by John Lutz
Weighted down as he was with his luggage, it was simple to follow him through the crowded terminal. But he did what I'd hoped he wouldn't and headed toward the taxi area.
Things got less simple then. I had to run to where my car was parked, and the damned thing refused to start. On the fourth try, when the starter was growling like a record played at slow speed, the engine turned over and I gunned it in frustration before jamming the shift lever into drive. Luck was the big reason I was able to get behind Bender's cab as it turned onto the expressway and headed for the city.
Inside the city limits the cab turned right onto Fifty, drove awhile, then made a left and began to wind through side streets. I followed well back in the light midday traffic. The cab had a mud-splotched liquor advertisement on its trunk and a limber whip antenna, and that made keeping track of it easy.
We passed through an old and doomed area of the city, then on into a marginal neighborhood of small shops and brick apartment buildings, and suddenly things began to look familiar.
The cab veered to the curb and parked beneath a block-lettered sign: EXECUTIVE TOWERS. I looked at the recently face-lifted apartment building as I drove past. Jerry Congram's former home.
Parked down the street, I watched in my rearview mirror as Frank Bender got out of the cab with his luggage and entered the building. The taxi's battered grill moved to the left in my mirror, and I turned off my engine as the cab shot past me with its backseat unoccupied.
I kept an eye on the building entrance in my mirror for about ten minutes, then I got out of the car and walked back along the sidewalk.
There was no Frank Bender on the Executive Towers' mailboxes, no Emmett Marshal. Bender must have been living here under a third name. I considered asking the manager about him, but that might only serve to tip Bender. One thing I could be fairly sure of was that, after leaving owing three months' rent, Jerry Con-gram hadn't moved back into the Executive Towers. I crossed the red and white tile floor, left the lobby and walked back to my car.
I passed the time by sitting in the rental car and then in a booth in a little doughnut shop across the street, waiting for Bender to emerge from the apartment building. This was the endless, monotonous part of my job. The disc jockeys on the car radio began telling the same jokes, playing the same music; the coffee tasted like the cup before, only worse, leaving a bitter aftertaste and frayed nerves; and the pavement I occasionally walked along to loosen my leg muscles became a treadmill.
The sun was setting, angling long dark shadows and softening the sharp vertical edges of the buildings. Supper was two glazed doughnuts washed down with more black coffee.
When the sky was almost completely dark and I was sitting behind the wheel of the rented Chevy, enjoying the breeze between the rolled-down windows, Bender walked out of the Executive Towers. He was wearing a dark business suit and carrying his attache case and a precautionary light raincoat.
I sat up straight, started the engine and let it idle. Bender walked to a small green sports car, a convertible with its canvas top up. He unlocked the car, tossed the attache case and folded coat inside, then lowered himself into the front seat. The sports car jumped forward and edged into the sparse traffic, and with a gentle touch on the accelerator I followed the low red tail-lights.
We took side streets for a while, then got onto Fifty but soon made a left onto a wide street with a grassy median. Traffic began to thin out as we drove for almost half an hour, then the median disappeared. Soon we were in a suburbia of middle-class tract houses and strip shopping centers. The sports car led me left on another narrow road, and the subdivision houses were fewer and farther apart.
Brake lights flared red ahead of me, and I slowed and watched Bender make a right turn. When I reached where he'd turned, I saw an unmarked dark road leading up a rise. I got a glimpse of twin taillights as the sports car took the rise toward some distant yellow lights, then I drove past the unmarked intersection to a spot where the road shoulder was wide and I could turn around.
When I reached the steep side road I sat for a while. My stomach was quivering, not helped by all the bitter coffee I'd drunk, and my heart was hammering out a warning. But I'd come this far. And, dammit, it was a public road. I jerked the wheel to the left and accelerated.
The narrow road was blacktopped but in need of repair. Deep chuckholes rocked the car every five or ten seconds as I drove steadily uphill. I passed a small, faded wooden billboard that told me I was driving toward Devon Acres, a subdivision of "affordable luxury."
