by Ben Benson
“What does Ernie Congdon look like?”
“Big, good-looking boy. Smooth black hair. Wears it long.”
“Black-leather-jacket, long-sideburns type?”
“Well—yes.”
“What would Billy Nesbit have in common with him?”
“Nothing. Ernie Congdon is a troublemaker, a town problem. He’s done time. Ernie comes back from the can. To Billy he’s an underdog, one boy against a whole town. So it’s a challenge to Billy. He feels Congdon needs help and rehabilitation. At least, that’s what Walter Dane, the chairman of selectmen, tells me.”
“And you just told me Billy himself needs help. It’s like the blind leading the blind, isn’t it?”
Rawlins looked away. “I guess you could put it that way.” His manner had suddenly become diffident. It was as though he had begun to realize that he had been too garrulous with me, that he was a towner and I was an unsympathetic stranger with a badge in my pocket. His voice became perceptibly cooler. “Was there anything special you wanted to see me about, Lindsey?”
“I came in to ask about hitchhikers, Chief. It’s the Somers case. You know of any hitchhikers around here?”
“Ernie Congdon.”
I wrote the name in my notebook. “Does he hitchhike much?”
“I’ve never known Ernie to use the bus.”
I put my cigarette ashes into a pewter ash tray on the table. I was thinking that I had asked Billy Nesbit about hitchhikers and he had told me he did not know of any.
“Ernie’s a surly kid,” Rawlins was saying, “but I don’t think he’d be much of a lead for you.”
“What makes you so sure, Chief?”
“This was a murder. Congdon never went for anything heavy. Somers was shot with a gun. Ernie Congdon never had a gun. He knows if he’s caught he’ll be salted away for a long time. You got reason to suspect him?”
“I’m asking around,” I said, “and I’d like to check him out.”
“His address is 3 Travis Road, down by the freight yard. You go over the crossing and it’s the first street on the right. You going there now?”
“I’ll just ride by,” I said. “If they’re asleep I’ll check it tomorrow morning.”
“You worried they’ll be asleep?” Rawlins looked at his wrist watch. “Midnight? Is that all it is? The Congdons never go to bed. I wish I had a dime for every time I’ve had to go over there two, three in the morning, especially when the old lady has tied one on.”
“Does Ernie Congdon work?”
“Over at the freight yard when he feels like it. Which isn’t too often.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll go over and see him now.”
Rawlins stood up. “I guess you want me with you.”
“Yes, sir, if you don’t mind. It’s always better that way.”
“All right,” he said. But he did not seem to relish it. “I’ll lock up and leave the night light on.”
He moved heavily around the room and then we were outside in the cool night air. He turned the key in the lock. As we went down toward the detective sedan, I said, “There’s nothing else you can give me on the Somers case? Nothing at all?”
He shook his head. “No, I’ve got nobody in these parts who could give you a lead.” Then he stopped and looked up at the sky thoughtfully. “Wait a minute. You know Joe Swift, chief over at Abernathy?”
“I’ve met him once,” I said.
“Well, now, Joe was telling me something funny the other day. He was riding into Lowell last week end and he saw this young girl hitchhiking. He stopped and spoke to her. Joe was in uniform and it wasn’t his territory, but he stopped anyway. A redheaded girl, didn’t look to be more than seventeen. He told her it was dangerous hitchhiking like that. The wrong kind of guy might come along, you know. She said she could take care of herself. She was just looking for a ride to Lowell. So he told her to hop in. That’s the funny part of it, because old Joe Swift doesn’t look like no wolf.”
“She wouldn’t go with him?”
“Nope. Said she’d rather wait for the bus. Joe tried to talk to her but she insisted on waiting for the bus. He went off and left her there. Now, she was waiting for a ride and here one comes along. She turned it down. You tell me why.”
“Maybe because Swift was a cop and she wanted no part of cops.”
“That’s what we thought, too. No runaway, though. There’s been no report on a runaway, then or since. She had no baggage.”
