The Man Who Followed Women

by Bert Hitchens

  Pethro sat near the entrance to the cave. He lit a cigarette with slow care. He seemed more lethargic than anything, not apprehensive about what the Big Man was going to find out, nor interested in Kernehan. Kernehan sized him up as a pretty dull character, and remembered the good-looking wife in Colton and wondered what she had seen in him. The other man, the one the Big Man had called Billy, was fiddling with the radio, but Kernehan sensed that his attention was on himself, that he was waiting for some sign of panic or rebellion.

  Kernehan said, “I don’t see how you’ve kept your strike a secret. In every case I know of, there’s been a mob move in.”

  “That’s what we don’t want,” Billy told him. “We just don’t crave to put up with a bunch of Joe Blows who don’t know from nothing.”

  “Have you filed on it yet?”

  “That’s our business.”

  “Excuse me for asking,” Kernehan said, as if in hasty apology.

  Pethro suddenly spoke up. “I been working on them brake drums. I should of told him.”

  “You sure should,” Billy agreed, giving Pethro a sharp look. “Is he going to have trouble?”

  “Probably not.”

  “I hope not,” Kernehan put in. “I don’t want to spend the night here.”

  Neither of them answered. Billy got a program of bop music and listened to it for a couple of minutes, then switched channels and got symphony music, then switched again and got a hell-fire preacher. He stayed at the radio, patiently turning the dial, and Pethro smoked, blank-eyed. No one had shown a gun, but Kernehan had no doubt several were handy.

  “We’re just going to have to wait,” Pethro said at last, as if the truth of the situation had finally dawned on him.

  “We sure are,” Billy agreed.

  Less than fifty feet from where they sat was another cave, in it such a stack of stuff as Kernehan had never seen outside a warehouse. He tried to act as casual as possible. The thing not to do—definitely not to do—was to ask what might happen if the Big Man came back and said his story had holes in it.

  The Grofskys didn’t go to church, but Kodear did, reversing what Farrel had figured for-their Sunday routines. Kodear and the eighteen-year-old and a woman who must be her mother, the three of them all gussied up, headed for church at a quarter of nine; Farrel arrived almost too late to see it. They walked, chattering, a couple of blocks, entered for nine o’clock Mass, Farrel slipping in behind them. He wanted to see Mr. Kodear being devout. The way Kodear looked around, and his apparent unfamiliarity with the ceremony, gave Farrel the impression that the two women had brought him, trying to improve him, no doubt. Farrel was reminded of Mrs. Bellows’s similar attempts on his behalf. She had once rented the next room to his to a ministerial student, with what Farrel figured were underhanded motives.

  Farrel slipped out again and headed for the Grofskys’. Mr. Grofsky might be attacking the yard again, murdering shrubs by moving them—but no, all the blinds were closed and the place had the look of sleeping. Farrel parked and waited. He tried to figure what he had learned about the two men. It was all such insignificant personal stuff, he decided. Kodear had a young kid sweet on him, and the kid and her mother had dragged him to church, not knowing about the riverside rendezvous the night before. Farrel thought, I should have crunched a few twigs down there by the river, given them something to think about. Mr. Grofsky, in contrast to Kodear’s easy manner, seemed a man driven by demons, at outs with his wife, a nail biter who should be taking tranquilisers by the bucket. But so far there was nothing to indicate which of the men—if either—was involved in the freight thefts.

  It was past ten when the blinds were finally opened. Farrel was a half block away, parked near the intersection, watching the house through the rear-view mirror. He saw Grofsky come out on the porch and pick up the Sunday paper. Grofsky was wearing a bathrobe over his pants. He put the paper under his arm and walked out into the yard to inspect the shrubs he had moved yesterday. Then he went inside again. Farrel, having placed him at home, drove downtown and ate breakfast in a cafe.

  At one o’clock a car pulled up in front of the Grofsky house. There were a couple of women in it; they didn’t get out, but honked, and in response Mrs. Grofsky came tripping through the door and down the walk, and the glimpse Farrel had of her in the mirror sent him swiveling around to look firsthand. The impression, even at this distance, was of a high-style getup, a silk suit and a small but rich-looking fur, a spring hat aglow with ribbons and flowers. She came around the car to get in at the rear door, and Farrel caught a gleam of diamonds from her gloved wrist, a diamond watch, no doubt. Even as little as he knew of women’s clothes was enough to tell him that this meant money.

