by Ben Benson
“My pleasure,” he said. “I always did like your outfit. If I can be of any more help—”
“If you hear of anything, phone me at the Middleboro Barracks. If I’m not in, leave a message or phone Lieutenant Gahagan. You know him?”
“Sure, I’ve known Sam a long time. He’s a good cop.” Bellanca put the snapshot away in his inside breast pocket. “That kid’ll show up one of these days. How many times does it happen?”
“Enough, I guess. Thanks, Jack.”
“No trouble,” he said. He made a grimace. “Now I’ve got to go upstairs. Somebody has been stealing linen lately.”
He waved to the bartender and went back into the lobby. I sat there for a moment and had a cigarette. Then I thanked the barman for the orange juice and walked outside.
I stood on the veranda. The sun was bright and the sky was very blue. A warm salt breeze came in off the water.
I went down the stairs toward the parking lot. Somebody called, “Ralph.” I turned. Iva Hancock was hurrying down the stairs toward me, her slim legs flashing. I stopped and waited.
She came up breathlessly. I took off my hat. She said, “Oh, I was certain I’d miss you. This was the first chance I had of getting out. And I don’t have much time. Can we talk for a moment?”
“Of course,” I said. I looked across the deep-green lawn. Scattered over its surface were dozens of gaily striped umbrellas. Beneath the umbrellas were small, circular, glass-topped tables and wrought-iron chairs.
“Come on,” I said.
She held back. “Not there,” she said. “Those tables are reserved for the guests.”
“Come on,” I said. “Things are quiet and the waiters are standing around looking bored.”
She went along with me to the edge of the grass, stood hesitantly for a moment, then came on. A red-coated waiter whipped out two chairs very smartly. Iva sat down. I sat down opposite her. The waiter handed us the wine list almost instantly.
I looked inquiringly at Iva. “Nothing, please,” she said. The waiter cocked an eye at me, his order pad in his hand, his pencil poised.
“I’ll have a cup of coffee,” I said. “Black.”
The waiter said, “Perhaps the young lady would care for a non-alcoholic drink, too.”
“Yes, ginger ale, please,” she said.
He wrote it down, smiled brightly and went away.
I watched him go. Then I said to Iva, “Does he know you?”
“The waiter?” she asked. “I don’t think so. I don’t live in like most of the other help.”
The waiter came back and put down two tiny linen napkins with the letters M P woven on them in red thread. He put a glass of ginger ale in front of Iva. It was tall and frosted, had two striped straws and was garnished with a cherry. Before me he placed my coffee, clicked his heels sharply and went off.
She said, “Was there any trouble with Mr. Raynham?”
I shook my head. “No.” Then I picked up my cup and drank. The coffee was freshly brewed and aromatic.
“Did you tell Mr. Raynham about me?”
“It never came up,” I said. “So I didn’t tell him. Why? Would it make any difference, Iva?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Mr. Raynham is such a fuss-budget about those things. If you say Kirk was working on something around the hotel—”
“You think Raynham wouldn’t like it?”
“I know he’s fired girls for less than that. He might think I fed Kirk confidential information from the files.”
“But you didn’t?”
She sipped on her straws. “No. Kirk never asked me to. I don’t think he was working on anything around the hotel.”
“Why are you so sure?”
“Because he always confided in me. We had no secrets from each other.” She looked at me. “I can tell you’re holding something back, Ralph.”
I stared at her. The ginger ale was forgotten temporarily and her face was taut with anxiety.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was about to tell you. They found Kirk’s car in Buford this morning.”
“And Kirk?”
“He wasn’t in it and the car wasn’t damaged.”
“Oh, Lord,” she said. “Where in Buford?”
“Off the road. In the woods.”
“Just the car and nothing else?”
“Just the car.”
“What do you think, Ralph?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Any sign that Kirk was in trouble?”
“No. I don’t think so. They’ve impounded the car and they’re still working on it.”
She was silent as her eyes roamed over the lawn. Then she tinned to me and said, “No, he’s in trouble. Bad trouble.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know. I have a premonition.”
“Doesn’t mean a thing. My mother has premonitions all the time. They almost never come true.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Would you know if there were any bookies around the hotel? Maybe one of the employees?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I haven’t heard of anybody.”
“Have you heard about some big card games here?”
“Just rumors.”
“What rumors?”
“That some of the guests play for big stakes.”
“Did you hear that a lot of money changed hands last weekend?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Did any checks come through the office to be cashed?”
“Many,” she said. “We cash checks all the time.”
“Do you remember some of the amounts?”
“I’m not the cashier, Ralph. But I can find out.”
“Please do.”
“I will,” she said. “Did you find out about Connie Ossipee?”
“I looked at a picture of her in the files.”
“Is she pretty?”
“She’s attractive enough,” I said.
“Attractive enough for Kirk?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know his tastes. Aren’t you acting like a jealous wife or something?”
