by Ben Benson
Then there was a foul ball named Ralph Lindsey, who had made mistakes in judgment and who was accident-prone. He was being investigated and his transfer to another barracks would probably go through in twenty-four hours. I thought of my paraplegic father, “Old Walt” Lindsey, imprisoned in a wheel chair, dying by degrees, whose only joy left in life was to sit and talk to me about my work and what he would have done in the same circumstances. Always watching my progress and giving me advice. And when my quick transfer came through, the light would die in his eyes and the hope would go out of him. He would not say anything about it because he would understand that my career would not rise and there would be no need for further explanation. For him it would be over.
And I thought of Amy Bell again. And three bank robbers. The first man, the fast-talking, conscienceless, glib killer named Kurt Swenke. The second man, the dead, brainy George “Slicker” Hozak, whose cleverness ended with a bullet from a Winchester rifle. And the third man, sloppy, cowardly, cunning-eyed Joe Derechy, who was on the run.
And I thought of the fourth man who was on the loose, too.
21
THE HOURS SLIPPED BY AND THE SKY IN THE EAST GREW LIGHTER. A mist formed along the river and spread to the low-lying fields, covering them like a wooly gray-white blanket. Once Amy stirred, clutched me fiercely and muttered something indistinct. The sky grew brighter and the mist dissipated in wisps. The clouds in the sky turned pink, the river and trees taking form. Then the sun came up over the horizon, a big red ball, and Amy moved, opened her eyes and sat up with a start.
“Good Lord,” she said. “We still here?”
“Yes.”
“I slept hours. Did I say anything in my sleep?”
“No.”
“Let me have a cigarette, please. And what time is it?”
“After six.”
I handed her a cigarette and lit it for her. She drew on it deeply, twice, then cast it out. Her hands went to her face and hair, touching here and smoothing there. Then she opened her compact, looked into a tiny mirror and put on lipstick. I watched her.
She brushed at her clothes, stretched and said, “Are you going to take me home now?”
“No. Time is up, Amy, but I can’t take you home. You’ll have to go to the barracks with me.”
“And what other alternative do I have?”
“You could tell me what I want to know.”
“Even if it ruins everything for me?”
“No. It would be the best way, honey.”
“There’s nothing I could offer you?”
“What could you offer me, Amy?”
She let her breath out, her face flushing. “No, I couldn’t offer you anything, could I? I realize that now. All I’m doing now is becoming more disgusted with myself.”
“Tell me all about it,” I said. “Time is growing very short.”
“Yes,” she said. “Could I have another cigarette, please?”
I gave her another cigarette, lighting it for her, watching as she dragged deeply on it.
She said, “Don’t look at me while I talk. I’d rather you didn’t look at me. And I wish I had a stiff double brandy.”
I lit a cigarette, my head turned away. “I’m not looking at you, honey. Talk.”
“You know Carl gave me my first chance,” she said. “I was grateful—oh, so grateful. It meant everything to me and Carl knew it. He made sure I was grateful and showed appreciation. Never let it be said that Carl Podre never capitalized on a situation. Well, you know the sordid words and music. It’s as old as life itself.”
“Go on,” I said.
“Carl lives in a bungalow behind The Red Wheel. He wanted me to move in there. I said I wouldn’t. If I had to sleep with him I didn’t want the townspeople or the club employees to know. I didn’t have to degrade myself that much. So he suggested a motel somewhere. But I said no again. The motel owners would know him. Some day if I ever made the big time they’d remember me, too.”
She looked at the glowing cigarette tip. “But Carl was in there pitching. If I insisted on discretion he knew of an abandoned cabin on Dorset Pond. The owner had moved to Tennessee and the cabin wasn’t in use. We went there. The windows were covered with boiler plating, but Carl loosened one of them and got inside. We stayed there that night. And another night, and another night. The fourth night there we had a fight. It was something rather personal and I’d rather not tell you. I ran out of the cottage toward the road and he chased me and grabbed me and we wrestled a little and he tore my dress and that’s how I lost the silver brooch. But I didn’t go back to the cottage. I told him I wouldn’t. He let it rest. I never went there again. I finished my engagement and left on other bookings.”
