The Big Book of Reel Murders Read online

  On the green grass, in the shade perhaps thirty feet away, there lay in death a small brown-and-white dog.

  The judge’s luncheon guest observed all this. When the judge drew near, there was a lessening of the noise. Judge Kittinger said, “This is Freddy Titus, isn’t it? Mr. Matlin? What’s happened?”

  The man’s head jerked. “I,” he said, “did nothing to the dog. Why would I trouble to hurt the boy’s dog? I try—you know this, Judge—I try to live in peace here. But these kids are terrors! They’ve made this block a perfect hell for me and my family.” The man’s voice shook. “My wife, who is not strong…My step-daughter, who is a cripple…These kids are no better than a slum gang. They are vicious! That boy rang my bell and attacked…! I’ll have him up for assault! I…”

  The judge’s face was old ivory and he was aloof behind it.

  On the porch a girl pushed past the woman in the chair, a girl who walked with a lurching gait.

  Mike Russell asked, quietly, “Why do the boys say it was you, Mr. Matlin, who hurt the dog?”

  The kids chorused. “He’s an ole mean…” “He’s a nut…” “Just because…” “…took Clive’s hat and…” “…chases us…” “…tries to put everything on us.” “…told my mother lies…” “…just because…”

  He is our enemy, they were saying; he is our enemy.

  “They…” began Matlin, his throat thick with anger.

  “Hold it a minute.” The second cop, the thin one, walked toward where the dog was lying.

  “Somebody,” said Mike Russell in a low voice, “must do something for the boy.”

  The judge looked down at the frantic child. He said, gently, “I am as sorry as I can be, Freddy.” But in his old heart there was too much known, and too many little dogs he remembered that had already died, and even if he were as sorry as he could be, he couldn’t be sorry enough. The boy’s eyes turned, rejected, returned. To the enemy.

  Russell moved near the woman in blue, who pertained to this boy somehow. “His mother?”

  “His folks are away. I’m there to take care of him,” she snapped, as if she felt herself put upon by a crisis she had not contracted to face.

  “Can they be reached?”

  “No,” she said decisively.

  The young man put his stranger’s hand on the boy’s rigid little shoulder. But he too was rejected. Freddy’s eyes, brilliant with hatred, clung to the enemy. Hatred doesn’t cry.

  “Listen,” said the tall cop, “if you could hang onto him for a minute—”

  “Not I,” said Russell.

  The thin cop came back. “Looks like the dog got poison. When was he found?”

  “Just now,” the kids said.

  “Where? There?”

  “Up Hannibal Street. Right on the edge of ole Matlin’s back lot.”

  “Edge of my lot!” Matlin’s color freshened again. “On the sidewalk, why don’t you say? Why don’t you tell the truth?”

  “We are! We don’t tell lies!”

  “Quiet, you guys,” the cop said. “Pipe down, now.”

  “Heaven’s my witness, I wasn’t even here!” cried Matlin. “I played nine holes of golf today. I didn’t get home until…May?” he called over his shoulder. “What time did I come in?”

  The girl on the porch came slowly down, moving awkwardly on her uneven legs. She was in her twenties, no child. Nor was she a woman. She said in a blurting manner, “About three o’clock, Daddy Earl. But the dog was dead.”

  “What’s that, miss?”

  “This is my step-daughter.”

  “The dog was dead,” the girl said, “before he came home. I saw it from upstairs, before three o’clock. Lying by the sidewalk.”

  “You drove in from Hannibal Street, Mr. Matlin? Looks like you’d have seen the dog.”

  Matlin said with nervous thoughtfulness, “I don’t know. My mind…Yes, I…”

  “He’s telling a lie!”

  “Freddy!”

  “Listen to that,” said May Matlin, “will you?”

  “She’s a liar, too!”

  The cop shook Freddy. Mr. Matlin made a sound of helpless exasperation. He said to the girl, “Go keep your mother inside, May.” He raised his arm as if to wave. “It’s all right, honey,” he called to the woman in the chair, with a false cheeriness that grated on the ear. “There’s nothing to worry about now.”

