The Silver Cobweb

by Ben Benson

  I remember her holding the slip in her hand telling me just what she thought of me. I stood there and grinned a little at her fiery temper. Even in the darkness I could see she was very pretty. Black, glossy hair, a little wind-blown and cropped unevenly in front because that seemed to be the prevailing style. She had large dark eyes, a clear-white unblemished skin and a winsome, elfish face. Then I reminded myself I should go back to the cruiser. I turned away.

  She had been looking at the slip and she suddenly called, “Ralph Lindsey?”

  I went back to her open window. She said, “You are Lindsey, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  “You don’t know me,” she said, giving me a lovely smile. “But I know a friend of yours, Carl Podre. You know Carl, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said briefly.

  “Carl told me about you,” she said chattily. “He understood you were being assigned to the Topsfield Barracks. I wasn’t sure it was you until I saw your name on this ticket. But now that I remember, Carl said you were young, tall and had light hair. All the description fits, doesn’t it?”

  “Well, yes,” I said. “Pretty close.”

  “I sing at Carl’s place. The Red Wheel. It’s down the road in Dorset.” She shrugged her shoulders delicately. “Dorset is where that terrible murder happened today. But, of course, you must know all about it.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I was in Boston all day and I saw it in tonight’s papers.” She laughed. “Now that was silly of me, wasn’t it? Imagine asking you if you knew about it. Why, you’re the very one who captured the killer, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bravo,” she said. Then she pushed out the white slip toward me. “I hate to be a nuisance. Really, I do. But be an angel and take care of this for me, will you?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t. You’re already booked, Miss Bell. After all, you were going over seventy.”

  “But I’m a friend of Carl’s—”

  “Sorry,” I said, edging away. “These violations can’t be fixed.”

  She crumpled the slip in her hand. “Oh, dammit,” she exploded. “What a chicken outfit. You ask a man for a teeny-weeny favor and he gives you the fish eye. Where do they get you troopers? Out of a cold-storage vault?”

  I grinned. “I can feel a big chill right now.”

  “Lindsey,” she said, “you can go straight to hell.” With that she jammed her foot on the starter. The car wheels spit gravel and dust as she gunned the motor and swept off down the road.

  I walked back to the cruiser and got in beside Ludwell. He shook his head and frowned. “You ought to cut that stuff out,” he said in his dead, quiet voice. “We’re supposed to book the violation and get away. No small-talk with motorists.”

  “I know,” I said. “But she began to talk about a mutual friend. I couldn’t cut her off.”

  “Everybody has a mutual friend.”

  “This is a fellow named Carl Podre. You know him, Keith?”

  “I’ve heard of him and I’ve seen him around. He owns a dine-and-dance spot called The Red Wheel.” Ludwell pushed back his visored cap. “How did you book the girl?”

  “Summons.”

  “Oh,” he said.

  “You surprised?”

  “I was just wondering. If this Podre was such a personal friend of yours you didn’t have to make it a court case. You could have given her a break and written out a warning.”

  “What would you have done, Keith, if you were me?”

  “Just what you did. A summons. She was doing seventy. Every time I feel like easing up I see an accident with a couple of dead bodies in it. Nine times out of ten it’s caused by high speed. It brings me back to my senses. But, of course, I don’t know how much this friendship of Carl Podre means to you.”

  “Podre’s no particular friend of mine.” I didn’t say anything more about it. There was no need explaining to Keith Ludwell that Carl Podre came from my neighborhood in Cambridge and that I had no particular liking for him. Podre was a good eight years older than I. His kid brother, Paul, and I had been pretty friendly. Paul Podre and I both went to war in Korea, but with different outfits. Paul never came back. He was killed near Old Baldy.

