Manhunt. Volume 4, Number 6, June, 1956

One More Mile to Go by F. J. Smith

Jacoby was carrying very important cargo. Life-or-death cargo, you might say...

It was exactly nine-thirty when Jacoby walked quietly into the dark bedroom and strangled his wife. There had been no fuss or commotion. Earlier, she had complained of the heat and had gone to bed and fallen into a deep sleep. Before she had been able to as much as let out a startled cry, his lean, hard fingers had closed firmly about her windpipe blocking out her nagging voice forever.

Although he had planned the crime with painstaking attention to detail and figured every step of its progress from start to finish, it had required every ounce of his courage to see the first phase through. This was not surprising, for Jacoby was an obsequious, mild little man with a narrow, lined face and dull gray eyes that peered over sturdy, horn-rimmed glasses. He looked like, exactly what he was, an elderly small-town storekeeper.

After he had arranged the body and a box of iron weights in the luggage compartment of his car, he drove slowly along a series of dark, unpopulated streets to the highway, where he turned left in the general direction of New Orleans. He leaned back now and lit a cigarette. His gaze was divided between the yellow path of his headlights, the speedometer and the rear view mirror.

Jacoby was a cautious man who left nothing to chance. Even though he had a good ten mile drive ahead of him, he still kept well within the speed limit.

Lulled by the steady hum of the engine, he once more reviewed every step of the details that lay ahead. “Routine,” he then told himself. “All routine.” Any fool could handle the rest. The part that had required courage and determination was over and done with.

The turnoff lay about two miles beyond Fischer’s Service Station. It was marked by a yellow crossroads sign so there would be no possibility of overshooting it. He would turn right at the sign and proceed along a seldom used dirt road for exactly one mile to a clearing that lay less than two hundred feet from a deep bayou. There he would park the car, carry Edna’s body to the bayou’s edge and return for the weights — one hundred pounds of iron sashweights, accumulated over the course of a month. After the weights had been fastened to the body with a quantity of wire he had brought — you couldn’t trust rope in the water over a long period of time — he would dispose of the corpse. He knew from previous investigation that the murky water ran particularly deep in this location and that the bottom was composed of a slimy, grayish mud which would clutch and permanently hold any heavy object.

A thin smile of confidence turned to a scowl when his car hit a bad bump. Damn it, he thought irritably. The highway had been damaged by the heavy rain of a few days ago. Water had soaked under the road-bed, and the road had sunken in spots making deep depressions and sharp-edged holes. A man could break a spring or burst a tire. He wanted no mechanical trouble, tonight of all nights.

Jacoby slowed to thirty-five, and his closest-set gray eyes scrutinized the highway carefully while his thoughts moved to the next day.

In the morning he would go to work as though nothing had happened. He would eat lunch at the Traveller’s Hotel, the way he usually did on Wednesday. Perhaps after he had closed the store at six, he would stop in the Monarch for a glass or two of beer and talk a while. He would arrive home about six-thirty or seven. About eight, he would start phoning neighbors and friends. After that, he would become very worried and call Sheriff Thompson. Let Thompson think what he wanted — if he was capable of thinking at all. For no matter what suspicions the Sheriff might have, he could prove nothing. There would be no clues: No poison to be traced; no blood stains to be analyzed; no blunt instruments to be discovered. Nor would there be any corpus delecti. And without a body there could, of course, be no crime. Edna had disappeared mysteriously. And that was all. Let them prove otherwise.

So deep in thought was Jacoby, that it required a moment or two for the deep-throated cry of the siren to reach him. With a start, he looked up at the rear view mirror and caught sight of the rapidly approaching patrol car with its flashing amber light. He eased over to the road’s shoulder at once and stopped. The patrol car pulled up ahead of him. With a sinking heart, Jacoby watched the trooper climb out. Then the trooper sauntered over to Jacoby’s car with a slow, easy gait, as though he had all the time in the world, and placed his elbow on the window sill.

“I was only doing thirty-five, officer,” Jacoby said quickly, defensively.

“Did I say you weren’t?” the trooper replied and poked his head inside to inspect the dark interior. “You’ve got a tail light out, Mac.”

Jacoby’s tongue moved across his lips and his fingers worked at the wheel, opening and closing like pale, restless tentacles. “Why — I had no idea. It was all right when I left the house. I’m very careful about those things. I’m a law-abiding citizen.”

“It’s your left tail light,” the trooper said. “One sure thing, you’re violating the law with it out. Something like that can cause an accident.”

Next he carefully inspected Jacoby’s driver’s license and registration paper under the glare of a flashlight. He handed them back. “So you’re from Edgetown.”

“Yes, officer. It’s a little town, few miles down the road. I own a feed store there.”

“I know where Edgetown is,” the trooper said. “Where you heading to now?”