  Freddy’s jaw shifted and young Russell’s watching eyes winced. The girl began to lurch back to the house.

  “It was my wife who put in the call,” Matlin said. “After all, they were on me like a pack of wolves. Now, I—I understand that the boy’s upset. But all the same, he cannot…He must learn…I will not have…I have enough to contend with, without this malice, this unwarranted antagonism, this persecution.”

  Freddy’s eyes were unwinking.

  “It has got to stop!” said Matlin almost hysterically.

  “Yes,” murmured Mike Russell, “I should think so.” Judge Kittinger’s white head, nodding, agreed.

  “We’ve heard about quite a few dog-poisoning cases over the line in Redfern,” said the thin cop with professional calm. “None here.”

  The man in the shorts hitched them up, looking shocked. “Who’d do a thing like that?”

  A boy said, boldly, “Ole Matlin would.” He had an underslung jaw and wore spectacles on his snug nose. “I’m Phil Bourchard,” he said to the cop. He had courage.

  “We jist know,” said another. “I’m Ernie Allen.” Partisanship radiated from his whole thin body. “Ole Matlin doesn’t want anybody on his ole property.”

  “Sure.” “He doesn’t want anybody on his ole property.” “It was ole Matlin.”

  “It was. It was,” said Freddy Titus.

  “Freddy,” said the housekeeper in blue, “now, you better be still. I’ll tell your Dad.” It was a meaningless fumble for control. The boy didn’t even hear it.

  Judge Kittinger tried, patiently. “You can’t accuse without cause, Freddy.”

  “Bones didn’t hurt his ole property. Bones wouldn’t hurt anything. Ole Matlin did it.”

  “You lying little devil!”

  “He’s a liar!”

  The cop gave Freddy another shake. “You kids found him, eh?”

  “We were up at Bourchard’s and were going down to the Titus house.”

  “And he was dead,” said Freddy.

  “I know nothing about it,” said Matlin icily. “Nothing at all.”

  The cop, standing between, said wearily, “Any of you people see what coulda happened?”

  “I was sitting in my backyard,” said the man in shorts. “I’m Daugherty, next door, up Hannibal Street. Didn’t see a thing.”

  The small woman in a print dress spoke up. “I am Mrs. Page. I live across on the corner, Officer. I believe I did see a strange man go into Mr. Matlin’s driveway this morning.”

  “When was this, ma’am?”

  “About eleven o’clock. He was poorly dressed. He walked up the drive and around the garage.”

  “Didn’t go to the house?”

  “No. He was only there a minute. I believe he was carrying something. He was rather furtive. And very poorly dressed, almost like a tramp.”

  There was a certain relaxing among the elders. “Ah, the tramp,” said Mike Russell. “The good old reliable tramp. Are you sure, Mrs. Page? It’s very unlikely.”

  But she bristled. “Do you think I am lying?”

  Russell’s lips parted, but he felt the judge’s hand on his arm. “This is my guest, Mr. Russell…Freddy.” The judge’s voice was gentle. “Let him go, Officer. I’m sure he understands, now. Mr. Matlin was not even at home, Freddy. It’s possible that this—er—stranger…Or it may have been an accident.”

  “Wasn’t a tramp. Wasn
’t an accident.”

  “You can’t know that, boy,” said the judge, somewhat sharply. Freddy said nothing. As the officer slowly released his grasp, the boy took a free step backwards, and the other boys surged to surround him. There stood the enemy, the monster who killed and lied, and the grownups with their reasonable doubts were on the monster’s side. But the boys knew what Freddy knew. They stood together.

  “Somebody,” murmured the judge’s guest, “somebody’s got to help the boy.” And the judge sighed.

  The cops went up Hannibal Street towards Matlin’s back lot, with Mr. Daugherty. Matlin lingered at the corner talking to Mrs. Page. In the front window of Matlin’s house the curtain fell across the glass.

  Mike Russell sidled up to the housekeeper. “Any uncles or aunts here in town? A grandmother?”

  “No,” she said, shortly.

  “Brothers or sisters, Mrs….?”

