Dead Lock (15 page)

Crawford?
Jack
Crawford? The same Jack Crawford I had been on the verge of telling to go to hell more times than I could count?
That
Jack Crawford?

“Yeah, Crawford really stood up to Valenti,” Andy said. “Of course Valenti couldn’t really do anything about it. Legally, I mean. But I wouldn’t want to be in Crawford’s shoes driving around town. Valenti will have his deputies on the alert. Why, as little as a mile an hour over the speed limit and Crawford will probably find himself paying a ticket.”

“You’re probably right,” I said.

“Why would he write that editorial anyway?” Andy asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I thought Crawford was a smart guy. Why would he put his neck in a noose like that?”

“Maybe because he stood up for what he believed in,” I said. I turned on my heel and walked to Crawford’s office.

He was at his desk.

“Jack?”

He looked up.

“Thanks for sticking up for me.”

He looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Andy Checkle described your bout with Sheriff Valenti.”

Crawford smiled. “I’m afraid that bout wasn’t much more than a two rounder,” he said. “Our good sheriff is a lot more bark than bite.”

“Still, I appreciate it. And I’m sure Corporal Cummins would, too.”

“Speaking of the corporal, I talked to his commanding officer, Colonel Woods.”

“Yes?”

“The army’s stepping in. They’re going to demand custody of the corporal. And I think once they see the evidence, or lack of it, he’s going to be a free man.”

I found Andy Checkle waiting for me just outside Crawford’s office.

“Say, about that editorial. . . ”

“Yes?”

“Why. . .uh. . .you. . .you didn’t. . .”

“Yes I did.”

I left Andy scratching his head.

62

Friday, July 2

Finding G.P. alone in his office the next morning, I inquired whether the Canadian authorities had reported spotting anything suspicious during their air searches of northern Canada.

If the Germans were planning an air raid on the locks, their operations wouldn’t have to be large, just big enough to assemble a few planes brought in by submarine in pieces. That and a strip long enough to take off.

“Sorry,” G.P. said. “There’s nothing so far. But I’m talking to my contacts in Washington every day. They can’t say anything directly, of course. But I do get the impression that the British are still intercepting reports of an attempt on the locks during the dedication.”

“What about calling off the ceremony?” I asked. “Has anyone considered the fact that thousands of lives will be at risk?”

“Of course they have, Kate,” G.P. said. “You’ve seen the precautions the army is taking. They’ve set up four radar sites over in Ontario and places like Cochrane and Hearst. They’ll give us an early warning, should the Nazis try anything. And with all those barrage balloons blocking the way, it would be darned near impossible for a plane to get within a half mile of the locks.”

“And if one should?”

“The artillery will be waiting. I’ve talked with some of the soldiers manning those weapons. They’re actually hoping the Krauts make it through. They’re ready to blast them out of the sky.”

I felt a little better after talking with G.P. He seemed convinced an attack couldn’t possibly be successful.

Still, I couldn’t get the picture out of my mind: thousands of innocent men, women and children being strafed by German dive bombers.

Later that afternoon, I got what I considered a fairly bright idea.

My investigation into Shirley’s history had run into a dead end in Ann Arbor. Maybe I could find out more about Shirley by starting here in the Soo and tracking backwards. It was a long shot, but I had nothing else to go on. I decided to pay a visit to Blades Larue.

63

It was mid-afternoon when I reached Blades Larue’s and with the lunch rush over, I found the place nearly empty. I saw Felice Miller back in the kitchen and waved to her. She came out to greet me.

“Kate, I want to thank you for all you did to get Roy freed,” she said.

“He’s not being held anymore?”

“When the sheriff turned him over to the army, Roy’s commanding officer took one look at the so-called evidence and told him to report back to duty. He’s manning one of the guns at the locks right now.”

I glanced around the room at the few occupants. No one was listening to our conversation. “What’s in the future for you two?”

She looked down at the floor. “We’ve decided to go separate ways,” she said. “Roy was right. After the war he’s going back to the South to teach. He knows he’s needed there. And . . .” She paused. “There’s no future for what they call a mixed marriage.”

Blades Larue walked in the back door from the alley. “Hi, Kate,” he called. “You here for an early supper?”

I told Blades what I was looking for: any references Shirley might have provided when he hired her last January.

“Let me look,” he said. “Seems to me she had worked at a restaurant over toward Wisconsin.”

I said goodbye to Felice and followed Blades back through the kitchen, into his small office. Papers were scattered everywhere. They littered the top of his wooden desk. He sat in the chair after clearing a pile of papers from it and reached down into the bottom drawer of the desk.

He retrieved another pile of papers and began to leaf through them. This was obviously a routine he went through often. “Pay dirt,” he said triumphantly, holding up one sheet. “Shirley worked at a place called The Stop Inn over in Negaunee. Owned by a Mr. and Mrs. Wilson.”

“Is there a telephone number?”

“Sure. Call from here if you’d like.”

Blades must have been feeling generous; it was a long distance call. I made it a point to place it station-to-station so it wouldn’t cost as much.

“Hello?” It was a woman’s voice.

