The Jugger

by Richard Stark

  But that couldn’t be it. Shardin was an old man of seventy; what kind of secret agent was that? Besides, why would the government establish an undercover man for five years in a nothing little town like Sagamore?

  The Federal man had been waiting for an answer. He said, “Are you there, Captain?”

  “What? Yes, yes, of course, I was just looking for the folder . . .” He already had his story worked out, just in case he was asked this question, and all he had to do now was get his wits collected and tell it. He said, “We had a little burglary here, a liquor store ransacked. We checked the place out for fingerprints, and those three were the only ones we couldn’t match to somebody we already knew was in the store that day.”

  “A liquor store robbery. Odd.”

  Younger held the phone so tightly that afterwards his hand ached. “Who is it?” he asked. “Who do they belong to?”

  “Man named Joseph Sheer. I’m only—”

  “How do you spell that?”

  The Federal man spelled it, and then said, “It’s a surprise to hear from him. We thought he was dead by now.”

  “Oh? An old man, huh?”

  “He’d be about seventy now.”

  “Seventy years old. What’s the story on him? He wanted for anything?”

  “There’s four Federal warrants out on him, all for bank robbery. But the most recent is back in ’53. He’s gone downhill since then, if he’s breaking into liquor stores. A rummy now, I guess. Most of them end up that way.”

  “I guess they do,” Younger said. “Where was this bank robbery, the one back in ’53?”

  “Cleveland. You’ll be getting a full report in the mail, from Washington.”

  “Thanks for calling,” Younger said.

  “If you happen to get him,” the Federal man said, making it clear he didn’t believe Younger ever would, “be sure to let us know.”

  “Oh, I will,” Younger promised. “Thanks again,” he said, and hung up.

  After he’d hung up, it occurred to him he should have told the Federal man the truth. “I know where Joe Sheer is,” he should have said. “I’ll go pick him up and hold him for you,” he should have said. Why didn’t he?

  This was just a little hobby, a little sidelight, a little piece of amateur detecting. When it turned up a wanted criminal, why didn’t he right away make the arrest? Why had he readied that phoney liquor store yarn in advance?

  He knew why. He’d known why all along, without thinking it out in plain words. Money was the reason. He’d looked at Joseph T. Shardin, and he’d seen something out of kilter, and he’d sensed an advantage to himself, and he smelled money in it, profit in it somehow. Money, more money than he’d ever even thought about before. More money than he’d made in all his thirty years in the Army put together, plus his pension from now till the day he died. So much money, so much. . . . He didn’t know how much, he couldn’t even guess.

  But he could ask.

  Abner L. Younger, after fifty-one years of life having at last found the vocation he’d been born for, put on his cowboy hat and went off to talk to a fella really named Joe Sheer.

  2

  Younger smiled and stepped across the threshold and said, “Just a routine call, Mr. Shardin. I’m Captain Younger.”

  The old man hesitated, still holding the door open even though Younger was already in the house. He said, “Routine? What do you mean, routine? Who are you?”

  Younger’s smile was affable, apologetic, self-assured. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, but he didn’t sound it. “Police department. Captain Abner L. Younger, Sagamore Police Department.”

  A film seemed to come down over the old man’s eyes, a thin veneer of caution and watchfulness. He was well-preserved, thin but healthy-looking, with leathery flesh on face and hands, teeth too discolored to be false, and a full head of hair mottled grey and white. He was probably taller than the captain, but age had stooped him and he was now an inch or so shorter.

  Younger, still smiling, nodding his head in satisfaction with the world in general, strolled on into the living room, saying, “Very nice place you’ve got here, Mr. Shardin, very nice. The old Hoyt place, isn’t it?”

  The old man followed him. “I suppose so. The people I bought it from were named Hoyt.”

  “You’ve certainly fixed it up nice for yourself. Looks real cozy.”

  The old man said, “What’s this about, Captain?” The voice had overtones of impatience and irritation.

  Younger ignored the overtones. “Just routine,” he said airily, and made a vague gesture with his hands. “No hurry,” he said. He took off his cowboy hat, twirled it in his hands, and gazed fondly around the room.

  “I was working in my garden,” the old man said pointedly. “I’d like to get back to it while there’s still daylight.”

  “A garden?” Happy surprise lighting his face, Younger put the cowboy hat back on his head and said, “You’ve got to show it to me. Would you believe it, I’ve always wanted a garden, but traveling around all the—No, don’t show me, I can find the way.”

  The old man hadn’t made any move to show Younger the way. He stood there and watched Younger go by, headed towards the kitchen and the back door, and there was nothing for him to do but follow.

  Younger had never been in the house before, but he had no trouble finding his way around it. There were maybe hundreds of thousands of dollars hidden somewhere on this property, and Younger was determined to know what the property looked like. He’d got the house plan on file at the assessor’s office, and now he was making a physical survey.

  He was also taking the first step in the campaign he’d decided to use against Joe Sheer. A frontal attack wouldn’t do him any good, he had sense enough to realize that, so a more oblique method was called for. He was pleased with the method he’d decided on.

