The Wayward Widow

by William Campbell Gault

There was a highly polished ten-year-old Mercury parked behind my dusty Plymouth, its front bumper tight up against mine. It had obviously pushed my car up a few feet before parking. Because the Plymouth was now jammed tight up against the car ahead.

  It was some Merc, chopped, channeled, customized and gleaming in the morning sun.

  Three teen-agers stood silently on the parkway next to the Merc. One of them was Mexican, the others looked like Anglos. All of them wore tight T-shirts and tighter blue jeans; all of them were looking at me.

  They were skinny, but they were young and two of them were tall. The hair bristled on the back of my neck and I could feel a drop of perspiration running along the inside of my forearm.

  I stopped, as I said, and I nodded at the Merc. “Your car, boys?”

  “Mine,” the tallest one said.

  “Could you back it up? I’m kind of jammed in.” The tallest boy shook his head and smiled. It wasn’t the kind of smile I liked to see on the face of a teenager.

  I said, “I’m working with the San Valdesto Police Department at the moment, son, and they might be displeased at your lack of cooperation. Now, let’s not have any trouble.”

  The tallest boy said nothing. The short one said, “We like trouble.” He looked at the taller boys. “That’s what we’re here for, right?”

  They smiled. I said, “Unless that car is stolen, I’ll have a lead to all of you. And you’ll be in more trouble than you want. Now, back that heap out; I’ve got work to do.” I took a step toward my car.

  They all three moved over to stand in front of me. The tallest boy said, “We’re friends of Elmer Duggan’s.”

  “So was I, for a few minutes night before last. Elmer and I had a date set up for the next morning. He tried to crawl to me before he died. He tried to get to me for help.”

  The smallest boy used a word I’d rather not repeat. It is used by farmers as fertilizer. Also by city people for their lawns.

  “Easy,” I said. “There are three of you, but I must weigh as much as your total tonnage. And the law’s on my side. You’re just heading for more trouble than you can handle, boys.”

  The tallest one began to grin then, and his hand came out from behind him and there was a piece of three-quarter inch galvanized pipe in his hand, a piece about a foot long.

  “The old equalizer,” he said. I could see both hands of the other two boys and there was nothing in their hands and they were making no moves toward their pockets. If they had weapons in their pockets, they would have them out by now.

  The tallest one was the one I’d need to watch. The others could slug me, but he had the pipe. I looked around at all the houses in the neighborhood but nobody was in sight. A block away a man was watering his lawn, and I considered shouting at him. I said shakily, “One last chance. I was a friend, briefly, of Elmer Duggan’s and I am currently investigating his death. I can prove that.”

  “Scared, buddy?” the shortest one said. “Your voice is shaky.”

  “I’m scared, kid,” I admitted, “but I’m not running. Start coming, punks.”

  The one with the pipe took a step toward me, paused, still smiling, but doubtfully. The other two began to fan out.

  I said to the tallest, “Why stop? Yellow? Isn’t the equalizer enough? You need help, gutless?”

  He came in, his smile gone, some apprehension in his young eyes. I thought of kicking him in the groin, but decided against it. I moved toward him as he moved toward me.

  I swerved as we came abreast and reached for his right hand, the hand that held the pipe.

  I missed the hand, and somebody tackled me from the side, and I went down and they came swarming.

  I rolled over on my back quickly and bent my legs and threw the right foot at the first chest I saw. One of them said “oof” and the chest went out of my line of vision and then the pipe caught me across the left hand and that hand would be no good to me today.

  I saw the pipe in the air, outlined against the clear blue sky and twisted my head and rolled and heard the “clang” of the pipe as it crashed the concrete of the sidewalk.

  I rolled and achieved my footing and one of them was still down and close and, God forgive me, I kicked him heavily in the ribs. Who can win, fighting kids? Even if you win, can you live with yourself?

  The tallest one was up and circling and I took the offensive, full of good Italian fury and lacking any sense at the moment. He lifted the pipe, but I moved to his left, away from it. Now I had his Adam’s apple in my big right hand, and I squeezed.

