Shakedown for Murder

credit. Frankly, I don't know how Larry does it; he can't meet the supermarket's prices. I used to sell four or five baskets of fruits and vegetables a day during the summer. Now I'm lucky to sell that much a week. Had anything else to do, at my age, I'd give up the store. I order less and less from Larry, but I suppose he does better in the other towns.”

     “This Anderson lives with his father, doesn't he? Old man they call Pops?”

     “That's not his daddy,” the fat lady said, getting up steam. For ten minutes she told me what a wonderful man Larry was, how Pops wasn't “even a relation,” merely an old friend, but Larry couldn't have treated him any better “if the old man had been his father.” It also seemed that Pops was a wonderful man, always full of jokes and willing to help out; sometimes he brought her fish.

     End Harbor was simply full of “wonderful” men and women—when they weren't killing or getting killed. The storekeeper went on to tell me how active Larry was in the city council, had organized a Scout troop—only there weren't enough kids interested. Pops was busy in the various cake sales and used to sell chances for the annual Legion car raffle— up till last year when his arthritis got real bad. I paid her and left in the middle of a speech about the younger generation.

     I walked down to the beach, along the shore toward the spot where Andy and I had landed a couple days ago.

     I had company, a big Irish setter tagged along behind me. I threw some stones for him to chase and when I reached Larry's property I shooed the dog away. Climbing the bank I saw a light in the kitchen of Anderson's house. I walked carefully through the rough grass until I reached the garage. The doors were open, the truck standing inside, and the concrete floor was wet. Stepping inside I covered the flash with my hand and turned on the light. All I saw were stacks of empty wooden crates and bushel baskets. On the truck there were crates of lettuce and fruit, all recently watered down. Everything was neat and businesslike. I don't know what I expected to find but I didn't find a damn thing. There was an outboard in one corner, on a rack, a....

     I heard a sound outside the garage and froze, my hand sneaking toward the gun inside my belt—until I remembered it was empty. Somebody was walking around the outside of the garage, walking softly. I heard them come to the door as I strained to see in the darkness. The padding sound came directly toward me, despite the fact I was hidden behind a pile of peach crates. A moment later there was a small whine and the cold muzzle of my buddy, the dog, touched my hand. I was so relieved I nearly giggled as I whispered, “Beat it, boy.”

     It must have seemed a caressing sound to him for the big son-of-a-bitch put his paws on my chest and tried to lick my face. I pushed him away and he hit one of the stacks of empty crates—which came down with all the thunder in the world. I ran out of the garage, knocking over more boxes, headed for the beach. I heard a door slam and then heavy steps as a flashlight sliced the darkness. I kept running as fast as I could, bent low and zigzagging, my breathing harsh. I hit a rut, or some damn thing, and went sliding on my face and chest in the heavy grass. The air was knocked out of me, the lousy gun in my waist felt like it had gone through my stomach. I lay there, sobbing for breath, wondering if I'd busted my store teeth. The heavy footsteps came closer and I clamped a hand over my open mouth to muffle my breathing.

     The night was split with the roar of a shotgun blast, followed by a tiny, unreal scream.

     The footsteps approached slow, cautiously. I pulled my gun from out of my stomach—a bluff was better than nothing. Then some fifteen feet to my right a flash snapped on and I saw Anderson, shotgun in work-gloved hands, bending over. He raised the bloody remains of the Irish setter by one leg, the head resting on the ground. Anderson remained bent over like that for a few minutes, an odd smile on his thick face. It could have been a smile of relief or of sorrow. I wondered what he was doing... he seemed to be listening to the night. Then I knew he was waiting to see if the sound of the shot brought anybody on the run.

     I was as flattened to the ground as I could get. I was scared outright silly—he hadn't known it was a dog he was shooting at. And I was impressed by the gloves-touch— Anderson believed in being prepared—fingerprints must have been uppermost in his mind at all times.

     Satisfied no one was coming, he dropped the dog and walked back to the garage, the light bouncing ahead of him. The fall had knocked my own flash from my hand and I didn't try to find it, but crawled toward the beach like a frightened snake, thankful I hadn't broken any real bones or false teeth. When I heard Larry returning I played dead in the grass again, grateful I could still play at it. He held the gun in his right hand, a shovel in his left. Dragging the dog farther away from me, he sent the light dancing around—trying to decide where to dig, then finally dug a deep grave and buried the mutt It was a rough night in the Harbor for animals.

