Case Pending - Dell Shannon (26 page)

Morgan. Small and rather dubious satisfaction slid
through Mendoza's mind for a possible answer to this one little
irrelevant puzzle: Morgan, perhaps, infected with boyish detective
fever, using his own excuse to get at the Lindstroms?

If so, and if they were involved in this thing, the
blundering amateur effort might warn them—or it could be useful,
frightening them into some revealing action.

Mendoza got out of the car
and stood there a minute at the curb with the doll under his arm,
debating his own next move now—whether to join Morgan or wait until
he came out.

* * *

Marty hadn't gone home after school, and he wasn't
lying to himself about why: he couldn't. He was just plain
scared, more than he'd ever been before his whole life. It had
been bad enough this morning, he'd got out just as quick as he could,
long before usual, and of course she couldn't come after to drag him
back, make him answer questions. This morning had been pretty
bad.

He'd had some idea what was going to happen right
off, but he just hadn't cared—then. The thing was, maybe like
a silly little kid believing in fairies and like that, when he
thought about the afterward part (vague and eager) he'd thought, if
it was going to tell Them anything at all, it'd be right away, and
maybe even by this morning—some time today—everything would—

Not like that.  Maybe not even some time Today.
Maybe never. And what might happen now, when he went home, he
just couldn't imagine how bad it'd be, or even what it might be. She
knew he had something to do with its being gone, with the door always
locked inside and all.

And besides Ma, what she'd do and say and ask—

This had been about the longest and awfullest day of
his whole life. He'd got up early, before it was light even: he
hadn't really got to sleep after he was back in from doing that—just
laid there miserable and scared and wondering what would happen
now. And then getting out soon as ever he could, after it
started to happen. He hadn't really had breakfast, she'd been too
upset and he thought some scared too, to fix much, and he hadn't
wanted that; and she hadn't fixed his lunch to carry either, so he
didn't have any.

Times today he'd felt sort of empty, but not like
being hungry. An awful day, other ways: all the ways it could
be. He'd been dumb in history class and Mr. Protheroe had scolded
him, and then in English class he'd felt so sleepy, couldn't lift his
head up hardly, take in what Miss Skinner was saying, and she'd been
mad. He was glad, sort of, when it was three thirty and school
was out, but another way he wasn't, because it was at least somewhere
to be.

He didn't go home. He had the thirty cents Ma'd
given him, hadn't bought anything in the school cafeteria at
lunchtime, because he wasn't hungry then, but now he was and he
bought a ten-cent chocolate bar and ate it while he just walked along
going nowhere. Staying away from Home.

He walked for a while, just anywhere, and sat on the
curb sometimes to rest; he started to feel like he couldn't breathe,
from being so scared and not knowing what to do.

Because he had to go home
some
time. There wasn't anything else to do, anywhere else to go. 
It'd get dark, and he couldn't go on waling, sitting on curbs, all
night.

Somewhere along one street, down near Main, he met
Danny's ma. It was just starting to get dark then. She saw him,
and she made him stop, and said, "Oh, you're the boy lives
downstairs, aren't you? You know Danny, Danny S-Smith, don't
you?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Marty, and he took off
his cap like Ma and Dad both always said you ought to talking to a
lady or when you came inside, to be polite.

"Oh, have you seen him anywheres? Was he to
school today?"

"No, ma'am, I guess he wasn't, I haven't seen—"

"Oh, dear," she said in her funny soft
little voice. "I guess he's for sure run off. I don't know
what I better do about it. You see, his dad was kind of nice to
him awhile, just lately, an' then he got mad at him, and I guess it
sort of turned Danny—d'you suppose? Boys, they're funny
anyways—never know what they're up to." It was like she was
talking to herself. "I better ask Ray what to do. Only
he said not to come home till eight anyways. Oh, well—"
and she smiled sort of absent-minded at Marty and went past and he
saw her stop and look at the ads outside the movie house there and go
in.

He couldn't be bothered, think much about her or
Danny.

