by Brewer, Gil
And the dead man.
A length of grease-blackened tow-chain was slung through a steel ring fastened to a steel plate in the wall. The chain was wrapped around the dead man’s waist and ankles. It was padlocked to prevent slippage.
Afternoon shadows began to darken.
A car’s engine revved. I turned in time to see a maroon Olds sedan move past on the dirt road by the lake. A pale, blunt man’s face flashed in the driver’s window, staring. It was too far away, too shadowed to tell anything else. The sound of the car died with distance.
I moved over to the dead man. What was left of a heavy growth of beard covered his face. He wore blue, frayed trousers, and once-white tennis shoes with no socks. He wore no shirt or undershirt. His ribs were badly caved, stomach a hungry cavity. He looked starved.
There were two padlocks on the chains. I saw no key.
A corpse looks strange without arms.
A straight-backed chair was turned on its side. A large wad of rolled cloth lay in the corner by the cot. It was a blue suit, damp and mud-caked around the trouser cuffs. Pockets revealed half a comb, lint and tobacco crumbs, an empty package of mentholated cigarettes. The trouser cuffs held a single paper clip. The suit had been purchased at a men’s clothing store in Tampa.
I remembered Chief of Homicide Lowell Haddock, and how he would like things. I rolled the suit up again, dropped it on the floor, and stared at it. I put my handkerchief away, and stepped into the small closet. The sink was dirty.
Back beside the dead man, I knelt and went through his pockets. Fat brown wallet, very worn. Folded piece of notepaper. Four toothpicks. Dime, nickel, and two pennies.
I took the wallet and paper to the door, and held them in diminishing afternoon light. The paper unfolded limply, revealing a penciled scrawl:
“Carl, honey—If you wake before I return. I went to the A & P for some groceries. Please, will you call Elk and ask him again? He’s just got to give you some money. Cold sherry in frige. I won’t be long—Ivor.”
I looked down at the dead man, then refolded the paper and had a look at the wallet.
Identification card, driver’s license, a wad of unpaid bills in Carl Hendrix’s name. There were a number of cards from paint supply stores, used car lots, real estate brokers. Twelve dollars in limp singles. Two snapshots of Ivor. One was recent, posed on the beach. She wore a skimpy, two-piece black swimsuit, revealing a happy smile, windy hair, and a lush, beautiful body. The other photo was a head and shoulders; self-conscious, startled high-schoolish expression. It was an old photo and she had changed. But I remembered that look maybe too well.
I put everything back into the wallet, then returned the folded note and wallet to the dead man’s pockets as I’d found them.
I started to turn away, then knelt by the body again. In stuffing the wallet back into the hip pocket, I had moved the body slightly to one side. The surface of the earthen floor in the room was packed nearly to the hardness of cement, except where the body had been lying. I touched the earth. It was loose, and a colored piece of paper winked. Hendrix’s body had been lying on it. I scraped loose soil away, pulled out a narrow broken paper band. There was type printing on the paper, and beneath the print, a paler-inked stamp. The band had once secured together ten one hundred dollar bills. The pale-inked stamp read: UNION TRUST—LAKETOWN, FLORIDA.
A robbery had occurred about a month ago in the Union Trust Bank, at Laketown. I had followed the newspaper stories. Close to four hundred thousand dollars had been taken. The money had been from Florida citrus groves, being held in transit at Laketown for a matter of five hours. The men pulling the robbery had escaped.
I stared at the paper band. Then I put it back where I’d found it and pulled the body in position over the loosened earth again.
Enigmatic, to say the least.
Outside the cement block house, I locked the padlock on the hasp after closing the door. It still rained softly as I walked around the cement house. The steel ring was fastened through the cement to a circular plate, locked with a rusted nut outside.
I returned to the trailer and checked around under the door step for the key she had mentioned. It wasn’t there.
