by Andrew Hunt
“Go ahead and ring the doorbell,” said Cannon.
I moved up the porch stairs and passed an irate-looking Roscoe on my way to the door. I pressed the doorbell. Inside it buzzed.
Roscoe and I waited. Nielsen snapped photographs of us waiting for somebody to answer the door. I pressed the doorbell once more. Again it buzzed inside. My pulse picked up speed, and my hands developed a case of the shakes. At tense moments like this, I felt myself gripped by a deep yearning to go home, to be with my family, the one place in the world I knew to be safe and warm and full of love.
I faced Cannon. “Nobody’s answering.”
“Step back and let Lund do his thing, then.”
I opened the wood-and-wire screen door, and Roscoe stared at an arched white front door with three rectangular windows on it. He turned the doorknob, it clicked, and he pushed the door open a few inches. Inside, closed drapes darkened the room. Roscoe raised his revolver and nudged the door another couple of inches, enough to sidle in.
“Proceed with caution,” Cannon called out from the front walkway.
I drew my gun and followed Roscoe into the darkness. The only light came from the glowing dial of a radio on the table next to the love seat. The fabric-covered speaker chimed with a man’s voice while a quartet sang the Lifebuoy theme in the background. “Remember to buy Lifebuoy Health Soap, and while you’re at it, pick up a tube of Lifebuoy shaving cream for him, both available at your local druggist for ten cents…”
I switched off the radio and scanned the room, every inch crammed full of furniture, with rows of dilapidated encyclopedias on bookshelves built into the wall. The furniture was probably about ten years old, frayed and faded but usable, with a Sears, Roebuck floral design. I’m guessing it came from a catalog—sturdy, but not built to last.
I stepped inside the kitchen, a box-shaped room with closed Venetian blinds, pots and glasses in the sink, and a table covered with breakfast food—sliced fruits, a box of Wheaties, and a bottle of milk. I lifted the bottle to my nose, and it smelled fresh and was still cold, as if it had only been out of the icebox an hour. Clearly, the breakfast had been made earlier this morning.
I advanced to a closed door near the icebox. Turning the knob, I flung the door open, pivoted, and aimed my gun around the corner. Wooden stairs descended into a pitch-black cellar. I held the railing and moved carefully down the stairs, and what little light there was grew dimmer with each step. When I reached bottom, I caught a glimmer of light from a chain dangling from the ceiling. I tugged it. A low-wattage globe dangling from an electrical cord above my head bathed the room with soft white light. Either C. W. Alexander or someone else in the house was a collector of magazines, because there were stacks and stacks of them. I scanned the rest of the basement. There were boxes everywhere. One had the Chero-Cola logo on top, along with the words AMERICA’S FAVORITE SODA—STILL 5 CENTS A BOTTLE. I opened the lid and lifted a bottle. It wasn’t Chero-Cola. I stared at a sealed pint of Gordon’s Dry Gin.
“Any sign of anything?”
Cannon’s voice startled me, and I slipped the bottle back inside the box where I found it. “Bootleg liquor, sir. I’m guessing there’s lots of it in these boxes here.”
“I’ll notify the dry agents.”
“Find anything upstairs?” I asked.
“Looks to me like he’s skipped town,” said Cannon, stepping into the light. “Dammit! He’s our man. I’m convinced. He was the last person to be seen with Helen Pfalzgraf. We have the telephone logs from Mountain Bell to show that he was telephoning her house over and over. Years ago, he bilked Doc Pfalzgraf out money to invest in some fraudulent mine down in Carbon County. This guy reeks to high heaven.”
“What makes you think he’s skipped town?”
“I can tell. Drawers have been pulled out of the bedroom bureau. Clothes are strewn all over the place. Somebody packed in a mad rush. Judging from the pictures on the mantelpiece and a room full of toys, it looks like he has a wife and a couple of children.”
“What do you plan on doing, sir?”
Cannon stepped closer to me, smiling at a moment when nobody else would smile. “It’s not what am I going to do, Oveson. It’s what are you going to do. You are going to put out a statewide alert on C. W. Alexander, his family members, and his auto. While you’re at it, send it out to the surrounding states. We’re going to stop this cowardly murderer dead in his tracks. This is not, I repeat not, going to turn out to be another Hazel Hamilton case. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If I have it my way, this murdering bastard is going to have a date with the firing squad at Sugar House.”
