The Nothing Man Read online

“Let me ask you,” I said.

  “You mean you ain’t heard the news yet? I figured the boys at the Courier would be keepin’ you—”

  “I’ve heard, but it doesn’t look like something yet. It looks like the old giant economy-size frammis. The old hoop-tee-do with a full year’s supply of hot air. Any minute now you’ll be announcing that you expect to make an arrest within twenty-four hours.”

  “Uh-uh. It’s going to take me a little longer than that.”

  “Why should it? I can spot you fifty medium-sized, heavy-set guys of no specific age or coloring in five minutes.”

  “Pally”—he gave me a placating tap on the arm—“you sit right down there, huh? That’s the keed. Now, you’re still sore, ain’t you? I jumped you last night. I tried to push you around, and—”

  “And you got pushed around,” I said. “And I’m not sore.”

  “I’m apologizin’, Brownie. Let a guy apologize, won’t you? I was all wrong, and whatever you handed me I had comin’. Jesus, I’d have been sore myself. A guy’s wife gets killed, and the first he hears about it someone’s tryin’ to pin it on him.”

  “All right.” I sighed. “I was sore. You’ve apologized. Now, all is forgiven and we love one another like brothers.”

  “You ain’t just a-woofin’, keed!” He nodded firmly. “Jesus, it almost makes me shiver when I think how I almost missed out on this. And I would have missed out on it if it hadn’t been for you. If you hadn’t’ve thrown the old hooks into me, I—”

  “What have you got?” I said. “Just, by God, what have you got, anyway? Nothing. A bum crawls under those cottages to get out of the rain and—”

  “Huh-uh. A bum with good shoes and a full suit of clothes? Huh-uh. Anyway, you don’t find no bums over on the island. It takes a buck to get over and back on the ferry, and there ain’t nothin’ over there for them without dough.”

  “So it wasn’t a bum, then. Just some guy who’d had too much to drink.”

  “That I’ll buy. He—Now, wait a minute, keed.” He held up a hand. “Let me give you the whole picture. You got a right to know and I’m goin’ to give it to you. But under the hat, get me? I don’t want to tip the guy off.”

  “You mean you picked up some fingerprints?”

  “Fingerprints? What gave you that idea?”

  “Nothing. Go on,” I said.

  “First of all—well, we done it last but I’ll give it to you first—we raked the island from one end to the other. We went over that place with a—uh—”

  “Fine-tooth comb?”

  “Yeah, a fine-tooth comb, and we didn’t turn the guy up, so we know he came over on this side. Okay. Now, get this. The ferry didn’t begin running until ten-thirty last night; it didn’t start back here with a load until ten-thirty. Then it didn’t make another run until one in the morning, when it made its last trip of the day. Well, that last trip—”

  “Let’s skip the last one,” I said. “The roundup was on by that time. The passengers were all checked and cleared before they were allowed to get on board.”

  “Right. Right on the nose. So that put our boy on the ten-thirty ferry.…Now, wait a minute, keed. I know what you’re going to say: There was plenty of people waitin’ to get back to this side, two hundred and four of ’em according to the ferry receipts, and you’re going to say that stops us. But it don’t, Brownie. It don’t make it nearly as tough as it sounds. First you rule the women out. Then you rule out the couples. That cuts the total down to maybe sixty or seventy, just the stags.”

  “Which is still,” I said, “no small number of people.”

  “Did I say no? But it don’t look so tough no more, does it? Let me give you the rest of it.…We checked the hotels. The guy didn’t show at any of ’em. We checked on the buses and trains. He didn’t leave town. We checked the bay-side parking lots. He didn’t pick up a car—”

  “He could still have had one. He could have parked on the street.”

  “Not near the ferry, not unless he wanted to walk three blocks. And a guy on a party wouldn’t do that to save four bits.…That leaves us the streetcars and taxicabs. The streetcars—well, that’s kind of a toughie. We got to work from the fare zones, maybe check out whole neighborhoods. I say we got to, but I don’t think we actually will. The guy’s soaking wet. Everyone on the ferry was. He wouldn’t want to screw around with no streetcars. I figure—”

  “What about walking?”

