Rex Stout - 1939 - The Mountain Cat Murders Read online

  The Sheriff of Silverside County allowed grudgingly, “I guess I do.”

  “Okay—and you, Hurley, if you find it painful to have any contact with Sheriff Chambers—”

  “It makes me puke just to look at him.”

  “Then keep your head this way and you won’t see him. I’m letting him stay because it will save time if I want to ask him something. As I told you, the first thing I want to know is exactly what happened Tuesday evening. I know you’ve told it before, but it’s a different setup now. It’s not as simple as I thought it was. Now go ahead and don’t leave anything out.”

  Squint Hurley looked out of place, and he looked as if he felt out of place, sitting on a chair in an office. He looked too big for one thing, and those physical characteristics which made him a homogenous part of the landscape on a sagebrush flat or the rocky chaos of the dry sun-baked hills rendered him, in these ordered surroundings, almost grotesque. He muttered, “I ain’t talking to Ken Chambers. That pile of dried-up guts. That’s understood. If he starts asking me anything—”

  “He won’t. You’re talking to me.”

  “All right. I’m not a good talker, because out in the hills I get talking to myself. I’ve been doing that for forty years and it’s not the same thing. It’s a different kind of talk.” He raised a horny old hand, with one finger gone, to chase a fly from his ear. “But you want me to say what happened Tuesday night. The first thing happened Tuesday night, I was the biggest goddamn jackass I’ve been since 1898 when I went to Cuba. I had two hundred and ninety-one dollars, enough to last in the hills to the other end of luck. Slim Fraser says come along to a joint and take a whirl, and I went. First time in thirty-two years. I think it’s because I’m just as strong as I ever was but my will power’s getting wore out. Anyhow I went, and he took me to that place The Haven—”

  “What time was that?”

  “That was around eight o’clock. The sun was on a good slant. I played the wheel a while with four-bit chips, mostly nineteens because it was in 1919 that I come on that streak over on the Cheeford range—”

  “How long did you stay there?”

  “I stayed there too long. I anted right down to my seams. I was only playing little ones, but after two hours, a little more than two hours I guess, I was as dry as last year’s skeleton. I didn’t come to even then, the fever was up, and I asked Slim for some but he was low too and wouldn’t do it, and it came in my head that there was only one man in this town I could prospect and that was Dan Jackson. I knew where he lived and I thought I would walk out there, but when I got on the sidewalk it came in my head that his office was right there and it wouldn’t hurt to see if maybe he was around. The door wasn’t locked and I went in and up the steps and saw there was a light there and the door was standing open. I went in. I guess I was walking easy because I don’t often walk on boards and I don’t like the noise my feet make on boards. Anyhow I saw that girl with the popgun in her hand with her back to me, walking over to him hanging over the side of the chair.”

  “Had you heard a shot as you were going up?”

  “No.”

  “Was there a smell in the room as if the gun had just been fired?”

  “There was a little smell. I wouldn’t say like the gun had just been fired. I don’t know much about things in rooms, smells or anything. I’ve told you all this before.”

  “I know you have, but I want it again and more of it.”

  Baker proceeded to get it. The warmth of the gun, the way Delia was holding it when first seen, the position of the bag on the desk, what Delia had said and how she had acted and looked, the exact position of Jackson’s body—those details and many others were thoroughly and monotonously explored.

  Finally Baker said, “All right, Hurley, that seems to cover that. Now to go back a little, you say you got to The Haven at eight o’clock?”

  “I recollect I said around eight o’clock.”

  “Were you in The Haven all the time until you left to see Jackson and get money from him?”

  “Yes I was. The fever was up.”

  “Would Slim Fraser or anyone say you were there all the time?”

  “I guess he might. I guess the man at the wheel might, he ought to.”

  “Do you know exactly what time it was when you left?”

  “No, I don’t. I didn’t have any timepiece, and anyhow I didn’t care, and anyhow you can tell if you want to because you know when I made that phone call and I left The Haven about four or five minutes before that.”

