The Transgressors

by Jim Thompson

“ ’Mornin’, Miz McBride. Lookin’ mighty purt’ this mornin’. Have yourself a chair.”

  “Why—why, thank you…” She sat down gingerly, wondering at his change in attitude. “Thank you very much, Sheriff Bradley.”

  She sat very straight, hands folded in her lap, knees pressed closely together, her dress pulled over her ankles. With the innocent license of the elderly, Bradley examined her from head to foot and emitted a grunt of approval.

  “You’re a nice young lady, Miz McBride. Sorry if I didn’t act too friendly yesterday.”

  “It’s quite all right. Now—”

  “Yessir, a real little lady, Miz McBride, an’ don’t you let no one tell you different. Not like these painted-up, bobtailed fillies y’ see chasin’ around out here. All sass and short skirts. You know what, Miz McBride? If I was the pa of some of them girls, I’d just naturally cut me a switch an’…”

  He rambled on, and Donna, after a few attempts to cut in, lapsed into sympathetic silence. Age was entitled to respect. And this man, with his occasionally cracking voice, his occasional high-pitched cackle, his advanced senility, was entitled to much more: to kindness, to a feeling of being important, to patience, to all the things so often denied a man when his need for them is greatest.

  The aimless rambling came to a faltering end. He sighed heavily and returned to the present.

  “Well, let’s see, now. Uh, what was it that—uh—?”

  “Tom Lord, Sheriff. Could you please tell me where he is?”

  “Ain’t t’his house? Big place up on the hill, with a doctor’s sign on it.”

  “He’s not there, no.”

  “Uh-hah,” Bradley drawled, stroking his chin. “Well, that figgers. Prob’ly thought it’d be healthier out of town for a while.”

  “Yes?” Donna frowned. “I don’t understand, Sheriff.”

  “Sure, you don’t,” he nodded emphatically, “because I didn’t say nothin’, did I? Sure didn’t say he’d be dodgin’ a nice little lady like you.”

  “But, Sheriff. I”—she caught herself and made an effort to return Bradley’s knowing smile. He was obviously skirting a dangerous subject. If he told her anything, it would be only because of his certainty that she already knew it. “No,” she smiled, “you haven’t said a word, Sheriff. But just to make sure that we understand each other, why don’t you not say something more?”

  “Now, I’ll just do that, Miz McBride,” he cackled in shrill appreciation. “I’ll just not say nothing about what you got in your purse. Nothin’ at all—even if it has got a certain swing to it which an old hand like me can spot a mile off, and even if it does fall a certain way when you set it down, and even if…”

  Donna listened to him, confused at first, wondering what the gun had to do with Tom Lord; and then, as the apparent truth began to dawn on her, a faint sickish feeling and a strange sense of loss came over her. It was difficult to believe that Lord, irritating and insulting as he was, could commit murder. After all—though he’d certainly been very rude!—Lord had ministered to her gently and obviously quite ably. She’d been seriously ill, perhaps dangerously so, she realized now, and Lord had—

  She sucked in her breath sharply. Never mind those things! He, Lord, had killed her husband. Bradley was sure that he had, just as he was sure that she intended to kill Lord.

  Which was exactly what she was going to do!

  Still.…

  “Sheriff Bradley,” she said, “is there some reason why—can’t he be tried and convicted?”

  “Wouldn’t be runnin’ loose if he could ma’am. Ain’t got a smidgeon of proof, and that’s a fact.”

  “But you’re sure? There’s no doubt in your mind?”

  “Well, sure I’m sure.” He squinted at her dubiously. “Ain’t you?”

  Donna said quickly that she was. She had simply wanted to confirm her opinion.

  “Where is he, Sheriff Bradley?”

  “Now, ma’am.” He shook his head with slow firmness. “You know I can’t do that. Got all the sympathy in the world for you, but I can’t help you take the law into your own hands. Stuck my neck out a long ways as it is.”

  “Please. No one will ever know that you told me.”

  “I’d know.” A slight frostiness came into his eyes. “Fact is, I ain’t absolutely positive where he is, anyhow. It’s just a hunch.”

