Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 319 - Murder on Main Street

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MURDER ON MAIN STREET
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I
? CHAPTER II
? CHAPTER III
? CHAPTER IV
? CHAPTER V
? CHAPTER VI
? CHAPTER VII
? CHAPTER VIII
? CHAPTER IX
? CHAPTER X
? CHAPTER XI
? CHAPTER XII
? CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER I
STAGGERING, the man picked himself up. He shook his head. He ran tentative fingers over the wound
in his scalp. There was a lump all right. He stood perfectly still for a moment, then a reflex made him look
down toward his feet. His little black bag was there. He picked it up.
It was dark, but not so dark that he did not see a flurry of movement to his right, about three hundred
feet away. No time for that now.
Still staggering, he walked up the little broken shell pathway to the house. He knocked on the door. It
slammed open. A woman in her middle fifties, hair flying, face distrait, croaked, "Doctor!"
"Mary! What's wrong?"
She said slowly. "It's Thomas. I think he's... dead!"
"Well... let's leave that to the old doc. Why do you think he's..."
"He's been stabbed!"
The doctor said, "What?"
"Yes! The knife is still..." She began to cry soundlessly.
He patted her on the shoulder. "Take it easy, Mary. Where is he?"
"In the living room. In the chair that he has sat in for twenty years, listening to the radio, just like he
always did."
As a matter of fact the radio was still blaring when the doctor walked into the trim room. The dead man,
head inclined to the loudspeaker, sat as though he were still listening. From the radio there came the
hyena-like laughter of a prominent radio comedian. Swearing under his breath the doctor flipped the
radio off.
He squatted down on his heels, and only then when vertigo made his head swim, did he remember about
the blow on his head. He said, "Mary, look at my head. Is the skin broken?"
Aghast, she looked at a lump the size of a robin's egg. She said, "What happened?"
"I don't quite know. I got out of the car to come in and talk to Tom for a while, and as I stepped out of
the car, something hit me. That's all. As I got up, I don't think I was really out, I saw someone run
away... but he was far away by then. Too far to chase."
She looked at his face. "Doc, that must have been the one who killed my Tom! Could you see who it
was?"
Dubiously shaking his head, the doctor said, "It was just a shape in the dark. A darker shape against
darkness. I think it was a man, but that's just a guess. A woman in slacks would have made the same
silhouette. He looked down at the face of the man who would never argue politics with him again. He
said, "Mary, go next door and visit with the Jasons."
She turned to obey his suggestion. Then swiveling slowly back, she looked at the doctor's seamed heavy
red face. "You don't think..."
She could see the same thought express itself on his face. "Mary... that nutty kid! Jimmy... he wouldn't...
he was given a D. D., wasn't he?" the doctor said.
"He was a Section Eight, or that's what Tommy called it."
"The Army thought he was psycho. Mary, call the sheriff. Get him up here and then go over to Kitty
Randall's and wait there. I'll pick you up later."
She went to the door. From there she said, "You know... there's one thing I don't understand."
He looked up, the futile stethoscope hanging from his ears. He pulled one earprong out. "What?"
"The radio said that there was likely to be a storm later on."
"Umm. It feels as if it were going to rain," the doctor said, absent-mindedly.
"You don't understand. I locked all the doors and windows. Ever since that time that Jimmy Jason scared
me peering in through the window at night, Thomas put heavy burglar-proof locks on all the windows and
doors."
"Hmmm."
"They're still all locked, doctor." The woman's grief torn face looked more haggard as fear made itself
manifest.
"Are you sure? Have you checked?"
She shook her head. "I looked all around this floor. I didn't go upstairs."
"You go ahead and call the sheriff and then go over to the Randall's. I'll check while I wait for the sheriff."
He heard the front door close behind her. He looked again at the dead man. The knife had gone straight
through the heart. There was nothing else to do here till the sheriff arrived.
He walked toward the flight of stairs that led to the bedrooms. The windows were closed tight and
bolted. Then moving more quickly, he went to the last room on the second floor. It was, he knew, a sort
of rumpus room. The house had no cellar, nor an attic. He opened the door and looked into the room.
