Do Me a Favour Drop Dead

Chapter One

He joined the Greyhound at Sacramento and settled his bulk on the outside seat, next to mine.

He looked as if he had stepped straight out of the 19th century with his Mark Twain moustache, his string tie, his grey alpaca suit and his white Stetson. He was around sixty-five years of age and had a belly on him that could have been mistaken in the dark for a garbage can. He wore his hair long, Buffalo Bill style, and his red face signalled an inner contentment and a bonhomie that are rare these days.

Once he had settled himself, taken a quick look around, he turned his attention to me. As the bus was moving off, he said, ‘Howdy. I’m Joe Pinner of Wicksteed.’

I was aware that his small brown eyes were taking in my shabby suit that had cost two hundred dollars six years ago and was past its best. The small brown eyes also took in the frayed cuffs of my shirt that was showing grime after the long stint in this bus.

I said curtly, ‘Keith Devery of New York.’

He puffed out his fat cheeks, took off his Stetson, wiped his forehead, put on the Stetson, then said in a mild voice, ‘New York? You’ve come a long way. Me... I’ve seen New York: not my neck of the woods.’

‘Not mine either.’

The bus jolted us together. His shoulder hit mine. His was all muscle and hard fat. Mine took the shock.

‘You know Wicksteed, Mr. Devery?’ he asked.

‘No.’ I wasn’t interested. I wanted quiet, but I could see I wasn’t going to get it.

‘Finest little town on the Pacific coast,’ he told me. ‘Only fifty miles from Frisco. Has the finest little hospital, the most prosperous commercial trading, the best self-service store between L.A. and Frisco, even though I say it who owns it.’ He gave a rumbling laugh. ‘You should stop off, Mr. Devery and take a look.’

‘I’m heading for Frisco.’

‘Is that right? I know Frisco: not my neck of the woods.’ He took out a well-worn cigar case and offered it. I shook my head.

‘For a young, energetic man, Wicksteed offers opportunities.’

He lit the cigar, puffed rich smelling smoke, then relaxed back in his seat. ‘Would you be looking for a job, Mr. Devery?’

‘Right.’ I thought back on the past ten months which had been a series of jobs and what jobs! I was now worth fifty-nine dollars and seven cents. Once that was spent, nothing remained. Yes, I was looking for a job... any job. I couldn’t get lower than my last job: dish washing in a crummy wayside cafe... or couldn’t I?

Pinner puffed at his cigar.

‘You could do worse taking a look at Wicksteed,’ he said. ‘It’s a friendly little town... it likes to help people.’

That last remark made me sore.

‘Do you think I need help?’ I asked, a snap in my voice.

He removed his cigar, eyed it, before saying, ‘I guess everyone at some time in their lives can do with a little help.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’ I half turned to glare at him.

‘Well, Mr. Devery, I get the impression you could do with some friendly help,’ he said mildly, ‘but if I’m wrong, excuse me and forget it.’

I turned away and stared out of the dusty window. Over my shoulder, I growled, ‘I don’t ask favours nor expect them.’

He didn’t say anything to this and I kept staring out of the window, and after a while I heard him snoring gently. I turned to look at him. He was asleep, his cigar held between two thick fingers, his Stetson pushed down over his eyes.

It is just on ninety miles from Sacramento to Frisco. I’d be lucky to get there in three and a half hours. I hadn’t had any breakfast and I had a thirst on me that would have slain a camel. I had used up my last cigarette. I was now regretting I had refused his cigar.

I sat there, watching the scenery, feeling pretty low, wondering if I had made the right decision to leave the Atlantic seaboard for the Pacific seaboard. I reminded myself that I still had a few friends in and around New York, and although they couldn’t help me get a job, if things got really rough, I could have screwed them for a loan. The Pacific seaboard was an unknown quantity and no friends to screw.

After an hour or so, I saw a sign post that read: Wicksteed 40 miles. Joe Pinner woke up, yawned, looked past me out of the window and grunted.

‘Not long now,’ he said. ‘Do you drive a car, Mr. Devery?’

‘Why sure.’

‘Would a driving instructor’s job interest you?’

I frowned at him.

‘Driving instructor? You need qualifications for a job like that.’

