The Corpse in Oozak's Pond (22 page)

“She’s coping but none too happy about having to. Administration’s not her thing. She’ll be relieved to get back to the Buggins Collection.”

“No accounting for tastes,” Porble grunted. “You haven’t come to get me out of here, by any chance?”

“Not just now. Soon, I hope.”

“Well, stall it off for another hour or two if you can. I hate to leave a job undone. Ah, here’s Ottermole. Where’s your prisoner, Chief?”

“Aw, he was just some poor bastard in a busted-down van with a wife an’ two little kids. He got laid off from his job at a factory up in New Hampshire. His unemployment run out, an’ they got evicted from their place, so they parked their stuff in somebody’s garage and started out to see if he could find work down here. But he ain’t had no luck, an’ they hadn’t eaten for two days, so what the hell? I talked Jack Pointer into givin’ the guy a job delousin’ turkey coops. It ain’t much, but they’ll eat. We couldn’t squeeze ’em all in here, anyways. How you comin’, Doc?”

“Quite well. I find it rather relaxing, actually.”

“I don’t. Hi, Professor. Hey, Cronk, what are you doin’ here? You know what I told you about keepin’ this out o’ the paper.”

“Don’t worry, Ottermole,” said Shandy. “Swope’s, er, with me. I want you to swear us both in as your deputies, and, Phil, I want you to witness the swearing-in. I assume there’s no legal problem about that, Ottermole, since Porble hasn’t been formally arrested.”

“What do you mean arrested?” Ottermole sounded hurt. “Doc’s just here to reorganize the files while bein’ held in protective custody as a material witness.”

Witness to what? Shandy didn’t ask. He merely stood waiting while the chief flapped around trying to make up his mind as to the correct procedure for swearing in a deputy. He’d sworn both Shandy and Swope in before, as a matter of fact, by saying something like “Okay, you guys are deputies. Let’s go.” This time, however, Ottermole naturally wanted to put on a good show in front of his distinguished temporary assistant.

In fact, he managed quite nicely, even allowing Cronkite Swope to take a picture of him swearing in Professor Shandy, provided he keep Dr. Porble well out of camera range. “Makes it more official,” he explained. “Now, Cronk, I’ll swear you in an’ the professor can take one of us.”

Shandy fretted a bit at this unnecessary delay, but reason told him there was no need to rush off. If his hunch was correct, his quarry had no intention of going anywhere in a hurry, and Ottermole had earned the right to spread his tail feathers. He took the picture.

“And lastly, Ottermole, I want you to make me out a search warrant.”

“Sure, Professor, anything you say. Where are you plannin’ to search?”

Shandy told him. Porble’s eyebrows went up, but he said nothing and went on with his methodical checking of the files, while the police chief filled out the warrant.

“Okay, Professor, that ought to do it. You want me to go with you?”

“On the contrary, I particularly do not want you to go with me,” Shandy answered. “No offense, Ottermole, but right now I have nothing whatever to work on except a funny feeling. Taking somebody along who, er, smacks of officialdom could ruin any possible chance I might have of finding out whether I’m barking up the right tree. Would I need another warrant to arrest somebody, by the way?”

“Nah, just bring ’em in. We’ll get Doc here to handle the paperwork. Jeez, I hope you don’t catch the real killer before we get them files straightened out.”

“Dr. Porble has already expressed a similar wish. Speaking for myself, I’d like to wrap things up as quickly as possible and get my wife back. She’s declared a moratorium on domesticity for the duration. Swope, you’re welcome to come if you care to.”

“Wouldn’t miss it, Professor. Where are we going?”

“First to my house.”

That clearly wasn’t the sort of
Blazing Saddles
takeoff Swope had envisioned, but he went cheerfully enough and entertained Jane Austen with a wad of paper on a string while Shandy spent a long time and no doubt a great deal of money making long-distance phone calls.

“All right, Swope. Bainbridge Buggins is still officially missing in action. The shipping line doesn’t know where Boatwright Buggins is. Trowbridge has been off on a geological field trip for the past three weeks, and Bracebridge hasn’t been seen at the Wayfarers’ Rest since 1972. Now I think I know where we’re heading. Let’s put the show on the road.”

T
HEY’D LEFT THE PRESS
car sitting out on the drive in defiance of Crescent protocol. Mirelle Feldster was out on her front steps next door, ready to give them an earful, but Shandy only gave her a nod and climbed in beside Swope.

