Vanishing Ladies

Chapter nine

Lots of small towns don’t have jails.

Sullivan’s Corners had one.

There was a wino in the cell with me. He was asleep with his mouth open when Fred brought me in. When the door clanked shut, the wino sat bolt upright, blinked his eyes, and then stared at me.

‘What’d you do?’ he asked.

‘Nothing. Go to sleep.’

‘You got a hair across?’

‘Yes. Go to sleep.’

‘I’m only trying to be friendly.’

‘I committed an ax murder,’ I said. ‘I killed my wife and our fourteen children.’

‘Yeah?’ he said, impressed. ‘What was the matter? She nag you?’

‘She was having an affair with a police dog,’ I said.

The wino blinked. ‘You can’t trust German shepherds,’ he said at last. ‘Collies are good dogs.’ He blinked again. ‘Gee, it’s morning, ain’t it?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m going to sleep.’

‘You want this lower, I’ll be happy to change.’

‘I’ll take the upper.’ I gripped the edge of the double-decker bunk and swung myself up.

‘Lots of guys don’t like uppers,’ the wino said. ‘I got to hand it to you. Commit a couple of murders, and then go right to sleep afterwards.’

‘I need my strength,’ I told him.

‘Why?’

‘Because sooner or later, they’ll have to let me out of this place. And when they do...’ I let the sentence trail. The wino was silent for a long time. The early morning sunlight filtered through the small barred window. I was almost asleep when the wino said, ‘Why’d you choose an ax?’

‘Huh?’

‘An ax. Why’d you pick that?’

‘Because Fred has both my guns,’ I mumbled, and I drifted off.

I never dream.

Psychiatrists say you always dream; you just don’t remember the dreams when you wake up. Okay, I always dream but I never remember the dreams when I wake up. If a tree falls in a forest and nobody’s there to see it, did it fall?

I never dream.

I sleep, and I wake up. Usually, I get dressed and go to work. If it’s my day off, I hang around and have a leisurely cup of coffee, and then maybe I’ll read the paper or call Ann, or listen to some records. That’s my life. Dull. I usually wake up in the same room. My bedroom at the house where I board. It’s a nice room. There are ships on the wallpaper design and sometimes they make me seasick, but it’s a nice room. The radiators clang in the winter time, but I like a clanging radiator. It makes me feel as if it’s working.

I was not working.

I was on vacation.

I woke up, and I hadn’t dreamed, and there were no ships sailing across the walls. It’s a strange feeling to come out of a deep sleep and have no idea at all where you are. I looked at the ceiling, and I looked at the walls, and it took me a few moments to remember I was in jail.

I looked at my watch. It was one-thirty.

‘You’re a late sleeper,’ a voice said.

I looked across the cell. The man opposite me, sitting on the bench, wore soiled blue jeans and a tee shirt. He hadn’t shaved since the Smith Brothers invented cough drops. His nose was red, and his eyes were red, and his lips were parched. He was my wino.

‘Good morning,’ I said.

‘Good afternoon,’ he corrected.

‘What’s for breakfast?’ I asked.

‘Breakfast has come and gone.’

‘What’s for lunch?’

‘You missed that, too.’

‘Has there been any word from the governor?’ I said.

‘What?’

‘Never mind.’ I swung my legs over the side of the bunk. ‘Who’s in charge of this place?’

‘Feller named Tex Planett. He ain’t really from Texas. They call him Tex ’cause he’s kind of long and rangy.’ The wino paused. ‘Also because he’s the sheriff of Sullivan’s Corners. You know, like who expects to find a sheriff, except out West?’ The wino shrugged. ‘Tex.’

‘You’re pretty familiar with the local law, huh?’

‘I’m in and out of this place regularly,’ the wino said. And then, offhandedly, ‘I’m a vagrant. M’name’s Tuckem.’

‘Mine’s Colby.’

‘Pleased to make your acquaintance,’ Tuckem said. He paused again. ‘I drink.’

‘Okay,’ I said.

‘I ain’t getting your permission; I’m only stating a fact. I been drinking for twenty years straight now. It’s a miracle I ain’t got a wet brain. Someday I’m going to write my autobiography, like I’ll Cry Tomorrow, you know? I got the title all picked out.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Yeah. You want to hear it?’

