Hit and Run

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Hit and Run Page 13

by Deming, Richard


  The sergeant looked impressed. “Can’t understand a man straying from you in the first place, ma’am,” he said gallantly.

  “Thank you,” Helena said in a gracious voice.

  Sergeant Hanover rose. “Well, I guess that’s all for now, Mrs. Powers. We’ll let you know the minute we hear anything.”

  As Helena let him out, she felt complete satisfaction with her performance. Planting the idea that Lawrence might have run off with another woman had been a brilliant stroke, she thought. Checking her husband’s contacts in Washington should occupy the police for some time. And sidetrack them from Newark Airport, where there was always the danger that it might occur to some officer to recheck with the stewardess and show her a picture of Lawrence.

  20

  As soon as Sergeant Hanover left, Helena phoned Barney Calhoun’s flat.

  “Everything went smoothly, Barney,” she announced the moment he answered the phone. “It worked out just as you said. The police were just here for a picture of Lawrence to send to New York. The sergeant who talked to me wasn’t in the least auspicious. About all he asked me was if Lawrence had said anything about financial troubles recently. I told him—”

  “Listen,” Calhoun interrupted in a cold voice. “Did it occur to you your phone “might be tapped?”

  She was silent. Then she asked, “Could it be?”

  “No,” he snapped. “They wouldn’t tap a phone on a routine missing-person case. They couldn’t have got a court order to. tap it in this short time, anyway. But don’t call me again. It’s an unnecessary risk.”

  “I’m sorry, Barney. I thought you’d want to know.”

  “Just let me know if something goes wrong,” he said. “If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume you’re doing fine.”

  He hung up.

  Helena gazed ruefully down at the phone before slowly replacing it in its cradle. It was evident that Barney Calhoun had meant yesterday’s definite good-by.

  The thought depressed her. She had found the private detective by far the most interesting lover she had had for some time. She began casting around in her mind for a method of getting him back.

  On Tuesday afternoon Helena was taking her accustomed sun bath on the sun porch when Alice came in to announce that two police officers wanted to see her. As usual Helena was wearing only brief shorts. She lifted a scarf from the end table next to her deck chair and draped it across her bosom, then told the maid to send them in.

  Neither of the policemen was Sergeant Hanover. One was a lean man of about thirty who introduced himself as Sergeant Doyle. The other, a plump middle-aged man with a bald head, the sergeant introduced as his partner, Officer Judd.

  “Sit down, gentlemen,” Helena said, indicating deck chairs. “Have you news of my husband?”

  Neither man accepted the invitation to sit. “We’re not here about that, Mrs. Powers,” the lean sergeant said. “We’re from the Hit-and-Run Squad.”

  Helena’s expressionless face gave no indication of the shock she experienced. She said in a placid tone, “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  Sergeant Doyle asked, “You own a green Buick convertible, ma’am? License number 9I-3836?”

  Helena’s lip corners lifted faintly. “Obviously you know I do. What about it?”

  “Could you tell us where the car was two weeks ago today at two thirty in the morning? The Tuesday before last.”

  Helena raised her eyebrows. “In the garage, of course.”

  “You’re sure, ma’am?” Sergeant Doyle asked.

  “Positive, Sergeant. I don’t even have to think back. I’ve never been out at two thirty A.M. in my life. My husband and I retire at eleven every night. There hasn’t been an exception since last New Year’s Eve.”

  Officer Judd said, “Ever lend your car to anyone, Mrs. Powers?”

  “Never,” Helena said definitely. “What’s this all about, anyway?”

  “A man named John Lischer was killed by a hit-and-run car two weeks ago,” Sergeant Doyle told her. “It’s been established that it was a green Buick. We have information that it might have been yours.”

  “Information from whom?” Helena demanded.

  “An anonymous phone call,” Doyle admitted honestly. “It may just have been a crank, or somebody with a grudge against you trying to get you in trouble. But we have to check it out. May we see the car?”

