Reason for Murder

  JACK USHER

  REASON FOR MURDER

  Originally published in 1958 as Brothers and Sisters Have I None

  CHAPTER 1

  HE HAD just put down a clip board and duplicate bills of lading… walked into the yard shack, picked up a blank trip ticket, then made his way to the large van and tractor idling near the pumps.

  He automatically kicked the tires as he walked up the length of the long highway unit, his eyes making rapid inventory of clearance lights, air-hose attachments, and the overall appearance of the rig. He jumped up on the running board, handed the trip ticket to the driver.

  “Here you are, Doug.”

  The driver took the ticket in a gloved hand and nodded.

  “Stay on your tac real tight this trip. The engine in this tractor just came out of the shops,” Pelchek said, looking toward the yard entrance.

  He noticed the girl as she picked her way across the graveled yard. She came toward the huge KW 300. From where he stood she looked small and a bit foreign. He turned to the driver again.

  “Watch it the other side of Elgin, Doug. You’ve got a liquor load and the highjackers like that.”

  “Okay, Steve.”

  “Check your fuel mixture often. You were showing a lot of black the last time out.”

  The big diesel began to ease out of the yard, engine growling and grumbling in first-under, eight sets of dual tires crunching on the rough surface. He felt the girl’s presence at his shoulder, turned to face her.

  “Mr. Pelchek?”

  “You’ll have to speak louder, miss,” he yelled. He gestured with a thumb at the departing truck, beginning to whine now as it started up the one-block hill to the highway. The belching stack permeated the air with the smell of burning diesel fuel.

  “Are you Steven Pelchek?” she shouted.

  “I sure am, young lady. What can I do for you?” he shouted back.

  “My name is Elena Baker—Cal Baker’s wife. Do you remember him?”

  “Well, I’ll be damned! Sure I remember him.” Pelchek took the girl’s arm, led her to a concrete apron. Three large fuel dispensers towered over them. He looked at her closely.

  She had the perfect, almost indescribable beauty that is sometimes seen in women of Mexican extraction. Enormous dark eyes, slightly slanted, looked out of a perfect oval face delicately olive in color. Her features might have come from a canvas by Miguel Covarrubias and were accented by perfectly arched brows. Jet-black hair, carefully parted in the middle and brought up behind small ears, formed a rich coronet on the top of her head. A completely beautiful woman. He judged her to be about twenty-five.

  “So you’re Cal Baker’s wife. What in hell is he doing in Milwaukee?”

  “He’s not here, Mr. Pelchek. He couldn’t come,” the girl said steadily.

  He darted a glance at her face. “You look a little grim, Mrs. Baker. What gives?” he asked.

  “They’re…” The howling of the laboring diesel engine drowned out her words. There was comparative silence in the yard as the truck gained the top of the nearby hill. Her words hung on the air with stark clarity “… they’re going to kill him!”

  He started to say something, stopped. He took the girl by the arm, started for the small office building in the center of the yard.

  Pelchek closed the door, shutting out the yard noises. He took the girl’s coat, put her in a chair, and made two strong highballs. When he had handed her one of the drinks he crossed the room, leaned back against the edge of his desk.

  “Drink it all,” he ordered.

  She sipped the bourbon and water, then grimaced.

  “Look,” he said. “What you said outside. I know you’re serious, but what’s this with Baker? Who’s going to kill him and where?” He walked around the desk and sat in his office chair, facing the girl.

  “He doesn’t know I’ve come to Milwaukee.” She finished the whiskey, then placed the glass on top of the desk, making aimless little circles on the polished surface. “In fact, I may be presuming too much. Cal spoke of you so often I thought—”

  “All right!” he interrupted impatiently. “Just hold it a minute. We’ll get around to that later. Right now I want to know what’s happened.” He reached across his desk, flipped on the interoffice speaker. “Miss Gray?… Take all the calls.” He switched off the box, turned to the girl. “Okay, let’s have it. All of it.”

