Chase (12 page)

Now, as he parked before the administration building, he felt like a stranger to the place, as if he had not spent nearly four years of his life in and about these buildings, on these flagstone paths and under the rich canopies of willows and elms. That part of his life had been divorced from this moment by the war, and to recapture the essence of those memories and moods would entail crossing again through the stream of the war to the shores of the past, an act he could not indulge in simply for the sake of sentimentality. He was a stranger to this place, then, and would remain so.

He found the Student Records Office where it had been for fifty-odd years, and he recognized most of the people who worked there, though he had never known any of their names. This time, when he was approached by the office manager, he decided that the simple truth was the best key to a proper response. He gave his name and sketchily explained his purpose.

‘I should have recognized you, but I didn't,’ the manager said. He was a small, pale, nervous man who wore a neatly clipped moustache and an old-fashioned, floppy-collared white dress shirt. He kept picking things up and putting them down to no end. His name was Brown, and he said he was pleased to meet such a distinguished alumnus. ‘But there have been dozens of requests for your files in recent months, ever since the medal was announced. You must have been contacted for a number of excellent jobs.’

Chase ignored the indirect question. He said, ‘Do you keep names and addresses of people requesting records?’

‘Of course!’ Brown said. ‘We only give information to businessmen.’

‘Fine,’ Chase said. ‘Then I'm looking for the man who came in on a Tuesday, this past Tuesday.’

‘Just a moment,’ Brown said. He fetched a ledger and brought it to the counter, put it down, then picked it up again and thumbed through it. ‘There was just one gentleman,’ he said.

‘Who was he?’

Brown showed Chase the address as he read it. ‘Eric Blentz, Gateway Mall Tavern. It's in the city.’

‘I know where it's at,’ Chase said.

‘Has he offered you a position?’

‘No.’

‘But I thought you said he was bothering you,’ Brown said. He picked up a fountain pen lying on the counter, twisted it in his fingers and put it down again.

‘He is, but not to take a job with him.’

Brown looked at the ledger, still not comprehending that anyone would use privileged information for anything but what it was meant for. ‘If I were you, Mr Chase, I wouldn't accept anything he offered, no matter what the salary.’

‘Oh?’

‘I don't believe he'd be a pleasant man to work for.’

‘You remember him, then?’

Brown lifted the pen again, replaced it. ‘Naturally,’ he said. ‘We do most of our work by mail. It isn't often that a prospective employer comes here for a report.’

‘Do you remember what Blentz looked like?’

‘Certainly,’ Brown said. ‘Nearly your height, though not robust at all, very thin, in fact, and with a stoop to his shoulders.’

‘How old?’

‘Thirty-eight, thirty-nine?’

‘His face? Do you remember that?’

‘Very ascetic features,’ Brown said. ‘Very quick eyes. He kept looking from one of my girls to the other, then at me, as if he didn't trust us. His cheeks were rather drawn, and he had an unhealthy complexion. A large but not Mediterranean nose, a thin nose, in fact, so thin that the nostrils were like extended ovals.’

‘Brown hair?’

‘Blond,’ the manager said.

‘You said he wouldn't be very pleasant to work for. Why do you think that?’

Brown said, ‘He was quite sharp with me, and he didn't look like he could be pleasant if he tried. He was always scowling. He was dressed very neatly, with a high polish to his shoes. I don't think there was a hair out of place on his head, as if he used spray or something. And when I asked for his name and business address, he took the pen out of my hand, turned the ledger around and wrote it down because, as he said, everyone always spelled his name wrong, and he wanted it right this time.’

‘A perfectionist?’

‘He seemed to be.’

Chase said, ‘How is it that you remember him in such detail?’

Brown smiled and picked up the pen, put it down, toyed with the ledger for a moment. He said, ‘Evenings and weekends, and especially during the summer, my wife and I run The Footlight, a legitimate theatre in town. I take a role in most of our productions, and I'm always studying people to build a reference of expressions and mannerisms.’

‘You must be very good onstage, by now,’ Chase said.

