“The transmission’s full of sawdust. Rafferty was just hoping the old clunker would last long enough for us to drive it away. It’s a wonder we made it as far as we did.”
So it left us with a three mile walk to Murphy’s corner, but we didn’t mind. The car had served its purpose.
While we were walking, Bobby announced he’d decided to join the army. He said he’d been looking into it, and it sounded pretty good. Room and board, twenty-one dollars a month, and cigarettes for only eight cents a pack. Gene chimed in, saying his work scholarship gave him almost the same, except for the break on cigarettes. And, anyhow, he was giving up smoking.
The really big surprise came next morning when Terry told us Uncle Fred had offered him a job on the farm, mainly operating and maintaining the farm equipment. He hadn’t told us sooner because he’d wanted Eugenia to hear the good news before anyone else. He grinned, “It’s a better deal than the army or college because I’ll get a house to stay in and two dollars a day. And Eugenia and I are getting married. Aunt Jennie got Eugenia a job in the cafeteria in town there. So the first thing you know we’ll have our own car and radio and refrigerator and everything.”
Bobby passed his physical with flying colors, and he was the first one to leave the gang. The rest of us went along with him to the bus station to see him off. In honor of his departure we chipped in to buy him his favorite desert, apple pie a la mode. Five cents for the pie and another five for a big scoop of vanilla ice cream. It looked so good, we all decided to splurge and have some. For a bus station restaurant pie, it really was pretty good.
There wasn’t much in the way of good-byes for Gene, since the college was only a streetcar and subway ride away. But, after he left, it seemed kind of strange for just Terry and me to sit at the corner. He wasn’t scheduled to leave for at least two weeks. One day we did both show up there. It was then Terry kind of hemmed and hawed before telling me he and Eugenia had decided not to have any kids for at least a couple of years. He went on to tell me how neither of them really knew how to keep from having kids. But, he said, one of Father Sullivan’s sermons had been pretty informative. He’d talked about people keeping from having babies, but he didn’t explain how it was done except it involved some kind of devices the Church didn’t approve of. Terry said he figured out how, since I wasn’t a Catholic, I’d know what Father Sullivan was talking about.
As a matter of fact I did. Gil had filled me in about what to do before he went off to California. “All you gotta do,” I said, “Is to go into Doc Brandon’s Pharmacy when no other customers are there. If there are any, just look at the magazines or something until they leave. Then go up and ask him for a packet of cundrums. He keeps them under the counter. They cost ten cents a package.”
“How do you use them?
I hadn’t thought about how to use them, but it seemed logical to say, “The directions are on the package.”
After that one time, neither Terry nor I went back to the corner. It just seemed too lonely there. We visited back and forth a few times, and I told him I was looking to join the CCC’s. I’d gotten their literature, and there was going to be a group moving out to a forest camp for four months to plant trees where there’d been a lot of logging.
As it turned out, Terry and I both left town on the same day. Mom’s eyes were pretty moist when she said goodbye. Even though he doesn’t say much, I could tell Dad was missing me already. But with me gone, his WPA job would support the two of them, and Mom wouldn’t have to work so hard at making ends meet.
Terry and Eugenia were leaving an hour before me at the bus station, so I went along with my one piece of luggage—an old suitcase with a belt holding it together—to see them off. When they were about to leave, I shook hands with Terry and gave Eugenia a big hug. Maybe I held her a little longer than I should have, but then I probably wouldn’t be seeing any girls for at least four months, never mind have a chance to hug one.
So I waved them off, and walked back to the Boston & Maine train station. On the way, since I had time to spare, I stopped into the A&P, which had just recently opened. It was one of those new type, self-serve stores. A big one. It must have been a hundred feet long, and at least as wide. People were crowded in there, carrying baskets they’d filled with canned goods and stuff, and then they’d go up to a cashier’s desk to pay. In honor of the store’s grand opening, a lot of things were reduced in price. When I saw a carton of Lucky Strikes—my favorite brand—for only eighty-nine cents, I went all the way. It was the first carton of cigarettes I’d ever bought. I was so proud of it, I strapped it to the outside of my suitcase to show it off.