The road flattened out, flanked by woods. I rounded a curve, and scattered over a wide stretch of flat land was Devon Acres.
Most of the lots were empty, though there were a few houses under construction. The houses that were fully built and spaced widely over the area were all lighted. Judging by the faded sign I'd seen, Devon Acres was one of those big subdivisions that had started strong but fallen into financial difficulty. I spotted the low-slung taillights of Bender's car far ahead of me, saw them merge as the car slowed and turned. Then I watched the play of his headlights flash behind large trees as he went up what appeared to be a driveway to the most isolated of the long ranch houses.
I drove past without slowing, quickly studying the house. Lights were burning in the west side, and it was built as at the base of a wooded hill. There were several other cars parked about the house and in the long driveway.
If I could park in an unnoticeable spot, I could cut around to the back of the house through the trees. There wasn't more than a dozen or so houses occupied in Devon Acres, so the risk of being spotted by a neighbor was small. It was a workable plan, I knew. The question was, did I have the guts. The answer was no, but I had the need.
The street curved slightly, and I parked the car in the drive of a partially built house, where it was invisible from the house Bender had entered. I got out without slamming the car door and walked quickly into the darkness at the side of the skeletal-roofed house.
For a while I stood bent over with my hands on my knees. Fear was making me sick. In a few minutes the sickness passed, but not the fear, and I entered the woods.
I didn't understand how anyone could move silently through the woods at night. Every step I took seemed to bring an explosion of crashing brush and splintering twigs. I told myself that the noise seemed louder than it was, that I was right on top of it. But I wasn't very convincing.
Suddenly the square light of a window appeared through the trees, no more than fifteen feet from me. I had been dropping downhill without realizing it as I moved toward the house. My right hand shot out to brace myself against a tree, then scraped rough bark soundlessly as I lowered myself to a squatting position. This was closer than I'd intended to get, but here I was.
I was looking into a bedroom that seemed unoccupied. The floor was bare wood, and I could see a made bed and the corner of a dresser. The walls were white, freshly painted and free of decorations.
Keeping low and backing a few feet into the cover of the woods, I moved to my left and the next lighted window. This window had drapes, but they were partly open. I saw a dim shadow movement inside, and I inched farther to my left and closer so I could see into the room.
There was Bender, standing at the end of a long polished wood table. His attach6 case was open on the table and he was reading from a sheet of white paper, glancing up now and then to gauge the effect of his words on his audience.
That audience was five men and at least three women seated at the long table in the otherwise unfurnished room. They were all neatly dressed, sitting erect and listening intently to whatever Bender was saying. At the head of the table sat a man in his late twenties, almost foppishly well dressed, wavy dark hair in a short but stylish cut, keen blue eyes. He seemed to be in charge, and occasionally he'd interrupt Bender to ask a question, then jot notes in an open file before him. I knew I was looking at Jerry Congram.
Maybe Bender was reporting that he'd had to kill Tad Osborne. I saw a marked re
action around the table, bodies leaning back, hands in motion on the polished wood, heads turning slightly to check other responses. Congram was sitting perfectly still, with absolute calm. He rapped on the table a few times with the cap of his pen.
All eyes were focused again on Bender, and he began to read. Congram seemed to be taking more notes.
What I knew I should do was exactly what I wanted to do: get away with what information I had.
When I stood to back away from the window, my left leg was asleep, and I lurched slightly. A dead branch I hadn't realized was against my shoulder cracked and fell loudly to the ground.
Almost immediately a face was at the window, suspicious, angry. I was crouched again, motionless, as the man peered out into the darkness. I watched his eyes roam, seeking an object on which to fix themselves. The expression on his intent face remained the same as his gaze passed over me twice. At the slightest indication that he'd seen me I was ready to run for my car. My legs were even more ready than I was, and my heart was pumping as if I were already running.