  “But—”

  “Maybe you just better forget it. Leave Tom to us. He’ll get took care of one way or another.”

  He nodded with cool politeness, turned around to his desk. It was final. He would say nothing more.

  Donna left, started down the corridor to the stairs. As she approached, a tall, lean man raised his head from the drinking fountain. A pearl-handled pistol hung from his bullet-studded gun belt. His eyes and nose were badly swollen, and his protruding lips were bruised and puffy.

  He ducked his head as she swerved toward him, quickly putting his hand to his mouth.

  “Tom Lord murdered my husband,” she said firmly. “I think you know it, and I think you know where he can be found. Now, I insist that you tell me.”

  “Sure wish I could, ma’am.” He kept his head ducked, his hand up. “Right sorry.”

  “You’ve got to! How can you refuse to help me, when you won’t do anything yourselves?”

  “You leave Tom to us, ma’am. He’ll get took care of, one way or another.”

  He brushed past her, heading for the sheriff’s office. Frowning thoughtfully, Donna started down the stairs.

  “Leave Tom to us. Get took care of one way or another.…”

  Both Bradley and the puffy-mouthed man had said the same thing. Or practically the same thing. And they had said it so positively, as though they were giving her their solemn promise. Still, if they did really mean it, if it wasn’t just a manner of speaking, why couldn’t they tell her more—give her some proof of their good faith? Some hint as to just how and when Lord would be taken care of. Why all this caution with her, the party most concerned?

  It was probably just talk, she decided bitterly. Just bluster. They might want to see Lord punished, but they would do nothing to bring that punishment about. If they had meant to, they would have done it before this.

  As she emerged from the courthouse and into the brilliant sunlight, a wave of weakness swept over her, and she remembered that she had had nothing to eat since the previous evening’s light repast. She weaved slightly, biting her lip. She tottered to a nearby tree, and braced herself against it. Slowly, the weakness and the darkness retreated.

  They were not completely gone, however. She could feel their nearness, sense their hovering presence in every fiber of her body.

  Cautiously, carefully putting one foot in front of the other, she headed for the railroad station. There was a dining room there. Her baggage was checked there, too, and perhaps she had best decide what to do about it. She had not taken a hotel room the day before, her plans being uncertain (as, of course, they still were). Moreover, hotels were expensive, and she had a very limited amount of money.

  Her hospital and doctor bills had been huge. Equally huge—far more so, in fact—was the expense of two funerals. Aaron and the baby had had the very best that could be had, with no thought of economy, and she was fiercely glad and proud of giving it to them. But the house, put up for a forced fast sale, had brought only a fraction of its value, and when all the bills were paid, there had been practically nothing left of the proceeds.

  Aside from a modest checking account, McBride had left no other estate. He had always drawn a good salary. He had also, however, always had the double expense of maintaining himself in the field as well as a home in Fort Worth. And then there had been the bills from his first wife’s long illness.

  His death was not covered by the mandatory workmen’s insurance. As for other insurance, he had none, such being against his principles. She had once suggested, before she was aware of his attitude, that he take out a policy. He didn’t really get angry about
it, but she was made to feel exceedingly uncomfortable.

  He gave her a good living, he pointed out—everything that she needed, within reason. His health being excellent, he should continue to do so indefinitely, until he was overtaken by old age. By which time, naturally, he would have accumulated more than enough for comfortable retirement. And if he didn’t, if some misfortune should alter this schedule, Donna would be quite young enough to go to work.

  “As you should,” he said steadily, “if you had any real or lasting regard for me. I’ve seen too many of these insurance widows. They don’t stay widows long if they’ve got any money. The first husband skimps and slaves to pay for the insurance, and then some slick-haired gigolo of a second husband comes along and lives high on the proceeds.”

  Donna could understand his feelings. In a terrible vision, she saw herself lolling about the house (drugged, perhaps, or under some strange hypnotic spell), looking on helplessly while a villain in evening clothes opened endless bottles of champagne and lighted five-dollar cigars with hundred-dollar bills.