Brown blushed slightly. ‘Not particularly,’ he admitted. ‘But that kind of thing gets in your blood. We don't make much money on the theatre, but as long as it breaks even, I can indulge myself a little.’

On his way back to his car, Chase tried to picture Brown on the stage, before an audience, his hands trembling, his face paler than ever, his urge to handle things amplified by the circumstances . . . He thought he knew the chief reason The Footlight didn't show much profit.

In the car, Chase opened his notebook and looked over the list of facts, trying to find something that supported the possibility that Judge was Eric Blentz, the saloon owner. To the contrary, he found several things that appeared to conflict. First of all, didn't a man who owned a liquor licence have to be finger-printed as a matter of course? And a man who owned a thriving business like the Gateway Mall Tavern would hardly be driving a Volkswagen. Of course, he could be all wrong about the first thing. And perhaps the VW was Blentz's second car, or even a rented model.

There was one way to find out for sure. He started the car and drove back toward the city, wondering what sort of reception he would get at the Gateway Mall Tavern. . .

Eight

The tavern was a jaded reproduction of a German inn, with low, beamed ceilings and white plaster walls X-ed across with dark wooden supports. The six large windows which faced onto the mall promenade were leaded glass the colour of burgundy and only slightly translucent. Around the walls were large, darkly upholstered booths, some designed for a couple by themselves and some for four patrons. Chase took a seat in one of the smaller booths toward the rear of the place and sat facing the bar and the front entrance.

A cheerful, apple-cheeked blonde in a short brown skirt and low-cut white peasant blouse, breasts like overinflated balloons peeking over the lace top, came over and lighted the lantern on his table, then took his order for a whisky sour and departed, swinging her plump little ass in a most unmaidenly manner.

The bar was not especially busy at six o'clock, since it was priced more for the supper-hour crowd; only seven other patrons shared the place, three couples and a lone woman who sat at the bar. None of the young men fit the description Brown had given Chase, and he disregarded them. The bartender was the only other man in the place, aging and bald, with a pot of a stomach, but quick and expert with the bottles and obviously a favourite with the barmaids.

Blentz might not frequent his own tavern, of course, though he would be an exception to the rule if that were the case. Most saloon keepers like not only to hang around to keep a watchful eye on the till, but to bask in the status of a minor celebrity which they acquire with their most regular customers.

Chase realized that he was tense, leaning away from the back of the booth, his hands on top of the table and curled into hard, angular fists. That was no good. He settled back and forced himself to rest, since it was likely that the wait might last hours. He knew his capacity would permit him to drink for that long or longer, all night if necessary, without suffering a lessening of his perceptions. He had had a good deal of practice, after all.

After the second whisky sour, he asked for a menu and ordered a large meal, surprised at his renewed hunger after having consumed a meal at the drive-in only five or six hours earlier. He was sure his eyes were, as predicted by the proverb, bigger than his stomach. But when the food came, he took it in like a man starved and finished every bite of it.

Five drinks after dinner, shortly after nine o'clock, Chase asked the waitress if Mr Blentz would be in this evening.

She looked across the now crowded room and pointed at a heavy-set man on a stool at the bar. ‘That's him,’ she said.

‘Are you sure?’

The man was around fifty years of age, weighed well over two hundred pounds and was four or five inches shorter than Brown's description.

‘I've worked for him for two years,’ the blonde said.

‘I was told he was tall and slender. Blond hair, sharp dresser.’

‘Maybe twenty years ago he was slender and a sharp dresser,’ she said. ‘But he couldn't ever have been tall or blond.’

‘I guess not,’ Chase said. ‘I guess I must be looking for another Blentz.’ He smiled at the girl, trying not to look down her ample cleavage, and said, ‘Could I have the bill, please?’

The bill totalled nearly sixteen dollars for the seven drinks and the filet mignon. Chase handed the barmaid a twenty and told her she could keep the change.

Outside, the parking lot was all but deserted, for the majority of the stores in the mall had closed twenty minutes before. The night air was muggy after the air-conditioned tavern and seemed to settle on the macadam like a blanket.

