The Long Ride (3 page)

In spite of a wild fright clutching at him, he dived forward, grabbed the satchel and ducked back into the doorway.

The boy lying in the lot was silent and unmoving. Allan Garwith pressed himself against a wall of the back stair well. The man in the tan suit suddenly appeared, throwing himself behind a fence inside the lot. The man searched desperately with his eyes over the entire lot, but he did not see Allan Garwith. Fast hands inserted a new clip in his gun, then the man leaned around the fence, firing up the alley again. Finally he broke into a run back down the alley and disappeared. In a moment Allan Garwith heard the loud roar of a car, the wild shrieking of tires.

Allan Garwith, trembling all over, took a breath. He spun and ran up the stairs to his own apartment, shoved the satchel beneath the bed, then ran out of the apartment and down the front stairway to the street. Outside, people were hurrying along the street, totally concentrating on the sounds of the bank alarm still ringing and the echoes of the shooting.

Allan Garwith trotted across the street, away from the apartment. He cut through the next block, went down an alley and continued two more blocks until he came to a cafeteria. He went inside, still trembling, aware that the people here had been out of earshot of the firing and alarm.

He picked up a cup of coffee and two doughnuts, then sat down at a table, still shaking. It was a number of minutes before he could calm down enough to pick up his coffee cup; but his mind kept whirling, fitting one piece of judgment to another. Slowly he finished the coffee and ate the doughnuts, as his hand finally stopped shaking. Then he got up and walked to the cashier with his check.

While the cashier waited for the money, he went through one pocket, then another, beginning to look rattled. The cashier, a girl with dyed blond hair, looked at his armless sleeve and waited patiently. “I think I forgot my money,” he said.

The girl paused. “Well, you can pay me the next time.”

“I’m awfully sorry. I—” He suddenly brought out a dollar bill and put it on the counter. “There it is. Just missed it, I guess.”

The girl smiled and thanked him, handing him his change. He walked outside and down the street, away from his apartment. He walked on to the public library and held a book in front of his eyes for a half hour, seeing nothing. Then he walked again aimlessly for another half hour. Finally he started back toward the apartment. Two uniformed policemen were standing in front when he came up.

He looked surprised.

“You live here?” one of them asked.

“Sure.”

Brogan, the custodian, fat and disheveled, his reddish face even more flushed than usual, came out. “Allan, all hell’s been breaking loose around here. Midwest Federal was robbed!”

“You’re kidding!” Allan Garwith said.

“Hell, no. I miss everything!” He turned to the police officers. “This is the guy who’s got the back apartment.”

“You didn’t see any of it?” one of the officers asked.

Allan Garwith shook his head. “Me? No. When did it happen?”

“About eight-five. Two guys. They both ran down the alley back there, away from the bank. Got one of them. He ran out of gas in that lot back there. We thought maybe you saw some of it.”

“Not me. You mean he died right back there?”

“The other one got away.”

“Hell,” Allan Garwith said. “I was over at Brock’s Cafeteria on Farley Street, when it happened. Did the guy get away with anything?”

“A hundred thousand. That’s all. Well, thanks. I guess you can’t help us.”

In another minute Allan Garwith had escaped from the excited Brogan and returned to his apartment. He went in and locked the door and sat down on the sofa. He was shaking again, breathing quickly.

He sat there for perhaps two minutes, then he got up and went into the bedroom and pulled the blind. He slid the satchel out from under the bed and opened it. It was stuffed with currency. He closed it suddenly, shoved it back under the bed and went into the bathroom and was sick. Finally he came out and lay down on the bed right over where the satchel lay hidden. He was still shaking, but presently he was under control again. He rubbed his hand over his mouth, staring at the ceiling. “My God,” he whispered. “My God almighty!”

CHAPTER

Willy Tyler died in that vacant lot among the rusting machinery on Friday. Sunday afternoon John Benson stepped off a Loma City bus at 34th and Cherry. The neighborhood was clean, old and substantial-looking. The houses were two-storied, with deep front terraces and generous back yards. It was mid-afternoon, and the sun’s angle was beginning to lengthen the shadows of poplars, oaks and elms lining Cherry Street. John Benson crossed 34th and walked west on Cherry, a tall man of thirty-six wearing a neat light-weight brown suit and straw hat. His face was lean and reasonably handsome, if not memorable.

