It was just five minutes to four as he again drove into the parking lot behind the county court house. This time, he went directly up to the main floor and walked down the broad, marble-lined corridor to the sheriff’s office. The magnificently endowed Sally was still on duty as he entered. Her initial surprise at his reappearance quickly turned to tight lipped hostility and then, strangely, softened in a way, and for a reason, he could not identify.
“I’d like to see the sheriff again, if he’s in,” he told her.
She took a deep, unbelievable breath that stretched her blouse taut as a drumhead and opened up small gaps between the buttons. Leaning forward, revealing a yawning chasm as wide as it was deep, she flipped the button on the intercom and announced, “Mr. Tuesday is here to see you again, sheriff.”
“Is he now?” Bentley responded, his voice rumbling with a false heartiness. “Well, send him right on in, Sally.”
Looking back up at him, she said unnecessarily, “Sheriff Bentley will see you now.”
He thought of apologizing for what he had said to her on the way out that morning, but her obvious pride in her glandular development and her brazen determination to continually call attention to it, seemed to make it not only unnecessary, but pointless. It seemed quite probable from her present attitude, that she had not understood-or, possibly, did not dispute-the meaning of what he had said. In any event, it was apparent that an apology was not expected so he merely said “Thanks” and opened the door to the sheriff’s inner sanctum. Entering, he closed the door behind him and sat down in front of the massive desk in the same chair he had occupied earlier.
Bentley leaned forward, leering. “Sally told me what you said to her on the way out this morning, and I can personally testify that science had nothin’ to do with it.” He reclined in the oversize chair, chuckling obscenely.
He was glad now that he had not bothered to apologize. Evidently, she had taken it as a back-handed compliment.
“That’s very reassuring, Sheriff,” he replied. “You’ve restored my faith in Mother Nature.”
He was sure that Bentley had not missed the overt sarcasm in his reply, but he seemingly ignored it and maintained the same air of spurious cordiality. He grinned, his pig-like eyes almost hidden in the folds of fat surrounding them.
“Well, this sure is a pleasure havin’ you drop in twice in one day, Mr. Tuesday. What can I do for you this time?”
He pretended to accept the sheriff’s words at face value.” I certainly appreciate your willingness to be so helpful, Sheriff. I realize how busy you must be.”
Bentley’s smile faded. He had subtly emphasized the word ‘busy’ because he felt certain it was anything but true. The vast expanse of his desk was empty except for an onyx inkstand and a small stack of papers in a letter tray. It was well-known that he rarely left the office during the day, and even had his lunch brought in-not that he was too busy, but because he was too lazy. A very large, deep, leather-covered sofa against the opposite wall had the appearance and contours of being well used by the obese lawman. After his remark about the receptionist, he wondered if it was possible that it served more than one purpose, even though it would seem to be an unlikely and grotesque coupling.
Bentley had been sheriff for as long as he could remember. It was an elective office with a four-year tenure. The last three times he had run, he had been unopposed, not because of his exemplary record or exceptional popularity, but because nobody else wanted the job. Although the sheriff’s office had considerable responsibility throughout the county; including the stretch of highway on which the accident had occurred last night; it was perennially under-staffed and under-budgeted, and was generally held in low esteem on the political scale. Bentley did not seem to mind the obvious limitations which these conditions imposed on his authority and opportunities for political recognition, and was seemingly content to make the best of his lot in life-but with an arrogance encouraged by the relative security of his job.
He had heard rumors that there had been a Mrs. Bentley at one time, but no one seemed positive about her existence or present whereabouts. There were no children that anyone knew about, and the sheriff lived by himself in a small house within walking distance of his office. Each morning, however, a deputy was detailed to pick him up and deliver him to the courthouse in the one symbol that lent him a semblance of prestige not otherwise associated with his office. It was a twelve year old Cadillac, brilliantly polished and lovingly preserved, with the license number ‘SD-1’. The car would then remain parked ostentatiously in front of the building for the rest of the day; as if to notify the townspeople that their chief guardian was on duty protecting their interests.