Chase felt perspiration on his forehead, and he wiped at it absent-mindedly as he walked toward the Mustang, thinking about Eric Blentz. He had stepped around the front fender and was only a few feet from the driver's door when the swelling sound of an engine, close behind, caught his attention. Trained to react first and think a split second later, he did not turn to see what was behind him, but placed his hands on the fender and vaulted onto the hood of the Mustang.

An instant later the left front fender of a red Volkswagen struck the black sports car and scraped noisily along the door, only breaking free with a lurch a foot or two from the rear bumper. Sparks hissed up like fireworks and left behind a faint smell of hot metal and scorched paint. Though the car rocked hard when it was struck, Chase held on by curling his fingers over the edge of the trough that housed the recessed windshield wipers. He felt certain that if he fell off, the Volkswagen would change direction and come back at him.

Twenty feet away, the driver of the other car shifted gears with little finesse.

Chase stood up on the hood of the Mustang and stared after the retreating Volkswagen, trying to see the licence number or at least a portion of it. Even if he had been close enough to read the dark numerals, nothing would have been gained, for Judge had twisted a large piece of burlap sacking over the plate. It waved at Chase, almost as if it had been meant to mock him.

The VW reached the exit lane from the mall lot, jolted against the low, curved kerb so hard it looked as if it might shoot across the sidewalk and strike one of the mercury arc standards at the perimeter of the lawn. Then Judge regained control, accelerated, went through the flashing amber traffic light at the intersection, turned right onto the main highway toward the heart of the city. In another fifteen seconds it passed over the brow of the nearest hill and was out of sight.

Chase looked around to see if anyone had witnessed the short, violent confrontation, and he saw that he was alone.

He got down from the hood and walked the length of the Mustang, examining the damage. The anterior third of the fender was jammed back toward the cut of the driver's door, though it had not been crushed against the tyre and should not present any major problems. Two other grooves, as deep as the diameter of a pencil, with all or nearly all the paint peeled off in a three-inch swathe between them, ran parallel until they reached the point near the back bumper where the VW had been wrenched away. All of it was body work that could be hammered out, though the bill could easily exceed five hundred dollars.

He didn't care.

Money was the least of his worries.

He opened the driver's door and found that it only protested meekly, sat down behind the wheel, closed the door, opened his notebook and reread his list. His hand trembled when he added the ninth, tenth and eleventh items:

9. Third alias - Eric Blentz

10.  Given to rash action in the face of previous failures

11.  Driving damaged car, left front fender

Even before Judge had made the latest murder attempt, it had been a rough day all around, and he had not got much of anywhere. He sat in the car, staring at the empty lot, until his hands had stopped shaking. Weary, he drove home, wondering where Judge would be waiting for him the next time and whether he had been using the day to practice with his pistol.

The telephone woke him Saturday morning.

He reached for it, and having placed a hand on the cold, hard plastic, realized who might be calling. Judge hadn't phoned since early Wednesday night- unless he had tried to reach Chase on Friday when he was out -but that was not necessarily indicative of any permanent change in his method of operation.

Chase picked up the phone and said. ‘Hello?’

‘Ben?’

‘Yes?’

‘Dr Cauvel here.’

It was the first time he had ever heard the psychiatrist on the phone, and he thought the man sounded too nasal, somewhat silly.

‘What do you want?’ Chase asked. The name had fully awakened him and had overcome the residue of his nightmares.

‘I wondered why you hadn't kept your Friday appointment.’

‘I didn't feel like it.’

Cauvel said, ‘If it was because I talked to the police so frankly, you must understand that -’

‘That's only part of it,’ Chase said.

‘Should we get together this afternoon and talk about it, all of it?’ Cauvel asked, adopting his fatherly tone. Even in that role, his underlying smug superiority came through.

‘No,’ Chase said.

‘When should we, then?’

Chase said, ‘I'm not coming in again.’

‘But you have to!’ Cauvel said.

‘I don't believe I do. The psychiatric care was not a condition of my hospital discharge, only a benefit I could avail myself of.’