In front of the third house from the corner, he stopped, checking the shiny metal numbers fixed on the front siding. The house was white with an old-fashioned swing hung from chains on the front porch in front of a bay window. There was a scraggly hedge bordering the walk, carelessly trimmed; a huge growth of red roses spread along the railing of the porch. A large oak rose from the center of the lawn and put the front of the house in shade.

John Benson moved up the walk toward the porch. He pressed the button beside the door and listened to the sound of chimes inside.

In a moment the door opened. A rather heavy-set, scrubbed-looking woman with gray hair and sparkling blue eyes appeared behind the screen. She wore a brilliantly flowered, blue house dress. “Yes?” she said, smiling.

“Mrs. Landry?”

“Yes—I’m Mrs. Landry.”

“I’m John Benson. I called earlier.”

“Of course! Come in, Mr. Benson—please come in!” Mrs. Landry led John Benson through a hall into a cheerful living room. Overstuffed furniture had been covered with brightly flowered slip-covers. Fresh flowers were displayed in vases in half a dozen places. There was an upright piano in one corner with stacks of sheet music on its rack. John Benson immediately noticed the woman sitting in a chair opposite the sofa.

She was of rather indeterminable age, even to John Benson’s eyes—somewhere in her thirties, he judged. Her figure was full, but extremely well proportioned in an inexpensive but neat-looking blue suit. Her hair was ash-blond, shaped in an off-hand style that was so effectively simple that it dramatized the good looks of her face. Her eyebrows were dark, and she had brown eyes that examined John Benson with a straightforward, somewhat lazy curiosity. The planes of her face were bold and well-defined. There was a relaxed air of confidence and maturity that made John Benson feel immediately attracted to her.

“Mr. Benson,” Mrs. Landry said. “I want you to meet Mrs. Moore. Margaret Moore.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Moore?” John Benson smiled, noticing that she wore no wedding ring.

“Mr. Benson,” she said in a quiet, husky voice, staring at him with a soft smile. A cigarette was in her left hand, held limply against the arm of the chair; a tall glass rested on the end table beside her.

“Now then,” Mrs. Landry said, “you sit right down there on the sofa, Mr. Benson. You and Mrs. Moore can get acquainted while I get you a glass of lemonade.”

“Well, you don’t have to bother, Mrs. Landry.”

“Of course, I do. Unless you don’t like lemonade. I think it’s good, isn’t it, Mrs. Moore?”

Mrs. Moore motioned a hand toward her glass, smiling. “Delicious, Mrs. Landry.”

“Well, all right,” John Benson said. “I would like some, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course, I don’t mind. Now you two sit there and get acquainted.” She bustled out of the room. John Benson smiled at the woman seated across the room from him. “Very nice, isn’t she?”

“Very,” Margaret Moore nodded.

“An old friend, or—”

“No. I met her ten minutes ago. I feel like I’ve known her for twenty years.”

John Benson nodded. “You’re riding with her to San Francisco then?”

“Yes. I’ve just been accepted. And you, Mr. Benson?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I’m here about.”

“She’ll take you. She likes you, so she’ll take you.”

“Well, I hope so.” He paused. “If she does, do you think we’ll be the only ones?”

“Well, no,” Mrs. Moore said, smiling faintly. “Not quite, Mr. Benson. With you, I think that makes a total of seven.”

“Seven?”

“So far.” Mrs. Moore laughed softly, and John Benson found himself delighted by her laugh. It seemed to slip past the guard he’d built around himself over the last year, and it bothered him that it did. But he was nevertheless delighted. He suddenly relaxed a little.

Mrs. Landry came back with his lemonade, saying, “Now, you just go ahead and smoke if you want to, Mr. Benson. Mr. Landry, God rest him, smoked in this house and I never minded. If a man or a woman wants to smoke, it’s their privilege. Women who waste their time forbidding people to smoke in their homes ought to be investigated mentally. Now then.” Mrs. Landry sat down, clasping her hands together, looking at John Benson with bright, merry eyes. “You want to go to San Francisco with me?”

John Benson nodded. “Yes, I do, Mrs. Landry.”