  I hadn’t seen Carl Podre for years. I remember, in my younger days, when I was ten or so, Carl was a sharply dressed, smooth-faced kid of eighteen. You could always see him hanging around the poolroom, where he was able to pick up a little money at Kelly pool or snooker. His brother Paul could always touch him up for a couple of nickels when the ice-cream man came around. I don’t remember that Carl Podre had any trade or profession. It was always some kind of fringe job. Once, I recall, he was a candy hawker at the Old Howard Theater when that burlesque house was running in Scollay Square, Boston. Later, I heard he had a small photo concession at a second-rate night club. Then I heard he had gone into horse racing. Whether he was a bookie or a tout or a horse handler I didn’t know. There were rumors that he had been ruled off the tracks for some violation or other. The idea was that Carl Podre was always on the edge of things, balancing on a tightrope. Nothing he had done could be classified as exactly illegal, but nothing he did was really straightforward or substantial, either. He would disappear from Cambridge for long stretches of time, then occasionally drift back to see his folks. I don’t know why he bothered. He never stayed home long. From the way his folks lived he certainly did nothing to contribute to their support.

  But Carl Podre didn’t stay in my mind very long. Another person kept creeping in. The beautiful, volatile Amy Bell.

  3

  IT WAS THREE HOURS LATER, around midnight, when Ludwell and I drove into the town of Dorset. First Ludwell drove me down tree-lined Montague Street.

  “That’s the house,” Ludwell said, driving by slowly. “Nice little house. Nice little town. Nice people. It’s a crying shame.”

  I was surprised to hear him say it. Until then I had thought Ludwell had no emotions whatsoever.

  I looked at the Fedder house. It was a small, white Cape Cod cottage. On the front lawn was a pair of big elm trees. The windows of the house were lighted. There were some people on the sidewalk. Cars were parked on both sides of the street. I recognized two unobtrusive black State Police cruisers, the kind without markings, which were used for investigation work. It meant detectives and technical men were still around the Fedder house. In comparison to those two black cruisers our own patrol cruiser stood out like a Christmas tree. The patrol cruisers were painted light and dark blue, had a chrome-plated roof blinker which threw a blue light in front and a red light in back. The door panels carried the state seals, and the rear deck had large white letters that said Massachusetts State Police. You could spot them a mile away. Motorists seeing the plainly marked patrol cruisers would slow down and that, in turn, helped cut down on accidents.

  Ludwell circled the block and drove to Dorset Square. It was there that I saw The Red Wheel for the first time. It was set behind trim, high boxed hedges, a long, low building with a pitched roof. The shingles were painted a smoke gray and in each of the small windows was a pale-glowing, simulated candle light. Out front was a huge red neon sign in the shape of a wheel. Beside the building was a large parking lot. In the parking area were a number of cars, many of them with out-of-state tags.

  “Podre does a nice business for a small town,” I said to Ludwell.

  “He gets the horsy crowd,” Ludwell explained. “A lot of race-track people. Then, of course, a murder always brings out a morbid crowd. Holiday stuff like an old-fashioned Wild West hanging.”

  “It takes all kinds to make a world,” I said.

  “Too many of the wrong kind,” Ludwell said unctuously. Across the street from The Red Wheel parking area was a shiny green-and-white-front diner. Ludwell pulled the cruiser up along it and turned off the motor. “This is where I usually eat, Ralph,” he said. “You want to go in first?”

  “No, go ahead,” I said. “I’m not v
ery hungry.”

  Ludwell got out of the cruiser. I looked at him in the light. He was not as tall as I. Five ten and a half, possibly five-eleven. I had seen him in the shower room and I knew that under that tailored uniform was a hard-muscled, wiry body. He had a lean, almost rawboned face and a hard little chin. A face that had a hungry, impatient look all the time.

  He took a white flannel cloth from the big patch pocket of his pale blue tunic and wiped the dust from the black leather visor of his cap. Then he bent down and dusted his black boots. He brushed his dark blue breeches, straightened his gunbelt and crossbelt, gave his tunic a tug and squared his cap before going into the diner. I began to suspect there was a girl in his life.

  There was. Through the big window I could see a green-smocked young waitress come bustling over to him. Ludwell moved into a booth and I saw the girl lean forward, all excited, words streaming endlessly from her mouth. No doubt she was talking about the murder of Mary Ann Fedder. But it wasn’t just her talking that drew my attention. She had the avid, yearning look of a woman very much in love.

