He could see the ‘Interstate Truck Stop’ on the right as he approached the exit ramp from the freeway. An enormous sign spelling out the name stretched the full length of the roof of the motel section that formed the upright of the ‘T’ shaped building. He came down the ramp to the stop sign at the crossroad and turned right to the main entrance. While he waited for passing traffic before turning left into the truck stop complex, he saw a sheriff’s car drive out of another exit at the far end and turn towards him. As it passed in front of him, he thought he recognized the bland, expressionless face of Deputy Flynn, even though the upper part was covered by the visor of his cap and a pair of sunglasses. He also thought there was a slight, momentary turn of the deputy’s head in his direction, but because his eyes were not visible, could not be sure if it indicated recognition.
There was a large parking area marked off by diagonal yellow lines in front of the main building, and he pulled into the first empty spot he came to. The service area and gas pumps were to the left, with another parking area beyond, now occupied by a dozen or more huge tractor-trailer units, all idling noisily as if impatiently waiting for their masters in order to resume their journey.
Entering the building, he noticed a cluttered combination clothing, drugstore and gift shop to the left, and a short flight of three steps directly ahead leading to a spartanly furnished but functional lobby. Beyond the registration desk he could see a game room with a number of pinball machines and pool tables. It was obvious that the facilities were designed to cater strictly to the needs and wants of the truck driving fraternity, and those misguided travelers who believed in the myth of their good taste.
Turning to his right, he paused in the wide entrance leading to the restaurant. It was one large, plainly furnished, and sparsely decorated room with a counter running the full length of the left-hand wall, broken in the middle by an entrance through swinging doors leading to the kitchen. The rest of the room contained forty or fifty formica-topped tables which; except for a row of smaller tables along the windows at the far end; were all four-seaters. Most of the tables closest to the entrance were occupied and; as he debated whether or not to take a seat at the counter; he noticed a waitress bent over cleaning one of the smaller tables. The light from the window next to the table put her face in shadow, but there was something about her that seemed familiar. As he watched, she straightened up and turned toward the entrance to the kitchen, and he recognized her.
It was Wanda-the young girl who had been asleep in the back of Ronny Stanhope’s car at the time of the Beamer accident. He remembered she had a virtually unpronounceable last name composed almost entirely of consonants-’Skrnczak’-that was it, but, he still could not remember how to pronounce it.
She apparently did not notice him and turned into the opening in the counter, and through the swinging door to the kitchen. He walked to the far end of the room and sat at the table she had just finished wiping off. He took the menu from between the sugar bowl and napkin dispenser, and after a cursory inspection of what it offered, decided the safest bet was a chicken sandwich and a glass of milk. He replaced the menu just as Wanda reappeared from the kitchen. She seemed somewhat surprised-and slightly annoyed, to see him sitting there. But, he thought that it was not because she recognized him, only that she would have to clean the table again when he finished.
She filled a glass with water from a dispenser behind the counter and carried it toward him. As she neared the table he saw a puzzled frown and then, as recognition dawned, remembrance changed the bored expression on her face. It was not, obviously, a happy memory for her. She set the glass down, none too gently, slopping some of the contents over the rim.
He smiled up at her. “Hello, Wanda. How are you?” She looked at him speculatively for a moment, slowly and grimly grinding a piece of gum between her jaws.
“Fine. Thanks.” Her tone implied a silent, ‘for nothing’.
Her animosity was almost palpable and he realized that she held him, at least, partially responsible for whatever misfortunes might have befallen her since the Beamer incident. He had not seen her again after the futile visit to the sheriff’s office with her parents, and now noticed that the previously well-developed, but adolescent body was now verging on the voluptuous; and the formerly mousy blond hair was bleached almost white. She still could not be more than seventeen, but already there seemed to be the first traces of dissolution-and disenchantment-in the curl of the thickly-lipsticked mouth, and deeply shadowed eyes.
Hoping to strike a more responsive chord, he asked, “Have you been working here long, Wanda?”
“Coupla’ years,” she replied shortly.
“Didn’t you finish high school?”
“What do you think?” she sneered.
He contemplated the surly face for a moment, and decided there was no point in trying to placate her.
