The Jugger (11 page)

The only thing wrong, the answers didn't check out.

For place of birth, Shardin had put Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Younger wrote to Harrisburg, asking for information on a Joseph T. Shardin, born their city on January 12, 1894. They wrote back there was no record of a Joseph T. Shardin born in their city on that or any other date.

For principal occupation, Shardin had put sports promoter, explaining he had promoted boxing matches, wrestling, roller-derbies, stock-car races, and other sports events in the East, mostly Pennsylvania and New York. Younger wrote to both the Pennsylvania and New York Boxing Commissions, and both wrote back they had no record of any Joseph T. Shardin.

For most recent employer, Shardin had put Midstate Arena Attractions, Inc., Scranton, Pennsylvania. Younger wrote a letter to this company, asking for information on Shardin, and the letter came back with a post-office rubber stamp on the envelope: ADDRESSEE UNKNOWN. All three former addresses Shardin had given were false.

Younger was now sure he'd found a wrong one. Shardin had an income from unknown sources, chose to live in a place where he wasn't known, and gave a false background.

The next time Shardin went to Omaha, Captain Younger, with a skeleton key, went into Shardin's house. In the kitchen he set up his fingerprint equipment, the learning about which had been another part of his early enthusiasm for the new job, and from the water glasses in the kitchen cabinet he got three perfect fingerprints. He set up his camera and his white cardboard backdrop, and took three pictures of each print, just to be on the safe side. Then he cleaned up the traces of his having been there, and went back to the station to have the film developed. He mailed a set of the photos to Washington with a covering letter that gave no details but simply asked for whatever identification and information he could get about the owner of those prints, and then there was nothing to do but wait.

A week later a phone call came from the Federal agency office in Omaha. 'About a set of fingerprints you sent Washington about a week ago.'

'What about them?'

But the Federal man was calling to ask questions, not to answer them. He said, 'What was that inquiry in connection with, Captain?'

Younger felt a sudden transitory dread; had he stumbled on some sort of secret government agent? Was Shardin actually a counter-spy or something? If he was, the government wouldn't like some hick cop poking around after their man, causing a ruckus.

But that couldn't be it. Shardin' was an old man of seventy; what kind of secret agent was that? Besides, why would the government establish an undercover man for five years in a nothing little town like Sagamore?

The Federal man had been waiting for an answer. He said, 'Are you there, Captain?'

'What? Yes, yes, of course, I was just looking for the folder…' He already had his story worked out, just in case he was asked this question, and all he had to do now was get his wits collected and tell it. He said, 'We had a little burglary here, a liquor store ransacked. We checked the place out for fingerprints, and those three were the only ones we couldn't match to somebody we already knew was in the store that day.'

'A liquor store robbery. Odd.'

Younger held the phone so tightly that afterwards his hand ached. 'Who is it?' he asked. 'Who do they belong to?'

'Man named Joseph Sheer. I'm only…'

'How do you spell that?'

The Federal man spelled it, and then said, 'It's a surprise to hear from him. We thought he was dead by now.'

'Oh? An old man, huh?'

'He'd be about seventy now.'

'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,
plus
his pension from now till the day he died.

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
really
named Joe Sheer.

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?

The old man had followed him out of the house. Younger turned to him and said, 'That's a really beautiful garden you have there, Mr. Shardin. Shardin? Is that the right pronunciation?'

The old man looked startled for just a second, but then he recovered and nodded briefly and said, 'You've got it right.'

'Well.' Younger squinted up at the afternoon sun, glanced at his wristwatch, looked around again at the garden, and said, 'Well, you want to get back to what you were doing. I won't keep you any longer.'

The old man frowned. 'You're going?'

'No need to show me through the house, I can go around the side here. Nice to have met you, Mr. Shardin.' He started away, around the side of the house.

The old man took a few steps after him, saying, 'What did you want? What did you come here for?'

'Just routine,' Younger called, and waved, and walked on out to the sidewalk.

As the train was pulling away from the station, Younger slid into the empty seat beside the old man. 'Well, well! Fancy meeting you here? Going down into the city?'

The old man had been looking out of the window at the station, sunk in his own thoughts. He turned, startled, and for a few seconds didn't say anything. When at last he did speak, all he said was, 'Oh. It's you.'

'I certainly did enjoy our little chat the other day,' Younger told him. 'I want to get to know all the folks that moved into town while I was away. I was in the Army, you know.'

Younger's silence forced the old man to say something; he chose, 'I didn't know that.'

'Thirty years,' Younger told him, and nodded emphatically. 'Retired a master sergeant. Just a few months ago, just retired, came back to the old home town, took over the police force, whipping it into shape. You've been in town just about five years, haven't you?'

'Yes.'

'A fine town. You get down into the city often?'

'Sometimes.'

Younger already knew about that. He'd followed the old man on his last trip in, before starting this campaign. He knew now about the old man's apartment in town. Sheer had stayed there two days that last time, and the second day he'd had visitors, three stocky men about Younger's age. They'd driven up in a Plymouth with New York State plates, stayed the afternoon and evening, left about eleven-thirty at night. Younger had copied the licence number down, but hadn't done anything about it. Time enough if it was necessary.

What he figured, he figured those three men were bank robbers, too. Maybe Joe Sheer was retired, and then again maybe he wasn't. Maybe these days he just drew up the plans for the robberies, let the younger men actually go in and do the jobs. Younger would find out, in time. He'd know everything there was to know, in time.

They rode in silence a while now, until Younger took out a cigar and began to unwrap it. A sign at the front end of the car said no smoking was allowed here, but Younger went on unwrapping the cigar, tossed the paper on the floor, stuck the cigar in his mouth, and reached for a match. Just before lighting it, he turned to the old man, saying, 'That's the advantage of being a policeman.' He grinned and winked.

The old man looked at him with distaste. 'What is?'

Younger gestured at the no-smoking sign. 'You can bend the law a little,' he said. He lit the cigar, puffed a halo of smoke, and tossed the match on the floor. 'Now, you,' he said, 'if you were to bend the law, we'd get you. Sooner or later we'd get you, even if it took twenty years.'

The old man said nothing at that, and they rode in silence again until Younger said, 'Were you ever in the Army?'

'No.' The old man seemed about to stop there, but then he apparently had to justify himself. He added, 'I failed the physical in the First War.'

'That's too bad. The Army's a great life, great life.'

'Maybe so.'

Younger started telling war stories then. He told the old man story after story about his Army days, some of them true, some borrowed, some embroidered, some completely false. The old man listened stolidly, never speaking, sometimes looking out the window at the flat scenery going by, and Younger talked on and on and on.

When they arrived in Omaha, Younger walked with the old man out of the terminal. On the way, he said, 'How long you staying in town?'