  Elena Baker had been watching him with unblinking attention. She wet her lips and began, as if by rote:

  “You know, of course, something of Cal’s background—that he has been connected with a family business most of his adult life. He went right into it after he left school and returned to it when he left the service.”

  Pelchek nodded.

  “He had some ideas about modernizing the corporation. It had to do with housing. Anyway, it made several people angry, including the general manager. There were a number of arguments, and I was told Cal threatened to kill him.” She took a long, uneven breath. “My husband is in the state prison waiting to be executed. He’s been convicted of killing Arthur Walker, general manager of the Baker Land Corporation. The attorney appealed the case and the appeal was denied. I’ve tried to get the district attorney to reopen the case, but he says it’s out of his hands now.”

  He waited silently.

  “No one down there will listen to me, Mr. Pelchek. At least, no one who counts. I went to the state capital and they kept sending me from one place to another. I just can’t get them to listen. No matter what I say, they…” She hesitated, looked out the window at the busy truck yard, then concluded bitterly, “They say he killed this man because of me.”

  Pelchek drummed lightly on the desk top. “What does he say?” he asked.

  “He swears he had nothing to do with it.”

  “You believe him?”

  “Of course I believe him!” She started to rise. “If you think I came all—”

  “Sit down, Mrs. Baker.” Pelchek held up a restraining hand, pulled a package of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. He offered one to the girl, who shook her head, lit one for himself as he leaned forward in his chair. “What am I expected to think? All you’ve told me is that the state and county courts are convinced he’s guilty.”

  Her face crumpled and tears welled up in her eyes as she sank back in the chair.

  “Then you’re just like the rest, Mr. Pelchek. You believe he’s guilty, too.”

  “For Christ’s sake, stop calling me Mr. Pelchek. The name’s Steve. And I didn’t say I wouldn’t help.” He scowlingly consulted the desk calendar. “How much time does he have left?”

  “They’ve set the date for his… five days, Mr. Pel—Steven. The fifteenth of July.” She controlled herself quickly, dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

  “What’s his family doing? The Baker money?” He reached for the intercom. “Miss Gray? Will you come in, please?” He faced the girl again, waited for her reply.

  “Cal isn’t active in the Baker Land Corporation any more,” she said, “although before the trouble he received his share of the profits every quarter.”

  “What about his brother and sister? Let’s see, it was an older brother and a younger sister, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. We haven’t seen much of them since we were married. Allen is trying to drink Las Milpas dry and act as though nothing has happened. Christine isn’t there. She was living in New York during the trial and left for Europe right after Cal was sentenced.”

  “For Europe? With her brother in the death house?”

  Elena nodded, her fingers pulling at the handkerchief, twisting it.

  “What about money?”

  “There isn’t any left. Frank McCreery—he’s the new general manager of Baker
Land—had the attorneys tie up Cal’s stock. They even fixed it so I can’t sell our personal property. Our lawyer says he can beat them in court, but it would take months.”

  “That’s an R.N. pin you’re wearing, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.” She glanced down at the beige sweater. “I completed training while Cal was in the service and worked for a while at the Las Milpas General. Since the trouble, I’ve gone back to work.”

  “Same place?”

  “Yes. I’m on a short leave of absence now.”

  “Can you go back?”

  “Of course,” she replied. “Why?”

  “Because I think that’s where you’re going,” Pelchek said bluntly.

  The door opened and a middle-aged woman entered the office, notebook in hand. Pelchek looked up at her.

  “Miss Gray, this is Mrs. Baker,” he said. The women nodded. “I’m going out of the state on personal business. Don’t know how long I’ll be gone. I’ll dictate some instructions for you later. If anything comes up you and the men can’t handle, contact me through Mrs. Baker. She’ll leave you an address.” He turned to the girl. “Where’s your luggage?”

  “I have a bag at the bus station.”

