Chapter 8
As we walked up to the G-top entrance, the officer on duty smothered a yawn, then forced a lazy "Good morning," to the sheriff and to me.
"Long night, eh lad?" Johnson said to him.
The officer yawned again.
"It's a living, Sheriff," he replied wearily.
When we entered the tent, Deputy Nickles and two officers were seated at the poker table and had a pile of papers spread out in front of them. Another policeman was stationed at the rear of the tent.
There was a charged atmosphere hovering over the tent. The carnies seemed to be avoiding conversation among themselves. Some of them just sat, staring at nothing in particular, others paced up and down, eyeing each other with suspicion.
All eyes turned toward us, filled with open hostility, as though we, personally, were responsible for the murders.
We went over to the table. Sheriff Johnson picked up the pile of papers and riffled through them.
"We got anything, Deputy?" he asked.
"I'm afraid not, Sheriff, unless . ." the deputy replied, with a sour look.
He motioned for the sheriff to bend over, then he whispered in his ear. "Besides the electrician, two other bozos had wire-cutters on them."
The sheriff's voice was very low. "Was Red Swank one of the bozos who had wire-cutters?"
"Yeah, Sheriff, but how did you know?" the deputy asked, in a surprised tone.
As I lit a cigarette, I was all ears. The sheriff moved away from the table, the papers in his hand.
His voice filled the tent as he growled, "I'm going to let you people open tonight. I promised Sam Grass the show could go on. He, in turn, has made himself personally responsible for all of you. He has agreed to see that none of you leaves the premises. However, just to be even more sure, four officers will continue on duty, too, until the murderer is caught. You can all leave now. To the innocent, I can only apologize for this imposition."
As the carnies filed out, I studied their faces. A mixture of feelings was plainly evident: exasperation, anger, suspicion, insolence, and predominant, a feeling of mass belligerence.
As Red Swank filed by with the rest, the sheriff grabbed his arm, restraining him.
"I have several more questions to ask you," he said.
Red scowled savagely, and a muscle in his cheek jerked.
The sheriff walked over to the table and motioned Red to join him. He aimed a finger at me.
"Come on, Donlona sit in on this," he offered. I walked over and sat down, regarding Red quizzically.
The sheriff tossed the papers on the table, then turned to the deputy and smiled. "You can knock off, Nickles."
He nodded toward the two policemen, standing by the table. "You boys can leave, too. Stop by the station and send out your relief."
Then he tilted back in his chair, and the look he sent Red was as sharp as a scalpel.
"You had a pair of wire-cutters on you when my men searched you, didn't you?" he said, accusingly.
Red gave a surly grunt.
"Sure, I had wire-cutters on me. Since when is that a crime?" he answered, vehemently.
Sheriff Johnson leaned toward him. "Don't be evasive, Red. You know the importance of those wire-cutters, just the same as I do."
His gaze narrowed. "Do you always carry wire-cutters?"
I had to give the old boy credit. He was like a bulldog when he clamped onto an idea that he guessed could mean something.
"No, I don't always carry them, but tonight one of my joint's light stringers burnt in half," Red replied, heatedly. "Blackie, the electrician, wasn't around so I got my wire-cutters and fixed it myself."
"Sort of convenient, your having trouble with your lights tonight of all nights, wasn't it?" the sheriff asked, mildly.
It was clear he was trying to goad Red into what might be a revealing outburst.
Red audibly expelled a deep breath. "Convenient be damned! I don't like your nasty insinuations. I didn't kill anyone, and I sure as hell don't relish this browbeating you're giving me!"
The sheriff reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the newspaper we had found in Pierre's trailer. He folded it over to the suicide article and handed it to Red. He was pressing every advantage in as short a time as possible.
"Would you like to explain this item, please?" He emphasized the please.
Red hesitated, then grabbed the paper from the sheriff's hand. He obviously was disturbed. As he looked over the paper, all color seemed to drain from his face. He gulped, then caught his breath, fighting desperately to regain control of his emotions.
The sheriff's inquisitive eyes were exuberant. I, too, was encouraged by Red's reaction.
Red stared at me, then at the sheriff, panic showing in his eyes.
