He planted himself behind his desk, as solid as an oak stump. “Well,” he said, “let's see it.”
I gave him the bill and he held it up to the light.
“You've got stuck, all right.”
“It looks like it,” I said. “I guess there's not much to be done about it now,” wondering how I was going to get around to the robbery.
Otis was still squinting at the bill. “When did you say you got this?”
“Four or five days ago. I found it in my cash drawer.”
He grunted. Then he got up and went to a small office safe in the corner of the room. He took another bill from the safe and held them up to the window. “I'm no expert,” he said finally, “but I'd swear these two bills came off the same press.” He handed them to me. “Look at the scrollwork in the upper left-hand corners.”
I held the two bills up to the light, and sure enough, they were exactly the same. The same engraving flaws were in both bills. “Where did this one come from?” I said, holding out the bill he had given me.
He shrugged. “Don't remember exactly. Several of them were passed here in Creston about a year ago. Directly after that the counterfeiters were caught in Tulsa.”
Otis was looking at me. It was just a look, I told myself, and didn't mean a thing, but I felt that chill again.
“They were caught?” It was all I could think to say.
“A year ago. They're in Leavenworth now.”
“How about me plates?”
“They were taken, too. They were so bad that the counterfeiters had stopped using them.” The Sheriff dropped the bill and let it flutter to his desk. “Very few of these bills were passed,” he said thoughtfully, “according to the federal men who were on the case. Look at them. That kind of work wouldn't fool an idiot—no offense, Joe.”
Goddamnit! I thought. Why did I ever think of this bogus bill, anyway? “Well...” I didn't like the way he was looking at me. “Where do you figure this bill came from?”
He shrugged.
“Somebody must have held onto it for a year and then passed it off on me.”
“It's possible,” Otis said.
But not probable. Bogus money as bad as this stuff just didn't stay in circulation. I couldn't tell what he was thinking, if he was thinking anything. He just looked at me and fingered that bogus bill.
“Then,” I said, “I guess there's nothing much we can do about it, if the counterfeiters are already in prison.”
He smiled faintly. “Maybe the experience will be worth five dollars to you, Joe. From now on you'll look at your bills before ringing them up.”
I had an almost irresistible impulse to wipe the sweat from my forehead. It was nothing. I was just imagining things. The Sheriff said, “Was there anything else on your mind, Joe?”
“No. No, that's all,” and got up. “I guess this robbery thing has got you pretty busy,” I added.
“Yes. In fact, there are some people I want to talk to right now. So if you don't mind ...”
That was a dismissal. He stood up and hitched his holster. “Well, take it easy, Joe,” and he walked out of the office.
I hadn't learned a thing. That didn't occur to me until I had reached the sidewalk in front of the courthouse. I had been on the defensive every minute; I hadn't had a chance to ask questions.
I was tempted to go back and talk to Ray King and see if I could get anything out of him, but that would be too risky. If Otis did get to wondering about that bogus bill, everything I did would begin to mean something to him. He was a bulldog when he got hold of a thing. Let well enough alone, I told myself. Give Otis no reason to believe that I tried to fool him with that piece of counterfeit and everything will be all right.
I looked at my watch and it was three o'clock. Three days, almost four, since the robbery, since I had seen Paula. It seemed like a lifetime.
Across the street from the courthouse there was a bar, and that's where I headed. I stood there with my foot on the rail for maybe fifteen minutes, nursing a schooner of beer and wondering what I was going to do next. I was free; Ike was taking care of the station for the afternoon. Free to visit with my dad, free to do anything I wanted, and I wanted to do nothing. I didn't even want the beer. Then a paper boy came in with the afternoon paper, the only paper Creston had, and I took one. It was in the headlines.
FINGERPRINTS ON PROVO SAFE
IDENTIFIED AS MISSING WATCHMAN'S
Otis Miller, Creston County sheriff, said this morning that the fingerprints found on the blown door of the Provo Box Company safe had definitely been identified as those of Otto Finney, missing company watchman. Finney has been missing since the night of the robbery....
I read it and felt myself smile. The paper, without coming right out and saying it, made it sound like an open-and-shut case against Otto. Now I knew why the Sheriff had been annoyed at my bothering him with that bogus bill. He knew perfectly well that the old watchman was innocent, but that wouldn't keep the political wolves off his back. There was only one thing for him to do, and that was to find Otto. By the time he did that, if he ever did, the details of the case would be so fogged that the trail would never be picked up again.
Suddenly I felt good. I felt fine. I had another schooner of beer and this time I enjoyed it. It was strange, the way that story in the paper affected me. It was difficult to believe that it had anything to do with me, anything at all. A factory had been robbed. An old watchman was missing. That was all. I could even think back to the night when Paula Sheldon and I had dumped the body over the rock ledge into the lake and feel nothing but a kind of cold savagery. The old bastard had tried to kill me! He got what was coming to him!
I had another beer, and this time the bartender leaned over the bar to look at the paper. “Well, I'll be damned,” he said. “That makes it look bad for old Finney, don't it? But you want to know what I think? I think the old man's dead.”
I looked at him. “Why?”
“Just a hunch, maybe.” He shrugged. “That's the way I've got it figured, though. I've been thinking about this thing, and I just don't believe the old man could have done it. I don't give a damn about the fingerprints. I think the robbers killed him and dumped his body in the lake.”
I must have jumped.
“What's the matter?” he said. “You look kind of funny.”
“Nothing's the matter. But what made you think of the lake?”
“Well, it just seems like the logical place to me. I ask myself how would be the best way to get rid of a body in a hurry, and I think right away of the lake. I don't know why; it's just the obvious place, I guess.”
It was obvious, if this stupid bartender had thought of it. Dangerously obvious.
“It's my guess,” he went on, “that the Sheriff would be dragging the lake right now if he could get the officials together on it. There are too many damn fools in town, though, that think the old man actually took part in the burglary and is hidin' out somewhere. But they'll come around in time. Then you'll see I'm right.”
I wanted to get out of there. I was beginning to realize that the lake hadn't been such a fine idea after all, and if it weren't for the wrangle in the City Council I'd be in a hell of a mess. I said, “Well, I guess the Sheriff knows what he's doing.”
“Sure, if they'd just let him do it. You know, I've got another theory about this thing. I'll bet somebody right here in Creston took that money and killed Finney. Otis Miller will get them, though. I'll bet on it.”