After a final dart-eyed look around, the man turned, said something.
The lights in the room went out.
The man could see outside more clearly now, without the reflections on the window. I almost straightened and bolted. I could barely make him out through the dark glass, the same angry expression on his face, as if he wanted to find someone. More faces appeared at the window. At least I was wearing dark clothing, and I was almost completely concealed by some sort of viny plant. Their eyes still weren't accustomed to the dark, and I knew if I had the nerve to stay still I probably wouldn't be seen. I was glad the window was closed; they might have smelled my fear.
Then suddenly the lights came back on, the drapes swished closed. The house's occupants seemed to have decided the noise they'd heard was of nonhuman origin.
I remained where I was, without moving, for another few minutes, fighting my powerful urge to break and run, willing my tensed muscles to relax.
Then, very slowly, with the greatest of care, I moved directly away from the house. When I thought I'd moved far enough up the hill, I began making my way through the trees in the direction of my parked car. I walked faster as I put distance between myself and the house, putting more of a premium on speed than on silence with each step. The woods were thinner now. Low brush snapped and swished at my ankles, and I no longer had to constantly brush branches away from my face in the darkness. I was already squeezing the car's ignition key in my right hand, though I couldn't recall reaching into my pocket for it.
I got to the car, managed to open the door with a fear-awkward hand and clambered in behind the steering wheel. I was careful to close the door without slamming it. On the second try I hit the keyhole with the ignition key and thanked assorted gods as the engine turned over. After backing from the driveway, I forced myself to drive slowly-simply someone passing through the subdivision who had innocent reason to be there. I knew now that I'd make it if no one heard my heart.
The car bucked as it took the steep, chuckholed road, then seemed to be grateful for smooth road as I made a left turn and drove for the city.
What I had witnessed, I realized, was a Gratuity Insurance business meeting, and the topic of business was Tad Osborne's murder. No doubt it had been Gratuity "agents" who'd beaten Belle Dee, trying to erase a link between the murdered Victor Talbert and the company. To have killed her, too, might only have triggered a deeper, more dangerous investigation.
And how much did Gratuity know about me? Was it my presence at the Poptop Club and at Belle Dee's apartment that had prompted her beating? I wished I knew more about Gratuity Insurance and Jerry Con-gram. I understood enough now to be really scared, maybe enough on which to act.
Bender, at least, would be a sure-fire suspect for Osborne's murder, and he could probably be made to talk in the process of plea bargaining. I thought about OS-BORNE and the shock it must have been for him to realize his fatal mistake. Maybe he'd gone further with Bender than he would have, to impress Alison.
Then I remembered something about the conversation in Osborne's office, and dominoes began to fall.
When I reached the city, it occurred to me that I might actually have been spotted back at Devon Acres and that someone might be following me. For about fifteen minutes I drove aimless patterns on bleak side streets, breaking traffic laws a few times to see if anyone would break them with me rather than be left behind.
By the time I was satisfied that I wasn't being followed, I was lost. But my pulse was comfortably slower. I was about to stop and consult my street map when I found myself on Fifty once again and regained my sense of direction.
When I registered at the TraveLodge, they told me at the desk that Alison had left a message. She would be waiting for me in the cocktail lounge until ten. The wall clock behind the desk read nine fifteen. I thanked the clerk, and he told me where the lounge was and gave me a room key.
I entered the dim, quiet lounge and walked to where Alison was sitting, sipping a tall, clear drink. Her eyes widened slightly as she looked up at me, and I smiled at her and sat down.
"Where have you been?" she asked, somewhat in the tone of an irate wife.
"To a place called Devon Acres, one of those partially constructed subdivisions with more hope than houses."
"You look like you had some trouble."
For the first time I realized the evening's activities had taken a toll on my appearance. My hands were dirty and scratched and there was a small, jagged tear in the right sleeve of my sport coat. My hair was mussed, and no doubt there was grime on my face.