Odd chairs, a home-made bar that the junior Thomas Archer had sawed and nailed together. The
windows in this room were bolted tight, too, he could see...
Mrs. Archer phoned her tragic call to the sheriff's office. That done, she walked, head held high, eyes
tearless, jaws set, to the home of the girl that her son was to have married.
The Randalls, mother and father, looked at her in surprise. Pudgy, gentle man, and thin as a lathe woman,
they made an odd pair. They had their hands occupied. Mrs. Randall was in the midst of knitting one of
her famous cardigans. Mr. Randall's hands, up in the air, had the wool wrapped around them.
Mrs. Randall said, "Mary! Mary Archer! What gets you out of bed at this hour?"
Swiftly, in terse sentences, Mrs. Archer told her story. The Randalls looked their sympathy. Moving as a
pair from the door which Mrs. Randall had opened with a hand full of wool, they brought Mrs. Archer
into their living room.
"I can't... there just aren't words..." Mr. Randall said, gulping:
"First Tommy and now his father... oh Mary... I can't stand it!" Mrs. Randall's thin face contorted and
tears rolled down her dried out cheeks. She went to Mrs. Archer, dropping her knitting wool. Her arms
flew to comfort the bereaved woman. "Come along, my dear." She led Mrs. Archer out of the room. Mr.
Randall, sitting stock still in stunned amazement from which he had not yet recovered, spoke to himself.
"It just don't seem possible." He brooded alone. In the other room, he knew his wife would give what
comfort there was to the widow.
In the deadly stillness of the night he heard brakes squeak. He pondered on that for a while, and realized
then that this was murder... that the sheriff would be on the job.
The sheriff stepped into the Archer home. He was not at all what the words call to mind, but was instead
a sturdy young veteran who had studied to be a policeman in a nearby big city until a game leg resulting
from a piece of shrapnel put an end to those plans. He saw at first glance the corpse, and then at a
second look, the pudgy doctor whom everyone in town called the old doc. Although, the sheriff thought,
the doctor wasn't particularly old, just in his early forties... it was his air. He had a stodgy old man's
attitude to the world. That must be what accounted for his nickname. Aloud, the sheriff said, "Hi, doc."
"Billy. Glad you could make it. This is a bad one, son."
The knife in Mr. Archer's heart precluded asking any questions about the cause of death. Instead the
young sheriff said, "Who did it?"
"Billy Tennan, as sure as my name is Doc Ender, I swear it must have been a ghost!" The doctor looked
shamefaced at the sound of his words.
"How's that?"
The doctor explained about the windows and doors. The sheriff thought. He knew that all the houses on
this block were as alike as peas. Having been in one down the street a while ago he knew what the
layout of this one must be. Product of a fast-talking real estate agent, they were all a box set upon a box.
The small box was the top floor with three rooms. The ground floor had a hall... at one end of the hall
was a sun porch of some kind, next to that was the kitchen, and at an angle off that was the library. Or at
least in the real estate prospectus it was called a library. In that other house he had been in, the sheriff
remembered, the library had been turned into a nursery.
Aloud he asked what it was used for here.
"That other room? Thomas used it as a sort of office. He did a lot of work at home, you know," the
doctor said.
Staring off into space, the sheriff reconstructed what he remembered about the second floor. Three
rooms, two generally used as bedrooms. In this family, the sheriff knew there had been only three people.
Young Tom, Thomas Senior, and his wife.
"What about the third room upstairs?" The sheriff gestured with a thumb upward.
"Tommy made that over into a rumpus room. I just came down from there," the doctor said.
"All the windows were locked?"
The doctor nodded. Right then the door opened and a man about thirty stepped in the front door that led
right into the living room. They looked at him. The sheriff had expected it to be one of his men. It wasn't.
It was... who was it? The sheriff tried to remember. He knew something about this man... what was it?
The doctor said, "Jason! What are you doing here?"
Jimmy Jason shrugged his sharp narrow shoulders. He said nothing. His narrow face was cement still.
Eyes set too close together looked around the room curiously.
His face lit up when he saw the corpse.
Jason. The sheriff remembered something about a peeping tom charge against the man. He turned his
back on Jason. He had had a thought glimmering when the door had opened.
