The Second Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK® Read online

  Apparently someone in the crowd had thought to call an ambulance and the police, for a few moments later they arrived simultaneously. I stood at the edge of the crowd as the police cleared a path for the City Hospital intern who had come with the ambulance and the intern bent over the injured man.

  The man wasn’t dead, for I could hear the intern asking him questions and the old man answering in a weak voice. I couldn’t hear what they said, but after a few moments the intern rose and spoke in a louder voice to one of the cops.

  “He may have a fractured hip. Can’t tell for sure without X-rays. I don’t think anything else is broken.”

  Then, under the intern’s instructions, two attendants got the old man on a stretcher and put him in the ambulance.

  “I didn’t get the guy’s name,” the cop complained.

  “John Lischer,” the intern said. “You can get his address later. His temporary address for a while will be City Hospital.”

  By now it was twenty after one.

  I re-entered the Happy Hollow for a nightcap, and while I was sipping it I wrote down on an envelope I found in my pocket the three license numbers and the name John Lischer.

  CHAPTER 2

  The private detective business isn’t particularly good in St. Louis. In New York State a private cop can pick up a lot of business gathering divorce evidence, because up there the only ground for divorce is adultery. But in Missouri you can get a divorce for cruelty, desertion, non-support, alcoholism, if your spouse commits a felony, impotency, if your wife is pregnant at marriage, indignities, or if the husband is a vagrant. So why hire a private cop to prove adultery?

  I have to pick up nickels wherever I can find them.

  By noon the next day I’d learned horn the Bureau of Motor Vehicle records that license X-42-209-30 was registered to Mrs. Lawrence Powers at a Lindell address across the street from Forest Park. The address gave me a lift, because there aren’t any merely well-off people in that section. Most of them are millionaires.

  I also checked the licenses of the Dodge and the Ford, learning their owners were respectively a James Talmadge on South Jefferson and a Henry Taft on Skinker Boulevard. Then I called City Hospital and asked about the condition of John Lischer.

  The switchboard operator informed me it was listed as fair.

  I waited another twenty-four hours before calling on Mrs. Lawrence Powers. I picked two p.m. as the best time to arrive.

  The Powers’s home was a huge rose granite affair of at least fourteen rooms, surrounded by fifty-feet of perfect lawn in all four directions. A colored maid came to the door.

  “Mrs. Powers, please,” I said, handing the maid one of my cards reading: Bernard Calhoun, Confidential Investigations.

  She let me into a small foyer, left me standing there while she went off with the card. In a few minutes she came back with a dubious expression on her face.

  “Mrs. Powers is right filled up with appointments this afternoon, Mr. Calhoun. She wants to know have you got some particular business?”

  I said, “Tell her it’s about an auto accident.”

  The colored girl disappeared again, but returned almost immediately.

  “Just follow me please, sir,” she said.

  She led me through a living room about thirty feet long whose furnishings alone probably cost a year of my income, through an equally expensive dining room and onto a large sun-flooded sun porch at the side of the house. Mrs. Lawrence Powers reclined at full length in a canvas deck chair, wearing brief red shorts and a similarly-colored scarf. She wore nothing else, not even shoes, and obviously had been sun bathing when I interrupted her.

  The maid left us alone and I examined Mrs. Powers at the same time she was studying me. She was the same woman I had seen at the wheel of the Buick convertible. She was about thirty, I judged, a couple of years younger than me, and she had a body which started my heart hammering the moment I saw her. Not only was it perfectly contoured, her flesh was a creamy tan so satiny in texture, I had to control an impulse to reach out and lest if it were real. She was beautiful clear from the tip of her delicately-shaped little nose to the tips of her small toes. Even her feet were lovely.

  But her lace didn’t have any more expression than a billiard ball.

  After a moment she calmly rose from her deck chair, turned her back to me and said, “Tie me up, please.” Her voice was pleasantly husky, but there was a curious flatness to it.

  She had folded the scarf into a triangle and now held the two ends behind her for me to tie together. Taking them, I crossed them in the middle of her back. The touch of my knuckles against her bare flesh sent a tremor up my arms and I had an idiotic impulse to lean down and press my mouth against the smooth shoulder immediately in front of me.

  Killing the impulse, I asked, “Tight enough?”

  “It’ll do.”

  I tied a square knot.

  She turned around right where she was, which put her face an inch in front of mine and about six inches below. She was a tall woman, about five feet eight, because I stand six feet two.

  Looking up at me without expression, she said in a toneless voice, “You’re a big man, Mr. Calhoun.”

  For several moments I stood staring down at her, not even thinking. I’m not used to having scantily-clad women push themselves so close to me on first meeting, and I wasn’t sure how to take her. Then I got my brain functioning again and decided she probably wasn’t used to having strange men walk into her house, take one look at her and then grab her and kiss her. Probably, despite her seeming provocation she’d scream for her maid.

  I said, “Two-ten in my bare skin,” backed away and took a deck chair similar to hers. Gracefully Mrs. Powers sank back into her own.

