“Which way did she turn when she left the drugstore?”
“Right. I’m pretty sure.”
“And she was gone five minutes?”
“It couldn’t have been any more than that, maybe a little less.”
“Did she have a bike?”
“No. We were walking.”
“Do you think anybody could have given her a ride?”
“I wouldn’t think so, Mr. MacReedy.”
“Was there any other time when she got money like that?”
“N-No, but there was a time when she didn’t. That sounds funny. It was another time we were in the drugstore. I think it was over a year ago. Last summer, I think. School wasn’t on. There was a lipstick she wanted. She told me to wait. She came back and she was mad. She didn’t have the money for it. She wasn’t gone long at all. Maybe two or three minutes.”
There was no other information. I thanked the Sibleys. They asked me to stay for lunch, but I refused. At the front door he told me he thought I was on a hopeless mission, but if I thought he could be of any further help, he’d be glad to talk to me again.
I drove down to the center of the village and parked on the square. I walked to the drugstore. It was on the west side of the square, four doors from the corner where College Street came into the square. I walked to the right, to the south. There were stores on either side of College Street, and others on the south side of the square. I estimated that I could walk to about fifteen places of business within two minutes. I felt almost certain she had gone to one of those places. It would be the easiest way in the world for her to get money. Suppose it were a candy store. She could go in and buy a dime’s worth of candy. The amount of the purchase in itself could be a simple code. The proprietor, when he put the dime in the register, could put a ten-dollar bill in the sack with the candy. How he must have hated to see her come in, her face young and bland, her eyes greedy. He must have known that his only hope was to eliminate her. It would have taken a great deal of careful planning, of waiting, and of waiting for precisely the right chance.
Someone who could follow the movements of the Landy boy!
I stopped there in the sunlight, and conviction was so strong as to be an almost physical tug at the edge of my mind. I felt that if I moved carefully, and thought clearly, I could establish a connection. The proprietor of one of these shops would have had to be in a position where he could observe the habit patterns of Alister Landy. And he would have had to know that Alister and Nancy Paulson had quarreled. Otherwise Nancy would have provided an alibi for Alister.
Furthermore, he would have had to be close enough to some source of information to know that Alister was in the habit of taking night drives by himself, stopping nowhere. And he would have had to know that Alister sometimes parked with Nancy in the obscure road by Three Sisters Creek.
The odds were that only one man who owned a business in this area could have been close enough to the girls, to the family, to the Landys, to learn all he would have to know in order to frame Alister Landy, and in that way get rid of the girl who was sucking him dry.
I walked again, slowly, and I looked at the store names. I stopped in front of a store. Mackin Hardware. And I remembered. Nancy had told me her family and the Mackins shared a camp at Morgan’s Lake. Alister had been in Mackin’s store before the murder. The knife had come from the store. Nancy had said the Mackins lived near them, at the corner of Oak and Venture.
A bell fastened to the back of the door tinkled as I walked in.
Chapter Eight
Mackin Hardware was reasonably modern, light, airy, and could have been very attractive. Gift items, such as electric clocks, toasters, bar equipment, charcoal grills, glassware, were in the front. Kitchen gadgets, pots and pans, knives and lighting fixtures were in the next segment. The rear of the store, in front of the glass-walled office, was taken up with tools, nails, paints, tubing, screening, plumbing and electrical parts.
Had the store been clean, the goods neatly racked, the floor swept, the slow-moving items dusted, it could have been attractive. But there was about it the subtle flavor of impending failure. There was a dusty smell, an air of negligence and slovenliness.
A woman came out of the back of the store and walked toward me. When she was quite distant, I thought she was an old woman. She moved with the careful fragility of age, and her heels scuffed the inlaid linoleum floor. When she came close I was shocked to see that she was not at all old. Perhaps not far into her thirties. It was difficult to tell. Her arms and throat were painfully thin, and you sensed at once that the watermelon bulge at her middle was not a pregnancy, but more likely a growth that was inevitably devouring her. Blond colorless hair was pulled tightly back. Her face was so shrunken that the pattern of the skull showed clearly. Her color was greenish paste, her gray eyes dulled. She pushed a wisp of hair back from her forehead with the back of her hand, and her voice seemed to come from a remote uncaring distance as she said, “Yes?”
“Do you have any—brass screws? Wood screws.”
“Over here.” I followed her. Her dress bagged on her wasted body. She indicated a shelf with a listless gesture of her hand. “What size?”
“Inch. Inch and a quarter.”
She took down a small box. “Seventy cents. They run high.”
I gave her a dollar and she shuffled toward the cash register in the middle of the store. I followed her. She put the box in a bag and rang up the sale. The drawer came open but she didn’t reach in for my change. I looked at her. Her eyes squeezed shut. The arm of the hand that held my dollar was pressed against her middle.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
Her eyes opened slowly. She looked at me with what I imagine was supposed to be an apologetic smile. “Just a twinge. It comes every once in a while.” She put the dollar in the drawer, gave me thirty cents and the paper bag.
“Maybe you ought to take some time off,” I said.