‘Nothing to get excited about in Wicksteed. We are an easygoing lot. You need to be a good driver, have a clean licence and tons of patience... that’s about it. My old friend Bert Ryder needs a driving instructor. He owns the Wicksteed Driving-school and his man’s in hospital. It makes it awkward for Bert. He’s never touched a car in his life. He’s strictly a horse and buggy man.’ He relit his cigar, then went on, ‘That’s what I meant about helping people, Mr. Devery. He could help you and you could help him. The job’s nothing big: it pays two hundred, but it’s easy and keeps you out in the open air and two hundred is eating money, ain’t it?’

‘That’s right, but maybe he’s found someone by now.’ I tried to conceal my eagerness.

‘He hadn’t this morning.’

‘I could ask him.’

‘You do that.’ Pinner hoisted a holdall that had been resting between his feet on to his knees. He zipped it open and took out a parcel made up with greaseproof paper. ‘My old lady imagines, when I go on a trip, I might forget to eat.’ He gave his rumbling laugh. ‘Will you join me in a sandwich, Mr. Devery?’

For a moment I was going to refuse, then seeing the white fresh bread, chicken breasts and sliced gherkins, I said, ‘Why thanks, Mr. Pinner.’

‘The truth is I had lunch before I got on the bus. It’s more than my life’s worth to take this lot back uneaten. You go ahead, Mr. Devery,’ and he dumped the parcel on my lap.

I went ahead. My last meal had been a greasy hamburger last night. By the time I had eaten the four sandwiches, we were approaching Wicksteed. It certainly looked a nice town. The main street ran along the Pacific Ocean. There were palm trees and flowering oleander shrubs. The people on the sidewalks looked prosperous. On a distant corner was a big supermarket with Pinner’s Super Bazaar in neon lights on the roof.

The bus came to a halt.

‘That’s my place,’ Pinner said, heaving himself out of his seat. ‘You’ll find Bert Ryder’s school a block further on. Tell him you are a friend of mine, Mr. Devery.’

We got out of the bus with five or six other people.

‘Thanks, Mr. Pinner,’ I said. ‘I appreciate this, and thanks for the sandwiches.’

‘You were helping me to get rid of them.’ He laughed. ‘There’s a men’s room in the bus station if you want to spruce up. Good luck.’ He shook hands and walked off towards the store.

Lugging my shabby suitcase, I went to the men’s room, had a wash and a shave and put on my one clean shirt. I stared at myself in the mirror. You don’t spend five years in a tough jail without it showing. My black hair had white streaks in it. My face was gaunt with nightclub pallor. Although I had been out now for ten months, I still had that jailbird look.

I spent a dime on a shoeshine machine, then deciding there was nothing else I could do to make myself more presentable, I set off in search of Ryder’s Driving school. I found it as Pinner had said on the next block: a one-storey building, painted a gay yellow and white with a big sign on the roof. The door stood open and I walked in.

A girl who looked as if she was just out of school, her hair in pigtails, her round, bright face pretty in the way kids can look before they discover how tough the world really is, stopped her typing and smiled.

‘Mr. Ryder in?’

‘In there.’ She pointed. ‘Go ahead. He isn’t busy.’

I put down my suitcase.

‘Okay for me to leave this here?’

‘I’ll watch it.’ She smiled.

I tapped on the door, opened it and entered a small office. Seated at a desk was a man who reminded me a little of Harry S. Truman. He would be around seventy-five years of age, balding with spectacles. He got to his feet with a wide, friendly smile.

‘Come on in,’ he said. ‘I’m Bert Ryder.’

‘Keith Devery.’

‘Take a pew. What can I do for you, Mr. Devery?’

I sat down and squeezed my hands between my knees.

‘I ran into Joe Pinner on the bus,’ I said. ‘He thought I could help you and you could help me. I understand you’re looking for a driving instructor, Mr. Ryder.’

He took out a pack of Camels, shook out two cigarettes, rolled one across the desk towards me and lit his, then he passed the lighter to me. While he was doing this, his grey eyes surveyed me quizzingly. That was okay by me. I was used to prospective employers surveying me. I looked straight back at him as I lit the cigarette.

‘Joe Pinner, huh?’ He nodded. ‘A great guy for thinking of others. Have you any experience as a driving instructor, Mr. Devery?’

‘No, but I am a good driver. I have a clean licence and I have a ton of patience. According to Mr. Pinner those are the only necessary qualifications.’

Ryder chuckled.

‘That’s about correct.’ He reached out a brown, heavily veined hand. ‘May I see your licence?’

I dug it out of my billfold and gave it to him.

He studied it for a few moments.

‘New York? You’re a long way from home.’

‘New York isn’t my home. I just happened to work there.’

