by Ben Benson
“No hard feelings,” Osanger explained, his voice a little calmer. “I just wanted you to know how things stand.”
“You couldn’t have made it clearer,” I said, rubbing my throat.
“You don’t need Leta,” Osanger said, more calmly. “There’s plenty of chicks around. You can get all you want at the Peppermint Stick. You can have any one of them for an ice-cream cone and an automobile ride. Ask Scotty.”
“You’re making a hell of a fuss over one dame,” I said.
“She’s mine,” Osanger said. “I have my brand on her. I own her like I own the farm, the garage, the car outside. I’d kill her before I’d let anybody else have her.”
“Forget it,” I said. “She’s all yours.”
“I’ve forgotten it,” he said, his voice soft and relaxed. He twirled the gun around his finger like a movie cowboy and slid it into his shoulder holster. “Get dressed, kid.”
“I’m dressed,” I said.
“I mean get on some sport clothes. You’re going to a dance tonight.”
“Fine. You have a girl for me?”
“You’re going stag. You won’t have time to do any dancing. You know how to use a jumper?”
“I’ve used them,” I said carefully. He was talking about a length of wire with knife-edged clamps on each end. They were used by the telephone company for emergency work. They were also used to start cars without an ignition key.
I took off my shirt. “Where’s the dance?” I asked.
“Don’t get itchy,” Osanger said. “When the time comes I’ll tell you.”
“All right,” I said. “Scram out of here so I can get dressed.”
“We’ll stay right here,” Osanger said. “Hurry up.” I hesitated, then stripped down. I went into the bathroom, shaved and showered. When I came back, I got dressed, putting on a sport shirt and a sport jacket. Then I reached quickly into the bottom drawer of the bureau. I brought out the Fabrique Nationale. Osanger was half-out of his chair, a hissing sound coming from his mouth, his hand darting inside his coat.
I ignored him. I checked the magazine, pushed the pistol into my belt and buttoned my jacket over it.
Osanger’s chest was heaving. The cigarette wobbled in his mouth. “Don’t ever pull a gun near me,” he said, his hand dropping to his side.
“You’re a little nervous,” I said. “Relax.”
“You don’t need no gun,” he said. “There’s no gunplay in this.”
“You and Scotty are carrying guns.”
“I know Scotty,” he said. “I can trust Scotty. You, I just met.”
“I’m taking the gun on this job,” I said. “Without a gun I feel naked.”
“No gun,” he said huskily.
“Then the hell with it,” I said. “No gun, no deal.” I faced him. Our eyes locked.
He blinked his eyelids once, then shrugged his shoulders. “Okay,” he said softly. “Let’s go.”
We went downstairs. At the curb, Osanger said, “Get into your car and drive out to my farm. You know where it is?”
“No,” I lied. “How would I know?”
“It’s out past the Peppermint Stick. I’ll be right behind you. When you get to it, I’ll toot my horn.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I DROVE OUT ALONG ROUTE 111, the Chrysler close to my tail. When I came to the Osanger farm, the Chrysler’s horn tooted twice. I pulled into the yard and stepped out. Close to the barn was Cluett’s yellow Mercury.
The Chrysler edged up behind my Ford so close that the bumpers hit. Osanger climbed out and said, “Let’s go in the house.”
We went across the porch, by the glider and inside to the living room. The gross woman was sitting in a big chair watching a television program. She had a big-boned face and thick, short gray hair. Her nose was broad and her eyes were deeply pouched. She had thick bare legs, with puffed blue veins. Her feet were encased in worn, scuffed slippers.
“My old lady,” Osanger said briefly.
The woman looked at me hostilely. “Is this Lincoln?” she asked in a deep, heavy voice.
“Yes,” Osanger said.
She pursed her lips and leaned back in her chair. Her eyes were small, cold and shrewd. The chair creaked. “Scotty was right,” she said. “I don’t like the looks of him.”
“It’s too goddam bad,” Osanger said. “I’ve checked him through. He’s safe.”
“He don’t look right,” she said. “You don’t need him, Kenny. Get rid of him. You’re splitting money too many ways. There’s hardly any left.”