"That room on the top floor," the sheriff said, "isn't there a trap door in the ceiling so you can get to the
roof?"
The doctor, wrenching his eyes away from Jason, said, "Oh, yes. There's a trap door. It isn't locked,
either."
"Well, then, what's the puzzle?" the sheriff asked. "The killer raced upstairs, climbed the ladder that leads
to the trap in the roof and then went out and down!"
"Fine," the doctor said with a grimace. "That's exactly what I figured when I went up there."
"But?" The sheriff left the question hanging in the air. He turned to look at Jason. The man was staring
avidly, greedily, at the corpse's chest. His eyes followed a trickle of blood that went from the wound
down toward the floor.
"Ordinarily," the doctor said, "there is a ladder there. Tonight there isn't."
The sheriff's stomach dropped. That made it awkward. "But... if the killer went up the ladder and then for
some reason of his own took it along with him..."
He said this watching Jason's face to see if there was any reaction. There was, but it was just the result of
the man's having seen a drop of blood fall to the floor.
"I thought of that, too," the doctor said, and his voice sounded aggrieved. "I'm not an idiot, you know."
The sheriff looked at the doctor who was putting his stethoscope into his little black bag. The sheriff
thought dully that the doctor would look naked without the bag. He realized he had never seen him
without it.
The doctor said, slowly looking off into space, "The ladder is out in back of the house near where you'd
have to climb to come down from the second story roof."
The sheriff realized that something was coming. Something he wasn't going to like. He didn't.
The doctor said, "The ladder has been painted today. It's still wet." He paused, and then said, "There are
no marks on the wet paint."
Suddenly, shockingly, a giggle tore through the silence of the room. The giggle got louder and louder.
CHAPTER II
THE sheriff stood in the center of the rumpus room. Downstairs one of his men was dragging Jason out
of the house. Jason was still giggling. The sheriff could hear the obscene sound even up here.
He looked about him. On the walls there were some pictures of young Archer, some pictures of some
pretty girls, and a machete. The machete reminded the sheriff that the young man had seen service in the
South Pacific.
Behind the home-made bar there were, thrown helter skelter on the floor, more souvenirs of the war. A
box about two and a half feet square decorated with what could only be Japanese art, rubbed against a
primitive devil mask.
Some spears, some arrows, an iron woodbow... that about ended up the inventory of the room. Above
him, as the sheriff looked up, was the trap door that led to the roof of the second floor of the house.
The ceiling was only about twelve feet from the floor. The sheriff, realizing that, went over to the bar. If
someone had stood on the bar, then... he looked at the bar. It was dusty. There were no marks to show
that feet had ever trod the surface of the bar.
The bar was four and a half feet high. A six foot man, like Jason, standing on it would be about two feet
from the ceiling. A two foot jump, or just extending his arms upward, would give the man a hand hold on
the opening in the trap.
But the dust ruled that out.
Scrutinizing the room more closely, the sheriff understood the dust. It was everywhere. This room had
been young Archer's. Only too clearly it had remained untouched since that time over a year ago when
the War Department had sent the telegram that had spelled the end of all the Archer's plans for their son.
Only such a reason would account for the condition of this room. To a housekeeper of Mrs. Archer's
reputation, dust in any other room would have been as bad as the scarlet letter in colonial history.
Bending over, the sheriff could see two sets of foot prints. One set were his own, the others must be
those of the doctor. The sheriff followed the doctor's prints. They led to the center of the room. Clearly,
the doctor had stood there and looked about him. Then he had walked to each of the two windows and
looked at them. That done, he had walked to the Japanese box and... the sheriff looked at the box. The
doctor must have seated himself on the box while he tried to puzzle things out. There was no dust on the
top of the box.
From the box a set of foot prints led back to the door.
The killer, thought the sheriff, had not even come into this room! His examination was futile.
He closed the door behind him and walked out of the rumpus room; that room, dedicated to pleasure,
which now was a funeral memorial.
He went through the other two rooms on the floor. Here was proof of Mrs. Archer's housecleaning
proclivities. Not a speck of dust, not an article out of place. The rooms were like displays in a
department store window.