Along with everything else, it was my first train ride. I sat on the left side of the train so I could get a glimpse of Murphy’s Corner when we went by. Sure enough, I did see it. I also saw some kids sitting there, and though I couldn’t tell for sure from so far away, it seemed like they were counting the cars as they went by.
NAVY REGS
The dice rattled across the deck and struck the bulkhead. Three passes in a row! Higgins was delighted, a feeling he most certainly had lacked when the original order came through for three riggers to report to the CVE Simson Bay. Pearl Harbor hadn’t been a navy man’s dream port, but it sure beat being on an iron hull headed out for the South Seas where Zeros would be zeroing in on it.
Higgins’ three stripes and his being in charge of the parachute loft gave him a few extra perks when he came aboard. And his two helpers, Stone and Zigetti, were agreeable sorts. All in all, matters could have been worse for three landlubbers who had been enjoying such a cushy berth in Hawai’i.
Rumor had had it Japanese battleships had wiped out three baby flattops off of the Philippines. So no one was surprised when the new Simson Bay and four sister ships were rushed in from states-side, and some of Pearl’s trained personnel had to finish manning the hastily-dispatched vessels
Except for going out to be a target for suicide bombers, the trio agreed the new assignment wasn’t half-bad. “A home away from home,” Higgins had announced when first surveying the custom-packed chutes neatly stacked on shelf after shelf in a loft smelling of fresh paint.
Feelings changed at general muster. The deck chief had warned Higgins. “The old man’s a stickler on navy regs. He came up from the ranks and just made captain. They’re the worse kind. Wait till you meet Captain ‘Regs’.”
Short. Burly. Bushy gray eyebrows meeting over a nose, broken at least once, on a face heavily wrinkled from years of sea sun. In a full-dress uniform lopsided with ribbons, Captain Regs peered out at the crew standing motionless at attention on the flight deck. The greeting, in a booming voice carrying the full length of the vessel, was brief. “I run a tight ship. Remember that. Keep in mind how any violation of Navy regs is a crime. Those who forget will see the inside of the brig. The Simson has a special roomy one. And if you think bread and water is just an old navy rumor, try me!” With those encouraging remarks he turned and climbed back up to the bridge.
Two days of zigzagging westward under full steam soon wore away the novelty of the new surroundings. A fast Essex-class carrier was providing air cover for her slower and smaller sisters, who couldn’t take the time to maneuver in and out of the wind for launchings and landings. So, with no planes taking off from the Simson Bay, there was little left for the riggers to do following daily general quarters.
It was Stone who first suggested it. “Some of the old hands are running a poker game in one of the heads. They’ve got a couple of seamen on lookout. Hell, we could get a good game of craps going right in the head at the top of this gangway.”
Zigetti looked uneasy. “You heard what the captain said. Gambling aboard ship is against Navy regs, and makes it a crime.”
“Hell,” Stone said. “No one ever comes down to this part of the ship unless they’re checking out a parachute, and there sure hasn’t been much demand lately.”
Zigetti seemed sufficiently reassured. “Yeah, I guess you’re rig
ht. I know an ordinance man who came aboard at Pearl. He’s a bone-roller from a way back. I’ll run him down. Maybe some of his crew will join in.”
“Let’s do it,” said Stone.
“Damn good idea,” Higgins agreed. “Let’s set it up for eight, right after chow.”
The game was going at fever pitch when an ominous figure loomed in the hatchway. The dice were burning Higgins’ closed fist. Captain Regs stepped in with his hand outstretched in Higgins’ direction. The three-striper dropped the two flaming coals, and they disappeared into the captain’s pocket.
“This the first sea duty you men been on?”
“Aye, aye, sir,” from those who could speak; head nods from those who couldn’t.
