by Craig Rice
The dining room also had flowered wallpaper, and there was a picture of two dead pheasants on the wall. The plaque over the stovepipe hole was made of handpainted china. There was a big round table, with a snowy-white cloth. Handsome looked around and frowned again.
“I suppose you’ve been in this room before, too,” Bingo murmured to him.
Handsome nodded. “Uh-huh. Only, I still can’t remember—”
“Don’t try,” Bingo said hastily.
Dinner was something memorable. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, thick country gravy, a big bowl of tiny lima beans—“from our garden”—hot biscuits and butter. And there were dishes of jelly, jam, preserves, and spiced peaches. There was apple pie for dessert, and lots of coffee.
This was the dinner he’d dreamed of ever since they left New York. The dinner, the setting, and the people. Red-faced Pa Halvorsen, white-haired Ma Halvorsen, and beautiful little Christine. How glad he was, now, that he hadn’t taken advantage of her youth and innocence. He hoped that Handsome hadn’t. And in spite of her beauty and probable talent, it seemed almost like a shame to see her go to Hollywood, even though it meant giving her the opportunity she deserved.
After dinner the menfolk sat in the sitting room and smoked and talked about county politics, while Christine and Ma Halvorsen “picked up” the dishes, refusing all offers of help. Bingo hoped he’d remember every detail. The men in their Sunday suits. The creaky rocking chairs. The cat that had crawled up into Sheriff Judson’s lap and curled there, purring.
How could he tell the Halvorsens that their only daughter ought to go to Hollywood and have a great career?
Ma Malvorsen and Christine came out of the kitchen in a few minutes. “I thought we’d just leave the dishes until later,” she said, beaming. She sat down in a rocking chair, picked up a mending basket from the table beside her, and began darning socks. “Christine, dear. Play and sing something for us.”
Christine blushed prettily, smiled shyly, and sat down at the upright piano. Bingo sat up, expectantly. She played a brief introduction, stiffly, but accurately. Then she began to sing At Dawning.
It was awful. It was terrible. She sang the way some singing teacher had obviously taught her, pausing and breathing at all the right places, and holding every note the required length of time. Her voice was thin and squeaky, and just slightly off-key.
Oh, well, Bingo reminded himself, not all Hollywood stars could sing.
She finished, rose, and stood gracefully posed by the piano.
“That was lovely,” Ma Halvorsen said. She turned to Bingo and said, “Our little Christine is such a talented girl.”
Herb muttered something under his breath.
“Christine,” Ma Halvorsen said. “Recite something for us!”
Christine smiled and went into the climactic scene from Death Takes a Holiday, not missing a gesture, an emphasis, or an expression. It was, if anything, worse than the singing.
“There!” Ma Halvorsen said. “What do you think of that? Don’t you think our little Christine ought to go to Hollywood?”
Bingo sat miserably trying to think of something to say. But Handsome spoke right up.
“No.” Handsome said. “She oughta stay here and get married. Account of she can’t sing and she can’t act. She looks pretty, in a skinny way, but she wouldn’t photograph. Her face’d just look like mush, in a picture.”
“Why!” Ma Halvorsen said. “Why!” She gasped. “Christine went to the best singing and dramatic teachers in New York, for four years! And I do her hair and make-up myself!” Her face began to turn red. “Just because the stupid producers in New York refused to give her a chance—”
Suddenly Bingo began to understand a lot of things, including the fried chicken. He stole a glance at Christine. The sheltered little farmer’s daughter!
“Takes more’n teachers and make-up,” Handsome said. “She never should of wasted all that time.”
“I told you so, Chrissie,” Herb said. “I told you all along.”
“You shut up!” Christine snapped at him. She stalked into the next room and slammed the door.
Herb glared after her for a minute. Then he rose and followed her, with an air of grim determination. He, too, slammed the door.
“Herb’s a good boy,” Sheriff Judson said mildly. “Always was a good boy. And his family owns a nice bunch of property around Lima Junction, any time he gets ready to settle down.”
“I’d rather see Christine dead,” Ma Halvorsen raged, “dead and buried, than married to a—a hick farmer!”