“I’m sorry, Wanda, but whatever happened to you was your own fault. In case you don’t know it, Mr. Beamer finally died from his injuries, and Mrs. Beamer is in the county home. So maybe you’re not so bad off after all.”
Her expression did not change, but she seemed to grow a shade paler, and her jaws stopped moving momentarily. After a few seconds they resumed the slow grinding motion, and she said-not entirely without feeling-”That’s tough.” But, it was only a transitory emotion, and the bored expression quickly returned.
“I can’t stand here talkin’ t’ya all day. D’ya wanna order somethin’ or doncha’?”
He gave her his order and watched the exaggerated sway of her hips as she walked back toward the kitchen. A vague notion was beginning to take shape at the edge of his mind, and he considered how to broach the subject while he waited for her to return with his lunch. In a few minutes, she re-emerged from the kitchen holding the sandwich on a dish in one hand, and the glass of milk in the other.
As she set them down in front of him-more gently than the water-he asked, “Did youknow the truck driver that was killed last night?”
She jerked upright, almost upsetting the milk. Tearing a handful of paper napkins from the dispenser, she bent over the table and began wiping up what had spilled. Her hair fell forward hiding her face, and she kept wiping longer than necessary, apparently unable-or unwilling-to give him an answer. He waited, but when she still did not reply, he prompted her. “You do know about the accident, don’t you?”
Straightening up, she shook her hair back from her face. “Yeah, I heard about it-on the late news last night, at ten o’clock. So what?”
“Well, did you know the driver, or not,” he repeated. “If it will help you remember, his name was Mike Haggerty.”
“I.I’m not sure,” she stammered.
“Don’t lie to me, Wanda,” he cautioned her softly but sternly. “You tried it once before and look what it got you.”
“Okay. Okay,” she answered petulantly. “So I seen him aroun’. What of it?”
“Was he here yesterday?”
She hesitated, as if weighing the possibility of lying, and her chances of his believing her, before deciding that she probably could not get away with it.
“Yeah. He was here,” she finally admitted.
“What time?”
“How should I know!” she replied, her voice rising slightly. A couple of drivers at a nearby table looked curiously in their direction. Lowering her voice, she continued defensively, “I don’ keep track of every guy that comes in here.”
“It would have been just about the same time as today.”
She glanced quickly at the clock over the kitchen door, now indicating it was almost two-thirty. “Yeah. I guess it was about this time.” Her tone was suddenly and strangely wistful.
“Did you wait on him yourself, Wanda?”
Before she could answer, a tall, thin, stoop-shouldered man appeared behind her, and seemed to hover over her like a bird of prey. He even looked like a bird, having the nose of an eagle and a neck like a vulture.
“What’s going on here?” he demanded in a voice that sounded like a clogged drainpipe.
Wanda jumped sideways, swallowing her gum. She responded in a voice that carried the first note of respect he had ever heard from her.
“Oh! Mr. Grossman! Er.this is Mr. Tuesday. He.that is, we.”
It was respect born of fear, and she did not know how to explain him to the obviously suspicious Mr. Grossman who, he assumed, was the manager.
He stood up, extending his hand. “My name is Tuesday. I’m in the insurance business. A couple of years ago, Wanda was a witness in an accident involving one of my clients. I haven’t seen her since, and was just inquiring about how she has been doing. I’m sorry if I’ve kept her from her work.” He released Grossman’s limp, damp hand, and put his in his pocket to dry it off.
He could see that the manager was not quite satisfied with the explanation as he swiveled his head on the vulture-like neck to look from one to the other of them. But, not being able toquarrel with it, he finally growled, “Okay, Mr. Tuesday, but cut it short. She’s got other tables to take care of.” With a last piercing look at the girl, he turned and walked away.
Resuming his seat, and keeping his voice soft, he reminded her, “You haven’t answered my last question, Wanda.”
“Oh, please, Mr. Tuesday!” she pleaded, tensely, as she watched Grossman’s departing back. “I.I can’t talk to you anymore.. .not here.”
Her fear was real, and evident-and there were a lot of other questions now building up in his mind as a result of what she had already said-and not said.
“All right, Wanda,” he agreed. “We’ll talk later. What time do you get off?”
