He went on to speak of the night of the accident, of how King Hubbard’s brother, although unknown to Sanford at the time, had lurched out from between two parked cars and been struck.
“When I found out she’d run out on me, I was sore and scared and a little bewildered. Obviously she had something to hide and couldn’t afford to be questioned,” he said. “I figured my hunch about her being married was right but I didn’t know who she really was until this morning.”
“This morning?” Again the superintendent’s brows climbed. They stayed that way while he listened to the details of the meeting on the houseboat. He took his time digesting the information and finally he nodded. “I see,” he said. “And what about the accident in New York City? Were you charged?”
“No. Tire marks showed that I wasn’t going fast and the medical examiner’s report on Hubbard said that the blood alcohol was about .020. In Connecticut blood alcohol of .015 is prima facie evidence of drunkenness or intoxication or whatever the legal term is. I don’t know about New York City but the tests got me off the hook.”
“You have some thoughts as to why the woman’s husband happened to be there at that time?”
“I do now,” Sanf ord said. “The only way I can figure it is that Arthur Hubbard must have suspected that his wife was seeing someone and had put private detectives to work. We’d had one drink at this little bar and were going to dinner and I think whoever was following us had telephoned Arthur Hubbard that we were in the bar. I think Hubbard arrived there drunk just after we’d left. I think the detective pointed out the car when we started and that Hubbard dashed out to flag me down. I never had a chance to stop or even swerve out of his way.”
He went on to tell about the first telephone call that had come when it became evident that there was no negligence on Sanford’s part and that he would not be punished by the law. He told of the subway incident two weeks later and the subsequent one when the pickup truck had tried to run him down. He explained why he had gone to Florida and re-created the attempt there when King Hubbard had tried to gun him down. He told about the two friends with the ketch and why he had decided to accompany them.
Kirby allowed himself a small smile. “I know something about your adventures with the Cay Queen,” he said. “You arrived here something over a year ago, is that it?”
“About a year and two months I think.”
“And you had no trouble since—until last night?”
“That’s right.”
“And how do you think Hubbard located you?”
Sanford started to reply and then he stopped. He cleared his throat. By that time he remembered that he was talking to a police officer and knew he could not very well admit that he had been technically guilty of breaking and entering George Breck’s hotel room.
“I can’t tell you,” he said. “I have a hunch, but it’s nothing more than that.”
“And what does this hunch of yours say?”
“It’s obvious that Hubbard’s had someone looking for me ever since I left Florida. I think the guy that found me is over at the hotel now. His name is George Breck. He came in Wednesday, I think. He says he’s a writer but he looks more like a detective to me. He’s an American. He talks like a city man and—I don’t know—he’s got a shrewd, sort of hard-bitten look that makes me think he is the one. I can’t think of anyone else I’ve seen at the hotel that would qualify.”
“But this, as you say, is a hunch?”
“Right.”
“The rest of the story is the truth, as you see it?”
“All of it.”
“All right.” Kirby sat up, reached for a pad and a pencil, and began to doodle on it. “I’ve been talking to you more or less as a friend. Now let’s go over some of those points again while I think like a police officer.” He hesitated, a frown working on his brows before he said: “I’ve only been in New York City once but I’ve never been in one of those subway stations at the rush hour. Tell me what it’s like.”
Sanford did so and when he finished Kirby bunched his lips. “Crowds underground. People trying to get home. All of them jostling and shoving and milling about trying to get aboard the train so that they won’t have to wait until the next one. Under these circumstances why couldn’t you have been shoved accidentally?”
“I could feel the hand in my back.”
“It still could have been accidental. Suppose someone stumbled and put out a hand to save himself. That hand could have hit you in the back and toppled you over the edge. Whoever did it is not about to admit it, is he?”
“Yes, but—”
“You know you’re going to fall—” Kirby continued. “To save yourself you jump and fling yourself under that overhang in the nick of time. What happened then?”
“The train stopped. The third rail was on the opposite side of the tracks—I could see the blue flame from the contact when the car was stopping—but I still couldn’t move. People yelled down was I all right and I yelled back that I was and to get me the hell out of there. They uncoupled the car and pulled the rest of the train ahead. By the time they helped me back on the platform there were a couple of policemen there. They wanted to know what happened. I told them someone pushed me and they said that witnesses stated that it looked more as if I had jumped.” He shrugged. “Of course I had jumped so what the hell could I say? All of a sudden I found myself on the defensive because if I tried to explain about King Hubbard no one would have believed me.”
“Exactly,” Kirby said. “And it still could have been an accident.”
“No,” Sanford said flatly. “Because you’re forgetting one thing.”
“What?”
“You’re forgetting the call I got from Hubbard a couple of weeks earlier and the one I got the day after the accident.”
“Umm. I see what you mean. And what was it this second telephone call said?”
“The voice said ‘Hear you had a little accident, Sanford. Well, you can’t be lucky forever.’”
“Hubbard never mentioned his name?”