Christine’s voice came from behind the door. “You shut up. I’ll marry anybody I damn please!”
“Chrissie!” Pa Halvorsen roared, getting up. “Don’t you use language like that!”
Sheriff Judson winked at Bingo and moved toward the door. Bingo and Handsome followed him, and Ollie trailed along.
“Might’s well let ’em fight it out in private,” he said.
“Bingo,” Handsome said. “I knew I’d been in that room before. I just remembered. I was.”
“All right,” Bingo said. “I give in. You were.”
“Only,” Handsome said, “it wasn’t in a house.”
“My partner’s only slightly crazy,” Bingo said to the sheriff. “Not dangerous.”
“I mean it,” Handsome said earnestly. “It was in a big interior-decorator place in New York. The dining room, too. Even a painting of some dead birds. I was in it because I took pictures of it. For Home and Fireside Magazine, the October, 1939, issue, on pages twenty-eight and twenty-nine. There was one of the kitchen, too. It was supposed to show how a lousy-looking farmhouse like this one can be fixed up without much cost. I didn’t take the pictures of the rooms after they were fixed up. A fella name of Carlson did. Awful good photographer, too.”
Sheriff Judson chuckled. “The present Miz Halvorsen was an actress once. Guess she couldn’t of been a very good one, to’ve had to answer Chris Halvorsen’s ad for a wife. When Christine couldn’t get on the stage in New York, figure she planned to have Christine discovered on a farm. She threw out all the nice furniture the second Miz Halvorsen got from the mail-order company—upholstered chairs and sofas, and mahogany dining-room stuff—and moved this stuff in. Folks thought she was crazy. Even puts stoves in the rooms in the wintertime, spite of Chris having the best oil-burning furnace in Thursday County.”
He glanced toward the house. “Hope Herb gets her. He is a good boy. And she’ll need him.” He cleared his throat. “Might’s well stroll around the place a little. Don’t suppose you fellers’ve seen much of Iowa farms.”
It was a pleasant, warm, sunny day. The Halvorsen house looked serene and peaceful, from the outside. Bingo could hear what he decided must be a cow, making soft, gentle noises from the barn.
The sheriff and Handsome had started in the direction of what seemed to be a chicken yard. Bingo started to follow them. Another sound attracted his attention and curiosity, and he walked around the barn. The sound had come from the pigpen, he discovered. He leaned on the bars and gazed down at a comfortable-looking sow and nine little pigs.
“There, sir, is one of nature’s happiest creations,” Ollie said. He came up beside Bingo and joined him, leaning on the bars. “If I were not a half-wit, I should prefer to be a pig. You are looking, in case you don’t know it, at perfect contentment.”
Bingo glanced at Ollie. “You look pretty contented yourself. In spite of the fact that you’re probably being kept in jail—well, technically in jail—illegally.”
“It’s a pleasant life,” Ollie said. “And as a matter of fact, my incarceration is perfectly legal.”
“Nonsense,” Bingo said. “When nobody even knows what you’re in for!” A thought struck him. He looked sharply at Ollie. Sheriff Judson had said, “Ollie don’t remember from tomorrow to yesterday.” But Sheriff Judson could have been wrong, just once. Ollie had said, “My memory is perfect—”
“Look here,” Bingo said. “
Do you know what you’re in for?”
“Naturally,” Ollie said. “I would hardly forget a thing like that. However, no one has ever bothered to ask me.”
“What crime did you commit?” Bingo said almost hoarsely.
“I committed no crime. I happened to be present at the scene of one. I was being held in jail as a material witness when the courthouse burned down, the sheriff absconded with the county funds, and the judge suffered a stroke and died.”
“I’d just figured that myself,” Sheriff Judson’s mild voice said. Bingo and Ollie turned around. “Should have knowed it all along. Should have knowed enough to ask you, anyway. Figure I must be about as stupid as the county board members.”
Bingo was thinking fast. Ollie had been in jail since—since just about the time—
“You witnessed the bank robbery,” Bingo said.
“That is correct,” Ollie said cheerfully. “I was the only witness who could identify all the participants. However, the sheriff at that time—”
“He was one of the Engan boys,” Sheriff Judson said. “Whole Engan family was unreliable. His brother was Chuck Engan. Guess he figured he’d better beat it out of town with what he could carry off, account of folks wouldn’t vote for him for sheriff again, after the bank robbery.”
