Vanishing Ladies

by Ed McBain

  “’Course, it’s something to look into,” Handy said.

  “Sure,” Fred answered. “Why don’t we get started?”

  “Well, you won’t be needing me,” Handy said. “You know your job, Fred.”

  “Sure,” Fred said. “You get back to bed.”

  “Fred’ll take good care of you,” Handy said, and he led us to the door. We walked out into the night. It was getting on toward five o’clock, and there was that expectant hush on the air, that silence that comes just before false dawn. Every sound seemed to be magnified. The crunch of Fred’s boots on the path, the quiet snick of the door when Handy eased it shut, the whisper of wind in the pines surrounding the log cabin.

  “No motorcycle this morning?” I asked.

  “Took my own car,” Fred said.

  His own car was a buick station wagon. We walked to it quickly. There was a big meadow behind the log cabin, and the mist was rising from it. We got in, and Fred started the car and then backed out onto the highway. We drove silently. Around us, the morning was beginning to unfold, the sky in the east paling, the stars beginning to desert the vault of night.

  “Blood, huh?” Fred said.

  “Yes.”

  “Well.”

  “Lots of it.”

  “Mmm.”

  “In a closet.”

  “No body?”

  “No.”

  “Mmmmm.”

  “There’s another thing,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I checked in with a girl. She’s gone.”

  “Mmmm?”

  “Yes. The girl I was with when you picked me up yesterday.”

  Fred didn’t take his eyes from the road.

  “I don’t remember any girl,” he said.

  “I didn’t think you would.”

  “Then why’d you mention it?”

  “I just wanted to make sure you got your instructions.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Nobody does.”

  “We’re just small town hicks,” Fred said sarcastically. “We don’t understand city folk.”

  “We use big words.”

  “Yeah,” Fred said.

  “I’ve got a small word for you,” I said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Kidnap.”

  “That’s a good word. Even we hicks heard of it.”

  “I’ve got a slightly bigger one. Want to hear it?”

  “Not if it’s too big.”

  “You be the judge. Homicide.”

  “Homicide is pretty big.” Fred paused. “Want some advice?”

  “Everybody else is giving it out.”

  “Those words. Tongue-twisters. I wouldn’t use them too often if I was you.”

  “Why not?”

  “We hicks might not understand them. We hicks might think you was trying to show off.”

  “Do you think I’m trying to show off, Fred?”

  “Me? Hell, I’m a cop, too. I have only respect for fellow cops. Especially big city detectives.”

  “You can still get out of this, you know.”

  “Get out of what?”

  “Whatever you’re in, Fred.”

  “I’m in a Buick station wagon,” he answered. “That’s all I’m in.”

  “How about that blood?”

  “How about it? Assuming there is any, lots of things can make a puddle of blood.” He paused. “Barter runs a clean place.”

  “Does he?”

  “Cleanest in the state.”

  “What’s the monthly rake-off there?”

  “The what? The what?”

  “The rake-off. For looking the other way in case Barter gets dirty.”

  “Barter don’t get dirty. He runs a family-type establishment. He’s a married man himself, don’t you know that? Nossir, he runs a clean place.” Fred turned to me briefly. “Besides, the cops in this state don’t take graft.”

  “There isn’t a cop in the world who takes graft,” I agreed. “Only you’re talking to a cop, remember?”

  “Okay, maybe a speeding ticket once in a while. Save the guy the trouble of appearing, take the fine right on the highway. That’s a different story. But nothing big. You can’t fix anything in this state. This state is as square as they come.”

  “Sure.”

  “That’s no bull. It ain’t like your city. Your city, you can fix anything. Assault, rape, even murder. Not here. We got a D.A. with a thousand eyes. Commissions all over the place. Him and the State’s Attorney. Ike and Mike. Big crime fighters.”

  We were on the road to the Point now. The sun was intimidating the sky, and the sky blushed a pale orange. It was going to be another beautiful day.

  “So if there’s blood, maybe there’s blood,” Fred said. “But maybe you saw wrong. Maybe the blood is your imagination, you know? Like the broad you claim was with you.”