"Laura Swank was my first wife," he said. "She was very young and very gullible, and a little on the neurotic side, prone to fits of depression. I was just getting started, financially, and I had to leave her alone a lot. Sheik got to her. She was a pretty little thing. It wasn't enough that he carried on an affair with her-the bastard turned her out on heroin, and she got hooked. After that she was a confirmed junkie, so he finally ditched her. There was nothing left then but the junk. She loved the rat, and she couldn't face life without him, so she committed suicide by taking an overjolt. But things like this don't matter to guys like Sheik."
"So you killed Sheik for revenge, then Pierre, because he knew too much! That's what happened, isn't it, Red?"
"No, you thick-headed flatfoot!" Red yelled in angry defiance. "You're way off the track. I'm not a killer. Don't try to pin any of those crimes on me! I'm not about to cop a plea."
The sheriff took a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, ripped it open angrily, fumbled for a cigarette, and lit it, his hand trembling. He inhaled deeply, giving me a questioning look.
Then he took up where he had left off with Red Swank. "You're a damned liar. I think you did it."
Red's features froze in a sullen mask. "I had nothing to do with it. If you're looking for a scapegoat, look somewhere else."
"Just the same, I'm placing you under arrest on suspicion of murder."
"I have nothing to hide. Go ahead, make a fool of yourself whi'e the real murderer gets away." Red tried to sound brave, but he turned pale.
"Want to tag along?" Johnson asked me.
"Sure, why not? The more the merrier."
It wasn't my first ride in a police car, and it was fairly clear that Red wasn't being initiated, either. I sat in front with the deputy. Sheriff Johnson ordered Red to get in back and to sit on a bench.
The Sheriff said nothing at all during the ride. The silence grew oppressive. I re-created the two murders in my mind. Was Red Swank guilty? He did have a motive, and good reason to hate Sheik O'Dea, but why kill Pierre?
Was Pierre blackmailing him? And who else could have a motive strong enough to impel him to kill? Dimples O'Dea, Clem, Francis, Celeste, Hedy, Sleepy, Hank, the bearded lady? Who-who? My mind switched abruptly from suspect to suspect like a bee buzzing from flower to flower for the elusive honey.
The sign on the door read, Sheriffs Office. We pushed it open and entered, after a twenty-minute ride. The office was located on the west side of the Pottsville Police Headquarters Building, and the lock-up ran the length of the east side of the building. We walked through the front office where the clerical work was handled, then into Johnson's inner office.
Deputy Nickles joined our parade, bringing up the rear.
Johnson closed the door, telling Nickles to summon a stenographer. He asked Swank to take the chair beside his desk.
I leaned against the wall, waiting patiently for him to go to work.
Nickles returned with the stenographer, and she sat at the other side of the sheriff's desk. I expected Red Swank to ask permission to call a lawyer, or to ask someone to make the call for him. But he just sat there, his eyes, inquisitive, not uttering a word.
As the sheriff started to question Red Swank, Nickles moved off to one side of Swank's chair.
"Where were you when Sheik O'Dea was shot?
Red gave him a glance of pure hatred, and his response was sullen. "I told you that when Sheik was killed, copper."
The sheriff said, with sarcasm, "Humor me, Red. Tell me again."
"In my house trailer," Red answered.
"Where were you tonight, when Pierre was killed?"
"In front of my concession."
"How did you get along with Pierre?"
"I talked to him, once in a while. I didn't particularly like him, but I sure didn't dislike him enough to kill him."
The sheriff stood up, and walked over to the window. He stood staring outside, with his fingers interlaced behind his back.
He whirled about, facing Red, and aimed a finger at him. "Why did you shoot Sheik?"
Red exclaimed wearily, "Do I have to tell you again? I didn't kill Sheik!"
The sheriff walked back behind his desk and sat down. He gave me a sly wink, then faced Red, intent on breaking him down.
"Did you talk to Pierre today?" he asked.
"No."
"You saw him today though, didn't you?"
"Yes. He was walking down the Midway."
"Did you kill Sheik O'Dea?" The sheriff was a firm believer in repetition.
No." Red obviously was just as firm a believer in his own kind of repetition.
Johnson switched abruptly to pseudo heartiness. "Come on now, Red, you admitted that you knew Sheik O'Dea years ago when you both were working another show. You have admitted that he was directly responsible for the suicide death of your first wife. You must have bitterly hated him all this time. Now why don't you tell us the truth? It's pretty hard to believe you're innocent, considering all the circumstances. You can understand that, can't you?"