  The pipe fell from his hand and he gagged and went to his knees, both of his hands tearing at my hand on his throat. I knew he was in agony and for the moment relished it.

  The smaller boy came in low, trying to tackle me again, but I caught him in the stomach with my right foot and he went rolling, groaning and whimpering.

  The boy under my hand was almost unconscious now. I dropped him and he crumpled, clawing at the grass, fighting for air. I went over to pick up the pipe and Shorty came back at me, diving again, shouting in Spanish and undoubtedly cursing.

  I turned and put a knee smack into the middle of his onrushing face. I was as sick as he must have been as his nose erupted blood.

  The boy I had kicked in the chest was on his knees, watching us with a kind of remote wonder in his eyes, like a man in shock.

  The boy I had kneed in the face was on all fours like a dog and he looked up at me, blood dripping down from his smashed nose, his eyes sick, but still full of anger. He began to crawl toward me.

  In the street a cab stopped and the cabbie leaned out to call, “What the hell’s going on here?”

  “Get to a phone,” I shouted, “and call the police. Hurry, hurry, hurry — ” He gunned away.

  The littlest bandit was still laboriously and painfully crawling toward me. I lifted the pipe. I said weakly, “Everybody lie belly-down on the grass there, or so help me, I’ll kill you all.”

  Writing it now, I’m ashamed to admit it, but that’s exactly what I said.

  Chapter Seven

  CHIEF ANDREW SLAUSON didn’t look like any kind of police officer I had ever seen before. He was thin and tall and his hair was gray, parted straight down the middle. His face was intelligent, alert and genial and he smiled easily. He said, “We don’t have much juvenile delinquency up here, Mr. Puma. I suppose it would be unkind of me to suggest you might have triggered some sort of response from these kids.”

  “It would be unkind and idiotic,” I answered. “I never saw them before and I doubt if they had ever seen me. But the tallest of the crew was carrying a foot-long hunk of three-quarter inch pipe. Was he, by chance, also carrying a plumber’s union card?”

  He smiled. “You maintain your humor, I see, despite that hand.”

  My left hand was now the size of a cantaloupe. It was reclining in a pan of water on the chief’s desk. I looked at it briefly and back at him.

  I said, “Who told them about me, that’s what I can’t figure. Who gave them my license number or told them where I was staying?”

  He shrugged. “They were friends of Elmer Duggan’s, and they undoubtedly have picked up a few of his investigative techniques. You know, we used to rag Elmer, but he had the ingredients for a first-rate investigative officer.”

  “So I’ve been told,” I said. “But who told the kids I wasn’t a friend of Elmer’s? Who conned them?”

  He frowned. “Were you a friend of Elmer’s?”

  “I wasn’t an enemy. And he was in my fan club. If he would have lived, I imagine we’d have become friends. We still haven’t cracked the big nut, though. Who told them about me? Only you and Lieutenant Ortega and Mrs. Greene know I am investigating Elmer’s death.”

  He shook his head. “Mr. Winters knows about it because he called here to ask about your visit to him yesterday.

  And now Doctor West knows. And didn’t you tell Miss Destry that yesterday?” I nodded.

  “So that adds her to the list of the kno
wing, and also Mr. Hawley. And also Mrs. Trapp, probably. If Mrs. Trapp knows, I think it’s safe to guess about thirty-five per cent of the town’s population will know by the end of the day.”

  “Well,” I said, “yes — ” I tried to flex my hand. He said nothing, staring thoughtfully into space. With the Hoover haircomb and the thoughtful look, he could easily have passed for an atomic age scientist.

  Finally, he said, “Do you want to prefer charges against those kids?”

  “It’s up to you, Chief. Maybe if I don’t I can get some information out of them. I’d like to know who put them on to me.”

  “I’ll hold them for a while,” he said. “I’ll talk with them. One of the boys is the son of a leading citizen. I’ll talk with him, too.”

  “Softly?” I asked. “Tactfully?” He shook his head and looked at me fully. “I probably haven’t impressed you much, Mr. Puma, but be assured I am the Chief of Police in this town and all the citizens accept that.”

  “You’ve impressed me, Chief,” I said honestly. “I have a loose tongue.”

