The Expendable Man

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  “Do the police know?”

  “We came up with the information about the same time. In reverse order. I did the bus company first. They did municipal records.”

  Hugh was only half hearing. He was driving into Phoenix, seeing again the excitement mounting in the little girl as she neared the city, neared her meeting with the man she loved, the man she’d come to marry. He could not bear to remember the next night, her despair. He broke in grimly, “He lied to her. To get out of marrying her.”

  “Yes,” Houston said. “He lied to her. He’ll lie to us.”

  “To us?”

  “We’re going out to talk to him. He works in a garage not far from his mother’s shop.”

  “You want me to go with you?” Now that the moment of facing the man was at hand, he didn’t know if he could.

  “Definitely. If anyone can start him talking, you can. Because if you’re right in thinking he drove the girl to your motel and waited for her, he can’t be absolutely sure that you didn’t catch a look at him. You know it was impossible. But if he was in sight of your door, he can’t know. At least that’s how I see it.”

  Hugh made himself speak calmly. “Have the police talked to him yet?”

  “Venner has.”

  “Venner.” His intonation said it all.

  “I made the same comment to Hack. Ringle’s on the Indio end today. According to Venner’s report, Othy never heard of the girl except in the newspaper.”

  “But his Indio run—”

  “There are dozens of men who make that run,” Houston said flatly. “It’ll take more than that to make him a murderer.” He pushed papers into his briefcase and lifted it. “Shall we go?”

  Of course Venner would believe Othy. Houston’s car was in a private lot nearby, assigned to the building. Its air-conditioned interior made the trip northward a brief one. But the density of the heat was deeper when they left the car and crossed to the open shed with its corrugated iron roof. A porcine man was pounding on an old car in its shade. There were other old cars, all dark sedans, standing in haphazard pattern on the surrounding sandy yard.

  The man lifted his red face as Houston queried, “Fred Othy?”

  “Round back.” He wasn’t curious, but then the police had been here earlier. He didn’t seem to see Hugh.

  They skirted the shed to the rear. Here were dismantled cars, engines and chassis and fenders like crazy players arranged for some monstrous game. At the far end of the premises, a man was dumping debris into one of the empty oil drums standing there.

  Skye called out, “Mr. Othy?”

  He pushed in his load of rags and metal before turning. “Yeah?” he took his time sauntering toward them.

  When he saw the face, Hugh’s pulses quickened. He knew this was the right man. It wasn’t a good face, it was bony, the complexion bad, pasty despite Arizona sun. The mouth was mean with small unclean teeth. Othy was blond, as Bonnie Lee had told Lora; his hair was lank and yellow; it looked dyed, whether or not it was. It could be that his mother touched it up to keep it from turning dark. He wore it too long into his neck and below his temples.

  He was young but not boyish, he could never have been boyish. He wore no shirt, only old, grease-covered khakis. His shoulders were round and freckled but his arms bulged with the muscles of heavy work. He came almost to them, then leaned against an old chassis and lit a cigarette. “What can I do for you?” His feet were long and narrow; he was wearing limp maroon socks and broken brown and white latticed summer oxfords.

  “You’re Fred Othy?” Skye asked.

  “I’m Fred Othy.” He paid more attention to the cigarette than to Skye. He might have known Skye Houston by sight. Phoenix hadn’t yet grown to the size city where a prominent figure would be lost in the populace. But he was neither suspicious nor frightened at Skye’s interest. There was an underlying cocksureness in him; he could afford it, he’d passed the police test this morning.

  He was conscious of Hugh’s presence and he knew who Hugh was. But after one quick flip of his pale blue eyes to Hugh’s color, he ignored him, as if Hugh were chauffeur or handyman to the lawyer.

  After his affirmation, both he and Skye waited, testing each other. It was Skye who continued the identification. “I’m Skye Houston.”

  “Yeah?” Othy’s eyes flicked Hugh again but Skye made no introduction. He was so sure of himself, he could ask, “What you want to see me about?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “How’m I supposed to know unless you tell me? I’m no mind reader.”

