Ричард Деминг - Hit and Run

The private detective didn’t care what the man thought so long as he came up with an additional ten thousand dollars.

Cushman and Helena left a few moments later. Helena offered Cushman a lift, and he said she could drop him at the Statler Hotel.

The Statler was only a few blocks from Calhoun’s apartment. The private detective wondered if that was Cushman’s real destination. Or had he picked it because it was the nearest taxi stand, and at the moment he wasn’t anxious for his mistress’s company any longer than necessary?

It was nearly five P.M. when Helena Powers drove the station wagon into the garage. She got out and studied the Buick convertible parked close against the wall. Although she knew the damaged right side couldn’t be seen with the car parked as it was, she couldn’t resist checking each time she entered the garage.

Alice was in the kitchen preparing dinner. When Helena came in the back door, the maid said, “Mr. Powers is in the front room, ma’am. I told him what you said.”

“What did he say?” Helena asked.

“Nothing. Just sort of frowned, like he does.”

Helena pursed her lips. Lawrence Powers was an indulgent husband in some ways, but a difficult one in others. He had an even, though rather cold disposition, and was rarely guilty of anger. In financial matters he was generous, never refusing his wife anything she desired, yet at the same time he required an exact accounting of everything she spent. Similarly he was generous in allowing her to spend her time as she saw fit, but insisted on her plans being orderly. Provided she gave him advance notice before he left for the bank in the morning, and explained just what her plans for the day were, he never objected to her not being home when he returned from work. But he was a creature of habit, and surprises upset him. He liked to find his wife home when he expected her there. He was somewhat of an indulgent tyrant. Though he rarely objected to anything Helena did if she had mentioned it in advance, he almost automatically disapproved of anything she did without at least his tacit blessing.

Helena had left the message with Alice that one of her friends had phoned that a dress she particularly wanted was on display at Herrod’s, and that she had run downtown to get it. She expected her husband to be a bit sulky about this departure from routine, but she’d had to leave some excuse and this one had the double virtue of being both plausible and uncheckable.

Lawrence Powers was pouring a Manhattan from a cocktail shaker when she entered the front room. He was a tall, slim man with the beginnings of a paunch, a full head of graying hair, and a hairline mustache of the same color. He had a round, not handsome but not unpleasant face, and wore steel-rimmed glasses. He was twenty years his wife’s senior.

Helena gave him a wifely kiss, which he accepted rather coolly, and said, “Sorry I wasn’t here when you got home, dear, but I was afraid the dress would be gone. As a matter of fact, it was.”

“Couldn’t you have phoned the store and asked them to hold it till tomorrow?” he inquired.

“I don’t have an account at Herrod’s,” she said. “Besides, I didn’t think of it.”

“How did you happen to take the station wagon instead of your convertible?” he asked. “I bought it for you to use.”

When in a fault-finding mood, Lawrence Powers had a tendency to make any departure from normal routine sound like a major sin. His tone was almost accusing. For an instant Helena thought he had discovered the damage to the Buick, but a quick look at his face reassured her. He was merely enumerating her errors one at a time.

She asked equably, “Is there another drink in that shaker?”

Unsmilingly he poured her a drink. Picking it up, she said, “Please don’t be angry with me, Lawrence. All day I wait for you to come home, and when you do I like things to be pleasant. The dress was important to me.”

“I’m not angry,” he said. “But I don’t make many demands on you. One of the few is that I like a cocktail waiting when I get home from work.”

Helena raised her brows. “I told Alice to fix a shaker as soon as you got home.”

“Oh, she made the Manhattans,” Powers said a bit petulantly. “But you know I don’t like to drink alone.”

This wasn’t true. If he had known in advance that Helena wouldn’t be home, he would have cheerfully had a lone drink while he waited for her to return. She knew that his displeasure stemmed solely from not having been consulted. She was too wise, however, to point out that she frequently wasn’t there to mix him an afternoon drink.

She merely said, “I’m sorry, dear. I won’t disappoint you again.”

He thawed a little then, having made his point and having extracted an admission of fault from his wife. By dinner time he was completely over his sulk.

After dinner they repaired to the front room, as usual, for coffee. The ritual was always the same. Mornings, over his coffee, Lawrence Powers read the Courier Express from front to back, skipping nothing but the ads, the comics, and the sports section. Over his dinner coffee he read the Buffalo Evening News with equal thoroughness, and Helena was expected not to speak until he was finished. He didn’t restrict himself to silence, however. He carried on a running commentary about the items in the paper. Helena rarely looked at a newspaper. She didn’t have to. She got most of the news merely by listening to her husband.

He was on an inner page when he announced, “See that hit-and-run victim died today.”

Helena’s breath stopped. Then she inquired in a tone of only polite interest, “Who was that, dear?”

“Old fellow named John Lischer. Paper says he was seventy-nine. Run down on Court Street early Tuesday morning by a speeder who didn’t stop. Drunk, I imagine. I must have read you the item at the time.”

“I don’t recall it, dear.”

Powers grunted. “Catch him eventually, of course. They know what kind of car he drove. Sideswiped a couple of parked cars and left some paint and a bumper guard. It was a green Buick.” There was a pause, then he repeated, “Green Buick,” and looked up with a slight grin. “You have an alibi for two thirty A.M. Tuesday, Helena?”

“You tucked me in at eleven P.M. Monday night, dear,” she said in a calm tone. “Remember?”

“Sure, but how do I know you went to sleep after I went to my room? Did you?”

Her husband’s attempts at humor never convulsed Helena. His present attempt made it difficult for her even to summon a dutiful smile. Her rare smiles were never more than slight liftings of the lip corners. This one was hardly visible.

“Perhaps I sneaked out to meet a lover after you went to sleep,” she said. “You do sleep soundly, you know.”

And it was convenient that he did, she thought. Like all his habits, Lawrence Powers’ habits of sleep were regular. He slept from eleven P.M. to seven A.M. every night of the year, including weekends and vacations. He slept heavily, without stirring, and almost nothing could waken him, not even alarm clocks. It was one of Helena’s few marital duties to get her husband up mornings.

His sound sleeping gave her considerable freedom to go where she pleased after midnight. She could be fairly sure even a ringing phone wouldn’t awaken him, and she never even had to exercise much caution in leaving the house or returning. For nearly four months she had been meeting Harry Cushman after midnight two or three times a week, and as yet hadn’t even come close to getting caught.

Powers chuckled at the unlikely thought of Helena’s having a lover. Turning the page, he said, “Well, they’ll catch whoever it was, of course. Hope they give him the limit. I haven’t much sympathy for a hit-and-runner.” He read in silence, then said, “Well, well. Old Grombsy has retired from the school board finally. About time. He’s been in his dotage for years.”