The Compleat Boucher

by Anthony Boucher; Editor: James A. Mann

  Finally one of his choking glurks sounded like a word. The word was “Chief!”

  Chief Hanby got up. “Yes, Phil? What’s the matter?”

  Wordlessly, Luke Sellers handed over the bottle of applejack. It was a pretty noble gesture. There were only about two drinks left, and Phil Rogers took them both in one swallow.

  “I thought you’d be over here. Chief,” he managed to say. “You’ve got to come. Quick. Out to Aunt Agnes’.”

  “What’s the matter out there? Burglary?” Chief Hanby asked with an optimism he didn’t feel.

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I didn’t look. I couldn’t. All that blood— Look. Even on my trousers where I bent down— I don’t know why. Any fool could see she was dead—”

  “Your aunt?” Chief Hanby gasped. Then the men were silent. They kept their eyes away from the young man with blood on his trousers and none in his face. Father Byrne said something softly to himself and to his God. It was a good thirty seconds before the professional aspects of this news began to strike them.

  “You mean murder?” Chief Hanby demanded. Nothing like this had ever happened in Grover before. Murder of H. A. Hitchcock’s own sister! “Come on, boy. We won’t waste any time.”

  John MacVeagh’s eyes were alight. “No objections to the press on your heels, Chief! I’ll be with you as soon as I see Whalen.”

  Hanby nodded. “Meet you there, Johnny.”

  Father Byrne said, “I know your aunt never quite approved of me or my church, Philip. But perhaps she won’t mind too much if I say a mass for her in the morning.”

  Jake Willis said nothing, but his eyes gleamed with interest. It was hard to tell whether the coroner or the undertaker in him was more stirred by the prospect.

  Lucretius Sellers headed for the door. “As the only man here without a professional interest in death, I bid you boys a good night.” He laid his hand on the pale young man’s arm and squeezed gently. “Sorry, Phil.”

  Father Byrne was the last to leave, and Molly bumped into him in the doorway. She returned his greeting hastily and turned to John MacVeagh, every inch of her plump body trembling with excitement. “What’s happening, boss? What goes? It must be something terrific to break up the bull session this early.”

  MacVeagh was puffing his pipe faster and hotter than was good for it. “I’ll say something’s happened, Molly. Agnes Rogers has been killed. Murdered.”

  “Whee!” Molly yelled. “Stop the presses! Is that a story! Is that a— Only you can’t stop the presses when we don’t come out till Friday, can you?”

  “I’ve got to talk to Whalen a minute—and about that very thing—and then I’ll be off hotfooting it after the chief. It’s the first local news in three years that’s rated an extra, and it’s going to get one.”

  “Wonderful!” Her voice changed sharply. “The poor crazy old woman— We’re vultures, that’s what we are—”

  “Don’t be melodramatically moral, Molly. It’s our job. There have to be . . . well, vultures; and that’s us. Now let me talk to Whalen, and I’ll—”

  “Boss?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “Boss, I’ve been a good girl Friday, haven’t I? I keep all the job orders straight and I never make a mistake about who’s just been to the city and who’s got relatives staying with them and whose strawberry jam won the prize at the Fair—”

  “Sure, sure. But look, Molly—”

  “And when you had that hangover last Thursday and I fed you tomato juice all morning and beer all afternoon and we got the paper out OK, you said you’d do anything for me, didn’t you?”

  “Sure. But—”

  “All right. Then you stay here and let me cover this murder.”

  “That’s absurd. It’s my job to—”

  “If you know how much I want to turn out some copy that isn’t about visiting and strawberry jam— And besides, this’ll be all tied up with the Hitchcocks. Maybe even Laura’ll be there. And when you’re . . . well, involved a little with people, how can you be a good reporter? Me, I don’t give a damn about Hitchcocks. But with you, maybe you’d be in a spot where you’d have to be either a lousy reporter or a lousy friend.”

  MacVeagh grinned. “As usual, Friday, you make sense. Go on. Get out there and bring me back the best story the Sentinel ever printed. Go ahead. Git.”

  “Gee, boss—” Molly groped for words, but all she found was another and even more heartfelt “Gee—’’Then she was gone.

