One Good Deed(21)

“Well, ain’t you a smart one,” said Duckett. “You must ’a gone to college.” He backed the truck up and they climbed out.

A smaller door set next to the double ones opened, and a medium-height, sturdily built man around forty with a pencil mustache riding over a slash of mouth came out. He shook hands with Duckett and was introduced as Malcolm Draper, Pittleman’s business manager. Duckett told him why Archer was there. Draper wore a slick three-piece worsted wool suit, polished shoes, and a gray hat with a black band. His eyes were beady enough to make Archer instantly distrust the gent. And the Smith & Wesson .38 Special revolver he carried in a holster dangling near his crotch didn’t endear him, either.

Archer pointed at the gun. “Never seen a man in a three-piece suit and collared shirt wear a holstered gun like that.”

Draper said, “We have valuable property in there. We take precautions.”

“Archer fought in the war,” noted Duckett.

“So did a lot of men,” said Draper dismissively. “Ain’t nothing special.”

“Did you fight in the war?” Archer asked him.

“I got asthma.”

“Well, ain’t that special,” replied Archer.

The metal doors slid open and two men came out with a metal-and-wood trolley, and they all helped unload the truck. Then the men rolled the loaded trolley through the open double doors and into the warehouse.

Archer caught a glimpse of boxes and crates stacked nearly as high as the ceiling.

“Lotta stuff,” he commented to Duckett and Draper.

Draper said, “No railroad lines near here. Only way to haul freight is by truck.”

“I can see that.”

A few minutes later Duckett dropped Archer off at Pittleman’s house and said, “How you getting back?”

“Figure that out later. Thanks for the ride.”

Duckett said, “Can I give you a dollar for the help?”

Archer waved this off. “I’m good, friend. But thanks anyway.”

Duckett flipped him two Walking Liberty half-dollar coins. “Don’t never turn down money, friend.”

Duckett put the truck in gear and drove off.

Archer watched Manuel close the gates behind him.

Then he slapped his hat against his thigh to knock off the dust and headed to the house.





Chapter 8



THE PLACE SEEMED EVEN LARGER than Poca City’s Courts and Municipality Building, with more imagination in the design and better materials, Archer observed. The layout was not so much medieval-castle-like, at least to Archer’s limited familiarity with architecture, as it was similar to the grand mansions he’d seen pictures of and built by the likes of the Vanderbilts and Rockefellers.

Wide, curving flower beds were planted on both sides of the walk going up to the house. Yellow and red and pink buds cascaded all around these beds, so they must be getting water from somewhere, he figured. It seemed like vast attention had been paid to all the landscaping outside, and Archer assumed that attention to detail would carry through to the interior.

He knocked on the door and a few moments later could hear footsteps approaching.

An elderly woman with stringy gray hair dangling from under a cap and attired in a black-and-white maid’s uniform opened the door.

“Yes?” she asked dully, her face as fine a representation of a sourpuss as he was ever likely to eyeball. And he had seen plenty in his time.

“I’m here to see Mr. Pittleman. Name’s Archer. He knows me.”

“Just wait here,” she said without a sliver of interest.

She stalked off after leaving the door open. Archer took the opportunity to step through and look around. Archer had never seen such opulence, even when he’d been in the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in New York, before the doorman had run a uniformed Archer out for loitering around with a female guest apparently beyond the boundaries of good taste.

He was confronted by tapestry-shrouded and gilt-tasseled chairs set against the far wall; curtained French doors leading off to who knew where; a row of grandfather clocks with fancy faces and fancier inner workings that he could see; and marble tables with flower-filled, hand-painted vases topping them. Twin suits of armor, a foot taller than him, were set on pedestals on either side of the front door. Far above him were other doors set in the wall with iron grilles fronting them. He imagined they were like fake balconies to look down from, but the first wrong step would be a doozy. Long grass and Oriental rugs covered stretches of the stone and timbered floor. The walls were covered with paper that looked like silk, though Archer couldn’t imagine even someone like Pittleman being able to afford acres of that commodity, but what did he know about such things?

Unfortunately, despite the vast size of the space, he could feel the walls closing in on him. The oxygen seemed sucked from around him and replaced with pure carbon dioxide. He hadn’t had so much trouble making his lungs function since a German sniper had missed Archer’s head by the width of the Lucky Strike he’d been in the process of lighting. He had dipped his head to ignite his smoke at the exact moment the bullet struck. That slight change in position meant the round entered and exited his helmet instead of finishing its business in his brain. Realizing his near death, he’d laughed for a good ten minutes and then chucked up vomit into a bucket for ten minutes more. He’d never smoked any other brand from that day forward, since those smokes had more than lived up to their name.