Seven Steps East

by Ben Benson

  “I know Iva Hancock. She works in the office there.”

  “Anybody else?”

  “No. I met one once in town and we got to talking. I don’t remember her name. Carla or Carlotta or something.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Blonde girl. Kind of skinny.”

  “Would it be Constance?”

  “No. It was either Carla or Carlotta.”

  “Do you know a girl named Constance?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Where were you Friday night, Larry?”

  “At a dance. The Pavilion at Willow Lake.”

  “With whom?”

  “Greta Abend. Greta likes to dance.”

  “Where were you Saturday night?”

  “The same place. The same girl.”

  “You say you went swimming Sunday afternoon. With Greta?”

  “No, she had to work. She works almost every weekend day.”

  “Who were you with Sunday?”

  “With Frenchy Trudeau. We hired a canoe and paddled around the lake. There’s a girl’s camp down at the east end and we paddled over to take a look at the counselors.”

  “And Sunday night?”

  “I saw Greta. We took a ride to Buzzards Bay and stopped in for a few drinks at a hotel bar.”

  “Which one?”

  “The Wandermere.”

  “What time did you get home?”

  “About half-past eleven.”

  “Having quite a summer romance, Larry?” Uhlberg asked.

  “I don’t know,” Pierce said uncomfortably.

  “It’s okay,” Uhlberg said. “Now starting with Friday night tell me what time you got home each night.”

  “Friday night we didn’t get out of the dance until one in the morning. I drove Greta back to Hyannis and wasn’t home until after half-past two. Saturday night the dance stopped at midnight on account of the Sunday closing law. So we went over to Howard Johnson’s and had something. Then I drove her back to her room. We sat in the car outside the house for a little spell. I must of gotten home about two.”

  “Did you go with her up to her room?”

  “No,” Pierce said, his face reddening. “I told you we parked out in the car.”

  “Where were you parked?” Uhlberg asked.

  “Out in the lot beside the house. We were there for about an hour.” Pierce adjusted his position in the chair. “Sunday night I told you about.”

  “The Wandermere at Buzzards Bay,” Uhlberg said. “You got home that night about half-past eleven.”

  “That’s right, Sergeant.”

  “Did you park again with Greta that night?”

  “Yes, I guess I did. I might have gotten home a little later. Maybe close to twelve.”

  “Where were you last night?”

  “We took a ride out to Provincetown. Greta hasn’t been out to the tip of the Cape since she was about eleven. We got home about one in the morning.”

  “And Greta is from Buford?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Is being a waitress a full-time job with her?”

  “No.” Pierce looked down at his fingers. “To tell the truth, she’s only eighteen and a senior in high school. It’s only a summer job.”

  “And when did you see Kirk Chanslor last?”

  “Friday night.”

  “What time?”

  “About half-past eight.”

  “Where?”

  “Down by the Mount Puritan.”

  I stood up. Pierce looked over at me and slapped his fist into the palm of his other hand. He said miserably, “I know that isn’t what I told you, Ralph.”

  “No,” I said. “You told me you last saw Kirk at half-past seven at the used-car lot.”

  “I know,” he said despairingly. “But after you left, I knew I meant to tell you I saw him later near the hotel. I just didn’t get around to it.”

  “You telling the truth now?” Uhlberg asked.

  “Yes, so help me. I have to. Somebody might have seen us together near the hotel.”

  “What did you and Kirk talk about?” Uhlberg asked.

  “Nothing. I was on my way to Hyannis to pick up Greta and I drove by the hotel. I saw Kirk’s car coming out of the entrance and I stopped to talk to him.”

  “About what?”

  “Nothing. I just asked him what he was doing around the hotel.”

  “Was anyone with him?” Uhlberg asked.

  “Yes. Somebody was sitting in his car.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know,” Pierce said. “You see, when I saw his car it was coming out of the entrance of the hotel. I blew my horn. He turned and saw me and he got out of his car and walked over to mine. That’s where we talked. After we got through, he went back to his car. I drove by and turned off toward Hyannis. I never did get a look at who was in his car.”

