As the announcer began reading a commercial, Ben, a thin, slight young man wearing jeans and a denim jacket, put his fork down and rose.
Lounging behind the counter, the waitress gazed at him curiously and asked, “Anything wrong?”
“I just remembered,” Ben replied, walking as casually as he could toward the door, “I left a cigarette burning in my room. I’d better make sure it’s out, or that old hotel will go up in smoke.”
Outside, he took a few steps toward his hotel, veered into an alley and broke into a trot. It was nearly dark, a good break, probably the last he could count on. If he could reach the outskirts of this resort city and get into the pine forest that fanned for miles in all directions, he might evade capture for a day or so at least.
He needed help first. At the next street he stepped into a phone booth. Fighting a growing feeling of panic, he spread his pocket change on the shelf. Did he have enough for a call to Milwaukee? Just barely.
He gave the number he remembered so well, dropped coins into the slot and the phone began ringing. Five, six, seven times. Hell, where was she?
A woman’s deep voice said: “Ex-Con Rehab Center. Ernestine Barr.”
“Miss Barr? It’s Ben Phelan.”
“Wonderful. We were just talking about—”
“Look, I can’t explain now, but I’m in big trouble. The police here think I did something, but I swear I didn’t. You’ve got to come up here. Without you, I’ll do anything to keep them from bringing me in. You understand?”
There was a pause. “I think so,” Ernestine said slowly.
“You’ll read about what happened here in the papers. How soon can you make it?”
“Not until tomorrow afternoon. It’s a long drive, and I have to rent a car and make office arrangements in the morning. But are you sure—”
“Yes,” he told her. “I need you. There’s a county park east of town. Drive past the entrance and turn left at the fire lane. I’ll be in there someplace.”
Ben hung up, slipped out of the booth and began hiking toward the forest.
In Milwaukee, Ernestine Barr gazed angrily at the dead phone. An immense woman, she was over six feet tall and weighed nearly three hundred pounds, with rotund, fiftyish features that told a story of hard work and hard times.
What, she wondered, was she getting into now? Why should she care what happened to Ben Phelan? Hadn’t she done enough, helping him get his parole and then finding him a succession of jobs, culminating with the landscaping company in that north woods resort city?
Something about Ben had touched her, all right. An orphan reared in a succession of foster homes, he’d become an accomplished burglar by the time he was sent to prison at 20. She’d first seen him there, where she’d gone to visit another convict. Seen him, and been impressed by his apparent desire to go straight and earn an honest living so he could teach himself to be a writer.
Of course, she had to admit that what got to her most was his remarkable resemblance to her only child, the boy killed in a faraway war...
She slammed the phone down, then said aloud, “The little rat’s probably lying. But I’ve got to do it.”
Memo To: CHIEF CREAM
From: MAYOR HOKE
1. The murder of Maxine Treadway, the novelist, is attracting a lot of attention. She was not only famous in her own right, but her ex-husband is Warren Mayfield, the big movie producer; and since she had no living relatives, I understand Mayfield is flying here from California to handle the funeral arrangements. This means there will be big-city reporters here and maybe even national television coverage. The way this case is handled will have a big impact on our national image.
2. Also, as you know, there will be an election this November. From all indications it will be close. Bad publicity of any kind would tip the scales against us.
3. Accordingly you’d better clear this up quickly and cleanly, with no bungling of evidence, etc. I want a full report on everything that goes on. Howard, I’ll do what I can to help, but never forget it is you who must carry the ball. For instance, if the culprit turned out to be a little nobody killed resisting arrest, it might be best for all concerned.
Memo To: MAYOR HOKE
From: CHIEF CREAM
1. We think the Treadway woman was killed by an ex-con named Ben Phelan, who recently got a landscaping job here through a Milwaukee do-gooder outfit called Ex-Con Rehab.
2. The Treadway woman had befriended Phelan and was giving him advice on how to be a writer. We think he made advances and killed her when she resisted. Even though she was old enough to be his mother, she was well-preserved and wearing a skimpy sunsuit at the time.
