“Now, Mr. Bill, you shy away from the subject like that, and we’ll be thinkin’ you done it.” There was a teasing deference in the voice.
“Just say I’m tired of crotch talk.”
“Which don’t leave much to go on about.”
At this point I got up, took my half-finished beer and slid in beside Mr. Bill. The three looked at me with surprise if not hostility. One of the whiskered men had better soil for a crop than the other. The hair on his face bushed out and fell well down his chest.
“I couldn’t help overhearing you,” I told them. “I’m a deputy sheriff, and I’m on the case.”
“Some company we’re keeping,” the smaller beard said.
“Pipe down, Les,” Mr. Bill said. He turned to me. “How’s the case going?”
“I wish I could say we’re making progress. We’re not.”
“I’ll collect on my eight-to-five bet,” the man called Frank said. Mr. Bill waved that remark away. I went on, “Maybe something has come to your attention. Maybe you have a reason, however slight, to suspect someone. Maybe you’ve seen or heard something.”
“And you expect us to squeal?” Frank asked.
“If I had anything, I’d tell you,” Mr. Bill said. “So would these two guys. They like to play lunkheads, that’s all.”
“I don’t like bein’ suspected, and I don’t want any of our guys to be suspected.” Frank’s tone was dogged.
I asked, “Did I say I suspected you?”
“No,” Mr. Bill answered, “but you do, and you’re right. You have to suspect everybody until you nail down the right man.” He was speaking more to his pals than to me. “Right, Mr. Deputy?”
“Yep. I’ll see you. Keep an eye out, will you?”
I went home and got into bed and, with one thing and another, fiddled away most of the next day. At four o’clock I was on my way to Overthrust. A hare-brained trip, I thought, but good to be taking. Bluebonnets decorated the slopes and balsam root the hills, and in a gulch I breathed the fragrance of chokecherry bushes in bloom.
My first call was at the friendly sheriff’s office. He was seated at ease behind his desk, chewing on a fat cigar. He had a long upper lip like a horse’s and, with the cigar in his teeth, might have been eating cotton-seed cake. There was the look of decay about him, like that of a one-time athlete who had graduated to rich food and whiskey. He wore a revolver, cased to a shiny cartridge belt.
“Good afternoon,” I said. “Remember me? Deputy Sheriff Jason Beard.”
He regarded me lazily. “A man wouldn’t know it from the looks of you. No badge. No uniform.”
I took my badge from my shirt pocket and showed it to him. “Want me to run home and get my uniform?”
“You got a loose lip.”
“Sorry. Let’s not start on the wrong foot.”
He made a vague gesture toward a chair, not offering to shake hands, still slouching in his seat.
“You know we have a couple of unsolved murders.”
“Too bad.”
“It’s all of that.”
He munched on his cigar, his eyes showing only a mild interest if that. He managed to say, “Yeah.”
“Some of the workers from Overthrust bed down in Midbury.”
“It’s legal, ain’t it? Or are you too good for the like of us?”
I pushed on. “Some of them know or have seen Virginia Stuart. She’s the second victim.”
“I been known to read.”
“So I thought maybe you could help us. Are there any pointers here? Any bad actors you’ve had trouble with? Anything at all that might help me?”
He straightened then and put his cigar in a tray. He pointed a finger at me. “I keep an orderly town. You can bet your ass on that. I got things under control. Anyone gets out of line gets pulled in. Got that?”
I nodded. He went on, “In this office we draw a sensible line, making allowance for young squirts and high spirits. Some allowance, that is.”
“That makes sense, but what you’ve said doesn’t help me.”
“Didn’t aim to. You won’t get help from my office because it ain’t there. You think we would close our eyes to a goddamn murder?”
I thought he might but didn’t say so.
“You got the run of the town far as I’m concerned. Look it over. See for yourself. After supper the boys usually have a beer or two at The Gusher. You have anyone or anything in mind, go there and nose around, though I don’t know as I’d want to. Some of our young fellers are pretty quick on the trigger.”
