Poisons Unknown (8 page)

T
HE ROAD
between the parish offices at San Vincente and New Orleans was recovered land, built over the marshland that dipped below the road level on either side.

Larry Dunlop kept the little sedan in the middle of the road, pushed the needle to between fifty and sixty, and kept it there.

“Nice character, your Sheriff Lalonde.” Liddell grunted. “Never lets facts interfere with his preconceived conclusion, does he?”

Dunlop grinned. “We’ve got our share of that kind in the outlying parishes. By and large, though, we’re managing to straighten them out. Lalonde is particularly well set with a machine like Marty Kirk’s in back of him.”

Liddell watched the majestic, low-branched oaks sweeping past his window. “City authorities have no power over here, eh?”

“No. The parish sheriff is top man.” Dunlop kept looking into his rearview mirror, pushed the accelerator down farther. The light car swayed ominously.

Liddell braced himself against the door on his side.

“Where’s the fire, Larry? These roads and this car weren’t built for speed.”

“A car back there.” He flicked his eyes at the rearview mirror. “It’s been creeping up on us.”

Liddell swung around in his seat and looked out the back window. A big black sedan was slowly closing down the distance between them. There appeared to be two men in the front seat, none in the back.

“Maybe they’re in a hurry. Slow down and see,” Liddell suggested.

Dunlop eased the pressure on the accelerator, and the little car slowed down. The car behind showed no signs of cutting its speed.

“They’re not following us or they would have slowed down, too,” Liddell told him. “Pull over and give them room.”

Dunlop edged slowly toward the side of the road; the big car roared up and came abreast. It edged up until its front fender was even with that of the small car. Then, the driver of the big car swung his wheel. There was a grinding of metal as the fenders met, the screeching of tires as Dunlop tried to apply his brakes.

The little car swung toward the embankment. Dunlop fought to gain control as it slewed from side to side. Suddenly its front outside wheel slipped off the pavement, sank into a soft shoulder. The car teetered sickeningly, went over. It plunged down the hill, end over end, and came to rest with a shattering crash against the trunk of a huge oak.

The black sedan roared on toward New Orleans.

It seemed as if endless time had passed before consciousness came knocking at Johnny Liddell’s skull. From somewhere close he heard the rumble of voices; the acrid smell of gasoline stung his nostrils. He tried to move, found himself pinned down by some heavy weight. He called out weakly.

One of the voices seemed to come closer. “Hey, one of them’s alive. We better get them out.”

There was a flurry of activity, and then the weight that pinned him against the bottom of the car was removed. None too gentle hands reached in, grabbed Liddell under the arms, lifted him out of the car.

The car itself lay on its side, its roof smashed in by the trunk of the tree. Larry Dunlop’s body lay alongside the car, a pulpy red mass where the head had been.

Liddell wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned against the car. The highway patrolman who had dragged him from the wreck stood by, watching him. One of them dug into his tunic pocket and came up with a cigarette.

“A smoke help, Mac?” he asked.

Liddell nodded gratefully as the highway patrolman stuck a cigarette between his lips and lit it. He waited until he had the cigarette going, until he had sucked in a lungful of smoke and let it out slowly. “Get the guys who did it?”

The two patrolmen exchanged glances. “What guys?” The shorter of the two looked down at Dunlop. “There’s the guy that did it. Skid marks on the road show he was weaving all over the place.”

“We were pushed off the road.” He looked from one patrolman to the other, recognized the disbelief in their faces, and shrugged. “Okay, have it your way.” He staggered around the smashed car and sat down with his back to the big tree.

A searing flash of pain shot through his head, and he identified it as the screech of a siren. After a moment, a car with two red headlights skidded to a stop on the road above.

One of the highway patrolmen scrambled up the hill, saluted the man in the car, reported in a low voice. The car door opened, and Sheriff Lalonde stepped out. He came down the hill, bent over the body of Larry Dunlop, snorted. Then he stiff-legged it to where Liddell sat propped against the tree.

“Well, well. I didn’t figure I’d have the pleasure of meeting you again so soon.” He reached over, grabbed Liddell by the lapels, pulled him to his feet, and shoved him back against the tree. “Drunken driving, eh?”

“The other fellow was behind the wheel, sheriff—” the shorter of the highway patrolmen started to say.