3. The evidence against him is, he is the only person who could have done it, unless the murderer is a fish.
4. The autopsy was performed by Dr. Jurgen Von Wythe, the forensic medicine specialist at the state medical school, and his testimony will stand up in any court.
5. Dr. Von Wythe said the Treadway woman died from blows to the head with a blunt instrument, probably the metal figurine we found beside her body. He also said she died between 9:30 a.m. and 11 a.m. It is impossible to pinpoint the exact time because of many variables, including the temperature in the cottage and the different rates at which rigor mortis sets in, but Dr. Von Wythe said he will stake his professional reputation on the 9:30 to 11 range.
6. Where we have Phelan is, the Treadway woman’s cottage is alone on a little peninsula, surrounded on three sides by water. Ordinarily it is a fairly isolated spot, but yesterday morning, from 8 a.m. on, a road crew was working on the blacktop that runs on the land side. Nobody could have gotten on or off that peninsula without being seen by the road crew.
7. The crew saw Phelan go into the cottage around 9:45 and leave at about 10:30. While this leaves a half-hour in Dr. Von Wythe’s 9:30–11 range when someone else could have killed her, nobody could have reached the cottage by land without being seen. In fact, the road crew was there until nearly 12, when they left because it was about to rain.
8. As for someone approaching or leaving by water, this was virtually impossible. There is a sharp drop-off all around, and nobody could have waded to the site. Also, there was high wind with small-craft warnings, plus a forecast of thunderstorms. No boats or swimmers were observed by the crew or by neighboring property owners. You’d have to be crazy to be in or on water under those circumstances.
9. Phelan disappeared last night after hearing a radio newscast about the crime. I have queried Milwaukee about the possibility of his having contacts there who might help him, but believe me, if I find him first there won’t be no need for any other kind of trial.
TELETYPE TO
CHIEF HOWARD CREAM,
RESORT CITY PD
RE YOUR QUERY ON PHELAN, HIS CLOSEST MILWAUKEE CONTACT IS ERNESTINE BARR, SUPERVISOR OF CASEWORKERS FOR EX–CON REHAB. SHE IS A FORMER LEGAL SECRETARY, SCHOOLTEACHER AND SOCIAL WORKER WHO TOOK A PERSONAL INTEREST IN PHELAN. SHE DROPPED OUT OF SIGHT HERE THIS MORNING AFTER ARRANGING FOR OTHER PERSONNEL TO STAFF THE OFFICE. IT IS POSSIBLE SHE RENTED OR BORROWED A CAR OR TOOK OTHER TRANSPORTATION AND IS ATTEMPTING TO MAKE CONTACT WITH PHELAN IN YOUR AREA. HER DESCRIPTION FOLLOWS...
Ben watched from behind a tree as a late-model sedan bounded down a wooded lane and coughed to a stop. It was nearly four in the afternoon of the following day.
Cautiously, he stepped out into the open. Ernestine was waiting for him, her great bulk hunched behind the wheel and her eyes appraising him with strict distrust.
“I brought food,” she said, nodding to the back seat. “You’d better eat before we start talking business.”
Eagerly, he wolfed a sandwich and drank a can of beer. When he was through, she studied him intently and asked: “All right, why’d you kill that woman?”
“I told you, it wasn’t me.”
“Then what were you doing there?”
He got up, thrust his hands into his pockets and began pacing. “Giving her background for a prison novel.”
Someone, he went on, had told her about him. She’d come to the landscaping firm one day and offered to criticize his stories if he’d tell her about life in prison. It had seemed like a big break, having a famous writer criticize his work, but after a while it dawned on him that she was just using him. She spent hardly any time reading his stories, but most of her time getting him to describe what it was like being a convict.
“But she was attractive, wasn’t she?”
“I suppose so. What are you getting at?”
“The state’s case may be built on the theory that you made advances, and she resisted.”
The notion shocked Ben. “A woman that age? But I wouldn’t—”