Брендан Дюбуа - Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2006

“That’s it! I remember the number.” She jabbed a finger at the only Berkham on the page, highlighted in boldface: BERKHAM TRUCK RENTALS. “WE SPECIALIZE.”

“You’re sure?”

“Ninety-nine percent.” She carried the directory back around the desk and sat, then punched numbers before handing the phone receiver to me.

“Berkham’s,” said a voice. “Dave speaking.”

“Hi. This is R. J. Carr of Carr Investigations and Security. I need to ask a few questions about a former employee of yours named Jason Harnisch. According to my information he only worked there for a couple of weeks at night, so you may not—”

“Harnisch? Oh — that kid.” A ten second silence. “Okay — what do you want to know?”

“Did he leave voluntarily? Or was he fired?”

“That’s straight to the point. Without asking the boss, though, I’d say that it’s also confidential information.”

“Uh-huh. So the reason he was fired must be confidential too.”

“Well...” Another long pause.

“Could you tell me if he threatened anyone?”

“Uh... not that I heard. Carelessness. I’ve just been informed that he was dismissed for carelessness, and we’re looking into the matter.”

“What matter?”

“I’m sorry, but even if you really don’t know, it’s definitely confidential.”

“I really don’t, but I’ll be calling again.”

Throughout the conversation Cathy Lindner sat watching me with an anxious air about her, playing with a cigarette without lighting it. “He was dismissed for carelessness,” I told her as I handed the receiver back. “No other details, unfortunately.”

I stood and looked down at her from across the desk. “Are you sure he went back to Appleton, Ms. Lindner? Because it seems like he had a pair of good reasons to stick around Chicago, if he wanted to make trouble with the stud gun.”

All at once the girl sighed with such bitterness that I was genuinely startled, not something that happens much with me.

“You won’t let me keep even one secret, will you!” she cried. “I’m sure because he tried to call me collect from Appleton about eleven o’clock last night, and I refused the charges. And I’m sure because he tried it again here at work this morning, and I still refused. So naturally, I feel like a real jerk right now!”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Of course I should. You don’t know.” She rose up from behind the desk and made a sweeping gesture as she spoke. “Being heir apparent to the vast Lindner construction empire is somewhat lonely, as you may have noticed. And right before Jason left last summer he and I got very palsy in an innocent, cousinly way. Palsy, nothing more, but I thought...” She made another gesture, one of defeat. “Out of sight, out of mind. So when he got out of sight, I was out of my mind to let it bother me. It’s pretty depressing, though, to send your chatty e-mails into a black hole, especially since I’m down here not going to college and he’s up there with buddies galore. So now we’re not palsy or even close, but for some reason he suddenly refused to take any more money from his stepfather and decided to drop out. As big an idiot as he is, I’ve just been mean not to admit that he was having problems and maybe needed me to talk to a little.

“And that, Mr. Carr, is every secret I have — I think.”

STEVE CARR:

An e-mail from Dad was a rare thing, and when I put the question to him once, he explained that from a detective’s standpoint, face-to-face was best, and while a live voice on the phone was a poor substitute, it was still a live voice.

Problem: My live voice that Friday night was in Green Bay cheering on the Varsity team, along with the other J.V. team voices, and we didn’t get back to Lawrence till midnight.

Dear Steve,

I tried calling and got no answer, but this won’t wait, so I hope you check your e-mail the way you usually do. There’s a Lawrence student named Jason Harnisch I’d like you to look up for me first thing tomorrow (Saturday). He’s an off-campus senior or a dropout, address last semester 1722 Martin, #8. If it isn’t close, take a cab, and I’ll reimburse.

The short of it is, he’s absconded with a construction tool called a stud gun, a .22 that fires nails, and he’s in a depressed emotional state. What I’d like is for you to find out what you can about him and even talk to him, if possible, on some school pretext. If you make contact and it isn’t too big a time drain, also keep an eye on him till I get there mid afternoon.

Sorry to impose, and if you can’t do it, no big deal. I’ll explain tomorrow. Your mother says to be careful. Not like me. Also, I’ve just been told she’s coming too.

Love from the old folks.

Oh — Harnisch’s phone’s been disconnected and he seems short on funds. 5'11", 190 lbs., dark hair cut close, an earring. If you hear that he has a strong grudge against anyone, look out for mischief. Hope nothing’s happened yet. And pray for no blizzards this weekend.

Well, Appleton’s a decent-sized city, and Martin Avenue on my map turned out to be an older street a little way beyond downtown, so I was able to hop a bus for all but four blocks.

As for some other things in the e-mail: 1) Lawrence students weren’t encouraged to live off campus, but seniors over twenty-one got a pass; 2) I’d never heard of Jason Harnisch, but I didn’t know many seniors; 3) I’d only helped Dad on a case maybe three times and nothing important, so doing some real detective work for once wasn’t anything I’d pass up regardless. But as a favor to Dad, I would have staked out Mafia headquarters — a thing that Mom understood and didn’t like, even though I knew for a fact that she would have done the same and had — or similar things at least as dangerous.

The temperature was about five degrees, and snow was falling when I got up — later than I should have, to be honest, eight thirty. But I made up for it some by skipping breakfast and catching the nine o’clock bus. Martin Avenue was in a pretty decrepit section of town, where half the sidewalks hadn’t been shoveled, so my four block walk over packed snow and ice was the hardest part of the day.

I was expecting to find an apartment building, but 1722 was an enormous old frame house with an addition tacked on the back that about doubled its size, so I don’t know exactly what you’d call it except a respectable dump. I went in the front and let my glasses unsteam, then looked around a little and saw a row of old-fashioned doorbell buttons mounted near the entrance with numbers next to them and names written on a single large card. The name for number eight had been whited out and written over as L. Clarke, and when I couldn’t find a Harnisch anywhere on the card, I decided that L. Clarke was as good a person to start with as any, if he was in, so I gave button number eight a push, and after about a minute another push.

“Who is it?” came a voice from beyond a pair of locked narrow doors, only it wasn’t the voice of a he, but a she.

“Are you L. Clarke?” I said as I stepped closer. “I’m looking for Jason Harnisch who used to have your apartment.”

“Are you police?”

“Nope.”

A latch snapped, then one of the doors drew back and a round-faced, blond, female head appeared in the opening, followed by a plumpish female body, on the short side, dressed in gray sweats. I wasn’t good at guessing ages, but she looked to be in her early twenties.

“Wow — you’re tall,” she said.

At six foot six and a half, it was something I couldn’t deny, so I just said, “Yep. Are you L. Clarke?”

“Yep,” she said back in a mocking way. “L for Liz. Who are you?”

“Steve Carr. Could I ask you some things about Jason Harnisch?”