“Why... why I’m just taking a little drive.” Jacoby smiled genially and blew at the perspiration beading his upper lip. “Just a little drive to cool off. Lord, it’s hot! It does a man good to get out in the air and take a drive once in a while. Now take my wife,” he added, shaking his head, “she’s home reading. She’s a great one for reading. Once she gets a book in her hand, you can’t budge her from the house. She’ll read ’til she falls asleep. She’s probably sleeping by now. But me, I like fresh air. A man needs it after he’s been cooped up in a feed store all day.”

“Sure, sure,” the trooper said with an impatient gesture. “Now about that tail light. There’s a gas station up the road. You’d stop there and get a bulb for that tail light. If I wanted to be tough, I could give you a ticket. You know that.”

“Well, thanks,” Jacoby said, fairly grovelling. “Thanks, officer. I’ll see to it right away. Believe me, I will.”

Swearing under his breath, he watched the trooper walk away.

Fischer’s Service Station was small and neglected, attended by a lanky, freckle-faced youth who shuffled over to Jacoby’s car and gaped in at him. “Fill ’er up?” he asked indifferently.

“I want a bulb for my left tail light,” Jacoby said, drumming nervously on the wheel.

When the youthful attendant returned a few minutes later, Jacoby handed him a five dollar bill. It was the smallest thing he had. The boy studied it. Then asked, “Don’t you want me to put that bulb in?”

Jacoby glanced into the rear view mirror in time to see the patrol car easing into the driveway. “Yes. Yes. Certainly I do.”

The attendant stuffed the bill into the pocket of his grimy, snug-fitting denims and walked around to the back of the car. Jacoby got out and watched him work clumsily removing screws and the glass which he placed on the concrete beside him. The young fellow then snapped out the old bulb and replaced it with the new one. Nothing happened.

“What do you make of that?” he asked jiggling the bulb with a greasy finger and looking up at Jacoby.

“Maybe the bulb you just put in is no good,” Jacoby said and cast a sideways glance towards the trooper. The trooper’s car was parked off to the side and he was working the coke machine. His back was turned to Jacoby.

“It’s a brand new bulb,” the attendant insisted loudly. “I just took it out of the wrapper. You seen me.”

“It could be defective anyway.”

“Nuts!” the boy exclaimed and removed the bulb.

He was holding it up to the light and squinting at the filament, when the trooper came over, smacking his lips and eyeing his coke bottle with satisfaction. “What’s the matter, Red? What’s all the noise about?” he asked good naturedly.

“Take a look at that bulb,” Red said and handed him the bulb. “Tell me what you think. It looks okay to me.”

The trooper took the bulb and rolled it between his fingers and held it up to the light. He tilted his head from one side to the other, examining it carefully. “There’s nothing wrong with that bulb,” he said. “Stick her back in and try jiggling her a little. Sometimes the sockets get rusted up.”

“That’s what I done,” Red replied. “I just jiggled the hell out of it and nothin’ happened.” He replaced the bulb and shook it with his finger. “See what I mean?”

The trooper frowned in silent meditation; and then he stepped over and gave the fender a thump with the heel of his hand. The bulb blinked on, flickered momentarily and went out again. “You’ve got a bad connection there,” he said and took a swallow of coke. “You’ve cither got a loose wire inside or a frayed wire that’s rubbing and grounded.” He gave the bumper a tap with the toe of a polished boot. “What’s in the trunk? Looks like she’s pretty loaded down.”

Jacoby felt his heart slow down and stop beating. Sweat gathered more profusely on his forehead, and his tongue felt fuzzy and incapable of forming words. “Two bags of fertilizer,” he said. “I’m supposed to drop them off on the way to work tomorrow. Like I told you, I own a feed store.”

The trooper finished his coke, belched comfortably, and removed his large Ranger’s hat and ran fingers around the damp sweat band. His hair was short and thick and the impression of the sweat band encircled his forehead like a pale-red ribbon. “Fertilizer, eh?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what probably done it. You hit one of those bumps back there and one of those fertilizer sacks bounced against a bad wire and grounded it. It happens sometimes. I know. My brother’s a mechanic.” He put his hat back on and held out his hand. “Let’s have your key. We’ll open her up and Red can take a look. Probably a little piece of tape will fix it.”

Suddenly Jacoby felt as though he were about to fall or faint. His knees were shaking, and he was forced to lean on the fender to brace himself.

“What’s the matter?” the trooper said eyeing him curiously. “You look sick.”

“It’s the heat,” Jacoby said in a feeble voice. “I’m getting so I can’t take this humid, hot weather any more.”

The trooper looked up at the sky speculatively. “She’s gonna rain again before the night’s over. It’s always like this before a rain.” He blew out his breath and tugged at his breeches. “Okay. Let’s have the key. We’ll have a look.”

“I don’t have a key, officer,” Jacoby said. “You see, I lost one of the keys. I left the other one home so my wife can have a duplicate made tomorrow.”