  He went through the kitchen now, and out the back door, and had his first look at Joe Sheer’s garden. Was the money hidden there, buried in the garden? Or hidden away in the house somewhere?

  It might not be here at all. It might be down in Omaha, wherever Sheer lived down there. But Sheer spent a lot more time at this place here than he did in Omaha, so wasn’t it more likely this was where he kept the money?

  The old man had followed him out of the house. Younger turned to him and said, “That’s a really beautiful garden you have there, Mr. Shardin. Shardin? Is that the right pronunciation?”

  The old man looked startled for just a second, but then he recovered and nodded briefly and said, “You’ve got it right.”

  “Well.” Younger squinted up at the afternoon sun, glanced at his wristwatch, looked around again at the garden, and said, “Well, you want to get back to what you were doing. I won’t keep you any longer.”

  The old man frowned. “You’re going?”

  “No need to show me through the house, I can go around the side here. Nice to have met you, Mr. Shardin.” He started away, around the side of the house.

  The old man took a few steps after him, saying, “What did you want? What did you come here for?”

  “Just routine,” Younger called, and waved, and walked on out to the sidewalk.

  3

  As the train was pulling away from the station, Younger slid into the empty seat beside the old man. “Well, well! Fancy meeting you here? Going down into the city?”

  The old man had been looking out of the window at the station, sunk in his own thoughts. He turned, startled, and for a few seconds didn’t say anything. When at last he did speak, all he said was, “Oh. It’s you.”

  “I certainly did enjoy our little chat the other day,” Younger told him. “I want to get to know all the folks that moved into town while I was away. I was in the Army, you know.”

  Younger’s silence forced the old man to say something; he chose, “I didn’t know that.”

  “Thirty years,” Younger told him, and nodded emphatically. “Retired a master sergeant. Just a few months ago, just retired, came back to
the old home town, took over the police force, whipping it into shape. You’ve been in town just about five years, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “A fine town. You get down into the city often?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Younger already knew about that. He’d followed the old man on his last trip in, before starting this campaign. He knew now about the old man’s apartment in town. Sheer had stayed there two days that last time, and the second day he’d had visitors, three stocky men about Younger’s age. They’d driven up in a Plymouth with New York State plates, stayed the afternoon and evening, left about eleven-thirty at night. Younger had copied the license number down, but hadn’t done anything about it. Time enough if it was necessary.

  What he figured, he figured those three men were bank robbers, too. Maybe Joe Sheer was retired, and then again maybe he wasn’t. Maybe these days he just drew up the plans for the robberies, let the younger men actually go in and do the jobs. Younger would find out, in time. He’d know everything there was to know, in time.

  They rode in silence a while now, until Younger took out a cigar and began to unwrap it. A sign at the front end of the car said no smoking was allowed here, but Younger went on unwrapping the cigar, tossed the paper on the floor, stuck the cigar in his mouth, and reached for a match. Just before lighting it, he turned to the old man, saying, “That’s the advantage of being a policeman.” He grinned and winked.

  The old man looked at him with distaste. “What is?”

  Younger gestured at the no-smoking sign. “You can bend the law a little,” he said. He lit the cigar, puffed a halo of smoke, and tossed the match on the floor. “Now, you,” he said, “if you were to bend the law, we’d get you. Sooner or later we’d get you, even if it took twenty years.”

  The old man said nothing at that, and they rode in silence again until Younger said, “Were you ever in the Army?”

  “No.” The old man seemed about to stop there, but then he apparently had to justify himself. He added, “I failed the physical in the First War.”

  “That’s too bad. The Army’s a great life, great life.”

  “Maybe so.”

  Younger started telling war stories then. He told the old man story after story about his Army days, some of them true, some borrowed, and some embroidered, some completely false. The old man listened stolidly, never speaking, sometimes looking out the window at the flat scenery going by, and Younger talked on and on and on.

  When they arrived in Omaha, Younger walked with the old man out of the terminal. On the way, he said, “How long you staying in town?”

  The old man shrugged. “A couple of days.”

  “Maybe we’ll ride back together.” Younger smiled, happy and friendly.

  The old man gave him a cold and thoughtful look, and then looked away. “Maybe we will,” he said.

  “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” Younger said.

  Neither of them were.

  4

  “Well, hello!”

  The old man had just stepped out of the supermarket, a bag of groceries in his hands. He looked up and saw Younger standing there, and a shadow crossed his face. All at once he seemed ten years older.

  Younger said, “That looks heavy. I’m going your way, I’ll give you a lift.”

  “No, that’s all right, I—”

  “No trouble at all.” Younger took the bag of groceries and started away with them, and the old man couldn’t do a thing but follow.

  The police car was parked at the curb. Younger usually drove his own car, a small black Ford, but especially for today he’d borrowed the department’s brand-new squad car, a green-and-yellow car with a red dome light on the roof, a whip antenna on the left side, and the word POLICE in huge yellow letters on hood and trunk and both doors.

  “Here we are.” Younger put the bag of groceries on the back seat, then held the front door open for the old man, who hesitated a dangerous fraction of a second before getting in. For just an instant there, Joe Sheer might have gone on the offensive, but the instant passed. Younger smiled at the old man’s back, then slammed the door and strode around the car to the other side and got behind the wheel.

