charleston occupied his. He said, “I don’t pay close attention. He kept a nice balance. That’s what I know and no more.”

  “He earned a hundred dollars a month. He banked that pay pretty regularly, within a week after he got it. But, now, here and there and numerous places, he deposited a hundred, two hundred, one hundred and fifty and, right here, is five hundred. No regularity about those. All in cash, if I read right. Cash.” His eyes bored at Day.

  “I don’t know,” Day said. “How would I know?”

  “I don’t think you did. I don’t think anyone paid much attention. A man can make quite a little stake in a poker game, no questions asked.”

  Day said, “He didn’t gamble. Not Becker, I’m sure.”

  “So am I. Put these in a safe place and seal up what you know. Thanks, Mike.”

  Charleston and I went out, leaving Day looking at his ashtray.

  Outside, Charleston told me, “We found our pry, Jase, but night’s about here and we’ve worked long enough. We’ll use it tomorrow.”

  We didn’t, though. There were other developments.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jimmy Conner’s voice screeched through the closed door. “Goddamn it! Where is everybody? Goddamn it!”

  I opened the door to the repeated click of the telephone receiver. The time was eight o’clock, lacking ten minutes.

  Jimmy looked up from the desk. Pambrun and Framboise stood near him, their hats in their hands. “Thank God for small favors,” Jimmy said, replacing the phone.

  I asked, “What’s the matter?”

  “Matter, goddamn it! Plenty the matter. Another man dead, that’s what’s the matter, and no one but me here. No son of a bitch answers phones. Where’s Charleston?”

  “Who’s dead?”

  “Eagle Charlie, that’s who.”

  I said, “Eagle Charlie?” not believing.

  The two breeds nodded as I turned to them. Pambrun spoke one word. “Killed.”

  Jimmy asked again, “Where in hell’s Charleston?” His eyes flicked to the big clock on the wall as if to hurry it. It didn’t read quite eight o’clock yet.

  “Driving in,” I answered. “What you expect?”

  Jimmy wouldn’t shut up. “I been ringin’ him regular. You, too, and Halvor. No one home, no one comin’ in. Just me here. Shit!” He flung out his hands. “Tiptop outfit, this is, modern, like smoke signals.”

  He had right on his side. We weren’t advanced enough for communication between office and car, the commissioners being careful of taxpayers’ money. I said, “Ease off. He’ll be here.”

  I had never seen Jimmy rattled before. Age, I thought, and for an instant reflected that age rattled all of us. “Mind if we go into the other office?” I asked.

  “I don’t mind a damn thing.”

  “Give me an outside line then.”

  We went in, Pambrun, Framboise and I. They had kept silent while Jimmy spouted. It struck me as we seated ourselves that Jimmy might be relieved to have had the buck pass.

  “All right,” I said. “He’s dead. You sure?”

  “I seen dead men before,” Pambrun replied.

  “We found him,” Framboise said.

  “Where? How? All of it, please.”

  “Outside, close to his own doo
r. Maybe six—eight steps away.” Pambrun’s gaze met that of Framboise in the silent communication I had noticed before. “Hit on the head.”

  Framboise corrected him, a note of apology in his voice. “Knocked is better, Pete. Knocked in the head. Knocked in the head dead. A little blood but not much. Skull bone broke, I think.”

  “And you two found him? Before anyone else?”

  “First up, you know. All the time, pret’ near, we are first out of bed. So we found him dead. We told Rosa. We got a blanket and covered him.” Pambrun had spoken as if in conclusion, but Framboise added, “Then, right away, we drove here.”

  I had taken notes. “The sheriff’s due any minute,” I told them. “Now hold on.” I lifted the phone and called outside, to Doc Yak first, then Felix Underwood. Both were startled. Doc Yak was grumpy.

  As I hung up, Charleston came in. He didn’t say hello. He said to me, “Got the dope?”

  “Enough for now, I guess.”

  “Eagle Charlie. For a fact?” The breeds’ heads gave him the answer. “Who in hell—?” The heads didn’t know.