  I sat there in the cruiser, sneaking a smoke, my cigarette butt down out of sight where nobody could see it. The shortwave radio sputtered every few minutes but none of the calls were for us. I watched the diner, seeing the waitress now sitting in the booth with Ludwell. She was talking earnestly and expressively, and Ludwell was nodding his head once in a while and eating slowly with that solemn, serious expression on his face. I figured he would be in there exactly fifteen minutes, no more and no less. The midnight snack usually took a half-hour and was split between the two men on patrol. It was the only meal we ate away from the barracks.

  I hadn’t been paying much attention to The Red Wheel across the street. Cars had been pulling in and out and people had been coming and going, and I had noticed them only casually. But I perked up when I heard loud voices and saw a boy coming out of the entrance. The boy was very drunk and with him was a young, taffy-haired bobby-soxer. Neither of them looked over seventeen. The girl was trying to escort the boy to the car. Apparently he didn’t want to go. The girl was loudly persistent about it.

  I looked at the diner again. Ludwell was still in there drinking his coffee and the waitress was sitting closer to him, talking in the same earnest way. After a moment I picked up the handphone and told the dispatcher that Cruiser 29 was going off the air. I waited for the acknowledgment, then got out of the cruiser and crossed the road.

  At the edge of the parking area was a big black Cadillac sedan with a doctor’s emblem attached to the license plate. The taffy-haired girl was trying to push the boy into the front seat. He was giggling about it. When the girl heard my footsteps she turned swiftly. Her mouth popped open and she said, “Oh, my Lord. The State Police.”

  “What’s the trouble?” I asked her.

  “Nothing,” she said. “I’m trying to take Dickie home.”

  “And who’s Dickie?”

  “This clown,” she said, her mouth making a little moue of disgust. “Richard Cleves, Junior.”

  “He looks very drunk.”

  “Are you kidding? He’s squiffed, pie-eyed, blotto.”

  “I’d like to see his identification.”

  “It’s in his wallet, sir.”

  “Take it out, please.”

  She bent over and reached into the boy’s pants’ pocket. He brought his hands up in feeble protest but she slapped them away sharply. I don’t know why it is but the maturity of a seventeen-year-old girl is much more than a boy’s at the same age. She knew just what to do and was quite competent about it.

  I looked at the driver’s license under the neon light. It was made out to Richard Cleves, Jr., 2 Terrace Lane, Danvers, Mass. His age was seventeen.

  “Where’s the car registration?” I asked.

  She handed that to me. It was in the name of Dr. Richard Cleves of the same address. I wrote it in my book and handed it back. Then I reached in, pulled young Cleves out of the car and yanked him to his feet. He stared with glazed eyes at my uniform and began to babble apologies.

  The girl said worriedly, “What are you doing, sir?”

  “You just came out of The Red Wheel, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said. “But—”

  I didn’t listen to any explanation. I walked Cleves to the entrance of The Red Wheel. The young girl dogtrotted after me. Cleves was mumbling some kind of protest but I didn’t pay attention. I opened the door, took Cleves by the shoulder and waltzed him inside.

  There was a thickly padded rug under my feet. I was in the foyer. To the left was the taproom and to the right was the checkroom. Directly ahead was the main dining room, with rows of booths along both sides and small, white-clothed tables in the center. I saw a headwaiter’s high desk and a startled, bald-headed man there in a white dinner jacket. He began to hurry toward me.

  At the far end of the room was a stage. On it, alone in the glare of a baby spotlight, a girl sat at a piano. She was playing softly, singing into a microphone in a husky, vibrant voice. She was good at it. Not only in my own opinion. The diners and the waiters thought so, too. I could tell that from the rapt attention and from the absence of noise or clacking dishes.

  The girl was Amy Bell. She was wearing a black lace gown. Her shoulders were bare, her black glossy hair contrasting vividly with her white skin.

  The bald headwaiter was asking me anxiously what was wrong. At the same time one of the diners closest to us turned and noticed the huddle. There were whispers, a turning of bodies and heads, a scraping of chairs. A hum of voices ran through the dining room. Amy Bell stopped playing. She brought a hand up and shaded her eyes from the bright light. I saw her looking at me. A mischievous smile wreathed her face. She banged heavily on the piano and played a loud funeral march.