He clucked cheerfully to Handsome and said, “Guess we might’s well stroll some more.”
He and Handsome wandered off in different directions. Ollie took a third. Bingo stood blinking after them for a moment.
This seemingly aimless wandering around the Halvorsen farm. It was—they were looking for something. But what? Bingo frowned, puzzled.
Clancy’s body!
They were looking for Clancy’s body. Strolling casually here and there, admiring the farm animals and the chickens, and meanwhile peering into wells and poking into piles of straw. Bingo started in the direction of the barn.
Another thought struck him.
Ollie. Ollie had witnessed the bank robbery. He was the only person who could identify all three of the men involved. Who could identify the only one of the three still alive. Who could name the murderer of Henry Siller, and Gus, the attempted murderer of Lula Higgins, and the probable murderer of Clancy.
It was broad daylight now. The murderer was a dead shot with a rifle. And Ollie was wandering around unprotected. Right now, he was straying into the barn, idiotically oblivious of any danger.
Bingo plunged after him. Ollie had to be warned. Sheriff Judson had to be warned. They’d have to hustle Ollie into the police car and back to the jail, where he could be kept out of danger until the murderer was arrested.
It was dark and shadowy in the barn. Bingo looked around for a minute, trying to see his way around.
Ollie had suddenly disappeared. There was a pile of hay bales in one place, a pile of sacks of grain in another. Bingo took a few uncertain steps forward and paused.
There was a faint sound behind him. Footsteps. He whirled around.
There was a gleam of light on the rifle barrel aimed directly at his forehead.
“You should never got mixed up in this,” Chris Halvorsen said. His face was white, and twitching a little. “I didn’t want to have to kill you. I got nothing against you. I wish you hadn’t got mixed up in this.”
Bingo stood frozen. Before he could call for help, or move, Chris Halvorsen would fire. His only hope was to talk Chris Halvorsen out of it. He opened his mouth. But his voice was frozen, too.
“I’m real sorry,” Chris Halvorsen said.
Bingo closed his eyes.
There was a sudden sound of movement, then a sudden explosion. Sheriff Judson’s voice said gently, “Don’t you move now, Chris, or I’ll have to shoot.” Earl’s voice said, “It’s O. K., Henry, I got him.”
Funny that the rifle bullet hadn’t hurt when it went in, Bingo thought. Funny that he could be dead and still not fall down.
He opened his eyes and discovered he was still alive.
Sheriff Judson was standing by the doorway, a revolver in his hand. Earl had Chris Halvorsen’s arm in a firm grip. The rifle was on the floor. Ollie, smiling cheerfully, was coming from behind the hay bales. Handsome was standing by the grain sacks, a flash gun in his hand.
“He was standing right over by the milk sheds, listening,” Sheriff Judson said, “when I talked, loud, about the bank robbery with Ollie. Figured he’d follow Ollie into the barn and we’d trap him. Worked out, too.”
“I heard a shot,” Bingo gasped.
“You heard a flash gun,” Handsome said. “Mr. Judson thought he might have his rifle. And it would be dark in the barn. So I brought the flash gun out of the car and put in an extra amount of powder, so I could shoot it off and blind him for a minute, if we had to.”
Chris Halvorsen’s white face was twitching horribly. Suddenly he pitched forward on his face, before Earl could catch him, and lay twisted on the floor. Sheriff Judson rushed across the floor, kneeled down, and examined him.
“Ollie, you go in the house and phone up Doc Svensen. Tell him we gotta have the ambulance, too. Don’t say nothing to the folks in there, yet. Earl, you hand me a coupla them gunnysacks so’s we can make him comfortable till Doc Svensen comes.” He rose. “Thought Chris might have a stroke some day.”
“Clancy!” Bingo said.
“Figure we can find him,” Sheriff Judson said. “Earl, you stay with Chris. Call me if you need me.”
He led the way into the farmyard and down past the barn to the enclosure where several hundred hens clucked contentedly.