“I said I need him. Scotty’s too hot. Don’t tell me my business, Ma.”
“Scotty’s got more sense than you,” she said stubbornly. “Scotty wouldn’t—”
“Shut your yap, Ma,” Osanger said evenly. “I’m not Scotty. You’ll do what I like.”
She looked at him steadily for a moment. There was no change of expression on her face. She got up clumsily and switched off the television set. Osanger glanced at his wristwatch. I checked mine. It was almost seven-thirty. The sun had set and long, dark shadows were creeping over the room.
Osanger switched on a bridge lamp. “Get going, Ma,” he said.
She waddled back to her chair without a word. She sat down again, bent, groaned and took off her slippers. She had gnarled toes and big, red bunions. She squeezed into a pair of square, low-heeled oxfords and laced them. Then she stood up and lumbered across the room to a closet. She put on a gray sweater and fastened the zipper. She crossed to the front door, opened it and went out. I heard a motor start and a car drive away.
“Where’s she going?” I asked.
“I like everything scientific,” Osanger said. “When you get to know me better, you’ll find out how careful I am with each job.” He smiled. “Ma’s taken the station wagon and gone into Carlton. She’ll case the town. If she sees any strangers around, or any suspicious cars, she’ll phone in. That way we never pick up a tail. Last week there were some state detectives nosing around Carlton and we laid off.”
“System,” I said. “Everybody has his system.” Outside it had grown dark. I could hear crickets making their rhythmic sounds. I lit a cigarette. “Where’s the dance being held?”
“In Sharon,” Osanger said. “Scotty goes out first and checks everything there. He can almost smell a cop. If it’s all clear he phones in. Then you go out there with me and Leta. I’ll pick out the car for you to snatch.”
“I don’t have a jumper,” I said, puffing spasmodically on the cigarette.
“I’ll give you a jumper. What’s the matter? You nervous, kid?”
“Sure, I’m nervous. Aren’t you?”
“I’ve got nothing to be nervous about. I never fumbled a job yet. Once Pomeroy got shaky and ran. But it wasn’t my fault. All along I knew the kid was no good.”
“It’s good you got rid of him.”
“I didn’t get rid of him, Ralph.”
I put my cigarette out. “Where do I drive the hot car?” I asked.
“You’re overanxious,” Osanger said. “When the time comes I’ll tell you.” He turned to Cluett. “Get moving, Scotty. You have to pick up Irma before you head for Sharon.”
Cluett opened his mouth as though to say something. Then his mouth closed. He stared at me long and hard. Abruptly, he turned and walked out. I heard his Mercury start up and drive away. It was darker outside. I sat down on a moth-eaten sofa against the windows, feeling the hard pressure of the Fabrique Nationale digging into my thigh.
Osanger snickered softly. “That Irma Bean is perfect for it. She’s so stupid it isn’t funny.” He sat down in the chair opposite me. “How do you feel, kid?”
“Fine,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Yesterday afternoon I picked up my gun at State Police Headquarters in Boston,” he said conversationally. “In the building they have two floors of crime laboratories. You should visit it. Everybody should visit it. Best thing in the world for you. It’ll show you crime do
n’t pay.” He laughed suddenly, uproariously. I didn’t answer him. He puffed on his cigarette. “We’ve got a little time yet,” he said, slouching down in his chair. “Tell me about yourself. I like to know about people.”
I smiled. I could tell him about myself. If I did, I wondered if he would be sitting there so smug and confident, so free and relaxed. If his eyes would bulge any bigger than they did now.
I could start with my birth in Cambridge and tell him how I went to grade school. And about Ellen Levesque, who grew up next door to me and who was going to marry me a week from Sunday. Or perhaps he would rather hear how I went to Cambridge High and Latin, then to Boston University for a year. Then again, he might be more interested in learning that my father had been a corporal in the State Police stationed at Andover. That in 1939 my father had been shot in the back by a drunken wife-beater and paralyzed for life. And how Ed Newpole, who had been a uniformed trooper then, had killed the man immediately afterward. And how my father had always wanted me to go into the troops, which is what they called the uniformed branch.