  “Do you know a girl named Blanche?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Guy named Joe Carlisle?”

  “Nope.”

  “Girl named Stephanie?”

  Fred paused a moment. “Stephanie what?” he asked.

  “Stephanie Carlisle. Joe’s wife.”

  “Oh. No, I don’t. No.”

  “Who do you know named Stephanie?”

  “Oh. Kid I went to high school with. Haven’t seen her in years.”

  “What did Ann see?” I asked suddenly.

  “Ann?” Fred said, stepping around my very subtle trap. “Who’s Ann?”

  “Forget it,” I said, and we drove the rest of the way to the Point in silence. The motel site was shrouded with mist when we arrived. Mist clung to the ground and to the tall pines. Mist hung over the lake and nestled in the canoes loaded upside down on the lakefront racks. Mist swirled up around the cabins, white cabins with shuttered windows, the shutters done in pastel blues and greens. The Cadillac was still parked in front of the office. The license plate read:

  SB-1412

  “That’s Carlisle’s car,” I said to Fred. “Recognize it?”

  “Nope,” he answered.

  “Lots of Caddies in the area, I suppose.”

  “We got our share.”

  “And all with veep license tags, I guess.”

  “If you can afford a Caddy, you can afford the veep plate. You can get the state to print the word ‘SHIT’ on it, if you like. It just costs you an extra ten bucks when you register the vehicle.”

  “Why do you suppose a man named Joseph Carlisle would put the initials SB on his license plate?”

  “That’s Joseph Carlisle’s business,” Fred said. “I make it a practice of keeping my nose out of other people’s business.”

  “That’s a healthy attitude for a cop, all right,” I said, and we got out of the car and walked to the office.

  Fred pulled off his right glove and rapped on the door. From somewhere inside the cabin, I could hear music. The light was on, as if Barter were expecting company. Everyone was expecting company. This was the ideal time of day for guests dropping in, and so everyone in Sullivan’s Corners and at Sullivan’s Point was prepared for the eventuality.

  The door opened.

  Barter had shaving cream on his face, and a straight-edged razor in his right hand. I looked past him into the office. The inner door, the one hiding the apartment at the back, was closed.

  “Hello, Fred,” Barter said.

  “Mr. Barter,” Fred acknowledged, using a formality which sounded completely false. I listened to the music. It was coming from behind the closed door. It whispered into the cabin on a sprinkle of piano notes, the theme from “Picnic,” coupled with “Moonglow.”

  “Tell you all about his missing girl?” Barter asked.

  “Yep.”

  “All about the bloody mess in cabin eleven?”

  “Yep.”

  “Did you give him the drunk test?” Barter asked.

  Fred grinned. “Doesn’t seem to me he’s polluted, Mr. Barte
r.”

  “Just temporarily insane, maybe,” Barter said, and he returned Fred’s grin. “Happens sometimes. The country air. Infects a man.”

  “Could we look at the cabin, Mr. Barter?” Fred said.

  “Sure,” Barter answered. “Just let me wash off this shaving cream.” He smiled, and unnecessarily added, “I was just shaving when you came.”

  He went to the apartment door and opened it. Part of the long couch was visible when the door opened. There was a woman on the couch, or rather a pair of woman’s legs because that was all of her that could be seen. Clean, tapering legs, one stretched against the couch, the other bent at the knee so that together they formed a triangle of flesh and bone. The door closed.

  “Mrs. Barter,” Fred said. “Pretty woman.”

  “How could you tell?” I said.

  “That she’s pretty? Hell …”

  “No. That she was Mrs. Barter. All I saw was legs.”

  Fred shrugged. “Who else would be in Mike Barter’s apartment?”

  “That’s praiseworthy logic,” I said.

  “Look,” Fred said, “if you had a wife who looked like Mike’s wife does, there wouldn’t be nobody else in that room. You don’t have to be a big city cop to figure that one.”