  She glanced at her wrist, where the diamonds had twinkled, said something to the women in the car, and got in. The car pulled away, passing Farrel, who bent down as if to reach for something on the floor. A whiff of perfume as ripe as flowers drifted in through the window above, as the other car went by. Farrel sat up again slowly.

  About thirty minutes after his wife’s departure, Grofsky came out of his house, got into the car, and backed it from the garage. In contrast to her, he wore old clothes, faded pants and a broken hat, an old shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He did something in the garage before he backed the car, lifted the trunk, Farrel thought, though he didn’t get a good look at the maneuver. When he was more than a block away, Farrel started his own car and followed cautiously. Grofsky drove north from town, to a wildly cluttered bank where boats were built, repaired, and rented. He took fishing gear from his trunk compartment and walked down to a float. Farrel didn’t dare follow him out on the water, nor did there seem much need, until he saw where Grofsky was headed—for another boat. This was a big one, with double outboards, much wider in the beam than the ordinary fishing boats that were coming and going. Farrel squinted at it and decided that something about it made him think of a barge, a cargo vessel. There were two men in it, dangling poles over the side.

  Grofsky’s sidling maneuver, approaching the other boat, was so obvious to Farrel’s experienced eye that it was like a kid sneaking up on an apple tree. He did nervous things with the fishing line, pretending to cast, guiding the boat here and there, then cutting the motor and letting her drift. In the car, Farrel grunted in skepticism. It was too bald to believe.

  When the two boats were practically touching, Grofsky seemed suddenly oblivious of the others. He fussed with the bait and his hook, his back to the other boat. The bow swung in to touch the other’s stern, and in that instant one of the other men dropped a small package into Grofsky’s boat.

  “The payola,” Farrel muttered, still not believing he’d seen it. He shook his head. How stupid could you get?

  The big boat drew away after a little while, drifting downstream. They’d be watching, he knew, waiting to see that Grofsky made it ashore and away free. Farrel kept to his car. Pretty soon Grofsky wound in his lines, started his motor again, and headed for shore. The big boat was almost out of sight, just hanging at the rim of a curve of bank where trees overhung the water.

  Grofsky paid for the boat and started picking his way up through the clutter. Still Farrel didn’t move. The big boat was slipping past the trees; as Grofsky reached the road, it disappeared. Farrel opened his car door.

  This must have been a moment that Grofsky had half expected all along, Farrel thought. When Farrel met him beside his own car and flashed the I.D., a sort of whoosh went out of him, like air from a pricked balloon. All he said was, “Well … my God. My God.”

  He started to twitch badly. He hung onto the fishing rod, but the small paper-wrapped parcel fell to the ground, and Farrel picked it up.

  “She made me do it,” Grofsky whimpered. Then he leaned on the car and started to cry.

  The paper had broken, and Farrel could see the color of the money inside.

  “… so many things she had to have,” Grofsky sobbed.

  “Yes, sir. Let’s get going. My car,” Fa
rrel said.

  Chapter 21

  When he heard the roar of the truck motor echoing off the canyon walls, heard the tires spit gravel when the brakes slammed on, Kernehan knew what the answer was going to be. He looked around quickly, sizing up what he could do. It was almost dark by now. The man named Billy was outlined against the light, standing in the cave opening. Pethro had flung himself down on a sleeping bag an hour or so before, had now lifted on an elbow, looking sleepy and ill tempered. Kernehan got his feet under him, tensed his legs.

  The Big Man came in half crouched, pushing Billy aside and swinging to face Kernehan. “You. Come here.”

  “What’s up?” Kernehan said. He stood, tugged at his belt, tried to look as puzzled as possible.

  “To start with,” the Big Man said, turning back to Billy, “who in hell meddled with the truck?”

  “Pethro was fixing the brakes, he said.”

  “He damned well almost got my neck broke.” The Big Man looked again at Kernehan. “They never heard of you out there.”