“Not guns?”
“Not by a damn sight. It’s tempers I mean.”
He was baiting me, and I rose to the bait. I said, “The Gusher it will be. Thanks.” He retrieved his cigar and slouched back, chewing.
To kill time, I called on Madame Simone. At this hour the house was quiet. Dressed in a gray outfit, she looked trim and ready for business. She invited me to have a drink with her, and I did. I told her about finding Mefford and the charges against him, and his making bond and being free for the time being at least.
“I hope he doesn’t come around here,” she said. “Brutes like that are bad for business.”
“And maybe for girls, or one of your girls, though we haven’t been able to tie him to that case.”
“Keep trying.”
“You haven’t any new ideas. No clue since I saw you?”
“Not a smidgeon.”
I found a fair-to-good restaurant and ordered a steak and baked potato. Except in top-flight eating places the menus in Montana always specify “potato and vegetable,” as if the ubiquitous spud had been disowned by the vegetable family. I had a choice of corn or peas, both from cans, of course, and voted for peas. The food wasn’t bad, and I took my time over it.
At seven-thirty I entered The Gusher. It was a rundown place with a lively business. A placard on the mirror stated, “All our bartenders are half-fast.” A juke box was playing at full volume, and voices shouted over it. A pool table stood at one side of the room. Two men were playing, the click of the balls lost in the hubbub. The place smelled of spilled beer, smoke and bodies. Eight young men were lined up at the bar, drinking beer mostly. Dressed in checked shirts and jeans and field boots, they were hairy as English sheep dogs, as if whiskers were the necessary proof of manhood. Among the crowd I recognized Les, Frank and Mr. Bill, who presumably didn’t need the proof.
I edged into the line at the bar and ordered a beer from a barman with fat hands, who slid bottle and glass my way, saying, “A clean glass for a new customer.”
Eyes began turning to me. The players at the pool table racked up their cues. The juke box ceased its hyena howling. There came a watching silence. Then a young fellow with immense shoulders and a head that ran out into his neck said to me, “New around here, ain’t you?”
“Not from far away.”
“What you doin’ here?”
“Drinking a beer.”
“Why not drink it at home?”
“Simple, I’m not home.”
“You want some advice, drink up and fuck off.”
Frank, the haired wonder, interrupted, “Hey, he’s from Midbury, and he’s a deputy sheriff.”
“I already knew that from the smell. Now you, pig, take your slop outside.”
“I like it here.”
Frank spoke again, “He thinks one of us done in that Midbury girl.”
The big man asked me, “That so?”
“Not particularly. Right now I suspect everybody.”
“But specially us. That’s why you’re here. Boys,” he announced, “make way. I’m throwing the bastard out.”
I slipped off the stool. The onlookers had drawn back, forming a rough circle. Maybe they didn’t intend to gang me. The big man followed my thoughts. “Just you and me. No help needed, not by me.”
I asked, “How you want it? Fists, rough and tumble? What?”
“Any goddamn way you please. I’m tellin’ you, though. Onc
e you’re down, I’ll kick the shit out of you.”
He came toward me, grinning, his heavy arms hanging low, crooked a little at the elbows. I had time to think he had won the right to brag that he could whip any man in town.
I had to beat him fast, if I could. The longer the fight, the more likely that onlookers would want a piece of the action.
He moved into me, still smiling. I spun half around and kicked back and up, karate fashion. My shod foot caught him square in the face. I spun back. He had staggered and gone to his knees, his nose flowing blood.
“Son of a bitch,” he said, shaking himself upright. “Try that again, and I’ll tear your leg off.”
I kept him back with a left jab, then hooked my right to his belly just below the rib cage. The wind went out of him with the sound of a blown tire. He bent over, sucking for breath, then rolled to his back, his breathing shallow and fast.
