“That’s nice.”
“Any more questions, Mr. Quizmaster?”
“No. Your prize will be delivered within seven days by a famous mystery star himself, right to your own doorstep.”
“Goody,” Hildy said, and she was asleep.
Sleep did not come so easily for Harry Caster, but it came.
3
The next morning just before noon, Harry was in his tiny office at the Lamplighter making up a new liquor list when he heard an odd noise from out on the street. It sounded like the small explosion heard when you wait too long to light a gas oven—sort of a smothered bang.
Then he heard a crashing sound in the main room of the bar and a boy’s voice shouting, “Mr. Caster! Mr. Caster! Quick!” Ernie, the errand boy from the liquor store, came lurching into the doorway of the little cell. “Your car!” he gasped.
“What’s happened?” Harry asked, getting up.
But Ernie just repeated, “Hurry, hurry, your car!” and ran back the way he had come, sending more chairs flying in his wake.
“What the hell!” Harry hurried after the boy, nearly tripping over a fallen chair. When he got to the street he saw nothing, but Ernie was standing at the corner of the building gesturing frantically.
As he came around the corner, Harry saw that there hadn’t really been any need to hurry. There in the Lamplighter’s parking lot his car was solid mass of flames. From the tires to the soft top, red and orange flames were in total possession. Paint blisters rose in big patches, and the leather steering-wheel cover curled up as if in final salute. There was no question of saving the car.
Around the parking lot stood a silent fringe of shoppers and merchants watching the fire with solemn appreciation.
“Has anybody called the fire department?” Harry asked nobody in particular.
“I did,” said Ernie, “as soon as I saw the smoke.”
Harry never heard the sirens, but a red fire van soon appeared, and firemen were pushing onlookers back so that they could get near the car with their fire extinguishers. The extinguishers released a flood of white foam, and the automobile was all but lost in a cloud of smoke and steam. The stench of burning rubber, fabric and chemicals descended on the remaining crowd, and most of them began to cough and splutter and hurry away.
In just a few minutes the fire was out, and Harry’s car was a steaming, gap-windowed, stinking hulk resting on four half-melted tires. All that remained of the convertible top was a tangle of metal supports.
“How did this start?” a chubby young fire lieutenant asked Harry.
“I don’t know. I heard a funny noise, and Ernie Hollister came running into my office yelling. I came out and saw this.”
“We’ll finish off here,” the fireman said. “You’d better notify your insurance company and arrange to have it towed away late this afternoon. Christ, it sure stinks, doesn’t it?”
“It sure does.”
Harry became aware that a policeman was standing at his side listening. “I’ll be writing this up, Mr. Caster,” the policeman said. “Will you be at your bar for a while?”
“Yes,” Harry said, “I’ll be there.”
Before Harry got to the door of the Lamplighter, he heard the telephone ringing, and he knew who was calling. The telephone shrilled persistently as he walked back to his office.
“Hello, Mr. Rice,” Harry said as he picked up the receiver. “I was expecting to hear from you, but not quite so soon.”
“Hello, Harry,” said Rizzo. “Have you been doing like I said, thinking over the proposal I made to you?”
“It’s ‘Harry’ now, is it?”
“Well, we’re going to be partners, aren’t we? You call me Charlie.”
“Are we?” asked Harry.
“Yes, I think so,” said Rizzo. “I really think so. I think we’re going to get along just fine.”
“Yeah, there’s something about a burned-out car that really brings two people together. Don’t you think?”
“I wouldn’t know about that, Harry, but what about our deal?” Harry was silent.
“Hello?” said Rizzo with the beginning of an edge to his voice.
“You’ve got to give me more time to think,” said Harry. “I need more time. Everything is so sudden.”
“Okay,” said Rizzo, “okay. But don’t take too long about it. I want to get this deal settled before something happens.”
“You mean something else, don’t you?” Harry asked, but the line was dead.
