seven-thirty.”
“Seven-thirty? Bessie said she'd let me—damn it, Andy, did you wake me up to tell me about fishing?” I asked, angry.
“No, sir. There's a policeman outside. He has something for you.”
I put on a robe and nodded to Bessie, washing up in the bathroom. She should have closed the door, the sun silhouetted her figure against her short nightgown.
End Harbor's one police car was parked outside and a cop I'd never seen before, a stocky joker about thirty, waved a letter at me. “Special delivery.”
“A special?” Then I remembered, Nat and his credit report. “You fellows deliver mail, too?”
He was looking me over; I guess I didn't look like much. “I heard a lot about you—big city cop. Yeah, when we're cruising around we deliver specials and telegrams.”
“They nab whoever killed Nelson?”
“It was a suicide. Found the gun right in his lap, I hear. He had a gun permit, too.”
“What makes him the doc's killer?”
“Found the doc's scarf in the glove compartment Doc was wearing the scarf the night he was killed.”
“Roberts said nothing was missing.”
“Mrs. Barnes didn't remember he was wearing a scarf until we—I mean the Hampton Point police—found it.”
“What's the tie- up between Nelson and the doctor?”
He shrugged. “We don't know—yet. But having the dead man's scarf in his car proves he saw the doc last. That's why he probably killed himself, sense of guilt.”
I wanted to ask more questions but told myself to mind my own business. I thanked him for the letter, wondered if he expected a tip, went back inside.
“What's the special about?” Bessie asked. She'd changed to a bathing suit.
“Nothing. Just some info I asked for. You done in the John?”
“Sure.”
I went in and washed up. When I came out she said, “Well, at least open it.”
“The case is over.”
“It's special delivery, open it!”
I opened it, showed her Nat's report. Bessie said, “That's all? I'll make breakfast, then we'll spend the day on the beach. Andy, take out the milk and juice, set the table.”
I dressed and glanced at Nat's report. He didn't have a thing on Jerry, or about Jane Endin. Doc Barnes was rated as a highly respected citizen. A former mayor, his income was over $15,000 a year. Nat had plenty of information about the doc's background, college, war record — but none of it interesting. Larry Anderson also had a good credit rating, although his income averaged under $5000. Art Roberts only made $2800 a year but somehow owned his house and car. The few other names I'd picked at random were either not listed, or mostly considered poor credit risks.
Nat wrote:
“In general, End Harbor is a two-bit town, business-wise. There's a few retired people with dough, and of course the doctor. He's always been comfortable, in fact he married into money. His wife inherited a neat bundle from her folks, shortly before Barnes married her. However, since her older brother had disappeared years before, there was some difficulty settling the estate and Priscilla Barnes (maiden name—Wiston) spent many thousands of bucks hunting for the missing brother—Jack Wiston. He was never found, thought to have vanished in a Canadian gold rush.
“This Anderson seems to be the only merchant making a go of things. He owns his house and land, free and clear, never asks for credit, pays all bills promptly. Of course most of the people there own their homes. Handed down from father-to-son stuff, but everybody is money-poor. Barnes probably has stocks and bonds. By the way, if you're thinking of buying property, real estate in End Harbor is considered a very sound investment. People are pushing out all along the Island, and the summer tourist trade has been growing steadily. There's been a small real estate boom in End Harbor and considerable building —mostly of summer cottages—as a result. However, the contractors are all from Hampton and other towns. Odd there isn't a building contractor in the Harbor. That should be a sweet business if you're thinking of investing. So is real estate. And where did you get your pile from? I always thought you were an honest slob. Or did you finally bring in a horse?”
Matty got up, stalked into the room, stretching and yawning. I cleaned his box, washed my hands, and fed him. I had to coax him to eat. He took a few sips of his milk, started to walk away. I ran my ringers through his fur for ticks. He must have been as irritable as I was— he swung on me.
Bessie put breakfast on the table, told me, “At least wash your hands after touching that filthy beast.”
“He's cleaner than you or I,” I said, making for the kitchen sink.
She steered me toward the bathroom, as if I were a child. Maybe I felt kind of childish. Or would senile be the correct word?
