Judas Cat (8 page)

“And the chief doesn’t say a word he doesn’t have to. Ah, Joan, you’d think we didn’t have enough troubles in our own back yards without wars and threats of war.”

“Sometimes I wonder, Alex, why we have to see evil blown up to the size of war before we do anything about it, before we even recognize it.”

“We recognize it, but nobody wants to really admit that an offense is the best defense, except maybe a few crusaders. Then somebody slaps a label on ’em and that’s that. Take the county offices. Hardly anybody would say they weren’t corrupt. It’s a joke that all the slot machines get carted away before elections. Do they get destroyed? Oh no. It’s the same old machines operating on the same old corners two months after the same state’s attorney goes back into office. I’ll tell you one thing, Joan. I’ve done a lot of thinking since I’ve been back. The good warm feeling of being home wears off, especially when you see people like Altman in the easy chair next to you. And sometimes when I think of the energy it would take, the expense, the time, to dislodge him … let alone the guys he emulates up at the county, it makes me sick to my stomach. The waste of it, Joan. The horrible, sickening waste.”

Joan watched the ornament on the car hood seem to ride the center marker of the road for a while. “I don’t think you’re right, Alex,” she said, her voice just carrying above the sound of the motor. “I was thinking tonight how little time, really, the whole long life of Andy Mattson was. From what you’ve just said you could go to two things. You could say that every good effort you make is wasted, for you, at least, and you’ll forgive me if I say you’re setting a very high store by your values—and mind, I agree with them. Or you set yourself up as the sole authority on what’s right and wrong. Again, I’d agree with you now, but I might not always agree with you. To put it very simply, Alex, I don’t think time spent fighting corruption even on its lowest plane is time lost. In fact, I think that’s the only place to fight it. There at least, you know what you’re fighting.”

“But is there time, Joan? Is there time?”

“There’s time enough,” she said. “There has to be.”

They were in Masontown then. Alex looked at the gasoline gauge. “I’d better get some gas before they close up.” He pulled into a station at the one traffic light between Hillside and Riverdale.

“Hi, Whitie,” the attendant said. “What team you playing with this year?”

“Fabry’s gang. We’re all old men.”

“Fill her up?”

“Got change for twenty, Phil?”

“No, I don’t, Whitie. I just sent my money up to the bank.”

“Make it a dollar’s worth then.”

When the attendant came around to take the money, he stuck his head in the window and said “hello” to Joan. “I hear an old guy up your way got murdered today, Whitie. That a fact?”

“If it is, the coroner’s going to be surprised,” Alex said. “He returned a verdict of death from natural causes.”

“Oh.” The man was obviously disappointed. “Funny how things get twisted up, ain’t it?”

“Not always,” Alex said, starting the motor. “Good night, Phil.”

Ten minutes later they reached the limits of the county seat. Riverdale had grown into one of the ugliest towns in the state. It had about it the look of age without permanence. At its edge the houses were squat and unfinished looking, although most of them had been there for years. In many places a second house had been built on the lot intended for one dwelling and perhaps a little square for gardening. After seasonal layoffs, the workers had sold half their land to a new influx of laborers, hoping in that way to lay up enough against the next hard pull. This practice scarcely brought harmony to the community, selling to people they resented. And, all in all, it kept a large part of the population interested only in their own troubles, and impervious to town or county business.

Alex pulled the car out of a streetcar rut, causing it to swerve sharply, and bob along the bricks. “Sorry, Joan,” he said.

“I hate this street,” she said. “I hate the whole town, in fact.”

The cemetery to their right was bogged down in weeds. Even in the dim street lights, the shadows of the uncut grass hung across the dusty tombstones. Beyond the cemetery on the lower level near the river, lay Plant Number 4 of the Addison Industries, and from the chimneys blue-green flames whipped into a murky sky.

“They’re roaring now,” Alex said. “Look at them belch fire.”

“I guess that’s good,” Joan said.

Alex looked at her a second. “Go on and say it, honey. ‘It has to be’.”

He drove around the county building a couple of times. There was a deputy sitting outside the jail. Alex parked the car near the alley and Joan slid over to the driver’s seat when he got out. He winked at her and laid his hand on hers on the steering wheel for a second, for reassurance, Joan thought. “Say a prayer, Joanie.” Yes, she would say a prayer. There were many things to pray for in this venture.

