Mr. Miltgreen led the way along a mathematically curved white gravel path to a low building masked in shrubbery that looked like an early Norman cottage. He eased one of the side doors open and motioned Dodd into a small luxuriously furnished office.
“Sit down at the desk here, Mr. Dodd.”
Dodd sat down in a spindle-legged chair and took his check book from his hip pocket.
“You don’t mind taking a check?”
“Of course not,” said Miltgreen, offended. He found a slip of paper at hand in a drawer of the antique desk. “The exact sum is five hundred and sixteen dollars and eighty-six cents. Here is a pen, Mr. Dodd.”
Dodd wrote the check and tore it out of the book. Mr. Miltgreen appropriated the pen and wrote carefully and precisely on the slip of paper.
“Be sure you put his name on that receipt,” Dodd requested.
Mr. Miltgreen nodded. “Elwin Tooper. I’ve written it out carefully. There you are, Mr. Dodd. Thank you.”
Dodd read the receipt — all of it — and then read it over the second time to make sure. It was in order, and he folded it up and stowed it away in his wallet.
“The deceased — Mr. Tooper — was a relative of yours?” Mr. Miltgreen asked gently.
“He was not.”
“A very dear friend, perhaps?”
Dodd leaned forward. “It’s a damned good thing he was dead in that coffin, because if he hadn’t been I’d have hauled him out and slit his fat throat for him.”
“What?” Mr. Miltgreen gasped.
“You bet,” said Dodd. “That dirty rat. When you get him buried, I’m going to come around and dance on his grave.”
Mr. Miltgreen indicated the check timidly. “B-but—”
“You know what he did?” Dodd demanded. “I’ll tell you. I’m a bail bondsman. When guys get thrown in jail for this and that, I bail them out, if it’s possible, for a percentage of the bail I have to put up.”
Mr. Miltgreen nodded uncertainly. “Yes. But—”
“This guy Tooper,” said Dodd, “was a blue-sky salesman who doubled in forgery and other little stunts like that. Blinky Tooper, they called him, and he was a very smooth article. So he got slung in the hopper here in Bay City a couple of times, and he had references from other bondsmen I know from out-of-state, so I bailed him out. He squawked like hell about paying up both times, but I finally shook it out of him. So it got too hot for him here after a while, and he went away, which was just dandy by me. I never liked him.”
“But... but—”
“I’m coming to the payoff. The first of last week I get a telegram from an undertaker in Sparkling Falls, South Dakota, informing me that Blinky Tooper had just blown his head off with a shotgun there and that he had left a farewell note in which he said that he had deposited five hundred dollars with me for his funeral expenses and that he wanted to be shipped back and buried here.”
“And he hadn’t deposited the money with you?” Mr. Miltgreen asked, wide-eyed.
“No!” said Dodd violently. “Not a dime!”
“But you paid for his funeral.”
“Look,” said Dodd. “A lot of the guys I deal with are slightly on the dishonest side. And I’ll give you a tip about crooks. They go in heavy for funerals. They think funerals are very important. Now supposing my clients got the idea that I was trying to gyp Blinky out of his after he had laid the money by with me to take care of it. They’d treat me like I had the bubonic plague. My business would go ker-floo right about now.”
“But you could have denied that he left the money with you.”
“I’ll tell you something else about crooks,” said Dodd. “They think everybody is just as dishonest — if not more so — as they are. Nobody would have believed me for a second. They’d just have thought I was trying to hook Blinky’s five hundred now that the poor guy was dead and couldn’t beef about it. No. I had to pay. That’s why I was so particular about that receipt. I want to be able to show that I did.”
“It seems very strange,” Mr. Miltgreen observed vaguely, “and very hard on you. Of course, we appreciate your business, and if ever we can serve you again...”
“I’ll remember,” said Dodd.
When Dodd came in the front room of his office, he found Meekins, his runner, curled up in the big leather chair in the corner dozing peacefully. Meekins was a wispy little man with a sadly cynical face. He might have been almost any age, but he was young enough to be sensitive about his baldness, and he never removed his hat unless it was absolutely necessary. He had it on now, brim turned up front and back, collegiate style. He opened one eye and squinted at Dodd.
“Have a nice time?”
“Lovely,” said Dodd. “Why aren’t you over to the station tending to business?”
Meekins yawned. “Things are dead today. Hennessey will take care of anybody that comes in.”
“Hennessey is the desk sergeant,” Dodd said. “If they ever catch him writing bail bonds for us, they’ll give him the old heave-ho right off the police force.”
“They won’t catch him — not Hennessey.”
“I hope not,” said Dodd. “Give me a drink.”
Meekins leaned over and fumbled around under the big chair. “I wish you’d buy your own whiskey or else raise my wages.” He found a flat pint bottle and handed it over.
Dodd got a paper cup from the water cooler and poured himself a drink. He threw it down and grunted appreciatively as it hit bottom.
“The mail just came,” Meekins said. “It’s over there on the table.”
Dodd picked up the envelopes and riffled through them absent-mindedly. There were several bills, and he dropped them on the floor. The one remaining letter had his name and address written in neat print-script in green ink. Dodd opened it and unfolded the paper inside and read:
Dear Dodd: Thanks for the swell funeral. I never enjoyed anything so much in my life.
Your pal,
Dodd made a strangling sound.
Meekins looked at him in an injured way. “My whiskey ain’t that bad.”
“Read this!” Dodd choked. “Read it!”
Meekins took the letter and glanced through it and said, “Well,” in a mildly surprised voice and then read it again with dawning unbelief.
Dodd was pacing back and forth across the room. His eyes were narrowed, dangerously gleaming slits behind his glasses.
“Well,” said Meekins again, “I knew they had all the modern conveniences at Valley Vale Cemetery, but I never figured they’d put mail boxes in the graves.”
Dodd said things to himself in an undertone.
“It’s Blinky’s writing, all right.” Meekins observed. “I remember it well. He used to be a chemical engineer before he got to fooling around with phoney stocks and stuff, and it seems lots of engineers write in this sort of print style on account of lettering so many graphs and junk like that. Blinky used to curl his h’s like this here, too. Yup, Blinky sure wrote this.”
“Shut up,” said Dodd.
Meekins got out of the chair and picked up the envelope the letter had been in. “Yeah, and it was mailed at ten forty-five. Funeral was at ten, wasn’t it? This is sure mighty funny.”
“Oh, you think so, do you?” Dodd said. “I don’t. That damned Blinky not only gypped me out of five hundred berries to pay for his funeral, but then he didn’t even die!”
“You figure Blinky ain’t dead?” Meekins asked.
Dodd just glared at him.
“Well,” said Meekins defensively, “it seems like it’s a mighty funny — I mean, peculiar — thing to do. What would he want to make you put out for his funeral for if he ain’t dead?”