“I was suggesting the possibility of true love,” I laughed. “For my money, Blackburn is only a project for her.”
“You agree with Nancy,” said Fennisong. He rubbed at an idea lodged somewhere under his ridged forehead. “The lady has been seen often in the company of her ex-husband, Seff. And I have a suggestion from the doorman at the Concordat. A special boy friend. Man named Buffo.”
“Buffo has been there often of late?”
“Buffo comes rarely, but he stays late.”
“Anyone else?”
“Blackburn, of course. Blackburn is the man she’s anxious to bait.”
“She’s landed her fish,” I said.
“A rare one,” said Fennisong with a little laugh. “A sturgeon, complete with caviar, eh?”
“A good client for a private investigator, too.”
“The best. The rich are always my best clients.”
“How would you like a poor one?”
Fennisong beamed. He would greatly enjoy helping me. I liked him for his honesty. He was reality for me, a pleasant change from my fictional sleuths. He was a little man with a keen brain. And a keen nose for greenbacks.
“For twenty-five a day and expenses, I’m yours,” he said. “Tell me about it.”
I told him what I knew. I backtracked through the case, all the way into my shock and sadness at the bad news of my uncle’s death. Fennisong listened attentively. He made no notes. He made no comments. When I was finished he got up from behind his desk and stood for a long pause at the water cooler.
“Has Sam MacGruder made any progress?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I’m not interested in Sam’s progress.”
“Ah, but Sam is a clever man. You mustn’t minimize his talent.”
“You know him?”
“But of course I know him. I must count the police as my best friends. Especially Sam MacGruder, a real man, if I ever met one.”
“I’ll call Sam when I need him.”
“And how about me?” Fennisong asked. He scribbled a few lines on a pad and handed them to me. “My two numbers, the office and my apartment. Try not to call me after midnight. My old lady raises hell when I go out at night.”
“You’ll hear from me,” I said, and left him.
I made Long Island Raceway in under an hour. I busied myself around the stables, seeking out Hank Luchon, who willingly led me around the layout, introducing me to each of the six other drivers in the last race my Uncle Jake drove.
One by one, all the way down the line, they agreed that Jake West had done his best that night. Their opinions were pat and straightforward. Jake West had tried. But Jake West had been boxed in by Luchon and Harvey Brett, the driver of the front running Lucas Boy. My talk with Harvey Brett was short and loaded with undertones of insinuation. Of all the drivers in the Grand Circuit, Brett alone merited the distasteful tag of “the man most likely to boot a horse in.” He had been behind too many sleepers in the past few years. He could be reckoned with whenever the field comprised unknown horses.
“How did Jake West seem to you that night?” I asked.
“Seem? Jake was all right.” Brett avoided my eyes. He was a symbol of all things loose and scurvy. He had a bad habit of whacking his leg with a whip. The sound of it irritated me. He punctuated every sentence with the whip. “Did you think he looked sick, Luchon?”
Luchon said: “Not sick. But he was quiet, I’ll say that much.”
“Nothing unusual,” Brett said. “He looked like a man with something on his mind.”
“Did he ever mention what bothered him?” I asked.
“Didn’t know Jake West that well.”
“What did you think of the race?”
“Jake was boxed in at the rail.”
“You boxed him in.”
Whack! Brett paused after the whip-swish. He stared at me belligerently. “The way you say it, it sounds dirty.”
Luchon stepped between us. “Well now, boys,” he said. “No need to get ourselves riled up. Look, West, Harvey didn’t win that race. I did. You got any dirty cracks about it, better make them to me.”
His rustic honesty quieted me. “I’m sorry, Luchon. But I’m stabbing. I’ve got to keep stabbing. If that race was fixed, I want to know who arranged it and why. I want to find out whether my uncle was in on a boat ride. The whole thing’s rather confused, don’t you think? If Jake West was part of a fixed race, why was he shot afterwards?”
“Jake wasn’t in on any fix,” Brett said grudgingly. “Forget about it, mister. Tell him to go peddle his fish, Hank.”
Luchon led me away before the temptation to take a crack at Brett would overtake me again. I thanked Luchon and drove out of there.
I circled the neighborhood, going nowhere, letting myself float loose and free again after the tension with Harvey Brett. It would have been a windfall if I had discovered the elements that might establish Jake West’s last ride as clean and good. Yet, despite the obvious signals, the cut-and-dried facts that cleared Jake West, something in the behavior of Harvey Brett kept my doubts alive. I circled Garden City and made the grand swing through Hempstead, Freeport and back to Westbury by way of Merrick.
It was almost dusk when I arrived at the Sulky Inn.
CHAPTER 12
Uncle Jake’s convertible was parked behind the hill, inside the long and barnlike garage belonging to the Sulky Inn. MacGruder had assigned a cop to watch it. He greeted me in friendly fashion. He told me the fingerprint men had been over it thoroughly with two detectives from MacGruder’s squad.
“The boys just left,” the cop said. “I don’t think they found a thing on it. You looking for anything special?”
“Just looking,” I said.
“She’s all yours.”
