The Expendable Man (35 page)

“She's got the rest of it,” Hugh said quickly. He went over to where Ellen was. She looked up at him for direction. He gave an imperceptible nod and she got up from the chair. On some excuse, they must get out of here now. Unexpectedly, the dog's growl menaced.

The doctor said sharply, “Do you have that money or don't you?”

Ellen opened her purse and found the one twenty. The others she took from the coat pocket. As he took them, Hugh muttered, “Get ready to run if I can't. Send police . . .”

Holding the bills, he started back to the table. And saw the kitchen door opening. In the opening Ringle towered, a monstrous shadow. He moved without sound into the room. Behind him crept the cat smile of Venner.

Ringle spoke. “I'll take that money, Doc.”

Slowly Doc Jopher turned and saw them. For a moment he stood there, peering through his bleared eyes, not understanding. Then as Ringle advanced into the pool of lamplight, all hope sagged out of his old body, leaving it an empty sack. He fumbled for the wine bottle; its emptiness was the final betrayal. Still holding the bottle, he sank into the rocking chair. After a moment he put it to his mouth. His tongue licked the stain from the rim.

Ringle took a ponderous step toward Hugh. With satisfaction he recited, “I'm arresting you and Doc Jopher on conspiracy to commit an illegal operation. And for contributing to the death of a minor.”

Hugh cried out, “Don't you understand?” but he saw that it was useless. He shouted, “Run, Ellen,” as he himself advanced toward the two detectives. The club of Ringle's hand knocked him to the floor. She didn't make it. Venner, triumph staining his eyes, caught her at the door.

Hugh didn't lose consciousness. He knew every anguished moment of being hauled up and away, half flung into the back of the police car with Ellen and the old doctor. He knew the writhing pain of every yard of the drive back to Scottsdale. Ellen held him against her shoulder. His mouth was bleeding again.

Half along the way he became aware of Jopher's whisper. “The bottle. You didn't break the bottle when you fell?” He hadn't. The two detectives in the front seat weren't paying any heed. Venner was riding the wheel, Ringle growling into the radio. Hugh worried the bourbon from his pocket and thrust it into the avid hands. The doctor opened it, wiped the rim with his open palm and took a long, shuddering swallow. He recapped and fumbled it back toward Hugh.

“Keep it,” Hugh slurred. “You need it.”

Doc Jopher sighed. “You're a gentleman.” He tipped it again briefly before putting it into his own pocket.

The expression on the faces of the deputies on duty at the Scottsdale station was to be expected, an almost weary and matter-of-fact acceptance that two shabby young Negroes were guilty until proven innocent. There was confirmation, seeing Ringle and Venner in charge. When they recognized Jopher, their mouths took on cynical knowledge.

“Sit down over there.” Ringle pointed to the straight chairs against the wall. “We're waiting till the marshal gets here.”

Hugh came out of despair. Marshal Hackaberry had been summoned, either by Ringle or as a result of Ringle's radio communication. Ellen helped him to a chair, eased him into it. She sat beside him. The shine of anger never left her eyes. Hugh spoke under his breath. “When the marshal comes, he'll let us telephone Skye,” and he said, “Take that crazy rubber band off your hair.”

She said, “Skye isn't home.” She let her hair fall about her face. Without apology she told him, “I left a note where we'd be. On the couch when I was opening my purse.”

At the time he might have been annoyed. Now he was grateful.

She said, “I'll try, but if he was home, he'd have traced us by now.”

And if he didn't get here in time, Hugh wouldn't be believed. He'd be formally charged. But Skye should have returned by this hour—and then he saw by the wall clock that it wasn't yet midnight. It had seemed near to dawn.

Doc Jopher was incongruously at ease in this room with its too-bright lighting. He knew all the officers by name. And it would seem they had a special niche for him, as for one of the pet regulars, no matter the crime. He didn't move toward the chairs but away from them.

Ringle ordered again, “You too, Doc. Over there.”

“I just want a cup of water.” He drew his mouth into a pout. “Can't I have a cup of water?”

“Get your water and sit down.” Ringle went to the desk just outside the marshal's door. He had a report to write.

Doc Jopher walked to the water fountain and filled a cup.

