Big Jim 8

by Marshall Grover

  “You wished to see me—why?” she frowned.

  “If it isn’t too painful for you,” said Jim, “there are a few questions I’d like to ask—about your husband’s death.”

  “If you’re like all the others,” said Alice McDaniels, “if you’re convinced that poor Saul committed suicide, then we have nothing to discuss.”

  He voiced his rejoinder with care, and was rewarded.

  “If you don’t believe he killed himself, ma’am, you must have a good reason—and I’d like to hear it.”

  “Please come in,” said Alice.

  He entered the hallway and she swung the door shut. As she ushered him into a small parlor, she discarded her broom and removed the mobcap, seemingly unconcerned that her auburn hair was disarranged. She seated herself on the sofa, gestured to the small desk beside the open window.

  “That’s where I found him. I was next door, looking in on a friend and neighbor, when we heard the shot. She came back with me—and we found Saul still seated at the desk, but huddled over, his pistol in his hand, his head bloody …”

  “I don’t mean to stir up all the bad memories for you,” he muttered.

  “Don’t be worried on my account, Mr. Rand,” she frowned. “I welcome this chance to describe the whole terrible situation—exactly as I saw it. I want to convince at least one other person that I’m not just an over-excited, foolish woman—too grief-stricken to think clearly.” She nodded to a chair. “Please make yourself comfortable. Ask as many questions as you wish.”

  “Even personal questions?” he challenged, as he sat down.

  “Go ahead and ask,” she offered. “If I consider them too personal, I’ll refuse to answer.”

  “What kind of a man was he?” Jim demanded.

  “Gentle, kindly, good at his trade,” was her prompt reply. “In appearance he was neither handsome nor ugly. I used to call him a happy medium. It was …” She shrugged sadly, “a little private joke of ours.”

  “Was he in debt?” asked Jim.

  “No,” said Alice. “We lived simply—within our means.”

  “You might think this a very personal question.” It hadn’t occurred to him before. Now, it seemed pertinent. “A bank teller doesn’t get high wages. How are you living now? Was he able to save anything?”

  “You’ve touched a sore spot,” she sighed. “The sheriff would assure you that my need for money is the real reason why I won’t accept the suicide theory. How am I living at the moment? Well, we’d saved a little—very little. I believe I can hold out for a couple more weeks. After that, I’ll just have to look for a job.” And then she added, with spirit, “Unless the insurance company pays off.”

  He nodded understandingly.

  “I’ve heard of payment being held up on certain kinds of insurance,” he frowned, “if the insured party died of suicide.”

  “That’s how it is,” said Alice. “Being a bank cashier, Saul felt obliged to insure himself. He never overlooked the possibility of trouble at the bank—a hold-up, for instance. Many a cashier has been cut down by a thief’s bullet, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

  “So there was a clause in the policy,” Jim guessed, “covering death by accident—or murder.”

  “But not by suicide,” said Alice, tight-lipped. “And that—that …” She gestured angrily in the general direction of the law office, “that narrow-minded sheriff is well aware of my predicament. It pleases him to jump to conclusions. I guess he finds that much less strenuous than using the brains he was born with. It’s easy for him to assume that I’m only concerned with collecting Saul’s insurance. Well, of course I need that money, every cent of it, and I’m entitled to it. But the law called Saul a suicide—and Blackhawk Insurance is withholding payment.” She clasped her hands in her lap, eyed him intently. “Mr. Rand, I’d gladly forfeit all rights to my husband’s estate. I’d live as a pauper for the rest of my life—if only they’d reverse the coroner’s verdict.”

  “And call it murder,” mused Jim.

  “It was murder,” she declared, vehemently. “It had to be murder!”

  He glanced towards the window, dug out his makings and, after her gesture of consent, began rolling a cigarette.

  “What you’re saying isn’t impossible, ma’am,” he reflected. “’specially if we can be sure he had—uh—no reason for wanting to take his own life.”

  “I’ll tell you exactly what I told Sheriff Fiske and the coroner,” she offered. “Saul was as sane as you or I. He wasn’t one for brooding. We were loyal to each other. We had a good relationship.” She moved to the very edge of the sofa, leaning towards him and gesturing emphatically. “But the greatest argument against Saul’s killing himself seemed too mysterious to them. I’d never have believed they could be so ignorant!”