  “Well”—Stukey frowned grudgingly—“maybe. But it ain’t very likely. It was pouring down rain. He’d be afraid of being picked up.…No, I think the taxis is where we’ll get him. O’ course, he probably didn’t get out right at his house. And maybe he didn’t go home right away. But—”

  “In other words,” I said, “if you check everyone in Pacific City, you may find him.”

  “Now, it ain’t that bad,” he protested. “It’s going to take some time, sure, but we can do it.”

  “And after you do, then what? What have you got?”

  “I got a killer. I got a guy that’s got some goddamned tall explaining to do if he ain’t a killer.”

  “And you’ll have some to do. You’re asking for it, Stukey. You’re setting yourself up for the town’s number one horse’s ass.”

  He looked at me, puzzled. Still looking at me, he took out a cigar and lighted it, took a slow, thoughtful puff.

  “I guess I don’t dig you, keed. We been knockin’ ourselves out on this. I thought you’d be tickled pink.”

  “Well”—I forced a laugh—“I appreciate it, of course, but if it doesn’t lead to anything…You said yourself the guy was probably some drunk.”

  “He probably had a load on. It’s pretty hard to hang around the island without taking on a load. But bein’ drunk don’t make him innocent; it’s a hell of a lot more likely to make it the other way. A crazy killing like this, it’s just the kind of a thing—”

  “But there’s so damned many loose ends, Stuke. The poem and—well—”

  “So what? We just forget him because we can’t dope it all out?”

  “No, of course not. But—”

  “Yeah?” His head was cocked to one side; his voice was a little too smooth. “Is that what you’re sayin’, pal? You want us to lay off the only hot lead we got?”

  I laughed again, making it sound fretful and tired and jibing. “I guess I’m just not my usual cheery self today, Stuke. I’m not thinking like a Courier man. My ass is dragging, and the compass is pointing south.”

  “Well, sure. I can understand that. But—”

  “Frankly,” I said, “I think that seeing you engaged in honest work has thrown me into a state of shock. You have stunned me, Stuke. Such industry, such brilliance in one whose chief activity heretofore has been—”

  He grinned, chuckled, and the puzzled look went out of his eyes. “That’s the old keed. That’s the old Brownie boy.…All foolin’ aside, though, pal, I’m doin’ all right, huh? You got any suggestions, you just say so.”

  “I wouldn’t think of giving you any,” I said. “You’re doing too well by yourself.” I meant every word of it. I didn’t have the slightest doubt that he would catch the guy.

  He hooked his thumbs in his vest, trying to suppress a smirk of pleasure. “I got a hunch on this one, keed. I’d lay a case against a cork that he’s our killer.”

  “Maybe. You may be right. But I imagine you’ll have a hard time proving it.”

  “Huh-uh. A guy like that wouldn’t be a pro. He wouldn’t make you prove it. All we got to do is grab him and sweat him, and he’ll cave in like a whore’s mattress.”

  “That sweating,” I said. “I would be very, very careful about that, Stuke.”

  “Am I crazy?” He leaned forward earnestly. “I got a plateful of gravy, and I spit in it? Not me, pal. Strictly legit, that’s me. You put me on the right track, and I’m ridin’ it clean to the end of the line. Incidentally, Brownie—”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ll see
that you get the story first. You personally. I’ll keep the guy under wraps

  until—”

  “You don’t need to do that,” I said.

  “Don’t need to? Hell, ain’t we pals? Didn’t you—” He broke off abruptly, blinking at me. Then his lips stretched in a slow, surprised grin. “Well, say, now! I—”

  “That’s right. If you get this man and if he is the killer, you can write your own ticket, right on up to and including county judge. I couldn’t stand in your way if I wanted to.”

  He was in a generous mood. Moreover, I suspect, he was not at all sure that I wouldn’t be of use to him. So he declared that purely out of friendship he would still see that I got first crack at the story. “Just because I love you, keed. But don’t let out nothin’ I told you this morning. If the killer got wind of it, it might blow the whole deal.”

  “I won’t tell a soul,” I promised. “In fact, it has suddenly dawned on me that I don’t know any souls.”

  He snickered and said that was the keed, the old Brownie boy.

  “Do you know any souls, Stuke? They don’t have to be anything fancy. Just a good old-fashioned soul who would like to go steady with a badly frazzled id.”

  “The keed,” he said, a trifle impatiently. “The ol’ Brownie boy. Be seein’ you, pal.”