  “I’m glad we understand each other,” he said. “Make your reports complete and factual and mail us our copy every morning about the previous day’s activity.” He shook his head and looked wonderingly at my swollen hand. “I hope you get paid well for that Kind of service.”

  “I get paid well,” I assured him, “one way or another.

  I said good-by to him and went down the long hallway and out to the street. The sun was still warm and the town still apparently peaceful. It was almost noon and I was hungry; I drove over to the Montevista Hotel. I had to steer with my right hand.

  From the lobby phone, I got the maid and she told me Mrs. Greene was about to order lunch and I could come up and eat with her if I so desired.

  She was on the balcony again, having a pre-lunch drink. She smiled at me and then she saw the swollen hand. Her smile faded. “Migawd, what happened to that?”

  “It was hit by a pipe.” I sat down at the table across from her and told her about the young hoodlums, while the maid mixed me a bourbon and water.

  When I’d finished, Mona Greene looked pale. “What — who could have told them about you?”

  “That’s what I hope to find out.” I went on and told her about my conversation with Doctor Alvin West.

  She asked, “He admitted, then, that Dennis had been poisoned?”

  “Not exactly. He left that impression with me and also seemed certain that if that was so, it was suicide.”

  “Suicide? Dennis Greene? Never!”

  “In pain, remember, and knowing his time was limited. Why not?”

  She shook her head. “Not Dennis. I don’t know why I know, but I’m sure. If he was brought back and an autopsy ordered, would it still be possible to prove he’d been poisoned?”

  “I have no idea. We could get a medical opinion on it. Would you authorize it?”

  “Openly? So the newspapers would have it?”

  “That would probably be the only way possible.” She was thoughtfully quiet, frowning at her drink. “Let’s wait. Let’s stick with this Elmer Duggan business for a day or so. We always have the other, don’t we? A few days aren’t going to make any difference there.”

  “Doctor West has been warned,” I pointed out. “If he’s in cahoots with Miss Destry, it gives them time to plan some shenanigans.”

  “He’s incompetent and dirty,” she said, “but I’m sure he’s not consciously dishonest. I’m sure he feels that Dennis committed suicide. Don’t you think he does?”

  I nodded. My left hand throbbed and I took a big swallow of my drink. Below us, off to the right, a fishing boat headed out from the pier. Along the beach, the sun-bathers lolled and the athletes played volley ball and the swimmers swam. Somewhere out of sight, the body of Elmer Duggan was cold and still.

  “Moody,” she said. “Pensive, if a word like that can be used for a man of your size.”

  I smiled at her. “Have fun last night?” She nodded, blushing faintly. “Why did you ask that?”

  “I was thinking it’s a short life. Somebody, somewhere, said most people live lives of quiet desperation. Who said that?”

  “I’ve forgotten. Puma, we’re still reasonably young. Death won’t look so grim when we’re eighty.”

  “I think it will. Do I have to interrogate people nights, too? I don’t like to work all the time.”

  “I’ll try to get over,” she promised. “Ye gods, you make me feel like a whore.”

  “A wanton, but not a whore. And what’s wrong with that? Do you know any better games?”

  “Bridge,” she said, “with the right people for high stakes. The kick is almost as great and it lasts longer.”

  I shook my head. “Could I have another drink? I’d like to get about half plastered. This hand is murdering me.”

  “Drink all you want. I suppose you didn’t show it to a doctor?”

  “I avoid doctors as much as possible.”

  “A true peasant,” she said, “aren’t you? And a hedonist.”

  “Both,” I agreed. “Miss Destry called me a hedonist, too.”

  The blue eyes of Mona Green flared and her voice was low. “Really! And what prompted that remark? you — uh — were familiar with her, were you?”

  “Familiar enough,” I answered. “I didn’t kiss her or anything, if that’s what you meant. She and David Hawley discussed me and came to that conclusion. I’m sure Miss Destry is getting all the loving she can handle from that idiot athlete.”

  “Let’s keep it that way. Okay, Puma? You’re on my payroll, now.”

  “Yes’m,” I said. “At your service, ma’am. But you don’t have to make me feel like a whore.”