  Kernehan shrugged. “I can’t help what they told you, I was there most of the week, the kid and I went rockhounding together. The old man sold me water and meals.”

  “He never heard of you,” the Big Man repeated, moving into the cave. There was a long smear of grease down the side of his jaw and neck, where he must have wiped the sweat away after repairing the brakes.

  The Big Man was working himself up to something, Kernehan knew. He was the kind who whips himself into the necessary rage, then acts. Kernehan didn’t move away; to do so would have been fatal, like trying to run from a tiger. He stood as easily as possible, hands hanging free, looked mean, animal-like.

  “Get the damned lantern lit,” he yelled at Pethro. Pethro seemed startled. He got to his feet by bracing an arm against the cave wall. He started a yawn, then cut it off. He went to a big gasoline light sitting on a box, worked with it, struck a match. The cave filled suddenly with an unearthly blue glow. The light took away some of the shadowy danger from the Big Man, but showed more of his face; and Kernehan found himself studying the immobile mouth, a lipless gash in the ugly profile. The Big Man, satisfied with the light, turned again to Kernehan. “Now. You. You’re going to tell me—” All at once the moment must have arrived, for he rushed Kernehan like a bull.

  Kernehan put up an arm as if to ward him off and then at the last instant simply stepped aside. The Big Man crashed over the box Kernehan had been sitting on, his knees splintering it. He fell prone, chin foremost, and Pethro yelled in alarm.

  The one named Billy yanked an object from his pocket. There was a snick of metal, and eight inches of blade steel shone in the light. Pethro yelled again, this time in protest. “You said there wouldn’t never be any rough stuff! You promised!”

  The Big Man pushed himself to his knees, wiped his nose on his hand, said to Billy, “Come on, give me a hand here.”

  “You promised!” Pethro cried again. He was just behind the light, the blue glow lit him like some strange fire.

  “Shut up,” said Billy, circling Kernehan.

  Without turning his head, Kernehan jerked words in Pethro’s direction. “They’ve already killed your friend Jennings. If you didn’t know it. Think this’ll worry them?”

  The moment of silence that followed was like that which comes after a gunshot. Pethro was rigid. The Big Man and Billy didn’t look at Pethro. On the floor the Big Man was rubbing his jaw; Billy still held the knife, still looked at Kernehan—but still, Kernehan sensed a new direction to their vigilance.

  Pethro said stumblingly: “They run him off. He wanted to get out, anyhow. They might of blacked an eye. They admitted they might of done that much.”

  “They murdered him deader than hell,” Kernehan said. “Don’t you read the papers? They killed him at Sidewinder, stuck him in a hopper car, got him covered with a load of gravel.”

  “No,” Pethro said, something panicky in his tone. “He was going to his girl, they were going north again.”

  “Margie DeWitt? She knows now that he’s dead. She went to see your wife.”

  “How come you … you know—” Pethro’s voice died out. Then he said harshly, “Hell, you must be a goddam cop.”

  “Yeah,” said Billy, white teeth showing against the deep tan.

  “So I’m a cop,” Kernehan admitted. “You like them better?”

  “They didn’t kill him.”

  “What’ll you bet?” Kernehan jeered, saw Pethro’s eyes flicker.

  The Big Man had crouched; now he plunged against Kernehan’s knees from behind. As Kernehan started to fall, he turned; he swept down a chopping blow to the back of the Big Man’s neck. The Big Man let out a noise like Yuuuk, fell, his head dropping sidewise like a severed pumpkin.

  Billy came running, low and fast, the hand holding the knife outstretched like a hunting snake. Kernehan let him get within cutting distance, then swept the arm aside, used it as a lever to raise Billy off his feet, screaming. The knife clattered unheard as Kernehan sent Billy’s body whirling against the wall of the cave. Another scream split the air, reverberating in the closed space, and Pethro bent trembling toward the lamp. Perhaps he didn’t like what he was seeing, or perhaps the dark was a cover he wanted. He had a hand on the lamp when a voice spoke from outside. “You just keep away, buster.” Old man Bucklen and Randy came in, Bucklen carrying a shotgun.

