Yellow Packard

by Ace Collins

  “Is he still in the service?” Meeker asked.

  “Yes, the Navy.”

  Meeker’s eyes caught the sheriff’s. “What kind of scrapes, as you called them, was he in?”

  “A couple of robberies, car theft.”

  “There you go,” Meeker solemnly noted. “Let’s find him and grill him. If he fesses up to hiding any money there, maybe it will give us leads on who was trying to get it. That will take us one step closer to finding those responsible for taking Rose.”

  “I’ll get someone on it this afternoon,” Reese chimed in. “And I’ll start looking for unsolved robberies in the area dating back to before the Halls bought the home.”

  “That pretty much covers things for the moment,” Meeker noted. “Anyone else have anything to add?”

  Almost apologetically George lifted his hand and looked toward the woman. “Could I ask a question?”

  “Of course you can, Mr. Hall.”

  His voice cracking, the father whispered, “If you find those men, the ones who might have been in a robbery with Mr. Cason, will you find my girl?”

  “We hope so,” Meeker assured him. “We certainly hope so. Thank you for your time, and if you think of anything else please let us know immediately.”

  Meeker remained seated while Reese escorted Johns, Atkins, and Hall from the room. Only when the door had closed did she get up and once more move to the window.

  “Case seems to mean a lot to you,” Reese noted as he moved beside her.

  “They all do,” she replied. “Remember you volunteered to be a part of ‘The Grand Experiment’ as well. If we fail, then the FBI will stay a men’s club for a very long time.”

  “Helen, how long have we been working together?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe too long.”

  “It’s been six months. During that time we have worked all kinds of cases—three murders, several drug cases, some robberies, and even income tax evasion. And you were coolly professional on all of them. Yet, when you were trying to be tough with Hall, I saw a tear in your eye. The iron maiden almost cracked.”

  “I’ve been having problems with my eyes the past week,” she snapped. “Just had something in them. That’s all.”

  “No, it’s more than that,” Reese replied, not giving the woman any wiggle room. “This case means something … something personal. I can’t figure what it is. You don’t know the family, you’ve never been to the town, so there doesn’t seem to be any kind of tie, but there is. I know you well enough to know there’s something special here. Level with me.”

  Turning from the window, Meeker looked directly into her partner’s eyes. “It’s a case. That’s what it is. And what are the odds of solving it? From our experience, you with the FBI and me with the Secret Service, both of us know those odds aren’t good. What are the chances that girl is still alive? Almost zero! That’s especially true if the real reason involved was getting back loot from a robbery. The kid was just a pawn. Odds are we won’t even find her body. Imagine being a parent and having a kid taken. Then never even being able to have a funeral. Never saying good-bye.”

  “Yeah,” Reese replied, “would be tough.”

  “More than tough,” she shot back. “It will likely destroy that family. That Hall guy we just met, he’ll carry guilt the rest of his life. He’ll beat himself up. Maybe even become suicidal.”

  “How can you know that?” Reese demanded.

  “I’ve done my homework,” she sadly replied. “I’ve made studying kidnapping cases my hobby since I was in college. There are no sadder cases.”

  Meeker turned back to the window and studied the streets of Chicago. Thousands of people were strolling down the sidewalks, cars were bumper to bumper on every street, and the elevated train was carrying hundreds more to jobs or adventures. Among those thousands of people, one of them might have the clue that would solve this case. But which one?

  “I’m going to get started on my homework,” Reese said.

  “I’ll join you in a minute,” she assured him.

  When the door closed and she was alone, a single tear ran down the agent’s face and fell onto the windowsill.

  Chapter 29

  April 23, 1940

  It hadn’t been a good day for Bill Landers. He was sitting at the counter in a diner, twenty miles south of St. Louis. His six-year-old Studebaker had once more let him down. It was the third time this month. And on each occasion the sedan had died by the side of the road it had cost the salesman another chance to close a deal. At this rate he’d be broke and jobless by the end of the month.