  “Sure.” Baker eyed the old prospector, not with hostility. “I tell you frankly, Hurley, I don’t think you shot Jackson, but everything has to be considered. The doctor got there at 10:35, twenty minutes after you called the station. He said Jackson hadn’t been dead more than an hour, and he died as soon as the bullet hit him. So if you can establish that you left The Haven only five minutes before you made the phone call, you’re out of it entirely and—”

  “Like hell!” It was Ken Chambers exploding. “He could have sneaked—”

  Hurley’s massive form started to lift from the chair. Baker snapped with ferocity, “Can it! One more yap and out you go!”

  “But he could have—”

  “I said can it! I know what he could have done as well as you do and probably better.” Baker finished his glare before turning back to his witness. “For one thing, Hurley, if I thought it likely that you shot Jackson, I’d have to find out how you got hold of that gun, because it’s been proven that it was that gun that fired the bullet. I’m being frank with you because I want you to be frank with me. Now, for instance, what gave you the idea that you could get money from Jackson?”

  “It came in my head.”

  “What put it there?”

  “What put it there was that he already gave me some.”

  “When?”

  “That morning. That same day.”

  “How much?”

  “He gave me three hundred dollars.”

  “What for?”

  “For what would anybody suppose? For a stake. He grubbed me.”

  Ken Chambers got up from his chair, went and stood directly in front of the county attorney, and scowled down at him. “I’m not talking to him,” he said, “I’m talking to you. Do you want me to whisper in your ear, goddamn it? What he says couldn’t be true, and I know it couldn’t be. For the past year and a half, since that pie-eyed jury turned him loose, he never got a cent from Dan Jackson. Jackson wouldn’t have anything to do with him. I tell you I know every move he’s made—”

  “Go back and sit down. Much obliged.” Baker lifted his brows at the prospector. “Well? Do you want me to repeat—”

  “I heard him.” Hurley’s squint, as he returned Baker’s gaze, became so pronounced that his eyes were all but buried. “And now I guess I’ll tell you something. I’ll tell you and Ken Chambers will hear it, and that would make a coyote laugh. That’s right that Jackson wouldn’t stake me after I got out of jail over in Silverside County. I always suspected Ken Chambers set him against me and I still do. I damn near ate my boots. Finally Bert Doyle down at Sheridan gave me a stake, but I didn’t have any luck and when that was used up it looked bad. I tried around, but when it seemed like I would have to sell my tools or go on relief, and I didn’t like one idea any better than the other, I worked up a plan. I got a lift to Cody, and Tuesday morning I went to the office and said to him, look here—”

  “To who, Jackson?”

  “Yes. I said, two years ago I was down in the Silverside Hills on Charlie Brand’s stake and I got word to meet him at the canyon cabin on a certain day, and I got held up by a bad leg and got there a good many hours late, and when I got there he was laying on the cabin floor dead with a bullet through his heart. Now, I said, Ken Chambers, the sheriff down there, hates me because I testified against him once on a claim—”

  “That’s a damn lie! I never carried—”

  “Shut up, Chambers. Go on, Hurley.”

  “I said, he hates me and he carries a grudge, and as far as that goes it wouldn’t surprise me any if it was him that shot Charlie Brand himself. Anyway, I would as soon’ve shot my own eye out as shoot Charlie Brand, and I’ve only got a rifle and never a popgun which is what he was shot with, and anyway whoever shot him took thirty-two thousand dollars from him and where is it? But, I said, in spite of that Ken Chambers arrested me the first thing and kept me in the coop, and him and that knock-kneed wart of a lawyer tried to convict me. And to make it short, I said, one result of the way they acted was that I hung onto a piece of paper that I found under Charlie Brand’s body that day when I turned him over, and I never said anything about it and this is the first time I’ve mentioned it. And I mention it to you now because Charlie Brand was your partner and I know you’d like to know who killed him, and it might help if you had that piece of paper because it has writing on it, so I—”

  “You dirty rat! Or else you dirty liar! I don’t believe—”

  Baker said sharply, “Haul him back, Bill! No, hustle him out! Go on, out with him!”

