Authors: Ellery Queen
He heard the city-hall clock strike nine at the same moment that he glimpsed the lights of the country club on the opposite side of the road, which indicated the very edge of town. He could have found sanctuary there, but Emily's apartment was only a quarter of a mile beyond the club, and by the time he had crossed the highway and followed the long, winding drive to the club building, he would have traveled nearly as far as to her place. He decided to go on. He moved onto the road now, for from here on there were houses, the shadows of which he could dart into if headlights appeared.
At nine-fifteen he rang the bell of Emily's apartment.
When she opened the door and saw him standing there laden with snow, his face red with cold and the scarf ridiculously tied beneath his chin as if he were some outsize peasant woman from the old country, she couldn't help bursting out laughing.
“I'm glad I tickle your funny bone,” he growled. “You'll roll on the floor when you hear how close I came to being dead.”
Her laughter died. “What happened, Ted?”
Inside he walked past her to the kitchen and hung his overcoat and scarf over the edge of the door so that the residue of melting snow could drip on the floor. He came back into the front room rubbing his hands and shivering.
“You need a hot drink,” Emily said with concern. “You look half frozen to death.”
“About seven-eighths, I think. Got any rum?”
“No, but I can make you a coffee royal.”
“I'll settle for that. Julie at work?”
“Yes,” Emily said. “She's still on three to eleven. But what happened?”
He walked through the bedroom to the bathroom and ran the washbowl full of lukewarm water. Pulling his sleeves up as far as they would go without removing the jacket of his suit, he plunged both hands into the water. After a few minutes he let some out and ran in more hot. He kept gradually increasing the hot until his hands and wrists were thoroughly thawed and his hands began to redden from the heat. Then he pulled the plug and dried his hands.
When he got back to the front room, Emily said, “I'm making instant because it's faster. That all right?”
“Sure,” he said. “The faster the better.”
“Ted Saxon,
will
you tell me what's wrong!”
chapter 17
While he was allowing the warmth of the coffee royal to seep through his body, Saxon told Emily the whole story.
“This proves your innocence,” she said excitedly. “They'll have to apologize and reinstate you.”
“Providing I can prove it,” Saxon said dryly. “I doubt that Benton and Wertz are going to admit taking me for a ride. They're probably busy establishing alibis right now. And I haven't any witnesses. It'll be my word against theirs.”
“There's the man left in the car. Do you think he was killed?”
“I'm sure of it. Nobody could survive a crash like that.”
“Then won't that support your story? If they establish that he was one of Larry Cutter's men, it will prove you were telling the truth.”
Saxon set down his coffee cup. “Of course it will. I'm not thinking very clearly. I guess my brain isn't thawed yet.”
Rising, he went over to the phone and dialed. “Police headquarters,” Vic Burns's voice said in his ear. “Lieutenant Burns.”
“This is Ted, Vic,” Saxon said. “I want to report an accident.”
“Okay. Shoot.”
“It's my car.” Saxon reeled off the make and license number. “You know that bridge over a ravine about four miles out of town toward Buffalo on Route Twenty?”
“Uh-huh. The one that marks the county line?”
“That's it. The car's at the bottom of the ravine just west of the bridge. Probably with a dead man in it. His name's John Simmons.”
“Jeepers! When'd this happen?”
Saxon glanced at his watch and saw it was nine-forty. He had been at Emily's just twenty-five minutes. “Almost three hours ago. Some time just before seven. I wasn't watching the time.”
“Three hours! Why'd you wait so long to call in?”
“I had to walk to town,” Saxon said. “There's more to the story, but I won't bother you with it over the phone. It's out of your jurisdiction anyway, because it happened out of town.”
“Okay, Ted. I'll pass it along to the state cops for investigation. You all right?”
“A little cold, but I'm thawing out. I wasn't hurt in the accident.”
“Good.” Vic Burns's voice turned thoughtful. “That name John Simmons rings a bell.”
“It should,” Saxon said. “He's the guy who posted bond for Edward Coombs.”
