Small Felonies - Fifty Mystery Short Stories (14 page)

Asa ran a hand through his sparse white hair. Seemed pretty quiet in there, all of a sudden, except for the whisper of the push-broom Leroy had fetched and was sweeping up with in front of the shoeshine stand. There was hardly a sound out on Willow Street, either. Folks kept to home and indoors in this heat; hadn't been much foot or machine traffic all day, and no business to speak of.

"Don't recall seeing you around Wayville before," Asa said to the stranger. "Just passing through, are you?"

"You might say that."

"Come far?"

"Far enough. The state capital."

"Nice place, the capital."

"Sure. Lots of things happening there, right? Compared to a one-horse town like this, I mean."

"Depends on how you look at it."

"For instance," the big man said, "I heard there was some real excitement over there just last week. And I heard this barber named Asa Bedloe, from Wayville here, was mixed up in it."

Asa hesitated. Then, "Now where'd a Yankee like you hear that?"

The stranger's lips bent upward at the corner again. "The way I got it, Asa was in the capital visiting his nephew. While the nephew was at work, Asa wandered downtown to look through some secondhand bookstores because he likes to read. He took a short cut through an alley, heard two guys arguing inside an open doorway, and the next thing he knew, there was a shot and one guy came running out with a gun in his hand. Asa's already ducked out of sight, so the guy didn't see him. But Asa, he got a good look at the guy's face. He went straight to the cops and picked him out of a mug book—and what do you know, the guy's name is Rawles and he's a medium bigshot in the local rackets. So the cops are happy because they've got a tight eyewitness murder rap against Rawles, and Asa's happy because he's a ten-cent hero. The only one who isn't happy is Rawles."

Asa wet his lips. His eyes stayed fixed on the stranger's face.

"What I can't figure out," the big man went on, "is why old Asa went to the cops in the first place. I mean, why didn't he just keep his mouth shut and forget the whole thing?"

"Maybe he reckoned it was his duty," Asa said.

"Duty." The stranger shook his head. "That's another modern idea: instead of staying the hell out of things that don't concern them, everybody wants to do his duty, wants to get involved. Like I said before, people'd be better off if they stuck to the old ways."

"The old ways ain't always the right ways."

"Too bad you feel that way, old-timer," the stranger said. He glanced up at the clock again. "After five now. Time to close up."

"I ain't ready to close up just yet."

"Sure you are. Go on over and lock the front door."

"Now you listen here—"

The sly humor disappeared from the big man's face like somebody had wiped it off with an eraser. His eyes said he was through playing games. And his actions said it even plainer: he reached down, hiked up the front of his loose-fitting shirt, and closed his big paw around the butt of a handgun stuck inside his belt.

"Lock the front door," he said again. "Then go over with the shoeshine boy—"

That was as far as he got.

Because by this time Leroy had come catfooting up behind him. And in the next second Leroy had one arm curled around his neck, his head jerked back, and the muzzle of a .44 Magnum pressed against his temple.

"Take the gun out and drop it," Leroy said. "Slow and careful, just use your thumb and forefinger."

The big man didn't have much choice. Asa watched him do what he'd been told. The look on his face was something to see—all popeyed and scrunched up with disbelief. He hadn't hardly paid any mind to Leroy since he walked in, and sure never once considered him to be listening and watching, much less to be a threat.

Leroy backed the two of them up a few paces. Then he said, "Asa, take charge of his gun. And then go ring up my office."

"Yes, sir, you bet."

The stranger said, "Office?"

"Why, sure. This fella's been pretending to work here for the past couple days, bodyguarding me ever since the capital police got wind Rawles had hired himself a professional gunman. Name's Leroy Heavens—Sheriff Leroy Heavens. First black sheriff in the history of Hallam County."

The big man just gawped at him.

Asa grinned as he bent to pick up the gun. "Looks like I was right and you were wrong, mister," he said. "Sometimes things change for the better, all right. Sometimes they surely do."

T
he two boys stood on the grassy creek bank, peering down through the darkness at the gaping mouth of the storm tunnel.

Raymond shivered. "It looks kind of spooky at night."

"Sure," Timmie said. "That's what makes it such a swell place to explore."

"You've really been inside before?"

"Lots of times."

"Alone?"

"Sure."

"Weren't you scared?"

"Not me," Timmie said.

"How far inside have you been?"

"Pretty far."

"What's it like?"

"Neat," Timmie said. "You can hear the water dripping down from the walls. And the river, too, farther inside."

Raymond shivered again. "You didn't . . . see anything, did you?"

"Like what?"

"You know."

Timmie laughed. "It's just an old storm tunnel."

"Rats and animals and . . . things live in old storm tunnels."

"Nothing lives in this one. You don't believe that junk?"

". . . I guess not."

"Come on, then." Timmie started down the bank.

Raymond didn't move. "My folks would skin me if they knew I was here."

"Well, they don't know, do they?"

"No. I snuck out my bedroom window like we said."

"Then it's okay."

"I don't know."

"You're not scared?"

"Who, me?"

"There's nothing to be afraid of," Timmie said.

"It's just spooky, that's all."

"Are you coming or not?"

Raymond took a long breath. "Yes," he said. "I'm coming."

The boys climbed down the steep, slippery bank, holding onto bushes and shrubs, digging their feet into the spongy earth.

Soon they were standing on the sharp stones of the creek bed.

