20

I had come to the office early, only to find from Susan Strand that Doolittle, Amussen, and now Charleston had been summoned to circuit court as witnesses. Apparently the judge had finally reached our cases. Cole, Susan said, was out on a call, not an important one. I stuck around in case I was needed.

It wasn’t until after lunch that I was. Then the connecting door swung open. Cole stood there, trying to block it, but the Mefford woman squeezed by him, screeching, “Where’s the big man?”

She stumbled in, her face bruised and bloody, one shoulder hunched. A cracked leather purse swung from her free hand. Her clothes might have come from the town dump.

“I caught her coming in,” Cole said.

“The big man,” the woman scratched out. “I got news for him.”

“You need a doctor.”

“Hell with that. Get the man.”

“Won’t I do?”

“No, by God! He makes the deals.”

“Take a chair, then.”

I telephoned the judge’s chambers upstairs. Luckily someone answered. I said I had to speak to the sheriff, and the voice answered, “I’ll see.” When Charleston came on, I told him, “The Mefford woman’s here, all beaten up. She won’t talk to anyone but you.”

“Be there,” he answered and in about a minute entered the office. After one glance he said, “You need attention, Mrs. Mefford.”

“Don’t Mrs. Mefford me. I’m not Mefford’s woman, not anymore. I’m Gracie Jones, like I told you once.”

He sat down and used the phone. “Doc Yak’s not in,” he said, dialing again. “Miss Blakesly, can you come to the sheriff’s office at once, bringing your kit?”

Miss Blakesly was the county health nurse, with offices over ours.

The woman said through bloody lips, “He’ll be after me.”

“Take it easy.”

She put a hand to a cheek that was swollen to half again its usual size. The eye was closing. The other cheek bore a ragged cut. Her mouth was broken at one corner. She didn’t move that one arm and shoulder. She touched the shoulder with the other hand. “That’s where the bastard kicked me.”

“Wait for the nurse.”

In less than a minute Miss Blakesly, a plump young woman, all business, entered with her nurse’s case. After a glance she said, “My goodness, were we caught in a bailing machine?” From her case she took cotton, alcohol, gauze and tape. “Hold still now. This will sting a little.”

“I’m past feelin’,” the woman said.

Charleston sat silent at his desk.

The nurse went on, “Your mouth really ought to have a stitch or two in it. This will have to do until then.” Gently she moved the woman’s arm and felt of the shoulder. “I can’t find any break. But here, I’ll fix a sling until the doctor sees you.” The sling in place and the forearm resting in it, she packed up her things, smiled and went out to our thanks.

The woman’s face, patched, bruised, colored white, red, and beginning purple, put me in mind of a child’s first attempt at finger painting.

“Now,” Charleston said, “maybe we can talk. Your name is Gracie Jones, and you live with one Mefford?”

“Lived. Did live.”

“Tell us about it. Why are you here? What do you want?”

“I want to be safe.”

“Mefford beat you up?”

“You got eyes.”

“How long have you lived together? How long have you put up with him?”

“Skip the questions. I got a proposition.”

“Answer the questions first.”

“Lived with him? This last time just three months. Off and on before then.”

“But why?”

“Mister, I got nothin’. I never had nothin’. Know what? I can spell my name, but that’s all. When you got nothin’, most anything looks good. A body gets tired of washin’ dishes in some greasy-spoon joint or swampin’ out saloons where men ain’t careful where they spit. Then along would come Mefford, bound for one place or another, and I just took off with him. I know. Damn fool me. But what else was there, me bein’ what I am?” A tear squeezed out of her closed eye.

“How long has this been going on?”

“Ten years, maybe, but just now and then. Nothin’ lastin’. In the beginning he used to lay me, as you polite folks would say, but I was younger then, just twenty-five or so and I guess not too bad to look at. Now all I do is clean up and cook and hope he keeps his temper. But by God no more of that, I swear.”

“This last beating must have been the worst?”

“That’s one reason I’m here. He was drinkin’, and he just blew up over nothin’. With me laid out, he took his bike and vamoosed.”

I put in, “Vamoosed?”

“He can’t have gone far,” Charleston said. “I would have heard.”

“Oh,” the woman told us, “he’ll just be sleepin’ it off in the shade someplace. Him and that camper is pals.”

“How did you get here?”

“It don’t matter, but I walked to the road and a man picked me up. I didn’t know him. He wanted to take me to the hospital. I told him the sheriff.”