  “Never having met Mrs. Barter—”

  “Take my word for it,” Fred said emphatically, closing the conversation. He paused a moment, and then reopened it with remarkable versatility. “Take my word for it,” he said.

  We waited.

  There was an air of unreality about the room. Early morning is an intimate time of day. You don’t stand around with strangers at 5:15 A.M. You talk with friends who’ve come to pick you up for a fishing trip. You smoke a cigarette with your wife in a warm bed with rumpled sheets and you watch the dawn come up. You share a cup of coffee while the kids fidget at the kitchen table waiting to start on the long-promised vacation. You stand in a doorway, and you kiss your girl good morning after the senior prom. Or you meet the fellows in the local all-night hamburger joint, and you talk about last night’s escapades, and you laugh a little, and you share the morning with them because they are your friends. Early morning was never intended for strangers. You do not start a new day with a stranger.

  I was starting a new day with a stranger.

  He leaned against Mike Barter’s desk, and he idly tweaked his nose. Then he stared at his thumb and forefinger. Then he said, “There’s oil on the nose, did you know that? You can put a nice polish on a pipe by first rubbing your nose flaps and then rubbing the briar. Lots of people don’t know that.”

  I was tired. I hadn’t slept since seven-thirty yesterday morning. I didn’t want to hear about nose flaps from a state trooper named Fred. I didn’t smoke a pipe. I wouldn’t have cared if my own nose contained enough oil to warrant a derrick which would bring me four millions dollars a year. There was only one person I wanted to be with, only one person whose hand I wanted to take when the sun came up. I didn’t know where that person was.

  Someone in the back rooms dropped the record player arm. Music invaded the cabin again. The arm was lifted and then dropped in its proper groove at the beginning of the record. There were a few whispered syllables, the intimate conversation of needle and groove before the waxed impressions were captured. And then the record started. Frank Sinatra. At 5:15 A.M. At least there was one old friend in the room.

  “He don’t sing so hot,” Fred said.

  “I like him.” I was beginning to feel that hypertension that comes with no sleep and too much pressure. If Fred had said another word about the merits of my old friend Frank Sinatra’s voice, I would have punched him right in the nose. I’d grown up with Sinatra’s voice. Sure, I’d kidded the girls who’d swooned and screamed, but underneath I’d always liked him. He was a part of my youth and a part of my adolescence, and he seemed like the only sane thing in the world right now, the only sure thing I could count on. I waited for Fred to say more. I unconsciously clenched my right fist.

  “I like Elvis Presley,” he said.

  “What do you suppose is keeping Barter?” I asked.

  “Wiping his face,” Fred said. “Elvis Presley’s got style.”

  “What takes a man so damn long to wipe off a little shaving cream?”

  “You’re jumpy,” Fred said. “You got to learn to take life in stride.” He paused. “A distinctive style. That’s what the disc jockeys say. Minute the record begins, you know it’s Presley.”

  The door opened. The legs flashed into view again, and then the closing door screened them. They were good legs. Barter smiled.

  “You like Elvis Presley?” Fred said.

  “That fellow with the guitar?” Barter asked.

  “Yeah, him.”

  “He’s good,” Barter agreed, nodding. He had wiped the shaving cream from his face. There was a streak of clean skin across the beard stubble, the area he’d shaved before we arrived. It looked like a wide white scar. “You fellows care for a cup of coffee?” Barter asked.

  “No,” I said quickly.

  “I might go for a cup of coffee,” Fred said.

  “No damn coffee,” I said. “Let’s get over to that cabin.”

  “He’s jumpy,” Fred said.

  “Can’t blame him,” Barter answered. “Been up all night. I’m a little jumpy myself.”

  “Well, might as well see that blood,” Fred said. “We can always have the coffee later.”

  “Let’s go, let’s go,” I said impatiently.

  “Got to get the keys,” Barter said. He went to a peg on the wall and took down the ring of keys. “Okay.”

