A Dismal Thing To Do

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “Let’s go find him, then.”

  “He’ll be in Ben’s embalmin’ room, havin’ a nip to warm ’im up. Ben keeps a jar in there.”

  Sam was right, needless to say. Fred came out wiping his mouth, shivering a bit as the raw air hit him. “Cripes, I thought I was off duty for the night.”

  “Hell no,” said Sam. “The fun’s just startin’.”

  “We’re going out to call on your friend Badger,” Madoc explained. “We’d be grateful if you went along to perform the introductions.”

  “Don’t know if he’ll be much in the mood for company,” Fred demurred. “Badger told me he was almost up to Edmundston when he got to worryin’ an’ decided he better come back. He’ll be dead beat, wouldn’t you think?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Madoc. “He’s used to long drives. With any luck this won’t take long.” He knew Fred was no coward, but he doubted if the marshal was any great actor, either. Fred might have trouble carrying off his part with nonchalance if he knew what was actually happening. “It’s just a matter of going through some necessary formalities, you can tell him.” How true that was!

  “I get you. Then we might as well do it tonight an’ get it over with. He’ll prob’ly sleep better once he knows we’re really takin’ an interest.”

  Madoc thought he’d let that remark pass quietly. He motioned Sam into the back seat, waited till Fred had stowed his paunch in front on the passenger’s side, and they were off. Sam knew a shortcut, naturally, so Madoc got them to Badger’s sooner than he’d expected. Their man was at home. They could see him through an uncurtained window, sitting in the sagging spring rocker in front of the little old television set, watching the hockey game and sipping from a beer can, the picture of contentment. When Fred knocked on the door, Madoc saw Badger jump up and reach for the coat he’d thrown down on the sofa. Sidearm in the pocket, no doubt. But he didn’t take it out.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Fred Olson, Jim. Thought I’d better stop by an’ make sure you found your place okay before I turn in my report.”

  The man scowled, but there wasn’t much he could do except open the door. “That’s mighty nice of you, Fred. Come in and have a beer. I was just watching the game.”

  “I wasn’t aimin’ to stay,” said Fred. “Got a couple o’ friends with me. You know Sam Neddick? He helps out at Wadman’s farm.”

  Sam nodded and somehow insinuated himself around behind Badger and over to the sofa.

  “An’ this is Bert Wadman’s brother-in-law, Madoc Rhys.”

  “Inspector Rhys of the RCMP, to be precise,” said Madoc, softly and sadly. “I’m afraid we’ll have to take you in, Mr. Badger. There are several warrants out for you, we’ve found. No, don’t bother reaching for your coat. Mr. Neddick has already taken out the gun, and I’m afraid he has the bad manners to be pointing it at you, Mr. Beaver.”

  Madoc seldom resorted to firearms himself, but he wasn’t about to stifle an initiative like Sam Neddick’s. “I should perhaps explain that Mr. Neddick is an even keener marksman than you are, Mr. Bearhound. Perhaps you’d be good enough to put your hands over your head while I explain the formalities to you? Tedious I know, Mr. Bandicoot, since you’ve heard all this so often before, but we don’t want you to get off on a technicality as you did on June 17, 1962, in Akron, Ohio.”

  Badger made the foolish mistake of losing his temper. He railed, cursed, and tried to take a swing at Madoc. Fred Olson, trained on skittish horses in his father’s forge, put a quick stop to that. Even if he did have a belly like Santa Claus, the muscles of his brawny arms were indeed strong as iron bands. Sam stood by, helpfully offering to star Badger’s kneecap, but there was really no need. When Badger’s violence got out of reason, Fred merely wrestled him to the floor and plunked his own body down on top. Madoc finished his oration and snapped on the handcuffs. Sam found a piece of rope and demonstrated how to hobble the prisoner’s feet Indian-style so that he could walk to the car under his own steam but wouldn’t have the ghost of a chance if he tried to run away.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” said Madoc. “Well, this has been a pleasant and instructive visit. Let’s see, we mustn’t forget to shut off the lights and the television before we go. We don’t want to add to Mr. Bandicoot’s difficulties by running up his light bill. First, however, I suggest we look around for the rifle that matches the bullet Buddy McLumber was shot with. It’s sure to be here somewhere. He’s too experienced a rogue to have carried it in his car, and too cocky to have thrown it away.”