  “And what is that argument?” he challenged.

  “Suicide was against Saul’s religious beliefs,” she asserted. “Our faith teaches that no man has the right to take his own life. I assure you, Mr. Rand, my husband could never—never—have pulled that trigger.” She slid back slumped lower on the sofa, breathing heavily, spent by the vehemence of her declaration. “It was his gun—in his hand—but he couldn’t have pulled the trigger …”

  He was silent a long moment. Who better than a man’s own wife, he asked himself, was qualified to assess the chances of his committing suicide? He couldn’t believe that this doughty, straight-talking young woman was resorting to convenient untruths. And where did that leave him? Saul McDaniels had been a murder victim—nothing surer.

  “Any number of men,” he quietly remarked, “would know your husband owned a gun—and might even know where he carried it.”

  “Yes,” she nodded.

  “Where did he carry it?” Jim demanded.

  “Always in his hip pocket. He never owned a holster, but that didn’t matter. It was a small caliber pistol and not very heavy.” She rose from the sofa, moved across to stand beside the desk. “They wouldn’t listen to me, when I said Saul was murdered. How about you, Mr. Rand?”

  “I’m listening—and believing,” he grimly assured her. “If that window was open ...”

  “It was open,” she nodded.

  “Then the killer had an easy chore,” said Jim. He couldn’t meet her steady gaze. “If it gives you any satisfaction, Mrs. McDaniels, I don’t think your husband suffered any pain.”

  “He was unconscious when the shot was fired.” As she offered this opinion, her voice dropped almost to a whisper. “The man had only to appear at the window, point a gun at Saul and warn him to be quiet. Then—he climbed into the room and—and knocked Saul unconscious. He took out Saul’s gun—held it to Saul’s head and fired—left the gun in his hand. He had plenty of time to get away—before we came in …”

  She raised a hand to her brow. Her bottom lip trembled, and still she resisted the typical feminine refuge, the urge to weep. He got up, went to her and gripped her left arm, not hard, but firmly, comfortingly.

  “I’m sorry if these questions cause you sadness,” he apologized. “I haven’t finished, but …”

  “If there’s anything else you wish to ask ...” she began.

  “I could come visit you again,” he suggested, “if you’d as soon not talk any more now.”

  “No,” she sighed. “Let’s get it all said, Mr. Rand. While—while it’s all clear in my mind.”

  “Men aren’t murdered for no reason at all,” he pointed out. “There had to be a motive—somebody who hoped to profit by your husband’s death, or hated him enough to …”

  “I’ve wracked my brain,” she murmured. “I’ve lain awake at nights—wondering—but it’s just no use. Saul hadn’t an enemy in the world. He wasn’t really, very important—to anybody but me. At the bank he was easily replaced. Good cashiers aren’t scarce. Nobody hated him, Mr. Rand. And I can’t imagine how anybody would have profited by his death.” The anger showed in her eyes again, as she declared, “As for all that wild talk about Se
ñora Garcia’s curse, I urge you to forget it, as I have forgotten it. The poor old soul was out of her mind with grief, didn’t realize what she was saying.”

  “Uh huh,” he grunted. “We certainly agree on that.”

  “It was tragic that Pepi had to kill a man in a fit of temper,” she frowned. “I suppose the shadow of that tragedy will haunt the Garcias for the rest of their lives, but I don’t believe that they should all be punished.”

  “Your husband didn’t relish having to serve on that jury,” Jim guessed.

  Her face clouded over.

  “When it was all over-—shall I tell you what he said to me? He said, ‘I’ll never again be a juryman. It’s too great a responsibility.’ He had no choice but to vote Pepi guilty; nobody could challenge the integrity of the witnesses. But Saul kept hoping that the judge would send Pepi to prison—instead of to the gallows.”

  “Well,” said Jim, “the Garcia boys are in the clear.”

  “They need no alibi, as far as I’m concerned,” Alice assured him. “I’m only sorry I can’t do more for that unfortunate family. Reba is such a sweet child, and would make a wonderful wife for Deputy Vurness.” She shook her head sadly. “It’s too bad the sheriff has none of Lon Vurness’ intelligence.”

