Free The Silver Ghost by Charlotte MacLeod Page A

autopsy.”
    Sergeant Myre opened his mouth, then shut it with an audible snap. Grimpen turned smartly and strode from the shed. Bill went after him to unlock the gate. Max looked at Myre and shrugged.
    “Who’s he going to press?”
    “I’d like to press him between two barn doors and run a tractor over ’em,” snarled the policeman. “He knows damn well we’ve got the in-laws coming to supper because I told him so when we started out. My wife’s going to raise hell.”
    “Call her and tell her you’ve just been promoted to acting chief.”
    “You tell her.”
    “Okay,” said Max, “if you want.”
    For the first time since he’d arrived, Sergeant Myre’s somewhat chubby face relaxed into a full-blown grin. “Thanks, but I’d better do it myself. What should I tell her?”
    “Tell her your jackass of a chief has been doing his best to louse up an important investigation and you’ve been put in charge because you’ve got a lot more brains than he has.”
    “So does the station cat.”
    “Then tell her we’re getting the cat in to help you. Just don’t say where you are or what’s happened. We don’t want the word to get out any sooner than we can help, or we’ll have a crowd control problem on our hands along with everything else.”

7
    M RS. MYRE MUST BE a reasonable woman. The policeman came back looking relieved.
    “It’s all set for the autopsy and they’ll have the wagon here as soon as possible. I told my wife I’m working with this big detective inspector from Boston. Was that all right, Mr. Bittersohn?”
    “Sure. I’m inspecting. What do you think of this wall?”
    “Bunch of kids got loose in the wet cement, huh?” Myre ran his fingers somewhat wistfully over a crude depiction of an open runabout. “I always had a hankering to do that.”
    “I did, once,” Max confessed. “They were laying a new sidewalk outside my folks’ house and I decided to leave my footprints for posterity. My father caught me and made me get a trowel and smooth them out, then he wouldn’t give me any movie money for a month. I wonder what I’ll do if my kid ever tries the same thing.”
    “How old is he?”
    “Six months.”
    “My youngest is seven.” Myre sounded deservedly smug. “Say, you know what this wall reminds me of? They had this art festival over at the park last summer and Grimpen stuck me with extra duty as usual. He doesn’t dare ask the older guys, they’d spit in his eye. But anyway, there was this hunk of what they were calling folk sculpture that looked something like this. Beats me what anybody’d want of it, but I guess rich people pay big money for that far-out stuff, eh?”
    “Some of them do,” Max agreed, “but this was just a practical joke by a mad genius who was a friend of the family. He died a couple of years ago and the Billingsgates keep the wall as a tribute to his memory.”
    A beautiful light broke over Myre’s countenance. “Oh jeez, I’ll bet I ran into that guy once. I’m a rookie cop, see, it’s my first day on the job. So Grimpen assigns me to traffic duty down at the square. It’s a Monday morning. There’s a little rush hour traffic and the kids going to school, then it quiets down. I help a couple of old ladies across the street and wonder if anybody’s going to rob the bank today, but nobody does. So I’m standing there shining my new whistle when this 1932 Chevy coupe, black with red wooden wheels, comes zigzagging down the middle of the road doing about five miles an hour.”
    Myre was thoroughly happy now. “So I start waving my arms and blowing my whistle and the car stops. There’s the driver up front in this dinky little coupe wearing a fancy chauffeur’s uniform and in the rumble seat’s a great big raccoon. The chauffeur sits there deadpan, looking straight ahead. The raccoon leans out of the rumble seat and starts giving me a hard time.”
    “You’re kidding,” said Max, knowing perfectly well he wasn’t.
    “So help me