Death Sentence

37

It was a small house on Reba Place in Evanston, in the middle of a block of elderly detached houses on postage-stamp lots, each driveway forming the boundary with its neighbor’s property; the houses were narrow and old-fashioned and the trees along the curbs had attained towering heights. The carport alongside the house had no cars in it. Paul didn’t go up to the door but he sensed the house was empty.

He had a name — Orson Pyne — and this address. He sat in his car and studied the house and tried to form a picture of the man who lived in it. He had little success. But he had a strong feeling the house was empty and that meant either Pyne lived alone or his wife worked. The place wasn’t equipped for two cars but that didn’t mean much; it was only two or three blocks’ walk to Asbury where you could pick up a Western Avenue bus.

There was a filling station on the corner two and a half blocks away. It was worth a try. Before he started the car Paul opened his wallet and sorted through the ID’s and business cards. There was a lot of outdated junk, he saw — even a 1973 plastic calendar — and he was amazed it had been that long since he’d gone through the contents of the wallet. He decided on the card that identified him as a member of the West 71st Street Community Association. It had been sent to him when he’d made a financial contribution to the block association’s campaign to install high-intensity street lighting off West End Avenue. The lettering was too small to be read at a glance and beneath the lettering on the white card was imprinted a pale green shield. At a cursory glance it might pass for an official identification card. He put everything back in the wallet and slid the ID card in so that it was exposed in the Plexigas window. Then he drove to the filling station.

It was a small one-man station with a single lube rack; the proprietor was squirting grease up into the fittings of a Cadillac elevated on the lift. Paul stood just inside the stall and waited for the mechanic to notice him.

The mechanic lowered the grease gun and glanced at him. “Help you, mister?”

“I’m looking for a man named Orson Pyne. Lives a couple of blocks down here. Thought you might know him.”

“Well I might.”

Paul flashed the wallet, opening it to show the card inside the plastic window. “It’s official.”

The mechanic lowered the grease gun; his face changed. “What’s it about?”

“Just a routine inquiry. Pyne lives in that brown and white house in the middle of the third block down there, does he?”

“Aeah, he does.”

“He have his car serviced here?”

“Yes, he’s been a regular customer a long time now.”

“Is he a family man?”

“What is this, some kind of credit investigation?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Well he used to be a family man. Wife died a few years ago, lung cancer I think. He’s got a kid, just about grown up now I guess. Doesn’t live at home anyhow.”

“So Pyne lives alone.”

“Yes sir. He’s a quiet kind of guy.”

“Pays his bills regularly?”

“He’s real reliable, yes sir. Takes real good care of his car too. Sometimes that means something about a person, don’t it?”

“It does, yes. What kind of car does he drive?”

“Seventy-two Ambassador. A real cream puff.”

“You look after it for him, do you?”

“Well once in a while he takes it back to the American Motors place. You know, the big servicings, twenty-four thousand mile stuff. But I do all the routine work for him. He’s real conscientious about oil changes and all that stuff. I just wish more of my customers would—”

“Do you happen to know where Mr. Pyne works?”

“Sure, don’t you? He teaches college over at the university. Chemistry, biology, something like that.”

“What time does he usually get home?”

“Well I couldn’t tell you that, Mister. I don’t keep tabs on nobody. Sometimes I see him, he stops in here on his way home, it’s different times different days. You know how it is with teachers. But if you want to talk to him he ought to be home by suppertime I guess.”

“Thanks very much for your help. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it under your hat. We wouldn’t want to upset him for no reason. I mean everything seems to check out, there’s no reason to worry Mr. Pyne.”

“No sir, I can see that all right.”

“Thanks again.” Paul went back to his car.