Shakedown for Murder

poisoning in the Harbor?”

     “Never heard of any, but they do happen,” he said, glancing at a car making a brake-screeching turn off Main Street, muttering, “Dumb kid drivers.”

     “I'll tell you what happened. The killer came to our cottage with a toadstool while we were at the beach, found the food in the icebox, cut in the toadstool. He figured after eating the food we'd get sick enough to pack up for New York. I'd be off his back. Then he saw my cat, thought he had a better way of making sure his plan worked fast—forced food down Matty's mouth and left the bowl beside him on the table.”

     “You're going off half-cocked, Lund. All that is only what you think.”

     I patted Matty's basket. “I didn't think up this!”

     “But you can't be positive that...?”

     “I'm positive!”

     “Look, Lund, all we know is your cat ate a toadstool and died. That doesn't prove a thing. You heard Jessie, he wasn't even certain how the cat died. And don't keep saying 'he'—if you think the cat was deliberately killed— I recall hearing your daughter-in-law wasn't keen on the cat. And her boy—some kids get kicks out of hanging dogs and....”

     “Oh cut it. I've had enough talk.”

     “What the hell do you expect me to do? If the cat was killed deliberately, so what? I'm not the SPCA. Killing a cat isn't any crime. As for this being part of the Barnes business, old man, you're way off your rocker.”

     We finished the ride in silence. Roberts helped me into the cottage with the stuff, planted his rear on a chair again —his favorite hobby. I wondered what he was hanging around for. I knew I was wasting valuable time talking to the big dope. The toadstool told me all I wanted to know... except for one other thing I had to clear. I asked, “How old would Jack Wiston be now?”

     “Who?” His face looked blank and I doubted if he was that good an actor.

     “Priscilla Barnes' missing brother,” I said.

     “You really get around, Lund. I don't know. That was long before my time. I never saw or knew any of her family, not even when I was a kid.”

     “How old was Barnes?”

     “Around sixty- three. I have his exact age in my files. Had a nice funeral for Ed today. Worked out fine.”

     “You mean Jane Endin didn't show. How old was Nelson?”

     “Seventy- one.”

     “And Pops?”

     Roberts looked startled. “What's Pops got to do with this?”

     “How old is he?”

     Roberts shrugged. “Never could count that high. This a quiz program?”

     “It was, up till now. Roberts, do me one favor, give— or sell—me a handful of .38 shells.” I touched his polished belt lined with bullets. I knew there was little chance the hardware store carried them.

     Roberts couldn't have jumped to his feet faster if a shell had goosed him. His eyes actually narrowed—again —as he asked, “What for?”

     “For my empty gun.”

     “That tears it, Lund. You've been a wild-hair from the moment you came to the Harbor. Pack a gun and I'll jail you!”

     “The law says I can carry a gun anywhere in the state.”

     “Then I'll lock you up for disorderly conduct, for being a loony! You sore because your Greek buddy is free and you haven't anything to do now? Who the devil do you think you are? Dick Tracy? I'm warning you, Lund, and only this once, annoy anybody else in the Harbor and I'll throw your ass in jail so fast it will make your badge smoke!” He started for the porch, his big frame filling the doorway.

     “Maybe the Hampton Point police will be interested.”

     Roberts spun around so quickly I thought he was going to swing on me. “Sure, go tell them about your cat—they'll toss you in a cell, a padded one! Maybe you don't believe this, but I'm doing you a favor—although you sure act like you're cracked. Well, here's the favor, some free advice: don't make a fool of yourself in Hampton Point They have a big force, a rough one. It's a rich town and they got plenty of cops because they're afraid the migratory potato pickers might get out of hand in the summer. You go there and they'll laugh you out of town!”

     He ran down the porch steps, and into the radio car. I leaned against the wall, watched the lights of the car disappear—wondered what to do next. For a second I was full of doubts... But it had to be Pops. He was the “old goat,” and for some reason he'd killed Barnes, then taken off. That accounted for the dummy up on the widow's walk. I'd seen the hands move this afternoon, but whose hands? On a hot day why would anybody, even a supposedly sick man, keep a hat over his face, a blanket on? Somehow Larry Anderson was in this, probably protecting Pops, maybe being blackmailed. It all fitted. Larry had seen me out on the bay this afternoon with the glasses, thought I was spying on Pops again, that I hadn't been taken in by the Nelson “suicide.” So Larry told the “old goat.” Or he and Pops could be in this together.

