“Where to?” the cabbie asked.
“The airport,” Ira said, his voice quivering with emotion. “And please hurry. I’ve got to catch a 2:10 plane.”
“We’ll never make it,” the cabbie said as he pushed his flag down.
“Well, you can try,” Ira pleaded. “It’s a matter of life and death.”
Ira’s disheveled, frantic appearance must have convinced the cabbie that it was because he really tried. At times the cab’s speedometer hit 45 miles an hour and they ran through two stop signs on Thirty-fourth Avenue.
It was exactly 2:10 A.M. when the cab screeched to a stop in front of the terminal building at Wold-Chamberlain Field. “Here,” Ira said, throwing a ten dollar bill at the cabbie, “keep the change.” He ran into the terminal and across the drab waiting room to the ticket counter. “Am I too late for Flight 412?” he asked the ticket agent, who was posting arrival times on the flight schedule board.
“It’s just pulling away from the ramp now,” the agent said, turning around.
“Well, stop it,” Ira shouted.
“Can’t,” the agent said. “Once they leave the ramp we can’t call them back.”
Ira felt faint. “When’s the next flight to Milwaukee?”
“Seven A.M.,” the agent answered.
“But that’s too late,” Ira protested, “much too late.”
“Sorry, sir,” the agent said, a little irritated. “It’s the best I can do.”
Ira walked away from the ticket counter in a daze and collapsed in a heap on one of the hard, wooden waiting room seats. It was at least five minutes before his mind began to function again. Then he tried to work out the details of another plan. But the complete collapse of his masterpiece had so shattered his faith in details that he found it impossible to concentrate.
Strange as it may seem, Ira wasn’t afraid of going to jail. That would be a pleasure compared to living with Bertha for the rest of his life. The thing that bothered him most was that there was no hope of escaping her now, no hope at all.
But he still had to try to keep Bertha from finding out about the horrible thing he had tried to do to her. His failure, and the fact that he would resort to such a terrible thing, would be just one more thing for her to lord over Emily. No, if only for Emily’s sake, he had to try to cover up his tracks. But how? He couldn’t reboard the train in Milwaukee, the on-time-departure of Flight 412 had seen to that. What about Chicago? If there was a flight to Chicago maybe he could get back on the train there and somehow save his alibi.
Ira got up and went back to the ticket counter.
“When’s the next flight to Chicago?” he asked.
“Three-thirty A.M.,” said the agent.
“And what time does it arrive?” Ira asked.
“Four fifty-five,” the agent answered.
“I’d like to buy a ticket,” Ira said with renewed hope.
While Ira waited for the flight to leave, he called an all-night garage and asked them to pick up the car. He couldn’t afford to have the police spot it as an abandoned car. They might call Emily and ask her about it.
Ira had always been fearful of flying, but as he boarded the plane to Chicago he wasn’t the least bit afraid. If it crashed, everything would be solved.
But the flight to Chicago was uneventful. The steady drone of the engines, and Ira’s mental and physical exhaustion, combined to put him to sleep right after takeoff. And he didn’t wake up until the plane had taxied to a stop in front of the terminal at Midway Airport.
Ira was waiting at Track 18 when the Minneapolis train pulled into Union Station at 8 A.M. He told the man at the gate that his invalid mother was arriving and he was allowed to go down to the platform. He boarded the front car of the train and walked through the diner to his car. He took his overnight bag and briefcase out of his compartment and walked to the end of the car.
“You sure look like you had a bad night, Mistah Hovel,” the porter said as he helped him off.
“Terrible,” Ira said.
When Ira reached his client’s Chicago office, he went right to the Accounting Department. He knew there would be a message from Emily waiting for him there and he steeled himself against making any kind of a reaction that would give himself away. Mr. Ashley, the head accountant, met him at the door of the department, looking very grave.
“Good morning, Ashley,” Ira said in his usual brisk manner. “Let’s get right at the books, shall we?”
“Better call your wife first,” Ashley said. “She’s been trying to get you ever since we opened.”
“Oh? I wonder why,” Ira said. “I do hope nothing has gone wrong at home.”
“Use the phone in my office,” Ashley said. “It’ll be more private.”
“Why thank you, Ashley,” Ira said. He placed a collect call to Emily. It took about thirty seconds to complete.
“Ira?” Emily asked.
“Yes, dear,” Ira said. “Anything wrong?”
“Oh, Ira, something terrible happened last night—”
“Terrible?”
“A burglar broke into Mother’s room — scared her half to death. She’s leaving!”
“Leaving?”
“Going to Aunt Kate’s in California—”
“But I don’t understand,” Ira interrupted.
“She’s afraid of being murdered. Says she won’t stay in this house another night. She’s already made her reservations. Isn’t it awful?”
Ira sighed. “Well, I think we’ll be able to manage somehow.”
“I know, Ira,” Emily said. “But Mother was frightened half to death. It’s a perfect crime—”
“Yes,” Ira said, “a perfect crime.”
The Vapor Clue
by James Holding
One might think the title of this story a contradiction in terms, since vapor is essentially an intangible, evanescent thing, while a clue, in order to fulfill its function, is essentially tangible.
If you want to go to Washingtonville, Pennsylvania, you go east from Pittsburgh on Route 78 for about twenty miles toward the Riverton entrance to the Pennsylvania Turnpike. As you approach Washingtonville, you dip down past a big new shopping center and run along the bottom of a shallow valley past seven gas stations, three roadside markets, two branch banks, a yard full of trailer rigs waiting for assignment, and several fairly clean cafes that cater largely to truck drivers.
Just before you lift out of this shallow valley over the western ridge, you can quickly look to your left and see the huddle of houses just off the highway that is Washingtonville itself. And because the accident happened on Highway 78 within shouting distance, almost, of Washingtonville City Hall, it was the Washingtonville Police who had jurisdiction and Lieutenant Randall who was largely responsible for handling the case. Randall would never have caught up with the killer without the help of a waitress named Sarah Benson.
At 5:30 A.M. on December 16th, a 1954 Plymouth sedan, following Route 78 east, labored heavily up the slope of the ridge that formed the western boundary of Washingtonville’s little valley. The car had engine trouble; the motor was running very unevenly and the car jerked and hesitated in its progress. The road had been plowed clean of yesterday’s 5-inch snowfall, but piles of snow edged the highway and the still-dark morning was bitter cold.
Inside the sedan, Hub Grant said to his wife, “If I can coax her up this hill and over, maybe we can find a gas station or garage open on the other side. We’ve sure got to get something done to this baby before we can make Connecticut in it.”
His wife nodded anxiously. “It’s so early, Hub. I’m afraid nothing will be open yet. We should have stopped at one of those motels back there.”