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“Brown.”
“Are you positive?”
“Certainly. Why?”
“Nothing, I couldn't remember it. We'll wait until Larry leaves the diner then do the same thing—you go on to the next stop, come back for me.”
The diner was a fancy chrome job at a road intersection, and seemed too imposing for the orange juice I ordered. I said I noticed Anderson's truck leaving, were these his oranges? The place wasn't busy and the counterman bent my ear explaining how all juices come canned these days and a what a great timesaver it was. I had to order another juice before I could turn the talk around to Pops. But he only knew Pops as Pops.
Jane returned to tell me Anderson was at a store a dozen miles away. At this store and the next one, as I stocked up on tobacco, and cigarettes for Jane, I found out nothing. One storekeeper was a newcomer, the other knew Pops, but had no idea of his last name. I was beginning to think the first storekeeper had been batty, when at a few minutes before eight we stopped at a small store outside Riverside, several minutes after Larry pulled out. The store was run by a skinny Jewish woman who insisted Pops' name was Robert Berger. When I started my polite argument about having a memory for names, she cut me off with: “Mister, I don't like to contradict a customer, especially you, for now I know the summer has started well, but on this I'm sure. Berger himself wanted it.”
“Wanted what?”
“When he was driving around with Larry, years ago, he personally asked me to cash his Social Security check. I remember, it was the first time I'd known the old man's same and I asked if he was Jewish—a name like Berger. He told me he was part Jewish on his mother's side. Tell you the truth, I admire Larry for being nice to the old man, all this time, even though they're of different religions. And every month Berger insists Larry bring his check here for me to cash,” she said, proudly—I thought.
“Doesn't he trust the End Harbor banks?” I cornballed.
“Berger doesn't want his business mixed up with Larry's. That's smart, I say.”
“I suppose so. Do you go into the Harbor to visit Berger often?”
“Me? Mister, I'm lucky to have time to read a book. My husband takes care of the chickens, I run the store, and any free time we have isn't for visiting—we rest.”
“This Anderson certainly sounds like a good soul. Does he have many old men living with him?”
“Look, he isn't running a hotel. Just Pops Berger, and believe me if others looked after their old workers the way Larry does, this would be a better world.”
I said it would; wanted to add it would be a world full of cemeteries.
Anderson made a fast stop in Riverside and Jane told me, “Now he'll go home, leave his truck, and take out the mail for an hour. Shall we follow his mail route?”
“No, that would be too obvious, a store is a public place, a home isn't. Let me talk to the guy in tins Riverside store.”
I bought some bacon and eggs and learned nothing—the storekeeper vaguely remembered Pops—but as Pops.
Back in the car I asked Jane. “How often do you go to these little villages we've stopped at?”
“Never. I don't know anybody there.”
“Do the people in these villages, the storekeepers, do they come to End Harbor much?”
“Of course not. They might go into Riverside or Patchogue at times, to the bigger stores, once in a while. Like on Christmas. What's the bacon and eggs for?”
“I had to buy something. Thought we might have breakfast at your place, then pick up Anderson when he starts on his route again.”
“Worried about taking me into a restaurant?”
I heaved the package of eggs and bacon out the open window. She stopped the car, got out and pulled the drippy package of bacon from the mess, wrapped it in the remains of the paper bag, slid back in the car. As we drove on she said, “Waste is stupid.”
“So was that crack of yours. Stop at any diner or restaurant you wish.”
“I'd rather make us breakfast,” she said. And I didn't make any remarks about understanding women—even to myself.
We put away a healthy snack of blueberry pancakes and coffee, although I'd eaten so much junk at the stores I had to force myself. When we finished she said, “You look tired, lay down while I do the dishes.”
I said I was okay, helped dry the few dishes. She didn't talk for a time, then she asked, “Well, do you think we're getting anyplace?”
“Yeah. I'm not absolutely sure yet, but I think we've stumbled on the key to the whole mess.”
