Seven Steps East

by Ben Benson

  “Enough to buy my wife a mink coat.”

  Chapter 20

  The watch on Constance Ossipee continued. They were now using a walkie-talkie with the man watching the dormitory from the wooded area. Any tailing of the girl would now be done with a radio car.

  A cover had been put on the bungalow at Sandwich. So far there was no trace of either Arthur Nassim or Wendell Starrett. The sand I had picked up on the beach had exactly the same properties as that found in Chanslor s pants cuffs—including a trace of D.D.T.

  The watch on Connie Ossipee went on around the clock. It was hoped she would lead us to the two men. If we picked her up and the men learned about it they might be frightened into flight. This way they would not know and might feel reasonably safe. The trouble was that it was now Friday. If we got no results we would have to pick her up, anyway, the next day to prevent her from leaving the state. Time was growing very short.

  At six o’clock Friday evening I took over the walkie-talkie from Sergeant Bob Wolk. It was quiet in the woods. At eight o’clock Connie Ossipee, wearing her waitress uniform, left the employees’ entrance of the Mount Puritan, came up the hill past me and entered the dormitory.

  At eight-thirty it was becoming dark and a horde of mosquitoes descended on me. I fought a losing battle against them. At nine o’clock a girl came out of the rear of the dorm carrying a suitcase. I couldn’t make out who she was. She went toward the parking lot and opened the door of a small foreign car.

  I radioed Gahagan immediately. He told me to stick with her. He would send assistance.

  I ran down to where the black detective cruiser was parked, got in and waited. A few moments later the little car came chugging down through the entrance gates, headed north through Sachem and out onto Route 28.

  I followed. She was taking the same direction as last time, going along the south side of the canal. This trip she was driving much faster.

  When she came to Sagamore she did not turn right on 6A toward Sandwich. Instead she turned north, went over the canal on the Sagamore Bridge, passed the Scusset Beach Road and headed up 3A toward Plymouth. I stayed behind her, sometimes widening the distance, sometimes narrowing it. At times I kept my light beam high. When she made a curve I would change the beam to low again to break the pattern. A few times I would let a car pass me and slip in between her car and mine, yet keeping her in sight at all times.

  Beyond Ellisville there was a lighted sign on the right that said ROYAL COLONIAL HOTEL. She turned sharply there onto a narrow road. I went by, drove ahead a hundred yards, made a full circle and entered in after her. In the distance I could see the tiny taillights of her car disappear around a bend.

  I came around the bend. There was a stone bridge over a small tidal river. Beyond it, against the sea, was the Royal Colonial Hotel. It was huge and white and brilliantly lighted, with many pennants flying from the tops of its dormers.

  The little gray car had not entered the hotel grounds. It was standing along the side of the road with its parking lights on. I saw Connie Ossipee hurrying up the walk toward the hotel entrance. She was not carrying the suitcase.

  I went by, turned the car and parked it, lights out, facing in the direction from which I had come. I radioed Gahagan where I was. Then I got out and went up to the hotel.

  The Royal Colonial had no front porch. It had, instead, a high stately colonnade of beveled, round white posts. From the front a striped canopy came down over the driveway. A tall, broad doorman stood under the colonnade. I went past him and looked in through the plate-glass front door.

  The lobby was modern—glass and metal and bright fabrics. Connie Ossipee, her back to me, was at the other side of it, talking earnestly to the desk clerk. She was wearing a dark dress and black high-heeled shoes. Thrown over her shoulders was a white woolen sweater. Every so often the clerk would shake his head slowly.

  She stopped talking and looked quickly around the lobby. Then she was back in discussion with the clerk. I saw him push a pad of paper and a ball-point pen over to her. She wrote something down, sealed it in an envelope and gave it to the clerk. The clerk hit the bell at his side. A young bellman came over and took the sealed envelope. The girl fumbled in her handbag as she explained something to him. He kept nodding. She pressed a bill into his hand.

  The young bellman went away. Connie Ossipee sat down in one of the lobby chairs. By this time I was aware that the doorman had been staring at me.

