Originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, June 1982.
As my car struck broadside against the low curb and, already beginning to roll, slammed across the bridge’s walkway and crashed through the flimsy steel railing, my most intense emotion was one of raw anger rather than fear.
Not that I’m a particularly fearless character, or too slow of mind to recognize instantly the imminence of my own death. No, what caused my outrage was simply a long-standing pet abomination of mine—it had marked my years as policeman and civilian alike—for anybody, young or old, man or woman, who drove a car while under the influence of alcohol or drugs and blithely played Russian roulette with other people’s lives.
I took a flashing lopsided look through my tilted windshield at the car that had forced me off the bridge and through the railing. And I suspected at once that whoever was driving it was either drunk or high or both, because the car showed no sign of stopping. It was drawing rapidly away at speed.
Then I was too busy for further thought about the departing car. My own old Ford, carrying shards of steel railing with it, was falling rapidly, end over end, toward the river thirty feet below. I thanked God fervently for my seatbelt. It held me sturdily in place, kept me oriented enough to permit me to do the little things that might possibly save me from drowning—roll up my driver’s window to the top, unlock both front doors, and pray a bit. The prayer was only a quickie, of course, but I hoped it might help a little. I also thought fleetingly of Ellen Thomas, the girl on the checkout desk at the library, whose hand I had been vainly seeking in marriage for lo, these many months.
Then the car hit the water with a resounding splash and slowly, inexorably carried me with it beneath the surface.
* * * *
I called Lieutenant Randall, my old boss at Homicide, from the hospital early the next day. “Lieutenant,” I asked querulously, “did you hear what happened to me yesterday?”
“Yeah, Hal, I heard.” Randall’s voice was as gruff as usual. “Somebody forced you off the Wolf Hollow Bridge, right? And you made it to shore okay. So congratulations. You should be dead.”
“I know it,” I said. “But thanks, anyway.”
“What were you doing on Wolf Hollow Bridge, for God’s sake? Nobody uses it any more except a few farmers.”
“I was going to collect some books from a farmer’s wife out at Dell Corners,” I said, “and it was a farmer who found me beside the road when I crawled out of the river, so don’t knock it.”
“You always did make friends easy. What do you want from me?”
“I want that SOB who sideswiped me on the bridge and left the scene of the accident. I want to find out who’s responsible for my bath. And for the total loss of my car. And for the destruction of the forty-two library books that were in the trunk when we went overboard.”
Randall said, “You and your library books. You’re a little confused, aren’t you? Hit-and-run, leaving the scene, DWI—you don’t want me, you want Traffic. Aside from that, how you feeling?”
“I got a knot on my head, a sprained thumb, and a cracked rib. But the doctor says I can leave here today if I promise not to breathe deep and don’t go bowling for a while.”
“Great,” said Randall. “Get lots of rest. And hold on. I’ll switch you to Traffic.”
“Wait a minute! That guy could have killed me!”
“You aren’t dead, though, are you? So it’s none of my business.” There was a click in my ear and a new voice said, “Traffic. Sergeant O’Rourke.”
I said, “Jerry, let me talk to Lieutenant Henderson. This is Hal Johnson.” I knew Jerry from the old days.
“Hey, Hal, we heard you got dunked. You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, “but boiling mad. I hope Henderson can find my H-and-R driver for me. I’d like to say a few choice words to him. Is Henderson there?”
“Hold on.”
Henderson came on the wire. “How you doing, Hal?”
I said, “Okay, Lieutenant. But I’m mad as hell. Will you please find out for me who the joker was who ran me off Wolf Hollow Bridge yesterday?”
“I wish I could,” said Henderson regretfully. “There’s not much chance, though, with no witnesses and nowhere to start.”
“Listen,” I said, “I’m going to give you a place to start. I saw the license number of the car that knocked me off the bridge.”
“Oho!” Henderson sounded suddenly cheerful. “Let’s have it then, Hal. Maybe we can get you some raw beef for dinner after all.” They were just gathering up the breakfast trays at the hospital when Henderson called back. “Hal?”