  “Amen to that,” agreed Jim, with a wry grin. He squeezed her arm again. “And now I’d best leave you. I want to thank you, ma’am for taking me into your confidence.”

  He returned to the Rockwell rooming house with mixed feelings. In many ways, his conversation with Alice McDaniels had been enlightening, but there was still plenty to confuse him. His clash with some of Ortega’s rowdy element had afforded him grim pleasure. To stand shoulder to shoulder, to fight beside a man who so resembled the late Chris Rand, had been a strangely pleasurable experience, even more so for the fact that Lon Vurness had acquitted himself well. The young deputy had nerve and stamina, qualities that had won Chris Rand the respect of his fellow officers.

  Jim had ceased to pine, had stopped mourning his brother many long months ago. There was nothing morbid in his interest in Lon Vurness’ future; he was too much of a hard-headed realist to attempt to substitute Lon for the dead Chris. But the resemblance persisted, compelling him to delay his departure from Ortega; he had no intention of moving on until the riddle of four deaths had been solved. Brady and Landell? Heart failure and a genuine accident—maybe. McDaniels and Drayton? Murder—for sure. And there had to be a motive.

  After supper, with Benito tagging him, Jim again felt the urge to visit the Gay Lady Saloon and converse with Nadine Searle. That shrewd woman had offered friendship and free information and was a keenly perceptive observer of the local scene. To unearth a motive for two murders, he would need to know a great deal more about the county and its citizenry, so who better to turn to than the fair Nadine.

  This night, she wore a dazzling, beaded gown of blue, an outfit that paid compliments to her coloring. She was seated at a table directly beneath the framed oil-painting from which the establishment had taken its name, a picture of a blonde woman in spangles and tights, raising a wineglass, showing white teeth in a radiant smile. Catching Jim’s eye, she accorded him a friendly nod and crooked a finger. Jim headed for her table, while the runty Mex steered a course for the bar.

  The barkeep brought Jim a double-shot of rye and, some ten minutes later, a refill. During that time, they discussed the events of the day, with the emphasis on all that had occurred since their first meeting. Nadine knew about the death of Harp Drayton, of course. Also, word of the fracas at the Garcia house had reached her.

  “I guess that was overdue,” she reflected. “Somebody was bound to start trouble at the Garcia house—and it would have to be a good-for-nothing like Herb Langtry—a Mex-hater.” And then, with a knowing smile, she remarked, “You and young Lon gave quite a performance, the way I hear it.”

  “What you heard was likely exaggerated,” he opined.

  “What I heard,” she countered, “came direct from Rube Fiske. He was here for a bracer. I guess he needed it, after seeing a doctor work on Langtry and his pards. Gunshot wounds, fractured jaws, dented ribs—quite a hassle that must have been.”

  “While it lasted,” he shrugged.

  “And how about your search for Jenner?” she asked. “Any luck?”

  “I have the feeling Jenner never came through Ortega,” said Jim.

  “So you’ll be moving on?” She heaved a wistful sigh, flashed him a smile. “Don’t worry, Jim. I wouldn’t try to influence you either way—to stay or to go. After seven years of managing the Gay Lady, I’ve learned to live with disappointment. When a handsome stranger comes drifting in—one as rare as you, for instance—I just know he’ll be quitting town before we’ve had a chance to get acquainted.”

  He grinned wryly, raised a hand to his battered visage. A shave, hot bath and change of clothing could do nothing to discount the effects of his run-in with the Mex-haters; the bruises and cuts still showed clear.

  “You said handsome?” he quipped.

  “I’ll be darned if that patch of plaster doesn’t improve you,” she chuckled.

  “Speaking of improvements.” He changed the subject, gesturing to the painting. “Did that artist concentrate on his work—all the time? It looks to me as if he tried to improve on nature, and ...”

  “Believe it or not,” she smiled, “I have never worn tights. I posed for that picture in a white ball gown, so help me. How could I guess he’d paint my head onto Lillian Russell’s body? This place was crowded, when he delivered the finished job. He unwrapped it and my customers started whooping and whistling. If I’d refused to hang it up, I’d have had a riot on my hands. And the darn thing’s hung there ever since.”