Balancing on the cement block doorstep, I lifted my foot and slammed my heel against the door, close to the lock. The door snapped, but didn’t open. Something flipped off the top ledge and rang against the block, twinkling into the mud beside the handle of an old stubby broom.
It was the key. I leaned down to pick it up.
I heard flying feet. It was too late to act, to even see. I turned my head straight into the savage rush of feet and fur and snarling teeth. It struck me, growling deep-throated, snapping snarls. I sprawled back into the mud, trying to cover my face.
It was a dog, an enormous hound, slimy with mud and rain. On my back, it pinned me down. The jaws yawned viciously for my throat. I caught both hands into the grimed fur and slung it with the wild strength of fright. I heard it land, scrabbling, emitting savage snaps and growls.
I came part way to my feet and sprang for the broom handle, caught the handle in one fist and gouged for the key shining against the ground.
Again the hound leaped. It soared. I slammed at it with the broom, on my feet, backing for the trailer door.
Again the hound rushed, a monstrous bundle of rain-soaked fur and fangs.
“Back!”
I was on the cement block doorstep. The broom struck the hound in the chest. The animal flipped backward, landed on its side, was immediately on its feet, forelegs spread, head down, eyes up, jaws open, the long fangs bared beneath the tightly drawn snout.
I fumbled with the key, trying to get it in the lock, working with one hand behind and to my side. I got the key in the lock and turned it. The door gave.
Again the hound flew at me.
I slung the broom at the beast and leaped back against the door. It sprang inward. I got inside the trailer, saw the hound flying at me again, and slammed the door closed. The dog crashed thunderously against the closed door. A dish fell somewhere and broke. The door held.
I stood there, gasping. I was soaked with sweat.
The hound was outside the door, growling like a low-toned motor.
I peeled off my rain slicker, dropped it on the floor, took out my handkerchief and mopped my face, head, and neck.
There was a bottle of Old Overholt standing in a drainboard by a small sink. I found a clean glass, poured it half full, watching my hands shake, and drank the good rye whisky. I refilled the glass to a third and drank that, looking around the trailer.
There was a large, rumpled bunk at the rear, covered with a pale blue blanket and pink sheets. A large horizontal window was over the bunk. I opened the blinds on the windows, and pale light slipped inside to keep me company.
The hound continued to growl and pant outside.
Along the wall opposite the door was a stove, sink, the drainboard, and cupboards all paneled in natural wood. Under the drainboard was a small refrigerator. The floor was white-and-black checked linoleum, covered by the bunk with a blue rug. There was a double-doored closet on the other side, by the bunk. To the front, at the hitch-end, was a dining nook. Beside the entrance was a small oil stove. There had once been a partition between the living and sleeping area, but it had been torn out.
I poured another slug of the whisky and drank it. I put a dollar bill on the drainboard, set the bottle on it.
Then I searched the trailer.
There were three clean dresses in the closet, faint with her perfume. I pictured the tragic eyes. An unopened bottle of Gordon’s Gin lay at the bottom of the closet among old shoes and a wadded roll of nylon stockings. Some men’s sports shirts hung beside the dresses, two pairs of slacks, and a worn brown suit with empty pockets. I shoved the clothes aside and a broad slab of veneer at the side of the closet rattled loosely. I touched it and it fell to the floor. It had worked something like a sliding panel. Three letters in envelopes nestled against a
two-by-four. They were addressed to Carl Hendrix.
The letters were from an address at Grove Point, over on Tampa Bay, the other side of town. They were from Asa Crafford. They smelled sexy, and I remembered Asa sharply. Apparently, she hadn’t changed much, only expanded in experience. They were the hottest letters I’d ever read, and I had seen some blast-furnace love epistles in my time. These reached an ultimate. They seethed, boiled and fumed. Every word was a wet hot caress. Blatantly orgiastic, she went into minute detail about their love calisthenics, with wanton examples for a hopeful next meeting.
There might have been some humor in it, if a dead man wasn’t lying out there in extremely bad shape, even for a dead man.
