Bannion drove out to the graveyard in the morning, and spent the day tramping over the frozen, cinder-covered ground, and asking about a mechanic named Slim. He talked to laborers cutting up wrecks with torches, and to yard owners, who were usually in their shacks beside a coal stove, but none of them had any specific information. Some of them had heard about a man named Slim. “Maybe at some other yard,” they said.
It was at practically the last yard that he got a lead. The shack had a sign above it, reading, “Smitty’s. Best Prices!”, and inside was a young man poring over a list of pencilled figures. He was big and solidly built, a blond with thick hair, a square, unshaved face, and very light, sharp eyes.
“Yeah, I knew a guy named Slim,” he said, glancing up at Bannion. “What about him?”
“Do you know where I might get in touch with him?”
“You a cop?”
“No.”
“Private cop? Insurance investigator?”
“No, just a citizen,” Bannion said. “But I want to find this fellow Slim.”
“Well, I got no reason to cover for him, but I ain’t got time to answer a lot of questions,” the blond said. “Don’t get me wrong. You a cop, or something like that, it’s one thing. But just private business I got no time for, understand.”
“I’ll try to make it short,” Bannion said.
“I told you how I stand,” the man said, getting up and facing Bannion. “I’m no information clerk, or something.”
Bannion didn’t want trouble; he couldn’t afford it. But he wanted answers. “You don’t seem very friendly,” he said, putting his hands casually into his pockets. The lapels of his coat spread and the butt of his gun protruded a half inch or so, catching a gleam of light from the glow of the stove. The blonde’s eyes flicked to it and away quickly.
“Funny, you look friendly,” Bannion said.
“Well, I’m not trying to be a hard guy,” the blond said.
“No, of course not. You were just busy when I came in, a little short on time.”
“Yeah,” the blond said, and wet his lips.
“Well, you aren’t so busy now,” Bannion said. “Things have slacked off, it seems. When did Slim leave here?”
“About a week ago. Eight days it was, I think.”
“What did he do here?”
“Worked around. You know. Tore the wrecks down, things like that.”
“Was that all?”
“That’s all he did for me. He did a job for some other guy though just before he left.”
“What kind of a job was it?”
The blond young man looked into Bannion’s eyes and something there brought a funny dryness to his throat. “I don’t know. Mister,” he said. “Honest. He took a day off to do it, that’s all I know.”
“Then he left here, eh?”
“That’s right, he left.”
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know. He told me once his home town was Chester, but I don’t know if he went there or not.”
“He left eight days ago,” Bannion said, in a low voice. The time checked, he thought, feeling the anger beating in his temples with a sense of bitter pleasure.
“Who was the man he got this job from?” he said.
“I can’t help you much there.”
“Try,” Bannion said.
The blond wet his lips. He was having a little trouble talking. “Well, you see, he parked out on the avenue and honked. Slim went out and talked to him. I guess they knew each other. The man in the car was well-dressed, I could see that much, and he looked, well, kind of tough.”
“What kind of a car was it?”
“A Buick. A new one. A blue convertible.”
“Thanks very much,” Bannion said.
“Don’t mention it. Glad to help.”
Bannion walked out to Burke’s car, and the big blond young man sat down and spent three matches lighting a cigarette. He got up and put a shovelful of coal on the glowing, pot-bellied stove. The place was cold all of a sudden, he was thinking, cold as a damn grave.
Bannion headed for Chester. He drove past the airport and out the Industrial Highway, past the mammoth Baldwin locomotive works, and the sprawling properties of Sun Oil and Shipping, keeping the speedometer needle brushing seventy. This might be the lead he was thinking, the loose end that was left around after even the neatest jobs. Once he got his hands on it and began pulling, the rest of it would come out into the light.
It was dark when he pulled up before police headquarters in Chester. The building was two-storied, of red brick blackened by generations of industrial smoke and soot. Bannion had been here before on cases, so he took the side entrance that led directly to the detective bureau on the second floor. There were three men in the single, high-ceilinged room, big, red-faced men who looked the part of police officers in a tough, dirty town, built on oil, shipping and steel. Bannion knew one of the men, a detective named Sulkowski. They shook hands while the other two men looked at Bannion with interest. Sulkowski said awkwardly that it was tough, damn tough about his wife. They’d read about it, and knew he had resigned from the department.
“I don’t blame you,” Sulkowski said. “I’d go after the sonofabitch on my own, too. I wouldn’t let nobody rob me of the fun of getting the guy.”
“Well, that’s why I’m here,” Bannion said. “Do you know a man from this area who’s called Slim? He’s an automobile mechanic when he’s going straight, and a safe man when he’s not.”
“Slim Lowry,” Sulkowski said. There was an odd silence in the room. Bannion caught the look that passed between the other two detectives.
“What’s the matter?” he said.
“Slim was a pet of ours,” Sulkowski said. “Spent more time in jail than out.” He looked unhappily at Bannion. “The thing is, Slim was a lunger, and he died day before yesterday. Damn, I’m sorry. Was it a good lead?”
“It could have been pretty good,” Bannion said. “Was there anything funny about his death?”
“No, he died natural. Only funny thing was that he had damn near five hundred bucks on him, and was living with some shines over on Second Street. How would you figure that?”
“Did he die there?”
“No, in the hospital. The folks he was living with gave the boys downstairs a ring night before last, and they sent over the wagon. He died a couple of hours after they checked him into Chester General.”
“What was the address of the people he was living with?”
“You want to see ’em, eh? I’ll get it for you, don’t worry.” He turned to one of the detectives. “Call downstairs and get that address, Mike. Bannion, you want one of us to go along with you?”
“No, thanks. I can find the way.”
“Damn, I hope you get what you want.”
When the address came up, Bannion made a note of it, shook hands all around and went down to his car. He drove through the business section of the city to the slums, into streets of two-storied, yellow-brick tenements without central heating or interior plumbing. Colored children ran along the sidewalks, shouting shrilly at each other through the darkness. Bannion found the address he wanted, and knocked on the door. He heard footsteps, and then a latch clicked and a tall, strongly-built woman with a shawl over her shoulders was staring at him with narrow, unfriendly eyes.
“I’d like to talk to you a moment,” Bannion said, removing his hat.
“What about?”
“A man named Slim Lowry. I understand he lived here with you.”