Аврам Дэвидсон: Ellery Queen’s Double Dozen

The Chief considered this. “Well, that’s too bad,” he said. “Now, you haven’t done anything illegal I know of yet, so I can’t charge you and put you in jail. Your name is Theodore Bennett — we know because you showed identification when you rented that car in Davenport. We checked. We’re great respecters of the law out here. We don’t push people around because they’re strangers. But the way it is, though, I’m afraid there’ll be a squad car or a police officer at your elbow every second you’re inside the city limits until I’m satisfied you are a writer. So if you want to operate under those conditions, you go right ahead.”

Bennett managed a weak grin. “Well,” he said, “I’m not going to argue. It’s ridiculous. But on the other hand, I’m not going to waste my time giving Canfield and The Happy Days Club national publicity if this is the treatment I receive here.” He rose. “I saw a pay phone near the sergeant’s desk on my way in. I’ll telephone Gordon and call the whole thing off.”

“Use my phone.”

“Wouldn’t think of it. I don’t want to waste a cent of your taxpayers’ money.”

Bennett left the Chief’s office. He fumbled clumsily through a telephone book for Gordon’s number, taking plenty of time. Then he called Gordon and abruptly informed him he was leaving town and wouldn’t write a story about The Happy Days Club after all. He hung up, leaving Gordon in mid-sentence, and returned to the Chief’s office for his attaché case and Wall Street Journal.

“A couple of my boys,” the Chief said genially, “will go with you to your motel and see to it you get packed proper and on the right road back to Davenport. If you drive fast, you might reach there before dark.”

Two uniformed officers drove Bennett to where he had parked the rented car, then followed him to the motel. Bennett packed in five minutes and checked out. They stayed with him to the city limits, pulling to the curb and watching as Bennett gunned the motor and roared out of sight over a hill.

Bennett drove at high speed for about five miles. In the future, he vowed, he’d provide himself with a solid cover story and appropriate supporting documents no matter how innocuous the assignment seemed. Apparently he had vastly underestimated the sophistication of Iowa investment clubs — and of the Iowa police.

When Bennett came to a strip of roadside stores and drive-ins he bounced to a stop in a gravel parking area. He hauled his attaché case from the back seat and opened it, exposing a transistorized tape recorder built into the bottom. Bennett had activated the recorder just before placing the attaché case on the radiator in the Chief’s office. No matter how the conversation went, it had seemed a good idea.

Quickly Bennett reversed the tape, pushed the playback button, and lit a cigarette, listening to a recording of their conversation, to the point where the Chief had said, “Use my phone.”

“Wouldn’t think of it. I don’t want to waste a cent of your taxpayers’ money.”

Then he heard the door close as he left the Chief’s office to telephone Gordon. And then the Chief did what Bennett had hoped he would do. He picked up his own telephone and dialed a number.

“Hello. Mrs. Price? Chief Waner. Your husband home? Hello, Frank. You were right. He must be some kind of swindler, although I never heard of this investment club approach before. But he sure isn’t a writer. Don’t worry. We had a little talk and he’s leaving Canfield this afternoon. He seemed sensible enough not to try to come back. Thanks. Glad you put me on to this guy before he did any damage.”

The Chief hung up.

Frank Price, Bennett knew without having to check his list, was a member of The Happy Days Club. What’s more, he was one of the three men on the stock selection committee.

Bennett turned the recorder off and looked around. What he needed now was a woman.

He found her behind a counter in a diner. She was reasonably articulate and, from the way she talked back to truck drivers, she seemed to have plenty of nerve. Bennett had to drink two cups of coffee before the place cleared out and he was alone with her. The cook in the back was engrossed in a telecast of a baseball game.

“Miss,” Bennett asked, “can you dial Canfield direct on that pay phone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well,” Bennett said, “I’ll give you twenty bucks if you make a call for me. It will take you less than five minutes.”

“You’re crazy,” she said.

He pulled twenty dollars from his wallet and pushed it across the counter. “There it is. No fooling. In fact, I’ll make it thirty.” He extracted another ten.

“I don’t want to get in trouble,” the girl said.

“You won’t.”

“Why don’t you call?”

“Because I want someone to impersonate a telephone operator.”

“That sounds illegal.” She advanced and fingered the bills.

“It is a little illegal,” Bennett admitted, “but there’ll be no risk for you. You’ve heard of private investigators, haven’t you? I can’t tell you any more than that. But if you make the call and hang up, nobody will be able to trace it. And even if they did trace it, you could always say some woman came into the diner and used the phone.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Say, ‘This is the long-distance operator. The charge on your call to San Diego is twenty-eight dollars and nineteen cents.’ I have reason to believe this party just made a long-distance call, although probably not to San Diego. The party will probably be so mad at you that he’ll volunteer information about any long-distance calls he did make this afternoon. If he doesn’t, ask him if he made any long-distance calls, and to where. Get the out-of-town number if you possibly can. If you can’t get any information after a minute or two, say, ‘This is Albany 4-5634, isn’t it?’ He’ll say no, because his number is Albany 4-5624. Then say you’re sorry you made the error and hang up.”

“Albany 4-5634,” she repeated, reaching for the thirty dollars. “Okay, hon. I’ll go along. Got a dime?”

Twenty minutes later Bennett climbed into his car and drove to the next river town. There he turned right and crossed a bridge over the Mississippi into Illinois. The road wound down the river’s foothills and then flattened out into farm country. It was dark when Bennett checked in at an eight-unit motel in a tiny junction called Blackford.

There was a telephone booth in the parking lot and Bennett called James from there.

“Where’ve you been?” James demanded. In the background, the roar of guns from a television set mingled with youthful screams. “I got a pack of Cub Scouts in my living room and can hardly hear you.”

“I got chased out of Canfield.” Bennett reported, “by the Chief of Police. He knows I’m not a writer and he thinks I’m a confidence man.”

“Some industrial espionage agent you are,” James said sarcastically. “What happened? Your false mustache fall off?”

“Wait a minute,” Bennett said. “The Chief didn’t think this up on his own. He was tipped by a club member named Frank Price. Frank Price is also a member of a three-man committee that decides what stocks the club will buy and sell.”

A moment of silence ensued.

“Are you thinking,” James asked slowly, “what I’m thinking?”

“It occurred to me at the time,” Bennett said, “but I figured it was just one chance in a million.”

“Well, the odds are shortening. I’ll have Barney work on that angle first thing tomorrow. Where are you now?”

“Blackford, Illinois. I’m going to sack in here tonight.”

“You’ll never get back to New York the route you’re taking. Drive to some place with an airport and catch a plane. I’ll send another agent to Canfield with a better cover.”