“Eight o’clock. But I have a date.” Her smile was sickly as she tried to appear casual. He looked at her skeptically and she added quickly, “I do, really. I’m not lyin.’ “
He did not really care if she was or not. He had his own plans for the evening-hopefully. “Just give me your phone number. I’ll call you later tonight or in the morning. What time do you start work?”
She hesitated, then murmured, “Noontime.” She bent over the table again, making a pretense of wiping it off some more, as she whispered her phone number. He recognized it as an exchange near the city and realized that she, apparently, was no longer living in the one-bedroom dilapidated house in Plainville. She seemed to be too young to be on her own, or for any of the other things that he knew or could guess had happened to her in her short life, despite all appearances to the contrary. She turned and walked away and he saw Grossman follow her into the kitchen.
He ate his sandwich which, by now, had the taste and consistency of damp cardboard, and drank the lukewarm milk, while continuing to watch the kitchen doors. The other two girls behind the counter now became very busy; even though only a few stools were occupied; peering covertly in his direction whenever they thought he was not looking in theirs. Their actions, Wanda’s obvious fear, and Grossman’s suspiciousness puzzled him. Everything pointed to more than the normal employer-employee relationship.
As he finished, Wanda once more came out of the kitchen and walked slowly towards him. When she reached the table, he could see the last remnant of pain still in her eyes, and the fading red marks on her upper arm below the short sleeve of her uniform. He had not liked Wanda when he first met her during the Beamer affair, and still did not care much for her. But, now he felt a mixture of guilt and anger at having, apparently, subjected her to the manager’s wrath.
She saw the look on his face, and pleaded with her eyes for him to say nothing, as she laid his check on the table. He nodded slightly to let her know that he had gotten her message. Forcing a smile, he said, “It was nice to see you again, Wanda.”
She was obviously relieved to see that he was leaving without trying to question her any further, as she forced a smile of her own. “Thank you, Mr. Tuesday.”
Leaving a tip on the table-larger than was called for by the amount of the check, in an effort to salve his conscience-he rose and threaded his way through the other tables to the cashier’s counter. Grossman was leaning on one end chewing on an inch of dead cigar butt. A plump, middle-aged woman, with bright, orange hair, took his money and silently handed him his change, casting, nervous, sidelong glances at the manager in between. The way Grossman kept his head thrust forward gave him the feeling of being eyed hungrily by a ravenous bird perched somewhere above him, even though he was at least as tall as the other man. For a fleeting moment he considered asking him about the dead driver, but decided that he probably would not learn anything from the suspicious manager, and that he would rather not reveal his interest in the matter to him, anyhow.
“Enjoy your lunch?” Grossman inquired.
“No,” he replied. “As a matter of fact, it was execrable.”
Except for a slight narrowing of the piercing eyes, there was no change of expression on the manager’s face. He saw that he was standing with one foot extended ahead of the other and, as he turned away from the counter, he deliberately-but; to all appearances; unintentionally-stepped on it with his full weight. It was a pointless thing to do, but he was gratified by Grossman’s howl of anguish and guessed that the vulture-like manager probably had corns on his talons.
Hopping up and down on one foot, Grossman angrily cried, “Why the hell don’t you watch where you’re going?” He glared around at a group of drivers sitting at a nearby table who were obviously enjoying his anguished antics. “What’s so damn funny?” he demanded. But they ignored his indignation, and laughed even louder.
Feigning chagrin, he apologized briefly and walked out of the restaurant. Seeing a bank of phone booths in the lobby he decided it would be a good time to find out what was happening at his office, and to bring Ben up to date-and to find out what he had learned about the other reputed hijackings, if anything-before continuing out to Plainville to see Bentley, again.
He checked to see if he had enough change and, entering one of the booths, he dropped some of it into the coin slots and dialed his office number.
Gladys answered with her usual cheery greeting. “The Tuesday Agency, Mrs. O”Brien speaking.” He identified himself and she said in response, “Oh, Mr. Tuesday. I’m so glad you called.” There was a note of urgency as well as puzzlement in her voice. “A Mr. Closter called. He left a message asking if you could come to his home to see him tonight, anytime after ten o’clock.”
Only a little more than an hour had passed since he had left Closter’s office. What could have happened-or who could he have talked to-to prompt the surprising request?