  “Certainly,” Helena said. She pointed to her straw bag on the table by the wall. “Will you hand me that, please, Sergeant? I’m afraid I’ll lose my scarf if I try to get up.”

  Both officers had been manfully striving to ignore her scanty attire. Now the younger Sergeant Doyle couldn’t resist a quick glance at the indicated scarf. His expression suggested that he wouldn’t be offended if she lost it. When he handed her the bag, Helena drew a set of keys from it and held them out to him. The movement caused the scarf to slip slightly, exposing the upper swell of one tanned breast nearly to its pink tip. As the sergeant blinked, Helena casually drew the scarf back in place.

  “The thin key’s to the garage lock,” she said. “You’ll find the Buick in the righthand stall. You won’t mind if I don’t come with you, will you? I’d have to get dressed, and you really don’t need my presence. You have my permission to back the car out into the sunlight where you can get a good look at it if you wish.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Sergeant Doyle said, averting his eyes from her. “We’ll find it.”

  “Just go out this door,” Helena said, pointing to one of the French doors. “Then you won’t have to walk clear around the house.”

  She lay still listening after they had passed through the door. In a few minutes she heard the Buick start and back from the garage. Shortly afterward she heard it drive back in again. Several more minutes passed, then she heard the garage doors close.

  Sergeant Doyle came back in the French door alone. He handed Helena the keys.

  “No sign of damage to the car, ma’am,” he said. “Guess it was a false alarm.”

  “I knew it would be,” Helena said. “Where’s your partner?”

  “Went around front to the car. Sorry to have bothered you, ma’am. I’ll find my way out.”

  When she heard the front door close, she threw aside the scarf, sat up, and reached for the phone on the end table. She dialed Barney Calhoun’s number.

  He was home and answered immediately.

  As soon as he recognized her voice, he said angrily, “I told you not to phone!”

  “You said I should if something went wrong,” Helena said placidly. “Well, something has.”

  “What?”

  “The police were just here again, Barney. Not about Lawrence. This time it was two men from the Hit-and-Run Squad.”

  There was a stretch of silence, then he said in a voice that sounded more tired than concerned, “They’d had an anonymous tip, had they?”

  “Yes,” she said. “How did you know?”

  “The bartender at the Haufbrau made a wild guess. He remembered you and Cushman leaving just before the accident. He told me all about it Sunday night. I thought I’d sidetracked him, but apparently I hadn’t. Don’t worry about it. They can’t prove anything now. Did they look at the car?”

  “Yes. And apologized for bothering me.”.

  “Then why did you phone me?” he asked irritably. “What can I do about it? There’s nothing even you can do, except sit tight.”

  “I thought you’d want to know.”

  “All right,” he said. “Now I know. Don’t call again.”

  He hung up.

  Helena made a face at the phone as she put it back in its cradle. She padded through the house on bare feet and went up the stairs. She took a long, warm shower, soaping herself thoroughly and massaging her body with savage roughness in an effort to work the frustration out of her system.

  At nine P.M. Harry Cushman phoned Helena.

  “What’s all this in the paper about Lawrence?” he asked worriedly. “Why
did you report him missing?”

  “I haven’t seen the paper,” she told him.

  “Well, you must know what’s in it,” he said peevishly. “You’re extensively quoted. Why hasn’t he been to the New York police? When did Calhoun leave him in New York?”

  “Maybe you’d better come over, Harry,” she suggested. “It’s time we had a talk.”

  “It certainly is,” he agreed. “Be there as soon as I can get a taxi.”

  Helena went upstairs, stripped to the skin, and put on a white wrap-around housecoat whose lapels slanted downward in a steep V to below her bosom. She carefully adjusted it to expose the deep cleft between her firm breasts. She touched perfume behind her ears, then studied an assortment of lounging and bedroom slippers in her closet. She finally decided to remain barefoot.

  She was deliberately preparing herself to be distracting, because she knew it was going to take all her feminine powers of persuasion to make Harry Cushman accept what she had to tell him.

