Down Among the Dead Men

Stink stumbled from the office, nose dripping blood. More work for Henry. He'd grumble but didn't really mind because I always gave him a good tip afterwards. I noticed Stink had hands clutched over his crotch and not his injured face. He had pissed himself. Reckon a pistol halfway down your gullet can do that to a guy. Going down the stairs to the first floor he stumbled on the last three or four steps and landed on his ugly face. And no, I didn't help him fall although if it had occurred to me...

I opened my office window to let some fresh, anti-Stink air circulate and then dug into my stash safe, taking out an ankle-holster. I figured it might be a good idea to carry the old S&W for a while. A guy never knows when a concealed throwaway might come in useful.

Then I sat, had a couple of fingers of scotch with a cigarette or two and got to thinking. Maybe I knew now who had killed Arnie Scudamore. Nestor had mentioned Arnie's bad beating, like the work of a sadist, and that pointed towards Stink. Tubby Lemmy of the stringy tonsure had been terrified shitless as had the flop-house kid. Yeah, there are other very scary guys in the city but in this case all the indications pointed towards Stink. And being a bit lacking in the brains department, the biker was most likely acting under orders. Whose orders? Bayliss seemed the obvious choice. It was apparent the Sheriff was corrupt, threatening me the way he had. His association with Stink just strengthened that theory. The only thing was, what sort of game were they playing? Looked like I needed to take another ride into the wilds.

I reached into a desk drawer for a fresh pack of Luckies and there on top of the pack was that half-forgotten business card that had fallen from Bayliss's pocket. I studied it again. EUGENE B CLAIBORNE MD PhD and the scribbled message: For services rendered. What kind of services could a dirty cop like Bayliss be offering a PhD? The name of 'Eugene Claiborne' rang a tiny bell in the back of my mind---I knew I'd seen or heard it sometime in the past but I couldn't place him. But I did know somebody who could help me out.

Andrew Durrance was a top reporter with The City Courier, had been since Prohibition days, and not only was he an ace journalist but he had a mind like an encyclopaedia. As an added bonus, and despite the fact he was getting on in years, his memory was a regular card index system. Mention any incident to him---no matter how trivial or old---and he'd quote facts and figures sufficient to overwhelm his listeners. Nobody who worked with Andrew ever needed to go into the paper's archives. The Courier's offices were only three or four blocks away. I'd take a walk down there and give my office a chance to rid itself of eau de Stink. If anyone knew anything about Eugene B Claiborne, it'd be Pulitzer Prize-winning Andrew.

* * * * *

"Eugene Claiborne," the elderly journalist mused, "Now there's a name I've not heard for a while. What's your interest, Sam?"

"I'm not really sure," I replied, "his name cropped up on the fringes of something I'm looking into. Might be nothing at all."

"Well, back in the day---and I'm going back to the Thirties---Claiborne was a brilliant young doctor and all the glittering prizes were there for his grabbing. A potential Nobel laureate, so some experts forecast." Andrew studied the stump of cigar he'd been chewing, decided it was no further use and tossed it in the trash-can. Selecting a fresh cigar, he continued: "Bit of an oddball. He did his year's post-grad internship at the City Hospital then decided he didn't like having to deal with all those nasty sick people. He chose to go into research instead, earned his PhD a lot faster than most do and his chosen subject was human organ transplantation."

"I thought that was impossible."

"In theory it's possible but unlikely to work," Andrew told me, "In theory going to the moon is possible but unlikely to work. The problem with organ transplants is that the recipient's body will always reject the new organ. Claiborne's research was dedicated to overcoming this problem. And that's what led to his downfall."

"Why? Sounds like a worthwhile cause to me," I commented.

"Yeah, except Claiborne was having problems obtaining organs for research. Many medical colleagues disapproved of his work and declined to help while most decedents' families didn't like the idea of bits of their loved ones being cut up for research. Claiborne was an arrogant sonofabitch, spoilt since childhood, and always expected things to go his way. Couldn't be bothered to put forward a logical case for his work, it'd be beneath him to explain himself to what he considered a bunch of morons. He started bribing morgue attendants to let him in on the quiet so he could help himself. Couldn't last, of course---people talk, bodies may get re-examined. He was caught, was struck off by the medical profession and got three years in the pen. After his release he just fell out of sight. Not heard of him since.

