“That’s one reason I’m here. He was drinkin’, and he just blew up over nothin’. With me laid out, he took his bike and vamoosed.”
I put in, “Vamoosed?”
“He can’t have gone far,” Charleston said. “I would have heard.”
“Oh,” the woman told us, “he’ll just be sleepin’ it off in the shade someplace. Him and that camper is pals.”
“How did you get here?”
“It don’t matter, but I walked to the road and a man picked me up. I didn’t know him. He wanted to take me to the hospital. I told him the sheriff.”
“So now?” Charleston asked.
“So now lock me up safe.”
“Not him?”
“I said I had a proposition. You open to a deal? Kind of tit for tat like?”
“How can I tell?”
“Look.” With her free hand she fumbled to open her purse. The purse fell from her lap, but in her hand was a pin with the biggest sapphire in it that I ever saw.
Charleston breathed, “By God.”
She clenched the pin in her hand, not offering it to him. He asked, “Where did you get it?”
“In his cache. It’s built into his bunk, and the eye don’t catch it without lookin’ close. I didn’t know what was in it, for he keeps it locked, but after he took off I broke it open. There was a little money there, too, drinkin’ money, I bet, but I left it. When he finds it out, he’ll be boilin’ mad. He’ll come after me. I know him.”
“And all you want is safety in exchange?”
“Just lock me up as long as I say. Mad or not, he can’t hurt me there.”
“It’s a deal. I’ll have a doctor call on you later.”
The woman dropped the pin in his palm.
“Jase,” he went on, “take Miss Jones back and make sure that she’s comfortable.”
On my return he said, “We got him, Jase, got him dead to rights. Now locate Doolittle and Amussen. If they haven’t testified, ask the county attorney to move to adjourn. If I know the judge, he’ll be glad to oblige. He gets mighty tired, sitting on the bench.”
I was on the phone when the two deputies came in, court having been declared done for the day without urging.
Charleston got us all into his inner office, Cole included. He explained and showed the pin with its big, sparkling sapphire. “Now we go get him,” he said, “all of us except Cole. Ken, keep after Doc Yak. We can’t neglect our witness.”
“Yes, sir, or no, sir, I guess I mean.”
“I want her put up at the Jackson Hotel once we’ve collared Mefford. He can’t curse her there.”
Charleston stood up. “Carry your sidearms.” He went to the cabinet and took a Winchester shotgun from it.
We traveled in two cars after a final briefing. “Amussen and Doolittle, you go ahead. Circle round in back of the camper. Then sneak up if you can, one to each end of it. Jase and I will follow and tackle the place from the front. Go on. We’ll give you time to get positioned.”
They took off, and we after them, going slow. All Charleston said was, “Here’s hoping he hasn’t made tracks.”
At six o’clock the sun wasn’t thinking much about bedtime. Some lazy clouds floated over the mountains. Our speed was about 25 miles an hour.
Charleston slowed the car when the camper came in sight. “They’ll have had time,” he said. He pulled up maybe 35 yards from the front side of the camper and sat looking. “Bike’s there. Good. He hasn’t found out about the sapphire or he’d be gone.” He stepped from the car, taking the shotgun with him. He marched ahead a piece and called out, “Mefford. Come out. Sheriff’s office.”
All he got was silence.
I saw no sign of Amussen or Doolittle. Their car, I thought, must be hidden on the far side of a clump of quaking asps that grew beyond the camper.
“Stay here,” Charleston said, walking forward. I picked up a rock about the size of a baseball. I swept his restraining arm aside and dodged in front.
“Mefford,” I yelled. “Come out or get blown up. There’s a grenade in my hand. I’m counting to three.”
From behind me Charleston said, “Out of the way.”
“One. Two. Three. Here goes.”
I threw the rock, thankful for my pitcher’s arm. It made a satisfying thump on the undercarriage of the camper. I shouted, “Down. Down everyone,” and hit the dirt. An instant, and then Charleston did the same.