‘I see you stopped driving for five years, Mr. Devery.’

‘That’s right. I couldn’t afford to run a car anymore.’

He nodded.

‘You’re thirty-eight: a fine age. I’d like to be thirty-eight again.’ He pushed the licence back to me. ‘What car did you drive, Mr. Devery?’

‘A Thunderbird.’

‘A nice car.’ He flicked ash into the glass ashtray. You know, Mr. Devery, I think you could be wasting your talents by taking this job. I like to imagine I’m a good judge of men. What have you been doing with yourself all these years if I may ask?’

‘Oh, this and that.’ I shrugged. ‘Call me footloose, Mr. Ryder. I was washing dishes the night before last. A week ago, I was cleaning cars.’

Again he nodded.

‘Would it be impertinent to ask why you received a five-year stretch?’

I stared at him, then shrugged. I pushed back my chair and stood up.

‘I’m sorry to have taken up your time, Mr. Ryder,’ I said. ‘I didn’t think it showed so plainly,’ and I started towards the door.

‘Don’t run away,’ Ryder said quietly. ‘It doesn’t show all that plainly but my son got out a couple of years ago and I remember how he looked when he came home. He went inside for eight years: armed robbery.’

I paused, my hand on the doorknob and stared at him. His face was impassive as he waved me back to the chair.

‘Sit down, Mr. Devery. I tried to help him, but he wouldn’t be helped. I believe in helping people who have tripped up, so long as they are frank with me.’

I returned to the chair and sat down.

‘What happened to your son, Mr. Ryder?’

‘He’s dead. He hadn’t been out more than three months before he tried to rob a bank. He killed the bank guard and the police killed him.’ Ryder frowned at his cigarette. ‘Well, that’s the way things can happen. I blame myself. I didn’t try hard enough. There are always two sides to a story. I didn’t listen hard enough to his.’

‘Maybe it wouldn’t have made any difference.’

‘Maybe...’ His smile was sad. ‘Do you want to tell me your story, Mr. Devery?’

‘Only on the condition that you don’t have to believe it.’

‘No one has to believe anything he’s told, but there is no harm in listening.’ He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Would you do me a favour, Mr. Devery? Would you turn the key in the lock?’

Surprised, I got to my feet and locked the door. As I returned to my chair, I saw a bottle of Johnny Walker and two shot glasses had materialized.

‘Wouldn’t like Maisie to come in and find us men drinking,’ he said and winked. ‘I like kids to respect their elders.’

With loving care, he poured two shots, pushed one glass towards me and lifted the other.

‘Here’s to the young and innocent.’

We drank.

‘Now, Mr. Devery, you were going to tell me...’

‘I was what is called a broker’s front man,’ I said. ‘I worked for Barton Sharman, the second biggest brokerage house after Merrill Lynch. I was regarded as a whizz-kid. I was ambitious. I got drafted to Vietnam. They held my job open, but it wasn’t the same when I got back. In Vietnam I met ambitious guys and they taught me how to make a very fast buck in the black market. Making money for other people wasn’t fun anymore. I wanted to make money for myself. A very secret merger came up. I got a whisper of it. It was a chance of a lifetime. I used a client’s money. With my know-how, it was easy. I stood to make three quarters of a million. There was a last minute foul-up. The lid blew off and I drew five years. That’s it. No one got hurt except me. I asked for it and I got it. I’m only good with figures and no one is going to give me a job where there’s cash around so I take what I can find.’

He refilled our glasses.

‘Are you still ambitious, Mr. Devery?’

‘There’s no point in being ambitious if you can’t deal with figures,’ I said. ‘No... five years in a cell have taught me to lower my sights.’

‘Are your parents alive?’

‘Long dead... killed in an air crash before I went to Vietnam. I’m strictly on my own.’

‘Married?’

‘I was, but she didn’t want to wait five years.’

He finished his drink, then nodded.

‘You can have the job. It pays two hundred. It’s not much for someone like you who has been used to better things, but I don’t expect you to make a career of it. Let’s say it’s a marking time job to better things.’

‘Thanks what do I have to do?’

‘Teach people to drive. Mostly they are kids... nice kids, but every now and then we get middle-aged people... nice people. You work from nine to six. We are pretty booked up as Tom is in hospital. Tom Lucas... my instructor. He had bad luck... got an elderly woman who drove into a truck. She was all right, but Tom got concussion. You have to be alert, Mr. Devery. There are no dual controls, but you share the handbrake. Just keep your fingers on the handbrake and you’ll be fine.’

