The Famous Dar Murder Mystery

by Graham Landrum

“Not much,” she said.

  “Well, you must have seen something.”

  She had it written down. At 3:20 a big transfer truck came in and parked on the bottom lot; and then at 7:35 in the evening a car drove up the hill and went into the warehouse.

  “Went into the warehouse?” I said.

  “Yes, drove right into it.”

  I went over to the telescope and took a good look. I hadn’t noticed it before, but there was a ramp leading up to the loading dock of the warehouse. (See Mr. Benfield’s sketch.)

  “Is it still in there?”

  “I guess so,” Margaret said. “I haven’t seen it come out.”

  “And what about the driver? Surely he didn’t stay there all night!”

  “I really can’t say,” Margaret said, “but early this morning, as I was fixing breakfast, I saw a man walk down the hill and go into the restaurant and I think it was the driver of the car.

  I forgot to say that there is a little restaurant on the corner of Sixth and Anderson across from the entrance to Borderville Transfer.

  “And after a while he came out and walked back up the hill,” Margaret added. “He went into the warehouse. I guess he’s still there.”

  “That is strange,” I said. I was sitting in the chair by the telescope and had my eye to the little eyepiece on the side of the thing. “Do you suppose he spent the night up there?”

  “Well, I don’t know what else to think,” Margaret said.

  Just then a dark-colored car—sedan—I don’t know what kind. I have no living notion about the make of a car. I couldn’t tell an Oldsmobile from a Chrysler, and as for those Japanese cars and French cars and German cars and heaven knows whatever other kind, well, they are just cars to me. So I don’t know what kind of car this was.

  But it was a dark sedan. I wrote down “dark sedan” and “8:35 A.M.” And when I looked up again, that car wasn’t there.

  Well, it had to have gone into the warehouse. So that made two cars in the warehouse if the one Margaret saw the night before hadn’t left.

  Now that seemed strange too.

  Then in just a little while, along came another car—blue car, two-tone—and the same thing happened. Three cars in the warehouse!

  They were in there—conniving or holding their meeting or whatever for about fifteen minutes—when an old gray car came up the hill into the area in front of the warehouse and started up the ramp.

  But whoa! the fellow had to stop and back down. He pulled over to the side—because the black car was coming out of the warehouse.

  Meanwhile, the gray car sat there, and I got a good look at the driver. He had on a kind of leather cap; and he needed a haircut, more or less the way the hippies used to, only not quite as bad. He had a great long shaggy mustache. These young fellows with their beards and mustaches always make me think of Confederate veterans. Oh, yes, there were lots of them around when I was growing up.

  Just as soon as the black car got down the ramp, out came the blue car. The gray car went up the ramp into the warehouse and stayed for about fifteen minutes.

  And then the gray car came down the ramp followed by the car Margaret had seen the evening before, which was a dark green convertible.

  Now then, another interesting thing was what happened when the cars got to the bottom of the hill and turned into Anderson Freeway. Three of the cars went north and the green car went south, which was the direction Margaret saw it come from.

  It was just something to think about. It was pretty clear that they were up to something.

  To cut this thing short, over a period of more than three weeks we saw the same thing happen five times. The green convertible would come in late, go into the warehouse and stay there all night. We decided somebody must have fixed up an apartment or some kind of sleeping arrangement, because the driver would always come out the next morning and cross Sixth Street to get his breakfast.

  Then the same three cars would drive up there, tend to their business—whatever it was—inside the warehouse, and come out again. The route they took when they left Borderville Transfer didn’t change.

  And I might add that my “Confederate veteran” was nearly always the last to arrive. We figured he must have trouble with traffic—or maybe he was just a late person.

  All this time we tried to get license numbers of the cars. But we couldn’t because the way the road goes up the hill, we could see only the side of the car. There is one place where the drive turns so that we could have seen the number if it hadn’t been for some scraggly little bushes.