  Skye spoke as diffidently as he. “I understand you were a friend of Bonnie Lee Crumb.”

  Othy was unperturbed. “You’re wrong.”

  “You know who Bonnie Lee Crumb was?”

  “Sure. I read the papers. She’s the girl got drowned in the canal.”

  “You didn’t know her?”

  “I never heard of her until she got drowned.” He pitched his cigarette stub at Hugh. It didn’t connect.

  Skye let his eyes rest on the young man’s face for the moment, not too long, just enough for Othy to be forced to wonder what would come next. And it came. “You drove a bus between Phoenix and Indio this past year.”

  He didn’t like the reference but it couldn’t shake him; he’d been through this before. “So what. It was a living.”

  “You didn’t meet Bonnie Lee Crumb in Indio?”

  “I didn’t meet no girls there. I drove the bus over, I drove the bus back. I didn’t have no time to screw around with girls.”

  “You didn’t lay over there?”

  He was ready to deny it but changed his mind. Instead he shrugged it off. “Once or twice maybe.” He was as sure of himself as if he were telling the truth. “I don’t remember. You’d have to ask the checker.”

  Skye paused, then asked, “Why did you quit your job with the bus company, Mr. Othy?”

  Maybe Venner hadn’t bothered with that. Othy snarled, “I got sick of it. I wouldn’t of quit if they’d give me a shorter run but they wouldn’t. So I quit.”

  Without change of expression or inflection, Skye continued, “It wasn’t because Bonnie Lee had told you she was pregnant?”

  Just briefly, the real Fred Othy was visible, vicious in hatred. Then his face closed as if he’d pulled down a curtain. Although he tried to recover his previous assurance, he achieved no more than an imitation. “What’s the matter, don’t you believe me? I told you I didn’t know no Bonnie Lee.” He hoisted himself off the chassis. “Look, if this is all you got to say to me, you might as well cut out. You’re wasting my time.”

  “Suppose I were to tell you I have a witness who saw you in Indio with Bonnie Lee?”

  “I’d say she was a liar.” He shot back the words but he was shaken.

  “She?”

  “She or he.” He beetled, “Look, what business is this of yours, anyhow? What right you got to be asking me these questions?”

  Ignoring the question, Skye indicated Hugh’s presence. “Mr. Othy, have you ever seen this man before?”

  Fred O. looked long at Hugh. Framing his answer. If there was, initially, contempt, it changed to actual hate. His lip curled. “No, I never.”

  “You’re quite sure of that?”

  He gave Hugh a quick, contemptuous stare. “I’m sure.”

  Skye then addressed Hugh. “Is that the voice you heard on the telephone, Dr. Densmore?”

  “Yes, it’s the same voice.” Of this, Hugh was certain.

  Othy took a step toward Skye. “What is this? A frame? I never talked to no spook on the phone.”

  “And you didn’t inform the police by telephone that Bonnie Lee Crumb had come to Phoenix in Dr. Densmore’s car?”

  Othy shouted, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Evenly, Skye stated, “I wonder if the sergeant who took that call will also be able to identify your voice.”

  Othy’s grease-stained fists balled. “I don’t like this. I don’t l
ike it at all.”

  “You’ll like it less when the police go over your car and find Bonnie Lee’s fingerprints in it,” Skye said sharply. “You may think you’ve got rid of them all but you can’t, not the latent ones.”

  The boy’s fury was diminished by the beginning of fear.

  “It’s only a question of time,” Skye continued. “The police have the same leads I have and better ways of obtaining information. They’ll catch up with you.” He shot the final question, “Why did you kill Bonnie Lee?”

  Othy yelled back at him, “I don’t have to listen to no more of this crap. I didn’t know no kid named Bonnie Lee and anybody says I did is a liar.” He swerved away, smashing through the rear entrance to the shed.

  “Come on,” Skye said quietly to Hugh. “We won’t get any more from him now.”

  They moved on toward the street, Skye nodding to the boss as they passed. The pudgy man was hammering like thunder on an angular part of a truck. He would not have heard anything that was said.

