“What the hell is this?” the city cop demanded.
The selectman pointed at him. “You’ve got scratches on your back.” He lay the shirt carefully on the table and lifted the telephone from its hook.
Martin started forward, then thought better of it as the constable backed cautiously away and cocked the gun. “What the hell have my scratches got to do with anything?”
He sat down again after the selectman had made his call to the barracks.
Barkus looked levelly at the city cop. “My boy didn’t do it. I knew it then and I know it now.”
“OK, so you’re kid didn’t do it. So what? Any one of a million creeps could have come into town, fixed the girl, then taken off! Why me?”
The constable allowed the trace of a smile to cross his face. “It’s a funny thing. Us small town lawmen may not be much on police work, but we got one big advantage over you city fellows. We know everybody in town, everybody. And that can come in mighty handy.”
Martin reached for a cigarette, then thought better of that too. He said nothing.
“You remember seeing some fellows out on your road wearing white helmets? They were on a civil defense exercise. It’s a big thing around here. And you know what they were doing?”
Martin didn’t reply, showing no sign of having heard. He hated his new role and loathed the little man who had taken on his.
The constable went on, ignoring the silence. “They were setting up check points on every road coming into town.”
“In other words,” Barkus added, “we know that no strangers stopped in town anytime around the hour the girl was murdered.”
Martin hunched his shoulders, drove them into the table and sent it flying while his right hand dove for his gun. It was gone.
Now another gun was pointed at the city cop; and this one was his, and it was in the hand of the town’s highest elected official. “Put the table back up, Martin, and sit down.”
This quick defeat forced him to think again, urging him on to some defense, some comeback that would get him out from under those guns. “But why me? Hell, there’s probably a dozen guys in this town alone who might do a thing like that!”
“Except for one thing, Mr. City Policeman.”
“What’s that?”
“Like you said out at the barn, somebody really gave it to her.”
“So?”
The constable almost smiled without losing a speck of his caution. “Nobody but you could have raped and beaten her.”
“Why the hell so? What do you think I am?”
Selectman Jim Barkus craned his neck at the sound of the siren in the distance. “You’re the only stranger in town. Any of the local men would just of asked for what they wanted. You see, city cop, Tillie Miles was the town whore.”
An Angle on Death
by Roy Carroll
Vera was a beautiful girl with a body that drove guys nuts. Trouble was... nobody seemed to want to marry her.
She was a cute kid and I hated to do this to her, but it had to be. I couldn’t fool around. I gave it to her straight, told her I couldn’t afford to get married, didn’t want to get married and that I wasn’t paying for any operation, either. Those things cost two — three hundred bucks, today. I didn’t have that kind of money. I told her, too, that if she tried to put the pressure on me, I’d just take off, fast. I didn’t have to hang around this town.
It was while she was putting on the big sob act that I figured an out for her. I told her to shut up for a minute and then I said: “Vera, listen. I think I’ve got it figured what you can do.”
She cut off the tears fast, but her big, brown eyes stayed full and glittery as she looked at me. “What is it, Van?”
“It’s simple,” I told her, “You know the boss is nuts about you, don’t you? Absolutely nuts. So when he hears you and I have busted up, he’ll ask you for a date. You give it to him. And you keep on giving it to him. Not only the dates.”
She sniffled and dabbed at her nose with a little wad of handkerchief. Those cowlike eyes stared at me dumbly. She said: “Go out with Mr. Owen? I... I don’t think I understand, Van.”
“You don’t understand.” I went over to the dresser mirror and started combing my hair. I knew Vera was watching me, thinking what nice curly hair I had, and how handsome I was, and big, like a college football player. I knew that because she was always telling me. It got monotonous.
“What do you want me to do?” I said. “Draw you a blueprint? After a few dates the dumb old slob will want you to marry him. Okay, you marry him. Your troubles are over.”
I turned away from the mirror and she was sitting very stiff in the chair, her usually round, pretty face looking drawn and shocked. “Van,” she said. “Do you know what you’re saying? I... I can’t marry someone I don’t even love. Especially a fat man old enough to be my father. Van, what do you think I am?”
I didn’t tell her.
“Van, you can’t be serious. I— What’s got into you, lately?”
“Nothing’s got into me,” I told her. “You’re the one in trouble. Remember? I’m telling you, that’s your out. Your only out. It’s simple. Easy.”
She came flying out of the chair, squalling and sobbing again and flung herself at me. I held her for a minute. “Van,” she said. “I thought you loved me. How can you do this to me? Van, I only want to marry you. I only love you!”
For a minute I almost felt sorry for her. In spite of the fact that she was a good-looking kid, with a body that drove the guys in the office nuts, she was kind of shy and dumb. Maybe that was because she was all alone in the world, no folks or anything, lived by herself, didn’t even seem to have any girl friends. I was the first guy she’d ever gone out with steady. I was the first guy, period. But what good does it do you to feel sorry for someone? What does it buy?
“Look, Baby,” I said, softly. “It won’t be so bad. Harry Owens is stinking with dough. He’s a nice old guy. You’ll have the best of everything. And maybe after awhile, you and I can still get together.”
She thought about that and the weeps died down again. Finally, she murmured: “Suppose he doesn’t ask me to marry him, Van? What then?”
“He will,” I said. “If he doesn’t, you make him. You tell him he’s got to because you’re—”
She yanked away from me, and for a long minute she stared at me, a funny look in her eyes. “You’re really serious, aren’t you?” she said, finally. “You’re really asking me to do a thing like that!”
Then she turned and ran out of my flat, still crying, slamming the door behind her. For a minute I was going to go after her, try to talk her into it. But then I realized I didn’t have to. She had the idea, now. When she calmed down, she’d go through with it. What else was there for her to do? I knew she was scared stiff of any operation, even if she could get the dough.
The next day at the Owen Advertising Agency where Vera and I both worked in the mail room, she didn’t even speak to me. She acted sullen and pouty, all day. Other people in the office started noticing right away and soon they were kidding both of us about it. They stopped, though, when Vera burst out crying and ran out to the Ladies’ Room. That was good. I knew now that Harry Owen wouldn’t lose any time hearing about it.
The whole thing worked out smooth and fast after that. I called Vera in a couple of days and she told me she was dating him. She said it was being done on the QT, though, that Harry didn’t want the rest of the employees to know about it. Then she said: “You know something, Van, the joke’s on you. I’m already beginning to like Mr. Owen — Harry — a lot. He’s not so old, after all, and he’s not so fat, either. He’s kind to me, too, Van. Can you understand what that means to me after going with you? He isn’t cruel like you. He doesn’t do the — the things you used to do. I think this was a very smart idea of yours, Van. I’m not having any trouble forgetting you, at all.”