by Ben Benson
When we hit the outskirts of Carlton we came under the pale, wan street lights. I turned my headlights off so I could follow Cluett without being noticed. He turned onto Maple Avenue. I stopped at the corner. I saw him drive down the block and park in front of his house. He went inside with Irma. The lights went on. I left my car and walked toward the house.
I watched it for a moment behind a tree. Then I went up along the driveway, swiftly, silently, keeping on the grass. I came to the one-car garage. The overhead door was open. I peered inside. It was empty. There was no black Plymouth there.
I went behind the tree and took up my position. Ten minutes went by. Suddenly the lights in the house went out. I stayed there. The street was silent and empty. A long distance away I heard a train rumbling through a crossing.
Fifteen minutes more passed. The lights in the house came on again. Five minutes later the front door opened and Cluett came out with Irma. I squeezed flat against the tree and watched them drive away. When the Mercury turned the corner toward Main, I ran for my car. I drove down to Main Street. There I stopped near the little gas station. I had seen the Mercury. It was parked in the middle of a block of stores that had apartments upstairs. I saw Irma get out and run inside. Then Cluett started the convertible, made a U turn, and came back toward me. I bent down in the seat. His car swept by. A minute later, I started up my Ford and drove back to Maple Avenue. The Mercury was in the driveway and the lights were on in the house.
I sat there a moment, looking at the house, smoking a cigarette, a choked, squeezed feeling in me because all night I had had the wrong man under surveillance.
I drove over to Elm Street and stopped under Craird Waldock’s used-car sign. The lot was dark. I walked around it, poking my pencil flashlight about. I looked into the tiny garage in back. No black Plymouth. Only the usual assortment of old cars and the scrap pile.
I drove over to River Street, to Osanger’s Garage. It was dark, too. The big door in front was chained and padlocked. I went up to the casement windows and flashed my light inside. I saw the ’47 Buick I had seen in the morning. Nothing else.
I went back to the car and headed out Route 111. When I came to the Peppermint Stick, I got out and looked inside through the window. It was noisy enough, but only half-full, and there was no Vince Pomeroy. I continued on along 111 until I came close to the Osanger farm.
As I approached, slowly now, I saw the shade-drawn lighted windows of the house. In the yard was the station wagon. Beside it was Osanger’s Chrysler. I drove ahead a short distance to a small dirt road. Turning onto it, I stopped the car. I walked back. I was praying there was no watchdog around. I had no weapon with me.
I moved softly into the yard. I touched the hood of the station wagon. It was cold. I crept along the side of the house. There was enough space under the drawn shade so I could see into the living room.
Ken Osanger was in there with the big heavy woman I took for his mother. In a corner was Leta Joyce Nofke sitting in a big over-stuffed chair, looking down at her hands. Seated in another corner was Vincent Pomeroy, holding a can of beer and smoking a cigarette with short nervous puffs. The news broadcast was on the radio and they were all listening to it. Then the news stopped and music came on. Osanger turned to Pomeroy and said something I couldn’t hear. Pomeroy lifted the can of beer and drank. There was no more conversation.
I slid away from the window and went toward the barn. In the full light of the moon I saw the tractor. I felt the hood. It was warm. The tractor had been used recently. Tractor tracks ran parallel along the barn. There were footsteps in the dirt leading to the barn doors. But there were no tire tracks.
I tried the barn doors. They were locked. I went around the side of the building. There was a shuttered window. I tried it. It was fastened, but loosely, from the inside. I pulled on it. Something gave way with a little squeak. The shutter swung open. There was no window pane.
I swung over the sill and dropped inside. A simple wooden crossbar had pulled away from the rotted wood. I put it back in place. I sniffed the sweetish-sour smell of the barn. Then I brought out the tiny pencil flashlight and swept the beam over the floor. Near one wall was a harrow, a plow and some farm machinery I couldn’t identify. There were bags of feed and grain for the chickens. In the middle of the floor were bales of hay. I flashed the beam up and saw a big, heavy, well-oiled chain hoist for lifting the bales. There was a ladder leading to the hayloft.
