Murder Among Children by Donald E. Westlake Read Free Book Online Page A

said, “to keep my head down. That’s what I intend to do.”
    The Negro boy—Hulmer Fass, Kate had said his name was—said to me, “The reason I came here, Mr. Tobin, is because I figured we’re in this together. You and me, we’re locked in.”
    “I don’t see that.”
    “We don’t know yet why he hit George,” he said. “If it’s because he’s connected to the joint, then I’m next. If it’s because he was there when it happened, you’re next.”
    Kate said, “Mitch, you can’t stay out of it. What if he comes after you?”
    “I’ll worry about that when it happens,” I said.
    Kate said, “What about George Padbury?”
    “What about him? He’s dead.”
    “Thirty minutes after you refused to talk to him.”
    I raised my hand. “No,” I said. “You can’t do that.”
    Hulmer Fass shook his head. “That’s how it goes with non-involvement, Mr. Tobin,” he said. “One day it’s not your problem, the next day they’re all over you.”
    “I’m not responsible for George Padbury’s death,” I said.
    He gave me a smile of knowing and cynical contempt. “Goodbye, baby,” he said, and turned toward the door.
    Kate said to him, “No, wait. Don’t go yet.” She looked up at me. “You go on upstairs, Mitch,” she said, “and think it out. You think about Robin, in Bellevue, going to be transferred to jail. You think about George Padbury and this boy here and your own family. When you’ve got it all thought out, you’ll find us in the kitchen.” To the boy she said, “Come along, Hulmer. Do you like iced coffee?”
    He was grinning at her respectfully. “Sure thing,” he said, and they walked back to the kitchen together.
    I didn’t go up to the second floor. I sat down where I was, on the stairs, and felt the iron hand closing on me. But all I wanted was to stay here, stay in my hole, keep my head down.
    Bill came thundering into the house as I sat there. Fourteen years old, he was well into the transition from open childhood to the mysterious complexity of the young people connected with places like Thing East. How much of my disgrace he knew about I had never learned, nor tried to learn. There was a widening rift between my son and me, caused for the most part I knew by myself, but there was nothing I could do to mend it without opening myself, which I didn’t ever want to do.
    Now he came bounding up the stairs, a brown paper bag in his hand, and paused beside me to say, “What’s up, Dad?”
    “Thinking,” I said. “What’ve you got there?”
    “Tubes,” he said. “See you.”
    “See you.”
    He pounded on up, leaving me alone. I shook my head, and got to my feet, and went down to the kitchen, where I said to Hulmer Fass, sitting at the kitchen table, “Do you know how to get in touch with George Padbury’s brother? The almost lawyer?”
    “Ralph? Sure.”
    “We’ll need him. Would you call him?”
    He got to his feet. “To come out here?”
    “Yes.”
    He smiled. “Yes, sir.”
    I said, “Is there anybody else connected with Thing East? Any more partners?”
    “Two,” he said. “You want them?”
    “Yes. The phone’s in the hall.”
    “When do you want them?”
    “As soon as possible.”
    “Done,” he said, and went out to make the calls.
    I looked at Kate and said, “Don’t grin at me. I want you to know I hate this, I intend to get it over with as quick as I can, and when it’s done I’ll go straight back into my box.”
    “It’s all right, Mitch,” she said. “Really. It’s all right.” Which only meant she didn’t want to believe I was telling her the truth.

10
    W E WERE ALL ASSEMBLED by quarter to seven, six of us sitting around the living room, the coolest place in the house. Outside the sun was still strong, refusing to give way to twilight. Inside, the feeling of twilight, muted and forlorn, was a heavy aura around us.
    Hulmer Fass had stayed to dinner, during which he and Bill had gotten into a complex electronic discussion in