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Bessie had been working for five hours, since seven, but still looked fresh and cheerful. She was what Benton needed just then, a friendly, wholesome, unambiguous face.

She brought him coffee and when he asked her how Jack was, she told him straightforwardly that he had died of a heart attack eighteen months ago. She made no big point of it — her pain was a private thing, as his had been. Benton, watching as the lunch crowd worked her up to top speed, felt a growing admiration. There were still proud, honest people left in the world; not all were like his recent associates at Folsom, and the McCords, and that butterball fink across the street — to various degrees, felons. From the counter where he sat, he kept a watchful eye on Moss’s office — “Buy A Piece of the Good Earth” emblazoned across the front window — but there was no sign of the man.

Bessie brought his after-lunch coffee and he said impulsively, “I just got my wheels back a while ago. How about taking in a film at the drive-in tonight?” He wasn’t normally an impulsive man and he surprised himself, but he was pleased when she actually paused a moment before saying, with old-time modesty, that she’d be happy to.

He arranged to pick her up at seven-thirty and lingered on until he saw Moss’s Lincoln move cautiously up the street and into the alley that served the back of his office block.

He’d known Harry Moss most of his life — and known of him. A short round man, he’d been the natural butt of jokes since his school days, an object of fun. And of rumor. Benton thought he understood him — that the sometimes shady, sometimes quick-handed deals he made were a way of getting back at the world. Napoleon had the same problem. But Moss was a good realtor, or so it was said — a producer, a member of the Chamber of Commerce, Rotary, etc. When you wanted something done, you saw ole Harry. For instance, when you wanted your house wrecked.

His show of nerves that morning, his reluctance to take him out to the place, and the speed of his retreat were explained. But he seemed now about to faint when he looked up from his desk and saw Benton standing five feet away. His girl, late back from lunch, hadn’t been there to fend him off or announce him.

His wretchedness pleased Benton and he just stared at him a while, testing a tactic in intimidation he’d picked up in jaiclass="underline" say nothing, let the other guy prepare his surrender before you fire your first shot. A counselor at Folsom was master of the technique. He let another fifteen seconds tick away before he sat down and said, “Offhand, Harry, I’d say about two thousand bucks’ worth of damage. Further inspection will no doubt reveal more. The picket fence, the house, the outbuildings — and God knows what your clients have done to the insides of the place. I’ll take your preliminary check for two grand as earnest money, or whatever you guys call it.”

“Tom—”

“I gave you a power of attorney to lease the place to responsible people. You put a family of subhumans in there.”

Moss had gotten a little more breath back. “I had no ch—” He shook his head, warding off panic. Nothing was working out for him, and now nothing would. It was too late.

“You had no what? No choice? How come you had no choice?”

“Hamp—”

“Hamp? Hamp Carswell?”

Benton considered the unexpected name. Carswell had to do with Sheila’s death — and the young man’s. Carswell was the symbol of death implanted in Benton’s mind; not of leases, tenants. What had he to do with this?

Still the cool interrogator, Benton asked, “What about him, Harry?”

Moss was plainly terrified. “They were friends of his. He asked me to—”

“Asked — or told?” Some old scuttlebutt surfaced in Benton’s mind — that Carswell owned Hildy’s Place and Moss had traded his commission on the deal for a piece of the action. He could easily see Carswell in the role of master pimp, a little less so Moss; but it would outrage the moral precepts of neither.

Carswell had been a shadowy figure in town for years, always a lot of money, but the sources of it obscure. A big car. No wife or family, a mixed bag of friends — mostly low, some bought outright, like the bodyguard Benton had killed. But it all made no sense. He repeated his question less acerbically, genuinely curious.

Moss, sensing reprieve, gushed, “He told me to, Tom. I mean, I really had no choice.”

Another Carswell hireling, Benton thought; Hamp’s man on the Chamber of Commerce. But it explained nothing.

“Why did he tell you to?”

Moss pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped sweat from around his eyes. For a moment he seemed to think he was alone and got out the bottle of booze, his guilty eyes darting around. Then he squirreled it back in the drawer, blinking at himself. There was far more on his mind than a bad set of tenants and a couple of thousand dollars’ loss.

Benton, seeing this, waited for an answer; and then, suddenly illuminated, knew what it would be. “Because he hates my guts, doesn’t he?” he asked, and thought, Of course, of course, pleased with his sense of revelation.

Moss nodded and smiled damply and got out the bottle again.

“Because he wants to hurt me, huh, Harry?” Benton said abstractedly, the picture clearing further. “Because he knows that I know he killed my wife.” And also, he thought, the young man he helped me kill. “So he strikes out at me the only way he can — he puts a family of vandals in my house.”

Moss nodded again, looked at the bottle in surprise, and put it back in the drawer.

Benton was ruminating darkly now, but the clearing picture still made no sense. He said, “Harry, how come these offers to buy the place? If what he wanted to do was wreck it, how come the offers to buy?”

Moss had regained some control. “Those were from the McCords.”

“A hundred and fifty thousand bucks! Are you telling me they’ve got that kind of money?”

“I guess they do, Tom. I’ve got a five-thousand-dollar check accompanying the offer.”

“Have you deposited it?”

“I just got it yesterday. It’s in my desk.”

“Just for fun take it over and deposit it, see what happens. Aren’t you supposed to do that anyway?”

“Not until the seller signs the acceptance.” Moss’s voice had gained strength; this was good old real-estate talk. “Sign it and I’ll take it over right now.” A smile quivered across his lips.

Unexpectedly, Benton was tempted. The thought of the desecrated house sickened him. The thought of what that slattern probably had done to Sheila’s beautiful kitchen was more than he could bear. Stiffening, he rejected the temptation, but it had brought him full circle. “Harry,” he said, “I’m gonna want you to repair the damages. I’m gonna want the place put back the way it was.”

Moss’s smile brightened. “Sure,” he said. “No problem.” He got out the bottle again, as though for the first time, and went over to his water cooler for paper cups. “Let’s have a drink on it.”

Benton studied him coldly, saw the shake in his hands, the glisten of returning sweat on his brow. There was a lot more here than Moss had revealed, more than a few bucks’ loss and a touch of proper chagrin. Moss had been a realtor in a growing town for twenty-five years; he had the money and was probably used to the shame. Benton stood up and said no. The terms of his parole didn’t allow him to drink, but that wasn’t it. Moss was morally wounded. He stank of it. It was, in part, a prison smell, and Benton had had enough of that.

He left Moss unscrewing the cap of the bottle and walked out. Moss’s girl still hadn’t come back from lunch and Benton wondered in passing if she had something on him too. Probably a lot of people did.