As he crossed the hospital lobby to the entrance he could see that the mist had given way to a hazy sunshine, and he would probably not need the raincoat that he had been carrying draped over his arm all morning, after all. He went through the revolving door and threaded his way between the rows of cars to where he had parked his own.
While he drove through the almost deserted streets and beneath the still dripping trees of the town, avoiding the main business district, his thoughts returned to Wanda and he felt certain that the story Flynn and Bucheck had told the young doctor was a pack of lies-even if she had corroborated it. No doubt, she had only done so out of fear because the two deputies had been the source of her injuries in the first place, and represented a potentially greater threat if she told the truth. Obviously-and the thought clenched his jaw in anger—they must have gone to her place to get her; or waited for her when she got home from her date; after they left Closter’s last night. They must have taken her with them and-after beating, torturing and assaulting her-had then brought her to the hospital with the phony story of the fight with her boyfriend.
But why? Why had they beaten her? And the only answer that seemed to make any sense was that the truck stop manager, Grossman, had reported his visit and apparent interest in Wanda.
But, to who? Bentley? It had to be. He had thought he had seen the deputy, Flynn, leaving the truck stop as he arrived. So, unless Flynn came back after he left, and Grossman then told him of seeing him talking to Wanda, he could not have known about it. But, would Flynn and Bucheck then have acted on their own to chastise Wanda for her presumed indiscretion? He doubted it, and felt sure they had acted on Bentley’s orders. He had gone directly to the sheriff’s office from the truck-stop and-because of the obese lawman’s strange reaction to his information about Closter, and his apparent disinclination to take any positive action in the case-had deliberately refrained from mentioning his conversation with the girl. That fact alone would have aroused Bentley’s suspicions.
If Bentley had already known about it?
If Grossman had reported it to him?
If Bentley, Grossman and the two deputies were all involved in the hijacking operation?
And if Wanda really knew something that could incriminate them?
He could not help speculating, with grim satisfaction, which of the two deputies-or, if both-had forcibly copulated with the venereal Wanda. It would serve them both right. They were a weird, dangerous pair. He had felt a vague, indefinable uneasiness with the two of them at the scene of the accident-and, last night at Closter’s, their presence had unaccountably, but immediately, caused him to suspect something other than suicide. But, obviously, neither of them was capable of running the hijacking operation. They were not in a position to get the kind of information that would be necessary-such as the schedule of the truck that was to be hijacked. That could only have come from Closter. But, both of them had seen Closter following the crash of the Central States truck, and had not recognized him. Or, if they had, had apparently carried out a superb charade in pretending not to-which he did not think either possessed the ability or imagination to do. No. They took their orders from Bentley-or from Bentley and Grossman working together.
But, where did they get their information from? Especially, where did Bentley get his from? Certainly not from Closter. His reaction to the information regarding Closter’s position with Affiliated Distribution Systems, and his relationship to the freight in the wrecked trailer, could not have been an act. But, neither could he accept the vulture-like truck stop manager as Closter’s contact. If he was-if either of them was-it could only mean that Closter knew not only how the hijackings were carried out, but also, who was doing it-and there would have been no need for him to follow the truck when it left Affiliated’s warehouse, regardless of what he intended to do about it. So, there had to be still somebody else involved-somebody who was getting the information from Closter and relaying it to Bentley or Grossman. Bentley seemed the most likely, since he controlled the two deputies, who undoubtedly performed the actual hijacking; and was in the best position to coordinate their activities with Grossman.
But, who was the somebody who was clever enough to control both Closter and Bentley while, seemingly, managing to keep his right hand from knowing what his left hand was doing? And, equally important, what was the real purpose of the hijackings? Because there seemed no doubt now that more than just hijacking was involved. The amount of money that could be realized from the freight that had been taken from the Central States trailer-and from the previous hijackings Ben had told him about-was obviously not enough to justify the risks or to adequately compensate everybody who seemed to be a part of the operation. The cases of exotic foods and delicacies had to be the real object of the hijacker’s intentions and apparently contained something more than their advertised contents. Ben’s guess that it was “dope or somethin”, was probably right.
In the daylight, he had no trouble finding the Closter home again and, as he turned into the driveway between the high, thick hedges shielding it from the road, he saw that it was a large, old farmhouse that had been extensively modernized with a new roof and siding, a new front entrance with wide, bowed windows on either side, and the addition of the two-car garage. The original lines of the house had been preserved however, and he thought that it looked to be a singularly attractive and comfortable place to live-despite the grisly event that had occurred there only the night before.