Mefford popped from the camper. He stepped down, a shotgun in his hands. He looked at us and looked to his left. That was a mistake. Moving fast for his bulk, Amussen charged from his right. Mefford had time only to move the gun a fraction before Amussen’s arms went around him. They swayed there for a moment. The gun fell without going off.
A bear hug from Amussen would make a fence post cry for mercy.
Now from the left of the camper Doolittle came racing, cuffs in his hand.
We got up, Charleston and I. He said with a trace of a smile, “You damn smart fool you.” We walked ahead. Mefford wasn’t saying anything. His face spoke for him. Doolittle dodged into the camper and came out with the .22 rifle. He picked up the shotgun. “Damn tidy place,” he said cheerfully, “except where he messed it up.”
Charleston said, “You boys made the catch. How about bringing him in?”
“Gladly. Yes, sir. It was you, though, you and Jase, that risked hide and hair.”
Now Mefford said through his tangle of whiskers, “You sons of bitches.”
Doolittle and Amussen took him off. In the car on the way home Charleston called the office. “Blanche,” he said after identifying himself, “Cole still there?”
Her voice came back, “I knew it was you. Yes, Cole’s just leaving. I was late getting here.”
“Ask him to take Gracie Jones to the Jackson Hotel. Tell him to tell her we’ve got Mefford under arrest. She’ll be safe. The county will pay the hotel bill.”
It was well past supper time when we arrived at the office, but Charleston wasn’t about to quit work. He herded us all into the inner office, Mefford included. I made ready with pad and pen.
Charleston sat at his desk. “Sit down, you,” he said to Mefford. Doolittle and Amussen stood, looking and listening.
“Mefford, I’m charging you with murder. You’re entitled to a lawyer …”
“Or I can keep my mouth shut …”
“But whatever you say can be used against you.”
“I’m all buttoned up.”
“Why did you resist us?”
“Jesus Christ! I’ll say this much. First, that joker there”—he looked at me—“he knocked me out. Then you sapped me. And another of your men took a shot at me. What the hell? Expect me to invite you in?”
“All right. That’s by the way. It’s murder we’ll talk about.”
“Talk away.”
“You killed the Smitson girl.”
“I did, huh? Where’s the proof?”
Charleston took a key from his pocket and unlocked a drawer of his desk. He held out his closed hand, opened it, and there was the sapphire pin. “Proof enough.”
Behind his whiskers Mefford’s mouth opened. He sucked in a breath. He got out, “How in hell?”
Charleston just sat, holding the pin.
Then Mefford broke out, “Oh, that thievin’ bitch. She turned me in, the goddamn cow. I’ll wring her fuckin’ neck.”
“You’ll have to wait quite a while. Meantime, she’ll testify against you.”
“No one would listen to her.”
“We’ll see. Now let’s talk about the other murder, the rape-killing of the Stuart girl.”
“Not by a damn sight. You can’t pin that one on me.”
“But the first one I can.”
“Goddamn her. She thought she was too good for me. Too high-toned for the likes of me but was still selling her ass. I won’t take much of that stuff.”
“Hardly any of it, huh?”
“She had it coming.”
; Charleston said, “That’s enough for any jury. Amussen, take this character back and lock him up tight.”
Amussen yanked Mefford by the arm and marched him out.
Charleston was opening his desk when Amussen returned. He brought out a bottle. “No one’s on duty. I figure we’re entitled to a celebration.”
We drank out of paper cups without ice. Then Charleston went on, “I want to take you all to dinner. While you wash up and get ready, I’ll make reservations. Suit everybody?”
I stepped to the outer office, got an outside line and told Mother I wouldn’t be eating at home but would be in later with good news.
We walked to the Jackson Hotel. It was seven-thirty, a late hour for dinner in Midbury, and the dining room was empty. A waiter was expecting us, though, and he asked, “Ready to eat, Sheriff?”
“Four stomachs all set and ready, and bring us some good red wine.”
“All here but old sour puss,” Doolittle said.
A small smile settled on Charleston’s face. “Mr. Gewald is busy. Has been all day. He’s looking for Antonelli, but he won’t find him.”
I asked, “How come?”
