The offices of Affiliated Distribution Systems, and its various subsidiaries, were housed in an old, monolithic red-brick warehouse structure on the near south side of the city, a few blocks from the waterfront. By the time he negotiated the downtown noon-time traffic to get there, it was almost twelve-fifteen. He found a parking space in a side street a block and a half away and walked back to the main entrance to the building.
On the right, as he entered the bare, starkly lit lobby, was a small glass-paneled window similar to the one in the waiting room of Central States Motor Freight; only there was no smiling face behind this one. Bending down, he could see into a large office area containing about a dozen wooden desks, various kinds of office machines, a long bank of gray metal filing cabinets along the far wall, and an enormous old iron safe in the rear left-hand corner. A wide hallway next to the safe apparently led to the executive offices.
There were only three people in the office, each seated at a separate desk, eating and reading. A gaunt old man with thick glasses was studying a racing form, noisily and fruitlessly chewing on a raw carrot. A very stout, brassy haired woman was reading a true confession type magazine with a shocking cover, and rhythmically popping chocolates into her over-painted mouth from a box concealed in the top drawer of her desk. An extremely thin young woman with lank, blond hair sat closest, in profile to the window, bent over a very thick book that looked almost too heavy for her to lift. He tapped lightly on the glass and she jumped up, slamming the book shut and quickly sliding it into a desk drawer with the same motion. Before it disappeared from sight, he thought he recognized it as some kind of medical textbook. Her look of guilty embarrassment as she whirled to face him caused him to wonder at what had been absorbing her interest so intensely. The other two were equally absorbed, and did not even look in his direction.
“I’m sorry, Miss. I didn’t mean to startle you. But, do you know if Mr. Closter has gone to lunch yet?”
“Who? Oh! Mr. Closter?” She looked pleadingly in the direction of the other woman and then the old man, but it was evident she was not going to get any help from either of them. She turned back, shrugging knobby shoulders beneath a sheer, magenta blouse that only emphasized her pasty complexion. “I don’t know. I suppose so.”
He introduced himself and briefly explained the purpose of his visit. The girl remained standing rigidly by her desk with a fixed, wide-eyed stare until he finished. She made him feel as if he had just told her a very obscene joke and she had missed the punch line.
“Can you tell me where Mr. Closter’s office is located?”
She nodded rapidly, making vague motions with her hand. “In the back-through the warehouse-by the shipping dock.”
He looked in the direction she had indicated and saw a set of tall, heavy-looking doors atthe rear of the hallway. “Through there?’ he asked.
“Yes. All the way back.”
Her thin frame seemed to quiver like a bowstring after the arrow had been released. He did not understand her terror or want to prolong it, but one more question seemed necessary.
“Do you think it would be all right if I went back there and waited for him?”
She gazed wildly around the office again, but her co-workers were still oblivious to her dilemma. “Yes, Yes. It’s all right. Go ahead.”
He felt sure she would have given him permission for anything that would have insured his rapid and permanent disappearance. He thanked her, and straightening up, turned toward the door leading to the warehouse. On the other side, he found himself in a huge cavernous storage area. A long wide aisle stretched out ahead of him lined on both sides with metal racks stacked to the dim reaches of the high ceiling. The racks were crowded with a wide assortment of merchandise in boxes, pails, drums, bags and other types of containers, large and small. As he walked the length of the building, he passed half-a-dozen cross aisles and could see other passages on either side paralleling the one he was in. At the end of the aisle, he came out into a large open area stretching the full width of the building. About a dozen tractor-trailer units were backed up to the shipping platform in various stages of loading. Beyond the open outer doors, three other tandems were parked waiting their turn. To the right, at the far end of the platform, there was a glass-enclosed office and, beyond it, a string of box cars apparently on a track that ran along the wall inside the building.
There was no activity on the dock or the sound of any coming from anywhere in the warehouse. A group of three men, who appeared to be drivers, were seated on a small stack of empty wooden pallets near the office. They glanced at him curiously but said nothing as he approached the office. He could see the back of the head and shoulders of a dark-haired young man seated at a desk just inside and to the left of the entrance. As he opened the door, the young man looked up, quickly closed a copy of ‘Playboy’, and slid it into the center drawer of his desk. He was beginning to feel like an interloper in the public library.
