by Jerry eBooks
The light flashed green. “To have fun, I suppose. See some undressed chorus cuties, win some dough. Me, I got a wife and two kids, and can’t afford it.”
“I go to forget what a fool I am,” Mr. Claredon sniffed. “I thought money alone could bring happiness. You ever been in love, Joey?”
“Well,” I said. “You tell me what love is.”
My fare flopped back on the seat.
“The reason a man breathes, that’s what love is.” Mr. Claredon’s voice sounded yearning, soulful. “The reason his heart beats and he can see the sun and the stars. His essence, Joey, his very life. The reason he goes to the Clover Club six nights a week.”
“That ain’t what I got,” I said. “I got the monthly payments on the refrigerator and washing machine.”
Mr. Claredon fell silent as I tooled Five-Twelve through the thin aftermidnight traffic. Silent with words, that is, but breathing hard, mumbling to himself. I turned into Parkway, slowed as Verne’s neon showed through the trees. I glanced over my shoulder. Mr. Claredon was huddled in the corner, looking blankly out the window.
“You want that peanut butter sandwich tonight?” I asked.
Mr. Claredon nodded dumbly. Every night, he had me stop at Verne’s Drive-Inn for the sandwich. I considered it a screwy idea, but Mr. Claredon thought the peanut butter absorbed alcohol and prevented a bad hangover. I parked in the shadows back of the stand, where the carhops wouldn’t disturb my fare’s meditations. Mac, the counterman, hollered the minute I stepped in the door.”
“One peanut butter, no mayonnaise.”
“Quiet night.” Mac wrote up the ticket. “How come that gashound never comes in and eats his sandwich at the counter?”
“He’s funny,” I explained. “He don’t like people staring at his dress clothes.”
I carried the sandwich back to the cab. I wear glasses to correct near-sightedness, seat, his homburg pushed over his eyes. He looked asleep. I figured he might be sore unless he got his alcohol-absorber.
“Wake up, Mr. Claredon,” I said.
“Here’s your sandwich.”
He didn’t answer. I opened the back door and the ceiling light flashed on. Mr. Claredon’s lips looked pale. I joggled his arm and the hat tumbled off. For a moment I thought I was in Mme. Vinaud’s Wax Museum. An ugly red gash traversed Mr. Claredon’s forehead and blood trickled down his nose. His eyes were open, glassy. I yelled and dropped the sandwich. As the plate shattered on the pavement, I climbed in the cab, grabbed Mr. Claredon’s shoulders, and shook him hard.
“Wake up, Mr. Claredon,” I pleaded. “For the love of Mike, wake up! It’s me, Joey. What happened? Talk to me.”
Mr. Claredon’s head rolled loosely. I grabbed for my fare’s pulse. He had no pulse. He was dead. My brain went numb. Then a bright object on the cab floor caught my eye. Thick-fingered, I picked it up. It was a Stilson wrench, the chromesteel head stained red. My Stilson, from the initials scratched on the handle—the one I kept under the front cushion to discourage belligerent fares.
It’s possible at this moment, I became confused. My school records disclose I had trouble getting out of the sixth grade. At any rate I did something no seventh grader would be guilty of, something utterly contrary to a boy scout’s principles. I searched Mr. Claredon’s body. I hold no brief for guys who roll passed-out fares, but if the riding public will strain hard enough, I think they’ll see my point. A lot of people, including cops, mistrust cab drivers. They don’t see the and barely passed the chauffeur’s overall picture, the fine service rendered in examination last April. I peered in the cab window. Mr. Claredon was slumped in the emergencies. They read of this driver or that who got involved in a crime, and because of a few bad ones, call the whole barrel rotten. Honest, I just wanted to see if Mr. Claredon had been robbed. He’d been robbed, all right. His watch and wallet were missing. That fact brought the creeps to my spine and started a train a barn on fire. Thinking only gave me a headache. I finally pulled in behind Eddie Mason’s cab at the Owl Restaurant stand. “Hey, Eddie;” I called. “C’mere a minute.” Eddie is a good boy who knows the of first-class, sixth-grade thinking. value of a buck. He detached his lanky Suppose I called the cops? Suppose they said I robbed and killed Mr. Claredon? There was blood on my Stilson and could I prove otherwise? Inside Verne’s a juke box blared to life, pounded out boogie. An oblong of light appeared on the pavement as the kitchen door swung open. Ruthie, one of the carhops, stepped onto the parking lot, lit a cigarette.
