Savage Night (9 page)

“That is funny,” I said. “Better not tell me any more or I’ll be laughing all night.”

“Stinker! Just for that…It’s Ruthie, honey. Would you believe it? I swear to God someone’s gotten to her.”

I
laughed. I did a pretty good job of it, considering. “No fooling. How did she happen to tell you about it?”

“She didn’t, silly. You can see it. It sticks out all over her.”

“That should be something to see,” I said.

“Crazy!” She buried her head against my chest, giggling. “B-but—but, honestly, Carl! Who in the world would want to…Carl! I bet I know.”

“Yeah?” I said. “I mean, you do?”

“Why, of course. It couldn’t be anyone else. She went home last night. I’ll bet it’s someone in her own family.”

I swallowed. I was relieved, in a way, but I wished she hadn’t said it. I felt shamed, embarrassed.

“They’re…they’re that kind of people?”

“They’re trash. You ought to see how they live! They’ve got about fourteen kids, and—”

“Maybe I ought to tell you,” I said. “There were fourteen children in my family.”

“Oh—” She hesitated, uncomfortably. “Well. Of course, I didn’t mean that—that—”

“Sure. Forget it,” I said.

“But it isn’t the same, Carl. You didn’t just put up with it like they do. You did something about it.”

“Well,” I said. “Isn’t she doing something?”

“Oh, pooh! What good will it do her if she does manage to squeeze through college? Who’s going to give
her
a job that’s worth having?”

I shook my head. Ruthie looked pretty good to me, but she’d just about have to. She was me, in a way, and I was seeing myself in her.

“…you know I’m right, Carl. She’s trash, stupid, like all the rest of her family. If she really had any brains or guts, she’d—she’d—Well, she’d do
something!
”

“Well, maybe she’s working on it now. Maybe she’s going to grow herself a gang of kids and put them all out to picking cotton.”

“All right,” she laughed good-naturedly. “I guess my own family didn’t amount to much, for that matter, but I did
do
—”

“You’d better start doing something else,” I said, “before someone catches you in here.”

She kissed me, patted me quickly on the cheek and slipped out of the room.

I went to bed.

It was only a little after nine when I turned in, and I couldn’t have slept better if I hadn’t had a worry in the world. I woke at six with nine good hours under my belt, the best night’s sleep I’d had since I left Arizona. I had a hangover, but nothing bad. I coughed and spit blood, but nothing bad. That rest had done me a world of good.

Well, anyway, I’d had that much.

I smoked a couple of cigarettes, wondering what I’d better do. Whether I’d better get up and get out on the town—stay away from the house until the others were up. Or whether I should just stay here in my room until they were up.

It would have to be one way or another. Otherwise, unless I missed my guess, I’d have Ruthie on my neck. And all Ruthie was getting from me, from now on, was the cold shoulder. I wasn’t going to get caught alone with her. Any time I saw her, there’d be someone else around. Pretty soon she’d get the idea, and then maybe it would be safe to be friendly with her…just friendly.

…I found a little lunchroom open down near the railroad station and got some coffee. Afterwards, I sauntered back up the street.

It was Sunday—somehow that fact kept slipping in and out of my mind. You know how that is, maybe, when a lot’s been happening to you, and you lay off on days you’re used to working and so on. The church bells were starting to ring, booming out over the town. Practically every business house was closed; nothing was open but a few cigar stands, lunch counters and the like. I began to feel kind of conspicuous.

I stopped at an intersection to let a car go past. But instead of passing it pulled even with me and stopped.

Sheriff Summers rolled the window down and leaned out.

“Hey, there, young feller. Give you a lift?”

He was all duked out in a hard-boiled collar and a blue serge suit. There was a hatchet-faced dame with him—a dame in a stiff black satin dress and a hat that looked like a lamp shade. I took off my hat and smiled at her, wondering why some dairy hadn’t snapped her up to sour their cream for them.

“What about the lift?” he said, shaking hands. “ ’Spect you’re headin’ for church, eh? Glad to take you t’ any one you say.”

“Well,” I hesitated. “As a matter of fact, I’m not a—I’ve never affiliated—”

“Just lookin’ around, huh? Well, come on and go with us.”

I went around to the other side, and he started to open the front door. I opened the back door, and climbed in…How dumb can you be anyway? How little can you know about women? Muss ’em up when they’ve got their clothes off, that’s my motto. When they’re dressed up—maybe in the only good thing they’ve got—give them room.

He drove on. I cleared my throat. “I don’t believe I’ve met your—is it your daughter, sheriff?”

“Huh?” He looked up into the rear-view mirror, startled. Then, he gave her a poke in the ribs with his elbow. “You hear that, Bessie? He thinks you’re my daughter.”

