Build My Gallows High (9 page)

Ann Miller’s bedroom faced west and the first thing she saw when she slid out of bed was the wall of the hills. They made her think of Red, which wasn’t odd. Everything the fields, the creeks, the wind, the stars—brought the thought of him welling up until the longing for him was unbearable. She stood at the window, shivering a little because the sun wasn’t high enough yet to warm the wind. The cotton gown her mother had made for her covered her slim body primly and made her look even younger than she was. She looked down at the gown and wondered why she wore the thing. Just because her mother insisted was no reason.

It was time she took her life out of her mother’s hands. Mother was sweet and father was sweet but why should they keep on insisting that she was a child and had to be told what to do and what to wear? Briefly she allowed herself to be annoyed at them. Then she pushed the feeling aside. Unworthy. They were fine and kind and thoughtful. They just didn’t understand, that was all. And how could they? They couldn’t see him as she saw him because they didn’t know him. They would though. And when they did they’d love him too.

The fields were bright with sun. Over by the ditch some quail were being very angry about something. Probably a cat. Oh, she felt good today, too good to sit at her desk and type dull letters and listen to her father settling the problems of the world with anyone who stuck his head in the door. This was a day for a picnic—walking along a creek with him, lying on the warm sand close to him, hearing his deep voice and his laughter.
Oh, Red, she thought, hurry hack, hurry back!

A small fear nudged her heart. He hadn’t written. Only a wire the day he reached New York. But then he must be busy. He must be hurrying to get things done so he could come back to her.

Her mother’s voice drifted up from the kitchen. ‘Ann. Are you up?’

She leaned out. ‘Yes, mother.’

‘Hurry, dear.’

‘Yes, mother.’

The back door slammed. Her father crossed the yard, looked up and waved. She blew a kiss at him, turned and pulled the thin garment over her head.

In the mirror she could see only part of her body and that part didn’t please her. Too thin. Much too thin. A child’s body, the breasts no bigger than teacups. But Red loved her. And though the knowledge didn’t make her warm inside, it pleased her—Jimmy Caldwell loved her and wanted her. So there was a place in the world for the undeveloped. She grinned at herself, thinking how shocked her mother would be at all this. She ran into the bathroom and jumped under the shower.

Quickly she dressed, humming softly the while. Panties, no brassiere—some day she hoped she’d need one—a slip, sweater and skirt. No stockings. At least, she thought as she applied the brush, her hair had a nice sheen to it and it curled by itself. And her skin was good. Too many freckles perhaps but they went away in the winter.

‘Ann!’ her mother insisted.

‘Coming.’ She ran downstairs and out to the kitchen, threw her arms around her mother and kissed her. ‘Good morning.’ She took her place on the bench in the breakfast nook and slid her napkin out of its silver ring. At that moment her father came in with the morning paper. His face was set and his eyes had anger in them.

’Look at this!’ Canby Miller said and he was shouting. ’My God, will you look at this!’

‘Canby’ Mrs. Miller’s tone reproved him.

Almost triumphantly he spread the paper on the table and stood there shaking a finger at the headline. Ann read it and closed her eyes. She wouldn’t look. If she kept her eyes shut for a while everything would be all right. Those words would change into other words and everything would be all right. Her mother moaned. ’Ann, Ann! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!’ There was no sympathy for the girl in her tone. There was only horror that such a thing could have happened to them.

‘I knew it,’ Canby said, ‘I knew he was no good. I said all along there’s a man who should be run out of town.’

Suddenly he stopped talking and stared down at his daughter. Pity fought its way up, fought past the knowledge that it would be a long time before he could walk through Bridgeport with his head held high. The poor kid, he thought, the poor
little kid.

He put out a hand and touched her shoulder. Ann opened her eyes. There on the table was the paper screaming at her:

RED BAILEY HUNTED FOR MURDER

Ann rose, pushed past her father and walked blindly through the back door and out across the yard.

Jim Caldwell saw them looking at him when he came into the cafe—the three men hunched over the counter, the plump, vacant-faced waitress, Pop Wise who owned the joint. Each face had the same excited, expectant expression. It was Pop who spoke first.

‘Hear about Red Bailey?’ Pop asked.

’What about him?’ Caldwell said, trying to be casual. He put his Stetson on one of the hooks by the door, found an empty place at the counter, reached for a menu.

‘Better oil up that gun of yours,’ Pop said. ‘He’ll be coming this way.’

‘Suppose he does,’ Caldwell said. ‘What’s it to me?’

The waitress giggled. She was so excited she couldn’t stand still. ‘He killed three people,’ she shrilled.

