tramp him under?
Never mind. It isn’t important. The map is the important thing.
He bent over the map, marking, checking, figuring.
The list of Al Guthrie’s past residences and places of employment and recreation was not as extensive as it had looked at first. A number of the addresses overlapped, being on different streets but in the same neighborhood. Even so, Woodley was not a big city and its businesses and shopping centers were not infinite in number. By the time he had eliminated all the areas where Al Guthrie was sure to be known, Ben was left with a section in the northeast, the whole of the west side, and the South Flat.
The northeast section, on the borders of which he lived himself, was Woodley’s current Millionaire’s Row and not a likely area for Guthrie to choose. That still left a lot of territory, a hopeless amount of it if you went by forgotten things like hope.
But if Al Guthrie had taken a house—bought or rented? Rented, surely—he must have rented it from somebody, and that usually meant a real estate agent. If you went around to the agents in the different neighborhoods, you might find one who remembered renting a house within the last three weeks to a man of Al Guthrie’s description.
In some areas Sunday was the big day for real estate because families had the time then to look at houses together. Some of the agencies might be open. And Ben could not afford to waste even a few hours.
He stuffed the map in his pocket and left the house.
The west side was the biggest and the most populous area. He started there. He worked carefully and methodically, beginning at the northern edge of the district and moving south. He found several agencies open, chiefly on the outskirts of town where Woodley was running off again into subdivided farmland, where small pastel structures sat in rows on the raw new-graded ground with little flags fluttering in the November wind. None of the people he questioned remembered anyone of Guthrie’s description. When Ben drove toward home again all he had succeeded in doing was to eliminate half a dozen agencies.
Even that was something.
For the first time in days he felt really hungry. There was a drive-in open on Market Street Extension, a little bit west of Lister Road, and he stopped there. He had just given the girl his order when somebody spoke to him and he turned and saw Ernie MacGrath.
Ernie shook his head at the girl and slid into the seat beside Ben. “I thought this was your car,” he said.
Ben said, “Were you looking for me?”
“I was by your place,” said Ernie carefully.
“There was nothing in the house to eat. I came down here.”
“Sure,” said Ernie.
“What did you want?” Ben asked. “Have you heard something about Carolyn?”
“No. I haven’t heard anything about Carolyn. Listen, Ben. No, listen to me and take plenty of time to think before you answer. Are you sure you’ve told me everything about her disappearance? Are you sure you’re not holding back something because maybe you’re afraid I wouldn’t understand? I’d do my best, Ben.”
Ben looked at the lighted front of the drive-in. A loud-speaker was giving out rock and roll. People inside were eating at a counter, against a background of tile and stainless steel.
“I’ve told you everything,” he said.
“I want you to be sure, Ben.”
“I am. Absolutely sure. Won’t you have some coffee, Ernie? It’s a cold night.”
“No,” said Ernie. “I don’t want any, thanks.” He opened the door and got out. “Good night, Ben.”
He disappeared quickly among the parked cars. Ben did not look after him. His face, in the reflected light from the building, was gaunt and strained, but with a fierce underlying strength.
If Ernie gets in my way, he thought, I’ll tramp him under too.
fourteen
On Monday morning Ernie MacGrath knocked on Packer’s door and was told to come in. Chief of Detectives Packer was a thin bitter man with an alert eye and
Never mind. It isn’t important. The map is the important thing.
He bent over the map, marking, checking, figuring.
The list of Al Guthrie’s past residences and places of employment and recreation was not as extensive as it had looked at first. A number of the addresses overlapped, being on different streets but in the same neighborhood. Even so, Woodley was not a big city and its businesses and shopping centers were not infinite in number. By the time he had eliminated all the areas where Al Guthrie was sure to be known, Ben was left with a section in the northeast, the whole of the west side, and the South Flat.
The northeast section, on the borders of which he lived himself, was Woodley’s current Millionaire’s Row and not a likely area for Guthrie to choose. That still left a lot of territory, a hopeless amount of it if you went by forgotten things like hope.
But if Al Guthrie had taken a house—bought or rented? Rented, surely—he must have rented it from somebody, and that usually meant a real estate agent. If you went around to the agents in the different neighborhoods, you might find one who remembered renting a house within the last three weeks to a man of Al Guthrie’s description.
In some areas Sunday was the big day for real estate because families had the time then to look at houses together. Some of the agencies might be open. And Ben could not afford to waste even a few hours.
He stuffed the map in his pocket and left the house.
The west side was the biggest and the most populous area. He started there. He worked carefully and methodically, beginning at the northern edge of the district and moving south. He found several agencies open, chiefly on the outskirts of town where Woodley was running off again into subdivided farmland, where small pastel structures sat in rows on the raw new-graded ground with little flags fluttering in the November wind. None of the people he questioned remembered anyone of Guthrie’s description. When Ben drove toward home again all he had succeeded in doing was to eliminate half a dozen agencies.
Even that was something.
For the first time in days he felt really hungry. There was a drive-in open on Market Street Extension, a little bit west of Lister Road, and he stopped there. He had just given the girl his order when somebody spoke to him and he turned and saw Ernie MacGrath.
Ernie shook his head at the girl and slid into the seat beside Ben. “I thought this was your car,” he said.
Ben said, “Were you looking for me?”
“I was by your place,” said Ernie carefully.
“There was nothing in the house to eat. I came down here.”
“Sure,” said Ernie.
“What did you want?” Ben asked. “Have you heard something about Carolyn?”
“No. I haven’t heard anything about Carolyn. Listen, Ben. No, listen to me and take plenty of time to think before you answer. Are you sure you’ve told me everything about her disappearance? Are you sure you’re not holding back something because maybe you’re afraid I wouldn’t understand? I’d do my best, Ben.”
Ben looked at the lighted front of the drive-in. A loud-speaker was giving out rock and roll. People inside were eating at a counter, against a background of tile and stainless steel.
“I’ve told you everything,” he said.
“I want you to be sure, Ben.”
“I am. Absolutely sure. Won’t you have some coffee, Ernie? It’s a cold night.”
“No,” said Ernie. “I don’t want any, thanks.” He opened the door and got out. “Good night, Ben.”
He disappeared quickly among the parked cars. Ben did not look after him. His face, in the reflected light from the building, was gaunt and strained, but with a fierce underlying strength.
If Ernie gets in my way, he thought, I’ll tramp him under too.
fourteen
On Monday morning Ernie MacGrath knocked on Packer’s door and was told to come in. Chief of Detectives Packer was a thin bitter man with an alert eye and
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