“And who am I, pray tell?”

“Why—uh—my wife.”

“Thank you. I was afraid you’d forgotten.”

She half turned in the seat, brushing at the place where he’d poked her, and the way she looked then she wouldn’t have stood a chance at that milk-souring job.

“Thank you for the compliment, young man. It’s about the first one I’ve had since Bill came home from the war. World War One, that is.”

“Aw, now, Bessie. I ain’t that—”

“Be quiet. Mr. Bigelow and I are thoroughly disgusted with you, aren’t we, Mr. Bigelow? There is nothing he can say that we care to hear.”

“Not a thing,” I grinned. “That’s an awfully pretty hat you’re wearing, Mrs. Summers.”

“Do you hear that, Your Highness? Did you hear what this
gentleman
said about my hat?”

“Well, heck, Bessie. It does look kinda of like a lamp—”

“Hush. Just be quiet, and Mr. Bigelow and I will try to ignore you.”

They kept it up all the way to church, and practically up to the door. And they seemed to enjoy it in a way, but I wondered if they wouldn’t have enjoyed some other way better. I mean, arguing is arguing, and quarreling is quarreling, and it’s still that regardless of how you laugh and kid around about it. You don’t do it unless something is eating on you. You don’t do it when things are like they should be.

I opened the car door for her and helped her out…and she looked at him. I took her elbow and helped her up the steps of the church…and she looked at him. I stood aside at the door and let her go in first…and she looked at him.

We stayed through Sunday school and church, and you probably know a lot more about those things than I do, so I won’t describe them to you. It was better than wandering around the street. It was as good a way as any of killing the morning. I felt safe and peaceful, like a guy has to feel if his brain is going to work at its best. I sang and prayed and listened to the sermon—just sort of letting my mind wander. Letting it go where it wanted to. And by the time church was over, I had it. I’d figured out how I was going to kill Jake Winroy.

Not completely, you understand. There were a few details to iron out, my alibi and setting him up and so on. But I knew they’d come to me.

Mrs. Summers glanced at me as we went back up the aisle together. “Well, young man. You’re looking very happy.”

“I’m glad you let me come with you,” I said. “It’s done me a lot of good.”

They stopped at the door to shake hands with the minister, and she introduced me. I told him his sermon had been very inspiring…which it was. I’d doped out the plan for Jake while he was spieling.

We started on out to the car, she and I walking together and the sheriff trailing along behind.

“I was wondering, Mr. Big—Oh, I think I’ll call you, Carl. If you don’t mind.”

“I wish you would,” I said. “What were you wondering, Mrs. Summers?”

“I was going to ask you if—” We’d reached the curb, and she turned and motioned impatiently. “Oh, do come on, Bill. You’re slower than molasses in January. I was about to ask Carl to come home to dinner with us.”

“Yeah?” he said. “How come? I mean—uh—you were?”

Her mouth tightened. Untightened. I think she was just about to open up on him when he headed her off.

“Well, fine, great!” He clapped me on the back. “Tickled to death to have you, son. Meant to ask you myself.”

He hadn’t meant to. He didn’t even halfway like the idea. He could take me to church, sure. But to take me into his home—pal up with me—when there was any kind of a chance that I might mean trouble…

There
was
something about me that bothered him. There was something he wasn’t quite satisfied about.

“Thanks very much,” I said. “I don’t think I’d better today. They’re expecting me at the house, and I’ve got a lot of things to get ready for school and—and all.”

“Uh-huh. Sure,” he nodded. “Well, if you can’t make it, you can’t…guess we’ll have to eat by ourselves, Bessie.”

“You,” she said. “I’ll swear, Bill Summers, I—I—!”

“Now, what’d I do? I asked him, didn’t I? You heard him say he couldn’t come. Didn’t I”—he turned to me—“Didn’t you say you couldn’t come?”

“Hush. You’re impossible. Utterly impossible…Carl, I’d ask you to let us drive you home, but I imagine His Highness would find some way to keep you from accepting.”

“Now, I wouldn’t neither! Heck, I—why’d I do a thing like that?”

“Why do you do anything, pray tell?”

It was getting embarrassing. I put a stop to it. I said I honestly couldn’t take dinner with them today—maybe some other time—but I would appreciate a ride home.

Neither of them said anything until we reached the house. Then, while I was thanking them and saying good morning, he squinted at the coupe pulled in at the gutter.

“Hey,” he frowned, “that’s Doc Dodson’s car, ain’t it? You got some sick folks here, son?”

“Not that I know of,” I said. “I left the house before anyone was up this morning.”