He parked in front of the entrance and left his raincoat in the car. Getting out, he mounted the steps to the front door and found the button for the doorbell that he had been unable to locate last night in the dark. Pushing it, he heard the faint sound of chimes from inside and, in a few seconds, could see the plump figure of Mrs. Closter through the curtained glass partition of the door, approaching from the direction of the kitchen. She opened the door and even managed a faint smile as she greeted him.
“Good morning, Mr. Tuesday. It’s nice to see you again. I suppose you got my message?”
He stepped inside and she closed the door behind him. “Yes, I did, Mrs. Closter. I would have been here sooner but I was delayed at the hospital.”
“At the hospital?” she said with a puzzled frown. “Is somebody.?” she started to ask and then realized at least part of his reason for having gone to the hospital. She put a plump hand alongside her mouth as if she were afraid of being overheard. “Oh, of course. About William.”
“Yes, Mrs. Closter. About your husband.” He put his hand lightly on her arm. “I had a long talk with the coroner, Doctor Johnson, about his.. .the cause of his death.”
She looked up at him, her eyes searching his face hopefully. “What did he.? Did William.? Was it.?” She seemed unable to put her hopes into words.
He knew that, as a Catholic, her husband’s apparent suicide held a special connotation for her. It was generally looked upon by the church authorities as one of the worst of sins for which he could be deprived of the last rites of the religion and denied burial in consecrated ground. He wanted to relieve her mind of this worry, but felt that it was still too premature-and his theories too tenuous-to do more than give her grounds for hope-but he could, at least, do that much.
“Why don’t we go out to the kitchen and we’ll talk about it, Mrs. Closter. I’d appreciate a cup of coffee if you have any made.”
“Oh, yes. Of course, Mr. Tuesday,” she replied, slightly flustered. “I’m sorry to keep you standing here in the hall.”
She turned and he followed her down the hall and through the swinging door into the large warm kitchen. With the sun streaming through the windows, it was even brighter and cheerier than he had remembered it. He seated himself in the booth where he had sat the previous night and, in a minute, she set a cup of steaming coffee in front of him.
“I was just about to make myself some lunch when you arrived, Mr. Tuesday,” she informed him. “Would you care to join me?”
He was mildly surprised by the invitation, considering the circumstances, but realized it was close to noon time and he was hungry.
“Why, yes. Thank you Mrs. Closter. I’ll be happy to.”
She smiled-almost gratefully, it seemed-and started to busy herself-cutting, chopping, mixing, stirring-as she moved between the work-table in the center of the room, and the counters and cupboards around the periphery. She was evidently one of those women who was happiest and most contented when engaged in the task of preparing something to eat, and preferably, for someone besides herself. He noticed that the more engrossed she became in the preparation of their food, the more oblivious she seemed to be of his reason for being there.
They chatted pleasantly, like old friends, and, in answer to his questions, she told him how they had bought the house a year after moving to the area from the west coast. They-or, more accurately, he-had been working on it ever since. Almost single-handedly, he had installed new heating and air-conditioning, new plumbing, new wiring, laid new flooring, enlarged rooms upstairs and down-in fact, he had virtually rebuilt the inside of the house. It had become Closter’s hobby as well as his home, and apparently they had no other outside interests. There were no children-which she obviously regretted-only the one sister on her side, and no close friends to speak of. Although she seemed friendly and outgoing, her husband, on the contrary, had apparently been withdrawn and introverted. And, while she appeared to like and enjoy her home-and appreciated the work he had put into it-it was evident that it was out of deference to his wishes that they lived so far out in the country, and hid behind the screen of hedges. He felt sure that, while she obviously had cared for-even loved-her husband, and would miss him-at least, for awhile-she would eventually find more fulfillment and enjoyment in her widowhood. He thought it possible, that she would even marry again. She appeared to be only in her early fifties at the most, and was not unattractive in her plumpness. In addition to which, she apparently relished the role of wife and homemaker.
Finally, she began to serve the lunch, which turned out to be considerably more than he had anticipated-and more, he was sure, than she would have fixed for herself. First, there was a bowl of thick, homemade vegetable soup, followed by an enormous omelet stuffed with diced ham, peppers, onions and mushrooms, accompanied by light, flaky, hand-made biscuits and, for dessert, an eye popping moist and delicious, wedge of chocolate cake-which, she informed him, she had made that morning, just to have something to do.
