Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 52, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2007
- Автор: Baldwin Barry, Campbell Melodie
- Год: 2007
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: ISSN:0002-5224
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 52, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2007». Краткое содержание книги:
“So what does that leave me?” I asked. “It means we’re en route to make a nice piece of change that can get the house painted before fall... for doing just a bit of surveillance work. It also means we’re involved with something slippery with the Feds.”
I thought some more, started to reach for a third slice, hesitated.
“And, my friend,” I said, rubbing his face with both of my hands, “it means we’re being set up for something. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t like it, money or no money. This whole deal stinks, ‘cause when the Feds are there, they got the bigger guns, and you know what they say. God is always on the side with those with the heaviest artillery.”
Then it seemed chilly for a moment, and I picked up Roscoe and hugged him tight and said, “Lucky for me, we’ve got a weapon or two hidden away.”
The next day was Friday, the day my surveillance was set to start, but I had a little private work to take care of before I officially clocked in on the Fed’s payroll. After my morning exercise routine — roll out of bed, shower, breakfast, pet the cat — I got out and went to the Purmort Town Hall, where I had an interesting few minutes with the town clerk, Mrs. Pam Dawkins, who helped me make sense of the town’s tax records.
“So,” she said, looking at me over her half-spectacles from behind the waist-high counter that separated the small office from the town hall lobby, “what interest do you have in this farmhouse on Dutton Hill Road?”
“Professional, what else? And I suppose I can count on your usual discretion.”
“Sure,” she said, winking at me. Last year I had helped her locate Mr. Dawkins, who had skipped out of town and had a philosophical opposition to paying child support. However, after I had located him, he found a higher philosophical opposition to having his cheating butt in county jail, and since then, the child support checks have been regular and on time.
Pam flipped through a bound computerized printout, running a thick finger down the columns of names and numbers, and she said, “Ah, here it is. Eighteen Dutton Hill Road. Two bedroom home... owned by something called Grayson Corporation. Property tax bills paid promptly, every six months.”
“How long have they owned it?”
“Hmmm... looks to be ten years. Before that it was owned by Muriel Higgins, she used to be the principal of Purmort Regional High School, and it’d still be owned by the Higgins family, if it weren’t for her two worthless sons. Morons decided to start a business doing day trading on the Internet, and when they finally crashed and burned, they had to sell their mom’s place to pay off the tax bills and penalties.”
“I see,” I said. “And what’s Grayson Corporation?”
“Don’t know,” she said. “They’re not local. The bills get sent to a post office box in Allentown, Pennsylvania. No phone number, no contact person. Sorry, Karen.”
“No problem,” I said, gathering up my bag from the countertop, but before I turned to leave, Pam said, “Want to know more?”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, do you want to know more about Grayson Corporation?”
“Sure,” I said. “What do you have in mind?”
She smiled, flipped the tax book shut. “I’ll give it to Stephanie.”
“Steph? Your daughter?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “She’s not old enough to drive yet, but Karen, she knows how to dig out info from the Internet.”
“Pam...”
She raised up her hand. “Please. Even though we settled up our bill, I still owe you. And I’d rather have Steph spend her computer hours doing something productive, instead of looking for boys to chat with. Deal?”
I smiled back at her, thought about Agent Carr. Well, he was right about one thing.
Country manners.
“Deal,” I said, and I left Purmort’s seat of government.
Dutton Hill Road started off paved, and after a couple of miles, became a dirt road. A typical rural road out in this part of New Hampshire, there were wire fences set on each side of the road, interspersed with rock walls that were about as old as the town. Small homes and farms were set off at a bit of distance, most of which had a few horses or cows or some chickens out there in the yards. Nothing that was really a working farm, but small homes with folks that liked to keep their hands in the rural tradition of their parents and grandparents.
Lucky for me, the mailboxes out here were numbered, and it took me about ten minutes of driving before I reached number eighteen. It was on the right side of the road, and the mailbox was black, with white numerals neatly painted on. The driveway was dirt and the home was about fifty feet away. I pulled to the side of the road, let the engine run for a bit.
“Well, Tyler,” I said, speaking to an empty vehicle. “Time for you to make another appearance.”
From the passenger’s seat, I picked up a dog leash and a home-made flyer, showing a mournful Labrador retriever’s face, with the words LOST DOG at the top, with a description, name — Tyler — and my phone number, off by one digit. I switched off the engine, got out of my SUV and went up the driveway, calling out, “Tyler! Tyler! Where are you, buddy?”
With dog leash in one hand, flyer in the other, I certainly didn’t look like a P.I. checking things out; I just looked like a concerned young lady seeking her lost pooch. One of the many advantages to being a female P.I. Strange men bopping around a neighborhood tend to be observed and recorded. Odd women doing the same are usually overlooked, especially if they’re women looking for a lost dog, or women conducting a door-to-door survey, or women looking for an address. Nice bit of tradecraft that gives us a slight advantage, especially since male P.I.’s, when doing surveillances, can usually do their business with empty soda bottles when their bladder gets too full. I, on the other hand, know the location of every rest stop, gas station, and kind motel owner within fifty miles.
So up the dirt driveway I went, calling out poor Tyler’s name — a dog whose picture I had downloaded off the Internet months ago — and checking things out. The first thing I noticed was the driveway; it was dirt, which is usual for this part of the state, but this one was in very good shape, a nice mix of dirt and gravel, nice drainage off to both sides. I went up to the farmhouse.
“Tyler! You around here, buddy? Tyler!”
Quick look around the place. Two story, maybe a hundred years old or so, with unattached garage and a barn to the rear. I went around to the outbuildings, dangling the leash. The buildings were empty. No rakes, no farm equipment, nothing.
“Tyler!”
The yard was in poor shape, with weeds and knee-high grass, but the buildings didn’t reflect the landscaping. They were in okay shape. Hard to explain, but if the place hadn’t been lived in for a decade or thereabouts, you’d expect things. Cracked windows. Shingles falling off. Siding cracked and worn. The place wouldn’t make Town and Country magazine, but it was in better shape than one would expect.
“Tyler!”
Off to the house. Knocked on the door. No answer, of course. But procedures had to be followed. I made notice of the door. Nice and solid, lock and dead bolt. First class, all the way. Went to the side window, peered in. Place was empty. The big room had wide planks for a floor, and I could make out a kitchen counter off to the rear. Everything looked too clean, too neat.
I juggled the leash again. Empty house, well maintained, nice driveway up and back.
Like it was waiting for someone, someone to stop by for a quick visit on his or her way to someplace else.
The someone being my surveillance target?