The sheriff whirled on him, his washed-out eyes gleaming red in the reflected light of the headlights. “When I want to hear from you, I’ll ask.” He nodded his dismissal. “My boys will take care of it from here on. You’ll make your report directly to me.”

The patrolman touched two fingers to the shiny visor of his cap. He waved for his companion and started up the incline toward his car. Lalonde waited until the patrol car had zoomed off, then walked over to where the newspaperman lay and turned the body over with his toe contemptuously. “The power of the press!” he snorted. “You see, Carroll?” He grinned at a beefy man who stood with him. “Newspaper guys bleed just like us poor humans!”

Johnny Liddell finished his cigarette, dropped it to the ground, and crushed it with his heel. “We were pushed off the road, sheriff. Two guys in a black sedan.”

Lalonde grinned at him. He walked back, stood in front of Liddell, and rocked on the balls of his feet. “That’s not the way we heard it. Dunlop there was on his way back to town, and he hit a soft shoulder.” The sheriff shrugged. “Bad road, happens all the time. The parish ought to do something about it.”

“Too bad it didn’t happen that way, sheriff,” Liddell grunted. “I guess you were forgetting I was with him.”

Lalonde grinned at him. “No. But you’re going to.”

Sheriff Lalonde sat behind the desk in his office, an unlit cigar between his teeth. He studied Johnny Liddell across the desk.

“I told you before I don’t like troublemakers. Dunlop was alone in the car when he hit that soft shoulder.” He rolled the unlit cigar in the center of his mouth between thumb and forefinger. “And you’re finished with what you came to do, so you’ll be on your way tomorrow. I’ll have a couple of boys tuck you in tonight and escort you to the airport. We wouldn’t want you to think we wasn’t hospitable.”

Liddell grinned frostily. “I wouldn’t want you to go to all that trouble, sheriff. Especially since I’m not going anywhere.”

Lalonde rocked in his desk chair, sank his teeth into the end of the cigar. “That’s what you think. You’re either going back where you came from, or you’re going to sit it out in one of those cells until you get smart.”

“On what charge?”

“Drunken driving. I just remember how it happened. You and Dunlop were carousing around all afternoon. On the way back, you started to hit it up, lost control, caused Dunlop’s death.” He pulled the cigar from between his teeth, jabbed it at Liddell. “And as justice of the peace, I can toss you in the poky for so long you won’t even remember your right name.”

“You couldn’t make it stick.”

Lalonde grinned at him. “When a man pleads guilty, it’s my duty to save the parish the cost of a trial.” He slammed the desk with the flat of his hand. “That’s the way it goes if you get tough.” He jabbed the button on the desk, the door opened. The thick-necked plain-clothes man in the rumpled blue suit walked in.

“Yeah, chief.” He rubbed the knuckles of his right hand into his left palm and licked his lips. “Do we take him?”

The sheriff shrugged. “Depends on him, Carroll. If he gets smart, decides to go back where he came from, we give him a lift back to town.”

Liddell pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket, held it up. “Okay to smoke?”

“Sure. This isn’t a third degree. We’re all sitting around trying to get at the truth.”

Liddell grunted, stuck a cigarette between his lips, lit it. The big man in the blue suit stepped over, smacked it out of his mouth before he could fill his lungs.

“Don’t overdo it, pal. Smoking’s bad for the wind. And you’re likely to need all you got.” He towered over Liddell, grinning down at him expectantly.

“Well, peeper? Decided?” Sheriff Lalonde sounded bored. “What does it read on the disposition? Accident while driving alone, or death as the result of a drunken driving accident?”

“Neither. Make it murder.”

The big man in the blue suit swung his beefy hand in an arc, caught Liddell across the face, knocked him out of his chair. “You just said a dirty word,” he chided. He looked over at the sheriff. “I got a feeling he’s going to plead guilty, chief.”

Lalonde nodded. “You don’t have to worry about marking him up. As long as he was in an accident, he might as well look like it.”

Carroll walked to the door, opened it, stuck his head out. After a moment another big man came to the door. Carroll whispered to him, they both walked over, grabbed Liddell by the arms, and dragged him out of the office.

The squad room was down a flight from the sheriff’s office. It had no windows, its walls were plain cinder block painted a dun-colored brown. The door was thick, fitted so closely it made the room practically soundproof.