“But you came back this year.”
“Yes. Back to the lion’s den again. He wrote me and offered me a great deal more money. He said the customers were asking for me. I had a few weeks before going to Salisbury Beach. My agent wired him back and told him I would come. But I also phoned Carl. I told him it was strictly singing and nothing else. I was very emphatic about it. He agreed and I came. I swear he never touched me this time.”
“But he tried.”
“He tried, but he never touched me. Not this time. I swear.”
“You didn’t have to come back. Not for a lousy few weeks’ engagement.”
“I know,” she said. “But I chalked last summer up to experience and education. Besides, I was flattered that he needed me and the customers had asked for me. And, frankly, I could use the money.”
“Those were the only reasons?”
“No. There was still another reason. I had left Carl on a sour note last summer. He has a gutter code of ethics. I was afraid he might write my other bookings a chatty note and tell them I was a good roll in the hay.”
“What if he did? That wouldn’t mean they’d believe him.”
“You don’t understand, dear. I’m a female entertainer—a solo, not part of a team. I’m fair game. You have to expect to be fair game. I can fight it if I’m not handicapped. But if Carl sent out the word, I’d have no weapon. The word would go along from booking to booking. I didn’t want to take that chance. This way everything would end on a friendly, platonic basis. He hired my voice and nothing else. Carl was satisfied and so was I.”
“So he pressured you into coming back,” I said.
“He hinted it very strongly. Not in so many words, of course. But I could gather the inference.”
“Yes,” I said slowly. “I guess Carl would do a thing like that without batting an eye. But somebody else knew about you and Carl going to that cabin. Another person.”
“Yes. Joe Derechy. He lives near there. He’s the big ugly brute who made the remarks the other night in the taproom.”
“I know. Was he pretty friendly with Carl?”
“He used to do some handyman work for Carl. I don’t think they were social friends.” She turned to me. “How did you know about all this?”
“Well, it’s something you pick up bit by bit. Then when you put all the pieces together, suddenly you have something. For example, too much fuss made over a little silver brooch. A chance remark some cop made about a gangster’s mother who said her son was friendly with a priest. It could be possible that she mistook some handwriting on a postcard, translating the word Podre into padre. But it doesn’t matter. You were pretty jumpy when we rode out to the pond that day. You kept looking at the abandoned cottage and I kept remembering Carl Podre telling me he had been very friendly with you last summer.”
“Yes. The cottage had no fond memories for me. I wanted to wash it from my mind. When you found the brooch, I denied it was mine. I’d have denied anything about that place. But somebody must have seen you and me there because they told Carl.”
“Joe Derechy,” I said.
“Of course. Now that I stop to think of it, who else? He could see us from his cottage.”
“Yes. So he told Carl and Carl came to you. What did Carl say?”
“He said it would be best if I never mentioned the cottage to you, or anything about it. He said he had known you since you were a child and you might snicker about it and it wouldn’t do any of us a bit of good. Of course I agreed heartily. I didn’t want anybody to know about my dirty linen. Then he asked me again yesterday if I had said anything. I said no, I hadn’t even seen you. He said he was wondering because you had been poking around with Chief Rigsby.”
“Didn’t that make you suspicious?” I asked. “You must have known there was something odd about the cottage if Carl was so concerned about it.”
“Yes, I had an idea something was wrong. But I didn’t know what it was.”
“But you finally found out, didn’t you?”
“Yesterday, for the first time. When you and that corporal killed Hozak. The radio said he had been hiding out at the cottage. Then I knew Derechy and also Carl must have had something to do with it. And when they linked Hozak to the murderer, Swenke, I began to get terribly frightened.”
“Because it also tied Carl Podre in with the murders.”