All the windows were locked and bolted on the inside. The sheriff walked heavily, favoring his game leg,
down the flight of stairs that led to the ground floor.
His men were busily at work. The corpse was gone. The photographer was finished with his work.
Discarded flash bulbs lay in a heap near the chair where the body had been.
His fingerprint man was busily pulling the insuflater that spread white powder all over Mrs. Archer's
polished furniture. Doc Ender sat with his little black bag between his feet in a corner out of the way. His
face was set. His eyes were closed. He looked tired and old.
The sheriff settled down into a chair next to the doctor. The doctor forced his eyes open. He said,
"Well?"
"There has been no one in the room that has the trap door but you and me."
"That's what I thought." The doctor eyed the sheriff. "What now?"
"The outside of the house, I suppose..." The sheriff turned to one of his men. "Looked around?"
The man, a heavy red faced middle aged man, said, "Yop."
"And?"
"There's a ladder next to the house behind the kitchen. It's just been painted today, I guess. The
weather's been clabberin' up for a storm. Been humid. Paint hasn't dried. No marks on the ladder."
It was late. The sheriff glanced at his watch. Two thirty. The storm, if it was coming, was in the stage
where it holds its breath, just before it blasts out. There was no sound. They might have been in some
hidden spot on the moon. There was a feeling of not being connected with the world. The small town,
usually quiet at night, was dead still.
And the dead are still, aren't they, the sheriff thought wearily— that's one of the few good things about
death. Aloud he said, "Any foot prints?"
"Some funny ones." The man scowled in perplexity. "Two feet from the ladder there are two smudges.
They've sunk about an inch into the loam around the house. It's fresh loam, they musta' been figuring on
seedin' the lawn. These two smudges, they're about a foot around and they're almost circular."
"That's all?"
"Umm..." The man scratched his head. Then he took a notebook out of his pocket and riffled the pages.
It seemed to aid thought. He said, "About a pace away from them two marks there's a crazy stone path.
Whatever made the marks coulda' stepped right on to the stones. Wouldn't a' left no marks on that."
"Where does the path lead?"
"You know these houses, it leads all around and then out on to the street."
"I see." The sheriff rumpled his hair. He gestured for his man to go. The doctor and the sheriff were alone
in the house where death had seemingly walked through solid walls and left no marks. None but those
two circular impressions in the soft dirt outside the house.
Doctor Ender said, "Sheriff Tennan..." His voice dribbled off, was lost in the silence that hung as
oppressively as the humidity.
"Yes, doc?"
"Is there anything I can do to help? You know how close I was to the Archers..."
"You're some sort of a relation, aren't you?"
"If you can call it that." The doctor smiled tiredly. "We were some kind of second cousins. I never did
figure it out. Old Thomas said something about it the first time I met him right after I moved to the
beautiful town of Harris."
"How long have you been here, doc?"
The doctor said, "I dunno. Seems like it's been forever... but it's only about four years, I guess."
"What did you do, before you came here?"
"Had a practice in another town just like this one. Name of Middletown. Why?"
"No reason, I just realized that you've become so much a part of the place that I'd forgotten you weren't
a native."
"I've always been a little flattered I was taken in so fast. You know how it is in some small towns. If
you're not born in them you're always a 'furriner'!"
"I guess your buying the drug store from old Calkins helped. You meet everybody in the store."
"Sure do." The doctor smiled. "You certainly find out all the dirt in town behind a drug store counter."
"It never occurred to me before, but I can see how you would."
The two men sat in companionable silence for a while, both busy with their own thoughts. The sheriff
moved first. He said, "This certainly isn't getting us anywhere. I'll leave a man here tonight. Not that this
killer is liable to return after what he has succeeded in doing."
"I wonder," said the doctor, "how the killer got in?"
The sheriff sat up sharply. He had been so occupied with the puzzle of how the murderer had made his
egress that the entrance had not occurred to him.
"That's right! How did the killer get in?" The sheriff rubbed his eyes as he got up. He lit a cigarette. He
held the match while the doctor stuffed his black briar pipe. He lit the pipe. Mrs. Archer had been in the
house with her husband before he was killed... she would know if anyone had come in... the way this
thing was stacking up it would seem that only Mrs. Archer could have killed her husband. The sheriff
snorted to himself. He must be tired to even have such an idea. He could no more picture that woman
sticking a knife in her husband than... than... he remembered a case he had been on only a month ago.
