On the second turn he had to shift into second. The gears made a ragged noise as, rounding the curve, he dropped back into high.
Far up the straight stretch a car was coming toward them, its twin lights shining. Some fragment of memory stirred in the back of his mind.
Another night when the rain was thick in the headlight beams. Another car coming down the straight stretch.
Suddenly it was Alicia beside him. Not Patience. The lights coming toward them were bright. The lights and the rain blinded him.
He blinked his own lights rapidly. The lights bore down on them. It was then that he remembered.
The girl beside him—and it was Alicia—screamed as the wheels on the right dropped off the road onto the wet shoulder.
Off to the right was death. It was a death he had lived through once, but he could not live through it again. On that night nine years ago the onrushing lights had forced him over the edge. Cursing, he spun the wheel violently left. A crash was preferable to death down among the wet rocks.
Alicia-Patience screamed again as the lights leaped at them.
There was a ridiculously light impact and the other car was gone. His car swerved madly. He fought the wheel. His left headlight was gone. The car headed back toward the edge and he yanked it back onto the road. At last it nudged into the mud on the far side of the road and the motor stalled.
In the sudden silence Patience exhaled slowly.
His voice strangely high, he said, “That’s how it happened before! I remember now! Bright lights coming down on us. I got over as far as I could. The car rolled and I knew I was being thrown through the darkness, right through the canvas top. Then blackness.”
He put his arms around her and held her close. She was shivering.
She said, “If I’d let you talk me into driving, we’d be over the edge.”
He frowned, “I don’t get it. We should have hit him with a smash. I thought we were dead ducks. Got a flashlight?”
She clicked open the glove compartment and handed him a flashlight. He climbed out into the rain. The car was at right angles to the road, with the rear wheels barely on the pavement. The bumper was nosed into the muddy hillside.
He inspected the damage. An odd iron bar was wedged into the grill. There were fragments of glass on one end of it. The other end showed the bright face of fractured metal. He grabbed it and pulled it free. The left headlight had been smashed by it. The bar had punctured the radiator.
He climbed back in and put the bar on the floor. “We’ll ruin the engine if we try to make the rest of the hill. All the water has run out of the radiator.”
“Can we coast back to the Ocean Club? Do you think the other car went over the edge?”
“I didn’t hear anything. And I saw taillights going down the road in a pretty orderly fashion.”
“He could have stopped.”
Matt didn’t answer.
“What was that thing you put on the floor?” Patience asked.
“Something I want Evan to look at …”
Once more the three of them were in the private room in the Ocean Club. Evan began to respond to hot coffee. He sat nodding, as Matt told the story of the near-accident, made him repeat it.
Only then did he examine the odd bar which Matt had wrenched out of the grill of Pat’s car. He lost his sleepy look, became the competent engineer.
He said, “See here? This outside shell is hollow. This solid bar with the gear teeth on the bottom moves back and forth through it. This was a lamp socket. A headlight was fastened to the solid bar. See the slot in the shell so it could move freely?”
Patience frowned. “What does it mean? What is it?”
Evan said, “This thing goes on the front of a car. Suppose a guy is coming down that road and there’s a car coming up he wants to wreck. He can’t take a chance on moving over toward it. He might get clipped and go over himself. So he rigs up the gimmick. Maybe he’s got a little handle on the dash. As he turns the handle, the solid bar, carrying the lights with it, moves out to his left, activated by a little gear that fits against these slots.”
Pat’s eyes widened. “And the people in the other car would see the lights and they wouldn’t know that the lights were moving out toward them but the car itself was staying over on its own side. They’d get out of the way.”
Matt said slowly, “And our pal Roy was a part owner of a garage when Alicia and I went off that road. I remember being forced off.”
“This isn’t a new gimmick,” Evan said. “See the rust spots. This thing was out in the rain a long time ago. Nine years ago, maybe.”
Patience sat down suddenly. “He couldn’t!”