“That's it! I knew I'd heard it somewhere. What was he doing with you?”
“It's a long story,” Saxon said. “Better get on the radio to the state police. I'll see you later.”
Hanging up, he immediately dialed another number. When a male voice said, “Hello,” Saxon said, “Ben?”
“Yes,” Ben Foley said. “That you, Ted?”
“I stirred things up a bit in Buffalo today,” Saxon said. “Too much, I guess. I managed to get myself taken for a ride. I think the D.A. would be interested in my story, and I'd like you to sit in.”
“A ride? What happened?”
“It'll keep until we get together. Can you get away long enough to see Arn Kettle?”
“Tonight?”
“Sure. He's a servant of the public, supposedly available twenty-four hours a day. Want to call him and see if it's okay for us to come over?”
“Why don't you call him?”
“Because I'd only have to phone you back. I don't have a car, so you'll have to pick me up. I'm over at Emily's. You can make arrangements, then swing by here to get me.”
“Boy, the services lawyers have to perform for their clients,” Ben Foley said. “Okay. If he's not available, I'll call you back. Otherwise I'll honk out in front of Emily's place. That's the Hawthorne Apartments, isn't it?”
“Uh-huh. Miller 2-1041.”
“Got it,” Foley said. “Want to give me a hint as to what this is all about?”
“I'd only have to repeat it to Arn Kettle. Let's kill two birds with one stone.”
At 10
P.M
. a horn sounded outside.
“That's Ben,” Saxon said, going to get his coat and scarf from the kitchen. “If it was a little later, we could drop you off at work.”
“He'd love that,” Emily said, laughing. But she was not laughing when she kissed him.
It was still snowing and blowing when Saxon got outside. As he climbed in Ben Foley's car, the former mayor said, “How come no hat in this weather? Think you're still a college kid?”
“I got it shot off,” Saxon said. “You'll hear all about it when we get to Arn's. Have any trouble?”
“No. He's a night owl, too. And he's as curious to hear what you have to say as I am.”
District Attorney Arnold Kettle lived in one of the big lake-front homes southwest of the country club, a few blocks almost due west of Emily's apartment. It was only a five-minute drive.
Kettle himself answered the door, a bright-purple smoking jacket encasing his large stomach.
“Joanne's at a hen party,” he said. “And the kids are in bed. Come on in.”
He took their wraps and hung them on a clothestree in the entry hall, then led them into a broad, old-fashioned front room where a log was blazing in a huge fireplace.
“Drink?” he asked.
“I could stand a little anti-freeze,” Foley said. “My ancient bones can't take this kind of weather any more. Scotch on the rocks, if you've got it.”
Saxon said he'd have a bourbon and soda. Kettle disappeared into the kitchen and returned with three drinks on a tray. After passing them around, he settled in a chair between the other two men with a highball in his hand.
“Now what's this all about?” he asked Saxon.
Saxon started at the beginning and told the whole story of the day's events, withholding only the name of Tony Spijak as the one who had steered him to Alton Zek. By the time he finished, the glasses were empty. Kettle went to the kitchen to make more drinks.
When he had returned and was settled in his chair again, he said, “This is a pretty incredible story, but I'm inclined to believe it, Ted. It makes more sense than you being a rapist.”
“We've been telling you all along he didn't rape that woman,” Ben Foley said. “Seems to me there's enough evidence here to have Larry Cutter and his gunmen pulled in and shake confessions out of them.”
“First thing, let's check with the state-police barracks,” the D.A. suggested. He glanced at his watch. “Ten forty-five. It's over an hour since you reported the accident. They ought to have something on it by now.”
He went to the phone. “This is District Attorney Arnold Kettle, Sergeant. Do you have any report yet on that accident at the bridge on Twenty a few miles out of town?”
Some time passed as Kettle merely listened. Then he said, “Yes, that is odd, but I think I know the explanation. He's here now, being questioned by me, so there's no point in his coming out there to repeat the story. You'd only turn his statement back to me anyway, if you think some criminal action is indicated. I'll have him get in touch with you tomorrow.”