“All right then. You tell me a little about yourself. I’ve already made up my mind. But I promised my daughter, Ella June—she’s in California, you know, and that’s why I’m driving out, to visit her and her family—I promised that I’d have everybody tell me about themselves. She was worried to death when I wrote her I was driving out there and was going to advertise for someone to ride with me. She called right up, long-distance, and told me I was taking an awful chance.” Mrs. Landry laughed. “Well, imagine—such nice people have wanted to ride with me. But I promised her I’d find out about everybody. So you tell me something about yourself, Mr. Benson.”

“All right. I’m a widower, Mrs. Landry.”

“Oh, my goodness. You poor boy. How long, child?”

“A little over a year.” John Benson looked at his hands. “My wife was killed in an automobile accident. One of those things that should never have happened. But it did. We lived in Lafayette, Indiana. It was icy—” He shrugged. “She was alone. The driver in the other car was killed too.”

“Poor fellow. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s all right,” he said. He shrugged again. “I have two boys—seven and eight. They’re with my wife’s parents right now. My own family is dead.”

“And where are your wife’s parents?”

“Chicago. I had a small advertising business in Lafayette. I was doing pretty well as a matter of fact. But when my wife—well, everything went flat. I decided to go west. I left the boys with their grandparents in Chicago. I stopped here in Loma City to see an old friend of mine I went to college with at Indiana. When I was ready to go on, I decided I’d had my fill of being alone. I saw your ad in the paper. I decided I’d much rather travel with someone in a car than as a stranger on a train. I don’t like to fly, so—”

“Wonderful, Mr. Benson,” Mrs. Landry said, nodding positively. “That shows very good sense. When Mr. Landry died in nineteen forty-nine I felt the same way. I felt all lost and so depressed, and I sat around in this house and didn’t even want to see my friends and neighbors. Then pretty soon I realized that you just can’t do that. It isn’t healthy. You’ve got to go right on and be with people. And I’m just so glad you’re riding along with us, Mr. Benson. Aren’t you, Mrs. Moore?”

Mrs. Moore nodded, an amused smile on her wide, handsome mouth. “Of course.”

“Well, then. It’s all settled. Now, let’s see. That’ll be you two. And Miss Kennicot. And—”

The door chimes sounded.

“Just a moment,” Mrs. Landry said, and hurried off to the front door. In a moment John could hear the high, rather loud voice of a woman alternately laughing and talking.

Mrs. Landry returned with a very tall woman who had large legs and wide hips and a thin, long torso. She wore a pink suit that somehow did not seem to fit well, although John could not immediately tell what was wrong or where. She wore a small black hat above a flushed, rather long-nosed face. She looked around, then laughed loudly. Mrs. Landry began to search the room and came up with a slender book. “Here it is, Miss Kennicot.”

“Oh, my, thank you!” Miss Kennicot’s voice boomed around the room. “Oh, dear, oh, dear!” She clutched the book tightly. “My Shelley, you know. I don’t know how I could have forgotten it. I missed it when I got on my bus, and I had to get off and come clear back.”

“That’s a shame, Miss Kennicot,” Mrs. Landry said.

“Well—‘Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us,’” Miss Kennicot said, laughing. “That’s Wilde, of course. But I must have even forgotten my diary!” Miss Kennicot laughed so hard that tears formed in her eyes. John Benson suddenly realized she was looking straight at him, speaking as though for his benefit alone.

“Miss Kennicot,” Mrs. Landry said, “these are two more of my guests on our drive to California. Mrs. Moore. Mr. Benson. This is Miss Kennicot. She’s a librarian for the Loma City Memorial, and she’s riding along too.”

Miss Kennicot flashed a dangerous glance at Mrs. Moore, then fastened her stare on John Benson again, laughing violently. “The great adventure, isn’t it! Well, it’s just a lark for me. To California and back! ’Round the world and home again. That’s the sailor’s way.’ W. Allingham. I’ve just decided to go ahead and do it! I haven’t done anything so headstrong since four summers ago when I decided to lead our Robins—that’s our teen-age girls’ group—on a hike clear across the state and back!” Miss Kennicot tipped her head back and roared. “Well, I’m just girlishly foolish, I guess.” Miss Kennicot lowered her head, grinning with large teeth, and gazed straight at John Benson until he felt vaguely nervous. “Well, my goodness!” she said finally. “I’ve got to run. ‘A sorry breaking-up!’ T. Moore. Tuesday morning then? I know it’ll be simply loads!” Roaring, she allowed Mrs. Landry to escort her to the door.