I climbed up. Something scuttled in the straw. I switched off the light and froze. There was a scamper of tiny feet. Field mice. There was nothing else in the loft, or in the barn. No stolen Plymouth. No car at all.
I climbed down the ladder. As I reached the bottom rung, I heard the same shutter creak open. I moved away from the ladder and flattened against a wooden stall. The shutter grated as it opened wider.
The silhouette of a man in a felt hat loomed in the opening. A match flickered and lit up a small, sharp, ferretlike face, the eyes roaming quickly. It was Craird Waldock.
He didn’t see me. The match went out and the silhouette disappeared. I heard the crunch of footsteps fading away. I ducked under the chain-fall and went to the window. In the moonlight I saw Waldock heading for the road. I watched him until he disappeared in the shadows. Then a car started up and drove away.
I climbed out now and pulled the shutter closed. I went by the house and onto the highway. I walked along until I came to my Ford hidden in the brush. I got in, turned it around and drove back to my rooming house.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I TELEPHONED LIEUTENANT NEWPOLE THE FIRST THING in the morning. Standing in the drugstore booth, I held the receiver away from my ear as he sounded off to me.
“Right under your nose,” he said tersely. “A stolen car.”
“Sorry, sir,” I said. “It must have been Pomeroy.”
“And where were you?” he shouted.
“I was watching the wrong man, Lieutenant.”
“Meet me in half-an-hour. There’s a restaurant in Stoughton Square, on the right as you come in from Carlton. When you get there, drive once around the block and park behind it.”
“About last night—” I started to say.
“Save it until you get here,” he said metallically.
He hung up.
*
When I came into Stoughton Square, the traffic filled in around me. I saw Newpole, slouched, standing on the sidewalk. He made no sign of recognition. He was watching the traffic behind me. I made the right turn and circled the block once. Nobody followed. I passed Newpole again and drove behind the restaurant. In the parking area I saw Newpole’s detective sedan. I parked beside it.
When I came around to the front, Newpole was gone. I went into the cafeteria. Newpole was ahead of me with a tray. I fell in behind him, picked up bacon and eggs, juice, rolls and coffee. I followed him to a booth in the rear.
He took off his hat and removed things from his tray. “Nobody followed you,” he said. He stared at my face and broke his toast in half. “You’re marked up,” he said matter-of-factly.
“I keep tangling with Cluett,” I said.
“Don’t make a career out of it,” he said, munching.
“I can always shoot him and that would be the end of it.”
“No other way?” he asked.
“I don’t see any.”
“It’s been rough on you,” he said grudgingly. “But you can’t get into an auto ring by bashfully rubbing your toe in the dirt. You have to ram yourself down their throats.”
“They’ve had a good taste of me,” I said, starting to eat. “And I’ve had a good taste of them. It’s stuck in my craw.”
“You don’t like the job,” he said.
“No, sir. Not this one.”
“You’d rather be back with the troops, wearing that pretty uniform.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You used to complain the puttees were uncomfortable.”
“I’ll take the putts anytime to
this, sir.”
He crammed toast into his mouth. “All right,” he said abruptly. “Tell me everything that happened last night.”
I told him in detail while he ate his breakfast slowly, chewing his food very carefully. He shook his head when I finished.
He said, “What get’s me mad is that I had a Plan 4 all set up. You’d have flashed me the word when the car disappeared and we would have closed in and covered it. We wouldn’t have taken the Plymouth. We’d have followed it to the drop they have somewhere. But we didn’t hear from you. The first word we got was a radio call from the Eatonville Police. It was too late. The Plymouth is gone and we’ve had no word on it yet.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“You said Pomeroy did it. What makes you so sure, son?”
“He disappeared just before ten o’clock. Before that, Osanger left with his girl. I saw him drive away in his own car. And I was with Cluett all the time.”
“And on that you base it on Pomeroy?”
