Calhoun was conscious that his mouth had dropped open. “And Cushman believed that fantastic yarn?” he asked in amazement.
“Why not? It was the divorce idea that sold him. He wants to marry me. I don’t think he’d have agreed to take Lawrence’s place on the plane if I hadn’t included that, because he was scared silly.” She added reflectively, “Then, too, Harry isn’t very bright. He’s got so much money, he’s never had to do any thinking.”
He must not be bright, Calhoun thought. But it was just as well for their chances that he wasn’t. Having taken the plane to New York under Lawrence Powers’ name, he was an accessory to murder clear up to his neck; he could never convince the police he hadn’t known Powers was dead at the time. It occurred to Calhoun that pointing that fact out to Cushman when they got back to Buffalo ought to silence any urge he might ever develop to tell his story.
Then it also occurred to Calhoun that Helena Powers had a remarkable talent for maneuvering her aides into positions where they had to protect her in order to protect themselves. For she had Calhoun in the identical position she had Harry Cushman. All three had to hang together, or they would hang separately.
Helena broke into his thoughts by inquiring, “How do you plan to get rid of Lawrence?”
Glancing at his watch, Calhoun saw it was seven P.M. “I don’t, tonight. He’ll keep in his icebox another day. But we’ve got some scouting to do. Better put on a jacket, because it may be chilly along the lake.”
Calhoun drove the car on their scouting trip. Beyond Cleveland to the west, Route Six runs along the lake and is dotted with both private and public beaches and boat liveries. It took them more than an hour just to drive through Cleveland, and it was nearly eight thirty before they ran into the type of beach area Calhoun was looking for.
Helena said, “Shouldn’t we be thinking about dinner soon?”
“No,” Calhoun said shortly. Ever since he had lifted that burlap bag, he had been unable to think of anything but the iced corpse beneath it, and the thought didn’t induce much appetite.
Now he drove as slowly as the traffic would let him, checking signs on the right side of the road. Finally, about nine o’clock, he spotted one that looked promising. It was on a wooden arch over an unpaved road leading toward the lake, and read, CRESTWOOD BEACH, PRIVATE ROAD.
They were past it before Calhoun spotted it. He had to drive on another mile before he could turn around.
Crestwood Beach proved as promising as it had looked. The beach was but a narrow strip of sand, and clustered along its edge were some two dozen modest summer cottages. Calhoun noted with satisfaction that lights showed in not more than a half dozen.
He parked next to one of the dark cottages, and examined it carefully before getting out of the car. Apparently its owner’s summer vacation had not yet started, for the windows were still boarded up. The cottages on either side of it, each a good fifty yards away, were dark also.
He climbed out of the car and told Helena to get out also.
Together they walked the scant fifty feet down to the water. As Calhoun had hoped, each of the cottages had its own small boat dock. Nothing much, merely a series of planks laid across embedded steel rods, but adequate for an outboard boat.
“Think you can find this same place again tomorrow night?” he asked Helena.
“If I have to.”
He pointed out over the calm, moonlit water. “I’ll be out there somewhere in an outboard. I won’t be able to tell one beach from another in the dark, so you’re going to have to signal me with the car lights. Well set a time for the first signal, and you blink them twice. Just on and off fast, because we don’t want any of the cottagers out here to come investigating. Then regularly every five minutes blink them again. Got it?”
“Yes.”
They went back to the car and they drove back under the wooden arch to the main road again. He turned right and drove on another mile and a half before coming to the next sign he was looking for. The sign read, BOATS FOR RENT.
This sign, too, was at the entrance to an unpaved road leading toward the lake. Calhoun followed the road only about a hundred yards before coming to the boat livery.
The proprietor was a grizzled old man in his seventies who chewed tobacco. He sat on the screened porch of a small cottage reading a Bible by the light of a Coleman gasoline lantern.
“They’re all taken tonight, mister,” he said as soon as Calhoun put his foot on the step. He shot a stream of tobacco juice at a cuspidor halfway across the porch. “Everybody heard the walleyes are hitting.”
Then he let out a cackle. “Don’t know who starts them rumors. Look at that lake. Calm as glass. They’ll come in with a mess of six-inch perch.” He spat again.”
“You booked up for tomorrow night?” Calhoun asked through the screen door.
“Nope.” The old man got up and opened the screen door for him.
Walking onto the porch, Calhoun said, “Then I’d like to reserve a boat. When’s best to go out?”
“Ain’t much point till it gets dark. If you mean to use live bait, that is. If you get here around eight thirty, it’ll be dark by the time you’re out on the lake and set to fish. Get here at nine, and you’ll be sure it’s dark enough.”
Calhoun told him he’d be there at nine and paid in advance. The price of a boat with a five-horsepower motor was six dollars, a Coleman lantern fifty cents extra, and Calhoun gave him a dollar for a can of night crawlers.
“Think the yellows might be hitting tomorrow night?” Calhoun asked.
The old man’s shrewd eyes narrowed. “Up from around Buffalo way, are you?”
