Ричард Деминг - Hit and Run

“I’m sorry, Barney. I thought you’d want to know.”

“Just let me know if something goes wrong,” he said. “If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume you’re doing fine.”

He hung up.

Helena gazed ruefully down at the phone before slowly replacing it in its cradle. It was evident that Barney Calhoun had meant yesterday’s definite good-by.

The thought depressed her. She had found the private detective by far the most interesting lover she had had for some time. She began casting around in her mind for a method of getting him back.

On Tuesday afternoon Helena was taking her accustomed sun bath on the sun porch when Alice came in to announce that two police officers wanted to see her. As usual Helena was wearing only brief shorts. She lifted a scarf from the end table next to her deck chair and draped it across her bosom, then told the maid to send them in.

Neither of the policemen was Sergeant Hanover. One was a lean man of about thirty who introduced himself as Sergeant Doyle. The other, a plump middle-aged man with a bald head, the sergeant introduced as his partner, Officer Judd.

“Sit down, gentlemen,” Helena said, indicating deck chairs. “Have you news of my husband?”

Neither man accepted the invitation to sit. “We’re not here about that, Mrs. Powers,” the lean sergeant said. “We’re from the Hit-and-Run Squad.”

Helena’s expressionless face gave no indication of the shock she experienced. She said in a placid tone, “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Sergeant Doyle asked, “You own a green Buick convertible, ma’am? License number 9I-3836?”

Helena’s lip corners lifted faintly. “Obviously you know I do. What about it?”

“Could you tell us where the car was two weeks ago today at two thirty in the morning? The Tuesday before last.”

Helena raised her eyebrows. “In the garage, of course.”

“You’re sure, ma’am?” Sergeant Doyle asked.

“Positive, Sergeant. I don’t even have to think back. I’ve never been out at two thirty A.M. in my life. My husband and I retire at eleven every night. There hasn’t been an exception since last New Year’s Eve.”

Officer Judd said, “Ever lend your car to anyone, Mrs. Powers?”

“Never,” Helena said definitely. “What’s this all about, anyway?”

“A man named John Lischer was killed by a hit-and-run car two weeks ago,” Sergeant Doyle told her. “It’s been established that it was a green Buick. We have information that it might have been yours.”

“Information from whom?” Helena demanded.

“An anonymous phone call,” Doyle admitted honestly. “It may just have been a crank, or somebody with a grudge against you trying to get you in trouble. But we have to check it out. May we see the car?”

“Certainly,” Helena said. She pointed to her straw bag on the table by the wall. “Will you hand me that, please, Sergeant? I’m afraid I’ll lose my scarf if I try to get up.”

Both officers had been manfully striving to ignore her scanty attire. Now the younger Sergeant Doyle couldn’t resist a quick glance at the indicated scarf. His expression suggested that he wouldn’t be offended if she lost it. When he handed her the bag, Helena drew a set of keys from it and held them out to him. The movement caused the scarf to slip slightly, exposing the upper swell of one tanned breast nearly to its pink tip. As the sergeant blinked, Helena casually drew the scarf back in place.

“The thin key’s to the garage lock,” she said. “You’ll find the Buick in the righthand stall. You won’t mind if I don’t come with you, will you? I’d have to get dressed, and you really don’t need my presence. You have my permission to back the car out into the sunlight where you can get a good look at it if you wish.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sergeant Doyle said, averting his eyes from her. “We’ll find it.”

“Just go out this door,” Helena said, pointing to one of the French doors. “Then you won’t have to walk clear around the house.”

She lay still listening after they had passed through the door. In a few minutes she heard the Buick start and back from the garage. Shortly afterward she heard it drive back in again. Several more minutes passed, then she heard the garage doors close.

Sergeant Doyle came back in the French door alone. He handed Helena the keys.

“No sign of damage to the car, ma’am,” he said. “Guess it was a false alarm.”

“I knew it would be,” Helena said. “Where’s your partner?”

“Went around front to the car. Sorry to have bothered you, ma’am. I’ll find my way out.”

When she heard the front door close, she threw aside the scarf, sat up, and reached for the phone on the end table. She dialed Barney Calhoun’s number.

He was home and answered immediately.

As soon as he recognized her voice, he said angrily, “I told you not to phone!”

“You said I should if something went wrong,” Helena said placidly. “Well, something has.”

“What?”

“The police were just here again, Barney. Not about Lawrence. This time it was two men from the Hit-and-Run Squad.”

There was a stretch of silence, then he said in a voice that sounded more tired than concerned, “They’d had an anonymous tip, had they?”

“Yes,” she said. “How did you know?”

“The bartender at the Haufbrau made a wild guess. He remembered you and Cushman leaving just before the accident. He told me all about it Sunday night. I thought I’d sidetracked him, but apparently I hadn’t. Don’t worry about it. They can’t prove anything now. Did they look at the car?”

“Yes. And apologized for bothering me.”.

“Then why did you phone me?” he asked irritably. “What can I do about it? There’s nothing even you can do, except sit tight.”

“I thought you’d want to know.”

“All right,” he said. “Now I know. Don’t call again.”

He hung up.

Helena made a face at the phone as she put it back in its cradle. She padded through the house on bare feet and went up the stairs. She took a long, warm shower, soaping herself thoroughly and massaging her body with savage roughness in an effort to work the frustration out of her system.

At nine P.M. Harry Cushman phoned Helena.

“What’s all this in the paper about Lawrence?” he asked worriedly. “Why did you report him missing?”

“I haven’t seen the paper,” she told him.

“Well, you must know what’s in it,” he said peevishly. “You’re extensively quoted. Why hasn’t he been to the New York police? When did Calhoun leave him in New York?”

“Maybe you’d better come over, Harry,” she suggested. “It’s time we had a talk.”

“It certainly is,” he agreed. “Be there as soon as I can get a taxi.”

Helena went upstairs, stripped to the skin, and put on a white wrap-around housecoat whose lapels slanted downward in a steep V to below her bosom. She carefully adjusted it to expose the deep cleft between her firm breasts. She touched perfume behind her ears, then studied an assortment of lounging and bedroom slippers in her closet. She finally decided to remain barefoot.

She was deliberately preparing herself to be distracting, because she knew it was going to take all her feminine powers of persuasion to make Harry Cushman accept what she had to tell him.

Cushman arrived at nine thirty. When she locked the door behind him, he stood staring at her for a time, the worried expression on his face gradually being replaced by one of hunger. Moving against him, she put her hands on his shoulders and raised her lips for a kiss.

A struggle took place in his face as he gazed down at her. Then his expression hardened and he backed quickly away.