The Investigations of Avram Davidson (6 page)

The next day Mrs. Benner went on television and appealed to her daughter to return home, or—if for any reason she was unwilling to do this—at least to communicate with her family. For the afternoon and evening news she was joined by Bob Mantin. He begged Sally's forgiveness if he had offended her in any way. He asked only that she notify them if she was all right. The minister of the Benners' church issued a statement.

But no one heard a word from her. The usual flow of evil communications began, by mail and phone. Sally's body was in an alley on the other side of town. Sally was being held for ransom. A woman had seen her from the window of a bus in another state; she was coming out of a bar.

“Speaking of bars,” suggested Bonn, “let's circulate in a few of them. For all I know the girl is what they say she is, but maybe she isn't. If there's any dirt, you hear it over the bar.” Steinberg nodded.

Perhaps it is because Americans have guilt feelings about drinking during daylight hours that almost all bars are dark and dim. When the first place fell into focus after the bright street, the detective partners observed that there was a moderate gathering in the bar-cavern. An elderly woman with wild white hair and a cracked-enamel face was crooning into her beer, “I don't care, you go ahead 'n laugh if you wahnoo, but I say, in my opinion, all these young girls disappearing: it's the white slave trade. What I think.”

“Naa,” said a sharp-looking young man a few stools down. “That's all a thinga the past. No mystery in
my
opinion. Girl changed her mind. Woman's privulidge, is'n it, Mabel? And she's afraida go home.”

The man to his right met this suggestion with such an insufferable smirk that the sharp-looking fellow was nettled. “All right, Oscar,” he said, “whadda
you
think?”

“I think they oughta drag the river,” said Oscar. Bonn looked up. He saw out of the corner of his eye that his partner had caught it, too.

“Weren't you over by the Benners' place yesterday?” Steinberg asked Oscar.

Oscar said, “Yeah, he'd went over to a take a look. But the cops kept moving everybody on.”

“
You
saw that, did'n ya? Howdaya like that? ‘Move along, keep moving,'” he mimicked. “No wonder they ain't found nothing out yet. Waste all their time like that.”

Bonn said, “Yeah, well, I heard you make the observation at that time that they ought to drag the river.”

“And I
still
say it.”

Mabel ordered another beer. The sharp-looking young man took a look at Bonn, observed Steinberg, affected a startled glance at the clock, and was suddenly gone. Steinberg moved into his place. “Well, now, Oscar, that's a long, long river,” he said. “Where do you think they ought to start dragging? Because unless they pick the right spot, they could spend a year and not find anything. Where would you imagine is the best place?”

Oscar studied his face in the mirror. Bonn moved in from the other side. “From the Point, maybe?” Bonn suggested. Oscar snorted. Bonn, seemingly offended, said, “What's the matter with the Point?”

Steinberg said, “Well, where then? Come on, Oscar. I'm really interested.”

“You guys reporters or sumpthing?”

Bonn nodded. Oscar brightened, turned to face him.

“No kidding?” he exclaimed. “You writing up this story?”

“I've got my car outside,” Bonn said. “Why don't we take a ride down by the river?” Oscar thought that was a fine idea. He and Bonn went out.

Steinberg said to the bartender, “And who might that guy be?”

The bartender shrugged. “One of old man Portlin's nephews. Old lady died maybe a month back, Portlin don't like to live alone so he invites Oscar to move in with him. What does Oscar do? Well, matter of fact, I don't b'lieve he does
anything.
Except play cards, drink beer, and watch the TV. And shoot off his big mouth, like for instance just now.”

*   *   *

T
HERE WERE PARKS
along the river, wastes, factories, and docks, some of them abandoned. Bonn and Oscar Portlin walked along one of the docks. “Look how dangerous it is,” said Oscar. “Girl could of come down for a walk, tripped, and—zing!—in she goes. See what I mean? Maybe hit her head going over. Then she wouldn't come up or yell for help or nothing. You hadda lotta experience with incidents like that. Whadda
you
think?”