“No, not because of that. The thing began to get too big for me. I knew I had to get out, and fast. Last night I told Carl I was leaving. He was relieved to hear it.”
“Why was he so relieved?”
“He said the police might find out about us using the cottage and it wouldn’t do my reputation or his any good. He also swore he knew nothing about the murders, or Swenke, or Hozak. He hadn’t been to the cottage since last year, and it was only a coincidence that Hozak had used it. After all, he said, a lot of other people knew about the abandoned cottage.”
“And you believed him?”
“I wanted to believe him. I had to believe him.”
“As a sop to your own conscience?”
“No, dear.”
“Yes. Because you were going to walk out and let Carl Podre and Joe Derechy continue on the loose. They could have had something to do with the murders. Didn’t that bother you?”
“That wasn’t my job. I’m not a cop. You are.”
“It was your job, Amy. You know that. You’ve known that since you were a child and learned right from wrong. And how do you think cops work? Sitting in a chair with fingertips pressed together, contemplating? Or guessing about things? They work on information, Amy.”
She didn’t answer. I flipped my cigarette away and said, “Okay, what else did Carl confide in you? Did he tell you about being a silent partner in a bank robbery in Newburyport so he could buy The Red Wheel? Or that he used his station wagon to lug a stove down to the water so he could tie Westlake’s body to it?”
Her eyes widened. “My Lord, no.”
“Maybe he told you about some anonymous letters. How he wrote them to wreck a man’s career. Letters about me because I knew what he was. Because I was just tanglefooted enough to stumble onto something and he wanted to get rid of me. Or maybe you yourself wrote the letters for him.”
“No, Ralph,” she said. “You mean you actually think those terrible things about me?”
“Dammit, I don’t want to. But you could have come to us with what you knew.”
“I didn’t know anything,” she cried. “What happened between me and Carl happened a year ago. There were no murders then, no bank robbery. Just a sordid little interlude.” Her head drooped. “All right, I had suspicions. But that’s all they were—suspicions. Nothing else.”
“Enough to come to us with.”
“No. I had only tiny fragments of it. How can you tell what was going on in my mind?” Then suddenly tears welled in her eyes and dribbled down her cheeks. I took out my handkerchief and gave it to her.
She dabbed at her cheeks and eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I couldn’t let it touch me. No matter how innocent, how remote my contact was with this thing, the newspapers would play it up. Night Club Singer Tells All. Gangsters Moll Talks To Cops. Singer Reveals Love Tryst With Killer. How would all that sound to a booking agent? I couldn’t get a job singing in a hamburger stand in Scollay Square. I had the right to protect my career. I had, I had. You can’t hold that against me.”
“I’m not holding it against you,” I said. “Not now. The important thing is that you told me yourself. Once you did that you shifted sides. I had to make sure where you stood.”
“And what happens now?” she asked, her voice shaky.
“You’re not with them. You never were. So everything is fine.”
“You’ll cover for me?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I trust you, dear. I trust you more than anybody I ever met.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Put a smile on your face. I’m driving you home.”
22
I LET HER OFF AT MRS. DANZIGER’S. She stood there uncertainly as though she didn’t want to go in, as though it was all a trick and she didn’t believe she was actually free. Then she dragged herself listlessly up the stairs to the front door.
I waved cheerily to her and drove off. As soon as I got around the corner, I stopped again. Taking the S&W from the holster I checked the cylinder. When I was finished I didn’t put the revolver back in its holster. I slipped it into my jacket pocket. Then I started the car and drove over to The Red Wheel.
I went by the deserted parking lot to a narrow side street that ran parallel to the club. Halfway down I parked the Ford. Stepping out I looked around. I was at the back of The Red Wheel, facing an alley which was empty except for three battered garbage cans.
The street was quiet and empty and there was a smell of fresh dew on the grass. Behind the alley was a small gray bungalow, a gravel path leading to it.
