by Ben Benson
“He told me,” Pomeroy said feverishly. “Sure, he told me, but I forgot.” He shut off the flow of gas. The meter registered only four gallons. He replaced the cap with hurried, fumbling fingers. He had his head averted. “I’ve got to go,” he whispered. “I’m in a hurry today.”
“Four gallons enough?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’m in a hurry today.” He jumped in behind the wheel.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Osanger wants you to sign a slip.”
I went back inside. When I came out with the pad, I saw Craird Waldock standing on the corner watching us, a cigar between his teeth. I marked four gallons on the pad. Pomeroy signed quickly. He waved his hand at me and drove off.
Clutching the pad, I watched him go. Maybe it was Waldock who had made the kid nervous. Then my hand went to my head, removing the cap. Maybe it was something else. The cap. Putting it on I had squared it automatically, wearing it the way a state trooper would wear it, not rakishly on the side of the head like a gas jockey. And the time Pomeroy had seen me at the Concord Barracks I had been wearing a similar cap in a similar way.
I lit a cigarette and my hand wasn’t too steady at it. It might not be anything, I thought. Nothing but a case of my own jumpy nerves.
*
Osanger came back at noon. I had finished the muffler job by then and Osanger inspected it.
“Good work,” he said cheerfully. “But there was no hurry on it. You could have taken your time. Okay, go to lunch. When you get back, do a wheel alignment on the Dodge.”
I had lunch at Lil’s Café. When I came back, Osanger was outside sitting in his Chrysler. The inevitable cigarette was stuck in the middle of his mouth.
“I’m going out again,” he said. “I’ll be back at four. There’s no rush on the Dodge. Take it easy. It’s your first day.”
He drove off. I let the Dodge down off the lift and put the Bear alignment equipment on it.
I finished early and loafed all afternoon. The telephone didn’t ring once. Osanger came back at four-thirty. Behind him was Cluett in the tow truck. He drove the truck into the garage and looked at me silently. One eye was puffed and closed, but the other was like a glowing coal.
“You can go home now, Ralph,” Osanger said.
I washed my hands with sand soap, took off my coveralls and hung them up. “There wasn’t much doing today,” I said, turning away from the sink.
“It’ll pick up,” Osanger said. “We have our dry spells. You’re not worried about your pay, are you?”
“I sure am,” I said.
Osanger laughed suddenly. I said good-bye and went out of there. I got into my car and drove over to the drugstore on Main Street. I dialed Newpole’s number.
“I’m working for Osanger,” I said. “I started this morning.” Then I told him about the incident with Vincent Pomeroy.
“Dammit,” Newpole said. “You think the kid recognized you?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “Maybe I’m just jumpy.”
“I wish we could move in and be with you,” Newpole said. “But Stoughton is as close as we can get to you without tipping our hand.”
“Maybe I’ll start carrying the Browning,” I said. “Osanger is well heeled. A Colt .32.” I gave him the serial number.
“We’ll check it,” he said. “Listen, get to that Nofke girl. Maybe she’ll spill something. If not, we may have to make the best of a bad job and round up everybody.”
“One more thing,” I said. “Remember the car Waldock bought from Cluett? The patched up wreck?”
“I remember,” he said. “So what?”
“Cluett was out with the tow truck all day. Maybe he went somewhere to buy another wreck. We ought to find out how many wrecks he’s bought in the last few months, Lieutenant.”
“We have. He’s bought none. There’s only that one a year ago.”
“All right,” I said. “Then it’s Osanger we really want. He’s the brains. The other two are only working for him.”
Newpole’s voice became a little thin. “If you’ve got the evidence, son, we’ll move in right now and make the arrests.”
“All right, so I have no evidence, so it’s only theory. But I know the wreck had to be patched up before it was sold. It wasn’t done in Osanger’s shop. He doesn’t have the big equipment for it. Waldock doesn’t, either. We have to find out where they’re doing the work, Lieutenant. Maybe that way we can tie the whole operation together.”