His presence at the car embarrassed me. What was I looking for? I sat behind the wheel and stared at the familiar dashboard, remembering the last time I had driven the convertible. Two weeks ago, on a Sunday afternoon, I had taken the train out to Westbury to visit with Uncle Jake. And at dusk, I drove him back to New York. Jake enjoyed having me drive. He himself was the deliberate type of driver, the sort of man who gave all his attention to the wheel and could not break his concentration with small talk. We would joke about it. We would laugh about it. Jake West, the world-renowned sulky driver, was a sissy behind the wheel of a car. And Uncle Jake would explain that his was the type of lowbrow mind equipped to handle only horses. He insisted that this habit of thinking was responsible for his racing success. When he drove a horse, he gave his whole mind to the chore. It geared him to the problems of competition. He was alert and alive to the chances that might open up for him. And when the breaks came, his mind was tense and ready for the split-second decision. He was able to push his horse at the electric moment.
“Give your mind to one job at a time, Davey,” he told me. “It lowers the odds on winning.”
His remembered axiom made me smile. What was I doing now, daydreaming behind the wheel? I checked the glove compartment. I found nothing but road maps.
“Did the detectives remove anything from here?” I asked the cop.
“Not a thing. They said the car was clean.” He came over to lean in and watch me. “Looking for something?”
“I wish I knew.” There are the little things, I thought. In a detective story, when the investigator puts his nose down to the scent, he must be alert for the small items, the inconsequential items, the clever clues that lead him to the dénouement. I had pushed my own fictional heroes through many a situation like this. There would be an assortment of objects he might find: a book of matches, a note on a road map, a woman’s hairpin, a piece of string, a shred of tobacco. Yet, in my frantic search through Jake West’s personal effects, nothing of any importance appeared to challenge me. I had explored his room desperately. Would I find a book of addres
ses? Would I find a stray phone number doodled somewhere near his night table? Where would a man like Jake West bury the key to his strange activities?
I got out of the car and examined the body of the convertible. It was unmarked, the chalk-blue paint fresh and clean and shining, a tribute to Jake West’s care of his indispensable auto.
I backed the car out of the barn. Horace Edge came out to help me. There was a small convention of cars in his parking space—a dinner of local businessmen at the Sulky Inn. The night was hot and damp, a fine drizzle hanging low around the barn. It would be raining heavily soon.
“Where did Jake service his car?” I asked Edge.
“Montana’s,” Edge said. “It’s down on the south side of the village. Herb Montana is the name of the owner. Herb’s been taking care of Jake’s car for years.”
Montana’s garage was of the old-fashioned variety, a simple square building sporting nothing in the way of modernity. Montana himself matched the décor. He was a smiling man who moved with a herky-jerk step. He had a nice smile. His grin faded when he recognized the convertible. He finished wiping his hands on a dirty rag and stepped up to the car shyly.
I told him quickly who I was. He nodded, his elastic face undecided between sympathy and embarrassment. I asked him the routine questions and he gave me the usual answers. Jake’s car had been serviced last two weeks ago, a complete motor check and change of oil and grease. Montana remembered the accurate date without resorting to his bills. He could remember also the last time Jake had gassed up. On the way to the track, yesterday afternoon.
“The cops asked me that already,” Montana said. “We were trying to figure the mileage he did since he loaded up.” He reached in and pointed to the speedometer. “Jake must’ve done ninety miles. This car uses about twelve to the gallon. He used about eight gallons. It figures.”
“How often did he gas up?”
“About twice a week,” Montana said. “Regular.”
“Alone?”
“Well, sometimes Nickles Shuba drove him.”
“How often was that?”
“Hard to say,” said Montana. He radiated a keen credibility because of his obvious willingness to cooperate. He would be a good witness. He would be a die-hard about his observations. I wondered how well he could remember the little things.
“And Nickles,” I went on, “did he ever mention where he drove my uncle?”
“Never talked much to that boy. Struck me as being pretty hard to take. Sort of crusty.”
“You didn’t talk to Jake either, about these trips? They must have been long drives. My uncle never used a chauffeur for the short hops.”
“Jake West never got that confidential.”
A car hummed in for gas. Montana excused himself and attended to the job. He returned, making a mark in a tattered red book. He was the homey type of gas salesman. His local customers would buy on credit and get a bill at the end of the month. I asked to see Jake’s bills. Montana thumbed through his files and came up with four months of records. I tallied the gas consumption. Jake West had driven goodly distances. His average travel took him far from the daily route to the track and home again. I estimated that my uncle traveled about three hundred miles each week. The distance from the Sulky ran to Long Island Raceway would be about three miles one way.
“How far are we from New York?” I asked.
“About twenty-eight, twenty-nine.”
“Jake never mentioned going into New York?”
“You’re asking the exact same questions the cops did,” Montana grinned. “I wish I could help you.”
“You’re helping me,” I said. “What time do you close for the night?”
“Around nine.”
