by Ben Benson
Ben Benson
The Running Man
A RALPH LINDSEY MYSTERY
Chapter 1
I first met Billy Nesbit about nine-thirty on a Monday night. He was standing alone just off the hard pavement on Route 2, at the Arlington-Lexington line, trying to thumb a ride west.
I was riding east out of the Concord Barracks on a routine 6:00 P.M. to 10:00 patrol. As my headlights flashed over him in passing, his head swiveled around to look at the two-tone blue State Police patrol cruiser. His hand dropped slowly to his side.
I stopped at the next intersection, waited for the road traffic to clear, then made a U-turn back to him. By the time I pulled up at the shoulder of the road where he had been standing, he was walking away toward Lexington. There was no particular urgency in him. He was just walking. He carried no baggage.
I opened my door, put one booted leg out of the cruiser and called, “Wait a minute.”
He stopped and looked back as though surprised. Then he turned and came toward me, blinking into the headlights, walking leisurely and casually. He was a tall, rangy lad about twenty or twenty-one years of age. The face was firm and strong and handsome, without any fatness, and—for early June—it showed a good sunburn. The nose was straight—and possibly just a shade too short. And when he suddenly grinned at me, I saw his large, white, square teeth. He wore no hat. His hair was wheat-blond and cut to a very short stubble. His clothes were expensive and exuded richness—soft, black loafer shoes, dark-blue silk slacks, a darker blue cashmere sport jacket, and a silky, horizontal-striped sport shirt.
I had stepped out of the cruiser. Now, when he came closer, I said, “Where are you going?”
He hitched his shoulders in a rueful little gesture. “I’ve had to abandon my car and I’m trying to get to a gas station. But it seems to me I’ve picked the wrong time. It’s not very easy to hitch a ride at night.”
“Whereabouts is your car?”
“About a mile back. I believe I ran out of gas. Rather stupid of me.”
“What’s your name?”
“William Cartwright Nesbit, sir,” he said solemnly. Then he spelled his last name. “N-E-S-B-I-T.”
“Where are you from, Nesbit?”
“Ashendon,” he said.
“Let me see your driver’s license, please.”
He brought out an expensive cordovan wallet with gold corners, removed a Massachusetts driver’s license from it and handed it to me. The paper was in good order. It gave his name as William C. Nesbit. The address: 16 West Elm Street, Ashendon. His date of birth made him twenty-one. His height was six feet, one inch.
I asked, “Who’s the chief of police in Ashendon?”
“Old Man Rawlins. I’m sorry—Amos Rawlins. He’s been chief since before I was born. He’s our entire police department.”
“Where’s your fire station?”
“There’s no professional fire department. We have a shed behind the town hall where we keep an old pumper. It’s a volunteer fire department. I’m a member of it, and here’s my card.”
I took the card from him, looked at it and handed it back. Cars were slowing down as they passed us. A big Boston-bound bus blew by us with a loud roar, sending a little whirlwind of dust scampering across the macadam. I said, “Okay, Nesbit.”
“Thank you. I hope I’ve broken no laws. They didn’t pass legislation this morning against hitchhiking?”
“No,” I said. “But you’re out here at night alone.”
“Don’t misunderstand me,” he said. “It was very efficient on your part to check me.”
“Thanks,” I said, searching for a sardonic look on his face. There was none. His eyes were innocent and guileless. And there was something unusual about him, too. For his youth he had an age-old manner of courtliness and dignity. He spoke very clearly and his voice was cultured and I thought I could detect undertones of an Ivy-League accent in it.
We were standing a few feet in front of a white roadside sign. My headlights were shining on the state seal in the center. The sign said:
ENTERING LEXINGTON
EST. 1713
Beyond the sign was a small knoll. Fence posts ran across the top of it, carrying strands of wire. Behind the fence there was some underbrush and some small, young oak trees. A breeze stirred through the oak leaves, bringing a fresh, summery smell. I looked at my wrist watch. 9:35 P.M. I said to Nesbit, “Hop in. I’ll drive you down to the gas station.”
