"I'm here to inquire about a former resident of Pottsville! A man named Cameron Tramell."
"Never heard of him," I said. "Good-bye."
I started to close the door, Barnes held it open.
"You've heard of him," he said. "He was known locally as Curly, and he was a pimp."
I said, oh, I said, oh, yeah, sure, I'd heard of Curly. "Ain't seen him for a spell, come to think of it. How's he getting along, anyways?"
"Now, Sheriff"-he grinned at me with his eyes- "let's not spar with each other."
"Spar? What do you mean?" I said.
"I mean, Cameron Trammel, alias Curly, is dead, as you well know. And you also know who killed him."
20
I had him come in, and we sat in the living room while he explained about Curly. It seemed that both bodies had been washed up, Moose's as well as Curly's. But no one was interested in Moose, whereas they were plenty interested in Curly. And the people that was interested in him was his own family, one of the best families in the South. They knew he was no good, naturally; in fact, they'd paid him to stay away from 'em. But still he was "family"-still part of 'em-and they meant to see to it that his murderer was hanged.
"So here I am, Sheriff…" Barnes forced a smile. "Perhaps we didn't see eye to eye on everything, but, well, I'm not a man to hold a grudge, and I'm sure neither of us wants to see a murderer running loose."
"I know I sure don't," I said. "If I see any murderer runnin' around loose, I'll arrest 'em and throw 'em in jail."
"Exactly. So if you'll tell me the name of the man who killed Curly…"
"Me?" I said. "I don't know who killed him. If I did, I'd arrest him an' put-"
"Sheriff! You do know who killed him. You've admitted it."
"Not me," I said. "You said that I knew, not me."
His mouth pinched together again, and his eyes along with it. With that fishhook nose, his face looked like three clods on a sandbank with a plough cutting through them.
"Approximately one week ago, on the morning after Curly was killed-"
"Now, how do you know it was the morning after?" I said. "Ain't no one can say that unless it was the fella that killed him."
"I know this, Sheriff. I know that your friend, Sheriff Ken Lacey, openly boasted on the streets of this town that he had taken care of Moose and Curly, meaning he had killed them. And you were with him at the time of this boasting, this claim that he had murdered those two men, and you gave your hearty approval to it."
"Oh, yeah," I laughed, "now! remember. That was a little joke of Ken's an' mine. Had ourselves a peck of fun with it"
"Now, Sheriff-"
"You think it wasn't?" I said. "You think that a fella who'd killed two men would walk around the streets braggin' about it, and that I, an officer of the law, would just pat him on the back for it?"
"Never mind what I think, Sheriff! The events I have described did take place, and on the night previous to them-the only night Sheriff Lacey spent in Pottsville-he stayed at the river whorehouse, and he there boasted to the inmates of the house that he had fixed Moose and Curly good and that he had taken care of them good, and so on. In other words, there is incontrovertible evidence that approximately one week before Moose and Curly were found dead, on the only night Sheriff Lacey spent in Pottsville, he did declare himself to be the murderer of the aforesaid Moose and Curly."
"Uh-hah," I said, making myself sound real interested. "Now, this in-con-tro-watchmacallit evidence you speak about. Would that be the unsupported word of these whorehouse gals?"
"It's not unsupported, dammit! There's Sheriff Lacey's bragging the following morning, and-"
"But he was just jokin', Mr. Barnes. I put him up to it."
Barnes' head snapped back, them little old eyes of his glaring at me. Then he darted it forward again, like he was going to hook me with his nose.
"Now, you listen to me, Corey! Listen to me good! I don't intend to-to-" He broke off suddenly, shook himself like a horse shaking off flies. Then his face twisted, and screwed up and unscrewed, and goddang if he didn't smile. "Please excuse me, Sheriff Corey; I've had a rather trying day. I'm afraid I lost track of the fact, for a moment, that we're both equally sincere and intent in our desire for justice even though we may not act and think alike."
I nodded and said that I guessed he was right all right. He beamed and went on.
"Now, you've known Sheriff Lacey for years. He's a good friend of yours. You naturally feel that you have to protect him."
"Uh-uh," I said. "He ain't a friend of mine, and if there was any way I could pin them two murders on him I'd be plain proud to do it."
"But, Sheriff-"
"He was a friend of mine," I said. "He stopped bein' one even before that night he came down here an' rousted me out of bed and got me to point out the way to the whorehouse to him."
"Then he did go there!" Barnes rubbed his hands together. "You can testify of your own knowledge that he did go to the whorehouse on the night in question?"
"Why, sure I can," I said. "It's the plain truth, so why couldn't I testify to it?"
"But that's wonderful! Wonderful, Sheriff! And did Lacey tell you why he wanted to go to the-no, wait a minute. Did he say anything that would indicate that he was going to the whorehouse for the purpose of killing Moose and Curly?"
"You mean then, that night?" I shook my head. "No, he didn't say anything then."
"But he did at some other time! When?"
"That day," I said, "when I was over to his county on a visit. He said that pimps was one thing he just didn't have no use for, and that he believed in killin' 'em on general principles."
Barnes jumped up, and began pacing around the room. He said that what I'd told him was wonderful, wonderful, and it was just what he needed, then, stopped in front of me an' shook his finger sort of playful.
"You're quite a tease, Sheriff. Almost made me lose my temper, and I'm a man who prides himself on self-control. You had this vital information all along, and yet you appeared to be defending Lacey."
I said that, well, that was the way! was, a real card. He glanced at his watch, and asked me what time he could get a train into the city.
"Oh, you got lots of time," I said. "Better'n a couple of hours. Best thing you can do is stay an' have supper with us."
"Why-Why, that's very kind of you, Sheriff. Very kind."
I got some whiskey out of the office, and we had ourselves a few drinks. He started talking about himself, him and the detective agency, me throwing in a word now and then by way of heading him on, and his voice began to get kind of bitter. It seemed like he hated what he was doing. He knew exactly what Talkington was, and he couldn't make no excuses for it. It was a downright hateful outfit, and he was part of its hateful doings, and he hated himself because he was.