I finished my drink. He finished his, then put the bottle and the glasses back in his desk.

‘When do I start?’

‘Tomorrow morning. Talk to Maisie. She’ll tell you your appointments. Treat Maisie nice, Mr. Devery. She’s a real nice kid.’

He took out his billfold and put a hundred dollar bill on the desk.

‘Maybe you could use an advance. Then you want somewhere to live. Let me recommend Mrs. Hansen. I expect Joe Pinner told you this is a great little town for helping people. Mrs. Hansen has just lost her husband. She is a mite hard up. She owns a nice house on Seaview Avenue. She has decided to let a room. She’ll make you comfortable. She charges thirty a week and that includes breakfast and dinner. I’ve seen the room, it’s nice.’

It seemed ‘nice’ was the operative word in Wicksteed.

‘I’ll go along and see her.’ I paused, then went on, ‘And thank you for the job.’

‘You’re helping me out, Keith.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘You said your name was Keith?’

‘That’s right, Mr. Ryder.’

‘I’m Bert to everyone in town.’

‘Then I’ll see you tomorrow, Bert,’ I said and went out to talk to Maisie.

I woke the following morning at 7.00.

For the first time in months, I had slept through the night without waking. This was a record for me.

I stretched, yawned and reached for a cigarette. I looked around the big, airy room.

Bert had called it nice. To me, living rough for the past ten months, this was an understatement.

It had a divan bed on which I was lying, two comfortable armchairs, a small dining table with two chairs, a colour TV set and by the big picture window a small desk and chair. Facing me was a wall-to-wall bookcase, crammed with books. There were two wool rugs, one by the divan, the other under the desk. The flooring was polished wood blocks. There was a small, vine-covered veranda that looked out on to the beach and the sea. For thirty bucks a week the room was a steal.

Before calling on Mrs. Hansen, I had gone to Pinner’s Super Bazaar and had bought myself a couple of short-sleeved shirts, two pairs of cotton socks and a pair of sandals. Everyone in Wicksteed seemed to be in vacation gear.

Mrs. Hansen was a dumpy little woman of around fifty-eight. Her straw-coloured hair and her pale blue eyes were all Danish and she spoke with a slight guttural accent. She said Bert had telephoned about me. I wondered if he had warned her I was an ex-jailbird. I thought not. She took me into a big lounge with French windows looking on to the beach. The room was full of books. She explained that her husband had been the headmaster of the Wicksteed School. He had worked too hard and had had a fatal heart attack. I murmured the correct things. She said he had always been generous and had given away most of his money helping people. She said this with satisfaction. It was the right thing to do, she declared, but then he hadn’t known he was going to pass on so soon. She had been left without much money. I would be her first lodger.

She took me upstairs and showed me the room. She explained it had been her husband’s study. She said he had liked television, but she didn’t, so if I wanted it, she would leave the set where it was. I thanked her. A little anxiously, she asked if thirty dollars would be all right. I said it would. She told me there were two bathrooms and mine was down the corridor. She lived downstairs. She said dinner would be at seven, but I could have it later if I wished. I said seven would be fine. She asked if I had any dislikes. Remembering what I had been eating lately I nearly laughed. I said I wasn’t fussy. She said she would bring the meals up on a tray and would I like her to get some beer in which she would keep in the refrigerator. I said that would be fine. She hoped I would enjoy my work with Bert who (I waited for it) was a nice man. She said she had a black lady (probably nice too, I thought) who did the cleaning and would do my laundry. Would breakfast be all right at eight o’clock?

When she had gone, I unpacked, looked at some of the books but found they were strictly scholastic and there was no light reading. I went along to the bathroom and spent an hour soaking in hot water. Then I changed into my new outfit and went out on to the veranda. I watched the boys and the girls having fun on the beach until Mrs. Hansen brought up the dinner which consisted of fish pie, cheese and ice cream. There was also a can of beer.

I took the tray down when I had finished and left it in the kitchen. Mrs. Hansen was out on the patio, reading. I didn’t disturb her.

Back in my room, I sat on the veranda and smoked. I couldn’t quite believe this was happening to me after those ten awful months when I had been living rough. Now, suddenly, I had a two hundred a week job and a real home. It was too good to be true. Later, I watched TV news, then went to bed. It was a nice bed. In the shaded light by the divan, I thought it was a nice room. I seemed to be catching the ‘nice’ habit. I went to sleep.