  Bucklen inspected the fallen Big Man, the crawling and scrabbling Billy. “Looks like we got here a little late. You didn’t hardly need us,” he said regretfully.

  Randy said, “We had to wait, follow his lights. He’d have seen us if we stuck to his tail.”

  “I’m damned glad to see you,” Kernehan said, brushing the red hair back out of his eyes. He thought, God, I’m tired, feeling the trembling that fanned downward from the taut muscles in his shoulders.

  “You broke both of Billy’s legs,” came Pethro’s voice.

  “I never could stand a creep with a knife,” said Kernehan.

  Old man Bucklen was looking all round. “This what you been looking for all along?”

  “There are other caves,” Kernehan explained, “all stuffed with the tires and cigarettes and other stuff they robbed off the railroad. But this is what we had to find, yes, sir.”

  “I couldn’t have done better myself.” It was Farrel, coming in with a gun in his hand. Everybody’s got a gun, Kernehan thought, except me. I’m too stupid to bring one. All I had with me was what I learned in the Marines, plus what those tough hoods taught me in the freight yards. That’s all I had. How to fight dirty. How to live through it.

  Farrel looked him over. “Not a goddam scratch, as I live and breathe. What did you use on them? A bazooka?”

  Kernehan glanced at the Big Man. “I’m afraid he’s got a broken neck. I hit him pretty hard, I didn’t have time to pull the punch. The other one’s got broken legs from hitting the wall over there, but he should live. Since you’re here, I guess you rounded up the one in the office and he squawked.”

  “I almost feel sorry for him.” Farrel put the gun away and slapped his coat into place over it. “Grofsky. He was in a money bind, his wife wanting nice things and him trying to oblige. His wife ran the messenger-service end of it—he’d call her at noontime and she’d relay the message when these birds called in. She took care of the profits, too. Spent them on her back, mostly, I guess.” Farrel was looking at old man Bucklen and the kid. “Who’re these folks? Friends of yours from out yonder?”

  “I’ve been boarding at their place.”

  He introduced them to Farrel. They left Randy and Bucklen to watch Pethro, then went on a tour of inspection of the caves.

  “Of course they’ve moved a lot of it, Freight Claims will have a hell of a time running it down,” Farrel said. “But still, this ought to make somebody happy. I doubt if Ryerson knows how, so maybe it’s just us.”

  “It makes me feel damned good.”

  All at once Farrel had turned and stuc
k out his hand. Kernehan didn’t know what to make of it for a minute; he had figured Farrel still didn’t like him much. Then he shook Farrel’s hand and said, “We ought to have a drink on it.”

  “You think we won’t?”

  They were going to have to have professional help to move the Big Man and Billy. Old man Bucklen rode shotgun on Pethro, went to the boat with Farrel. Kernehan and Randy stayed to wait.

  Randy told Kernehan what had happened at camp that afternoon.

  “I’d just got through telling Grandad about you being a railroad cop, when this truck pulls in and this big guy gets out. He tried to pretend he was just driving around, but then he wanted to know all about us, how long we’d been there and who’d been around lately, and then if we knew a rockhound, and he described you. Grandad sized him up for what he was and said we hadn’t seen anybody. When he pulled out, Grandad said there was something funny going on and you must be in trouble. So we took off after him. Our truck isn’t as high off the ground, we had to be careful on the rocky places, but we made out okay. Grandad knows a better way back, through the old river station.”

  Probably the old man knew a thousand tracks visible only to himself and the other old-timers, Kernehan thought.

  “Grandad said we had to watch our step, we couldn’t let that man know we were trailing him. Grandad let me drive.”

  “He let you drive?”

  “Sure. He had to hold the shotgun,” Randy explained. “Coming over here, you know what? He said I’d better learn to shoot, there wasn’t any harm knocking off a coyote or bagging some quail for dinner.”

  “He’s right.”

  “I think he’s kind of … well, beginning to think I can be trusted.” In the blue brilliant light, Randy’s eyes were shining. “And maybe he’s—he’s beginning to like me.”

  “He always has, Randy. That you can depend on.”

  They had made Billy as comfortable as possible without moving him; but now the man began to groan again, and they went to see what they could do.