“But, Jess, couldn't the swelling be caused by the toadstool making the cat sick?” Roberts asked.
Somebody called out from the front of the store, “Jessie?”
“Yes.”
“Leaving a dime for the paper on the counter.”
“Thanks.” The druggist turned to Roberts. “That's possible. I really don't know. Say, Artie, what's this all about?”
“Nothing,” I said quickly. “Thanks for your time, Mr.... Jessie.” I picked up Matty's basket and the pot of food. Roberts followed me out to the police car, opening the door for me. I told him, “I'd appreciate it if you'd drive me back to the cottage.”
“Why, sure, I always give door-to-door service,” he said, starting the car. “Well, guess you're convinced now it was an accident.”
“Accident? How often have you had a case of toadstool poisoning in the Harbor?”
“Never heard of any, but they do happen,” he said, glancing at a car making a brake-screeching turn off Main Street, muttering, “Dumb kid drivers.”
“I'll tell you what happened. The killer came to our cottage with a toadstool while we were at the beach, found the food in the icebox, cut in the toadstool. He figured after eating the food we'd get sick enough to pack up for New York. I'd be off his back. Then he saw my cat, thought he had a better way of making sure his plan worked fast—forced food down Matty's mouth and left the bowl beside him on the table.”
“You're going off half-cocked, Lund. All that is only what you think.”
I patted Matty's basket. “I didn't think up this!”
“But you can't be positive that...?”
“I'm positive!”
“Look, Lund, all we know is your cat ate a toadstool and died. That doesn't prove a thing. You heard Jessie, he wasn't even certain how the cat died. And don't keep saying 'he'—if you think the cat was deliberately killed— I recall hearing your daughter-in-law wasn't keen on the cat. And her boy—some kids get kicks out of hanging dogs and....”
“Oh cut it. I've had enough talk.”
“What the hell do you expect me to do? If the cat was killed deliberately, so what? I'm not the SPCA. Killing a cat isn't any crime. As for this being part of the Barnes business, old man, you're way off your rocker.”
We finished the ride in silence. Roberts helped me into the cottage with the stuff, planted his rear on a chair again —his favorite hobby. I wondered what he was hanging around for. I knew I was wasting valuable time talking to the big dope. The toadstool told me all I wanted to know... except for one other thing I had to clear. I asked, “How old would Jack Wiston be now?”
“Who?” His face looked blank and I doubted if he was that good an actor.
“Priscilla Barnes' missing brother,” I said.
“You really get around, Lund. I don't know. That was long before my time. I never saw or knew any of her family, not even when I was a kid.”
“How old was Barnes?”
“Around sixty-three. I have his exact age in my files. Had a nice funeral for Ed today. Worked out fine.”
“You mean Jane Endin didn't show. How old was Nelson?”
“Seventy-one.”
“And Pops?”
Roberts looked startled. “What's Pops got to do with this?”
“How old is he?”
Roberts shrugged. “Never could count that high. This a quiz program?”
“It was, up till now. Roberts, do me one favor, give— or sell—me a handful of .38 shells.” I touched his polished belt lined with bullets. I knew there was little chance the hardware store carried them.
Roberts couldn't have jumped to his feet faster if a shell had goosed him. His eyes actually narrowed—again —as he asked, “What for?”
“For my empty gun.”
“That tears it, Lund. You've been a wild-hair from the moment you came to the Harbor. Pack a gun and I'll jail you!”
“The law says I can carry a gun anywhere in the state.”
“Then I'll lock you up for disorderly conduct, for being a loony! You sore because your Greek buddy is free and you haven't anything to do now? Who the devil do you think you are? Dick Tracy? I'm warning you, Lund, and only this once, annoy anybody else in the Harbor and I'll throw your ass in jail so fast it will make your badge smoke!” He started for the porch, his big frame filling the doorway.
“Maybe the Hampton Point police will be interested.”
Roberts spun around so quickly I thought he was going to swing on me. “Sure, go tell them about your cat—they'll toss you in a cell, a padded one! Maybe you don't believe this, but I'm doing you a favor—although you sure act like you're cracked. Well, here's the favor, some free advice: don't make a fool of yourself in Hampton Point They have a big force, a rough one. It's a rich town and they got plenty of cops because they're afraid the migratory potato pickers might get out of hand in the summer. You go there and they'll laugh you out of town!”
He ran down the porch steps, and into the radio car. I leaned against the wall, watched the lights of the car disappear—wondered what to do next. For a second I was full of doubts... But it had to be Pops. He was the “old goat,” and for some reason he'd killed Barnes, then taken off. That accounted for the dummy up on the widow's walk. I'd seen the hands move this afternoon, but whose hands? On a hot day why would anybody, even a supposedly sick man, keep a hat over his face, a blanket on? Somehow Larry Anderson was in this, probably protecting Pops, maybe being blackmailed. It all fitted. Larry had seen me out on the bay this afternoon with the glasses, thought I was spying on Pops again, that I hadn't been taken in by the Nelson “suicide.” So Larry told the “old goat.” Or he and Pops could be in this together.
Hell, everybody in the Harbor might be in on this. Jane Endin hadn't been at the funeral, she only lived a few blocks from here, must know about mushrooms and herbs. She could be working with Pops, trying to scare me off.
But off what? What possibly could be going on in this peaceful lousy hick burg that called for murder? I didn't know who did the other killings, but Matty had to be the work of Pops, whoever he was and wherever he was. That was why Larry had put his glasses on me this afternoon.
I either had to pack up Andy and Bessie, get away from here at once, or if I stayed, I had to solve it before anything happened to them. And I had to do it alone—me, the do-it-yourself detective. Maybe I was being an old fool, but I just couldn't run.
I went inside and dumped every bit of food I could find—the stuff in the icebox along with sugar, salt, cereals —in the garbage can. Even the toothpaste. Some flies were on Matty. I rummaged around until I found an empty hat-box and put Matty in it. I carefully wrapped the box in aluminum foil, tied it securely with fishline, then put the package in his wicker basket. I scrubbed the tabletop, threw out the cleanser and a box of soap powder.