“Must be someone sick. Doc wouldn’t be payin’ no social calls on the Winroys. Wonder who it could be?”

“Why don’t you go in and ask?” Mrs. Summers glared at him. “Shake hands with all of them. Call them all by their first names. Ask about their families. Never mind about
me,
or how
I
—”

He jammed the car into gear, cutting her off. “I’m goin’, ain’t I? Doggone it, can’t you see I’m goin’?…son, I’m—I—”

I hopped out fast. He drove off, the engine roaring, and I went up the walk and into the house.

Fay met me in the hall. She was breathless. The reddish-brown eyes blazed with fear against the dead white of her face. I looked past her, into the dining room.

Ruth was in there. Ruth and Kendall and Jake and a potbellied, bald-headed little guy I knew was a doctor. Jake was sprawled on the floor on his back, and the doctor was stooped down over him, holding a stethoscope to his chest.

Fay whispered to me, her lips barely moving.

“His wine. Poisoned. Doped. Did you—?”

I
pushed past her, flipping my fist against her groin. Goddammit, of course she was scared, but she didn’t need to hang a sign on me. She followed me into the dining room and stood beside me. I moved away from her, over between Kendall and Ruth.

Jake’s eyes were closed. He was mumbling, rolling his head from side to side. The doc leaned back, letting the stethoscope swing free, and frowned down at him.

He picked up Jake’s wrist and felt the pulse. He let the hand drop back to the floor.

“Hold still,” he said curtly.

“…Slee-py…s-so—” Jake kept on rolling his head, breathing in great shuddering breaths “…S-save me…l-lookit…w-wine—”

“Stop that! Stop it this minute!” The doctor gripped him by the head with one hand. “Hold still!”

Jake held still. He had to. The way the doc was gripping him, he might have got his scalp peeled off.

The doctor pulled back first one eyelid, then, the other. He stood up, brushing at the knees of his pants, and nodded to Kendall.

“You tell me how this happened, Phil?”

“Why, yes, Doc.” Kendall took the pipe out of his mouth. “I don’t know as I can add anything to what Mrs. Winroy—”

“Mrs. Winroy was somewhat excited. You tell me.”

“Well, let’s see. She and I—Mrs. Winroy and I—were in the living room, reading the Sunday papers, and Miss Dorne was in the kitchen preparing dinner. Isn’t that right, Ruth?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“Never mind all that. Just the essentials.” The doctor glanced impatiently at his watch. “I can’t spend all morning on—on—You heard Winroy coming down the stairs, making plenty of noise about it. Go on.”

“I got up. We both got up, I believe. We supposed that—uh—he was just—”

“Drunk. Go on.”

“We went out into the hall and he staggered past us, mumbling that he’d been doped—that the wine had been doped, or something of the kind. His speech was very unclear. He came into the dining room and collapsed, and we—Mrs. Winroy—called—”

“He was carrying the wine bottle with him, eh? Very carefully corked?” The doctor’s face was flushed; the red seemed to go clear up into his eyes. “Let me see it again.”

Kendall took the bottle from the table and handed it to him. He sniffed it, tasted it, took a man-size swallow of it. He brushed his mouth sourly, glancing at Fay.

“He take sleeping pills? How many—how often?”

“I—I don’t k-know, doctor.”

“Know how many he has? Whether any great number is missing?”

“No, I—” Fay shook her head “—I brought him some back from the city, but I don’t know how many he had—”

“Did, eh? Have a prescription? No? Know that’s illegal? Never mind. No bearing here.”

“He’s n-not—?”

The doctor grunted. He dug the toe of his shoe into Jake’s ribs. “Cut it out. Stop it. Get up from there,” he snapped.

Jake’s eyes wavered open. “S-something…in the—”

“There’s something in it, all right. Alcohol. Twenty percent by volume.”

He reached for his medicine kit, nodding grimly at Fay. “Nothing wrong with him. Not a thing in the world. Throw a pail of water on him if he doesn’t get up.”

“But, I—” Her face was red, too, now. Even redder than his. “Why…I just don’t understand—”

“Exhibitionism. Wants attention, sympathy. They hit that stuff long enough they don’t make much sense…No, he’s not drunk. Hasn’t had enough.”

Fay grimaced, trying to smile. “I’m terribly sorry, doctor. I’ll…if you’ll send a bill—”

“I will. And don’t call me again, understand? I have sick people to take care of.”

He slapped his hat on his head, shook hands with Kendall and slammed out of the house.

Jake sat up. He pushed himself up to his feet, stood weaving, his head sagged, staring at the floor.

“Ruth”—Fay kept her eyes on him—“haven’t you some work to do?”