  Aaron was right. Aaron was always right; a kindly and all-wise man, protecting her from her own ignorance. The fact that he had left her practically penniless was Lord’s fault, and his alone.

  She entered the railroad station, paused before the door which led to the connecting dining room. A menu was pasted to the glass, and she examined it with a feeling of horror.

  Twenty-five cents for a cup of coffee! Twenty-five cents! Ham-and-egg breakfast, two dollars and fifty cents. Special budget breakfast, one dollar and sixty cents. Orange juice…

  Almost reeling, Donna mentally counted the money in her purse. She had assumed, naturally, that prices might be a little high here. It was a boom area, and consumer goods would have to be shipped in from great distances. But this! These prices!

  She supposed she would have to eat a little something. But just how was she going to manage for more than a very few days.…

  “My name is Howard,” said a voice at her side. “Will you join me for breakfast?”

  Donna whirled around, eyes automatically icing over, her face setting itself in severely forbidding lines. And then seeing the man—the sandy gray hair, the broad, honest face, the stout, stodgy body—she relaxed. She even smiled a little.

  “Well, I…I’m afraid I don’t know you, Mr. Howard.”

  “I’m sorry. I knew your husband very well. He spoke to me about you many times, and I assumed he’d mentioned me to you.”

  He was obviously a little hurt, and she hastened to make amends. “I’m sure he must have, Mr. Howard. It’s just that I’ve been so upset, and—”

  “Of course you have. You’ve had every right to be. When I think of that miserable creature Lord!” He shook his head in angry sympathy. “If I was only a little younger, I’d go out to that shack of his and—”

  “Shack!” She gripped his arm excitedly. “Do you know where it is, Mr. Howard? Could you take me there?”

  “Why, yes. Of course. But”—he gave her a grave look—“I’m by no means sure that I should. I’m afraid I spoke a little impulsively a moment ago. I certainly didn’t mean to imply that you should, uh.…”

  “Who else is there? Please, Mr. Howard,” she begged. “You know what a fine man Aaron was. You know that nothing will be done about his murder, unless I do it!”

  Howard nodded, but he would not commit himself. He was completely in accord with her. In her position, he was confident that his own daughter would feel exactly as she did. Still it was a very serious matter, this taking of the law into one’s own hands, and not one to be rushed into hastily.

  “We shall see,” he said, pushing open the door to the dining room. “We’ll talk about it while we eat.”

  He nodded firmly as she hesitated, a man determined to take no drastic step without due deliberation.

  So Donna went through the door. And Howard, otherwise Gus Pellino, trudged after her.

  15

  On their long ride out into the wilderness, Donna began to have some second thoughts about her mission, to doubt its rightness and her wisdom. She had been swept along so rapidly—or, rather, she had driven herself along so rapidly—that there had been no time to think. But now she began to see the contradictions, or apparent ones, between Lord as he was—the man she had met—and the allegedly murderous Lord.

  Clearly, Tom Lord was a highly intelligent man; he was, had to be, despite his yokel’s masquerade. It would not be like him to kill another so clumsily as to incriminate himself. Then, and again despite the masquerade, Lord was a man of breeding, a man of family. She could picture him killing in a fight—a duel, if duels were still fought. But…but murder?

  He was no friend of Aaron’s. For doubtless very good reasons. Aaron had not told the truth about that. But while they were not friends, Aaron had had no fear of him. And Aaron, invariably shrewd as he was, would have immediately seen the danger—and taken proper precautions against it—if Lord had presented any.

  It came to Donna suddenly that her suspicions of murder were not based on incontrovertible evidence. All the suspicious circumstances could have been explained away by anyone with any claim to cleverness—Lord, for example. Instead, however, no one would tell her anything. There was only the rather stupid theory that Aaron had taken his own life. And when she tried to probe beyond that, she ran into a wall of silence.

  Was this proof of murder? Did Bradley and his lanky deputy know that Lord had murdered her husband, or was there another reason for the animosity toward him?

  She slid an uneasy glance toward her companion; hesitated on the point of addressing him.