  I turned to him and said, “It’s okay. I’m waiting for a friend. He’s a guest and he’s late coming down from his room.”

  “Yes, sir,” the doorman said. “Wouldn’t you rather wait in the lobby?”

  “Thanks, but I like the fresh air.” I took out a cigarette, lit it and looked back into the lobby. The girl was no longer sitting in the chair and for one frantic second I thought I had lost her. But then I saw she was up on her feet, pacing back and forth, holding her white sweater around her. Five minutes went by. I threw my cigarette butt away into a sand-filled urn next to the door. People came in and out.

  I glanced in again. Connie Ossipee was now standing at the magazine rack. The young bellman came back. He said something to her. She sat down in her chair again. I waited. People pushed by me. I moved over to one side.

  Then I looked in again and saw Wendell Starrett. He was coming toward her from the elevator bank. She stood up quickly. He put his arm around her shoulder but she edged away from him. They were arguing. Then he smiled and patted her cheek. She did not seem to be appeased. He turned away and headed back for the elevators. Connie Ossipee started for the front door.

  I said to the doorman, “I guess my friend isn’t coming. Good night.” And I went rapidly down to the road, turned right and got into my car.

  Parked across from it was a beige-colored detective sedan. In it was Sergeant Bill Uhlberg.

  “The girl’s coming out,” I said to him. “Starrett is in there.”

  “Stay with her,” Uhlberg said.

  Connie Ossipee came down and got into the little gray sedan. She started the motor, snapped on her headlights and made a U turn. She went back toward Route 3A. I started up, headlights off, and followed her.

  When she came to 3A she turned north into a medium flow of traffic. I turned after her and switched on my lights. We drove about a mile. On the left there was a second-rate motel with a yellow neon sign that said GIBBEY’S COTTAGES. She turned in and stopped at the office in front. I drove by, turned around and parked off the road with lights out.

  She had gone into the office. I could see her standing near a window there talking with someone. Then a tall, cadaverous woman came out with Connie Ossipee behind her. They got into the little car. The car went down a slope between two rows of cabins. When they came to the last cabin on the right, the car stopped. They got out. This time Connie Ossipee was carrying her suitcase. The woman opened the cabin door and turned on the lights, and they both went inside. A moment later the woman came out and walked up to her office. I got out of my car and stood watching the end cottage. The shades came down.

  I watched for ten minutes. Nothing happened. The lights did not go out. I reported to Gahagan by radio. Fifteen minutes later I was relieved by a trooper in civilian clothes who had been sent down from the Norwell substation north of Plymouth.

  I drove back to the Royal Colonial. The beige-colored detective car was still parked there with Sergeant Uhlberg inside. I spoke to him briefly. Then I went inside the hotel.

  It was now close to midnight. The lobby had become crowded. Many of the men wore white dinner jackets and cummerbunds. The ladies wore cashmere sweaters with mink collars, mink stoles, or little mink pouf capes. Listening to their conversations I gathered that the play at the summer theater had been successful.

  At his desk, the room clerk was busily delivering keys and messages and answering inquiries. I smoked a cigarette and waited. When there was a lull I went up to him and identified myself.

  I asked him if Wendell Star
rett was registered. He looked at the card index and said that Starrett was a guest.

  I said, “Is he in his room now?”

  The clerk looked over at the section of pigeonholes. He said, “Mr. Starrett’s key is there. He probably isn’t in his room right now. Would you want me to ring and make sure?”

  “Please.”

  The clerk picked up one of the desk telephones. I looked around the lobby.

  The clerk said, “He doesn’t answer. Would you care to leave a message or have him paged?”

  “Right now I’d like to see the manager, please.”

  Chapter 21

  The managing director of the Royal Colonial was a short, middle-aged man with an affable and attentive manner. His name was Ronald Paine. I sat with him in his modern, air-conditioned office. It was neat and uncluttered and the furniture was of stark design.