“No signs of digging in the yard,” he said. “Might’s well try the henhouse first.”
The henhouse was a long, low building at one end of the chicken yard, divided into compartments. One of the compartments was shut off. Sheriff Judson peered in, but it was empty. He walked around to the back. He kicked at the boards of the closed-off compartments. They were loose. A faint, bumping sound came from inside.
“Give me a hand here,” the sheriff said.
Together, they yanked off the boards. Half buried under the henhouse, wrapped in a tarpaulin, bound and gagged but still very much and very indignantly alive, was Clancy.
“How did you know?” Bingo gasped.
Sheriff Judson grinned. “Figured how criminals tend to repeat themselves. Read that in a book. Chris repeated himself using a rifle every time. So I figured if Chris had a body or a kidnaped feller to hide, he’d repeat the trick he used hiding that money.”
Bingo’s eyes widened. “You mean you know where the money is hidden?”
Sheriff Judson paused in the act of untying Clancy’s gag, and looked up. “Why, sure,” he said. “Hadn’t you figured that out yet? It’s in the turkey yard, of course!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Figure you could call it just simple deduction,” Sheriff Judson said. “Or, how did Rastus know where to find the mule.” He grinned. “Being just a small-town sheriff, I had to do it the hard way.”
“Now, Henry,” Will Sims said. “You’re a crime expert. Hope you’re planning to run for sheriff again next term. It’ll do a lot for the county ticket.”
It was Monday morning. A lot had happened since Sunday dinner. Doc Svensen had examined the stricken Chris Halvorsen and announced that he hadn’t long to live. Whereupon Sheriff Judson sent the ambulance away.
“Murderer or not,” he announced, “it’s a shame not to let a man die in his own house.”
Chris Halvorsen had died shortly after midnight. By that time a flock of loudly complaining turkeys had been herded into the farm truck and driven away, and a group of men, headed by Sheriff Judson and Earl, and watched’ by Bingo and Handsome, had dug through the enclosure until at last a spade had hit against an old tin trunk.
An armored car was parked outside the jail building, and two grave-faced young men in neat gray suits had watched while the contents of the tin trunk were counted in Henry Judson’s inner office. A last five-dollar gold piece brought the total to t
wo hundred and seventy-eight thousand, three hundred and fifty-five dollars.
The two young men gave Sheriff Judson a receipt, and congratulated him on his ability as an officer of the law. Then two more young men—these in uniform—came from the armored car, and the four of them carried the money away.
That was the first event of the Monday morning. Then Clancy woke up and demanded another bath. He’d had two before going to sleep in the jail the night before, but he wanted another one now. Anyone who’d ever spent nearly forty-eight hours under a chicken coop, he explained, would know just how he felt.
Sheriff Judson and Will Sims had held a long discussion as to whether or not Clancy should be held, and if so, for what. The final decision had been to let him go.
“He ain’t goin’ t’ bother Thursday County,” Sheriff Judson had reasoned, “and a term in the Thursday County jail ain’t goin’ t’ reform him. So why waste the taxpayers’ money? He can drive the widow Silton back to Reno, and go on working for her as a bouncer.”
The third event was the arrival of the chairman of the Thursday County Board, with the news that an emergency meeting had been held and the board had (a) voted to retain Ollie as janitor of the jail building for twenty dollars a month and keep and (b) pay a reward of five thousand dollars from the county funds for the capture of the escaped convicts who had terrorized Thursday County.
There was a long, friendly argument over how the money should be divided, with everyone claiming he not only didn’t want it but didn’t deserve it. Finally it was split five ways, among the sheriff, Herb, Earl, Bingo, and Handsome.
At last Will Sims arrived from camp—delayed, he explained, by the fact that this was home-going day, and he’d had to say good-by to each individual camper and present him with one of the excellent pictures Mr. Kusak had brought out that morning.
“The book calls it simple deduction,” Sheriff Judson repeated. “Only, I’m stupid, I guess. I should of figured it all out soon’s I knew three things: Who that feller was that got murdered. That them convicts had busted out of the jail where Chuck Engan was. And that Chris Halvorsen’s house was searched. Only a lot of what I figure you’d call extraneous elements kept mixing in.”