* * *
Roy Beddell, the Chief of Police of Parker’s Landing, slumped in his scarred wooden desk reading studiously from an FBI report on interstate automobile theft. His lined face was wrinkled with concentration, and periodically he ran a thick hand through stubble-short, prematurely white hair. A pair of black-framed reading glasses perched unfamiliarly on his bony, vaguely Indian nose.
Chief Beddell’s major experience of the West had been a two-week vacation in Arizona several years before, but he had a curiously Western look about him. In his ten years as Chief, the force’s uniforms had changed from New York City blue-black to a crisply pressed, sage-colored gabardine and a high-crowned Stetson. And the majority of his men copied Beddell’s highly polished tan boots.
The men the Chief played poker with on Friday nights were sometimes allowed to refer to him as “Cowboy,” especially if he was winning. But the few persons who had tried to use the expression to ridicule him soon found that this was a dangerous practice in Parker’s Landing.
Beddell looked up with annoyance as Vern Hodges, his assistant, entered with a knuckle rap on his office door. “There’s a citizen name of Caster here,” Hodges said. “Says he wants to talk to you.”
“What’s he want?”
“He won’t say. Says it’s very important, and he has to speak to the Chief himself.”
Beddell knew Harry. He knew everyone who’d been in town for more than a year or so. The Chief knew Harry as a relatively new resident, one of the few Jews in town and a reputable and potentially successful businessman. But they’d never done more than pass a few polite words. They’d never had any reason to be acquainted professionally.
“Okay, Vern, send him in. But for Christ’s sake, come back in a few minutes so I can get rid of him.”
Harry walked into the Chief’s office with the diffidence of a man with a natural aversion to the police and police stations.
“Hello, Mr. Caster,” Beddell said, gesturing to a curve-backed chair in front of his desk. Before Harry could quite sit down, he asked: “What can I do for you today?” Beddell’s manner was cordial but brisk, and Harry knew that the Chief of Police didn’t want him to linger.
But Harry didn’t know how to start. To him, the problem was simple: to get Rizzo off his back and behind bars if possible. But how could he say this to Beddell? The Chief sat looking at him with quizzical impatience, and Harry had to start somewhere.
“You’ve probably heard that about an hour ago my car burned up in the parking lot of my bar,” he began.
“Yes,” said Beddell. “Sergeant Shaw called it in, but I haven’t seen his report yet. That’s a hell of a thing. I hope you’re insured.”
“Yes,” Harry said. And then he decided that he might as well plunge right in. “But it wasn’t an accident. Somebody deliberately destroyed my car.”
Beddell didn’t say anything, and Harry was disappointed at the lack of response. But then the Chief spoke with deliberation. “You say someone burned your car on purpose?”
“Yes,” said Harry. He looked nervously around at the opaque glass walls of the office and asked, “Do you mind if I close the door?”
“Go ahead.”
When he returned to the chair, Harry felt a little more at ease. But he tensed immediately when Beddell said in a hard voice, “Now suppose you tell me what this is all about, Mr. Caster. You claim that someone has set fire to your automobile. I think we’d better get an official statement from you.” He pushed a b
utton on the edge of his desk.
“Well, look,” Harry said in a rush, “do you know a man who calls himself Charlie Rice?”
At the name, a slight but definite change came over Beddell’s open face. It was as if a transparent shield had fallen over his features, giving them a frozen wariness. Before he could speak, a middle-aged woman in a white, frilled blouse gave a token rap on the door and came into the office. She carried a stenographer’s pad.
“Yes, Chief,” she said, looking at Harry with benign disinterest.
“Sorry, Shirley,” Beddell said. “False alarm…We won’t need you for the moment.”
With no change of expression, the secretary swiveled and left the office, closing the door firmly behind her. Beddell watched her broad back until the closing door blotted it out. Then he turned his pale eyes back to Harry Caster.
“You said something about Charlie Rice,” he said flatly.
“Yes,” Harry said, “do you know him?”
“I know him. He’s been living in Parker’s Landing for several years, and his boy Bobby plays on the Police Athletic League baseball team. He’s the best pitcher we’ve got.” He looked very deliberately into Harry’s face. “But what has Charlie Rice got to do with this situation?”
