Ричард Деминг - The Second Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK®

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t notice I had the brights on.”

The cop nodded peremptorily and the car swung left in another U-turn to go back the way it had been going. With shaking fingers I lighted a cigarette before starting on.

We had no trouble at the bridge. If the toll collector had been instructed to watch for a damaged green Buick, he wasn’t watching very carefully, because he didn’t even glance at our right front fender. Of course he approached the car from my side, but even then he couldn’t have failed to notice the damage if he’d looked across the hood.

Then we were in Venice, Illinois.

I took 66, driving along at a steady fifty-five so as not to risk getting picked up for speeding. We hit Springfield about eleven-thirty and I drove aimlessly up and down side streets for a few minutes.

“What are you doing now?” Helena asked.

“We need gas.”

“We passed a station right in the center of town.”

“I know,” I said. “But we’re not going to leave any record of a banged-up green Buick with Missouri plates stopping anywhere for gas. The alert won’t reach as far as Chicago for a mere hit-and-run homicide, but it’s sure to have gone this far.”

Finally I found what I wanted. A car parked on a side street where all the houses in the block were dark. Pulling up next to it on the wrong side of the street, I got out, reached in back for my bag, opened it and drew out a length of hose.

Helena watched silently as I siphoned gas from the parked car into the Buick’s tank.

When we were on the way again she remarked, “I’d never have thought of that. I’m beginning to think you earn your money, Mr. Calhoun.”

“Why so formal?” I asked. “My name’s Barney.”

In the darkness I could see her looking at me sidewise. “All right, Barney,” she said after a moment.

We stopped for gas once more in Bloomington, getting it by the same method. Then we didn’t stop again until we hit the outskirts of Chicago at seven a.m.

As I began to slow down with the intention of turning in at a truck stop, Helena said, “What do we want here?”

“Breakfast,” I said.

“Shouldn’t we rent a couple of cabins before we do anything else?”

“No,” I said. “We’ve got several more important things to do first.”

By the time we had finished breakfast at the truck stop it was eight, and by the time we got far enough into town to begin to run into small neighborhood businesses, barber shops were open. I accomplished the second of the more important things we had to do by getting a shave.

“Couldn’t that have waited?” Helena complained when I rejoined her.

“I have to look respectable for my next stop,” I told her.

Heading in the general direction of the Loop, I drove until I spotted a sign reading “Car Rentals.” I parked half a block beyond it.

“Just wait here,” I instructed Helena. “When I come by in another car, follow me.”

As usual she showed no surprise. As I got out of the car she slid over into the driver’s seat.

The car rental place didn’t have exactly what I wanted, but it was close enough. I would have preferred a Buick coupe or convertible the same color as Helena’s, but the man didn’t have any Buicks. I settled for a Dodge coupe a shade darker green than the convertible. The rate was five dollars a day plus eight cents a mile, and I told the man I wanted it for a week. I gave him the name Henry Graves, a Detroit address and left a seventy-five dollar deposit.

Only ten minutes after I had left her I pulled up alongside Helena in the Dodge, honked the horn and pulled away again. In the rear-view mirror I could see her pull out to follow me.

I led her back to the southwest edge of town, found a street which seemed relatively deserted and parked. Helena parked behind me.

In the trunk of the rented car I found a screwdriver and a pair of pliers. Helena watched with her customary lack of expression as I switched plates on the two cars.

Then she said, “I don’t think I understand.”

“Probably an unnecessary precaution, because I’m sure repair garages this far from St. Louis won’t be watching for a green Buick. But up here a Missouri plate stands out more than an Illinois one. Now when I take this thing in to be fixed, it’ll just be another local car. And on the off chance there’s ever a check to find out who it belonged to, the license won’t lead anywhere except to a car rental outfit and a non-existent guy named Henry Graves of Detroit.”

Her lip corners quirked ever so slightly. “You think of everything, don’t you, Barney?”

“I try to,” I told her. “I’ll drive the Buick now, and you follow me in the Dodge. Next stop is a repair garage.”

She remained where she was. In her husky but slightly flat voice she said, “Let’s get settled in cabins first. I want a bath and a change of clothes.”

“It won’t take an hour to locate a garage and make arrangements,” I argued.

She shook her head. “We’ve been here over two hours now. I wanted a cabin at seven, but I waited while you fed yourself, got a shave, rented-a car and changed plates. I’m not waiting another minute.” She looked at me serenely and added, “Besides, they take your license number at tourist courts. We’ll have to drive in with the Buick.”

She was right, I realized on reflection. We should have signed in somewhere before I changed the plates, as I didn’t want the Missouri plates which were now on the Dodge listed even on a tourist court’s records. Disconsolately I considered the prospect of having to change the plates back again, then decided it wasn’t necessary. There wasn’t much danger in letting some tourist court proprietor see the damaged Buick so long as it didn’t have its own plates on it.

“You win,” I said. “Follow me again.”

Helena shook her head again. “You follow me this time. I saw just the court I want when we came in on 66. Maybe you’re smart on some things, but I prefer to trust my own judgment on a place to sleep.”

Shrugging, I climbed back in the Dodge and waited for her to start the procession.

Helena drove nearly ten miles out of town on 66, passing a half dozen motels which looked adequate to me before pulling off to the side of the road suddenly and parking. I parked behind her.

“Lock it up,” she called back to me.

Winding the windows shut, I got out and locked the Dodge. When I slid into the Buick next to her, she pointed through the windshield toward a large tourist court about a hundred yards ahead on the opposite side of the road.

“That’s the one. Isn’t it nice?”

It didn’t look any different to me than the half dozen others we’d passed, except that this one had open front stalls for automobiles.

“It’s lovely,” I growled. “Let’s get it over with.”

The place was called the Starview Motor Court and advertised hot baths and steam heat. Since the temperature hovered around eighty, neither seemed like much of an inducement to me.

Though it was probably an unnecessary precaution, I had Helena swing the car so that the left side was toward the office. With dozens of different automobiles driving in and out of the court daily, it wasn’t likely the proprietor would notice our green Buick convertible had changed to a green Dodge coupe a few hours after we checked in, but there wasn’t any point in deliberately calling attention to our smashed fender. Just possibly it would catch his notice enough to make it register on him.

The proprietor was a sad-faced man in his fifties who had an equally sad-faced wife. They occupied quarters behind the small office. For some reason both of them went along to show us cabins.