A Handy Death

Through the glass of the telephone booth he could see Mike Gunnerson pointing significantly toward his watch and then out toward the runway where the Mohawk plane, all lights lit, stood ready to take off. Beyond, the lights bordering the runway tapered to infinity in the darkness. Ross nodded his understanding and went back to his call.

“Look,” Billy Dupaul said, “I’m sleepy. I’ll talk to you later.”

“You’ll talk to me now!” Ross said. “Where were you last night?”

“Well, if you want to know, I was walking.”

“Walking? All night?”

“Sure, all night; what’s wrong with it? You ever spend all your nights locked up, Mr. Ross? Year after year after year? And then suddenly find yourself free when you didn’t think there was a chance in hell of being free? Well, you walk, Mr. Ross. You walk.”

“Did you stop any place? Any bar? Any restaurant?”

“No, I just walked.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Why should I have to prove it?”

“Never mind that. Can you prove it?”

“Can you prove I didn’t?”

Ross sighed hopelessly. “Where did you walk?”

“How should I know where I walked? All around.”

“You walked all night in this weather?”

“What’s wrong with the weather?”

“It rained last night after midnight,” Ross said.

“It did? Look, Mr. Ross, I appreciate everything you did for me yesterday, but if you want to cross-examine me, wait until I’ve had a little sleep, will you? I’m going to hang up.”

The telephone clicked in Ross’s ear. He slammed the receiver down with irritation and pulled the door of the booth open. Mike grabbed his arm.

“Come on! It’s bad enough getting up at this ungodly hour, without missing the plane you got up for. Let’s go!”

The two men hurried out to the runway and climbed the aluminum steps. The first faint strands of dawn were tinting the sky to the east as the stewardess closed the door behind them and latched it. The thunk of the lock going into place seemed to reprimand them for their lateness. They sat down and fastened their seat belts. Mike pulled his tight and looked over at Ross.

“Okay. Now, what did he say?”

“He said he was walking all night.”

“Walking all night?”

“That was my line,” Ross said. “Anyway, that’s what he said. He also said he was sleepy.”

“I can imagine. He didn’t happen to be walking in Glens Falls, was he?”

“If he was, he didn’t mention it. Let’s hope not. One murder and one riot are enough at the moment. As you once said,” Ross went on, “Billy Dupaul is either the most unlucky man in the world, or the most stupid. I’m still not sure which.”

“Did you tell him about Marshall?”

“No,” Ross said shortly. “If he did it, he alreadys knows. If he didn’t do it, there’s no rush to bother him. He’ll read about it in the papers.” He yawned and leaned his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes. “Wake me when we get there. I haven’t been walking all night, but I’m sleepy just the same.”

Lieutenant Ernest (Ernie to his friends) Lamport was a tall, well-built, pleasant-faced man in his late forties, with a deep voice and a ready smile when he wanted to use it. At the moment he was using it very little. His hands were surprisingly small for a man his size and he used them frequently to gesture. At the moment he stood beside Gunnerson and Ross, pointing, while Don Evans stood in the background. The lieutenant’s breath steamed in the chill Adirondack air.

“We figure the killer stood over there on the edge of the woods and waited for Marshall to come home. There’s a yard light that can be switched on from either the garage or the house. Marshall apparently drove into the garage, got out of the car, switched on the yard light from inside the garage, and then went outside to close the garage door. In the glare of that yard light, and at that distance, he would have been a perfect target. And he was.”

Gunnerson looked at the scarred door where the fatal bullet had been removed.

“Where was he hit?”

“The bullet got him in the back, left of the spine, went through his lung and nicked one of the main heart arteries, came out and hit the door. He was dead when we got here.”

“Who gave the alarm?”

“A neighbor said he heard a shot and looked out, saw this shadow on the ground, went out and it was Marshall.”

“Did he see anyone leaving?”

Lieutenant Lamport shook his head. “We figure the killer stood back in the trees in that wood, bushwhacked Marshall, and then beat it back through the woods. They aren’t too deep, and on the far side there’s a little creek — small enough to be jumped — and then a wide field, and then the main highway. Anyone could have parked a car off the road there, crossed the field, shot Marshall and returned.”

Ross said, “That sounds like someone from around here?”

“Or who once was from around here,” Lieutenant Lamport said. His eyes were expressionless.

Gunnerson said, “Have you determined what kind of a gun it was?”

“The bullet was sent to the lab, but I had a chance to see it first. It wasn’t fired from a hand gun. It was a thirty caliber, would be my guess; a rifle.”

“Did you find the empty cartridge shell?”