“I—Yes, ma’am.” Ruth pivoted on the crutch and scuttled back to the kitchen.

“Jake.” Fay moved toward him slowly. “Jake. Look at me!”

“Somethin’…something wrong,” he mumbled.

“Oh,” she said hoarsely. “Something was wrong, huh? Something wrong. You—you frightened us all half to death—make a big scene here on Sunday—and a-and let me in for a bawling out from that damned snotty Dodson, and—and something’s wrong! Is that all you’ve got to say? Look at me, Jake Winroy!”

He kept his eyes on her feet, mumbling that something was wrong. Moving backward as she came toward him.

He reached the door, and there, as he had that first night, he whirled and made a break for it. I heard him trip and stumble on the steps, but he didn’t fall as he had the other time. He got through the gate, and glancing out the window I saw him heading for town at his sagging, loping walk.

Fay turned back toward us. Her lips were trembling, her hands clenching and unclenching. She shrugged—or tried to. She tried to smile. She said, “Well, I g-guess that’s t-tha—” Then she sank down into a chair at the table, and buried her head in her arms.

Kendall touched me on the elbow and we went out in the hall together. “Not the most pleasant way to spend the Sabbath, eh? You look like you might be able to use a small libation, Mr. Bigelow.”

“I could,” I said. “It wouldn’t even have to be small.”

“So? You will do me the honor, then.”

We crossed the street to the bar. There were quite a few people in the place, but the bartender came around from behind the counter fast and showed us to a booth.

He’d never done that for me. I’d never seen him do it for anyone else. Kendall seemed to take it as a matter of course. I wondered about it—this and the way the doctor had kind of kowtowed to him—and I guess I showed it.

“I’ve lived here the better part of my life, Mr. Bigelow. Or should I say the larger part of it? I grew up with many of these people. I taught school to many.”

The bartender brought our drinks, double Scotches. Kendall rocked the ice in his glass, looked up at me slowly. His eyes were twinkling.

“Odd about Winroy, isn’t it? Now, he above all people should know that if you
had
been sent here to kill him—
if
you had, Mr. Bigelow—”

“That’s not a very pleasant if,” I said.

“Sorry. Thoughtless of me. Make it a hypothetical person, then. What good would it do for Winroy to dispose of him? He’d only be postponing the inevitable.”

“Yeah?” I said. “I guess I don’t know much about those things.”

“But it’s so elementary! They—his former associates, that is—would be even more determined, if anything. Suppose the officers charged with executing our laws allowed a malefactor to go unpunished, merely because punishment was difficult or dangerous to render him. We’d have chaos, Mr. Bigelow. It simply couldn’t be allowed.”

I raised my glass and took a drink. “I guess you’re right,” I said. “It would be that way, wouldn’t it? But a mal—a criminal usually does try to get away. He may know it won’t do him any good, but he’s got to try; he can’t just sit.”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose so,” he nodded. “While there’s life there’s hope, et cetera. But Winroy—”

“I—I don’t know what all this has to do with me,” I said. “What you said a moment ago; it sounded like you thought he’d tried to get me in trouble.”

“And? Surely you were aware of that.”

“Why, no.” I shook my head. “I thought it was like the doctor—”

“Tell me, Mr. Bigelow. What do you think the doctor’s reaction would have been if there had been a quantity of amytal in the wine? What do you think would have been the end result of the ensuing course of events?”

I stared at him. What did I think? Jesus Christ, I didn’t have to think!

He nodded slowly.

“Yes. He tried to—uh—frame you…that’s the expression, isn’t it? You are here by the grace of God, and, I might say, due to my innate distrust of and dislike for the man. Here, instead of in custody on a charge of attempted murder—or worse.”

“But—for God’s sake!” I said. “How—?”

“Winroy is not notably an early riser. Neither is he inclined to show consideration to others in the matter of quiet. So, when I heard him moving about early this morning—moving with attempted but not too successful stealth—I was disturbed. I got up and listened at my door. I heard him creep out of his room and enter yours. When he came out and went downstairs, I investigated. I—I hope you don’t think it was presumptuous of me to enter your room, but my thought was that he might have harmed—”

“I don’t. That’s all right,” I said. “Just—”

“He was too obvious about it. If he’d used any subtlety at all, but…It was a box of amytal, Mr. Bigelow. He’d emptied six of the capsules and left the empty ones in the box with the full ones. And he’d placed the box behind the window curtain, where anyone who suspected wrongdoing would have no difficulty in finding it. Well, I suspected. I saw what he must intend. I went into his room and examined his wine with a result which you are, of course, aware of. I might have simply called him to account, but it seemed best to thwart him. To make him appear so painfully ridiculous that any future similar attempt would be knocked in the head at the outset…You see that, do you not?”