Lying on the divan, a cigarette between my fingers, I could hear Mrs. Hansen preparing my breakfast. I was going to have a busy day. Maisie (she had told me her name was Jean Maisie Kent, but would I call her Maisie?) had shown me a list of pupils I was to teach. I had three one-hour lessons in the morning, an hour off for lunch, and five one-hour lessons in the afternoon.

‘They are all just out of school,’ she explained. ‘They are all beginners. The only one you have to be careful about is Hank Sobers. He is a showoff and thinks he knows it all. Just be careful of him, Mr. Devery.’

I said I would and would she call me Keith as I was calling her Maisie?

She nodded. For her age (she couldn’t have been more than sixteen) she was remarkably self-possessed. I asked about the Highway Code, admitting I had forgotten most of it. She said not to worry as Bert took the code classes. That was a relief. All the same I borrowed a copy of the code from her, meaning to look at it that evening, but had forgotten to.

I shaved, took a shower and dressed, then went out on to the veranda. I thought about Bert Ryder. Up to a point I had been truthful when I had told him why I had been jailed for five years, but I hadn’t been truthful about some of the details nor when he had asked if I was still ambitious. Ever since I had returned from Vietnam, after seeing the easy money made out of the black market, I had developed an itch for the big money. There was a Staff Sergeant who had been so well organized that, so he had told me, he and his three buddies would be worth close on a million dollars by the time they quit the Army. They had robbed the Army blind. They had even sold three Sherman tanks to a North Korean dealer to say nothing of cases of rifles, hand grenades, Army stores and so on. In the confusion of the fighting and during the Nixon pullout, no one missed the tanks nor the stolen equipment. I had envied these men. A million dollars! Back at my desk at Barton Sharman I had kept thinking of that Staff Sergeant who looked more like an ape than a human being. So when this merger seemed about to jell, I didn’t hesitate. This was my chance and I was going to take it! Once the merger went through, the share price would treble. I opened an account with a bank in Haverford and lodged with them Bearer bonds worth $450,000 which I was holding in safekeeping for a client of mine. With these bonds I bought the shares. When the merger went through, all I had to do was to sell, pick up the profit and return the bonds.

It looked good, but S.E.C. stepped in and the merger never was. I had lied to Bert when I had told him no one got hurt but me. My client lost his bonds, but I knew the bonds had been tax evasion money so he was almost, probably not quite, as big a thief as I was.

I had also lied to Bert when I had told him I was no longer ambitious. My ambition was like the spots of the leopard. Once you are landed with my kind of ambition, you were stuck with it. My ambition for big money burned inside me with the intensity of a blowtorch flame. It nagged me like raging toothache. During those five grim years in jail I had spent hours thinking and scheming about how to get my hands on big money. I kept telling myself what that ape-like Staff Sergeant could do, I could do. I hadn’t lied to Bert when I had told him I had patience. I had that all right. Sooner or later, I was going to be rich. I was going to have a fine house, a Caddy, a yacht and all the other trimmings that big money buys. I was going to have all that. It would be tough, but I was going to have it. At the age of thirty-eight, starting now from scratch, and with a criminal record, it was going to be more than tough, but not, I told myself, impossible. I had rubbed shoulders enough in my Barton Sharman days with the tycoons, and I knew them to be what they were: tough, hard, ruthless and determined. Many of them were unethical and amoral. Their philosophy was: the weak to the wall; the strong takes the jackpot.

My chance would come if I was patient, and when it did, nothing would stop me grabbing it. I would have to be tougher, harder, more ruthless, more determined, more unethical and more amoral than any of them.

If that was what I had to be, then that was what I was going to be!

Mrs. Hansen tapped on the door and brought in my breakfast. She asked if I had slept well and would I like fried chicken for dinner. I said that would be fine. When she had gone, I sat down to buckwheat pancakes and two eggs on grilled ham.

I told myself that when I got my first million, I would send Mrs. Hansen a big, anonymous donation. She was stealing herself blind.

‘How did it go, Keith?’ Bert asked as I came into his office for the lunch hour break. ‘Any problems?’

‘No problems. These kids are certainly keen. It’s my bet they have been practising on their father’s cars. They can’t be as good as this first time.’

He chuckled.

‘I guess that’s right. Anyway, you like the work?’

‘If you can call it work, I like it,’ I said. ‘I guess I’ll go grab me a hamburger. See you at two.’