Now, dropping the pretense of amiability, the sheriff said, “All right, Tuesday. Let’s not play games. What do you want now?”
Abandoning his own air of cordiality, he matched his tone. “Have you received the coroner’s official autopsy report on the driver yet?”
“Got it a couple of hours ago.”
“May I see it?”
“What for? He already told you what he found.”
The sarcasm in his tone indicated that the coroner had apparently had occasion to remind the sheriff of their relative positions and authority in the county. He wondered if the old man had also revealed how he had come to be reminded if it.
“That was unofficial. I’d like to see what he said for the record.”
Bentley continued to gaze at him for a moment longer with obvious dislike, before leaning forward to leaf through the stack of papers in the letter tray. He extracted the coroner’s report and slid it across the desk without comment.
He picked it up, briefly scanned the physical statistics and condition of the driver described on the front, and turned it over to read the coroner’s conclusions as to the cause ofdeath. As he had told him he would, he had reported the presence of the drug residue, the bruise on the back of the head and the low blood content in the brain, but did not speculate on their cause or in what manner they may have contributed to Haggerty’s death.
“I presume you’ve read the report, sheriff?”
“I’ve read it.”
“What do you make of the evidence of his having been drugged?”
He shook his massive head, his jowls quivering. “It doesn’t say he was drugged-only that a small amount of some kind of drug was found in his intestines. Hell, lots of truck drivers take pills of one kind or another.”
“Perhaps they do, to help them stay awake. He wouldn’t deliberately take something that would make him fall asleep behind the wheel.”
“Doc doesn’t say for sure what it was.”
“Except that it was a depressant-not a stimulant.”
“Maybe he took the wrong pill.” He grinned smugly and leaned back, intertwining his fat fingers on top of his bulging mid-section.
“That’s absolute nonsense, Sheriff, and you know it!”
Bentley shrugged. “I got no cause to think he got it any other way.”
“What about the bruise on the back of his head?”
“What about it? Probably happened in the crash.”
“The coroner seemed to think that he was slugged-before the crash.”
“Does it say that in the report?”
Anger tightened the muscles of his jaw. “You know damned well it doesn’t.”
Bentley extended his thick-fingered hands in mock helplessness. “Well then, what do you expect me to do about it? After all, Doc’s top dog in the county and if he don’t say nothing in his report about foul play”-he used the words with exaggerated emphasis-”then I got nothing to act on.”
He was sure now that the old man had repeated the gist of their conversation to the sheriff and his anger dissipated with the realization that Bentley was now determined to show him he was wrong, in practice if not in principle. It was also evident that he did not intend to do anything to verify the information in the report, and that there was no point in bringing up the question of the signs of possible suffocation which the coroner had observed. He decided to try another approach to try to stir him from his complacency.
“According to the owner of the trucking company, the driver was about two hours behind schedule at the time of the crash; and he had not called in to report any mechanical trouble.”
“Maybe that’s why he crashed. He was trying to make up the time and got careless.”
“Not careless enough to shift into neutral and try to coast down that hill-which is where the gear shift lever was when they got it back to the Central States terminal.”
“It’s hard to figure what those truck drivers will do. Some of them are real cowboys.”
It was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain a level tone. “Would the fact that fifty cases of sweaters and six cases of caviar were found to be missing from the load, in addition to his being late, and the indications of ‘foul play’ observed by the coroner, cause you to reconsider that opinion?”
The sheriff puckered his thick lips speculatively. “Is that right? Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Seems like he might have been hijacked, don’t it?”
“ That would seem to be a reasonable deduction, Sheriff.”
Bentley frowned. “Of course, it doesn’t change anything. There’s still nothing I can do about it. Hijacking’s a federal offense. It’s out of my jurisdiction.”
“Murder isn’t!”