Alex checked the trunk of the car first to be sure that it was unlocked. He walked past the building. The deputy was reading a magazine in the pale glow of the naked bulb over the door. The bugs and moths were thick as a cloud around the light and every once in a while the deputy slapped at one as it dropped down on him. Across the street the hollow sound of bowling balls striking pins came through the open windows, and from up the street a ways came the sound of traffic but at the moment he could not see a soul except the deputy. Alex turned up the alley and tried to hold himself to a casual pace. The windows were open on the ground floor of the building—barred windows. He was at the back of the jail. Only one window was lighted. Through it, he saw a man sitting on a bunk, reading. Apparently he was the only occupant. The other windows were darkened.

There was a garbage can outside the jail door. From the angle of its lid, he figured that the night’s pick-up had not been made yet. The morgue was next to the jail, and beside the wide door there was a large metal box. He could feel his heart pounding faster and his hands were moist. There was only a latch on the box and Alex threw it and lifted the lid. The smell of formaldehyde made him catch his breath. In college he had had to give up biology on account of it.

“Looking for something, buddy?” a soft voice drawled from the last cell window.

He could see the face indistinctly against the bars. He felt that he had jumped six feet off the ground.

“Sorry if I made you nervous,” the voice continued. “You must be pretty hard up, filching from the trash cans in this dump. What they give you on plates ain’t good enough for it.”

“I’m looking for something,” Alex said. “For God’s sake, shut up.”

“No kidding. Don’t let me interrupt.”

Inside the box he found two well-wrapped bundles. There was no time to think, to weigh them. He took them both out and let the lid down slowly.

“It’d be embarrassing,” the prisoner drawled, “if I started a ruckus on the bars in here, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, it would.”

“Tell you what. I’m collecting from my friends to get me a decent lawyer.”

Alex reached into his pocket and drew out the only bill he had. “Here. Go back to sleep and forget you saw me.”

“It’s for a good cause. Take it off your income tax.”

Alex picked up the bundles. He had to pass the jail windows again.

“I wonder if I’ll remember your face. I don’t forget a kind one easy. My friends say I got a long memory. Hope you got what you were after, chum …”

Amen to that, Alex thought. The fifty yards through the alley were the longest he had ever walked. He threw the bundles into the car trunk. Joan had the motor running when he climbed in beside her.

“What a filthy smell,” she said, shifting the car into gear, “but you had luck.”

“I hope it’s luck. Now we really need it. Do I smell very bad, Joan?”

“Just medium bad.”

It was Barnard himself who came to the door when Alex rang. He was in his shirt sleeves and came out on the steps, closing the door behind him. If he had been asked to guess his age, Alex would have put the veterinary at about fifty, although it was hard to tell by looking at him. He was large boned, but without much flesh. He had huge eyebrows that moved a little every time he spoke. When Alex was a kid they had fascinated him, and when Doc was working on one of his many pups, Alex would watch them for signs of recovery or relapse. Some people’s mouths were expressive, Alex thought. With Doc you saw nothing but the eyebrows.

“I’m sorry to bother you this late, Doc,” he started.

“That’s all right, Alex. Jock?”

Jock was the Whiting’s airedale. “No, it’s not,” Alex said. “I need your help on something and I don’t know whether it’s fair to ask you or not. You heard that old Andy Mattson was found dead today?”

“Yes. Norah and I were talking about it at dinner. She lived in that house as a girl, you know.”

“I know,” Alex said. “I might as well tell you the whole story, and if you don’t want to touch it … Well, we’ll see from there.”

When he finished the veterinary nodded. “It’s a pretty thin case,” he said. “But then
if
somebody’s trying to cover up, it would be. Do you think Tobin is deliberately whitewashing the business?”

“I’d have to have pretty strong evidence before I’d go as far as saying that.”

“Naturally. I was asking for my own information. I’ve been around long enough to see some peculiar things happen up there. Well, let’s take a look at the animal and go from there. How long has it been dead?”

“Since about noon.”