It got darker, and then it was really dark and
getting cold too, and his head began to feel funny, light, and he
wasn't sure he could keep on walking, like, even if he sat down
somewhere he might fall over.

There wasn't anything left to do but go home. And
it'd be worse now, after a whole day. . . . .And worse too with Ma,
because he'd stayed away so long.

It took a long time to get there, and he thought for
a while he'd never get to the top of the stairs.  And now he
wasn't feeling so awful scared any longer—like he'd got past
that—part of him was just feeling sick and so tired and wanting to
get home because that was the place to go when you felt that way, and
another part just wanted to have it all over with, whatever was going
to happen.

He leaned on the door when he knocked and waited for
her to come, and so when the door opened he almost fell down, and she
grabbed at him. She hadn't called out sharp, way she always did, who
was there, first before unlocking—but he hardly noticed.

"Marty!" she said, and there wasn't so much
crossness in her voice as he'd expected, she sounded—almost like
the way he'd been feeling—plain scared. "Marty, where you
been
?—I been nearly
crazy all day—you got to say what you did, where you—go an' get
it back! Marty—"

And that was the first
time he ever remembered she didn't right away lock the door—but he
didn't notice that much either, right then.

* * *

Gunn was starting a cold, and left the office early.
As usual, he denied the vague stuffy sensation in the head, the
little soreness in the throat, the general feeling of lassitude; he
said he wouldn't dare have a cold after the way she'd been stuffing
him with Vitamin C all winter. Christy, having been married to him
for thirty-nine years next June, ignored that, stood over him to see
he finished the glass of hot lemonade and honey, and said he'd better
have something light for dinner instead of the hamburger, and why
didn't he get into his robe and slippers and be comfortable, so far
as she knew nobody was coming in.

Gunn said defiantly he felt perfectly
all
right, never better. "Of course," said Christy
briskly, "but no law against making yourself comfortable
."

"I suppose you'll give me no peace until I do,"
said Gunn, relieved at being argued into it. And then the phone rang,
and she said vexedly, There, if that was the MacDonalds wanting to
play bridge tonight they could go on wanting—not, of course,
because Gunn wasn't feeling well but because she didn't feel like it
herself.

He had his tie off, in the bedroom, listening to her
murmuring protests at the phone, when she came to the door and said
crossly it was somebody who insisted on speaking with him, wouldn't
take no for an answer. So he went out and picked up the phone.

"Mr. Gunn?" said a male voice, confident,
courteous, used to doing business over the phone. "I've got a
little deal for you, sorry to disturb you at home, but I'm glad I've
finally got hold of you—your office let me have your number. You
don't know me, I'm Earl King, King Contracting out on Western—but
your office sent a memo to me, and I guess a lot of other places,
about a fellow named Lindstrom, wanting to know if he'd applied for
work or been hired, under that name or any other—"

"Yes?" Gunn sat down beside the telephone
table.

"Well, I've got him for you. It was quite a
little surprise to me, I tell you, because of the kind of thing it
is—deserting his family—if you'd asked me, I'd have said he was
the last man. He's been working for me nearly six months, one of
my steadiest men, and under his own name too. When—"

"Well, that's fine," said Gunn. "We're
glad to know where he is, and in the morning—"

"Wait a minute, this is just the start. When
I got your form letter asking about him, well, there wasn't any doubt
it was him, name and description and all. But I tell you, it
staggered me. I couldn't help feeling there must be something on his
side, you know, because of the kind of guy he is. And I didn't want
to go and haul him off the job in front of the other men, make a big
thing of it. What I did, I met him at the job half an hour ago
when he'd be through for the day, and tackled him about it. No
trouble at all, he broke right down, said he was glad it'd come out
and he'd thought it would before this, and anyway he'd been feeling
so bad about it he couldn't have gone on much longer—"

"That's fine," said Gunn, yawning. "Glad
to hear it. He's decided to go back to his family? So
that's that." Surreptitiously he swallowed, testing that
soreness at the back of his throat.