  As Skye steered the car away from the curb, Hugh slanted a look toward the shed. Within the shadowy interior, the figure of Fred Othy could be discerned. He was watching the car drive away.

  Skye drove west to North Central. “They’ll get him. But you might be a bit careful of dark alleys tonight.” He turned south for the downtown district.

  Hugh wondered, “Why did you warn him about evidence in his car? He’ll get rid of it.”

  “Oh no, he won’t.” Skye’s lips curved. “He can’t. The police took his car this morning for a going-over.”

  Then Othy had already scrubbed up. His fear was that he’d missed something.

  “I told him the truth, there’ll be some evidence. He’d better start thinking up a new story.”

  If only he wouldn’t change his story too soon. There must be time to tackle Doc Jopher tonight.

  As they neared First Street, Skye said suddenly, “Let’s check on what they’ve found.” He parked in his lot and led the way across to the courthouse. Reluctantly, Hugh went along. It could be he was risking his last previous hours of freedom. The wrench was also in the hands of police technicians.

  Skye had no hesitancy. He strode hard-heeled to the door of the police chief, entered. The secretary, a handsome, black-haired woman, greeted him by name.

  “Is he in?”

  “Yes. Just a minute, Mr. Houston.” She buzzed the office, spoke into the box. “Skye Houston is here.” She disconnected the machine. “You can go in.” Her glance went beyond him. Curiosity touched her eyes but not because she wasn’t aware of who Hugh was. Rather as if she knew this was it.

  Again he followed the lawyer. The chief was a distinguished gray-haired man, tall in a dark summer suit. He didn’t look like a career cop.

  Skye made an offhand introduction, “My client, Dr. Densmore,” and said, “I want to know what the lab got out of Othy’s car.”

  The chief delayed response. He photographed Hugh from crown to toe, he probed Houston’s features, he rubbed a thoughtful finger on his cheekbone. Hugh changed his first opinion. The chief might be a political appointee but he came from legal background. He had enough years and experience on Houston to force the younger man to attack.

  “For God’s sake, Bruce,” Houston exploded. “I could get the report from Hack without asking.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “Because I don’t want to drive all the way to Scottsdale when my office is across the street from yours. You don’t think I want to tamper with it, do you?”

  “I don’t know what you want with it. I don’t even know what gives you the idea you can barge in here and demand access to a police report before it’s been released to the public. We can’t have our reports—”

  Skye broke in, “If I cross my heart and hope to die I’ll not reveal the contents until they’re splashed all over the front of your newspaper—”

  The chief answered with asperity, “I’m no longer connected with the paper, which you damn well know. What’s more, you know the family’s played ball with you keeping this case under cover—”

  “All I want,” Skye interrupted patiently, “is to preserve the reputation of an innocent client. If the lab report says what we think it will, he can go back to his hospital and forget this nightmare.”

  The chief looked over at Hugh, then smiled at Skye. He flicked his intercom. “Where are those lab reports?” He disconnected and said, “The car is clean.”

  “It can’t be!” Skye exploded.

  “Absolutely, totally clean.”

  Without speaking, the secretary brought the requested papers to the chief’s desk and quit the room. The chief held them out to Houston.

  “I don’t believe it!” Skye put on his horn-rims before taking the report.

  The chief continued amiably, “There isn’t one smidgeon of evidence that the girl was ever in Othy’s car.”

  Then why had Fred O. been disturbed when Skye spoke of latent fingerprints? There had to be proof in the car. And it came to Hugh. Othy hadn’t used his car, for some reason or other. He’d borrowed—from his mother! Of course, from his mother. He wouldn’t have been so upset if it had been the car of a friend, a car which couldn’t be traced right back to him. Hugh wanted to blurt out the idea but it was best for him to be silent in this office.

  Skye returned the paper. He swung his glasses for emphasis. “This is the boy’s car? He didn’t make a trade for a new one this week?”

  The chief’s manicured thumbnail tapped the report. “It’s all here. He’s had that piece of junk for three years.”

