“I’ve never been there. But I guess you better let me out in Rhinebeck.”
“Visiting friends?”
“A girl I know.”
“Been in the service long?”
“Ever since I — how did you figure that out?”
The man grinned and shrugged. “Kind of a hobby with me, guessing about people. New clothes, new shoes, new suitcase. Right age. Healthy. Sort of an outdoor look. A lieutenant, maybe? Or an ensign?”
“Lieutenant.”
“Korea?”
“Eleven months of it. Eighty-one sorties.”
“Pilot, eh? Jet stuff, I suppose. Sorties. Thought you called those missions.”
“Some do. I guess we got it from the Aussie pilots.”
“Damn it, Rhinebeck coming up, and you could have kept me from being bored all the way to Troy. Center of town?”
“That’ll be fine. I’m certainly grateful to you.”
“Good luck to you, Lieutenant.”
Ben got out and waved good-by and stepped onto the sidewalk. It was a few minutes after noon. There was a drugstore diagonally across the street. He had a sandwich and milk at the counter. Now the sun was out for good, cutting what was left of the haze. There was a slim directory chained to the telephone booth. There were two Cassidys listed for Rhinebeck. One listed a street and number. The other was John J., with a rural route number. He wondered whom he could ask. He walked down to what appeared to be the main intersection in the town.
There was a sedan parked near the corner, with the word POLICE lettered on the side of the door. A uniformed man sat watching the traffic and the stop light.
Ben went up to the door and said, “I’m trying to find a farm where they rent cabins. Some man named Cassidy owns it. Could you tell me where—”
“Two miles north of town, son. On the right side of the road. You’ll see the name on the mailbox. John J. Cassidy.”
“Thanks.”
“You want to stick around, I’ll be going out that way in a half hour or so. Give you a lift.”
“Thanks. I guess I’ll walk it.”
“Day’s turning out nice, isn’t it?”...
It took him a half hour of steady walking before he saw the white rural mailbox on the right. The drive rose steeply, and from the shoulder of the road he could not see the farm. He turned up the driveway. Once he was over the crest of the drive he could see, set back a quarter mile from the highway, a long, low, white farmhouse, big white cattle barns, white board fences. Off to the south the land was flat, while to the north it rose steeply into pine-covered hills. It was all a great deal more impressive than he had expected. There were visible, against the green hills that rose in back of the farm, small rustic buildings.
He followed the gravel drive to the farmhouse yard. There was a station wagon parked beside the house, and an MG covered with a tarp. When he was forty feet from the house the door opened and a middle-aged, leather-faced man came out onto the porch. He was in shirt sleeves, and his brown arms were corded with muscle. His eyes were narrow and very blue. He watched Ben in silence, not moving, as Ben walked to the foot of the porch steps and said, “Mr. Cassidy?”
“Something I can do for you?” There was not the slightest trace of good will in the deep voice.
Ben had not thought of encountering difficulty at this stage of the game. His only thought had been to get here, unobserved. He said, “A... a friend of mine has a long-term lease on one of your cabins. I’m on leave. My name is Ben Morrow. He told me I could use the cabin.”
Ben wondered how much he should tell about Dick MacLane, how much this man knew.
“What’s the name of this friend of yours?”
“Richards.”
“I don’t rightly remember getting any letter from him authorizing anybody named Morrow to use his place.”
“He didn’t write one. I guess he thought it would be all right.”
“Maybe it isn’t all right with me.”
“If you want to check on me. Mr. Cassidy, you could phone Mr. Willsie. In New York. I’ll pay for the call. He’s Richards’ boss.”
“Call him at his home?”
“I don’t know his home phone number. Mr. Cassidy. But I know the office number.”
“So I can’t check on you until Monday, but you think you ought to have the use of the cabin right now. Maybe I don’t do business that way, mister.”
Ben shrugged. “If nobody’s using it, I don’t see—”
“I got other empty places you can rent until I can check with Richards.”
Ben bit his lip. “I guess you don’t know it yet, but Richards was killed in Korea ten months ago.”
The man didn’t change expression. “Then it would sort of be up to his widow, wouldn’t it, whether you should use the place?”
“Let it go then!” Ben said angrily. “Maybe you can rent me one of the other ones.”
“I pick and choose, mister.”
“Let me show you my identification, will you? I told you I’m on leave and—”
“Mister, my son is standing ten feet directly behind you with a twelve-gauge shotgun aimed right at the small of your back. So let’s cut out the comedy. Don’t even twitch. Open your hand and let that suitcase drop. Fine. Now fold your hands on top of your head. That’s fine. And now move off about four slow steps to your left and stand still.”
Ben did and stood very still. A boy of about sixteen circled him, keeping the shotgun aimed at him. The muzzle of the double-barreled weapon looked like two close-set eyes. The boy was nervous. His lips were twitching.
“Okay, Dad?”
“You did fine, Mike. Now give me the gun. Look in his bag first and then pat him everyplace he might be carrying a gun.”
The two transferred the big shotgun quickly. The boy knelt and opened the suitcase and pawed through it. “Nothing but clothes.”
“Close it up and go do like I told you. Be careful. I don’t want him trying to grab you.”
Ben saw a woman in her forties looking out the nearest window. She had her knuckles pressed to her mouth and her eyes were wide.
“What is this all—”
“Shut up, mister. We’re going to let you talk later.”
The boy tapped Ben hurriedly under the arms and on the waist and hip pockets. “He hasn’t got anything, Dad.”
“Go open the front door. Don’t get in the line of fire. Mister, I’d as soon blow you in half as look at you.”
“I can believe it,” Ben said.
“Now walk slow up here toward me. I’m going to stand aside. Keep your hands the way they are. Go in and sit in the first chair you come to.”
Ben walked in. The room showed a decorator’s touch. The colonial furniture looked authentic. He sat in a black Boston rocker. The boy, Mike, brought the suitcase in. Mr. Cassidy shut the door. The shotgun looked incongruous inside the house.
“Now, what are you doing here, mister?”
Ben thought over the question and how he should reply to it. “I’m looking for Helen MacLane. I mean I was looking for her, until I found out this morning that she’s dead.”
“Who are you working for?”
“I’m not working for anybody. I flew with Dick MacLane. I found out that Helen was in trouble after I got back. Mr. Willsie told me about it. I wanted to find her. I don’t know why, actually. Now she’s dead, but I came here anyway because I want — I guess I wanted a quiet place. I don’t know what this is all about, and I’m getting to the point where I don’t much care. If Helen MacLane was still here, or if she had come here, she could tell you I was with MacLane. He must have written my name to her at least once. Ben Morrow.”
The boy said softly, “He’s a flier, Dad; he knew—”
“Hush, Mike,” Cassidy said. He studied Ben silently for a few moments. “It sounds good, Morrow. All of it. Except one fact. MacLane never told you about this place, so you couldn’t have found it.”