“No,” she said. “I’m interested in her connection with Kirk. Aren’t you going to take her in and question her?”
“No. I’m going to interview her when I see her. That’s all I can do. She may answer my questions or not, as she sees fit. So far, all we know is that a trainee from the Academy has disappeared. There’s no evidence of any crime. Nothing but a mist or fog over everything. Did you ever try to grab fog in your hands?”
“I’m sorry if I’ve been acting so urgent about everything,” she said. “I’m very worried about Kirk.”
“Sure you are. I don’t blame you.”
“Remember how I used to worry about you?” she asked.
“I remember. Iva, sometimes you’re too serious for a girl your age.”
“I never did have a very gay life. What would you expect?”
“I realize it. But please don’t worry about Kirk. Don’t always anticipate the worst. Too many people do—needlessly.”
“It’s easy to say.”
“I know. But it’s true.”
“Will you worry for me?”
“Yes.”
“You have to find him,” she said.
“I’ll try my best.”
She looked at her tiny gold wristwatch. “My Lord, I’m late, very late. I must go. No, don’t come with me. Stay here a moment or two. It will look better. Try and see me tonight, Ralph. And if you learn of anything in the meantime—”
“Sure,” I said, standing up. “I’ll let you know right away.”
She stood up. “I’m frightened,” she said. Then she was off, swiftly, hurrying across the lawn and up the stairs. A shadow appeared on the grass close to me. I turned. It was the waiter. He said, “Will there be anything else, sir?”
“No, thanks.”
He brought out a card. Then he extended a gold pencil toward me.
&nb
sp; “No, I’ll pay for it,” I said.
“The guests usually sign, sir.”
“I’m not a guest,” I said. I put two dollars in his hand.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Do you know a girl named Constance Ossipee?”
His manner became frosty. He looked down at the money in his hand. “You mean the waitress, sir?”
“That’s right,” I said. “Do you know where I can find her?”
“No,” he said. “I don’t have any idea.”
“Okay, thanks,” I said.
I walked off.
Chapter 8
I went across the greensward, across the big flagstone walk toward the tennis courts. I watched the players for a moment. Then I continued on around to the big violin-shaped swimming pool. A short, chubby man leaped off the springboard and roiled the blue water with a prodigious splash. I went up the stone steps toward the employees’ dormitory. There were a few young men in front, lounging on mats, wearing shorts and shining with suntan oil, sunning themselves.
I turned back, past the hotel and down to the parking area, where I ransomed my car from the attendant. Then I swung out and started down toward the main gate. I looked toward the velvet green golf course across the road. Near the gate a group of people were walking toward me carrying fishing tackle. At the edge of the highway a girl was getting into a pale-green Cadillac sedan with New York license plates. There was a man already inside behind the wheel. The girl was a blonde. There was a small oval mole on her cheek near her full lower lip.
The car started up in the direction of Sachem. I turned out onto the road and followed.
They went straight into the village. The Cadillac stopped in front of the Oak Tavern. I pulled up behind it. The man got out first and went around to the cobblestoned sidewalk. He was about my age. His hair was a darker shade of blond than the girl’s, but he was tall, lithe and good-looking. His face had a golden tan. He was dressed in a blue flannel blazer with silver, coinlike buttons and some indecipherable yachting insignia on the breast pocket. His shirt was a soft, light white. He wore tropical-weight gray slacks and gray buck shoes.
The girl eased out on her side. When her tight skirt slid up I saw she had a very shapely, well-tanned leg. She stood on the sidewalk under the widespreading oak tree, glancing momentarily at my car. She was about five-three, but her high-heeled white sandals made her look taller. She was dressed in a gray linen suit and white blouse. She carried a gray straw clutch bag. She was pretty. She would have been prettier, I thought, if she wore less rouge, less eyeshadow and less caked lipstick. She was chewing gum with a maddening cadence.
They walked inside the Oak Tavern. I followed them to the door. The outside had small, diamond-paned windows. A swinging sign over the entrance had a coat of arms on it. It said Founded 1742.
I opened the brass-studded door. In the cool darkness there was a bar on the right. To the left was a row of rough-hewn oak tables and chairs. An older man and woman were seated on tall wooden stools at the bar. The couple who had just come in were settling down at one of the tables in the corner. I went over to them.
“Miss Ossipee?” I asked.
She stared up at me. “Yes,” she said. Her voice was slightly harsh and dissonant.
“You don’t know me,” I said. “I’m Ralph Lindsey. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”
“That’s swell,” she said warily. “About what?”
“Something personal,” I said. “It can wait until you’re alone.”
The young man had risen when I came over to the table. His eyes were a bright blue. He was about five-eleven. He had been waiting significantly.
“Oh,” she said to me. “This is my friend, Wendell Starrett. Wen’s been staying at the Mount Puritan.”
He put out his hand and shook mine limply. “What did you say your name was?”
“Ralph Lindsey.”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Connie and I were just saying goodbye. I checked out of the hotel at noon.”
