Larry Kent 656 Mourning Glory by Don Haring

Author:Don Haring [Haring, Don]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: private investigator, detective fiction, private eye novel, piccadilly publishing, don haring, larry kent, hard boiled crime novel
Publisher: Piccadilly
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8 … the ugly southerner …

Spoor and Gruel took me to the Fayette police station, just before dusk. A gang of ragamuffin kids followed us all the way from the pier. A few danced close to me and jeered, but Spoor chased them off. Men and women stood aside on the sidewalk so we could go past. Some had words of greeting for the sheriff and his deputy; all studied me curiously, taking note of the handcuffs.

It was a dirty little town. I must have seen fifty people during the walk from the pier to the station, mostly roughly-dressed men with tight faces. The dozen or so women looked defeated, lost.

It was a small police station. A fat, balding man with his uniform shirt unbuttoned sat at a desk near the front door. In the background another uniformed man sat at a desk. A slim man in a stained and rumpled gray suit walked toward us as we entered. He showed brown teeth in a smile.

“I see you got him, Sheriff.”

“That’s right, Corsair. I’d like you to put him up in a cell until we make up our minds what to do, probably tomorrow.”

“Sure thing, Sheriff. Always glad to oblige, you know that.”

“Sure.” Spoor glanced at me. “Put your things on the sergeant’s desk, Kent.”

Gruel removed the handcuffs and I emptied my pockets onto the desk. The bald fat man opened a drawer, took out a thick, wrinkled manila envelope.

“Your watch, too, fella.”

I unbuckled my wristwatch, placed it beside the wallet. Corsair leaned over the desk, watching as the sergeant ran a sheet of paper in a battered old typewriter. He picked up the watch, looked at the face.

“Movida watch, twenty-one jewels. Gold.”

“Nice watch,” Corsair said.

The sergeant picked up my wallet, glanced at me. “Watch me count your money.”

Corsair whistled as the sergeant placed the banknotes on the desk. He whistled again as the sergeant counted.

“Two thousand, five hundred and forty dollars. Would that be right?”

“Yes,” I said.

“And seventy-six cents in change.”

“Right.”

He typed the items on the sheet, added the rest of my belongings. I was allowed to keep a handkerchief, my comb, cigarettes and lighter. The sergeant pulled the sheet of paper from the typewriter and I signed it.

“Let’s get him settled for the night,” Spoor said.

“Forget it,” Corsair told him. “I’ll take care of that little detail. You go on home, Sheriff.”

“Thanks for the offer,” Spoor said, “but he’s my prisoner and I’ve got to go through the motions. Once he’s safe in a cell, then he’s all yours, Lieutenant.”

They smiled at each other.

“Just trying to be helpful, Sheriff,” Corsair said.

“I know.”

“I figured that you wanted to get home and all that ...”

“Much obliged.”

“Should’ve known you’d want to see it all the way through. That’s why they keep voting you in as County Sheriff every election, I guess; you sure give the voters their money’s worth.”

“I just do my job.

“Better’n any sheriff we ever had.”

“Let’s put him in the cell, Lieutenant.”

“Sure thing.” Corsair wiggled his fingers and the sergeant put a large key in his hand.

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