“Murder!” Bentleys eyebrows arched upward, creating a pattern of isobaric wrinkles across his forehead. “Who said anything about murder? That report you got in your hand says he died as a result of injuries received in the crash. For all we know, he might have been in cahoots with the hijackers-or maybe the missing freight wasn’t even on the trailer to begin with. Anyway, there’s nothing in there that says he was murdered.”
For a fleeting instant during the phone call with Ben a little earlier, he had also considered the possibility of Haggerty’s complicity in the hijacking, as he had with the other drivers. And, it was a long jump from the coroner’s unsubstantiated speculations to a conclusion of murder. But, the fact that the FBI had absolved the other two drivers seemed to rule out the likelihood of Haggerty being involved, and also lent added weight to the probability that he had been killed by the actual hijackers. It was the only logical explanation, no matter how hard the sheriff persisted in trying to ignore it. Bentley had shown such an obvious disinclination to do anything positive to resolve the unanswered questions arising from the driver’s death, that he wondered if there was any point in even telling him what he had learned or suspected about Closter. But he decided to try once more to arouse his curiosity.
He laid the coroner’s report back on the desk. “Your suggestions might have some merit, Sheriff, except that they don’t tie in with certain other facts I’ve learned today.”
Bentley looked bored. “Like what?”
“For one thing, I found out that there have been at least two other hijackings in recent months, where the same M.O. was used. The big difference between the others and this one was that neither driver was injured, although they were both drugged.” Bentley seemed only mildly interested and made no comment. “But the really intriguing fact is that William Closter-the other witness to last night’s ‘accident’, also happens to be traffic manager for Affiliated Distribution Systems, who have been the victim of all three hijackings.”
The reaction was not what he had anticipated, although it was obvious that he had finally succeeded in striking a nerve. The sheriff’s usually florid cheeks turned gray and sagged over his collar. He drew his head down between his shoulders and a great roll of fat appeared under his chin, like a pelican’s pouch. His eyes were sunk so deep beneath his heavy brows that he could not be sure they were open or shut. After a few seconds, he slowly rocked forward and rested his heavy forearms on top of the desk. The color began to come back to his face.
“Now that’s interesting, Mr. Tuesday, very interesting.”
He was faintly amused by the suddenly courteous tone of his voice, and slightly astonished by the profound effect the information about Closter had caused in his demeanor.
“I’m glad to see my efforts weren’t totally wasted.”
Bentley ignored his sarcasm. “How did you find out about Closter, Mr. Tuesday?”
“Ben Wozniak, the owner of the trucking company, knows him.”
“And who did you say he works for?”
“Affiliated Distribution Systems. They have an office and warehouse on the south side of the city.” He gave him the address.
“He’s the traffic manager for them?”
“That’s right, Sheriff.”
“Does that mean it’s his job to decide what’s going to be shipped and when, and by what trucking company?”
“Yes, it does.”
Bentley’s gaze intensified. “Did you see Closter yourself today, Mr. Tuesday?”
Despite the spurious courtesy of his tone, his manner suddenly seemed so menacing that he regretted having told him of Closter’s connection with the hijacked shipments. He decided now not to tell him anything more than he had to, and especially not of his appointment to see Closter later that night.
“Yes. I saw him at his office.”
“What did he have to say for himself?”
“Very little.” Which was true.
“How did he explain his presence at the scene of the accident?”
“He didn’t.” Which was also true.
“What do you mean he didn’t?” His tone was slowly returning to its normal insolence. “Didn’t you ask him?”
“I asked him. He said it was just a coincidence.”
“And you believed him?”
“No. But I don’t have any way of disproving it either.”
“What did he say about the other hijackings?”
“Nothing.”
Bentley’s eyes narrowed to thin, angry slits. “If you’re withholding evidence, I’ll.”
“Withholding evidence!” He leaned forward, his patience exhausted. “I’ve just spent the better part of an hour trying to get you to look at the evidence that’s right under your nose-and giving you information that you could’ve gotten yourself with a couple of phone calls.”