She poured him a fresh cup of coffee, cleared away the dishes and; after putting them to soak in the sink full of hot, soapy water; sat back down opposite him. As their eyes met, he knew she had finally gotten the courage to ask him the question that she had been unable to complete earlier.
“Mr. Tuesday. Did my husband kill himself?”
He took a sip of the coffee and decided that she had a right to know what he believed-and that he believed himself to be right. “No, Mrs. Closter. I don’t believe he did. But, it’s only fair to tell you that, at the moment, I can’t prove he didn’t or tell you exactly how he did die.” He went on to explain the improbability of the chair, the ladder and the blacked-out room which first led him to doubt Closter’s suicide. He did not go into the details of the causes for the coroner’s doubts, but did tell her that the doctor was inclined to agree that he had not taken his own life. She looked as if she did not know whether to be pleased or dismayed by his information.
“But.. .who.. .why would anyone want to.. .kill William?” she asked as he finished.
“Those are the two questions I’m trying to find the answer to. The ‘who’ I don’t know, but the ‘why’ I can guess at.” He paused to finish his coffee before continuing. “It seems probable that Mr. Closter was.. .killed because of what he had seen before and, possibly, during the accident the other night-which, it turns out, was not an accident after all.”
“It wasn’t?”
“No, Mrs. Closter. You see, the truck had been hijacked and the driver seriously injured by the hijackers before the accident. Then, the driver was put back in the truck and they tried to make it look as if he had simply lost control and was killed in the crash.”
“Oh, my! How terrible! But, William.how did he.?” She seemed unable, or unwilling, to put her husband’s part in the affair into words.
He saved her the trouble, or the embarrassment-he was not sure which-by explaining, “Mr. Closter apparently suspected that something of the sort was going to happen and left his office early to follow the truck, which had been loaded at the Affiliated warehouse that morning.” There was no point in telling her of his denials, or of his explanation of how he had spent the time before the accident, both of which were untrue in any case. “I’m reasonably certain that he witnessed the hijacking and saw what happened to the driver. Then he.”
“He did, Mr. Tuesday!” she exclaimed, starting to get up.
“What! Are you sure, Mrs. Closter? Did he tell you.?”
But she was out of the booth and almost running across the kitchen to the door leading to the hall, calling back to him as she went, “No! No! Wait! I’ll get the pictures and be right back!”
The door swung closed behind her and he sat staring at it, dumbfounded. Pictures! Could it be possible that Closter had actually taken pictures of the hijacking, and that was what she had found? It was almost too much to hope for and he waited impatiently as he heard her going up the stairs to the second floor and, a few seconds later, coming back down again. She reentered the kitchen, hurrying across the room with her hand extended toward him, holding a small, white envelope.
“These are what I called your office about,” she explained breathlessly. “I found them this morning when I was going through William’s things, but I couldn’t make out what it was that he had photographed.”
He took the envelope from her hand as she sat back down opposite him. There was no writing on it. The flap was unsealed and, opening it, he removed three pieces of stiff, folded, black paper. The word ‘Polaroid’ was printed in red on the back of each one and, unfolding them he realized that they were not pictures, in the true sense, but three Polaroid color film matrices-the part of the self-developing film that was normally discarded after the picture was developed. But, unlike regular transparent film negatives, which reverse the dark and light areas of the actual photograph, Polaroid color film matrices are almost duplicates of the prints they produce-except, without the color and with less contrast—but still, clear, distinguishable pictures.
He saw now, however, that the subject matter of these matrices had apparently been photographed from a considerable distance, and that the foreground and edges were mottled by the shadows of overhanging tree limbs. The middle portion of each one was clearer and brighter, but still, the images were too small to identify the subject matter.
“Perhaps this will help,” Mrs. Closter said. He looked up and saw that she had also brought along a heavy, glass paperweight, the center of which was also a magnifying glass. “I tried using it myself earlier when I first found them,” she explained, “but I still couldn’t make out what they were. But, maybe your eyes are better than mine.”
The tabs attached to the matrices were numbered 1-2-3, and he put them in sequence. Placing the glass on top of the number one matrix, he moved it slowly into position. The enlarged images became recognizable, although the features of the individuals were not. He repeated the process with the other two matrices, with the same result. Apparently, Closter had been afraid of getting any closer for fear of revealing his presence. But, he had gotten close enough.