I could tell him other things. How I footslogged it with the Second Division in Korea. How I came home, took the exams and entered the State Police Training School. How, after being there three months, I was graduated and assigned to a barracks in western Massachusetts. Or, better still, how I had come to the Concord Barracks a short time ago. But, best of all, I’m sure he would enjoy my telling him that I wasn’t Ralph Lincoln, a young punk with a record, but a cop named Ralph Lindsey, whose job was to put the arm on him for automobile larceny.
But all I said was, “I don’t ask you about yourself, Osanger. Don’t ask about me. We’ll get along better.”
Osanger nodded agreeably. “I like a guy with a tight lip. That way nobody gets into trouble.” He lit another cigarette. “How are you at replacing engines?”
“It’s heavy work,” I said. “A job like that would take all night.”
“Scotty will help you,” Osanger said. “When we get the hot car stashed away, I’ll want you to pull the engine out and replace it.”
“Okay with me. But where will you get the replacement? From one of your wrecks?”
He looked up sharply. “I like my boys tough, kid, but I don’t like them nosy.”
“For chrissakes,” I said. “What am I, a moron? How else could you pull it without getting caught?”
“You just do the work,” he said, frowning. “I’ll do the thinking and providing.”
“It’s not my headache,” I said. “I don’t mind swapping engines, but I’m not burning on any new serial numbers. That’s where you get grabbed.”
“Forget it,” he said. “I never bought a wreck unless I could use the engine. These police labs have gotten smart. I don’t monkey with engine numbers.”
I yawned elaborately. “You’ve got a good operation. I like it.” I yawned again, stretched and patted my stomach. “What about some chow?”
“What chow?”
“I haven’t eaten since noon. I’m starved.”
He stared at me. Then he stood up and left the living room. I smoked another cigarette. He came back.
“I knew before I went into the kitchen,” he said. “There ain’t a goddam thing in the refrigerator. Goddam her, there never is. All she does is sit on her beam all day and gripe. Anyway, I’ve got canned sardines and eggs. I’ve got more damn eggs than the government.”
“I don’t want eggs,” I said.
“What’s wrong with eggs? These are fresh.”
“Eggs give me a rash,” I said. “I can use about four hamburgers, a malt and some french fries. Cripes, I’m starved.”
“Sure,” he said sarcastically. “And where am I going to get all this?”
“I’ll get it myself,” I said. “I’ll run over to the Peppermint Stick. It’s right down the road.” Yes, I thought and there’s a phone booth there, too.
“The hell with it,” he said. “You can wait until later.”
“Look, I’m hungry. This is one hell of a deal. I can’t even get something to eat.”
“I don’t know if you should go,” he said. But he was wavering. He thought for a moment. “All right, go ahead. But make it fast and don’t talk to anybody.”
“You worry too much,” I said. “I never talk.” I stood up and mashed out my cigarette.
He got rid of his butt and gnawed at his lip before lighting up another. He still didn’t like it. “Wait a minute,” he said. “You sure you have to eat now? Can’t you wait until we get to Sharon?”
“For chrissakes,” I said. “Who’s jumpy now? All I want is a couple of hamburgers.”
“You stay here,” he said abruptly. “I’ll go myself.” He walked to the door. “If my old lady calls, take a message, and get it right.”
“Sure,” I said. “Hey, don’t forget the french fries.” He went out. I watched at the window until his car turned out on the road and disappeared.
I left the living room fast. I came out onto the porch and looked up and down the road. I had to figure it would take him two minutes to get to the Peppermint Stick, and two minutes to get back. That made four. The hamburgers should take at least ten minutes to make, the french fries longer. I had fourteen minutes, anyway.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I RAN STRAIGHT FOR THE BARN. THE BIG DOOR WAS padlocked. I ran swiftly around the side. I wrenched open the same shutter I had tried before. I swung my leg over and dropped inside.
The barn was the car drop. It was no longer a theory. Osanger had said the work had been done by themselves. There was no outside source, no outside gang, no outside shop.