“It’s the M. O.,” I said. “The same as that time in Wrentham. Cluett and his girl, the third party who was seen running away. The third party must have been Pomeroy.”
“Tell me more,” he said. “Tell me where Pomeroy is hiding the Plymouth.”
“I don’t know, Lieutenant. I thought surely they were using the barn as the car drop. But it wasn’t there. It’s not at Waldock’s lot or at Osanger’s Garage. Cluett doesn’t have it, either.” I stirred my coffee. “Maybe it’s in Eatonville. That’s where Pomeroy lives.”
“The car is nowhere in Eatonville,” Newpole said. “We checked there last night.”
I drank my coffee. “Maybe we’re off base. Maybe we’re on the wrong track altogether.”
“I’d hate to think so,” Newpole said. “I’d hate to think you’ve been taking all those lumps for nothing.”
“No more lumps, if I can help it. I’ll be as nice as pie to everybody. I want to be at the wedding all in one piece.”
“I called Ellen,” Newpole said. “She sends her love.”
“By proxy,” I said. “All the romance I get is by proxy.”
“Better than nothing,” Newpole said solemnly. “Here’s something else that might interest you. We ran a check on Craird Waldock. He was mixed up with black-market cars, during and after the war. And something else, too. The Registry shows he bought a ’52 Ford from Scott Cluett last year.”
“Where would Cluett get it?”
“We have a record of that, too. It was a wreck. Cluett bought it from a junkie in Albany, New York. He towed it over the road, patched it up and sold it cheap to Waldock. Waldock sold the car as almost brand-new. Probably told the buyer that it belonged to a one-legged schoolteacher who only used the car on Sunday and drove it back and forth in the yard. I’ll bet the frame was out of line and it had some fancy welding on it. But your Waldocks will sell a hot stove. Anyway, Cluett has sold Waldock nothing since.”
“Waldock,” I said thoughtfully. “What do you think of his snooping around the barn last night?”
“I don’t know,” Newpole said. “But we’re going to watch him. Now, you told me Osanger has a girl. What’s her name?”
“Leta Joyce Nofke.”
“And Cluett’s?”
“Irma Bean.”
“Maybe you could get next to them, butter them up a little.”
“Not Irma, Lieutenant. I don’t think she knows anything, or cares if she knows anything. She’s a mink. Cluett has only one use for her. This one will wind up in one of the best call houses.”
“Try the other. Try Leta. See if you can chum her up. Women talk their heads off if you strike them right.”
“I don’t know,” I said doubtfully. “Leta acts like she’s scared to death.”
“Try it,” he said.
“I’ll try it,” I said. “In the meantime, I’m waiting for Osanger to give me a job.”
“You won’t wait long. Osanger is checking on you.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Chief Clemmisson called the Board of Probation. They gave him your record.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “So now everybody thinks I’m an ex-con.”
“It’s what we want them to think.”
I pushed my plate away. “I’d better go back to Carlton and wait for Osanger.”
“Go ahead,” Newpole said calmly. “If anything comes up call me right away. I’ll be on tap.”
I left him. I went to the parking lot, got into my Ford and drove back to Carlton.
CHAPTER NINE
WHEN I TURNED INTO DEPOT STREET I SAW OSANGER’S Chrysler parked in front of the rooming house. I went inside and up the stairs. The door to my room was open. Osanger was sitting on my bed, a cigarette in the middle of his mouth.
“Make yourself at home,” I said to him.
“I did,” he said pleasantly. “I’ve been waiting for you. Where’ve you been?”
“In Stoughton. I was looking for a job.”
“Find one?”
“Yes. I can go to work tomorrow.”
“I told you I was putting you on.”
“Sure, you told me. But promises don’t buy groceries.”
“You can start now, Lincoln. Driving back and forth to Stoughton is no good.” His big, grotesque eyes fastened on mine. “Besides, those Stoughton people might look you up and change their minds.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning you spent a little time on Deer.”
“Not me,” I said, yawning. “You’ve got the wrong boy.”
