He drove slowly away from the Closter house, back towards Plainville, trying to decide how to go about getting the pictures enlarged. He knew it was not possible to make an enlargement directly from a Polaroid print and that it first was necessary to photograph the print in order to get a negative. There seemed to be no reason why reproducible negatives could not be obtained from the matrices, despite the lack of sharp contrast between the dark and light areas. With the aid of the magnifying glass, he had been able to clearly distinguish the two vehicles and the three individuals that Closter had photographed. The lens of a good camera would probably be able to ‘see’ them even more clearly. But, the question was, could the negatives then be used to produce enlargements that would retain enough detail to provide identification of the two deputies? If not, their value as evidence was questionable since the features even under the magnifying glass were unidentifiable, although he would be willing to swear that two of them were Flynn and Bucheck.
He probably should turn them over to the FBI, but he wanted to satisfy himself first that they could be used as evidence. Besides, it seemed likely that they would only sit on them until they were ready to move against the leaders of the hijacking ring-but he was convinced now that Flynn and Bucheck were too dangerous to be allowed to remain free any longer than it would take to get the evidence necessary to convict them of their crimes. He was sure he had the evidence in his pocket, and it was only a matter of having it put in conclusive form.
But, obviously, he could not just take them to the village drugstore as he did with the occasional roll of film that he took of Cassandra. Nor, because of the time element, would it be practical to send them to the Polaroid Company-even if they were willing to provide the enlargements without the questions that he preferred to avoid. If only he knew a photographer-and, he did! Phil Adamson used photography to supplement his artistry in his fashion illustrations-and he had once remarked about having his own darkroom in the basement of their home.
He did not want to involve Phil-or Sybil-in the tragic and increasingly dangerous series of events that had been occurring over the past few days-particularly in view of what had happened to Closter and Wanda after they had talked to him. But, there did not seem any harm in merely asking Phil if it was possible to make enlargements from the matrices, or even-if he had the technical skill and equipment to do so and was willing-in leaving them with him. So far, only he and Mrs. Closter knew about them-unless her husband’s murderer had thought of the possibility and the threat of their existence, which seemed unlikely. He had probably assumed that Closter had simply discarded them, as users of Polaroid cameras usually did. He felt sure he could rely on Mrs. Closter to say nothing about them but, to be on the safe side, it would be best not to tell her what he did with them-at least, not until he knew for certain how useful they were as evidence. If he did not tell anyone else-with the possible exception of Elise-he did not see any way that Phil could then be connected with them.
Skirting the bustling activity of the main streets of Plainville, he headed toward the highway, having decided that taking the matrices to his neighbor was the most logical, and most expedient, way of finding out just how valuable they were-or could be made to be. It also occurred to him that he should have asked Mrs. Closter to let him examine her husband’s camera so he could see if he had taken any more than the three pictures. He doubted that he had, or that they were usable, since the matrices probably would have been with the others in the envelope in his ‘Monday’ suit. But, he made a mental note to call her later just to be sure.
If nothing else, the three matrices did confirm his previous speculations about Closter’s activities between the time he left his office and was almost run down by the Central States truck. There was no doubt now, that he had followed the trailer and had actually witnessed the hijacking and the attack on the driver. He could not be sure what he had done after watching, and photographing, those events but, either he never got closer to the two deputies than the pictures indicated, or he simply had not recognized them-at least, not at first-when he saw them later in their uniforms at the scene of the crash. But then, he had apparently lied about his wife being ill in asking Flynn to take his statement first. Perhaps something in their mannerisms-or something more substantial, like Bucheck’s pearl-handled revolver-had made him aware of who they were. Whatever it was, it would account for his desire to get away from there-and them-as quickly as possible.
Obviously, his fear had been unwarranted since neither of the deputies had recognized him, or had attached any significance to either his presence at the scene or his eagerness to leave it. If they had, they certainly would have made some attempt to detain him or, at the least, would have reported it to Bentley afterwards. Apparently, they did neither, and it could only mean that they had been unaware they had been followed and observed by Closter in the commission of the hijacking.
By the same token, it also seemed to rule out the two of them as Closter’s murderers-even though, by Tuesday night, they had undoubtedly learned from Bentley who he was and could guess what he had been up to the day before. Flynn was certainly tall enough to have been able to tie the extension cord around the crossbeam while standing on the chair-and strong enough to lift Closter into position to put the noose around his neck-with or without Bucheck’s assistance. In addition, their lack of interest in a suicide note on top of Flynn’s blunder in going directly to the basement entrance, certainly indicated that they had cause to believe he had not killed himself.