“Yes, sir.”
Cannon nodded. “You said you found liquor?”
I took off my Stetson and waved it at the box with the gin bottles. “Right there.”
He stepped toward the box, opened the lid, and lifted a bottle. He made sure the seal wasn’t broken before stuffing it inside his coat pocket. He noticed me watching him and winked. “Evidence.”
“Sir, don’t you think we should be following up with other leads in this—”
“I’ve already told you what I think,” he said. “C. W. Alexander is our man. My gut tells me so. Nail him and good things will come your way.”
Nine
On Tuesday night, Sarah Jane and I were locked in a life-and-death round of checkers in the living room. She was red, I black. Reds covered the board, several of them kings, but blacks had been reduced to one. I was a goner and I knew it.
“I’m beating you,” she said with a giggle.
“True, you are,” I said. “I’ve still got one checker on the board, though.”
“You’re bad at checkers,” she said, “but you’re good at other things.”
I pointed to my last checker. “You just watch. I’m going to stage the greatest comeback in the history of checkers.”
“I doubt it,” she said.
“How did you get to be such a sassy girl?”
She smiled at me for a moment, resting her chin in her hand, then stared down at the board, waiting for me to do something. “Dad.”
“What is it, little button?” I asked, plotting my next move.
“You know that lady who got hit by her own car?”
I looked up at her tiny heart-shaped face, her eyes darting from checker to checker.
“What about her?” I asked.
“Did she do something bad?”
I placed the tip of my index finger on my black checker and was about to move it, but I reconsidered. “How did you happen to hear about that lady?”
“Mary told me. She heard her parents talking about her. Mary’s dad said the lady was bad. Is that why she got hit by her car?”
“Remember what the bishop told us last week?” I asked. “It’s not good to judge other people. That’s Heavenly Father’s job. I’m guessing Mary’s dad didn’t know the woman who got run over.”
“Mary’s dad called the dead lady a tramp,” said Sarah Jane. “What’s a tramp?”
“When you get older, I’ll tell you what it means. It’s not nice to call someone a tramp.”
“How come they call Charlie Chaplin a tramp if it’s a bad thing?”
“Well, in his case, it isn’t bad. But for everyone else, it is.”
“Did that lady deserve to get hit by a car?”
“Nobody deserves that.”
The telephone rang, distracting Sarah Jane from her line of questioning. I went over to the crescent moon table by the entry hall, lifted the receiver to my ear, and raised the transmitter to my mouth. “Hello.”
“Oveson?”
“Speaking?”
“Is this Wasatch four-eighty-four?”
“Speaking?” I repeated.
“Seymour Considine,” he said. “Remember we met at the Vienna and you gave me your number? We agreed we’d exchange information. Remember?”
“Oh yes,” I said, turning slightly to see Clara behind me, her eye
brows furrowed into that Who is it? expression. She held Hi in her arms, and he was doing his restless dance, flailing his arms and whining, probably hungry for a dinner only she could provide. I mouthed, I’ll tell you later, then said into the transmitter, “That is still something I’d like to do.”
“Is this a bad time?”
“No. What did you have in mind?”
“I was hoping we could meet somewhere,” he said. “I’ve come upon some tantalizing tidbits since we talked.”
“Where do you want to meet?” I asked.
“You suggest a place, I’ll be there. I’m easy.”
“You like ice cream?”
“Ice cream?” There was a pause. “Don’t you want something a little harder?”
“Ice cream is as hard as I get,” I said. “What do you say?”
“Do they have rum ice cream?”
“That I don’t know.”
He sighed audibly. “Yeah. Sure. Ice cream will do. Where do you want to meet?”
“There’s a great place called Keeley’s,” I said. “On Main, between South Temple and First. They also sell ice cream sodas and candy.”
“Well, then, that seals the deal,” he said. “Be there in fifteen minutes.”
“OK.”
I lowered the receiver onto the cradle and set the telephone on the table. Clara still stared at me.
“It’s a lead,” I said. “I’ve got to follow through on it.”