He went through the formality of introducing himself again and explaining his interest in the accident. As he finished, the young man stood up and extended his hand across the desk, smiling pleasantly.
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Closter is out to lunch right now. My name is Larry Tompkins. I’m the Assistant Traffic Manager. Maybe I can help you?”
His open friendliness was in marked contrast to the terrified girl in the front office. Thinking that it might help to establish a rapport between them, he told him of her strange reaction to his questions.
Tompkins laughed. “That’s Vera Polanski. She’s always reading those sex manuals (so that’s what it was) but I don’t see what good it will ever do her. She won’t let anything in pants come within ten feet of her. Not that there’s many would want to,” he added quickly.
Tompkins appeared to be about twenty-two or three. His hair was long, covering his ears, but neatly combed. He was slightly overweight and his features were too soft to be considered handsome. Miss Polanski was definitely not his type.
“When did you first learn about the accident?” he asked him, sitting down in a chair nextto his desk.
Tompkins resumed his seat. “Not until this morning when I got to the office. Mr. Closter told me about it.”
“Did he say when he had heard about it?”
The question seemed to puzzle him but he replied without hesitation, “On the news last night.”
So Closter had not told him either about being a witness to the accident.
“Did Mr. Closter seem very upset about it?”
“Oh, yes sir. Very. Especially because of the driver being killed.”
“I suppose he was upset about the missing freight, too?”
“Well-yes, of course. But, we didn’t find out about that until Mr. Wozniak called later.”
“It certainly seems to throw a different light on the accident.”
“You think there’s a connection?”
“Don’t you?”
“I don’t know. Mr. Closter seemed to think it was just a coincidence.” It was apparent he did not agree with his boss.
“What does he think happened to the missing freight?”
He looked apologetic. “He says maybe it was misloaded and we’ll get a ‘dead over’ report from one of our other warehouses in a day or two.”
There was a remote possibility that Closter’s suggestion of the fifty boxes of sweaters and six boxes of caviar being shipped to another city by mistake, and being reported on hand without proper billing, could be true-except for his own suspicious action in continuing to conceal his part in the fatal accident. It left no doubt of the connection between the two facts-and it was obvious that young Tompkins was convinced of it, too. But, there was no point in pressing him into an open refutation of his boss’ theory. It seemed best to change the direction of their conversation.
“Well, just in case he’s wrong, can you tell me the invoice value of the missing sweaters and caviar?”
He searched through some papers in a letter tray on his desk, extracted one and then another, made a couple of quick computations and leaned back in his chair. “There were a dozen sweaters in each box at a hundred dollars a dozen, five thousand dollars total. The caviar had four dozen jars to a box at two hundred forty dollars a box.”
He had taken out his notebook to copy down the figures. When he looked up, Tompkins was eyeing it somewhat apprehensively. He replaced it in his pocket. He had frequently noticed that the majority of people become very reticent if they are aware their words are being written down, regardless of how innocuous they might be.
“What time did the trailer leave her yesterday, Mr. Tompkins?”
He seemed visibly flattered by the formal means of address. He leaned back again and thoughtfully consulted another document from his letter tray before answering.
“It’s stamped on the bill of lading. One-eighteen peeyem.”
“Were you here at that time?”
“No. I was out to lunch.” “Was Mr. Closter here?”
“Yes. He didn’t leave until I got back.”
“What time did you get back?”
“About one-thirty.”
“And that’s when Mr. Closter left for lunch?”
“Oh, no! He already had his lunch. He left for home when I got back. Said his wife had called and wasn’t feeling well.”
So Closter evidently had left the office within minutes after the trailer. His presence at the scene of the accident four hours later now assumed a new meaning; though, for the moment, he was not sure that he would care to guess what it was
“There couldn’t be any mistake about the time the trailer left, could there?”
“No sir. The driver stamps the bill on that time clock outside the office just before he pulls out.” He had noticed the clock on the way in and, as he hesitated, framing his next question, Tompkins continued. “Of course, you understand Mr. Tuesday, the driver who pulled the trailer from here was not the same driver who was later killed in the accident.”
