“That might have been it, Brock. I think I can remember asking him how long we’d be away, what I should pack, and him saying it didn’t matter. That could mean that we were never coming back, and there was really nothing in the apartment worth taking along.”
“You said that he wanted to make one stop before you left town.”
“That’s right.”
“Did you make that stop?”
“I can’t remember. I can’t even remember leaving the driveway. I walked toward the car and walked — right into darkness.”
“The accident happened on the Valley Turnpike, just over the city line, with the car headed west. Nobody saw the accident happen. Most through traffic takes the new highway. A trucker phoned the state police from a gas station a quarter of a mile from the wreck at five minutes of one. Can you remember what time you left the house?”
“Let me see. I’ll have to sort of reconstruct. It was after ten, and I was going to go to bed when Roger arrived.”
“How much after ten?”
“Quarter after, maybe. He wanted me to pack. We argued. Then I packed, and he kept standing over me, smoking and walking around and telling me to speed it up. I think I must have been in the house not more than twenty minutes after he came.”
“Call it twenty to eleven when you left. The wreck must have been seen within fifteen minutes of when it happened. Then it could have happened no earlier than twenty to one. That leaves two hours to account for. Driving time from your apartment to the scene of the wreck would be, at the most, twenty minutes. If he went back into the center of the city and then out to the Valley Turnpike, it would have taken an hour in that freezing rain. That gives us a one-hour stop in the center of town. And you can’t remember what happened?”
“I can’t remember any part of it.”
She had turned in the seat so her back was against the door. When he drew on the cigarette, the red glow touched the alert, fine-drawn features. She was aware of the hard power of concentration that made him, in his own way, as impressive as Crees had been.
“Have you done this sort of work long, Brock?”
“Huh? Oh, several years now. I was a lawyer. Got a little weary of writs and torts and precedents. I had to get a license to do a job for one client. Word got around that I did adequate work. The law business started shrinking, and this started growing. Plenty of it is dull. Sticky-fingered cashiers, and pilferage in manufacturing plants, and easing respectable citizens out of badger traps and the like. That’s why this one is fun. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s hardly fun for you, is it?”
“Not if people want to put me in a cell, or something.”
“We’ll see that they don’t, Beth.”
It gave her a warm confidence to hear the tone he used. He started the car up. “How about a drink in wanton surroundings, Beth? Just for morale.”
“Love it.”
He took her to a south-side place where the bar was very noisy and the adjoining lounge was quiet and dimly lighted. By unspoken agreement the talk was of shoes and sealing wax. Beth found that she was having a very good time indeed. She tried to remember the last time she had been on this sort of a date, if you could call it that. Long before Roger. Roger had chipped away at her morale, destroyed her confidence.
On the way home he brought up the case again. “Beth, this may sound silly to you, but I don’t want you to take any walks alone, or get into any strange cars, or be alone in the house with the doors unlocked. We have an unknown factor in this. An X. X has been making a serious effort to find the money. We can assume a lack of success. Suppose X feels as Crees does, that you know where it is. X might wish to ask you direct, unpleasant questions. X might not believe that a skull fracture can destroy memory of the hours preceding the injury. And I think that stop was made, and I think if you could remember it, we could put our hands on the money.”
“But Roger didn’t stop to pick it up, did he? It would have been in the car, wouldn’t it?”
“He came from Boston with the money that should have been in that envelope and wasn’t. He added it to what he already had. And that stop was made, I’m almost positive, to put that money in a safe place. Perhaps he stopped at the railroad station and mailed it ahead. Or checked it through on a ticket. If you could only recall.”
“I’ve tried and tried and it’s all a blank.”
“But be careful, please.”
“I will, Brock.”
He parked in front of the house, walked up to the porch steps with her, and turned and left when she was safely inside. Harry had gone to bed. Marian was sitting in the front room in a robe, reading.
“Had quite an evening, dear?”
“It was pleasant.”
“Is Mr. Ellison still working for you?”
“Yes, he is.”
“Seems odd that he’d work for free, doesn’t it?”
“It certainly does. Maybe it’s a charity case.”
“Like a doctor going to a clinic one day a month, Sis?”
“Marian, do we have to be hateful to each other? We fought when we were kids. Aren’t we grown up now?”
“You were a strange kid, Beth. You kept things to yourself.”
“I haven’t got the money, Marian.”
“Oh, I know that. Did it sound as though I were implying you have it hidden away? I’m sorry.”
Beth looked into her sister’s unfriendly eyes for a long second, then said good night and went up to her room. After she was in bed she found herself thinking of the way his mouth looked when he laughed, those level eyes when he was serious. She told herself not to be a fool. Circumstances had made her dangerously vulnerable to any person who believed in her. And it seemed that he was the only one.
After he dropped Beth off at her sister’s house, Brock drove aimlessly, busy with confused thoughts and impressions. He knew he would never doubt her again. The feel of her head against his shoulder had performed some strange alchemy within him. Of late years he had begun to think of himself as definitely the bachelor type. His apartment was comfortable. He had sufficient resources within himself so that his own company never bored him. Now, oddly, the solitary life seemed less satisfying.
He thought of the problem that had presented itself and of how best to attack it.
At last he drove to the home of his good friend, huge Tom Blaskell — he of the restless energy, skeptical eye, detective-lieutenant rating. It took some time to root Tom out of bed, appease his surliness, and get him interested in the problem at hand.
Tom thought at length. “I think I know the guy we can use. A mealy little character named Lipe. Four-time loser and very, very cautious. He’s a peddler, but we’ve never nailed him with anything on him. Does it have to be tonight?”
“It has to be.”
“People like you I have to know. Take me three minutes to dress.”
Lipe lived over a hardware store. The staircase smelled of paint and cabbage. Tom hammered on the door, and they stood and waited. The door was opened cautiously. Brock saw a small man, the light behind him.
“Hello, Lipe,” Tom said heavily. “Stand still while I hold a light on you.”
“What’s the beef, Lieutenant?”
“Shut up. He the man, Mr. Ellison?”
Brock looked at the wary, twitching features, at the face the color of suet. “That’s right, Lieutenant. I saw him distinctly when he ran out of my office.”
“What office?” Lipe demanded querulously. “I never, see this guy before! What are you trying to hang on me, Lieutenant?”