“Do you know how Caspar answered that plea? Do you know what he did for this poor kid, this nineteen-year-old boy who had helped him get rich, who had kicked in with his share of the $11,000 that Caspar took for so-called ‘protection’ in Lake City? He took Arch out of the Columbus, for a destination I don’t know, because the boy never got there. On the way he was shot and killed. Do you want to know where you can find Arch Rossi now? He’s in a barrel of concrete, at the bottom of Koquabit Narrows. I paid a visit to that barrel this morning. I swam down to it, and saw it with my own eyes, between a yellow rowboat that’s lying on the bottom, and a white kitten, with a stone tied around its neck, that somebody dropped there to drown. Here’s a hoop I took off that barrel, and here’s a handful of the concrete!”
It would have been interesting to study a photograph of the scene in the room, as the crowd in the park began to roar, and roar still louder, so that it was several minutes before June could go on. Sol, who had been increasingly comic during the first part of the speech, abruptly fell silent at the words “Koquabit Narrows.” Cantrell jumped up and stood listening. Then he looked at Sol, and Lefty looked at Sol, and Goose looked at Sol. In spite of the forecasts in the afternoon papers, something had been said which was wholly unexpected. But Bugs looked at Ben and Ben looked at Bugs; obviously these two didn’t know what Sol knew and the other three knew. Giulio and the blonde looked blankly at Mrs. Caspar; just as obviously they were completely in the dark. And Mrs. Caspar looked wearily at the floor, with the ancient dead pan of a woman who knows nothing and can guess all that matters.
“That does it, Solly.”
It was Cantrell who spoke, and it was some seconds before Sol looked at him. Then, in a rasping hysterical whine, he said, “Well, come on, let’s get out of here! Le’s go, le’s go!”
He grabbed his hat and went lurching out of the room. Mrs. Caspar, seeing cues that would have been invisible to anyone else, got up and followed. Cantrell motioned to the blonde, and they went out. Impatiently, Goose motioned to the barber, who went out like some sort of frightened rabbit, followed by Bugs, and in a moment by Goose and Lefty. Ben, for five minutes or so, was alone. Lighting a cigarette, he smoked reflectively, listening with half an ear to the rest of June’s speech, and cutting off the radio when she finished. Once, hearing something, or thinking he heard something, he jumped and wheeled, but there was nothing behind him but the portable bar, with its dirty glasses. He sat down again with the air of a man who is trying to quiet down, to get a grip on himself. When Lefty came in he asked, “What’s going on out there?”
“Are you deaf, Ben? Didn’t you hear what she said?”
“It was in the papers.”
“Not about the Narrows, it wasn’t.”
“If Sol put him there, why’s he surprised?”
“Whatever it is, it’s a break for you.”
“How?”
“I didn’t get no dinner. Let’s eat.”
Ben walked over, doubled up his fist, brushed Lefty’s face with it. “You want that in the kisser?”
“Ben! Let me alone! I’ve—got the jitters.”
“Then talk. How is it a break for me?”
“We been suspicioning you.”
“You mean you have.”
“O.K., then I have. You bet I have. It’s somebody, and I don’t know nobody I wouldn’t suspicion. O.K., when she said the Narrows, that let you out. No way you could have known about that.”
“And what’s the idea of Solly’s fainting fit?”
“He’s not there.”
“Who?”
“Rossi! In the Narrows!”
If Lefty noticed Ben’s suddenly wide eyes, there was no sign. He sat down, then got up and repeated that he had had no dinner, and “Le’s eat.” When Ben reminded him they were on duty, he said vaguely that that was right, and then inanely repeated: “Le’s eat.”
“I don’t know about you, but I’m hired to work.”
“For who?”
“Caspar, last I heard of it.”
“You lug, Caspar’s gone.”
“… Where?”
“Where you think? China. Canada. Mexico, maybe. You want to see him, give a listen to the air and a look in the sky. He’s on a plane, or will be, soon as him and Maria can wake up that kid, and get him dressed, and hustle him to the airport. I said I’m hungry. Le’s eat.”