I ordered a double bourbon on the rocks and told Alison everything that had happened.
When I finished, she sat surveying me with a look of narrow-eyed intelligence, a white curve of smoke drifting like an ethereal question mark above her cigarette in the ashtray at her elbow. "Now are you going to the police?"
"Yes," I said, "but not right away like I should. First I'm going to claim the right that I've earned to nail down my end of this business. I think it's time for you to take me to Joan Clark."
The" surprise passed from her face in an instant, but an instant was all I needed. I knew Alison was too smart to deny knowing Joan Clark's whereabouts.
She picked the cigarette from the ashtray, absently replaced it without drawing on it. Now that I was bringing the police in on the case, Alison had little choice but to do as I asked.
"Joan's in my apartment," she flatly admitted. "How did you guess I was hiding her?"
"Dale Carlon mentioned that you were a family friend," I said, "and that you knew Joan. Where would Joan go for help in her predicament, afraid for her life? Not to the police or to her father. Not to a private investigator, one of a bad type and a total stranger. But you, a family friend, another woman and a trained investigator in your work, could understand and have a professional interest. And more importantly, you could work on the case without attracting suspicion. You could arrange for the arrest of the people who wanted to kill her, and maybe she thought she could stay out of it."
Alison toyed with her tall glass, nodded. "At first she thought that, then she wanted me to find Congram so she could try to buy her life with her father's money. Joan has faith in me. I was sort of her big sister-godmother when she was younger."
"Does Carlon know where she is?"
Alison snubbed out her cigarette with short jabs. "No, Joan never talked to him. The seriousness of her situation dawned on her by degrees. Now she realizes money can't guarantee her safety. She simply wants her potential killers off her trail, in the hands of the law. I thought she was safe with me; I guess I made some mistakes."
"Not many," I said. "I knew someone was touching bases before me at times and thought it was whoever had killed Talbert, but it was you, working the same trail I was. I was searching for Joan Clark and you were working for her, searching for Congram. When you got the call about Osborne, it came from Chicago; I figured that for some
reason you'd routed some of the calls through your office. But yesterday you were on the phone with your editor, conning him into thinking you were chasing another story. You'd already had feelers out for a Gratuity Insurance appointment, to be called to your home number, where Joan would always be waiting to forward the message to you. It was Joan who phoned from Chicago about the Osborne appointment."
Alison played her lighter flame over the tip of another of her long cigarettes, leaned back. I enjoyed the frank admiration in her green cat eyes. "You pieced things together neatly, Nudger, I'll admit. What about Osborne's remark in his office?"
"Now who needs ego boosting?" I asked her. "I knew you were too sharp not to have noticed when Osborne mentioned that Dale Carlon had arranged the appointment for us, but what he said didn't register with me until later. I never told you who'd hired me, and you let Osborne's remark go by without question. Not like you at all, Alison."
She'd wanted to hear that last part. She smiled at me.
"I think we should go," I said, and she agreed with me.
24
Alison's apartment wasn't the worst place to hide. It was on the seventh floor, and large, filled with modern furniture that somehow managed to appear comfortable. The pale walls were graced with multicolored inkblot paintings that seemed to be there more for the brown and yellow color scheme than for art. Two wide glass doors led to a garden balcony, the ledges of which were lined with narrow planters of tangled green vines.
Alison looked around, glanced at me as if surprised not to see Joan Clark in the apartment. Then she walked to a closed door and knocked on it.
"Joan? It's me, Alison. You can come out."
Alison was about to knock again when the door opened slowly and Joan Clark stepped out.
When she saw me, her slender body gave a slight backward jerk, and her large dark eyes darted sideways to question Alison mutely. She was wearing a wrinkled gray pants suit that distorted her slender curves, and her hand raised as if by helium and clutched her jacket closed in woman's universal reaction to distress.