  He said, “If there’s been any card cheating going on we appreciate hearing about it. We’ll stop it at once.”

  “Good,” I said.

  “Now who is this person who’s cheating at cards?”

  “One of your guests. Wendell Starrett.”

  Paine shook his head sadly. “Too bad. I was hoping he wasn’t one of the guests.”

  “He is. And he’s probably sitting in on a game right now.”

  “Wendell Starrett,” Paine mused. “I know him. His firm sells a line of fancy, imported delicacies.”

  “I’m afraid he has a fancy, imported line of his own, sir.”

  “Yes. Well, what do you suggest we do, Trooper Lindsey?”

  “First I’d like to talk with your bell captain and your security officer.”

  The security officer was an ex-Pinkerton detective named Hilty. The bell captain was a man named Gulliver. Also in the office was a young bellman.

  “Johnny,” Paine said to the young bellman, “where was Mr. Starrett when you brought him the message from the young lady?”

  “He was playing cards in Room 432, Mr. Paine.”

  “Ah,” Paine said. “You knew just where to find him, didn’t you? Have you been working for him?”

  The boy looked at the older bell captain. The bell captain said, “We usually know where the games are, Mr. Paine.”

  “How, Gulliver?”

  “They call room service, Mr. Paine.”

  Paine pursed his lips in disbelief. “Who else was in 432, Johnny?”

  “It’s the room of Mr. and Mrs. McIvor, sir,” the boy said. “I saw Mr. McIvor there.”

  “Anybody else?”

  “I also saw Mr. Metcalfe and Mr. Eccles. There were one or two more, Mr. Paine. I didn’t get a chance to see them.”

  “How many altogether?” Paine asked.

  “About six, sir.”

  Paine glanced over at me. I shook my head. Paine said to the boy and Gulliver, the bell captain, “You two can go now. We’ll have a talk later.”

  When they left, Paine said, “If they’ve been working a deal with Starrett, they’re through, of course. But I have to be absolutely sure the man is working a crooked game. Otherwise it could be disastrous for us.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Wendell Starrett was at the Mount Puritan last week. He won in excess of nine thousand dollars. We tested the type of card used there. They were marked.”

  “What do you mean, the type of card?” Hilty asked. “Didn’t you get the actual cards?”

  “We were too late,” I said.

  Hilty cocked a skeptical glance at me. He was a phlegmatic, older man, wearing a pale-blue sports shirt, blue lightweight slacks and light, perforated shoes. His face was tanned to a deep mahogany color. He looked like one of the guests.

  He said, “Was Starrett the only winner there?”

  “The only big one,” I said.

  Hilty looked at the ceiling thoughtfully. “If he’s playing with McIvor, Eccles and Metcalfe, he’s in the chips. They play a strong game.”

  “Starrett wouldn’t pick them out otherwise,” I said.

  Hilty picked up the guest card from Paine’s desk. He said, “Wendell Starrett. He lives in New York near Central Park. That’s a nice address he has, Trooper Lindsey.”

  “Have you seen him around here?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Hilty said. “I don’t place him, though. When I was with the Pinks I thought I knew every card thief in the business. He wasn’t one of them.”

  “He’s an amateur,” I said. “Sometimes those are the hardest to catch.”

  “He still has to have a gimmick,” Hilty said. “If he’s a manipulator then he’s going to win mostly on his own deals. They’d get wise to him.”

  “I said he was using marked decks.”

  “So you did,” Hilty said. “But what if I go up there and he’s playing straight now? You going to guarantee he’s using the marked cards at this minute?”

  “No, I can’t guarantee it.”

  “No,” Hilty said. “Because the girl might have been wise to something and came to warn him.”

  “I’ve thought of that, too,” I said.

  “I have to know what I’m looking for,” Hilty said.

  “You understand,” Paine said to me. “We can’t run the risk of a false-arrest suit.”

  “I understand perfectly,” I said. “You want to protect your guests, yet avoid any law suits.”

  “Of course,” Paine said.