“Yes, but in the meantime you’ve got me worried about Pomeroy. How strong do you feel, son?”
“I’ll sweat it out,” I said. “So long, Lieutenant.”
I hung up. I started out of the drugstore. As I stepped outside, Vincent Pomeroy was on the sidewalk waiting for me.
He was frightened, I could see that. He was biting his fingernails, gnawing on them with the side of his mouth like a cocker spaniel chewing on a bone. His hand came away and he said, “I want out, Lincoln.”
“You want out of what?” I asked.
“Today I remembered you,” he said. “I finally pegged you as a state trooper.”
CHAPTER TEN
I PUSHED BY HIM. HE STOPPED ME WITH HIS HAND.
“You’re wacky,” I said. “What have you been drinking? Anti-freeze?”
He shook his head. Across the street I saw Craird Waldock again. He was coming out of the news store with a packet of cigars. He got into his car and sat there behind the wheel looking at us.
“I didn’t talk,” Pomeroy said. “So help me, I didn’t tell Ken or Scotty.”
“You’ve flipped your lid, kid,” I said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t toss it off,” he said. “I’m on the level. I know why you’re in town.”
“You’ve been smoking marijuana, Vince.”
“Believe me,” he said desperately. “I remember the Concord Barracks. The cellblock is the second door on the left as you come in the guard room. That’s where you locked me up.”
I looked at him, letting my breath out slowly. A pair of girls in print dresses went by us and stepped into the drugstore.
“All right,” I said. “So you remember. What happens next?”
“I can help,” he said. “But it has to be a deal.”
“What kind of a deal?”
“I need a break. You’ve got to promise to give me a break.”
“I think I can promise you a break,” I said. “But first tell me this. You took that Plymouth at the dance, didn’t you?”
He nodded his head. “I can’t talk here,” he whispered. “My life ain’t worth a thin dime standing here talking to you. I’ll meet you tonight.”
“No,” I said. “You can change your mind by then.”
“Would I have been waiting here for you? I need until tonight. I’ve got a lot of my gear over at the farm and I want to go there first and clear out.”
“Me with you,” I said. “I’ll keep by your side.”
“No. They see you with me and they’ll get wise. Come to my house tonight. Twenty-one Linden Street in Eatonville. Nine o’clock. I’ll be alone. My folks will be working at the store.”
“What store?”
“They’ve got a little variety store in Eatonville. They’re there until eleven. We’ll be alone.”
“I don’t like it,” I said. “In ten minutes I can get some more cops here. We’ll all go to the farm together.”
“You don’t understand,” he said. “Waldock is watching us from across the street. He might be a spy for them.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “But he’s friendly with Ken. Besides, Ken is waiting for me at the farm. I’m late as it is. If I don’t show now he’ll know something’s wrong.”
“You mean he suspects something?”
“Yes, he’s been watching me. I’ve been trying to get out. I swear I have. But they won’t let me. They’ve got enough on me to hold me.” His face became contorted. “I
went sour once or twice. But when I got out of Shirley I wanted to break clean. I swear.” He rubbed his face. “They don’t let you,” he said bitterly. “The cops, the hoods, the people, nobody. They don’t trust you. They don’t give you a chance. They force you into it again.”
“That’s all over with, Vince. I’ll go to bat for you.”
“If you’re around,” he whispered.
“I’ll be around.”
“Not if Scotty gets to you first. He’s going to kill you. It’s in his mind and he can’t get it out. That’s the way he is. Like a bulldog. He gets his teeth into something and he won’t let go.”
“I know. I’ve been looking out for Scotty.”
“Okay, so you’re watching Scotty. But Ken Osanger is worse. At least with Scotty you know when he has it in for you. You never know with Ken. He looks soft outside, but don’t let it fool you. He’s like a wound-up watch spring and you never know when the spring is going to let go.” His eyes flicked sideways for a moment. “I can’t talk no more. Come tonight. Alone. People see cops walk into my house and they’ll know I stooled.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Nobody has to know,” Pomeroy said. “That’s the only deal I’m making. You have to keep my name out of it. Nobody has to ever know. You come alone tonight or it’s all off. I’ll know you pulled a doublecross.”