It was a pleasant day, the breeze whipping the water lightly. Sea gulls swooped and skimmed low, creeing to one another. Out in the river a tug passed slowly by with a string of barges. “I think,” said Bonn, after a pause, “that it sounds very possible. I think we ought to tell the police.” Oscar's reply to this was a short, blunt syllable. “Don't like the police much, huh?” Oscar's lip went
psshh!
“They give you a hard time? A bum rap, maybe?”

That did it. “Boy, you can say that again!” Oscar burst out. His rather nondescript face darkened.

Sympathetically, Bonn asked what the rap was. “Off the record, of course.”

Oscar smirked. “Off the record? Statchatory Rape. It was a bum rap. She
said
she was eighteen. How was
I
supposed to know? She was a tramp, anyway. Everybody knew that.”

Bonn said, gee, that was too bad. But he still thought they ought to see the cops.

When Oscar still demurred, Bonn took out his badge. Then—in silence—they went back to his car.

*   *   *

“S
HE WAS ALWAYS
such a
good
baby,” said Mrs. Benner in a tear-choked voice to a lady reporter. “See, this picture here. When she was only eight months old…” She showed the reporter photos and locks of hair and letters and school books—her daughter's life from infancy to womanhood.

What did Sally like to read when she was young? the lady reporter asked.

“Poetry,” said Mrs. Benner. “She always liked high-class poetry.” She blew her nose. “This little book here, now, she bought this with her own money.” Mrs. Benner belonged to a class and generation which did not buy books; that fact alone would have served to grace the small volume even if it were not hallowed by having belonged to her missing daughter. “It's the poems of John Keats. She always used to say to me, ‘Oh, Mama, they're so beautiful!' She particularly liked this one—I know the name the minute I see it—Oh. Here. This one.” She moistened her lips and prepared to read, following the line with her finger.

“Thou still unravished bride of quietness…”

Her voice was measured and proud. As the meaning of what she had just read penetrated her awareness, she looked up at the reporter, then over at her daughter's picture on the piano. Then she raised her hands, and screamed, and dropped her face into her hands and cried again and again in her grief and fear and anguish.

*   *   *

“A
LL RIGHT
,”
SAID
Steinberg, “so it was a bum rap, she was a tramp, she said she was eighteen. So let's forget that one. What else you been sent up on? We'll find out soon enough.”

Oscar mumbled that he was never convicted of anything else.

“So you weren't convicted. What were you tried for, besides this one? Nothing? Sure? Okay. Ever charged with anything else? What were you charged with?”

The man looked around the small cubicle. He tried to smirk again, but failed. “Ah, that was a bum rap, too. Wouldn't even press charges.”

“What was it?”

Oscar swallowed, took another long look around. Then, not meeting anyone's eyes, he said loudly, “Rape. But she did'n' even press the charge!”

Bonn said, “What makes you so sure the girl's in the river? Did you put her there?”

“No. Naa. I never even seen her.”

“You kept saying that the police ought to drag the river,” Steinberg hammered away. “Why? You put her in the river, didn't you? She resisted you and you killed her. Isn't that what happened?”

“Or maybe,” Bonn suggested persuasively, “it was an accident? You didn't mean to kill her? So maybe you made a pass—what the hell, it could happen to anybody!—only she was a dumb kid, she got scared.…”

Oscar nodded slowly, his lips beginning to settle into their habitual smirk.

Bonn went on, “She started to run, tripped on that rotten old dock, fell, and hit her head. Maybe it was like that, huh? It could've happened to anybody. Why don't you tell us, kid? Then we can wrap this up, you cop a plea, get a few months which you can do them standing on your head! Give us the details, that's all we want. We find the body, settle the whole matter. Let's have the story. The stenographer takes it down, we order in some lunch—you hungry, huh?—we get some steak and some French fries—”

The smirk was in full reign now. Oscar shook his head, slowly, admiringly. “I got to hand it to you,” he said. “Boy, you must have eyes in the back of your head. Yeah, that's just how it happened. She trips and falls and hits her head. I feel for the pulse—there's no pulse. The dame's dead. So, I mean, I panicked. I figured, who'd believe me? With my record. You know what I mean? So I threw her in the river.” He looked up at the two detectives.

