“How come you let your son marry a Greek?”
That ended any explanations I had in mind. I puffed on my pipe and stared at this big young handsome dressmaker's dummy. He puffed, too—purled out his chest, said, “Not bad for a hick cop: murder in the morning, an arrest in the afternoon.”
“I never called you a hick cop, Roberts. Yeah, it was fast work. How did you do it?”
“Common sense. We checked with Pris... Mrs. Barnes, on the doc's night calls. His last one was at Jerry's house. Mrs. Ida Bond—she lives across the road from Jerry—she heard the doc bawling Jerry out for drinking beer and Jerry telling him to leave him alone. She is ready to swear she heard Edward, Doc Barnes, shouting, 'Then I won't be responsible for your life,' and Jerry answering, 'And I won't be responsible for yours.' That's the exact words. Naturally when we questioned Jerry he denied the killing, but did admit he had some words with Doc. Claims he was home all night, but living alone... that ain't much of an alibi.”
“You arrested him on that evidence?”
Roberts waved a long hand at the smoke in the air. “Sounds good to me: two men have an argument and later one of them is found murdered.”
“Find any fingerprints?”
“Didn't look,” he said calmly. “First off, being out in that rain all night, hardly be any prints or tire tracks. Then, we were so sure it was an accident... I mean, the undertaker was already working on the body when you convinced me it had to be murder. But I got all the evidence I need.”
“Come off it, Roberts,” I said, not blaming him for holding out on me. “Your evidence won't stand up in court.”
He blew a cloud of lazy smoke, watched it drift up to the ceiling. “If it doesn't, Jerry's acquitted.” He leaned across the desk, lowered his voice. “Between you and me, being a diabetic old Jerry could plead he was in a state of shock, sort of nuts, get off with that.”
This was the screwiest cop ever! “Anything missing? Wallet or money gone, any signs of robbery?” I asked.
“Nope. Made a careful check with Mrs. Barnes. Everything's there. This wasn't any robbery.”
“What time was the doctor at Jerry's house?”
“Around nine-thirty. Jerry phoned him just before nine. Mrs. Barnes says the doc was peeved at having to make a night call. And before you ask what time the doc died— I'll tell you. Medical Examiner puts it around eleven P.M., but he can't be positive, give or take an hour or two. So that fits.”
I was fed up with this hot air. I got to my feet. “Jerry has a lawyer?”
A shrug of the heavy shoulders—and it wasn't padding either. “He must have plenty of dough, been living like a miser all his life. He can get himself a good one. He's over at the Riverside jail—that's the county seat.”
“Think I can see him?”
The handsome face tightened. “Look, it's an open and shut case....”
“Can I see him?”
Roberts stared at me, his eyes narrowing. There was a silent pause while he made a fist with his big right hand, balanced it on his left palm for a second, examining it. Finally, convinced he still had all his fingers, or something, he looked at me again, asked, “What you making a production of this for, Lund?”
“No production. He's a kind of friend of the family. I merely want to see that he has a lawyer, cigarettes, understands his rights.”
Roberts opened his fist, slapped the desk—lightly. “You should know it isn't up to me. Go down to the jail in the morning, if it will make you feel any better. Only if you're still on this peace officer kick, remember I'm in charge here and you'll do what I say or....”
“You're the one making a thing of it. I told you why I'm here: Jerry is a friend of my daughter-in-law and... uh... Fm only doing this as a friend.”
“Suit yourself, friend. But don't let me trip over you.”
“Thanks.” I zipped up the floppy windbreaker on the way out.
I didn't feel like rushing back to more of Bessie's needling. There was a dreary-looking bar across the street. I went in and ordered a beer. The bartender was a tall man with the kind of shoulder and arm development that came from doing something a darn sight harder than mixing drinks. He had weak eyes and his thick glasses gave his fleshy face an unreal look. There were a couple of young kids, about eighteen or nineteen, hanging around a pin-ball machine. They were drinking straight gin, or maybe it was vodka.
I bought a bag of potato chips and sipped my brew slowly. Bessie said Jerry used his mumbling dialect on everybody in town—did that include the doc? If so, how could a woman across the road understand what he was yelling? And Barnes—now, why would a doctor be shouting at a patient? The whole dumb village was acting screwy: first they didn't want to call it murder, pass it off as an accident. Then they tagged Jerry and from the way Roberts acted, he couldn't care less if it held up in court. He seemed to want an acquittal.
“.... I hear he's a big-time private eye.” This was followed by a nervous giggle from the pinball crowd. I looked into the dirty mirror behind the bar; the three punks were leaning against the machine, staring at me with crocked eyes. One of them said, loudly, “I heard he's FBI. Sent down here to root up trouble. I ain't hit an FBI yet, but there's always a first time.”
I felt a chill, which had nothing to do with my sunburn. These were tall husky young fellows, with SOP crewcuts and loud sport shirts. But they were wearing work shoes and looked accustomed to hard work—and in shape. There was more mumbling and I finished my beer as quickly as I could—without making it look fast, nodded at the barkeep and headed for the door.
I'd reached the sidewalk when they came out, all of them swinging. I blocked a wild right and punched one of them in the eye. A smack on the chin dropped me. I sat on the walk, dizzy, and trying to think of a lot of things— like curling up to protect myself from kicks. And if the bastards had busted my bridgework.
My head was spinning but I saw the bartender come out and give one of the kids a swift kick in the can, tell him, “I warned you about starting any roughhouse in my place, Tommy. Try this again and I'll droplock you through the wall. And I ain't kidding.”
A pair of long legs in black puttees passed me. Roberts moved nicely. He grabbed the nearest kid and slapped him across the face. A hell of a slap, the mouth went out of shape for a moment and his hair shook. When he let go, the punk went reeling down the street. The others started to run but Roberts took two steps and backhanded another across the nose, making it bleed. He was damn good, always had his right fist cocked for real trouble. He reached down and lifted me to my feet. “You okay, Lund?”
I put a finger in my numb mouth; my bridgework was still in one piece. I said, “Yeah.”
The bartender said, “Sorry, mister. I thought they were only fooling. Come in and get a shot on the house, fix you up.”
“I'm okay.” I started toward Bessie's car. Roberts walked along with me. “They thought you were here to look into a hot-rod accident. A kid was killed in a race, in a car stolen out of state from New Jersey. Was some talk about the Feds coming into the case. They were just scared.”