Any Woman He Wanted Page 6

  I turned slightly on the seat. “You feel that way, too, Neal?”

  Burgess shrugged. “I don’t know as much about the inside of this mess as Clyde does, Mike. But there was whiskey. He was drunk.”

  “He killed himself, and it ends there,” Waylin said. “Naturally, we’re going to try to soften this as much as we can, for the family’s sake. We’re going to call it an accident as far as the public is concerned, but officially it’s a suicide, and Doc Yerrgsted will sign his report that way, closing the whole regrettable incident.”

  I turned to stare at Ernie Gault He raised his head but his gaze did not touch mine. Finally he turned his head and stared into the rain-filled night.

  8

  The Greek’s was closed when I got there, but I rattled the door until he opened it, cursing. He stopped when he recognized me and held the door open. Gusts of rain followed me in before he could slam it shut behind me.

  “What a night,” he said. “Don’t you never sleep?”

  “If you don’t like the weather here,” I said, “why don’t you go back to Greece?”

  “Greece?” He limped through the dark saloon behind me. “Greece. She’s like a mother to me. But I hate my mother.”

  “Who you kidding? You never had a mother.”

  “You hungry, Mike? How about a nice salad?”

  “No. I want a drink. You know how bad I want it when I come to this place for it.”

  He glanced around his polished, richly upholstered saloon with Greek scenes in giant paintings alternating with huge, tinted mirrors around the walls. He spread his hands and sighed. “You and Doc Yerrgsted. You don’t care where you drink.”

  “Is he around?”

  He nodded toward the rear booth over which a small lamp glowed. He shook his head. “He don’t want to talk to nobody. He sits. I speak. He growls. He hates me, hates this place so bad I sometimes wonder why he never goes home.”

  “You mean he don’t live here?”

  “He don’t live—period. Except here.” The Greek tapped at his heart with his cupped fingers. “Tonight it’s worse than ever. I ask. But he won’t say.”

  I leaned against the bar while he went behind it, poured me a double shot, filled another glass with water.

  “A man died tonight,” I said.

  “A friend to you and Doc?”

  “He wouldn’t have spat on either of us. They say he committed suicide.”

  “Ah? A sad way to die. Do I know his name?”

  I took a quick drink at the bourbon. “He never came in here to drink, if that’s what you mean. His name was Tom Flynn.”

  The Greek stared. “Mister Thomas Flynn.” He breathed deeply. “A great man.”

  ‘A regular Steve Canyon,” I said. I held the bourbon glass in my fist. “Or maybe a Li’l Abner.”

  He swallowed, frowning. “I see. You make a joke. You don’t care, huh?”

  I shrugged, pushed my empty glass toward him. “Maybe I don’t blame him. He was a good man in a rotten town. “Sure. Give me that bottle. I’ll go back and speak to Doc. You talk like one of those Greek comedies. I hate to see a grown bartender cry.”

  He pushed the bottle across the gleaming bar to me. “Why don’t you go somewhere else to do your drinking, huh? Do me a favor. This town got mighty few good men like Thomas Flynn. It’s time to stop and think about it. Talk about it We should feel sad. Even you. Not for him, but for you. For this town.”

  “You know Ernest Hemingway?”

  He shook his head.

  “You talk like he invented you.”

  He leaned against the bar. “Nobody invented me, you dumb cop.”

  I stood very still, watching him, until he looked away. He must have been really worked up to talk to me like that.

  I paused beside the rear booth. Doc Yerrgsted sat slumped over the table, his head on his arms. He lifted his face slowly and looked up at me. His moustache twitched slightly. He said nothing. Very carefully, he lowered his head on his arms again.

  The Greek brought himself a small glass of wine. He pulled a chair to the end of the booth and sat down. He glanced at the Doc and then at me without saying anything.

  After a long time, Doc Yerrgsted raised his head again. His eyes, glistening like bourbon, focused on me with difficulty.

  “Well, Ballard, see you got back from the scene of the crime.”

  “Crime?” I poured myself a drink. “What crime? Flynn committed suicide.”