“I’m sorry I interrupted,” I said. “It can wait until later, Miss Ossipee. I just wanted to make sure you’d be around.”
“Oh, hell,” Starrett said. “No need to go away. You act like you’re either a policeman or a bill collector.”
“Well, I happen to be a state trooper,” I said.
“You see?” Starrett said. “I’m the discerning type. Am I involved in this?”
“No,” I said. “It can wait until later.”
“Very mysterious,” Starrett said. “I was about to drop over to the post office. Why don’t we order you and Connie a drink? You two can sit here and talk while I take care of my errands. How’s that?”
“It’s okay with me,” I said. I looked at Constance Ossipee. She sighed and nodded her head with a sort of quiet desperation. I sat down. Starrett remained standing.
“Wen,” she said, “make sure I’m back at four.”
“Plenty of time,” he said. “I’ll drive you right back to the dorm.”
A man in dark pants and a white shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows came over and asked for our orders. His name was Edmonds and he was the owner of the Oak Tavern. He had known me when I had patrolled the territory out of the Yarmouth Barracks. I had been in there on my time off on a few occasions. He stared at me. But when I made no sign of recognition his face remained aloof and impassive.
He said, “Your pleasure, folks?”
“A vodka and tonic for the lady,” Starrett said. “What will you have, Lindsey?”
“I’ll have a gin and tonic,” I said.
“And I’ll have mine later,” Starrett said to Edmonds. He turned to us and said, “I’ll run along now. Won’t be long. You two can have your chat.” He went out.
She was chewing her gum steadily, her fingers tapping the scarred top of the table. The drinks came. She didn’t touch hers.
She said, “Now would you kind of mind showing me some papers or a badge or something?”
“Not at all,” I said. I showed her my badge, then my I.D. folder.
She studied my picture under the plastic cover. Then she smiled. “Hey, that’s the first identification picture I’ve ever seen that didn’t make a person look like a crook. I had a girl friend once who took some passport pictures. Honestly, she looked awful. Like a refugee, or something.”
“I was lucky,” I said. “The State Police photographer is a friend of mine.”
“All right,” she said, chewing her gum rapidly. “Let’s get the rest of it over with. What did you want to see me about?”
“Kirk Chanslor.”
“Who?”
“Kirk Chanslor. Do you know him?”
“Who said I did?”
“His mother.”
“What am I supposed to know?” she asked. “Is he in trouble?”
“That’s what I’m asking you.”
“How would I know?”
“He’s disappeared. We’re looking for him.”
“What’s it got to do with me?”
“You knew him, Connie, didn’t you?”
“How much did I know him? I saw him once or twice. Why make such a big deal of it?”
“Who’s making a big deal?”
“You are. I don’t want to get involved with the cops.”
“Nobody does.”
“Especially me. Something happens and right away the cops come around interfering with your privacy. That’s why people give cops a bad time. They don’t want to be witnesses and everything and have to go to court. You can’t blame them. You understand there’s nothing personal in this.”
“I understand. What do you mean you saw him only once or twice? On dates?”
“No. We never dated. I meant just what I said. He came around the hotel dorm a couple of times and asked me questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“About would I keep my ears open in the dining room and report to him the conversations I heard.”
“What kind of conversations?”
“Criminal conversations. He said a waitress hears a lot of stuff.”
“What specifically?”
“Nothing specifically.”
“All he wanted was a report of criminal conversations?”
“Yes.”
I shook my head. “It doesn’t fit, Connie.”
“Why?”
“Too foolish. Too childish. Kirk Chanslor wouldn’t operate that way.”
“I can’t help it. That’s what he wanted.”
“Did he identify himself to you?”
“He told me his name and that he came from around here.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s all.”
“Didn’t he tell you why he wanted the information?”
“No. He kind of hinted he was some kind of a cop. But whatever he was doing was on his own. It wasn’t official.”
“Did he ever show you a badge or anything?”
“No, I never asked him. I never gave him any information anyway. I had none.”
“Then why did you ask to see my badge?”
“Yours was different. You were asking about me.”
“Not until after I showed you the badge.”
“Then I don’t know. You were more businesslike. His was like a gag.”
“How many waitresses at the Mount Puritan?”
“About thirty.”
“Why did he pick on you particularly?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know an Iva Hancock?”
“No,” she said. She snapped her gum. “Who’s she?”
“It’s not important.”
She moved her gum to another cheek. “All right, what about this Chanslor? Was he a cop?”
“No, he was a civilian.”
“How long has he been missing?”
“Since Friday night. When did you last see him?”
“About ten days ago.”
“Where?”
“At the hotel,” she said. “I was in the dining room working. He came by the lobby and poked his head inside.”
“Did you see him this past weekend?”
“No.”
“Friday evening?”
“No.”
“Where were you Friday night?”
“In my room at the dorm. Later I went out for a little air.”
“Do you know everybody who works at the Mount Puritan?”