He had originally intended to also mention his meeting with the girl, Wanda, at the truck stop, and the possibility that she might know how-or by whom-the driver had been drugged. But, it was obvious that he had already wasted enough time with the fat sheriff. Even the sudden, intense interest caused by his revelation about Closter had resulted in more apprehension than satisfaction. He stood up to leave.
Bentley seemed momentarily abashed by his vehemence, but said quickly, “Wait a minute! I haven’t finished yet.”
Turning toward the door he said, “I have,” over his shoulder. Opening it, he looked back to add, “If you want to find out what Closter’s been up to, I suggest you send for him or go see him yourself. He lives just outside of town, in your jurisdiction.”
He did not bother to wait for a reply and left the sheriff leaning on his arms, staring pensively after him as he walked out. Sally gazed at him with a mixture of shock and puzzlement, and her breasts followed him like twin howitzers as he passed by. Her mouth opened as if she wanted to tell him something, but he ignored her, since nothing she could say would be of any interest to him.
Outside, in the corridor, he stood undecided for a moment. A large clock over the front entrance told him it was almost five o’clock. He crossed to a phone booth built into the marble wall opposite the doorway to the sheriff’s office. He took out his notebook to check Elise’s number, then changed his mind and dialed his home phone instead. If Marie was there, he would have to give her some excuse for not coming home again-but if she was not, he would be able to avoid the necessity of lying to her and be free to go home to get a fresh shirt at the same time; assuming, of course, that Elise would agree to see him again, and he would need one. He let the phone ring a dozen times before hanging up and dialing Elise’s number.
She answered on the third ring and the dregs of his anger remaining from the frustrating conversation with the sheriff were washed away by the sound of her voice. “Hello. This is Elise Young speaking.”
“Elise. This is Mark Tuesday.”
“Oh, hello Mark.” He felt inordinately pleased that she used his first name. “I was wondering if you were going to call.” She sounded pleased that he had-or was it just wishful thinking?
“I would have called earlier, but I was tied up with the sheriff.”
“About the accident last night?” She sounded puzzled. “Have you been in Plainville all day?”
“No. This is my second visit. The ‘accident’ has turned out to be considerably more than just that.”
“You mean it wasn’t an accident after all?”
“I’m almost certain it wasn’t, Elise. But it’s too involved to go into over the phone.”
“Of course, Mark. I understand.”
He had decided that he had to be perfectly honest with her-any pretense of needing more information from her would be demeaning for both of them.
“Elise. I know I told you last night that I’d call you in case you could remember anything more about what happened.” It felt as if a steel band was being slowly tightened around his chest.
“Yes, Mark. I know.” Her voice was barely audible.
“Well, after what I’ve learned today, I doubt that anything you could add would mean very much at this point.” He hesitated, and thought he could hear her breathing on the other end, but she did not respond. “But, it’s not important whether you can or not. I’d like to see you again regardless-for reasons that have nothing to do with what happened last night or today-but just to see you. Do you understand what I’m saying, Elise?”
In the brief ensuing silence, the sheriff emerged from his office followed by the double-breasted Sally. She reached back, switched off the lights before closing the door and then was almost obscured by the bulk of the fat man as she turned to face him. Neither of them seemed to notice him in the phone booth and he looked away as Elise replied.
“Yes, Mark. I understand.”
The band was loosened. “Then can I see you tonight?”
There was a fractional pause, then, “Yes.”
“Have dinner with me?”
She laughed softly. “I thought you’d never ask.”
He glanced at his watch. “Will six o’clock be too early?”
“No”.
“Good. I’ll see you then, Elise.”
“I’ll be waiting, Mark.”
They did not say good-bye and, after a moment, he heard the dial tone as she hung up her phone.
He left the booth in time to see the rotund figure of the sheriff squeezing though the revolving door of the front entrance. Sally was nowhere in sight and he assumed she had left by the rear door, as he now did to retrieve his car. Getting into it, he drove quickly through the town to the highway and back to Glen Park. It was exactly five-fifteen as he pulled into his driveway.
