The Running Man

by Ben Benson

  But what this case was, we didn’t know yet.

  Chapter 5

  At five o’clock that afternoon I was supposed to have started on my time off. But now, of course, there would be no days off for me until the case was completed. There were a number of troopers and detectives on the assignment. Gas stations, homes and farms in the area were being checked, stool pigeons were being utilized, known criminals were being picked up for questioning. As for my own particular assignment, I knew it would be very small. This was confirmed when Newpole asked me to check on hitchhikers in two towns, Billerica and Ashendon.

  “See both police chiefs,” Newpole said. “If you know anybody in those two towns, ask around. I’ll contact you later.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  I went upstairs and changed into civilian clothes, strapping my Smith & Wesson pocket revolver in its soft leather holster to the right side of my belt, and putting on my three-button tweed sport jacket. I went downstairs and checked out a black, unmarked radio sedan, Cruiser 34.

  I went to Billerica first. That trip was without result. An hour later I was on my way to Ashendon. And, as I drove, I was thinking that it was a good break that I knew Billy Nesbit. He could be a source of information there.

  It was 7:30 P.M. and still sun-bright when I came to West Elm Street. The area was well wooded and the big houses were widely spaced and set far back from the road.

  As I came around a bend I saw a red-brick wall and a sign of glass beads that said: Nesbit. It was a large, stately white house, a Mount Vernon-type colonial with twin ivy-covered chimneys. The long white pillars in front reached from the ground to the widow’s walk along the roof. There was an arching macadam driveway that led from the road to the big portico.

  I drove up and stopped. The first-floor windows, flanked with black shutters, had drawn shades. I got out. A ring at the doorbell brought a sound of chimes but no other response. I went by a beautifully manicured green lawn and banks of flowers. There was a three-car garage adjacent to the house. The doors were open and I walked over and looked in. I saw a black Cadillac sedan and a smaller car, a hard-top convertible. But no Volkswagen.

  I got back into my car and drove away, coming through the center of town again, stopping long enough to consult a telephone directory and then turning right at the traffic blinker. Less than a mile beyond was a new development of small homes. I drove through. A new little street sign said Grasshopper Lane. I turned onto it and moved along slowly, looking at the clapboard, ranch-style, L-shaped houses. Number 19 was the home of Karen Morgan. It was a yellow house with a gray shingled roof, and gray flower boxes under the picture windows in front.

  No Volkswagen was parked in front and there was no sign anybody was home. I let the motor idle, my pulse beating very rapidly, but I could think of no excuse for calling on her. I did not go in.

  Swinging the car around, I drove back to Ashendon Square. The town was large in area but small in population. It had only one industry on the outskirts to the northwest, the Nesbit Smelting and Metals Corporation. Because of the small population, the town had only one police officer, Chief Amos Rawlins, sixty-seven years old. He was considered a good officer, but it was almost impossible, even for a younger man, to patrol a town so large in area efficiently. The town had not mushroomed in population like nearby Bedford, for example. Ashendon contained some large estates and, because of the rigid zoning laws, low-priced housing was severely restricted.

  Ashendon Square consisted of a cluster of a few small stores: a self-service market, which was called the Ashendon Superette, a small, red-brick branch bank, a hardware and appliance store, and the Ashendon drugstore.

  The drugstore I remembered from a midnight patrol a month back, when I had gone inside for a sandwich and a cup of coffee and found out it was the town hangout for the younger set. The marble counter had been presided over by the owner, a slim attractive widow, a Mrs. Hilda Berlin.

  There were some cars angled in front of the drugstore and one of them was a gray Volkswagen. I cut in beside it, got out and went into the store. It was seven minutes past eight, and the sun was still high enough to cast its rays in through the big plate-glass windows.

  At the far end of the marble fountain, Billy Nesbit was sitting on a red, leather-topped stool, his legs twined around the chrome-plated shaft. He was sipping on a Coke and reading a Lowell evening paper. As I came up close I saw, on the front page, pictures of the Somers death scene. The aroma of death came back to me.

