by Ben Rehder
A car nosed its way out of the garage entrance, straddled the sidewalk. The door opened and a man got out. He walked around toward the back of the car, out of sight. A few moments later he reappeared walking with Monica Dorlander. She fumbled in her purse, handed him what I assumed was a dollar bill, and got into the car. He closed the door for her. I heard the sound of the engine starting again, and the car pulled out of the driveway. I pulled out and tagged along.
She went across town to Madison Avenue, up Madison to 97th, through Central Park to Broadway, down a block to 96th, and over to the West Side Highway. She got on the Highway heading north.
Traffic was still heavy on the Highway, so there was no chance of her spotting me. There was a chance of my losing her, however. I stuck right on her tail. There was no reason that should make her suspicious—in traffic like that, someone had to be behind her.
We were heading for the George Washington Bridge, so I figured we were going to Jersey. You guessed it. Wrong again. Just before the ramp she cut into the left-hand lane, went under the bridge, and on up the Henry Hudson.
We stopped at the tollbooth and paid a dollar to leave Manhattan, which always strikes me as a variation on the old joke: How do you make any money on Manhattan? Put a tent over it and charge everyone a buck to get out.
We continued on up the Henry Hudson, which turned into the Saw Mill River Parkway. I’m not sure exactly where that happens, and I doubt if anybody else is either. You’re on one and then suddenly you’re on the other and it’s all the same road anyway and who cares?
By the time we hit the Hawthorne Circle and took the Taconic State Parkway north, I was damn glad I hadn’t opted for that cab.
By that time I had also come to the cheery realization that since I was now driving around all over creation, I wouldn’t be standing on the sidewalk in front of Monica Dorlander’s apartment house when Marvin Nickleson showed up to give me the money.
Somehow that figured.
We’d been on the Taconic long enough so that I was beginning to wonder if we were going to Canada, when Monica Dorlander’s brake lights went on, followed by her right-turn signal, and she took an exit marked, “ROUTE 55—POUGHKEEPSIE.” I’d never been to Poughkeepsie before, but by then I was damn glad to be anywhere.
We didn’t go to Poughkeepsie, however. We took Route 55 right through it, went onto a toll bridge over what I assumed was the Hudson River, and kept on going.
A few miles later, Monica Dorlander hung a left onto an unmarked road, and began winding her way up into the mountains. She made two or three more turns, always onto unmarked roads, and seeing as how we seemed to be the only cars on the road, I had to stay a good distance behind to keep her from spotting me. Which made it tricky, of course. If I lost her, I’d never find her again. In fact, it occurred to me I’d be lucky if I could even find my way back to Poughkeepsie.
Just when I’d begun to feel that Monica Dorlander wasn’t going anywhere, that it was all a bad joke, that I was a man trapped in a shaggy dog story, I rounded a curve in the road just in time to see her slow down and hang a left into the Pine Hills Motel.
11.
THIS WAS IT. This was the real thing. This was what I’d been reading in detective stories all my life, and seeing in the movies too. The private detective tails the wayward wife to a motel.
I tried to remain calm. After all, I figured, real detectives don’t start dancing up and down just because the quarry goes to a motel. I’m sure in divorce work such things are just routine. Moreover, Monica Dorlander hadn’t gone to a motel with anyone. She’d just gone on an overnight trip and quite naturally checked into a motel alone. Still, after two days of absolute zero, two days in fact of barely seeing the woman at all, this had to be a major victory. And it was, after all, my first case.
I didn’t want to blow it. I wasn’t sure what standard procedure was in a situation like this, but I figured hanging a left into the motel after her probably wasn’t it.
I pulled onto the side of the road a hundred yards short of the motel and killed the lights and motor. I got out of the car and, keeping in the shadows, walked down the side of the road to where I could size up the situation.
The Pine Hills Motel was a one-story, L-shaped affair with maybe a dozen units, the majority of these running back perpendicular to the road, the last few in the back jutting out parallel forming the L. The office, of course, was in the front by the road. Monica Dorlander’s car was stopped next to it.
I went a little further down the road where I could get a better view of the door to the office, which was on the same side as the doors to the side units. I’d just gotten settled when the door opened and Monica Dorlander came out. I’d expected to see the manager too, but apparently he was content to let her find her own unit. She got in the car, started the motor, pulled up and turned into a parking space in front of one of the side units. It was hard to tell from that distance, but the best I could judge was that if the units were numbered consecutively starting at the office, hers would have been six or seven.
All right, what do I do now? Do I cross the road on foot and try to get a closer look at the unit number, or drive in the driveway, stop by the office, and try to verify it from there? The angle from the office would be bad, worse even than the angle I had now. But I’d be closer. Would I be close enough? Should I cross the road? The door to the office was on the side, but it had windows on the front. If the guy happened to be looking out them he’d see me. And if he saw me, that would be it. But why the hell would the guy be looking out the window? It’s dark. There’s a light on in the office. You know what that’s like. The windows become mirrors. The guy’d have to put his face up to the window to look out. But what if he did? Schmuck. Just do it.
Why did the private detective cross the road? That was the first joke my son ever learned. Probably the first joke most kids learn. Of course in the joke it’s chicken. Which in my case applies.