  “Then I suggest you let the State Police do it their way,” I said. “We’ll handle it all right.”

  “I’m with you,” Paine said. “One hundred per cent.”

  I said, “I’d like to use your telephone, please.”

  I sat in a chair in the hotel lobby with a newspaper in front of me. I was watching the elevators. Time went by. I smoked. A pretty girl walked across the lobby and I studied her. There was a snatch of laughter from the cocktail lounge, and an extremely beautiful girl came out with two handsome young men. She leaned on the arm of one of the men and pushed the other away laughingly. They went by me and to the elevators. The clock above the clerk’s desk moved to midnight. Then to 12:30. The traffic waned.

  Then an elevator door opened. Three men came out first. Behind them was Wendell Starrett. The three men were older and well dressed. One turned to another and laughed with forced hilarity. The remaining two were quiet.

  As the four men came toward me I dropped the newspaper and stood up, moving directly into Starrett’s path. He brushed me aside with a quick apology.

  I said, “Wen Starrett?”

  He stopped, frowned, turned and peered at me as though he were nearsighted. There was something about him that was different from before. It was as though he was out of focus. I couldn’t place it.

  Suddenly his face became masked in a smile. He said, “Ralph Lindsey, old man. What are you doing here?”

  “I had to drop by oh some business,” I said negligently. “You staying here?”

  “Checked in yesterday.” He glanced over at the other three men who had stopped ahead. “You’ll have to excuse me, Ralph. I’m with friends. We’re going into the lounge bar for a nightcap. See you around, fellow.”

  He joined the others. I watched them go into the lounge bar. I dropped my newspaper on the chair and followed them into the dimly lighted room.

  They were at the long mahogany bar, clustered together. I went up to them. Starrett was ordering the drinks. I tapped him on the shoulder.

  I said, “Do you mind if I join you, old man? I’m a stranger in these parts.”

  He stared at me for a long moment. “Oh, Ralph. Sure.” He waved his arm. “Forgive my manners. But remembering the Oak Tavern I didn’t think you indulged.”

  “Occasionally,” I said.

  “Then be my guest. What will you have?”

  “Thanks, Wen. Make it Scotch on the rocks.”

  Starrett ordered it for me, then excused himself. He went in through the door marked Gentlemen.

  He had not introduced me to the others. I turned to the one nearest me and said,
“My name’s Ralph Lindsey. I’m a friend of Wen Starrett.”

  “Eccles,” the man said. “Carl Eccles.”

  We shook hands. Our drinks came. The other two men were whispering together. Eccles looked down at his drink, lifted it and said, “To your health, sir.”

  “A votre santé,” I said, watching the door where Starrett had gone. “It must have been quite a game.”

  “Phenomenal,” he said. “Absolutely phenomenal. I’ve never seen such runs of luck in my entire life. It made no difference who was dealing or how many times we changed cards and seats. When he got onto a streak you couldn’t stop him.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Your friend, Wen Starrett. Does he play that way all the time?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Phenomenal. As young as he is, that boy has card instinct and memory. And card sense. And the best knowledge of the odds of any man I’ve ever seen.”

  “And the luck?” I asked.

  “Oh, the bloody luck,” Eccles said. “The bloody, bloody luck.”

  “You must have ended up writing some very fat checks,” I said.

  “A debacle for all of us.” Eccles drank again. “Well, a man has to be philosophical about those things. Perhaps we’ll make it up tomorrow. You can’t run against the law of averages forever.”

  “No,” I said.

  “In the meantime, let’s take solace in alcohol.”

  The door opened and Starrett came back then. His manner was more at ease. He acted more comfortable, almost as though he had taken a narcotic or sedation.

  He put an arm around my shoulder and said, “How long have you been around tonight, Ralph?”

  “Since about half-past nine,” I said.

  “Nine-thirty,” he said slowly. He lifted his drink. Nine-thirty was when Constance Ossipee had arrived at the hotel.

  “About then,” I said. “I’ve been around off and on. How do you like it here?”

  “Great,” he said absently.