by Ed McBain
“Just a second,” Handy said to me. “Detective Thompson, we’ve got a young man here named Phil Colby, say’s he’s a detective. What? He is? Well, that’s good. He’s driving a car he claims he borrowed,” Handy said. “What? He did borrow it! From you? No? Well, then can I talk to whoever he did borrow it from?” Handy listened. I waited. “Not there, huh? Well, where is he? Out on a what? A plant? What’s a …”
“A plant is—”
“When do you expect him back?” Handy asked. “Oh, I see. Well, that doesn’t help this young fellow much.”
“Look, will you let me talk to him?” I asked.
“Just a second,” Handy said, and then he went back to the phone again. “I can’t let him go until I talk to the fellow who owns that car,” he said to Thompson. “You understand that, don’t you? Besides, he was speeding.”
“May I please talk to him?” I asked.
“Just a second,” Handy said to Thompson, “he wants to talk to you.” I practically ran across the room, and Handy gave me the phone.
“Hello, Sam,” I said.
“Hello, Phil,” Sam said. “What’s new?”
“Don’t clown around, will you? I’m stuck here in a hick …” I cut myself off, aware of the sudden stiffening of Handy’s back.
“You shouldn’t go tear-assing all over the countryside,” Sam said. “Tch-tch, boy, you should know better.”
“I was doing a big forty miles an hour!” I said.
“In a stolen car, huh?”
“In O’Hare’s car! Where the hell is O’Hare?”
“On a plant.”
“What plant? For Pete’s sake …”
“Phil, I know it’s an inconvenience to you, but we do try to run this little squad in your absence, you know. O’Hare is out trying to catch a burglar.”
“Well, when will he be back?”
“If I could consult the burglar, I’d give you a more definite answer. Unfortunately …”
“All right, all right. Will you have him call here as soon as he gets in?”
“What’s the number?” Sam asked.
“Sullivan’s Corners 8-7520,” I read from the dial plate.
“Hey, kid,” Sam said.
“Yeah?”
“Have they got you on the Mann Act?” he whispered.
“Go to hell,” I said, and I hung up.
“Well?” Handy asked.
“The man who owns the car will call as soon as he can. Do you want the ten dollars now or later?”
“Now’s as good a time as any,” Handy said, smiling happily.
The call from O’Hare did not come until one o’clock that morning. Ann was curled up on the sofa, half asleep. Handy was puffing on a pipe and telling me how good the fishing was at the Point. Fred had departed for the cinder tracks hours ago. When the phone rang, I leaped out of my chair. Handy motioned me to sit, and then he waddled across to it and lifted it from the receiver.
“Hello?” he said. “Yes, this is Justice Handy. Oh, how do you do, Detective O’Hare?” He listened, nodding. “Yes, that’s right, that’s right. Well, I’m certainly glad to hear that. Certainly, we’ll release him at once. Thank you for … what’s that? Oh, certainly, just a second.” He covered the mouthpiece. “Wants to talk to you,” he said.
I went to the phone. “Hello?”
“What’s the idea stealing my car, feller?” O’Hare asked.
“Haven’t you got anything to do but joke long distance at the city’s expense?” I said, but I was smiling.
“You all squared away now?” O’Hare said.
“Yes. Thanks, Burry.”
“Stupid of me not to think of the registration. Do you want me to mail it to you or something?”
“No, forget it. Lightning doesn’t strike twice, you know. Did you get your burglar?”
“What? Oh, no, the son of a bitch laid off tonight. Maybe he’s on vacation, too.”
“Maybe. Burry, thanks again.”
“Don’t mention it, kid. Have a good time.” He paused. “Just one thing …”
“Yeah?”
“The Mann Act,” and then he hung up.
I was grinning from ear to ear when I went to the couch to wake Ann. She sat up as if I’d slapped her, and then said, “What! What is it?”
“We’re free men,” I said.
“And women,” she added, wide awake. “Let’s get out of here.”
