Girl Out Back (10 page)

She wouldn’t, anyway. She didn’t go in for that sort of thing. So maybe she did have all the dulcet amiability of a maladjusted camel when she got her back up and started going elemental and bitchily female all over the place, she still wouldn’t . . .

No?

Well, look, stupid; it took you sixty days, and you’re no muscle-headed beach boy. You’re an operator.

But that was different. She’s sore now; she’s boiling. She’s furious. She could raid a Sea Scout encampment, out of sheer spite.

I took the suitcase out and put it in the back of the station wagon, covering it with a couple of old blankets and a kapok life-belt so it wouldn’t be seen.

It was lonely being all by myself in the house, and I was a long time getting to sleep. Just combat fatigue. I thought; I was up there too long.

Early in the morning I dressed in dacron slacks and an Egyptian-cotton sports shirt and left the house bareheaded. I had some breakfast in town and drove over to the store.

When Otis came in, I said, “Think I’ll be out this afternoon. There are a couple of good prospects down in Exeter who could use a fresh sales wheeze, and I want to talk to the advertising manager of the radio station about those spot announcements he’s trying to sell us.”

“Fine,” he said. “Maybe you could work up a good singing commercial. Let’s see . . . How about
Outboard motors, for happy
boaters?”

“You’re a hell of an advertising man,” I said. “You forgot the sponsor’s name. Look.
Bring your signorina to Godwin’s marina—”

“Tell me when to cry.”

“Shut up.
—She’ll give her all in a Godwin yawl—”

“That’s a sailboat.”

“Well, that’s what we’re talking about, Abbott. Boat sales. Yuk, yuk, yuk. You had enough?”

“You win,” he said. “I’d rather work.”

He went back to the shop.

Business was slow, and it was a long morning. I was impatient and nervous now, wanting to get started. Around eleven the telephone rang while I was in the office. Otis was up front, so he answered it.

“For you, boss,” he called.

I went out. He gave me a quizzical glance as he handed me the instrument, but said nothing. He turned and walked away, rather pointedly, I thought.

It was Jewel Nunn. If she kept calling here I was going to have to stay nearer the phone.

“How are you?” I asked. “I was thinking of you.”

Why? I asked myself. What the devil was I supposed to be selling now?

“I just wanted to thank you for the bottle of perfume,” she said softly.

“Where are you?” I asked, knowing very well where she was.

“At Hampstead, at the drug store. I had to come in to do some errands. . . .”

I thought of a good out first, and then said, “Well, listen, can’t I drive down?”

“I don’t think you’d better. . . .”

“It would only take a minute.”

We-ell—I mean, do you think . . . No. No, you just can t.”

“But I want to see you. . .” I broke off, and then said, “Wait, how long will you be there?”

“Just a little while. I have to go to Exeter.”

“Oh,” I said, disappointed. “I have to see this prospect at twelve. Man I’ve been trying to get hold of for a month. But maybe. . . .”

“No. I mean, I just wanted to thank you.”

“It was nothing. You deserve much nicer things than that.”

“Good-bye,” she said. She hung up.

Otis went to lunch early, and while he was gone I put an empty two-gallon fuel can in the back of the station wagon, under the blankets, checking at the same time to be sure I had a wrench. When he returned I gathered up the briefcase containing the boat literature and started out.

“Hold it down,” I said. “I probably won’t be back till after closing time.”

I drove fast, going down to Hampstead and cutting across to State 41, and was in Exeter in less than an hour. I knew she was ahead of me, going to the same place, and hoped I didn’t run into her. I parked in the square and made my calls, getting them out of the way as rapidly as possible. One of the prospects, an attorney, was out of town, but I left some brochures with his secretary. The other was a minor bank official, and busy, so I cut the pitch to five minutes, and went to see the huckster.

We kicked the spot commercial around for about twenty minutes, and I told him I’d have to take it home and incubate a few days before I finalized. He was an earnest young type fresh out of school, and while he was translating me into English I left. Just as I was getting into the car I saw her going along the street with some bundles in her arm. She looked very nice and erect and young. She didn’t see me.