Frank and a couple of others started forward from the circle. Mr. Bill hurried ahead of them. He took Frank by the arm. “No ganging! Be sports. Duke got what he asked for.”
At this moment the sheriff entered. He looked at the tortured body, then at the men, then at me. “What’s going on here? Jesus Christ, you crippled a man.”
“He’ll get his wind back.”
“I ought to run you in.”
“But you won’t. And next time, if you want to play tricks, make double sure of your bully boy.”
They were silent as I went to the door and let myself out. I got in the car and started home.
There was no joy in humbling a man, even a brawler, and no dividend in my trip.
All in the day’s work.
15
As if we weren’t busy enough, what with court in session and two deputies waiting to testify, Gewald showed up at midafternoon the next day. Entering the inner office, he was all business. “That Madame Simone will be here at five o’clock,” he announced.
Charleston looked up from his desk. “What for?”
Gewald took off his hat and gave what for him was a smile. “To identify Mefford. That’s one of the loose ends.”
Charleston’s head moved from side to side, slowly, as if in rueful acceptance of stupidity. He asked, “She’s coming willingly?”
“She’ll be here. I told her I’d close her down if she wasn’t.”
“You had the authority?”
Gewald sat down and pointed a finger. “I’ve learned to bluff. Any law officer should. Use your position, man. I didn’t have authority. I assumed it, and it worked.”
“So.”
Gewald rose, putting his hat back on. “I’ve got to get Mefford here. I’m going after him right now.”
“Take Jase with you.”
“I don’t need a boy to look after me,” Gewald said after casting a glance at me. “I can take care of myself.”
“Doubtless, but Jase goes with you or follows right after you.”
Gewald gave a mock salute and answered, “Yes, sir, Mr. Sheriff. I’ll look after him.”
I knew why Charleston insisted I go along. He was afraid that Gewald, once in control, would try to beat a confession from Mefford.
We took an office car. I drove, and Gewald sat in the passenger seat. I thought a few good jounces might lower his arrogance and so took the short cut.
We had an inspiring conversation. I said, “Nice day,” and he answered with his phlegmy grunt.
But it was a nice day. Wild flags waved in the fields and harebells decorated the roadside. The sun, not yet at its July glare, was asking things to grow. As the car climbed, the picket-pin gophers of lower down gave way to Columbian ground squirrels. The latter were more wary than the picket-pins and less likely to get run over.
I eased to a stop at some distance from the trailer. “We may surprise him,” I told Gewald, who grunted again. From behind the trailer I heard the knock of an axe against wood. We eased around to the back and caught Mefford chopping kindling. Gewald asked under his breath, “That’s Mefford?”
At my nod he called out, “Mefford! We want you. We’re the law.”
Mefford stepped toward us, the axe swinging from one hand.
“Drop it! Drop that axe.”
Mefford didn’t.
Almost before I realized, Gewald whipped out his pistol and fired. The bullet struck the axe head and went singing off. The axe trembled from Mefford’s hand.
“That’s a sample. Come along,” Gewald said.
I wondered whether the shot was just lucky and decided it wasn’t. Chalk one up for Gewald. He could shoot.
To the right of us Mefford’s woman came climbing up from the gullied stream, a willow pole in one hand and a couple of trout on a forked stick in the other. Her eyes asked questions.
Gewald called, “Stay right where you are.” He moved the automatic pistol by a fraction. “No trouble from you. Hear? Come along, Mefford.”
As Mefford came closer, I stepped between the two. No pistol whipping if I could help it.
“We’re taking you in,” Gewald told Mefford. There was a slow burn in Mefford’s eyes, like live coals under ash. He didn’t ask why, but Gewald informed him, “Little matter of identification.”
He had a moment for me. “Now, Beard, your good sheriff ought to hold him, but will he?”
“Not without evidence.”
“I know. Me, I would hold him for a couple of days and soften him up. But that’s not the point now. Your kindly sheriff might think this man should be brought back to his camper.”
“Could be.”