  “Miz Somers. No, he’s the only one. Only reason they didn’t take him along was it’s the last week of school and he didn’t want to miss.”

  Mike Russell’s brown eyes suggested the soft texture of velvet, and they were deeply distressed. She slid away from their appeal. “He’ll just have to take it, I guess, like everybody else,” Mrs. Somers said. “These things happen.”

  He was listening intently. “Don’t you care for dogs?”

  “I don’t mind a dog,” she said. She arched her neck. She was going to call to the boy.

  “Wait. Tell me, does the family go to church? Is there a pastor or a priest who knows the boy?”

  “They don’t go, far as I ever saw.” She looked at him as if he were an eccentric.

  “Then school. He has a teacher. What grade?”

  “Sixth grade,” she said. “Miss Dana. Oh, he’ll be okay.” Her voice grew loud, to reach the boy and hint to him. “He’s a big boy.”

  Russell said, desperately, “Is there no way to telephone his parents?”

  “They’re on the road. They’ll be in some time tomorrow. That’s all I know.” She was annoyed. “I’ll take care of him. That’s why I’m here.” She raised her voice and this time it was arch and seductive. “Freddy, better come wash your face. I know where there’s some chocolate cookies.”

  The velvet left the young man’s eyes. Hard as buttons, they gazed for a moment at the woman. Then he whipped around and left her. He walked over to where the kids had drifted, near the little dead creature on the grass. He said softly, “Bones had his own doctor, Freddy? Tell me his name?” The boy’s eyes flickered. “We must know what it was that he took. A doctor can tell. I think his own doctor would be best, don’t you?”

  The boy nodded, mumbled a name, an address. That Russell mastered the name and the numbers, asking for no repetition, was a sign of his concern. Besides, it was this young man’s quality—that he listened. “May I take him, Freddy? I have a car. We ought to have a blanket,” he added softly, “a soft, clean blanket.”

  “I got one, Freddy….” “My mother’d let me…”

  “I can get one,” Freddy said brusquely. They wheeled, almost in formation.

  Mrs. Somers frowned. “You must let them take a blanket,” Russell warned her, and his eyes were cold.

  “I will explain to Mrs. Titus,” said the judge quickly.

  “Quite a fuss,” she said, and tossed her head and crossed the road.

  Russell gave the judge a quick, nervous grin. He walked to the returning cops. “You’ll want to run tests, I suppose? Can the dog’s own vet do it?”

  “Certainly. Humane officer will have to be in charge. But that’s what the vet’ll want.”

  “I’ll take the dog, then. Any traces up there?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Will you explain to the boy that you are investigating?”

  “Well, you know how these things go.” The cop’s feet shuffled. “Humane officer does what he can. Probably Monday, after we identify the poison, he’ll check the drug stores. Usually, if it is a cranky neighbor, he has already put in a complaint about the dog. This Matlin says he never did. The humane officer will get on it Monday. He’s out of town today. The devil of these cases, we can’t prove a thing, usually. You get an idea who it was, maybe you can scare him. It’s a misdemeanor all right. Never heard of a conviction myself.”

  “But will you explain to the boy…?” Russell stopped, chewed his lip, and the judge sighed.

  “Yeah, it’s tough on a kid,” the cop said.

  * * *

  —

  When the judge’s guest came back it was nearly five o’clock. He said, “I came to say goodbye, sir, and to thank you for the…” But his mind wasn’t on the sentence and he lost it and looked up.

  The judge’s eyes were affectionate. “Worried?”

  “Judge, sir,” the young man said, “must they feed him? Where, sir, in this classy neighborhood is there an understanding woman’s heart? I herded them to that Mrs. Allen. But she winced, sir, and she diverted them. She didn’t want to deal with tragedy, didn’t want to think about it. She offered cakes and cokes and games.”

  “But my dear boy…”

  “What do they teach the kids these days, judge? To turn away? Put something in your stomach. Take a drink. Play a game. Don’t weep for your dead. Just skip it, think about something else.”