“Didn’t you say you had some fertilizer to deliver on the way to work?”

“I do. Yeah. Yeah. I’d forgotten all about that tonight when I removed the key from my ring.” He laughed uneasily. A croaking sound. “This heat. Sometimes it gets a man so he can’t think or remember things. What I need is a vacation, I guess.”

The trooper thought about this a while as though trying to arrange things in his head. “That light should be fixed,” he said. “There’s been a lot of accidents along this highway and they’re clamping down.” He compressed his lips and stared down at the luggage compartment lock. Then, before Jacoby actually knew what was happening, the man’s short, strong fingers closed over the handle and he gave a vigorous pull upward. The lid held firm and Jacoby was forced to cling even harder to the fender to support himself.

The trooper was too busy frowning down at the lock to notice him. “Sometimes you can spring ’em open on these old cars. A hard jerk is all it takes.”

He was about to try again, when Jacoby found his voice. “Can’t you just give me a ticket and be done with it?”

“Why?”

“Well, it would perhaps be cheaper in the long run than ruining the lock,” he pleaded. “I carry merchandise in the luggage compartment and I need a good lock.”

The trooper braced his foot on the bumper and rested his arm on his knee. “Sure I could give you a ticket. But that won’t fix the light, will it? Suppose some fella comes along and hits you in the rear. He thinks you’re a motorcycle or something. Or maybe he’s half tanked. You both end up in the hospital. Is that cheaper than a new lock?”

“No, of course not,” Jacoby said helplessly. “But—”

The trooper chuckled, mildly amused. “Some of you fellas give me a laugh. You treat these old cars like they were old ladies. You get a scratch on the fender and you lay awake all night worrying about it.”

He removed his foot and stepped over to the light and gave the fender another resounding thump with the heel of his hand. Nothing happened. He tried again and the light flashed on and glowed steadily. Then he smiled with satisfaction. “That’s one way of doing it.”

“Why that’s wonderful,” Jacoby breathed. “Just wonderful, officer.”

“Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched,” the trooper said. “I can’t say how long she’ll stay that way. You’d better get that light fixed tomorrow.”

“I certainly will,” Jacoby promised. “Believe me, I’ll have it taken care of first thing in the morning.”

The trooper flipped his coke bottle to his other hand and started to walk away. “Okay. You’d better make sure. Next time you’ll get a ticket. No bones about it.”

The instant the attendant finished replacing the glass and screws, Jacoby scurried in behind the wheel, started the engine and swung out into the highway. He was half crying, half laughing, trembling violently. However, once the lights of the gas station had disappeared behind a tangle of trees, he rapidly gained control of his emotions and assured himself that his remarkable deliverance from near calamity had been only the result of his own ingenuity. He complimented himself on his glib tongue, his presence of mind, his facility to think quickly and lie convincingly.

Smiling confidently, he treated himself to a cigarette. In a few minutes he would arrive at the crossroads sign. After that, there’d be a mile of dirt road. He would have to drive carefully and slowly on the rutted road, but it didn’t matter for there wasn’t a chance in ten thousand of meeting a car on that road at night. There were only several Cajun fishermen and trappers who used the road, and the nearest shack to the spot where he intended to park was a quarter of a mile away.

The smile remained on Jacoby’s lips. He smoked tranquilly until his rear view mirror picked up the amber light of the patrol car once more. A sudden sinking sensation made him queasy as he lifted his foot off the accelerator and eased to a stop on the shoulder. Ahead, within range of his headlight beam, he could distinguish the bright-yellow crossroads sign.

The trooper pulled in ahead of him and climbed out and walked over to him shaking his head from side to side. Again he rested his arms on the window sill and looked in. “What’s the big hurry?”

“I was only doing thirty, officer,” Jacoby said meekly. “That’s the speed limit, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t say you were speeding. Why is it people always think they’re being stopped for speeding?” He fished in his pocket and removed some money. “The way you pulled out of Fischer’s, any one would of thought you were on fire. Red tried to call you back. Here,” he held out the money, “you gave Red a five-spot and forgot your change.”

Jacoby took the money and without counting it stuck it in his pocket. “Why, thanks. Thanks a lot, officer. I’m certainly obliged. It completely slipped my mind.”

“It would take a lot to make me forget five bucks.”

Jacoby laughed uneasily. If only the fellow would stop talking and go, his mind cried out. His eyes turned towards the crossroads sign.

The trooper rubbed finger tips across his smoothly shaven chin. “I got news for you. That tail light’s out again. She went out just as you pulled off the road.”

“What!”

“She’s out like a light.” He laughed at his joke. “But don’t worry about it. I happened to think of something. Headquarters is about a half mile up the road. We’ve got a mechanic up there and he’s got master keys. He can open that trunk in ten seconds. He’ll fix the light and it won’t cost you anything.” He straightened up. “Follow me. I’ll lead the way.”