His attitude, his tone were cajoling.
Red sat stony-faced, grimly silent.
Sheriff Johnson leaped from his chair abruptly, ran around his desk, poked his finger under Red's nose, and yelled, "You killed him, didn't you?"
"No I didn't, I tell you. No, no, no, no."
"This guy has to be lying, Johnson. Nobody else had anywhere near as strong a motive," the deputy broke in.
I thought someone should see that the sheriff was nominated an Academy Award. His acting deserved an Oscar; he could have given any star in Hollywood some stiff competition.
He paced up and down in front of Red's chair, studying the poor trapped kook with narrowed eyes.
Red squirmed uncomfortably, his fingers beating a light, nervous tattoo on the arm of the chair.
The sheriff finally stopped facing and stood in front of Red.
"Well, what about it, Red? Are you going to come clean now?" he asked patiently.
"I didn't kill anybody."
The sheriff shoved his face clear up to Red's. "Who committed the killings if you didn't?"
"I don't know," Red answered, curtly. "That's your job, not mine."
The sheriff pursued his questioning with more vigor. "Come on now, you must know something. Did anyone else have any reason to kill Sheik O'Dea or Pierre?"
"I don't know. How should I know?"
"Look, Red, if you do know something, don't keep saying you don't. Tell us. Surely, you must have heard some talk on the Midway. Now what did you hear?"
"I didn't hear anything."
"What about that paper that Pierre had hidden. It was all about your wife's suicide. You knew he had it. He told you. You killed him because he knew you were a murderer, and because he was trying to shake you down. Didn't you?"
"I didn't kill anyone. I didn't even know about the paper. Maybe Pierre was saving the paper to blackmail me with, but he hadn't approached me about it."
The sheriff frowned, then he snapped his fingers.
"But you did know about the paper!" he shouted. "So you killed Pierre, as sure as I'm standing here."
He stepped back from Red's chair, lit a cigarette, and whirled, facing his victim. "Just why did you kill him, Red? Was it hate, fear ... what?"
His line of questioning was begining to sound like a broken record.
"I didn't!" Red shouted back.
The sheriff removed his coat. His shirt was plastered to his back with sweat. He took out a big bandana and mopped at his forehead. His shirt sleeves, under the armpits, were circles with perspiration.
"Go get me some ice water ... lots of it!" he ordered Nickles.
As the deputy went to get the ice water, he asked me, "You want some, Donlon?"
"No, thanks," I said, dryly. "I don't want to rust my pipes."
The sheriff eyed Red with distaste. His eyes were thoughtful as he paced up and down, waiting until the deputy came back with a pitcher of ice water and a glass. He placed the pitcher and the glass on the desk and poured the water, handing the glass to Johnson. The sheriff put the glass to his lips, finishing the water in one thristy gulp.
He then turned to Red with a half humorous grimace, but there was determination in his voice. "Quit stalling, Red. Why did you kill Sheik O'Dea?"
Red's eyes held a glazed, strained look as he said helplessly, "I'm going to tell you, Sheriff, why I didn't kill Sheik O'Dea. I'll admit that, if Sheik hadn't sneaked away at the time of my wife's death, I would have killed him. However, he did, and I did not see him for several years."
He paused and made a choking sound, while nervously rubbing his forehead with his fingertips. He spoke again in a low voice, apparently oblivious to everything about him.
"I know my story sounds phony, but during the time I didn't see Sheik, I had ample opportunity to think, and for the pain to lessen. I reconciled myself to just hating him. Not the wild murderous hatred I had felt at the time of my wife's suicide, but one buried deep, like the contempt one has for parasites, thieves, and murderers, that you don't know or are not personally involved with. Then I met my present wife, Irene, and in our love for each other, I learned to forget. My hatred dimmed to a mere dislike and repugnance."
His eyes had misted over. For a moment, I believed him.
The sheriff was losing his patience. "Rubbish! I never cared for bedtime stories, even when I was a kid."
He chewed his lower Up in irritation, then turned to me. "What do you think, Steve?"
"Hell! I don't know, Sheriff. He could be our man, but if he didn't commit the murders, who did?"