We shook hands with the genial Justice Handy and went out to the car. It was getting a little chilly, so I put up the top and then pulled out the justice’s wide gravel driveway.
“Thank God that’s over,” I said.
“Mmmm,” Ann answered.
“Are you sleepy?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you rest? I’ll wake you when we get to Sullivan’s Point.”
“No,” she said. “I’d rather stay awake now and sleep during the night. Besides, I want to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“You have a vile temper. I discovered that today.”
“I know. The smallest things seem to upset me.”
“You should learn to control yourself.”
“I should, you’re right.”
“I love you, Phil,” she said, quite serious all of a sudden.
“And I love you,” I said.
“Do you miss the squad?”
“Miss it? Jesus, I feel as if I never left. All I’ve been doing today is talking to the boys.”
“We’ll be there soon,” Ann said. “It shouldn’t take more than a half-hour.”
“Think we’ll get a place to stay?”
“Oh, certainly,” she said. “There are dozens of places.”
3
The town of Sullivan’s Corners was closed tight when we pulled into it. I hadn’t exactly expected the blare of neon, not after Ann’s earlier description of the town’s size, but I had hoped to see a living soul or two.
The town lay at the base of a steep hill. The hill came as a surprise because it was immediately around a sharp bend in the highway. You made the turn, and suddenly the road was dropping away in front of you, and your headlights picked out nothing but the blackness of the night and then a sign stating “SULLIVAN’S CORNERS, Speed Limit 25 mph,” now they tell me. It was difficult to keep the Chevvy down to twenty-five, especially on a rollercoaster hill like that one, but I remembered my recently concluded brush with the local law and burned Burry’s brake lining for all it was worth. I suppose I was being a little overcautious. Fred and his cohorts, like everything else in Sullivan’s Corners, were undoubtedly dead asleep.
The town seemed to start as soon as the hill ended. There was a short plateau at the bottom of the hill, and a traffic circle sat in the center of the plateau, ringed with a closed bar, a closed luncheonette, a closed hotel with a “No Vacancy” sign, and a closed billiards parlor. There were no road signs at the circle. The only indication of any traffic instruction was a blinking yellow caution light strung across the street high above the empty police booth in the center of the circle. I stopped the car and leaned out of the window.
The town was dead still. There were crickets and katydids and an occasional animal sound from somewhere off in the distance, but that was all. The caution light blinked its gaudy yellow into the Chewy. The air was cold and heavy with moisture. I could see my breath pluming from my mouth. “Where to?” I asked Ann.
“The way I remember it,” she said, “you drive through town and then take a turn down to the Point.”
“Where are these dozens of places you mentioned?”
“They should be on the road to the Point.”
I put the Chewy in gear, swung around the circle and drove through town, sticking to the twenty-five-mile-per-hour speed. The town had a temporary look to it. The main street was lined with the shops you find in any town, the grocers, and the butchers, and the dry goods stores, but they all gave the feeling of having been thrown up in haste, a feeling that they could
have been disassembled in five seconds flat and taken underground in an atom bomb attack. There was, too, if a town can give out such a feeling at one o’clock in the morning, a sense of unfriendliness. The 23rd Precinct territory was certainly no happy valley. It was crammed full of humanity living under the worst conditions invented by humans for humans. It was dirty, and it was corrupt, and it overflowed with pimps, pushers, prostitutes, hoods, ex-cons, and petty thieves—but it was part of the greatest city in the world, and it beat like the heart-pump of that city and there was rich warm blood there and laughter in spite of the filth. There were muggings and knifings in the 23rd, yes. But there were also lovers walking hand in hand or stealing a kiss on a rooftop skylight. There were police locks on almost every apartment door in the 23rd, yes. But there were people behind those doors. There were shadows in the 23rd, and it wasn’t the safest place in the world to walk at night. But the sun shone during the day, and if the faces that turned up to the sun were dirty, they were nonetheless laughing. I had the feeling that Sullivan’s Corners did not laugh very much.