"Well, not quite," said King. "Now
the dam's broken, he's been telling me a lot of things, but more to
the point he insists on seeing you—you're the one's after him, so
to speak, and he's in such a state—well, he's one of those terribly
honest fellows, you know, can't sleep if they forget to pay for a cup
of coffee at a drugstore counter—you know what I mean. He's
got to get it all off his chest right away, to you."

"In the morning," said Gunn, remembering
that Mendoza would also be interested and want to see Lindstrom, "if
he'll come—"

"I can't talk him into that, Mr. Gunn. He's
in such a state—not wild, you know, don't mean that, but— Look, I
can't help feeling so damned sorry for the guy, he's sort of
desperate—keeps saying he can't rest till he explains how he came
to—you see how it is. Look, if you'll agree to see him
tonight, I've said I'll drive him over there. I know it's an
imposition, but—there's one thing about it, too, I don't know but
what it'd be just as well for— Well, I think you'll be interested,
and if—"

"Oh, hell," said Gunn. But this was,
in a way, a funny sort of job, and you ran into these things
sometimes. Strictly speaking it was Morgan's case and he ought
to be the one to handle this, but let it go. At least it didn't mean
going out again, and an hour should take care of It.

"All right, bring him here if it's like
that. Have you got the address?"

"Just a minute, I'll take it down. . . .That's
quite a little drive, don't expect us much before seven, O.K.? 
Thanks very much, Mr. Gunn, I hope this isn't interfering with any
plans—I appreciate it. He's really a nice fellow, I can't help
feeling he— Well, we'll see you about seven then, thanks again."

Gunn hung up and said "Hell!"
again. Christy wasn't very pleased either, said she thought he'd
given up being on twenty-four-hour call when he retired. But she
got dinner a little early, and they'd eaten and Gunn was sitting in
the front room in his robe and slippers when the doorbell sounded,
while she cleaned up in the kitchen. He'd left the porch light
on; he went and let them in, brought them into the living Room.

King, fortyish, nice-looking, responsible-looking
fellow. And Lindstrom, a big man, tag and also broad, still in
his work clothes, and yes, the very look of him making you think, The
last man. A steady type, you'd say—mild blue eyes behind
steel-framed glasses, square honest-looking face, big blunt workman's
hands twisting his white work cap.

"Come in, sit down, won't you?"

Lindstrom burst out, nervous apologetic, "It's
awful good of you, see me this way, and Mr. King too, drive all
this far over—I got to thank you—I just got to tell, explain to
you, sir, I-I don't mind whatever you got to do to me for it, it was
a terrible wrong thing, I knew that all the while, I felt so bad
after—but I—"

"No one's going to do anything to you, Mr.
Lindstrom. It's just that when a family is deserted, you understand,
the county has to support them, and we try to find the husband to
save ourselves a little money." Gunn smiled, to put the man more
at ease. "It costs the county quite a bit, you know. Even in a
case like your wife's, where there's only one child'

Lindstrom looked down at his cap; for a minute it
seemed as if his big bands would tear it apart, straining and
twisting. "That's what I—you don't understand—I—" He
raised desperate, suddenly teartaled eyes to Gunn. "I—we—got
two boys," he said. "Two. The—the other one, Eddy, our
oldest one, he's—not right. Not noways. She wouldn't ever
hear to—even when that doctor said— But she allus kep' him hid
away from ever'body too, account of being—ashamed. Secret,
like."
 

FOURTEEN

Morgan stepped inside the dark, smelly front hallway
of the apartment building and shut the door after him. This was
it, here and now. And it was the damnedest thing, he'd expected
it to feel like going into action, but instead—a little
ludicrously—he felt exactly the way he had when he'd been in that
senior play in high school. Walking out on the stage, all the
lights, painfully conscious of every breath he drew, every slightest
gesture, and yet somehow divorced from himself so that he moved with
a stranger's body, spoke with a stranger's voice.