“Where to, Professor?”

“Head for the Seven Forks,” Shandy told him, “and thank God it’s you driving instead of me. I feel as if I’ve worn a groove in the road out there.”

“Are we going back to the Buggins place?”

“Eventually. First we stop at the Dirty Duck.”

“For Pete’s sake, why?”

“To see if we can collect Hesperus Hudson without having to face his niece. You wouldn’t be safe a minute in that woman’s clutches.”

“Is she the one in the white boots who brought him to the funeral?”

“She is.”

“Then I guess I wouldn’t.” Cronkite didn’t sound flattered, only scared. “I’ve run into a couple like her going around doing interviews on should the dog license be extended to cats and other vital issues of the day. There was one woman who—well, I finally had to make believe I’d had the mumps at a delicate age. So she gave me the name of some friend of hers who thinks he’s a faith healer like that guy in the Philippines with the rusty jackknife and told me to come back when I was cured. What I do now is, I stay out on the doorstep. The important thing about being a journalist is learning to keep clear of big, soft sofas. I wrote to the Famous Journalists’ Correspondence School about putting it in the curriculum, but I sort of don’t think they will.”

“M’well, perhaps they feel some things have to be learned by experience,” said Shandy. “Aha, we’re right on the button. Here he comes now.”

Hesperus Hudson was in fact just emerging from the woods. Marietta must have known better than to let him escape in those respectable clothes, as he was now clad in the horrible garments he’d been wearing last night and no doubt for many nights before that. The bath hadn’t quite worn off, and he hadn’t had a chance to let his whiskers grow back, but time would take care of that. As he steered toward the Dirty Duck, his face wore an expression of happy anticipation. When Shandy got out of the car and walked over to him, it changed.

“I know you.”

“I know you, too, Mr. Hudson,” Shandy replied affably. “I enjoyed your singing in church this morning.”

“Huh? You tryin’ to start somethin’?”

Surprisingly, Hudson’s right hand whipped out of his pocket equipped With a tarnished but serviceable set of brass knuckles.

“Very impressive,” said Shandy. “Are those the same ones you laid Bracebridge Buggins’s chin open with?”

“I didn’t kill ’im!”

“I never said you did. How would you like to make ten dollars?”

“I already got ten dollars. What I’d like is for you to get the hell out o’ my way so’s I can go in here an’ spend it.”

“But then that ten dollars will be gone and you’ll be thirsty again. If you had another ten, you could stay drunk longer.”

“Put not the cup to thy brother’s lips.” Hudson was full of surprises today.

“I’m not putting any cup to your lips,” Shandy replied testily.

“You damn well better hadn’t try. I’d rather have it straight from the bottle any day. Okay, let’s have the ten.”

“I didn’t say I was going to give it to you outright. You’ll have to earn it.”

“I knew there was goin’ to be a catch somewheres. Doin’ what?”

“Merely taking my friend and myself to see Trevelyan Buggins’s still.”

“What for? There ain’t nothin’ left in it. I already looked. “

“I know, but I want to look for myself. Last night, as you may or may not recall, you told me a remarkable story.”

“Who, me?”

“Yes, you.” How did they keep getting into this Abbott and Costello cross talk? “You said you’d gone to the still house and found a man whom you took to be Bracebridge Buggins disguised as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow lying there dead.”

“What if I did? No law against findin’ a stiff, is there? You tryin’ to make out I killed ’im?”

“By no means, Mr. Hudson. I’m extremely grateful to you for coming forth with the information. That’s why I gave you the ten last night.”

“You gimme that ten, too?”

“I certainly did. Where did you think you got it?”

“I thought maybe it was the tooth fairy.”

“You’re a card, Mr. Hudson. A deuce or a trey, perhaps. How far is the still house from here?”

“It’s back there.”

He waved an arm pretty much as he’d done last night. Shandy grabbed at the shreds of his temper.

“Precisely where back there? Is this the shortest way in, or would we make better time going around by First Fork?”

“Oh, yeah, First Fork would be quicker. You gonna gimme a ride?”

“If you want one, sure,” said Cronkite Swope. “Pile in.”

“But I was plannin’ to get drunk.”

“Here,” said Shandy, who’d anticipated some such objection and come equipped to deal with it. “Drink this.”

