Ричард Деминг - Hit and Run

That’s all there is to the story. In reading it over, it doesn’t sound like very much. A stranger, apparently from the Buffalo area, denies he’s from there. He hires a boat, pretends to go fishing, but doesn’t fish. I suppose you can see why I haven’t mentioned the matter to the police here. They’d probably tell me to stop eating opium. But the mystery intrigues me.

I thought perhaps you might know someone on the Buffalo Police Force whom you could ask to do some unofficial checking, just to satisfy my curiosity. First, find out who owns the car with the above license plate. Second, see if the enclosed fingerprints are in the local files. I lifted them from the outboard motor the man used. What I’d do with the information — even if you’re able to find out who the man and woman are — is beyond me. It still wouldn’t explain the mysterious actions. But I can’t get the matter out of my mind, so I’d appreciate your help.

If you don’t know anyone on the Buffalo force personally and it would embarrass you to ask a strange policeman about the matter, just forget it. I’ll understand perfectly, because it would embarrass me to pursue such a vague matter within my own police department. Which is the reason I’ve passed the ball to you.

In any event, thanks, and let me hear from you.

Best regards,

Calhoun and Helena’s trip back to Buffalo on Sunday was uneventful. En route he briefed her again on how she must behave on Monday in order to keep suspicion from herself. He elaborated a little on his original instructions and made her repeat them back to him.

“I’m to meet the plane Lawrence intended to come back on just as though I expected him to be on it,” she said tonelessly. “After it lands and everyone is off, I’m to check at the airline desk and pretend to be upset because he wasn’t listed on the flight. Then I’m to wire Lawrence in care of convention headquarters in New York. When word comes back that the telegram isn’t deliverable, I’m to wire an inquiry to convention headquarters itself.” She paused, then asked, “But will anybody be there if the convention is over?”

“Conventions are always headed by local people in the town where the convention’s held,” Calhoun told her. “Usual procedure is for the chairman to rent a temporary post office box under the convention’s name, then inform Western Union that wires addressed to convention headquarters are to be delivered either to his office or home. He’ll have the same office and home after the convention.”

“I see. Well, when the wire comes back from convention headquarters saying Lawrence never reported in, I’m to phone the police and report him missing.”

“You’ve got it pretty well,” he said, satisfied that she could carry it off. “There’s only one more thing. You’ve got to get it across to Harry Cushman that if he mentions his part in this, he’s an accessory to first-degree murder. He’s going to have to know Lawrence is dead. Otherwise he may get rattled enough at Lawrence’s continued disappearance to take his story to the police. Don’t give him any details. Just give it to him cold that Lawrence is dead and he’d better keep his mouth shut if he wants to stay out of jail. Also tell him to stay completely away from you for the present. I don’t want the cops accidentally stumbling over him, because while I’m sure he’ll keep his mouth shut if he’s left alone, I think he’d break pretty easily under questioning. If he keeps away from you, there isn’t any reason for the cops to find out you even know him.”

“I understand,” she said. “I can handle Harry.”

Back in Buffalo, Calhoun drove straight to his flat, then turned the car over to Helena. He didn’t invite her in.

Standing on the sidewalk with his bag in one hand and his new fishing gear in the other, he said, “I’ve kept a list of expenses. But I’ll wait until the police lose interest in your husband and you get your affairs straightened out before I bill you. I imagine your money will be tied up for some time if everything was in Lawrence’s name.”

“Are you charging an additional fee for disposing of Lawrence?” she asked.

“That was on the house. Just don’t give me any more little jobs like that.”

“Will I see you again, Barney?” she asked. “I mean, aside from when you submit your expense account.”

He shook his head definitely. “You’re a lovely woman, and except for the third party you rang in on our trip, I enjoyed the week thoroughly. But this is the end. When things quiet down, get yourself a Nevada divorce for desertion and marry some nice millionaire. Harry Cushman, maybe, if he isn’t too scared to come near you again.”

He thought her expressionless face looked a little wistful for a moment, but it may have been imagination. Her voice was totally lacking in emotion as usual when she spoke.

“Good-by, Barney.”

“Good-by, Helena,” he said.

She drove away.

Calhoun felt that after his suspenseful week he deserved a little relaxation. That evening he set out with the deliberate intention of getting drunk.

As often happens when a man has that intention, nothing he drank seemed to faze him. At eleven thirty P.M., some twenty highballs later, he arrived at the Haufbrau dead sober.

There was only a sprinkling of customers in the place. Joe the bartender came to him immediately and set a drink before him.

“Evening, Barney,” Joe said. “Where you been keeping yourself?”

“Been busy,” Calhoun said. “How are you, Joe?”

He searched for change in his pockets, found none, and pulled out his wallet. Riffling through the bills there, he could find nothing less than a fifty. When he laid it on the bar, Joe picked it up and eyed Calhoun speculatively.

“You must be in the chips,” he said. “Was this the smallest in that roll?”

Calhoun ignored the question. The bartender rang up the drink and rapidly counted out the change.

“Harry Cushman has been in here twice in the last few nights,” Joe said. “Drinking himself blind all alone. Seems worried about something.”

A prickle went along Calhoun’s spine, but his expression didn’t change. “Cushman?” he said, as though searching his memory. Then, “Oh, the guy you pointed out to me one night.”

“Yeah.” The bartender’s gaze was still speculative. “You know, I’ve been wondering a little about that night, Barney.”

“Wondering about what?”

“Occurred to me that hit-and-run up the street happened right after Cushman and his date left. Just about long enough after so it could have been them.”

“Oh?”

“I found out who the woman was.”

“Yeah?” Calhoun said with raised brows. “How?”

“Checked the society sections of back Sunday papers until I found her picture. I’ve got a six-month stack in my basement. She looked like society stuff, and I figured she’d be in if I looked long enough. Sure enough, she was in the reception line at a charity ball last March. Name’s Mrs. Lawrence Powers. He’s president of Haver National Bank.”

“Urn,” Calhoun said noncommittally.

“Had a cousin of mine in the Bureau of Motor Vehicles look up what kind of cars she and Cushman drive. Know what? Cushman doesn’t even own a car. With all that money.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know how to drive,” Calhoun said.

“Possible,” Joe said seriously. “But you know what else? Mrs. Powers owns a green Buick convertible.”

“Yeah? So what?”

“Don’t you read the papers? It was a green Buick that killed that old man.”

After a moment of silence, Calhoun said dryly, “You ought to be a detective.”