by Ben Benson
“Time to go out to the kitchen and make some fresh coffee.”
I followed him out to the corridor, through the pine-paneled dining room and into the stainless-steel kitchen. D Troop Headquarters was spanking new, of red brick and glass, functional, yet retaining, somehow, a Colonial design.
As I made a pot of coffee, Dondera asked about my mother and father. Then he said, “Now tell me why you should be here.”
“Because it doesn’t figure for a trainee to disappear on his own so soon before graduation. And I guess I’m the only one on the staff who won’t be missed.”
Dondera grinned as I poured his coffee. He stood against the stainless-steel counter and sipped the steaming brew. I poured cream into mine and stirred.
“Well, you know the territory here,” Dondera said. “You know Sachem and you know the kid.” He put his coffee cup down and said casually, “By the way, do you know what Iva Hancock has been doing this summer?”
He said it offhand, but my coffee cup shook just a trifle as I picked it up. Iva Hancock and I had seen a great deal of each other when I had been stationed at D Troop some eighteen months before, and Dondera knew it. Now she was going with Kirk Chanslor. “No, I don’t,” I said carefully.
“Iva’s been working at the Mount Puritan this summer. In the cashier’s office.” He waited. When I didn’t say anything, he added, “Well, a lot of college girls work there, too. And they’re nice girls, Ralph.”
“I guess so, Captain.”
“A very pretty girl, that one.”
“Very pretty, Captain. But I never expected she’d be working at the Mount Puritan.”
The Mount Puritan was in Sachem on the south side of Cape Cod along Buzzards Bay. A few years before, the resort hotel had been bought by a Boston racketeer, Chester Raynham, who had become legitimate. He had completely renovated the hotel and had added a quarter-of-a-million-dollar swimming pool.
“Chet’s a respectable citizen now,” Dondera said without expression. “A lot of those kind go very virtuous on us.”
“Which kind?”
“Mostly those who have kids growing up,” Dondera said bleakly. “They want to get their kids into the best private schools and the Ivy League colleges. Others get old or sick and they’re worried about death. They want the Church to give them a break. In their own twisted way, they think they can buy in, like in everything else. So a lot of money starts going to charity. They take some of their loot and buy a legitimate business and respectability. They open up fancy nightclubs and restaurants, here, or in New York, Chicago, Las Vegas, Miami, Los Angeles, Havana. If there’s license trouble they use straws. Now they’re characters—warm characters, a little rough-cut, but with hearts of gold. They kid about the times they were naughty boys. All the stink of death and corruption are now nothing but the acts of a once rough, but now reformed, character. That’s our Chet Raynham.”
I remembered the Mount Puritan. I remembered some of the big politicians who had stayed at the hotel on the free list. Not many. A U.S. Senator, a Congressman, a state legislator or two, and somebody in the Governor’s office. I also knew these things were not mentioned in company.
Dondera poured more coffee into his cup. “Which brings us to your young friend, Kirk Chanslor. His mother said he’d been hanging around the hotel the past few weekends.”
“You said his girl works there, Captain.”
“Mrs. Chanslor thinks it’s more than that.”
“Has anyone spoken to Raynham?”
“Lieutenant Archambaud was over there a little while ago. Raynham says he never heard of the boy. I’ve had Chester Raynham in my territory for five years. He sneers at us. I keep a tight check on him. I’m sorry to admit I’ve never found him out of line.”
“Captain, what do you think happened to Kirk Chanslor?”
Dondera shook his head. “Honestly, I don’t know. He was last seen by his mother at 7:30 P.M. Friday night. He drove off in his car. He didn’t say where he was going and the only clothes he had were the ones he was wearing. We spoke to a few people and we found out nothing. There’s a G.A. out on him.” He drank his coffee. “Where are you planning to stay, Ralph?”
“With your permission, sir, I’d like to stay here.”
“Sure. Speak to Sergeant Hyber. He’ll fix you up with a room. You want to go to bed now?”