I thanked him and doubled back to the Sulky Inn. I circled the place and sat under the tall trees. The rain was already falling with a steady patter. It would be dark soon. The wind shield wipers set up a monotonous rhythm. Ahead of me the pebbled road wound down to the highway through the gray lawn. Jake West had sat this way last night, erect behind the wheel as he always was when steering. He had turned down there. To the right? To the left? And after the turn, he had disappeared toward his mysterious destination. I closed my eyes and tried to carry myself on his journey. Jake West would use one road always, if the trip had been made often. His methodical personality must come through in all acts of habit. I forced my mind into an imagined trip with him. I meditated his secrecy. And suddenly I knew that my uncle must have turned to the right whenever he left on one of his lonely jaunts.
To the left lay the village of Westbury. Jake would avoid the village if he wanted to escape the town without being seen!
I stepped on the gas and swung the car down to the highway, turning to the right and then slowing down. The road wound through the outskirts of the town. Here there were few houses on the way to the great artery called Northern State Parkway. The country on either side of the road seemed uncommonly hilly for Long Island. A farm lay hidden deep under sheltering trees. A great pasture stretched off to the east.
Then the road snaked over a short rise and rolled down into a valley. Ahead of me, a sign warned:
GAS UP HERE!
Last Place For Gas
Before The Parkway!
I pulled in at the tank. A boy in dirty dungarees poked his head out of the house and waved at me. He came running out, jerking a battered raincoat around his shoulders. I got out of the car and busied myself at the soft drink machine. The boy changed a bill for me and made a rustic comment about the dirty weather.
“You work here nights?” I asked.
“I work here around the clock,” he said. “Station’s mine. I bought it when I got back from Korea.”
I made jokes about what I had done at Seoul. He warmed to me immediately. He was lonely and welcomed company. He told me about his C.O. in Pusan, and how it happened he almost got his leg blown off, and how efficient the army medics were. He gave me a cigarette and would have served me a free lunch if I had let him. He was a freckled G.I. with a face full of animation. Every once in a while he would squint out the door and furrow his brow at the convertible.
I said: “You recognize the car?”
“Well, I don’t know,” he said. “Should I?”
“I was wondering whether my uncle ever stopped here for gas. He’d be coming in from Westbury. At night. Late.”
“It could be.”
“That’s no help.”
“Wait a minute,” he said. He ducked his head out the door and shouted: “Marge! Marge!” He waited a moment and then I saw the screen door open on the porch of the tiny cottage behind the station. “Come on down here, Marge!” He grinned at me and then said: “My wife. She’s got a head on her shoulders. A hell of a lot smarter than I am. She might remember more.”
He opened the door for a plump and pleasant girl with a kerchief around her head. She came in breathlessly. She couldn’t have been much over eighteen, a schoolgirl, complete with the wide-open friendliness of all adolescents. She shook my hand with a strong handclasp when he introduced me.
“Mr. West wants to know whether we recognize that convertible out there, Marge.” He turned her around, pushing her toward the window.
Marge gave the car her complete concentration. Her husband joined her at the window. He put his arm around her. “Better come through for me, baby. I was just telling Mr. West how smart you are.” He bent over her neck and kissed her. She giggled and moved away.
“Let me think, Harry,” she said. “I can’t think with you pestering me.”
“A great brain.” Harry winked at me.
“It could be the car,” Marge said.
“The phone call man?” Harry asked. “Is that his car, or was I crazy?
Marge nodded firmly. “I’m sure it is. I remember I fell in love with that robin’s-egg blue under the lights.
It’s such a pretty color, isn’t it? The next car we get, Harry, if we ever get another car, I want one—”
I interrupted Marge. “What time did you see this car?”
“It was just before closing. About midnight, wouldn’t you say, Harry?”
Harry nodded sagely. “I was taking in the rack where I keep the oil cans. Then this car comes buzzing up the road. He came real fast. He turned in and asked me did I have a phone. I showed him the booth, through the window. I didn’t pay much attention to him. Marge was inside. She made change for him.”
“What did he look like?”
“A young man.”
“Young? How young?”
“He seemed pretty young. Maybe your age.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, I didn’t really get a good look at him.”
I tried to make her break him down. I failed. Marge fumbled and groped for a description of the man. How could she describe him? The picture she built could have been anybody at all, a youngish old man like Jake West, or a truly young college boy. He was wearing a trench coat. He was wearing no hat. This would be my uncle. Or would it? She could create no finely etched picture of him for me. Witnesses forget. People see only the quick flash of a passing character. Their minds are not adjusted to retaining an accurate image. Their minds hold only to the blurred impressions.
“Did he give you a tip?” I asked. Uncle Jake would be generous. Uncle Jake would be openly friendly with money, to thank them for their kindness.
“No, he didn’t, Seemed in a rush to get away.”
She was firm about his haste. He ran to the phone booth. He dialed quickly. He came out of the booth and ran to the car.
“Was he in the booth long?”
“Not too long,” she said. Her girlish face clouded as she showed me her concentration. She bit a fingernail. She went across the little room to the counter and stood behind it, thinking. “I remember now,” she said. “It’s a funny thing how it comes back to me. But it was pretty late at night and it was quiet. I remember hearing the sound of the coins ringing in that booth. He dropped a couple of coins. There were three bells.”
Win, Place, and Die! Page 10