‘Sure,’ I said.

‘It’s all about me, you understand,’ Tuckem said. ‘An autobiography. Also, it will contain my philosophy of life. You want to hear the title?’

‘Sure,’ I said again.

Tuckem spread his hands grandly. ‘Tuckem All,’ he said. He grinned. ‘You like it?’

‘It’s good.’

‘You ought to write one. Feller who commits ax murders sure ought to write a book.’

‘My uncle wrote one,’ I said.

‘Yeah? Was he an ax murderer, too?’

‘No. He burned his victims to death. Didn’t you read his book?’

‘Which one is that?’ Tuckem asked.

‘Flesh in Pan,’ I said.

‘I missed that one,’ Tuckem said seriously. ‘I read one by a kidnapper, though. You read that one?’

‘Which one?’ I said.

‘It was called Snatch. Very interesting.’ This time, Tuckem smiled. I smiled with him. ‘You didn’t really commit no ax murder, did you?’

‘No.’

‘I didn’t think so. Why’re you in here?’

‘I know too much.’

‘That’s why almost everybody I know’s in jail. They either know too much, or they don’t know enough.’

‘What’s the local law consist of?’

‘Well, there’s Tex. He’s sheriff. He’s got four deputies, I think. Yep, four. That’s it.’

‘What about state troopers?’

‘One, so far as I know. Feller named Fred.’

‘What about Handy?’

‘He’s the j.p. Harmless guy. Used to be a fighter, that man. I can remember when he used to be a fighter. No more now. No spunk.’

We heard footsteps in the corridor. Tuckem looked up. I turned toward the barred door. The man who came into view was tall and thin. He had cool blue eyes and a crew cut. A star was on his chest, and he carried a .45 in a holster at his side.

‘Hope I’m not breaking anything up,’ he said.

‘Tex?’ I said.

‘That’s me.’ He paused. ‘The real name’s Salvatore. Salvatore Planetti. It got shortened to Tex Planett. That’s ’cause I’m a pioneer.’ He looked me over. ‘Understand you were raising a bit of a ruckus this morning, Colby.’

‘Was I?’

‘According to Fred. I just wanted you to know the local law ain’t asleep around here.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘No sir. I sent a deputy out to Mike Barter’s place. Just checking, you understand. Had him look at Mike’s register. Well, you was registered, all right, but you checked in alone. There wasn’t no girl who signed the register with you.’

‘I could have told you that,’ I said.

‘Well, I wanted to find out for myself.’ Planett cleared his throat. ‘My deputy also ripped up that linoleum in the closet.’

‘Did he?’

‘I said he did, didn’t I? Don’t you believe me?’

‘Sure. I believe you. What’d he find?’

‘Nothing.’

‘That’s what I figured you’d say he found.’

‘You don’t believe me, huh?’

‘Tex,’ I said, ‘Salvatore, as long as I’m on this side of the bars, I’d believe you if you said the world was round.’

‘Well, it is,’ Tex said.

‘And I believe you. See?’

‘Dis cond’s a minor violation. So’s disturbing the peace. Twenty-five dollar fine, and away you go,’ Tex said.

‘That makes fifty so far,’ I said. ‘Can I deduct it?’

‘What?’

‘When do you get the twenty-five? Before or after the cell is unlocked?’

‘You can come with me to the front office,’ Tex said. ‘Pay me there.’ He unlocked the door. ‘Hello, Tuckem,’ he said belatedly.

‘When do I get out?’ Tuckem wanted to know.

‘You sober?’

‘Sure.’

‘Cool off a little while,’ Tex said.

I stepped out of the cell. Tex closed and locked the door again. ‘This way,’ he said, and I followed him down the long stone corridor. He unlocked another door at the end of the corridor, and then led me into an office with a desk, some filing cabinets, a water cooler, and a rack full of rifles.

‘You’ve got a nice cell block,’ I said.

‘We figure if you’ve got a big enough jail, you don’t need half as big a police force.’

‘Does it work?’

‘The jail or the police force?’

‘The philosophy.’

‘Sure. Give me the twenty-five bucks, and I’ll give you a receipt.’