  He turned around. His gaze hit my legs first, then came up. His eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Hi. Draw up a stool.”

  “Thanks,” I said, sliding onto the next stool. A sixteen-year-old girl, with flaxen hair done in a pony tail, came up to me from behind the counter and waited. She wore a pert, little white jacket with red piping. I ordered a Coke and lime.

  “Ralph,” Nesbit said when she moved away, “they have your picture here. Did you know that?”

  “No,” I said.

  He turned a page, then pushed the folded paper over to me. I saw a stiff, staring head shot of myself and recognized it as a stock I.D. photo from the files of GHQ in Boston. I read the text. It told how I had found the body at the deserted Runkle Farm in Baycroft, the various speculations and theories, and the news that Detective-Lieutenant Edward Newpole was in charge of the case. There was a photo of Newpole and another photo of the ground near the wall, with a big black X to mark the spot where the body had been. “Odd occupation,” Nesbit was saying.

  “What?” I asked. I had been visualizing the dead body. My Coke was on the counter before me and I bent and sipped it hurriedly. Then I turned toward Nesbit, noticing for the first time how carefully he was dressed. His suit was of blue tropical silk. His shirt was a lightweight Swiss voile. He wore a pale-blue, polka-dot bow tie.

  “I was remarking,” he said, in his soft, rich voice, “that the victim had an odd occupation. A teataster. That’s odd, isn’t it? Just what does a teataster do?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I said.

  “But you’re working on the case—”

  “Only a very small part of it.”

  “I was wondering how much they’ve found out so far.” He smiled. “Unless, of course, I’m treading on sacred ground. Tell me, and I’ll tiptoe off. But it’s more than pure curiosity with me. It’s just that I have a wild, crazy theory about this case, that’s all.”

  “No,” I said, “I’d like to hear any theory you’d have. Maybe it’s not so wild or crazy.”

  “Very well. The man was a teataster. Royal Standard in Boston. Where does tea come from? India and Pakistan and Ceylon. In the very same area where they grow white poppies. Not the poppies of Joyce Kilmer, sir, which grow in Flanders Fields in Belgium. These are different poppies, Ralph.”

  I rubbed my forehead. “Now you’re talking about narcotics.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “Opium and its derivatives; cocaine, morphine and heroin.” He folded the newspaper and pushed it aside on the counter. “Now, it wouldn’t be too much trouble to conceal those drugs in the tea chests as they were packed. Maybe Somers found out about those drugs in some way. Maybe he was part of a gang smuggling in the stuff, and he was becoming troublesome and had to be done away with.” Nesbit laughed deprecatingly. “It’s just an angle, Ralph. I suppose it does sound a little too sinister, too farfetched, too fictional.”

  “Not at all,” I said, finishing my drink. “Because you never can tell about those things. But usually the solution is simpler. One theory is, Somers might have been killed by a hitchhiker.”

  “Only a hitchhiker?” His voice sounded disappointed. “What reason would there be?”

  “Robbery could be a good reason.”

  “But this was a murder, Ralph. Why would there be killing? The man could simply have robbed Somers.”

  I didn’t answer that. Not because I had no answer, but because you could discuss only so much police business with civilians without becoming garrul
ous. You did not divulge information, you sought it. I said, “I dropped by your house to see you.”

  His eyebrows lifted into question marks. “When was that, Ralph?”

  “Just a little while ago.”

  “I’m flattered. And I’m sorry nobody was home. The couple who take care of the house, the Flemings, have the day off.”

  “It wasn’t too important,” I said. “I thought maybe, in your travels, you might have seen some people on the road. Especially in the Baycroft area. Maybe two people, or even three together, thumbing rides. Maybe even a lone one.”

  “No, I haven’t noticed anybody in particular,” he said, shaking his head regretfully. “I wish I had.”

  “Do you know of any chronic hitchhikers in Ashendon?”

  “No,” he said. “I can’t think of anybody.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Billy.” I stood up.

  Nesbit stood up, too, reaching for his folded newspaper and slipping it into his jacket pocket. Then he threw two dimes on the marble counter.