  That shook Badger a little. He couldn’t know for sure they hadn’t found the bullet, and he couldn’t quite suppress the flicker of alarm that contorted his undistinguished features when Sam said, “Up the chimbley” and proved, of course, to be right.

  “I have a right to call my lawyer” was all he said.

  “And so you shall, Mr. Bearhound,” Madoc replied, “but not from here. We don’t know what sort of signal you may have rigged up with Jelly Grouse or some other of your henchmen, you see, and we shouldn’t care to run into an ambush because it’s getting late and you’ve caused us quite enough trouble already. Now, if you will just walk quietly and sedately between myself and Marshal Olson, Mr. Neddick will lock up the house you were so worried about leaving, and follow along with the confiscated handgun.”

  Madoc took the rifle in front with him. Both Fred and Sam got in back with the prisoner between them. It made for a tight squeeze but a first-class deterrent against any of the shenanigans for which this one-man zoo had become so widely known and so ardently sought.

  The village clock had struck eleven by the time they got down to the lockup. This in truth wasn’t much of an affair, being only a room stuck on behind the old forge and fitted up with an iron cage. It was used mostly on Saturday nights for keeping unruly townsfolk in pickle, as the late Mrs. Agatha Treadway had once been heard wittily to remark, until they were sober enough to drive themselves home. It had two cots with warm blankets; it had plumbing of a sort; it had a stack of old magazines and mail order catalogs with which the temporary residents could beguile their enforced leisure. Millie Olson was wont to supply lavish meals to those in any sort of shape to eat, and Jason Bain had no doubt fared much better today than he ever had at home. Nevertheless, as soon as he heard the forge door open, Bain started yelling about his rights.

  “Pipe down, Jase,” Fred told him. “We’ve brought you a roommate.”

  “What do you mean roommate? I ain’t havin’ no goddamn drunk pukin’ all over—”

  Bain stopped short. He’d looked horrified this morning when he saw his ruined junkyard; he looked worse when he caught sight of Badger.

  “You ain’t puttin’ him in here with me! I demand my rights. You got to take me straight off to the county jail an’ lock me up where I’ll be safe.”

  Chapter 20

  “THEN YOU DO KNOW Mr. Badger?” said Madoc. “I thought you told me you didn’t bother with your neighbors.”

  “I don’t care who he is,” the old reprobate tried to bluster. “I ain’t havin’ him in my cell. I’m entitled to my privacy.”

  “You’re not entitled to anything except what Marshal Olson says you’re entitled to, Mr. Bain. Now why don’t you come clean about who blew up your house and yard, and what business it was that kept you safely out of the way while the explosions were taking place?”

  “I was just doin’ a friend a favor,” Bain mumbled.

  “Who, for instance?” asked Fred Olson. “I never knew you had one.” He was unlocking the disproportionately heavy hand-forged iron door as he spoke. “You want to come out here an’ tell us about your friend?”

  “What you intendin’ to do with Badger, eh? Long as he’s out, I’m stayin’ in.”

  “By God, Jase, if ever there was a prize pain in the ass, you’re it. Badger’s goin’ into that cell soon as Sam an’ the inspector get through fishin’ the knives an’ razor blades an’ cyanide pills out of his pockets, an
takin’ away his shoelaces. Then I’m goin’ to phone down to the county hoosegow an’ tell ’em to send up their brand-new Black Maria with a half-dozen armed guards to cart ’im away. You can either ride down with ’em or else make up your mind to act like a goddamn human being for once in your life an’ tell us the truth.”

  “What truth? You got nothin’ to charge me with.”

  “How about obstructing justice?” Madoc suggested gently. “You’re not a man to scare easily as a rule, are you, Mr. Bain? Yet you’re as terrified right now as though we were holding your bare feet to an open fire. What’s Mr. Badger done to frighten you so?”

  “He’s a criminal, ain’t he? You wouldn’t of arrested ’im if he wasn’t.”