  Nevertheless we did see one thing about the license on the green convertible. It was white and green, and we decided that it was a Florida license.

  It was plain as your nose that the green car brought something up from the south and the other cars met the next morning, divided up whatever they were to deliver, and went off with it.

  If you’ll look at the map, you’ll see that Borderville is kind of at a crossroads. It’s because of the way the mountains run. I-81 comes down from Washington through the Shenandoah Valley to about Pulaski, where it crosses over the mountain into the Holston. All the traffic from up east comes south by us and then goes on west across Tennessee.

  So a car leaving Borderville Transfer could go north a few blocks on Anderson Freeway, turn left on Division, and be on I-81 going either way in fifteen minutes. But a car could go northwest too—on 421 through the Cumberland Gap and Kentucky, where it is easy to turn off toward Cincinnati; or it could go on up, still on 421 to Indianapolis, where it would be a simple matter to get to Chicago. It would only take a day to get from here to Chicago or Memphis or Washington or Philadelphia.

  Now how about that?

  THE JUNE MEETING

  Denise Bradberry

  The only reason I am included in this story is that I am the recording secretary of the Old Orchard Fort Chapter, DAR, about which the reader has now learned most of the secrets. While I think I keep fairly complete minutes, what I write for official inclusion does not always reflect the entire nature of what goes on. Consequently some of the daughters came to me and insisted that the story would be incomplete without a full account of the June meeting. The minutes are very simple and accurate, but they don’t give the flavor of the whole meeting at all. I shall present the minutes first and then tell what really happened.

  The Old Orchard Fort Chapter, NSDAR, met on June 7 in the home of Mrs. Donald M. Winebower. Refreshments of white cake with the letters DAR iced on each square, lime punch, and assorted nuts were served from a beautifully decorated table. At the conclusion of a social period, Mrs. Henry Delaporte, Regent, gaveled the meeting to order. The DAR Ritual was led by the Chaplain. The Pledge of Allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America was led by Mrs. Arthur Holman, after which the American Creed was led by Mrs. William D. Carver. Mrs. John R. Carrew led the first stanza of the National Anthem, accompanied by Mrs. Delaporte at the piano.

  The National Defense report was given by Mrs. Percy Ledbetter, chairman of the National Defense committee. After a thought-provoking presentation of the relative strengths of American and Russian defenses in Europe, Mrs. Ledbetter pointed out that force of arms, though important, is inadequate without accompanying moral strength.

  After Mrs. Ledbetter’s report, discussion followed, during which it was suggested that our Chapter could perhaps take steps to support a stronger morality in our own city and it was moved by Mrs. L. C. Hardacre that the matter be further investigated by Mrs. Ledbetter and Mrs. Bushrow.

  Mrs. Carl McTeague presented a program on the preservation of documents.

  The meeting was adjourned.

  Denise Bradberry

  Recording Secretary

  In order for readers to understand just what was going on at this meeting, they must know something about Mrs. Ledbetter.

  Mrs. Percy Ledbetter is a dumpling of a little lady about five feet, two inches tall with thin white hair that has a tendency to yellow. She puts it up on r
ollers and then combs it down over her ears and back into a bun. She has lots of bosom and wears dark dresses with a small pattern. All of her dresses have white collars with tatted edging.

  She has the mildest blue eyes that peer out from gold-framed spectacles with very thick lenses, and her complexion is as white as paper. She has soft, soft skin that appears never to have been struck by the sun and is consequently scarcely wrinkled at all. She wears a little round brooch at her throat. On her left hand is her wedding band, and she wears a gold watch with a black ribbon band on that wrist. On her right wrist she wears a gold bracelet in the shape of a snake with tiny emeralds for eyes.

  Where she gets the heavy stockings she always wears, I can’t imagine; but her shoes look like the Enna Jetiks my first-grade teacher used to wear.

  Mrs. Ledbetter has taught the Loyal Matron’s Class at the First Baptist Church longer than anyone can remember; and though she is mild of voice, she is strong of conviction.