“O.K., pal. Le’s eat.”
It would be risky, of course, to be too sure about the elements that go into the making of a great American folk drama, such as the arrival of Lindbergh in New York after his flight to Paris, the imprisonment of Floyd Collins in the cave that became his tomb, the celebrations by Brooklyn of the triumphs of its bums. However, sufficient build-up seems to help, as does an emotional premise that stirs great masses of people, and perfect weather. These things were all present that Sunday afternoon when Sheriff Orcutt, of Lake County, searched Koquabit Narrows for a body, imbedded in concrete. The build-up, to be sure, was rather brief, but of its kind, excellent. It should be remembered that the Narrows was in the county, which had a government all its own, located at Quartz, the county seat, and that as a county Official Sheriff Orcutt was wholly independent of the Caspar-Maddux-Dietz machine that functioned so fearsomely in the city. He was so independent that he had attended, as a matter of legitimate curiosity, the final Jansen rally of the campaign, and had acted on this occasion with true shrieval decision, as Ben would have learned if he had not snapped off the radio so soon.
When June finished speaking he strode majestically to the platform, accompanied by wild yells as the crowd recognized him, divined some exciting purpose, and cheered him. Then he faced Jansen and the crowd, and announced bluntly that if there was any body in Koquabit Narrows he was going to fish it out, and that if they didn’t believe him they could all come out there tomorrow afternoon, when he would have divers up from St. Louis, if any were available, and a tow car with a crane, a block, and a falls on it, and a hundred feet of cable.
Thus the newspapers had the story, in ample time for all but their early editions, and that ingredient, the build-up, was taken care of. For the rest, it was Sunday, a circumstance probably not forgotten by the sheriff, who was a bit of a showman himself. And it was a beautiful balmy day, with bees buzzing in the trees, birds twittering in the marshes, and thousands of soldiers free on passes. And there was suspense and sub-suspense of a sort not commonly present on these occasions, created by these agonizing questions: Were divers available, and would they consent to board the sheriff’s police plane, not celebrated, exactly, for perfect performance? And, assuming they appeared, would they get the barrel? Would the barrel have Arch Rossi in it? A somewhat ghoulish reek that hung over the project probably didn’t diminish its interest; at any rate some 100,000 people gathered to see what could be seen. Their cars were parked along the road at least a mile from each end of the bridge, and their boats were anchored by the dozen, in both lake and inlet. The surrounding hills were black with spectators, as were the shores. Motorcycle police roared back and forth, keeping order and strict lines, and pennants on poles, every twenty or thirty yards, proclaimed ice cream, hot dogs, popcorn, and even lemonade. On the bridge, which was roped off, the sheriff himself was in dramatic command, riding the pinto horse that he used at such festivities, and wearing a ten-gallon hat.
Ben arrived around one-thirty, parked a long way from the bridge, then trudged toward it on foot, along with dozens of others. Profiting by his better knowledge of its topography he turned into a little path that made off from the road, skirted the knolls where most of the spectators were packed, and reached the main abutment at the point where it touched the shore proper. With a quick vault he was on top of it, and sat comfortably down not more than fifty feet from the main theatre of operations. He watched impassively as a plane flew overhead, and people began to call to each other excitedly; as a car arrived, and June, Jansen, and other reform dignitaries stepped out of it; as three other cars arr
ived, with reporters aboard, and photographers who at once began taking pictures. Once June came quite near, and stood with her back to him, leaning with both elbows against the parapet. He pitched a stone into the water directly beneath her. She didn’t turn her head. By this he knew she had already spotted him.