As though he had forgotten about Swank, the Sheriff swung about, facing him, and asked, "Where's your .32, Red? Do you still stick to the story that it was stolen?"
"Yes, it was stolen. That's the truth!"
"Sounds phony as hell!" The sheriff scoffed.
"Phony or not, that's my story. I'm not going to talk any more until I see a lawyer. I didn't kill anyone, and you can't prove I did so I refuse to answer any more questions."
"Are you telling the truth, Swank?" I asked.
Red glanced in my direction. "Yes, I am. And if you have any sense, you'll go get the real killer instead of staying here listening to this jackass questioning me."
Johnson's face reddened at the insult. "Lock the character up," he commanded his deputy.
Nickels obliged. He ushered Red to a cell.
After they had gone, I asked, "What now, sheriff?"
Johnson considered my question, then expelled a loud sigh. "I think we've got our man. But I'm going to do some more checking, just in case. I know I lost my temper, but the guy didn't break down, and he could be telling the truth. I'm going to requestion all the show people again. In the meantime, if it's Red, we've got him under lock and key."
When Nickles returned, the sheriff told him to drive me home. He said he had a lot of unfinished work to do in the office, and that he would meet him on the show lot, later.
When I got back to the motel and opened the door, I found the lights on. That was odd for I didn't remember leaving them on. And that was when I spotted Lorette sitting on the sofa with her legs drawn up. She gave me a slow smile.
"Oh, Steve, I thought you would never get back. Did they arrest my brother?"
It took me a moment to get over the surprise of finding her in my motel room. Then I answered her.
"The Sheriff is holding him on suspicion of murder," I said . "But what are you doing here? And where's Sam?"
She twisted a small handkerchief in her hand. "I told him I was coming over to find out what happened to Red. We called the sheriff's office but we couldn't get any information."
She looked and sounded extremely worried.
"It looks bad for Red unless we can come up with a more likely suspect," I explained as I sank down on the sofa beside her.
She moved, stretching her legs from under her and met my eyes with a direct, quizzical expression. "There's really not much of anything we can do to help, is there?"
She moved closer to me. Her perfume was making me dizzy.
I draped one arm around her shoulder, thinking that if she wanted to play, she had found the right playmate. The blouse she wore was cut so low, I wouldn't have been surprised to see her breasts pop right out.She lit two cigarettes, handing me one. The touch of her fingers was like an electric schock.
She restlessly squashed her cigarette out on the floor after only a couple of puffs, then she pressed closer to me. Her arms went around my chest, pulling me toward her, and our lips met. It was a heat wave, and I forgot everything, but how my temperature was rising. As her moist parted lips pressed mine, her tongue explored feverishly. Her perfume made my senses whirl. I could feel every nerve in my body glow hot, like the turned-high coils in an electric oven. I crushed her tighter. She groaned, sinking her teeth in my lower lip.
"Easy, baby. I might need that later," I said.
I got free of her lips and started kissing her throat. She was as fierce as a tigress. She strained as close as it was possible to get, clawing and biting. I was certain to have battle scars, but anything to accommodate a client's wife.
We clinched again, our lips meeting in searing passion.
"Now!" I demanded, trying to bend her backwards, down on the sofa.
She wrenched away from me, panting, trembling all over.
"If you want it as bad as I do, wrestle me for it," she said, stripping off her clothes.
Sam must be a better man than I gave him credit for, to be able to handle this little animal at all, I though as I made a grab for her.
She was too fast, too elusive. She peeled off one item of clothing after another, tossing each one at me.
I chased her around the motel room until she was naked. I was getting desperate when I finally cornered her in the bathroom.
By then, she was through playing games. With utter abandonment, she leaped on me and I tripped backwards, falling to the floor.
She still was with me. Oh well, I thought, the floor is a good a place as any.
She stayed on top. I could feel her legs spread, then the softness, the heat move to right where I wanted it.
As she opened up and guided me in, I moaned in sheer sensuous glory. Man, was I ready!
She sat the pace and it couldn't have been better. Shock wave followed shock wave, each a hotter, wilder thrill than the one before.
I could feel the rug burn against my back, but I was too gone to care. When the big heat wave came, searing our whimpering selves together, I forgot everything but luscious, lustful pleasure.