I saw it. Jake wouldn’t pull another stunt like that.

“I disposed of the amytal capsules in the toilet along with the wine. Then, I washed the bottle out, and refilled it to its former level from a bottle I had. I am not what is ordinarily thought of as a drinking man, but a small glass of wine, sometimes, when I am turning through a book—”

“He had to take a drink of it,” I said. “He’d want to have at least a little of the amytal in him. It’s a wonder he didn’t—”

“Notice the taste?” Kendall chuckled, his eyes twinkling. “Well, I don’t imagine he’s accustomed to drinking amytal and liquor, so he’d hardly know what taste to expect. And I imagine it did taste rather peculiar to him. It’s much better wine than he’s accustomed to drinking.”

I looked down at the table. “Gosh,” I said. “I hardly know what to say. Except thanks. I don’t like to think what would have happened if—”

“Then don’t. And I enjoyed doing it, Mr. Bigelow. I can’t remember when I’ve had such an interesting experience.”

“What do you think?” I said. “Do you think I should move out?”

“What do
you
think?”

I hesitated. Was he or wasn’t he? If he was tied up with The Man, I’d better not be thinking about moving. But if he wasn’t, well, moving would be the first thing I’d think of.

“I’ve been trying to make up my mind,” I said. “I’d hate to. People would naturally wonder about it, and it’s reasonable there—the price, I mean. And with us working together and the bakery so nearby, it’s—”

“I don’t believe I’d move, if I were you.”

“Well,” I said. “I certainly wouldn’t want to.”

“I hope you don’t. I very much hope so. Of course, I wouldn’t want you to let me influence you against your better judgement.”

“Sure. I understand.”

“I admired you a great deal at your first encounter with Winroy. Your complete self-possession. Your self-control, nerve, in the face of an alarming and awkward situation. Frankly, I was a little envious of you; you shamed me. I had just about arrived at a point where I was ready to move myself. In other words, I was going to allow this drunken lout, a convicted gangster, to dictate to
me.
That would have been wrong of me, Mr. Bigelow. Very wrong. But I needn’t tell you that, of course. I can’t tell you how disappointed I’d be, if you should—well, it sounds rather harsh but I’ll say it. If you should turn tail and run.”

“I’m not going to,” I said. “I’m going to stay, all right.”

“Good. Excellent. We shall stand shoulder to shoulder in this matter. You may depend on my fullest support, moral and otherwise. In case of difficulty, I believe you will find that my word carries far more weight in this community than Winroy’s.”

“I’m sure it does,” I said.

“Well—” He raised his glass. “By the way, am I mistaken or did Sheriff and Mrs. Summers drive you home?”

“I ran into them downtown this morning,” I said. “I went to church with them.”

“Splendid! Those seemingly small things—they mean a great deal in a town like this…Another drink?”

I shook my head. I wanted one, but I didn’t think I’d better take it.

He might get the idea that I needed the stuff to keep going.

We went back to the house, and he and I had dinner together alone. Fay was in her room, I guess, still too upset and sore to eat.

We finished eating, and he went to the bakery. And I went right along with him. We came back at seven for sandwiches and coffee and so on—what they usually feed you for Sunday night supper wherever you are. Then we returned to the bakery, and I stuck with him until he knocked off at ten o’clock.

I was afraid to be there in the house with Ruth when all the others were out of the way. I hoped she got the idea fast that I didn’t know her from now on.

Sunday is a big night in a bakery, Kendall explained. On Saturday there’s practically nothing to do, since most retail outlets are closed the following day. But on Sunday you’re baking for Monday, and with almost everyone run out of stuff over the weekend, it’s the busiest day of the week.

He had plenty to do out on the floor, and most of the time I was by myself in the stockroom. I kept busy, as busy as I could. It would have looked funny to loaf around for seven or eight hours. He gave me a set of his whites to wear—we were about the same size—and I went all through the stock, getting familiar with it and taking inventory of everything but the bulk stuff.

“You can inventory that tomorrow,” Kendall said, when he dropped in on me during a lull. “You’ll need someone to help you weigh it, and give you the tare—the weight of the various containers. That would have to be deducted from your gross weight, understand, to give you the net.”

I nodded, and he went on:

“These bulk items, they’re the things that have given us trouble. Not at all surprising, either, with everyone chasing in and out of here, tossing their batches together by guess and by golly. Now here”—he tapped a heavily insulated barrel—“is a plaster-of-Paris compound—”

“Plaster of Paris,” I said. “You put that stuff in—in—?”