  He went out of the office. Sinatra was still singing. Occasionally, a woman’s voice picked up snatches of the song and then let it die in a hum. The voice was low and throaty. If it belonged to the legs, they made a lethal combination. The sun was climbing. The lake was still and serene. I was the last man on earth, and I was walking across a beautiful stage set with professional actors who knew their parts while I had forgotten all my lines.

  “Personally,” Fred said, “I liked it when he gyrated. Showed he had rhythm. I like a singer with rhythm.”

  “Como’s good,” Barter said. “He’s very casual.”

  “So’s Bing Crosby,” Fred said. “You can’t beat him for being casual.”

  “I think Como’s more casual,” Barter said.

  “That’s the hardest thing in the world to do,” Fred said. “Appear casual, I mean. Think of the pressure those guys are under. Yet they manage to look casual.”

  “It’s a hard thing, all right,” Barter said. “You’ve got to respect them for it.”

  “Why don’t you start a goddamn fan club?” I snapped.

  Fred chuckled. “He’s jumpy,” he said.

  “Say that one more time, trooper!” I warned.

  “There’s the cabin he says the blood was in,” Barter interrupted.

  Fred wouldn’t be interrupted. “City cops are tough, ain’t they?” he said to me.

  “Yeah,” I said, my voice rising, “city cops are tough! Now how about that!”

  “How about it?” Fred said mildly.

  “How about it?” I said. “How about it?”

  “Come on, fellers,” Barter said placatingly. “Come on now.”

  He climbed the steps to eleven and inserted the key in the lock. I glared at Fred. Fred grinned at me. Barter threw open the door.

  “Right in here,” he said.

  Almost before he entered the cabin, Fred said, “I don’t see no blood.”

  “In the closet,” I said.

  “Where’s that?”

  “Over here,” Barter said. He threw open the closet door. Fred walked over to it. I waited.

  “No blood in here,” Fred said.

  “What do you—?”

  “Take a look for yourself.”

  I went to the closet. There was a square of linoleum tacked to the floor, tacked securely to the floor, tacked to fit exactly the floor of
the closet. The closet smelled of soap.

  “Rip up the linoleum,” I said.

  “What for?”

  “You’ll find a scrubbed floor. But you can’t scrub all the blood out of wood. Rip up the linoleum.”

  “You know I can’t do that,” Fred said. “How can I destroy another man’s property? For Pete’s sake, you’re a cop. You know I can’t—”

  “I’m a cop, and I know what you can do and what you can’t do, and I also know it doesn’t make any difference when you really want to do something. I’m telling you there’s blood under that linoleum. You going to rip it up, or do I have to go over your head?”

  “Over my head how?” Fred asked.

  “Other cops. Goddamnit, there are other cops in this state! I’ll go to your crusading D. A., or even to your State’s Attorney! Now how about it?”

  “No,” Fred said.

  “Okay, pal,” I said. “Let’s end this farce right now.” I started out of the cabin. Fred stepped into my path.

  “Which farce are you talking about?”

  “My missing girl, and this blood, and the runaround I’ve been getting from every damn tinhorn I’ve contacted. What the hell are you running here? A little dictatorship? Okay. We’ll see how the D.A. feels about kidnap and possible homicide. We’ll see how he—”

  “Lower your voice,” Fred said.

  “Don’t tell me what to do, pal. I’ll talk as—”

  “I’ll tell you once more Lower your voice.”

  “And I’ll tell you once more. I’ll—”

  Fred grabbed my arm. “You’d better come along with me,” he said.

  “What!”

  “Disorderly conduct. Disturbing the peace.”

  “What!” I said again. I shook his hand off my arm, and I took a step backwards, balling my fists.

  “If you want to add assault to it, start swinging,” Fred said.

  I was ready to do just that when he yanked the .38 Police Special from the holster at his side.

  “That’s a good boy,” he said, and he grinned, and Barter winked at him.

  9

  Lots of small towns don’t have jails.

  Sullivan’s Corners had one.

  There was a wino in the cell with me. He was asleep with his mouth open when Fred brought me in. When the door clanked shut, the wino sat bolt upright, blinked his eyes, and then stared at me.