“Maybe she was looking for more than a ride,” I said, “and the wrong person stopped for her. I’ll see Swift the first chance I get. Whereabouts did he spot this girl?”
“On Route 27, about three miles west of Chelmsford.”
I did some mental arithmetic. That made it about eighteen miles from the scene of the Somers murder. Not very close. “Thanks,” I said. “We’ll check into it.”
I got into the sedan with him and drove down the hill, turning right. The town was almost completely dark. My headlights swept over the small, old-fashioned, steep-roofed railroad depot; a drab, dun color with gingerbread trim along the eaves. We passed it and crossed over the railroad tracks through the raised wooden guards.
“First house on the right,” Rawlins said. “Travis Road. Number 3.”
As we came to the corner I snapped on the spotlight. It was an old, ramshackle house, the same dreary color as the railroad station. No front lawn. Trampled weeds and scattered rubbish. On the front stairs the spotlight hit a boy and a girl. The boy jumped up and the girl made quick adjustments to her clothing.
“You sonovabitch,” the boy shouted at the car. “Mike, I’m going to kick your goddam head in.”
He moved menacingly and rapidly toward the car, his fists balled. I snapped off the spotlight.
Rawlins sucked in his breath and said, “That’s Ernie. You’d better park here. He’s quick on the trigger and he thinks it’s another friend of his, Mike Haley, who has a spotlight on his junk-box hot rod.”
I turned off the key, slid out from behind the wheel and stepped outside. The girl had moved up behind Congdon. She appeared to be about sixteen. Under the rays of the headlights it seemed she wore nothing beneath her short-sleeved jersey sweater and tight sheath skirt.
Congdon was almost upon me now, slowing, seemingly confused and wary. Apparently the outline of the car puzzled him because he did not recognize it.
I said, “Congdon? Ernie Congdon?”
He stopped at the sound of my voice, then stepped forward again, his head slightly cocked. He was a tall, heavy, hardmuscled boy, with tousled jet-black hair. He wore a white T-shirt and bluejean pants. Shading his eyes with one hand, he said, “Who the hell is it?”
“Lindsey,” I said. “Trooper from the Concord Barracks.”
“Cut the baloney,” he said. “Who the hell is it?”
Rawlins spoke from inside the car. “Ernie, he’s a trooper, all right. This is Chief Rawlins.”
The girl laughed and shook her head. It was a head of short, curly brown hair, covered with ringlets, like the million imitations of European actresses. “That’s old fat Rawlins’ voice,” she said. “He’s too lazy to get out of the goddam car.” She moved away from the circle of light and gazed at me. She thrust her torso out challengingly, her hands on her hips in a pseudomelodramatic gesture. “You want my name?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Melissa Pascal,” she said. “I live over there at 21 Travis. What’s yours again?”
“Trooper Ralph Lindsey.”
“Lovely,” she said reflectively. “You look like a real cool cat. What do you want Ernie for?”
“Police business,” I said. “You run along home, kid.”
“Love to,” she said, thrusting out her torso again. “If you’ll drive me.”
“Knock it off,” Congdon snapped at her. “Walk. Go ahead, beat it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She laughed again, waiting just long enough to provoke Congdon into starting for her. Then she
waved airily and sauntered off with her hips rotating. I watched her go.
“Goddam tramp,” Ernie Congdon said. “A real mink. You’d think it was an act, but it isn’t.” He surveyed me carefully and the hostile edge returned to his voice. “Lindsey,” he said. “I remember the name now. You’re the guy who’s made the big splash with Billy the boy Nesbit. I was kind of curious to see what you look like. You know what? You’re nothing special.”
“Ernie,” Rawlins called warningly from the car.
“I’m wondering what impressed Billy,” Congdon said. “The trooper badge?”
“I didn’t ask him,” I said. “But you don’t impress me one damn bit, either, Congdon.”
“I don’t expect to,” he said heavily. “But you impressed Billy, that’s for sure. Not many people impress our Billy boy.”
