by Lou Cameron
“Mostly broken bottles,” he explained as I morosely poked around amid the debris of the cabin. “Takes twenty years at least for glass to turn purple in the sun, and lots of things can happen to an old empty bottle in twenty years.”
“Let’s take a look down the shaft,” I said. “You have a flashlight?”
He did. But he’d left it back in his cruiser with Sergeant Phillips. I mean, I’d told him I wanted him to show me the way to a mine shaft and he was yakking at me about irradiated glass, for Chrissake!
“Never mind,” I sighed, taking the pencil flash out of my breast pocket and stepping back out into the glare. I walked over to the mine shaft and looked down. It didn’t look like my idea of a pleasant place to spend an afternoon. A pair of narrow-gauge tracks, rusty from disuse, ran down the steep slope to God only knew where. A steel cable, or what was left of a steel cable, ran from the ruins of the hoist to whatever it was attached to down there in the pit. The cable was taut and about shoulder-high above the tracks. If anyone was dumb enough to keep one hand on the cable and dig his heels into the ties between the tracks, he could probably make it down the steep slope without killing himself.
But the mine was old. The timbers could be in almost any shape you wanted to imagine. And there was an acrid vinegar smell to the old shaft that worried me almost as much as the moldy-looking timbers. Only one thing smells like vinegar, aside from vinegar, in old abandoned cellars and mine shafts in the Southwest.
Scorpions.
Unless somebody’d just dumped a barrel of vinegar down the old mine shaft, which I somehow tended to doubt, there were more scorpions down there in that hole than you could shake a stick at.
“Want me to go, Lieutenant?” asked Jennings, the sun-quartz fancier and all-around idiot of the Nevada Highway Patrol.
Another, even bigger, idiot said, “I’ll go. I’ve got the light.”
The other idiot was me.
I put my driving gloves back on and plucked the cable a couple of times like it was a king-sized guitar string. It thunked reassuringly and seemed solid enough, despite the cruddy layer of rust and dried grease coating the rough strands.
I took a firm grip on the cable, dug my heels into the ballast between the rails, and started down, trying to touch bottom with the pencil flash in my free hand.
My feet kept slipping out from under me, dislodging stones that clattered down into the blackness, and I’d have gone sliding after them if it hadn’t been for the cable. I noticed that one particularly large stone hit something with a loud metallic clank, after it had rolled one hell of a long time. It sounded like someone had kicked a great big bucket.
I heard the same noise again and again as I descended the slope, closer each time, until at last my flashlight beam could make out what all the ruckus was about. The rocks were bouncing off the end of an ore car squatting in the center of the shaft on the rusty tracks. The cable I was clinging to was attached to the ore car. Its dead weight was what was keeping the cable tense.
I searched the floor of the tunnel around the rusty wheels of the abandoned ore car. If anyone had tossed anything down the shaft, it should have stopped sliding along about there.
“See anything, Lieutenant?” called a distant voice. I swung around on the cable like a monkey on a vine and stared up at the incredibly small figure of Jennings silhouetted against the tiny patch of blue sky framed by the tunnel entrance. I blinked the light at him to let him know I was thinking of him and called, “No luck, so far. I’m going on down to the end.”
Then I started wondering how I was going to get past the ore car.
Oh, there were a few inches of squeeze space on either side of the battered hulk. If I sucked in my breath, I might just manage to wriggle between the ore car and the mine timbers framing it neatly and holding up the roof. I didn’t think my weight was liable to dislodge more than one or two of them. But the vinegar smell was quite pronounced at this level, and if I’d been a scorpion, I couldn’t think of a nicer place to hide from some nut with a flashlight than between those rotten timbers and the damp rocks of the wall.
“So whoever heard of a grown man dying from a scorpion sting or two?” I muttered, edging my middle along the rim of the ore car while I clung to the rusty iron for dear life. I was able to lean my head over the empty car as I squeezed between it and the three timbers I had to negotiate, so I was reasonably sure I wouldn’t be bitten on the face or neck. My ankles and rear end were more or less on their own.
