Blind Tiger, page 43
“What about Landry?”
“He was with Laurel when the shooting started, remember?”
“Now I do. I had asked her about it, but we got off on Mike O’Connor’s condition, so I never received an answer. Was he a decoy, sent to keep her occupied while the O’Connors were being ambushed?”
“That’s possible, I guess. But what Landry told Laurel was that he’d returned to make her a better offer.”
“Behind Bernie’s back? A double-cross?”
“Landry is weaselly enough.”
“Oh, I agree. But are you suggesting that while he was negotiating with Mrs. Plummer, Bernie acted alone?”
“I don’t think Landry is above removing somebody, but he wouldn’t go about it like that. He wouldn’t have made a spectacle.”
“Like the ambush.”
“And like a ‘hell of a blaze.’”
Bill looked at him with raised brows. “Hiram’s place?”
“Hennessy was in the IRA. They’re famous for blowing things up. They make explosive devices out of tin cans. That fire at the Johnsons’ place might not have been sparked by lightning.”
“Christ, Thatcher. Do you have any idea of the shit you’re wading into here? Bernie Croft isn’t a man you trifle with.”
“No, Bill, you can’t trifle. You gotta hit him with more than a slap on the hand. You gotta kick him in the balls and then cut them off.”
Bill lapsed into thought, tugging at the corner of his mustache. “We’d have a hell of a time proving that Bernie ordered that ambush or the fire. He’s got loyal toadies. They would never give him up.”
“They’d hang first?”
“I would.”
Thatcher looked at him, stunned.
“You think I’m a coward? I guess I am,” he said ruefully. “But it’s not my skin I’m concerned about. Daisy’s life is the bargaining chip Bernie holds over me. That’s why I don’t buck him, Thatcher. He doesn’t even have to carry out his veiled threats. It’s the fear that he will that keeps me—everybody—from crossing him beyond a certain point.”
Thatcher turned his head forward and stared through the grimy windshield. “Maybe he carries out more threats than you know of. I told you this would sound like beating around the bush—”
“And time’s winding down.”
“Who told us about Pointer’s Gap?”
“What’s that got to do with—”
“Who, Bill?” The answer being obvious, Thatcher continued without pause. “Why did Croft drop that out-of-the-way place into the conversation? Like he just happened to think of it while explaining Driscoll’s lust for Norma Blanchard?”
“Which we already knew about.”
“Yes, but Croft didn’t know we knew. He made certain we did.”
“Bernie has been Gabe’s advocate. Why would he plant in our minds the notion that Gabe could have assaulted Norma?”
“He did more than that,” Thatcher said. “He beat us over the head with it. Makes me wonder why.”
Fifty-Seven
When Thatcher and Bill returned to the sheriff’s department, it was still a beehive of activity. As soon as Bill came through the door, a dozen written messages were handed to him. He scanned the notes, then delegated various tasks to his deputies and staff.
Scotty approached and said under his breath, “The governor himself called this time.”
“If he calls back, put him off. Tell him—”
“And the Texas Rangers are here.”
Bill snorted. “Well, that was to be expected. Actually, I’m glad to have them. How many?”
“Two.”
“Where are they?”
“Having a meal over at the café. Said they’d be back in thirty minutes.”
“How long ago was that?”
Scotty checked the wall clock. “Twenty-seven minutes ago.”
Bill turned to Thatcher. “Do you want to wait to confront Driscoll until we have more time?”
“Do you?”
By way of an answer, Bill said to Scotty, “When the Rangers come back, tell them we’re trying to squeeze a confession out of a prisoner, and ask them to cool their heels a while longer.”
“The governor?”
“Suggest he have a drink.” Bill pushed open the door leading into the cell block. Thatcher followed him and closed the door behind them.
Driscoll was fit to be tied. “Where is my lawyer? What the hell is going on out there? It sounds like a carnival. I’ve been yelling for someone to get in here, but I’ve been ignored.” Glaring at Thatcher, his voice went shrill. “And why is he still wearing a badge when he should be in here instead of me?”
In contrasting calmness, Bill said, “Because he’s not a murder suspect, Gabe.”
