The Far Cry

by Fredric Brown

  Chapter Thirteen

  Santa Fe to Albuquerque in the early dawn. Socorro, then the marker that said Arizona, New Mexico. Springerville, Globe. Three hundred miles and it was barely after noon. Ninety more miles to Phoenix. He rested an hour in Phoenix. He pushed on. (Wonder what Vi would think if she knew he wasn’t going to Los Angeles at all, that he was going a thousand miles for a rendezvous with a girl who’d been dead for eight years?)

  A hundred and seventy more miles to Blythe on the California border. And it was dark by then and he was utterly weary; he checked in at a hotel that didn’t look expensive, but charged him five dollars just the same, and slept solidly and dreamlessly for ten hours.

  (Vi would think he was insane. And would she be too wrong?)

  He drove out of Blythe at seven, and it was a relatively short lap from there. Indio, San Bernardino.

  Barton. Pop. 3500.

  It was still early afternoon and he wasn’t tired; the bulk of his driving had been done the day before and he’d had a good night's sleep.

  (Here he was. But why was he here?)

  A wide main street, the only important street in the little town. Wider for one block in the middle of town, where all the business places were. Angle parking. He parked and got out of the car.

  He went into the corner drugstore first. The phone book was a ridiculous off-chance, but he tried it. No Ames listed. He had a coke and asked the proprietor if there was anyone in town by the name of Ames.

  "No, sir. Don’t know anyone named Ames who ever lived here. Not offhand.”

  "You've been here long?” Weaver asked.

  “Born here, fifty years ago.”

  “And lived here all that time?”

  "Except a few years during the war. The first war, I mean.”

  Weaver drank his coke and didn't ask any more questions. There were other questions to ask, but not in a place where he had already mentioned the name Ames.

  He had a sandwich and coffee at the restaurant three doors down. The waitress didn’t look like a good bet. Too young; eight years ago she'd have been in the third or fourth grade of school. But it didn’t hurt to try.

  “You lived here long, Miss?”

  “All my life, except for one year, last year. I worked in L. A., but I didn't like it and came back home.”

  “I was wondering,” Weaver said. "I used to know a girl from Barton. First name was Jenny and I can't remember her last name. I think it began with an A. Do you know who I mean?"

  "Jenny? I'm afraid not, not if her last name is an A. I know a Jenny Wilson; she was in my class at high school.”

  "She wouldn't be the one—unless you’re a lot older than you look. The Jenny I knew—she'd be close to thirty now."

  “No, it wouldn't be Jenny Wilson, then. She’s only nineteen, not even as old as I am. You might ask Pop; he knows about everybody that ever lived here."

  “Pop?”

  (Surely not Pop. 3500?)

  "My father. Up by the cash register. You’ll meet him when you pay your check."

  Weaver finished his sandwich and coffee, left a tip and went to the register. The man behind the counter rang up forty-five cents and gave him change. “Kind of hot out today," he said.

  "Sure is. By the way, I'm trying to remember someone I knew once who came from Barton, about eight years ago. Your daughter says you know about everybody who ever lived here." Weaver leaned on the counter casually.

  “Well, try me. I know a lot of people."

  "A girl named Jenny. I think the last name begins with an A, but I can’t remember it. She’d have been around twenty when she left here ."

  “She was twenty-two. Jenny Albright.”

  Weaver reached for a cigarette in his pocket and then realized that his hands might tremble when he tried to light it, so he didn't try it.

  “That's the name," he said. "Her folks still live here?”

  "Her mother does. Her father died, year or so after she went away. Sure, I remember Jenny. Nice girl, although—"

  “Although what?

  "Nothing. I just meant I didn’t really know her very well.”

  "I’d rather like to talk to her mother while I'm here. Do you know where she lives?"

  "A few blocks from here, on Beech Street. That's the next street north, parallel to this one. I don't know the house number but I guess it's in the phone book. What's Jenny doing now?”

  Weaver said, “I don't know. I’ve lost track of her; I'm trying to find out where she is. Well, thanks a lot."

