Читать книгу The Venus Death: A Ralph Lindsay Mystery - Ben Benson - Страница 6

SHE phoned me at the barracks the next evening, Thursday, just after I had come in from a larceny investigation. There was to be a Signal Nineteen, a gambling raid in Lincolnshire, and her call came in as we were getting ready.

She had a hauntingly husky voice over the telephone. She asked if I wanted to see her that evening. I told her I would have liked nothing better, but I was on duty. I did say I would ride by Staley Woolen the next morning before noon.

And I did, too. At 11:45 Friday morning I came off Route 138, moved down the valley and into Staleyville. I was driving cruiser 56, a new one, nicely polished and shiny, with a long buggy-whip antenna in the rear. I went past the old white church in the center of Staleyville, over the stone bridge and the mill dam, and onto the two-lane road that led to the factory. Ahead of me I could see the tall smokestacks with their drifting gray plumes, and the moss-covered, ancient, red-brick buildings of the Staley Woolen Company. There was a tall, chain-link cyclone fence, the top of it carrying three strands of barbed wire. I came up slowly. An armored truck emerged from the gate and turned onto the road. As it passed me, the driver blew his horn twice and waved. I waved back. It meant the weekly payroll at Staley had been delivered without incident.

As I came to the gate, the guard walked out of his glassed-in booth. He was a gray old man in a gray old uniform. He grinned at me and shouted something I couldn’t hear. I waved to him. I was driving by the factory in low gear, at three miles per hour. I looked up at the office building, a two-story structure directly inside the gate. The sun was high in the sky and the windows were shadowed. I didn’t see her.

I went on ahead, turned onto Route 116 and finished my morning patrol. I kept thinking it was a long time until Sunday.

But I saw her before Sunday. On Saturday morning I had a routine traffic patrol. I moved out of the driveway of Troop E Headquarters and stopped at the turnpike to let the cars go by. I looked back at the wide, velvet-green lawn. In the center of it were the tall twin flagpoles, the American flag and the white-and-blue Commonwealth flag billowing out in the soft warm October breeze. Beyond was the red-brick Colonial barracks, the high steel radio tower behind it, the evergreen shrubs banked in front of it. I could feel the pleasantness of the warm sun on the back of my neck.

I turned the cruiser out onto the turnpike. Ahead of me a small gray convertible was parked on the shoulder of the road. Somebody inside it blew the horn three times. I passed it, stopped the cruiser, and walked back. I had already seen who was inside the car. It was Manette Venus and she was alone.

“Hi.” I grinned at her. “I didn’t know you had a car.”

“It’s not mine,” she said. “I borrowed it from a friend.”

“And I thought you had no friends in Danford.”

“It belongs to a girl in my office. I don’t work today and she let me borrow it for a few hours.” Her eyes swept over me. “I’ve never seen you in uniform. You’re positively striking. But isn’t that an awfully big gun to be carrying? It’s not the same as the other night.”

“No, this is the regulation, long-barreled service revolver.”

“And what’s in that little black leather case on your belt? A hand grenade?”

I laughed. “No, my handcuffs.”

“And that long leather pouch on your belt?”

“The ammunition carrier. It holds twenty-four rounds.”

“All that? And do you carry a machine gun or a rifle in the car?”

“Sometimes.”

“What do you keep in the trunk of the car?”

“A spare tire.”

She made a face at me. “Everybody carries a spare tire. What else?”

“The two-way radio is in there. Also a folded emergency stretcher.” I smiled at her. “Why so curious, Manette?”

“Does it bother you, Ralph?”

“Yes. It bothers me a little.”

“Did you ever know a girl who wasn’t curious?”

“I never knew many girls.”

“Then you’ll learn. Females have a terrible sense of curiosity. Especially me.” She studied my uniform again. “I like the breeches and the black leather puttees.”

“I don’t. They chafe my legs.”

“But if you didn’t wear them you wouldn’t look so distinctive.”

“That’s what they keep telling us,” I said. “By the way, I drove by the factory yesterday. I didn’t see you.”