“Well, thanks,” he said. “That’s damn decent of you.”
“All part of the job,” I said.
He walked around the front of the cruiser and got in. I slid in beside him. The short-wave radio crackled and I listened to the call. It was not for me. I started the motor.
Nesbit said, “Do you mind if I ask you something? Are you from the Concord Barracks?”
“Yes.”
“But you haven’t been there too long.”
“That’s right,” I said. I looked at him curiously. “How did you know?”
“I know the men around the Concord Barracks. I haven’t seen you there.”
“Who do you know?”
“Most of them. The barracks commander, Sergeant Constanza. Corporal Mike Gillis. Trooper Dan Tompkins. Bob Littlefield—” He broke off. “Do you mind if I ask how old you are?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Indeed. We’re almost contemporaries. And your name, please?”
“Ralph Lindsey,” I said.
“Ralph Lindsey,” he said, half to himself, as though trying to memorize it.
We came to the gas station then. He got out and went into the office. I waited. There was only a single attendant and no emergency service. The attendant filled up a jerrican. I motioned Nesbit back into the cruiser, swung it around and headed east back to Arlington.
“I hate to be so much trouble,” he said.
“All part of the job,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”
He said, “Aren’t they going to appoint some new troopers this fall?”
“Yes, there’s a small class going into the Academy. They won’t graduate until after the first of the year. Why do you ask?”
“I’ve been thinking of enlisting.”
I looked at him, at his clothes, at the expensive gold identification chain on his wrist. “You?”
“Quite. I’ve always had a fondness for it. You act surprised.”
I grinned. “I shouldn’t. I once swore nothing would ever surprise me again.”
“You’re probably looking at my plumage,” he said. He brushed at his jacket sleeve. “Forget this. I’m no dilettante. I’ve done three years of soldiering. Infantry. Would that qualify me?”
I grinned again. “It would sure help a lot.”
“I’m glad it would,” he said. He pointed. “There’s my car.” I slowed down and stopped. Again I was surprised. The car at the side of the road, parking lights on, was of foreign make. But not a foreign sports model, a Mercedes-Benz or a Porsche or a Lancia or a Ferrari, as I would have expected. It was only a little, utilitarian German Volkswagen sedan.
He understood my questioning glance because he said, “I served in Germany. I bought the car there for my personal use. When I came home last year, the government shipped it back for me free of charge. A lot of G.I.’s buy cars that way and sell them here in the States at a profit. But I took a liking to mine and kept it. It’s a good little car.”
He stepped out of the cruiser and walked over to the tiny sedan. There was a gas cap at the top of the hood. He unscrewed it and poured in the fuel. I waited as he climbed in behind the wheel. He primed his engine. It coughed, backfired once, then caught.
“Thank you,” he said.
I waved and swung the cruiser around.<
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He called out, “I’m going to drop into the barracks for an application. Perhaps I’ll see you there.”
“Sure,” I said. “Good luck.”
I drove off. As I proceeded down the road, I automatically jotted down his name on the patrol card which was on the clipboard in front of me. The last glimpse I caught of him then, the headlights of his little car were far behind me. I headed off onto the express highway of Route 128 for a quick check of traffic before returning to the Concord Barracks.
Chapter 2
When I came in, it was ten o’clock. Sergeant Joe Constanza was at the duty desk. He was a thirty-seven-year-old bachelor. Five eleven, wide of shoulder. Prominent cheekbones and a rapidly receding hairline. Shiny skin; shiny leather and sharp creases on his uniform. Very neat, and very insistent on neatness in his men. I knew he had started his career in this Concord substation of A Troop fifteen years ago. He had seen duty in B Troop, which was in western Massachusetts and the Berkshire hills. He had done a small stint in D Troop on Cape Cod. Then he had come back to eastern Massachusetts and the Concord Barracks again.