  MacVeagh smiled to himself. Swell person, Molly. He’d be lost without her. Grand wife for some man, if he liked them a little on the plump side. If, for instance, he had never seen the superb slim body of Laura Hitchcock—

  But thoughts of Laura now would only get in the way. He’d have to see her tomorrow. Offer his condolences on the death of her aunt. Perhaps in comforting her distress—

  Though it would be difficult, and even unconvincing, to display too much grief at Agnes Rogers’ death. She had been Grover’s great eccentric, a figure of fun, liked well enough, in a disrespectful way, but hardly loved. A wealthy widow—she held an interest in the Hitchcock plant second only to H. A.’s own—she had let her fortune take care of itself—and of her—while she indulged in a frantic crackpot quest for the Ultimate Religious Truth. At least once a year she would proclaim that she had found it, and her house would be filled with the long-robed disciples of the Church of the Eleven Apostles—which claimed that the election by lot of Matthias had been fraudulent and invalidated the apostolic succession of all other churches; or the sharp-eyed, businesslike emissaries of Christoid Thought—which seemed to preach the Gospel according to St. Dale.

  It was hard to take Agnes Rogers’ death too seriously. But that ultimate seriousness transfigures, at least for the moment, the most ludicrous of individuals.

  Whalen was reading when John MacVeagh entered his cubbyhole off the printing room. One of those books that no one, not even Father Byrne, had ever recognized the letters of. It made MacVeagh realize again how little he knew of this last survival of the race of tramp printers, who came out of nowhere to do good work and vanish back into nowhere.

  Brownies, he thought. With whiskey in their saucers instead of milk.

  Not that Whalen looked like any brownie. He was taller than MacVeagh himself, and thinner than Phil Rogers. The funniest thing about him was that when you called up a memory image of him, you saw him with a beard. He didn’t have any, but there was something about the thin long nose, the bright deepset eyes— Anyway, you saw a beard.

  You could almost see it now, in the half-light outside the circle that shone on the unknown alphabet. He looked up as MacVeagh came in and said, “John. Good. I wanted to see you.”

  MacVeagh had never had a printer before who called him by his formal first name. A few had ventured on “Johnny,” Luke Sellers among them, but never “John.” And still, whatever came from Whalen sounded right.

  “We’ve got work to do, Whalen. Were going to bring out an extra tomorrow. This town’s gone and busted loose with the best story in years, and it’s up to us to—”

  “I’m sorry, John,” Whalen said gravely. His voice was the deepest MacVeagh had ever heard in ordinary speech. “I’m leaving tonight.”

  “Leaving—” MacVeagh was almost speechless. Granted that tramp printers were unpredictable; still after an announcement such as he’d just made—

  “I must, John. No man is master of his own movements. I must go, and tonight. That is why I wished to see you. I want to know your wish.”

  “My wish? But look, Whalen: We’ve got work to do. We’ve got to—”

  “I must go.” It was said so simply and sincerely that it stood as absolute fact, as irrevocable as it was incomprehensible. “You’ve been a good employer, John. Good employers have a wish when I go. I’ll give you time to think about it; never make wishes hastily.”

  “But I— Look, Whalen. I’ve never seen you drink, but I’ve never known a printer that didn’t. You’re bab
bling. Sleep it off, and in the morning we’ll talk about leaving.”

  “You never did get my name straight, John,” Whalen went on. “It was understandable in all that confusion the day you hired me after Luke Sellers had retired. But Whalen is only my first name. I’m really Whalen Smith. And it isn’t quite Whalen—”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “You still don’t understand? You don’t see how some of us had to take up other trades with the times? When horses went and you still wanted to work with metal, as an individual worker and not an ant on an assembly line— So you don’t believe I can grant your wish, John?”

  “Of course not. Wishes—”

  “Look at the book, John.”

  MacVeagh looked. He read:

  At this point in the debate His Majesty waxed exceeding wroth and smote the great oaken table with a mighty oath. “Nay,” he swore, “all of our powers they shall not take from us. We will sign the compact, but we will not relinquish all. For unto us and our loyal servitors must remain—”

  “So what?” he said. “Fairy tales?”