  From the standpoint of the majesty of the law it was a deplorable sight, one sheriff giving another sheriff the bum’s rush; or, rather, starting to, for Chambers jerked away from Tuttle’s grasp and stood panting with indignation. He growled, “You can’t expect—”

  “On out, Chambers. I mean it.”

  “But did you hear—?”

  “I say beat it! Didn’t I tell you to keep your trap shut? On out!”

  Bill Tuttle made a move. Chambers backed up a step with an inarticulate growl, wheeled, and tramped to the door, which he pulled to with a shattering bang as he disappeared. Tuttle went back to his chair and sat down. Squint Hurley said in an uncommunicative mumble, “By all hell, some day I’ll take my rifle and put a peephole in his belly.” Then he glanced as in startled surprise from Tuttle to Baker and said in apologetic explanation, “Excuse me, I was talking to myself.”

  “All right, Hurley. You were telling Jackson about a piece of paper with writing on it which you found under Charlie Brand’s body. Why had you kept it for two years without mentioning it to anyone?”

  “Because I saw it wouldn’t do any good. Was I going to show it to Ken Chambers and let him take it away from me when he had me in jail and keeping me there was all he wanted?”

  “Didn’t he search you?”

  “I had it put away.”

  “Where? Under a rock somewhere? Why?”

  “I said I had it put away.” Hurley’s squint buried his eyes. “Listen. Don’t waste time trying to jump me. I’m telling you exactly how it was because for one thing I’m glad of a chance to and for another thing I’ve got to have a friend somewhere. I’ve got to get away from all these crowds that keep bumping into you and all these damn buildings and this damn grass they keep watering all the time. I’m going to die if I don’t get back where I belong. I know you won’t let me go till this thing’s finished because you said so, and anyhow maybe you know someone that might stake me, or maybe you might. I had that piece of paper in my boot lining. I didn’t show it to Ken Chambers or that lawyer that was working with him because they would only of tore it up. After I was let loose I thought I might show it to Jackson who was Charlie’s partner, but he wouldn’t even talk to me. I thought I might even show it to Lem Sammis, but he had me kicked out. Ken Chambers was back of all that. So I just kept it, until finally it got to the place where I would have to sell my tools, and then I decided to try Jackson again, and that’s what I did Tuesday morning.”

  “Did you show the paper to Jackson?”

  “That’s what I went there for. I showed it to him and gave it to him. I told him all about it and about Ken Chambers having that old grudge and how I felt about Charlie, and I said for instance where in the holes of hell have I cached the thirty-two thousand dollars? Am I saving it till they bury me and I go there? So I gave him the paper and he believed me and he staked me. Three hundred dollars. I was going down on the Cheeford range again, and then like a goddamn jackass I let Slim Fraser—”

  “It was the money Jackson gave you that you lost at The Haven?”

  “Yes it was.”

  “Was anybody there when he gave it to you?”

  “There was that girl, Charlie Brand’s girl, in the other room. The door was shut, but he called her in and gave her a receipt I signed.”

  Bill Tuttle put in, “Could she have heard your talk with Jackson?”

  “I don’t think so, not through the door, and her running that printing machine that I could hear.”

  “Printing—?”

  “Typewriter,” said Baker. “Now, Hurley, that piece of paper. Was it a single sheet of paper?”

  The old prospector made no reply.

  “Well, was it?”

  Still no reply.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing really the matter.” Hurley looked at Tuttle and back at the county attorney. “You see, I’m not so young maybe, but I’m as strong as I ever was and I’m an old hand and my eyes is good. You didn’t exactly reply to what I said about you might know someone who would stake me or maybe you might do it yourself.”

  “I’m not in the grubstaking business. What has that got to do with that paper?”

  Hurley only squinted at him.

  Baker glowered at the squint. “Are you trying to extort a promise that I’ll see that you get staked?”