Marie’s car was gone, but the garage door was open as she invariably left it. He closed it before walking up to the front door. He was glad she was out because he wanted to avoid a confrontation with her. But, at the same time he could not help wondering if her absence was due to a similar kind of assignation that he now looked forward to with Elise.
There was a folded piece of paper wedged in the frame of the door. Pulling it out, he opened it to read, “Mark-Cassandra is with us.” It was signed, “Phil.” Only then did he realize that-overwhelmed by his desire to see Elise again-he had not even given a thought to the whereabouts of his precious daughter when he had failed to get a response to his phone call earlier. A wave of guilt washed over him, followed almost immediately by the relief of knowing she was in good hands.
He entered the house and noticed that the living room and kitchen had both been restored to a clean and orderly condition, and said a silent prayer of thanks to Mrs. Hardesty. He was mildly surprised that she was not still there. Usually she stayed long enough to prepare dinner for them. Then, he saw the other note on the serving counter, and recognized her neat, legible penmanship.
“Mr. Tuesday,” it began, “Mrs. Tuesday went out and said she probably would not be home for dinner. She told me to take Cassandra over to the Adamson’s when she got home from school. She said that she did not know if you would be coming home either, so I did not bother making anything for dinner.” It was signed cryptically, “Mrs. H.” He thought he could detect a distinct note of disapproval of both of them, between the lines. He could understand it, and was inclined to agree with it, as he crumbled both notes and threw them in the waste basket.
Going on through the house to his bedroom, he removed his jacket, tie and shirt, and briefly ran his electric razor over the light stubble on his face and chin that had replenished itself since the morning. He brushed his teeth, put on a fresh shirt, with the same tie, redonned his jacket and, leaving the house, crossed the road and walked up the curving path to the
Adamson’s front door. The sounds of music and children’s voices were intermingled with the chiming doorbell and Sybil’s somewhat strident tones as he heard her call out, “I’ll get it, darling.”
The door was flung open dramatically, as Sybil did everything. She stood framed in the doorway, one arm and hand extended upward along the frame, a cocktail glass held delicately on the tips of the long, slender fingers of her other hand. She was dressed in a black, satiny blouse with very wide sleeves, open in front in a broad “V” reaching from the edges of her shoulders down to her waist; and a long, black and white checked skirt. It was obvious she wore no bra, and equally obvious that she had no need for one. Despite her somewhat heavy-handed theatricality, he liked her and took pleasure in chiding her about the similarity of her and her husband’s dress and build.
“Good lord, Phil. I didn’t know you had so much hair on your chest,” he said, straight-faced .
“Mark! You beast!” she exclaimed loudly, covering the opening between her small pointed breasts with her free hand. “If you have five minutes to spare, I’ll gladly prove who I am!”
Phil appeared behind her, gently swirling a decanter of martinis. “If your blouse was cut any lower, you wouldn’t have to, my pet.” he said, winking at him over her shoulder.
As usual, they were dressed alike, except that the sleeves of Phil’s shirt were not as full, or the ‘V’ as wide and deep as his wife’s-and he wore black and white checked bell-bottomed slacks. Still, the similarity was striking.
“Neither would you, fella,” he told him.
They both laughed. Sybil reached out and took him by the arm. “Enough already. Come in and have a drink.”
As he stepped through the doorway, Cassandra came running up to throw herself at him. “Daddy! Daddy! Mrs. Hards-tea said you weren’t coming home.”
He stooped to pick her up and held her in his arms. “I didn’t think I would be, and I do have to go out again right away, sweetheart. I just wanted to make sure that Mr. and Mrs. Adamson weren’t cooking you for supper.”
She placed her small, soft hands against his chest and pushed back. As she had that morning, she looked at him quizzically for a moment, until he let himself smile. Then, she laughed merrily.
“They don’t eat people! Anyhow, they’re vegtabletarians.”
They all laughed at her misconstruction of ‘vegetarians’, which happened to be a temporary fad of the Adamsons. He set her down. She clung to his hands, looking up at him.
“Are you going to be out very late, Daddy?”
“I’m not sure, honey.”