  Whalen Smith smiled. “Exactly. The annals of the court of His Majesty King O heron.”

  “Which proves what?”

  “You read it, didn’t you? I gave you the eyes to read—”

  John MacVeagh looked back at the book. He had no great oaken table to smite, but he swore a mighty oath. For the characters were again strange and illegible.

  “I can grant your wish, John,” said Whalen Smith with quiet assurance.

  The front doorbell jangled.

  “I’ll think about it,” said MacVeagh confusedly. “I’ll let you know—”

  “Before midnight, John. I must be gone then,” said the printer.

  Even an outsider to Grover would have guessed that the man waiting in the office was H. A. Hitchcock. He was obviously a man of national importance, from the polished tips of his shoes to the equally polished top of his head. He was well preserved and as proud of his figure as he was of his daughter’s or his accountant’s; but he somehow bulked as large as though he weighed two hundred.

  The top of his head was gleaming with unusual luster at the moment, and his cheeks were red. “Sit down, MacVeagh,” he said, as authoritatively as though this was his own office.

  John MacVeagh sat down, said, “Yes, Mr. Hitchcock?” and waited.

  “Terrible thing,” Mr. Hitchcock sputtered. “Terrible. Poor Agnes— Some passing tramp, no doubt.”

  “Probably,” John agreed. Inhabitants of Grover were hard to picture as murderers. “Anything taken?”

  “Jewelry from the dressing table. Loose cash. Didn’t find the wall safe, fortunately. Chief Hanby’s quite satisfied. Must have been a tramp. Sent out a warning to state highway police.”

  “That was wise.” He wondered why H. A. Hitchcock had bothered to come here just for this. Molly would bring it to him shortly. He felt a minor twinge of regret—passing tramps aren’t good copy, even when their victim is a magnate’s sister.

  “Hanby’s satisfied,” Mr. Hitchcock went on. “You understand that?”

  “Of course.”

  “So I don’t want you or your girl reporter questioning him and stirring up a lot of confusion. No point to it.”

  “If the chief’s satisfied, we aren’t apt to shake him.”

  “And I don’t want any huggermugger. I know you newspapermen. Anything for a story. Look at the way the press associations treated that strike. What happened? Nothing. Just a little necessary discipline. And you’d think it was a massacre. So I want a soft pedal on poor Agnes’ death. You understand? Just a few paragraphs— mysterious marauder—you know.”

  “It looks,” said MacVeagh ruefully, “as though that was all it was going to be worth.”

  “No use mentioning that Philip and Laura were in the house. Matter of fact, so was I. We didn’t see anything. She’d gone upstairs. No point to our evidence. Leave us out of it.”

  MacVeagh looked up with fresh interest. “All of you there? All of you downstairs and a passing tramp invades the upstairs and gets away with—”

  “Damn clever, some of these criminals. Know the ropes. If I’d laid my hands on the— Well, that won’t bring Agnes back to life. Neither will a scare story. Had enough unfavorable publicity lately. So keep it quiet. Don’t trust that reporter of yours; don’t know what wild yarns she might bring back to you. Thought I’d get it all straight for you.”

  “Uh-huh.” MacVeagh nodded abstractedly. “You were all together downstairs, you and Laura and Philip?”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Hitchcock. He didn’t hesitate, but MacVeagh sensed a lie.

  “Hm-m-m,” was all he said.

  “Don’t you believe me? Ask Laura. Ask Philip.”

  “I intend to,” said John MacVeagh quietly.

  Mr. Hitchcock opened his mouth and stared. “There’s no need for that, young man. No need at all. Any necessary facts you can get from me. I’d sooner you didn’t bother my daughter or my nephew or the chief. They have enough trouble.”

  MacVeagh rose from behind his desk. “There’s been a murder,” he said slowly. “The people of Grover want to know the truth. Wherever there’s an attempt to cover up, you can be pretty sure that there’s something to cover. Whatever it is, the Sentinel’s going to print it. Good night, Mr. Hitchcock.”

  With the full realization of what MacVeagh meant, Mr. Hitchcock stopped spluttering. There was nothing of the turkey cock about him now. He was quiet and deadly as he said, “I’ll talk to Mr. Manson tomorrow.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you. My debt to Manson’s bank was paid off last month.

