A Body in a Car
Early evening traffic had brisked up as Bertha Cool cruised down the boulevard, carefully watching her speedometer. She slowed for the intersection where she had lost Mrs. Belder, brought the car to a full stop, then slammed home the gears, and pushed the throttle all the way down, keeping in her mind a mental picture of just how the car ahead had proceeded; about how fast, and about how much headstart it had had when it turned the corner.
Bertha swung around the corner, speeded up to the next corner, then brought her car to a stop and surveyed the street ahead, the street to the left, and the street to the right. She then realized something that had not dawned on her before. The blocks to the left and right were double blocks with no streets cut through the boulevard.
Bertha parked her car at the kerb and did mental arithmetic.
If Mrs. Belder’s machine had stayed on the road straight ahead, Bertha would certainly have seen it as she turned the corner from the boulevard. Bertha had been gaining on the car for the last hundred yards before she lost it. It might have made either a right or a left turn on a single block, but the possibilities that it could have done so on a double block were negligible.
Faced with the knowledge that the car couldn’t have evaporated into thin air, and now realizing the importance of what had originally seemed to be merely a routine shadowing job, Bertha cudgeled her mind, trying to think of something which might furnish a possible clue to that which had taken place.
From the depths of her memory came the hazy recollection that someone had been standing at a garage door somewhere in the block as Bertha had swung in from the boulevard. At the time Bertha had been intent only on getting to the corner.
She tried to remember just where the garage had been. Somewhere on the left-hand side of the street.
Bertha swung her car in a U-turn and cruised slowly down the street.
The second house from the corner looked about right — 709 North Harkington Avenue. It was, of course, a forlorn hope — a chance of one in a thousand, but Bertha was gunning for big game now, and one chance in a thousand couldn’t be overlooked.
Bertha stopped her car, marched up the cement walk and pushed the bell button of the house. From the interior she could hear the faint sound of electric chimes.
She waited fifteen seconds then pushed the bell again. There was no sound of motion from the interior of the house.
Bertha stepped back from the door to make a more careful appraisal of the house. There was about it almost a deserted atmosphere. The shades were pulled about two-thirds of the way down. There was an accumulation of dust in the corner of the threshold where the front door was recessed from the porch.
Disappointed, Bertha jabbed her thumb against the door-button once again and turned to appraise the neighbourhood.
The sun, shielded by a low-hanging bank of clouds in the west, had given the effect of an early twilight. The day had, however, been warm. In a yard across the street some children were playing — a girl eight or nine, and a boy a couple of years younger.
Bertha walked across to them. “Who lives in that house across the street?” she asked.
It was the girl who answered the question. “Mr. and Mrs. Cuttring.”
“They don’t seem to be home.”
The girl hesitated.
The boy blurted out, “They went away for a ten-day vacation.”
The girl said, “Mother told you not to say anything about that. Burglars get in when they know people aren’t home.”
Bertha smiled reassuringly. “I had heard they wanted to rent their garage; do you know anything about it?”
“Why, no. They have a car. They took it with them.”
“Thank you,” Bertha told them courteously. “I’ll just take a look in the garage. They want to rent it.”
She retraced her steps, more confidently this time, crossing the street and walking up the cement driveway to the garage. Behind her the children watched her for a moment, and then went on with their play. By the time Bertha had reached the garage, they had entirely forgotten her, and the shrill treble of children’s voices raised in screaming play reached Bertha’s ears.
Bertha tentatively tried the garage door, expecting it to be locked.
It swung smoothly on well-oiled hinges.
Bertha pushed the door back a few cautious inches. She didn’t intend to go inside unless—
She saw a car on the inside of the garage.
There was something vaguely familiar about the back of the car. Bertha glanced at the license number.
It was the number of Mrs. Belder’s automobile.
Bertha walked around to the right-hand side of the car.
The subdued light of late afternoon, filtering in through the door which opened to the east and through the window on the north, gave sufficient illumination for Bertha to see objects in the garage; but it was taking a minute or two for her eyes to accustom themselves to the gloomy interior.
At first Bertha thought the car was empty. She opened the door on the right-hand side and started to get in behind the steering-wheel. Her foot hit some obstruction. She glanced down to see what it was, and by that time her eyes had accommodated themselves to the dim light sufficiently to show her the shod foot and stockinged leg of the body that lay half on the seat, half on the floor, sprawled down behind the steering-wheel.
A moment more and the stale stench of death assailed Bertha’s nostrils.
Bertha backed out of the car, started for the garage door, thought better of it, went back, located the light-switch and turned on the light in the garage.
The light was high up, and the top of the car threw shadows over the corpse, but Bertha had a job to do and this was the only chance she’d have to do it.
The body was clothed in the distinctive plaid coat Bertha remembered so well; also the dark glasses with glaring white rims which shielded the dead eyes, yet gave the corpse a peculiar owl-like appearance of regarding Bertha Cool from white-rimmed black eyes.
Light from the dangling bulb came through the windshield and illuminated a piece of paper which had evidently fluttered to the floor of the car.
Bertha picked it up and read it.
It was typewritten and, as nearly as Bertha could determine, it had been typed on the same Remington portable that had typed the letters.
I am to drive out Westmore Boulevard. I will appear to be very unsuspicious and not turn my head at any time to look back, but I will watch the rear-view mirror out of the corner of my eye. If I am being followed, then I am to jockey the car so I will hit a changing signal at Dawson Avenue. I am to go through that signal, but at average speed. I am to turn left on North Harkington Avenue — that is the second block beyond Dawson. The second house from the corner is 709. The garage door will be open. I am to drive into that garage, jump out of the car, close the door, get back in my car and wait with the motor running until I hear an automobile horn blow three times. Then I am to open the door and back out. It is imperative that I follow these instructions to the letter. M.B.
Bertha let the paper drop back to the floor. She leaned across the body, put her thumb against the cold mouth, braced herself, and drew back the lips.
A removable bridge was missing from the lower right-hand side of Mrs. Belder’s jaw — the side nearest Bertha. It was a bridge that would have taken two teeth.
Bertha backed out of the car, hastily closed the door. She closed the garage door and, walking almost on tiptoes, so great was her desire for secrecy, was half-way to her automobile before the sound of childish voices made her realize that, having made the mistake of asking questions of the children, she had no alternative but to telephone Sergeant Sellers.
“I do have the damnedest luck!” she muttered under her breath, and jerked open the door of her automobile.