  It came to Skye then. “He used another car.”

  “Or he’s as clean as his car,” the chief said. “And you’ve got the wrong man. If there is a man.”

  “My witness—”

  “We’re looking for your witness. Have you returned her to Indio yet?”

  “She’s on her way home now,” Skye snapped the half-truth. “For the record I didn’t know she was in Phoenix when I talked to Hack last night. Yes, I know she came over in my plane with my secretary, but I didn’t know it then. Also for the record, we’ve got the right man. I know when I’m being lied to and Othy just lied in his teeth to me.” His voice was flint. “What we haven’t got is the right car.” He turned on his heel with a short “Thanks,” and nodded Hugh toward the door.

  The chief’s calm voice followed them. “Wouldn’t you like the report on your client’s fender wrench?”

  Hugh froze. Skye half turned. “Yes, I would.”

  “It was clean too. Or at least, it was rubbed down so thoroughly that not a print can be lifted.” He smiled professionally, “Nice seeing you, Houston.”

  “The same.”

  Hugh waited until they were outside the building before saying, “It was his mother’s car.”

  “How do you know?” Houston’s temper was short.

  “I don’t know. But if his is ruled out, he must have borrowed a car. There’s no other safe way he could take her to an abortionist.”

  “Why the hell would he borrow a car when he has one?”

  “Maybe he was out of gas.” Hugh’s own temper was raveling. “Maybe he didn’t want to waste his gas driving her around town. All I say is that it’s logical he’d borrow from his mother. Kids do. Everybody does. Whose car do you think I’m driving here?”

  “All right, all right.” Houston ended the discussion at the corner. “I’ll see if the police are on that angle.” His eyes were as distant as if he’d lost the case. And then he saw Hugh and frowned. “Keep yourself scarce today. If there’s more news, I’ll call you.”

  Hugh said mechanically, “At Ellen’s.” He could call in to Ellen. He wouldn’t go there; he wouldn’t go home. But where to spend the rest of the day? Not driving the white car; it would be a lodestone for the police. He left the lawyer and moved in the direction of the shopping streets of the town. He sauntered with the pavement crowds, feigning interest in display windows. It didn’t seem t
hat he had been followed from the chief’s office, but because he had no experience in such things, he couldn’t be sure. He’d just have to hope he was right. He couldn’t spend the entire afternoon walking the hot streets. He crossed and headed in the opposite direction to the nearest motion picture theatre. He was alone, as visible as a rocket, as he approached the cashier’s window and bought a ticket.

  He didn’t know what the current rules were for seating but, remembering childhood, he took a seat in the balcony. There were only three other customers up there, refugees from the truant officer. He hadn’t noticed what the picture was before entering; it turned out not too bad the first time around. And the air was cool. The second time was a screaming bore and his summer jacket too light for the continued chill. But he remained in his seat into the third showing, until it would be dark outside.

  Emerging at seven-thirty, the warmth of the day past was pleasant on his face. He was inordinately hungry. He’d had no lunch and had been afraid to leave his safety of the balcony for the lighted refreshment counter. If he weren’t too late, Ellen might meet him somewhere private for dinner. He passed a news vendor, swung back to buy the evening paper. There was no scare headline, no news of an arrest in the canal murder. They were still seeking clues in Indio.

  He began walking toward the parking lot where he’d left his car but he didn’t go all the way. Before he returned, before he quit the comparative safety of being just another man on a city street, he had better find out if there were new developments. There were phone booths in the big garish drugstore he’d passed. He returned to it and drank a milk shake while waiting for an empty booth.

  In due time, the young girl with dirty blond hair arranged in a grotesque haystack left the booth. She and her duplicate girl friend continued to block the entrance with a detailed retake of her call. He waited in outward patience until they flopped away. He rang the motel and Ellen answered at the first ring from the switchboard.

  “Where have you been?” she protested.

  “Round and about. Any calls for me?”

  His unworried response allayed her anxiety. “Yes, Skye called hours ago, before dinner. He wanted you to get in touch as soon as possible.”