But, if Closter had recognized them and knew what they were capable of, it was unlikely that he would have willingly admitted either of them under any pretext-and there had been no sign of a forced entry or of a struggle in the workshop. Besides, neither of them could have given him the kind of guarantees of protection that he must have wanted, and intended to use the pictures to bargain for. Even Bentley-assuming he had deduced what Closter had been up to-would have realized that he would not have dealt with either of the deputies or with himself, for that matter. In all probability, he had simply put Closter under surveillance and sat back to wait further developments-with a pretty good idea of what those developments might entail and who their protagonist might be.
No. Closter’s expected visitor would have had to have been somebody else entirely-somebody who he felt reasonably safe with. Safe enough, at least, to be willing to admit and be alone with even though he must have realized the threat that he himself represented to the other’s continued freedom and well being. It was possible that Bentley had been in contact with the man that Closter expected and knew what the outcome of his visit would be. In any event, it seemed probable that the visitor had been the man who relayed the information from Closter to Bentley, and who was actually the organizer and director of the entire hijacking operation. A sort of Mr. In-Between-and, incongruously, the admonition of an old song, ‘don’t mess with Mr. In-Between’, now reoccurred to him with a new and more sinister meaning than the lyricist had ever imagined.
The in-between man was known to both of them but, prior to the fatal crash of the Central States truck, it was evident that neither had known of the other’s involvement in the scheme. Whoever Mr. In-Between was, he apparently had a powerful hold over both of them. In Closter’s case, it seemed probable that it had been his past prison record. But, as far as the fat sheriff was concerned, it was easy to believe his own avarice would have been sufficient to make him a willing participant. At the same time, Closter must have known something about his expected visitor-other than his role in the hijacking operation-that would have given him reason for the confidence he had seemingly felt in asking him to come to see him, and for anticipating his help.
But now, with Closter dead, it would seem to spell the end of the hijacking-and smuggling-and both Mr. In-Between and Bentley would be busy covering their tracks-or; if another Closter was available; setting up a new operation. He remembered Closter’s assistant, Tompkins, and weighed the possibility that he was qualified to take over the dead traffic manager’s functions, legitimate or otherwise. He had seemed rather young and naive, but also susceptible and easily influenced by the simplest forms of flattery or praise. If Mr. In-Between was as persuasive and powerful as his control over Closter and Bentley seemed to indicate, he could believe that Tompkins would present no problem for him-assuming, of course, that the young man did inherit Closter’s job.
He realized he was now doing what he had repeatedly cautioned Ben against-getting way ahead of himself and events in his speculations. The immediate problem was to determine the evidentiary value of the Polaroid matrices and, as he pulled into his driveway, he glanced across at the Adamson house and was glad to see Phil’s little Fiat parked in their open garage. Sybil’s Cadillac was not in sight and, presumably, she was out. He was not sorry. He knew he was going to have to give Phil some explanation to get his cooperation, but thought he would be inclined to be less inquisitive than his wife.
His own garage door was still closed and locked as he had left it that morning. It was a sure sign that Marie had not come home as yet. He knew he should be more concerned about her and that he would have to do something about finding out where she was, and if she was all right. But, he was getting too close to a solution to the whole ugly mess to put it aside now-and he was not going to sacrifice a moment with Elise-in order to look for her. Besides, except for calling her sister-who he despised and mistrusted-he had no idea who she might be with, or where. If she was not with Julie Fay, he did not know where to begin to look for her. And, to go blindly searching for her-or to hire someone else for the purpose-was repugnant to him. But, if she did not turn up soon-by tomorrow morning, at the latest-he would have to start to make some effort to locate her. After all, she was still his wife and Cassandra’s mother—at least, for the time being.
For now though, he once more pushed her to the back of his mind as he walked up to the Adamson’s front door and pushed the button. In a few seconds Phil opened the door and he could see the mixture of surprise and puzzlement in his eyes, despite the friendly greeting.
“Hi, Mark! What brings you here this time of day? Cassandra’s not home from school yet, if that’s who you’re looking for.”
“I know, That’s not what I came to see you about. Can I come in?”