“How long ago did he call?”
“About ten minutes ago.”
A glance at his watch told him it was now two forty-five. “All right, Gladys. I’ll call him to confirm it.”
“Oh, no! Don’t call him,” she replied quickly. “Mr. Closter specifically said that you should not call him. He said that you could come at any time, as long as it was after ten.” It seemed possible that Closter was expecting someone else before ten, and did not want them to encounter one another. He wondered who it could be, and what he had to say to either one of them.
“He didn’t give you any hint of what he wanted to see me about, did he?”
“No, sir. He just kept repeating that you should not call him.” Her perplexity at Closter’sambiguous phone call was evident in her voice. He tried to relieve it.
“Mr. Closter was a witness to last night’s accident, and may have remembered something that he can’t explain over the phone. I’ll do as he asks and go see him later tonight.”
He was afraid his attempt to assuage her puzzlement had only deepened her confusion, but it was not the time to go into any further explanation.
“Mr. Wozniak also called, and would like you to call him back as soon as you can,” she now told him.
“I was just about to. I’ll call you in the morning if I don’t come to the office. Thank you, Gladys.”
He heard her “good-bye, Mr. Tuesday” as he hung up the phone. He fished in his pocket for some more change and dialed Ben’s number. Doreen answered and he asked for Ben. He snatched the phone away from his ear just in time to avoid the full force of the resounding, “Wozniak!”
“Ben. It’s Mark. Gladys says you called.”
“Yeah. Listen.” He lowered his tone a full octave to what could be considered just loud for anyone else. “I talked to Al Davidson and another owner at lunch who also handles some of Closter’s freight. They both told me that they each had one of his shipments hijacked recently.”
“Who is the other owner?”
“Ted Samuels of Tri-State Express.”
“When did the hijackings occur?”
“Dixie’s happened in June and Tri-State’s in August.”
“What was taken?” He took out the notebook and, holding the phone in place with his shoulder, wrote down the names and dates that Ben had given him.
“They got six grand worth of transistor radios and tape recorders from Dixie and a shipment of men’s suits worth about eight grand from Tri-State.” As he noted the information after the name of each company, Ben added, “And get this. In each case the freight was loaded right on the tail.”
“Was anything else taken in either case?” he asked, thinking of the stolen caviar.
Ben’s voice rose excitedly, “Yeah! Yeah! That’s another thing! They took four cases of chocolate covered ants, for crissake, from Dixie, and four cases of pickled bees from Tri-State!” He made a loud retching noise. “Now who the hell eats shit like that?”
He was too puzzled by the hijackers apparently strange tastes-if it was just a matter of taste-to reply immediately. What had seemed like a simple-if unusual-accident less than twenty-four hours ago, was beginning to assume the proportions of a diabolical plot.
“Hey, you still there?” Ben demanded.
“Was either driver injured?” he asked him.
“No. But they both claimed they were drugged.”
“What did they say happened to them?”
“They both said that about fifteen minutes after they stopped for coffee, they started feeling drowsy, so they pulled off to the side and the next thing they knew was when they woke up a couple of hours later.”
He could hear him lighting one of his cigars. “Had the truck been moved while they were unconscious?”
“As far as they could tell, it was right where they had stopped. They didn’t even find out they had been hijacked until they got to their first stop.”
“Didn’t they check the seals on the trailer?”
“They checked. But the hijackers had replaced them with others, and they did not check the numbers.” With a note of disgust, he added, “They had changed ours too.”
“Are Davidson and Samuels satisfied that their drivers were not working with the hijackers? That story about passing out could be a phony.”
“That’s what Al and Ted thought at first too. But, the FBI checked out both of them and gave them each a clean bill of health. Besides, it could mean that maybe Haggerty was mixed up in it, and I can’t buy that-not after what you told me the coroner said happened to him.”
He had to agree that Ben’s reasoning seemed sound, especially if the FBI was satisfied that the other two drivers were not involved.
“Where had they stopped for coffee?”
The volume of Ben’s voice rose again with renewed excitement.” The Dixie driver said he stopped at the Interstate Truck Stop, the place I told you Haggerty might have stopped at.”