  Doc laughed. “Very unlikely. I have been a man of medicine for many years—witnessed many phenomena. However, one I’ve never seen. I’ve never seen a suicide shoot himself in the back of the head.”

  I laid my hand on the table top, opened it. It was still streaked with the blood that had smeared it as I drew it away from the back of Tom Flynn’s head out near the Essex Turnpike. I stared at the blood on my palm until Doc turned his head, refocused his eyes upon it. The Greek leaned forward, staring at my hand.

  I felt icy inside as I asked Doc, “Are you going to put that in your official report?”

  For some moments it was quiet in the Greek’s bar. Doc stared across the table at me, a twisted smile pulling his moustache out of shape.

  When he did speak, he ignored my question. “You two. Both of you are fine men. You understand, I drink only with men I trust, and respect. You, Greek—and you, cop—” he could really make something nasty out of that word—”I feel a great attachment to both of you. That’s why I can tell you this. I—I’m going to tell you men something I never told anybody before—in my life.”

  He licked at his moustache, stared at us as though he had never seen either of us before. He said nothing for a long time, and seemed to have forgotten he had promised to reveal untold secrets.

  “Doc is an after-dinner speaker.” I winked at the Greek. “He throws out a promise to get your attention and falls asleep on it”

  “Sleep.” Doc wiped his hand across his mouth. “Perchance to dream. Ah, there’s the rub. I can’t endure all this, cop. Can’t you understand? You’re an intelligent man. You must be, cop, though in your racket you’ve never had to exercise any mental powers. There must be acres of intelligence in that ugly head of yours—unused, untapped. Then try to understand what life has done to me? I was at Yale Medical. I made quite a record there. They—they invited me to—intern at Johns Hopkins—I didn’t have to beg, to apply, to stand in line.... Oh, no. Later they invited me abroad—I worked with great surgeons in Austria.... I learned, cop, what a glorious, glorious science I was picking at with my little brain—” He sat up straight suddenly, flinging out his arms and staring at us with wild eyes. “Of course, I’ve failed... we’ve all failed. We’ve made compromises—”

  He stopped talking, shuddered convulsively and sat staring at his hands, trembling before him. He dropped them suddenly hiding their tremors under the table. “But I’m no tramp to be pushed around, cop. You understand that? What are those lines—?

  “Give me to drink Mandragora

  That I might sleep out this great gap of time....

  “This evil time. I’ll have no part of this ugly business. I’ve compromised before. I—I am nothing. But my profession—my—” He jerked his head up suddenly, his face twisted, staring at me. “They sent you here to find me, didn’t they?”

  I shrugged. “They thought I might be able to find you.”

  “Look at him, Greek. Young. Strong. Intelligent. And yet what is he? What are you, Ballard? A messenger? A call boy? Errand chaser?”

  “I chase errands when they tell me to.”

  “Are you proud of yourself?”

  “I never bother to think about it. I just collect pay checks. The same as you. You ready to go?”

  “No!” The word burst from him. “Why, I’ll never do it. I’ll never sign a false statement about Tom Flynn’s death—they could never force me to do that.”

  I shrugged. After a moment I said, “How long do you think the Greek would let you sign tabs in h
ere, Doc—if you weren’t the M.E. any more?”

  Doc shivered. We both turned to look at the Greek. He held the Doc’s gaze for a moment, then dropped his head, looking at the empty wine glass in his fist.

  9

  They were waiting for us when Doc and I got to Room 817 at City Hall. Doc had said nothing after we left the Greek’s and as we walked in silence up the paper-littered marble stairs to the elevator I thought of a small proud spaniel coming in out of the rain. He pushed off his hat, thumb under the band, slapped it against his leg. He shrugged his jacket up on his shoulders, stood straighter. Somehow, it didn’t make him look taller. For the first time I saw how small and old he looked.

  I knocked once, then pushed open the door to 817 and let Doc enter ahead of me.

  Three men sat at the wooden conference table. Except for littered ashtrays and a single sheaf of papers, the tabletop was bare.

  “You took your own damned sweet time, Ballard.” Chief Waylin was sweated, his collar was limp and his black tie was awry.