“I was making an entry with Mr. Reece, the office manager. I just couldn’t get away. Which way did you come?”

“Through Staleyville, driving south.”

“Do you always come that way?”

“Not always, no.”

She looked at a tiny wrist watch. “I mustn’t keep you, Ralph. See you tomorrow?”

“I’ll be parked on your doorstep.”

She smiled softly, put the gray convertible in gear, and said good-by. She drove off. I watched the car as it went down the turnpike and disappeared around the bend. There was something exotic about her and I wanted to see her again, to be near her. Yet there was a vague uneasy feeling in me. She had asked too many, not-so-innocent questions.

I dressed carefully Sunday. I put on my brown whipcord slacks, brown suède shoes, a green woolen sport shirt and my hound’s-tooth sports jacket. I had trouble combing my hair. It was cut so short that no matter how hard I brushed it, it stood up like bristles.

Manette was waiting for me in the living room of the old house on Glen Road. She introduced me to Mr. and Mrs. Fulton Reece, the people she lived with, and she told me Mr. Reece was her office manager at Staley Woolen. Mrs. Reece was quiet, prim and white-haired, with a sickly narrow face and a small, dry-lipped mouth. Mr. Reece was pasty and flabby-faced, quiet and untidy. He was past middle age, but his sparse gray hair was combed crosswise over his skull and seemed artificially waved. He had a remote expression in his eyes. His lips were wet, loose and purplish, and his jaw was slack.

We chitchatted for a moment in the living room. I stood there stiffly and uncomfortably while Mr. and Mrs. Reece sat on the damask-covered divan. The inside of the house surprised me. It had a gracious dignity. There were some oil paintings on the walls and they looked like original old masters. There was no department store furniture, either. Instead, the tables were hand-carved, burnished antiques. There was a deep rich Oriental rug on the floor.

Manette picked up a large wicker picnic basket. I took it from her. We said good-by to the Reeces. They said to have a good time and we went out into the warm bright sunlight.

“What’s in the basket?” I asked. “Laundry?”

“Picnic, silly.” Manette laughed. “It’s such a nice day for one.”

“Good stuff,” I said. “I haven’t been on a picnic since I was a kid. But you shouldn’t have gone to all the trouble. I could have had food made up.”

“This party’s on me. I wanted to show I wasn’t a gold digger.” She stopped beside the car. “What did you think of the Reeces?”

“I liked Mrs. Reece,” I said. “I don’t know if I like your boss.”

“They’re an old Danford family,” Manette said, stepping into the car. “Mrs. Reece is a sick woman.” Then she looked at me closely. “Why didn’t you like Mr. Reece?”

“I don’t know. Something about his eyes. They weren’t normal. Why did you ask? Am I rattling family skeletons?”

Her face flushed suddenly. “They’re an old Danford family,” she said again. “You should have respect for them.”

“Sure,” I said. “Sure, I will.”

“When Mrs. Reece found out I was alone in Danford, she was kind enough to give me a room here.”

“Then that’s another reason I like her,” I said.

We drove out onto the turnpike. She asked me to take Route 105. It was a narrow, secondary road, black macadam, patched and humpbacked. We passed scattered farms, with rocky, hilly fields and gnarled, brown-leafed apple trees. We left the farms behind us and on either side of the road were scrub pines and thick rusty underbrush.

“Where are we going?” I asked her.

“Deer Pond,” she said. “Do you know where it is?”

“Yes.” I smiled. “But how do you know of it, stranger?”

“A man who works in my office has a cottage on Deer Pond. His name is Cole Boothbay. The office had a picnic there a few weeks ago. It’s a lovely spot.”

I drove on. There was a narrow, rutted dirt lane. I turned onto it, the car bumping over the potholes, a haze of dust rising behind us. We continued up the road for a mile. There was the crest of a hill and another dirt road to the left, and then we came to a clearing carpeted with brown pine needles. Beyond the trees was the glimmering blue water of Deer Pond. Along the far shore the ridges were flaming with autumn color.