Caldwell dropped the menu, stared around him.

‘Listen to this,’ Pop said, putting on a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles. He had the paper spread out in front of him and he bent down and started reading aloud in a strangely artificial voice.

‘Red Bailey, Bridgeport service station operator, today was the object of a nation-wide manhunt for the murders of Lloyd Eels, famous New York attorney, and his beautiful secretary, Meta Carson.’

Pop looked up, nodded sagely, and continued:

‘The couple were murdered last Saturday night in Eels’ New York apartment. Eels was shot and his body put in a closet in a vacant apartment next door. Miss Carson was brutally clubbed to death.

‘The motive, police believe, was furnished by a document found in a locked safe in Eels’ office. The document was an affidavit made by a woman named Mumsie McGonigle charging Bailey, whose real name is Peter Markham, with the murder of his partner, Jack Fisher, ten years ago.

‘Fisher’s body is buried in a meadow on the American River near Echo Pass, according to the affidavit. California authorities are en route to the spot —’

Caldwell got up, reached out and tore the paper from Pop’s hands. He frowned down at the black print.

‘I’ll be a son of a bitch!’ Caldwell said.

‘Like I said,’ the waitress yelled her two cents’ worth. ‘You could’a ’knocked me over with a feather.’

‘Didn’t he ever make a pass at you?’ asked Jack Wiles, who drove the Standard Oil truck between Bridgeport and Bishop.

‘You go on,’ the waitress said. ’He was a gentleman. Like I said—why, he was the last person you’d think of murdering people.’

‘You never can tell,’ Pop said.

Caldwell wasn’t listening. He was reading column after column of the story about Red Bailey and all he could think of was Ann would be taking this hard. Jesus, it would be tough, people talking, people smirking at her, whispering, making out like they were sorry for her when they weren’t—when they were pleased as all hell because this gave them something to talk about, something to fill out their stinking little lives.

At that moment he was sorry not only for Ann but for Bailey—the poor bastard having to kill because if he didn’t he’d be hanged for something that happened a long time ago, the poor bastard running like a tired old buck toward the end of the hunting season. He hurled the paper on the floor.

‘Shut up, for Christ’s sake!’ he roared and stamped out of the cafe.

‘How do you like that?’ Pop said, staring after him. ‘Why— Why—’

‘Me, I’d be cheering,’ Wiles said. ‘I’d be kicking up my heels and shooting off firecrackers if I was him.’

The waitress slapped the counter with her napkin, ‘I think you’re—why, I think you’re awful. It just goes to show who has real feelings around here.’

‘Speaking of real feelings, what are you doing tonight?’ Wiles said, winking at her.

The waitress flounced back toward the kitchen, wiggling her hips.

Ann was lying face down by the creek at the west end on the Miller place when Caldwell found her. She was so still that for a minute he was afraid she was dead, lying there so close to the creek that the water just missed her feet. He dropped down beside her, not saying anything, sorry he had come. But he had been so damned worried, what with her running out of the house like that across the field, not paying any attention to her mother’s yells. He had been afraid she would do something silly like trying to drown herself.

It was all right now. She was young and you got over things quickly when you were young. Anyway, it was just one of those things girls have for older men—sort of hero worship that never lasted. The thing to do was to act like nothing had happened, not to talk about it or scold her. That’s what he told Canby and Mrs. Miller. He had talked turkey to them, straight-from-the-chest stuff. They were full of that I-told-you-so junk. Let him handle it. He was the one to do it because from now on that was his job, taking care of Ann.

He lighted a cigarette, leaned on one elbow and looked at the creek. The water was going down. He wished he had brought a rod along because they’d be biting good now, jumping right out of the water after a fly and he hadn’t had time to fish for a week. Too much to do. Too many campers hanging around—people who hadn’t been camping before and tried to get by without buying licenses.

Ann moved. Caldwell put a hand gently on her shoulder. ‘Are you okay, kid?’ he asked.

‘Go away, please,’Ann said in a dead voice.

‘You don’t want to be alone,’ Caldwell said. ’I’ll just sit here and not talk.’

Ann sat up. In her eyes blazed a violence that frightened him. Then the look went away. She put her head in her hands and sighed. She said: ’Hello, Jimmy.’

‘I was worried about you.’

‘I’m all right.’

‘Sure, you’re all right.’

She dropped her hands and dug at the sand idly. ‘Jimmy—there couldn’t be—’ She forced the words out—‘there couldn’t be a mistake, could there?’

‘I don’t know,’ Caldwell said.

‘I want to go to him, Jimmy.’

Caldwell choked down a sudden flash of anger. He said softly.’You can’t do that, kid.’