“You still believe Pops has run away? Do you know where he is?”
“I think Pops is dead.”
She spun away from the sink, her hands falling to her side. Even her braid jumped. “Dead?”
“Maybe murdered.”
“What did we see today that could possibly make you think that? I mean, I can't believe it. Pops murdered, why it's—”
I said, “I don't actually know how he died. Could be Barnes killed him. Or....”
“That's crazy!”
“Miss Endin, I said I wasn't sure yet. Until I am, let's not argue about it. I don't want to blow holes into a half-formed idea.”
“All right.”
The surprising thing was she didn't talk about it again. At ten o'clock we started shadowing Anderson once more. His route took him all the way out to Montauk. After a time I didn't bother to stop at all the stores Larry serviced —the pattern was easy to follow: Social Security checks under various names, eight that I'd been able to find, were cashed each month but always at a store twenty or thirty miles away from the other. Although Hudon hadn't been among the names.
At a few minutes after three we were back in Jane's home, and Anderson's truck was in his garage. Jane insisted upon fixing lunch and I told her, “I'm sure of the motive now. Anderson and Pops had a Social Security racket going for them. Pops was getting checks under eight different names, besides his own, and maybe more that we haven't found out. Anderson has the perfect set-up for cashing them, the storekeepers, miles apart, who know Pops under his various names. In fact, Pops himself cashed the checks when he was working, then Larry took it from there when the old gay retired. As you said, there's little chance of the store owners meeting each other, checking on Pops' names.”
“Where did Edward fit into this?”
“Here's what I think: Larry was away that. Sunday night. The doc got a call from Jerry and then Nelson dropped in to find out about his old buddy, who'd sent him a card from End Harbor. Now, as Barnes was about to leave he got another call—from the 'old goat.' That had to be Pops, who must have felt sick—or maybe Larry was threatening him, over what I don't know, but you can never tell when the crooks will fall out. The point is, I think, the doc found Pops dead and Larry then killed Barnes.”
“But why? I can't believe he'd kill Edward.”
“If I'm right, he not only killed him but did it up the street, so you'd be blamed.”
“Me?”
“Of course, you should have been the number one suspect, But Larry didn't know about Jerry yelling at the doc.
Jerry was picked up instead and of course it didn't matter to Anderson.”
“But suppose Pops is—did—die? He was an old man, why kill Edward?”
“Way I see it, Larry wanted to continue this Social Security racket and for that he had to have a live old man. Once the word went around Pops was dead, he couldn't cash any more checks, no matter what names he used. Let's say Pops had a heart attack and Barnes got there before Larry—Anderson had to think fast, if he killed Barnes and kept up the line that Pops was sick, but still alive, his racket could continue for another few months, or years. Even if he supposedly sent Pops to a sanatorium out of the Harbor, he could have Pops lingering for another year or so, keep on cashing the checks. My idea is Anderson had to think fast, so he switched the devil for the witch, as the old saying goes, killed Barnes.”
Jane sat on a kitchen chair hard, seemed to fall down on it. She lit a cigarette. “I still can't believe it. This sixty dollars a month, or whatever you get on Social Security, is that worth killing for?”
“I think you can get from thirty dollars to about one hundred and sixty dollars a month, depending on how high your salary was. Let's take an average, say each man was getting ninety dollars a month, and keep to the eight cases we know about—that's seven hundred and twenty dollars a month, over eight grand a year. If they've been doing it for, well, ten years, that adds up to over $80,000. So it wasn't any penny ante scheme. And you see how it all fits—explains Anderson's ready money—not enough dough to shout about, but to quietly repair the house, buy a new truck, pay bills quickly. He undoubtedly has a bundle hidden some place.”
“I don't know, Mr. Lund, I simply can't believe it. For one thing, how would Pops be eligible for all these checks under different names? He couldn't have held jobs under those names for any length of time. I mean, he's always worked in and around the Harbor.”