Asa Crafford. Ivor Hendrix’s sister.
On each letter was penned a notation: “Please burn this.”
Why do they write them if they want them burned?
Maybe he imagined they would turn to ashes of their own volition. They did have plenty of volition. Maybe he’d planned to sell them over on First Street. They would’ve brought a high price.
He’d made a mistake, keeping them. Or had he?
I checked postmarks. They were mailed about a month before, received during the first few days Ivor Hendrix had been away. According to their contents, Asa and Carl had been at it for a time, though.
I put the letters back, fixed the veneer, then checked the trailer window by the door. The hound was gone. I’d forgotten to explain to him that I liked dogs.
The telephone was under the table in the dining nook. I got it up on the table, went around and sat on the bench, and called police headquarters.
I asked for Lowell Haddock and waited a moment, then hung up quickly. I closed my eyes and rubbed them with thumb and forefinger, then dialed Information and asked for the number of the Southern Pines Motel. In a moment I had Ivor on the line.
I told her who I was and explained that I wanted to talk with her, that I’d see her as soon as possible. “Appreciate it if you didn’t leave your apartment. Just wait there for me.”
“Did you see Carl?”
“Yes.”
“How did he act?” She was worried.
“Quite calm.”
“Well—what did he have to say?”
“Nothing much, really.”
“Is he going to be sensible about this?”
“Very. Listen, I can’t talk now.” I hesitated, wanting to ask her a hundred pointed questions. I gnawed the inside of my cheek, feeling like a louse. “Look,” I said. “If you’ll …”
She broke in. “Will he let me come back?”
“Ivor. I’ve got to hang up. I’ll be around by your place as soon as I can get there.”
Trouble again. “Please.”
“Just wait for me. Got that?”
I hung up, looked over at the bottle of Old Overholt, then dialed police headquarters again and asked the same voice for Lowell Haddock. He finally came on. I told him I had found a man’s body and pictured Haddock in my mind’s eyes, hunched at his desk in front of the rain-streaked alley window, scrubbing his sparse, sweating gray head, his chunky red face set in very stern lines. I had met him and talked with him three times, previously. James Baron had told me a lot about him.
“Who is this?” Haddock said.
I told him who I was.
“How did you happen on this, Lee?”
“Routine investigation for a client.”
He let that hang there for a time.
“Who’s the client, Lee?”
“I can’t say at this time. I won’t hold anything back, Lowell. I just want a chance to speak with my client first. I’ll be in touch with you.”
He didn’t push it. “Who’s the dead guy?”
“The name is Carl Hendrix.”
He said dryly, “There anything else you’d like to tell me, Lee?”
I hesitated. He was on top and knew it. My nose began to ache across the bridge. It was stupid to try and hold things back from the police. On the other hand, in this instance, it could be stupid not to do what you thought was right, even if somebody else thought it wrong. If I fouled up, that was no good, either. But if this killing had something to do with the Laketown robbery, and I managed to get a lead, it could mean good things. Telling Haddock about the paper currency band I’d found might stall me and tip them to something. They would find it soon enough.
“I guess there’s nothing else, Lowell.”
Haddock made a sound like a fly buzzing into a bird bath. This was ticklish business. I didn’t want either him or Chief of Police Howard Garlik forming snap opinions of me right now. James Baron had played ball too hard with all of them. I didn’t want them getting the idea I would take their orders and tear up my ticket, just because they nodded their old gray heads.
I felt as if I were being watched. It was a creepy feeling. The rain fell heavier on the trailer roof now, and outside it seemed remote and dark.
“Lee, you do me a big favor and wait right there. I’d like to have a chat with you. Old Jim and I were close friends. I always knew when you finally came home, you’d be made of the same fine stuff.”
“Come down out of the palm tree, Lowell. I’ve been knocking around in this business for a long time, remember?”
His tone changed. “What, son?”
“Forget it.”
“Now, look, son—”
“Go ahead. Keep on calling me that.”