I walked up the path to the front door. Fastened to it was a brass plate with the name Carl Podre. I rang the bell, hearing its sharp twang through the house. I waited. No answer.
Moving away, I went around the back. I tried the bell there, hearing a buzz. Nobody answered it. I tried the door. Locked. I went to the front, passing windows with drawn Venetian blinds. There was no station wagon around and that made me a little anxious. I rang the front bell again. I knocked at the door, then hammered on it. I tried the knob. It was locked. I waited, listening for the slightest sound inside. Dead silence.
I came out of the side street to the entrance of The Red Wheel. There was no bell. The door was locked. I looked into the window nearest the door. All I could see was an empty dining room, with up-ended chairs on bare tables. I turned around and looked down Main Street. For the first time, I noticed a dusty black sedan parked under some trees thirty yards away.
I walked over to it. Detective-Lieutenant Gahagan was sitting behind the wheel smoking a pipe.
“Hello, Ralph,” he said calmly. “Kind of early to be going in for a short beer, isn’t it?”
“Dammit,” I said.
“What’s the matter, Ralph?”
“You’re staked out for Podre, aren’t you?”
“Sure,” Gahagan said.
“Where is he, Lieutenant?”
“You won’t find him around here. Your friend has flown the coop. The place is closed down pending a search warrant. What were you going to do?”
“Hell,” I said. “I was going to be a hero, Lieutenant. Pictured myself bringing Podre in by the scruff of the neck and saying, ‘Here, I cleaned it up for you.’”
“You’re about an hour too late,” Gahagan said imperturbably. “The Connecticut State Police picked up Derechy on the Post Road during the night. He’s been singing his song at GHQ.”
“What did he say, Lieutenant?”
“He admitted he and Podre dumped Westlake’s body into the pond. They used Podre’s station wagon. The pickup order on Podre came in about an hour ago. We missed him by five minutes, but we know where he is.”
“Where, Lieutenant?”
“They cut him off on 133 near the West Boxford line. He scooted out of his station wagon and into the woods. How did you know about Podre?”
“Sir,” I sai
d, “I have my own informant.”
“You’d better get the hell back to the barracks,” Gahagan said. “Every man’s been called back from time off. They’ve gone in to flush him out.”
“I’m on my way,” I said.
The only trooper in the barracks was Corporal Phil Kerrigan. He was at the shortwave radio talking to the dispatcher at Framingham. He looked over his shoulder, shook his head at me and told me I was late.
“We called your home,” he said. “You’re supposed to leave an address when you’re given a pass.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I only expected to be gone a couple of hours. It took longer than I planned.”
“Podre—” he started to say.
“I know,” I said. I had been pulling off my tie. Now I was unbuttoning my jacket and shirt. “I met Lieutenant Gahagan at The Red Wheel.”
“All right, change over and get out there. You’ll find the captain out on 133 at the West Boxford line. Take a bike. Number Fourteen. There isn’t a cruiser left in the joint. Okay, kid, hit it.”
I clattered upstairs into my room, changed swiftly and ran down again buckling my gunbelt. Down the stairs to the garage. I warmed up the motorcycle and sped out of there in a roar.
It was a little cool for motorcycle riding but I drove fast, the wind whipping at my face. I cut off Route 1 onto 97, going through the little town of East Boxford until I reached Georgetown. From there I turned off onto 133, passing along the edge of the forest.
Seeing a light blue tunic ahead of me, I slowed down. It was Tony Pellegrini by the side of the road, standing straddle-legged, a Winchester rifle in his hands. He waved and motioned me on. I passed him and came to Trooper Driscoll a hundred yards ahead. He was facing the woods and holding a riot gun. Then I came upon a cluster of cars. There were some plain-clothes men and the Georgetown police, Captain Dondera and his second-in-command, Lieutenant McQuade.
I pulled over and stopped. I set the bike on its kick stand and went over to Captain Dondera.
“You’re late,” he said. “Go down the road and you’ll see Sergeant Neal. He’ll assign you a post.”