She screamed at him. ’But they’ll kill him. They’ll find him and they’ll kill him and I’ll never see him again.’ Then she was in his arms sobbing convulsively, digging her face into his shoulder. He kept patting her, saying, ‘There, there, baby—there, there, baby.’

She stopped crying. Presently she pulled away from him and dabbed at her eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘A good cry never hurt anyone,’ Caldwell said.

‘I guess I better go home.’

‘No hurry. I saw your dad. He don’t expect you today.’

She turned her face to him. ‘I can’t talk to them. They’ll—they’ll—’

‘No, they won’t. They won’t say anything.’

Her hand went out. touched the back of his large brown one. ’Poor Jim. This isn’t fair.’

‘Don’t you worry.’

‘Jim. Do you think—maybe they won’t catch him?’

‘Maybe not.’

‘And I’ll bet—Jim, I’ll bet he comes back here.’

Caldwell didn’t look at her. He picked up a stone and tossed it into the creek. He might do it at that. Yes, sir, he might. That crazy red-headed bastard might do anything.

Automatically his fingers found his gun butt and felt the good roughness of it.

That Wednesday afternoon a Chevrolet coupe pulled up alongside the Ethyl pump. The driver got out and watched the Kid come across the yard from the grease rack. Not until the Kid was right in front of him did the man speak. Mouthing the words, he said, ‘Ten ethyl and check the oil and water.’

The Kid went around to the pump and started running gas into the tank. The man followed him. He was very thin and tall and even when he smiled his face had a lugubrious expression. His name was Christopher Ryan and his unimaginative associates called him Slats.

‘How’s the fishing around here?’ Slats asked, making sure the Kid’s glance was fixed on his lips.

The Kid’s vigorous nod indicated it was good. Across the highway was an adobe motel. The cabins were fairly new, with a small restaurant at one end. Slats pointed to the motel. The Kid looked across the highway and back at him. ‘Good place?’ Slats asked.

Again the Kid nodded vigorously. He put the hose back on the pump, replaced the cap and moved forward to the hood of the car. He waited until Slats released the catch, then lifted the hood. Slats got back under the wheel. On the ledge back of the seat lay a new creel and a cardboard cylinder that held a fishing rod. Slats’ khaki pants and shirt and his canvas hat were as new as the creel. A fishing license was pinned to the hatband.

The hood banged down. The Kid came to the side of the car and held out a hand. Slats put a five-dollar bill in it. When the Kid came back with the change, Slats gave him a fifty-cent tip. ‘See you around,’ Slats said.

The Kid grinned his thanks.

‘Maybe you can show me where the fish are.’

Another grin, another nod. Slats put the car in gear, pulled away from the station and across the highway to the motel, got out in front of the manager’s cabin and went inside. The Kid glanced after him, then returned to the Ford sedan suspended on the grease rack.

He had almost finished with the car when a white and black Mercury slid to a stop on the gravel and two men got out. One was a state copper. The other was the sheriff, Tom Douglas.

Douglas beckoned to the Kid who stood beside the rack looking at them with a blank, stupid expression. When he didn’t answer the summons, Douglas went over to him and said with a smile, ‘We want to talk to you.’

The Kid frowned and pointed to the station.

‘Lock it up and come on,’ Douglas said.

With a shake of his head the Kid refused.

‘Now Kid,’ Douglas pleaded. ‘We just want to ask a few questions. Come on.’

‘Shove the dumb son of a bitch into the car,’ the state copper suggested.

Douglas ignored him. Douglas put one arm around the Kid’s thin shoulders and piloted him toward the station. He pointed to the lock on the door and the locks on the pumps. The Kid hesitated, gave in, locked up the joint, followed Douglas over to the police car and got in back.

Sitting in the open doorway of one of the cabins Slats watched the police car head for the center of town. When it was out of sight, he sauntered across the highway and through the station to the white bungalow in back. After a while he reappeared, whistling softly to himself, and returned to his cabin.

The teletype started chattering when Douglas, the copper and the Kid came through the back door into the squad room of the State Highway Patrol office. Douglas and the state copper stopped by the machine and watched the keys printing black letters on the yellow paper. The Kid sat on a bench and waited.

‘Attn. Bridgeport,’ the words marched across the paper. ‘Bailey left plane Sacramento Sunday night. No trace. No record car sales Sacramento.’

The machine fell silent. Douglas and the state copper exchanged glances.

‘He’s headed this way, all right,’ Douglas said. He started across the room toward the captain’s office but the teletype suddenly came back to life, so he returned to it and watched the message take form.