I took out my wallet. Tex was already writing the receipt. I handed him the two tens and a five. ‘What’s the first name?’ he asked.

‘Philip.’

He put down the pen, tore off the receipt with its two carbons, and handed me one of the carbon copies. ‘Here you go.’

‘You’re forgetting something, aren’t you?’

‘What’s that?’

‘I checked in with two guns.’

‘I never saw them,’ Tex said.

‘Fred took them from me.’

‘Then see Fred about them. I hope you got licenses for the guns, otherwise you’ll be right back in here again.’

‘Where do I find Fred?’

‘He’s likely to be anywhere.’ Tex rose. ‘Well, so long, Colby. Been nice having you.’

‘Send me your literature,’ I said, and I walked out.

The town was busy. It was busy with a small town’s hustle and bustle. And, as always with a stranger in a small town, I watched the people and wondered where they were going in such a hurry. I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten since the afternoon before. Food seemed to me, at that moment, the most important thing in the world. There was also a phone call I had to make because I needed help. I picked out a small coffee pot, walked in, ordered three hamburgers, a cup of coffee, and a piece of chocolate cream pie, and then I went to the phone booth and deposited a dime. I dialed the operator.

When she came on, I said, ‘Long distance, please.’

I waited.

Another voice said, ‘Long dis-stance.’

I gave her the area code and the number I was calling.

‘Thank you,’ she said. I heard a lot of clicking, and behind the clicking the hum of a lot of operators doing their work. Then my operator said, ‘A dollar and a quarter for the first three minutes, please.’

I deposited the change.

‘What is the number you’re calling from, sir?’

I read it from the dial plate.

‘Thank you,’ she said, and then I listened while she began ringing.

The phone was lifted on the other end.

‘Twenty-third Precinct, Sergeant Colombo.’

‘Al,’ I said, ‘this is Phil Colby. Is the lieutenant in?’

‘Yeah, just a second, Phil.’ Colombo did a vocal doubletake. ‘Hey, I thought you were on vacation.’

‘I am. Get him, please.’

‘Sure.’

I waited.

‘DeMorra here,’ a voice said.

‘Lieutenant, this is Phil Colby.’

‘Who?’

‘Phil...’

‘Oh, yes, yes. What is it, Phil?’

‘I’m in trouble, sir,’ I said.

‘That business with the car? O’Hare explained it to me.’

‘No, sir. Not that. My fiancée’s gone.’

‘What do you mean, gone?’

‘Missing, sir. Taken from her cabin.’

DeMorra was silent for several moments. ‘Are you sure, Colby?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Have you gone to the local police?’

‘Yes, sir. They claim she never was.’

‘Never was? What do you mean?’

‘Sir, I don’t know what’s going on here, but there are a lot of people in it, and they’re all lying their fool heads off. There’s also a puddle of blood in one of the cabins at the motel, and the locals are ready to write it off as a figment of my imagination. I spent the morning in jail, sir, and Ann’s still missing, and I frankly don’t—’

‘In jail?’

‘...know what to do next.’

‘Where are you, Colby?’

‘In a phone booth.’

‘Where?’

‘A restaurant in Sullivan’s Corners, sir. They just let me out of jail.’

‘Isn’t it possible your girl just decided to pick up and go?’

‘She was sound asleep the last time I saw her, sir. Also, she doesn’t have her own car with her or anything like that. Besides, there was no reason for her to...’

‘You never can tell with women,’ DeMorra said.

‘Sir, if that were the case, there’d be no reason for all these people to lie about her being there in the first place, don’t you see?’

‘Yes,’ DeMorra said thoughtfully.

‘Sir?’

‘Yes?’

‘I... I need help.’

‘Yes, I can see that. What’s the number there?’ I read it to him from the dial plate. ‘Will you be there a while?’

‘I just ordered some lunch. I haven’t eaten since—’

‘All right, let me see what I can do. I’ll call you back in about ten minutes.’

‘Yes, sir. I appreciate it.’

‘All right, Colby. Let me get to work,’ and he hung up.

I went out of the phone booth and over to my table. The hamburgers and coffee were waiting. I was sitting down when the door to the restaurant opened.

A girl I knew was standing in the doorframe.