Help the Poor Struggler by Martha Grimes Read Free Book Online

murder?”
    â€œBecause you’re obsessed with it, maybe?”
    Macalvie didn’t rise to the bait. “Because in my gut, I know there’s a connection.”
    As Jury asked him what, the door of the Help the Poor Struggler opened and shut behind them.
    â€œI think it just walked in.”
    He sounded sad.

FIVE
    J URY would have recognized the prison pallor anywhere; he’d seen it often enough. It wasn’t the pale skin of a man who’d not seen enough of the sun. It was more as if one had put a paintbrush to an emotion — despair, desolation, whatever — and tinged it in that sickly whitish-gray. The pallor was accentuated by the black clothes: chinos, roll-neck sweater, parka. Accentuated too by the dark hair and eyes. He was tall, understandably thin, handsome, and maybe in mourning for nineteen lost years.
    â€œHullo, Sam,” said Macalvie.
    â€œI wondered who the car belonged to. I should’ve known.”
    Freddie came out from some inner room as if her antennae had at last picked up a welcome presence. “Sammy!” She flung herself against him so hard that Jury was surprised he didn’t hear bones breaking. She stepped back and gave Macalvie an evil look. Then to Sam, she said, “How are yuh, me dear?”
    â€œI’m fine, Freddie. Just waiting for the place to clear.”
    Macalvie, who always knew what everyone else was thinking,smiled. “I know. I cleared it. So sit down, Sammy.” With his foot, he shoved out a chair. And, as if they were on the best of terms, he said to her, “Freddie, bring the man some cider and go play Elvis. Just don’t play ‘Jailhouse Rock,’ okay? Or I’ll break your knees. Where’ve you been, Sam? You got out four days ago.”
    â€œYou keeping track, Inspector? But it couldn’t be inspector now. You must be chief constable.”
    â€œI will be. Right now it’s commander. Or chief superintendent.”
    â€œWhere’d you trip up?” asked Sam, as Freddie put down his pint. “Not over me, I hope.” But his smile was hopeless.
    â€œWho tripped up? You think I’m ambitious?”
    Sam Waterhouse’s laugh was so hearty that Freddie came out to check on things. She disappeared again.
    â€œWhat’ve you been doing?”
    â€œSeeing Dartmoor. Sleeping in an old tin-working or on the rocks. I like the moor. The way the mist comes up, the whole damned world disappears. Ever been up on Hound Tor? Nice. On a clear day you can see Exeter and police headquarters forever. Why don’t you forget it, Macalvie?”
    â€œRead any papers lately, Sam?”
    Sam Waterhouse shifted uncomfortably in his chair and drank off nearly half of his pint. “Sure. The newsboy was flogging the Telegraph all over Dartmoor.”
    â€œMeaning you have,” said Macalvie. “Meet any other tourists?”
    Jury both could and couldn’t understand Sam Waterhouse’s anger. If you’d been in a high-security lockup on a trumped-up charge. Except Macalvie was the one who’d always believed in Sam’s innocence and who’d worked like hell to prove it.
    â€œI saw the papers. A boy was killed in Dorchester. What’s it to do with me?”
    â€œAnd another kid was killed in Wynchcoombe. Youwouldn’t have read about that yet. Look. I’m not asking you for alibis.”
    â€œWhat are you asking for then?”
    Macalvie shook his head. “Not sure.”
    Jury was surprised Macalvie could say it.
    Sam Waterhouse took one of Jury’s cigarettes. He had the hoarse voice of a heavy smoker. Jury didn’t imagine nineteen years in Princetown would make a voice mellifluous.
    â€œYou’re still trying to solve that case.” Sam shook his head.
    â€œIt’s a blot on my career.” Macalvie’s smile did its quick little disappearing act. “Incidentally, you’re sitting next to a CID man from Scotland