“Hey, Joey,” she called. “Who yelled? It sounded like somebody was being murdered.”
I shoved Mr. Claredon’s hat over the wound and backed out of the cab. Carhops pick some of the damndest times to smoke. I got between Ruthie and the cab. She stared at the broken plate on the pavement.
“Who dropped that?” she asked, “And what are you dancing around about?”
“I got a chill,” I chattered. “Run inside and get me another sandwich, quick.”
She started for the cab. “The lush again? What’s the hurry? I’d like to meet the guy. I hear he’s got dough.”
I met her nine-tenths of the way, pushed her into the kitchen. “Get going.
It’s worth a buck if you hurry up with the sandwich.”
I ran back to the cab. If possible, it was getting worse. Ruthie had heard somebody yell and had seen me getting out of the cab. The cops liked easy solutions. I got behind the wheel and drove out of there. I drove around the park, where there was less chance of running into a company supervisor. I think the public will agree I was a cab driver with a problem. I tried to light a cigarette, but I couldn’t find it with frame from a fender and walked back to Five-Twelve.
“Hi, Joey,” he said. “You going to make the two o’clock line outside the Grove?”
“Not me,” I said. “Look, Eddie—you’re one of the smartest hustlers on the streets, and you got a high school diploma. If you found a dead body in the back of your cab, what would you do?”
“Dunno, Joey.” He scratched his ear thoughtfully. “That’s a pretty academic question.
“Academic, hell!” I said. “Be practical.”
“Dump him in the river,” Eddie said. “I can’t do that,” I protested. “The guy was a good tipper. At least, he deserves a decent burial.”
Eddie looked at me queerly. “He does, huh?”
“Yeah.” I felt goofy, and my voice sounded tight, funny. “The guy wasn’t a saint exactly, but who is? Eddie, do I look all right? I mean, I don’t seem to be sleepwalking, or having a nightmare, or anything?”
“You look peaked,” Eddie said. “You been drinking? I got some garlic salt in my hack, you’re welcome to it in case you—hey, you got a fare!”
The riding public will please note I am recording this conversation exactly as it was spoken. A hackie driving a dead man around does not entirely have all his marbles.
“You wouldn’t want to loan any garlic salt,” I said absently. “You might not have enough to put on your spaghetti when you break for lunch.”
I saw Eddie peering hard at the back seat, and glanced in the rear vision mirror. Mr. Claredon’s hat had slipped. I slammed the DeSoto into gear and roared away from the curb. Behind me Eddie waved frantically.
“Hey, Joey—wait! What you got back there. Who—?”
Wait, nothing, I thought. I gunned the cab around a corner and into a dark side street. I fixed Mr. Claredon’s hat, jammed it over his ears. Then I drove south, obeying the traffic laws, and keeping a weather eye out for prowl cars. If Eddie tipped the cops, if—
“If-ing” was useless. I was in the soup and everywhere I turned, it got soupier. South, the street lights grew farther apart, and the pavement got rougher. Dark loft buildings rose steeply from .narrow sidewalks, blotted out the moon and stars. A dank smell hung in the air, and mist fogged the windshield. I turned the wiper on. As the squeegee swished across the glass, I saw the pier shed at the street’s end; and beyond that, dark, oily, gleaming in
the night—the river.
The public will probably say I had no one to blame but myself, that all bodies should be reported this instant to the police. What happens now, was the result of my frame of mind, and is no reflection on other Democrats. Mr. Claredon was a rich man. I want no confusion. I am a loyal, taxpaying American. I do not believe in chucking rich men, even dead ones, into the river.
Loose planking rattled under the DeSoto’s wheels as I drove onto the dock. I parked in the blackest shadows next to the shed. I cut the headlights and the motor. I listened. Water slip-slapped the pier pilings, and somewhere a boat whistled mournfully. I buttoned my leather jacket and crawled out of the cab. The nearest light was a pale yellow blob in the river mist, a block away.