During breakfast Andy had to tell me—in detail—how he'd built the model boat. Then he started asking when we'd go fishing. I was far too restless to sit in a damn rowboat. I made the mistake of saying I had to see about fixing the car and that started another flood of questions. I finally snapped, “Andy, it's too early in the morning for so much talk. I've had a hard night.”
“Doing what, Grandpops?”
“Oh, Andy... leave me alone.”
The kid sulked until Bessie told him to cut it out before he got walloped. No sooner did the kid quiet down than Bessie started to run her mouth. Danny had assured her his insurance covered the damage. If I wanted to wait until he came down on Friday, he would take care of things.
Andy cut in with, “Anybody knows you should be towed out of mud, not pushed.”
“Nonsense. How about the time I was pushed out of the sand with the old car?” Bessie asked.
I finished my coffee quickly as they argued, all the petty talk increasing my nervousness. I finally got in a word, told Andy I'd meet him on the beach, to take the rods and stuff there and wait. Then I told Bessie I was merely going to get the Indian's license number, leave the car at the garage.
I undressed and put on my bathing trunks, then dressed again. Matty was back on my bed and I poked him and he hissed at me. I don't know what it was, but driving toward Hampton I felt depressed as hell.
I found the reservation without any trouble, didn't bother going into the shack they called a store. Chief Tom's truck was parked outside and I got down the license number, and his full name from the fly-specked beer license in the dirty store window. His name was Tom Claude Faro.
Danny's car looked bad in the daylight and I was glad to drop it off at the garage. The mechanic I'd talked to yesterday was there and I got quite a shock when I saw Art Roberts changing from coveralls into his snappy uniform. He called out, “Wait a minute,- Lund, I'll give you a lift back to the Harbor.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Working. This is my cousin Hank,” he said, nodding at the other mechanic. “When will Lund's car be ready?”
“Not for a day, maybe two. Phone me in the morning, Mr. Lund,” this Hank said.
Roberts carefully dressed, paying a lot of attention to his hair. A mirror was his best friend. When he saw me watching him he winked, said, “I have to look my best— going to Edward's funeral in an hour. Come on.”
He had a snappy white MG and as I sat in the bucket seat, I said, “Some car.”
“Keeps me broke. Bought it two months ago from a society kid I pinched for drunk driving. Got a good buy.”
We drove for a moment before he said, “Suppose you know about Nelson. We have everything but the motive. Hampton Point police are having the L.A. cops look into Nelson's life.”
“How come he had a gun permit?”
“Don't know. He was a retired bank guard, maybe they let them keep their rods. Pretty good work for hick cops, isn't it?”
“Stop that 'luck' routine. I never called you one.”
“Sure, but you're thinking it: I'm a hick cop in a gaudy uniform. Okay, I am. And I like it. I have to take another job to keep going, everybody in the Harbor works at a couple jobs. See, plenty of work around here but not any good jobs. Anyway, the case is settled. Jerry is off the hook so I think you're happy. Now stop getting into everybody's hair. Heard you visited Mrs. Barnes and Jane Endin yesterday. I guess
“Sure. I only did it because of my daughter-in-law, had to showboat a little.”
He gave me a patronizing grin; with his looks, the uniform, and the MG, Roberts must have been God's gift to the women—in the Harbor. He said, “You won't believe this, but I'm damn glad you were so nosey. Matter of fact, I learned something, working with you.”
I laughed. “Working
“I was a little steamed at first when you showed me up, my saying it was an accident.” We turned into Main Street, stopped in front of the Municipal Building. “Want me to run you up to your cottage?”
“No, thanks, I could use a walk. You know, I was thinking it could have been an accident Suppose Barnes saw a drunk driver coming at him, had to swerve to escape hitting him, went off the road and was killed when the car hit the tree? The drunk could have stopped, dragged the body out of the car, then panicked when he saw he had a stiff, taken off. Perhaps later the body was run over by a hit- and-run driver. Too much of a coincidence, two lousy drivers, but it's possible. I mean, was possible.”
Roberts had real dismay on his big face. “Jeez, you ain't starting to open this all over again, Lund?”
I crawled out of the MG, straightened up. “Nope. Merely talking. From now on