I stood in the middle of the floor, focusing my pencil flashlight. It was the bales of hay, of course. I should have thought of it the first time I was there. Because they had only chickens on the farm, and chickens did not consume bales of hay. And I should have sat down and thought about the big, well-oiled chain lift which was used to hoist the hay to the loft. Only there were no bales of hay up there. There were six bales scattered over the middle of the floor and that was all.
I began pushing them aside. The floor underneath was covered with straw. I kicked it away. There was a huge double trap door. I tugged at one of the iron rings and lifted one side.
I flashed my light down. There was a cellar. On one side was a ladder. I climbed down.
There were heavy, vertical wooden beams. The cellar floor was hard-packed earth. On one beam I found a light switch. I turned it on.
In the harsh glare of the naked, high-watt bulb I saw a ceiling which was padded with asbestos to muffle any noise. There was a sanding machine, a buffing machine. There were abrasive disks. There were big lights for a quick-drying lacquer paint job. One entire side of the barn was piled high with a jumble of discarded engines. I saw a large metal cabinet. I went over. There were sets of heavy tools and hundreds of car keys.
I stood in the middle of the floor, grinning at it all because it was so simple. Carlton was like the hub of a wheel. The cars were stolen within a fifteen-mile radius and brought to the barn in less than thirty minutes. They were taken mostly from dance halls where the theft wouldn’t be discovered for an hour or more. By that time the car was safely off the road.
The car would be driven into the barn, the barn doors locked and a broom used to brush away any tire marks. Then the tractor was driven back and forth in front of the barn to make it more complete. Inside the barn, the chain lift, powered by the tractor, lowered the stolen car into the cellar. The same chain lift could be used to lift out the engine and install the one from the wreck. Then, on some other night, the car was driven out of town and parked in some garage. From there it was sold legitimately. The wrecked car was then broken up and sold for junk.
I left the cellar. There was no sense in staying longer. The evidence was all there. The assignment was over for me and there was no need to go to Sharon.
I climbed the ladder and dropped the trapdoor. I slipped over the window and ran through the
darkness to the house. In the lighted living room I looked at my watch. Eleven minutes had gone by since Osanger had left.
I looked around. In a small alcove off the living room, there was a drum table with a cut-glass vase on it. In the vase was a single, dusty paper rose. Beside the vase was the telephone.
I went into the alcove, picked up the phone and called Newpole’s number. I said to him, “I’m at the Osanger farm, sir. It’s all here in the barn cellar. The car drop, the equipment, everything.”
“Sit tight,” Newpole said. “We’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Scotty Cluett is in Sharon.” I said. “He’s casing the place for cops. They expect to pull another job there tonight.”
“I’ll send out a broadcast on him,” Newpole said.
“Mrs. Osanger is downtown in Carlton. She’s part of it. Get here quick, Lieutenant.”
“Ten minutes, not later,” Newpole said. “Good work, son.”
“Make it quicker,” I said. “Osanger is due back from the Peppermint Stick any second. It’s going to be hard for me to make the pinch. I don’t have any badge or identification.”
“I’m sending the nearest patrol from the Wrentham Barracks,” Newpole said. “There should be two troopers there in less than five minutes.”
“All right, sir,” I said. Then I heard a sound as though the front door had opened and closed. From where I was standing I couldn’t see it. Suddenly the light in the living room went out. I crouched down quickly.
“Who is it?” I called through the darkness.
Nobody answered. A stab of flame sparked out and there was the reverberating crash of a pistol shot. The bullet whistled by me and plunked into the woodwork. I dropped the telephone.
“Hello, hello.” It was Newpole’s frantic, metallic-sounding voice from the receiver.
I flattened against the alcove wall. There was a faint patch of light that came from the living-room windows. A shadow flitted by, hunching across the floor, angling toward me.
“Osanger,” I called.
“Punk,” the voice said. It wasn’t Osanger. It was Scotty Cluett and I couldn’t see him. He had melted into the shadows on the opposite side of the living room.