“I only work when Billy can’t make it. I’m Mrs. Mackin. Part-time help is so hard to get. But I don’t mind. It’s this or sitting home. He’s over to Warrentown today, to the bank.”
“You have a nice store here.”
She looked around, as though really seeing it for the first time. “I should do some sweeping. We don’t get the trade we used to. They go over to the shopping center, a lot of them. You know how it goes. The trade drops off and then you don’t order like you should and you don’t have what the customers want and they go to the other places. Billy is seeing about a loan. I shouldn’t talk about his business, I guess. But—you said it was a nice store. We own the building. We did a good trade in the old store. But that was before the shopping center. I ought to sweep the place up some.” Again she closed her eyes tightly and I saw the cords of her throat jump into prominence.
“You should sit down, Mrs. Mackin. You’re not well.”
“This is a pretty good day,” she said. “I felt pretty good the whole summer through. I sure dread the winter a-coming, though. It seems like spring never comes once the winter starts. The doctor, he’s been giving me injections, ever since my operation. I’m coming along fine now. By next spring I’ll be like I used to be, he says. Dr. Don Higel, his name is. He’s kind of new here, but everybody says he’s real good. Anything else you need, you come back.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Mackin.”
“You new in town?”
“Just visiting.”
I was glad to get out. In addition to the smell of dust and hardware, there was a scent of illness in the close air, serious illness.
Quillan stopped me with a heavy hand on my shoulder just as I was opening my car door.
I moved clear of his hand and said, “What now?”
“Nothing special. Nothing special at all.” He looked uncharacteristically unsure of himself. “No hard feelings,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged the massive shoulders. “I got a little excited. You know how it is. The Chie
f keeps pushing on me. I get a little worked up. No hard feelings.”
“What’s going on?”
His grin was heavy and unconvincing. He rubbed his jaw. “You got a good right hand. I guess you hurt me more’n I did you, huh?”
“Is this an apology?”
“You can call it that, I guess. Everybody makes a mistake sometimes.”
“What are you driving at, Quillan? What do you want?”
“You know how talk goes around. Little town like this. I heard about some kind of committee. They want to talk to people. Maybe to you. You just say that everything was all right. We just asked you some questions. That’s all.”
“Is that young doctor on the committee?”
He looked at me blankly. “You mean Don Higel? I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“He had some strong opinions.”
“He gets worked up. He doesn’t mean anything. He can’t do anything. You just say everything was all right if anybody asks you.”
“Did Score tell you to talk to me?”
“I’m just talking man to man. Everybody makes a mistake.”
“If anybody asks me, Quillan, I’ll tell them you’re right out of the dark ages, or the Hitler storm troopers. I’ll tell them you belong in a slaughterhouse killing steers with a sledge. I’ll tell them you’re a sorry excuse for a town cop, a sadist, a bully, and very probably a psychopath. And I’ll tell in detail how you worked me over at Score’s request. That satisfy you?”
He stared at me. He glanced down the street. There were no pedestrians nearby. He jacked his knee into my groin. I fell back against my car, doubling over, grabbing the door handle to stay on my feet.
“That’s for now,” he said. “And I’m going to see if I can find you some place after dark, you smart son of a bitch.” I heard the metal taps on his heels as he walked away. I managed to get the car door open. A woman pushing a carriage stared at me with disapproval. Drunk in the middle of the day. I fell in onto the seat, on the passenger side, too weak to reach the door. I was shuddering, and cold and sweaty. After a long time I was able to reach out and pull the car door shut. And a long time after that the pain had ebbed so that I could drive. I drove to the Inn. At the cost of considerable effort I was able to stand up straight enough to walk to my room without attracting attention. I rested on the bed, curled like a fetus, for nearly an hour. I undressed and took a hot shower. By the time I was dressed again, I felt almost normal.
Dr. Don Higel was able to see me at quarter of four, after a ten-minute wait.
He frowned for just a moment when I came in and then said, “Of course. You were in Score’s office last night.”
“Quillan was working me over when the girl came to the door on her hands and knees.”
“What for?”
“I’m unpopular. I upset the two of them. I’ve been looking into the Landy case.”
“That could make you unpopular. What seems to be your trouble? Quillan break anything?”
“Not yet. I want to ask you about one of your patients.”
“I can’t talk about my patients.”
“I realize that. I have no official standing. I liked what you said last night. I don’t know that it will do any harm to talk about this particular patient. You can make your own decision, of course. I hope you’ll want to talk. It may have a bearing on other things. Possibly an important bearing. Or I may be way off line. I don’t know. I think this woman is dying. If I’ve ever seen death walking around, she’s it.”
“I’ve got several who could qualify.”
“Mrs. Billy Mackin.”
He nodded. “Yes. Of course. Angela Mackin. Farm stock. Tough as shoe leather. But not tough enough to handle this.”
“She’s in the store today.”
Higel looked distressed. He got up from his desk, strolled to the window, fingered his preposterous mustache. “I don’t know where she finds the guts,” he said softly.
“Did you operate?” I asked.
“I assisted. Seivers did it. Good man. Too far gone, though. Took a look and closed her up.”
“Does her husband know?”