  “Please let me pay for your Coke,” he said quickly. “It’s only ten cents and I’m a great one for the grand gesture. And I’m not impugning your integrity as a police officer, either.”

  I laughed. “Sure. Thanks very much.”

  We started toward the door. He asked, “Are you on duty tonight?”

  “Not exactly. I’ve got to see Chief Rawlins for a minute. That’s about all.”

  “Good. You don’t have a date later, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I don’t want to appear presumptuous, but I’d deem it an honor if you’d share a date with me tonight. Karen has a girl friend visiting her from the lake. I was going to call a friend of mine, Ernie Congdon, just now. But since you’re here—”

  “I don’t think so,” I interrupted. “I’m not much for these blind dates.”

  “Please,” he said. “I wouldn’t palm off a dog on you. I know this one. Lorelei Winchester.”

  “It’s a cute name.”

  “She’s a cute kid. Blond and cuddly—and a mature, ripe nineteen years of age. I wouldn’t foist off a hag on you, Ralph. And you can make out with this one.”

  “I’d still rather not. I don’t like to cut in on Ernie Congdon.”

  “Frankly, I was only thinking of calling Ernie. I hadn’t said anything to him yet. Ernie is a good boy, but he’s a little rough around the edges. Lorelei likes the polished type. Savoir-faire, you know. You, Ralph.”

  “Are you kidding?” I said incredulously.

  “No, I’m not kidding. You’ve been around. You know how to talk to people. You’re strong and virile. A girl goes for the he-man type.”

  I laughed. “Hold it. You’ve convinced me. I’m your man.” We went toward the door, and the girl in the snug, little white jacket followed along behind the fountain. She said wistfully, “See you, Billy.”

  He turned and reached over the counter, chucking her under her round little chin. He grinned and said, “Until tomorrow, Dollface.”

  I saw her blush and almost wriggle like a little puppy. And I thought then, that was part of him, he could charm them all, the young, the middle-aged and the old. He had just about everything.

  Chapter 6

  We walked across the street to the little, white, single-storied town hall. There was a wooden sign with black letters that said:

  Police and Fire Dept.

  Under it was tacked a small white cardboard square that read:

  Be Back At Eleven. For Emergency Call State Police.

  “I guess this must happen often,” I said to Nesbit.

  “Fairly often,” Nesbit said. “The chief is only one man. When he goes out on a complaint he always leaves one of those little signs. He has twenty-four of them, made up for every hour and half-hour of the day. You don’t plan on waiting for him, do you?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Then let’s go see the girls.”

  He insisted on playing host all the way and that meant, of course, going in his little car. We started across the street again and, as we did, we went by the old shed that was used as a fire station. He looked at me and smiled because, I think, he was remembering the questions I had asked him when I had found him on Route 2, two nights ago, Monday.

  When we got to his car, he opened the door for me and said, “Some of the world’s bravest women have passed through this door.”

  “I can imagine,” I said, climbing in. The front had two small individual seats of red leather, the seat on the right being slightly forward of the driver’s seat, both set low, bringing the knees up higher than in the conventional car. Nesbit got in, started the motor and we chugged off.

  “Four cylinders,” he said. “Only thirty-six horsepower. But I get almost thirty miles to a gallon of gas.”

  “Seats four,” I said, “air-cooled—no radiator. Motor in the back. Four forward speeds, one reverse. Small 5.60x15 tires. Emergency brake works only on rear wheels. Luggage compartment under front hood and behind back seat.”

  He threw his head back and laughed. “And I was going to show off to you about the car.”

  “I didn’t mean to squelch you,” I said. “But, at one time or another, I’ve stopped and searched a few of these.”

  “Terrific little car, don’t you think?”

  “They’re fine,” I said. “They’re kind of stumpy-looking and they’ll never win a prize for beauty, but they’re cheap to run and that’s important.”

  “They’re also a little tight-fitting,” he said. “Absolutely no good in the romance department. I mean, sir, you get a girl in here and the arm-and-leg room is simply deplorable.”