  Landers lived by himself in a tiny house in Bryant, Arkansas. The small community just south of Little Rock was known by some as the “Bauxite Capital of America.” About half the jobs in the community revolved around aluminum. And with the war cranking up in Europe, there were lots of plants using the metal in the “lend-lease program” that the President had established with the countries fighting Germany and Italy. So there was money to be made in aluminum, but Landers was not one of those making it, and his boss at Bynum Aluminum was tired of his salesman failing him. The clock was therefore ticking.

  Today, Landers had been scheduled to meet with three different companies. Yet he couldn’t secure those deals on the phone—he had to do it person. And that meant more than just meeting with the company owners; it meant taking them out to eat and showing them a good time. And he couldn’t do that without a good car!

  The mechanic at the shop that had towed him in gave him the bad news. The block had cracked. There was no way to fix it short of putting in a new motor. But with the bad brakes and worn interior, not to mention a transmission that slipped like a dog on ice, investing any more money in the car was simply not an option. Yet buying a new one was also impossible. Thanks to a failed marriage and losing his last job, his credit was lousy and the cash he had wouldn’t purchase anything much better than the Studebaker.

  Landers looked across the counter and into the mirror. For a man in his early forties, he didn’t look too bad. His hair was still dark brown, his jaw firm, and his skin pretty much wrinkle free. But the eyes told another story. They were sunken, dark, and lifeless. Anyone who looked into those eyes would read him like a book, and the ending wouldn’t be a happy one.

  “What can I get you, Mack?” the skinny college-aged kid working the counter asked.

  “A new car,” Landers cracked.

  “Tell me about it,” the kid replied. “Mine busted last night. Dropped an axle. I’ll be on foot for at least a week until I can scratch up the dough to fix it.”

  “I may be walking the rest of my life.” Landers sighed. “And if I don’t get to Indy by tomorrow morning at ten, I’ll lose my job as well. This trip was my last chance. I was pretty much told that if I didn’t land a big contract not to come back. With my car officially dead, guess I’m a man without a country.”

  “Without a country?” The kid looked confused.

  “Just a saying.” He shrugged. “Why don’t you give me a ham sandwich on rye and a Coke. I still have enough for that.”

  “You want it grilled?”

  “Sure, why not. I might as well live it up!”

  The skinny kid mixed a fountain drink, dumped some ice in the glass, and set it on the counter. As he left, Landers reached for a straw. Before he could grab the dispenser, a gruff-looking man handed him a wrapped straw.

  “Thanks,” Landers said.

  “No problem,” came the quick reply. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard you were having issues with your car.”

  “You heard right.” The salesman tore off the paper wrapping, stuck the straw into his glass, and took a long sip.

  “I may be able to solve your problem,” the man announced with a grin. “I’ve got a pretty nice car that belonged to my uncle. When he died, my aunt gave it to me. I don’t need it as I’ve got a new Mercury.”

  “What kind is it?” Landers asked offhandedly. “I mean what kind is your
uncle’s car?”

  “A Packard sedan. It has an eight, not one of those cheap models with the six. Good shape, smooth riding, and lots of power. Tires are in great shape, too. I’d be driving it myself, but like told you I got this new Mercury.”

  “So you said,” Landers replied. “What year?”

  “It’s a ‘36, but it’s low mileage, and my uncle really took good care of it. New blue paint job, too.”

  “Here’s your sandwich,” the kid said as he set a plate in front of the salesman. “You need anything else?”

  “No,” Landers replied. “What do I owe you?”

  “Thirty-five cents.”

  Landers pulled two quarters from his pocket and set them on the counter. “Keep the change.”

  “Thanks,” came the enthusiastic reply.