I had the feeling that the shadows clinging to the narrow alleyways between the clapboard front buildings did not disappear with the sun. That’s silly, I know. Any small town might look menacing in the early hours of the morning. Any small town might look unfriendly. Then, too, I have the advantage of being able to second-guess the thing in the light of what happened later at Sullivan’s Point and in the town of Sullivan’s Corners. But what I felt that night had nothing to do with what was going to happen in the next few hours. I remember the feeling distinctly, and I remember turning up the car window because I felt suddenly chilled.
We almost missed the small sign nailed to one of the telephone poles. I was, in fact, past the cutoff when Ann said, “There it is, Phil.”
“Where?”
“We just passed it.”
I threw the car into reverse and backed up. The sign was no wider than six inches and no longer than the space it required to sloppily print Sullivan’s Point. One end of the sign had been shaped into a point so that it formed an arrow. The road it pointed to was as black as Hitler’s heart.
“Very inviting-looking,” I said.
“There are lights as we go on,” Ann promised. “And places to stay.”
I looked at the speedometer and then tooled the Chevvy onto the cutoff. The road was narrow and winding and hadn’t seen a paving contractor since it was laid by the Mohicans. We bumped and jostled along, raising dust every inch of the way. I looked at the speedometer again. We’d come four miles, and there still was not a light.
“There used to be places,” Ann said in a small voice. “Maybe they haven’t opened for the season yet. This is only June, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Are you angry with me, Phil?”
“No,” I said honestly. “No, Ann. It’s just … well, you’ve had a rough day, and you only had a sandwich for lunch and … well, I was hoping we’d find a nice place. You must be exhausted.”
“I am tired,” she said. “What do you want to do?”
“Well, let’s follow the road to the end. I couldn’t turn back here anyway. It’s too damn narrow.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be silly. If there’s nothing here, we can always go on to Davistown. You said that was pretty big.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Fine. We’re sure to get something there.”
“All right, Phil.” I could feel sleep crowding the edge of her voice. She sighed heavily, a sigh of utter exhaustion. Unconsciously, I pressed my foot more firmly against the accelerator.
We passed several motels during the next six miles, but they were all closed, no lights, no people, no cars. I was anxious to reach the end of the road and the Point now, because—even though I could have made my turn at any one of the motel courts—I was determined to see “these big pines, and this finger of land that juts out into the lake.” It was a foolish, kid way to start thinking, and I’d have saved Ann and myself a lot of unasked-for trouble if I’d just made my turn and headed for Davistown. But I wanted the satisfaction of at least having reached the place we’d started out for in spite of all the garbage we’d put up with that day. It didn’t make much difference to Ann because she was rapidly becoming unconscious on the seat beside me. She’d rested her head on my shoulder and pulled her legs up under her. I knew she was almost out because her skirt had pulled back over her knees during the tucking-of-legs operation and she hadn’t bothered to shove it back down again. She’s got good legs, Ann, but I wasn’t too interested in them at the moment because the road was still bumpy and winding and narrow and dusty and because I was filled with this compulsion to reach the Point, take a sniff of the pines and the lake, and then get back to civilization.
The light startled me, and I guess if I hadn’t seen the light I’d have driven straight into the lake and drowned us both. When I saw the light, I automatically reached for the brake pedal and that was when my headlights picked out the dock and the water. I stopped the car about ten feet from the dock, and then turned on the seat.
“Ann?”
Ann didn’t answer. Ann was dead asleep, her skirt pulled back over her knees, her head angled onto my shoulder. I eased out of the car, resting her head on the back of the seat, closing the door gently so I wouldn’t wake her. The light was coming from a cabin at the end of a wide pea-gravel court. A football goal-post sign straddled the court entrance. The sign carried the one word: MOTEL.
I was looking up at the sign when the door to the cabin opened, spilling a patch of amber onto the gravel. A man was standing in the doorway. A shotgun was in his hands.