  I chuckled. He grinned back at me, his white teeth glistening. He was driving into the setting sun, down Main Street. We putt-putted past a pine grove, passing the pretty street names like Apple Blossom Lane and Green Willow Circle and Maple Tree Drive. Nesbit swung into Grasshopper Lane and pulled into the black hard-top driveway of Karen Morgan’s house. He shut off the ignition.

  “Nice house,” he said. “New. Mass-produced. All electric kitchen with a pink-pastel refrigerator built into the wall. It was bought for less than seventeen thousand dollars. Many of my father’s employees live in this development. That’s what makes our country so wonderful, Ralph.”

  We stepped out and went up the driveway to the front door. He pressed the bell button and said, “You won’t have a chance to meet Mr. and Mrs. Morgan. They’ve been away almost a week, attending a convention of the finance company in Atlantic City. That’s why Lorelei Winchester is a house guest.”

  I nodded. The back of my neck felt damp. I wasn’t thinking of Lorelei Winchester. I was there because of somebody else.

  The door opened. Karen Morgan stood there, very straight and rigid, her mouth open with perfect astonishment. She was very beautiful in the light of the setting sun.

  “Surprise,” Billy Nesbit said to her.

  Her hand went to her throat and a laugh tinkled out of her. “You gave me palpitations. What a wonderful surprise.” Her other hand stretched out to clasp mine. “I’m so happy to see you again, Trooper Lindsey. I thought Billy would have to bring Ernie Congdon.”

  Nesbit’s mouth turned down for an instant and then he said, “I didn’t have to bring Ernie. I thought the atmosphere here would be beneficial to him. We could help him, do him some good. He is my friend, Karen. As much as we kid about it, Ernie is still my friend.”

  “I’m sorry, dear,” she said quickly and she reached up and kissed him on the mouth. When she stepped back, he flashed his dazzling smile and patted her shoulder once.

  We moved past the front door with its side panels of ribbed, frosted glass and into the living room with its big, square picture window. With sudden impulse, she took my hand again and said, “I was hoping we’d see you again soon, Mr. Lindsey. You don’t realize how much you mean to someone like Billy.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “But my name is Ralph. So unless you want me to call you Mi
ss Morgan—”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “Karen to you—always.” Then she brought me over to a long, gray, nubble-cloth sofa. A girl sat there smiling up at us. Her long, shoulder-length blond hair was cut into a ragged, uneven bang across her forehead. The latest gamin type, I thought, though I never knew the reason why it was popular.

  The girl stood up. She was rather short, but plump and shapely. Cuddly, too, like a Kewpie doll. The nose was small, uptilted. The mouth was rosebud-shaped and a little poutish. She said to Karen Morgan, “I heard you in the hall. Is this the trooper you were telling me about?”

  “Yes,” Karen Morgan said. “But, Lorrie—”

  “He dazzles me, honey.”

  “Hush,” Karen Morgan said, flushing.

  The girl said to me, “You’re Ralph Lindsey and we’re not going to wait forever for Karen to introduce us, are we? I’m Lorelei Winchester, and I’ll bet you’re even handsomer in uniform.”

  I started to frame some kind of answer, but Lorelei Winchester was tugging me by the hand, saying, “Come here, I want to tell you something terribly important.” And before I had a chance to say anything, she had propelled me into the kitchen, where I did see the pink-colored wall refrigerator Nesbit had mentioned.

  Then Lorelei Winchester told me the terribly important news. She had made some punch. Winking archly, she said, “My very own recipe. I used some of the Morgan vodka in it and it has an awful kick. Simply awful. Now, don’t you dare say a word to Karen. She’d just die if she knew.”

  The punch was in a crystal pitcher and she poured some into a small, fluted glass. I tasted it gingerly. It did not seem to have any kick at all. But I said it was fine, just perfect.

  We lingered there near the pink formica counter and I didn’t quite know what to do with her. Then she placed the pitcher and some glasses on a tray. I brought it into the living room and set it down on a low, marble-topped coffee table.