The McBain Brief (13 page)

Because Andy still clung to the theory that the driver had been
involved in something fishy just before he hit Benson, we checked with the local precinct squads for any possibly related robberies or burglaries, and we also checked with the Safe, Loft and Truck Squad. There'd been a grocery store holdup in the neighborhood vicinity on the day of the hit and run, but the thief had already been apprehended, and he was driving an old Ford. Both headlights were intact, and any damage to the grille had been sustained years ago.

We continued to check on repair shops.

When the Complaint Report came in, we leaped on it at once. We glossed over the usual garbage in the heading, and skipped down to the DETAILS:

Telephone message from one Mrs. James Dailey, owner and resident of private dwelling at 2389 Barnes Avenue. Dispatched Radio Motor Patrol No 761. Mrs. Dailey returned from two-week vacation to find picket fence around house smashed in on Northwest corner. Tire marks in bed of irises in front yard indicate heavy automobile or light truck responsible for damage. Black paint discovered on damaged pickets. Good tire marks in wet mud of iris bed, casts made. Tire size 7.69-15-4-ply. Estimated weight 28 pounds. Further investigation of tread marks disclosed tire to be Sears, Roebuck and Company, registered trademark Allstate Tires. Catalogue number 95K01227K. Case still active pending receipt of reports and further investigation.

“You can damn well
bet
it's still active,” Andy said. “This may be it, Mike.”

“Maybe,” I said.

It wasn't. The tire was a very popular seller, and the mail order house sold thousands of them every year, both through the mails and over the counter. It was impossible to check over-the-counter sales, and a check of mail-order receipts revealed that no pur
chases had been made within a two-mile radius of the hit and run. We extended the radius, checked on all the purchasers, and found no suspicious-looking automobiles, although all the cars were big ones. There was one black car in the batch—and there wasn't a scratch on it.

But Mrs. Dailey's house was about ten blocks from the scene of the killing, and that was too close for coincidence. We checked out a car and drove over.

She was a woman in her late thirties, and she greeted us at the door in a loose housecoat, her hair up in curlers.

“Police officers,” I said.

Her hand went to her hair, and she said, “Oh, my goodness.” She fretted a little more about her appearance, belted the housecoat tighter around her waist, and then said, “Come in, come in.”

We questioned her a little about the fence and the iris bed, got substantially what was in the Complaint Report, and then went out to look at the damage. She stayed in the house, and when she joined us later, she was wearing tight black slacks and a chartreuse sweater. She'd also tied a scarf around her hair, hiding the curlers.

The house was situated on a corner, with a side street intersecting Barnes Avenue, and then a gravel road cutting into another intersection. The tire marks seemed to indicate the car had come down the gravel road, and then backed up the side street, knocking over the picket fence when it did. It all pointed to a drunken driver.

“How does it look?” she asked.

“We're working on it,” Andy said. “Any of your neighbors witness this?”

“No. I asked around. No one saw the car. They heard the crash, came out and saw the damaged fence, but the car had gone already.”

“Was anything missing from your house or yard?”

“No. It was locked up tight. We were on vacation, you know.”

“What kind of car does your husband drive, ma'm?”

“An Olds. Why?”

“Just wondering.”

“Let's amble up the street, Mike,” Andy said. “Thank you very much, ma'm.”

We got into the car, and Mrs. Dailey watched us go, striking a pretty pose in the doorway of her house. I looked back and saw her wave at one of her neighbors, and then she went inside.

“Where to?” I asked Andy.

“There's a service station at the end of that gravel road, on the intersection. If the car came up that road, maybe he stopped at the station for gas. We've got nothing to lose.”

We had nothing to gain, either. They gassed up a hundred big black cars every day. They didn't remember anything that looked out of line. We thanked them, and stopped at the nearest diner for some coffee. The coffee was hot, but the case sure as hell wasn't.

It griped us.
It really griped us.