     It took him almost an hour and all that time I was flat in the damp grass, fighting gnats and watching his powerful movements. He was sure a strong clown. One thing was for certain: my theory about Pops being out of the house, that dummy on the widow's walk, was right. If the old man was sick in the house with a bad ticker Anderson sure wouldn't be blasting a shotgun on the grounds. And if Pops had been hiding in the house, the gun blast would have brought him out. He was probably on the run for killing Barnes and Nelson. But theory wasn't worth its salt unless I found the motive. If I went to Roberts he would stall me with his Anderson-is-a-big-citizen kick. I might try the Riverside or Hampton Point police, but I'd have to come up with more than I had. Suppose Pops wasn't home— what did that prove? Pops and this Anderson were doing something shady and the only way I could get a lead on them would be to find out everything about Anderson and his too prosperous business.

     When Anderson returned to his house I got up and walked stiffly along the beach, then over to Jerry's house. He was still out and I stood on his porch, wondered again where he could be. There was a light in the house across the way and I saw a shadow behind the curtain. That would be nosey Mrs. Bond.

     I crossed the street and the shadow disappeared. I rang her bell and a moment later this little old lady opened the door. I said, “Mrs. Bond, I'm....”

     “I know,” she squeaked, her beady eyes bright and a faint whiff of port clinging to her words, “You're that secret service man.”

     “You know where Jerry went?”

     “Oh, my, what's he done now?”

     “He hasn't done a damn thing, I....”

     “See here, young man, don't raise your voice to me.”

     “I... uh... wanted to hire his car, taxi me to the station,” I said, almost floored by that “young man.”

     “I haven't the slightest idea where he is. He drove away in the middle of the afternoon and hasn't been back since. You were here before, weren't you?”

     “Yeah. If he returns soon, tell him I'd like to see him.”

     “If you think I have nothing better to do than watch for that—that foreign devil to come home....”

     “You've been watching him for years, what's a few more hours?” I said, walking away. I walked across the Harbor till I reached our cottage; suddenly kept walking. Jane Endin's car was in the driveway and two of her windows were lit. I worked the arrowhead knocker. When she opened the door she looked different—much younger. Some of the tenseness was gone from her face, her eyes rested. She was wearing a mannish sport shirt and jeans, the pants full of paint stains. I said, “Hello,” and she nodded, asked, “Mr. Lund, what has happened to you now, or do you always dress this sloppy?”

     I looked down—hadn't realized my pants and shirt were streaked with grass and dirt stains. “Seems I had another accident.”

     “Be careful, you may be accident- prone. Come in. Like to wash up? Your face is dirty.”

     She took me to the bathroom, and as we passed through the living room I saw her latest work standing on an easel. It seemed to be a picture of a rough sea but the water was a violent red, the wave-caps a terrible purple, and the sky a dead, sickly green. At least it wasn't a picture you forget quickly.

     The bathroom fixtures were bulky and ancient. I washed, drying my face and hands on toilet paper—the towels looked like they'd never been used. For a second I glanced at the big bathtub with envy, then went back to the living room.

     I stared at the new painting and she asked, “Do you like it? Don't touch it, please, it's still wet.”

     “That's okay, I'm wearing gloves.”

     For a fast second her eyes seemed to harden, then she giggled—and for a moment she seemed about eighteen, “That's a wonderful joke.”

     “And very old. Yeah, I think I like it. It's the nightmare terror a rough sea can give you.”

     “Thank you, that's exactly what I had in mind. The other day, when I was staring at the sea all day... it seemed so terribly ruthless. Since I decided not to go to Edward's funeral today, I worked hard on the painting to pass time. I'm glad Jerry is out. I knew he couldn't have done such a thing. Who is this Nelson, the man they say did it?”

     “I never saw him. Did you?”

     She shook her head as we sat down opposite each other. She lit a cigarette, started to hand me the pack, said, “But you smoke a pipe. I'm sorry about what happened to your cat.”

     “Who told you?” I patted my pockets; my pipe was some place in Anderson's field. It was a damn good piece of briar, too. I reached over and took one of her cigarettes.

     “I have Newsday delivered here every afternoon, and the boy told me. First time I ever heard of anybody making a mistake about toadstools. Lucky it was only the cat.”

     “Yeah, only a cat. And it was a mistake all right, a big one,” I said slowly, wondering if I'd be booting things by taking her into my