spills it to John. Not that he didn’t know it already, mind you, but there were times he didn’t know anybody else did. And I’m not sayin’ she’s out here tonight because he sent her. He’s too smart for that.”
Gus Blake’s gaze was still intent. “If you’re saying John Maynard’s mixed up with Wernitz—”
“Okay, Gus. He’s your boss. Loyalty’s a fine thing. All I know is old Doc here gives him a quarter machine for Christmas. Doc Wernitz never gave presents just for fun. I’ll tell you somethin’, Gus. When Doc Wernitz told me he was pullin’ up stakes and gettin’ out of Smith County, he came personally round to headquarters and took me five miles out on a country road to do it. He didn’t want anybody else to know he was pullin’ out. He mentioned everybody in general and several in particular he didn’t want to know. John Maynard was one of ’em. Funny thing, Gus, you were another.”
“Me?” Gus gave him an alerted glance. Then he shook his head. “Unless you mean the editor of the paper.”
“No. Not the editor of the paper. He meant you, personally.”
“You’re nuts, Swede. Or he was. I didn’t even know the guy. I made a point of not knowing him.” He grinned suddenly. “That’s why you’ve been watching me as if you thought I’d get in the safe?”
“Sure, Gus. One of the reasons.”
The bleak eyes rested steadily on him.
“No, I’m goin’ to play ball with you, Gus. I’ll play ball with you if you’ll keep your mouth shut and keep that dame out of this. Hear? Maybe I’m a fool to do it, but I know damn well you didn’t slug Wernitz. Even if it—” Chief Carlson stopped a bare instant, and went on. “Even if it should look like you might have had some reason to.”
Gus Blake looked silently at him. “Reason to?”
“Okay, Gus. Keep your shirt on. I’m just a dumb country cop, but there’s some things I’d take my Bible oath on. Don’t crowd me, now, Gus. If you’re in a hole, I’ll do my best to get you out. But if I’m wrong—just get this, Gus— if I’m wrong, so help me God, I’ll hang you higher’n Absalom if I have to do it with my own hands. Now shut up and come on. I want to look around here, and I want to get at that kid out there before that fat-backed county attorney of John Maynard’s throws him in the can and everybody starts yellin’ race prejudice. He may be guilty and if he is he’s goin’ to hang, but till somebody proves it, it don’t make sense to me.”
He kicked the swivel chair toward the desk. “Go on, Gus. Get goin’. I’m lockin’ this room up—nobody’s goin’ to paw around these papers ’cept me. Get all this straight, Gus. I been pushed around longer than I like it. Old Doc here was a sort of friend of mine. See?”
“Sure,” Gus said. “I see.”
He went over to the door, bewildered to a state of semi shock. Either Swede Carlson was drunk or he was, and he knew neither of them was. He had never spoken five consecutive words to the murdered man. He wouldn’t have recognized him, dead, down there in the cellar, any more than he would have recognized him alive on Main Street. He tried to think what the man really looked like, alive, without his head caved in and the black spidery veil covering his face. A vague image came into his mind of Doc Wernitz standing alone on the curb in front of the bank in Courthouse Square at noon one day. Whoever Gus was with had nudged his elbow and said, “That’s Doc Wernitz. You know. Hi, there, Doc. How’s tricks?” As the image cleared and focused Gus could see a sort of invisible little man, alone on the curb there, in straight gray topcoat, thick-lensed spectacles, neat-looking in a dry, ageless sort of way, who touched the brim of his gray hat and said, “No tricks.” Gus remembered that now, and remembered that hearing him say, “No tricks,” he’d turned to look at him again, thinking it was a pretty good answer to people who still went on saying,
Gus Blake’s gaze was still intent. “If you’re saying John Maynard’s mixed up with Wernitz—”
“Okay, Gus. He’s your boss. Loyalty’s a fine thing. All I know is old Doc here gives him a quarter machine for Christmas. Doc Wernitz never gave presents just for fun. I’ll tell you somethin’, Gus. When Doc Wernitz told me he was pullin’ up stakes and gettin’ out of Smith County, he came personally round to headquarters and took me five miles out on a country road to do it. He didn’t want anybody else to know he was pullin’ out. He mentioned everybody in general and several in particular he didn’t want to know. John Maynard was one of ’em. Funny thing, Gus, you were another.”
“Me?” Gus gave him an alerted glance. Then he shook his head. “Unless you mean the editor of the paper.”
“No. Not the editor of the paper. He meant you, personally.”
“You’re nuts, Swede. Or he was. I didn’t even know the guy. I made a point of not knowing him.” He grinned suddenly. “That’s why you’ve been watching me as if you thought I’d get in the safe?”
“Sure, Gus. One of the reasons.”
The bleak eyes rested steadily on him.
“No, I’m goin’ to play ball with you, Gus. I’ll play ball with you if you’ll keep your mouth shut and keep that dame out of this. Hear? Maybe I’m a fool to do it, but I know damn well you didn’t slug Wernitz. Even if it—” Chief Carlson stopped a bare instant, and went on. “Even if it should look like you might have had some reason to.”
Gus Blake looked silently at him. “Reason to?”
“Okay, Gus. Keep your shirt on. I’m just a dumb country cop, but there’s some things I’d take my Bible oath on. Don’t crowd me, now, Gus. If you’re in a hole, I’ll do my best to get you out. But if I’m wrong—just get this, Gus— if I’m wrong, so help me God, I’ll hang you higher’n Absalom if I have to do it with my own hands. Now shut up and come on. I want to look around here, and I want to get at that kid out there before that fat-backed county attorney of John Maynard’s throws him in the can and everybody starts yellin’ race prejudice. He may be guilty and if he is he’s goin’ to hang, but till somebody proves it, it don’t make sense to me.”
He kicked the swivel chair toward the desk. “Go on, Gus. Get goin’. I’m lockin’ this room up—nobody’s goin’ to paw around these papers ’cept me. Get all this straight, Gus. I been pushed around longer than I like it. Old Doc here was a sort of friend of mine. See?”
“Sure,” Gus said. “I see.”
He went over to the door, bewildered to a state of semi shock. Either Swede Carlson was drunk or he was, and he knew neither of them was. He had never spoken five consecutive words to the murdered man. He wouldn’t have recognized him, dead, down there in the cellar, any more than he would have recognized him alive on Main Street. He tried to think what the man really looked like, alive, without his head caved in and the black spidery veil covering his face. A vague image came into his mind of Doc Wernitz standing alone on the curb in front of the bank in Courthouse Square at noon one day. Whoever Gus was with had nudged his elbow and said, “That’s Doc Wernitz. You know. Hi, there, Doc. How’s tricks?” As the image cleared and focused Gus could see a sort of invisible little man, alone on the curb there, in straight gray topcoat, thick-lensed spectacles, neat-looking in a dry, ageless sort of way, who touched the brim of his gray hat and said, “No tricks.” Gus remembered that now, and remembered that hearing him say, “No tricks,” he’d turned to look at him again, thinking it was a pretty good answer to people who still went on saying,
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