“No, sir. I’d like to drive over to Sachem and speak with Kirk’s mother.”
“Now?” Dondera twisted around and looked up at the wall clock. “It’s almost one o’clock in the morning.”
“I’ve got to report back Wednesday morning, Captain. It doesn’t give me much time. If I know Mrs. Chanslor, she won’t be asleep.”
“All right,” he said. “Anything comes up, let me know right away.”
“I will, sir,” I said.
Chapter 4
It was a small house about fifty years old. It had no particular design. Just a plain old, wooden-frame house, two stories high, painted gray with a white trim around the windows and doors. There was an open porch in front. The lights were on. I pulled up along the sidewalk and parked.
I went up the walk, up three stairs and onto the porch. I rang the bell. I waited. The door was flung open and a small, thin woman poked her head out. She was wearing no makeup and her hair was a faded reddish-blonde.
“Kirk,” she cried. “My God, Kirk, I was beside myself with—”
Then she peered at me. Her hand reached out slowly, tentatively, and clasped mine. “Ralph. Ralph, dear.”
She held my hand tightly. Her mouth trembled. She looked behind me. “Is he with you?”
“No, Mrs. Chanslor,” I said.
She looked once more, then released my hand and closed the door. We went into the living room.
“You haven’t heard from him?” she asked.
“No. I’m sorry.”
“He never came home,” she said.
“I wouldn’t worry about it. These things happen all the time. He’ll turn up.”
“But you know Kirk. He’s always been a good, steady boy. He just wouldn’t go off like this.”
“Let’s not worry about it.”
“A mother always worries. You just can’t tell a mother not to worry.”
“I realize that, too,” I said. “Why don’t you sit down and talk to me?”
She sat down on the sofa and I sat down in the chair opposite her. She was a woman in her mid-forties. There was an air of fright and despair about her. I couldn’t blame her for that. She had been all alone in that empty house waiting for news of her son. She had known that kind of waiting before.
“Andy Reardon was just here,” she said abstractedly. “The Chief of Police in Sachem.”
“Yes, I know him.” I looked over to the fireplace mantel. On it was a picture of her late husband in his National Guard uniform. Next to it was one of Kirk with a big grin on his face.
“Everybody has tried to be helpful,” she said. “Really, they have. But I’m so glad you came. It makes a difference when there’s someone who’s close, Ralph.”
“Sure, Mrs. Chanslor.”
“I know how strict they are at the Academy,” she said. “They haven’t dismissed Kirk, have they?”
“Of course not.”
“He’d be heartbroken if they dismissed him.”
“Don’t worry. They’re giving him until Wednesday. He’ll be back long before then.”
“He will, won’t he, Ralph?”
“Sure, he will. Now tell me about Friday night. What time did he leave here?”
“About half-past seven.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“Over to the hotel.”
“Which hotel?”
“The Mount Puritan.”
I stared at her. “Did you tell anybody else this?”
“Not exactly. I told the State Police and Andy Reardon that he’d been hanging around the hotel the last couple of weekends. But I didn’t tell them about Fr
iday night.”
“Why not?”
Her hands twisted in her lap. “Kirk’s been doing some investigating on his own. I know he’s not supposed to.”
“He has a right as a private citizen, which he is. The only danger is that he might step on something that’s already pegged by a legitimate police department.”
“I was afraid to tell anyone,” she said.
“What kind of investigating was he doing?”
“Gambling.”
“At the Mount Puritan?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of gambling?”
“He didn’t say. He merely said he was investigating some gambling at the hotel.”
“Did he tell you who was doing the gambling?”
“No.”
“Did he say where in the hotel the gambling was taking place?”
“No.”
“Did he mention any names at all?”
Her eyelids closed and opened again. “He mentioned a girl at the hotel. No, not Iva. A girl named Connie. Connie Ossipee.”
“Did you contact this girl?”