“Quick work, Lieutenant. Any luck?”
“Not much. I’m sorry. The car that sideswiped you is registered to a man named Frank Shoemaker at 818 Northway Road, Apartment #3.”
“Frank Shoemaker, 818 Northway Road, Apartment #3. I got it. Thanks, Lieutenant.” I felt my anger beginning to build anew. “Did you take him in?”
“No. Shoemaker reported his car stolen from the Haas Brothers parking lot downtown at twelve noon yesterday. Shoemaker’s on the Haas security staff. Cruiser 23 found his car abandoned in the East End at 6:30 this morning. With the right side pretty well bashed in.”
“Hell’s bells!” I said, seething. “Just my luck! I’m forced off a bridge and nearly killed by a drunken thief who’ll get away with it scot free—and the next time he gets high and feels like a joyride in a stolen car he’ll go right out and endanger the lives of other innocent citizens!” I tried to calm down, contain my fury.
“Look at it this way,” said Henderson. “You’re still in one piece, Hal. And that ain’t bad for starters. So take it easy. I’ll see you around.”
* * * *
They released me from the hospital about eleven o’clock. I took a taxi to the rent-a-car office nearest the library. There I rented a Chevy Citation to get me around on my collection routes until the Ford was either dragged out of the river and repaired or declared a total loss and replaced by the insurance company. Meanwhile, my insurance covered the rental of the Chevy, which helped. Library detectives like me, who track down stolen and overdue books for the public library, aren’t the highest paid people in the world, and I needed all the money I could muster if I was ever going to set up housekeeping with Ellen Thomas.
If. She hadn’t said yes yet, but I thought she was weakening a little. Why else would she have telephoned twice after she found out I was in the hospital and sounded so pleased when I assured her I was still my usual handsome, carefree self with no arms or legs in splints and no bandages around my head?
I drove my rented car to the library, reported in to the Director, and picked up the overdue-books list from my office. Then I went about my business as usual, trying to ignore the occasional sharp pain from the cracked rib and the throbbing of the sprained thumb.
About three in the afternoon I made a call at an apartment just around the corner from Haas Brothers Department Store and it occurred to me that as long as I was in the neighborhood I’d go and have a little chat with Frank Shoemaker.
Leaving the Chevy—locked up tight—in the parking lot, I went into the store and asked at the Information Desk where I could find Shoemaker of the-security staff.
The pretty blonde at the desk said, “He’s around somewhere. I saw him only a few minutes ago. Try back toward the book department. That way,” she pointed. “Do you know him?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, you can recognize him by his hair and mustache,” she said. “They’re almost pure white. And his skin is almost black right now, he’s so tanned. He’s just back from a Florida vacation.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll have a look.”
I headed for the book department, keeping a sharp eye out for a man with white hair and mustache and a tan. I was only halfway there when the possible significance of the girl’s words struck me. I’m sure the clerks at the nearby perfume counter must have thought I had experienced a sudden
revelation of some sort, like St. Paul on the road to Damascus or something, because I stopped dead in my tracks and stood stock still in the middle of the aisle while busy shoppers side-stepped around me.
When at length I got moving again and located Shoemaker at the jewelry counter, I inspected him carefully and decided I wouldn’t speak to him after all. At least for now.
* * * *
An hour later I was facing Lieutenant Randall across his cluttered desk. “It wasn’t hit-and-run,” I said, “and it wasn’t DWI, and it wasn’t leaving the scene of an accident, Lieutenant. It was attempted murder. And that is your department.”
Randall kept his cat-yellow eyes on me without blinking. “What makes you think so?”
“Mostly a hunch—with a few bits of evidence to back it up. Want to hear?”
He nodded.
“Okay. I got this sudden idea that somebody had been trying to kill me only an hour ago. I dropped into Haas Brothers to see the guy who owns the car that knocked me off the bridge yesterday.”
“Fellow named Shoemaker, right?” said Randall. “But he wasn’t driving when you were pushed,” Peterson said.
