A Dead Man's Tale Page 4

  “I quite agree, Chief Parris.” Samuel Reed nodded with vigor. “And if you do not wish to accept my assistance in preventing a homicide, that is certainly your prerogative. I will detain you no longer from your urgent official duties, not the least of which is chasing after some slope-browed misfit who is bent on vandalizing local real estate with a crowbar.”

  Reed was putting the handsome hat on his head when the bulldog cop bristled and barked, “Siddown!”

  Standing ramrod straight, the professor of physics assumed the role of grade-school teacher addressing a slow-witted seven-year-old. “Let us be clear about something, Mr. Parris. You do not intimidate me. Not in the least. One more snappish order to sit and you will see the back of me!”

  Oh boy, this’ll be good. Moon helped himself to another handful of peanuts. Munch-munch.

  Sam Reed and Scott Parris stood eyeball-to-eyeball.

  The dapper dandy stroked his neatly clipped mustache.

  The brawny ex-Chicago cop glowered. Ground his bicuspids.

  The clock on the wall ticked.

  Something had to give.

  The wall clock tocked.

  Charlie Moon was enjoying the face-off. My money’s on Mr. Fancy Pants.

  Parris blinked. “Now what’s all this bull-hockey about a homicide?”

  Raising his nose in the air, the visitor twirled the fancy walking stick. “If you wish to question me in a civilized manner, I am prepared to cooperate. Otherwise, I advise you not to waste your onion-scented breath—or my precious time.”

  Parris directed his why-me-lord expression at the ceiling fan.

  From somewhere up there…Why not?

  “Well?” Reed rapped his stick on Parris’s desk.

  “I apologize for snapping at you.” The defeated chief of police collapsed into his chair. “And I’m sorry as all get-out that I’m not civilized enough to suit the likes of you.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “In about an hour, I’ll have my second meeting today with the town council, where a half-dozen halfwits elected by a collection of village idiots is gonna tell me I’ve got to figure out a way to run my department with a thirty percent budget cut.” He shot a bitter look at the annoying visitor. “But excuse me for bothering you with my piddlin’ little problems. Please feel free to sit down—or stand on your head if it’d make you more comfortable—and tell me anything that happens to pop into your so-called mind about a potential homicide.”

  “Thank you. Though somewhat lacking in sincerity, your apology is accepted.” Sam Reed cleared his throat. “And please accept my sincerest regrets for referring to your fetid breath.” The entrepreneur seated himself. “Now that we have cleared the air, I trust that there will be no further unpleasantness.”

  “My sentiments exactly.” The chief of police managed a toothy smile that suggested a bad-tempered alligator about to pounce on an unwary mallard. “I promise to put you on my Christmas-card list, and I hope…I mean to say I’d consider it fortuitous if you’d drop by my place some evening for crumpets and tea.”

  “Ah!” Reed clapped his gloved hands. “You have more wit than I gave you credit for.” But not much more. He assumed a painfully sober expression. “Modesty compels me to confess that one of my few failings is this—I have a regrettable tendency to underestimate my inferiors.”

  Parris’s face reddened like an overripe tomato.

  Moon choked on a peanut.

  Seemingly oblivious to these impacts of his confession, the modest man addressed the affronted chief of police. “Are you prepared to accept a challenge which will radically alter the course of our tightly intertwined destinies?”

  The disgruntled lawman had no ready reply.

  Samuel Reed was smugness personified. “Ah, I see by your semiconscious expression that you fairly salivate at the thought of a stimulating adventure.”

  Scott Parris cocked his head as if to say, I’m listening.

  Charlie Moon was too.

  Also the raven on the windowsill.

  Chapter Seven

  “He had wasted and pined ’til o’er his brow

  Death’s shades were slowly gathering now

  He thought of home and loved ones nigh,

  As the cowboys gathered to see him die.”

  Professor Reed’s Peculiar Proposition

  Samuel Reed removed his calfskin gloves with exaggerated care, aligned them palm-to-palm (suggesting disembodied hands in prayer), and placed them on the lawman’s desk. “Chief Parris, I propose a wager.”

  The magic word? You bet.