“Rolling dice on a steel deck is something you can hear all over the ship. Put your ear to the bulkhead and there’s no mistaking the sound.” The information was met with a terrified silence.
“You!” pointing at Zigetti. “Get me a blanket and some masking tape.”
The other men stood rigidly at attention. Zigetti moved—fast.
“Now hold one corner against the bulkhead, about a foot up from the deck. And you,” pointing to another sailor, “hold the other corner up.” Swiftly tearing off a strip of tape, he sealed the top of the blanket to the metal, securing it snugly in place with another strip of tape at deck level to square it up against the bulkhead.
After rolling out the blanket, he pulled five two-dollar bills from his pocket and flipped them over to the edge. Reaching into another pocket he pulled out the dice, dropped to one knee and said, “Someone has to christen this crap table.” A pause. “Well?” The single eyebrow moved up the wrinkled forehead. Suddenly, the frozen figures came to life. Bills floated down to cover. The dice rolled noiselessly against the backdrop. Snake eyes stared up at the overhead.
The captain rose, brushing off his knee. “There’s a wrinkle in the middle. Pull the blanket taut.” Turning as he went out the hatchway, he said, “Make damn sure its lights-out in this head by eleven.”
PERFECTING A MURDER
He’d given it a lot of thought. A lot of thought. And he’d also done a huge amount of research. Perfect murders—at least unsolved murders—happened all the time, was one of his conclusions. And those were homicides actually coming to the attention of the police, usually the routine killings occurring in a mass society: drive-by shootings, murder following rape of a woman unknown to the assailant, serial murders, and the like. But the homicides involving clear-cut motives—money, unrequited love, revenge—where the victim and murderer were known to each other, were the ones most often solved.
The reason the perpetrators of such crimes were usually caught was simply due to poor planning. Motives are difficult to hide, foolproof alibis almost impossible to construct, hit men notoriously untrustworthy. With this knowledge as a base, Oscar Garland moved on to perfecting the murder, the murder of his partner in the firm of Garland & Moss, Inc., Master Architects.
There would be no disguising his motive, nor could there be. With his current forty-nine percent ownership of the business, Garland had to leave the blue-chip decisions up to Wilfred Moss, and more and more those decisions were leading them toward bankruptcy. The only feasible way of solving the problem was to exercise the option written into the original contract, one they had decided on because neither of them had close family attachments—Garland being a bachelor and Moss long-since divorced. The contract simply stated in one clause how Garland & Moss would be solely owned by the surviving partner. That wasn’t the exact wording, but it was certainly the gist of the proviso. And now Garland had settled down to serious preparation for putting the clause into effect.
The gods were favoring him. Moss had just recently moved into an apartment in a new building and had thought nothing of leaving his apartment key attached to the same ring as the car key, when Garland borrowed the vehicle. Having a copy made was a simple procedure, and was done at a locksmith shop far removed from home base. The transaction was cash. The key maker barely looked at the customer wearing dark glasses. The necessary weapon, an unregistered automatic plus silencer, had been surprisingly easy to obtain on a weekend trip to New Orleans. Then, it became simply a matter of patience.
There had to be an evening when Moss would be predictably home so Garland could be waiting for him. Yes, an alibi would be desirable, but Garland planned on fashioning a flimsy one, since he’d already dismissed the possibility of an unbreakable one. The important thing was to keep an alibi from really mattering.
The Chamber of Commerce monthly board meeting provided the perfect occasion for the perfect murder. Garland and Moss had shared the burden, alternating attendance, and this was Moss’s night. He would definitely be leaving the meeting before nine and so should be coming through the door of the apartment shortly afterwards. As a precaution, Garland showed up early. He had come thoroughly prepared.
The first step had been taken at home—a thorough shower and scrubbing. And then came clothing for the event. Having left his street clothes in his car, he was now wearing a pair of cheap trousers, a shirt, a pair of coveralls, plastic gloves, a stocking cap to keep stray hairs from escaping, a set of running shoes with socks for both the inside and outside—all new and purchased from different shops on the New Orleans trip.
