The Venus Death: A Ralph Lindsay Mystery. Ben Benson
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it from a friend.”
“And I thought you had no friends in Danford.”
“It belongs to a girl in my office. I don’t work today and she let me borrow it for a few hours.” Her eyes swept over me. “I’ve never seen you in uniform. You’re positively striking. But isn’t that an awfully big gun to be carrying? It’s not the same as the other night.”
“No, this is the regulation, long-barreled service revolver.”
“And what’s in that little black leather case on your belt? A hand grenade?”
I laughed. “No, my handcuffs.”
“And that long leather pouch on your belt?”
“The ammunition carrier. It holds twenty-four rounds.”
“All that? And do you carry a machine gun or a rifle in the car?”
“Sometimes.”
“What do you keep in the trunk of the car?”
“A spare tire.”
She made a face at me. “Everybody carries a spare tire. What else?”
“The two-way radio is in there. Also a folded emergency stretcher.” I smiled at her. “Why so curious, Manette?”
“Does it bother you, Ralph?”
“Yes. It bothers me a little.”
“Did you ever know a girl who wasn’t curious?”
“I never knew many girls.”
“Then you’ll learn. Females have a terrible sense of curiosity. Especially me.” She studied my uniform again. “I like the breeches and the black leather puttees.”
“I don’t. They chafe my legs.”
“But if you didn’t wear them you wouldn’t look so distinctive.”
“That’s what they keep telling us,” I said. “By the way, I drove by the factory yesterday. I didn’t see you.”
“I was making an entry with Mr. Reece, the office manager. I just couldn’t get away. Which way did you come?”
“Through Staleyville, driving south.”
“Do you always come that way?”
“Not always, no.”
She looked at a tiny wrist watch. “I mustn’t keep you, Ralph. See you tomorrow?”
“I’ll be parked on your doorstep.”
She smiled softly, put the gray convertible in gear, and said good-by. She drove off. I watched the car as it went down the turnpike and disappeared around the bend. There was something exotic about her and I wanted to see her again, to be near her. Yet there was a vague uneasy feeling in me. She had asked too many, not-so-innocent questions.
I dressed carefully Sunday. I put on my brown whipcord slacks, brown suède shoes, a green woolen sport shirt and my hound’s-tooth sports jacket. I had trouble combing my hair. It was cut so short that no matter how hard I brushed it, it stood up like bristles.
Manette was waiting for me in the living room of the old house on Glen Road. She introduced me to Mr. and Mrs. Fulton Reece, the people she lived with, and she told me Mr. Reece was her office manager at Staley Woolen. Mrs. Reece was quiet, prim and white-haired, with a sickly narrow face and a small, dry-lipped mouth. Mr. Reece was pasty and flabby-faced, quiet and untidy. He was past middle age, but his sparse gray hair was combed crosswise over his skull and seemed artificially waved. He had a remote expression in his eyes. His lips were wet, loose and purplish, and his jaw was slack.
We chitchatted for a moment in the living room. I stood there stiffly and uncomfortably while Mr. and Mrs. Reece sat on the damask-covered divan. The inside of the house surprised me. It had a gracious dignity. There were some oil paintings on the walls and they looked like original old masters. There was no department store furniture, either. Instead, the tables were hand-carved, burnished antiques. There was a deep rich Oriental rug on the floor.
Manette picked up a large wicker picnic basket. I took it from her. We said good-by to the Reeces. They said to have a good time and we went out into the warm bright sunlight.
“What’s in the basket?” I asked. “Laundry?”
“Picnic, silly.” Manette laughed. “It’s such a nice day for one.”
“Good stuff,” I said. “I haven’t been on a picnic since I was a kid. But you shouldn’t have gone to all the trouble. I could have had food made up.”
“This party’s on me. I wanted to show I wasn’t a gold digger.” She stopped beside the car. “What did you think of the Reeces?”
“I liked Mrs. Reece,” I said. “I don’t know if I like your boss.”
“They’re an old Danford family,” Manette said, stepping into the car. “Mrs. Reece is a sick woman.” Then she looked at me closely. “Why didn’t you like Mr. Reece?”
“I don’t know. Something about his eyes. They weren’t normal. Why did you ask? Am I rattling family skeletons?”
Her face flushed suddenly. “They’re an old Danford family,” she said again. “You should have respect for them.”
“Sure,” I said. “Sure, I will.”
“When Mrs. Reece found out I was alone in Danford, she was kind enough to give me a room here.”
“Then that’s another reason I like her,” I said.
We drove out onto the turnpike. She asked me to take Route 105. It was a narrow, secondary road, black macadam, patched and humpbacked. We passed scattered farms, with rocky, hilly fields and gnarled, brown-leafed apple trees. We left the farms behind us and on either side of the road were scrub pines and thick rusty underbrush.
“Where are we going?” I asked her.
“Deer Pond,” she said. “Do you know where it is?”
“Yes.” I smiled. “But how do you know of it, stranger?”
“A man who works in my office has a cottage on Deer Pond. His name is Cole Boothbay. The office had a picnic there a few weeks ago. It’s a lovely spot.”
I drove on. There was a narrow, rutted dirt lane. I turned onto it, the car bumping over the potholes, a haze of dust rising behind us. We continued up the road for a mile. There was the crest of a hill and another dirt road to the left, and then we came to a clearing carpeted with brown pine needles. Beyond the trees was the glimmering blue water of Deer Pond. Along the far shore the ridges were flaming with autumn color.
“The yellow cottage,” she said. “I borrowed a key in case we want to use the stove.”
I drove the car across the clearing, pulled up and parked. The cottage had yellow shingles and green window shades. The shades were drawn. I took the picnic basket and followed her up the three short steps which led to the screened porch. The porch had a gray linoleum, a glider, two plastic-covered chaise longues, a table and four tubular chrome chairs.
She unlocked the front door and pushed it back. Inside it was dark, dank and musty. She opened windows and the pine-scented breeze wafted in. The walls of the living room were pine-paneled, the partitions going as high as the eaves. There was a smoky stone fireplace, battered maple furniture, an old tapestry-covered couch with lumpy cretonne pillows.
“We won’t stay in here,” she said quickly. “We can bring the lounge chairs down to the edge of the lake.”
The water lapped gently along the soft sandy shore. I pushed the empty picnic basket aside and settled into the low-slung chair. She looked at the empty basket.
“Don’t they feed you at the barracks?”