  “You asked Chanslor what he was doing around the hotel. What did he say?”

  “He said he had a date.”

  “With whom?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Was it a man or woman in the car?”

  Pierce scratched his head. “I kept supposing it was a girl all the time. He said he had a date and I just naturally assumed it. But now I don’t know. I just figured it had to be a girl. See, it was almost dark and I couldn’t make out who it was. I only had my parking lights on.”

  “Did you see where Chanslor went?”

  “I was ahead of him and he was following. I saw his car in my rear-view mirror. When we came onto Route 28 I turned south toward Hyannis. He turned north toward the canal.”

  “Larry,” I said, “weren’t you out of your way? If you were going from Sachem to Hyannis you wouldn’t come by the Mount Puritan.”

  “Well,” he said, “I like to ride by the hotel once in a while to see what’s doing.”

  Uhlberg looked at him impassively. “I understand you once had a fight with Kirk Chanslor. What was it about?”

  “That was nothing,” Pierce said earnestly. “I made some remark to him about beating him out with Iva some day. One of the fellows in the gang said I was hanging around the Hancock house so much I must have been making better time with the mother. I thought it was a dirty crack so I sort of pushed him. He pushed me back. Kirk tried to break it up. But I was so sore I took a swing at Kirk. He hit me back. That’s all it was. It meant nothing. He apologized.”

  “You told him to keep away from you from then on,” Uhlberg said.

  “That was a long time ago, Sergeant. It’s nothing.”

  “Except that you once had trouble with Chanslor and now he’s been murdered.”

  “That’s the tough break I’ve got,” Pierce said heavily. “When Ralph came to pick me up before, I knew I was in for it. But I didn’t do it.”

  “Has anybody else ever fought with Kirk?”

  “No. He was always a hell of a good kid. Always ready to help you or loan you a buck if you had a date.”

  “Did he have one enemy you can think of? One person who didn’t like him? One person who wanted to hurt him?”

  “No,” Pierce said.

  Uhlberg nodded slowly. Then he stood up and motioned me to come outside.

  Standing in the corridor outside the office, Uhlberg said to me, “His story stinks. The more he talks, the worse it gets for him.”

  “What would you like me to do?” I asked.

  “Run over to Hyannis and check with this Greta Abend. I’ll hold Pierce here a little longer. I know Gahagan will want to talk to him. If Greta’s story doesn’t click with Pierce’s, bring her in, too.”

  Chapter 15

  El Borosino’s in Hyannis was a cafeteria with a black glass front and a flashy neon sign outside. The black glass was dirty and flyspecked.

  Inside, a single customer sat over a sandwich and a cup of coffee at one of the formica-topped tables. He was, from his striped coveralls, some sort of salesman-driver. A counterman was making coffee in a big u
rn. The cashier near the door was a small, gray-faced man in a wrinkled gray linen jacket. He was chewing on a toothpick and was studying a racing form. I went up to him and showed my identification. The racing form disappeared quickly. He told me that Greta Abend was in the kitchen. He pointed to a swinging door to the right.

  I went in through. The kitchen was almost unbearably hot. It was not overly clean. In it was a fat, baldheaded cook dressed in soiled white pants, a dirty undershirt and a stained half-apron. He was putting hunks of meat into a big electric grinder. His face and arms were dripping with perspiration.

  A girl was leaning against a heavy wooden chopping block, smoking a cigarette and talking to the cook. She was very young and of medium height. Her face was very juvenile in appearance but her hair was dyed a platinum blonde. She had small shoulders and waist and I suspected she wore a padded bra. But her hips were incongruously big and her calves were heavy.

  She stopped talking when I came in and went over to her. I asked if she was Greta Abend. She said she was. Perspiration was beading my forehead and I felt my shirt clinging to me. I blew my breath out and asked if I could talk to her outside.

  She pushed a damp lock of hair away from her forehead. “About what?” she asked.

