Free The Investigations of Avram Davidson by Avram Davidson

to give myself up,’ he says. ‘I wrote it all down here,’ he says. Happened about two o’clock this afternoon, I guess. Straw that broke the camel’s back. Kent Castwell, he was acting up as usual. Stomping and swearing out there at the Peabody place. Words were exchanged. Laurel left to go out back,” Clem said, delicately, not needing to further comment on the Peabody place’s lack of indoor plumbing. “When he come back, Castwell had taken the biggest brush he could find and smeared paint over all the pictures Laurel had been working on. Ruined them completely.”
    There was a moment’s silence. “Castwell had no call to do that,” the sheriff said. “Destroying another man’s property. They tell me some of those artists get as much as a hundred dollars for a painting.… What’d he do then? Laurel, I mean.”
    â€œPicked up a piece of stovewood and hit him with it. Hit him hard.”
    â€œNo doubt about his being dead, I suppose?” the sheriff asked.
    Clem shook his head. “There was no blood or anything on the wood,” he added. “Just another piece of stove wood … But he’s dead, all right.”
    After a moment Levi Nickerson said, “His wife will have to be notified. No reason why the County should have to pay burial expenses. Hmm. I expect she won’t have any money, though. Best get in touch with those trustees who sent Castwell his money every month. They ’ll pay.”
    Gamaliel Coolidge asked if anyone else knew. Clem said no. Bob Laurel hadn’t told anyone else. He didn’t seem to want to talk.
    This time there was a longer silence.
    â€œDo you realize how much Kent Castwell cost this County, one way or the other?” Nickerson asked.
    Clem said he supposed hundreds of dollars. “Hundreds and hundreds of dollars,” Nickerson said.
    â€œAnd,” the Tax Assessor went on, “do you know what it will cost us to try this fellow—for murder in any degree or manslaughter?”
    The District Attorney said it would cost thousands. “Thousands and thousands  … and that’s just the trial,” he elaborated. “Suppose he’s found guilty and appeals? We’d be obliged to fight the appeal. More thousands. And suppose he gets a new trial? We’d have it to pay all over again.”
    Levi P. Nickerson opened his mouth as though it hurt him to do so. “What it would do to the County tax-rate…” he groaned. “Kent Castwell,” he said, his voice becoming crisp and definite, “is not worth it. He is just not worth it.”
    Clem took out the ten-cent cigar he’d won, sniffed it. “My opinion,” he said, “it would have been much better if this fellow Laurel had just packed up and left. Anybody finding Castwell’s body would assume he’d fallen and hit his head. But this confession, now—”
    Sheriff Erastus Nickerson said reflectively, “I haven’t read any confession. You, Gam? You, Levi? No. What you’ve told us, Clem, is just hearsay. Can’t act on hearsay. Totally contrary to all principles of American law … Hmm. Mighty nice sunset.” He arose and walked over to the window. His cousin followed him. So did District Attorney Coolidge. While they were looking at the sunset Clem Goodhue, after a single glance at their backs, took the sheet of paper from the kitchen table and thrust it into the kitchen stove. There was a flare of light. It quickly died down. Clem carefully reached his hand into the stove, took out the small corner of the paper remaining, and lit his cigar with it.
    The three men turned from the window.
    Levi P. Nickerson was first to speak. “Can’t ask any of you to stay to supper,” he said. “Just a few left-overs, is all we’re having. I expect you’ll want to be going on your way.”
    The two other County officials nodded.
    The