“Mrs. Wilson?”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Wilson, I’m calling about a woman who worked for you up until last December. Her name was Shirley Benoit.”

There was silence at the other end of the line.

“Mrs. Wilson? Mrs. Wilson, are you there?”

“Yes. But I don’t know any Shirley Benoit. I’m sorry.” There was a click on the other end of the line and she was gone.

64

I got back to the
Morning
News
just in time to find Jack Crawford leaving for the day.

“Jack, can I see you for a minute?”

He did an about face and walked back into his office. I followed and closed the door.

He turned to face me. “What’s this all about?”

“I need a couple of days off.”

“Days off? With the July 4
^th
weekend and Wednesday’s special historical edition coming up? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Jack, I may have found a clue to Shirley’s murder.” I went through my findings with Crawford, ending with the call to the woman at the Stop Inn. “So you see, I’ve got to go to Negaunee.”

“Look Kate, you’re a reporter not a private detective. Leave these matters to the professionals. The sheriff, for instance.”

“Professionals? You mean the sheriff who locked up the wrong man? The sheriff who kept him in jail for days even though it was probable that he was innocent?

“That’s the professional you want me to trust with finding the murderer of my best friend?”

Crawford headed toward the door. “Kate with the dedication coming up I need you here at the Morning News. And I need you every day. That’s final.”

With that, he walked out and closed the door, leaving me in his office.

I ran to the door, but when I opened it, Crawford was already heading down the steps and out the front door.

65

Saturday, July 3

I woke up the next morning looking forward to my single day off. With the dedication near, we were all expected to work through the following week and weekend. But I vowed I would celebrate my freedom today.

The radio had the latest news from Europe: RAF bombers had raided Trapani, Sicily and Olbia, Sardinia.

I had just finished dressing when I heard a knock at the front door.

I was surprised to see Jack Crawford standing on the porch. “I, uh, I just came over to talk for a minute,” he said. It was the first time I had ever seen him fumbling for words.

“Come in, Mr. Crawford.” It was back to “Mr. Crawford.” I still felt miffed from his attitude the day before.

I invited him to sit on the couch in the front room; I took one of the two overstuffed chairs. As we sat, Mick entered the room, and to my surprise, walked over to Crawford and hopped up on the couch next to him as if they were old friends.

Traitor!

Crawford placed a hand on Mick’s head and began scratching him behind the ears. Again, I found myself amazed at the size of his paws – Crawford’s not Mick’s. His hand covered Mick’s huge head like a yarmulke.

For his part, Mick seemed to relish the attention, closing his eyes and soaking it all in.

“I’m sorry if I seemed a bit gruff last evening,” Crawford began. “It was a tough day at the office and I’m afraid I took it out on you.”

He looked at me as if he expected some sort of commiseration, but damned if I was going to give him any quarter.

He went on. “You really want to carry out this investigation of yours?”

“Shirley Benoit was a special friend,” I said. “I think I owe her memory the courtesy of finding out why she died, and if possible, who killed her.”

“And you think that necessitates taking time off for a drive to Negaunee?”

I went back over what I had told him the evening before. “Mrs. Wilson, the woman who owns the Stop Inn, the restaurant where Shirley claimed she worked, says she never heard of her,” I said. “That just doesn’t’ wash. Shirley’s not the type who would falsify her resume.”

Crawford nodded, his lips pursed. “Alright, I’ll give you three days off.”

I suddenly felt much better about Crawford. Maybe Mick had him pegged right after all. “Thank you, Jack. I won’t let you or the newspaper down. I know there’s a story here.”

He held up a hand. “But, there’s a condition. This is the Independence Day weekend and I need your help. I also need you on the Lock History Edition due out Wednesday. If you’ll work from today through Monday, I’ll give you the next three days off immediately afterwards.”

It was better than nothing.

“You’ve got a deal.”

66

Sunday, July 4

With Independence Day falling on a Sunday this year, Congress decreed the holiday would be observed on the following Monday. For the people of Sault Ste. Marie it turned out to be a two-day holiday.

Our country’s birthday, always a big deal, was an even more important event in wartime, and the town fathers decided to go all out in a celebration that stretched over both days.

The faithful attended church on Sunday morning; then most headed for one of the many parks around town. Softball and volleyball games were in full swing by two o’clock.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t among the celebrants. I had agreed to work both Sunday and Monday and as a result, I divided my time scouting around town for stories, and writing them up back at the office.

The wire services reported that a huge force of RAF heavy bombers had raided the Kalk and Deutz industrial districts near Cologne. The Brits were making inroads into Germany’s industrial areas. Meanwhile, Allied bombers attacked Axis airfields in Sicily.

Late Sunday evening I found myself at the new MacArthur Lock. I talked to the Army captain in charge of overseeing the construction crew, who assured me the work would be completed before next Sunday, the day of the official dedication. The lock had been built in an incredibly short time by crews working around the clock.

Darkness was starting to settle in and I had decided to head for home when I noticed the familiar face of a man standing next to an anti-aircraft gun pointed out toward Whitefish Bay at the end of the new lock.

67