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Authors: Dell Shannon
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yard," he told Hackett and Palliser. "This is Mrs. Coffman,
she found him and called in."
She was, they saw instantly, ghoulishly and gleefully
pleased at her role in the affair. She was about fifty, neither fat
nor thin, round-faced, dowdily dressed in blouse and skirt and
run-over flat oxfords. Her pale-blue eyes glittered at them pleasedly
as Waring mentioned their names.
"Pleased to meet you, I'm sure. The house was
unlocked so I just called from there. I never had such a shock in my
life."
If that was so, she'd gotten over it fast. "You
see, how it was, he owed me twenty dollars. I came in and cleaned for
him when he couldn't stand it any longer—how that man hated to part
with money. I'd been here on Wednesday afternoon doing the windows
and such, and when he got home he said he hadn't been to the bank,
he'd pay me later. I dropped into the store to remind him—"
"What store?" asked Palliser.
"He had a pharmacy on Alvarado. He was a
pharmacist. And yesterday he said if I dropped by today he'd pay me.
That man. The bank charges for checks, he didn't like to use them.
Just putting it off—a real miser he was—but he always paid in the
end. And when he didn't answer the bell, I naturally figured he was
in the back yard, he was quite a gardener, always working out there,
about his only interest—so I went down the drive and there he was.
Dead," she said enjoyably. "A11 bashed around—somebody
had it in for him good."
Hackett exchanged a glance with Waring. "All
right, Mrs. Coffman, if you wouldn't mind waiting a few minutes we
may want to ask you some questions."
“ I don't mind at all."
They went down the narrow drive. The house was an old
frame bungalow painted white with green trim, very neat. There was
about twelve feet between its side and, across the drive, the next
house, which was a stucco pseudo-Spanish crackerbox. There wasn't a
sound but their footsteps down the cracked-cement drive. The lot was
probably the usual fifty by a hundred and fifty. At the end of the
drive was a single frame garage, door open, with an old Ford sedan in
it. Between garage and the back of the house was a white picket fence
with a gate in it. The gate was open.
The
back yard, perhaps forty by ninety feet, had been laid out as a
garden of sorts, but not with flowers and shrubs; it consisted of
neat rows with labeled stakes here and there. There was already a
little stand of green corn, and Hackett recognized the lacy tops of
carrots, that was about all. The body was sprawled out just in front
of the rows of corn. They went closer and looked at it.
It was the body of a man somewhere in his fifties, a
thin stringy-necked man wearing ragged old trousers and a dirty white
shirt. He had a bald spot on top of his head. And he had obviously
sustained a savage beating, and died of it. His face was heavily
bruised and battered, his nose mashed to one side, and there were
darkening bruises on his bare arms, undoubtedly a lot more on the
body.
Hackett bent and felt him. "Cold. It didn't just
happen. Four or five hours maybe."
"Doesn't look as if there'll be anything for the
lab, but you never know."
"We do have to go by the rules." The man
had apparently been weeding the garden; there was a long-handled hoe
half under the body, nothing else around. But the encounter had, also
obviously, happened right here; there were a lot of scuff marks in
the loosened soil, several plants uprooted and wilting, some blood
spatters, what looked like a knocked-out tooth.
"It's funny," said Palliser, "that
nobody found him before. Right out in the open." He looked at
the house next door. On that side of the driveway there was a low
cement-block wall marking the property line. They could see into a
neat back yard with a strip of lawn, flower beds, a garage at the
other side. In the other direction, there was another white picket
fence, and the next back yard was not nearly so neat: a half-hearted
attempt at a lawn, and children's toys
yard," he told Hackett and Palliser. "This is Mrs. Coffman,
she found him and called in."
She was, they saw instantly, ghoulishly and gleefully
pleased at her role in the affair. She was about fifty, neither fat
nor thin, round-faced, dowdily dressed in blouse and skirt and
run-over flat oxfords. Her pale-blue eyes glittered at them pleasedly
as Waring mentioned their names.
"Pleased to meet you, I'm sure. The house was
unlocked so I just called from there. I never had such a shock in my
life."
If that was so, she'd gotten over it fast. "You
see, how it was, he owed me twenty dollars. I came in and cleaned for
him when he couldn't stand it any longer—how that man hated to part
with money. I'd been here on Wednesday afternoon doing the windows
and such, and when he got home he said he hadn't been to the bank,
he'd pay me later. I dropped into the store to remind him—"
"What store?" asked Palliser.
"He had a pharmacy on Alvarado. He was a
pharmacist. And yesterday he said if I dropped by today he'd pay me.
That man. The bank charges for checks, he didn't like to use them.
Just putting it off—a real miser he was—but he always paid in the
end. And when he didn't answer the bell, I naturally figured he was
in the back yard, he was quite a gardener, always working out there,
about his only interest—so I went down the drive and there he was.
Dead," she said enjoyably. "A11 bashed around—somebody
had it in for him good."
Hackett exchanged a glance with Waring. "All
right, Mrs. Coffman, if you wouldn't mind waiting a few minutes we
may want to ask you some questions."
“ I don't mind at all."
They went down the narrow drive. The house was an old
frame bungalow painted white with green trim, very neat. There was
about twelve feet between its side and, across the drive, the next
house, which was a stucco pseudo-Spanish crackerbox. There wasn't a
sound but their footsteps down the cracked-cement drive. The lot was
probably the usual fifty by a hundred and fifty. At the end of the
drive was a single frame garage, door open, with an old Ford sedan in
it. Between garage and the back of the house was a white picket fence
with a gate in it. The gate was open.
The
back yard, perhaps forty by ninety feet, had been laid out as a
garden of sorts, but not with flowers and shrubs; it consisted of
neat rows with labeled stakes here and there. There was already a
little stand of green corn, and Hackett recognized the lacy tops of
carrots, that was about all. The body was sprawled out just in front
of the rows of corn. They went closer and looked at it.
It was the body of a man somewhere in his fifties, a
thin stringy-necked man wearing ragged old trousers and a dirty white
shirt. He had a bald spot on top of his head. And he had obviously
sustained a savage beating, and died of it. His face was heavily
bruised and battered, his nose mashed to one side, and there were
darkening bruises on his bare arms, undoubtedly a lot more on the
body.
Hackett bent and felt him. "Cold. It didn't just
happen. Four or five hours maybe."
"Doesn't look as if there'll be anything for the
lab, but you never know."
"We do have to go by the rules." The man
had apparently been weeding the garden; there was a long-handled hoe
half under the body, nothing else around. But the encounter had, also
obviously, happened right here; there were a lot of scuff marks in
the loosened soil, several plants uprooted and wilting, some blood
spatters, what looked like a knocked-out tooth.
"It's funny," said Palliser, "that
nobody found him before. Right out in the open." He looked at
the house next door. On that side of the driveway there was a low
cement-block wall marking the property line. They could see into a
neat back yard with a strip of lawn, flower beds, a garage at the
other side. In the other direction, there was another white picket
fence, and the next back yard was not nearly so neat: a half-hearted
attempt at a lawn, and children's toys
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