"One other thing, Sam. He was independently very wealthy. His family were on the upper slopes of out-of-this-world riches, on first name terms with Presidents and friends of people like Hearst and the Vanderbilts. A lot of very healthy trust funds came Claiborne's way over the years. He could easily pay off the national debt of most small countries. And there you have it, the sad saga of Eugene B Claiborne."

I couldn't see yet how Claiborne tied in with Bayliss and Stink. Pushing my chair back, I stood up to leave. "Thanks Andrew, I owe you one."

The old man laughed. "At the last count, buddy-boy, you owe me about a dozen."

He was right. I often came to the paper to pick his brains. "What say I buy you and your wife a steak and beer at Ziggy's one night?"

Nobody refused one of Ziggy's fillet steaks. Andrew Durrance nodded. "It's a deal. And an exclusive if anything comes of what you're working on?"

I nodded. "And an exclusive," I promised.

* * * * *

I heard Cara's phone ringing and moments later my extension buzzed. "Some woman wants to speak to you, Sam. Name's Astrid---says she knows you."

I couldn't recall an Astrid but it might be important. "Put her through," I told Cara, then when there was a connecting click I said: "Hello?"

A woman's soft voice asked: "Is that Sam Malone? This is Astrid."

"Astrid who? I don't know any Astrid."

"Astrid Lundqvist," she said, almost impatiently.

My acquaintance with the police cruiser and clipboard. It was a couple of weeks but perhaps she'd changed her mind about a traffic violation. "Ah, Deputy Lundqvist... what can I do for you?"

"I don't really know if it's something you can do for me or I can do for you. It's to do with the Sheriff and it seems highly suspicious to me."

"What is it?"

"I don't want to talk about it over the phone," she said, "Can you come out here and meet me?" Her tone did sound a bit concerned but following my discussions with Sheriff Bayliss and his trusty sidekick I was wary.

"Where do you want me to come? Malanuk? Bit risky, isn't it?"

"No! Not Malanuk." Now there was an urgency in her voice. "You know Jacobsville?"

"Think so---about twenty miles on from Malanuk?"

"That's it," she confirmed, "I live in Jacobsville, that's where I'm calling from now. Got a trailer home here. I've taken a few days' vacation. There's a different telephone exchange from Malanuk and the operators can be trusted more. I can understand your being careful, Sam, but I'm being straight with you. There's something not right going on here and I don't trust too many people in Malanuk."

"What makes you think you can trust me?" I asked.

"I don't know... maybe it's because you're not a member of the Malanuk law enforcement team."

"Okay," I decided, "I'll take a chance on you. I've got a couple of things to clear up here but I can be with you about nine."

"That's fine, Sam. There's a diner-cum-pub called Ernie's Eyrie on the main drag. He's got a big parking lot behind the diner and there's an open-fronted barn. I'll fix it with Ern for you to park in that, make it less likely for your car to be spotted if any Malanuk people are passing through. And Sam..."

"Yeah?"

"Thanks..."

The couple of things I had to clear up were to arrange security for Cara. I didn't think that Bayliss and Stink would be back too soon but I didn't want put her in harm's way. I made a couple of calls. The first was to an old Marine Corps buddy, Sal LaSalles. Sal wasn't exactly a private eye although he did offer a surveillance service---his main business was a security-cum-bodyguard outfit and his team was tough, mostly comprising American and British former marines, commandos, rangers and the like. Sal would never charge me for his services. I'd saved his life twice on Iwo Jima and no matter how I tried he would never accept my money. "Hey, you're the guy who made sure my grandchildren have a grandpa to tell them tall tales. Your money's no good here." So I tried hard not to take advantage, only using him when essential. This time I arranged for three or four of his men to keep a discreet eye on the streets outside the office. If they saw any Death's Demons anywhere near the office they were to remove them quietly from the scene.

My second call was to a... well, a friend of sorts, a gangster called Mulrooney. We liked each other in a way. I liked Mulrooney because he wouldn't touch anything dirty that smacked of vice such as drugs, prostitution, pornography and so on. He paid his men enough for them not to be tempted and any who were tempted were quietly advised to leave town for the good of their health. They had one warning. I think Mulrooney liked me because on two or three occasions I'd covered some fairly legitimate work for him when he wanted to keep a low profile. Given his profession, Mulrooney was wary of FBI listening devices so I left a coded message at the coffee shop where he kept his HQ and he called me back from a pay phone.