  Cushman arrived at nine thirty. When she locked the door behind him, he stood staring at her for a time, the worried expression on his face gradually being replaced by one of hunger. Moving against him, she put her hands on his shoulders and raised her lips for a kiss.

  A struggle took place in his face as he gazed down at her. Then his expression hardened and he backed quickly away.

  “I know you too well, Helena,” he said crossly. “You’re all set to soften me up. This time it’s not going to work. I want some answers, and I want them right now.”

  He turned, strode into the front room, and took up a stance before the empty fireplace. Helena followed slowly. She stopped three feet from him and thrust her hands in the pockets of the housecoat. The movement widened the V at her throat, apparently by accident, so that the tips of her breasts just showed.

  “Aren’t you even going to kiss me hello?” she inquired.

  “No,” he said definitely. “And cover yourself up. I have no intention of even touching you until you’ve explained what’s going on.”

  For a long time Helena examined him without expression. Then she shrugged, removed her hands from her pockets, and drew the housecoat so closely around her that it covered her to the hollow of her throat.

  “Very well, Harry,” she said tonelessly. “Since you insist. Lawrence is dead.”

  Cushman’s face gradually paled. But his expression was only that of a man whose worst fears have suddenly been confirmed. There was no surprise in it.

  “How?” he asked in a low voice.

  “He was murdered,” Helena said calmly. “I’m afraid you’re an accessory to first-degree murder, Harry.”

  “Me?” he said on a high note. “I had nothing to do with it. I don’t want any part of it.”

  Her lip corners lifted in the suggestion of a smile. “You don’t have much choice, Harry. You’d never convince the police you didn’t know he was dead when you substituted for him on the plane.”

  He said indignantly, “He was already dead then? You tricked me. How did it happen? Where is he?”

  She answered only the last question. “On the bottom of Lake Erie, Harry. We’re quite safe. There isn’t a chance in the world the body will ever be recovered.”

  “Why did you do it? And how?”

  She shook her head. “Mr. Calhoun instructed me to tell you nothing except that you’re an accessory to murder. He doesn’t want you to know any details.”

  Cushman walked over to the portable bar, poured a double shot of bourbon into a glass, and tossed it off. He didn’t inquire if Helena wanted a drink.

  After a slight shudder, he returned to the fireplace and faced her again. In a voice that trembled slightly he said, “Did you kill him, or did Calhoun?”

  When she merely shook her head, he said, “I have to know, Helena.”

  “What difference does it make?” she inquired. “If we’re ever caught, we’re all three equally guilty under the law.”

  “It makes a difference to me,” he said tightly. “I have no intention of marrying a murderess.”

  “That’s all right, Harry,” she said agreeably. “You don’t have to marry me. I was never too enthusiastic about the idea, anyway, if you’ll remember. It was always you who wanted marriage.”

  “Then it was you who killed him!”

  “Don’t look so horrified,” she said. “It was necessary. He discovered the damage to the car, and was going to call the police.” She paused as a thought struck her. “Harry, Lawrence’s clothing is still hidden in the garage. I forgot it completely. We’ll have to get it and burn it tonight. Right now.”

  “Not me,” he said in a definite tone. “I’m having nothing more to do with any of your plans. I’m walking out right now. Forever.”

  She studied him thoughtfully. “You’re not planning to go to the police, are you, Harry?”

  “And stick my own neck in a noose?” he inquired with bitterness. “You’ve arranged things so I can’t afford to do that.”

  Walking back to the portable bar, he spilled more whisky into a glass, this time lifted a siphon bottle to add soda. As she moodily contemplated his back, it suddenly occurred to Helena how she could get Barney Calhoun to come back to her.

  Her moody expression disappeared and a full smile appeared on her face.

  Quietly she faded to the opposite side of the room, her bare feet making no sound on the thick rug. With one eye on Cushman’s back, she soundlessly drew open the top drawer of a secretary. Reaching into the drawer, her fingers closed over the butt of a .32-caliber automatic.