He’d been careful to make sure no one saw him enter the building and had put on the more unusual items in the stairwell, which he had used rather than risking the elevator to get to the third floor apartment. The key worked perfectly, even while he was distracted by an annoying mosquito looking for a meal. Within moments he was inside, had relocked the door and taken up a position facing it. Despite the unlit room, he could see his surroundings clearly from the streetlights shining through the window and reflecting off of the ceiling. Eight-thirty-five. He touched nothing. Back in the early planning stages he had toyed with the idea of making the killing look like a burglary gone awry, but had dismissed it because of the risks of contaminating the surroundings.
The earlier distraction reappeared. It must have accompanied him through the door. At first he toyed with flailing away at it, then decided the fewer movements he made, the less likely he would be to leave a trace of himself behind. Nothing, nothing should be done which might possibly point to his having been there. The annoyance soon disappeared on its own.
Eight-forty-two. A key in the lock, a hand groping for and flipping on the light switch, the familiar figure of his partner, two quick shots and it was all over. Garland slipped past the corpse, pulled the door closed behind him, retraced his steps down the stairs, and went off to the mall where he had parked his car. Five minutes found all of his clothes in a trash bag, and a return to his street wear. The places had been carefully chosen ahead of time. The gun and key into the river, the clothing scattered into several dumpsters far across town from the scene of the crime.
And now, the last act of the play. The police would notify him, would question him, and he would have the answers.
***
Homicide Detective-Sergeant Ben Ormond told himself, “Just one year, three months and twelve days to retirement.” The reasons for counting were many, though they mainly centered around his most recent assistants. When Lou Keller had retired, Ben hadn’t expected a replacement who could measure up to Lou, but he also hadn’t expected the string of misfits and losers he inherited. The first one he’d caught pocketing small change from the dresser of one victim. The second had managed to completely mangle an investigation by starting an affair with a key witness. If anything, though, the current one was the worst of the lot.
Shelly Winter was about as incompetent a detective as Ben had ever encountered. But it wasn’t hard to figure out how she’d managed to move so swiftly from patrol duty to detective status through connections, namely through being the mayor’s niece. By the second day of her new position as assistant to Ormond, he had found how even the simplest tasks were beyond Shelly’s ken. The best approach, he decided, was to do ev
erything himself. So, when the call came through at ten-forty-six, Ben made it a point to do the driving. Arriving at the scene, he managed to keep Winter as far in the background as possible while he questioned the patrolman who’d answered the initial call and was now standing outside the apartment.
“It was a young couple who found him. They’d been to a party that started early, but they must have started to party even earlier. Their apartment is right above, and they just moved in last week. According to them, they got off on the wrong floor. Thought this was their apartment. He put his key in the door, after a lot of fumbling and laughing by both of them. Didn’t need to, since the door was unlocked. With the lights on, the way they are, they spotted the body immediately and sobered up fast. She called 911 on their cell phone, and now they’re both upstairs in their apartment with my partner. Neither of us touched a thing once we were sure the occupant—name’s Moss—was dead. So now it’s all yours, Sergeant.”
Ben slipped on a pair of polyvinyl gloves, gingerly opened the door and viewed the scene. Before going very far into the room, he waved Winter back, told her not to touch anything, then made a quick survey of his surroundings. The body was lying a few feet into the room, face up, a splash of blood marking the entry wounds. It had been evident from the outside of the building that it had been newly constructed, and there was still the smell of newness in the room. A quick check showed no indications of a struggle or of anything having been disturbed. As Ben was weighing the possibility of a burglary turned deadly, he heard a thump behind him. Turning around, he saw Shelly looking at her hand.”
“What the…” Ben exclaimed.
The explanation was immediate. “Damn mosquito. I hate them.”
Expect the Unexpected Page 23