“So now?” Charleston asked.

“So now lock me up safe.”

“Not him?”

“I said I had a proposition. You open to a deal? Kind of tit for tat like?”

“How can I tell?”

“Look.” With her free hand she fumbled to open her purse. The purse fell from her lap, but in her hand was a pin with the biggest sapphire in it that I ever saw.

Charleston breathed, “By God.”

She clenched the pin in her hand, not offering it to him. He asked, “Where did you get it?”

“In his cache. It’s built into his bunk, and the eye don’t catch it without lookin’ close. I didn’t know what was in it, for he keeps it locked, but after he took off I broke it open. There was a little money there, too, drinkin’ money, I bet, but I left it. When he finds it out, he’ll be boilin’ mad. He’ll come after me. I know him.”

“And all you want is safety in exchange?”

“Just lock me up as long as I say. Mad or not, he can’t hurt me there.”

“It’s a deal. I’ll have a doctor call on you later.”

The woman dropped the pin in his palm.

“Jase,” he went on, “take Miss Jones back and make sure that she’s comfortable.”

On my return he said, “We got him, Jase, got him dead to rights. Now locate Doolittle and Amussen. If they haven’t testified, ask the county attorney to move to adjourn. If I know the judge, he’ll be glad to oblige. He gets mighty tired, sitting on the bench.”

I was on the phone when the two deputies came in, court having been declared done for the day without urging.

Charleston got us all into his inner office, Cole included. He explained and showed the pin with its big, sparkling sapphire. “Now we go get him,” he said, “all of us except Cole. Ken, keep after Doc Yak. We can’t neglect our witness.”

“Yes, sir, or no, sir, I guess I mean.”

“I want her put up at the Jackson Hotel once we’ve collared Mefford. He can’t curse her there.”

Charleston stood up. “Carry your sidearms.” He went to the cabinet and took a Winchester shotgun from it.

We traveled in two cars after a final briefing. “Amussen and Doolittle, you go ahead. Circle round in back of the camper. Then sneak up if you can, one to each end of it. Jase and I will follow and tackle the place from the front. Go on. We’ll give you time to get positioned.”

They took off, and we after them, going slow. All Charleston said was, “Here’s hoping he hasn’t made tracks.”

At six o’clock the sun wasn’t thinking much about bedtime. Some lazy clouds floated over the mountains. Our speed was about 25 miles an hour.

Charleston slowed the car when the camper came in sight. “They’ll have had time,” he said. He pulled up maybe 35 yards from the front side of the camper and sat looking. “Bike’s there. Good. He hasn’t found out about the sapphire or he’d be gone.” He stepped from the car, taking the shotgun with him. He marched ahead a piece and called out, “Mefford. Come out. Sheriff’s office.”

All he got was silence.

I saw no sign of Amussen or Doolittle. Their car, I thought, must be hidden on the far side of a clump of quaking asps that grew beyond the camper.

“Stay here,” Charleston said, walking forward. I picked up a rock about the size of a baseball. I swept his restraining arm aside and dodged in front.

“Mefford,” I yelled. “Come out or get blown up. There’s a grenade in my hand. I’m counting to three.”

From behind me Charleston said, “Out of the way.”

“One. Two. Three. Here goes.”

I threw the rock, thankful for my pitcher’s arm. It made a satisfying thump on the undercarriage of the camper. I shouted, “Down. Down everyone,” and hit the dirt. An instant, and then Charleston did the same.

Mefford popped from the camper. He stepped down, a shotgun in his hands. He looked at us and looked to his left. That was a mistake. Moving fast for his bulk, Amussen charged from his right. Mefford had time only to move the gun a fraction before Amussen’s arms went around him. They swayed there for a moment. The gun fell without going off.

A bear hug from Amussen would make a fence post cry for mercy.

Now from the left of the camper Doolittle came racing, cuffs in his hand.

We got up, Charleston and I. He said with a trace of a smile, “You damn smart fool you.” We walked ahead. Mefford wasn’t saying anything. His face spoke for him. Doolittle dodged into the camper and came out with the .22 rifle. He picked up the shotgun. “Damn tidy place,” he said cheerfully, “except where he messed it up.”

Charleston said, “You boys made the catch. How about bringing him in?”

“Gladly. Yes, sir. It was you, though, you and Jase, that risked hide and hair.”

Now Mefford said through his tangle of whiskers, “You sons of bitches.”