“Wait up, Jane, you still don't get it. Remember, if Larry did kill Barnes, then it had to be a hell of a cold-blooded killing, for Barnes was his good friend and Anderson was murdering merely to continue his racket for another few months, or a year. But then it would take a cool killer to strangle my cat, to shoot a dog, and certainly to gun Nelson. Know what makes a cold-blooded killer? Only one thing: practice!”
“I still don't.... What are you getting at?”
“The perfect deal he and Pops had. Larry's place is on the edge of town, surrounded by high trees. You told me Pops sometimes had friends, other old men, out at the house. Did you, or anybody else, ever see any of them leave?”
“But I'd hardly know when they came or went. His house is out of the way and....” She suddenly froze, her mouth wide open with horror.
“I walked across his ground on Monday, came in unexpectedly from the bay, and he threw a gun at me and Andy. Know why? We were walking on his private cemetery!”
“Eight murders?”
“At least. Ever read about the Bluebeard killings—the French guy who married a score of widows and killed them for their money? This is the same idea, but using men.”
I felt so excited I got up and started walking around the kitchen. Jane kept following me with her eyes, her long face sickly. Finally she said, “But to... to... kill so many...?”
“After they knocked off one man... you know the line: they could only get the chair once. I don't know how they lured the old men to the farm, but I can make a damn good guess,” I said, talking aloud to myself, to get things straight in my own mind. “Here's Larry, a single man in a small town. He can't marry—a wife would get on to his racket. Okay, he's young and healthy, must see a woman some place. Has plenty of time on his hands, especially after the summer months. Suppose he drives into Jamaica, New York, Long Beach, hangs around bars to pick up babes. Okay, during the years he also has met a lot of lonely old men hanging around the bars. Be a snap to strike up a beer conversation, find eight who are not only getting Social Security, but who are alone in the world. Larry sells them on his big house in the country, maybe Pops goes along on these recruiting jobs, asks the other old guy to come out and keep him company, all for free. When did Larry's mother die?”
“In 1943.” Jane whispered.
“They've had well over a dozen years to take their time, pick at least eight victims. They lure an oldtimer out and once he starts getting his checks, a matter of weeks, they knock him off. Who would know? No relatives, and the guy probably sticks to the grounds for the first few weeks. So a Social Security check for a... Robert Berger keeps coming promptly every month. Pops has already set up the storekeeper, in this case the one near Riverside, to cash it for him—and keep cashing them. Except for Pops dying this racket could have gone on for years, in almost perfect safety.”
“Somehow I still can't believe it. Doesn't the Social Security board ever check to see if a person is still living?”
“Frankly I don't know. I think a person has to file a yearly report if they continue working. Seems to me the earnings can't be above a certain figure. I'll find out. But in this case the men weren't working, so the only way Washington would know they had died would be when the checks were returned, the envelopes marked DECEASED, and... Lord, Lord!”
“What is it?” Jane asked, sitting up.
“Merely thinking what a really perfect deal Larry has— he's the postman! I'm sure on the first of every month, or whenever the checks are due, little Larry is in the post office early, boxing up the mail like mad—making sure nobody notices the checks, taking them out when he starts delivering the mail. Of course, that explains Nelson's death.”
“I'm bewildered. What does it explain?”
“Now listen: Nelson's story—according to Roberts— was that an old buddy of his had sent him a card from the Harbor. This guy named Hudon. Nelson assumes he's living here, perhaps he'd said so on the card. I'll bet folding money this Hudon was one of the old men killed on Anderson's place, only he got the card off without their knowing it. Okay, Nelson happens to come East, decides to look up his friend. No Hudon. He went to Barnes because his pal Hudon was sickly and Barnes is the only doc. Barnes can't help him, he never heard of Hudon. Nelson asks Roberts, the police chief, who also isn't any help. But who would Roberts send Nelson to, who of all people in the Harbor would know if a man named Hudon had ever lived here? Anderson the mailman!” I pounded the table like a debater, delighted with myself.
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