That tired grey little woman hadn't looked as if she could take an axe to her husband, and yet she had.
What's more, she had stuffed his remains in the furnace and burnt them... with the garbage...
How had the killer come into the house without Mrs. Archer knowing it and how could that killer, if one
existed, have gone out of a house in which all the doors and windows were locked on the inside?
It left but one person. The sheriff looked at the doctor. The same idea had evidently struck the doctor.
He said, "No... we must be wrong. Maybe... maybe tomorrow things will look different. Maybe you've
missed something. After all, it is late. We're tired."
The sheriff nodded. He turned out all the lights but one. He and the doctor walked to the door. His
deputy was standing guard there.
The sheriff said, "You go inside and take it easy. Don't fall asleep, though... or..."
The man said, "Sure thing, sheriff, thanks."
He went inside. The doctor, changing his grasp on his bag from his right to his left hand, said, "Look!"
They both looked up. The storm was breaking. Lightning lanced down from the clouds and embraced a
hill top not far from them. The doctor rubbed his head. "It was over there where the lightning just struck
that I saw whoever it was that played baseball with my skull."
"How does it feel?"
"Not too bad. I've got a splitting headache, but that's about all. Maybe that's why I've been having such
crazy ideas about... you know. About the widow."
The sheriff nodded. But he didn't have a headache even if the doctor did, and he could see no
alternative...
They got into their cars. The rain hit just as the sheriff stepped on the gas. At least he hadn't gotten wet.
His wife would be worried about him, he realized. She still wasn't used to his having to be out late at
night. He grinned to himself. No sense in phoning her. She might be asleep... still smiling, he drove off.
No, it wouldn't be a phone that would wake her.
After all, he had only been married two months.
In a way, it was too bad that the sheriff hadn't been married for twenty years. For if he had driven into
the center of town to phone, he might have seen a bizarre sight. And he might have heard an even more
bizarre sound.
Huddled in the rain, facing an angular stone, a dripping figure was bent over, hard at work. Muffled by
the pouring water that sluiced down, the figure was chipping at something.
The sound, that of a hammer on a chisel, was low.
It is doubtful that even if it hadn't been raining, the sound would have been heard ten feet away. As it
was, the sound died as it was born.
CHAPTER III
TEETERING as he walked along the edge of the fence, Bobby Crossen wondered why the days just
before vacation seemed so long. His books balanced precariously on his head, he walked the railing
pretending that he was the great, fearless tight rope walker, Don Daring... now there was a man. He
remembered sitting in the circus holding his breath watching the man walk that rope way up high in the
top of the circus tent. Last year, it had been, yet he remembered exactly how Daring had looked. Why
couldn't he remember his school lessons that well?
He put the horrid thought of school out of his mind, even though the school faced him at the end of the
railing he was walking. The rain was drying everything off. He wondered if maybe... suppose the rain
hadn't stopped this morning... suppose the rain hadn't stopped for forty days and forty nights like the time
Noah had to build that big boat. Would he have had to go to school anyhow?
He was at the end of the railing. Arms outstretched to give him balance, he had come to face with his
fate. There was the school. He looked at it and sighed. Even if it hadda rained for forty days, he thought,
they'd a had a school on the boat.
He jumped down to the wet grass. Sure, there'd been a school on the ark. And his teacher would have
been there. He thought, scowling with concentration that twisted his young face, on the boat he wouldn't
have been able ever to give his teacher the slip. How can you play hookey on a boat?
He grinned. Maybe it was better it hadn't rained for forty days. One thing left to do, only one thing and
then he'd have to walk across the street to school. He took out his handkerchief and spit on it.
This was a ritual. Like walking on all the cracks in the cement on the street. If he didn't do this, then
something awful would happen like being left back and having the same teacher next term.
Holding the handkerchief, he walked to the bronze tablet on which was inscribed a message that already
was little read. It said, 'Honor Roll.' That was way up on top, far over Bobby's head. Under this was a
list of names. At the bottom of the tablet it said, and Bobby could recite it better than the Gettysburg
address, "These are the honored dead, who, leaving the peaceful and fruitful pursuits of our town, gave
up their lives in foreign climes that freedom might not die."
