“No. Mom says he's a very spry man for his age. What does spry mean?”
“That he has pep. Well go to the house, but if he's asleep we'll let the reel go till tomorrow.”
“Okay, we have to row back to that old dock. The road runs by....”
“Well go ashore here and walk up. I'll row and you watch out for rocks. Has he any dogs?”
“I don't know,” the kid said, moving forward as I took over the oars. “He lives with Mr. Anderson. He's the mailman here. He also has a big vegetable truck.”
We beached the boat and with obvious delight Andy scolded me for not burying the anchor in the sand. I helped him up the bank, getting myself dirty. After the trees we came to a large field that ran up to the house. It was a nice hunk of land. Behind the house there was an open garage with a large new truck. A station wagon stood in the driveway which circled through a well-kept lawn. Everything about the place showed a lot of care, and except for the truck it looked like a rich man's estate.
We were about halfway across the field when one of the side windows of the house flew up and a shotgun barrel covered us as a man's voice yelled, “Hold it! Don't you lead signs? You're trespassing on private property!”
I grabbed Andy, said, “Don't move.” Then I called out, “Put that damn gun away. The boy merely wants to see Mr... Pops. I didn't see any NO TRESPASSING signs.”
“Should have come around by the road. Well, don't stand there, come along. Be careful where you walk, stay on the path.” He stood in the window, the gun still on us. He was a stocky joker. I kept the kid behind me and I was puffing as we reached the house. It was quite a slope.
The man and gun left the window and a moment later appeared on the screened porch that ran around the house. He was holding the gun by the barrel now. It was an expensive pump shotgun. He had on a dun polo shirt that showed off his bulky shoulders, and work pants. He looked about forty-five, a strong man with a thick neck, heavy iron-gray hair, and wide, homely face. He wasn't tall, in fact looked smaller than he was—like Marciano did in the ring. “What do you want to see Pops about? He's not feeling well.”
“I wanted to ask him about this reel he sold me,” Andy said, “It don't—doesn't work.”
The guy smiled and it completely changed his face, gave it some life. “You must be the kid who wouldn't take the reel for a gift, wanted to buy it. He told me about you. What's wrong with it?” he asked, coming down the porch steps.
“Stuck.”
He rested the gun between his knees as Andy handed him the reel. I said, “If you're so fond of guns, learn how to handle them. If you should happen to kick the shotgun now, it would blow your head off.”
“I know about guns, but thanks for the advice,” he said, resting the shotgun against the steps.
“And you ought to think twice or three times about pointing it at people—even trespassers.”
He looked up from the reel, eyes staring right into mine. He had honest eyes. “You must be this city policeman causing all the fuss.” He held out a large hand. “I'm Larry Anderson.”
“Matt Lund,” I said, shaking his mitt.
“Sorry I shouted at you. This used to be farm land and it's full of ruts and holes. I'm always afraid somebody will break a leg. As for the gun, I've been jumpy as a cat all morning. Pops had a mild heart attack right after breakfast and—you know about Doc Barnes. I couldn't even get a Hampton doctor to come over, those society snobs. Anyway, Pops' condition isn't serious and one of the docs gave me instructions over the phone. Pops will have to rest for a week or so, absolute rest. Meantime, just to play it safe, I've contacted a specialist in New York.” He took out a penknife and loosened a screw in the reel. It spun smoothly. “It's okay, son, you had it down too tight.”
Andy thanked him and as we turned to walk back to the boat, Anderson said, “I'd better show you the path.”
“I don't want to put you out....”
“That's okay.” As we followed him across the field he said over his thick shoulder, “Of course the doc's death upset me too. As a member of the town council, I—and Art, Chief Roberts—have called a meeting for noon. Murder makes it a terrible mess. But you were right, Mr. Lund. At least the Chief agrees it's murder. But it sure don't make sense, anybody killing a sweet guy like Ed Barnes who always.... Careful, step around these wooden boards. Old well here and the weather may have rotted the cover. I know Doc would have been the first to agree with us about the publicity.”
“What publicity?” I asked.
“The summer season hasn't been too good, as it is. Now this murder talk—it won't help business or the good name of the Harbor.”
When we reached the beach he said something about wind taking the POSTED signs he'd tacked to the trees. He showed Andy how to oil the reel, and pointing to a red buoy out in the water, said, “Tide should be in strong soon, brings in the fish. I've always found buoy 9 out there a good spot for kings.” He turned to me. “On behalf of the Harbor Council I want to thank you for helping out the police department.”
“Guess in time Roberts would have noticed the door lock. He was excited. Young bunch of policemen you have.”
“Chief Edwards died of kidney trouble last year, just after Jim Harris resigned to live with his girl in Brooklyn; she married a big dress man there. Art was new to the force, but that left him chief. Maybe you can give him a hand on this case?”
“Nope, I'm on vacation here, for a week.”
“Well, thank you again for your interest. Don't think we'll have much more sun, I'll take Pops back to his room. I'm trying to get a woman to help out around the house, but help is difficult to find during the summer.” He touched the binoculars around my neck. “Getting a lazy man's view of the harbor?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I have to tend to Pops. Treat that reel with care and it will work fine, sonny.”
Andy said he would and we rowed out to the buoy. The kid got off some long casts while I pulled in a fair-sized porgy and the bastard cut my hands with his fins. Andy gave me a lecture on how to land a fish and I gave up fishing for the day. I saw Anderson up on the widow's walk, talking to Pops. Then he lifted the old man in his arms, stopped for second as if to point us out to Pops, then easily carried him into the house.
The sun came out again and we hung around the buoy for a long time, Andy catching a couple more porgies. I was getting stiff and when it started to cloud up again, over Andy's protests, I said it was time to head for home.
Neither Bessie nor the car were at the beach. Andy asked some women where she was but they said she hadn't been down as yet. We went to the cottage and Bessie wasn't there either. While the boy took the oars back, I showered and shaved, and then climbed into the mushy bed for a nap. It started to rain lightly and I lay there, listening to the rain hit the roof—an interesting sound for anybody accustomed to working in the damn rain. I was too pooped to sleep.
I was only wearing shorts and my knees were lobster red; in fact my skin was so hot I couldn't cover myself with a sheet and had to shove Matty off the bed. He tried to jump back on and I got up and pushed him into the living room, closed the door. I took a belt of brandy and stretched out again. If I was in the city now, just coming off at four o'clock, I'd go back to my old beat and play cards with some of the storekeepers after they closed. Or sit around the house and watch an early cowboy movie on TV.