‘Oh, Keith, use the car. It’s no use to me. I’ve never learned to drive, and I’m too old to start now. So long as you pay for the gas, it’s yours.’

‘Why thanks, Bert.’

‘Mrs. Hansen has a garage at the back. It’ll save you a bus fare.’

‘Nice idea.’ I underlined the word ‘nice’ and grinned at him.

‘You’re catching on. Want a snort before you go?’

‘Thanks, no. No hard stuff during working hours.’

He nodded his approval.

I went over to the café across the street, ordered a hamburger and a Coke.

So far the job seemed dead easy. As I had told Bert, the kids were crazy to get their driving permits so they could take off in some old buggy they had saved for, and they were eager to learn. I seemed to have the knack of getting along with young people. I had mixed enough with them in Vietnam and I knew their thing. But, I told myself, I mustn’t let myself get sucked into this easy way of life. It was fine for a month or so, but no longer. At the end of the month, unless some opportunity turned up — the big opportunity I was waiting for — then I would have to move on. I would take a look at Frisco. Surely in a city of that size the opportunity would be waiting.

When I returned to the Driving school a few minutes before two, I found Hank Sobers waiting. Remembering Maisie’s warning, I looked him over. He was a tall, gangling youth of around eighteen with a crop of pimples, hair down to his shoulders, wearing a T-shirt on which was printed: Don’t Look Further Than Me, Babe.

‘This is Hank Sobers,’ Maisie said. ‘The boy wonder,’ and she went back to her typing.

‘Hurry it up, dad,’ Hank said to me. ‘I ain’t got all day.’

I moved up and loomed over him. This had to be handled fast and right.

‘Talking to me?’ I barked.

They teach you how to bark in the Army, and I hadn’t forgotten.

I startled him as I had meant to startle him. He took a step back and gaped at me.

‘Let’s get going,’ he said feebly. ‘I’m paying for these bloody lessons and I expect action.’

I looked at Maisie who had stopped typing and was watching, her eyes round.

‘Is he paying or is his father paying?’

‘His father is.’

‘Right.’ I turned back to Hank. ‘Now listen, son, from now on you call me Mr. Devery... understand? When you get into that car, you will do exactly what I say. You won’t voice your unwanted opinions. I’m going to teach you to drive. If you don’t like the way I do it, go elsewhere. Get all that?’

I knew from what Maisie had told me there was no other Driving school in Wicksteed so I had him where I wanted him.

He hesitated, then mumbled.

‘Oh, sure.’

‘Oh sure... what?’ Again the bark.

‘Oh sure, Mr. Devery.’

‘Let’s go.’ I took him out to the car. As soon as he got into the driving seat, started the engine and moved the car from the kerb, I could see he didn’t need lessons. It was my bet he had been driving his old man’s car without a permit for months. I told him to drive around, had him park, had him stop on a hill, had him U-turn. I couldn’t fault him.

‘Okay, pull up here.’

He parked and looked at me.

‘How’s your driving code, Hank?’

‘It’s okay.’

‘Go talk to Mr. Ryder. If he passes you, I’ll pass you. You don’t need lessons. You handle a car as well as I do.’

He suddenly grinned.

‘Gee! Thanks, Mr. Devery. I thought you’d screw me around just to get my old man’s money.’

‘That’s an idea.’ I regarded him. ‘Maybe you’d better have five more lessons.’

He looked alarmed.

‘Hey! I was only kidding.’

‘So was I. Drive me back and I’ll talk to Mr. Ryder.’

We returned to the Driving school. I talked to Bert and he had Hank in and tested him.

Ten minutes later, Hank came out of Bert’s office, a wide grin on his face.

‘I walked it!’ he said to me. ‘And thanks, Mr. Devery, you’ve been swell.’

‘You still have the official test to take,’ I reminded him. ‘So watch it.’

‘Sure will, Mr. Devery,’ and still grinning he took himself off.

‘You certainly have a way with you, Keith,’ Maisie said. She had been listening. ‘That voice! You scared me.’

‘An old Army trick,’ I said, but I was pleased with myself.

‘Who’s next on the list?’

I knocked off just after 18.00, looked in to say so long to Bert, then getting in the car, I started down Main street towards my hired room.

A police whistle made me stiffen. I looked to my right. A tall man in brown uniform, a fawn Stetson on his head, a gun on his hip, crooked a finger at me.