“I’ll come alone,” I said.
“Tonight,” he said, moving toward the station wagon. “Keep away from me until tonight.”
I watched him get in and drive away. Across the street Waldock puffed slowly on his cigar. I stood there and looked at him. Then I lit a cigarette. Waldock started his car and moved down Main Street.
I flipped the cigarette away and went to my Ford. I drove down Main and watched Waldock’s car turn down toward the railroad station.
*
I drove out Route 111 and passed the Peppermint Stick. Two hundred yards before the Osanger farm I turned sharply off the road and into the underbrush. I bulled the Ford in until the bushes blocked it from view.
I started out to the road. Just then I saw Osanger flash by in his black Chrysler. I stayed in the bushes until the Chrysler turned into the Osanger yard. Osanger got out and went into the house.
I walked along the edge of the underbrush until I had a better view of the farm. I saw the station wagon parked near the barn. The barn doors were closed. There was no sign of Pomeroy. I thought I would try to get closer. But the door of the house opened suddenly and Mrs. Osanger came out. She looked up and down the road, then sat down on the porch glider. There she stayed.
I went back to the car, backed it out and drove to the Peppermint Stick. The fat cook was behind the fountain, drinking coffee. He glared balefully at me. I ignored him. I went into a pay booth, phoned Newpole and told him about Pomeroy.
“This I don’t like at all,” Newpole said worriedly. “It smells like a trap. The kid might have already spilled to Osanger.”
“What should I do?” I asked.
There was a pause for a moment. “We don’t know yet how big this outfit is, or how far out it reaches. That’s what’s blocking our move so far.”
“I’m hoping to get that information from Pomeroy, sir.”
“What if he doesn’t know the whole operation, son?”
“I’ll find that out tonight.”
“I hate to see you stick your neck out. What if they want to take a chance and knock you off? What if that’s the reason Pomeroy asked you to come alone?”
“I still have to play along with it,” I said. “Otherwise we may never know.”
“No, you can’t go in there alone,” Newpole said definitely. “Ellen will be a widow before she’s married, and she’ll blame me.”
“He said if I don’t come alone, Lieutenant, it’s all off. This is a chance to break the case wide open.”
There was a long silence on the phone. “I’ll tell you what else bothers me, son. Cluett showed up in Stoughton late this afternoon. He’s still here. He’s been checking auto repair places trying to find out if you’ve been looking for a job. Is that what you told them?”
“Yes, sir. I had to have a reason, in case they saw me going to Stoughton this morning.”
“I’ve had Gahagan trailing Cluett. He’ll call in as soon as the boy returns to Carlton. So have another story ready for Osanger.”
“Maybe I won’t have to,” I said. “Not if I go to Eatonville tonight and finish it off.”
“I wouldn’t order you to do that.”
“I’m volunteering. I want to finish this case, Lieutenant.”
“All right, son,” Newpole said. “We’ll do it this way. I’ll put a stakeout on Pomeroy’s house right now. You’ll go in there alone, but we’ll be close by.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Nine o’clock sharp.”
*
At eight-thirty I reached into my bureau drawer, unwrapped the flannel cloth and took out the Fabrique Nationale. I checked it, pushed it into my belt and buttoned my sport jacket over it. I left the rooming house and got into my car.
I drove down the dark streets to Osanger’s Garage. It was locked. The lights were out. There were no cars outside. I drove by Waldock’s. Nobody there. I cruised slowly down Main Street, looking into the windows of the Dairy Bar, the drugstore. Then in front of Lil’s Café I saw the Chrysler and the Mercury. I looked inside and immediately I felt much better. Because seated at a table were Osanger, Cluett, Irma Bean and Leta Nofke. They were on their dessert which meant they had been there a little while.
