Twenty Plus Two

Chapter 23

Gray dawn was breaking over Bismarck, North Dakota. Below were winking lights and beyond the lights a pattern of them — floodlights, lighting an air strip that seemed far too small to accept the airplane swooping down.

The plane made a bumpy landing. The pilot taxied it toward a flat building and cut off the motors.

“End of the line,” he announced. “Bismarck — General Custer’s old home town.”

“You are wrong, sir,” said Pleschette as he released his tight grip on the seat arms. “General Custer was an Ohioan by birth. He later called Monroe, Michigan, his home, but actually it was his wife’s place of birth.”

“Mister,” said the pilot, “if I didn’t need the two hundred Id give it back to you. You’re worth it. I never heard so much talk in all of my life — talk, talk, talk.”

“Each man to his last,” opined Pleschette, “and that is what you should be doing — sitting at a cobbler’s last, mending shoes. You’re no aviator, sir.”

Bent over, he moved ponderously toward the door. The pilot shook his head at Alder and made a circling movement at his temple.

“Thank you,” said Alder.

“I need the money. You get to Minneapolis again, look me up.”

It was a cold, gray dawn. The terminal building had a single occupant, the night dispatcher, watchman, and general custodian.

He had a pot of coffee on a hot plate. He telephoned for a taxicab, then poured out cups of steaming coffee. A slow drizzle began to fog the windows. By the time the cab came from the city, the drizzle had turned to a steady downpour. It continued throughout the trip to the hotel, The Siouxan.

Bismarck was a small city by Eastern standards. In Dakota it was counted a metropolis. The hotel was seven stories, only a few years old, and ultramodern.

“Shall we continue to share expenses?” Pleschette asked cheerfully as they entered the hotel.

“I owe you one hundred,” said Alder. “I’ll stop there.”

“Then I shall take a room by myself. I will not say goodbye because, of course, we shall meet again. Will it be here — or Papa’s?”

“It won’t be with my back turned,” said Alder darkly.

“Please!”

Alder was sufficiently annoyed when the night clerk gave them rooms on the same floor, the third, only two rooms apart. A bellboy took them upstairs, showed them their rooms.

Alder’s room was a large, airy one, furnished with an Indian motif, for this, of course, was in the heart of the Sioux country.

He undressed, showered, then put on his clothes again. He had no change with him.

It was still dark outside. The dawn he had seen in the sky, as the plane came down, had not materialized into daylight, but had become dark once more. The rain came down heavily. It was only six-thirty. Another half hour before the dining room would open, at least an hour and a half before the places of business opened their doors.

He sat down on the bed and picked up the phone. The night clerk also handled the switchboard. “Please get me 24026, Ring Two.” The man dialed the number. The phone rang for some time, but there was no response.

Alder frowned, then left his room and descended to the lobby. He approached the desk.

“The number I just tried to call,” he said to the clerk. “Would it be possible for you to find out for me the address where the phone is located?”

The man hesitated, then nodded and turned to the small switchboard. “Alice,” he said into the phone, “Dink Stephenson. Who has 24026, Ring Two?” He waited, then nodded. “Thanks, Alice.”

He broke the connection and returned to Alder. “It’s a pay phone at the Brule Lodge and Motel. That’s on Highway 26, a mile or so out of town. Joe Dacey’s place. The phone’s outside and I guess Joe doesn’t answer it at night. Can’t blame him.”

“Thanks. Now, can you tell me where I can find a car rental place?”

The clerk looked toward the door. “In this rain? It may continue for hours.”

“I can’t help the rain. I need a car.”

“Cliff Sawtelle will rent you a car, but if you plan any extensive driving — off the pavement — he’ll want a substantial deposit.”

Alder took the wallet from his pocket and produced his Diners’ Club and American Express credit cards.

“Will these do?”

The clerk took the cards. “I don’t know about Cliff, but they’re quite satisfactory with us and we will be glad to charge the car rental to your account.” He went to the phone and dialed. He spoke for a few moments, then returned. “The car will be here in ten minutes.”

“Good. One thing more — do you happen to have a road map handy?”

The clerk rummaged under the counter and found a state road map of the sort given away by gas service stations. Alder sat down in a lobby chair and opened the map.

There was a town named Dumas, he discovered, thirty miles from Bismarck, west eight miles on Highway 26, then north twenty-two miles on Highway 14, then two miles west again on County Road 1. The population of Dumas was given as 515. There were no other towns in that general direction between Dumas and Bismarck.

Alder refolded the map and put it into his pocket. He walked to the door and looked out. It was lightening outside, but the growing light only made the downpour more visible. A car with the lights on pulled up in front of the hotel. A man in a yellow slicker got out and ran for the hotel door.

He came through, rain streaming from his slicker.

“You the fella wants the car?” he asked Alder.

Alder nodded. “Yes.”

“She’s yours — but look — keep off the gumbo roads if this rain keeps on. There’re chains in back, but I’m gonna charge you I hafta go out and haul you in. You pay for the repairs, too.”

“Fair enough,” said Alder. “Is the gas tank full?”

“To the brim.”