My heart skipped a beat. For the past ten months I had steered clear of the cops. I had even got into the habit of crossing the street or stepping into a shop if I saw one coming. Well, there was no skipping this one. I checked my driving mirror, saw the street was clear of traffic behind me and pulled to the kerb.

I sat still, my hands moist, my heart thumping while I watched in my wing mirror his casual approach. Like all cops when stopping a car, he wasn’t in a hurry — his way of waging a war of nerves — and finally, he came to rest beside me: a young guy, hatchet faced, small cop eyes, thin lips. The first non-nice person I had met in Wicksteed. He had a label on his shirt that read: Deputy Sheriff Abel Ross.

‘This your car, Mac?’ he demanded, movie tough.

‘No, and my name’s not Mac, it’s Devery.’

He narrowed his narrow eyes.

‘If it’s not your car what are you doing driving it?’

‘Going home, Deputy Sheriff Ross,’ I said quietly, and I could see I was fazing him a little.

‘Mr. Ryder know about it, Mac?’

‘The name’s Devery, Deputy Sheriff Ross,’ I said, ‘and he knows about it.’

‘Licence.’

He held out a hand as big as a ham.

I gave him my licence and he studied it.

‘You’ve renewed it. Why has it lapsed for five years?’

Now he was getting me fazed.

‘I gave up driving for five years.’

‘Why?’

‘I didn’t need a car.’

He cocked his head on one side, staring at me.

‘Why didn’t you need a car?’

‘For private reasons, Deputy Sheriff Ross. Why do you ask?’

After a long pause, he handed the licence back.

‘I haven’t seen you around before. What are you doing in this town?’

‘I am the new driving instructor,’ I told him. ‘If you want to check me out suppose you talk to Mr. Ryder?’

‘Yeah. We make a point of checking out strangers here. Especially guys who have given up driving for five years.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘You should know,’ he said, and turning, he stalked off down the sidewalk.

I sat for a long moment, staring through the windshield. I had served my sentence and there was nothing he could do about it, but I knew this could happen in any town I drove in. Once a jailbird to the cops, always a jailbird.

Across the way was a bar. Above the entrance was the simple legend: Joe’s Bar. I felt in need of a drink. Locking the car, I crossed the street and went in.

The bar was big and dark and there were two fans in the ceiling churning up the hot air. For a moment or so, coming in from the bright sunlight, I couldn’t see much, then my eyes adjusted to the dimness. Two men were propping up the long bar counter at the far end, talking to the barkeeper behind the counter. When he saw me, he walked the length of the counter to give me a broad smile of welcome.

‘Howdy, Mr. Devery.’ At a guess, he was fiftyish, short, fat and happy looking. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Joe Summers. I own this joint... What’s your pleasure?’

‘Scotch on the rocks, please.’ I regarded him, a little startled, ‘How did you know who I am?’

He grinned.

‘My boy had a driving lesson from you this morning, Mr. Devery. He tells me you’re sharp. Coming from him who thinks anyone over twenty-five is square is praise.’

‘Sammy Summers?’ I remembered the kid. He hadn’t been one of the bright ones.

‘That’s him. Scotch on the rocks right here, Mr. Devery. Welcome to our town. Though I live in it, I’ll say it is real nice.’

One of the men at the end of the counter suddenly bawled, ‘If I want another goddamn drink, I’ll have another goddamn drink.’

‘Excuse me, Mr. Devery,’ and Joe hurried down the counter.

I sipped my Scotch as I regarded the two men at the far end of the counter. One was short and skinny in his late forties. The other — the one who had bawled — was tall, beefy with a beer paunch and a red, sweating nondescript face that sported a thick Charlie Chan black moustache. He was wearing a lightweight dark blue suit, a white shirt, and a red tie. He looked to me like a not too successful travelling salesman.

‘Joe! Gimme another Scotch!’ he bawled. ‘C’on! Another Scotch!’

‘Not if you’re going to drive home, Frank,’ Joe said firmly, ‘You’ve had more than enough already.’

‘Who said I was driving? Tom’s going to drive me home.’

‘That I am not!’ the skinny man said sharply. ‘Do you imagine I want an eight mile walk back to my place?’

‘Do you good,’ the big man said, ‘Gimme another Scotch, Joe, then we’ll go.’

‘I’m not driving you,’ Tom said, ‘and I mean that!’

‘Why you skinny sonofabitch, I thought you were my friend!’

‘So I am, but I’m not walking eight miles even for a friend.’

