Ben Forbes did not go anywhere that Saturday night. He sat in the living room and listened to the silence, and one whole day of his precious five was gone.
The search for Al Guthrie was over before it had ever really got started.
His hands had stopped shaking now, he noticed. He was not surprised. Everything in him had stopped. He had had a sort of frantic hope that he would learn something useful from the people Guthrie had been with. Now that was gone and there was nothing.
Count them, name them over. Sunday. Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. Four days.
A lifetime.
And it was so cruelly tantalizing. Guthrie had spoken to the woman. What was her name? Selma. He had mentioned a house. He had mentioned a part of town where nobody knew him. One word more would have done it. Just a single word more. And he had not spoken it.
There were sixty thousand people in Woodley and they all lived in houses. There would not be time enough in four days to knock on every door.
But you had to do something. You could not simply sit and wait. Wait for Guthrie to call at eight-thirty on Wednesday night—“and be there,” Guthrie had said, “and don’t have anybody with you, because there won’t be a second time.” Wait for Guthrie to ask if you have arranged it with Lorene and tell him no. Tell him that Lorene is going to marry a man named Vernon Kratich. Then hang up the phone and wait again. Wait to see how many Guthrie can kill before the police get him. Carolyn is the only one that’s certain.
Ben walked up and down and tried to think, and his brain was as inert as a stone.
But you had to do something.
He could call Ernie MacGrath. It would be signing Carolyn’s death warrant but that was signed anyway, and it might save other lives. Lorene’s. Vernon Kratich’s. Possibly his own, if that mattered any more.
And who worries about Lorene’s life? Or Vernon Kratich’s?
Or my life, Ben thought. What the hell good is it to me now.
Still, you had to do something.
He walked heavily out to the phone and sat down and started to dial Ernie’s number.
He could not finish it. He put the phone down and sat looking miserably at the floor. Then he got the whiskey bottle from the kitchen and turned out all the lights and went to bed.
Sometime during the middle hours of the night he woke and saw a bar of moonlight falling across Carolyn’s bed, and the voice of the woman in the Lanternman spoke in his mind.
He only said it was in a part of town where nobody knew him.
How many parts of town were there where Al Guthrie was known? If you took those away, how many would be left?
He repeated that to himself three or four times. When it had penetrated all the way through he jumped up and blundered out into the hall, turning the light on. He could not remember Lorene’s phone number and it was not listed under her name. He tried Brewer, found it, and dialed.
The phone rang and rang. Finally it stopped and a woman’s voice said, “What is it?”
“Lorene?”
“No. This is Mary Catherine. Who are you and what do you want?”
“Is Lorene there?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Me. Ben Forbes.”
“Good God, Mr. Forbes, don’t you know what time it is? It’s twenty minutes to three.”
“I know, but—please, is Lorene there?”
“No, she is not.”
“Do you know when—”
“No, I do not. Mr. Forbes, what’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing,” said Ben. “It’s just—I had an important question to ask her.”
“Well, you call again tomorrow. Not too early.”
She hung up before he could say anything more. He went back in and lay down on the bed again. He wondered if Carolyn was sleeping, or whether she too was awake and staring at some unresponding ceiling.
Of course she was still alive. Guthrie wouldn’t lie about that. He wouldn’t kill her before the time was up.
Unless his own safety demanded it.
The nights were always the worst. They held you prisoner with your thoughts and there was no escape even in sleep. Because even your sleep was different now, a strained uneasy thing, a half-world peopled with reflections from the waking day. You dreamed about Guthrie and Carolyn, Lorene and death.
But morning came and you were still there. And you washed and shaved, dressed and breakfasted, held together by the thin glue of habit.
Johnny Pettit came over with some special hot rolls Louise had made out of a new mix. He sat and made cheery small talk until Ben’s unresponsiveness and the general air of the house daunted him and he went home.
Ernie MacGrath called about ten. He asked Ben how he was and Ben said he was fine. Ernie said he had heard nothing new and Ben said that he had not either. Ernie said how about coming over for the day and Ben said no, he wasn’t up to it. Ernie did not insist. When he hung up, Ben felt vaguely that something had been lacking in Ernie’s voice and conversation. He did not care enough about it to try to think what it was.
He restrained himself until eleven and then he called Lorene.
“Listen,” he said, not giving her a chance to do more than say hello, “I want a list of all the places where you and Al lived in Woodley. The neighborhoods where you used to go to shop, or to bars or garages or restaurants, the places where Al worked.”
“You want it right now?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“But, gee, Mr. Forbes, there were a lot of them. Al never was one to stay put, always fighting with the landlord or the neighbors. I just got up and I don’t feel like—”
“I’m sorry, but I’ve got to have it.”
“But why?”
“Because I have to find Al.” He caught himself, softened the tone of his voice, made it casual. “I thought I explained that to you.”