  He nodded, took a pull at his drink. As he did so, a man rose from his chair at a nearby table, his unprepossessing visage creased in a grimace of resentment. He was of an age with Jim, lean, shabbily-garbed, truculent. His brown eyes were narrowed and pig-like, too small even for such a thin, lantern-jawed countenance. Nadine viewed his approach with displeasure, a distaste she made no effort to conceal. The man stood beside her chair, glaring across at Jim.

  “My name’s Ringart,” he announced, “and I’m here to tell you we don’t need no strangers snoopin’ into our troubles, here in Ortega Valley. We already got law and order. Rube Fiske will damn soon find out which Garcia killed Drayton—and he won’t need no help from you. Is that clear?”

  There were times when ex-Sergeant Rand was expert at the fine art of temper-control; this was one of those times. The interruption caused him more amusement than annoyance. His weather-beaten face was impassive. Nadine didn’t raise her voice, but every word dripped icicles as she reprimanded Ringart.

  “This is a private conversation. Nobody invited you to butt in—so butt out!”

  “Just so this jasper savvies where he stands,” growled Ringart. He eyed Jim intently, jerked a thumb. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll kiss this town goodbye—and I mean pronto.”

  Jim finished his drink, took a last drag at his cigarette, then extinguished it in the metal tray on the tabletop. Mildly he enquired of Ringart, “Or else?”

  “Or else,” said Ringart, tight-lipped, “I’ll have to run you out.”

  “You—uh—you’re sure you could do that?” asked Jim.

  “Dead sure.” Ringart nodded grimly, and added, “You don’t look so tough to me.”

  “I look a mite different,” said Jim, “when I stand up.” He nudged his chair back, unhurriedly got to his feet, and his towering frame made the five feet eleven inch Ringart appear a midget. Ringart’s jaw sagged. Automatically he took two paces backward. “And now—if you’re ready to run me out of town ...”

  “Don’t get discouraged, Ringart,” jibed Nadine. “Not after all that big talk. The worst that could happen would be for Jim to break every bone in your body.”

  Ringart licked his lips and flushed to the roots of his lank hair, bitterly aware of th
e amusement of all within earshot. Without another word, he turned and slouched to the batwings. Jim resumed his chair and, as he began rolling another cigarette, enquired the identity of his challenger.

  “I caught the name and got the impression he’s allergic to strangers—but what else is important about Ringart?”

  “Forget him,” Nadine advised. “He’s just another local sorehead. After one short shot of whisky, he’s ready to pick a fight with anybody.”

  And then, abruptly, Jim forgot that Ringart had ever existed; his attention was distracted by two loud sounds, one unfamiliar, one all too familiar. The unfamiliar sound was a roar of rage, so deep and penetrating as to suggest that an irate bull had barged into the barroom. The familiar sound was a high-pitched yell of alarm, followed by the startled ejaculation: “¡Ai, caramba!”

  “Got you—you thievin’ little sonofagun!” The bull-like roar increased in volume. “Hey! Somebody fetch the sheriff! Tell him Kurt Richter is about to skin a skunk!”

  “It’s your small Mexican sidekick,” Nadine observed, “and he seems to have run afoul of Kurt Richter. Kurt’s a blacksmith—and a lot of man.”

  Six – A New Hat for Jonah

  Nadine-Searle’s piano-player was still seated at his instrument, eyes half-closed, cold cigar jutting from his mouth, thin hands flicking over the yellowed keyboard and producing a waltz melody. As he strode towards the scene of the commotion, Jim supposed the continuity of the music reflected the seriousness—or otherwise—of the disturbance. The apprehension of a pick-pocket warranted no respectful silence. For a pitched brawl or a shooting, the ‘professor’ might cease playing, but not for a minor distraction.

  A dozen or so interested parties had gathered at that section of the bar where the burly blacksmith stood with one massive paw imprisoning the skinny right arm of Benito Espina. The little Mex was pinned against the bar, struggling, but in vain. As muscular and every inch as tall as Jim, the ’smith appeared more than capable of hurling Benito out of the saloon one-handed—probably straight through a wall. He had just retrieved his wallet and was restoring it to a pocket of his jacket. His bearded visage -was contorted in a scowl of rage.