Doolittle and Amussen took him off. In the car on the way home Charleston called the office. “Blanche,” he said after identifying himself, “Cole still there?”

Her voice came back, “I knew it was you. Yes, Cole’s just leaving. I was late getting here.”

“Ask him to take Gracie Jones to the Jackson Hotel. Tell him to tell her we’ve got Mefford under arrest. She’ll be safe. The county will pay the hotel bill.”

It was well past supper time when we arrived at the office, but Charleston wasn’t about to quit work. He herded us all into the inner office, Mefford included. I made ready with pad and pen.

Charleston sat at his desk. “Sit down, you,” he said to Mefford. Doolittle and Amussen stood, looking and listening.

“Mefford, I’m charging you with murder. You’re entitled to a lawyer …”

“Or I can keep my mouth shut …”

“But whatever you say can be used against you.”

“I’m all buttoned up.”

“Why did you resist us?”

“Jesus Christ! I’ll say this much. First, that joker there”—he looked at me—“he knocked me out. Then you sapped me. And another of your men took a shot at me. What the hell? Expect me to invite you in?”

“All right. That’s by the way. It’s murder we’ll talk about.”

“Talk away.”

“You killed the Smitson girl.”

“I did, huh? Where’s the proof?”

Charleston took a key from his pocket and unlocked a drawer of his desk. He held out his closed hand, opened it, and there was the sapphire pin. “Proof enough.”

Behind his whiskers Mefford’s mouth opened. He sucked in a breath. He got out, “How in hell?”

Charleston just sat, holding the pin.

Then Mefford broke out, “Oh, that thievin’ bitch. She turned me in, the goddamn cow. I’ll wring her fuckin’ neck.”

“You’ll have to wait quite a while. Meantime, she’ll testify against you.”

“No one would listen to her.”

“We’ll see. Now let’s talk about the other murder, the rape-killing of the Stuart girl.”

“Not by a damn sight. You can’t pin that one on me.”

“But the first one I can.”

“Goddamn her. She thought she was too good for me. Too high-toned for the likes of me but was still selling her ass. I won’t take much of that stuff.”

“Hardly any of it, huh?”

“She had it coming.”

Charleston said, “That’s enough for any jury. Amussen, take this character back and lock him up tight.”

Amussen yanked Mefford by the arm and marched him out.

Charleston was opening his desk when Amussen returned. He brought out a bottle. “No one’s on duty. I figure we’re entitled to a celebration.”

We drank out of paper cups without ice. Then Charleston went on, “I want to take you all to dinner. While you wash up and get ready, I’ll make reservations. Suit everybody?”

I stepped to the outer office, got an outside line and told Mother I wouldn’t be eating at home but would be in later with good news.

We walked to the Jackson Hotel. It was seven-thirty, a late hour for dinner in Midbury, and the dining room was empty. A waiter was expecting us, though, and he asked, “Ready to eat, Sheriff?”

“Four stomachs all set and ready, and bring us some good red wine.”

“All here but old sour puss,” Doolittle said.

A small smile settled on Charleston’s face. “Mr. Gewald is busy. Has been all day. He’s looking for Antonelli, but he won’t find him.”

I asked, “How come?”

“Mr. Antonelli is visiting friends at Flathead Lake. It seems he felt out of sorts and left home without informing anyone.”

“A little bird told you,” Amussen said.

“No. Mr. Antonelli himself. He called me last night to see how we were making out.”

The wine came first. Charleston poured, got up, holding out his glass, and said, “Here’s to a first-rate crew.”

Amussen lurched up. “And to a first-rate chief.” Their eyes came to me. It seemed we were playing rounds with our toasts. I said, “Second the motions but drink also to luck.”

Doolittle topped us, saying, “To whatever gods there be, thanks for Gracie Jones and we.”

We laughed and drank, and the waiter served us tenderloin steaks, baked potatoes, not canned but garden-fresh peas and salads that were not all lettuce. About to pitch in, Charleston paused and asked the waiter, “The lady upstairs, Gracie Jones, has she eaten?”

“Oh, her. They say she’s keeping to her room.”

“Take her a plate just like ours.”

We were hungry and merry, full of relief that a job was done, and we laughed and talked while we ate. Only at the last, with plates cleaned and appetites satisfied, did Charleston sober our mood, saying, “Tomorrow’s another day. Virginia Stuart’s another case. Let’s get some sleep.”