“Who did, then?” Matt asked. His voice was hoarse with hate and anger. Was this what Alicia had been trying to tell him for so many years?
“But why would he do it tonight?” Patience asked.
They looked at each other, bewildered. Then Evan began to smile. It wasn’t a pretty smile. He said softly, “Who inherits when you die, Patience?”
She put the back of her hand to her mouth. Her eyes were wide.
“Exactly,” Matt said. “And that’s why he went through with the wedding. He knew that if he couldn’t get the stock through her, he could work it another way. That’s why he had the party out here. Why, after Sue fainted, he said that he had been planning on taking her home early anyway.”
Evan was frowning.
“How would he know which car you’d be in?”
“There’s a parking spot at the top of the hill. You can see the Ocean Club from there. With a decent pair of binoculars, you could see who was getting into their cars. The lot here always is floodlighted.”
“Then he watched for you and Alicia nine years ago?” Patience asked in a tight voice.
Matt smacked his palm with a clenched fist. “Rose Carney suspected what had happened. She tried to tell me when she called me up, but I was too stupid to listen. She said he took her home from the Ocean Club nine years ago and left her. And that he came back later. That was when he drove us over the edge. He hated me for taking Alicia away from him. He must have made the gimmick in the garage after hours. Why, on that evening he even came over for a few final words with the condemned!”
Patience shuddered.
“The guy is crazy,” Evan said.
“Crazy, and efficient,” Matt said.
“What will we do?” Patience asked in a small voice.
“Get to a phone,” Evan said. “His car will still have some stuff on it to show where this little toy was attached. This rain won’t wash away the marks you made on the shoulder. We ring the cops in on this quick and have him picked up for attempted murder before he can dispose of the evidence.”
“I’ve got to get to Susan,” Patience said …
The man at the high desk picked up the phone and said in a tired voice, “Sergeant Rolph speaking.”
“This is Evan Cleveland, Sergeant.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Cleveland?”
“I want Roy Bedford picked up immediately on a charge of attempted murder.”
The sergeant’s hand tightened on the phone. “You got enough for us to go on?”
“Plenty. And I don’t know anything about the statute of limitations, but I think I can prove he killed the Crane girl nine years ago.”
“An accident case, wasn’t it?”
“Look, Sergeant. I know how it is when anybody asks you to pick up a man like Bedford. He has influence and—”
“And Rose Carney’s sister is the wife of the deputy chief, Mr. Cleveland. We aren’t too fond of Bedford. Any idea where he is?”
“We’re at the Ocean Club. Twenty minutes ago he was in his car on the hill between here and town. I don’t know where he went from there.”
“We’ll see what we can do. Suppose you come in here. Ask for Lieutenant Canady. I’ll give him the pitch.”
The sergeant hung up, clapped a fist into a meaty palm and headed for the radio room �
��
Patience and Matthew stood on the wide porch of the Crane house. Matt rang the bell for the third time. The house was dark.
“You don’t suppose he came back here?” Patience asked softly.
“I wouldn’t think so.”
After a few moments a dim light shone in the hall. Matt, looking through the glass, saw a husky man in a bathrobe walking toward the door.
He opened it and said, “Yes?” The quiet, dignified voice of a trained domestic.
“We wish to see Mrs. Bedford, please,” Matt said.
“Sorry, sir. Mr. and Mrs. Bedford have retired for the night.”
“This is urgent.”
Smoothly the man said, “It certainly can wait until morning, sir.”
“It will not wait until morning,” Matt said.
The man’s eyes flickered dangerously. He said, “Very sorry, sir,” and began to close the door.
Matt drove against the doorframe with his shoulder. The man staggered back, his face ugly, his hand dipping into the pocket of the bathrobe. Matt rushed him. The hand flashed up and, as it started to come down, his wrist smacked into Matt’s palm. Matt tightened his fingers on the wrist and twisted. The man was powerful. He put a beefy arm around Matt’s neck and the dark hall filled with the hoarse sound of their breathing.