  “I wouldn’t try any extorting, no, sir. But a man naturally considers this and that. It came in my head that Jackson was killed pretty soon after I gave him that paper, and maybe there was a hitch-up, and maybe the news about the paper would help you about who killed Jackson, and maybe you’d be glad enough to get it so that you’d be willing to risk a little—not that there’s any risk to speak of, because I know that Cheeford range and I know a certain tumble back—”

  “Can it!” Baker leaned forward for emphasis. “Listen to me. You removed evidence from the scene of a crime and concealed it. How would you like to be turned over to your friend Chambers and let him work on that? As for your getting staked, that’s your problem. The county will see that you don’t starve as long as you’re held in Cody. I won’t lock you up, at least not now. Provided. I want to know about that paper.”

  “I won’t live much longer if I’m locked up again. I couldn’t breathe.”

  “Then don’t get locked up. Was it a single sheet of paper?”

  “It was a piece about as big as my hand, folded up so it was maybe three inches square.”

  “What color was it?”

  “White.”

  “Was the writing on it in ink or pencil?”

  “It was black ink.”

  “What did the writing say?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you mean to say you kept it two years and never read it?”

  “Well, naturally I looked at it, but I never read it because I can’t read.”

  Baker stared. “Hurley, you’re lying.”

  “No, I ain’t. Would I lie to you when you’d lock me up if I did? I can read reading but I can’t read writing.”

  Baker turned to the sheriff. “What about it, Bill? Do you believe it?”

  “Search me.”

  “Go downstairs and use your phone. Get Clara Brand and ask about Hurley’s visit to Jackson’s office Tuesday morning. All about it. Whether she could hear what they said and about the three hundred dollars, was it entered on the books as a grubstake, and does she know if Hurley can read and write, and did she see any paper that Hurley gave Jackson—wait a minute! I don’t like all that on the phone. Just ask her—Let’s see, Mrs. Cowles is due at nine. Ask her if she can come here for a talk at ten o’clock. On your way out ask one of the boys to get hold of Quinby Pellett and have him here at eight—and hey! Ask another one, Ray if he’s out there, to get me a couple of hamburgers and a pot of coffee.”

  The sheriff lumbered out. Baker swiveled, leaned back and gazed at Hurley. “So you can’t read, huh?”

  “Not writing I can’t.”

  “Can you write?”

  “I can print pretty good. I never got onto writing.”

  “Can you write your name?”

  “I can sign it. I don’t guess you could call it writing it exactly. A man showed me how once.”

  “You know, Hurley, if you’re lying, I can investigate and find it out. But that doesn’t help me any right now.”

  “I don’t hardly think it ever would help you much.”

  Baker sat scowling, rubbing his lip. In a little he resumed. “How much writing was there on the paper? Was it on both sides?”

  “Only one side. There wasn’t much, maybe five, six words.”

  “Goddamn it, what did it say?”

  Hurley shook his head.

  “What did it look like? What was the first letter?”

  “I couldn’t say the first letter. Maybe I could have told one or two letters if I’d worked at it, but I just knew I couldn’t read it, so I didn’t use up any time on it. But about what it looked like, I could tell you one thing, it wasn’t Charlie Brand that wrote it. Because I’ve seen him write things, like a receipt for me to sign maybe, and it didn’t look like that at all. He wrote sort of a hard trot, sort of up and down, but this was more like … like …”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, I would say big and round and heavy. Like what the hell, ink don’t cost much. I signed my name once with Charlie Brand’s fountain pen and it wrote thin.”

  “You say you found this paper under his body?”

  Hurley nodded. “It was there on the floor under him. When I turned him over there it was. I got a habit of keeping little things I don’t want to lose in my boot lining and I tucked it away. Then I lugged him out and tied him across his horse that was outside, and led the horse into Sugarbowl. The first yelp out of Ken Chambers, just to show you, first thing when he got there, he ast didn’t I know a dead body shouldn’t be moved, and I said sure, what I should’ve done was come on to Sugarbowl alone and leave him there for the rats and coyotes to play with and then he would’ve been a pretty looking thing. Next thing I knew—”