“Well, don’t take too long,” she said, raising Hi so his head was level with hers, as if she thought I couldn’t see him before. “He wants to see his daddy, too, you know.”
I walked over to her, kissed her on the cheek, and rubbed Hi’s soft head. “This shouldn’t take long.”
* * *
Keeley’s was a bright place with rows of candy-filled jars and fine chocolates displayed in glass cases, a soda fountain with barstools, and tables where families feasted on frozen delicacies even in the depths of winter. I ordered a banana split made with rocky road ice cream and extra dollops of whipped cream. Considine came in wearing a yellow shirt and maroon cardigan with flakes of snow on his shoulders. He ordered a cup of coffee and joined me. He dropped his dossier on the table and was noticeably taken aback by the size of my banana split.
“That thing’s huge,” he said, sipping coffee. “Can you eat all that?”
“If you can eat a whole one of these on your birthday,” I said, “you get another one free.”
“You’re putting me on, right? A whole one of those would probably kill you.”
I shrugged my shoulders, spooning a big piece of ice-cream-covered banana into my mouth. “At least you’ll die a pleasant death.”
He tugged at his mustache. “You’re nuts.”
I spoke with my mouth full, a no-no when I was growing up. “Remind me to pick up my pint when I’m done.”
“A pint?”
“Tutti-frutti,” I said. “It’s my daughter’s favorite, and I like a midnight scoop.”
“Let me get this straight: When you’re done with that thing, you’re going to have more ice cream?”
It took me a moment to chew and swallow what was in my mouth, and he gestured for me to dab the corners of my mouth with the napkin. “Ice cream is my favorite food. But I’ll only have a small dish around midnight. It helps me go to sleep.”
I pointed my long dessert spoon at the ice cream counter. “Go try a coconut cream cone. It’s good. I’ll give you a dime…”
He shook his head in disgust. “I don’t want any ice cream. I don’t care for it.”
“Too bad,” I said. “So what did you want to see me about, Considine?”
“Our swap. I give you information. You give me information. Remember?”
“Yeah. I recollect us agreeing on that in the Vienna.”
“You go first.”
“Alright,” I said, resuming my quest to devour that banana split. “I suppose you must know all about C. W. Alexander?”
“The mining man who’s in the newspapers?” he asked. “The last man to be seen with Helen Pfalzgraf? What about him?”
“We drove out to arrest him this morning. He wasn’t at work or home. Sheriff thinks he skipped out after his name came up at the coroner’s inquest.”
He slapped a copy of the Salt Lake Examiner on the table and pushed it closer to me so I could see the headline at the top of the page. MINING MAN LINKED TO SLAIN WOMAN.
Considine said, “C’mon, Oveson. Is that all you’ve got? Surely you can do better.”
“The sheriff seems certain Alexander’s the killer.”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s all been happening so fast. I know one thing: I don’t feel good about the way we’ve been handling it. There have been so many lawmen working this case, and I haven’t been able to get a bird’s-eye view of it all.”
“You aren’t telling me anything I don’t already know,” said Considine, lowering his coffee cup so abruptly it clanked loudly against the saucer. “Please tell me you’ve got something else. Otherwise, this won’t strike me as much of a fair trade.”
“That’s it,” I said. “For now.”
“You’re not holding back on me, are you?”
“Nope. I’m giving it to you straight.”
He reached for a container of cream and poured some in his coffee. It spread across the black coffee like a cloud, turning it brown. I hadn’t ever touched a cup of coffee in my life and I had no plans to, but I’ll admit: I loved the smell of it. I inhaled deeply through my nose and savored the aroma.
He looked at me and said, “Want a cup?”
“I don’t drink the stuff.”
“Is that a Mormon thing? Not drinking coffee?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Sort of. I don’t like it, either.”
“Have you ever tried it?”
“No.”
“Well, then, how do you know you don’t like it if you haven’t tried it?”
I shoved a maraschino cherry in my mouth and chewed it for a moment. “I just know I won’t like it.”
He sighed and shook his head. “Get a load of Philo Vance here. I just know I won’t like it.”
“Remember our deal?” I asked. “Well, I just gave you something. Alexander skipped town. Now, what have you got for me?”
“Your information is useless. Why should I tell you anything?”
