Blood on Lake Louisa Page 15

  “Who took the Miami papers from the safe. I was in the office when the doors were locked. According to Ed Brown they were in there then. Miss Phillips was in the office from noon until we went in and discovered the loss—”

  “But Bartlett had an equal chance with anybody else.”

  “How do you make that out, Doc? He was in Pryor’s when Ed and I went in, and he stayed there all morning. You just didn’t see him, but he was sitting in the next to the last row of chairs. Did you see Tim Reig?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, Bartlett was four seats in back of him. Now that’s one thing, and there are plenty of others. Neither Crossley, nor Carl, have any idea what connection Abe Nixon has with this business. I was present this morning when they questioned Bartlett. Either I don’t know my witnesses, or Bartlett’s the best liar in the world when he says that he never heard of Abe Nixon in his life.” Marvin took his elbow off the table and pointed a finger at me. “Bartlett may be guilty as hell, but they’ve got to show me! I’m going to spend the next few days trying to find out about the snake’s sister. When I find that out, I’ll be well on my way to knowing who planted a canvas boat under my porch this afternoon, while I was in the jail talking with the man they’ve arrested!”

  23

  Pure chance played the largest part in connecting me with the events dated between the fifteenth and the twenty-fourth of February. That is not quite true, either. Professional calls took me to Salmon’s, and Nixon’s. My trip to Lake Louisa with the Chief Deputy was an outcome of my close friendship with Pete Crossley. For what happened after Harry Bartlett was lodged in the jail I have only my consuming curiosity as an excuse—that, and a deep proneness toward meddling. Mae once remarked sententiously: “There’s no fool like an old doctor!” Shall we let it go at that?

  Friday was beautiful—Florida fishing weather—dripping sunshine washed by a light west wind. I discarded the bandage on my head and put a less conspicuous adhesive tape dressing on my ear, which still felt the size of a. platter of roast beef. Then, fortified with a new spring suit, I sallied forth to call on some of my patients. I made my rounds, greatly relieved to find that nothing untoward had developed during my short period of neglect. By noon, slightly piqued, I had decided that my ministrations were not nearly so important as I had always thought.

  I found a parking place in front of Thatcher’s Drug Store, and went in to leave a couple of prescriptions, and to renew my supply of Anti-Venom. At the soda fountain a stocky, sandy-haired man was toying with a drink. He saw me in the mirror as I entered and swung around on his stool to greet me. I recognized him as United States Marshal James Gordon, an old friend, whom I had not seen in many years.

  “I thought you were in Key West. I suppose this Bartlett thing brought you to town.” I took the stool beside him and ordered a chocolate milk.

  “Partly. I like to see old friends, too. Pete tells me they’ve been treating you rough. Nice place this town’s turned out to be.”

  “We have had a little excitement.”

  “Excitement? To read the papers you’d think the town had been wiped out by a holocaust. There’s only been a couple of killings—”

  “We hope so.”

  “Oh, Nixon.” He finished his drink. “You don’t agree with that tommy-rot of Pete’s? Anyhow we’ll get the dope out of this bird they’re holding. Sorry. I have to run along.” He paid the check.

  “How about dinner with us before you leave town?”

  “Tickled pink. If I can make it. I’ll call you. S’long.” He went out. I watched him walk up the street toward the Court House, a capable man, but not much given to conversation. Three men seated at one of the small glass-covered tables rose then, ambled out, and started to walk slowly in the direction Gordon had taken. Thatcher mentioned it when I went to the back of the store.

  “Those three have been sitting in here over an hour on one five-cent drink. I’m glad they have gone. Who was your friend at the counter?” I told him. “Humph. Let’s hope he won’t raise any more stink. All the tourists are leaving now.”

  My purchases made, I drove home and had lunch with Mae and Celia. They were going out to play bridge with two friends, a plan which I heartily approved, for the girl was in need of any recreation which would take her mind off her recent bereavement. I settled myself in a comfortable chair on the porch, and lulled by the warmth of the sun, and the gentle rustling of the trees, I was soon nodding.