“Certainly!” He stepped aside to let him enter and closed the door behind him. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“I hope so,” he responded enigmatically. “You do have a darkroom, and an enlarger, don’t you?”
The inner ends of Phil’s slender, dark eyebrows drew together in a quizzical frown. He pinched the end of his long, thin nose between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.
“Why.. .yes, I do. Is there something you want me to make an enlargement of?”
“If you can.”
His frown deepened. “What is it?”
“Let’s sit down and I’ll show you.”
“Of course. Excuse my bad manners.” Phil motioned him to precede him into their strikingly and colorfully furnished living room. He sat in a deep, wide-armed, squat chair covered in a vivid, tufted orange material. He had sat in it before and was always surprised to find it was so much more comfortable than it looked. Phil sprawled next to him in the corner of an oversize sofa covered in contrasting stripes of orange, gold and brown. Fortunately, the beige slacks and open-necked yellow sport shirt he was wearing blended agreeably with his background.
“Now, what is this intriguing matter that you’ve brought to my door?” he asked, an amused, speculative grin curling the corners of his wide mouth.
He took the envelope from his breast pocket, removed the three matrices and handed them to him. “Is it possible to make good, clear enlargements of these?”
Taking them from him, Phil looked at them curiously, slowly turning them in his long, slender fingers. Gently-almost cautiously-he unfolded the stiff, black backing and silently studied each one, holding them to the light coming though the large picture window behind him. His expression was more puzzled than amused when he turned back.
“I presume the original prints aren’t available?”
“No. They’re not.”
He glanced at the three matrices again. “I don’t know, Mark. I suppose it’s possible. I’d have to make negatives from these, of course. But as the man says, ‘what the eye can see the camera can photograph’ “ He hesitated, then added, “Only, the images are so small. I can’tquite make them out. What are they pictures of?”
“Did you hear or read about the accident near Plainville Monday night in which a truck driver was killed?” he asked him.
It took a few seconds for Phil to remember it. “Yes. I do recall hearing about it on the late news.” He held one of the matrices up to the light again. “Yes. I can see now that it is a picture of the back end of a large truck, with a smaller one parked alongside. But, they don’t appear to have been in an accident.”
“They hadn’t then.” Phil looked back at him expectantly. “The larger of the two was the one in which the driver was killed, after those pictures were taken-but it wasn’t an accident.”
His eyes widened. “Ahh! The plot thickens.” But his manner was not as flippant as his words.
“It’s literally as thick as thieves, and getting more viscous by the hour,” he responded. “At the moment those pictures were taken, the truck was being hijacked and the driver almost smothered to death by the hijackers. Afterwards, they put him back in the truck and turned it loose on the highway to make it look as if he was killed in the crash. He was, actually, but only because he was unable to prevent it, as a result of what had been done to him earlier.”
“Good God!” The angles of Phil’s face were deeply shadowed by the sunlight behind him, seeming to become sharper as his flesh got paler. He shuffled through the matrices again. “Obviously, you weren’t the photographer or you would have the originals. But.. .who was?”
“A man named Closter.”
He straightened up and leaned toward him. “Closter! Isn’t he the man who committed suicide last night?”
“He’s the man that was found hanging in his basement last night.”
It only took a moment for him to comprehend his meaning. “You mean things weren’t what they seemed in his case either?”
He realized he was wasting precious time feeding the information to him piecemeal, But, he had a right to know what he might be getting involved in. Omitting any mention of Elise or Wanda-neither of whom he had any need to know about, at least, for the time being-he quickly related the essential facts surrounding the death of the truck driver, including Closter’s connection with the trailer and his activities before and after the crash, his appointment with him and his reasons for believing he had not committed suicide, Mrs. Closter’s discovery of the Polaroid matrices and, finally, his belief that Bentley and his two deputies were the nucleus, if not the catalyst, of the hijacking operation.
When he finished, Phil continued to contemplate him in silence for the space of a few seconds, with one wryly raised eyebrow. “And I always thought the insurance business was so prosaic,” he said musingly.
“Normally, it is. The last couple of days have been anything but routine,” he told him.
His eyes registered a deepening concern and a growing apprehension. “Wouldn’t it be wiser to turn these over to the FBI and let them handle it?”
“It might be wiser, Phil,” he conceded, “but, it would also be a lot slower. If those can be transformed into conclusive evidence, they might be enough to persuade Bentley to make afull confession.”
“But.in the meantime.?” He left the implication hanging between them-unspoken but clearly understood.