  She crossed the room again. Harry Cushman was tilting his drink to his lips when she placed the muzzle of the gun at the back of his head.

  21

  Since Sunday night Barney Calhoun had spent little time away from his flat. He couldn’t escape the feeling that something might develop, and he wanted to be close to his phone. On the two occasions that Helena phoned, he had been prepared for the worst. Yet when each call had turned out to be unnecessary, his reaction was anger at her calling rather than relief.

  When her third call came shortly after ten P.M. on Tuesday, it didn’t anger him. The minute he picked up the phone he sensed that this time she had something important to say.

  “What is it?” he asked in a controlled voice.

  “How soon can you get out to my home, Barney?” she asked.

  He felt a cold chill run along his spine. “Why?”

  “I need you. Right away.”

  “Why?” he asked again.

  “I can’t tell you over the phone. But you must come. Right away.”

  “Twenty minutes,” he said, and hung up.

  All the way during the drive up Delaware he wondered what possibly could have gone wrong. There wasn’t anything that could have gone wrong, he kept assuring himself. If ever a perfect murder had been pulled, Lawrence Powers’ was it. Not only was the body beyond recovery, the police didn’t even suspect there had been a murder, and probably never would. And it couldn’t be anything about the hit-and-run case. The police had already examined the car and had apologized for bothering Helena.

  The only thing he could think of was that Harry Cushman had gone to the police. But that seemed inconceivable to Calhoun. If he had evaluated Cushman correctly, the man would stay as far away from both the police and Helena as he could get from the minute he realized he could be charged as an accessory to first-degree homicide.

  His thoughts didn’t accomplish anything but to get him all upset by the time he arrived at Helena’s home.

  Helena met him at the front door. She wore a white housecoat, tightly wrapped around her from the throat nearly to the ankles. He suspected it was all she had on. She was barefoot. She looked as calm and unruffled as ever.

  “Don’t look so worried,” she greeted bim. “We’re all alone. Alice doesn’t stay after eight, you know.”

  As she locked the door behind him, he said, “What is it?”

  “Harry,” she said ca
lmly. “He came over tonight, and I told him all about it.”

  So it was Harry Cushman after all who was causing whatever the trouble was.

  He said, “Has he gone to the police?”

  “Oh no,” she said. “Nothing as serious as that. Would you like a drink before we talk?”

  “No, I wouldn’t like a drink before we talk,” he said, exasperated. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I’d rather show you.”

  The words raised the hair at the base of his neck. The last time she’d used similar words, she had led him to her husband’s iced corpse. Now she took his hand, just as she had that previous time, and led him into the front room. He followed numbly, almost knowing what to expect.

  The light was off in the front room, but the switch was by the door. Helena flipped it on as they entered. Then she dropped Calhoun’s hand and looked at him expectantly.

  Lying face down in front of a portable bar was Harry Cushman. The entire back of his head was soaked with blood, and there was a small round hole in his forehead where the bullet had come out. High on the wall a scar in the plaster showed where the bullet had ended up. Cushman’s left hand clutched a glass from which liquid had spilled, and near his outstretched right hand lay a siphon bottle on its side. Next to him lay a .32-caliber automatic.

  The shock was not great because Calhoun had anticipated something on this order from the moment Helena said she would rather “show” him. Glancing about the room, he saw that the drapes were drawn so that they were safe from outside observation.

  He said coldly, “It looks like you shot him from behind while he was mixing a drink. Right?”

  She merely nodded.

  “Why?”

  “Because I was afraid he might give us away. He was in a panic when I told him Lawrence was dead.”

  “Did he threaten to go to the police?”

  She shook her head.

  “What did he say?”

  Helena shrugged slightly. “Nothing, really, except that I hadn’t any right to involve him in murder. And that he was through with me. It was the way he acted. He shook like a leaf.”

 

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