“Jim and I were very close, Lee.”
I lowered my voice and spoke carefully. “Good-by.”
I hung up, feeling touchy about the phone call. I had wanted things to go right. The Florida Gulf Coast held big promise.
The feeling that I was being watched made my ears itch. I looked around, then stood up fast.
A man stared at me through the window over the bunk at the rear of the trailer. His features were faint.
I moved fast around the table, headed for the door. The face vanished. Feet scrambled. I heard savage animallike running and panting.
That hound.
The door snapped open.
“Don’t move.”
He stared at me over the double barrel of a shotgun. A big guy, soaking wet, with black hair hanging over his forehead.
I watched him without speaking.
“I mean it,” he said nervously. “You move and I’ll shoot.”
He shouldered inside and closed the door. Something smashed resoundingly against the door, clawing and growling. He opened the door. The hound flopped wetly in across the linoleum, whined softly, cocked his head at me, then shook himself. Water sprayed from floor to ceiling.
“Who the hell are you?” the man said.
FOUR
THE HOUND shook himself good and dry. He took his time. I moved my hand to wipe some of the fragrant spray off my face.
“Don’t,” the guy said.
His eyes flickered curiously with the look they get when they’re nervous and haven’t much control. He was young, in his early twenties. He wore a heavy black raincoat, gleaming wetly. His gaze steadied, and he frowned.
“How long we going to stand here?” I said quietly.
“Till you explain to me who you are and what you’re doing here.”
The shotgun was steady. He reached back, pawed around, then laid his hand on the wall switch. He knew right where it was. A bright overhead light came on.
I said, “I might ask you the same thing.”
He coughed lightly, watching me under sparse black brows that looked like black watercolor paint. His face was waxen, without color. The lips were pale.
The hound panted and squeaked and dripped.
“You broke in,” he said.
“If that’s what you call opening the door with a key.”
“Don’t get funny.”
He meant it. He didn’t like people to get funny. The shotgun lifted brightly and he shuffled two inches toward me.
“Where is she?” he said.
“Move the gun,” I sa
id. “I’ll be as nervous as you in a minute. Something might happen. Move the gun.”
“Where, is she?” he said again. “Let’s have a name.”
The hound showed me his teeth. About four feet separated me from the end of the shotgun. I took a step backward.
He moved forward. “I told you not to move.”
The shotgun barrel dipped.
I went for him hard and mad. I smashed the barrel to the left, wrapped my hand around it. The barrel swung up. The gun blasted straight through the roof. The guy yelled. The dog leaped, barking.
We both held ends of the shotgun. I got a shoulder underneath and came back hard. The gun broke loose. I heaved it at the sink, wheeled and plowed into him with everything I had.
He grunted as I whipped my fist into his gut, against the black slicker.
We sprawled toward the door. The guy got his hand on the doorknob, holding it. The door swung open, with the hound snapping and snarling around our feet. I twisted and slung the guy against the sink as the dog flew at me. I ducked aside, and the dog flew right on out the door. I slammed the door. The guy came at me, swinging with both fists, his eyes bright with rage.
I set myself.
I nudged a long, looping right out of the way, let him get in close and lifted my fist. It caught him solidly on the chin. His teeth clacked. I brought my left down against his temple. His eyes rolled and he sat down so hard the trailer swayed. He sat there for a moment, head lolling, then spawled out on his side.
Outside, the hound yelped, circling the trailer in wet gallops. At the sink, I filled the dishpan with water and poured it over the guy’s head. He swallowed, grunted, and lay there. I pitched the dishpan into the sink, found a cigarette, lit it, and waited. My hands shook and I was still mad.
“You point a gun at somebody,” I said. “You should figure to use it. That’s what it’s for. Don’t just stand there and prove you’re a fool.”
He grumbled something in a strange language nobody ever heard.
My knuckles were all right. My wrist was sore, but it would go away. The blow had caught him neatly, and I had been lucky.