  Charleston asked a couple of brisk questions, to which I already had answers. He told me, “Notify Doc Yak and Felix.”

  “I just did. They’ll be starting out any minute.”

  “All right. Come on, all of you.” He led the way outside to his Special. In passing, I noticed the car that Pambrun and Framboise must have driven in. It might have been the first number off the line when Ford began building V-8s.

  Charleston drove with silent and steady purpose, almost as if the mere turn of the wheels were an end in itself. Not once during the trip did he open his mouth. Trouble, I thought, was a good silencer, even if uncommon with him. We didn’t speak, either. He turned off the highway and tooled up the side road, splashing water at the creek crossing.

  A couple of dozen people, probably the whole population of Breedtown except cradled babies, stood around a blanketed shape, their eyes going from it to us and back again. The noise of our engine died. In its stead came high wailings from inside a cabin. The dogs slunk around. Not a one barked.

  “All right,” Charleston said, getting out. “Get back, you people!” They didn’t go far.

  Underwood wheeled up in his ambulance and said as he hit the ground, “I can’t believe it. Not Eagle Charlie.”

  No one answered. Charleston was bending down. He moved the blanket off the head and glanced up at Underwood as if to say “See for yourself.”

  Peering, Underwood said, “By God if it ain’t.”

  “Doc Yak’s on the way,” Charleston told him as if that item provided enough information for now. His hand was exploring the thick mat of gray hair. There was some blood in it, dried. I saw his hand feel and his eyes look and saw his hand come away and saw what his fingers held—a couple of red hairs. He slipped them into an envelope, saying nothing.

  He stayed hunkered down a while longer, his hand exploring again. No one spoke. The high wailing, the keening of squaws bereaved, hurt my ears. For other sounds there was only the occasional, careful shuffling of feet.

  We heard Doc Yak before we saw him approaching on foot, his satchel in his hand. He was proclaiming, “To hell with all crossings! To hell with infernal machines!” Looking beyond him, I could see his car was stuck in the ford, as mine had been.

  “Who’s the lucky man?” Doc Yak asked, coming up. At his best he wasn’t much of a respecter of death. Fighting it day by day, he might have been affronted by it. “Eagle Charlie, huh? It saves the poor son of a bitch a whole lot of trouble.”

  The high wailing seemed to dispute him.

  He stooped, unlatched his bag and got out his stethoscope. He bared the chest, listened, discarded the stethoscope and, as if it might be at fault, fingered for a pulse. “Routine,” he said between his teeth. “They never get any deader. Plain at first sight.” Then, as if the keening had just come to his ears, he burst out, “Tell them, for Christ’s sake, to shut up! Howling like coon dogs, but even a damn hound knows a cold trail.”

  Charleston said quietly, “Calm down, Doc. You haven’t finished.”

  I looked away as Doc Yak examined the body. It wasn’t that I was afraid of corpses; they just made me want to withdraw. The circle of watchers, broken to allow room for official procedure, had spread into a straggling half-circle. Through the gap I could see the upward slope of the land, bright with the low-growing first blooms of the season, with shades of purple, white and blue. Moss campion I recognized, and dwarf phlox and forget-me-nots. Together they made what we called carpet flowers.

  I turned my eyes to the intent, watching faces. They tended to be high in the cheekbones. Some were dark, some half-dark, some copper-tinted, some barely suggestive of Indian blood. They were good faces, I thought, good faces almost all, better than the circumstances of their lives. Call them breeds, call them war-whoops, treat them that way, and so put an end to hopes not ended already.

  Doc Yak stood up, through with his chore. He wiped his hands on a cloth moistened by alcohol and passed it to Charleston. “Skull cracked,” he said, “and not just in one place. That’s what killed him.”

  Underwood, standing near, said, “The old blunt instrument again.”

  Doc turned on him like a terrier. “You and your fool guesses! Blunt instruments don’t bend. We told you that once.”

  Unoffended, Underwood guessed again. “A blackjack, then. A leather poke filled with shot. It would bend.”

  “Given one hell of a swipe, maybe. Given a lot of arm.”