  The car was even more official-looking inside than out. The usual chrome-filled dashboard was supplemented by additional knobs for the dome light, and siren and spotlight, plus the two-way radio, plus a clipboard held to the top of the dash by a small magnet. The radio was switched on, breathing static and occasionally breaking into guttural voice.

  There were seat belts in the car, and Younger made a production of fastening his, though he usually ignored such things. To the old man he said, “Better fasten your belt too, Joe. Safety first, right? You always want to be able to feel you’re safe, isn’t that right?”

  His voice flat, the old man said, “I suppose so.” He fastened his seat belt with a click.

  Younger started the car, and they glided silently through the traffic, sunlight glinting off the polished hood. After a minute, Younger laughed and said, “What’ll your friends think, huh, Joe? Anybody sees you go by in a police car, they’ll say, ‘Well, what do you know? The cops caught up with old Joe at last.’ You’ll have a lot of explaining to do, Joe.” He laughed some more, and shook his head at how funny it was.

  The old man said, “What do you want, Captain? What do you want from me?”

  Younger hesitated, but the time wasn’t ripe. He’d only been working a couple of weeks on this, and Sheer was still too tough. He’d be asking that question again some other time, with a lot less challenge in his voice. So this time all Younger said was, “I’ll take a cup of coffee, Joe, but that’s all. If I let you pay me to drive you home, the cabbies’d all be after me.” He laughed, and winked, and jabbed his elbow into the old man’s arm.

  Sheer kept looking at him, as though he were going to say something else, but after a minute he sat back and looked out at the traffic, and another dangerous moment had passed.

  Two blocks later they passed a house with a FOR SALE sign out on the front lawn. Younger pointed at it and said, “I know those folks, and they’re crazy. You know that, Joe?”

  The old man frowned. “Are they?”

  “Sure they are. To sell a house now, move out of town like they’re doing, it just doesn’t make any sense. The timing’s all wrong for it, the market’s off in houses and the whole thing is just a terrible loss all the way around.” He shook his head. “I would tell anybody, Joe, right now is the worst time in the world to think about moving. Absolutely disastrous, Joe.” He laughed and said, “Why, I wouldn’t even go away for a visit right now. No, sir. This is a time to stay put right here in good old Sagamore. You know what I mean, Joe?”

  The old man said, “I know what you mean.” Already there was a bit less toughness in his voice.

  5

  Younger sat in his office and looked at the telephone. Call now? Or wait a little longer?

  He hadn’t seen the old man for three days now. He had the old man worried, had him knowing Younger was watching him for something or other, and now he just pulled back a little bit, sat back, let the old man start to sweat. That was all, just give him time to sweat, time to think.

  And then come in again all of a sudden, and this time cut just a little bit deeper than before.

  Now.

  He picked up the phone and dialed Sheer’s number from memory. This was the first time he’d ever telephoned the old man, but he knew his number by heart. He knew the old man backward and forward.

  The phone rang four times, and then the old man picked the receiver up and said “Hello?”

  “Hello, Joe? Joe Shardin?”

  “Speaking,” the old man said doubtfully, as though he thought he recognized the voice.

  Not that Younger had meant to keep it a secret. He identified himself right away, saying, “This is Captain Younger, Joe. I’m sorry to disturb you this way, I really am. I wouldn’t do it for the world if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.”r />
  “What is it this time, Captain?” The old man’s voice was cold as ice.

  “This won’t take long, Joe, I’ve just got to check for our records. I believe we’ve got the wrong spelling of your name down here, and I figured the best thing was just to check with you. Now, what it says here, it says S-H-E-E-R-D-I-N. Now, that isn’t right, is it, Joe?”

  There was silence on the line.

  Younger said, “Joe? Are you there, Joe?”

  “What do you want, Younger?”

  “Is that the way you spell your name or isn’t it? Joe, there’s no need to get touchy about this, all I want—”

  “You know how I spell my name!”

  “Well, let me just make sure I’ve got it straight here, I wouldn’t want to—”

  “You’d better cut this out, Younger. If you know what’s good for you—”

  “Joe? Is that you? What the hell are you talking like that for, Joe?”

  “You know what I’m talking about, you son of a bitch, I’m talk—”

  “Joe, you never talked like that to my face. Is that the way you felt about me all along? And here I thought we were friends, Joe. We always talked together so easy, there was never any secrets between us, no hard feelings—”

  “This is harassment, Younger, that’s what it is. You don’t think I know the law?” The old man was making an obvious attempt at self-control; his voice trembled with the need to shout, but did not shout. “I’ll get me a lawyer, you son of a bitch, I’ll have you—”

  Younger said, pouring his voice into the telephone like maple syrup, “You want to make a formal complaint against me, Joe? You sure that’s what you want? You’d have to come down here to the station, if that’s what you wanted, Joe. It’s cold down here, you know that? Cold and hard, with bars on the windows, not nice and warm and soft and comfy like you got at home. You got old bones, Joe, old bones and old skin and old blood; you sure you want to come down to this place?”