The car man continued on to the desk. Alder moved to the door and looked out. He would be soaked merely getting to the car. He ought to wait until the stores were open and buy a raincoat. But a feeling of urgency rested heavily on him. He had eaten only a sandwich the night before. He was not hungry, however. Tired, yes. He wished he could rest or relax, but that was impossible until his mind was clear.

He opened the door and rushed out into the rain. He was soaked to the skin by the time he got into the car. He switched on the ignition. The windshield wiper cleared his vision, but the rain still seemed to be coming down in torrents.

He moved forward to the next intersection and barely made out a marker, 26. He continued on for two blocks and then 26 turned right. A few blocks more and he cleared the city limits. Buildings became more widely separated. He drove at an easy thirty miles an hour, splashing through low spots and intersections that were awash almost to the hub caps.

Suddenly he saw lights. Slowing, he made out a neon sign, BRULE LODGE AND MOTEL. He turned: off the road. There was a series of cottages with carports beside each one. They were built in an inverted U-shape, covering perhaps two acres.

The office building was in front. Under the veranda was a telephone booth. Alder stopped the car as closely to the building as he could. He got out and strode to the phone booth. He opened the door. The number on the phone dial was 24026, R2.

She had telephoned from here.

He moved to a door with a brass plate marked OFFICE. He tried it, found the door was unlocked. He stepped into a room that was a combination office and living room. A man was lying on his back on a couch, his mouth open. A rasping snore came from him.

“Hello,” said Alder.

The snoring stopped but the man’s eyes remained closed. Alder moved a chair. The man’s eyes popped open.

“What the!” He sat up. “You want a cabin?”

“No,” said Alder. “Information.”

“I got cabins. Information I ain’t got.”

“You have, or have had, a woman guest here. A woman in her early thirties. A very beautiful woman. Brunette.”

“Uh-uh.” The man looked listlessly through the window. “Jeez, what weather!”

“Her name may be Collinson... or Kovacs...”

“What you think this is?” grunted the motel man. “We get men sometimes, alone, not women. Your wife, huh?”

“No.” He paused. “This woman used your phone last night to make a long-distance call.”

“The pay phone. I don’t pay any attention to it.” His eyes narrowed. “What time last night?”

“Ten-thirty, a few minutes later.”

“Yeah, I was takin’ a party to a cabin. When I came back there was a car parked outside. Party in the phone booth. A woman, but I couldn’t see her good. She was turned away.”

“She isn’t registered here?”

“I told you — I don’t run that kinda joint. People come here, they stay ail night. I don’t cater to the turnover trade. We got a tough sheriff here.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Alder.

He went out, crossed quickly through the rain, and got back into the car. He started the motor and shivered a little. He was cold, wet, and clammy. He turned on the heater in the car, but it began to fog the windshield by the time he got back onto the highway.

He turned west and was compelled to open the window a few inches so that the windshield would clear. Rain soaked him anew. After a half mile he closed the window to within an inch of the top. The car sloshed along. There was no traffic either way.

He watched the speedometer and was able to make out Highway 14 when he came to it. It was a narrow macadam road, rough, spotted with chuckholes. He drove on it a mile and swore. The pavement had given out. Ahead it was gravel, a poorly kept up gravel road. There was a pool of water just ahead.

He hit the pool so hard that a spray of water came through the floorboards. The motor coughed. He nursed it and managed to get through the water.

The road turned slightly and started downhill. Alder groaned as he saw the torrent that rushed across the road at the lowest point. He came to it and stopped the car. Then, drawing a deep breath, he shifted into low and started into the torrent. He had to fight the wheel to keep the car turned straight. Water sloshed through the floorboards. In desperation, he gunned the motor. The car lunged forward stopped. The motor was dead — wet.

He turned, looked through the rear window. It was more than a mile to the highway from where he was, eight miles to Bismarck, seven to the Brule Lodge and Motel.

He shook his head, opened the car door and stepped out into the water up to his knees. It made no difference. He was as thoroughly wet inside of a moment as if he had immersed himself completely in the torrent. He worked his way to the higher incline of the road. He turned. A bank of water was sweeping against the car and even as Alder looked, the car was careened over onto its side and swept away.

He put his hands into his soggy pockets and started up the graveled road. By walking on the shoulder, which was grass and weeds, the walking was not too bad. Except that the cold rain seemed to penetrate to his very marrow.

There had to be a house or habitation soon. He trudged along, head bent. A half mile and his teeth were chattering from the cold. He stopped under a roadside tree. Rain seeped through the leafy branches. It was worse than out in the open. The cold penetrated when he stood still.

He was becoming numb.

He started walking again. A half mile, a mile. He could barely move and was hoping that he could again find a tree. The road turned slightly to the west and he suddenly saw, on the left, a building. A house.

He tried to run, tripped and stumbled flat on his face. He groaned as he picked himself up. He plunged forward, was barely aware that there was a car behind the building. His eyes were on the door.

He made the door, pounded on it with his fist. He tried the knob. It turned, but the door did not open. There was weight or pressure on the other side.

“Open up. I’ve got to come in!”