“I know. That’s where I’m calling you from.” He told him briefly about Wanda and his conversation with her.
Ben’s modified tone conveyed his perplexity over this newest development.” I don’t get it. Do you think she knows who doped Haggerty and the other guy? Or maybe she’s working with the hijackers and did it herself?”
“Either one is at least a possibility,” he told him. “I’m going to try to see her again later tonight or tomorrow morning. Probably in the morning, because she says she has a date tonight, and Closter wants to see me at his place after ten o’clock.”
“Closter! What the hell does he want?” His voice rose to a shout. “What’d ya finout from him anyway?” The words sounded slightly slurred by his bewilderment and the belated effects of his lunch.
He recited the essentials of his visit to the offices of Affiliated Distribution Systems and of his talks with Tompkins and Closter, and the subsequent message left by Closter at his office.
“Jesus!” Ben sounded awed by the pyramiding events rising from the seemingly ordinary accident of the night before. “It sounds like he’s getting ready to spill his guts. Him and the broad are probably both mixed up in it!”
“Slow down, Ben. You’re getting way ahead of me. You could be right, but we better keep it to ourselves, at least until after I talk to Closter again-and the girl, too, for that matter.”
“Okay, okay. But call me tonight after you see Closter.”
“It could be pretty late, Ben.”
“I don’t care. I want to know what that little bastard has to say for himself.” He sounded as if he had already decided what it would be.
“Have you talked to him again since this morning?”
“No.”
“It’s probably just as well if you don’t, even if he calls you.”
“I get you. I’ll tell Doreen to tell him I’m out in case he does.”
The operator cut in to ask for more money, and he told her he would signal her when he was through. She cut out again. “Incidentally, did the Tri-State driver also stop here before being hijacked?” he asked Ben.
“No, goddam it!” There was obvious disappointment in his voice. “That’s the only thing that don’t fit. He says he stopped at the Cross-Country Truck Stop. That’s down in the south end of the county. Unless you think they could be working the same operation from both places?” he ended hopefully.
It only seemed to add still another imponderable to the problem.
“Ben, I’m beginning to think almost anything is possible. But, if we can find out, definitely, what happened to Haggerty, we’ll probably know what happened to the Tri-State and Dixie drivers-and, who knows, maybe some others we haven’t even heard about yet.”
“Yeah. I guess you’re right,” Ben agreed thoughtfully. “Where you headed now?”
Another glance at his watch showed him it was now three-fifteen. “I’m going back out to Plainville to see the sheriff, again. I want to see what he thinks of the coroner’s report and what, if anything, he’s doing about it.”
“Good idea,” Ben said approvingly. “I’ll wait to hear from you later.”
As usual, he hung up abruptly without saying or waiting for a “good-bye.” The phone rang almost immediately and, as requested, he deposited another quarter to ransom himself from the stuffy booth. As he walked toward the entrance he saw the restaurant manager still standing by the cashier counter eyeing him with an ill-concealed curiosity. He wondered how long he had been watching him and if it were possible he was a lip-reader. He laughed to himself at the ludicrous thought, remembering what he had told Ben about believing that anything was possible.
As he walked to his car he noticed that it was cloudier and cooler than when he had got there. He hoped it was not going to rain. He was planning to take Elise to ‘The Mansion’, a unique and elegant restaurant in the northern part of the county, overlooking a lake-assuming, of course, that she was willing to go with him.
He drove out of the parking lot area and turned toward the entrance ramp leading to the highway. The traffic from the city was beginning to build, but it was moving steadily at or over the posted speed limit and he figured he should reach Plainville by about four o’clock.
Four o’clock. That was the time that Elise had told him she usually got home. The last few hours had been so full and so surprising in their revelations that he had not had time for more than a fleeting thought of the possibility of seeing her again. Now, he pushed aside the cluttered, confusing facts surrounding the death of Mike Haggerty, and let the memory of Elise flood his mind.