“Yes, I called the hotel. She’s a waitress there. She said she hadn’t seen Kirk this weekend.”
“How long has this gambling investigation been going on?”
“The last two weekends. This Friday night he came home all excited, changed clothes and went right out.”
“What time did he say he’d be home?”
“He told me not to wait up for him. He was all worked up. I told him he should stay home and rest. They’ve pushed him quite hard at the Academy. But he didn’t pay any attention to me.”
“Can you remember if he mentioned any other people?”
“No.”
“Did he say anything at all? I mean, some sort of remark that you can remember. Anything.”
She was silent. She closed her eyes again in thought. “Yes, but it was nothing. Some silly, facetious remark.”
“What was that?”
“He said he was going to find out how a person could change the color of their eyes.”
“How a person could do what, Mrs. Chanslor?”
“Change the color of their eyes.”
“Just that and no more?”
“Yes. I know it sounds ridiculous. So ridiculous that maybe I misunderstood him.”
“And that was all he said?”
“That’s all. He kissed me, went out that door, got into his car and drove away. I haven’t seen him since.” She shook her head and moistened her lips. “I’m so confused, Ralph. For one thing, he came home Friday night instead of his usual time of Saturday afternoon. When I asked him, he said he had won a prize for being on the best ball team at the school. He had gotten an extra night off on the weekend. It sounded odd, but he’s never lied to me before. Naturally, I believed him.”
“It was true,” I said. “Kirk is one of our best recruits.”
“I’ll make some coffee,” she said distractedly. “Excuse me. It won’t take long.”
I stood up. I didn’t want the coffee, but I thought it would be better if she had something to do. I went with her into the small, old-fashioned kitchen. She put coffee into the percolator, added water and a pinch of salt, and set it to boil.
I sat down on one of the chrome kitchen chairs. As she put place mats on the formica-topped table, she said, “Have you spoken to Iva yet?”
“No,” I said. “I just got into town.”
“Iva must have phoned me twenty times. She hasn’t seen Kirk at all this weekend.”
“Didn’t she expect him Friday?”
“No. He didn’t tell her about the extra day off. Later, she heard he was in town. She went looking for him but she couldn’t find him.”
Mrs. Chanslor put out a cream pitcher, two paper napkins, two plates, two spoons and part of a homemade chocolate cake. “You went with Iva for almost a year,” she said. “I don’t know how you still feel about her, Ralph.”
“It’s all water over the dam,” I said. “I have nothing against either Iva or Kirk.”
“I’m glad. Kirk has always looked up to you. The situation used to bother him a lot.”
“He shouldn’t have felt that way at all.”
“Iva is a lovely and sensible girl. But she’s always wanted more out of life than she now has. That’s why I could never understand why she took up with Kirk.”
“Don’t underestimate your son.”
“I don’t.”
“I think she’s finally realized what she wants,” I said.
“But how much can Kirk give her in the next few years? God knows I want the best for him. If he’s happy with her that’s all that matters.”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s the most important.”
The coffee was ready. She poured it into the cups and sat down. We barely touched it. She had no taste for the coffee. Neither did I.
I said, “I don’t remember if Kirk was much of a gambler himself. Was he?”
“No. Once in a while he’d have the boys in for poker. They’d play a penny-ante game and drink a little beer. The most anyone could lose would be a few dollars. As far as the race track was concerned, he once said he had no desire for it. I think he’s gone to a race track twice in his life.”
“How was he on lotteries and number pools?”
“You knew Kirk. He never bothered with those things. Why?”
“I’m trying to find out about his sudden interest in gambling.”
“Kirk has a natural curiosity about things. He was always that way. Since he was a child.”
“I know,” I said. I stood up and patted her on the shoulder. “Why don’t you see if you can get some sleep?”
“I can’t sleep,” she said briefly.