John Benson looked across the room at Margaret Moore. They met each other’s eyes for a moment, then both of them laughed softly. Mrs. Landry reappeared.

“Miss Kennicot,” she said. “She’s so smart and so healthy-looking. Don’t you agree?”

Mrs. Moore nodded and John Benson said, “Indeed.”

“Well, then,” Mrs. Landry said. “Where was I? Oh, yes. I was saying it’s all settled now. You two. Miss Kennicot. And then I have the sweetest young couple—just married!” Mrs. Landry laughed gaily. “Makes us all feel a little younger. That’s the Garwiths. The girl is so sweet and shy, just the way a bride ought to be. The boy—Allan, that’s his name—lost an arm somehow, poor boy, but he seems to do awfully well anyway.”

John Benson nodded, glancing at Mrs. Moore, who was studying him casually with a faint smile.

“Well, then. And that’s all, I think. Oh, no. Mr. Wells! He’s the retired Army man. Very soft-spoken and dignified and not very old. And he’s so very neat! Yes, with Mr. Wells, that’ll be all. And I’ll have my station wagon looked over so they can do whatever they’re supposed to do when you leave for a long trip. My goodness, isn’t this going to be fun? Friday morning, eight o’clock, and away we go! How could I be so lucky as to have such a wonderful group of people with me! And my daughter was so worried! Imagine!”

John Benson and Margaret Moore left together. A bus was just approaching the corner down the block, where Miss Kennicot was still waiting.

“Shall we run and catch it?” Mrs. Moore said. “They’re about ten minutes apart out here.”

“Well,” John Benson said, “I don’t know. What do you think?”

They both strolled very slowly, as the bus hissed to a stop. Miss Kennicot, her back to them, snapped shut her book of Shelley poems.

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Moore said, smiling. “We could make it if we run.”

The bus door opened. Miss Kennicot stepped in, reminding John Benson of a large colt boarding.

“I just can’t make up my mind,” he said.

“Too late,” Mrs. Moore said. The bus roared off. She laughed her husky, full laugh. It made John Benson feel more alive than he’d felt in many long months.

As they waited on the corner, he said, “Well, now I’ve explained why I’m going west. How about you? Tired of Loma City?”

“I don’t think I thought very much about it,” she said. “I haven’t been here long. I’ve moved around quite a bit. One job, then another. I’m a natural wanderer, I guess. Compulsive. Never satisfied. Not for long anyway.”

“You mean you just arbitrarily came to Loma City? Why?”

“Well, I’d been living in New York, working in a rather good clothing shop, as a saleswoman. It started out being enjoyable. A small, pleasant group of friends. The city to prowl and enjoy. Then one day everything seemed shallow, brittle, so I left. I’d lived for a time in the midwest before. From New York, this part of the country seemed more solid, closer to the earth, so to speak. So I picked out Loma City. It was fine, for a while. Then—” She motioned a hand. “I don’t know. Restless again. I had a job in a real estate office here. I just told them I was leaving. I read Mrs. Landry’s ad in the paper. San Francisco sounded fine. So that’s it.”

“Well,” he said, smiling, “I admire your independence. And I’m glad you decided to go west on this ride. The trip is going to be that much more pleasant.”

“Thank you, John Benson.”

The bus was approaching, and in a moment they had boarded. Seated, he said, “You live downtown?”

“On the edge of downtown. A small apartment. And you?”

“I’m staying at the Walton Hotel.”

She nodded, looking at him. “Very nice, very respectable. That’s a very nice suit you’re wearing, Mr. Benson.”

He looked at her carefully. She met his gaze straight-on. “Well, thank you.”

“It just seems to me,” she said, “that you’re the type to use taxis, Mr. Benson.”

He smiled. “John, all right? And yes. We could have taken a taxi, but a bus ride takes longer. I enjoy talking to you, Mrs. Moore.”

There was a flicker of sensuality in her eyes that John Benson could feel deep inside, and there was at the same time a remote kind of mystery about her. She was saying, in effect, that she did not understand his being in a situation like this, regardless of his explanation. But he could not really figure her position in it either. She was puzzling.

“Margaret,” she said. “Even my friends, when I have them, don’t call me Marge, thank God. And if you’re wondering about the Mrs., which I rather hope you are, I’m divorced, John. I’m a free agent. But if I told you everything you might not be interested any more. I hope you’re interested, John.”