The question startled Calhoun. He asked cautiously, “Why do you say that?”
“Had fellows from up your way before. Around here we don’t call walleyes yellow pike.”
“No?” Calhoun said. “That’s what we call them in Detroit, where I’m from.”
The old man followed Calhoun outside when he left, and watched as he climbed into the Buick. Noticing Helena, he said, “Gonna take the wife out tomorrow night, too?”
Calhoun shook his head. “She doesn’t fish.”
As they drove off, Helena said, “Inquisitive old man, isn’t he?”
“Yeah,” Calhoun said.
“May we eat now?”
“You may,” he told her.
He stopped at a roadside eatery and let her have some dinner while he drank two cups of coffee. He hadn’t eaten since noon, but he still couldn’t develop any appetite.
14
By ten the next morning Calhoun and Helena were downtown at Cleveland’s largest branch of Sears, Roebuck.
While he was still on the police force, Calhoun had often wondered why criminals ever bought their equipment anywhere other than at a Sears, Roebuck branch. The confused workings of the average criminal mind had puzzled him whenever he saw a case record where some kidnaper was trapped because the paper of the ransom note was traced to an exclusive stationery shop, or some murderer was caught because a hammer was traced to some neighborhood hardware store where every customer was remembered.
Shopping at a place like Sears eliminated such dangers. There you were only one of thousands of faces seen by the clerk, and even if the item you bought was traced back to that clerk, the chance of his remembering anything at all about you was remote. The chance of its being traced that far was even more remote, since identical items are sold across Sears counters all over the country every day.
In the men’s clothing department Calhoun bought the cheapest fishing jacket he could find.
In the sporting department he bought a cheap glass casting rod, a $3.95 metal and plastic reel, fifty yards of nylon line, a cheap bait box, and an assortment of Ieaders, sinkers, hooks, and lures to fill up the bait box. He didn’t intend to use any of them, but it might excite comment at the boat livery if he showed up to go fishing without any gear.
He also bought two eight-pound small-boat anchors. He intended to use them.
In the hardware department he bought fifty feet of sash cord. Also to use.
He stowed all of his purchases in the trunk of the convertible.
“Do you have everything you need?” Helena asked him.
“Yeah,” he said.
“What do we do now?”
“Wait until evening.”
“We can have all day to ourselves, then?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s go to the beach,” she suggested.
Calhoun looked at her. He opened his mouth to explain that he would be in no mood for recreation until the job at hand was finished. Then he closed it again, deciding the explanation would be useless.
He just said shortly, “No.”
He spent most of the rest of the day watching television in his cabin. Helena sat and watched him, apparently content to do nothing at all since she had no companion to do it with. Several times she asked if he would like her to mix him a drink, and he merely shook his head each time. Not solely because of the source of her ice, either. He was afraid that if he took one drink, he’d drink himself into a stupor. For the same reason he stuck to the cabin even though Helena’s silent watchfulness set his nerves to screaming. He knew that if he went out somewhere alone to get away from her company, he’d end up getting drunk in some tavern.
It took iron discipline to get through the day, but he managed it.
At seven thirty in the evening they started the job of disposing of Lawrence Powers’ body. First Calhoun transferred the fishing gear, anchors, and sash cord from the car trunk to the rear seat. The fishing jacket he put on. Then he carefully covered the floor of the trunk with the three burlap bags.
They hadn’t added any ice to the tub since Helena had shown him the body, and it had melted away to about twenty-five pounds. Calhoun managed to lift the dead man out without spilling ice all over the floor.
The body was stiffened in its prenatal position, the ice apparently having caused it to retain rigor mortis longer than it normally would have. Calhoun made no attempt to straighten out the body, because he would only have had to fold the knees up to the chest again to get it into the trunk.
There was little danger of anyone’s seeing him carry the corpse the one or two steps from the carport door to the trunk, since the car blocked the view from outside, but he had Helena stand in front of the stall anyway as a lookout.
The body was cold and slippery against his arms and chest as he staggered through the door with it and shoved it into the trunk. When he locked the trunk, he found he was drenched with sweat.
“Let’s go,” he said to Helena, and slid under the wheel.
As they pulled out of the carport, Helena said, “Shall we have some music?” and reached across him to switch on the radio.
As though they were starting out on an evening of entertainment, Calhoun thought sourly. However, he didn’t object.
Helena punched the radio’s station-control buttons one after another without getting anything but static. She looked puzzled.
“They’re set for frequencies around the Buffalo area,” Calhoun informed her. “You’re two hundred miles from there.”
“Oh,” she said.
She turned the manual station selector until she found a dance band. Thirty seconds later the news came on.
As Helena reached to change stations, Calhoun said, “Leave it on. Aren’t you interested in anything at all in the outside world?”
Sitting back, she glanced at him sidewise. “You haven’t been very nice to me today,” she said. “You’ve been pretty grumpy.”
“I’m not used to women giving me presents,” he said bitterly. “Particularly ones packed in ice. Let’s listen to the news.”
She remained silent until it was nearly over. After the international and national news, the reporter got around to local items.