  “You’re a private detective, Mr. Calhoun?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And you wanted to see me about some accident?”

  “The one night before last. Involving a green Buick convertible with license X-42-209-30, a parked Dodge belonging to a man named James Talmadge, a parked Ford belonging to a man named Henry daft, and a pedestrian named John Lischer who’s currently at City Hospital in fair condition. A hit-and-run accident.”

  She was silent for a moment. Then she merely said, “I see.”

  “I happened to be coming out of Happy Hollow just as it took place,” I said. “I was the only person on the street aside from John Lischer, and I’m sure I was the only witness. I got a good look at both the driver of the Buick and the passenger. Good enough to recognize both. You were the driver and Harry Cushman was the passenger.”

  Again she said, “I see.” Then, after studying me without expression, she asked, “What do you want?”

  “Have you reported the accident?”

  When she looked thoughtful, I said, “I can easily check at headquarters. I haven’t yet because I didn’t want to be questioned.”

  “I see. No. I haven’t reported it.”

  “What does your husband do, Mrs. Powers?”

  A fleeting frown marred the smoothness of her brow, but it was gone almost instantly.

  “He’s president of Haver National Bank.”

  “Then you haven’t told your husband about the accident either.”

  I made it a statement instead of a question.

  She regarded me thoughtfully. “Why do you assume that?”

  “Because I don’t think the president of Haver National Bank would let an accident his wife was involved in go unreported for thirty-seven hours. Particularly where no one was seriously hurt, you undoubtedly have liability insurance, and the worst you could expect if you turned yourself in voluntarily would be a fine and temporary suspension of your driver’s license. He’d know the charge against you would be much more serious if the police have to track you down th
an if you turned yourself in on your own even at this late date.”

  Her face remained deadpan. “So?”

  “So I think the reason you didn’t stop, and the reason you don’t intend to report the accident, isn’t because you lost your bead. You don’t impress me as the panicky type. I think the reason you didn’t stop was because you couldn’t afford to let your husband find out you were out with Harry Cushman at one in the morning.”

  When she said nothing at all, I asked, “Have you tried to have your car fixed yet?”

  She shook her head.

  “Where is it?”

  “In the garage out back.”

  “How come your husband hasn’t noticed the damage?”

  “It’s all on the right side,” she said tonelessly. “A smashed front fender, bent bumper and dented door. Nothing was knocked loose. We have a three-car garage and my stall is the far right one. I parked it close to the wall so no one could walk around on that side. The station wagon’s between my car and my husband’s Packard, so there isn’t much likelihood of him noticing the damage.”

  “You say nothing was knocked looser Was your headlight broken?”

  “No. I don’t believe I left any clues at the scene of the crime.”

  I leaned back and put the tips of my fingers together. In a conversational tone I said, “You must have left some green paint on the two cars you hit. By now the police have alerted every repair garage within a fifty-mile radius to watch for a green car. Have you thought of that?”

  “Yes.”

  “How you plan to get around it?”

  “I haven’t yet solved the problem.”

  “Would you be interested in some advice?”

  “What advice?” she asked.

  “Hire a private detective to get you out of your jam,” I said.

  CHAPTER 3

  For a long time she looked at me, her expression completely blank. When she spoke there was the slightest touch of mockery in her voice.

  “I was frightened when Alice said you wanted to see me about an auto accident, Mr. Calhoun. But almost from the moment you walked through the door I knew you hadn’t come to investigate me on behalf of that old man or either of the two car owners. I’m a pretty good judge of character. Out of the four people involved, how did you happen to pick me as your potential client?”

  “I doubt that any of the others could stand my fee.”

  Her face grew thoughtful again. “I see. What kind of service do you offer?”

  “I offer to arrange a quiet payment of damages to the owners of the other two cars, so you don’t have to worry about eventual suits if they ever find out who side-swiped them. With a bonus tossed in to keep them from telling the cops there’d been a contact. And to make the same kind of arrangement with John Lischer. I warn you in advance that part will cost plenty, because on top of whatever I can get him to agree to for damages, he’ll have to be paid to keep it from the cops that there’s been a settlement. I’ll also take care of having your car repaired safely.”

  “Why can’t you do just the last part?” she asked. “If no one ever discovers it was my car, why should we risk contacting the other people?”

  “I’m thinking of your interest,” I said. “Once there’s a settlement, even a secret one, none of the other parties will press charges in the event the police ever catch up with you. Because I’ll get quitclaim agreements from all of them. Then if you do get caught, the probability is the cops won’t press charges on their own. And even if they do, proof that you made cash settlements with all the injured parties will be an extenuating circumstance. I doubt that any judge would give you more than a token fine and suspend your driver’s license for six months. But without settling, you’re in for a jail sentence if you ever get caught.”

  “I see.” Her brow puckered in a slight frown. “And you say you can get my car repaired safely?”

  “Safely,” I assured her.