“Who is it?” he shouted.
“Put up the gun,” I said. “I’m looking for a place to stay.”
“Who are you?” He still hadn’t moved from the doorway. He was a short, squat guy silhouetted by the light so that I couldn’t see his face. He seemed to be bald, and he seemed to be in his undershirt, with his suspenders unhitched and hanging down over his trousers.
“My name’s Phil Colby,” I said.
“I don’t know you, Colby,” he answered.
“I don’t know you either. I’ll want two cabins. Are you open?”
“Why two cabins?”
“There’s a girl with me,” I said. “My fiancée.”
There was a long pause while the man in the gray flannel undershirt digested what I’d just said. He put the shotgun down inside the doorway then and said, “You wait there,” and then went into the cabin. When he came out a moment later, his suspenders were back on his shoulders and he carried a long six-cell flashlight. He sprayed a circle of light onto the gravel, walking with his head down, his face still in shadows.
“My name’s Barter,” he said when he reached me. “Mike Barter.”
I extended my hand but either he didn’t see it in the darkness or he simply didn’t feel like taking it.
“Nice meeting you, Mr. Barter.”
“Where’s the girl?” Barter asked.
“In the car.”
He walked toward the car, keeping the circle of light on the ground ahead of him. When he got to the car, he lifted the flash and stuck it in the window.
“Hey!” I said. “She’s sleeping. Get that flash out of the car.”
He didn’t seem to hear me. He leaned halfway into the car and by the time I got to him the light had swung down and was on Ann’s exposed legs. The skirt had hiked up a little higher, so that her thigh showed in the harsh glare of the flash. I clamped my hand onto Barter’s shoulder and swung him around.
“Are you convinced?” I said tightly.
“Convinced about what?”
“That she’s a girl?”
“Pretty,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“I think I’ve got two cabins for you.”
I could see his face now. It was a round face covered with beard stubble. It had a broad flat nose and small glowing b
lack eyes embedded deep in layers of flesh. I didn’t like the face.
“Adjoining cabins,” I said.
“Sure,” he answered.
“With bath,” I said.
“Shower’s in back of the office,” Barter said. “We’re building some cabins with showers in ’em but they won’t be ready ’til July 4th. That’s when my season starts. Officially, we ain’t even open yet.”
“We won’t be staying that long,” I told him.
“How long did you plan on?”
I looked at his face again, and I still didn’t like it. “Just overnight,” I said.
“Mmmm. Well, shower’s still in back of the office. You interested?”
I was debating at that point whether or not to climb back into the car and forget all about Mr. Barter’s motel or settle for what would certainly not be a Waldorf suite. It seemed important to me, however, to get Ann into a bed. That is, get her asleep in a bed. Her own bed, I mean. I mean …
“We’ll stay,” I told Barter.
“Seven dollars for each cabin,” he said. “In advance.”
“Fine.”
“Want to come up to the office?” I glanced at the car and Barter caught it. “Don’t worry about the girl. She’s all right where she is.”
“Sure,” I said. I followed Barter up to the cabin with the light. There was the inevitable sign announcing the fact that this was the MOTEL OFFICE. The inside of the cabin was done in knotty-pine wallboard. There was a desk, and a closet, and a few filing cabinets, and a chair. On the wall behind the desk was a nude picture of Marilyn Monroe under which hung the excuse for the picture: a minuscule calendar. Some eager male had scribbled what he’d like to do with Marilyn in pencil across her belly. Barter opened a drawer in the desk, pulled out a register and turned it so that it faced me.
“Just sign in for yourself. Girl can sign in when you leave in the morning.” He saw the puzzled look on my face. “It’s for the record. Anybody renting a cabin’s supposed to sign the register. Unless you want to check in as Mr. and Mrs., in which case I’ll give you one cabin and you can sign for both of you.”
“We’ll take two cabins,” I said.
“To each his own,” Barter said. “Then she’ll have to sign the register in the morning.”