“I did not attack Norma. I would never have done that.”
“No, we don’t think you did. The patients on your rural route vouched for your whereabouts during the time frame when she was assaulted.”
“Then why am I still locked up?”
“Because you killed Mila. Didn’t you?”
“No.” He gave an obstinate shake of his head.
“Did you plan it with Norma, or did you act alone?”
“I did not kill my wife.”
Disregarding the denial, Bill said, “I think Mrs. Driscoll’s body was in the car with you when you went to Lefty’s. Eleanor Wise just missed you loading it because you had parked around back.”
Up till then, Thatcher had let Bill do all the talking. Now, he said, “I can’t figure the murder weapon.”
“Good point,” Gabe said tightly. “Sheriff, are you listening? What did you use, Hutton?”
Unfazed, Thatcher said, “No obvious weapon was found inside the house. Either you used something commonplace that wouldn’t be considered a weapon, or you took the weapon with you and tossed it somewhere along the way to Lefty’s, or you buried it with Mrs. Driscoll’s body at Pointer’s Gap.”
“I didn’t—”
“And why Pointer’s Gap?” Thatcher continued. “It’s rugged country.”
“You would know, wouldn’t you?” Driscoll sneered. “You took Mila from our house that night and took her out there—”
“In what, Gabe?”
His head swiveled back to Bill. “What?”
“Thatcher was on foot. How would he have gotten her out there?”
Before the doctor could respond, Thatcher picked back up. “Why did you choose Pointer’s Gap?”
“I didn’t! I’ve never even been there.”
“What about the picnics with your wife?”
Driscoll looked at Bill. “What is he talking about?”
“The picnics,” Thatcher said, bringing Driscoll’s attention back to him. “The ones you and Mrs. Driscoll went on at Pointer’s Gap.”
“That’s absurd. First of all, I hate picnics. Where did you even get a crazy idea like that?”
Thatcher waited a beat, then said quietly, “From Bernie Croft.”
The doctor looked like he’d been struck with a two-by-four right between the eyes. He gaped at Thatcher for a ten count, then took several short, shallow breaths. “Bernie told you that?”
Closely monitoring Driscoll’s every reaction, Thatcher left it to Bill to explain how they’d come to hear about Pointer’s Gap, when and where their seemingly casual conversation with the mayor had taken place. “To aid us in our investigation into the assault on Miss Blanchard, Bernie felt compelled to mention your affair with her, and then your earnest attempt to atone for it by paying more attention to your wife.”
Gabe was swallowing convulsively.
Bill went on. “His offhanded mention of Pointer’s Gap—”
“It wasn’t offhanded,” Driscoll blurted. He slumped forward against the bars, clutching two of them to help himself remain upright. “It was his idea.”
“What was his idea?”
He remained silent and gave a mournful shake of his head.
“It was Bernie’s idea to do what, Gabe? Say it.”
“I can’t. He’ll kill me.”
Thatcher leaned in and whispered to him, “If you betray Croft, he may very well kill you. But if you don’t come clean, you have me to be scared of.”
Gabe looked at him with fright. Thatcher gazed back, unblinking. The doctor was quick to yield. He turned to Bill and stammered, “B…Bernie took care of the body for me. He had men meet me at Lefty’s. They took Mila.”
“Was she dead, Gabe?”
He nodded.
“You killed her?”
“Yes.” He lowered his head and began to cry.
Thatcher backed away from the bars separating them. He exchanged a glance with Bill. They’d gotten the confession they’d been after, but having Mila Driscoll’s fate confirmed was a dismal triumph.
“How’d you kill her, Gabe?” Bill asked softly.
Just then Scotty came barging through the door at the end of the corridor. “Sheriff?”
“Not now,” Bill said.
“It’s—”
“Not now!”
“It’s Mrs. Amos.”
Bill spun around to his deputy. Scotty spoke so hastily, he tripped over his words. “Her friend Mrs. Cantor called, says Mrs. Amos is in pain something awful. Her stomach. Said it might’ve been, uh…whiskey. Said she caught her with a bottle of bourbon half empty.”
