He dug his little finger in his ear and worked it around for a while. Then he pulled it out, examined his nail and wiped it on his trouser-leg. “Anything you like,” he said, smiling. His bridgework was ill fitting and yellow and the smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“Do you care who becomes mayor of this town?” I asked, shooting it out fast.
He hadn’t expected that. He closed his eyes quickly and huddled into his clothes like a startled tortoise. “Now I wonder why you should ask that,” he said, after a pause.
“Couldn’t you say yes or no in a nice straightforward manner?” I said, tapping ash on the threadbare carpet.
He looked at me sharply and considered this. “I suppose so,” he said cautiously. “But I don’t see why I should. I don’t discuss politics with strangers, Mr. Spewack.”
We eyed each other. “You don’t have to make me a stranger,” I said. “If you put your cards on the table, we might see a lot of each other.”
He considered this too, then he suddenly laughed. It was a harsh sound like the bark of a hyena. “You’re a character, sir,” he said, washing his hands over the blotter. “Why shouldn’t you know a little thing like that? Very well, then, let me, as you suggest, put my cards on the table. There is very little to choose between Mr. Wolf and Mr. Starkey as mayors. Mr. Esslinger, however, would be better. Taken by and large, it wouldn’t greatly matter to me who got in. I am able to regard the election as an unprejudiced spectator.”
“That’s fair enough,” I said, taking out my identity card. I handed it to him.
He examined it with genuine interest. After he had been over it long enough to learn the contents by heart, he handed it back. “A very interesting little document,” he said, and again dug his finger in his ear. “I guessed you were the detective from New York the moment I saw you.”
I was watching him closely to see if he was going to turn hostile, but his expression didn’t change.
“You might be able to help me,” I said, putting the identity card back in my pocket.
“I might,” Dixon returned, tapping on the dirty ink-stained blotter. “But I don’t see why I should. I’m not helping anyone else, Mr. Spewack.”
I smiled at him. “Maybe they don’t need your help,” I returned. “All want is a little inside information about Cranville. I’m authorized to pay for all information.”
He closed his eyes, but not before I saw interest and greed jump into them.
“Very interesting,” he muttered under his breath. “Now I wonder what kind of information you’d want.”
“I understand Chief of Police Macey wants Rube Starkey to become mayor. Can you tell me why?”
He pulled at his beaky nose and turned this over very thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t like to give you my personal opinion, but I don’t mind giving you the opinion of the town... if that’s any use to you.”
“Go ahead,” I said, knowing that it’d be his opinion anyway.
“The trouble with Cranville,” he began, folding his hands on the blotter and looking at me with shrewd, sly eyes, “is this. For the past twenty years all the mayors have been elected on a reform ticket.”
Cranville has been so reformed that there’re no real opportunities to circulate money.
The working man, Mr. Spencer has to be encouraged to spend his spare money if a town is to flourish. It is a lamentable fact that unless the methods of encouragement are of a questionable nature, big profits are limited.
“Twenty years ago, Cranville had four gambling-houses, a racetrack, two excellent nightclubs and even a little organised vice. People spent their money, enjoyed themselves, and the town flourished. All these places have been closed down. It makes a big difference”
He picked up a pencil and began to draw a cube on the blotting paper.
“Macey wants Starkey to become Mayor because he’ll promote the kinds of entertainment that will be lucrative to Macey. Macey wishes to reopen the gambling-houses, nightclubs and even the racetrack. Starkey has had a lot of experience and could easily do it”
He finished drawing his cube and began rolling the pencil under his hand across the blotter. “Macey isn’t a very good policeman, but he is an excellent business man.”
“If Starkey gains control, Cranville may be in for a life of crime, is that it?” I made a sound like I didn’t care one way or the other.
“Very likely, Mr. Spewack. I should say it was very likely.” He smiles at me. “Only don’t quote me. I would not like everyone to know my views... not just now anyway.”
“Suppose Esslinger got in?”
“Well, Esslinger’s a different proposition. I think things might improve. I don’t know, of course. He is a little too anti-capitalist to be really comfortable in Cranville, but he is a very sincere man.”
“Tell me about him,” I invited.
Dixon leaned back in his chair and placed his fingertips together. “Now let me see,” he said, frowning at the dirty ceiling, “He came to Cranville thirty years ago. He was assistant at Morley’s Funeral Parlor for some time, and when Mr. Morley died he took over the business. He was and still is a hard, painstaking worker and has done a lot of good for the town. He is liked and trusted. You will like him Mr. Spewack, although you may not like his wife.” He glanced out of the window and shook his head. “A very strong-minded woman. It has always puzzled me why Esslinger ever married her.” He lowered his voice.
“She drinks.”
I grunted.
“Then there’s his son,” Dixon went on. “An excellent fellow. Takes after his father in every way. Clever, full of brains. Studying medicine and, I imagine, has a brilliant career in front of him.” He dug his finger in his ear again. “His mother dotes on him. She has no other interest, except, of course, the bottle.” He shook his head at the tiny bit of wax he had levered out of his ear.
“Has he any money?” I asked.
Dixon pursed his lips. “Esslinger? Depends on what you call money. He has a very nice little business. People die. In fact a lot of people die in Cranville. It isn’t what you would call a healthy town.” He looked at me with a sly smirk. “At least not for everyone.”
“I’ve gathered that,” I said dryly. “But I don’t scare easily.”
We eyed each other and then I fished out a packet of Camels and tossed him one. “What do you think’s to those girls who’ve disappeared?” I asked lighting up.
“What I think and what I print in y paper are two different things,” he said cautiously. “I have a young man who works for me, covering the local news. He is a sensationalist. It was he who convinced me that the mass-killer theory would increase our circulation.” He showed his yellow teeth in a foxy smile. “He was right, Mr. Spewack; it has.”
“But you don’t believe it?”
He shook his head. “I don’t.”
“What’s your theory?”
Again he shook his head. “Never mind about my theories, Mr. Spewack. You don’t want to clutter up your mind with the theories of an old man.”
“Come on, loosen up,” I urged. “I want all the help I can get.”
But I could see he was going to be obstinate. “There is one thing worth considering,” he said. “If those girls have been murdered, where are the bodies?”
“I’ve thought of that,” I said. “Maybe you have an idea?”
“No ideas,” he returned promptly. “You must expect to do a little work on this case yourself. No doubt Mr. Wolf is paying you well.”
“So-so,” I said and decided to let his theories drift. “Esslinger’s engaged a woman investigator, hasn’t he?”
I went on after a pause.
“A most charming young woman,” Dixon said, and gave the nearest thing he could to a leer. “You’ll like her. Of course, she’s had no experience as an investigator.”