There was the sound of the telephone ringing from the living room. She jumped up and ran for it. I followed her. She picked up the phone and spoke. Then she listened. Her jaw muscles sagged in disappointment. She turned and held out the phone to me.
“The call’s for you,” she said.
I took up the telephone, turning my back to her. Not to be rude. I didn’t want her to hear in case it was bad news. I spoke and listened. Then I answered succinctly. I hung up. She was staring at me anxiously.
“It’s nothing,” I said.
“About Kirk? Bad news?”
“No,” I said. “Nothing. It’s something else. I have to go.”
“You’re sure it isn’t news about Kirk?” she asked.
“I’m sure,” I said. “It’s something else, Mrs. Chanslor. I’m sorry, I have to go now.”
I went to the front door. Once more I told her not to worry, which was trite and ineffectual, but there was nothing else to say. I said good night and went down the walk to my car. The air was heavy with the scent of flowers and ripening blueberries. The night lay like a heavy black cloak over everything.
I had lied to her, probably not very convincingly. But I had lied. Something had come up about Kirk Chanslor and it was not good. I was going over to see about it now.
Chapter 5
I drove downtown into Sachem. The main street of the town was called Sea Street because, eventually, it came out to the waterside at Buzzards Bay. To the left I passed the little one-story, cut-stone public library, Bay’s Men’s Shop, the white Congregational Church with its tall white spire, all dark. Past Marion’s Tots and Togs, Bowie’s Package Liquor Store, the Gem Theater, dark now. The lights were still on at the Oak Tavern and the little gray clapboard building, the ex-church which was now the Town Hall, police station and jail.
I pulled up in front of the building. Chief of Police Andy Reardon was waiting for me at the curb.
I got out of my car. “Hi, Andy,” I said. We shook hands.
“Ralph,” he said, “it’s been a year, more or less.”
“More,” I said. “How’s it going, Andy?”
“So-so,” he said. “Want to use my car?”
“We’d better,” I said. My own personal car
had no police radio. His was connected to the Barnstable County Radio Network which, in turn, was linked to the Yarmouth State Police Barracks.
I got into his Chevrolet. He went around and slid in behind the wheel. He was a tall young man of about thirty. His face had a shiny coppery tan. He wore gray chino pants and an open-collared gray chino shirt with a gold badge pinned to the breast pocket. On his head was a blue, visored cap with a gold cord and a gold-plated cap device. He wore a wide leather belt around his middle. Clipped to it at the hip was an open leather holster. In the holster the revolver butt was wrapped in black friction tape. Andy Reardon was a veteran of the Korean War. He was married and had three small children and, except for the war years, had lived in Sachem all his life. The police department was a part-time, one-man job, except for the summer months when the town added a special for night work. The pay as Chief was inadequate. Reardon had held the job for four years and was trying to leave it. His own fuel oil and gardening business was growing and took up too much of his time, and he had been trying without success to get the selectmen to replace him. What the town wanted was a resident state trooper, whose salary and expenses they would pay, but who would still be under the jurisdiction and authority of the Troop D commander. The system had been tried in Connecticut and seemed to be working well. Massachusetts had not looked upon the plan with any favor as yet.
As he started the car he told me what had happened. His night man, Charley Groote, who had been riding patrol in a small pickup truck, had come across something. He had been down in Shacktown, the slum area of Sachem. There Groote had come upon a man named Sal Aguerra, who was removing the number plates from a 1956 green Ford hardtop with a black top. Aguerra was a smalltime thief. The Ford was parked in front of his house. When Groote approached him and began to ask questions, Aguerra struck him with a blackjack. As Groote went down Aguerra kicked him. Groote lost consciousness. When he came to, he could hear Aguerra inside his house, talking loudly and drinking. He felt for his pistol. It was gone. He got back to the truck and drove to the Town Hall to report to Reardon. Reardon had patched him up and had then called me. Kirk Chanslor owned a 1956 green Ford hardtop with a black top.
“It could mean nothing,” Reardon said.