  He went out into the hot sunlight and stood a moment indecisively. Should he look up Jenny's mother next? Or talk to a few other people first, get a few more preliminary facts to make his story better? Maybe he should do that; he could use a drink, for one thing, and bartenders are usually talkative if their customers want them to be. And he hadn’t had a drink since night before last, in Santa Fe with Vi and her friends.

  He found a tavern a few doors away and it was dim and cool and comfortable inside. He was the only customer and the bartender looked more than old enough to remember eight years back if he'd lived here that long.

  Weaver ordered a whisky and soda. "Nice little town, Barton," he said. “First time I've ever been here but I like the looks of it."

  “Yeah”

  "You lived here long?”

  “All my life in California. I'm a. native son, born in Mojave. Lived in Barton fifteen years.”

  "Sure a nice little town,” Weaver said again. “Have a drink with me?”

  “Sure, thanks .”

  "Used to know a girl who came from here. Jenny Albright. Remember her?"

  "Henry Albright's daughter?”

  "If she ever mentioned her father's first name I don’t remember it. But she said he died six or seven years ago.”

  “Yeah. Well, I didn’t really know her personally, just by sight, and I’d forgot what her first name was, but that must be the one. If it is, and if she knew her father died, it was funny she didn't come back or write or anything. I remember people wondering about it."

  Weaver said, "I think she learned about it quite a while after it happened. What did Henry Albright do?”

  "Head teller at the bank. His daughter worked there too, up to the time she left."

  “Oh,” Weaver said.

  "Look, mister, are you a detective or something?” The bartender didn't sound belligerent, just curious.

  “Me? Hell, no. Why?”

  "Just remembering something about the way the girl left town.”

  “How was that? And will you make us two more drinks?"

  "Sure. I dunno, maybe I shouldn't have said anything. But a lot of people wondered and there was a lot of talk."

  “You mean she got in trouble?”

  "Well, not the kind of trouble girls usually get in, if that’s what you mean. She was a good girl, I guess, that way. From what I heard, her parents were so strict with her she had to be. Henry wasn’t a customer here—he practically ran the local Baptist Church, and I guess he pretty much ran his family too. Hard and strict, and his wife too. I don’t know as I blame any daughter of his—especially an only child— for taking her walking papers.”

  "If that was all she took,” Weaver said. “I gather that's what you were hinting at."

  “Well, that was the talk. Nobody knows for sure, unless people at the bank. And if she did take anything from the bank when she left, Henry must’ve made it up.”

  “Is there any indication that he did?”

  "Well—say, you're sure you’re not a detective or anything? Nobody knows, so I don't want to get the girl in trouble or keep her from getting a job or whatever it is."

  “Nothing like that," Weaver said. "In fact, Jenny Albright is dead, so you can’t get her into any trouble if you tried. And if her father's dead too—well, it can't make any difference. No, I knew Jenny just well enough to be curious about—well, what she was really like.”

  "You're not kidding me about her being dead?"
<
br />   “No. Honestly.”

  "Well, then it doesn't matter. She left suddenly, and some people here thought she might have taken money from the bank with her. There were a couple of things that made it look that way. For one, she never wrote home again, as far as anybody knows. For another, just after she left Henry Albright sold-his home—one that he owned outright—and bought a smaller place, with only a down payment on it. Looked like he was raising money.”

  “Seems funny a girl would do something like that to her own family."

  "Yeah, but maybe she didn’t figure that her father would make it up out of his own pocket, just thought she was stealing it from the bank. And maybe she never knew that he did make it up. Say—“

  “What?”

  “Just wondered something. If she really did run off with money from the bank, it’s funny she was using her right name when you knew her.”

  “She wasn't. I happened to find out her right name accidentally—and after she died."

  "Oh. Well, like we were saying, it's still funny that a girl brought up like that—no matter how strict her parents were—would suddenly up and embezzle from a bank. My guess is, if she did, there was a man in it somewhere and she was doing it for him. Some women'll do anything for a man if they love him.”