I sat on the wooden bench in the duty office, smoked a cigarette and waited for Trooper Bob Littlefield. Littlefield and I were scheduled to do a patrol together westward toward Fort Devens. And while I waited, I told Sergeant Constanza about William Cartwright Nesbit.
He looked up from the typewriter, paused, lit a cigarette in his precise, careful manner and said, “Billy Nesbit, huh? Sure, we know him. Nice kid.”
“He told me he wants to be a trooper. Is he serious?”
“I guess he is,” Constanza said.
I shook my head. “And there’s a lot of money there?”
“Plenty. He’s an only child. His father owns the Nesbit Smelting and Metals Corporation in Ashendon. A foundry for processing steel scrap. John Nesbit, president and principal stockholder. But the son, Billy, doesn’t care for the business.”
“You seem to know the family.”
“Well, John Nesbit is an old friend of ours. Years back some troopers stopped a payroll robbery at the foundry and he never forgot it. That TV set in the guardroom is a gift from Nesbit. And his kid’s been coming in here since he’s been able to walk. I can remember dangling Billy on my knee and feeding him milk at the dining-room table here.”
“He looks like a good kid,” I said. “But the way he was dressed, I pictured his car would be a big, fancy job. He drives that stubby little Volkswagen.”
“He’s just the kind who doesn’t care,” Constanza said. “He doesn’t have to impress anybody. The kid’s a Cartwright on his mother’s side. They have money from way back. Billy’s got everything else to go with it—looks, health, personality. Those kind don’t have to show off. They have it.”
“And this kid wants to be a trooper?”
“It’s not as screwy as it sounds. Billy enlisted in the army because he liked soldiering. He doesn’t like the foundry business. He thinks he wants a police career. What’s wrong with that? He’d be doing what he liked. And we’ve had rich kids before. Some of them made damn good troopers.”
“I’ll have to get used to the idea,” I said.
Bob Littlefield came into the office then. We went out together, got into the cruiser and drove away from the rear parking area. We passed the somber, old, red-brick walls of the Concord Reformatory and headed west toward Fort Devens.
At seven o’clock the next evening, Tuesday, I was in the guardroom doing my paper work, with one eye on the report form and the other on the TV screen. I heard the front doorbell ring. Blocked from my vision, two pairs of footsteps walked into the foyer and turned inside the duty office. One set of footsteps had the clickety-click sound of a woman’s high heels.
Through the doorway that led to the guardroom, I heard Corporal Mike Gillis’ voice say, “Hi, Billy.”
Then Billy Nesbit’s rich, carefully polite voice said, “Good evening, Mike. You remember Miss Morgan?”
“Sure,” I heard Gillis say. “How are you, Karen?”
“Just fine, Corporal,” a girl’s musical voice said.
Then Nesbit said, “I’ve come for that application, Mike.”
Gillis’ voice boomed. “Billy, you on the level? You really want to be a trooper?”
“Yes,” Nesbit said. “Is the idea so fantastic, Mike?”
Gillis said, “I was wondering what your father thinks about it.”
There was a pause. Then Nesbit said, “He’s resigned to the fact that I won’t go into the foundry. So he’s been very gracious about the whole thing. Dad’s a very decent, very understanding old chap.”
“That helps,” Gillis said. “You don’t want any family problems.”
There was some more talk in lowered voices. Then I heard my name mentioned and Corporal Gillis said, “Yes, he’s in the guardroom. Go right in.”
Billy Nesbit came into the guardroom holding an application form in his hand. He wore different shoes, slacks and jacket this time. And his sport shirt was in three tones of blended color, with a buttoned-down collar.
My eyes moved from Nesbit to the girl who had come in with him. She was young—not more than eighteen. She had striking golden-yellow hair and sparkling green eyes. Her feet were shod in green leather pumps. Her sheath skirt was of lighter green. She wore an off-white leather jacket with slash pockets.
I stood up hastily.
“Good evening, Trooper Lindsey,” Nesbit said to me. There was just a tiny glint of mischief in his eyes.