  He had tried to talk her out of this. She had had to beg, plead, argue—point out his duty to him as Aaron’s good friend—before he finally assented to it. Now, they were out here, some seventy miles in the country; almost to Tom Lord’s hideaway. They were here at her insistence and against his, Howard’s, wishes. So just how, without looking like a complete ninny, could she suggest that—

  “By the way,” said Pellino casually, “have you ever seen Lord? Without knowing who he was, I mean.”

  “Well, yes, I have. I thought he was a doctor.”

  “I see,” said Pellino, and he did seem to see something; to rid himself of a minor puzzle. “As a matter of fact, I believe he did practically qualify as a doctor. Too shiftless and lazy, apparently, to take his degree.”

  “Mr. Howard, I—I just wonder if—”

  “Strange,” Pellino continued soberly, “strange how a man with every possible advantage—a fine family, an excellent education, amazing good looks—could turn out as he has. Didn’t you think he was strikingly handsome, Mrs. McBride? Why, if he had a spark of decency or ambition, he could be a big-time movie star!”

  Donna nodded uncomfortably. Somehow or other, the words she had been about to say to Mr. Howard seemed suddenly awkward. Even a little shameful.

  “Do you know something, Mrs. McBride?” Pellino smiled apologetically. “Do you know the real reason why I hesitated about bringing you out here today?”

  “Well”—Donna braced herself—“I suppose you thought I was being a little headstrong and foolish…”

  “I was afraid you’d back out at the last moment. Lord is quite a lady’s man, you know. They get very angry with him at times—with good reason, I might add. But when it gets down to taking any action against him, well, that’s something else again.”

  Donna swallowed. Laughed nervously. She was about to say that whatever she did or didn’t do would certainly have nothing to do with Lord’s alleged charm and good looks. But Pellino was again ahead of her.

  “You see, Mrs. McBride, I’d heard a bit of gossip around town. Lord always talks about his conquests, naturally, and with the two of you alone in the house together, why…”

  “B-but—conquests!” Donna’s face flamed furiously. “B-but I told you! I didn’t know who he was! I thought he was a doctor, and—”

  “Of course. Of course, y
ou did. You don’t have to convince me, Mrs. McBride. I know that Aaron’s wife wouldn’t have an affair with his murderer.”

  “Or with anyone else!”

  Pellino murmured vaguely. He said that she must do exactly as she wished, with no thought to his own old-fashioned notions. “You mustn’t mind me, Mrs. McBride. Just say the word and I’ll turn around and drive you back to town. I might be disappointed, but believe me, I can understand how an attractive young woman like you, and a man as handsome as Lord could—uh—”

  He broke off, the insinuating words seemingly rammed down his throat by Donna’s look.

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled apologetically. “I just wanted you to be sure.”

  “Well, I am sure, and you can be sure, too! Now, aren’t we about there?”

  “Why, yes,” said Pellino, and he brought the car to a stop. “Here’s the trail right here.”

  She climbed out, stumbled awkwardly as she literally plunged across the roadside ditch. Then, without a look backward, she went on up the trail; head high, back very straight.

  Pellino chuckled fatly, and congratulated himself. He’d managed the thing perfectly; let her talk herself into the hole, and then slammed the lid on it. She’d never back down now. As steamed up as she was, she could probably take Lord apart with her bare hands. And if it shouldn’t work out that way, if the situation was reversed and she became Lord’s victim, well, that would be all right, too. A slight switch of plans and the result would be the same.

  Pellino turned the car around and drove away.

  Donna came nearer the shack, her footsteps remaining firm, her purpose unshaken. When she stopped at last, some fifty feet away from the building, it was only to rest and reconnoiter.

  She patted her face with her handkerchief. She looked around her, fighting to ignore the loneliness, the desolation that seemed to creep forward stealthily. Somewhere a twig snapped. She whirled, startled, and from behind her came another sound; a cactus pod falling to the ground. She jerked her head this way and that, to the front, the side, the rear. And the wind whined like a hungry thing; it opened a thousand little paths for the stalking loneliness, then hastily closed the paths over.