“Well, I don’t see how that’s going to help, a lot of places where we used to live.”
“Please, Lorene. Never mind that. Just give them to me.”
She hesitated, so long that he thought she was going to tell him to go to the devil and hang up. But finally in a sulky ill-natured tone she began to recite addresses. She could not remember all or even most of the numbers, but that did not matter. The streets, the neighborhoods, the places of employment were the important part. He wrote them down as she gave them.
It was quite a long list. Longer than he had hoped.
“You’re sure that’s all?” he asked when she had finished.
“Yes, that’s all.”
“Thank you,” he said, and hung up. He got the street map of Woodley out of the car and brought it in and spread it on the dining table. He got to work.
In about half an hour the phone rang. It was Vernon Kratich.
“I’m glad I caught you in, Mr. Forbes. I want to talk to you. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”
“But,” said Ben, “I’m very busy.”
“This won’t take long,” Kratich said, politely inflexible. “I’ll be right there.”
Irritated and uneasy, Ben put away the map and the list and waited.
Kratich came in something less than fifteen minutes. Ben let him in but did not ask him to sit down. “I really am very busy,” he said. “What was it you wanted?”
Kratich regarded him steadily with a shrewd hard gaze. “I want to know what you’re up to with Lorene.”
Ben tightened up. “I don’t think I understand you.”
“Calling up in the middle of the night. Asking all these crazy questions about Al Guthrie. You’ve got her very upset, Mr. Forbes. I want to know why.”
“I told you why. It’s necessary for me to find Guthrie—”
“I know that’s what you told me. I also know that you’re Lorene’s lawyer, not his, and there isn’t any reason under the sun why you should have to find him. And if you did there are better ways of doing it than calling up at 3 A.M. to find out where he lived a year ago.”
“Mr. Kratich,” said Ben harshly, “will you allow me to handle my own affairs? Please.” He put his hand on the door.
Kratich shook his head. “Don’t rush me, I’m not through yet. Where Lorene is concerned I’m concerned too. In plain English, Mr. Forbes, I want you to stop hounding her.”
“Hounding her,” said Ben bitterly. “That’s fine.” He opened the door. “I think you better go.”
Kratich refused to stir. He took out his wallet and removed a check from it.
“I found out from Lorene how much money she owes you. She has a great deal to learn, Mr. Forbes, and I understand her faults probably better than anyone. But I also understand why she has them. For the first time in her life she was able to buy some of the things she always wanted.” He held the check out to Ben. “This covers it, I think. And any further business you have with Lorene you can refer to my attorney, Jacob Lender. He’ll take care of it.”
Ben stared at the check. Then he stared at Kratich.
“Take your check,” he said, “and get out of here.”
Kratich looked at him, narrow-eyed. He hesitated, then shrugged and put the check back in his wallet. “Very well. I’ll handle this through Mr. Lender.”
He walked to the door and stopped close to Ben, facing him.
“I don’t know what your angle is, Mr. Forbes. Maybe you’re a sick man. Miss Brewer thinks so. But you’re not too sick to understand what I’m saying. If you bother Lorene any more I’ll make trouble for you.”
“Lorene,” said Ben savagely. “Damn Lorene.”
He shoved Kratich bodily through the door and slammed it after him. Hounding Lorene, indeed. The bitch. Answering a few questions was too much for her, but it didn’t matter what happened to Carolyn. And Kratich. The hell with Kratich. If he gets in my way, Ben thought, I’ll tramp him under.
He went back into the dining room and pulled out the map and the list. And then he thought, Good God, what’s happening to me? Lorene doesn’t know anything about Carolyn, and Kratich is only trying—
If he gets in my way toward
what,
will I tramp him under?
Never mind. It isn’t important. The map is the important thing.
He bent over the map, marking, checking, figuring.
The list of Al Guthrie’s past residences and places of employment and recreation was not as extensive as it had looked at first. A number of the addresses overlapped, being on different streets but in the same neighborhood. Even so, Woodley was not a big city and its businesses and shopping centers were not infinite in number. By the time he had eliminated all the areas where Al Guthrie was sure to be known, Ben was left with a section in the northeast, the whole of the west side, and the South Flat.
The northeast section, on the borders of which he lived himself, was Woodley’s current Millionaire’s Row and not a likely area for Guthrie to choose. That still left a lot of territory, a hopeless amount of it if you went by forgotten things like hope.
But if Al Guthrie had taken a house—bought or rented? Rented, surely—he must have rented it from somebody, and that usually meant a real estate agent. If you went around to the agents in the different neighborhoods, you might find one who remembered renting a house within the last three weeks to a man of Al Guthrie’s description.
In some areas Sunday was the big day for real estate because families had the time then to look at houses together. Some of the agencies might be open. And Ben could not afford to waste even a few hours.