  “In a locker?”

  “Yes.”

  “Give me the key.”

  She took a key from her purse and gave it to him. He handed it to the secretary. “Give it to one of the pickup drivers and have him get her bag. Now you’d better take Mrs. Baker to your office and let her freshen up,” he suggested.

  “Very well, Mr. Pelchek. If you’ll come with me, Mrs. Baker.” The woman stood waiting.

  “What are you going to do?” the girl asked Pelchek.

  “I’m going down there,” he said shortly. “There isn’t time to do anything from up here.”

  She stared at him wide-eyed.

  “Go on with Miss Gray,” he said. He glanced at his watch. “I’ll have an hour’s work to clean up here.”

  When the women had gone Pelchek swung around in the swivel chair, gazed out the window. What in hell had Baker gotten himself into? A tough little man, Cal Baker, but not the type to go around killing civilians. He turned back to the desk and opened a drawer. After rummaging around he withdrew a picture and placed it on top of the desk.

  Sgt. Calvin Murrow Baker and Sgt. Stephano Ivar Pelchek. What a pair! He studied the photo. Two men in combat clothes, helmets awry, weapons slung from the shoulders, very dirty and very drunk. Their arms around one another’s necks, they were standing ankle-deep in mud, directly in front of an immobilized weapons carrier.

  Well, they’d been a team. Small-boned, soft-voiced Baker. The rich boy. At first some of the men in the outfit thought he might be a little effeminate. Pelchek grimaced. Baker was about as effeminate as a rutting boar. And just as dangerous. A man moved by controlled, fierce angers, he made a ruthless automatic rifleman. Stubborn and mean when the chips were down.

  Pelchek looked at the other man in the picture and grunted. Big Steve Pelchek. He was still big. Some of the leanness and hardness was gone, but it had been six years. Three of those behind a desk. He tossed the picture back in the drawer, then scowled at the pile of papers on the desk. He buzzed for his secretary. She came in, stood by his desk.

  “How’s she doing, Miss Gray?”

  “Just fine. She’s down the hall, cleaning up.”

  “Did you get an address?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay, here’s what I want you to do.” He leaned back and looked up at the woman. “Call the airline office and get us on the first flight to Capital City. Then get the bank on the phone and let me speak to them. This may take some money, and I want enough in the personal account to cover it. We may have to transfer some funds from the company account.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did she tell you anything?”

  “A little.”

  “Her husband’s in big trouble. That’s why the rush. If there was any other way…” He shrugged.

  “Couldn’t you send an attorney down? This is a bad time for you to be gone.”

  “No, Miss Gray. I’ve got to go myself,” Pelchek said irritably. “There’s a reason. No matter what, I’ve got to go myself. And you’re right. It’s a lousy time for it.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “Not right now. Go to work on those plane tickets and the bank, and… oh, yes. Have Mrs. Baker ready to go to lunch in about an hour. Then come back in. I’ll dictate those instructions.”

  “Yes, sir,” the secretary said and left the office.

  Pelchek pulled the pile of papers before him and stared down at them. Five days! What kind of crazy pride had kept Baker from contacting him? And what had made the girl wait until the last possible minute? He’d ask her when he took her to lunch.

  It was quiet in the death house. Cal Baker sat reading. He read steadily, not moving until he heard footsteps stop outside his cell. A large man, wearing Stetson hat and holstered pistols, stood in the harsh glare of the corridor light. The man in the cell moved toward the door, fingers tightening on the book.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” he said.

  “Sorry, boy. The governor turned it down.” The big man sounded uncomfortable and a little sad. He stood for a moment, searching for words. None came. He pulled at his gun-belt, turned to go.

  “Has anyone called? It’s been over a week now.”

  “No calls, son. I’m sorry.” The guard walked down the corridor, out of sight.

  The condemned man stepped closer to the door, grasped the steel bars, knuckles turning white. His eyes followed the sound of the retreating footsteps.