I drove on out of town. It was twenty minutes after two on a hot August afternoon. If everything went well, I was going to make over a hundred thousand dollars in the next four hours.

I turned off 41 into the short access road, hoping anxiously there wouldn’t be any fishermen down there today. The chances of it were slight, however, since it was Monday. When I came around the last turn in the twisting pair of ruts and saw the camp-ground and snatches of the sheet-metal glare of the water through the trees I breathed softly in relief. It was as deserted and silent as the upper reaches of the Orinoco.

I got out and surveyed a route through the timber and then backed the station wagon over it until I was a good hundred yards from the road. Taking the wrench and the two-gallon can, I crawled under the back and removed the drain-plug at the bottom of the gasoline tank. I filled the can and then let the rest run out and soak into the ground. When the tank was completely dry, I replaced the drain-plug and poured about a quart back into it from the can. If the car would start at all, the fuel pump should be able to pick up enough to run it for possibly a mile, and perhaps almost to the highway.

Capping the can tightly, I carried it a short distance away and hid it in some underbrush, noting the location carefully so I could find it again, in the dark if I had to. I got back in the seat and pressed the starter. The engine took hold promptly. I drove back to the road and parked just off it, facing toward the highway and far enough back from the camp-ground to be out of sight of anyone going past in a boat.

Lifting out the suitcase, I stripped down to my shorts and changed clothes. I carefully knotted the blue tie, using the rear-view mirror to check the result. I put on the hat, slid into the jacket of the suit, and ripped open the envelope containing my credentials and the warrant. After stowing these in the pockets of the jacket, I put my old slacks and sports shirt in the suitcase and stowed it away again, under the blankets. Removing the registration holder from the steering wheel shaft, I hid it nearby in some bushes. It probably wasn’t necessary, but there was no use taking chances. There was nothing in the car that would identify me. I checked to be sure I still had the spare ignition key I always carried in my wallet, locked the station wagon, and dropped the leather key case in my pocket. I was as ready as I was ever going to be. Lean, unrelenting, deadly, Special Agent G. U. Ward was on the job with the look of far distances in his eyes. No, the look of eagles, I thought. Far distances you had in Westerns. I wondered if this interlude of goofiness meant I was nervous. No. I was all right. There was nothing to it; the whole thing was ridiculously easy.

I cut out across the bottom, taking my time. There wasn’t much chance he’d be out on the lake this early, and I had to get inside the cabin as the first move. When I reached a point in the edge of the timber where I could see the cove, I saw his boat was there. He was nowhere in sight. Probably taking a nap, I thought.

I waited, remaining well back from the clearing. Three-quarters of an hour went by. Shortly after four-fifteen he came out the door and went down to the boat. He had on his straw sombrero and gun-belt and holster, and was carrying a spinning rod. He cranked the motor and went straight across to the edge of the bed of pads on the other side of the waterway. I circled the edge of the clearing and came up directly behind the cabin. When I looked around the corner I could see him through an opening in the trees at the edge of the water, but he was almost two hundred yards away and intent on his casting. There was little chance he would see me. I slipped around the corner and entered.

The reading glasses were on top of the chest of drawers. As I picked them up I noticed they’d had a minor repair job since I’d seen them last. A narrow strip of white tape was stuck to the outer edge of the right lens, apparently to hold it in the frame. A disquieting thought struck me; maybe he had discovered the spare set was missing. Presumably he had jarred these somehow and loosened that lens; wouldn’t that cause him to dig out the other pair?

I whirled and lifted the magazines off the trunk and opened it. There were no glasses in it. I closed it and hurriedly rifled the drawers in the chest, and then started making a quick but thorough search of the entire cabin. Half-way through this, I was struck with the absurdity of it. What difference did it make if he had discovered they were gone;

He couldn’t possibly have replaced them in this length of time. And he was here, wasn’t he? This was the reason I’d sabotaged the spares rather than the set he was using—to head off any possibility he might be in town replacing them when I came back. Everything was right according to plan. I replaced my divots and returned to the pair on the chest of drawers.