“No. Not that time, or the times after. He didn’t have to. The first call that said ‘You killed my brother—’ was enough to identify him. The voice the other times was the same.”
“How about the truck incident?”
“I had some help there,” Sanford said, “and it’s a damn good thing for me I did. There was this fellow walking his dog on the other side of the street. He was a little behind me and the truck was coming from that direction and he saw it start to swerve before I knew what was happening. I remember exactly what he yelled. He said ‘Watch it!’ and I could hear the truck then, and I didn’t even glance over my shoulder—”
He digressed to describe the street of brownstone fronts and the high steps that led to the entrances. “I managed to land on the third step from the sidewalk on my second jump and the truck scraped the fender on the stone post before it swung off the sidewalk to the pavement.”
He took a breath as his imagination re-created the frightening moments and said: “The fellow with the dog came tearing across the street and I just stayed perched on that third step. A policeman who had seen the thing from farther up the street came running along. A few seconds later a cruising police car pulled in to the curb and when the two cops heard the story they put me on the back seat and we started to look for the truck. We’d seen it swing around the corner on Lexington Avenue heading south and we found it abandoned about two blocks later. They decided it must be some drunk or juvenile delinquent who had stolen the truck and I let it go at that. What the hell else could I do?” he demanded, voice rising. “That’s what wore me down. That’s what made me leave town. Some crazy bastard is trying to kill you and you can’t do a God damn thing about it.”
He sat up and reached for a cigarette, aware that he had been shouting and embarrassed by it. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to yell at you. But if you knew—”
“Quite,” Kirby said, interrupting. He doodled for a sil
ent second or two and said: “Did you ever try to see this man Hubbard?”
“Twice,” Sanford said morosely. “It was a waste of time. With his money and protection I couldn’t get to first base. I stopped trying.”
“I see.” Kirby nodded thoughtfully. “And later there was another phone call?”
“Just like the other one.”
“Now about this third time, in Florida. This happened at night?”
“Right.”
“Someone shot at you three times from a moving car?”
“Right.”
“From how far away would you say?”
“I don’t know. Twenty or thirty feet.”
“That’s not very far.”
“It wasn’t very far.”
“Your idea is that he was just a bad shot?”
“No. I don’t think he could have missed if I hadn’t seen him coming.”
“Oh? The car was coming toward you?”
“No,” Sanford said and then, realizing that some further explanation was needed he said: “Look. Did you ever walk along a sidewalk and see yourself reflected in a show window that was cut at an angle to the sidewalk?”
“Many times.”
“Well, that’s how it was with me. It was nothing but luck. I was walking along the street on my way home about one o’clock in the morning and this particular block had a lot of shops with show windows. Some of them had some lights in them and some were dark. There was a light at each intersection and as I came along, seeing myself in this particular window, I saw a car turn the corner behind me. I was still watching myself when I saw the car lights go out and—”
“I see now,” Kirby said. “You were still nervous from those other experiences in New York and you wondered about this car and why anyone would put the headlights out. Was it coming fast?”
“No. I stopped and looked at it, a little scared now. I could see the window on my side was down and when I saw the driver start to lean toward it I didn’t wait any longer. I just sort of threw myself forward and down when the first shot went off but I think the thing that saved me was the car that was parked a few feet away. I rolled behind it as the next two shots went off and I guess by that time Hubbard knew he’d blown another chance. I heard a voice say ‘Next time, Sanford,’ and then the motor accelerated. I don’t know if he turned his lights on again or not and I didn’t get any license number either. I didn’t even lift my head until I was damn sure he was gone.”
Kirby pushed the pad away and put his pencil down. He leaned back in his chair and locked his fingers behind his head. He ran his tongue absently along the lower edge of his mustache, the blue eyes full of thought as they looked somewhere above Sanford’s head.
When the silence continued Sanford said: “Did you ever have a nightmare while you were awake?”
“What?” Kirby blinked. “Well no. Can’t say that I have.”
“If you can imagine such a thing just try living with it week after week. Craay, hunh? I’ve been going along thinking I had as much guts as the next man and I let this kook run me clear out of the country.”
“It’s not a question of guts, actually. An educated man with resources such as you say Hubbard has could make him about as dangerous and unpredictable a person—once his mind was made up—as one would care to meet. Pretty hard to stand and fight something you can’t see or even anticipate.”
“How much of the story do you believe?” Sanford asked, finding some reassurance in Kirby’s reply.
The superintendent’s eyes came down and he seemed surprised. “Why shouldn’t I believe all of it? You certainly didn’t come in here to spin a yarn.”
“Okay. But if you can understand a man like Hubbard you’re better than I am.”
“It’s not my job to understand killers, potential or otherwise. My job is to catch them and get a conviction if possible.” Kirby brought his hands down, opened a desk drawer and took out a well-used, straight-stem briar. “Not that I haven’t read a great deal about the subject. I’ve absorbed the views of several pundits—police officers, psychologists, the lot. Your man seems to have gone off the deep end but the point of the matter at the moment is—just what am I expected to do about it?”