“Mr. Antonelli is visiting friends at Flathead Lake. It seems he felt out of sorts and left home without informing anyone.”
“A little bird told you,” Amussen said.
“No. Mr. Antonelli himself. He called me last night to see how we were making out.”
The wine came first. Charleston poured, got up, holding out his glass, and said, “Here’s to a first-rate crew.”
Amussen lurched up. “And to a first-rate chief.” Their eyes came to me. It seemed we were playing rounds with our toasts. I said, “Second the motions but drink also to luck.”
Doolittle topped us, saying, “To whatever gods there be, thanks for Gracie Jones and we.”
We laughed and drank, and the waiter served us tenderloin steaks, baked potatoes, not canned but garden-fresh peas and salads that were not all lettuce. About to pitch in, Charleston paused and asked the waiter, “The lady upstairs, Gracie Jones, has she eaten?”
“Oh, her. They say she’s keeping to her room.”
“Take her a plate just like ours.”
We were hungry and merry, full of relief that a job was done, and we laughed and talked while we ate. Only at the last, with plates cleaned and appetites satisfied, did Charleston sober our mood, saying, “Tomorrow’s another day. Virginia Stuart’s another case. Let’s get some sleep.”
21
Outside the courthouse the next morning I met the two reporters coming from the sheriff’s office. They had learned of Mefford’s arrest late in the night and had awakened Charleston, then me, for details. Now they were looking for follow-ups. I passed them, saying, “You know as much as I do.” They had one big story and no doubt were keen for more. That was the way of reporters. One sensation wasn’t enough: they wanted another and another.
Susan Strand was at the board. “Nothing important,” she said to me. “Mr. Doolittle and Mr. Amussen are out on calls. It’s Mr. Cole’s day off.”
It had been a long time since anybody had had a day off. “Mr. Charleston has a visitor,” she went on. “She just went in.”
I knocked and entered. Seated opposite Charleston was Miss Effie Douglas, whom everybody knew. She claimed powers of divination. She wore an outfit that history may have remembered. On her head was a flat-crowned hat with a wide brim from which a fringe hung. She waved a hand from a blousey sleeve.
“Oh, Jason,” she said, “I’ve just started to explain to the sheriff, hoping to help him. I have told Mr. Charleston that I am something of a mystic and seer, though he knew that already.”
I said, “Yes, ma’am.”
“I have been to the scene of the crime and I visited the Stuarts, who, I must say, were rather cool.”
Charleston sat back without speaking.
“The scene is blurred,” Miss Douglas continued. “I get a flash or two, but nothing really helpful except for one thing.”
She wanted us to ask what that was, and I did.
“The culprit is a local product. He lives right here in this community. That much I know.”
Charleston said politely, “We’ll bear that in mind, with thanks.” He got to his feet, dismissing her, and she bustled out.
For a while after the events of last night the office was comparatively quiet. Tom Burke, invader of the Bar Star, had been tried and sentenced to two years in the state penitentiary. The case against August Alstedt, charged with shooting and wounding, had been dismissed for lack of prosecution witnesses.
At eleven o’clock, Gewald came in and promptly sat down. “Antonelli’s flown the coop,” he announced.
“Is that so?” Charleston asked idly.
“Not hide or hair of him.”
“Things have happened in your absence. Mefford’s in jail, charged with the murder of the Smitson girl. We have a virtual confession.”
“I suspected him all along. You leaned on him.”
“No.” Charleston went ahead then to tell about Gracie Jones and the sapphire.
As he told the story, Gewald began to slump like a leaking tire. The old arrogance seemed to be sinking. And for a moment I could feel sorry for him. All his blundering diligence exercised for nothing. All his work, his energies, undone by a break.
That was the trouble with being broad-minded. It produced a weakening sympathy for the other side. It softened convictions.
At the end Gewald drew a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. “It solves both cases then,” he said, as if brightening up. “Press Mefford hard enough, and he’ll confess to the Stuart killing. I knew it was him.”