Some son of a bitch had a black car stashed away in his garage. The car had a damaged front end, and it may still have had blood stains on it. If he'd been a drunken driver, he'd sure as hell sobered up fast enough—and long enough to realize he had to keep that car out of sight. We mulled it over, and we squatted on it, and we were going over all the angles again when the phone rang.

I picked it up. “Jonas here.”

“Mike, this is Charlie on the desk. I was going to turn this over to Complaint, but I thought you might like to sit in on it.”

“Tie in with the Benson kill?”

“Maybe.”

“I'll be right down.” I hung up quickly. “Come on, Andy.”

We went downstairs to the desk, and Charlie introduced us to a Mr. George Sullivan and his daughter Grace, a young kid of about sixteen. We took them into an empty office, leaving Charlie at the desk.

“What is it, Mr. Sullivan?” I asked.

“I want better protection,” he said.

“Of what, sir?”

“My child. Grace here. All the kids at the high school, in fact.”

“What happened, sir?”

“You tell him, Grace.”

The kid was a pretty blonde, fresh and clean-looking in a sweater and skirt. She wet her lips and said, “Daddy, can't . . .”

“Go on, Grace, it's for your own good.”

“What is it, Miss?” Andy asked gently.

“Well . . .”

“Go on, Grace. Just the way you told it to me. Go on.”

“Well, it was last week. I . . .”

“Where was this, Miss?”

“Outside the high school. I cut my last period, a study hour. I wanted to do some shopping downtown, and anyway a study hour is nowhere. You know, they're not so strict if you cut one.”

“Yes, Miss.”

“I got out early, about a half-hour before most of the kids start home. I was crossing the street when this car came around the corner. I got onto the sidewalk, and the car slowed down and started following me.”

“What kind of a car, Miss?”

“A big, black one.”

“Did you notice the year and make?”

“No. I'm not so good at cars.”

“All right, what happened?”

“Well, the man driving kept following me, and I started walking faster, and he kept the car even with me all the time. He leaned over toward the window near the curb and said, ‘Come on, sweetheart, let's go for a ride.'” She paused. “Daddy, do I have to . . .”

She swallowed hard, and then stared down at her loafers.

“I didn't answer him. I kept walking, and he pulled up about ten feet ahead of me, and sat waiting there. When I came up alongside the car, he opened the door and got out. He . . . he . . . made a grab for me and . . . and I screamed.”

“What happened then?”

“He got scared. He jumped into the car and pulled away from the curb. He was going very fast. I stopped screaming after he'd gone because . . . because I didn't want to attract any attention.”

“When was this, Miss?”

“Last week.”

“What day?”

“It was Wednesday,” Mr. Sullivan put in. “She came home looking like hell, and I asked her what was wrong, and she said nothing. I didn't get the story out of her until today.”

“You should have reported this earlier, Miss,” Andy said.

“I . . . I was too embarrassed.”

“Did you notice the license plate on the car?”

“Yes.”

“Did you get the number?”

“No. It was a funny plate.”

“How do you mean funny?”

“It was a New York plate, but it had a lot of lettering on it.”

“A lot of lettering? Was it a suburban plate? Was the car a station wagon?”

“No, it wasn't.”

“A delivery truck?”

“No, it was a regular car. A new one.”

“A new car,” I repeated.

“Are you going to do something about this?” Mr. Sullivan asked.

“We're going to try, sir. Did you get a good look at the man, Miss?”

“Yes. He was old. And fat. He wore a brown suit.”

“How old would you say, Miss?”

“At least forty.”

Mr. Sullivan smiled, and then the smile dropped from his face. “There should be a cop around there. There definitely should be.”

“Would you be able to identify the man if we showed him to you?”

“Yes, but . . . do I have to? I mean, I don't want any trouble. I don't want the other kids to find out.”

“No one will find out, Miss.”

“This wouldn't have happened if there was a cop around,” Mr. Sullivan said.

“There was a cop,” I told him. “He's dead.”

When they left, we got some coffee and mulled it over a bit more.

“A new car,” Andy said.

“With a funny plate. What the hell did she mean by a funny plate?”

“On a new car.”