  Before biting into his supper, the salesman casually studied the man seated to his right. The guy had a seedy look about him. He dressed pretty nicely; his clothes looked new, but he didn’t appear comfortable in them. He was also about two weeks overdue for a haircut and three days past due for a shave. He was simply not someone that Landers felt he could trust, and normally he would have politely dismissed him, but there was that old saying about looking a gift horse in the mouth…. And if the Packard could be bought for the money Landers had in his pocket, and it was as good as this guy claimed it was, then this unseemly character might well be the key to his holding on to his job.

  “So where’s the car?” Lander asked between bites.

  “It’s a couple of blocks away,” the man answered in hushed tones. “In a garage a friend of mine owns. I can run down and get it if you want to drive it.”

  “Don’t get the cart in front of the horse.” Landers laughed. “Or in this case, the Packard.”

  “What do you mean?” the man asked.

  “Nothing worth noting,” Landers explained. “I just need to know what you’re asking for it. No reason for you to go to all that trouble if I don’t have the cash with me to buy it.”

  “I’m asking a hundred and a half.”

  The salesman shook his head, “Sounds pretty cheap for a car that is as solid as you claim. Especially a Packard!”

  “I just need to move it,” he replied. “I’m leaving for the West Coast in a few weeks and can’t take it with me. I got nothing in it anyway. So for me turning it fast is more important than making big dough.”

  “Okay,” came the salesman’s reluctant reply. “I doubt if it is that good, but I’d be a fool not to at least take a look. You go get it while I finish my meal. I’ll meet you out front.”

  The sandwich was the best thing Landers had eaten in days. He was tempted to order a second one, but there was a deal he needed to make or pass on. He figured it would be the latter. So, he pushed his one-hundred-sixty pounds off the stool and out the door. Just as he stepped out into the lot, the Packard rumbled up.

  The owner left it idling as he stepped out. “Runs real smooth.”

  Landers nodded. The body was razor straight, the dark blue paint shiny, the chrome good, the tires had lots of tread, and the interior was only stained in a couple of places.

  “Want to take her for a drive?”

  “Sure,” Landers answered, opening the door and sliding behind the wheel.

  “Want a smoke?” the man asked.

  “No,” the salesman replied, “don’t use them.”

  “Suit yourself.” The man pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes, used his index finger on his left hand to tap out a cigarette, placed it between his lips, grabbed the Packard’s lighter, took a long draw, and pulled the cigarette out of his mouth. As the smoke hovered in the air, Landers twisted the key and hit the starter.

  With the owner in the passenger seat smoking, the salesman put the car through the paces. He pushed it up to seventy, slammed on the brakes, went through the range of gears several times, and attacked a series of bumps and potholes. In each case the Packard performed and handled like a new car.

  “Your uncle did take good care of it,” Landers said as they pulled back into the diner’s parking lot. Stepping out of the car, he carefully looked it over again. “Tell you what. Let me step back into the diner for a minute. I’ll come back out, and we’ll see if we can make a deal.”

  With the car’s owner standing hopefully by the sedan, Landers went back into the diner and over to the counter. Catching the kid’s attention, he leaned forward and posed a simple and direct question, “What do you know about the guy who’s trying to sell me the car?”

  The kid looked up and smiled. “He’s been in here every day for the past couple of weeks. He lives with the Hooks family down the street. They’re pretty good folks. Other than that, I don’t know much. Why?”

  “I’m just wondering,” Landers mused, “if the car could be hot. I mean this is serious business, and I can’t afford to play footsie with the law.”

  “Well, a lot of cops eat in here,” the kid shot back. “If that was the case, I figure that guy would be hanging out somewhere else. And he’s driven it up here a few times.”

  “Thanks, kid. That’s what I need to know. Here’s a buck toward your car repairs.”

  The kid was still grinning when Landers strolled back outside. After waving at the man he asked, “Will you take a C-note?”

  The man grinned. “How about a hundred and a quarter?”

  The salesman nodded.

  “I’ll give you a bill of sale,” the man replied. “The title is with my uncle’s things at the bank. Give me your address, and I’ll mail it to you next week when the will is read and the property distributed.”