All three pictures showed the rear end of two trucks parked side by side in a clearing at the end of a dirt road lined by tall trees. The one on the left was a large trailer with the rear doors open and fastened back to the sides. The other was a small, van-type with the single rear door opened wide. The first picture showed two men. The larger of the two was standing on the ground with his arms upraised, and a smaller man was standing in the rear of the trailer handing him a package. In the second picture, a third man had appeared at the rear and to one side of the trailer, and the other two were looking at him as if startled by his appearance. In the third picture, the smaller man had climbed down from the trailer and stood watching hands on hips, as his partner knelt astride the now prostrate form of the third man with his hand covering the lower part of the other’s face.
Although, even with the magnifying glass, their faces were still not identifiable and they were not in uniform, he was certain that the two men who appeared in all three photographs were Flynn and Bucheck, and that the third man was undoubtedly the unfortunate Mike Haggerty. He was convinced of it when he noticed that, in the third picture, there was a bright spot of light on the right hip of the smaller man which could have been caused by the sun reflecting off the pearl handle of Bucheck’s nickel-plated revolver.
As he studied the almost unbelievable pictures; moving the paperweight from one to another, he felt the excitement of Mrs. Closter’s discovery rising in him, tensing his stomach muscles and tightening around his chest. They confirmed all his suspicions-if only they could be enlarged enough to be usable as positive identification of the two deputies.
“Where did you find these, Mrs. Closter?” he asked.
“The envelope was in the pocket of his suit coat. The one he wore Monday.” She patted her left breast to show which pocket she had found them in.
“Are you sure it was the same suit he wore Monday?”
“Yes. He had five suits and always wore the same one each day of the week. It was in his Monday suit.” She smiled wanly. “On weekends and holidays he usually wore old clothes to work around the house-unless we went out.” Which was not often, her voice implied silently and sadly, perhaps recalling lost opportunities and knowing they would not come again.
“The original prints weren’t with them?”
“No. That’s all I found.”
He thought he could guess what had happened to them. It seemed likely that Closter had probably tried to use the prints as a lever to get the guarantees he wanted from his earlier visitor. If so, it would have been foolhardy of the visitor to kill him without getting the prints first. But, possibly recognizing them as Polaroid prints, he had mistakenly assumed there were no negatives, not realizing that the matrices were effective duplicates of the originals. He doubted that Closter had had time to have additional prints made, and had counted on the matrices as his ‘ace-in-the-hole’-which is what they had turned out to be, but too late to do him any good.
“Have you told anyone else about finding these?”
She shook her head. “No. Your secretary is the only other person I’ve talked to this morning.”
“It would probably be best if you didn’t mention them to anyone else, Mrs. Closter. They could very well help to prove that your husband didn’t take his own life.” He knew that her primary concern was the manner, and not cause, of his death. But, if enlargements could be made proving that Closter actually had witnessed the hijacking and the attack on the driver, it would tend to negate the possibility of suicide. Why would he kill himself when he had proof that he was not directly involved in either crime-even if he was an accessory?
“Are they pictures of the truck that you think William followed that day?” she asked hopefully.
“They seem to be, Mrs. Closter, but I can’t be positive until I have them enlarged.” Anticipating her next question, he added, “-and that goes for the people in them too. I suppose you don’t have any objection to my taking them with me?”
“Oh, no! Not at all. I was hoping you would know what to do with them and what they meant.” She paused and reached across to put her soft, small hand on top of his. “I do pray that.that they can help.William.somehow.” Her voice trailed off as she appeared to realize how little they could help him at this point. He was glad that she apparently had not thought to ask him for any further explanation of her husband’s actions-or maybe, she was just afraid of what his answers might be.
He replaced the matrices in the envelope and put it in the left breast pocket of his own suit coat. “Have you come across anything else that would give us a clue as to who his earlier visitor might have been-or if he ever arrived?”
“No, Mr. Tuesday. I looked again this morning, but didn’t find a sign of anybody else having been here.”
“I don’t suppose your husband kept a diary?”
She smiled faintly. “No. William.kept everything to himself, I’m sorry to say.”
“What about an appointment calendar, or a telephone index.”
Her eyes grew sadder as she replied, “He never had any need for either.” She did not have to explain why. It must have been a lonely and cheerless life for her with him. She deserved better, and he hoped she would find it.