At a roar of approaching motorcycles, he looked around quickly and two officers trotted out to let down the ropes. A truck came through, with two men in undershirts aboard it, and a lot of gear. It crossed the bridge, ran a short distance on the main road, then turned into the side road Ben had taken the preceding morning when he had gone to Caspar’s shack. It was intermittently visible through the trees, then ran down on the Lakeshore Country Club dock, where a work boat was waiting. The gear was loaded aboard, and then, as the crowd set up another excited shout, the boat started for the bridge. In a few minutes it arrived, one of the men in undershirts caught an abutment, and a colloquy ensued, between him and June, on the bridge. She pointed directly under her, he nodded, and several police jumped down on the abutment and the one next to it to manage the boat’s lines. One of the men in undershirts climbed into a diving suit, the other began to test pump, phones, and cables. A towcar, parked at one end of the bridge, ran out and took position near June, so that its crane, with dangling hook, was just above the spot she had indicated.
The man in the suit was now sitting with his helmet on his knees, his feet hanging over the water, almost ready to go off. There was a hitch, however, when the sheriff climbed down for more pictures, and invited June, Jansen, and the divers to pose with him. This involved persuading a boat to edge in and take the photographers aboard, but presently the thing was done. The subjects of the picture climbed back on the bridge, and the man at the pump put his partner’s helmet on, slipped on his earphones. The partner slipped into the water.
In a surprisingly short time, the man with the phones motioned the man on the crane. “O.K., down with your hook.” The hook was lowered to him, and he hung cable and clamps over it, and let it go. With a splash it went down in the water, and for perhaps five minutes there was silence, a strained, queer silence as thousands of people waited. Then the man with the phones motioned the man on the crane, and power hit the drum. Jerking a little, like a thin snake, the cable slipped upward. Then the barrel broke water, shedding a shower of drops. It shot upward, dangled for a moment above the parapet, then swung in over the bridge and dropped gently to the roadway.Two policemen stepped forward, with wrenches and sledges. The photographers closed in, making a circle which completely obstructed vision.
There was a delay, as the cable was removed. Then one of the policemen raised his sledge. Ben stood up to see, then climbed to the parapet to see better. The sledge came down. Then it rose and came down again. The cameras began snapping. Then a photographer turned, put his camera under his arm, and came running to Ben’s end of the bridge. He didn’t jump into the car that had brought him. He ran past it, to a taxi parked in the road. Ducking under the rope and jumping in, he yelled: “The Post, and step on it—it’s not Arch Rossi, it’s Dick Delany!”
In utter astonishment Ben’s hand went to his brow, and he lost his balance. He teetered perilously for a second or two before he could stoop, jump, and regain his place on the abutment.
“You love me, Ben?”
“I could try.”
“Turn your mouth around, and try.”
“Hey, I’m driving.”
“Let me drive. I know a place we could go.”
“Your place?”
“No, a real nice place.”
“O.K., then, the wheel is yours.”
It was around ten of the night after election, and they were driving back from Castleton, where they had gone to have dinner, and thus celebrate their victory at the polls. It was the first time they had seen each other since the cold morning at the Narrows, and her amusement at how funny he had looked seemed to have ripened in the interval; her laugh had a tear in its eye and a catch in its throat. A psychiatrist might have found her an interesting study, might have used her, indeed, as an argument against too much innocence in the feminine gender. For no wise lady would have let her affection run wild as June was doing, or at any rate, have let the man see it running wild. She had had a tremendous, grotesque, and dangerous adventure with him that couldn’t be denied. Yet this didn’t quite account for the way she acted. She gave the impression it was her first contact with such things; that she had never been around much, or if she had, it was by day, to work, and not by night, to play. Certainly she showed no familiarity with the ancient traditions of her sex; she was quite silly, and it was no argument for her performance that after a fashion she was getting away with it. Perhaps Ben too had been around very little. For although he was slightly uncomfortable, occasionally at a loss for an answer to her too-direct sallies, he seemed on the whole to be having a good time. He brought the car to a stop, and let her slide over him to take the wheel, and even pulled her down on his lap for a kiss. When she had the car going again he sat sidewise, to face her, and sometimes lifted her curls with his finger. Presently she said: “Well!”
“Yeah? What’s on your mind now?”
“We’ve been talking all night about what I did on election day, and what Mr. Jansen did, and how he hired twenty cars to bring the voters in—let’s talk about you. What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you vote?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“No civic spirit.”