  It is always a delight when she speaks on any subject, because although the material she deals with frequently comes from the Reader’s Digest or some other periodical readily found in a dentist’s or doctor’s office, the seriousness with which Mrs. Ledbetter addresses great problems is worthy of a Supreme Court justice. She absolutely quivers with fervor. And one gets the impression that if Mrs. Ledbetter were to remove her finger only once from the hole in the dike, the whole Atlantic Ocean would seep in and drown the nation.

  After Mrs. Ledbetter got through telling the ladies just how many missiles the Russians still have and what kind, and how many missiles we have and what kind, she said something like this: “But oh! I regret to say that there is a greater danger at home. It has been borne in on me that the moral fiber of our young people is being destroyed.”

  There was such awe in her voice that I thought she was going to tell us about Demon Rum. But, no, it was a strip joint on the corner of Division and one of those cross streets. There is an old building down there, and it seems that somebody put in a mangy club of some sort. I just supposed that it was the run-of-the-mill honky-tonk that we have around here with “strang” band and nasal country singers.

  But “strip” had come to Borderville without my knowing it. The mere presence of strippers would have been enough to fire Mrs. Ledbetter’s burners, but it seems that this joint had a “ladies only” night.

  “Actually,” Mrs. Ledbetter said in a hushed voice, “our young women go into that vile place to ogle the bodies of unclothed men.”

  A good number of our membership are in their midseventies, and they are dear old things that probably never heard of a male stripper. They let out one tremendous simultaneous gasp.

  “Yes,” she assured the ladies, “here in our own city we have this dreadful thing.” Then, true to form, she demonstrated that she had done her homework. She started with the Egyptians and marched on through the Greeks and the Romans—I’ m sure she got it out of a Sunday-school book—and demonstrated from history that lascivious carousals always presage the destruction of once-great civilizations. I don’t know where the old dear picked up the talent, but she really made a very interesting program out of the evils of nude or near-nude dancing, especially on the part of men.

  After about fifteen minutes she turned to Helen Delaporte and said, “Madam Regent, that concludes my report.”

  As she sat down, ladies were clicking their tongues and shaking their heads while exchanging scandalized glances.

  Then suddenly from the back of the room came Harriet Bushrow’s decided accents. “Have you ever seen one of these lascivious dances, Opal?”

  Oh, dear no, of course she hadn’t.

  “Then how do you know all this you have been telling us?”

  It seemed that Mrs. Ledbetter has a neighbor who has a young woman living in her house who, unaware of the kind of entertainment provided on the nights for “ladies only,” had attended this place, called, I believe, the Gold Coast.

  Harriet was in her full glory. She was in her summer party dress. It was really quite handsome but perhaps not what one would expect of any octogenarian except Harriet. It looked like shantung—green with white stripes. She had on a white straw picture hat with red poppies on it and of course those famous cut-crystal beads she always wears. Harriet was obviously enjoying the sensation Opal Ledbetter had produced by her lecture. “Don’t you think some of us ought to investigate,” Harriet said, “so we can make our complaint to somebody?”

  Opal was absolutely flabbergasted, and we all held our breath.

  “After all, what good does it do if we just deplore it here among ourselves!” Harriet continued. “I think some of us should investigate and lodge a complaint.”

  Opal was opening and closing her mouth rapidly and looking as if Death had called for her before she could get out of the bathtub.

  Then little Mrs. Mursey in her mild voice chirped up with: “You know, Carry Nation actually went into the saloons to fight against liquor.”

  And Mildred Hardacre said in her very ladylike way, “Madam Regent, I do think that someone ought to lodge a complaint—perhaps to the city council.”

  “That’s on the Tennessee side,” one of the ladies observed. She lived on the Virginia side and her remark was made in a tone that suggested that nothing so crude could ever happen on the Virginia side of the street.