Once, something sharp dug into my calf, and for a moment I thought I was in trouble. But it must have been a splinter. I braced myself for the hot flash of pain that follows the first prick of a scorpion’s tail, but it didn’t show up. Not that I was the least bit disappointed.
I worked my way past the ore car without further incident and hung by one hand from its lower end while I fanned the narrow beam of my pencil flash into the darkness below me.
The car was near the bottom of the mine. There were a few more yards of track, an area of rubble where they’d loaded the ore until the claim had petered out, and a few puddles of evil-looking ink-black water. That was about it. I slid down the remaining few yards of slope, poked around at the bottom of the shaft to make sure I hadn’t missed anything, and noticed one small object of interest on the edge of one of the puddles. I picked it up, stuck it in the pocket of my jacket, and started back the way I’d come.
It was harder work going up, but less worry, since I knew what was waiting for me when I got there. I’d wasted a lot of time, messed up my clothes, and felt a little foolish about the whole thing. But I’d checked the mine shaft out. It didn’t have any connection with Kathy Gorm or the elusive Duncan MacDonald. But at least we knew it didn’t. It sounds stupid, and sometimes it feels stupid, but nine-tenths of a policeman’s job is checking out leads that lead nowhere. It’s the only way you can whittle a case down to size.
“Find anything, Lieutenant?” Jennings asked as I groped my way the last few feet to the surface.
“Yeah,” I said soberly as I reached in my jacket for the Coke bottle I’d picked up at the bottom of the shaft. I gave it to Jennings, and the trooper blinked at it and asked, “What’s this for, Lieutenant?”
“Sun quartz,” I said. “For your collection.”
“Sun quartz?” He frowned. “It isn’t purple, Lieutenant. It’s just a plain old Coke bottle!”
“So leave it in the sun for twenty years,” I muttered, “and we can come back for it after it turns purple.”
• • • I went on in to Beatty to see about impounding the car and to wash up. Until it’s paid for, a car belongs to the bank or finance company. The owners of the T-bird would want it back as soon as possible. I wanted to keep it as long as I could to let the lab work it over. So I called on the local justice of the peace and asked him to draw up the papers I’d need.
Then I stopped at a gas station, scrubbed as much of the crud off as I could in the men’s room, and while they gassed the cruiser for the trip back to Vegas, sat down on a crate and took the letter out of my pocket. The one that was so personal.
“DEAR COP:” it read in poorly printed block letters, “THIS IS A FIRST AND LAST FRIENDLY WARNING FROM A KNOCKAROUND GUY WHO DON’T LIKE NOISE. YOU KEEP HANGING AROUND ROBERTA GREY’S AGENCY AND A LOT OF PEOPLE ARE GOING TO WIND UP DEAD. STARTING WITH YOU.”
It was not signed.
That worried me, a little. You get a lot of crank mail in my business. Most of it’s signed “The Green Hornet” or something just as silly. But this one was addressed to me personally and written by someone who obviously knew I’d been checking in every other day or so with Roberta Grey.
That was something to think about.
I carefully replaced the letter in its envelope to save for the crime lab. It looked like dime-store stationery, and, the disguised handwriting had been printed with a number two lead pencil. Not much to go on, unless the iodine fumes picked up a latent print or two.
There w
as always the possibility that Mrs. Grey had made enemies of her own. Or that someone was getting worried about the same cop making repeated calls at her office. Roberta Grey worked in a twilight world of semi-legality, inhabited by shyster lawyers and not always ethical loan sharks. We’d been sitting tight on Kathy Gorm’s disappearance. Someone, anyone, could have gotten the idea she was blowing the whistle on them.
I got up, fished for some change, and walked over to the nearby pay phone. I called the agency and asked to speak to Roberta Grey.
“Where have you been?” she asked as soon as she picked up her phone. “I’ve been looking all over town for you!”
“I’m not in town,” I replied. “We picked up that T-bird MacDonald was driving close to the state line. I’m in Beatty, couple of miles this side of Death Valley.”
“MacDonald’s not in Death Valley,” she cut in, “he’s right here in Vegas.”
“You saw him?”
“No, Hazel saw Kathy. She was dropping one of the girls from the office off at a housing development on the south side of town and spotted Kathy coming out of a supermarket.”
