Archer cleaned and bandaged the wound.
“We got to get you to the hospital,” said Archer, helping the other man up. Shaw, gray faced, merely nodded.
“Jackie, get dressed and grab a few things. I’m taking you some place safe.”
She looked over at the dead man and the unconscious man and didn’t argue.
Shaw said slowly, “Got cuffs in my jacket pocket. You cuff that SOB over there so he can’t get away.”
Archer did as he was told, and when he turned the man over, he saw that it was Malcolm Draper. The man had finally turned up. He cuffed his hands behind his back and said to Jackie, who was getting dressed in her closet, “Throw me a belt.”
She did so, and he hog-tied the man’s legs with the belt, intersecting it through the handcuffs.
Archer drove the Buick straight to the hospital, which was a block over from the Derby. While the doctor attended Shaw, the detective had Archer call the police station and tell them what had happened at Jackie’s. Deputies were sent over to secure the area and arrest Draper.
As Shaw lay on the gurney he stared up at Archer. “You saved my damn life, Archer.”
“Just glad I was there. And you saved Jackie’s life. Dickie woulda killed her for sure if you hadn’t winged him. And you saved me, too, when you think about it. Not sure I could’ve got the upper hand with him if he hadn’t been wounded. You rest easy now. I’ll be back.”
He left with Jackie and drove her over to Ernestine’s, where he rapped hard on the door.
When a sleepy Ernestine opened the door, she looked confused when she saw Archer. But when she spied Jackie standing there, her features froze.
“Ernestine Crabtree, Jackie Tuttle,” said Archer by way of introduction.
The women, Archer thought, looked like two prizefighters about to do business in the ring.
“Miss Tuttle,” said Ernestine.
“Miss Crabtree,” said Jackie.
He succinctly explained what had happened and what he wanted Ernestine to do with Jackie.
Ernestine’s face had paled as Archer had described the horror at Jackie’s home. He thought she might actually faint. His hand shot out and steadied her.
“Steady there,” he said. “You okay?”
She composed herself and said, “I’m all right. My goodness. You poor thing,” she said to Jackie, gently draping her arm around the other woman’s shoulders.
“And Ernestine, you got your gun handy?” asked Archer.
“Yes.”
“Keep it that way.”
Jackie gripped Archer by the arm as he was about to leave.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Just glad you’re still with us, Jackie. And if it weren’t for you, I’d be dead.”
He hustled back to the Buick. As he started the car, he looked back to see the women turn and head into the house. Ernestine’s arm was still around Jackie and the other woman was leaning into her for support. Then the door closed.
Well, thought Archer, that had gone better than he could have imagined.
However, as he thought about it some more, he began to grow worried. The women separately had gotten to know Archer fairly well. And he had slept with Jackie. If the two started comparing notes on him?
He let out a sigh. Well, there’s nothing perfect about life. But at least I still got a life after tonight.
He drove off.
Shaw was sitting up and looking much better when Archer returned. The lawman had been placed in a private room and had bags of blood flowing into him.
“Deputies have been by. They got Draper. And they picked up Dill’s body.”
“Good,” said Archer, sitting next to the man. “But you just rest easy now.”
“Why do you think they went after Jackie Tuttle?”
“She knew Hank Pittleman as well as anyone did,” said Archer. “They were afraid he told her something, I suspect. Like you said, tying up loose ends. That’s what made me think to go over there in the first place. She asked me to stay with her last night for that very reason.”
“Soon as I get outta this bed, I’m gonna ask Marjorie Pittleman point-blank what the hell is going on.”
“Like to be with you when you do.”
“Don’t worry, you will. You earned that right tonight, son.”
“And I think I’m retiring from the slaughterhouse business,” said Archer.
“Good call,” replied Shaw, looking drowsy.
Noting this, Archer said, “Now you need to get some sleep. And so do I.”
Archer tipped his hat over his eyes and leaned back in his chair.
“What, you mean you’re gonna sleep here?”
“’Course. Want to be around in case somebody wants to try to come after you to finish the job. Don’t worry, I’m a light sleeper.”
“You always been that way?”
“Nope. But something about fighting a war and spending time in prison just does that to a man.”
He closed his eyes and fell asleep.
A minute later, so did Irving Shaw.
Chapter 33
It was the following day, around five. Shaw, his wound sutured, his blood levels fully restored, and his arm in a sling, had been pronounced to be out of danger. Now he was standing in front of Marjorie Pittleman’s door with Archer next to him.
The elderly Agnes answered the door after Shaw knocked.
Shaw had wanted to question Draper, but he was still unconscious and had been transferred from a jail cell to the hospital. They feared his skull might be cracked.
“Now I wish I hadn’t hit him so hard,” lamented Archer when he heard this news.
Agnes led them down the hall to the conservatory this time. Marjorie was seated on a chaise lounge with silk upholstery reading a book when they were shown in. As usual, a tall glass of something on the rocks was on the small table next to her. Archer was concluding the mild-mannered woman perhaps drank all the time. And maybe he couldn’t blame her.
“Yes, gentlemen, do you have news of my husband’s killer?”
Shaw took off his hat with his good arm.
“My word, what happened to you both?” asked Marjorie, noting the sling and Archer’s battered face.
Shaw pointed to two chairs. “May we?”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
They sat, and Shaw stared at the placid woman.
“There have been developments, ma’am.”
Marjorie closed her book, adjusted her pince-nez, and looked across at them.
“Such as?”
“Such as Sid Duckett getting fed to the hogs out at your husband’s slaughterhouse. And two men trying to kill Jackie Tuttle last night.”
Marjorie paled and dropped her book to the floor. “Excuse me!”
Shaw gave her a dead-eyed stare. “We also know about the life insurance policy on your husband, Mrs. Pittleman.”
“That’s right. It was Hank who insisted that we take it out on him.”
“Oh, is that so?” said Shaw skeptically. “Why?”
“Well, we all have to die, Mr. Shaw. And Hank took out the policy, not me. You can ask the insurance person.”
“But you knew about it?”
“Yes, of course. I was the beneficiary, after all.”
“On the life insurance application, it said that your husband was in good health.”
“Well, as far as I knew, he was.”
Shaw’s mustache twitched. “Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“According to his doctor, you were with your husband when he told him he had incurable cancer in his brain. What do you say to that?”
“I didn’t believe him.”
“Excuse me?”
“I didn’t believe the doctor. I told Hank to get a second opinion. As far as I was concerned, Hank did not have cancer.”
“I doubt the insurance company will believe that.”