“So it’s a mistake.” He smiled softly. “Me, I happen to be broadminded. What do you say? You coming to work?”
I lifted my shoulders. “All right. It makes no difference to me.”
“Good,” he said. “How’d you enjoy the dance last night?”
“Fine. You missed the fun. Some joker had his car stolen.”
“Too bad,” he said. “Those things will happen.” He stood up. “You ready?”
“I want to change,” I said. “I’ll see you at the shop.”
He left. I waited until I heard him go down the stairs and the front door closed. I went swiftly to the bureau. I opened the bottom drawer and lifted off my shirts. Osanger had been careful enough in his search, but the flannel cloth that covered the pistol was not wrapped exactly as I had left it.
*
I reported to work fifteen minutes later. I was wearing gray coveralls and I carried my chest of Snap-ons. I looked around for Cluett.
“Where’s Scotty?” I asked.
“He’s out with the tow truck,” Osanger said. “Listen, why don’t you two get along?”
“I’ve been willing. Why don’t you talk to Scotty?”
“I have. But he’s the kind of kid who carries a grudge like a sore tooth. Maybe if you gave into him a little—” He lit a cigarette. “Never mind, we’ll talk about it later. Come on, I’ll show you the layout.”
I made the inspection with him. “You see, it’s all regular equipment,” he said, coming back with me to the main floor. There was a ’48 Dodge on the lift. He pointed to it. “This one needs a new muffler. You can start anytime. I’m going out.” He put on a panama hat. “Don’t forget about the gas pumps. You’ll find the cash box for change in the office. And when you go out to the pumps put on the damn cap. The oil company has this sales-promotion guy riding around, showing you charts and graphs how your sales go up when you wear the cap. I know it’s crazy, but you’ve got to humor those guys.”
“All right,” I said.
“There’s one more thing. Pomeroy will probably come in and gas up the station wagon. Make a note of what he takes and have him sign a slip. I like to keep my records straight.”
He went out, got into his Chrysler and drove off. I blocked the wheels of the Dodge, turned on the air pressure and sent the lift up. I got under the car and uncoupled the old muffler. As soon as I had it off I left it. I went into the washroom and scrubbed the dir
t from my hands.
I moved into Osanger’s office. I went swiftly through the old rolltop desk. In the top drawer there was a shiny-blue, well-oiled .32 Colt automatic in a worn leather shoulder holster. I took the pistol out, pushed the magazine catch and slid out the clip. Eight rounds full. I jotted down the serial number on the left of the slide and put the pistol back in its holster.
I found bills and meter slips for gasoline purchases. The gallonage was small. Osanger wasn’t making any money as a gas station. Also, there was very little in repair orders. Not more than eight a week. That wouldn’t buy a Chrysler Imperial for Osanger and a Mercury for Cluett. I looked through the rest of the papers. There was no record of any car sales.
I went back to the Dodge. I had just squeezed under the chassis when Osanger came in again. I poked my head out.
“Forgot something,” he said. He went into the office. When he came out again he patted his left breast. “My baby,” he said. “I never go out without my baby.”
I watched him leave. The bulge under his left armpit was the shoulder holster.
I worked on the muffler. I was a little clumsy with it and began to sweat. I heard a car drive up to the pumps. I twisted my head and looked out. A station wagon was standing there with Vince Pomeroy behind the wheel.
I came out from under the Dodge, grabbed some paper toweling and wiped my hands. Then I started for the entrance. When I got there I saw the visored cap on the window ledge. It had a crushed peak and the gas-company emblem on it. I put it on my head, squaring it automatically.
I went outside. Pomeroy was out of the station wagon, holding the pump nozzle to the tank. He was watching the flow, his back to me.
He said, “Scotty, when we get a chance we ought to look at the kingpins—” Then he turned and looked at me. His eyes narrowed for a split-second, then he swallowed. He stood there slack-jawed. The hose trembled in his hand. Gasoline splashed out.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Didn’t Osanger tell you I was working here?”