  “We arrested you, Mr. Bain.”

  “Yes, an’ you’re damn well goin’ to pay for it good an’ proper.” Bain reeled off the words as if he’d got them by heart but had no feeling for the role.

  “But if you’re a victim of false arrest, why can’t he be the same?”

  “ ’Cause I know damn well he’s—”

  Bain caught the look Badger was giving him, and stopped as if he’d been slapped across the mouth. “All right then,” he growled. “I’ll come out. But you got to keep ’im back from me.”

  They didn’t have to, actually. Badger just stood there regarding Bain with mild amusement while the old man shuffled through the cell doorway, keeping as far to the other side as he could in that little space.

  “Your turn, Mr. Badger,” said Madoc.

  The new prisoner balked for a second, then caught those clear-glass eyes of Sam’s, and went in. Fred slammed the door on him, and locked it from outside. Sam settled himself in the old padded rocker where Millie was wont to sit and chat with the prisoners while they ate their supper. He had Badger’s rifle across his lap and Badger’s .45 in his hand, and a few extra rounds of ammunition tucked into his belt just in case.

  “You go ahead an’ call the wagon,” he told Fred and Madoc. “I’ve handled tougher men than this bugger. Just take Jase Bain with you is all I ask. I can stand a thief an’ I can stand a murderer, but what I can’t stand is a derned ol’ fool that stinks worse’n a barnful o’ tomcats in season. For somebody that’s so jeezledy anxious to hang on to his hide, you might think he’d bother to wash it once in a blue moon.”

  Bain was so glad to get away from Badger that he didn’t pause to take umbrage. He scuttled through the forge and on into the garage. There Fred Olson had a telephone, which he used to put in his call to the county jail.

  “They said it’d take a while to get here with the wagon, but they’ll send it along as soon as they can,” he reported. “They’re tickled pink about Badger. ’Tisn’t often we hook a big one like him. Cripes, I’m gettin’ sleepy. By the way, you don’t think Sam’s likely to nod off back there?”

  “About as likely as a leopard stalking a gazelle, I’d say,” Madoc replied. “Sam’s having the time of his life.”

  Those no-color eyes would stay fixed on Badger for as long as Badger stayed in the cage; and Madoc wouldn’t be at all surprised if Sam managed to wheedle a ride down to the jail out of the police who brought the wagon. He himself would have to be available when they came, of course, but there was no reason why Fred had to stand here falling off his feet.

  “Marshal, why don’t you go into the house and take a nap till they get here? You’ve earned some rest, along with a few other things.”

  Fred yawned again. “Such as what, for instance?”

  “A wad of official commendations, I expect, from the police in—let’s see, I wrote some of them down here somewhere.”

  Madoc handed over the list from his notebook. Fred whistled. “Cripes a’mighty, who’d o’ thought Badger was so popular? Think I might get my pitcher in the paper? Millie’d be tickled at that.”

  “I don’t see why it shouldn’t be in a good many papers. This was your collar, Marshal, with a large assist from your deputy, Sam Neddick.”

  “You wasn’t exactly standin’ by with your hands folded, Inspector.”

  “I don’t count. I’ve merely been offering such assistance as any local police are entitled according to RCMP regulations. In fact, however, you haven’t filed any formal request, so I’m only here as an interested friend and neighbor. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”

  “Why? You got somethin’ else up your sleeve?”

  “I don’t think the case is quite over yet: Mr. Bain is about to cast some further light on the matter, I believe. Would you care to speak your piece now, Mr. Bain, or would you rather go back and keep Mr. Badger company while you get your thoughts together?”

  “I dunno what you’re talkin’ about.” Bain tried to talk tough, but his voice was shaking. “I ain’t goin’ back there.”

  “Then talk, and talk fast. The marshal’s getting impatient.”

  “Damn right I am.” Fred yawned all the way back to his epiglottis. “Come on then, Jase. Why do you think Badger’s out for your blood? Was it him or you that blew up your place?”

  “Either him or some of ’is men.”

  “What men?”

  “He never said.”

  “Then how do you know he’s got any?”

  “They been comin’ an’ goin’.”

  “Whereabouts?”