  “You think so?” Charleston asked. “Maybe the genuine article, Doc?”

  “How in hell do I know? I didn’t swing it.”

  “Dead how long, you estimate?”

  “Questions,” Doc replied. “All the time questions. Will he live, Doctor? Not likely, ma’am, seeing as he’s already dead. Since when, Doctor? Ever since he met up with that old blunt instrument, maybe eight or ten or more hours ago. That’s a guess.” Doc closed his bag. “You can take him away, Felix.”

  To others of us Doc said with a smile that had some wolf in it, “Any pushers around? I need a fix.”

  “What you need,” Underwood answered before he went for a stretcher, “is that morning coffee you missed. Better put a spike in it to boot.”

  I knew what Doc meant, though. With Doc at the wheel Pambrun and Framboise and I pushed his car out of the creek. I got my feet wet. Doc drove away without thanks.

  After Eagle Charlie’s body was put in the ambulance and the ambulance was rolling, Charleston drove us back to town, saying nothing until he parked in front of the Bar Star, then, “We’ll lift one for old Eagle Charlie.”

  He pushed his way inside, holding the door for us. The one customer was Chuck Cleaver, who was working on a beer. To him Charleston said, “Your man in town?”

  “Who?”

  “Dave Becker.”

  “Nope.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Helpin’ truck a load of cattle, bound over the mountains. Left sometime early this morning.”

  “When’s he due back?”

  “Couple of days, something like that. Why, Sheriff?”

  “How sure are you he’ll come back? Tell me that.”

  Cleaver consulted his beer, thinking maybe it was better to look at than Charleston’s face. “Pretty damn sure. I haven’t paid him, for one thing.”

  Charleston asked, “What’s another?”

  “His job, but that ain’t quite all. Just between us, Sheriff, I put him under bond, sort of. Only a fool lets his cows roll away without some protection. Right?”

  “What kind of a bond?”

  “It’s kind of private, Sheriff, not everyone’s business.”

  “Say it, anyhow.”

  “Him willin,’ more or less, I put a lock on his bank account until he gets back. Now why all the questions?”

  “Nothing. I just wanted to talk to him.” Charleston shrugged and moved toward a table, saying to himself, “Pi
sswillie.”

  Tad Frazier came to the table to see what we’d have. He seemed a little surprised at the company Charleston and I kept. We had two rounds. Charleston paid for them and took us to the Commercial Cafe. Jessie Lou, waiting on us, gave me one slow gaze that seemed to say something, I didn’t know what.

  Afterwards, at the office, Charleston saw to the seating and said to Framboise and Pambrun, “You’re not under suspicion, not by me, but there are a few questions I want to ask you.”

  The two men waited.

  “Did you hear anything unusual last night?”

  “Dogs barked, that was all,” Pambrun answered. “Nothing. The damn dogs always bark.”

  “Did you have any visitors?”

  Framboise took his turn. “Not that I seen, eh, Pete?”

  “Not Luke McGluke? Not Red Fall, even?”

  No, the men said with their heads.

  “What about Dave Becker?”

  I spoke out of turn. “He couldn’t have been there, not according to Cleaver.”

  Charleston said, “You better think again, Jase. Cleaver says he left sometime early this morning. That leaves room.” He went on, “No strange cars around?”

  There hadn’t been, he was told.

  “Maybe you can straighten me out,” Charleston said. “From what I hear, Eagle Charlie wasn’t any great favorite, not with the women, anyhow. Mrs. Gray Wolf seemed to hate him. And yet they were crying over his death?”

  Pambrun took time with his answer. “Eagle Charlie was a chief. All right, half-assed, but a chief. His father was a chief, and his father a chief honest to God. So we feel sorry. So women cry.”

  Framboise put in, “Indian women, they take time to be sad. Used to be they cut off their hair or maybe a finger. That was the old way. All the time crying out loud. So, today, they show sorry, too.”

  “All right,” Charleston said. “Now tell me, what’s in your minds? What strikes you? What questions?”

  Pambrun answered, “The same one? Same man killed Grimsley and Eagle Charlie?”