“The yellow cottage,” she said. “I borrowed a key in case we want to use the stove.”

I drove the car across the clearing, pulled up and parked. The cottage had yellow shingles and green window shades. The shades were drawn. I took the picnic basket and followed her up the three short steps which led to the screened porch. The porch had a gray linoleum, a glider, two plastic-covered chaise longues, a table and four tubular chrome chairs.

She unlocked the front door and pushed it back. Inside it was dark, dank and musty. She opened windows and the pine-scented breeze wafted in. The walls of the living room were pine-paneled, the partitions going as high as the eaves. There was a smoky stone fireplace, battered maple furniture, an old tapestry-covered couch with lumpy cretonne pillows.

“We won’t stay in here,” she said quickly. “We can bring the lounge chairs down to the edge of the lake.”

The water lapped gently along the soft sandy shore. I pushed the empty picnic basket aside and settled into the low-slung chair. She looked at the empty basket.

“Don’t they feed you at the barracks?” she asked.

“The food was very good. And I was hungry.” I leaned back in the chair, looked up through the pines and saw the deep blue sky and the white cotton balls of clouds. “This is the life,” I said. “This is really living.”

She laughed and dropped down in the pine needles beside my chair, her black slacks taut over her rounded hips. Her hands reached out and drew my head toward hers. She kissed me. Her lips were soft and fragrant and clinging. She let go. I reached for her again. But there was a trill of laughter from her. She wriggled away and sat down cross-legged on the ground.

“Tell me about yourself,” she said.

I grinned at her. “You’re smart. Any time you want to stop a man, let him talk about himself. He’ll forget everything.”

So I told her. I told her I was born and brought up in Cambridge, Massachusetts, not far from Harvard. That I graduated from Cambridge High and Latin and spent a year at Boston University, majoring in chemistry. And how I went into the Army and spent a year in Korea with the Second Division. And how I came home, took the examinations for the State Police, and went to the Training School at Framingham for three months. And, finally, how I was assigned to Troop E.

“And you’re going to make it your career?” she asked.

“I once wanted to be a chemist,” I said. “Sometimes you never do the things you start out to do.”

“Why not?” she asked. “What stopped you?”

“It’s a long story,” I said. “I’ll tell you some time.” I turned on my side and faced her. I noticed for the first time the small white scar behind her ear. “Where did you get the scar?”

“When I was a child,” she said. “Mastoid. That’s why I wear my hair so long.”

“It hardly shows,” I said. “I’ll bet you were the prettiest child in Cleveland.”

She looked at me blankly. “Cleveland?”

“Isn’t that where you’re from?”

“Well–around there,” she said, looking away.

“Where are your folks?”

“They’re dead. They died when I was very young.”

“What made you decide to come to Danford?”

She threw a small stone into the lake, making circular, ever-widening ripples on the still water. “Staley Woolen was advertising for clerical help. I’d never been to New England before.”

“Do you like Massachusetts?”

“Oh, yes. This part of the state is so rocky and hilly. And the towns with their village greens and white churches are so quaint and historical. There seems to be a certain everlasting strength.”

“But you have no friends here. None at all?”

“It takes me a long time to choose friends.” Then she smiled at me. “You’re the exception to the rule, Ralph.”

I reached out and tried to draw her in to me. Her back arched. “Wait, darling,” she said. “I have to know something first.” Then the words rushed out, tumbling over one another. “Do you believe a girl could meet a boy and in a few days be so in love with him that she’d marry him in a minute? I mean if the boy would have her?”

There was no sound for a moment but the lapping of the water. “Meaning you?” I asked slowly.

“Meaning us,” she said tremulously.

“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s been so quick. Sure, I believe those things happen, but–” I stopped. I wasn’t sure what more to say.

She turned away from me, her face flushed. She stood up and began brushing the pine needles from her slacks. “I think we’d better go,” she said distantly. “The sun is going down and it’s getting cool.” She bent down and opened her big leather handbag. She took out a metal lipstick tube.