  The nap ended by Marvin’s car stopping in front of the gate. As he ran up the path to the porch, I sensed that he was bringing me news which he considered of importance. He cleared some magazines off the wicker divan to make a place for himself, sat down, and produced his notebook.

  “Want to do some exploring?” He turned over several pages and marked a place with his thumb.

  “Go away,” I said wearily. “Take your information to the proper authorities. I’m taking—”

  “No fooling, Doc. I spent the morning digging through old records in the Court House. Listen to this.” He opened his book. “In April, eighteen ninety-eight, Arnold Simmons was arrested for illicit distilling. He was released through lack of evidence. In January, eighteen ninety-nine, Arnold Simmons was arrested for illicit distilling. His house and grounds were searched. He was released through lack of evidence. In June of the same year, eighteen ninety-nine, revenue officers raided the home of Arnold Simmons on Lake Louisa, where an alleged still was in operation. Nothing was found.”

  “If you’re trying to prove him guilty, he’s been dead twenty-five years.”

  “Don’t be facetious and thick-headed at the same time, Doc. You’ll force me to quote adages. I’ll tell you ‘where there is so much smoke, there’s generally a fire,’ so you can understand what I mean. They knew that Simmons was making moonshine. That isn’t the point. The point is where.”

  “Where what?”

  “Where did he make it, and where did he store it? When we find that out—”

  “We?”

  “Certainly. You’re going to help me. When we find that out, this funny business will be cleared up for once and all. We’ll know why all those people have been pottering around the Simmons place—the fellow who left those papers—the man who shot Mitchell—Red Salmon—the fellow who shot at you. We’ll know what started this epidemic of canvas boats. Are you game?”

  “I’m not game. I’m just hooked—like a fish. What are you going to do?”

  “Great! I’ll come up with you while you change your things. That new suit looks too good on you to ruin it.”

  “Good Lord! Are we leaving now?”

  “Right away. Put on some old clothes and bring your fishing tackle. You can troll while I row across the lake. You may get a big one.”

  “That’s some inducement at any rate.”

  While I was dressing Marvin told me more of his plans. He had learned from an ancient darky who groomed the Court House lawn, that an old man, named Langley, had assisted in building the Simmons house. Langley had a place about the size of Bartlett’s several miles further out on the same road. Our first stop was to be there in a quest for information about the construction of the building erected so many years before. The attorney had high hopes we would get some hint which might lead us to a secret hiding place. I was skeptical. I had searched the house, and I scoffed at the idea that I could miss a place big enough to operate a still.

  I left a note for Mae that I had gone fishing with Marvin, and asked her to save us some dinner in case we were late. When I put my tackle in the back of Marvin’s car I had to pack it in beside a bundle similar to the one we had found under Bartlett’s floor. Its bulk nearly filled the back of the small sedan.

  “Why the canvas boat?”

  “Someone left it for me. I might as well use it. I’m going to try to find the old road Simmons used to use to the lake. It will save us time. Langley can tell us about it. It’s somewhere right near his farm. Get in.”

  “How do you know
that thing’s safe?” I poked it with a derogatory finger.

  “I don’t, but I’m interested in seeing what it’s like, and how long it takes to set it up. If we can’t manage it we’ll have to drive back and take the other road out to where your boat is.”

  We passed the last neat white bungalow on the edge of town, and as I watched its rows of crimson poinsettias wave goodbye to us, I had a premonition that we were being very foolish. Yet it was my companion who first gave voice to the disquieting thoughts in my mind, and then I could do nothing but keep on going. I glanced at him. He was relaxed in the seat, his eyes fixed on the road, his hands lightly caressing the wheel with the touch of a driver who is part of his car.

  “Maybe we’d better drop this.” He kept his eyes on the road. “It’s dangerous—terribly dangerous.”

  “Bosh!”

  “You know it’s not bosh. The craftiest killer that ever put foot in this State is still loose, Doc. He’s getting more desperate. The showdown’s coming.”

  “You talk like you know who he is.”