In its center a thin stream of water flowed, disappearing into the tunnel.

It was very dark. There was no moon, and the trees and shrubs were shadows made quivery by the night breeze. The gurgle of water was the only sound.

Timmie said, "Follow me, Ray," and moved ahead along the stones. When he reached the tunnel opening he stopped again and took a flashlight from his pocket.

"Maybe I should have brought a flashlight too," Raymond said.

"One is all we need."

"I guess so."

They stepped into the storm tunnel.

The blackness was murky and damp. Timmie switched on his flashlight and played the beam along the concrete walls.

They were dry and smooth at this point, but the floor was wet and littered with leaves, twigs, various bits of garbage. In the middle the stream flowed, slowly here, dying.

"I don't like this place," Raymond said.

"Oh, come on. You're not going to chicken out now?"

"No, but . . ."

"But what?"

"Nothing," Raymond said. "I'm ready."

"I'll lead the way."

They set off, Raymond hanging onto Timmie's jacket. The footing was treacherous, but Timmie moved with catlike sureness. The flickering light from his flash cast grotesque shadows on the walls. Outside the beam the blackness was absolute.

They had gone several hundred yards when Timmie halted.

"What's the matter?" Raymond asked, alarmed. The sound of his voice echoed hollowly off the thick concrete surrounding them.

"The tunnel curves around up ahead," Timmie said. "That's where it turns toward the river. The water gets deeper there, so you've got to watch your step. Stay close to the wall on your right."

". . . Okay."

Timmie led them around the gradual curve of the tunnel.

Here, the dampness was pervasive. The walls were covered with a thin slime; water dripped from them, making tiny splashes on the floor like gently falling rain. The only other sounds were the shuffle of their sneakers and their raspy breathing.

When they had gone another hundred yards, the tunnel hooked sharply to the right. At that point they could hear a different sound in the blackness ahead.

"What's that?" Raymond asked, stopping.

"The river."

"Sounds like water boiling in a kettle."

"It does, kind of. Come on."

"We're not going up there, are we?"

"Sure."

"Is it safe?"

"How many times do I have to tell you? Just stay close to the wall on your right."

"Timmie . . . I think we ought to go back."

"What for?"

"I'm not going to pretend anymore," Raymond said. "I'm scared, really scared."

"You're acting like a little kid."

"I don't care. I can't help it."

"Come on, Ray. We won't go far."

"You promise? Not far?"

"I promise," Timmie said.

He moved ahead into the sharp curve. After a few moments Raymond followed. The rushing whisper of the river grew louder. Raymond hugged the slimy wall on the right; Timmie, playing the flashlight beam ahead of them, walked a pace to his left.

Just before they reached the end of the curve, the narrow cone of light suddenly winked out.

"Timmie!" Raymond cried.

"Damn batteries must've died," Timmie said.

"Oh no! What'll we do?"

"Don't panic, Ray. Up ahead the tunnel straightens out again and there's a branch that leads to Orchard Street."

Raymond was trembling. "Let's just go back the way we came."

"It's shorter to Orchard Street," Timmie said. "We won't have so far to go in the dark."

"Can't you make the flashlight work?"

"It's no use. The batteries are dead."

"Timmie . . . I've never been this scared."

"There's nothing to be scared of."

"The river sounds awfully close."

"Just stay against the wall."

"How far is it?"

"Not more than fifty yards," Timmie said. "Let's go."

Raymond slid one foot forward, cautiously; brought the other one ahead to meet it. The deepening water saturated the thin canvas of his sneakers. The hissing rush of the river was close now; its dank odor filled the tunnel.

"Timmie?"

"I'm right here, Ray."

But Timmie's voice came from behind him. Raymond had raised his foot for another step, was already bringing it down. There was nothing to step on, no more floor.

In the blackness, Raymond's scream created a chaos of echoes. Then the scream ended abruptly in a heavy splash. Timmie stood motionless, listening, but now there was nothing to hear except the fading echoes and the voice of the river.

After a time Timmie raised the flashlight, touched the button on its side, A bright beam cut through the dark, illuminating the jagged-edged hole in the floor that extended from the middle of the tunnel to the wall on the right. He eased forward, shone the light down inside the hole. Not far below, he could see the black, swift-moving river. There was no sign of Raymond.

"You shouldn't have snitched," Timmie said softly. "I knew all along it was you, you and Peter Davis. I don't like snitches."

He turned, then, and followed the light back through the tunnel.

"I don't think this is such a good idea."

"Why not?"

"We shouldn't be out this late. Not after the way Ray Wilson disappeared so funny last week."

"You want to explore the storm tunnel, don't you?" Timmie asked.

"Well . . . I guess so."

Timmie started down the grassy creek bank. Then he paused, swung around to smile up at Peter.

"Come on," he said. "There's nothing to be afraid of."

(**missing text**) glorious November morning, here on decadent island of Majorca if not in Mother Russia, and I am sitting on white-sand beach at Palma Nova. On many such mornings I am coming here from capital city, Palma, to mingle with unsavory tourists from Scandinavia, England, and other bourgeois Western countries; to observe, to listen, to gather information which may be useful. Is my duty as embassy officer.

I am observing from distance when Mikhail Pochenko finds me. He does not look happy, but this is nothing unusual. As good Russian and Party member, he seldom looks happy. He sits down in chair next to mine, and before he speaks he glances around to make certain we are not being observed.