Picking them up, I held them against the palm of my left hand while I hit each of the lenses a smart rap with the back of my knife. They cracked all the way through, but did not shatter. I replaced them carefully, turning them a little so they would be in profile to anyone on the other side of the room or near the door.

Now to set the stage. I stepped to the door and looked out. He was only partly visible through the screen of foliage. I went back to the shed, squatted under the bench, and lifted down the cereal carton. The two packages of tens were still in it. Hurrying back to his garbage dump, I gathered up the bits of hardware from the burned suitcase. I took everything into the cabin. Clearing the kitchen table of its accumulation of syrup-smeared dirty dishes, I moved it slightly toward the center of the room and put a chair beside it.

I set the pieces of blackened hardware on the table, spread out a little as if I had been examining them, and lifted the money from the carton. One package of the tens I left in its paper binder, but the other, which had the stain along the edge, I opened, preserving the band intact, and scattered loosely on the surface. I stood back and surveyed it. It made quite an impressive picture. There was nothing to do now but wait. I located a dirty plate to use for an ash-tray, lit a cigarette and sat down. I hoped he didn’t fish too long. Now that everything was ready, I wanted to get on with it; inactivity was going to make me nervous.

In about twenty minutes I heard the motor start. But he was only moving to a new location further along the weed bed. I cursed impatiently. Another fifteen minutes dragged by. The motor started again, and this time when I looked out I saw him headed in toward the cove. All right, I thought; here we go. Make it good, pal.

I stepped out the door and went around to the side of the cabin. I heard him cut the motor to glide into the cove, and then in a minute his footsteps as he came up the path toward the cabin. I let him draw nearer. There seemed only a remote chance he’d be silly enough to try to shoot me with that gun, but I wanted to be near enough to stop him in the event of that being an unwarranted assumption on my part. He was very near the door now. I stepped around the corner right in front of him.

“Mr. Cliffords?” I asked. “Mr. Walter E. Cliffords?”

He stopped short, holding the spinning rod in one hand and a very large bass on a stringer in the other. The guileless blue eyes went round with amazement. He looked like a startled baby.

“What’s that?” he asked blankly.

“Are you Mr. Cliffords?” I repeated.

“Sure,” he said, recovering a little. He frowned at me as if I were a trifle dense. Who else would he be? “I’m the only one that lives here,” he explained. “What you want?”

I took one more step forward and brought the black identification folder out of the pocket of my jacket.

“My name’s Ward,” I said, flipping it open briefly before bis face and then closing it again. “Federal Bureau of Investigation. You’re under arrest, Mr. Cliffords.”

”Arrest?” The baby eyes went even rounder.

His mouth fell open and he dropped the rod and the fish to the ground. I tensed up, but he was only shoving his hands into the air. He held them stiffly at arms’ length above his head.

This seemed a trifle on the dramatic side, but it was all right with me. Then, so suddenly he took me by surprise, he moved. He took a step backward, turned to face the wall of the cabin, and tilted himself forward and off balance until he was supported by bis outstretched hands against the planks.

“What . . . ?” I said.

Then I got it. You always did that with dangerous criminals. It immobilized them while you lifted their arsenals. I unbuckled bis gunbelt, caught it as it dropped, transferred the .38 to my pocket, and tossed the belt itself inside the door. They didn’t do it any better on
Dragnet
. He still made no move to straighten up, and I was about to order him to when I caught myself just in time.

It was his arrest, by God, and he wanted it to be carried out in the approved manner. I still hadn’t frisked him for a hidden gun. I stooped and ran my hands up both sides of his legs, one at a time, and then up his body and under his arms.

“All right,” I said curtly.

He straightened and turned to face me. The round pixie face was filled with the wonder of a child beholding old faithful for the first time “A G-man,” he said in awe. “The F.B.I. What you know about that?”

I took the folded mortgage form from my breast pocket and held it out to him. “This is the Federal warrant for your arrest.”

He accepted it gingerly, as if it might explode.

Then he unfolded it and stared blankly. “I can’t read nothing without my specs,” he said. “They’re inside.”

I nodded toward the door. “All right. Let’s go in.”