I was touched. That meant Randall had been interested enough in my welfare to follow up Traffic’s investigation. I said, “What started me thinking was that Shoemaker has a heavy Florida tan.”
Randall gave me a kind of look you give people who have lost their minds. “A tan.”
“Yeah, Lieutenant, a tan.” And I told him about Mrs. Radcliffe.
* * * *
She had been the fifth name on my list—Mrs. John H. Radcliffe, 1272 Highland Drive, North Side. She had, according to my records, six books from the public library that were three weeks’ overdue. She hadn’t paid any attention to our written notice and she hadn’t answered the telephone the two or three times I called her. So I went there, hoping to retrieve the books and collect the fines due on them.
It turned out to be a boxy white clapboard house in the middle of a row of seven others exactly like it, each separated from its neighbor by a narrow gravel driveway leading back, I assumed, to a garage at the rear.
I parked the Ford in front of 1272, went up the porch steps, and rang the doorbell. No answer. After waiting a few moments, I rang again. Still no answer.
After a moment’s thought, I went and rang the doorbell of the house to the left. A plump lady in a dressing gown and flat bedroom slippers answered my ring at once. She had pink plastic curlers in her hair.
“Yes?” she said.
“I’m looking for the lady next door,” I replied. “Mrs. Radcliffe. I’ve been trying to reach her for two weeks.”
“What do you want with her? Who are you?”
“I’m from the public library,” I explained. I showed her my ID card. “Mrs. Radcliffe has some overdue books I’m supposed to collect.”
“In that case I can tell you why you haven’t been able to reach her. She and her husband have been in Florida for three weeks. They just got home last night.”
I had a suspicion this sharp-eyed lady was aware of most of what went on with her neighbors, so I asked, “Do you happen to know where she or her husband are now? I’d like to get in touch with one of them.”
She nodded complacently. “Her husband left for work at eight this morning as usual. And Dora went marketing over an hour ago.”
“Well, maybe I can stop by later this afternoon.”
“She ought to be home any minute. She goes to the supermarket around the corner.”
“In that case, I’ll wait a while. Thank you very much, Mrs.—”
“Jones. And you’re welcome.” She closed her door.
I went back to the car and crawled inside. The day was cold enough to see your breath, but I was quite comfortable inside the car.
After perhaps fifteen minutes a vintage Volkswagen Square-back—one where the back seats fold down flat to form-a small station wagon—turned into the Radcliffe driveway and crunched over the gravel toward the back of the house, the driver giving me a curious look when she saw me parked in front of the house. The tops of numerous grocery bags showed through the rear window. I got out and followed the white car up the driveway on foot. By the time I made it to the rear, she had pulled into a rickety carport and was already out of the VW and lifting the back panel to get at the groceries. I called to her, “Are you Mrs. Radcliffe?”
When she turned and I saw her face, I hoped she was. She was a genuine brunette beauty with blue eyes under fine black brows and the smoothest, loveliest mahogany tan I’ve seen in my life. The rounded contours of her slim figure were pleasantly revealed by the slacks and windbreaker she wore.
“Yes, I’m Mrs. Radcliffe.” Her voice was as nice as her face and figure.
I introduced myself, showed her my credentials, and told her what I wanted. “Oh,” she said with a smile, “they’re in the house. I took them to Florida with me during our vacation. I’m sorry to have caused you this trouble. If you’ll wait just a minute, I’ll get them for you, Mr. Johnson.”
“Let me help you carry these groceries in,” I offered. “You have quite a load there.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll open the door.” She hefted a paper bag in one arm and started for the back door. I grabbed up two more bags and followed her.
The door opened directly into the kitchen, which was small but well equipped with modern appliances. She put her grocery bag down on the work surface between the sink and the refrigerator and pushed a lock of shiny black hair back from her eyes. I placed my two bags beside hers and said, “I’ll get the rest of your stuff, Mrs. Radcliffe, while you get me the library books.”