Although Ben had previously had to explain the difference between city drivers and road drivers when he was writing the policies to cover them he decided to pretend ignorance in order to give Tompkins the opportunity to display his knowledge.
“Oh. Is that so?” he said, inviting the young man’s explanation.
“Yes sir. The driver who took the trailer from here was a city driver. He only took the trailer as far as Central States’ terminal where it was manifested and they changed tractors. A road driver-the one who was killed-took it from there.”
“I see. Thank you, Mr. Tompkins. You’re very helpful.” While the young man was still basking in his own erudition he asked, “Who decides what is to be loaded on a particular trailer and in what order?”
The question seemed to take Tompkins by surprise, but he hesitated for only a moment and replied with no appearance of dissembling.
“Well, actually, Mr. Closter and I both make those decisions. We get the releases from the front office on merchandise that we have in storage, and combine it with the freight from local shippers, to make full loads to our distribution points.”
“I presume, in this case, that the caviar came out of storage and the sweaters were a local shipment?”
“Yes. That’s right.”
“How far in advance do you know that you have enough to make a full load to one of your distribution points?”
“Usually the day before. We’re generally through loading by three o’clock and then we start making up the loads for the next day.”
“Is that when you decide what carriers you will use?”
“Yes. As soon as we know how many loads we’re going to have, and where they’ll be going, I call the carriers to order the trailers for the next day.”
There was a clock on the wall behind Tompkins and a quick glance showed that it was ten minutes after one. He probably had time for only a few more questions before Closter would return. It was also becoming apparent that the young man was growing concerned about possibly saying too much in his boss’ absence.
“How do you decide the order in which the freight is loaded?”
“Well, the heaviest merchandise is loaded on the bottom, and the most fragile on top. We try to distribute the weight evenly throughout the trailer and to avoid a bad product mix.”
“What sort of ‘bad product mix’?”
He looked sheepish. “Well, like loading the sweaters and caviar next to each other on the trailer that was in the accident last night. If any of the caviar had got broken and leaked onto the sweaters it could’ve been a real mess! But, since the whole shipment was stolen anyhow, I guess it doesn’t matter now.”
So, he did believe it was stolen and not just misloaded as his boss professed to believe. “Who made up that particular load?” he asked.
It was obvious that Tompkins had anticipated the question and now regretted that he had tried to be so helpful. “Mr. Closter did,” he answered reluctantly.
“I understand there have been other hijackings recently?”
Tompkins blanched. “I, er...I wouldn’t know about that. I, er...I haven’t been here very long.”
“How long?”
“Er.six months.” His eyes focused on a point beyond him and a look of relief flooded his face. “You can ask Mr. Closter himself about that. He’s coming now.”
The office door opened behind him. Ben was right. With his narrow shoulders, wide hips and a paunch that seemed to stretch from his chest to the knees of his short legs, he did look like a penguin.
He and Tompkins both towered over him as they stood up. He looked up at them with eyes that seemed too big for their sockets.
“Er.Mr. Closter, this is Mr. Tuesday,” the young man stammered. “Mr. Tuesday represents Mid-Casualty Continent and.”
“Mid-Continent Casualty and Life,” he corrected him.
“Er, yes. I’m sorry,” Tompkins apologized, “Mid-Continent Casualty and Life. He’s here about the accident last night.”
“Mid-Continent holds the policy for Central States Motor Freight, Mr. Closter,” he told him, completing the explanation. “If you have a few minutes there are one or two things I’d like to go over with you.”
Closter shifted the gaze of his bulbous eyes to his assistant. “You can go to lunch now, Larry,” he told him.
Tompkins looked worried. “Mr. Closter, I, er...I didn’t.I mean.”
“That’s all right, Larry,” Closter interrupted. “I’ll take care of it. Go to lunch.”
Tompkins murmured, “yes sir”, and reached behind him to take a vividly patterned sport jacket from a wooden clothes tree in the corner. He walked around his desk as he put it on and left the office. He glanced back once over his shoulder before disappearing down one of the aisles leading to the front of the building.
A few seconds later, like a new act, a young woman with an extremely short shirt and thelegs to go with it, emerged from the same aisle and, half-running, headed toward the office. The platform had come to life again and a number of freight handlers were busy completing the loading of the trailers and freight cars. A chorus of their whistles and cat-calls followed her progress, but she gave no indication of being aware of them.