  “I’m afraid the boy’s alone,” the judge said gently, “but it’s only for the night.” His voice was melodious. “Can’t be sheltered from grief when it comes. None of us can.”

  “Excuse me, sir, but I wish he would grieve. I wish he would bawl his heart out. Wash out that black hate. I ought to go home. None of my concern. It’s a woman’s job.” He moved and his hand went toward the phone. “He has a teacher. I can’t help feeling concerned, sir. May I try?”

  The judge said, “Of course, Mike,” and he put his brittle old bones into a chair.

  Mike Russell pried the number out of the Board of Education. “Miss Lillian Dana? My name is Russell. You know a boy named Freddy Titus?”

  “Oh, yes. He’s in my class.” The voice was pleasing.

  “Miss Dana, there is trouble. You know Judge Kittinger’s house? Could you come there?”

  “What is the trouble?”

  “Freddy’s little dog is dead of poison. I’m afraid Freddy is in a bad state. There is no one to help him. His folks are away. The woman taking care of him,” Mike’s careful explanatory sentences burst into indignation, “has no more sympathetic imagination than a broken clothes pole.” He heard a little gasp. “I’d like to help him, Miss Dana, but I’m a man and a stranger, and the judge…” He paused.

  “…is old,” said the judge in his chair.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” the voice on the phone said slowly. “Freddy’s a wonderful boy.”

  “You are his friend?”

  “Yes, we are friends.”

  “Then could you come? You see, we’ve got to get a terrible idea out of his head. He thinks a man across the street poisoned his dog on purpose. Miss Dana, he has no doubt! And he doesn’t cry.” She gasped again. “Greenwood Lane,” he said, “and Hannibal Street—the southeast corner.”

  She said, “I’ll come. I have a car. I’ll come as soon as I can.”

  Russell turned and caught the judge biting his lips. “Am I making too much of this, sir?” he inquired humbly.

  “I don’t like the boy’s stubborn conviction.” The judge’s voice was dry and clear. “Any more than you do. I agree that he must be brought to understand. But…” the old man shifted in the chair. “Of course, the man, Matlin, is a fool, Mike. There is something solemn and silly about him that makes him fair game. He’s unfortunate. He married a widow with a crippled child, and no sooner were they married than she collapsed. And he’s not well off. He’s encumbered with that enormous house.”

  “What d
oes he do, sir?”

  “He’s a photographer. Oh, he struggles, tries his best, and all that; but with such tension, Mike. That poor misshapen girl over there tries to keep the house; devoted to her mother. Matlin works hard, is devoted, too. And yet the sum comes out in petty strife, nerves, quarrels, uproar. And certainly it cannot be necessary to feud with children.”

  “The kids have done their share of that, I’ll bet,” mused Mike. “The kids are delighted—a neighborhood ogre, to add the fine flavor of menace. A focus for mischief. An enemy.”

  “True enough.” The judge sighed.

  “So the myth is made. No rumor about ole Matlin loses anything in the telling. I can see it’s been built up. You don’t knock it down in a day.”

  “No,” said the judge uneasily. He got up from the chair.

  The young man rubbed his dark head. “I don’t like it, sir. We don’t know what’s in the kids’ minds, or who their heroes are. There is only the gang. What do you suppose it advises?”

  “What could it advise, after all?” said the judge crisply. “This isn’t the slums, whatever Matlin says.” He went nervously to the window. He fiddled with the shade pull. He said, suddenly, “From my little summerhouse in the backyard you can overhear the gang. They congregate under that oak. Go and eavesdrop, Mike.”

  The young man snapped to attention. “Yes, sir.”

  “I…think we had better know,” said the judge, a trifle sheepishly.

  * * *

  —

  The kids sat under the oak, in a grassy hollow. Freddy was the core. His face was tight. His eyes never left off watching the house of the enemy. The others watched him, or hung their heads, or watched their own brown hands play with the grass.

  They were not chattering. There hung about them a heavy, sullen silence, heavy with a sense of tragedy, sullen with a sense of wrong, and from time to time one voice or another would fling out a pronouncement which would sink into the silence, thickening its ugliness.

  * * *