“It’s not useless,” I said. “Maybe Alexander is our man. Maybe the sheriff is right.”
“Yeah? Well, I’ll tell you one thing, Deputy: You’re not going to dig up anything sitting in that goddamn coroner’s inquest. You’ve got to get outdoors, look under rocks, down alleys, in railroad yards and bars, at the bottom of cellars. You’ve got to go where desperate people go to do desperate things. I’m sure Sheriff Cannon doesn’t ask you to do that, does he?”
I shook my head. His shoulders slumped, and his steely gaze relaxed. I could tell he was easing up. “Alright, Oveson. I’ll share. But I’m not going to give you everything I’ve got. I’ve worked damn hard to track down this information.”
He opened his dossier and thumbed through the documents, stopping to read one to himself. He pulled out the piece of paper—onionskin, it rattled at a touch—and gently set it near me. “Don’t spill ice cream on that, Deputy.”
I wiped the corners of my mouth and drank from a glass of ice water. The top of the paper read “Los Angeles Police Department—INVESTIGATIVE REPORT.”
My eyes moved down to handwriting on the police form. “CASE NUMBER: 0057834. REPORT OF: Auto accident. Vehicular death. DATE AND TIME REPORTED TO PD: 01-26-1917, 11:45 (with P.M. circled). VICTIM’S LAST NAME: Pfalzgraf. VICTIM’S FIRST NAME: Nellie (Eleanor). AGE: 29. DOB: 06-22-1887. MIDDLE INITIAL: P. ADDRESS: 1272 E. South Temple. CITY: Salt Lake City. STATE: Utah.”
I skipped lines to get to the meat of the report. “INCIDENT OF OCCURRENCE: Pico Boulevard Hill, near South Ocean Avenue, Los Angeles. VICTIM�
��S VEH: 1915 Dodge Brothers Touring.” Below that was a road map with the words PICO BLVD. HILL written in the middle of the road, along with two rectangles side by side—CAR A and CAR B—and several little arrows tracing the trajectories of the two vehicles. Someone with poor penmanship had scribbled below the map: “Veh. #1 runs Veh. #2 off the road a block past 3rd Street, before Pico intersects with South Ocean. Veh. #2 breaks through guardrail, ejects victim, throws her 10 yards, then rolls down hill & lands on victim. Victim taken by ambulance to St. Catherine Hospital in Santa Monica, where she is pron. dead.”
Considine tapped the paper. “That’s a copy of the police report from thirteen years ago, showing Nellie Pfalzgraf was the victim of a hit-and-run driver who ran the Pfalzgrafs’ car off the road. It was night, and they were returning to their hotel after drinking highballs at a local roadhouse.”
“Intriguing,” I said, eyes fixed on the police report.
“Of course it is.” Considine passed me four yellowing press clippings. “They’re all from the L.A. Times, all about the auto accident. Apparently, the L.A. police chief put up a reward for the mystery hit-and-run driver. Please be careful with those. I had to purchase offprints from the Times, so those are my only copies.”
“I will.” I leafed through them, and all the headlines sounded similar. HIT AND RUN MOTORIST CLAIMS WOMAN’S LIFE. POLICE QUESTION S.L. PHYSICIAN. POLICE RESUME SEARCH FOR DEATH CAR DRIVER. PHYSICIAN RETURNS TO S.L. TO BURY WIFE, POLICE CONTINUE SEARCH FOR MYSTERY DRIVER.
Considine said, “According to the Times, Dr. Pfalzgraf was so distraught over his wife’s death that his attorney, Parley Tanner, had to come down to Los Angeles to escort him back to Salt Lake City. The Salt Lake press ignored the story completely, except for Nellie’s obituary in the Examiner, which mentions she was killed in an auto accident. They laid her to rest at the city cemetery.”
I shook my head, trying to make sense of this new information. “What a strange coincidence that both of Pfalgraf’s wives died in auto-related incidents.”
“I have a couple more press clippings for you.” He opened the dossier and scattered a few more tattered papers in front of me. “That one’s from the Salt Lake Examiner, October 18, 1916. Just months before Nellie was killed, the doctor and his brothers inherited a fortune from a deceased German uncle. The article says Pfalzgraf’s share was slightly over a million.”