“Jesus.” Bill looked at Thatcher. “I have to go.”
“And the Rangers are back,” Scotty added.
“Screw them. Stay with Driscoll,” Bill said to Thatcher. “Get it all on paper. Have him sign—”
“Wait! Your wife has severe stomach pains after drinking bourbon?” Gabe had stopped crying, but had turned whey-faced and his lips were rubbery. “He said it was for the Johnsons.”
In a matter of seconds, Bill had the cell door unlocked, had grabbed Driscoll by the throat, and had backed him against the wall. “Who said? Bernie?”
Driscoll gave a wobbly nod.
“Said what was for the Johnsons?” Bill shook him, thumping him hard against the wall. “What?”
“Arsenic. In the bourbon.”
With the regard one would give a rag doll, Bill dragged the doctor from the cell and pushed him down the hallway with the unstoppable propulsion of a cowcatcher.
* * *
Scotty had come along. He was with Bill as he burst through the front door of his house, shouting his wife’s name. By the time Thatcher had towed Driscoll from the car, up the walk and into the house, Bill was on the landing, barging past a middle-aged woman who was wringing her hands with anxiety and saying repeatedly, “I don’t know what to do for her.”
Scotty hung back to explain the circumstances. “It’ll be all right, Mrs. Cantor. We’ve brought Dr. Driscoll.”
Thatcher, with a grip on the back of Driscoll’s collar, pushed him up the stairs and into the bedroom. Bill was seated on the side of the bed, bending over his wife, who was writhing in apparent agony.
She reached out and clutched Bill’s hand. “I think I’m dying.”
“You’re not going to die.” He raised her hand and kissed the back of it, hard. “You are not going to die. I’m going to fix it.”
He left the bed, walked over to Driscoll, drew his pistol, and pressed the barrel of it against the doctor’s forehead. “If she doesn’t survive this, I am killing you first, then Bernie Croft.”
“Gastric lavage,” Driscoll said.
“What?”
“Pump her stomach. I need to pump her stomach with salt water. I’ll need my equipment.”
“Describe it.”
Thatcher was amazed by how suddenly Driscoll slipped into professional mode. In seemingly perfect control, he gave Scotty a description of the tubing device he required and told him in which cabinet it was stored in his office. “But the house is locked.”
“Kick the damn door in. Shoot out the lock,” Bill said to his deputy.
Scotty rushed out and thumped down the stairs.
Daisy groaned pitiably and extended her hand toward Bill, who holstered his pistol, but shouted to Driscoll, “Do something now!”
The doctor shrugged off his coat. “We need to induce vomiting.”
“She’s been vomiting for days.”
“But she hadn’t ingested half a bottle all at once. This is acute. We need to induce vomiting.” He rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Where can I wash?”
“Across the hall.”
Thatcher followed him as far as the door to the bathroom and watched as he lathered up and rinsed his hands. As he was drying them, his gaze met Thatcher’s in the mirror above the sink. “Are you expecting an apology for my false accusations, Mr. Hutton?”
“I don’t give a fuck in hell about an apology from you. But you owe your wife one. How’d you do it?”
“I hit her on the back of the head with an iron skillet. The skillet in which she baked the shortbread you enjoyed so much.” He folded the hand towel and hung it just so on the metal bar, then went past Thatcher and returned to the bedroom.
Daisy was lying on her side, knees pulled to her chest, moaning and gripping her midsection. Bill was leaning over her, stroking her face and talking softly.
Thatcher noticed a half-full bottle of name-brand bourbon sitting on the bureau. He went over and got it, knowing it would be valuable evidence against both Driscoll and Croft.
As he left the bedroom unnoticed, Bill was holding back his beloved’s hair as she retched into a basin held by the man who had poisoned her…at the direction of Bernie Croft.
* * *
Bernie said, “Hello, Gert.”
“Ain’t you heard? We’re shut down. Good as anyway.”
“I’d like to talk to you.”
“We’ll talk when you get the law off my back.”
“In due time.”
“Due time,” she said scornfully. “No more graft, you hear me?”
“I’ll get you back to normal soon.”