  “Once in a while I get a flash—but the pieces never fit in the right places. It’s maddening—I’m going to see it through, but there’s no necessity of dragging you along.”

  “I’m not being dragged. I’ll trail along. Forget it.”

  We found old man Langley without difficulty. He gave us much information about how to get to the dock, by the Cow Pasture, from his house; but nothing whatever that might reveal a cache on the Simmons property. He was a garrulous soul, fast approaching a second childhood, and we were glad to make our escape.

  The old log road leading to the southern end of the lake proved to be as fiendish and malevolent a pair of parallel ruts as ever wrecked a vehicle. Built along the lines of a scenic railway, the wind, with a perverted sense of humor, had covered their hellish roots and depressions with a layer of soft white sand. To our inexperienced eyes it really looked as if an automobile could negotiate it without the occupants—and the rest of the contents—being reduced to a pulpy indistinguishable mass. Let it suffice to say that a quarter of a mile away from the lake, we extricated our bruised and battered bodies from the car, and carried the canvas boat, and my fishing tackle, the rest of the way between us.

  It was shortly after four when we unpacked the boat from its covering and started to assemble it. The package contained a nine foot, heavy water-proofed canvas hull; a cleverly designed floor board—which locked and held the erected boat in shape; two cross seats which acted as additional braces; and a pair of light take-down oars. In addition there were many wire ribs which fitted lengthwise into slots in the inside of the boat. A faded cardboard diagram, with detailed instructions for assembling was tacked to the underside of one of the cross seats.

  “That will help,” I said when I saw it. “At least we can find out where to start.” I picked up the seat and as I did so half of the cardboard flopped over loose. The terrific mauling in the car had torn it out from two of the tacks which held it in place. On the back of the direction sheet was a date of six years before, stamped on with a date stamp. Underneath the date, in the faded pink of old indelible pencil was written:

  Joe: You better tack this on that #9 we’re shipping to Timothy Reig, Fort Pierce, Florida.

  24

  The writing was blurred, but legible. Marvin read the few penciled words. There was hatred in his eyes. Casually written in a far off city, six years before, that terse memorandum to a shipping clerk had suddenly loomed up as a terrible indictment against Timothy Reig. It awes me today to think how the dice of life can fall against a man who gambles with society, and the law, as his opponents. For six years a piece of cardboard adheres to a board. Then, because two men take a road they have never traveled before, it is torn loose. It hangs there dumbly, bringing an accusation which cannot be answered.

  It was Pete who explained to me, a few days later, why Tim had put the boat under Marvin’s porch. His voice broke as he told me, for that ghastly night of February twenty-fifth had passed. “It was pure panic, Doc. It was a hard thing to hide. He knew we were scouring the town. Marvin Lee’s looked like the best place. He put it there—never dreaming it had a visiting card attached.”

  To my astonishment even after we saw Reig’s name on the card, Marvin refused to believe that the boat belonged to the watchmaker. By the time we had it set up, and had slipped it into the water, he had convinced me, too. He argued that we were not sure the card had been detached on our rough trip over the road. It was more sensible to assume that the card had already been loose when the incriminating boat was planted. In his estimation the thing was done, more to throw suspicion on Tim Reig, than on Marvin Lee. “I’m just guessing,” he admitted, as we settled ourselves in the tiny craft. “It’s a bad habit, but I’m learning not to believe everything I see. Don’t forget Bert Nelson’s shotgun.”

  We had wasted a lot of the afternoon, so I regretfully dismissed the pleasure of trolling. I knew my companion was eager to make his own investigation. I could fish on the way back if time permitted. The little shell, which had caused us so much conjecture, skimmed gracefully over the water at every dip of the oars. A real craftsman had designed it. Although it was only nine feet long, it was broad of beam, and far steadier than many larger boats I had fished from. We grounded by the Simmons house dock in less than ten minutes after leaving the opposite shore.

  Marvin took from the boat a heavy burlap sack which clinked dolefully when he moved it. “Tools.” He laughed at my expression. “I’m going to find something if I have to dig up the house.”

  “You don’t have much faith in my searching ability.”