  “His house.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I seen ’em.”

  “When?”

  “Now an’ again.”

  “Let’s speed this up a little,” Madoc intervened. “Were you in company with these men, or were you spying on them from outside?”

  “I got a right to know what’s goin’ on around my own land, ain’t I?”

  “Did Badger catch you sneaking around his yard? Is that how he roped you in on whatever he’s been up to? Or did he find out the sort of reputation you have around town, and approach you directly?”

  “I guess he seen me an’ asked around,” Bain admitted. “Anyways, he come up to the house one day an’ wanted to know if I’d be willin’ to do a few odd jobs for ’im. I says what sort o’ jobs? He says just storin’ some stuff o’ his in my yard an’ maybe doin’ a little light truckin’ now an’ then. I seen no harm in that so I says what about the money? He gimme a pretty good figger.”

  “How good?” Madoc prompted.

  “I don’t have to tell you my private business.”

  “Yes you do.”

  “Hundred a week for the storin’,” Bain muttered, “an’ fifty extra for each trip.”

  “Good Lord! What were you storing?”

  “He says I better not ask.”

  “But you took the job on anyway.”

  “The money was good. Paid reg’lar, too.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “Since the fifteenth of October.”

  “And how many trips have you made?”

  “Last night was my twenty-first.”

  “So you’ve made six hundred on the storage so far, and a thousand on the haulage.”

  “Thousand an’ fifty.”

  “Thank you for correcting my arithmetic. And in return for this, you’ve now lost everything you owned except for that old truck, which might fetch you five or ten dollars if anybody was fool enough to make an offer. It seems to me a man of your vaunted business acumen might have figured out what sort of characters you were working for. Didn’t you even snoop into the materials he was parking in your junkyard?”

  “I couldn’t. It was hid in them seventeen portable privies. Mr. Badger put new padlocks on ’em an’ kept the keys hisself. Leastways I s’pose he did, I never got to see ’em. Never tried to force the locks, either, if that’s what you’re wonderin’. He says if he ever seen any sign I’d been messin’ around with ’em, the deal was off.”

  “How did the stuff get into the privies?”

  “I dunno. I think it mostly happened while I was off haulin’.”

  “And what about this trucking you did? You would
n’t be able to load and unload the cargo yourself, surely?”

  “They’d come in the night an’ load up.”

  “Who would?”

  “Don’t ask me. I’d be asleep.”

  “All twenty-one times?”

  “I sleep pretty sound when I’m paid to.” The old sly grin sneaked across his unlovely face, then vanished. “Say, Inspector, you think I stand any chance o’ gettin’ damages out o’ Mr. Badger?”

  “I think you could be in more trouble if you try that than you’re already in. Mr. Bain, hasn’t it yet occurred to you that for the past six months you’ve been an active accomplice in whatever illegal operation Mr. Badger’s been running in and out of your junkyard?”

  “I don’t know it was illegal, do I? I never seen what he was runnin’.”

  “Do you really think any jury could ever be persuaded into believing that kind of nonsense? Where did you take your loads?”

  “Place over toward Oromocto.”

  “Whereabouts in Oromocto?”

  “I never said ’twas in Oromocto. I said it was around there someplace. Just an old house out on a back road all by itself ’cept for a barn down below it a ways. My orders was to leave the truck by the barn an’ walk up an’ go inside the house an’ stay there.”

  “For how long?”

  “For as long as it took. Sometimes fifteen, twenty minutes, sometimes as much as a couple of hours. Somebody’d come along an’ unload my truck, then they’d honk their horn a few times an’ drive off. I’d stay in the house till I heard ’em honkin’, then I’d walk back an’ get in my truck an’ drive back home. Them was the arrangements. I didn’t make ’em. I just carried ’em out, prompt an’ faithful.”

  “Who lived in the house?”

  “Nobody, from the look of it, nor hadn’t for some time. Warn’t much in it but a rusty ol’ parlor stove an’ a busted-down chesterfield an’ chair. An’ a bottle o’ booze in the kitchen.”

  “Was it always the same bottle?”

  “Not hardly. I figgered the men must o’ kept puttin’ one there for when they come by.”