  “I guess so,” Weaver said. "It couldn’t have been any of the local swains, could it? I mean, did anyone else disappear about the same time Jenny did?”

  "Nope. I guess—I'm remembering more about it now—I guess maybe that was part of the trouble with her, that she never had any local dates to speak of. Her parents were hellers when it came to things like that, wouldn’t let a man get within fifty feet of her, even after she was twenty. I remember hearing that a guy she’d been corresponding with came to town once to see her—dunno how she got into correspondence with him—but anyway—”

  “Was he an artist?”

  “I wouldn't know. Anyway, way I heard it, she got to see him a few times and then her parents learned he was around—she must've managed to keep it secret up to then—and clamped down the lid, wouldn't even let her out of the house. Nope, I don't blame her for running away. Not too much, even if she stole money to take with her. Served the old heller right, way I see it. You can't treat a girl over twenty like she was fourteen and living in a nunnery at that, not without expecting her to bust out one way or another.”

  Weaver nodded.

  He had the picture now, probably as clear as he’d ever have it.

  So that was it, Jenny. And you were so starved for romance that you wrote to a Lonely Hearts Club and got into correspondence— you must have used a post-office box or general delivery so your mother wouldn’t see the letters—with a man who sounded wonderful and romantic. And he came to see you, and he made love to you and said he wanted to marry you, so you fell head over heels in love with him.

  Then your parents learned he was here and kept you away from him. (Why didn't you just tell them off, Jenny? It must have been because, from so many years of submission, you were afraid to or didn't realize that you could.) But back to the prison of your home, losing the man you loved, as you thought.

  And then, again, his passionate letters. And he wanted so badly to marry you right away, but it might have to be years because he had to wait until he’d saved up enough money to start his art school in Taos. If he only had five thousand dollars, or ten, or whatever he figured your bank carried in ready cash (Had he pumped you about that, Jenny, while he was here?) he could start his school at once and marry you right away.

  And you loved him madly—

  "Have another one, mister? On me, this time?"

  “Huh?” Weaver was startled. He'd forgotten where he was and to whom he'd been talking. "Oh, sure. Thanks."

  “I was just thinking. About Mrs. Albright. If you’re sure her daughter's dead, she ought to know about it. I don’t like her much—she’s like her husband, Temperance and trying to get local Prohibition and close us up and stuff like that. But just the same, if you're sure Jenny’s dead—”

  "I'll tell her," Weaver said. "You're right; she ought to know.”

  "Or if you haven't got time, Mr.—“

  “Weaver. George Weaver.”

  “Glad to know you; my name’s Joe Deaver. Say, that’s funny; our names rhyme. Weaver and Deaver. Anyway, I was just going to say if you haven’t got time to see the old battle-ax or if you don't find her in or something, I can get word to her for you. My wife’s a Baptist, too, goes to the same church. I don't go for that kind of stuff myself."

  “Thanks,” Weaver said. (What was your mother like, Jenny?) "I'll look her up, if she's home. If she isn't—well, in that case I’ll drop back and let you know. Or maybe I can phone her from here and make sure she'll be home. Mind if I look in your phone book and then use your phone?”

  "Help yourself, Mr. Weaver.”

  "Make us a couple more drinks while I do.”

  Mrs. Henry Albright was listed in the phone book. Seven-eighteen Beech Street. One-eight-two-R. Weaver found a nickel in his pocket and called the number. A female voice answered.

  “Mrs. Albright?”

  “Yes.”

  "You don't know me, Mrs. Albright. My name is Weaver; I’d like to see you for a few minutes, if I may. I called to be sure you’d be home.”

  “Yes, I'll be home all afternoon. What do you want to see me about?"

  “A personal matter, Mrs. Albright, something I'd rather not explain over the phone. But I’m not selling anything, and it is both personal and important.”

  "Very well. I will be here.”

  He didn't like the sound of her voice; it was cold and hard.

  "Thank you, Mrs. Albright. I'll be there within half an hour."