  “How? I wouldn’t care to have some shady repairman work on it. All he’d have to do is check the license plate like you did, and be all set for a little blackmail.”

  “I said safely. Does your husband ever go out of town?”

  “He flies to New York this coming Monday. A banker’s convention. He’ll be gone a full week.”

  “What time’s he leave?”

  “Six p.m. from the airport.”

  “Fine,” I said. “As soon as it’s dark Monday night, I’ll pick up the car and drive it to Kansas City. I’ll switch plates and take it to a garage where I can get fast service. By the time your husband gets back from New York, your car will be back in the garage as good as new. Meantime, between now and Monday, I’ll arrange settlements with John Lischer and the other two car owners.”

  She thought it over. Finally she said, “What is your fee?”

  “Five thousand dollars,” I said.

  She didn’t even blink. “I see. You’re a rather expensive man, Mr. Calhoun.”

  I shrugged.

  “And if I refuse to engage you?”

  I said, “I have my duty as a citizen.”

  “How would you explain to the police keeping silent thirty-seven hours?”

  “I’d phone and ask why they haven’t acknowledged my letter,” I said blandly. “I was quite drunk that night. Too drunk for it to occur to me I ought to tell the police at the scene I had seen your license number. But the very next morning I wrote them a letter. Letters can get lost in the mail.”

  She nodded slightly. “I guess you’re in a pretty good bargaining position, Mr. Calhoun. But I have one more question. Suppose this John Lischer insists on as much as a five-thousand-dollar settlement? With your fee, that would run the amount up to ten thousand. Where do you suggest I get that much money?”

  I looked at her in surprise. “With this home and with three cars in the garage, I assume you’re not exactly a pauper.”

  “No,” she admitted. “My husband is quite wealthy. And I can have all the money I want for any purpose I want just by asking. The only catch is I have to tell what it’s for. I haven’t a cent of my own except a checking account which currently contains about five hundred dollars. I could get the money by telling my husband what it’s for, but if I did that I wouldn’t need your services. I’m not afraid of the police. The sole reason I’m willing to engage you is to prevent my husband from finding out I wasn’t home in bed at the time of the accident.”

  “Think up some other excuse. A charity donation, for instance.”

  She shook her head. “My husband handles all our charity donations personally. There simply isn’t any excuse I could give him. If I told him I wanted a ten-thousand-dollar launch, he’d tell me to order it and have the company bill him. He wouldn’t give me the money for it. I’ve never in my life asked him for more than a couple of hundred dollars in cash.”

  I said, “Then hit your boyfriend. Harry Cushman’s got a couple of odd million lying around, last I heard, and nothing to spend it on except alimony and nightclubbing.”

  She looked thoughtful. “Yes, I suppose that would work. Harry wouldn’t want publicity any more than I would. Shall I ask him for a check?”

  “Cash,” I said.

  “I’ll phone him as soon as you leave. Suppose you come back about this same time tomorrow?”

  “Fine,” I said. It sounded like a dismissal, so I got to my feet.

  She gave me an impersonal nod of good-by. She was leaning forward and reaching behind her back to untie my square knot when I walked out of the room.

  CHAPTER 4

  The next day was Thursday. At noon I phoned City Hospital and learned John Lischer’s condition was charted as unchanged. Two hours later the colored maid Alice again let me into the foyer of the Powers home.

  This time, instead of m
aking me wait while she checked with her mistress, she merely said, “Mrs. Powers is expecting you, sir,” walked off and let me find my own way to the sun porch.

  Thick carpeting in the big living room and dining room muffled my footsteps so that Mrs. Powers couldn’t hear me coming. I stopped at the open door of the sun porch.

  Perhaps Mrs. Powers was expecting me, but apparently she had also expected the maid at least to announce my arrival, because she wasn’t exactly dressed for company. As yesterday, she was stretched out in one of the deck chairs with sun flooding her body, tier eyes were closed, though she didn’t seem to be asleep, and she wore nothing but a bra and a pair of yellow shorts as brief as the red ones she had worn the previous day.

  A man can stand only so much temptation. When she looked up at me with no expression whatever on her face, I dropped a hand on each of her smooth shoulders, pulled her against my chest and kissed her.

  She made no resistance, but she made no response either. She just stood there, her lips soft but unmoving, and her eyes wide open. After a moment I pushed her away.

  “Was your mother frightened by an ice cube?” I growled at her.

  “Maybe you’re just not the man to melt the ice, Mr. Calhoun.”

  Turning, she padded across the enclosed porch on bare feet to a small table. A brightly-colored straw bag lay on the table, and she removed a banded sheaf of currency from it.

  “Your fee,” she said, returning and handing me the money. “One hundred fifties.”

  “How about the settlement?”

  “We don’t know what that’s going to amount to, do we?” she said. “Harry wants to see the agreements releasing me from further claims in writing before he pays any more money. When you bring me those, I’ll see that you get whatever money the agreements call for.”

  “Harry is smarter than I thought he was,” I remarked.