The deputy at communications said, “Sorry we got no ice, Doc.”

“How do you like that?” Venner had spied the bottle. “Now Scottsdale's furnishing setups.” He brayed laughter. “How do you like that?” He went over to make sure Ringle had caught the joke.

Jopher drank the water with dignity and filled the cup again. He ambled over to the chair next to Hugh and sat down, not spilling a drop. He proceeded to mix bourbon in the cup. If he was drunk, he was brilliantly so. The laughter at his antics was his applause. No one made a move to take his bottle.

He tasted and smacked his lips. But mixing a highball at the police station wasn't just a stunt to amuse an audience. Hugh recognized again the shrewd brain, the doctor who knew his tolerance to alcohol and who measured his dosage. There had been no room in the cup for more than a flavoring. In spite of the drinks on the way, the drive in must have brought to him a measure of sobriety. Which he had no intent of destroying. He knew the ropes. He knew the buffoon got a better deal from the cops than a straight man would.

He sipped and smacked until the laughter died. Then he began to talk. “Look, Mr. Ringle, you know I wasn't going to do nothing to this girl. I was just leading the niggers on to see how far they'd go.” His appeal was jovial. “Then I was going to kick them out, you bet I was, right on their butts. First thing in the morning I was going to get me to a telephone and tell you all about it.”

Ringle didn't look up. “Save it for the judge, Doc.”

“You got no right to arrest me,” Jopher complained. “You're a Phoenix cop. I live in the county.”

This time Ringle looked at him. “Come off it, Doc. If you want to get technical, Marshal Hackaberry's got the right. He's county and city both.”

“Well, I don't call that fair,” Jopher said.

“You'll have to take that up with Hackaberry.”

Jopher sulked audibly while he emptied his cup. “Is there any rule about getting a drink of water?” he began.

But the sound of boots on the outside stairs hushed him. He pushed the paper cup quickly under the chair.

The marshal came in. A swift glance covered the room and filed essential information. His boots were noisy as he stalked across to Ringle at the desk.

Ringle was standing. “We caught them both red-handed,” he said with satisfaction. “Densmore was setting up another girl with the doc.”

The marshal's side glance at the three was brief.

“You have your report?”

“I'm working on it.”

“We'll go inside,” Hackaberry announced.

He waited for Ringle and Venner to precede him. One of the deputies came over to the three. He gestured with his thumb.

“Me too?” Jopher asked in disdain.

“You too.”

With Ellen's assistance, Hugh fumbled to his feet. The deputy asked, “Need any help?”

“I can make it.”

The marshal was waiting. He didn't say anything about Hugh's condition, he merely observed it. When they came abreast, Hugh asked him, “May I call my lawyer?”

“He's not home. Go on, call him. I did, but he's not home.”

Ellen went to the booth. The marshal motioned Hugh into the office. The deputy went with him. There were chairs for everyone tonight. This wasn't the informal gathering. The deputy helped Hugh to sit down. He didn't know how long he could last. His pain was frantic, but he mustn't black out until he could defend himself.

Ellen joined him, shaking her head. A deputy stood guard at the door. Ringle ignored everyone, pushing his pencil stub across the paper. Venner scuffed about the small room, whistling tunelessly between his teeth, too excited for silence. And Doc Jopher protested his innocence in a dozen maudlin ways. Still the marshal didn't join them. Not even when Skye came rushing in.

He scraped a chair over to where Hugh and Ellen were. “My God, what have you got yourself into?” he asked under his breath, and of Ellen, “Why did you let him go out?”

“I couldn't stop him.” With fury, she said, “Ringle knocked him down.”

“He just pushed too hard.” Hugh smiled wryly and felt the encrusted blood flow again. He covered it with his stained handkerchief.

“When I read Ellen's note I checked here before tearing out to Doc's. I was afraid your idea might backfire.”

“I've got Jopher,” Hugh mumbled. “He admitted Bonnie Lee was there.”

“Can you make it stand up?”

“The police can. We tried to call you.”

“I've spent the evening at the bus depot,” Skye said. “I found some men who can quote Fred Othy on Bonnie Lee. Before he got cautious.” Before she was with child. “Just what happened at Doc's?”

