Gary Alexander - Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Vol. 86, No. 6. Whole No. 511, December 1985

The meeting, surprisingly summoned on only one day’s notice, was held in the Chief Selectman’s office at the far end of the upstairs corridor of the town hall. Not much of an office for size and thriftily furnished with essentials acquired cheaply over the past century, it still provided sufficient accommodation for the Board of Selectmen around the well worn oak table there.

Of course, since the room was at the rear of the building, it did offer to anyone with an eye for that sort of thing the view of a vast rolling woodland extending to the faraway horizon. A spectacular view especially this mid-autumn time of year, what with those hills showing as much scarlet and gold as evergreen. And even more so at this hour of day, when the star-spangled darkness already shadowing Maine to the east could almost perceptibly be seen flowing westward toward Vermont to dim the flaming sunset there.

However, the gathering around the table took no notice of this familiar scene: it was the ancient Naval Observatory clock ticking away on the wall between the windows that engaged its interest. Five selectmen, all grey haired, thin-lipped men of substance. Chief Selectman Samuel Sprague, president of the Merchants Bank. Jacob Sprague, younger brother to Samuel and the bank’s treasurer. Abner Perkins, real-estate sales, rentals, and property maintenance. Benjamin Starr, Starr’s Cars — Sales and Service. Fraser Smith, Smith’s Market — Quality Meats and Groceries. All five of them done up neatly in jacket and necktie as was the tradition at selectmen’s meetings, they sat silently with eyes fixed on the clock. The meeting had been called for six. The clock now plainly marked three minutes past the hour.

It was Fraser Smith who broke the silence. He cleared his throat and addressed Chief Selectman Samuel Sprague. “You said special meeting, Sam. Special how? Not getting started on time?”

“Seems so,” admitted Samuel Sprague. “But what we’re waiting for is our police chief. Told me last night to get us all together so we could meet with him in strict private. Make it for when the building’s cleared out, said he, so there wouldn’t be any ears at the door.”

Benjamin Starr raised an eyebrow. “Considering that Chief Ralph Gibbs has the biggest and busiest ears in town—”

“And worse than ever these last few months,” put in Abner Perkins. “Matter of fact, he’s getting downright peculiar. Could be that what we just gab about now and then — I mean, after going on thirty years maybe he’s been on the job a mite too long — well, could be time we do something about it.”

“He works cheap,” Samuel Sprague pointed out.

“Can’t much call it work,” said Abner Perkins, “in any town peaceable as this.”

“Except,” said Benjamin Starr, “for them high-school kids using my car lot nights for rumpus-raising and playing them stereo machines to all hours. I tell Ralph about it, and what’s he say? He says to me, ‘Well, they’re young and full of oats the way we once was. We grew out of it and so will they.’ That’s our police chief talking, mind you.”

“Talking about what?” said a voice from the doorway, and the selectmen all swiveled heads to coldly regard their police chief. Unlike the company he was joining, Ralph Gibbs was exceedingly well fleshed, his double chin draped over his shirt collar, his belly overlapping his belt. His uniform — the town’s choice of grey with brown piping — needed pressing; when he removed his cap the white hairs fringing his shining pate indicated that he had been a long time away from any barber chair. To add to this study in dishevelment he was clutching a large, dingy plastic bag bulging with papers and cardboard folders. On the bag was inscribed in red lettering Smith’s Market — Quality Meats and Groceries. He smiled at the company. “And just what was your police chief talking about?”

“More to the point,” said Samuel Sprague, “you asked for this meeting, and seems like you’re the one late to it.”

“Few minutes at most,” said Ralph Gibbs. “Had to get a man to take over my desk. Ain’t easy when the department’s this short-handed.”

“Shorthanded?” snorted Benjamin Starr. “With four men on days—”

“That includes me,” said Ralph Gibbs, seating himself at the foot of the table with the plastic bag on what there was of his lap.

“Including you,” said Benjamin Starr. “For this size town to have as much as four paid police for days and two for nights—”

Samuel Sprague rapped his knuckles on the table. “Ben, pipe down. Ralph told me this business we’re here for is real important, so let’s get to it. I therefore call to order this confidential meeting—”

“Meeting in executive session,” corrected Jacob Sprague.

“—meeting in executive session — meaning strictly confidential — of this Board of Selectmen of the township of Huxtable Falls. Go on, Ralph, speak your piece.”

“Thank you kindly, Sam,” said Ralph Gibbs. He spilled the contents of the shopping bag on the table and stacked them into an untidy heap.

“What’s all that?” asked Abner Perkins.

“Four months of police work, Abner,” said Ralph Gibbs. “Real fine big-city police work, if I do say so myself.” He sat back and eased open the remaining closed button of his jacket. “Well then, gentlemen, all this starts with some disappearances in these parts.”

“Disappearances?” said Fraser Smith. “Of what?”

“People, Fraser. Folks heading up the road towards Huxtable Falls here but never made it. Never made it anywhere, far as some of these records in front of me shows. First was summertime three years ago. Two high-school boys from Antico town went bicycling off to get a look at Canada. Never heard of again.”

“Stale news, Ralph,” remarked Benjamin Starr. “Them Antico people made a considerable fuss about it at the time.”

“Fact,” said Ralph Gibbs. “Then two years ago, also summertime, there was that young Greendale couple, fellow and girl, headed Canada way on their motorbike, and, far as anyone yet knows, rode right off into limbo, so to speak.”

“Not married neither,” said Fraser Smith. “So I heard.”

“Not married neither,” agreed Ralph Gibbs. “Just young, healthy, and sinful. And now among the missing. Then last summer there was that young married couple set off from Inchester, backpacking up to the north woods, and that was the last seen of them. Nobody outside of Inchester recollects getting even a look at them going by. And the girl was mighty pretty, judging from her picture. Not the kind to be overlooked that easy.”

“Maybe not,” said Fraser Smith. “Saw that picture on the TV news when she was first suspected missing. Real handsome leggy girl all right.”

“But out of Inchester,” protested Benjamin Starr. “And those others were out of Antico and Greendale. So except for those towns being in the same county as us, I don’t see what this has to do with Huxtable Falls.”

“Which,” said Ralph Gibbs, “was my line of thought, too, up to last Fourth of July. Tourist party stopped by headquarters that day to ask directions. So I took out the old state map to point them right, and whilst at it my eye was caught by something there.”

“Do tell,” said Benjamin Starr drily.

“Like, for instance, all three of them towns is southward of us, oh, maybe seven, eight miles away. Now squint your eyes and picture it. Antico’s right there on the main highway and Inchester and Greendale ain’t that far away on each side of it on them county blacktops. Antico folks going north just use the highway right through here. Those from Inchester and Greendale, well, their black-tops join up with the highway from each side at Piney Junction a mile south of our town limits.”