  Scott Parris’s pulse rate picked up.

  Charlie Moon’s ears pricked up

  “Make that a once-in-a-lifetime wager.” Reed’s eyes sparkled at Parris. “Here’s the deal. I will provide you with pertinent information about a homicide which certain unsavory ‘person or persons unknown’ will attempt within your jurisdiction. Now for the good part—” He paused and cupped a hand to his ear. “What was that—did you fellows hear something?”

  Parris shook his head.

  Charlie Moon smiled.

  “Egad—there it goes again.” Reed put his hand in his jacket pocket. “Well bless my soul, boys, it’s true—money does talk! At this very moment, my chatty little bankroll—an intimate friend whom I refer to as Miss Lucre—is attempting to make herself heard.” He removed a banded cylinder of banknotes and addressed the currency thusly: “You have rudely interrupted my conversation with the chief constable, Miss L. Please have your say and be done with it.” He placed the currency close to his ear. “Ah, yes. Would you mind repeating that for Mr. Parris?” He extended the cash money over the lawman’s desk, and with no discernible movement of Reed’s lips, a shrill, little-girl voice said, “‘This hick copper could not prevent a jaywalking if he was informed about it a month in advance.’”

  “How dare you insult our honorable chief of police!” Reed glared at the discourteous bankroll. “Now apologize this very instant.”

  “I will not!” Miss Lucre squeaked. “That doughnut muncher could not find a felon if the malefactor was delivered to him in a laundry bag.”

  “That does it.” Reed shook his head. “You shall be punished for your insolence—and most severely. But do not think that I shall invest you in dodgy municipal bonds or deposit you in a Nigerian National Bank savings account at ten-thousand-percent interest. No such lenient chastisement awaits you, Miss Lucre. I shall dispose of you in an utterly absurd wager which I have no chance whatever of winning.”

  The greenbacks shrieked, “Oh, the horror! Please—anything but that!”

  Moon laughed out loud.

  Despite a lingering sting of chagrin, Parris could not suppress a grin.

  Gratified by this response, Reed proceeded with his performance by addressing Scott Parris: “Am I talking even money? Check the blank by ‘NOT A CHANCE.’ I am an obscenely wealthy man and a bodacious high roller. Why, if I smoked Havana cigars, I would light those stogies with hundred-dollar bills.”

  Parris eyed the annoying citizen.

  “Don’t think you can fool me with that blank expression. You’re just dying to know the odds.”

  The chief of police did not deny this assertion.

  “Would I propose a mere two to one that you cannot prevent the homicide I have in mind? Hah! Such a mediocre proposition would be unworthy of a man of my caliber.” Samuel Reed beamed upon the butt of Miss Lucre’s insults. “I propose ten to one!”

  Scoot Parris blinked.

  Charlie Moon too.

  “Yes, Chief Constable Parris—you heard me correctly. You slap down a hundred dollars on the barrelhead, I will see you with a thousand happy clams. You hock your creaky boots, tattered hat, and scuffed saddle down at Pinky Dan’s Pawn Shop and come up with a thousand bucks, I will see you with ten thousand of the same.” The fastidious fellow paused to brush a minuscule smidgen of lint from his cuff. “That is my self-imposed limit, however. I am a modest man, and anything over ten grand would be unseemly and
ostentatious. And I daresay, a thousand would be more than you could afford to lose.” Reed retrieved his gloves and pulled them on until the fingers were comfortably snug. “Fascinated, aren’t you. And I still have not gotten to the really good part.”

  Parris was eager to go there with him.

  As was Charlie Moon.

  “You will not believe this.” (They wouldn’t.) “But it is my most fervent hope that you will win the wager. And I promise—on my word of honor as a remarkably successful investor, a member of the American Physical Society, and a gentleman of the first order—that I will provide you with every assistance toward that happy end.” Reed eyed the chief of police. “I believe that this is a propitious time for you to ask the critical question.”

  Parris stared dumbly at the eccentric citizen.

  “Ah, this is too difficult for you.” The uninvited guest assumed a pitying expression. “Never mind, I shall help you along. The question is—‘Who is the intended victim, Dr. Reed?’”