  I left the police station and bought a fifth of whisky. Then I headed my car toward Tom Judge’s house.

  He lived in the corner house of a block-long double row of identical structures, all four rooms, all painted brown, all tar-paper-roofed with a little tin chimney near the back and another up front. Back when I was a youngster, and not a very young youngster, we called these affairs shotgun houses, and they rented for about twelve dollars a month. Tom’s rent was ninety-five, which was just a little less than half his take-home pay.

  The phone was ringing as I stepped upon the porch, and dimly, apparently in the rear of the house, a baby was crying. I knocked and the crying stopped abruptly. Then, after a moment or two, the ringing stopped also.

  I knocked again, long and loudly. I tried to open the screen. It was locked. The shades at the window and door were drawn. I leaned back against the porch rail, opened the bottle, and slugged down a stiff one.

  It was the first drink I’d had since my morning patrol and it refreshed me wonderfully. I bought two more and then, of course, accepted one on the house. I left the porch, walked around to the rear, and pounded on the back door.

  The baby cried again. For a split second. Otherwise silence.

  I took a drink. I drew back my foot and kicked the door as hard as I could. It flew open and I walked in.

  10

  Mrs. Judge was standing in a corner near the stove, holding the baby to her breast. She wasn’t twenty-five, I knew, but she looked ten years older. Flat-chested, unhealthily fat through the hips, thin-necked. You don’t live very high on the hog when you’re married to a semi-incompetent reporter on a small-city newspaper. You age fast.

  Her face was made up, her hair was in curlers, and both jobs had obviously been done in a hurry. She looked at me trembling, wide-eyed. I gave her a reassuring smile and looked at Tom.

  An open trunk stood on the kitchen floor. He had been packing it, and he was still holding an armful of clothing. Slowly he let it drop, and his mouth opened and closed silently.

  “Going somewhere?” I asked.

  “N-No. N-No, Brownie.” He gulped and shook his head. “J-Just s-storing a f-few—”

  He wanted to act sore; he knew he should. But he just wasn’t up to it. He looked haunted, as gray-pale as a sheet of copy paper.

  “I—I—” He gulped again. “I heard about your wife, Brownie. M-Midge and I h-heard it over the radio, and I’m s-sure s-sor—”

  “Easy,” I said. “Just take it real easy. You’ve not been particularly fond of me. The feeling has been reciprocated. But this is a friendly visit. Now, how about a drink?”

  “I—I d-don’t—”

  I uncapped the bottle and pushed it at him. “Take it,” I said. “Take a big one.”

  “You take it, Tom.” Mrs. Judge spoke for the first time, giving me a half-defiant look. “Tom doesn’t drink much. He’s not used to drinking. He—he-he—”

  “I know,” I said. “Your drink, Tom.”

  He almost snatched the bottle from my hands. He tilted it thirstily, gagged and shivered, and thrust it back at me. A little—a very little—of his usual belligerent assertiveness returned.

  “Well, Brownie”—he hiccuped—“I know you’re probably upset about your wife, but that’s no reason to—”

  “Friendly,” I said. “I said it, and I meant it. I’m here to ask you some questions and give you some answers.”

  “Yeah? You are, huh? What makes you think—?”

  “Maybe you don’t want to. But I think you’d better listen before you make up your mind.”

  He hesitated, looked at his wife. Her eyes moved to my face and her lips began to tremble. “He’s good,” she said. “Y-You—he’s told me about you! He t-tries so hard, h-he works twice as hard as you do, a-and—all you can do is make fun of him! H-He—I—it’s your fault! Y-You can p-play around and everything is s-so easy for you, and h-he—”

  “No,” I said. “No, it isn’t easy for me, Mrs. Judge.”

  “It is! He told me how it is! You make fun of him because it’s easy for you and—and you can blow in all your money on yourself, and all he can do is—is—” Her voice broke and she began to sob.

  Tom said, “Midge, honey. You shouldn’t—”

  I said, “It’s all right. I understand how Mrs. Judge feels; I think I understand how you’ve felt. But I’m trying to be your friend now.”

  She brushed her nose against her arm and gave the baby a little pat. She looked from me to him and nodded. “You talk to him, Tom. You take another drink.”

  Then she shuffled out of the room and elbowed the door shut behind her. I sat down at the table and he sank down across from me. I had a drink. I waited until he had taken one.