“You been sayin’ that, but in the meanwhile, Bill Amos is having our road patrolled nightly. All that attention is keepin’ away customers too scared of being caught in another raid.
“Much longer, and we won’t have any hooch to sell, ’cause Lefty’s drinkin’ it all up. Stays drunk, ain’t no use to me. No pussy to sell, neither, ’cause all them twats upstairs has sneaked off one by one. Took their inspiration from that Corrine, I guess. I’m losing money by the hour, and you’re doin’ nothin’ but takin’ up space, Mr. Mayor.”
He smiled. “I’m here to make it up to you, Gert.”
She honked a laugh. “Ain’t likely. Everybody knows you look after your ownself.”
“This benefits us both.”
She squinted at him through an exhalation of cigarette smoke. “Whut does?”
“I’ve brought you a present.”
He turned. Hennessy was standing at the side of the town car. At a signal from Bill, he opened the back door and pulled a bound and gagged woman from the car.
Croft said to Gert, “I believe you’re acquainted with Mrs. Plummer.”
* * *
Laurel had gone into the kitchen, expecting to find her father-in-law rummaging for the makings of breakfast.
Instead, Bernie Croft had been rifling through her recipe box. Fanning one of the cards at her, he’d greeted her pleasantly. “Good morning, Mrs. Plummer. This lemon chess pie sounds delicious.”
And then from behind her, a heavy hand had been clamped over her mouth at the same time an arm as strong as an iron band had encircled her waist.
She’d raked her nails across the hand over her mouth and knew by the profanities grunted near her ear that she’d drawn blood, or at least had caused pain. She’d struggled and kicked, but she’d been held fast while Croft had tied her hands behind her with a thin but sturdy cord that dug into her flesh. The hand over her mouth had been removed and replaced by a handkerchief, which had caused her to gag.
She’d been carried to the long, black car she’d seen parked in front of her house the day before. She’d been thrust into the backseat, no doubt by the burly chauffeur. Croft had climbed in beside her. They could have been out for a Sunday drive for all the attention she paid him until they’d made the turnoff to Lefty’s.
She’d looked at him then, and his chuckle had been villainous. Or perhaps it had only sounded that way to her because she knew him to be a villain.
When they’d reached the roadhouse, Croft and Hennessy had gotten out. Croft had gone to the door, which had been answered by Gert. After a brief conversation, Croft had signaled Hennessy to get her from the car and bring her forward.
Now, upon seeing her, Gert stepped out onto the porch. She flicked her cigarette into the dirt and clapped her hands together. “Well, I be damned. You really did bring me a present, Bernie. It ain’t even my birthday.”
Laurel dug her heels in, kicked against the chauffeur’s shins, twisted and turned her body, did anything she could think of to make his job more difficult. She didn’t delude herself into thinking she could escape someone of his size, but she refused to meekly cooperate.
When they reached the porch steps, Croft instructed “Hennessy” to pat down her skirt pockets.
“Already did there in her kitchen.”
He had, but with a sinking heart, Laurel had known he would come up empty, and he had. Irv would never let her hear the last of it. If she lived through this.
“Search again,” Croft said now. “Right pocket. Yesterday, I saw her patting at it. Giveaway habit.”
Hennessy did as told, even shoving his hands into her pockets and digging deep. “Nothing, boss.”
Gert snickered. “Try her garters.”
Laurel looked defiantly at Croft as he motioned for his muscle man to do as suggested. Hennessy knelt in front of her and ran his hands up and down both legs, higher than her garters. Being groped by him was a desecration of Thatcher’s caresses. She wanted to scream.
As Hennessy came to his feet, he grinned at her. “Nothing but smooth skin.”
She forced herself not to react either to his molestation or disgusting leer.
Croft then hitched his chin at Hennessy, who pushed her lower spine hard enough to knock her off balance. She fell forward onto the lowest porch step. Without her hands free to catch herself, she landed on her elbow. Pain sizzled up her arm and into her shoulder. She couldn’t cry out for the handkerchief in her mouth. Even had she been able to, she wouldn’t have given this trio of degenerates the satisfaction.