The names were listed alphabetically and Bobby sometimes wished they weren't, for it meant that he had
to reach way over his head to polish his friend's name.
Bobby crumpled his handkerchief in his hand preparatory to rubbing his friend's name. That Tommy
Archer, what a swell guy! Not like some of the other big guys that gave you a push and told you to stop
hanging around. Nah... Tommy had always taken time out to talk to him.
Bobby sighed and looked up over his head. The name was gone.
Looking at it for a moment, the thought didn't strike home. Bobby was only ten and at ten the very
foundations of your world don't rock under your feet... not often, anyway. It had been bad enough when
the report came that Tommy was dead... but this...
The name was gone. Scars, bright in the sun, were all that remained of the name of Thomas Archer...
'who gave his life that freedom might not die.'
The marks of the chisel were deep.
If Bobby had been a little kid of... say nine, he might have cried, but he was all grown up now. Last year
he had cried... but men don't cry. Of course, it might have been saliva from the handkerchief that he
wiped across his eyes that left a glint on his cheeks. He snuffled, but then, he could have had a head cold.
Then he ran. He ran as if all the fears of adulthood had been made manifest in one awful jolt. He ran and
he ran as though he were trying to escape his destiny.
He ran so hard that he landed right in the center of three men. He bounced back and would have run on
if one of the men hadn't grabbed him.
The man said, "Bobby! What's wrong? You hurt?"
Bobby looked up. He wouldn't have said anything, he would have pulled free and run on if it hadn't been
young Sheriff Tennan who held him.
The sheriff was nice. Almost as nice as Tommy had been. Besides, the sheriff had been to war, too. He'd
know what to do about all this.
"The monument." Let it be stated that when Bobby spoke, he did not cry. The tears on his cheeks were
drying and somehow he had snuffled enough so that his voice was clear. "Somebody went and... and..."
He pointed at the memorial.
The sheriff walked over, still holding on to the boy. He looked and saw what the boy's quivering hand
was pointing at.
He swore, long and earnestly and that made the boy feel better. That was the way a man should act. Not
like a blubbering kid. When the sheriff had finished relieving his feelings, he said, "Thanks for telling me,
Bob."
Bob... not Bobby!
"You better get along to school now," the sheriff said.
Bobby nodded. Grownups always ended everything that way. But at least the sheriff would find out who
had done... who had chiseled... who had...
Bobby ran away. He did not run to school. He ran home. Then, and only then, safe in the cellar, in the
packing box that he had fitted up as a club room, he cried. He cried as if his heart would break. But he
had waited until there were no grownups to see him.
The sheriff looked all around him. He knew the scene as well as he knew his wife's face. Across the
street was the school. At the corner was the drug store. Up the street a little way past the grocery was
the town's only hotel. It was charitable to call the rooming house a hotel. Mrs. Hubbars did insist it was a
hotel even if the only transients were occasional salesmen. Past the 'Hotel' was the town pool room and
on the other side of it the bar. It was the other bar. The good one where the Rotary met was on the other
side of the monument. This bar, Teddy's, was just a bar. No luncheons, no speakers giving uplifting
cultural talks to the clubwomen in town, just a bar. The sheriff liked it.
The sheriff looked down the street toward the 'hotel'. By the Lord Harry, he thought. I did Mrs. Hubbars
wrong. She does have a transient.
He eyed the man who had just come out of the rooming house. Tall, rather distinguished looking, good
clothes, of a kind that the sheriff was more used to seeing on his infrequent trips to New York than here
in Harris; the man had an air.
摘要：

MURDERONMAINSTREETMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI?CHAPTERII?CHAPTERIII?CHAPTERIV?CHAPTERV?CHAPTERVI?CHAPTERVII?CHAPTERVIII?CHAPTERIX?CHAPTERX?CHAPTERXI?CHAPTERXII?CHAPTERXIIICHAPTERISTAGGERING,themanpickedhimselfup.Heshookhishead.Herantentativefing...

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