He said, “The two bandits who held up an armored payroll truck at two P.M. this afternoon and escaped with more than a hundred thousand dollars are still at large. Police believe they must have switched cars after the daring daylight robbery, and somehow managed to slip through the roadblocks that were set up shortly after the robbery. Roadblocks were lifted at six P.M., as it is believed the bandits are no longer in the vicinity. A four-state alarm has gone out for the two men, who are described as—”
Calhoun missed the descriptions when Helena broke in with, “Did you hear that? There was a big robbery in Cleveland today.”
“It’s been on television a half dozen times this afternoon,” he growled at her.
“I wasn’t listening. I was watching you.”
Music swelled from the radio speaker, indicating the newscast was over.
When they reached the edge of town, Calhoun said, “That news fellow was telling the truth, apparently. I’m surprised.”
“The truth about what?” Helena asked.
“The roadblocks being lifted. I was a cop so long, my mind still works like one. I thought it was a police trick.”
Helena looked puzzled.
“If the bandits are still holed up locally, they’ll listen to every newscast,” he explained. “So the police give out the news that roadblocks are lifted. If the bandits are dumb enough, they’ll believe it and try to run. And run square into a roadblock.”
After thinking this over, Helena said, “That’s clever. And even cleverer of you to see the danger. But if you thought we might run into a roadblock, why did you take the chance of driving into town?”
“It wasn’t a chance. They’d be stopping cars leaving Cleveland, not entering it. If we’d spotted a roadblock on the way in, we’d have to change our plans and figure some way to get rid of him within the city limits. But they must actually have lifted them. They must have definite information that the bandits are out of the area.”
They passed through Cleveland without incident. Some miles beyond it Calhoun slowed as they went by the wooden arch reading, CRESTWOOD BEACH, PRIVATE ROAD.
“There’s the place you’ll have to come back to,” he said. “Better pick out some landmarks, so you won’t drive past it on the way back.”
“I’ll find it,” Helena said.
A half mile farther on they ran into a double lane of stopped cars.
“What is it?” Helena asked. “An accident up ahead?”
Calhoun shook his head to indicate he didn’t know. Both lanes moved a car-length forward at that moment, then stopped again. Calhoun’s eyes narrowed as he noted that traffic coming from the opposite way was moving along without interruption.
Waiting for a break in the traffic coming toward them, he started to nose out to make a U turn. But a motorcycle officer roared toward them from up ahead and motioned him back in line. The motorcycle swung around and drew up alongside.
“You’ll have to stay in line, mister,” the officer said.
Calhoun said, “We went past our turn, officer. We were headed for Crestwood Beach. My wife says we just passed it.”
“You did,” the policeman told him. “You can swing around as soon as your car is checked.”
“Checked?” Calhoun said. “Listen, officer, there’s nothing wrong with my brakes. Do we have to wait? Some people are expecting us, and we’re late now.”
“It isn’t a brake test. Sorry, mister. You’ll have to go through the checkpoint. It won’t take long.”
Apparently the two men in the black Ford sedan in the lane next to them had been listening. Both were small, dark men dressed in leather jackets and battered felt hats. The driver called over, “We were going to Crestwood Beach, too, officer. Did I hear you say we passed it?”
“About a half mile back,” the policeman said.
The driver said, “Can we pull out of this and swing around?”
The policeman shook his head. “Sorry. Not till you’ve gone through the checkpoint.”
Looking across at the other car, Calhoun caught an expression of near desperation on the face of the little dark man. In the reflected glow of dozens
of headlights, he could see the man clearly.
The line moved forward several car lengths and several more cars pulled in behind. The policeman swung in another U turn and went to the end of the line to head off any other cars that might try to turn around.
Calhoun cursed under his breath.
“Is it a roadblock?” Helena asked.
“Obviously,” Calhoun said. “The radio was lying after all.”
“But why wasn’t there one the other side of town?”
“It was probably east of the tourist court. We were inside of it. They’ve set it up more than ten miles from town so the bandits will get overconfident. I should have thought of that.”
Helena said, “What are we going to do?”
“Fry in the electric chair, probably,” Calhoun said bitterly.
15
Calhoun was thinking furiously as they drew closer and closer to the checkpoint.
Finally he said, “Maybe we can delay the inevitable, anyway. Get that Packard trunk key out of your purse.”
Helena unsnapped her bag and handed him the key. The next time the line stopped again, he cut the engine, pulled the keys from the ignition lock, and quickly unclipped the trunk key. He substituted the Packard trunk key, handed Helena the other, and slipped the ignition key back in its lock just as the line moved forward again. Helena dropped the key in her bag.
They were now nearly to the head of the line. Both lines were being checked at the same time. The operation was being handled with smooth efficiency. A state trooper standing on the highway shoulder a few yards from the checkpoint said to each driver as he came abreast, “Have your driver’s license and registration ready, please.” At the checkpoint one officer in each lane examined license and registration papers, while another quickly but thoroughly checked the interior of the car and the trunk.
Hit and Run Page 9