I grinned back at him in mutual understanding, because there was no use deceiving him how Karen Morgan affected me the first time I saw her. Nesbit knew it as well as I did. He knew how she affected Corporal Mike Gillis in the next room—or almost any other man who first saw her.
“Ralph,” Nesbit continued, “may I present Miss Karen Morgan? She’s the daughter of the international financier, Hunt Morgan. Miss Morgan, Trooper Ralph Lindsey.”
I said, “How do you do.”
And she said, “How do you do.”
Her soft, red mouth quivered for a moment, then she burst out into a peal of laughter. “My father,” she said, “happens to manage a small personal-loan office in Lowell.”
“No, please don’t think I exaggerate,” Billy Nesbit said to me. “He works for a loan company with offices in the United States and Canada. It is therefore international. He is in the finance business because his company lends money for cars, household furniture and appliances. He is therefore a financier. And, as the company is international, he is an international financier. The trouble is with Hunt Morgan and his daughter, Karen. They are too modest.”
We all laughed at that. I pulled out a chair for Karen Morgan. It was not customary to have female visitors at a State Police barracks. I said, “Will you sit down, please? And let me get you a Coke or some coffee.”
She said, “Oh, no, thank you. We can’t stay.” Her eyes moved curiously from the TV set to the teletype room and back along to the open door leading to the empty cell block. And my eyes were sweeping over her trim figure.
Billy Nesbit was waving the application sheet at me. I turned my eyes reluctantly from the shapely legs and hips. He said, “This is the beginning. I’m heading for the good life.”
“For some it is,” I said. “Good luck.”
“Thanks, Ralph. Corporal Mike said I was to fill out all the empty lines, attach suitable photographs and photostats, and send it all to General Headquarters in Boston. Further events would materialize from there.”
“I hope he makes it,” Karen Morgan said to me. “And I hope, when he does, that he looks half as good as you do, Trooper Lindsey.”
I reddened uncomfortably, like an overgrown schoolboy. Nesbit wagged a finger at me and said, “Ah, you’ve made a conquest, Ralph.”
“Not me,” I said, my heart thumping queerly. “You’re confusing politeness with something else.”
“No,” Nesbit said, and I thought he glanced at her oddly. “I know Karen
. She usually means what she says.”
“That makes me happy,” I said. I looked at Karen Morgan and saw her cheeks were flushed. She stood up with a quick, hurried motion.
“I’m sorry we have to go now,” she said.
I went with them to the front door and said good-by. I watched as they went down the flagstone walk to the front parking area. There was a small gray car. The German Volkswagen. I saw Nesbit open the door for Karen Morgan. And I watched as she hiked up her tight little skirt to get into the tiny car.
There was a thickening in my throat then, and a dryness. She had left a flowery little scent in the air around me—a remembrance of her presence.
The car turned off onto Route 2 and disappeared around the bend to the west. I still stayed in the doorway minutes after the car had vanished. I kept thinking of Karen Morgan; of her lips and her hair and her face and her flowery scent, and her shapely figure, too. And the way the laughter had tinkled out of her. And I thought of Billy Nesbit, with his looks and his wealth and his clothes and his breeding and his ease of manner, and this beautiful girl who seemed to be just as much a possession of his as the little car. I resented that part. It did not make me bitter that he had attained everything else so easily by being born into it. For all I cared, he could have everything in the world—except Karen Morgan. I wasn’t sure I would be able to give him very much competition for her. But, whatever the chances were, I knew I was going to try to see her again. That was the way she had hit me right from the beginning. I couldn’t help it, any more than I could have stopped the sun from setting.
Chapter 3
It was the next day, Wednesday, June twelfth, when I discovered the murder of Eugene Somers. I was on an early morning patrol. The time: 6:30 A.M. The road: Route 25.
Route 25 is a secondary patrol. We do it as often as we can with our limited manpower, which is not very much.
You start it at the red-brick gas station at the intersection of 4 and 25, and drive west through East Lexington. It is a black-top road, and in the early June mornings the mists rise from the surrounding fields. This is history-studded country, typically New England.