“I’ll save you a trip. Mefford, climb on to that bike I see there and go ahead of us. Not more than fifty yards, or I’ll shoot you off it. At that range and more I can pick the eye out of a magpie.”
I imagined he could.
Returning to town, we took the longer and smoother road, with Mefford looking back to make sure of his distance and Gewald in the seat by me, the pistol shining in his hand.
We trooped into the inner office. Charleston was alone at his desk. He looked up without speaking. The clock on the wall said five P.M.
“No Simone?” Gewald asked.
“No Simone. Have seats, you all. Hello, Mefford.”
Mefford gave a bare nod of his hairy head. “What’s this time?”
“Ask Mr. Gewald.”
Gewald said, “You’ll see. That woman is supposed to be here. I’ll go get her if I have to.”
We waited, quiet, Gewald fuming, for ten minutes when the board announced a visitor.
Madame Simone entered with a sort of aloof dignity, nodding to me. She was dressed like a business woman, like the chairman of the board of the Y.W.C.A. might be.
“You’re late,” Gewald said.
“My car gave out at the edge of town. I had to walk.”
She regarded him as she might regard a dog turd on her clean carpet. Then her eye fell on Mefford, and she said, “You wanted identification. That’s him.”
“Not so fast. Hold up for some questions. This is for the record.” He glanced at me as if he expected me to get busy with paper and pencil. I didn’t.
“You say your name is Simone.”
“I told you once that’s my name.”
I brought up a chair for her.
“Assumed or for real?”
“It’s my name.”
“You operate a disorderly, an immoral house?”
“Not disorderly.”
“No? A fight occurred there.”
“Fights have occurred in the United States Senate, but I have never heard it called a disorderly chamber.”
“Quit quibbling. At least you admit your business is immoral?”
“Some would say yes; many would say no.”
“I vote aye. Let’s see. The fight took place on the night of June four. Tell us about it.”
“That man there—” She pointed.
Gewald interrupted her. “You identify him? You’re positive? He caused the fight?”
“I’m sure. Who c
ould mistake that hair? Who could mistake that figure and face? Besides, he has some of the same clothes on that he wore then.”
Mefford’s eyes fixed themselves on her. If looks could kill, she would be dead.
“And on that same night, the night of June four,” Gewald resumed, “one of your girls was raped and choked to death?”
“That night or early the next morning.”
“That was the girl, as I understand it, that he had wanted to take upstairs?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t you put two and two together?”
“I tried to, but I wasn’t sure I had two and two.”
Charleston spoke then. “Even if her answer had been four, it couldn’t be enough for us. The question leads nowhere.”
“I’m doing the questioning,” Gewald said.
“So you are. So you are.”
I added “supercilious” to the adjectives that described Gewald.
Madame Simone broke in. “I identify this man. Isn’t that enough?”
The slow fire in Mefford’s eyes blazed. He motioned toward Madame Simone with a clenched hand. “It was you, damn you, who put the fuzz on me. You caused the trouble.” He turned his face to Gewald. “Where’s the proof? Where’s the goddamn evidence? You and the sheriff here take the word of this pussy peddler. A little old fight in a whorehouse, and she points the finger at me. That’s all you have.”
“Shut up, Mefford,” Gewald told him. “A couple of days together, just you and me, and I bet I’d have more.”
Mefford turned his glare back on Madame Simone. I thought there was a wild and hunted hatred in it.
“You going to hold Mefford?” Gewald asked Charleston. Apparently he was through with his questioning.
“No known reason to.”
“Too bad. All right, Mefford, get on your bike and go.”
After Mefford had gone, the rest of us got up. Gewald left us without speaking, no doubt to fry other fish we had fried already.
Charleston said, “Thank you for coming, Madame Simone. There was no need for the cross-examination. I won’t apologize for this office, since it was none of our doing, but I do apologize for the profession, if law enforcement is a profession.”
“Don’t blame yourselves. I don’t know which of those two men I dislike most.”
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