Shadows Everywhere (6 page)

"O
h, Glory!" Robert cried half-aloud. "An
o
riolus galbulus!"
He pressed the binoculars deep into his eye sockets and watched wonderingly the small yellow and black bird which was perched on the branch of a fallen tree, pecking at the bark with its long bill.

Still peering through the binoculars, Robert reached clumsily into his breast pocket and pulled out his notebook and pencil. The branches pressing in on him rustled when he did this and the
oriolus galbulus
looked in his direction, then resumed its pecking. If it knew about Robert it didn't give a hoot.

So rare a bird to find here at this time of year, Robert mused. If only he'd brought his camera. Still, this would cause quite a stir at the weekly Audubon Club meeting.

Keeping a watchful eye on the bird, he began to write its exact description, checking his neat handwriting in quick glances. Robert was a small man, middle-aged, and beginning to spread about the waist. With his pleasant round face and thin beak-like nose he was rather like a bird himself, a comparison he would not at all have minded.

The
oriolus galbulus
suddenly stopped its pecking and fluttered off into the denser woods. "Oh, drat!" Robert said. He came to Memorial State Park every weekend and was aware of how thick the underbrush was in this area of the vast wood. Letting his binoculars swing free against his chest from their leather straps, he decided to follow the bird.

The fall undergrowth snared Robert's ankles with every step, and though he tried to walk quietly the carpet of dry leaves rustled and crackled beneath his feet. He knew the beautiful
oriolus galbulus
would flee before him if he made too much noise.

He was walking slowly, his myopic blue eyes scanning the foliage, when he heard the odd call. It was a loud and sudden "Caw!" Like a crow, yet strangely unlike a crow. His curiosity aroused, he stood for a moment, then began to move quietly in the direction of the sound.

He'd moved slowly and cautiously forward for some time when he caught a glimpse of movement through the mottled foliage. Crouching and scooting to the left so he could see better, he raised the binoculars to his eyes.

He heard his own little intake of breath as he watched. In a small clearing was a man and a beautiful blonde girl, both down on their knees, the man's fingers pressing into the girl's slender throat. As Robert watched, the man squeezed harder and shook the girl furiously. Again there was that strange crow-like sound and the struggling girl's arms dropped limply. Robert wanted to cry out, wanted to run and help the girl, but fear immobilized him and made his forehead clammy with sweat, his throat constricted.

The man released the girl and stood. Through the binoculars Robert could see the horrible expression on her discolored face before her body sagged to a heap among the leaves.

The man flexed his fingers as if to limber them, then wiped his hands on his tan sweater and looked about in a wide circle. Robert's heart thumped as the murderer faced him. He dropped the binoculars to his chest to reassure himself that the man was farther away than he'd appeared in the lenses. When he was certain he hadn't been spotted, he raised them once more to his eyes.

Now the man was dragging the blonde's body into the underbrush. Robert saw an expanse of pale thigh as her dress caught on a branch, and he was ashamed to feel quick interest stir within him. He hastily aimed the binoculars at the man.

"A grave," Robert muttered, as he saw the man give the body a final jerk and the blue of the girl's dress disappear. When he saw the man stoop and lift a shovel from the thick brush he knew that he was right. The murderer had come earlier and dug a grave for the poor girl, a grave that now needed only to he filled in and have dry autumn leaves kicked over it to prevent discovery.

Robert knew he must do something! Anything! And then he realized the man's car must be parked on the dirt road that led to the abandoned fire tower.

Still crouching, backing slowly and awkwardly away, Robert kept his eyes fixed on the movement of the shovel in the high brush until the foliage blocked his view. Then he turned and ran for the dirt road.

He spotted the car immediately, about three hundred yards away,
a black four-door sedan pulled off the road by a picnic bench. Robert crossed the road so that he was directly behind it and, making sure he was well concealed, focused his binoculars on the license plate. Just as he'd finished writing the number in his notebook, the man appeared out of the woods.

The man looked around him again, but this time Robert screwed up his courage and continued to stare back through the powerful binoculars. He had an uneasy moment as the murderer's glance swept past him, but he didn't move a muscle. He watched as the man tossed the shovel into the car trunk, then got in and drove off, leaving a thick haze of dust hanging over the hot road.

When Robert started to drive home from Memorial Park, he'd fully intended to call the police and report the murderer's license number immediately–but now he wasn't so sure. A fantastic thought had crossed his mind, a thought so unlike any he'd ever had that it held him spellbound. Perhaps this was fate. He surely wasn't born to be a bank teller all his life, a bank teller who hadn't had a promotion in six years. Perhaps this was the one opportunity that strong men grabbed and the weak let slip past. And wasn't he strong? Hadn't he shown courage by not flinching when the murderer had looked directly at him that last time?

By the time he reached home determination was heating in Robert like a pulse. He drove into the garage and shut the overhead door. Then he went to his seldom used tool chest and got out a stout, twelve-pound sledgehammer. Steadying himself inwardly, knowing that with this one act he would commit himself to his plan, he stood alongside the car. Then, very deliberately, he swung the sledge at a level with the car's bumper and made a long creased dent along the bottom of the door and onto the rear fender panel. Pleased with himself, he went inside to wait for evening.

At exactly ten o'clock Robert phoned the police and told them that while he was driving earlier that evening his car had been struck by a hit and run driver.

The police sent a one-man patrol car out and Robert told the officer how he'd been driving on Willow Lane an hour before and a red convertible had sideswiped him with its bumper, then sped off. However, Robert had alertly gotten the license number, which he gave to the officer.

Only an hour after the policeman had left, a sergeant phoned and told Robert that the license number he'd given the officer belonged to a black four-door sedan.