The interior light snapped on as I opened the rear door. I jumped back and nearly fell in the river. I’d forgotten the light went on automatically. Mr. Claredon had skidded down in the seat, so one hand dragged the floor. It was not nice work, I recall. Goose pimples chilled my arms as I dragged Mr. Claredon from the cab and lowered him to the dock planks.
“Mr. Claredon,” I said, “I hate to do this, but I think you’d understand.”
I grabbed the back of his coat collar, and that’s when I saw the flashlight winking down the pier. I let loose of Mr. Claredon’s collar and straightened up. My mouth felt like a hole in the central Sahara.
The light bobbed along the shed’s creosoted sides and a pair of authoritative feet thumped the dock. I thought about returning Mr. Claredon’s body to the cab. I thought about running. For these things I had no time. I rolled Mr. Claredon under the DeSoto and stepped out of the shadows. The flashlight swung, limned me against the shed.
“A hack driver.” The voice behind the light was hard, guttural. “What do you want out here this time of night?”
A guy in a mild state of shock grabs the nearest thought. “I want to get rid of a dead guy,” I said eagerly. “Got any ideas?”
“Dead guy? None of your wisecracks, now. I’m the watchman. We been having a lot of robberies along the front lately. Come on, what’re you doing here?”
“Look,” I amended hastily, “I only drove out here so a drunk could get some air. Give me a break, will you?”
The watchman beamed the light into the cab. “I don’t see no drunk.”
“He went up to the end of the pier, to feed the fish.”
The watchman grunted his suspicion. He flipped the light down, and the beam caught on the tips of Mr. Claredon’s glossy shoes, protruding from beneath the cab near the left front wheel. His yell awoke the echoes. Talk was useless. I jumped him.
I wrapped my arms around his waist and shoved him back toward the river. He was active. He dropped the flashlight and flailed both fists. He hit me behind the ear, but I felt no pain. I called up all the reserves, and forced him to the dock’s edge. I bent my back and heaved. His figure arched over the oily water. Came a loud plop, then much hollering and splashing. I ran back to the cab, dragged Mr. Claredon inside. I back off the dock, full speed, without lights, and to hell with traffic laws.
Keeping to the back streets, I worked up to the hillside cemetery. Call it the power of suggestion. I parked in a deadend street, the city lights spread below. I struck a match and inspected myself in the rear vision mirror. It was some guy I’d never seen before, a grimy gray-faced character with wild eyes any cop would arrest on sight. I wiped the dampness off my forehead, and got out. Ahead, over a vine-covered wall, tombstones loomed in the moonlight.
I opened the rear door again. I stared hard at Mr. Claredon’s waxy face, while creepy, clammy things crawled up my back. What I had in mind was ghoulish and unholy, but there was a spade in the rear compartment for emergencies, and I had to admit an emergency existed. I reached for Mr. Claredon and glanced at the meter. Already the guy had run up a seven-fifty fare. And that’s when I got the big idea.
The riding public must remember I was operating under plenty of pressure. What seems screwy to the calm and untroubled mind, seems very logical to the gee whose life is endangered. Under ordinary circumstances I wouldn’t dig a hole in my back yard, crawl in, and pull the hole in after me. But let a bomb fall, and it’s a different matter. Out of the tempest and turmoil of no previous experience, forged in the hot crucible of the night’s dizzy events, came a gem of purest ray serene. Jed Sever should be shot, then hung. I got the artist’s address from a gas station phone book. Fourteen Andrew Lane, in the west side’s bohemian district. It was a four-story graystone with gingerbread cornices, housing art studios. I parked in the tradesman’s entrance, pushed Mr. Claredon’s body to the cab floor, and covered it with the topcoat. In the foyer, I rang Mr. Sever’s bell. A man’s voice came down the speaking tube.
“Your cab is waiting, sir,” I said.
The voice sounded grouchy. “You’ve got the wrong bell. I didn’t order a cab.”
“You’ll want this one,” I said firmly. “There’s a guy inside it you know—name of Nelson Claredon.”
The tube was silent so long I thought maybe I had rung the wrong bell. Then the voice said: “Come up to four-nine.”
The latch buzzed and I went inside. I rode up to four in an automatic elevator. Jed Sever was waiting in the corridor outside his apartment. He wore slacks, a sport shirt open at the throat, and sandals. His face was deeply tanned and his dark hair looked marcelled. Broad shoulders sloped to a narrow waist—the kind of build I thought some women might eye hungrily.