He could not fathom the almost instantaneous need to know and be with her that he had experienced last night, and the eagerness and hope with which he now anticipated being with her again. In the few short hours that he had been with her, he had felt a warmth and an empathy that he had never even come close to with anyone-man or woman-before in his life-or had wanted from anyone else. From his earliest days, his parents had allowed him to make his own decisions, and his grandparents had been too doting to try to prevent him. As he grew, he had developed a self-sufficiency and an aloofness which did not recognize or acknowledge the need for love, understanding, acceptance, approval, sympathy, or any of the other human responses which he saw and regarded, almost disdainfully, in those around him.
Now, the longing to be near her-the desire to touch her, hold her, almost frightened him in its intensity. It was foreign to him, a threat to his privacy and his pride, and he wanted to deny it-but he could not, not even to himself. He knew he wanted her more, needed her more; and wanted and needed her to want him; to be a part of his life, as no one else had ever been-and to share it with her, as he had never shared himself with anyone else.
He realized that for the first and only time in his life, he truly wanted and needed the love and respect and admiration of someone else. In the past, he had only to express an interest, or a liking, or a preference, or to simply make up his own mind, and he would get or be given, whatever pleased him. Now, he wanted her-deeply, urgently, prayerfully wanted her, and was afraid that he did not deserve her, could not win her, and would not be able to keep her, or her love.
Last night, he had rejected the word and the thought-but, as soon as he had seen her again this morning, he had known it was the one thing-the only basis-on which it would be possible to build a relationship with her. He knew that she had been attracted to him-believed that she had liked him-hoped that she would see him again. But, she had seemed so much younger, although more mature than her years. And then, there was Marie.
He had known when he married her that he was not in love with her. Like so many decisions in his life, he had simply concluded that he was ready to be married, and Marie-to her misfortune and apparent regret-had been accessible and agreeable. Now, he realized, that in not loving her he was not prepared to try to understand her or to forgive her for failing to live up to his expectations. Although his deception was, possibly, no more calculated nor dishonest than her own, its effect had produced the far greater tragedy for both of them-even though it had also produced Cassandra.
She had been the only bright spot in his life in the last few years-and his only real pleasure-until meeting Elise. The agency practically ran itself and, with the still significant income from his grandfather’s and father’s estates, he really did not have to try very hard anyhow. For the most part, he managed to avoid becoming involved in the problems and misfortunes of his clients, although he did see to it that their claims were settled promptly and equitably. It was only when he saw an obvious injustice, such as suffered by the Beamers did he feel compelled to personally intervene-or, when he came across somebody like Ben-shrewd, tough and hard to convince-did he feel challenged. Otherwise, life had become a succession of empty, meaningless days-and nights-without color or rhythm or sensation.
The only people who came to the house anymore were Julie Fay and her odious family-who he could gladly do without-and his mother; who managed to conceal the worst of her misgivings and concern for their eroding marriage; in order to see her grand-daughter. The rest of the time that he and Marie spent together-or, at least, under the same roof-was passed in relative silence and isolation, as they found less and less to say or share with each other. And, with her increasingly strange behavior and unexplained absences during recentweeks, communication between them had virtually ceased.
He knew now that there was no real need to see Elise again-that it seemed unlikely that she could add anything of significance to what he had already learned during the long day. There was only his own need-strange, demanding and completely selfish-but, not sexual. In a way, this surprised him most of all-not because he had ever had the type of sexual appetite that required frequent, or even regular, gratification-but simply because he had been more conscious of Elise’s womanliness, and more aware of the essence of her femininity than with any other member of her sex that he had ever dallied with.
He knew he wanted her, but that he would not take her-even if she was willing that he should-until he was certain of his feeling for her-understood and believed if it was truly love, in all its grandeur, or merely a desire born of the bitter frustration of his marriage. He also wanted to be sure of her feeling for him, if she had any-and, recalling the look in her eyes as she alighted from his car last night; and when he left her this morning; he believed he had seen more than just gratitude and friendliness. He wanted to tell her about himself-a thought so alien to his nature that he was astonished and repelled that it even occurred to him. But, now he knew that it was necessary that she understand what he was like, and why. He did not want her sympathy or approbation, but he did not want her to suffer the same fate that he had so uncaringly and unthinkingly inflicted on Marie.
As he turned off the highway at the Plainville exit, he refused to let himself think beyond the coming evening with Elise. He hoped the interview with Bentley would not take too long. He wanted to have as much time with her as possible before keeping his appointment with Closter.