He stuffed the map in his pocket and left the house.
The west side was the biggest and the most populous area. He started there. He worked carefully and methodically, beginning at the northern edge of the district and moving south. He found several agencies open, chiefly on the outskirts of town where Woodley was running off again into subdivided farmland, where small pastel structures sat in rows on the raw new-graded ground with little flags fluttering in the November wind. None of the people he questioned remembered anyone of Guthrie’s description. When Ben drove toward home again all he had succeeded in doing was to eliminate half a dozen agencies.
Even that was something.
For the first time in days he felt really hungry. There was a drive-in open on Market Street Extension, a little bit west of Lister Road, and he stopped there. He had just given the girl his order when somebody spoke to him and he turned and saw Ernie MacGrath.
Ernie shook his head at the girl and slid into the seat beside Ben. “I thought this was your car,” he said.
Ben said, “Were you looking for me?”
“I was by your place,” said Ernie carefully.
“There was nothing in the house to eat. I came down here.”
“Sure,” said Ernie.
“What did you want?” Ben asked. “Have you heard something about Carolyn?”
“No. I haven’t heard anything about Carolyn. Listen, Ben. No, listen to me and take plenty of time to think before you answer. Are you sure you’ve told me everything about her disappearance? Are you sure you’re not holding back something because maybe you’re afraid I wouldn’t understand? I’d do my best, Ben.”
Ben looked at the lighted front of the drive-in. A loud-speaker was giving out rock and roll. People inside were eating at a counter, against a background of tile and stainless steel.
“I’ve told you everything,” he said.
“I want you to be sure, Ben.”
“I am. Absolutely sure. Won’t you have some coffee, Ernie? It’s a cold night.”
“No,” said Ernie. “I don’t want any, thanks.” He opened the door and got out. “Good night, Ben.”
He disappeared quickly among the parked cars. Ben did not look after him. His face, in the reflected light from the building, was gaunt and strained, but with a fierce underlying strength.
If Ernie gets in my way, he thought, I’ll tramp him under too.
On Monday morning Ernie MacGrath knocked on Packer’s door and was told to come in. Chief of Detectives Packer was a thin bitter man with an alert eye and an enormous capacity for believing that the human animal is capable of anything. Anything at all.
He listened while Ernie brought him up to date on the disappearance of Carolyn Forbes.
“I’ll admit it sounds a little phony,” he said when Ernie was through. “Chances are the dame ran off with a boy friend and her husband just naturally doesn’t want to say so.”
“I don’t think so,” Ernie said. “I knew Carolyn. She wasn’t that kind.”
Packer grunted.
“I know Ben, too. And damn it, that’s the trouble. He’s lying to me, covering up something. I can see it a mile away.”
“You think he might have had something to do with his wife disappearing?”
“I don’t know,” said Ernie. “I just don’t know. But in the last couple of days he’s paid at least two visits to a redheaded young lady, a client of his, that he got a divorce for. He’s been very generous to this client in the past, and he doesn’t want me to know anything about her. He refuses to leave his house when I ask him to on the grounds that he’s afraid he’ll miss some phone call about his wife or that he just doesn’t feel up to it. But he visits the redhead, and most of yesterday afternoon he was out running around to real estate agencies on the west side.”
“You tailed him,” Packer said.
Ernie admitted that he had. “I staked out on his place when he pushed me off with another evasive answer. It sounded like he was up to something and I wanted to know what.”
Ernie’s face was flushed and angry. “So maybe it was a lousy trick to pull on a friend. But I’ll tell you something. Ben went out of his way to call me in on this and ask my help but he won’t tell me the truth about anything. I braced him last night. I gave him a chance to open up. He wouldn’t. He even pretended that he hadn’t left his house until dinnertime. Now there’s one thing I won’t do even for a friend. I won’t be played for a sucker.”
Packer said mildly, “There isn’t any law against a man going to real estate agents.”
“Of course there isn’t. There’s no law against him seeing a client, either. So why did he lie about it? And what, under the circumstances, does he want with a real estate agent, anyway? He has a house. It’s his wife that’s missing.”
“So what do you want me to do?” asked Packer.
“Make it official. Assign me to investigate Carolyn’s disappearance.”
Packer frowned at him. “I don’t know that that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“You’re emotionally involved. You’re sore at this guy Forbes. That isn’t a good basis for an investigation.”
“I’m not so sore,” said Ernie, “that I wouldn’t a lot rather clear him than hang him. And I can’t do either unless I have official status.”
He waited a moment, and when Packer did not say anything Ernie’s face became perfectly white and composed and he said:
“I do not think that there is anything in my record to indicate that I would be likely either to fabricate or withhold evidence, regardless of who is involved.”
“No,” said Packer, “I don’t think there is. This dame has been missing how long now?”