Listening to all this, something nudged me. Fate’s elbow? I wandered down the counter.

‘Maybe, gentlemen, I could help,’ I said.

The big man turned and glared at me.

‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Now, Frank, that’s not polite,’ Joe said soothingly. ‘This is Mr. Devery, our new driving instructor. He works for Bert.’

The big man peered blearily at me.

‘So what’s he want?’

I looked at the skinny man.

‘If you drive him home, I’ll follow and take you back.’

The skinny man grabbed my hand and pumped it up and down.

‘That’s real nice of you, Mr. Devery. Solves the problem. I’m Tom Mason. This is Frank Marshall.’

The big man tried to focus me, nodded, then turned to Joe.

‘How about that drink?’

Joe poured a shot while Mason plucked at Marshall’s sleeve.

‘Come on, Frank, it’s getting late.’

As Marshall downed the drink, I said to Joe, ‘Would you call Mrs. Hansen and tell her I’ll be a little late for dinner?’

‘Sure, Mr. Devery. It’s real nice of you.’

Unsteadily, Marshall strode out of the bar. Mason, shaking his head, followed with me.

‘He doesn’t know when to stop, Mr. Devery,’ he muttered. ‘Such a shame.’

He and Marshall got into a shabby looking green Plymouth parked outside the bar. They waited until I got in my car, then Mason drove off. I followed.

Leaving Main Street, the Plymouth headed inland. After a ten-minute drive we reached what I guessed to be the best residential quarter to judge by the opulent houses and villas, set in well cared for gardens, ablaze with flowers. Another ten-minute drive brought us to forests and isolated farmhouses.

The Plymouth’s trafficator warned me Mason was turning left. The car disappeared up a narrow dirt road just wide enough for one car. We finally reached a dead-end and there stood a big two-storey house, completely isolated and half-hidden by trees and shrubs.

As Mason drove into the short driveway and then into a garage close to the house, I pulled up and reversed the car for the run back. I lit a cigarette and waited. After some five minutes, Tom Mason came hurrying down the drive to join me.

As he got in the car, he said, ‘This is real nice of you, Mr. Devery. I’ve known Frank Marshall since we were at school together. He’s a nice fella when he isn’t in drink. He’s frustrated, Mr. Devery, and I can’t say I blame him.’

‘Oh?’ I wasn’t particularly interested. ‘What’s his trouble then?’

‘He’s waiting for his aunt to die.’

I looked at him, startled.

‘Is that right?’

‘That’s it. He has expectations. He’s her heir. Once she passes on, he’ll be the richest man in Wicksteed.’

Remembering the opulent houses I had passed on the way up, my interest sharpened.

‘I’m a newcomer here, Mr. Mason. I wouldn’t know how rich that would be.’ It was carefully phrased. It could produce information, yet didn’t indicate I was fishing.

‘Between you and me, when she goes, he’ll inherit a shade over a million dollars.’

I stiffened. My attention became riveted to what he was saying...

‘Is that a fact? There’s an old saying about waiting for dead men’s shoes...’

‘That’s his trouble. The old lady is dying by inches... cancer. She could go tomorrow or she could live for some time. Two years back, she told him she was going to leave him all her money. Since then he has been counting the hours. He’s worrying so much about when she’s going to die he’s begun to hit the bottle. Before she told him, he scarcely touched hard liquor.’

‘Quite a situation, Mr. Mason.’

He put his hand on my arm.

‘Call me Tom. What’s your first name, friend.’

‘Keith.’

‘A family name, huh? It’s unusual.’ He scratched his chin, then went on, ‘Yes, it sure is a situation, Keith. I’m sorry for him, and I’m sorry for his wife although I’ve never met her.’

‘What does he do for a living?’

‘He runs a real estate business in Frisco. He commutes every day by train.’

‘Does he do all right?’

‘Well, he did, but since he began drinking, he’s complaining about the business.’ Mason shook his head. ‘But you can’t tell Frank a thing. The times I’ve warned him about his drinking. Let’s hope he’ll get the money soon, then maybe, he’ll pull himself together.’

I was now only half listening. As I drove back to Wicksteed, my mind was busy. A shade over a million! Who would believe anyone in such a one-horse town could inherit such a sum.

I was suddenly envious. If only I were in Frank Marshall’s place! I wouldn’t take to the bottle in frustration. With my expertise, I would raise credit on my expectations. I would...

My heart gave a little jump.

Was this, I asked myself, the opportunity I had been waiting for so patiently?