Harry knew he had to come out with it eventually. “Do you know the name Carlo Rizzo?”
“I don’t believe I do,” said Beddell, and his face didn’t alter from the flat, neutral expression he’d worn since Harry mentioned Charlie Rice. “What about this Carlo Rizzo?” His voice was wearing thin with barely concealed irritation.
At this point, Vern Hodges knocked and stuck his head into the office. He started to say something. “Not now, Vern,” Beddell snapped, “later!” The policeman pulled the door shut as if it were electrified.
“What about this Carlo Rizzo?” Beddell repeated.
“That’s Charlie Rice’s real name,” Harry said. He decided that he might as well go all the way. “And it was Rizzo who burned my car this morning, or at least had it done.”
Beddell said nothing to this, and Harry sat feeling foolish. So he stopped talking. Finally, Beddell said: “Go on.”
“Well,” Harry said, “right after it happened, Rizzo called me at the Lamplighter and—”
Beddell cut him short. “Mr. Caster,” he said, “you’d better go back to the beginning. I think we’re both getting a bit confused.” Harry didn’t feel at all confused, but he went right back to the night before when Rizzo had approached him at the bar. It wasn’t a long story, but he told it step by step, trying to stick to the facts and not get sidetracked or long-winded.
The Police Chief listened to Harry without comment, like a teacher hearing a nervous recitation. When Harry had finished he felt both glad to have it all out and anxious about what would come next. Beddell sat silent, as if letting the story sink in. Then he said: “Well, Mr. Caster, what do you want me to do about all of this?”
This was the last reaction Harry had expected. He’d been fully prepared to be disbelieved or even expected that his sanity would be questioned. But Beddell seemed to accept his story completely. “You do believe me, don’t you?” Harry asked, just to make sure. Beddell didn’t answer the question. But after resettling himself in his old leather chair, he fixed Harry with his eyes and began to speak.
“Mr. Caster, when I came on this police force nearly thirty years ago, Parker’s Landing was a much different place. It was a small town, much quieter and much more simple. We had crime, all right, but it was a different sort of crime: a few drunks, the occasional fight, cars stolen now and then by high-school kids, a few petty burglaries. We even had a genuine murder in 1940. Fellow stabbed his eldest son at the dinner table. Quite a messy business.” Harry started to say something, but Beddell stopped him with a gesture that was also a command.
“But as I say, it was a small town. A cop not only knew everybody in town, he knew most everything about them: families, school records, any little quirks about them that might bear watching. More to the point is that you soon got to know the few new people who came into town. You got to know them real well. You know,” Beddell gave the practiced smile of the storyteller who is calling on an old favorite, “one of my own ancestors came here with Jedediah Parker’s second boat, but some people hereabouts still think of my family as newcomers.”
Harry knew he was expected to react, so he smiled weakly. But he wondered what all this had to do with Rizzo trying to muscle in on his business.
“But things are different now, Mr. Caster,” Beddell said. “Parker’s Landing is not the same town. The war brought a lot of changes. Some people left and never came back. And after the war, a lot of new people came in. Some very good people, mind you. Did you know that Mayor Frost’s people came here only in 1946?”
Without waiting for an answer, Beddell went on. “But it was a different sort of people coming in—city people, people with a lot of money and fancy jobs, people with foreign names. Poles, Italians, Jews.” The Chief cut off his narrative, and Harry could detect a hint of slyness in his manner. “You’re Jewish, aren’t you, Mr. Caster?”
“Yes,” Harry said, “I am.”
“You know,” said Beddell, “it used to be we hardly had any foreigners in Parker’s Landing. Oh, there was always a family or two of bohunks somewhere around—I had a cousin married into them— but after the war we began to get a real mixture of people. Nowadays white, home-born Anglo-Saxons are the real minority in Parker’s Landing.”
Beddell paused again, and Harry decided to wait him out. He had a feeling that whatever the Chief was working around to was going to show up quite soon.