I stood up. “Wait,” I said. “I’m sorry. Maybe I was a little abrupt, but you took me by such surprise–” My voice caught in my throat. I had been looking at the handbag and I had seen something gleam inside. “Hold it open,” I said.

“What?” she asked. She quickly snapped the bag shut. I took it from her. I opened it again.

I brought out a pearl-handled .32-20 Colt revolver with an ice-blue two-inch barrel. I stared at her.

“It’s mine,” she said, her face contorted. “There was a pair of them once. I only have this one now.”

I broke it open. There were six cartridges in the cylinder. I said, “It’s loaded full. You mean you carry this around with you all the time?”

“It’s mine.” Her lower lip began to quiver. “I own it.”

“But what reason could you have for carrying a concealed weapon?” I asked. “What are you afraid of, Manette?”

“Because I’ve been involved in things,” she said in a tight, strangled voice. “You’ve seen a scar behind my ear. It shows because it’s on the outside. But things happened to me inside. Mental things, causing mental scars. They don’t show. That’s why you think you can keep them hidden.”

“What things are you talking about?” I asked harshly.

“Not nice things,” she said tonelessly. “Nothing we can talk about.”

“We have to talk about it. You’re carrying a loaded gun. You don’t have a license for it, do you?”

Her laugh was hard, brittle and despairing. “And it’s against the law and you’re a cop. Where do we go now? To the barracks?”

“Don’t be silly,” I said. I put the gun back in her bag and handed it to her. “Take it home and bury it in a bottom drawer. Promise?”

“Yes, I promise.”

“Now, be a good kid and tell me what the trouble is.”

She shook her head. “There’s no more trouble,” she said in a strained voice. “Nothing is going to happen.”

“No, you’re in a jam.”

“Not now. It’s over. I’m going to forget you, Ralph. You can go back to the nice little girl next door. She’s for you. Not me.”

“How did you know there was a girl next door?”

“Because every boy has a girl next door, or in the next block, or somewhere in his neighborhood. He wouldn’t be normal otherwise. And you’re very normal, Ralph.”

“We’re not talking about me,” I said. “Don’t twist it around.”

“I’m giving you your chance to get out. Take it. You don’t know how lucky you are. Go back to your girl.” Her eyes were brimming. “What’s her name?”

“Her name is Ellen,” I said. “Look, maybe I don’t want to be rushed into things, and I can change my mind about going back, too.”

“No, it wouldn’t work with us,” she said dully. “I thought there was a chance, but there isn’t. I shouldn’t have bothered to try. Now take me home, please.”

I tried to talk to her some more. But she wouldn’t listen and she wouldn’t answer. Her lips were compressed stubbornly as she began to gather her things.

So I drove her home. She sat silently beside me, her shoulders slumped, her face pale and drawn. When we turned into Glen Road it had grown dark. I walked with her by the lantern post to the front door. She turned to me.

“Just one thing more,” she said softly. “Would you kiss me good-by, please?”

I put the basket down and drew her in close. Her face came up and I saw her eyes were wet with tears. Then suddenly there was a sharp intake of her breath and her body tensed and her hands gripped my arms. Behind me I heard a car start up. I turned around. It was a black sedan. It flashed by us, went swiftly up Glen Road, its red rear lights dipping over the crest of the hill and disappearing.

“Who was that?” I asked her.

She shook her head dumbly.

“Somebody you know,” I said. “Somebody you’re afraid of. That’s why you asked if I carried a gun. That’s why you carry a gun.”

“No, no,” she said. “It’s nothing. The noise of the car starting scared me. Probably one of the neighbors.”

“Out here in the woods you don’t have neighbors. It was somebody sitting in a parked car. What’s happening, Manette?”

“I don’t know,” she said hysterically. “I don’t know.” Then she wrenched away from me, opened the door and ran inside. The door slammed.

I pressed the bell button. I waited. She didn’t open the door. I rang again, picked up the wicker basket. “Tell me,” I shouted through the door. I rattled the knob. I waited five minutes. I watched for the light in her room. It didn’t go on.

I put the basket down near the door. I went back to my car, got in and drove slowly back to the barracks.