“Since you and Marie are both going to be out, why not let her stay with us for the night,” Phil suggested.
“Oh! Could I, Daddy? Please,” Cassandra pleaded.
The Adamson’s daughter, Dana, had followed Cassandra, and now stood shyly at her mother’s side, her eyes reflecting her own eagerness. The two children regularly exchanged overnight visits, although they both preferred to stay at the Adamson house where they werenot subject to Marie’s ill-tempered and frequently unnecessary discipline.
“Well, I guess it’s all right with me, as long as Dana doesn’t mind your snoring.”
She smiled up at him. “Dana doesn’t mind. Do you Dana?”
“No,” the other child answered. “I snore louder than she does!”
The two of them giggled furiously at their own repartee, while Phil and Sybil gazed at them in dismay.
He squatted down next to Cassandra, hugging her to him. “In that case, I’m glad I don’t have to sleep with either of you.” After another fit of giggling which this inspired, he told her, “You be a good girl, sweetheart, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
She kissed him soundly and the two of them ran off toward the back of the house, chattering about their plans for the evening.
“How about that drink?” Phil asked, as they disappeared from sight.
“Thanks, Phil. But, I’m afraid I don’t have time.” Reaching in his pocket, he took out a small leather case and detached his house key. He handed it to Sybil. “In case you need anything for her. Leave it in the mailbox so I can get in when I get home.”
She dropped the key into a large pocket hidden in the folds of her voluminous skirt. “It’s probably not necessary. They’re like two peas and wear all the same sizes.”
“Just like us,” Phil interjected. “Even to the shoes.”
Sybil’s feet were exceptionally long and slender and she was very self-conscious of the fact. She feigned a haughty indifference. “I choose to ignore that remark, as well as the source.”
“I think I’d better be going before the discussion gets any more anatomical,” he told them.
He started to turn away. Sybil, suddenly serious, put a hand on his arm. “Mark, before you leave I...that is, we.”
Her hesitancy warned him what she was leading up to. It was inevitable that sooner or later their curiosity would get the better of them but, as always, he resented any intrusion into his personal affairs. Phil must have read the thought in his eyes or the tightening of his jaw. He stepped forward and put a long arm around his wife’s shoulders.
“What this very wonderful woman of mine is trying to say, friend, is that no matter how hard we try to ignore the difficulty you and Marie seem to be having at present, we are not blind or indifferent to it-and we’re not passing any judgments. We only want you to know that whatever happens, we’ll be very happy to take care of Cassandra for as long, or as often, as necessary.”
He looked from one to the other and realized that, beneath the brittle banter and veneer of sophistication, they were simply two warm and unselfish people. The fact that their assessment of the situation between him and Marie was, undoubtedly, inaccurate, was immaterial-although he knew he should have taken a deeper, and sooner, interest in her mysterious comings and goings of late. It also occurred to him that he was now taking advantage of the children’s friendship, and the Adamson’s generosity, in the same way as Marie had been doing and, for all he knew, with even less justification. Their allusion to the problem made him aware of just how serious and obvious the situation had become, and how wide a gulf now existed between him and Marie. He saw that he could no longer maintain, or abide, the pretense that she did not matter or even exist. He would have to come to grips with reality and, hopefully, find a solution for all of them-Marie, himself, Cassandra and Elise. For he knew that, in agreeing to see him again, she had now become inextricably a part of his life-and that he was now wasting precious moments when he could be with her.
His long delay in answering had made them obviously uncomfortable and apparently apprehensive of his reaction. Hoping to reassure them, he tried to convey a sense of appreciation for their concern which he thought they wanted to hear, but which he did not quite feel.
“Thanks. Both of you. For myself and especially for Cassandra.” Impulsively, he stepped forward, kissed Sybil and shook Phil’s hand. “There. You see. I really do know the difference.”
They both laughed again, and the tension dissolved. He turned and opened the door. Phil clapped him heartily on the back as he walked out and Sybil called after him. “Vive la difference, darling!”