  “Okay.” Parris mimicked the meticulous man’s crisply enunciated speech: “Who is the intended victim, Dr. Reed?”

  The one addressed tapped his walking stick against his vested chest. “Myself.”

  The chief of police brightened at this good news. “Yourself, huh?”

  “None other. So you understand why it is in my interest that you succeed in preventing the homicide, thereby winning the wager.”

  This guy’s a loopy goofball. But the cautious lobe of Parris’s brain whispered this warning: Be careful. If it turns out that Sam Reed is on the level, you’re gonna look like a big dope. “So where are you gonna get knocked off, and when?”

  “Ah, now you are beginning to make noises very much like a competent policeman. As to the where, I cannot specify the precise location of the homicide. The unseemly event might occur anywhere between Copper Street and my residence. I sometimes stop at the Conoco station to top off my tank, or at Sunburst Pizza to pick up a late-evening take-home snack. As to when, the attempt will be made on the first Friday of June, which is a month away. I will be working late at my office on the third floor of Cattleman’s Bank building, and my death will not occur before ten thirty P.M.”

  Whether triggered by the mention of pizza or the suspicion that Samuel Reed was deadly serious, Parris experienced a searing surge of what medical professionals refer to as acid reflux. After the pain subsided, he asked, “So how d’you know it’ll happen on the evening of June fourth?”

  “Ah, that would be giving entirely too much away—and what good is a heinous crime without some element of mystery?”

  “Look, Reed, if you don’t intend to level with me—”

  “Oh, very well. Just for the sake of advancing superstition, let us assume that my mother was a full-blooded Armenian Gypsy queen and that I am her seventh son—in which case I can foresee the future with crystal clarity.”

  Parris’s expression suggested that he was the only son of cynical Hoosiers who knew when a seventh son of a Gypsy was blowing smoke in his eyes.

  Undeterred by the cop’s glare, Reed placed a pair of gloved fingers lightly on his left temple and closed his eyes. “Ah, the veil between Now and Then is being lifted—and there I am, enjoying a late-evening stroll down Copper Street, which is my common practice after a long day’s work. Look, I am opening the door and entering the candy store where I invariably treat myself to an invigorating dose of caffeine.” A puckish smile. “Here comes the good part: whilst sipping my coffee, my exquisitely sensitive nostrils detect the delicious scent of dark chocolate—which reminds me of a husbandly obligation. I summon the clerk and purchase a box of handmade truffles for my sweet wife.”

  Parris remembered that holiday that he always forgot. “Valentine’s Day?”

  Reed cracked one eye long enough for it to twinkle at the chief of police. “I am reliably informed that the lovers’ holiday invariably occurs on the fourteenth day of February.”

  “Oh, right.” I ought to write that down someplace.

  “Please excuse me while I continue to foresee my future on the evening of my demise.” Reed reclosed the eye. “My, how time does fly—I have hardly finished my double espresso and tucked the red-ribboned candy box under my arm, when the manager—no doubt eager to go home herself—commences to lock the front door.”

  Scott Parris could practically smell the chocolate and coffee. “The Copper Street Candy Shop shuts down at ten thirty P.M. every night of the week.”

  Samuel Reed nodded. “On the proverbial dot.”

  “And you get popped sometime later?”

  “Indeed.” Reed had opened both eyes. “And if you ask me nicely, I might tell you precisely when the calamity will occur.”

  This guy is giving me big-time heartburn. “How’ll you know that—will you check your wristwatch?”

  “An excellent notion, but the opportunity will not present itself. Nevertheless, immediately prior to the violent event, I will hear the bell toll.”

  “Bell?”

  “Certainly. The bell tolleth not only for me, but also to summon the faithful members of St. James Episcopal Church to eleven P.M. Compline for a half hour of soul-stirring plainsong.”

  “Sounds to me like you’re a goner,” the cop growled. Parris’s hand found half a roll of Tums in his shirt pocket.