‘Attn. Bridgeport. Murder warrants en route. Skeleton uncovered in meadow near Strawberry. New York asks check on woman named Mumsie McGonigle. May be in your city.’

Douglas waited but there were no more messages, ‘I don’t get it,’ he grumbled to himself. ‘By Jesus, I don’t get it.’

‘Get what?’ asked the state copper.

‘Why in hell a New York attorney got himself mixed up in a California murder.’

The state copper gave Douglas a pitying look. ‘This Fisher come from New York, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Bailey and Fisher was partners in New York, Tom. It adds up. Let’s not worry about things making sense. Let’s catch Bailey.’

‘Let’s,’ said Douglas dryly, and taking the Kid by one arm he piloted him through a door.

Douglas was gentle with the Kid. He had two boys of his own—big, strapping fellows with nothing wrong with them except they wouldn’t go to school, they hated work and they were on the make for every girl in the county. It seemed to him unfair that a nice, quiet boy like the Kid, who wasn’t afraid of work and who could catch fish where no one else could, should have to live in a soundless, speechless world. You had to hand it to the Kid, learning to read lips, learning to write, never getting sore at anyone. And what a loyal little bastard he was to Red! Douglas hated to ask him questions about Red, hated to sit there forming the questions simply and carefully so that the Kid’s pale eyes could follow the movements of his lips. But he asked them and he didn’t care much whether the Kid’s written answers were lies or not.

No, the Kid hadn’t seen Red. Last week he had a letter from him. Red was still in New York as far as he knew. His job was to take care of the station until Red came back and he wished they would get finished with him so he could go back to work.

Where was he yesterday? Fishing. Up the creek back of Twin Lakes.

Last night? The Kid wasn’t home last night.

You know how it is when you get to fishing. You forget time. Then the car broke down and he had to fix it.

And the fish? Where were they?

The Kid scuffed the floor with his toe.

Well?

He sold them. To some guy in a Cadillac. And please don’t say anything to Jim Caldwell, because it was against the law to sell fish. But the guy wanted them and the Kid was going to give them to him but he insisted on paying.

If he heard from Red, he’d tell them?

Of course. Only he didn’t think Red killed anybody.

The state copper dropped him at the station then went on south to check on a smash-up. The Kid opened the station and started for the grease rack. Then he saw Ann Miller sitting on the steps of the bungalow staring straight ahead. He went over to her and squatted on the ground in front of her. She reached out and touched his hair.

With his forefinger the Kid wrote in the dust. ’They won’t catch him.’

Ann tipped his head up. ‘Where is he. Kid?’

Pale eyes scanned her face. Then the finger put an answering the dust, ‘I don’t know.’

‘You’d tell me?’

The Kid nodded. Again he wrote. ‘Jim Caldwell.’

Ann sat up and looked around. The Kid pointed to the motel across the highway. There was a station wagon parked in front of the cafe.

‘He wouldn’t—’ She didn’t finish the sentence because she knew the answer. Jim Caldwell was watching her. Everyone in Bridgeport was watching her. She rose and started walking blindly down the highway. Ahead the peaks were golden and there were deep shadows in the canyons but she didn’t see the hills, or the great meadow stretching away. The Kid watched her go. He sat down on the steps and put his head in his hands and cried a little.

Jim Caldwell came out of the cafe, leaned against the car and looked after the slim, lonely girl but he didn’t follow.

In a rocker on the porch of a cabin down the line Slats sat rocking and smoking and thinking that with a dame like that around Red wouldn’t be far off.

Guy Parker stood by the roulette table watching a fat woman put five-dollar chips on Number 23. When the number came up for the third time he dropped a handful of silver dollars on the number.

‘For luck,’ he said.

The little man standing behind the fat woman looked at Parker suspiciously and nudged her. The fat woman hesitated then pulled back all her chips but one. The ball skittered around the wheel, hesitated, dropped into 23. Parker pocketed his winnings, gave the fat woman a sad smile and went across the crowded noisy room and up the stairs.

Through the window at the end of the hall he could see the sky paling with dawn. He went to the window and let the wind bring him the scent of honeysuckle. Like Mumsie, he thought, and turned back down the hall. Quietly he opened the door into his bedroom and crossed to the bed.

The bed was near the windows and the cool, half-light showed her to him—one arm outstretched, the other at her side, her slim, full breasted body sheathed in satin and lace. She had thrown the sheet aside.

It didn’t matter to him that Mumsie was remote, or that there had been other men before him. He had her and he was going to keep her. When you put fifty grand on the line—or, rather, when you gave a guy that much of an interest in your gambling joint—for a dame like Mumsie, you kept your eyes open, you didn’t miss a trick that might take her from you.