  There was further discussion back and forth before it was finally decided that Mrs. Ledbetter should investigate further with the help of Mrs. Bushrow and report at a subsequent meeting of the chapter.

  Helen Delaporte as usual maintained her dignity in spite of all, but I am afraid that I had to look very steadily at my shoe buckles. The meeting closed, and I thought we had heard the last of that matter, and so did Helen—or did she?

  I am the youngest member of the chapter. I am a widow. I sell real estate, and I have two children in high school. Sometimes it is difficult to get to the meetings of the chapter, but I have enjoyed the membership of this chapter more than I have enjoyed that of any other organization I have ever belonged to.

  Many people make fun of the DAR, and I suppose I do it myself sometimes. It’s said to be snobbish. It is not. In fact it is just the opposite. Upon invitation, there is one basic requirement for admission. Members must be descended from an American patriot, male or female, of the Revolutionary War. But once that step is negotiated, there is not a more democratic organization in the country.

  In the DAR there are rich and poor, professional and nonprofessional, Catholics, Protestants, and Jews. One of our members is ninety-eight, and I am forty-one. I have profited from knowing these women, and I find it touching that they all love this wonderful country we live in.

  I understand from these women, descendants of the Revolutionary patriots, how our forefathers managed to win a war against the tremendous power and wealth of England. Like those staunch old fellows, the Daughters have independent minds; and like their forebears, when they set themselves to it, they carry their plans to a firm conclusion.

  So even though I sometimes smile at what goes on in the chapter, it is a smile of pride.

  OUR VISIT TO THE STRIP SHOW

  Harriet Bushrow

  I don’t know what people are going to think of me, but I do have a pretty good reason for almost everything I do.

  As I sat there in the meeting listening to the first part of what Opal Ledbetter had to say, I thought I would die of boredom. Opal had a cousin who went to West Point. And so she thinks she is in a better position to understand the military than almost anybody else.

  While she was talking, I looked at my nails, and then out the window, and then at my nails again. I thought: Lord, if you are going to take me, why didn’t you take me before Opal began?

  Then she started talking about this terrible moral menace, and I realized that she was talking about the old Borderville State Bank. It’s down on the corner of Division and Seventh streets. It has had something in it—different little businesses and then unoccup
ied for stretches at a time—longer than most people can remember.

  But I can remember, because Lamar had our money in the Borderville State Bank when it went under and we lost our last penny. And then we lost our big lovely home, and there is no telling what we would have done if Lamar hadn’t got a job in Washington with the New Deal.

  So I have lots of reasons to remember that building.

  Well, as I sat there I began to work it out. Baker Comming was the president of that bank and Horace Ainesworth was in it with him.

  They were married to the two Drover girls, and so the bank really belonged to the wives. But back in those days, if a girl with money married, she turned over all business matters to the man. And the way those things were managed was sometimes devious—still is, for that matter.

  As I was thinking about all of this, it seemed to me that the actual bank building was in Jane’s name. (That’s Jane Drover that married Ainesworth. They didn’t live here, but they used to be in town quite a lot). So though it was her money in the bank and her property that the bank occupied, the property was not owned by the bank.

  The Ainesworths—and the Commings too—lost everything they had invested in the bank when it failed; but Jane still had the bank building. A lot of people thought the building should have been sold to make good the loss to the depositors. But nobody was around to buy the property, so it wouldn’t have made any difference anyway. It’s a wonder the building didn’t go for taxes.

  Well, I was sitting there thinking about that and wondering if the property was still in Jane’s family; and of course that would point to that Yardley boy. And I tried to figure out just what kin he was to Allen Comming, Jr., but I’m not as good at that kind of thing as Lizzy Wheeler is. Then the idea popped into my mind that Duncan Yardley might be the one running that club Opal was talking about.

  Of course I had never laid eyes on this Yardley boy, but I knew his grandmother—Tony—and she was about as harum-scarum as I ever came across.