It was too hard to talk; Hugh let Ellen whisper it. She hadn't finished before Fred O. was brought in by an officer. And the marshal followed.

When Othy saw Hugh and the doctor, he began a shrill protest. “Whose idea is it dragging me down here in the middle of the night? I've told you what happened.”

The officer said, “Sit down and shut up.” There was a small scuffle before the officer put him into a chair.

“I'm not going to be framed,” Othy yelled. “I want a lawyer.”

“Look, you're not arrested,” the officer said. “What you want with a lawyer, when you're not even arrested?” Temporarily, Fred O. subsided.

Skye intercepted Hackaberry. What they said was private. When Skye took a place by Hugh's side, he didn't speak. The marshal went to his desk. “Okay, Ringle.”

Ringle's report made it clear that he and Venner hadn't just happened to turn up at Jopher's. A Scottsdale cruiser had spotted Hugh's car heading north. The deputies didn't have to move in; they knew the road. Knew that particular lane, where Hugh turned off, led only to Doc Jopher's and tilled fields beyond. The information was relayed to the Phoenix detectives.

Ringle abandoned the report for discourse. It was easier for him. “We didn't drive up to the house. That dog of Doc's would raise the dead the way he barks when he hears anybody coming. But his ears aren't as good as they once were if you come quiet. I noticed that the last time we were out at Doc's. I had on my crepe soles and he never heard me till I was on the porch. So tonight when we got the call, I changed to them.”

Venner said, “I had a pair of sneakers,” but he didn't try to take the stage from Ringle.

The big detective continued placidly, “We knew we'd have to catch Densmore red-handed or not get nowhere. We left the car down the lane and the dog never heard us approach. We saw the whole thing through the window.” His chuckle was only in the shape of his lips. “With that old dog snoring in his chair right on the other side.” The moment of fun was so brief it might have been imagined. “Densmore passed some money to the doc, then the two of them went over to the couch and Densmore took out the doc's bag from underneath and handed it to him.”

Oh, God, they hadn't been able to hear, only to see what went on!

“Next thing Densmore took a basin and a rubber sheet from under the couch. He spread the sheet on top and put the basin on it. They came back to the table then and the doc took some instruments out of his bag. After he and Densmore looked them over, Densmore gave the doc the rest of the money he was holding. Then Densmore went over to get the girl, and that's when we moved. We weren't going to let them go through with it.”

“You don't understand!” Hugh repeated his cry.

“Keep quiet,” the marshal barked. “You'll get your chance to talk.”

Ringle went on smoothly, “We entered by the kitchen door.” He didn't mention how they had made entry through Jopher's locked doors. “Took them red-handed. I had it figured by then why we couldn't get nothing on Densmore. He didn't use the motel room or his own stuff. He was working in partners with Doc.”

Venner said, “Yeah.” With satisfaction.

“That's it?” the marshal asked Ringle.

“That's about it.” He put his big hands on his knees. “The details will be in the report.”

The silence seemed long before the marshal addressed Hugh. “What have you to say?”

Hugh didn't try to rise. It was difficult enough just to speak. He said, “I never saw Doc Jopher until tonight. I was never in that house until tonight. Doc Jopher was the one who aborted Bonnie Lee.”

“He's lying,” Othy snorted. “It was him.”

“You keep quiet,” the marshal ordered. “Wait your turn.” He gestured Hugh, “Go on. So why did you go to Doc's tonight?”

Hugh told him. Forcing down the pain which enveloped him; forbidding it to take over until he was done. He told how he knew what he must do, and what he did; from the hapless search for Mahm Gitty to the conclusion at Jopher's.

The marshal must know it was the truth. It was the truth. Yet he said noncommittally, “That's your story.” One story against another story and another story.

Hugh insisted, “Send your lab men out there. They'll find her fingerprints. Othy's too. Doc Jopher admitted he did it.” He had a witness. He indicated Ellen. “Before both of us.”

Othy hooted. “You going to listen to two niggers and a drunk old hoss doctor?” But fear was on him.

It could have been the professional insult. It could have been the bottle Hugh had given him. It could have been Doc Jopher knew when to sing. “Othy brought the girl to me. He waited while I took care of her.”