The old man closed his eyes. He shook his head.
Younger knocked him down.
NINE
AFTER ringing the bell three times, Younger kicked the door in. He knew the old bastard was in here, so what was he trying to pull? He'd regret this, the old fart, he'd live to regret this.
Except he wouldn't. Younger looked all over the house and finally found the old man hanging from the shower ring in the bathroom, naked and blue, with a face like a gargoyle.
Younger couldn't believe it. Why'd he do it, the miserable bastard? It wasn't as though that was the only way out; he could have handed half his money over to Younger and that would have been an end to it. He could have gone on living, no trouble. Yeah, and
What about the money now? Younger paced around the house, thinking, thinking. Was it gone for good now? His roving eyes searched and searched, trying to
But where? In the two weeks since the old man had given him the first thousand Younger had gone over this house like a man looking for the other cuff-link, and he was just about willing to swear it wasn't here. It wasn't buried in the cellar or the back yard, it wasn't under the floorboards in the attic or behind a false back in a closet or stuffed inside a mattress, it wasn't in the walls or the ceiling or the floor, it wasn't in the furniture or the fixtures, it wasn't anywhere in the house or on the property.
No, and it wasn't in the apartment in Omaha, either. Last week Younger had driven the old man down there, and gone through the apartment, and there wasn't anything hidden there at all.
Nor was there any safety deposit box key anywhere in either place. Nor a railroad station locker key. Nor any mind of map. Nor anything else that would even
Sheer didn't have a car. He didn't travel anywhere except to Omaha, and only by train. The area of his life was narrow and prescribed, and Younger knew every inch of it. The money had to be within that area somewhere, and that's all there was to it.
So he'd find it anyway, the old bastard hadn't cheated him after all. Sheer might be dead, but the money was still alive and so was Younger, and sooner or later they'd be getting together.
But first things first. The old man was dead, his body hanging there, and that had to be taken care of before anything else.
It couldn't be called a suicide, he knew that much. Younger hadn't kept his interest in the old man entirely hidden. He'd used patrolmen to help him keep an eye on Sheer, and he'd left Sheer's phone number with the police switchboard as one of the places he might be reached in an emergency. If the old man's death were listed as suicide, with the normal investigation that would follow, this whole business might backfire.
Like the autopsy. If the death was a suicide, there'd be a routine autopsy, and the first thing the doctor would see would be the marks Younger had made on Sheer, the bruises and burns, the cuts and rope marks, the whole history of what Younger had done to try and pry the half million out of the stubborn old bastard's carcass. The doctor would know someone had tortured Sheer, and from there on Younger would be in trouble.
How to make it something other than suicide, though that was the problem. Younger gnawed at it, pacing back and forth in the living-room of the dead man's house, puffing away at a cigar, and finally he remembered Dr. Rayborn.
All that was needed, after all, was a death certificate that didn't say anything about suicide, and Dr. Rayborn should be happy to make one out as a little favour to Captain Younger. Rayborn was another interesting citizen Younger had come across in his first few months on the job; he'd do a favour for Younger, no question. Younger put his cowboy hat on and left the dead man's house and went to see Dr. Rayborn.
Rayborn didn't want to do it, until Younger mentioned Dr. Wash in Omaha, and then Rayborn didn't make any more trouble. Referring a patient to someone else to get an abortion is just as much a felony as doing the abortion yourself.
Gliffe, a little later, was easier to handle. He was in local politics, he wanted to be the county's next coroner, and he was more than happy to do a favour for someone on the inside like Captain Younger, especially after Dr Rayborn told him they weren't covering a murder but only a suicide. And covering the suicide, Younger added, only to protect the reputations of some innocent parties slandered by the dead man in his suicide note.
It was all smooth and easy. He didn't have to tell either Rayborn or Gliffe a word about the half million. And now it was all his, the whole thing; all he had to do was find it.
The next night he drove out to the dead man's house to start searching again, and a stranger was on the porch, talking to the Ricks boy next door. Younger drove on by, turned around in the next block and followed the stranger back to the Sagamore Hotel, where he was registered as Charles Willis of Miami.
Charles Willis of Miami? What was he doing here, who was he, what did he want with Joe Sheer? One day after Joe dies, this stranger comes in, this big, hard, mean-looking stranger, this Charles Willis of Miami?
He was after the money, that had to be it. A crook, a criminal, one of Joe Sheer's old pals, come to steal the dead man's money.
Maybe this Willis knew where the money was. Maybe all Younger had to do was keep him in sight, and this Willis would lead him right to the cash. Maybe this wasn't so bad, having this Willis here, maybe it was the best break of all.
Younger kept Willis in sight. The next day Willis took the town cab to Lynbrooke and stopped in the newspaper office there. Younger questioned Sammy, the taxi driver, but Sammy didn't know a thing about his passenger. Younger warned him to keep his mouth shut and not to tell Willis anything about the questions, and then he went on back to his Ford as Willis came out of the newspaper office.
There was something almost frightening about Willis. He was big and rangy and hard-looking, with