     Hell, everybody in the Harbor might be in on this. Jane Endin hadn't been at the funeral, she only lived a few blocks from here, must know about mushrooms and herbs. She could be working with Pops, trying to scare me off.

     But off what? What possibly could be going on in this peaceful lousy hick burg that called for murder? I didn't know who did the other killings, but Matty had to be the work of Pops, whoever he was and wherever he was. That was why Larry had put his glasses on me this afternoon.

     I either had to pack up Andy and Bessie, get away from here at once, or if I stayed, I had to solve it before anything happened to them. And I had to do it alone—me, the do-it-yourself detective. Maybe I was being an old fool, but I just couldn't run.

     I went inside and dumped every bit of food I could find—the stuff in the icebox along with sugar, salt, cereals —in the garbage can. Even the toothpaste. Some flies were on Matty. I rummaged around until I found an empty hat-box and put Matty in it. I carefully wrapped the box in aluminum foil, tied it securely with fishline, then put the package in his wicker basket. I scrubbed the tabletop, threw out the cleanser and a box of soap powder.

     There was a clam rake in the back of the house. I took it down the road to an empty field, buried Matty. It took me a long time to dig the grave and it was very dark when I finished. There couldn't be a doubt in my mind now, I was sweating drops of pure anger.

     I dropped into the Johnsons where everybody stared at me as if seeing the village idiot—maybe because I was still carrying the clam rake. Bessie asked if I wanted supper. I said no and took her aside, whispered about the toadstool and that I had thrown out all the food in the house.

     “I can't understand how one possibly got in. I can easily recognize a toadstool when I....”

     “Never mind that now; you didn't do a thing. Just keep quiet about it and spend the night here.”

     Mr. Johnson, a character with a big belly and lard shoulders, boldly assured me he would most certainly... “look after Bessie and the child...” meaning Bessie had let her big mouth go.

     Everybody talked in hushed tones, as if not to excite me. I told Bessie I had buried Matty, not to worry if I didn't return that night. I asked for Jerry's address.

     “What do you want his address... for?” she started to ask. But something in my face stopped her and she said in a loud whisper, “He lives on Belmont Lane. Not far away. Matt, be careful.”

     “Don't worry about me. And remember, don't leave this house.”

     I stopped at our cottage for my gun, feeling the silence of the house, before starting for Jerry's place. I suppose it wasn't far at that, the whole Harbor wasn't much, but I kept walking in circles until I asked a couple of people and finally found this one-block side street with the ritzy name. In the dark all I could see was a small house set in a large garden. I lit a match to read a crude TAXI sign nailed to a small fence. He wasn't home. The garage was empty, too. I wondered where he was.

     But it didn't matter much, I'd wanted to ask what he knew about Pops. And borrow his car—see if I could get any help and ammo from the Hampton Point police. But Roberts was probably right. If I walked in and told them I was gunning for a killer, that the Nelson thing was a set-up... all because my cat was dead... they'd laugh me into a straitjacket. These village cops, washing each ether's hands. I had to play it alone.

     I headed for the bay, walking across the harbor. Through the open doors and windows I saw everybody in their houses, silently watching TV, and maybe nibbling at a bottle. Crazy yokels who never went to a big city, maybe never to another village unless they had to.

     Cutting across Main Street, I walked toward the water down a narrow street I'd never been on before. To my surprise next to a boat and bait place I found a small store still open. It was a tiny shop, the downstairs of a house, and seemed to stock a little bit of everything. I wanted a flash and also I was very hungry. A fat woman with wispy gray hair and wearing a bag of a dress waddled out of a back room, asking, “Yes, sir, what can I do for you?”

     I bought an expensive light, the only kind she had, glad she hadn't cracked about my being a sure sign of summer. I ate a candy bar as I went over to a basket of fresh vegetables, felt of the string beans and cabbages—like I knew what I was doing, asked if they were local produce.

     “Only the potatoes and tomatoes. Be more truck vegetables in a week or two. Long Island potatoes ain't much this year.”

     Over a bottle of soda I listened to a speech about what the local potato growers did wrong, how expensive the California and North Carolina crops were. I had a hunk of over-sweet cake before she mentioned Anderson, said he went into Patchogue for vegetables three times a week. I said, “I've seen his truck around. New one. He must be making out pretty well.”

     “He's always cheerful. Joy to have that man around. And once you're straight with him, he's easy on