“Okay,” she said, disappearing through a swinging door toward the front of the house. I returned to the Volkswagen and got the remaining bags of groceries out of the back. I was just about to slam the lid down when a glint of sunlight on metal caught my eye under a loose corner of the rubber mat that covered the VW’s engine hatch.
Curious, I flipped back the mat. Lying half under its edge was a gold ring—a plain heavy band with a couple of green stones set in it. I picked it up and carried it into the house with the groceries. As I set my burden down in the kitchen, Mrs. Radcliffe’s voice reached me through the swinging door. “In here, Mr. Johnson. I’ve got the books.”
“Right.” I went through the swinging door and found myself in the dining area of an L-shaped living room. I rounded the corner of the L and saw Mrs. Radcliffe depositing a stack of books on a coffee table before a gaily upholstered sofa.
“Six?” she said.
“Six is right.” I approached the coffee table, admiring the graceful curve of her back as she straightened up. “Have you lost any gold rings lately, Mrs. Radcliffe? I found this one just now in the back of your car.” I held the ring out to her.
Her silken brows drew together in a brief puzzled frown. Then she laughed. “Oh, that dumb ring! I wondered where I lost it.” She took the ring from my fingers and dropped it carelessly into a side pocket of her windbreaker. “Thank you.”
“Dumb?” I said idly. “It looks pretty nice to me. Almost like an antique.”
“Antique?” She laughed again, a nice little cascade of sound. “Some antique. It’s a gag gift from my husband. He gave it to me when we left for Florida.” She held out her ringless left hand. “I don’t wear a wedding ring, so Jack thought it would be fun to have me wear one on our vacation so folks would realize we were respectable married people. It was a dumb idea. And the ring was too big for me, so I promptly lost it.” She smiled at me. “How much is the fine?”
I consulted my list. “Six dollars and thirty cents.”
She dug into her purse, murmuring, “Antique ring. That’s good. What made you think that?”
I shrugged. “I saw some that looked like it last winter at a Spanish-treasure museum near Cape Kennedy, Florida. With a lot of stuff recovered from a Spanish treasure ship. Rings and bracelets and necklaces and stuff. You should have seen it. There wer
e even some pieces of ancient Chinese porcelain.”
“Sounds fascinating,” she said. “I’d like to see it on our next visit to Florida. This time we spent our two weeks on the west coast, near Clearwater.” She handed me a ten-dollar bill and I made change for her. Then I went through my regular routine of holding the library books upside down and riffling through them to make sure no bookmarks or forgotten papers were between the pages. A receipted bill from a Holiday Inn fell out of one-of them and fluttered to the floor. I stooped over and recovered it and handed it to Mrs. Radcliffe.
She went to open the door for me since my arms were full of books and said, “Thanks again, Mr. Johnson. I’m sorry I caused a bother.”
* * * *
“That’s it?” asked Randall when I’d finished. “That’s all? You want me to slap an attempted murder charge on Shoemaker on the basis of that?”
“That’s just the background. It didn’t mean anything to me either—until I saw the tan on Shoemaker.”
“He wasn’t driving his car when it pushed you, Hal.”
“That’s what he says. How do you know it’s true?”
“How do I know it’s not?”
“The coincidence of his having a heavy tan and owning a car that almost wasted me made me think about Mrs. Radcliffe some more. And a couple of other things that might mean something too.”
“Such as?”
“The vague impression I saw—a white Volkswagen Squareback like Mrs. Radcliffe’s behind me every once in a while as I finished my morning rounds yesterday morning.”
“You think she may have been following you?”
“Maybe. I put the library books in the trunk of my car when I left her and crossed her off my list and checked the list for my next stop. I was in front of her house long enough for her to slip into her VW and follow me if she felt like it.”
“Why should she feel like it? You’re paranoid, Hal.”
I grinned at him. “Maybe. All the same, that ‘dumb’ gold ring I found in her car did look like an honest-to-God antique, Lieutenant. Heavy yellow gold with a setting of rough-cut emeralds.”
“You couldn’t tell a rough-cut emerald from a cake of green soap,” Randall hooted. “What do you know about women’s jewelry?”
The Library Fuzz Page 25