I stood up suddenly.

“What?” Andy said.

“A new car, Andy. A funny plate. A New York plate with lettering on it. For Christ's sake, it was a
dealer's
plate!”

Andy snapped his fingers. “Sure. That explains how he kept the
car hidden so well. It's probably on some goddamn garage floor, hidden behind the other cars in the showroom.”

“Let's go, Andy,” I said.

It wasn't difficult.
It's tough to get a dealer's franchise, and there aren't very many dealers in any specific neighborhood. We tried two, and we hit the jackpot on the third try.

We spotted the car in one corner of the big garage. We walked over to it, and there was a mechanic in grease-stained overalls working on the right headlight.

“Police,” I told him. “What's wrong there?”

He continued working, apparently used to periodic checks from the Automobile Squad. “Sealed beam is broken. Just replacing it.”

“What happened to the grille?”

“Oh, a small accident. Damn shame, too. A new car.”

Andy walked around to the back and saw the paint scratches on the trunk. He nodded when he came around to me again.

“Back's all scratched, too,” he said to the mechanic.

“Yeah, this goddamn car's been a jinx ever since we got it in.”

“How so?”

“Got a headache with this one. The day we took it out for a test, the fool driver ran it into a ditch. Sliced hell out of both rear tires, and we had to replace them. All this in the first week we had this pig.”

“Did you replace with Allstate?” I asked.

The mechanic looked up in surprise. “Why, yeah. How'd you know?”

“Where's your boss?” Andy asked.

“In the front office.” The mechanic got up. “Hey, what's this all about?”

“Nothing that concerns you, Mac. Fix your car.”

We went to the front office, a small cubicle that held two desks and two leather customer chairs. A stout man was sitting at one desk, a telephone to his ear. I estimated his age at about forty-two, forty-three.

He looked up and smiled when we came in, nodded at us, and then continued talking.

“Yes . . . well, okay, if you say so. Well look, Sam, I can't sell cars if I haven't got them . . . You just do your best, that's all. Okay, fine.” He hung up without saying goodbye, got out of his chair and walked over to us.

“Can I help you gentlemen?”

“Yes,” Andy said. “We're interested in a car. Are you the owner of this place?”

“I am.”

“With whom are we doing business?”

“Fred Whitaker,” he said. “Did you have any particular car in mind?”

“Yes. The black Buick on the floor.”

“A beautiful car,” Whitaker said, smiling.

“The one with the smashed grille and headlight,” I added.

The smile froze on his face, and he went white. “Wh . . . what?”

“Did you smash that car up?”

Whitaker swallowed hard. “No . . . no. One of my mechanics did it.”

“Who?”

“I've . . . I've fired him. He . . .”

“We can check this, Whitaker.”

“Are . . . are you policemen?”

“We are. Come on, let's have it all. We've got a girl to identify you.”

Whitaker's face crumbled. “I . . . I guess that's best, isn't it?”

“It's best,” Andy said.

“I didn't mean to run him down. But the girl screamed, you know, and I thought he'd heard it. He stuck up his hand, and I . . . I got scared, I suppose, and there was no one around, so I . . . I knocked him . . . I knocked him down. Is he all right? I mean . . .”

“He's dead,” I said.

“Dead?” Whitaker's eyes went wide. “Dead . . .”

“Was it you who smashed that picket fence?” Andy asked.

Whitaker was still dazed.

“Wh . . . what?” he said.

“The picket fence. On Barnes.”

“Oh. Yes, yes. That was afterwards. I was still scared. I . . . I made a wrong turn, and I saw a police car, and I wanted to get away fast. I . . . I backed into the fence.”

“Why'd you bother that little girl, Whitaker?”

He collapsed into a chair. “I don't know,” he said. “I don't know.”

“You're in a jam,” Andy said. “You'd better come along with us.”

“Yes, yes.” He stood up, took his hat from a rack in the corner, and then started for the door. At the door, he stopped and said, “I'd better tell my mechanics. I'd better tell them I'll be gone for the day.”