I shook my head and said, “Wait a minute. You are talking about Kathy Gorm, aren’t you? Are you trying to tell me she’s been seen alive!”
“Why do you think I’ve been looking all over town for you, dammit? Of course she’s alive. Walked right past Hazel’s car as chipper as a jaybird!”
“Hazel’s sure it was her? I mean, couldn’t it have been someone who looked like Kathy Gorm?”
Roberta snorted. “Come on. Kathy broke Hazel in. They worked side by side in the same cubicle for months. Besides, Hazel double-checked. She followed Kathy in her car. Kathy got into a gray sixty-seven ’Vette parked outside the supermarket. Hazel wrote down the number and then followed her when she pulled out of the lot.”
“Any chance the Gorm girl knew she was being shadowed? If they passed close enough for Hazel to recognize her, it could have worked the other way around, you know.”
“Don’t think so,” Roberta replied. “Kathy never looked back and drove straight to a nearby motel on the Maryland Parkway. Hazel watched her pull in and get out. She took her groceries into one of the cabins. Hazel took down the number. She got the license number of the ’Vette, too. I’ve already given it to that Bert Crawford. He said he’d check it out and call you on your car radio.”
“He may have been trying to,” I replied. “I’ve been out of the car a lot this afternoon. Listen, before I hang up, do you have anything on the front burner that might involve you with a crank letter writer?”
“All the time.” She sighed. “You wouldn’t believe some of the nasty letters I get. Nobody loves a bill collector.”
I told her about the letter I’d gotten. She said it didn’t ring any particular bells. I hung up and went back to the cruiser.
I called in and asked for Bert. They got him to the transmitter on the double. He’d been waiting for me to call in.
“Where the hell you been?” he asked. “That Gorm case has been blown wide open!”
“I know,” I replied. “Just talked to Roberta Grey. I’m on my way now.”
“You want us to move in on her?” he asked.
“On what charge?” I answered.
“Wh-what charge…?” he stammered. “Why, dammit, Frank, we’ve been looking all over the goddamn state for this MacDonald and…” His voice trailed off as the penny finally dropped. He said, “I see what you mean. We can’t very well question him in connection with Kathy Gorm’s murder, now that it turns out she’s alive.”
“I still want to talk to him,” I said, “but we’re going to have to move awfully cagey until we can think up something to hold him on. You guys just sit tight until I get there. Maybe we can think of something that doesn’t get people to screaming about his civil rights. You check out that license number Miss Collier wrote down?”
“Yeah. The ’Vette’s registered to a Gordon Fraser, from Reno. Fraser bought it two weeks ago. Financed through a Reno bank. They say his credit references are okay. Been working in Reno about five years. Think it could be MacDonald?”
“I don’t see how,” I replied. “But the guy’s slippery as a greased eel, and he’s apparently very chummy with a chick who knows more about credit checking than those bankers up in Reno.”
“I’ve contacted the Vegas force,” Bert said. “They’ve got a prowl car out near the university keeping an eye on the gray ’Vette. Last time they cruised by, it was still parked there.”
“Good thinking. I’m signing off for now, Bert. Can’t drive the way I want to drive while I’m hanging on to this mike.”
“Roger,” said Crawford. “One thing though, Frank.”
“What’s that?”
“If Kathy Gorm’s still alive, who in the hell was the redhead in the Volkswagen?”
“I was afraid you were going to ask something like that,” I sighed.
• • • I blew into Vegas just about the time the collection agency was closing down for the evening. Roberta Grey had kept Hazel overtime, and Hazel was about as cooperative as an Army mule being led into a burning barn.
“I’ve had time to think it over,” she said, “and I’m sorry I told anyone about seeing Kathy. Especially a cop. And more especially a cop named Talbot!”
I looked thoughtfully at Roberta Grey, who looked back at me and shrugged. Then I said, “I don’t get it, Hazel. You can’t be serious about wanting Kathy mixed up with that creep. Not if she’s your friend.”