  High in the desert air above him, in the free air he couldn’t see, a vulture’s circle was getting smaller and tighter.

  Elena Baker sat in front of a small dressing table, removing the ravages of weeping and four days’ travel on a transcontinental bus. She looked in the mirror as she tucked in an errant strand of hair. The secretary stood behind her, smiling.

  “Is Mr. Pelchek rich?” Elena asked.

  “Rich?” the older woman mused. “I suppose he’s worth quite a lot in equipment. Why?” She moved to the other side of the room, sat down on a wicker chaise longue.

  “My husband told me he had some trucks, but I’m sure he didn’t think the company was this large,” the girl said. She turned on the small bench, began straightening her stockings.

  “Five years ago he didn’t have much more than a few beat-up GI trucks,” the woman said. “Plus a lot of nerve. He bluffed his way into the first big contract, then had to borrow money for the extra equipment he needed to handle it. Since then we’ve gotten a little bigger each year. By now, I suppose you could call this a medium-big operation, as truck lines go.”

  “I wonder why he’s dropping everything to help us, Miss Gray?”

  “Steve Pelchek is a pretty harsh man and sometimes does the unexpected. In this business he’s had to operate that way. However, I expect he has his reasons.” The secretary stood up. “He’s going to take you to lunch about one o’clock, so why don’t you stretch out here on the chaise and get a little rest?”

  “Thank you, Miss Gray. I think I will.” She got up, crossed the room to the wicker couch. “Is he married?” she asked, pulling off her shoes and lying back.

  “Divorced.” The older woman paused in the curtained doorway. “The war in Korea lasted about six months too long, I understand. Don’t tell him I said that. He’s touchy about the subject. Close your eyes now, and relax.” She left, closing the door softly.

  Elena placed her hands under her head, listened to the noisy truck yard.

  What a big, ugly man he was! He looked as harsh as he had in the pictures Cal had showed her. Only he seemed bigger in person. His face was almost the same—maybe a little fuller and better fed. Same broad forehead under straight, horse-black hair. Same high, flat cheekbones accenting the planes and angles found on the faces of those with a Slavic backgro
und.

  He didn’t seem the sort of man to act on impulse. In fact, he gave the appearance of being reserved and unmoving. Why was he helping them? She closed her eyes to the sound of revving motors and the clang of metal against concrete.

  The man waved the waitress away, began putting sugar and cream in his coffee. Across the darkened booth his companion waited silently.

  “Well, Romero, where is she?” the man asked quietly, stirring his coffee.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You were supposed to keep your eye on her.”

  “I did. She went to a dozen offices before she was through and I was near her all the time. When she went back to the bus station I figured she was coming back here. I couldn’t get too close. She might have seen me.”

  “It’s been four days now, and she’s not back yet.” The man sipped his coffee, stared across the table. “You should have stopped her.”

  “How could I? Even if I knew she wasn’t coming back here, how could I?”

  “I don’t know,” the man replied evenly. “I’m interested only in what she’s doing right now. And where. You should be concerned about it also. It has to do with your future, too.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Very well. It’s done now and we’ll worry about her when we have to. Now, how about the man? Is he still out there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sober, I take it.”

  “I think so.”

  “You think so?” The man put the cup down. “What do you mean, you think so? With only five more days we can’t afford to play guessing games. He got away from you once. Remember?” He leaned across the table. “Get out there today and make sure he’s where he’s supposed to be and isn’t drinking… We should have killed him,” he added softly.

  Romero was silent.

  “I would suggest you get started,” the man offered.

  “Where’ll I call you?” Romero reached for his hat.

  “It won’t be necessary. You’ll hear from me.”

  Left alone, he slowly finished his coffee, oblivious to the clatter of silver and glassware made by the busy noonday crowd. He waited for ten minutes, eased out of the booth and left the crowded lunchroom.