“Take Charlie Rice, for instance,” the policeman continued. “As new residents go, he’s a pretty old-timer. He’s got a damned nice kid, and so far as I know he’s a solid citizen. But I don’t really know much about him. All I know is that he’s never been on my blotter. You say his name is really Carlo Rizzo. A lot of people change their names.”
Harry knew what was coming.
“You, yourself, Mr. Caster,” the Chief continued. “Caster’s not a Jewish name, is it? Didn’t your family originally have some other name?”
Harry cursed his grandfather’s ambition and pretensions as he answered, “Yes, Kastransky. My grandfather—”
“There you are, Mr. Caster,” Beddell broke back in, “times change, names change. Rice may very well be Rizzo, but that doesn’t necessarily make him a bad fella.”
Harry came back sharply: “It’s not Rizzo’s name that bothers me. It’s the fact that he’s trying to take over my business and seems ready to use violence to do it. And I’ve come to you for help. This is the police department, isn’t it?”
Chief Beddell drew himself up behind his desk, and when he spoke again it was not with easy informality. “Yes, it is, Mr. Caster,” he said. “I’ll be very happy to take an official complaint from you on your allegations against Mr. Rice. Nothing could be easier. But my advice—both personal and official—is to keep in mind that libel is a very tricky business. You are accusing him of intimidation and conspiracy to commit arson, two very serious charges. If you fail to make them stick, you’ll find yourself in some very deep water. But if you like, I’ll just ring for my secretary again, and she’ll take down your complaint.”
The Chief’s hand moved toward the buzzer, and Harry watched with nervous fascination to see if he really would push it. But just as Beddell’s finger got to the button, Harry lost his nerve.
“Wait,” he said, and he cursed himself as he saw the hand jerk to a sudden stop. Perhaps if I’d waited, he thought, he wouldn’t have rung for the secretary. But Harry also knew that he was no match for the Chief of Police in a battle of nerves. “Look,” he said, “I know what I’m saying is true, but I can’t prove it.”
“You have no witnesses,” the Chief said rather than asked. Harry thought he said it a bit too readily.
“No,” Harry admitted, “no witnesses.”
�
�Mr. Caster,” Beddell began, and Harry could sense that he was relaxed and confident once more. Harry knew that he was about to be brushed off. “My best advice to you is to go home and think this all out very carefully. The situation you have brought up—as you describe it—is a very serious one and should not be proceeded on lightly. Sergeant’s Shaw’s report will tell us what caused the destruction of your car, and I’ll be studying it very carefully. It could have been only a short in the wiring, you know.”
Harry said nothing.
“And,” continued Beddell in an easy manner, “if it will make you feel any better, we’ll have a friendly word with Charlie Rice and—”
“No,” Harry said with alarm. “If he finds out I—”
“Never fear,” said Beddell soothingly, “what has passed between us in this office will go no farther than these walls. I’ll just see that Rice knows we’re taking official notice of what happened to your car. If it was other than a freak accident, he’ll know that we know all about it. I think he may find this information worth having.” Beddell got to his feet, continuing: “Don’t worry, Mr. Caster. We may be just a sleepy, small-town police force, but I think you’ll find we do a pretty good job for our citizens.”
Harry knew he’d been dismissed, and there was nothing for him to do but to get up and leave. “If anything else happens,” the Chief said, shepherding Harry out of his office door, “you get on the phone directly to me. I’m sure that between us we can sort this thing out.” He forced his big, firm hand on Harry and raised his voice slightly. “Thanks very much for coming in, Mr. Caster. Damn shame about your car. I’ll get back to you as soon as I get my sergeant’s report. Goodbye.”
Harry found himself on the steps of the police station no more comforted than when he had gone in. He was more worried, if anything. Harry felt he could expect no help from Beddell, unless it was after Rizzo had wiped out his business and perhaps his family. In his imagination, he could see the Chief on the telephone at that very moment telling Rizzo all that had happened in his office. The image gave Harry a sick feeling in his bowels.
The Triple Shot Box (Goodey's Last Stand, Not Sleeping Just Dead & Fighting Back): Three Gritty Crime Novels Page 42