Ричард Деминг - Hit and Run

But her face didn’t have any more expression than a billiard ball.

She calmly rose from her deck chair, turned her back, and said, “Tie me up, please.” Her voice was pleasantly husky, but there was a curious flatness to it.

She had folded the scarf into a triangle and now held the two ends behind her for Calhoun to tie together. Taking them, he crossed them in the middle of her back. The touch of her bare back against his knuckles sent an unexpected tremor up his arms, and he had an idiotic impulse to lean down and press his mouth against the smooth shoulder immediately in front of him.

Killing the impulse, he asked, “Tight enough?”

“It’ll do.”

He tied a square knot.

She turned around right where she was, which put her face an inch in front of his and about six inches below. She was a tall woman, about five feet eight, because Calhoun stood six feet two.

Looking up at him without expression, she said in a toneless voice, “You’re a big man, Mr. Calhoun.”

He stared down at her, not even thinking. He wasn’t used to having scantily clad women push themselves so close to him on first meeting, and wasn’t sure how to take her. Then he decided she probably wasn’t used to having strange men walk into her house, take one look at her, and grab her and kiss her. Probably, despite her seeming provocativeness, she’d scream for her maid.

Or perhaps, suspecting his mission, she was deliberately trying to put him at a disadvantage.

He said, “Two-ten in my bare skin,” backed away, and took a deck chair similar to hers. Gracefully Mrs. Powers sank back onto her own.

“You’re a private detective, Mr. Calhoun?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“And you wanted to see me about some accident?”

“The one night before last. Involving a green Buick convertible with license 9I-3836, a parked Dodge belonging to a man named James Talmadge, a parked Ford belonging to a man named Henry Taft, and a pedestrian named John Lischer, who’s currently at Emergency Hospital in fair condition. A hit-and-run accident.”

She was silent. Then she merely said, “I see.”

“I happened to be sitting in my car only a few yards away when the accident took place,” Calhoun said. “I was the only person in the block who was outdoors at the time, aside from John Lischer, and I’m sure I was the only witness. I got a good look at both the driver of the Buick and the passenger. Good enough to recognize both. You were the driver and Harry Cushman was the passenger.”

Again she said, “I see.” Then, after studying him without expression, a faint flicker of recognition appeared in her eyes. “You were seated at the end of the bar at the Haufbrau. You looked at me as I went by.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “I’m flattered that you noticed me. Lots of men must look at you.”

Ignoring the compliment, she asked, “What do you want?”

“Have you reported the accident?”

When she looked thoughtful, he said, “I can easily check at headquarters. I haven’t yet because I don’t want to be questioned.”

“I see. No, I haven’t reported it.”

“What does your husband do, Mrs. Powers?”

A momentary frown marred the smoothness of her brow, but it was gone almost instantly. “He’s president of Haver National Bank.”

“Then you haven’t told your husband about the accident, either.” He made it a statement instead of a question.

She regarded him thoughtfully. “Why do you assume that?”

“Because I don’t think the president of Haver National Bank would let an accident his wife was involved in go unreported for thirty-six hours. Particularly where no one was seriously hurt. You undoubtedly have liability insurance, and the worst you could expect if you turned yourself in voluntarily would be a fine and temporary suspension of your driver’s license. He’d know the charge against you would be much more serious if the police had to track you down than if you turned yourself in voluntarily, even at this late date.”

Her face remained deadpan. “It’s only a misdemeanor even if I’m caught. No one was killed.”

Calhoun said dryly, “You’ve been listening to Cushman. Sure, it’s only a misdemeanor. But one they usually put people in jail for. You eager to spend thirty to ninety days in jail?”

She shook her head. In a toneless voice she asked, “So?”

“So I think the reason you didn’t stop, and the reason you don’t intend to report the accident, isn’t that you lost your head. You don’t impress me as the panicky type. I think the reason you didn’t stop is that you can’t afford to let your husband find out you were out with Harry Cushman at two thirty in the morning.”

When she said nothing at all, Calhoun asked, “Have you tried to have your car fixed?”

She shook her head again.

“Where is it?”

“In the garage out back.”

“How come your husband hasn’t noticed the damage?”

“It’s all on the right side,” she said tonelessly. “A smashed front fender, bent bumper, and dented door. Nothing was knocked loose. We have a three-car garage, and my stall is the far right one. I parked it close to the wall so no one could walk on that side of it. The station wagon’s between my car and my husband’s Packard, so there isn’t much likelihood of his noticing the damage.”

“You say nothing was knocked loose? Was your headlight broken?”

“No. I don’t believe I left any clues at the scene of the crime.”

Calhoun leaned back and put the tips of his fingers together. In a conversational tone he said, “You must have left some green paint on the two cars you hit. By now the police have alerted every repair garage within a fifty-mile radius to watch for a green car. Have you thought of that?”

“Yes.”

“How you plan to get around it?”

“I haven’t yet solved the problem.”

“Would you be interested in some advice?”

“What advice?” she asked.

Calhoun said, “Hire a private detective to get you out of your jam.”

For a long time she looked at him, her expression completely blank. When she spoke, there was the slightest touch of mockery in her voice.

“I was frightened when Alice said you wanted to see me about an auto accident, Mr. Calhoun. But almost from the moment you walked through the door, I’ve known you didn’t come to investigate me on behalf of that old man or either of the two car owners. I’m a pretty good judge of character. Out of the four people involved, how did you happen to pick me as your potential client?”

“I doubted that any of the others could stand my fee.”

Her face grew thoughtful. “I see. What kind of service do you offer?”

“I offer to arrange a quiet payment of damages to the owners of the other two cars, so you won’t have to worry about eventual suits if they ever find out who sideswiped them. With a bonus tossed in to keep them from telling the cops there’s been a contact. And to make the same kind of arrangement with John Lischer. I warn you that part will cost plenty, because on top of whatever damages I can get him to agree to, he’ll have to be paid to keep it from the cops that there’s been a settlement. I’ll also take care of having your car repaired safely.”

“Why can’t you just do the last part?” she asked. “If no one ever discovers it was my car, why should we risk contacting the other people?”

“I’m thinking of your interests,” Calhoun said. “Once there’s a settlement, even a secret one, none of the other parties will press charges in the event the police ever catch up with you. Because I’ll get quitclaim agreements from all of them. Then if you do get caught, the probability is the cops won’t press charges on their own. And even if they do, proof that you made cash settlements with all the injured parties will be an extenuating circumstance. I doubt that any judge would give you more than a token fine and suspend your driver’s license. But without settling, you’re in for a jail sentence if you’re ever caught.”