Matt realized he would never be able to twist the thick wrist hard enough. He released the wrist suddenly, brought his fist down in a diagonal blow against the man’s jaw, jumped back as the heavy sap in the man’s hand grazed his shoulder. The force of the blow swung the man off balance. Matt brought his left fist up and the jolt of the blow sent needles of fire up his arm to his shoulder. The sap dropped from nerveless fingers. But the man didn’t fall until Matt snatched the sap from the floor and laid it above the man’s ear. He caught him as he fell and eased him down onto his face.
“Chinese Army technique?” Patience said, her voice shrill with hysteria. Matt grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward the stairs.
The first upstairs room was empty. A still form lay in a huge bed in the second room. Patience found the light switch. Susan lay on her back, breathing through open lips. There was a bubble of saliva at the corner of her mouth and her eyes seemed sunken.
Patience said, “Sue! Wake up!”
Susan’s head wobbled on the pillow, but there was no break in the rhythm of the deep breathing.
“Doped,” Matt said. “That way she could give Roy an alibi. We’ve got to walk her.”
Patience found a robe in the closet and Matt sat Susan on the edge of the bed while Patience got the robe on her. Matt threw the inside bolt on the door and, with one on each side, they tried to walk her. Her head hung limply and she moaned. At first her feet dragged and she was an inert, awkward lump. In a few moments she began to walk in a stumbling fashion, tripping frequently on her own feet. Her walk grew better articulated and her head lifted, the eyes still closed.
At last she opened puffy eyes and said, “What—wha’ you doing?”
“We can get her out of here now,” Matt said. “You get her dressed. I’ll wait in the hall.”
Matthew stood in the hall and heard, through the closed door, the murmur of their voices. He looked down into the lower hall. The husky man was on his hands and knees, shaking his head from side to side.
A thick skull on that one, Matt thought.
He hurried down the stairs, making plenty of noise. He got in the lower hall just as the man scrambled drunkenly to his feet. Matt drove him over against the wall and put a forearm across his throat, the sap poised.
“Try anything,” Matt said, “and you get it across the bridge of the nose this time. Shut up and listen.” The man stopped his feeble struggling.
“Your boss is wanted for murder,” Matt said, watching the man’s eyes widen. “Too much trouble out of you and we can think up some rap to pin on you in connection with the murder.”
“Cop?” the man said hoarsely.
“No. But I’m on the same side. Will you be good?” The man nodded. Matt stepped back. “Where’s Mr. Bedford?”
The man looked genuinely surprised. “Isn’t he up there?”
“No. Did you think he was?”
“Yes, I did. I don’t want any part of any trouble, mister. I thought he was up there and my job is to keep people from busting in. A lot of people get sore at him.”
“A mastery of understatement.”
There was a sound of sirens in the distance, whining through the night, descending at last to a low growl and then silence, followed by the stamp of heavy feet on the porch. Matt flung the door open. A spidery little man with a sharp red nose stood with a uniformed patrolman hulking large behind him.
“Who’re you?” the little man demanded.
“Matthew Otis. Bedford tried to kill me and Miss Furnivall.”
“I’m Canady. You should have come in when you dropped Cleveland at headquarters. You got a warrant to swear out. We’re going on the basis you’ve signed it. You won’t back out?”
“Don’t be absurd!”
“Where’s Miss Furnivall? Who’s this man?”
“Miss Furnivall is getting her sister ready to leave this place. This man works for Bedford. Bedford isn’t here.”
“I figured he wouldn’t be. We’ve put the plates of his Chrysler on the tape in case he left town. The troopers’ll get him if he tries the coast road.”
“I don’t think he’ll run,” Matt said. “He’s got a genius complex. He doesn’t think anything can touch him.”
