by Lionel White
“It’s about Mr. Sherwood,” she said. She blushed as Swazy looked at her sharply. “He didn’t come in again this morning,” she hurried on, “and I had to call him about the Tri-State matter. They … “
“I know about the Tri-State matter.”
She hesitated a second and continued.
“Mr. Sherwood didn’t seem to be very coherent. This thing with Mrs. Sherwood seems to have completely shattered him. He couldn’t even tell me when we could expect him. He sounded sick. I just thought that … “
“Just what do you want me to do, Miss Dudbern?”
“Well, Mr. Sherwood seemed to feel that the police haven’t been making a real effort to find his wife. He’s sitting out there in his apartment, all alone, and he just didn’t seem right. I thought that maybe if someone here in the office, someone with influence, could just get hold of the police and maybe see what they are doing, and … “
Swazy held up a beautifully manicured hand. “They’re probably doing everything they can,” he said. He hesitated for a moment, looking thoughtful, and then quickly stood up and started pacing the floor.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do. It’s a damned shame. Mrs. Sherwood is a nice little woman. Get me the man in the police department who’s handling the thing. I’ll see what I can find out. We have to have Sherwood back here, and soon,” he added.
Five minutes later he had Detective Lieutenant Parks on the wire. It took him a minute or so to make it clear what he was talking about.
The lieutenant didn’t pull his punches. “Listen,” he said. “Let’s get something clear. We’re doing everything we can. Everything. It doesn’t do one damned bit of good to keep riding us. You better tell that to your Mr. Sherwood. I feel sorry for him, but there’s not a damned thing more we can do. You’re Mr. Sherwood’s boss, you say?”
Swazy said he was.
“All right. Understand this. The woman is missing, we’ll grant you that. But we don’t know that anything has happened to her. We don’t know that she didn’t just go off by herself. And in the meantime, we have other problems. By God, I’ve got a quarter-million-dollar robbery and a murder on my hands and I’m not getting anywhere with that. Nowhere. A missing woman is important, I’ll admit, but we have plenty of other important problems!”
Swazy coughed and interrupted. “Perhaps the FBI … ” he began.
“They wouldn’t be interested, at least not at this stage. They have things to do themselves and there’s been no indication that this is a federal case, a kidnapping or anything of the sort. After all, missing wives are a fairly common occurrence. Don’t think we’re being callous about this, or indifferent. But at this point, until something turns up, there’s not another damned thing we can do.”
Parks slammed down the receiver and turned to Detective Sims, who had just entered the room “That damned Sherwood thing again,” he said. He shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “I feel sorry for Sherwood, but what does he want us to do about it? What does he expect us to do?”
Actually, by this time, Bart Sherwood had given up hope that the police would do anything. That’s why he did what he did when he got the telephone message about the dog that evening.
Corwell Harding made his decision over the weekend. It was a difficult decision, but once he made it, he immediately felt better about the whole matter.
He looked the number up in the telephone book on Monday morning and after carefully writing it down, being a methodical man, he made the call.
It took the people at the pound a little longer than he had expected and for a while he experienced a rather forlorn hope that perhaps the record might be lost or misplaced. But it was a futile wish. They called him back around three in the afternoon and told him that the license number of the dog he had given them was for a French poodle and that the dog was owned by a Mr. Bart Sherwood, 97 Olive Drive, in Brookside. Harding thanked them and hung up the receiver. He decided he would write the Sherwoods a letter.
A short time later he brought Flick in from the stake he had him chained to outside of the house and fed him. He had grown very attached to the dog. Watching the poodle as Flick ate his dinner, Harding began to wonder what kind of people owned him. They probably were very attached to him. The chances were that they had children and he could imagine how those children must be feeling about losing the dog.
Mr. Harding began to feel very bad about it. That is why, shortly before nine o’clock that night, as once more he was about to take the dog outside and stake him, he decided that he wouldn’t write; he’d telephone them.
He had no difficulty in getting the telephone number from the long-distance operator. He made the call collect.
Bart knew that he should call the police. It was the only sensible thing to do. He was so excited that he had a hard time lighting the cigarette he had instinctively reached for as he started to dial the telephone. And then, suddenly, he put the receiver back on the hook.
The police? What good would that do him. Maybe it wasn’t Flick at all. Maybe … But of course it was Flick. It had to be; the man was quite sure of the tag number. But even if it was, what would the police do? Nothing.
That’s when Bart decided to get a car—rent one if he had to—and drive directly up to Cameron Corners and see the man who had found Flick.
He had to look up the location of the place on the map. He’d been so excited he’d forgotten to ask. Cameron Corners—it wasn’t more than an hour and a half at the most. The trouble was the man had been very reticent about seeing him at all that night. He’d said he had the dog and that the dog was in good condition and wouldn’t the morning be all right. It seemed he was some sort of farmer and he went to bed early.
Bart had wanted to tell him just how important it was. He started to explain, and then he hadn’t been able to go on. How do you explain to a man who has found your dog that your wife is missing? Where do you start?
So he had changed his mind and begged to be allowed to come right up. The man was very reluctant but at last had said he would wait up for a couple of hours. He’d given Bart directions to follow once he got into the town.