As she approached the door, Closter said, “My secretary. Go on in to my office. I’ll be right with you.”
He walked to the doorway opposite, leading to an inner office which he had noticed on entering. He turned and waited as he heard the secretary open the outer door.
“I’m sorry I’m late, Mr. Closter, but.”, she started to explain.
Closter cut her off. “It’s all right, Ruth. Just hold any calls. I don’t want to be disturbed while I’m talking to Mr. Tuesday.”
She turned to look across to where he still stood in the doorway to Closter’s office. She was not as young as he had first thought, and she had a very bad complexion that she tried to conceal with an excess of makeup. But the legs were as good as they had looked as she ran across the dock, and it seemed probable that she depended on them to distract attention from her face.
Seeing her puzzled look, Closter introduced him. “This is Mr. Tuesday. He’s an insurance man. He’s here about the wreck last night. My secretary, Miss Lufkin.”
She nodded in his direction. “How do you do, Mr. Tuesday.” The deep huskiness of her voice was almost masculine in its timbre.
He nodded back, “Miss Lufkin”, and turned to enter Closter’s office. Closter followed, closing the door.
He seated himself in a leather-covered armchair in front of Closter’s wood topped desk, while the little man went around behind it and sat down in a high backed swivel chair. Although less than half the size and far less sumptuously furnished than Ben’s, it was a comfortable office and apparently well-insulated. The noises from the loading platform did not penetrate the paneled walls, or the windows behind the desk which looked out into the parking area where the other trucks were waiting.
Closter lit a cigarette and took a deep breath as if he was preparing to dive into a murky pool of unknown depth. “Well, what can I do for you, Mr. Tuesday?”
There seemed no point in beating around the bush. “You could explain, if you can, why you didn’t tell the deputy last night that the trailer involved in the wreck had been loaded here only a few hours earlier?”
His cheeks sagged, dragging the corners of his mouth down with them. “I was very upset at the time. I simply didn’t recognize it.”
“Even with the ‘flammable’ placards attached to it?”
“Central States has a lot of trailers. There could be any number of them with placards like that on the road at any given time.”
“Maybe. But that makes it seem even more strange that the one that was loaded here is the same one that you saw crash.”
He shuffled some papers on his desk, as if hoping to find a logical answer among them. “It was just a coincidence. Stranger things have happened. I don’t see what difference it makesif I was there or not.”
“Possibly none. But why try to conceal the fact that you were there?”
“I.I wasn’t trying to conceal it.”
“I don’t know what else you could call it. Why didn’t you at least say something to Ben Wozniak about having witnessed the accident, when he called you earlier?”
“It.it didn’t seem important.”
He was obviously dissembling, and doing a very poor job of it. “I suppose it’s not important, either, that you left here yesterday within minutes of when the trailer left?”
“How did you.?” Closter started to ask, and then guessed the source of his information. He hoped he had not cost young Tompkins his job but, if the suspicions that were now beginning to form in his mind were confirmed, Closter might not have anything to say about it. Besides, it was barely possible that Tompkins was also involved-in whatever it was that was going on.
Closter looked slightly ill and a line of perspiration had broken out along his upper lip. “Just where were you between the time you left here and the time of the accident?” he asked him.
Closter’s soft, pudgy hands moved jerkily among the papers on his desk. “I.er, I wasn’t feeling well. I decided to leave early.”
“I thought it was your wife who wasn’t feeling well?”
It took two matches to light another cigarette. “Er, no. Larry must have misunderstood. It was me.”
It did not seem to make any difference. He was lying either way. “All right, then it was you who wasn’t feeling well. So, where did you go when you left here?”
He tried to look indignant, but succeeded in only looking wistful instead. “I don’t see why I should have to tell you that.”
“You don’t have to tell me anything, Mr. Closter. But, you’re going to have to explain your actions to someone before this is over, and it might be easier to tell me than your employer, or the police.”
Closter puffed rapidly on his cigarette as if trying to conceal his agitation behind the cloud of smoke. “I fail to see why I should have to explain myself to anybody. I had nothing to do with the accident. I was only a witness.”
