A Stone's Throw by James Ziskin (best sci fi novels of all time .TXT) 📕

“Your guess is as good as mine, at least until someone identifies the bodies.”

“Have you ever heard of anyone named Robinson? Robinson S. something. Maybe a gambler? Or someone in the horse-racing industry?”

“I’m sure I know someone named Robinson. Nobody comes to mind off the top of my head, though. Why do you ask? Who’s Robinson?”

“I had the opportunity to poke around inside Johnny Dornan’s room at the boarding house where he’s staying. He’d scribbled an appointment for midnight Friday on his newspaper. It seems he was meeting someone named Robinson. Robinson S.”

“Can’t help you on that,” he said. “I trust you informed Sheriff Pryor about the name.”

“Of course. But he wasn’t interested. Told me he’d run his own investigation without my help.”

Frank was quiet, surely trying to gauge the veracity of my statement. At least that was how it felt to me. Sometimes he was strictly by the book. Other times, he’d bend a rule—or some criminal’s arm till it broke—if that got him what he wanted. I changed the subject and asked if he’d had any reports of missing persons.

“None in Montgomery County.”

“What about Lucky Chuck Lenoir? Is he around?”

“Yeah. In Greenwood Cemetery. I made some inquiries. He died peacefully in his sleep last Christmas.”

“So he’s not our charred corpse.”

“Maybe he was a little lucky after all.”

CHAPTER SIX

SUNDAY, AUGUST 12, 1962

Lou Fleischman had given me a phone number for Micheline, the treat he’d arranged for Johnny Dornan on Friday night. He didn’t know her last name. It was a Schenectady exchange, and nobody answered when I dialed. Either Micheline was in a church pew early that Sunday morning or she was still out from the night before. I wasn’t ready to commit to a third, more sinister possibility. To wit, her lying on a slab in the morgue, burned beyond recognition except for a patch of red hair and an earring.

No, I didn’t want to get ahead of myself. There was no proof that the hired girl from Montreal was dead or, for that matter, that Johnny Dornan was the short male found in the ashes. If forced to wager, I’d have put my money on them, of course, but I needed something concrete before I could put it in any story of mine. The next edition of the Republic wouldn’t be out till Monday afternoon, which meant I had about twelve hours to come up with more than a roll of Tri-X film of two volunteer firemen swamping a razed barn with a hose.

At a little past ten, I joined Fadge across the street for a coffee and a hard roll. Deep in study of the Daily Racing Form again, he ignored me. I read the papers in my usual booth at the rear of the shop. The Soviets had launched two different cosmonauts into space twenty-four hours apart, and they were at that very moment orbiting Earth in something resembling a couple of dented Volkswagens. Putting aside my worries that we would never catch the Russians in the space race, I set about plotting my day. First up I intended to locate Micheline. I rose, made my way over to the phone booth, and dialed the number Fleischman had provided. Still no answer. I got an operator on the line and asked for the address and the subscriber’s name: Burgh, Jas. on Steuben Street in downtown Schenectady. Micheline was from Montreal, so I’d expected a French name. Maybe Burgh was her husband or a boyfriend. More likely, he was her, ahem, business manager.

I returned to my table to review my notes. Since Sheriff Pryor was dispensing information with an eyedropper, I needed to do some of the legwork for myself. Next on my list was to confirm the identities of the two bodies inside the barn. And while the police in the neighboring localities had received no missing person reports, it seemed obvious that the dead woman—like Johnny Dornan—had failed to return to her room Friday night. That is if she weren’t a local with her own place. Still, I figured a roundup of the motels and hotels in the area might provide a lead on her identity. I had a list of the more reputable boarding houses and hotels from a Saratoga Springs Chamber of Commerce brochure. That would keep me busy for a while. Finally, I had to be home before six to write up my story for Monday’s edition and drop it off with the typesetter downtown at the office.

“Why are you poring over the Racing Form?” I called across the room to Fadge. “Aren’t you working today?”

He lifted his head and regarded me as if I’d just walked through the door. “I’m handicapping tomorrow’s races.”

“You should put the same effort and attention into running your business.”

He went back to his Racing Form. “This is my business.”

And I returned to my notes. After a while, Fadge appeared above me with a glass of Coke. He shoved it under my nose.

“Buy something or get out.”

“Thanks but no thanks,” I said. “I was just leaving. Got a full plate today.”

“Maybe we can meet up later and grab a bite to eat?”

“You still owe me dinner from yesterday. Remember? You promised before your picks went south.”

He frowned. “That’s right. You were the big winner. Maybe you should pick up the tab.”

The house on Steuben near Emmett Street was a simple brick apartment building, with six units on three floors. Burgh occupied 3A, according to the mailbox in the entrance. I let myself in and climbed the stairs.

“Yeah?” asked the man who answered the door. About forty or forty-five, he was dressed in shirtsleeves and a pair of brown slacks held up by suspenders. He wore a fancy watch and a large ring of some kind. His aftershave screamed Aqua Velva, or a reasonable facsimile, and he’d slapped on plenty of it. From beneath two bushy black eyebrows,