Sanford said he didn’t know and watched Kirby fill the pipe and hold a match while he made small tidy puffs until he had a satisfactory light.
“I can’t accuse him of anything,” Kirby said settling the pipe stem in the corner of his mouth. “No real grounds, actually. He’s broken no law here that I know of.”
“You can talk to him. If he knows you’ve got the story—”
“He’ll deny it of course.”
“Certainly he’ll deny it,” Sanford said. “But at least it might cramp his style a bit. It might even shake him up because he’ll know that if anything does happen to me he’ll be the first guy you pick up.”
“There’s that, of course. Yes, I see your point.” Kirby kept on with his small puffs as he nodded. “Yes … Well, naturally I’ll talk to him. Make a preliminary warning so to speak. As a matter of fact I’d like to meet the man.” He pushed a button at the side of his desk and said: “Let’s see if we can get in touch with him. The houseboat has a radio telephone similar to ours—for keeping in touch with those two cruisers out there I suppose.”
He stopped as a policewoman opened the door and stood waiting. “Have communications get in touch with the houseboat,” he said. “Invite Mr. King Hubbard to stop by as soon as convenient. Find out how long he will be.”
He leaned back in his chair again, still puffing on his pipe, his eyes thoughtful. Sanford, having nothing more to say at the moment but pleased with the reaction he had received, made no movement until the telephone rang. Kirby picked it up.
“Yes?” After a second or two he said: “Very good,” and hung up. “About a half hour,” he said to Sanford. “Have you anything to do in town? Or you can wait outside if you like.”
7
The city streets were hot and noisy and the sun was bright overhead as Barry Sanford left the police compound and turned left toward the river. He stopped at the intersection next to the post office where a pith-helmeted officer directed traffic. When he got the go signal he crossed over and continued to the bridge, a sturdy survivor of the last hurricane that connected the downtown halves of the city. Halfway across he stopped to lean on the rail and gaze seaward, absently noting the rows of warehouses and sheds and working boats that lined either side of the river. The two shed-like municipal markets with their curving roofs were still busy in their merchandising of fruits, vegetables, and miscellaneous goods, and he watched the activity a while before continuing to the other side.
He bought a pack of cigarettes and stood at a counter consuming a soft drink, his thoughts centering now on Laura Maynard. It was still difficult to accept her presence here, to understand why she had come with King Hubbard. He also knew that even in the first shock of surprise that morning he had felt a little of the odd excitement that had drawn him to her in the first place and had made him continue their enigmatic and unsatisfactory relationship. He continued in his speculation until long after the soft-drink bottle was empty, and not until he glanced at his watch did he realize that it was time to get back to Police Headquarters.
King Hubbard was already waiting in the outer room, and when Sanford walked in he gave him his superior and openly taunting grin as he said: “Been telling tales out of school, Sanford?”
The clerical sergeant, coming out of Kirby’s office, said they could go in now and Sanford led the way. This time the superintendent did not rise from behind his desk. He nodded to Sanford and gave Hubbard a brief but comprehensive glance before he spoke.
“Mr. Hubbard? I’m Superintendent Kirby. Good of you to stop by. Sit down, please.”
Hubbard still wore the same slacks Sanford had seen on the houseboat, but he had added a white shirt and tie, and a blue jacket of some lightweight but expensive material that was beautifully cut. Now he nodded
slightly but said nothing, every move and expression suggesting that his great wealth had equipped him with a poise and assurance that would be difficult to undermine in any company.
Kirby had put his pipe aside and now he gave his full attention to Hubbard as he related, in capsule form, the stories Sanford had told him. Hubbard, one knee crossed, sat back in his chair, a cigarette in one corner of his mouth, the smile fixed and unconcerned, the pale-blue eyes reflecting nothing but that blank and empty look. He made no interruption until Kirby finished and then he laughed, an abrupt humorless sound.
There was insolence in the laugh and it brought a slight flush to Kirby’s ruddy face; his mustache seemed to bristle a little as his mouth tightened.
“Do you find this amusing, Mr. Hubbard?”
“Somewhat,” Hubbard said. “Do I understand that Mr. Sanford is accusing me of all this nonsense?”
“No accusations have been made,” Kirby said in clipped, precise accents. “I invited you to hear Mr. Sanford’s story and ask for any comments you care to make.”
“The only comment I could make,” Hubbard said, “is to suggest that Mr. Sanford consult a psychiatrist if you have any here locally. A series of treatments with a psychoanalyst might be even better.”
Kirby was not used to such arrogance and now he put his forearms on the desk, his policeman’s gaze fixed and probing.
“Suppose we examine some facts. You had a brother, did you not?”
“I did.”
“His name was Arthur Hubbard?”
“That’s right.”
“He was killed in an accident some time ago.”
“He was.”
“Mr. Sanford drove the car that struck him.”
“He did,” Hubbard said, a new and savage undertone to the words.
“But no formal charge was ever placed against Mr. Sanford?”
“No.”
“Then, in the official view, he could not be held responsible for what happened.”
With Intent to Kill Page 5