  “Never mind, Clyde.” Police Commissioner Stewart Mitchell had silvery hair and a silvery voice. He was small, round-bellied and wore a tailored suit and custom made shirt. He was holding a cigar and looked completely unruffled. However, he did not intend to let me think I could get away with keeping him and Mayor Landon Bibb waiting. “This is a serious matter, Ballard. Naturally, we’re all anxious to have it quickly disposed of.”

  I gestured to Doc. “There’s your man.”

  Mayor Bibb, Mitchell and Waylin were sitting at the head of the table, facing the door. I went around the table and sat down as far from them as I could get.

  His shoulders parade-rigid, Doc Yerrgsted walked to the empty chair facing the sheaf of papers. He stood looking at the papers, but did not sit down.

  “They’re all there, Leonard,” the Mayor said to Yerrgsted. The Mayor was in his early fifties, had a large, balding head, gray hair. He was a troubled man. He was not sweating, as was Waylin, but neither was he as calm as Mitchell. The ashtray before him was piled high with butts. “The report has been filled out completely by your assistant. All it needs is your signature.”

  “And let’s get it and get out of here, for God’s sake,” Waylin said. “I’ve been up all night.”

  “I can’t believe it matters,” Yerrgsted said. He pressed his knuckles against the tabletop, bracing himself. “I can’t believe you could sleep, anyhow. Any of you.”

  “What kind of stupid talk is this, Leonard?” Bibb said.

  “How drunk is he, Ballard?” Mitchell stared at me through his cigar smoke.

  I shrugged.

  “I’m not drunk at all,” Yerrgsted said. “I’m appalled. Shocked. I saw a man tonight with a bullet in the back of his head. And now I am told I am to certify that death as a suicide.”

  “It was a suicide, Doctor Yerrgsted,” Mitchell said. ‘And we’re all saddened by it. We only want you to certify the death.”

  “Then we can all go home,” Waylin said.

  Yerrgsted shook his head. “What about his family?”

  “Never mind the family, Yerrgsted,” Bibb said. “We’ve removed Flynn’s body to the morgue. As you know—after the accident, the body was in such condition that—well, we were thinking first about his family when we ordered his casket sealed.”

  Yerrgsted slapped the back of his hand down on the medical examiner’s report before him. “I can’t affix my signature to a paper like this.”

  Mitchell leaned forward. “Why not?”

  “Because I’m the medical examiner in this town. It is my trust, my job to decide cause of death. You men don’t seem to realize my position. My place of trust.”

  “Why, you damned old souse. Stop making speeches.”

  Bibb spoke quickly. “We feel as badly about this as you do, Leonard. We’re all troubled. But this is a poor time for a scandal.”

  “He hasn’t got a brain left unpickled enough to see that,” Mitchell said.

  “I want an investigation,” Yerrgsted said. “I’m going to have to demand an investigation.”

  “You’re not demanding a damned thing,” Mitchell said.

  “I’m the medical examiner, sir. I can demand an investigation by the police, by the sheriff’s office—or conduct one of my own. Why, a thing like this—I can’t believe it’s happening.”

  Bibb stood up. ‘All right, Leonard. You’ve made your speech. Now listen to me. You sign that paper, or you’ll find yourself on your ass in the street. Is that clear enough?”

  “I—” Yerrgsted frowned, looking at them. His shoulders sagged. He ran his hand through his thick gray hair, and jerked his head around, staring wildly at me.

  I just looked at him. I did not move.

  At last he sighed. He seemed to shrink inside his clothes. He pulled his gaze from me.

  At last he said, “I’m wrong, I suppose. You’re our civic leaders. You certainly—more than I, perhaps—know the welfare of our town and have it at heart. Of course—suicide.” He worked a fountain pen from his pocket, almost dropped it from trembling fingers. “In the death of Thomas Elliot Flynn. Suicide.”

  The three men stared as one when Yerrgsted finally signed the last paper, steadying his right hand with his left as he scrawled his signature.

  He did not look at them again, or at me.

  He placed his hat carefully on his head, went around the table and through the door. He closed it carefully and quietly behind him.

  “Well, thank heaven, that’s over,” Bibb said.