  “You sure you own this car?” Landers anxiously asked.

  “Yep, but in a few minutes you will.”

  If his job hadn’t been on the line, Landers would have walked away. After all, that was what his gut told him to do. But it was either this car or the unemployment line, and that appealed to him even less than the risk of getting into trouble with the law. Besides, if he was picked up and the police told him the car was hot, he could just explain the situation. After all, he was getting a bill of sale, and that had the seller’s name on it. So he had his bases covered. Now all he had to do was get his stuff out of the Studebaker and head for Indiana.

  Chapter 30

  You just tell your company they’d better reserve lots of boxcars to get aluminum to us. We will quickly become your biggest customer! These Brits need a lot of planes right now.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Landers said while reaching for Paul Bowan’s hand. “I’ll make sure the trains are ready and the materials are here in time.”

  “Landers,” Bowan’s booming voice caught the salesman right before he stepped out the Airflow Company’s president’s door.

  Turning on his heels, the salesman quickly answered, “Yes, sir?”

  “Landers,” Bowman repeated his name, “see my secretary on the way out. Have her give you the contact information for Lester Franks. He heads up Franklin Aircraft. They are looking for good sources for aluminum as well. I think he’d be a good customer for you, too. You could circle by his office in Lexington on your way back to Arkansas.”

  “I sure could!” Landers assured him. “Thanks again, sir.”

  He couldn’t believe it! After months of not being able to even get in to talk to the president of any company, he just made the biggest sale in the history of Bynum Aluminum. Not only had he saved his job, he had likely earned a huge bonus. What a difference a day could make!

  As he slid into the Packard, Bill Landers had a smile on his lips and a song in his heart. For the first time in his life he felt lucky. What had happened? Why suddenly had everything gone right?

  Patting the Packard’s dash, he said, “Old Blue, you and I are going to have a beautiful friendship.”

  It was almost noon, and hunger had set in with the force of a winter wind. Landers knew very little about Indiana and had no idea where to grab a bite. Thus he stopped at the first place he saw—Plunky’s Caf�
�.

  There was no counter, so Landers slid into a booth. Judging by the crowd, he figured the food must be great. He spied a man to his right who was carving up a large steak and savoring every bite. Licking his lips, Landers anxiously glanced around for someone who could set him up with a piece of that choice beef. As he waited to be served, he looked around the building. From the cowhide cushions in the booth to cowbells lining the walls to the huge photos of prize-winning steers hanging on the wall, everywhere he looked there was a cattle theme. So he halfway expected the waitress to moo when she came to take his order. And he didn’t care as long as she got to him soon. Yet the place was so busy it took another ten minutes before a cheery looking heavyset girl in her twenties headed his way.

  “What’s up, big boy?” she asked.

  He grinned. “Looks like you’re busy. You have a special or something?”

  Her eyes swept the room and fell back on him. “It’s always this way. You got here just in time. By twelve thirty there will be an hour’s wait just to grab a spot to rest your behind.”

  “I’ve been lucky all day today,” Landers announced, “and it seems my choice of places to eat just continues that run. By the way, what’s the story on this place?”

  “I have the speech memorized.” She laughed. “Every outsider who comes in here wants to know. So here it goes. Alexander Plunky, the owner, had a farm about twenty miles east of Indianapolis. His wife, Gladys, had long been known as the best cook in the area. In 1934, the husband and wife combined what they did well and opened Plunky’s in this empty barn on the outskirts of town. The result was a steak place that has earned a stellar reputation all over the Midwest.”

  Landers shook his head and grinned. “Well done, if you will pardon my pun. Now what do you think is the best thing on the menu?”

  “Well, it’s kind of pricey,” she explained, “but I’d say the T-bone with the baked potato. But you might not want to spend the two-fifty it costs, so perhaps you’d want to go with the sirloin. It’s tender and tasty and costs half that.”

  “Bring me the T-bone and make it medium.”