  “I admire it highly. But I’m armed with knowledge. I know that Simmons had a hiding place—and a big one. That’s more than Pete knows now. You and his men have saved me the trouble of a routine search. Did you bring a gun?”

  “No. What for?”

  “You can ask me that? Here, take this.” He handed me a long barreled thirty-eight, and two handfuls of cartridges. “It’s loaded. Keep it in the side pocket of your coat. See that it’s free and clear. I want you to watch while I look.”

  “What do I watch for?”

  “Anybody who is around here. Here’s the idea: I’m going to look over the inside first. We go in together, and quickly go through every room. Keep the gun in your hand—cocked. If there is anybody in any of those rooms —don’t wait—shoot. They’re trespassers and we’re not. I have written permission from the present owners to make this search. Keep firing until you drop anyone we see. Can I count on you?”

  “But all this melodrama?” I said, dubiously. “I can’t just shoot a man down in cold blood—”

  “There have been three funerals in the past eight days.” Marvin was showing signs of strain. “There have nearly been four—yourself being the fourth. If you don’t feel like shooting in cold blood—in case we find anybody in the house—we better go back now. We may not go back at all.”

  “I’ll start shooting.”

  “Come on then—quickly!” He picked up his bag of tools, and together we almost ran up the rise to the front of the house. He dropped the bag by the porch steps. “Right in back of me now! Stick together!” He opened the front door. A pungent, sickly stench rushed to meet us. My stomach nearly revolted, but Marvin went in and I followed. The hall was dank. (As I read back over what I have written, I realize that, even now, I detest that crypt-like hall. It must have been unpleasant from the day the house was finished.) For the moment we could see nothing. I blindly kept the cocked pistol pointing ahead of me until my eyes adjusted themselves.

  The door to the room on the right was partly open. The one on our left was closed. Cautiously, Marvin peered through the open door. The room was empty. “The other one now,” he whispered. He flung wide the door. Both of us drew back, sick and white with nausea. On the floor, in a corner, lay the bloated carcass of a black and tan hound. A glance sufficed. I had seen animals dead from snake bite before.
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  “It’s Yankee,” I said, back in the hall. “He belonged to the Nixons. A fox hound, and a good one. I’ve hunted with him. He must have crawled in here to die.”

  “He was careful to close the doors behind him, too.”

  “So were we,” I retorted, just as sarcastically. “I didn’t say no one had been here since he died.”

  The distasteful business of burying the dog was left until later. Even more carefully, for our gruesome find had upset us, we explored the other rooms of the house. We found nothing more than I had three days before. In the back room, at Marvin’s request, I reenacted the attempt to shoot Ed and me. I went through with it, step by step, even to rolling on the floor. By the time I had finished he had my nerves sandpapered to a fine edge.

  “If you don’t quit peeping out those windows— What are you looking for?”

  “I’m trying to make sure you haven’t an audience —like the last time you were here.” I quit protesting then, and watched him as he minutely scrutinized every inch of the floor. His search extended out into the hall, where he also went over the walls, and the front door. He came back, and with a pocket knife started digging in the small shot holes in the plaster by the entrance to the hallway. I heard him mutter: “Damn!” Then, rather to my chagrin, I found I had been peeping out of the windows myself.

  He saw me and grinned. “Gets you, doesn’t it? Has Pete been out here since you were?”

  “I think he has. Sanderson mentioned coming—”

  “I guess they beat me to it.”

  “What?”

  “The shot. I’ve been trying to find one of the pellets. There are none here. You’re positive you heard two shots Tuesday morning?”

  “Positive. They were very close together, but—”

  “That’s what I can’t understand. The fellow who blazed at you was using a funny load. Count these holes in the wall.”

  “Nineteen, but I don’t see—”

  “Nor I. Mitchell was killed with double-0 buckshot. I’m assuming the same kind was fired at you—I don’t know until I find one. I happen to be up on shotgun loads through a case I defended. I know this much: there are only nine pellets of single-0 buckshot in a 12 gauge shell —so that load is eliminated. There are nineteen holes here. See?”