  “It would seem so.” The energetic man sprang up from his chair. “But I am no fatalist. Let those Gloomy Guses among us believe that their future is chiseled in marble, but not me, sir! I say the die is not yet cast on my fate, nor the bullet molded which cannot be avoided. With the expert assistance of you and your plucky chaps in blue”—Reed made a slight bow—“I intend to avoid that unhappy outcome. I simply refuse to become a crime statistic.”

  Parris popped a minty antacid in his mouth and crunched it like candy. “If any of this is on the level, you must’ve turned up some convincing evidence that somebody’s gonna kill you.” As the medication’s soothing effect kicked in, his humor improved. “I won’t even ask about motive. I can think of a half-dozen reasons why I’d be more’n glad to take on the job myself.” The dyspeptic cop forced a grin that made the corners of his mouth ache. “But just so I’ll know who I should send a thank-you card to, who’s the dude who’s gonna do the deed?”

  “I do wish I could help you.” The tip of Samuel Reed’s gloved finger caressed his beloved mustache. “But that, my clever copper, is for you to find out. Despite my best efforts to treat all of my neighbors and business associates with utmost courtesy, a successful fellow like myself is bound to have his enemies—though I daresay very few would go so far as to make arrangements for my untimely demise. Even so, if any stray thought should occur to me which might aid you in identifying the potential assassin, you may rest assured that I shall inform you.” The entrepreneur removed a wafer-thin gold pocket watch from his vest pocket. “I am due for a manicure in nine minutes.” He flashed a foxy grin at the edgy lawman. “Do we have a bet?”

  Six heartbeats thudded under Parris’s ribs.

  Reed gave his red bow tie a one-handed tweak. “Well—what say you to the proposed wager? Can you keep me alive and free of serious injury until the dawning of June fifth—is it yea or nay?”

  The hard-up public servant pulled a slender wallet from his hip pocket and examined the contents. Sixty-four dollars.

  Realizing that his friend needed encouragement, Charlie Moon dished out a helping: “Go for it, Scott.”

  Grateful for this neighborly support, Sam Reed nodded his thanks to the Indian.

  Scott Parris wanted to go for it. But…I’d be out of my mind to bet a dime if this slicker gave me a million to one that tomorrow would never come. (Very sensible. Tomorrow is always a day away.) But when did Reason ever prevent a man from yielding to a practically irresistible temptation—especially with his best friend egging him on? Parris laid a precious twenty on his desktop. Then another.

  Reed tapped his walking stick on the currency. “Good for you, sir!” He
pulled the talkative bankroll from his jacket pocket, peeled off four hundred-dollar bills, and added them to the pot. “With your permission, Mr. Parris, I will ask the president of the Cattleman’s Bank to hold the cash until June fifth, which is the day following my expected demise. If I am alive and healthy on that day, Fred Thompson will render the winnings unto our local chief of police. If I am either no longer among the living or grievously injured, the cash will be contributed to a charity of Fred’s choice.”

  Widely regarded as a fair-minded man of utmost integrity, Fred Thompson—a fellow who made a wager himself now and again—often acted on behalf of gamblers by holding cash, bank drafts, real estate deeds, or other properties until the outcome of a wager was determined.

  No objection being immediately forthcoming, the wealthy man put the four hundred and forty dollars into his jacket pocket. The self-proclaimed high roller regarded Charlie Moon with an expression that suggested something approaching affection. “To show my appreciation for your encouraging words, I will pass on a tidbit of information that should prove useful to a person of your chosen vocation as a husband-man of malodorous bovine creatures.”

  “Go right ahead,” the rancher said.

  “I understand that you are under pressure to make a major sale of beeves. I advise against any precipitous action on your part.” To emphasize this warning, Samuel Reed wagged a finger.

  “I don’t have much choice,” Moon said. “Some major bills have to be paid.” And the check in my pocket won’t cover half of what I owe.

  Reed shook his head and made a tch-tch sound.

  Intrigued by the investor’s self-assurance, the stockman put the query bluntly: “What do you know that I don’t?”

  Too good to pass up. “An astute question, and one which deserves a candid answer. But how to put it?” Reed stared at the ceiling as if lost in deep thought. “Compare the Library of Congress to a rickety book-mobile; or towering Mount Everest to a tiny anthill. Professor Einstein to—”