I crossed the road about fifty yards beyond the motel. There was no street light there, no headlights coming from cars. There was a half-moon, but you can’t have everything.
Having crossed the road at this point, I now couldn’t see the motel. It was hidden by pines and a hill. Truth in advertising. I could see the glow of the neon sign however. I walked back toward it.
I stopped in the shadow of the last pine before the clearing. From there I could see everything. Even the numbers on the doors. There were fourteen units, not twelve, ten back and four across. The numbers, as I’d assumed, started from the office and ran back and around. Monica Dorlander’s car was in front of unit seven.
If cars were any indication, the motel was about half full. There was a car in front of unit eight.
There was no car in front of unit six.
I walked back down, crossed the road again, then walked in the shadows back past the motel to my car. I got in the car, gunned the motor, turned the lights on, turned into the motel and stopped in the driveway, just as Monica Dorlander had done. I got out of the car and pushed open the door to the motel office.
I was surprised. The motel, though small and simple, had seemed modern enough, an ugly blot of concrete and steel cut into the mountainside. The office was decidedly rustic. The walls were of cheap wood paneling. A gun rack with half a dozen rifles hung on one wall. In the corner was an old potbellied stove. Small logs were crackling in it, and I couldn’t help wondering what the heating in the rest of the place was like. The manager’s desk was not your modern hotel counter either, just a small beat-up wooden desk.
The manager sat behind it, watching a small, fuzzy, black and white TV. He was a man about my age, only stockier and, I supposed, more muscular, though it was hard to tell since he was wearing his coat, causing me more apprehensions about the heating in the place. The coat was the red-and-black-check affair that hunters use. A matching hat with ear flaps lay on the desk. He was a bull-necked man with a reddish face with what looked like two day’s worth of dark stubble. Somehow
the guy struck me as a parody of himself—the Woodsman. He was either the genuine article, or had gone to great pains to cultivate the image. I figured the only reason there wasn’t a deer head on the wall over the desk was the guy was a lousy shot.
It was probably a combination of the two, but I think it was the man that surprised me more than the room. I guess subconsciously I’d been expecting Norman Bates.
He very reluctantly turned his eyes away from the TV and surveyed me with a look that told me he hadn’t taken Motel Management 101.
“Yeah?” he grunted.
“I’d like a room,” I said. I felt like a fool when I said it. Suddenly I had a flash I was in a Saturday Night Live sketch. I mean, what did the guy think I wanted? It was a motel. All they did was rent rooms.
I had a sudden flash of panic. Come on, snap out of it. Never mind the decor or the guy or how warm or cold it is. This is where you gotta shine. You gotta check Monica Dorlander’s motel reservation, and you gotta get the right room.
The manager grunted again. “MasterCard, American Express or Visa?”
None of the above, since I didn’t want a record of my stay.
“Cash” I said.
He snorted. “Two in a row. Don’t see much cash these days.”
Hot damn. Things were coming my way. Monica Dorlander had paid cash. That smacked of something furtive. I ought to know, ’cause I was doing it myself. Now for the clincher. Did she use her right name?
I wasn’t going to use mine. I’d already made that decision. I’d sign the name Alan Parker in the register. Right under whatever alias she’d used. I couldn’t photostat the register like Marvin Nickleson wanted me to, not without giving the show away, but I’d make a note of it and I could photostat it later, even if I had to get a court order to do it.
I’ve really got to stop reading murder mysteries. Either that or stop being a detective. Because detective fiction keeps raising these expectations that real life dashes away.
There was no motel register. The manager reached in the desk and pulled out a four-by-six registration card and slid it across the desk.
“Single room, sixty-two fifty plus tax, fill this out.”
And he turned his attention back to “The Cosby Show.”
I filled out Alan Parker’s registration form. I decided Mr. Parker lived in Scarsdale. Where it said license plate number I made one up. I figured the manager wouldn’t come outside to check it. He hadn’t stuck his head out the door to check Monica Dorlander’s.
I finished the form and slid it back to him. Now came the tricky part—getting the right room. After the bit with the motel register, my expectations weren’t that high, and justifiably so.
He glanced at the card, took my money, and produced a key. “Unit twelve.”
I frowned. “Look,” I said. “I’m a gambler and I’m superstitious. Could you let me have unit seven?”
“Rented,” he said.
I knew that, since Monica Dorlander had just rented it.
“Oh,” I said. “Well, close to that. Six or eight.”
This time he gave me a look. “Rented,” he said.
He had a hard stare, and with him looking at me I felt like a poker player whose bluff has been called. I didn’t know what to say next. I felt like any moment I’d start squirming and say, “Aw, gee, you got me, you’re right, I’m not Alan Parker, I’m a private detective, and I’m tailing this woman, and I was trying to con you into giving me the room next door.”
Fortunately he snorted, jerked open the desk drawer again, and looked inside. “I got units three, ten, twelve and thirteen. If you’re superstitious, you don’t want thirteen. Whaddya say?”
“Twelve will be fine.”
He slid the key across the desk. “Checkout time’s noon. The phones in the rooms are for local calls only. You want to call long distance, the pay phone’s out front.”