  The crowd tittered at first, then burst into laughter and clapped their hands. Color rushed over my neck and face. I stood there gripping Cleves with a moist hand, feeling silly. Then I began to get angry because these callous people were laughing and joking when only a few hours ago and a few blocks away a young bride-to-be had been murdered. Because in a little cottage, almost within sound of their gleeful cackling, a mother was under sedation because of shock. I was also angry at Amy Bell for mocking me. And I wanted to lash out at somebody for serving liquor to a seventeen-year-old boy.

  A long, lanky bartender with sandy hair came out of the taproom and joined the headwaiter. The bartender said, “What’s the trouble, Officer?”

  “Do you remember this boy?” I asked harshly.

  “Sure. He was just in here and—”

  “I found him outside,” I snapped. “He’s stinking drunk. Not only are you in a jam for serving a minor, but it might cost this place its license.”

  “Now wait a minute,” the bartender said affably. “We didn’t serve the kid. He came in here drunk and we shooed him out.”

  A hand tapped my shoulder and a voice said, “Ralphie.” I turned and saw Carl Podre. The years had changed him. His face was not as bland and smooth, but paler, more sharpened and more dissipated. His hair had thinned and receded from his forehead, making him look a good five years older than his thirty-one years. His eyes were harder, colder, with small pouches under them. He was wearing a white dinner jacket and a narrow black bow tie.

  “Ralphie boy,” he said, groping for my free hand and shaking it. “Long time no see. How’s your mom and dad?”

  “Hold it a minute, Carl.” I turned to the girl. “Was your boy friend drunk when he came in here?”

  “I was trying to tell you he was,” she said. “Nobody served Dickie. He came in to get liquor and they made us leave.”

  I felt my face flush again. I wanted to get out of there quickly. “Okay,” I said to the girl. “Let’s go.”

  But Carl Podre was still holding my arm. He said warmly, “Ralphie, you did a good job today when you captured Whitey Swenke. The bastard say why he did it?”

  “Not to me, he didn’t,” I said.r />
  “Well, it was a hell of a capture for a rookie trooper,” Podre said.

  “It was nothing. I fell into it.”

  “Never mind. You’re a sharp kid and you were on the ball. And I don’t blame you for picking up this boy. But no club doing any kind of business would throw away its license by serving minors. The percentage isn’t there, Ralphie.”

  “I guess not,” I said. “I’m sorry I came in and kicked up a fuss, Carl.”

  “Forget it,” Podre said. “What do you say I make a little announcement that you’re the one who captured Swenke? These yokels will go big for it.”

  “Lay off that stuff. I’m not even supposed to be in here.”

  “Okay, okay,” Podre said. “You come in on your time off. Old friends ought to get together. I mean it, kid. Anytime you have a chance, come in. Everything on the house.”

  “I’ll see you, Carl.” I began moving Cleves toward the door. I had seen Amy Bell approaching and I was anxious to get out. But before I could reach the door, she was at my side, her face laughing up at me, the black gown clinging to the slim curves of her body.

  “Oh, good Lord,” she said. “Tell me, dear. Which juvenile is holding up which?”

  I didn’t answer her. Opening the door I brought Cleves outside.

  When we reached the black Cadillac I asked the taffy-haired girl if she had a driver’s license. She did. Her name was Bonnie Chandler and her license was in order. Then I asked the question I should have asked in the beginning. How did young Cleves get drunk? The girl explained that Cleves’ father and mother had gone to a medical convention in New York and would not return until tomorrow. The boy had been staying with a family named Talbot. But young Cleves had a key to the house and a key to his father’s liquor cabinet. His friend, Bob Talbot, had dared him to go home and open the cabinet. Dares to seventeen-year-olds are like red flags to a bull.

  After young Cleves had become thoroughly drunk on his father’s liquor he had driven over to Bonnie Chandler’s house in his father’s car. He had tooted the horn and Bonnie had come out. When she saw how drunk he was she didn’t want her parents to see him. She thought she would drive him around until he sobered up. While driving they both got the idea of visiting Dorset to look at the murder scene. After they saw the house they drove through the square. Cleves noticed The Red Wheel and insisted on going inside.