"Good to hear from you, Sam. What is it?"

""Need a favour. Is the polite guy free? I'd like to borrow him for a day or two."

And so I had Cara's inside bodyguard. The 'polite guy' was called Howard, a former infantry captain who'd gone astray somewhere down the line and was taken on by Mulrooney. I think Cara was impressed when she met Howard. His manners are impeccable, always impressing and they helped him go places without question that most gangsters can't.

"Still got the Walther?" I asked. Howard preferred his German war-souvenir pistol to our home-grown weapons. I knew he was licensed to carry, Mulrooney had some useful friends in the city.

He nodded. "It's a nice comfortable fit now."

I showed Howard where I kept my untraceables. "If a huge guy smelling like a blocked sewer comes in, don't ask questions, kill him," I said, "then plant one of the throwaways on him."

Cara's safety arranged, it was time to go to Jacobsville and see what was bothering Deputy Lundqvist.

* * * * *

If ever I lived in the boondocks, Ernie's Eyrie---with its subdued lighting creating a warm atmosphere---is the kind of place I'd like to be close at hand. It was crowded when I arrived and there was a buzz of friendly conversation. Off to the left of the entrance was a dining counter and the cooking food smelled good. Opposite was a bar which, at a glance, seemed to have a good selection of beers and liquors. Small tables took up a good portion of the pub's body, the remainder being a postage-stamp sized dance floor where several couples were prancing around. A number of booths ran down one wall. A country band occupied a wide dais and they sounded pretty good while in the background I could see a small room with a couple of pool tables and several young men playing. I was glad that I decided to dress casually otherwise I would have stood out as a city boy. As it was, my chinos, polo-neck sweater and leather jacket fitted in perfectly. I'd bought the jacket a couple of sizes too large so that my .45 wouldn't be obvious.

As I was looking round trying to locate Deputy Lundqvist in the crowd, a pretty little waitress with a name-tag 'Kitty' came up to me. "Are you Mr Malone?"

"That's right."

The girl gave me a big, toothy smile. "Astrid asked me to look out for you. She's in one of the booths. This way." She led me to a shadowy corner where Astrid was sitting and nursing a glass of beer. I'd thought the cop gorgeous when we'd met previously and in plain clothes, with her blond hair loosened and falling about her shoulders, she was more so. Now she'd discarded the mirrored glasses, I could see that her eyes were a sparkling blue. As I took my seat opposite Astrid, Kitty handed me a menu and asked: "Are you a police officer too, Mr Malone?"

I didn't know what Astrid expected me to say but she answered for me. "He's got a badge." Turning to me she added: "If you're hungry, Sam, the chili cheese burgers here are the best. Beer's good too." I placed my order together with another beer for Astrid and Kitty went off to get them.

"So, what can I do for you?" I asked.

"Let's stick to small talk for the moment," Astrid replied, "Kitty's quite a cop fan and she'll try to hang around us as much as work allows. I don't want her to hear anything she shouldn't which might put her at risk."

"Okay," I agreed as Kitty came back with our orders. Astrid was right. The burgers and fries were great. Another reason to live near Ern's Eyrie. I pointed to the wedding band Astrid was wearing. "What does your husband do?"

"I'm a widow," she said bleakly.

"The war?"

"Yes..." She paused for a moment then added: "He was on Bataan."

"The Death March?" I asked.

"Yes." I reached across the table and squeezed her hand. There was nothing more to be said about that infamous business. Astrid shook herself a little and seemed to perk up. "What's your story, Sam?"

"Nothing special. I was a cop before the war. Then Marine Corps, saw active service in the South Pacific. After the Japanese surrender I transferred to the Provost Marshall's office, Criminal Investigation Division. Did some jobs I still can't talk about---that's where I earned my federal carry permit that surprised you. Then after my discharge I decided to be a PI."

"Why not back to the police?" Astrid said, "With your record sounds like you could have made lieutenant or even captain in double-quick time."

I gave her my most cynical grin. "Once you get past sergeant, too many goddam politicians start riding your back and calling the shots. Not for me."