There was another period of silence, then: “I suggest you have the lab classify the blood type for future reference. I'll ring you again in the morning, Sergeant.”
Hanging up, he returned to his chair. “The state cops are all up in the air,” he said. “They wanted you down there for questioning right now, but I stalled them off. They say they were told there would be a body in the car.”
“Wasn't there?” Saxon asked.
The D.A. shook his head. “Your playmates are certainly cute. There was blood splashed all over the front seat, but no body. There goes your best evidence that Larry Cutter was behind the kidnaping.”
Foley said, “Not if the body's recovered and it's established by blood type that Simmons died in the car.”
Saxon looked at him ruefully. “You don't know how professional hoods operate, Ben. By now a hole's probably been cut in Lake Erie's ice half a mile from shore and the body wrapped in tire chains and dumped through it. By morning the hole will be frozen over again. And when Farmer Benton and Spider Wertz are picked up, they'll have a dozen witnesses to insist that they were somewhere miles from the scene of the accident. It'll be my word against theirs plus all their alibi witnesses' words.”
“You mean we can't do anything about an attempted murder?” the plump lawyer demanded.
“Oh, sure,” Saxon said. “We can have the Buffalo police arrest Larry Cutter and his two stooges, set a preliminary hearing, and have charges dismissed for lack of evidence. That about sums it up, Arn?”
“I'm afraid so,” the district attorney admitted. “However, I'm willing to try, Ted. I'm completely convinced now that you were framed.”
“Let's just drop it,” Saxon said. “Why tilt at windmills? It may worry Cutter more if no one even comes around to question him than if we try to throw the book at him. He's used to beating legal raps. At least we now know where to look for evidence. I'll start digging again tomorrow.”
“You're going to Buffalo again?” Foley asked with a frown.
“Sure. But tomorrow I'll carry a gun. Am I still legally entitled to, Arn?”
The district attorney pursed his lips. “Technically you're still a member of the force. You've been suspended, not fired. It might be an arguable point, but I doubt that any jury would convict you under the Sullivan law. I'm not going to suggest that you go up against this band of armed hoods with your bare hands.”
Grinning, Saxon rose to his feet. “I'm afraid I'd ignore the suggestion if you did. I guess we've accomplished all we can tonight. Let's go home, Ben.”
chapter 18
Sunday morning Saxon didn't go to church. His first act after breakfast, while still in robe and pajamas, was to phone the state police barracks.
Arnold Kettle had already phoned the barracks and talked to the lieutenant in charge, he learned. As a result Saxon wouldn't have to come down to make a formal statement. In a few days he would receive an accident report form in the mail from the state Bureau of Motor Vehicles, and would be required to fill it out and return it. If there was to be any criminal investigation in connection with the accident, he would hear from the district attorney.
Saxon asked what had been the disposition of his car and was told it had been hauled from the ravine and into Iroquois by a wrecker owned by the Fellinger Repair Garage. He would have to phone the garage to learn the towing charge. When he phoned the garage, he learned he owed twenty-five dollars. The man he talked to suggested that the wreck would bring about that amount from a junk yard, and offered to call it even.
“Better leave it there until the insurance adjuster can examine it,” Saxon said. “I'll talk to you again after he's seen it.”
When he hung up, he looked for and located his auto insurance policy. It was a seventy-five-dollar-deductible policy and he had paid the premium. He made a mental note to phone his insurance agent first thing Monday morning.
Then he phoned Bell's Service Station, where he bought gas, and caught owner Dick Bell on duty. The place was not merely a gas station, but also a repair garage that handled used cars.
“This is Ted Saxon, Dick,” he said into the phone. “I wrecked my car last night.”
“Yeah, I heard about it,” Bell said. “But the way I heard it, you're not gonna want it repaired.”
“No. I'm not calling about that. Do you have anything I can use for a few days until I find out if the insurance company is going to buy me a new one?”
“Sure, Ted. How far away you going to be traveling?”
“Well, I want something that will get me to Buffalo and back.”