“Why did you help me?”
“I told you. Get back at Caspar.”
“What did Maddux do?”
“Tried to commit suicide.”
“What?”
“They didn’t put it in the papers, though I know a couple of those reporters had it. Maybe it wasn’t really news. Maybe if he hadn’t tried to knock himself off, that would have been news. Anyway, he had some kind of pills ready, and when the returns began to come in, he down the hatch with them, and the night gang at the Columbus had an awful time getting him pumped out in time to concede Jansen’s election.”
“How is the dear old Columbus, by the way?”
“Haven’t you been around there?”
“Me? The girl that started it all?”
“You ought to drop in, have a look. Oh, it’s perfectly safe. Caspar’s gang, you couldn’t find one of them with a search-warrant—except Lefty. Lefty, of course, he’s a special case. But that hotel, it looks like a morgue. Saturday night, before you went on the air, it was like a bee-hive—politicians, newspaper men, racketeers, women, women, and still more women—everybody you could think of was there, and the orchestra was playing ‘Oh Johnny.’ Sunday night, after that body was found, it was all over. The night clerk, a cashier, a couple of porters, the bartender—sitting around the bar with me and Lefty, too sick even to have a drink. They knew. They didn’t have to wait for any election day.”
“Some day I hope to meet Lefty.”
“He’s scared bad.”
“What about?”
“About whether he’ll be indicted for the Delany thing. Or something else. About what he’s going to do now. About anything else you can think of. Lefty, he’s got so he can be scared and not be able to remember what he’s scared about. If you ask me, the last two or three stretches did things to him. For that matter, he admits it.”
“Caspar is going to be indicted.”
“For Delany?”
“Yes. They can’t indict him for Rossi. They haven’t found any body yet. That’s the funniest thing. Here less than a week ago all the town could think of was Rossi, and now everybody seems to have forgotten him.”
“Delany’s enough. After that, Sol dare not come back.”
“What on earth did he kill him for?”
“Lefty cleared that up. Delany was an accident. The idea was, they were going to bring him back after he left in his car that day to see his brother in Chicago and write it all up in the Pioneer. They w
ere going to bring him back, and hold him somewhere downtown, maybe at the Globe, and then Bill Delany would have to beat it back here, and make a deal, and that would put an end to it, all the stuff that was being pulled. So that’s how they started it. Sol put three guys on it, to tail him out of town, and they did it, and about thirty miles out, when he stopped for a light, they closed in on him and one of them took his car and the other two took him, and started back to town with him. But out on Memorial, where they were supposed to switch cars, and Sol was to talk to him before they took him to the hotel, he made a break to get away. And one of Sol’s punks let him have it. And that’s what Lefty had just found when he came running up to our car that time, and said somebody’d been knocked off, and Sol had to put his knee in his stomach to kick a little wind back in him. I thought it was Rossi, and that was why you and me had the right barrel but the wrong body.”
“And they still haven’t found Rossi?”
“That’s right. He’s the big where-is-it.”
“What are you going to do now, Ben?”
“I hadn’t thought.”
“Are you in any danger? I mean, like Lefty? Can they indict you? Or try you? For what Caspar was doing?”
“You didn’t do anything, you needn’t fear anything. As for a job, I’ll loaf a few days first.”
“Ben, there’s one thing.”
“Yeah?”
“He’s practically given me my pick. I mean, Mr. Jansen has. Of what I want in the way of a city job. And if I were to make a recommendation, he regards my ideas very highly. After what I showed in the campaign. I might—”
“Oh, nuts.”
“Why?”
“What would I be doing with a city job? He wouldn’t give it to me anyhow. Soon as he found out who I was he’d say he was terribly sorry, he appreciated any help I gave him, but his set-up wouldn’t let him do anything for me like that. Then he’d probably offer me a job in his dairy, milking cows. I’m not interested. I don’t like him. And I don’t need it. I got a little dough saved up. I got quite a little.”
Three by Cain Page 26