“Yes. He’s very upset about it. He blames himself. And well he might.”
“What do you mean?”
He sat down at his desk and shrugged. “Take a rational viewpoint. MacReedy—isn’t that what my nurse said?”
“That’s right.”
“Okay. You have a wife. Strapping wench. Full of bounce. So she starts to slow down. Starts to lose weight. Can’t eat properly. Color gets bad. What do you do?”
“Take her to a doctor.”
“He stoked her with patent medicines. She was twenty-two pounds off her normal weight before I saw her.”
“Could you tell me if she was home last April?”
He looked at me for a long time and seemed about to refuse. I think I saw a glimmer of some sort of comprehension in his eyes. He rang for the nurse and asked her to bring him the case folder on Angela Mackin. When the nurse brought it in, she gave me a curious look. She was a big-bodied redhead who looked as if she had been scrubbed with a wire brush.
He looked at the folder and closed it. “Operated on her on March eighteenth. Recovery was slow, if you want to call it recovery. Anyway she wasn’t strong enough to come home until April twentieth. Frankly, I didn’t expect her to get out of bed again. Amazing resistance. Tough.”
“How much longer has she got?”
“She’s overdue, MacReedy. I think now it will come fast. A month, probably less.”
“Children?”
“One. It died in infancy.”
“Is he a patient too?”
“No.”
“But you know him?”
“Of course.”
“Any general or specific opinions about him?”
“None in particular. I think you’re asking too many questions.”
“I’ll change the subject. Do you think the town is about ready to get rid of Score and Quillan?”
“I certainly hope so. That affair last night was sickening. I had a report from the hospital an hour ago. The boy has regained consciousness. He confessed to beating the girl up, to kicking her. He said he didn’t mean to kill her. If the papers are smart, they’ll play up just how it all started. At a drive-in beer joint which the county cops should have kept in line. People are near the end of their patience. This may be the incident that does it. Turnbull is coming up for re-election. There’s open gambling in this county. There is a narcotics problem. It could be a clean county.”
“I won’t take up any more of your time. Thanks for answering the questions.”
“If they’re of any use to you, I’d like to know how it comes out.”
“If they are of any use, you’ll hear, Doctor.”
He hesitated, and then suddenly stuck his hand out. I took it. There was a boyish grin half masked by the bold raggedy mustache. It happens like that sometimes. It is the way you find a friend, a good one. And in all your life there can never be enough of them. I understood him, bold mustache and all. A young and competent doctor in a small town. He was too much man to restrict himself to the demands of his profession, arduous though they might be. He could not accept the obvious flaws in that environment. He could never help fighting for what he felt was right.
From the way he had talked of Mrs. Billy Mackin I knew he was not the sort of doctor who accepts each case as a textbook problem. His patients were human, and he was sensitized to humanity. He would never achieve callousness, no matter how long he practiced, no matter how gruff he became. Dedication is rare, and when you meet it you can see the marks it leaves.
“Quillan gave you that contusion?”
“Not that one.”
“You must be leading an interesting life, Mr. MacReedy.”
“Maybe I’ll get a chance to deal you in on some of the more interesting aspects, Doctor.”
“Turn me into one of my own patients?”
“I hop
e not.”
“There’s been a lot of filth swept under a lot of rugs in this town. I see more than my share. I’ll risk a laceration or two to throw back a couple of rugs. But don’t ask me to talk about my patients, MacReedy.”
“Hugh.”
“All right. And Don to you, Hugh. You’re digging into the Landy thing, you said. Isn’t Mrs. Billy Mackin far afield?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“They’re both murder. But different in degree.”
“Does talking about a dead patient violate ethics?”
“It might. I don’t know why the hell I’m fencing, though.”
“Remember Jane Ann’s back injury?”
He stared at me in surprise. “You do get around.” He sat down behind his desk. I sat down again. He loaded a pipe. It went appropriately and almost theatrically with his mustache. “Put me in a delicate position, that incident did, Hugh. I took over Dr. Kennedy’s practice when he retired. I lost some people, of course. They thought I was too young. But I hoped to make it up on new residents. I had no intention of taking over any of Dr. Farbon’s patients. I knew he was family doctor for the Paulsons. When Mr. Paulson phoned me and asked me to stop at the house I went to see Dr. Farbon. He filled me in. Paulson had been beating his daughter. She tried to wrench away and he hit her too high. With a piece of stove wood. Bruised the coccyx and tore some of the small muscles. Farbon knew he beat her, but he didn’t know how violently. He hadn’t had to treat her before. Paulson tried to lie about how it happened. When Farbon questioned the girl, he found out. He blew his top. He had delivered both those girls. You take an interest, you know. He blasted Paulson and Paulson ordered him out of the house. Though it’s an account that pays on the dot, Farbon was glad to lose it. He’s never liked Paulson. He told me to try to keep my mouth shut. I did. The girl was pretty bitter. The old man hadn’t broken her spirit. He was practically arrogant about it. He was sorry he hurt her; but sorry only because he missed, not because he was beating her with a hunk of wood you could have felled a horse with.”
Death Trap Page 13