“He’ll run, Otis. Suppose you get the women over to the Furnivall place. Then get yourself back to the hotel. We’ll get hold of you if we need anything. Leave the keys to Cleveland’s car at the hotel desk.”
The two women came down the stairs. Susan still had a drugged look, a faraway look. Patience held her arm and walked carefully with her.
“Mrs. Bedford!” Canady snapped.
Susan turned her head slowly and looked at him blankly.
“What happened when you got home?”
“I got it out of her,” Patience said. “Don’t snap at her. When she was ready for bed Roy Bedford gave her a capsule. He told her it would quiet her nerves. That’s all she remembers.”
“Otis will take you home, Miss Furnivall. You and your sister. Stay there until you hear from me …”
After Matthew had helped Patience get Susan out of the car and up to bed, he held Patience tightly for a moment, kissed her and left.
He drove through the wet, deserted streets wondering where Roy Bedford could be. Roy must know that the unexpected maneuver on the part of the car he was trying to force off the road had carried away a piece of the mechanism he had designed so long ago. He would know that there had been no chance to identify him as the driver of the murder car.
The evidence would be circumstantial. Damage to the Chrysler. Roy had three choices. The first was to run—and that didn’t seem practical. It didn’t match Bedford’s character. The second was to provide himself with an alibi and to pretend that his car had been stolen. That seemed a feeble defense.
The third bet would be to remove from the Chrysler all evidence that it had been used on the hill.
The last idea made the most sense. Roy could either attempt to repair the car or dispose of it. Burning would be too risky. Evidence might remain. The ocean was handy. There was deep water at the end of the docks. Or he might even drive the car into a tree, planning that the impact would remove evidence of the previous lighter one.
The idea of the plunge off the dock didn’t seem too practical. There was too much chance of the car being recovered. A crash that would obliterate all evidence. Better than burning. Better than driving it into the sea.
Pleased with the logical procession of his thoughts, Matthew stopped, lit a cigarette and tried to carry his reasoning further. Before Roy could risk a collision, he would have to remove from the car the rest of the mechanism which made the lights movable. He would have to dispose of
that. To remove it meant tools, working space, lights. A garage, preferably.
He began to wonder if Roy had ever disposed of the garage which had given him his start. It would be typical of him to retain ownership of the garage so that he could point it out to people he wished to impress. He could almost hear Roy say, “Ten years ago I was a grease monkey in that shack.”
With sudden resolve, Matt started the car, made a U-turn at the next intersection and turned back toward the garage where Roy had been working nine years before.
It was in a neighborhood of narrow flats, grocery stores, liquor stores, gas stations. It was in back of an ancient rooming house, the unlighted sign hanging out at the curb.
MORGAN STREET GARAGE—REPAIRS ON ALL MAKES—DRIVE IN
He drove beyond the entrance and walked back. The garage was dark. The structure of reasoning collapsed.
He glanced down. A tire had made a deep hollow in the dirt. The tread marks were crisp. Water from a nearby puddle flowed with a slow current into the deep track. He felt a sudden excitement. A car had gone in there not over a half hour before. It was a little more than an hour since the accident. To be safe, Roy would have taken the long way around to get back to the city.
With training born of night fighting, Matt drifted over into the thick shadow of the rooming house, headed back toward the garage. His steps made no sound on the moist earth. He moved close to the door, put his ear against it.
With startling clarity, he heard the clang of a tool dropped onto a concrete floor. The padlock was gone from the hasp on the wide sliding doors. He got his fingers in the crack between the doors and heaved suddenly. The door slid back with a deafening shriek.
The black Chrysler, moist with rain, stood in the middle of the small garage. A mechanic’s light, with birdcage bulb, lay on the floor near the front wheels. Roy Bedford, the light shining up onto his face, outlining the high cheekbones, squatted motionless, looking toward him. “Hello, Matt,” Roy said softly. “Want something?”
Matt could not see Roy’s hands. Doubtless he held some sort of tool.
More Good Old Stuff Page 13