It was more difficult than he thought it would be, getting the car. For a moment or so he was tempted to take a cab, but after considering the expense, he made a last try and managed to rent a car from the owner of the gas station he patronized. He was lucky in finding him in when he phoned. As it was, he didn’t leave his house until almost ten-thirty.
When he heard the rented car drive up in front of the house, he had a sudden change of heart. He decided to at least call Sims at the police station and let him know what had happened. Detective Sims wasn’t in and the man on the desk wasn’t sure where he could be reached.
Bart cursed himself for wasting the precious minutes and quickly told the man to leave word for Sims that he had called and that he had a possible lead on his missing wife. He’d call Sims back in the morning. The policeman on the other end of the wire hurriedly asked him something, but Bart was already putting the receiver back.
At twenty to eleven, Lieutenant Parks received the telephone call from State Trooper Ralph Domonitti, stationed at the Hawthorn Barracks.
It was only the sheerest luck that Trooper Domonitti saw the story in the newspaper at all. The paper was a couple of days old, at least, and he was throwing it out with a bundle of old magazines. Usually his wife took care of these chores, but she was in the hospital, nursing the newest addition to his already large family. Right then Trooper Domonitti was home taking care of the other children and doing the housework on his day off. It was only because of his wife’s being in the hospital and the attendant problems on his mind that he had failed to read the report on the missing woman which had come into headquarters in the first place.
Seeing the picture of the girl in the paper as he was about to toss it out, brought the thing back to his mind. He recognized her at once and as he hurriedly read the story, he remembered the name and the incident
. They’d eat him out at headquarters for not checking the reports, he realized. The only excuse was that newborn baby and it wasn’t an excuse the captain was likely to accept.
For a moment Trooper Domonitti experienced a quick temptation; he could just forget the whole thing and say nothing. But as quickly he discarded the idea. He was too honest a cop to ever cover up a thing like this.
So when he saw the picture and recognized the face and then read the story he didn’t hesitate to put in the call. He talked with his captain first, verifying the routine flash on the thing, and then he called Brookside. He reached Detective Lieutenant Parks almost at once.
“Last Monday,” he explained, “I was on the roadblock just this side of Brewster. Yeah, I’m sure. She showed me her license. It was the Sherwood woman all right. The picture in the paper is unmistakable. Yes, it could have been a French poodle, although I don’t know much about dogs. Yes, a black sedan, six or seven years old. Chevy, I believe. And the man with her had one arm. He was average size, around forty or forty-five. Said he was her father and had been ill. She was taking him out for a drive, or at least that’s what she told me.”
He told Parks he’d write in a full report on the matter. He hung up, wondering what his captain would say to him. He was supposed to check over those reports, and there was no excuse for his not having done so. Well, it probably wasn’t too important. If the woman was missing, it was pretty obvious that she wanted to be. He shrugged and went back to his housecleaning.
Lieutenant Parks was completely baffled by the news. It certainly looked as if his first hunch had been right. There was no foul play; the woman had merely picked up and gone off. There must have been another man, after all. Young Sherwood was certainly due for a rather unpleasant surprise.
Still, it was odd that she’d taken no clothes, or returned to the house. He’d tell Sims about it when he saw him the next morning and let Sims break the news to Sherwood.
Corwell Harding gave up around one o’clock in the morning. It was really very inconsiderate; the man had been so insistent, begging him to wait up. And now he’d failed to show. It just went to prove that he’d been silly about the whole thing. He could have saved a lot of trouble and written the letter as he’d wanted to first.
He decided to go to bed and forget the whole thing. As far as he was concerned, he hoped they’d never show up. Before he turned in he once more took Flick, whom he’d been keeping in the house for company, outside and staked him near the coops. It was probably only because he was very tired, that he was a little careless himself.
He tied the long rope to the end of the dog’s leash, using a simple slip knot instead of the double knot he usually used. That was why, when he went out to get the dog in the morning, just after daybreak, Flick was no longer there. Nothing was there but the end of the rope.
Harding felt pretty bad about it. Even if he wasn’t going to be able to keep the dog himself, it made him feel bad. It was going to be pretty embarrassing if and when those folks showed up.
He had a quick breakfast and then collected his eggs. He delivered them to the supermarket every Tuesday morning around eight o’clock. Before leaving, he scrawled a note and tacked it to the front door. Just said that he had to take his eggs into the market and that he’d be back in a couple of hours. He was really hoping no one would come to read that note.
The first warning Bart Sherwood had was when the engine began missing. It happened a few minutes after he had passed Hawthorne Circle and came at a time he was on a deserted stretch of the parkway. He pushed the gas peddle up and down several times and the engine coughed and almost stopped. Bart cursed and put the car into second gear. A minute or so later the engine gave an odd, gasping noise and stopped altogether. It was shortly before midnight.
Bart climbed out of the car and opened the hood. He had to use his lighter to see anything at all and he knew very little about automobiles in any case. It wouldn’t have mattered. The rented car had blown a head gasket.