  The eyes were cold for seconds and then they twinkled and she started to laugh. “Oh, Puma, you’re well worth the money. Let’s eat. Pick up that phone and call room service, lover boy.”

  By one-thirty, my hand felt a lot better but my vision was a little hazy. The urge to sit and soak in the sun and the booze was strong, but I am a man of great moral fibre. I rose resolutely and announced it was time to get back to work. She commended me for my attitude. She kissed me and wished me well and sent me out into the working-man’s world again.

  I had to walk carefully, my vision being what it was. It seemed logical to guess that it wasn’t only the liquor that had unnerved me; I was finally getting a reaction from this morning’s violence.

  I walked carefully and with dignity through the hotel’s impressive lobby and out to my weary car. And there stood one of my assailants. He wasn’t the boy with the pipe, nor the short Spanish-American; he was the middle boy, not as tall as the tallest nor as dark as the shortest.

  “Again?” I asked warily. “I’m weak, boy. Take it easy.”

  His smile was slight and apologetic. “I’m sorry, Mr. Puma. I told those other guys that. I’m not making excuses, but I’m sorry.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s shake hands.” We did, and then I asked, “Are you the boy whose father is a prominent citizen?”

  He shrugged. “I guess. Don Malcolm’s my name. Donald MacGregor Malcolm, Jr. My father donated the stadium to the city.”

  “He sounds like a public-spirited man, Donald. What made you go sour?”

  He colored. “I — Gee, Mr. Puma, don’t rub it in. I’m not usually like that. I mean, we were all worked up about what happened to Elmer and the way we heard it, you were mixed up in that, and —

  “The way you heard it where, Don?” I interrupted. “Who told you I was mixed up in the death of your friend?”

  “I got it from Lenny. He’s that tall boy, the one with the pipe.”

  “And where did Lenny get this misinformation?”

  “From his uncle.”

  “The uncle has a name, has he?” Donald MacGregor Malcolm, Jr. nodded. “Uncle Dave. David Hawley, that’s his name.”

  Well — Well, well, well. Playboy David Hawley, instigator of attempted mayhem, a new role for
the well-muscled nothing. Maybe he wasn’t a nothing; maybe under the muscle there was some hidden, some obscure meaning to the man. I said, “Thank you for the name, Donald. You could get way out in left field by trusting any information you might get from David Hawley.”

  He nodded. “That’s what I told Lenny. But Lenny thinks his Uncle Dave is really something, just because he played basketball at UCLA.”

  “I see. And Lenny’s a good friend of yours, is he?” He paused before he nodded. I said, “That was a doubtful nod. Lenny scare you today?”

  He nodded again. “Some.”

  “Don, how would you like to help me? I’m trying to find out who killed Elmer Duggan. I’m being paid to find out.”

  “I’d like to help,” he said quietly.

  “Fine. Do you know his sister very well?” Don nodded. “I spent a lot of time at Elm’s house. The three of us were good friends.”

  “Would you tell her about me? Would you explain that I don’t like to come to her with questions at a time like this, but it’s a part of my job and my job is to find Elmer’s murderer? Could you explain that to her gently?”

  “I can try,” he said. “I will.” So we arranged it; he was to go there now and talk with her and I was to follow in half an hour or less. The key to Elmer Duggan’s death would have to be found in his life and Don Malcolm was the first person I had met so far who was close to Elmer Duggan.

  He took off in his Thunderbird and I sat in my heap, idly watching the sidewalk traffic.

  I waited for twenty minutes and then headed for an area known as the Table, a mesa between the mountains and the sea. It was an area of inexpensive homes with spectacular views; some subdivider had goofed. The lots were worth more than the homes.

  The address of Elmer Duggan was distinguished from its neighbors on all sides by a greener lawn and a different series of digits on the address plate. Otherwise, it was almost identical with the others.

  The Thunderbird was in front and Elmer’s Chevy was on the driveway. A chill passed through me as I looked at the Chevy and realized the kid would never drive it again.

  Don Malcolm was waiting for me at the open front door. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “She’s coming out of it. I’ll take off, huh?”