'Seventy years old. What's the story on him? He wanted for anything?'
'There's four Federal warrants out on him, all for bank robbery. But the most recent is back in '53. He's gone downhill since then, if he's breaking into liquor stores. A rummy now, I guess. Most of them end up that way.'
'I guess they do,' Younger said. 'Where was this bank robbery, the one back in '53?'
'Cleveland. You'll be getting a full report in the Mail, from Washington.'
'Thanks for calling,' Younger said.
'If you happen to get him,' the Federal man said, making it clear he didn't believe Younger ever would, 'be sure to let us know.'
'Oh, I will,' Younger promised. 'Thanks again,' he said, and hung up.
After he'd hung up, it occurred to him he should have told the Federal man the truth. 'I know where Joe Sheer is,' he should have said. 'I'll go pick him up and hold him for you,' he should have said. Why didn't he?
This was just a little hobby, a little sidelight, a little piece of amateur detecting. When it turned up a wanted criminal, why didn't he right away make the arrest? Why had he readied that phoney liquor store yarn in advance?
He knew why. He'd known why all along, without thinking it out in plain words. Money was the reason. He'd looked at Joseph T. Shardin, and he'd seen something out of kilter, and he'd sensed an advantage to himself, and he smelled money in it, profit in it somehow. Money, more money than he'd ever even thought about before. More money than he'd made in all his thirty years in the Army put together,
So much money, so much… He didn't know how much,
he couldn't even guess.
But he could ask.
Abner L. Younger, after fifty-one years of life having at last found the vocation he'd been born for, put on his cowboy hat and went off to talk to a fella
TWO
YOUNGER smiled and stepped across the threshold and said, 'Just a routine call, Mr. Shardin. I'm Captain Younger.'
The old man hesitated, still holding the door open even though Younger was already in the house. He said, 'Routine? What do you mean, routine? Who are you?'
Younger's smile was affable, apologetic, self-assured. 'Oh, I'm sorry,' he said, but he didn't sound it. 'Police department. Captain Abner L. Younger, Sagamore Police Department.'
A film seemed to come down over the old man's eyes, a thin veneer of caution and watchfulness. He was well-preserved, thin but healthy-looking, with leathery flesh on face and hands, teeth too discoloured to be false, and a full head of hair mottled grey and white. He was probably taller than the captain, but age had stooped him and he was now an inch or so shorter.
Younger, still smiling, nodding his head in satisfaction with the world in general, strolled on into the living-room, saying, 'Very nice place you've got here, Mr. Shardin, very nice. The old Hoyt place, isn't it?'
The old man followed him. 'I suppose so. The people I bought it from were named Hoyt.'
'You've certainly fixed it up nice for yourself. Looks real cosy.'
The old man said, 'What's this about, Captain?' The voice had overtones of impatience and irritation.
Younger ignored the overtones. 'Just routine,' he said airily, and made a vague gesture with his hands. 'No hurry,' he said. He took off his cowboy hat, twirled it in his hands, and gazed fondly around the room.
'I was working in my garden,' the old man said pointedly. 'I'd like to get back to it while there's still daylight.'
'A garden?' Happy surprise lighting his face, Younger put the cowboy hat back on his head and said, 'You've got to show it to me. Would you believe it, I've always wanted a garden, but travelling around all the- No, don't show me, I can find the way.'
The old man hadn't made any move to show Younger the way. He stood there and watched Younger go by, headed towards the kitchen and the back door, and there was nothing for him to do but follow.
Younger had never been in the house before, but he had no trouble finding his way around it. There were maybe hundreds of thousands of dollars hidden somewhere on this property, and Younger was determined to know what the property looked like. He'd got the house plan on file at the assessor's office, and now he was making a physical survey.
He was also taking the first step in the campaign he'd decided to use against Joe Sheer. A frontal attack wouldn't do him any good, he had sense enough to realize that, so a more oblique method was called for. He was pleased with the method he'd decided on.
He went through the kitchen now, and out the back door, and had his first look at Joe Sheer's garden. Was the money hidden there, buried in the garden? Or hidden away in the house somewhere?
It might not be here at all. It might be down in Omaha, wherever Sheer lived down there. But Sheer spent a lot more time at this place here than he did in Omaha, so wasn't it more likely this was where he kept the money?