“Let’s skip it,” I said. “I just want to know where you were last Friday, June seventh. That’s all I’m interested in for now.”
“What time Friday?”
“All morning,” I said. “Where were you then?”
“I guess I was home here sleeping. Had a late date the night before—Thursday.”
“You didn’t stir from the house?”
“Not in the morning. Slept till noon. I had breakfast and went to work in the yard, unloading freight.”
“Can you back that up?”
“Sure,” he said. “Ask the freight master.”
“The morning,” I said.
“Ask my mother. She was home.”
“Is she up now?” I looked toward the lighted windows of the house.
“She’s up,” he said. “But you don’t want to bother her. Why the hell don’t you go home?”
“You ask for it, don’t you, Congdon?”
“Ask for what?” he said, his voice challenging.
“All right,” I said, “turn around. Lean on the car with your hands.”
He stared at me silently, flexing his fingers, his hatred toward me showing in the gesture. Then he turned slowly, raised his hands and took the position.
I ran my hands over him.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, over his shoulder. “You getting jumpy? Somebody tell you I had a record?”
I didn’t bother to answer him. I was feeling under his armpits.
“Old man Rawlins can tell you I never carried a weapon in my life,” Congdon said. “Never. I don’t own a gun or a switch knife or a blackjack. Never had nothing more than a beanshooter—”
I was patting his legs as he spoke. There was a rapid crunch of footsteps behind me. Then Chief Rawlins’ surprised, yelping warning. Too late.
Something struck the side of my head and, as I half-turned, a body swarmed over me, kicking and clawing for my eyes. There was a sob of rage and the odor of young male sweat.
I swung around, lunging away to the side, going down to the ground with the young man on top of me. His fingers grasped for my throat and he was cursing in my ear.
I arched up now and flung him off. Then I twisted around, grabbing one of his arms in a hammer lock, turning him away and bringing him to his knees. He was crying with pain now.
It was then that I heard Ernie Congdon shout, “Johnny, Johnny, it’s all right.”
Then I heard the car door slam. Chief Rawlins was standing over me, tapping my shoulder apologetically, saying, “It’s all right, Lindsey. Just a mistake.”
I got up and faced them, bringing the boy up with me firmly. He was about seventeen years old, big and ungainly. His soft, unformed face was contorted into a whimper, and the right sleeve of his gaudy sport shirt was torn to ribbons. I said harshly, “Who is he?”
“My kid brother, Johnny,” Ernie Congdon said. “Leave him alone. It was an accident. He didn’t know who you were. He thought you were mugging me or something.”
I held onto the boy. He opened his mouth, half-crying. “Make this bastard let go of me.”
“Shut up, you nut,” Ernie Congdon growled at him. “He’s a trooper.”
“A cop bastard,” the boy said, struggling in my grip. “I’m glad I slugged him. Let’s you and I take him, Ernie.”
“I think that finishes big-mouth,” I said, yanking the boy forward toward the cruiser.
Rawlins said, in a conciliatory tone, “Wait a minute, Lindsey. I guess the kid made a mistake.”
“Sure,” I said. “And he’s got a nice attitude, too. How’s his record?”
“Nothing much,” Rawlins said. “He’s been to the Shirley School twice as a stubborn child, that’s all. We like to sort of handle our own troubles here.”
I understood what Rawlins meant, and I felt a little sorry for him. He had to live with these people. I didn’t. But the anger stayed with me. “His older brother sets a fine example. He must look up to Ernie.”
The boy struggled again. Then Ernie Congdon surprised me. He came up close and cuffed his younger brother hard across the face. He said, “I told you to shut up, you jerk. And when I get you in the house I’m going to kick the tail off you.” He turned to me. “I never asked a cop a favor in my life. But like the chief says, it’s all a mistake. We both know this stupid brother of mine.”