  We haven’t been doing badly since the influx of your workers doubled our circula• » tion.

  “And I think that our plant’s printing will be more efficiently and economically handled in the city.”

  “As you wish. We can make out without it.” He hoped he sounded more convincing than he felt.

  “And you understand that my daughter will hardly be interested in seeing you after this?”

  “I understand. You understand, too, that her refusal to see the press might easily be misconstrued under the circumstances?”

  Mr. Hitchcock said nothing. He did not even glare. He turned and walked out of the room, closing the door gently. His quiet exit was more effectively threatening than any blustering and slamming could have been.

  MacVeagh stood by the desk a moment and thought about Rubicons and stuff. His eyes were hard and his lips firmly set when he looked up as Whalen entered.

  “It’s almost midnight,” the old printer said.

  MacVeagh grabbed the phone. “Two three two,” he said. “You’re still bound to walk out on me, Whalen?”

  “Needs must, John.”

  “OK. I can make out without you. I can make out without H. A. Hitchcock and his— Hello? Mrs. Belden? . . . MacVeagh speaking. Look, I’m sorry to wake you up at this hour, but could you go up and get Luke Sellers out of bed and tell him I want him over here right away? It’s important . . . Thanks.” He hung up. “Between us, Molly and I can whip Luke back into some sort of shape as a printer. We’ll make out.”

  “Good, John. I should be sorry to inconvenience you. And have you thought of your wish?”

  MacVeagh grinned. “I’ve had more important things on my mind, Whalen. Go run along now. I’m sorry to lose you; you know that. And I wish you luck, whatever it is you’re up to. Goodbye.”

  “Please, John.” The old man’s deep voice was earnest. “I do not wish you to lose what is rightfully yours. What is your wish? If you need money, if you need love—”

  MacVeagh thumped his desk. “I’ve got a wish, all right. And it’s not love nor money. I’ve got a paper and I’ve got a debt to that paper and its readers. What happened tonight’ll happen again. It’s bound to. And sometime I may not have the strength to fight it, God help me. So I’ve got a wish.”

  “Yes, John?”

  “Did you ever loo
k at our masthead? Sometimes you can see things so often that you never really see them. But look at that masthead. It’s got a slogan on it, under where it says ‘Grover Sentinel. ’ Old Jonathan Minter put that slogan there, and that slogan was the first words he ever spoke to me when he took me on here. He was a great old man, and I’ve got a debt to him too, and to his slogan.

  “Do you know what a slogan really means? It doesn’t mean a come-on, a bait. It doesn’t mean Eat Wootsy-Tootsie and Watch Your Hair Curl. It means a rallying call, a battle cry.”

  “I know, John.”

  “And that’s what this slogan is, the Sentinel’s battle cry: ‘We print the truth. ’ So this is my wish, and if anybody had a stack of Bibles handy I’d swear to it on them: May the Sentinel never depart from that slogan. May that slogan itself be true, in the fullest meaning of truth. May there never be lies or suppression or evasions in the Sentinel, because always and forever we print the truth.”

  It was impossible to see what Whalen Smith did with his hands. They moved too nimbly. For a moment it seemed as though their intricate pattern remained glowing in the air. Then it was gone, and Whalen said, “I have never granted a nobler wish. Nor,” he added, “a more dangerous one.”

  He was gone before MacVeagh could ask what he meant.

  II

  Wednesday’s extra of the Grover Sentinel carried the full, uncensored story of the murder of Agnes Rogers, and a fine job Molly had done of it. It carried some filling matter too, of course—much of it mats from the syndicate—eked out with local items from the spindles, like the announcement of Old Man Herkimer’s funeral and the secretary’s report of the meeting of the Ladies’ Aid at Mrs. Warren’s.

  There was no way of telling that one of those local items was infinitely more important to the future of John MacVeagh and of Grover itself than the front-page story.

  MacVeagh woke up around two on Wednesday afternoon. They’d worked all night on the extra, he and Molly and Luke. He’d never thought at the time to wonder where the coffee came from that kept them going; he realized now it must have been Molly who supplied it.