*
I sped out to Eatonville. When I got there I found Linden Street, passed the corner of it and circled the block. I saw a black detective sedan parked in an alley a short distance away. It gave me a warm, cozy feeling like a letter from home. I swung around and entered the street.
There was a block of brown frame mill houses. I didn’t need to search for Number 21. The station wagon was in front of it. I parked the Ford three houses away and walked back.
The street was dark, empty and silent. My heels clattered on the old cobblestone sidewalk. I came alongside the station wagon and looked in. Pomeroy had left the key in the ignition. I scanned the house. I began to get a little queasy feeling because the house was completely dark.
I stepped onto the front porch and punched the little bell beside the door. I could hear it ringing inside. But nobody came. I rang again and waited. Nothing happened.
The door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open. I waited a moment, then moved inside. It was pitch-dark. I felt for a wall switch, found it and the light came on. It was an untidy living room with a broken-down studio bed, two decrepit chairs and a shiny-new expensive television set.
I called, “Vince?”
There was no answer. I walked into a narrow hallway. There was a bedroom off to the left. I switched on the light there. The beds were unmade, nightclothes and bedding strewn about. I went from there to a bathroom. I looked in and saw nothing. I came along the hallway to another bedroom. I flicked on the wall switch.
Vince Pomeroy was lying on the bed, flat on his back, fully clothed, his mouth open, a deathly gurgle in his throat. His arms were wide spread, the fingers clawed, his chest heaving irregularly.
I ran over to the bed. “Vince,” I said. “Vince.”
His gaunt cheekbones were more pronounced in the yellow light. His pale skin was drawn. His breath came up deeply, raggedly. I bent over him. I saw the thin trickle of blood along his cheek. Then his eyes. The left one stared at me unseeingly. The right one, terrible to look at, had a hole in the corner of it, indented, burnt flesh. The eye itself was filled with blood. I jumped up.
I ran out of the room, through the house and outside to the porch.
“Lieutenant,” I called sharply.
Across the street a man separated from the shadows of a house. Newpole came hurrying up the stairs to the porch. I ran inside. Newpole was close behind. He pounded after me through the hallway. In
the bedroom he bent over Pomeroy.
“Shot,” Newpole said. “Right through the corner of the eye.” He lifted the head, gently feeling the back of it. “No exit point. The bullet is still in him.”
“I’ll get to a phone and call a doctor,” I said.
“I think it’s too late,” Newpole said. “He’s dead.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SOMEWHERE, FROM SOME OTHER HOUSE, I HEARD a radio playing, the laughter of a studio audience. I shook my head. I kept looking at Pomeroy. I grabbed Newpole’s arm.
“You’re mistaken,” I said, my breath rasping. “He was breathing a minute ago.”
“He’s dead now,” Newpole said. “Somebody beat us here, son.”
“How?” I asked. “When?”
“Tileston’s covering the back,” Newpole said. His eyes widened. “Dammit, I hope Tileston’s all right.” He tugged at his belt holster, coming up with a snubnosed service revolver.
He started quickly out of the room. “Wait here, Ralph,” he called back.
I waited. I took out my Fabrique Nationale and cocked it. I looked at Pomeroy again, at the dead, staring left eye. A little shiver went through me and I wanted to reach over and close the eyelid. Then I heard footsteps. I swung around, the pistol raised. It was Lieutenant Newpole. Behind him was a detective-lieutenant from GHQ named George Tileston.
“I didn’t hear any shot,” Tileston said, pushing his hat back. “I was right outside. I’d have heard it. And nobody came out my way. Not since seven when we got here.”
“They might have been here earlier, sir,” I said. “They might have been waiting for him.”
“Pomeroy drove up at eight-thirty,” Newpole said. “Nobody left the house after he walked in. And I heard no shot, either.”
“If they used a silencer,” I said. I gripped the Fabrique Nationale tightly. “If they’re still in here—”
Newpole said, “George, you check all the rooms, the closets, everything. I’ll try the cellar. Ralph, you stay here with the body.”