“I’m thinking as her friend, instead of as a damned skip tracer!” snapped Hazel. “I don’t know what possessed me to come back here, blabbing my fool head off about having seen Kathy like that! I guess I was just so happy to find out she was still alive I didn’t think.”
“Think about what?” I asked, keeping it casual as I took out a pack of cigarettes and offered it around. There were no takers. I shrugged and lit one for myself before saying, “You know she’s gotten herself mixed up with a bad apple, Hazel. MacDonald’s a deadbeat, a liar, a compulsive gambler, and maybe a murderer.”
“You don’t know that,” objected Hazel. “You said yourself you only wanted to talk to him about that body you found in a car he once owned.”
“What about all the other stuff he’s pulled?” I insisted.
“What other stuff?” She sniffed. “A few bills? What’s a few unpaid bills as long as he’s making Kathy happy?”
“He’s going to get her blackballed,” offered Roberta Grey. “She’s phonied up his credit files and it looks like she’s been helping him run up a king-sized headache for the Central Credit Bureau, Hazel! She’ll never get another job as a skip tracer in this state as it is!”
“Maybe she doesn’t want a job as a skip tracer. Maybe she just wants what every normal woman wants: a chance to settle down and be a wife and mother!”
“Settle down?” I smiled grimly. “With a guy like MacDonald? Who are we kidding? Besides, Roberta here checked the license bureaus. You know they’re not married.”
“So what? They haven’t got a scrap of paper that says it’s okay for them to sleep together. Big deal!”
“Dammit! The guy’s no good, Hazel! I’ve gone over his record. It’s not a pretty one. He’s a small-time punk with big-time ideas. He’s a liar and a thief and—”
“You’re repeating yourself, Lieutenant,” Hazel Collier cut in, her eyes frosty as she added, “I know how it goes, you see. I know all about how noble you are. I know how it hurts you to see a nice girl throw herself away on a bum. Or on a man you’ve decided, in your infinite wisdom, is a bum.”
She turned to Roberta and, in a voice dripping venom, said, “Isn’t Kathy fortunate to have such a noble, high and mighty big brother looking out for her welfare? I mean, if it wasn’t for Lieutenant Talbot, she might have a chance to be happy with someone she loves!”
“I take it we are not really talking about Duncan MacDonald at all, are we?” asked Roberta Grey in a weary
voice.
“Oh, but we are,” insisted Hazel. “I’ll admit the last time he decided to save a nice girl from a terrible mistake the man’s name was Stretch Voss. But that girl’s been saved. Oh my, yes, she’s been saved. Lieutenant Talbot’s worried about saving all the nice girls, though. Isn’t that nice of him?”
I looked at my watch and said, “I’m a little tired of doing penance for collaring Stretch Voss, Hazel. That was a long time ago and I think it’s time we forgot about the past and started thinking about what we’re going to do about your friend’s problem.”
“I won’t forget!” she snapped. “Not ever, Frank Talbot! And the only problem Kathy has is you! If you’d leave her and her man alone, they might have a chance to work things out!”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I objected. “You won’t come with me to identify the girl?”
“I’ll come if you make me. But I won’t identify her.”
Roberta Grey sighed wearily, got to her feet, and said, “Come on, Lieutenant. I know Kathy even better than she does.”
“Roberta! You wouldn’t!” gasped Hazel in a wounded tone.
“The hell I wouldn’t,” the fat woman replied grimly.
“You… you’re on his side, against Kathy?”
“Maybe I’m on his side for Kathy, hon,” Roberta Grey answered in a curiously gentle voice. Then she turned to me and murmured, “Let’s go. I know where the place is.”
• • • We took the parkway south towards the university. I picked up a Las Vegas cruiser on the way. It’s common courtesy to ask the local force along when you make a pinch inside the city limits, and I needed someone to cover the back door.
The Vegas cruiser took the lead and swung into an alley running behind the motel according to plan. I waited until they’d radioed their position behind the cabin the Gorm girl had been seen entering. Then I swung into the U-shaped drive with the siren off and slid to a stop.
The gray ’Vette was parked under a carport attached to cabin twenty-three.
“You’d better wait here,” I told Roberta Grey as I opened the door on my side.