  “My name is Ralph Lindsey,” I said. “I’m from the State Police.”

  “Huh?” she asked blankly. “What’s the matter?”

  “Do you know a Larry Pierce?”

  “Uh-huh. Sure I know Larry. What’s he done?”

  The cook had stopped feeding the chunks of meat and suet into the grinder and was eyeing me curiously. Greta Abend flipped her cigarette onto the floor and walked toward a screen door. She was wearing a white cotton uniform and flat black shoes. She opened the door. I followed her out.

  We were in a narrow alley filled with a row of battered galvanized refuse cans with flies clustered to them. The temperature was twenty degrees cooler.

  I took out my pack of cigarettes and offered her one. She accepted it without thanks. I lit it for her.

  Her eyes appraised me. “You a trooper?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Do you know Larry well?”

  “I’ve been dating him. He kept telling me he was sales manager of a car agency. And was I impressed! Until I drove to Sachem with him and saw Maitland’s lot. What a bunch of junk. Every time he takes me out in one I don’t know if we’ll make it back to Hyannis.”

  “What about Larry?” I asked.

  She looked at me with a shrewd, age-old look. “What about him? He’s just another guy.”

  “A spender?”

  “Not bad.”

  “Where were you Friday night?”

  “Friday? Let’s see. Friday, Friday. Oh, I had a date with Larry. Big deal. A dance at the Willow Lake Pavilion.”

  “How long were you with him?”

  “Too long. I didn’t get to bed until half-past two in the morning. And I had to be up at seven.”

  The remainder of her story coincided with Larry Pierce’s. They had been together each night since Friday.

  “For a girl who’s complaining,” I said, “you see a lot of the guy.”

  “What else can I do? Sit in an empty room and bang my head against the wall?”

  “Do you know a Constance Ossipee?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “How about Kirk Chanslor?”

  “Is he from Sachem?”

  “Yes. What do you know about him?”

  “Larry’s mentioned him. That’s all.”

  “Don’t you read the papers or listen to the news?”

  “Don’t have time. What’s happened?”

  “We’ll get to it later,” I said. “Do you know an Iva Hancock?”

  “From Sachem, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve heard of her,” she said tiredly. “One of the girls who Larry has dated. To hear him talk you’d think he’d been taking out Elizabeth Taylor. Is she really that good?”

  “She’s pretty good,” I said.

  “It just goes to show. You never can tell.”

  “Well, thanks for the information,” I said.

  “Hey,” she said, “you didn’t tell me what it was for.”

  “Routine check-up,” I said. “Where can I get in touch with you again?”

  “You can call me here during the day. I also have a room down the street at Number 233. You got a pencil and paper?”

  “Yes.”

  “Write down this number,” she said.

  She gave me the telephone number and I wrote it down. Then she said, “It doesn’t have to be strictly business, if you know what I mean.”

  I smiled. “I know what you mean.”

  “You’re not married or anything, are you?”

  “No, not anything.”

  “Well, it’s up to you. If you want to call me, call me. I’m not one of these college snobs working down here. If you want a college snob don’t waste my time.”

  “I had no college snobs in mind,” I said. “Thanks again. I have to go now.”

  “Call me if you get the chance,” she said.

  “Sure,” I said.

  I left Hyannis and drove back to Barnstable. I couldn’t wait to get back, I was that anxious. It seemed to be one of those cases where if you didn’t hit it quick, you would lose it.

  Chapter 14

  By that evening the police had questioned everybody who had known the reason why I had come to Sachem. They questioned other people who were acquainted with Chanslor, no matter how slightly. I sat in on these interviews quietly and listened to the voices. I was unable to identify any of them.