He stepped toward the door. “Comes at a good time for me. Got a telephone call last night. The men in Custer County need help. So I’ll say goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Gewald.”
Gewald walked out, leaving the connecting door open. I turned to watch him go. Charleston could see from his position. From the side of the switchboard a foot came out. Gewald stumbled over it and fell on his hands and knees facing the exit. He snarled out, “What’s the idea?”
“I’m so sorry,” Susan Strand said. “Sitting so long, a woman has to stretch now and then.”
Gewald had climbed up. “Watch your feet.”
“I said I was sorry. Now may I give you the same advice?”
Maybe that was the way of women, I thought. Maybe they were more set in their convictions and readier to act on them. Certainly Susan Strand was. She would do.
Gewald slammed the door, leaving.
Charleston settled back in his chair. “So much for that. Mr. Gewald lacks one quality.”
“Just one?”
“I’m speaking of imagination, of the ability to analyze and compare.”
“I might guess.”
“Don’t strain. The rape-killing of Laura Jane Smitson was a matter of spite, of revenge, of getting back at a woman who had snubbed him. The crime against Virginia Stuart was strictly sexual in nature. Mefford wasn’t and isn’t guilty of that.”
“Yes, sir. How is our one and only star boarder?”
“Quiet but sullen. Appetite good.”
Then, to make conversation, I said, “I met the two newshawks outside.”
“Yeah. They wanted to get a picture of our star witness, but I nixed that. I said if they tried they could expect no more cooperation from this office. I won’t have them pestering her, not at least until she looks like something human.”
“She’s kind of on my mind,” I told him. “She strikes me as not so bad an old girl.”
“Even though she conked you with the frying pan?” He smiled as he spoke.
“Even so.”
“You’re right, considering. I am thinking of dismissing the charges against her.”
“Good. I thought I’d call on her this morning.”
“Fine. Go ahead.”
At the desk of the Jackson Hotel the manager, name of Ja
ck Turner, held me up. “What’s the score with that old bag upstairs, Jase? I took her breakfast to her just to see. She’s had the hell beat out of her. That’s plain. And she dresses like the tag end of a fire sale.”
“Just treat her right. She’s important.”
He wanted me to say more, but I made for the stairs.
Gracie Jones opened the door just a crack, saw me, and swung it wide. “Welcome to my fancy quarters.”
“They taking care of you?”
“Just fine. I’m livin’ high.”
She looked better, if not recovered. The black eye was prominent, but the abrasions were less noticeable, and the gash on her cheek was healing. She was using her bruised arm. Two stitches showed in the corner of her mouth.
“I just found out,” she continued. “There’s a bathtub just two doors down. Think of it. I got a bath, first one since they found Baby Joseph in the tules. Or was it Moses? I forget and forget who told me.”
“Probably at a revival. Some preacher.”
“Why, that’s sure enough it. At a camp meeting, I remember now. I was saved.” There was a glint in her one good eye.
“I washed my clothes, too, in the basin. Jesus, they was foul, after me bein’ down on the floor and all.”
“We’ll go to the camper and gather up the rest of your clothes.”
“What for? They ain’t fit for a rag bag.”
“One thing the sheriff wants to know, Gracie.”
“I thought he knew everything.”
“He’s counting on you to testify against Mefford. You will, won’t you?”
“What do you think I showed up with the sapphire for? Damn right I’ll testify. I’ve stood enough from that bastard.”
“Good. Now there’s one thing I’d like to know.”
“Shoot.”
“Did you know and how did you know the sapphire would nail him?”
“Mister, I can’t read nor write, but I got ears, and there’s an old radio in the camper. Didn’t take brains onct I seen the pin.”
“Let us know if you need anything. Tell the hotel. They’ll call us. See you later.”
She held me up briefly, saying, “You reckon you could rustle up a nail file?”
I told her I could and went out.
Mother was hanging up sheets in the back yard. “You all right, Jase? Good. I’ll be with you in a minute. Say what you will about a dryer, there’s nothing like the sun to brighten up sheets.” She attached the last clothespin and led the way to the house.
Playing Catch-Up Page 13