Bonn asked, very softly, “Where did you throw her in? Right where you showed us?” Oscar nodded. Bonn's sigh was echoed by Steinberg. For a minute no one spoke. Then Bonn said, “Well, I better go tell them so they can start dragging. And then I guess the family has to be told. Okay, Steinberg, you get the truth out of this monkey—”

“But I told you the truth,” Oscar protested. He was bewildered; the tone of the last remark had frightened him. “That's just how it happened, like you said. ‘Accident.'”

His face bleak, the officer said, “That story wouldn't convince my six-year-old daughter, and she still believes in Santa Claus. You know what I think of when I meet characters like you? Suppose when
she
grows up—” Abruptly he turned and said, “Take care of him, Steinberg,” and walked out.

*   *   *

B
ONN DROVE HIS
car three times around the block where the Benners lived. Finally he parked and started up the steps. “They ought to have the police chaplains take care of things like this,” he muttered. His finger hesitated on the bell. A noise, a babble of voices, that he had unconsciously assumed was a neighbor's television, was coming from the Benner house.

He tried the door. It was open. He walked in.

The apartment was crowded, everyone shouting and crying and laughing.
Hysteria!
he thought.
It's finally hit them!
Mrs. Benner and a young woman were sobbing and clutching each other, rocking back and forth. Bonn turned to old Joe Benner, who was crying, tears running down his face. “Mr. Benner,” he began.

“Oh Lord, the police!” someone said. “We didn't tell the police!”

“Tell us
what?
” Bonn demanded. And then they all started yelling at once and Mrs. Benner released the young woman, who turned around to face him; and he saw that it was her daughter Sally.

Bonn sat down abruptly.

“Oh, I feel so ashamed,” Sally said, starting to cry again.

Bob Mantin hugged her and sniffled. “Never mind, honey; never mind, honey.”

“Why?” asked the detective. “Why did you do it, Miss Benner? Where were you?”

“Oh, it was such a silly thing—I'm so ashamed. It was just this awful impulse. It started in the drug store when Mr. Felber said, ‘Well, today's the big day,' and I said, ‘I'm so happy, Mr. Felber.' And then I got outside and it was like I heard another person saying, ‘Are you
really
happy? Do you
really
love him?' And I said to myself, ‘Gee, I don't know! I don't really know. Maybe I don't love him. Maybe I was only desperate because here I am thirty years old and no one else ever asked me to marry him.' And I thought, ‘Oh, wouldn't it be terrible to get married if I wasn't sure?' I was like in a daze. So I got on the bus and rode to the station and I took this train to Chicago. And when I got there, I read in the papers about how nobody knew what had happened to me, so I just took the train back. Oh, I feel so ashamed! I'm sorry if I caused you any trouble.”

The detective stared at her. She didn't look very bright, but even so—“You just took the train back,” he repeated. “You didn't even bother about a phone call or a telegram! No, Sis, you didn't give us any trouble. You only had every police officer on the force working overtime for four days, that's all! You only—”

But he was interrupted. A fat woman in eyeglasses (Aunt Emma) said, “Well, aren't you the brave one, yelling at this poor little girl! I s'pose you're disappointed she isn't dead, huh?”

Bonn stared at her. “Well, excuse me, lady,” he said. “But that's just exactly what I did think, and you know why? Because some psycho down at the jail just confessed killing her and dumping her body in the river!” And Bonn snatched the telephone and dialed headquarters. “Steinberg? Listen, this is all for nothing. Call off dragging the river—”

His partner said, “What do you mean, call it off? Where are you? At the Benners? Better bring one of them down to identify the body.”

Bonn said, “
What
body?”

Steinberg said impatiently, “The
girl's
body. They found it first thing. She was right where he dumped her in, poor kid. Her dress was snagged on a spike, that's why the body didn't come up. Bring one of them down to identify her. Better make it the brother-in-law.”

Bonn hung up, feeling that he needed time to set Steinberg straight. All he could do was look at Sally Benner and tell himself that her disappearance had not been “all for nothing” after all.