He snorted again and went back to his TV show.
I went outside and got in the car. As soon as I did, it occurred to me I should have taken unit three. Then I’d have been between her and the road, and if she wanted to go out, she’d have to drive past me. I considered going back in and asking for unit three. I rejected the notion. I’d probably aroused the Woodsman’s suspicions enough already, and if he wasn’t a total dunce he’d be bound to get wise.
I started the car and drove up to unit twelve. I didn’t have a suitcase to lug in, since I hadn’t planned on spending the night. I had my briefcase, so I took that. I didn’t want to look funny checking in with no luggage. Not that anyone was looking.
I unlocked the door and found a light switch. About what I’d expected—bed, dresser, table, chair, TV—your standard motel furnishings. The only windows were in the front, except for a small frosted one in the bathroom in the back. So much for clandestine surveillance. Or for Peeping Toms, if you will.
I set the briefcase on the bed and pushed back the curtains on the front window. Not bad. Screw unit three. Considering I couldn’t get an adjoining unit, I was right where I wanted to be. Unit twelve being on the other leg of the L meant I could look diagonally right across at the door of unit seven. As far as seeing who went in and out, it was just as good as being next door.
The drawback, of course, was if Monica Dorlander did have a visitor, I wouldn’t be able to try to listen to the conversation through the wall. Though, it occurred to me, that probably wouldn’t have worked anyway, unless I had a snooperscope, or whatever they call that type of electronic gizmo they slap on the wall to hear conversations next door. So not getting the adjoining unit probably didn’t matter.
As if on cue, a baby began to cry next door. The walls were paper thin, I heard it plain as day, and if I’d gotten unit six or eight I could have heard Monica Dorlander snore. Somehow that figured.
All right, what did I do now? I looked around the room as if to get a clue.
I got one. The telephone, for local calls only. Pay phone in the front.
I made sure I took my motel key, went out, locked the door, and walked across the parking lot to the front. It was there all right, just where the Woodsman had said it would be, mounted in one of those little metal boxes like in New York. By New York I mean the City—I was still in New York State, but if you live in Manhattan, that’s New York.
The country is different.
Real different.
There was a mound of snow around the phone stand that a snowplow clearing the parking lot had pushed up against it. The snow had frozen over and turned to ice. Making a phone call was like climbing Mount Everest.
I draped the receiver over my arm, clung to the top of the call box for dear life, and punched in the number.
Alice answered on the fifth ring.
“Hello?”
“Hi. It’s me.”
“Oh, hi. Listen, I’m in the middle of something. Can you call back?”
“Not very well. I’m standing on a glacier.”
“What?”
“I’m calling long distance from somewhere in the North Woods.”
“Stanley?”
“Not really the woods. Actually, I’m at a motel with a young lady. But if you’re busy, I’ll call you back. What are you doing?”
“Huh? Something on the computer. Stanley—”
“That figures.”
“Damn it, what’s going on? Where are you?”
“Best I can figure, somewhere northwest of Poughkeepsie. Monica Dorlander packed a suitcase and took off in a car. She drove up here and checked into a motel. She’s in unit seven. I’m in unit twelve.”
“Why didn’t you get the adjoining unit?”
“You read too much detective fiction.”
“What?”
“The adjoining unit was rented. Anyway, she’s here, I’m watching her, and I won’t be home tonight.”
“I guess not. Wow. That’s great. You followed her to a motel, just like in the movies.”
“Not quite.”
“Why do you say
that?”
“Well, for one thing, she’s alone.”
“So?”
“I don’t think Marvin Nickleson hired me to catch her masturbating.”
“Don’t be silly. She’s meeting someone.”
“That’s the theory. But he’s not here yet, and I’m just hanging around. Anyway, I just called to say I wouldn’t be home.”
“Yeah. Right. So what’d you say about a glacier?”
“The phones in the room are the old fashioned windup kind, only go about two hundred yards. I’m at a pay phone out front mounted on top of an iceberg.”
“So I can’t call you there?”
“Don’t even try. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“What about your other cases?”
Shit. I’d forgotten all about them. I had three of them too. I’d have to call Wendy/Janet and have her farm ’em out to the other investigators.
I was in the middle of thanking Alice for reminding me when the door opened halfway down the row and Monica Dorlander came out.
“Shit. She’s going out. I gotta go.”
I hung up the receiver. As soon as I did I realized I didn’t want to hang up the receiver. Because that meant I was finished with my phone call, and then there was no earthly reason why I should stand freezing on top of a mountain of ice, so I’d have to start walking back to my room. Which meant walking straight into Monica Dorlander.
I snatched up the receiver again and pretended I was making another call. Wonderfully inconspicuous. A lone man perched on a mountain top in the wilderness making a phone call.
Monica Dorlander didn’t seem to notice. She got in her car and pulled out.
All right. What do I do now? She didn’t take her suitcase, so she’s obviously coming back. But should I tail her to see where she goes? Of course I should—she didn’t come up here for no reason, it’s obviously got to be important. Good god, what are the pros and cons? I had to weigh the chance of her spotting me against the worth of the information I could learn by being on her tail.
