“In 1943.” Jane whispered.
“They've had well over a dozen years to take their time, pick at least eight victims. They lure an oldtimer out and once he starts getting his checks, a matter of weeks, they knock him off. Who would know? No relatives, and the guy probably sticks to the grounds for the first few weeks. So a Social Security check for a... Robert Berger keeps coming promptly every month. Pops has already set up the storekeeper, in this case the one near Riverside, to cash it for him—and keep cashing them. Except for Pops dying this racket could have gone on for years, in almost perfect safety.”
“Somehow I still can't believe it. Doesn't the Social Security board ever check to see if a person is still living?”
“Frankly I don't know. I think a person has to file a yearly report if they continue working. Seems to me the earnings can't be above a certain figure. I'll find out. But in this case the men weren't working, so the only way Washington would know they had died would be when the checks were returned, the envelopes marked DECEASED, and... Lord, Lord!”
“What is it?” Jane asked, sitting up.
“Merely thinking what a really perfect deal Larry has— he's the postman! I'm sure on the first of every month, or whenever the checks are due, little Larry is in the post office early, boxing up the mail like mad—making sure nobody notices the checks, taking them out when he starts delivering the mail. Of course, that explains Nelson's death.”
“I'm bewildered. What does it explain?”
“Now listen: Nelson's story—according to Roberts— was that an old buddy of his had sent him a card from the Harbor. This guy named Hudon. Nelson assumes he's living here, perhaps he'd said so on the card. I'll bet folding money this Hudon was one of the old men killed on Anderson's place, only he got the card off without their knowing it. Okay, Nelson happens to come East, decides to look up his friend. No Hudon. He went to Barnes because his pal Hudon was sickly and Barnes is the only doc. Barnes can't help him, he never heard of Hudon. Nelson asks Roberts, the police chief, who also isn't any help. But who would Roberts send Nelson to, who of all people in the Harbor would know if a man named Hudon had ever lived here? Anderson the mailman!” I pounded the table like a debater, delighted with myself.
“Nelson must have given Larry a bad turn, but by this time Anderson has already killed Doc, and somehow still has his scarf. Maybe Nelson doesn't take a fast 'no,' maybe he's asking around too much. Or, because I'm sticking my big nose into the thing, Larry feels Jerry won't even come up for trial and by now the 'accident' is no longer an accident. Larry's in a small sweat. All right. Probably Nelson left a forwarding address in case Anderson should hear about Hudon. Nelson's in Hampton Point, Our boy Larry has to get out from under fast—he remembers the scarf, finds Nelson and kills him with his own gun, the suicide touch. How lucky our Larry seemed, Nelson packing a rod! He leaves the doc's scarf in Nelson's car and Roberts—he swallows the hook, again!”
Jane shook her head. “Edward only wore one scarf, a worn one I gave....” Her voice died to a painful whisper, then came alive as she said, “This is all a nightmare, a murder factory here in the Harbor.”
“What better place than a sleepy village? Actually, the only bad mistake Anderson made was killing my cat. Yeah, hadn't been for that, I would have forgot things.”
“Mr. Lund, this just can't be true. I can't picture Larry doing all these... murders.”
“Why not? As I told you, you can only burn once.”
Jane said slowly, “It's so hard to think of somebody you once knew as a killer. It's an insult to your memory. Well, what do we do now?”
“We could call in Roberts, or the Federal men,” I said, not quite certain what I wanted to do. I suppose deep in my mind I had the idea of taking Larry solo—but I was too old for that. Truth is, I'd probably never been that young. I told myself to stop being a fool, not let my anger over Roberts refusing to do anything about Matty blind my better judgment.
She said, “If Larry is such a monster, we have to put an end to this at once. I think we should get Art Roberts, demand to see Pops.”
“Yeah, that's what we should do. But he'll kick like a mule on reopening his nice little neat case, arresting a pillar of the community.”
“No, murder is a serious thing, even in the Harbor. Want to phone him from here or shall we go downtown?”
That “downtown” forced me to grin. I said we could phone. When I got Roberts on the phone I told him, “Come out to Miss Endin's house at once—I have something for you.”
“Again? What is it this time, a dead clam? I'm busy with....” The light sarcasm in his voice changed abruptly as he asked, “Jeez, not Jane Endin?”
I didn't want to talk much on the phone, maybe the operator was Anderson's cousin or something. “Look, Roberts, I'm waiting exactly five minutes. If you're not out by then I'm making another call and there will be a flock of tourists in the Harbor, all of them with Federal badges!” I hung up and winked at Jane, thinking what a ham I was. She stared back with solemn eyes, as usual.
I suddenly wondered what her life would have been like If she'd had a sense of humor. Or would she have ended up the village whore?
Roberts and his musical comedy uniform were planted in Jane's living room chair less than four minutes after I phoned. I briefed him on what I'd found and he rubbed his big hands together as he said flatly, “I don't believe that Larry Anderson would....”
“I know, he's the salt of the earth. Roberts, it's a bit late for the chamber of commerce spiel. End Harbor is in for some messy publicity but that can't be helped. I want you to demand to see Pops Brown. You won't see him because he's buried in Larry's yard—I think.”
“But for... all those murders,” he muttered, shaking his big head. “I can't bust into his house without a warrant, and if Pops is alive, I'll look—”
I know what he was thinking and for a second I felt sorry for the handsome slob: Larry was the village big shot and if Roberts crossed him and the case turned out to be a dud, Roberts wouldn't have the pretty uniform for long.
I said, “What have you got to worry about? If for nothing else, we have him dead to rights as a Social Security fraud. Don't stall me or I'll go over your head. Hell, Roberts, I'm giving you a break, letting you make the collar.”
“Actually, all we know is he cashed some checks. Maybe people on his mail route gave them to him?” Roberts turned to Jane. “Did you hear these storekeepers say they cashed checks under different names?”
“No, I was in the car all the time, following Larry.”
Roberts sprang to his feet—really sprang—and turned to me in triumph. “Then I've only your word for this whole....”
The way the jerk towered over me made me angry. “You want to question the storekeepers? Go ahead, I'll give you the addresses. But I'm phoning Washington in a minute and I'll give you odds they have somebody at Anderson's house before dark!”
Roberts shrugged his beefy shoulders and sighed like a guy about to ask the boss for a raise. “Okay, okay. I'll see Pops. But, Lund, if he's alive, if this turns out to be a rhubarb, I'll not only collar you as a public nuisance, but I'll work you over!”