  He went back to the bar. He rather wished now that he'd settled for getting word to Jenny's mother through Joe Deaver—but Joe had heard his end of the conversation and he couldn't change his mind now.

  He drank his and decided that another would help. “Two more for us, Joe."

  “Thanks, but I’ll skip this one. I've got six hours yet on this shift.”

  “Okay, but don’t skip mine. From the frost on that woman's voice, I’d better be fortified."

  The bartender chuckled. "What the hell do you care? You’re doing her a favor. But, come to think of it, you'd better stay sober or you won't get inside the door."

  "Which wouldn't sadden me too much, Joe. But I'll be sober. I’m used to drinking at high altitude where drinks hit you harder. Down here near sea level, I’d have to drink twice as much as usual now before I'd start to feel it."

  "Know what you mean. I was in Denver once, and that's only a mile high and I could tell the difference when it came to drinking. How high is wherever you come from?"

  "Seven thousand. Taos, New Mexico. It's seventy miles north of Santa Fe."

  “Is that where Jenny Albright died?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of what?”

  Weaver hesitated. He’d been talking too much. He said, "I don’t know, exactly; I learned about it a long time afterwards."

  "Oh. Sure hot, isn't it? Wonder why Jenny went to Taos. I had a hunch it was Tucson, Arizona."

  “Tucson? Why did you think that?”

  "Well—I never mentioned it to anyone because if Jenny did run off with money from the bank, I was for her. But it doesn't matter now. About a year after she left here I was driving east and stopped over in Tucson the first night. I saw a guy on the street there that I thought was the guy who'd come here to see Jenny. And if it was him she ran off to go to, I figured maybe she was there too. But it was none of my business; I didn’t hunt for her.”

  Weaver saw that he'd spilled part of his drink. He put down the glass on the bar. "You're sure it was the same man?”

  "I thought it was. He was wearing his hair different—longer; he had a crew cut when he was here. And he had a mustache. But I thought it was the same guy. He was in here a few times for drinks during the few days he was in Barton,
so I knew him pretty well by sight—but it was afterwards that I learned he’d been here to see Jenny. You know how things get around in a small town.”

  “Did you speak to him? In Tucson, I mean?"

  “Nope. I just passed him on the street and I wasn’t sure. And besides, if Jenny was with him, married or otherwise, and she had really swiped money from the bank here—well, it would have scared them to have been spotted. So he didn't notice me and I didn't speak to him.”

  Tucson. T. b. It fitted; it had to be. He’d already guessed that Nelson had doubled back from Amarillo to get to the hot dry Southwest, and Tucson was right in the center of that. And the change in haircut, the mustache—they made it even more likely that Joe Deaver had seen the right man. It added up.

  But seven years ago—

  "Give me one more, Joe. Then I got to get going.”

  “Sure, Mr. Weaver. Wish you were sticking around Barton awhile longer, though. You're a good customer.”

  Weaver managed to hide his excitement and wisecrack back, to force himself not to gulp the last drink.

  Then the hot sunshine again, and he'd had a bit more to drink than he'd thought. He wasn’t drunk, but he wasn’t completely sober either. He’d done a hell of a lot of drinking within the space of less than an hour. But what the hell—look at all he’d learned.

  He started his car and he was in such a hurry to get to Tucson that he almost decided not to go to the Beech Street address to see Mrs. Albright. But—he’d promised. And what the hell difference could ten or fifteen minutes make? He found the house, he found the door, he found the knocker.

  Chapter Fourteen

  She was tall and thin and pale and gray. She had lips like rubber bands and eyes like buttons too small for their buttonholes. "Mrs. Albright?"

  "Yes, I'm Mrs. Albright."

  “My name is Weaver. I just called you on the phone. I’m afraid I have bad news for you. About your—daughter.” He couldn't help the hesitation on the last word; he couldn’t think of this woman as ever having had a daughter, as ever having undergone the necessary preliminaries to having a daughter.

  “Mr. Weaver, you have been drinking. Your breath is offensive."