"Are you sure?" Robert asked, careful to put puzzlement into his voice.

"Yes, sir," the sergeant said. 'There's no mistake about it. The plates were issued just a few days ago, transferred from Ohio plates."

So, the murderer had just moved here from Ohio but, drat it, why didn't the police mention the man's name? Calmly Robert said, "I was so positive about the license number. Perhaps the car has been painted, with a white top, and I mistook it for a convertible with the top up."

"Nope," the sergeant said. "I saw the car and talked to the owner. He and his wife were at the movies when you were hit. Showed me the ticket stubs and told me what the show was all about."

Robert waited until he was sure the sergeant wasn't going to suggest it, then he said, "Perhaps if I were to look at the car..."

There was a long pause on the other end, then a long sigh. "It's way over on Chambers Road," the sergeant said. It was obvious he didn't want to send someone out to drive Robert over there.

Robert wanted to ask for the address but was afraid to push things any further. "Well, perhaps I misread the number."

"Yeah," the sergeant said, brightening, "that happens a lot of times."

"And it
was
dark..."

"I'll tell you," the sergeant said, "if I was you I'd just call my insurance company and put it in their hands."

"I guess I'll do that," Robert said. "And thank you." He hung up and smiled. His heart was beating very fast.

Robert looked up Chambers Road on a street map and found that it was only six blocks long, one of those suburban developments of ritzy small apartments. The rent there must be at least two hundred a month, Robert calculated as he drove slowly down the street. Each building had a neat little concrete parking space for its occupants, but the murderer's black car was nowhere to be seen. Bitterly disappointed, but not discouraged, Robert drove home.

The next day he spotted the car parked in front of a corner building. He was sitting wondering just what to do about it when he saw the murderer emerge from the building. Robert recognized him immediately, the distinguished graying hair, the lean dark face with the piercing eyes. Beside him walked a woman on very high heels. The murderer politely held the car door open for her, then walked around and got in the driver's side and backed the car into the street.

As soon as the black sedan had disappeared Robert got out of his car and crossed the street to the swank apartment building. He was checking the names on the mailboxes when the door on the landing just above him opened and an old woman with dyed red hair looked down at him.

"Can I help you?" she asked suspiciously.

Panicky, Robert picked one of several names on the mailboxes. "I'm, uh, looking for Mr. Denton. I think he's an old school friend of mine."

"Mr. Denton's at work now, but I'm the building manager. Perhaps I can help you."

Robert, after a pause, said, "The Denton I'm looking for is about six feet, graying hair, dark."

The woman looked puzzled, then her eyes lit up and she said, "Oh, you must mean Mr. Emerick. He and his wife moved in two days ago–but he was transferred here from Cincinnati."

"Yes, Emerick," Robert said. "Didn't I say Emerick?"

"No," the woman said, suspicion again in her voice. "You said Denton."

She stood staring at him, and he could think of nothing to say. Finally he muttered, "I meant Emerick."

"Well, why don't we just go up and talk to him?" the woman said, ringing the bell lettered Emerick.

"Yes, why don't we?" Robert said cheerfully that they were not at home. He rang the bell again himself.

When there was no answer he shrugged and smiled. He could see the woman's suspicions had disappeared. "When he comes home, don't tell him I was here," he said. "I want to surprise the old son of a gun."

B
ecause he'd just arrived in the city Emerick's telephone number was, of course, not in the directory, so Robert had dialed information. The operator had politely told him that the Emericks had an unlisted number which she could not disclose. Robert had slammed the receiver down and cursed violently. Somehow he had to make contact with Emerick.

Robert started parking near the apartment at night, hoping to catch Emerick alone. Slumped behind his steering wheel, he wished he could simply walk up and ring Emerick's doorbell and confront him in the living room, but Mrs. Emerick would be there, and the situation would not only prove fruitless but quite embarrassing.

Suddenly Robert sat bolt upright. They were going somewhere at last! Mrs. Emerick was dressed up, balancing precariously on slender heels even higher than the ones she'd worn before, and Emerick was wearing a dark suit.

Robert watched as they got into the black sedan, Emerick attentively opening the car door for his wife as before. When they drove away Robert followed, tremendously excited.

Emerick drove to the parking lot of a downtown theater. Robert parked almost next to him, and even stood in line behind the Emericks at the theater ticket window.

The previews were just ending as Robert followed the Emericks down the dimly lighted center aisle and took a seat four rows behind them. He kept a close eye on the silhouette of Emerick's head and Mrs. Emerick's little flat hat as the feature started with a blast of music.

Sitting in the darkened theater, Robert thought of how it must have been with Emerick: the familiar story, a young and beautiful mistress he'd taken up with on his previous trips to the city, the girl's possessiveness, her jealousy, and finally her threat to tell Emerick's wife when she arrived. Robert was surprised to find himself envying Emerick–up to a point.

Robert had to sit through half the feature, a senseless mishmash of a man and his wife exchanging corrosive remarks in a language that was truly shocking, before Emerick finally rose and walked up the aisle toward the lobby. After counting slowly to ten and wiping his sweating palms on his trousers, Robert followed.

When he reached the lobby, Emerick was standing by himself smoking a cigarette, leaning on the soda machine and looking with some interest at the young girl making popcorn behind the counter. Robert ignored his pounding heart and approached Emerick as casually and quietly as possible.

"I haven't seen you since Memorial Park," he said, because it was the opening line he'd rehearsed over and over.

Emerick turned and looked blankly at him. "Memorial Park?" The man's composure threw Robert for a moment. "Yes, you know!" he almost pleaded. "With the blonde lady."