I was right behind him. At the first step he took to the left, toward the chest, I snapped crisply, “Never mind! Stay away from those drawers. Stand right there in the center of the room.”

“Yessir,” he said.

“Where are they?” I asked. “I’ll get them.”

“On top of that dresser.”

“All right,” I said. “Don’t move from there.” I stepped over to the chest, turning my head to look back at him as I picked up the glasses. They slipped from my fingers. I made a desperate stab at them with the other hand to catch them before they could hit the floor, and batted them against the wall. The lenses shattered.

“Damn it!” I said. I turned and faced him apologetically, “I’m sorry as the devil, Mr. Cliffords. We’ll get you another pair.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” he said.

I waited for him to mention the other pair in the trunk. When we didn’t find them, of course, I’d jump right down his throat for stalling, and divert his attention from a fact that could look quite fishy if he had the intelligence to grasp it. However, he said nothing about them. I glanced at him. He had taken the bait. He’d turned his head and was staring at the evidence on the kitchen table.

He shook his head resignedly. “I should have knowed,” he said. “I should have knowed I’d never get away with it.”

I was in. It was as easy as that.

I stepped over and gently lifted the warrant from his nerveless fingers, returning it to my pocket. “You’d better sit down,” I said, not unkindly.

He collapsed into the chair beside the table. When he took his eyes off the money and looked up at me, however, I was puzzled by the expression on his face. Instead of the blank despair I had expected, there was something odd in it. Dumb admiration was as near as I could come to it.

“How did you ever find it out?” he asked.

“Never mind,” I said. “We’ll get to that in a minute. Right now it’s my duty to warn you that anything you say can be used against you. You’ve got yourself in a bad jam, Mr. Cliffords.”

“Will there be reporters”” he asked. “You reckon they’ll take my picture and print it in the papers?”

He reminded me of a child hoping to be taken on a picnic.

“I don’t think you realize the mess you’re in,” I said, frowning.

“Oh?” he said. “What you reckon they’ll charge me with?”

I fired up a cigarette, closed the lighter, and returned it to my pocket, letting him wait. I had to scare him now, and scare him badly.

“Not nothing real serious?” he suggested. “After all, all I done was find it. . . .”

I exhaled smoke and stared at him for a long minute. “I’m afraid you’re not very familiar with the law, Mr. Cliffords. A man was killed in that hold-up, as you know. That, of course, is the equivalent of first-degree murder.”

“But, look, Mr. Ward . . . I didn’t have nothing to do with that.”

“Unfortunately,” I went on sternly, “that’s not quite the case. The minute you took that money for yourself and failed to report it to us, you made yourself an accessory. Under the law, you’re guilty right along with Haig. However, even if the Federal charge was reduced to obstructing justice or compounding a felony, there’s still the matter of prior jurisdiction. . . .”

I wasn’t sure as to the accuracy of all this legal gobbledegook, but it didn’t matter. He would know even less about it. And it was working. He leaned forward, staring at me.

“The State may want to hold you on a charge of murder,” I went on. “That would take precedence, of course.”

“Murder?”

I nodded. “We can’t be sure, of course, until we exhume the body, but the local District Attorney is interested. He feels there is a good chance Haig was still alive when you found him, and that you killed him for the money. . . .”

Cliffords broke in. “But he wasn’t, Mr .Ward. He was dead, I tell you. He’d been dead for days. That’s how come I happened to find him; it was all them birds.”

I had a hunch he was telling the truth, but the thing now was to keep him guessing and scared.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “When the body is exhumed, they may be able to tell. Just what you’ll be tried for is none of my business, anyway. I’m here merely to bring you in. And, of course, to recover the money.”

“Oh, I’ll show you where it is,” he said eagerly. “Will that help? I mean . . .”

“I can make no deals,” I said, being stern about it. “Of course, obviously it won’t hurt your case any, especially if you haven’t spent too much of it.”

“Oh, I hardly spent any at all.” Then his face fell. “But I
did
burn all them bonds and things, when I burned the satchel.”

He’d merely saved me the trouble of doing it myself, but I shook my head gravely. “That’s not so good,” I said. “Don’t you see that establishes willful intent?”