“Bentley has no reason to think I’m doing anything more than I usually do for any of my clients.” The beating of Wanda indicated otherwise, but he needed Phil’s help. “As of now, only Mrs. Closter and me-and now you-know of the existence of these matrices. The.whoever has the originals has undoubtedly assumed that Closter discarded them-if he’s thought about them at all. If I thought there was any possibility of endangering you, or your family, I wouldn’t have brought them here.”
He really did not think there was any danger. At least, the possibility seemed so remote that it was worth the risk. Anyhow, there was no one else he could have taken them to. Even if Bentley did find out, what could he-or would he-do about it?
“I’m sure you wouldn’t have, Mark,” Phil replied. “All right, I’ll see what I can do with them.”
“Do you think you can enlarge them enough so the individuals can be positively identified?”
He briefly studied each one again. “Well.the contrast isn’t too good to start with, and some of the clarity will be lost in the enlarging, but I’ll do the best I can with them. When do you want them?”
No matter what happened during the rest of the afternoon, he wanted to see Elise again that evening, and then go see Wanda in the hospital afterwards.
“Tomorrow morning would be soon enough,” he told him.
“I might be able to have them ready by tonight, if you’d like?”
“I’m going to be busy, but I’ll call you later to see how they turned out.” He stood up and Phil uncoiled himself from the sofa, and walked with him to the front door. They shook hands, Phil looking slightly embarrassed. “What is it?” he asked him..
“Err.. .I was only wondering if you knew if Marie was going to be home this evening, or should we just plan on keeping Cassandra with us again?”
He had a right to ask, under the circumstances, and he appreciated his concern for the child. But, the realization of not having thought of her himself seared his mind like a red hot poker. In his eagerness to pursue the murderers of Haggerty and Closter; and, in his desire to be with Elise; he was becoming as neglectful and uncaring as Marie. He could not afford to let it happen. Cassandra was too vulnerable. And yet, he could not pull back now from either his eagerness or his desire. They were like a team of runaway horses. All he could do was hang on and, if he survived, hope his life, and his instincts, would return to some kind of normalcy.
“You’d better plan on keeping her with you, Phil. I don’t know if Marie will be home or not.” He paused, then decided he might as well know the rest. “She didn’t come home last night and I don’t know where she is at the moment.”
“Oh? You don’t suppose.” He hesitated as if afraid of putting his thoughts into words.
“I don’t suppose what?”
He made a wry grimace. “Well.. .it’s only a thought, Mark, but you don’t suppose her.. .herabsence has anything to do with what you’re working on, do you?”
The suggestion caught him completely by surprise. The possibility that the two problems could, somehow, be related had never entered his mind. But, it took only a few seconds to reject it when he realized she did not know anybody even remotely connected with the hijacking. She had never even met Ben and; since she rarely listened to the news, or read a newspaper; she probably had not even heard about the death of the Central States driver, or Closter’s ‘suicide’. Even though the coincidence seemed strange, she had been behaving mysteriously for some weeks now and her ‘absence’ was undoubtedly no more than the culmination of whatever she had been up to during that time-and which he did not care to think-or speculate-about just then.
“It’s an interesting suggestion, Phil. But, I’m certain that one has nothing to do with the other. She probably just stayed overnight at her sister’s.”
Phil did not seem quite as ready to disassociate Marie from the other events, but did not press the point. “All right, Mark. Obviously, you know more about.. .both, than I do.”
“ There’s a lot I don’t know, Phil. But, I appreciate your interest and your help, in more ways than one.” He saw that Phil understood that he was referring not only to the enlargement of the pictures-whether successful or not-but also to his interest in his daughter’s welfare, and his concern for his wife-even though the last was something he did not share.
Phil acknowledged his gratitude with a vague motion of his hand and a shrug. But his eyes were intensely serious. “Be careful, Mark. Don’t got too close to the fire.”
With a mild shock, he recognized his neighbor’s genuine fear for his safety, and knew that it was more than he had felt for him, or his family, in bringing the matrices to him. For a moment, he was tempted to tell him to forget about them and take them back. But, he knew it would be pointless. Phil would not be able to forget them, and his knowledge of them could be as fatal as having them in his possession-if Bentley found out about it.
“I’ll keep it in mind, Phil.”
He heard the door close softly behind him as he turned away, and started down the walk to cross the road to his own house.