Ричард Деминг - Hit and Run

He looked at her in wonderment. Finally he asked, “How’d you ever talk Cushman into doing a silly thing like that?”

“Silly?”

“Naturally the police will question the airline personnel,” he said patiently. “The minute they get Cushman’s description from the stewardess, they’ll know somebody substituted for your husband on the flight.”

She shook her head. “In the first place, neither Lawrence nor Harry is known on the New York run. Lawrence often flew to Washington, but almost never to New York. I know he hasn’t made the trip in three years. And Harry never flies anywhere. In the second place, though Harry is ten years younger than Lawrence was and twenty pounds heavier, a rough description of either would fit the other. Both have gray hair and small mustaches. Both are about the same height and build, except Lawrence was beginning to develop a paunch. Harry stuffed some towels under his belt to fix that. And he wore Lawrence’s steel-rimmed glasses on the plane. In the third place, the police won’t question the stewardesses too closely. Just enough to satisfy themselves Lawrence was on the plane.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because they won’t suspect murder. The first thing the police do when a banker disappears is request an audit of bank funds.”

She was right again, Calhoun realized. The probability was that the first premise the police would work on was that Lawrence Powers had disappeared voluntarily. And by the time a bank audit disclosed he hadn’t absconded with any funds, the trail would be too cold to pick up.

Calhoun said, “I still don’t understand how you talked Cushman into sticking his neck out.”

“He’s in love with me,” she said complacently.

He studied her broodingly, not satisfied with the answer. “Look, Helena, if I’m going to help cover up your murders, I want the whole story. Maybe Cushman’s in love with you, but he was in a blue funk over being accessory to mere criminal negligence. I don’t think he’d stick his neck out for first-degree homicide even for you.”

She shrugged. “Of course Harry doesn’t know Lawrence is dead.”

Again he studied her broodingly. Finally he asked in an exasperated tone, “What in the devil did you tell him?”

“You don’t have to shout,” she said. “I told him the truth up to a point. I told him exactly what happened up to the time I hit Lawrence with the wrench the first time. I didn’t mention finishing the job by hitting him again. I said I had knocked him unconscious and was holding him captive, tied and gagged, in our basement. I told Harry if he’d help me rig grounds for a Nevada divorce, I’d marry him as soon as I got it.”

“What kind of grounds?” Calhoun asked, fascinated.

“Insanity. That’s grounds for divorce in Nevada. I didn’t mention to Harry that the spouse has to be proved insane over a period of two years.”

“How were you supposed to prove your husband insane?”

She said, “I told Harry you’d agreed to help. I said we’d hold Lawrence captive until we got the car fixed. Then, after it was back in the garage, you’d transport Lawrence to New York in a private plane owned by a friend of yours and turn him loose in the city unshaven and in dirty clothes. When Lawrence took his story to the police, they’d think he was crazy. The flight list would show he’d flown to New York as scheduled, and he’d look as though he’d been on a several-day drunk. When the police came to check my car, they’d find it undamaged. Then I’d announce that my husband had been suffering delusions about me for some time and that I thought he was insane, and I’d ask a court to commit him to Gowanda State Hospital.”

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.