“If that’s true Mr. Closter, why not just tell me where you were during that time, as long as you were doing nothing incriminating.”
Closter snuffed out his cigarette and sat gazing at his empty hands. “Because I can’t prove where I was.”
“Why not?”
“Because I was just driving around by myself.”
“You didn’t stop anywhere? Not even for gas?”
He shook his head. “No. I mean.. .I did stop, but it was out in the country and no one saw me, that I know of.”
He felt like reaching across the desk and trying to shake the truth out of him. His hesitancy, his obvious groping for answers, and his whole demeanor, showed him to be one ofthe worst-and least believable-liars that he had ever encountered. The trouble was, that if he stuck to his story-even as unprovable and improbable as it was-he did not see how it could be proven he was lying. Since he was not relying on anyone else to substantiate it, it was his word against whatever conjecture could be drawn from his unexplained behavior.
“So, after driving around the countryside aimlessly for almost four hours, you just happened to witness the wreck of a trailer that was loaded and left here just minutes before you did. Is that what you want me to believe, Mr. Closter?”
“Er, yes. Yes. That’s the way it happened, whether you choose to believe it or not. Yes.”
He seemed to think that saying ‘yes’ often enough would make it so. “I suppose you also expect me to believe, that it was just another set of coincidences that you happened to have been the one who had decided how the trailer was to be loaded.” Closter’s eyes bulged with surprise but, almost immediately, he again realized where the information had come from-”That the only freight worth stealing was loaded conveniently on the tail, where it was nice and easy to get at, and then-and certainly the greatest coincidence of all-the trailer is hijacked and the freight stolen.”
He waited while Closter’s eyes frantically searched the room as if hoping for a heavenly revelation. The top of his almost totally bald head was covered with perspiration, and his hands shook so badly that he gave up trying to light another cigarette and crushed it angrily in his ashtray.
But still, he was forced to admire the little man’s spunk, as he made another attempt to muster his dignity. “You certainly don’t think I hijacked the freight myself?” he demanded.
The suggestion also made him smile as he remembered the penguin shape now hidden behind the desk. “No, Mr. Closter,” he admitted. “But I do think you followed the trailer knowing-or, at least, believing-that it was going to be hijacked.” Closter seemed at a loss for an answer so he asked him, “Have you been in touch with the sheriff’s office today by any chance?”
Closter mopped his head. “No. Why should I. I told the deputy everything-everything that was necessary last night.”
“Then you wouldn’t know about the autopsy report?”
He was obviously reluctant, but forced himself to ask, “No. What about it?”
“According to the coroner, there is definite evidence that the driver had been drugged, had probably started to regain consciousness only to be knocked out again by a blow to the head, and then was almost suffocated before he crashed into the abutment. He apparently had started to regain consciousness again as he caught up and passed you, but not in time to help himself.”
He did not see any reason to soften the blow by explaining that the coroner’s findings were inconclusive and the official report would attribute the cause of death to ‘multiple injuries’. Closter had grown visibly paler as he recounted the driver’s misfortunes. He leaned forward with a soft moan, and covered his eyes with his hand. He felt almost sympathetic toward him but realized his show of grief-if that was what it was-was probably not for the dead driver, but for his own predicament.
When Closter still did not respond, he continued, “You understand that if the coroner’s report is substantiated, it becomes more than just a simple hijacking and accident?” He waited until Closter removed his hand and met his gaze. “It’s murder.”
The full horror of the word was registered in Closter’s eyes, even though it was evident that he had expected it. He swallowed rapidly a couple of times and his mouth opened and closed as if some inner force were trying to pump the words out of him-but he said nothing. After a few seconds more of struggling with himself, he was surprised when the little man straightened up in his chair and looked directly into his eyes.
“It’s a terrible thing-terrible, if what you say is true. But, I had nothing to do with it. I. I can’t tell you anymore about it than I.. .than you know already.” But his voice did not carry the conviction of his words.
“I don’t believe you, Mr. Closter.” Closter did not protest, so he continued,” I don’t think that you personally drugged or manhandled the driver any more than I think you personally hijacked the freight. However, I think you know who did and I’m certain that you know more than you’ve admitted”-taking a shot in the dark, he added-”not only about this hijacking, but about the previous ones as well.”