Astrid was right about Kitty. The girl hung around us as much as she could, full of how great it must be to be a cop. She was seventeen and still in High School so I guess there was a good excuse for her innocent enthusiasm. I didn't say anything to disillusion her or shatter her dreams, it would have been like kicking a friendly puppy. One day life would do the kicking. When we left Ernie's place I gave her an extra large tip and told her she was an excellent waitress which left her happy and grinning.

* * * * *

Astrid's long trailer-home was a nice place. Roughly two-thirds of it comprised living space with some comfortable furniture and a small kitchenette the place being linked up to electricity and water. The remainder made up a bedroom with a tiny shower and lavatory and a long curtain that could be pulled across for privacy if needed.

Astrid made some fresh coffee and laced the mugs with a shot each of Jack Daniels. We settled facing each other, her on the small sofa, me on an easy chair. "First off, Sam, have you had any unwanted visitors over the past few days?" she asked me.

I nodded. "What do you know about that?"

"That day you came to see Billy Scudamore," she said, "I had to include you on my daily report. Thought nothing about it, really. Unknown car parked on the road for some time, driver appeared and questioned, produced satisfactory ID and car ownership documents. I did mention that you were armed but had a federal carry license. Everything considered to be in order. Driver permitted to go. Just a straightforward incident, the kind of routine incident that can happen most days in this neck of the woods. Often it's the most exciting thing that we see. DUIs, teenage hot-rodders, occasional material spillages on the highway, all about the worst Malanuk can throw at us."

Astrid took a sip of her coffee and continued. "Usually the day's patrol deputies put in their reports, the sheriff reads and countersigns them, they go into the files and that's it. Most times nothing more happens. Until my report about seeing you. Bayliss went apeshit, started ranting about 'what's that sonofabitch doing here, what's he got wind of, who's been talking?' stuff like that. I'd failed to mention you'd been to see Scudamore on private business, routine report, didn't think it was relevant. I tried to tell him then but he just screamed don't believe a word that asshole says.

"The next day I was on front-desk duty. Bayliss came into the station out-of-uniform and went into his office. The office door is rarely closed and he left it open that morning, force of habit I guess. I heard him get on the phone to someone, saying he was going into the city to find out what that interfering bastard was up to. When he returned late afternoon he was still in a rage, left his door open, got on the phone again and said that you wouldn't co-operate so he was going to get their other colleague to speak to you, he could be very persuasive. Other than the sheriff's bad temper, I couldn't see anything sinister in the words 'colleague' and 'persuasive' so I left it."

"Bayliss did come to see me," I told her, "Tried to throw his weight around, he was the sheriff, crap like that. Got all bent out of shape when I told him he was out of his jurisdiction. Said he'd be sending a 'colleague' to talk to me. Thanks to Bayliss's threat I was ready for the guy and convinced him to go away. I don't know if Bayliss was stupid or careless warning me."

"Not stupid, not careless," Astrid said, "Plain old-fashioned arrogant. He practically runs Malanuk County like his own personal kingdom and expects folk to ask how high when he says jump. Thought he could intimidate you the same way, I guess."

"How the hell did someone like him get elected?" I asked.

"No election. He was chief deputy when the old sheriff retired and simply stepped into the job. I think he pulled strings or he's got some kind of hold over a few important people in the village. First thing he did was to get rid of some of the existing deputies and fill the positions with his own toadies. I think I'm only here so he could show how modern he is plus I'm fairly popular.

"There's more, Sam, what made me call you today. Yesterday Bayliss had to attend a meeting of the parish fathers. I was on desk duty again. I took some reports into his office and on his desk was a bank safe-deposit box slip with a business card pinned to it. The deposit was for fifteen thousand dollars cash and the business card was---"

"For Eugene B Claibourne," I finished for her.

Eyes widened. "How'd you know that?"

I explained about Bayliss dropping a similar card in my office and told what I knew of Claiborne. I finished by saying: "The whole set-up smelled wrong from the word go but when a county sheriff gets sums like fifteen grand from a wealthy guy like that... well, puts a whole new slant on it. Bayliss is seriously corrupt. But damned if I can work out what his game is."

"One more item, Sam. There's an old widow called Leda in town---she doesn't like Bayliss on principle but she does like me so I always stop and have a word with her. She's often out early in the morning gathering mushrooms and wild herbs. She told me recently that several times she's seen Bayliss and some other men going up into the forests. One of them looks like a biker, all tattoos and oily clothing. She keeps out of sight when they're around."