The pocket flask he’d brought along only held about one stiff drink, but he didn’t want Hudson to have more than enough to get his tonsils in working order before their mission was completed.

At least it was enough to get him into the car and begin shouting thoroughly garbled directions. Despite his help, they managed to get the car stashed under some overhanging evergreens and find the well-trampled path that led to the small, weathered board shack. There was another path leading to it from the Second Fork side.

“I done that,” Hudson told them with some pride. “Mostly, anyways.”

“Why? Do other people come here, too?” Shandy asked him.

“I guess likely. Kids lookin’ for a quiet place to do what comes natural, hunters takin’ a rest an’ gettin’ warm. Build up a little fire under the still there an’ you can get the place hot in a few minutes. Cut up a rabbit an’ roast it if you can get one. Or a grouse. Grouse is good eatin’. You could bring in a sack o’ rotten potatoes an’ brew yourself up a little somethin’ to drink with it, I s’pose, if you’d a mind to.”

“Have you done that yourself, Mr. Hudson?”

“Not me. Too much like work.” Disregarding the rusty padlock hanging from the hasp, Hudson picked the screws from the rotted-out holes behind the hinges and swung the door open from the wrong side. “Make yourselves to home.”

The shack did in fact have a slight air of hominess about it. Since old Buggins had spent so much of his life there, tending his still, he’d naturally have wanted to add a few creature comforts. There was an old porch rocker with its rush seat broken through and a grimy brown plush sofa pillow plugging up the hole. On the ledge beside it were several rusty tobacco tins, a pipe with the stem almost bitten through, a fancy ashtray, and a stack of assorted magazines. Shandy was mildly intrigued to see a few copies of
Collier’s Weekly
among them. He could just about remember his own father sitting on the front porch they’d once had, in a rocking chair like this one, reading
Collier’s Weekly.

This was hardly the time or the place for childhood reminiscences. “How was the body lying, Mr. Hudson?” he asked.

“Down,” said his star witness promptly. “Ever see anybody layin’ up?”

“A pithy observation,” snarled Shandy. “Was it here?”

He pointed to the floor beside the rocking chair, which was about the only place a grown man could have been stretched out to full length. The corners were filled with stacks of firewood and empty vinegar jugs, the middle of the little room was occupied by the fieldstone chimney and the square firebox on which sat the big, closed pot with the copper condensing coil sprouting out of its lid. The coil ended above a plastic bucket that had once held a compound for cleaning floors. Shandy wondered if Buggins had used the stuff to enhance the flavor of his hell-brew.

“Yup,” Hudson was saying. “He was layin’ right there, where you’re pointin’. His head was up against the rocker, an’ his feet was pointin’ towards the door. He looked real peaceful, like he’d just passed out from the booze, ’cept his eyes were starin’ an’ his mouth was open.”

Swope was making frantic scribbles on a wad of copy paper. “Hey, Professor, can I print this?”

“I don’t see why not. We should have the whole story before too many more hours have passed. Maybe you’d like to take a—ah!”

Shandy stepped gingerly across the plank floor and pointed to a few whitish long hairs caught under a splinter. “See those? I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts they’re from that fake beard the dead man was wearing.”

He began crawling around the planks, snagging the knees of his own trousers more than once. “And here’s a black thread, and another. If there are corresponding pulls on the back of that old coat, I think we can call them conclusive proof that the body was parked here after the man was killed, just as Hudson testifies. It’s quite conceivable he was actually murdered here. Did you happen to notice a small stab wound in the back of his neck when you moved him, Hudson?”

“Huh? He wasn’t bleedin’.”

“No, I expect he wouldn’t have been. It was only a puncture, really. From an ice pick or something of the sort.”

“Brace always liked ice in ’is drinks,” said Hudson. “We’d sneak into the Flackleys’ icehouse an’ hack off a piece an’ bring it here so’s he could fix his like he wanted it.”

“I thought you said you drank it hot from the still with a reed for a straw,” said Shandy.

“That was me an’ Bain. Bain didn’t give a damn, an’ neither did I. Brace was the fussy one. He’d even wipe off the sawdust before he put the ice in ’is cup. He had this little collapsin’ cup that he carried around in ’is pocket.”

“Did he carry an ice pick, too?” Shandy asked,

“Nope. Didn’t have to. There was always one in the icehouse.”