I looked at him. My grip was still firm on the boy and I didn’t want to let go. Then Rawlins tugged at my arm and motioned with his head. I glared back at him but finally I released Johnny Congdon. I walked away a few steps to where Rawlins was now standing.
Rawlins said apologetically, “I’m the last person in the world to tell you your business, Lindsey. But I’ve known these boys since they were born. The best way is to ignore them.”
“What happens then?”
“They calm down. Especially if there’s nobody around to see how tough they’re behaving.”
“And that’s the way you want this handled, Chief?”
He nodded. “It’s best.”
I said, “Okay, they’re your problem and you can have them. But I wouldn’t ignore them, if I were you. I’d treat them like I’d treat a naughty dog who’s wet the living-room rug.”
I walked back to where the two brothers were standing. The younger one was rubbing his arm. I said to Ernie Congdon, “I want your brother to stand over there in a corner of the porch and wait for me to talk to him. I mean just that, and no lip from anybody.”
The boy stopped rubbing his arm and opened his mouth as though to say something. I waited. But Ernie Congdon shoved him hard, saying, “Come on, stupid, you heard the man. Go over there and wait.”
The boy went. He walked up the stairs and stood in a corner out of earshot.
Ernie Congdon said, “Is there anything else?”
“Yes,” I said, “there’s something else. You’re one of those who hitchhike a lot, aren’t you?”
“I hitchhike some.”
“Your kid brother?”
“Some.”
“While you were hitchhiking, did you notice anybody different on the road the last couple of weeks?”
“No.”
“Been hitchhiking down near Baycroft?”
“No, mostly toward Lowell and back.” His face stiffened. “Now I know what this is all about. The Somers murder.”
“What do you know about the Somers murder?”
“Nothing.”
“What have you heard?”
“Nothing. Only what I read in tonight’s paper.”
“You say you’ve been hitchhiking toward Lowell and back. Have you seen anything of a redheaded girl on the road?”
“You mean thumbing?”
“Yes.”
“I haven’t seen any girls. How old?”
“Seventeen or so.”
“I haven’t seen anything like that. Not me.”
“All right,” I said. “You stay here with Chief Rawlins for a few minutes. I’m going to talk with your brother.”
I walked up the groaning porch stairs and over to the far corner. Johnny Congdon was leaning indolently against a supporting post. He straightened up lazily when I face
d him.
“All right,” I said, “tell me where you were last Friday morning.”
“Who the hell wants to know?”
I reached out, grabbed his shirt in my fist and pulled him close. His duck-backed hair, which he wore with long sideburns, was heavily greased with perfumed pomade. But permeating it was a rank, unbathed body odor. I said, “One more wisecrack out of you and I’m yanking you down to the barracks where we’ll take you by your dirty ears and wash your goddam mouth out with soap. You want to try it that way?”
His eyes blinked. “No,” he said inarticulately.
“You answer ‘no, sir’ to me,” I said.
“No, sir,” he said.
“That’s better. Now we’ll try again. Where were you last Friday morning?”
“Friday? Yeah, I remember. I was no place—sir.”
“That’s no answer. You were someplace.”
“I meant I was home.”
“What were you doing at home?”
“Nothing. I was in the sack.”
“Until when?”
“I got up at noon. Me and Ernie both. Ask my old lady, she’ll tell you—sir.”
“Do you do a lot of hitchhiking?”
“Yeah, I thumb some rides.”
“Up around Baycroft?”
“Sure. The gang and I go up to the lake there once in a while.”
“For what?”
“Swimming. And we go on the prowl for the chicks who hang out on the beach.”
“Notice anybody else hitchhiking up through there?”
“Yeah. Once in a while. Some kids bumming rides.”
“You know any of them?”
“No.”
“Ever see a redheaded girl hitchhiking? About your age?”
“No.” He sniffed avidly. His mouth was wet. “Jeez, I heard of babes like that.”
“Where?”
“Not around here. Down south. They’re the kind you can push over like nothing.”
“All right,” I said to him. “That’s all for now. You can go inside.”
