Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 140, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 853 & 854, September/October 2012
- Автор: Макдермид Вэл, Манфредо Лу
- Год: 2012
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: 0013-6328
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 140, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 853 & 854, September/October 2012». Краткое содержание книги:
Gus examined the rear tire tracks. They sat slightly inside the front tracks, indicating a narrower rear track width, and no mud spray was visible. Gus, still kneeling, scratched at his head. If it had been a four-wheel-drive vehicle, such as a Jeep, all four wheels would have sprayed mud. But that clearly wasn’t the case here. So what else could possibly explain drive wheels which also steered the car?
Gus stood slowly thinking. It was a long shot at best that these tracks had anything to do with the McAdams case. But, by the same token, someone had parked here, and someone had left in a pretty damn big hurry.
That someone had driven a unique vehicle. One Gus had never come across before, one potentially easy to identify.
And that vehicle surely needed identifying. Gus turned to the path, heading to his car, still parked at Lily’s place. He needed the Polaroid camera and measuring stick from his tool case.
When Gus arrived at Eddie’s Texaco and Repair Shop in Central Islin, he parked and walked across the oil-stained concrete to the Bell System phone booth nestled at the side of the repair bay. He deposited a dime and dialed the Central Islin Police Department. His friend, Chief Bill Carters, answered.
Gus quickly filled him in, then got to the point. “I need you to take a look at the county aerial photograph survey maps, Bill. Specifically, the town of Shirley. Just east of the six hundred block of Heston Road there’s a dirt lane that don’t show up on any street maps. I need to know if it leads to anything and where it hits main paved roadways. Can you do that for me?”
“Sure, Gus. You figure this is important, do ya?”
“Could be. We’ll see. Check it out, then call me back. I’m over at Eddie’s Texaco. I need his opinion on somethin’.”
“Okay. Call you back A-Sap.”
Sitting behind the station’s grease-stained counter beside an ornate and ancient NCR cash register, Eddie Jacobs bent and carefully studied the six Polaroid photos Gus had placed before him. With a musty oil-and-gasoline tinged odor touching at his nostrils, Gus spoke up.
“Tell me, Eddie: What the hell does that look like to you?”
The mechanic shrugged. “Tire marks in dried-out mud. What’s it supposed to look like?”
Gus pointed. “Take a look at that spray pattern. See where it appears to be coming from? The front of the car — and from both wheels. And look, see how those two wheels turn, steer the car out off that lane-side cutaway and out onto the lane itself? Now, how in the hell is that possible?”
Eddie studied the photos once more. “Well, it ain’t a four-wheeler, like a Jeep or a Dodge Power Wagon. See here, the rear wheels are just followin’ along meek-like. They don’t appear to have spit out any mud.”
“No, and they both track straight, they’re fixed, that’s how I know they’re rear wheels. If they were the drive wheels, they’da sprayed mud straight back, not fanned out in an arc pattern like those steer wheels did. But there’s no dried spray to the rear.”
Eddie nodded. “Yeah, sounds about right. So what you need me for, Gus? Seems you got it all figured.”
Gus shook his head. “I been drivin’ since I first snuck my granddaddy’s Model 20 Hupmobile outta the barn when I was ten years old. I never once seen a vehicle could put down tracks like these.”
Eddie squared the photos into a neat pile with his permanently oil-stained right hand and gave them back to Gus. “No, I don’t figure you woulda, ’cause the vehicle that left them tracks was a front-wheel driver. Back in the thirties, Cord made a few front drivers. Built ’em upstate somewheres. They only lasted a coupla years and cost as much as a damn Cadillac. See, Cord figured front drivers was gonna be the next big thing, but hell, who wants a car with the front wheels drivin’ and steerin’ it? Makes steerin’ real tough, like drivin’ a damn snowplow.” He shrugged. “You’ll never see them again, Gus. Not in this country, anyways.”
Gus thought for a moment. “What do you mean, not in this country?”
Eddie, a World War II veteran who had served as a motor-pool sergeant, shrugged again. “Well, now, when I was over in France, I come into possession of an old Citroën. French-built car, real piece a crap and the ugliest machine on God’s green earth. But it beat walkin’, so me and a buddy of mine fixed that old car up, got it runnin’ again. It drove even worse’n it looked, real bad heavy feel to the steerin’, ‘torque-steer’ we called it, felt like drivin’ a bulldozer.” Here he paused, smiling. “Served us pretty well with a coupla local Frenchie gals, though, as I recall. Far as I know, Citroëns are still front drive.”
Gus dug a slip of paper from his pocket. “I measured the front and rear track widths best I could. Front track is wide, close to sixty inches. Rear track is a lot narrower, more like fifty, fifty-one. That mean anything to you?”
Eddie screwed up his lips as he replied. “Now I can’t say certain, but the Cord was a pretty big car. That rear track seems way too narrow for a Cord. Hell, a Ford Fairlane has a wider rear track than that.”
“Yeah,” Gus said. “And a Chevy Bel Air, too.”
The phone rang. It was Chief Carters calling for Gus.
“That’s a fire-break lane, Gus, for the South Haven Fire District. It runs parallel to Heston Road for a ways, eventually meets up with the Sunrise Highway on the north, County Road Eighty on the south. It just serves as access in case a wildfire breaks out. It doesn’t actually go anywhere.”
“County Road Eighty goes somewhere,” Gus said, more to himself than to Carters. “Goes straight to the Poospatuck Indian Reservation where the body was found.” After a slight pause he asked, “Where exactly does it hit Eighty, Bill?”
There was a pause as Carters rustled with maps, looking. “Quarter-mile east of the Strandvold farm near Clifford Road.”
Gus nodded. “Okay, thanks. I’ll be in touch.”
He turned back to Eddie. “You seen any Cords around lately? Any Citroëns?”
“Hell, no, Gus. You lookin’ for a Cord, you better start in the museums or the junkyards. And Citroën? Nobody around here is fool enough to buy a foreign-built car, ’specially one looks like a torpedo comin’ at you backwards.”
“Any other front-wheel drivers you know of?”
“I never hearda none, but I can’t say sure. Now that I’m thinking about it, Citroën mighta invented front drive. Back before Cord, even.”
“Thanks, Eddie. You’ve been a big help.”
“My pleasure. And just so’s you know, it’s been awhile since your last tune-up and oil change. You better take care of that Edsel of yours, Gus. Keep it runnin’ till you get your money’s worth out of it. You’ll never be able to sell it to anyone else, that’s for sure.”
On Monday morning, Gus Oliver waited as the head librarian of the Lake Ronkonkoma library unlocked its front door. He gave her a few minutes to get settled, then made his inquiry.
Two hours later, surrounded by piles of back issues of Hemmings Motor News, Gus had the information he sought.
The last Cord automobile had been built in 1937, some twenty-three years ago. Because of Lily O’Rourke’s speakeasy background, Gus had reasoned that, despite Eddie Jacobs’ “museum” remark, there could very well be a fancy old car involved here somehow.
But further investigation had shown that, as Eddie had suspected, the Cord would not have left such a narrow rear track.
Instead, certain Citroëns available in the U.S. bore a front track width of 59.1 inches and a rear track of 51.7, nearly identical to the approximate dimensions Gus had taken behind the McAdams house.