Read Online The Detroit Electric Scheme by D. E. Johnson - Free Book Online Page A

my head had just hit the pillow when pounding on my front door awakened me. It was still dark outside. I rubbed my eyes, threw on a robe, and stumbled to the door.
    Ben Carr stood outside. “Mr. Anderson! I gotta talk to you.”
    â€œWhat is it?” I asked, a quaver in my voice.
    He kneaded his old gray cap with both hands and looked around. “Could I come inside for a minute?”
    Oh, God.
“Sure.” I held the door open.
    He hurried in and turned back to me. “It’s the police, sir. They was at the garage asking about the Vicky. I had to show them the logbook.”
    â€œThe logbook? You changed the time, didn’t you?”
    â€œYes, sir, but it’s out of order.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    His face was slick with sweat. “It’s twenty-seven lines out of order. In the book before you checked out the Victoria, there’s twenty-seven pickups after five thirty in the morning.”
    â€œDamn.”
    â€œI’ve got a family,” he said. “I can’t go to jail.”
    â€œYou don’t think I had something to do with John Cooper’s death, do you?” Suddenly it mattered a great deal what Ben thought of me.
    â€œWhether you did or not ain’t my place to say. But I lied.” He hung his head and continued in a murmur. “I lied to the police. And I don’t think they believed me.”
    Stomach acid burned the back of my throat. My little house of cards was fluttering down all around me. “I understand, Ben. I’ll make sure they know I changed the time. That you had nothing to do with it.”
    His brow furrowed. He looked down at the floor and then met my eyes. “Okay. But I ain’t going to jail.”
    Â 
    Going back to sleep was impossible. I tossed in bed for half an hour, my mind racing. Disgusted, I threw off the covers and stomped into the kitchen. Frank Van Dam
had
to be able to help me. While I waited to phone him, I drank a pot of coffee and slurped down a bowl of Toasted Corn Flakes.
    I wasn’t certain if Frank worked Saturdays, though I had to assume so. It didn’t seem likely that the Employers Association would give its men the entire weekend off when everyone else was working. I’d phone him early at home, try to catch him before he headed off for a day of breaking heads. At seven I went into the den, sat at my desk, and, once I’d retrieved Frank’s telephone number from a list of EAD emergency contacts, I picked up the telephone’s receiver. A few seconds later the operator came on the line, and I asked her to connect me.
    His mother, whom I’d never met, answered the phone.
    â€œHello, Mrs. Van Dam,” I said. “Is Frank home?”
    â€œWho is this?”
    â€œWill Anderson.”
    â€œWhy are you calling Frank?” she said, her voice filled with suspicion. “What do you want from him?”
    â€œNothing, Mrs. Van Dam. I just need to talk to him.”
    â€œWell, he’s not here.”
    â€œDo you know where he is?”
    â€œThat’s none of your business.”
    â€œDo you know how I might get in touch with him?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œIt’s very important. Please.”
    â€œLeave Frank alone.” She hung up.
    I shook my head as I fumbled the receiver back onto the telephone. As far as I knew, she didn’t even know who I was, yet she was suspicious and afraid. There had to be a reason for that. Frank must know what John had been doing. At lunchtime I’d try him at the Employers Association.
    After dressing, I walked to the streetcar stop. It was cold, and the sky was clear, a brilliant cornflower blue. A newsboy was hawking the
Free Press,
and I picked one up while I waited for the trolley. I didn’t even need to open it. The front-page-center headline read: GRUESOME MURDER AT ANDERSON CARRIAGE .
    I quickly scanned the article. As I expected, the first half was a grisly description of