Closter’s eyes brimmed with fear, but still he persisted in his lies. “I.I don’t know what.. .what you mean about the.. .the other hijackings.”
“But you don’t deny there have been others?”
Closter managed to light another cigarette with fumbling fingers and aimlessly rearranged some of the papers on top of his desk.
“It’s not.I can’t.. .I’m afraid I’m very busy just now.” He kept his eyes averted now as if realizing that they had already revealed more than they should. “I really can’t take time to talk to you about it any longer. I’ll think about it and let you know if I remember anything else that might help clear things up.”
It was sheer bluster, and a pitiful effort to avoid the issue. But, maybe it would be best to let him stew in his own juice for awhile. Getting to his feet, he said, “All right Mr. Closter. But while you’re thinking about it, keep in mind that an accessory is just as guilty as the actual perpetrators of a crime.” He could see the renewed fear in his eyes. Taking out one of his business cards, he leaned over and laid it in front of him. “That has both my office and home phone numbers on it. If you do decide there is something else you want to tell me, leave a message at either place and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
Closter picked up the card and held it in his hand as he stood up. “Yes. Thank you. I’ll do that.”
He had an almost pleading expression in his eyes, as if he was not sure if he wanted him to go or stay. But, it was also apparent, that he would not, or could not, bring himself to say anything else at the moment.
He turned away from him and walked to the door. Opening it, he looked back to see Closter still standing behind his desk. For the benefit of the secretary and young Tompkins; who had now returned from his lunch; he said quietly, “Don’t forget, Mr. Closter. It was murder.”
He heard Miss Lufkin’s gasp and saw the astonishment on Tompkin’s face as he walked through the outer office and out onto the platform. He did not look back as he headed for the aisle leading back to the front of the building; ignored a questioning “sir?” from a heavy-set, middle-aged woman now seated behind the reception window; and turning left as he came out the entrance, headed for the side street where he had parked his car. He was not sure what his next step should be, but decided to head back to Plainville and see if Bentley had gotten the coroner’s official autopsy report as yet-and what, if anything, he intended to do about it.
He believed what he had told Closter-that he did not think he was personally responsible for the hijacking, or the death of the driver-but, he was certain now that he was somehow involved in both events. The failure to recognize the trailer at the scene of the crash, was a transparent lie, as was his alibi for the time between when he left the office and arrived there. But, it would be almost impossible to prove he was lying if he persisted in his story. In all probability, he had followed the trailer for one of two reasons-because he expected it to be hijacked and wanted to prevent it or find out who was doing it-in which case, why not alert the police or, at least, admit that was his intention; even if he was unsuccessful; rather than bring suspicion on himself by his silence? Or; as his denials now seemed to indicate; to find out who the hijackers were so he could blackmail them into giving him a share of the loot.
But, five thousand dollars, plus fourteen hundred or so for the caviar; if it was to be sold rather than consumed; seemed like a small amount for him to risk his job and his future for-especially if it had to be divided three ways (two hijackers seemed more logical than one). From what Ben had heard, and the reaction of both Closter and his assistant; there obviously had been other hijackings. But, it did not seem possible that such an operation could be performed very often without creating suspicion somewhere. As yet, there did not seem to be any official concern, unless the fat sheriff’s curiosity had been aroused by the coroner’s report.
Reaching the car, and glancing at his watch, he saw it was almost one forty-five and realized he was hungry. The immediate neighborhood did not hold the prospect of anything very appetizing so he decided to look for a place to eat on the way back to Plainville. He drove back to the first entrance to the freeway and headed west.
As he passed the city limits, he saw a large billboard on the right hand side of the highway advertising the ‘Interstate Truck Stop-Food-Service-Lodging-Five Miles.’ He again recalled Ben’s seemingly off-hand remark of the previous night, that the driver might have been slipped a ‘mickey’ when-and if-he had stopped there for coffee. It had sounded outrageous at the time but, after what he had learned since, it seemed at least within the realm of possibility. In any event, it would not hurt to stop and try to establish if he had been there, and he could get something to eat at the same time.