  I stood up, strode to the door. There I paused, turned.

  “There’s one thing about a man who drinks,” I said. “He’s unpredictable. You never really know about him. You can’t know when he’s going to drink, whom he’s going to talk to or what he’s going to say.” I smiled at them. “Good night, gentlemen,” I said. “Sleep well.”

  I found Doc at the elevator. His hand was shaking so badly he couldn’t press the down button.

  He looked up at me. “Any more errands tonight, Ballard?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Fine. Should we go somewhere and have a drink?”

  “Why not? Any particular place?”

  “Perhaps the Greek’s?” His voice shook. “He serves a fine domestic liquor.”

  “Sure,” I said. “And he’s fast, too.”

  The Greek was waiting for us.

  “How did it go?” he asked.

  “Fine,” I said. “Doc signed his name. He needed two hands to do it, but his credit is still good. He’s got a job.”

  “Ballard here could have done it with one hand behind his back,” Doc said. “Get me something to drink, Greek, I’m freezing to death.”

  He walked away from us, hurrying toward that wanly lit booth in the rear where I had found him earlier. When the Greek and I got there with bourbon and water he was slumped behind the table as though he had never left it.

  “I would like to prescribe for you, Ballard,” he said when I sat down across the table from him. “A nice long voyage. A trip somewhere. A vacation. Why don’t you get out of this town?”

  I shrugged. “Why don’t you?”

  He twisted the cork from a bottle with his teeth, drank with the cork pushed to one side of his mouth as though he were so thirsty he couldn’t wait for the glass the Greek placed on the table before him.

  “I’m trying to tell you, Ballard,” he said at last “You’ve got a terrible disease. You walk around with the pain carefully concealed inside you, and all the time the disease is eating up your insides. You were hurt tonight, perhaps more than I was. Why don’t you buy a ticket on the first train out, Ballard? It doesn’t matter where.”

  I tried to laugh. I said to the Greek, “Doc is angry. He hates me because I wouldn’t stand up with him over there tonight.”

  Doc shook his head. “That’s where you’re wrong. Why should you stand up with a man who was bound to let you down? I was sorry for you.”

  I
laughed, slid across the seat and got up. “I’m getting out of here. You’ve been drinking some of the Greek’s private stock.”

  10

  The next afternoon at five when I got off work and left police headquarters, I wanted a drink as much as I ever had, but I didn’t want to sit around in the Greek’s bar with Doc. I climbed into the Olds, and sat gripping the wheel, staring at the windshield. I was tired all the way to the soles of my feet.

  It had been a clear day, but now the skies were blackening and before I had backed out of the police parking lot, the rain had begun. Hell, I thought, there were plenty of places a man could get a drink.

  I turned west, moving slowly with the five o’clock traffic, drove to the Third Avenue entrance and out to the Essex Turnpike. I kept to the inside lane, moving at snail’s pace, and the cars behind me honked and snarled. My windshield wipers were going and the rain beat loudly against the car top.

  I told myself I was looking for a bar, but when I reached the country club exit, I turned west and kept slowing down until I reached the Flynn house. Three or four cars were parked in the pebbled drive as I pulled up.

  Lights were on in the house, glowing yellow against the rain and early darkness. I remembered how Carolyn hated and feared the thought of death—yet what choice had she had? Perhaps she, at least, should know that Tom had had no choice, either.

  I did not know what I would tell her as I slogged across the walk to the front door and rang the doorbell. There was a long silence. This place had servants to open doors, answer bells. Maybe today nothing was working right.

  When the door was finally opened, Jerry Marlowe stood framed against the light. He wore Italian straw shoes, dark slacks, a white shirt open at the collar. A cigarette hung from a corner of his mouth and his left eye was squinted against the sting of smoke.

  His face showed some small surprise, then a touch of color. It was as though he had to dig back into his mind to remember to smile.

  “Hello, old Mike. Come on in.” He didn’t shake hands. Instead he plucked the cigarette from his lips and flicked it across the veranda to sizzle out in the rain. He closed the door and when he turned again, his smile looked genuine. “Just follow me,” he said.