  Iva Hancock had come to these sessions at the Barnstable County Courthouse always accompanied by her mother. They had trouble keeping Mrs. Hancock out in the anteroom. She was afraid of being alone; a thin, waspish, querulous woman. In Sachem they detested Mrs. Hancock as much as they loved Iva. Everyone agreed that Mrs. Hancock was a millstone around her daughter’s neck. It was Mrs. Hancock who had stopped Iva from continuing at college. The only blessing was that Mrs. Hancock’s spinster sister came to Sachem for the summers. Because this gave Iva the only respite she knew. Not wishing Mrs. Hancock any harm, some people said. But if the old witch dropped dead…

  Later that night the State Police pathologist came into Lieutenant Gahagan’s office with the autopsy report. The medical men had established that Chanslor had been struck a severe blow on the back of the head. It might have caused him to lose consciousness but it was not the cause of his death. Kirk Chanslor had been smothered to death by something placed over his mouth and nose to stop him from breathing. He had died sometime early on Saturday. The wound on his head was earlier, possibly Friday night.

  While the report was being studied and discussed I told Lieutenant Gahagan that I was due to report to Camp Kiwanis the next morning. Gahagan called Lieutenant Eaton at the Academy and Lieutenant Colonel Carradine, the executive officer at GHQ. He asked that I be assigned temporarily to his staff. The request was granted.

  That evening Chester Raynham was questioned by Lieutenant Gahagan. The interview took place in Lieutenant Gahagan’s office in the presence of Sergeant Uhlberg and myself.

  Raynham was scornful and impatient. He was shown several decks of playing cards that Uhlberg had bought at random at the cigar counter of the Mount Puritan. The packs were intact, wrapped in cellophane, with a red tear-off strip along the top.

  “Maybe I can teach you guys something once and for all,” Raynham said. “Give me one of those decks.”

  He took the pack of cards and pointed out to us the little arrow mark made on the cellophane. The mark crossed the tear-off strip to show that the cards had not been unwrapped and then resealed. He peeled off the cellophane. The government tax stamp on the box was unbroken.

  “I don’t know why the hell you guys keep bothering me,” Raynham said. “But maybe I can drive some sense into your
heads. First, I’ve got a reputation to preserve.”

  “You?” Gahagan asked.

  “Me,” Raynham said pompously. “As long as I’m running the Mount Puritan no guest can be taken by any known con man or professional gambler.”

  “Why not?” Gahagan asked.

  “Because we know them all,” Raynham said. “If I don’t, my security staff does. Jack Bellanca has made a study of them.”

  “I’ll grant you Jack Bellanca,” Gahagan said. “He’s good. He knows his business. But you can’t stop some amateur from palming a good deck and substituting a marked or cold deck.”

  “The percentage is against it,” Raynham said, taking out one of his small aluminum cylinders. We waited for him to remove the cigar and light up. “If somebody pulled a stunt like that he might get away with it once. But it would have to be in a penny-ante game. In any decent game they’d use ten to twelve fresh decks of cards and he’d be wasting his time.”

  “You said any decent game,” Gahagan said. “And what would you call a decent game?”

  Raynham shook a short, stubby finger at him. “Why don’t you stop trying to pull these little tricks on me, Sam? Go try them on some green young punk. All I say is that my guests are all people who can afford to play. That makes them all even. And if they want to visit one another in their own rooms and have a friendly game of cards, that’s their business. As long as they don’t use any of the public rooms for the money games, I wouldn’t stop them. No good hotel interferes with a guest’s business or pleasure.”

  “Even if you knew there was some extra heavy gambling?”

  Raynham pursed his small fat lips angrily. “Dammit, why don’t you get off this gambling kick, Sam?”

  “Because we think it might have something to do with this murder.”

  “You’re way off, Sam. Way off. I have strict rules. All cards have to be bought at the cigar stand. That means no strippers and no humps. A good player is wise enough to catch anybody trying to use a marked deck or a holdout machine strapped to his arm. That’s strictly sucker amateur junk. And nobody can sneak in luminous daub on the backs of the cards. Because in order to read daub you have to wear red-lensed glasses or an eyeshade.”

  Gahagan said, “They make those glasses now so they look like ordinary sunglasses.”