“What’s this about a Mr. Claredon in your cab,” Mr. Sever demanded. “Is he drunk again?”
“He’s not drunk,” I said bleakly. “He’s dead.”
The news didn’t exactly floor Mr. Sever. He looked me up and down closely. “Why tell me?” he asked. “Take him to a hospital or the morgue.”
I figured it wasn’t natural. If Mr. Sever knew nothing about Mr. Claredon’s murder, he would at least inspect the body—so I grabbed the bull by the horns.
“Look,” I said. “I didn’t come here to toss words around. I know you killed Mr. Claredon, and you’re trying to frame me with the murder. You’re in love with his wife. You knew he stopped every night at Verne’s. So you done him in and made it look like I robbed him.”
Mr. Sever chewed his mustache a moment and plain stared. Then he stepped back and held his door open. “You’re quite mad,” he said, “but come inside.”
As I walked into the studio, I thought I heard a flurry of feet and saw movement behind a corner screen. The whole north wall was window, and paintings on easels littered the room. A log simmered in the fireplace, flicked shadows on the beamed ceiling. Mr. Sever motioned me to a divan that hugged the floor. He went to a table cluttered with brushes, tubes of paint, and palettes. He took a gun from a drawer. He started toward a desk phone. “Now,” he said, “I’ll call the police.”
“It’s your funeral if you do,” I said. “I’ll show them the picture.”
Mr. Sever stopped abruptly. “What picture?”
I kept a stiff upper lip although my heart was pounding one-fifty a minute. “You got a bad break, Mr. Sever. I’m a candid camera fan, see? I got a camera rigged in my hack’s meter box to get unexpected shots of people. When you open the rear door a light goes on, and the camera takes a picture automatically. I got a picture of you conking Mr. Claredon.”
The public will know cab companies do not allow any such gadgets in meter boxes, but Sever didn’t know Mr. Claredon was a back-seat orator. I could see the guy thinking, wondering how I knew about Claredon’s wife. The lie got other results. A woman stepped from behind the screen and walked over to Mr. Sever. She was a blonde with bangs. She wore a pale green skirt, a white blouse with broad brown stripes, and brown suede shoes. Pearls glowed in her earlobes. To someone in a rumdum fog she might appear as the world’s loveliest creature.
“Jed,” she said, “perhaps you’d better not call the police.”
Mr. Sever opened his mouth to argue the point, but she waved him into silence. “Let me s
ee that picture, cabby,” she said.
I began to breathe again. “I’m not that dumb, Mrs. Claredon. The picture is in a good safe place until you two pay off.”
“I see.” She eyed me thoughtfully. “How much will the picture cost?”
“Five thousand. I thought you’d see the light, and I’m not above making a fast buck. You get the negative.”
“We get the negative,” she repeated. “Jed, what do you think?”
Mr. Sever lifted the gun. “I think he is lying. I think we should call the police, or—”
“A hacky pal of mine has the picture,” I cut in fast. “If I don’t show in an hour, he gives it to the cops. So you shoot me. Does that get you anywhere?”
Mona Claredon pushed Mr. Sever’s gun down, stripped a diamond ring from her finger. “We can’t take the chance, Jed. He’s here, and that means he knows too much. I don’t have five thousand dollars, cabby, but this ring is worth that much.”
“You don’t have to pay me until I deliver,” I said. “Anyway, I need your help.” Her eyes narrowed. “How?”
“Dumping the body;” I said. “I’m not getting rid of Mr. Claredon by my lonesome. I need a lookout, a pair of eyes to watch while I do the dirty work.”
Mona Claredon turned to Mr. Sever. Her voice had a nasty edge. “You’re coming along. You started this. Get my coat.”
“I started it!” Mr. Sever looked surprised. “It was your bright idea. You said he wouldn’t divorce you.”
I got up. “Come on,” I growled. “We haven’t got all night and the cops might investigate my cab. You can fight about it later.”
I’ve met some cold-blooded hussies, but this Claredon woman took a posy. She stepped over her dead husband as if he wasn’t there, settled back in the cab and waved me out of the areaway. Sever put the gun on me and leaned forward to inspect the meter.