His first inclination was to start walking. He knew the last gas station he had passed must be at least seven or eight miles down the road, which would mean there wouldn’t be another one for at least ten miles in the opposite direction, in which he was traveling. Somewhere off the road, however, there must be a house where he could use a phone.
The night was starless and there was no moon and he hesitated to start walking. There were almost no cars on the road and he realized the futility of hoping anyone would stop this late at night. And yet he felt that he couldn’t just stay there and wait. He had to get to Cameron Corners. He tried to be rational about it, tried not to build up too much hope. After all, it wasn’t Joyce, it was only the dog. Flick had turned up, and Flick had been with Joyce when she disappeared. It could mean everything or nothing. He was bitter with impatience as he stood by the stalled car and tried to think.
At last he made his decision. Just walking at random would be hopeless. Sooner or later a cruising police car would be bound to pass. He would have to be content to sit and wait. Climbing back into the car, he turned off the headlights. He would conserve his battery, be sure that there was juice so that he could flash a distress signal when he saw a car coming.
It was almost daylight when the trooper stopped. And it was almost eight o’clock when Bart Sherwood finally arrived in Cameron Corners. The garage man whom the trooper had called had lent him a beat-up jeep to use while he made repairs to the rented car.
Bart didn’t stop for breakfast, but drove directly out to Harding’s chicken farm. He passed Harding’s half-ton pickup truck on the way out not, of course, recognizing it.
They had been up since daybreak and she could sense the tension as they sat in the half-dark of the kitchen waiting for breakfast.
Today the routine was changed; instead of Paula’s leaving the room they shared and one of the men coming up to guard her, they’d let her come down with the other girl. Heavy drapes had been tacked over the windows of the kitchen and she was unable to see out, but she knew that it was early in the morning.
The thin, wispy one, the dangerous little man with the foul tongue and the nervous, vicious manner, had been steadily cursing under his breath as he paced back and forth. The older one, Luder, sat off to one side, drinking coffee and staring out the window. He seemed morose.
The girl glided about silently, preparing the breakfast and saying nothing. Cribbins didn’t come downstairs until later and he was silent and dour. At eight o’clock he finally stood up and stretched.
“It’s about time to start in for Mitty,” he said. “Santino. you better take the car and meet the train in Poughkeepsie. But get her upstairs first.” He nodded over to where Joyce sat finishing her breakfast. “All the way up, this time.”
As Luder started to get to his feet, Santino quickly moved across the room.
“I’ll take her up,” he said. “You finish your breakfast. I’ll take her up.”
Luder turned a questioning eye to Cribbins and Cribbins nodded.
“Let him do it,” he said. He looked back at Santino as the little man reached out and took Joyce by the arm.
“Make it snappy,” he said. “I want you to get started for town.”
She was unable to control the shiver of revulsion as he grasped her bare arm and propelled her through the doorway and to the staircase. They climbed to the second floor and as she instinctively hesitated in front of the room where they’d been keeping her, he cursed and shoved her.
“Keep goin’,” he said.
They walked on to the narrow flight leading up to the third floor.
It was a small, square room, again at the back of the house. There was a frayed rug on the floor, an old-fashioned bed and a high, mahogany wardrobe with its double doors hanging open. Green curtains had been drawn at the windows, which were unshuttered.
“Get on the bed.”
She hesitated, sudden fright making her powerless to move. Santino lifted his hand and struck her a sharp blow
and Joyce felt the blood hot on her lips. In spite of herself the tears came to her eyes.
She lowered herself, sitting on the edge of the bed.
He struck her again, without warning, and as she fell back, he lifted her feet so that she lay across the bed. He used a thin nylon rope to bind her ankles together, muttering under his breath as he worked. She lay there, staring at him when he ordered her to turn on her side and put her hands behind her back. She didn’t move fast enough for him and he punched her with his fist.
He put the gag in her mouth, using a dirty, crumbled handkerchief, after cruelly binding her wrists together.
When he finished he turned her over so that she lay facing up. He stood back and stared down at her, again muttering under his breath. She tried to take her eyes from him, but there was something about the little man that hypnotized her. He was evil—evil and vile and terrible as he stood there watching her.
He started to move, leaning toward her, and at that moment they heard footsteps outside the door. It opened and Cribbins entered the room.
“Damn it, I told you to hurry it up,” he said. “You got no time for fooling around now. I want you to go in and get Mitty.”
Santino took his eyes from Joyce and looked at the other man. “Why the rush? You sure Mitty will be coming in?”
“Goldman said so. That’s as sure as anyone can be. Go and get him.”
“And then?”
“And then, damn it, come back here. We’ll give Goldman until noon. He’ll be driving up. Until noon—that’s all.”
“And if Mitty ain’t on the train?” Santino asked. Cribbins looked at him blankly. He shrugged. “Come on back.”
“Paula could go for him,” Santino said.
“I want you to go.”
Santino swore under his breath, but left the room, followed by Cribbins, who carefully locked the door from the outside. A few minutes later she heard a car start up somewhere below.
Miss Abernathy was watching out of her living-room window as Santino wheeled out of the driveway. She was getting ready to walk into town and do her weekly shopping at the supermarket.