He thought that she should be prepared to know the worst about her husband but, after the kindness and confidence she had shown toward him, he did not have the heart to tell her that he probably had been a thief and an accessory to murder. Besides, he still was not sure how deeply he had been involved-or why. He remembered that Elise had said that Mrs. Closter had hinted at his having spent some time in prison when he was in the service. He was tempted to ask her about it, but decided it was not the time to open old wounds and it probably had no bearing on his death anyhow. But, if someone else had known about it, and had used the knowledge to force him to go along with the hijacking scheme under threat of exposure, then the degree of his guilt would be considerably mitigated-and it would be unnecessarily painful to let her think he was any worse than he had been.
“Well, I’ll keep you advised of any other developments, Mrs. Closter,” he told her, as he started to slide out of the booth.
“There.there was something else that happened last night, Mr. Tuesday, that seems rather.rather odd, now that I think about it.” She hesitated, as if to get a firm grip on whatever was bothering her. “Perhaps it doesn’t mean anything, but I’d like to know what you think.”
“What was it, Mrs. Closter?”
“Well.when the deputy arrived.the young blond one that.that squeezed you by the neck, was the first to get here-he went directly to the basement entrance. I.I had to.. .to go back down there, past William, to let him in. When the other one got here, he did the same thing but, by then, there was a light down there and perhaps he saw the first deputy through the window.” She paused, and he thought he could guess what was troubling her before she put it into words. “But, what I don’t understand, is how the first one knew where William was?”
He silently cursed Flynn’s stupidity although he realized it was a clear indication of his prior knowledge of how, and where, Closter had died-even that he knew because he was the one that had killed him, despite the coroner’s theory of the left and right hand karate chops. But, he resented having to try to explain and excuse it to Mrs. Closter in order to ease her mind.
“Are you sure you didn’t leave the light on yourself after you found him?” he asked her.
“No, I didn’t,” she replied, shaking her head vigorously from side to side. “It.it didn’t seem right to.. .to leave him like.. .like that, with the light on. I.I even used a flashlight to go down to open the door for the deputy.”
He could imagine her horror at having to squeeze past the dangling body of her husband in the dark, to open the door for Flynn. It was hard to believe that-even as unimaginative as he had seemed-he could be guilty of such a crude faux pas.
“Well.. .I wouldn’t attach too much significance to it if I were you, Mrs. Closter,” he said, hoping to reassure her. “Policemen have a tendency to jump to conclusions and perhaps, from experience, the basement seemed like the logical place to look for him. Besides, you may have mentioned it when you phoned the sheriff’s office to report it.”
“But, I didn’t call the sheriff’s office. I called the hospital. And I really don’t think I did say where I had found him.” She paused again, frowning, and then added, “and it also seems strange that neither of them asked about a note.. .or if I knew of any reason for him to.. .to do such a thing.”
It was difficult to keep inventing explanations for their carelessness but, with everything else she faced, he did not want her wondering if either or both of them were possibly her husband’s murderers.
“I’m afraid neither of them is very bright, Mrs. Closter. Chances are that since they didn’t find a note in the basement they just assumed there wasn’t any.”
She did not seem entirely convinced but nodded in agreement. “Yes. I suppose you’re right.”
He glanced up at the clock over the sink. It was almost one-thirty.” I think I’d better be going. I’d like to see what can be done to get the pictures enlarged.”
She got up when he did and also looked at the clock. “Oh dear!” she exclaimed. “My sister’s plane is due in at three o’clock and I told her I’d meet her at the airport!”
“Isn’t there somebody else who could meet her for you-or couldn’t she just as easily take the limousine?”
“Oh, no! I don’t mind, and it gives me something to do.”
She walked with him to the front door. “Thank you for an excellent lunch, Mrs. Closter, and for the pictures. I’m sure they are going to be a big help in clearing things up, and I appreciate you letting me have them.”
She grasped his hand in both of her soft, dimpled ones. “You’re entirely welcome, Mr. Tuesday. I’m so glad you could come.” She blinked back her tears. “My William wasn’t an.. .easy man to.. .to know. But, he worked hard and he.. .he was a good husband, I.I only want to be able to remember him that way.”
He felt strangely moved by the halting, heartfelt words, and her apparent hope that, somehow, he would be able to salvage her husband’s reputation-and, perhaps, his soul as well. He knew he was powerless to do anything about the latter but, as he got into his car and completed the semi-circle of the driveway back to the road, he was determined that he would do whatever he could to preserve Closter’s memory for his wife.