“That’s ten hours. It may be hard to tell anything, but we’ll see.” He walked to the car with Alex and leaned over to see who was at the wheel.

“You know Joan Elliot, Doc?”

“Yes, of course. The girl with the molting turtle doves. How are you, Joan?”

“Fine, Doctor. That’s a long time to remember. Fifteen years.”

“They’ve been kinder to you than to me, my dear. Wouldn’t you like to wait in the house? I don’t believe Mrs. Barnard has gone to bed yet. I think she’d like to see you.”

“Thank you, doctor, but it’s late, and I like it out here.”

He nodded and went around to the trunk where Alex was taking out the packages. “I was in a hurry and took them both,” he said. “I think the heavier one’s the cat.”

Barnard weighed them both in his hands. “This is it,” he said. “I can tell the dead weight of it.” Again he stopped at the car door. “We may be some time. You’ll be more comfortable indoors, Joan.”

She went in with them then, and Barnard took them first to his laboratory. It was two large rooms and occupied a wing of the house. It was meticulously neat, and well equipped. He excused himself and went to find Mrs. Barnard. Joan examined the titles of the books in one of the cases. “He’s done a lot of writing,” she said. “Alex, we’re finding out more things about more people.”

“I told you he was a scientist,” Alex said.

“I know, but why is he in Hillside, Alex?”

He shrugged. “Why not? This is the heart of the dairy country, and his specialty is cattle. He’s worked himself up what amounts to a practice. Gets an annual sustainer from all the farms around here.”

Mrs. Barnard came in with her husband then. “I’m sorry we’re disturbing you this late, ma’m,” Alex said.

“Not at all. I rarely go to bed before twelve, and I’m delighted to have company. When Jeff’s working hard he’s not the best of company, and he’s been very busy lately. Won’t you come in and have some tea with me, Miss Elliot?”

Alex watched them leave the room. There was a resemblance between Mrs. Barnard and Mabel Turnsby, he thought, but there was more refinement in her features. She walked in the grand manner, rather as though she were carrying a book on her head, and he remembered his mother’s comments on the way she “gave herself airs.” She might have been twenty-five or forty-five with the smoothness of her skin, the light eyes, and the straw-colored hair. She had a set little smile, and never, never laughed out loud, he thought.

“Well,” Barnard said, “let’s take this in to the table and get it over with.” He cut away the wrappings and disposed of them in a container at his foot.

“Ugly business,” Alex said when he saw the carcass.

“Think of roses, whiskey, beautiful women,” Barnard said.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to be sick,” he said, but he could feel a turning in his stomach. Barnard went to the windows and opened them.

“It doesn’t look like they did very much work on it, does it, Doc?”

“That’s hard to say, Alex, the condition it’s in.”

“It’s that sore under its forearm I’m most interested in. The cat was injected with something, wouldn’t you say?”

“Not being an amateur, Alex, I wouldn’t say. It looks as though that’s what it might have been.”

“Like vaccination?”

“Somewhat. The position is strange for an injection.”

“My theory, strictly amateur, is that the old man picked the cat up there. That might have been why it turned on him.”

“Possibly.”

“How long before it died did it eat? Can you tell that, Doc?”

“I would need more time. In fact, I need more time before I can tell you anything, Alex. Immediate symptoms of disease or poison aren’t present, and it’s pretty late to make cultures, that is, late from the time of its death. That should have been done in two or three hours. But suppose you leave it here. I’ll take some specimens and see what I can develop. I’ll call you in the morning and tell you whether it’s worth your while to come over.”

“You don’t give me much encouragement, Doc.”

“I don’t give you false encouragement. This was a foolhardy stunt, Alex. I can understand your doing it, but doesn’t it seem unlikely to you that the coroner’s office would have been so brazen if they weren’t pretty sure of themselves?”

“I suppose you’re right, Doc. But it seemed like such a slick job to me, and I feel sure we don’t have the full story of what happened in that house last night.”

“Did you question the neighbors?”

“Yes. Mabel Turnsby’s the only one who could really see the place, and she didn’t see anything.”

“If Mabel didn’t see anything, Alex, believe me, there wasn’t anything to see. She’s had the eyes and ears of the world all her life.” He went to the sink and washed his hands.