Carroll pushed the door open, waited until his partner had dragged Liddell in, then closed the door. He loosened his tie and shucked off his jacket. His partner pushed Liddell into a wooden chair, pulled a blackjack from his hip pocket, slammed it against the heel of his hand suggestively.

Liddell sagged in the chair, pretended to be semiconscious. The man with the blackjack grabbed him by the hair, pulled his head back, sneered.

“He’s almost passed out with fright, Carroll. I thought these private eyes were hard boys. Hell, you bring in a nigger from the canefield, he gives you more exercise’n this one will.” He dropped Liddell’s head disgustedly.

Carroll flatfooted over to where Liddell sat, caught him by the necktie, pulled him to his feet. Liddell’s head rolled uncontrollably. The plain-clothes man slashed at the side of Liddell’s face, knocked him to his knees. He kicked out at his face, Liddell rolled with the kick, took it in the shoulder, fell back to the floor.

Carroll spat down at him, stood over him, hands on hip, feet astraddle. “No fight at all. Well, the chief says mark him up.” He raised his foot to kick at Liddell’s face, was momentarily off balance.

Liddell put everything into a sudden upward thrust of his heels, felt them sink into the big man’s groin. Carroll’s eyes popped, and his face went an ugly purple. He sank to his knees, gasped noisily for breath, tumbled forward, hit the stone floor face first with an ugly plop.

The second plain-clothes man was stunned by the suddenness of the move. Before he could gather his wits, Liddell was on his feet. The cop tried to swing the sap up, but Liddell hit him a paralyzing chop above the wrist. The blackjack fell to the floor.

Liddell straightened up, wiped the perspiration from his upper lip with the back of his hand. Then he started to move in. He missed a hard left, took a staggering right to the side of his head that started bells ringing, bright lights flashing. He shook his head, cleared it in time to see the sheriff’s man going for his hip holster. Before the gun could clear leather, Liddell was all over him. He caught the gun hand in a viselike grip, held it bent in back of the other man.

The deputy struggled, tried to bring his knee up, lost leverage as Liddell stuck the top of his head under the deputy’s chin, pushing it upward and backward. Perspiration broke out in gleaming beads all over the deputy’s face as slowly, inexorably Liddell bent him back over his own arm. The sheriff’s man screamed out in pain; the gun slipped from his damp fingers and hit the floor. Liddell sent it spinning to the corner of the room with a kick.

Liddell released his hammer lock on the plain-clothes man, let him fall to the ground. He sat there, rubbing his wrist, glaring at the private detective. Then he reached up, slipped his upper plate out of his mouth, dropped it into his jacket pocket. He dragged himself to his feet, crouched, waited. He stood between Liddell and the gun at the other end of the room.

Liddell started to circle around him toward the gun. The deputy moved with surprising speed for a man his size. He darted forward, sank his left into Liddell’s stomach, took a smashing right to the eye in return. He took the punch well, kept boring in. Liddell back-pedaled, made the bigger man come to him. Suddenly, without warning, he stopped his backward movement, planted his feet, lashed out with both hands.

The maneuver caught the plain-clothes man off balance. He took a straight overhand to the jaw, an uppercut to the throat that made him gag. Liddell continued to throw both hands, sank his left to the cuff in the other man’s middle. The deputy retched, gasped wide-mouthed for air.

Liddell moved in. He crossed his right to the other man’s unprotected jaw. The deputy’s eyes turned glassy; he made a feeble effort to lash out at Liddell but seemed to have lost all co-ordination. Liddell chopped at the side of the big man’s neck, the man’s knees folded under him, and he hit the floor with a thud. He lay there, face down, and didn’t move.

Liddell walked over to the sink in the corner, stuck his face under the cold tap, washed the fuzziness from his brain. He picked up the gun from against the wall, walked over to where Carroll lay, still out cold. He turned him over, tugged his .38 from its shoulder holster.

He was straightening up when the door to the squad room burst open. Liddell crouched, with the two guns leveled at the doorway.

Sheriff Lalonde stood in the doorway, his eyes popping. He looked from Liddell to his two fallen deputies and back. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

“Come on in and join the party, sheriff,” Liddell panted at him.