“Let's get going, I have a lot of work to do. The why is the usual old one: your pillar of the community, Doc Barnes, was carrying on for years with an Indian woman, a descendant of the tribe that founded End Harbor. Name is Jane Endin. You know her?”
“No. We tourists rarely get to know anybody but the storekeepers. You think this Indian woman killed him?”
“She had more reason than Jerry. Not to mention the doc's wife, who's been having the affair flung in her face all these years. But this explains Chief Roberts' attitude —from the go he knew darn well it was murder but all he can think of is the Harbor doesn't want a scandal. In a small town everybody is close friends—especially Mrs. Barnes and Roberts. He's even willing to call it an accident and let it go at that. Then enter the clown—me—who has to shoot off his big mouth. Now the Harbor has to call it murder but they find a custom-made patsy—the doc was known to have visited Jerry, the village bogeyman.”
“But to put Jerry on trial for his life, Lord, how can they be so heartless!”
“Honey, that's the angle, the reasons Roberts doesn't give a fat damn his evidence is weak and circumstantial— he knows Jerry won't be found guilty. So what? The mess is over, hushed without any scandal. I told you I was the joker in the deck, well, honey, I'm going to knock over their can of peas, bust this wide open!”
“Matt, I knew you would!”
“You didn't know a mumbling thing, and neither did L Frankly, I only went to Riverside this morning to go through the motions. But that's all changed now—I know he's being railroaded. Being an ordinary patrolman, a harness bull, I've never looked upon 'police work' as anything but a job. But like everybody else I sometimes thought, had daydreams, about being a real detective. So in my old age I'm frankly going to give it a try.”
The odd thing was I said this rah-rah pitch cold sober, actually meant every word. Listening to Jerry I'd decided to goose End Harbor wide open, expose all the petty scheming and hatreds, a kind of concentrated form of big city vice. If I was doing it for Jerry, I was also doing it for my own ego. And all the time I knew I was showboating; a four-flusher—for the case was a set-up and I would knock it over with the speed of a fiction private eye.
Bessie wanted to know what I had in mind but I merely puffed on my pipe with great self-importance, told her I couldn't discuss it at the moment, but I would need the car.
She said I could have it and even managed not to talk all the way back to the cottage. I gave Matty his lunch in three seconds flat and with Bessie watching with admiring eyes I dashed off—the great detective about to run himself ragged.
Roberts was out but the boy-cop was holding down the desk. He told me Roberts was working. I asked, “Did you know the doc was deaf?”
“Yeah. Everybody knew that, he had one of them transparent hearing buttons stuck in his ear.”
“You know why Jerry was loud-talking him, why the doc was shouting back? The hearing device wasn't working that night.”
“That so? There wasn't enough left to say if it was working or not Who told you all this?”
“Jerry. Didn't you fellows question him at all? He claims Barnes had another call to make—which means Jerry wasn't the last person to see the doc alive.”
Junior fooled with his red tie, almost yawned in my face. “Guess that would change things—if you can prove it. We grilled old Jerry, but who can understand the way he talks? After a couple questions he wouldn't say a damn word. To my way of thinking, this proves Jerry guilty— for he'd sure as hell make up a story about the doc having another call. Mrs. Barnes says he only had to see Jerry.”
“She might say anything. Jerry says the doc told him he was on his way to see the 'old goat.' Any idea who that would be?”
He showed a mouthful of teeth in a big grin. “Offhand that could be anybody over the age of thirty. There's a summer population of around 2800, not to mention the 1468 actual residents of the Harbor, and at least half of them are over thirty—you plan to question about 3000 people, mister?”
“I might, to save a man's life,” I snapped, knowing I was wasting time: the End Harbor police weren't interested in finding the killer. “Where does Jane Endin live?”
“Out on Bay Street, couple houses past the entrance to Tide Beach. So you know about her?”
“I sure do,” I said, starting for the door.
“All this rushing about will tire you out, man your age.”
I spun around. “Don't let that pansy uniform go to your head, sonny. I've put in more years as a cop than you have weeks!”
“Take it easy, mister. I'm only trying to save you work. She ain't home. We been trying to locate her since yesterday.”
I almost swallowed my tongue: a possible suspect leaves town and they sit on their butts! “Know where she works in Hampton?”
“Sure, at the watch factory. We phoned there, she wasn't to work yesterday or today. What you want to see her for?”
“To ask who she thinks will win the pennant!” I said, walking out.
He called after me, “Hell, I can tell you that—the Giants.”
Outside I sat in the car and got my pipe going—watching the people on the main drag—trying to figure my next step. I knew what I had to do but I didn't want to rush it, act like a jerk—the way I'd just done with the uniform-happy boy. One thing was for sure; I couldn't shake this village loose by myself.
I made a list of all the names I'd heard since coming to the Harbor—Jerry's, Doc and Mrs. Barnes, Chief Roberts, Jane Endin, Mrs. Bond, Larry Anderson, Pops (but what was his name?), even copied the names from the store windows on Main Street—obviously the big apples in the village. Getting a handful of change I put in a long distance call, which would also take it away from the ears of the local operators, to Nat Reed in New York. Nat and I shared a post for a brace of years before he quit to go into private work, ended up in a cushy spot with a credit agency. Credit outfits have become the largest snoop agencies in the country outside the government. They have complete files on millions of people. I gave Nat a fast rundown on what I was doing, the list of names.
As I expected, he said, “Matt, you know I can't give out info like that. It's only for our subscribers.”
“I know—that's why I'm wasting dough on a long distance call.”
Nat sputtered a little before he said, “Okay, I'll send you whatever we have, get it out today.”
“Put it in a plain envelope. Seal it good.”
“Things that bad?”
“I'm playing it safe, wind blows a lot of ways out here.”
“I'll mail it special delivery.” He laughed. “Going in for police work as a hobby in your old age?”
“Isn't it about time? And if I'm in my old age, where does that put you, you old belch? Thanks, Nat. Say hello to the wife for me.”
I drove along Main Street until I reached the picture-window white house set back on a neat lawn with Doc Barnes' shingle hanging from a post made to look like an old whaling ship's mast. I rang the doorbell and a stout woman with a healthy face and heavy gray hair in a big bun topping her head opened the door. A plain worn short red dress showed off arms and legs that belonged on a football team.