Whit Sterling drove tough bargains and then treated you like he was God Almighty. The thought was like the feel of nettles against his skin.

Mumsie’s long lashes lifted from her cheeks. She glanced past him toward the windows. ’Morning already?’

Parker sat on the edge of the bed and his thin fingers touched one breast.

‘Coming to bed?’

‘Pretty soon,’ Guy said.

She yawned, snuggled her face into the pillow. ‘Want me to?’

‘Of course. You’re sweet, Guy.’

Parker’s mouth drew down in a smile. ‘And generous.’

‘Very.’

‘That why you’re here?’

Her eyes were closed. ’One reason.’

‘What else?’

‘I said you were sweet.’

He couldn’t tell from her tone whether she meant it or not. Nor did it seem to him incongruous to be labeled that. She had a good life, all the dough she wanted, all the clothes she wanted. No illusions. He looked at the whole business realistically. Mumsie once shot a guy to get dough. She ran out on another to keep it. But she wouldn’t shoot him and she wouldn’t run out on him. He kissed the breast, pushed back her pale hair, rose and went into the hall.

Joe Stefanos was coming up the stairs. Parker waited for him outside the sitting room. ‘Get some sleep?’ Parker asked.

‘Sure.’ Stefanos opened the door, crossed to the leather armchair, dropped in it and stretched. ’Did you give her a kiss for me?’

Parker closed the door. ‘I catch you around her, you’ll be looking at the world from the bottom of Pyramid Lake.’

Stefanos was not impressed. ‘She sure got her hooks in you.’

The remark amused Parker. He was still grinning as he came from the desk to where Joe was sitting and dropped an envelope in his lap. ‘Get on your horse.’

Joe felt the thinness of the plain white envelope. ‘A stall?’

‘I know what I’m doing.’

‘So do I—know what you’re doing.’ Stefanos stretched again.

‘Also I know why.’

‘A man can be too goddamned smart.’

‘That’s the way I look at it.’ His round bug eyes regarded Parker without fear. ’You, for instance. You ain’t got a chance to screw Whit, Guy.’

‘No? Who said I was going to?’

‘Me.’

‘Run and tell him.’

‘I ever double-cross you?’

‘Don’t start.’

‘All I got to say is, you try to screw him and we all get in a mess. She ain’t worth it, Guy.’

‘What do you mean?’ Parker said sharply.

Imperturbably Stefanos went on: ‘You figure Whit will make a deal with Red and she’ll be part of the deal—ain’t that it?’

Parker moved to the window and stared moodily out. Daylight was coming quickly.

‘But you get your mitts on that file, then he can’t put a frame around her.’

‘Or you,” Parker added, turning.

Stefanos got up and tapped the arm of the chair with the envelope. His face was drawn and his eyes seemed more protuberant than ever. ‘You ain’t worrying about me. Only her.’

‘Who would you worry about?’

‘Her. But she ain’t worth it.’

‘You’ll get your cut and you’ll live to spend it.’

Stefanos laughed and the sound of the laugh wasn’t pleasant. He went out and slammed the door.

Another car was in the station when the Dodge pulled up beside the pump. The Kid was wiping the windshield. It was an old sedan and there were a bedspring and mattress strapped to the top. Four kids were in the back seat and a tired man and woman in the front seat. The car pulled over in front of the restrooms and the kids piled out. The little Greek told the Kid to put in ten gallons. Then he got out and bent down beside the right rear tire. When the Kid went past he slipped him the envelope.

Straightening, the little Greek watched the Kid pump gas into the tank. He sauntered over to the fountain and had a drink. He glanced across the street. Slats was sitting on the front porch. The Greek stretched, gave the Kid two dollars, got in and drove around the motel and up the highway.

Slats saw Joe’s car but he gave no sign of recognition. Slats rocked and watched the station and waited. Cars kept coming in and the Kid kept right on pumping gas. Presently Slats went inside and lay on the bed. Through the window he could keep an eye on the Kid.

An hour passed. The Kid locked up the pumps and the door, went on the back to the cottage and entered. Slats got off the bed. Soon the Kid came out with an old creel slung across one shoulder and a rod in one hand, opened the garage, backed the Ford roadster out and drove north along the highway.

A door led from the cabin into the garage. Slats tossed his rod and creel into the car, sat smoking for five minutes then headed up the highway after the Kid. He drove slowly, keeping a wary eye ahead of him because he didn’t want to pass the roadster. When he sighted it he cut his speed more and kept about a quarter of a mile between the two cars. There were long, open stretches of road and every so often he caught a glimpse of the roadster plugging on ahead.