  “All right,” I said. “Here’s the first question. My wife called the office yesterday afternoon. You talked to her. What was the substance of your conversation?”

  “W-What—what makes you think—?”

  “She always called as soon as she got in town. She didn’t talk to anyone else or they’d have told me about it. Your desk is right across from mine. You’d have answered my phone.”

  “B-But—but I’m not always there!”

  “She’d have kept ringing until she got an answer. And if she hadn’t got one she’d have called the city desk.”

  He stared down at the cracked oilcloth of the table, his fingers fumbling at the pocket of his shirt. I took out my cigarettes, put one in his mouth, and held a match for him.

  “I’m not sore, Tom,” I said. “If I were sore I wouldn’t be sitting here. And you wouldn’t be either—very long.”

  “W-What?” His head snapped up. “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. But let’s take it from the beginning. You talked to her. You got her to give you the number of her cottage. Then you told her I was gone for the day, and you suggested something to the effect that you would be happy to take my place.”

  His dull, chubby face reddened and he spread his hands. “Brownie, I—I—Christ, what can I say?”

  “It’s all right. You behaved quite normally. You haven’t had much of what passes for good times. No later than yesterday morning I’d called you a lousy newspaperman and a son-of-a-bitch. Why not put one over on me through the pleasant medium of laying my wife?”

  He shook his head miserably. “Brownie, it—that’s not quite—”

  “It’s close enough. What did she say to the proposition?”

  “Well…she didn’t really say anything. She just sort of laughed.”

  “And you construed that as an invitation? Go on.”

  “Go—go on?”

  “Spill it. Tell me all. Go and on.
A phrase meaning to proceed.”

  I felt sorry for him, responsible for him. But he didn’t need to make it twice as tough as it was by acting like a Piltdown moron.

  “You went over to the island,” I said. “Take it from there and keep going.”

  “I…well, I went over around four. A little after four, I guess it was. A little while before the storm started. It was still light then, of course, and I didn’t want to—to go down there yet, so I stopped in a bar. I had a couple of drinks and—”

  “Did you see anyone you knew?”

  “Huh-uh. I mean, I don’t think there was anyone there that knew me. I didn’t talk to anyone or…Well, it started raining, pouring down, but drinks were awfully high in there and someone said the ferry had stopped running and I didn’t know quite what to do. I’d been kind of nerving myself up. I’d got to thinking about how crazy this was—me with a wife and kid, and you, a guy I worked with—how it might get me in all kinds of trouble. And—and I’d just about decided to drop it. I mean it, Brownie! If the ferry had been running or if I’d had enough dough to hang around there in the bar, I—Jesus, Jesus! Why couldn’t it have been that way? Why—”

  “I wonder,” I said. “Go on, Tom.”

  “There wasn’t anything else to do, so I did it. I bought a fifth at the bar—tequila, the cheapest thing they had. Then I went down to her cottage. I figured we’d—we, we’d just drink and talk and as soon as the storm was over…All right, all right”—he paused and sighed—“go ahead and laugh.”

  “That was a grimace,” I said, “of unadulterated pain.”

  “Yeah? Well, anyway, I guess you know what happened. She wouldn’t let me in. She bawled hell out of me, said I’d taken a hell of a lot for granted, and slammed the door in my face. I—God, Brownie, it wasn’t right! If she hadn’t wanted me to come, she ought to have said so. She shouldn’t have laughed and acted like, well, it would be all right.”

  “Very few of us,” I said, “behave as well as we should. Perhaps you’ve noticed that…I take it that, having no other refuge, you retired beneath the cottages?”

  “Yeah, hell. What a mess. Soaking wet and damned near broke, and I had to lay under there like a goddamned rat or something. Couldn’t even sit up straight, and it wasn’t a hell of a lot dryer under there than it was outside. I kept crawling around, trying to find a dry spot. I guess most of those places were empty but there was one—well, you could hear the bed going up and down, and then the people getting up and going to the bathroom and—and—and me under there like a rat. Like a goddamned drowned rat. You—I guess it wouldn’t have meant anything to you, Brownie. But—hell, what difference does it make? I opened up the tequila and started hitting it. I kept pouring it down, I was so damned miserable and wet and…All at once I went out like a light. It was just like something had hit me over the head.